Urban Thought Collective

It’s been a long time. I try to think of something else, but my thoughts keep coming back to the same thing. It’s everywhere. I drive down the freeway thinking about it longingly. Indeed it’s been way too long. I’m at the gym and I’m sitting there on the Hammer Strength upright bench press, gripping the handles when I realize that I not only have not been listening at all to the song pumpin’ out of the earbuds connected to my mp3 player, but I have also been staring for quite some time at a spot on one of the mirrored walls that mirrors the image of the mirrored wall behind me, mirroring the image of the former mirrored wall, mirroring the latter infinitely. Yeah, I’m languishing in this lurid loop of infinite imagery as well, and even alliterating.

Well, maybe you might not think it’s a long time, but the desire in me says otherwise. Sure, we all have desires…wants…needs. But mine are kicking into overdrive. It’s almost completely consuming me. I was even having a hard time staying focused at church today. All day! It was like a war was being waged inside my head. It was the classic clash between the methodical, traditional school of thought, tried and true vs. the clever, exciting, and downright electrifying being contested in the dome. Shoot! It was like the Super Bowl. Maybe I should pray for it. No, I definitely can’t do that. I shouldn’t do that. There are much more pressing things to pray for than satisfying my hunger, my pursuit, my lust. I picked up a book after church and there it was again. As I read, I even found myself envious of this effort, even though recorded so long ago, the words nearly jumped off the page, swirling around in my head like a seductive dance, lulling me into the trance and pulling me deeper and deeper into this despair. I better stop before I check off the rest of the seven deadlies. But really, it’s not totally selfish. Done right, I’m not the only one that benefits. See?! This is getting totally out of hand.

Call me an addict, but if I must go without, it’s awfully difficult for me to function at all. Actually though, when I put it into perspective, I must not be in terribly dire straits yet because I still have this need for it to be good. I’m not at the point where something mediocre will get me over. My standards have not gone totally out the window. Perhaps that’s the problem. In my mind, I have this need for everything to flow just the right way. It can’t be awkward or forced. Ideally, I’d ease into it like an Otis Redding vocal over a Bill Evans piano solo. Maybe I’d massage away the weariness wearing away the inhibitions, metaphorically speaking, and parlay a hint of the sentiment with a whisper. I like to think that subtlety is my specialty. Well, that and paying attention to what works and how it’s working. If I’ve really got it going, there’s no need to hurry. I’ll just vary the intensity until the anticipation is altogether too much to withstand any longer, delivering the goods early and often. I’ll make sure my attention to detail is particularly on point. Leaving nothing to chance, I’d simultaneously relieve the tension at the core of it all while titillating the senses, arousing the curiosity, and liberating from the tyranny of the conventional. On a good day, I can bring forth a moment of clarity. Things that haven’t been thought about in ways that have never been dreamt about is what I go for. Traditional is boring. Mind-blowing is what I’m after. What can I say? I’m a pleaser. Every artist is. (You did realize there is an art to this, didn’t you?)

Perhaps that too is the problem, or at least a subset therein. If I settle for mediocre, maybe I please, but then I’m not pleased. I’m my worst critic. Every artist is. The psyche of an artist can get increasingly fragile at the mention of words like mediocre or phrases like “it’ll do” or “it was good enough.”

In the sports world, it’s often said that you’re only as good as your last game. That body of work singularly defines you in the eyes of our instant gratification society. My last time seems like ancient history. I remember it only in fragments, like an amnesiac after a trauma. I’m trying to piece them together to create a complete visual but this too is pointless. This rambling is not making the need go away. This whole rant is becoming rather anti-climactic, which is precisely the antithesis of my desired end-game. But maybe that’s the pleaser in me talking again. Maybe this was good for you. Maybe this got you there. Did it? It did? Then why do I still feel so empty?

Destah Owens is a single father of two from Northern California and proud UCLA Bruin who travels the world for his job as a computer engineer. His blog, “Soufflés in Saigon,” is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.