The Problem with Love

I wake up this morning and have another of those "shower conversations" where, in my head, I'm talking to the girl, explaining to her why we should be together in another grand romantic gesture. Basically the inside of my head is a romantic comedy, a postmodern romantic comedy, because it's very aware of itself and it's adapting the scene with each new minor epiphany about the source of my delusional idealism.

I think a lot of us do this these days.

Then I'm getting ready for work, and on CNN is a story about violence in the media, about video games and the like, and I'm thinking that everything wrong with me isn't because of violence-saturation, it's because of romance-saturation. It's because of every Matthew McConaughey picture I've ever seen, every Jennifer Aniston film, and all the Lifetime Originals that my mother had on the television when I was growing up.

It's that fucking idealism that every romantic comedy puts into our young, identity-starved adolescent minds.

It's that fucking concept of "the one".

It's those goddamn love songs.

Recently it occurred to me that the reason the divorce rate is so high is because of globalization, because of the internet, and because of our media-saturation. Who can blame us when we get married at 21 and then at 24 notice that our marriages aren't all stellar love-making and swelling string sections like that new Garry Marshall film we saw? Who can blame us for wanting to try again when every website has an ad with a beautiful woman or a successful man promising that we too can meet local singles and find cinematic love?

Behind every church door is Katharine Ross waiting to run away with you. With the right words, you too can get back the one that got away, and just in time for your happy ending.

We're just one jump cut away from blissful reunion.

We're just one glorious apology away from the rest of our lives.

So it is with all of these thoughts that I come to the conclusion that at least as many of our society's problems can be attributed to our portrayal of love in the media as to our portrayal of violence. Yet no one seems to notice.

It's like we're all idealists, and none of us can truly destroy our own belief in happily-ever-afters. Even after our latest heartbreak has forced the gleam from our eyes, we still live our lives waiting for someone to prove us wrong, for some persistent young musician to melt our frozen hearts and teach us how to dance.

And maybe it's not at all like this.

As a writer, it's an excess of empathy that fuels my life, that enables me to get inside the mind of every character I write, and it's this same excess of empathy that allowed me to see reflections of my future in every romantic comedy my mother watched in the living room when I was growing up. It's this empathy that made me put myself in the protagonist's shoes in every Lifetime special.

And maybe it's just me. While I would say my mother had a stronger hand in raising me, my parents are still together and still happy, and in the suburbs of America, they took great pains to impress upon me that love and happiness are very much alive.

But I know about the Empathic Civilization. I know that our society as a whole is experiencing more and more empathy in each generation, and I think this complex extends to a lot of us. I haven't been on reddit long, but I've seen the depth of intellect and empathy that exists here, so I think that a lot of you will be able to relate.

I don't think there's really anything to be done about this particular aspect of the Postmodern era, because like any proper addict, I've seen the ill effects of this delusion and have now weighed the cost, but I find myself still wanting to believe.

I find myself wanting the guy to get the girl every time I write a story.

I find myself believing in and waiting for this final triumph that I've only ever experienced vicariously in the dark of the cinema and in the warmth of the living room.

Water and Fear

And this is where shit gets weird.

You walk into a room and everyone that you're sure was talking about you, now they're all staring at their hands. Everyone is terrified of something, and you wonder if they can sense your resentment, if they're picking up on your animosity.

These clones.

These sad, lifeless husks.

Maybe you have Capgras delusion.

Maybe you can finally get committed and stop worrying.

You should be so lucky.

So you wake up another morning and prepare yourself for your own hatred and arrogance by scanning your DVD collection or your book collection and confirming that yes, you do have better taste than anyone at film school.

You are the next Stanley Kubrick.

You are the next Charlie Kaufman.

But then this depresses the shit out of you, because you've seen Adaptation, you know what a sad, neurotic motherfucker Charlie Kaufman is.

Are you prepared to choose between spending the rest of your brilliant life either heavily medicated and emotionless or in the perpetual grip of your own depression and anxiety?

Are you prepared to end your life at the age of twenty-seven like so many of your artistic influences?

Oh, stop being so melodramatic.

You are not the projected images of your childhood.

You are not the collected portrayals of one hundred years of cinematic experiences.

You do not have to die in slow motion.

You do not have a symphonic score.

You are a person, carbon-based and warm-blooded.

You are various cells all running the same genetic script.

You are mostly water and fear.

File > Save As...

Water and Fear.

