Christmas came and went
A giraffe mug unwrapped on Tuesday morning
Santa in a sleigh overhead
And the Christ child rolling in his grave

Yesterday afternoon I traipsed home in a buzzed glee of Seahawks victory. Sound and defeating, similar to the destruction of the Pittsburgh Bumblebees, shells smashed, juices flowing, wings twitch legs are going, don't get sentimental, it all ends up drivel, a Radiohead song to sing. Disassembled at Foxborough in Masshole glory, earning me another well-won bottle of rum and a few bragging rights.

The afternoon light fading, Lake Merritt lighting up orangeyyellow and the days scant warmth leaving quickly. Reached home in time to kiss my girl, wash my face and run out to meet the buyers of Wheaton. Oh Wheaties, bless your heart, I sold you for five hundred bucks to a World of Warcraft-looking warlock named Oliver and his beautiful drunk redheaded girlfriend. They were sweet and I liked them from the first

To Wheaton: May you embrace your new family and live a long life across town in Alameda.

To Andrew: ... Payback's a motherfucker.


Happy hour on the patio...


Andrew's brain on Wild Turkey...


Socked in on the Golden Gate...

A conversation at the ballpark

In honor of Wheaton 1991-?

That's Wheaton back there behind us. A little four-door Nissan from 1991. That's Rebekah I have my arm around and a jade plant on the roof that she gave me. We're heading through the Canadian stretches in the Spring of 2005. Rebekah was struggling for sanity down in Antarctica working with a bunch of quasi-scientist frat student types on that big chunk of ice. That was the year Antarctica split in two, one big crack moving across the frozen continent. I guess the continent is a pair of gigantic islands shaped similar to two lungs alongside one another, though you'd never know land to be beneath except for the rocks showing on the peaks of the Transantarctic Mountains. I imagine the crack running that line of water beneath, separating the two. Nonetheless a significant occurence; certainly more interesting than Earnest Shackleton and his dummies, but maybe not as much as that baby Emperor penguin in Happy Feet dancing to his heart's content.

While all this was happening I was working three food service jobs in Portland, Maine... struggling with two somewhat undefinable relationships, smoking and drinking copiously yet running and otherwise exercising like a madman. There were unaccounted sleepovers, walking pneumonia, depression and confusion, longings like a lost student, and too many Japanese authors' words in my head (likened to the Germans or Russians if you ask me). Danger for the fragile soul mind you; rationalization of the morbid, beauty in sacrifice.

That's around the time I found Wheaton. She was abandoned for a year in this cleared space in the northern woods of Maine. A red Sentra left to the elements of rain and snow, the salty damp of the coastline. Beneath her hood a dead battery, the engine block rusted and flaked reminding me of barnacles on a pier or side of a humpback. The owner was an estranged adulterous husband; the seller was his wife. She signed over the paperwork and sold it for a steal, partially out of spite.

I wanted to get back out west and put together a plan with Rebekah (who had similar wishes) on some scratchy sat phone connection, maybe distorted by polar magnetism or some such thing. She flew in to Philly and connected to Portland and then we set out. Wheaton saw the provinces, almost every damn one, the Great Lakes. She came down into more G-D fearing country, ran the line of the Pacific and inland to the western states. My wheels, my salvation, my demise, my ridiculous car-love and growing superstitions. She never criticized my alcoholism, my compulsions, half-baked plans and erratic heartbeat... never put down my passengers, or refused a state of place or mind, only delivered me safe and sound and often confused, but otherwise cheaply traversed by high mpg. Oh bless that damn car.

I can only imagine her breaking heart now on the houseside curb, with her replacement just feet away. A 2003 Toyota Echo named Cubby with power-steering, unheard of to the likes of Wheaton.

Little surfer little one
Made my heart come all undone
Do you love me, do you surfer girl
Surfer girl my little surfer girl

I have watched you on the shore
Standing by the ocean's roar
Do you love me do you surfer girl
Surfer girl surfer girl

Wandering where the lions are.

This one starts in Oakland on a cool, damp evening. We're hitting flat tennis balls over the net to all stretches of the court. Only five o'clock and the sun's going down behind a thick blanket of clouds over San Francisco. And up in the hills the houselights are watery in a lighter haze of gray. I'm like a dog on my side of the net, the dog that's been waiting for his owner all fucking day long... eager and upset and frantic. I'm running after every ball, running it back to the fence ten armlengths away. There's something inside of me that's trying to get out; I'm trying to wear it down. I smile and sweat awaiting the next ball, as if to wag my tail. I've done this before.

I think this is the night I beat it, but I had to go through me to get there... face to face. And so I picked up a wicked cold, a night soon after four blankets over the bed and I'm shivering delirious and half-awake, at war with some invisible aspect. And in the day my skin burns as I walk down the street and this facetious National song in my head.

I'm put together beautifully
Big wet bottle in my fist, big wet rose in my teeth
I'm a perfect piece of ass
Like every Californian
So tall I take over the street, with highbeams shining on my back
A wingspan unbelievable
I'm a festival, I'm a parade
And all the wine is all for me

We had some happy obligations south of the city, I mean south like Mexico. Way down in the bottom of the American boot, the legging or whatever it is. The ash settling on Orange and Bernadino; some mansion policies cashed in Riverside, Los Angeles. The drive down this way unimaginative, God's cutouts of earth and vegetation the color of cardboard. I imagined the smog caught in valleys encouraging to the imagination, like the voids of whites and grays in a japanese silk painting, or multiple endings of a choose-your-own-adventure novel. But I was too cynical to imagine anything more than the already true dust and wasteland and stripmall lying beyond. I drank tea and listened to Dylan's Time Out of Mind, that nicotine voice somehow sweet. My baby took a nap and I passed a lot of cars.

Four-hundred and fifty miles into the six-lane freeway network of SoCal, weaving between fine driving machines recently rolled off the lot. Cathleen's sister had dinner waiting for us in her cozy apartment, a strange mix on the stereo and a couple dewey bottles of beer on the table. I dreamt of shallow darkness and street vendors. I saw dust-laden soldiers thick with gear tramping through Nasiriyah and Baghdad. Something didn't feel right, there was something unsaid in my life... an inability to do anything but feel or not feel the atrocities beyond the bubble. Somehow not in conflict with the love abundant in my life, but nonetheless real. The sleep of NyQuil and safe harbor.

Jack London was born to a lower-working class family and grew up here in Oakland. He wasn't a Niners nor Raiders fan, and certainly didn't root for the lowly mongering motherfuckers in Pittsburgh. But he did like booze and women, and apparently morphine... which was the death of him.

Cathleen takes a moment to reflect...

October bumbling

I looked kind of mean in the mirror. I took out an extra chunk when the clip fell off the razor. It took a minor tantrum to bring me around and the fact that without a job, nobody to really impress... and readying for a roadtrip in the Sierras, there'd be time for it to grow back. I made a couple tough faces at the glass and took a shower.



Puffy and i took a moment to remember what really matters and the people we wish to celebrate this ridiculous life with. A number of drinks in order, we sat down for a few cardgames, some smoking and star-gazing, followed by mid-morning reruns of X-Files accompanied by lewd peanut gallery chatter. I of course scandalized Mulder in lecherous comments; Erin chimed in superbly, waxing sickness with Scully.



Our first day on the road, northward through different shades of gold and brown... white salts flats bordered in sage. We stopped in Alturas, a small town near the border of Nevada and California and tossed a football in the city park. Further on we found a diner and ordered some shakes and fries to go. We ate on a strip of lawn outside an ominous Latter-Day Saints church. Some rednecks looked on from a porch down the street, beers and smokes burning away their afternoon.



