But I had the BEST day today, EVER!
I woke up after sleeping for ALMOST NINE HOURS, and felt great. The sun was out, and it was a crisp, bright morning. I put on appropriate attire and set off for a walk/ hike.
I crossed the bridge, and shielding my eyes with a hand looked East at the skyline, picked out a landmark building and imagined her not far away, there doing whatever it is she was doing. I looked, and listened to my mix on my ipod, and felt just fine about everything. Everything is going to be Okay!
My new mix CD : I have felt like this year has really sucked, musically. I have not had many new discoveries, and the year in general has blown, which does not make for necessarily good CD mixes. You want to either fix a completely WONDERFUL time or AWFUL time with the constant listening of a CD mix, so when your year is milquetoast at best, one should not cement those new songs in place.
SO , the mix I have made this year has basically consisted of songs that have been new to me, dropped in the playlist in the order in which I have discovered or been introduced to them, and no 'mixing' has been employed. This means track # 1 is the oldest to me, and track # 17 or whatever is the newest, my last discovery, in fact. I usually mix things around for flow effect, but THIS is actually GREAT! I get the whole year in a blow-by-blow, and it is working. These may be the songs! These may be the series of songs that conjure the genie! I felt something special here. I just noticed yesterday, while I was mopping up blood with a sponge and old socks, that all the lyrics of these songs were exactly appropriate to my current situation and mood, and I felt like each musical artist was speaking DIRECTLY TO ME, and ME ONLY. This was the best playlist I HAD EVER HEARD. This was Universal Intervention tearing across unfathomable distances to make sense to me through my earbuds.
So I stood in the middle of the bridge and looked East, and imagined her there, and didn't feel sad anymore. I held tight to the railing for a moment, then turned right and continued on my journey up the hill.
Even when I got to the top of the hill and had to duck under the bright yellow 'caution' tape and ignore the sign reading " NO ACCESS. PARK CLOSED. NO PEDESTRIANS, HORSES, WALKERS, BIKERS or VEHICLES OF ANY KIND ALLOWED FROM SEPTEMBER THROUGH OCTOBER, 2010" , I knew this sign did not apply to me. I'm a local! I'm getting out and feeling great and not festering in that awful building anymore! Certainly the Multnomah County Park People would not find a problem with me lifting my spirits and getting the juices flowing, would they? NO. And if they have a problem with me, let them bring it! I was prepared to better them in any debate of civic priority.
The forest was wonderful and rejuvenating, AS USUAL. I took deep breaths and even began to jog a little, feeling a real new chapter emerging.
I stopped after a little while and began to ponder a recent story I had been writing - How would I finish it? I thought the male character seemed too unpleasant, and I began to think about how my mood at the time I write TOTALLY influences the dialogue and storyline, and I thought about my newest story, and I had a change of heart about the current path, AND I THOUGHT, RIGHT THEN AND THERE OF THE PROPER DRAMATIC ARC AND RESOLUTION! It would be happy! It could remain entertaining and funny, but provide hope! I was really feeling great now and had to turn around and head back home to mumble my new storyline into my digital voice recorder before I forgot it entirely.
SO I did. I returned. I jogged, I mumbled into my hand-held, I fixed cars, I made something healthy to eat, I engineered new plans. I feel great. My fear is though, that I am not being realistic right now. Am I being realistic right NOW, or am I being realistic when I am wishing I am dead? I don't know. Does it matter? I am going to finish all these stories now. I have targets to aim for.
SO here I am! A VERY PRODUCTIVE DAY, PEOPLE. Great. I am about to go do that thing.
I am making a list.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
I have my reasons
Have you heard the story of the Blue Glove? Do you understand yet the part you have been cast to play? Can you hang on, for just a little while longer?
I felt my heart drop, I felt it, I swear. My throat was sore. The air was cold and rushing over my face when I closed my eyes and let go of the rail. I couldn't feel my feet any longer, but I thought they must still be down there, somewhere.
The old-timey nigger music floated in through the speaker. It reminded me of something, something dancing just outside my memory, or maybe just something dancing. I didn't think it was coincidence that the song started playing not long after we arrived, no sir. I may not have been a neuro-scientist or orthopedic surgeon, but I knew a thing or two, and I knew when someone was trying to make me the horse's ass. 'NOT TONIGHT' I whispered into her ear. Just when the tinny harmonica fill hushed and the foot stompin' and humming started up again, I told her one last time : 'I wish we would have brought the Camry tonight.' That's right about when that doctor walked up to me and started all the trouble.
How many times did we try? We thought we knew everything, so arrogant we were. I even checked out books from the library back when such a thing was still possible. So full of ourselves, right up to the very end. The bitter end.
The Jell-o had been chilling for hours. The guests were already arriving. I opened the refrigerator door and had to stifle a scream. To my horror, the peach and pineapple fragments had all congregated at the bottom of the bowl. On top of that, the lime delight was NOT YET COMPLETELY FIRM. What will I do? If worse comes to worst, I have the gun in my closet, a loaded gun...The itch still persisted still. I couldn't scratch it, however. Not like this. Not under these circumstances. What if she noticed? I could only fantasize briefly about casually sliding my hand under the table, to the itch, and then I would force myself to stop thinking about it. What if she noticed? What if she knew? Would she think me strange? What was she thinking right now?? JESUS. The itch again. The itch I just can't scratch.
"Will it last forever?" I asked the small man on the other side of the glass counter.
"Of course." He stated matter-of-factly. "If you treat it well it will."
"Wrap it up." I stated triumphantly. "I'll take it!"
Then, days later:
"I don't think I appreciate what you are suggesting." I warned the woman vacuuming out my car. "If you continue along this tack, you are not going to enjoy what you discover." A beat later I added "I'll see to that. There will be no pleasure for you here, that I can guarantee."
She turned her back to me and pressed the button on the machine again, and once more the room was filled with it's mindless piercing whine. Hunched over like a Mexican in a cantaloupe patch, she continued to probe about under the seat with the long black hose. The tension began to lift gradually, slowly, but then suddenly the screeching pitch of the vacuum cleaner went up three octaves, betraying the matter lodged at that very moment in it's wheezing black plastic tip.
I felt my heart drop, I felt it, I swear. My throat was sore. The air was cold and rushing over my face when I closed my eyes and let go of the rail. I couldn't feel my feet any longer, but I thought they must still be down there, somewhere.
The old-timey nigger music floated in through the speaker. It reminded me of something, something dancing just outside my memory, or maybe just something dancing. I didn't think it was coincidence that the song started playing not long after we arrived, no sir. I may not have been a neuro-scientist or orthopedic surgeon, but I knew a thing or two, and I knew when someone was trying to make me the horse's ass. 'NOT TONIGHT' I whispered into her ear. Just when the tinny harmonica fill hushed and the foot stompin' and humming started up again, I told her one last time : 'I wish we would have brought the Camry tonight.' That's right about when that doctor walked up to me and started all the trouble.
How many times did we try? We thought we knew everything, so arrogant we were. I even checked out books from the library back when such a thing was still possible. So full of ourselves, right up to the very end. The bitter end.
The Jell-o had been chilling for hours. The guests were already arriving. I opened the refrigerator door and had to stifle a scream. To my horror, the peach and pineapple fragments had all congregated at the bottom of the bowl. On top of that, the lime delight was NOT YET COMPLETELY FIRM. What will I do? If worse comes to worst, I have the gun in my closet, a loaded gun...The itch still persisted still. I couldn't scratch it, however. Not like this. Not under these circumstances. What if she noticed? I could only fantasize briefly about casually sliding my hand under the table, to the itch, and then I would force myself to stop thinking about it. What if she noticed? What if she knew? Would she think me strange? What was she thinking right now?? JESUS. The itch again. The itch I just can't scratch.
"Will it last forever?" I asked the small man on the other side of the glass counter.
"Of course." He stated matter-of-factly. "If you treat it well it will."
"Wrap it up." I stated triumphantly. "I'll take it!"
