Hey, Lindsay

I wrote this in the wee hours of the morning in August of 2010, the same long night/morning that I stayed out for what seemed like forever exploring every unlocked door in the Portland Hilton, two old friends in tow - one of whom I'd a fairly serious former crush for. I was stone-drunk and silly, and flitting about like some sort of lovesick wino, swimming in her beauty and the afterglow of a kiss stolen in the fluttering light of a dark hallway at 6 am. I sent this to her, but I don't know if she cares much for writing. Or writers. Who knows. I'm posting it because reading it every once in a while reminds me of how excited I can allow myself to be when I just drop my guard a little bit. 

            I stayed up all night. All fucking night. For two days straight. Wrestling with old, dull demons inside my heart, them clawing the membranes, the veins, the ventricles of the stuff inside my chest. I drank way too much, didn’t eat, didn’t think with anything but my heart, the same organ being torn by the little claws of spontaneity. Not with my brain, or whatever else I’m supposed to think with. My guts, maybe? My guts had shit for brains. None of that mattered. I lunged with the bile-heavy verve of whatever was left in the tank. I made decisions in nano-seconds, took forbidden fire exits to 18^th floor fire escapes (17^th floor?), peering unto the twinkling twilight of the west hills of Portland, Oregon, (O, funky red Montgomery Park sign! O, neon blue Volvo beacon!) with my life residing on the opposite side, my cat nestling in the shady dawn of the firs of Tabor, my bed resting flea-ridden in a sweltering southeast cubby hole, like the brimming twitches of my reason in the fervency of a Hilton haunted labyrinth. 

            I navigated the crags, the avenues, restrooms, fancy convention speaking rooms with the PA left on for everything to resonate, the unlocked pool, the unlocked useless exercise room, the elevators with the fancy buttons, evading the African security guard, so far away from the archaic, creaky staircases of my home. But barely far enough, actually. Not too far to remember why I was here. Why I longed for this moment for the last eight years. Why I knew that no matter what consequences I’d meet by virtue of this hastiness, I was prepared. I was prepared. She was here for me. I was here for her.

            And Lindsay looks at me like she did in 2002, like she did when I was but a stranger, still a stranger, in fact, in most ways, but hardly at all in these labyrinthine corridors - excavated behind the safety of the secret kitchens, where meals for broken kings have been think-tanked and prepared, to fuel bad decisions, awful fuel for awful men. She undresses in the mystery caverns of this homage to consumerism, happy for a swim, to be seen by me in her negligee, to splash in the know-nothing revelry of a west coast vacation, where we’ve finally seen each other again! Rejoice! It was not supposed to happen! We were a footnote in the aged annals of romance; a blueprint for the ways in which young lovers begin their bon voyages toward the promise of what was once promised all young lovers, but which has since been trampled.

But not anymore, you see.

We are making it right, in some way true, by usurping its banality; by proving, in some way unknown, to even us, that to ignore a rift in the alleyways of the blips in time and in a kind of love, or lust, or severe attraction, is the ultimate tragedy. That to forget the fact that time can sometimes stand still is the source of everything awful in the world. That to insist on the impulse of the heart is a triumph in the face of this electric world.

            And we grin in the shadows at each other with electric smiles, needing each other to know what we already know. What we knew eight years prior. That the forgotten folds of the heart yield not the detriments, strictly, of unknown, sulking demons, like those old, dull specters residing in stasis inside my chest. That the want of the core of us is the life of the earth, and that regardless of anything ever thought of in the history of the world, any barriers erected, any philosophies accepted and passed on, the religions of the weak, the fickle jealousies espoused from the maws of the cores of the wicked requires but a simple sidestep to ensure that which makes everything really work. That like, or love, or tender respect, or forever-admire, is something to strive toward, forever, and with serious gravity. And we will strive toward it, our hearts in our hands, in our smiles, in our eyes, until all are one for even one moment again. There is nothing more important.

