cheat codes i

Kermit sees the look on my face. He interprets it.
“But I wouldn’t worry.”
I lean in. “Why’s that?”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he tells me.
Ask, “What’s that?”
Kermit lowers his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. He stares with red, cloud eyes.
“Most of these things are total bullshit. It’s probably not even real. But people love to imagine.”
I laugh.
“You’re kidding me, Kerm.”
He drops character, intentionally.
“You mean to tell me that you don’t believe these theories?”
Kermit smiles. He straightens the wrinkles in his shirt.
“Nah, but no one else really does, either.”
Study his face. Trace his smile lines with my eyes.
“People want the story,” he says. “The fiction, you know? We crave it, elevate it.”
Kermit, I do not know him. We are not really friends. Don’t forget.
“I guess, I just always thought—“
“What?” the Frog asks. “That I’m cracked?”
“Well.”
“The biggest mistake we make is thinking we know what’s going on inside someone else’s head.”
The song ends. A Modest Mouse song begins.
Nothing new has ever happened.
“We can never know that.”
Take it in. Live with it.
“Sorry, man,” I say.
“Forgiven.” He adjusts himself in the recliner. “You in some kind of trouble?”
“Researching a paper,” I tell him. “You want another beer?”

lyrica ii

Title: "Undefined Recovery"

Artist: Duke (Of Dark Corners)

Album: Plenty Of Country To Go Around

Sitting Shotgun

for the ride

Won’t be caught

until we’ve died

We’ll be singing,

“At least we tried.”

This is how you pass the buck

This is how you pass the buck

Off the hook

they Drop Like Flies

sleep’n dogs tell their lies

Tell them,

“it's a blessing in disguise”

This is how you press your luck

This is how you press your luck

When we Wine and dine

You’re doing just fine

And through the grapevine

your guess is as good as

Mind your manners, wipe your feet

Now give us something good to eat.

On your toes;

out on a limb

Against the current

we all swim

That extra mile

can look grim

This is how you get unstuck

This is how you

get unstuck

Kitty-cornered

on the ropes

 Cross the bridge and

go for broke

Let them in on the joke

This is how you give a fuck

This is how you give a fuck

When we Wine and dine

You’re doing just fine

And through the grapevine

your guess

is as good as

Mind your manners,

take your seat

Now promise you can be discreet.

This is how you

pass the buck

This is how you

press your luck

This is how you

get unstuck

This is how you

give a fuck

This is how

This is how

When we Wine and dine

You’re doing just fine

And through the grapevine

your guess is as good as

Mind your manners, find your feet

Now be sure you can stand the heat.

This is how.

lyrica i

Title: "Three Credit Language Requirement"

Artist: Apathy of the Dinosaur

Album: Battle Is a Waste of Time

You say we’ve got to go

To hell in a handbag.

We’ll see: the puppet show!

They’ll sell you a toe tag.

High on the Hog.

How now and hold your horses.

Sick as a dog.

Allows for your crash courses.

If its not one thing, its another

When you're stealing someone’s thunder.

Give pause

Because

Its all greek to me

You’re barking up the wrong tree             

All Greek to me

Don’t add insult, to injury

Just wait and see

All Greek to me

You say you want to know

How to tell if its jetlag.

And all so apropos:

Your spell Is waving the white flag

Like a lump on a log

Avow to reckon these forces.

You’ll kiss lots of frogs,

Cow-tow and cite your sources

Make no bones about this

There’s a method to the madness

You see

You’ll see

Its All Greek to me

Give them till the count of three                

Just wait and see

Don’t Add insult to injury

Give all for free

Its All Greek to me

Just wait and see

Adding insult to injury

All Greek to me

Till the count of three

Stop barking, its

The Wrong Tree

Just wait and see

Its All Greek to me

retro vi

Imagine a time capsule.

Spring Break, senior year.  

The April night-air slapped me in the face, through the open window. 

Ryan drove.   He drove drunk.

