fatal attraction

i'm a writer, i use people for what i write. let the world beware.

i'm already in love with you, but i'll nail you anyway. and you can put that in your book.

Writing

Sometimes when i think about myself, i think of myself as a writer. Then, a second later i worry if i am one at all, or if i just wish to be one because i think it fits. Sure, i have a lot of stuff i have written, but a lot of it isn't any good at all. There are two passable things i have ever written, and one of them i want desperately too rewrite, but worry all i will do is ruin it. I haven't written anything since summer, despite the fact that i have had nothing but free time. If i am a writer, shouldn't i have notebooks filled with words, instead of notebooks with several pages of words? What if i decide that i really want to do this, that i want to make my living with words, and then i realize that i can't really write at all? That when i get there, i am the worst at it, there are people who just jot stuff down in their free time that expose my writing as egotistical and childish? What happens when i love Wilco so much because the music and lyrics blend so perfectly together, and then when i turn around those same lyrics are the only ones in my head, nothing of my own comes at all? What happens when i read a recap of moments and thoughts i didn't see and don't care about, but the way she writes brings me back, almost daily for over two years? and then i when i follow her lead and build this site, all that i put up are things i already wrote, and worthless ramblings that should never see the light of a monitor? what happens when i remember that rhetorical questions are the crutch of a poor writer, who needs to make the reader feel involved but does not have the prose capability to do so? maybe then is when i go lay in my bed and read the catcher in the rye, and try to remember why i want to be a writer so much, maybe then i realize that i can only get better at this. Maybe, at some point, i will realize i should have gone into sales.

Fate

or chance, who knows?

What is an Hour?

An hour is the de facto way that we judge our lives. It can be the most precious thing we have, or an obstacle that must be overcome.

Dry Your Eyes, You Poor Devil

There were only 4 halloweens i could have experienced in college. Freshman year i fell in love, sophomore year was lame, junior year was rome and now i am sitting in my apt after watching three sub-par movies that i have already seen. I think i want to take a shower and make it to humps to catch the tail end of the festivities, but from all the potential, 1/4 isn't really all that good of a ratio, i'll try again later.

two sentence stories 16

the glass broke past his face, the force throwing him from his seat. He had not anticipated his rival to have a friend to his rear, and it would turn out to be his worst mistake.

two sentence stories 15

he had made the wrong choice of lines, electing to go with visiblly more experienced of the two clerks. His anxiety grew as the man two ahead of him stalled and he was forced to stand there, as cramped as he was open to prying eyes.

two sentence stories 14

He noticed her eyes as she took her left turn past his car, her jetta sprinting through a yellow. When the light turned shortly after, he continued about his daily life.

two sentence stories 13

the smell of the books over took her as she steadied herself. It was done, and the gray haired man lay sprawled in the middle of the aisle, book in hand, a single droplet of blood falling from his smiling mouth.

two sentence stories 12

The family sat down around the turkey, said their prayers and began to eat. Casual conversation was made, and old jokes were retold.

two sentence stories 11

As she walked toward the alter, he wanted to tell her that she looked gorgeous, the veil covering her eyes mysteriously, and he could tell she only thought of him. The tear running down her cheek drew a black line deep to her black dress, her sadness thrown into contrast because he knew he would never hold her in his arms again.

two sentence stories 10

His father sat to the left, and his brother to the right. The three were concentrating hard on their task, and loved the feeling of community.

two sentence stories 9

i felt as though the number 34 truly understood me. I realize i sound crazy, but the most holy number and the cardinal directions in combination could quiet any one's nerves

two sentence stories 8

why i hated it, i could hardly remember, but the emotion remained. I sat sullenly in my dining room while it played around me, bringing joy to the rest of the world.

two sentence stories 7

while i spent my summer at the lake house, the wind danced playfully in my hair. In autum, the deep oranges and shocking yellows would complement my complexion to the utmost.

two sentence stories 6

the highs were worth the lows, i told myself. but the smile i saw in the bathroom mirror belied my apprehension.

two sentence stories 5

waking up next to her used to be the best feeling in the world. now, as i watched her breath, all i could think about was how much i would love to see the girl from the bakery wiping the sleep from her eyes as she smiled into mine.

two sentence stories 4

the bank line became shorter as i became more peaceful, standing there, looking at her pony tail. I dreaded the moment when i would be forced to take the sack out of my pocket and pass the note across the desk.

two sentence stories 3

She must have truly loved the muffins, it was all my brother could do to keep her from smiling. She spent the next several hours giggling with the others down in the basement, and i spent them alone in my room

two sentence stories 2

The smell of the flowers became intoxicating. The tear that ran down my cheek began to feel funny as my vision rapidly darkened from the outside in.

two sentence stories 1

It might have been wrong, but I somewhat relished the heartbreak. The emotion seemed to wake me up, a cognizance that might have saved the relationship.

Senior Bucket List

As i shift into more of a list/planner style of life (with only moderate success), i realize that there are some things that i want to do on a more meta level. Things that don't neccessarily fall into the day to day tasks of my life (such as reading 480 pages a day for my stupid as shit english class). So i have decided to make a list with only a loose end date, mid-may 2010, or even farther out, July 31st, 2010. There are some things on this list that i am embarassed that i have not yet completed, because they seemed so important in my decsion to come to St. Louis all those many years ago.

1. Visit the Cahokia Mounds
2. Go to the St. Louis Zoo / Spend an entire day in Forest Park
3. See live music outdoors
4. Fall in love

these seem like things i should have been able to accomplish in 2007, but at this point, i'll take it

To-Do

^. Lunch w/ mike

0. Meet with sarah schwab at her office. (1:15)

-1. finish caesar

A. Meet with Dr Pasken in Ritter (3)

1. Take a nap

1-b-i. go to CAI lab and print out necessary assignment sheets

2. Go to work, hope to get out early

3a. Put to do list online, update it

3. Take 5 hour energy, go to the library

4. Hammer outline for shakespeare essay

5. Go over reading list for 19th cent brit, pick out poems to read

6. Refine outline

7. Go over identities

8. Write shakespeare draft

8*. Do math homework

9. Read more british

9*a. try to sketch out Viator

9^. Go over job offers for server/ edit resume

10. look at british essays, attempt to get outline down

10-1a. reread keats, outline what i want to write about

10-2. Playbook

11. Go to class

12. Fabreez car, clean out, get ready to sell

My life, live blog.

I started writing this in my first class, but didn't publish it. I picked it back up in my next class, while i was going over my massive "to do" list. I figured i will be in front of my comp for the 24 hours, why not leave this open and keep adding to it when i am distracted. Enjoy.


One year ago: I was watching the brewers at the abby theater, and had to leave to watch the end of the game at scholars, then i held a friend, who wasn't to be a friend for long, while she had a seizure. Now, 365 days later, i have two papers, a test and three professor meetings i have to ace so that i can continue my charade of a student. I sit reading Arnold's "Dover Beach" about a man who is scared of the future, who worries about the waves on the beach, not swayed by the tranquil beauty. Critical Power and Creative Power fight for my respect, but critical is losing ground quickly, and i am lost in the pure emotion, the indiscernible feeling one gets when given a piece of art. To talk about where the work is to reach that ground loses me, but to turn the understanding and powers of literature to criticize society? count me in.

A retranslation:

There are people out there trying to retranslate the bible so it comes across as more conservative, more open to free market ideology,(here is a reaction) and i am totally ok with this. it is patently insane, but that's fine, i knew they were crazy already. i am excited to see what they do. i think a couple chase scenes would punch is up nicely, and a love story for amos would add intrigue. I don't know if i should bother with fiction writing any more. I wanted to change the world, i wanted to impact people who read it. I don't know if anyone reads fiction any more, and i know that very few have their lives changed by literature after 17 years old. maybe my life tilting at windmills will not affect people they way the original tilter affected me. I wonder if there are language scholars attached to this project, or if they are just going to rewrite something already in english.

my to do list:

is massive. two papers, three meetings and an exam in the next two days. By putting together several lists over the last few days, stemming from a bottoming out, an h2h with joel and a submission of 2 weeks notice. I am pretty excited though, a constant struggle forward and getting work done. I feel pretty good about crossing out an item. I am not quite there yet, but i am predicting a sense of satisfaction.

Down time:

I have a bit of down time right now (don't worry, i got some reading done, and the first check on the list felt as sweet as i thought it would). I can post this, which is 19 ways to awesome. actually, like 5, but still, awesome. i am two down on my list, so far so good. its gonna kill to lose 4 hours to work, but c'est la vie.