Cadaver

There was a little lurch in the throttling of the old Volvo wagon - boring silver, dirty, in need of a left rear taillight - as it putted along Highway 22 outside Faredale. Bub’s head snapped up from the minutest slumber of drowsy delirium as he operated the vehicle, coming to just in time to avoid rear-ending the jet-black Expedition with the tinted windows and the stick figure-family decal just in front of him. The traffic burped along like this, like the way blood cells move in microscopic film shorts of blood moving through veins in science classes where you learn nothing but how to nap in secret.

That’s what Bub was doing, a little dance like that, appearing lucid for the benefit of the catatonic zombie-stasis commuters on the highway, but still nodding off, like a junkie in a Burroughs novel, or a sleepy baby who’s eaten too much birthday cake. Nod off… Snap up! Brake! Nod off………… SNAP UP! BRAKE!

On the stereo roiled Leonard Cohen’s “Sisters of Mercy,” itself a kind of lullaby, lolling in its pseudo-Spaniard guitar arpeggios and hyper-intellectual poetic hubris. Beautiful and soothing. Transcendent and real. A reckless choice as the soundtrack to a bumper-to-bumper snail trail of pissy drivers in evening dusk, all stomachs hungry and bladders full. Everyone a knot of fussy wires wanting to rage and sleep simultaneously. Bub didn’t have the cognizance to lift his hand to change the dial. It was as if he were a mummified lummox, trapped in 500 feet of tattered bandages and caked in the rigor mortis malady afforded deific souls whose ultimate reward is to be hidden in untraceable tombs for all of eternity, or until the earth explodes, or until their worldly catacomb is pillaged by fame-hungry archaeologists whose findings will be published in the pages of insider quarterlies that almost no one has ever heard of.

…Yes, you who must leave everything that you cannot control; It begins with your family, but soon it comes round to your soul. Well, I've been where you're hanging;
I think I can see how you're pinned. When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned…

 
Bub was this awful prototype in this awfully boring car. Anonymous. Stupid. Some thing. Appearing alive, barely, for the drivers, as noted above, but not just for them. Fuck them. 

Joel rode shotgun in the boring Volvo, himself slouching in the post-work malaise of traffic, all funky stale-car body odor and droopy eyelids. They were prone to carpooling, mostly because Joel didn’t own a car. He’d reclined the passenger’s side seat back to an angle, not quite horizontally, but enough so as not to be able to accurately gauge what was surrounding the vehicle, save for the slow wisp of the passing Firs along the right lane of the highway, where Bub and Joel’d been mired for the entire length of the commute. They’d stay there, in this lane, because it didn’t matter anyway. This was post-work traffic in California. Nothing mattered and nobody gave a fuck about anybody else in this twisted thicket of idling, ozone-killing consumerism and American paycheck-flexing shit-show.

“Bub, you all right?” asked Joel resignedly. The Volvo’d just lunged again as Bub’s right foot experienced a sudden atrophy, then Bub’s SNAP UP! BRAKE! instinct mechanism snapped into place, though his foot rested on the gas. The result was a tremendous roar from the engine that skipped the two passengers into a suspended, perpendicular, pulse-like jitter that first seethed and spit and screeched like a pole car at Daytona, then abruptly halted, instigating a skeletal middle finger from the ancient driver of the posh Lexus sedan behind Bub and Joel, who’d herself likely been semi-dozing, and whom almost plowed into them. Bub noted the likeness of the skin-boned quasi-human slant-eyed in the rearview like a Southeast Asian staring at the sun with a hangover.

“Errrr, blergh…..Yep, yeah. Sorry dude. Long day,” offered Bub. “This traffic is disgusting. Unbelievable!”

Joel wished he’d cared a little. No. Not really. He didn’t wish anymore at all, in fact. He’d stopped dreaming, sparking, long ago. Loosely he’d avoided the more daunting responsibilities of the position that Bub’d secured him with as a data entry plebe at a Dotcom startup so arbitrary and milquetoast it isn’t even worth mentioning the name of.