The world was a tunnel of darkness.   Small lights swung by like shooting stars.

I imagined a spaceship instead of Mustang.

Tried to enjoy interstellar travel.

“Is your seat belt on,” he asked, not turning from the road to look.

“It is,” a reflex.

I looked. “It is.”

“Okay.”   He said, “Good”.

Put the scene together.

We’ve both been drinking with Marissa and Darren and Nick and Alicia, under the over pass after the cops broke up Bill’s party.  Jesse was with us.  We dropped him off earlier.  Some one’s party was broken up by the cops earlier.

“Oh, no,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re going to crash.”

I could see it. And it wasn’t as though checking for safety might excuse the inevitable collision.

Ryan laughed, thinking the same thing. Or at least afraid of the possibility.

He said, “No.”

“Okay, I’m all set. In crash position.”   I crossed my arms and legs.

He turned and looked at me in the passenger seat.  “Dude, I’m not going to crash. And that’s fall position, not crash.

Repeat.

“You can crash now.”

Somewhere in my eyes, the peripheral, I saw it.   Our sudden impact with another car, ahead and breaking short. It cut us off, only to jam on the breaks.   The whole thing had been totally inconspicuous, prior.  

I felt my body jerk forward.

Towards disaster.

     This was the first time he crashed that car.   There would be two more accidents before I left for college.   Each one grew progressively worse.  I got it in my head, Ryan was trying to kill himself.

     After that first crash, I told him, “You made us crash with your mind.”

     “Shut up.”

abra i

I've seen people disappear.

Poof.

But unlike what those magician-hacks would have you believe,

they don't usually come back.

Especially if they’ve been cut in half first.

Pretenders: Every last one of them.

seducing the dashboard hula girl i

If everyone is thinking alike, someone is not thinking.

Someone’s not thinking.  

So, let’s try not to over-think this, now.  

It’s so simple.   You’ve seen and heard the how-to guide, time and time again.

So,  what’s the problem?

Try taking a deep breath.

Go ahead.

Hold it in.

Now,

     slowly let it out.

There you go.  

Very good.

Now,

     doesn’t that feel

better?

Here, let’s loosen that blouse button.  

Here, let’s loosen it.  

Try not to be so stiff.   It’ll age you.  

That sweet little face of yours.  

Relax.  

Just be, you know, loosey-goosey.  

No one has to know about this, that is, unless you want them to.  

And then, ask yourself, what’s the worst thing that could happen?

What’s your plan?

Really.  

Where do you see yourself?  

Everyone’s got dreams, you know.  

What do you dream about?   I can make that all come true.  

Don’t you want that?   Oh, of course you do.

Now, just relax.  

Oh, come on.   What are you afraid of?  

Really.  

Think about it.  

Think about

how good you know

it will feel.

And as much as you might want to be elsewhere, the beach maybe, we both know you have to be here.  

So, you can be here and enjoy it.

Don’t you like that?  

The power.  

How it makes you feel.  

And you say crazy like it’s a bad thing.

Try to look at it as selectively motivated and not crazy.

gender politica ii

Try not to

Panic.

The tip of the thinly rolled joint glows the way blood might when caught in just the right amount of moonlight seeping into the room from beyond the open window.   A bath towel is stuffed into the space between the bottom of the room’s door and the carpeted floor.   The darkness in the room is interrupted by a battle between the lunar light and the consuming ember of the joint pressed to someone’s lips.

     “So what do I do?” a shape is asking me in a kind of vague and emptily urgent voice.  

Suddenly, as quickly as the itching in my eyes sweeps over me, I can’t seem to remember how I got here.   It’s like picking up in the middle of a movie, a book, life.   Something has been misplaced, forgotten, lost along the way.   You can feel its absence and a longing for what has been lost, but that emptiness has no name.  

“So what do I do?” a voice that belongs to Christian repeats, passing the joint to the person sitting Indian-style on the carpet beside him.   It’s Jack, who breathes next from the joint and then sparks at the tip with a lighter, inhaling again.

