Month: August 2011

Shaving my head

Shaving my head earlier tonight, I was reminded of my impulsive ways and willful disposition. The reasons were piling up: It rustled, the warmth was annoying the hell out of me, it was looking thin along the front, and because I could. I picked up the trimmer and it went. One long buzz after another. The numbness of exposed scalp as familiar as any other state of hair being after years impulsiveness and exclaiming ‘Fuck You, Summer!’

Hair was once of great concern. It was a decade ago, now. Like clockwork, I drove to the barbershop in the caramel Oldsmobile and its faux fur-lined interior. Caballeros was a barbershop you could walk into with the confidence that it would be a good haircut regardless of whose chair was up. Like clockwork, after school, one ten dollar haircut. Always even, smooth, slick. Every other Friday. Girls waited around in the Carl’s Jr. across the street while their boys waited in line to get a fade. I never waited around for a salon or nail appointment, I’ll tell you that. The reason, of course, is it wasn’t like the 20 minutes from waiting in the chair to dusting off the stray hairs and leaving a two dollar tip. It was a process. The cost of beauty was above the male mind. Still, an effort had to be made to look good.

I don’t even remember when I stopped. It must mean that the cessation of giving a shit was gradual. A few days here, a week there, an acceptance of hair long enough to take hold of on sweaty days. Then, more gradually, the taking hold of an impulsive nature long kept at bay by notions of civility and courtesy to others. Hair today, bald tomorrow. Naturally, a certain laziness has also been at play.

The shaving left me more streamlined. It fits with my recent animalistic visions. Tendons, active muscles. I could see rifts and valleys in the comparatively fair skin of my scalp. The sensation of distinguishing the frontal from the parietal from the temporal with the tips of my fingers was like mapping a great wall hidden beneath the layers. Scars from long distant tumbles and skull thuds shone brightly. I remembered head butts and blood streaming down my face. The door wide open and naked as an ape, I growled and I huffed. I slapped on the lotion usually reserved for the odd shave of my cheeks and neck. It felt like dancing around the fire. I stepped out into the cooler air of the living room. Knees up and down, ahoo ahoo, singing to the moon. My story is on my head.

Shaving my head

Shaving my head earlier tonight, I was reminded of my impulsive ways and willful disposition. The reasons were piling up: It rustled, the warmth was annoying the hell out of me, it was looking thin along the front, and because I could. I picked up the trimmer and it went. One long buzz after another. The numbness of exposed scalp as familiar as any other state of hair being after years impulsiveness and exclaiming ‘Fuck You, Summer!’

Hair was once of great concern. It was a decade ago, now. Like clockwork, I drove to the barbershop in the caramel Oldsmobile and its faux fur-lined interior. Caballeros was a barbershop you could walk into with the confidence that it would be a good haircut regardless of whose chair was up. Like clockwork, after school, one ten dollar haircut. Always even, smooth, slick. Every other Friday. Girls waited around in the Carl’s Jr. across the street while their boys waited in line to get a fade. I never waited around for a salon or nail appointment, I’ll tell you that. The reason, of course, is it wasn’t like the 20 minutes from waiting in the chair to dusting off the stray hairs and leaving a two dollar tip. It was a process. The cost of beauty was above the male mind. Still, an effort had to be made to look good.

I don’t even remember when I stopped. It must mean that the cessation of giving a shit was gradual. A few days here, a week there, an acceptance of hair long enough to take hold of on sweaty days. Then, more gradually, the taking hold of an impulsive nature long kept at bay by notions of civility and courtesy to others. Hair today, bald tomorrow. Naturally, a certain laziness has also been at play.

The shaving left me more streamlined. It fits with my recent animalistic visions. Tendons, active muscles. I could see rifts and valleys in the comparatively fair skin of my scalp. The sensation of distinguishing the frontal from the parietal from the temporal with the tips of my fingers was like mapping a great wall hidden beneath the layers. Scars from long distant tumbles and skull thuds shone brightly. I remembered head butts and blood streaming down my face. The door wide open and naked as an ape, I growled and I huffed. I slapped on the lotion usually reserved for the odd shave of my cheeks and neck. It felt like dancing around the fire. I stepped out into the cooler air of the living room. Knees up and down, ahoo ahoo, singing to the moon. My story is on my head.