Then, days later:
"I don't think I appreciate what you are suggesting." I warned the woman vacuuming out my car. "If you continue along this tack, you are not going to enjoy what you discover." A beat later I added "I'll see to that. There will be no pleasure for you here, that I can guarantee."
She turned her back to me and pressed the button on the machine again, and once more the room was filled with it's mindless piercing whine. Hunched over like a Mexican in a cantaloupe patch, she continued to probe about under the seat with the long black hose. The tension began to lift gradually, slowly, but then suddenly the screeching pitch of the vacuum cleaner went up three octaves, betraying the matter lodged at that very moment in it's wheezing black plastic tip.
Friday, September 24, 2010
MORE TO FOLLOW. STAY TUNED. History of my Alcoholism:
Probably not interesting, I KNOW. Maybe just for me?
I really did not drink a lot as a young person. I remember what may have been the first time I ever got 'drunk', or 'buzzed', or at least it is the first time I was in trouble for drinking too much.
I must have been about 8 or 9 years old, and went to go visit a friend of my mother's for Thanksgiving. (The Ruining of Thanksgiving Theme is a common one in the history of my (and everyone else's?) drinking) As I said, I was 8 or 9 years old, I forget which, but the point is I was not an experienced drinker. I think my mother's friend, or perhaps my mother herself thought it would be cute to have me take part in the toast before or after or during dinner. My mother typically treated me like an adult (at least until I turned 18, at which point she began to treat me like a child), openly discussing such topics as Hunger Strikes, Abortion, Henry Miller, Cinema, fine literature and high art... There was no topic too sensitive or 'adult' to discuss in the car on the way to my piano or swimming lessons. Apparently, by this Thanksgiving in 1978 or 19789, it was time for me to be introduced to the concept of 'A Few Drinks With Dinner'.
I remember very little of the occasion, but I have been reminded dozens of times by my mother of how I 'Embarrassed the shit out of her' when I tried to run through a closed sliding glass door. To be honest, I think she is making it up, or confusing this with another time several years later (during a different Thanksgiving) when I tried, successfully, to run through a closed sliding glass door. YES!, but it was on PURPOSE and not accidentally, I SWEAR TO GOD. Alcohol May Have Played Part In Incident. (Or, AMHPPII, for short. This will be another recurring theme in my drinking life) At any rate, during this Thanksgiving in 1978 (or 1979) I *do* remember feeling very grown up while being served several glasses of Champagne (I believe it was a cheap Asti Brut or Cold Duck, far beneath me, but satisfying at the time) and then talking to someone for a very long time about one of the romantic conquests in my third grade class, STAYCE I believe her name was, the tramp, and I had much to say on the subject - much to the delight of my audience as I recall - who kept my glass full of bubbly every time I would mention my broken heart or how this little hussy would no longer return my phone calls. My glass was filled often enough.
I do not think a sliding glass door was involved during this first drunk, but I may have knocked a baked good on the floor, and then doubled over laughing as the hostess tried to quickly scrape it back onto it's serving platter and back on the table before anyone noticed.
My mother and I had driven four hours to Portland for this Thanksgiving Event, and let me tell you : it was a long drive home. I DO remember that. I remember being accused at that very time of ramming the sliding glass door with my head, which I denied vigorously, and then asked repeatedly how many glasses of champagne I had drank.
"I don't know. Seven? You're my mother, WHERE WERE YOU?" I quizzed the driver of our vessel home.
"WHAT?!" she screamed " Don't make me pull this car over. I'LL SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOU RIGHT NOW!" my mother continued "Are you drunk!!?!"
"I don't believe so" I hiccuped and began to fiddle with the wing window mechanism in the ancient Jaguar we were ensconced inside at the time, while my mother began to tap on the speedometer with a forefinger in an attempt to get it to register again. After a moment:
"Stop fucking with that window! ARE YOU DRUNK??!" she asked, for the fifteenth time in twelve miles.
"Bwaaah!" I bellowed, fidgeting even more furiously with the wing window mechanism "MyaaaaarhhhhhhhHH!! Bwah! PPPHHHHHHlllPH!" I chided her.
The car was immediately pulled over. Her hand and my face flashed slowly, strobed in the green light cast from the blinker indicator on the dashboard as sharp smacking sounds ensued, followed by three hours of complete silence except for my muted weeping. (This will be a common theme as well, to be copied by a series of other women over the years)
I was in trouble. I was grounded, or on restriction or something, for a while, and the event passed into history/memory as Christmas approached. New Year's shortly to follow. I was served, secretly, during these occasions.
Not too many years later, I turned eleven and was off of drinking altogether. 'Fuck it!' I thought, 'I have homework to do.'
Ah, yes. Homework To Do. Those Were The Days.
Years passed. We moved to a tiny Hippy town outside of Eugene Oregon, and at thirteen I was FORCED to smoke MARIJUANA by a gaggle of seniors at the local high school, who were entertained apparently by my following behavior enough to make it a habit. "I'm going to go play football!" I would call out to my parents as a decrepit 1970 Chevy Nova would pull up outside our country home, deep threatening idle shaking the panes of glass in our dining area facing the street. I would act enthusiastic while secretly dreading getting in the car as I bounded down the stairs and out the front door - and into the back seat of the car - where I would be FORCED to smoke MARIJUANA or take PILLS of which pedigree I had no concept. We would drive up some forgotten road into the forest, guns would be fired into the air, I would be teased and tormented ("We're going to KILL YOU!!!" was a frequent threat) and made to cry or dance or do some other humiliating act. This was 1983. I would then be deposited back onto the lawn of my parent's Country Home as it was getting dark, hunched over and laughing, eyes red and watery, and as I would try to stand upright and as the front door opened by some parent or other, the Nova would screech violently back onto the country lane, tires spinning, a white cloud of burning rubber hanging thick in the air.
Well, that time too slid into history. The good news is I was off of liquor. The bad news is that I was being secretly fed blotter acid as it was cheap entertainment for the high school seniors in the Nova. Another year or two passed, and then! :
Jason arrived in Lorane, Oregon.
We were... fourteen at the time? Before Sophomore year in high school, shortly after we met we both turned fifteen. I think.
I met Jason, who was obviously insane even at the time, at the end of a Summer
Vacation. My arm was in a cast as I had just had a motorcycle accident a few weeks earlier while with my high school seniors, who had abandoned me on some distant logging access road broken and bleeding. I met Jason weeks later while I was in a neighbor's above-ground swimming pool, keeping my cast elevated and in a plastic bag, and we immediately began to speak in code:
Jason : "Cast"
ME : "Yes. Tostada!"
Jason: "Reuben. Toolbox."
ME: (Laughing, getting it) "Combo Burrito!!!"
Jason: (Now laughing as well, finally echoed) "My throat feels funny. I'm in trouble. I should go to Bi-Mart"
Then we both laughed really hard for fifteen minutes, and then he took a shit in a plastic bag and put it on the neighbor's doorstep accompanied by a rose he picked off of their own bush. We have been best friends ever since.
We were sober together for - a year? - or so. But, by Junior year? I would beg him to steal his father's whiskey and bring it to school. Jason happily obliged. He would get off of his bus (we had to ride different buses usually for the 18-mile trip to school. ) and shuffle over to where I was waiting, and produce a jelly jar full of the tea-brown liquid, hidden under his trench coat. We would stroll back behind the school near the dumpsters and divvy up, drinking, chatting about how our respective parents knew nothing, about what girls were cute, about what teachers were AWFUL. By the time the first bell rang, we were wasted. We would go to our separate classes (By this time our teachers had us permanently separated, our combination too much for them to handle) and weave and bob in our desks, me in the front row loud and defiant , Jason in the back row of some other classroom trying to become invisible. When called upon, he would invariably use the words 'Fuck' or 'Shit' or 'Asshole' so to guarantee a trip to the Principal's Office and maybe earn him an expulsion if he were really lucky.
High School passed.
