I was staying out longer. Wandering. No more midnight. No more two. Now four, five, daybreak. Nightly.
Close out the bars. Wander. Sit on the ledge of a parking garage and drink and write and watch the serenity below.
At some point I had stopped seeing people as living. Now all just shadows and cardboard and obstacles. I think I can pinpoint where it started, but more likely than not it was a slow progression. I know I've always been alien. Always distant. I know I've always had trouble living among them but it was so easy to lie. So easy to mimic. To be one of them, at least superficially. And mostly I think it worked.
And then, when dark, when people disappear, me. Staring at the street from four stories up. Alone and at peace, mostly.
Mostly.
Drink.
Fall now. Mid-October. Wool cap. Long coat. Hands in my sleeves and I don't mind the beer warming in my backpack.
Someone told me once that in fall I fall in love.
Fuckin' cheers to that, I think and pull from the beer.
I lose my balance and fall backward onto the concrete and it hurts and I lie there. I stay concious. Nothing feels broken. My beer remains upright in a well trained hand and I stare at what few stars I can see through the residual light of the town.
Out there it's plain to see.
Out there it's absurd to think.
Tired, but I refuse to go home and sleep. I could sleep here, I think. No. Keep going. To madness. Keep going.
TO MADNESS.
Soak my brain. Wring it out. Destroy it. Destroy. There is no beauty at the top. The gods see domain. The mortals see beauty. Send me to the fucking bottom. Show me beauty. Show me light. Show me something astonishing. Make me feel. Make me feel. Make me feel. Make me feel.
I sit up and drink. Turn myself around and set my well bruised and scabbed back against the wall of the parking garage and laugh for a moment to myself.
Who fucking lives like this?
Me, I guess.
Not for long, I imagine.
Fucking good.
TO MADNESS.
There is nothing else for me there so I stand and begin the walk through the garage. The angled floor that after left after left after left eventually spits you out into a parking lot where years ago I parked and I can see my old office from here. That other life. That other me.
Hey! I think at the window on the top, at the corner where I stared from each day, Hey! Here's your goddamned future!
I throw my can at it but it disappears somewhere in the bushes.
A thousand thoughts and words spinning in my booze and illness addled brain.
"It makes my heart hurt," you say.
I know.
Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do?
I walk toward home, though I probably won't end up there and I pull another beer from my backpack and open it and drink as I stomp through town.
"It makes my heart hurt."
What are you saying? What does that mean?
Speak.
I am no one.
I am nothing.
Of course you don't speak.
I want to write you a love letter, you deserve one, but I'm scared of what I might say.
Hi, I want to be closer to you. I want to be more to you. Hi. I want to try. Hi. I'm a hand in rubble. I'm a whimper among screams. My heart beats for you and I am incapable of expressing it accurately but I hope you live well.
I fall in someones yard a few blocks from my house and I lay there. I stay there.
To madness.
Friday, October 20, 2017
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
In Connecticut
On a Sunday I woke up when my mother called. Phone vibrating against the lamp on the nightstand and through my skull. A gut of Taco Bell and three bottles of wine, two hours of sleep and I answered my phone.
“James,” my mother said.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Listen... my mom's not doing well.”
“I know, Ma. You all right?” Still asleep.
“Yes, but, she just had surgery and they aren't sure if she'll survive another one.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah. So, they are saying it could be any time, now. I wanted to give you a heads up in case you wanted to throw together an overnight bag. It could, you know, be anytime.”
“Weeks? Days?”
“They don't know. She could surprise us and have a couple years still. They don't know.”
“Okay, Ma.”
“I'm going to let you go. I'm trying to...”
“I know. I love you.”
“I love you. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Crawled out of bed. Onto the floor.
“Everything all right?” Elle asked from the bed.
“I don't know.” Slid into the bathroom, pissed and drank from the tap. The circles under my eyes were darkening and I thought they looked red also, but it had been a rough couple of months and I wasn't surprised.
“What'd your mom say?” she asked.
“My grandmother's not doing well. She wanted me to be prepared.”
