Dead Bee

 A couple Ativan. Down the hatch.

Sage had given me a bottle of them a few months back. Before she left for detox. They sat in my medicine cabinet for a while. I had never been a fan of benzos. I was tired enough as it was. A year before I had been prescribed Klonopin and I just traded them for Adderall (which actually solved the problems the Klonopin had been prescribed for, funny enough). No one had Adderall anymore so the Ativan just sat in the medicine cabinet.

I had worked myself up. A strange and disorienting week. In the morning I called out of work and I was pacing around my kitchen and loudly arguing with myself. I realized Barb downstairs could probably hear me and I began whispering to myself, quickly and repeating sentences and scenarios over and over. Fighting people who weren't there. Attacking my insecurities. Laughing at my defenses. Arguing, arguing, arguing. Then my heart was pounding. I could see it when I looked down. I had been overly anxious since the day before and I knew what was happening.

"It's an attack," I said out loud to myself. "This isn't real. You are okay."

It didn't matter. The abuse spilled out. The arguments continued. The ghosts of people I used to know filled my kitchen and I swung at all of them. I could feel the pressure behind my eyes and the tightness in my chest.

"It's not fucking real. It's not real. It's not real. You are okay. You are doing this to yourself. Stop. Breathe. It's a spiral. You can stop. It's not real."

I couldn't though. Panic had set firmly in and I had stopped pacing. I was standing solidly in my kitchen, staring into the dark pantry and whispering anger at myself, sharp and through teeth. I was hyperventilating and I noticed the world was blurring around me. I knew what was happening. I've stopped it in the past.

"This isn't real. You are making this happen. Stop. You can stop this. Breathe."

Ativan.

"Fuck the Ativan. Coward. Listen. You aren't lying to yourself. You see what's real. You see it. You're angry because you see it. It hurts because it's real. Coward. Face it."

"Ativan," I said.

"No. No no no no no. You want this to stop? Face it. Don't run. Coward. Face it. You fuck. You fucking coward. Look at what you've done to yourself. Look at this mess. You aren't loved. You are pitied. You fucking coward."

"Bathroom." I couldn't move. Locked in the doorway of the pantry. Chest heaving and a blurred world around me.

"Take enough this time. Make it fucking count. Take enough. Nine grams. Nine grams and the fucking Ativan. You want escape? Escape. Coward."

My body loosened and I exhaled as if I had been holding my breath for a long time. Heavy and deep. My body trembled and the pressure in my skull was building. I turned and moved toward the bathroom, all the while muttering; 

"Coward. Coward. Coward. Fucking do it. Coward."

"Shut the fuck up," I whispered back.

My jaw clenched. My breath quickened again. My eyes stung and I realized I had been crying.

The closer I got to the medicine cabinet the slower I moved. The more I felt held back.

"If you're going to do it, do it right. You fuck. You waste. Do it."

I slid the mirror open and fumbled for the container, knocking a few of my other medications out and into the sink. The noise both unnoticed and deafening simultaneously. I found the ativan and quickly unscrewed the bottle. Slid out two and swallowed them dry.

I could see half my face in the mirror. It wasn't me. It was antagonistic. An enemy. A dragon. My father, XXXXXXXX, kids in my schools. It was shadowed and pressuring and it's eyes weren't mine.

"Cry. Cry. Coward. Do it right. Finish them off. Nine grams and all the Ativan. Make it count. Coward."

I had just refilled my prescriptions. I could. I had enough. I could. And then I was sobbing. I felt heaving coming and I lost feeling in my legs and crumpled onto the floor by the sink. Breathing irregular, heavy, and out of control. Weeping. Choking. All static and noise and screaming and shadows. Ghosts and echoes.

A half hour passed. 

The ativan had kicked in. A half hour passed and I wiped my eyes and looked around, ashamed.

No ghosts. No antagonists. No arguments. Nothing.

I was alone in my bathroom, in a pile on the floor and I focused on a dead bee under my radiator. 

How did you get in here?

I was breathing normally and for a few minutes I was focused on the bee. Stood up, went into the kitchen and made eggs.

Two Moments and the Coming Day

It was still the blue morning and outside the snow fell light on the air. I stood away from the window, half awake and halfway through the dark living room, staring absently as the dreams and clouds faded. Staring absently as they were replaced with the coming day. Staring absently. In peace.

The snow drifted with the wind above the street, in swirls and waves, and maybe it landed or maybe it flit forever across the town. Over the hills, between the houses, out over the river and then it would be gone. Gone and drifting endlessly away, careless and at peace forever and all that would ever remain; just a memory of a morning. Me, half awake. Halfway through the dark living room and away from the window. Staring absently.

The dreams were gone now. The fog remained. The house was quiet. The neighborhood was quiet. I pushed gently against the images of coming hours creeping in. My desk. Flourescent lights. The void of spreadsheets and chatter and the everpresent and growing ache forever spreading across my lower back. The talking. The character. 

Staring absently.

The snow. The blue light of morning.

The still.

Breathing in my moments before I was real. Before the day. Before the noise and patterns and the hum of a world in it's throes, kicking and screaming denial and insistance and hope. 

No. Now the moment was gone. 

Serena was asleep in my bed. She had asked me to wake her with me. She wanted the morning with me. To speak with me and be near me and she just wanted to be awake and near me, but I couldn't bring myself to wake her just yet. 6:30 is a violent time to be awake.

Slowly I moved into the kitchen. To the coffee that had brewed on its own a half hour before. Poured a mug mostly full and then the rest with cold water. Evened it out. I could drink it quicker and refill it quicker. I could get more coffee in me in the quickly disappearing moments before it all.

Standing at the sink I sipped at the coffee. Closed my eyes and I could have fallen asleep easily. I wanted to. I wanted to set my coffee down. Pour it back into the pot. Throw my robe on the floor and crawl back into bed. Pull the blankets over me, pull Serena close to me, her heat against me. Her skin against my skin. Close my eyes. Close my eyes, smell her hair, and slip away for only a few moments more.

But I didn't. 

Another sip. A deep breath. My tongue had been scraping against a broken molar and it stung with each swallow. Another fucking thing.

The dreams and clouds were all gone and I wasn't pouring the coffee back into the pot. A slow breath, and then I walked back to the bedroom. Set my coffee on the milkcrates I used as a nightstand, pulled the blankets back, propped a pillow against the wall, and crawled into bed. Sitting upright against the wall I took my coffee and sipped again and set my hand on Serena's hip. Just to touch her. 

It was time.

I ran my fingers up her side, slow and light, and she shifted. First slow, then with purpose.

"Hmm?" she said, opening her eyes and lifting herself up. "Hi." She smiled.

"Good morning."

"Is it time?"

I smiled. "It is."

"Did you get coffee?"

I held my cup up. "I did."

"Mmm. Good," she said and laid back down, rolling over to me, and settling her head against my chest. I laid my arm around her and pulled her tighter to me. "How'd you sleep?" she asked.

