She is going to blow!!

It is big, it is bad, it is my ankle. . . . This is why adults should not play childish games.

Her morning after

Not so much a follow-up, but a continuation—from the woman’s perspective/voice—of http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/09/into-black.html and http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/11/his-morning-after.html. As you can tell, I do not write a woman’s voice much, so I welcome any and all pointers and/or criticisms.

The months of lingering, of semi-intellectual chatter and of making myself ever-present, finally paid off, so why am I riddled with doubt? Why can’t I just revel in my victory, regardless of its ultimate outcome? The fact is that he chose me, not the forty-something’s jockeying relentlessly for his attention, not the other nymphish coeds lusting after his every move and not his wife, who neglects his very presence. He asked me to join him at the table, not the other way around. I think he cares for me, maybe; it wasn’t just my body he wanted to warm him on this winter night, was it? I am better than that, I have everything to offer him in this world, and I am not that kind of woman, I don’t do this; or at least I didn’t. . . . God, he has been awake forever, he is probably wishing that it were somebody else laying next him. Fuck that, I am going to feign sleep for as long as it takes for him to tip his hand—if he gets up in a silent attempt to slip out of this room and back into the life he was so desperately complaining about six hours ago, then I know what I am; but if he puts his head down for just a moment, then he is mine. Please, just rest your head on my shoulder, please. . . .

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s words are “Phantoms & Shadows,” and we are supposed to write about things and people, times, places, events and how our memory has treated them. As you can see, I have not strictly complied, but this is what came to mind, so I went with it.

I would relive every day from April 1986 to February of 1998, the twelve years you spent with us on this planet. I would embrace every opportunity to hold you, talk with you, and cherish all that you had to offer. In this relived existence, no moment would pass without me conveying just how much your life meant to me. For more than ten years I have thought—on a daily basis—about the missed chances, and how my pride, anger and confusion stopped me from being the brother you deserved. I have been haunted by my failure to use kinder words, softer touches and gentler expressions. I have tried hard to overcome these failures and to correct the flaws that allowed me to fuck-up the chance I had to make you my world, but I struggle to overcome the emptiness that is ever present in my soul. I question my ability to love anyone if I could not love you the way you deserved, the single greatest person to ever cross my path. If presented with this, I would gladly forgo all that I have accomplished in this life – would pass on the travel, give up the degrees, walk away from the cushy life I have built for myself . . . . but, as we know, dreams and reality do not often coexist. So instead, I am destined to spend my life wondering what if, why, and how could I.

January 20, 2009....

I have never been more proud to be an American than I am today.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s word is Pilgrimage

My pilgrimage is an ever evolving journey towards a meaningful existence. I have been blessed with the ability to communicate, learn, and grow, so I am hell-bent on taking out of this life, and giving back to others, all that is available. There are smiles to create, a world to discover, distances to run, rocks to climb, music to hear, books to read, people to meet, a family to have, and lessons to learn. The beauty of this march is that every day, regardless of its outcome, puts me one step closer to the end of the wander; my ashes floating on the tides of the open sea.

Next Problem

As is turns out, my hands, arms and shoulders are good for more than pushing paper, hitting a keyboard, lifting a cold one to my lips, and the occasional bar scuffle. Much like my feet, knees, hamstrings, quads and shins have allowed me to trek long and far across the face of this earth, the former, coupled with the latter--and my desire not to fall absurd distances--allow me to go higher than I ever previously imagined. While the wounds are deep, soreness debilitating and exhaustion real, the joy I take from reaching new heights is indescribable.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s phrase is I Believe

It is not poetic, well said, or an original thought, but … above all else, I believe that our lives are a gift—regardless of who that gift is from—and that we have an obligation to ourselves, to those that have passed, and to future generations to make this world a better place to exist. If we each did one thing everyday, no matter how small, to benefit others out of pure selflessness, we may all find life a little more palatable.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s phrase was/is “I knew instantly;” a list seemed to be in order:

I knew instantly . . . that the words, my words, would be the escape from the world that I could not comprehend.

I knew instantly . . . that you would leave me a trampled shell of the person I was before walking into that class.

