OneManAntHill

OneManAntHill.com - OMAH - This is my creative space. It's not safe :)

[onemananthill-blog]

Fingernails

He did. He bit his fingernails. He didn’t just bite them. He picked them and scratched them. Ripped them off like the single follicles of his beard and out like he did his nose hairs. A defense mechanism or an inferiority complex or a A few fixed habits of his. In an attempt to remove his cynicism one little piece at a time. Eventually he worked his way up to his eyebrows and eyelashes, as his criticism made him blind. And finally the hair on top of his head, the closest thing to his mind. Until he lost it. Not all of it, but most. * * * He did. He took a walk through the graveyard. Maybe in search of a ghost, he went to find life. What a strange sight - a balding, patchy, fidgety man, wondering through a foreign cemetery. There was no surprise. He found nothing. And at first it was scary. Until he found light. It wasn’t dim. It wasn’t dark red. It was bright. It was clear. He removed his finger out of his teeth when he realized it was all for not.

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The Fruit of our Labor

What are we chasing if the fruit of our labor is fed to a rich old fat bastard getting fanned in a chaise?

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The taken

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The takeover

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Both Ends

It started with bait and a tackle Went back to the liquor handle And lit both candles on each end Above the mantle

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Happy 5th of July

We the people, of the world, of America, of the Apartment complex down the street, have forgotten what it means to be a society, a community, and a team.

Rather, we take pride in being a clusterfuck of individuality.  We’re forever in an originality contest: the winner gets a brand new car!  The loser, a popular Instagram post. We’re no longer a steady stream, but an old glass of hot and fast molecules.  As I sit on a man-made creek bank deck, I find it incredibly sad, that the thought occurred to me, “I wish someone, was here to take a picture of me.” I feel like I’m doing a disservice to the scene, but that’s my problem not yours.

A male herrin mocks me with his beauty across the way, flapping and flaunting - it often seems more important to him than breakfast.  The female chases in pace of creation. He’d rather pose. A faux pride in his own.  While coffee, a faux alertness, is mine. The chairs beside me were wet when I got here. They’re dry now and I don’t have a towel. I guess that’s not a measure of time, but it’s relative enough.

It’s hard to think differently when it’s frowned upon. That concept was a keystone of America’s foundation.  Our president is black, a woman might be next, gays are wed legally, conclusions are regulated, cops are being reprimanded, Terio is famous, the Pope takes selfies, weed is nearly legal, books aren't burned, and our phones talk back to us, but even at one of America’s most progressive times that concept has still gone to shit.  

We can cheers to that or smoke to the thought of more.  

Or we can do both because we can.  But in good and in bad, we haven’t forgotten that. Even a cynic like me can smile at that thought: the recognition of will.

Happy 5th :)

[onemananthill-blog]

H A B I T S

He did.  He bit his fingernails.  He didn’t just bite them.  He picked them and scratched them.  Ripped them off like the single follicles of his beard and out like he did his nose hairs.  A defense mechanism or an inferiority complex or a   A few fixed habits of his.  In an attempt to remove his cynicism one little piece at a time.  Eventually he worked his way up to his eyebrows and eyelashes, as his criticism made him blind.  And finally the hair on top of his head, the closest thing to his mind.  Until he lost it.  Not all of it, but most.

* * *

He did.  He took a walk through the graveyard.  Maybe in search of a ghost, he went to find life.  What a strange sight - a balding, patchy, fidgety man, wondering through a foreign cemetery.  There was no surprise.  He found nothing.  And at first it was scary.  Until he found light.  It wasn’t dim.  It wasn’t dark red.  It was bright.  It was clear.  He removed his finger out of his teeth when he realized it was all for not.

[onemananthill-blog]

There's a sick irony in the fact that the two times my ex and I hung out we abandoned plans at a desert place called "Happily Ever After" and one of us had just broken up with our latest love. I'm out of breath.

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Twist from the Mix Or Twisted in the Mix

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It's a T W I S T E R

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Subway Gum

Subway floor gum is stuck to my shoes.

My feet are glued to the subway floor’s gum.

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Pillars

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Celebrenemies

This could be easy. You know, just the way we like it.  But let’s take it slow.  There’s no need to bruise your cranium, baby.

If you hear something enough, now matter how outlandish, it turns fact.  That’s the simple truth.  The younger generation is so fucked.  That’s coming from a millennial.

Our attention span is non-existent, our level of entitlement has reached an all-time high, our spectrum on wants and needs is totally eschewed.  While cockiness floats above surface, confidence drowns. Our reward system - instagram likes and retweets - encourages all.  We are our own enablers.

But what bothers me the most is something that this puny generation can only be partially at fault for - their heroes.  The following excerpt is from “Einstein: His Life and Universe.”

He developed a theory that his fame was, for all of its annoyances, at least a welcome sign of the priority that society placed on people like himself: “The cult of individual personalities is always, in my view unjustified… It strikes me as unfair, and even in bad taste,  to select a few for boundless admiration, attributing superhuman powers of mind  and character to them. This has been my fate, and the contrast between the popular estimate of my achievements and the reality is simply grotesque. This extraordinary state of affairs would be unbearable but for one great consoling thought: it is a welcome symptom in an age, which is commonly denounced as materialistic, that it makes heroes of men whose ambitions lie wholly in the intellectual and moral sphere.”

- Albert Einstein

Neil DeGrasse Tyson is the closest thing we have to an Einstein nowadays, which is understandable.  A man like Albert Einstein only comes around every 200 years or so.  My issue is that if another Einstein came around, he’ll go viral.  But he won’t achieve the same deserving fame as Einstein.  In a world of constant content sharing, they might get lost in the clutter - in the cat videos, the porn, the blogs, and the pictures.  I’m worried our savior might be shunned.