"Okay. You?"

"Good. Thank you for waking me up this time."

"I told you I would."

She ran her fingers over my stomach. "I really like waking up with you."

I sipped from my coffee. "It is nice."

The snow drifted and danced above the streets and our warmth between the blankets was the entire world, for just a moment.

I sipped at my coffee and closed my eyes and breathed it all in slow, filling my chest and heart, and today I had been given two moments. 

Two moments of beauty. Two moments of peace. Two gifts.

I would get through the day.

Restless

 Laying in bed, in the dark. I stayed up too late.

Poison of modernity rattling around in my skull. Air conditioner fan humming along in the window. 

A week had passed in a haze and I thought I was going to move easily through it. I thought, I thought.

To hell with it. Say it.

I roll over and pick up my phone. The glare stuns for a moment and I squint, open the app. Open the message. Type.

"This is all a real bummer."

I hesitate for a moment, and decide to just say it. Send. What does it matter now? Might as well.

I don't wait for a response. I roll over and try to sleep. Waves of blacker than black sweep across my vision, a swallowing void. Intricately detailed images grow and change inside it. Beyond realistic. More than that. A hand. A face. Faces. Melting and gnashing. Every night. Faces and teeth and melting and gnashing. I usually forget by the morning, but each night I am reminded and I know that I am falling asleep.

The recognition of that pulls me back for a moment and I'll have to repeat the whole process, again and again. I think about the message and the last week and a handful of small moments. A knot under my ribs. I want to look for a response but I don't. I had my moment of weakness and now I have to sleep. 

I shift uncomfortably to my other side. Nothing feels right. A crawling through my body. My brain racing and fighting itself. My fucking feet are hot under the blankets. I kick them off.

Wish it was Friday so I could stay awake and pace the house. Wish it was months ago so I could keep myself in line. Wish it was years ago. Wish it was over. Wish it never began. Fill a bowl with water and fucking scry about it. What happens next?

"Oh my god, shut up," I whisper into the dark. 

Lie on my back, stare toward the ceiling. The room only barely illuminated by the small green light on the air conditioner. My room. This box. This casket. Bare walls and cold and dark. Stare toward the ceiling. 

Unsend it.

Leave it.

Unsend it.

Leave it.

It didn't have to be a cold situation. It felt cold. Unsending would reinforce that, but leaving it would expose me. 

Shift again on the mattress. 

I consider how I'll feel about it in the morning. In the daylight. How I've felt in the past in similar situations and I think; 

It's not too much. It's honest. Leave it.

I leave it. I roll again to my side, facing the wall and try to close my eyes. Wait for the blacker than black. Wait for the gnashing and melting. Wait to never feel. Eventually they all must have come for me, because then; morning.

Again and again.

Don't Do Dumb Shit

 "Don't do dumb shit." Send.

And that's that.

Slip my phone into my back pocket and walk to the window. The grey November world. Bursts of orange. Soon nothing. A man across the street waves at a boy coming up the sidewalk and the boy waves back. I watch and absorb the moment. I imagine the love. The family. The connection. I am happy for them. I try to be, anyway.

I have nothing to say about it. I decide to say nothing about it. Let it be.

I was hungry but I'm not now. I am filled with gravel. Weight. Disappointment.  

Back porch. Pantry door. Cat room. Apples all over the ground. 

I try to shake it all out of my mind. It doesn't work. 

A mattress in the cold. A spider trapped in a birdhouse. A comforter in the grass.

They flood in. All I can do is wade through it. 

I pace my living room a few times, hoping I find my destination on the way. I don't. I'm nervous to sit. If I sit I'll think and that's the last goddamned thing I should do. Pace. Into the kitchen. Into the living room. The office, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room and on and on. I could already feel structures and wire frames building around it all. Building a larger explanation. A stronger narrative. 

Because of this...

That makes sense if...

This is a lie...

But I know it doesn't matter. It's out of my hands. I did what I could. I try to tear the narratives down. They aren't real. Even if I'm right, they don't matter. They only exist in me. They only affect me. 

I have a show later. I can focus on that. 

Knee deep in the creek. Torn out pages of music books. Hoverflys.

I go to my office, sit, and pick up my guitar. Capo 4, Asus4, C, E minor. Over and over. I sing the song. That spiteful jab. That leftover. That scar. I won't write about this though. I have nothing to say. I decide to say nothing.

The hours pass and soon I will have to leave and sing and smile but for a long time I sit in the dark office and let it wash over me. Let it come and soon it will pass. 

Unbroken shells among the rocks. Dead arm. Fermented lemon.

Let it come, and soon it will pass.

Soon it will pass.

 It will pass.

 

It will.

And Through the Window...

 Friday on Halloween weekend.

Are you coming out?

I'll be at...

Come to...

No. I was in my office. Recording guitars. A record I had started last year, abandoned, and had recently come back to. I needed something to focus on. To pay attention to. To try to care about. Recording guitars with half a heart and just trying to say "hey, at least I did something today."

Scroll.

People posting costumes. Make-up. Parties. A world away.

I was in my office. Recording guitars. Half a heart. 

Strum the same chord slowly, repeatedly, and drift into the drone. One and one and one and one and

I turn the amp off. Set the guitar, my beautiful and beaten love, to the side. I couldn't do it. I wasn't there.

My sweater is on the floor behind the amps. The sleeve catches my eye and I see the knitting and the colors. I can feel the warmth of it. The touch. I must have thrown it off and lost it there. I must have forgotten. I've been forgetting everything.

Sit back in the chair and through the window night has come. I hadn't noticed.

Friday on Halloween weekend. 

Through the window.

A world away.

I am not here.

Light Conversation

 "I worry about you sometimes," my mother says from across the table. 

She had driven down and we went to get lunch. She does once in a while, and we do. We talk over whatever our family is up to. Plans for the future. She is looking for the perfect property in the woods near water and away from everything and I think it's funny that that is also my dream. To be alone in the forest. To live and slowly die in a home that wants me, painting, reading, taking care of my small corner of the world. Drive into town once a month for groceries and to sing at an open mic. Each time she describes her property, I think it's funny.

I always try to keep the conversation light. We both do. She had caught me off guard then.

"I'm okay."

"How long has it been since you came back?"

"A year and a half."

"Look how well you've done in a year and a half. You've come a long way."

"I got very lucky. You know, the apartment, this job. It's not me. I just got lucky." I take a bite and with my finger push a meatball back into the sandwich.

"Maybe. You should take more credit. I'm proud of you. You should be too."

I'm having a rough time lately. I was okay for a little while but not anymore and when she says that I can feel a pressure in my eyes and I look away. Stare at a large neon "S" affixed to the wall near the counter. It woudn't look right to put my sunglasses on now. It's a tell. I stare at the S.

"Are you still in therapy?" she asks.

