It’s 4 a.m. and I’m driving aimlessly towards the sun.
The road passes by, my bald left front tire going thunk, thunk, thunk every second or so. It was soothing at first, annoying for a while, then just part of the journey for the rest.
I wondered before I left if the tires would last. I decided not to care much since I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t much care for where I was going. Wanted to see where I was going. And not really worried about whether or not a flat tire would keep me from getting there.
Six hours later, I’m still moving forward and the tire is still doing it’s job.
So, I guess I made the right decision.
For once.
I got tired of sitting in my too-small of a recliner. My dad bought it for me for Christmas one year. Strange gift, for sure, but one that I was pleasantly surprised to see when it arrived in a giant box that cold December morning.
After putting it together, I noticed how small it really was. But I figured it was better than what I had, which was nothing. In fact, I hadn’t owned a recliner since I was in college. I got my roommate to pay most of the cost for this sweet leather thing at a thrift. This was maybe six months into my time as a resident of Arizona. I loved that chair. I left it in the hands of my girlfriend’s brother when I moved to Alabama.
Never saw it again.
And never thought about owning another chair again. Until my dad sent me this one.
It’s the same color. But not nearly the same chair.
I think that’s why I rarely sat in it.
Until one day I found myself just sitting there in this brown, faux-leather thing. The sides sticking to my legs in the hot summer heat. I was just sitting there, sweating, and not doing anything else. Not writing. Not drinking. Not listening to music. Not jerking off. Not even thinking about her.
Instead, I was just staring at nothing.
That’s when I decided I had to go. Just get up and get out. I grabbed my hoodie, a toothbrush and toothpaste container and a stack of CDs and threw then in my 1997 Rose Bowl backpack. Then I grabbed six t-shirts off of their hangers in my closet, six pairs of underwear and a couple pairs of pants. Next, I took a bottle of Jameson and grabbed my car keys to leave.
“See ya when I see ya,” I said to my roommate, who was doing what he always did – playing Call of Duty in his room with the door closed.
“Where you going?” he asked after putting his game on pause.
“West,” I said.
A few awkward moments of silence for him later and he said: “Well, enjoy,” and turned his game back to playing mode.
He was a decent chap, I suppose. I didn’t know much about him. He was a friend of a friend who always seemed to be doing something to get somewhere else. Taking classes at a community college one year. Studying to be a manager for a car wash another. All I really knew was that he was able to pay the rent on time and didn’t seem to mind my penchant for not using the air conditioner or heat. He also was receiving food stamps.
I turned and walked out the door moments later. I’d already forgotten that conversation and was more thinking about where I was going to go.
“West, young man,” the voice in my head, strangely sounding like my buddy Josh’s voice combined with William Shatner. Had to be a good sign.
Anyways, I checked my wallet before I started the engine. Two hundred dollars in 20s and three ones.
“I can always burn my credit card for fuel,” I sang along with Neil Young.
Unlike that Canadian, I knew exactly how I lost my friends.
I started the engine and turned it west. The sun was high in the sky and would be my guide. I went over the bridge – a momentary northern turn – then got on U.S. 70 West. It would intersect with Interstate 40 eventually, which seemed like a good idea.
Raleigh, Memphis, Little Rock, Amarillo, Flagstaff and Bakersfield could be at my fingertips. It’s funny. I-40’s a road I’ve been on every inch of, but never all in one trip like I-10 or I-20. Someday I figured I’d take the Highway 61 trip, but I’ve talked about it so much that it’s become something of an epic quest that needs a Sam Wise along for the ride.
Of course, I could go way up north and hit I-90. It is summer, the right time to do that.
Hours later, I was still on I-40. Somewhere outside of Nashville, just wondering if I’d have a job in a week when I just showed back up.
I figure it doesn’t matter much. Just like she thought when she said those words to me.
“You’ll get over me.”
That was six years ago.
And I’m still driving around trying to outrun her. But she always catches me.
Just then, I see a sign for the “Pocahontas Hotel.” If there ever was a sign to stop, take a load off, that’s it.
I pull into the parking lot. It’s 4:34 a.m. A red-headed woman is sitting there at the front desk. She sees me pull in. I see her seeing me. I wonder if she’ll have an accent.
“Hi, honey,” she says, with an excellent Tennessee drawl. “You look tired. Needin’ a room?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say as politely as I think I can. “I’ve been driving for quite a while and I need a place to rest a bit.”
“Well, we got you a nice lil’ room that’ll fix ya right up!” she says. “And in the morning, we’ll make you a nice breakfast. Grits and all!”
“Thank you kindly,” I replied, handing her my credit card.
“You’re a Hank III? Well, I’ll be damned. You know he’s playing across the street tomorrow night?”
“No shit? Whoops, pardon my language.” I blush just a bit.
“Yep, no shit. And don’t worry ‘bout yer tongue. Mine’s a bit nastier.” She realized what she said and blushed as well.
I filled out the card and signed away $78.89 more of my life away.
“You going to that show tomorrow?” I asked.
“I was certainly planning on it,” she replied.
“Got anyone to go with?” I said slyly.
“Actually, no. My boyfriend just dumped me six nights ago.”
“Well, he must be crazy.”
She blushed again.
“And you know what? You can have his ticket. Me and Hank III going to see Hank III!!!”
