Transcription, bubble in time.

My car smells likne the coffee we drank. We didn't drink it in my car.

The motions felt practiced, rehearsed, and they were, a dance we had done a thousand times. Yet it still felt new.

Every time can feel like the first, given the right point of reference.

She drinks coffee now, and smokes cigarettes on the counter in her underwear. Some things are new.

She still steals them out of my pack if I have more. Some things never change.

I wish I could grow a mustache.

But really, are you ok?

I've got to admit, it's getting better.

A parable, unsure of the author, but it goes like this:

An old, muddleheaded cowhand frequented a poker game at the local saloon. Every week he came, and every week he was cheated out of every hand. They were stacking the deck, buying him out, hiding cards in their sleeves, running the gamut of low-down gamblers tricks. They worked every time on the poor old cowhand. Everybody in town knew he was a pushover, and didn't have much in the way of smarts. So year in and year out, he lost all his money every week to whoever decided it was worth their time to cheat him out of it.

Finally, one day, old rickety Rita, the saloon owner's mother, pulled the man aside.

"Now listen here boy," she crowed, "I think it's high time you stopped playing cards with these fellas!"

He doffed his hat, and looked at her with his big rubbery eyes and a calf-like grin. "Now what makes you think I'm inclined to do that Rita?"

Rita screwed up her wrinkly old face and said to him softly, "These boys aint never played you a fair hand in all this time, and they's cheatin you outta all your money."

The old cowhand's smile widened. "Now beg your pardon miss Rita, now I may be dumb, but I aint no fool. I knowed they been cheatin me for a long time. Even an idiot will win a hand every now and then. It's all in the numbers."

Rita's eyes widened. "If you know theys been cheatin you, why do you keep playing? There aint no sense in that!"

The smile left the man's face, and he looked at her as serious as he could manage. "Well to tell the truth miss Rita, there aint no sense in it, but I gotta keep on playing. It's the only game in town." And with that, he put his hat back on his head, returned to the table, and when he went home that night, he went home as penniless as usual.

~fin

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\.../\

This part has become difficult for me. I'm still scattered, but the wind is blowing so hard in the other direction.

Let me enunciate clearly on this fact: This Is A Good Thing.

~/~

I clamber down the staircase, no light shines out from the cracks of the trapdoor as I close it over my head. My oil lamp stays dim, I've walked these stairs so many times that I could walk them backwards, blind-folded, and dizzy. Halfway down, I stop for a second to wonder if the lamp has any fuel left. I haven't made this trip in a while, and the events of late have been such a headlong rush that I haven't really been making way for preparations.

[flash]

We're sitting in the back seat, music blaring, alcohol coursing through our veins: but we're going, not leaving. The topic at hand escapes my memory, but not the sentiment. A mall moment of despair, wrapped in hopefulness. I feel her tear land on the back of my hand, but when I touch her cheek to wipe the trail away, it's dry. Such a fleeting sadness.

[return]

I pull the hood off of the lamp, and crank the wick up enough to shed some light as I reach the bottom step. It's burning enough to dispel my earlier fears that it was empty. I have more than enough for the few minutes I'll be down here. One of the benefits of locking this place away is that it stays organized, if dusty.

Right where I left it: Sterling silver, inlaid with intricate cherrywood carvings. I pop the clasp and the hinges move without a sound; for something that has done me so much harm in my life, this is still worth keeping, and keeping well.

The most dangerous weapon, the most useful tool, The Dagger With A Four Letter Name.

[flash]

It's empassioned, if poorly timed. The thought was in my head, amplified by the actions, the surroundings. The word whirlwind crosses my mind, not for the first time that day, or that week, for what it's worth. The moment the words leave her lips, it's a simultaneous exhileration of spirit and fear for my life. Did she know? Does she know? I know it's wrong, I know it is, we both do. But knowing it's wrong doesn't make it untrue. Maybe neither of us know. But I'm patient enough to find out.

[return]

It looks so simple, in its blue velvet wrapping. Hilt, guard, simple scabbard over polished steel. The soft metal whispers when I remove its covering, as if to tell me a secret. Turning the blade over a few times in my hand, I clean off a few brown-red specks. Blood, and my own. Damn this blade.

My hands stop as I go to return it to its case. I don't know why I came down here. This is a stupid idea. This is foolhearty and headstrong. I need to put it back and walk away.

Put it away, and fast.

I don't even realize that I've fastened it to my belt until it bangs the side of the trapdoor on my way out.

I guess I'll keep it out for now. You never know when you'll need it.

\/...\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

This is only the beginning. I keep fearing the other shoe is going to drop, but that fear is lessening every day.