“Maybe we should change the station, man. This sullen shit is making you doze,” said Joel.

“Yeah – ahem! – I guess maybe we should,” responded Bub. “Jesus, that day. Can you believe the paperwork they saddled me with? The next time I have to code invoices like that I’m gonna need to mainline an expresso, I swear to god…”

Joel offered a polite, thin grin, an acknowledgement of his loyalty, though equally thinly disguised for what it was, which was nothing but lethargic contempt for the whole situation. He decided not to mention the mispronunciation of the word espresso.

A few weeks earlier, Joel’s younger brother Darren had been killed in an accident at the paper mill he was employed by. The foreman’d said that the chain hanging from Darren’s wallet became caught in one of the factory’s enormous pressing machines, and that while Darren fidgeted to free the wallet from his sagging jeans, his temporary immobility and lack of focus rendered him unaware of his proximity to a malfunctioning steam valve that had been shooting out white-hot mists at wonky intervals. The steam stream blasted Darren directly into his face, prompting viscous burns instantaneously. He actually died while collapsing from the agonizing pain and hitting the back of his head on a nearby forklift fork, his face an unrecognizable blob of putty and bone with a surprised shock evidenced only by a horrifically wide-open mouth that wanted to scream in protest one last time but couldn’t.

The funeral was conducted with an anonymous, closed casket. Joel had stared at the oak thing holding his brother’s remains with a patina not unlike a plastic mannequin. His expressions, when allowed, were like Greek busts of gods of weather and luck he’d never studied and couldn’t identify. His countenance and the physiology of him was a vegetable façade. Crying on the inside but for the incredulousness of the circumstances by which he’d found himself mourning his sibling in a cold, shitty church with strange family members and his civ-like mother erupting tears into sad wads of Kleenex.

The car ahead of Bub moved forward, in tandem with the car next to that in the middle lane, as did every other car but theirs. Joel’s zone-out had reached epic proportions by that time, thinking about how his brother and he had only recently been embroiled in a petty feud about a pretty girl they both dug. 

It dawned on Joel now that he could have her, that the guilt of courtship at the expense of Darren’s feelings was no longer a speed bump. He imagined what her face might look like if he were to tell her that, how horrified by the sentiment she might be, how instantaneously she might retreat, and he nauseously recoiled. 

The Cohen coos howled like a lovelorn dissertation from an analog diary.

…I love you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm, your head upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm. There were many loves before us; I know that we are not new. In city and in forest, they smiled like me and you."

“What…what the fuck is wrong with me…” muttered Joel a half-second before an ocean of audio pollution from a dozen horny cars paralyzed the ambiance of the freeway into a shocking stupor. Bub snapped from his mid-lane nap looking like an ancient tweaker, and quickly attempted to let the clutch out, neglecting to apply the necessary amount of throttle. The car stalled momentarily, and Bub, still groggy, still so irresponsible, started it back up and proceeded to make up the space they’d lost.

Joel’s mind, though, was still back where they’d been parked in the freeway, Bub asleep. The haunting realities of his neuroses, the frightening polarity of his competitive spirit, the alarming dedication to cultivating depressing environments to stay depressed. To sustain the element of a broken identity became his one true gift. To stifle laughter. To ignore the beauty of a sunset or the flittering of a hummingbird sucking sugar water from the red plastic feeder. Everything was postured for so long that it became real through osmosis. Chicken? Egg? All that meant anything anymore was that Joel wanted to pay for even that one thought, that one petty jealousy that marred his final weeks with Darren.

Joel looked to Bub’s sad black eyes, flitting eyelashes indicating an imminent doze off. The concrete divider separating the road from the ravines off Highway 273 to the right faded away as the lane veered to the left around the bend of the forest buttes. There were no synthetic embankments for about a quarter-mile around the bend. 