Getting Back:

From work, i got let go about an hour early, which is just amazing. Gives me pause and lets me wonder if i get some shit done in the next hour, maybe i could go to pennies, drink lightly, and then hit the brary after that? I don't know. I am on my 4th straight shift without selling a TV, which i feel is awesome, i feel really good about that. I put together a little wish-list of stuff that i wanted to buy on employee discount, and it hit about 200 bones, so maybe not, i modified it a bit, but i have to decide whether i want to have my computer on my tv, or buy sweet new speakers, then setting up the other speakers in my bedroom, a-b switch style, that has potential. anyway, if i want any shot at pennies, and it is a gorgeous night, i should get to work.

No Pennies:

Not much work either, really just more wilco odyssey, hanging out with joel, and a long overdue chat with one of my favorite people ever. Baseball was on, and i was reading a lot of words, but not speaking much. there are so few things running through my mind right now. It may be because they are all neatly written out on a list. Lists might become away of life for me. the calm they bring, no active power exerted not to let the tasks of life slip away, and then not letting them slip away. I'm down, count it.

No Progress:

On the list, but that's ok, because i will just update the list to include things i did do, like the dishes (seriously), get lost in wilco, read how CV31 likes detroit, and isn't sad about leaving the ill-town. Bought tickets to wilco, and visualized one hell of a fall break, sedated but right for all the right reasons.

Progress:

I am really bad at writing 3-4 page essays। I absolutely crush 2 page essays. Open, three paragraph, close. A. I always feel like i am pulling out a strong suplemental point and trying to put it on par with the other, actual, supporting statements. In this paper, i have three really good, solid, well founded and downright convincing supporting planks for my thesis. four, not so much. Three is such a good number, i am a huge fan. The sharp angle of three really allows a lot of play among the items. It is a huge jump from two to three, even larger than 1-2 in some ways. We all know how well it works for religions, adding in a third party to the gods/mortal story line completely and radically changes the narrative. Feudalism was boring, all nobles and peasants, but add a third class? gangbusters. Corners are just so much more exciting than lines, and asymmetrical shapes are the new black.

First Library Update (or फर्स्ट लाइब्रेरी अपडेट as the defult setting on this computer would have you believe):

Maybe its 7 hours past my target time, but i am here. I think that what i traded task progression-wise for the late start is rock solid, well, most of it is. Looks like some of the things i wanted to get done will have to wait for after 11 tomorrow, but that's one of the beauties of a list, it doesn't expire. It was raining as i was walking over here, but a 24 hour library is pretty much the best thing that has happened to SLU in the past year. I have woken up this early to go to work. Man's best study friends, snickers, orange tic-tacs, 5 hour energy and cigarettes are here for the journey with me, so i better get to it.

Lib update, coming at you live from 7:19, enter, Sun:

I have hit a snag in my paper, i know there is the final piece of evidence that i need somewhere in this folio, but i cannot, for the life of me, find it. I have found other things that will help me in my paper, but this snag is costing me min.

Sleepy time

I set an alarm on my phone, and gave myself a couple min to rest my eyes, but i guess old habits die hard, i hit snooze. i think when i actually went over the edge into sleep, i jolted awake, and kind of freaked out, the five hour energy, my second of the night, felt the need to push my heart to superhuman levels, but apparently not keep me awake. We are approaching 24 hours here, i'm glad all of you stopped reading over 12 ago.

(semi)-VICTORY

All done, in rare, first draft form, a paper extolling the virtues of the weakeness of nobility. i came on strong, and layed it on thick at the end, so a lot of work is still to be done, but hey, i've got a week. I think i will leave the live-blog for now, i have gone on to exactly 24 and a half hours. I'm glad i was here with me for all of this, the first entry seems like days ago, instead of day ago. Oh christ, i really dont want to leave all of these words on what could probably be picked up as a bad italian joke. Instead, some words to live by, care of Shakespeare by way of Cassius:

“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings” (The Tragedy of Julius Ceasar 1.2.141-2)

living life with a sense of time

i have been trying to get a handle on things. While i was trying to get a handle on things and failing, i looked to my past, to see how i had done it before. Then i realized that between sporadic grasps, the only handle i had was a fake one, one that i created just to make me feel safe. I wondered if that was what had been holding me back all of these years. maybe i created that handle sometime back in my youth, and since i could always remember where it was, i never felt out of control, never felt like i had to make a big leap to either find a hand hold or fall to my death. The fauxhandle may be both my best and worst possessions. On one hand, i never fell to my death, something that i am pretty sure has been a boon. On the other hand, the giant leap forward never happened, the risk was too great. But now i have lost that handle, and the only thing i do have is a sense of urgency, the only thing within my grasp is scalding hot rock, reminding me that i cannot stay here. However, i have managed to stay here, managed to get my hands burned to the point of bloody, hanging on. I have never made the leap before, the fauxhandle treating me "well" up till now. I have no idea how far of a jump it is, what it would require to get there and once i get there. The main problem might not be the jump, but the landing. What if there isn't a plateau over there, just more sheer rock cliff, allowing me to only hesitate before jumping again. What if i never get to settle down like i did with the FxH, what if i never get to feel comfortable ever again, what if that isn't a bad thing, but what if it is? My hands are pretty calloused, the scalding rock only seems hot some of the time, when i try to rest my head. What if the only way to win is to let go, and enjoy the wind whipping through my much too short hair? what if i need to "give up" on this rock jumping, and instead find a new vocation? i am too tall and too heavy to be much of a rock climber anyway, or is that just another grope in the dark for the FxH? the world may never know, but if i find out, i'll let you know.

Emails out of the blue, have a way of throwing ones life into a frenzy, or at least let one acknowledge the frenzy omnipresent. Emails to professors about meetings always seem to make things better, but email reminders from professors about paper assignments do the opposite. What if i am bad at english? what if there is a gigantic section and study of it that i just cannot grasp. Why am i supposed to care about the personal life of a writer, is it important that i do? Where has my life gone that the one thing i could hang my had on is turning into a faux hat holder? What kind of hat would it be? i would like to think a crisp fedora, but who knows for sure? I know one thing, work and i do not get along. is there something wrong with me, or with work? or is it just one of those agree to disagree, something that you can say that makes every one feel better but doesn't actually accomplish anything.

Blogger wants me to monetize this space. i don't really get the idea of monetization, i mean, i understand in principle, but that shouldn't be as important as layout? maybe settings, but not layout. i think my best bet might be keeping a divorcee company in return for a living wage, i might be able to make that work, but probably not. Since it's work, it would probably make me hate divorcees, like every other industry i have ever worked in. I don't want to hate them though, i like them. maybe i'll find a thousand dollars, there can be bank errors, right? thats what monopoly tells me. five houses equal a hotel in that game though, and i can tell you from experience, that is just not the case in real life. that is about all i know about real life though, and there very well could be a marvin gardens out there, and if it does exist, i bet you all of the signs are painted yellow.

I think i should stop now, or else i will never get to bed, and i like bed, its comfy, and beasty is there, much love for my boy.

UPDATE:

and just so you know, the handle is always fake, but every time you leap, or life forces you to leap, the next faux handle you grab feels a little stronger, in the begining it always feels like you've reached a summit, this is happiness, but the one thing life will teach us, I think, is the only way to stay up there is to keep moving on

Watching, reading, listening, writing

I complained to my roommate today about all the books i am responsible for this semester. The life of an english major in his second to last semester seemed to be one measured in pages, of hours and hours committed to ink on white. I work, i frat, i have dude parties, where am i supposed to find time for something like School Work, an enemy of mine since the days of Ms. Gonzales' kindergarten class. But as i read Shakespeare's Julius Caesar for my early Billy Shakes class, my empty room gave me license to read aloud Antony's "Rhetorical Fireworks." i realized the rationalization i used to kill english made me to be an honourable man. When i read Antony's speech, it moved me, made me excited, and enriched me. I love reading. As i sit here, wilco reminds that every star is a setting sun. i love listening. I just watched Almost Famous for the first time, and i love watching. All i could think to do when these things all happened in the last few hours, i came here. I love writing. The english language is a wonderful thing, and the way it allows itself to be used by great artists is nothing short of magical. I remembered why i became an english major in the first place, because when i was 18, i wanted nothing more than to sit in some future apt on a rainy thursday, and marvel at all the pages i was allowed to read.

