It always lies within perambulatory distance. Not quite at a teasing and unattainable horizon, but always much closer. Much much closer. Within the very tangible physical spaces that one can calculate in a fraction of a second, down to the obsessive minutiae: the number of strides, leaps, twists, turns. Every imaginable hurdle. Every languid slump of exhaustion.

But yet, it still lies there. Just being observed. Wanted. Judged. Excused. Saved for later.

Mostly because this Sense of Purpose seems very dull. Duller than the daily monotony that frustrates and tears at you while you fantasize about this wretched S.O.P. You see your potential, curled up into a fetus, slowly decaying away. Separated only by a few moves, leaps, and dodges.

The whole exercise reeks of reticent schizophrenia. Multiple realities. Multiple motivations. Multiple multiples. And yet you were never good at math. So your existential arithmetic, or lack thereof, reduces you to a feeble lump of motivational arrhythmia. Of course, what follows next is a long-winded and hardly-fulfilling sway of acquiescence between a distant sense of purpose and the passive boredom of stagnation. You only brave that leap intellectually, from a distance. The physicality is too difficult, so you brush it off as “a mundane superficiality in aesthetics.” But that is not what it is. And you know it. Naturally, the power of repetition lies in its capacity to dull and persuade. So you believe it. And continue to sway back and forth. Never really here. Or there. Or anywhere. Except in your head.

Meanwhile, that Sense of Purpose, that sticky little fetus that has barely figured out the existence of its own limbs, slowly cruds up and expires along with your own physical existence. Simply because your mind is petrified by the potential stagnation and pressure of purpose. Almost as much as it dreads your current motivational suicide.

Does fear ever warrant the banality of disregard and waste? If it does, then where does one find the anesthesia for time?

A small digital camera is always a nice toy to have around. I shot this right outside the Shaw/Howard Metro stop in NW DC. After some editing and effects, and a soundtrack (flying lotus’ “tea leaf dancers”), I figured it looked interesting enough to share.  Make of it what you will, if you can make out anything at all.

Length: 35 seconds
Shot on: Kodak Zi6
Editor: Sony Vegas
Audio: Flying Lotus, “Tea Leaf Dancers” 

This morning, I rented a Zipcar (bright green logo) to go pick up my dry cleaning. My girl had dropped it off at a cleaner in Columbia Heights, not knowing that it was an “Organic Cleaner.” I’m not even sure what the hell that means. I do know that it cost me almost double what I would have spent elsewhere.  But that’s just me and finances.

The meat of what irks me is the current trend towards everything going “green,” whatever that may signify. It echoes hollow sentiments of a good cause gone awry into shameless marketing schemes. Everything from buses to web hosting companies are apprently signing up.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for each one of us doing our part to do as little damage to our surroundings as possible. But let’s face it: this is not about the environment. This is human beings’ selfish attempt at more self-preservative longevity. The planet and its ever evolving environment have been here for hundreds of thousands of years. Believe me, Mother Earth is not going anywhere. And neither is the environment. Nonetheless, let that not be incentive for reckless shenanigans and destructive behavior. I just think we have more pressing matters at hand than “going green,” i.e., war, poverty, preservation of equal rights and civil liberties, and an ever-impending nuclear holocaust.

Having said that, NBC recently refused to air this Super Bowl commercial from PETA:

“Strange – ” I whispered, trying to smuggle some cold air up into my nostrils, past the ruffle of her unruly, lemongrass scented mess of an afro.

“What is?” She remained snuggled into my scrawny frame, sharing the fleece blanket to shield us from the biting winter breeze on the patio. Frankly, it was as effective as dressing a bullet wound with a band-aid.

“Your dandruff,” I replied, still reeling from the remnants of tetrahydrocannabinol shimmying along in my brain cells. “It actually tastes good.” Apparently, the only segue I had out of awkward silences was my penchant for even more awkward absurdities.