Month: September 2011

I might be the demon you need.

I spend much time alone these days in spite of words about physical presence. I blow people off time and again and, realistically, I can’t expect them to be around forever. The expectations regarding my own loneliness, happiness, and sadness are adjusted accordingly. I am not in the kind of hope that causes a heart to rise and crash. My hope is a lingering thread, one I follow from day to day as I engage in my work and find contentment in simpler activities. I am obsessive about waste. Wasted time, wasted energy, paper and plastic I don’t need to throw away. I obsess about my power, who I can overwhelm and in what manner. I think of myself and write of the same.

“I,” like no other pronoun is important enough to write down. Most of the active names in my head are far from where I am.

I will not be published this year. Not for lack of submission (I’m not even there yet), but because the work is not good enough for my standards. All of this unfinished work reeks of a lack of social consciousness. I read instead. I think of Gogol (obsessed, perhaps) and his death from malnutrition at the age of forty-three. I wonder if I am too restrictive in my elimination of the unnecessary. I do not foresee this as a possible future, but I do reflect on alternatives. Fat sugar daddy dead from cardiac arrest at the age of forty-three. Father and husband dead from inhalation of carbon exhaust at the age of forty-three. Man reported missing and presumed dead in Aruba at the age of forty-three. Possibilities can make one’s head hurt. It is no wonder that I keep such tight reins on my destiny.

Reflecting on a social life: there are readings I’ve stopped attending. I derive genuine joy from seeing people stand up and read their creativity, or their honesty, especially the shy people or those who don’t know what to expect. The blood always races, even my own after all the times I’ve read or presented in front of crowds. I project certainty when I can. I’m listening to you, up there. Shaky hands are incredible. The pause to swallow a lump in one’s throat is a moment to reflect on what’s missing, such as a good friend or a cold hand seeking my warmth.

I have a rare headache. The balcony is covered in cobwebs.

Erin

A woman who doesn’t have me thinking “if,” only “when.”

I could tell you stories about seeing someone long distance. The long and short of it is that it’s not easy, but the right person makes anything possible.

One asks, “Why am I responsible for accuracy? Why must I restrict my own experiences to the context of time and place?”

Well, one, you’re going to die, and when you do die, your experiences will go with you. That would be an awful waste.

(I keep everyone’s secrets in a safe place. You may share them with me).

I’m in the PNW. Wave to me when you see me walking down the road. Blow me a kiss—it would make my day.

And I don’t indulge fantasylands. It’s much, much better out here. We can see it all.

Erin

A woman who doesn’t have me thinking “if,” only “when.”

I could tell you stories about seeing someone long distance. The long and short of it is that it’s not easy, but the right person makes anything possible.

One asks, “Why am I responsible for accuracy? Why must I restrict my own experiences to the context of time and place?”

Well, one, you’re going to die, and when you do die, your experiences will go with you. That would be an awful waste.

(I keep everyone’s secrets in a safe place. You may share them with me).

I’m in the PNW. Wave to me when you see me walking down the road. Blow me a kiss—it would make my day.

And I don’t indulge fantasylands. It’s much, much better out here. We can see it all.

It may come from dreams. The good dreams, the distantly warm and affectionate dreams. It may come from the kind of dreams that make waking up alone, cold, and in the dark an unacceptable reality. Yet the alternative—a warm body invited into bed for the sake of a warm body—is worse. It is weakness. It is a betrayal of the notion that someone is worthy of this place beside me. Someone’s arm is better laid across my chest. Someone is most beautiful lying naked on her side with me behind her, enveloped, warmer than any dream and certain in her belief that we are deserving of each other.

It may come from dreams. The good dreams, the distantly warm and affectionate dreams. It may come from the kind of dreams that make waking up alone, cold, and in the dark an unacceptable reality. Yet the alternative—a warm body invited into bed for the sake of a warm body—is worse. It is weakness. It is a betrayal of the notion that someone is worthy of this place beside me. Someone’s arm is better laid across my chest. Someone is most beautiful lying naked on her side with me behind her, enveloped, warmer than any dream and certain in her belief that we are deserving of each other.

That final morning.

I didn’t think to check my phone. I was angry, dealing with emotions I rarely experience; perceiving a story that I’d imagined in my head and taken to heart. It might’ve been the God’s honest truth or simply convincing. It was a reason to harden. And that phone. I was leaning against that condiment counter when I finally checked it. It isn’t instinct, it’s not in me to do that. I should’ve thought to do that.

