Being 30

I think,
now that
I've finally
reached my
birthday
and am 30,
that what
I'm feeling
is less
a pulling
than a sense
of momentum.

I think that's
not so bad.

Pulling 30 Fourteen

More than anything,
it's the increased
awareness of your
own history that
begins to pull itself,
after three decades.

You begin to think,
is that really
what I've accomplished,
is that really all
that I seem to
have become?

It's not sadness
about success,
really, so much
as a personal sense
of pride, which
I believe is the
only true measuring
rod in life, the
only thing we
should care about.

I'm not talking
about pride
in a biblical sense,
not Pride, but
a sense of satisfaction,
not in wanting more
things or wanting less,
but the cumulative
perspective, the sense
of self, whether this
might really be
all I am capable
of being.

I think,
and just
because
of that,
I am?

How far beyond
that have I
managed to get,
how far along
my own personal
growth, have
I gotten?

How much do
I need to
depend
on others,
and how much
have I
assumed
for myself?

This is the pull
I speak of,
the full and
necessary weight,
what binds us
to the earth
and our own minds,
the self in the self.

It is a momentous
occasion, I think,
pulling 30.

Pulling 30 Thirteen

Part of the pull
everyone feels
is the self in the self,
because it's what
everybody wants,
but few are able
to obtain.

I mean to say,
most people
are confused
by the influences
that direct their
lives, so that
what they believe
are their thoughts
have actually come
prepackaged for them.

These people can
easily be influenced,
though they'll say
otherwise.

Those, however,
who are truly
in touch with
the self in the self
have an understanding
of their thoughts,
where they came from,
and where they are
going.

You could call them
the deep thinkers.

They're always chanting
"42, 42, 42,"
just because;

they think in
metaphor, because
their minds are
always at work,
because the self
in the self
has many things
to see and interpret,
and is never
comfortable,
always shifting.

They change their minds
because they want to,
not because they think
that's what they're
supposed to do.

They are a leaf on the wind -
watch them soar.

Pulling 30 Twelve

It strikes me that
each of the three
religions that
descended from
Abraham have all
gone on similar
paths.

In short,
they really like
to get attention.

Not to dwell on Jews
too much, because
they get enough shit
as it is, but
I've been thinking
that the Babylonian exile
was probably a good thing,
all things considered,
what probably made
Judaism the culture it is
today.

Because what King David
had been making of it,
that's what Christianity
eventually took over,
right at the last point
Jews were really in a position
of their own authority.

Christians got so excited
about it they actually
started acting exactly
like the Jews who gave
the original Christians
(i.e. Christ and his apostles)
such a hard time, which
makes it pretty ironic,
but not as much as what
Muslims did once they
appeared on the scene.

I don't mean to be heretical
here, but I consider Islam
basically to be Judaism
rebooted back to tribal days,
with all the Mosaic strictures
enforced incredibly strictly.

I once called Muslims today
to be the last revolution,
because that's exactly what
I think we're all waiting for,
the point where Muslims
finally get over the hump
and decide it's more
important to live the culture
than to die by it.

In this sense, I've been
watching religion, throughout
history and in my own time,
constantly pulling society
this way and that.

Being a part of this scene
has probably defined me
in more ways than I
have yet come to fully
embrace, which itself
is pretty appropriate.

Pulling 30 Eleven

The Missing Six
is like the missing link,
or like how we domesticated
dogs but forgot to tell
them other people, not
just their owners,
were okay, too.

The Missing Six
is symbolic and
maybe accidental.

The Missing Six
happened and
will never happen
again and will
not be fixed.

The Missing Six
might not even
be noticed
unless you're
paying attention,
and in that case
you might have
already assumed
that it was
on purpose.

In that case,
the Missing Six
was definitely
deliberate,
as are all the
actions of those
you admire, until
you don't, and
in which case,
everything is wrong
and so the Missing Six
was meant to give you
a reason right off
the bat.

Anyway, the Missing Six
pulled away some
attention, but
we'll soon be back
on track.

Pulling 30 Ten

Until I moved
to Colorado,
I never knew
there were
black squirrels,

and yet here
they are,
scurrying about
just like any
other kind,

defying my
previous beliefs
as a matter
of course,
shattering on
tiny legs

my assumptions.

Pulling 30 Nine

my beauty would see

my beauty would see
many things, and does,
but it's like it's
at the bottom of the sea,
or was meant for animals,
everywhere but where
humans could appreciate

my beauty would see,
except that it is blind
and indiscriminant,
at least as most people see,
too baffling to comprehend
and embracing too much
for its own good

my beauty would see
but it's constantly
pulling at me

Pulling 30 Eight

am I to rate myself
better than Melville,
Clooney, or Grant Morrison?

not all of us
can be Buddy Holly
or Mozart
(thank god!);

some of us just get
to wait our turn
in history

Pulling 30 Seven

I can think of nothing
that bugs me more than
the idea of IQ.

It's bullshit,
to put it bluntly.

I mean, have you ever
actually seen those
tests they administer
to gage that shit?

It's bullshit.

