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Hauntings. When I find myself finishing conversations when I am alone in the car, what I could say, if. Litanies and gestures, the way the mass always seems so familiar, but I can’t actually remember the words until it is too late. Softly created, these incisions without articulate pain. It is coming in waves, if I sit still and quiet, I can begin to feel them, the tremblings. Now would be the time to be proactive. Now would be the time to put things in order. I am living off of coffee and miniature candy bars. There were no trick-or-treaters.
He is from Italy he says. This information goes into the hallowed depository of disbelief, much like anything that anyone tells me. There is some disturbing undercurrent about the Puerto Rican girlfriend. 185 pounds. I think he smells alot like sex. So it goes. Drink another beer and worry about the details later. Exhalations. He is drunk and stumbling through the layers of clutter, I fear he will step on a cat. Damn. I am not even sure, as I type in a rare real time, if I even feel sexy. Too much effort to get out of it now.
Instead of standing in the two block long line, we sat at a trendy purple restaurant and drank. Starting time was pushed back several times until 1:30 am, and the wait staff gave us a table. The children have yet to learn the art of concert pushing. Decided I was too aged for the floor, so I bought a couple of beers, we went up the balcony, and squeezed ourselves in against the rail in amazingly short time. Had to blow smoke in some poor bespectacled kid’s face for a while, but in the end, we had a perfect view.
Waking up in strange places, I am amazed at the kindness of strangers. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have yanked her by her hair. I got my house keys, but I also got kicked out of the bar, put a big hole in our friendship, and have no idea if she was able to make it home from the suburbs. When I am feeling transient, I deal with obstacles too bluntly. There always seem to be somewhere else to go, and I don’t want to spend time arguing. Slip a glass of water in between drinks, and let it be.
Apparently, I have a pleasantly big ass. Ugh, ugh, ugh. Too much weekend. Too much days slipping into days, and not enough getting things done. Time to get things done, but I just feel slow and stupid. Clearly, I have gone on a bender, and the result is that I have no clean laundry, no memorandum of law and no post conviction petition. There was an old man at one of the bars who fed us chick peas. Told us they would help us drink forever. They were salty and hurt my teeth. Ugh. I should just go drinking again.
Discordant and misaligned. So much motion with so little result. Sleep scratching behind eyes all day, just to curl up and not be hounded by worries. Wonder about maybe one of those little pills from the TV, the one that cures chronic anxiety or social phobia, or some other checklist. I want the phone to ring and for it to be someone in particular, someone that my jacket still smells like. I want to call him and tell him that, but I am afraid it is all just fantasy, and it is best to let the yearnings die without abruptness.
Err on the side of obsessions, forge into myself some kind of assumed vulnerability. Make things matter, because the cynicism has bled in far too deep. I want to have some earnestly naive indignation that people don’t call when they say they will and I want to have believed the things said in the midst of embraces. I want to admit that I like being held. I want to be breathless when someone touches my face. I want to always remember the color of eyes. I want to not be smarter, to be not more jaded, than all of this.
More bittersweet wellings. Cocoon-stirrings. To break free and be reborn. Pressure indistinct, and phantom hands constrict. To rage up in the madness and burn myself free. To reinvent myself in violence and let my nails break skin. To drink strong liquors and let it warm all within. But instead it is just the slow weight gain and the lethargy. Not living the life I should, not living the life I could, just stuck in between in some kind of above average semi-phenomenally successful mediocrity. Let myself be solitary and be haunted by petty disappointments, and wish it so very different.
I could spend the whole 100 words bitching about the fact that the only goddamn Budweiser available in Hyde Park tonight comes in these sissy ass 6 oz pony bottles. Trust me, I could. I almost started to cry in the store. It wasn’t the night/week/year for this. But instead, I will say that I am going to go tell the truth, absolve and scare away, and try to make this a beginning of honesty, of vulnerability, of trying to undo some of the jadedness. And I know that I will get crushed, but it is all for the best.
If I could undo and try again more virtuous. Now things are overly intricate and too chaotic. Too much reaction, and not enough positive affirmances. If there were a way to start again, refreshed renew, untouched, but it will play out or disappear, because I create predestination. I am the only one, I think, that forgives and created endurances, and maybe that is just me damaging myself in new ways. I should sweep the floor, and at least say that something was done correctly this weekend. Why is it that calls always come right after I have abandoned my faith?