"Yeah. Taking my medication. Doing all the things I need to do." 

"Good."

I nod. Take another bite. I'm almost finished. I ate too quickly and I wonder if it's because some part of me wants to just get home and hide. 

I know I have to try to stop over-analyzing every moment and word and look. Even sitting here, eating with my mother who is showing a legitimate and justified concern, I am oscillating between total detachment and running math on what these words really mean. Why is she telling me she's proud? Because she isn't. How could she be? I am nothing. Wasted potential. Wasted years. Wasted opportunities. She could only see me as the alcoholic. The addict. Desperate for attention. Unmotivated. Lazy. Stunted. Delusional. She can't be proud. The math doesn't work.

I've been told it's projection, and maybe it is, but I've been right so many times. Even if it is projection, it doesn't mean I'm wrong. 

She looks at me and I am ashamed.

"I have a lot to be grateful for," I say. "I think about it a lot."

"You do. It's important to remember that. You have a good home. A good car. A good job. Do you have groceries? Do you need help getting groceries?"

I am ashamed. I look away again. 

"No. Thank you though. I appreciate it. I have food. I have some money."

"Okay. I just want to make sure. While I'm in town, if you need anything, I want to help."

"I know, Mom. Thank you."

"You know you can always call me, right? Always, but I mean, you know, if you need to. When..."

She's having trouble saying it. I've done this to her. 

"I know. I'm okay. I promise."

She takes a bite of her food and she keeps looking at me. "Do you have people you can call?"

"Yes." It takes me a second to figure out if I'm lying. 

I'm not.

"Yeah, I have a support system. I have one or two people I can talk to. That I would talk to."

"Good. That's important." She takes a few seconds. "I just worry sometimes."

"I know. But I'm okay. I promise." 

She gives a small smile and I try to read it. She knows she's done as much as she can do. Said all she can. I don't know if she believes me, the smile says she doesn't, but maybe it's projection. 

"Your niece doesn't want to go to Columbia," she says. "She saw the campus and just said 'no'."

"That's it? Why?"

"Who knows. She says she wants to go to Oneonta instead."

The tone has shifted. We're out of the forest now. Into the sun.

"That's ridiculous. I'm texting her," I say.

"What are you going to say?"

"Go to Columbia you dork."

"She's not going to have any idea what you're talking about."

"I'll say it twice."

We finish our food. We talk about schools and futures and plans. We throw away our garbage, wipe the table. Leave. 

She drops me off at my apartment. We hug and she kisses me on the cheek. 

"Thanks for having lunch with me," she says.

"Thank you, Mom. I appreciate it."

She gets in her truck and as she leaves I go inside. Hide.

Handkerchief

I was seeing shit. Out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes in front of me. Wisps like black smoke and sometimes more solid like fabric. I had taken to calling it a handkerchief. Usually just quickly in my periphery, but not always.Once or twice I had looked right at it. 

Someone else had also seen it. So I thought it must be real. I thought I couldn't be hallucinating. But maybe it wasn't. Maybe they were hallucinating with me. It happens. They were concerned they were having a breakdown, and maybe they were. Maybe I am.

It had always been in that house. Sometimes near the floor boards. Sometimes close to the ceiling. Always sudden and then swiftly gone. I didn't talk about it for a while at first, until they brought it up. Sitting in the dark outside, comparing notes. The same thing.

The handkerchief.

It stayed in that house mostly and soon they said "please don't talk about it with me anymore." So I stopped. I don't know if they ever saw it again, but for a while afterward I did. In the living room mostly, flitting away into the shadows. It wasn't frightening, but curious. Other things would happen in the house. Noises that made no sense, mostly. A lamp turning itself on and off. What sounded like walking in an empty bedroom upstairs. Another bedroom with an often overwhelming oppressiveness. 

I wanted to investigate. To learn. Ask questions and find answers, but they said "please don't talk about it with me anymore" and I left it alone. Only watched. I saw it less and less there.

I had gone through a rough period in the spring and early summer. If you've spent any significant period of time with me, you'd know that weird shit starts to happen around me in those times. And it was. It's the only correlation that I can put together consistently. I'm feeling rough, shit gets weird.

Over the last couple of weeks I had been dipping into it again. The dark. Slowly and without cause. In my living room a few days ago I was nearing the point where I get nervous about it and the next day a wisp of grey smoke out of the corner of my eye. I ignored it, but noted it, as I note damn near everything. The next day, in my kitchen, another. I started paying attention. Two days ago, at work a third. Then last night, I looked right at it.

It wasn't smoke this time. It seemed as though fabric. Black. In the crack under the bottom of my bedroom door, sticking out an inch or two. I looked right at it and just as quickly it slipped under the door as if yanked from the other side. I ran into the bedroom, vigilant watch on the floor. Nothing. I thought that maybe I had only seen a mouse, and that it wasn't black, just dark. I stuffed a shirt under the door and went through the bedroom. The baseboards. The walls. Anywhere a mouse could have slipped into. I went through the clothing on my floor. The laundry basket, under my bed. My book shelf. My closet. Everywhere. I found no mouse. I found no holes or cracks. No exits.

I had looked right at it.

It was with me now, and I had looked right at it.

It makes me nervous. A medication I had been on had caused distinct auditory hallucinations and I had stopped using it. I wondered if the new medication was doing the same thing. I wondered if it could be stress. Could depression make me hallucinate? I had been sleeping okay that week, so I didn't think it was that. But two things I didn't want to entertain were; I'm losing my shit, or what I saw was real.

I was seeing shit. Barely leaving the dark apartment. Burnt out from work and the world in general. From just living. Depressed, anxious, and increasingly paranoid and I was seeing shit. 

I'm going to catch it and make it pay some fucking rent. 

The Characters

Stare out at the void. The crowd. Shuffling and mingling and flowing from room to room, interaction to interaction. I'm sitting with Amy in a dim corner on large and comfortable chairs. She's gone through a rough break up and I'm, well there's always something going on. 

I had asked her to come with me. To this lounge, to an opening where a few of my paintings were being displayed for a couple months. I hate going to these things, and I hate going to these things alone. I am intensly nervous around crowds, but with someone near, some safety net, I can slip a mask on. A costume. A character and pretend.

"I don't think I'm going to be much fun tonight," she says.

"I know. Don't worry, you don't have to be. I just wanted to hang out a bit."

"Okay."

"Thank you for coming with me though. I appreciate it."

"Of course," she says, watching the flow of bodies.

"I hate this type of thing."

"I know. It's funny."

"Why?" I take a sip of the wine I had paid twelve dollars for.

"Because you keep putting yourself in these situations."

I raise an eyebrow. "Well, yeah, that's true, but..."

"But what?" she asks.

"But I have to. Get out there, I mean."

"But you didn't have to come here tonight. You could have just stayed home. You could have just dropped your paintings off and not worried about it."