I knew instantly . . . that I could withstand more pain, suffering and agony than most boys of that age.

I knew instantly . . . that my departure was more than a step towards freedom.

I knew instantly . . . that something would get fucked up by my temporary assignment away from you.

I knew instantly . . . that being in your presence would lift the weight that had been crushing me since birth.

I knew instantly . . . that I was a nomad.

I knew instantly . . . that I would owe you my life.

I knew instantly . . . that I would eventually come to hate you, and you me.

I knew instantly . . . that I had made a horrible mistake by not going to medical school.

I knew instantly . . . that I was not as good a person as were you.

I knew instantly . . . that your death would haunt me into adulthood.

I knew instantly . . . that my performance would never match my credentials.

I knew instantly . . . that you would not be the one that got away, regardless of the cost.

What I did not know was that I would be a thirty something adult caught in the endless struggle to be happy.

Sunday (or more appropriately in this instance, Monday) Scribbling

This week’s word is Tradition

Failure, deceit, broken promises, aloofness and physical ailments, the markings of an existence not yet complete. Since birth, he has experienced, known, digested, and accepted the same as his fate. There was a struggle once, a fight against the inevitable, but he is, if nothing else, the product of his upbringing. No amount of classes, lectures, broken hearts, devastation and false starts could break him free of the cycle of his lineage. They are, as much as anything, his birthright. The positive is that he is the embodiment of the tradition laid out prior to his conception.

His morning after

A follow-up to http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/09/into-black.html The hangover is overwhelming, but the world is alive and I am gripped with panic. I want to remain silent, watch you sleep, and keep you in this bed—with me—for eternity. However, I know upon regaining consciousness, you will realize the gravity of your actions, recognize my age, my life’s plight, and my wedding ring. Better judgment will prevail, and run is what you will do. Excuses will fly wild, business meetings to attend, laundry to be completed, hair to be washed. I am a Wednesday night, a funny story to be told to your friends over too many cocktails, and a round of embarrassing admissions. This is my life’s highlight; an aberration from my daily pointless mess. I can’t recall your last name, but I want it to be mine, or at least the one I choose upon our escape from my hell. As you stir, I know not what your words will be, but I know they will not be enjoyed.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s word is Stranger

Door slightly ajar, lights off, internal voice of excitement deafening.

* * *

I had been trolling the darker side of the internet on a lonely Friday night.

* * *

The music permeating the room was upbeat, but wordless.

* * *

I had nothing, and everything, in mind; I may have posted my email address.

* * *

The scent was unmistakably vanilla.

* * *

It started with an anonymous email, “Midtown Hyatt, room 636, 9:30pm, come in silence.”

* * *

I fumbled my way out of my clothes and into the bedroom.

* * *

I had heard about things such as this, but refused to accept that they existed.

* * *

We grouped, poked, prodded and fucked, uncontrollably, in complete and utter silence.

* * *

I reemerged into the light, noise, and going ons of the normal world, a new man, transformed by the faceless, nameless, wordless sex of a complete stranger.

Goodbye

He whispered thirty-two simple words into her ear before returning to the inevitable:

“While I have everything every other man would ever want, it is because of you, and the time we spent together, that I will no longer question my existence on this earth.”

(Inspired by the final scene in Lost In Translation)

Sunday Sribblings

This week’s word is Change: The face staring back at him in the mirror is a tattered combination of exhaustion, abuse, self-loathing, loss, fear and hope. As another week comes to a slow and painful end, he is once again presented with a chance to start over. To put down the cigarettes, walk away from the bottle, leave behind the faceless sexual partners, and become the person he always dreams he will be in the moments of sobriety and solitude. Every Monday offers the chance to begin anew and start the maturation process internally promised, yet still unfulfilled. He knows, in this moment, that the fresh weeks before him are becoming less numerous than those of his past. The problem lies in the fact that the life he seeks—one filled with completeness, pride, and restful nights—is one that he has neither known, nor understood. His existence to this point has been defined by the recklessness of his days; without them, he does not exist, at least not in his current form. Nonetheless, this is the week—he tells himself aloud—that the change will stick and that the embarrassment associated with his life will end.

