Tag: spilled ink

Place your thumbs behind his ramus and rub until his leg shakes.

They say men behave as children do when they are incapacitated in the slightest way. Something about wanting chicken soup, warm milk, and their mamas—whimpering like it’s the end of the world.

What I say is I don’t know about all that.

But, like any furry animal, I do think it’s nice to receive a belly and chest rub, and not just from any ol’ hand who happens by, but from a trusted hand, one whose fingers have learned the ins and outs of every rib, the approximate sensitivity of the areolae, and just where the whorls uncomfortably alter the direction of the grain. The treatment is as effective as the over-the-counter cure in a bottle.

There was a kid across the street who didn’t wake up one day. He was the son of my pop’s friend, but was not my friend, and really nothing more than just that kid across the street. I remember his dad had these red eyes, like he’d been scratching at them all day. I don’t even remember an ambulance or anything. I don’t think I saw him but once like that.

I asked my pop, “¿Porque llora?”

“Su hijo murio. Se fue a dormir y no se levanto.”

“Como?”, because never waking up was impossible. People slept and people woke up. This is the system we followed.

“Tenia problemas con respiracion.”

I let out one deep breath and took in a bigger one. It seemed simple enough. There must have been something broken with his breathing tubes. Maybe something entered his mouth and choked him, like a ball or an animal. Later, when I found out that sometimes my breathing tubes are also broken, I thought back to never waking up. I knew I didn’t have anything inside me. I was just a little wrong in some places and that meant I could sleep and never wake up again, just like that kid.

I had inhalers. I used vapor rub. I avoided the things that choked me until time cured me of most of their effects.

And there were some nights, like tonight, when I didn’t sleep at all.

Place your thumbs behind his ramus and rub until his leg shakes.

They say men behave as children do when they are incapacitated in the slightest way. Something about wanting chicken soup, warm milk, and their mamas—whimpering like it’s the end of the world.

What I say is I don’t know about all that.

But, like any furry animal, I do think it’s nice to receive a belly and chest rub, and not just from any ol’ hand who happens by, but from a trusted hand, one whose fingers have learned the ins and outs of every rib, the approximate sensitivity of the areolae, and just where the whorls uncomfortably alter the direction of the grain. The treatment is as effective as the over-the-counter cure in a bottle.

I walk out after a prolonged shower and take note of the rough texture of my hands. It feels like bark. It sounds like traffic in the morning. The living room is gray as nineteenth century European literature. I stand in the kitchen and wait for the water to come to a boil. A swig of mineral water begins me. When I sit to take in the light of the morning gray and listen to music I consider the end of another year and my relative position in time. I think of the fights yet to take place and the goals yet to meet. I take stock of my crutches and their value. What I think of then is domestic lives and your choice of swimsuit. Life as a child; as an adolescent; as the torn mind which has pushed through the branches and looked down at the Earth to look for something more than incessant fantasy. The tactile memories linger and it feeds me. The fuel is memory but my momentum is lost.

I walk out after a prolonged shower and take note of the rough texture of my hands. It feels like bark. It sounds like traffic in the morning. The living room is gray as nineteenth century European literature. I stand in the kitchen and wait for the water to come to a boil. A swig of mineral water begins me. When I sit to take in the light of the morning gray and listen to music I consider the end of another year and my relative position in time. I think of the fights yet to take place and the goals yet to meet. I take stock of my crutches and their value. What I think of then is domestic lives and your choice of swimsuit. Life as a child; as an adolescent; as the torn mind which has pushed through the branches and looked down at the Earth to look for something more than incessant fantasy. The tactile memories linger and it feeds me. The fuel is memory but my momentum is lost.

echo gut

Ate so damn much after I got back that my gut’s got an echo. I couldn’t play percussion in the wild while I lay back on dirt and rocks, all digging into my back. The sound of my torso was flat as thigh flesh. All slap, no boom. Then I had a burger and some pizza and tacos. Then I had several of beer and whisky (the fucking Macallan 18) for good measure. Then I sang and they let me sleep on my side on the floor—the dry, heavenly ground of civilization. Oh, this. I felt the tears well up. Self-possessed for so long I’d forgotten that there’s a lot that’s got to be let up for a breath.

I can play mambo now when I ponder. Babaloo.

Sometimes, it’s just there’s not much point to living, is there? I mean, chaotic nature of the universe aside, it feels like it’s all just happening. That’s a big part of everything. What’s happening versus what’s being done unto the world. A sort of control that’s about as faulty as love from the ether, coming in from without. There’s no love’s gonna fix the world, but I’d live for some more of that good love, the kind that’s in here.

That’s about all I thought in love terms. The rest was Jesus, this pack is heavy. Jesus, that’s a hell of a fucking landscape. Jesus, I miss my bed. Jesus, I didn’t leave a note with anyone. Jesus, I’ve never broken a bone. Jesus, I’ve got to ____________________________.

I took in a pair of kittens when I returned.

Back now among neat cushions and a full belly. It was damn plain, you know. Never been good at affection for the sake of affection. Something ingenuine about it. No fault of anyone’s as there’s nothing to fault. What I can do is I, of sound hands and mind, build a bed, a cat tree house, and a bar. Buy food, medicine, and try something different—the leap of faith. Care for a couple of little ones and bring them along where ever it all leads.