I'm starting to feel like karma is cashing all my checks, and starting to give me some dividends. Optimism, yes, but cautious, ever so cautious.

Let me enunciate this VERY clearly: I think I'm starting to be happy.

Sorry to disappoint

{This page intentionally left blank, please check back for future updates. There's a mighty storm a'brewin, and I love the smell of rain.}

Anniver/dsaries, Co-creation

/Authors note: The post date reflects the actual date and time of original posting. I had to take this down for editing-not something I normally do, but there was some emotionally charged asides that don't reflect my actual intent or feelings, and have since been changed or removed./

I need sleep, but my mind cries out for writing.

Is this a good thing? I'm not sure if I have words, but it seems my brain has other ideas.

I've been trying so hard to get out of my own skull, to stop living in my head. My constant refrain, these past few weeks, has been a plea for the ability to speak, to open up without airs. I'm making progress. I felt tonight almost the way I did that first night.

There's a lot more of a shared experience than I realized. I like this, I really like this, but I still feel like a deer in headlights. Things are unsustainable the way they stand. I wish I could understand my own thought on this matter. I'm waiting for a moment of boldness to strike, but it seems that whenever there is opportunity, I lack the ability, and vice-versa.

I have the capability to be bold when the moment calls for it, to be sure. I have been able, in my life, to take full advantage of these moments. The hopeless romantic inside me yearns for them: a stolen kiss in the warm Autumn night amidst the background din; a soft hand under midwinter chill with the glow of an old favorite. Even the impromptu vacation 6 hours away after writing a letter to a rock star.

Here's my theory:

You're just as scared as I am. Your guard is always up, but I know the stories, just as you've heard the ones I have to tell. You're scared to let me see you a little unhinged; you're afraid it will change my opinion. Afraid that I won't take you seriously.

I'm here to tell you, if this is the case, that you're wrong. I hope this is the case. I hope I'm right.

Why do I have the audacity to make such claims? Where does this theory come from?

Because it's exactly what I'm feeling. I'm scared beyond belief.

"How do you hurt a man who's lost everything? You give him back something broken."

Broken, though, is always the thing for which I've looked so hard. Somebody who understands that the world isn't kind or cruel, that decisions impact life constantly. At the end of the day, it's the broken people who know how it feels to be knocked down; thus they also know how to get back up. They know how to care.

They know how to help.

I want to do something bold. I want to break this wall that we've managed to erect between us. I want to dispense with all the pretense.

I want to take a chance.

But most of all,

I want you to tell me it's ok.

Because, believe me, it really is.

Glimmer, shimmer, glimpse

2/1/11 1:48 AM

I open wordpad on my computer, and proceed to type the following words:

"A few words of warning for this:
This is my attempt at actually putting my feelings out there, in words. I'm much better at writing things down as opposed to saying them out loud, as I often have trouble getting my brain to edit speech properly enough that what I'm saying actually matches what I mean to say.
I may get a little rambly"

I''m completely sober. I'm writing a letter. One that ultimately will not get sent, due mainly to one fact: After I write these words, exhaustion overcomes me, and I fall asleep.

2/1/11 9:42 PM

I began writing this blog post. The current time of my typing is 10:23, but a catalog of original times and events seems important. Not for the efficacy of making this more readable, or coherent, but for myself. Last night, I helped one of my very good friends (whom I have spent nowhere near enough time with in the last 10 years) kick off her '28 days of turning 30' celebration. It was an honor, and a pleasure to take part in this.

The wine didn't so much as flow as trickle, but at a pace that was more than sufficient for good conversation. Although, it was more of a catalyst than a cause.

I realized then, that I am a much better study of moments than of details. More than once I told stories that were almost immediately contradictory to their actuality: but in my versions, the spirit of the original was nearly intact.

Caught in moments, caught in time. The little christmas trees, bouncing on her knees, a smile and the laughter of ultimate friendliness, I feel a sort of jealousy. Not envy, not jealousy- Proud? I am incredibly proud of my friend. I admire and aspire to the sort of strength she carries on her shoulders.

I see a person who doesn't just admit their faults, but embraces them openly in such a way to understand their own humanity, their own limitations. Glasses and pajamas on, hair and airs put away for the day, she still remains unflappably, and irrevocably herself.

I think her greatest power, in my experience, is that she seems always able to absorb the best of everyone around her, and return it, magnified, back to them. There are no moments or persons to small or too large to escape her notice.

It sounds as if I were trying to deify her, or profess an undying love, and I assure you I'm doing neither. If anything, I'm apologizing for not taking enough time in my life to be her friend. I wish, and hope, that everyone in the world can or will have someone as awesome to be around, or as awesome to hang out with.

