How is it possible to miss someone so much as I miss Eliza? If I do not get this constant yearning under control I will mess things up in some way, call her too much or text her too much or just plain miss her too much and make my life a constant state of torment. I must be an adult about this. I must pull myself together, concentrate on the task at hand, and trust in the fates to weave their skeins as they see fit. But I yearn so for her presence, for the soft simple words from her which I so long to hear, the words that will seal our futures into one. I cannot explain why I love her so fiercely, why I bound myself to her the night that I swore on my virtue to the Universe that I would never abandon her side. It was the right thing to do then, and it still makes sense to me now. I pledged my eternal allegiance to her that night, before the Great Unknown, and I must come to terms with the fact that said pledge was given without demand of recompense, that said pledge was given purely, from the deepest regions of my soul, amidst the purest blossoming of love and the under the banner of ardent sincerity.
By giving that pledge, I abandoned any sort of control. By presenting that pledge to her, I placed my life, my soul, in her hands. I entrusted to her my virtue, and now, in this trying time, in this moment of weakness, so far removed from her presence, my trust in her must be absolute. The future is just that, a dim possibility, the faintest, tiniest chance that all the effort and resolve, all the tears and torment will lead to happiness. My feelings for her are unequaled in my life. I have never met anyone as perfect as she is to me, her simmering humanity, her sharp wit, her twinkling smile, her cunning, her kindness, her fragile strength. If I should find myself without her, if my efforts have been in vain, I will live out my life in tragic discontentment, knowing always that the Perfect Woman chose another man over me.
I will not lay blame. I will not point fingers. My virtue will be intact until the day I draw my last breath. I will never abandon your side, Eliza. Under neither duress nor coercion will I lay aside my proclaimed duty toward you. My heart is in your hands. It has been broken before. It has been crushed many times. A spark burns within it, however, the spark of loyalty, of kinship, of trust. I put that spark there the night I made my pledge, and only the Eternal Tao can stamp it out.
Sleep well, my darling. JP
americanifesto.com | updated Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
27 August 2009
26 August 2009
milkweed
My mood today has been strangely stable. I have not had to rebuild after a devastating attack of self-torment. I can suddenly feel my future stabilizing. The lines of fate spreading from the present appear less torturous and knotted than those stretching into the past. I have not suffered a wave of sorrow regarding Eliza. Perhaps this is because I understand her reasons for calling things off. Perhaps I finally trust that she and I will one day be together, regardless of how much I want it to happen immediately. Perhaps I have finally stopped trying to control the future, and have come to terms with the fact that things will happen as they are supposed to happen.
Just a few weeks after my father passed away, I now inhabit his country estate, a verdant valley packed full of deer, frogs, hawks, and all manner of insects. A thousand different shades of green assault the eye each morning. Buzzing, clicking, and chirping insects fill the air with constant sound. The good dark earth parts easily under my spade. The stream, clear, swift, and full of tiny living things, gurgles twenty feet from the front porch. The light blue paint curls and chips off the pine shingles, and a small bush is growing out of the rain gutter over the rear patio.
I am separating the wheat from the chaff, the things of emotional or material value from the detritus accumulated over time. My father was a child of war rationing. His house is full of things that would be useful if the world went to shit tomorrow. The barn is full of tools and books for planting and maintaining crops. The .22 rifle, with scope, is lovingly oiled, a box of bullets nearby. His ashes sit in his bedroom, fifteen feet from where I now sit. I have placed his flag and Navy officer’s cap atop the small but heavy wooden box, something I think he would like. I miss him dearly, more than I ever thought I would. I still expect him to come through the front door, or come stumbling out of the bathroom in his robe, but those memories will fade with time.
When I moved here at the end of last year, a single milkweed had sprouted from under the concrete in front of the basement door. My father explained what the plant did, and made it clear that it was not to be disturbed. Today, after rebuilding my modest wattle-and-backfill dam across the stream, I stopped to examine the plant. What started as a small plant not four feet tall has grown into two stalks eight feet high, each sporting numerous healthy pods. A bit of movement caught my eye. On closer inspection, I discovered five Monarch butterfly caterpillars lazily drinking sap, their tails wiggling every so often. I take this as a final nod from my father. This is his last gift to me, the glorious transformation of these small wriggling things into stately masters of the air, right on my doorstep. I will monitor their progress. I will protect the plant, and when they depart, I will rejoice as their red and black wings bearing my father’s soul to rest in heaven.
Requiescat in pace, GHWR. X
Just a few weeks after my father passed away, I now inhabit his country estate, a verdant valley packed full of deer, frogs, hawks, and all manner of insects. A thousand different shades of green assault the eye each morning. Buzzing, clicking, and chirping insects fill the air with constant sound. The good dark earth parts easily under my spade. The stream, clear, swift, and full of tiny living things, gurgles twenty feet from the front porch. The light blue paint curls and chips off the pine shingles, and a small bush is growing out of the rain gutter over the rear patio.
I am separating the wheat from the chaff, the things of emotional or material value from the detritus accumulated over time. My father was a child of war rationing. His house is full of things that would be useful if the world went to shit tomorrow. The barn is full of tools and books for planting and maintaining crops. The .22 rifle, with scope, is lovingly oiled, a box of bullets nearby. His ashes sit in his bedroom, fifteen feet from where I now sit. I have placed his flag and Navy officer’s cap atop the small but heavy wooden box, something I think he would like. I miss him dearly, more than I ever thought I would. I still expect him to come through the front door, or come stumbling out of the bathroom in his robe, but those memories will fade with time.
When I moved here at the end of last year, a single milkweed had sprouted from under the concrete in front of the basement door. My father explained what the plant did, and made it clear that it was not to be disturbed. Today, after rebuilding my modest wattle-and-backfill dam across the stream, I stopped to examine the plant. What started as a small plant not four feet tall has grown into two stalks eight feet high, each sporting numerous healthy pods. A bit of movement caught my eye. On closer inspection, I discovered five Monarch butterfly caterpillars lazily drinking sap, their tails wiggling every so often. I take this as a final nod from my father. This is his last gift to me, the glorious transformation of these small wriggling things into stately masters of the air, right on my doorstep. I will monitor their progress. I will protect the plant, and when they depart, I will rejoice as their red and black wings bearing my father’s soul to rest in heaven.
Requiescat in pace, GHWR. X
10 August 2009
shifting fortunes
How does one deal with shifting fortunes, with the highs and lows of daily life? My first instinct is to blame myself, falling into patterns of thought and behavior that lead straight to heartbreak and woe, self-torment of the most vicious and destructive sort. How do you let someone go who you consider to be the ultimate person, that woman with whom you want to spend the rest of your life? How do you act when she tells you that she is not ready for you now, that she enjoys her life without you in it more than she would enjoy it with you in it? Is it courage that keeps me from calling her, that prevents me from reaching out, or is it the knowledge that any action on my part will lead to naught, to further damage to our potential common future?
I am exhausted from her constant refusals, from the weeks of hanging on a thread, hoping beyond hope that she will come around and say to me that she is ready for Us to begin. It was selfish of her to keep me guessing, but I am also to blame, as I refused to read the writing on the wall and accept her unwillingness to commit. She has always had every right to do what she pleases, and I was a fool to hope I could convince her of my worth, my ability to provide her with a bright and shining future, just by being around her, by sharing time with her. Losing my job did not help things, for my ability to invite her to dinner or pay for activities virtually disappeared. I have never been good with money, and I did not reach the point where I was saving enough each paycheck to allow me not to have money for any extended point in time.
For these two events to occur so closely together is a blow from which I am still reeling, a shock to my self-esteem, my self-image, my faith in myself as a functioning member of society. I need her in my life. Her presence gives me great joy. I love every ounce of her being. It has been extremely hard for me to visualize my life without her. Will I settle for a lesser woman? Will Eliza find another man, one who can fulfill her needs without placing any demand on her for the fulfillment of his own needs? Or is it something about me that kept her from committing? Is it my lack of a career, of a clear and chosen path which I will follow? Why has my writing been suffering so? Is it because I was so focused on winning her that everything else in my life took second fiddle? Perhaps. Constant refusal leads to constant reevaluation of self. I cannot imaging working on the book in any serious capacity, although I know it can be successful, that my desire to transform America as we know it still burns deep within my soul. The confidence to work on the book will come with time. As the pain of losing her creeps out of my heart of hearts, I will be able to pour more effort into a more practical future, the realization of my dream of life as a writer. For now, however, I will ease my way back into it. This writing is a start. I wish her the best. Her happiness is more important to me than many things in life, and if this path leads to the fulfillment of that happiness, my loss and my suffering is worth it. May the winds of fortune shine upon you, Eliza, and may you remember me fondly. Perhaps we will make a fresh go at it, a new start at what we both know could be a bright and happy future. I cannot hope for you to return to me, only that I can find the reasons to love myself enough to be ready if you ever decide that you are ready.
