Tag: spilled ink

We each have our way. Some things are good, some aren’t. Them’s the breaks.

Missed opportunities really grate my potato because they can cause regret. It’s an awful feeling to look back in that context. What could have been or what shouldn’t have been. It becomes a feedback loop if one isn’t careful. A horrible screeching sensation.

A free form inventory starting in 1982:

Pop’s daily drivers – white 1978 Chevy pickup, white-then-silver 1963 Chevy Nova stationwagon, yellow 1957 GMC pickup. The latter was in the worst state of all his project cars and sat in the driveway until he decided to invest. He turned her around real nice. He chose sunshine yellow, if you can believe it. Solid red oak for the bed slats. It’s a beautiful ride. He sold his stationwagon this year and decided to flip the GMC over to his daily driver. That stationwagon was a monument in front of our house for 24 years. It sold for $1,000.

Pop’s project vehicles – black 1965 Chevy Impala, black 1961 Ford Galaxie Sunliner, that GMC pickup. The cars were purchased in running condition but not painted black until he fixed them up. They got hot in the summers and on long road trips through the desert. Thighs readily stuck to the vinyl upholstery of the bench seats.

Pop’s purchases for mom – orange 1978 Chevy van, white and brown pin-striped 1982 custom Chevy van, dark blue 2005 Nissan Pathfinder. The vans were family vehicles that discouraged my mother from ever driving on the L.A. freeways. The Pathfinder’s a much smoother ride. She still avoids freeways.

Pop’s purchases for me – brown 1983 Oldsmobile Cutlass, black 1998 Toyota Tacoma pickup, gray 1978 Chevy Nova. The latter two were for his use, but he passed them on to me as daily drivers when other members of the family needed cars. The black pickup was passed on to the next son in line, and I wrecked the Nova. He removed the engine from that one to build up his GMC.

Pop’s purchases for Abe – the black Toyota pickup. Abe never did let it go. Turned out to be a real frugal sumbitch.

Pop’s purchases for Cris – gray 1993 Toyota Camry. Cris hasn’t shown much interest in buying his own car either.

What I missed was the engine swaps and maintenance he did. I didn’t care for it and only now do I have a taste for taking things apart and rebuilding. Whether it’s a delayed response or a genuine interest, I caught on. Late to the party is my way. I wonder if I waited too long. I mentioned my motorcycle and got nary an excited comment out of him.

The realization that life is an attempt to make him proud. Imagine it.

I don’t bring up my mother much and I can’t speak as to the exact reason. Or write about it. Looking at a body of work (think of my collected ramblings lost to a hard drive in a electronic scrap heap), there’s a tone to me. Aluminum plating welded to a step and covered in mud. I’m this way about myself, my father, and the women I run across and through. My mother doesn’t get this prosaic treatment. I get the feeling that she doesn’t deserve to get dragged through this mud.

But she pops up yet. She most often appears when I absent-mindedly sing. “Mama told me a dark car’s done come, come to take me home.” Doesn’t much matter where the song’s headed. She’ll be there.

We each have our way. Some things are good, some aren’t. Them’s the breaks.

Missed opportunities really grate my potato because they can cause regret. It’s an awful feeling to look back in that context. What could have been or what shouldn’t have been. It becomes a feedback loop if one isn’t careful. A horrible screeching sensation.

A free form inventory starting in 1982:

Pop’s daily drivers – white 1978 Chevy pickup, white-then-silver 1963 Chevy Nova stationwagon, yellow 1957 GMC pickup. The latter was in the worst state of all his project cars and sat in the driveway until he decided to invest. He turned her around real nice. He chose sunshine yellow, if you can believe it. Solid red oak for the bed slats. It’s a beautiful ride. He sold his stationwagon this year and decided to flip the GMC over to his daily driver. That stationwagon was a monument in front of our house for 24 years. It sold for $1,000.

Pop’s project vehicles – black 1965 Chevy Impala, black 1961 Ford Galaxie Sunliner, that GMC pickup. The cars were purchased in running condition but not painted black until he fixed them up. They got hot in the summers and on long road trips through the desert. Thighs readily stuck to the vinyl upholstery of the bench seats.

Pop’s purchases for mom – orange 1978 Chevy van, white and brown pin-striped 1982 custom Chevy van, dark blue 2005 Nissan Pathfinder. The vans were family vehicles that discouraged my mother from ever driving on the L.A. freeways. The Pathfinder’s a much smoother ride. She still avoids freeways.

Pop’s purchases for me – brown 1983 Oldsmobile Cutlass, black 1998 Toyota Tacoma pickup, gray 1978 Chevy Nova. The latter two were for his use, but he passed them on to me as daily drivers when other members of the family needed cars. The black pickup was passed on to the next son in line, and I wrecked the Nova. He removed the engine from that one to build up his GMC.

