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...

Awaiting the delivery...

It's a late saturday night with feet kicked up and a few simple beverages down, perhaps a few more to go. A certain balance regained with the righting in the bloodline... a terribly debaucherous friday night behind me. With the morning mused light i watched my housemate drain every drop of vitamin c from the house with two close-rounded trips to the fridge to wrap his lips around the aseptic orange juice jug. Poor bastard, poor me i was thinking. And then thinking of Bill Cosby and that beautiful skit on the plight of humanity, our desire to make something of friday night and get out there, get loose and soused and have a good time. Then the subsequent over-indulgence, queasy feelings and an end to 'fun,' we rest our heads against the cool rim of the toiletseat. And the realization in sapped confusion that we earned this, our nine to five, weekday run for the money has bought in time, effort, cool change, the ability to invest ourselves in such stupid endeavors.

That's what i was thinking with the morning light and a coming day of something bordering on regret, what the hell was all that for? Questions like, did the fun i have equal or better the consequence of consumption, my body's rejection to a gross amount of stimulant and depressant? And then two answers to one question; i saw it coming...

I live in a new town. Its been here all along, something in my eyes as the newcomer, this idea of rewound chronology and genesis. This quasi-acuity belongs to subjection, a thing i've been guilty of in more than one instance. I admit it yet it nearly seems healthy... progressive, as if perhaps i was bordering on truth: the truth that all situations no matter how misleading are results of my own projection and spin. The longer i live and the more absurd the situations become, the more difficulty i have in believing the external sentience of circumstance. Outcomes always tend toward the appropriate. Perhaps that gives some standing to our new-age friends and jungian vouchers of coincidence and proper cause and effect. I never could find merit in the argument though the supposition rang true. Perhaps this is my way of dealing with constant travel and a high turnover rate of employment and company. Maybe i'm mission minded and need to inject this experience called life with the false notion of engaging in a sociological experiment. Yeah right... ain't it good though.

In the latest chapter of possible demise, perchance nirvana... i have acquired a beautiful six-three jobbyjob driving truck for a distribution company. I sling soda and bread and other partially hydrogenated products to the community of Sitka grocery stores and shortchange convenience stores. It pays and has something to teach, though i'm still not positive as to which avenue that may lead.

And so my weekend come and awaiting the delivery of some chinese food made by a kitchen of polynesians who call the great gray north their home. Its rained nearly three weeks straight. If it weren't raining the population would deem it a 'nice' day regardless of any other conditions. We're getting out the chopsticks and pouring another drink...

Back into the world...

It took a long time to fulfill the contract I'd signed with the federal government. I was a speck of life in the wilderness of central Idaho for the second season running. I represented pocketchange of deep pockets, an afterthought from the dislocation of naturalist to biologist in the caste of this inanimate institution. Get the data. That was my job. Be safe, alone in the wilderness on steep terrain with the huckleberry bears... but still, get the fucking data! So that's what i did and when the season ended i thanked the big guy in the sky and went back into the world.

With the late summer shining through pulled curtains and Ray Charles singin' "the mess around" on the radio, an afternoon nap seemed in order. Third week of the inbetween, unemployed and terribly content with it. The phone rang as i began to nod, friends inviting me to dinner one town over~ in Centralia. With nothing else in mind and the fridge and cupboards wholly devoid of dinner i agreed.

I grew up here in southwestern Washington between a farm and a city, somewhere in the gray area. The lush valleys bending from the Olympics into alluvial deposits of meandering waterways leading up and up, plateauing above subterranean notches harboring immense canyons at the base of Mount Rainier and the fellow Cascade Range. And down there in the lowlands between peaks lies Lewis County, my beautiful semi-illiterate gem called home. It's good land, procures bounteous crops and feeds the mouths of stock and citizen with ease.

When i was coming of age it became apparent that my town, and many of those surrounding, had died with the ailing timber industry. Died from poor stewardship of the land, died from lack of interest, too many vices without income or sufficient subsidy. Desparate as an enfeebled third world country, the twin cities of Lewis County, Centralia and Chehalis, begged for new money to save its economy and well-being. And then a miracle like the angel Gabriel, an outpour from our democratic metropolitan dwellars into the outskirts of our red state. A miracle, Yes! Money arrived due to overpopulation in neighboring cities.