Tao chapter 48:
To win the world, one must renounce all.
If one still has private ends to serve,
One will never be able to win the world.
I am exhausted from her constant refusals, from the weeks of hanging on a thread, hoping beyond hope that she will come around and say to me that she is ready for Us to begin. It was selfish of her to keep me guessing, but I am also to blame, as I refused to read the writing on the wall and accept her unwillingness to commit. She has always had every right to do what she pleases, and I was a fool to hope I could convince her of my worth, my ability to provide her with a bright and shining future, just by being around her, by sharing time with her. Losing my job did not help things, for my ability to invite her to dinner or pay for activities virtually disappeared. I have never been good with money, and I did not reach the point where I was saving enough each paycheck to allow me not to have money for any extended point in time.
For these two events to occur so closely together is a blow from which I am still reeling, a shock to my self-esteem, my self-image, my faith in myself as a functioning member of society. I need her in my life. Her presence gives me great joy. I love every ounce of her being. It has been extremely hard for me to visualize my life without her. Will I settle for a lesser woman? Will Eliza find another man, one who can fulfill her needs without placing any demand on her for the fulfillment of his own needs? Or is it something about me that kept her from committing? Is it my lack of a career, of a clear and chosen path which I will follow? Why has my writing been suffering so? Is it because I was so focused on winning her that everything else in my life took second fiddle? Perhaps. Constant refusal leads to constant reevaluation of self. I cannot imaging working on the book in any serious capacity, although I know it can be successful, that my desire to transform America as we know it still burns deep within my soul. The confidence to work on the book will come with time. As the pain of losing her creeps out of my heart of hearts, I will be able to pour more effort into a more practical future, the realization of my dream of life as a writer. For now, however, I will ease my way back into it. This writing is a start. I wish her the best. Her happiness is more important to me than many things in life, and if this path leads to the fulfillment of that happiness, my loss and my suffering is worth it. May the winds of fortune shine upon you, Eliza, and may you remember me fondly. Perhaps we will make a fresh go at it, a new start at what we both know could be a bright and happy future. I cannot hope for you to return to me, only that I can find the reasons to love myself enough to be ready if you ever decide that you are ready.
Tao chapter 48:
To win the world, one must renounce all.
If one still has private ends to serve,
One will never be able to win the world.
04 June 2009
the storm abates
Now that the storm of torment is broken, I realize that, in my selfishness and undignified manner, I have neglected to consider that Eliza could well be having as a hard time dealing with this whole situation as I have. Lost in the forest of my soul wrenching butchery, I have blinded myself to the greater purpose of my life, and the beauty and wonder all around me. After all, it was she who suggested we should part ways, as her situation would not allow for intimacy. It was she who, in what I realize now to be a very brave and kind manner, told me all the things that are hardest to tell someone you hold dear.
Perhaps she yearns for my company as much as I have been yearning.
Perhaps her heart is as confused and sad and lonely as mine has been.
Perhaps she wonders, as I wonder, what the future holds in store.
At least I have passed the hardest test, the perhaps cruelest form of punishment known to man - shameful self-loathing. Bones heal, skin mends, but a weakened, tortured soul destroys itself in the end.
"Only simple and quiet words will ripen of themselves.
For a whirlwind does not last a whole morning,
Nor does a sudden shower last a whole day.
Who is their author? Heaven-and-Earth!
Even Heaven-and-Earth cannot make such violent things last long;
How much truer is it of the rash endeavours of men?"
Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 23
Perhaps she yearns for my company as much as I have been yearning.
Perhaps her heart is as confused and sad and lonely as mine has been.
Perhaps she wonders, as I wonder, what the future holds in store.
At least I have passed the hardest test, the perhaps cruelest form of punishment known to man - shameful self-loathing. Bones heal, skin mends, but a weakened, tortured soul destroys itself in the end.
"Only simple and quiet words will ripen of themselves.
For a whirlwind does not last a whole morning,
Nor does a sudden shower last a whole day.
Who is their author? Heaven-and-Earth!
Even Heaven-and-Earth cannot make such violent things last long;
How much truer is it of the rash endeavours of men?"
Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 23
03 June 2009
kalaalit nuunat
there lives in the far north, in the wild expanses of that vast island known as green, in a cave of shining crystals, bedded on a great white bear rug, encased in an eternal shell of clear beauty, a quiet but beautiful young beast, whose tender hands tell tales of past and future, never once hinting at the present, but calmly regarding the world through her steel blue eyes with the languid pleasure of one who knows that the precious essence of man lies within.
hope springs eternal
X
hope springs eternal
X
15 February 2009
on dolphins and famous people
Dolphins are similar to famous people in a few ways. First, as air breathing mammals, they both bear live offspring. Second, they both live in isolated, highly structured social groups. Third, their personal space should not be violated, but if they seek you out, mingle.
Certain laws in
Breaking bread is a memorable occasion that deepens the bonds connecting individuals. Carrying a sack of dead herring while swimming in coastal waters is impractical and potentially dangerous. Dolphins have been known to attack and kill sharks, but why risk it? You wouldn't drag a deer carcass into bear territory in hopes of attracting the bald eagle, now would you? Do not serve herring to famous people, unless it has been preserved in a nice mustard sauce. Lighter, more palatable fare is preferred, but stick to foods you can quickly prepare. Have an assortment of alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages on hand, with enough cups and ice to go around. Nothing keeps people around like tasty snacks and fine drink. If the food is as good as the company, you are on the right track.
The coveted party will often appear without warning, drink his fill of the foolishness, and promptly leave. Cherish such short encounters as you would a child's first laugh or a perfect sunset: covetousness leads invariably to trouble. Remember: relationships cannot be rushed; they are built over time. Invite the famous person to your next gathering, and offer to keep them on the up and up – you just might get their contact information.
31 January 2009
Fists of Jagged Concrete
Let us start at the beginning. It is a very good place to start. I however do not know the beginning. I only know what the young man told me. When you are forced to share a cell, it is hard not to tell all. Mostly it just happens. You talk to forget the pain, the hunger. Something clicks and you have to talk; you might be dead tomorrow.
I slowly came to hate him in that cell; he hated me from the get-go. Something about my face, he said, being just plain boring. I always look now, for the boring, fearing I too will one day see it. I hated him because he never accepted his lot as cast. Ever. He never just did things the easy way, the way I had done my whole life. I slowly came to love him in that cell; he loved me from the get-go. Something about my soul, he said, shining bright and pure but always secretly yearning for the Big Sleep. I loved him because he refused to forfeit his integrity but, in the end, always managed to do just that.
He was a mess; so am I. We talked about the way things had been. The girls and the booze and the stagnating wonder of America in a dangerous new century. The days were theirs; the nights belonged to us. In slivers of moonlight I taught him chess on chips of concrete marked in our own blood. It was all we had, really: concrete and blood and the dry Southland heat.
We had only been trying to help, to clean up and rebuild after the San Andreas Fault had finally shifted, and churned the Los Angeles Basin into a froth of concrete and twisted steel. The aftershocks had been fierce, relentless. Our Sons of the American Revolution chapter had called up a ‘Phoenix Brigade,’ thirty fearless men eager to help their most desperate fellow countrymen, regardless of color, craft or creed.
We were ambushed in the smoldering rubble somewhere south of James M. Wood. Scrambling they came, the mad rush of a fearful starving mass. The very earth seemed to spit them forth, machetes flashing in the sunrise.
Why the two of us were spared is unclear. We were tortured, but what could we realistically have told them? That the Valley was still burning? Simply look to the hills, to the north, for that still-expanding wall of smoke. That FEMA was now hopelessly overwhelmed? That agency hadn’t been right since Katrina. With wildfires and extreme weather ravaging the Union, their resources had been already stretched far too thin. Maybe our captors enjoyed the torture; perhaps it becomes easy, if you push a man far enough. Maybe, they did it because someone told them to do it; maybe I will never know.
I would fix his wounds as well as I could. One day he found a needle. He learned to fix me up too, but my stitching always healed better. We scratched the walls to mark the days. They stopped feeding us. We didn’t really miss the burnt tortillas, but food is food, plain and simple. Desperate, we ate cockroaches and drank our own blood. We sucked fresh air through stress fractures in the reinforced concrete walls. Water seeped up sometimes from a broken pipe, to pool in the corner.
Like a warrior couple of antiquity we nursed, scolded, wept. We had bared all and shared all: our bond was complete. We were as close as two men can become and not want to fuck each other. Weak from hunger, we knew the end was nigh. “Jump them with fists of jagged concrete,” we whispered to each other in the dark. “Kill or be killed; at least go out swinging.” Secretly we each prayed to die defending the other. Our hearts were noble and pure and sang as one.