The tones of those sad Canadian love songs, and by virtue of their universality the world’s love songs, lulled the sleepy behemoth Bub into another hyphenated, half-eyed slumber at the wheel. The bend approached, and Joel saw the white lines bend left, Bub’s chin in his chest, his fists loosely gripping the steering wheel, his commuter dreams racing behind his eyelids.

Bub let out a little snore. Joel turned his head to the left to look at Bub’s sleepy visage, and whispered a tiny goodbye.

“We’re trapped here forever, and no one can change a thing. I’m sorry if sorry’s called for. But we’re in this together. We’re a flaming footnote on the ridge. Good riddance…”

As the cars ahead of Bub and Joel veered left to brace the turn on the bend, with the Buttes and sunny mountains and bushes of the valley below glinting that muted hue of a ho-hum California landscape of wild brush and Manzanita bramble, the car hummed quietly straight, toward the edge of the highway’s liquid parameters. Joel did not move to awaken Bub, and the old Volvo wagon crossed the white lines, its tires stuttering with the hiccups in the divots of the shoulder, and plunged lazily down the ravine into the void of that big green gorge, rattling the unused seatbelts against the inside of the windows.  

Two cars honked in protest, but the noise of the fussy traffic suddenly dissipated and was replaced by the simple, free silence of flying. Bub continued to sleep as Joel triumphantly lifted his arms in the air as if on the downswing of a thrilling rollercoaster.

…Who by accident? Who in solitude? Who in this mirror? Who by his lady's command? Who by his own hand? Who in mortal chains? Who in power? And who shall I say is calling?...

No.

I'm nothing but an animal. And I know it.
I sleep in nests and howl when hurt,
lick bloody wounds with red tongue
like a lamb in a pen when it's bit by a bird.


I'm nothing more than matter,
never mind the morals
or the drills of instinct coursing through my dumb
dead brains.


I've only to expire
in time
like any beast will
someday.


I'd admit to only loving in the face of
loss
And everything I've loved I've lost.
Is lost.


I'm a chigger in the coarse doe hair.
I suck the blood from beating veins,
wrestle life away from every other
living thing with the disregard inherent in survival.


I'm the filthy ocean heaving,
alive and dead at once
with trillions of blind and cunning
anemones
wriggling in a stupor.
Not yet dead
but without care or feeling.


And even as an animal I feel
at one and one apart with you.
Feel a sighing in my bones.
Seek a rainbow in the wind.
Wretch a vomit on the rose.
Shoot the cap guns at the cars.
Throw a wristwatch in the sea.
Say I, “Fuck time! It is the enemy and I am nothing more than an animal with no morals and no beating veins and everything's a tragedy of survival and no one ever wins.”


I have only to recite my vows of apathy,
to stiff-arm sympathy
for a ruse
and relish in the one trueness
of every thing:
This is not fun.
My heart may beat at double speed,
but thrills are cheap
and suspense dull
and happiness a pill I'm loathe to take.

Dream Journal, Come Rescue Me

February 21, 2012 (daytime nap): As I slumber on the sofa sleeper, covered by a Mayan blanket, the slow whoosh of the heater kissing my forehead, I sense it. I keep me eyes closed, but know it’s there, hovering, deadly. It’s enormous; I can tell even by the stillness of the room, something huge humming just beyond the pillow above my head. I am tipped off by something in my subconscious that there is, in fact, a grizzly bear in my living room, some kind of escaped circus attraction. Slobbering and waiting for me to move. To hold an inner dialogue regarding how it came to be in my living room, making no noise, and how it had seemingly spared the other napping beings in the room would have been the most foolhardy waste of time. The cats and the mini dachshund make no move to flee or hiss or bark. So much for security.