The Eye Exam (Part 1)

I write in cliches.
I write this down because I think it will be a clever opening line.
I write about writing this down, and then decide to remove it, but then I think I'll probably put this back in at some stage in the process, thinking that this is all important, that this sets the stage of my mind, thinking Oh, how very Henry Miller I'm being, and now you, having read the opening, you've come to the conclusion that yes, I did put it back in and now you're trapped, wondering Oh, what will come next from this scattered and cheeky narrator, wondering if you can stand this level of self-awareness and posturing for whatever ungodly amount of pages I have surely rambled upon (315, thank you, publisher's proof), and if you're perusing just the first page in some bookstore, seriously, just put it down; it only gets worse, and if you've already bought it, well, maybe you should make better life decisions, maybe I should have warned you, but it's too late now, the store's closed until at the earliest 9am, the bath water is hot and the candles are lit, so settle in, it's gonna be fun, for me at least.
Oh, how very post-modern.
I abandon writing tonight.
I'm way too fucking stoned for this.
It lasts three days, the abandonment not the stonedness, only because I have better things to do than sit alone and nothing at all to say.
I'm in Wal-Mart having an eye exam.
Oh, this is going to jump around a lot.
Fair warning.
I'm sorry?
I'm in Wal-Mart because I'm broke as shit and their eye exams are twenty bucks cheaper than anywhere else and my prescription is expired and I'm down to my last murky, worn pair of contact lenses.
I won't wear my glasses outside the house because I think maybe I look foolish.
I won't wear my glasses outside the house because I can't wear sunglasses with them, and well shit, sunglasses are fucking cool.
The optometrist's name is Richard Slick.
No joke.
When he's out of the room, I take a photo on my phone of his framed degree, because I have an exceptionally cynical mind and expect everyone else to as well, so I like to always have proof of everything I might later relate to a friend.
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Proof of Everything.

Well Enough Alone

God, it's been a long time. I know you'll never read this, but there are a few things I have to say. I wanted to write them in a song, but I can't make any of them rhyme or fit into nice lyrical patterns, but I have to get them out.

I hate that my heart freezes up every time you mention another guy's name that I don't recognize. I hate that every time I'm with you, you burrow a hole deep into my heart, and that as soon as you leave it feels like it'll never close. I hate that you're moving, even though I know it's probably the best thing that can happen for me, because I probably won't ever see you again if you go. I hate that I feel this all over again for a brand new girl in the same old city.

I think it's probably time for me to leave here as well.

Oh, Me.

Man, I'm shitty. I'm sick. It's raining fucking loads. I have no idea what's going on with this girl. I can't concentrate at work, and I know they're going to want to finish this goddamn duck poem. Last week I thought it was pretty good. This week I'm like, "Blaargh, it's too goddamned happy."

I just want to sit here at my computer and brood. Well, really I just want to call Paige and leave work early to meet up with her somewhere. I don't know. She's one of those girls with a million friends. It's really bumming me out. Everywhere we go, she knows someone, and she makes plans with them. then I think, "Wait. Am I just one of those guys that's always trying to make plans with this girl? Am I gonna end up being one of those guys that falls in love with her and then just hangs around forever waiting for her to want to be in a relationship?" UGH.

This is the worst blog entry of all time. It's like fucking high school. I'll probably delete it.

She wants me to direct another film and put her in it. I do too, but I'm doing my best to give her the run around. I don't want her to only like me because I'm advantageous. Then again, I am advantageous and I realize that that's a good way in at least. I'm such a sucker.

Well, maybe that's all over now that I've gotten it out. Let's hope this cold clears up and I stop being so depressed and anxious all the time. Oh, me.

A Not-Long-Enough December

I really want to do a write up of all the things I accomplished last year, but that will have to wait.

There's a girl. Her name is Paige, and I want to detail the story in its entirety here.

I believe I mentioned this monumental event previously. Early in the semester, I arrived late to my Creative Writing class as I would be doing every Thursday, and I saw no seats in the large circular formation of desks. I was super bummed, thinking this would be happening every Thursday and I'd never get to know anyone. Then a beautiful girl smiled at me and patted the open desk beside her. This was Paige.

Over the course of the semester, I was invited several times to Zipp's by two other girls in the class, one of which, Michelle, whom I was keenly interested in, and the other, Tammy, whom I felt was a little too old for me. Eventually more and more of my classmates were invited, including Paige, and I got to talk to her a little.