“Ok. It’s a date. See you tomorrow, then…Heck, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Angela. But everyone calls me Cari, with a C.”
“Ok, Cari with a C, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams Hank.”
“Same to ya, Cari.”
Sometimes, I thought to myself as I walked to my room, it pays to drive west trying to get away from your past. Because you’re also driving to your future. Like a bad country song, even.
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
just a twat
Good thing my dreams fade away fast. The night was long and vivid. And it was all about her. All about the night she got rid of me. Cast me aside and left me behind. I don’t think she’s looked back yet. No way for me to know, but it’s a safe assumption. Some folks are built that way. I’m not.
The night started as usual. I couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned. Threw the covers to and fro. Looked at the holes in the curtains that allow the light from the hotel next door to sneak in. Thankfully, they’re not neon lights, so there’s no blinking or awful pink or purple lights. Just straight on white light.
Finally, sleep overcame my mind. But then the mind took over. Six and a half hours I dreamed of the pain, the heartache of that night. And it was all about that night. It was like reliving the aftermath. She wasn’t there, which is the only way it could have been. Instead, she ruled with an iron screwdriver, rusty and cold, piercing my heart. Over and over. In and out. The beats kept coming and the pain didn’t stop.
In the end, the dream blamed me. I assume it’s because I blame myself. Even though I know better.
When I drowsily awoke around 9 in the morning I felt empty. All of it was crystal clear in my head still. The way a dream is. It is like a high definition television when you wake up. Then it starts to disappear. Before you know it, the rabbit ears on the old Sylvania don’t help the transmission and it fades away, finally becoming a small white circle in the center of the screen. And then gone.
I laid there on my mattress thinking I should write this down. Remember it. But I didn’t. I needed to pee, too. But I didn’t.
An hour later, most of it gone, except for the basic theme of hell, I got up and peed. Looked at my shriveled up penis as it filled the bowl with yellow. I laughed. Not really at myself, but at this moment. And I went back to bed.
A few minutes later, I farted. Time to take a shit. Get up, still naked, feeling the cold in the house with the heat set at 59 degrees. The toilet seat welcomed me. I read an article in a tattoo magazine I took from work. Some guy got a tattoo of a politician on his ass. A great political statement. If you’re the mooning type of guy. But otherwise, just a waste of ink.
I shit. It’s long and brown. Wipe. Flush. Wash. I wonder if the water is still tainted. The city sent out a notice to boil it. I haven’t. I don’t brush my teeth with it, but I shower in it. Wash my hands with it. Hell, there could be more shit in the water than on my hands. I laugh again. Simple thoughts seem to have me today.
In the living room, I stare at the bleakness. A couple of lawn chairs serve as furniture. There is the recliner my dad bought me. Brown leather. I’ve sat in in twice. It’s a symbol of something, just don’t know it yet.
I do a quick count. There are three pairs of dirty underwear on the floor. Six pairs of socks. Two shirts. I try to judge the meaning of those numbers.
The bar across the street is in the process of changing over from winter to summer. The picnic tables have reappeared in the courtyard. That means the masses will soon return to my little oasis of loneliness. I think about how depressing of a thought that is. I think about the fact that I think too much. I wonder if any bars are open yet? It’s 10:55 a.m. The perils of living in a small North Carolina town. Bars don’t open early. They close early as well. Not the place for a thinker.
Plopping in a Joe Ely CD, I sit down to write. Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to write about when I’m in such a strange mood. His generic country doesn’t do anything to inspire. Put Mr. Ely in the “Con” column for inspirational needs.
I think about how hard eight words can sometimes be. I want to get high. There’s no way it’s going to happen. Especially since it’s been longer since I got high than Bukowski’s been dead.
Speaking of Hank, he died 17 years ago. He’d think me a twat. That doesn’t bother me. I think all of my heroes and role models would call me a cunt if I was sitting at a barstool with them. That certainly doesn’t leave me weeping, not as much as my dreams. And I don’t remember my dreams.
The night started as usual. I couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned. Threw the covers to and fro. Looked at the holes in the curtains that allow the light from the hotel next door to sneak in. Thankfully, they’re not neon lights, so there’s no blinking or awful pink or purple lights. Just straight on white light.
Finally, sleep overcame my mind. But then the mind took over. Six and a half hours I dreamed of the pain, the heartache of that night. And it was all about that night. It was like reliving the aftermath. She wasn’t there, which is the only way it could have been. Instead, she ruled with an iron screwdriver, rusty and cold, piercing my heart. Over and over. In and out. The beats kept coming and the pain didn’t stop.
In the end, the dream blamed me. I assume it’s because I blame myself. Even though I know better.
When I drowsily awoke around 9 in the morning I felt empty. All of it was crystal clear in my head still. The way a dream is. It is like a high definition television when you wake up. Then it starts to disappear. Before you know it, the rabbit ears on the old Sylvania don’t help the transmission and it fades away, finally becoming a small white circle in the center of the screen. And then gone.
I laid there on my mattress thinking I should write this down. Remember it. But I didn’t. I needed to pee, too. But I didn’t.
An hour later, most of it gone, except for the basic theme of hell, I got up and peed. Looked at my shriveled up penis as it filled the bowl with yellow. I laughed. Not really at myself, but at this moment. And I went back to bed.