Surprise Valley dazzled us with ghost towns and farmland out into an enormous dry lake. All habitations snug up against the foothills of the Sierras and its angled evening light stretching livestock and fencepost shadows. Surprise Valley you are the sweetest fucking valley i have ever seen and i'd like to see you again.

Stopped in at a tavern late at night with a few gaspumps out front. Went inside to find someone to pump some Oregon gas into the car, gotta love that mandatory statewide full-service. The two tables inside were filled with ranchers drinking regular and light beer out of mason jars. The walls were filled with animal heads and horns; i listened to some hunting conversation while the bartender ran the adjacent grocery store further down the counter. "I can't wait to get a buck on my arrow," one offered, which reminded the rest of the table about latest buck whereabouts and more suitable weaponries.



A few hours later into the night we found our destination, Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge. Had a few beers on the hood under a new moon astral sky, the Milky Way brighter than we'd ever seen, then climbed into our tent until morning. Bright light found us in a kind of paradise, autumn colors in the aspen and willow, smell of sage blowing through. A crossword and morning hotspring, couldn't think of anything better.



That's Cathleen fighting the wind for her pants...



Driving across the plains of eastern Oregon, white-knuckling the wheel against sudden bursts of wind... finding little groups of antelope out in the sage. Dark clouds on the horizon and Cathleen excitedly pointing at the sitting livestock as redneck meteorology of impending rain. Up in the mountains we found the most beautiful trail along the Deschutes River and walked until my hypoglycemia nearly drove me to eating my hand. Found a hotel room, cracked a bottle of wine, ordered a pizza and took our troubled selves to the jacuzzi.

Another thousand words...

A month in review

The month began with a solo train trip beneath the bay into the frenzied madness of downtown, rich with Asian tourists ogling trolley cars and storefronts that can also be found in their hometown. I went hither into this mayhem with the intent of birthday shopping for my baby. This is the ceiling of the downtown mall, a shout out to money and all that it can bring.



My girl came home dirtier than I've ever seen anyone who lives indoors. I scrubbed her twice in the shower and baked her a cake for her birthday. After all, twenty-five only comes once.



The beer gods were kind to us; we just barely had enough glass to bottle the hefeweizen and kölsch, a couple delightful summer sissy ales brewed fresh in my bathroom. My brother grabbed a few extra cold bottles from the fridge and downed them to complete the world's fastest recycling process documented.



I awoke one morning to note by the calendar's watch It'd been three months since I was employed. I celebrated with a bubble bath, a peek at the classifieds, and a margarita and some chips.



We pulled into camp, quickly packed anew and set off for North Dome. The trail meandered along a granite ridge alternately climbing steeply and falling away beside pine and spruce canopies. Upon reaching perhaps the most beautiful place ever, we crouched beside a boulder and ate lunch. To our right Yosemite Valley opening by guard of El Capitan and to our left Half-Dome taking the cake for pure granite sweetness. "You rock, rock!" I uttered in awed homage. Before long an east coast couple stumbled along and stood beside us, on this giant rock miles from anywhere. We watched with equal awe as the fellow pulled out his cellphone and made a call only feet away. We took a few pictures for them, they posed blissful and stupid together... and then took a few for us.

A night on the other town, San Francisco...

Joey has been waiting tables at Scoma's for thirty-one years, a decent seafood restaurant at Pier 47 in North Beach. He's cool and facile with a wine-key in hand, breathlessly explaining which fish are fresh today and what else comes on the plate. Joey is large, perhaps a 47 waistline and his lungs strain to fill. Maybe it's the white suitjacket strangling or the sharp Bogart bowtie. Though I wouldn't be qualified to say, I think he's a good man. I like him and I can appreciate his service, something I've struggled with since being a server. My self-consciousness sometimes rises to levels of mind-reading where I swear I can hear the waiter's thoughts, cursing our presence. But not Joey, he's calm and weathered, in no rush and half-asleep but still gentle about his ways.

We eat large and drink two bottles of chardonnay, washing down halibut, tuna and cioppino. The sourdough is fresh and good with an extra slab of butter. We look out on the harbour and silly Fisherman's Wharf skyline, the poor bastards over at Ghiradelli eating chocolate flavored wax and the bleach-white butchers stainless in garb selling farmed fish at the Cannery. Across the street a homeless man holds up a wall of limbs and leaves and crouches down by a garbage can; he's pretending to be a bush and pulls it off pretty well, scaring the shit out of tourists as they walk by.

We fill up and head out toward the street looking for a taxi. A junkshow bar pulls us in, up a flight of stairs to the sound of a blues-trio above. Warehouse style windows look out and we can see the helicopters hovering over downtown rush-hour, Coit Tower is looking particularly nice with the evening light glowing orange on its side. The musicians are bored professionals playing riffs without feeling, running down songs they've prolly played five hundred times. Cathleen and I sip a pint and amuse ourselves by watching the only dancer in the place, a surprisingly beautiful woman obviously alcohol lit gyrating in the corner enticing all the sorry male souls. Our company doubledate gets up for a song and dances at a friendly distance; they look pretty moving together, knowing each other's step so well.

Back on the street we hail and cab and race across town up that mother of a street hill overlooking Alcatraz, you know the touristy one with the streetcars, also the one I nearly burned my transmission out on trying to parallel park last year. Good times. Up over the hill. The girls are singing a classic rock song together in the back seat, the cabbie has the mic to his mouth most of the time speaking what sounds like Farsi in short emphatic sentences. I'm craning my neck out the window, rich pretty couples are strolling in rich pretty Nob Hill and our doubledate passes by in a bright yellow cab.

My baby towers over the main man Dennis...

This day to myself

I started running again and now it calls to me everyday. I'm a much happier person in this state, though there've been times when i ran out of sadness, ran for exhaustion and a subsequent weariness nearly incapable of thought. But even then it was the antidote and i knew it; i used the negativity as fuel.

The sun has been unobstructed for days. I'm over it. My shoulders and neck are pink and hold my fingerprints where i touch for a few seconds, the pink slowly filling the white. I've drank so much water today i'm afraid i'll overhydrate or some such thing. Cathleen was telling me she'd been to the hospital one time for drinking too much of Eve's ale. Seems i'm always recovering from some water-stealing episode afoot~ running the trail along the lake, the tennis courts, or more recently pacing about the house with a bottle of chardonnay to myself. This a.m. i questioned whether last night's drunk was worth this morning's bright welcome. Good god! The sun was so bright! And did i drink and dial? I did...

I climbed out to a quiet house, Cathleen gone for the weekend to play with 50 thousand Burning Man carousers testing the melanin content of their skin. I can see the leather-hided new-agers of Los Angeles drawing mandala in the sand, or Berkeley beats discussing their latest trip over maté. Just the thought makes me wanna go hug my pillow.

I walked around with two cups of water, one for me and one for the plants. Spent some quality time with the herbs building up a chopstick and twisty-tie support system for the basil, which has dumbly outgrown its stem capabilities and flopped over like a dejected sunflower.

It was a tough day for decisions but i managed a call to a potential employer and surprised myself by declining the job, despite desperately needing the income. Hanging up i had a great sense of relief and had to pat myself on the back, and i did quite literally. It's a thing i started doing a few years ago, usually when ending a long hike or run, a personal yet stupid self-congratulation.

I decided to go spend a few dollars to celebrate the fact that no paychecks would be coming for a while longer still. Walking into the bookstore i realized it would be one of those shy days where making eye contact with people plays on the nerves. A pretty common affair for a hangover day. I fidgeted at the counter as the lady ran about the shop finding my book. I grabbed the new Josh Ritter and fumbled for payment acting like an underage kid at a liquor store. Remember when Michael J. Fox got that keg of beer in Teen Wolf? His canine eyes burning red, he leaned over the counter to say,"Give me, a keg of beer!" He was my hero after that...