A bit later in the semester, I was chosen to direct the class project for my Film Noir class, and I thought to cast Michelle as the femme fatale, because she was interested and had a great look for it, but then Tammy suggested Paige. They were both interested, but Paige had to work during the auditions and Michelle didn't show up.

Given further consideration, I decided Tammy was right, and Paige had a better look for the part and some acting experience, so I offered her the part outright. We made the film. She looked beautiful and performed admirably. I was in my element and at the top of my game running that set. It was a wonderful day.

During this time I was beginning to realize that I wasn't really that interested in Michelle, despite her being a very clever writer, and my attention shifted. I didn't really pursue Paige because she was only 21 and I thought that might be a problem for her.

We all spent more time at Zipp's and hanging out after class. Michelle got a job at the restaurant where Paige worked.

On the last day of class, we hung out for the final at Zipp's, and the two of them left a little early. Tammy sat next to me and said that she had told Paige that I liked her. Thanks, Tammy. About ten minutes later, I get a text from Paige saying, "Hey do u maybe wanna get a drink with me sometime?" I'd love too.

Actually I was a little concerned that this might have been a "pity" asking-out prompted by Tammy's revelation. Oh well, I'd take it.

I went to Vegas two days later, and with finals and everything we didn't communicate much. Then this week, a few days had gone by since I returned from Vegas and left her a message, and she still hadn't called me back. I decided I was going to visit her and Michelle at work, so I texted Michelle Sunday night to find out if they were working Monday. They were.

Michelle called me and I told her what was going on. She said, "Paige has a huge crush on you." Bam. During this conversation, Paige actually texted me and apologized about not getting back to me. I told her I was going to come into her work the next day and hang out with her and Michelle since my other job was right around the corner.

That morning, Paige texted me saying they overscheduled and she wouldn't be working. She wanted to know if I'd grab lunch with her somewhere. I went into Taylor's Cafe anyway after my meeting, because I didn't want to bail on Michelle, and then I headed off to meet Paige for lunch at Sakkana, which she chose for its proximity to Guitar Center. I had to work at 2.

We had a wonderful lunch which she absolutely insisted on paying for. I went as far as I was willing to demand I pay for it without it getting weird and out-of-hand, and then I forfeited. I bought her a drink next door at Crust, and then walking out, I said that I'd like to take her out on a real date sometime. She said, "Then you should."

I texted her from work saying that she had looked beautiful. That night we texted back and forth. The next day, I asked her if I could take her on a date that night, since it would be my only day off for a while, but she was going to see Avatar with her father at 7 and had to work in the morning, so we scheduled for the next day immediately following the writing workshop our class had started.

At 6:15 she texted me saying that the movie was sold out, and asking if I still wanted to go out. Ten minutes later, I said yes, I'd love to, got dressed and then didn't hear back from her all night.

The next day, I texted her to see if we were still on for that night. She said she thought she was getting sick and probably wouldn't attend the workshop.

A friend called me later about the workshop and when I told him that Paige wouldn't be attending, he said he had visited Michelle and Paige at work, and she was indeed looking quite sick. Just before I got out of work, Paige called sounding quite dreadful, and asked if I would be willing to pick her up to go to the workshop.

This filled me with a surprising amount of glee. I said sure, asked her to text me her address, and told her I'd call her once I was out. When I called, however, she said she had changed her mind and decided it would probably be best just to stay in and get some sleep. I wished her good health, and turned around toward the workshop.

I texted her after the meeting, and we talked a bit before bed. I told her the story about the chicken noodle soup and the rose, which I'll probably have to detail someday in this blog.

So yesterday was New Year's Eve, and it occurred to me that I've accomplished a lot this year. I mean a massive amount. That's why I want to write an entry dedicated to just how much I drove myself to do this year. I didn't get a girlfriend, however, and it occurred to me that this would be another of many many years without a midnight kiss.

That probably sounds silly, but I've never ever had a girlfriend on a New Year's Eve, and that's always seemed like something I'd like to do at least once. Well, I started thinking about how maybe it was time to finally pull off the chicken noodle soup feat, and how this was possibly the most perfect opportunity I was likely to get, at least with Paige.

I texted her from work to see if she was going to be staying in, hoping that maybe I could drop by for a bit before going to see a friend that lives in Japan that I haven't seen in 5 years, but alas, Paige was going to old town with some friends. Oh well. I'll have to do it some other time.

So anyway, there is a girl. Her name is Paige. I just couldn't quite make it all happen in 2009. Hopefully it will happen in 2010.