I’m blinking wildly, trying to self-focus my eyes to this thickening darkness.   I’m lost.   “Wait, wait.   Whoa.”   My voice sounds strange and alien coming from my mouth.   “Explain this all to me again,” I say, faking some kind of concern.

“Yeah, do it again,” Jack sighs, finally exhaling a thick plume of smoke.  

I’m wondering if maybe he doesn’t care either.   If maybe no one does, ever has, or ever will.   Jack passes the joint to me and in the lacking light, I burn a finger in the exchange.  

Christian clears his throat and in a low and almost whispered voice, I hear him say, “She’s like, I love you, and then I have to say, I love you, too.”  

Calmly, Jack leans back, pillowing his head with his hands.   “You don’t have to,” he says closing his eyes, perhaps preparing for a nap.  

“Yeah, I do,” Christian shakes Jack with the panic in his voice, “if I don’t want to look like a dick.”

“But you are one,” I feel obligated to inform him.   I take a long hit off the joint, taste the strangest trace of copper, and hand it off to Christian who doesn’t take it, so I give it back to Jack instead.  

What does copper taste like?

“I know,” Christian is almost yelling, “but I don’t want to look like one.   I’ve got to at least appear respectable.”

We all laugh and Jack replies, “Understandable.”

Christian drones on, “And she’s a senior in high school, so she expects me to go to Homecoming, or some shit, with her at the end of the month.”

“But you don’t like her,” I remind him.

“No, I like her,” Christian rubs at his fresh facial stubble in a puzzled manner.   “But at the same time, I mean, I don’t like her that much.   Not enough to dance and, like, be seen in public with her.”

“Isn’t it a little late in the year for Homecoming?” Jack asks the room.   And then to me, “Did I tell you what happened between me and Kathy?”

A flash of anger washes over me suddenly and dissipates just as fast.

“I don’t know,” Christian looks worried.   “Its Homecoming or Prom, Barn-Raising Day or some other shit like that.   You remember high school, there were dances for stupid reasons like every time the groundhog didn’t see its shadow.”

“Alright,” Jack oozes with disdain.   He climbs up to a sitting position, hunches over towards the ground, and starts to give birth to another joint.

A thought comes to me, “And you don’t want to be tied to a long distance relationship like that with someone like…yeah.”   I get off the train at the wrong station.  

I think about Jack and Kathy.   Heard he gets whiskey-dick.   I think it was Sally who told me this.   Pillow talk.   How could Kathy, or anyone with ovaries, be into him.

“Right,” Christian agrees.

“Yeah,” Jack mumbles, licking at a rolling paper, keeping it moist.

“I can’t tell her we need to take a break, because Homecoming is at the end of the month.”   He’s frantic again.   “It’s this month.”

“Wait, what day is today,” Jack asks.

The smoke is thick.   My eyes itch.   I’m blinking again.  

“Wait,” I’m saying, “I’m missing the point.   Why do you have to go?”

Christian is taken back by this.   He has to think.  

“I think I’m her…” he pauses again.   “Boyfriend, so…”

“So end it before that,” Jack says in monotone, not looking at Christian, but instead examining his blunt, and satisfied, he proceeds to spark it.

“Confession,” Christian says and I try not to notice him adjust his crotch.   “I had sex with my ex-girlfriend this weekend.   Okay,” he swallows hard.   “Just wanted to get that out there.”

Pressing the joint to my lips the conversation starts to blur… and voice, noise, and feeling follows.

“I hate the taste of papers.”   Christian.

“You prefer the taste of dicks?”   Jack.

“Glass, you ass.”

“I’m a bastard.”  Christian.

“Bastard: got it.”   Me.

“He wants the novel version.”

“I want the novel version.”

“So I met this girl at a party: the high school girl.  Now… wait before that, my girlfriend cheats on me in June.”

“Let’s give people names,” I insist.  “So I can keep up.”

