Million Miles

Every life is a story, a collection of events compiled chronologically one on top of the other, culminating in either an emotionally filled, fulfilled ending or a half-hearted, half-lived death.

...at least, that's what Donald Miller suggests in his excellent new book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. After reading it, I am inclined to agree.

As usual, Miller's writing style is that of a meandering journeyman, a tapestry of writ woven with his standard brand of personal accounts, anecdotes, and life-lessons. Something is different about this book, though, something that moved me personally.

A Million Miles in a Thousand Years is not a book about self-aggrandizement or self-deprecation. It is not a book of self-explication or self-innovation. Instead, Million Miles is a book about excavated hope, an appeal to the cynical masse to leave behind its boring, pedestrian life to embrace one of ambition and fulfillment.

Life, lived with others, for others, and through others, is the only answer to our human condition, posits Miller. Through God for humankind, human persons can experience a better than the American way of life, a more authentic, un-surreal life, a content, honest life.

Million Miles is perhaps Miller's finest work. Any and every person that has the ability to read should in fact do so; I find it highly unlikely that if one were to sit down with such a finely moving story, that they would be unmoved. My encounter with the book has certainly left me better and I can only conclude that it can achieve the same positive result in the lives of others as well.

Cutting up the road

Cutting up the road the way a alligator mississippiensis knifes its way through the muddled sub-surface
(Its tail swallowing its past in violent reverie, fully at once a venereal verdict, slicing the
Immutable shallows with adept, animalistic simplicity. In short, this reptilian destiny is solely that of
Consumption.),

Your filthily besmirched automobile swam its way up the drive, warbling in
Guttural, repugnant shivers of exhaust. Naturally the ugliest and bluest green, the vehicular pigment is now
Indiscernible from a compound of the earth’s most craven elements which
Are caught up in its
Trusses; no disreputable road has gone untraversed by your 80s model, two-seat, American truck.

Which I
Hate as I hate you, you all the more so when the truck’s windows gaped open in hand-cranked blinks and I, rebuffed by revulsion at your stench soaked cab, fell backwards, a man charged by the
Beastliness of your ignoble existence. Out of the open car doors empty cheap cigarette boxes descended in tears one after the other, coming to rest upon the wholly unsympathetic,
Fallow earth. I immediately recognized them to be the chief culprits in the case of the
Absconded clean atmosphere.

Your cigarrettes are old. And cheap. And reek of ignorance. Like you.

Can’t you see that your grandson has autism? That he needs professional aid? That his quality of life should be drastically improved by holy, subsidized state therapy?

Or are you too selfish? Too uncaring? Too callous to the reproachful stares of society? Too slimy to heed the wretches of your prey’s death rattle—your grandson’s deep discipline problems?

Yes, yes,

You will never see. With your forked, double-lidded eyes you will carve your own way. And with your pointedly curving
Piss-yellow coloured toenails, you will mar his existence all the way to his coffin of rodent dropping floors
And newspapered walls.

Your reptilian existence sickens me and condemns your seed to death. He’d be better off a ward
Of the state. At least he would no longer suffer your repressively steel-jawed, crookedly toothless speech—the speech of fools and predators. The speech of a begrudged upbringing. The speech of heinous,

Malevolent neglect.



© Jordan Shea. July 2009.

Intoxication

At Starbucks tonight, the following questions/thoughts were forced upon me:

What invisible, external substance do groups of individuals roundly consume in order to become socially drunk? Not intoxicated by liquor. No. By just sitting at a table with cups of water, a group that I was in close proximity to became intoxicated.

Laughing overtly. Obnoxious comments. Arguing. Singing. Odd hand gestures. Convulsions. Disturbing noises. Modulated voices.

They were drunk. Just being together was somehow license to carouse and cavort with manners no better than that of twitchy, methamphetamine abusing, rainbow coloured Shetland show-ponies.

And this was in coffee shop, not a bar.

What manner of buffoon is it that can be wholly and serenely unaware of their surroundings and the level to which they infringe upon other people by their actions? At what point is it okay to label a person so flummoxed by commonplace social etiquette an unforgivable, hopeless Philistine? An ignoramus? A dolt?

