Tag: personal

The month.

Writing is a worm beneath a brick. Fits and bursts. List of things to do in a notepad, notes in a weight loss spreadsheet. Nothing left after that. No description. No caress. No care, as before, way before any of this.

There’s a Film & Literature class and a Screenwriting class next semester. That’s something. A test of the longevity of this interest. Not giving up, in my mind. Not exactly. More like moving on to the next thing. There’s always the next.

A mantra: Remember Pleasanton. Got stuck there. No money. Maxed credit cards. Sold my Kindle to a painter for $20. The following week, sold my television for another $20. Sold my bicycle. Sold my guitar and my banjo. Did buy drill bits, a used car seat. Prepping the Cherokee to live in it. No more rent. No more needless waste of money for walls and a roof. My Cherokee’s got walls and a roof. It doesn’t cost me absurd amounts of money. Money. Money. Never a concern until now.

Bought a harmonica. Cheap one. Plays like a harmonica. Makes noise. Breaks the silence when there’s need for it.

January’s coming up. A month that is not this one. That’s exciting.

The month.

Writing is a worm beneath a brick. Fits and bursts. List of things to do in a notepad, notes in a weight loss spreadsheet. Nothing left after that. No description. No caress. No care, as before, way before any of this.

There’s a Film & Literature class and a Screenwriting class next semester. That’s something. A test of the longevity of this interest. Not giving up, in my mind. Not exactly. More like moving on to the next thing. There’s always the next.

A mantra: Remember Pleasanton. Got stuck there. No money. Maxed credit cards. Sold my Kindle to a painter for $20. The following week, sold my television for another $20. Sold my bicycle. Sold my guitar and my banjo. Did buy drill bits, a used car seat. Prepping the Cherokee to live in it. No more rent. No more needless waste of money for walls and a roof. My Cherokee’s got walls and a roof. It doesn’t cost me absurd amounts of money. Money. Money. Never a concern until now.

Bought a harmonica. Cheap one. Plays like a harmonica. Makes noise. Breaks the silence when there’s need for it.

January’s coming up. A month that is not this one. That’s exciting.

chayote

Chayote must be boiled in a pot for a brief period until the fruit is soft and slightly tender. The sometimes coarse and nettled skin may be peeled, whereas smooth skin may be consumed along with the fruit. The flesh is bland and reminiscent of a well-boiled potato. At its best consistency is similar to that of watermelon. If water should drip from the corner of one’s mouth, it is alright. The long and slender pit must never be discarded. It is in fact the crowning achievement of the chayote. If desired both the pit and the flesh may be salted, but those who possess a purist within them will do well to abstain. Chayote may be eaten inside a dwelling. It is recommended that a single chayote be picked up and taken along for a walk in the evening, during which music could seem to rain down from above.

cash and points

The notion of value in a relationship is flawed. It forces a constant evaluation of the health of a relationship based on monetary terms like “worth” and “investment,” which is so skewed a concept that it causes me physical pressure in my skull. It needn’t be about high yield, low cost investments. It makes more sense for a relationship to be about compatibility and the exploration of that which brings us together and rends us, no matter how common or unique that compatibility may be.

We ain’t stacks of fucking cash or piles of points, is my point.

This line of thinking is leading me somewhere. At face value it means that I will not play into relationships in which someone else feels their value is higher or lower; be it intimate, a friend, a subordinate or higher-up. It means that even if I am a dominant personality, I am not superior. I am still coming to terms with the reality that this is a fundamental incompatibility between myself and many people who I will come into contact with. I won’t be impolite, of course. But don’t expect more than a surface glance of my being.

chayote

Chayote must be boiled in a pot for a brief period until the fruit is soft and slightly tender. The sometimes coarse and nettled skin may be peeled, whereas smooth skin may be consumed along with the fruit. The flesh is bland and reminiscent of a well-boiled potato. At its best consistency is similar to that of watermelon. If water should drip from the corner of one’s mouth, it is alright. The long and slender pit must never be discarded. It is in fact the crowning achievement of the chayote. If desired both the pit and the flesh may be salted, but those who possess a purist within them will do well to abstain. Chayote may be eaten inside a dwelling. It is recommended that a single chayote be picked up and taken along for a walk in the evening, during which music could seem to rain down from above.

cash and points

The notion of value in a relationship is flawed. It forces a constant evaluation of the health of a relationship based on monetary terms like “worth” and “investment,” which is so skewed a concept that it causes me physical pressure in my skull. It needn’t be about high yield, low cost investments. It makes more sense for a relationship to be about compatibility and the exploration of that which brings us together and rends us, no matter how common or unique that compatibility may be.

We ain’t stacks of fucking cash or piles of points, is my point.

This line of thinking is leading me somewhere. At face value it means that I will not play into relationships in which someone else feels their value is higher or lower; be it intimate, a friend, a subordinate or higher-up. It means that even if I am a dominant personality, I am not superior. I am still coming to terms with the reality that this is a fundamental incompatibility between myself and many people who I will come into contact with. I won’t be impolite, of course. But don’t expect more than a surface glance of my being.

Because life is hard, and the bedroom is for sleep.

“I haven’t had health insurance since leaving California at the end of February.”

I said this out loud. It wasn’t meant for anyone.

The blood ran down my arm as I walked back toward the dried creek bed south to where I’d parked the jeep. I’d packed a spare set of everything and thought I could use the water to wash off the blood and dirt, then change. Blood doesn’t come off easily. I was accompanied by the sound of dried brush and dirt underfoot, and a dry chill.

I noticed a hawk circling above a mound along the ridge line a half mile or so from the creek. I was reminded of that line from Jeremiah Johnson about the hawk and the musselshell. It ends with something like, “Hell, he’s there already.” I thought it would be great to hear that at any memorial service that might be held in my memory.