“Tomorrow... tomorrow.”
The next morning, twenty days after the ambush, the young man was gone. The steel door to our cell stood ajar. Drag marks and splattered blood led outside. Sparrows erupted into blinding early light, scolding me in their fright. Shifting mounds of bricks. Rubble and smoke. To the east, the Library Tower rose tall and straight amongst its crooked neighbors. I cursed myself for not having awoken in time. Wailing and tearing at my hair, I fell to my knees, cutting them among the jagged red brick. Tears rained down to mingle in the dust with the fresh blood. Gasping, my heart broke. I grabbed a brick and slammed it into my head over and over.
When I awoke the sun stood at azimuth. Blind hope flooded my being. I stumbled back inside. “He’s just hiding,” I repeated to myself, “he’s still here.” I searched for hours in the dusty heat. The needle was gone; he was gone. The crude chess pieces scraped and rattled in a pocket of my tattered fatigues; I dug a small hole and buried all but one.
As the last handful of soil drained through my fingers, I vowed to all things right and true to keep his memory – his stories – alive. Fresh tears welled. The shard of concrete marked with my blood, his blood, our blood, pulsed in my fist. I searched the heavens for some sort of sign: spotlights stabbed suddenly skyward into the failing light, caressing the Griffith Park Observatory in slow circuits.
“If only I can make it there, I will live,” I thought sadly to myself.
My name is Colonel Reginald Steele. I dedicate this to you, Luce Baine Jutland. Forgive an old man if he misses a detail or two, here and there.
If you still live, know I love you.
If you are dead, may you rest in peace.
I slowly came to hate him in that cell; he hated me from the get-go. Something about my face, he said, being just plain boring. I always look now, for the boring, fearing I too will one day see it. I hated him because he never accepted his lot as cast. Ever. He never just did things the easy way, the way I had done my whole life. I slowly came to love him in that cell; he loved me from the get-go. Something about my soul, he said, shining bright and pure but always secretly yearning for the Big Sleep. I loved him because he refused to forfeit his integrity but, in the end, always managed to do just that.
He was a mess; so am I. We talked about the way things had been. The girls and the booze and the stagnating wonder of America in a dangerous new century. The days were theirs; the nights belonged to us. In slivers of moonlight I taught him chess on chips of concrete marked in our own blood. It was all we had, really: concrete and blood and the dry Southland heat.
We had only been trying to help, to clean up and rebuild after the San Andreas Fault had finally shifted, and churned the Los Angeles Basin into a froth of concrete and twisted steel. The aftershocks had been fierce, relentless. Our Sons of the American Revolution chapter had called up a ‘Phoenix Brigade,’ thirty fearless men eager to help their most desperate fellow countrymen, regardless of color, craft or creed.
We were ambushed in the smoldering rubble somewhere south of James M. Wood. Scrambling they came, the mad rush of a fearful starving mass. The very earth seemed to spit them forth, machetes flashing in the sunrise.
Why the two of us were spared is unclear. We were tortured, but what could we realistically have told them? That the Valley was still burning? Simply look to the hills, to the north, for that still-expanding wall of smoke. That FEMA was now hopelessly overwhelmed? That agency hadn’t been right since Katrina. With wildfires and extreme weather ravaging the Union, their resources had been already stretched far too thin. Maybe our captors enjoyed the torture; perhaps it becomes easy, if you push a man far enough. Maybe, they did it because someone told them to do it; maybe I will never know.
I would fix his wounds as well as I could. One day he found a needle. He learned to fix me up too, but my stitching always healed better. We scratched the walls to mark the days. They stopped feeding us. We didn’t really miss the burnt tortillas, but food is food, plain and simple. Desperate, we ate cockroaches and drank our own blood. We sucked fresh air through stress fractures in the reinforced concrete walls. Water seeped up sometimes from a broken pipe, to pool in the corner.
Like a warrior couple of antiquity we nursed, scolded, wept. We had bared all and shared all: our bond was complete. We were as close as two men can become and not want to fuck each other. Weak from hunger, we knew the end was nigh. “Jump them with fists of jagged concrete,” we whispered to each other in the dark. “Kill or be killed; at least go out swinging.” Secretly we each prayed to die defending the other. Our hearts were noble and pure and sang as one.
“Tomorrow... tomorrow.”
The next morning, twenty days after the ambush, the young man was gone. The steel door to our cell stood ajar. Drag marks and splattered blood led outside. Sparrows erupted into blinding early light, scolding me in their fright. Shifting mounds of bricks. Rubble and smoke. To the east, the Library Tower rose tall and straight amongst its crooked neighbors. I cursed myself for not having awoken in time. Wailing and tearing at my hair, I fell to my knees, cutting them among the jagged red brick. Tears rained down to mingle in the dust with the fresh blood. Gasping, my heart broke. I grabbed a brick and slammed it into my head over and over.
When I awoke the sun stood at azimuth. Blind hope flooded my being. I stumbled back inside. “He’s just hiding,” I repeated to myself, “he’s still here.” I searched for hours in the dusty heat. The needle was gone; he was gone. The crude chess pieces scraped and rattled in a pocket of my tattered fatigues; I dug a small hole and buried all but one.
As the last handful of soil drained through my fingers, I vowed to all things right and true to keep his memory – his stories – alive. Fresh tears welled. The shard of concrete marked with my blood, his blood, our blood, pulsed in my fist. I searched the heavens for some sort of sign: spotlights stabbed suddenly skyward into the failing light, caressing the Griffith Park Observatory in slow circuits.
“If only I can make it there, I will live,” I thought sadly to myself.
My name is Colonel Reginald Steele. I dedicate this to you, Luce Baine Jutland. Forgive an old man if he misses a detail or two, here and there.
If you still live, know I love you.
If you are dead, may you rest in peace.
10 December 2008
at the precipice
when circumstance dictates your happiness
and your soul is only a sham
an amputated cesspit of loneliness
sadness far-reaching and grand
and daily you struggle with hopefulness
and daily destroyed are your plans
and you find yourself at the precipice
where future and nothingness meet
then hard is the task of restarting
your life on its daily repeat
and courage must come from the notion
"it is I who determine defeat"
19 October 2008
Exodus from LA - Day 1
Time: 3:55 pm
Grand Junction, Colorado. They exited into intense, Death Valley heat. Reginald set out for a quick walk, something to get the blood flowing again after fifteen hours of sitting. By accident he followed a few rainbow hippies wearing greasy baseball hats. When they ducked into a bar he kept right on walking. He had given up the sauce recently, due to realizations gained during an intense bout of hallucinations (a result of food poisoning from eating street tacos in Tijuana, Mexico). His soul hovers above him in space, a lozenge of cool bright neon… the components of his life like milky comets spinning slowly down and away from it. The How and the Why and the Wherefore of each event is suddenly, overwhelmingly, clear. His fifteen year affair with booze is linked to every major source of woe and failure, a thick spine running the length of many ribs.
He’d added “no more booze-houndin’” to his List of Rules.
So far, avoiding the sauce had been remarkably easy.
Grand Junctionians lounged in the shade along a newly constructed pedestrian shopping corridor. They stared at him as he passed. In LA he had relished the flamboyant anonymity, confident that people would not trouble themselves with his presence. But that is no longer the case, old friend, he thought as he walked among them. So let them stare. Take it as a compliment – no sane person would ever wear sunglasses like these.
The bus was not ready when he returned. Charlene had changed clothes. Her gaggle had dwindled to two diehards. Reginald munched generic Runts candy (a perfect early dessert) and waited with the other passengers. The candies are cheap and if you know how to wiggle the dispenser just right, like Steele does, you can get more of them than intended. Separate little groups of travelers all watched the news together: recycled political videobites; and updates on the latest national disaster…
Captain Fearmongery, may I introduce, Her Majesty – Lady Despair.
The combination ticket counter/snack bar was closing down with a kind of hopeful reluctance. The bus departed twenty minutes late.
They eased back onto the road, dipping and climbing deeper into the Rockies. Reginald had been tempted to talk to a few of the cooler-looking hippies in Grand Junction but was afraid he would burst into tears at any moment. The earplugs had remained in place. They were working quite well as single-serving friend repellant.
A rumble passed through his gut. He drank the last of his water and concentrated on the hunger, felt it, followed it along the peripheral nervous pathways all the way up to his brain and forced it to go away, to stop bothering him.
Hunger is weakness, and the Poor can’t afford to be weak.
A few hours later, in Glenwood Springs, he bought a bag of chips and a candy bar. Denver was still a good way off. He yearned to be there already, to be away from Charlene and the rainbows sneaking off to smoke weed, away from people who needed nicotine so badly, away from simple conversations and lighthearted banter. Something deep inside him knew that Denver was the fulcrum, that place where things would change, where he wouldn’t have to be so damn sad all the time.
