An Outburst

A single ceiling fan circles overhead.

Gloria and Gérard are no longer hungry. Joe has already slapped a few pink pieces of roast beef on top of some bread and is now applying liberal globs of mayonnaise. Beads of sweat gather on his face as he presses poorly sliced tomatoes into a soggy piece of lettuce. Gloria watches a clump of sweat drop from his nose like a falling H bomb, obliterating the sandwich's palatability. Gloria's face twists in slow motion as she turns her head toward Gérard. Joe sneezes out a fine mist of sweat and snot right over the pickles; mustard gas. "There's no way I'm eating that," she says.

"Don't worry, I'm not paying for them. We'll go somewhere else."

"Hey, Joe," Gérard says, tapping his hand on the counter. "Forget the sandwiches and the milkshakes, we've got to run."

Joe stops moving, but keeps his back to them. Slowly he straightens, stiffens, turns his face slightly so that one stone eye peers out at them over his shoulder. He gnashes his teeth and the muscles in his jaw bulge. "You mean to tell me you just had me make these sandwiches for nothing," he asks, still with his back turned.

"Well, no...now that they're made, they'll be ready for the next person who orders one, right," Gérard asks.

Slamming his fist down onto the cutting board Joe says, "I haven't had a goddamn customer all day."

Gloria looks worried. Her eyes tell him she wants to leave. Gérard doesn't want her to feel intimidated, but there's something unsettling about the situation. The air seems heavier, hotter. The ceiling fan whooshes loudly as it cuts the air, lending the scene a heartbeat. It's clear there is something wrong with Joe. His back, above the apron tie, is soaked yellow with sweat. There's a white plastic sign by the register, folded like a paper tent, which reads: the customer is always right. Something flashes over Gloria's eyes.

"Have you considered installing a working sink in the bathroom; washing your hands before you make sandwiches; flushing the toilet bowl," Gloria says stepping forward. Gérard wishes she hadn't phrased it that way. She's always had a way of quickly escalating potentially aggressive situations. She's got a kind of molotov cocktail mouth.

"Don't YOU tell ME," Joe screams, whipping his body around. "You come in here with your liberal bullshit and tell me how to run MY business? I've been working here for 30 years," he yells. "We never had to wash our hands; no one got sick then; we were stronger, had resistance to disease. Then you weak yuppies with your weak stomachs and weak immune systems come along. You tell me I have to clean up because you can't fight off a microbe on a piece of shit! Get out of the fucking gene pool, no one needs you - you are human pollution. I'll be damned if you think you're leaving without paying."

Hey Joe

The sun, as Gérard and Gloria drive, is softened by the occasional drifting cloud hanging thin and white in the sky like curtains. On the winding road tall trees bend overhead and, reaching across two lanes, they provide a pleasant, passing shade. They have been driving for an hour, enjoying the lilting music of conversation. "So, I'm not sure if you're hungry, but there's a great roadside sandwich spot coming up," Gérard says.

"Oh, I think I know the one. With the checkerboard floor and milkshakes, right?"

They pull into the lot and park beside a wooden picnic table. The table has been painted over so many times there's more green paint on it than wood. In the sunlight it shines luridly, seems wet. Two crows stalk them from atop a telephone pole, studying their movements, deciding which one of them will leave scraps. The restaurant isn't very large, maybe the size of a small bar. A long red counter hangs over a dozen worn-out bar stools. Behind the counter is a grill and a silver ventilation system which gives the place an old-tyme feel. Another vestige of the past, a vacant looking man in a white paper hat, wearing a white smock, stands ready to take their order. He has a pin-on nametag. It reads: Joe. Joe is also the one who will be making their sandwhiches. It's hard to say for sure, but it looks like Joe has been working here his entire life. His hair has that waxy, grimey sheen one acquires from prolonged exposure to kitchen grease. His skin too, all red and suffocated, seems plastic, candley. He looks at them with tired impatience and busies himself by running a rag over various surfaces. Their presence seems to annoy him, as though they'd barged into his secret roadside fortress of solitude; an isolated, detached establishment that sells stale, lonely bread.

Gloria becomes flustered under Joe's quiet scrutiny and can't figure out what she wants to order. Her eyes avoid his and remain fixed on the sandwich list, bouncing from description to description. The place isn't as she remembered it. The floor is checkered, sure, and they serve milkshakes, but something is different. The pictures on the wall depict the inside of the restaurant from 40 years ago; scenes of bustling crowds, young people dancing, movement. It is still now, empty, watered down by time. An old fluorescent bulb hums above the bar. The light produces a nagging, fly-winged sound. Unable to make up her mind, Gloria says: "Order for me. I'll get whatever you do. I'm going to the bathroom." Gérard orders two roast beef sandwiches and two vanilla milkshakes. Joe disgustedly scribbles on a small white notepad, like he's shooing away a bug. "Oh, and hold the mayo," Gérard adds. Joe doesn't write anything down. He turns around and starts preparing the order. Gérard considers asking Joe whether or not he heard him, for confirmation, but then decides against it. Moments later Gloria is back, too soon to have gone to the bathroom. "I couldn't go," she says.

"What do you mean," Gérard asks.

"That bathroom. Just go look at it."

"Why??"

"I think you should go have a look."

He passes the last bar stool, walks by a dusty jukebox, and turns left toward the bathroom. When he opens the door the smell sours his face. It looks like a woman had a chocolate miscarriage in the toilet. To his right there is a sink missing both handles. The employees must wash hands sign seems more like a mocking joke than a mandate.

"That might be Joe's shit," Gérard says to Gloria.

"No shit."

They both look at Joe standing behind the counter, handling their sandwiches.

 

On the Way

"Well boys, I wish I could say it's been fun. I've got to run," Duncan says, standing. And then, affected by that highly communicable, contagious quality of departure, Ellis feels he must leave too: "Sad to say it, but I'll be going too. Take care old man, I'll see you soon." Ellis always uses the phrase old man, despite the fact that none of them are particularly old. Especially Gérard, who is nearly ten years his younger. Alone again, he sits and sips the end of his coffee, which the melted ice has mostly diluted. A new cashier has taken the old one's place; a mustached man with a shiny, bald head, glasses and sailor's tattoos. He looks like Popeye drawn as Bluto. The glasses give him an odd, distinguished air that seems somehow ironic considering how burly and gruff he is. Perhaps he thinks himself dignified, Gérard muses. The man is a walking simile, like an old man at a garage sale displaying a table full of children's toys. But surely it is not strange to sell children's toys? His age is predicated on his youth, so he must have been a child at some point. They are the discarded possessions, perhaps, of now grown grandchildren; cast off and estranged from the sticky fingers of youth.

Gérard gives the ice in his glass a last little shake. He sucks the cold, caffeinated marrow from its bones and is out the door. The sky is blue and blazing. He lights a cigarette. There is traffic on the street, and an ambulance up ahead. People sit in their cars, forced to wait for what is either the sweet roaring siren of salvation, or a hearse painted up like an angry ice cream truck.

