The House of $2 PBR

I refuse to conceal how sadly present I am in this writing, not freakish, but – the reactions here keep a tone of total indifference. Swing hard, Merrell. It is the bottom of the 9th. Even still, not engrossed by that or what’s happening on stage. In the fog a striped shirted man hollering and strutting, like a Mick Jagger on lean. Classic punk style but vacuous of meaning now that ‘punk’ has illuminated itself elsewhere. 

Standard human hearing. Comfortable socially. There is hardly a method you know, getting neglected in the chain of shots. I wasted it on myself for transient holy feelings when the rest were made uncomfortable with their tasks for closing… you moved nowhere closer to your goal. 

Does that place exist? No, and it was in San Diego. Might be a rush of waitstaff from other places coming in. That’s my temporary. I am sorry for keeping you up – move into an uncrowded bar –  but with too much gain on the cymbals – punk with a miscue in. Painful production (with that high gain) – we capture emotion with intent to make it reach the frequencies of Standard human hearing. 

Let’s talk about dad and mountains. Practice environmental consciousness and think with the M.S. Merwin poem about the names of trees they grew up with and never knew, I don’t know, and I don’t know (cut off the serrated edges next time). I am clearly engrossed and alone, but alone in a place like this, the house of $2 PBRs, looks like waiting, waiting for a beloved friend to show up out of the fog. 

The weather for last call might prevent and influx… “Play like a champion, leave no doubt.” Can you close my card whenever? I’m sorry but who are you. Little cues, rags thrown aside while harmless patrons sip slow last calls or play pool without adding to their stamped cards. You moved nowhere closer to your goal. 

The jealousy can’t be mutual. For me it is a weight I think I can ignore, no matter how many knots form in my shoulders. No longer in the house of $2 PBRs, and cars zoom by the Florida ceiling windows, enjoy yourself angel… enjoy your baseball – share your mouthwash, forget the aux cable, etc. Forget the rest of the World. 

 

making arrangements

When I materialized back into my body, I realized the coma had broken. There he was, the body I thought I had, but aged slightly, a year, or more, maybe 5 years there resting under the eyes, wrinkles from frowning covered by  beard, it is a seasonal, he told himself, this only happens during the fall transitions, he thought. I am not going insane I am just losing my chlorophyll, bleeding green as it were, and heading into hibernation after hibernating all summer and barely eating enough roots to keep the cave warm. Strangely, and with great hope, I feel I am in the process of resurfacing. Making plans, looking forward to things, all some weeks after becoming shockingly 25 years old and feeling the same sense of estrangement as the 16 year old cigar smoker buried somewhere in the lungs 9 years aged, the wooden heart metaphor, yeah, sure. Nesting dolls. Fabric covering the body no longer fit in. Larger sizes. Mental pingpong. Gasping for air, breathing for the first time in months air unfiltered through a straw or a pond reed or here it is the moment of transition, again, and again, the bursting forward. Is it ever going to stop? Will I ever want it to? This hope for the future always happens in the resolute fall. The endless winter looming. Matt says, “Fall’s always been our season. There’s something in the transitions.” and I can’t argue. I’m no summer lizard (at least whoever I was summer ’16 was not a lizard, more a different species of something hibernating… the unseasonal human boy until fall when everything becomes practical and shares mortality and breathes with cold truths and shoves trees through houses and powerlines and all that.)

I am awake and alive and feel okay.

Say often.

I am alive and okay. Awake.

Repeat.

I am alive to my feelings. Something internal gave the okay to wake up.

Okay, now. Wake up.

Here I am. What good will come of this day now I committed to it.

Mossy Knoll Hangover

I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. Though my body has taken all day to recover from sleeping in my car, 50 yards away from a rented bed. I had no desire to drunken stumble into the shared closet, waking up others. My mind was gone and it’s okay, the graduate students were on a fisheries weekend retreat, bitching me out.

Okay then. Walking in a stupor. It is 4 pm and my stomach is sour. I napped on a mossy knoll, as advised through devious teeth. Hey I’m having fun with my words, letting them fall out unfiltered. Is it approaching the flow state? Where the valve is cranked open and the steamy water starts shooting out galaxies? Anyway, unique universe is the term to cherish, to hold as your only object.

