The big green bridge lifts itself out of the mist and rises skywards by post and cable, tall and solid, a thing removed of emotion or argument, it stands there day after day and cares not about you or anyone else.
I see the faces of the people who cross this bridge every day, I can see their expressions through the glass, I can see their fates pass by like scrub brush beside the road, their stories already told and sorry, damp and tired. We are all heading for the same pit in reality, a real pit of horror, a sticky and sickening place where we all lose our everythings. Carbon and Oxygen, we all fall down.
I stood up and walked forward knees straining against gravity's seduction, my eyes sore and weary from examining all that the day had to offer thus far, lives flush and flushed out, I barely touch any of them but they are mine all the same, I go to lengths to see them through and I hate them all for it in the end.
I am tired now, I do not want to dally here but I can not deny the magnetism of the water as seen from above, from this point from which I survey it all, black and flowing like ink, snakelike and sorrowless, as it has always been before structures such as this were erected over it's spine like vain commitments to progress's curricula vitae, pages in a book but spread lengthwise and cold and green as are stones in the earth, as are the arguments of bitter lovers.
I stare down into this inky forever, I am too far away to recognize my own reflection therein. I imagine the numberless arms of the waters pulling me in, pulling me down, arms I would never trust if given the opportunity or question to do so, arms long and bent at awkward angles, unnatural expressions of want. I do not trust what I see, and I do not go there, with effort I pull my eyes ahead and return to my home. I travel the river wide, I step carefully but quickly, I do not allow my gaze to linger at any place other than my feet, or where they will step next.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Not Ready to Go
As I wake up and get out of my bed, my feet my ankles, my knees all pop. It does not hurt, and as long as I can remember they have always done this. I walk downstairs, pop pop pop and then it stops.
I look at myself reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror. I look exactly the same as I did yesterday, the day before, the year before. In fact, I can not tell any difference at all in my appearance in the last 20 or so years. My hair gets long, I cut it off. Sometimes my face gets puffy and then I lose weight again. There is gray hair now, and more hair where I don't want it and less where I do, but it all seems very subtle to me and the face I see looking at me still looks young, and I mean 20-something-young. I am 40 though. I'm 40. Is my skin starting to sag on my chin? I don't look wrinkly. I don't think I do, anyway. I look away and then look back, trying to pretend I am a stranger looking at myself for the first time. I still don't look old. I don't look like a 40 year old. I do not feel like one. I need to do something with my hair though, it is getting long again, getting puffy. I consider a mohawk. It seems like the natural thing for me to do, what I usually do, a normal step in the life cycle of my hair. Now I have to ask myself though : Am I TRYING to act young? Appear young? I am 40. A mohawk? Really? When did this become pathetic? Where have I been all this time?
I get dressed, I go for a run. I run more than I ever have in my whole life, doesn't that count for something? Am I in shape at all? I could stand to lose another 10 pounds or so, but when I was 25, I needed to lose 60 or 70 pounds. Aren't I BETTER than I was? Am I?
I get back from my run and sit at my desk. I look at my hands. They look young. They have a lot of scars on them, but my fingers look puffy and pink, the fingers of a child. I concentrate on my hands. I make fists, first with my left hand and then my right one. I clench hard, my wrists are sore, I do not know why. My hands feel tight, sore. Is this arthritis settling in? Is it? Sudden-like? What should I do?
What should I do? Am I supposed to give in? Do I start buying my clothes off a rack at Target, sensible clothes, cheap clothes? Should I just let my hair grow out, should I stop caring? This is my big question : Should I stop caring? Should I give in? This is what I have thought for the longest time: People do not actually grow old, but they give up one day and THEN they grow old. If you hang on, are aware of your style, of music, stay fit and healthy, you will never grow old or appear old to anyone over the age of fifteen. You must work at it, and you can not give up! BUT, I begin to get tired, and am starting to feel downtrodden. It is getting to be WORK, and I do not know what the payoff is anymore. I am always alone anyway. What is the sound of a tree falling in the forest if nobody is there to hear it? How does it go? Do I just give up? Is that the sensible thing, is that the dignified choice? Do I care about dignity, have I ever? The fact that I consider the words 'with dignity' - does that mean I am getting old? I turn back in on myself. I look out through my eyes.
Grow Up And Act Your Age. Is 40 the new 30? Does this mean anything here in Portland? I am behind the curve. I have become Damaged Goods. I am covered in scars, and not just the ones I gave myself on purpose. I can run still, but for how much longer? Is 40 Over? It used to be, I thought 40 was old not too long ago. People start to turn now, I want to turn and run. I do not know where I would go though. I have no place to hide. I could hide down inside you if you were here, but you are not, and so I have to look at myself instead. I should burn all my clothes. I consider doing this.
I get my clippers out and shave my head. I pour myself a drink. I sit down and write. I imagine my audience. Who would it be now? Who wants to read about me? What do I have to offer? What interest could I possibly tantalize? Bullshit. It is all bullshit and crap. I throw my notebooks in the trash.
