Breezes Unhurled

Something made him mad.  I assume it was something hidden deep, he certainly didn't have any tells, that is, he never told us what it was directly, just lots of shouting.  Turns out we only caught the one-foot waves from the deeper Tsunami.  When his wife turned herself in for blowing his chest out she was blacker and bluer than one of those endangered Japanese monkeys, and she had half a pool stick stuck in the side of her thigh.

When Kevin's older brother asked her about it later he said "she smiled like my Vegas Aunt."

This memory wafts in over breakfast, hot oatmeal and hardboiled eggs.  I like my eggs sliced evenly.  Kevin is there, reading up on this inexhaustible spectacle of a president.  I want desperately to be out of the country.  I had finished work at 3 in the morning.  All day one big long strategic assault on my senses, like a sloth boxing Mayweather, and to drive home without a horizon meant that at three I usually fell into bed.  But today I had looked at the tablet - not sure why - seen the numerous unread emails and texts of the last day - and about an hour into them I looked up feeling that only seconds had passed and decided to make breakfast instead of sleep, remembering having been told as a child that there was nowhere that God couldn't see you and hoping it wasn't true, thinking God was like my little sister who one constantly suspected of sneaking up on you but if you could only distract her with her shows for long enough you could tiptoe out and escape to a secret place. 

A cold morning.

"Wanna go fishing?" Kevin gives an alchemic smile.

"I don't know nothing bout no ichthyology."  A flock of birds showers out of the woods, followed closely by a hawk. 

"If your father never did you won't either."  I think about all the people I've chased out of my life, accidentally and on purpose. Out our windows crammed with paint jars low clouds crowd out the higher clouds, a mad mosh pit in the sky. The sun had yet to even take the stage. 

"What was that guy's name," I asked.

"Who, Ted," guessed Kevin, referring to the guy who vanished after the first round of layoffs.

"No, that guy from the Horseshoe, the one that died." 

"Dunno, why?  My brother would know.  I wonder whatever happened to Ted."

"Could be almost anywhere by now."

We run out of coffee so we squinch into my Mazda. I stash the carton of Pall Malls into the glove box so Kevin can swing his bony popping ligaments into the low seat, and we coast in neutral down the hill to the Starbucks while a guy on public radio reads out the names of fake-sounding soviet era government bureaus.  "The Central Reserve of non-Existent Premises," he intones. 

The wind howls as I park, three wide open spaces out front saving me from having to parallel. I miss the organic democracy of parking in unmarked gravel lots.  

That nutty aroma inside is so dense I feel diminished by it.  The smallish early crowd bridging all the gaps between the Americas, anglo and hispanic, black and white, rich and poor.  An old man by the window shares a table with the two small school-aged girls, imperfectly prim little pixies, puckering his whiskered cheeks to whistle at the rising cup of steam.  A woman is talking to her friend on the phone.  I crane my head seeing that she is older than she sounds.  Ahead of us in line, a short dark man in African vestments orders something, thick, like his accent.

"Manolo" a barista barks, placing a drink on the counter.  An old hunchback nun clutching her knuckles into fists emerges from the restroom.  Red and white flashing lights appear down the street before the sirens can be heard.  An ambulance rears past around the corner.  "Carmen!"  the barista calls.

We take our coffee to go and after I have drunk it I go directly to sleep, Kevin to work, I wake myself an hour later with my snores, I open my eyes and continue to dream, feeling that old electric fervor, the  rootless angry howl.  The apartment is mine all day so I forage in the fridge and walk around naked, seeing this new version of myself in multiple reflections and remembering how it used to look, the original incarnation, the ole' band lineup as it were.   Are there connections between who that person was and who I am now?  I used to be a guy trying to live in a mythical construct and now I'm a guy obsessed with destroying that myth.  My gut had broadened and my chest sagged, I still had my hair but the lines had all changed, standing up as tall as I could I thrust my hips a bit. So like, you know, well yeah.

I hold my breath.  Take a hot shower until the manic panic subsides and my palms are wrinkled.  As I towel off my phone buzzes.  The day takes a whole 'nother direction.

She said to meet her at Caruso's at noon and I didn't protest.  Since the breakup we've been crawling toward better things, is what I tell myself.  But what things?  The inner sky is still overcast, it might snow.  

I pass the Horseshoe there alongside the freeway and see a rowdy guy I know from work braced cowboy style out front, what did we even see in that place?  He's a salesman, the nasty pushy type that I despise, I watch the road and hope he doesn't see me but I fantasize that he does see me and the next time he comes up to talk to me I can let some of my hatred toward him boil out.  That'd be a good way to get fired.  I'm all hot air.  The man on the radio said "In ancient Egypt, the servants of the Pharaohs were coated with honey so that the flies would not disturb the rulers themselves."  I switch it off.  The tires roar across asphalt, like crinkling cotton balls in my ears.

