I'm being completely honest with myself, and with you; I realize that this is utterly stupid and awful, and I hate that my brain keeps making these leaps without my permission. I don't blame you if you think less of me after reading this, because I've been thinking less of me because of this myself:
Two things, related:
1. I work in a converted converence room, with 3 other guys. 2 of the guys are from India. Their English is often quite difficult to understand, and I usually have to ask them to repeat what they said as I usually miss it the first time. This isn't a big deal - the 2nd time around I usually get what they're saying. Here's the thing that bugs me though: all day, for the majority of the day, they are talking to each other as they work. And they're talking in some language that I don't understand - one of the 27+ languages spoken in India. And I can't tell you how much it bugs me! I don't know why - maybe it's simply because I don't understand what they're saying, but I just... it bugs me. It bugs me enough that I'll often put in earphones and crank up the tunes to drown out their conversations.
2. I'm totally suspicious of these 2 guys, and 2 other guys they spend a lot of non-working time with while at work. Suspicious how? Al-queda suspicious. Stupid, silly, and so blatently and idiotically racist. I mean, hell - they're Indian, they're not even Pakistani or Iraqi or Saudi or Iranian or Afghani... and I haven't a clue what their political / religious views are about anything. But still... I got these two dudes (who, let's be honest, look like they're from the middle east), talking to each other all day in a language I don't understand; IM'ing Allah-knows-who in characters I can't understand; meeting in the kitchen a few times / day with 2 guys (who, let's be honest, look like they're from the middle east) where they all speak a language that I can't understand - and sometimes even cease their conversations when I walk into the room - and me, the supposedly liberal-minded dude who's still paranoid about terrorism, leaping to conclusions that because of ZERO EVIDENCE AT ALL, they must be plotting something (or getting ready to plot something)... that these low-level contract workers at Microsoft must be involved in some terrorist plot, due to the fact that they talk to each other in their native tongue instead of Enlgish, they work crazy long hours, and they talk with others in languages I can't understand (and, let's be honest, they look like they're from the middle east). AARRGGHH!
I've been struggling with these thoughts for months now. And I keep trying to convince myself that there's nothing to worry about; I keep reminding myself that these thoughts are nothing but baseless fear-based reactions to nothing but seeing darker skin and hearing languages I don't understand. There is no evidence of anything but two people from a foreign country working side-by-side and communicating in a manner that is probably much more efficient for them, that's it, nothing more!
I know this logically, I do. I just can't get the reactionary-side of my brain to find the same conclusion. I do believe intuition can point to things that logic won't point to; I just don't believe this is intuition - I'm 99.999% sure this is fear.
I hate that my brain keeps going there. I hate that my brain is making racist leaps and bounds based on no hard facts whatsoever, nothing but "the unkown" and "fear." For years I've been trying to steer my family away from the racist stereotypes they grew up with in the 50's and 60's and carried with them throughout their lives, and I've even had some measure of influence over my stubborn-as-a-bull grandfather in getting him to be at least a little more open-minded about other races.
Yet here I am, making such horribly racist conclusions (which, btw, are pretty far-fetched too!) - and as much as I've tried, I just can't get them to go away! I'm chalking it up to paranoia and fear based on lack-of-information. In other words, I'm chalking this all up to my own stupidity.
I'm working on getting rid of this. And god help me, hopefully by the end of the year these thoughts will have vanished....
26 September, 2007
11 September, 2007
snippet, work in progress
ed. note: I'm not sure where, if anywhere, this is going. I happened upon some old writing describing the color of coffee, and stuff happened from there. I've oddly found that once I put something "out there" that more ideas often come to me. This is the first "snippet" I've published here. I hope to continue the story, once it settles and I find out where it's going. Enjoy the snippet.
The steam poured out of the paper cup full of burnt caramel-colored Sumatra coffee with a touch of half and half. He turned to his left, waved goodbye to an acquaintance sitting near the window whose name he couldn't recall, and walked out the door. The one wooden step outside had decayed so much from time and the elements that it sagged in the middle as he stepped on it. It would eventually break in a very dramatic scene involving hot coffee, a cat, a skateboarder, and a couple carrying two bottles of wine (one red, one white), but he would not be there to witness this, having already gone to Seattle.
The air outside the coffee shop was thick and tobacco scented. As he walked through the hot, sticky, Jersey-summer air, he wondered again why he was drinking coffee barely hotter than the air he was breathing.
He also wondered just how it was he ended up in New Jersey, when but a moment ago he was riding the Sound Transit bus 545 from Seattle to Redmond. It was a bit shocking when he reached into his pocket and found car keys, as in Seattle he did not own a car. But he was not in Seattle anymore. He was in New Jersey (or Jersey, if you're a native). And it was summer. And it was hot.
As he turned the car on, an NPR reporter spoke of a massive hurricane heading straight towards New Orleans. It was August 2005, and this hurricane would spark news stories for years. He had read a story about the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in the Seattle PI not long ago, close to two years after the storm. This, however, was not Seattle 2007; it was New Jersey 2005, and he was not supposed to know this yet. He was not on his way to a job he dreaded at Microsoft, he was on his way to a store in a retail outlet complex, where he worked as a low-level manager, a job he hated.
His mind, still bridging the years, briefly wondered if it was worse to dread something, or to hate something. He didn't settle on an answer. Both seemed bad, yet he found both unavoidable (the jobs and the feelings about them). At Microsoft, he reasoned, they paid him well and didn't make him work weekends. He's not sure how he remembers this, as it hasn't happened yet, so he lightly dismisses it as his own personal fiction. Seattle 2007 was becoming a distant memory; Jersey 2005 was becoming the current reality (if you could call it current, even though part of him knew it was two years ago), the sticky, sweaty summer air driving that reality into his mind.