Pop’s purchases for Abe – the black Toyota pickup. Abe never did let it go. Turned out to be a real frugal sumbitch.

Pop’s purchases for Cris – gray 1993 Toyota Camry. Cris hasn’t shown much interest in buying his own car either.

What I missed was the engine swaps and maintenance he did. I didn’t care for it and only now do I have a taste for taking things apart and rebuilding. Whether it’s a delayed response or a genuine interest, I caught on. Late to the party is my way. I wonder if I waited too long. I mentioned my motorcycle and got nary an excited comment out of him.

The realization that life is an attempt to make him proud. Imagine it.

I don’t bring up my mother much and I can’t speak as to the exact reason. Or write about it. Looking at a body of work (think of my collected ramblings lost to a hard drive in a electronic scrap heap), there’s a tone to me. Aluminum plating welded to a step and covered in mud. I’m this way about myself, my father, and the women I run across and through. My mother doesn’t get this prosaic treatment. I get the feeling that she doesn’t deserve to get dragged through this mud.

But she pops up yet. She most often appears when I absent-mindedly sing. “Mama told me a dark car’s done come, come to take me home.” Doesn’t much matter where the song’s headed. She’ll be there.

I’ve taken to getting my head shaved since the balding started. Balding in the slight loss of hairline sense. This may seem unnecessary, but you have to understand the Mexican hairline. It is fierce. It is part of an identity. Lose the hairline and the identity must be reevaluated.

The man whose vanity has slipped below concerns with hairloss is a man in a state of nirvana.

Balding is such a half-assed state to be in. No longer a lush head of black, glistening mane. Not nearly naturally bald enough. I probably won’t mind the horseshoe later in life but at this particular time I’m in no mood to be in an ether. It is or it isn’t. Full hair or bald.

Women (your post-pre- post-modern women in favor of depilation mostly below the neck) know shaving all too well, but shaving the face and head are intimate. You feel the gravelly slide of the razor inside your brain. It echoes in the ears. Handing the razor to someone else is an act of faith in humanity. You watch the scenes in Eastern Promisesand Reservoir Dogs and remember that the hand that holds it is in a position of power.

Dab at nicks with vodka.

I was at a parts store in early August. Still in Oregon. I paid with a credit card and gave my driver’s license to the woman at the counter. She wouldn’t believe it was me in a playful sort of way.

“I was 17 there,” I told her.

She laughed a bit and held it up. “You got everything in reverse. All beard and no hair.”

“It’ll be gray soon, too.”

She handed it back to me.

“Salt and pepper’s alright by me. You lost your tan there also.”

“Working on my Oregon tan,” I said.

She smiled and cocked her head again, playful-wise. I thought to that on the night drive down. Her smile and what she said. I could get my tan back. It’d be hard not to get one.

It’s colder along the ocean than it was in the forests. The sun’s appearances are brief. The slightest breeze sends the shivers through my every hair when I swim and when I sweat. I feel everything inside my brain.

I’ve taken to getting my head shaved since the balding started. Balding in the slight loss of hairline sense. This may seem unnecessary, but you have to understand the Mexican hairline. It is fierce. It is part of an identity. Lose the hairline and the identity must be reevaluated.

The man whose vanity has slipped below concerns with hairloss is a man in a state of nirvana.

Balding is such a half-assed state to be in. No longer a lush head of black, glistening mane. Not nearly naturally bald enough. I probably won’t mind the horseshoe later in life but at this particular time I’m in no mood to be in an ether. It is or it isn’t. Full hair or bald.

Women (your post-pre- post-modern women in favor of depilation mostly below the neck) know shaving all too well, but shaving the face and head are intimate. You feel the gravelly slide of the razor inside your brain. It echoes in the ears. Handing the razor to someone else is an act of faith in humanity. You watch the scenes in Eastern Promisesand Reservoir Dogs and remember that the hand that holds it is in a position of power.

Dab at nicks with vodka.

I was at a parts store in early August. Still in Oregon. I paid with a credit card and gave my driver’s license to the woman at the counter. She wouldn’t believe it was me in a playful sort of way.

“I was 17 there,” I told her.

She laughed a bit and held it up. “You got everything in reverse. All beard and no hair.”

“It’ll be gray soon, too.”

She handed it back to me.

“Salt and pepper’s alright by me. You lost your tan there also.”

“Working on my Oregon tan,” I said.

She smiled and cocked her head again, playful-wise. I thought to that on the night drive down. Her smile and what she said. I could get my tan back. It’d be hard not to get one.