The man will not be brief.

I am not deriving satisfaction from life.

Friendships come to me easily. I am approachable, likable, clear in my opinions and statements, and generally affable in my demeanor. I have met a great many amazing strangers as a result, very few of which became anything more. It is the way of this world to bring us together and rend us apart, and it need not be a reason to despair. As for more permanent relationships, they are a difficulty for me. My paranoia of old has been subsiding for some time, and yet trust is not something I shell out to anyone. I seek no one, but they seek me, and every once in a great while I encounter a person or two who are genuine in their approach to life and good to themselves (my theory is goodness to oneself begets goodness to others). These people are human. I believe this is part of the reason we become as enamored as we do with blogs and the online world. In a blog, we believe we are witness to someone’s soul, or true self. We become engaged, perhaps discuss topics not meant to be relayed in small pockets of text. Too personal, too safe, too distant. This is not to say I don’t value the friendships and communication I have with people, because I have met people who mean a great deal to me, but when the safety of distance wears off it is replaced with the most basic of human social needs—physical presence.

The girl I’m talking to doesn’t talk much anymore, and I can only wonder so many times if she’s finally cut me out of her life before I accept the hurt, get angry, harden, and move on. I do not abide casual and have learned from experience that things for me must be certain. I will not be some other man, should that be the case. But I also have found bitterness to be a waste, and do not linger in such a place. I love her, regardless of whether or not we work out or how much I simply desire to fuck her. I want her to see that she is as beautiful, intelligent, and strong as I have always known her to be, notwithstanding the idiosyncrasies and flaws of character that we must all accept. What is most difficult for me to accept in this world is that someone I want (rare as it is) does not want me. It is the way of life. In spite of how foolish, demanding, or plain needy I am, I want the best for her, as I would hope she wants for me. The conclusion I’m leading to here is: be good enough for you.

Work is becoming the same old bore again. I am becoming obstinate, far more than at any previous time in my life. I cannot stand being told what to do as if I am a subordinate, and cannot stand when someone doesn’t do as I state, even if it is in my most instructive or helpful fashion. The upside is that the work is much more manageable and therefore less stressful (a far cry from the time when I nearly descended into dementia). The sole reason to remain in this corporate world is good money. That which binds me also sustains me. It allows me to engage in travel and the luxuries of hobbies such as learning to pilot an aircraft. I do not have debt, as I abhor the feeling of “owing” anything to anyone. So this success keeps me constant and secure, but the work drains me of my desire. “In this economy…”

The uncertain future of someone who writes for a living (as vague a notion as being the President or Rock God) still calls to me. Just when this will happen I do not know, but this path is chosen and I will see it through or die in the effort.

I am volunteering at the humane society. Several years ago, I briefly adopted a lanky German Shepard named Shep. He was a handful at a time when I was barely equipped to handle myself and I felt he was better placed with someone far more adequate. Now, I see the care that goes into simply learning to walk a dog, or groom an elderly cat. I see this joy and sorrow that animals, all of us, experience on a daily basis, and it is far more than I ever expected. Getting out of one’s head is a necessary part of the human experience. For me, it is a relatively new one. I never truly cared for other beings, even in my past relationships and familial duties. I cared for myself. I am still deciding on the balance between the two.

There is no way of knowing what our ancient ancestors must have considered to be satisfaction. Food, shelter, a mate…? all common, and yet all now expanded into a world of endless decisions. Every seemingly simple choice leads to another, and another, and another. I do not fear having to tread paths and would rather stride forward than stagnate, but is this the carrot I should choose to follow?

And then I think, hell, if this was the ancient world I’d be dead by now anyway, and there’d be no questions left to ask nor words to futily pursue.

The man will not be brief.

I am not deriving satisfaction from life.

Friendships come to me easily. I am approachable, likable, clear in my opinions and statements, and generally affable in my demeanor. I have met a great many amazing strangers as a result, very few of which became anything more. It is the way of this world to bring us together and rend us apart, and it need not be a reason to despair. As for more permanent relationships, they are a difficulty for me. My paranoia of old has been subsiding for some time, and yet trust is not something I shell out to anyone. I seek no one, but they seek me, and every once in a great while I encounter a person or two who are genuine in their approach to life and good to themselves (my theory is goodness to oneself begets goodness to others). These people are human. I believe this is part of the reason we become as enamored as we do with blogs and the online world. In a blog, we believe we are witness to someone’s soul, or true self. We become engaged, perhaps discuss topics not meant to be relayed in small pockets of text. Too personal, too safe, too distant. This is not to say I don’t value the friendships and communication I have with people, because I have met people who mean a great deal to me, but when the safety of distance wears off it is replaced with the most basic of human social needs—physical presence.