You think that way, after.

I should’ve known, I should’ve called, I should’ve been relentless.

It must’ve been early. Earlier than I needed to leave. I saw the innkeeper on my way out. He emerged from his office at the back of the house with half a shirt on and blotchy red skin. I hadn’t seen any sunshine during my entire time in town, so I concluded I’d simply missed the ferry.

“I’m heading out,” I said.

He pulled down the remainder of his shirt and gawked. He hadn’t seen me since I showed up around midnight on Friday.

“Oh, well, alright. We’ll just print your bill out for you.”

I dropped my single bag and approached the desk they’d positioned in the center of the foyer. I could see the names of all the guests they’d signed in that weekend. They might’ve all been John and Mary.

“We’re sorry about disturing you, yesterday. Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Nothing to worry about,” I told him.

“Didn’t see your guest, did we?”

“No. The plans didn’t work out.”

“Oh, well sorry to hear that. Can we fix you breakfast?”

“No. I need to catch a flight in Chicago.”

“Way out there?”

“Yup.”

“How about we fix you something to go.”

“No, thanks.”

You try to just go. You try to remain polite, and go. You pick up your bag and go.

I liked it. There’s always something to like about a place if I look around. There were fields, of course. Fields and trees everywhere. A lot of young folks, oddly enough. Perhaps youth stands out to me more than it once did. Walking along one of the main streets, Market or something, I’d seen a girl who looked too young walk into a bar in the middle of the night. I wondered, noticing this and talking to the odd gas station attendant, if it was any different. I’d been many places. People always seemed like people.

You think about what you missed and what you remembered. The logistics: the car, the four post bed, the giant mirror, the bed ‘n breakfast built of aging, creaky wood. You think of the smell of the midnight light and the library just outside the corner room filled top-to-bottom with decorative spines. The condoms become a symbol. You think of a decade ago, of awkward fuck-ups that are never past. You feel, using the word in your head like it means anything more than general malaise.

On the drive out of town you pass the hospital and wonder if they take care of her there. If they are expedient, efficient, and caring. You think of the white walls, the sickly feeling of overcompensating for bodily failure with straight lines and pastel decor. You quickly pass into empty roads and fields.

I listened to NPR. I’d found the local station on the radio and set it to preset 1. I only remember news of the weather and following the directions east, then north, then west, then north, then west, passing through towns which I don’t recall. For every five miles I passed half a car. I looked for animals and saw many lonely dogs. I don’t remember cows.

Then you’re at the McDonalds and you check the phone.

Wait, no. Before that, you arrive at the toll booth from Indiana to Illinois.

“Do you have coins?”

“Just a credit card. Nothin’ else.” I might’ve smiled. I do.

“Well, it’s alright. You can go.”

“You won’t get in trouble? Come up short?”

“No one’ll notice.”

“Alright.” I nodded and smiled again. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.”

That’s right. She said I’m welcome, then I drove up onto another highway. I drove up and across the state line, now two hours closer to home instead of three. That’s right. It was still cloudy, and still expansive, surrounded by rurality and industry I couldn’t tell you anything about. I could see as far as Lake Michigan, I bet.

But that’s not what you think about. Places like those, that stretch between Gary and Chicago—it’s all been shown before. Gray skies, metal yards, empty grass. It leads to that last toll crossing and the McDonalds restaurant stationed right there in the middle, straddling both sides of the highway and open to all. Waiting for a bagel sandwich of some sort, you think you ought to check your phone. You do, you finally check it, and when you hear her voice it’s about as much as you can do not to blow off the flight and drive back. You realize that you have quite plainly fucked up, having missed one opportunity, and another, and another, and another, until you’re no longer a reality and thousands of miles in the red.

That final morning.

I didn’t think to check my phone. I was angry, dealing with emotions I rarely experience; perceiving a story that I’d imagined in my head and taken to heart. It might’ve been the God’s honest truth or simply convincing. It was a reason to harden. And that phone. I was leaning against that condiment counter when I finally checked it. It isn’t instinct, it’s not in me to do that. I should’ve thought to do that.

You think that way, after.

I should’ve known, I should’ve called, I should’ve been relentless.

It must’ve been early. Earlier than I needed to leave. I saw the innkeeper on my way out. He emerged from his office at the back of the house with half a shirt on and blotchy red skin. I hadn’t seen any sunshine during my entire time in town, so I concluded I’d simply missed the ferry.