It's easy to spot the poor people in their cars. They are the ones who sit with rolled down windows, wearing sweating furrows, dripping. No one with a working air conditioner would have the windows down on a day like today. He remembers Gloria has a nice car. It might be worth taking the drive just for that.

He calls her and she tells him she's on the way.

Noon

Gérard, sitting back down at the table, finds himself without much to say. His friends speak of high-profile chefs and posh hotel bars, but these are of no interest to him. That's not to say he doesn't enjoy a good meal. During his time as a civil officer he had gone out to eat often, and dined at some of the finest restaurants in the city. He preferred Italian style cooking, like his parents used to make, but found that the city didn't have much to offer. He was actually a decent cook himself, and would spend many a night eating in, enjoying making something with Maria. They made love, cooked, drank, showed themselves to each other unabashedly. One night, after they'd eaten and cleaned up, he was so distracted by her that he'd forgotten a pie in the oven. She'd lured him into bed and pulled him inside of her, captivated him until there was the smell of burning.

"Oh come on," Duncan yelled out, breaking Gérard's concentration, "you can't honestly say that there exists a better steak in the city than Doparé's." Ellis had a way of antagonizing Duncan, getting him up in arms at each and every opportunity.

"Gérard," Ellis says smiling, motioning with his hand, "what do you think?"

Gérard shrugs and slowly cocks his head with indifference. "I'm not much of a steak eater," he says.

"Oh come now," Duncan says, "I had a steak with you just last week."

"True," Gérard says corrected, "but it was only because you were insistent. I would have much rather had the chicken."

Ellis uses Gérard's testimony as a weapon and hurls it at Duncan with a giddy, childish fervor. This gives Gérard an opportunity to let his mind wander. His eyes dance over the room, spotting a woman awkwardly stuffing her mouth with a blueberry scone, an old man casually picking his nose. A few fruit flies drunkly orbit his head, searching for the stiff vapor of wine or vinegar. Behind his friends, closer to the door, he notices the cashier. She has beautiful green eyes. Her skin is smooth, and her features are soft, almost sculpted, as though made of clay. She has full lips, brown hair, and an attractive, beguiling smile. The man purchasing a croissant makes her laugh and her eyes become planets, pulling in his gaze. He wonders what it's like when she looks at someone she loves, when she's enamored, dressed up and perfumed. Strong, he thinks, soft, yet strong.

Ellis touches his arm and asks him if he needs anything, says he's going to order a drink. Once it strikes noon, the cafe begins serving beer. Gérard tells him that he'll have one of whatever he's having. He goes back to thinking about the cashier. He contemplates the possibility of their love. He imagines the delicacy of her lips, the softness of her hair. He imagines her overcome with pleasure, clutching him against her glistening body. He wonders what her name is, whether she is the type that likes to be held after making love. He hopes that she is. He then realizes how fantasy is getting away with him. But so what? After all, what is love if not a temporary infatuation with possibility?

He thanks Ellis for the drink, raises it to his lips, watches her grab her purse, and then he lets her go.

Most women aren't anything at all but the brief allure of fascination.

Coffee

"Not much, just stopping by for a coffee," Gérard says.

"I can see that. You're really treating yourself, aren't you!"

Gérard smiles. He's known Ellis for some time now; four years, at least. Always cheerful, his eyes have a jocular glint in them that shine like two blue tidepools. A vivacious storyteller, Ellis is the perfect company for early morning coffee. Gérard needn't say a word.

"Have you heard about the new restaurant they're opening downtown," he asks, pausing briefly, anxiously waiting Gérard's head shake. "Well, it's all over the papers. They're getting Cuccini as the head chef, giving him full control over the menu." Gérard reclines slightly in his chair. He takes a sip of his chilled coffee and tries to listen to his friend over the radio. Leonard Cohen is playing. The door swings open and the bell rattles. It lets out a strangled chirp as it collides with the glass. From behind Ellis, Gérard watches Duncan enter the cafe and spot their table.

"Look at you two goons. Up with the sun," Duncan says, clapping his hand down on Ellis' shoulder.

"I wish you would've let us know you were coming," Ellis says, "we would've gone next door."

"Next door," Duncan asks confusedly, "I wouldn't be caught dead next door."

"Exactly," Ellis says laughing.

They begin to banter and exchange tales of the night prior; of battle and valor, swollen conquest. Gerard excuses himself to have a cigarette. Outside the city is slowly getting to its feet. Couples walk arm in arm, others push carriages. Leaning against the wall he wonders how the day might unfold. There is a poster stapled to the wall which says there will be music in the park later. Sometime before then he will need to eat. He wants something hot but the temperature is already rising, boiling away his appetite. Something cold then, maybe a sandwich. His phone buzzes in his pocket. A friend tries to entice him to take a drive up north. He is accosted by memories of his first trip there, with Maria. It was autumn then, and the weather was heavenly. They spent the weekend in a small cabin with a black, potbelly furnace and antique looking furniture. There was a forest outside which led to a small river and a lake. One night they'd had too much wine and fallen asleep with their clothes on, before the sun had even set. He had woken up confused and disoriented, wondering if they'd slept together. Neither of them remembered a thing, of course, their memories swallowed up by empty glasses.

His heart felt heavy and full now, drunk on remembering. Memories are always filling our glasses; especially those of forgetting.

A Gander

Time passes and he wakes hunched over the piano. A small, pink sun has replaced the moon and, rising, the light creeps calmly across the wooden floor, reaching for the cup of stale tea. Gérard still sleeps, dreams of buzzing bees and fields of vibrant, orange poppies. With closed eyes he sees a young girl twirling through the field. Her lilac skirt gives her the appearance of a spinning top. She laughs and giggles and picks flowers. The sun is kissing her hair, making it hum and glow like white Christmas lights. Without intention, he drifts toward the girl as though pushed inertially onward by some invisible wave. The breeze from the wings of fat, fuzzy bees make the flowers sway and dance. He looks up at the blue sky and cannot find a single cloud. A solitary dove flutters from the tree beside him which, under normal circumstances might have startled him, but instead causes him to smile and walk toward the trunk. With eyes as yellow like egg yolks, the bird looks down at him. It cocks its head and blinks, as though surprised to see him.

On the ground, behind the tree, something crunches. The bird bolts. Its white wings clapping like thunder as it sails away; a blur of lightning across the sky. From behind the tree the girl emerges, her hands clasped behind her back. She steps forward playfully, a mischevious smile painted across her lips. Her head hangs askance, her shoulders, demure. One foot slides out in front of her and traces a bashful circle before she looks up at him. He is met by the lightest eyes he has ever seen. They seem, to him, out of place on her face; two enormous diamonds, extravagant yet insecure, set in cheap silver. As if she knows it too, her eyes sweep down and away, under the rug of her lashes. A hidden hand is thrust forward from behind her back. When she opens it, a bright orange poppy sprouts up from her palm. It warms his face and he has to squint to avoid looking away. The flower is rooted into her flesh. Green veins pulse beneath the skin of her her fingers. Her eyes meet his again and intermingle with the orange of the flower, lending a luminous complexity to her stare. The air buzzes loudly around them, hissing, and the light on his cheek begins to grow too hot. The sunlight focuses and intensifies in her magnificent, magnifying-glass eyes. The flower flickers, trembles, and then becomes a flame. Gérard gasps and reaches for the girl, to extinguish the fire scorching her hand. Piano keys crash on the low octave and he is startled awake, welcomed by the orange sun spilling into the room.

