A drive of epic proportions

Christmas came and quietly went. I warmly welcome this departure of pelagic nativity donned by the crusaders of the New World. I've been trying to gently explain to my partner of five months that Christmas has never been my cup of tea. Rather, it can make me feel nauseous or otherwise unfit for celebratory clattering. I think she's taking it well, though i get an inkling of her disappointment. She loves the maraud of giftgiving, the tree, the ornaments and stockings, and the schizophrenic wonderings of accidental exclusion. Can't forget anyone or they'll interpret it as a lack of love, or change of heart. Isn't that terrifying? That so much resides on locating a gift and its positive betrothal with the recipient.
I gave it my all, i actually rather enjoyed this year's holiday. We spent a sum of days in California, an eight-hundred mile drive door-to-door. It began early one morning in a rainstorm. My sedan chunked along the mountain pass at six-thousand feet, a nervous struggle with the driving rain likely freezing to the roadway. Eventually we reached the flats of Idaho and Nevada, poring along the highways and interstates at record speeds. Despite our rush the trip takes a minimum of twelve hours.
Awaiting us in California: friends on my side, a full liquor cabinet admist a million-dollar home, a giant tree decked and strewn with presents at its base. The days passed well, and then it was Christmas. I grew nervous seated there, already drinking at eight in the morning. I could see my name upon a few packages... fearing the scene of many eyes and an invisible approval rating. But things turned out well and my cynicism somehow hung back long enough for the event to occur. It reminded me at times of a cartoon catfight, figures lost in a cloud of dust and paws. That was the scene beneath the tree; wrappings, ribbons, and bows in the air. The sound of tearing and the spoonfed anticipation and childsplay of giving and expectant reciprocation.
The trip home began at four in the morning. It'd been snowing all night and i'd kept turning down the blinds to see the accumulation. I have a small sentra with front-wheel drive, new all seasons, but no chains. I put the coffee on early, nervous for the trip. It began with an eight-thousand pass, luckily following three snowplows to the summit as the wind whipped by with plentiful snow. The plows left us alone on the summit and we descended toward Carson City in a veritable foot of white, downshifting into the utterly black night. Somehow surviving that, passed the "chain requirement" signs and gas gauge on empty, i sped into the bright city of Reno. The city quieted by the season, empty streets, devoid of the greasy spoon for which i searched. Pressed on, eating a surprisingly great breakfast in Fernley inside a casino. The sound of pull slots wafted in. A trucker-type was sitting with a line of Coors empties, burning cigarettes at a machine near the front door. A pair of elderly women were working the video poker screens on the other end, not speaking to one another. We cleaned our plates and left some money on the table.
The drive continued straight, so fucking literally straight as I-80 settled the high plateau of Nevada's interior. Passing time with radio stations, knuckles nearly white holding the wheel against dangerous winds hitting the car. Saw an awful wind wreck: truck jack-knifed, shredded rv, and crotchrocket turned on its side. Obvious loss of lives.
It was a nervous, deliberate drive across two states. Finally reaching eastern Idaho and readying for the final leg as night fell. That's when my fifth gear dropped out of the race. How could this happen? I had to hold it in for a hundred miles, pushing the interstate as cars passed me on the left. Then it grew worse with the last century of miles, popping out regardless. Had to be satisfied with fourth; kept petting the dashboard like Herbie reincarnate. The sun set, another snowstorm arrived and the epic journey continued. We arrived late in the evening, sore and disgruntled passed the point of caring. Laughing like okies with wires showing from the wheels and muffler lacking. Set our sights for one of the first joints in our town of Jackson. Sat down for dinner at the bar, only seated a second 'fore we pulled out the chairs and settled for standing.
When i awoke this morning i felt like an old man, but i felt good and young inside. Glad to be home, lying in bed with my lover no matter how crazy she is. Looking outside at the white landscape as the coffee steeps in the kitchen...

take the skinheads snowboarding!

I didn't sleep too well last night. I had a reel of fitful dreams, one in which i was Luke Skywalker and during a duel with my blue saber, i cut down Princess Leia. Then turning to the nearest wall i imagined the force drawing through me; i sensed my father on the other side. And so, i used my lightsaber like a saw and cut a doorway in the wall. I could hear Darth Vader breathing now, that mechanical rasping... i knew i was done for. Then on cue, right at the climax, i woke up.

