straight lines

I've been decidedly brain-dead these past few weeks. I was a bit stressed about my exams, and the last one passed today without much flourish. I'm relieved, but mostly just exhausted. Still trying to make sense of my decision to take this position, as the more I learn, the more I am realizing that I need to get out of it as soon as I can. On to something more interesting, engaging. I'm naive yes, but I have no intention of overcoming that. There is something better, and I will bitch and moan until I get there. I don't care, don't give me shit about being grateful. I'm better than this, and sick of nodding and smiling to placate the excuse-makers. I think I'd love to join the Foreign Service. I've already passed the exam, but never went through the interview process because, well, I'm not prepared to start defending the bullshit this administration is pushing. I've worked in an Embassy, and I was intoxicated by the environment. There are some seriously smart people around there, the kind who find themselves shaking their heads at the irony of the context of their position and the reality of the situation. I don't think I'm prepared to do what I really want yet. I mean I'm not mature enough, I still think that right and wrong exist. Again, I'm not interested in changing. I tend to find clear-cut and irrefutable conclusions, and am hypocrtical and contradict myself all the time. I don't really know what to say about that, it's just me.

Sometimes, I get this eerie feeling that this isn't real. Usually this comes after a sleep and it takes awhile to remember where I am, to make sense of my surroundings, of who I am. When I figure it out, I get so sad and promise myself that this isn't it. Sometimes I get this feeling completely randomly, I'll be walking down the street and have to stop my thoughts and think.. what's the point, this isn't real. It just isn't. How can it be? I mean the majority fo everything we care about, that we think is important is all constructed by us, for us. Think about all the things that we do because we are supposed to them, and if etiquette or some arbitrarily derived sense of responsibility didn't drive us, we wouldn't do it. Like giving gifts on someone's birthday. I was worried about exams that really have no value or weight in the real scheme of things. Reality is the jungle. The real, living, breathing one, not the concrete, paved, sterile life we've built up here. The one where thing's aren't 'fair'. I'm thinking this is a fairly generic feeling. Ugh, I sound like a smelly hippie. That's not it, I swear.

My paternal grandfather completed a PhD in Agriculture here in the States and went back to the motherland to work on development. My memories are a bit blurry, but suffice it to say he was a high-ranking government official and travelled all over the world researching various plants and crops that would be viable back home. He would always experiment with weird plants in his house, from varieties of cotton to Malaysian palms to whatever else is out there. He and I always planted a mini-field of sunflowers when I was fortunate enough to visit. One summer, I may have been 8 or 9. Or 12. I don't know. Two of my other cousins and I were permitted to accompany him to a rainforest in Bangladesh where he was collecting samples and things. We lived in a house on stilts for a week, accessible by a ladder that had to be pulled up at night to prevent unwanted visitors stopping by. I don't remember being scared when I heard the howls, screeches and whatever other noises imaginable at night. I remember trying to figure out what everyone was talking about, what was happening. I remember being so excited when the thought dawned on me: it was life. This was where the real shit happened. You died if you made a mistake, you lived another day if you were fortunate to have the right combination of skill were under the graces of luck. That was all there was. There were fires lit around the base of our hut to dissuade any of the more ambitious creatures wishing to make our acquaintance. There was also a tribe living nearby, not fond of outsiders but, not surprisingly, welcomed my grandfather. They lived. They faced the most crucial decisions each and every day, the ones that really mattered. I don't know what it was about this that stirred me, and I think that my resentment now goes back to this. The shit I care about now doesn't really matter. I hate myself for it, for considering things that are irrelevant in the long run. For honoring the constructions, the molded plastic.

I am not sure what I'm talking about, but I figure I might as well talk and eventually something will make its way through to let me move forward.