Average Insanity.

Where The Moon Is Full

Thu, 16 May 2013 13:48:48 -0400

I hope you dream tonight,

find yourself in a tangle of twilight

illuminated by anything you’ve ever wanted.

Stand small beside a mountain;

steady by a lake;

the wraith next to you having a name I’ve spelled every day.

Edges of the universe,

lapping at your toes,

soft blonde strands puffing away

from your lips,

catching the wind for a midnight calvary

of extinct pirate ships.

I hope the words who tucked you in

float through you,

making grins from fiction that

seep into the dark while the wraith with red lips

beckons you down,

“Enter a cloud,

I’m where the moon is full,”

she whispers through space

you’ve never seen.

“When you find me there,

pause me and ask me,

‘of what do you dream?’”

Inside The Eye.

Mon, 13 May 2013 16:24:18 -0400

As a bipolar person, I am prone to what popular science has coined, “episodes.” The term makes it sound crazier than it is, conjuring images of mental lapses where people end up in hospitals for days, sucking Lithium through a straw.

“Cindy just got out of that rehab facility after her… you know… [whispers] episode.”

In a literal sense, the word can refer to short television slots. Which, as someone who has “episodes”, I can vouch this image is more correct than anything else. My brain will capture and force me to become an audience member of my own life. I’ve grown to understand them (mostly, anyway), and ride them out with a type of complacency. Not much fighting, just acceptance of, “oh, your chemicals are all brewed. It’ll cycle out soon.”

My brain hates this. He used to get villainous satisfaction from dragging me away, kicking; it was a way to validate his power. Not anymore, though. It’s routine when he comes knocking now.

“Alright, cranium. Let’s do this. You bringing popcorn?”

“You know, Carly. You’ve really taken the fun out of this.”

“Aw. So sorry to spoil your fun. This better be a good one. I was in the middle of making some progress. If I’m going to the sidelines now, I better at least be entertained. Seriously… you have popcorn?”

We settle on the outer rim of my pupil during the events, watch my world unfold in a grey veil where characters are 2-D and every idea is flat. Sometimes I’m a comedy, and I chuckle from how pathetic I look strewn on a couch like some discarded Cheeto. I can be a sad indie flick, where I wander the streets, choking on un-cried tears, or an uplifting survival story, where I fight past my demons and turn around quick. Most of the time, though, I’m a spoiled ending - aka, frustrating.

“You know this isn’t me, right?” I ask my cranium, stuffing about 500 popcorn kernels in my mouth. We’re perched in the eye, watching me sob on the edge of my bed for no particular reason.

“Well, if it happens sometimes, it kind of is you. Not fully you, but kind of you,” he says.

We had become friends, after he accepted his gradual transition from kidnapper. We’d bond over discussions of rationality, even though I wasn’t functioning that way. The night I realized he wasn’t against me was a busy evening in the bar I work. We were gazing, unamused, at a manic breakdown my misplaced cells were causing. Even as I sat removed, I could feel it. The claustrophobia of empty glasses; the fifty different tasks to perform; the quips of rude people. It was chaotic shrapnel through my spine; every cell in my body ramming my skull; angry bees swarming my veins. It seemed my body could seizure at any moment, and pop my head straight off my neck.

“Ask to take three minutes in the back,” I plead with my brain. “The lounge is under control enough for that right now. Please. I can feel the anxiety stretching out my fucking skin. I’m elastic about to snap.”

He rocks, back and forth. “I can’t. I want to for you, but I can’t. You have too much pride.”

“Fuck my pride! My thoughts are coming so fast, I’m not even sure they are thoughts. And it’s starting to make me irritable. You have to remove me from this situation for a minute. Please…” I touch his sticky, pink surface; a simple gesture I had never done before to show how much I needed him. My coworker began to ask me a question. My voice was venom before he even finished, and I growled “what?!” in his direction. I cringed from the outskirts.

“Look. I’m snapping at the people I care about.”

“Carly. I promise, I’m trying. Every time I get close, there’s that damn wall of pride. It doesn’t help that you’re ashamed, either.”

“I feel helpless,” I whisper. “But I guess the shame, the pride… that’s all my doing…”

“Yes, it is. Don’t worry. The mania should pass soon.”

Pass it did, but the effort from containing myself left me a withered balloon. I wasn’t a complete success at being incognito, either. “Carly, you’re sad. Why are you sad?” someone had asked earlier, as I watched espresso brew in a slated state.

“I’m not,” is what I said out loud, but what I spoke from my eyeball was much different. “Who, me? I’m fine. My insides are just prying at every surface I have, and trying to keep control is strangling the fuck out of me.” My hand had shaken as I grabbed the delicate cup. When I gave it to the person who ordered it, I shot a smile and syrupy “enjoy!”, wondering if they could tell I was about to jack hammer through the floor.

“You’re okay. You’re doing better than you think you are,” my cranium comforted.

When the brain shuts you out, takes control with a force you have to wrangle, the feeling is both frightening and awe-inspiring. I have to admire the power of it. The brain can live seven minutes after our hearts stop beating, so the fact it can override my control is nothing to be shocked over, only dismayed. And nervous. What will it do, next time? As far as episodes go, what happened that night is one of the worst manic states I’ve experienced. The frenetic energy coupled with energy expended to keep control exhausted me into two days of recovery. I dragged my skeleton around the first, defeated, and the second was questionable because I couldn’t tell if my mood was too happy.

So, what happens next time? Does my cranium allow me to keep my position, watching and understanding? Or will I become lost within him; lose control; come to myself days later like some escaped hospital patient who realizes they wandered twenty miles of snow without shoes. Therapy and medication says this will not happen to me. My own self awareness believes this will not happen to me. But when the brain doesn’t even need blood to keep making decisions, what do these three things know?

The Dark Carnival.

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 16:42:39 -0400

Writers… we don’t think like everyone else. My boyfriend softly jokes about how I can turn the most trivial into a metaphor, always. His musing is justified. Everything can be symbolic.

This may sound like a pretty way to view the world, and sometimes, it is. But it can also turn life to a dark carnival, where student debt becomes failure and cocktail waitressing is just a slow way to die. Things others may not read into become gruesome roadblocks whose detours only lead to more. “This means this” is constant, and nothing is separate.

It’s a dangerous way to think, especially when your disposition happens to be more dark than light. This is me. A blur of black, wrung with gold. Everything can take such a shining appearance, and in the same hour shatter to pieces. Lights slipping by a drivers side are temporary fixtures in places I’ll never belong; trees lining streets are heartbreakingly beautiful instead of magnificent; and the hum of traffic is the constant noise confusing my brain.

This trait, of course, is what enables us to do what we do. Without capturing the profound in the mundane, where would the impact of our words be? Or, it just makes us far too analytical, harsh, and maybe just fucked in the head. Over the summer, I lived in a cockroach infested sub-basement apartment, alone, that housed every time I fell short. Shadows on the wall were not caused by light refraction, but were the disappointed demons of my psyche, come to life to mock and parade my failed accomplishments through eight, shelled legs.

