High Tide at Powell's

I don’t get out often. I’m always behind with work and stuff, and think that I’ll go out and do things ‘soon’, but I rarely do though. And so, it was a special occasion when she and I were clean and dressed nice, not in work clothes, and I was parking the car downtown amongst the trunks of the buildings, a lot of people still passing on the sidewalk even though it was dark and cold, after 8PM on a Thursday.

The car we were driving was not my car, it belonged to a customer, and I had just finished some major work on it and needed to take it out for a test spin, that was the occasion, or excuse for occasion, it was enough excuse for us though, and we took this opportunity to go to the big bookstore, to get out and browse, to go someplace together.

As is my custom, I got out first and quickly sauntered over to her door to let her out. I’m a gentleman like that, just ask anyone. My mother raised me right. My mother was big on Thoughtfulness. She was also big on Operant Conditioning, but that’s another story for another time. Point is, I hold doors open for people and make my bed every day.

I helped her up out of the tiny red car and locked the door behind her. My heart sped up briefly when her arm touched mine as I looked both ways and then crossed the street. I always felt great going out with her. I felt taller and stronger than I usually would. Mutual eye contact would tickle my stomach and there was often a strong flirty energy around us that was rarely acknowledged. As we got to the other side of the street, I put my hand on her back as she stepped up onto the curb. These sorts of things had been occurring more often lately, and began to feel natural. I felt really good. She squealed.

“Look at THAT!” she shouted, pointing to a large flat object leaning against the side of a dark warehouse. “It’s HUUUGE!”

It sure was. It was a cardboard box, and it WAS huge. We had been looking for one like this for a few days now, we had some bench seats to box up and ship, and a box able to accommodate them had proven to be elusive. As fortune would have it, we found it Here and Now, together. I thought this was a good sign. I think she did too.

“I can’t fucking believe this.” I said. “Look at that fucker! How are we going to get it back to the shop?”

“Can’t we fold it up?”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty big. AND, it’s the good cardboard, not that soft yellow Chinese shit. It may not fold up easily. Car’s pretty small. It DOES have a hatchback though…” I was willing to try. It seemed to make her so happy, too. Jesus. A cardboard box.

We spent the next fifteen minutes in a sort of urban-outside game of twister there on the sidewalk in front of the Auto Body shop, one of us folding the thing over, the other stepping over their arms, pinning corners down with black leather boots while the other one of us took new purchase on the cardboard and tried to fold again. Some folds were so stubborn as to require the effort of us both leaning in unison, pulling along an edge while knees were bent against the large flat surface. It took a while. There were several humorous comments offered from passer-bys. It was not easy. But the truth is, we made that box fit in the back of that Porsche. We were happy.

As I locked the car again and we made our way across the street for the third time, we bumped into each other again and leaned against each other while walking. I could not have been happier.

We discussed the box some more, what great luck it had been to find it. What we could do with it, how much it may have cost at the box store, IF we could even find one that big, we laughed, we walked, we made it to the bookstore.

We entered on the lower level and made our way through the aisles, cooking, food, vegetables and then farming. We were going to go upstairs to the geography/travel section, we were going to buy a map, but she made a noise when she saw a book on display with a bright yellow baby chick on the cover. “Peeps!” she almost yelled.

We examined the book together and she asked me again if we could have chickens. She used that word – WE – and again my heart did something unusual, something exciting. Of course, I assured her. I would, too. I wanted nothing more than to make her happy. I wanted to be involved in the process of making her smile. If it meant building a chicken coop at the shop, or raising goats, FINE. I like animals too. I do, this was not a stretch for me. We kept looking at books in this section, it seemed to be catering to the Urban Farmer, books about flower beds and rooftop gardens, and somehow at the conclusion of the next half hour we were sitting on the floor together, and discussing the possibility of living together. We had sort of joked about it before, but now it sounded real, like something that was definitely going to happen, and soon. I was in a daze. WE sat on the floor beside each other and she leaned into me again as I flipped though pages in the book she picked out, we talked about which projects we could feasibly do, and in what order we would do them. We talked about the future, a future together, a future in which we lived together and maybe more. This was real, and it was happening. Eventually we got up and went upstairs to the map section. We did not just buy the one map we came for, I spent about $60 on four maps, all places we said we wanted to go together. This was the life I would have created for myself, and these were the very first actions pushing it along and into becoming.