And who would have thought it, streets were cobbled and cleaned, century-old buildings renovated, trees and gardens tended. And then the truly unthinkable, above the dilapidated beauty college, between tattoo shops and book store fronts for the deal of meth, a wine bar moved in. I got inebriated and happy and thought less about the future with my mind and more with my body... and with that came a simple understanding. That there is no such thing as preparation, never has been. Out into the world again, a new home, a new place, an everchanging yet static me.

This year's love

Welcome. I'm beginning a new essay series called "Serious Corner," where i'm going to discuss more grown-up topics than in recent history. To begin i'd like to mention that i'm wearing a new pair of pre-worn jeans, which are incredibly comfortable and handsome. What does this truly say about our society? Perhaps, fundamentally, that we would prefer the result without the labor. Get me on that wagon.

It's a red letter day and i'm an amalgal failue. I'm feeling oracular to the theories of love and conception. It takes parents to have children and children to make parents. It takes connection to bring two people together and commitment to consummate marriage. Love and/or an accident can play major roles in unity. It's okay if mommy yells a little and has a habit of burning things in the oven. And, it's okay if daddy takes off, drinks a little too much, and leaves the toilet seat up. But, if there's too many undesirable items on each person's list, chances are likely the relationship won't survive.

I find that it's terribly easy to love someone that loves you. I'm speaking regardless of whether that love is tinged with pity or egomaniacism, as often the case. I'm also being inconclusive about the probability of relationship deterioration due to one-sided madness in love affairs.

Essentially, everyone is on a quest for a healthy habit of love. This is an ecumenical law. To counter what i said earlier, it's also fairly easy to love someone that doesn't love you... but that's not the point. We're talking about 100% possibilities for the one swooning your way. And i'm speaking of "love" in the sense of caring and consideration (The Big C's), not of passion, jealousy or infatuation. Due to our quest's completion in finding another, future recondite issues may be temporarily overlooked. One may quickly see that their chosen partner makes for an unsound pairing, yet it's difficult to sever ties notwithstanding.

I believe that we will fight for a crummy love. We will try again and again and again. We will wound all those present. On the fortieth revelation of incompatibility we will leave our partner. And then begin anew...

Booze and boo-birds

My mother and i are true baseball fans of a losing team. My father has yet to elucidate his favor; but, he doesn't seem to mind drinking in the stands. Rooting for a loser helps absolve the absurdity of professional sports. In other words, we may be fans and consumers of a grossly irrelevant and diseased product, but at least we're not Yankee fans, right?

In moments of natural pentothal, we admit that our adulations and afflictions for the Seattle Mariners are ridiculous to say the least. But there's something there that relates directly to what my parents love to call "The human condition." This reference can be made numerous times in a singular conversation. There's some humble admittance to being human, a quality of entertainment both superfluous and inane, that proves to be unburdening. It's the accession to being human and accepting all that that entails, which releases us from unnecessary punishment.

In one of yesterday's ballgames, a fan threw a tube of muscle pain reliever at Barry Bonds as he ran into the outfield. The fan was immediately arrested and taken out of the park. This is the second time already for Barry. A few weeks ago in San Diego a fan threw a syringe at him. Apparently a new demarcation between fanaticism and humor is being established.

It was always fun to boo Jose Canseco; everyone enjoyed themselves and could be seen smiling as they assaulted the airwaves with the letter 'b.' No harm was ever done. It was wholly necessary to boo Alex Rodriguez when he accepted $252 million and claimed that the money wasn't a concern. And who could forget the creationist Carl Everett who lives in a world without space travel, gay people, or dinosaurs. I'd boo him except he's on my team now.

As i head toward Seattle to catch another game at Safeco Field, i hope for only three things: that we may drink good beer in our $600 million stadium, find a Texas Ranger (the visiting team) to blithely harass, and win the fucking game!

Fecundity and Florida

Seated on Park Avenue sipping a two-dollar cup of Cafe arabica (i.e. a sloppily grown and roasted cup of Brazilian joe), i was watching the flow of golf carts carrying the filthy rich residents of Boca Grande, a Floridian island off the southwestern coast. Thinking about my day thus far...

