It made sense at the time, he thought. Spend $37.42 on a pipe, right? Then walk out of the store, drop it, break it, and suddenly question the value of everything you own. Suddenly you don't know why you spend money on anything at all. Suddenly your life is changing, and you start digging in trash cans for food.
He'd been spending his own money since he was 14. Had a job at his father's office, which was a business of no particular sort. He was in charge of the file room. Cumbersome metal cabinets full of trees. That's the way he thought of it. They were organized with numbers and letters, both of which had stayed in his memory. When he heard the word "StarTrust," he couldn't help but think, "27, S, Arizona file."
There he was at 26 years old outside the gas station with broken glass at his feet thinking of StarTrust Bank and wishing that atleast some of the useless information from that first job would leave his brain.
He looked down at the broken glass. If he'd been in a different state of mind, he'd have promptly gone back inside and asked if he could have another one. As it was, however, he was feeling frivolous and silly. He was embarrassed for himself - if anyone could see the internal turmoil he was subjecting himself to, they'd have pitied him. He and his turmoil drove home.
Upon entering the house, he began to see things as just that: shit he'd collected, bought, been given that made his life neither better nor worse. Yes, there were a few things that meant something to him, like his grandmother's wedding ring, his first guitar. But what held on to those things within him was not the skin cells that probably didn't remain on them from years ago - it was the memories.
He emptied his house. If he could remember 27, S, Arizona file, he could certainly remember his grandmother and his first guitar lesson.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
map : highlighter : $34.99
By the river it's quiet, because you marched through the woods, battled branches and bushes, to find such a place. There's the muddy bank a mile or so north, but it's muddy from the traffic there. Everyone knows how to get there. No one knows how to get here.
These thoughts were in her head. Unfortunately they weren't enough to drown out the sounds of the traffic on the bridge nearby. She'd have to admit that she wasn't completely tucked away, hadn't completely disappeared.
She laid curled up in a ball, listening to the ground, watching things crawl. The sun felt good, the river sounded healthy. She slept with her head on the ground.
She woke when the sun was setting. Still alone, only now she was disoriented. She had been dreaming of Salt Lake, where rivers sound different - more angry, more high-pitched. She'd been sitting on the side of a mountain, and the water falling was hitting her left side. She was soaked and dusty, half and half.
Just before she hiked down, she looked across and saw a little girl on the other side of the fall. She was alone, too.
What's your name?
Nadine.
Why are you alone?
Don't you know?
She thought for a moment. She had never seen her before.
I don't know you!
We gotta jump.
It suddenly sounded normal, even natural to do so. Half inside a memory and half inside a dream, they jumped. Nadine looked more like she was floating down, or flying. She made her way close and held her hand. Then she disappeared.
Our heroin watched her reflection get larger and larger until it and she were the same size.
She woke up and had forgotten where she was. It didn't take her long to remember.
The sun felt good, the river sounded healthy.
These thoughts were in her head. Unfortunately they weren't enough to drown out the sounds of the traffic on the bridge nearby. She'd have to admit that she wasn't completely tucked away, hadn't completely disappeared.
She laid curled up in a ball, listening to the ground, watching things crawl. The sun felt good, the river sounded healthy. She slept with her head on the ground.
She woke when the sun was setting. Still alone, only now she was disoriented. She had been dreaming of Salt Lake, where rivers sound different - more angry, more high-pitched. She'd been sitting on the side of a mountain, and the water falling was hitting her left side. She was soaked and dusty, half and half.
Just before she hiked down, she looked across and saw a little girl on the other side of the fall. She was alone, too.
What's your name?
Nadine.
Why are you alone?
Don't you know?
She thought for a moment. She had never seen her before.
I don't know you!
We gotta jump.
It suddenly sounded normal, even natural to do so. Half inside a memory and half inside a dream, they jumped. Nadine looked more like she was floating down, or flying. She made her way close and held her hand. Then she disappeared.
Our heroin watched her reflection get larger and larger until it and she were the same size.
She woke up and had forgotten where she was. It didn't take her long to remember.
