The Great Bike Phenomenon

It all started one hot June. It was around the 4th, nay, it was the 4th. My mother, the illustrious Judy Masters, desired one thing for her birthday (the 4th of June) and that was to feel the wind on her face like she did as a five-year-old atop her very first Schwinn (she got it for Christmas that year, it was green and pink and had tassles on the handlebars). Since that time she has matured into a love of purple and wicker baskets. Being the genius children she brought us up to be, my sisters and I, along with the help of Dear-Old-Dad and his credit card, found the perfect beach cruiser in lavender for her. We got all the accessories except the tassles, some things are better left in the past. She was thrilled when we presented it to her and has ridden it almost daily since - with the exception of the brutal winter months of Buffalo.

Now the infatuation has moved past the honeymoon stage with her bicycle and they have found themselves in the depths of a normal, healthy relationship.

One year later around Father's Day, Dear-Old-Dad started snooping his nose around our local Bert's Bikes and cycling websites. He sniffed out a brand new obsession and brought it to startling heights that can only promise more opportunities for comical relief. We purchased him the opportunity to pick out his own bike from the store, and buy he did. What began as a seed of curiosity and a need to be part of the great bicycling his wife had partaken in, Dad discovered his perfect pal. The bike came home, shined and silver. Not only did the bike come home though. Along with it came a helmet, top of the line, of course "gotta have the best" he said, a neon spandex t-shirt that matched the neon green lining in his padded shorts (which no one saw, but that's not the point is it?) elbow pads for his aging bones, a tire pump, two waterbottles with holders that attach on the body of his bicycle, a computer program to track his progress, and a subscription to cycling magazine.


This man really knows how to take obsession the next level, it's sickening. What began as a soft glowing romance between mother and bicycling hobby was quickly turned into a gross obsession with all things cycling for my father.

This is the life I lead, hate or love it, there are vast opportunities for comedy if one takes the proper perspective. Who knew having a degree could be this useful?

the secret client

I started out the summer with a job - a good job with a good company. Good. not great, mind you. It's a job though and in this economy I have to be grateful. I didn't expect to be doing what I was - graphic design - in truth I don't know as much as I could, maybe I don't give myself enough credit but I'm sure there are people who know more than me and are my age. I know about books, I know about publishing, writing, editing, grammar, that's my jam, not keystrokes and Pantone colors. Pantone quickly became my jam though as I learned more and sometimes I even find myself loving it. The thing I miss most at this classic printing company is the excitement of risk and creativity. I so badly miss coming up with my wildest ideas and making them happen, whereas instead I follow the status quo and the designs that have been done before. That's all fine, it's a job.

Out of this job though, I have discovered books and authors. People who are friends with the boss and need help - need my help - finding publishers, learning about publishing etc. That's the shit I know ... so here I am free-falling into the world of publishing which I had no idea I"d breach so early on in my post-grad career and I'm faced with some really interesting clients. I can't say who, but it's pretty major, even if it is a potentially a little dangerous.

"Laura, I've been thinking, I'm not so sure about how much I want you getting involved with this {name of group}" said my dad ... MY dad, the guy who has been pushing me to do anything and everything, to follow the dreams I have always had and to throw ideas out and see what sticks, is telling me maybe he thinks it's a bad idea - but that's just because of the notoriety of the client.

Here's the thing, I'm a lowly designer, bottom rung on the totem pole, don't know as much as I could and am learning. This could be beneficial even if it was just a learning experience and on top of it I am thrust into a new arena with big names and people who want my, 22-year-old Laura's, help. WTF!?

If it all pans out this could be a huge leap. If it doesn't, nothing lost. I'm still 22, still working generating ideas and having a hard time figuring out which to do first. Here I am though, living in my parents house, watching Top Chef at night with my Mom and going to the grocery store with my Dad. My exciting life back in the nest just got more exciting.

Who knew life could get better than a brand new queen-sized bed!?

God is the belief. Religion is the practice

I've had this theology of my own brewing for about a year, maybe more now and I think I may be on to something, at least for myself.