The steam poured out of the paper cup full of burnt caramel-colored Sumatra coffee with a touch of half and half. He turned to his left, waved goodbye to an acquaintance sitting near the window whose name he couldn't recall, and walked out the door. The one wooden step outside had decayed so much from time and the elements that it sagged in the middle as he stepped on it. It would eventually break in a very dramatic scene involving hot coffee, a cat, a skateboarder, and a couple carrying two bottles of wine (one red, one white), but he would not be there to witness this, having already gone to Seattle.
The air outside the coffee shop was thick and tobacco scented. As he walked through the hot, sticky, Jersey-summer air, he wondered again why he was drinking coffee barely hotter than the air he was breathing.
He also wondered just how it was he ended up in New Jersey, when but a moment ago he was riding the Sound Transit bus 545 from Seattle to Redmond. It was a bit shocking when he reached into his pocket and found car keys, as in Seattle he did not own a car. But he was not in Seattle anymore. He was in New Jersey (or Jersey, if you're a native). And it was summer. And it was hot.
As he turned the car on, an NPR reporter spoke of a massive hurricane heading straight towards New Orleans. It was August 2005, and this hurricane would spark news stories for years. He had read a story about the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in the Seattle PI not long ago, close to two years after the storm. This, however, was not Seattle 2007; it was New Jersey 2005, and he was not supposed to know this yet. He was not on his way to a job he dreaded at Microsoft, he was on his way to a store in a retail outlet complex, where he worked as a low-level manager, a job he hated.
His mind, still bridging the years, briefly wondered if it was worse to dread something, or to hate something. He didn't settle on an answer. Both seemed bad, yet he found both unavoidable (the jobs and the feelings about them). At Microsoft, he reasoned, they paid him well and didn't make him work weekends. He's not sure how he remembers this, as it hasn't happened yet, so he lightly dismisses it as his own personal fiction. Seattle 2007 was becoming a distant memory; Jersey 2005 was becoming the current reality (if you could call it current, even though part of him knew it was two years ago), the sticky, sweaty summer air driving that reality into his mind.
02 September, 2007
100 Things, part II: 14-26
14. I love both Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond. I would go see either of them in concert in a heartbeat (and may be planning a Vegas jaunt to coincide with a Barry concert there)
15. I know all the words to American Pie (the song, not the movie)
16. While I saw The Grateful Dead about 18 times, there was one year where I saw God Street Wine over 25 times.
17. I love music, but can't stand rap, heavy metal, or that new-fangled pop music they call "country"
18. I can still speak a teeny amount of Thai
19. I once wrote a letter to the head of a Buddhist monastery in Thailand, asking what I needed to do to join their group (all the monks were foreigners at this particular monastery)
20. I sleep on a water pillow
21. While I typically drink my (drip) coffee with just a touch of cream, I wouldn't THINK about drinking 100% Kona coffee any other way but BLACK.
22. The first time I visit a Thai restaurant I will always order the Phad Thai - it's a good benchmark to see how good / authentic / Americanized their dishes are.
23. I've been a vegetarian for 12 years.
24. I've had my looks compared to Johnny Depp numerous times (though now without the chin/shoulder length hair the comparisons may stop)
25. After clipping my nails, I always use an emmory board to smooth out the sharp edges
26. The last time I took a typing speed test, I scored above 90 words per minute.
15. I know all the words to American Pie (the song, not the movie)
16. While I saw The Grateful Dead about 18 times, there was one year where I saw God Street Wine over 25 times.
17. I love music, but can't stand rap, heavy metal, or that new-fangled pop music they call "country"
18. I can still speak a teeny amount of Thai
19. I once wrote a letter to the head of a Buddhist monastery in Thailand, asking what I needed to do to join their group (all the monks were foreigners at this particular monastery)
20. I sleep on a water pillow
21. While I typically drink my (drip) coffee with just a touch of cream, I wouldn't THINK about drinking 100% Kona coffee any other way but BLACK.
22. The first time I visit a Thai restaurant I will always order the Phad Thai - it's a good benchmark to see how good / authentic / Americanized their dishes are.
23. I've been a vegetarian for 12 years.
24. I've had my looks compared to Johnny Depp numerous times (though now without the chin/shoulder length hair the comparisons may stop)
25. After clipping my nails, I always use an emmory board to smooth out the sharp edges
26. The last time I took a typing speed test, I scored above 90 words per minute.
100 things you may not know about me (part I)
In lieu of not having anything interesting to write, I thought perhaps I'd entertain you, dear readers, with a list of oddities about myself you may not know. Yes, blogging is just a tad self-centered, isn't it?
1. I was the lead singer for a rock band in Thailand, singing 6 nights/week
2. Many people have favorite drinks. I never had one. I'd switch from jack & coke to whiskey sodas to gin & tonic to Margarita to Manhattan to beers & shots to vodka sodas.... just for GOD sake DON'T put fruit in it (unless it's a VO & soda, then there'd better be a WEDGE of lemon - not a "slice," a wedge, thankyouverymuch)
3. I got freestyle Frisbee training from a world-champion freestyler.
4. Though it's a kids book, I have re-read A Wrinkle in Time numerous times in the past 8 years.
5. I have album credit as backup vocalist on a CD from a band whose music was featured on The OC a number of times
6. Though I only saw the first season, I really really really didn't like 24.
7. I do not own a TV.
8. I am right-handed, but until I was in college I could only throw a Frisbee with my left hand.
9. I worked as a bartender weeks after turning 18 (the legal age for serving alcohol in NJ)
10. When I was 3 I was playing "Superman" and banged my lip on my grandmother's coffee table. There is still a scar on both the coffee table and my lip.
