Thursday, June 30, 2005

Phermones in the air conditioning?

Last night at work, Sex seemed to be the theme.

Twice, my innuendos got me accused of being "dirty." Always with a giggle and laugh, I notice.

I wandered into a conversation 3 of this night's crew were having. Voice-over J. recalling events at her old job of gross, fat old men staring at her "rack." The place was stuck in the '40's. How she called on one it, "Go on, say it, you like looking at my nice rack?" He skittered away, tiny tail between chafing fat legs. Some men are dogs, all bark and no bite.

Had a pretty serious conversation with another. About condoms. The necessity of them. She had taken her friend into the Clinic that afternoon for the follow-up exam for the previous abortion. In the waiting room, she said, looking around at the five or 6 girls waiting (some with some without a male), it really got her thinking about things. She hasn't done "it," yet. Her boy has in the past, but sounds like one of those nice guys who don't pressure her into it. In fact, he's one the same "page" as she is and wants to take things slowly, build emotionally. She cracked me up. She says when the time is right, he'll have to get tested for "everything under the sun!"

M. "Jewish, not Puerto Rican" B. said I smelled good, and tossed a smile.

Another coworker kept touching my arm, and told me that this boy she's been talking about "is not my boyfriend" with a Oh-God-never look on her face.

Other examples rolled around the room and postioned themselves inappropriately, but I can't remember them right now. ;-P

Yeah, of course, the A-feeling-a-bit-Randy bug might have been creeping crawling around my veins.

* * *
I'm leaving for the Ghetto Clinic in a few minutes. My first actual session with M.M., my first Group session, and then straight to work till close.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

For clarity

If what I write in My Cube makes me seem to be feeling horrible, it's because I am. I try to write exactly how I feel.

Good or Bad.

If anything, my words and my vocabulary fail me miserably. My descriptions of both my pain and my pleasure fall way short of my reality. My words merely scratch the surface of what I think and feel and want to express to readers I know and don't know and want to know better.

There are no lies within My Cube. These posts are the closest to The Truth I have ever spoken or written. This blog is my confession to myself and the world.

Last night I let myself roll around my Vicious Circle

Last night, I didn't feel like dealing with anyone, anything. I felt like disappearing for a minute. I felt tired of dwelling; I just wanted to exist, escape, forget, and pretend. Fuck Doctors order's, quacks every one of them! (no, I don't really mean that) Becks and Jameson and 3 cubes on the porch. Sometimes you just go with what you know. Cooler outside than the apartment, but just as lonely.

I worked the day, Tuesday. This night: Disappear Here.

I sat listening to the crickets out again. Zoning out. Weird apartment across the street keeps flashing their front room's lights on and off. Looks like Morse Code. Annoying me.

I checked a couple of sites, read a couple of emails, one of which struck me as very strange, but replied to none. I had a conversation with a C.P. in the parking lot today. Two messed up situations traded. I couldn't speak at one point, tears coming up and choking throat tight...a telling of a recent moment, in hindsight during the telling, reminded me of that split second feeling of shut-down back at Kent State in The Hub when she said "I think we should see other people."

I keep messing up situations.

Earlier at work, The Croatian Gyration Sensation told me about a friend of hers who recently had an abortion. This friend called C.G.S. sort of out of the blue and asked her to go to the follow-up appointment with her (today). She didn't want to go alone. For some reason, this story hit me hard. I've never been in that situation (as the boyfriend, natch), but for some reason it struck me and a sadness flooded my body and heart. I wanted to hug this faceless stranger. Stroke her face, and tell her everything's going to be all right.

Someone's making Mexican food that smells great. And I realize I've only choked down 6 paper-mache-tasting Chicken McNuggets today: heat + sadness= no appetite.

I need to realize that it's not all my fault. Whatever it all is.

My parents call. It's starting to sprinkle. I'm on my second Becks. The conversation wanders and rolls along. We trade stories and I make her laugh at my sadness. Gallows humor? She cheers me up for a moment. A stray black cat walks past the foot of my steps. Firecrackers snap in the park. A Mexican girl stares at me as she walks by. A plane floats by, winking.

Later: fist-fulls of Jameson and watching Mrs. Parker and The Vicious Circle again. How many times? Jennifer Jason Leigh looks so lovely in this role, I fall in love everytime. Where is my Dotty?

"The sun's gone dim, the moon's turned black; for I loved him and he didn't love back."

What do you mean she's hurting? She says all those funny things.

And, of course, my personal favorite:


Razors pain you,
rivers are damp,
acids stain you,
drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful,
nooses give,
gas smells awful;
you might as well live.

Eh, why not? Why not, indeed.

It's a Small World (and Laundry Room) after all

On Monday morning-ish through noon-ish, I did some (much needed) laundry. I loaded up two baskets and trekked to the laundry room in the next building.

Inside, the kid I see raking leaves and sweeping the porches was finishing up sweeping the floor of lint, dust, and stray Bounce Fabric Softener sheets. I said hi and introduced myself, finally, as I'd seen him around the Complex a lot this past week. Tony "sub-contracts" through his Uncle, the maintenance guy. He had the TV pretty loud and was about to start moping, so I left him alone and loaded up a couple of washers.

Soon, a wee-petite woman skips in, says hi, and starts moving her laundry from washer to dryer.

"Have we met before?" she asks.

"Um...I think we bumped into each other her, maybe."

"Oh, yeah, three weeks ago."

And off she goes. We meet again during my move from washer to dryer. And again when I come back to fluff and fold. I ask her if she wanted part of the table (as my shit lay completely spread out), she said no she folded upstairs in her apartment. As the conversation continued, Carrie mainly holding a monologue, I learned she ran one of the Lakeview Pantries. (no, they're not hiring, I already asked). She talked excitedly about her job and program which does sound amazing and helpful to many people. Particularly good news for her is the fact they just hired another person who will be able to cover for her while she goes on vacation to visit family.

"Oh, you're not from Chicago originally?"

"No, I and my husband are from a tiny town in Ohio, you've probably never heard of called ATHENS."

"Shut up, I went to O.U."

They're maybe four years younger than me. He's an appointment setter by 3 days, an artist for life (painting). They have both a cat and a four foot Iguana. And she likes people, he does not. And I can usually find her doing laundry on Mondays.

Maybe I'll see them around.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Dwelling in my Dwelling

I'm feeling trapped.
I'm sensing things haven't gone my way again. The tide has, once again, turned away.
Am I destined to constantly repeat my history in this area? Is it always, advantage: "The Other"?

Sometimes the letters unreplied speak more, sometimes words unspoken hurt the most.

I'm scratching up a storm tonight. I think blood has been drawn on my back. Is this itch some sort of physical warning? (Retreat!) Or unconscious nudge? (Advance!) Snatches of old lyrics seep into my mind "I've got you under my skin."

The crickets are loud tonight. I sit on the back porch with a finger of Jameson and 3 cubes. I listen to their song. The sound and the smell in the cool air bring to mind memories of camping at Van Buren State Park, weeks at Camp Berry, nights at Lake Erie, and drunken smokes outside the house of my Childhood--staring at the moon with a heavy heart.

Who is Zilo?

Thin black man walks by under a back pack singing softly to himself. I nod and he actually says "hello," and I wish him a "g'evening" and a smile. I liked that moment. For a split second I felt part of a bigger picture; for one brief exhalations across vocal chords, I felt connected to the world.

Then I go back to scratching; attacking the blue-haired Demons trying to crawl out my pores.

Two girls laugh in the apartment across the street. A white lady walks by with her sleek black Doberman, talking on a cell phone. The crickets keep chirping. I scratch.

