title

fetch me my cane

For a reasons astrology would put down to not a bit of chance, most of my friends' birthdays fall in the colder months. The phonecalls begin pouring out late October, and taper off in early February. I give my good wishes, and lately, we speak of losing youth. My birthday falls at the end of the year, so I make note that there's a whole year's less dispairity. In the histories of exgirlfriends, this could have potentially made some legal difference. As time goes on, the age gaps become less and less, in the big picture of our lives. In the mathematical sense, as our ages approach infinity, their differences approach zero. A friend was comforting me on approaching thirty, since I will be twenty-nine this year. She might have been spotting the acceptance of aging hipsters in society; she said thirty was the new twenty. This only made me realize I am so old the life expectancy has lengthened a decade.

My body is aging. There is now a good sized, dark mole exposed on my forehead by a receding hairline. It could be an age spot, sans recession, which I'd take as an even trade. The Converse All-Star Chuck Taylor sneakers I wear are quite aged, falling apart. They're manufactured to have the life expectancy of a mosquito, though I doubt the fad will ever die. I've switched to smoking Old Gold cigarettes, missing the fittingness at the time of the switch. Smoking does make you look old, and I've gathered, prematurely elderly. As, we've all seen fifty year-olds wheeling around their deathbed oxygen tube getups. My person probably exudes age in many ways. Yet, when I see a group of highschool kids, I can't help the knee jerk to go chill and see whassup. I believe I'm as young as they are for a second, and forget that by joining them, I'd be putting an adult on display. Luckily, I scratch my face nervously at times like these. The thick beard of whiskers reminds me that I should stick, at least, to college kids.

Apparently, I've reproduced. The task for which nature has enlisted us is... almost complete. Bearing one child ensures another goes on, but the world's population would soon dwindle if all had only one. Of course, there are the Catholics to relieve some of each individual's burden. And thanks to Enzyte, Viagra, and other reproductive drugs, the task is now shared more by the aged. I hope not to soon find myself in a position of awkward conversation with a doctor about how I cannot carry out my 2.4 kid part of the bargain, if I tried. Less do I look forward to the point of discovery of a problem. I'll admit, my teenage love 'til lethargy has kind of phased out. I almost look forward__I hear those pills pack a punch.

I've been told I look young for my age, at many of my ages. It's not only a matter of how you appear that determines your antiquity. Age may not entirely be a state of mind__everyone's going to expire. But, a person's mind dates them against others. Astrology is somewhat of a science of the mind. I read that as a Capricorn, I was born old, and will grow to be a cooing babe with age. I am often astounded my astrological advices. And, I recalled my youth on hearing this; all the uptight adultish ideals I held. Then thought of the childish behavior I exhibited in my early adulthood so far. Well, I wasn't a staunch republican by dawn, or liberalist by dusk, and I think horoscopes can tend to shed light on universal themes. Old character is, perhaps, free to move independent of age. But, remembrance is what factually defines it.

I remember when I bought the computer on which I now type. It was the summer of 2004, in Radioshack. Personal computers such as mine are good for things like the Internet, word processing, or developing software. They can be good for gaming, if you've got the right junk in the box. I've stopped following the specs of non-personal computer gaming consoles, like the ones that hook up to your TV. As I've mentioned in a previous blog, follow the numbers. Higher numbers mean better quality, be it graphics, sound, or speed. Computers have been 32-bit for quite some time. Now there are 64-bit processors. The selling point of a personal computer has long been the speed of the processor in megahertz, recently gigahertz (million or billion). I had been considering purchasing a new system to improve graphics, primarily. At the store, the salesman introduced me to a sleek new computer. It had a "quad-core" processor. I asked the gigahertz. He only replied, again, that it was "quad-core" and that was all I needed to know. Apparently we've gone from somesuch billion to basic numerals like 4 (quad). This happens. Memory used to be a selling point. The Commodore 64 computer had 64,000 bytes of memory. Well, Nintendo released, some years later, the Nintendo 64. 64, here, referred to the bits of the processor, which determines speed. A Dell-4 or HP-4, would not sell so well if the processor had four bits. In any case, I looked at the price tag, and it was the most expensive computer in the aisle. The graphics this 2004 model puts out aren't real shabby. If I were to buy, I'd buy the best to really get a difference. I'd want my current computer to be blown off so bad it'd be nervously making conversation with the Atari 600 at the technology convention that is my closet.