A few minutes later, I farted. Time to take a shit. Get up, still naked, feeling the cold in the house with the heat set at 59 degrees. The toilet seat welcomed me. I read an article in a tattoo magazine I took from work. Some guy got a tattoo of a politician on his ass. A great political statement. If you’re the mooning type of guy. But otherwise, just a waste of ink.
I shit. It’s long and brown. Wipe. Flush. Wash. I wonder if the water is still tainted. The city sent out a notice to boil it. I haven’t. I don’t brush my teeth with it, but I shower in it. Wash my hands with it. Hell, there could be more shit in the water than on my hands. I laugh again. Simple thoughts seem to have me today.
In the living room, I stare at the bleakness. A couple of lawn chairs serve as furniture. There is the recliner my dad bought me. Brown leather. I’ve sat in in twice. It’s a symbol of something, just don’t know it yet.
I do a quick count. There are three pairs of dirty underwear on the floor. Six pairs of socks. Two shirts. I try to judge the meaning of those numbers.
The bar across the street is in the process of changing over from winter to summer. The picnic tables have reappeared in the courtyard. That means the masses will soon return to my little oasis of loneliness. I think about how depressing of a thought that is. I think about the fact that I think too much. I wonder if any bars are open yet? It’s 10:55 a.m. The perils of living in a small North Carolina town. Bars don’t open early. They close early as well. Not the place for a thinker.
Plopping in a Joe Ely CD, I sit down to write. Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to write about when I’m in such a strange mood. His generic country doesn’t do anything to inspire. Put Mr. Ely in the “Con” column for inspirational needs.
I think about how hard eight words can sometimes be. I want to get high. There’s no way it’s going to happen. Especially since it’s been longer since I got high than Bukowski’s been dead.
Speaking of Hank, he died 17 years ago. He’d think me a twat. That doesn’t bother me. I think all of my heroes and role models would call me a cunt if I was sitting at a barstool with them. That certainly doesn’t leave me weeping, not as much as my dreams. And I don’t remember my dreams.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Get Busy
“You sir are guilty!” a loud voice echoed from high above me. So high that I had no idea if it was really real.
I looked toward the sky. Or up. There wasn’t a sky to see above. Yet, I knew I wasn’t inside anywhere. I wasn’t outside either.
The air had a pleasant feel to it. Almost wet, but kind of dry. There was a smoke there. Not cigarette smoke, because it didn’t taste like that. Instead it had no taste. Yet, it clung to you like cigarette smoke.
“Odd,” I thought to myself.
I wandered about a bit. There was a giant wooden thing in front of me. I call it a thing only because I couldn’t figure out what it was. And I only know it was wooden because I rapped on it with my fist.
“Thunk, thunk, thunk,” I hit my fist against it. Hoping that maybe doing so would allow me to figure out what the only thing no smoke was.
Nothing.
I looked up. This wooden “thing” was huge. It was skyscraper-esque. Just towering over me. No end in sight.
“Get busy, man. Get busy,” a voice from behind me spoke.
I turned my entire body around hoping to catch whoever it was in whatever kind of strange face he or she may be making. No one was there.
“Get busy, man. Get busy,” the voice repeated. From exactly the same place. Down a bit. I knelt down to see what was making this statement.
What I saw was kind of a shock. I was me. Twenty years older. Staring back at the me that I had been.
“This is odd,” I said out loud.
“Not really,” the older me’s voice said. “I’ve seen it all before. Except then, I was you.”
“Well, what exactly are you doing down there on the ground?” I asked, kind of impatiently, but holding back just a bit so as not to be rude.
“Yes, I remember now. I’m confused. Well, you’re confused about what the heck is going on,” the older me said.
“Well, no shit,” was all I could muster.
“Just be patient,” he, I, whatever, said. “It’ll all make sense in a few minutes.”
That jolted me a bit. I didn’t even know what time it was. Heck, I don’t have a watch. I’m certain I have no cell phone wherever I am. Quick check of the pockets reveals this to be true as all I have is -- a Mardi Gras doubloon, an empty Velcro wallet, a condom and a wad of 37 $2 bills.
“Funny thing about it me,” the older me’s voice said. “You’re going to need all of those things.”
“Is this some kind of dream?” I asked the older me. “I mean, this is straight out of Alice and Wonderland or something.”
“How the hell would you know that?” the voice retorted. “The only thing you know about Alice in Wonderland came from a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers video.”
Well, that’s the truth, I thought to myself. That and some Disney references.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Disney-smisney,” he yelled out.
I’m having a conversation with myself. Only he knows what I’m thinking because he already thought it out. Then said it all. Is there anyway out of this? I guess not. Because even if I change what he originally went through with me, it will instantly become what we went through.
“My head hurts,” the voice said in whiny 6 year old kid voice.
“What?” I replied.
“My head hurts.”
“Well, my mind hurts,” I snapped.
“Eh. Kid, you don’t know the half of it. Try living the next 20 years. Then get back to me.”
I felt like stomping on the head. Crushing it. But then, would I be crushing my own head? Christ. This is ridiculous.
Finally, something else happened. The wooden thing disappeared. Just vanished into thin air. One second it was there, casting quite an imposing shadow, the next it was gone. Kind of like youth. One day, you’re basking in it, next thing you know you’re old.