Sometimes, you can just sense The Goodbye is coming soon.

Down the block, the white lady yells at her dog to "heel!" as it barks at another dog. This morning at 7:11, my sleep got broken up by a man and woman and their squeaking/barking dogs. They discussed how he breeds pit bulls. They figure out through the conversation that her dogs come from a line from his dogs father.

The Neighborhood of a 1000 Basketballs and Dog Poo.

I have this urge to give all my belongings to charity or friends. Clean slate, start from scratch., let go of The Past. Release the symbols. Everything I own tells me a story. Their voices scream and clamor for attention; I can hear nothing else, at times. Ghosts hold me locked in their gaze. I need to go Forward. Kill these Demons once and for all. Kill the main and the parasites die soon after.

I want to write it all down. I want to help people before I go. I don't want this all to have been for Nothing. I want to mean something to someone.

I want to mean something to me.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

Made it through another day

Made it to work on time, sat outside in the sweltering sun for ten minutes (again and again on Sundays) because Amazing G. was late. The customers as a whole today bored me, no one stood out. No Jerks, no Saints...just waves of Mall Zombies buying more and more stuff. And I packed it all up with a smile.

This is the first Inventory at work that I manned the sales floor instead of coming in at one o'clock and doing the actual counting. To show you how fucked, paranoid, and personal politics that place is under Boss Frantic (and soon possibly worse under Evil Fannie), I and another coworker (K.McG.) at two completely different times asked our Floor supervisor if she thought we gotten into trouble with Boss Frantic. Getting the easier day shift, and not getting the late counting shift caused us to worry. Later we compared notes, we thought it odd that certain people who nearly got fired a while ago (Hey Dude), a guy that made tons of mistakes last time (J.H.), and a bunch of newbies got that important shift. She's worked Inventory night for the past 5 years, me 2 1/2. This place is screwed up. The Floor Supervisor said she knew nothing, thought no politics involved. K.McG. and I believed her, but with hesitation and reservation.

Whatever, fuck it all.

Brunch beer like water in the park

The Flaming Brunch: A success!

Just got back about twenty minutes ago. Beer flowed like water, one of those weird second-wind nights where you feel like you could drink forever. Burgers, stuffed grilled peppers, brauts, hot dogs, turkey burgers, tofu burgers, cake, ice cream, guac, chips, pretzels, and countless others sat upon the table. Somewhere along the line, my Blueberry Pie and Whipped Cream got lost in the shuffle.

Lots of "Cornhole" (beanbags and wooden boxes with a hole cut in it), some softball (ah, a spectator sport for me), and Frisbee. The beauty of having a public park as your backyard. Beer in a park in the sun and shade is a great relaxation. Grass and leaves and 3 dogs running around. Little Amelia stealing the scene; a mom and her daughter laughing in the grass, my heart ached a little for things I'll never have.

Beer followed beer, did I finish that 12 pack? No, at least, Ab-B had a few. Ab-B, so pretty and cool, I love looking at her little chin and face. Another I'll never kiss. So many years without conversation, but she tries; I just stammer in the face of beauty. She lives now with her boyfriend, so that should loosen my tongue. Always easiest to talk to the unattainable.

Broke out in hives. Wondered why. It's because C.C. is asking me about therapy and something else. I switch the conversation to mutual friends on Friendster. Past pals come to light, she keeps in touch with the past, bringing it into present. I keep the past in the past, and this is not always a good thing.

I laugh over and over all throughout the day. Day turns into night and the park lights come on. They shine over the park in a strange greenish glow. We play more "Cornhole." I win two games, but lose the last one. Ab-B gets better as the beer flows and the beanbags throw. She wears brownish-green, but glows in the park lights.

We've said good-bye to J.W. and L.W. They are moving to Indiana Monday. Sad to see them go just as I've set my sights on becoming part of the fold again. They said they'd see us in a month, a house-warming party in July?

Amelia steals my heart. Two years old almost with wavy black hair. Chubby cheeks and a grunting laugh. Watching her and S. and B., I can almost see me being a daddy someday. To love a little, unconditional love. I yearn for that on so many levels. Yet push it away.

Home. I throw in some White Stripes and sit on the back porch, sipping one last Beck's before bed. I watch and listen to groups of people head home or to parties. A Hispanic couple carry two cases of Corona, a group of black kids laugh as they walk toward the park, a large black guy yells at his shorter friend that he shouldn't have told his Uncle that shit, and a mom and dad walk back from a grocery store. I sit and drink on the porch and wish someone sat next to me.

I realize the booze coats the pain. I feel like I could drink for another twelve hours.

But I won't.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

My soundtrack for the day

This morning, I played The Jesus Lizard's Shot and Blue loud. They're one of those bands I don't play often enough. All their CDs sit quietly, yet seething intensely, in a group on my shelf for a while, then explode into the air when I play them. They massage my heart and, everytime, I think, "Oh God, such brilliant, beautiful noise!"

Am now late/off to The Flaming Brunch. I've decided to bring beer and pie.

I'll be drunk and full before the evening news. Ta-ta-for-now.

Last night I dreamed about the open sea

Last night, I had a dream that combined items from The Past, The Present, and (maybe) The Future.

On the open sea, on a sunny day, I was on a cruise ship. Smaller, but similar to the one I traveled on this past January in the Caribbean. The Sun shimmered on the water and bounced off the huge wake we made as we plowed North. At one point a strange Black Barge followed us, full of exposed white packages. A blonde fellow traveler informed me that it wasn't cocaine, but cleaning powder. A mechanism on the Barge whirred, and the exposed packages on the shelves swung into the Hull, hidden from view. The Black Barge began to slow and lag behind until it disappeared into the horizon behind us.

Soon, a large green catamaran with huge green pontoons passed us on the port side. It's blonde, Biff-looking captain in white polo and shiny khakis waved to us and yelled "passing on the left!" They flew by us, lifted up on one side in a 45 degree angle in the small canal we suddenly found ourselves in. The blonde female traveler stood next to me as well as my Uncle Doc, who suddenly appeared to my right with my parents. We were all in shock and awe that the catamaran captain held the bravery to paint his name in large black letters on the pontoon, for all the world to see. Then we were out of the canal and back to the wide open sea.

We decided to all retire to one of the lounges for a drink.

I got separated from the group, but ran into my cousin, Uncle Doc's son, in a strange game room. It held pinball machines, slot machines, and skeeball set ups. It was bright and yellow. I leaned against a skeeball setup, talking to a petite woman with dirty blonde hair. She reminded me of someone deep in my past who I've crushed on, but don't recall if I ever talked to. She, this fellow cruise ship traveler, played a game of slots. I found my heart aching to touch, talk, and hold this woman, I think she said her name was Nicole. She seemed tomboyish, but giggly. The game beeped and flashed, and she held up a coin grinning beautifully at me, "I won a nickel!" My heart leapt and jumped in happiness.

The three of us went to the Lounge for drinks.

We passed outdoor bars and salad bars with fresh fruit and lettuce shining brightly and wetly in the afternoon sun. I remember smiling a lot.

In the dark wood bar, leaning against a black leather bar stool, I talked to my Uncle Doc, who had lost a lot of weight and was now laying on the floor, sipping a cocktail with an tiny umbrella and straw. As I kept on eye on the well-polished bar, looking for an available Bartender, I told my Uncle of how Boss Frantic is screwing me over with hours, but killing me with 6 day weeks. About how Evil Fannie is coming back. About how I met this girl, who just went back to her room before I got her number. About another woman back home I like. About how I needed a new job, to find my Passion. About how I didn't know what to do.

