mistress...

Things are a bit stranger now since she's moved out of the building.  Things come and go, sure, but now there is just pockets of thoughts of memories, that are so small and fleeting, you're not sure of their actual existence.  But before, when she was still around, you had a purpose.  Though never quite certain the path, nor where uncertainty might take you, nor where you happened to find yourself, there was never even a question. Purpose. What was it, you may ask? Hell I'm not sure anyone, especially not myself, could tell you.  And for some reason that was okay.  I never nailed down a purpose, but I sure as shit had one.  And so I got out of bed every day.  And I never even thought it was possible to stay in bed.  And then she left.  Or rather, she was taken from me. And I must admit I took her for granted and so I lost her because of my unwillingness to appreciate what I'd had.  It's been told before, certainly, but I never used to understand . At least not fully.  I'm afraid I may never quite know what I've had and lost, and more importantly why, but I know this; whatever purpose I woke up for in those days, has disappeared. Vanished. Gone. And since she's been taken from me, I've been to the dark corners, and I've sampled the fare, and I've been to places I shall hope to never return to. And I've been to places I now understand their existence, whereas before I was even unaware of their existence.  So yes, some things make a little more sense than before, but mostly I am lost at sea, tossed to and fro among the wreckage of little half thoughts that perhaps once were, but there's just enough of the vessel gone so that, while its a possibility something was once whole there, there's not enough remaining to prove the existence of an actual functioning completion of anything.  Hardest part is she's not coming back.  And I have to figure out how to get along without her, and figure out how to come to terms with the fact that I'll never see her again. Both, I find, are excruciatingly hard.

To You and the Mirror

You get old.  All of you.  And yet I'm forced to be around you and all of your certainty.  Sometimes I
think that ignorance might still be blissful, and I actually envy you. Ah, but only for a moment, and then you speak again.  You're always speaking! Even out of turn, and on top of others...won't you ever fall silent? Do you even consider the possibility that your words may be trivial? I've found it so. You might even say meaningless entirely.  But that doesn't stop you.  On and On and On, with your drivel, and if that's not bad enough, you repeat yourself.  Over and Over and Over!  Sometimes even within the same hour.  It's so exhausting...

here's to nothing...

These games confuse me.
I'm struggling to find any connection.
Apparently I don't understand the rules.
Although there don't seem to be any...
One guy breaks them all; the right guy:
He's a hero and someone to be like.
Never mind how he got there, he just did.
I break the same rules, or act like I'm what Frost* was talking about---
Forget about it.  WRONG. I've gone and done it wrong.
Truth is, these little lines we've all drawn are imaginary.
They get bent and stretched and broken to start a "new" line all of the time.
They get regurgitated and reinvented constantly.
The truth is, that all that I've been led to believe as truth-
Is not so. It is actually fiction. Worse than that, it's not even good fiction.
Because of this, I can no longer discern truth.
The word has lost its meaning, and because of that-
I feel free.

Thank You.




*Robert Frost-"Two roads diverge in a wood...I chose the one less traveled..."

pigskin paraphrasing...

     We were walking somewhere downtown...pretty sure we were near 16th, or on it.  Not sure our direction. Might've been Friday which would mean we were headed to Paris, but it seems like Orlo had something to do that night.  Anyhow, he looked at me and said something like, "What the fuck am I supposed to do, start watching football?" It seemed like a non sequitur, so I stopped. "huh?...what in the hell does you watching football have to do with anything?"  (you must know that at the time Orlo was struggling with a lot as far as the nuclear family goes.  Trying to put food on the table for 5 people, while also managing the shop, while also trying to be in a band that the crew had formed, but really he was the only responsible one in the band as far as equipment and organization, etc.)  So we stopped messing with our bikes long enough for him to explain.  "Isn't that what guys do? They get the wife and have the kids and go to church and after church they watch football. That's it. So is that what I should do? Just quit trying to live life and start watching football? And without any sense of an actual answer, and just to be a dick I say, "Yeah why not?  Football's not terrible.  There are worse things to spend your time doing.  Take care of your family, and watch football." I was laughing just getting the words out because Orlo was the farthest thing from a Broncos fan in Denver. And with that, and not even looking back at me he said, "I hate football." Then he rode away...