“I don’t care,” Jack mumbles numbly.   “Whatever.   Keep going.”

“So Christie cheats on me.  Towards the end it wasn’t going so well and at a party, I meet this girl… Samantha, the one in high school.”

“Yeah, high school.  We got it, she’s in high school,” I chew at the inside of my mouth, bored, annoyed.

“Not a big deal.   Me and Christie break up, I went to the beach, and I hooked up with like some people there.   That was fun.”

“Whore,” Jack chortles.

“This isn’t something that happens to me often,” Christian is reminding him.

“I’ve noticed,” I confirm.

“So I meet this girl again.”

“The high school one?”

Laughter.

“The high school one, Samantha, at a party.   We hook up there.”

“Why don’t we have parties like that here?”

“We do, you’re just too drunk to remember,” I say.

“We hook up. I leave.   But I end up thinking that I really like this girl.”

“The high school girl?” Jack asks.

“Yeah, Samantha,” Christian’s nodding.

“Try to keep up, please,” I groan, but not really.   “High school.”

“So while I was at the beach hooking up with Samantha, Christie breaks into my house.”

“She broke into your house?”

“Leaves everything I ever gave her on my bed.”

“That was nice of her, I mean, in a kind of stalker-ish way.”

“That’s a song, right there.”

“In my mind, it’s a good idea to forget about Christie and start a thing with Samantha.   She’d be waiting for me back at home, for when I came back from school.  Like a little puppy.   Waiting by the door.”

“Yeah.   Puppy.   Got it.”  

My high is drifting.   I feel tense.   Grip on the surroundings loosens.   My heart races.

“Then like the first week here, I get with Sally.”

“Oh yes.  The slut.   How could I forget?” Jack speaks.

“I feel bad,” Christian laments.

“But deep down, you don’t give a shit,” I’m telling him.

“Bingo.   So I go back home, surprised Samantha for her birthday, but I’m not getting any.   And, you know, that’s not right, especially when I gave and she didn’t.”

“Oh.”   The word slips from my mouth with surprise.

“That’s fucked up.   You gave?” Jack suddenly seems interested.

“It was her birthday.   I gave.   She didn’t.   You know, I don’t like that.” Christian is getting a little worked up, maybe we all are.

“I would have flipped out,” Jack stews.

“It was her birthday, though,” I remind him.

“You know what?” Christian asks, ready to answer himself.

“How do you not flip out?” Jack’s interrupting.

“So earlier today…” he continues the story.

“This morning,” I correct, gnashing my teeth at the mindless drawl.   Hope there’s more pot. 

There isn’t.

“Right.   Christie and I get together again and it was good.   Oh, boy was it good.   I fucked my ex-girlfriend and it was good.   No, it was great.   This one, she’s not the best looking ever and that’s fine, but damn does she know how to fuck.   And High School doesn’t put out.”

“Should be laws, man,” Jack mutters, disgusted.

“I know.   What a bitch.  Selfish, little bitch,” I don’t think it’s me saying this, but it might be.

“But Christie says she loves me and I believe her.   In fact, I may actually mean it when I say I love her.   But she wants me to choose and gave me an ultimatum.   The sex was so good.   She wanted it so bad.   I fucking flung her around.”

The smokes starting to clear and the weed’s run out.   The calm I was once feeling has evaporated fast.   Complete.   My annoyance amplifies tremendously.

“So what do I do?” Christian asks for the fourth, or maybe fifth, time. “so what do I do?”

He nudges me.

“Fuck you,” I’m braking.   “Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, you’ve got too many girls in your sad fucking life.   You’re boning your ex, random whores here, and you‘re complaining cause some chick, who’s hundreds of miles away, is too fucking nervous to put out.   Jesus fucking Christ!”

My fists are clenched tight and I can hear my finger knuckles crackle and pop.   The muscles in my arms bulge, arteries big and almost pulsing, sleeves of my t-shirt about to tear.  

