Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Aaron vs. Heights

Gosh, no, I haven't forgotten about all of you. But it's been busy at e-casa de Riccio, as I put my cyber-shop in order and my electronic affairs together. Now, in my new job as a freelance proofreader/copyeditor, I have gotten to see some exoticly mundane locations. It's funny, but being up more than twenty stories tends to elevate your perception of things. Forgive the pun: the height must've gone to my head. It takes a while to adapt to the literal pressure.

Take for instance, Central Park. I never really appreciated how scenic the whole thing looks, how urbane - a paradoxical word for the forested area of the urban jungle - the greenery is, sitting in the shadow of this concrete prison. But day after day, I'm looking out at this page from another book, and it makes me almost want to waste my time walking through it. Such a shame things are rarely as close as they appear, and like my stance on God, the moment I should grasp the beauty of the thing, it will become complete inaccessible by definition. In other words, I might go back and row around the pond because that's what I'm good at, I might play some softball, but I'm certainly not going to rusticate in Sheep's Meadow.

But that's not all I see: the shadow starts at the base of Central Park, but as the day slips forward in subtle incriments, all of "uptown" looms its scabby self at me. You ugly hideous beast, I love you. Which makes me forget for a moment, as I lean out to wrap you in my arms (you sweet embraceable you), that I'm quite high up. When I was younger, in a teen traveling camp, we used to dare each other to lean against the thin-seeming glass, that vitreous substance, and peer down into the ant-occupied minuret, "look ma no hands" free. What a frightening and exhilirating feeling.

Much like the experience of soaring on a rollercoaster. Of the few things my brother has ever done (intentionally or not) to better my life, his "chicken-call" convincing was How I Learned To Love The 'Coaster (or Dr. Rollerlove). In that bizarre black twist that defines my life, the way I finally justified the needless thrill was the reminder that if I died, I'd most likely be dying with many other people, and therefore, the embarassment of a premature death would be far less obvious. This same philosophy enabled me to fly to England; I guess it's the same philosophy that lets us live our anonymously famous lives.

This has been a wobbly ranting narrative so far, and it's not likely to get any saner. Suffice to say, I'm intoxicated with the feel of actually having a purpose (read: a job that I love), and maybe it's not just the oxygen-rich air that's doing it to me. Everything just seems better from way up here. But if you're wondering why you don't see me, relax, I like to stay far away from the edge.

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