I would walk away from her just to turn around and walk back towards her, in order to try to imagine I was seeing her for the first time again, and it was always the same; my stomach fluttered. I felt lucky and happy. She was indeed the most beautiful person – She was. I was happy. I stood near her again to test, and she leaned in. If I touched her she did not pull away. This was becoming.

We paid for our maps as well as a couple of books about raising chickens and building greenhouses and got out of the store, headed back to the car. I knew she was happy too because she suggested we go eat something, she was hungry. WE laughed about this and then discussed options, driving around with our cardboard box blocking out any possibility of seeing out the rear window. That was fine, I was really not paying attention behind me at this time anyway. WE decided on a place to go eat, a cozy place, a nice place, and we stayed there longer than we usually go places together, I know we looked good together, and I could see people admiring us from other tables in the room.

We were both excited about this looming future and our maps and our new box. We were going to get paid the next day for the repair job (which was successful, by the way) and things were looking better than they usually did, even. I did not want to go, but it was getting late, nearing midnight, and we had to work the next day.

I brought her back to her car and walked her to the door of it, held it open for her as she got in, gave her a hug, closed the door and she actually sat there in her seat and looked at me through the closed window for a few seconds before starting the engine. That was unusual. Her gaze does not often linger. She had not proven to be a sentimental person. Before she pulled away, she put her window down and said to me

“That was pretty great, finding that box like that. Don’t you think?” and before I could say anything she put it in gear and drove away, me standing there watching her red taillights disappear as she drove down the hill.

We All Feel The Same

  The racists, the Jihadists, the Hipsters,  your parents, your children, your brothers and sisters even though you may argue with them or disagree, we all feel like we are right, EVERYONE of us feel we are reasonable people.   EVERYONE of us feel like we are right.     Opposing, conflicting ideas? Borne from the same perspective, that they are righteous and reasonable.  You do.   I do.   I think we would argue though, put in a space for even a short time, being ourselves,  the abortionists, the antis,  Republicans and Democrats,  Jews and Arabs - They all feel right.   DO YOU HEAR ME AT ALL??  There is no 'Right'.   Not even within perspective, not even when adjusted for environment,  all there is is Powers That Be and Law and Popular Opinion, and Popular Opinion is no real barometer,  think NAZIs,  or they were right, they are still, who are you to say they are not?    Your mind and beliefs grew out of your own certain circumstances, and you can not blame anyone else for developing within different ones. 

         This is important.    You should be paying attention. 

Love the Way You Lie (1:52 AM)

  iReturn.    iAmBack.  

   I pull in and shut the engine off.   The stereo still plays and I let the song finish before turning the key all the way to the left, killing all circuits.  I sit there for a minute and listen to the tick-tick-ticking of the exhaust cooling off.   I brace myself.   I pull the door release, open the door, and pull myself up and out.

   I stand upright beside the car and stretch out as tall as I can be and make my back pop.   I look around inside here, I consider myself lucky for the fiftieth time in the last year and the first time in the last five months.   I have to remember, I am in control of all of this, and despite whatever elements are missing in my life, there are quite a few that I would want, quite a few that are unique and desirable, and they are not here by accident, I made them happen, I made them real.   There are things you do not know about now, or never knew about, or never had the time to know about.    Do you even know which 'you' You are?   Do you know, does the Real You know?   Is there a connection through all of this?  There is.  Whether or not You believe it or ever recognized it.   There is something, until one of us is gone.

