Thinking=Drinking

Halloween is growing near and i have nothing to wear. It's actually a relief this time around. I don't have to find a costume or a good time when there plausibly may not be one in my vicinity. For the sake of nostalgia and posited engram, I would like to take a reverse chronological leap in time, a stroll down that lane of Halloween and its dolled incumbents. By reviewing my past choices of mimicry perhaps i can reach some handle of what i wish to be in this life (the real one).

Growing up we didn't celebrate holidays. At least that's what i told all my friends. In actuality, we did... though we omitted the "holy" and just did as we pleased. There was Thanksgiving when we would gamble and us kids would find a bottle to work on. There was the occasional Fourth of July when my uncle would attempt to set new records for height of flame. Pyromaniacism runs on both sides of my family. There was the "Special Day," which unlike a birthday (an alternative to...)~ did not come every year. It came whenever one wanted it to. The family would conspire together and throw a shebang for one of its members. It was as simple as that: unpredictable. There was a New Years thrown in every now and again where i'd get to smoke a cheap cigar or two with my family and marvel at fireworks from the Space Needle or, more often than not, indian reservation antics in our front yard.

We celebrated when we felt like it. And growing up, us kids always felt like Halloween. We were determined and methodical in our approach to trick-or-treating. My parents would aim us toward the hills above town where the one percentile loomed in their mansions and three car garages. We played the role and were rewarded with full candy bars and greedy handfuls. But this isn't the interesting part cos we, my brother, sister and i, were your typically donned pirates, princesses, and ninjas. Nothing special. Nowadays, these things live on... mixed in with a Power Ranger here and there.

I broke out with Jesus. I was fifteen or sixteen, long-haired and pretty. I practiced my innocent face of compassion in the mirror. It was blasphemous and beyond. The following year i followed it up as a babe, pink dress, ribbons and bows... i was a knockout and knew it. For so many years i'd been mistaken and now i stood to the occasion. I was in my third year of college when i returned to the biblical splendor as Judas Priest. Wrapped smartly in a white robe, hair flowing, a beard formed of the lichen Usnia longisima. I was (am) a natural science nerd of botany, bryology and the like, as were my friends. I ate a handful of Psilocybe cyanescens along with another of P. baeocystis. i washed it down with a few cups of hot liberty cap tea. It was a good night.

The following year i moved to San Francisco and found myself down on the Castro with a mob of people. I was Princess Leia and it went over pretty well for the area. My hair twisted in bobs about my ears and a makeshift gun assembled from a peeler, the cardboard from a toilet paper roll, and plenty of black electrical tape. Next year i was a greaser, then a Beastie Boy, and most recently Hansel (with Gretal in tow). I forget my point about all this reminiscing. Is there a point to make?

There seems to be a recurring theme for the effeminate role mixed with a few plights as womanizer or heartthrob, brought down to earth with the holy of holies. Fuck it... enjoy yourselves all ye and everyone. A shoutout to Bobcat in the great Northwest, may ye prevail in the hippie motherland, get down on the shuffleboard at The Brotherhood, and drink deeply of our finest microbrews.

Winter coming...

A heavy snowfall overnight in the mountains that rise so abruptly from sealevel. Each face obscured in part by a rising cloud out of hemlock and spruce. Every scene reminds me of a japanese silk painting encouraging a little imagination with the spaces between.

Everythings gone black and white. A week for the leaves to change color and the wind to rip them away. Out in the sound an endless row of white caps blurring on the eye toward the Mountain and around the horn to open sea. Amazing how the fallen snow brings such contour to distant landscapes. Before we had these two-dimensional cliffs of land walling in this port town, and now sweeps plateau and bluff and deep shoots for slide and avalanche.

I was thinking about someone... and it was making me glad again, cos i'd been missing it for a while. At work pulling carts around and stocking a grocery store, went outside to look at the sky. Early morning light coming down, a dark gray turning to pale gray... that was about the extent of it. But down toward the western horizon clouds vacant and light gathering in that open space. This giant frosted crater mountain like Fuji-san aglow and couldn't believe my eyes.