11. I feel guilty every time I buy a pair of shoes, or a belt, made of leather.
12. My favorite fruit is the ngok (available all over the place in Thailand during the summer)
13. I'm deathly afraid of tunnels.
I'm tired. That's it for now... next installment tomorrow (or soon)....
1. I was the lead singer for a rock band in Thailand, singing 6 nights/week
2. Many people have favorite drinks. I never had one. I'd switch from jack & coke to whiskey sodas to gin & tonic to Margarita to Manhattan to beers & shots to vodka sodas.... just for GOD sake DON'T put fruit in it (unless it's a VO & soda, then there'd better be a WEDGE of lemon - not a "slice," a wedge, thankyouverymuch)
3. I got freestyle Frisbee training from a world-champion freestyler.
4. Though it's a kids book, I have re-read A Wrinkle in Time numerous times in the past 8 years.
5. I have album credit as backup vocalist on a CD from a band whose music was featured on The OC a number of times
6. Though I only saw the first season, I really really really didn't like 24.
7. I do not own a TV.
8. I am right-handed, but until I was in college I could only throw a Frisbee with my left hand.
9. I worked as a bartender weeks after turning 18 (the legal age for serving alcohol in NJ)
10. When I was 3 I was playing "Superman" and banged my lip on my grandmother's coffee table. There is still a scar on both the coffee table and my lip.
11. I feel guilty every time I buy a pair of shoes, or a belt, made of leather.
12. My favorite fruit is the ngok (available all over the place in Thailand during the summer)
13. I'm deathly afraid of tunnels.
I'm tired. That's it for now... next installment tomorrow (or soon)....
27 August, 2007
ed. note: long-post warning...
I'm feeling awfully "33." And by "33" I mean "49". I'm apparently going through some sort of mid-life something or other. I'm not calling it a crisis by any means: I'm in no panic (yet). Seeing that the mean life expectancy of your average American male is around 71, I'm just about AT "mid-life." I guess it's a phase
This seems to be a good kind of phase - sort of. While it's uncomfortable at times, it's also causing me to reflect on my life and times, and kind of evaluate where I'm at, and where I'd like to be. Problem is, I don't know where I want to be.
Here's the problem I discovered just yesterday, though: my entire life I've been searching for "something," some way to define Who I Am. Something to validate my existence, something to make me feel like there's been some sort of purpose of my being here on this planet...just something.
19: artist
- When I was 19, I came to the conclusion that I was a an artist; mostly a percussionist as I had become wrapped up in spiritual pursuits that revolved around rhythm and drumming (and pot), though writing and theatre were also parts of the puzzle.
21: lighting designer
- When I was 21, I came to the conclusion that I was a lighting designer. I had visions of designing lights for dance concerts, rock bands, and the occasional play that required less-than-typical lighting. I even did lighting work for God Street Wine for a number of shows, which to this day is one of the highlights of my 20's.
Post-college: theatre production artist
- After college, I knew I needed to somehow be involved in the theatre, desperately wanting to be a part of something bigger than myself that caused audiences to have extraordinary experiences. While some of those that worked around me in the production staff were 'techies,' I considered myself an artist, and viewed my responsibilities during rehearsals and performances with real reverence.
Mid-20's: Love
- While working in the theatre, I realized that theatre just isn't enough. I found that the most important thing in the world was love. I found what I thought was the meaning of my life in a wonderful (though odd) relationship with an awesome woman; this wasn't just boyfriend/girlfriend - there was a real, honest-to-the-core soul connection, that was more important than anything. I was ready to drop my life and move to Miami to be with this great woman.
Late 20's: Love & software
- After she broke up with me, I was lost. Until I reconnected with a woman whose path kept on crossing mine - we kept on being drawn back together, and were together on and off since our first date back in 1995. I began to feel like my life had new meaning again, and that I had found the One. During this time I also left the theatre (out of exhaustion, boredom, and a fear of financial insecurity - not in the present, but in the future), and entered the software testing field. I dove into that head-first, and clung to the idea that some of the work I was doing would have a direct impact on anyone in the world who ran Windows XP.
28: LOST
- When I lost myself again into the pits of active alcoholism, that wonderful woman decided to move on for good. Talk about completely lost, alone, and afraid... I had no idea who I was or what my life was about anymore, nor what I wanted life to be. I was SO lost, and needed to not only get sober to try to save my life, but I needed to somehow find a definition of that life and pursue that with everything I had.
29: Entrepreneur
- After being bound by the grips of alcohol for so long, I yearned for a freedom in all areas of my life. So after quitting drinking and getting on the road to recovery from alcoholism, I sought the one freedom that our society seems to dwell upon all too much: I sought financial freedom. Mother Earth House Cleaning was born, and was sure to be my road to riches. I did all the stuff you're supposed to: guerilla-marketing, product tie-ins, reading books, promoting websites, talking to other business owners....
31: Management
- After I closed that business (due to exhaustion and boredom, and that in the 1.5 years I had it it just didn't grow like I had hoped), I went into retail management. I hated it, but thought of it as part of my education into all-things business. After a while, I even envisioned myself staying in that field and working my way up the managerial ladder. Then I fizzled out and simply hated the work.
31: Poker player
- Yes, there was a large chunk of time where I seriously contemplated going after the professional poker world. I'm a good player (you can read my poker blog here), and still today believe if given the right opportunity and a little bit of coaching I could make a success out of this game I so love. I was (and still do) play just about every day, my Vegas trip was won through poker, the tickets for O and Blue Man Group were paid for with poker money.... I was even in negotiations to become sponsored into the professional poker tournament circuit for a year (unfortunately fell through). If there's anything in my life I have a passion for, it's poker. But as far as "meaning"? I dunno... I could see doing the poker thing as a means of helping others (kind of a robin-hood type deal where I win big money and then do good stuff with a lot of it).