He crossed his legs, put an arm behind his head like a pillow. He thought for a minute, sipped his drink for knowledge and said, "go find her."

I'm back in the white-walled stateroom, looking through the ship's phone directory. It's the size of Chicago's White Pages. All the names look foreign, full of N's, K's, and Z's, and are in no real order. I start skimming from page one, my finger running under all the first names looking for Nicole. I am unsure of her name, now. I am alone in the room. I feel that, with patience, I'll find her before the cruise ends.

I awake.

Friday, June 24, 2005

All work and no play makes Mac a dull boy

People keep making comments about how much I am at work. People keep making jokes that I should just spend the night on the display beds.

I just got paid tonight. 88 hours. Two weeks of 6 day weeks. At the end of this schedule it will be a total of over a month of 6 day work weeks. It really needs to stop.

I talked to the (so far, so cool) Assistant Store Manager about this situation. How it's killing me. I even volunteered to work one or two open to close days just to get enough hours to live on and to get two days off. She seemed generally receptive to the idea. She even let me know that Boss Frantic told her my schedule got priority. Thank God for small favors.

I have little social life with two days off. I have no social life with one night off. I need to change that, and a lot of other things.

Tonight, though, I plan on drinking Vodka on the rocks and watch Pink Floyd's The Wall on DVD. I think I may have to start filling in the tiny open spaces to repair my own wall again. Or maybe I just need a Dirty Woman.

Now where is that Aqua Pipe?

Urm, that's usually most days...

My Friendster Horoscope for the day hits the nail on the head (in the clouds):

Today's Forecast:
You're definitely not focused, so don't struggle to bring this day into crisp, clear perspective. Operating heavy machinery may not be the best idea, but you're in a perfect state to muse productively about the future [ed. note--that's really part of my problem, my head is all into the Future forgetting about Here and Now. Pardon...continue]
Forget follow-through. Your mind is too day-dreamy now to make practical progress.

Sometimes it feels like there are a million things you need to get done, but you have the attention span of a tsetse fly. So be it -- everyone has those days, and this may be one of yours. Use all that energy instead to tie up any loose ends or finish old projects. Make sure you carry around a pad and paper for all those ideas and items you want to do later -- you'll definitely want to remember those.

* * *

I'm thinking of the usual suspects today. Sweating around the house. Feeling bad for my furry buddy, Lilly, skulking in the shadows of the furniture and corners, then verbally abusing me loudly for not having A/C. I'm all like, "Brat! Get a job then!" But she doesn't pay me any mind; just throws up her nose and saunters away with back arched.

My mind is so wrapped up in things hopeless, loveless, hard to figure out, not even real, out of my control (sort of), possibly fixable, only broken in my head, only paired my mind/not real, and such that I realized that I'd forgotten to take some paperwork to the Clinic last week, and I took my meds 4 hours late.

I thought maybe some music would brighten my (okay, but could always be better) mood, so I threw in Bow Wow Wow Wild in the U.S.A.and later, thought "who am I kidding?" and put on Temple of the Dog. Really, that's more the level of mood I'm in.

Besides, it's an amazing CD.
I paid some bills, washed the dishes, took a nap, avoided the sun through the blinds, and sent out my R.S.V.P. for my cousin's wedding in August. In Cleveland. Mr. Mac + Zero. At least I'll get Filet Mignon. Ate breakfast for the first time in months. Remembered The Monthly Brunch is tomorrow at Mike's house. The theme this time is The Flaming Brunch.
No, we aren't experimenting sexually or anything, just if it can be thrown on a grill, it qualifies. I don't know what to bring, so beer again!
I am hoping to pull C.C. aside at some point and apologize to her (to be spread among the rest) for being such a piece of shit, Non-existent friend. I need to get back into the fold, this Self-Exile Isolationism is killing me, I know. I might try to set up something with M.W. for occasional happy hours or something at The Lamp Post or tavern near him.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Someone say Penis?

I forgot to mention that at S.R.'s Graduation from Baking School party, he had baked a chocolate cake. A lovely cake, about a foot long or so, in the shape of a penis with perfectly spherical balls. And as if that wasn't enough fun, the words "Eat Me" were written in white glaze down the chocolate frosted shaft. A sight to behold as he held it up to his face for someone to photograph.

He brought it in to work the following Monday, to share the remainder with the staff. By the time I showed up, most of it had been devoured, just a couple of vaguely round clumps of cake lay in the pan in the kitchen.

At some point in the evening, M. "I'm Jewish, not Puerto Rican" B. showed up on her day off to pick up something with her ex-boyfriend from Canada, spied the cake, threw a clump on a plate and ran up to hide behind my counter to stuff her face.

"You realize you have a penis in your mouth?"

And today, she threw me some attitude, so I called her a Cakesucker; that's right, I called her a Cakesucker.

I'll get into The New Yorker one way or another One day their prints may come

Either by article, interview, or silly cartoon caption! Mark my word!

Next Up: Public Hangings of Free-Thinking Bloggers of all Ages

Inside Higher Ed :: Colleges Can Censor, Too

You know, what I really think about XXXXX is XXXX. I mean who would think XXXXX XXXXXX XXXXX. The most crucial XXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX is XXXXXX. How can a Free Society even imagine its Government or Universities of "Higher Learning" committing XXXXXX XXXXX XXXXX XXXXXX XXXXX XXXXX. It gets my goat!

Not Too Bad Tuesday

I rush down the back stairs at work this morning, on time amazingly, and step into the stockroom only to be assaulted by a thick fog of super-sweet smelling cloud of perfume. The kind of smell that (for a nano-second) knocks you (mentally) backwards, like rebounding off a wall in a bumper car. Involuntary Face Flinch and Gas Face included.

"Ah! *gag,* for Fuck's Sake, who bathed in the scent today?"

I clock in, eyes stinging, and then hear it. That laugh. That high-pitched, fake, Sorority girl cackle. I look to the right and see HER ankle sticking out the office door. It is our former Ass. Store Manager soon-to-be Store Manager, Evil Fannie. Evil Fannie and Boss Frantic were whooping it up in the office, probably introducing her to our current (and so far, pretty nice) Assistant Store Manager.

"Ewww, icky."

I head immediately for the floor. I am not letting that ruin my mood.

The day went fairly okay and quickly with a (mostly) cool crew working today: The Croatian Gyration Sensation, Amber Chunky Globes, a couple of others, and S.R. showed up for the night shift. I managed to avoid getting sucked into a conversation with the older half of the Blondie Twins, and that's always good. Amber said I was her "hero," her savior against the Villain Boredom. Ha ha ha. There are supposed and vague plans in the making for a group of the cool crew to dine at Flattop or something in Evanston in the near future. That could be fun.

I went for the overpriced Marshall Fields lunch again today, as it was sunny out. I sat by The Lion, sipping my Nantucket Nectar and munching my Granola Yogurt watching a Polish mom tell her son The Lion's too hot for him to ride, a couple splash water from the fountain at each other, college kids with pink hair walk around, and the like until it got too hot.

I sat in the kitchen, fretting over various things. The frickin' hives popped up now and again to say "Hello, chump" throughout the day.

* * *
After work, I fed The Void a little again, and actually did buy Modest Mouse's Good News For People Who Love Bad News and Pink Floyd's The Wall on DVD, and a new set of clippers, since mine stopped working the second I finished cutting my hair Monday. And groceries.
Later, I called Miss Arsh for a bit on the phone. Lovely, as usual, until she got a little arrogant, but we forgive. ;-) This link is for you, so you know I didn't make it up. I hope I cheered you up a little (if any cheering up had still been needed). Call me anytime, for reals! Later, at her suggestion, I did see the moon outside my living room window. Yes, Arsh, very full and cool and luminous. I love looking at the moon.

