EDITORS NOTE: This blog post is the third in a series, intended to celebrate Embracing Ambiguity reaching the 50 post milestone. If you haven’t already, you should definitely scroll down to see the first post by Jeff. Embracing Ambiguity recently received an email response to a post that asked a lot of great and challenging questions. In celebration of Embracing Ambiguity’s milestone, various authors will be responding to these questions over the next week. In general, the theme is (roughly) “making the decisions that will IMPACT EVERYTHING”, and “the narratives we tell ourselves about what we’re doing, why and how we feel about it”. It is left to each author to choose how closely they reference / stick to these original prompts. We’re excited to see what they come up with. If you like what you read, share it on Facebook and Twitter and help #EmbAmb increase it’s reach. Happy reading.
This story takes place in many places.
It takes place on the streets of Brooklyn, as I am sprinting down a sidewalk I’d never before been. It takes place in a back alley, as I frantically try to clean. It takes place on the bar stool, as disco lights and billiard balls flash behind me. It takes place on the perfect blue chair, as I sit, listening to a story.
It takes place on the third floor of my office building, as I sip wine to a slow realization.
But due to the usefulness of following some form of chronological order I shall start with the chair.
I’m at home, a few weeks out. I swivel slowly on a chair left here by my sister. It’s blue, feels a little like corduroy, and is possibly the most comfortable thing you’ll ever sit on. I’m listening to a few friends tell stories we had written, and I am suddenly hit with a feeling that I can’t quite place.
I’m on the third floor of the building, in meeting room three. It’s still a mess, shirts scattered, paper still stuck to the desks, large now empty cardboard boxes sit to the side of the room. My plan was always to do this, and really, it was for the most part working. But I hadn’t truly anticipated the scope, and there were holes. I’d already patched a few thanks to the help of enterprising participants watching the doors and guiding people, but the biggest was out on the cement of the back alley. I trapped someone in the room with the promise I’d return and near sprinted to find that my anxiety was for nothing. They had done everything already, I could return to the mess. That night, as I sat sleeplessly staring out the bus window, I came back to the feeling I’d had on the chair.
I’m on the twelfth floor of a commercial complex in Koreatown, Manhattan. I sip my just larger than a shot glass of apple-sour soju. The laser based lighting system, and thumping pop music colour what would otherwise be a relatively expensive billiards club. I’m with four friends, three of whom I’ve been friends with for over six years and none of whom I’ve seen five times this year. But that doesn’t matter.
I’m on Felton Avenue, Brooklyn, demanding if my phone can see someone who’s running like a fucking maniac. Shortly before this moment, I had sworn at him. Shortly before that I had took off, away from the buses that had now become the ticking clock to something I just didn’t want to believe I would have to deal with. He could have been stubborn, he could have taken offense to my tone, but when he heard the panic in my voice when I told my phone that it needed to run, he ran. As we sit side by side in silence, the rain pattering against the bus windows, I think of how rare this relationship is.
I’m on an old zebra pattern chair in an office well above my pay grade. I pick the wine off the carpet to poor myself a second glass of the cheapest red the closest store sells. I’ve come here for practice after a day of working from home. I had arrived unsettled but as conversation flowed I sat back, and thought of advice a friend had once relayed to me: “Find the things in that make the world make sense”.
And I found myself, disagreeing.
For me at least, there was nothing I could do that would make the world make sense.
Rather, I had found the people that made the world make sense. If I had accomplished nothing else, I had done this, and I realized then and there, that I think this would be enough. I would never be making a choice that would impact everything. I could never have a failure too great. I could never be so wrong that I couldn’t be right again.
During the march, between the laser billiards and Brooklyn sprints, there were four men in costume and a sign.
“Butterflies against the end of the world”.