Doomed, I determined to outline a plan of escape in my head. I knew this hulking thing was only waiting for my eyes to open to make a move. It was only sporting, I sensed he thought, to allow for some kind of fighting chance, what with our sizes being so grossly unbalanced, our killmodes being unbelievably lopsided. The plan I made was simple: in one grand movement, fold the entirety of the blanket over me, put one foot on the ground, and leap straight out the south-facing bay window of my living room, and try not to trip as I scurried away at top speed down Hawthorne Boulevard to some kind of safety. Someone with an elephant gun could save me, perhaps. Someone with a net, or some chains, or something else appetizing that wasn’t me. Or maybe a cop would see this huge fucking carnivore lumbering toward me down the middle of the road and give him a nice, quick ram to the side so I could get away.

So, I did it. I executed the plan. Covered myself with the blanket to absorb all that broken glass; landed out on the sidewalk of 46^th Avenue just as the bear began to rumble an unholy guttural roar – its claws digging into my wood floors for traction to leap out himself, like the sound of icebergs hitting icebergs in the North Pole. I began to run as fast as I could west toward 39^th Avenue, down the sidewalk and not in the middle of the road as I’d imagined. No one seemed to be paying attention. I didn’t look back, but could feel the fear building inside of me, some animal instinct to dart, evade, not be eaten alive. No one was looking because no one was outside. Not one car belched up the road. Not one pedestrian, not one runner, not one hungover punk ambled up the walkway toward the sandwich shop. I was alone.

I tripped on the blanket around 43^rd Avenue. Just before waking up, I heard the coming of the claws.

February 22, 2012: I had somehow made it to Australia, holed up in some swanky lobby of some bourgeois hotel with a grand view of a sunsetting cityscape – everything swathed in orange, craggy mountains jutting at ridiculous angles unsupported by physics, usual geology. The ventricle streets buzzed with the blood-red cells of brake lights and green-yellow-red strobes, twinkling in the ether below like something alive, pumping life into some unknowable being. Everything moved away from me.

I sat staring at this vision, surrounded by people in bath robes all discussing some incredibly important plan of attack, probably some kind of shitty redux of a press gig where everyone ponders where to meet later, who to talk to, what to ask, etc., etc. But I wasn’t into it so I got up from my Indian-style sit (the window must have been all the way to the floor, so as to allow the full view of the ribald sights jittering in static cling outside, the shadows now sadly calling the sunset’s bluff and hiding til morning. Everything a red death). I went over to this funky yellow davenport to try and sit and write about this terrifying view, this nameless Australian scene, with those powerful Doberman crags out past everything, looming like bicuspids sweaty with hunger, to chomp us all to bits if the wiggling stopped. Ominous. Brutal.

I grabbed my blank journal from the back left pocket of my pants (I also wore a robe, but had pants on underneath, at least; I couldn’t say the same for the faceless automatons milling in my periphery), to document whatever was happening outside, just to write, to describe this frail beauty to my journal, and to me, so I could maybe remember something wholesome and pure for once, no matter the degree of terror it exhumed from my quaking hands.

I grabbed my pen from its weird crevasse in the folds of the same back left pocket, where it stabbed at a hole in the pocket just like in real life, and I wondered for a second if I were really dreaming, or if I had finally woken up to some strange hell, as a man waking from a coma, with amnesia and a strange face with hideous, strange people staring back at him must presumably feel. Forging on, I put pen to paper, ink to line, wrote, “I’m in Australia…” I noticed a black ant crawling and waving its antennae all over my left hand – the one holding the journal steady for my onslaught of journalistic output. I shooed it away, gently, where it flew sort of unpleasantly onto the adjacent couch cushion. Undeterred, it began its journey back toward the pulp of my left hand; I could see it plotting the route out of the corner of my eye. It was making me forget what I wanted to write about. It made me depressed for that singular goal of this little thing, to want to go over me to get to something else, that determination fueled by osmosis of memory, of a trail somewhere around here that lead home, or lead to food, or lead to the thing that would help him survive another day. And here I was flicking him away so I could write about this fluffy electric world, schizophrenic, panicked, handed everything on plastic and Styrofoam, never having to try, really, to do anything but exist. Never needing to climb a mountain anymore. I swallowed a lump of pity, but carried on, unaware of the correct, the moral and just avenue to take here. I was trying to live the only way I knew how, too.