On the long subject of technology, I was told flat out in a conversation that I was old. I remembered the days of the BBS, the Bulletin Board Systems of America. They were the pre-Internet. Texual chatting, games, file downloads; all the Internet has today, but accessed via telephone. Many fewer participated than today. Due to long distance costs, most chose to access BBS's in the local area. The incident of assault on meeting a fellow BBS'er could conceivably be comparable to today's rate. There were few if any checks. Most were oblivious, my mother included. I did make a few legitimate friends online in the early nineties, and was wary of others. I guess you could say I survived the days of the BBS. Age has a bit to do with survival. Having an offspring, I've done some thinking on survival and experience. At a young age I found myself recounting all my grandparents had lived through; the Depression, at a young age; World War II, the Korean and Vietnam wars. Not to mention the crazy inventions they'd witnessed__the change of lifestyle. I wondered what I'd see. Neither made it to September, 2001, but I suppose it's where I picked up. I wondered what she'll see, and it was a new idea to me. Upon finding you've conceived a child, one recaps the personal dangers one's encountered, as well as world events. It could have been a tough one to put on someone, but it's evident age dictates unrelated desires to do so.

doin' the dishes

Be it unbelievable, I am at this moment doing the dishes. They're soaking, actually. That is to say, I am a young single male not yet settled on a particular dish. A dish is a slightly antiquated way of saying attractive young woman. I've only heard my mother say it, who was a wealth of vocabulary to me in her time. Perhaps it's too soon, but I'm attempting to revive "dish" in the hipster vernacular with the pun of doin' dishes. The idea came about when a friend related to a friend that he takes his shirt off when doing the dishes to keep the shirt from getting wet. I responded that I always take my shirt off when doin' a dish, too, for the same reason. The comment was discarded, possibly for the inclusion of the outdated homonym. It didn't take much for the catch phrase, "like noneother" to catch on, once I uttered it around some kids in an urban neighborhood. Maybe this trendsetter's spotlight is waning. Naturally, it took some coaxing of the interests to get to this point of dish doing, tonight. Please read on.

Waiting for phonecalls is an effective method of procrastination. My apartment was a heap of clothes and miscellany, biting at my heels when traipsed. I'd lay a few eggs of correspondence via telephone, and wait for them to hatch. Pointless activities ensued whist it seemed as if important time was being spent. The apartment was temporarily no longer at my throat. Once a party did call back, the red eyes of responsibility toward the mess were thoroughly at bay. While I was waiting, I found myself cleaning my glasses, as I can be found doing at many points when I am trying to avoid doing something. But I had taken the cleaning a step further, popping out each lens. I attempted to clean the gunk hanging out on the underside of the bridgerests... Bridgerests. It kind of sounds like a hip way of saying "breasts" Like, "biotch" or "shizit." I'll have to try that out on someone. In any case, my glasses are half-rimless, so I ran my fingers over each lenses' underwire. Pretty soon, I had a plan. I would begin cleaning my apartment without the help of my glasses, then I'd see what I missed at the end. How zany is that?

At first it was a bit like an image-enhancing effect like you see on emotional talkshows like Montel Williams. Kind of misty, tears-welling blur. I began to clean. There's an even tradeoff in going for a quarter on the floor, and finding it to be a guitar pick; as there is in going for a guitar pick and finding it to be a quarter. I encountered many little notes a friend had written me a while back, and some photos of better times. There were momentos of family, things from people now obscured by the mists. I was wearing a Jennifer Aniston face through much of the cleaning. Ok, Montel and Ms. Aniston; I'll be checking my usage stats for Google hits on those two. Without my glasses, I began to take on some amount of tunnel vision. I became sidetracked with small items, carrying out their destinies. A slip of paper bearing a phone number needed scrawling on the designated paper next to the phone. As my eyes were able to focus better, more little papers in the area came in to view. They were, as well, scrawled. All this, still, should have been done with the aid of my glasses. Decisions of which bits of paper to keep and which to discard should have too, but I was wearing blinders.

What appeared to be drafts of letters or lyrics or other sensitive information were systematically shredded. I've always wanted a shredder, and perhaps I'll ask for the dicing model this Christmas. But, there are manual methods I feel adequate. For those who can identify, and for those who always wanted a sure fire quick and dirty shred, follow these: Take paper in hand, rip once in half, stack, rip once in half, restack, rip once in half, restack, repeat as necessary. The bulk of the cleaning did not involve relocation of papers, however. A friend who did call back stirred my fears more by saying I must start with laundry, and, "Get 'er done." Dealing with paper is at least stimulating. It's like writing a blog while you're doin' a dish__it's having some reading material while you work. I made a few extra phone calls, and I believe I set about cleaning my ears. I found, however, sorting laundry without my glasses on, was an experience. Foul odors, or spring fresh scents were intensified with my near blindness. Relying primarily on my sense of smell, the task was completed expediently.