“That’s the kind of thinking that got you here in the first place,” the old me said.
For the first time I noticed the old me looked younger than the me me.
“Yep, kid, it’s true,” he said. “You’re only as old as you think you are.”
I looked back to where the wooden thing was. There was now a house. It was a house I knew very well. Hadn’t been there in a long time, but my memories kept it in my head. All the time.
“Set it on fire, kid,” the voice said.
“Why?”
“Because you need to. That’s why.”
“Did you?”
“That, my self, would be cheating.”
I looked toward the sky. Or up. There wasn’t a sky to see above. Yet, I knew I wasn’t inside anywhere. I wasn’t outside either.
The air had a pleasant feel to it. Almost wet, but kind of dry. There was a smoke there. Not cigarette smoke, because it didn’t taste like that. Instead it had no taste. Yet, it clung to you like cigarette smoke.
“Odd,” I thought to myself.
I wandered about a bit. There was a giant wooden thing in front of me. I call it a thing only because I couldn’t figure out what it was. And I only know it was wooden because I rapped on it with my fist.
“Thunk, thunk, thunk,” I hit my fist against it. Hoping that maybe doing so would allow me to figure out what the only thing no smoke was.
Nothing.
I looked up. This wooden “thing” was huge. It was skyscraper-esque. Just towering over me. No end in sight.
“Get busy, man. Get busy,” a voice from behind me spoke.
I turned my entire body around hoping to catch whoever it was in whatever kind of strange face he or she may be making. No one was there.
“Get busy, man. Get busy,” the voice repeated. From exactly the same place. Down a bit. I knelt down to see what was making this statement.
What I saw was kind of a shock. I was me. Twenty years older. Staring back at the me that I had been.
“This is odd,” I said out loud.
“Not really,” the older me’s voice said. “I’ve seen it all before. Except then, I was you.”
“Well, what exactly are you doing down there on the ground?” I asked, kind of impatiently, but holding back just a bit so as not to be rude.
“Yes, I remember now. I’m confused. Well, you’re confused about what the heck is going on,” the older me said.
“Well, no shit,” was all I could muster.
“Just be patient,” he, I, whatever, said. “It’ll all make sense in a few minutes.”
That jolted me a bit. I didn’t even know what time it was. Heck, I don’t have a watch. I’m certain I have no cell phone wherever I am. Quick check of the pockets reveals this to be true as all I have is -- a Mardi Gras doubloon, an empty Velcro wallet, a condom and a wad of 37 $2 bills.
“Funny thing about it me,” the older me’s voice said. “You’re going to need all of those things.”
“Is this some kind of dream?” I asked the older me. “I mean, this is straight out of Alice and Wonderland or something.”
“How the hell would you know that?” the voice retorted. “The only thing you know about Alice in Wonderland came from a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers video.”
Well, that’s the truth, I thought to myself. That and some Disney references.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Disney-smisney,” he yelled out.
I’m having a conversation with myself. Only he knows what I’m thinking because he already thought it out. Then said it all. Is there anyway out of this? I guess not. Because even if I change what he originally went through with me, it will instantly become what we went through.
“My head hurts,” the voice said in whiny 6 year old kid voice.
“What?” I replied.
“My head hurts.”
“Well, my mind hurts,” I snapped.
“Eh. Kid, you don’t know the half of it. Try living the next 20 years. Then get back to me.”
I felt like stomping on the head. Crushing it. But then, would I be crushing my own head? Christ. This is ridiculous.
Finally, something else happened. The wooden thing disappeared. Just vanished into thin air. One second it was there, casting quite an imposing shadow, the next it was gone. Kind of like youth. One day, you’re basking in it, next thing you know you’re old.
“That’s the kind of thinking that got you here in the first place,” the old me said.
For the first time I noticed the old me looked younger than the me me.
“Yep, kid, it’s true,” he said. “You’re only as old as you think you are.”
I looked back to where the wooden thing was. There was now a house. It was a house I knew very well. Hadn’t been there in a long time, but my memories kept it in my head. All the time.
“Set it on fire, kid,” the voice said.
“Why?”
“Because you need to. That’s why.”
“Did you?”
“That, my self, would be cheating.”
Sunday, December 12, 2010
yoda band-aids
I opened up my medicine cabinet to grab a band-aid. As I had just pulled off a mole from my chest. It is bleeding quite a bit. As soon as I do, the electric beard trimmer on top of the cabinet falls. In horror, I watch it bound from the sink, off the floor and splash, right into the toilet. Glug. Glug. Glug. It slowly sinks into the bowl. I swiftly grab it before it completely goes under, not worrying whether or not I flushed the commode last night or not. It’s soaked. I give it a good shake, tossing toilet water all over the bathroom, once again without concern to its sanitaryness or not. I look down at it. I turn the switch, it works. Hopefully it was a salvage job gone well.