I tried to write a little more, keeping a pensive, worrisome eye on the ant, who had now summoned a friend who zig-zagged to and fro behind the first, reenacting those same steps up to the meat of my hand, hesitantly now, pensive in its own right. “Somewhere down there, a girl I love is dancing around with a hula hoop by lamplight, bemused by the shadows on the walls…” then I stopped again. The crimson cloak of sunset had bid ado, and the reflection in the cross-room mirror displayed atrocious, soaring skyscrapers, alight with creamy neons. The be-robed cavalcade of faceless humans in the room were still huddling in strategic hunches, like old toga Romans scheming an assassination, maneuvering for takeover of foreign lands. The city looked like sharpened axe blades, dripping with tissue, grey matter, bone shard, muscle. The two ants were now joined by five or six more, all juking in staccato, lining up one behind the other with more en route up the façade of the couch, over the little seam of the cushion, lining up to go. Go where? To what? For whom?

I put my pen down and turned to look at the snaking line of insects on the couch. How no one else saw this development is a mystery of the lords of deep sleep, REM – our ancestors playing survival tricks on us for a strong evolution of the will to live, to breed, to send the message on that a life is a thing to behold and to cherish. The ants just stopped moving. Stopped waving their little wands. Stopped their Parkinson heads from bobbling. Stopped. Just looked at me. Silent, still. Determined. Wanting to go home.

I stood up to let them by, and watched as they filed past the divot left from my seating, up the arm of the right side of the couch, down the back of the right side, in perfect alignment, like brigadiers, noses down, following. The line then shimmied up the wall in the corner of the window to a small hole. One by one they disappeared into the little cavernous void. One by one they dropped into the waiting air beyond the frames and insulation and outside walls of the building. They seemed to leap, like sad humans might, into the big black, that final, rapid view a thing only those who want to see one more aching wonder yearn for. They looked like windswept seeds destined to shower mysterious soils beyond to keep it all moving.

Against the darkness, it was impossible to see them float away, down, and I don’t know the anatomy of ants well enough to know if they could have survived a fall of that height. Their weight-lifting capabilities are well-storied. They had a chance, I guess. But from that cell, that little window looking on the big world, some big anonymous Australia, with its big toothy mountaintops and its deserts and bush beyond, everything seemed possible.

Sometimes we all want a better view.

Beg, Borrow, Beg - NYE Solitude with a Party Upstairs

Pulses bloom downward, rooting rotten through the spongy floorboards, moaning with the thrill of the squeaks in the wood. A mealy mouthed auteur burps monosyllabic over gentle monsoons of breakneck chords, feebly channeling the smart sensations ever-present in a lucid dream-state catatonia. Then in bleed the beats, rudimentarily, phosphorescent pill-popper plunks, riding a generia of melody right through the walls, into the foundations, squeezing the screws from their ancient slumbers in the beams, oozing 16-penny nails from their mausoleums, to reverberate into the tunnels under the street on 46^th Avenue, where gooey worms wiggle blindly in the dark, androgynous, safe, until the fleeting sleet tricks them to come up for air. The sidewalks are lined with a layer of petrified maggots teased by the subtle sensations coaxed by these lurid tones. It’s completely unfair. I wish this music would stop.