Thunderclouds were passing low overhead, creeping westward. He hadn’t seen rain in months – summers in the Los Angeles Basin can be quite dry. Static discharge flashed and rumbled through the deep surrounding valleys. The air had that unique post-rain coolness to it. He stood by a bunch of trees to one side of the gas station’s gravel parking-lot. It occurred to him that he could be hit by the lightning and should seek cover.
The internal war was brief – his depressive mind won. I’ll just stand out here in the open by these tall trees for a while with lightning flashing overhead, he thought. Just then, the setting sun burst through an unseen gap. It set the fringes of the dark flashing thunderheads aglow in a riot of orange and gold.
His heart leapt and he was cheered. He realized that it mattered not if he got hit; nor if he got back on the bus; nor if he ever saw LA again.
The beginnings of an actual smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
If I do get hit by lightning, he thought; at least I’ll have seen that.
Grand Junction, Colorado. They exited into intense, Death Valley heat. Reginald set out for a quick walk, something to get the blood flowing again after fifteen hours of sitting. By accident he followed a few rainbow hippies wearing greasy baseball hats. When they ducked into a bar he kept right on walking. He had given up the sauce recently, due to realizations gained during an intense bout of hallucinations (a result of food poisoning from eating street tacos in Tijuana, Mexico). His soul hovers above him in space, a lozenge of cool bright neon… the components of his life like milky comets spinning slowly down and away from it. The How and the Why and the Wherefore of each event is suddenly, overwhelmingly, clear. His fifteen year affair with booze is linked to every major source of woe and failure, a thick spine running the length of many ribs.
He’d added “no more booze-houndin’” to his List of Rules.
So far, avoiding the sauce had been remarkably easy.
Grand Junctionians lounged in the shade along a newly constructed pedestrian shopping corridor. They stared at him as he passed. In LA he had relished the flamboyant anonymity, confident that people would not trouble themselves with his presence. But that is no longer the case, old friend, he thought as he walked among them. So let them stare. Take it as a compliment – no sane person would ever wear sunglasses like these.
The bus was not ready when he returned. Charlene had changed clothes. Her gaggle had dwindled to two diehards. Reginald munched generic Runts candy (a perfect early dessert) and waited with the other passengers. The candies are cheap and if you know how to wiggle the dispenser just right, like Steele does, you can get more of them than intended. Separate little groups of travelers all watched the news together: recycled political videobites; and updates on the latest national disaster…
Captain Fearmongery, may I introduce, Her Majesty – Lady Despair.
The combination ticket counter/snack bar was closing down with a kind of hopeful reluctance. The bus departed twenty minutes late.
They eased back onto the road, dipping and climbing deeper into the Rockies. Reginald had been tempted to talk to a few of the cooler-looking hippies in Grand Junction but was afraid he would burst into tears at any moment. The earplugs had remained in place. They were working quite well as single-serving friend repellant.
A rumble passed through his gut. He drank the last of his water and concentrated on the hunger, felt it, followed it along the peripheral nervous pathways all the way up to his brain and forced it to go away, to stop bothering him.
Hunger is weakness, and the Poor can’t afford to be weak.
A few hours later, in Glenwood Springs, he bought a bag of chips and a candy bar. Denver was still a good way off. He yearned to be there already, to be away from Charlene and the rainbows sneaking off to smoke weed, away from people who needed nicotine so badly, away from simple conversations and lighthearted banter. Something deep inside him knew that Denver was the fulcrum, that place where things would change, where he wouldn’t have to be so damn sad all the time.
Thunderclouds were passing low overhead, creeping westward. He hadn’t seen rain in months – summers in the Los Angeles Basin can be quite dry. Static discharge flashed and rumbled through the deep surrounding valleys. The air had that unique post-rain coolness to it. He stood by a bunch of trees to one side of the gas station’s gravel parking-lot. It occurred to him that he could be hit by the lightning and should seek cover.
The internal war was brief – his depressive mind won. I’ll just stand out here in the open by these tall trees for a while with lightning flashing overhead, he thought. Just then, the setting sun burst through an unseen gap. It set the fringes of the dark flashing thunderheads aglow in a riot of orange and gold.
His heart leapt and he was cheered. He realized that it mattered not if he got hit; nor if he got back on the bus; nor if he ever saw LA again.
The beginnings of an actual smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
If I do get hit by lightning, he thought; at least I’ll have seen that.
01 May 2008
Focused Ramblings of a Sad Sad Little Monkey
I woke up for the fiftieth time this morning and finally realized why I had been woken up the other forty nine. My smoke detector had been chirping and beeping throughout the night, ripping me from sweet repose into a sort of half waking over and over again.
To add to this I’ve been in perpetual torment since last Friday when I went on a date with a wonderful gorgeous college girl in Westwood. I had brought up my mom being dead now seven years and went from thoroughly enjoying her presence and the evening to catatonic despair, fearing she would see that I have emotions and things I haven’t worked out yet and would not want to deal with it. As we left together and parted ways, I froze like Bambi facing a semi and DIDN’T go in for the kiss which I could tell she wanted. Her face fell and my heart broke and I just wanted to die right there on the spot. She hasn’t gotten back to me since sand I’m killing myself inside, cursing my foolishness and lamenting the loss of such a being perfectly shaped to my highest standards. Oh woe is me. I’m out of Aderall too and can’t picture leading a successful and productive life without it and the constant struggle I face with addiction and my desire to write but difficulty doing so and today’s been not great.
I’m lost and sad and curse myself every second for not being good enough or quick enough or just plain stable enough to begin a good relationship with this knockout chick. And then in all my grief I think back to the day I got busted for heavy armed robbery and my dad sat me down at the dinner table with my mom and sister and proceeded to categorically break me down. He broke me all right and I snapped and have since lost that burning driving confidence and love for self that I see shining in so many other people and had to build my psyche and self esteem back up but I think I messed up along the way. I didn’t ask for help and no one offered it really and now when my chips are down and I’m depressed I can’t help but thinking thoughts of death and just plain wanting to give up. But I can’t give up because it would break my sister’s heart and my brother needs and loves me too so I push on and try to write, try to find some meaning in my life or some sort of goal. But I keep crying and just started again and am wearing sunglasses not so people won’t know but so they’ll leave me alone. I’m a selfish bastard with tears on his cheeks sitting on Prospect and Vermont trying desperately not to fall in love with every gone girl I see and trying to write shit down and make some sense out of things. And all I want is a nice pretty girl who’ll LISTEN to me and accept me for who I am mostly and I saw her on Friday but my mind got in the way and totally fucked me over, and now that it seems I’ve lost her I just want to get shanked in some street fight over something trivial and die in an alley forgotten and unloved or steal a car and jerk the wheel into a goddam bridge embankment.
I’m still really mad at my dad for what he did and should tell him and explain the consequences of his selfish act and forgive him and maybe love him again and I have to hurry before his lungs give out and he dies too. But I may never forgive him for how he tormented Mom on her death bed, complaining over and over about her wanting to die in the States close to her family and how thing’s would’ve been much better had they stayed in Germany. But she’s dead now and I miss her so much and just want to make her proud but it’s too late for that and who the fuck cares anyway. People do care but I can’t seem to care for myself enough to get real help from a professional and try to get my head straight because every time something good seems to happen in my life a deep dark part of me licks out and sabotages it and I downspiral into self pity and - loathing. I don’t talk to people about this because I don’t want to burden them but I have to if I want to be sane and productive, and my whole life I’ve been trying to be accommodating and nice but that gets you nowhere and you just wind up sacrificing yourself for others’ sake and then they leave you or you leave them or they forget but I never forget and then they don’t appreciate you anymore and that just freaks me out too.
I sold a bunch of stock recently, mortgaging my future per se, but I used it to pay off a lot of debt and thought that would reduce the stress and help me focus a bit but it hasn’t really yet because I’m still stressing about a lot of other stuff and feel powerless to fix it. Things like my apartment in gang territory and all the roaches and stopped-up sink that plague me there, and the fact that I’m not pursuing some career at some bullshit corporation like society tells me to and which I could have been doing but now can’t even bear thinking about. - I had to come inside just now because some fag with a high nasal voice started talking right in front of me and checking me out and normally I don’t mind gays at all but I almost went over and shoved my pen in his eye. - So I’m a sad sad little monkey today and just fell in love but won’t talk to her because I’ll probably just start sputtering and cry and she’ll laugh at me or just ignore me and leave.
