(10.19.09) Three Acts of Futility

Act One: Bowling

Every time I go bowling, I convince myself that I will be able to overcome my incompetence in this sport. Seriously, who regresses in the bowling abilities as they grow older? Back in the day, I could easily bowl over a hundred. Today, if we are using academic scoring, I am barely above passing. The nine year old in the lane next to ours tripled my score. Instead of succeeding myself, I encourage others in their own talent to bowl over those ten pins (an aside: have you ever noticed the violent nature of this game?). Go bowling with me and you will witness awkward dancing, bizarre hand movements, and very, very few pins crashing. Still, I try and I have fun. Everyone's a winner that way, I guess.

Act Two: Dolores

Alicia, Fletcher, and I came to the aid of an elderly woman--Dolores--who had fallen, bruising her hip and her head. While she was clearly distressed, she denied access to medical treatment. Instead, she demanded that one of us stay with her overnight until her caretaker would arrive. This, for a variety of reasons, we could not do. After consulting her caretaker, we determined that Dolores would be able to pass the night by herself. My heart broke. Dolores lives alone, she is confused, she is needy. Her most present source of comfort were complete strangers. As we gave her what we could, she became cantankerous and needy. All the while, Dolores refused to be taken to the hospital. We were uncertain of her physical and mental condition, but she balked when we attempted to pry. Eventually, she kicked Fletcher out of the apartment for "asking stupid questions". Futility and compassion clashed. We could not offer the help she demanded, but she would not accept what we offered. I am ashamed to admit this, but after an hour of increasingly aggressive banter, we left.

Act Three: Trash

This week, our crew was assigned to cleaning up the illegal trash deposits scatter throughout the Bureau of Land Management mountains just outside of Las Vegas. Oh the trash we found: refrigerators, cars, spoons, a slinky, computers, anchors, beer bottle upon beer bottle. As we set out, the futility of the job weighed heavily upon us. While we picked up trash, the BLM was doing very little to prevent more garbage from appearing. For every bullet casing we gathered, another will reappear. We saw this in action when we arrived at the work site Wednesday to find a new layer of bullet casings and clay pigeons littering the road. Walking around collecting garbage affords plenty of time to ponder the purpose our work. Although conclusions varied, I determined that this was not a thoroughly futile exercise. Even if a new debris collects upon this desert landscape, we have removed the base layer in a small section. Perhaps this will deter the odd litterer. If nothing else, there are now 50 cubic feet fewer harmful particles in the River Mountains.