Checked email, and got this link from my parents. Not sure this sits well with me, but I absolutely know they mean well.
Tonight, we'll end the evening with the wonderful pulse and throbs of a little Trojan Dub, mon.

Good night, all.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Monday, June 20, 2005

My jaws hurt

Tonight, work felt edgy. Bad vibes all over the place; probably emanating mainly from me. I did my best to avoid, yet help customers. They would see the contempt in my eyes. Remember that bit of pissed-off mood I woke up with earlier today? Yeah, it kept on keeping on. I found nearly everyone unbearable and irritating, grinding my teeth to hold my tongue.

I really wish I could have wore this shirt over my C/B apron. That's how I felt.

Especially toward my last customer who took her whiny, sweet-ass time getting her shit done. Like I give a two craps if your daughter's MC2 pots and pans might scratch in the future; pots get scratched over time--fucking deal with it!

I got the idea that the one person who I wanted to talk to wanted to be left alone. So I did. I hope we are still cool.

Moody Monday

Father's Day didn't work out as I'd planned last night. Basically, what began as my traditional call home on a holiday and wish you well for 33 minutes or so, took a downturn. Started out catching up on him, his New Retired Self, family members (shit, I forgot my cousin had another kid, oops), but then bottomed out to these various points:

Me screaming at him to stop suggesting I move back to my hometown "just stop, please, just stop! Dammit, dad!"

Realizing I don't really know a whole lot about my parents past. It'd been nice to maybe have a little information about this genetic depression.

After a bit of hesitation, informing him I'd fallen back to suicidal thoughts these past few weeks. But, again, promised I wouldn't. I assured him I kept up with the meds and all my appointments at the Ghetto Clinic. And, finally, after God-knows-how-many-years, admitted to him that I think I have an eating disorder. Can't eat when I'm down; and, I've been down a lot. It may have started in high school. While out partying and drinking, the minute someone said "let's get something to eat" that usually meant an end to the night. And after like 15 years, the back of your head thinks Food=end of fun. Or maybe it's a control issue. Or maybe I just really fear getting fat.

Really feeling bad that he (still) feels so bad about not being around much in my youth. Either working, out of town antiquing, or lost in his own depression. "Daddy's not feeling well, he's napping."

Lots of crying into the phone. I felt so much better. Apparently, I cry better with some sort of audience. Alone, I only get out a sob or two; kind of like emptying the ocean one teaspoon at a time. I'm freaking dehydrated today.

* * *
Today, woke up Blue-ish (surprise!). But with a tiny portion of Pissed-off on the side. So, when one feels like Shit, where do you go? To the bathroom, of course.
Armed with mop, sponge, Formula 409, some mystery cleaner I picked up somewhere/sometime, and loud music I determined Something Else needed to Die Today! I recommend listening to the following when exterminating dust and grime and soap scum: The Germs (tee hee, get it), World Class Punk and anything by Fear (today we were fueled by American Beer and Have Another Beer With FEAR
Mopped the bathroom and bedroom, scrubbed the tub, sink, toilet. Then rearranged the computer placement in the living room which looks a little more open, but still needs to get the flow right.
Off to work.

Lee Ving (of Fear). I love this picture. The crisp Black and White. The crowd reaching up. The shine and creases in his Doc Martens (I own that same pair). The strength in his back, arms, and neck; you can hear the gravel-voice rip through the air, "I don't care about you, FUCK YOU!" The Determination, Sweat, Anger, Power, Beer, Purpose, Courage, Individuality, Muscle, I know what I want and I get what I want stance, Kill Your Enemy and Stick His Head on The Fence, Taste the Pain and Savor Its Texture. I want to BE this picture. Posted by Hello

Sunday, June 19, 2005

I am worn out

I clocked out today with 6 1/2 hours overtime.

Last Sunday, I clocked out with 1 1/4 hours overtime. Add in lunches as just-time-in-work-environment and that equals a whole fricking lot of underpaid hours of my life wasted at a mall.

So, of course, my hours the next two weeks are cut.

I'm a Zombie staring at The Wall of My Inner Eye.

Oh, yeah, Happy Father's Day.

Thanks for the nice comments

A muffler-less car or something woke me up at 3:30 a.m. As I attempted drifting back to sleep, I started thinking about some stuff, and my legs started up with that burning itching; so, I can't sleep. Rather than stay in bed, shredding my legs, I thought I'd say a couple of thank-you's.

To Pinkie Lee's comments: thanks, I'm hanging in there. And I know all that, it just takes a little longer for my Heart to catch up with my Head. :-) How's your mom doing? Better, I hope.

And to Anonymous' comment: how sweet. (If I read my stats correctly) Then next time I'm in Cinci, we could catch a drink on Vine Street and a show at Bogart's or Sudsy Malone's. Thanks for the ego boost, it means a lot.

Let's go try this sleep thing again.

Saturday Night a(Live)

S.R.'s party was chock full of yummy dips and chips (but no sex wax on the nipples). A fine spread lay out on a table: spinach dip, taco salad, pita bread, chocolate cheese cake, fancy crackers, some cheese/cream cheese/peach combo, Swedish meatballs, and other treats I can't wrap my head around to remember.

Spent most of the time talking to C.P. and L.Y. by the window. Watching S.R.'s family members and fellow baking school grads walking and talking. His partner's brother cracked me up with his outgoing and Chicawgoin accent and attitude. And little Marrissa, such a cutie.

The drink of choice tonight: Beck's.

C/B employee survey of the night: 1) who, among your co-employees would you want to see naked, male and female? and 2) who, among your co-employees would you want to sleep with, male and female? I don't think I made any lists *sigh* ha ha ha!

Felt a little shy, so didn't really talk to strangers as I'd planned. Great looking apartment.

On the way home, the Birchwood/Wolcott apartment corner was hopping as usual. Large group of black boys in white t-shirts and blue jeans pitching pennies and hanging in the street. I wonder if they recognize me/my car yet?

"There go Whitey Ohio looking for parking again. ''Ol' boy always be solo."

Caught the last bit of an old Saturday Night Live. And, again, I think 1) Tina Fey= Hott, and 2) I must buy some Modest Mouse.

Toss in Monster Magnet Spine of God and call it a night.

Good night.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

If you luffa me, I'll luffa you

And another thing I like in a relationship, and miss: long, warm co-ed showers.

Just a thought I had in the shower while getting ready for S.R.'s party tonight. Lilly is so stubborn, she refuses to get in the tub with me.

I haven't a (fabulous) thing to wear.

It's all in the eyes this week

At work this week:

A mother and daughter who both had an Extreme Lazy Eye. The left one, each.

Two elderly brothers from Oregon. One told me it's hard to see the screen with his Glaucoma.

Fat guy with coca-cola type Drew Cary glasses. One huge bugged-out eye, one bloodshot eye. He had to look almost completely sideways to read the screen and pull bills out of his wallet.

You should go because I can't

I am attending a party tonight to celebrate a friend's graduation from baking class (cakes and pies and frosting, YAY!), so I can't make it. :-( But you all should check out my chums:

Western Automatic playing tonight at Hotti Biscotti in Logan Square.

This time around Western Automatic is Zelienople plus Donn Ha, Scott Tuma and Matt DeGennaro helping out with a continuous 30 minute piece.

Scott and Matt D. will also perform a set as a duo.

