Van Damme in ... Future Memories...

I woke up this morning feeling particularly empty.

A feeling I’m used to having at all times of the day, but this morn, it felt different for some reason.

Maybe it was because a line from a Waylon Jennings sung, but Hoyt Axton penned song finally materialized in my brain while driving home from work the night before.

It was one of those moments when a song you’ve been singing along to for years becomes crystal clear in your head for the first time. Yes, you blurted out nonsense words, or just a phrase you thought was being said at the top of your lungs for years. But then, all of the sudden, those words hit your ears at just the right angle and they were crystal clear for the first time.

And you were disappointed by them.

Epiphanies are costly, I’ve found. At least the older I get I start to feel that way.

Maybe it’s because I’m just tired of it. Tired of always wondering what went wrong. Always struggling to see the good of today instead of the good of yesterday. The good of yesterday that is skewed to be good, always and forever. Even though it wasn’t all good, no matter how much lip gloss you apply.

My dog looked at me like I was crazy. Then he went back to sleep in the small cat bed. That’s his new obsession, getting in the cat’s bed. I’m beginning to think my dog has some kind of personality disorder, which of course means he’s the perfect dog for me.

The emptiness subsided while I was driving to work. Must’ve been the Motley Crue that fixed that. It certainly wasn’t the Turbonegro. I’m guessing the album “Ass Cobra” will be set on a shelf for a good while now. It’s run its course of being interesting and simply couldn’t hold my attention. I’d like to think that’s just what happened. She lost interest in me. I became boring.

I doubt that, however. We didn’t see each other enough for her to get bored with me.

Bored with the silence. Bored with the distance. Yes and yes.

I still wonder what it would have been like had I bought a cell phone. One much like the one I have now, only it would have been sexy then.

Ha.

Funny to think about the amount of money spent. On calling cards. Phone bills and credit card calls. I laugh at the thought of a credit card call now. But then, it was something I did often. And boy to 45-minute phone calls charged to a Master Card or Visa get expensive.

I wonder if any of the old girlfriends ever thought of that when they said “Call me.” Always with just a tinge of guilt.

Being broke became an excuse. Then a crutch. Now? I think I’m just stuck there. I’m lucky, I guess. My mind is still mostly intact. Except when I’m interviewing kids after games. I don’t hold on to moments of the game like I used to, and then be able to recall them perfectly for a well-thought out question.

Instead, now I stammer a lot. And most likely appear feeble.

Some would say blame it on the stroke.

I can’t.

Even though it’s probably true.

Like a tortoise, I’m just a shell.

See? Even that doesn’t make sense. I saw it in my head, it came out like that. Fuck it.

The emptiness goes away while I’m typing. Even with this free version of Word that locks up every so often when a new ad has to appear on the side of the page. Or heaven forbid, if I want to save or look up the spelling of a word, like tinge. Which, isn’t the word I want, I guess, since it’s not in the dictionary of this version of “free Word.”

Let’s write some ol’ honk, now ‘right! Ha-ha.

Southern joke. Fuck, sleep doesn’t come easy any more. I take pills for that now.

I guess soon I’ll be taking pills to wake up. At least the dog wakes me up for the time being. He’s a damn good dog. It makes me wonder why I never got a dog before. Oh yeah, because I would never have seen him/her, and that ain’t cool. I already feel bad leaving the guy alone for five or six hours every day that both of us work.

Anyways, I finally figured out what was gnawing at me this morning … I realized that I’m no longer chasing the dream.

I started out in the right direction, then I moved to North Carolina. It seems that North Cackalack is the state where dreams, well, at least my dreams went to die.

Well, not die, just fester. Like my old leg wound did back in 1992. It’s funny that the girl I was chasing then was untouchable. Even though she kissed me that day that the photo in my bathroom right now was taken. Staff infected leg and all.

Those are the memories that don’t fade. Why? Because I have a picture of them. Just like the ones that are written down. One day, maybe, maybe not; I’ll read this and remember sitting in the cold living room in Raleigh, NC, looking at an ultrasound photo and a Kit Kat bar wrapper. Yep, that’s what this memory will be.

