A Commentary on Value, Because of Chicken

'Worth' and 'value' is a curious thing.

We grade ourselves against society. Friends. Enemies. Family. Our own ideals of self.
All by a sliding, fictional scale. And instead of helping us grow, it seems to reflect an ugly image back of everything we are not, everything we lack and are convinced we'll never be. Slowly chipping away at our sense of self.
I would take the leap in saying many good feelings leap away with it.

Story time! Settle in kiddies.
When I was in 6th or 7th grade, among dozens of assemblies for awareness about home abuse, bullying and sexual harassment/assault, there was a man who, ever so candidly, referred to 'victims' of sexual assault as,
“Second Hand Virgins”...
No matter how you spin this term, or your Maklemore'ick infatuation with thrift stores, there's no good connotation here. The implication is a person thus violated is no longer 'new'. Deemed worthless, it is rejected. Put on a shelf at a bargain price. Shuffled through strange hands, left waiting. Unwanted. To gather dust among the nick-knacks, or be snatched up as a 'deal' or DIY project.
This term devalues people.
Almost to a sub-human level.
Much like 'victim' and 'survivor' unconsciously do.
And it made me very angry.
But the damage of these three, incredibly careless words was done... And without my permission, I might add, which is very rude.

Now, let me be candid here; don't get your nickers twisted. I'm 'sharing' bits about myself to lend to a larger observation I had today which I (for some reason) needed to share. That's all. So cool your jets, some of you.
I'll tie this in later.

I'll start with the 'Oh!/Huh...' moment, I had while on my 480th pound of frying mochiko chicken earlier and that is this:
I/you/we are valueless.

There's no scientific scale that spits out a number- rating who we are, at all times, during this experience.
But the concept of trying to estimate our abstract worth is so ingrained that it leads to some very serious consequences.

Our skills have worth to an employer who can apply them and THAT is tabulatable, but on the flip side, a doctor has no use for a mechanic if he needs an RN. That doesn't mean the mechanic is any less skilled.

No one (thank hades) knows what is going through our heads every moment. Or how quickly our opinions and judgments change...
I think it'd look like a school of sardines, swirling refractivly and almost chaotically together in the dark blue and open ocean.
With this constant flow, growth and contraction of character and ideals, a set value is not only inconsequential, but meaningless.

So a guy at a bar thinks a lass is homely and droll but suddenly she's great because... let's say... she bought him a beer... You judge him to be shallow, or her to be trying too hard- but that's a moment, not a whole.
He's a person and, who he IS, isn't that judgment. Just as her single action of buying beer, for whatever the motivation, doesn't change who she is.

With that logic in mind (if you could follow it), here is why I think our instinctual need to place value on ourselves is not a good, or accurate way of thinking.

We aim too high and we fall too low.

The full-grown woman who flounces around arrogantly, stating she deserves to be treated like a princess or the man demanding to be treated as a king; outwardly, they value themselves above the rest but in their heads, to reach such an extreme as to ignore societal etiquettes such as 'modesty', can't one argue that they must actually value themselves very low? That there is a part of them that is clearly not being fulfilled and is instead reaching for a concept that is not in this reality?

Soldiers, who go for country (and college tuition) to fight with bravado, don't always come back proud. Decent and hard working men call themselves murderer instead of hero; thinking less of themselves because they've taken a life(s). As, at least, one society will agree (whomever was fought), it only solidifies a low self worth. It's such heavy tally-mark to add against oneself.

