Chasing a dream

So many of us were asked as kids what it was we desired to be when we became grown. Like many of you, I had lofty expectations and dreams, which at the time seemed easily attainable. I am not sure if the line where one becomes grown is a bit unclear, or perhaps my ambitions (while courageous) were beyond my reach; the reality that unfolded did not look like the dreams I had as a child.

I had dreams of being a baseball star with the glove and swagger of “the kid” Ken Griffey Jr. My free time as a young boy was voraciously consumed with the crimson stitched, white rawhide sphere, sunflower seeds, and backwards New Era fitted hat, the starter kit for the cul de sac diamond. My intro into business economics was berthed over Upper Deck and Topps rarities and a Beckett price guide. To say that I dreamed of becoming a baseball player would be a lie, I was already one who just wasn’t famous yet.

Life doesn’t have a set course, nothing makes complete sense, and yet somehow we are supposed to navigate it fearlessly, head up, and accepting of the challenges we encounter. I am not sure if I am defective or not, but that just isn’t easy. To be clear, I know I am not defective, in fact I find that I am rather driven and battle tested in ways that give me some hope in tough times. However, the journey remains a worthy opponent; strategically providing opposition to mold us to be a better version of ourselves.

One day at a time I am given the chance to make myself a better version of the man I was yesterday. Outside of this, I have absolutely ZERO control or influence. It is my responsibility to give a compliment where I can, lend a listening ear to a troubled friend or loved one, call that someone to remind them that I miss them, stand up for myself when I am disrespected, and at all costs love myself. Outside of the current moment lies the future or past, each of which is but a dream.

Despite the fact that I have not signed a MLB contract, I still have to grow. Despite my dreams not materializing, I still have a desire to push on and become the man I am destined to be. Anything lost can be found again except time wasted. Vision without action is merely a dream, and I’m not interested in wasting time or dreaming my life away. Today is a new day!

Stuck in first gear

I have been told repeatedly that I seem to have a gift for writing. I wouldn’t argue with this, but I seem to have a difficult time understanding how I can apply this “gift” to something substantial or lucrative to be exact. Words are powerful…we all speak them, so what is it that makes my delivery any different than the next man? Syntax is like building with Lincoln logs, words fit or they don’t. This seems pretty elementary to me. I am no Mark Twain, Bukowski, Whitman, or Hitchcock; I respect them as pioneers of the pen and pad but I can’t honestly tell you much of anything they wrote. There is Huck Fin and the murderous love birds, aside from that I just know these are names I am supposed to revere as great (especially if I call myself a “writer”). Writing isn’t something I intellectualize, but I do find that my ego gets a chance to shine when I allow my brain to creatively expel its alphabetic vomit into a graceful paragraph of rambling.

“Write a blog”

-They

“Write a blog” they say, you can really speak to people in away that connects. I have no doubt that I have a knack for speaking to the individual within each of us; but how do I get it out there? The world is more connected now than it has ever been. With this interconnected society of instant messaging, memes, and emojis, it seems as if everyone is talking and nobody is really listening. So, herein lies my dilemma: who really cares what I have to say? Do I truly care? There is nothing vastly different about me…yet my story is designed to be told. I just clickity clack away at the black plastic squares in front of me –wondering if any of this makes any sense. I just keep coming back to the words“you really should write”. I guess this will count as writing.

I am finding that I am becoming consumed mentally by the social media machine, and I hate it. My interests are becoming so narrow, my day is just thumb flipping to the next picture of the car I don’t have, the model who seems to be physically perfect, or the world traveler living out their dream, constantly reminding me of what I wish I had. I am becoming angry, not at the lack of enjoyment in life I have to experience and cherish daily, but at the way we are being conditioned to just dumb down and numb out. Our thinking is now programmed as an algorithm, and the desire to explore is being masqueraded by hashtags and likes. Our minds were meant to be unleashed and explore the dark recesses of the universe: questioning the very complexities of life and how this shit all makes sense. We are supposed to look up at the sky in amazement and wonder how we came to be in such a vast world of celestial magnificence. The advancement of our civilization is pushing me closer to the revelation that I want to go back to a time where things were not so advanced. Back to a time when getting a scar was a right of passage to the cul-de-sac nomads, when curfews were only set by the illuminating of the streetlights. A time when the spot to chill was the green utility box in front of the neighbor’s house; when action figures came to life in our minds, and beanie babies were the cryptocurrency of the suburban day traders. The days when getting clothes lined by the house phone was routine.

The Sandlot reminds me of me and my childhood friends – the “cul-de-sac nomads”.

Life is so funny…as a kid, all I wanted to do was grow up; as an adult, I want to be a kid again. Is it the ignorance of the world that I desire again, or was life really better before the iGeneration? It’s common to have the prior generation praise the way things were…to now be that generation is sobering in itself.