He groans as he sits up, cries out and straightens his spine. It cracks and pops like old wood. His hands run through his black hair, which has begun to grey, accumulating thin lines of white silk woven by small spiders. Even his numb fingers can feel the ache which rings his skull like a bell. The day brightens the room; exposing stacks of papers, bent, dog-eared compositions, a discarded pack of cigarettes, an ashtray with enough ash to fill an urn. He is not, generally speaking, an unkempt man, but has lately fallen into a sort of disrepair. Like all persons of intellect, Gérard has been stricken by certain truths which, once known, have an anti-palliating effect on the mind. Certain thoughts deprecate the heart, wither it. The more fortunate among us - those simple, narrow-minded souls - can go on unfettered and unperturbed by these pensive pains, for they need not reconcile the harshness and ugliness of injustice, inequity, and needless suffering. Before giving up his career, Gérard had been a justice, a revered and prestigious judge. He had been witness to atrocity and senseless murders, jealousies, both petty and grand evils. This indecent exposure had taken him out of tune, broken him. He wondered then, and now, how men could inflict such harm on one other. How it was possible for men to ignore the humanity in each another and debase themselves, succumbing to corruption and meanness. After a particularly troubling case involving an affair and a murder, an inheritance and disgusting manipulation, he had decided that all allegiance was only temporary. He had grown distrustful of friends and family, always suspicious of good samaritans. This is about the time he left the courts and began working as a volunteer medic and soup kitchen manager. In his spare time he spent countless hours, days, nights, composing songs.

But where once he found an outlet and sought self expression, he now saw struggle and misplaced ambition. Imagine, he thought, what might have been achieved had I applied myself. If I had chosen a selfless path I may have made a difference, may have brought people happiness; instead I have decided to aggrandize myself and pursue riches, acclaim, and notoriety. He sighs and stands up out of frustration, making his way through the apartment toward the bathroom. He hasn't cleaned it in weeks. Errant hairs and creeping grime thwart and stalk its cleanliness. There is a yellow, rust-colored ring around the bowl. It lingers even after he flushes it. Thoughts come to him, when he is alone, as he is now. Worries swarm him. They dance around his head like gnats. What if he can't pay his rent? What if the royalty check doesn't arrive? Before he knows it he is flushing the bowl. A loud, centripetal crashing wave is swallowed. It rides on the air until it dissolves, turns to mist.

He walks from his bathroom to the kitchen. As the cupboard swings open he's greeted by the neglected smell of old cereal. Each box is barely full, needs to be replaced. He pulls out two boxes, thinking he'll combine them, but when he opens the refrigerator he realizes he is out of milk. The door slams with a muffled clang. The refrigerator rocks, as though it just took a punch. Gerard sits down on his couch and reaches for his phone. No messages.

He checks his email. No messages.

The day has already become oppressively hot and he notices a bead of sweat sliding down the sides of his ribs. He'll shower soon, and go to the cafe on 1st. On weekends he always starts his day at the cafe, sipping on hot coffee. Today though, it will be iced. The smell caffeinates his nostrils, makes his nose hairs stand on end. Typically, he is alone, accompanied only by a book, or a stoic, brooding expression. Occasionally, a pretty girl, also alone, will smile coyly at him, signaling curiosity. But Gérard always averts his eyes and maintains a pensive expression. After Maria, he is afraid. He knows what havoc love can wreak. And so he is always painfully, dreadfully alone - even in company.

He has friends that will sometimes meet him at the cafe who live in the neighborhood. He likes them fine. They're good people: warm, loving, funny. They drink too much, but so does he. They are older than he is, most of them, but he is never acutely aware of this. They are charming, artistic, clever, beautiful. One such friend arrives, unexpected and sits down at the table. "Of all the bars in all the world," Ellis says laughing, "how are you mon ami?"

Glimpse

Gerard's hands move across the piano sheepishly. Faintly, his fingers feel the keys as they fumble around a melody. Behind him the moon shines in from an open window and the keys grow sallow. Thoughts come to him, of Maria, of their time in French Polynesia. In his memory he can see the house they stayed in, feel the warmth of the sun on the patio overlooking the ocean, taste the wine they drank. Then, he is aware of silence. Once again he pictures Maria. She is the sled dog tugging at his thoughts, steering him where he wishes not to go. A false note breaks his concentration. In the dark it is piercing, sharp as glass. He winces. The silence hides nothing; forgives even less.

He stares out across the room, tracing the thin, pale shadow of the trespassing moon. It stretches across his floor and falls on a silver spoon beside a cup of cold tea. Hours have passed since he sat at the bench. The night is beginning to take on a frustrated tone. The air seems to perspire, become humid.

Outside there is the sound of crickets. Summer gently whispers.

A Jar Ajar

Dreamt of another, still different ex last night. All Hallow's Eve is almost upon us, that must explain it. I don't have any particularly fond memories of Halloween, save for one where I did laundry, stayed in, got stoned and watched The Evil Dead. And it's not that I don't like Halloween, I do, it's just that none of them stand out in my mind. As such, I'll spare you any further musing on the subject.

I feel I weary lately, beset by a tedium and restlessness I cannot rid myself of. My days unfold monotonously, predictably, without excitement. I open my eyes and then I am out the door, on a bus, eating breakfast, working at my desk, running to meetings, hungry, eating dinner (again, at my desk), boarding a return bus, walking home, in bed, shutting my eyes. When weekends come they are gone too soon. They do nothing to replenish my energy. In fact, lately, they deplete it. I spend much of Monday, and some of Tuesday suffering, punished for stolen time. Before I know it a month goes by in this way, then two. On some days I am made more keenly aware of these feelings. I get the sensation of speeding along in an HOV lane before the sun has risen, racing madly toward old age, malady, decrepitude. I tire of this subject, too.

As I write this, I ask myself "what do you want."

An answer.

That's my immediate response. A moment's consideration tells me I won't get even that. Then what do you want, I ask again. Silence. Most people's problem is that they don't know what they want. The ones that do, often fail to realize they want what cannot be had; riches, fame, glory, power. On the one hand I feel our dreams should always be beyond our means, to keep us moving, to keep us striving, or else what are dreams for? But broken dreams hurt worse than broken hearts. When they shatter, shards of sharp self-hatred stab at us and resentments grow. We become irritable, mean and loveless. That first lot, the ones who knew not what they wanted, feel the deep, panging hollow of misspent time, of a lack of focus, of having missed something important which cannot be reclaimed. So, in truth, knowing what one wants actually makes little difference - we are all deceived by the duplicitous paradox of time. So what's the answer? Why do we go on knowing perfectly well how things will end?