'Worth' is where we lose ourselves.
If depression had a root, I'd call this a catalyst.
See, unbeknownst to me, my worth became 'second-hand' and from this, I treated every relationship with a underlying desperation (this was today's 'Oh' moment, brought to you by Chicken!).
Try to be amicable to everyone...
Don't share my conflicting thoughts...
Try to diversify myself so that no one gets bored of me...
Modify how I behave to who I'm with...
Don't give them a reason to throw me away.
And, at first, it was fucking exhausting!
Then it became who I was.
But it wasn't a real.
Checks and balances are great for politics, but shit for mental development.
Until I became a cook.
People don't understand what that meant to me. As my skills grew in the kitchen and I became part of the line instead of a hindrance, I stopped worrying about my worth, I did my job and well; I was judged by my peers on that alone. I started to take pride in myself and what emerged from that pride was who I always wanted to be.
A person.
Not a 'victim'.
Not a 'survivor'.
Those are labels for something that happened to you, or something you've come through; society sticks you with them, badge-like. Like wearing a suit of avocado green shag carpeting.
But they aren't all we are, as much as people insist on it. Like the soldier who kills so as not to be killed. It's just a thing that happened. And hopefully, eventually, it helps us grow.
Stronger. Wiser. Calmer.
One careless maneuver from an old man later and I had five months in a confined apartment to feel the dullness that was the loss of who I'd become...
I really had liked her.
Then there was seething and bitter anger, then dullness again. Then elevator music... maybe some sonnets...

My worth was intrinsically tied to my career. And I was told I would probably need to find a new one because my stupid knee was being stupid and may be stupid for the rest of my life (Medical terminology, I swear!). I was back to being less.
Even the guy who stumbled upon the mess of a person I was sloping back into, was swallowed up by my fears of lacking. Secretly hoping, as I used too in days o' yore, that he would place a value on me that was high enough and thus accept me, whom had not accepted herself.
It's foolish, really.
And super unfair of me.
Between being mad at him for taking the 'out' I gave born from insecurity, while wishing he hadn't, and moping over the rejection like a Shakespearean writ pup, the hole in my chest got wider.
With everything else compiling, I began to feel numb.
If I wasn't numb, then I was highly irritable. About. EVERYTHING.
Depression sucks like that.
I could tell I was off kilter, my calm slipping away. I'd rear my head like a startled horse every now and then, shocked at the heinousness of my attitude. If I thought on it really hard, hearkening on a truth that no one deserved to bear my poor behavior, I could pull myself out, at least until I was alone again.
Sleep, an old nemesis of mine, stopped visiting. Which is rude because I'd bought some lovely teas to share. I was more weary than I had been, doing three back to back shifts between two jobs. An overwhelming thought became, “I just want to rest.”

All this pirouetting of emotional debauchery stemmed, not simply from situations. I'd dealt with worse and been fine.
Took my licks, my lessons and moved on. It came because, without using anything as cover or mask, I'd never placed a high value on who I was.
And that very concept of plus and minus is what kept me down.

I think everyone needs to jump into the rabbit hole eventually. Evaluating oneself, rolling over events; reactions to events.
It's okay to feel disappointed in people close to you.
It's okay to get upset or be angry.
As long as it's felt and you keep thinking on it, pushing through to all sides of the argument... Well, it helps.
Rabbit holes, like our lives, aren't endless. Even in our own, endemic experiences, we haven't individually existed for 1,000 years. Hell, most of us won't make it to 100. So we can see through all, to the depths of our issues. Like that hole, we can all come back up to face the sun.

So there I was, frying (you guessed it!) chicken! Yay chicken! Ihateyouchicken.
The memory of that man flashed in my head. I thought, with the horse head raise of bewilderment:
'Wait a minute. Have I been living my life by that assholes words?'
...I think we all know the answer to that.
Then I came to think about everything I've written down now. And my conclusion is this:
We are valueless because we are limitless.
That's a good thing.
It means we can go in any direction we chose.
It's scary, but I've never felt so free.




Now if you'll excuse me, I need a shower. I reek of the fryer.

Papered Wishes

          I should stop looking at newspapers- I’m not Aladdin.

     I wish I was an intellectual- who grasped the intent of the galaxy in expanding equations of symmetry and elegance.

     I wish I understood technology in its ever-growing linguistic culture- to broaden my limits in this
evolutionizing world.

     I wish I was a problem-solver, a dare-devil, a hand holding the scales- a person who would under-go the efforts it takes to procure a change.

     I wish I was brave.

     We only see the surface of ignominious undertakings, 
             litterings’ of preposterous acts       
                     and unwarranted, unguarded and unrelenting failings.
                                           Those vultures in avarice.

