A full tank with nowhere to go

The act of merely existing is my life's biggest disappointment. I am a firm believer that there is more to a day than consuming, driving and being. In my opinion, the life we are blessed with is a game, meant to be played to exhaustion at each and every turn. Anything less is an insult to our existence. It is a selfish life, and I understand that, for others find beauty in the act of nothingness; I am not that person. What I do need to learn, however, is that throwing adult sized tantrums in the face of not exerting myself to destruction is not a solution, but the precursor to a whole set of separate problems, which are probably others biggest disappointment. I need to take responsibility for my own existence, and quit relying on others to give me what I need to feel complete.

“Late afternoon, another day is nearly done. A darker grey is breaking through a lighter one . . . .” The Weakerthans, One Great City!

An invitation

“What do you say when you realize you're not necessary, and your world starts caving in.” Mike Hail, Lives Like Mine.

I know that I have not written in a while, and that I probably do not have many (if any) readers left. . . but for those that have hung on, and check in periodically, what emotions/thoughts does this song lyric evoke? Every time I hear it, I find my internal self struggling to dig deeper. Is it a bad thing to no longer be “necessary – is it a requirement that we be so? I see it both ways. On one hand, it kills me a little when I am longer needed, wanted or useful. I have spent my life making myself an integral part of so few, that to lose even one is a major statistical blow. With everyone that drops off, I am one step closer to being an afterthought. On the other hand, the less people that rely, need or care, the fewer I have to tie me down, disappoint, and care for – it is a freedom I fear I may enjoy. I suspect that you out there will have better thoughts/feelings than I. So I invite you to post a comment, or send me an email, and let me know your thoughts, regardless of what they are. I think I have been “feeling” a lot lately, and I want to know that I am not alone on this ship.

no words

There is a story within waiting to be written – it is filled with hope, love, friendship and good times... but I cannot seem to string the words together in a way that does it justice, so, like many other things in my life, it will go unfinished. The characters are complicated, the story simple, and the adventures real... this should not be hard, but it doesn't seem to want to be created; at least not by me at this moment. So I will go on dreaming about the individuals, formulating the sentences, and wishing I was better... at everything.

Just a number....

This is Part VI to my Sunday Scribblings story. This week's word was Adult.

After being beat unmercifully for having allowed our gas and electricity to be shut off, I learned the importance of proper bill maintenance. The need to balance a checkbook was driven home by the back of a ring wearing hand after incurring “unnecessary” fees for bouncing a rent check. A nightly six pack was not a forbidden pleasure, but an obligation to be fulfilled in order to impress wastes he referred to as friends. And the ability to incur copious amounts of pain without a whimper or change in facial expression was as important to survival as the peanut butter an jelly that sustained us. It is generally accepted that to be an adult one must have attained full size and strength; fuck that, I believe my adulthood started the second I could make it in this world despite, regardless of the size of my muscles or my stature.

Goodbye

I doubt I ever made it obvious, or expressed myself in a worthwhile way, but I enjoyed immensely our time together and will miss you all. For two years, you welcomed me into your worlds, dealt with my idiosyncrasies, and made me feel as whole as a person who left his life behind to move on without him could possibly feel. A few parting words are not enough, but they are all I have, so thank you all for being there for me, and supporting me in my craziness; it made my time here manageable.

Till death do us part (SS - V)

This is Part V to my Sunday Scribblings story. This week's word is Anticipate.

Throughout the final three years of mandatory childhood education, I watched and planned. When not at home fighting with her controllers, she spent time with them, the ones who mocked, made fun and destroyed youthful confidence. I surely would have been an object of their ridicule had my existence been noticed. As much as I wanted her to pay for these associations, I forgave her because I knew that she was sweetness, acting out due to a lack of nurture.

Year one was spent cataloging her movements; year two memorizing her wardrobe and odors; the third and final year was for planning the life we were going to spend together. During those days, I came to know that she had a small and over-active balder; took a minimalist approach towards clothing; smelled primarily of crushed flowers and citrus; and that we would spend our living, and dying days, in seclusion.

In preparation for our departure, I crafted and dutifully practiced my introduction, rented a van, packed our rations, stole all of his cash, and procured chloral hydrate. Then I sat by the bathroom and waited for her 8:15 am soy chai latte to run its course. I had thought of every rational outcome, but had failed to anticipate her irrational flight response. Her days spent living and dying with me were far shorter than I had hoped.

An unhelping hand (SS - Part IV)

This is Part IV to my Sunday Scribblings story. Again, if you have comments, whether about this piece, or about the story in general, please feel free to pass them along. This week's phrase is Where in the World.

I asked for help once. It occurred shortly before I was stripped of the semblance of normalcy that was my life. I was nine.

She was tall and sickeningly gaunt. And while she did not talk much, when she did, the words were always worth the effort it took to hear them. By the time I realized what was happening—that her days were not to be many—she was past the point of saving by human intervention. In a desperate and misguided attempt to give her will, I got on my knees, turned to the crumbling stucco ceiling, and promised, amongst other things, to be a better son, which meant that I would clean up after myself, as had been begged of me for years, to not play with my food, to stop having bad thoughts about the neighbor's daughter, and to grow up and be a man; all I asked in return was for her life.