I said it as I walked, unsure of whether I’d actually spoken or just heard it in my head.

“Hell, he’s there already.”

I cleaned the wound and replaced the t-shirt with a long sleeved nylon shirt that I sometimes use to go for a walk when it rains. It served to hold the bandana I’d tied around my forearm. I rested for a moment and watched the sky change from red to purple through the cracked windshield I’ve been meaning to replace for years.

I ask myself questions. I feel it is necessary. “Is peace of mind a worthy pursuit? Is it worth sacrificing, or holding above all other responsibilities?” Sometimes there is one answer, sometimes another. Most often, there are several.

When I checked the messages on my phone I became tired of it. The phone itself, I mean. It lacked features I wanted. It wasn’t enough. Right then, it became my focus. I wanted a new phone. I kept it on the dashboard as I drove along the 84 to remind me of my purpose.

The mall was still open when I came back into town. I discovered the location of the AT&T store just past the Teavana and a storefront full of bra’d mannequins. The benign nature of mall architecture made me aware of the dust that trailed me and the weeks’ worth of scruff on my face. When I entered I had the good fortune of receiving help from a new employee. She seemed kind, serious, and for lack of a better word: genuine. She wasn’t constantly in the sales pitch mode, which I observed in most of the people around her. Unsurprisingly, those same people were obviously falsely tanned, overly hair-streaked, or gelled up to the ceiling. Their grins and chipper words unsettled me. I do not begrudge any man or woman that certain desire to excel and earn more or look better, but there are ways of going about it that I like and ways that bother me. I cannot explain it as anything more than personal preference and experience.

This is all to say that this salesperson—Vanessa, who’s tangible as the sand and trees—helped me feel better through her easygoing approach to sales and kind yet serious demeanor. I was left with a bit of old wisdom. No man is an island, but some men float out there for so long that they forget the feel of the sand or the sound of wind rustling the leaves. The sound of voices can be a shock. I wished, for a few moments, that I could know her better. It would have been easy to engage her. But, I decided I couldn’t afford to fuck it up. It was not a time to seize an opportunity.

This all ends in an expected fashion. I bought the new phone, left the mall, and drove home to shower and sleep.

It can’t all be what I want it to be.

“Land ho.”

Because life is hard, and the bedroom is for sleep.

“I haven’t had health insurance since leaving California at the end of February.”

I said this out loud. It wasn’t meant for anyone.

The blood ran down my arm as I walked back toward the dried creek bed south to where I’d parked the jeep. I’d packed a spare set of everything and thought I could use the water to wash off the blood and dirt, then change. Blood doesn’t come off easily. I was accompanied by the sound of dried brush and dirt underfoot, and a dry chill.

I noticed a hawk circling above a mound along the ridge line a half mile or so from the creek. I was reminded of that line from Jeremiah Johnson about the hawk and the musselshell. It ends with something like, “Hell, he’s there already.” I thought it would be great to hear that at any memorial service that might be held in my memory.

I said it as I walked, unsure of whether I’d actually spoken or just heard it in my head.

“Hell, he’s there already.”

I cleaned the wound and replaced the t-shirt with a long sleeved nylon shirt that I sometimes use to go for a walk when it rains. It served to hold the bandana I’d tied around my forearm. I rested for a moment and watched the sky change from red to purple through the cracked windshield I’ve been meaning to replace for years.

I ask myself questions. I feel it is necessary. “Is peace of mind a worthy pursuit? Is it worth sacrificing, or holding above all other responsibilities?” Sometimes there is one answer, sometimes another. Most often, there are several.

When I checked the messages on my phone I became tired of it. The phone itself, I mean. It lacked features I wanted. It wasn’t enough. Right then, it became my focus. I wanted a new phone. I kept it on the dashboard as I drove along the 84 to remind me of my purpose.

The mall was still open when I came back into town. I discovered the location of the AT&T store just past the Teavana and a storefront full of bra’d mannequins. The benign nature of mall architecture made me aware of the dust that trailed me and the weeks’ worth of scruff on my face. When I entered I had the good fortune of receiving help from a new employee. She seemed kind, serious, and for lack of a better word: genuine. She wasn’t constantly in the sales pitch mode, which I observed in most of the people around her. Unsurprisingly, those same people were obviously falsely tanned, overly hair-streaked, or gelled up to the ceiling. Their grins and chipper words unsettled me. I do not begrudge any man or woman that certain desire to excel and earn more or look better, but there are ways of going about it that I like and ways that bother me. I cannot explain it as anything more than personal preference and experience.

This is all to say that this salesperson—Vanessa, who’s tangible as the sand and trees—helped me feel better through her easygoing approach to sales and kind yet serious demeanor. I was left with a bit of old wisdom. No man is an island, but some men float out there for so long that they forget the feel of the sand or the sound of wind rustling the leaves. The sound of voices can be a shock. I wished, for a few moments, that I could know her better. It would have been easy to engage her. But, I decided I couldn’t afford to fuck it up. It was not a time to seize an opportunity.

This all ends in an expected fashion. I bought the new phone, left the mall, and drove home to shower and sleep.

It can’t all be what I want it to be.

“Land ho.”

the tragedy

The tragedy is not the loss of a potential mate; it is the absence of a good friend. There are few such people in life. Each one leaves a void which can never be replaced by another. This is the reason I wake up in the middle of the night and listen to the silence of regret.

the tragedy

The tragedy is not the loss of a potential mate; it is the absence of a good friend. There are few such people in life. Each one leaves a void which can never be replaced by another. This is the reason I wake up in the middle of the night and listen to the silence of regret.