Today: ???
And that leads to where I'm at today: while working in retail I was offered a position back in the software field, and back in WA State. I jumped at the opportunity to get back to Seattle, and back to a more financially-suitable profession. But... I'm still searching. Searching for meaning in my life. My job doesn't even add enjoyment let alone meaning; I still feel it hard to really connect with people out in Seattle so friendship isn't even adding "meaning" to my life. I play poker, which I desperately love, yet it's hard to say that adds "meaning" to my life.
So, that's where I'm at: trudging along this path, wondering what I need to do to find this elusive "meaning" I've been searching for my entire life. Whenever I've found it, it's shortly gone; when I've tried to grasp onto something, it's like reaching into a stream and squeezing your hand to try to hold the water.
I'm gonna keep walking, keeping my eyes and ears open, and keep recording whatever seems important or interesting, and perhaps after a while some pattern or something will emerge.
24 August, 2007
Vegas
I had hoped to have an incredibly story to tell once I got back from Vegas. Nothing really came to me yet, though. Vegas is a strange town. It's like walking into one big drug after another, between the free booze, the hookers, the slot machines. It's so easy to numb-out.
A couple images stand out from Vegas for me:
- while I was waiting to go in to see Blue Man Group, I walked around through the Venetian. It's a beautiful hotel / casino, but what stood out for me were the people. They were zombieng away at the slot machines, a glazed mask of hypnosis covering their everyday face. Push the button. Watch the numbers. Listen to the bells. Push the button. See the lights flashing. Push the button. Feed more money. Push the button. Push the button. Push the button. I couldn't tell if they were having fun or not. If that was them having fun, then I wonder what they'll look like when they're in the morgue.
- one night around 3:30am I'm walking back to my hotel after playing poker at Caesar's Palace. As I get to the parking lot I hear "POP POP POP POP!" from across the street. There's no one around me at the time, but I still say out loud "were those gunshots?" And, as silly as it sounds, I continued walking towards my hotel - which also happened to be towards the sound of the gunshots. Seconds later I see a bit of a ruckus in front of the Flamingo, I hear a bunch of police and fire sirens, and within 2 minutes there are about 10 cop cars there, with one cop handcuffing some big bald white dude. I didn't see any bloodied bodies; I saw one guy who was sitting as if his leg was injured - maybe he got popped in the leg. I crossed the street, away from the action, and overhear this couple saying "I'm from LA, I've heard gunshots, and yea those were definitely gunshots."
I've got a story idea that's percolating, set in Vegas, but it's far from fleshed out. It may be a much longer one than my shorties of late.
A couple images stand out from Vegas for me:
- while I was waiting to go in to see Blue Man Group, I walked around through the Venetian. It's a beautiful hotel / casino, but what stood out for me were the people. They were zombieng away at the slot machines, a glazed mask of hypnosis covering their everyday face. Push the button. Watch the numbers. Listen to the bells. Push the button. See the lights flashing. Push the button. Feed more money. Push the button. Push the button. Push the button. I couldn't tell if they were having fun or not. If that was them having fun, then I wonder what they'll look like when they're in the morgue.
- one night around 3:30am I'm walking back to my hotel after playing poker at Caesar's Palace. As I get to the parking lot I hear "POP POP POP POP!" from across the street. There's no one around me at the time, but I still say out loud "were those gunshots?" And, as silly as it sounds, I continued walking towards my hotel - which also happened to be towards the sound of the gunshots. Seconds later I see a bit of a ruckus in front of the Flamingo, I hear a bunch of police and fire sirens, and within 2 minutes there are about 10 cop cars there, with one cop handcuffing some big bald white dude. I didn't see any bloodied bodies; I saw one guy who was sitting as if his leg was injured - maybe he got popped in the leg. I crossed the street, away from the action, and overhear this couple saying "I'm from LA, I've heard gunshots, and yea those were definitely gunshots."
I've got a story idea that's percolating, set in Vegas, but it's far from fleshed out. It may be a much longer one than my shorties of late.
09 August, 2007
insomnia
I haven't gotten more than 4 hours of sleep since Friday night, when I slept barely 6 hours. I go through this every few months, when for some unknown reason my body decides it doesn't really need sleep, and does whatever it can to prevent me from getting some. Or maybe it's my mind doing it, I don't really know.
What I do know, is this: a) I'm exhausted, and b) I cannot get to sleep for the life of me.
Today I actually started getting physical symptoms of extreme stress/fatigue: my heart keeps feeling like it's going to jump out of my chest, it's beating so hard. Not fast, I counted and my pulse was right on, but it's just beating harder than normal. I actually looked up the number of a doctor to see about getting an appointment earlier today because this heart-thing was worrying me a bit. But then I read about insomnia and one of the "side effects" of not sleeping is this heart-stuff that I've been having (also felt like I was having trouble catching my breath at times, also part of this heart-beating-abnormally-thing).
Basically, my body is saying "Hey! I'm stressing out here!" It's my body, knowing that it hasn't slept much, doing what it needs to to make sure I'm still alert during the day (part of our fight-or-flight instincts).
I wish I could just sleep.
What I do know, is this: a) I'm exhausted, and b) I cannot get to sleep for the life of me.