    
     That story haunts me as I embark on Parenthood.  I've done my best to stay away from all the things most people would call responsibility, and here I am facing several things all at once that will thrust me right into that thing Orlo was so afraid of becoming.  Funnily enough, while I used to care about Sunday afternoons, I no longer hold any desire to watch or follow football.  I was single at the time I fielded Orlo's  no doubt rhetorical question, and saw from the outside what he must be dealing with, but now I feel like I understand his query.  Must I settle into a pre-made mold and become Mr. football-watching, god-fearing, polo-wearing American doofus?  Or is there something more that I can aspire to?  I do know that my time is no longer mine, and that is mostly okay with me. What I fear, is losing myself entirely; but that is a fear I've dealt with before now, and have fought on so many fronts that I believe I will continue to fight.  Fight not only to find myself wholly, which will likely not happen until death, but fight also to maintain myself and that which I have found inside of me thus far.

genes and evironment

     You seem to NOT know what it's like to be completely unsure of yourself.  I'm not just talkimg about uncertainty; I'm saying 100% incapable of what used to be, or maybe worse, what never was...how should I think when I'm heavily medicated, after loved ones made it so, by claiming that all in your mind previously was/is delusion?-certainly I needed help, no denying there, but to be called crazy by the very mouths who's advice you followed to the letter?  feels asinine really--I don't know who I am? I don't know who/how I should be? and thanks to loved ones-I don't know who I ever was, or if I ever was anyone. 

     I was raised in what I would consider a strange way.  I am Finding out more and more though, that everyone's upbringing is strange really.  Just a bunch of fuck-ups walking around procreating and judging the other fuck-ups...Everyone seems to have parenting advice, but in the same turn, destroy their kid's lives in some way or another. Well my awesome parents had their own set of gigantic flaws just like anyone else's.  Too much religion, coupled with extreme lack of education, followed by mounds of hypocrisy stretching back for as many years as they can remember..They gave me books and toys and told me to pray and love America, and that I could do anything I wanted.

     They fucking lied. 

     It's not even the lyng that gets me down. It's the ignorance that follows the lies. It's the sheer unawareness of the colossal fallout from such ridiculous lies, and the complete lack of hindsight/foresight to even be self-aware of the lies.

     -They gave me a television and said that I could be on it one day. They gave me a video game and let it babysit me, all the while saying that too much of it would destroy me.  They gave me colors and lights and sounds and taught me how to use them for their benefit; but when I was sure I knew how to use all of these gifts, they sat me down and told me I was wrong and that I'd always been wrong, and what we meant was, you could be anything you want, except what we don't like or understand. 

     Then I was given pills.  Big pills. and just like I'd always done, I did what I was told.  I came back a bit later, still argumentative saying, "but I don't think you understand what you've given me. It is certainly not good, and it's beginning to take ME away."  But you said to continue as told, so I did.  And even sooner than I'd imagined, I was gone. Vegetable. But for some reason passable and praised for "improving". I couldn't believe my eyes/ears. This was ok? A person that counts as alive, simply because the heart is still beating? (slowly mind you)

     So I fought from below the bottom.  Some days I stayed down simply due to lack of energy of any kind.  But I fuckin dug and dug and dug until there was no longer anything to dig, and then I clawed my way outta that putrid hole you put me in.  And when I emerged, it was too much for you to handle, and so you found more pills in order to keep the monster that you created at bay.

area 51

     It's an odd thing what happened. Not sure if there are any words really. Certainly a group of words might offer a sort of skeletal explanation, but the truth will never be heard. The meat of the issue is mostly lost.  Lost on me thanks to them, and lost on them because, I feel, they never had it to begin with. Funny though, they certainly act put together.  It's almost hilarious to me, and even a little absurd at times.
     What's really strange to me is how nearly all of them act as though they can relate to everyone.  What sad little worlds we live in not realizing the vastness of even this planet let alone the thousands/millions/billions of galaxies just beyond our intellectual grasp. Most of them think they got some answers.  Most of them just reference an old black book as though it was the first fucking thing ever written down, and I should heed their advice because it's not from them, but intervention divine.  Well fuck all if men didn't write that one too!
     So they shout. Loudly. All while telling me about a still small voice. Man I used to try and listen for that voice.  Too bad it never really speaks back to you.
     