“I got my own problems,” I fume.   “I don’t need your shit.”

Stand and head for the door.

The opened door casts foreign light onto the Christian and Jack’s faces.   Smoke rushes out, into the hall.   Their eyes are red and wide, staring in confused awe.   The former can’t stop rubbing his face and the latter fingers the carpet nervously.  

“Jeez, man,” one of them says.   “What’s the matter?”

“Yeah,” starts the other, “What’s your problem?   What’s wrong, man?”

“You want to know what to do?” I’m fuming, red-faced.   “Cut them both loose and then you can go and fuck yourself!”

When the door closes with a wet snap, I stop and lean, or more like collapse, against a wall in the hallway.   No one rushes out to check or chase after me.   They laugh behind the door.   I think I’m shaking.   I tell myself it’s the drugs, a bad blend or something.   Reefer madness.  I laugh, too.  There’s this sudden realization, or more likely a lack of realization.  

What is the matter?

What is your problem?

Panic.

familial i

It’s eight in the morning on a Saturday.   The phone rattles and chimes, startling me from my alcohol induced slumber.   My eyes open one at a time.   They sting with thirst, leaving everything blurry before me.  

     The curtains are drawn, so the room is still dark.   The phone rings again.   I reach out from bed and snatch it from the spot where it rests on the floor.

     I stare at the receiver, still not turning it on yet.   Opening and closing my mouth a few times, I chew at nothing trying to dissipate a strange taste from within.   The phone rings again.

     I answer it.

     Cradling it between my head and shoulder, still in bed, I say, “What?”   My voice crawls up out of my throat like a growl.  

     A woman’s on the other end.  

“It’s your mother,” she says.   “Did I wake you?”

I ignore her question because in my mind the answer should have been obvious. 

“What is it, Mom?” I ask in audible disgust.

     “Listen,” her voice tingles with timid traces in the ear-piece of the phone.  

My head hurts.  

I look around the room in the darkness, trying to allow my eyes a chance to adjust. 

  I try to get out of bed but something is around my waist, weighing me down.   

My mother is still talking as I reach over and feel around the bed.

“I’m terribly sorry I woke you, but I need you to do something for me,” she continues.

I interrupt before she can go any further.  

“Hang on a second, Ma,” I mutter in confusion, then put the phone on hold.  

Still pinned, I tear the blanket up from my bed in a furious whip.  

Next to me someone lays sleeping.  

I tell myself that I have to stop waking up like this.  

I poke the body.  

“Hey.   Hey.   Who are you?”  

A blue-eyed, blond-haired girl turns and stares at me, wide-eyed.   “Huh?” she asks, still not coherent.  

The pale, naked skin of her body wraps around me with an embrace not welcomed.

I tell the girl to hit the road and as I watch her gather her things and get dressed, I wonder how I ended up in bed with her.  

It’s no surprise that I do not remember.  

What happened to Friday, I ask myself.  

This happens more often than I’d like to admit.  

She’s cute, though.  

Nice ass.

Once she tells me that she’ll call me later and leaves, it seems like an endless stretch of time has past.  

The phone beeps, reminding me that my mother is still holding on the line.

“Who’s dead?”

“No one,” she sputters.

I sigh.  

“What do you want?”  

"Listen, you"

I’m surprised at the tone.

Her too.

There’s a pause.  

She recollects herself.

“I need you to look after Chris for today,” my mother’s statement sounds more like a question.

“Who?” I ask annoyed, reaching for my pants and picking them out of a pile on the floor.

“Your cousin,” she barks back almost equally annoyed.

“Oh, right.   I can’t today, sorry.”   

I want to hang up and go back to sleep.  

“God damn it!”   My mother explodes.   “What the hell is the matter with you?”

“Whoa, easy mom,” I sooth, “You wouldn’t want to have another episode.   Take a pill or something.”  

“Listen,” she explains.   “The kid’s going through a rough time.   His father is dying and he’s got no one.”

