On Money

Driving home just the other night I was offered 300 million dollars. Contrary to my natural impulses, I had to decline. It was not some pious act on my part, and I have not taken any vows of poverty to the best of my recollection; I just simply could not stop and buy the lottery ticket needed to say yes to the millions of dollars. I had to get home for dinner.

Almost every day I drive by a giant billboard with great, shining, red numbers. The numbers tell the whole world of the wonderful sum of money to be won. Tonight it was only twenty million. TWENTY MILLION! That sum could change my life. If I look at those bright numbers too long they begin to tease me about the money I don’t have in my account. They start mocking me that I have never made more than thirty thousand in a year. I wonder how many years it would take for me to earn twenty million. The bright red numbers even know I don’t have a fulltime job right now. They know the great and grand things I would do with such a payday. I would be the nicest millionaire ever.

How do those large bright numbers speak so eloquently to my heart? How do they connect with me so well? Why do they speak so clearly with out saying a word? The reason escapes me for a moment, then I realize why—envy. The signs placed all over the city are simply rubbing it in that I don’t have wealth and power. The sign assumes I am unhappy with my meager means. It hopes that I, like most men of my generation, don’t have a moral character that rejects envy. The sign is a trap for those who cannot see past tomorrow. It preys on my shortsightedness and whispers to my lusts for wealth.

I am lucky the flow of traffic moved me out of the view of the sign and closer to home. I spent the rest of my drive thinking about money. Of course, I would love the twenty million dollars to just fall into my lap, but I understand it is a fool’s game. In my younger days I spent all my money on things of little or no value. This is easy to prove to myself. I list all the things in my house right now and try to think of how many were bought in my early twenties. Not much. I don’t want to go back to those days of waste. A lottery ticket would be merely one more purchase of no value that keeps me from accomplishing my real goals.

If the millions are a pipe dream, then what are my true goals? That’s the question, isn’t it? Is there a better option with better odds? What are my goals? Are they more they just random chance. This is what I came up with on the drive home.

1. I want to sell 100,000 copies of my wife’s books.

2. I want to save 10,000 dollars this year.

3. I want to save 25,000 dollars for a rainy day.

4. I want to buy a house without debt.

5. I want to invest in business.

These are goals within reach for a man of my talents. I know the odds are far better then what is offered by the giant red numbers. Even better, they are goals I hope to accomplish by hard work and fortitude. It is now clear to me buying that lotto ticket will make each goal much, much harder to reach. A lottery ticket would just be another wasted dream, and I have bigger dreams now. More than dreams, I have goals.

Besides, dinner is on the table waiting and my wife will be happy to see me. She just hopes I don’t talk all dinner about money; it bores her to death.

On Living

I am a killer. I don’t mean to say I am a Jeffery Dahmer or a Charles Manson. I am not a murderer even though some may try to label me as such. I killed as a professional and I was under the rule of law. It was a skill set; a job. I was a Sniper. I ruled the battlefield and my enemies feared me. I even had a price on my head.

It’s an odd thing to write down, now that I think about it. What I mean to say is this; I was educated and trained in the art of killing. I took the classes and practiced every day. I was shaped and forged. Take my word for it—the training worked. I am undefeated in gunfights; I guess that is a little obvious since I am sitting here writing.

Why start this blog? Why add to the billions of words already floating around the Internet? It is simple really. The State taught me how to destroy. I am good at it. Not the best but not the worst either. My wife, on the other hand, is an artist in the best sense of the word. She creates beauty. She has crafted a story and written it down as a novel. Her art hangs on the wall of our little apartment. Think about it, her womb can even bring a new life into this world. I only ended life. That is not enough for me. I am past the days of my youth when I thought myself indestructible and my every action righteous. I want to create something and I have chosen to do so with words. If you could see me draw or hear me sing a tune you would know why the pen is my outlet. With this blog I hope to learn a mastery over words. I want to become as skilled a wordsmith as I was a marksman. I strive for the same commitment to precision. In this day and age can one still be thought of as a man of letters?

Words have meanings. I chose the title of my blog to express an idea. When I was fifteen I read Carl Von Clausewitz’s On War. It is the classic manual of war. After experiencing a war I was left with the strong desire to read a manual on life. That is what I decided to write about, life. The blessings and curses of the world we live in has become my muse.

I choose to write essays because of the words of E.B White: “The essay, although a relaxed form, imposes its own disciplines, raises its own problems, and these disciplines and problems soon became apparent and (we all hope) act as a deterrent to anyone wielding a pen merely because he entertains random thoughts or is in a happy or wandering mood.”

Twitter is no place for thoughts that struggle in my consciousness. I need a bigger canvas. Welcome to my canvas.