Pics from Access 5k Outreach

Hatchets & Sweet Tea

Last weekend, I spent some time with a couple friends that I met while enrolled at college. They're lovely people that moved perhaps 18 months ago to a better job, a nicer house, and a coastal town. Together, the three of us spent the fat portion of that drizzly Sunday afternoon exchanging jokes, snapping snapshots, crisscrossing all around downtown, and eating at a barbecue chain. I drank southern tea and ate chicken wings with brown sugar. They drank Cokes and had sandwiches with garlic bread in lieu of white, wheat, rye, or pumpernickel.

After dinner, I departed from them with a full heart. And stomach.

Our relationship has not always been this way; in fact, there have been several occasions where I violently spouted obscenities at him. Several occasions. Violent obscenities.

My friend. His wife. And we had wonderful last Sunday together.

What mended relationships? How are we in a good place again?

(1) humility
(2) time
(3) honesty
(4) real attempts, however thwarted and feeble they may be, at having some objectivity
(5) love.

Last night, I formally buried the hatchet with another person. It was like taking the first pain-free, deep breath after being held underwater; instantly, I recognized that it was over. The spell was lifted. The surface broken. The breath finally taken.

I enjoy enjoying people. I like being hopeful.
Thinking quite badly of people can be the godawfullest thing.

I am again reminded of my friend's words, "Get over yourself." More and more, I understand them anew each day.

Admit we're all douche bags. Forgive someone. Live life with others. Love everyone.

jacksonpollack.org

I really enjoy the website www.jacksonpollack.org because of it's simplicity and subtle creativity. It recently won a Webby, which is a sort of Oscar for the world wide web, though acceptance are limited to five words only. You can see video pertaining to the 13th annual event, including all of the five word acceptance speeches on The Webby Award youtube channel. Some of them are really quite funny...

Your assignments, then, are as follows:
(1) try www.jacksonpollack.org;
(2) check out The Webby Award acceptance speeches.

Ending The Letter: Rant: Your spirituality sucks.

In my opinion, Chris Abel has recently written one of the better notes on religion/God that I've read in awhile. You should read it.

Ending The Letter: Rant: Your spirituality sucks.

California Baseball Band

I went to a show this evening at Black & Brew, a local coffee/beer/sandwich shop. A friend of mine, Austin Quinn, is a member of the band that was featured this evening, California Baseball Band. I really, really enjoyed their music. You should give them a listen. Really.

http://www.myspace.com/californiabaseballband

Six Book Saturday

Today, I purchased six books from the local chapter Salvation Army Thrift Store. They ranged in price from $.99 to $1.99. The total: $11.49.

I bought:

1. The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho (yes, I do already own this one, but I thought I'd give it to someone),
2. The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky,
3. Dracula by Bram Stoker,
4. The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx,
5. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, &
6. There Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston.

All things considered, this was quite the boon for me. As you may know, I purchase books at a compulsive rate sometimes. This idiosyncrasy was brought to light again today, though at a reasonable cost. In a manner much like Chris Abel's recent post, I know I will read them...sometime...

New Music?¿Good Music

In no particular order, this is a list of some (relatively) new music that I think is worth a listen:

*Conor Oberst: Outer South
*Jason Lytle: Yours Truly, The Commuter
*Japandroids: Post-Nothing
*Serge Gainsbourg: Histoire De Melody Nelson
*Phoenix: Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix
*Manic Street Preachers: Journal For Plague Lovers
*Bill Calahan: Sometimes I Wish I Were An Eagle
*Isis: Wavering Radiant
*The Decemberists: The Hazards of Love
*Me Without You!: It's All Crazy! It's All False! It's All a Dream! It's Alright!
*Grizzly Bear: Veckatimest
*Leonard Cohen: Live in London
*Bat For Lashes: Two Suns
*Antony & the Johnsons: The Crying Light

British Petroleum

At 4209 South Florida Avenue, there stands a relic of the former age of gas stations: a rather degenerate looking BP. This particular BP is a solemn monument to a bygone era, in my opinion, due to its hapless architectural design, poor location, and dysfunctional appearance; gas stations these days are slick, efficient, well-illuminated edifices that offer a seemingly limitless supply of conveniences. 4209 South Florida Avenue, however, is a time capsule of a facility, a green mound of visual refuse. One is automatically disinclined to leisurely refuel as well, principally because of the barred windows of the store; if the owner feels the location is an unsafe one, the public should probably feel unsettled about choosing to refill here also.

Unfortunately for me, this afternoon my “empty light” was on for a solid 15 minutes before I felt as though the running-on-fumes envelope could be pushed no further; doubly unfortunate for me, I chose to refuel at the BP located at 4209 South Florida Avenue.