“And?”   I ask, bored.

   “And he’s always thought the world of you,” she tells me.   “It’s the very least you can do.”  

I roll my eyes in the dark, not really listening to her ramble.   

I could do less and she knows it. 

“Family is all we have in this world.”

     These words catch my attention.   I almost laugh.  

“Why don’t you tell that to Dad?” I mutter with a taste of bitterness.  

My fingertips find the dry patch of black on my left arm.  

     “Oh God,” she sighs, “do not start this again.   I gave your father a choice and he clearly made it obvious that he only wanted to serve his own… interests.”

     This sort of amuses me.

“You mean–”

     “Don’t!”    She cuts me off.  “Please, just… don’t.   Chris will be there in an hour.”   Before I can protest, she says, “Do this for me, okay?” and then hangs up.

     “Shit,” is the only thing I can make come out of my mouth.

     My cousin Chris isn’t the problem; it’s doing something for my mother that bothers me.      She’s always making me jump through hoops and never returns the favors.   When mother-dearest isn’t drinking her emotional problems away, she’s dropping Valium like tic-tacs.  

I haven’t seen my father.  

     I don’t think I can forgive either of them.  

     I sigh and get dressed.  

The shirt I put on is too small and probably doesn’t even belong to me.  

My room smells like sex.  

I don’t even remember the last time I’ve seen my roommate.  

I decide not to take Chris back up here.  

I wouldn’t want to traumatize him.   

musing ii

With just a word.

Everything can align itself.

It all kind of clicks into place and sheer momentum keeps it all moving along.

You can coast.

Maybe to retreat into your own head is a defense mechanism.

Maybe it's a reflex.

And maybe it’s not such a bad thing, after all.

post-perfect i

A voice booms amidst the darkness, “You’re all here because you’re the best of the brightest, the crème de la crème.”   These words echo in the void.  “You’re all here because you’re special.”

            Let there be light.

Employee Orientation: Day One. 

An over-head projector illuminates the room along with a single spotlight on a man at the podium.  He’s talking, using his hands, actually flapping, no, flailing.  

A lot. 

He calls on the seated crowd of disinterested faces.  His waving locks of hair, slicked back. 

The power tie. 

Oh, the obnoxious power tie. 

Light, no, pale tangerine-colored tie.

            “How do you distinguish yourself from the faceless masses?” he asks us in the darkness of the room as the Power Point slide changes.  

            The starched collar of the purposely faded blue dress shirt looks tight, doesn’t it? 

Too small around his neck, the Adam’s apple straining against it as he speaks. 

He’s going on and on about SWOT analysis.  Strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats, but who cares, right?  

            “If you ignore the downsides, you are the downside,” the man on stage, behind the podium says, pointing. 

He’s pointing at you. 

Is he pointing at me?  

“You become the failure, itself,” he tells the room.

fisticuffs i

Drunken idiot attacks me at Wobblers.

It’s a Thursday night and the place is pretty crowded. Most people came here after A-bar was raided for being too nondescript.

This guy is a huge upperclassman.

He pushes my shoulder. He shoves me backwards.

His eyes, wide beneath furrowed brows, are what I’m most uncomfortable with. That and the message they send. 

His pupils are dilated.

These are dead eyes. I could shine a light right through them.

I’m pretty sure I don’t know him. 

He has made a mistake. It isn’t worth the effort. 

I keep my head down.

“What the fuck you are doing here?” he asks, demands, definitely to me.

Wonder who he thinks I am.

Pretend he isn’t talking to me. I don’t notice. Can’t hear.

I’m heading from the bathroom towards the door, anyway.

Any way.

I sort of try to keep going. But I can hear his voice.

Quick eyes.

Survey the area.

Check to see how many,

if any,

are watching.

"You’ve got some balls."

I hear him.

Pretend I don’t.

Try to draw as little attention as possible from the oblivious bystanders.