As I left her apartment to return home, (2/1/11, circa 12:30 AM) there was a light mist in the air. Not raining, not quite. It began to refresh me, to clear my head a little.

PART  II

2/1/11 11:42 PM

Today was gray, gloomy. Days like this are good for me: they help me clear my mind. The clouds in the sky put a boundary on my thoughts. As the day and night have progressed the promise of rain has been fulfilled. It's droplets begin to clear my mind, washing away the grit like so much dust.

PART III

We cannot always explain the things in our lives. As to what we attribute these things, it differs, but the name I've chosen lately? Serendipity.

As for You? I hope You're reading. I've suspected you have been, but this time, as circuitous as I've been before, I hope to be more direct. Vague is the nature of my writing, so vague this will remain, but you know who you are.

part 3.2*

     I hope I'm not too late: My silence is palpable, and my courage wavers. Forgive my mood, my stoicism. I want so terribly bad to impress, but never at the expense of not Being Myself. I feel that these things are not mutually exclusive, but my mind tells me otherwise, and allows me to do neither. Your attempts at starting, at making the bridge don't go unnoticed, believe me, but I find a way to falter every time.

     I remember a not-quite-similar situation, years ago. I believe the exact words I said were "all I do is listen, I'm not sure we have anything in common, or that I have anything to say." I was terribly, incredibly wrong then, and I know it's not the truth in this situation.

     Give me a chance. If You have been reading, you'll notice my constant focus as of late on this feeling of scrutiny, observance, fear of failure. This writing is my therapy, so the problem at hand always dominates the thoughts. I throw back pleas of good-natured optimism, that work for hours and then leave me more dry and wasted on the inside. I don't need to learn to think about being happy, I need to re-learn how to feel happy.

     I'm working on it: one minute, one hour, one day at a time. It's always been in my nature to brood and stay silent when I'm not feeling my best. This is my defense mechanism, my way of preventing myself from saying something I'll regret later.

     Trust has to be earned, but I can't reasonably expect everyone to make the first offering. I'm trying, I promise I'm trying. I don't know what the first move is, or the next, or the next. There has to be a starting point, but if you focus too hard trying to find it, you'll lose the whole picture.

Section 4: appendix/ notes for the author 11:29 AM 2/2/11





Sally has given up on me. I can't ever reconnect that bridge, unless she changes her mind. That's what you get for mincing words.

Bond needs distractions, and that's OK. We all need distractions at times.

There's a fire to be found in the Embers. If you're afraid of being burned, the other option is to stay cold. Try being warm for a change, you silly silly man.

Post note:

"Will you feel better, better, better? Will you feel anything at all?"

Clearance.

Content: The individual items or topics that are dealt with in a publication or document.

Content: Desiring no more than what one has; satisfied.

Homographs crop up more often than one realizes.
-~-
Subject One presents with the following:
Highly intelligent- well versed in many areas from music, to literature, and a wide array of unexpected topics. Humour based on any number of themes, ranging from offensive to bad puns. Extra credit for the latter.
-~-
When one is used to focusing at a certain depth, like a laser aimed to penetrate the veneer and read information stored beyond, there is always the unintended consequence of moving one's own secrets to a different level-often times to the surface, other times even deeper.
-~-
Subject Two insists on erratic inconsistencies. Confidence levels generally meet or exceed expected levels for one at the subject's age and status, unless presented with minute, nearly undetectable forms of outside observance. These seem to create a feedback loop that renders Subject two incapable of decision or basic conversation. More study is required to determine levels of self-awareness in aforementioned situations.
-~-
It's a tale told through small motions, gestures, a look in the eye.
Using the toe of one shoe to casually pick at the heel of the other. The steps from the table to the chair, sliding it forward, a slow and practiced crossing of the leg, a bow of the head to speak closer.
I catch the curve, from the brow, into the eye, down the cheek. Without realizing, my finger begins attempting to trace this line on the table. I can't quite capture it, there is a sharp inside cut that in reality astounds me, but I'm unsure if I could ever put it on paper. My artistic abilities are very niche and unskilled.
The media of condensation on the plastic table-top, fortunately, is impermanent and not being precise is par for the course.
I was being watched. The imperfect line becomes a mobius strip. I scold myself for doing things if I know I'm too afraid to explain my actions.
-/_
Concert: A performance given by one or more singers, instrumentalists, or both.

Concert: To act together in harmony.
_\-
The first step to solving a problem is identifying it.
To kill a monster you need to know its name.
This is just to say:

I'm afraid of
opening up,
even though I'm sure
you'd allow it.