It drove me to the brink. I’d rather never write a sentence again then be where I was. Yet, after it was all over, my immediate thought? “Well, at least I got some material.”

When the carnival begins, that phrase is the crutch to keep limping with. The shadows are not actually demons, but on paper, they can be. They can be anything I’ve turned them into. Whether or not it’s effective and something anyone wants to read is another thing entirely, but it all needs to start with an idea. Or the insecurity in the mis-fit of a shoe; the personal growth in the rambling of a train; or the memory locked in the feel of velvet. Whatever it is, none of it is separate.

Prop 8 Pressure

Tue, 26 Mar 2013 14:14:00 -0400

Today, Prop 8 is to go to the Supreme Court, in a decision that will either allow humanity to feel good about itself, or set us back from foreword thinking. In a show of solidarity, millions of Facebook users are changing their profile and cover photos to pink and red equality signs, the official sigil of the movement.

Millions of users. Except me.

The more my newsfeed boasts, “So-and-so changed their profile picture!” with a red block to accompany it, the guiltier I feel. Relevant articles are being shared; thoughtful statuses are being typed; people are voicing their support - Facebook has amassed to say: “Hey, this is what the people want!”

Except me.

I’m sitting on the other side of my computer, thinking, “should I change my profile picture just so people don’t think I’m an asshole? Should I at least make a status, or share a picture about it? Fuck, if I don’t, will people think I don’t care?”

This is a paranoia that could only arise now, when our online identity is directly linked to the one actually walking around. We live in the days where the phrase, “oh yeah, I saw that you did that on Facebook!” is an acceptable, normal thing to say (by the way, when Facebook first started, that was creepy. What the hell happened?). People are fed information about our personalities, activities, beliefs, and attitudes, not through us directly, but through our keyboard mouthpieces. Which is fine, because we ourselves dictate how we look on your screen, but it’s also dangerous because there are people who may only know us in that sense.

And they’re watching.

The pressure can be astounding. Especially on days like this, where movements are taking place and national issues are on the table. I support gay rights. I want people in love to be able to celebrate that love, but I also don’t want to change my profile picture just to change it back in one day. It’s not like replacing my face with an equal sign is going to make anyone vote differently, anyway.

That’s how I feel, yet, I’m still worrying after the bandwagon that’s passing by. I’ve even thought up a few statuses:

“Gay marriage. It should be allowed to rock. Let it.”

“I heart men who hold men, and women who hold women.”

“Look, people, I’m not changing my profile photo, but just so we’re clear - I DO support gay marriage, okay?”

I’ve also been tempted to go the opposite route, and troll Facebook: “What’s up with all the equal signs today? Is something going on?”

I can’t bring myself to do any of these things, though. If I were to change my photos, or write some profound comment, or post some article, it would purely come from the pressure I feel, and not from a place of passion or genuine action. And faking sincerity on such an important issue would be more shameful than anything else. This is me, staying true to my living, breathing personality. I may feel guilty over whether or not someone I haven’t spoken to in years thinks I’m an asshole, but I’d feel even guiltier if I were to do something simply because of perceived social media pressure.

I even wonder, how many of you are simply bending to this? Hm.

No, the stress of worrying about what all of your online identities think is just going to have to stick. I’m going to sit at my computer, chomp on my fingernails, and watch you all go by in a parade of support with truly wonderful ideas, and heartfelt posts. I may not be streaming along, but, look, people - I’m not changing my profile photo, but just so we’re clear - I DO support gay marriage, okay?

Listening For Nothing

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 11:47:19 -0400

She was lying with her head off the side of the bed, kicking her feet up the wall and smoking a cigarette into the air. Her phone was silent beside her, though this was nothing new. He was always on his own time.

She watched dust dance down through the dim ceiling light, delicate and opaque. She imagined it settling on her lips, and was wondering how it would make her taste when her phone finally broke the silence. She answered immediately.

“Where have you been?” Her tone was defeated, not angry.

“Uhhh, hello to you too…”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m out drinking.” He said this like she had no right to ask.

“Okay.. this is where I get frustrated. You tell me you’re going to call and then you don’t and I think we’re gonna go out and you just blow me off and - “

“Oh my gaaawd!” He was always exaggerating his words, drawing out vowels.

“What?”

“We were fuckin’ slammed tonight and I wanted to get a drink! What is wr-ONG with that? What is wr-ONG about getting a drink with the people I just worked my ass off with?”

“Nothing! That’s the thing! Nothing is fucking wrong with that, except when I think me and you are going out and you completely blow me off and I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

“Okay…” he said this slowly, like he was trying to sooth an agitated dog, and she could picture the movements he’d use if he were there; he’d throw his hands down, shrug towards the floor, and look at her wide-eyed as if she were about to pounce.

“You’re being a little crazy.”

She sighed and kneaded her forehead, knowing he fully believed that statement.

“No, no I’m not.”

“Yeah, you kinda are. This is not how I want my girlfriend to be. I want to be able to go out and get a drink without my girlfriend getting pissed off.”

“I want you to be able to do that too! I’m not that girl! But do you not see the difference here? I’m pissed because you made plans with me and blew them off. I wouldn’t give a fuck if it wasn’t for that.”

“Seriously, you need to chill the fuck out. I had a busy night and I wanted to get a drink with my kitchen. Do you understand that? Do you understand what it feels like to work down to your bones?”

This had become the base of all arguments - work. He was always telling her she didn’t understand what it was like and if she did, she wouldn’t try to make him do unfair things like leave the house on his days off. She never knew how to fight this, because his essence made it seem logical.

“Don’t talk to me like I don’t know what work is. No, I don’t understand what you go through exactly, but I also don’t understand how that makes blowing me off okay!”

“Okay. Fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t call and I should have. Why don’t you come here and get a drink with me?”

“Fuck you I don’t want to come there.”

“Ohhh my gaawdd - “

She said nothing.

“Can we just stop?” he asked. “I love you. You need to know that. You need to just know that. God, I missed you so much today.”

“You missed me but you can’t even call when you say you will?”

“I know.. I know… that was shitty and you don’t deserve that.”

“No,” she asserts. “I don’t.”

“Can I come over?”

“I don’t know.”

He melted to syrup.

“Please baby? Can I come over and just be with my girlfriend? God I missed you so much. I just want to come and hold you with your soft skin… and your big, beautiful blonde hair… please? I just need to be with my girlfriend.”

“Fine.”

They hung up and she loathed herself. She knew she should have said no, that maybe better women would have, but she needed the validation of love too much. It was almost one a.m. and the house was quite, her roommates asleep. She walked down the hallway on the balls of her feet to fix her hair and brighten her cheekbones in the bathroom, even though it didn’t matter. He’d tell her she was beautiful regardless.

By the time he arrived, she had already downed two glasses of wine. He came in to find her sitting sourly at the kitchen table, and before she could think of a way to confront him, he grabbed the back of her chair and spun her to face him in an overexposed blur. He fell to his knees and wrapped tattooed arms around her waist, burying his head into her lap.