It was still dark out; the temperature gauge read negative five. While the coffee brewed i walked across the icy street to the elderly home and snagged one of their papers, lying cold untouched on the lobby doorstep. Morning paper, coffee, followed by breakfast. I was feeling alright, though i could've gone for one of Limbaugh's horse tranquilizers. The poor bastard! Good way to start a day i guess.

I donned my gear and clipped my snowboard to my pack. Climbed aboard my bicycle and pedaled over to the in-town ski resort. It's a joke, but it's fun. A clear blue day except for a snow halo around the mountain, snow machines growling on the slopes and makers spitting up a cloud of white. No one was there except for the lift operator. We exchanged a good morning and i sat the crawl up the mount. By my second run a few loners had showed up to practice on the sharp groomed slopes. Most were like me, amateurs in the snow seeking out space and solitude to learn the sport. Halfway up the hill i became engulfed in the human snow excretement, cutting visibility to a sum of yards. I dropped my goggles down and peered around feeling like a Polish ski assasin hunting Nazis. And through the light lift drum, and the otherwise quietude, i heard a kid yell "Oh shit!" as he imperceptibly bit into the snow. Another poor bastard in the newfangled morn.

I was riding chair 64 with one foot kicked upon the seat, the other dangling to my snowboard. Another fantasy, this time of Sylvester cliffhanging with a gaping crevasse beneath him. Then appropriate catastrophe while mudslinging some cable and he let loose that sorry fellow. Hey, meatheads feel pain too man! If only my biceps functioned beyond trophies, his character thought.

The snow felt good beneath my board. I eased into turns thinking the word effortless, again and again. A repetetive meditation, stolen from an overheard conversation on snowboarding. "It's not easy, dude! It's effortless," said some bum in clothes worth a thousand to an up-and-coming bum at the bar. Sounded like a good thing, though at the time i nearly snorted my beer. Thoughtful, like a motherfucker.

unrivaled assiduity

I have stumbled upon a diaphanous mire, one which i had no intention of discovering. It has been difficult to gesture nonchalantly or feign calm, to reach quiescence. The unparalleled supposition that all is not clearly defined, as i'd previously thought, has startled me. I've never been faced with such an aphorismic calling to debase all that i've created.

To put it more plainly, i'm up against the world that i've deigned solid and worth a damn. It seems that this frankenstein invention has somehow turned against me, and all that i've worked so hard to create, in hand, has transposed yet more effort and diligence. Is this perhaps the infinite recreation of pi that proves millenia of more of the same? You can't argue with mathematics man! Is there any end or retribution to these now aimless travails?

I am constantly searching for what psychologist's deem one's "place." A special place such as Peter Pan had to descry, otherwise he couldn't remember how to fly. This culpable neglect has managed to clip my wings and leave me utterly torn upon which route to take. In the manner of the common discontened husband, i've found a splendid peace in my work routine. My occupations have become harbors of asylum, where no one can touch me. The first, with customers that couldn't vilify themselves due to a lack of intelligence; and the second, kids, who no matter what, cannot profess criticisms to be taken personally. Only a knitwit could be burned by such shoal adversaries.

Otherwise in search of a place, like Steinbeck's Ethan Hawley in a nook upon New Baytown's waterfront, i find a number of possibilities. An existentialist would locate the "place" within the self and nowhere else. I could only relate on a certain level. Certainly, no matter where you are, there you are. But, what about the substantive power to the human psyche of holding a physical, actual place? A place located through much haphazard and random searching. Or a site that has brought one to tears or been habitated during a great event. This concept holds more weight for me. I think of the quotidian returns to places i've found, to eat my lunch or scribble in a notebook. I cannot accept that revisitation is merely a reflex to the boring nature of human beings. There must be some proven root in the body's benefit to that site; it could not be otherwise, for our bodies are much smarter than our brains. Hell, the Egyptians would scoop out the brain in ritual burials of the elite. They figured it had no worth in the afterlife, hence not a significant bounty in this world.