We're both looking
for some warmth
against the bite
of being alone

Forgive me,
for being so distant,
you are so sweet,
and I am so broken, so cold.

Day(s).

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. beep. beep. beep. Snooze button. Repeat if desired.

Mornings are relative. I'm in a fog of dream sometimes. Lately it has actually led to... inconsistencies. Trouble distinguishing from imagination and reality, conciousness and the realms of trickery; momentarily I'm forced to fight to scramble and put the pieces back into place. This task is becoming more and more difficult.

If necessary, drawer is on the right. Two pills for normal, three for extra. Not yet a part of the routine. Fighting to keep it that way.

You only need to use a pea sized amount. All the way in the back for good measure.

Shaving cream is optional. Required depending on age of razor.

Overly expensive and watery shampoo. Natural remedies for human ailments gone awry.

I can handle the early day. I deprive my mind of enough of it's proper rest, so that it only has the cognitive ability to perform routine tasks and rudimentary social behavior. I don't have to think. About her. About me. About the past.

About the future.

With this I can buffer myself with certitude. Self-reliance. An ability to have clarity without doubt. Without blame.

Brew unsweet on the left machine, sweet on the right. Full A, four cups sugar. Repeat. Stock. Set-up. Script. Sell. Spray. Sweep. Serve. Silver. Section. Sidework. Signature. Repeat if desired.

The problem with muscle memory is this: once your brain is no longer actively focused on thinking about the task at hand, it is left unconstrained. It wanders. Unless you force it to focus it will dredge of every problem left unsolved. Tedium is the enemy.

Throw yourself into the task. You don't have to think if all you think about is activity. Maintain a mindset never at rest. Take an interest. An active interest is too dangerous. Enough to keep the mind occupied. If you're lucky you can keep this up all day.

Break/separate.

The glint of sunlight off the rim of a cup forms a web of light to the table below. Illusions are beginning to replace my reality, I realize as I reach out to brush it off.

There are cracks in my mind, and they're starting to leak.

Anything can be a religion, if you apply the proper amount of effort. You just have to have an unshakable faith in it. Fear, love, murder, sex, TV, politics. I've seen people who had enough faith in faith alone that it could be a religion. I've found myself at the foot of many altars in my life-not for a lack of particular faith or will, but more so the inexorable and unstoppable universal force of change.

I've even had faith in change.

Therein lay the paradox. If you put yourself at the foot of change, and give your true faith to it, you will never be able to stop it. Change rules you, and you're left helpless by the wayside. You cannot bring it about yourself, oh no-it breaks the bonds of the agreement. I've been there so long that I find myself unable to break this bond.

So tedium becomes the norm. Subject to change, and never Lord to it.

Reunion.

Unfortunately, the night brings me awake. Adjustments are made to bring operations up to full capacity. And I think.

That's where the trouble starts. A torrent of thoughts breaks through, problems requiring solving. Solutions requiring analysis. Analyses requiring theories. All of this broken by the fact that I cannot find the answers. I'm forced to throw my mind into more engaging tasks. I can hear the pleas for tedium crowding my skull. So I drown them.

Until finally...

Hopefully...

Sleep.

At last, sleep.

Sleep.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. beep. beep. beep. Snooze button. Repeat is required.

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Intermittent Paranoid

There is another, longer post in the works. Funny enough, I'm actually working on one instead of sitting down and hammering out whatever bug has lodged itself in my skull.
But this post on the other hand, is most definitely that.

Line break (sic)

Scrutiny. It can seem like a religion, at times. I feel it all too often, I feel it from those I care about, I feel it most of all from myself.

Scrutiny. It becomes a mantra. I'm so bogged down with thinking what the right and wrong are, that inaction becomes the flavor of the week.

I'm afraid, all the time. My most paralyzing fear is missed opportunity, and it is a self fulfilling prophecy.

Scrutiny. I see what you did there. Please just don't look.

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Honesty, honestly.

Those who take the time to read this blog may have noticed that I've become more active as of late-this is not a coincidence. While I tend to be a fairly private person, and often keep my thoughts and feelings to myself, I've come to realize this is not a healthy lifestyle. This place is a place for me, have no doubts about that. This is where I can write, clear my head, and get my mind working on ideas and solving problems, but it is also a place where anyone who cares to can get some insight into my thoughts. On the other hand, the public nature of this requires me, for the most part, to be a little vague.