thick skulls

...I feel as though there's more to say. There always seems to be.  I can tell from the look on your face that you don't quite get it. At least not the way that I do. And how could you really? You've not been where I have.  Some places we've been to are similar, but not the same exactly and you've definitely not been there as many times as I have, nor have you spent as much time there as I have.  That's not to invalidate your experiences, or to say that I'm brighter than you, or to say that I'm better off having witnessed the things that I have vs the things that you have. That's only to say that I'm sorry, but you don't get it.  Based on what you've said to me I don't think you ever will really. All I ask is that you try and understand that what we do, and how we think, is different.  I don't want you to think like me. That would be boring and irritating and a little creepy.  I just want for you to look me in the eye and say, "You're right. I don't understand..." and I'll look up at you with a truly broken heart and say, "Really?" And if you say yes and actually mean it, then I'll know that there is a heart beating inside of you and that your brain hasn't been shut off entirely by the societal machine, and we'll carry on down our separate paths just living life and taking things as they come to us, but we'll know when we bump into one another at the grocery that there is a mutual respect for each other and while  we really don't care for the way each of us decides to do things, we've stopped trying to crack the code of 'why would someone do that? especially that way?!'  Once you let go of all concern for me, and for other people, and truly focus on yourself; then, and only then, can you be free to love and understand.  Until then...

oh Really?

I'm not sure how did it. I mean, the memories are there, at least some of them, but how?  I don't really know.

     For instance: I did a morning talk show.  Radio. I co-hosted a talk show.  That's bizarre to me. Not only did I do it, but people actually spent their time listening to me. Strange. I spoke for several hours a day, essentially to myself.  When you think about it, it takes a special kind of person to talk to themselves for that long. And for awhile, at least, that special person was me.  Just jawing on and on about whatever I thought was important that day...

       I sold tobacco and wine and other high-end booze and smoke. Not only did I do it, but people actually spent their time listening to me. As though I knew what I was talking about. I'd go on for tens of minutes sometimes about flavors and tasting  notes as though I'd come up with them.  The real truth is that I read a little bit, took what I read to heart, and then seriously believed all the "notes" that I'd been handed by other "connoisseurs" and thought that I was really doing something. Thought I knew a thing or two about the swill I was schilling...

     Why did people listen to me? On both fronts.  I'm genuinely baffled.  Did  I ever really know what I was talking about? The answer is probably no.   But they went along anyway.  Why?  I guess I can portray a sense of confidence if I'm selling something. I mean, I do it now, and people readily flock to grab whatever I'm selling. It's sad.  Sad for them sure, but they're lemmings. I can't really blame them.  Sad for me, definitely, because I feel like a fraud.  Not even because the product is bad, but because I'm toeing the corporate line. I'm basically giving a speech I've been given by someone who thinks they are more important than me., or smarter than me. What's sad is they don't truly value their customer base.  If they did for real, they'd pay less attention to the formula and more attention to me and them.

       The truth is that everyone has found a formula, and it works well enough that they don't question it.  I mean, take my "pay" away, and they'd find another monkey to push the buttons and say the words.  And so it goes.  On and on...If necessity is the mother of invention, we, as a people, haven't needed for a long time.  Too long of time.  Where's the new shit?!  I know, I know.  It doesn't exist.  One guy says you have to be a part of a system in order to fuck it up from the inside.  This is not a new notion.  But I've been on the inside enough to know that nothing really ever changes.  Kinda sad really.  Nothing changes and I'm doomed to be a part of the repetition.  I will suck off of the bullshit teet until I'm weary of sucking.  I'll die following, of this I am sure.  But, goddammit, give me alittle bit to go on...

     Nope?

              Nothing?

        Ok then.  You're welcome!!! Here I go to say what you've told me to. Almost exactly.  Aren't you proud of me? You should be.

    So there it is.  I'm but a cog in this seemingly worthless machine. Forever buying in just like you are.  And it will always be.  Those that could actually make a difference will fall silently like they always have; and anyone who could make a real difference will slip into the background as intelligent flies on the wall ever commenting on how bad it is, and how good it might be if only they'd take part...

concoction

...Winston reds...."no additives" as if other cigarettes just had tons of extra stuff in them. On a cheap night some Pabst to accompany the Winston's. On payday or someone's birthday or when Biff was in a good mood, it was good scotch or wine or microbrew...maybe some Davidoff's, or Nat Sherman's, or a good stick like a Padron, or a Casa Magna, or a Fuente short story, or The Griffins.  Sometimes a Peterson and some Dark Horse, or a Nording and some Haddo's, or a Bjarne with some Autumn Bairn (English Oriental Supreme)...Either way there was almost always booze, and definitely tobacco.  It was our livelihood so we indulged. Heavily.