Today I actually started getting physical symptoms of extreme stress/fatigue: my heart keeps feeling like it's going to jump out of my chest, it's beating so hard. Not fast, I counted and my pulse was right on, but it's just beating harder than normal. I actually looked up the number of a doctor to see about getting an appointment earlier today because this heart-thing was worrying me a bit. But then I read about insomnia and one of the "side effects" of not sleeping is this heart-stuff that I've been having (also felt like I was having trouble catching my breath at times, also part of this heart-beating-abnormally-thing).
Basically, my body is saying "Hey! I'm stressing out here!" It's my body, knowing that it hasn't slept much, doing what it needs to to make sure I'm still alert during the day (part of our fight-or-flight instincts).
I wish I could just sleep.
A great song
I've had a song caught in my head all day:
Excellent song, called It Ain't Good by Alex Radus. Go buy his new CD, it rocks.
More important to me, though, is why is this particular song in my head? Yea, I've loved the song since the first time I heard it last year; and it's got a great sound, catch in the good-way, and just feels real. But... I don't know; I can understand when like a Beach Boys song gets stuck and won't go away, but a singer-songwriter tune?
Maybe it's because I haven't slept in like days.
I walked into a conversation, I walked into a minefield
And underneath my feet were hair triggers, hair triggers
I danced from foot to foot, and honey we danced cheek to cheek
And all you told me was to move quicker, move quicker
I know the best is over
I know the worst has come and gone
It's been colder
And further till the dawn
I don't like it either
But it's the best, it's the best, it's the best I can do
It ain't good, it ain't good, it ain't good enough for you.
Excellent song, called It Ain't Good by Alex Radus. Go buy his new CD, it rocks.
More important to me, though, is why is this particular song in my head? Yea, I've loved the song since the first time I heard it last year; and it's got a great sound, catch in the good-way, and just feels real. But... I don't know; I can understand when like a Beach Boys song gets stuck and won't go away, but a singer-songwriter tune?
Maybe it's because I haven't slept in like days.
03 August, 2007
portriat of the night
I saw a shooting star tonight. I watched it fly right through the Big Dipper.
I only had to walk four blocks to get back to the bus stop, and it was a very calm, silent walk. The old, full trees, with the street lights above, dotted the sidewalks with dark pits of black shadows. I couldn't bring myself to walk through them, so I walked down the middle of the street, the only spot that was consistently lit.
I got to the bus stop, and checked the schedule. The next bus wasn't due for another 20 minutes. I thought about walking to the next stop, but decided I'd had enough walking in strange neighborhoods at night through dark shadows, so I would wait.
The house on the corner had a sprinkler going. With only the occasional car driving by, the ratcheting tick-tick-tick of the sprinkler took center stage. The water made a thin, sharp sound as it slapped the side of the brick house. I wondered why they didn't adjust it so it didn't hit the house.
Just up the block, I could make out the figure of a man walking. He looked to be around my age, and was walking very slowly. He was stopping every few steps and doing something with his hands. It wasn't until he was almost at the corner across from me that I saw what he was doing: he was eating a pint of ice cream. As he got down to the bottom of the container, he had to keep stopping as he tilted the container up in a vain attempt to get his spoon all the way down. It must have been melting by now, as the last few bites he took he had the container up to his mouth like it was a glass, using the spoon in his left hand to push the remainder of the ice cream into his mouth. He must be left-handed.
The sprinkler had stopped by then. I never saw anyone come out of the house, so it must have been on a timer. When the man was done with his ice cream, he placed the spoon in the container, and then very carefully balanced the empty container on a rock at the corner of the yard. He turned, wiped his hands on his shirt, and staggered up the hill towards who knows where. After about 20 yards he stopped under a street light, and almost fell over as he tilted his right wrist to see his watch. It's funny that as he was eating the ice cream he didn't seem to stagger at all, but when it was gone it was obvious he was rather drunk.
As he passed a driveway, I saw something move just beyond the shadow. At first I thought maybe I had imagined it, but it moved again so I knew something was there. I couldn't tell whether it was a cat, or a raccoon, but I eventually saw a cat nose out of the dark around the fence, and take off up the street.
After that, I looked up in the sky, right at the Big Dipper looming low in the summer sky. Only a second or two after I looked up, I saw a streak of light fly from the far eastern sky, directly towards the bowl of the Dipper, and flew right through it. It was so odd, as I had been standing there for about ten minutes and had not once looked towards the sky. Yet I looked up just in time to see a very large, very bright shooting star, almost as if it had been waiting all night for me to look up.
I only had to walk four blocks to get back to the bus stop, and it was a very calm, silent walk. The old, full trees, with the street lights above, dotted the sidewalks with dark pits of black shadows. I couldn't bring myself to walk through them, so I walked down the middle of the street, the only spot that was consistently lit.
I got to the bus stop, and checked the schedule. The next bus wasn't due for another 20 minutes. I thought about walking to the next stop, but decided I'd had enough walking in strange neighborhoods at night through dark shadows, so I would wait.
The house on the corner had a sprinkler going. With only the occasional car driving by, the ratcheting tick-tick-tick of the sprinkler took center stage. The water made a thin, sharp sound as it slapped the side of the brick house. I wondered why they didn't adjust it so it didn't hit the house.
Just up the block, I could make out the figure of a man walking. He looked to be around my age, and was walking very slowly. He was stopping every few steps and doing something with his hands. It wasn't until he was almost at the corner across from me that I saw what he was doing: he was eating a pint of ice cream. As he got down to the bottom of the container, he had to keep stopping as he tilted the container up in a vain attempt to get his spoon all the way down. It must have been melting by now, as the last few bites he took he had the container up to his mouth like it was a glass, using the spoon in his left hand to push the remainder of the ice cream into his mouth. He must be left-handed.