It’s colder along the ocean than it was in the forests. The sun’s appearances are brief. The slightest breeze sends the shivers through my every hair when I swim and when I sweat. I feel everything inside my brain.

funny sucking days

Chores is not the correct word. It doesn’t have the right ring to it. Chores, chores, chores. A bastardization of shorts. But what is the correct word, if not chores?

Pantaloncitos. The diminutive.

Mujercitas.

The rules are as tedious as the experience of reading and memorizing them. Language is all rules with little emphasis on the way the language feels. It needs to feel right. It is such with English, and it is such with Spanish. When they don’t feel right, they cannot be spoken. There’s the awkward pause to ask for assistance.

“Eh, como se dice?”

My grandfather did that often. “Eh? Eh?” His most prominent feature was his eyebrows. Mine grow wilder by the year.

I am becoming scattershot.

You tell me “you’re killing yourself.” I like knowing that I’m the one’s going to do it.

The things I don’t talk—or write—about are my jobs. I’ve had many. Did you know a woman’s shoe size is 2 greater than a man’s? A man’s 6 is a woman’s 8. Take that with you to the Footlocker. Black box testing is testing software in it’s final and packaged form. White box testing is in-depth analysis of the code and data. I don’t care for the latter. It requires deliberate critical thinking. Mine is incidental. Pushing a lawn mower allowed time for reflection on bitterness. I started early.

So many young people want to just be taken seriously. Sex, cars, jobs, debt. It’s a generational chant. Take us seriously. The older I get, the less I do, the less I care. I worry about my relational future. Can a man interact on an even keel when everyone is beneath him?

A lesson you learn twice is don’t trust a written voice. You learn this in regards to authors you don’t know. They’re far away and it becomes easy to separate them from their work. The second time you learn it is in regards to human beings who you feel you know, but you don’t. What they write you is not them. They are not the words.

I upload a text file (that’s TXT) every day with the assertions that I found during my playthrough. When I do this I’m tempted to ask, “Who am I?”

funny sucking days

Chores is not the correct word. It doesn’t have the right ring to it. Chores, chores, chores. A bastardization of shorts. But what is the correct word, if not chores?

Pantaloncitos. The diminutive.

Mujercitas.

The rules are as tedious as the experience of reading and memorizing them. Language is all rules with little emphasis on the way the language feels. It needs to feel right. It is such with English, and it is such with Spanish. When they don’t feel right, they cannot be spoken. There’s the awkward pause to ask for assistance.

“Eh, como se dice?”

My grandfather did that often. “Eh? Eh?” His most prominent feature was his eyebrows. Mine grow wilder by the year.

I am becoming scattershot.

You tell me “you’re killing yourself.” I like knowing that I’m the one’s going to do it.

The things I don’t talk—or write—about are my jobs. I’ve had many. Did you know a woman’s shoe size is 2 greater than a man’s? A man’s 6 is a woman’s 8. Take that with you to the Footlocker. Black box testing is testing software in it’s final and packaged form. White box testing is in-depth analysis of the code and data. I don’t care for the latter. It requires deliberate critical thinking. Mine is incidental. Pushing a lawn mower allowed time for reflection on bitterness. I started early.

So many young people want to just be taken seriously. Sex, cars, jobs, debt. It’s a generational chant. Take us seriously. The older I get, the less I do, the less I care. I worry about my relational future. Can a man interact on an even keel when everyone is beneath him?

A lesson you learn twice is don’t trust a written voice. You learn this in regards to authors you don’t know. They’re far away and it becomes easy to separate them from their work. The second time you learn it is in regards to human beings who you feel you know, but you don’t. What they write you is not them. They are not the words.

I upload a text file (that’s TXT) every day with the assertions that I found during my playthrough. When I do this I’m tempted to ask, “Who am I?”

my days in D major

“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”

I keep fingers curved and the thumb firmly on the neck, but don’t press too hard. Press, don’t strangle. It’s better for my fingers. Look straight ahead as often as I can. Watch myself in the mirror. Watch my eyes.

“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”

The wetsuit hugs like mummy wrappings. The principal challenge of the cold takes a backseat to balance. My twitch reaction muscles are slow learners. I shove my legs into the water before a toe can get a feel for it.

“… ocean, across the U.S.A. Then everybody’d be surfin’ like Californi-ey.”

At night, when there ought to be silence, there’s clanging. And splashing. Clangs and splashes alongside the occasional footsteps on the weathered dock. There’s a big sign telling tourists about future upgrades to the pier. If they remove the old wood and replace it with new wood, is it still the same dock?

“A bushy, bushy blonde hairdo. Surfin’ U.S.A. D, A7, D, A7, G, D.”