A raven looking down on me from atop the truck. I neared and it remained. I studied its giant beak and puffing feather and finally understood its majesty. After all these years wondering why this large crow held captive the native American: Haida, Tlingit, Tsimshian, Makah, Yupiq...

It takes a while to understand. We need to give it time... sometimes that's the hardest thing to do.

Can i get a witness?...

I looked at the ten-day forecast... i shouldn't have done that~ rain, showers, red flags for high-wind warnings, a general malaise for the whole of Sitka, Alaska.

Went to the grocery last night to pick up a few things for dinner and a bottle of rum. Was in the meat department and saw a middle-aged couple necking in the aisle. Not just a romantic kiss, but heavy petting and deep throat tonguing. Another witness had his mouth a little agog, cart stalled against the deli glass. Poor fellow couldn't believe his eyes. I squeezed my way by the couple ramming my grocery basket into the knee of the engaged man; i couldn't get by clean, they were right in the damn aisle. He barely noticed, just kept on throttling this woman with '80's volume to her hair, and him~ torn jeans with utility belt: measuring tape, hammer, the works.

I actually thought it was kind of cute. I have a tendency of finding myself involved with women who experience massive adversion to public displays of affection. Perhaps that's why i inwardly applaud most affectionate acts i see, unless they're wholly tasteless. I've never minded a glance or two in the direction of my partner and i; most of the glances come from a) admirers of young love ("Look honey, they're in love.", or b) old, embittered, jealous bystanders. And i don't have much problem with either.

My first lover almost got us arrested by lovemaking in a city park. That's certainly one end of the sprectrum; something i wouldn't recommend for a certain level of societal decency and embarrassment. Ever since then, its been more reserved, perhaps~ downhill. Deadfish hands to hold, mouths turned to cheeks, conversations alluding to pda. This is a shoutout to all you couples loving on each other. I raise my glass...

Thoughtful like a motherfucker...

The sun broke at an opportune moment. It'd been raining all day as i worked my hours away on the timeclock... then aboard my bike i rode away from the warehouse with thoughts of freedom and blank expression and a whole expanse of nothing. Down by the beach where all the stones have been beaten smooth and twenty foot tides swallow and unearth the shore, i put my bike aside and looked out for a time. The sun feels good in my eyes as it catches a low autumn zenith and passes down toward the horizon. My body misses it (though i don't claim any emotional imbalance by lack thereof), i let it in when i can. And then out hundreds of yards a deep spout of water gleaning bits of sunlight, shimmering on its descent. A pair of humpbacks zigzagging the Sound of Sitka.

A friend suggested the other day that i may be leaving again soon. She sensed it in words i'd written, not by the sound of my voice. Told me my token shiftiness was pervading all and mused whether a restlessness was creeping up on me again. Could read through it in a letter, see that my direction lay away...

And i look around at this and wonder why... and know she's right. I'm here and yet already leaving. Searching for something, but won't admit it. Because i don't know what it is and the show must go on. And everyday passes so sweetly, whether i'm feeling particularly inspired or not. I'm a living breathing blank with an awful potential for projection and absorption, devouring words on the page and the many personalities around, mimicking and remitting. I orbit ideas as in the (micro)cosmos and follow anything with potential, with merit. I'll follow for a while... there's no other way. As a wise one said, "Hard tellin' not knowin.'"


Mount Edgecumbe~ just beyond those whales...

Driving for dollars.

The rain returned today. I watched it come in from miles out landward. Cold greys swarmed the banks of Mount Edgecumbe, the silent cratered volcano to the east. I could see the sky dropping on open ocean where the jetties point, the end of land and distant rolling waters flattening the horizon. It kept coming and by mid-morning droplets were falling on the windshield of my delivery van. I flipped the dial from blue to red, that's what i did... it cleared the glass of collecting condensation. I turned up NPR and listened to reports of nuclear failure, the G.O.P.'s demise and some crackpot adlib from Tony Blair. Sometimes it's so nice to hear a well-balanced leftist radio program, not too bias, just right.