Valerie summons Astaire and Kelly to her kitchen

It was a curious Saturday night with improvised cocktail concoctions in hand, playing a board game while pizzas baked in the oven. And that's when Val made her move donning tapshoes on the kitchen linoleum... The beautiful art of tap, slight inebriation and an air of nonchalance.
*Link on title

Ano Nuevo State Reserve

Scientists posit that primordial landlubbers crawled from the sea 700 million years ago... After three months at sea, wallowing alone in search of food and the passage of time, an elephant seal finds shore.
*Link on title

Half moon glowing yellow over the Oakland city skyline
I can see it from my bathroom window
Wondering who else is looking at it now

Tonight we're sitting on the couch watching the tele...
and passing a pint of ice cream between us
For a moment there as I gazed out the window
I almost got it...

Megalomania strikes at Circuit City!

What seemed another above-average day in our normal, yet above-average happy lives... became something quite different. There was a sloppy sky overhead terribly uncertain of itself. Am i sunny? Am i cloudy? It was clueless. Our bedcovers looked quite the same, disheveled and lost over the edges. We could've powered our home were my night's nocturnal revolutions harnessed. I like a good toss from time to time.

Everything began quite the same... crossword and coffee in bed, finally beat that fucking Washington Post which had been testing our crossword abilities as of late. I made a slow uncomplicated meal of bacon and potatoes and eggs and melon, plenty helpings of coffee. Finally struggled out of the house after noon. Then began the mad escapade of boxstore hopping, staring up at riddled walls of tele screens looming in lens like umptagonal bug eyes. And the white noise surround sound began its number, and our eyes shifting like tweekers, and the pockmarked faces of salesboys in overwashed hand-me-down staff shirts. Emeryville almost ate us!

The day ended in epic fashion with a three-hour Circuit City stint where i bore witness to the amazing shopping strength of Cathleen. Pen and pad in hand chronicling the pros and cons and picking the minds of multimedia zombies. I couldn't believe her stamina and articulate grace when asking about analog v. digital and tuner types and contrast ratios, meanwhile weighing consumer reports on her handy laptop popups. Fucking amazing!

And as the sun set on the city of Emeryville, which should NOT have its own zipcode, we rode away with a 37'' inch flatscreen and somehow shining guiltless of the grand venture.

as if to say... I really love those Seattle Mariners... wanna
make something of it?

Painting and the Art of Happiness

We took on a sum of white walls yesterday... the glowing morning light playing through the windows, music through the french doors and our brushes sticksticking with pastel paint. Blue tape borders and us between in our least favorite rags laying down paint on tiptoe and knee.

For past years i've been tied in thought, torn by the process of decision making, under the small weight of having little to go on. I've been happy yet uninspired, unmotivated, driven by nothing more than my personal want of feeling as such, making my own world and feigning any solid understanding of what exactly i'm doing in it. In part, due to some missteps but moreover simple advents of craziness that i wouldn't pin to any notion of fate or even coincidence. Some downright strange occurrences that i'd like to accept just as are.

It would be hard to claim any discontent, though there has been struggle. Somehow i've stayed up all along and still lingers a sense askance Would i have stayed on my feet much longer? Cos i found something and now with previous direction recoursed it's hard to compare anything, hard to remember what i was doing and to where i was going.

When i first met Cathleen and we were making a telephone plan to get together, i suggested some dumb logistical struggle that might impede our union... and she told me in a matter of words, that we are in control of most everything, and that's the bottom line. That thought really drew me, and i guess in retrospect how could it not? And yet there are times, many of them happy, when i stop and look around wondering, how can i possibly take credit for what my life holds? So many of these things have been beyond my ability and rather occurred of their own. And why would i assume my own control in things and, why would it matter if i weren't?

All i want is love and watermelon.... maybe some old new country on the radio. Montgomery Gentry....

I'm tired of spinning my wheels
I need to find a place where my heart can go to heal
I need to get there pretty quick
Hey mister what you got out on that lot you can sell me in a pinch

Maybe one of them souped up muscle cars
The kind that makes you think you're stronger than you are
Color don't matter no I don't need leather seats
All that really concerns me is

Speed
How fast will it go
Can it get me
Over her quickly
Zero to sixty
Can it outrun her memory
Yeah, what I really need
Is an open road
And a whole lot of speed

i love songs about heartbreak...

Pool party at your mom's house...

I'm lying back on a leather couch, the shades drawn tight to a 100 degree day beyond the glass. We just flipflopped across town sporting slight sunburns and sunglassed to a near limitless blue above. Fucking Turlock fucking California. A sight for sore eyes, a green gem amidst nothing but flatness and agri-lines of corn and vine. There was nothing to be done but step a few streets over from the backyard pool to the empty weekend grocery... in need of banana split supplies and a sixpack.

Its been a busy few days here reconvening with my partner's past, her loving hometown openarms wide and not yearning for detail. Docile and sleepy and hotter than most. Lounging in quiet AC wonderlands, cafe stoops beneath umbrellas and kicking about on airmattresses in delicious blue pools. But beating all aimlessness was last night's drive-in witness of Harry Potter: Order of the Pheonix. If it wasn't enough that Harry is the man and gets some kind action with a young sweet thing at Hogwarts... better yet was our perch from the back of a minivan, seats forward, hatch open and us couched out in blankets and pillows, barefeet in warm night air staring up at the drive-in screen. A balanced diet of queer tasting popcorn, chocolate, beer and dazzling privy to Harry Potter's mad skills in sorcery. And us dialing in the magic via FM radio.

There is a certain lethargy that goes along with this life beneath a baking sun, the Valley of California. No wonder now to the inviting concept of siesta... and better still these long stretching siestas that last the whole of the day. I didn't expect the lush greenery of sycamores and locusts spanning the neighborhood streets, all the lawns freshly mowed but no one around to sit upon them or lounge beneath umbrellas or giant sombreros. Nearly nothing higher than a story stretching out for fifty-thousand souls and their abodes. I think a normal reaction for myself would be that of distrust, perhaps worthy of a yawn or two... some underground disdain or lassitude for the whole grid. But somehow no... i've got love for Turlock.








The shark sequence...

Willy's Barbershop

This morning my baby took a left on Mission, heading for the station... train bound for East Bay. And i took a right toward my favorite barbershop, a small old-fashioned feel with straight edges and men waiting with magazines and tophats. Took a seat while a fellow got finished up on the chair, thumbing through the funnies and crossword. Then he called me up for a seat and wrapped a scarlet curtain around my neck. I started pointing at different pictures strung about the place saying "kinda like that... except shorter on the sides" and he's going "Uh-huh sure thing."

I sat back and watched myself through three mirrors and thought of the pleasant morning with a few birds singing on the apple tree in the yard. Lying stretched out with the bright morning light pouring beneath the raised blind and this new, yet familiar body beside me. A slow uncalculated morning with crossword and american breakfast of potatoes and eggs and toast and peach on the side. And i'm sitting back in this chair, my sleepy eyes perhaps looking upward to the "visual memory" we speak of in elementary school (i guess we must look up, maybe even open our mouths a bit, to contact memory).

Willy the barber finishes me up with shaving cream across my neck and sides with a blade and then this amazingly quick massage, my neck going pop pop pop and leaving me completely relaxed and meanwhile he's done the final style on my hair. All i could say was "woh" and "thanks kindly... it looks great!" Stepped back out into the morning light and took a slow beeline trip through the neighborhood. The sounds and smells of the Mission have grown on me... Something about feeling present and nostalgic in the same moment. And thinking a little of a fond farewell as we ready to move across the bay. To make a home together in the near bright lights of Oakland.

...Hula and the home rule on the 4th of July...

a sleepy morning with the pretty cactus blooming on my doorstep...

...taking a slow dance at the Class of 1997 Reunion with Lewis County looking on...

this is the ease of american life...

