Chapter Eight

Some beatnik writing crap: Hold on we’re going fast, the ocean calls at last, the skin tingles in the sun, isn’t sin fun. I want light to swallow me, I want to swallow light, I want all the stars of this night to fall and ignite and in the raw passion cleanse me new; I wish I were you. Hold on, here comes a rush; we’re here then we’re not then we fall into dust; we swallow dust, we’re made of star dust which is angel dust which circles all around us as we do what we must to want to live and live bright; hold on to the day here comes the night.

The past winter had been horrible. All the winter celebrations, the lights and festivities seemed like a deliberate manufactured fight against the misery; the coldness, the darkness. Manufactured meaning fake. A fight for a reach at merriment among the bleakness.

Then the spring comes and the thaw begins. The sun lasts longer, is brighter, days warmer, green and blooms wake from hibernation, cloths are loosened, no longer the need for bundled restrictions or layers, bodies are more free, sunglasses are donned. Birds flutter back and sing and all that crap. Easter. Marshmallow baby sugar chicks and chocolate Easter bunnies; rabbits the pagan symbol of fertility. Jesus Christ and the resurrection. He rose again. We will live again. The spring and sun and jelly beans. Easter dresses. Church. But spring came and January, Jan, my older sister, remained dead. I began to heal a little bit, accept it and fall into routine.

I already was used to her being gone away at college so it’s not like a big change, daily ritual, should occur. Still it weighs heavy. Knowing she’s gone for good. But in those moments when I felt sort of normal, sort of fine, I also felt sort of guilty. Like, after the Newton massacre, twenty little kids shot dead in school and six of their teachers, the country was shocked and grief stricken and wanted some good to come from the horror and tragedy, to keep events like that and the one in Aurora Colorado, and Gabby Gifford’s and so on, from happening again. All these mass shootings. The majority of people were for tougher gun laws because crazy people shouldn’t be allowed to own assault weapons so easily. And why does anyone need assault weapons anyways? What rational reasonable real world applicable reason? But then time passed and no one cared anymore and the gun nuts won and no good came from mass shootings, twenty little kids and six teachers shot dead by an assault rifle by a crazy guy, and the movie theatre shootings in Arizona that year also, and Gabby Gifford’s and everything. So disheartening.

It hurts to care so stop caring; let reason slip away, shout slogans and cling to symbolism instead, gun rights, freedom, and junk. Party politics and hate and resentment and gotchya games interfering with common sense, and kids die and oh well, freedom and guns and yahoo and N.R.A. and tea party; they celebrate their victories over the graves of the dead by bullets.

(Reading this over, two years later, a good editor would delete all political type crap and rants. I don’t even know why I wrote it; included it in this thing. But I’ll keep it. The Newtown massacre had just happened and I was pretty worked up about it, and just wanted to rant I guess. Also, seeing as Jan added her name to the statistic of 35,000 people dying from guns in America every year, I guess added to my anti-gun passions. But feel free to skip ahead a few paragraphs. I actually do still think it’s crazy how after the Newtown massacre the trend in Red States was to become even more gun friendly, with open carry laws in college campuses in Texas and six other states and crap, but—ugh—oh well. …I guess also, the jolt from the hard turn from thinking you’re reading some “narrative story” into suddenly reading some blathering anti-gun mostly incoherent ramble [I think I tried to be beatnik-y with the rant, just a bit] might be symbolic of the jolt of thinking your life is fine and normal and then finding out that your sister is dead—so maybe this section works in that regard… although I guess I just deluded whatever impact it might have had but, whatever. Two years later and I still haven’t really gotten any better at explaining or “fixing” myself).

Death, death, death, bang, bang, bang, no one cares, love the guns, loving the guns is the cure to the problem, so it’s come to, freedom, rights, government tyranny (not really but the paranoia and excuse for the weapon stockpiles) yell louder, use crazy hypothetical’s for a rational in defense of letting anyone carry any weapon anywhere rather than reality; hero fantasies trump reality, it’s all anger and a mess and stupid and no one cares anymore about gun deaths and allow the loopholes in the background checks, yes, defiantly continue to allow that, it’s a hazard and dangerous and unconstitutional somehow to not close background check loopholes, let criminals and crazies and terrorist buy whatever weapons they want at guns shows and over the internet, please, god please, don’t take that freedom and right and yahoo guns yeah guns whoopee guns away from them, suicides, domestic abuse killings, accidents, deaths of that sort, multiple, everyday, guns yahoo isn’t it great, we don’t care anymore, twenty children dead, shot brutally in the head, hooray, guns, hooray guns, freedom, that person who buys the gun and goes and shoots himself or herself or the wife or kids or others, isn’t it great, do nothing about it.