   I see you for the first time again:  It was me who walked in and not you.   You slid over to my side of the table early on.    You touched my arm often, and it felt right, I mean, it felt RIGHT for the last time that I can remember, I often try to make these things feel right even when they do not, I want it so badly, I need an audience like She said I do, I want a close captive audience, I want to feel important and needed and I felt like we belonged together, and I was not nervous to tell you so, and I believed you when you told me the same.   You were beautiful and I loved to stare in your eyes even if it was just an act for you,  and we left and sat out in my car and made out for a few hours before heading to your house to make out more until the sun came up and I had to drive home, I had to open up and work having slept not the night before, and I was SO EXCITED!    I think that was the last time, I think you were the last one.   I also think with the expiration of this particular fantasy died my ability to believe any of it was possible anymore, now I do not trust myself or anyone else enough, I have become stale and stuck and broken.

    But I have other virtues!   I do!   I have become softer, and I do not just mean I got fat.  I am easier, I am capable of not arguing, I just get too comfortable and think I am being funny.

   I am tired now, it is like those other times I type when I should not.

   Her:     Not even important.   I was confused.   You did not figure into those days.  A Blip, a sneeze, a tiny flying insect.  With the wave of a hand the past swallows her whole.    Like pushing a button.  FF, RW ?   I want to push REC.    I'll say it to you again; I want to push REC.  I would push many buttons to make the present crystallize as it has been visioned.  I would shout out get ready! I would say to you say cheese, I would say to you here we go!  There are tools, and they are real.  The door squeezes shut in the jamb, but there is still enough room left, there has to be, there is no other option.

Everybody leaves something in the cup

  Come on in! I say.   I say, Come on in!    Go on over there by the heater if'n ye will,  that's why it's on.  That's why I have to pay the power company their blood money every month.   Go ahead, no, don't worry, go on over there and rub your hands together in front of it.   That's why it's there!   I got these mittens here, and I am not the one to worry about,  it is my duty to see to it you are seen to, you know?  Get yerself on over there now!  Git!

   So, now that you're here,  I may as well tell you:   You're on a fool's errand.   Ye are!   Don't git up,  it's not like that, and I won't let ye leave anyway, not yet nohow, you need to hear this, it's for yer own good.   I'm yer brother fer Chrissakes!    I DO know!   Don't git up,  I'll make ye git back down in that chair, and ye know I will.   There.    Git warm, go ahead, rub them hands together up there.     Right there, yes.  Ye don't have to say nothin.    Just listen.    Ye listenin?   GOOD.

    So,  you know what they're like, right?    I don't wanna tell mama.     You know this things ain't right.  Right?   It ain't even my fault, I am just tryin to tell ye the facts as they stand today:  It ain't right.

     I told you NOT TO SAY NOTHIN'!   Set back down!   Git yer hands warm!  ..   Jest do it.    I hadda work real hard to get you where you is now, so you owe me this much.  Mama don't know, NO,  you can thank the Sweet Lord for that much.  She don't know YET, but she will.    I can make sure she will.  Right.   Well,  THAT'S why yer here ain't it?  I know it is.   You don't stop by here if you don't hafta'.   You got your reasons, just like I got mine.     Just set.  Money ain't free.    You got some more listenin' to do.   You haint even started to listen like you got to yet.   You got a lot more to do. A lot more.

  You were stubborn when you were young, too.   I suppose it ain't a surprise you stubborn now.  Difference is, you didn't have things to pay for like you do now, or if you did you didn't know about them.  Mama ain't gonna write no more checks for you the way it is, and you knows it.  So you gotta sit down and listen, or do a good job of pretending to.   You best do it.   I could just drop the whole thing, you know.   You say that, but you don't want me to, really.    You'd be left high and dry, Boy.   Dangling out there in the breeze.   Thirsty, I don't even know how much.   Don't care, neither,  you got some esplainin to do.   Apologizin.   Don't say that, just tell her what she wants to hear, and don't say that other stuff no more.   I don' wanna hear it, and I can't think of anyone else that would care to either.    It's all a bunch of nonsense, worthless to the ears, junk.   Keep it in your mouth, in your head.   Save it for later.    A nickel ain't even worth five cents no more, Boy.   You can git on up when you're told to.   Wha?     Yeh, I can do that.    I got bologna.   