But it’s New Year’s Eve, 2011. And here sit I thinking underneath the thuds upon the modes by which a less hellish 2012 might be possible. A year anew whereby vivid epiphanies could bloom up and out, over, far away beyond the arbitrary handcuff, ham-fisted chaos so easily foisted on everyone else. A big beautiful, prolific succession of days, carefree and fun, bordered not by a false declaration under veil of poisoned veins, and gin, and tobacco, and whatever other sinister toxin holocaust of the human brain conjures a feigned “resolution.” So be it, then, that this document might at least attempt to paint a less clustered vision of the ways in which I may occupy the next 12 months locked inside my limping, dying corpse. An explosion of passionate embraces ought be awarded anyone who needs, or cares to need a reason such as the forward-succession of a number on an endlessly narcoleptic cock-tease calendar to improve a largely ignored existence, or to evolve in tiny increments the daily rigors of shame and hate they inflict upon themselves.

I. Carry over resolutions from 2011, and dare myself to break them again.

II. Publish something other than journalism pieces, i.e. my broken attempts at grounded fiction/poetry.

III. Learn to cook foods Sarah likes enough to request at least twice a week.

IV. Attend symphonies, operas, ballets and theater more often for acute opportunities to dress up and institute looming braggadocio and acceptance of getting older and wiser of the world’s gems.

V. Take my cat to the vet, and take myself to the optometrist, dentist, doctor, dermatologist, and a barber.

VI. Take long hikes in Forest Park in the spring and listen to the leaves swish in the wind.

VII. Mystify close acquaintances by virtue of melancholy introspection and intense spells of brooding on accident while drinking gin in my basement.

VIII. Barter clothes with Zach Ahern via U.S. Postal Service to revamp the dirt-cheap industry and save a small town.

IX. Collaborate with some of my more creative friends to play music, engage in art projects, trade writing, or otherwise engage in civil discourse via heretofore unknown mediums.

X. Do, think, be absolutely nothing when it’s necessary.

On Being Unemployed in the New Millennium – Week One: The Profundity of Parfaits and the Cold Reality of the Quesadilla

Friday, January 6: The trick is to reconcile the weight of knowing you really don’t have to do much, what with your unemployment check en route, and your supplemental side-job income piling up. Eschew the populist notion that to work is to be saintly. Your obedience to this ethos undermines the stone-cold law you must remember: Oh, how much you deserve this big break from the grind of things. They treated you like a worm, never forget (always remind yourself regardless of the truth). Androgynous you, snooping beak-blind in the tunnels of your office building, they never visiting your little dim-lit nest, the little blue room — naturally a supposed calming color that in fact has been known to increase the likelihood of ferocious, vivid depression. Ha! A worm?! Would a worm know that?! — where all the production happened and all your real dreams stood aside waiting for the passing of another deadline. You owe it to yourself to stress the liberation of an existence exponentially devoid of typical responsibility. You stress your malaise with the whole situation and secretly wonder when someone (an employer) will come find you and whisk you away again to grind and writhe and wriggle in another temple of toil.

The trick then, really, is to pretend you don’t care very much about your job status, and to take pleasure in the hobbies you’ve accrued outside of a normal working schedule. The trick within that is to mask your concern — once you realize your hobby-pleasure is antithetically false — for the gravity of the realization that since these were hobbies accrued in the scant hours outside of your normal working schedule, you haven’t really given them the proper synaptic outlets, or fostered, perhaps, or unlocked the hidden talents through which you’ll truly capitalize on the practice or employment of these hobbies. But when/if you realize you’re just not that good at the aforementioned hobby, or that it turns out devoting more than an hour or so to it per night between coming home from work and going to sleep before going back to work again is just overkill, or when/if the guilt comes from the shock of truncated income and you need to try, if only for a moment, to do some real boots-on-the-ground job huntin’, why then you understand in the fullest sense possible that this may be one trick you don’t know how to execute.