     Orlo was feelin' good one night so we picked up some Mead from a wine store on the way to Paris. It was the only place left to smoke in Denver really other than Bar Bar, but that was a different scene entirely.  So that night it was Mead, my first taste of Mead; and it really warmed the body in a good way, and I felt happy for the rest of the walk, and for a moment I felt good about what I was doing. 

      We got the usual carafe and sat down for Friday night chess. Couldn't tell you which pipes we had on us or the tobacco choice that night, but it was good.  I know because it was always good.

     It was my move.  I know because it was always my move.  I'm bad at chess but Orlo didn't seem to mind. He just had to keep me on task a lot.

                                       "You're move....Davis.....Move!"

I didn't really mind either. 



     The walk home always kinda sucked because the night was over and I never wanted it to be.  Whatever we had imbibed had worn off.  The smoke and coffee had given me heartburn. It was cold and usually wet.  But occasionally a little more something to smoke and we'd hit up the late night hotdog stand on the far side of the pedestrian mall. It gave me just enough energy to get home. 

     Bed.  After those Fridays I slept like people should sleep. Well. 

     The next morning, rested and clear headed, I'd wake up the right way, naturally and without an alarm set. Heat up the frying pan, do a few maintenance pushups, fry up an egg with some bacon, devour it, a few more pushups, then shower, then work.

     I'd walk in feeling good about the previous 24 hours and wonder what that Saturday held.  Orlo was in a different mood entirely because he had a family to feed and a store to run.  When Biff wasn't there he left it all in Orlo's lap.  He did that because he knew he could handle it, but it looked stressful.  Cory Benjamin was there, with his prayer beads I'm sure, sweating a lot and guzzling water from that hideous orange bottle he'd had for what looked like a decade or two. And then the regulars. Saturday's were different because we didn't have the downtown business guys.  Instead we got Travelers and the weekend regulars.  Never knew who was going to walk in. A Bronco, a politician, a dumb stoner wonderin why we didn't sell blunt wraps...it was always a crap shoot. But it was fun.  Saturday's usually more so.

..............

More than a Flat Tire

     "There's no way that fuckin' thing is gonna start!" shouted Tim.  "It's been there 6 fuckin' years just collectin' all that mud and sludge...may as well leav-er where she lay..."

     "Fuck him" I thought to myself as I tried to get the thing goin'. Why was I trying so hard? No one understood but me, or so it seemed.  They all laughed at me, but they were all out there helping me...well, using the term 'help' very loosely. I'd actually asked them to be there too.  Was I stupid? Why did I tell them I wanted to get that old machine goin'? Maybe it's just because they'd always been there for my wild ideas. Anyhow this seems monumental now that I've actually began trying.  I'm not sure this will be successful...she's covered...I'm gonna need a bigger shovel...

     "Heh hah," Steve chortled, " you've certainly got yer work cut out fer ya...but I'm a little jealous if you actually get-er goin' again."

     "Fuck you too," I thought as I tried to turn the key over...and then I saw it...even worse than all the shit built up on her outside...a giant mouse nest...right in the middle of the fuckin' motor...then I glanced around in horror...everywhere I looked there were wires chewed through and hoses dry-rotted and busted and on and on and on....all important parts,all destroyed by those little cheese-eatin' fuckers...what's worse is I knew a little...that's it.  This shit might take someone else, and a lot of time, and what's worse yet: money! Well, of these things I had/have none...fuckin' great...

     I just thought that since it was so great before that it could be again...and it's starting to look possible for the first time in a long time. At least six years or better.  Part of me is nervous. She didn't really do all that well to begin with, and now with all the rust and broken glass and out-of-date parts that don't work any longer, well...it might be somewhat of a lost cause.  But I loved that fuckin' thing even though I never treated-er right so I'm gonna give-it-a-go.  The ol' college try...the ol'...hell I don't know, but somethin...and someday someone might even look at-er and say, "Hey! Nice machine there, pardner..."  I'll flash a crooked grin and think, "If you only you knew, buddy...if you only knew..."


                                     FIN