I haven't had ample time to collect myself between bouts of domestic hammering. Is this what it means to be married? The way sour lovers refer to the notion of commitment? Does it truly have to be such a battle? And why can't a man (or woman) find peace when they most need it? Perhaps, true to my constant contestment, the universe works in such ways because only a full journey to one end of the sprectrum can bring spectoral development. Only extremes can rivet one to make a decision, to change, to evolve. If this is true, i can accept such matters with humble assiduity. But, if an inkling of doubt remains, all i can say is "fuck G-O-D, pick on somebody else."

winter doldrums

I was born a few years after Mt. St. Helens erupted on the exhausted holiday commemorating Christopher Columbus. For this reason, and perhaps also due in part by my Libran nature, i've been forced to solve the riddle of decision-making. Columbus was not so savvy in discovering much of anything and his accounts show stretches of the truth and, at other times, flat-out lies of reaching the New World. Instead, Columbus' alleged route took him directy into the tropical doldrums where he and his crew awaited near death by dehydration, while they scrawled pretty delusions such as, "What i thought was the land was but a cloud."
I've recently discovered that doldrums are not only confined to 0-30 degrees latitude, but seem to wreak the same havoc at... let's say 45 degrees, in the domain of the prevailing westerlies. I feel akin to each, since i'm certainly prevailing here in the west, though at times i feel like a recyclable plastic bag blowing in the breeze, or at other times just lying in the road waiting to be swept up by artificial vehicular wind.
In recent days i've been cast about on a sea of snow and ice wondering to whence i came and to where i go. And to more neoteric times, i've returned to a splendid summer mantra that kept my engine upon the rails for the warm months: "Lower the bar. Be Philistine." Which upon utterance, quelled feelings of alarm and anticipation, anxiety mind you. With the return of these passing nuances, adjustments have been made and this calming sutra has been reinstated.
It seems that we are all at the mercy of our own scrutiny and introversion. I, for one, would greatly appreciate the absence of deep thoughts for a spell and more profoundy contemplate the complexities of NFL football in its final weeks. Wouldn't that be a more worthwhile ponderance than continuing to wrack my brain upon a future that will never come, for the present is ever-residing?
I've been intently considering the metamorphosis to a Himalayan blue sheep, or Bharal, which is hypothetically an evolutional divergence between goat and sheep. Bharal especially enjoy crashing their heads and horns together in a way of solving dispute (rather than sitting astute and solving nothing by way of thought).
"For most creatures, such an encounter would be fatal, but bharal are equipped with some two inches of parietal bone between the horns, together with a cushion of air space in the sinuses, thick woolly head hair, and strong necks to absorb the shock, and the horns themselves, on the impact side, are very thick and heavy. Why nature should devote so many centuries- thousands, probably- to the natural selection of these characters that favor head-on collisions over brains is a good question, although speaking for myself in these searching days, less brains and a good head-on collision might be just the answer." ~Peter Mathieson, The Snow Leopard

not an alarmist

Only an alarmist would provoke such thoughts that enclosure may lead to claustrophobia. And as the roads turn icy and travel abroad the city perimeter becomes limited, i look inside these walls and wonder of the worry. What has caused these feelings to flee this den, when finally winter has come? There is truly nothing that determinedly pulls me, though the world itself is still enticing, and always will be. I fear more the road away; wayfaring has become too often a tactic for dealing with difficulty. But, to determine with certainty whether difficulty and hardship will beget the desired aim, or just be a waste of energy and time... that is truly a tough dilemna. Some may say, including myself at many points, that there is no waste of time with true effort. For the road itself is the lesson... and so once again my introspection proves voluminous confusion.
And so, i try to sit still and let positive attract positive~ in hopes that something will draw me. Meanwhile the snow falls incessantly and the debased roads struggle to hold my tires. Perhaps with the weight of all my things, my pressurized all season tires will convert to winter tires. Or perhaps if i filled my tires to 75 pounds of pressure such as Hunter Thompson did to his Las Vegas rental car, i could make a safer escape.
Have you ever looked at someone you love before and felt that it was yourself you were beholding? Or looked with such an aguish eye that you were certain to scare them? I catch myself studying my partner so intently as if a revelation could be met. Maybe i wish to say something that no words could convey. Though being a stout believer in communication, i often try and merely prove that misunderstanding is much simpler a task. I find myself waving about with my hands, feverishly gesturing such as politicians do. I prance and pantomime using poor prepositions such as Dean Moriarty in a fit of methamphetamines. "But, you don't understand man! It's like this...!"
Perhaps i should just stick to watching birds and identifying plants. It's so much simpler to foster a relationship with those perfectly evolved for the weather. I listen for nature's lesson: adapt or migrate.