Old Stuff 6: Whiskey In the Bottle

So angry, need to take a pull

Fuck this, such a wasted day

Need the effects of old Jack Daniels

To waste my mood away

There’s wiskey in the bottle

Just pore it out of that there nozzle

Make your pain feel the numbness

This bottle won’t just end yet

One shot, two shots, three shots, four

Bottle has just a drop more

Feeling warm, feeling sweaty

Gotta waste this bottle already

There’s wiskey in the bottle

Just pore it out of that there nozzle

Make your pain feel the numbness

This bottle won’t just end yet

Who is she, with who did she get friskey?

I just want to drink this whiskey

This bottle has just a drop left

What pain? It’s no longer in my chest

There’s wiskey in the bottle

Just pore it out of that there nozzle

Make your pain feel the numbness

This bottle won’t just end yet

Upteen leventy, shots I’ve had

Maybe I can blame my dad

This feeling, I can’t shake

One more shot will ease my quake

There’s whiskey in the bottle

Just pore it out of that there nozzle

Make your pain feel the numbness

This bottle won’t just end yet

Here you are, little bottle

I can’t feel, just pushing the throttle

Maybe today isn’t so bad,

There are still shots to be had

There’s whiskey in the bottle

Just pore it out of that there nozzle

Make your pain feel the numbness

This bottle won’t just end yet

This bed is so so comphy

Mayeb you cen feel soem thntg for me

I am just gonna lay my head down

Why is my face still wearing this frown?

There’s wiskey in the bottle

Just pore it out of that there nozzle

Make your pain feel the numbness

This bottle won’t just end yet

The Last Day of Edgar Bennent

He couldn’t handle the bright light of his ceiling fixture anymore, his cataracts turning it into a glow that washed out the little detail he could still see. He instead lived by the light above his stove, the dull glow at least sparing him from headaches while he stumbled around his tiny studio apartment by memory, acting as his North Star, the halogen bulb the only thing he had to orient himself in the only room he had known for the last eight or so years.

The Government was nice enough to still deliver food once a week. Whoever they sent would knock three times on the door, leave the large paper bag on the threshold and vanish. Every week he would laugh and exclaim to no one that the food exchange was just like the many information drops he participated in as a member of the CIA. He had a vague memory of making the same joke before in his life, but couldn’t quite put his finger on when.

The food was the least The Government could do, for someone like Edgar, he often thought, he had given his entire life in service, never having a wife or kids at their behest. They reminded him, and at times even begged him, to remember those distractions would get in the way of his mission. That somehow the Russians would count it a victory if he gained pride in a child’s recital, or shared an anniversary with a loving wife. Other agents needed to have a family for cover, they would tell him, he was too important to risk on those missions. He was trusted with something far too important to worry about any cover besides a lonely night janitor who played ski ball and sometimes rifled through trash during the day. They had even held his paychecks in an account he had no access to, to help him resist temptation.

It had all made sense to him as a patriotic young man, but now Edgar wondered why he had been so foolish. Of course, they gave him all the money after the wall came down, and even told him to go have a family, but he was 58 years old then, and had lived for the previous 25 years as a lonely night janitor. All he cashed were his janitors paychecks, the slip with the account information now long lost in his apartment. Then, one day, he stopped going to work, it had to be 9 years ago, maybe 8. He was left all alone by the country who he had sworn to hold hostage if need be, at the behest of the President of the United States of America.

He very rarely went into the back closet where the secret was kept anymore. In fact, it had been such a part of his life since his mid-twenties, fresh out of military, that he didn’t even think about it. The two red buttons with two keys. One labeled “WINDY” and one labeled “PONY”. He was told that there were many others just like him, who could alter the course of the conflict with the Russians, that were trusted with the fire of the Gods, aimed at their countrymen.

The thought was if there was a turn of sympathy for the Reds, or somehow they gained the upper hand and there was no recourse but war before it was too late, the United States Government would be required to sacrifice several major United States Cities to convince the country to go to war. Edgar was told he was not part of any of the main options the government would use, but his would be an impossibly important mission because of the power placed in his hands. He had Russian ancestors, he was required to subscribe to Russian newspapers. His job was to pretend to be a Russian spy, a Russian operative, so when the cataclysm fell upon Chicago and Sacramento, the signal for the warheads would have come from a man who the government could easily declare Russian.

He went back into the closet, the darkest place in his apartment, once the secret door was replaced behind him. He remembered, in his youth, sitting on the barren floor, when one of the keys turned, just so the red glow of the button would come forward, and bath him. He again turned the key marked “WINDY” and to his surprise, through the heavy tissue around his cornea, he made out the red again bathing him. With great effort he sat back down on the floor, his legs sticking out at odd angles, not the perfect Indian style he executed effortlessly when he was young.

He thought they would have disconnected the panel years ago, as soon as the wall fell, or even before when his part of the plan was certainly no longer even a remote possibility. He got excited, now believing they must have forgotten, his name must have been so far down on the list, and they were busy pouring champagne all over each other and shredding files with his name and mission on it.

His stomach rumbled and his eyelids felt heavy. He must have fallen asleep in the red glow, thinking about his contacts, their families, and the recitals he used to sit in on in the gymnasium of the school where he cleaned toilets, and now he was hungry. He got his legs under him, and tried to stand. He last his balance a little, and reached out for the latch of the secret door. It was not where he remembered and his hand slid along the wall. He felt helpless, and toppled forward.

The red glow got rapidly brighter, and brighter, and for a split second it encompassed his vision, the light hitting his old eyes and refracting all the way back to his brain. And then he heard a sickening crunch, and something in his head and on the panel give way. He hit the floor, warmth and a new red now running over his eyes. As he lay dying, he heard one beep, followed by two beeps. The way the schematics said it would sound.