Perhaps, maybe, I have found a subject for these words. Beer bottles and pizza, the hunger realized and satiated, put off, and recreated. Falling away and into, something, madness or redemption, or maybe just some fun. Can’t be bothered with details, just am enjoying, this, right now, as full felt, I between fantasy and reality, this space that maybe we can be in, momentarily, enduringly, put off, put around. Listening to Alice Cooper’s greatest hits, drinking long necks, and smoking too many cigarettes. Recreation, dedication, I like the touch, feel, taste. Today has been a happy day, honestly and sincerely.
These questions of this and that. Nagging worries, and cast off obligations, I think there were too many things that I left undone. Dissension, into chaos, descendant. I could make more coffee, I could write my pleading, I could take a nap, and sleep through all of tomorrow. The quest for sincere smiles and kindness, sought after, sometimes found in rare moments. I enjoy the camaraderie at the gas station. The kinship of tobacco and petroleum products, artificial, but when done politely, significant. We, as creatures, inflict our moods out in ripples. Morning sunshine smiles do, in the end, matter.
Even over my objections, I know that I will be getting in the car in a few moments, out to the suburbs. Nonsensical. I am too shocked to be irate. Riding some train that is destined for wreckage. I don’t think I should be expected to go to Strip Clubs on weeknights. But there probably will be beer there, and beer is a good thing, in the off chance, that alcohol can be at all redemptive. Sighs and exasperations. I should be better at control, instead I feel the vortex, gravity increasing. No good will come of this at all.
Staying out until exhaustion. Somewhere near the body’s limits for this kind of thing. Time to curl up in soft places and nap. He brings me water, occasionally touches me while I roll over in and out of sleep. I will go home with his scent lingering on me, and the smell will make me reflective. Embraces you can crawl into, and the slipping blurry edges of adventures. This syncopation, unasked, unwarranted familiarity, bewitching and compelling. Frightening to find myself willing to alter my complacency, to extend and intertwine. Wished and wanted, I can pull closer and sleep into dreams.
Woken by the absolutely gut chilling realization that I had completely fucked up again. Prevented paralysis, and was busy until 2 am trying to make amends. Need to do something about getting a job. Need to do something about passing my finals. Need to do something other than drink beer, and fix things at the last minute. Need to be articulate and wonderful, full of grace and competent, and so on and so forth. Chicken or the egg, fascination with my own downfall. Must determine what it is that I really, personally, absolutely, WANT to do, and make that happen.
Passivity, posturing, paralysis. Post-conviction petition, post haste, before the court as a pauper. Passe, productivity. Patches, pants, pumps, pills, pops, pussy, pit bull, piss ant, posture, picture, post mortem, pits, pending, public defender, postscript, pizza, pilsner, pilsen, Pittsburgh, porno for pyros, primus, parched, pistons, primal, pipsqueak, pulse, pulsing, penchant, pig, purr, pile, plug, pariah, playful, plaid, plain, pulled, pushed, punched, porked, penis, pimple, purple, prince, price, picked, plucked, pliers, Persian, pilfer, plied, panty, pansy, patty cake, pate, plume, puff, pincers, pickle, plaintiff, prosecutor, people, party, pants, preliminary, ex parte, pet, pen, perfume, pinto, pimento, pony tail or keg, pallet, pencil.
My best friend, who I have known since I was five, is 30 years old, and getting married, and that must make me 29 years old and not getting married. Beer, and Sheryl Crow and the realization that one of the reasons that I don’t clean my bathroom is that I don’t even know how to clean my bathroom, despite the last hour and a half of effort, and I can’t even get drunk off of this Miller Lite crap, and I watched Time to Kill tonight on TV and now I kind of want to be a lawyer again.
Somehow I have managed to bring the bar staff from Nicks out to the morning suburban drinkfest with me and as I listen to the music played by the music playing man that we evacuated from the other bar I am absolutely torn up by the urge to call my Michelle no pun or whatever intended but she perhaps more than anyone would appreciate and understand the coup, and damn it tears deep but I miss her more than I could ever admit when I am sober but things done are obviously not meant to be undone, Help me god.
Quakes. Turbulence and words spilling out for purpose and without purpose, to affect, to dispel, to maybe just relieve the pressure of holding them inside, and so they tumble out and clutter the floor and the air, with the fragmented, fractured sense and inconsistencies, so tangible, but untouchable, almost a slap or a caress, they create a mosaic that unsteady feet have to step through. Things become more complicated and less right, but the catharsis, the vomiting up and out is blissful in a throat burning kind of way, until spent and crying I try to navigate my way through.
Phone calls and conversations. Some confessional quality, to create this, what I have always done, and faulted other women for, to take what is good, and use them as the receptacle for all my sins. Some moral parasite. Wishes, and what ifs, waiting for the damage that is not quite recoverable, that is peculiar, and softly strange and scary. I am not self destructive, or maybe I am, but it all shines with that golden light, the one I talk about in the story, and I can feel it pulsing through my veins, and that has got to be something.