non-adherent resolution

December has come and with it flurries of snow and the loss of color upon the landscape. Work has continued, time has turned upon dial in a slow quiet way that can be counted on. And as Christmas nears and a new year comes, soon i expect to hear the bouts and series of resolutions break forth from the mouths of many. I for one, have reached no solid resolution, though at times such furious conclusions have been met. The one strong and standing: i need to leave this place. This thought is not fancy pessimism, or the notion that things may resolve themselves elsewhere, though that may be true. For wherever you are, there you are. And this i know to be true; and, i am not running from myself.
I believe that as one becomes more fluid and influenced by their surroundings, they subsequently struggle to make unflexing decisions. It has been a time of non-adherent resolution for me. Schizophrenic debating from day-to-day has once again left me in a state of anxiety~ as if my mug of coffee was too tall. This conundrum has been brought on by the universe's famous slinging of simultaneous possibilities. Perhaps humans must choose amongst many to feel firm in their resolve. In this respect, the mass of selective commodity one finds at the grocery store may be invisibly beneficial. Having to choose between four brands of the same product. And maybe once that selection is made, some instinctual calm and confidence sets in and we know irrefutably that our choice was prime.
The preponderance of decision faced has proven overwhelming and i begin to wonder how to even begin mulling. Is it true that a path is already laid for us and one only must follow the vaporous signs? Should one be weary of misstep or could that experience father the wise?

a fear of living

Days can seem limitless in their scope of time. I know time to be a subjective construct of the beholder, yet some days have their own celerity. Today is one of those days, slow and gentle... nearly startling. Night fell early, i'd been hiding indoors for an hour or two, when i realized that i'd been searching for something to pass the time. I stepped outside to burn a cigarette on the snow-enshrouded porch. As i looked up into the night sky searching for stars between a thick blanket of snowcouds, a sonic boom shook the airwaves as a plane descended to the outskirts of town (possibly Dick Cheney or Paul Wolfowitz returning home for some shelter from the adminstration's crumble).
I sat outside this way thinking about the immensity of time, the amount of space to 'do' and to 'live,' when i witnessed a disconsolate scene. Across the street lies a home for the elderly, antiquated and forgotten. From a golden illuminated doorway a daughter was attempting to leave her aging mother for the evening. I suspected her visit was brief as her jeep was left running in the lot. Her mother was audibly reluctant to allow her daughter to depart so swiftly. She continued chatting away as the elderly are stereotypically known for doing. The daughter, on the other hand, was evidently ready to take her leave. She continued walking to her vehicle as she repeated her sordid farewells in a frustrated tone. A halo glow from a streetlamp lit the scene. It was apparent she thought her mother beyond detection of her disposition. Senile, she was thinking. And perhaps it was true, for her mother just kept right on with a pleasant inflection, though i couldn't hear what she said. Meanwhile, her daughter climbed inside the cab and slowly pulled away. Seeing this, the elderly mother closed the door and opened the blinds to watch. She waved for a long time, her silhouette warmed by a lamp in the entryway. She kept on waving, even after the jeep had disappeared, then slowly battened down the blinds. I imagined her as she returned to her quiet home, perhaps a deafening quiet.

Though i lead a domestic life that i share with my partner, i find myself often returning home in a similar manner. This place we call home, with its walls that hold tight all that occurs inside... i sometimes get an overwhelming feeling of the immensity~ of time and space. I don't speak of depression, but an overwhelming force that draws blood to the legs and leaves one restless. It was summed up in a recent telephone conversation with my dear friend and east coast correspondent, the feeling of "what to do?" When time slows, and one may say~ our dear socialization and education rears up, demanding action in the form of progress or production. It can leave one reeling if unprepared for this onslaught.
As i watched the mother return indoors, i felt the vast desuetude that we share. And the questioning of how we both ended up in such a state, though her staid lot may be closer to settled. Could this feeling be the fear of living? Not a pressure that i might do much, or do right, with the time that i've been given upon this earth. But the fear of being a small being in such a deluged arena of life. And to be equipped with a potentially disarming introspection; perhaps the possibility of going mad. Such as an Eskimo surrounded by limitless white, piblokto.