The gun lobby is too great and powerful and we should fear them, no, they are our freedom fighting friends allowing nuts and crazy people and criminals their rights to their guns, make it easy as possible to get more guns out, more, more, more guns, there can’t be enough, of the guns designed to kill as many people as possible in as short a time as possible, those are the best kinds of guns, twenty kids killed, six adults, in such a beautifully short time, such a beautiful weapon that guy used, did what it was designed to do so well, what a great feeling of freedom and happiness he must have gotten shooting all those kids and teachers in school up, brings a tear to the eye, please don’t take his right away, argue for his rights, N.R.A., government, senators, fall in line.

Nothing’s changed, all this carnage, deaths, and simple solutions, even the tamest easiest most common sense thing, background checks, can’t be fixed, nothing changes, glory halleluiah what a joyous feelings, the gun people win, blood, blood, blood.

I don’t know how she got the gun. Jan. The same day of the Newtown massacre a crazy man in China attacked an elementary school with a knife. No one died there. If only he lived in America and could have assault weapons, then he’d reach his dream and kill kids; the knife just doesn’t work as well, isn’t as quick and easy. Murder. But the gun nuts criticize you if you’re emotional about it. They love their guns more than death or common sense. I know it’s a loaded issue (pun sort of intended). People get real angry and heated over it, for some reason. Guns to them is life liberty and happiness and America and country music and rock n roll and everything they love and their god and politics and any hint of an idea of limiting their ideas of all that, in the form of sensible gun control gets them all angry hot and bothered for some reason beyond my grasp to really understand. It insults them deeply, personally, for some reason. Even a dumb little sensible common sense thing like universal background checks, for some reason. Anyways, I’ll move on.

On the drive through Arizona, the gang talked about jobs. What would the best job be? Something that pays a lot of money that you enjoy doing; that’d you do for free, that’s like play to you rather than work, and your co-workers are your friends, would be the best job. Whatever that could be. A key player on a pro sports team or a rock star or professional surfer or snowboarder or actor.

Or something that would make a positive difference in the world too, obviously, would be nice. If you’re on a pro team that wins that makes the city you play in feel good for example, or curing cancer or making some life altering beneficial discovery or invention; discover the formula that turns water into gasoline, only the gasoline burns clean like water, or something. Discover how to harness solar power in a way that satisfies all our energy needs, and all the greedy horrible oil industry people gleefully destroying the planet for profit would become extinct.

Girls can’t really dream about being a big rich pro football or basketball player the way boys can. But so few are those anyways, it hardly matters, I think, anyways. An actor or successful musician, obviously, would be the best jobs. A successful Hollywood actor or actress; get paid millions, own mansions, travel the world, and be worshiped for playing make-believe, being creative. Get free stuff, go on fashion shoots, again, travel all over the world, receive constant positive affirmations that you’re a big deal and matter to people, worshiped by people, people burst into tears just by your presence; modern celebrities are our gods. To be anyone you have to be noticed by others, and those that get the most notice are the most somebody’s.

There are a lot of potential pot holes to fall into; a lot of Hollywood actors turn kind of crazy and unhappy it seems, despite all the wealth and play, but they don’t all turn out bad. Although, it seems the thing now in Hollywood is if you don’t get an early start, get afoot in the door as a child actress, then your chances aren’t as good of making it big as an adult. I mean, an actress career, generally, ends pretty quick, like, in her mid 30’s or so is when no more good roles are offered. Same with music too; if you haven’t ‘made it’ at early 20’s or so, then you probably never will make it. Because of youth obsession and I don’t know what. Generally speaking. But I might be wrong about that. Anyways, point stands is it’s highly unrealistic to expect to be a celebrity as a job, either in the pop culture arts, or in reality programming, and if you want to make your money being a reality TV personality, then that’s just gross anyways, but I’d probably take it anyways because it’d still be better than working in the restaurant business or something. I don’t know. An actress would be the best job, seeing as you have to do something in order to make money in life in order to survive in the world, and it’d be nice not just to survive but to flourish, enjoy it, and having more money isn’t a cure for sadness or depression or problems , but it’d help, the gang decided, talking it over; having that sense of security at least; at least they wouldn’t have to worry about going hungry or cold or not getting those fancy shoes they want, and going on vacations. It surprised me to hear them talk this way; rich kids don’t usually think about not having money, I thought. Not really a concern, not really conceivable.