I'm on a coffee shop hop in and between the intermittent Seattle showers. My friend M. pedaled off grudgingly toward work after snoozing her alarm twice this a.m. fore finally slumbering upward and out. I tossed any number of things upon my back and set off into Mallard. Beelined for M.'s poor car, which we left last night on a no-name street near the video store. Took half an hour to find it again... sadly abandoned against the crumbling curb looking downhill toward the Ballard locks.

We'd spent an afternoon/evening scrambling some ivy trails at Careek Park on the Sound and had mused a movie night to follow. But returning to the little red sportscar, we found a likely soul given up. M. had miraculously been driving a dipstickless car for a few months, somehow shying a prior engine collapse. And now... the poor thing coughed and whirred, pistons likely locked and dry. Some darling leather-coated, pop-top Saab driver found us home in his shiny five-speed, flirting preciously with M. in the frontseat. I lay back in the body fitting backseat reminding me of a soft version of a police cruiser.

I found M.'s car in a similar state, sadly rooted to the street with mawkish purrs on ignition, clawing for a little life. And it being a Mercury, i thought of the ominous retrograde situation up in the heavens and wondered if any bearing were made on this little four-wheeled motor.

Pressing on i ducked inside a small cafe rocking Neil Diamond and later some delicious electronica full of beeps and flurries reminiscent of Aphex and Atari. And there i am perched still blinking my way through vocational postings and the more enticing chum network. Coffee kindly altering my senses and shining a little light despite the current gray beyond the glass.

... the acolytes happily pay eight dollars a beer...

A brief prayer.

I'm cracked out by exhaustion and severely need a beverage in my hand and a Mariner win this evening. First of all I'd like to thank the tickets that have been procured for this clear evening... seats well situated for such a momentous drinking occasion. The lights of Seattle, its gridwork silhouette skyline will stretch up... and below us our poor five-game skidding Mariners, G-D bless them, will take the field against the even poorer Pittsburgh Pirates. I'd also like to thank accompanying Andrew for his more recent conversion to the fanclub and subsequent recovery as a stalwart Bucs swain. Andrew it was wholly necessary... you are finally a true resident and worthy Olympian.

I'd also like to thank the morning for being over. Its been five days on the rooftop laboring slave-like and i ache such as an ailing gerry might... grumbling, groaning and the like. Roofing is a bear and a bitch quite frankly. My gratitude to Lali Puna (*link through blog title) for rousing some energy and groove this morning, combatting prodigious doubts and motivation. I was not happy about life and needed something in my veins other than blood. It was either music to uplift or some Lewis County product derived from lithium, which i lacked.

Also a thanks to Cat for similar encouragement on the scale of élan... some sweet thing to come. And to Erin Kramer who will likely try my levels of consumption, no surprise there. To M. Holtrop for gracious invitations and a pacific voice for the radio. And of course a big one for the Almighty, who despite my stead disbelief still manages great things.

Contrails. You left one too...

Above the patchwork of hued farmland and stricken cuts along the hillsides, veins scratched from logs dollied upwards. Metal jaws clamping and cinches loosed, the waiting trucks along the yellow-clay roadways. And my lorax northwest analogies... looking downward.

So far below and San Francisco a mile per second further behind. I'm leaving home and going home all the same, the same time. And poor Frank who i left nights back at that social/networking/drinking scene downtown amongst the lofts and industrial hangouts. I think of him and our philosophical discussion, bordering metaphysics and that whole pitfall of sugarcoatedness (which we miraculously sidestepped); his selfless confidence ringing. I always heard the confident tone; it sounds louder on my ears, i always could listen harder. You seem like somebody concerned with the idea of home, he said. I'd known him for only a few minutes. I was on a second glass of overpriced sauvignon blanc, my thirty-sixth hour of wakefulness, thirtieth hour of over-stimulation, fifteenth hour of pollyannaist ga-ga for the world and its inhabitants. The comfort of strangers... a few to mention.

Nearing Seattle, the lowering hum of engines aside me and the left wing stretching out toward the Pacific. I can see the mighty Columbia reaching the coast, its flat slow waters tamed with a shot of soma and hydroelectricity. Let's not save the world, I'm thinking. I'm done with anything even feigning that resolution. Maybe saving yourself... unlikely by abstraction alone, but feasible i guess... and at least acceptable.

Let's not worry that timing is everything. I still wanna hope that it was the right time, you know i do. And despite any leaning theory of governance and guidance, i don't wanna resign myself but rather push it in the direction of my hoped outcome. I'm not worried anymore if I'm lost or found. I'd like to be found, but it's out of my hands. And oh those Olympic Mountains... still white and starked with dark rocks and shadow. Enough to make me forget wholly any point i may have had. The only thing resounding is a sweet contentment...

I'll get funny again...

I like the damp streets in the morning and my feet trying to find a new way through the city grid. A plus: that tired eyes can still see so well; the cup of bittersweet coffee in my hand; a goodbye kiss for the day. Makes me think that to question how we spend our time beyond the sense of feeling alright, is just a waste of time. I've done that far too much.

I like this new record playing in my ears, playing every moment i have the time to unwind and rewind. To have music inside your ears (or head) that no one else can hear is a guiltless pleasure. It's rhythm and motion and perhaps that is everything. There's this song by The National...

We expected something, something better than before. We expected something more
Do you really think you can just put it in a safe behind a painting, lock it up and leave
Walk away now and you're gonna start a war
Whatever went away I'll get it over now. I'll get money, I'll get funny again
Whatever went away I'll get it over now. I'll get money, I'll get funny again
Walk away now and you're gonna start a war

I'm still working on one it means exactly. The feeling is there, and it seems to fit the feeling i have for this ragged job search, the monies run up chutes and down ladders, whether it's worth it. My balancing act always seems to involve songs and stories listened.

A dear friend's father is coming up on retirement and he ponders this coming time, its bountiful aptitude following a life of due diligence to vocation. He thinks of model airplanes and books to be read. I wonder about that aim and its nearing freedoms, and wonder if it ever really leaves us to begin with. I have those plans too and can only hope that a free spirit is lasting in a world of labor and dollars. I'd like to capture my freedom all along the way and never lose sight despite the early mornings that pull me from a warm bed, and inside a glowing caffeine office. Most of all i want to be good and no matter the blocks, i think that can be done.

*there's a link to that song up on the title...

You really got a hold on me

I decided to stay a while longer in the Bay... my current plans unraveling. The man was saying sign here, here and here... and oh so barely did i escape. Some love for Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.

I'd like to send this shoutout to improbability, because without it... life wouldn't impress me nearly as much. I want to take you back in time to the year 2005 and the microcosmo of my life at that pivotal moment. On Fridays we drove into town, either to McCall via the Lick Creek Summit Road which was a veritable nightmare and graveyard for vehicle undercarriages; or, to Cascade via a neverending serpentine road begging the driver or passenger at some point to not become an astronaut.

On this much anticipated Friday venture provisions would be bought in the denominations of half-racks and cases, often in can form. On return, refrigerators would be stocked, lawnchairs assembled and the evening commenced with a cylinder of Red Seal and maybe a rock-throwing contest down toward the South Fork(*link above on the title).

Sunday Shootout

Compliments of Gerry...

Andrew's power layup...

Today in my eyes.

I put my feet up on the furnace and watched the kids playing in the schoolyard. My lunchbreak looking out on a cool, gray day... the quick drift above Twin Peaks bringing a welcome hood upon Noe Valley. Still working on a ginormous cup of coffee from the early morning and awaiting some state of wakefulness that never comes. I'm taking notes on child behavior and thinking about my own. Studying the dark circles beneath my eyes and the tired smile i've been wearing all morning. I couldn't be happier... and with it some confidence resounding. And the kids don't fuck with me when i'm like this. I give them this look, like Hey, don't waste my fucking time okay? It seems to work really well, and then we can sit down and do our work. This peace as i find my own. There is some art in not trying too hard, wouldn't you say?

