Dear Friends,
Ever since my trip to Haiti, ants have taken on a special meaning for me. They represent how lots of small problems can combine to create what seems to be an impenetrable miasma of suckiness that permeates my entire life and robs me of all perspective. And so it was that two days ago, after a trying day that involved torrential rainfall, a stolen bike, and a five mile walk/swim, it was discouraging to come home and find that ants were congregating in my entryway.
When I say "congregating," I'm not referring to the characteristic assembly line inevitably leading to a forgotten apple core or candy wrapper. I mean there was about a thousand ants in one small corner of my foyer. I felt somewhat broken at the moment, so I heaped my soaking clothes into the washer and took a hot bath just in case pneumonia was eying my damp lungs. The ants were forgotten until the next morning.
For whatever reason, I harbored a timid hope that I would wake up and the ants would be gone. Laugh at me if you want, but just as water appears in the desert for the desperately thirsty, in my dreams those pesky ants had evaporated, replaced with wadded up hundred dollar bills. Or something.
I haven't dealt with many problems of the type that disappear when you ignore them, and sure enough, the ants were still there when I woke up. If anything, there were more of them, and they seemed to be laying eggs. Just swell. I was running late for work, so I threw on my work clothes and ran out to catch the bus, pausing only to spray the ants with some 409 all-purpose cleaner, the equivalent of spitting in the general direction of my firing squad.
Work... was miserable. Usually I love working as a poker dealer, but yesterday I hardly made enough money to cover my bus fare. I breathed in and out deeply, discovered that I had missed the bus by about three minutes, breathed in and out again, and waited forty-five minutes for the next bus.
I got home, opened my door, and learned something: 409 works on ants. All thousand or so of them were just where I had left them... but dead. And for some reason, yesterday suddenly became a good day. Which made me realize something rather profound.
Much of the background guilt in my life is the result of how I feel. I tip taxi drivers well even when they're late, knowing that it wasn't their fault. But I feel like going on a tirade, insulting their cars and jobs and relatives. I respond politely when the Florida Secretary of State calls and lets me know that I have a couple hundred dollars in fees to pay for moving here. But often, I feel anything but polite.
I feel guilty because I don't feel sure that God will provide. I feel guilty because I worry about jobs and money and people despite God's immaculate track record. I feel guilty because when bad things happen I feel let down by God, as if I am subject to the cruel whims of a divine dictator.
So I'm thankful that my faith and my love aren't judged by my feelings. The bible says that "even a child is known by his actions." I am judged by my decisions--what I choose to do, and whether or not I choose to indulge my guilt, anger, and malice. I feel capable of making good decisions.
I mean, if a bunch of dead ants can instantaneously take me from despair to happiness, where in the substance in emotion? Emotion is just the veneer of circumstance, giving color to perception. And that's nothing to feel guilty about.
More to the point: all is well here. My parents visited for a few days last week, which was nice. I found a computer here that I can rent until I buy one. I'll leave you with something I read online that made me chuckle:
"Bunnies actually have very few mystical powers and tend to rely on things like pancakes, underwear and cheese sticks to solve most of their problems."
-------------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Peace,
Dan
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
FUN Update, July 12, 2007 - How are you?
Dear Friends,
This is the third update I've written this month, but the first two never went out. They both ended up too abstract and heady. Actually, that's how I've been feeling the last couple weeks. A combination of stress and cat allergies has suspended me ever so slightly from reality, and I find it difficult to penetrate that glassy separation between perception and interaction. Living with five cats will do that to a man.
Oh. Right. I'm ahead of myself already. The last time I wrote I didn't know... anything. So here's what happened:
I moved in with a friend named Amanda for two weeks. She studies architecture at the University of South Florida, and she and I have a lot to talk about. We're both interested in music, literature, and comedies. It's been fun. However, she has five cats. And I'm alergic to cats. So that part has been less than stellar; for that reason alone, I'm grateful to be moving out. More on that later.
On July 1st, I began work as a poker dealer at the Tampa Greyhound Track. I absolutely love it. Due to an advertising mixup in which our ads were scheduled for two weeks after we opened instead of two weeks before, business has been pretty slow, but I enjoy every minute and I'm very happy that I chose this line of work. The money is also quite good. It's nice to see the light at the end of the tunnel after such an extended period of brokeness.
On Tuesday, I applied for an apartment. The complex has a fitness center and two pools and a hot tub and a raquetball court and all sorts of amenities that I'll probably never use; the apartment has all the normal stuff--washer/dryer, refrigerator, stove, and a HUGE closet. I loved it. A place of my own, for the first time. And so I dropped $150 on an application. I was asked for a veritable FBI file of information: two years of rent history, two years of work history, a current credit report, and a plethora of personal data. It was disheartening, because the deposit was to be based on the analysis of said information, which would state clearly that I hadn't been working for two years straight, I had a total of three months of rental history, and my credit was merely average. I was hoping for the $250 deposit, but I was reasonable certain that I would be stuck with the one-month-rent deposit of $770. Yeah... umm... I don't got that kind of money. So I prayed. And hoped. And prayed some more.