I could ask the question, what the hell am i doing with my life? I could ask another person this same question and ruin their whole week. Some topics are touchy, that's why i'm going back to not overthinking everything. All of us dream of childhood, the return to unawareness~ bliss. But it's not so bad out here. There's plenty of bullshit; that's to be expected. And then there's all the stuff we put ourselves through unnecessarily. Or if you believe in G-O-D you have all these other things to worry about (cos He doesn't really take care of it, that's just an illusion). So that's why i'm embracing the menial, the mundane, the work of calluses. We need to think more with our bodies and less with our minds. Whatever gets you by...

Maybe it was the rain or the five cups of coffee... something brought me down to earth. I was floating away there on the wings of existentialism. Whenever you've been unaware of the passage of time, such as these past months for me~ self-realization comes at the price of many deductions. It's hard for me to admit i don't feel anything, that i'm not happy nor sad... and so i'll look for another reason until i've gone half-mad. And so i get back up and decide the hell with it anyway. Remember, madmen don't choose it thus... that's my mantra.

Looking for a distraction...

I awoke early this morning to the patter of rain and the hollow roar of water passing through a culvert beyond my porch. With my housemate still asleep i took a pillow into the kitchen and suffocated the coffee grinder as it tore apart the morning's coffee beans. I spent the morning mellow with coffee and a letter. After breakfast i grabbed my shoes and shorts and headed to the gym.

This weekend i joined a rec basketball team made up of fishermen with big bellies and smiles. Surprisingly we've remained in the winner's bracket with two wins. Last night we hung on to beat the High Flyers composed of scrappy men in black, each with a unique rat of a mustache upon their face. Full-press, hacking and 360 bullshit layups that make everyone look bad. Then this morning we played the Tlingit Reign stacked with giant Tlingit natives built like cement walls and about as athletic. I matched up with #34, a quiet native man outweighing me by 75lbs and a few inches higher into the atmosphere. He reminded me of Chief... i know it's in poor taste, but i kept imagining him beneath the hoop and Nickolson screaming, "C'mon Chief put that fuckin' ball in the hoop!" We're heading towards the semifinals tonight and into Sunday.

As i ran on the court for the first time this morning i noticed a familiar face in the crowd. This stunning young woman always with a smile, hair like the raven's feather and eyes constantly following the ball from hand to hand and then up toward the hoop. I see her time and again at the recreation center either shooting hoops or watching the men's pickup game on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Her presence made me think of a story i once wrote... we became characters, her involuntarily and dreamy me. If people only knew where my mind wandered...

A DAY IN MARCH

I remember it was a day in early March. There were no clouds to be seen and the sun was gleaming from ninety-three million miles away. It left a cold upon the land, upon the streets. The sun had been shining for a month unchallenged. The old banks of snow on the sidewalks were petrified from the persistent cold, fossils from another season.

I was walking across town with my bare face hidden in the neck of my jacket. I worked on the other end of town in a small restaurant that only served regulars. Not by choice, it just worked out that way. New customers were rare and curious. They made us feel uncomfortable. I remember one time when a new couple walked in hungry and in love. Their clothes spoke for themselves and their accents rung of the big city. All conversation ceased with their entrance. Coffee mugs were gently returned to the countertops; the old stools squeaked as they spun. Everyone turned to look, to study the newcomers. I quickly grabbed two menus and slid from behind the counter. I wanted to save them from this silent interrogation. I wanted to rescue them from the eye of an enormous microscope.

They took a seat by the window and everything returned to normal. The same stories told, the same cups refilled, and watching the same clock spin on point. I’ll never forget that day though. It reminded me of a scene from some old western film. A dusty, spurred Clint Eastwood pushing aside the swinging saloon doors. Somehow that guy always got a lot of attention at the bar. He was a troublemaker. Other cowboys had a way of shutting up whenever he came around.