Unlikely heroes of late

With the bad name Dubya's been giving himself, he's somehow still managed to christen others with idyllic qualities and institute them as political martyrs. A few weeks ago the renowned draft-dodger, at times anti-american, Sunni-Muslim bowed to accept a chunk of metal called the Medal of Freedom. Attempting some form of otherwise absent humor, Bush stated, "The real mystery, I guess, is how he stayed so pretty. It probably had to do with his beautiful soul. He was a fierce fighter and he's a man of peace..." Meanwhile defense secretary Rumsfeld held the phone, delaying orders to Central Command for General Abizaid's go-ahead to blow up Mecca. Ali has become the administration's latest ploy to pretend this war isn't about skin color or religion. "Look, we love blacks and Muslims!" In a quick honorary display at the White House, Muhammad Ali publicly wasted his politics and years of effort and generosity, similar to Bono's show of quasi-patriotism at the Super Bowl half-time show in 2002.

In the same week President Bush attempted a blatant grab for hemispherical power by strong-arming countries opposed to the Free Trade Area of the Americas (FTAA): Paraguay, Uruguay, Brazil, Argentina, and Venezuela. The original notion of creating a continent-wide free trade area was first put forth by Dubya's father in 1994. A free trade market would consolidate power to the US, as well as provide another extension of capitalist globalization. "Free trade" will allow freedom to big business, tax sheltering, subjugation of people in poor nations, gross nonrestricted injustices, and corporate hegemony.
Mexican President Vicente Fox stood with President Bush (as 10,000 protesters gathered outside) and told reporters and other nations in opposition to the U.S. led negotiations, that they would be left behind in the wake of prosperity. Bush later praised the Latino-imposter (actually a sunburned white businessman) who has consistently pressed the Bush administration to open borders with the "guest-worker" program.

searching for plutonium powder

Just across the border in a distant foreign land called Idaho, where rural population growth is little concern... they've been planning a nuclear and otherwise toxic waste incinerator. A few miles further west, the beloved Idaho National Laboratory (INL) is receiving confirmation from the DOE to consolidate its program for Radioisotope Power Systems, thus becoming the nation's centralized refuge for the production of plutonium-238. Press releases confirm its usage for fuel to feed NASA's ridiculous ploy to continue stomping the Russians and Japanese through the 21st century. Discussions on emissions and meltdowns have been avoided in meet the press with antisemitic jetsonian scientists from the region. And no correlation has been met toward American hardliners spitting demands contra North Korea, Iran, or the late Iraqi executive branch upon their theorized plutonium production.

The INL is located northeast of Boise in a sparsely populated region of rocky chaparral and desert. It's surrounded by thousands of miles of fencing and potentially covert sniper sites from hoodoo ledges. The place is heavily guarded, restricts overhead air-traffic, and just screams obvious nuclear testing. You may have seen it on your way to Craters of the Moon National Park, where the nation's ugliest president Lyndon B. Johnson (more facially appalling and deformed than Tricky) directed furtive conspirators to film the Apollo landing. Shit, we couldn't let the reds slap us in the face again. And now this awesome land's history has passed on toward nuclear technology.
Here in Jackson one must speak the language for our brand of neo-activists to come forth. One such campaign is the "Plutonium-Free Powder" opposition which newly arrived locals can see frequently pinned upon suv bumperstickers. The campaign appears successful, as it speaks directly to the luke-warm hearts of summer home, 3.2 children, chairlifting settlers of Jackson. I must agree with the aims, though it reminds me of many hypocritical floundering altruisms such as buying organic... from an Extra Foods superstore market (Canada's Wal-Mart).
And so, today I went in search of the plutonium powder; the first day upon my snowboard this year. The last time I recall snowboarding was eight years ago on the slopes of Mount Bachelor. I thought the snowboarding girls were cute (and they were)... and I wanted to join them. Some time has passed, and in many ways I haven't changed.
I never did find the plutonium powder, which is a good thing. Instead I found immense slabs of ice and crusty chunks of snows that grated like kitty litter beneath my board. I somehow reached the bottom of the mountain, packed it up... and went to watch turkey day football at the tavern and shoot a few games of pool by myself.