I tripped onto her body the next morning.

During the ride to the hospital, I could not help but wonder where in the world was he when we needed him most, and why did he not care. I never relied on another again.

A drop in the bucket (SS- Part III)

This is Part III to my Sunday Scribblings story (a couple of days late). This week's phrase was The Plan.

Light of day was the hardest, for it was during the brightness that I had to guard myself from his violent and oppressive ways. Hence, while I spent those moments wishing the the sun away, I reserved the blanket of nightly darkness for myself. I knew that if I made it through his waking hours, his downtime would set me free, albeit briefly. . . .

As one can imagine, I did not have ambitions, at least not in the traditional sense, as there was nothing for me to aspire to. Nonetheless, I was not without goals. For example, there was always the plan, carefully crafted and painstakingly mapped out. It was simple, beautifully sadistic, and involved nothing more than him having a night with the bottle, a vaulted ceiling with unencumbered crossbeams, a fifteen foot piece of rope, a razor blade, a two gallon bucket, and access to the posterior tibial artery. In all, if executed to perfection, I could be done, and so would he, in less time than it took to watch an episode of the Simpsons.

"Justice" for all (SS - Part II)

I have decided to write a very short story over the next few weeks, changing it as it goes depending on the word of the week (I do not have an ultimate outcome in mind, but will play with it each week to see where it takes me). As such, this is a continuation of last week’s Sunday Scribblings (human). Let me know what you think and if you have suggestions along the way.

Indulgence

At this stage, it seems pointless to place blame, but if forced, it would fall in this order: the man who provided one-half of my genetic material, the courts for allowing it to happen, and to myself for not stopping the cycle.

I was a mistake, as I was able to perceive from an early age, and driven home by those in my life. He was drunk, she was (as decided by the jury) willing, and I became the choker chain of life dangling forever from his neck. “Justice”, being what it is, ensured that upon the expiration of the woman from whom I emerged, I was consigned to the signatory on the $137.36 court ordered bi-weekly support check. From the moment of my arrival, his favorite indulgence was forbidding every one of mine.

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Human:

The inscription was direct and to the point: “If to err is human, then human he undoubtedly was.”

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Vision:

As many of you know, I spend countless hours on the road each week training for various runs. Recently, I began taking pictures during these endless jaunts in order to distract myself from the pain. These are my "visions" from a few of my runs through different cities in the world.

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word was Soul Mate:

Their virgin ears were overcome with the gospelesque melody. The smaller of the two had heard about this sort of thing once from an unknown, and had spent his life is search of the same. As they sat in this den of rhythmic worship on the outskirts of nowhere, the sense of art that had once dominated their thinking was made comical by the display before them. The “music” they had wasted their youth on was nothing like this. It was angry, violent, sad, happy and simple, but completely meaningless. It was pleasurable noise to drown out the boredom that had come to be their daily existence. But this was something different, something that would change them from this point forward. Noise it was not, but poetry mixed with a hypnotic beat that made them understand what it meant to “feel the music”. In their moment of clarity, the first, the discoverer of the oasis, turned to his cohort and exclaimed proudly, “now this is soul mate!”

A bucket, a towel, and one angry tenant

What do you see in this picture? Does your mind jump to a particular afternoon spent cleaning your house/apartment? Maybe the aftermath of an insane party that ended with (insert the name of your most over indulgent friend here) throwing up his/her internal bodily fluids onto your floor. If I did not know better (having been the cameraman behind this horrendous piece of photography), my thoughts would catapult back to a hot summer California day from my childhood spent watching my mother clean our kitchen floor. (I have no clue why, but this seems to be my earliest memory (my mom listening to the Moody Blues and Journey, wearing a bandanna, overalls, and a smile)—funny, I love music, and count those bands as two of my all time favorites, but hate cleaning…if you ask my mother (or my wife), I chose to latch onto the wrong part of that memory, but I digress…) If you see those things, great, I hope you do, for I would like nothing more than for this picture to bring joy to your life, because what this poor photographer sees is blood… specifically, the blood of his landlord. For what I know is that this is a three gallon bucket filled with water that was sopped up from the floor of my apartment with a towel (this island does not believe in mops), and it is only the first of three. Seems the owner of this godforsaken apartment did not do as good of a job sealing the ceiling as he once led me to believe—cheap son of a bitch got me again, and I now have the documentary evidence to prove it.