A vehicle has been parked just outside, waiting for me for a long time now. I hear it's slow sure idle, and I know I have to get in it soon. It is waiting for me, and it will wait for me forever, I can not hide from it. It is big, and it is black, make no mistake about THAT. I do not want to get in, I know the doors will lock and I will be taken someplace I do not want to go. I try to ignore the sounds and the signs, I have done this for a long time now, but it is getting clearer every day: I have to go for a ride soon. I will put it off for as long as I can, but I am losing steam here. I don't have many good reasons left not to get in. Everyone does it eventually. Who will be waiting for me to get back?
I look at myself reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror. I look exactly the same as I did yesterday, the day before, the year before. In fact, I can not tell any difference at all in my appearance in the last 20 or so years. My hair gets long, I cut it off. Sometimes my face gets puffy and then I lose weight again. There is gray hair now, and more hair where I don't want it and less where I do, but it all seems very subtle to me and the face I see looking at me still looks young, and I mean 20-something-young. I am 40 though. I'm 40. Is my skin starting to sag on my chin? I don't look wrinkly. I don't think I do, anyway. I look away and then look back, trying to pretend I am a stranger looking at myself for the first time. I still don't look old. I don't look like a 40 year old. I do not feel like one. I need to do something with my hair though, it is getting long again, getting puffy. I consider a mohawk. It seems like the natural thing for me to do, what I usually do, a normal step in the life cycle of my hair. Now I have to ask myself though : Am I TRYING to act young? Appear young? I am 40. A mohawk? Really? When did this become pathetic? Where have I been all this time?
I get dressed, I go for a run. I run more than I ever have in my whole life, doesn't that count for something? Am I in shape at all? I could stand to lose another 10 pounds or so, but when I was 25, I needed to lose 60 or 70 pounds. Aren't I BETTER than I was? Am I?
I get back from my run and sit at my desk. I look at my hands. They look young. They have a lot of scars on them, but my fingers look puffy and pink, the fingers of a child. I concentrate on my hands. I make fists, first with my left hand and then my right one. I clench hard, my wrists are sore, I do not know why. My hands feel tight, sore. Is this arthritis settling in? Is it? Sudden-like? What should I do?
What should I do? Am I supposed to give in? Do I start buying my clothes off a rack at Target, sensible clothes, cheap clothes? Should I just let my hair grow out, should I stop caring? This is my big question : Should I stop caring? Should I give in? This is what I have thought for the longest time: People do not actually grow old, but they give up one day and THEN they grow old. If you hang on, are aware of your style, of music, stay fit and healthy, you will never grow old or appear old to anyone over the age of fifteen. You must work at it, and you can not give up! BUT, I begin to get tired, and am starting to feel downtrodden. It is getting to be WORK, and I do not know what the payoff is anymore. I am always alone anyway. What is the sound of a tree falling in the forest if nobody is there to hear it? How does it go? Do I just give up? Is that the sensible thing, is that the dignified choice? Do I care about dignity, have I ever? The fact that I consider the words 'with dignity' - does that mean I am getting old? I turn back in on myself. I look out through my eyes.
Grow Up And Act Your Age. Is 40 the new 30? Does this mean anything here in Portland? I am behind the curve. I have become Damaged Goods. I am covered in scars, and not just the ones I gave myself on purpose. I can run still, but for how much longer? Is 40 Over? It used to be, I thought 40 was old not too long ago. People start to turn now, I want to turn and run. I do not know where I would go though. I have no place to hide. I could hide down inside you if you were here, but you are not, and so I have to look at myself instead. I should burn all my clothes. I consider doing this.
I get my clippers out and shave my head. I pour myself a drink. I sit down and write. I imagine my audience. Who would it be now? Who wants to read about me? What do I have to offer? What interest could I possibly tantalize? Bullshit. It is all bullshit and crap. I throw my notebooks in the trash.
A vehicle has been parked just outside, waiting for me for a long time now. I hear it's slow sure idle, and I know I have to get in it soon. It is waiting for me, and it will wait for me forever, I can not hide from it. It is big, and it is black, make no mistake about THAT. I do not want to get in, I know the doors will lock and I will be taken someplace I do not want to go. I try to ignore the sounds and the signs, I have done this for a long time now, but it is getting clearer every day: I have to go for a ride soon. I will put it off for as long as I can, but I am losing steam here. I don't have many good reasons left not to get in. Everyone does it eventually. Who will be waiting for me to get back?
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Some Folks Got the Shine to 'em...
Some people are stars, and others are planets or moons. One is not better than another, they are just different.
For some people, their light and energy, motivations, creativity, comes from within themselves. These people can go anywhere and maintain their sense of self.
Other people may not generate any light on their own, but move in orbits close to others that do, like satellite moons. These people may have a light, but it is not their own, they reflect and are therefore dependent on another.
There are also people planets as well, orbiting, but not generating any real heat or light. These are the life-givers. The audience, the reason for the others to want to glow. Maybe.
