Friday, April 22, 2005
the new rash
this week I got some bad news. I don't suppose the details are necessary. let's just say it was a major disappointment for me. but I didn't yell. I didn't kick anything over. I went outside and ran for awhile. down the streets nearby. through the middle of the parkway. when I arrived back home I picked up my guitar and started working on songs.
I'll never be the same. I'll never be more broken then I am right now in some ways. that's because I finally believe in my heart a saying I've paid lip service to in the past: some things just aren't meant to be. and with that realization comes the responsibility to let go of the urge to manipulate the universe into putting you where your feet wish they were planted. somewhere on the other side of your destiny. if you will.
so I'll never be the same. I'll never be stronger then I am right now in some ways. I didn't weep. it's not really that kind of thing. no one died. not exactly. but in that moment of despair I realized I was actually at peace. and that is very powerful. then I went to work on my new rash. a crop of songs oddly comforting. like a counselor with twelve faces each speaking something to me I had forgottin.
the next day I told a friend- 'when I'm focused on one thing I'm a very dangerous person'. what I meant is that right now all I have to work on is these songs. some other things didn't materialize. or perhaps they disappeared. it's like I saw an ice block. it was beautiful. I was mesmerized by it's contours and glistening silence. time passed. and when it had melted I looked around and noticed I had fallen asleep. I was in a large banquet hall. but the party had moved to another location and I had been left behind.
but I didn't really belong. I was better off elsewhere. somewhere at a different party. that's really what I believed. and I was right. and I'm better off for it.
I'll never be the same. I'll never be more broken then I am right now in some ways. that's because I finally believe in my heart a saying I've paid lip service to in the past: some things just aren't meant to be. and with that realization comes the responsibility to let go of the urge to manipulate the universe into putting you where your feet wish they were planted. somewhere on the other side of your destiny. if you will.
so I'll never be the same. I'll never be stronger then I am right now in some ways. I didn't weep. it's not really that kind of thing. no one died. not exactly. but in that moment of despair I realized I was actually at peace. and that is very powerful. then I went to work on my new rash. a crop of songs oddly comforting. like a counselor with twelve faces each speaking something to me I had forgottin.
the next day I told a friend- 'when I'm focused on one thing I'm a very dangerous person'. what I meant is that right now all I have to work on is these songs. some other things didn't materialize. or perhaps they disappeared. it's like I saw an ice block. it was beautiful. I was mesmerized by it's contours and glistening silence. time passed. and when it had melted I looked around and noticed I had fallen asleep. I was in a large banquet hall. but the party had moved to another location and I had been left behind.
but I didn't really belong. I was better off elsewhere. somewhere at a different party. that's really what I believed. and I was right. and I'm better off for it.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
breakfast: 11am
so many of my favorite things come with toast on the side.
I think breakfast is the best meal. that's likely because my family excelled at cooking breakfast. or maybe it was because my family was so bad at cooking lunch and dinner. the best dinners we had were pancakes and eggs. one of my staple meals was a bowl of grape nuts with wheat germ scooped over the top. wheat toast on the side, of course.
I'll take pancakes or french toast over tuna casserole anyday. it was later on in life when I found meat could be soft. it doesn't always have to be incredibly chewey. it can even be moist. curious. and fish doesn't only come in a can or as a breaded frozen stick. I'm telling you, I've learned so much about food since moving away from home. but breakfast is still best.
so- over easy with toast, please.
I think breakfast is the best meal. that's likely because my family excelled at cooking breakfast. or maybe it was because my family was so bad at cooking lunch and dinner. the best dinners we had were pancakes and eggs. one of my staple meals was a bowl of grape nuts with wheat germ scooped over the top. wheat toast on the side, of course.
I'll take pancakes or french toast over tuna casserole anyday. it was later on in life when I found meat could be soft. it doesn't always have to be incredibly chewey. it can even be moist. curious. and fish doesn't only come in a can or as a breaded frozen stick. I'm telling you, I've learned so much about food since moving away from home. but breakfast is still best.
so- over easy with toast, please.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
little league
“do you guys know what a keg is?”
coach was late today. We were standing in the park by the school looking down at our cleats and the grass beneath when he arrived. He was scruffy and bleary-eyed. He looked exhausted- he said he hadn’t slept much the night before. Did he have the flu? That’s the first thing that came to my mind. So when he asked if we knew what a keg was my brain sat silent for one small moment- I hadn’t heard that one before-------
“It’s this big barrel full of beer. Me and a few buddies drained one together last night. oooooooooooh”
as coach let out his groan he stretched toward the sky- elongating his crumpled wind breaker and faded jeans. Of course my mind raced back to the keg. And what it must look like. I quickly determined by his appearance that it had to be pretty damn big. But how big? Certainly not so huge that several people couldn’t empty it’s contents.
Of course I knew what beer was. The paraplegic man across the street drank 12 a day. He’d sit in his electric wheel chair in the dankest furthest place in the house watching star trek tapes. occasionally he would yell for another one- “mark! Get me a beer!” one of his three boys would run to the fridge in the back of the house. It was stocked full of ‘beer’. Brown bottle. White paper label. ‘beer’ printed on it in big black capital letters. I would know. I fetched a few beers for him myself.
“jon!”
running down the ramp connecting the kitchen to the back of the house I almost slipped on the wet dust. It was everywhere in the house. Covered almost everything in the house. Seemed to be some sort of a paint for the house. On my way into his room I passed the fridge on my right.