I took a walk early this morning and saw a brilliant red disc rise out of Charlotte Bay, a sight that everyone beholds each morning. Zigzagging through the quiet streets of an upper-upper-class caucasian community toward one of the many beaches and adjacent mangroves. Binoculars about my neck, bag of books biting into my shoulder and feeling one of the most pleasant states of euphoria. Observed a cluster of staunchly perched brown pelicans outnumbered by a company of caspian terns and double-crested cormorants. Further down an osprey sailing over a few arctic terns who hovered still above the water spying herring below the surface.

On the way back to town i decided to attempt a good cup of coffee, something Florida sadly lacks. Nearing the cafe i found a banyan tree and neighboring palm full of chattering green parrots and a smaller band of monk parakeets. Thinking this is certainly a good life i stepped into the cafe. And that's where i began... I was seated outside on the sidewalk trying to find a comfortable position in a poorly structured metalloid chair, a task i failed. Looking out at the future skin-cancer patients and flipflop fatties with whiteknuckle grips on their tiki-bar prize maids. White, white everywhere... not the people, but the color. White tennis shoes and bleached, starched shirts... always collared. White jaguars and hummers. White pickets fences and golf carts parked on the lawn. Everyone is experiencing symptons of burgeoning vitamin-D levels.

I haven't always cared much for the tropical regions of this earth. They seem to attract a certain type of person, either inherently poor yet often hospitable and kind third-world product, or as one songwriter sings "and in the other corner(wearing the white trunks) today's tourists already sweating." But for every thesis an antithesis. People in one corner and birds in the other. And for every day another species unseen always moving northward with the warming climate. And for every negative thought, I realize time may go... and i could spend a long time here not talking to a soul. Content...

And they all grow up... but some grow stranger than others.

People in the Northwest talk a lot

For every one of us there's a conversation that can never be had. Not a finite ecumenical law for every subject on the planet, but a profound thought that every individual experiences uniquely for which they can't communicate. A certain gripping realization or theory for why we do any number of things, in any given situation. I don't know what mine is... i thought i knew a few weeks ago.

Recently i was visiting an old friend in Seattle, the city that looks nice but has never once roused a warm feeling or personal invitation to sojourn. It reminds me of something vacuous and hungry. What does it want i wonder? Anyway... we were talking late one night after dinner and i was invitedly experiencing one of my frequent neurotic episodes and wanted to share it with her. A quick personal defintion: psychotic~ everyone is crazy. neurotic~ i'm crazy. I often enjoy these feelings which are symptomatic of discovering my physical location. Think about it... 'i am here.' That thought procures the easiest access to a certain sensation. 'Wow, no shit, i am here.'

Depending on where exactly you're at, there's no telling how much you might trip out. I don't like the term 'to trip out.' It's impoverished and connotes in every negative direction. For theory sake, i've been thinking about creating my own word for my own defintion (like all those yahoos we use to read... remember?). I would like to call it objection. It's effectual placement of becoming present, and subsequent observation of yourself.

You know how it is, you see old friends, family and lovers and your insides can be muddled. You don't know what you're feeling or thinking, exactly, except the bold cognition that something strange is taking place. I love that feeling, i can learn so much about myself and my surroundings. Perhaps it has little true value, but it seems mentally productive.

I often assume that everyone has similar influences and tendencies. Therefore with the right words or in the right instance we can communicate a common, yet often unbreached idiosyncrasy. I was asking my friend about this in relation to my frequent objection in social circumstances. Does everyone trip out like i do while watching people, or conversing, or witnessing any number of commonplace events? She looked at me a long while and i was pretty convinced she was going to ask for further explanation about just what the fuck i was talking about. Instead she calmly answered 'No, i think it's more rare than that.' And she said it in a way, that at once denuded i was no unique specimen, but that it was okay. That got me thinking about that old rag 'I'm okay, you're okay' that was situated on my bookshelf somewhere between John Gray and Deepak Chopra, and i had to have a good laugh. Are you okay? Goddamn i hope so man....