Do you know what category you belong to? Do you, really?
For some people, their light and energy, motivations, creativity, comes from within themselves. These people can go anywhere and maintain their sense of self.
Other people may not generate any light on their own, but move in orbits close to others that do, like satellite moons. These people may have a light, but it is not their own, they reflect and are therefore dependent on another.
There are also people planets as well, orbiting, but not generating any real heat or light. These are the life-givers. The audience, the reason for the others to want to glow. Maybe.
Do you know what category you belong to? Do you, really?
Letting Go.
He wanted that piano real bad. It took him over two years to find just the right one, and then finnagle the financing so it wouldn't put him in the poorhouse, but he worked extra hard for a couple of months and paid for the fucking thing and had it delivered on a Saturday.
After the delivery guys dropped it off, set it up and left him with a voucher for a discounted tuning he sat in front of the gigantic thing, it's keys exposed like teeth, and began to poke about cautiously, not expecting the instrument to sound as nice as it did. After a few minutes, he was comfortable and hammering hard on the keys, making a lot of noise in the big room.
He loved it, that piano. One of his favorite possessions, EVER. He especially enjoyed rubbing the wood with lemon scented furniture polish and paying attention to each key, hinge, nook and cranny. It would take him an entire afternoon to clean the piano. He felt he knew it well.
So, it was with some sorrow he decided to sell it along with everything else and set himself free, and push off and out once again. Once his mind was made up, it actually became easy to let it all go. He had garage sales, he donated things to the local charities, he left boxes and bags of books and clothes anonymously in parking lots, on porches, in yards.
After the delivery guys dropped it off, set it up and left him with a voucher for a discounted tuning he sat in front of the gigantic thing, it's keys exposed like teeth, and began to poke about cautiously, not expecting the instrument to sound as nice as it did. After a few minutes, he was comfortable and hammering hard on the keys, making a lot of noise in the big room.
He loved it, that piano. One of his favorite possessions, EVER. He especially enjoyed rubbing the wood with lemon scented furniture polish and paying attention to each key, hinge, nook and cranny. It would take him an entire afternoon to clean the piano. He felt he knew it well.
So, it was with some sorrow he decided to sell it along with everything else and set himself free, and push off and out once again. Once his mind was made up, it actually became easy to let it all go. He had garage sales, he donated things to the local charities, he left boxes and bags of books and clothes anonymously in parking lots, on porches, in yards.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
"This is the Good Time"
she told me as she was slinging her bag over her shoulder and heading for the door. I didn't say anything . My feet were cold, my fingers numb and I wasn't feeling so good, truth be told. Just as her hand touched the doorknob she paused a moment and then turned back around to face me and asked
"Right?"
I didn't know. Was it? Was THIS the good time? I could not answer, not right then. This would take more pondering in order to deliver an accurate estimation. I made a facial gesture, I am not sure which one, and she stared at me for a moment before saying goodbye and then making her exit.
I stood there in the room, alone, and listened to the sounds of her car door opening, shutting, engine starting, idling, and then revving as her vehicle ferried her out and away to some other place. This is the Good Time, I reminded myself. This time is Good. I stood there a minute longer, wondering if she was going to come back, maybe to surprise me and show me just HOW GOOD this time was, but she did not come back and my toes were cold, my fingers numb. I walked out of that room and that chapter of the day closed behind me like water shutting behind a swimming body. I moved on, ahead.
My body moved ahead, but my mind seemed stuck there in that room still. This is the good time? Is it? I wondered on this as I moved about, shuffling cars, cleaning the floor, arranging wrenches and tidying up. I made up my mind to fix something even, a car. I would be paid soon. We would. She would. Was this the Good Time? What was so good about it?
I felt good a week or two ago, surprised even, as decisions were made and plans discussed in the car. Scenery flashed by outside the windshield, neon lights beckoning travelers to come eat or sleep or both, and she spoke to me in a serious manner, which she rarely does. She may have said something nice to me, which also rarely happens. I felt good behind the wheel, changing lanes every so often, listening, nodding my head, making the occasional case for myself and my feeling(s) on the matter at hand, trying not to grin like an idiot, happy, feeling like the Good Time may be filtering down soon, yes.
Then there were days in which I did not feel it, and do not still. The days drag on like before, nothing much is different, there is some talk and it is removed of emotion like a death sentence spoken through the lips of a medical doctor, important decisions discussed briefly, the real time spent criticizing or poking holes in plans, being told what not to do, what is the wrong way, where not to step, what can go wrong. My resolve shimmers like a light seen from a distance at night beyond a lake or sky, strong, weak, strong, weak, strong weak, I can't decide if I am happy or not, is this real or not, should I plan for this or not, and if I should, when? When does this become real? I get little in the way of reassurances, and I can not ask for them, I can not expect them, I must be satisfied with what I get when I get it, and consider that they are thus more real. I can do that, I can do this, but I lack patience though I felt for the longest time I could weather all sort of time and discomfort. I consider a new scar. Where would it go? What would it be? I do not want another one, I am through with all of that, or so it seems now. I do not want to feel pain anymore. I am ready to be happy and feel good. I can not wait. I am tensing up, I am not hanging loose. I can go back. I am used to that. I do it.