Saturday, June 18th
10:30 pm
Hotti Biscotti
3545 W. Fullerton
free admission <---------dude!

10:30 pm Scott Tuma / Matt DeGenarro

11:30 pm Western Automatic

Someone else's tears in the morning

This morning at 5:00 a.m. I am awakened by a girl crying outside my bedroom window. She is pulling on a guy in a hoodie's hand, begging him not to go. Sobbing. He shrugs her off and they walk across the street where she pushes him up against a fence, pleading even harder through her tears.

"Come on, don't go..."

They walk away into the dawning light.

What IN THE HELL is wrong with me?

Yesterday: a trying, emotional day.

As you may have previously read or gathered, this week or so has been sprinkled liberally with fits of crying jags and self-pity. Tears on Howard, and on the too-small-couch in front of Lilly. Fits of semi-unfocused anger and panic and unchecked misery resistant to the highest percentage made cupfuls of Wild Turkey Rare Breed Bourbon. In moderate consumption, of course.

Well, yesterday sucked (for the most part). The usual fuck-I-don't-want-to-get-out-of-bed beginning. Followed by the cups of coffee, wandering around the apartment, shushing Lilly both verbally and with appeasing stroking. Then the email. Then the Stats Check. This morning's music consisted mainly of my The Bloc Party CDs and The Walkmen/Calla split.

Then, I'm suddenly running late.

At work, I can feel the tears just below the surface. People ask me if I went out, tell me I look tired. I laugh them off with vague references to no AC or noises of the Neighborhood of a Thousand Basketballs and Dog Poo. I hate being in the grips of depression because it fucks with my ability to speak. I go blank. I can barely speak above a whisper. One good thing about Retail for the Depressed is the amount of trite and repetition of the typical day. I can just go through the motions of the sales, still work on an acceptable functioning level, issuing the usual responses and questions required to make the sale pleasurable for the customer, and the stock jokes work every time (unless I've helped them before...oops); all the while, I'd rather be curled fetal-like in bed. You can do all that and still dwell and attempt to work through whatever the current trigger that's bottomed you out.

I haven't been this bad for a while. Shit! Elizabeth Wurtzel graduates from Harvard, and goes on to write for New York and The New Yorker, as well as a novel or two, but I can barely look for another job or reply to a good friend's email or phone call. I feel tired and exhausted, like after playing a full game of soccer as a child.

At some point, I sort of stepped back and observed myself. When in a deep depression, there is this interesting feeling. It's like half my mind isn't even there, I feel like half of Myself is floating somewhere else, hidden. The detachment is interesting in that you almost start to believe you are actually invisible. That you could step up on the counter, quietly, and stand there for 15 minutes before anyone would notice in the crowd. The struggle is to not let your voice break, your lip quiver, to cry.

I didn't make it.

I am told that our former EVIL Assistant Store Manager Fannie is fucking coming back in the position of Store Manager (maybe July 15th?). My world is officially falling apart. This ontop of everything else sends my mind spinning like a screaming tornado: I chew an entire Clonzepam.

Around 3 (maybe), while talking C.P. in the stock room about the return of Evil Fannie, I suddenly excuse myself and rush to the restroom where I sat in the stall and balled my eyes out. Shoving toilet paper in my mouth to silence the sobs. Jesus, what a wreck...why couldn't I just be sneaking in here to feed a cocaine habit. After a minute, I washed my hands and face came back out. C.P. pulled me deeper into the stockroom and asked me to explain. I told her that my depression had come back full force and that my Jungle Ghetto clinic didn't seem right and that...oops, *squawk* "too many people!" and back to the restroom stall. Now, I am not only crying, but cursing myself.

"Fucking get it together, man. This is bullshit, this is bullshit, this is bullshit!"

I rub my eyes, take a few insanely deep breaths, and head out again. C.P. is "looking through her locker"/waiting on me. I squeak out "can't talk, must work" and race up the stairs. She follows. I find myself snapping my fingers and breathing deep, like an athlete getting ready to take the field, pumping themselves up for battle.

I hit the floor and turn my head to C.P. saying "Shiny, happy, smiling faces, right?"

Luckily, business picked up, and I concentrated on work. Say the lines, wrap the crap, ring the credit cards. Smile, nod, ask, wrap, show, follow, point, pick up, carry, smile, ask, ring, wrap. At some point, a note got handed to me. It said: "Do you want me to call my therapist to ask about resources? I can beep her." Has it really come to this? I declined, I had numbers at home.
Then McDonald's for dinner.

The rest of the night went a bit better. Me, Amber Chunky Globes, L.S., and The Croatian Gyration Sensation, N.S. and Amazing G. Most of my favorite coworkers being together helped. At one point, The C.G.S. and I rapped most of The Beastie Boys' Paul Revere. That was fun and put a smile on my face. I must have looked down because earlier she seemed intent on buying me a cookie or something from Starbucks; but, I declined with a no thank you and a smile.

On the way home, I thought I'd call my parents, but remembered they go to Lake Erie on phone there. Once I get home, on the couch with Lilly watching Lettermen and O'Brien, I actually feel okay. My depression seemed to break, like a fever breaks and the sweating and aches stop and some clarity comes back. My apartment sometimes acts as my sanctuary (sometimes my prison), a physical representation of a mental protective wall holding up against my Psychic Demon Hordes.

A single beer and a bag of popcorn later, I go to sleep.

Friday, June 17, 2005

I knew it ended

when the arms crossed.

My heart is impaled on one tusk

At 4:58 a.m. when I briefly woke up and wrote this down, it made more sense:

There'll always be a 333 ton Elephant sitting in the corner of the room, but I'll try to ignore it because she just wants to be friends. I'll try.

She seems to be worth it ;-)

Thursday, June 16, 2005

I know, I know, I've said this before:

But The Walkmen's song The Rat is the Best song. Ever (at least for right now...ha ha). I'm not one hundred percent sure why this song/lyrics affect me so. I can't decide if it's a story about the narrator being angry at an ex continuing to call him for help after she dumped him, but he still has feelings for her. Or, if it's a plea for an unrequited love to see him for his love for her. And the fact that she blindly comes around is making him quite desperate. Either way, or another unexplored/undiscovered interpretation, this song and the Intensity and Desperation of his vocals touches something inside me, making me both sad and comforted (misery loves company, no?). I haven't been affected by a song in this way since Pearl Jam's Black, especially the ending statement: "...I know someday you'll have a beautiful life, I know you'll be a star/ In somebody else's sky, but why/ Why, why can't it be, why can't it be mine?"

Which will probably hold true for me today as back then (again and again and again). My history repeats itself, but with large empty time-gaps between.

But through each rejection, for some reason, deep deep deep down inside under all the pain, sadness, black misery, soggy wet grey blanket, suicidal thoughts, self-hatred, and such, I hold Faith that there is a Star for My Sky; someone to share space in My Cube.

How will I know upon which door to knock? And how will she know to open up?

The Rat
You've got a nerve to be asking a favor
You've got a nerve to be calling my number
I know we've been through this before
Can't you hear me, I'm calling out your name?
Can't you see me, I'm pounding on your door?

You've got a nerve to be asking a favor
You've got a nerve to be calling my number
Can't you hear me, I'm bleeding on the wall?
Can't you see me, I'm pounding on your door?

Can't you hear me when I'm calling out your name?

When I used to go out, I would know everyone that I saw
Now I go out alone if I go out at all

When I used to go out I'd know everyone I saw
Now I go out alone if I go out at all

When I used to go out I'd know everyone I saw
Now I go out alone if I go out at all

You've got a nerve to be asking a favor
You've got a nerve to be calling my number
I'm sure we've been through this before
Can't you hear me, I'm beating on your wall?
Cant you see me, I'm pounding on your door?