The sprinkler had stopped by then. I never saw anyone come out of the house, so it must have been on a timer. When the man was done with his ice cream, he placed the spoon in the container, and then very carefully balanced the empty container on a rock at the corner of the yard. He turned, wiped his hands on his shirt, and staggered up the hill towards who knows where. After about 20 yards he stopped under a street light, and almost fell over as he tilted his right wrist to see his watch. It's funny that as he was eating the ice cream he didn't seem to stagger at all, but when it was gone it was obvious he was rather drunk.
As he passed a driveway, I saw something move just beyond the shadow. At first I thought maybe I had imagined it, but it moved again so I knew something was there. I couldn't tell whether it was a cat, or a raccoon, but I eventually saw a cat nose out of the dark around the fence, and take off up the street.
After that, I looked up in the sky, right at the Big Dipper looming low in the summer sky. Only a second or two after I looked up, I saw a streak of light fly from the far eastern sky, directly towards the bowl of the Dipper, and flew right through it. It was so odd, as I had been standing there for about ten minutes and had not once looked towards the sky. Yet I looked up just in time to see a very large, very bright shooting star, almost as if it had been waiting all night for me to look up.
4 years ago
Four years ago today, I had my last taste of alcohol. It was a 16 ounce can of Budweiser, bought from the corner store with nickels, dimes, and pennies (no quarters – I had exhausted my supply of quarters the previous day). I drank it the morning my dad was flying out to Seattle to help me pack my life up and come back to New Jersey.
I had been drinking non-stop for about four months, and quite heavily for months leading up to this, minus two short breaks while I was in detox ( I drank shortly after leaving both of them – one within a couple weeks and the last one within 6 hours). I’m still not sure how I was able to keep my job without arousing any suspicions (maybe I did, I don’t know). I smoked enough cigarettes, I remember thinking, that the smell of smoke would probably mask any other scents (like the alcohol that was pouring out of me, or the pot that I always had on me).
One of the oddest things I did was faked a suicide attempt. I had gone to a detox, and needed an excuse for work. I remember phoning my HR person and telling her I was in the hospital and would be for a few days, and that I couldn’t explain any more (I didn’t have a lie ready, so I needed some time to come up with one; also I figured I could leave it at that and they wouldn’t pry into my private life – which they didn’t, God bless them). The day I got out was actually the day before my last day of work, so I would have to go in to tie up some loose ends, and say some goodbyes.
That night, after stopping at a few bars for a few drinks, I went to the Walgreens and got some gauze and medical tape. The next morning, when it came time to get ready for work, I placed a large rectangle of gauze long-way from my wrist to about halfway up my forearm, and gave it a good taping. All of my workmates knew I was in the hospital, but that’s all they knew. And I hoped when they saw the bandage that they wouldn’t ask any questions. Yes, I was trying to make it look like I had slit my wrist so that I could avoid answering questions about my detox stay. Brilliant, dude, just brilliant.
It’s amazing how far I was willing to go out of my way to avoid the humiliation that I thought would come from admitting an alcohol problem. Somehow, suicide just seemed like it would somehow paint me in a much better light than drinking. I’ve always had this fantasy of myself as some “tortured artist” or something, and this suicide-act fit right into the fantasy world I had for how I wanted others to see me. If they asked, I had an answer prepared: “it was an accident.” And that’s it.
I remember that last day at work, and saying goodbye to people, and telling at least four people “it was an accident,” but most of all, I remember how much I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there so I could start drinking. I was going to be unemployed for about 3 months, collecting unemployment checks, and spending most of my time doing what I would rather be doing more than anything in the world: drinking.
That lasted for not even three weeks, when my father decided he was going to fly to Seattle to bring me back to New Jersey before I got killed. And during those three weeks, I spent every waking hour drunk, or hung over planning my next drink, or unconscious somewhere. It was during those three weeks that I cracked my rib (don’t ask how, because I honestly don’t remember), I fell into some bushes and cut up my face and my legs, I lost my bicycle (though it may have been stolen, but I’m pretty sure I just lost it)… I was doing all of this, I swore to myself, because I was so upset and depressed that She broke up with me – this wonderful woman who I was ready to move to Maine to be with, but she broke up with me while I was in detox.
At the time, I guess I needed an excuse.
I had been drinking non-stop for about four months, and quite heavily for months leading up to this, minus two short breaks while I was in detox ( I drank shortly after leaving both of them – one within a couple weeks and the last one within 6 hours). I’m still not sure how I was able to keep my job without arousing any suspicions (maybe I did, I don’t know). I smoked enough cigarettes, I remember thinking, that the smell of smoke would probably mask any other scents (like the alcohol that was pouring out of me, or the pot that I always had on me).
One of the oddest things I did was faked a suicide attempt. I had gone to a detox, and needed an excuse for work. I remember phoning my HR person and telling her I was in the hospital and would be for a few days, and that I couldn’t explain any more (I didn’t have a lie ready, so I needed some time to come up with one; also I figured I could leave it at that and they wouldn’t pry into my private life – which they didn’t, God bless them). The day I got out was actually the day before my last day of work, so I would have to go in to tie up some loose ends, and say some goodbyes.
That night, after stopping at a few bars for a few drinks, I went to the Walgreens and got some gauze and medical tape. The next morning, when it came time to get ready for work, I placed a large rectangle of gauze long-way from my wrist to about halfway up my forearm, and gave it a good taping. All of my workmates knew I was in the hospital, but that’s all they knew. And I hoped when they saw the bandage that they wouldn’t ask any questions. Yes, I was trying to make it look like I had slit my wrist so that I could avoid answering questions about my detox stay. Brilliant, dude, just brilliant.