To me, religion is the one thing that separates people in terms of beliefs - the spirit/god/energy is the same, it's just the metaphor we place along with it to better understand this divinity. I mean, the similarities between religions is astounding to begin with but that's a whole 'nother story having more to do with the similarities in people and (ahem) a lack of creativity perhaps, than actual GOD G-D spirit energy divine. Got it? cool.

So here we go -

In my belief system, Air is God. The way I see it, energies flow through air and if our spirits and souls are energy and transcendent of bodies then they are part of the air and we all mingle in it. Air is omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent. Air can get into everything, even our bodies, air does not discriminate - it flows through every living thing and over those things that cannot breathe it - ie. the rest of our earth. Air has existed since before humans, at the dawn of the earth, before there was land and sea the air existed and inspired chaotic reactions to cause life... "In the beginning there was nothing..." see where I'm going here? Genesis people. Air is our life source, it sustains us, it will exist after us, it exists beyond us, for all we know it exists in other dimensions, realms, etc. We do not see it but we trust and believe it is there for if it is not then we do not exist any longer. We have faith in air, which, I know, can sound a little hokey but do you not have faith that when you wake up in the morning there will be air for you to breathe in?

And just a small tidbit to leave you with - as we muddle religion with our human hypocrisies, trite pettiness and wars - so we muddle the air with our pollution, greed, and sloth. And here it is biting us back - hurt the earth, hurt the air, hurt those you love, hurt yourself - karma. It is all full circle. I think we all in our own religions have pieces of the puzzle and if we just decided to put down the damn walls built so high between ourselves then we might get closer to a truth that is easier to understand than a man in the clouds in birkenstocks and a white robe.


Meh, food for thought. Take a bite.

Voyeurism

Human beings are naturally voyeuristic. And not just that, but we're explicitly inviting voyeurism into our own lives every day. If examples such as Facebook, LinkedIn and other networking sites are not enough - where every second a new person self-glosses their status or changes their profile picture - look at the books we read and shows we watch. Human beings, or perhaps just Americans, though I have a feeling this virus spans our entire race, love showing off and promoting a shiny self on the internet. We are narcissistic and want everyone to know how great we are. That's all well and good, I do the same thing, we blog, who the hell cares what I'm saying but I do it anyway because I believe what I'm saying is important enough to be read. That's good and bad, but that's a discussion for another time.

The voyeurism in humans is really most apparent in the reality shows we watch on T.V. This new obsession with The Biggest Loser, American Idol, The Real World, began in the 90s. I think we love these shows because humans don't want to feel lonely. We each have our problems, our internal struggles. This is the same theory that is behind PostSecret, a blog where people send in a postcard with their secret written on it and a handful are chosen to be posted each week. Time and again people comment saying they feel less alone knowing someone else has their secret. No one wants to feel isolated even if they are. It's the human condition to want company, therefore we are voyeurists. We watch the people on The Biggest Loser fail, triumph, eat their feelings, and we sit and feel better about our troubles because it is somehow validated in the fact that we are not the only person feeling that hardship. Human beings feel alone most of the time, I think, it requires a high-frequency mindfulness to reach the level of competency that in fact the last thing we are is alone. We're all together here spinning on this great blue planet. We all feel the ebbs and flows of the world's energy shifts and we contribute to those shifts.

Maybe instead of looking into someone elses life through the TV screen to feel connected we can reach out and talk to someone on a bus, or in a store. We can offer help or smile to a stranger on the sidewalk. Wouldn't that make everyone feel less lonely than reaffirming our loneliness as is done with the self-isolation of consuming television? Just a thought.

music

you know that feeling from some certain songs? that building up heat from deep inside you in a place very few people ever reach? the goosebumps and warming skin and chilling in your lungs that happens from the excitement of such a song that sings directly to you, to your own self? it makes my jaw ache with the sweetness of its caring for me. this song was made for me. it's this feeling, like i've met someone new who makes me feel like i can fly if I just hold his hand. It's the feeling that anything I want is possible if I just rely on myself and trust my instincts, this feeling of only needing right now, air, myself, and this song, right now. I love this feeling, it makes me feel an effervescent high that is unattainable with any kind of drug. It is so pure and clear and makes my throat feel like closing up but in a good way, a way that makes it harder to breathe, which makes it all the better because the song is challenging me to move past the emotive responses in my body, challenging me to take that, take that love that it has bestowed to me and to breathe anyway to not be consumed by my emotions, to work through them, to take them and appreciate them and to still breathe. Songs like this make me feel like dancing on the street corner, like those people i saw once down town. Songs like this make me feel magical. As though I could do whatever I wanted, as though I could change things for someone.