Working open to close yesterday

Working all day doesn't bother me. It really is just a mere, what, three-four hours more? Just grit your teeth together and go, you know. Most of the job is just repeating the same trite lines over and over:
"Is this a gift?"
"____ are very nice/lovely/colorful/popular."
"Do you want a handle, or are you wrapping this later?"
"Anything for yourself today?"
"Do you need tealights with these?"
"Bathroom is in Starbucks. Just cut in the corner and all the way to the right."
"Do you want to pick this up at the back door?"
"These are on, like, every Wedding Registry."
"The colors this year are so perfect."
"Did you find everything okay?"

Continue ad naseaum.

I felt like crying all day, I could feel the tear bubbling in the bags under my right eye. I kept thinking about the "situation," and where exactly I stood in it all. Then the self-anger kicked in, and I realized I bring Nothing "to the table" when it comes to a relationship. Yeah, a few jokes and witty comments, but nothing Real--as in money, style, taste, an ability to care for a child since I'm such a mess myself, good looks, culture, intelligence, equity, creative achievement. All I bring is hugs and jokes, and who wants that. When I'm down, I see Nothing in myself.

I go to lunch. I can't fathom the thought of walking through a crowd of people, paired off and laughing, living and wearing fucking pink (enough already!), so I slouch to Marshall Fields to pay for an overpriced meal. I stand in a long line with my pre-made foodstuffs, waiting an eternity, when Sam, this worker that seems to recognize me from times before, waves me out of line to another register. Cool.

Even though it's cloudy and breezy, like a Morrissey song, I sit out by the Fountain as I often do. I like watching the kids play with the water shooting out of the fish mouths, and run around and climb on the metal Lion Statue. I think their innocence comforts me and reminds me of a better, younger me. And the laughter of a child helps ease my misery.

But today there is no one there, just the fountain shooting water into the spitting rain. I sit alone and stare at the Lion. I repeat the mantra "...I am in a good mood, I am in a good mood..." over and over slightly outloud, hoping some mind over matter thing will kick in. It doesn't seem to do anything.

My sandwich tastes like paper pulp, wadded up paper mache balls choking down my throat. I wash each bite down with a sip of Nantucket Orange Mango that seems to help open my constricting throat. Deep breathes.

People walking by sound like cackling, screaming monkeys in a concrete jungle. The shush of the wind and fountain is broken, and I flinch slightly, by a spastic eruption of high pitched adult laughter and gobblety-gook noises. I don't understand any words. A couple walks by holding hands, he offers to lift her up ontop of the Lion, she declines, laughing. He is white and she is Indian.

I go inside 15 minutes early.

I sit in the kitchen and talk to S.R. He invites me and three other coworkers to his party on Saturday. He graduated from a baking class. I want to invite a fourth.

Only 7 hours to go.

Later, I discuss the policy the company has on fulltime employees with the Designer, N.P. She has worked at two other stores, and said yes, there is such a thing as full time sales associates. Another Boss Frantic lie! She then tells me that her and the Boss have discussed me. That they think I'd be good as a Furniture Associate because of my commitment and patience with customers. And that the boss, supposedly, feels bad about dropping my pay to newbie status and that she actually likes me and would not like to see me go! WTF?!?!?!

N.P. suggested I talk to Boss Frantic about setting up a transfer to a furniture store downtown.

For some reason, the conversation puts me in a somewhat better mood, and I pick up my interaction with coworkers and customers. The last few hours drag, but I'm only in a half miserable mood. I don't take another break, but push on to close.

I get home. Eat a leftover McDonald's apple pie, and fall asleep on the too-small-couch during David Letterman before the Top Ten.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

To help a co-worker out,

I accepted to work from 10:00 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. tomorrow.

I am a Fool. And a Whore.

No entry (to speak of) tonight

My Stomach, Heart, and Mind ache tonight. My chest burns and clenches tight. Fucking hives. Pain and Confusion. Frustration. Lilly's never seen me cry before; so, she stares at me with Wide Green Eyes from the floor. I've slipped back to October 2004. One little trigger, and It's all been for Nothing???

Anger at Everything and Nothing. Only heard part of the story.
I feel I've already lost. I never had a chance. My own fault, I never learned to fight.
This Absurd Romantic Comedy is on a continuous loop.
My own Rules Of Attraction only without the fun. I'd be Mary, if I were a character from the book, only not as Romantic and Brave. Always writing "letters." Always in the background, a heartbeat from the action. Maybe I should put my candles and rings on the rim of the tub. Maybe it's time to turn on the water.

I fear that against all my hopes and dreams, when the Triangle breaks, a "V" will float above an "I" on the floor once again. I am always I.


"I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do...."


No man is an Island, but I am a Peninsula; and, ever so thinly connected. And the black thick water rubs the shore again and again and again under my cloudy moonless night.


There is Nothing on TV. All my music sounds annoying. I hate my furniture. Lilly is loud. The apartment is a mess. I tore it up to rearrange it Monday morning, and got called in early to work. I forgot the Plan.


I'm off the Path again. The forest around me is getting dark again. And the trees are becoming more and more dense. Their bark is starting to cut my face and arms and hands. I'm off the Path again. Animals turn their faces away. Even those that don't, can't see me. Even as I walk, pulling apart branches and pushing aside brambles, I am becoming Invisible and Silent. Somedays I don't even see me. My words make no Sound. Garbled and Meaningless, they slip out of my mouth and fall to the muddy ground. I can't breath in enough air to call out for help. I am choking on leaves and webs, there is No One there. The moon sits behind the clouds with another star.


I listened to Suicidal Tendencies Join the Army as loud as my two unblown car speakers could handle on the way home today, weaving in and out of traffic as fast as possible. Golf Road, McCormick, Howard--could not roll under my tires fast enough. I didn't know if I needed to run away from something or toward something. Nothing Here, Nothing There.
Tears on Howard for the second time.

I hit Every Red Light, every time.

I wanted to hit someone, to send a fist into the face of Someone I Didn't Know (again). I wanted/needed the shock of contact of my skin and bone hitting Something Tangible. Something Outside Myself. I'm tired of being the Bruised One. Of coming in Second Place with Others and, especially, with Myself. I wanted to hurt someone, anyone as much as I hurt now. But I knew I wouldn't, there won't be anyone there. And I'd feel terrible and guilty afterwards. I hate hurting others. Much more pleasure in hurting me.

And then I just wanted to hold someone. Close on a couch. My nose burrowed in their hair. Just for a while. Until I could breath again. Until I found The Path for us.

Monday, June 13, 2005

All right. Who needs bail?

This is not the number you want to see on your Caller ID display and then not have a message waiting:


More links about Lunar Park!


And a possible follow up to Less Than Zero? I'm drooling.

Last night I paced the apartment round and round for an Eternal Hour. Lost in my own mind and space. I wanted to call The Moon. No reason, just Need. But Fear held my hand, while my Heart hid in the corner. And then The Moon called me. In the merest span of Time all my emotions welled up inside me as all the phases of the moon seemed to scrolled by: New to Full and back to Black New. I shot for the moon and missed by an intestinal thread. But, at least The Moon still hangs in my sky, just out of reach. I can't see her, but it's good to know she's there. Posted by Hello

Sunday, June 12, 2005

That $30 could've gone to Jameson!

(Thursday,June 9th.)

Went to my Therapy place in "The Jungle" this morning.

