Month: November 2012

I was in a brothel in this dream from last night. A few things happened before I was there, but it was just that feeling that the dream was longer than what I could recall. The brothel had a lounge area in which clients could sit and just talk to the girls before they decided what they wanted and from whom they wanted it. It wasn’t garish or particularly luxurious. No red velvet or chandeliers. The girls were dressed appropriately, though, in skimpy outfits and lingerie. There were other men there but they weren’t important and thus a blur. Objects in the periphery. I sat on the left side of a couch and had a tumbler with about three fingers of brown liquor. Probably whiskey. It was close to dark, but not, which meant the sun was on the border. I watched for a while. Girls came by and sat next to me, inquiring as to what I was after. I couldn’t pick up the vibe I want from someone I want to fuck, so I told them I wasn’t interested just yet, so as to not hurt their feelings. They walked away and wandered to the others. I sat and watched, looking at the way they interacted with one another. Gentle touches on shoulders, hands placed on the rise of the bared lower back. Eventually, a girl sat next to me. Her hair was dark and straightened. Her skin brown like mocha, like the girls I knew from the Inglewood, long ago. She was dressed in pink lace lingerie, which blended into her darker skin. I took her for a latina. I initially told her I wasn’t interested just yet. I raised my glass to show her. Still, she remained beside me and said something. It was too low for me to hear. “What?” I said. She spoke up a little more, but I still couldn’t make it out. “I—I can’t hear you. Speak up.” I finally heard something like, “Why’re you not—” I scooted closer to listen. “Again,” I said. “Why aren’t you interested?” she said. She didn’t have Anglo features. Her nose was a little broad and her lips full and radiant. She wore pink lip gloss or lipstick. I could never tell. I leaned in closer and she smiled. She was wearing braces, which really struck me for a moment. A brief moment. Someone called her attention and she turned away from me, which brought me out of a daze I’d fallen into. I reached up with my right hand, toward the back of her head. Her hair felt a little rough, but not greasy or sweaty, like she’d just gotten started for the evening. She scooted closer, lifted her legs over mine. I pulled her closer with my left arm and kissed her. I sensed the taste of her lips, the warmth and lightness of her breath. Like I’d kissed her before. The sensory memory was strong.

The motor of a boat outside roared by. The dream ended. “Fuckin’ hell,” I said, and stood up to get ready for work.

I was in a brothel in this dream from last night. A few things happened before I was there, but it was just that feeling that the dream was longer than what I could recall. The brothel had a lounge area in which clients could sit and just talk to the girls before they decided what they wanted and from whom they wanted it. It wasn’t garish or particularly luxurious. No red velvet or chandeliers. The girls were dressed appropriately, though, in skimpy outfits and lingerie. There were other men there but they weren’t important and thus a blur. Objects in the periphery. I sat on the left side of a couch and had a tumbler with about three fingers of brown liquor. Probably whiskey. It was close to dark, but not, which meant the sun was on the border. I watched for a while. Girls came by and sat next to me, inquiring as to what I was after. I couldn’t pick up the vibe I want from someone I want to fuck, so I told them I wasn’t interested just yet, so as to not hurt their feelings. They walked away and wandered to the others. I sat and watched, looking at the way they interacted with one another. Gentle touches on shoulders, hands placed on the rise of the bared lower back. Eventually, a girl sat next to me. Her hair was dark and straightened. Her skin brown like mocha, like the girls I knew from the Inglewood, long ago. She was dressed in pink lace lingerie, which blended into her darker skin. I took her for a latina. I initially told her I wasn’t interested just yet. I raised my glass to show her. Still, she remained beside me and said something. It was too low for me to hear. “What?” I said. She spoke up a little more, but I still couldn’t make it out. “I—I can’t hear you. Speak up.” I finally heard something like, “Why’re you not—” I scooted closer to listen. “Again,” I said. “Why aren’t you interested?” she said. She didn’t have Anglo features. Her nose was a little broad and her lips full and radiant. She wore pink lip gloss or lipstick. I could never tell. I leaned in closer and she smiled. She was wearing braces, which really struck me for a moment. A brief moment. Someone called her attention and she turned away from me, which brought me out of a daze I’d fallen into. I reached up with my right hand, toward the back of her head. Her hair felt a little rough, but not greasy or sweaty, like she’d just gotten started for the evening. She scooted closer, lifted her legs over mine. I pulled her closer with my left arm and kissed her. I sensed the taste of her lips, the warmth and lightness of her breath. Like I’d kissed her before. The sensory memory was strong.

The motor of a boat outside roared by. The dream ended. “Fuckin’ hell,” I said, and stood up to get ready for work.

Hell of a fucking month, man. Hell of a fucking month. My folks’ birthdays are this month. Mom ‘n pop a day apart from one another. Isn’t that something? Think that played into them getting married? Grandfather died this time last year. Wasn’t going to go to Thanksgiving last year but showed up on account of his death. For my pop, you know. Man’s more vulnerable to that sort of change than he admits. We’re alike in that respect. He’s got more religion than he used to. Cares less about material things like his cars, which is natural, seeing as I just now got into that stuff. We’re just not synced on anything but the weather and work. How’s work? he’ll ask. It’s going, I’ll say, knowing he doesn’t quite get what I do. And yours? I’ll ask. Great, he’ll say, and he’ll explain again what it is he does.