Hope.

That we are wrong; that there are prizes stashed somewhere inside the cereal box; that true love will find us in the end; that given enough time, we might have an answer.

But hope is scarcely different than a dream, isn't it? It is the blood of dreams, the marrow in its bones. If this is so, then what is left is a closed circle - a circulatory system in which we are helplessly trapped.

Perhaps hope is worthwhile in and of itself. It is the last burning candle staving off the dark.

And when we dream, so are we.

My Boring Story

Tonight I told a woman on the internet I wanted to steal a pair of her dirty underwear, to get her DNA, so that later I might clone her. This way, I said, when I'm fifty I'll have a nice, young, 20-year-old girl to keep me company. For some reason she wasn't amused. Of course, by the time I'm fifty, hopefully virtual reality will have been sufficiently augmented so that I won't even need a clone. Masturbation, in the future, will be just like putting an album on the stereo. I'll have to scroll through iTunes for that night's virtual companion, pour over different styles of sex and women as I would genres and artists. It will be glorious.

Ok, enough lewdness. I've been doing a good job of keeping things tame lately. I'm tired and don't have much to say.

 Oh, I read a brilliant story by Chekhov on my way home called "A Boring Story."

The Sound of Blue Light

Sunday was lovely.

Dreamy.

We sat as cats, in front of the window, on the floor, satisfied and purring, stoned on catnip. I said something profound, or thought I did, but I can't remeber it now. Before we knew it the day had conspired with the night and turned out the lights on us. So I turned on a projector, producing an emerald-green universe which spun slowly over our heads, like a luminous, celestial mobile. There was something somehow aqueous about the stars, the way they drifted across the ceiling, glimmering, blanketed by a blue, undulating aurora. We listened to old radio broadcasts, songs from the souls of dead singers; how they haunt our hearts long after they've gone; echoes wandering lonesomely through space and time, painted with the pale fire of long dead stars.

We fell briefly from time's merry-go-round, hiding beneath it and laughing, watching with wide eyes as it whirled around above us. The stars weren't dead where we were. Neither were the singers.

Somewhere there were blue waves crashing under a coal-colored sky.

Cacophonies and Constantine

Damned parrots. They're just big, colorful bats. A rainbow of them screeched and squawked as they unleashed an early morning litany on the still sleeping sky. The birds circled in a cyclone outside my window as if directed by the ghost of Hitchcock himself. And then there were the church bells. Clanging and clapping, the bells rabble roused and rang, toppling any chance of rest. A man can get no relief.

Sunday, an alleged day of rest, will be a day of laundry and cleaning. Sunday is the rug under which a week's worth of procrastination gets swept. Sunny Sunday, how I hate you. But I love you, too. For you are the last buttress protecting me against Monday. You are my last day to delay and dawdle. There needs to be a day added to the week, to make things even: an 8th day. It should fall between Saturday and Sunday, and it should be called Funday. I'm sure this isn't an original suggestion; let me check. Interesting. It turns out the Romans had used eight day weeks, but then that prick Constantine came along and decreed that the week should be seven days. There's a fuck up we never recovered from. I want to start a civil rights campaign where we take back the 8th day, for the people. Why did we agree to work five days a week and only have two to ourselves? Granting us another one seems like the morally responsible thing to do. To do otherwise would be repressive and discriminatory, unjustly infringing the freedom of the individual to reclaim what was taken from him.

Ok, I stopped writing this post and got lost in a sea of internet articles. Sorry. My train of thought has been derailed.

Not even Casey Jones can save me now.

Damned, Doomed

Still more dreams. I don't get it. Maybe it's because I've been having a beer before bed. It must be equivalent to eating candy before going to sleep. In one dream I had made a bet, and left it up to the tried and true method of coin tossing to decide my fate. I called heads and lost, but continued flipping to see how long it would take me to get heads, curious to see how wrong I was. Tails came up every time. This prompted me to turn the coin over and inspect the other side: tails, twice.

Well I'll be damned, and I was.

Then I had a dream about another, still older ex. I don't remember what happened exactly, but it was nice to see her, even in the astral plane. In my next adventure I caught a bus to a show, but once I boarded the bus became a black town car where I shared the backseat with an Irishman whom I did not know. By his accent, I thought him from Armagh, but when asked he looked at me as if he didn't know the place. He tried to sell me a handful of ecstasy tablets he'd wrapped up to look like a roll of Smarties.

I just read an article outlining the distinction between passive and active voices. It shames me to say that I cannot write well in the active voice. The voice is alien to me, but shouldn't be, considering I've been writing for a while now. I blame the school system, of course, for not teaching me the necessary skills to write well. I can understand the voices in their simplest forms, but not when applied to first person narratives: the cow jumped over the moon (active) vs the moon was jumped over by the cow (passive). But what about cases like: I had been bit by a snake vs a snake bit me; I was hit by a car vs a car hit me. The article cites phrases like "it was," and "there is" as ones to be avoided, but I know I use these phrases like mad on this blog. Maybe I'm not cut out for this. Surely, if I haven't mastered a concept as simple as this, I'm doomed.

Well, no time to dwell. I'm scheduled to pick up a car in twenty minutes and I must be off. We're headed to Russian River, to enjoy the ride and pick up some Pliny.

Mooslim

Still having strange dreams, strangely. A past love keeps fluttering by, attracted to the glowing lightness of sleep, moth-winged and dancing in the dusk of quiet repose. Each time I wake I find another hole has been eaten in time's veil, allowing to shine through the light of old memories and forgotten feelings. I'm not entirely sure what it means, but when am I ever.

Last night I had perhaps the best burger I've ever had in my life. It was at Umami Burger, with the Profuser. We had been en route to Roam, another burger joint, but quickly decided to change course for Umami. We each got different burgers, cut them in half and shared them, like lovers do. You cannot judge a book by its cover, nor can you judge a burger by its name. Mine was called the manly burger, a testament to manliness and an affront to my arteries, while his was called the royale, dignified, esteemed and bilingual. I'd eaten my half and felt pleased with my choice, until I bit into the royale.

Holy cow; it must've been.

My taste buds knelt in supplication, like a mass of Muslims at mass. My mouth had become a mosque. A beard sprouted and hair grew in rivers, falling from my face like Wookie waterfalls. The meat and bread and sauce were drowned in surges of saliva, great waves which sent them crashing, shipwrecked, against the stony shores of my teeth. I felt ecstatic. I chanted my mantra: wow. The burger was orgasmic, it made my eyes roll. After the last bite I was hit by the painful realization that I had no burger left. I begged the Profuser to split another one, urged him to do this favor for me, told him I needed just a few more bites. I felt like a junkie, a fiend, inconsolable and needing. He wouldn't budge, the fat fuck. So I just walked outside and got pumpkin ice cream, in a waffle cone. Then I went home and ate pumpkin pie. I might have a problem.