Six Minutes to Happy Hour

I was drunk early again, pissed at myself that I was drinking early because I was pissed at myself. I was in the second week of vacation away from my job, but I didn’t go anywhere besides the back corner of a local college bar. It was easier to drink during the day on a Wednesday when there were students doing the same thing. Although, they had their life laid in front of them, and even though I was only the better part of a decade older than they were, my life was over. I was nursing my sixth beer, not wanting to finish and buy another until I could get two for one once happy hour started in about 40 minuets, although I know I will buy another, if not three, before the time actually came. I would be much deeper in to the bag if I could’ve convinced myself to get out of bed and face the day before the afternoon sun chased me from my half asleep dreams of what was destined and now could never be. Those visions were better than the disgust and pity I had with myself I had sometimes, but only when I looked in the mirror. The old t-shirt was on its 5th straight day and matched the sweatpants I had on sitting at the back table, not able to bring myself to look at the bartender with my 10 beard, untrimmed and patchy. The waitress seemed to understand I didn’t want to talk, just drink, something she picked up over a week ago, the second time I came in. My drinking was not a call for help or a plea for attention, but rather a reservation to a life not worth anything to anyone. I had come to the realization somewhere between the first half of my drinks yesterday and while I was trying not to finish the one I have in front of me, that I was not returning to work on Monday. They would drop the paycheck for these two weeks paid vacation into my bank account and then a notice of dismissal into my mailbox after I didn’t answer my phone over the next few weeks. I ca probably life this life for a few months then start selling my shit until I start checking into homeless shelters. This type of future projection has become my hobby of choice, even though I know I will end up back at my desk on Monday, fielding questions about how great it was to get away. I’ll tell them I went to visit some old college friends, HA! That laugh was the first sound I made since I muttered “Budweiser” when I first came in. Since then I have just pushed the bottle towards the waitress when she came around, as I will do in a few when she walks by again. She comes by when she notices I am getting low, she checks in on me from time to time, and I will show my gratitude on the line where it says gratuity when I finally close my tab. My tab will be even higher today than it was yesterday, which had been the highest yet on my two week vacation to visit some old college pals, Auggy and Johnny, Busch and Walker. I often think about buying a couple cases and a few handles and spending my day with Maury and Montel instead of in the back corner of a bar, but grocery stores are too bright and their cashiers are too friendly, and liquor stores too depressing, to much of a resignation even for me, one that would make my hobby too real, too likely. With only six minuets until happy hour, I break down and buy the second beer since I tried to nurse the one that seemed both so distant and so recent. I even told her to bring two, well, signaled with two fingers as she left with my empty. I wanted Johnny walker on the rocks, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her after our silence has nearly become sacred. I down the first with what can only be described relish, even though I felt nothing like that as the cool liquid squeezed past my throat and into my stomach, where it will wait with the other beers until the alcohol has seeped into my blood stream, taking me not away from the ennui and dissatisfaction with my life, but to a place where it can be viewed from a different, more scenic angle. The next thirty minuets pass by much the same as the thirty before them, and the thirty before them, stretching back to getting off of work the Friday before last. I was passively startled by the sound of a text message, thinking it to be one of the other “young professionals” at my job inviting me to play racquetball with the “boys” but as I checked it, it was just my phone company letting me know the great deal they were offering on ringtones this month. I closed my phone, my eyes not even registering the great early spring deals AT&T was offering to me, their valued customer. Wait, I told myself, I know this song. Most of the music played by the bar during happy hour was geared towards the interests of the bars more appropriate patrons, and the fluctuation of the scene had left me behind some years into my career. But this was an oldie, a song I remember from my time in college, when these kids dreamed of scoring the winning touchdown for their future high school team and I dreamed of happy life. It wasn’t a song I particularly liked, but the bolt through my spine upon recognition alarmed the waitress who had taken to watching me during downtime. She searched my face to see if I wanted her to come over and take an order, and something she read must have indicated that I did. “Johnny Walker, a splash of water and rocks” I said, and her face seemed to represent that my voice sounded exactly how it she thought it would. “Right away, you want a refill on the pretzels?” Her voice sounded musical, startled, but musical. I nodded my approval, but I could see she wanted to hear my voice again. As I watched her walk away, I could tell she had the same walk as my college girlfriend. When she came back, I gave her what she wanted, and asked what song this was that they were playing. “’Blame It’, by Jaimee Fox, I think, my older sister loved this song when she was in high school” she had belied her age, this song came out in my senior year, and my girlfriend, a junior at the time, often teased that she used this song to explain why we were together, as Jaimee “blames it on the alcohol” in the chorus of the song. I did not tell this to the waitress, although the idea of talking to her became more and more appealing as I noticed she cocked her head the same way my ex-girlfriend did when she was trying to remember something. I sipped on the Johnny Walker, not wanting to seem to not enjoy the fine Blue Label as it should be enjoyed. I thought more about Jen, Jenny, Jennifer, and as I did, I cursed myself for ordering something I couldn’t mainline straight into the part of the brain that forgets college memories. The waitress had been hovering, a few steps away, getting a better look at my eyes as they gazed off into the past, and we both realized she was still there at the same time, almost prompting me to talk to her as she hurried off. I looked back on the table where I set my phone, forgotten since the offer, and my hands, on autopilot as my brain looked on in amusement, found Jen in my phonebook. I set it back down, not closing it, letting her name be highlighted in blue against the white background of the screen. My waitress brought me my second round of Johnny Walker, and I motioned for her to bring another before touching it. Her face seemed to go a little downcast, the same way the highlighted one’s would when she thought I was pushing a little to hard on the booze. I couldn’t help but to pound what turned out to be a least 4 fingers of the amber fire, no doubt a special present from my new friend, who unfortunately saw her gift go to waste from her position behind the bar. She looked down and away as she brought the new round, and I felt my heart go out to her, the words of Wilco ringing in my head, from the last track of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, which started, “How can I convince you / it’s me I don’t like.” Fresh off disappointing a new coed, I picked up the phone and pressed call, sending signals to space to put me in contact with the last one. I caught her at home, remembering as I heard the voice of a child in the face that she had a family now. “Hello, Jen?” “Yes, who is this?” “Jen, it’s John, from SLU” “Oh my GOD! John! It’s been so long, I can’t believe I lost your number! How are you!” her voice went a mile a minuet, a trait she apparently hadn’t shaken since I said good-bye forever oh so many years ago. “I’ve been well, just plugg-gg-g plugging-ing a long at work” I had forgotten how drunk I must have been. Without talking or moving, it was hard for me to gauge my sobriety. I attempted to cough to cover it up as a frog in my throat, and she believed it, the first sign that we had grown apart, she always used to be able to tell. “How are the kids?” I gasped as I tried to cover up the silence, move the conversation anywhere but on my slur. “Just great, although Tommy’s allergies have caught up with him again, you know how kids are, they just refuse to take their pills” she started to laugh before realizing that, unlike her PTA friends, I did not, in fact, know how kids are. “How’s your relationship status?” I could tell she immediately regretted the question, it is often thought to be taboo to bring up new loves with old ones. “Well, I met a girl, she’s a bit younger than I am, but she is great” I said, trying to be upbeat, attempting to convey my lack of acknowledgement of her faux pas, for her sake, and as I continued to describe her to my old flame, I found myself referring to my waitress for inspiration. “That’s great, I hope she’s smart enough to keep up with you” apparently by excusing her of the relationship question, I opened up all the doors. She was referring to a joke we had, one that revolved around the fact that I made obscure references about mundane things. “Haha, she is fresh off of her college career, so facts about Russian painters are fresh on her mind.” The laugh seemed more forced than I had intended to let on. The conversation lulled again, and I pushed into a new direction, one I had never intended when I pressed the button, and couldn’t believe as it came out of my mouth. “Well, Jen, the reason I called is that I am going to be back in St. Louis for a few days to visit Chris and Joel, you remember them, well they—“ I was cut off by her motherly duties, as it seemed another kid came in, and she gave instructions to wipe his/her feet and get ready to start homework. The way she lovingly, yet forcefully, instructed her children made me flash to a place only ever dreamed of, where together we raised our children to be the little smart asses I always thought we would raise. I was silent, lost in a dream of coming home from a job I enjoyed to a house full of smart, confident kids, the youngest in trouble for stealing his oldest sisters diary and reading about boys, just another day in the life of a happy family. She snapped me out of it by excusing herself, “Sorry, JL,” I was shocked she used her old pet name for me after all of these years, “Sally just came in from girl scouts, what did you say about being in St. Louis?” I couldn’t believe that I didn’t retreat from my previous line of communication, that I continued the compound lie. “I am going to be in town, and I would love to get together while I am in” “Oh that’s great! It would be so great to see you and introduce you to my kids, I don’t think you have ever even met Rodger, have you?” Even as I was practicing my hobby of fake future molding, I realized I was moving it out of hobby and into lie, and lies don’t always go as planned. “ . . . you could even bring your new girlfriend, that is, if she is coming down with you” she finished, unaware that I missed the middle of her sentence in my inward gazing. I needed to come up with something for this curveball, this unexpected twist on the fate I wrote for myself. “She can’t, I me—ean-an, she won’t be there, I mean, well, it might be too early for that,” the awkwardness in my voice must have tipped her to my emotion, and hopefully she missed my second slur of the conversation. “Oh, well, that’s fine, I remember that first thanksgiving you came back to meet my parents, that might have been a bit soon, too.” At this point we were past the invisible lines that should not have been crossed, there was not even a hint of regret in her voice for calling up so startling a memory. It was that night we first had sex, a fact I know she did not forget. Alarmingly, with the relish I had lacked earlier, I launched into a full scale blow by blow of a future that would never come. I talked to her about how I was looking into a business venture in St. Louis, how Joel wanted me to meet the girl he was thinking of proposing to. The conversation went on for 10 more minutes, and I did not say a single true thing the entire time. She went a long with it, and our rapport was regained all to quickly, all too familiarly. Was there a chance she had been looking to escape the paradise that had turned prison? “Alright, Jen, well I really must be going, I have to get ready for a poker game over at the president of my company’s house, just a little informal thing we do about once a week,” I had never met the president of my company. “Oh, well you must let me know what night you will be free, Rodger and I would just love to have you over for dinner” “Will do, have a great night, tell Timmy to take his pills, the little rascal.” I sat there, the drink in front of me untouched for the duration of the phone call, excited for the first time in awhile. I pounded the whiskey and motioned to the waitress, who was spending a lot of time taking orders as it got busier, but who still threw glances at me while I was on the phone. As she hurried over, I opened with a joke, in my mind just the way a cool older guy at a bar would make the pretty young waitress feel comfortable. She was taken aback, but laughed, and I knew I had my in, but I was going to play it coy. I ordered another drink, not seeming too excited, just energized to be there, and she got my meaning. It would be so great to get closure and meet Rodger, I know seeing Jen happy with her family would let me move on after all these years. I would see the not so pretty side of family life, surely nothing too overbearing, but enough to take me out of my idealized world. Rodger seemed like a nice guy, and I might invite him out to play a little golf over the weekend if we hit it off. Joel, Chris and I would need a 4th when we got our tee time anyway. My hobby was interrupted, it had gotten pretty late, and the patrons a little drunk. I looked up and saw two guys, big guys for college kids, getting in each other’s face a little. They were separated by the girls they were with after a short time, and the night moved on, all in a nights drinking for the young and easily insulted. I tried to think what the girl Joel wanted me to meet looked like, she obviously was pretty, but Joel tended to go for the alternative girls, the ones whose beauty came from a strange place. She had to be smart too, or else he would never think of popping the question. I almost called him and asked her name before I remembered with a back part of my brain that I hadn’t spoken to him in years and this girl was a figment of my imagination. He may already be married for all I knew, and there was just as good a chance he was in Anchorage, Alaska as St. Louis for all I knew. I was drinking whiskeys as fast as my beautiful waitress could walk back and forth to the bar. I was thinking about what the waitress and I would do for our first date, how our first sex would be, when I would tell her I loved her. I was looking over at her more frequently now, smiling when I saw the curves of her back, taking a fascination with her unique nose. When she came back around with another drink for me, I thought about asking her to sit down, but I remembered the poker game I had to get to, so I asked for the check. While I watched her walk away, her shorter brown hair swaying as she moved, I noticed the two guys had gotten back into it. I would probably say something on my way out, let them know this petty squabble wouldn’t mean anything when they were a few years out of college and doing well in your life.