     These pages, stained in pungent ink cannot contain the load- Presenting: a single breath taken from the lives of all those living and passed.

          Overwhelming.

     I don’t suffer from an insurmountable sense of empathy- but see enough hope in humanity that the front page is all I need, to make me wish I could wish.

     A well placed equation, a condensation of disciplines- concluding solutions to which the question was never forgot.

     A culture that tries to save Itself.

     We shouldn't wait for a genie, stop seeking a lamp…

          I am not enough.



Sincerely,
Dust in the Wind

The Story Project, Voting Time!

Hey all!
So, as I am down for the count for the next two weeks, I have been trying to revitalize my creativity by writing a little something at the end of these lat few nights. Here I have stand alone excerpts of what could be three stories. I am asking for people to vote on the one they like best, and that's the one I'll try and take a crack at.
So without further adieu...

Story #1:

            ..."The cottage was quaint, infused with a feeling of kindness akin to an outwardly maternal grandparent. It smelled of layers; from the sapping pines, to freshly watered vines and vases of brooding roses sitting tall in every corner of the small space. Sunlight, gliding through the forest canopy, unraveled it’s penetrating beams and peered through the windows, resting timidly on the settee and across the wooden floor. It was the most beloved and abandoned place outside the city walls. Its’ up-keeping was a mystery, done by elusive volunteers, conjunctive in a reason that was accepted by all others without need of being understood.

 Children from a decadence of generations boasted many stories of the place, with only slim variations presenting through time. My mother chortled a similar tale to her brother one evening; I overheard it from my window above the kitchen. Asleep. I was pretending to be in such a state as to not upset my parentage, but continued wickedly to encroach upon their conversation, as a mouse whom follows the line of walls, hoping to go unnoticed with its newly acquired bit of twine."...  


Story #2:

                 ..."A furious wind ripped across the lush valley, invading the minute openings of armor, pushing achingly against spears and sending flags to snap and thrash violently above the hoards. The storm was finally awakening; whose god had brought it, each force took as their omen for victory and defeat. No more games of fancy politicians, no more mercy from the pious; a civilization was to end with the last of a gurgling breath and blood watering the tall grasses.
There were no words from the fellows of the Lecoujen; they were all spent on talks of valor and carousing the night previous. The last of the rations given out, the barrels of sour kiima drank with vigor, bawdy jokes and lewd gestures thrown about the masses of brothers and sisters, neighbors, fathers and mothers, lovers, friends and rivals- to the end, to it all. The bonfires blazed wildly, licking up toward the ominous scene above which built and darkened with each hour of chanting music. The ranks dissolved, officers and generals moving from their separated tables, casting off their pomp and sitting amongst those they used to walk through the street with on a sunny day."

Story #3:

..."The ground gave a crunch of flaky salt under the rubber sole of their boots, the lake bottom long since dried and barren of anything more than an occasional stalk of grass, dried and crumbling away. They had been traveling across the deserted country for a span of time that felt immeasurable, had Isis stopped counting the reappearance of the sun as her parents and the other followers were told to do, she too would have the same disconnection with time that she saw tug at the edge of the others lips, the grim look in their eyes. Dressed like a decorator crabs in pieces of cloth from other worn-down clothing, lassoed together or roughly sewn with twine, they trudged ever forward behind the ‘Apostle’ and his upright and decadent entourage. Riding miles ahead in whatever abandoned and working vehicles they found, the band of loyal followers chased their leaders tracks left in mud and sand, anxiously rushing towards kicked up trails of dust, clamoring for the assurance that they’d find water, that there was food, that the journey would soon end and their burdens would lift, just as the Apostle proclaimed." 



Thanks for your time! 

-Dust in the Wind

Snipet of Constance: Ch.4- Blazing Along the Watery Trail

   In lieu of another 'Contemplation of a Fat Girl' this week, I have been working on the story I've been creating. This is a bit from the latest chapter of Constance. Sorry it's not perfect, I haven't gone over it a dozen times yet, but as I am also not perfect... You get the drift, right?  