“God I missed you,” he said. “I missed you so much. I missed you all day.”

If he had bothered to look up, he wouldn’t of found her smiling, but looking at the wall ahead in crushed confusion. She ran her fingers through his hair and he kissed the inside or her elbow.

“What are you doing, crazy?” There was no trace of her inward struggle in the question.

“I missed you. I needed to hold my girlfriend.” They stayed there for a minute, intertwined in an embrace only genuine intimacy would allow. She softened within its grasp.

“Alright. Get up, crazy.”

He got up and grabbed her from the chair, and sat down where she had just been so he could bury her into his lap. “You know what song I thought about all day? That Avett Brothers song… god it reminds me of you. It played in my head and I was just thinking of you, all day…” He kissed her forehead and began to sing softly.

“And if you take of my soul, you can still leave it whole with the pieces of your own you leave behind…”

He rocked her along with the cadence of his voice and kissed her neck, her hair, her eyes. Was this real? She didn’t know. She thought things like this only happened in movies.

“Now if I’m walkin’ through the rain, and I hear you call my name, I would break into a run without a pauseeee…”

He kissed the tip of her nose. She let go of doubt and decided to just let herself be happy in the moment. Did she not deserve at least one instance of cinematic love? She closed her eyes, and existed only in his melody.

“Alright, baby,” he finished up. “Let’s go to bed.”

They went through what had become ritualistic stripping down and climbed into her sheets, settling into independent spots before coming into each other. He stuck his chin on top her head and nestled his face into her hair.

“God I missed you,” he whispered. She stayed quiet for awhile in the comfortable space they created.

“You can have a funny way of showing it, sir.”

“I know. I know I’m not good at communicating.”

“Well why don’t you start by telling me what’s going on? Like if you’re going out, just tell me. I don’t care. I get mad when you say you’re going to call, or come over, and you just disappear and I have no idea what’s going on.”

“I know… I know… you don’t deserve that… I’m sorry.” His whisper dissolved and she didn’t respond. He rolled onto his shoulder and turned to metal, his eyes boring into her with the intensity of every nerve he possessed.

“Listen. I need you to understand something. I go to work and I work for thirteen hours straight, and the entire time, I’m thinking about you. I think about you all the time. Do you know what that means? It means I love you. So much. You need to just know that.”

She wasn’t sure if she did. At times, it seemed like he loved her more than anyone he ever had or would. It seemed too overwrought and dramatic to really exist. Sometimes, she had no idea what to think of this man who was pulling her into a realm of their own. It was a reality of 20 minute mornings where they’d cuddle, talk about the upcoming day, and fuck if there was enough time. They’d reconvene in the night, staying up watching bad TV, making love, and quietly talking their way into shadows of sleep until the cycle restarted.

“I know you love me. I just… ” she stopped abruptly.

“Just what?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“It’s hard for me to talk about this shit, okay?”

“You can’t just stop in the middle of a sentence.”

She groaned. She abhorred communicating emotion, but had begun forcing herself to because she thought that was the adult thing to do.

“I… ugh. Fuck.”

“Oh my gaaaawd! Just tell me!”

“Just… I don’t understand how you say you love me so much but still do some of the shit you do.”

He stayed quite for a minute.

“… I know. I’m turning into my dad. My dad was selfish and greedy and I feel myself doing those things, and I don’t know why.”

When he stopped, she knew he wasn’t finished.

“He just wasn’t around,” he continued in a passionate fit. “He was never there and I would see what it would do to my mom and it would make me so angry and instead of doing anything about it, I would do stupid shit and make it worse for her.”

She turned her head and found him glossy eyed, staring at the wall. She had been too sucked in by the force of his voice to notice he changed the subject. A tear ran down his cheek as she traced the outline of a burn he had given himself when he was sixteen.

“So don’t be like him. If you’re so afraid of it, only you can change it,” she offered.

“It should be that simple, huh? Now listen. I’m going to tell you something very important.” He propped himself onto his elbow so he was domineering above her.

“I see you… and I see my future.” She wasn’t sure what that meant.

“And it scares the shit out of me. So I’m going to be an asshole to you sometimes, okay? And sometimes I just need you to slap me, and tell me I’m being an asshole. If you do that, we’re going to be okay.”

Her brow furrowed and she felt a mixture of pity and hopelessness for them both. She knew women didn’t fix broken men, no matter how whole they felt in your arms. She kissed him anyway.

“I can do that. C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

The light clicked off and they kissed softly, drifting down and away into thoughtless heads of the night. They fell asleep holding hands, and when she woke they were exactly as she last remembered, fingers locked and her tucked in a place she felt protected. She nudged further into his arms, and relished the time she had to herself within him. He was her safe place. The cave of his chest blacked out everything - her thoughts, fears, insecurities. These things didn’t exist within him, even though he could cause them in the silence of a phone call.

Depressed and Fat: a cycle of shame.

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 10:52:55 -0400

I have a tendency to do pathetic things.

Sometimes, I find myself in grocery stores on melancholy nights, buying family-size boxes of macaroni and cheese for only myself, or ordering Chinese take-out at 1 p.m. on a Tuesday. I’ll be in a place where the only “proper” course of action is to buy comfort food and catatonically take in Netflix. Everyone does it.

Or, okay, maybe not everyone does it. But people like me who have a tendency to eat through misery do. Whenever these occurrences happen, I always wonder - on a scale from one to ten, how pathetic do I look to other people? What are grocery store people thinking, as they watch me pick up various cans of Chef Boyardee, looking like I hate everything about what’s happening? What does the delivery guy think, when I answer the door at almost 2 p.m., still in pajamas and without even a thought of make up near my face?

I know what I would think. ”Wow. That is one sad, lonely chick.” If I were the delivery guy, I might even wonder after my suicide risk.

One day, I’ll explain myself to him. I’ll answer the door, disheveled and proud, and look him dead in the eye as I grab my kung-pow chicken. I’ll say, “Look, I don’t normally do this. It’s just been a really rough day, and all I want to do is eat and watch TV in my bed so I don’t have to deal with it anymore.” He’ll be confused and feel very awkward.

“….Sorry to hear that. I just need a signature, here, for the card information…”

“Sure, sure. And just so you know, there aren’t any cats in here. And I do have a job. And friends. I actually have a lot of friends. There’s even this guy who loves me. So like, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

I can’t make up a line of imaginary dialogue for him here, because I can’t fathom how an actual person would respond to that.

I’m never entirely comfortable with these rituals, even though I go long periods of time without performing them. They always signify I’ve reached a certain stage of self-loathing where I resign myself to it. I’ve quit the fight, and there are no more, “listen to your favorite song and go for a walk!” options available. I’m simply going to stew. And eat. And hate. And maybe weep over my MSG or cheesy noodles. The whole thing is incredibly unhealthy, both emotionally and physically (considering each hateful bite goes straight to my hateful thigh).

I wish, when teetering on the edge of gluttonous depression, I’d stop myself since I know the process doesn’t help. It makes me feel weak because I can’t overcome my urges; worthless because I can’t do anything else; and shameful because I can’t believe what I’m doing. Yet, I still indulge, in order to “make myself feel better,” all while chewing further into a pit of saturated-fat despair.