There are three main aspects to my personality: a) the wolf b) the jester c) the scholar. Not long ago I realized the scholar had gone bye bye for a bit and I’d been running on jester and wolf, who are good for smashing and maiming and insults and showboating and boasting, but a tripod can’t stand on two legs so I’ve been coaxing the scholar back but I think he’s scared, still reeling from the tumult and chaos of my life recently. I’m scared too but together we’ll march on, two steps forward a mile back, never giving ground but always losing it. The moments pass and I sit here and see everyone and watch no one and try to find room in my heart to love myself again. Oh woe is me.
JPR 4/30/‘08
To add to this I’ve been in perpetual torment since last Friday when I went on a date with a wonderful gorgeous college girl in Westwood. I had brought up my mom being dead now seven years and went from thoroughly enjoying her presence and the evening to catatonic despair, fearing she would see that I have emotions and things I haven’t worked out yet and would not want to deal with it. As we left together and parted ways, I froze like Bambi facing a semi and DIDN’T go in for the kiss which I could tell she wanted. Her face fell and my heart broke and I just wanted to die right there on the spot. She hasn’t gotten back to me since sand I’m killing myself inside, cursing my foolishness and lamenting the loss of such a being perfectly shaped to my highest standards. Oh woe is me. I’m out of Aderall too and can’t picture leading a successful and productive life without it and the constant struggle I face with addiction and my desire to write but difficulty doing so and today’s been not great.
I’m lost and sad and curse myself every second for not being good enough or quick enough or just plain stable enough to begin a good relationship with this knockout chick. And then in all my grief I think back to the day I got busted for heavy armed robbery and my dad sat me down at the dinner table with my mom and sister and proceeded to categorically break me down. He broke me all right and I snapped and have since lost that burning driving confidence and love for self that I see shining in so many other people and had to build my psyche and self esteem back up but I think I messed up along the way. I didn’t ask for help and no one offered it really and now when my chips are down and I’m depressed I can’t help but thinking thoughts of death and just plain wanting to give up. But I can’t give up because it would break my sister’s heart and my brother needs and loves me too so I push on and try to write, try to find some meaning in my life or some sort of goal. But I keep crying and just started again and am wearing sunglasses not so people won’t know but so they’ll leave me alone. I’m a selfish bastard with tears on his cheeks sitting on Prospect and Vermont trying desperately not to fall in love with every gone girl I see and trying to write shit down and make some sense out of things. And all I want is a nice pretty girl who’ll LISTEN to me and accept me for who I am mostly and I saw her on Friday but my mind got in the way and totally fucked me over, and now that it seems I’ve lost her I just want to get shanked in some street fight over something trivial and die in an alley forgotten and unloved or steal a car and jerk the wheel into a goddam bridge embankment.
I’m still really mad at my dad for what he did and should tell him and explain the consequences of his selfish act and forgive him and maybe love him again and I have to hurry before his lungs give out and he dies too. But I may never forgive him for how he tormented Mom on her death bed, complaining over and over about her wanting to die in the States close to her family and how thing’s would’ve been much better had they stayed in Germany. But she’s dead now and I miss her so much and just want to make her proud but it’s too late for that and who the fuck cares anyway. People do care but I can’t seem to care for myself enough to get real help from a professional and try to get my head straight because every time something good seems to happen in my life a deep dark part of me licks out and sabotages it and I downspiral into self pity and - loathing. I don’t talk to people about this because I don’t want to burden them but I have to if I want to be sane and productive, and my whole life I’ve been trying to be accommodating and nice but that gets you nowhere and you just wind up sacrificing yourself for others’ sake and then they leave you or you leave them or they forget but I never forget and then they don’t appreciate you anymore and that just freaks me out too.
I sold a bunch of stock recently, mortgaging my future per se, but I used it to pay off a lot of debt and thought that would reduce the stress and help me focus a bit but it hasn’t really yet because I’m still stressing about a lot of other stuff and feel powerless to fix it. Things like my apartment in gang territory and all the roaches and stopped-up sink that plague me there, and the fact that I’m not pursuing some career at some bullshit corporation like society tells me to and which I could have been doing but now can’t even bear thinking about. - I had to come inside just now because some fag with a high nasal voice started talking right in front of me and checking me out and normally I don’t mind gays at all but I almost went over and shoved my pen in his eye. - So I’m a sad sad little monkey today and just fell in love but won’t talk to her because I’ll probably just start sputtering and cry and she’ll laugh at me or just ignore me and leave.
There are three main aspects to my personality: a) the wolf b) the jester c) the scholar. Not long ago I realized the scholar had gone bye bye for a bit and I’d been running on jester and wolf, who are good for smashing and maiming and insults and showboating and boasting, but a tripod can’t stand on two legs so I’ve been coaxing the scholar back but I think he’s scared, still reeling from the tumult and chaos of my life recently. I’m scared too but together we’ll march on, two steps forward a mile back, never giving ground but always losing it. The moments pass and I sit here and see everyone and watch no one and try to find room in my heart to love myself again. Oh woe is me.
JPR 4/30/‘08
19 April 2007
16 February 2007
damn the eyes of the curious
Damn the eyes of the curious
Searching with clandestine affect
As simple changes wield unexpected results
Adding the hint of unspoken lust to a stolen glance
Choose the retrograde, the rough path
Undauntedly challenging each crag and defile,
Each moment a tangle of the past woven
Into the roiling chaos of next moment's wakening
Steering confidently into the future
All the while grasping for a rain soaked pearl
Peace must be made, the three conjoined
And what emerges; bright gleam on humanity;
mudscraping whore; cannot be foretold
ultima ratio regum. X
interlude - project inferno - "on purpose"
As far as I can put things together, there is no predestined fate, no red thread that you've been dragging behind you all along. Far from unintentionally leading to a way out, to some sort of salvation, this string can become tangled along the way, and get you in far worse trouble than you would be without it.
The damn thing about a sense of purpose is that it is unequally distributed among us. Some possess of it from the start. They inhale it with their first breath. But for some, it must be learned, earned. And in a way, I'm happier for knowing that I must earn it, that it will not be vomited into my lap. Because otherwise, the confidence and drive would be neither so savory, nor so elusive.
Life in this foul, fast world however conveys a false sense of purpose. So easy is it to set your standards to that which you can achieve. But the unattainable must be targeted, must be the apple of your eye. If you reach it, and have got what you desired, and are happy with that, well done and many proud slaps on the back. But at times along the way, something else pops up, and looks more interesting, perhaps even easier. So follow that path, see where it goes, find that trough of muddy gold.
Many troughs lead off of the main way. They promise many things, many nice things that you might very well be happy with. But those paths tend to disappoint.
What happened to the dusty, gritty days of this country's youth? When you had to hammer/shoot/drive your way to the heart of the American dream, your own worst enemy? I say those times haven't gone. The dusty, gritty days are upon us, and you'd best specialize in something, dentistry, hogfarming, CNET IT solutions, whatever. No one wants a jack of all trades. They want someone with a clear set of characteristics that they can understand. but don't give them that luxury. keep them on their toes. send one volley after another of predictable response, then dive off into the utterly insane. be sure to come back, though, quick, so they're not sure if they're going batshit, or if you are.
ulrare. JP
The damn thing about a sense of purpose is that it is unequally distributed among us. Some possess of it from the start. They inhale it with their first breath. But for some, it must be learned, earned. And in a way, I'm happier for knowing that I must earn it, that it will not be vomited into my lap. Because otherwise, the confidence and drive would be neither so savory, nor so elusive.
Life in this foul, fast world however conveys a false sense of purpose. So easy is it to set your standards to that which you can achieve. But the unattainable must be targeted, must be the apple of your eye. If you reach it, and have got what you desired, and are happy with that, well done and many proud slaps on the back. But at times along the way, something else pops up, and looks more interesting, perhaps even easier. So follow that path, see where it goes, find that trough of muddy gold.
Many troughs lead off of the main way. They promise many things, many nice things that you might very well be happy with. But those paths tend to disappoint.
What happened to the dusty, gritty days of this country's youth? When you had to hammer/shoot/drive your way to the heart of the American dream, your own worst enemy? I say those times haven't gone. The dusty, gritty days are upon us, and you'd best specialize in something, dentistry, hogfarming, CNET IT solutions, whatever. No one wants a jack of all trades. They want someone with a clear set of characteristics that they can understand. but don't give them that luxury. keep them on their toes. send one volley after another of predictable response, then dive off into the utterly insane. be sure to come back, though, quick, so they're not sure if they're going batshit, or if you are.
ulrare. JP
03 January 2007
the antediluvian
The Antediluvian
In the land of the pretentious, the humble man stumbles
Upon the need to become self consumed.
Choosing flashy new clothes, he ignores the rumbles
His stomach makes, so as not to be marooned
On an island of discontent.