I am so glad I have met the people I have who make me feel this way too. They are the important ones. The ones who make a difference for me and make me feel like I have that ability too.

postsecret

I am so livid right now. I don't think I've been this mad in a very long time, and it makes me laugh when people who know me doubt that I could ever even get mad because it feels like a constant pressure on my lungs, preventing me to breathe. My chest is heated and warm and my teeth have been clenched for two hours and my eyes keep welling up with tears but my fingers are freezing despite the fact that they keep moving. I keep listening to music and everything slow and happy disgusts me and makes me want to scream. The sound of my typing is grating on my nerves. That's how bad it's gotten. Postsecret just made me cry though. I am such a freaking ball of emotion. I hate myself for it. For being so goddamn typical. I just wrote this, I'm working on it, I literally just wrote it now so don't judge it yet. :

Everything seemed like it was more difficult for Peter than for his brother Bart. Peter was not a star athlete growing up. Peter is not in a fraternity in college. Peter did not drink in High School and get caught by the cops. You’d think that last one would make things more difficult for Bart, but it actually made him more popular. Bart is a star hockey player. Growing up he played travel hockey. Peter got dragged along to every game. No one cares about piano recitals. They’re just not as exciting as hockey. He missed his recital that one weekend they had to go to Syracuse for a game instead. Bart is a Sigma Chi at school. He plays hockey at school. He has girlfriends, plural, at school. Peter has friends, he lives a fruitful life, but things have never been as easy for him as they have for Bart. School was easy for Peter. Playing piano was easy for Peter. Making friends with the offbeat kids who hang out in the hallway in the morning doing stupid things like putting stickers on the ceiling, that was easy.
It seemed to stick to his parents too though, that was the hardest part. Bart, the otherwise fuck up who got drunk and taken home by cops, who failed freshmen history, whose fraternity was put on probation, was always given leeway. Had Peter fucked up even once, the roof was brought down. It sucked.
This one summer, Bart had spent all of his money, like all of it, five thousand dollars. And he had only made one thousand of it working his job that summer landscaping – the other four thousand had just been handed to him at graduation. He just blew it all on trips to the beach with friends, gas, new clothes, dinner out, beer. Bart would go out and get take out just to have different food than everyone else in the house. It was just bullshit. He spent all of it. And instead of their parents saying “too bad” or “your own fault,” they handed him a job working for Peter and Bart’s father’s company. Their father owned a construction company, and government jobs pay upwards of thirty dollars per hour. Far surpassing Peter’s mediocre-paying assistant IT job at a law firm that had been considered a job worth having, Bart made back all five thousand in one month. All he had to do was swing a hammer. Peter made two thousand dollars that summer, regardless of his brains and hard-work. Everything came easily to Bart. Everything was handed to him. Peter hated that, but couldn’t hate Bart. His laughter was contagious, his humor, charismatic, everyone loved him, even Peter, which made him hate himself. It was a sick cycle of hate, love, hate, and guilt, for not being named such a stupid name as Bart.
Peter closed the door to his bedroom as he had always done, and someone knocked, as they always had because in Peter and Bart’s house a closed door means an open invitation to knock, not “stay away.” Bullshit. Peter was working on some reading that he had been wanting to get done, The Fisher King, he was re-reading it since the last time he read it, he was ten and maybe didn’t catch everything. Peter had turned his stereo up way higher than necessary, who knew Simon and Garfunkle could have the walls shaking? With the music turned up and everything around him moving and vibrating through his body, Peter felt more peaceful. His ears filled with something other than Bart’s voice and his chest was relieved of a little pressure that otherwise was there constantly, pressing down, saying “not good enough” over and over. That summer Peter had stopped eating as much as he usually did. No one noticed. He stopped eating entirely, subsisting on literature and music and chewing gum. He fingered the fraying edges of his jeans and thought about if the roof was lifted off his house, the sun would shine right down on his face inside his bedroom, and that would be the most perfect. To stay right here in his safe, private room, but covered in sunshine. Peter’s limbs were always cold. He could barely feel his feet. They didn’t have air conditioning and it was eighty degrees outside. Peter just wasn’t eating enough to have the energy to heat his own body. Bart went to swim every morning, to maintain his muscle mass, then to work later in the day and came back at eight after swinging a hammer all day. Peter wished Bart would miss and hook his head with the other end, sometimes.
While everyone ran in the street and played baseball, Peter remained in his four-walled space, because it belonged to him and no one else. He went to work in the morning, he came home at night, he never left his room otherwise. He never put anything in his mouth that was not a white chicklet, smooth as an ocean-worn stone. It was not about all those girls who didn’t like Peter, he wasn’t chubby, he was a thin kid actually. It wasn’t like those girls at school who only ate carrots for lunch. It was his mouth, his body, his control. He knew the entire time he did it that that’s what it was. Even though it started as a way to see who paid attention and when the answer was clear, no one, he decided to keep going to see how far he could push. And he pushed.
Four years later someone noticed.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on with you, man?”
Hah! Now Bart cares, right? What the fuck, what’s going on with Peter, who does he think he is?
“What’s going on with me? What do you mean?”
“I mean, dude, you’re like really skinny.”
“Well Bart, we can’t all be hockey players, not all of us can work our three hours a day.”
“No it’s not even just that, you’re lookin’ for real thin, emaciated.”
“Surprised you know that word, Bart. I’m just stressin’ about school, no big deal.”
“Alright dude, whatever, your thing.”
And that’s where Bart left it. He didn’t care enough to push further, which was fine with Peter. Since he had been doing this for so long, it became his thing. It wasn’t about anyone else. Too little, too late. Peter needed someone to notice when he missed that piano recital at age eleven to go to Syracuse for Bart’s game and how his teacher scolded him at his lesson that Monday. Peter needed someone to notice that he was smart, not just a book-loving waif of a nerd. Peter’s parents had no idea who their son was except someone they didn’t need to worry about, or did they?
Peter sat in his room, where he always was. Looking through a kaleidascope, Peter discovered that windowpanes are spider webs. They trap the light, his hands, and his ability to jump. He put his hand in front of the kaleidascope and watched his fingers turn into one long finger, one rod of hand, and then a flower of flesh. Everything was so malleable, if he just lent his perception to it. Peter chucked the kaleidascope into his closet. It knocked over an old piggy bank and some pearls fell out. His mothers. He stole them once when they went out to dinner (his parents) and the strand broke so he hid them inside the piggy bank. The pearls were a comfort for that one night. Bart, who was supposed to stay with Peter because he’s afraid of the dark, had snuck out to see a girl a couple streets over from their house.



