Musing: Snapshots

Lately, I've come to accept that some things are just disjointed. Events are not always fluid, but more often fragmented. And, sometimes there isn't a bigger picture, a broad theme, a crux, what have you. I wish there always was, though. I'm more of a holistic thinker, so I end up exhausting myself when I try to derive deeper meaning from even the most banal (in hindsight, of course) occurances in my life. I find myself repeating the questions Whydidthishappen, Whatdoesitmean, and Howwillthisshapeme all too often. And the majority of the time, those questions remain unanswered.

Throughout most of my life, I've desired it to be like a finely crafted novel. Rising action, plot development, character foils, me being the protagonist (with as few antagonists as possible), a thrilling climax, and then the subtle and billowy denouement as I tuck myself into bed each night. It rarely works that way, though.

But really, why should it? I've never been a fan of Modern literature (ie Virginia Woolf, not some hack like Stephanie Meyer), but you know, at least it's unpredictable. There is nothing formulaic about it, no particular conventions. And yes, it makes me feel stupid most of the time, but only because I expect a particular sequence of events. I want a plan. But then I think about it, and I realize that, well, there is no plan.

The truth of the matter is that sometimes we can't necessarily connect A to B, and B to A. I know this goes against Hume's theory, but I have trouble finding it believable at this point in time. I'd liken it to a disposable camera. You keep it with you at all times, to capture things you find interesting, or moments you want to save. You have the film developed when it's empty (pardon my lack of photo-terminology), and you get to see everything you've done. In one shot you've captured a family of, say, muskrats, and the next is a picture of your friends at a rave. They follow each other sequentially, but they have nothing in common besides the roll of film they shared. There isn't necessarily some shared meaning, or any meaning, really, behind any of the photos, and that's OK. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. And, lately, I feel like that's what life is really like. A roll of film on a disposable camera. You capture moments through and throughout it, and when you're old and out of film, you try to piece it all together, but you can't. But my, some of the pictures are just so pretty.

So, a few snapshots of the past week:

Picture 1: The Big Eel

My family and I were on vacation, stopping for breakfast before we visited the Wright brothers memorial. Stopped at a kitschy beachcomber's delight. As I was perusing the menu, I looked to my left and saw several snot nosed children running up to a small aquarium, poking and pushing their way to the front. Able to peer over their curly and matted ringlets, I saw a large moray eel lying on the faux-sand floor. I hoped for its sake that it had never actually lived in the ocean, that way it wouldn't have to feel so hopeless and trapped all of its life. Found it ironic that it was living this confined existence so close to the place where two brothers freed us from being bound to the land. I asked my dad if he thought that eel was actually living. Deftly, he defined life as "eating and excreting," so yes. I lost my appetite.

Picture 2: The Yellow Corvette

The other day I was headed home from a volunteer event, and I heard a steady rumbling from behind. It grew louder, finally turning from white noise to a beastly lemon-colored convertible. It was a corvette. A balding man was driving it, top down, music up. His wife was to his right, her hair an auburn and silver streaked ribbon in the sky. The yellow was a bit too bold for my tastes, but they both seemed happy. I then wondered what I had in my life that was a great distraction, but couldn't think of any at the time. I'm still looking for my yellow corvette.

Picture 3: "Love Thy Neighbor"

Same night, at the actual volunteer event. For once, I decided to give back to the community by raising money to help fund art and education classes for prisoners. It was a church related thing, but somehow I saw past that and determined that it was a good cause. Maybe if they'd been educated beforehand and been able to fall in love with knowledge, they wouldn't have chosen the path of crime. I sold pizza and gave out pins at the door. There was another guy volunteering that night, I'd say around 50 years old. We had nothing to talk about, so of course he asked me about school. He seemed OK, he had on a shirt that had an embroidered "Love Thy Neighbor" on the front. Asked me what my major was in school. To keep it short, I just said Spanish. Then he asked me if I wanted to work on a farm. The irony made me want to regurgitate my mozzarella.

Picture 4: "Do You Remember Me?"

The other day I was at work, flustered, frizzy, and feeling a little fat. It was 95 degrees outside and I was wearing long black pants and a dark shirt in a building sans air conditioning. Flies buzzed around me like some ambient-industrial dreck, and my cheeks began to flush. And then he came in. The one who was older, cooler, and smarter. The one who, several years prior, dropped me in an instant, and never spoke to me again. I still cringe remembering the day, on his birthday, calling him and wishing him a happy birthday, and hopinghewashavingagreatdaybecausehereallydeservedit Oh, and a maybeifyou'refreesometimewecanhangoutagain! He hadn't called me for about a week then. Fucking dick. Fucking me. I knew he was sitting around with all of his friends, playing the message some pathetic and head over heels 16 year old girl left him. I wanted to see him again, just so I could say something mean, something cruel, something that would make him regret, something that would make him think, Damn, I chose the wrong girl to make a misandrist. Brought his strawberries to the counter; this was it. I tried to pretend like I didn't know him, and after a few tense moments (my sweaty fingers couldn't manage to open a paper bag), he asked if I remembered him, Savannah. My mind drew a blank, I had no arsenal. My pathetic response? Yes, I remember you, Jack. Smiled, and then left. And I felt like I was 16 again. Embarrassed and pink.