Blind he seems to other and virtuous paths
That on his death bed would give repose
Instead the easy life beckons, drugs and laughs
Cheat him of a shining glory that once rose
From his presence, when darkness in twain was rent
What far-off goal beckons past the borders of this land
But the sum of his life’s choices, each small path
Running over the next, so any slight of hand
Could one day see him exalted, the other an epitaph
Worn by ages, its message spent
Whence take the guidance to choose a course
If those around make decisions just as rash?
Seek then the primal, like water yearn to sluice
Ever lower, with slow violence down to crash
The flimsy pillars of conviction proven bent
Perhaps he on his white horse will claim you first
And the pains of life will cease for good
Then that patient wrath will cook your blood
And leave the soul to wander, evermore, in constant thirst,
Worn by apathy, its options spent
Stumble then, onward, never admit defeat
Hold ye close of knowledge every bite
And from your idea of self not one step retreat!
Of advice, be it quick, sharp or light
Be wary, for wrong directions it may have lent
So rest now, fain wanderer
For just a moment; look up, search the sky
And give us a newborn’s smile before you die
Mahalo. JPR
In the land of the pretentious, the humble man stumbles
Upon the need to become self consumed.
Choosing flashy new clothes, he ignores the rumbles
His stomach makes, so as not to be marooned
On an island of discontent.
Blind he seems to other and virtuous paths
That on his death bed would give repose
Instead the easy life beckons, drugs and laughs
Cheat him of a shining glory that once rose
From his presence, when darkness in twain was rent
What far-off goal beckons past the borders of this land
But the sum of his life’s choices, each small path
Running over the next, so any slight of hand
Could one day see him exalted, the other an epitaph
Worn by ages, its message spent
Whence take the guidance to choose a course
If those around make decisions just as rash?
Seek then the primal, like water yearn to sluice
Ever lower, with slow violence down to crash
The flimsy pillars of conviction proven bent
Perhaps he on his white horse will claim you first
And the pains of life will cease for good
Then that patient wrath will cook your blood
And leave the soul to wander, evermore, in constant thirst,
Worn by apathy, its options spent
Stumble then, onward, never admit defeat
Hold ye close of knowledge every bite
And from your idea of self not one step retreat!
Of advice, be it quick, sharp or light
Be wary, for wrong directions it may have lent
So rest now, fain wanderer
For just a moment; look up, search the sky
And give us a newborn’s smile before you die
Mahalo. JPR
04 November 2006
LA and some of her people
Recent developments in my understanding of Los Angeles and her people have put me in the mind to record one or two of same, at some point in time, perhaps now, perhaps later.
the apartment is a mess, clothing covers the floor, empty pizza boxes litter most surfaces, and a grey Chinchilla has been loose for weeks, his droppings everywhere. We play pranks on people on the street, filming from above as one after the other reaches down to pick up the seemingly innocuous dollar bill, only to discover that the “down” side is covered with fresh, human shit. The preparations for this stunt included many instances of near vomiting, much gagging, and the supercautious air people take on when handling others’ fecal matter.
Having been picked up and not taken the bus this time, my skateboard is not with me, and the prospect of having to bus it home, and not thrash the four odd miles all downhill does not excite me. Buses in Los Angeles are doable, they actually aren’t that bad, but still, you’re taking the bus. Immediate major negative cool points. Not that anyone’s counting, but Everyone’s counting, and that’s all that counts. The good and bad of this city is that everyone is watching you, judging you, talking about you at all times while trying their hardest to ignore your very presence. Strange. Hard to pull off at the best of times, impossible to remain outside of it once you’re here long enough.
As a compromise I take my friend’s board, a brand new deck with sick trucks and Bam wheels, which is slipperier than I’m used to, which almost costs me my collarbone on the corner of La Cienega and Santa Monica, but I get the hang of it, and don’t crash once. Back home, I make my way about things for a few hours, then get a call that my buddies are on the Promenade, and that I should come. Dutiful as ever, I find myself on the bus, heading west at a healthy clip, skateboard in hand. People can’t seem to stop looking at me, must be the new shades or something, so I pretend to be very distraught but trying to do my best to hold in the fury, which is a lot more fun than just sitting there. The anger creeps up behind my eyeballs, cuts the waste from my movements, and sees me through to my stop.
None of us really buy anything, besides jock shirts that look good but really aren’t normally part of the wardrobe, and we jokingly question our reasons for coming so far for basically nothing. The question seems irrelevant, so we drop the subject, and head for the beach. We smoke a joint by the life guard stand, and I watch him on his binoculars on each hand off, just to be sure. Hungry, we decide on Bubba Gump’s on the pier, get a shitty table in the back, are seated without a waiter, and I finally get up and let the oblivious wait staff know of our predicament. Apologies come grudgingly, but a young guy comes up to serve us, and we browbeat him into serving us drinks without checking ID. Doesn’t matter in my case, but my companions are both underage. Dinner’s alright, especially with three boilermakers apiece.
We finish our food, pay, and take our drinks to the bar, so they won’t card. They do, but luckily she asks the only guy who’s packing a fake. Time, about five pm. Closing time, about ten pm. In the ensuing five hours, two of us including myself have another dozen boilermakers, bringing the total in six hours to fifteen, or the equivalent of about 30 beers. We’re so drunk we each spill at least one drink, but the tenders keep ‘em comin’ and we don’t complain.
The shopping bags are abandoned three separate times within the eatery, I lose the skateboard and a pack of smokes with the last green in it, Brian gets the hot tender’s number without even asking for it, and Danny almost gets slopped up by some girl sitting next to her fiancé who’d been all up on his junk all night.
They finally kick us out, but by that time, another five of our people have showed up, we acquired a football, and I’m blacked out. The bartenders kick us out, locking the doors behind us but watching us through them , and Brian, in an attempt to impress the hot one, throws the football hard at a couple walking by, then proceeds to hoodslide a cop car parked out front. We play football on the pier, and catch, smoke more, and I’m abducted by a friend who convinces me to buy 40s, which some guy actually sells to me. I’m in t-rex mode, where shiny things catch my eye, the speech centers are on idle, and I can’t approach something without first aligning my whole body toward it, then stumbling over.
One of our old friends shows up, saying we can stay at her house. She lives with her mom and sixteen year old sister in Venice, and there’s no drinking in the house. Staunchly ignoring this warning, I sneak my half finished 40 into the house on the third try, and promptly pass out in someone’s room. Luckily it’s the old friends’, but in the night, supposedly in an attempt to forgo pissing myself, my body wakes me up and leads me to the bathroom, where I regain consciousness for the first time in ten hours.
I have no idea where I am, whose house this is, what time it is, what city I’m in, where my wallet, cellphone, and keys are. Still very drunk but awake, I tiptoe from room to room, finally locating my buddy on the floor in the younger sister’s room. It seems like a good spot, so I grab a stuffed animal and curl up next to him. I wake up to sunlight and the shakes, I’m so cold. I see that the girls have left, so I take my pants off and get under the sweet smelling covers. The old friend’s mom comes upstairs to get everyone to come down and have some pancakes, but I’m so painfully hung over and her heavy French accent is annoying so I hide under the covers, and fain incoherence and partial sleep when she discovers me. The pancakes turn out to be bland and undercooked, but the younger sister is chainsmoking at the table, so that lightens things up.
Finally someone comes upstairs to wake me, and we leave, but not before I puke all over the bathroom while trying to take a piss, catching most of it in my hands and shoveling it into the toilet. Ten minutes later there are no traces of recent pukage anywhere to be found.
All of my most valued items (cellphone, wallet, &c) have been kept safe in a shoe box, and are redistributed to my various pockets. The old friend’s mother insists on seeing us outside, and on giving Brian some things he had left behind at the old house, which he must take or else they will be thrown out.
We make our way toward Westwood, debate going to class with our old friend, but I veto the notion, as I can barely see and have one of the worst headaches in years. So we make our way toward our respective bus stops through UCLA. One of us asks everyone he meets where he can score meth, weed; I’m highstepping along checking out every girl who passes and voicing my opinion; we all look like homeless guys with shoe boxes, bags, and few brain cells left.
Having thus terrorized the campus, we enter our buses, and are swallowed up by the vast capillaries of LA Metro.
Selah. JP
the apartment is a mess, clothing covers the floor, empty pizza boxes litter most surfaces, and a grey Chinchilla has been loose for weeks, his droppings everywhere. We play pranks on people on the street, filming from above as one after the other reaches down to pick up the seemingly innocuous dollar bill, only to discover that the “down” side is covered with fresh, human shit. The preparations for this stunt included many instances of near vomiting, much gagging, and the supercautious air people take on when handling others’ fecal matter.