"I thought about it."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you didn't, It's nice hanging out and doing something and I'm happy you're leaving the house, I just mean that I think there is part of you that likes this sort of thing. Or wants to, anyway."

I think about it for a second. I take my phone out and film some B-Roll for a video I'm putting together. After a few seconds I stop, put my phone away, take another sip, and return.

"Yeah," I say. "That might be true. I do want to be normal. To be... okay with this. Or, comfortable with this. To look forward to these types of things. Mingling. Socializing. Bumping elbows or whatever the hell they say."

"It's okay not to be."

"Of course, for sure. But, I don't know, I do this sort of character when I'm like this, or at shows, or if I go out for whatever reason. You know? Social me."

"I know. I'm well aware of the character. Characters."

"Yeah," I say. "But, I guess I just hope that one day I become it? Does that make sense? Like, one day the person that everyone meets in places like this is the person I just... am."

Amy drinks her beer. A good amount of it. I think she forgot she had it.

"Do you want my opinion?" she asks.

"Of course."

"I'm not a huge fan of the social character. I prefer the regular you."

I laugh. "Depression me?"

"That's not all you are, and you know it. You know what I mean."

"I know. Well... No. I don't know, it's difficult. Most people that I let meet me, I mean in that way, run. Or resent me for it. For, like, lying to them about who I was before I let them in. I don't know. Social me is either really well liked, or really disliked and I'm okay with that because none of that is actually me. It's not me that those feelings are directed at."

"It is to them, though."

I look at her for the first time in a few minutes, questioning.

"To them," she says, "That's you. That's why when you let people in it disappoints them. I'm sorry, that sucks, I get it, but to them the actual you is the person they met." She takes another drink. A couple walk by and briefly glance at one of my paintings, nodding. "When people meet you out in places like this, and I've seen it happen over and over, you light them up. You can be really charming and funny and nice. That isn't to say the real you isn't those things also, but the social you is all there on the surface. You seem wide open and people feel like they instantly connect. So when you eventually show people that 'hey that was all an act, and here is quieter, more serious, depressed me', as you put it, it's kind of whiplash for some folks."

"Yeah, I get it."

"But, on the other hand, there are a lot of people, and I've seen this a bunch too, who meet you, can't stand that social you, and never even get the opportunity to learn that it's this character you do. I mean, I know why you do it, I get it. I love you and I get it. I just mean, those folks don't ever actually meet you at all. But they think they have, and that's enough for them to only think of you as that person."

"I can't disappoint them, then."

"You disappoint them from the beginning. At least with the folks that do like social you, they might get the opportunity. I mean, will it guarantee you to be universally liked? No, of course not, but... I don't know. I love you. I really like the you I know. The not-character you. I wish that that was what you wanted everyone to see. In these situations or not."

I sip my wine. 

"Did you see who's here?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Nothing? Drink my wine and walk around."

"Okay. Is there anything I should do?"

"No. I don't care."

"Okay." She finishes her beer. "I'm getting another one. And I've gotta pee. Watch my purse?"

"Sure."

"Do you want another wine?" she asks.

"Yeah, please."

She nods, stands and disappears around the corner.

The lounge is dim and I wished the paintings had better lighting around them, but they were displayed and out and that was enough. I can see one of Grace's paintings across the room, near one of mine. She had done it in under a week and it was fantastic. Really put mine to shame. Unsurprisingly. 

I finish my wine, set my glass down and pull out my phone. Not keeping up the character. Not mingling. Not socializing. Yet. The nerves had hold of me and it would take a little more time and wine before I could handle it. 

I hadn't eaten all day and I was considering leaving. Heading down the street and getting a veggie burger from the restaurant I like, where I knew the staff and had slowly begun to let a few of them in. Where I could relax a little.

I could see Amy now at the bar, waiting for the bartenders attention. It was busy and after a few minutes she came back with a beer and handed me a glass of wine.

"They didn't have caberet," she says.

"Well, no this isn't that kind of place."

"Wait... what did I say?"

"Caberet."

She laughed. "I said that to the bartender too. She was like 'what?'"

"If you came back with a glass of caberet I'd be so fucking happy." I smiled.

"Well, for now it's just house red. No show at all."

"Absolute bullshit."

"I said I had no idea what she was talking about, by the way."

"About?"

"The fire thing."

I processed what that meant and when I got there laughed. "Okay. I mean, it doesn't matter. But, that's cool."

"Also, I saw Joseph and Ally."

"Where?"

"Back in the other room."

"Should we hang?" I asked.

"Yeah, if you want, let's go."

We stood and went to the other room, where Joseph, Ally, and a few others had gathered around a corner of the bar. More wine. Friends. Art. The Character came and went with the flow of people I did or didn't know. 

I don't even notice it anymore. The change just happens. Over and over and in the morning I will wake and I will be exhausted and socially unavailable for days or weeks and it's only recently that I've figured out why. 

The Characters. The one-person play. The show. 

It's exhausting.

Dude, Your Shit's So Dark

"You know, I saw your post. About hiding in a corner and pretending to be on your phone?" En handed my card back to me and I tapped 25% on the tip screen. "And that's exactly what you're doing."

I laughed. "Yeah. I guess it is." Put my card in my wallet, wallet in my pocket. "I wasn't lying. I don't do well at these things."

"You are though. You're doing well."

"Thanks," I said and smiled. Took the red blend back to the table in the corner where I had been hiding, took my phone out and sat down. 

I had been there for an hour or so and was still nervous. 

Grace had put it together. A couple dozen area artists in a gallery downtown. A few friends of mine, a few strangers, all fantastic. I didn't belong there. Kept glancing over at the pillars where a few of my paintings were hung. People would walk by. Stop for a moment. Move along. I was trying to give the pillars a wide berth. I didn't want to overhear people talking about it. I already knew what they were, but I didn't need to hear it from anyone else. I didn't belong. 

I was late to the opening. Left my house an hour early but sat at a restaurant and had a couple drinks to kill my nerves. Didn't work, but I was late all the same. 

My mother and her partner came and I walked and spoke with them for a while. Nervously clutching a wine glass and trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. Trying to not let my hands shake so much I spill the wine over my white tee shirt. Introduced them to Grace. Introduced them to Lee. A few others. Pointed out my friend's work and some work I admired otherwise. The tour ended quickly, a half hour or so, and I was still nervous. I didn't know what else to say or show but I did know that I had to mingle or talk if I wanted to do something with any of this. I said my goodbyes to them and saw Paul and his girlfriend in a corner and spoke to them for a minute.

Moved along. Wine glass mostly empty. Nerves like television static.

Spoke to Lee. Spoke to Grace. Spoke to Dani. A few others. Around and around the room. Over and over. 

I heard my name and saw someone standing near my paintings and Grace pointing at me. Avoided eye contact. 