“get me a beer.”
“yessir”
I turned around and left the little black room. The big screen TV now behind me, I noticed the flickers of light it sent out into the fridge room. Soon I arrived at his side, beer in hand. He drank it through a one foot rubbery tube. As soon as the new ‘beer’ was positioned in the arm rest with the tube near his lips he sucked a long gulp. it was not unlike what I imagined drawing breath from an oxygen tank would be like.
“thank you. Now---reach into my shirt pocket and pull out a cigarette. OK. Now put it in that holder. Put it in my mouth. OK. Now reach into my other shirt pocket and get my lighter. Light it---Roll your thumb over that thing---Your thumb---don’t you know how to use a lighter?”
“Mark! Come light my cigarette!”
when I gave him his cigarette I would notice things. Things like his long brown fingernails. And his yellow ashy skin. and his long dark hair that resembled the threads of an old broom. The beer tube looked pretty old too. I think it was once clear. Presently it’s flowing contents moved like a shadow through a brown splotchy mist. Yes- I knew what beer was. And I knew where beer went too- looking down at his thin leg you could see the tube. The other tube. This one was an exit. He didn’t pee. He drained. And the bag was located down underneath his chair. I believe I changed that a few times. But we’re talking about beer so I’ll spare you the------
“ooooooooooooooh”.
Coach let out another groan. His blurry smirk looked tough to wipe away. Actually it looked permanent. He seemed pretty proud of his journey with this keg and these buddies of his. I must admit, it did sound sort of impressive. Eyeing us for a moment he stretched lazily one more time. Then his body bent as he reached down toward his right foot. As he pulled up his pant leg I began to wonder what he was reaching for. A knife? I couldn’t think of any reason why coach would stab any of us. A G.I. Joe figure? I doubted coach was a shoplifter. Not for toys anyways. He pulled down his sock a bit and revealed the brown edge of a candy bar. A snickers. Pulling a chunky plug off the end of it, coach called us to order:
“well. Let’s get started.”
coach was late today. We were standing in the park by the school looking down at our cleats and the grass beneath when he arrived. He was scruffy and bleary-eyed. He looked exhausted- he said he hadn’t slept much the night before. Did he have the flu? That’s the first thing that came to my mind. So when he asked if we knew what a keg was my brain sat silent for one small moment- I hadn’t heard that one before-------
“It’s this big barrel full of beer. Me and a few buddies drained one together last night. oooooooooooh”
as coach let out his groan he stretched toward the sky- elongating his crumpled wind breaker and faded jeans. Of course my mind raced back to the keg. And what it must look like. I quickly determined by his appearance that it had to be pretty damn big. But how big? Certainly not so huge that several people couldn’t empty it’s contents.
Of course I knew what beer was. The paraplegic man across the street drank 12 a day. He’d sit in his electric wheel chair in the dankest furthest place in the house watching star trek tapes. occasionally he would yell for another one- “mark! Get me a beer!” one of his three boys would run to the fridge in the back of the house. It was stocked full of ‘beer’. Brown bottle. White paper label. ‘beer’ printed on it in big black capital letters. I would know. I fetched a few beers for him myself.
“jon!”
running down the ramp connecting the kitchen to the back of the house I almost slipped on the wet dust. It was everywhere in the house. Covered almost everything in the house. Seemed to be some sort of a paint for the house. On my way into his room I passed the fridge on my right.
“get me a beer.”
“yessir”
I turned around and left the little black room. The big screen TV now behind me, I noticed the flickers of light it sent out into the fridge room. Soon I arrived at his side, beer in hand. He drank it through a one foot rubbery tube. As soon as the new ‘beer’ was positioned in the arm rest with the tube near his lips he sucked a long gulp. it was not unlike what I imagined drawing breath from an oxygen tank would be like.
“thank you. Now---reach into my shirt pocket and pull out a cigarette. OK. Now put it in that holder. Put it in my mouth. OK. Now reach into my other shirt pocket and get my lighter. Light it---Roll your thumb over that thing---Your thumb---don’t you know how to use a lighter?”
“Mark! Come light my cigarette!”
when I gave him his cigarette I would notice things. Things like his long brown fingernails. And his yellow ashy skin. and his long dark hair that resembled the threads of an old broom. The beer tube looked pretty old too. I think it was once clear. Presently it’s flowing contents moved like a shadow through a brown splotchy mist. Yes- I knew what beer was. And I knew where beer went too- looking down at his thin leg you could see the tube. The other tube. This one was an exit. He didn’t pee. He drained. And the bag was located down underneath his chair. I believe I changed that a few times. But we’re talking about beer so I’ll spare you the------
“ooooooooooooooh”.
Coach let out another groan. His blurry smirk looked tough to wipe away. Actually it looked permanent. He seemed pretty proud of his journey with this keg and these buddies of his. I must admit, it did sound sort of impressive. Eyeing us for a moment he stretched lazily one more time. Then his body bent as he reached down toward his right foot. As he pulled up his pant leg I began to wonder what he was reaching for. A knife? I couldn’t think of any reason why coach would stab any of us. A G.I. Joe figure? I doubted coach was a shoplifter. Not for toys anyways. He pulled down his sock a bit and revealed the brown edge of a candy bar. A snickers. Pulling a chunky plug off the end of it, coach called us to order:
“well. Let’s get started.”