Drinking

talking

standing

Feel his arm on my shoulder. Right arm on right shoulder.

"I’m fucking talking to you."

React. Turn fluid. Let jack out of the box.

I turn my head slowly and readjust my left foot as I step, foot still in air. . Forty five degree angle, stepping into and towards. Moving outside him. His left hand blocked momentarily by his own body. I grab his wrist from my shoulder. And keep my weight up. Almost behind him now I drop my weight with my left arm. It escapes through my palm against his arm. Just slightly above the elbow joint. Pressure from both arms in a direction his doesn’t want to go. Release when I’m pretty sure it breaks.

It’s sudden like a flinch.

A blink.

I’ve completely circumvented him.

The guy sinks down,

collapsing in

on himself.

And I keep moving. Stepping over him in a step or two and I’ve never once stopped forward motion. Squeeze through the passage way left by the standing people crowded near the bar. Along the wall. I twist my body, never changing the purposeful momentum through the openings as it ebb and flows with the song on the jukebox.

Push through.

Emerge.

Escape.

Outside, on the street, I light a cigarette and walk in what I think is the direction of campus.

Feel unnerved. Recognize the distinct feeling of being watched. Not at this moment, but earlier in the bar. Someone must have seen. 

observed. 

saw.

temporal iii

My car sits dead in the parking lot behind the dorm. The battery died early in the semester.  Never replaced it. Money’s tight.

Sometimes I just go and sit. 

Try to time travel but not really.

The past is unchangeable. 

Truth.

I can leave the world, though.

Escape. 

It’s a mess in here. Wrappers, empty things, articles of clothing, a sweatshirt or two. It claims the back seats. Pens. Food cardboard cup holder trays. 

Coffee cups I didn’t drink.

Escape.

rhombus ii

On the Rhombus, the sun cuts through the sky and its clouds.  Students move along an assembly line in and out of buildings.

Sit on a bench. Smoke a cigarette.

Andy reads the school paper.

I watch the multitudes interact. There’s too much to focus. Things move too fast. I scan. Try to frame a shot.

Everything is the same.

It’s all unique.

Intricate. 

It’s all important. 

There is just too much.

Welcome to

Babble.

And

I’m aware that it’s the noise that is bugs me out, right now. There is too much going on.

I hear it all, so I really hear nothing.

illiterati i

go to class and, no shit, try to take notes. record. The instructor, some TA, talks about a German philosopher’s novel,

no one read.

TA says:

the second half is concerned with judgement.

     the most treacherous thing is to judge

or be judged

without a sense of law.

see face in some type of reflection.

inherent vanity in this also. 

     the idea is to constantly reflect on self.

     accept judgments of others before judging others.

     one less tension to worry about.

     narration is a lie.

     autobiographic surface. self reflective.

     author. narrator. reader.

     becoming a good person is a gradual process and this book, this story, can be something the reader can come back to during the times of self reflection and growth.

and grow.

     we are all judges and confessors.

all are. 

awareness has levels.

I and you becomes we. 

     who does he admire? idols with feet of clay?

     there are good things you can do to try to do some good in the world.

don't stress out about yourself. 

do something and be happy.

Later, let Kathy read these notes.

     She tells me, “This doesn’t make any sense.”

     “I didn’t do the reading,” I tell her.

smile.

pep talk i

lies. its all about lies and the trouble with deceit is it is a living thing, that squats in the corner our heads.

once born, it grows until its too big for the room. 

then the house and the world.

you can’t keep track of the lies. the government lies.

the media.

you befriend. your girlfriend.your wife.

your life.

you lie.

everyone does.

     and its all because

     you,

     at some point,

     began to participate in the breeding of these lies.

. who knows why?.

its not important.

really. the fact is you did.

you do.

lie. 

about people, events, things.

Nouns at least.  Verbs too. 

they all were in flux as you participated in your own provisioned reimagining of reality. 

Wrap your head.

    things, yourself included, are much more interesting here. but ultimately the grasp on true truth is slipping.

slipped as all the lies got repeated. 