"Right?"
I didn't know. Was it? Was THIS the good time? I could not answer, not right then. This would take more pondering in order to deliver an accurate estimation. I made a facial gesture, I am not sure which one, and she stared at me for a moment before saying goodbye and then making her exit.
I stood there in the room, alone, and listened to the sounds of her car door opening, shutting, engine starting, idling, and then revving as her vehicle ferried her out and away to some other place. This is the Good Time, I reminded myself. This time is Good. I stood there a minute longer, wondering if she was going to come back, maybe to surprise me and show me just HOW GOOD this time was, but she did not come back and my toes were cold, my fingers numb. I walked out of that room and that chapter of the day closed behind me like water shutting behind a swimming body. I moved on, ahead.
My body moved ahead, but my mind seemed stuck there in that room still. This is the good time? Is it? I wondered on this as I moved about, shuffling cars, cleaning the floor, arranging wrenches and tidying up. I made up my mind to fix something even, a car. I would be paid soon. We would. She would. Was this the Good Time? What was so good about it?
I felt good a week or two ago, surprised even, as decisions were made and plans discussed in the car. Scenery flashed by outside the windshield, neon lights beckoning travelers to come eat or sleep or both, and she spoke to me in a serious manner, which she rarely does. She may have said something nice to me, which also rarely happens. I felt good behind the wheel, changing lanes every so often, listening, nodding my head, making the occasional case for myself and my feeling(s) on the matter at hand, trying not to grin like an idiot, happy, feeling like the Good Time may be filtering down soon, yes.
Then there were days in which I did not feel it, and do not still. The days drag on like before, nothing much is different, there is some talk and it is removed of emotion like a death sentence spoken through the lips of a medical doctor, important decisions discussed briefly, the real time spent criticizing or poking holes in plans, being told what not to do, what is the wrong way, where not to step, what can go wrong. My resolve shimmers like a light seen from a distance at night beyond a lake or sky, strong, weak, strong, weak, strong weak, I can't decide if I am happy or not, is this real or not, should I plan for this or not, and if I should, when? When does this become real? I get little in the way of reassurances, and I can not ask for them, I can not expect them, I must be satisfied with what I get when I get it, and consider that they are thus more real. I can do that, I can do this, but I lack patience though I felt for the longest time I could weather all sort of time and discomfort. I consider a new scar. Where would it go? What would it be? I do not want another one, I am through with all of that, or so it seems now. I do not want to feel pain anymore. I am ready to be happy and feel good. I can not wait. I am tensing up, I am not hanging loose. I can go back. I am used to that. I do it.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Low Tide in Happytown
We sat in the front window of the restaurant on the pier, my back to the bay and the boats and the water, facing her and the decrepit buildings of the pier itself, the old train tracks, the houses clinging to the sides of the hill beyond. We were planning a future together, or so it seemed. We had looked at a house earlier in the day here, we were moving in together. After looking at, and liking this house, we drove around for an hour or two all over the seaside town, writing down phone numbers, searching for “FOR RENT” and “FOR SALE” signs, listening to the radio, singing along to what we heard. I should have been very happy or having a lot of fun. I had been in love with her. This was one of my greatest fantasies ever, becoming real before my very eyes.
" I know animals are very important to you Darling. ME TOO. That's why I want this house with you. We can come on down here and look at those birds anytime you want to. Where is that tuxedoed rascal, anyway? " and with that humiliation uttered, I turned back around towards the windows to pretend to look for the bird again. It was right then that I started to wish I was dead a little bit.
"So. If we get this house," I began "do you know what room you want? What will go in the living room? My couch? Your couch? What about the piano? I like the room with the - "
"OH!!!!" She shouted, interrupting me "Look at that bird! He is VERY HANDSOME, that bird! That is a... a.... I forgot the name. It looks like he's wearing a tuxedo though, doesn't it?"
I had to turn around in my chair to see the bird swimming somewhere behind me, somewhere far away on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling double pane windows. I looked for the bird for a moment, but there were about forty or so out there bobbing up and down in the water, all looking the same, all black and white, all doing something or other.
" Oh yeah, a tuxedo, yes" I said, turning back around to face her. I wondered if she would remember what I just asked her, or would I have to repeat myself? I waited a moment. She was still looking beyond me, through me, watching the birds floating around out in the bay. Then, suddenly, she was back.
"Oh, I know you just HATE BIRDS" she said to me apologetically, incorrectly, and then she directed her attention to the loaf of bread in the basket between us. She began to tear the end off of it with her bare hands, exactly the way a person would remove the head from a chicken. With a strenuous effort, a twist, and a final pull, the heel of the loaf was liberated from the rest. She thrust this end of the bread into the cube of butter which had been artfully displayed on another tiny plate. "You should know I LOVE BIRDS though! They are VERY IMPORTANT to me. Nature is VERY IMPORTANT to me. " She then bit a sizable piece of the buttered bread and began to chew, watching me, waiting for a reaction.