“I’m heading out,” I said.

He pulled down the remainder of his shirt and gawked. He hadn’t seen me since I showed up around midnight on Friday.

“Oh, well, alright. We’ll just print your bill out for you.”

I dropped my single bag and approached the desk they’d positioned in the center of the foyer. I could see the names of all the guests they’d signed in that weekend. They might’ve all been John and Mary.

“We’re sorry about disturing you, yesterday. Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Nothing to worry about,” I told him.

“Didn’t see your guest, did we?”

“No. The plans didn’t work out.”

“Oh, well sorry to hear that. Can we fix you breakfast?”

“No. I need to catch a flight in Chicago.”

“Way out there?”

“Yup.”

“How about we fix you something to go.”

“No, thanks.”

You try to just go. You try to remain polite, and go. You pick up your bag and go.

I liked it. There’s always something to like about a place if I look around. There were fields, of course. Fields and trees everywhere. A lot of young folks, oddly enough. Perhaps youth stands out to me more than it once did. Walking along one of the main streets, Market or something, I’d seen a girl who looked too young walk into a bar in the middle of the night. I wondered, noticing this and talking to the odd gas station attendant, if it was any different. I’d been many places. People always seemed like people.

You think about what you missed and what you remembered. The logistics: the car, the four post bed, the giant mirror, the bed ‘n breakfast built of aging, creaky wood. You think of the smell of the midnight light and the library just outside the corner room filled top-to-bottom with decorative spines. The condoms become a symbol. You think of a decade ago, of awkward fuck-ups that are never past. You feel, using the word in your head like it means anything more than general malaise.

On the drive out of town you pass the hospital and wonder if they take care of her there. If they are expedient, efficient, and caring. You think of the white walls, the sickly feeling of overcompensating for bodily failure with straight lines and pastel decor. You quickly pass into empty roads and fields.

I listened to NPR. I’d found the local station on the radio and set it to preset 1. I only remember news of the weather and following the directions east, then north, then west, then north, then west, passing through towns which I don’t recall. For every five miles I passed half a car. I looked for animals and saw many lonely dogs. I don’t remember cows.

Then you’re at the McDonalds and you check the phone.

Wait, no. Before that, you arrive at the toll booth from Indiana to Illinois.

“Do you have coins?”

“Just a credit card. Nothin’ else.” I might’ve smiled. I do.

“Well, it’s alright. You can go.”

“You won’t get in trouble? Come up short?”

“No one’ll notice.”

“Alright.” I nodded and smiled again. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.”

That’s right. She said I’m welcome, then I drove up onto another highway. I drove up and across the state line, now two hours closer to home instead of three. That’s right. It was still cloudy, and still expansive, surrounded by rurality and industry I couldn’t tell you anything about. I could see as far as Lake Michigan, I bet.

But that’s not what you think about. Places like those, that stretch between Gary and Chicago—it’s all been shown before. Gray skies, metal yards, empty grass. It leads to that last toll crossing and the McDonalds restaurant stationed right there in the middle, straddling both sides of the highway and open to all. Waiting for a bagel sandwich of some sort, you think you ought to check your phone. You do, you finally check it, and when you hear her voice it’s about as much as you can do not to blow off the flight and drive back. You realize that you have quite plainly fucked up, having missed one opportunity, and another, and another, and another, until you’re no longer a reality and thousands of miles in the red.

Wanted.

Travel companion.

Must be capable of walking from the Pacific to the Atlantic in 2012, bathing in car washes, and like dogs.

Duties include being mellow, enjoying scenery, not complaining too much, putting up with optimistic assessment of bleak conditions and too much sunshine, sleeping outside, occassionally making nice with random locals, occasionally agreeing with paranoia regarding random locals, limiting contact with the reality back home, enjoying the reality of every step forward, trusting, making killer coffee.

Wanted.

Travel companion.

Must be capable of walking from the Pacific to the Atlantic in 2012, bathing in car washes, and like dogs.

Duties include being mellow, enjoying scenery, not complaining too much, putting up with optimistic assessment of bleak conditions and too much sunshine, sleeping outside, occassionally making nice with random locals, occasionally agreeing with paranoia regarding random locals, limiting contact with the reality back home, enjoying the reality of every step forward, trusting, making killer coffee.

I feel I am in a more anthropological state when I wake up with no desire to shower, shave, or otherwise groom myself for the sake of people around me.

I’d call myself a dirty hippy, but I am not nearly as peace-loving.