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Sitting in a rocking chair, unobtrusive, conservatively-stained wood. Not enough padding to make you feel sinful. Not enough rock to make anybody roll. Just a good old wholesome American rocking chair. The kind your grandpa sat in when he was ready for his nap. Every day, same spot, watch in hand, but no alarm, and his head would drop, and he would snooze. For exactly fifteen minutes and then wake up, look at his watch, and return to his usual hell raising. 

It was a neat trick, one that always filled me with a sense of envy and sadness. I mean, I was sort of jealous, but, really, what kind of freak superpower is that, to be able to sleep, instantly, every day, for fifteen minutes? 

Ass in a goddamn chair.

Or, your grandma sat in that old, wooden rocker - crocheted or knitted or did crossword puzzles or pretended to read a book. Something manic in the the metronomic rocking, the controlled fury. 

Ain’t no slouching in a chair like that. It ain’t made for loving or for video games. It’s made for sitting, focused on the task at hand, and getting lost in the rhythm laid down by generations of sore and tired backs, moving with a head on the bob, afraid to be still, because still things die. 

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Don't look at me all high and mighty like that. Like you never smoked catnip. Never broke pieces of crack rock off, smoked it on top of cigarette ash in a metal bowl. Like you never drank lighter fluid or tried snorting the painkillers in your parents’ medicine cabinet. 

Like you never barricaded your door and sat with a hunting knife pressed against your throat while your parents screamed at each other. Like you never got raped by some asshole who thought you’d want it even though you were unconscious. 

Like you never got lied about and defamed by bottle-blond self-abusers afeared of the ideas in their little Disney brains. Like you never chewed Oxy. Like you never used a serrated kitchen knife to map your thighs. 

Sure you can smile, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a compulsive masturbator. That you smoke too much weed just so the snacks will taste better. Don’t act like you never drank two bottles of robitussin to see what would happen. Don’t look at me like you never woke up on the kitchen floor with blue nitrous lips. 

Don’t act like you never paid your employees too little while you tallied up your stock options. Don’t act like you never dropped bombs on dirt-dwelling folks just so you could add another wing to your vacation home. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t eat an endangered animal given the chance. 

Don’t think we’re going to Mars and we ain’t gonna fuck that shit up. Mars will be Florida within five years of our arrival. You ever freebased on Mars? They’re cutting that shit with stardust. 

Don’t act like you never courted genocide, waving American flags like you were trying to put out a fire, not start one. 

Don’t look at me if you’re not looking in the mirror, motherfucker. 

We all got issues. 

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When they open it, they will experience joy, the thrill of discovery; they will share in the experience and the feeling, and that is a gift. They are young, and their eyes still see true things. I know it won't always be easy, but nothing worth doing is ever easy. The shock will reset their brains, clue them into the reality of what it means to be a thinking animal. Not trussed up in suits and ties and power lunches, but real life, the kind that cuts to the marrow. 

This is a gift. I am the pied piper. 

If they could only see the whole thing. Maybe there is an aspect of recruitment in this. Surely, there is some ego, but I am comfortable never getting my due recognition. It is enough that someone witness a piece of the majesty. It is enough that someone hear the symphony, turn the pages. True art is timeless, and never supportive of the artist. 

Sharp mind, sharp blade. Dull minds deserve slaughter. I suppose in many ways I am my father's daughter. 

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 You can have all the best intentions, and still fuck up. It's like making pie crust. Seems simple, and it is simple when your Grandma does it, but then you try and do it on your own, and you end up with soupy bullshit. So, you buy the pre-made pie crust and lie about it because, what the fuck? Doesn't matter. No one will know. Why would you want to make it from scratch when they have it already made and packaged, sitting on the shelf?

Same thing applies to personalities. 

I mean, yeah, they sell a bunch of different kinds at the mall. You can be a rebel or Live, Laugh, Love! your way into Chardonnay oblivion. You can walk into the mall a computer programmer and leave a fucking gangsta. Dad to Special Ops Ranger. Grandma to muscle-head. Grandpa to Lothario. You just change clothes and roll. Buy the appropriate soundtrack. Find your flunkies. Post up. 

But it ain't gonna fit right. Some people will be fooled, but never the people you're so intent on impressing. 

You can walk into REI a scared suburban wanker and leave ready to conquer the Amazon, climb Mt. Everest. At least aesthetically. 

Or you could try to find out what you really think. How you really feel about things. What's really important to you. It may not be a popular answer, but it's YOURS. Shouldn't that count for something. Chameleons are charming, but I don't trust them. Just feed them bugs and bullshit on my way to the dumpsters. 

Just because you can buy it doesn't mean you need it. No matter what the talking heads say.