Now, dont get me wrong, I don't mind vague-in fact, vague I do very well, but at some point I began losing honesty in my writing. This place, here, is not the only place that I write. I keep many little notebooks and journals placed around for whenever the itch hits me. Even in those, though, I've always been overly verbose and speak in nearly incoherent metaphor. So I've embarked on a new writing venture, a daily one, in which I write down, short and sweet, the events of my day. Mundane or exciting, they all go in there. I use real names, places, and what I really feel about things, without grandiose run-arounds and hidden messages.

This is already scaring the shit out of me.

I have this inherent fear, and I always have, of people finding the wrong piece of paper, the wrong scrawl, and learning something I never should have committed to paper. This is a way of making me face my fear.

These notes will be published, online, but not here. I will most definitely put them somewhere where my identity will be a little more difficult to ascertain. I'm already falling behind on this, but I plan to get caught up today, and stay that way. Already I'm fretting where I've put these down for fear of their discovery, and the content thus far has been mostly benign.

My end-run here, is to hopefully, by being a bit more thorough in my communication to myself, I can be a bit more open with those I need to be-to speak things more plainly when I'm afraid to say them out loud.

Heaven help me.

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Impasse

Picture:
There is a door. There is someone on either side, but we can only see one side, because the door is shut. The person we see is banging on the door, begging the other to come out. Beckoning, then begging. Then finally they are bargaining, but from the other side of the door, nothing emerges, not even a sound. The desperation is not at all feigned, nor is it all-encompassing.
This door, you see, is not Their Door. The only thing holding it shut is a rule, not a lock or latch. Not even a rule, per se, as opening it would have no real repercussions. So in a way it is a game, albeit one they both take seriously.
But it is not Their Door, it is not in Their Place, and neither of them will come out as the victor. There's always somebody a step ahead.
The moral of the story?
I'm not out of the woods quite yet.

Listen:
There are a few things I want to say, to ask. I'm getting there. I've written in the past, though not here, that I feel scrutinized, overly, by some unseen force. I've since come to learn that that scrutiny comes from the other side of the door. I've also learned who is there: Nobody.
Nobody, as in Nobody. Only an irrational concept on a plane of rational things.
When one tends to deconstruct the world around them so that it fits into definable categories that can be restructured and re-purposed to fit into respective molds of understanding, the things that don't fit, that don't make sense, get put on the other side of that door. That's where Nobody is, and nobody, save Nobody, goes in there.

They say:
Nobody never feels fear, Nobody goes through life without doubt. Nobody doesn't cry.
That's impossible, Nobody could do that.
Nobody is in control. Nobody can tell you what to do. Nobody rules your life.
Nobody is watching.
Nobody.

Listen, again:
I've been, for most of my life, confident of myself. At some point in this last year, I lost that confidence. I lost respect for myself. I lost bits and pieces of the person I am, so slowly, so gradually, that when the bottom fell out, I hadn't even known there was a problem.
It is, however, getting better. Normalcy is being restored. Which has led me to new realizations-rather, discoveries of problems that have existed for a long time which I either didn't know about or long ago chose to ignore.

My confidence has never extended beyond myself. I have this deep seated need to ask for permission, for fear of offending or overstepping my bounds. For all my talk, this makes me a much less spontaneous person, averse to taking any risks that are not almost completely sure bets.
It's an affliction, and it nearly kills any ideals of romantic behavior.

I remember, my first ever girlfriend, Becky from Scipio. I remember sitting next to her, nearly touching her. I remember trying to get the nerve, for almost half an hour, to hold her hand. I remember my heart literally skipping a beat when I finally tried. I remember the nonchalance of her aquiescence, as if it was not at all an unexpected or unwelcome thing to do.
Of course, for most people, it wasn't.

Believe me when I say, for the most part, I got better at this sort of thing over time.

But:
Again I find myself at this level of confidence: wanting to boldly move forward, to take action. And it's nearly impossible. Again I feel the paralysis of that 11 year old boy, staring at Becky from Scipio's hand and imagining the softness of it, and imagining that just the action of reaching out and grasping will either evoke rage or passion from her.
So now, 15 years later, bruised and broken from things that have happened in between, my brain urges me to err on the side of caution, while my heart screams and rages to take chances. Diametrically opposed voices that both have very solid reasoning, but as a creature of logic I can't help but listen to my brain.
My brain looks to my heart, and tells it gently, "We've gone down these roads before, friend, and look where it's taken us."
Heart looks up at my brain, with a mixture of pity and shame on his face. "If you never take the chance to go somewhere unknown, you'll spend your whole life standing still, and nothing will ever change. 'I don't intend to tiptoe through life, only to arrive safely at my death.' Beauty is only found through adversity. Try it. Just one more time."

I just hope I'm not running out of opportunities.

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