Awakin

When you're going to sleep, you've taken the first step toward waking up.

When you're waking up, from the moment you open your eyes, you're drifting back to sleep.

Beating

Well, it looks like the Ebola scare has finally gotten to me. Last night I dreamt I was somewhere in Asia, with friends, and an ex-girlfriend of all things, as I discovered fields of food had been contaminated by sick monkeys and fruit bats. Guess who had just eaten lunch. Then, just before I woke up, I had a nightmare I was trapped inside a motorcycle gang's clubhouse where a deranged woman on methamphetamines wielding an ax hacked away at the door I hid behind. She couldn't be reasoned with, of course, nor could she be dissuaded. I managed to flee through an adjacent door while she was hammering away with the determined fury of a practiced lumberjack. When I fled though, as I entered the street, I was greeted by 20-foot tall prison fences festooned with barbed wire. There was no escape. Fortunately, I woke up right as I had pressed myself against the gate, hopelessly searching for an opening. I know I said I was going to talk about things that were more positive, and lighter, but it seems my unconscious mind had still heavier surprises in store for me. Okay, now that the fog of sleep has lifted from my weary brow, let's move away from axes and razor wire.

I feel pretty good this morning. I'd forgetton how powerful an effect the gym could have on your health. Our bodies, much like our minds, need to be used, exercised, or else they fall into disrepair and decay. Presently, I possess the musculature of an atrophied geriatric, but soon, soon.

Hmm, what else can I bore you with? I've already talked about dreams and fitness (or lack thereof); I'm running out of ideas. Maybe a happy memory that's only happy to me, or a joke that you just had to be there for. Oh, I know! A story from Saturday:

C and I had just had breakfast, excellent Mexican food paired with several, salty tequila-based drinks. W had been with us but he had to leave before the food arrived in order to make it to a nearby drum session. We told him we'd meet him there after we wrapped up. During the 2-block walk, C produced a small, superfluous joint. I considered not smoking it at all, but then I thought it foolish not to; what better way to walk into a room full of strangers pounding on African drums than drunk and stoned, and white. Once we arrived, awkwardly we pushed open the door from where the music was emanating and found ourselves amidst a room full of beautiful women, all of them dancing as though possessed. The beat, hypnotic and virile, had them entirely in thrall; us too. We stood there dumbfounded and stupid, staring, transfixed and oblivious. When the realization landed that we were obstructing the dancefloor, we scuttled toward the bleachers and remained seated.

W looked entranced, his hands were a blur, flapping and beating like swollen hummingbird wings. The women, too, were mesmerized, moving like animals, deer or gazelles, dancing, jumping and flitting. I felt like an animal too: a tranquilized, sedate snake. I couldn't help swaying and flapping like a flag, tapping my foot like a rattle. Something inside me slithered and hissed with satisfaction while the loud rhythmic beating rebelled against the silence, obliterating it. It reverberated off the air around me, shook my skull until my ego broke into fine pieces, like sand, and my head became a maraca. I was lost in the sound; I could hear the language of the drums telling old, long-forgotten stories, vibrating atoms until we all buzzed as the same truth. There was something profoundly tribal about it; the sense of belonging, of being nothing and at the same time something. Then, as I glanced up, the lead drummer invited me to play. I turned him down, obviously, given I have no experience playing the drums and I didn't want to fuck up the sound they'd created. So they continued, and we continued listening, and the dancers continued dancing.

I can still hear it.

Ever After

*From earlier

I'm on my way to the gym, finally. It's only been two months, but my body has thoroughly deteriorated, wilted, turned into a burlap sack full of chewed up cheeseburgers and beer. I'm soft, made of White Castle buns. With persistence I might get back to my former health, be able to support my own bodyweight without the threat of imminent collapse. Here's to hoping.

Walking to the bus earlier, I talked with a friend from New York whom I haven't spoken to in some time. It was nice to hear she was doing well, that she was still as I remember her. There are times, as you grow older, that you realize you've become estranged from a friendship, made a stranger by distance and time; unlinked and alone, an unchained melody. Be gracious when you find friendships still intact. I just listened to the song by the same name, made popular by the Righteous Brothers. I never noticed how much the lyrics plead for mercy, for death, to be reunited with that overcrowded and lonely ocean, infinite in its obscurity.

Happy morning thoughts!

Maybe it would make us all happier if we replaced every instance of the word death with love. In life, two things are certain: love and taxes. Do not fear love. No one can escape love. See, isn't that nicer? The thing about nicer though, is that it's usually less true. Nicety in aesthetic is always a contrivance, a deception designed to conceal, to temporarily entomb entropy; wow, what a nicely groomed lawn; cropping out that blemish would make that photo look a lot nicer; look at little Billy, doesnt he look so nice and clean; wouldn't that story be nicer if they lived happily ever after.

Oh, my love, my darling
I've hungered for your touch
A long, lonely time
Time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine?
I need your love
I need your love
God speed your love to me

Lonely rivers flow
To the sea, to the sea
To the open arms of the sea
Lonely rivers sigh
"Wait for me, wait for me"
I'll be coming home, wait for me

Oh, my love, my darling
I've hungered, for your touch
A long, lonely time
Time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine?
I need your love
I need your love
God speed your love to me
Lonely mountains gaze
At the stars, at the stars
Waiting for the dawn of the day

All alone I gaze
At the stars, at the stars
Dreaming of my love far away

Oh, my love, my darling
I've hungered, for your touch
A long, lonely time
Time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine?
I need your love
I need your love
God speed your love to me

----------

On my way home from work I listened to a podcast that delved into the topic of Nihilism, and why it seems to have such an appeal to rebellious youth, why it's so prevalent in pop culture. They cited Nietzsche, punk and metal, True Detective, Russian literature. Initially they postulated that it's because we have an innate desire to repudiate, to dismiss what insults our soul, to resist much and obey little. But at the conclusion of the show they suggested it is a way of making a stand, of saying - we are unafraid. I would extend this even further and say that our fears and insecurities goad us toward a feigned fearlessness. We are very much afraid (how could we not be), and therefore act contrary in an attempt to will it away. Ok, I'm done with the doom for today; you have to get it out sometimes.

Tomorrow I promise to talk of lighter thinks, you know, like helium.

The Bombs Bursting in Air

For the last hour I've been listening to the soft murmur of falling rain, and of thunder. Not real thunder and rain though, fake sounds: electronic simulacra of electricity. I even added a touch of crackling campfire to give it that authentic, natural, outdoorsy feel. There's something soothing about the rain, the rolling sound of thunder. That sudden, hollow boom, the roar of plane engines exploding, of the sky tearing itself apart. There's a madness to it, a savage, depraved ferocity, powerful and destructive, incendiary. Angry air molecules, seething and teeming, ready for rampage, wage war behind dark clouds. Raindrops hiss insurrection as they fall forever downward; little liquid leaflets warning of impending detonation.