College! Beer Bongs, Liquor, stolen this-or-that - RIGHT? Right. WRONG. I had shit to do. Shit to do = Draw pictures of the back of girl's heads from my various classes. Write stories about who did not like me. I had shit to do. I had to sleep in. I was NOT drinking though! I was only nineteen or twenty years old.
Other shit happened. Check my other shit for details.
I turned twenty-one one day though! Bar-aged! YES!
My father showed up, as did my new friend the Jew, Edward Fine. His friend too, the pervert, someone-somebody. I got drunk at a bar with MY DAD and these other people. It was timid.
After I turned twenty-one, I had NO INTEREST in going out to bars or drinking, now that it was legal. A few more years passed in which alcohol was not really present in my life, there were no incidents in which it may have played a part.
I really did not drink a lot as a young person. I remember what may have been the first time I ever got 'drunk', or 'buzzed', or at least it is the first time I was in trouble for drinking too much.
I must have been about 8 or 9 years old, and went to go visit a friend of my mother's for Thanksgiving. (The Ruining of Thanksgiving Theme is a common one in the history of my (and everyone else's?) drinking) As I said, I was 8 or 9 years old, I forget which, but the point is I was not an experienced drinker. I think my mother's friend, or perhaps my mother herself thought it would be cute to have me take part in the toast before or after or during dinner. My mother typically treated me like an adult (at least until I turned 18, at which point she began to treat me like a child), openly discussing such topics as Hunger Strikes, Abortion, Henry Miller, Cinema, fine literature and high art... There was no topic too sensitive or 'adult' to discuss in the car on the way to my piano or swimming lessons. Apparently, by this Thanksgiving in 1978 or 19789, it was time for me to be introduced to the concept of 'A Few Drinks With Dinner'.
I remember very little of the occasion, but I have been reminded dozens of times by my mother of how I 'Embarrassed the shit out of her' when I tried to run through a closed sliding glass door. To be honest, I think she is making it up, or confusing this with another time several years later (during a different Thanksgiving) when I tried, successfully, to run through a closed sliding glass door. YES!, but it was on PURPOSE and not accidentally, I SWEAR TO GOD. Alcohol May Have Played Part In Incident. (Or, AMHPPII, for short. This will be another recurring theme in my drinking life) At any rate, during this Thanksgiving in 1978 (or 1979) I *do* remember feeling very grown up while being served several glasses of Champagne (I believe it was a cheap Asti Brut or Cold Duck, far beneath me, but satisfying at the time) and then talking to someone for a very long time about one of the romantic conquests in my third grade class, STAYCE I believe her name was, the tramp, and I had much to say on the subject - much to the delight of my audience as I recall - who kept my glass full of bubbly every time I would mention my broken heart or how this little hussy would no longer return my phone calls. My glass was filled often enough.
I do not think a sliding glass door was involved during this first drunk, but I may have knocked a baked good on the floor, and then doubled over laughing as the hostess tried to quickly scrape it back onto it's serving platter and back on the table before anyone noticed.
My mother and I had driven four hours to Portland for this Thanksgiving Event, and let me tell you : it was a long drive home. I DO remember that. I remember being accused at that very time of ramming the sliding glass door with my head, which I denied vigorously, and then asked repeatedly how many glasses of champagne I had drank.
"I don't know. Seven? You're my mother, WHERE WERE YOU?" I quizzed the driver of our vessel home.
"WHAT?!" she screamed " Don't make me pull this car over. I'LL SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOU RIGHT NOW!" my mother continued "Are you drunk!!?!"
"I don't believe so" I hiccuped and began to fiddle with the wing window mechanism in the ancient Jaguar we were ensconced inside at the time, while my mother began to tap on the speedometer with a forefinger in an attempt to get it to register again. After a moment:
"Stop fucking with that window! ARE YOU DRUNK??!" she asked, for the fifteenth time in twelve miles.
"Bwaaah!" I bellowed, fidgeting even more furiously with the wing window mechanism "MyaaaaarhhhhhhhHH!! Bwah! PPPHHHHHHlllPH!" I chided her.
The car was immediately pulled over. Her hand and my face flashed slowly, strobed in the green light cast from the blinker indicator on the dashboard as sharp smacking sounds ensued, followed by three hours of complete silence except for my muted weeping. (This will be a common theme as well, to be copied by a series of other women over the years)
I was in trouble. I was grounded, or on restriction or something, for a while, and the event passed into history/memory as Christmas approached. New Year's shortly to follow. I was served, secretly, during these occasions.
Not too many years later, I turned eleven and was off of drinking altogether. 'Fuck it!' I thought, 'I have homework to do.'
Ah, yes. Homework To Do. Those Were The Days.
Years passed. We moved to a tiny Hippy town outside of Eugene Oregon, and at thirteen I was FORCED to smoke MARIJUANA by a gaggle of seniors at the local high school, who were entertained apparently by my following behavior enough to make it a habit. "I'm going to go play football!" I would call out to my parents as a decrepit 1970 Chevy Nova would pull up outside our country home, deep threatening idle shaking the panes of glass in our dining area facing the street. I would act enthusiastic while secretly dreading getting in the car as I bounded down the stairs and out the front door - and into the back seat of the car - where I would be FORCED to smoke MARIJUANA or take PILLS of which pedigree I had no concept. We would drive up some forgotten road into the forest, guns would be fired into the air, I would be teased and tormented ("We're going to KILL YOU!!!" was a frequent threat) and made to cry or dance or do some other humiliating act. This was 1983. I would then be deposited back onto the lawn of my parent's Country Home as it was getting dark, hunched over and laughing, eyes red and watery, and as I would try to stand upright and as the front door opened by some parent or other, the Nova would screech violently back onto the country lane, tires spinning, a white cloud of burning rubber hanging thick in the air.
Well, that time too slid into history. The good news is I was off of liquor. The bad news is that I was being secretly fed blotter acid as it was cheap entertainment for the high school seniors in the Nova. Another year or two passed, and then! :
Jason arrived in Lorane, Oregon.
We were... fourteen at the time? Before Sophomore year in high school, shortly after we met we both turned fifteen. I think.
I met Jason, who was obviously insane even at the time, at the end of a Summer
Vacation. My arm was in a cast as I had just had a motorcycle accident a few weeks earlier while with my high school seniors, who had abandoned me on some distant logging access road broken and bleeding. I met Jason weeks later while I was in a neighbor's above-ground swimming pool, keeping my cast elevated and in a plastic bag, and we immediately began to speak in code:
Jason : "Cast"
ME : "Yes. Tostada!"
Jason: "Reuben. Toolbox."
ME: (Laughing, getting it) "Combo Burrito!!!"
Jason: (Now laughing as well, finally echoed) "My throat feels funny. I'm in trouble. I should go to Bi-Mart"
Then we both laughed really hard for fifteen minutes, and then he took a shit in a plastic bag and put it on the neighbor's doorstep accompanied by a rose he picked off of their own bush. We have been best friends ever since.
We were sober together for - a year? - or so. But, by Junior year? I would beg him to steal his father's whiskey and bring it to school. Jason happily obliged. He would get off of his bus (we had to ride different buses usually for the 18-mile trip to school. ) and shuffle over to where I was waiting, and produce a jelly jar full of the tea-brown liquid, hidden under his trench coat. We would stroll back behind the school near the dumpsters and divvy up, drinking, chatting about how our respective parents knew nothing, about what girls were cute, about what teachers were AWFUL. By the time the first bell rang, we were wasted. We would go to our separate classes (By this time our teachers had us permanently separated, our combination too much for them to handle) and weave and bob in our desks, me in the front row loud and defiant , Jason in the back row of some other classroom trying to become invisible. When called upon, he would invariably use the words 'Fuck' or 'Shit' or 'Asshole' so to guarantee a trip to the Principal's Office and maybe earn him an expulsion if he were really lucky.
High School passed.
College! Beer Bongs, Liquor, stolen this-or-that - RIGHT? Right. WRONG. I had shit to do. Shit to do = Draw pictures of the back of girl's heads from my various classes. Write stories about who did not like me. I had shit to do. I had to sleep in. I was NOT drinking though! I was only nineteen or twenty years old.
