Everywhere Is Dangerous

One of the things that my mother was very good at was going her own way, even if the way she chose didn’t always produce a positive result. As a young man, she allowed me to go to the store myself and learn how to travel to places and, at the very least, figure out how to ask people where I’m going when I don’t know where I am. Such an idea seems ancient, to reach out for help to a stranger, since Google is supposed to be your friend.

Google, while having the most supposedly real-world map of the world, is not as helpful as one might think.

I recognize there are dangers everywhere in cities that are big and small. There are however a few basics I follow which may or may not have to do with my upbringing. Here they are:

  1. Never walk aimlessly at night unless you have somewhere to go.,
  2. Always have a mode of transportation.,
  3. Always let people who your friends/relatives know where you are.
  4. If the place you see looks dangerous, it is.
  • I’m going to New York, dangerous or not, I have to start living and getting out of this city and do something else besides waddle in my misery.
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    To New York I Go

    I booked a ticket to New York for the middle of August. It’s an expensive endeavor to be sure, but no more expensive than buying yet another computer (which I did this weekend). I’m looking to expand my horizons and get out of Chicago and go on an adventure that the Internet has no hand in.

    I’ve asked people what places to see and how to survive as a mere tourist rather than someone who has lived the city. The answers I get are helpful, but I’m not completely on board with following someone else’s idea of enjoyment these days. I’d like to make up my own mind.

    Less anxiety that way.

    Before I even get that far, I need to worry about what I’m going to take with me. That in itself will prove to be a journey.

    Let Women Speak

    I generally don’t like to go on about social/political issues given how toxic the environment is these days. After attending a group session where I listened to others talk about their grief, I came to one conclusion; women should be allowed to speak. I say this as a man, who as men generally do, get a chance to speak.

    If a woman is constantly made to feel like her voice doesn’t matter, then she will get used to not speaking up when it’s necessary to her own well-being, or to the well-being of others. I don’t know if this would be considered a failing of mine, but I always prefer others to speak over me having to speak first.

    Everyone’s story is valid, especially a woman’s.

    Sleep Is For The Young

    This goes without saying as I look at the photo I took on my IPhone; I look tired as fuck. I think the unintended sacrifice of being an adult is understanding that most of the time, sleep becomes more of a privilege than a right – at least according to your body. If the stress of your existence is high, your body punishes you for lack of self-care by having your sleep cycle all screwed up.

    Fixing such a situation would require several visits to the hospital to visit doctors who will feed me the usual answers; I’m too fat, I eat bad and I don’t take care of myself. Since lamenting your struggles gets seen as looking for a pity party, playing a victim and other such dismissives, the lack of acknowledgement about your problems becomes a survival tool for life.

    While you may protect yourself from the social label of being a weakling, you are also blending your feelings of action into feelings of inaction which leads you to never fix the problem at hand, thus the cycle of sleep continues. I cannot claim to have at hand a solution to my problem, nor do I feel like I have the energy to put my mind to fixing it.

    The minute I think about myself, consider myself, or even take account of my physical being, a distraction comes into play; as I am in the process of selling my parents house, trying to find a new place to live and live temporarily in this apartment, I find myself playing helicopter parent alot.

    If I were to consider cooking a meal, even a microwave one (which is generally not good for you), I get a call that people who are handling my air conditioner repair won’t make the appointment I had set because other jobs have taken higher priority. While that is happening, I have to coordinate repairs to the apartment that never got addressed before I came in two months ago.

    While this is happening, I am battling the creeping notion that my parents house may not get sold due to the high price and the fact that several things that need to be repaired don’t match up to the high price the real estate firm has set.

    When this much is swimming through your soul, the idea of sleep seems irrelevant; the body gets to thinking that you, whether its good for you or not, should keep yourself awake for the next disaster to arrive or a follow-up to the current one you are in now. This is not the same as say reliving one’s time in Vietnam (I’m watching the Vietnam War by Ken Burns on Netflix). but it feels like it.

    Since I am going to be up, watching a documentary about other people’s tragedies seems the logical response. That and it’s really time I clean my apartment.

    What To Do On A Sunday

    It’s almost 12pm.

    Not as hot as it was last weekend and yet I still choose to stay inside. I’ll make a point of after lunch taking a stroll outside and still down in front of the lake. I have no particular reason to do it other than just to get out of the house and to get the hell out of my own shit for a minute.

    I have a nice location, I gotta start taking advantage of it.

    Today Is The 4th July And I Don’t Know What To Celebrate

    I recognize this seems silly given that this is the day we generally celebrate our nation’s independence. As African-Americans, we could easily dismiss this holiday given how our culture is slighted alot of the time in this country. I, on the other hand, have a different problem that goes beyond whether or not to celebrate, but what to celebrate.

    I can see the comments now:

    “Celebrate being alive you ungrateful fuck!”

    “First world problems”

    “Do you have a girlfriend?”

    Generally the third type of comment, which has variations, is meant to suggest that another person within the female side of the sexual spectrum could provide me with joy that I am lacking these days. Not only do I find that insulting to women, but I find women don’t necessarily like being crutches to men who are still figuring things out.

    Back to the point.

    This day is simply another holiday; the meaning behind it seems more of an option as time goes on rather than a requirement. If under our current government we suddenly in years to come become required to celebrate it whether we want to or not, they will have to contend with those such as myself who can’t find anything to celebrate on those days or do not know what to celebrate on those days.

    Yes, I could celebrate the concept of being a free nation and yet nothing is exactly free; we pay to live in places we only spend a few hours in because we have to spend a few hours a day working to make sure we have money to pay for living space we spend a few hours in. That cycle is mandatory in our country as a societal rule and yet seems very much wrong.

    I ask again, what I am supposed to celebrate?

    The fact I have the day off from work? Days go by so fast that even holiday feel like really long extensions of that one hour lunch you take at work.

    Just a few minutes ago I finished my laundry, which I managed to complete before the day crowd of individuals would blow their anger out on me for using all the dryers. That I believe is something to celebrate, especially if you live in an apartment like mine.