Why is this the case? One would think recognizing such a glaring incongruity would stop the madness. But it doesn’t, in just another example of what depression can really do - override logic. When the brain isn’t cloaked in black, it understands proper courses of action. However, thrown into shadow, it begins to panic. Gears aren’t turning correctly, so it tries to run smoothly again by following whims and first impulses. If Freud were here, he’d say the eating is a manifestation of my id.

But he’s not. So I’ll just call it what I think it is - pathetic.

Graphic Madness.

Sat, 09 Mar 2013 14:44:50 -0500

Depression with a View.

Tue, 19 Feb 2013 00:11:00 -0500

One of the unfortunate side effects of experiencing depression is that you actually understand depression. When you hear of people locking themselves in their room for weeks at a time, or having nervous breakdowns at intersections, or finding an answer in the end of a rope, you think to yourself: yeah, I get it.

It’s a tad jaded, maybe, but it’s just the way it is. And I suppose somebody needs to get it, right? After all, if there weren’t people like me, support groups wouldn’t exist.

In a twisted sort of perception, I feel fortunate. I am someone who has gained a type of emotional intelligence, albeit a wretched, cursed one. And with the understanding comes an ability to possibly help someone who finds themselves in a place I once was. I’m not saying I pulled through those moments in the most graceful of manners, or that I’m some type of expert, but I still pulled through.

And at the end of the day, I guess that’s what matters.

Or, it is what matters. Which will be something I’ll remember the next time I’m smothered by the dark, because I’m not naive enough to say I won’t be. Who knows, I might be the girl you see having a breakdown at an intersection. Look for key signs: Texas license plate, New Jersey hair, and a North Carolina-born tendency to insert the word “y’all” after “fuck.” There will probably be a lot of angry, fist-to-wheel action, too.

There are other times, though, when I wish it didn’t get it. I wish I was more emotionally simple, so I could hear these things and be bewildered instead of empathetic. Then I wouldn’t have to relive or rethink any of those parts of my personality. I could just feel sad. That’s all. Not contemplative, or so complex I wanted to rip my skin off, just sad, like a majority of people do. In a twisted sort of perception, I think those people are fortunate.

They don’t understand what it’s like to fantasize about suicide. What a blissful thing this must be.

But I wonder, which of us fares better when we have to deal with our loved ones falling apart? Does an understanding of the deep make it easier for us to cope? We have no questions of “why” and we don’t try to rationalize. It just is. And we know the person will probably, in the end, be okay. But, does it bring our own flaws too close to the surface? We get to remember - “oh, yeah. I’m poisoned.” For those who don’t know how it feels to self-loathe into an anti-social puddle, they can find relief there. They can feel lucky, and reassured. But, is the issue so far removed that a lack of understanding makes it harder to sympathize? “They’re just being dramatic,” could be a common thought. They might also worry, excessively, overbearingly so, causing anxiety-born stomach aches and smothering tendencies.

And one of the questions serious depressives hate to answer on a regular basis is, “are you okay?”

Because on the days where it’s hard to hide, by the sixth time we’re tempted to point a finger in the askers face and go, “no. The fuck I’m not, buddy.” Or maybe that’s just me. Because my personality also has the genetic flaw of being from New Jersey.

Anyway. I suppose neither of us, the empathetic or sympathetic, really come out anywhere near “the top”. We still have to watch someone we care about struggle inside themselves, and no matter how far or close that feeling may be, it’s universally one thing: hard.

Our pens useless.

Mon, 11 Feb 2013 15:24:09 -0500

If I had a million words it still wouldn’t be enough.

It’s all feeling,

and sometimes that escapes words, although

our syllables get damned close.

Scribbling it on torn paper; committing it to patchy memory; swiping it aside in sand that will blow away regardless -

they’re vehicles for the same thing.

Simple mediums for you and I to writhe in

while we stretch our sheets with restless sleep.

But,

like clouds who don’t know they’re smoke,

we remain oblivious

to the strength of it all,

and whether this dependency

upon sentences

and ourselves is ruinous or not.

Yet,

how can I claim such a thing

when I don’t have a million words?

After all,

years bottled into minutes

only takes a paragraph or two.

And then what?

Our lips slip away into the quiet space of a dream

as we fall into a hush of thriving night,

hoping that in the dawn,

the unspoken can be known,

and our pens useless.

Panic. Give up. Adapt.

Mon, 28 Jan 2013 23:51:46 -0500

There was something I was about to write. I had it on the tip of my brain and got so, so close to typing….. but then the iPad app I was using closed out, and in a wine-fizzled state I couldn’t remember the damn sentence. After that, I stared at the screen, wishing it could respond to my disappointment. “What are you doing?” I’d ask. “Aren’t we supposed to be a team? I thought you liked the way I swiped your screen…”

Feeling dumbfounded by technology is not a new feeling. We all have moments of confusion when our phone screen goes black, or our computer makes a noise like an angry animal and not an inanimate object. But usually the device will bounce right back, and harmony is restored.

But what if it wasn’t? What if technology failed?

I’m not talking about your individual technology, either. I’m talking global, universal, everyone and everything! Computers - off! Phones - down! Databases - wiped! In a world so entangled in wires we had to get rid of them, what the hell would we do?

The way I see it, several things. We can -

1. Panic

2. Give up

3. Adapt

They are all very simple concepts, except that in each, much more complexity exists.

1. Panicking requires a lot of energy. Everything involved - anxiety attacks; yelling; rioting - require exhausting effort, as well as considerable mental clarity.

2. Giving up requires a lot of hardship. We’d be sacrificing everything that made life so convenient. Remember file cabinets? Having to alphabetize and organize them? We’d suddenly be back in the age of thinking about physical storage and whether or not “I” goes before “J.”

3. Adapting requires a lot of thinking. We’d have to reconfigure everything. We’d start from scratch, and build the infrastructure from the ground up. And it would take all the intellect required of getting a P.h. D. in physics from Harvard.

The worst possible outcome would be the combination of all three. We’d panic, and decimate our cities and livelihoods, which in turn would make our adaptation that much harder. Also, any amount of giving up would make our new advances half-assed, leaving us with devices that only perform one function at a time. What use are those?

… I had an answer for that.

Then my iPad app closed out.

And in my wine-fizzled state, I lost the damn sentence.

Air Service.

Fri, 18 Jan 2013 17:12:00 -0500

I walked into the UPS store with package under arm, ready to get in and out. I was being forced there - the U.S. Post Office had rejected me. “Are there any liquids or perishables we should be aware of?” they had asked earlier.

“Liquids.”

“What kind?”

“Beer.” The postal clerk smiled in an apologetic way and gave me a look that said, “sorry you’re so dumb…”

“Can’t take it. You can’t mail beer.”

“Really?” (Why I was surprised is a mystery.)

“Yup. You’re gonna have to take it to UPS or FedEx. They might do it.”