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Disconnected:

I was, and still am, an addict. I check my email upwards of seventy times a day, answer a nauseating number of phone calls, mindlessly troll the internet for news updates and am (regrettably) a member of a certain online social network. As I often feel (in order to justify my insanity), I have my finger on the pulse of everything (and nothing). I use to think (and sure I will again tomorrow when my jet lag fades) that the barrage of information made me happy, when in reality, nonstop “feeds”, like anything else, is an absurd excuse for true human interaction. In fact, I find myself being so little to so many that I have nothing left for the things and people I truly care about. This past two weeks I was abroad without any meaningful contact with the outside world, and while I had my moments of panic—what if (I am needed at work)(someone is injured)(the world in caving in around us)—I found that silence, and the free time I gained from not “checking in”, afforded me time I did not know (or refused to acknowledge) I was missing and allowed me to decompress, something I have not done in years. The long and the short of it is, I think we should all be disconnected from the existence we have created for ourselves, and go back to the days when we actually talked with people in person, got our news once a day from the paper, and never worried about what we could be missing simply by living a normal, non-roped life.

"Home"

The nomadic nature, the youthful traveler and the constant voice inside begging to move on, to put the past behind and forge a life not yet discovered, has slowly died. The desire to run, leaving all semblance of normalcy, no longer has the draw it once did; in fact, the dream to get back to the place he once called home, where the majority of his friends reside, now constantly permeates his thoughts.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s work is Follow:

Her posture, back story, obvious intelligence and beauty told me that this was not a woman to be missed. In the haze of a lifetime not yet spent together, I saw pets, babies, homes, cars, smiles, tears, pain and the best life I had never known. A lesser impressed man would have chalked this instant insanity up to the copious amounts of beer already consumed on that as of yet unremarkable Thursday night, but not I. This was my moment, and no excuse was going to let me fuck this up. Instead, I waved goodbye to my previous self, and wished me all the best. She was going to be my alter, answer, and leader. Walking out of that bar, I knew my role, and that was to accompany her to the ends of the earth. Like any true believer, I have faltered, forgotten my path, and wandered unaccompanied during our days, but I always know where my salvation will come, and that is at your side. So with this, please know that I, your devote disciple, will follow you regardless of the cost, and still know that you are not to be missed . . . . ever.

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Language.

Language, “a body of words and the systems for their use common to a people who are of the same community or nation, the same geographical area, or the same cultural tradition.” www.dictionary.reference.com/browse/language. The full meaning of this word was lost on me until I moved to an island where my words an system, my only form of communication, was not the accepted norm. I have traveled extensively, married a woman born outside of the place we both now call home, and studied (not hard enough) a language not my own. Still, until I thrust myself into a land where my preferred form of communication, and butchered pronunciation of the native tongue, immediately marked me as an outsider, that I fully realized the beauty of commonality associated with language. I could have gotten this from my time in California, where “outside” members of the non-English speaking population were treated as pariahs for their failure to grasp instantly one of the most complicated languages on the face of the earth, but I did not. Thankfully, I understand now why like speaking groups build communities around each other, and sometime shun the world they do not understand and cannot, regardless of how hard "we” try and force them, fully communicate with. For no matter how many words individuals will learn, and whether they can converse with the “natives”, by asking people to scrap their life-long dialect and adopt that of their current land, without regard to what they are giving up, is telling them to not only cast aside an alphabet, but also to leave much of their cultural tradition behind as well. To be clear, this is NOT why I have failed to grasp the tongue of the land in which I now reside, that is based purely upon my own laziness. In fact, people here go out of their way to accommodate my ineptness. I only wish I did not come from a land (and “we” are not the only one) where we demand (or make it incredibly difficult to function otherwise) uniformity of words, pronunciation, and dialect. For language is so much more than words spoken or thrown on a piece of paper, computer screen or street sign, it is a way of life that should be cherished, and understood, by all.

Words

Words. I am of the opinion, and come from a world and an educational background where each and every one has a purpose, a meaning and an intended consequence. There are no mistakes when is comes to them. People say and write what they mean, whether thought out or off the cuff. Some are of the belief that statements made during moments of inebriation paint the truest picture of ones person. I both agree and disagree; for all words, regardless of when they are spoken or written, whether crafted in moments of comedy, sadness, anger, happiness or exhaustion, carry a meaning and are intended for a specific purpose. Human being are crafted in such a way, and with the cognizant ability, to make every comment pointed and meaningful. This, as I believe, is what separates us from other life forms. We know, and have felt the affects, of a timely placed criticism/comment. Too often people hide behind the “unintended” affect of said words, knowing all too well what result will grip the listening/reading party. To hide behind ignorance is cowardice. Maybe I am wrong, I hope I am; that I hold people to an unattainable standard. If so, there are past friendships I need to repair. If you have an opinion, please let me know because I am struggling with this.

Rainy days

Is it raining where you are? Do you find it impossible to raise your weary head from the pillow as the light reflects off of the clouds in the early hours? I ask because in my story--the one where you can be found permanently in my mind--you are fighting a constant downpour and have been since you cast me from your everyday. I imagine your days gray, nights buried feet below the watery surface and sleep restless. Your memory is me, the good times and nothing else. Please tell me it is so. . . . Nevermind, I do not want to know, if you kill that image, my peace, then I have nothing left but reality, which is that you have transitioned seamlessly into a life that is happy, complete and better without my presence.

Subday Scribblings

This week's word is Scary.

I am scared to do those things I long for because I am good at what I hate. There is something out there that I am here for, but . . . .