But would you even give a damn, baby?

The Theory of Relativity captivated the world in 1906, but it would barely catch a cold if that same breakthrough occurred today.  Surely folks would blog about it, tweet about it, but would it garner a consistent knowledgable and attentive audience the way the Kardashians have?  It won’t be a genuine fascination, but rather a “LOOK AT THIS!”  

No.  

In Einstein’s day, folks longed for his newest paper with an anxiousness that mirrors the hype for  Future’s newest mixtape.  They lined the streets and packed the buildings where the aloof professor appeared in the same fashion sneaker heads do for the latest Jordan release.  Celebrities were established on newspaper articles and radio interviews in 1905 - two mediums.  Our present day mediums are endless, our attention span is fruitless, but the teachings of Albert Einstein are timeless… relatively.  If we’re willing to listen.

[onemananthill-blog]

Commute Noosez

Why aren’t we paid or compensated to commute to our shitty jobs every day?  

Some are, but let’s focus on the latter, baby.  

The average work week is 40 hours… bullshit.  It’s 50 hours.  If you work 5 days a week and commute 1 hour each way, ESPECIALLY if you’re driving, you’re working 50 hours a week.  You know why?  Because you’re doing something to get paid.  Driving a car on the same roads to the same places in two different ways five days a week may not be in your job description, but you are in fact completing this task to do your job, and more importantly you can’t do anything else. You cannot do something for you. Yes, you can listen to music, an audio book perhaps, but you cannot spend that hour of commuting actively pursuing something you genuinely enjoy.

“But I love my job!” Good for you, baby.

The song remains the same. You’re still on the way or on your way home from job you are being paid to do, day in and day out.

“But I take the train in, I can do whatever I want!”

That seat on that train is where you need to be at that exact time to get you to the job you are being paid to do. You love your job, you get to read your romance novel on the way in, fantastic, but you don’t have another choice if you want to keep that gig.

Choice is the common denominator between the Vice President of the most innovative and profitable start-up and the Mickey D’s drive-thru worker. If you don’t own the company and you want to keep your job you have to be at your office at the time you’re supposed to be there.

* * *

I take a bus to a transit hub then the subway from there.  Bus riders, ever notice how those handles hanging from the ceiling rails resemble nooses?  Of course you have.  It’s like they’re begging you to give up and at the same time saving your exhausted ass, keeping you on your feet after a bumpy ride, ensuring your arrival the next day.

[onemananthill-blog]

My Neck of the Woods

I used to know these woods like the back of my hand.  Still, I know them fairly well, like my palm.

Before entering, I noticed the pathway to be a bit more rogue, less inviting.  It used to be clear.  Now branches and plants reside, almost as fearless as their unchallenged, off-path neighbors.  This is perhaps due to a lack of adventurers, or maybe it’s just the season and I’m just a cynic.

Nirvana’s MTV unplugged version of “Something in the Way” just shuffled on - a bit too literal for my liking.  Its been over ten years since my last wander through these woods and this is one of my sins. The Pope visits Philly in about a month.  Something I hadn't noticed or neglected roaming these woods in grade school was the litter.  Surely every suburban forest has its share, but ours is ugly.  Even the graffiti lacks imagination. It’s frumpy, lumpy, clumsy trash. I guess I prefer a Jackson Pollack feel to my litter.

As I navigate these woods, the paths densify and further the separation of my memory and the present.  It’s sad.  I finally settle on a boulder amongst other boulders, a natural dam almost completely halting the flow of a half inch stream, to take a break and a smoke. The paths still weigh heavy on me. I’m thinking that it has to be because less people are trekking through here, less kids. And even though my neighborhood is full of young children it’s rare to catch a game of capture in progress.  Today, fat kids are sick... not fat.  The Information Age is quickly being replaced by the Indoor Age.

Moping wouldn’t be the correct term, but down? Yes.

That was until I noticed the most beautiful flower.  All to its own, minding its own business, going about it’s day, sticking out like an exquisite green thumb.  And it's all good.

[onemananthill-blog]

Fuzzy Pink Handcuffs

Contention is a common theme here amongst the elders and the youths.

We’ll focus on the latter, baby.

Here, we are too safe to be afraid.  Not rich enough to be ashamed, or maybe too lazy.  We mow our green pastures for aesthetics, for sanity.  Dirt patches are dug up because perfection is scary.  Problems are blown up because forget miniscuality (that’s not a word). It’s only natural to have such emotions – one of them being satisfaction and its antagonist, dissatisfaction – but I digress, again and again.  Our ADD is Africa’s Malaria.  Or the other way around, it really works both ways... sadly.  Our distractions are Africa’s insects.

What’s on the television, baby?

Opportunities are everywhere – how can you pick just one?  Survival and striving are the same concept within these velvet walls.  Failure lands you back inside at square one, along with everyone and their mother.  Contention comes with the testimony.  Opinions are vital because you might be here for a while.  Outbound bridges are burned without hesitation.  They’re also easily reconstructed.  When a common destination is sought by similar travelers, there’s not much of a choice.  The bridge is put up over the same water that’s been there since the first flood.  This causes erosion; the waves mash against the faulty connector.

And so we stay locked up in suburbia in fuzzy pink handcuffs.

[onemananthill-blog]

My mind’s in the gutter

Or on my old lover

She made me feel human

Now she got me fucking fuming

I miss that paradise

I see your hips swing

It’s all in hind sight

And you don’t miss me

I don’t know you,

Anymore.