Down in the Mission the kids are trying too hard. I see them already cool at seven a.m. talking into cellphones at their chins, like walkie-talkies. They're leaning against the wall waiting for the Laidlaw to take em away. It's seven in the bloody morning, does anybody without a job or meth problem talk at this time? Me? Don't call me at seven and certainly don't put me on speaker phone at the corner of 24th and Capp. I'm not having it.

Further on a homeless mans been run down. Two enormous black women are looking down at his snow-angel form near the corner drain. His Safeway cart is a few feet away; he starts to lift his head. An LA Looks-gelled up Latino cop talks into his shoulder, spitting out codes instead of just saying poor bastard down. He's gonna be fine... his feet are moving. Maybe a concussion and a two-month looming hangover fought off but destined for him and his hospital bed. The smell of fresh conchas from the Mexican bakery and the fried tomatos on the corner, these things don't wait.

And as the hour grows later, little ones emerge in rows like ducklings on the sidewalk. The rabbit reproduction of the American immigrant, shocking... like the giant billboard of Savage Nation overlooking the Castro. Or the ad right next to it~ Want hot sex without crystal? Hell Yes!!! And a bunch of flaming pecs and abs in a row supporting the statement. Reminding me of the recent film 300, just gayer (if that's possible).

I like San Francisco most when i'm on my feet. I walk a lot and my gait follows me through, choosing the less traveled streets of my own memory toward the day's destinations. It feels good to walk by and watch the life living here; these close quarters allowing anonymity or palaver in the same breath.


Fabulous Castro sailor boys compliments of Julia
from the passenger seat at 15mph...

The moment that brought me here.

You were there seated in a field trampled with many feet. The red plastic cup in your hands, legs criss cross, eyes watching me. I was on a stage in those days and i performed quietly for you. There was forever a private joke playing between our eyes and it was this humor that i loved most. That was outside Helena, Montana... we were talking about how to spend your grandmother's money. The money she'd left for you in her exit. It was a piece of land we wished to buy, loose knit pine turning to field and the Dearborn River below.

A few weeks before, you'd said 'i love you' in a Santa Fe city park. Cicadas were rattling overhead in odd ornamentals and my fingers began to shake as i rolled a cigarette. I'd told you many times before never expecting you to answer me. It's difficult to put so much forward without the expectation of reciprocity. I wonder sometimes if i could ever attain that level again.

This first ballast of communcation haunted and delighted me. To feel myself and another simultaneous in thought and step, i never truly believed a possibility. And it sent me somewhere beyond the granted love of a good childhood. In some regards it was another beginning. There was my birth, and language; there was memory, and coming upright to stand on two feet. Beginnings like these... And then, there was this new thing forming inside me and further, moving beyond my body.

However one's belief could place me on this planet, whether a product of supernal hand, or fated otherwise... whatever the case. To be here and have an innate nature of doing and living, is a motherfucker in itself. And in the moments i realize the power of understanding certain things, carried by trembing hands or hairs raised above the skin... i can feel what it is, most important to me. And it seems to all stem from this first shudder of vulnerability.

...and then i found out Erin Kramer was getting married? that is correct: Erin Puffy Kramer. that's like the pot telling the kettle to shut the fuck up...

I have been traipsing... once again living my life as if it weren't real. If each one of us has a unique gift mine would be moving with consideration and carelessness simultaneous. Pretty neat trick man.



this is me making a cup of tea at 1658 feet (a bay area mountain)

Sojourn in Ixtlan...

I awoke the other night from a dream and found myself in yet another one, this time more real. For a moment my already binary existence became even more confusing. In the first dream i was gazing toward the wall lying on my side, my living room around me. And before my eyes, with all the willpower i could summon, formed the shape of an old friend. I studied her face in the light, she turned from side to side and cast shadows from the tip of her nose. I could make out the slightest freckles on her cheek and the sleepiness about her eyes.

I was amazed that i could recreate such an image, a virtual photograph now nearly interactive in its mechanics. I was proud that i had remembered her so well; perhaps her image now was even realer than her original form, i thought. I believe i stole that idea from a book i read in the past few years. That our eye is a camera, both still and moving.

And then she faded and i awoke into the second dream. I fumbled for a pen and lay as still as i could. I didn't want to wake fully cos i could feel these thoughts gently slipping and knew that only between realities would i remember and transcribe. So i wrote a sum of lines about her image, but i couldn't keep it cos i awoke yet again. And so i lay in bed, really this time and pulled my legs up toward me.

I felt a simple sadness of nearly attaining as the greyhound always stretching for the rabbit. It is strange how even as we sleep we stretch ourselves out and attempt to merge with something. And by the taste left in my mouth and nerves on edge, i can only wonder where my heart really lies.


an onerous sign on today's point reyes roadside...

a thousand words...

Kick that !@%$#% ball!

In preparation for Sunday's hopeful kickball game at Dolores Park... i took some practice on the schoolyard. It was second lunch on a terribly bright day, my eyes recoiling from the incandescent celestial ceiling overhead. A spring day in San Francisco.

I was making my recess rounds twirling a whistle around my fingertip and taking a minute to yak with various kids about how to beat the final stage in Super Mario Kart and why Mexico's World Cup team is dangerous to make large bets on. This is my normal day. After lunch i scrounge up a few balls and set up a kickball game in one corner and a soccer game in the other. Sometimes the girls join the games, but for the most part they like to talk in gaggles, giggling all the while. In fifth grade it unnerved me to no end... the burst of laughter from such a flock and my silent sweetheart among them. Was she telling them about my sweaty palms when we held hands? Did they catch me picking my nose?

I was wandering back and forth, i played goalie for a while and screamed and shouted encouraging everyone to do headers from towering kicks. Kids were rubbing their sore heads and smiling; it did kind of hurt. And then looking toward the kickball game i took my leave, electing a new goalie as i walked away. The kickball field was a mess: kids scattered haphazard, bunched on homeplate fighting for position, clueless bewildered outfielders clumped in centerfield unaware of left and right. Not to mention a terrible discrepancy common to schoolyard kickball~ all the cool big 5th grade kids on one team and the shrimpy scraps of 4th grade nerddom comprising its foe.

It was like fetch at the dogpark, big kids walloping balls into gaps and corners and the little kids running to retrieve. Makes my heart kinda skip a beat seeing all this. Reminded me of my poor Mariners facing the Yankees throughout the 90's; a rout, in other words. And me at the ballpark, scraping my chocolate malt with that little wooden spoon, feeling kinda mad at the pinstripes. And to boot, the big kids were cheating, claiming they were safe in shameless out fashion. Like that time Alex Rodriguez slapped the ball out of Arroyo's mitt in Game 6 with the Red Sox. Just shameless...

I couldn't take it anymore. I stepped in, "Terrence, you're out. Gimme a break!" A murderous 5th grade look crossed his face a second before he assented, loping back toward the bench. I helped the kids get the final two outs. They'd been on the field nearly fifteen minutes shagging balls for the big kids. They quickly lined up in nervous anticipation of finally kicking, but sadly their teammates kicked dribblers up the first base line. Two outs. It looked like a one-two-three inning for the underdogs. But then, out of nowhere, Mr. Jesse stepped up to the plate. I turned back and readied the kids for a team run, a special rule applied when all the kids get to run around the bases, like a walk-off grandslam. It usually really infuriates the other team, so i decided this would be a great time. My left foot got every bit of rubber and the ball bounded long and far, twisting by the flag pole. We screamed, we hollered, we taunted... and as we gathered at home plate, the lunchbell rang.

Postscript. Sunday's game is on! Bring your own beer and dignity!