* * *

The guy in the sweatpants and t-shirt finally asked for his check, he made it much later then the other nights he had come out. He was cute in a depressed way, those eyes made me want to know what exactly had torn his soul up. “Really, Jake,” I said to one of our bouncers, “I think you might need too ask those guys to leave, my customers are looking at them instead of drinking, and a couple girls just moved tables out of my section because they were too close.” Jake and I are kind of dating, and he knew that if he wanted me to come over again tonight, he would do what I asked. I didn’t really like pulling that card on him, but those guys looked ready to erupt any minute. I put the bill down on the guy’s table, he was smiling at me in a drunken but nice way. He hadn’t shaved in days, but he looked really happy. He told his second joke of the day, there must be something in the way he enjoyed Johnny Walker that makes him happy. Hey, anything that makes you happy is my motto, especially if it’s something that I get paid for. He put his credit card in the bill and handed it back to me, not even looking at the bill. This was going to be a good tip, I could tell. The two guys had gotten into a bit of a yelling match, and Jake and our other bouncer were moving in. I knew one of them was a frat boy, but the other one I didn’t recognize. It’s a big school, I don’t know everyone. I dropped the check off at my lonely drunk’s table, and he stood up as he wrote the tip and signed his name, like he had to get somewhere and was waiting for me to bring him his card back. He hadn’t had anywhere to be for the last week and a half, and when he left, usually about the time the bar started to get crowded, he would just signal to the bartender to call a cab and paid the bill, in no hurry to be anywhere. His first step was a dangerous one, the ground wasn’t where he thought it was. I caught him a little bit, realizing this one was on me while Jake dealt with the assholes. He locked eyes with me and gave me a look I hadn’t had since my freshman and sophomore year boyfriend told me he loved me. It was pretty unnerving, but he seemed really genuine. He was either really drunk or he thought I was someone else. The answer was probably both. The bartender saw me and I signaled for him to make the call. The two guys were now yelling at each other over the backs of the bouncers who held them apart. Some guys just don’t know when to quit. I managed to get my new beau out the front door just ahead of the two guys being escorted outside, to settle things the old fashioned way. I propped my charge up against the wall, but had to wait to get back in while the two pugilists entered the ring. My new friend was having trouble staying upright, but when he saw the two guys start to circle each other, he yelled something out, I couldn’t make it out, but it made the two guys stop for a second. He cleared his voice and started again, his voice surprisingly clear against the dark night, the cloud of frozen breath coming out of his mouth with each word adding gravity to his words. “Gentlemen, stop. I know that what you are doing seems to be the most important thing I the world right now. But, this is not the way to go about life. The world has no place for men who ignore what could make them happy, who consistently punish themselves for sins of the past. “When you find something that makes you angry, upset, depressed, you cannot tie yourself to it by engaging whenever and wherever possible, but rather move on, leave it behind, and concentrate on something or someone that makes you happy, because that is worth fighting for, that is worth the effort it takes to engage.” He looked down at me, standing there, straight as a pillar, and then looked up to lock eyes with the two too surprised to move. We were no longer people, but rather characters in a scene. “And if you continue down this path, you will realize that you cannot beat what makes you unhappy, you cannot force it into submission, and if you tussle with it long enough, the only option is going to be numbness, bitterness and regret. “Gentleman, I ask of you, I beg of you, put down your fists and use your hands to go embrace those you came to this bar with, the ones that you came here to have a good time with.” When he was done, the look on his face was partial triumph and partial exhaustion for keeping the alcohol at bay. The guys kind of looked at each other, half bringing their fists up before thinking better of it, and in a bizarre turn of events, looked at Jake for permission to return to the bar, which he even more bizarrely granted. I filed into the bar with everyone else, leaving him to slump back down against the brick wall, I locked eyes with him one last time before going inside. I saw the cab pull up right after, and him get in the back. I looked down and realized I still had his bill in my hands. I looked at it, he had given a huge tip, yes, but he had also written his number at the bottom. I smiled, not a full smile, but a grin, thinking of the girl he was thinking about when he wrote down he digits.

* * *

The cabby pulled up in front of my building and I handed him a 20 for the 12.50 fare. I went around back to the garage and got into my car, I didn’t want to be late to meet my boss. I pulled out of my space and headed down towards the river. I stopped at the stoplight before the bridge, knowing he lived around here somewhere. I hope I can get a good story to tell Jen next week at the game tonight, I thought while waiting for the red. It turned green and I moved forward, now over the river. I caught myself in the rear-view mirror, smiling a kilowatt smile. When I locked eyes with myself, however, I saw deep into my own brain, and a little voice wasn’t fooled, but didn’t want to speak up, because everyone was having such a good time. I knew what had to be done, and the guardrail gave way easier than I thought it would. When the airbags deployed and the water started to rush in through the windows, I smiled a rye smile, the smile of someone who has just pulled a fast one on an unsuspecting customer.

आइस कबेस

It was hot, hotter than it had been in my memory At 21, admittedly that isn't really that far of a stretch back, but that didn't change my desire to cut the heat with a cold beverage। As i walked into my appartment, i realized i hadn't turned on my A/C when i had awoken that morning, it hadn't been that cold when i left No matter, there was always water. I noticed the empty britta pitcher on the table, it hadn't been filled and put back into the fridge the night before.

I cracked the freezer and let the cold air waft over me, my first chance at relief that day. I had spent the morning out dropping off applications for summer jobs. It had been pretty unsuccessful, seeing as they usually hire summer workers before the last week in june. The car only got hotter when i had to roll the windows up so i could answer a call from my mother. She wanted to know why i wasn't registered for classes yet, they had gotten a letter from SLU wondering if i would be returning in the fall. I realized my gas gauge was low and pulled into the only gas station i could find on that side of town, i wasnt sure if i was going to be able to get back to campus with what i had left in the tank. It was about a dime higher a gallon than i had seen earlier in the day, but c'est la vie, ya know?

I finally reached into the freezer and pulled out an ice-tray. It was empty, so i grabbed the other one. It was also empty. I must have forgotten to refill it, i must not have planned too far ahead.

Last Year: The First Year

It dawned on me as i was sitting on my terrace at 1 on this, the 15th day of June that roughly one year ago today i was informed that my job with LavaWorld International would be terminated and that my family's company, the one that we have owned since before i can remember was going to be sold. That day can be seen as one i can date myself in my mind. That day was the beginning of the end of my summer before Rome, after that day i visited the StL for two VERY eventful weekends, after that i worked with Jordan and John for a mundane but memorable summer job. It was on that job i began to understand what a full weeks worth of work felt like. It was on that job i got into talk radio, and began to understand top 40 and country and alternative radio for what they really were. It was on that job i first got to feel what giving your all and doing a great job felt like, and also what slacking off and just collecting a pay check felt like. It was the end of that summer when the US Basketball team showed me what it truly means to give your all as the favorite, as a team with little to gain by winning takes pride in the job and the recognition of the men around it. I am still trying to implement that into my life. It was the end of that summer that i stayed up all night driving around Wauwatosa and Milwaukee in the Scubado, the last time i would ever drive that wonderful part of my life. That semester was Rome. Since then, its been understanding true longing, what it feels like to get over a loss, the true joys of friendship. What it feels like to go to a bar every night for two weeks, because no day feels complete, and days without it get a little too painful. That semester introduced me to Yvain, Balmung and the view from the Terrace. It saw me come to grips with, and get used to a lonely life filled with friends. Class and jeopardy and cash cab every day. The lack of any type of woman in my life in the bro-thel. And since summer started, i have squatted, and slowed down, and felt useless. I have lost days to sleep and others to MVP Baseball 2005. This is truly year one of the rest of my life. No High school Graduation, first year in college, before and after i read Catcher in the Rye could compare with the stark difference in my life before and after i lost my job and my family lost a pillar of its identity. It's too bad i didn't have a count down to year two.