A great, unseen sword stabs at the sky,
Cutting down grey, pregnant clouds.
They cry out
A chorus of lions as
They're claimed.
Pain so sharp it fractures the dark
A streak,
A flash,
A bright running tear.

Turmeric

I've been awake since 7:30 and I've written nothing. The only things I've accomplished today, so far, have been eating a small bowl of cereal and wasting far too much time reading meaningless internet articles. As such, I am now hungry and need to go procure a sandwich. Sure, I could stay inside, pour myself another bowl of cereal, continue reading nonsense articles and eschew all contact with the outside world, but I read somewhere that variety is the spice of life.

There's always something slightly agoraphobic about Sunday morning. 

Snooze

In an attempt to broaden my horizons, I'm going to move on to greener pastures and discuss only the finer things. From here on out I'll concern myself with love and beauty, the intellect, positivity. I mean, I love love; who doesn't? Astral Weeks is my theme song. The cute staccato flutes, chirping like birds, sing to the rhythm of my sunshine heart. My lashes, when I blink, make the sound of tambourines. See, I can do this.

I tried to make it to the gym everyday this week, and failed each time. I'm hopeful that starting Monday I'll get back on track. Optimism is my opium. I will smoke it until I am blissfully incapacitated and unaware, unconcerned about the spider in whose web I've made a nest.

The morning is grey. My bedroom windows are overcast and opaque, fogged up like shower doors. In San Francisco, October ushers in autumn, its gusting winds sweep away fallen leaves and cover the sky in cobwebs. I have a saccharine taste on my tongue, cloying, like a mouth full of candy corn. I'll need to brush my teeth. The salve of sweet peppermint will soon wash away the flavor of sleep. Not yet, but soon.

I cling to these idle, morning moments like cold hands in white December folding old, familiar clothes. Smoothing over wrinkles, softening, enfolded by the warm smell of clean sheets. I'm sleepily encumbered, somnolent, lazy and drifting, sinking deeper into dream each time I rest my eyes. It is so much like a drug.

I can think of nothing more pleasant than lying here, for just a little while longer.

Til Kingdom Cum

I was accused, wrongfully so, of being too vile on my blog. The charges were brought up against me by a friend who alleges I write for the "sole" purpose of being offensive. I'm shocked, appalled. Allow me to provide some background information on my accuser, to properly portray the hilarity of his claim. He routinely makes scathing, sharp, demoralizing remarks. He once went on a five-minute, graphically explicit soliloquy describing how he'd love to have me hogtied and blindfolded, bent over and fucked in my ass and mouth by midgets while a group of men surrounded me, masturbating, as he, my friend, attached a unicorn dildo to my head, which the men would then ride like ponies til kingdom come. Whenever I hear the words vile and offensive, I think of him. You can imagine my surprise then, when he told me how he felt about my blog. Sure, I'm often crass, and lewd, raunchy even, but to accuse me of writing for the sole purpose of being offensive is beyond hypocritical - it's preposterous. I'll agree, sometimes I use vulgarity as a crutch, because it's easy to lean on, but I don't write so that I can offend people.

I write so that someone might laugh, or squirm at one of my less than decorous descriptions. I write to distract myself; from troubles; stress; time. It's a way of documenting the happenings of my life, to give me something to look back on. Often, I write to have fun and say the things that might otherwise go unsaid. In my daily life I am a taciturn and shy speaker, usually choosing to listen rather than contribute. My friend, the accuser, is a domineering pontificator, borderline intolerable when drunk, frenetic and mercurial even when sober.

When I told him "I learned it from watching you," he told me, unsurprisingly, that it's different when he does it. Isn't it funny how that is? He said it's because he "makes sure the reader is appalled, guilty, in on it." I hold that they're already in on it if they're still reading. I've had ample time to offend my handful of readers. I don't write for readership, I write, mainly, for me. I think.

There is a small, small grain of truth to what he says, however. I should strive to intersperse my ramblings with a bit more substance, to rely less on crude toilet humor. It's good to be provocative. Let's try:

Dicks sporting goods. I just passed one on the highway.

What if Wendys and Dicks had a merger? Or Johnson & Johnson? Virgin?

Siemens.

The People's Steeple

Last night I said goodbye to Kim and Simon. We had a few people over for a mellow little get together at my place. The conversation was good, which caused me to stay up a bit too late, but I wouldn't trade today's fatigue for anything.

There was talk of founding a hippie artist commune somewhere, probably beside the ocean, where we could live sustainably doing the things we enjoy; making art, meeting new people, playing music and singing, yoga, working the land. No commune would be compete without a Jim Jones contingency plan, of course, so we would have to work out the logistics of the massacre, should something go south. These are minor technicalities though, not to be seen as serious impediments to the construction of my compound: The People's Steeple.

I will be the leader, obviously, and I will change my name to Slim Slones - because I'm sly like that - and buy up property in some remote, hot, jungle climate. All of the women will be mine, maybe some of the men, too. I'd create an abundance of babies, trying madly to dethrone Ghengis Khan as the most successful suitor in history. I'd rule ruthlessly and disallow members to leave the compound under any circumstances. Any and all dissent would be dealt with immediately and severely. I can see it now: delivering a lethal, cyanide elbow - The People's elbow - to the throats of any defectors. Can you smell what I'm cooking?

The Brian Jonestown Massacre would be the only music I'd play; all day, all night. I'd enslave the youth, boys and girls both - because I'm not a sexist - and force them to erect a giant erection, a statue, enormous in stature, to celebrate and commemorate my fabulous phallus. There would be weekly ceremonies, ritualistic dances performed at its base. There would be, hidden inside, a stairway by which I could ascend through the urethra and emerge as a golden god from the tip of the glans. At the climax of the ceremony I would leap from the height of the monument in a beautiful, crescent-moon arc, landing into a kidney-bean shaped pool of Goldschläger. Crazy, I know, especially because I can't swim, but fear not! I will have a harem of the finest female lifeguards - my glans clan - standing by, ready to plunge in to my rescue while the theme song to Baywatch is performed acapella by a small children's choir. Attendance will be mandatory. The punishment for absence: immediate interment inside the solitary, swollen testicle at the statue's base. This will be an honor, you see, to be re-assimilated into the life-force energy stored within the sacred sack and then reincarnated as one of my ejaculations.

