I can’t wax poetic with my words anymore. My writing has taken a Hemmingway slant. It’s the pitfalls of my profession. Excessive conjunctions and pretty are forbidden to me. I’ve placed my ands, my buts, and my obscure punctuation on a shelf. Occasionally I let out little signs while ogling them. Then I go back to work writing for people who have a high school degree. High school degrees don’t count for much these days, apparently. I write with the assumption that my readers can read and write at a middle school level, which in modern terms, translates into a twelfth grade level.

So, where are the soft and drinking melodies of the soul?

I’ve taken to exploring zen moments. I’m not quite sure how to describe a perfect zen moment. I think a zen moment is when everything manifests as holy. Holiness, for me, is a realization that I don’t completely understand my life yet. While life seems Ikea and managing personalities through words, it really isn’t. Life is a collection of holiness; a gathering of zen moments.

I was at a Vietnamese restaurant the other day with my boss, her boss, and her boss’ boss. That’s a lot of bosses. They were talking and I was looking at the waitress. The waitress was one of those small, shy Asian girls with a hint of breasts poking through her shirt and the smallest mounds of hips pushing against her skirt. Her hair hung lifelessly in front of her unusually large eyes. She wasn’t attractive, but there was something about the way she smiled while setting a table. I found it fascinating that she would smile while doing something so mundane; as if she knew something about living that I didn’t. I wanted to talk to her to see why she smiled while setting chopsticks in front of white women with too much make-up.

The waitress was still on my mind after I left the restaurant and followed middle aged women back to work. She was still on my mind when I sat in front of my computer and readied myself for an afternoon of meetings.

She made me smile. Holy.

My leisurely slide into middle class live continues unabated. I awaken in bed to her and roll out. Breakfast is egg whites, followed by a round of core exercises. I get to work and the day is a competition of writing and meetings. When I’m not in a meeting, I’m writing. When I’m in a meeting, sometimes I’m writing. I come home and either head to the gym, or I cook dinner. Sometimes I cook dinner and then head to the gym. On the weekends, I reintroduce myself to alcohol. Monday comes. I awaken in bed to her and roll out.

That’s how I roll.

I didn’t really plan my rather happy white bread life. It just sort of fell into my lap and I took it into my hands with the kind of child-like wonder a kid shows at a gift’s unwrapping. At first look, it’s bland, but I know underneath is the festering raw ambition which has driven me forward even though I appeared apathetic and without motivation.

I want my luxury apartment. I want my v-twin sport bike. I want my leather furniture with warranty. I want my good food. I want my speakers with beautiful sound. I want my plasma T.V. I want my ikea catalogue, my three martini lunch, my brooks brother suit, my waking up at 50 wondering what the hell happened to my life and my wife is fucking the pool boy and my kidshatemebecauseimeverhomeandimhavinganaffairwiththesecretaryatmyfirm.

Yeah. I’m going to crawl into bed; next to her, and evaluate how I can remain relentlessly ambitious, climb to the top, while retaining my soul. I want to keep that part of me which drove down the PCH, which sat in the Missouri Ozarks wondering why, which walked the streets of New Orleans with a German in tow, which froze in the rain outside Boston thinking that the Atlantic smelled fishy, which screamed insults near the rumbling Chicago L train while a friend chanted nearby, which looked west with wonder and thought that life was too good to live. Being utterly corporate has a way of sucking creativity out of a man. I intend to defy that.