Bathtub Smoke

One of my favorite things to do is smoke in the bathtub. Grab a book, or put a movie on my computer, sit in the warm water and fill my lungs with smoke. There are equal parts entertainment for my attention and relaxation for my unconsciousness. However, the expedition never ends pleasantly. I always get too hot, the tub is not big enough to lay in comfortably, the volume on the movie is wrong, the page gets wet, or the cig ash makes the water too dirty. I always need to leave quickly, to move away from the bathroom. I must first deal with getting the cigs and book/computer away safely, without sustaining water damage. Then I need to grab a towel so that I don’t drip all over my apartment. When I eventually get out of that room, I am never sure how far away I should walk to completely fulfill my need to get away. I always end up somewhere in my living room, which is understandable because I live in a studio apartment, the only other rooms being the kitchen and the off-limits bathroom. I always think very hard about where I am going to stop, but all the thinking puts my body on autopilot, and eventually I just stop, getting through drying off my back before I realize my legs are no longer propelling me around the mass of things in my apartment.

Roma

I feel at home here in 1306 Lindell West, which doesn't make any sense when i think about it. I have been here less than 5 months and this is the room i have the least invested in of all the places i have ever lived. But for some reason, my innate sense of being home, the realization of current location as comfortable, i will have trouble leaving here in two days.

But right now i am sharing this home with joel, a man that just came back from studying abroad, who had rekindled my love and desire to talk about Rome. It has been in a large way diplomatic, as if i visited europe rather than lived there, loved there, lost there, tried my best there, and genuinely just let myself be there. When i think about rome i can't see individual people or specific places, but rather a collage of colors, feelings, images and imaginations. I remember inscribing the steam in my bathroom mirror with the words, "i want to go back" but that doesn't seem like the same mirror that i will see in several hours while brushing my teeth, attempting to prepare myself for another day of completely forgettable activities. It seems like the mirror i have had since day one, i forget a time before that mirror reflected who i was, and i had no other way of knowing what my incredibly long hair looked like.

My hair is a good metaphor for my remembrance of Rome, It is long, i remember a time when it was short, but not specifically. I remember exactly how long it looks every day i stare into that mirror, comb in one hand and the base of hair in the other, trying viciously to pull through the knots. I want to go back to short hair, but i dont know if i am ready for it, it has been so long since i have known anything else. It has been months since i understood a different way to live my life.

There is a feeling of; belonging, accomplishment, singularity, conjecture, humanity, abstractness, warmth, immediateness, comfort and a touch of forlorn that comes to mind when i try now to think about Roma. But my main fear is that i can no longer think of it at all, that what i have left is what anyone could cook up after an especially good nights dreams.

Forever Home

I am laying in my bed right now, Lindell West living. This bed is the most comfortable of all time, there is no bed that compares. If Kate Bekinsale wanted to go back to her hotel room after meeting me at a bar, i would at least try to convince her to come back here.

I know how long i have to make figure 8s in the lobby based on what floor the vator is on. I know that the back elevator is slow as hell, and when you come in the back way it is way easier just to take it, but right about floor 7 you wonder if you are doing to die in the slowest elevator of all times.

UPDATE 9/15: Finding this draft 4 1/2 months later has made me reflect on what the hell truly happened in 1306W. The fond memories i have do not come to mind first, but rather the soul crushing nights that happened instead. While smoking out the bathroom window while sitting on the edge of the tub when i was too cold or lazy to go out to the porch is a good story, it just reminds me of staring off into the sky over the lights and into the stars, wondering in a bad way. As i sit here, this couch that i have made my home over the last 4 days, in a new, supposedly better apt, i wish that i could at least see the buildings of clayton again, instead of the blank walls. I hope to be a better man for what i went through in 1306, but i fear that all i really did there was cement myself as content with some good, any good at all. That i was able to ignore the nights i spent silent, alone in the dark because i knew that the sun would come out, so no action was required. I think nightly now about getting into Junior and setting off after the setting sun. Not stopping till i ran out of gas, only to abandon the hoopdie and hitchhike until i found myself somewhere. But i am too much of a coward to do something like that, something that would require me to accept that i must enact change for change to come. It has come about, like all realizations, because of loneliness, in this case a great sense of it. I love my friends but we aren't new to each other any more, and when we get together its more like we are reading from a script till we all get to go home. I want spontinaity back, but as i claim that i am still laying on this couch, at 6 o'clock in the morning, having done nothing in days. I feel that i may just be old, and that it is over for me. I am done, and have been since 1306, but i just hadn't realized it until now. There is a reason that nothing i write has a happy ending any more, and it's probably because i don't foresee any type of happy ending, just a drawn out life with a few specs of self-awareness that don't amount to anything. But hey, why would my life be any different than it has in the last 10 months? When i worry about it, i just remember the NASCAR turns and the figure 8s in the lobby, and think, "well, it wasn't all bad."

Dear Dad

I got back tonight from the bars, yes, i know it is a monday night, bud it is a study day tomorrow, so i can sleep in as long as i want then not sleep at all. I know i am very different than you, but i like to think that my best qualities, the ones that i love the most, come straight from you. The reason i am writing you now is when i got back, i felt like i needed something, something beyond the ordinary that has come to make up my life, my life that you and mom have been pretty much shut out of, but has become my routine, my habits. I know i have shut you out, but that is because our relationship has become one of praise or scorn, no middle ground, no time for talk, no place for argument. This is different than it was in high school, when i could come back from a night out at jon's or jordan's and you would still be up, and we could talk for hours. I would get back at 2 but not go to bed till 3 or 4 because you and i would share so much about life philosophy or you would tell stories about your life before me and beth and sam. My life has become something of a mystery to you, this i know because it was partially my inention upon leaving home to go away to college, something that i never would change, but when i made the decision, i didn't know enough of the negative side, the side where we would grow apart, as well as jordan and jon and i would grow apart. The real reason i think of you right now, at my buzzed state, on a tuesday as it now apparently is according to my computer, is because what i wanted most, what i wanted out of the ordinary, is a showerbath. I know you know what i am talking about. Memory is a weird thing, i am sure you could tell me 10s of stories, or even maybe hundreds of times that i would not remember, but i have some memories from back before i went to school that i remember step for step, thought for thought, action for reaction. I remember that i had many a showerbath in my time, but i remember a specific time, from before i was capable of bathing myself, from before the addition added a shower to the upstairs bathroom, that you watched over me while i took a showerbath. Afterwords, you put the towel over my head and spun me around, then walked me to different places, then set me down in my chair at the dinner table. I was so confused, but i loved it. I didn't know which way was north (a skill you have since given me that helps me every day) and that was so disorienting and amazing. I could have been sitting anywhere from the den, where i would have asked you to jump over the first hole in mario, to the living room couch, and it was amazing. It was the first time, and i promise you there have been many more, being in a new city and not being sure of directions will do that to you (rome was especially strong that way), that i have ever been completely disoriented.

I remember sometime in high school, either junior or senior year when i came home and you were watching old home movies of us kids. The one i happened to walk in on was me standing in our old (now two houses ago) living room. I have no recollection of the time and from how young i looked, it might be before i have any memories at all of the time. But it was the time that you taught me how to kick something. There was a ball among all of the other things you allowed to be strewn across our living room, and you walked me through brining my foot forward and making the ball move. Watching you watch that video, and watching the video myself, i realized how much you have given to me in life, and how much i don't even remember well enough to thank you for.

Dad, i love you, there is not another person in this world i would chose to spend eternity with. I know, from thinking about old conversations we have had, that i am in a similar place as you were when you were in college. I know that the belief in God has escaped our grasps. I will graduate in 374 days from college with the same major you had, although we went about it in infinitely different ways. I will thank you forever for how you raised me, how you talked to me honestly about Marquette High, how you consoled me on my decision to join SigEp here at SLU, and how you still play a strong role in my life when i come home from the bars and need something different, i need a showerbath

Wind

My hair, longer than it ever has been in my life, is blown across my face, and i can see it through the 17 dollar glasses i picked up at the mall before i left to study abroad. It is warm, over eighty degrees, but the wind makes me feel completely comfortable. I stare nowhere in particular, just wherever my eyes landed after i set my neck. My thoughts are blank, thinking about nothing, the wind billows my shorts, and continues to make my hair dance on the glasses. The only sound is the minute played by beer cans, also blowing in the wind. 13 and a half floors up, the buildings of Clayton rise in the distance, creating a second skyline of St. Louis. Now, some thoughts begin to play in my head, half formed memories attempt to sort themselves out, but i ignore them, letting them run, play and stretch out in my wide open consciousness. Croakies rest reassuringly on my neck, holding down the hair on the back of my head, a seemingly eternal distance from my eyes,

Ready, Set...