“How do you get to be those people who decide what movies get green-lit?” Seth-Rem asked.

“You mean a studio head?” Candice asked.

“Yeah, how hard a job is that? Hear some pitch for some TV show about a family of werewolves or something and then say yes or no. I could do that. How easy a job would that be? Twenty million a year salary, stock included, just to say yes or no to some beggars and you get to influence culture and make and kill dreams as a bonus.”

“Anyone could do that job,” Leena said.

“I know,” Seth-Rem said. “But how do you get that job?”

“Harvard business school master’s degree first of all, probably,” Candice said. “Then connections. Getting people to like you, or trust you, or fear you, or some combination of all that. Make people think you’re a big deal and big brain and better than everyone else.”

“A con game,” Kang said. “Everything’s a con.”

They talked on about that kind of stuff, the boys again circling to NBA all star; get paid a few hundred million, endorses included, retire by age 35 or 38, set for the rest of your life (if you didn’t blow all the money on gambling and bad investments of course).

I haven’t thought much of what I want to do with the rest of my life. Or, just my life. Those are questions that come hit harder for those of my road trip companion’s ages. But I guess I should be thinking more about that. The time isn’t too far away when I’ll be their age. A few years feels long the younger you are but in time they come to mean nothing, merely a breeze, a blink, a whiff, a yawn, go to bed and wake up and a few years have passed already and what is time anyways, who knows, one day you’re young, the next you’re old, so I’ve heard, guess I’ll find out, and they, the old, say they feel the same they did when they were years or decades younger, as sort of an affirmation of mind vitality and what I don’t know; I don’t know what to take from that or what it means; when you’re young you’re told you’re supposed to get wiser and better with age, with more control over yourself and your world and the greater world and everything else.

Time in mini busses on the road at times feels timeless, but looking back, it seems short. Trapped by time. But one could have listened to the same song for six hours. Some people do that. And maybe that experiment would have some artistic enlightenment on repetition or something. Turn yourself and time and experience into a living art piece, only known and experienced by yourself and your friends. The same song, nothing really new, as the changing scenery blurs by, always changing, yet always constant and more or less the same seeming.

College is coming. Frat parties. Tests and professors. Wandering the campus and cafeteria. Casual sex and the walk of shame and learning of the world and self and putting off the future while preparing for the future, putting off anxiety of the future, quick to come, by embracing the now, through causal college sex and booze parties and rooting too hard for the sports teams or really I don’t know what. Suffering through boring lectures. To prepare to be a professional whatever, I don’t know. Teacher or doctor or lawyer or business whatever person, engineer, nurse, take what you’ve learned and apply it out in the real world, whatever that real world is; or do something completely different and it turns out the college education was a waste and wouldn’t really have changed or influenced whatever it is your future is or would be anyways; but still maybe you’re glad you went through it, or maybe not, if you have too much student debt if you’re not lucky enough to have had your parents or grandparents pay for it all; I don’t know, maybe one day I’ll learn more about all that; learn answers to questions I can’t conceive of yet.