While the life of a cult leader does have its allure - I mean, what is it if not the natural evolution of rock super-stardom - I think it would be too much stress for me. I'd rather be Dim Dones, an old, dim-witted man who'd done so much in his life that he was done doing. I could be a blind advisor or a pesky jester, a good food guru or a bored bard. Let's try a poem:

Stay away Senator,
Stay away from my Guyana

American

Dreams, life is but a
Merrily, merrily, Heraclitus' streams

Tasting of grapes
Of wrath
Of woe
Hard like bones

Crosses and skulls

Sleep, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep
Sleep

Pimple

Have you ever wondered why you only get pimples the day before a date, or some other social engagement that subjects your face to elevated levels of scrutiny? A nice, big, red pimple hanging off your nose like a fucking berry. Sometimes it seems that we're inside a Sims video game; little creatures made of zeros and ones to be toyed with, exploited for entertainment. Why can't I be the funny one with the big cock and the grizzled, masculine jawline? Instead I am Pimple Penis, Nipple Dick; a reproductive organ the size of a pacifier. I know from experience that it does anything but pacify. The gods are tricksters, all of them. Damn you, Shiva! I think people choose atheism over religion because the idea of an all powerful, capricious overlord is too difficult a thing to resign oneself to. It's why we move out of our parents' houses: we so cherish our autonomy. We are afraid to surrender it, to have our life taken out of our own hands.

It's interesting to view atheism through the lens of fear because, normally, it's a thing I would never do. But for fun, why not? It's easier to assign that scarlet F to people of faith - because they seem to cling to fantasy over the hard truth of reality - but perhaps it is even more insecure to denounce faith than it is to have it. We place our faith into things everyday without question - that the sun will rise, that our partners will be faithful, that love will last, that everything will be okay, yet we take great issue with investing the same faith in religion. In a sense I think we fear it. There's comfort in thinking you have everything figured out, in believing everything is knowable and observable. This pseudo omniscience affords us a presumed omnipotence as we become our own gods; free to decide what's best, what's right or wrong - for us and everyone else. It is a kind of rebellion, a bible-black bruise on god's eye.

Humans doggedly resist oppression, kingship, servitude. We are all trying to find a way to escape our cells, to mutiny as did the Morningstar. To be a person of faith, in a sense, is to willingly subject yourself to moral and intellectual incarceration. It is barbarism. Never trust an old, balding, mustached man wearing a white shirt sporting a pair of scissors and comb in his front pocket.

To choose otherwise, to denounce faith, can be seen as a refusal to believe there is anything greater or more powerful than yourself. Just as a child trembling before a monster in the dark shuts his eyes tight and chants, "it isn't real," only to open his eyes and find the demon dissolved, eschewing faith can be seen as fear avoidance - conjuring a denial to replace an unacceptable, troubling truth.

Just because you no longer see it doesn't mean it's not there.

You know, like a painful pimple on your back, or under your balls.

Metal Heart

The past few days were great: music, sunshine, hummus, weed oil and friends. Why does Monday always have to roll around like an officious officer, officiating, just when you start feeling free? During the weekend it seems if you can drink enough beer, or smoke enough pot, you might be able to stave it off for a few more days. This is just a deceit of course, but it does feel that way; and feeling is a form of knowing, right? Perhaps only for the blind.

Sunday, at breakfast, during a conversation with Kim and Simon, I'd suggested that as we age there is a tendency to accumulate pain and bitterness, anger, chronic sadness. We are magnets moving through a junkyard of despair, picking up as we pass, large, twisted hunks of sharp metal, nails, screws and bolts, until we are overburdened and numb; monstrous men made of iron; of shards and shells, shrapnel from blown up bombs. As I said this, I saw in their faces a gentle but firm disagreement, which caused me to pause and consider the prophetic brand of doom I was espousing. They reminded me that there is a choice; to persevere and ride faithfully toward triumph, or to subscribe to timidity and embrace resignation, self imposed self pity.

They're right, of course.

It's strange how we hold on to loss, how much richness it can have in our hearts. We build empires of our failures. It's easy to frame your world by the things you've lost, or never quite had, because in life you lose more than you gain. If you would counter-argue, and hold that you gain more than you lose, then reconsider - it simply isn't so. Perhaps it can be argued that it was never ours to begin with.

It sure did feel like it was, though. What was it I said about feeling again?

Explosions in the Tupperware

I'm off today. That didn't stop me from waking up early though. In the dark, just before sunrise, the omnivorous metal mouth of a foraging garbage truck functioned as an alarm clock as it chomped loudly on trash and recyclables outside my window. One of the things I love most about my apartment is how paper-thin the windows are. It's as if each pane is made from a single wine glass, flattened and stretched comically beyond its means, waiting to crack the moment I look at it wrong. This allows me to hear all sorts of sounds in the quiet of night; ricocheted and amplified by the natural acoustics of my apartment walls, the disturbed mumbling of homeless men seem to come from within my apartment instead of outside it. Then there are the drunken bouts of laughter, the whooping and hollering of young college men trying to impress girls with their puffed out chests and slurring, songbird bravado. There are the more subtle sounds, too; the whoosh of a car displacing air as it passes; the electric hum of an accelerating bus; a bead of sweat falling from a cyclist's head onto hard pavement; the tightening of fabric around a growing erection. Once, I even heard a bird, perched sleepily on a muni line outside my window, farting in the dark.

Ffffffffttttt.

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass begins today in Golden Gate Park. I told James I'd meet him there early this afternoon. After the show I have tickets to go to another show: Explosions in the Sky. It's been some time since I've seen them, but I have several strong memories of their shows I won't soon forget. I don't know if I've ever told the story here of the time an ex-girlfriend and I got so stoned at a show we had to illegally park the car and brave a night in downtown Baltimore. I just checked. I haven't. Without further adieu:

We'd taken some time off from work and left New York to stay in Maryland, where her parents lived. Explosions in the Sky were touring and they were playing a show in nearby Baltimore. The industrious little potheads that we were, we toiled away in the kitchen with illicit recipes out of the anarchist's cookbook, baking a kind of marijuana smores cookie called a firecracker. Essentially, we sprinkled weed on top of some nutella and sandwiched it in between two graham crackers. Then, we wrapped it in aluminum foil and placed it in the oven at a precise temperature which allowed the fatty oils of the nutella to leech out the THC. Voila! We placed them inside a tupperware container and brought one each, to be eaten after we parked the car.

We arrived at the show and scarfed down the firecrackers while sitting in her dad's Prius. The baked goods weren't as tasty as you'd think. It was a chore to chew them up and swallow them, but we were determined. The show was inside an old, abandoned looking church, the architecture of which lent a sonic brilliance to each and every sound that reverberated off the walls. When the opening band came on I felt the firecrackers starting to kick in. I was giddy, my depth perception was distorted and everything seemed just slightly off balance. I walked to the bathroom after the opening band wrapped up, to expel my demons before Explosions came on. Once I got to the bathroom though, a piss turned into a shit and I had some explosions of my own. That's when things really started getting weird. It seemed to me that I was in the of latrine of a space ship, the engine of which cooed and buzzed oddly as it stretched out time, vibrating the porcelain toilet like a bell. The walls wiggled and winked at me while I wiped my ass and I couldn't help but wonder how my lady was holding up. As I exited the bathroom and made my way back to the ornate church column I'd left her standing beside, I saw in the distance a giant, bearded man. He seemed to be at least eight feet tall, resting against a pillar only slightly taller than his head. "Am I crazy," I asked her, "or is that guy ten feet tall?" I saw her eyes widen when she looked and then squint as she began to giggle. "I don't know," she said, "I can't tell. He does look gigantic, though."