"Oh, I know THAT alright!" I answered, trying to sound as happy as possible. I DID know that animals were important to her. I had no idea if I was important or not to her though, and this was beginning to become a problem for me.
We had known each other for almost exactly a year at this point, I had hired her to be my 'Personal Assistant' or 'General Manager' or something like that, and I had a crush on her right from the get-go. The two of us were the entirety of my online business, and so we were alone all of the time together. Over the course of the year we had discovered we got along well, had similar goals for the future, and seemed to like each other pretty well. We became BFFs. Everyone knew it. Including her boyfriend.
Yes, she had a boyfriend that she didn't seem to be crazy about, although she didn't say anything too awful about to me, either. She actually never mentioned him to me at all until about a month or two before the decision to live together (she and I) came to pass. I had a feeling she was sneaky in a bi-directional manner, which is a fashion of sneaky in which there are no losers or winners, not in a clearly defined way. I felt she thought she was being loyal to him by not letting me touch her much more than resting my hand on her upper thigh every now and then while we ate lunch together, but planning to move in with another guy in order to break up with him did not strike me as an exceptionally gallant or loyal gesture either. I began to think the real reason we never made out when we were on the couch or in my bed watching movies together was because she really did not like me at all like that. We never really talked about these sorts of things very often, usually it would get weird or someone would get quiet or begin to explain something and then rescind with a series of 'Oh Nothing's. I was left to wonder and ponder and calculate, and the conclusions I came up with were never flattering to myself. SURE, she said she wanted to live with me, but the reasons offered never included anything about ME, but were a few simple sentences regarding a clean sink and a desire for a fireplace. I was into that sort of stuff too, but I also had a crush on her and wanted to live with her to see how things would go. She really never shared that thought or want with me, not that I could remember anyway. So, now two weeks into the quest for mutual living space, I was beginning to get frustrated with her. She was not being as nice in general. She was not looking as good to me anymore these days either , she had stopped plucking her eyebrows altogether and she wore the same pair of shabby black pants all the time. I felt I had gotten a good hard look behind the curtain, and I was starting to get worried. The future did not look so warm or pleasant anymore. Especially so for about one week out of every month. I'll circle back around to this later. In the meantime, I was trying to keep her happy and not rock the boat too much with my feelings, and it was not so easy for me anymore, but I would try hard in the interest of achieving the goal, seeing this through to the end, planting this flagpole into the top of the mountain, so to speak. I would do everything in my power. So, I said to her:
Monday, February 14, 2011
Titles of Things I Want to Type:
1) Go and Tell your crippled friend I eat meat.
2) It was dark outside and there was a smell.
3) I'm not so bad. REALLY.
4) The harmonica lay there, forgotten, under the sock.
5) One Beer? REALLY?
6) When do We get to wear the Blue Suit?
7) Egypt: Give us our free!
8) Movies are snack vehicles.
9) My Helper: God bless her!
10) People I hate:
11) I'll pump my own gas if I want to!
12) I hate it when:
13) Steve 4000
14) Voice of the Night
15) I'm stronger than you, and probably smarter, too:
16) Japanese People = Horrifying.
17) My heart hurts.
18) Mother? It's Me!
19) I hate this fucking car
20) I'm not getting any younger:
21) I'm human and I want to be loved.
22) Jesus? Really?
23) Politics are Boring
24) He is Watching Us
25) Ancients Grains : Good for you?
26) Ever think about dreams? REALLY?
27) I actually have a GOOD attitude!
28) My keys: Where are they?
29) I used to be Young
30) Girls with names that start with the letter 'A' :
31) I have secrets too
32) Pete Lark creeps me out
33) Love ME
34) I know where Gobo Goes:
35) I got Worms!
36) Take me to the Heaven of your bed
37) Renaud's Syndrome: REALLY?
38) I Want You to Want Me.
39) Feelin' for Reelin'
40) I'll turn it down. I will.
2) It was dark outside and there was a smell.
3) I'm not so bad. REALLY.
4) The harmonica lay there, forgotten, under the sock.
5) One Beer? REALLY?
6) When do We get to wear the Blue Suit?
7) Egypt: Give us our free!
8) Movies are snack vehicles.
9) My Helper: God bless her!
10) People I hate:
11) I'll pump my own gas if I want to!
12) I hate it when:
13) Steve 4000
14) Voice of the Night
15) I'm stronger than you, and probably smarter, too:
16) Japanese People = Horrifying.
17) My heart hurts.
18) Mother? It's Me!
19) I hate this fucking car
20) I'm not getting any younger:
21) I'm human and I want to be loved.
22) Jesus? Really?
23) Politics are Boring
24) He is Watching Us
25) Ancients Grains : Good for you?
26) Ever think about dreams? REALLY?
27) I actually have a GOOD attitude!