“Oh shit, I'm sorry.”
“Thanks. It's okay. I might have to disappear to Connecticut at some point. Don't know when.”
“Of course.”
The slime of morning fell away over the next couple of hours. I made eggs and toast and listened to a few records and when it was near eleven Elle decided she would be visiting her parents so I poured a glass of wine and a few more and we watched a show I was forcing on her.
Hours passed and my living room grew dark and the wine was almost gone. We mumbled back and forth to each other about how bored we were and suggested all of the things we could but wouldn't do. Paint. Play music. Write. We decided we'd drive to the store. Get more wine. Maybe the things we'd need for baking something or other.
My phone vibrated itself off the table and I thought I should really turn that setting down.
“Hi ma,” I said.
“They think it may be tonight.” Her voice was stone.
"Shit. Christ.”
“I am driving down now,” she said. If you want to ride down with us, or drive on your own, or you can stay. I know you work, so...”
“Ma, just give me a few minutes to make plans. I'll call you back.”
“Okay, but I am leaving soon so don't take long.”
“I got it ma. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Elle looked at me from the couch.
Eyes big.
“I have to go to Connecticut.”
“I know. Do you want me to come?”
“You can if you want, but I don't know when I'll be back. You won't make it to work.”
“Okay.”
“I have to call my job.”
I went to the kitchen and left a voicemail on my boss' phone and finished my wine and thought about being a kid and running through my grandmothers condo with my cousins and that horrible couch in the basement and the portraits of clowns and the framed pencil drawings of my mother and aunts as young girls. The organ and grandfather clock. Ceramic cats and pecan pie. She would swear in french rarely but enough that I'd remember and I stood over the sink in my kitchen, now a couple decades later, and I put my glass in the sink and pulled my face together before I looked back at Elle.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I have to get ready.”
Called my mother back and threw a toothbrush, pajamas, and socks in a bag and waited.
Elle stayed for a while and I finished what wine was left and we listened to another record and then my mother showed up on my porch.
I went to Connecticut.
My grandmother, my grandmother.
There is nothing I can write here to articulate my love for her.
I stand in the corner of the hospital room.
She is lying in the bed and I am numb. Something inside of me has distanced myself. No, detached. I am not here. She is not her. Her face is distorted and... she is. Not. Her. I refuse it.
Aunts are there. Cousins. I love them all, but I am not there. For hours I sit in the corner and I watch. I write. I drink water and don't understand why hospitals don't have bars and my cousins cry and my aunts cry and an uncle shows up and he cries and I wish I could but I am just not there. That is not my grandmother.
After a long time, a day, she goes, though I have no memory of it.
Only watching my mother crouched over her bed, clutching her hand and whispering in her ear, holding back.
In silence mostly, my mother and I drive home, and I am finishing this story a year and a half later (although quickly) because... I am able to accept it now.
You were loved.
I hope you knew that.
You were good and you were loved.
“James,” my mother said.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Listen... my mom's not doing well.”
“I know, Ma. You all right?” Still asleep.
“Yes, but, she just had surgery and they aren't sure if she'll survive another one.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah. So, they are saying it could be any time, now. I wanted to give you a heads up in case you wanted to throw together an overnight bag. It could, you know, be anytime.”
“Weeks? Days?”
“They don't know. She could surprise us and have a couple years still. They don't know.”
“Okay, Ma.”
“I'm going to let you go. I'm trying to...”
“I know. I love you.”
“I love you. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Crawled out of bed. Onto the floor.
“Everything all right?” Elle asked from the bed.
“I don't know.” Slid into the bathroom, pissed and drank from the tap. The circles under my eyes were darkening and I thought they looked red also, but it had been a rough couple of months and I wasn't surprised.
“What'd your mom say?” she asked.
“My grandmother's not doing well. She wanted me to be prepared.”
“Oh shit, I'm sorry.”
“Thanks. It's okay. I might have to disappear to Connecticut at some point. Don't know when.”
“Of course.”