Songs about Jackson

Every singer/songwriter must have at least one nostalgic song about Jackson... Tennessee, Mississippi, Minnesota. Ballads and odes in sweet remembrance and longing. There's a girl waiting there, the smell of pine trees or some such thing, the color of some polluted river. It's an american archetypal placename for musicians in the same way that Caroline is, though like many others i've never actually met a Caroline.

I wonder if any of those songs are talking about Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I'm leaning towards 'no.' I recently returned to this town and it wasn't due to a two month appetition for its rich edification. It has been two months since i left this place and it certainly wasn't time yet to revisit any old self or previous community. My old partner needed some help moving her things a few states over. I wasn't up to much of anything and volunteered to help.

I rolled into town on the first evening after driving 900 hundred miles in twelve hours. I was looking in the rearview mirror astounded at the long line of trucks behind me and nearly rear-ended the Dodge Ram in front of me. I made it just in time for the sledneck 'hill climb' that draws thousands of snow machiners from all over wyoming, utah, and idaho. Men and women gather around their snow machines and hold epic tailgate parties before ascending the local steep mountain for a record time. This is a laughable rough-and-tumble group that reminds me of a slightly watered down Hell's Angels gathering. The presence of this crowd added with the town's own extreme citizenry reminds me of some dangerous chemistry solution, imagine two vaporous vials mixed to explosion.

I'm in a different mindset this time around and i thought it might be a good time to explore my reasons for repulsion to this area. In the past, decisions and motivations were muddled in the unsuited habitat for optimum growth. Sometimes i like to imagine myself as a cholorophyllic body searching for select niche conditions. This time around i feel more objective and freefloating, not in search of grounding. I was hoping this would allow me to mull things over better.

An epiphany struck me at the Cadillac Grille and Bar. It was happy hour and i had a few beers in front of me and a burger on the way. The place was packed and the noise deafening. I was feeling particularly queer and couldn't keep my eyes off the women in my vicinity. Not a single female soul that i could find was timid to the eye, and i found myself freely staring at women staring back at me. What struck me at first was how i didn't feel a single drop of real connection or sensuality in these episodic staredowns. At first i internally fought this by pointing out to myself that i really wasn't that special, nor much of an apparent catch anyhow and perhaps this was a good revelation. But by further introspection i discovered the true cause of my antipathy...

When i first meet someone, whether they be the deemed future friend or partner, i try to display a panoply of what i think are decent traits. First on my list is sincerity, because even the least intelligent of people with sincerity are worthy friends. The next thing would likely be consideration, show that you're actually listening and interested. These are the top two, and the list definitely goes on... In Jackson, Wyoming people don't care about sincerity in its purer forms. They much prefer to burke the trait or accept some obviously transparent and generic version of it. This immediately cuts my tactic of initial connection with a person. Secondly, you may be holding a light or heavy conversation with someone, but this in no way keeps others (and everyone 'knows' everyone) from at any point crashing the scene. In this way you're left with splintered points and dialogue and you find your company quickly disjointed, attention defecit, in a blink of an eye holding conversation with a newcomer. It's cheap and schizophrenic, and if you're not up to the challenge of gregarious roaming laconic devolutions, then you'll certainly go mad!

Autonomy... wireless

I have a list i keep in my pocket. It's ongoing, an equal measure of pen or pencil scribbled on old receipt paper and letters. This is where i enlist myself to certain chores or tasks to fulfill by day/weeks end. In the past months i have had many names written on these, reminding myself to reach certain people and say hello... or whatever.

Equally relevant is the fact i broke my phone during a San Francisco argument (i dropped the thing in between a sigh and a scream), and i've lost most desire to discuss antiseptically life's latest on any telephone. I feel bad (sometimes) for all the things i've neglected to do, and the people i haven't connected with. The brunt of the occasion is my moietous girlfriend, who believes that such a thing is impossible, rather, this resolution reflects my Dolean ineptness and austerity. Poor girl!

This particular person has a knack for calling tri-daily with often a kind word, but otherwise nothing to report. Oh phone people! Please understand us not-phone people! She has never made my lists because her name, instead, has been engraved upon the inside of my fucking brain! C-A-L-L {blank}! For some reason the possibility of calling becomes even less enticing. And for all you out there that might understand me (Andrew!), it is no shoestring burden to be the sole focus of anything. Unless you like that sort of thing...