Pretending To Live

Here I sit at my own desk, in an office of moderate size, with four desks, a small open-faced cabinet that seems as though someone has been using in place of a fifth desk, or at least for the same flat-surfaced purposes a desk would serve. The job I have promised has come. I've fretted and whined and cowered and screamed for a night and a day, but I am here now, and things are looking like they will be well, like I will do adequately at the very least, or perhaps even exceptionally.

Last night I thought I would cry. With the fear of this morning shadowing me, I thought of my mother growing old, as I often did as a child. I thought of her dying as she one day must, and I thought about that distinct, piercing despair that in hours like those I can imagine so precisely, as though the inevitable here were indeed the history elsewhere in some imperceivable world in which my enslaved mind did sometimes tarry. I thought of the old promise of suicide that her death could drive me to keep.

I went to bed, and when I awoke it had passed. I showered in a hurry, ate breakfast, and found that I had nearly an hour to sit and brood. It had not passed after all. I felt tired suddenly, and scared, and as my mother went over the lesson plans I had developed, I felt the familiar disconnection clouding my mind. I found myself staring at my mother's questioning gaze. "What?" I repeated. A moment later, "What?" Eventually I had to finish dressing and packing my supplies, and then, as I should have been merging onto the freeway, I found myself running into the house, frantically searching through couch cushions and papers and loose wires for my earbuds. I won't need them now, I don't think, but I thought perhaps I could use some music, just before teaching, to calm my nerves.

I found them after only a few shouted curses, and arrived just in time, despite scattering papers and folders in the parking lot. The building was empty except for the beautiful secretary that could not show me how to clock in.

My nerves are creeping up slowly now as I write this, so I fear it will degenerate into brief, simply constructed sentences. My class begins in less than an hour, but I am merely showing a well-respected movie and then discussing the types of films they would like to see in the future. I will be fine for sure until next Thursday night, when the familiar fear once again sets in. My only salvation lies in the hope that with time, the fear will lessen until I am as adept at living as I am at pretending to live.

Cracks

The second entry today is a story I wrote as an assignment. The assignment was a two page story that uses dialogue, has two characters and one location. The location has to be symbolic of their situation, one character has to want something from the other, and it has to be in third-person objective. That means no thoughts or feelings, just what an observer could see. I wrote it in past tense at first, thinking that it'd be more traditional, but I changed it back to present tense because it felt more urgent that way. It's called Cracks:

“It's getting worse out there.”

“What?”

The boy looks at her then back at the horizon, a liquid sun in peril of drowning beneath a sea of jagged black. “I said it's getting worse out there,” she says after following his gaze. She shrugs. “That's what my mom says.”

She watches the way he chews his lip, the way the embers in his eyes die all at once. He watches the mountains turn from silhouette to coarse purple waves, like the uneven vertebrae of some great distempered beast.

“My mom says we'll be fine in the suburbs,” he says at last. “My dad's gonna move out there.” He looks at her on the wall beside him, at her little hands fiercely gripping bony knees. She looks down at the mortar between the gray cement bricks of the wall.

“I thought they didn't love each other any more.”

He shrugs. “You should tell your dad to move out there,” he says fingering a crack in the cement. “It's safer. Maybe you could live next door again. The school is really nice. You'd-”

“Do you think they'll have school next year?”

The boy looks back to find her looking down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. He clears his throat and looks at the mountains again, pulling his knees up under his chin, wrapping his arms around his shins, and rocking gently on his perch. “I hope so,” he says. “I'd hate to think of not seeing Kim anymore.”

A light in the house behind them winks out, and the girl droops her head slightly. The boy stops rocking and rests his chin neatly between his knees. A cat in a nearby yard runs up a fence to call to the night.

The girl lifts her head. “I should go and help him with the sheets,” she says. She looks behind them at the house and thrusts her small chin out.

“Yeah.”

She looks at the older boy beside her and blinks once, twice. “Promise me something?”

“Hmm?”

“If it gets real bad, don't come back here.”

The boy bites his lip and focuses intently on the mountains, his eyes rapidly scanning the horizon. “I'm sure you'll be fine. You're not far from-”

“Promise,” she pleads, watching his face.

He looks at the house before them, turning away slightly to do so. “I promise.”