The slime of morning fell away over the next couple of hours. I made eggs and toast and listened to a few records and when it was near eleven Elle decided she would be visiting her parents so I poured a glass of wine and a few more and we watched a show I was forcing on her.
Hours passed and my living room grew dark and the wine was almost gone. We mumbled back and forth to each other about how bored we were and suggested all of the things we could but wouldn't do. Paint. Play music. Write. We decided we'd drive to the store. Get more wine. Maybe the things we'd need for baking something or other.
My phone vibrated itself off the table and I thought I should really turn that setting down.
“Hi ma,” I said.
“They think it may be tonight.” Her voice was stone.
"Shit. Christ.”
“I am driving down now,” she said. If you want to ride down with us, or drive on your own, or you can stay. I know you work, so...”
“Ma, just give me a few minutes to make plans. I'll call you back.”
“Okay, but I am leaving soon so don't take long.”
“I got it ma. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Elle looked at me from the couch.
Eyes big.
“I have to go to Connecticut.”
“I know. Do you want me to come?”
“You can if you want, but I don't know when I'll be back. You won't make it to work.”
“Okay.”
“I have to call my job.”
I went to the kitchen and left a voicemail on my boss' phone and finished my wine and thought about being a kid and running through my grandmothers condo with my cousins and that horrible couch in the basement and the portraits of clowns and the framed pencil drawings of my mother and aunts as young girls. The organ and grandfather clock. Ceramic cats and pecan pie. She would swear in french rarely but enough that I'd remember and I stood over the sink in my kitchen, now a couple decades later, and I put my glass in the sink and pulled my face together before I looked back at Elle.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I have to get ready.”
Called my mother back and threw a toothbrush, pajamas, and socks in a bag and waited.
Elle stayed for a while and I finished what wine was left and we listened to another record and then my mother showed up on my porch.
I went to Connecticut.
My grandmother, my grandmother.
There is nothing I can write here to articulate my love for her.
I stand in the corner of the hospital room.
She is lying in the bed and I am numb. Something inside of me has distanced myself. No, detached. I am not here. She is not her. Her face is distorted and... she is. Not. Her. I refuse it.
Aunts are there. Cousins. I love them all, but I am not there. For hours I sit in the corner and I watch. I write. I drink water and don't understand why hospitals don't have bars and my cousins cry and my aunts cry and an uncle shows up and he cries and I wish I could but I am just not there. That is not my grandmother.
After a long time, a day, she goes, though I have no memory of it.
Only watching my mother crouched over her bed, clutching her hand and whispering in her ear, holding back.
In silence mostly, my mother and I drive home, and I am finishing this story a year and a half later (although quickly) because... I am able to accept it now.
You were loved.
I hope you knew that.
You were good and you were loved.
Saturday, October 14, 2017
Counting Streetlamps
It's three in the morning and my feet are on the dash of the passenger side. Through the parking lot the headlights bore and glow and fade. My hand on my forehead and I try to remember all of the things I said to you today and what they might mean and what they might mean later. I think I have relied too much on subtletey and I think I underestimate you and I think I'm an over-indulgent piece of shit and I think I'm over-thinking.
The car backs out and the headlights glide over the cars near and into the dark and into the end of the night. It moves and I move with it. I'm drunk. Focused only on the memory of watching you walk away. Watching you leave.
I wonder;
How many have thought of you like I do?
The rhythm of your name?
The syllables and how they dance and sway?
The relief of my fingers on your skin and your breath on my neck.
Thought "her"?
Been me?
My feet on the dashboard and out of the parking lot. The hood of my sweatshirt tight around my head. The sunglasses ridiculous on my face. The beer in my hand. The absence and you can't understand. Maybe it's the absence of me. Maybe it's less than I believe. Maybe.
I don't think that's true
and I don't think you do either.
I drink the beer and as the streetlamps pass I count them and I want to stop for food but I don't speak up because when I take off my shirt I want you to think more of me than I am.
Though it would be nice to be distracted for a minute.
Count the streetlamps. The syllables.
My feet on the dashboard and why haven't I quit yet? I'm not sure I have an answer anymore.