I’m thinking of books for them. A book on grief and a book on life in middle age after your kids don’t need you any more, even if they do. The latter’s like losing a job of thirty years, I figure. I learn more about this stuff from reading than I do from life.

Been reading many blogs every month or so. I sit at the harbor bar with the fishermen and Giants fans and catch up with a hef and the ipad. Usually the last page or two. It makes me happy when any of you succeed or find some measure of fulfillment in your lives. When things’re bad I want to pick you up by the armpits and tell you to it’s not as bad as all that. You’re alive and capable. What’re you complaining about? Get to work.

I don’t think I’ll ever break away from allowing others to influence me that way. If I cared to look inward, at my psychological type ‘n such, I could probably explain why, but the analysis gives me a headache. If someone wrote a story of a character for each type I might gain a better understanding. It’d make for an interesting book, but only if the stories weren’t overt. In stories, unlike in the rest of life, you shouldn’t be overt. Be complex. Explain without explaining. “And the lesson was…” is the worst thing you could do.

I do things to get women to kiss me and bend over and plead. I have a look, even, which is news to me. Sometimes I’m just not sure what to say to someone I’d like to get to know a little better at a slower pace. We’re sitting at Starbucks and the country music’s playing and we talk about work as a makeup counter girl at Sears and as a grown man playing video games for a living and then. And then.

Which is to say I’m 30 next month and the opposite sex still mystifies me on certain levels. Which is to say sometimes I’ve got nothing to say except lines that get women to kiss me and bend over and plead.

“Have you attained a heightened state of awareness? From yoga?”

A polite laugh.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, no.”

“I hear it’s somethin’ else. Like weightlessness. Like your mind is just released from this mortal coil. I’m jealous, you know.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“That you can do yoga. That you can focus your mind and body like that. You’ll reach goals most people won’t ever get to, I bet. I can’t do it. No way. My mind’s a mess.”

I’ll have written a shitty novel by the end of the month and purchased books that I’ll have given to people who won’t understand why I gave them books. Think of the weak “Thank you” you gave for every gift you didn’t like or understand. If I was the type, I’d know enough to give something more natural. You might call it a heartfelt expression or thoughtful.

Hell of a fucking month, man. Hell of a fucking month. My folks’ birthdays are this month. Mom ‘n pop a day apart from one another. Isn’t that something? Think that played into them getting married? Grandfather died this time last year. Wasn’t going to go to Thanksgiving last year but showed up on account of his death. For my pop, you know. Man’s more vulnerable to that sort of change than he admits. We’re alike in that respect. He’s got more religion than he used to. Cares less about material things like his cars, which is natural, seeing as I just now got into that stuff. We’re just not synced on anything but the weather and work. How’s work? he’ll ask. It’s going, I’ll say, knowing he doesn’t quite get what I do. And yours? I’ll ask. Great, he’ll say, and he’ll explain again what it is he does.

I’m thinking of books for them. A book on grief and a book on life in middle age after your kids don’t need you any more, even if they do. The latter’s like losing a job of thirty years, I figure. I learn more about this stuff from reading than I do from life.

Been reading many blogs every month or so. I sit at the harbor bar with the fishermen and Giants fans and catch up with a hef and the ipad. Usually the last page or two. It makes me happy when any of you succeed or find some measure of fulfillment in your lives. When things’re bad I want to pick you up by the armpits and tell you to it’s not as bad as all that. You’re alive and capable. What’re you complaining about? Get to work.

I don’t think I’ll ever break away from allowing others to influence me that way. If I cared to look inward, at my psychological type ‘n such, I could probably explain why, but the analysis gives me a headache. If someone wrote a story of a character for each type I might gain a better understanding. It’d make for an interesting book, but only if the stories weren’t overt. In stories, unlike in the rest of life, you shouldn’t be overt. Be complex. Explain without explaining. “And the lesson was…” is the worst thing you could do.

I do things to get women to kiss me and bend over and plead. I have a look, even, which is news to me. Sometimes I’m just not sure what to say to someone I’d like to get to know a little better at a slower pace. We’re sitting at Starbucks and the country music’s playing and we talk about work as a makeup counter girl at Sears and as a grown man playing video games for a living and then. And then.

Which is to say I’m 30 next month and the opposite sex still mystifies me on certain levels. Which is to say sometimes I’ve got nothing to say except lines that get women to kiss me and bend over and plead.

“Have you attained a heightened state of awareness? From yoga?”

A polite laugh.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, no.”

“I hear it’s somethin’ else. Like weightlessness. Like your mind is just released from this mortal coil. I’m jealous, you know.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“That you can do yoga. That you can focus your mind and body like that. You’ll reach goals most people won’t ever get to, I bet. I can’t do it. No way. My mind’s a mess.”

I’ll have written a shitty novel by the end of the month and purchased books that I’ll have given to people who won’t understand why I gave them books. Think of the weak “Thank you” you gave for every gift you didn’t like or understand. If I was the type, I’d know enough to give something more natural. You might call it a heartfelt expression or thoughtful.