I don't see her car and so it feels conspicuous walking into Caruso's, like she's going to pull up behind me, but when I turn around to look she's gone.  What I had wanted was to be her slick secret, a cavernous tunnel into which she could disappear, but she burrowed down and then didn't like it,  she cut me deep, coming up for air and in the process uncovering my insides, I'd been bleeding ever since.  Less cavernous than gaping, less slick than sickly. People like me who hide their problems until they can find no solution except to kill their darlings probably shouldn't be allowed to procreate.  Maybe that's why I pushed them away.  I thought about Trish.  I often do, though we were only together for a short time.  You can never control the thoughts, never prepare for them, they rush in unimpeded, I open the door to the restaurant accompanied by a gale, a loud chime rings.  Be right with you.  I think about her when they interrupt the music at the grocery store to announce a sale, when I'm dialing a client's phone number at work.   Two please, two minutes ‘hun.  I think about Claire, that sweet secluded girl I wooed relentlessly but couldn't figure out how to give any pleasure so I gave up and got mine instead, twice, before she blew away too.

A woman's hand on my shoulder.  Hi.  Nicetoseeyou.  We sit by the window where its slightly secluded but cold.

"Things are good, nice... odd, I guess.”

“Be more specific,” she says.  Her voice has a texture I could wrap myself up in.

She wears glasses because she'd “slept with these contacts in, again.” Her face looking older in glasses, not old, more adult, elongated.  I stretch my legs until they hit the metal bar under the table. I resist the urge to reach across the table and remove her glasses, rub my knuckles against her temple.  I also resist the urge to jam a fork through my dorsal filaments whilst simultaneously pulling away from the table at a sprint, instantly ripping my hand into a Y. 

We order tea and water.  Real big spenders.  She asks some pointed questions, trying to show concern, I think, trying so hard not to look at me askance, that sad emphatic skepticism, that I feel bad for her feeling bad for me.  Why are we even here?

“And how’s your family?”

“My Uncle Russell died,” I say.

She arranges the packets of sugar and sweetener, each in amongst its own kind, bottom to bottom, top to top.  “I’m sorry.  I just…”

We let it hang there.  The waitress returns with our drinks and we drink them.  She checks her phone, giving it more attention than it deserves.  Just like me.

It's been a year," she says at last.  No wonder she asked to meet me.  "I just thought, I didn't want you being too hard on yourself.  There's no formula to this, no spec sheet, it's just, it's hard enough to let yourself love anyone, flaws and all, and then to have all these layers of the past holding you back every day.  I just...”

"Layers," I repeat.  A hint of burning bread wafts in from the kitchen, like a piano with the A^b out of tune.

“Do you know what I mean?”

I nod without looking at her, almost smelling the perfume, or imagining I smell it, her transparent reflection in the window says that this is hard for her.  I should have known.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.  Are you okay?”

"I’m empty as a pocket."

"Who said that?"

"I dunno,” I say, “I might’ve come up with it myself.  Y’know, I am pretty clever."

"Paul Simon," she says, putting her phone back in her purse.

She has to go.  Rather than cavil about the bill I say goodbye.  We don’t hug.  I don’t get up.  I watch her.  I watch a young woman walk in, with tan legs, and when she scooches into her chair across the room her skirt flashes up a bit and my heart leaps at the bareness of the upper thigh.  I blush, imagining the regions I cannot see, all flayed and warped into torrid sexual positions and I laugh out loud at what a joke I have become.  When does it all stop?

Never.  It never stops.  The ego, the pent-up anger, the wandering eyes, the bottomless lust - all together they just might be the breath of life, inhale, exhale, what else is there?

I thought we'd been doing a good job of being inconspicuous but now I suspect that I was wrong.  Too many eyes are looking at not me.  I wish I was a chameleon.

Carrying myself out into the fresh air like breezes unhurled.  Walking back to the car I cast no shadows.  Better get some more sleep before I go back to work.  The sky is a glaucous dome.  Maybe I’ll stop by the Horseshoe.  My stomach gurgles like a man trapped at the bottom of a well.  “There’s no escaping.”  I say.

What was that guy’s name?  It’ll come to me.

Apothegms: A Preponderance of Coldplay

"as a pendulum, man oscillates"
-Emerson

"People couldn't believe what I'd become"
-Coldplay

Y'ever get the thought in yer head that everything you need is right here, with you, right now?
Yea not so much me.
I get the impression frequently that if I were to just change a few things in my life everything would be perfect;
And by 'a few things' I mean one thing. Namely; location.

Namely or mainly?

It's snowing like the Dickens out here.
I told my roomate I would kill a man just to see the color green
(he offered me a rubber tree if I would consider killing his ex girlfriend instead,
but
don't worry,
he's just having a bad day. We all are.)
Where the fuck is the sun?

My ex girlfriend has a new boyfriend.
I haven't met him yet. Is it alright if I hope that he's ugly?
No, probably not. I do anyway. This from a man who wears a mask.
I do not need to wear this mask. I choose to. More people should wear masks.