Ode to a friend... and our livers.

The whole of last week was spent with a mediocre person at best. Though she is a dear friend, the fact remains... she is an enabler, a horrible influence. And if i ever have children, a restraining order may be necessary. May G-D bless her cold cold heart.

Yonder by the Truckee lives a lady
young and pretty (she once was)
years of smokin' and drinkin' behind her
and many more years ahead to come...

The Truth Is Out There: A Shoutout To Mulder

It started when i was kid, maybe seven or eight. I was to listening to P.M. Dawn and Belbiv Devoe, loved Kraft dinner and could occupy hours in the presence of Legos. It began: a recurring nightmare that I became a ship, a rocketship, blasting off from this Earthen surface toward the cratered Moon. I would burn through the atmosphere and watch the hue turn blue to black, stars appear like oncoming twilight, and up ahead our lunar companion slowly growing closer. About this time, always the same in each dream, i would realize my trajectory was amiss and that i would pass by the Moon. The overwhelming notion of Newton's Law on my young brain... (and countless sci-fi films like 2001 and Alien and later, X Files) i would float away forever~ same speed, same direction. If the Little Prince had been American...

I would awake heavy each morning following these dreams. The images and feelings summoned by the notion of eternal drifting left me shaken and only by early afternoon would i shrug it. These dreams faded after a sum of years and i happily returned to the innocent filth of youthful fantasy, dreaming of those girls in homeroom in strange places and positions. Then just reaching teen, i awoke one night to find myself curled in a ball and suspended ten feet from my bed (the high ceilings of my room allowing). Fully awake now but unable to render escape, i realized that i was hanging such as the Moon and... that i was the Moon. How lonesome it is, to be the Moon! I began crying out for help until my brother's girlfriend came and saved me. Her flashlight illuminating my room found me lying face down on my bed, eyes wide. We chainsmoked on the porch until i calmed down enough to go back to bed.

This is all to say, my fascination with the cosmos has always been acute and beckoning. I read of the methane seas on Titan, Saturn's largest moon. The splintered icy surface of Europa and the thick ocean below it, steadily orbiting Jupiter. The strange hexagon shape at Jupiter's northern pole; the solid geometry holding constant despite heavy storms about it. Water-eroded canals of Mars, its daytime temperatures between 50-60ºF; the erupting volcanoes of Io sending magma into space; or the acid-rain on Venus. And us, the blue planet, a pinprick in the cosmos.

Sometimes when i'm feeling cynical i think about our quiet steady evolution, our false notion of progress. All that we've learned and then relearned cos we'd forgotten. Our population and technology running like seismic waves over a span of countless time. I think about our accepted ideologies and religions, barely matured in a few thousand years. And that only a few centuries ago people believed the world to be flat... (of course, a few thousands years before that... they knew it was round), natural resources infinite, wigs and coursets fashionable. And look how far we've come.

Whenever i'm in a pinch i like to imagine the future, looking backward at a certain moment: a job interview, a breakup, a date, or a bender. It allows me to watch from afar and find the humor in an otherwise awkward, bumbling moment. I imagine the future now and see the obvious discovery of other lifeforms in the systems and galaxies beyond, which will fundamentally crumble our religion, false knowledge and virture. Without our God, our foundations for science and government, where will we be? And that's the humor of it; we'll be in exactly the same place without any difference except the knowledge that certainly... we are not alone.


The volcanoes of Jupiter's Io

Take me 270º

I should have been a cowboy, or maybe even a gunslinger. Simplify everything. Narrow my choices: there's steak and potatoes; there's whiskey and beer. There's no studying every knob on draft... just, give me a beer. None of that insolent top-shelf/bottom shelf debating and consequent swilling and sniffing, people sticking their whole nose in a snifter. No, just some whiskey in a shooter, and then it's gone. Nothing fancy.

And have you ever wanted somebody to just shut the fuck up? Well, cowboys can knock em out with one punch. It's amazing, seen it all the time on the tele. And what more, some people like Chuck Norris can do roundhouse kicks in Wranglers, a miracle in itself. I'd like to try out being a loose cannon... simplify my emotions a little bit. Be the quiet type, not brooding, just apt to take long looks on pretty scenery while a kind gal fawns on me. Tell people to back off with my eyes and carry myself real agile like a panther or something. Ready to spring at any moment.

Always liked to nap with a hat over my head, sleeping under an open sky, making a pillow of a bag or coat. All the sounds of night playing quick to your ears and a gentle breeze brushing your clasped hands or the hair about your neck. Always liked the hell out of dogs... wasn't one to talk my head off at them. I like their silence, dig their energy and howling nature. I'd have me a birddog or something and just take life one step lower.

These days pass by...

It's Monday. A thin layer of clouds drifting overhead, dogging the slow breeze looking down upon Noe Valley and the Mission. It's me there in one of those tan buildings gazing out my office window. I lost myself for a few minutes; and now, i'm wondering exactly where i went to. I've been doing that more and more in these past days. The onset of gerry years upon me at such a young age.

It hasn't been an unpleasant thing, nothing to cause alarm. There was a time a few years back that i experienced a similar episode. It lasted a sum of months and one night slipped away as i slept. If one could marry contentment and indifference... I feel anonymous and at peace, with no exigent need to assert opinion or stand by for anything but humor. And yet, also very distant from my own self... like i'm just watching from afar~ all these actions and reactions in succession. It reminds me of sleep deprivation or the third day of a fast, when the quiet loopiness sets in.

Today one of my students skipped lunch. His father had ran short on time and wasn't able to bring him the usual sack lunch at the 11:30 dot. I came into his classroom after recess and found him in the early stages of meltdown. I made eyes with the teacher in silent explanation and gently nudged him out of class. I stole some crackers from the kitchen and we sat on a bench overlooking the playground. As he mumbled his crackers and slowly came to life i talked. I don't know where it came from, this little sermon in the schoolyard about human bodies and our more subtle mechanics.

This kid is obsessed with Legos. In some aspect he brings Legos into every school subject. In math we add and subtract Legos; in social studies we compare Legos technology to Native Americans' (i'm not kidding...); and, in english we write stories (beginning, middle, end) about, yes, Legos, leading astonishingly anthropomorphic lives. And so, i compared our human bodies to Legos, instead of machines, explaining that one must feed and water the body or it'll be unable to function. He dusted some crumbs off his lap and commented on the strange texture of this particular cracker. I continued: that unlike Legos, we all have feelings and that they can become jumbled when we don't eat or hydrate (hence his issue earlier with another student). Or, that kids' thoughts can wander aimless in the classroom, unable to focus when the teacher's talking. That's when he asked me about kool-aid and how he likes the purple kind. You mean grape? i asked. No... purple, he replied.

Going for a walk.

There's this saying that i've been fumbling with in the past few years: When it goes wrong, it really goes right. And there's been variations on the wording but always the same idea. I've used it to brace myself against the fair travesties of events like Jackson, Wyoming ... a haven for cloned melo-emotions and me smack in the middle. Or the night i walked home drunk through a Maine blizzard and got pneumonia, but kept working my three jobs all the same. I remember holding a cough and running into the kitchen, donned in my serving tuxedo monkey-suit, and nearly falling over as i convulsed in the pantry. Then there was a morning on the ferry, i was sitting atop my backpack on deck looking through the rails; watching a side of wake and the town beyond i was leaving: best friend, home, and job.

We all could use a hand and who better than ourselves to give it. So i devised this saying to explain the true efficacy of otherwise sole negative haps. My brother tells me that a Libran Sun and Leo Moon proves caustic to my goal of stability. That's kind of a bummer if it's true, though it would put some discourse to the whole of my life. Astrologically-challenged may be a future term if a polite and liberal society like San Francisco wins the masses.

