Writing about Nothing

As a writer, self-acceptance is, at times, on the run with self-doubt nipping at its heels. And the beautiful thing is too few people really care about what you’re doing because everyone else is fidgeting in his or her own way. I was talking to a friend about the nature of work and being kept in one small place like calves raised to become veal and agreeing to an exchange of time for money. Internally, a worker wonders what the price tag on an hour of time should be and begins to yearn for hours back — those sold too cheaply. When I was in high school, I would listen to Howard Stern talk about his sex life, marriage, In-laws, parents and his child-rearing methods as he chewed a bagel with cream cheese into the microphone. His vitriol was very much a part of New York City life because we lived and talked the same way we rode the train - the person with the sharpest elbows won. I remember the realization of how his radio show tone and topics affected my perception of my little part of the world from The Bronx to my high school in Manhattan and the in-between Of interacting with people while walking to the train station and onto the train. All the faces seemed more meancing and fed up. I also noticed I cursed a lot more while listening to Stern. And one day, I decided to take a break from listening and took back my lens. I was very interested in how one’s thought processes could be so easily influenced and how easily the Koolaid was undrunk (I invented a word because I’m a word professional). As I walked down the street and took the same train, people’s faces were more expressive and not as intimidating as before. I was also a teenager. Impressionable teenagehood can last for a long time for some people or forever for others. When I listened to Stern on the radio again, his words weren’t entertaining anymore. Which makes me wonder how a spell is broken and broken for good.