Sometimes my imagination led to the neglect of customers. I imagined their reaction if Clint, the baddest gunfighter in history, entered the diner and found a seat at the counter. What stories would he tell as he insouciantly cleaned his six-shooter? Maybe he wouldn’t talk at all and just sit there chewing on his cigar. But if he did tell a story, it would be succinct and gripping; he wouldn’t waste words. I had no doubt his stories would beat the ones I heard every day.

“Hey buddy!” The image disappeared. The voice belonged to a truck of a man on the other side of the counter. “How about some of that coffee in my cup,” he said, pushing the mug toward me.
*
That day in March I was heading to work. I didn’t have to be there for an hour, but I liked being early. I’d serve myself a cup of coffee, sit at the counter and read the paper. It was a good way to start the day.

I was walking through the arts district, with its many galleries and cafes where two bucks will buy a cup of coffee. I was peering inside the shop windows, occasionally watching my reflection. That’s when I saw her. I was actually looking at myself when the sun’s glare escaped the glass. I found myself eye to eye with a woman seated at the window. She was sitting with a hot bowl of noodles and a man who was already busily eating. His head was bent over his bowl in hungry concentration. Could have been her husband or boyfriend. Maybe her brother. I only saw the top of his head.

The woman was looking at me. It seems strange to think of it now, but I stopped. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk. An old lady following close ran into my back. She nearly dropped her bag of groceries, but I barely noticed. I heard her curse a few times before she was gone.

The woman in the noodle shop was striking. Hair, dark as a crow, fell passed her chin, covering the sides of her face. She had these small, round ears that stuck out, reminding me of a mouse. Her skin was very pale. I don’t know how long I stood there. I remember our eyes were locked and this little hint of a smile was playing on her lips. Meanwhile, the steam from her bowl of noodles was brushing the window. It eventually covered the entire pane. I found myself once again facing my own reflection.

*
This town isn’t very big; still, I never saw her again. Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy or at least have the potential. I kept walking that day and by the time I arrived at work, I’d forgotten about her. But in those first two blocks I would’ve stopped everything. I would have bet it all on that stranger with a bowl of noodles.

Across the aisle

I work for a large company... an influential conglomerate of swagger and wealth. This company in question owns the stock i carry in the delivery truck as i service the town of Sitka with soda pop, bread, and other nutritionless snacks. The icon is red, white and blue, patriotic as sin, but premarily blue. Its symbol has stamped the august faces of Bo Jackson, Michael Jordan, New Kids on the Block and most recently Alex ("Pay-Rod") Rodriguez. Like all multi-billion dollar companies who work to keep the small guys small and the fair market free, there is a rival. This pitted company has signed Paula Abdul, Elton John, Santa Claus himself and a bunch of polar bears in their marketing scheme.

When i first began work, the fellow training me flipped the rival with stories of deceit and corruption. He claimed afterhours our product display would be scrambled or front faced with their conspecific product... all by an unseen hand, the Coca-Cola man. Working alongside these guys every day in groceries and stations, he would tutor me never to speak to them. Under the silent understanding, morality, any exchange could be deemed treason and perhaps down the road, perjury. I nodded my head and quietly pondered his words. I felt it would be more to my advantage not to acknowledge his symptons of madness.

A few days later he put in his notice and i moved up, asked for a raise and tra-la-la. This week i've been working on the microcosm of corporate chivalry across the aisle. I began by pointing out that although Pepsi and Coca-Cola are both full of shit, corn syrup, flavorings and the like, the latter is a hell of a lot better. Later we laughed about the sad truth we supply the city's youth with liquid crack in the form of countless energy drinks and coffees. Little elementary addicts we laughed, ha-ha-ha.

Later that week i left my lights on in the parking lot as i drug a few carts into the grocery. Within minutes i had killed the battery and this monstrosity of a truck was parked inert, hazards flashing, blocking the entrance like the Lazarus stone. The manager started to chew on my head, her gaze burning into me seeking out the twenty-something irresponsibilities and blunderings. Then in the distance, a large red truck rolling, fake painted condensation on her side and bubbles of carbonation. To the rescue with red and black cables procured, i was saved like Joe Lieberman by the Republicans for so many years. A gallant blurring of lines; a truly bipartisan experience...