The essence of my personal adage is: despite a turn toward the less-desired, hence it goes wrong... at least an answer has been reached. And as human beings, we have such ruthless faculty for cataloguing events as they pass into our own history. It's nearly alarming how we can remove our sentiments and file away any occurrence resolved, if we see so fit. More misgiving is the unanswered thing in my life; i don't know what to do with it. Tricks to bring peace of mind, maybe that's what this is about.

I have this new friend. She's this engaging canuck with a sunny dispostion, who allays the usual histrionics of conversation, inviting ease. I went to pick her up the other day for a trip out of town. Backpack full of food and water, thermos of coffee strapped to the side. My car made five blocks and then stalled on the corner of 22nd and Folsom. All i could do was laugh as i pushed my car three blocks toward a vacant spot, drawing eyes of passerby with my push through a major intersection. Out-of-state plates. The early morning light still throwing shadows over much of the neighborhood grid and down on the streets. I left her there near a crumbling curb, beneath a tree scattering brittle leaves.

My friend came and picked me up and we drove across the bridge into Marin, through the rainbow tunnel. And the smooth ascension northward, not looking back except to laugh. Loosing any achievement for a day or two and feeling glad to be sharing this space with a friend. The stupid luck of knowing something went right.

Kairos on the corner.

We're covering new ground here... the brave beyond that i've been cautiously awaiting. Stretching out the fingertips, and most especially~ the mind, toward this feeling of home that's coming over me, gently. Was pushing across the Mission with a case of beer atop one shoulder, connecting the dots for proper consumption. Pantlegs rolled above the ankle, shirt-sleeves, and looking forward to the sandals at home.

It was down on Folsom crossing into my laundromat district, watching the tumble dry from midway over the yellow hashes. And as i regained the sidewalk i noticed a few buds sprouting on a treebranch overhead. Yeah that's right you fucking nerd, terminal and apical meristems giving it up for another swing through the seasons.

This new green above me, whorled and alternate and opposite, on some tree or other.... and then the grand scheme, sort of similar to when you dial in a raindrop or a snowflake falling from the sky. Then WHAM! focusing in... you can see a million of them. But, you have to recognize that first one, like this here meristem i was refering to. So i craned my neck a while, i've been told i look like a bird before. Perhaps that prehistoric flightless fucking thing from New Zealand. Had scales instead of feathers and stood ten feet, or some crazy shit like that. Giant peckin' Big Bird. Remember Follow That Bird? Goddamn... what a movie. I'm gonna park my kids in front of that one. Might wait on the whole Labrynth thing, lest they wish conjecture on Bowie's pod.

Anyway, i was stopped on the corner sidewalk musing this line of no-name trees, cos my botany is pathetic in the California + Ornamental department... and it struck me that i felt a maddening affinity for this neighborhood. It was beginning to belong to me, or me to it... whatever the case; and, moreover, noticing a change upon it was endearing of all things. Kinda like your little cousin learning how to shamelessly flirt with girls and convincing them he's worth their time (... really hope you're reading this Sam, you're pivotal in all things progressive).

There's so many things that i don't know and those needn't be addressed (cos i surely haven't the time to list). But, for what i do know... i find they must be constantly reaffirmed or i lose the meaning, and more so, lose the feeling of what it means to know them: bodily knowledge. And for me, i can't think of a more heartening thing than feeling that i belong (which i know is fiction...), and for just a moment in a day to be present. For one instant only, i was content and philistine with something as simple, and yet crucial, as a coming season. Lowering the bar cos it must be done.

This quickening...

A dear friend of mine has termed this blog San Franciscan Ruminations and i feel that i've never truly delivered the product promised by those words. I wish to finally do so...

Narrowing the limitless options of self-definition: my person must represent either some aspect that we all carry in regard, or a certain personality confined to a body, absolute. And needing to choose so deliberately for this endeavor, i select the pollyannaist whose over-optimism is both easily dissuaded and shied by hindrance, as encouraged by ease and fluidity. This personality is seemingly vulnerable to subtle fluctuation, but spared many distresses self-inflicted. And this in tow with my particular upbringing creates a metropolitan anomaly, maybe.

I'm gaining and losing here in this city; it's mostly velvet as the gamblers say: i think i'm winning. This ability to be both anonymous and gregarious at whim, near simultaneously, is the heart of my heart in San Francisco. To satisfy both of these wants, and likely needs, is a momentary gift that i hold onto. I feel in some part, that i have a secret that distends my appreciation for this city life. All that i've ever lived, until now, has in some way been diametric to this paved grid littered with life. This tight mixture of sound and smell, the sweet and the fetor together, combine into something almost richer than the pure beauty i've often been surrounded by. There's something more believable about this unification, as it encompasses the human being too~ both gentle and fierce.

But, what i'm losing is my sensitivity and mild candor for all. As the world grows bigger, i grow smaller and for whatever reason, i feel less. It's survival in an overly-stimulating environment that begs for attention. We harbor more unconsciously and find safe doses for semblance and sentimentalism alike. I don't know if i really buy what i'm writing, but part of me knows that my skin is thickening. That what remains untouched is my deliberateness and calculation, but what narrows is my aptness for affection. Not absence, because it is my core, but quicker reluctance to showing it. And not just showing it; feeling it.

I remind myself not to hurry. All these things around me i've wanted at some time, and now they're here with me. Perhaps it's just an apprehensive time and all of us feel our steps are hurried, whether they are or not. Perhaps it's some American way of living. Either way, i trust it... that which threatens me and holds me strong, reassuring.

Rolling In Washington.

Once when I was ten years old I mistook the sun for the moon. It was a breathless winter day in Chehalis, a small town in southwestern Washington State. The cold seemed to absorb all sound, making it ring hollow. A high bank of altostratus clouds could be seen through the gaps of gray cottony, cumulous that hugged the land. The high clouds were smooth and taut, tan like the color of skin. The lower clouds were dark and ruffled; I swore I could touch them from a rooftop. The sun's play through the two banks created an illusion. At one point I looked up and cried, “There’s the moon! It’s full.”

I was with my mother and father. It was an early Saturday morning; we were driving into town. I was in a league bowling tournament and every Saturday we went to the alley. My parents laughed until I understood my mistake. I turned red alone in the backseat. That made them laugh harder.

They dropped me off at the front door and went to find parking. I was late. I ran inside and quickly slipped my bowling shoes on. I found my teammates right before the first game started. We called ourselves The Scorpions. We thought it sounded tough and intimidating. Our first game was against The Alley Cats. We all had a good laugh at that, as if team names would determine the winner.

Most of the kids were my age, but a few had reached the glory of teen. We looked up to those ones, admiring their developing muscles and sprouts of hair beneath their arms. Although we didn’t share the same age, we all held one thing in common: our parents were alcoholics. Even at nine in the morning, already many of them were on a second or even third drink. Cans of Miller High Life and Rainier lined the countertops, cigarettes burning in the ashtrays. Most kids only had a mother or father watching, but not the two together. In that way, I was different. My parents were seated together in the second row. I could see them already rummaging for the wine they’d brought along.

Bowling was never a popular sport in our town, as it likely wasn’t in many towns. It was more of a weekend activity, or a place for highschoolers to bring their sweethearts. We played it as a sport though. We rolled the ball with intensity and determination. We calculated our spin and aimed for the third hash mark. Adrenaline pulsed our veins as the ball drove into the center pin. It was a poor kid’s sport and it made sense, because we were all poor. Our team uniforms were homemade. We’d drawn scorpions on the front of three red t-shirts and wore black pants. Seattle was an hour away. Only an hour to find our heroes: the Butthole Surfers, the Posies, Black Flag, or Nirvana.

Maybe other kids saw us for what we were, poor goodwill shoppers with a permanent marker. But I don’t think so; we were all on the same train together.