 ...

          “Would ya look at that.” She smiled. “Day’s almost over with nothin’ major.”

            The words exited her mouth accompanied by a low rumble. They looked around to see if it was something inside the shop causing it. There wasn’t. The sound was getting closer and louder. Joanne tapped her foot against the floor; she could feel the vibrations running through the wood counter top under her fingers. She pursed her lips. Of course, nothing about this week was going smoothly. Yes, more people where bound to come in, but her windows were beginning to rattle and that annoyed her. Joanne’s ears perked; the distinguished sound of revving engines became more apparent. Sam could tell something had suddenly clicked in her mind. She gave a wicked grin, reached under the counter and pulled out a shotgun. Sam took a concerned step back. The devilish look reached her eyes, shimmering brightly. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder.

            “No worries sugar. Just going ta teach some old dogs a new trick.”

            She walked out the door and into the middle of the road. Sam followed her, but she motioned for him to stay on the sidewalk with Constance who sat in front of a stoic Pravar, posing with a drawn bow and arrow facing the ceiling. In his Native American garb and wood paint, Pravar reminded Sam of the character on the wrapper of a tootsie pop. If the wrapper had that character on it, he used get another tootsie pop for free; but that was a long time ago and no longer applied. Sam and Constance covered their ears, the rumbling of the engines becoming deafening. Over the hill and past a small cloud of dirt, a gang of motorcycles poured into the Hollow. The muscular man at the head of the pack, leading them, wore a black leather bandana over his head with matching knuckle gloves and a tight leather coat with short fringe up the arms, leather chaps covered his faded blue jeans. Black goggles and a black and blue bandana covered his nose and mouth, giving him an intentional air of foreboding. His chopper was elegantly curved but simple, painted raven black and dark silver with streaks of deep green flowing down the sides, the stainless steel frame blued. The seventeen others riding behind him were all clad in leather, each of their cycles equally customized. They slowed their pace as they came upon Joanne. She raised the 12 gauge at an angle in the air, bracing the butt against her hip. She waited until they got closer.

            “And fire.” Sam heard Constance say, ears still covered.

            Boom!

            The sounds reverberated through the Hollow. The group stopped instantly in the middle of the road and shut off their motors.

            The leader sat and looked at the woman who now had the shotgun slung over her shoulder, one hip jutted out to the side, her stance wide. Joanne stared them down with a sense of expectancy. The leader kicked out his stand, dismounted, and began walking towards her slowly.

            The men behind him tensed.

            “You,” she started as he came closer, “Should know better by now... Dan.”

            A light, exuberant laughter came from behind the bandana of the doomish looking man. He threw his head back and gave a whoop. With a couple giant strides, he pulled down the cloth over his mouth, grabbed Joanne around the waist and picked her up with a slight twist. She giggled and wrapped her spare arm around his neck, snagging his goggles off his head. His pale green eyes were lost in his smile as he kissed her roughly before twirling her around, the shot gun lodged awkwardly between them. They laughed like foolish children. Constance sighed happily and leaned over to rest her head on Sam’s shoulder who watched them nonplussed.

            “I love it when Dan comes into town. He puts Joanne in such a good mood” she looked up at Pravar.

            He gave her a wink before returning to his pose.

            Dan turned and waved for his friends to park their bikes, the tension from the moment before gone.

            She looked behind him and nodded to the two men who rode to the flank of Dan.

            “Jeremy. Dave.” She nodded at them with a bemused smile. They placed their goggles on the top of their helmets.

            “Good to see you again Joanne.” They said in unison before walking their bikes off the road.

            “Y’all ‘re the loudest bunch.” Joanne chided Dan.

            He smiled, his pearly white teeth flashing in the sun. He set her down, arms still around her.

            “I just wanted you to know I was here” He teased, giving her one last kiss on the forehead before returning to move his bike from the middle of the road.

            “An’ now so does everyone in’na state.” She shot back.

             Joanne gave a contented sigh and walked back into the Mercantile.