It would be nice.
The car backs out and the headlights glide over the cars near and into the dark and into the end of the night. It moves and I move with it. I'm drunk. Focused only on the memory of watching you walk away. Watching you leave.
I wonder;
How many have thought of you like I do?
The rhythm of your name?
The syllables and how they dance and sway?
The relief of my fingers on your skin and your breath on my neck.
Thought "her"?
Been me?
My feet on the dashboard and out of the parking lot. The hood of my sweatshirt tight around my head. The sunglasses ridiculous on my face. The beer in my hand. The absence and you can't understand. Maybe it's the absence of me. Maybe it's less than I believe. Maybe.
I don't think that's true
and I don't think you do either.
I drink the beer and as the streetlamps pass I count them and I want to stop for food but I don't speak up because when I take off my shirt I want you to think more of me than I am.
Though it would be nice to be distracted for a minute.
Count the streetlamps. The syllables.
My feet on the dashboard and why haven't I quit yet? I'm not sure I have an answer anymore.
It would be nice.
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
A Heavily Edited Narrative While I Avoid
Oh. Well, that was a bad idea.
Another stretch of sleeplessness. I do it to myself. Force myself to keep going. To have more. Take more. Do more. More. More.
That sort of indulgence... Guided destruction. Goddamn. I see what I'm doing.
I'm writing to that fucking song and not reading anything into it.
I'm in a bar I frequent. The bartender and I get along. We understand each other, I think. I came there early in the night and as I walked up I realized too late you were there. (Fuck you, then.) Ignore. Breeze by.
"Booze me," I say to the bartender, who is outside and not doing his goddamn job, charmingly.
"Hang out outside," he says.
"No."
I go in. Find a seat no one will ever see. My headphones are missing but I have a notebook and a pen and I think that that is good enough.
I sit. Write. The bartender comes in. Slaps me on the shoulder.
"What do you want? A drink?"
"Please," I say.
"Wine?"
"Sure."
He fills a large glass to the brim. He knows I've been trouble lately and we talk about it briefly. I'm not proud. I'm not ashamed. I feel the weight of sleeplessness. Of the self imposed isolation.
Fuck you, then.
Drink.
I have a fight coming later and I'm not sure if I should be concerned. Maybe. Maybe I should. I'll get into it and see how I feel then.
Elle and I...
Well, no.
Last night I got drunk. More drunk. More than normal. Drank a few bottles of wine. Came to this bar. Drank another. A few shots. Beer. An hour or so and the day (fuck you, then) disappeared. Got into trouble and eventually a girl that Elle and I saw briefly a few months back messaged me. Wanted to hang out again. I thought it odd but I was drunk and I tend to follow the wind when I am.
"Yeah, we'll swing over. Elle is at work. Message her."
FUCK YOU, THEN.
A minute or so later I left and walked to the girls house. It was cold and I was bored.
Arrive. Elle messaged me and told me she was hurt that I was there and I played it off. No. I ignored it because I have been losing my emotions. She doesn't believe me when I say that, but I think she might now because
She came but didn't want to stay.
She stayed but didn't want to fuck.
She fucked but didn't want to sleep.
She didn't. Stared at the ceiling. Sometimes at me.
I never helped. I watched her drain into this and that is the person I am.
Let's
Get
To
The
Bottom.
Fucked.
Slept less than an hour, if I did at all.
Now drinking since noon.
Here at this fucking bar. Don't want to go home. Ever.
Been thinking about going to Florida.
Might go to Florida.
Fuck you, then.
Fuck all of you.
Fuck me. I need a drink.
I need...
I need a reason to... anything.
Stay here. Drink more. Go home. Wander. Fight that fucking piece of shit. Ignore whoever he is. Ignore you. I need a reason.
I don't have one. I sit and drink.
An hour. I'm getting loud. A fire is lit. Asa is here. Fuck. I'm going to start a fight.
Good. I think I need to start a fight. You fuck.
You are avoiding coming in here. Just like I am avoiding going out there.
Fuck you, then.
Poor Elle, sincerely.