Only people who
actually think
that way
would actually
think that's
a good way
to measure
intelligence.

In other words,
it doesn't take
a genius to know
that IQ is a crock
of shit.

What are all these
Mensa fools even
doing, anyway?

Yeah, yeah, I know,
the whole point
of the IQ test is
to prove that there're
very few people who
actually qualify
for Mensa,
but still, when
has a genius
who has been
certified
actually gone off
to do anything
significant?

True genius
is rarely
acknowledged;
in fact, it
is more often
shunned and ignored,
even condemned
and villified,
because it's
not an easy thing
to understand
(I mean, right?).

I have never taken
an IQ test, and I
refuse to do that
in the same way
I refuse to accept
that everyone who
can has to drive
an automobile.

It's a twisted
concept of confirmity
that begs the question,
what's the real point?

And that's the real
problem, because
all these geniuses
are busy looking
for each other,
I dunno, to have
a drink together,
and ignoring anyone
who could actually
teach them something.

I'm not saying
I'm a genius, but
I know I think
a lot different
than most people,
and that's not
something that's
going to be measured
on some damn IQ test.

And because of that,
I'm pulled here and there,
but mostly apart.

Pulling 30 Five

Living in the age of film
where even those who enjoy movies
still think "books are better"
(another acceptable prejudice)
or "they don't make them like they used to"
is an incredibly frustrating experience.

How to legitimately find kindred spirits
in such a time? That's another example
of what it's like to be me, to know
there are others like me, but all the ones
I come across are on different
vibrational fields, like trying to be
a Star Trek fan when most fans hate
most Star Trek; how the franchise could
go from dead in 2005 to new heights in 2009;

or how Batman and Robin
could kill all public interest in 1997,
to box office records for The Dark Knight
in 2008. It's hard to surf this kind
of wave; even experts would tell you
that, but then, I don't abide
experts. I don't like experts,
and I don't like casual fans.

Why can't there be
more people
like me?

Pulling 30 Four

I played no organized sports
growing up (until ill-coached
efforts in my freshman and
senior high school years
on the track), so the closest
I got was the admittedly
extensive, five-child family
experience, highlighted
by the neighborhood
wiffleball games we used
to play all summer long.

I remember being invited,
once, to join a bambino league
(it was weird at the time,
and I'm still not sure to
this day if someone was
just being nice - which
would have been rare even
then - or if the offer
was genuine), but I was
routinely excluded even
from kickball games,
unless they were
organized by the school
itself, although I was
part of a rousing
dodgeball league and
seemed to do pretty well
on the playground,
at least for a while.

But I feel today
almost as if I'm still
participating in
wiffleball games
in the street, or
pretending to be
Dennis Eckersley,
waiting for the bus,
having a good time
but not being
"official" by any
recognizable standard.

Really, is that
so wrong?

Is it really just
my ego that needs more?

Or a desire to escape
employment traps
with an answer that
would be acceptable?

Pulling,
pulling,
pulling...

Pulling 30 Three

Three decades,
I think, is a nice
honest period,
a long enough time,
to look back
and see what has
been done with a life.

It is also, naturally,
a terrific opportunity
to continue fretting
about the future,
to wonder if that
many years have already
passed, what're you
gonna be able to do
that you haven't
already been able
to accomplish?

It's a great and awful time,
with your life tugging
both ways, and you're left
in the middle, not
really sure anymore
if you're still right.

Pulling 30 Two

As Marie Phillips
might observe,
part of anyone's
problem is the lack
of faith that can
get in the way.

It makes it that
much more difficult
to do the things
you know you're
perfectly capable
of doing, and it
only gets worse
the longer you
know and have
it demonstrated
for you that
there is precious
little faith
in your abilities,
whether passive
...or really passive.

If people weren't so
interested in their
selfish and self-defeating
games, maybe this
could change
for everyone?

Pulling 30

Like Jacob Marley or Atlas,
I'm pulling the weight,
all the weight,
pulling the weight of
my history.

It ain't easy.

Existential Angst

It seems that when I pulled
a part of a poem with this
phrase in it for a college
project, I was naming
my disease, and the thing
that would haunt me from
that moment on.

Existential angst.

I just don't know what to do with myself.

And the real problem is,
neither does anyone else,
which would be fine, but
I know even with my
limited interpersonal skills,
there really shouldn't be
this huge a problem, as I'm
pulling 30, such a sustained
inability to make meaningful
connections with others.

It makes one think that
as far as the world is
concerned, they are pretty
worthless.

I'm arrogent enough to have
assumed otherwise.

Usually, as far as I can
tell, that's not usually
such a stumbling block.

But I could be wrong.

I believe in me.
I believe in me.
I believe in me.

The Scouring Monk, the Invisible Man

Unwanted by the world,
I could only entertain myself
in fictional ones.

Betrayed on all sides,
I became an island of one.

Every time I demonstrated
a spark of potential,
I was left behind by everyone.

I became a scouring monk,
not because I wanted to,
but because I had to.

I became an invisible man,
a pariah, anathema
to all the world,
though I did my best
with what I had
to contribute.