Other shit happened. Check my other shit for details.
I turned twenty-one one day though! Bar-aged! YES!
My father showed up, as did my new friend the Jew, Edward Fine. His friend too, the pervert, someone-somebody. I got drunk at a bar with MY DAD and these other people. It was timid.
After I turned twenty-one, I had NO INTEREST in going out to bars or drinking, now that it was legal. A few more years passed in which alcohol was not really present in my life, there were no incidents in which it may have played a part.
Monday, September 20, 2010
procrastinator
I have much difficulty finishing things. I have very little difficulty starting new things. I am easily excitable, overly optimistic, a romanticist, an ideas man.
My mind spins and swirls with new ideas, things I want to write, things I want to do, places I want to go, and in the meantime my kitchen wall is only half-painted and I have been wearing the same two t-shirts for a week because I need to do laundry ( I have a washer and dryer twelve feet away from me as I type this at this very moment) but can not muster the actual interest or time to do it.
I need to return phone calls, I need to return emails, I do not avoid them because I do not want to communicate with the senders, but because it seems the entire day has been spent looking for my keys and trying to box up and send the thing I was supposed to box up and send five days ago, and worrying about depositing money in the bank (which is across the street, and the cash is here with me) and trying to find the right song to play on my stereo, right now, and... now it is eleven o'clock at night and I need to wake up in the morning at six, and I am not in bed yet, and do I have Advil up here? All day. I need a schedule, I guess. I need help. I will need to find things for help to do if I have help here. This will take more time. I do not think anyone understands these things, as I can not even understand them myself. How does eighteen hours pass by in a flash, I have not sat down the entire time, and yet I accomplished nothing and have not eaten anything at all or exercised, and have still not enjoyed any self-indulgence. How? Tell me.
My mind spins and swirls with new ideas, things I want to write, things I want to do, places I want to go, and in the meantime my kitchen wall is only half-painted and I have been wearing the same two t-shirts for a week because I need to do laundry ( I have a washer and dryer twelve feet away from me as I type this at this very moment) but can not muster the actual interest or time to do it.
I need to return phone calls, I need to return emails, I do not avoid them because I do not want to communicate with the senders, but because it seems the entire day has been spent looking for my keys and trying to box up and send the thing I was supposed to box up and send five days ago, and worrying about depositing money in the bank (which is across the street, and the cash is here with me) and trying to find the right song to play on my stereo, right now, and... now it is eleven o'clock at night and I need to wake up in the morning at six, and I am not in bed yet, and do I have Advil up here? All day. I need a schedule, I guess. I need help. I will need to find things for help to do if I have help here. This will take more time. I do not think anyone understands these things, as I can not even understand them myself. How does eighteen hours pass by in a flash, I have not sat down the entire time, and yet I accomplished nothing and have not eaten anything at all or exercised, and have still not enjoyed any self-indulgence. How? Tell me.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Welcome back
I just stand and stare at the spot you just walked out of. I do not move at all. I hear the door open, shut, a minute later a car's engine start. I stare at the spot where you stood, but you stand there no longer, so I stare at a wall in the distance which is out of focus.
I do not feel anger or sadness or joy or despair. I feel absolutely nothing, not even the desire to get back to what it was I was doing before. Time passes. It gets dark. I become thirsty. I blink my eyes, I realize I have been waiting for you to return. If you did return, I would probably not speak to you, I have nothing I want to tell you, but I would like to see you standing in your spot again. I get an idea.
I go to the stereo and play a song, a song that I think should call you back. If you were to come back now, this would be the perfect score to your return. Turn the volume knob up a little more. I program the player to repeat this song. I go back and try to stare at that spot again, but it is different now, it feels contrived. I try for a full minute. I realize this is silly. I realize I am silly. I go back to whatever it was I was doing before.
I realize I am silly, but I leave the music on. Just in case.
I do not feel anger or sadness or joy or despair. I feel absolutely nothing, not even the desire to get back to what it was I was doing before. Time passes. It gets dark. I become thirsty. I blink my eyes, I realize I have been waiting for you to return. If you did return, I would probably not speak to you, I have nothing I want to tell you, but I would like to see you standing in your spot again. I get an idea.
I go to the stereo and play a song, a song that I think should call you back. If you were to come back now, this would be the perfect score to your return. Turn the volume knob up a little more. I program the player to repeat this song. I go back and try to stare at that spot again, but it is different now, it feels contrived. I try for a full minute. I realize this is silly. I realize I am silly. I go back to whatever it was I was doing before.
I realize I am silly, but I leave the music on. Just in case.
Monday, September 6, 2010
An Office Visit
Once in the office, she had to print and fill out her own U-Haul form, as the man did not have the patience, ability or interest in doing it himself. He grunted and pointed with a half-eaten sandwich at the computer balanced on top of a file cabinet on the other side of the room. She made her way across the floor littered with bottle caps, unopened mail and mummified food remnants, and was forced to stand as she wiggled the mouse back and forth, trying to get the computer screen to pop to life.
'otta turnip awm' She heard him say to her back. She looked up at him for a moment, confused. She wiggled the mouse some more.
'AWM!' he said again, and began to illustrate this statement with the sandwich, he was thrusting it forward in his right hand as if it were a sword and he was trying to dispatch an imaginary foe. 'Gotta' turnip AWM!!' Her confusion began to turn to fear as this charade became more violent, faster. Bits of lettuce and meat began to fly out of the end of the lazy, flapping bread and fall on the floor in front of his desk, limp and moist, like so many hopeless stockbrokers on Wall Street.
The man stopped stabbing the air with the sandwich and instead glared at her for a moment in full slack jawed disbelief before he slowly began chewing again in a bovine manner, and then swallowed whatever food was in his mouth.
After wiping a vibrant yellow smear of mustard across his sleeve from his mustache he said : 'ON. You've got to turn It ON. The button on front. The GREEN BUTTON on the .. the.. BOX there. PUSH IT.' He was able to communicate clearly now his mouth was more or less free of his bolus. She still stared at him blankly for a moment, just now comprehending, and he tore at the space between them one last time with his lunch in order to set her again in motion.
'otta turnip awm' She heard him say to her back. She looked up at him for a moment, confused. She wiggled the mouse some more.
'AWM!' he said again, and began to illustrate this statement with the sandwich, he was thrusting it forward in his right hand as if it were a sword and he was trying to dispatch an imaginary foe. 'Gotta' turnip AWM!!' Her confusion began to turn to fear as this charade became more violent, faster. Bits of lettuce and meat began to fly out of the end of the lazy, flapping bread and fall on the floor in front of his desk, limp and moist, like so many hopeless stockbrokers on Wall Street.
The man stopped stabbing the air with the sandwich and instead glared at her for a moment in full slack jawed disbelief before he slowly began chewing again in a bovine manner, and then swallowed whatever food was in his mouth.
After wiping a vibrant yellow smear of mustard across his sleeve from his mustache he said : 'ON. You've got to turn It ON. The button on front. The GREEN BUTTON on the .. the.. BOX there. PUSH IT.' He was able to communicate clearly now his mouth was more or less free of his bolus. She still stared at him blankly for a moment, just now comprehending, and he tore at the space between them one last time with his lunch in order to set her again in motion.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Recent Automotive Repair
My hand lingered there near the ignition switch, key turgid and aimed. Heavy, back dread was soon replaced with a solid sense of relief as I pushed the key home and turned it clockwise, the engine quickly spinning to life, babbling a satisfied and healthy idle.
I did a quick victory dance, stainless steel container of vodka fizzy in one hand, raised high above my head, and after checking under the vehicle for leaks, I turned the engine off. "You genius, you!" I congratulated myself. "You're GOOD."
I still had puddles of coolant and oil to mop up, but I was otherwise finished: 48 solid hours to change a timing belt in a 2001 Nissan X-Terra without benefit of prior experience, reference material, or a mentor of any degree, and the entire time I was holding steady or fluctuating just above a blood- alcohol level at least five times that of the legal definition of 'drunk'. It was just like college.