"What are you writing?" a guy near me asks.
"I don't fucking know. The narrative." I drink.
"The narrative?"
Drink more. Breathe. "You know," I say. "If someone was narrating your life. The threads. The themes. The important bits. Your life. How would that read?"
"Boring, probably," he says. "Boring and sad."
"Well, fucking... there you go."
Another stretch of sleeplessness. I do it to myself. Force myself to keep going. To have more. Take more. Do more. More. More.
That sort of indulgence... Guided destruction. Goddamn. I see what I'm doing.
I'm writing to that fucking song and not reading anything into it.
I'm in a bar I frequent. The bartender and I get along. We understand each other, I think. I came there early in the night and as I walked up I realized too late you were there. (Fuck you, then.) Ignore. Breeze by.
"Booze me," I say to the bartender, who is outside and not doing his goddamn job, charmingly.
"Hang out outside," he says.
"No."
I go in. Find a seat no one will ever see. My headphones are missing but I have a notebook and a pen and I think that that is good enough.
I sit. Write. The bartender comes in. Slaps me on the shoulder.
"What do you want? A drink?"
"Please," I say.
"Wine?"
"Sure."
He fills a large glass to the brim. He knows I've been trouble lately and we talk about it briefly. I'm not proud. I'm not ashamed. I feel the weight of sleeplessness. Of the self imposed isolation.
Fuck you, then.
Drink.
I have a fight coming later and I'm not sure if I should be concerned. Maybe. Maybe I should. I'll get into it and see how I feel then.
Elle and I...
Well, no.
Last night I got drunk. More drunk. More than normal. Drank a few bottles of wine. Came to this bar. Drank another. A few shots. Beer. An hour or so and the day (fuck you, then) disappeared. Got into trouble and eventually a girl that Elle and I saw briefly a few months back messaged me. Wanted to hang out again. I thought it odd but I was drunk and I tend to follow the wind when I am.
"Yeah, we'll swing over. Elle is at work. Message her."
FUCK YOU, THEN.
A minute or so later I left and walked to the girls house. It was cold and I was bored.
Arrive. Elle messaged me and told me she was hurt that I was there and I played it off. No. I ignored it because I have been losing my emotions. She doesn't believe me when I say that, but I think she might now because
She came but didn't want to stay.
She stayed but didn't want to fuck.
She fucked but didn't want to sleep.
She didn't. Stared at the ceiling. Sometimes at me.
I never helped. I watched her drain into this and that is the person I am.
Let's
Get
To
The
Bottom.
Fucked.
Slept less than an hour, if I did at all.
Now drinking since noon.
Here at this fucking bar. Don't want to go home. Ever.
Been thinking about going to Florida.
Might go to Florida.
Fuck you, then.
Fuck all of you.
Fuck me. I need a drink.
I need...
I need a reason to... anything.
Stay here. Drink more. Go home. Wander. Fight that fucking piece of shit. Ignore whoever he is. Ignore you. I need a reason.
I don't have one. I sit and drink.
An hour. I'm getting loud. A fire is lit. Asa is here. Fuck. I'm going to start a fight.
Good. I think I need to start a fight. You fuck.
You are avoiding coming in here. Just like I am avoiding going out there.
Fuck you, then.
Poor Elle, sincerely.
"What are you writing?" a guy near me asks.
"I don't fucking know. The narrative." I drink.
"The narrative?"
Drink more. Breathe. "You know," I say. "If someone was narrating your life. The threads. The themes. The important bits. Your life. How would that read?"
"Boring, probably," he says. "Boring and sad."
"Well, fucking... there you go."
Monday, October 2, 2017
Scribbling in a Bar with Headphones in on My Lunchbreak.
Okay.
Shooting stars and the dark.
Four stories and the walk.
The kiss, the touch, the look, the thought.
The night, the drink, the fear, the talk.
Okay.
If you say so.
Shooting stars and the dark.
Four stories and the walk.
The kiss, the touch, the look, the thought.
The night, the drink, the fear, the talk.
Okay.
If you say so.
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