I am ready to leave, ready to make a life, ready to be a waiter, ready to work in the CIA, ready to live in South America, ready to write a novel, ready to take a road i never have, ready to say goodbye to old loves. I am set to succeed, set to fail at first, set to work to make it happen, set to have it happen over night, set to fall in love, set to begin anew as many times as it may take. I am ready to set my sights, ready to set my life in motion. What will be the starting gun?

The Day Unicorns Became Extinct OR A Treatise on an 80s Pop Ballad

There is an amount of pain that comes with understanding; the loss of wonder, the loss of mystery, the loss of something more. Answers are finite. Answers are the death of a question, the ultimate fulfillment bringing about a quick and complete end. Youth is full of questions, maturity an age of answers. No longer does one dream what it is like on the Moon, for humanity knows; the answer has been found.
Freshman year was full of Unicorns, whether they came in the form of a energetic, excited professor of English, challenging students to dream or the cute girl seen sporadically on the elevator. English becomes a chore, concluding paragraphs have become a habit. The girl is met, had, she could not be all the flicker of eye contact insinuated she might be. Abstract notions become concrete, categorized, filled away and forgotten.
We cannot be Forever Young, so many adventures gone away, so many songs we forgot to play. Music can only be heard by the sad man, the man who has lost true youth, while played by the mad man, who refuses to believe what has become evident. Dreams have become obscure, shifts in reality, setting new parameters to the world, often morphing even inside one dream, the brain fighting against the finality, the answerability, of the world around it.

The Five People I Saw Today.

It’s amazing how a high can turn into a low for no discernable reason in little to no time. There I am one day, the king of the world, and then I sit here in bed all day, no motivation to move, no goal to achieve, no reason to be. I finally get out of bed around 3, the force of hunger the only thing keeping me alive. The ravioli wasn’t good, but my mom’s reheated sauce added the only taste I needed to mechanically bite down.
I watched “Taken” a movie so preposterous it drained from the fun, a movie set-up only to indulge those with fear of the unknown. Heroes episodes on Hulu weren’t the fun they always have been, the constant starting, stopping and waiting of the internet stream a perfect metaphor. The only trips off the island that is my bed to go get more ravioli with my hand out of the pot, and then dipping it in the now-cold sauce that hadn’t moved further then the top of my microwave. I drank an entire box of Swiss Miss mix.
I didn’t have my glasses on the table where they always are, and a blurred memory points me to Humphrey’s, the bar I have been to everyday this week. A desire to smoke a cig is the only thing I can cling to, I decide to walk to Hump’s and the Shell.
It is colder then it has been in days, the wind howling through the buildings and slicing through my sweatshirt. It can’t whip through my hair because I didn’t shower today, and my Billiken’s hat holds it tight. The effects of being drunk from sometime Friday afternoon on through to this morning are somewhat hemmed by the cold, I don’t think this is what Asher Roth had in mind.
C.J., the bouncer at Humphrey’s, didn’t expect anyone to be coming in and I made it pretty deep into the bar before he asked for my I.D., he looked at it like he always does, even checking the back, despite the fact I see him more then my professors. I said hi, and realized he was the first living soul I had seen all day, with barely an hour left on February 15, 2009. The second encounter, now with the bartender, was more filled with information, but less positive. Instead of being told I was allowed to be in the building, the guy told me they didn’t have my glasses. I salvaged it by convincing him to give me an ice cold Miller Lite in exchange for three United States Dollars.
The 6’6’’ black guy was watching the all-star game I forgot was on, and when I asked him about it, he told me the west won by 40 while they were showing highlights of an insane dunk LeBron James through down while the defense got out of the way. “At least that was sick,” I said as I walked towards the desolate side room.
I got to see more highlights as I was drinking alone in a bar on a Sunday night, and then they told me my home-state boy Matt Kenseth won the Daytona 500 I forgot to watch, so that’s cool.
I made a circuit around the bar to see if I knew anyone. I didn’t.
As I walked out, I thanked the bartender, put my empty bottle on the bar and thought better of steeling myself against the impending cold, whatever. Up the hill past the Parking Garage, down the path by the Parking Garage, and then down the steps, I was within sight of the Turkish Royals, my day’s only goal on the verge of being completed.
I almost missed it, but the women standing by the pay phones said hi to the back of my right shoulder, I responded in kind, never breaking my stride.
The line was long, and I was hungry, so I opened a back of T.G.I. Friday’s sour cream and onion chips. It turned out to be a disappointing purchase, as the potato skin chips are better. Oh well, it filled a base need.
“This and a pack of Turkish Royals, please.”
Beeping noises as she scans the chips, then again after she grabs the cigs. “$5.14 Please”
“Sure, have a good night” and I turned left and hit the door, eating my chips.
The cig wasn’t as perfect as I wanted it to be after all of that effort, and I couldn’t see very well, but I guess you could call the trip a success. I cut the corner by the Samuel Couples House, so I didn’t get a chance to say hi to my favorite statue Tim. There was a guy sitting in the lobby of my building, but he didn’t want to get into the elevator, so I left him alone as I pushed 13, and chuckled a little when I saw the placard I had drawn on in sharpie last night, making another “1” next to the elevator number, so it appears to say 11.

Trevi Fountain

I had my back to the Fontana di Trevi, coin in hand as i closed my eyes. I remember thinking "no looking where it goes, that will ruin it" so as i lifted my arm and let if fly, i waited till i heard the splash over the rushing of the water, then started walking up the steps. I didn't turn around when i got to the top, just kept the sound of the rushing water in my ears as i made my way to the street. I wondered aloud, "one last look?" but decided against it, i shouldn't look back. And i wont, because there is no need to look over my shoulder, to look back at the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps or anything from Rome in the Fall of 2008. I need not look back because i will always have the sound of the rushing water just behind me, the sound held firmly in my heart, letting me know it's still there, the coin sitting in the fountain, waiting for my return.

Mechanical Door

The online conversation with her necessitated a quick smoke break from night class.

The smoke escapes my lungs, mingling with the breath hanging from my mouth on this snow covered silent night outside Xavier Hall. The automatic door will lock if I let it close, trapping me away from the things that I must complete if my night is to continue.
Each inhale is stolen from time supposedly dedicated to learning about column carvings of the ancient Incan people, a task which seems to drain my will to live far more then I thought when I signed up for the class. The vagina dentada is a lot less exciting then it seems.
Each time the door closes, reminding me to go back to class, I resist, pushing it back out, forcibly allowing myself more time to smoke, to break. It closes again, and my arm is not completely willing to fight again, the motor working against my slowly relenting arm, until I remember to attack, to push against, not just hold. My break continues, because I feel it must. I am actively making my body cold, my lungs weak, my education worse, all because I need this time, this time to think.
I mound up the snow in front of the door, but its subsequent closing smoothes out my efforts, and I must push again. The time to think is no longer my reason for braving the weather, for avoiding Incan repousse. I am actively in battle with this door, this mechanical demon with a predestined idea of how long I need the door to be open, how much time I need.
I have come to enjoy the cold, in a masochistic way. The cigarette burns slowly against the silent walkway between buildings, and I gear up for another attempt to turn back the inevitable whirring motor.
Again it closes, and again I repel its assault. The door allows the same amount of time between each attempt to close off the weather, seemingly oblivious to me, the adversary. No attempt to fool me or overpower me, no attempt to call reserves or sound an alarm. There is no attempt to make peace, or surrender, no attempt to form a treaty allowing me my time, just relentless, mindless closing. There is nothing in this mechanical beings existence that allows for someone standing outside, seeking time before returning.
With one last inhilation, I reenter, succumbing to the inevitable, but as I whipe my feet on the matt I feel the door closing again behind me. I reach out and push it open, sending a signal noone will hear, nothing will understand.