Immediately I notice the blood on my fingers. Yep, still bleeding. I grab the box of band-aids. They are Star Wars band-aids that I bought years ago. When I had a steady girlfriend. She thought it was cute of me. I believe she used those exact words. I pull a Yoda band-aid out. Stick it on my chest. It turns that blood brown color immediately. Never a good idea to cut off moles. Still have a scar on my face from when I did it as a teenager. Still the only time I’ve used a real razor to shave. Pretty silly, really. But, I tend to stick to my guns. Better or worse.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. Gray hair dominates my body now. I look a lot older than my years. But, I figure I’ve done enough to deserve it. That band-aid looks silly among the white chest hairs. I have a slight flashback moment to another girlfriend. And me putting one of those band-aids, a Boba Fett one, on her 3 year old kid. He and I used to watch Star Wars. He liked it. So, I did two good things for that kid. One, I potty-trained him when mom and dad didn’t have the patience or skills to do so, and two, I introduced him to Star Wars. I wonder if he ever got those clothes I bought him for his fourth birthday? I got them the day she left me. I gave them to her mom. Probably not, I’d venture to say.
Neil Young’s “American Stars and Bars” blasts out of my stereo. It’s not the best album to listen to when one is a little down on life. But it isn’t the worst either. Neil is one of the few who will be with me from the moment I discovered him until the day I die. Lots of bands and singers and song writers come into one’s life. Many latch on and never let go. Many latch on and are pushed aside rather quickly. Some just fade into the vagueness of alcohol-tainted memories, coming back into your life when you least expect it. Kind of like people nowadays.
I miss the days when you wondered where people were. Now, they’re on the internet somewhere staring you in the face or poking your existence. Very few people just stay gone. It makes pining less appealing, really. So, maybe it’s not all bad.
For years, I wondered what happened to two women from my past. I use the term woman lightly here, because one was just a girl when she was in my life, and me just a boy. The other, we were teenagers. Well, Facebook has brought both of them back into my consciousness. I saw a photo of one, the girl from long, long ago. She looks the same. Just older. I can still wonder if she has any idea who I was or am, however, as she hasn’t reached to me, and me not to her.
On the other hand, today I got an e-mail from an old friend from the teen angst years. The only girl I ever really dug during that time. Always been a picky, and very fixated person. This kind of put me in a strange place. I guess I used to ask for this day to happen. But I always thought, well back in the days before such things as the internet, that we’d bump into each other in an airport or a restaurant and rekindle whatever it was we didn’t have then. The movies are full of such great moments. And I didn’t want it to be a “You’ve Got Mail” moment.
But, then I start to think, why be such a fucking pessimist? Why think it’s bad. It’s evil. It’s unromantic. Hell, it probably isn’t any of those things. It is interesting.
Crafting the right reply isn’t easy. Although it is. I also tend to overanalyze everything. It’s my nature. My curse. My way. My whatever.
I have been looking for the happy ending my entire life. So many interrupted dreams and such that have just stopped and never had that restart. Well, except for one time, and that was just weird and horrible. I’ve always believed in fate. Always believed in things working out. Yet, here I go, expecting things before there should be expectations. Does that even make sense? How did this turn into a blog entry instead of a writing one?
I’m distractible. I’m crazy. I’m weird. I’m lazy. I’m bored. I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m lonely. I’m a misanthrope. I am curious, however. And that’s always good.
Wow. This is just sad and awful. And hopeful and crazy. Be careful what you ask for, right? You just might get it one day.
Immediately I notice the blood on my fingers. Yep, still bleeding. I grab the box of band-aids. They are Star Wars band-aids that I bought years ago. When I had a steady girlfriend. She thought it was cute of me. I believe she used those exact words. I pull a Yoda band-aid out. Stick it on my chest. It turns that blood brown color immediately. Never a good idea to cut off moles. Still have a scar on my face from when I did it as a teenager. Still the only time I’ve used a real razor to shave. Pretty silly, really. But, I tend to stick to my guns. Better or worse.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. Gray hair dominates my body now. I look a lot older than my years. But, I figure I’ve done enough to deserve it. That band-aid looks silly among the white chest hairs. I have a slight flashback moment to another girlfriend. And me putting one of those band-aids, a Boba Fett one, on her 3 year old kid. He and I used to watch Star Wars. He liked it. So, I did two good things for that kid. One, I potty-trained him when mom and dad didn’t have the patience or skills to do so, and two, I introduced him to Star Wars. I wonder if he ever got those clothes I bought him for his fourth birthday? I got them the day she left me. I gave them to her mom. Probably not, I’d venture to say.
Neil Young’s “American Stars and Bars” blasts out of my stereo. It’s not the best album to listen to when one is a little down on life. But it isn’t the worst either. Neil is one of the few who will be with me from the moment I discovered him until the day I die. Lots of bands and singers and song writers come into one’s life. Many latch on and never let go. Many latch on and are pushed aside rather quickly. Some just fade into the vagueness of alcohol-tainted memories, coming back into your life when you least expect it. Kind of like people nowadays.
I miss the days when you wondered where people were. Now, they’re on the internet somewhere staring you in the face or poking your existence. Very few people just stay gone. It makes pining less appealing, really. So, maybe it’s not all bad.
For years, I wondered what happened to two women from my past. I use the term woman lightly here, because one was just a girl when she was in my life, and me just a boy. The other, we were teenagers. Well, Facebook has brought both of them back into my consciousness. I saw a photo of one, the girl from long, long ago. She looks the same. Just older. I can still wonder if she has any idea who I was or am, however, as she hasn’t reached to me, and me not to her.
