Observation of the Day

This afternoon, while sitting in a class, I observed that 12 of the 13 women in the room had their hair "done" (by this I mean that it appeared to have been professionally cut, colored, or maintained within the past couple weeks). What types of girls were these? All kinds. Different races, different sizes, appearing to be from several demographics... but the one category that was not represented... a woman of age. 

There's only one of those in the class... and she happens to be number 13. 

Heck, let's call her number 1 and let one of the others take up that unlucky spot. The point is that the oldest person in the class was by far the most unkempt. While arguments could be made about wisdom and experience, etc., I don't think that any of them fit in this specific situation. So let's go back to the real issue (assuming for the moment that they aren't connected). 

What's with the hair? What's with makeup, short skirts, working out, mirrors, the word "sexy," moisturizer, tweezing, plastic surgery, push up bras, manicures, or bikinis? 

Does it lean more toward idolizing yourself or loathing yourself? 

I'll be honest, this post was going somewhere completely different until I posted that picture of Taylor Swift. Now I'm forced to look at what I want and why I want it. Do I want something manufactured or do I want something natural? Whatever I want, do I want it because I really want it, or because I've been trained to want it. 

I don't know.

Last question:

Is it bad or foolish to make yourself look as pleasing to the eye as you're capable of looking?

The Number Of Completion

Coincidence or something like it.

1. This past saturday, I was going through some text and found a set of notes taken by a friend from a church service that they had attended. I'm not certain how they came into my possession, but that didn't seem important. Frankly, the notes didn't seem important. I glanced slightly at them. It must have been a sermon on the parable of the sower and his seeds.

'Well that's interesting,' I thought as I threw the notes aside and continued with what I was doing.

2. While sitting in the second row at Status (by the way, I don't like the second row of anything, much less a place that I habitually seek freedom in comfort) I heard Cole begin to read a parable. What do ya know!? Of all the parables, it's that same one again.

This time my thought was, 'hey, that's what I read about yesterday.' Note the possessive reaction.

3. This morning I opened up a book that I rarely open, and turned toward a random page. There was a bit of scripture at the top of the page. It was the parable of the sower again.

Thought three: 'I need to look closely at this rather than just reading the surface.'

I've noticed in this past week how much more of an impact things have when they come in threes. It's actually happened in more cases than this. Something happens and you are aware of it. It happens again and you recognize it as a strange coincidence. It happens yet again and you realize that it is too significant to ignore. Somehow, at least for me, it takes repetition for me to take careful note of certain things.

Think of it this way:

You walk down a crowded street. You suddenly hear somebody shout something, but it blends easily with the other voices around you. Then you hear it again and you think, 'did somebody just shout my name?' Since you are unsure, you keep walking. When it happens again, you hear it clear as a bell. Somebody has called your name. That's when your attention finally turns to find the source.

Such is life.

left overs

Do you ever go to put something together, say a table from ikea, and once finished, discover that you have several extra pieces? Maybe an extra wing-nut or shelf mount? If you're like me, you respond to this realization by saying, "ehh, that's not important anyway."

It seems that if I look deeply at why I react that way, I discover that the root is somewhere in the realm of laziness and stubbornness. Too stubborn to listen to the correction that is piled on the floor in the form of nuts and bolts. Too lazy to go back and check where I might have gone wrong. So instead I subscribe to, "I know more than the people who designed and engineered this thing, and the people who use all of the parts are fools wasting their time."

Be wise and love correction.

the pain of the hour hand

it's dusk. at least I think this is dusk. I've never really had anybody explain the concept to me, but I've always interpreted it to be that little bit of time between day and night. that sliver of a moment where everything in the world looks it's best. a slight darkness mixed with the faint orange glow of what's left of the sun. it's the lighting that makes a building look cosy, a car look clean, skin look perfect, hair soft, and a sky like heaven. there's no time like this time. no time so short that can make things feel so endless. even so, dusk speaks less of immortality than it does death.

I'd be sitting on a lake right now if I didn't have the realization that this time was about to come to a close.

instead though, I'm sitting on the balcony of a friend's townhouse. it's peaceful here too though. it has all the securities of a home but without the responsibilities that accompany one. I can smell the secondhand smoke of somebody on a neighboring balcony... but the balcony, it seems, is a private place... so I've neglected looking over to see the smoke's producer. I wonder if they would still be smoking if they knew how much I desired to join them... but that I quit nine months ago. in my imagination it's a woman who's on that balcony. in my imagination she sees me, and sees the look on my face... the look of a man who's trying as hard as a hopeless heart can possibly try. and in my imagination, despite everything anyone would ever expect, she cares. it's such an intimate, selfless care too. she stops with her lips so slightly apart, and after the length of pause that it takes to fully ingest all of my history, hopes, desires, and feelings, she puts out her half smoked cigarette and turns to walk inside. and the best part... she stops just before her hand touches the door and turns to me and says, "I'm so proud of you," then walks inside.

none of this happens though.

by the time I've finished writing, the smoker is gone, the dusk has died, and I, the singular constant in this story, press on without the world's encouragement. that's what that whole tangent was, wasn't it? a pretend world where every other human being is excited about your desire for purity on an eternal scale. but imagining what could occur in the world is vital to changing what does occur in the world.

I've just gotten into one of those slumps where I feel like if I could only see some change, some sign of movement, something, I would have such a burst of energy that nothing could stop me. instead I see a million others around me collecting company bonuses, and getting married, and altogether receiving praise from the powers that be... and all I want is sign that I'm on my way. but this is all when I'm busy looking from the wrong perspective.

you see, my life is not that of a second hand, but of an hour hand. while the movement of a second hand is so much more apparent to the fleeting viewer, it's the change of an hour that holds significance in a real person's life. so while my movement is slow, and while my growth may be invisible to many at present, it will the movement that's recorded in history. not just a dusk, but a lifetime. not just a cigarette, but an entire human existence to the extent of success that few have seen or imagined.

Unfathomable F1

Formula 1 racing is home to the most precise, technologically advanced, and expensive cars on the planet. They are also the fastest. 

I wanted one when I was younger. The Ferrari. It didn't matter which year, the Ferraris were always the best. I remember the days when my reaction to something being fast was to compare it to an F1 car and try to decide if it could win in a race. 

As the years went by and experience and knowledge began to grow, I started to think about certain things that I never considered. Eventually, after valet jobs, car incidents (close calls, not accidents), and interesting television programming, the question finally popped into my head. "

"If I got into a Formula 1 car, would I be able to drive it?"

Eventually I decided that, through trial and error, I would probably be able to get the car moving. However, the damage that I would do to the car in trying to figure it out on my own would be severe. Furthermore, my ability to visualize myself wrecking into a wall at top speed comes much easier than my ability to visualize a successfully completed race lap. 

So what's my point? 

An F1 car without the knowledge and understanding of how to use it is useless in a race. 

I feel like I've seen a lot of people in my lifetime that own F1 cars.

Every now and then I'll find somebody who's training to be a driver.

On the rarest of occasions.............. I'll hear the whine of an F1 car at top speed........... and I'll wonder where it's going.