That's how I feel right now. so mad. so mad. so mad. AND I have no one to talk to, I just want the door to stay shut, I just want no one to knock, I just want someone to call me and say "I care." I just don't want to be so alone, but all I want is to be alone. I wouldn't want to be friends with this confusing mess. I wouldn't want to call someone who doesn't want a call but wants to know she's okay. I think I held my breath the entire time I was typing just now. I'm too mad to do anything except sit here and not move any body part except my fingers until I just bury this deeply inside and forget it happened so I can smile and laugh at my family later. At their things that annoy the crap out of me when I'm angry, so I can be the laura they know again. Right now though, I refuse to move. I. Re. Fuse.

new years eve victims and new years day remedies

Sarah came home this morning and hustled up to my room before mom could see her still in her dress, disheveled hair and smeared make up. The ultimate walk of shame, I was unable to pick her up so her friend Brooke went to get her, from an apartment she didn't recognize and with no one she knew. Sarah had to gps her current location to figure out where she was with six strangers and a new contact in her phone : John Rochester, someone who is probably not from Rochester.

Liz's bruises from the mechanical bull are pretty brutal but she's wiping it away by singing along to Vanessa Williams "Colors of the Wind"

I can not walk. Have to crawl. Thanks to walking home from the subway station - five miiles? Laser surgery on my foot three days ago ...

Brendan is still asleep but will update soon on his MO.