She wraps her arms as best she can about his chest and knees, then she presses warm lips to his quivering cheek. “Good night,” she whispers and climbs deftly from the wall into the yard behind them. He croaks something that sounds like a farewell and turns to watch her walk into the house, tears overflowing onto his cheeks and dripping onto his neck and shirt below.

After a few moments the shaking subsides and he drops silently from the wall and into the opposite yard. Just outside the back door he turns back to the line of cement blocks stacked high against the night and wipes his sleeve across his nose, cheeks, and eyes.

Free Association Poem

Two entries today. The first is a poem that I wrote using only phrases from the free association exercise I detailed in the last entry.

The Melody of a Life Unexpressed

Bring to life the faded sacrifice to

stretch against the steel, watch my own films,

listen to my own music for a split second.

Waking, pressing my ears closed, listening to

my breathing as the world sleeps, a room

full of the fear of success, fear of money.

Every song, my voice, the melody of

a life unexpressed, steamy breath, mint and

science, the oppression of death, feeling paranoid.

Goddamn women. Smiles, eyes, teeth,

nipples, laughter, attention, comfort, annoyance

and a possible reason for insecurity, catching them.

One-Man Media Empire

So I met Troy Duffy today; he wrote and directed Boondock Saints, a film I love. He came and spoke to my Writing the Hourlong Drama class. Actually, before I get into that, when I first arrived my teacher introduced us to Fritz Monahan, a producer at ABC, and he was INSANE. He went on a crazy tirade every few moments.

One was about how he once sold a television pilot for a shitload of money and then spent two years in Costa Rica drinking pina coladas and living with four monkeys. Another was about how he pitched a show called Middlefingerlina, which is like Thumbelina's horrible spoiled sister and the producers had him thrown out of the building. A third was about how he's working at Disney to produce an animated feature about Frances Farmer.

This guy was nuts, and he kept yelling at members of the class, telling them how they should be taking notes and that moving to Hollywood, yes, that's the best way to make it if you want to get stabbed in the back by your friends. Then he told a story about how he took way too much acid by accident and got pulled over and the cop let him go. Turns out he was a comedian named Bob Rubin that has a role in Boondock Saints 2 and he was just pulling our legs. Hilarious, but also a bit nerve-wracking.

Then our teacher introduced Troy Duffy and he mostly just answered questions, since he said he was better at that. He was really quite clever and well-spoken, and he told us that his father made him read the classics when he was a kid and just wanted to play outside until Catcher in the Rye. He said to his father, "This book is much better than the last one, but I don't know why." His father pointed out all the symbolism to him, and that kind of changed his life.

He recommended Salinger and an author by the name of Tristan Egolf, I believe, and then he asked what authors we liked. The girl who I think is a terribly clever writer had brought her husband to class, and he was wearing a Boondock Saints t-shirt... Anyway, she raised her hand and said David Morell, and Troy Duffy said, "What is that? Like teeny-bopper type stuff?" It was kind of mean, but he's a bit of an elitist, I guess. I'm a book snob too, so I can relate.

I didn't raise my hand, but I should have. All I could think to ask him was if he was shooting on film still or if he'd converted to digital. I was nervous and everyone else was kissing his ass so hard. He clearly didn't want that though, and he had a lot of really good advice on writing and persevering in general. Apparently BS cost six million to make and made over 100 million, but he was fighting a financially debilitating lawsuit with the production company and didn't see a penny of it for five years. He got really depressed and was having second thoughts about wanting to be a writer/filmmaker. Man, I can understand those. It didn't at the time, but now it occurs to me that if Troy Duffy can do it, I can do it. I've got what it takes.

He also said that it doesn't take much to get someone to watch your film, just contact them and ask them if they'll watch it. I got to thinking that maybe I'd contact Manohla Dargis at the NY Times once The Passengers is done because she loves New American Realism. We'll see. Eventually he was done talking and more people kissed his ass, and then he signed posters for everyone. I wasn't going to get one, but I decided I might as well since I was there, and when I told him my name, he drew an arrow on mine to one of the characters. Then he told me how one of the characters in the flashbacks to the 1950s is named Noah.

I like Troy Duffy. He's a cool guy. I wished him luck with the film and then rushed off to my Creative Writing class wishing I had said more, wishing I could have said something to make him think, "Hey, this guy here's got a sharp mind." Oh well.