“Great…” But it wasn’t great. The post office is marketably cheaper, plus they have a much more pleasant color scheme. None the less, the beer needed to be sent so I had to give in, and off I went to the brown and yellow building.

“Just this?” the UPS guy asked as I slid my package towards him.

“Yup. That’s it.”

“Alright, it’ll be 19 dollars to get there by 7 o’clock on Monday, or 59 dollars, and we can guarantee it’s there by the end of the day tomorrow.”

I was confused by his words because the package was only traveling to a place fifteen minutes away. “It’s only going in the city. It won’t get there tomorrow just because?” I asked.

“No, m’am. To ensure next day delivery, we have to use air service.”

“…air service?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s IN Austin.”

“I know.”

“So why would you use air service?”

“It guarantees it gets there on time.” That was all he offered.

“But it’s not going anywhere that needs a plane.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I just… I don’t understand. How doesn’t that matter? Don’t you need a plane to do air service, and it’s IN Austin. So why is air service even involved? How would it be?” I looked down and saw an Iron Man keychain on his hip. Maybe that was the answer to the riddle. Iron Man was the Austin air service, and would personally deliver my package! Which, if that was the case, UPS could have my 58 dollars (and my heart).

“If it’s next day, that’s what we have to use.” He wasn’t budging, and gave not even a hint he might explain the situation further. If I was standing on the other side of me, observing my facial expression, I’m sure there would have been a mixture of, “I’m-so-confused,” “What-The-Fuck,” and “You’re-Making-Me-Angry,” there. I spoke slower next time. Maybe I was the one confusing him.

“So you’re telling me… it will be 59 dollars… to get somewhere fifteen minutes away…by tomorrow?”

“Yes. Because of the air fee.”

In the depths of my eyeball somewhere, I felt the throbbing of a vein about to burst.

“Okay, give me back my box.” I snatch it off of the counter in a huff. “This is fucking absurd.” As I left, the other employee of the store watched me like he was afraid I’d tear down their racks of boxes on my way out. Twenty minutes later, I found myself at the post office again. This time, at a different location.

“Do you have any liquids or perishables in here?” they asked.

“Nope, none!”

5:01 Fredrico.

Sat, 12 Jan 2013 14:39:00 -0500

It’s 5:01 a.m. and I can’t seem to fall asleep. I’m up, eating popcorn, and reflecting on the evening/morning I just had. There had been some South American guy who talked to me about his sexuality.

I can’t remember his name. So we’ll stereotypically call him Fredrico.

Fredrico kept telling me how unfulfilled he was. Apparently, when he came to America, all women wanted to do was have sex with him, and he had become cold and callous as he slid through all the tangled limbs. “I used to want a connection with someone, not a temporary moment of happiness,” he crooned. His tone and demeanor made it clear he was being sincere and not any type of ironic, but for some reason I couldn’t sympathize with someone complaining about having too much sex.

Yet, I still found myself nodding along to Fredrico, half listening, wondering about how, what he saw as a problem, I saw as a bit ridiculous.

Through his deep, dark eyes, he saw sleeping with different women every week as an empty endeavor. He didn’t find joy in the sex; he found loneliness in these shallow encounters and never knowing who someone actually was. “I’m a good looking guy, you know? (I knew.) And with my accent and American girls, ah. I mean, I just love sex, so how can I say no?”

I imagined a chorus of socially awkward nerds, crying out in agony as someone spoke so morosely about being a walking panty-dropper. Fredrico stopped his monologue to pull out a baggie of cocaine and offered me some. I waved it away as he snorted a little pile from the edge of a key. He clinched the bridge of his nose, looked down to the floor, and shook his head. I wasn’t sure if it was the stimulants burning his nasal canal or a moment of reflection. He looked up teary-eyed. It didn’t help clarify anything.

“I just, I haven’t even felt love for any of them,” he continued.

“Fredrico, darling, could this be the cocaine talking?” I wanted to ask. I wanted that to be the case, because I was starting to feel bad for him. I hadn’t had sex in months, so every bone in my orgasm-less body wanted to hate him. But who was I to belittle his “problems”? My manner didn’t match his, but that made no difference. His reality and my reality are completely separate, because we all conceive reality on our own. Besides, the reason I hadn’t had sex in so long was exactly what he was complaining about; I’m one of those prudes who likes to have some semblance of a connection first.

“That’s why I don’t have random sex,” I opened up a little. He looked at me with his dilated-pupils, extended his toned arm, and set an olive-skinned hand on my shoulder. Despite myself, a small wave of excitement ran through me.

“That is a shame, because you are very beautiful.”

“Fredrico, darling could this be the cocaine talking? Not doing that is exactly what you’re talking to me about.”

“Yes, but still, we are young.” He had told me earlier he was twenty-nine. With his hand still on my shoulder and a smoldering look in his eye, the small amount of sympathy I had harbored minutes ago started to whither. His reality was, after all, something he had control over. If he felt so bad about it, he shouldn’t be hitting on me in the middle of his identity crisis.

His hand left my shoulder so he could do a little more coke, and my fractional sympathy transformed to pity as I thanked myself for having a reality so far from his.

Untitled --

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 14:11:09 -0500

This is another draft of something I’ve been working on. Still can’t figure out a title. Or an alias for myself.

——

She was lying with her head off the side of her bed, kicking her feet up the wall and smoking a cigarette into the air. Her phone was silent beside her though this was nothing new. He was always on his own time. While she waited, she watched dust dance through the dim ceiling lights, delicate and opaque. She imagined it settling on her lips and was wondering how it would make her taste when the silence broke.

“Where have you been?” She answered defeated, not angry.

“Uhhh hello to you too…”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m out drinking.” He said this like she had no right to ask.

“Okay.. this is where I get frustrated. You tell me you’re going to call and then you don’t and I think we’re gonna go out and you blow me off - “

“Oh my gaaawd!” He always exaggerated words and drew out vowels.

“What?”

“We were fuckin’ slammed tonight and I wanted to get a drink! What is wrONG with that? What is wrONG about getting a drink with the people I just worked my ass off with?”

“Nothing! That’s the thing! Nothing is fucking wrong with that except when I think me and you are going out and you completely blow me off and I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

Shit, she thought. There goes pretending I’m actually calm about this.

“Okay…” he said slowly, like he was trying to sooth an agitated dog. She could picture his movements perfectly; he’d be throwing his hands down and shrugging towards the floor. “You’re being kind of crazy.”

She sighed and kneaded her forehead, knowing he fully believed that statement.

“No, no I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are, and this is not how I want my girlfriend to be. I want to be able to go out and get a drink without my girlfriend getting pissed off.”

“I don’t care! I am not that girl and you know it. Do you not see the difference here? I’m pissed because you made plans with me and blew them off. I wouldn’t give a fuck if it wasn’t for that.”

“Seriously, you need to chill the fuck out,” he snapped. If they were in front of each other he would have pointed at her. “I had a busy night and I wanted to get a drink with my kitchen. Do you understand that? Do you understand what it feels like to work with your fucking soul in a busy kitchen?”

