I’ve taken to the banjo on weeknights, after all the hustle of planning and writing and keeping things organized. I had my doubts when I first picked it up, it being a more expensive instrument than I anticipated, but I needed something. My time alone was weighing on me and I knew I couldn’t keep on with just the thoughts in my head. So I found a music shop up the street a ways and I looked at the banjos. They had four of them: one backless, three with wooden backs for resonance. “If you’ll be playing with a group,” said the kid at the store. His receding hairline was much higher than mine. “Nah,” I told him. “Just want something nice to play music with.” And I bought it. Early birthday and Christmas present to myself. Something rational.

When I bring it out I don’t play any particular thing. I’m still learning this tabs business. It’s just picking at the strings, tuning this way and that, trying to remember my lessons on notes and scales. Do re mi fa so la ti do, you know. “Moonlight Sonata” is my musical fantasy, resting in the recesses for as long as I can remember. I wasn’t ever a piano man. Didn’t think I could do on a piano what I always knew I’d do with a flute or a stringed instrument. So now I take that banjo and sit in that big padded rocking chair and try to forget for a bit, which is a funny thing because anytime I get to playing music or singing on my own, the real kind, it breaks me up. I don’t know what real musicians feel—or if the ones talking about soul and heartbreak and all are full of shit—but there’s something in that twang of a string and the steady dying of its sound that just really breaks me up. One of the thoughts I’ve had is that if I ever get good enough on the thing I might write songs for people I never get around to being real in touch with. No other words or anything, just instruction to sit down or click a link and please don’t mind if it’s just a bit rough. I’ve been learning something new and I thought I’d share.

The kind of night when I’m glad I keep various sorts of tea that I am not personally partial toward, as well as a kettle that takes its time coming to boil. A lamp I do not need is less sharp in its illumination. Books on the shelves provide a mild enough distraction in the haze of semi-light. Speakers that are never quiet let out the sharp then flat intonation of so-called classical music. A much-maligned harpsichord to fill the pauses between topics. The occasional blow of the heater to provide background rumble and unnecessary warmth.

Always losing sleep for some damned reason or another.

“Did you ever really want to just have lunch?”

“Of course. I said I did.”

“And we always ended up having sex.”

“…”

“Hello?”

“I’m here. I had several dirty jokes all fighting to be blurted out.”

“Oh, nice.”

“You know, it’s not every man who wants to head out in the middle of the day to fuck the girl he’s dating senseless.”

“Under the guise of lunch!”

“You didn’t say anything. We were both satisfied.”

“Forget it.”

The kind of night when I’m glad I keep various sorts of tea that I am not personally partial toward, as well as a kettle that takes its time coming to boil. A lamp I do not need is less sharp in its illumination. Books on the shelves provide a mild enough distraction in the haze of semi-light. Speakers that are never quiet let out the sharp then flat intonation of so-called classical music. A much-maligned harpsichord to fill the pauses between topics. The occasional blow of the heater to provide background rumble and unnecessary warmth.

Always losing sleep for some damned reason or another.

I’ve taken to walking out onto the balcony in as few clothes as possible now that it’s colder. Pants, shirtless, that sort of thing. It’s a strange sort of rush when it’s so cold that the body begins to tremble and I, inevitably, begin to lose feeling. Being that I am openly nostalgic and a closet sentimentalist, I use the time to consider the past and current events. Understandably, my most recent thoughts were about my grandfather. I conjured up a memory of him from my last visit, sitting on his bed and flanked by a daughter on either side. They were dressing him from the top down. A loose fitting flannel shirt and gray slacks; a belt cinched around his small waist. His tiny frame was so different from my own wide-shouldered and thick-trunked one that I wondered if we could even be related. I compared us to my own father’s thin, knobby body—one he was not ashamed to display on those tightey whitey mornings—and again, I had to wonder. Three generations of men whose lives have all been different in so many ways. I could not help but reduce us to the sum of our body parts for the sake of simplicity.

I also thought about the cold, namely that it was quite cold and I wanted to return inside. I thought about swimming. I wondered if a large beige and brown man can turn blue.

I’ve taken to walking out onto the balcony in as few clothes as possible now that it’s colder. Pants, shirtless, that sort of thing. It’s a strange sort of rush when it’s so cold that the body begins to tremble and I, inevitably, begin to lose feeling. Being that I am openly nostalgic and a closet sentimentalist, I use the time to consider the past and current events. Understandably, my most recent thoughts were about my grandfather. I conjured up a memory of him from my last visit, sitting on his bed and flanked by a daughter on either side. They were dressing him from the top down. A loose fitting flannel shirt and gray slacks; a belt cinched around his small waist. His tiny frame was so different from my own wide-shouldered and thick-trunked one that I wondered if we could even be related. I compared us to my own father’s thin, knobby body—one he was not ashamed to display on those tightey whitey mornings—and again, I had to wonder. Three generations of men whose lives have all been different in so many ways. I could not help but reduce us to the sum of our body parts for the sake of simplicity.