We had Creative Writing outdoors today, and I had a minor meltdown. We were asked to write for ten minutes about what we'd miss when we die, and it really fucked with my head. I was already feeling the familiar oppressive suffocation I get whenever I think of the long road to success in any of my desired careers, and now I was thinking about the things I love being gone. It was nearly disastrous and I almost wept openly. Here's what I wrote, verbatim and completely intact:

When I die, I'll miss shade and breezes, shaving too, because although I hate it, it provides a change. I'll miss the opportunities I've passed to lead a meaningful life. I'll miss the colors I've never been able to see fully, the beaches that I've always wanted to love as much as others seem to. I'll miss the chance to be like someone else, someone I find more useful and productive than myself. I'll miss the chance to die a glorious death whose echoes cast reflections throughout time and cause people, seeing them, to say, "Hey, there went a man who didn't seem like much, but was deep, and thoughtful, and kind, and had so much to give to a world that he seemed to have found unworthy of any meaningful contribution, but perhaps he was just afraid to be average." I'll miss the chance to be ordinary and helpful and essential, and I'll miss the people who would be proud even to know someone ordinary and essential.

Then I drew a puddle into which the above paragraph was dripping. Afterwards we had to share some of what we wrote or something that we'd miss. I just read the line about colors and beaches, since it was safe and I probably wouldn't cry reading it. Then everyone else talked about their boyfriends and puppies and mothers, and I felt even more useless and fatalistic. Anyway, after another exercise more along the lines of word association, I found my mind was occupied and my melancholy much improved, but a racing of my heart persisted.

She gave us back our poems and I got an A on Placeholder, the personal ad poem. I felt so damned relieved. I even stuck around to talk to her about it, and clarified some of the lines, and we worked out exactly how it could be perfect with only a few wording changes. She got everything about it, how it starts out with a super cliche romanticized idea of love at first sight and evolves into him eventually loving his "in the meantime girl" so much that he's ready to disappear into the desert with her and stop waiting for "the one" to come into his life out of the rain. I was so happy that my subtlety was coming across so well. Goddamn, it feels so good to be great at something and connect with people in a meaningful way with my foremost talent, even if it's poetry, a subgenre of that talent I'm not entirely enthusiastic about.

I almost blogged from my phone on my way through the parking lot I was so happy. I'm gonna revise it right now. I wrote ten excellent pages of The Passengers yesterday, I'm gonna finish Sandcastles and Red House, and I'm gonna finish another short story and try to sell it. Maybe I'll submit Placeholder to the poetry contest at school. Shit, then I have to record this song and get a band together. Maybe it's possible after all for me to succeed and be a one-man media empire.

Sound and Fury

I'm so tired. I need to close my eyes for a moment, but every time I do my heart races and my mind becomes a horrific landscape. I've just seen an image of my father bleeding from his chest. I've just heard my mother screaming at me. I hear voices whispering strange nonsensical things and some part of me loves it. I can't stop writing these things down. I think maybe they're important for some reason. My brain is falling apart, and I need to write a poem.

Depressed Again

Rascal's doing better. I went on this site tonight called meetup.com where people with similar interests can join local groups that have get-togethers and stuff because my friend told me I could meet girls who write or are into video games and stuff like that. All it did was depress the shit out of me. I don't even know why. I just keep thinking, "Have I really become that guy? Do I really need to start going to 'activities' to meet people? And if so, can I actually get over my anxiety and go to any of these gatherings?" I don't know. It was awful. I don't want to be that guy. I don't want the best and most social parts of my life to be over and still have not done anything productive with my life.

Anyway, then I searched for "sex" on that site, just to see what kinds of ridiculous orgies people set up, or if that's even allowed, and sure enough there were swingers groups. And one of them was like, "only for people who can distinguish between sex and love" and that depressed the shit out of me, which was only partially my conservative upbringing's response to the state of the world. Mostly it was because I once again was confronting how far behind I am in almost everything in life. Yeah, so it's one of those days and I'm supposed to be writing a poem but I wanted to write something about a little kid, maybe because I was happy when I was little. I don't know. I think I'm going to copy and paste this whole email into my blog, because it's less of an email and more of me just feeling hopeless, desperate and sorry for myself. Sorry. Fuck.

The Little Master (Part 1)

The little master awoke and put an unsteady finger to his lips, then his cheek, then his hair. He tenuously rubbed the corners of his eyes, digging recklessly until the last of the sharp irritants were purged. The ceiling above him was gray in the dark, and the water stains cycled swiftly through their reticent routine of shapes at once familiar and abstract.