On the other hand, today I got an e-mail from an old friend from the teen angst years. The only girl I ever really dug during that time. Always been a picky, and very fixated person. This kind of put me in a strange place. I guess I used to ask for this day to happen. But I always thought, well back in the days before such things as the internet, that we’d bump into each other in an airport or a restaurant and rekindle whatever it was we didn’t have then. The movies are full of such great moments. And I didn’t want it to be a “You’ve Got Mail” moment.
But, then I start to think, why be such a fucking pessimist? Why think it’s bad. It’s evil. It’s unromantic. Hell, it probably isn’t any of those things. It is interesting.
Crafting the right reply isn’t easy. Although it is. I also tend to overanalyze everything. It’s my nature. My curse. My way. My whatever.
I have been looking for the happy ending my entire life. So many interrupted dreams and such that have just stopped and never had that restart. Well, except for one time, and that was just weird and horrible. I’ve always believed in fate. Always believed in things working out. Yet, here I go, expecting things before there should be expectations. Does that even make sense? How did this turn into a blog entry instead of a writing one?
I’m distractible. I’m crazy. I’m weird. I’m lazy. I’m bored. I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m lonely. I’m a misanthrope. I am curious, however. And that’s always good.
Wow. This is just sad and awful. And hopeful and crazy. Be careful what you ask for, right? You just might get it one day.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
ring...ring
Echoes are the first thing you notice walking into this once-proud room. Even if moccasins are being worn, footsteps are impossible to hide.
Friends and enemies alike are gone. Debates are few. Arguments, non-existent.
When a phone rings now, the person at the desk cringes. Because the person at the other end could be a few rooms away. With a stack of papers for you to sign. Sign away your last ditch effort at wanting to do something good. Something important. Something that matters. Eventually, the numbers will fall the right way. It has nothing to do with luck. Not how good or bad you are. Those days don’t exist anymore. Instead, you’re an item on a spreadsheet. When your worth becomes less than your cost, the knife it falls.
Unions concede wages now and consider it a big victory. Pensions are gone. That 401k match? Ha. We promise we’ll get it going again by the end of the next fiscal year. All the while the bonuses at the top of the food chain continue. $1.3 million here. $2.2 million there.
I never wanted to be at the top. I figure other than great white sharks, grizzly bears and maybe piranhas, I was in a pretty good place, why did I ever want to be a CEO or Executive Editor? Seemed like too much awfulness.
Now, I’m in a newsroom with very little news people in it. If you dare rock the boat, you’re labeled a trouble maker, a malcontent, or maybe even just an asshole. I’ve been called all three by editors in the past. All those editors are out of the business now. None of them were bought out. None of them seemed to care. They were fired. Simply put, for being bad at their jobs.
As I sit at my cubicle, waiting for what’s coming next, I think of the day I made a mistake in my career. The only one, really. I quit one job before I should have. That led to bad choices for quite a while. Not mistakes, because I was trying to do the right thing, just bad choices as they turned out.
The last job I had, the phone rang on a warm January day. I had come in to work early to get some stuff done ahead of time. Interviews were complete, story half written when I saw a co-worker get a call. He went into the HR office. Ten minutes or so later, he came out, head hung low with a cardboard box in his hand. Soon, he was gone. The scene repeated for another co-worker. The day of reckoning had finally come to this little place.
Finally, my phone rang. Ever since my first days on the job, I kind of expected that call. I was paid well for the first time in my life. And I was happy doing my job. A relationship had sputtered, sending me into an emotional hell, which cost the company money. And, never being the ass-kissing type, I didn’t make the right friends.
Ring. I picked it up on the first ring. My boss looked a me in horror. He’d brought me into this. Now, he had to watch me leave.
“Well, it’s been fun,” I said as I got up to go to the HR woman’s office.
“Sorry man,” my boss said. I didn’t believe him then, still don’t.
I walked in to the HR office. Where the HR head and the EE were sitting. I took off my ID badge and toss it on her desk.
“Where do I sign?” I asked with a smile.
“Thanks for making this easy,” the EE said.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I replied. “It’s the way of the beast now.”
“Sadly, it is,” he said. Not looking at me.
I felt a wave of euphoria come over me when I exited the building. Honestly, other than a few first kisses and a slow dance I hadn’t felt this good, this relieved, this happy since pushing the accelerator to begin my first solo cross-country drive in 1994.
Everything was a blank slate. Well, everything but my debt, which I wasn’t too worried about at the moment. What was next? Anything was possible.
So, that begs the question: why are you back in Eastern North Carolina, sitting and waiting for a phone call? I guess I wasn’t ready for the unknown. The change. The exit.
This time, however, I am. Seven months of toil, with one major rejection later, I know it’s time to say goodbye. To a lot of things. One by one I’ve tried working through them. Some I tossed aside. Others I made a shaky peace with. Lastly, that telephone call needs to come.
And I know it will. It’s just a matter of patiently waiting.
…
Friends and enemies alike are gone. Debates are few. Arguments, non-existent.
When a phone rings now, the person at the desk cringes. Because the person at the other end could be a few rooms away. With a stack of papers for you to sign. Sign away your last ditch effort at wanting to do something good. Something important. Something that matters. Eventually, the numbers will fall the right way. It has nothing to do with luck. Not how good or bad you are. Those days don’t exist anymore. Instead, you’re an item on a spreadsheet. When your worth becomes less than your cost, the knife it falls.