For the majority of the 90 minutes there, I sat quietly and watched my guy, M&M, type my Treatment Plan into some database linked to Downtown (after it took twenty minutes for the tech guys fix his rejected password), watched the door, read two essays in Getting Even by Woody Allen, stared at the wall, read some photo-copied story hanging on the edge of his desk, in summary:

A White Guy and a Native American are walking down a loud, big city street. NA says he hears a cricket among all the racket. WG says no way. NA leads him to a bush a block away and shows him the cricket. "It all depends on what one is tuned into." Then NA drops some coins onto sidewalk and the crowd all rubber-necks and checks their own pockets. The End.

Nice story. I get the point, but it sure is hard to change 34 years of twisted thinking, eh?

Anyway. Then we walked out to the receptionist to schedule a Medical Evaluation with a psychiatrist in July to hook me up with drugs. Then back to the room where I looked over the Treatment Plan, signed something, talked about starting Group Therapy (which I lied and said I couldn't do the one today, work...King Procrastination rules again!). Besides, I'm a little nervous about that. Then off to meet for two minutes with his Director in an attempt to work out a cheaper rate for the meetings and group and such, but I didn't have a Check Stub and my W-2 on me, so that gets put off until next week. But I have no faith that they'll lower it since I'm actually employed/employable.

Then, out the in hall M&M nervously says good-bye and I leave. (he is a constantly moving, rubbing his face, absent minded, stocky chap. Don't get me wrong--he's very nice and VERY well read, keeps dropping all these Netherlands authors /doctors I should read)

So, basically, I paid $30 today to read my own book and a bit of air conditioning. Look out road to wellville, here I come! Yee-haw!

It would take ALOT of PVC to cover that Ass!

I forgot to mention this little tidbit.

Someone at the work party Friday night let slip that Boss Frantic is into "a little punishment" wink wink nudge nudge know what I mean? The Croatian Gyration Sensation re-told the story about how one day Boss Frantic slapped her ass, which freaked her out (obvs, as I've heard this story brought up about 3 times). That's when the person brought up the possible Italian Kinkfest Fetish. Which is weird because this person telling the story is friends with the boss and rumor has it NEVER speak badly about the boss in front of her; it'll get back to the boss.

The image of all that PVC stretched around that S&M Bondage Booty sent me looking for the Jello-shots! Lemon and Raspberry, please.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Just Another Day Off

I spent most of the morning hiding/mourning in bed, dreaming and wishing life were different. A bunch of "what-ifs" running through my head. What if I'd got my shit together and gone to Bennington? What if I'd studied more? What if I'd partied less? What if I'd stood up for myself more often? What if I'd actually leaned in to kiss them when that feeling took hold of me? What if I'd actually asked them out? What if I'd never asked her what they meant? What if I'd handled that situation with M.R. better? What if I killed myself? Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda, blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda.

I am so sick of myself.

I have no energy this week. I drift off, then awake maybe a half hour later. Lilly is there with me. Petting her, she licks my fingers, then stares at the wall--Bright Green Eyes in the Sunlight. I pretend this melancholy and tiredness is because I haven't had any coffee, but I know better; as, I've been here before, This Low. (J.F.--people are looking cartoonish again, colorful shadows swirling before my unfocused eyes. I look out the window at lunch, like TV again, but the antenna is disconnected, loose wiring.)

I check email. Nothing. I still need to reply to people, but the words I create seem Meaningless, or, and the very least, yawn-inducing boring.

Go back to bed. Lilly sits in the window, staring at birds. I think about crying to help expel some of this Black Lump of Sadness clogging up my insides, but can't.

At 2:35 p.m. I make some coffee just to wake up, to shake off this Grubby Zombie Mind. I look like The Scream guy. I drag a chair on to the back porch and start to hand-write this. Someone down the block is blasting Aretha Franklin albums (Respect) and other Motown songs. It's warm, but a nice breeze makes its way into my alcove.

The building across the street just got new windows installed. None of the apartments' window "dressings" match. The top floor has white drapes. A single tiny plant sits on a sill and a silent moving wind chime flickers copper in the wind and sun. The second floor is hidden behind 3 regular Venetian blinds, but the middle one is green, not white. The far left one is raised, exposing Red Lace draped across the window, partially pulled to the side to reveal the back of a photography studio chair: rattan and rounded, like a smaller version of the famous Huey P. Newton photograph with shotgun. The ground floor has those vertical blinds you find in office buildings and doctor's offices. The window is open without a screen. I think the occupant maybe deals drugs out through there. People are always hanging around outside it, and talking to the (possibly) short Mexican man within, briefly. I think I caught a quick glimpse of him today as a mom and two boys did some sort of transaction. She stuffing things into her small black purse before they walked away. Later, a sister and her brother (12-14?) tried looking into the window, then started a slap fight with each other. Walked away. About twenty minutes later, they walked past again. She had him in a head-lock and bent forward walking down the block. His right pant leg pulled up--Folks?

strangely, people seem to walk past two or three times today. That black lady with an African/Caribbean Turban and Scottish-looking blue shorts. The older man who's constantly working on his red truck. That kid drinking Yoohoo and spitting on the bushes. That petite girl in a denim skirt. Back and forth.

Apparently a "Troy" lives down from me in the next stoop. Five guys parked by the building, yelling "Troy!" Walked past to the front of the building and got buzzed in and then walked past me inside the gate. One, the shortest one, responded with a half smile and mouthed "hi" to my silent nod greeting.

The sound of basketballs are as constant as the ticking of a clock here.

Someone scratched "Zilo" into a brick by my (empty) neighboring apartment's back door.

Mostly I'm staring off into space or into the trees in front of me. So many people carrying black garbage bags or Dominicks bags, or have black hair. The old man still works on his truck. Somewhere in the breeze a couple argue. All I can understand is "...I ain't no mothafucka!" Pigeons feed in the street, slow to move out of car's way.

Someday, I'd like to bring two chairs out here. Sit with a girlfriend, sip drinks in a warm night. Make her laugh, kiss softly and hold hands or just get lost in her Eyes, Face, and Hair.

I used to do that. With my last girlfriend. Her and her roommates had a huge deck out back with a picnic table. It looked onto a bushy, tree-filled small yard. We'd get up in the morning, legs slightly sore and body dehydrated from the night before, but rested. We'd sit at the table, holding hands, sipping our coffee and sharing a couple of Camel Lights for a couple hours or minutes if one of us had to work that day. Those cool Autumn mornings we'd cuddle close on the bench, clutching our mugs in both hands to stave off the chill.

I miss that feeling.

The old man at the truck drops his tools. It sounds like a game of horseshoes. He whistles along to the radio and claps his hands to the music. Madonna's "Love Don't Live Here Anymore" comes on. One of my favorite songs from that album, so sad. I used to yearn for that kind of pain as a teen, now I'd do so much to be rid of it.

A girl walks by making bubbles.

Lilly is sprawled out asleep on the kitchen tile.

I go inside, make a salad, and watch About Last Night... and sigh.

What about the lady across the street?

Ah, the latest intellectual Yahoo Search to bring someone to My Cube:

"ramming my cock in the lady next door"

Such romantic poetry; but, please, just Cubes, no Cocks.

(I appeared as the number two site for that search, interesting enough) Have a nice penis-- urm, I mean, Day!

My neighborhood smells

like a skunk crushed on the highway tonight. My eyes watered as I drove around (and around) searching for parking.

Last night, Skokie smelled of dead skunk on the way home from work. Is this a theme of this summer?