I’ll call it a future memory. But can something be a future memory? If it’s a memory, it’s in the past already. I’m sure wiser men than me have pondered this and the comments on this story, if there ever are any, will surely advise me on the answer to each question pondered.

Maybe, we’ll be lucky (is that the right word to use?) and he or she will read this and think that his/her dad was really just as confused as he/she is/was.

Van Damme.

Organ donor

Beer shits, dehydration and gout toes. A normal way to wake up now.

Old creeps up on you. One day your sunning on the beach, watching bikinis and drinking cold beers. The next morning, you can’t get out of bed due to the pain inside.

Staring at the hair on my shoulders and the lines on my face, I don’t want to believe it. But I do. Golden teeth and white pubic hairs are now standard.

I don’t feel old otherwise. It may have more to do with lifestyle than fact. When you don’t change the way you live – except no longer eating frozen pizzas for just about every meal – it’s tougher to emotionally change. Which for this character, is probably a good thing.

If I was wearing a suit and tie, sitting in a cubicle, hating my job … oh wait, that has happened.

If I was DVRing every television show that I’m told is “hot”. If I was listening to modern jazz or Ray Lamontague. If I felt the urge to vote for Mitt Romney. If the contents of my 401k worried me. Then, I’d be worried about myself.

Death comes easy if you let it in. Guess there are many ways to do that. The way I’ve chosen seems to be nicer. I enjoy most of my life. Just those moments of too much reflection get in the way. Yeah, I’d love to have money in the bank. That way I could go buy some new underwear that the waistband isn’t saggy, but I’m OK. They still do the job. Just have to pull them up every so often.

That my friends is getting old gracefully.

Ha.

It’s good to have a sense of humor. When all around you crumbles. Who wants to be the guy huddled in a bomb shelter, hoping it doesn’t cave in on him? I’d rather be the guy with a bottle of gin and some Robert Johnson playing while I sit in my lawn chair and watch. Are they really going to take aim at one guy in a lawn chair? Or a bunch of  townhomes full of folks huddled in basements?

The sound of a fan blowing is soothing. The fan itself is what keeps me cool in this un-air conditioned house. Yeah, I could turn it on. But then I’d have $150 to $200 to pay the electric company every month. $58 or so is much better. And, you get used to the heat. Just like you get used to the cool. Heck, when the A/C is on, I sleep more. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing. You miss life sleeping too much. It’s why I don’t take naps. Some of the best things in my life have happened when I was sleepy. If I’d taken a nap, I would have missed them.

Like right now. I’m going to open up the window and see what’s going on outside.

No people. Heaven.

An empty Pepsi can saunters down the street. It’s windblown and makes a slight clanking sound as it moves slowly down the road. In the big city, that can would’ve been swooped up by a homeless guy looking for a little cash, an environmentally driven hippie or maybe even a giant behemoth of a street cleaner – spraying dirty water on the road and sucking it back up again with whatever garbage it can.

Here it’ll get to go on a journey.

It could get buried by a freak storm in a dune, preserved for years until a hurricane comes along and exposes it to the world again.

Maybe it’ll roll into an abandoned yard, slowly making its way under an abandoned house. Safe from the elements and content to have a spider move into it.

Or it could be picked up by a kid, stared at intently and then tossed back into the world.

Or another kid may kick it down the street, over and over again.

Still another kid could shoot bbs at it.

But, most likely it’ll make it to Fort Macon Road and get run over by a car. Flattened, it’ll sit there crushed over and over again until it rains. The rain will float it down to a drain. The drain will dump it in the ocean. There, it’ll get eaten by a fish or shark if it’s unlucky. If it’s lucky, it’ll float to Cuba, where some kid will find it on the beach, pick it up and put it in a bag. To be recycled for money.

I guess the life cycle of an aluminum can is pretty depressing. It’ll always end up the same – melted back down and sold for scrap.

Sure am glad I’m an organ donor.

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.