Having been picked up and not taken the bus this time, my skateboard is not with me, and the prospect of having to bus it home, and not thrash the four odd miles all downhill does not excite me. Buses in Los Angeles are doable, they actually aren’t that bad, but still, you’re taking the bus. Immediate major negative cool points. Not that anyone’s counting, but Everyone’s counting, and that’s all that counts. The good and bad of this city is that everyone is watching you, judging you, talking about you at all times while trying their hardest to ignore your very presence. Strange. Hard to pull off at the best of times, impossible to remain outside of it once you’re here long enough.
As a compromise I take my friend’s board, a brand new deck with sick trucks and Bam wheels, which is slipperier than I’m used to, which almost costs me my collarbone on the corner of La Cienega and Santa Monica, but I get the hang of it, and don’t crash once. Back home, I make my way about things for a few hours, then get a call that my buddies are on the Promenade, and that I should come. Dutiful as ever, I find myself on the bus, heading west at a healthy clip, skateboard in hand. People can’t seem to stop looking at me, must be the new shades or something, so I pretend to be very distraught but trying to do my best to hold in the fury, which is a lot more fun than just sitting there. The anger creeps up behind my eyeballs, cuts the waste from my movements, and sees me through to my stop.
None of us really buy anything, besides jock shirts that look good but really aren’t normally part of the wardrobe, and we jokingly question our reasons for coming so far for basically nothing. The question seems irrelevant, so we drop the subject, and head for the beach. We smoke a joint by the life guard stand, and I watch him on his binoculars on each hand off, just to be sure. Hungry, we decide on Bubba Gump’s on the pier, get a shitty table in the back, are seated without a waiter, and I finally get up and let the oblivious wait staff know of our predicament. Apologies come grudgingly, but a young guy comes up to serve us, and we browbeat him into serving us drinks without checking ID. Doesn’t matter in my case, but my companions are both underage. Dinner’s alright, especially with three boilermakers apiece.
We finish our food, pay, and take our drinks to the bar, so they won’t card. They do, but luckily she asks the only guy who’s packing a fake. Time, about five pm. Closing time, about ten pm. In the ensuing five hours, two of us including myself have another dozen boilermakers, bringing the total in six hours to fifteen, or the equivalent of about 30 beers. We’re so drunk we each spill at least one drink, but the tenders keep ‘em comin’ and we don’t complain.
The shopping bags are abandoned three separate times within the eatery, I lose the skateboard and a pack of smokes with the last green in it, Brian gets the hot tender’s number without even asking for it, and Danny almost gets slopped up by some girl sitting next to her fiancé who’d been all up on his junk all night.
They finally kick us out, but by that time, another five of our people have showed up, we acquired a football, and I’m blacked out. The bartenders kick us out, locking the doors behind us but watching us through them , and Brian, in an attempt to impress the hot one, throws the football hard at a couple walking by, then proceeds to hoodslide a cop car parked out front. We play football on the pier, and catch, smoke more, and I’m abducted by a friend who convinces me to buy 40s, which some guy actually sells to me. I’m in t-rex mode, where shiny things catch my eye, the speech centers are on idle, and I can’t approach something without first aligning my whole body toward it, then stumbling over.
One of our old friends shows up, saying we can stay at her house. She lives with her mom and sixteen year old sister in Venice, and there’s no drinking in the house. Staunchly ignoring this warning, I sneak my half finished 40 into the house on the third try, and promptly pass out in someone’s room. Luckily it’s the old friends’, but in the night, supposedly in an attempt to forgo pissing myself, my body wakes me up and leads me to the bathroom, where I regain consciousness for the first time in ten hours.
I have no idea where I am, whose house this is, what time it is, what city I’m in, where my wallet, cellphone, and keys are. Still very drunk but awake, I tiptoe from room to room, finally locating my buddy on the floor in the younger sister’s room. It seems like a good spot, so I grab a stuffed animal and curl up next to him. I wake up to sunlight and the shakes, I’m so cold. I see that the girls have left, so I take my pants off and get under the sweet smelling covers. The old friend’s mom comes upstairs to get everyone to come down and have some pancakes, but I’m so painfully hung over and her heavy French accent is annoying so I hide under the covers, and fain incoherence and partial sleep when she discovers me. The pancakes turn out to be bland and undercooked, but the younger sister is chainsmoking at the table, so that lightens things up.
Finally someone comes upstairs to wake me, and we leave, but not before I puke all over the bathroom while trying to take a piss, catching most of it in my hands and shoveling it into the toilet. Ten minutes later there are no traces of recent pukage anywhere to be found.
All of my most valued items (cellphone, wallet, &c) have been kept safe in a shoe box, and are redistributed to my various pockets. The old friend’s mother insists on seeing us outside, and on giving Brian some things he had left behind at the old house, which he must take or else they will be thrown out.
We make our way toward Westwood, debate going to class with our old friend, but I veto the notion, as I can barely see and have one of the worst headaches in years. So we make our way toward our respective bus stops through UCLA. One of us asks everyone he meets where he can score meth, weed; I’m highstepping along checking out every girl who passes and voicing my opinion; we all look like homeless guys with shoe boxes, bags, and few brain cells left.
Having thus terrorized the campus, we enter our buses, and are swallowed up by the vast capillaries of LA Metro.
Selah. JP
12 September 2006
10 September 2006
THE RESULTS ARE IN
Thanks for tuning in. if you’re reading this, I express my thanks. Thanks for taking the time to get a glimpse into the inner workings of me.
Confrontation. Today. Not more than an hour ago. All my fears confirmed. In order not to become physically violent (psychological violence already in progress), not to break things, and to stop myself from punching my face any more, I just skateboarded three miles, fast. Sweating, angry eyes blazing out of cheap, see-through aviators. The preppy, surf-themed t-shirt a friend gave me very recently, now drenched in sweat. The anger boils just below the surface. And why?
Because she told me at the beginning that she couldn’t be in a relationship right now. But that’s not true. Because we had been together, we just hadn’t called it by that name. Minutes after we spoke, it came to me:
It’s not that she can’t be in a relationship right now, IT’S THAT SHE CAN’T BE IN ONE WITH ME. And why? Cash fucking money baby. I can’t afford to swoop her in my car, and finance a trip downtown, to go shoot guns at the shooting range. And that’s about all she fucking wrote. Cash fucking money. Or maybe it’s the major design flaws that I see permeating my system right now. My niceness, often confused with pushover syndrome. My empathy. The fact that I chew my fingernails. My inability to fully appreciate the sexual encounter unless my partner can fully appreciate it herself. My apathy toward anything I decide not to care about.
Except for the cash flow situation, I got everything else pretty much covered. I love her, even if she never really believed me. I have loved them all, and will have an empty place in my heart for each and every one of them, till it stops beating. How many more holes can I take? How many more empty places will I be able to bear before LOVE stops coming, before everything is just a fucking illusion? Just a lie?
I wish you the best, beautiful Bostonian. I hope your man now, the one with whom you CAN be in a relationship, makes you happy. I hope he keeps your belly warm, and your bed rumpled, and gives you what you need. I hope that the respect I have for you as a person, for you as a friend (?), shows in today’s call. In today’s attempt to reach closure. I think I understand your decision, why you decided NOT to go with my offer, and upgraded instead:
The average relationship lasts, what, about 14 months? And not having money sucks anywhere, but in L.A. especially. Plus, if things are going well, and you see yourself being with this person for a while, you want the assurance that your life isn't going to be a miserable, poor mess for the forseeable future. Plus, you start thinking about kids, and they need cash, you can't be poor for that shit.
Yes, things did peter off. Things kind of just stopped, after you carved me out of your life a few weeks ago. The one thing though, the thing that really pisses me off, is that you said you were my girlfriend, just not by name. then, you met him, and he was great and wonderful and well connected and had fucking cash, and then the feelings stopped along with the close contact. THAT pisses me off.
That you just let me fall by the fucking wayside, and confirmed my fears that I was just a placeholder all along; just a stopping point, someone to get you back into the rhythm of dating, of having someone close. I was a stepping stone, to get you from isolation back up to speed, back up to where you could net a hot, nice, rich guy, and have him provide for you, and make you happy.
So. Enough. If you’re reading this, please know that I’m not mad: I saw this coming from the beginning. Don’t believe me? Read back a few posts. I’m just sad that it actually happened, that I dared to hope, dared to love. But, fuck it. There’s no money in a pity party. So, godspeed, faire thee well, welcome to the fucking dollhouse.
Out. X
Confrontation. Today. Not more than an hour ago. All my fears confirmed. In order not to become physically violent (psychological violence already in progress), not to break things, and to stop myself from punching my face any more, I just skateboarded three miles, fast. Sweating, angry eyes blazing out of cheap, see-through aviators. The preppy, surf-themed t-shirt a friend gave me very recently, now drenched in sweat. The anger boils just below the surface. And why?