Just got back from a co-workers party: Buzzed and high school and university all over again. Just need to smoke a joint and call mommy crying at 3 a.m., and it'll be my third year all over again. With The Cure or The Smiths playing in the background.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Bloody Hell!

Chicagoist: Ask Chicagoist: The Stolen Glances

Again, with the timing. In life there are no accidents (?); I am just out of step.

Manhattan Transfer Link

Man, I like the way this man writes about Bars, Conversations, and Life and such.

Here he delves into the official start of Summer, Whiskey, and Deep Throat Conspiracies.

Pass the Wild Turkey...tonight.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

You may want to take a break from My Cube

because I feel like I swallowed a big bowl of bad barbituates.

I'm just going to be moping around and moaning out loud and whining in the corner and pouting unproud for a while. To the point where people I don't know start shouting, "Beeyatch, get a Fricking Grip, man!" Can't help it: I'm a big lazy baby who sets himself up for Heartache time and time again. Too many romantic comedies as a child, too many books devoured, too many happy life is compared against lies and fiction and my own imagination; Nothing comes easy, Life does not.

But I never learned that lesson. I am a Bitter and Cynical Child. So much Unlearned, Unexperienced, and Unseen. And I don't see that I ever will (at this point).

I am Haunted by those Mushroom Visions of 1993/1994: "You are a Hub for Others, Nothing stops on you." And "Dead by 35."

Dead by 35.
Dead by 35.
Dead by 35.

So much Unlearned, Unexperienced, and Unseen.

These meds aren't working, this shrink talks too much, I cycle and recycle events and's all Revolution, never Evolution. My treadmill goes on and on and on.


All this is overblown, melodramatic exaggeration of my mind and soul; when you have Nothing, you make a Moutain out of a Mole Hill.

You shed tears over people you never Knew. You dream ahead of reality. You pretend things are getting better when they're not. You pretend you've found Hope. You pretend you don't know how this is All Going To End. You believe in your own Lie. And you hate yourself for it when it falls apart again and again.

Nothing matters, nothing matters, No Things Matter.
Why can't I actually believe that?

I hate being passive-aggressive, but I am (and am trying to change).

My heart feels like this and my life feels like it's in a constant state of this.
(Thanks for the perfect imagery, Beautiful Decay)

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

I need to work on my Dialogue

This mash-up (opens Quicktime player) seems to almost capture the mood (via Don't waste the pretty).

The thick, hot, wet air hung heavy in the apartment. I tried watching the News, but it was all Fire, Rape, and Cut Throats. I couldn't deal, couldn't focus. My skin itched and burned and bubbled. The cushion/blanket/pillow I sprawled on wouldn't give me comfort, no matter how many times I punched and twisted them. I turned the TV off and moved to The Cube.

Lilly is flat on the wood floor, breathing slowly. Too hot for petting. The air refuses to be pushed by the Box Fan next to the purple chair. It just hangs Heavy and full of Unshed Tears. I slowly sip my drink, the many Cold Cubes kiss my lips then slid away.

"Hot enough for ya?" He said behind me. I hadn't heard him come in, but knew he'd been around, that he'd been lingering about quietly for a few days now in the darkened corners and the inner shadows. "Need a refill?"

"Yes, please."

He took my glass from my hand and headed into the kitchen. I could hear the Cubes clink and rattle from ice tray to glass. His strode heavy, but noiselessly back with one drink extended and one drink for himself.

"A toast to you, my friend." He said tapping our glasses together and smiling sadly, "welcome me back; it has been too long."

We drank slowly staring at each other, sizing, or rather, re-sizing each other up; getting reacquainted with the presence of each other. Many years had past since I last sat with him and shared a drink. Six years, maybe seven. So much had changed, yet so little at the same time (however the cliche goes). He seemed about the same, maybe a little darker, a little older, a little more intimidating. Yet he still had that ability to pull you in, to consume all your attention, to make you think about things "unthinkable." Endings and Never-endings, the same old story of mine.

"Did you miss me?"

"Fuck you."

He closes his eyes and laughs hard, head thrown back. "Ah, ever the eloquent speaker, no?" he tips his glass toward me, "come now, surely you can't mean that. Without me in your life, you have Nothing going on."

"Please, go away."

"Why would you say such a thing? Do you not like the company? Do you prefer to be completely Alone? We have known each other for so many many long years. You wouldn't know how to be without me around."

"You hurt me deep, everytime. You make me tired and shy and sad. I have trouble speaking, forming words and getting the breath to push them out of my mouth. I accomplish Nothing. I spend all Time focused on You. I feel dragged down from the Inside. Please go."

"But I cannot. I am a part of you. I am intertwined in your blood and flesh, your very DNA." He paused letting this sunk in, knodding. "We will only part when you die."

"I know." I sighed. "Will you at least get me another drink?"

"Of course, my brother."

As he again re-filled our glasses, he shouted out from the kitchen, "Hey, what was that you said the other day when you were thinking about me? About the sun and moon?"

"When the Moon is full, it is full because the Sun Shines on it. I only observe the phenomenon. I don't recall how to be the Sun."

"Ah, yes. I liked that very much. I am sorry, but I don't think you shall ever be the Sun or the Moon. But you'll always have me for many years to come, right?"

I couldn't answer. I just stared at the floor, gripping my glass tightly.

I hoped he didn't see the tear.

Monday, June 06, 2005

I am so livid angry, pissed off now

I had a whole dialogue typed out about tonight and, my Fucking, cocksucking, fart-eating, sulfur fire shooting computer fucking crashed!

I am so pissed, I could literally beat a body to a pulp. I want to sledge hammer this piece of shit to the ground.

It involved an entire dialogue with myself and the heavy black sadness of my past.

For once, I was actually pleased with the telling of the story. Secrets were threaded throughout. Hints and History bleeding through your monitor.

But God and Microsoft and Gateway decided to pull together censor that shit.

I am soooooooooooooo pissed off right now.

Book List!

Here is what I bought at the Brandeis Used Book Fair:

  1. Books One, Two and 3 of the Star Wars X-Wing Series (one of my guilty pleasure readings)
  2. Four books by Terry Brooks as I liked The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (that I read as 3 separate editions)
  3. Two books by Roger Zelazny because I am a huge fan of his Amber Chronicles
  4. Woody Allen's Getting Even
  5. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (never read it)
  6. Franz Kafka's The Trial
  7. Fydor Dostoyevsky's The Possessed
  8. Friedrich Nietzshe's Twilight of the Idols/The Anti-Christ
  9. Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar (move over, girl, and pass the stones; or was it in the oven?)
  10. Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-five or The Children's Crusade
  11. Norman Mailer's The Naked and The Dead
  12. Stephen Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower
  13. Adam Davies' The Frog King
  14. Laura Shaine Cunningham's Beautiful Blondes: A Novel (For the record, I prefer Brunettes, thank you)
  15. David Benioff's The 25th Hour: A Novel
  16. Lauren Weisberger's The Devil Wears Prada: A Novel
  17. Adam Langer's Crossing California
  18. Emma McLaughlin & Nicola Kraus' The Nanny Diaries
  19. Alex Garland's The Tesseract
  20. Plum Sykes' Bergdorf Blondes (yes, I read Chick Lit. I've even read Sex & The City!)
  21. Nicole Mones' Lost in Translation
  22. and, finally, Grant Naylor's Red Dwarf

And three movies for cheap on VHS (hope the work):

  1. "About Last Night"
  2. New York Stories ("Life Lessons" is the best of the 3)
  3. and The Last Days of Disco (because I love Whit Stillman works)

Don't worry, there should still be some left for all yooz guyz.