Allow me to make a brief aside before I continue conveying my recent experience: I hate being hoodwinked. I cannot abide the bait-and-switch. I loathe a shyster. I cringe at the thought of being cheated. I cannot stand a snake oil sales pitch. I deplore the use of diversionary marketing tactics. I think swindlers should rot in compost heaps composed of liars and gossipers and fraudulent politicians and obnoxious salespeople and individuals that kick babies and Jay Leno and Bill O’Reilly…

…That aside complete, I will now proceed to the actual cause of this post: my unwitting purchase of grade 89 gas.

I never, ever, ever put anything but the least expensive gas into my car. This time, however, I noticed within a few seconds that I was rapidly becoming the victim of an unserendipitous gas pump placement: where the cheap gas—grade 87—should be (furthest on the left), there sat the mid grade option. With the precision of a medieval axeman in Antoinette's France, BP had delivered to me an emotionally dismembering blow. I had been a dummy and had received a dummy’s treatment. Like the rest of the simpering masses being led along the primrose path to consumerism’s slaughterhouse, in order to save a buck, I had hastily purchased a product without being fully informed to its true nature. Instead of paying $2.549 for a gallon of gasoline, I paid $2.749.

Lesson 1: Read the labels of every product that you purchase, for capitalism is at best a friendly competition and at worst a bloodsport (the consumer almost always loses, by the way). If a corporation or company can figure out a way to trick you, they will.

Lesson 2: Don’t ever buy gas at the BP located at 4209 South Florida Avenue. They suck.

Live Simply

A friend of mine recently said this to me: 'Get over yourself. Enjoy life.' I wasn't entirely sure what she meant by the first imperative, but the second command, to "Enjoy life," has visited my thoughts frequently since then.

It reminds me of the teaching of a minor prophet who spoke & wrote on behalf of God. He communicated that what God expects of human beings are the marks of goodness: just actions, a love of kindness, and a humble walk with God.

I try to be fair. I try to be kind. But
I'm not sure I know what humility is. Or is not.

Take a sparrow or a lily or a child. They don't worry or are fretful about the future. Their metaphorical stomachs aren't twisted, tight, or taut like rope knots, leading them down a life path of angst or tension.

They are simple. Each moment is its own entity to be embraced, experienced, and enjoyed. Day and night, they move humbly along the current of life, innocent of causation and all the happier for the lack of it.

My Bartlett's says that in Zorba the Greek, Nikos Kazantzakis remarks, "How simple and frugal a thing is happiness...All that is required to feel that here and now is happiness is a simple, frugal heart." Perhaps innocence and frugality and simplicity are fruit from a similar vine--the vine of humility.

Maybe like a minor prophet, my friend was saying that I should let go of my over-developed, hyper-active sense of preference and instead embrace the heart of life, which is good and full. Perhaps to enjoy a life lived amidst God and community requires a paradigm of humble love. Perhaps seeing the universal Spirit of God in every momentous second and appreciating the miracle of living is a calling to which more individuals should listen.

A loss of self.
A love of God. A love of others.

Be simple. Enjoy life. Do justice. Love kindness.

It is possible, though, that my friend was just expressing irritation concerning my hesitance to listen to an album from her favorite band. Possibly, this is all hogwash and I am yet again too verbose.

I choose to believe, however, that at that moment, she was a minor prophet. I hope that I am and forever remain both a hearer and a doer of this word, that this resurgent love of simple humility would not depart from me.

The Alchemist

I started reading The Alchemist today. It's an easily digestible read (similar to Tuesdays with Morrie in that respect), but I've been routinely surprised at the density of meaning contained within it. I think my principle source of enjoyment lies in the fact that, though the main "message" of the book is quite easy to understand, any number of positive sub-meanings can be derived from it. Also worth considering is the fact that it doesn't come across as blatantly pendantic as Morrie or other thinly veiled, moralist self-improvement narratives, making it a more pleasant experience in my opinion.

A predictable measure of a book's overall quality is, from my perspective, it's overall affect on the reader. In this instance, then, it bears mentioning that, after reading approximately half of The Alchemist, I felt reinvigorated, and promptly set about accomplishing a great handful of simple but important tasks that I had been neglecting to do. These actions took on a rediscovered hope and refined spirit of purposefulness that they had been lacking, enabling me to feel their importance instead of merely just knowing how significant they were.

To put it simply: I would recommend that any and every person read The Alchemist.