It was never enough,
and every cheek turned
away, every shoulder.

What else could result
from this?

Some rough miracle?

The Gauntlet

Being a creative writer,
or so I've learned,
is a little like
being thrown into
a gauntlet, with the mere hope
that you will be noticed
for your bravery.

Sometimes, perhaps most times,
it isn't even about talent,
but about the people
you can impress, and it won't
even be about what you do
in that gauntlet.

You can literally kill yourself
in there, and then maybe
they'll talk about you,
but then, half the point
will be kind of missed, won't it?

So tell me, why does it have
to be that way?

The Boxer

Working in retail
is a little like
being a boxer,
especially one
trying to work
their way up
or near the end
of their career.

Sure, maybe you
have some people
who believe in you,
but guess who's getting
all the punches?

But I have to go
with a different
metaphor (stuck
with that one
because I liked
the title).

Being in retail
is like playing
for a professional
sports team, which
I will specify here
as a baseball club.

No matter how
you do personally,
everyone's going
to think of your
team based on
how it's actually
doing, and base
their expectations
and frustrations
on that.

If you're losing,
you're worth
less than nothing.

They'll still expect
the world of you,
but they won't care
what kind of pressure
that actually is
to work under.

They only want results,
and they don't care
how you're actually
doing, just that
your whole team
can't seem to win.

Now amplify that
for the Boston market,
where even heroes
can quickly turn
into goats (yes,
even I have been
guilty of this one),
at the drop of a dime.

It's tough to be a star.

And then transfer that
into an experience
that pays far less
and expects far more
with the belief that
you can be replaced
very easily, no matter
what you can actually
do, and based only
on the most minimal
of observations.

And then there's customers.

They don't see you at all,
even when you're the best
thing to happen to them
all year at least.

They only see something
that is supposed to
answer their questions
and give them their
products and send them
on their way.

They hardly even appreciate
any of it, and definitely
don't remember it.

And if you don't meet
even the most unreasonable
of demands, then you
are the villain,
you are anathema,
just like that.

In retail,
it's legal to
slander reputations.

Ain't that grand?

The Obstructionists

Whether they mean to or not,
whether they know they're doing it or not,
whether it's me or not,
whether it actually works or not,
whether it's helpful or not,
I cannot abide the business of obstructionists.

But hey, that's life.

My So-Called French Heritage

It can be a little tough
sometimes
to know a lot of people
don’t have this problem.

They know exactly
where they come from
and what that means.

I don’t mean to suggest
that I don’t.

I know both sides of my family
come from French-speaking
Canada, that they were lured here
on the basis of a better life,
same as pretty much
everyone else.

I know that the generations
including my parents
spoke French regularly.

I know that my grandfather
spoke it exclusively.

I know that because every time
we would visit, that was all he would speak,
and that was just another feature
of what it meant to visit him.

I knew French as a secret language,
something my parents would use
when they didn’t want us to know
what they were saying (mostly
when they argued, I think).

We learned to pray in French,
but that was it.

I struggled through several years
of French in school, rebelling
against learning it, catching just enough
for middling grades.

On 9/11, I skipped French class
and that was the only happy memory
from that day.

I’m not going to use any French here,
a strictly unilingual poem.

I don’t know if that’s out of shame
or relief, because I don’t
have to bother with it
anymore.

We grew up Catholic,
so that’s as much culture
as was practiced in the household,
and there’s nothing much French
about that, except maybe
immigrant faith
(I don’t know).

I never knew what it was
to be French, what my ancestors
thought about it.

Mostly, I have gleamed
what I know
from popular culture.

I am supposed to be a romantic.

That’s as much as I know.

Somehow I feel a little robbed,
but at the same time, I find
that I don’t really care,
except when I’m wondering
what I may be missing.

I think that’s the kind
of experience that
will be more common
the more we progress
along the world of homogeny,
which I don’t say with denigration
but with a kind of admiration.

If I wanted to, I could learn
everything I wanted to know
tomorrow.

Everything that’s French
still exists. I still have family,
even in Canada (with a kind of saint
somewhere back there, maybe
looking over me, as he opens
the doors to prayer without fail).

There’s France, obviously,
which left such a bad impression
on me this past decade, leading a charge
against global reason, isolationism
(which is about as opposite of French
as I can imagine, from all that
I have gathered) its apparent
rallying cry.

Well, it certainly
left me in tears.

I’ve talked with my mother
about a lot of things, a lot
of her experiences growing up,
what she knows about her
family, but I wonder if
I shouldn’t start there,
ask more questions,
be more curious.

Hey, having a counterfeit
French connection
is curious enough already,
isn’t it?

I might as well continue.

The more people try
to differentiate themselves,
the more they discover,
possibly,
somewhere in the end,
that they’re not all that different
after all.

I wonder if that’s what
I’ll find out.

I don’t know what it means
to be French,
I have no practical
understanding,
no sense of the culture.

I live in a void,
and make things up
as I go.

Really, I’m not so different.

But I would like to know
some ways that I am
the same.