It’s amazing how far I was willing to go out of my way to avoid the humiliation that I thought would come from admitting an alcohol problem. Somehow, suicide just seemed like it would somehow paint me in a much better light than drinking. I’ve always had this fantasy of myself as some “tortured artist” or something, and this suicide-act fit right into the fantasy world I had for how I wanted others to see me. If they asked, I had an answer prepared: “it was an accident.” And that’s it.
I remember that last day at work, and saying goodbye to people, and telling at least four people “it was an accident,” but most of all, I remember how much I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there so I could start drinking. I was going to be unemployed for about 3 months, collecting unemployment checks, and spending most of my time doing what I would rather be doing more than anything in the world: drinking.
That lasted for not even three weeks, when my father decided he was going to fly to Seattle to bring me back to New Jersey before I got killed. And during those three weeks, I spent every waking hour drunk, or hung over planning my next drink, or unconscious somewhere. It was during those three weeks that I cracked my rib (don’t ask how, because I honestly don’t remember), I fell into some bushes and cut up my face and my legs, I lost my bicycle (though it may have been stolen, but I’m pretty sure I just lost it)… I was doing all of this, I swore to myself, because I was so upset and depressed that She broke up with me – this wonderful woman who I was ready to move to Maine to be with, but she broke up with me while I was in detox.
At the time, I guess I needed an excuse.
31 July, 2007
busride: snapshot
I can't believe he's actually reading that, I said to myself.
A tall man with a scraggly, dark gray beard, his features made me believe he's one of the many Native Americans who live in Seattle. Besides the shape of his face, he had a couple of silver and beaded bracelets, earrings, and necklaces. I thought I noticed an embroidered pattern on the back of his leather vest, but I can't be sure. He actually reminded me of a regular at a bar I used to frequent, who would have 10 or 12 pints of Bud and then say he was going home to get drunk.
I watched him get on the bus and sit down right in front of me. I watched as, with only a little difficulty, he steadied his crutches against the pole in front of him, while holding a container of granola in his left hand. Once he steadied the crutches, he slipped his backpack off and onto the seat next to him.
Some may consider it impolite to stare at a man on crutches as he hobbles onto the bus. I don't, only because I hide my eyes comfortably behind my mirrored shades, confident no one knows where I'm actually looking.
Once situated, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a book: The Flame and the Flower, by Kathleen Woodiwiss. The cover is pink, and has a picture of a very muscular man with his shirt half off, about to kiss a dark haired woman, wind blowing their hair and billowing their clothing. Not only is this a romance novel, The Flame and the Flower is typically credited for being thee romance novel, setting the trend for paperback romances. Harlequin may hold the current distinction, but back in the 70's it was Avon who pushed the trashy paperback tales of lust and love into drugstores everywhere.
I drifted off a bit, hypnotized by the rhythms of the bus and crunching granola.
What's this dude reading a trashy romance novel for, I wondered, all-too-cognizant of the atrocious grammar of my thought-life. I did admire him, though; not for his taste in literature, but for the fact that he flaunted his atypical reading choice for the entire world to see. "Yea, that's right," this simple act says, "I'm a guy, I ain't gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), and I read romance novels because I like them."
Something hits my ankle and brings me back to reality. "Here you go," I say, as I hand the guy the half-empty water bottle that fell out of his backpack. He starts digging around in his bag for something, and not two seconds after I hand him the bottle, he lifts the pack up just enough so the container of granola falls out, opens, and spills all over the seats and the floor.
I'm torn: I'm typically more than happy to help someone out if they drop something, but this… I don't know. What do you do, offer to scoop handfuls of granola off the worn vinyl seats? What do you do with it after you pick it up? He already closed the container to keep the rest of the granola safe. The guy is on crutches, too, which makes me even more sympathetic. I mean – if he had dropped a bottle of medicine, or a folder of papers, or a bag of apples, I'd have no problem helping him gather it up. Somehow, granola is in a different category. There are about five of us in the front of the bus who watched this happen, and we're all doing our best to pretend we didn't see anything.
He turns and looks at the girl sitting next to me, and asks, "How long 'till we get to downtown?"
"We actually just came from downtown," she says.
"Oh. Where does this one go?"
"This goes through the U-District and up towards Lake City. If you wanna get downtown you should get off at the next stop, cross the street and catch one of those buses." She says this in such a kind, helpful way. I'm glad he didn't ask me, because I was still stuck on the romance novel and how this guy didn't know we weren't headed downtown, that I probably would have sounded condescending.
As he puts on his backpack, he twists in the side-facing seat so that he's almost facing front. His left arm misses the strap a couple times, but he gets it on the fourth try. As he's grabbing his crutches with his right arm, his left hand is pushing the granola in between the cracks of the seat, like a child trying to hide the cookie crumbs he spilled all over the sofa.
I watch him hop off the bus and shuffle towards the crosswalk. I turned towards the girl sitting next to me and ask, "Didn't he get on when we were downtown?"
"Yea," she says, "I was kinda confused by that too."
A tall man with a scraggly, dark gray beard, his features made me believe he's one of the many Native Americans who live in Seattle. Besides the shape of his face, he had a couple of silver and beaded bracelets, earrings, and necklaces. I thought I noticed an embroidered pattern on the back of his leather vest, but I can't be sure. He actually reminded me of a regular at a bar I used to frequent, who would have 10 or 12 pints of Bud and then say he was going home to get drunk.
I watched him get on the bus and sit down right in front of me. I watched as, with only a little difficulty, he steadied his crutches against the pole in front of him, while holding a container of granola in his left hand. Once he steadied the crutches, he slipped his backpack off and onto the seat next to him.