The sun felt good, the river sounded healthy.
Monday, January 25, 2010
robert burns wa hae
mosaics are ugly
except once
and you are
a bunch of broken stuff
put together
Some video of her when she was a child made more sense than staring at her now. Grown, we laugh and say, "Oh, put put, wasn't that silly?" It looks out-dated and sad, like when you get a gift you don't really like, or when you disappoint your mother. Like knowing someone hasn't really done what they set out to, and are okay with it. Because of you, perhaps, or because of themselves. We're not really sure.
So we watched. Mine were of me in costumes and at dances and with braces and shaking people's hands. Hers were much the same. We watched them, craving peanut butter.
When they were over I went to my room and sat in 1991. It was nice there, I wore pastel and velcro shoes, and I had no inclination that anyone I know existed. And I suddenly desperately wanted boobs.
Nothing looks like this, I thought.
Sometimes when the seasons change, I can smell it. For a split second it is the first day of kindergarten, I've walked there, my mother is tearing up, and my father makes sure I know where I am. I only moved my pin one time.
I fell asleep in 1991 and dreamt of driving to Lubbock before school started. It was hot, but we went swimming and that was nice.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
walnuts are a superfood. thank you mother.
I wasn't looking up and therefore had to mutter an insincere "oh, excuse me," and flutter my eyelashes at the disgruntled-looking old man, slightly overweight, who I had just cut off on my way to the salad bar. I was after spinach and chickpeas, but had been thinking about my endeavor to start jogging, and bam! old man, frown.
The rundown of what happened next is as follows: pick up little brown box, check; spinach, check; soy nuts, check; red cabbage, check; chickpeas, check; some mostly clear sort of dressing, check. (If you want to taste the best salad in the world, make it this way).
I said goodbye to the wine and the halogen lights and walked to my car. Who cares whether or not I paid for it. Boring - besides, the cashier was all but noteworthy. Walking to my car I saw the old man. There was a thought bubble hovering over his head. How odd, I thought. I went closer. He didn't notice me, but the thought bubble did. It changed shape for a second, and then an image appeared. A to-do list of sorts, but instead of being on lined paper, it was like a slideshow.
This man had an incredible agenda. Of course, he had to drive home. Then there was the cooking, the cleaning. Inevitably his wife would be late home from work (I mustn't leave out that his wife appeared in his thoughts to be a very attractive older psychologist), and he would have to greet all those damned people who were always so bloody early (bloody? who says bloody?) and keep the dogs from sniffing at the women's crotches.
Just as I was going to walk away the show changed. Slowed. Softened. No longer a to-do list. Closer to a memory.
He held the hand of a very attractive young psychologist. That was it.
The old man, who had never noticed me standing there, drove away. So did I.
The rundown of what happened next is as follows: pick up little brown box, check; spinach, check; soy nuts, check; red cabbage, check; chickpeas, check; some mostly clear sort of dressing, check. (If you want to taste the best salad in the world, make it this way).
I said goodbye to the wine and the halogen lights and walked to my car. Who cares whether or not I paid for it. Boring - besides, the cashier was all but noteworthy. Walking to my car I saw the old man. There was a thought bubble hovering over his head. How odd, I thought. I went closer. He didn't notice me, but the thought bubble did. It changed shape for a second, and then an image appeared. A to-do list of sorts, but instead of being on lined paper, it was like a slideshow.
This man had an incredible agenda. Of course, he had to drive home. Then there was the cooking, the cleaning. Inevitably his wife would be late home from work (I mustn't leave out that his wife appeared in his thoughts to be a very attractive older psychologist), and he would have to greet all those damned people who were always so bloody early (bloody? who says bloody?) and keep the dogs from sniffing at the women's crotches.
Just as I was going to walk away the show changed. Slowed. Softened. No longer a to-do list. Closer to a memory.
He held the hand of a very attractive young psychologist. That was it.
The old man, who had never noticed me standing there, drove away. So did I.