    



  

  

        

You may find yourself here

  The shadows were shrinking, getting shorter beside the path they were walking as the sun rose higher in the sky.   It was early Summer, but you could already tell it was going to be a hot day.   They walked in silence, stepping over and on the railroad ties, being careful not to step in between them into a gap and trip or stumble.   The sound of the birds singing was loud and happy and without pause, in  great contrast to the sound of the crunching of their shoes on the gravel track bed.

  They were making steady progress down a long straight away, over a mile away they could see the buildings shimmying in tiny wavy relief, the heat rising up from the ground screwing with the air, the wavelengths of light becoming uncertain before striking their retinas.   After some time, two crooked forms could be recognized walking out of that liquid horizon and towards them.

   'Remember,' said the man to the woman walking in front of him.   She said nothing and stepped over the rail onto the left side of the  tracks while the man continued walking on the right side.    Ten feet apart from each other they kept walking at the same pace, each mind wishing it was someplace else.   'we're going to be okay.  This is the puzzle you have been given to solve.  I have mine too.  It is not going to be difficult, it just IS.  Remember.'  He did not look up to see if she heard him or acknowledged these words.  He was watching his feet strike the rocks, the railroad ties, the rocks again.   The tarry smell of creosote was all around them, and after he spoke the birds seemed even louder than before.

   After a few minutes the people coming closer to them began to get larger and come into focus, to become firmly stitched into the  background, they too were a man and a woman, and running around their feet and legs was a dog as well, black and busy sniffing the ground darting left, right, ahead, dropping back to wait for the people, hinged black legs swinging quickly like two pairs of scissors beneath it, cutting tiny pieces out of the air, somehow keeping it's body afloat and off of the earth itself. 

   As the new pair of people came closer and details could be detected about their appearance,  the man reminded this woman again 'We probably look the same to them as they do to us.'

   This much younger woman now spoke for the first time in an hour, 'But we don't have a dog.'

   'Fair enough.    Just try to remember that this puzzle will be more easily solved for you the less factors are included.  You do not want this to become their puzzle as well, but it can easily be, and I will not feel any different one way or another.   This is Your Way.'

   They could now hear voices coming from the approaching pair, who were running in athletic clothes, yelling at the dog who was now sprinting ahead of them, headed for the walking pair.

   'Miles, NO!'  Shouted the jogging woman.   'NO, Miles!' Shouted the paired man in running shoes.

   Miles ran straight ahead as before, unfazed, claws kicking dust up into the air as he bore down into new lives.   As Miles got close he slowed down a bit and could not decide which person to approach first.    His people were still yelling at him, but far away still.    'SORRY!   MILES! NO!'  The joggers yelled.

    It is said that animals have fine senses of intuition,  of right and wrong,  and if that is true then Miles indeed fit that description for he bore to his right and pushed his moist nose into the hands and crotch of the walking woman, then walked beside her for a moment before approaching the man, stopping short,  and returning to her.    By this time Mile's people were close enough to speak, to apologize, to call Miles back to them.   Their jogging slowed, their faces trying to examine those of the walking people who would only look at the ground in front of them, not make eye contact, the walking man saying 'No problem here.  Have a good day,' without looking up.    They walked ahead as before,  in sync left and right without pausing,  silent again and without looking behind them. 

   'Asshole dog haters' said the Jogger-Man silently to their retreating backs, and Miles stood still and ears alert watched them go, sensing something was not entirely right there.  'Miles!' called the man again, as he began to run once more 'Let's GO!'  And clapping his hands together he summoned the dog into action again,  like the bells on a slot machine precluding a flood of coins.    Miles ran on ahead of the Joggers again,  the other strange people already forgotten.







 

Tribute to Bill :

   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. 

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? 

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?

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.  

"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.