            “All right all right.” She waved a dismissive hand at the group on the sidewalk, although she couldn’t hide her smile. “Fun’s over, back ta work.”

            Constance grinned at her and with assistance from Sam, got up and went back into the Lodge. Sam followed Joanne who was already placing the gun back in its spot. She glanced up at Sam.

            “Sorry if I startled ya sugar. Normally don’t pull this out ‘cept for when Aire drags a couple coyot’s in from the desert.”

            Sam shook his head.

            “It’s all right.” He replied.

            “If ya don’t mind helpin’ these gentlemen out. They’re a harmless group, won’t bite.” She said with a slight smile.

            “Well I might.” Dan interjected, striding through the door. “But only her.” He grinned.

            The others filed into the shop behind him, several whispering quick apologies for the noise and paying their respects to Joanne as they walked by.

            “And how’s my favorite cowgirl been?” Dan asked, leaning on the counter. Having taken off his leather bandana, his sandy blonde bangs swept in front of his eyes.

            Joanne propped herself up against counter behind her.

            “Been dandy.” She replied with a warm smile, “What brings you boys out here? Already that time a’ year?”

            Dan nodded.

            “That it is. Annual run for the club. We got some great weather for it too. It was barely misting when we left Berkley.”

            Some of the guys hooted in agreement.

            As Joanne and Dan bantered, Sam looked at the motley crew. He noticed some were the quintessential ideal of what one would suspect a biker to look like- tattoos covering their arms, wind burnt faces and long unruly beards- however others looked like they could be perfectly at home on Wall Street, trading fortunes and eating caviar off the slender belly of a human sushi bar.   

            “It’s rare for someone to be here that I don’t know.” Dan looked was looking at Sam. “New resident?”

            “Ah, this one’s a bit stranded until we find ‘im a safe way home.” Said Joanne, an apologetic look in her eye.

            “Oh? How’d you get stuck here? Not that there isn’t any place better to be stuck in.” Dan asked Sam giving a quick wink to Joanne, Sam drawing his attentions to the conversation after directing one burly man to the swirly straws.

            “It’s a long story.” Sam sighed.

            Dan chuckled. “Aren’t they always?”

            Sam nodded.

            “The long short of it,” Joanne interrupted, “is Sam here needs a ride back ta school in Los Angeles.”

            Sam nodded again.

            “Before Rose figures out I didn’t make it back to the dorms and alerts the National Guard.” He said with a wince. She’d probably try it too, he thought

            “Dorms?” Dan raised an eyebrow, looking Sam up and down. “Isn’t there an age limit?”

            He looked at Joanne. She put up a hand with a slight shake of her head; as always, she’d tell him later.

            Sam gave him an odd look, not understanding what he meant. ‘I’m only 19’, he thought. Joanne gave Sam a quick smile and asked him to ring up the sales of a couple of Dan’s friends as the others still milled about.

            Joanne and Dan talked in lowered voices for a moment down the counter, Joanne quickly recounting what she knew and the how and why Sam was currently stuck there.

            “Oh, I see.” He said. “Well Sam, I’ll tell you what. My friends and I are riding to Corpus Christy in Texas. I’m heading back here after that. If you haven’t found a ride in three days, I’ll check your friend’s machine. If I can’t make it work, I’ll take you home myself. Might not be optimal, but it’s better that nothing.”

            “Thanks, but there’s no need to take me home yourself.” Sam started.

            “It’s not a bother.” Dan interjected, “I have to head back in that direction eventually anyways.”

            “I’m sure yer students are happy ta get rid of ya.” Joanne teased.

            “Nonsense! I’m have an awesome class! And they have a teacher who rocks. It all works out in the end.” Dan laughed.

            At Sam’s quizzical look, Joanne added.

            “Dan here is a tenured professor of Cultural Anthropology at Berkley.”

            Dan puffed out his chest in jest.

            “A rockin’ professor.” He insisted. ”I had them put it on my doctorate even.”

            Joanne rolled her eyes. “Yeah yeah.”