The girl I’m talking to doesn’t talk much anymore, and I can only wonder so many times if she’s finally cut me out of her life before I accept the hurt, get angry, harden, and move on. I do not abide casual and have learned from experience that things for me must be certain. I will not be some other man, should that be the case. But I also have found bitterness to be a waste, and do not linger in such a place. I love her, regardless of whether or not we work out or how much I simply desire to fuck her. I want her to see that she is as beautiful, intelligent, and strong as I have always known her to be, notwithstanding the idiosyncrasies and flaws of character that we must all accept. What is most difficult for me to accept in this world is that someone I want (rare as it is) does not want me. It is the way of life. In spite of how foolish, demanding, or plain needy I am, I want the best for her, as I would hope she wants for me. The conclusion I’m leading to here is: be good enough for you.

Work is becoming the same old bore again. I am becoming obstinate, far more than at any previous time in my life. I cannot stand being told what to do as if I am a subordinate, and cannot stand when someone doesn’t do as I state, even if it is in my most instructive or helpful fashion. The upside is that the work is much more manageable and therefore less stressful (a far cry from the time when I nearly descended into dementia). The sole reason to remain in this corporate world is good money. That which binds me also sustains me. It allows me to engage in travel and the luxuries of hobbies such as learning to pilot an aircraft. I do not have debt, as I abhor the feeling of “owing” anything to anyone. So this success keeps me constant and secure, but the work drains me of my desire. “In this economy…”

The uncertain future of someone who writes for a living (as vague a notion as being the President or Rock God) still calls to me. Just when this will happen I do not know, but this path is chosen and I will see it through or die in the effort.

I am volunteering at the humane society. Several years ago, I briefly adopted a lanky German Shepard named Shep. He was a handful at a time when I was barely equipped to handle myself and I felt he was better placed with someone far more adequate. Now, I see the care that goes into simply learning to walk a dog, or groom an elderly cat. I see this joy and sorrow that animals, all of us, experience on a daily basis, and it is far more than I ever expected. Getting out of one’s head is a necessary part of the human experience. For me, it is a relatively new one. I never truly cared for other beings, even in my past relationships and familial duties. I cared for myself. I am still deciding on the balance between the two.

There is no way of knowing what our ancient ancestors must have considered to be satisfaction. Food, shelter, a mate…? all common, and yet all now expanded into a world of endless decisions. Every seemingly simple choice leads to another, and another, and another. I do not fear having to tread paths and would rather stride forward than stagnate, but is this the carrot I should choose to follow?

And then I think, hell, if this was the ancient world I’d be dead by now anyway, and there’d be no questions left to ask nor words to futily pursue.

woman’s hand

I hold a woman’s hand. Her husband is dead, buried long ago in a cemetery somewhere in this state of rain and gloom. She tells me it was cancer of the lungs. He smoked heavily. Her eyes are hidden beneath flaps of skin as she discusses his shortcomings and the outright failures of his long life. He worked at a bank, owned a store in the sticks, they had no children. They are a beautiful couple whose long history lines the cabinet near the kitchen table where we sit. Their wedding photograph is in sepia tone. Two smooth skinned young people, far younger than I am now, embarking on something as foolhardy as lifelong commitment. I hold her hand because I am there with her. They tremble when she becomes emotional. My own coarse hands do what they can. They accomplish far more than any word could do.

woman’s hand

I hold a woman’s hand. Her husband is dead, buried long ago in a cemetery somewhere in this state of rain and gloom. She tells me it was cancer of the lungs. He smoked heavily. Her eyes are hidden beneath flaps of skin as she discusses his shortcomings and the outright failures of his long life. He worked at a bank, owned a store in the sticks, they had no children. They are a beautiful couple whose long history lines the cabinet near the kitchen table where we sit. Their wedding photograph is in sepia tone. Two smooth skinned young people, far younger than I am now, embarking on something as foolhardy as lifelong commitment. I hold her hand because I am there with her. They tremble when she becomes emotional. My own coarse hands do what they can. They accomplish far more than any word could do.

