Meetings in Random Places

I was meeting with my tax guy at an undisclosed, central location off of one of the metro stops in suburbia Virgina today when I thought of the strange meetings that must happen all over the city, just like this. People who must meet people, things to discuss over the course of a coffee or lunch, and how much a person's world could expand by taking a more outgoing approach to life. To network, in essence. I'm not naturally one of those people who networks because it's good for the career. I think of the idea of a random meeting with a person I barely know and wonder how low my life has sunk so low as to bring me to this point in my life. You don't have to agree with me. I don't agree with me, most of the time. But you have to wonder if adapting to a world that is a piece of bologna, when you know better, is really the only option a person has. At the moment, I like new conversations. But I didn't. And I wonder if I'm a sell-out or becoming more normal.

I haven't written a lot lately because I've been busy. Not just busy, but overworked, though not in the clear-cut literal sense that you expect from the word "worked." In any case, thanks for still reading this nonsense, if you are still reading it.

The boomerang: Dangerous Weapon, Harmless Plaything or Oracle of the Future?

An afternoon with the ol' boomerang yesterday... the heat is unbearable and I refuse to leave the shade until the last minute. One throw, that's it, I'm too hot for this crap. But the boomerang has the power of the potato chip: I can't resist compulsive tendencies after the first bite. My objective: to throw with considerable force 45 degrees into the wind at perfect gradient, then stand still and wait for the glorious moment when it soars right back into my gentle, loving hands, like magic, like the world has meaning and order and symmetry.

Fucking thing never soared back. Alas, life is chaos and destiny is a cruel joke. In the park - as in life - we have no way of knowing what we're going to get when we let go of the boomerang, what plans it has in store, whether this chiseled weapon will return out of love or with the intent to slice off our head. In actuality, it has no intent at all. It's an inanimate object made of wood. Instead, one is forced to ask: Did I intend to slice off my head, deep down inside? I'm embarrassed to say that I kind of feared the boomerang in the past, like my future would be revealed if I touched it or something - I mean, there's quite a bit of potential meaning for a piece of wood that's thrown high in the air, only to return! No crystal balls this time, but I did learn one truth: Some things just won't come back full circle, even if you think you want them to.