You have lost touch.

    memories from child hood were stolen from television. people replaced with now dead but slightly better known people. actors.

the problem being for the most part, you were unconscious of the ficticousness of the whole situation.

You didn’t see the fallacy. 

Couldn’t grasp it. 

the lie exposing it self.

reveal.

    if you are a liar, then so am i.

so is everyone else. they had to be. doing the same sick imagining as you. creating fictions to fill in the gaps about people.

The back story. 

about the world. things. ways.

     everything lies to you. tries to pull one oveer on you for reasons you can only begin to imagine.

and imagine, you do.

    the twisting

horrible

possible.

the suspicion. the doubt.

the irrationality of the whole damn thing. echos in your ears, as you calculate.

think.

come upon the crisises always with an approach of finality.

     try to outsmart it.

     out think.

     survive.

     mistakes. you can't see them until they’re far too small in the rearview mirror. It’s a you problem. not an anyone else thing.

the answer, you think, has always been there. previously chosen not to be seen.

     You have lost your mind.

     harvest crops. take them in when they are ripe and plant new seeds, fresh ones, once again, when the soil is fertile.

state of alt i

     High, Christian asks me, “You ever think that life's just a made up conversation in your head? That you imagine it?”

     “Dude,” I say.  “Don't harsh my mellow.”

     Everyone laughs.  Time moves fast, so time

slows

down. 

It seems.  Both at once.

Somehow.

Any how.

big:small::problems:starts

     “I feel like I can’t talk to people.

Like I forget how.

I feel like I can't talk to you. Like you don't want me to.

     “Like you don’t want me

     “Too.”

     This is written in permanent marker on the bathroom wall in the bar.

     Some band is warming up on stage, in the main room.

     I run into Andy, earlier. When I first come in. His lanky frame looks bigger, more developed. Andy has grown noticeably. He might be turning into the incredible Hulk, very slowly.

     He talks about the world.  Events.  News.  

The band still sets up.  Filler music plays over the monitors.

     “They say they'll soon have these chips. You can put it in you and it’ll act as an ATM card. Allow you to make purchases. As a cellphone, even. As your car key. You house key.  GPS.  All of it.  And that's where I want to be.  A total technological utopia.”

     “Maybe it’s nanobots,” he yells over the building house speakers now.

     “And I think that I'll never want to be shackled like that.”

     “Where’s the dependence,” I ask.  “You’re totally ingrained in the system.”

     “Where is the down side?” he asks.

     “The down side is,” Kathy says. “The nefarious nature of whoever holds the keys.” 

     Kathy and this other girl, Jane, are with Andy when I arrive. I wonder if he's dating one of them.

     “I just don't like the visibility,” I tell them.

     “It's the future, dude,” Andy says.  “Don’t be such a Luddite.”

     The singer, Duke, checks the microphone.

     Later, he announces to the audience, “We are all the story tellers and dream shapers.”

     They play “Fibonacci's Lament.”

     The moment surges into music. Faint keyboards first. Then drums and bass. The guitar withholds for nineteen bars. The time signature subtlety changes when it enters. The melody a dark groove. Surges of intensity. Lyrics come. In sync with the rhythm.

     “Merrily we row along

     life is what it seems

     not the dream

you make

     We can't

awaken

     from this nightmare.

     Why can't I just awaken from

     the nightmare.                       

Nightmare.”                   

     The music makes my head spin.  The room should spin but there are too many people.  I spin, instead.   Sin, instead.

     Grab the bar for balance.  Steady yourself.

     It's just a little tremor.  You’re fine.

     I'm fine.

We're all fine.

     The bartender flirts with me.   She's some girl from school.  She looks for a tip.

noting i

Good morning. How we doing today?

Who's we, anyway? 

People who use we instead of you. Those situations.

Happen often?

You wouldn't believe.

Books are just different kinds of poems.

I can respect that.

Totally.