He raised his head in silence and looked down at his feet, mysteriously uncovered by the night, his tiny toes wiggling at him. He wrinkled his nose at them and let his head ease back onto the pillow. He shut his eyes and forced his head further down into the fluff, until the edges of the depression closed about his ears. The sounds of the room became quiet and oppressive, and his breathing became obscene and enveloped his thoughts like a furnace, burning away the last impurities of dream. After a few revelatory moments the maintaining of this posture became difficult and uncomfortable. He relaxed his neck muscles and the room awakened once more.

The big clock on the wall, ticking steadily, confused him, and while he knew with enough time he could understand its meaning, the hands by then would have surely moved and he would have to start over. The digital clock on his bed stand was much faster, especially in the dark. 2:08am. After some very basic arithmetic he decided that school was a long time off, even though six hours was still a mostly abstract concept to him.

The door was closed, and no light seeped in beneath it, but soft blue-gray moonlight from the large and shadeless window on the opposite wall cast a large cross-shaped shadow on the green bathrobe hanging upon it. A blue shirt with green stripes and a pair of black pants sat upon a wooden chair in front of the closet. He remembered the day before, his mother asking for his approval before removing the shirt from a plastic hanger, him nodding his head absently.

He no longer needed to check under the bed before setting his small feet upon the ground; he was much too grown up for that. He padded softly on the warm wooden planks, heated from below by the furnace pipes. A yawn yanked at the corners of his mouth and set his thin tongue in retreat and his small, sharp teeth to glinting wetly in the moonlight, as he rounded the corner of the bed.

One small finger stretched the elastic of his underwear and let it snap back audibly against his skin. He repeated this passively until reaching the door and placing one hand on the brass-colored handle and turned it. The hallway was darker, but when he reached the stairs, the light coming from the windows in the living room made traversing the wooden steps easier.

Frankenweenie

Rascal had surgery today. There is a huge incision with stitches on his eyelid, and all around the eye is shaved. He looks like the Terminator. Or Frankenweenie. Here's a bad poem that I just cranked out to turn in tomorrow and to revise extensively later on in the semester.

Placeholder

Until She walks through the front door

of my eccentric record store, exasperated

and drenched, to stand wringing

her hair onto the laminate floor

in drops and waves together, shining,

our eyes locked upon each other, I

have need of a placeholder.

Placeholder, noun: someone whom

I may tolerate, endure, possibly understand

occasionally, find typos with and engage

in repartee. Someone to cook for, whose

biological and sociological needs may come

first. Someone with whom I can completely

disappear into the desert, where it never rains.

7yo boy and 9yo girl in waiting room about to come to blows over him saying college when he meant high school. I am directly responsible.

Angel, Again

All right. I suppose I can tell a story. Last year, my dad was in the hospital for I don't remember what. He was feeling terribly anxious and depressed, so much so that after waiting three hours to be taken down for a test, he was out in the hallway yelling at nurses to bring him a Xanax. As he was yelling, the transporter arrived with the rolling bed, and according to him, was so pleasant that he felt instantly better.

On their way to the test, they spoke about all manner of things. Her name was Angel, which upon relaying the story, my dad said made him think that my brother had sent her to him in his hour of need. She had just moved to Phoenix about a month ago and had very few friends, and after my father told her about how he met my mother, she told him she was hoping she'd meet a nice young man just like him.

After his test, she was waiting to take him back up to his room, having requested that she get the assignment. She told him how she had just called her mother to relay to her my dad's story of meeting his wife. He tells it very well and, in fact, still calls her his "girlfriend", which she thought was adorable.

So I arrive at the hospital to take my father home, since he's being discharged later that day. He tells me the story of this girl. He says things like "the second most wonderful girl I've ever met" and "someone I would love to be a part of this family", clearly hinting that I should at the very least meet her. We sit and wait, hoping that she'll be the transporter to bring him down to the parking lot, but those are the volunteers, not the transporters and we are disappointed.

The next day, I decide I'll go down to the hospital and seek this girl out, to thank her for being so kind to my father. I'm lacing my boots when my father comes out and asks me where I'm going. I tell him, since this is obviously what he wanted to happen. He thinks it's a brilliant idea and I ask if he'd like to go and thank her himself. He does. There are two reasons I even consider this a good idea. It will be less creepy if my father is there to thank her and I'm driving him, plus there is no possibility that I will puss out and fail to even find her.