Sorry for the long paragraph. This will lower the words per paragraph average.
I got a call today. Not only had I been approved for the apartment, I was approved for a $0 deposit. No money. None at all. My heart almost stopped with happiness. And if that weren't amazing enough, I was also eligible for one of their promotions: no rent until September 1st. So no rent this month, and no rent for August. Okay, God is cool. God is very cool. There's just nothing else to it.
So tonight it my last night staying with Amanda. Her best friend from Pittsburg is visiting today with her girlfriend. They're both very cool, and they're both the epitome of lesbianism. Tattoos, nose rings, Ani Difranco. We're all having a great time. We're going to go swimming and watch Amelie and sleep. I am cautiously optimistic that my quality of life is about to improve rather dramatically. However I bite my tongue, it still slips out: about time! This whole moving to a new state thing isn't as easy as I thought it would be.
And the sacrifices have been tangible. Many relationships have fallen by the wayside, of course, but there have also been some losses that I hadn't anticipated. I got a call a couple days ago asking me to play piano for a convention of republican senators. I want to. Very, very much. Oh well.
But, speaking of pianos: the main building of my apartment complex has an eight foot grand right in the middle. I'll be sixty seconds away from a piano at all times. It's been a long time since I've had that. I've also started rock climbing again. The wall here has a lot of neat people, and it's a short bus ride away. I'll buy a bike soon, and the world will shrink again.
In short: I am well. How are you?
---------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Bondje beni'w,
Dan
This is the third update I've written this month, but the first two never went out. They both ended up too abstract and heady. Actually, that's how I've been feeling the last couple weeks. A combination of stress and cat allergies has suspended me ever so slightly from reality, and I find it difficult to penetrate that glassy separation between perception and interaction. Living with five cats will do that to a man.
Oh. Right. I'm ahead of myself already. The last time I wrote I didn't know... anything. So here's what happened:
I moved in with a friend named Amanda for two weeks. She studies architecture at the University of South Florida, and she and I have a lot to talk about. We're both interested in music, literature, and comedies. It's been fun. However, she has five cats. And I'm alergic to cats. So that part has been less than stellar; for that reason alone, I'm grateful to be moving out. More on that later.
On July 1st, I began work as a poker dealer at the Tampa Greyhound Track. I absolutely love it. Due to an advertising mixup in which our ads were scheduled for two weeks after we opened instead of two weeks before, business has been pretty slow, but I enjoy every minute and I'm very happy that I chose this line of work. The money is also quite good. It's nice to see the light at the end of the tunnel after such an extended period of brokeness.
On Tuesday, I applied for an apartment. The complex has a fitness center and two pools and a hot tub and a raquetball court and all sorts of amenities that I'll probably never use; the apartment has all the normal stuff--washer/dryer, refrigerator, stove, and a HUGE closet. I loved it. A place of my own, for the first time. And so I dropped $150 on an application. I was asked for a veritable FBI file of information: two years of rent history, two years of work history, a current credit report, and a plethora of personal data. It was disheartening, because the deposit was to be based on the analysis of said information, which would state clearly that I hadn't been working for two years straight, I had a total of three months of rental history, and my credit was merely average. I was hoping for the $250 deposit, but I was reasonable certain that I would be stuck with the one-month-rent deposit of $770. Yeah... umm... I don't got that kind of money. So I prayed. And hoped. And prayed some more.
Sorry for the long paragraph. This will lower the words per paragraph average.
I got a call today. Not only had I been approved for the apartment, I was approved for a $0 deposit. No money. None at all. My heart almost stopped with happiness. And if that weren't amazing enough, I was also eligible for one of their promotions: no rent until September 1st. So no rent this month, and no rent for August. Okay, God is cool. God is very cool. There's just nothing else to it.
So tonight it my last night staying with Amanda. Her best friend from Pittsburg is visiting today with her girlfriend. They're both very cool, and they're both the epitome of lesbianism. Tattoos, nose rings, Ani Difranco. We're all having a great time. We're going to go swimming and watch Amelie and sleep. I am cautiously optimistic that my quality of life is about to improve rather dramatically. However I bite my tongue, it still slips out: about time! This whole moving to a new state thing isn't as easy as I thought it would be.
And the sacrifices have been tangible. Many relationships have fallen by the wayside, of course, but there have also been some losses that I hadn't anticipated. I got a call a couple days ago asking me to play piano for a convention of republican senators. I want to. Very, very much. Oh well.
But, speaking of pianos: the main building of my apartment complex has an eight foot grand right in the middle. I'll be sixty seconds away from a piano at all times. It's been a long time since I've had that. I've also started rock climbing again. The wall here has a lot of neat people, and it's a short bus ride away. I'll buy a bike soon, and the world will shrink again.
In short: I am well. How are you?
---------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Bondje beni'w,
Dan
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