So long, three-card-monte adventure on Hawthorne. We will find each other again…

Week one of joblessness, laid-offness, discardedness, fuckedoverness is like making a homemade parfait. You get everything ready — your fruits, of which blueberries ought to be included, because they’re brain food, as well as your yogurt and your granola, and then whatever other embellishments you care to add — and set it all out in front of you on the counter with a modest bowl-vessel to hold it in. On the cutting board; make sure you’re doing the dirty work with a cutting board. You begin your peeling of the bananas, or the cutting of the apples, or the chopping of the pear, the sprinkling of the raisins, utilizing the cutting board, fetching the granola, studying the probability that maybe you have too many things going on for this particular parfait. I mean, how much fruit can a person eat at one sitting and not shit themselves immediately afterward? And if you pile all that yogurt on top of even a fraction of that fruit mountain you’ve assembled, the subsequent application of granola is just gonna spray all over the counter, likely onto the floor, where the cherry-eyed Dachshund will sniff it out and lick it to death before realizing it doesn’t like granola, necessitating your bare-fingered clean-up of Dachshund-licked, dead granola on a sticky kitchen floor. In the end, you say fuck the whole thing, Tupperware all the fruit and the yogurt, re-pantry the granola, and make a goddamn quesadilla because it’s easier.

Getting everything ready in your head, or on your desk, or on the cutting board, or wherever, for how you’re going to receive and react to your newfound unemployed status is a process that, at least in week one, is, as an unfortunate dupe of a Longmont Potion Castle prank call put it in a completely unrelated retort, “all blow and no show.” Lots of bravado, little noise. Lots of pacing, getting nowhere. Lots of fits and starts. Lots of zoning out and being miserable at the sheer thought of having to sell yourself to someone so you can eat. Or buy bullshit you like.

Sigh, and harrumph, and ugh. I’m gonna make a quesadilla.

I, Intercontinental

All I want to do is to climb a mountain, fucking bellow some cock-eyed diatribe improv production mile-high to the waxen ears of the horizon. Some half-baked, quarter-stewed myth unto my clumsy brood of stupid, sluggish, piecemeal gang of bums. Because we all need a little shelter from the cloaking clang-clang harangues of our fathers. Something that makes sense to us.

We don’t need flowers in our hair.

We need to plant a bomb in our beards.

We need a revolution of the ruse and the rivulet.

And incentives glimmer in the dewy sheen of our dangling carrots, betrothed and bewildered we lurch and heed, live and breathe, lie and hang our hats in stranger’s homes, walk in puddles to die a transient death, cuddle our own biceps to sleep, and preen our oily hair to tufts, and muster up the profundities inherent in total confusion, like a rhino in a hat, or a toothless lion in sub-Saharan lands.

Oh how I loathe you, Europe, for smashing all my brains into a soup, for stewing the pickle of my fickle heart, for feeding my dirty eyes a supper of ancient streets, for ladling the scents of leather boots, and pomade, and cigarettes, and brittle skeletons of a thousand wars into my sensitive protuberance and not allowing me to visit.

Oh but I hate you, Australia, even more, for stealing the sanctity of dreams for dreaming’s sake, for Outbacking my Central Valleys, for kangarooing my brown bears, for g’daying my hellos, for Sydneying my San Franciscos, for wiling my love to tread on crocodile miles in the bush, to read in foreign suns, to hike a crimson hill and blush at the winking, sinking sun, to forget me wholly and finally as that sun drops to blacken her nights and to begin my day anew and not allow me to interfere.

But how I love you, Portland, for sticking your sore thumbs out to welcome even thieves, for pounding hail upon your slacker hack intruders to test the mettle of a generation broke and bored, for making the most of the marriage of melting pot Multnomah, for bridging the poor idealisms of the east to the bourgeois has-beens of west in solidarity, for Tabor, the last of the primeval volcanoes grumbling in a land that knows no heartbreak.

And how my heart breaks for you, Portland, to choke your skies with clouds year-round, to shield your roses, to soak your sons with rain, to fool us all that somewhere else is where we want to be, when we know full well your sleeping sun is yearning to reward us, and to treat me like a little king in every way.