Monday, January 18, 2010
bed : map : digital camera
It was a long drive, he thought, but it didn't feel that long. Only after highlighting it on a map did it look long, but as it was, it felt like it was just one big heap of travel and it left him weightless. And everything feeling clear and airy makes people say stupid things.
It wasn't that none of it was true, rather it was that he knew he'd forget about it by morning, or in a month. He didn't want to, but he would. It was inevitable.
He'd promised a friend he'd come back to help him in a business undertaking for which he was particularly skilled. Hiking, specifically. They'd weave paths along the coasts on a plot of land his friend had bought, and they'd lead people around on the cliffs. They'd save kids from leaning over too far to glimpse the sea lions. The ocean would spray these same children and they would giggle and their parents would smile and everyone would have their money's worth.
His friend called. Kevin.
Hey, buddy, what you doing? When are you leaving to come back?
Soon, man. Gotta make some money.
Cool, cool. Well, I'm goin out tomorrow to scout it out. Fog's bad.
Good luck. Tell Frieda hello. (Frieda is a yellow lab).
Later.
He'd never make it back there, because he didn't like the fog, and because he didn't like hiking, and because he didn't like people.
And because he'd never be satisfied sitting still, though he may lose everything to his own desire to leave, leave, leave. Don't stay. Don't remember. Forget.
He got in his car and drove the opposite direction of which he was parked.
It wasn't that none of it was true, rather it was that he knew he'd forget about it by morning, or in a month. He didn't want to, but he would. It was inevitable.
He'd promised a friend he'd come back to help him in a business undertaking for which he was particularly skilled. Hiking, specifically. They'd weave paths along the coasts on a plot of land his friend had bought, and they'd lead people around on the cliffs. They'd save kids from leaning over too far to glimpse the sea lions. The ocean would spray these same children and they would giggle and their parents would smile and everyone would have their money's worth.
His friend called. Kevin.
Hey, buddy, what you doing? When are you leaving to come back?
Soon, man. Gotta make some money.
Cool, cool. Well, I'm goin out tomorrow to scout it out. Fog's bad.
Good luck. Tell Frieda hello. (Frieda is a yellow lab).
Later.
He'd never make it back there, because he didn't like the fog, and because he didn't like hiking, and because he didn't like people.
And because he'd never be satisfied sitting still, though he may lose everything to his own desire to leave, leave, leave. Don't stay. Don't remember. Forget.
He got in his car and drove the opposite direction of which he was parked.
Friday, October 9, 2009
deadly zins, mohawk zebra
She's the kind of person that obsessively, but obliviously, peels the labels off her beers. She doesn't even drink beer, really, but she will during exceptions. You know exceptions, everyone has them. Like when I am hungover I will eat peanut M&Ms. Like when I am wandering in the desert I will drink anything, anything. Like when you see someone for the first time and it changes your opinion of a certain color.
It was that way with her. I watched her peeling away, I began to scratch at the sides of my glass, wishing I had a tendency to exhibit. Of course, there was no label, and my lemon had already been squeezed into my vodka, so I removed my straw from the drink. I played with it aimlessly.
She was talking about a boy. It was always the same with her - in one and out another. Kind of like her ears. I'd say, "Zora, maybe you should just cool it for a while." She'd agree for a time span of five minutes and then, with a wink and a sleezy smile, on to the next. You understand.
... It becomes easier and easier to create people, like legos, building, building, building.
Thistimehedumpedher. This time she wasn't sure how to handle it. She wanted to die. Sentiment, sentiment. My sympathy goes a long way, I suppose. She didn't really want to die, she was being melodramatic. My mind went into a different mode, psychologist mode. You understand.
"I just ... I love him."
"Love isn't enough."
"I know."
"I know it hurts, just give it time. Hindsight is 20/20, so says my mother." Spit it out. I rationalize that cliches are only cliche because they're true. It's true.
She moves on to his attributes. She cries a little, but not real crying. Her eyes well up, and there is no one word for that, so we'll just maintain that she cries.
I think she's an idiot, really. I think she may be delusional. I think she doesn't know the first thing about love, but then again, I think, neither do I. I haven't dated in three years, I have never been in love, I just imagine it to be different than that.