Unions concede wages now and consider it a big victory. Pensions are gone. That 401k match? Ha. We promise we’ll get it going again by the end of the next fiscal year. All the while the bonuses at the top of the food chain continue. $1.3 million here. $2.2 million there.
I never wanted to be at the top. I figure other than great white sharks, grizzly bears and maybe piranhas, I was in a pretty good place, why did I ever want to be a CEO or Executive Editor? Seemed like too much awfulness.
Now, I’m in a newsroom with very little news people in it. If you dare rock the boat, you’re labeled a trouble maker, a malcontent, or maybe even just an asshole. I’ve been called all three by editors in the past. All those editors are out of the business now. None of them were bought out. None of them seemed to care. They were fired. Simply put, for being bad at their jobs.
As I sit at my cubicle, waiting for what’s coming next, I think of the day I made a mistake in my career. The only one, really. I quit one job before I should have. That led to bad choices for quite a while. Not mistakes, because I was trying to do the right thing, just bad choices as they turned out.
The last job I had, the phone rang on a warm January day. I had come in to work early to get some stuff done ahead of time. Interviews were complete, story half written when I saw a co-worker get a call. He went into the HR office. Ten minutes or so later, he came out, head hung low with a cardboard box in his hand. Soon, he was gone. The scene repeated for another co-worker. The day of reckoning had finally come to this little place.
Finally, my phone rang. Ever since my first days on the job, I kind of expected that call. I was paid well for the first time in my life. And I was happy doing my job. A relationship had sputtered, sending me into an emotional hell, which cost the company money. And, never being the ass-kissing type, I didn’t make the right friends.
Ring. I picked it up on the first ring. My boss looked a me in horror. He’d brought me into this. Now, he had to watch me leave.
“Well, it’s been fun,” I said as I got up to go to the HR woman’s office.
“Sorry man,” my boss said. I didn’t believe him then, still don’t.
I walked in to the HR office. Where the HR head and the EE were sitting. I took off my ID badge and toss it on her desk.
“Where do I sign?” I asked with a smile.
“Thanks for making this easy,” the EE said.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I replied. “It’s the way of the beast now.”
“Sadly, it is,” he said. Not looking at me.
I felt a wave of euphoria come over me when I exited the building. Honestly, other than a few first kisses and a slow dance I hadn’t felt this good, this relieved, this happy since pushing the accelerator to begin my first solo cross-country drive in 1994.
Everything was a blank slate. Well, everything but my debt, which I wasn’t too worried about at the moment. What was next? Anything was possible.
So, that begs the question: why are you back in Eastern North Carolina, sitting and waiting for a phone call? I guess I wasn’t ready for the unknown. The change. The exit.
This time, however, I am. Seven months of toil, with one major rejection later, I know it’s time to say goodbye. To a lot of things. One by one I’ve tried working through them. Some I tossed aside. Others I made a shaky peace with. Lastly, that telephone call needs to come.
And I know it will. It’s just a matter of patiently waiting.
…
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Frank Sinatra and Super Bowl III
Sleep is the enemy. Something to be fought off like the advances of an obese and drunk woman. Not a drunk woman. Nor an obese woman.
It comes from out of nowhere most of the time. Lurking. Creeping. Sneaking up on an unsuspecting prey. Zapping all strength, mostly of the eyelids. Slowly taking roost in the lungs, causing slower breathing and eventually snoring comes about.
Sometimes fighting it becomes hopeless. So, drinking until passing out becomes an option. Or taking drugs, both prescription and over the counter. NyQuil will take the edge off of any lingering thought if taken at just the right moment.
The actual act of sleep itself is quite a good thing. Dreams fill the mind with wonder and amazement. The soul is free to do the things it never would. Fuck the prom queen. Have a martini with Frank Sinatra while watching Super Bowl III in his suite in Vegas. Jumping from the top of cliff into the Pacific Ocean. All of these things happen in dreams. But so do nightmares.
Some remember everything from sleep. Others nothing but scattered thoughts.
Drifting in and out of sleep usually provides more memories of them. Or the quick jolt of energy that comes with being woken up suddenly.
The one thing that always comes with sleep, however, is the quick passage of time. Night becomes day. Day becomes night. Yesterday becomes today. Today never, however, becomes yesterday. That seems somewhat cruel. To always take away, and never give back.
It’s why this traveler, he never wants to sleep. Turn on the television. Surf the internet. Read a book. Take a long walk. Sit outside in the rain. In the cold. In the sweltering heat. Write some meaningless words in a journal. Answer an e-mail. Write a letter. Think about the past. Never the future.
As sleep wraps itself around the mind, fighting isn’t useless. Caffine will work for a little bit. So will sugar. Loud noise helps. But they all fade into the recesses of dreams. Sleep will win.
“I don’t want to sleep,” the little boy says.
“Why on earth not,” mother asks.
“Because today will end and tomorrow begins,” he replies.
“Silly boy. Why do you feel this way?”
“Because, mommy. I know what is in store for me tomorrow. And I don’t like it.”
“Then do something different,” mom says while smiling and patting his head.
“You won’t let me,” he screams, pulling the covers up to his eyes, but not covering them.