This had become his base defense for any argument - work. He was always telling her she didn’t understand what it was like, and if she did, she wouldn’t try to make him do unfair things like leave the house on his days off. She never knew how to fight this because his essence somehow made it seem logical.

“Don’t talk to me like I don’t know what work is. Maybe I don’t understand what you, specifically, go through, but I also don’t understand how that makes blowing me off okay.”

“Okay. I know. It doesn’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t call and I should have. Why don’t you come here and get a drink with me?”

“Fuck you I don’t want to come there.”

“Ohhh my gaawdd - “

She said nothing.

“Can we just stop?” he asked. “I love you. Why don’t you know that? You need to just know that and trust it. God, I missed you so much today.”

“You missed me but you can’t even call when you say you will?”

“I know.. I know… that was shitty and you don’t deserve that.”

“No,” she asserts. “I don’t.”

“Can I come over?”

“I don’t know.”

He melted.

“Please, baby? Can I come over and just be with my girlfriend? God I missed you so much. I just want to come and hold you with your soft skin… and your big beautiful blonde hair… please? I just need to be with my girlfriend.”

The line stung silent, humming with tension as her mind tried to figure out who she was speaking to. She experienced his sudden demeanor changes more than she cared for, but had the hardest time holding it against him because it stemmed from a passionate, overwrought side of him who spoke in metaphor and never backed down. “I can do this with my soul wrapped around my knuckles,” he had told her once. She’d never forget that, because it was the moment she fell in love with him.

“I need to see you. I need to hold my girlfriend,” he continued through the phone. She kept thinking back to two minutes before, when his tone had been belittling, and wanted to say no. The problem was she couldn’t un-learn how his tone changes marked his actual changes; he could possess opposite notions within minutes of each other, and in that moment he was truly convinced she was all he wanted.

“Fine. Come over.”

Despite any understanding, she still loathed herself when they hung up. She knew she should have said no, that better women would have, but she needed the validation of love too much. It was almost 1 a.m. and the house was quite, her roommates asleep. She walked down the hallway on the balls of her feet to fix her hair and brighten her cheekbones in the bathroom even though it didn’t matter. He’d tell her she was beautiful regardless.

Twenty minutes passed. She thought about how a stronger woman would lock the door and turn off her phone.

When he arrived, she had downed two glasses of wine. When he walked in she sat sourly at the kitchen table, and before she could even think he grabbed the back of her chair and spun her to face him in the blur of an overexposed action shot. He fell to his knees and wrapped tattooed arms around her waist, burying his head in her lap.

“God I missed you,” he said. “I missed you so much. I missed you all day.”

If he had bothered to look up he wouldn’t of found her smiling, but looking at the wall ahead in crushed confusion. She ran her fingers through his hair and he kissed the inside or her elbow.

“What are you doing?” There was no trace of inward struggle in the question.

“I missed you. I needed to hold my girlfriend.” They stayed there for a minute, intertwined in an embrace only genuine intimacy would allow. He got up and bent over her, brushing her hair behind her ear and placing small, soft kisses on her forehead, neck, and cheek. He pulled her up so he could spin her down onto his lap.

“I thought of you all day today, I had that Avett Brothers song stuck in my head…” He began to sway so they rocked in an enveloped melody, crooning the lyrics in her ear. “And if you take of my soul, you can still leave it whole, with the pieces of your own you leave behind…”

He kept singing and grazing her neck and shoulders with his lips, creating a place where there was nothing to feel besides love. She softened within its safety. She could barely remember why she was mad.

“Let’s go to bed, baby.”

They went through what had become ritualistic stripping down and climbed into her sheets, settling into independent spots then coming into each other. He stuck his chin on top her head and nestled his face into her hair.

“God I missed you,” he whispered. She stayed quiet for awhile in the comfortable space they created.

“You can have a funny way of showing it, sir.”

“I know. I know I’m not good at communicating.”

“Well start by telling me what’s going on. Like, if you’re going to the bar why don’t you just tell me? I don’t care. I get mad when you say you’re going to call or come over and you just disappear and I have no idea what’s going on.”

“I know… I know… you don’t deserve that… I’m sorry.” His whisper melted down and when she didn’t respond, he turned to metal.

“Listen,” he started. “I need you to understand something. I go to work and I work for thirteen hours straight and the entire time, I’m thinking about you. I mean… I think about you all the time. All. The. Time. Do you know what that means? I love you. I love you so much. You need to just know that.”

She wasn’t sure if she did. Sometimes, it seemed like he loved her more than anyone ever had or would. Sometimes she had no idea what to think of this man, engorging her and pulling her to a realm of their own; a place of 20 minute mornings of spooning, talking, and, if there was enough time, fucking. They’d part all day and reconvene in the night; staying up watching bad TV, making love, and quietly talking their way into shadows of sleep until the next 20 minute morning.

“I know you love me. I just… ” she stopped abruptly.

“Just what?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“It’s hard for me to talk about this stuff, okay?”

“You can’t just stop in the middle of a sentence.”

She groaned. She abhorred communicating emotion but had started forcing herself to do it. She thought that was what an adult would do.

“I… ugh. Fuck.”

“Oh my gaaaawd! Just tell me!”

“Just… I don’t understand how you say you love me so much but still do some of the shit you do.” He stayed quite for a minute.

“… I know. I’m turning into my dad. My dad was always selfish and greedy and I feel myself doing those things and I don’t know why.” He stopped but she knew he wasn’t finished.

“He wasn’t around,” he continued in a passionate fit. “He was never there, and I would see what it would do to my mom, and it would make me so angry and instead of doing anything about it I would just do stupid shit and made it worse for her.”

She turned her head and found him glossy eyed, staring at the wall. She was too sucked in by the force of his voice to notice he had changed the subject. A tear ran down his cheek as she traced the outline of a burn he had given himself when he was sixteen.

“So don’t be like him. If you’re so afraid of it, you can change it.”

“It should be that simple, huh?” He paused and wiped his eyes before he continued. “Now listen. I’m going to tell you something very important.” He propped himself up onto his elbow and stared at her with the intensity of every blood vessel.

“You scare the shit out of me, so I’m going to be an asshole sometimes, okay? Sometimes I need you to just slap me and tell me I’m being an asshole, because that’s how I am. I’m going to try and push you away and I love you too much for you to let me do that. If you can just fuckin’ slap me sometimes, we’re going to be okay.”

Her brow furrowed and she felt a mixture of pity and hopelessness for both of them. He had complimented her slightly while burdening her heavily, and if she had learned anything it was that women couldn’t fix broken men no matter how whole they felt in your arms.

“I can do that. C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

The light clicked off and they kissed softly, drifting down and away into thoughtless heads of the night.

When she woke up they were exactly as she last remembered, fingers locked together and his arms around her in a place she felt protected. She nudged closer to his skin, relishing the time she had to herself within him. He was her safe place. The cave of his chest blacked out everything - her thoughts, her fears, her insecurity. These things didn’t exist within him even though he could cause them at the silence of a phone call.