Amy came with Farrah and I followed them around for a bit while I began to loosen up. Joseph came and there was a thought somewhere under the surface but I buried it wih the rest of them. I also thought about killing myself again and how I could and how I should and how I probably would, then buried that with the rest of them too. Another day another ideation. 

The fire alarm went off. We all stood outside and I thought that if the building caught fire and the paintings were destroyed it'd be my best sale of the night. The insurance. Casually, maybe a little more than casually, I liked the idea. 

In a crowd I stood on the sidewalk, clutching another red blend in a small wine glass and smiled with friends I had known for years and people I had just met and I wasn't nervous anymore. The blue and red lights from the fire truck danced through the summer night downtown, a band somewhere in the street played steadily nearby. A crowd of folks laughing at the absurdity of it all. 

Stood on the sidewalk, clutching another red blend in a small wine glass and smiled with friends. Happy I came. Happy to be invited. Happy to be a part of something. 

Happy to be loved.

When I got home Michael texted me.

"Dude, your shit's so dark."

"I didn't see you there," I said.

"I came late. They let me in to look. Come out."

I sat for a minute. I didn't like being out. I didn't like being around people anymore. I wasn't comfortable or wanted in those places, but I hadn't spent time with Michael in a few years.

"Okay."

I got dressed again.

A Bath

 "Do you wanna take a bath?"

It was dark now and the air was cooling. I was sitting with Sage on Baby Bed, a slowly collapsing and rotting old toddlers bed, pulled from the side of the road at some point. She had affectionately named it and now it served as her outdoor loveseat. Dim garden string lights draped above us (and above the also-scavenged bath tub not far from us in a patch of lillies), a rusted out firepit as a table, and a number of cats wandering here and there throughout the yard.

"Yes."

She nodded and looked down. I felt like she held back something close to a smile and I often noticed her avoiding eye contact. Starting a sentence, looking away and pulling it back in. I understood. 

Safety.

I wanted to know her, and I knew she was afraid of being known, or, maybe, known again. I saw it from the first moment. Her standing on the small porch outside of a bar, waiting for me. Beautiful and armored and trying. I saw a lot about her in that moment. I saw a lot about me in that moment. I understood, but I also understood it was going to make this, whatever this was, challenging.

She stood and set her cigarettes down on Baby Bed. "Do you think it's too cold?"

"The air?"

"Mmhmm."

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I don't know if the water is going to be hot enough," she said.

"Let's find out."

"Okay."

We walked across the small yard to the tub. A layer of dirt and nature smeared across the bottom. 

"I'll have to get a sponge. Clean it out."

I looked it over and ran a finger through it. "Absolutley."

"I'll be right back," she said and walked into the darkness to the house.

I took in the moment. The surreality of it. The lights seemed to light only a small circle in the garden. The tub, surrounded by lillies, as if being offered to us. I took a picture of it, and Sage came back out with an armload of things.

"Okay, let me turn on the water," she said, setting down a few bottles of... I don't know, and a sponge. I picked up the hose dangling on the side of the tub. She walked around the lillies and to the house, bent over into the garden and the spigot squeaked as she turned it. I could feel the pressure of it in the hose before it reached the tub. "Is that too much?" she asked.

"No, perfect." I pulled the cork out of the tub, creating a hole directly to the ground, and began washing the grime away. Running the water over it, wiping with the sponge, cleaning the sponge with the hose. It didn't take long. It was mostly new. One of the bottles Sage had brought out was soap and I poured it onto the sponge and began cleaning the tub, now that it was empty. Soaped it up, washed it off, repeat a couple of times. 

Plug over the drain and began to let it fill. 

Sage stood next to me and watched the water. "Do you think we should add bubbles?"

"Sure."

"I mean... I don't know if it's too early or if this stuff," she reached down and picked up a bottle, "will even make bubbles with the hose."

"It will. We just have to mix it around a bunch." 

"Oh, there's one thing I forgot. I have to go look." She walked into the house and I took my shirt off, watching the water slowly rise. The air was cool but not cold and the water was warm. Sage returned with an open can. "Coconut milk," she said, walking across the dark lawn. "It's good for your skin." The can was open and she poured it into the bath. "Bubbles?" she asked.

"Oh, right." I squirted some of whatever was in the bottle into the water, near the hose, and began using my hand to swirl it around. Soon bubbles appeared and grew and by the time the water was high enough there was a good and thick layer of them across the surface.

Sage took off her shirt and pants and underwear and set them aside. I took off the last of my clothes, wiped the bottoms of my feet and climbed in, leaving room. Sage climbed in slowly in front of me and sat back against my chest. I put my arms around her and set my head back, looking up at the garden lights.

"This is beautiful," I said. "This moment."

"I should have lit a cigarette before I got in." Sage sat forward and leaned out of the tub, rifling through her clothes, eventually pulling out a pack of American Spirits and a lighter. She opened the pack and looked inside. "I thought I had a clip in here," she said. "Guess not." She pulled out a fresh cigarette, lit it, and laid back against me. "Yeah, it is. I love taking baths out here."

I ran my hand along her side and around her breast and she leaned her head back into the crook of my neck and head, with an arm out of the tub holding the cigarette.

Tell myself to keep my fucking mouth shut and enjoy the moment as it was. 

Don't say anything. Don't overthink. Just enjoy it.

I sat in that bathtub in Sage's backyard at night. The warm water on my skin, the cool air on my face, Sage pressed against me. I sat in that bathtub and smelled her hair and kissed the top of her head and I kept my fucking mouth shut.

The moment.

On Fire and Feeling Alright

 I can feel the sweat pouring off of me. 

Only feedback screaming and soaring around the brick basement, under yellow garden lights. Holding the moment.

Joseph is watching me and I am keeping eye contact. For when the moment needs to break.

Jane, waiting, glances at her scribbled notes. Hank is letting his last chord, high on the neck, ring out.

I start nodding my head to Joseph and I can feel the pulse building inside of me. He feels it too. I can tell. We build off of each other and we build well. Tapping in to similar patterns and references and spontaneities. In that basement, under those yellow lights, we build. 

I am nodding and the moment needs to end.

Jane looks at me and is ready. Hank will get there exactly when he wants to.

Soon Joseph starts quickly building on the tom and snare and in four quick hits the moment explodes apart. 

The basement erupts in a thick and heavy blanket of chords. Pounding and infinitely dense. Heavier than we've been in a long time. I'm more excited than I've been in a long time. I'm present. 

I'm there. 

In that shattering moment I feel what I felt a year ago. I'm smiling behind my drenched and erratic hair, flying wildly around me as I'm hunched over, stomping my foot and beating the fucking life out those five strings.

It's a song we worked on a couple times over the last year but it never felt right. It never fit. Until tonight.

The chords give way to melodies and the melodies give way to shrieking leads. Drums explode like mortars and it feels like Jane is going to pull the fucking house down on top of us and I am smiling. 