28) My keys: Where are they?
29) I used to be Young
30) Girls with names that start with the letter 'A' :
31) I have secrets too
32) Pete Lark creeps me out
33) Love ME
34) I know where Gobo Goes:
35) I got Worms!
36) Take me to the Heaven of your bed
37) Renaud's Syndrome: REALLY?
38) I Want You to Want Me.
39) Feelin' for Reelin'
40) I'll turn it down. I will.
Losing is the new Winning!
He wanted a drink, and he wanted one badly.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, there was a pain he detected there as well, and he just KNEW with one drink, maybe one beer(?!), it would go away. The anxiety? He could vanish that shit lickety-split. He recognized the signals his body was sending him: Please Add Alcohol.
It had been a few months already though, and a promise IS a promise, at least as long as you are still speaking to the person you made the promise to, as far as he was concerned. As bad as he wanted that drink, he was also a little worried about what it could do to him. This last year was a good example of what a drink or two could lead to, and it was not a pretty year, not as it unfolded, and was not likely to ever become pretty, even in hindsight. It wasn't all the fault of a failure of willpower, but it seems most of the times he got in trouble he had been imbibing.
He needed to do SOMETHING though, that was the problem. He couldn't keep pacing around the building from room to room worrying about the pain in his chest, he needed a release, and he couldn't buy anymore doors or sheetrock. The cops confiscated and destroyed his gun this last summer, so he couldn't cut the tension with a few sharp satisfying muzzle flashes into the night either. He had no extra cars to skid around in and wreck, none that were his, anyway.
He promised not to drink, he thought, he promised he would not drink... and there was an implied promise of not ruining future plans, there was no extra money now for violation fees or bail, but there had been no discussion of a little fight. If he was careful? He knew if he could engage out in the street, outside of an established business, the police would probably not be called.
It had been almost a year since his knuckles had greeted whiskered cheeks, or his own cheeks suffered the knuckles of another stumbling, slurring man. It was true he had been drinking every other time he had engaged in such activity, but that did not mean he HAD to drink in order to fight, did it? In fact, he wanted to hit people quite often when perfectly sober. He was now puzzled as to why this idea did not occur to him sooner - Why did he have to drink in order to get in a fight?
There was a time when he would avoid fights. When he was younger and softer, afraid of pain and scars and manly behavior and bearded baseball-hat wearing men, men who just-got-off-work and were manly men, men who did not look away first, men who would mutter insults at him when drinking beer, he feared these men and their confidence. They must be sure of themselves for a reason, he reckoned.
Well, this man, the man in our story here, he grew up eventually, and learned that these bearded men with their Carharts and plaid shirts and motorcycle boots and tattoos were mainly a lot of hot air. Our Man, the man we are discussing here in our story, he learned that if he kept looking, these other men would look away first. Those rare times the other man did not look away first? Words may be exchanged, and if push came to shove, he learned not to stand and box, but to tackle instead, momentum became his friend, and he would quickly be on top of the offending party and force them to do or say something humiliating in order to be released. If they would not, or if resistance was maintained, he would be forced to resort to punching. He also learned to be aware of his blind spots and not mount the offensive party in such a way as to expose his back to any portion of the patronage or potential cohorts of the party in question. The Real Deal here boiled down to a couple simple questions: Can you punch someone in the face real hard? Are you willing to be punched in the face real hard? It looks easy in movies, but gathering the nerve to hit someone in the face, hard, is no simple effort. If you are a civilized person (and this man certainly was one), the idea may cause you worry at first. But. Once you do it the first time though? You never go back. Like buying good socks. There was an evolution.
He enjoyed these times. Even when he 'lost', he felt he still won. His confidence in such matters soared, and he learned a new trick or two every now and then. These were good times! The police were rarely scrambled into duty, and he displayed a certain charm that kept him out of serious trouble, even when confronted by the law.
So, on this certain evening that this particular man we are talking about here wanted a drink real bad, he decided that maybe he did not have to have a drink, but maybe he could just get into a fight with some poor bastard out there in the real world? SUUUUUuuuuuure. Even if he were to get knocked out, he enjoyed pain, did not fear it, (but did not enjoy the humiliation so much) and would still consider himself 'ahead' of this chest-pain-thing and the pacing.
He made up his mind. It was seven o'clock in the evening on a weekday. Prime Mantime out in Barworld. He went to his room and put on a pair of not-favorite-jeans, some steel-toed boots (if it came to kicking, he wanted to be prepared), his 'Obama Rocks!' t-shirt and did some stretches, popped his knuckles a few times, smoothed his hair over to one side, and got into the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and applied some of Her mascara to his eyelashes until he looked like Amy Winehouse. The he got into his car and headed out to a bar NOT in the immediate area, but instead a bar where he would not be recognized, in case the police were called. He could not risk any more fines this year. He had plans in the upcoming months and he had to be careful. He had things to look forward to.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, there was a pain he detected there as well, and he just KNEW with one drink, maybe one beer(?!), it would go away. The anxiety? He could vanish that shit lickety-split. He recognized the signals his body was sending him: Please Add Alcohol.