I’ve got some flying scheduled in two weeks.

echo gut

Ate so damn much after I got back that my gut’s got an echo. I couldn’t play percussion in the wild while I lay back on dirt and rocks, all digging into my back. The sound of my torso was flat as thigh flesh. All slap, no boom. Then I had a burger and some pizza and tacos. Then I had several of beer and whisky (the fucking Macallan 18) for good measure. Then I sang and they let me sleep on my side on the floor—the dry, heavenly ground of civilization. Oh, this. I felt the tears well up. Self-possessed for so long I’d forgotten that there’s a lot that’s got to be let up for a breath.

I can play mambo now when I ponder. Babaloo.

Sometimes, it’s just there’s not much point to living, is there? I mean, chaotic nature of the universe aside, it feels like it’s all just happening. That’s a big part of everything. What’s happening versus what’s being done unto the world. A sort of control that’s about as faulty as love from the ether, coming in from without. There’s no love’s gonna fix the world, but I’d live for some more of that good love, the kind that’s in here.

That’s about all I thought in love terms. The rest was Jesus, this pack is heavy. Jesus, that’s a hell of a fucking landscape. Jesus, I miss my bed. Jesus, I didn’t leave a note with anyone. Jesus, I’ve never broken a bone. Jesus, I’ve got to ____________________________.

I took in a pair of kittens when I returned.

Back now among neat cushions and a full belly. It was damn plain, you know. Never been good at affection for the sake of affection. Something ingenuine about it. No fault of anyone’s as there’s nothing to fault. What I can do is I, of sound hands and mind, build a bed, a cat tree house, and a bar. Buy food, medicine, and try something different—the leap of faith. Care for a couple of little ones and bring them along where ever it all leads.

I’ve got some flying scheduled in two weeks.

cat

She sat perched on the top of the refrigerator like a cat, except of course she wasn’t a cat, she was a person, so it was a kind of awkward perch the way humans can, with our thighs spread and arms extended down between them. Her hair was long enough to cascade down over her breasts as is typical in the classical form. She wore a black lace collar with no name tag. She stared down at me from way up there. I don’t know. I stood at the counter and cut four thick slices of bread from this goddamn beautiful golden loaf. I mean, it smelled like bread I smelled as a kid. Then I took the bread knife and turned it around to slice off two thick slabs of muenster. There wasn’t much else around the counter except some roasted turkey from the deli, brown mustard, mayo, tomatoes, and lettuce. I applied scraps of turkey to the slices of bread and spread the mustard to fill in the spaces. I spread mayo over the other one. One slice of tomato and one leaf of lettuce per what now appeared to be two sandwiches. When they were complete, I placed each on its own plate and took them to the television room. The Star Trek with Data as captain was already playing. I placed the mayo sandwich at one end of the couch and I sat down at the other end and took one large bite. She crept into the room as I chewed—on two legs—and I watched her sit at the other end of the couch, beside the plate. She resumed her perch and stared blankly in my direction. I had the sense that she was gauging me, watching every movement to both understand and make a decision about whether she would stay or leave. I turned away and continued to watch Star Trek. Eventually, she sat like a person and began to eat her sandwich. I could hear her bite into it as if she was inside my head. We sat and stared at the television for a while, or at least until the show was over and our sandwiches were fully ingested. I put down my plate and removed my clothing as she once again stared at me after she’d moved across the room and perched again, attempting some form of comprehension. Now naked, I lay on the couch with my back against the cushions. I stretched myself long, owning from one end of the couch to the other. I said, “Come here.” She stood on her two legs and walked to me. I did not look up but simply closed my eyes. When enough time had passed, she lay herself across like I had—all legs and hair—and curled up in the fetal position. I placed my arm around her and matched her shape as best I could. Then we fell asleep.

cat

She sat perched on the top of the refrigerator like a cat, except of course she wasn’t a cat, she was a person, so it was a kind of awkward perch the way humans can, with our thighs spread and arms extended down between them. Her hair was long enough to cascade down over her breasts as is typical in the classical form. She wore a black lace collar with no name tag. She stared down at me from way up there. I don’t know. I stood at the counter and cut four thick slices of bread from this goddamn beautiful golden loaf. I mean, it smelled like bread I smelled as a kid. Then I took the bread knife and turned it around to slice off two thick slabs of muenster. There wasn’t much else around the counter except some roasted turkey from the deli, brown mustard, mayo, tomatoes, and lettuce. I applied scraps of turkey to the slices of bread and spread the mustard to fill in the spaces. I spread mayo over the other one. One slice of tomato and one leaf of lettuce per what now appeared to be two sandwiches. When they were complete, I placed each on its own plate and took them to the television room. The Star Trek with Data as captain was already playing. I placed the mayo sandwich at one end of the couch and I sat down at the other end and took one large bite. She crept into the room as I chewed—on two legs—and I watched her sit at the other end of the couch, beside the plate. She resumed her perch and stared blankly in my direction. I had the sense that she was gauging me, watching every movement to both understand and make a decision about whether she would stay or leave. I turned away and continued to watch Star Trek. Eventually, she sat like a person and began to eat her sandwich. I could hear her bite into it as if she was inside my head. We sat and stared at the television for a while, or at least until the show was over and our sandwiches were fully ingested. I put down my plate and removed my clothing as she once again stared at me after she’d moved across the room and perched again, attempting some form of comprehension. Now naked, I lay on the couch with my back against the cushions. I stretched myself long, owning from one end of the couch to the other. I said, “Come here.” She stood on her two legs and walked to me. I did not look up but simply closed my eyes. When enough time had passed, she lay herself across like I had—all legs and hair—and curled up in the fetal position. I placed my arm around her and matched her shape as best I could. Then we fell asleep.

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.”