Despite his smile, Olly was really quite deprived. It was only...

Sun, 30 Dec 2012 01:08:00 -0500

Despite his smile, Olly was really quite deprived. It was only his ignorance to this fact that kept him smirking outward, always looking from behind the screen, and thinking that if he could wave his tentacle, he would.

“Hi, Mom,” is what he’s thinking as I sit above him, typing in his non-existent personality. I’m not going to give him knowledge of the ocean, or of other creatures like him, or even of the concept of drawing at all.

But Olly will never know I’m giving him his thoughts. And I’ll never know if he’s thinking them. Because neither of us technically exist to each other.

The Dysmorphic Debate: Normal or Extreme?

Sat, 01 Dec 2012 19:13:00 -0500

To this day, I have no idea what I look like.

“Just look in a mirror,” you may think. But for me, it’s not that simple. I probably look in a mirror more times a day than most people, and it’s not about vanity. It’s about me trying to figure out, “what the fuck am I?” because I see a different version every time.

This plot is tired and clichéd. Women everywhere from any time have body issues. But where is the line between normalcy and actually having body dysmorphia? Does a therapist have to decide, or can we ourselves figure it out by the severity of our actions? Some of mine include taking iPhone photos of myself to see how I look to other people; looking in the mirror, smiling, and then pinching what I think looks fat; scrutinizing every angle of my body several times before/during/after when I put on or change outfits.

“What am I going to look like? Is this any type of attractive? Are people going to look and think, ‘ew’? Should I do some crunches or something before I leave?”

Are these actions severe, or just plain average? In the spirit of discovery and cheap therapy, I found the official self-test for body dysmorphia. Developed by Katharine Phillips, she claims that if you answer half or more of the questions with a “yes”, you are a clinical body dysmorphic. However, with an area so gray, I was hesitant to blindly trust a survey on exactly how much I hate myself. So I had my best friend take it too. She is in my same demographic, and a highly functioning member of society who takes no medications. Her answers are as follows:

1. Are there any parts of your body that you feel are unattractive or ugly? Yes.

2. Do you find yourself thinking excessively about your unattractiveness? No.

3. Do you compare the unattractiveness of your body part with the same body part or parts of others? Sometimes, yes.

4. Do you regularly check your unattractiveness in the mirror in the hope that it may look better? No.

5. Do you ask others about your unattractiveness? Never.

6. Do you use makeup to minimize displaying to others the part of your body that you feel is unattractive? No, I don’t put makeup on my lack-of-a-six-pack.

7. Do you camouflage any parts of your body that you feel are unattractive? I don’t wear super tight things.

8. Is your life compromised by concerns with your appearance? Nope, I do what I want :-)

My answers are as follows:

1. Are there any parts of your body that you feel are unattractive or ugly? Yes.

2. Do you find yourself thinking excessively about your unattractiveness? Yes.

3. Do you compare the unattractiveness of your body part with the same body part or parts of others? Yes.

4. Do you regularly check your unattractiveness in the mirror in the hope that it may look better? Is all the time considered regularly?

5. Do you ask others about your unattractiveness? No. But I obsess about it to my brother. He just loves it.

6. Do you use makeup to minimize displaying to others the part of your body that you feel is unattractive? No.

7. Do you camouflage any parts of your body that you feel are unattractive? Yes.

8. Is your life compromised by concerns with your appearance? I’m sitting on my couch instead of Christmas shopping because I feel too ugly to go out, so you tell me.

She answered, “yes” to two questions. I answered, “yes” to six.

What is there to be done? How do you control something that isn’t tangible? Besides, the survey could mean nothing about skewed mentality and everything about intuition; maybe I really am that unattractive. But who can say? I’ve made it obvious to myself that I cannot. There are times I look in a mirror and view myself positively enough to display confidence. Then, perhaps an hour, minute, or day will go by and the next time I see myself, those thoughts are swallowed by the perceived-pudge of my right cheek.

It makes me sad not only for myself, but for anyone who would answer more than half of those questions affirmatively. How many others are out there? How many are jailed to a couch exactly like mine, paralyzed by the thought of judgment if they leave? These issues also harbor guilt. There’s a feeling of, “how dare I?” when there are people with much larger obstacles, physical or not, who can make simple trips to Target no matter how they feel. Because it truly is ludicrous, even if it is real.

What am I afraid of? That a counter girl is going to scream when I go to check out? Maybe she’ll run to her manager, tears streaming down her face, and exclaim, “I can’t do it! I just can’t give high quality, salon shampoo to someone with that big of a nose!”

Well, I know that won’t happen. What actually scares me is the thought of the counter girl not saying a word, looking at me, smiling, and thinking “woof!”

A Formulated Frenzy

Thu, 29 Nov 2012 10:13:17 -0500

It was a frenzy; a furious, non-stop, frenzy. There was everything to do and people all around and money being thrown in every direction. There were accents of all phonetic possibility and people of all descent.

It was Saturday night of Formula 1 and I was smack in the middle of Fan Fest dealing with chaos; pure, tightly controlled, chaos.

In general, the lack of inconvenience the event had caused Austin was impressive. The traffic wasn’t horrible and I always found downtown parking. The city had grown exponentially with travelers, yet it didn’t feel too crowded or intruded. Not on the outside, anyway. On the inside…it was a different story.

Working in a busy restaurant is a beast of its own nature. It evolves from everything: stamina; concentration; speed; diplomacy; adrenaline and dedication. There are shifts so busy, you seem to temporarily lose yourself and rely on nothing but muscle memory and phrases. Saturday was one of those shifts.

“I’ll have this cleared off for you in just a moment!”

Grab a plate.

“Would you care to start off with a cocktail or some wine?”

Punch a button.

“Thank you so much! And enjoy the race tomorrow!”

Drop a check.

Whatever may happen, just keep moving. No one in my building paused that evening. We couldn’t. On an average weekend night, we serve anywhere from 215-265 covers (a “cover” is one guest). This time, we played and presented over 600 covers - more than any restaurant in our group has ever done in a single night.

It wasn’t just us making records, though. Formula 1 had the most attendees ever this year, all of who were roaming Austin and all of whom, it felt like, wanted to dine where I work.

The streets poured volume as buses came back from the track and helicopters touched down. The crowd crammed into our doors, taking their reservation or attempting to bribe into one. Someone tried to slip money into my co-workers hand as somebody else tried to buy a table’s entire tab so he could have the space. I was responding to snaps in the air, nodding my head through orders given all at once and trying not to spill martinis while I wove through a claustrophobic crowd. Background laughter and foreign languages thundered with clinking glassware in a din I almost had to shout through. My thought process was filet temperatures and side items and - shit - what was that wine they ordered again?

Everyone wanted a lot, everyone wanted it right then, and every one of us was working our ass off to make sure it happened. The clientele in town was there to spend money that counted and they weren’t letting us forget it. A couple of Austinite’s slipped into a corner table and curiously watched the lounge tumult.

“Did you know some Arab sheikh rented out the entire W hotel?” one of them asked me. “He had his cars flown over here and was trying to get the Army Corps of Engineers to air-lift his yacht to Town Lake! Some people just have too much money.”