It had been a few months already though, and a promise IS a promise, at least as long as you are still speaking to the person you made the promise to, as far as he was concerned. As bad as he wanted that drink, he was also a little worried about what it could do to him. This last year was a good example of what a drink or two could lead to, and it was not a pretty year, not as it unfolded, and was not likely to ever become pretty, even in hindsight. It wasn't all the fault of a failure of willpower, but it seems most of the times he got in trouble he had been imbibing.
He needed to do SOMETHING though, that was the problem. He couldn't keep pacing around the building from room to room worrying about the pain in his chest, he needed a release, and he couldn't buy anymore doors or sheetrock. The cops confiscated and destroyed his gun this last summer, so he couldn't cut the tension with a few sharp satisfying muzzle flashes into the night either. He had no extra cars to skid around in and wreck, none that were his, anyway.
He promised not to drink, he thought, he promised he would not drink... and there was an implied promise of not ruining future plans, there was no extra money now for violation fees or bail, but there had been no discussion of a little fight. If he was careful? He knew if he could engage out in the street, outside of an established business, the police would probably not be called.
It had been almost a year since his knuckles had greeted whiskered cheeks, or his own cheeks suffered the knuckles of another stumbling, slurring man. It was true he had been drinking every other time he had engaged in such activity, but that did not mean he HAD to drink in order to fight, did it? In fact, he wanted to hit people quite often when perfectly sober. He was now puzzled as to why this idea did not occur to him sooner - Why did he have to drink in order to get in a fight?
There was a time when he would avoid fights. When he was younger and softer, afraid of pain and scars and manly behavior and bearded baseball-hat wearing men, men who just-got-off-work and were manly men, men who did not look away first, men who would mutter insults at him when drinking beer, he feared these men and their confidence. They must be sure of themselves for a reason, he reckoned.
Well, this man, the man in our story here, he grew up eventually, and learned that these bearded men with their Carharts and plaid shirts and motorcycle boots and tattoos were mainly a lot of hot air. Our Man, the man we are discussing here in our story, he learned that if he kept looking, these other men would look away first. Those rare times the other man did not look away first? Words may be exchanged, and if push came to shove, he learned not to stand and box, but to tackle instead, momentum became his friend, and he would quickly be on top of the offending party and force them to do or say something humiliating in order to be released. If they would not, or if resistance was maintained, he would be forced to resort to punching. He also learned to be aware of his blind spots and not mount the offensive party in such a way as to expose his back to any portion of the patronage or potential cohorts of the party in question. The Real Deal here boiled down to a couple simple questions: Can you punch someone in the face real hard? Are you willing to be punched in the face real hard? It looks easy in movies, but gathering the nerve to hit someone in the face, hard, is no simple effort. If you are a civilized person (and this man certainly was one), the idea may cause you worry at first. But. Once you do it the first time though? You never go back. Like buying good socks. There was an evolution.
He enjoyed these times. Even when he 'lost', he felt he still won. His confidence in such matters soared, and he learned a new trick or two every now and then. These were good times! The police were rarely scrambled into duty, and he displayed a certain charm that kept him out of serious trouble, even when confronted by the law.
So, on this certain evening that this particular man we are talking about here wanted a drink real bad, he decided that maybe he did not have to have a drink, but maybe he could just get into a fight with some poor bastard out there in the real world? SUUUUUuuuuuure. Even if he were to get knocked out, he enjoyed pain, did not fear it, (but did not enjoy the humiliation so much) and would still consider himself 'ahead' of this chest-pain-thing and the pacing.
He made up his mind. It was seven o'clock in the evening on a weekday. Prime Mantime out in Barworld. He went to his room and put on a pair of not-favorite-jeans, some steel-toed boots (if it came to kicking, he wanted to be prepared), his 'Obama Rocks!' t-shirt and did some stretches, popped his knuckles a few times, smoothed his hair over to one side, and got into the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and applied some of Her mascara to his eyelashes until he looked like Amy Winehouse. The he got into his car and headed out to a bar NOT in the immediate area, but instead a bar where he would not be recognized, in case the police were called. He could not risk any more fines this year. He had plans in the upcoming months and he had to be careful. He had things to look forward to.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Well, THAT passed. Now I'm hungry again.
It is true: I was beginning to feel unhappy or depressed or something of that nature again today. Is it just the money thing? I don't think so. I experience a bit of frustration about other things, but I am able to remind myself just how shitty things can feel, how unlucky a person can become, and anything bothering me shrivels in comparison.
So: The Safeway Walk. It has become a much-abbreviated-yet-similar-excursion to the Bridge Walk. I can do a loop to Safeway in about ten minutes, including checkout. My mind still drifts and pponders about the thoughts of the day and problems if any, or can frolic in a happy thought if one exists. .. ? What was my point? I don't remember exactly, but I returned from Safeway in a good mood. An excellent mood? I became aware of a sensation I was having, I felt like this ship was just about to set sail, and I am on board. I think you are going to be here with me, or I will run into you out there somewhere. I don't know if these are crazy thoughts or not. Are they? I think you are going with me. In my mind you are with me, going with me.