In college, my days in University, I would never actually go to my classes, instead sleeping in or hustling a few doughnuts someplace, or (later) drinking, but I would responsibly show up for almost every exam, turn in most every assigned paper, and without ever reading the required texts or witnessing the lectures, I would effortlessly pass nearly all classes with a "C".
The way the Nissan sounded though, I would have given myself at least a "B" on this one. A grade of "A" missed only because of a latent belt squeaking that was easily remedied.
My client, Miss W, had just arrived two days earlier for the six hour job. Since she wanted to suit up and help, I scheduled eight to ten hours into the week for this chore.
Not long before her arrival, however, my Opthomologist had shown up unexpected and hungry.
The time should be spent now to describe the geometry of my eye doctor, it is important to this story. At only five foot two he weighs in at nearly three hundred pounds. He is not "fat" in the traditional sense, although he is wide. My Opthamologist, Edward, could be drawn accurately on paper using only a pencil and a compass. Using a series of circles of varying diameter, his head and arms are attached to his body, much like those of a snowman. The only straight lines employed describe his legs, two toothpicks stabbed into the Earth, impossibly supporting the abomination above. The whole mess was, as always, tightly encased in black fabrics several sizes too small, threatening to rip or burst at their very seams.
It should be noted that Edward's perfectly round skull is always shaved clean, and his mouth hole is surrounded by a perfectly round jet-black goatee, often containing remnants of previous meals. His eyebrows are Jack-O-Lantern's peaked triangles, but composed of black fur. Edward's wardrobe consists only of three favorite items from the 1985 Calvin Klein Collection, and more often than not, his black leather jacket. That is, if he has elected to wear any clothing at all. This particular day was hot, and Edward wore only one item from his wardrobe, his tiny black pants, covering the stilettos of his legs.
I employed quotations when I used the word "fat" to describe Edward, as he is actually not fat, despite whatever medical chart this may contradict. Bloated and round? Yes. But oddly, even when he weighs only 120 lbs, he appears the same. At a glance, you see only a gargantuan expanse of flesh, but if you have the nerve to take a second, longer look, (and maybe a feel or poke) you would find his belly is as tight as a drum and inexplicably muscular. His tan corpus maximus is riddled with pulsing, visible veins. His eyes are always asquint with laughter, or hidden behind the finest and most expensive sunglasses money can buy. He is a demented, cherubic, Jewish Mr. Clean, crossed with the Angel of Death, crossed again with a circus midget.
I tell you this because you should know that a person needs to be ready, or warned at least, before meeting Edward in anything other than his professional setting, and even then I believe his nurses distribute a flier warning of his appearance and dimensions before his patients actually meet him face to face.
So I was able to stand my ground with only momentary fear, as a giant black Mercedes sedan pulled up to my garage, expelling Edward like some dark, new planet being belched from a distant galaxy aimed right towards me. The menacing celestial body of my eye doctor was immediately followed by a similarly described hairy and drooling, afterbirth named Beatrice. His black Pitbull sidekick, convincingly playing the role of lunar satellite to Edward's planetary mass.
As stated, initially I experienced fear, but I soon recognized his form as friendly. I stepped forward to meet his arrival and I tried, in vain, to reach my arms around him in a friendly embrace of welcome.
I naturally asked Edward if he would like to borrow a shirt (in case he left his somewhere, and to prevent a panic in my neighborhood in the event he was seen) to which he shortly barked "No!"
Alright. I'm not going to argue.
Backs were slapped, pleasantries exchanged, accommodations arranged. This was to be his vacation. It was July and hot, and tight black pants were not entirely practical, but always in fashion.
I did a quick victory dance, stainless steel container of vodka fizzy in one hand, raised high above my head, and after checking under the vehicle for leaks, I turned the engine off. "You genius, you!" I congratulated myself. "You're GOOD."
I still had puddles of coolant and oil to mop up, but I was otherwise finished: 48 solid hours to change a timing belt in a 2001 Nissan X-Terra without benefit of prior experience, reference material, or a mentor of any degree, and the entire time I was holding steady or fluctuating just above a blood- alcohol level at least five times that of the legal definition of 'drunk'. It was just like college.
In college, my days in University, I would never actually go to my classes, instead sleeping in or hustling a few doughnuts someplace, or (later) drinking, but I would responsibly show up for almost every exam, turn in most every assigned paper, and without ever reading the required texts or witnessing the lectures, I would effortlessly pass nearly all classes with a "C".
The way the Nissan sounded though, I would have given myself at least a "B" on this one. A grade of "A" missed only because of a latent belt squeaking that was easily remedied.
My client, Miss W, had just arrived two days earlier for the six hour job. Since she wanted to suit up and help, I scheduled eight to ten hours into the week for this chore.
Not long before her arrival, however, my Opthomologist had shown up unexpected and hungry.
The time should be spent now to describe the geometry of my eye doctor, it is important to this story. At only five foot two he weighs in at nearly three hundred pounds. He is not "fat" in the traditional sense, although he is wide. My Opthamologist, Edward, could be drawn accurately on paper using only a pencil and a compass. Using a series of circles of varying diameter, his head and arms are attached to his body, much like those of a snowman. The only straight lines employed describe his legs, two toothpicks stabbed into the Earth, impossibly supporting the abomination above. The whole mess was, as always, tightly encased in black fabrics several sizes too small, threatening to rip or burst at their very seams.
It should be noted that Edward's perfectly round skull is always shaved clean, and his mouth hole is surrounded by a perfectly round jet-black goatee, often containing remnants of previous meals. His eyebrows are Jack-O-Lantern's peaked triangles, but composed of black fur. Edward's wardrobe consists only of three favorite items from the 1985 Calvin Klein Collection, and more often than not, his black leather jacket. That is, if he has elected to wear any clothing at all. This particular day was hot, and Edward wore only one item from his wardrobe, his tiny black pants, covering the stilettos of his legs.
I employed quotations when I used the word "fat" to describe Edward, as he is actually not fat, despite whatever medical chart this may contradict. Bloated and round? Yes. But oddly, even when he weighs only 120 lbs, he appears the same. At a glance, you see only a gargantuan expanse of flesh, but if you have the nerve to take a second, longer look, (and maybe a feel or poke) you would find his belly is as tight as a drum and inexplicably muscular. His tan corpus maximus is riddled with pulsing, visible veins. His eyes are always asquint with laughter, or hidden behind the finest and most expensive sunglasses money can buy. He is a demented, cherubic, Jewish Mr. Clean, crossed with the Angel of Death, crossed again with a circus midget.
I tell you this because you should know that a person needs to be ready, or warned at least, before meeting Edward in anything other than his professional setting, and even then I believe his nurses distribute a flier warning of his appearance and dimensions before his patients actually meet him face to face.
So I was able to stand my ground with only momentary fear, as a giant black Mercedes sedan pulled up to my garage, expelling Edward like some dark, new planet being belched from a distant galaxy aimed right towards me. The menacing celestial body of my eye doctor was immediately followed by a similarly described hairy and drooling, afterbirth named Beatrice. His black Pitbull sidekick, convincingly playing the role of lunar satellite to Edward's planetary mass.
As stated, initially I experienced fear, but I soon recognized his form as friendly. I stepped forward to meet his arrival and I tried, in vain, to reach my arms around him in a friendly embrace of welcome.
I naturally asked Edward if he would like to borrow a shirt (in case he left his somewhere, and to prevent a panic in my neighborhood in the event he was seen) to which he shortly barked "No!"
Alright. I'm not going to argue.
Backs were slapped, pleasantries exchanged, accommodations arranged. This was to be his vacation. It was July and hot, and tight black pants were not entirely practical, but always in fashion.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday - House of Biscuits
The familiar and expected smell greeted his nostrils as he moved into the driver's seat and began to fumble with the seat belt buckle. The car smelled like all old British cars, a warm and pleasant smell of leather and wood. He liked the smell, and he liked this car, but he was running late and he couldn't get the seat adjusted exactly to his liking, and the seat belt buckle wasn't quite right either.