LoseCo.

Last week i fell into the grips of a WinCo Foods in Longview, Washington. It didn't help matters that i was severely sleep-depraved and on the verge of collapse due to hunger. I sadly followed my cousin inside the automatic jaws of the front entrance. One of the cart collectors was bringing in fifty carts; her metal caravan was led by herself and the rear brought up by an automated 'short circuit' with a blinking light. I'd never seen anything like it...

I immediately felt familiar as i entered the store. WinCo has been popping up everywhere alongside Ross, Starbucks, DollarTree, Home Depot and Target throughout the West. Every store is designed exactly the same, with the exact same products and the exact same music playing overhead. I was marvelling at this homogenized world lit by an overwhelming voltage of ultraviolet lighting, while simultaneously trying to avoid being hit by a cart. Despite the incredibly widened aisles for 'economy-size' everything (including the customers), one needs to hold a wary eye to avoid being run over. It reminds me of playing that old game Frogger on Atari. Trying to cross these streets and intersections without being crushed.

So i was wandering about, checking the deals, and trying to make the time pass quickly while my cousin filled his cart. I began noticing the outrageous prices that no ma and pa store could ever compete with. And then admist the disgust, some sort of quasi-shame for ever having shopped there emerged. I found chicken for .25 cents a pound (not on sale), perhaps dog-food grade but it looked normal. Boxes of Post cereal for a buck, all sorts of out-of-season produce for under in-season prices. Apples the size of softballs, bell peppers of electric christmas colors, chard with ears like skunk cabbage, and avocados for fifty cents a pop. Fifty fuckin' cents!

I couldn't take it anymore, i needed a drink. So i ran to the wine and beer to find endcaps of bullshit wine for pennies and decent wine for pocket change. Domestic beer giveaways and ungodly priced imports. It would be like pulling into a chevron today and finding gas costs 79 and 9/10 a gallon (the first price i remember seeing as a kid).

This isn't winning people! We are not winning here at WinCo. I was feeling a little foreboding and despondent and felt like shouting this ananity. Deciding it was time to leave i began weaving through the customers and their bereft mountains of stock. Approaching the sunlight, passing through the sliding doors, a great weight was lifted. If only there was a place like this for illicit drugs and other paraphanelia. I would love to check a shaker of blow, some various tablets with bin numbers written on dime bags, and a book of stamps. I think i'd be a club card member at that place and i'd still bring my own bags.

Cars on the lawn

Washington is a beautiful state. It's where i'm from and i like it for it's diverse landscape and ecosystems. Mountains, rivers, deserts... many species of bird and fish. I only come back to this state once a year, if that, to visit old friends and relatives and reconvene with the many old selves i've once been. It's my place of transition between ending and beginning, a place where i try to revisit old feelings, find my position, and move on. Time stops here, it's infinite and for that reason perhaps dangerous.

Does it ever seem like the most beautiful states have the worst, least intelligent stewards of the land? Think about that Montana governor who wants to raze the entire eastern half of his state for its coal. Creating a clear diesel gas that's somehow a new source of energy to relieve reliance on the Arab world. Or beautiful Idaho and its anti-semitic past; haven for the AN. Or perhaps the best example~ Alaska. Home to the Murkowskis, the governor Frank and his daughter Lisa the senator. Always trying to tap ANWR, giving public lands to indian corporations for mining and timber harvest, applying taxpayer money to cruiseline cleanup and the aimless tankers running aground. Or Maine's stalwort republican Olympia Snowe backing Bush on many agendas, few representing protection of Maine's pristine lands and waters.

Is there perhaps some invisible universal law requiring certain state residents to check their brains at the border? For example, here in Washington everyone loves to talk about television. 90% of homes, whether they are grandiose or more likely a manufactured unkept box or double-wide, have at least one satelite dish beaming down hundreds of channels; the dish located above numerous cars on the lawn. Parts cars, fixers-upers, old skeletons of the past. But television, above the rest, is the least avoidable conversation here, second to cars.
Question: Did you see the episode of "[insert show]" last night?
Answer 1: No, i've never even heard of that.
Answer 2: Yeah sure [even though i've never heard of it].