Eight measures. Thirty seconds of weightlessness. Two chords of total and all consuming bliss and I step to the microphone and months of sadness and anger and rage, seconds of joy and excitement and relief all pour out of me.

Words I absent-mindedly tapped into my phone who knows how long ago. A dream I had. Driving in flames. Careless and burning and knowing I too will become ash and I hope that seeing me here, seeing me sing, hearing my voice will satisfy whatever you feel about me. Who fucking cares what that is.

I'm screaming. 

I hope you saw what you came here to see.

I hope you saw what you came here to see.

I hope you saw what you came here to see.

I hope you saw what you came here to see.

And I do. I hope it was worth it. Because for me, burning and careless, soaked in this moment of cacophony

I am here.

I am back.

I am alive.

I am on fire and feeling alright.

An Inconvenient Moment on a Monday Night

I was overheating. My skin felt wrong. Like it didn't fit. The shorts were too tight and I pulled them off. My hair brushed against my face like a broom and the music from the phone speaker was eating into me. I was overheating. Sweating suddenly. 

I got out of my chair and walked to the kitchen. Maybe I just need to eat. I hadn't eaten since noon or so and it was about ten something. I kept forgetting to eat or telling myself I didn't need to and lately I've been getting nauseous when it had been too long. I opened the fridge and pulled out a container of chicken breasts that I had cooked for the coming work week lunches. Pulled out a breast and bit into it, ripping a chunk off and stood there trying to chew it. I was dizzy now and the nausea was noticeable. I tried chewing for another moment or so and put the chicken breast back and spit the mouthful into the trash.

I was beginning to tremble.

I wasn't hungry. I was overstimulated. Overheating. Trembling and nauseous. 

Usually I can figure it out. But none of it lined up.

I just need to cool down.

I walked quickly into the bathroom, ran the cold water, and stepped into the shower. The change jolted me and I felt my stomach churn. It was coming. At least I'm in the shower, I thought in scattered words and pieces. I pressed my hand against the wall and my legs got weak. I leaned on both arms, cold water pounding into me. Too much light. Too much sound. Too much on my skin. In my skin. In my head and my stomach. Too much. Too much.

I began to worry it was going to over power me. The heat had subsided for a moment and I lurched around slowly, bent to turn the water off but as I bent I could feel my stomach revolt. The first heave began.

Tightening. Releasing. Threatening.

I had learned a number of years ago that when I overheat, when I become nauseous, when I have panic attacks (which this shared a number of symptoms with) laying down quickly was usually the best option. Ride it out. Hope for the best. 

Bent, holding my stomach, feeling the heat rise again, I stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and sat slowly on the toilet and tried to towel off. The towel was too heavy. The texture was somehow too coarse and too light. I got what I could off and threw the towel into the shower. I'd deal with it later.

I have to get to bed. Lay down. Breathe.

I stood slowly, pressing my hand against the wall and another heave came. I stood, waiting, but nothing happened. Using the wall to guide me, dizzy, nauseous, and burning, I left the bathroom, into and out of the kitchen, and into the bedroom where the AC had been running for an hour or so. 

I sat gently on the bed, trying to keep my stomach in place and laid down, first on my back, then on my side. Curled up. The heaves were increasing in frequency. The AC helped the heat a little but it was ever present. I was clenching my jaw and I could see my hands trembling. The trembling had began in 2018 or so, after an overdose, and for only a second an image of a brainscan came to mind and I know I did damage that day that I'll never be able to fix but another heave came and I forgot about it. I didn't want to puke in bed. 

My body was cooling, but the heaves came. Again, again, again. I didn't know if my legs would carry me to the bathroom. 

Just don't get it on the carpet. Anywhere else, not the carpet.

Breathe.

I released my jaw, closed my eyes and tried to focus my breathing between heaves.

In. 1. 2. 3. 4. Out.

In. 1. 2. 3. 4. Out.

So on.

After a few minutes The heaves softened, and with the heat eventually disappeared.

I couldn't feel the suit of skin. The trembling had stopped. 

Soon my body regulated and I was laying on my side, curled, and breathing for a minute or so longer. To make sure.

Good job. You did it.

Thanks.

I sat up. Moved my hair behind my ears, and looked around. Found my phone and messaged Grace.

"How are you?"

I took a few more deep breaths and slowly stood. I still had shit to do. 

Hide from this Lovely Daydream, Listen to My Friends

Hide from this lovely daydream so I can listen to my friends. All with broken hearts. All desperately wishing. 

All grieving. 

I laid in a circle of grass in a concrete ring on top of a hill. Stared up into the sky. There was only one person who really checked in on me, but I couldn't burden them with everything. So, I asked whoever, whatever, for help. Help me solve this or please take it out of me. Please. I did other work. I put all of my effort in, but it's important to know that I asked for help. That I stared into the sky, put my heart into it, and asked. It did fade quickly after that. Part of me wants to say immediately, but no, it faded quicky.

So I want to tell them all to find their hill. Their circle. Their sky. I want to tell them that they have to want what's best, not just what's familiar. I want to be there for them and hold them and listen to them and guide them, and I try, but ultimately, they have to want it. They have to know that they need to keep moving forward. Keep growing. They have to know that these days come, but they do go. They disappear into the years behind them, giving way for new, beautiful, and rewarding days. 

You love, you lose, you repeat. 

Each cycle brings new beauty. New hope. New lessons. New chances.

You keep going, because if you stagnate, if you just settle for what's familiar, but painful, you won't grow. You'll diminish. You'll suffer long, slow, and deep pain, rather than the momentary sacrifice of doing what needs to be done. You have to want what's best. For you.

I laid in the grass and stared at the sky and I asked to either solve the problem or take it out of me. I wanted what was best. I grieved. I meditated. I spoke openly to my therapist and the one friend. I made sure my meds were working. I exercised. I walked. I wanted what was best. And I took the pain out of me. 

And you can also. 

You can find a hill with grass and sky. Or whatever that looks like to you. You can ask for help. You can do the work. The pain might seem insurmountable, impossible, entirely wrong. But you can get through it. You will get through it. If you want to.

You have to want to.

So I hide from this lovely daydream to listen to my friends. I can't make them want anything. But I can be there. I can be the friend that's there. 

And then, now, I can go back to my lovely daydream, in new beginnings and new hopes and new chances. And maybe it will go better this time, or maybe it won't go anywhere at all. Hell, maybe it will be worse. I can't know, but it doesn't matter. I have to keep moving. I want to. I'm excited to.

Three Moments from a Rainy Morning

 Feels wrong going in.

Not in the usual "overwhelming sense of dread" way, just incorrect. Turning left when you should have turned right. Wake early. Make breakfast. Watch the minutes vanish. Drive. All of it. Wrong.

Catch my reflection in the doors as I walk in. Look away. Scan my key fob. Clock in. Down the hall I can see my office and the overhead flourescents are on. My supervisor stands in the doorway speaking to my office-mate and a small panic breezes over me. 