Because she told me at the beginning that she couldn’t be in a relationship right now. But that’s not true. Because we had been together, we just hadn’t called it by that name. Minutes after we spoke, it came to me:
It’s not that she can’t be in a relationship right now, IT’S THAT SHE CAN’T BE IN ONE WITH ME. And why? Cash fucking money baby. I can’t afford to swoop her in my car, and finance a trip downtown, to go shoot guns at the shooting range. And that’s about all she fucking wrote. Cash fucking money. Or maybe it’s the major design flaws that I see permeating my system right now. My niceness, often confused with pushover syndrome. My empathy. The fact that I chew my fingernails. My inability to fully appreciate the sexual encounter unless my partner can fully appreciate it herself. My apathy toward anything I decide not to care about.
Except for the cash flow situation, I got everything else pretty much covered. I love her, even if she never really believed me. I have loved them all, and will have an empty place in my heart for each and every one of them, till it stops beating. How many more holes can I take? How many more empty places will I be able to bear before LOVE stops coming, before everything is just a fucking illusion? Just a lie?
I wish you the best, beautiful Bostonian. I hope your man now, the one with whom you CAN be in a relationship, makes you happy. I hope he keeps your belly warm, and your bed rumpled, and gives you what you need. I hope that the respect I have for you as a person, for you as a friend (?), shows in today’s call. In today’s attempt to reach closure. I think I understand your decision, why you decided NOT to go with my offer, and upgraded instead:
The average relationship lasts, what, about 14 months? And not having money sucks anywhere, but in L.A. especially. Plus, if things are going well, and you see yourself being with this person for a while, you want the assurance that your life isn't going to be a miserable, poor mess for the forseeable future. Plus, you start thinking about kids, and they need cash, you can't be poor for that shit.
Yes, things did peter off. Things kind of just stopped, after you carved me out of your life a few weeks ago. The one thing though, the thing that really pisses me off, is that you said you were my girlfriend, just not by name. then, you met him, and he was great and wonderful and well connected and had fucking cash, and then the feelings stopped along with the close contact. THAT pisses me off.
That you just let me fall by the fucking wayside, and confirmed my fears that I was just a placeholder all along; just a stopping point, someone to get you back into the rhythm of dating, of having someone close. I was a stepping stone, to get you from isolation back up to speed, back up to where you could net a hot, nice, rich guy, and have him provide for you, and make you happy.
So. Enough. If you’re reading this, please know that I’m not mad: I saw this coming from the beginning. Don’t believe me? Read back a few posts. I’m just sad that it actually happened, that I dared to hope, dared to love. But, fuck it. There’s no money in a pity party. So, godspeed, faire thee well, welcome to the fucking dollhouse.
Out. X
07 September 2006
post-RelationshipSlowDeath
“You must be a traffic ticket, because you’ve got ‘FINE’ written all over you”.
Ha. Good times. For the most part, a good weekend. Three whole days of nothing more, really, than self-stimulation and not too well deserved rest. But the underlying question of the weekend remained.
How will things progress from here? What will happen with the groundling, infantile relationship that had blossomed briefly before the advent of her friend? Not too long into the extended visit of her childhood companion, she had, for the most part, broken things off.
It had happened slowly at first. Of course, she wouldn’t want to hang out too much. Of course, things would be awkward with a third wheel around. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to share her bed any longer. At least until the friend was gone.
Then, however, the death knell had come. The step that would surely lead to ruin. It had been an otherwise normal phone conversation, but when she stated that he would not be welcome any longer in her friend’s presence, it had killed. She had claimed it was because the friend, so long from her last physical encounter, possessing so fully of the hidden and dark secrets that made Her her, subtly put her down, made her feel bad, when he was around.
Well, you can’t very well get rid of the friend, so, out with the temp bedbuddy, the soft and the niceness, he who would give so much, but who knew, deep down, that much of himself was a lie.
Not a really terrible lie; not one crafted malicious. But one brewed slowly from the fundamental misunderstanding between sexes, from the years of agony that had lead up to his first encounter. So often had he bungled things just before the moment of triumph. So often had he slipped, saying the wrong thing at just the wrong time, and turned the reaching, green tendrils that bore an end to pure auto-eroticism into the curling, snagging vines of embarrassment, rejection, shame and defeat.
So the lie had, for him, been born. Necessity had led him down the path of deceit and coercion, into the realm of auto-induced affection. It had spoken with his mouth the words that would bring a girl close, that would win over her confidence, and warm her to the thought of lying with him. And now…
What now? What had the years taught him? For one thing, he had never seen the lie through his current eyes, with his trove of experience. At least not until now. And was it really a lie? Or was it simply another one of the masks he wore? Was everyone capable of shutting off love, of twisting shut the pipeline of happiness and wonder, leaving behind cool indifference and hostile neutrality?
In that case, at the root of it all, his whole life was a lie. Always putting on the different masks, always adjusting to others, sensing their needs, calling up the files of past conversations with them, putting them at ease. Being ever the confident, capable, sometimes almost prescient, friend.
He had wanted to be close, loving, sharing of everything his. EVERYTHING HIS. He would have given her his life, had she but asked.
But everything for him, now, was nothing.
No cash. A broken tooth causing underlying annoyance edging on aggression, which would not be fixed until cash was available. A smoking habit. A penchant for self-pity, which was, thankfully, after years of nearly unconscious evaluation and probing, soon to be under more control. A taste for the random, risky encounter.
A propensity to give*. Money, love, feelings, advice.
Love…
But when you give, and don’t truly receive back, you slowly become annoyed with the recipient, and the giving morphs almost imperceptibly into resentment and indifference. Story of my fucking life.
But just last week, maybe the week before that, we had shared something soft again, on one of the now infrequent work breaks. We had stood outside, in the warm afternoon sunlight, and held each other as we had at the start of things. And that had given me hope. And hope, like love, spring eternal, and curse and praise them for it. For if the pain of heartbreak did not burn so darkly, we would forget the blinding inferno of love at its peak.
And so, it has come to pass that she now makes frequent references to a certain “friend”, with whom she has obviously spent many happy hours over the past fortnight. And guess what: his tooth ain’t broke, he’s got cash, and a fucking car, and is probably a really nice guy.
But he isn’t me, and it’s not fair, and I just want to be with her, and be nice to her, and give. And give. But life is pain, and the lords of credit are waiting with blood on their hands. So, let not in to self-pity. Stay the course, even if it seems crooked, and not like the grooves of others.
For I am the lie. I am the dark face of the skilled womanizer. But I am also the soft, bright face of unrequited, undying love. And to my final rest will I bear this tryx, this prong of opposites. And I will learn to bend it better to suit my will. And the slings and arrows of this comfortable life I live will not drag me down.
25 August 2006
hope springs eternal
I feel lethal. On the verge of frenzy.
But at the same time, I am sad. To the core sad, like that dog in
I am sad for the girl I wish to make happy, but can’t, because I’m poor. It hurts when she won’t be close, when she keeps herself closed, guarded. I stand there, unsure what to do with my hands, wanting so badly to hold her, to stroke her hair, her face. But the vast majority of my tender advances of late have been met with indifference, a tense patience. So after a few tries I stop, cursing myself, whipping myself inside for pushing too much, for not being the cool motherfucker who doesn’t fucking care that she exists, that she is hurting too. Would I be that person? I could, but I chose not to. Oh, I hope I chose not to.
And I cannot change it. While her old friend is here, her time is taken, and I can only so many times tell her I love her without her saying it first for a change. So I stop. Stop saying it. Turn off the pipe again that makes me want to say it. And that makes me saddest of all, sometimes.
Sad at myself for feeling sad about this. Sad for not having the stuff to keep my job, for losing it, for having to find a new one. Had I only done so many things differently, had I not binged and blown thousands of dollars on drugs when I first got to this city of such vast potential. What would have happened? Would I be happier now? Will I know not to make the same poor decisions in the future? I hope so.
There it is. Hope. But hope dies in the face of humanity, in the harsh breath of selfishness. Hope should be altruistic, communal. Hope is the bread of those who cannot feed themselves off of the flesh of action, who cannot bring themselves to look beyond the moment, and see the forest through the trees. Hope is a crutch for those incapable of seeing action through to a desired end.
I hope. Still now. And hope springs eternal. Mahalo. Be safe. Love JP
03 August 2006
TempusFugit
And so I find myself here, once again staring into the abyss of uncertainty and doubt. Doubt feeds depression. Lack of money feeds doubt. Lack of control and restraint drains money supplies. Depression, and the desire to free oneself of control and restraint brings momentary happiness, but only for a short while. Then, they lead back to doubt. Vicious fucking cycle. Circle de Diablo.
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