I've learned to switch between the two answers for the simple reason of avoiding further discussion on the topic. In many cases Answer 1 will be recieved by thorough explanation, including pantomime, copious dialogue and an altogether intensely boring account of uninteresting material. All to which one can choose to laugh politely or quietly disregard. Who could ever expect one to watch television vicariously through another, and enjoy it? First-hand television shows are difficult enough in themselves.

Answer 2 i've learned is a truly brilliant solution to this problem. By answering "yes," one can limit the conversation to a few replies such as, "Oh yeah, that was a good one," or a less committed, "Uh-huh." A tremendous breakthrough in communication.

California girls...

Awoke this morning by the soft patter of rain above my head. Lying in bed with the muted light of an early hour, low clouds clinging to Tamalpais Valley. This soft unhurried rain feels tropical, patient in the freefall. It'll come down all day just like this.

As i reheat yesterday's coffee i look out toward my car and watch the dust and dirt wash away. Yesterday's travels took me through Donner Pass, the roads ragged with ruts from heavy trucks and chains biting into the asphalt. Along the median and between lanes mounds of a copious brown snow full of rocks and gravel among other things. And being the small crippled sedan at a funeral pace, i was constantly abaft rigs kicking this shit awash the windshield.

Nearing the bay area, two lanes turned to seven. I knew i was getting close. Cars began following by feet almost in askance of a good rear-end job. And a fine smell of eucalyptus pulled in through an open window. I parked outside my friend's house north of the bridge, took my bicycle down from it's rack and washed it with a garden hose. Pedaled through Mill Valley and San Rafael along the water's edge of San Francisco Bay.

Over the bridge and into the city. I passed a hundred beautiful Asian tourists looking puerile and excited with cameras and maps in their hands. Oh my lord this city is full of beautiful women! I took the Presidio and Masonic speeding along with the cars, reading quasi-progressive witful bumperstickers through Goldengate Park toward my brother's house. I felt good, dissolved in the anonymity of a city.

Meet me at the mall

I write this from the 'biggest little city in the world,' a veritable tank of bloodsucking fish. Sipping mount gay rum without the rocks, couldn't seem to find any in the freezer. Recently returning from a walk scaling the pressure hosed sidewalks of Reno. Visiting a few friends along my travels in route to god knows where.

I went down to take a look at the city. It's economic and cultural death is apparent, similar to the thin surface of Detroit. Yet it's hard to say with my years if it ever held true life at all. And by 'true' i mean facile, progressive, intelligent life. Every street seemed to be under construction. Advertisements cried out catches with a lack of thought, a lack of caring anymore (even about business).

I was sitting by the Truckee River that runs through downtown. A pretty little river with cobblestone banks and a flat green iridescence. A pallid sky awash with high cirrus clouds pulled a light breeze atop the city. I had my freshly shaven head bared to the wind and was soaking up the most warmth i've felt in months. It struck me there, my youth and the way i have forgotten it. I have become so adept and insouciant with my pinball lifestyle. Often i come to new places with my old things and then fleet swiftly barely looking back. It has become prosaic; my reaction time running second to the spontaneity of moving overnight.

And sitting there by the water today i recalled an old physical sensation that resides somewhere in the gut. That feeling that speaks of how small i am. How much space resounds between what we deem solid things. It's the sensation of immensity and it somehow gives way to a feeling of good fortune. I start breathing deeper, grasping independence and thanking somebody/something for the ability to live so freely. This experience draws easily from the innervation of youth. I don't know why... perhaps it's the admittance of weakness or smallness in the face of vast dynamism.

I haven't felt that way in some time. I remember nearly a decade back walking along the streets of New York City. I was fifteen years old, with a heavy backpack... a callow young man with barely a whisker on my face. At that age i felt the world to be a much more immense, active, and sometimes overwhelming place than i do now. Since then i've grown more callous and taken discomfort or challenge for granted or welded it for kicks. But today i remembered my youth and how lucky i am to be here.