I also thought about the cold, namely that it was quite cold and I wanted to return inside. I thought about swimming. I wondered if a large beige and brown man can turn blue.

Expectation.

The ocean is to the west and deserts are to the east. Driving distance.

A fast food joint every five minutes. The road to ruin lies around thee.

Cooking as necessity is simple. Art requires continuous traversal.

Love is work. Precious.

Work is loved. Necessary.

Needs are met. Square zero.

Billions upon billions of souls. Square one.

No challenge in coupling. All the forms of courtship.

You: are adored and cared for. No discussion.

You: relish discussion. Speak the words at the tip of your mind.

You: call me on complacency and indifference. Bullshit.

You: adore being eaten out. Crave it. Be hurt when I do not.

You: swallow or present yourself as providence demands. Inherent.

You: demand the best of me. The bad, the good.

The good life is a matter of effort. Physical.

Form follows function. Where the body goes.

It’s going to come to an end. Inevitability is comfort.

Comfort is complacency. Next.

Expectation.

The ocean is to the west and deserts are to the east. Driving distance.

A fast food joint every five minutes. The road to ruin lies around thee.

Cooking as necessity is simple. Art requires continuous traversal.

Love is work. Precious.

Work is loved. Necessary.

Needs are met. Square zero.

Billions upon billions of souls. Square one.

No challenge in coupling. All the forms of courtship.

You: are adored and cared for. No discussion.

You: relish discussion. Speak the words at the tip of your mind.

You: call me on complacency and indifference. Bullshit.

You: adore being eaten out. Crave it. Be hurt when I do not.

You: swallow or present yourself as providence demands. Inherent.

You: demand the best of me. The bad, the good.

The good life is a matter of effort. Physical.

Form follows function. Where the body goes.

It’s going to come to an end. Inevitability is comfort.

Comfort is complacency. Next.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62nelnMXW3M
I was sitting on the toilet. Not thinking. I’d closed the door so I could be in the dark for a bit. The heater was blowing. I didn’t feel the blood dripping from my nose. When I turned on the light I could see the drops splattered on the tile. It’d run into my moustache. Warm and thick. I moved my tongue up to lick the blood as I looked into the mirror. Inside it.

Shame was something I heard about only a couple of times. Another new thing to know, alright. It made me think of Kelly and our first night out to see Drive. It made me think of the times I’d wanted to sit and watch a movie at home with Brianna. All of it, just a few months ago. A few seasons.

I turned on my phone last night while I toked on the balcony, standing among a nice layer of rotting leaves. One text message from my boss asking if I’d sent the videos and screenshots to the producer. One from my mother informing me that my grandfather had died. Ninety-some years old. My father had flown down for the funeral. I didn’t think much of his death. I worried more about my grandmother and father. The near fifteen siblings of his. This would hit them hard. Ninety-some years old. Dead. I ignored the voice messages and turned it off.

I watched the Shame trailer this morning. The way he glanced at thighs and asses. The way he looked at women. It was like, yes. Not what I’m sure the ending will be about, but before that. Just wanting to fuck someone. Wanting someone to be inside of. Pleasurable escape.

Catch a breath.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62nelnMXW3M
I was sitting on the toilet. Not thinking. I’d closed the door so I could be in the dark for a bit. The heater was blowing. I didn’t feel the blood dripping from my nose. When I turned on the light I could see the drops splattered on the tile. It’d run into my moustache. Warm and thick. I moved my tongue up to lick the blood as I looked into the mirror. Inside it.

Shame was something I heard about only a couple of times. Another new thing to know, alright. It made me think of Kelly and our first night out to see Drive. It made me think of the times I’d wanted to sit and watch a movie at home with Brianna. All of it, just a few months ago. A few seasons.

I turned on my phone last night while I toked on the balcony, standing among a nice layer of rotting leaves. One text message from my boss asking if I’d sent the videos and screenshots to the producer. One from my mother informing me that my grandfather had died. Ninety-some years old. My father had flown down for the funeral. I didn’t think much of his death. I worried more about my grandmother and father. The near fifteen siblings of his. This would hit them hard. Ninety-some years old. Dead. I ignored the voice messages and turned it off.

I watched the Shame trailer this morning. The way he glanced at thighs and asses. The way he looked at women. It was like, yes. Not what I’m sure the ending will be about, but before that. Just wanting to fuck someone. Wanting someone to be inside of. Pleasurable escape.

Catch a breath.