'Fuck!' he shouted to no particular target. He just wanted to use the word. He loved this word. He never grew tired of this word. It amazed him how those four letters together could amuse him, help him relax, inspire him, express his every emotion. He thought this often, but did not think it right now, because he was running late and he had to get across town.
He decided not to fiddle with the seat or seat belt any longer, and he twisted the key and the car immediately coughed to life and he blipped the throttle a few times with his toe, and satisfied with the sounds generated by the engine he put the car in gear, looked over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, and speedily entered the artery of asphalt.
'Fuck!' he yelled as his coffee spilled, fortunately only on the dashboard and not on his pants or shirt, which were really looking great today. He spent only three minutes selecting this shirt to meet her in this morning, he knew right as soon as he saw it he was going to party the pink gingham with a blue tie. He was especially pleased that his thin jeans were fitting as well as they were.
The green car was hurtling East now, in top gear, switching lanes left and right through the slower moving cars, which were few as it was early morning on a Saturday. The brakes in the green car were not good, not good at all, and he was traveling much too fast considering this fact - which he did - but he was running late and he did not want to make her wait.
As he sped towards the understood meeting spot, he adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see himself, pick any wayward hairs or other unsavory items from his face, and he also elected at this time to adjust his tie, pulling it down, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt to give the effect of having just thrown everything on, as if he didn't quite care to look perfectly put together this morning, a look he liked to cultivate often, a look he liked to call 'Contrived Casual'. Sometimes he would leave one shoe untied or button his shirt wrong to maintain this look. It worked for him.
He was a little loopy still from the night before, the drinking, and the lack of real sleep, but he found the meeting spot easily enough, they had met there before, actually, a little coffee place that made biscuits that she would pretend that she shouldn't eat but secretly loved. She was always talking about being on a diet and working out in the gym, and how she shouldn't eat this or that, and he thought she was crazy. Or fishing for compliments. Or just acting like a normal woman. She actually was a normal woman, he decided. She said nothing she meant and acted crazy and expected him to read her mind. This thought brought him reassurance. This thought brought him relief. This thought freed him from any real culpability regarding relationships. The man believed that nothing he did would make any difference as far as getting along with a woman was concerned. He could be nice, be mean, be aloof, be available, be responsible, irresponsible, tell the truth or lie, and the result would always be the same. Women would judge him and react to him however they felt like acting regardless of his behavior. Everything was contextual, and determined by the mood of the woman he may be involved with, completely independently of reason or fact.
He hoped she would be in a good mood this morning.
He parked the car, grabbed his notebook, wallet and jacket, and jogged across the street while putting the jacket on. As he walked up to the glass door of the restaurant he tucked in one side of his shirt only, taking Contrived Casual to the next level. He opened the door and went inside.
He saw her at the table where she sat last time, in the back, in a corner. He saw her there and she looked great. She rose and walked to meet him in the middle of the room and he noticed she was wearing another jumpsuit, this one of chocolate brown velour. Earlier, while lurking about on her Facebook page and admiring her many photographs, he noted, with pleasure, that she owned dozens of jumpsuits in a wide range of colors and textures. Sometimes she reminded him of a superhero. Maybe this was because she fought crime at the district attorney's office. Maybe it was because she could leg press fourteen times her own body weight. Whatever the reason, he thought she was great. Maybe she was crazy? He hoped so.
Their bodies came together in a hug in the exact center of the large open room, and for just a moment he felt like he was on a stage again, acting out a scene from some tired and weary drama. He felt all eyes in the room on them and their hug, their forms an exercise in opposite geometries; his massive,bright and loose while hers was tiny and tight and brown. They both enjoyed the brief hug in their own way, enjoying different aspects of the brief hug - He enjoyed touching her tiny strong form, enjoyed stroking the velour stretched across her back - and She enjoyed the briefness of the hug, the civility of it. She found satisfaction by behaving in a civilized manner, and abiding proper etiquette, and hugging your breakfast date would be expected by the population enjoying their coffee and biscuits surrounding them.
After the brief hug, and with the momentum generated by the separation of their bodies after the brief hug, they returned to the table she had selected in the corner.
'How are you doing?' they asked each other at the exact same time, and then sitting down he answered 'Great' while she answered 'Fine' , again at the exact same time.
Once seated, eye contact was made over the tiny table, smiles exchanged, and he touched his hair and wondered if it looked disheveled enough. HER hair looked disheveled enough, he noted with some jealousy. He pondered her disheveled hair a tiny bit longer and began to grow angry. Wasn't he worth the time it would have taken to properly coif her hair? Maybe she had stayed out too late last night with someone else to take the time to style her hair, was that what had happened? He was beginning to get angrier, and when this man got angry, he got quiet as well. Maybe she was just being funny again with her messed up hair? Maybe this was meant to be funny like the time with the wig? Maybe he was jumping to conclusions again? Maybe he shouldn't get quiet yet? He saw an opportunity to get out of his bad mood and entertain at the same time, and he took it: HE WOULD MAKE A JOKE.
He often did this when he was nervous, with mixed results. As he still could not tell if what type of mood she was in, it was a bit of a crapshoot, but he went for it anyway:
'Fuck!' he shouted to no particular target. He just wanted to use the word. He loved this word. He never grew tired of this word. It amazed him how those four letters together could amuse him, help him relax, inspire him, express his every emotion. He thought this often, but did not think it right now, because he was running late and he had to get across town.
He decided not to fiddle with the seat or seat belt any longer, and he twisted the key and the car immediately coughed to life and he blipped the throttle a few times with his toe, and satisfied with the sounds generated by the engine he put the car in gear, looked over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, and speedily entered the artery of asphalt.
'Fuck!' he yelled as his coffee spilled, fortunately only on the dashboard and not on his pants or shirt, which were really looking great today. He spent only three minutes selecting this shirt to meet her in this morning, he knew right as soon as he saw it he was going to party the pink gingham with a blue tie. He was especially pleased that his thin jeans were fitting as well as they were.
The green car was hurtling East now, in top gear, switching lanes left and right through the slower moving cars, which were few as it was early morning on a Saturday. The brakes in the green car were not good, not good at all, and he was traveling much too fast considering this fact - which he did - but he was running late and he did not want to make her wait.
As he sped towards the understood meeting spot, he adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see himself, pick any wayward hairs or other unsavory items from his face, and he also elected at this time to adjust his tie, pulling it down, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt to give the effect of having just thrown everything on, as if he didn't quite care to look perfectly put together this morning, a look he liked to cultivate often, a look he liked to call 'Contrived Casual'. Sometimes he would leave one shoe untied or button his shirt wrong to maintain this look. It worked for him.
He was a little loopy still from the night before, the drinking, and the lack of real sleep, but he found the meeting spot easily enough, they had met there before, actually, a little coffee place that made biscuits that she would pretend that she shouldn't eat but secretly loved. She was always talking about being on a diet and working out in the gym, and how she shouldn't eat this or that, and he thought she was crazy. Or fishing for compliments. Or just acting like a normal woman. She actually was a normal woman, he decided. She said nothing she meant and acted crazy and expected him to read her mind. This thought brought him reassurance. This thought brought him relief. This thought freed him from any real culpability regarding relationships. The man believed that nothing he did would make any difference as far as getting along with a woman was concerned. He could be nice, be mean, be aloof, be available, be responsible, irresponsible, tell the truth or lie, and the result would always be the same. Women would judge him and react to him however they felt like acting regardless of his behavior. Everything was contextual, and determined by the mood of the woman he may be involved with, completely independently of reason or fact.
He hoped she would be in a good mood this morning.
He parked the car, grabbed his notebook, wallet and jacket, and jogged across the street while putting the jacket on. As he walked up to the glass door of the restaurant he tucked in one side of his shirt only, taking Contrived Casual to the next level. He opened the door and went inside.