“I will,” she says, cooing in his ear. “Just dream it, and you will do it.”
The boy believes his mother and closes his eyes smiling. As she walks out of the room, his breathing has slowed and he is no longer holding the blanket. It has fallen down towards his chin. She does notice one thing. A frown on his face.
The same frown that’s always there at night. And gone in the morning. That boy has too much on his mind to be so young, she thinks as she turns out the light. Another night on the couch for her. It’s much more home to her than the bed. Her husband snoring the night away. Loud, drunken snores that even the kids complain about. The boy even gets up in the middle of the night to close the door. The door dad never wants closed. She takes the blame for it being closed. And he hits her. But she never lets her son know that. Even though he does know.
I hope he dreams of a better father, she thinks.
Little does she know, he doesn’t dream that. He only dreams of falling. Of laughter. Spiders crawling on his neck. And of lightning.
Oh how he loves lightning. Stands on the porch during violent storms. Running inside when a clap of thunder is too loud. He says he knows when it will strike close. “You can smell it mom,” he says, adamantly.
“Lightning doesn’t smell,” she says, egging him on.
“If I could bottle that smell, I’d let you take a whiff,” he said. “But I’m afraid that if you do that, lightning will find you.”
It seemed very innocent that comment. He was just eight years old. Now, as she stared at him, dressed in a dark blue suit with a balding lawyer with a smushed up nose standing beside him, remembering that day brought a chill to the back of her neck. So bad was that chill, her entire body became covered in goose pimples. Just then, she noticed the judge looking at her. He smiled.
The trial was over. The verdict had been delivered. Now, she wondered if he’d ever sleep again.
It comes from out of nowhere most of the time. Lurking. Creeping. Sneaking up on an unsuspecting prey. Zapping all strength, mostly of the eyelids. Slowly taking roost in the lungs, causing slower breathing and eventually snoring comes about.
Sometimes fighting it becomes hopeless. So, drinking until passing out becomes an option. Or taking drugs, both prescription and over the counter. NyQuil will take the edge off of any lingering thought if taken at just the right moment.
The actual act of sleep itself is quite a good thing. Dreams fill the mind with wonder and amazement. The soul is free to do the things it never would. Fuck the prom queen. Have a martini with Frank Sinatra while watching Super Bowl III in his suite in Vegas. Jumping from the top of cliff into the Pacific Ocean. All of these things happen in dreams. But so do nightmares.
Some remember everything from sleep. Others nothing but scattered thoughts.
Drifting in and out of sleep usually provides more memories of them. Or the quick jolt of energy that comes with being woken up suddenly.
The one thing that always comes with sleep, however, is the quick passage of time. Night becomes day. Day becomes night. Yesterday becomes today. Today never, however, becomes yesterday. That seems somewhat cruel. To always take away, and never give back.
It’s why this traveler, he never wants to sleep. Turn on the television. Surf the internet. Read a book. Take a long walk. Sit outside in the rain. In the cold. In the sweltering heat. Write some meaningless words in a journal. Answer an e-mail. Write a letter. Think about the past. Never the future.
As sleep wraps itself around the mind, fighting isn’t useless. Caffine will work for a little bit. So will sugar. Loud noise helps. But they all fade into the recesses of dreams. Sleep will win.
“I don’t want to sleep,” the little boy says.
“Why on earth not,” mother asks.
“Because today will end and tomorrow begins,” he replies.
“Silly boy. Why do you feel this way?”
“Because, mommy. I know what is in store for me tomorrow. And I don’t like it.”
“Then do something different,” mom says while smiling and patting his head.
“You won’t let me,” he screams, pulling the covers up to his eyes, but not covering them.
“I will,” she says, cooing in his ear. “Just dream it, and you will do it.”
The boy believes his mother and closes his eyes smiling. As she walks out of the room, his breathing has slowed and he is no longer holding the blanket. It has fallen down towards his chin. She does notice one thing. A frown on his face.
The same frown that’s always there at night. And gone in the morning. That boy has too much on his mind to be so young, she thinks as she turns out the light. Another night on the couch for her. It’s much more home to her than the bed. Her husband snoring the night away. Loud, drunken snores that even the kids complain about. The boy even gets up in the middle of the night to close the door. The door dad never wants closed. She takes the blame for it being closed. And he hits her. But she never lets her son know that. Even though he does know.
I hope he dreams of a better father, she thinks.
Little does she know, he doesn’t dream that. He only dreams of falling. Of laughter. Spiders crawling on his neck. And of lightning.
Oh how he loves lightning. Stands on the porch during violent storms. Running inside when a clap of thunder is too loud. He says he knows when it will strike close. “You can smell it mom,” he says, adamantly.
“Lightning doesn’t smell,” she says, egging him on.
“If I could bottle that smell, I’d let you take a whiff,” he said. “But I’m afraid that if you do that, lightning will find you.”
It seemed very innocent that comment. He was just eight years old. Now, as she stared at him, dressed in a dark blue suit with a balding lawyer with a smushed up nose standing beside him, remembering that day brought a chill to the back of her neck. So bad was that chill, her entire body became covered in goose pimples. Just then, she noticed the judge looking at her. He smiled.
The trial was over. The verdict had been delivered. Now, she wondered if he’d ever sleep again.
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