Something's wrong... 

It dissipates but I note its presence. Everything's fine, even though it feels wrong.

Did I forget something? 

Am I avoiding something?

I assume I'll figure it out soon or forget the feeling entirely. Once the day has applied a little heat. A little pressure. Coal into, well, broken coal.

The supervisor leaves, distracted in morning conversation somewhere down the hall and I slip into my office.

"Why are these fucking lights on?" I say.

My office-mate, Elise, turns slow in her chair and deadpan; "I don't know but it's gotta stop. Turn them off. Right now."

I do and turn on the dim lamp, set my bag of bullshit-that-I-never-use down in a chair next to my desk, turn on my computer, and sit. Where I will mostly remain for the rest of the day.

"How was your weekend?" she asks.

I only half hear her. It doesn't register. Everything feels wrong.

"...better than 'meh'?"

"What?"

"I asked you how your weekend was. Was it 'meh'?" 

It takes me a second to remember what she's talking about. An app on my phone. Tracks my moods. Helps with not getting stuck in the 'I always feel awful' trap when I can look back and see the data that says that isn't true. Except, most days I log as 'meh'. Middle of the road. Feeling nothing. I must have talked about it at some point. Fucking memory is fading.

No, I did. I remember talking about it.

Was my weekend 'meh?' 

At first I can't quite pull together whatever happened. Years of alcoholism, depression, and a recent bout of covid have all taken their part in destroying my memory. This is probably the best it will ever be again. 

Eventually the weekend slides back into place. I had an okay couple of days. Meeting people. Visiting friends. Exploring new places. 

No, no, not okay. Those days were 'good'.

I'd been opening email to stall while I sorted it out.

"No, actually, it was really good. I think I even logged both days as 'good'."

"Wow. Maybe you're coming out of the depression."

"Let's not count our chickens," I say, half joking. "Two good days, that means I'm bound for... let's see." I turn my chair to face her, but I'm looking away, running the numbers. "Last summer I had two incredible weeks. Just... beautiful weeks. I've never felt more alive or happy or thankful. I can't express it. I felt so fucking happy. Then, I had eleven months of goddamn misery. So..., let's do the math. Two days of happiness, that equals... a month of misery? A few weeks?" I'm smiling. I'm serious, but I'm smiling.

She nods. "Makes sense to me," she says and turns to her computer. "I touched a stingray. A starfish. A shark..." She goes on.

I assume that at some point we'll hate each other, but for now it was a nice part of my day. Come in. Hang out. Crack jokes and speak in characters. Do some work and go home. It made the day tolerable. I was lucky that we had ended up sharing an office. But I did assume we would someday hate each other. I have nothing to base that on, in fact my time around Sacha would even make the argument that it would never happen. But if I expect the worst, I can't be let down. I tell myself, anyway.

The morning is slow. Monotonous, as per usual. I'm filling out federal reports. I'm scanning. I'm printing. I'm listening to the phone intercoms beckoning for so and so to come to whichever office. So and so to pick up whichever line. So and so, whichever whichever whichever.

Eventually, lunch. Chicken. Cauliflower rice. Verde. Microwave, two minutes. Stir. Bring it back to my office, close my laptop, feet up on the desk, eat. It's one of a few mile markers in my day. I come in and I think "make it three hours to lunch." Then "make it two hours to go outside." Then "make it two and a half hours to go home." Each day. Over and over. I try not to think about that part. But I feel it. Some great call to run. To disappear. I feel it here. I feel it always, everywhere. I try not to think about it.

"You want to go do an apartment inspection with me?" Elise asks, staring at her screen.

"When?"

"Twelve-thirty. Gotta leave in a few minutes."

"I'm on lunch."

"Well, hurry up."

* * *

Drive 20 minutes out. It isn't Albany, but it's basically Albany. All of this is. All of this unending same. It's raining. Grey. Wet and broken concrete sidewalks. Houses wearing peeling paint. I'm sitting in my car waiting for Elise to show up. I don't know the landlord. I don't want to be first to talk. I don't want to talk at all. I have the wipers off and the rain isn't heavy enough to make a sound, but I can't see through the windshield. Under a thin layer of anxiety (I don't know these people. I don't want to talk. I don't want to wait. What if someone speaks to me? What if this isn't the right house? What if I lose this job? I'm going to starve. I'm going to lose my home. My car. I'm too old to start again. I'm going to die alone. I'm going to die alone starving and hiding in the woods and no one will find me for weeks...I'm), I'm at peace.

She pulls up behind me. I crack my door and wave, but she doesn't react. I open my door and stick my head out. She nods. I close my door. I'm getting fucking rained on. Happening a lot lately. In the side mirror I see her get out of her car and I get out of mine. She has a pile of shit in her hands. A phone, more than a few keys & bullshit on a keyring. Just a pile. For whatever reason I focus on it for a second. For whatever reason my brain decides I need to keep a note of that. For whatever reason, if there ever is one.

"(She says something I don't hear)."

"(I say something that doesn't even register)." I'm thinking about the house we're standing in front of. How it seems as though it may sink into the earth. I wonder if it will take us with it. I hope it takes me with it.

"Well, let's see," she says. 

The front door opens and a large and unhealthy man lumbers out. "You here to look at an apartment?" he asks.

Elise responds. I don't want to talk.

"Yeah, we just have to do an inspection."

"Landlord ain't here," he says. "Maintenance man's here."

"Well, we're meeting the maintenance man, so that works," she says. 

I'm caught up in thinking about his diabetic legs. Will mine become that? Will I become this? Is he happy? Does he have regret? I'm sure. I do. I'm sure he does. I notice my mood drop a little and try to stop thinking about it. Elise is already halfway through the door and I follow. 

A thick stink of mold and mildew fills the air. For a second I think it's cat piss, but it isn't sharp enough. I wonder how the condition of the roof is. Is it rain damage? Do the people here smell it? Are they sick? Mold almost killed me once. Will it kill them? 

"Do you have your work phone on you? Do you remember which apartment it was?" she asks.

"No and no idea."

"I'm gonna grab mine out of the car." She walks away and I lose a moment or two because now she's back and looking through her work phone.

"Maybe I have it in my email," I say. I open my phone. Log in. It takes forever. No apartment number. "No, I don't."

"Hmmm," she says.

She looks at the apartment door next to us, and walks down the hall a little ways. It's dark. We stand there while she continues going through her phone. I find myself texting someone about Kenny Rogers. Someone else about pro-biotics.

The smell. The dark. The rotten yellow paint on every wall. "This is how movies start," I say. It isn't even the full thought I wanted to get out, but I guess it was enough.

Elise laughs. 

"Umm, what do we do?"

"I don't know. I'm just here."

We walk up a thin and steep staircase that feels soft in a bad way. Unstable. Only fading daylight up here. No light bulbs at all. Three apartments. 2, 3, and 4. I didn't notice the number downstairs, but it must have been 1.

