3 decades old and I firmly believe I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life. That isn’t necessarily a stigma on my character, lots of people don’t know what they’re doing. However, what differentiates us as individual millenials from classical philistines is that we’ve come to terms with that. Opportunities are always afoot, and we need only to seize them. I’m comfortable and satisfied, and that goes a long way. Happiness is within the eye of the beholder.
The road was made of cobblestone, was winding and as far as the eye could see. Nothing was at the end that the eye could discern. Yet, some mason was there to piece and mold each stone. I had the wrong shoes on, of course I had the wrong shoes on to walk this bumpy stone path. Nevertheless, it was the only path there was.
There was something on the path in the distance. The only difference in the scenery was that alluring shine. Yellow, almost gold. As I approached it it began to take the form of of a key. A gold skeleton key type with a bottle opener as part of its bow. I placed it in my left breast pocket to take with me to seemingly nowhere.
Soon I came upon a cup. More like a chalice, gold in color and it had had been lain on its side with all its contents spilled. An empty chalice with different gems embedded within a black band around the rim. I debated whether or not to take it with me. I thought I may not have had enough room in my bag, but I may be able to barter it at some point. It seemed unlikely that I would run into someone on this road let alone have this someone possess anything of which I wanted to barter for. But I stuffed it in my bag, just in case. I walked on.
The next thing I saw was a tree. It was an adolescent orange tree. The trunk was long and thin but I recognized the leaves. It yielded no fruit yet, but I was able to rest a moment beneath its shade. Still wearing the wrong shoes. I thought, ‘what a dope fucking tree this is gonna be one day, I wonder if I can come back. With the right shoes.” I moved on after a time. There it was, finally, the end of the road. Almost as if it came from nowhere. It was a wall. The wall was made of cobblestone too. The same kind I walked on to get here. There wasn’t a gate or a door at the end of the path, just wall. ‘Did some asshole spend his time making this prank? Miles and miles of it?’ It’s a good joke. But I immediately pulled out my key and began searching every crevasse between the stones for a keyhole. There has to be a trapdoor and I would find it. I kept looking and a giant cobblestone wall simply stared back.
the cocks of the Spaniards and the Greeks were okay,
and my grandma had boils
What’s his name came up with the heliocentric theory and
We still rent vans and trucks to help a friend move
three blocks down the street
What are cities without racial profiling
places condensed with weird fuckers?
Tutankamen would’ve loved bacon
and nobody says shit about
what happened on the hills around Rome
Babe Ruth still called that smack and
Menenites were burned
we got Beethoven
and even the Jews
don’t really give a shit
I heard coyotes
and a small caliber pistol
with its trigger pulled
I was taking a dump
The shortest distance from my poop to
the piñata in the park gets
On my way to work
Half collegiate and half ass
Rebecca is a lesbian
Allie has a new baby
Rachel is discovering how to
fuck up life
The perfect place to hide
from the rain
Is to be
in the rain
the coyote howls
I took a walk. Living on a hill usually means it’s a hike so walks seldom occur. There was a man at the bus stop with his dog. We recognized each other and started talking about his being at a bus stop. Neither of us really cared but empty conversations are how real conversations are started. He had a black eye. So did I. His story was normal, involved a misinterpretation at some point in his time at a bar. I didn’t have one. I told him the truth. I woke up with it. I wasn’t at a bar but I had been drinking. I’d spent the last three days inside my cave of a room living off peanut butter, shit movies and gin.
He told me about his one man theater show as we both walked up the hill. I told him I was wondering if I still had a job. He laughed. Everyone always laughed because they always thought I was joking. He was on his way to see his girlfriend whom lived a few blocks from me. I told him I hadn’t had a girlfriend in four years. He told me he was in the middle of remodeling his house. I told him I rented a room from an ad I’d found on craigslist. He told me he could put me on the list for his show. I told him I’d hoped that I would be working. We both had black eyes.
Mari picked me up at my place at 3:34 in the afternoon., after my shift. I’d sped back home on my metal blue mare. The night before, I was rendered sloppy. I’d started drinking at 3:35-ish, after my shift, a recurrent theme apparently. Hadn’t noticed. Mari and I had a sensical conversation, to my recollection, though she later explained how slurred my sentences actually were. How words seemed to merge with one another toward the end to form a new, incomprehensible word. With aid from her indulgence, my rant lasted ten hilarious minutes. In my opinion. Or defense.
My car had been misplaced. The other barflies tried to help and one even called the cops for aid. There was a warrant for my arrest that I had to explain to him that I neglected to and instead took off to the train station. “To Highland Park!” I thought to myself as I recklessly boarded. Mari lived there. Filthy. Cheap. Cheap being the highest selling point for youths of sensibility. I spent the night on her couch which incidentally was infinitely more comfortable than my own bed. My own bed consisting of an ancient Japanese floor cot which was basically a thick blanket on the hard-ass-fucking floor. I began to dissolve the clues within my mind during REM sleep to logically deduce where I was parked almost immediately. Didn’t happen. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle couldn’t do that. I awoke at about 5:15, walked to the station, and hopped it without paying. Like Bobby D. would’ve. My situation warranted feckless illegal actions I thought and believed. “To Memorial Park!”. Six miles from where I was and would’ve walked it if my better cunning hadn’t gripped me so necessarily. Got off at the stop around the pub and walked. Walked a block different than I had the night before, prayed to Julius Caesar, and there she was. In all her rusty, metallic, silver-souled glory. No parking ticket. This city is often an asshole about parking tickets. 46.90$ I thanked ol’ JC, went home, changed, then went straight to work on the metal blue mare. Mari and I were supposed to hit Yucca Valley that afternoon.