Four Times, This Guy

The first time is when we meet in the bar by the power station where you can hear them buzzing during a smoke. The gravestones sit in the dark lot across the highway and the jazz is terrible. Inside it’s people in their thirties ready to give up, and then further along to the ones who worry about comfortable living. The fog rolls into hills of this phantom zone between San Francisco and who knows what the hell down there. He sees me alone, my mistake. When he offers himself like a boy raised on gruel I politely accept. He kisses my shoulder after the jazzies are gone and we’re sliding on a wet fender. He fucks like five years ago. It feels good in that kind of way.

When it’s supposed to be a memory he finds me again. I work the customer service counter at Ross a month or more after that. Again, my mistake. He grins and I don’t know. He tells me hello and I still don’t, I need help. It’s not busy and I wish and pray for a tracksuit with a pleather purse to come my way. You’re someone I know, but he uses my name. Name remembering frightens me. He tells me he didn’t get my number when I didn’t give it. It’s, I don’t. Here. He says okay, me. Nice to see you again. He says nice. I don’t. It’s over quickly and it’s more dead than before him. I go home and suck a pipe until it feels less dead even if it’s not. Then it’s coffee at a special bookstore he told me to drive to. Special for a Barnes and Noble might mean two floors.

We ride the escalators together. He never asks me if I like books even if I do. He likes The Catcher in Rye. I think it’s horrible and really childish. Polls don’t support me but I tell him it’s in my opinion. It’s a debate he wants. I don’t want to. He moves hair behind my ear and now I know this it. This poor person. He’s too deep in everything. The last time is when we’re sitting on this wooden bench at the mall next to the Barnes and Noble. He’s unhappy when I tell him. He doesn’t even try to keep himself inflated. He stares at the water and the tall potted palms on the four corners of the tile pool. The waxy floor is a kind of vinyl they can lay out like carpet. It’s white and beige spotted with little black streaks that will never come out. The sun is hanging down in strips. This is a life I could do without while he keeps his sad face at the pool. I tell him it’s just pennies in a well.

Four Times, This Guy

The first time is when we meet in the bar by the power station where you can hear them buzzing during a smoke. The gravestones sit in the dark lot across the highway and the jazz is terrible. Inside it’s people in their thirties ready to give up, and then further along to the ones who worry about comfortable living. The fog rolls into hills of this phantom zone between San Francisco and who knows what the hell down there. He sees me alone, my mistake. When he offers himself like a boy raised on gruel I politely accept. He kisses my shoulder after the jazzies are gone and we’re sliding on a wet fender. He fucks like five years ago. It feels good in that kind of way.

When it’s supposed to be a memory he finds me again. I work the customer service counter at Ross a month or more after that. Again, my mistake. He grins and I don’t know. He tells me hello and I still don’t, I need help. It’s not busy and I wish and pray for a tracksuit with a pleather purse to come my way. You’re someone I know, but he uses my name. Name remembering frightens me. He tells me he didn’t get my number when I didn’t give it. It’s, I don’t. Here. He says okay, me. Nice to see you again. He says nice. I don’t. It’s over quickly and it’s more dead than before him. I go home and suck a pipe until it feels less dead even if it’s not. Then it’s coffee at a special bookstore he told me to drive to. Special for a Barnes and Noble might mean two floors.

We ride the escalators together. He never asks me if I like books even if I do. He likes The Catcher in Rye. I think it’s horrible and really childish. Polls don’t support me but I tell him it’s in my opinion. It’s a debate he wants. I don’t want to. He moves hair behind my ear and now I know this it. This poor person. He’s too deep in everything. The last time is when we’re sitting on this wooden bench at the mall next to the Barnes and Noble. He’s unhappy when I tell him. He doesn’t even try to keep himself inflated. He stares at the water and the tall potted palms on the four corners of the tile pool. The waxy floor is a kind of vinyl they can lay out like carpet. It’s white and beige spotted with little black streaks that will never come out. The sun is hanging down in strips. This is a life I could do without while he keeps his sad face at the pool. I tell him it’s just pennies in a well.