If more people wore masks then I could stop.

Anyone else out there hate listening to Coldplay because whenever they hear Chris Martin jangling around in search of a marketable melody all they can envision is his white ass pumping in time with the music atop a lovely naked thumbs-up Gwyneth Paltrow?
Anyone?

I'm getting older.
I never thought I was a vain person but it turns out
I've been quietly in love with myself until about a month ago.
Now I avoid the mirror like the pleg.
Plague, sorry, something in my teeth.

There. Got it. On my way to lunch today
in the elevator while I was picking my teeth hungrily a man got on
and starting chitchatting with me regarding advice on book choices and how, really, (I am not making this up)
enough praise could not be heaped on Jonathan Franzen as an essayist. I couldn't wait to get away from the guy,
such a violent surge of dislike and hunger churning within me that I rushed away without
even excusing myself from the conversation and realized I didn't have change for parking meter.
Luckily, the strange man followed me out and gave me the change I needed.

I hope that guy isn't her new boyfriend.

Is it alright if I say gooch on the internet?
Gooch. Haha.

I hope Mr. Interweb doesn't bleep me like they did to that scene from that movie on TV.

"i love you because of your strenght and because of your weakness. i can't explain it"
-e

It's January and I usually succumb to despair or cynicism or both.
Cynicism is fine when you're wearing a mask but despair
means darkness and I've got enough of that without needing to try at it.
There are times in January when I get hangovers without drinking.
There are moments that surge like penecillic hot flashes when I am ready to descend into
Balearic hedonism, throw defenseless things against the wall,
a couple children,
a cute puppy,
and burn my face off.
Then I am fine.

Anxiety & frustration ebb. My counseler advises me via Skype
that they are out of my purview when really they are under my thumb.
Control them with cigarettes. No. Wait. Scratch that. Control them with cigarettes.
I quit smoking and took up running marathons. Something else that ebbs.
We expel carbon dioxide when it accumulates. Inhale oxygen to fill that void in our lungs and then consume it.
When I don't eat I get hungry. When I spend my money I am poor.
When I want to be with someone I find someone to be with
and then when things start going well I fuck that up
and she starts seeing Chris Martin or the guy from the elevator someone new.

Nature moderates all things. There's give and take. Coldplay used to rule the world, apparently, and now, well, let's just say that cycles happen. It's not neccessarily compelling narrative, but it's observable phenomenon, and this is blogging. You want compelling narrative, go read Chris Martin's blog. Or Jonathan Franzen's. I hear it's good.
I used to take walks down unfamiliar streets only to find myself right back at home.
Now I go down the same streets every day and I don't know where home is.

Obama says it's all about how and who we love.
My evidence sadly confirms this. But also
"it's all about people," sayeth Dennis the trucker, "and people always suck,
so it's all about the suck."

Overanalyzing is passe. So last decade.

I got a job last week that my buddy Jan told me would be one-day-only-easy-money but by that afternoon I had done nothing easy and realized I was out in a half frozen warehouse feeling wounded and shivering lifting big burlap bags of something that smelled like powdered cheese. I worked out the day and made 40 bucks. Walked across the tire track arcs in the snow in the fading light at the end of the day body tired, mind weak and felt the lull of sleep like I haven't felt in forever. Working hard is good for the soul. But man the unspoken voice in my head is one cynical bitch.

I know there is much to be said for living in the moment,
but what if living in the moment gets you so caught up
that then yer at the detriment of future moments?

Sometimes when I am sitting on the couch with my belly hanging out eating hamsteaks my desire to get up and do something with my life explodes into an orgasm of plans. If I try to do more than 3 things at once however I overwhelm myself and stop doing everything.

That said, next week I am taking a trip up north and I am living for nothing else. I remember the day on my trip last year when my friends all slept in nursing their hangovers and I wandered the streets alone. It was so peaceful and exhilerating (Exciting calm) to be on streets I did not know again, my eyes tearing up of their own accord while dallying in the bitter biting cold of the shadows and then the change to soft warmness in the sun. The way your eyes pick up little things because you're seeing everything for the first time: Truth in all its nakedness coming upon you in a sudden backalley stairwells, overhead electrical lines, bench ads for local lawyers, a school. The sounds also; the wet squeak & rotary clank of someone`s bicycle as they chug past or the warm lull of Ella wafting from a cosy cafe that I walk into to warm. This year I will try to take the same walk, only, without the cigarette addiction.

There used to be safety in coming home.
Now there is safety in being places I merely remember recognizing.
I can imagine someday I will only feel safe in the consistent and utterly unrecognizable.

"Travel more, they always said to her, and so she bought a ticket. On the Titanic."
-Jan

Now I'm glancing over at the snow falling while Dennis watches episodes of Jersey Shore
(nvm, he's back to playing Red Dead Redemption) and I'm ready to fall back asleep.

"Gooch."
- DMM