This shit here is good shit. This is the good shit. This is going to be a particularly productive month, and if it is not, forget about everything, because I know for myself, I am not going to feel more optimistic and industrious again as I do now, and short of winning the lottery this is not going to get any closer by itself. So, do your part and then pack your shit.
I have other more interesting things to type. I am going to go do that soon, now I have other things I have to attend to out in that fucking big room full of cars.
So: The Safeway Walk. It has become a much-abbreviated-yet-similar-excursion to the Bridge Walk. I can do a loop to Safeway in about ten minutes, including checkout. My mind still drifts and pponders about the thoughts of the day and problems if any, or can frolic in a happy thought if one exists. .. ? What was my point? I don't remember exactly, but I returned from Safeway in a good mood. An excellent mood? I became aware of a sensation I was having, I felt like this ship was just about to set sail, and I am on board. I think you are going to be here with me, or I will run into you out there somewhere. I don't know if these are crazy thoughts or not. Are they? I think you are going with me. In my mind you are with me, going with me.
This shit here is good shit. This is the good shit. This is going to be a particularly productive month, and if it is not, forget about everything, because I know for myself, I am not going to feel more optimistic and industrious again as I do now, and short of winning the lottery this is not going to get any closer by itself. So, do your part and then pack your shit.
I have other more interesting things to type. I am going to go do that soon, now I have other things I have to attend to out in that fucking big room full of cars.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The World is Our Motherfucking Oyster
I am very pleased right now.
Need I remind you of the Sudoku of Emotions the world can prove to be sometimes? Sometimes a bitter harvest, and then all of a sudden - BOOM!- a generous bounty spills forth. Jackpot! Eureka! Jesus!
I am tired, I should not be typing, and I am certainly in no condition to type and post, but I probably will, because I enjoy the satisfaction I experience by thinking you may read this. It is the same feeling I have for the six hours after I buy a lottery ticket, before I check it and find out it whether or not it is a winner. During that time? The feeling I have? I am ENTITLED to feel good and optimistic. It is worth the three dollars. (This feeling now is worth MORE than three dollars, by the way. PRICEFUCKINGLESS, this) Well, that is how I feel when I slap my shit up here for you to hopefully read. I feel like this may be an action I can perform which will initiate some fantastical series of events culminating in an incredible and oh-so-cozy conclusion which will warm the hearts of the Viewers at Home.
The point is, I feel very good. Walking back from Safeway, and avoiding the pile of Rotel by the Post Office altogether, my mind felt especially clear and my heart especially light. No more thick suffocating black. The change so pronounced from what it has felt like for months and months I thought I must be dreaming. Or very tired. Or possibly under medicated. I prefer to think I am just happy though. This will be a great year. You know this, right? You know. You can tell. There is no need to worry, there is nothing to be helped or avoided or denied. This world is to be enjoyed when the opportunity presents itself, because very quickly things change and everything is different, and it seems that only things not enjoyed or not taken advantage of are the things which are later regretted. This seems to be the rule, this seems to be the way in which things play out, these are the patterns.
This is good. I am going to go to sleep soon unburdened and calm, and even happy.
Need I remind you of the Sudoku of Emotions the world can prove to be sometimes? Sometimes a bitter harvest, and then all of a sudden - BOOM!- a generous bounty spills forth. Jackpot! Eureka! Jesus!
I am tired, I should not be typing, and I am certainly in no condition to type and post, but I probably will, because I enjoy the satisfaction I experience by thinking you may read this. It is the same feeling I have for the six hours after I buy a lottery ticket, before I check it and find out it whether or not it is a winner. During that time? The feeling I have? I am ENTITLED to feel good and optimistic. It is worth the three dollars. (This feeling now is worth MORE than three dollars, by the way. PRICEFUCKINGLESS, this) Well, that is how I feel when I slap my shit up here for you to hopefully read. I feel like this may be an action I can perform which will initiate some fantastical series of events culminating in an incredible and oh-so-cozy conclusion which will warm the hearts of the Viewers at Home.
The point is, I feel very good. Walking back from Safeway, and avoiding the pile of Rotel by the Post Office altogether, my mind felt especially clear and my heart especially light. No more thick suffocating black. The change so pronounced from what it has felt like for months and months I thought I must be dreaming. Or very tired. Or possibly under medicated. I prefer to think I am just happy though. This will be a great year. You know this, right? You know. You can tell. There is no need to worry, there is nothing to be helped or avoided or denied. This world is to be enjoyed when the opportunity presents itself, because very quickly things change and everything is different, and it seems that only things not enjoyed or not taken advantage of are the things which are later regretted. This seems to be the rule, this seems to be the way in which things play out, these are the patterns.
This is good. I am going to go to sleep soon unburdened and calm, and even happy.
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