The lights dimmed and the room started to breathe. Soft guitars and low, rumbling drums opened their eyes, adjusting to the dark. With a crash and a sigh the symbols exhaled and lit up the room. We were carried away to dizzying heights and, from below me, the earth seemed to tremble. I could've sworn the floor was moving in waves. I was high. Really high. There were moments were I'd disassociated from my body almost entirely and felt myself become a breeze, or a swaying piece of plankton at the ocean's floor. Before I knew it the concert was over and the lights had come on. Like a gang of undead cattle on ketamine, we were herded out into the streets, back to her car. I remember thinking that I was in no shape to drive, that I was still really high, when all of a sudden I spotted my friend Alf from New York. Given how high I was, this was not a pleasant surprise. The coincidence of him being there was bothersome to me, perplexing. "Ugh, great show, right dude?!" I told him I was high off of some pot I'd eaten. "That's cool man. Hey, do you guys want to come hangout backstage with me and the band? We're going to a bar after, too; you could meet us there." The crushing realization that I was too stoned to engage with anyone, my heroes no less, began to sink in. I thanked him and hurried off to the Prius.

Before I knew it she was starting the car. How did I get in the passenger seat? I looked over at her and asked: "Hey, babe, you okay to drive?" It was a rhetorical question. I knew she wasn't; because I wasn't. So we switched seats, quite chivalrously. Anyone who's ever been put into a position where they have to drive a car while fucked up on psychedelics can tell you - it isn't fun. I'd agreed to drive, the caveat being that if I felt unsafe, I would pull over. So we drove for what seemed like tens of minutes before I parked and shut off the car. She looked at me and asked, "you okay, babe?" She seemed nervous. "Yea," I told her. "Okay, then, we should get going." That's when I realized we hadn't yet left the front of the church. This was bad. I steadied my trembling fingers, took a deep breath and started the car.

We drove on in the dark until my vision became useless and kaleidoscopic. We pulled over and I let my eyes take a break. Taking in my surroundings, I soon realized something was wrong. The blue lights affixed to the top of the streetlights told me all I needed to know. We were in the ghetto. I considered my options and said: "Hey, babe, I don't want to alarm you, but we can't stay here." She didn't understand why. Her head was droopy and she was exhausted, so was I. I suggested we find a hotel, park the car there, sleep for a few hours and head back home in the morning. We pulled off and I turned the corner into a police roadblock. Once I realized what I'd done, my heart went off in my chest like a gong, shaking my limbs as if I were a cartoon rabbit. In life there are moments that define you; moments that stand out above the rest. This wasn't one of them. My luck was bad and getting worse. I couldn't make a U-turn, couldn't pass a sobriety test, couldn't speak sensibly. I was doomed. Panic pulled seconds into thirds and fourths, stopped time. There was so much adrenaline in my blood it felt like cement was hardening in my veins. There was only one car ahead of us and it was being waved on. I rolled my window down and pulled up to the presiding officer. He shined the flashlight into my face, temporarily blinded me, and then waved me on too.

Holy fuck! I swore I would pull over into the next parking lot we saw and then we'd find a nearby hotel. We found a garage a few blocks away and pulled in. It was late and the streets looked especially unsafe. I think I should take a moment to provide explanation here, to better convey what I mean by unsafe. I grew up in New York, in Queens. I was born in the Bronx, spent time in Brooklyn, and hung out in some shifty parts of the Lower East Side. When you live all your life in a place like New York City, you become adept at spotting places where you don't belong. I had friends who were drug dealers and I'd been to projects and ghettos before, so I was familiar with this unique brand of danger. There were dudes wearing chains standing on the corner in front of a bodega waiting for someone to look at them wrong; drinking 40oz and rolling blunts; leaning against tricked out hoopty's and glaring out into the night in search of trouble. Just before pulling into the garage we watched a guy wearing a wife beater walk into the middle of the street with blood on his shirt holding a weapon. This wasn't a place we wanted to be.

From inside the gated garage we used our phones to try and find a nearby hotel. There was one two blocks from where we were. Reluctantly, I got out of the car and we walked to the gate. As we arrived, a gang of about six walked by with flags hanging from their back pockets. I paused and inventoried my outfit; red cap, red shoes, red shirt. Shit. Shit. I stopped her and explained that I was wearing colors I shouldn't be. We were already targets, but this made things worse. She was tall, attractive, wearing a dress. Horrific images came to me, augmented weed cookie anxieties; of being overpowered and beaten, forced to watch her raped. Two blocks seemed suddenly a very, very long walk. Successfully, with the help of firecracker fears popping off in our hearts, I convinced her that we should recede back into the garage. I figured that if I had an hour to nap, I could sleep it off and we'd be out of there in no time.

For an hour, as she slept peacefully beside me, I kept guard; watching phantoms on my periphery. And also in the rearview, hearing and seeing things that weren't there, ready at a moment's notice to throw the car in reverse and screech out of there like a bat out of hell. It was awful. Suddenly she woke. "Babe, I have to go to the bathroom." Fuck. I hadn't thought of this. "One, or two," I asked. "One," she said. "Babe, I hate to tell you this, but I think you're gonna have to piss right here." She looked at me with sleepy, stoned, sad, puppy dog eyes. I felt miserable and helpless. "Oh, babe, I can't. Where am I gonna go," she asked. She was right. There might be video cameras; she couldn't just squat and spray right here. We became frantic; out of ideas. Too high to drive anywhere, too scared to walk, too ashamed to piss outside. I didn't know what to do. Hopelessly, I surveyed the car. Then, I looked down at the floor and she caught my gaze. I looked away quickly, embarrassed by what I had unintentionally suggested, but it was too late. She reached down, picked up the container and slid it under her dress. I heard the sound of piss streaming into the tupperware container. As it filled, I too filled - with guilt. We were so fucked up that we were reduced to cowering in a dirty car-park, pissing in tupperware.

We both began to laugh, until the laughter wilted and became more of a sad wallow. "This is terrible," I said. "We are shamefully high. We need to get out of here, now." The smell of fresh urine goaded me on, woke me up, like coffee. The best part of waking up. They say smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. It made me remember we were both better than this, that we would never again suffer the indignity of having to piss into tupperware containers.

We drove off into the darkness, out of downtown Baltimore and onto the highway. Highway dashes become insidious when driving in such a state. They mesmerize your eyes like staccato siren songs. My love cheered me on the whole way, massaging me with confidence, keeping me focused and in tune, whispering softly, "you're doing great." The ride required every last bit of energy and concentration I could muster, until finally, we parked the car in her driveway, right beside her father's garden. Sweet, glorious relief. We were safe; back at Eden.