This has got to be the strangest month ever. I feel confident that everyone has those. The kind of pitched where nothing goes your way. Let me tell you about my month.
First, I dreaded it before it happened. Then again, I already had the dread itself before it began. I had a court arraignment. In California. I’d you haven’t yet, just believe me when I say it’s outdated and just as severe as everyone makes it out to be. On the most minimal of charges, I still went to jail. 4 days. At my arraignment, I got sentenced to 8 days. Luckily or unluckily, my 4 days counted as 8 in my sentence. But I was requited to serve 26 days in AA sessions. Plus not get in trouble for an entire year. Not with the law at least. The next week, it was suggested I plead guilty to a DUI charge. The result was 62 AA sessions within the same time frame. Twice a week plus 390 in fines. If you don’t know how fines work in court, I’ll tell you: it’s fine plus extra charges. 390 equates to about 2500$. I choose incarceration as payment, at a future date. 24 days, they said but I would realistically serve 10 percent of that. But I choose to turn myself in on the Friday of memorial day weekend in the hopes of not serving at all courtesy of the over crowded system. Aside from that, I have to schedule a day to look at dead bodies for 8 hours through the HAM system. (hospital any morgue) and an evening with MADD. (mothers against drink drivers) this was all because I stopped the car only one foot over the limit line. They stopped me for that.
Two things I learned; deny ALL tests they want to subject you to, and pull over to where there’s overnight parking or that this get away with just a parking ticket. Cause it’s 500 to get your wheels or of the impound the next day if you’re lucky, and 2500 if you’re unlucky to get a 30 day hold put on your car. My mandatory AA classes start at 6 am on Saturday and Sunday. AM., BTW.
Then I got my Vivano 1500 Univega stolen. A rare road bicycle with a fantastic paint job. On a Thursday. I just shrugged it off and said, “what the fuck else could happen?” The response was, “more.” the following Sunday I bought a rusty vintage Raleigh with shot gears and a crooked handlebar. I lowballed the fellow to a hundred bucks from twice that and he said yes. I’d always been a decent haggler, just know what you’re bullshitting about. I took it home, then took it apart to put it back together. Correctly. It ran like butter on a hot skillet. I decided to give it a test ride after lubing the chain, switching through all the gears seamlessly until this yellow VWBug turns the corner ahead of me. I saw it coming too, which was the sad and almost pathetic part. My first thought was, “this is it.” he hit me head on bending the front forks of the bicycle backwards while forcing me a somersault. My front tooth dug into my lower lip, my arms stressed and tore at the friction from impacting the yellow steel hood. As I slammed into the pavement I heard the bug screech to a momentary halt. Then I twitched and began to help myself up. That’s when he there it into first and blasted off. I was there on the street, lifted my new bicycle of 7 hours old whilst covered in blood and shouted, “come oooon” towards the heavens. No one came out of their home to help me.
I had owned that bike for no more than 7 hours, got hit by a car that took off, went to jail, got an illogical sentence, blue a hundred bones- all in a month. Technically it happened in two weeks, though.
Now at first I chalked it all up to bad luck. It seemed the most sensible conclusion. But thinking about something so much will only manifest it whether it be good or bad. All neutral thoughts become dark with enough time. We’re naturally dark. It is a chore to be good and stay good. Sometimes, I get to see my limits and want to stop it all. Then at the last possible moment I remember how funny it all really is. I mean, what could happen next?
I’ve been waking up around 3 a.m. lately. Then I toss and turn all night until I have to get ready for work. There’s no good reason for it. It feels cruel some days, but that’s just the way it is and there’s no going around it. 3 a.m. and at the snap of a finger, I’m awake.
The first thing it reminds me of is in the movie the Exorcism of Emily Rose, though I don’t smell burning or the presence of strange invisible intruders. There’s nothing evil about it besides having to toss and turn the next few hours before I make myself pretty and presentable. And I highly doubt higher powers would want a person with my track record to be martyred for any reason. I have no ties to anything, not even my own past. Things are live and learn, and shitty things would become experiences to be learned.
I never did aspire to be much of anything. Not to be rich or famous, or financially well off. I just wanted to be okay. It seemed the only sensible aspiration to me at my youth and even now. I’m not a pessimist, nor do I just focus on the bad things, nor am I one of those bleak realists whose philosophy is, “why bother.” I severed the ties to my past and hold nothing against myself in regards to the future because they, along with the what ifs have never happened or already have. Everyone’s got demons, but not many of us become pals with them.
I don’t think I’m alone when I say I’m simply waiting for something, and the great philosopher Tom Petty said, “waiting is the hardest part.” So here I am, doing strange random things to see if any dormant passions within fulfill themselves. I went rock climbing, to a renaissance fair, busked in a subway, ran a marathon, fed the helpless and homeless, worked a suicide hotline, coached illiterate kids, started a book club, counseled crap relationships, etc. And nothing. I get nothing. Have I become jaded? Jaded by what? Is there something wrong with me? My perspective? Hippies say your perspective manifests your reality, but I gave it a chance, a real good chance. And so, these hippies don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about and never have. Just an idea. A dream. I knew of a guy who had a dream once. Dude got shot.
Patience by Guns n’ Roses eventually ends.