We rolled a good game against The Alley Cats. We taunted them with weak meows on every strike or nine spare. We were ruthless and cruel and having a good time. The final decision was ours and we moved to the next round.

Our next opponent was The Kingpins. They held a town legend on their team, a scrawny redhead named Paul. He was seemingly harmless, but looks deceive, and man could that kid raise hell. His father was the leading alcoholic in the crowd. The man had more drinking experience and no-how than everyone combined. He liked to hit Paul a lot and many Saturdays Paul would show up with bruises about the face. Rumor had it that Paul would soon be a father to a fourteen year-old across town by the name of Lindsey Taylor. We were all in love with her; she was sweet and incredibly sexy. And now Paul had knocked her up. It’d also been said that Paul had once vandalized Sheriff Hamilton’s patrol car in the 7-eleven parking lot. Old Hamilton was likely filling his mug with coffee and talking some questionable material with Sue behind the counter. Little did he know, while he was trying to get laid, his car was in the hands of Paul. The car was a canvas, and Paul the artist held his tools: spray paint and a switchblade.

Paul was a fighter but he bowled like a lover. He would caress the ball before gently laying it down with such quiet force upon the lane. He had the most wicked spin; the ball would cut so hard at the last second, driving into the side of the kingpin. In that explosive instant, pins would leap in every direction. The invisible dust would settle on a lane lay barren of pins. Paul didn’t show emotion when it came to bowling. He would casually approach the scorecard and place an ‘x’ in the frame, before taking a seat.

We knew we needed a better game to beat The Kingpins. We played our hearts out, withholding our usual taunts and name calling for another team that didn’t have Paul on it. My teammates were Jared and Sarah. We were all in the sixth grade together. At school we were friendly and would pass greetings in the hall. But the true friendship lay at the alley. Sarah didn’t have the physical strength to drive, but her accuracy was astounding. That girl could draw a strike from the slowest roll. Jared, on the other hand, would throw the ball so hard he sometimes lost his balance, falling over the line and drawing a foul. I once saw Jared roll it so fast into the gutter that it ricocheted into a strike. Jared was strong and sloppy. He reminded me of Jose Canseco, either a homerun or a strikeout. There was never a medium. Jared either fit the gutters or blew the pins away.

The game was neck and neck. Sarah chipped away on spares, making a pair of incredible splits that drew a few “oohs,” “aahs” and scattered claps. Jared played his game and somehow managed more ‘x’s’ than ‘0’s.’ I rolled in between, grabbing a few strikes and a handful of spares. It was a tight game. The Kingpins held a small lead throughout the match. On Jared’s final frame he stunned everyone present with an incredible assault upon the pins. His ball became an amazing missile in his grip, detonating on impact sending ‘x’s’ across the board. It brought us to a ten-point lead. We were excited, but far from convinced as Paul stepped up to the lane. It was all up to Paul. A strike would send us to our knees; a spare would only extend our certain death with a third roll.

Paul was nervous, everyone could tell. He looked back toward his father, who bellowed, “Whatya waiting for kid? Roll the ball! Beat these little shits!” He was tanked. I saw my dad take a good long look in his direction. My dad wasn’t far behind, having just polished the bottle of pinot noir and currently moving well with the cabernet.

Paul returned his gaze to the alley. He shuffled four methodic steps to the line and let roll a spinning ball of fury. The Scorpions gasped, every last one of us. The pins exploded, but as they cleared, we saw the corner pin standing. It wobbled slightly and then stood strong.

“C’mon boy!” Paul’s father shouted. “Don’t wimp out now!”

Paul remained staring at the pin as it settled, rooted to the lane. He was fixed and deaf to everything around him. He held out his right hand to the air vent, collected his ball from the shoot, and took his position once more. He must have stood that way staring down the lane for thirty seconds. His eyeballs were drying out in that determined gaze. He stepped forward and let fly another spinning mass. Paul’s ball kissed that pin; I mean, it was that close. I’m sure they touched one another on the way to the rack. But, there the pin stood and The Scorpions were victorious. We politely shook hands and then wiped the sweat from our foreheads.

“Come here Paul!” I look up to see Paul’s father beckoning him with a strong hand. Paul walked toward him with his head slightly bent. That’s when a loud slap resounded in the alley. Paul’s father stood there with his hand still outstretched, frozen in place, as his face swelled red.

“Hey! Whatya think you’re doing?” I heard my dad shout.

“Mind your own business, why don’t ya!” Paul’s father shot back.

“I’ll be minding yours real good if you do that again.” That’s when he shoved Paul to the floor and pulled himself to his feet. Everyone was quiet and watching. Not a single ball fell to the lane, not a single beer was cracked open. All eyes were intently observing this scene unfurl.

I had never seen my dad this angry before. He was a simple and peaceful man. But on this day, I don’t think anyone bore witness to that. Within a split second my dad was on his feet and in front of Paul’s father. My dad’s fist slammed into his chin and Paul’s father fell back against the row of seats. His Pabst Blue Ribbon was knocked to the floor and made a puddle beneath him. My dad stood over him with his head cocked to the side, his right hand still hanging clenched to a fist. It reminded me of the famous photograph of Muhammad Ali standing over Joe Frazier daring him to just try and stand up.

We left early that day, the three of us nearly running out of the bowling alley. I don’t think my father was worried about getting in trouble, he just thought it was the right thing to do. No one liked the man who still lay sprawled across the seats. No one would help him to his feet.

I remember watching Paul as we left. His face was expressionless, his mouth a thin straight line, as he studied the crumpled body of his father.

The drive back home was silent. My mother was furious. But by the time we reached home we were all laughing. They congratulated me on the game, patting my back as we stepped inside.

Upon Waking.

The first thing i think upon waking: the light and how it passes through the fabric across my window. I wonder of the sky and if it holds clouds or lets fly the sun unhinged. This light, dull or bright and the short cold trees, leafless in the backyard. I'll reach for my clock and bring the tone, this hue faintly illuminating me upon a square of crumpled bedding... put it alongside the actual time of day, make sense of it. Then rising, go about my routines of boiling water and washing my face, grinding the beans and musing the shelf for breakfast.

Every single thing touched or turned over needs another thing, thought or remembered to somehow verify it. And especially in the morning, nothing stands alone as just itself. The coffee is the wakefulness and it needs a cup, the cream already poured and waiting. The oats, a pot and water rising to bubble and steam.

And as clarity comes on (whatever clarity is~ perhaps a raveling to this reality i've adjusted to), these physical items i hold in my hands become links to seemingly unrelated memories. The keys jingling in my pocket on my way to work... i think of our dog Dawson running ahead on the Alaskan trails, a bell about her neck signaling bears of our presence. Or all the classroom smells at my charter school: freshly washed heads, the sweet smell of paint in the artroom, sorry lunchroom memory of fishsticks past and disinfectant. Every smell conjuring something... and me standing there peeling a tangerine while the kids find their friends and tear into paper bags, lunchboxes, or the prepackaged solids a meal ticket receives. And the Japanese girl in my mind, years back telling me how to peel with the intention of gathering one rind, one strip of orange citrus skin... for good luck or some such thing.

I listen to this input, these constant overlaps of life. They bring me closer to feeling connected; sometimes they threaten to drive me mad. But mostly i welcome them. It's an exercise to draw lines between the lives we've lived, whether young or old. An invisible connect-the-dots, like the nightsky overhead upon which we strain our necks upward- trying to make out the horse in Pegasus, Orion's bow, a high-flying Delphian kite. And none of it really there; it never was. Yet it's sweet to imagine... to believe in this chronology that our lives continue on, with one person leading the way. That one person, you or me. In brief attempts i try, but quickly lose track of which person that was that said those things, that did those things. Who was that whom i've always held close and called me?