colloquial quasi-"thanks"

Does anyone really celebrate? or perhaps even remember why they are celebrating? That question would be under the assumption that there was ever anything to celebrate concerning our beloved thanksgiving.
I was listening to the radio this morning as I sorted trashy donations at the thriftshop. I'd just scolded an elderly woman for attempting to barter something I was already offering for an ungodly cheap price. "Ten dollars? That's too much!" she cried in a disgustingly sweep of melodrama with her gloved hand. "M'am, we're trying to raise money for charity and you're not the one receiving it. I'm sorry," I replied.
She didn't get it, so I went back to a brown bag of miscellaneous crap.I was half-listening to the radio, in the same way that I catch myself half-listening to the same story from a loved one (yeah, you know the one). And it's some advertisement paid by god knows who, lamenting the fact that some people may not have kin to gather with for thanksgiving. Due to being out of town or dislocated on a business trip, the false radio voice mused. A light way of saying, "To all you lonely drunks and dropouts, we have a solution." And the solution was to come to some elks lodge megachurch stadium for a turkey and tater feed. It'll make you feel better I promise, the voice cooed. Don't spend thanksgiving alone the ad ended.
I could just see the can-shaped cranberry sauce jiggling in some teflon bowl. Some boxed spud mix steaming hot from the microwave, and smack dab in the middle an empathetic cub scout leader volunteer working on a butterball turkey with a plug-in meat carver. And the smell of sour sweat and porous alcohol fumes on a stale breeze. Picnic-style tables, paper plates and plastic silverware. And this is gonna make me feel better?
Give me a beer. Turn the turkey day football game on...

"yes, it's hard to tell it's hard to tell, when all your love's in vain..."

Every now and then you run up on one of those days when everything's in vain... a stone bummer from start to finish; and if you know what's good for you, on days like these you sort of hunker down in a safe corner and watch. Maybe think a bit. Lay back on a cheap wooden chair, screened off from the traffic, and shrewdly rip the poptops out of five or eight Budweisers... smoke off a pack of King Marlboros, eat a peanut-butter sandwich, and finally toward evening gobble up a wad of good mescaline... then drive out, later on, to the beach. Get out in the surf, in the fog, and slosh along on numb-frozen feet about ten yards out from the tideline... stomping through tribes of sandpeckers... riderunners, whorehoppers, stupid little birds and crabs and saltsuckers, with here and there a big pervert or woolly reject gimping off in the distance, wandering alone by themselves behind the dunes and driftwood...
-Hunter S. Thompson

hangups are for losers

i talk to my mother a lot on the phone these days. i moved out of the house eight years ago along with my knocked up girlfriend, a life form which i was unaware of at the time. for the first seven years my mother and i didn't hold the close contact that now exists. it's incredibly comforting in times of near madness. maybe people call me a mama's boy behind my back, but i generally try to avoid those type of people especially if i'm in a heightened state of gonzo.
the most recent madness to speak of is the state i've somehow found myself in; both figuratively and literally. domestic man and wyoming. to speak of more solid things, this state in our american union. wyoming, goddamn it's pretty; be prettier if you killed all the settlers. there's a dichotomy here that reminds me of east and west berlin. east wyoming is run by summer homey type knitwits with deep pockets and suv's. they own everything and have built a settlement of quasi-community that rings of the union. then there's east wyoming, run by pseudo-cowboy lopers that tie homosexuals to fences and drive poorly made american trucks. this side guzzles the petrol even more profoundly because they own a great share of the oil rigs. a lot of their actions are likely affected by the lack of blood circulation below the belt of strangling wrangler jeans.
now i happen to live on the west end with a pretty, voracious woman in a kind little apartment on one end of town. i figure i got here from reading too many books and listening to too much music, since i seem to always prefer my influences to be sentimental, sadly romantic, and generally to the underdogs. if it seems unlikely but love is possible, i go for it like a sorry rosecruxion...
im currently in a state of terribly optimistic confusion; it makes me feel as if i should be currently worrying about some catastrophic event. when in truth, i sense no such thing and instead sit dumb wondering if my senses are being shot by domesticity. wondering if perhaps i need put an end to cute pet names and frequent calls home if i'm running late. this isn't the plight of a man prospecting his lost masculinity, rather it's a sobering look at soma.
and so now and again, perhaps following a short scuffle in the kitchen or forgetting to buy toilet paper, i call my mother.

are mexicans stuck in the '80's?