(It’s weird to read that last paragraph two years after I wrote it; how clueless I was, and, even more disturbing, how clueless I still am. Also weird, how I had this amazing experience, on the road for two weeks in these amazing places with these amazing people, and when I sit down to write it out, Jack Kerouac style, all in one sitting [not really] what I end up writing is tangents on whatever crumb my mind was sucking on at the moment mostly; guns and jobs and junk. …But I guess that sort of correlates from the feeling I had after the trip of thinking a whole lot happened, exciting, interesting, thrilling things, but then when self tasked to chronicle it realizing… not a lot really happened… or nothing really interesting. I guess. I had a happy type rush hit me while in the fake log on Splash Mountain at Disneyland, and turning the corner at night, and seeing the Disneyland lights below me, all those happy kids and families down there, remembering the little girl earlier in the day dressed like Snow White and how excited she was seeing Ana from Frozen [or, the “character actress” playing Ana; whoever she was she was great at it and I hope she’s paid a lot] and imagining this girl eating ice-cream now waiting for the fireworks, and it was just… a happy peaceful type feeling, appreciating the beauty below, feeling a part of the beauty, bobbing in the water in the plastic log, finally feeling comfortable, anticipating the thrill drop and splash than the Zippidy Doo Dah song… it was just nice. I’m not sure if I wrote about that, but that’s not really, like, zippy, beatnik novel material, you know? Dumb, simple and corn-y…but important at the time. To finally feel good, and not from sex or drugs [again, not very beatnik-y]. Or just riding in the car through the desert west and before falling asleep thinking about the coyotes out there, and just smiling at the thought that there are coyotes out there, not even sure why the thought made me smile, but finally feeling good and a sense of peace, I have no idea why… “exciting” stuff like that. Anyways, reading on…)

What are math geniuses paid? Depends. But mostly, pretty good money I’d think; get a job at Apple or some tech start up. Math geniuses are pretty much born that way. Intelligence is mostly genetic, I think. Yet still, smart people can be plenty dumb and amoral. Hitler and Stalin may have been smart. Survival of the fittest. Let the dumb die, some believe. The poor dumb who were born that way; let natural selection rule all to one day save us all, as a species, a civilization, some may believe. Talents are mostly genetic. Good looks. Life is better for the attractive. They have better sex partners, are more admired, get more free stuff, are paid more attention to and pampered and praised. They get away with crap without having to say or do anything; just stand there, being good looking. They can brighten someone’s day just by standing there and being observed by some admirer; ‘aren’t you pretty, I’m glad I saw you’, it has made me happier to witness something so pretty, or handsome, in this moment’ that person may think. ‘The world is better now knowing you’re in it, making life brighter wherever you go simply by being attractive; hope you’re not one of the ones who dies too early, gunshot or bomb or accident or suicide; it is more tragic when the pretty ones are lost, gone, no longer there to brighten people’s days, the world really, by their attractiveness; worse yet when the young and pretty die in horrible senseless ways; all that lost potential; who knows what amount of that potential would have been fulfilled or not; it is now an unanswerable question so pointless to dwell on.

They guys were talking about that kind of stuff during one of the road trip rides while I don’t know what played over the speakers, can’t specifically remember. Something good though; they were all something good; the conversations and the music.

“I’m glad I saw that pretty person, I wish I could be the type of person who could have sex with her,” Seth-Rem said.

“Gross, is that what guys think when they see a pretty girl?” Leena asked.

“Yeah, pretty much,” the boys said. “What do you think when you see a handsome dude?”

“I wonder if he’d be a good dad,” Candice answered.

“I wonder how big his dick is,” Leena said.

“Guys should have their penis size tattooed on their hands,” Candice joked.

“Shut up, girls don’t really care about that, do they?” Seth-Rem asked.

“Why, you have reason to be nervous?” Leena asked.

“You know I don’t,” he answered.

“The decisions we make now will have ramifications for the rest of our lives,” Candice said, “more profoundly so than at any other moment of our lives. What to major in, what to do, who to spend time with.”

“No one really makes new friends after ages twenty two or twenty three,” Seth-Rem said.

“You think that’s true?” Leena asked.

“No one really knows anyone else,” Kang said. “Especially true when you meet some new old person, even if you’re old.”

“I think that’s more of a guy’s thing,” Leena said. “That idea that you can’t make new friends after a certain age.”

“Shared history becomes kind of a needed thing to have a bond,” Kang said, “but I don’t fully believe that. If that were true, then say, you have to move to some new city away from all your old friends, for your job or something. You just wouldn’t have any friends near where you live ever again?”

“Everyone is essentially alone. That’s what Morrissey says,” Candice said.

“We’ll all be friends forever, right?” Leena said.

“Of course,” Candice said.

“That’s such a girl’s thing,” Seth-Rem said.

“What is?”

“Talking openly about friendships and shit. Like some middle school girls.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“Nothing.”

“Sometimes you learn the most just saying nothing,” Leena suggested.