I sit and eat my sandwiches in the evenings. The west is in front of me and north is on the right. When I dream, I dream of women, and of the things I’d like to write. I may or may not write them. I think if only I can work here, or if only I can meet someone as bitter, or if only I can learn to fly. Wistful in the evenings only, with a sandwich and a beer. My neighbor takes his boat out on the weekends.

“We’ll all be… we’ll all… we’ll all be gone for summer. Tell the teacher we’re surfin’.”

If I placed one thing in a box at the bottom of the sea, it would be a marble. I would draw a map on leather parchment. I would place the leather parchment in a tin case. I would bring the tin case with me to a mountain. I would place it in a sack beneath my body at the peak. The wind would blow in from the risen sea, having flooded over the lands I knew. The tiny fish and jellyfish would float where I ate my sandwiches. The sun would shine on flooded valleys and the infant inland seas.

“Everybody’s gone surfin’. Surfin’, D, U.S.A.”

my days in D major

“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”

I keep fingers curved and the thumb firmly on the neck, but don’t press too hard. Press, don’t strangle. It’s better for my fingers. Look straight ahead as often as I can. Watch myself in the mirror. Watch my eyes.

“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”

The wetsuit hugs like mummy wrappings. The principal challenge of the cold takes a backseat to balance. My twitch reaction muscles are slow learners. I shove my legs into the water before a toe can get a feel for it.

“… ocean, across the U.S.A. Then everybody’d be surfin’ like Californi-ey.”

At night, when there ought to be silence, there’s clanging. And splashing. Clangs and splashes alongside the occasional footsteps on the weathered dock. There’s a big sign telling tourists about future upgrades to the pier. If they remove the old wood and replace it with new wood, is it still the same dock?

“A bushy, bushy blonde hairdo. Surfin’ U.S.A. D, A7, D, A7, G, D.”

I sit and eat my sandwiches in the evenings. The west is in front of me and north is on the right. When I dream, I dream of women, and of the things I’d like to write. I may or may not write them. I think if only I can work here, or if only I can meet someone as bitter, or if only I can learn to fly. Wistful in the evenings only, with a sandwich and a beer. My neighbor takes his boat out on the weekends.

“We’ll all be… we’ll all… we’ll all be gone for summer. Tell the teacher we’re surfin’.”

If I placed one thing in a box at the bottom of the sea, it would be a marble. I would draw a map on leather parchment. I would place the leather parchment in a tin case. I would bring the tin case with me to a mountain. I would place it in a sack beneath my body at the peak. The wind would blow in from the risen sea, having flooded over the lands I knew. The tiny fish and jellyfish would float where I ate my sandwiches. The sun would shine on flooded valleys and the infant inland seas.

“Everybody’s gone surfin’. Surfin’, D, U.S.A.”

So what’re you doing here?

Do you stop and wonder about the nature of the objects around you? The refrigerator’s hum or the comb on the dresser. How they came to be in your possession at a particular point in time. Where they may have come from and and where they may be headed. That alone—the impermanence of ownership—is enough to get in a tizzy. Pondering the eventualities of life. They really get you, believe me.

In relevance to others, you seek things. How these pants compare to those pants or this car and that.

Of all the things I hear about my transient nature, the most common is: “God, I wish I could do that.”

“Do what?”

“I want to go to a place I’ve always dreamed of.”

or

“I want to go to a place I’ve been before. I loved it.”

I look around at the chairs and walls and I feel satisfaction with the current moment. The idea of settling for unsatisfying surroundings saddens me. More so than the other sad things in life. More so than life itself.

I see a person telling me they don’t want to be here, but they want to be there, and I have to wonder why they don’t simply say goodbye, get up, and go to where they want to be.

So what’re you doing here?

Do you stop and wonder about the nature of the objects around you? The refrigerator’s hum or the comb on the dresser. How they came to be in your possession at a particular point in time. Where they may have come from and and where they may be headed. That alone—the impermanence of ownership—is enough to get in a tizzy. Pondering the eventualities of life. They really get you, believe me.

In relevance to others, you seek things. How these pants compare to those pants or this car and that.

Of all the things I hear about my transient nature, the most common is: “God, I wish I could do that.”

“Do what?”

“I want to go to a place I’ve always dreamed of.”

or

“I want to go to a place I’ve been before. I loved it.”

I look around at the chairs and walls and I feel satisfaction with the current moment. The idea of settling for unsatisfying surroundings saddens me. More so than the other sad things in life. More so than life itself.

I see a person telling me they don’t want to be here, but they want to be there, and I have to wonder why they don’t simply say goodbye, get up, and go to where they want to be.