2 has a sign on it that says "Closed for Caffeine Maintenance" with a cartoon cat laying over the row of letters. We're looking for the maintenance man. I make a note of the sign and walk down the hallway. The doors to 3 and 4 face each other. I pick something up in 3. Some feeling. 

"I think it's this one," I say.

"We can't just knock because you have a feeling."

"Okay, but I think it's that one."

She looks at it. "Maybe I can call the office."

We head back downstairs and stand in front of what I now know is 1. Elise is on the phone. No one is picking up. She tries number after number.

"Maybe something happened," I say. "Some disaster while we were gone. I woke up feeling very unsettled this morning."

"Maybe," she says, dialing someone else.

I go to look through the glass of the front door for no real reason and as my face gets close, the door bursts open and I jump back in time to not break my fucking nose.

"Maintenance man?" she asks.

"Yeah," a young man says. He reminds of an old co-worker I didn't like.

We inspect the apartment. It smells worse. A layer of cigarette smoke on top of the mold and mildew. I check the windows, I pretend I know what I'm doing. Faucets. Outlets. I think I would kill myself in this apartment and then I think that that's ridiculous. It's a roof. It can be a home. It could be salvation for someone and that's why we're here. To make sure we can get them something up to some livable standard. A small wave of shame rolls over me for my first reaction and I let it dissipate. 

Elise tells the maintenance man what needs to be fixed. A window lock. Then she explains some of the paperwork we'll be sending to the rental company. I haven't said a word. I just pretend I know what I'm doing. Pretend I'm important.

We leave the building back into the rain and toward our respective cars.

"I'm going to Target," she says, letting me know to take my time getting back to the office.

"I'm going to get stuff at the gas station," I say. I wasn't planning on it, but I guess I was now.

* * *

I grab a redbull. A cookie. Wander around for a minute. A man tries to walk out with an armload of food and an iced tea. 

"Excuse me!" a cashier calls out. 

The man acts like he had forgotten. I know the act. I've been there. He walks to the counter and sets everything down, fumbles around in his pockets and finally says he has forgotten his wallet and walks out. When I get to the register his things are still piled behind the counter. Small piles. I consider just buying them and giving it to him but I look around through the windows and I don't see him. If he's outside when I'm done, I'll go back.

The cashier makes a snide comment, gloating to a customer that she knew he was a thief. I want to throw my fucking red bull at her. I don't. I pay for my things, and walk out.

The man is nowhere. Gone. I walk around the corner of the building and I don't see him. I walk to the corner of the road and look up and down the sidewalks, but I don't see him. 

The man is nowhere. I've been there. I imagine I'll be there again. 

I go back to my car. Drive back to the office. Write this.

Cinema

 Car is fixed. 

Waiting to go pick it up.

Waiting to see what will happen later. Nothing, I assume. I have a way of getting my hopes up. I have a way of projecting my expectations onto other people and letting myself down when they don't live up to them. How could they? They have no idea what it is that I want. 

I tend to naturally lean toward a sort of cinematic structure of the world around me. You'll turn around, run back. You'll grand gesture. You'll know exactly what to say and when to say it, because that's the script and we follow the script. We follow the rules. 

But the world doesn't operate like that. People don't operate like that. We watch movies as escapism. Fantastical and perfect situations where everything goes according to plan, even when it doesn't. This isn't a movie, and none of you are characters in it. 

So why do I base my expectations in that way? I don't think I'm alone in it, I see others do it. But it does nothing but cause stress and pain for everyone involved. It's a habit I need to break. 

The other side of this is that I often find myself acting outwardly in a similar way. It probably goes back to my dissociative tendencies. My alienation. I don't feel at home here and I am not naturally like you. I have to take my cues from elsewhere. I have to study patterns and language and characters. Base my idea of romance on whatever my internal algorhythm decides is best, based on the input. Say the right thing. Do the right things. All at the right times. It's much easier in the beginnings of relationships, before I'm comfortable. When all of my focus is being what I think you want. When there's no room for me. That isn't to say that I don' mean or feel the things I say in those periods. Only that I have no idea how to naturally express them. What if my natural state repels you? What if I'm not a person to you? So keep to the script. The character. The film. But, when the ease rolls in, when I relax, when I am comfortable to show you who I am, it begins to fade. The character. The script. The film. My focus becomes a need to be loved for who I am.

But that's not the same person you've been seeing. 

It's jarring for people. Rightfully. Some handle it better than others, but it is jarring. I understand why those are the days when I feel less important to people. Well, I do now anyway. On one hand, I'm trying to expose myself to you and ask you to love me for whatever is behind the curtain. I feel closest to you and I am finally comfortable around you. I always think of this as a deep display of love. Actual love. But you already loved the person I had been and now you are looking at a stranger. Disappointing, as it's been called, is probably an understatement.

So why then, if I can recognize that I act cinematically, and how that operates, do I continue to hold people to that same cinematic standard? Both issues are from within me. As far as I can tell, both issues are entwined. Why would I forever hold a person to that impossible standard, if I can't even uphold it for a few months? 

Do I think I deserve more than them? Do I think I'm above them? 

Or is it protection from the pain of the inevitable collapse of these relationships? Or some kind of purity test? "If it's real love, then all of this will click."

I am trying to figure this out. Here I am writing about it. I don't know if I'll post this one, it's a little naked. Similar to so many left in my drafts. But I also think that maybe exposing this branch of destructive thoughts could help in rectifying it. Force me to break that branch off. 

I am actively pushing back those expectations as I type this. It isn't fair to anyone. It never has been.

A ridiculous and destructive standard that I hope to dissolve.

There are No Casual Guitarists

 Robin Finck is my favorite guitarist.

Has been since I was a kid. Since I first watched Nine Inch Nails' Woodstock appearance on pay-per-view at a friends house one night. Captured me.

There are a number of others I greatly admire, respect, and steal from. Reeves Gabrels. Thurston Moore. Nick Zinner and Nels Cline. So on. But Robin Finck has always been my image of what guitar music could represent. Should represent. Bordering, straddling, dancing on the line between noise and music. The capability to accurately cover damn near the entire spectrum of human emotion without uttering a single word.

One minute classical and clean finger-picking, and the next screaming feedback and ripping strings off guitars. All with an attitude I can only describe as chaotic indifference. Robin Finck doesn't play guitar. He commands it.

Why am I writing this?

I don't know. It's on my mind.

Occassionally I've been called a guitarist. But that's not accurate. I'm not a guitarist. I play guitar. 

I think there's a distinction that needs to be recognized more often. Calling me a guitarist seems disrespectful to the people, like Robin Finck, who have achieved a level of both skill and voice in their playing. There's also a certain amount of dedication that I believe should be factored in. How much time, energy, and love have you poured in to those six strings? There are no casual guitarists. Only guitar players. 

I'm a guitar player.

Robin Finck's a guitarist.