We get to the hospital and she's not there. She doesn't work again until Monday. I think this is Thursday maybe. Monday comes around and we go back, this time she's there. We wait about ten minutes and then she comes down. She's sort of meh looking, with a very high forehead, but I don't mind such things as looks, and my father has already told me that she does not excel in the visual department. She's bright and cheery and pleasant. This is where things go wrong.

My father does all the talking, even though I try. I know this is foolish and I try I swear I try, but he tells her that he wanted his son to meet her and that perhaps we could go out some time and he would like that very much and it is going so horribly wrong. "If you write down your number, he can call you and you two can set it up," he says. "I'll leave you two to get to know each other a bit," and he walks off aimlessly.

I clear my throat. I chuckle. "Wow. Sorry about that."

She says, "Oh, it's okay. He's nice." She hands me her number.

"Well, anyway, I'm Noah. Um... So you just moved here?"

"Yeah. About a month ago. It's so hot." It's summer.

"It gets better. A bit."

This goes on for a few more minutes, and then I see my father wandering around aimlessly still, glancing suspiciously at signs as though trying to find somewhere to go to not be obvious. I tell her that I'm going to get him, she giggles nervously. I bring him back and he says goodbye to her and thanks her again. I say, "Okay, I'll give you a call."

I called her a day later. No answer. I leave a message, thinking maybe she's completely scared off and I'll give her an easy exit opportunity. "Hey, it's Noah. I wanted to apologize about yesterday. I feel terrible about how my dad sort of engineered this. Sorry if that was awkward, that's not how I meant for it to happen, but if you still want to I'd still like to take you to dinner some time. My number's..."

That was the end of it. I never heard from her again, but I spent a good two days in a nervous panic thinking she could call at any time. It's been a year, and my dad has been in the hospital twice since then. I keep wondering if I'll run into her there, and how fucking awful that would be. Well, this last hospital visit, I believe I saw her leaving the building just as I was walking in. I've lost a bit of weight and my hair is a bit shorter now. I don't think she recognized me behind my sunglasses, but I think I recognized her.

I don't know why this story makes me sad. Maybe it's just because I was drinking all day yesterday and I've got that post-drinking depression I tend to get, but for some reason this story is making me sad. It's not her either. It's my dad. He's crazy but he means well and he does these things with the best of intentions and they never turn out well. He tries too hard to make everyone's lives better. You can't get mad, because he thinks he's helping.

"Noah, you need some more light in here to read by."

"No I don't. I'm fine, thanks."

"You can't possibly read in this light."

"Yes, I'm reading just fine."

He turns the light on.

"Dad, really I don't want the light on. Please turn it off."

"Okay. Okay."

He turns the light off.

It's funny. When I told my mom that night about how her husband asked a girl out for me, the most wonderful girl he's ever met said to me, "Why the hell would you bring your father? You know what he's like." Yeah. I do.

Phone Entry

The internet has been fucked since yesterday, so no new entries, but i will finish the new story after this bender as penance.

Hisolysis, Go.

I've got to stop leaving the blog until right before bed. Now I'm going to get very little sleep for class tomorrow.

I went to lunch with my grandmother today. On the way back she told me the same old story about how she won a bunch of money to go to Europe with my grandfather. Then she told me the same old story about going on a "dirty walk" in Amsterdam and how one of the prostitutes grabbed my grandfather's arm and she had to reclaim him.

I don't really mind hearing the same old stories over and over, and I think that's probably strange, but I hear something new in them with each reiteration. For instance, this time my grandmother made an aside about how my grandfather never said no to anything, no matter what she asked. She said someday I'd make some nice girl a wonderful husband, and all I'd have to do for that was to be like my grandfather.

I think it's a testament to my ill-formed psyche that I just can't envision myself as a husband. I need to figure out what obstacles need to be surmounted to be able to think of myself that way. That must be the next step in this process. Histolysis, go.

There Is No Meaning

If you're out there, please contact me. You'll know who you are if you can decipher the meaning behind this entry.

Oh Man Why Oh Man

Oh Man Why Go Man

Oh Man Die Go Man

Oh San Die Go Man

Oh San Die Go Plan

No San Die Go Plan

Slow Van Try Old Band

Zing Zang Zam

Here I Am

I watched this show called Teenage Tourette's Camp today. It was British and it reminded me how ridiculous girls in high school are. I think I should write a high school girl character into something. I watched Adventureland and it was good. It reminded me how I need to be in a band. I'm gonna change my strategy from recording an album to recording an EP. That should be easier. I can't write and I need to go to bed, but here I am.