Maybe it's a good thing

Post. Musing of a madman. Note from the underground. Grasp of the forlorn. Markdown, tear up, rip apart. Here we are, standing at the edge of the precipice, and all you can think about is that time when something happened that -- what? You didn't anticipate and therefore someone close to you is to blame for letting you, oh great one, all of us at some time in our measly little imperfect more important than yours lives. 
DEAD HEAT


What if you are one who doesn't feel that way? A shaman in hiding, but from herself. A resonance of imaging, but no way to interpret. Voices of the ancestors slipping into your dreams but you can't sleep much these days, insomnia is just counting down the precious hours left, now that you have seen the earth in all its beauty shining back at you in the tiniest moment before you could even think the thought of criticism or what someone else had planted there, a headline, a reference, a context they really want to put you in -- no matter how you resist and say, no, this is how it is, was and forever will be.

The "altered" stories. Folks look on, aghast! How could they lie to us? He says to his wife who is slipping out the door to meet her younger lover who works nights and she has that short errand she always does with her side hustle, selling specialty bread to the Italian restaurants in a 9-block area.

Odd how she always mentioned the perimeter. When it came time to find him, the schmuck (he knew she was married, encouraged her to stray but never gave her a way out - hell, he wanted her off his hands, so he could pursue mary, with the fair eyes and sweet smile that some would call pathetic desperation but she was much nicer to him or so he thought, and his wife, she thought that the young man wasn't so much 'nicer' as he was way more 'attentive'), he figured he would live right outside the 9-block area.

But was the 'area,' as his now more attractive wife (funny how getting laid does that to a wife, so much that the husband steps back and appreciates for one second before he feels cuckolded which is the worst thing to do to any man, or was, at one time, who knows now with anime porn filling the bill for an entire generation not procreating), maybe that was a good thing she thought as she took the yeasty dough to St. Andrew's Place where behind St. Anne's Early Learning Center, she would meet and deliver soup to Armando, who was not her young lover but the object of her undying affection.

He was the man who turned out to be her father, the one who was 16 when her mother, who she never met, ran off with him, to Italy. At the time, it sounded romantic in the telling, embellished by her older stepsister Rose, who always exaggerated the details but always made every story better. 

So it would be Rose's story she would be going with tonight, the night she saw Armando for the fifth time ever, and the last time ever, how does that work? The counting of the days we had together, all of us in our own ways with each other -- our one single best friend and then losing our first love -- all so painful for everyone. And to think of today when just to survive seems a miracle. She sighed. Armando looked tired.

There had been a young lover, don't get me wrong, but the cheating, the lie wasn't about what you think. It never is. It rarely even seems to matter in the end. Technology spins one way, the earth in reverse, and mankind runs in circles between and betwixt.

The interactive story I imagined years ago comes about as I am down some rabbit hole invariably started by this apartment hunt and accidentally hitting a button that prepped an email to 'feedback' so I thought I must have had something to say, so I told them it would be great if their app didn't say my neighborhood was the entire earth. 


Which of this actually happened? Parts of it are all true. Mostly I am obsessed with language. And many other things involving the passage of time and the perfection of things, like chaos and uncontrollable desire.

Writing is now this - my fingertips ache. It's a combination of a debilitating nerve damage issue, the physical excessive force in July, too much writing, this damn bluetooth thing (which should be inserted as a sound-up from the muppet old guys in the peanut gallery) -- my impatience? I suppose.

I am everything my mother never warned me about and then some.

I was automatic writing love songs of J. Alfred to ET a long time ago, but we were always off--like the character I came up with whose life was always 4 frames off (or seconds, whichever you prefer as practical -- one would be annoyingly out of sync, the other would account for missing her true love and falling for the guy who pushed him out of the way, or not dying when the meteor hit, etc)....

So to see the hashtag was intimidating to say the least.
To have heard my own quote that I made so obviously cheesy it was clearly one of those 'joke' type quotes where to say what was really said would be 1) completely impossible for me to recount because I blocked it out in the first place which has to do with my dissociative order and the abusive nature of my work history from hospice to toxic workplace times 20 but laughing it off because never let the bastards see you sweat, I know that much; 2) skip to 3) it was something an old dude would say and obviously nothing you'd quote me as saying he said. Oi vei. 


would ya look at those... 


I realized too late no it was something my dad would have said referencing animal house type dialogue (as easily as he would discuss kidney procedures that were particularly gory or how each of my pets was killed by a local predator, so it wasn't necessarily this or that offensive back then when we wrote in the back of station wagons with no seat belts, no seats, just cheating death all the way, welcome to the 70s when nixon is the first president you remember). He would deliberately offend. And laugh about it. Gallows humor. Doctors and morgues have the same macabre sensibilities. Call it on-the-job collusion. But you do it or you are no good to anyone. At Hospice, we made 'dancing skeleton' bumper stickers -- an obvious not nuanced nod to the Grateful Dead who were still touring at the time -- that said HOSPICE: It's inevitable -- for our way of continually expanding our base, which the grant making organizations always want to see in your executive summary.


"You should write a book," they say.

I have. It's all here. I say as I pull out a giant sack of napkins, post its and credit card receipts I should have turned in to that production manager back then because it matters so much that you pay up front and grovel for reimbursement. That's how it is, you should take your number and get on with it.
"not all cops are bad"

What would that story be? About how I think 1/2 of what I see is laden with absurdity? The other 1/2 atrocity? That leaves no room for hope or faith or even time to contemplate the truth. Much less any spiritual aspect of any of that -- the mindfulness we all can tap into, maybe -- that is, if we're not running for our lives.

It's hard to do much but a-b-c when you really are fleeing something or someone. It's exhausting. Your will to live exceeds your ability to stoke the fire from within. That's when the air changes, or something gives, or breaks, if that is what the wave requires. And that is what I seek, but in seeking, you cannot 'acquire,' this I know. And I don't know much, but what I know is the things that I was told that came true and the things I suspected were always the truth that have been revealed. Now, what to do with that is the question, as I hit my intellectual peak, physically getting a second or would it be third now wind -- 22 and then the paddling years and say not so bad now thanks to getting a dog making me walk consistently every day and reminding me, bittersweet and deep, of my youth on 22 acres, the heaven and the hell.

for another day
the interactive story


how does that go?


somewhere but anywhere