He saw her at the table where she sat last time, in the back, in a corner. He saw her there and she looked great. She rose and walked to meet him in the middle of the room and he noticed she was wearing another jumpsuit, this one of chocolate brown velour. Earlier, while lurking about on her Facebook page and admiring her many photographs, he noted, with pleasure, that she owned dozens of jumpsuits in a wide range of colors and textures. Sometimes she reminded him of a superhero. Maybe this was because she fought crime at the district attorney's office. Maybe it was because she could leg press fourteen times her own body weight. Whatever the reason, he thought she was great. Maybe she was crazy? He hoped so.
Their bodies came together in a hug in the exact center of the large open room, and for just a moment he felt like he was on a stage again, acting out a scene from some tired and weary drama. He felt all eyes in the room on them and their hug, their forms an exercise in opposite geometries; his massive,bright and loose while hers was tiny and tight and brown. They both enjoyed the brief hug in their own way, enjoying different aspects of the brief hug - He enjoyed touching her tiny strong form, enjoyed stroking the velour stretched across her back - and She enjoyed the briefness of the hug, the civility of it. She found satisfaction by behaving in a civilized manner, and abiding proper etiquette, and hugging your breakfast date would be expected by the population enjoying their coffee and biscuits surrounding them.
After the brief hug, and with the momentum generated by the separation of their bodies after the brief hug, they returned to the table she had selected in the corner.
'How are you doing?' they asked each other at the exact same time, and then sitting down he answered 'Great' while she answered 'Fine' , again at the exact same time.
Once seated, eye contact was made over the tiny table, smiles exchanged, and he touched his hair and wondered if it looked disheveled enough. HER hair looked disheveled enough, he noted with some jealousy. He pondered her disheveled hair a tiny bit longer and began to grow angry. Wasn't he worth the time it would have taken to properly coif her hair? Maybe she had stayed out too late last night with someone else to take the time to style her hair, was that what had happened? He was beginning to get angrier, and when this man got angry, he got quiet as well. Maybe she was just being funny again with her messed up hair? Maybe this was meant to be funny like the time with the wig? Maybe he was jumping to conclusions again? Maybe he shouldn't get quiet yet? He saw an opportunity to get out of his bad mood and entertain at the same time, and he took it: HE WOULD MAKE A JOKE.
He often did this when he was nervous, with mixed results. As he still could not tell if what type of mood she was in, it was a bit of a crapshoot, but he went for it anyway:
Monday, August 23, 2010
TAKING MELODRAMA TO ELEVEN PART THREE - What I actually do when someone wrongs me, or I feel that someone has wronged me:
SO, I have been sitting inside pretty much the whole day - and don't even give me any shit about this, I needed it, I'm the motherfucker who worked 7 or 12 or however many days in a row before this without going to the lake or fishing or having friends over for board games or even getting drunk - anyway, inside pretty much all day EXCEPT for the time where I went to Fred Meyer to buy some brownies to go with my ice cream. Now I'm worried I have too many brownies and not enough ice cream, so I may have to go to Fred Meyer, AGAIN. So, I have been pretty much sitting around here, eating ice cream and brownies, and making sandwiches and soup and watching bad movies and sort of just feeling like shit in general, but I guess I am emailing and kind of writing my balls off, which is also a good thing, I suppose - the writing that is, not the balls off - and just sitting inside, feeling fat and old and generally waiting for life to suck some more before I die.
I did kind of play with the Rover for like four minutes.
the phone has been BLOWING THE FUCK UP all day, and I am proud to say that I have not checked messages yet, but some of these people (are they people? is this how real people behave?) have been calling AGAIN AND AGAIN without leaving messages (I bet) and some of these people are Joel and the guy with a mexican-sounding-name who paid for something recently, and that Will Sloop kid (Does HE think I am old and over?) and maybe Fred, but I;'m all like "Fuck THAT shit! I'm not answering that fucking phone. Call back. Do it. CALL BACK, MOTHERFUCKERS, CALL AND HANG UP AND CALL BACK AND SEE IF I ANSWER THE PHONE THEN! THINK YOU'RE ALL CLEVER AND SHIT? CALLING AND NOT LEAVING MESSAGES? Wait 'til I get your car in here. We'll see who's clever THEN, won't we? When I'm rubbing my balls all up on your door handles and steering wheel, WHO IS GOING TO BE CLEVER THEN???? " - Basically shit like that. Fucking phone. I just turned that ringer OFF. Fuck it. All these crumbsnatchers, don't make me hit the caps lock again Baby, alright? Please don't get me started about the phone.
So ANYWAY, eating too much garbage, emailing, the phone, staying inside, I smell my feet again. I don;t know why I have shoes on. I don't have anything else on, why do I have shoes on? Why do I smell my feet? I didn't exercise. ... OH THAT'S RIGHT, I HAVEN'T TAKEN A SHOWER IN A WHILE. That's why with the feet, the thing with the feet. so, THIS is what it is like when you just say fuck it and let yourself go at 39, and get all old and fat and go crazy like Howard Hughes, except you aren't rich and you never had sex with a movie star and you can't fly an airplane - so it is actually NOT like Howard Hughes, except for the part where you get old and stay in your room eating junk food and watching movies and going crazy.
What was I saying?
OH, I KNOW. The Nugget:
The Nugget: I feel like I'm in a cocoon, and I know I have to come out tomorrow, but in the meantime I hunkered down in this building, in the dark (Like a caterpillar, get it?) and I unpacked all the shit out of my mind and spread it around me on the floor like I used to do with those dirty magazines when I still lived at home with my parents - but that is a different story- I spread all the shit going on in my mind in a big circle around me on the floor so I can pick each piece up and examine it and decide what to do with it, keep it? throw it away? and while I am doing this I am growing stronger or weaker , I'm not sure - but I am CHANGING is the point, like the fucking caterpillar, right? Evolving? I mean, I can feel this change happening, but I am looking at all this shit on the floor now, all of the stuff from my mind, and I know I can't fit it all back in there (remember the BLIVET?) and now shit is going to be different just like the caterpillar, and I have run out of time, it is Spring now, or Summer, whatever time it is when you have to tear out of your cocoon, you don't have any more time left to change, so you had better be ready to go, someone had better tell somebody to clear a fucking path, because IT IS TIME. That is what the last 30 or 40 hours have been like, a throbbing hot dark pocket to shift and fidget inside of while I eat too much and sort through my thoughts and try to cut some of what I believe in away and try to fit some other new belief in there, where it does not fit, I have to fool myself into believing new things, I have become good at doing this in the last twenty years, I can do it when I need to. So this is the time now where I hold my breath so I swell up and fill up inside this thing, I have to hold my breath as long as I can and tense my muscles and roll my eyes back into my head and hold still and begin to vibrate with tension and effort and I remain there like that for as long as I can, and if I am very lucky, and I mean VERY LUCKY, I will feel wings tear through the flesh and skin of my back and break apart this shroud I've been in, and I will be able to shake it all off and then move ahead actually better than I was before I went into it. If I am not very lucky, I will be able to swell up enough to break out of here, but I will not have wings. If I am VERY unlucky, I will be stuck in this thing for a long time. I'm thinking I'll be regular lucky this time.
That's what I've been doing. Now you know. ISN'T IT GREAT!!!? THE CATERPILLAR??
Maybe I'm more like a pollywog?
I did kind of play with the Rover for like four minutes.
the phone has been BLOWING THE FUCK UP all day, and I am proud to say that I have not checked messages yet, but some of these people (are they people? is this how real people behave?) have been calling AGAIN AND AGAIN without leaving messages (I bet) and some of these people are Joel and the guy with a mexican-sounding-name who paid for something recently, and that Will Sloop kid (Does HE think I am old and over?) and maybe Fred, but I;'m all like "Fuck THAT shit! I'm not answering that fucking phone. Call back. Do it. CALL BACK, MOTHERFUCKERS, CALL AND HANG UP AND CALL BACK AND SEE IF I ANSWER THE PHONE THEN! THINK YOU'RE ALL CLEVER AND SHIT? CALLING AND NOT LEAVING MESSAGES? Wait 'til I get your car in here. We'll see who's clever THEN, won't we? When I'm rubbing my balls all up on your door handles and steering wheel, WHO IS GOING TO BE CLEVER THEN???? " - Basically shit like that. Fucking phone. I just turned that ringer OFF. Fuck it. All these crumbsnatchers, don't make me hit the caps lock again Baby, alright? Please don't get me started about the phone.
