Had an interesting conversation with a guy who does the cleaning around my work about all sorts of things, and we have some good conversations about things that you wouldn’t think an old guy like him would talk about. I’m pleasantly surprised every time I have a conversation with him, as it challenges my perceptions of people. Not being derogatory in any way, as I genuinely like the guy, but I love being surprised by people being interested in things you wouldn’t think they’d be interested.  In.

Hmmmmm.

But as I was saying, we were talking about all sorts of things, and one thing that got me thinking a little bit was a comment that he made – about keeping up with technology or we would be left behind. And it got me thinking about how much of what I would like to own is because of this desire not to be left behind, as opposed to it actually being useful in my life and helping me to accomplish my goals.

And I wonder if it is that feeling of being left behind that causes a lot of panic or causes us to rush through things or makes us want to give up on certain things or even makes us want to give up some of our dreams.

I know for me that sometimes looking around and seeing where the people around me are at and what they have and own and do causes me to wonder if I’m pursuing the wrong goals in life or want to buy new things to match them or that I’m not progressing at the same pace as someone else and so I stop because all of a sudden I’m being left behind… and it all becomes a competition that is not spoken of explicitly and I get caught in comparing everything and get sucked into a value vacuum where the things that I value don’ t seem all that valuable any more. And I get depressed a little. And I lose my reference. And my peace. And my contentment.

Because I’m being left behind. In the car department. In the girlfriend department. In the buying a house department. In the fitness department. In the technology department.

But I know that down that road I will never find contentment. Because there will always be someone I know who drives a better, flashier, more powerful car than me. Someone will get a better deal on a house than me. Someone will always be more determined and naturally more fit than me. Someone will always have the latest computer/phone/gadget before they are even out in lil ‘ol NZ.

But if I keep looking around me at everything but at what I actually have, and make use of that to the best of my ability, then I don’t think I’ll ever get anywhere. And instead of being worried about being left behind because of what I don’t have, I think I’m going to try and keep moving forward making full use of what I do have. And pursuing the things that I enjoy.

So that was my random thought for the day. Tell me yours! =D

I love this post that I read this morning, about writing and telling real stories. The author quotes Buffering quoting Sonny Payne, who tells a short little story about his time in High school as a percussionist. 105 words tells a succinct juicy little story that evokes a great memory and draws us into Sonny’s world even for a second. But it also acted as a vehicle to my past allowing me to reminisce and remember my days in the jazz band. But I love the point of Merlin Mann’s post, which is to write real stories.

Please use that keyboard to talk about your life sometimes.

Your real life. Not just the canned version of life on which we slap adhesive labels like happy or sad, poor or rich, employed or unemployed, “eating lunch” or “hatin’ life”, “it’s complicated” or “serial entrepreneur,” “meh” or “whatever.”

Tear off your f**king labels.

Pontiac.

Tell me something that happened. Use the names of people you’d forgotten about, and say what you’d thought would happen but didn’t. Write down what part of the song was playing when you slammed the door only to realize you had to go back inside for your car keys. Can you remember when you were still little enough to hide under the kitchen sink where it smelled like ammonia and Comet and old sponges? What was the color of the clunky old car your Dad would let you help steer. What brand did he smoke?”

My Dad smoked Winstons, from a red and gold pack that never seemed to empty. Lots and lots of Winstons. And, I loved when my Dad would let me help steer the vomit-green Pontiac with the plastic seats down the maniac curves of Boomer Road. I’d sit on his lap in this giant, ridiculous automobile, with cigarette smoke swirling around our heads and out the cracked window, listening to a Reds game on WLW, laughing and steering.

My Dad had the same name as me and he never should have smoked as much as he did. And, I swear to God, thirty-five years later, I can still see his big hands on the wheel, and still smell those Winstons, and still hear Joe Nuxhall’s call, as Pete Rose stretches another double into an impossible head-first triple, and as I type this, I’m just remembering that whenever we were pulling out of my Grandparents’ driveway, my Dad would always flip the vomit-green Pontiac’s lights on and off three times. Blink. Blink. Blink.

That’s how we said goodbye.

I love that.

Our dad had a slew of Nissan Sunny’s during my childhood, old boxy cars, a yellow one, followed by a red one with patches of other colours and then a white wagon which I loved to crawl and climb all over. I loved the feel of the cheap fabric seat covers, the warm plushness of it as little fingers sank into them.  One warm summer day Dad was cleaning and vacuuming one of these cars I climbed into the drivers seat and being the great driver that I was, at the tender age of under 5, I started to pull all the levers and push as many of the buttons as I could. I think I got to the hazard lights before my father found out and was subsequently smacked.

I never did that again.

Hmmmmm. And now I have an urge to write some jest about how that might have thus emotionally scarred me so much that I failed my drivers test three times, and now have a subsequent fear of pushing all the buttons in my car lest some form of physical punishment happen… but I would be lying. And it would lose the poignoncy of the memory, reducing it to some cheap joke. Because its not about the fact that I got smacked, or that I was a curious child, but its about the fact that this actually happened. And I think what Mr. Mann  is saying is that we need to celebrate these moments more. Perhaps.

I could be wrong. But I like that thought. What do you think?