It is about time!!

After eight painful years, I feel like I can breath again. Great fucking day!

Rejection

If I could respond to this week’s rejection, it would go something like this:

Dear Mr. Too Busy to Follow Through:

Thank you for taking the time—albeit a week after we had agreed, and only after I called to inquire about my pending application—to send me an informal form letter notifying me that, regrettably, you would not be able to offer me a position with your organization.

As you indicated, you interviewed “hundreds” of people for this opening, so I can only imagine that changing the name in the heading of the rejection, printing it, folding it so that it fit in the envelope, signing it, and plying it with postage, was an incredible inconvenience for you and your staff. I can sympathize with the interruption, as I faced a similar situation in flying up to interview with you, on less than five days notice, and to the tune of $1,500, on two separate occasions. Not often in this profession does one get a chance to meet an individual, face to face, who demands promptness and sacrifice from others, but fails to follow through with even the simplest of requests—they usually hide behind the alleged ineptness of others. For this, I am in your debt.

Finally, I want to commend you for reminding me why it is I loathe my career choice.

Very truly yours,

AOTI

Sunday Scribblings

This week's theme is bragging.

I am a master of masking the truth of the situation. Pain is hidden
behind toothy smiles; failure, canned statements of positivity;
destruction, shoulder shrugs; embarrassment, self-ridicule; hatred,
baseless compliments; attraction, outward indifference; etc. The key
to my existence is to be the same thing to the same people everyday,
regardless of the cost and/or consequence. It saves me from having to
explain my daily ebbs and flows to those I would rather avoid. I am
the definition of even keeled.

Time marches on

There is a back story; it is a long drawn out explanation of missed opportunities and nothingness. But an excuse it is not; we are adults, we should have known it would culminate in this—conversations riddled with pain, tears spilled on pillows not shared, and voids of human contact. For all its failings, it was a conscious decision made in a time long since passed. My response is withdrawal, yours is confusion; regret is a constant. Despite our best efforts, life continues, and, outside of the stated goal, we get carried away with ourselves. . . .

Future greatness

I see very bright things in this little guys future (I am a proud, bragging father).

Disaster of miniscule proportions

One trip each to Kmart, grocery store, and Wallgreens.

Four cans Hormel Premium Chunk White Turkey, one can Chef Boyardee Overstuffed Beef Ravioli, one can Chef Boyardee Mini-Bites, two cans Hormel Chili with Beans, one Dinty Moore Big Bowl Beef Stew, one box Original Club Crackers, half block of brie, one jar Goober Grape peanut butter and jelly mix, and one loaf white bread.

Six two liter bottles of water, one two liter bottle of Gatorade, ten beers, three bottles of wine, and a pack and a half of cigarettes.

Eight D batteries, six AA batteries, twelve AAA batteries, two 9 volt batteries, three flashlights, two headlamps, one camping light, one pack of candles, six boxes of matches, three lighters, propane grill BBQ with spare propane, three fully charged IPODS, and a computer to track the impending doom.

Half-day of work on Wednesday, and a “snow” day on Thursday.

Shutters closed, windows locked, drains cleared, mop ready.

Last supper of pizza and sangria with friends.

Then wait, and wait, and wait. . . .

Wake up to the bluest sky known to man, dry floors, and four messages informing me that “snow” day is canceled and my presence is required in the office.

Roll into work an hour and a half late with some explaining to do.

My first “hurricane”; fuck the weather people.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s word is Forbidden

Dear Diary,

Dad is the greatest! I know I didn’t always feel this way. That I have spent a good deal of time complaining about not being allowed to attend school, play sports, make friends, or even leave the four walls of this house, but I see now that I was angry about nothing. As it turns out, father has been hand-picking me friends, and storing them in the “forbidden” room in the basement. He does it at night when he thinks I am asleep. By my count, he has already chosen nine boys my age. He must be planning a big surprise, because he hasn’t said anything about them. He is really good at keeping secrets.

I can’t wait for the big day, I only hope that it happens soon, and that all the boys like me; I have never had friends before.

Okay, I have to act like I am asleep now, or he will not be able to go tonight….

I love you dad!