My world has become increasingly distraught and interesting in the past months. Certainly living in such a trite and provincial town such as Jackson has played a great part in that. After arriving here I held a service industry job for about three weeks. That's all it took this time around to quickly throw away my quasi-dreams of serving rich, shameless mouths... but the money was good.
Now I work in the back of a thriftshop collecting and sorting donations. We like to call it the East Jackson Landfill due to the amount of trash compiled daily in our little blue dumpster. We fill the fucker up by noon some days. And all the while, people jabber of "maybe someone could use this," or "this is in good shape," as they donate a torn stained blankey of their third a.d.d. child.
An interesting phenomena I'm beginning to observe comes from the Hispanic community, which easily grabs 40% of the population. Ahh, the mexicans. At first I found it quaint and almost charming that for free I was able to daily practice my tattered spanish on many of the customers to the store. Then it began to dawn on me that often there was no choice because these people can't speak english anyhow.
With many hours to blow in this fashion as every Mexican tries to barter even the cheapest prices, I began compiling a list of why mexicans may be stuck in the 1980's. #1~ loitering in small rural towns. #2~ sweatpants and warmups, headbands. #3~ pimped up grand am turquoise cruisers and toyota trucks with tinted windows and spoilers. #4~ black guess jeans with white sneakers. #5~ mullets and rattails. #6~ whistling or hissing at women between gold capped teeth.

winter or our discontent

ethan hawley once had a woman named mary. they lived in some white, middle-class east coast community. he worked as a grocery store clerk as i once did, facing cans and jars, creating a mosaique upon the shelves. im beginning to see the similarities in our existence though steinbecks characters may not have ever existed.
my mary likes to fly off the handle with reckless abandon, fits of crying and childish balking. it reminds me of the bugling elk i can hear outside our door, upon the iced-over deck overlooking the refuge. we also live in a ruralburban community with a dominance of 'haves' versus the 'have-nots' that brings to mind one of dave barrys editorials a few years back in the miami herald. the haves know nasdaq and the have-nots eat yak. i believe that was the title.
for the past week ive found little rest in the sleep that connects my evening and morning. the feeling of marriage has been bearing down as a burden. this is what it feels like to have the common notions and complaints of communal domesticity. the inability to communicate and the sneaking suspicion that your partner is mad. im also finding similar arguments that fit an anomolous cliche of husband and wife.
i long for the grocery store aisles where i may preach to those that hear, but do not answer.

swept clean

As of late the weather has been everchanging. One moment the sky swept clean to an incandescent blue, then with a slow nod clouds arrive and i search for my discarded jacket. It's an overused analogy: a person's mood in accordance with weather, but seemingly with a touch of truth.
It's not exactly that my mood has swooned with any more doubt or motivation than in latter time, it's a certain pervasion of not being certain to what that mood is that i feel. Lately, with the newspaper in my lap and a cup of coffee. These stories, i'm hooked and excited and horrified all at the same moment. Similiar to if my neighbor's house was burning down. This is like the turbulence in my stomach, often questioning myself if ive drank too much coffee. Do you know the feeling? Your plate full and then some, a feeling of being overwhelmed and yet nothing coming to mind of just what may be the catalyst.
There's such a thin line between playing it cool, optimist selfprogramming and motivation and the other side of the fence, absolute utter mental breakdown. Like a child right now, i fall on my face and begin to wail then someone makes a face and i grin again.

the ease of american life

For the past years i have sought a certain level of domesticity and ease. It seems that i have temporarily placed myself in such a state. A creature of habit and routine. I run errands when there is really no need, i create them for the sheer joy of completing them. Little lists of paper in my pocket upon old receipts and scrapped junkmail. I got my first cellphone, signed a lease agreement, ironed a shirt yesterday, and now am writing a blog...