I may be a cynical hag, also.
True to your heart, you must be true to your heart. This goes through my head and I think about telling her. But if I were her, I'd slap me for saying something that simple.
Women make me crazy.
It was that way with her. I watched her peeling away, I began to scratch at the sides of my glass, wishing I had a tendency to exhibit. Of course, there was no label, and my lemon had already been squeezed into my vodka, so I removed my straw from the drink. I played with it aimlessly.
She was talking about a boy. It was always the same with her - in one and out another. Kind of like her ears. I'd say, "Zora, maybe you should just cool it for a while." She'd agree for a time span of five minutes and then, with a wink and a sleezy smile, on to the next. You understand.
... It becomes easier and easier to create people, like legos, building, building, building.
Thistimehedumpedher. This time she wasn't sure how to handle it. She wanted to die. Sentiment, sentiment. My sympathy goes a long way, I suppose. She didn't really want to die, she was being melodramatic. My mind went into a different mode, psychologist mode. You understand.
"I just ... I love him."
"Love isn't enough."
"I know."
"I know it hurts, just give it time. Hindsight is 20/20, so says my mother." Spit it out. I rationalize that cliches are only cliche because they're true. It's true.
She moves on to his attributes. She cries a little, but not real crying. Her eyes well up, and there is no one word for that, so we'll just maintain that she cries.
I think she's an idiot, really. I think she may be delusional. I think she doesn't know the first thing about love, but then again, I think, neither do I. I haven't dated in three years, I have never been in love, I just imagine it to be different than that.
I may be a cynical hag, also.
True to your heart, you must be true to your heart. This goes through my head and I think about telling her. But if I were her, I'd slap me for saying something that simple.
Women make me crazy.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
le poisson
Kitchens are almost always dirty. One expects a bathroom to be dirty, or a garage, but upon thinking about it, one realizes that kitchens are downright nasty.
That orange slice fell behind the fridge weeks ago, I thought. Now it's probably nothing more than a couple of seeds. But what am I supposed to do about that? Move the fridge to retrieve an orange slice? Negative.
I happened upon this train of thought for a number of reasons, the main two being that a) I work at a restaurant, and b) I am stuck in a cleaning frenzy that has lasted about three days now and is showing no signs of easing. (And people prepare food in kitchens! I thought). I threw down the 409 and a dingy old rag. Time to get out of the house: commence with personal intervention.
I am a walking stream of consciousness, I thought.
Isn't everybody?
Well, yes, I suppose so. But some people are less ... conscious? ... than others.
You mean like brain dead? Or ignorant?
Probably both.
I could go on, but the inner dialogue got confusing and technical and, to be honest, boring. This is why our thoughts wonder.
There are rats in kitchens. I'm quitting my job, I thought. I don't want to support rats. Nor do I want to work for them. That's what I'm doing, isn't it? Cleaning up after them? And flies. Damn the flies.
I walked to the coffee shop on the corner of the next block. Several types of people littered inside were on computers, probably wasting time. Some of them were entranced in books and various notebooks - telltale signs of studying. I thought about the time of year: December. Finals. Ah, I see.
The skinny kid behind the counter did not care about me. I'm getting old, I realized. To him I look like 24-year-old boys looked when I was 16. Only, I was in awe of 24-year-old boys when I was 16, and this kid was clearly disillusioned with me. Try smiling, I thought.
I smiled.
"Can I have a soy latte?"
"Mmhmm." He set to it.
Coffee in hand, I strolled back to my house. The 409 and the rag are waiting for me anxiously. Or perhaps not so anxiously - they must be tired. I'm tired. I'm a kind of tired in which you feel pleasant, calm. You stroll down the street and wouldn't be surprised if you fell in love right then, or died.
I supposed then that, with my coffee in hand, neither of those things would be altogether bad. After all, I felt as though we had forgotten how small we are, and the orange slices and rats and flies had forgotten, and suddenly we're breathing for the last time, or kissing someone we feel we've known all our lives, or watching a car come barreling unstoppably toward us, and suddenly we remember.
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