So ANYWAY, eating too much garbage, emailing, the phone, staying inside, I smell my feet again. I don;t know why I have shoes on. I don't have anything else on, why do I have shoes on? Why do I smell my feet? I didn't exercise. ... OH THAT'S RIGHT, I HAVEN'T TAKEN A SHOWER IN A WHILE. That's why with the feet, the thing with the feet. so, THIS is what it is like when you just say fuck it and let yourself go at 39, and get all old and fat and go crazy like Howard Hughes, except you aren't rich and you never had sex with a movie star and you can't fly an airplane - so it is actually NOT like Howard Hughes, except for the part where you get old and stay in your room eating junk food and watching movies and going crazy.
What was I saying?
OH, I KNOW. The Nugget:
The Nugget: I feel like I'm in a cocoon, and I know I have to come out tomorrow, but in the meantime I hunkered down in this building, in the dark (Like a caterpillar, get it?) and I unpacked all the shit out of my mind and spread it around me on the floor like I used to do with those dirty magazines when I still lived at home with my parents - but that is a different story- I spread all the shit going on in my mind in a big circle around me on the floor so I can pick each piece up and examine it and decide what to do with it, keep it? throw it away? and while I am doing this I am growing stronger or weaker , I'm not sure - but I am CHANGING is the point, like the fucking caterpillar, right? Evolving? I mean, I can feel this change happening, but I am looking at all this shit on the floor now, all of the stuff from my mind, and I know I can't fit it all back in there (remember the BLIVET?) and now shit is going to be different just like the caterpillar, and I have run out of time, it is Spring now, or Summer, whatever time it is when you have to tear out of your cocoon, you don't have any more time left to change, so you had better be ready to go, someone had better tell somebody to clear a fucking path, because IT IS TIME. That is what the last 30 or 40 hours have been like, a throbbing hot dark pocket to shift and fidget inside of while I eat too much and sort through my thoughts and try to cut some of what I believe in away and try to fit some other new belief in there, where it does not fit, I have to fool myself into believing new things, I have become good at doing this in the last twenty years, I can do it when I need to. So this is the time now where I hold my breath so I swell up and fill up inside this thing, I have to hold my breath as long as I can and tense my muscles and roll my eyes back into my head and hold still and begin to vibrate with tension and effort and I remain there like that for as long as I can, and if I am very lucky, and I mean VERY LUCKY, I will feel wings tear through the flesh and skin of my back and break apart this shroud I've been in, and I will be able to shake it all off and then move ahead actually better than I was before I went into it. If I am not very lucky, I will be able to swell up enough to break out of here, but I will not have wings. If I am VERY unlucky, I will be stuck in this thing for a long time. I'm thinking I'll be regular lucky this time.
That's what I've been doing. Now you know. ISN'T IT GREAT!!!? THE CATERPILLAR??
Maybe I'm more like a pollywog?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
TAKING MELODRAMA TO ELEVEN PART TWO : i. am. AWESOME!
(Dude, I feel this way ALL THE TIME) :
The door rolls up slowly, but steadily. It is obvious the door is heavy.
The door rolls up to reveal the huge shop within, illuminated in bright light torn out of the fabric of the dark night surrounding it.
The camera moves in on the man, in through the door slowly and closes in on him as he works animatedly on some machine in the middle of this building: Tall, handsome, muscular, seething intelligence, he appears much younger than his XX years.
Camera closes in tight on his face, cheeks stubbled with coarse black hair, sweat beading on face, vein athrob on forehead, there is something dangerous in the set of his jaw as he performs some action, hands obscured in the bowels of some contraption.
There is no doubt: THIS is the principal character of this story. This is NOT the guest star, or an 'Also Starring' , or an 'Introducing' , or even a 'With' - THIS is the reason you are here, why you paid for the ticket in the first place. You can not take your eyes off of the screen, and you would trade ANYTHING to be him there, right now, in giant single-point relief.
Music begins to throb from the speakers, faint at first, unnoticed or mistaken for something else, then recognized as the score, then FELT like a sudden drop or rise on a roller-coaster, or a naked slap across the face. This music is AWESOME: evil, pounding, rhythmic, hypnotic, but there is something familiar about it as well, you know the words already, this song is old and redone and addictive and it brings your heart rate up a few points, you find your hand clutching the armrest of your seat like a vengeful parent would grab the throat of their child's killer.
The man on the screen is successful now! The wrong has been righted, he stands full upright at last, arching his sore back behind him to the left, to the right, accompanied by the noise of muted poppings as vertebrae and ligaments are once again properly aligned and home.
The man has a ridiculous bandana turned backwards on his head, upright, Aunt-Jemima-Style and with oversized bows like great bunny ears atop his crown. and he pulls this off in a triumphant gesture, and with it wipes of his hands and face, then installs it back on top of his head.
The music has begun to drop down now, and fade, and then silence entirely.
He leans back on the machine with his ass, and thinks about her for a moment, where she may be, what her hair may look like now, and then he spits on the floor. A beat passes. Another.
Suddenly, he turns around and fits the key into the ignition switch. He pauses just half a beat and closes his eyes before twisting the key to the right, and the empty canvas of sound is once again and immediately filled with the healthy regular idle of a very serious and threatening machine.
The door rolls up slowly, but steadily. It is obvious the door is heavy.
The door rolls up to reveal the huge shop within, illuminated in bright light torn out of the fabric of the dark night surrounding it.
The camera moves in on the man, in through the door slowly and closes in on him as he works animatedly on some machine in the middle of this building: Tall, handsome, muscular, seething intelligence, he appears much younger than his XX years.
Camera closes in tight on his face, cheeks stubbled with coarse black hair, sweat beading on face, vein athrob on forehead, there is something dangerous in the set of his jaw as he performs some action, hands obscured in the bowels of some contraption.
There is no doubt: THIS is the principal character of this story. This is NOT the guest star, or an 'Also Starring' , or an 'Introducing' , or even a 'With' - THIS is the reason you are here, why you paid for the ticket in the first place. You can not take your eyes off of the screen, and you would trade ANYTHING to be him there, right now, in giant single-point relief.
Music begins to throb from the speakers, faint at first, unnoticed or mistaken for something else, then recognized as the score, then FELT like a sudden drop or rise on a roller-coaster, or a naked slap across the face. This music is AWESOME: evil, pounding, rhythmic, hypnotic, but there is something familiar about it as well, you know the words already, this song is old and redone and addictive and it brings your heart rate up a few points, you find your hand clutching the armrest of your seat like a vengeful parent would grab the throat of their child's killer.
The man on the screen is successful now! The wrong has been righted, he stands full upright at last, arching his sore back behind him to the left, to the right, accompanied by the noise of muted poppings as vertebrae and ligaments are once again properly aligned and home.
The man has a ridiculous bandana turned backwards on his head, upright, Aunt-Jemima-Style and with oversized bows like great bunny ears atop his crown. and he pulls this off in a triumphant gesture, and with it wipes of his hands and face, then installs it back on top of his head.
The music has begun to drop down now, and fade, and then silence entirely.
He leans back on the machine with his ass, and thinks about her for a moment, where she may be, what her hair may look like now, and then he spits on the floor. A beat passes. Another.
Suddenly, he turns around and fits the key into the ignition switch. He pauses just half a beat and closes his eyes before twisting the key to the right, and the empty canvas of sound is once again and immediately filled with the healthy regular idle of a very serious and threatening machine.
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