The Falcon

the type of place crazy european adventures start, which only a healthy dose of antibiotics can end

the type of place only a kerouac enspired hammet could describe

the type of place who serves beer you could certainly get used to

the type of place where one could pick up a seriously recreational drug habit

Storms

Some people say they love to see the sun come after a storm, wait to see if a rainbow can shine after that cacophony of noise and those flashes of powerful light. But me, i prefer a storm that ends at night. A storm that when it clears, shows me the stars in the heavens and the full moon casting a silver glow. I want to stand in a damp night, tennis shoes squeaking on the pavement and squishing in the wet fallen leaves, and stare up into the sublime infinity of a clear night sky. I want to know that while my world experienced the destructive force of nature, the universe was only blocked from sight, not swallowed by the dark clouds. I want to walk again across 71st street as a kid who's parents understood the interest a storm can stir, so was allowed to stay up past his bed time. I want to stand again on the roof of 8027, smoking the days last cig, inhaling the damp air, the sweet nicotine and the infinity of space. I want to go to my secret place, looking between the tall buildings, over the top of Greis and stand because it is too wet to sit, while trying to see my reflection in the moon. I want to stay up later then i ever have for too many days in a row because i cant believe this JFRC life is coming to an end, sitting on my balcony, watching my shoes dry, and thinking maybe if i count the stars, i will remember how the night sky looks after a storm in my favorite city of all, in the best place i have ever lived.

Old Stuff 5: Good Person

I don't care if it's God, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Captain Jean-Luc Picard, Albus Dumbledore, Ernest Hemmingway, Otis Redding, the dying words of your mother, an impassioned speech from a favorite teacher, a kindly remark from a priest, a Hallmark card, a good high, words caught in passing from a delusional bum, a passage from the Book of Mormon, the lineage of your blood or the notes of Beethoven's fifth. Any reason you have to became a good person, I support you. I will let you know when I find mine.

Philosophy

I hope to throw wrenches into gears, to commit Neitzchien acts of irrationality, to profess love and enjoy disaster. I need to do. Not even "do" as i once defined to it, but rather to "do" new, to do things i didnt think i wanted to, to do things i didnt even know i could. I hope to believe things i didnt used to and abandon things i have held true. I Hope to Do.

Old Stuff 4: The Hand

Shit happens sometimes, and Brian Grant could accept that. The man at the bottom of his building’s steps, however, had no excuse. Besides an excuse, Brain assumed the man had no family, no home, no faith and most assuredly no job.
What he did have was his hand out. Everyday, rain or shine, weekday or end, even holidays the man extended his bony, gnarled, half open hand towards Brian Grant’s Allen-Edmonds. On good days he would hold back his sneer of contempt, but he had never once offered a dime to this waste of a God-given soul.
Once he made it past the doorman, the decrepit hand would be out his mind and he could continue on his work day. Brian’s office could get heated at times; working on Corporate mergers, hostile takeovers, stock option buyouts and everything else the elite of Madison Avenue could think to argue about high above the clouds. While never tempted to swan dive from his corner balcony, Brian could not last a week without once storming out of the building for an early lunch.
He blew off Pete, his doorman for 14 years whose actual name was Alex, and nearly hit a woman with the door as he flung it open himself. Grant heard what he thought was the woman complaining, and readied himself for a fight. But as he turned, his Armani briefcase got caught in-between his legs. He stumbled and hit the bottom of the eight stair entrance in a pile. While he mentally assessed the damage, Brain cursed the woman whose fault it was that this outrage this happened. When Brian opened his eyes to inspect the shoulder seam of his suit coat, he noticed a hand. Gnarled, decrepit, bony and half open, it was out to help Brian Grant to his feet.

Old Stuff 3: American Dream

His children stood around him as he waited to die. From his hospital bed, he could see their faces, the nine of them. Girls crying, boy’s faces locked in stern resolve, both practiced for just such a moment. Lawrence George the First, a man who conquered America, finally had enough of being fed from a tube and slowly began to let himself pass in front of his posterity. The man who had carried himself from the immigrant slums of Bismarck, North Dakota, to a mansion on Lake Shore Drive, would have the featured obituary in both the Sun-Times and the Tribune.
His grandchildren stood further off, mulling about in his hospital room, unsure of how to pay their respects to the man who created everything in their lives. He laid amused at their passive will, their inability to action. They wouldn’t last a minute in the real world, he told himself, but as soon as the thought passed through his mind, he realized they already had. James’ boy was a vice president of manufacturing at a plant out-side of Milwaukee, Melinda’s daughter a partner in Omaha’s largest law firm.
He looked into the eyes of his youngest, Lawrence Jr., and tried to smile reassuringly, to let him know this how he wanted it to end. The expression he made must have frightened his child, because he started to call for the nurse.
“Your... son—“ was all Lawrence could bring himself to say to pacify his scion, and he nearly passed. The meaning was conveyed. The Grandfather wanted to have a final moment with his most direct progeny, Lawrence George III. The young man must have been little over 18, Lawrence could not quite recall, but he recognized the child that he had taken special interest in over the last years, “Yes, Grandpa, what is it?” His speech was delicate, yet forceful, the perfect tone. Larry, they called him, a strongly built lad with a good George face.
His life had been spent in the finest of private institutions, where his potential was recognized at a very young age. Infatuated with knowledge, just like his grandfather. His potential, distressingly, was never realized. He didn’t study, his teachers said. “He gets by on his intelligence instead of flourishing,” the school counselors proclaimed. The highest paid grade school teachers in the country couldn’t get Larry to realize pragmatic accomplishment.
His 7th grade teacher, after receiving another sub par history project, called Larry into his office to figure out once and for all the true dilemma. Getting the boy to talk about the subject was no problem, he was obviously fascinated, but when the talk turned to grades the boy became distant, as if the conversation no longer held him. When the teacher made his report to Lawrence Jr. all he could muster was that the boy had no sense of accomplishment, no pride in the final product, no understanding of success. But still, two years later, he had been accepted into the finest high school in all of Chicago, and again (with the help of a well timed donation) four years later to Georgetown University, no one had stopped him along the way. The Larry of seventh grade was right, the lack of accomplishment never amounted to anything.
Lying in the hospital bed at the end of his life, Lawrence thought of how the world laid at young Larry’s feet the day he was born. Laying on his hospital bed, staring up at the boy, at the same age as himself when scrapped to be able to afford a way to get to college. He recognized the Polo logo on his collared shirt, and the mark of an English tailor on the lapel of his jacket. Slowly it dawned on him, and as he tried as hard as he could to fight it, the old man could not think of it a different way. His eyes widened and his breath became short. Staring at the logo he realized, what an evil he leveled on this boy.
Lawrence struggled to shed a tear, his last, thinking of the theft. He had pulled himself up by the bootstraps, nothing was expected of him, and he persevered. He was the stuff of Hollywood legend, son of Hungarian immigrants who had changed their last name at Ellis Island, carrying their young son to a land where he could hope. He swam up stream, pulling himself along powerfully by sheer work. He shuddered, for those who came after him, his success had frozen that stream, and it was all young Larry could do but skate by.
As a child, Lawrence got beat up for his lunch money by his best friends, the despair of the time and place pushing people beyond the bounds of humanity. With frigid Bismarck always hanging over him, Larry earned a full scholarship to Marquette University. As a sophomore in college, a professor called Lawrence into his office. “I’ve noticed impeccable work this semester and you’ve attended every one of my classes, I would just like to commend you. You have accomplished very much.” The smile didn’t leave Lawrence’s face for days, but the compliment did not increase his grades. It was impossible to improve the straight A’s.
He moved on to graduate school. His weekly schedule, including work, class, studying, giving private tutoring, and fraternity obligations, allowed Lawrence 45 minutes of personal time on Sunday afternoon. Young Larry had none of it, none of the difficulty, none of the experience, none of the reason to dream for his wildest fantasies were granted at the drop of a hat.
Lawrence could see 10 years down the road. The boy who they called “Tre” as a child would be hired out of school, or maybe spend a year or two on his masters. Either way, a management job would be his with a prestigious company. A wife would soon follow, kids, the normal office promotions regular, slowing later, with maybe an affair towards the end when the man realized his life was slipping away. When Larry lay in a hospital bed at the end of his life, there would be no reporters in the hallway, no day of remembrance in his company. His grandchildren wouldn’t owe their lives to him. He wouldn’t, no, couldn’t, be Lawrence George the First.
Laying there, standing under his direct line, surrounded by his children, the Lion of Chicago business struggled, garbled, and sputtered “I… I’m… sorry.” Then, closing his eyes against the sight of his greatest sin, he died.