He was right, but at the moment I didn’t mind obscene decadence. It was paying my rent.

The staff melded into one and the night became a pace. The F1 cars had gone 200 mph and we inherited the speed as drivers of our own, our managers wielding flags to guide and the kitchen keeping us tuned. We forgot our feet and found a place where you have just enough energy to power through but not enough to make it. My synapses are almost overloaded as questions are slapped onto my brain every time I turn around.

“Will you take a photo with us?”

“What is the market price of…?”

“May I have Tabasco sauce?”

“When will a table be available?”

Ah! No! Never!

But never doesn’t exist and “no” is not a vocabulary word in the service industry. When it was over, we all just looked at each other, exasperated, and nodded our heads with the roar of a night well done in our ears. After I stepped from the building into the hours of dark morning, the streets were emptier than our bar had been.

A Neuron and A Dream.

Sun, 04 Nov 2012 04:01:49 -0500

I just want to create something beautiful,

but the hour grows late

and in the depth of minute hand clicks

skill starts to fade.

All that’s left is an image of the idea

with no place to call home

besides a neuron

and a dream.

Where Have All The Boardwalks Gone?

Wed, 31 Oct 2012 15:49:31 -0400

Hurricane Sandy washed away my childhood.

She crept up the coast, churning the saltwater into destructive froth, and landed on the New Jersey coastline in a fit. There was nothing to be done; sandbags and boards can only go so far. They don’t stop the ocean from swallowing streets and decimating piers.

Now, all the footsteps I made on those boardwalks and every quarter I spent on some arcade game are underwater. To watch the footage and see the photos, it’s almost like those things never happened. Were the broken signs ever really lit? It seems impossible to imagine colors so vivid in a space now so bleak. Roller coasters are on the ocean floor and casinos left to sharks. Carnival booths and t-shirt huts ripped to rubble. The landscape is no longer dunes and water but a sludge of the two combined. How is any of that real?

What is the New Jersey shore without its boardwalks?

They were our monuments to summertime and youth; iconic places which made the shoreline stand apart. They were where you spent money on palm readers without being judged and put five ounces of vinegar on top of french fries with no remorse. During the day, they were a browsing carnival; taffy, games, rides, and stores upon stores of hermit crabs and imitation lifeguard sweatshirts. Then of course, the night would fall and the lights come up, ushering its new crowd into a thrill seek. The boards would change with the sun.

And now they’ve changed with the rain.

Of course, they will be rebuilt. You don’t give North Easterners a challenge and not expect them to rise. But will those of us who sat on the old benches ever feel the same on the new?

The Ants Were Marching.

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 23:01:00 -0400

I wiped out an entire civilization today.

I stood over the city with my hose and watched its residents carry along their business. Thumb on nozzle, I hesitated out of reluctance to destroy something evolution had been perfecting.

How long did it take them to build it?

When I picked up the mat at the end of my porch, they took me by surprise. There seemed to be thousands of them scuttling along in whatever worker task they had to execute. I watched the red-dotted streams for a while, letting them continue in the ignorance of their last moments.

How many tunnels were down there? How deep were they? The hill was huge. When I finally turned the water on them, what exactly would I be destroying? It would be highways, chambers, babies and workers; hours, weeks, and months of labor and maybe so much more. Who knows what else could matter in their miniature world. Whatever it was, I was about to drown it all in the spray of a factory made convenience tool.

When I started, I apologized.

As I watched the water swirl I wondered if they - or maybe him or her - existed, if this was how the Gods felt before an earthquake, volcanic eruption, or tsunami. As the elements crashed around us, did they feel remorse and wonder whose lives, possessions, and accomplishments have been shucked away? Or were we simply a casualty in whatever cosmic game they were playing?

I sprayed the ants with an image of me walking out in flip-flops and stepping inside the city. According to food chain dominance, my risk was greater than their gain. Do the hypothetical Gods employ the same thinking? Perhaps they foresee some great disaster so to avoid it they create one of their own, shutting down whatever larger event was to take place.

The nozzle of doom continued its work and I noticed “Melnor” was the name of its brand. It sounded far too much like “Mjolnir”, Thor’s hammer. The similarity deepened my false God complex and I watched the ants scatter with curiosity. Would the survivors try and rebuild? I pictured sentinels trying to usher the Queen to safety and workers scrambling to recover food. Were they looking up at me and wondering why? Maybe they were like mini Katrina victims, praying for the rain to relent and questioning the realm from which it came.

I apologized again before I put the hose down.

I returned outside a little while later to find ants milling around half sodden gates to the underground. That answered my curiosity of the survivors. I had averted the immediate possibility of my foot in their mountain, but I hadn’t dampened their spirit. From dirt, they would rebuild, just as we would from splinters and frayed electrical wires. Resolve doesn’t shrink with size.

I apologized one more time as I aimed Melnor.

“Sorry guys. I admire your determination, but I’ve gotta slow it down.”

A Writing Affliction.

Sat, 27 Oct 2012 16:08:00 -0400

Sometimes I curse my ability.

Or, scratch that. The word “ability” makes me sound like I actually have faith in all this. Let’s start over -

Why did writing have to be the one thing in this world I want to do? It transcends ability and turns into mad compulsion. If I don’t write something, anything, in a day, at some point during it I’ll think to myself, “you’ve accomplished nothing.”

Many people find the term “writer” alluring. There’s a certain sex appeal paired with romantic images of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, or Thompson. Writer’s are those spontaneous types, right? Those ones who embed themselves in gangs to get an inside scoop?

The truth is, though I’m not sure exactly how far I can extend my opinion at this point, it can be a harsh existence. It consists of hating yourself under bedsheets and staring at keyboards with contempt and fear. It’s writing content for free so your name appears under some byline and pulling your hair out over some metaphor. It’s thinking up concepts and penning them down to produce something decent 10% of the time and crank out shit the other 80. The other 10% is dedicated to ideas that never leave the mind. Those can be rampant.

There’s also an overwrought tendency to view everything as a symbol. Over the summer when I lived in a cockroach infested apartment, those scheming, crawling, red shelled fucks became an image of ultimate failure. There I was, two years out of college, living in some sub-basement dump with nothing to show besides a bi-weekly paycheck from a restaurant gig. Someone lacking my far-too-potent imagination would probably see those roaches as an unfortunate nuisance from a poorly ran apartment complex. But to me, those insipid hellions were editors brought from flame to mock my lack of recognition for writing; they were old college classmates with salary jobs staring at me pitifully; they were laughing at my hopes and dreams.

In reality, they were just roaches. And they can’t laugh.

These are only a few traits of the trade, and to be honest they may only be my own. What makes a “writer”? Who can say? Are they people who write poetry during bleak nights in a journal they’ll never show? Are they the ones whose names are splayed on the cover of some book? Maybe they just can’t stay away from a blank page. Maybe their brains bleed to be let out. Maybe their afflicted with a compulsion that makes the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” an easy, two word answer:

“A writer.”