Some may consider it impolite to stare at a man on crutches as he hobbles onto the bus. I don't, only because I hide my eyes comfortably behind my mirrored shades, confident no one knows where I'm actually looking.
Once situated, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a book: The Flame and the Flower, by Kathleen Woodiwiss. The cover is pink, and has a picture of a very muscular man with his shirt half off, about to kiss a dark haired woman, wind blowing their hair and billowing their clothing. Not only is this a romance novel, The Flame and the Flower is typically credited for being thee romance novel, setting the trend for paperback romances. Harlequin may hold the current distinction, but back in the 70's it was Avon who pushed the trashy paperback tales of lust and love into drugstores everywhere.
I drifted off a bit, hypnotized by the rhythms of the bus and crunching granola.
What's this dude reading a trashy romance novel for, I wondered, all-too-cognizant of the atrocious grammar of my thought-life. I did admire him, though; not for his taste in literature, but for the fact that he flaunted his atypical reading choice for the entire world to see. "Yea, that's right," this simple act says, "I'm a guy, I ain't gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), and I read romance novels because I like them."
Something hits my ankle and brings me back to reality. "Here you go," I say, as I hand the guy the half-empty water bottle that fell out of his backpack. He starts digging around in his bag for something, and not two seconds after I hand him the bottle, he lifts the pack up just enough so the container of granola falls out, opens, and spills all over the seats and the floor.
I'm torn: I'm typically more than happy to help someone out if they drop something, but this… I don't know. What do you do, offer to scoop handfuls of granola off the worn vinyl seats? What do you do with it after you pick it up? He already closed the container to keep the rest of the granola safe. The guy is on crutches, too, which makes me even more sympathetic. I mean – if he had dropped a bottle of medicine, or a folder of papers, or a bag of apples, I'd have no problem helping him gather it up. Somehow, granola is in a different category. There are about five of us in the front of the bus who watched this happen, and we're all doing our best to pretend we didn't see anything.
He turns and looks at the girl sitting next to me, and asks, "How long 'till we get to downtown?"
"We actually just came from downtown," she says.
"Oh. Where does this one go?"
"This goes through the U-District and up towards Lake City. If you wanna get downtown you should get off at the next stop, cross the street and catch one of those buses." She says this in such a kind, helpful way. I'm glad he didn't ask me, because I was still stuck on the romance novel and how this guy didn't know we weren't headed downtown, that I probably would have sounded condescending.
As he puts on his backpack, he twists in the side-facing seat so that he's almost facing front. His left arm misses the strap a couple times, but he gets it on the fourth try. As he's grabbing his crutches with his right arm, his left hand is pushing the granola in between the cracks of the seat, like a child trying to hide the cookie crumbs he spilled all over the sofa.
I watch him hop off the bus and shuffle towards the crosswalk. I turned towards the girl sitting next to me and ask, "Didn't he get on when we were downtown?"
"Yea," she says, "I was kinda confused by that too."
26 July, 2007
The Commute
I got to the bus stop earlier than usual. I normally work from home a bit in the morning, and then take a later bus to work. I hate dealing with crowded buses and traffic jams on 520. This morning, though, I was up early and decided to just head in.
As I expected, the bus was crowded. I felt lucky to find a seat in the back row, though, where we sat leg-to-leg, 5 across. Listening to NPR on my sanDisk, I was riding in my own little world, looking out at the birds on Lake Washington, oblivious to those around me. Commuting is weird like that: 100 people on a bus, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, each in a little bubble of existence; earbuds firmly in place, nose buried in a book, traveling in their own customized version of Life.
Then, I see her.
She was sitting in the seat just behind the rear door, the seat with the plexiglass in front of it that shields the rider from the wind and rain that invariably seems to leak through the cracks in the door. The plexiglass also acts as a mirror, if something dark is in front of it, like someone wearing a brown jacket. Like today. Soft, rounded cheeks, eyes darting back and forth as they stared out the window, lips curling every now and then into a gentle smile. I wondered what she was smiling about. She's one of the few with no earbuds, no book open; she's riding along, taking in life, or caught up in her daydreams or memories. Apparently she doesn't need outside assistance to customize her commute.
"Wow," I thought almost out loud, "she's gorgeous." I wonder why I had not seen her before. Sure, there are lots of commuters, but Seattle is a small enough city that you start recognizing people around town. Especially on the commute to the Eastside, and especially attractive women. I know I hadn't seen her before, but I was immediately captivated. More so than I usually am when my gaze can't seem to wander away from a gorgeous woman. There's something about her, something ethereal and mysterious, that though I can't put my finger on it; it's there, it's visceral, and it's god damned enthralling!
I stared for another few minutes. I was fascinated. Her expressions kept changing; she's got something major going through her mind. I want in. All of the sudden, she stared forward, into the plexiglass mirror, and looked right at me. Jolts of electricity shot through my heart and my head. I looked away, but couldn't help but look back from time to time throughout the rest of the commute. And she seemed to do the same thing. Was she catching me looking at her, wondering who that freak in the back of the bus is? Or was she feeling excited and nervous like me, thinking that I was catching her staring at me?
When the bus stopped, the long line of Microsofties filed out the front of the bus. She got off ahead of me, and walked the opposite direction I was going. When I got off, I moved out of the way of others exiting, leaned against the bus shelter, and just gazed towards her. When she looked over her shoulder, I waved and gave a little "hello" smile. She grinned, and walked back towards me.
"What's the deal?" she said as she came up to me. "Sorry, I know this stuff only happens in Hollywood, but your eyes sent sparks through me. I've only met a couple women who have done that to me, and they turned out to be very important in my life."
She smiled, and reached out her hand. "I'm Allison," she said
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