Continue reading

1:44 – 2:04 am

12:55 – (tangent ended abruptly after 1:06)

Goodbyes and misgivings. The smoky air of an overcooked sausage breakfast. The late night of the drinking in the canoes and the late night work ethic for production values of blue-heart. The twenty minute free-write I never do anymore is attempted presently, in the stifling air with the beers in my belly and the ice cream in my throat. A drive thru. A confused girl calling my advice to plan her vacation and I wonder what I have to do with her three weeks if I am anybody decent I would let her discover her own acceptance of time to be forgiven

1:44 – 2:04

Holy fuck I haven’t done anything with my life in such a long time. I have read of the Sphinx and realize the current astronomical amazement of Venus and Jupiter approaching slowly like tentative lovers across the black crosshatched flannel sheet of the forever-night that occurs outside the reach of our sun or others…. the infinite, unwritten dark and humming emptiness. They have not preformed this particular dance since I was pre-born. About halfway through my mother’s pregnancy of me. I cannot speak of this process of development – where I may have been between embryo and fetus and baby with appendages and near-teenager at the halfway point, and why do I garner so much positive attention from them? Is it pity because I had to endure a kind of hostile environment around the house? that we all did? No, I think it is because of the alignment of the moons and the stars with the closer lovely planets with their theoretically and satellite-mapped landscapes, too hostile for poor human life, but for the rich they gather themselves into plumes of cinder smoke exhaust because the space between them shrinks with the knowledge of the infinite as accessible.

Too many old thoughts are pouring in on me. They are not that old. They are the written thoughts of the last four years. From Arizona to Los Angeles to now. They overwhelm me with their completely different realities and how none of them seem to reconcile with my current realities. How does it make a difference to write for class or for personal pleasure or for the sheer mystery of it to do so in public and to listen to Ra Ra Riot and be reminded of the “wild time signatures” they played with when Matt saw them probably in 2009. Some festival maybe. Something else entirely maybe. I need to see the man in his new grown habitat without any outside influences. Some kind of scattering of personalities of old friends around the landscape and the heart of the harbor is still present with all of them because the family housing climate cannot be sold of their runes they grew from the chopped trees and the planted pots. The house-leaning tree at Shawnee Drive is about as old as me and the astronomical absurdities of tonight. I am old as the rendezvous of Venus and Jupiter in our sky. “And what happens when they collide” someone asked. “That wouldn’t happen unless the sun died,” I said and peacefully added, “I mean WHEN it dies.” Suddenly one day there will be a large vacuity where their once was the source of life. And then what happens to life unless we are all torn out of our global comforts into a volcanic inferno of every possible medium, the trees on fire in an instant, I mean one hundred percent of them, the mountain ranges all erupt from the sudden helpful rises in radiation and science and literature and college educations and money all erase themselves into a great inferno with the help of a great imagined being clapping the final overture, into the void of silent darkness forever where the heart of the soul of the ridiculous and social man the personification in a word not meant to be gendered, though it is…. the person with the social knowledge that overpowers their ability to become anything at all… the social creature that no longer has a humanity but only a cursory flight, a flavor taste, of the true humanity capable of the species, the feathers gone long, the haunting growls only cast aside for violent fights in the street that often resort into metallic avenues instead of the classic and neanderthal hand-to-hand combat, the same combat that took down wooly mammoths for food, and as if we are still a hunter-gatherer species and the insolence of the companies that sell the corpses of animals to us, their are no mammoth beefsteaks out there with pricing by weight and the time runs short for all of the existences I’ve addressed because it so happened I decided to time myself for twenty this night unlike other nights. I need $9.50 in beer to be able to record such impressions in a way that makes sense to the fiery and unforgiving light of the morning, coming so quickly to burn me and wrap me in its hundred blankets of warmth. I will wake slow because the arms of the morning light are so damn comforting.

caffeinated pre-sleep

insomnia inspired by the desire to taste something caffeinated – my first choice was a little refrigerated coffee but I was strangely observed by the cashier and went for the rambunctious antidote of sleep that is a guarine-taurine-caffeine clusterfuck energy drink, with the heart palpitations as labelled on the side for the surefire sign you are “feeling it.” Continue reading