Over the river, and through the wood, and past the two mile back-up at the toll booth, and around the accident gapers delay, until we get home for the holiday. At the place where the radio transitions, and traffic speeds up to 80, and it is easy to pass the trucks and the families with the kids watching cartoons in the mini-vans, here on the Indiana Toll Road, I am bittersweet connectedness and completeness, invincible and empathetic, here is where I belong, with two packs of cigarettes, and the cats strapped securely into carriers, and we could end up anywhere.
So many of these things to be thankful for. Too much food and family. That you can buy beer on holidays. That I have friendships spanning years, and traumas, and indiscretions. That I have cats. That I live in a fat and stupid country, that I have so much opportunity and luck that it frightens me into being an underachiever. That the car still works. That I do not know tragedy, that I barely know sorrow. That life works out its intricacies so often for my benefit. That I have had the good fortune to be spoiled and self centered.
Bad judgment usually makes for a good car ride one way, but hurts badly on the return. Awake by determination, sunlight burns through windshield, around visor, through sunglasses, and mouth can no longer taste anything, just swallows soda out of will power and obligation. Nothing and everything accomplished, just to go maybe is enough. Tired and somewhat thwarted, reentry is a bumpy ride, while I try to figure our explanations and excuses and drive faster to make it all somewhat more credible. The world has given its opinion and I have to decide whether or not I choose to listen.
I had nightmares last night. Long twisted dreams not so much of terror but of humiliation. Things I should have known but didn’t. What happens with me and my pure intentions. How can I go from the full felt embraces to the nightmares. What is it in me that can’t find the right person to trust? Emotional bruising not felt on scar tissue, but the impact alone damages internally. I need to stop this nonsense. I need to seek meaning and depth. I need to take the step beyond intellectual awareness and act appropriately. I was never snapped at before.
Back from home to this my home. The cats wander disoriented; take naps on the bed. I almost cried in transit, but then became too angry at the hour and half traffic jam at the toll booth to dip too far into emotional vulnerabilities. This is the life I created, this is the life I must redeem. I am getting used to the clean living room, it is nice to be able to walk without fear of tripping. My head stops and trembles too much, when I should be accurate and ruthless. If only I didn’t want to be held.
Unless you know, then you really wouldn’t understand. And My fiction group cringes and tells me that I shouldn’t talk/write this way. And well, if it means that much to them then we can edit all this out later. As it stands right now, we are going to sit here and create some honesty, and we are going to create some fiction, and we are going to do that until the beer runs out, which will be too soon, because I convinced myself that I didn’t need to go to the liquor store because I could make daquiris. Not enough.
Waves of this and that. I feel post-catharsis. As if I vented enough, and so sedate and spent, I can nap away a day and then get down to the business at hand. I am not going to worry about the things that happened in the meantime, and any scars that it might all leave. These things happen, epiphany does not come for free. I will battle the obsessions, I will learn material before finals, I will make up the hours I am lacking, I will pull it off in the end. Cuz this is how I get it done.
Whiskered contentment. Winter is coming in the form of cold rain wind, and I spent the day in bed with my cats. They have felt much neglected by my excursions to the suburbs and want to be touching me at all times. Moses licks my fingers while I type this. There really aren’t any absolutes, and we all get by as best we can, and there isn’t too much point in obsessing over atonement. I have been sinning, and I do not really regret it. Move forward, navigate to the best of your ability, and remember to buy cat food.
Hrm, flip-flopped sleep schedule, and now today is really just beginning, even though it might actually be tomorrow. My cats wants my tootsie pop, or perhaps he is wanting mushy food. Today can be summarized as such: I probably wouldn’t know a corporation if it came and bit me on the ass. I can’t wait until tomorrow, so I can read my pathetic summary of a month wasted, 100 words for each day. Am amazed, all things considered, that I made it through, had to scribble on bar napkins more than once. At least this was accomplished. Back to corps.
Wish fulfillments. Soft adorned and queried. This oft, and this off, ambivalent gestures, and abscesses. Punctuation. In the end, it did signify nothing. Just marks and mars, and time progresses, fluttering here, between ribbon streams, sanctioned and unsanctioned. Still a flight risk. There was something about not the kisses, but maybe the touch. Not to be felt anymore. Progress, and take your arm as wisdom learned, price or cost. Pour on the disinfectant and watch bubbles slide off and down. He hasn’t seen it, he won’t see it. I will smoke the cigarettes I bought for him and be done.
The Tip Jar