In many apartments, there might be the tendency for a movie, music, or video game collection to get out of hand. My disarray of compact discs are contained in a chamber below my feet, having converted what wasn't damaged to digital format on my desktop computer. I own three DVDs. All of them are computer games. Most real dishes probably know that these are the top three signs they are dating a nerd. Well, if I was dating someone right now, who knows what I might be cleaning up. My mind is led to the bathroom. No, I have no natural urge at the moment, but it something I've thus far neglected to document. The bathroom has been just that, neglected, for some time. The place doesn't scare me, but I'm afraid it will scare guests. I have faith the water will drain, but I can't always rely on my friends. There's a chance I'll get on my knees and scrub eventually. I just hope I don't walk in on a lady trying to relieve herself in a standing position.

This night cannot go down in history without respect paid to the Coca-Cola corporation. There is an outstanding 20 ounce Diet Coke machine within a two minute walk from my residence. The cold beverage is served at a price of only 75 cents, which is a good fifty percent markdown from many button-bearing bandits in this city. They say caffeine, and most stimulants produce a false sense of alertness. Is that to say narcotics produce a false sense of sleep? Come to think of it, the morning after seems to say it as such. Statistics on the cleanup include 16 intact guitar picks recovered, 2 additional: broken. I've since donned my spectacles and hunted down that nondescript ball of lint I took note of while in a frenzy of recovering a group of ballpoint pens I thought I'd lost. Apparently, my tunnel vision lingers. I've let the dishwater grow cold while slashing and pounding at the keyboard. If I had a dish to do at the moment, in the metaphorical sense, she might be as cold and stagnant as the water. With a metaphorical overtone here, too; I suppose I'll pull the drain, and let the cups and plates settle 'til I run water over them again. Figure that out.

recarded

It's unusual I start my day in the AM. I work a night shift two days a week at a local television station. It's part-time work, and I am supplemented by the government in exchange for maintaining the remission of a mental illness. I live a socialist lifestyle of rootbeer and cigarettes for the greater part of the week, and assume high responsibility, low impact work, making sure some of the public is entertained for twenty hours. It's a refreshing change to speak with you in this public form. My most recent composition needed be "dumbed down" to a sixth grade level; "dumbed" for lack of better vocabulary. This day, today, that started, for me, in the AM, was a full day. Because of the mental illness, two vials of blood needed be taken from my arm today. I'm unsure if this is more to make sure I am taking my medications as prescribed, or if it's important medically. In any case, I'm unsure which I am supposed to think, and i'm made to think moreso that it's important for me to take my medications.

I received an unexpected visit from a friend today. Really, I should've been expecting it from this spritely lass. For a spell, I would show myself unannounced at her door. She called me on it in an entry such as this, but in the light of a warm memory. Still, it prevented me from doing so again. Today, I printed several short stories of mine that her boyfriend had requested. Even from just the light touches of text I read while collating and stapling the papers, I became infused with the idea to begin writing again. I've been neglecting the pen, down in the dirty of my music artistry, work, and the waste of video game play. During these, I narrate to myself for the day I can record it all. Experience, for me, is made bearable when thought of in the literary sense. Never will I have the time to document enough to purge all traumas I've undergone, but I have to chase that idea.

It's been said, it was a full day. It was full of hypodermic needles, hugs, and some huge expenditures. I won't say how much I dropped, but the average reader could estimate from the description of two gigabytes of random access memory (that's two trillion bytes), a 256 megabyte video card, and nine months back child support. I'll get to the juicy bit about rectifying a child support debt in a moment. But first, I must document the nerd I unleashed in myself at Best Buy.

My previous video card had 32 megabytes of random access memory. If I'm in danger of losing you there, I'll "dumb it down" for you some. The more RAM, and the higher the model number, the better those games that inspire school shootings look to real life. At least, that's my greatest understanding, technically, with a background in electrical engineering no less. From a RAM count of 32 to 256, and from model 200 to 6200, I'm noticing bullet shells flying, expressions of horror on the enemies' faces, less squarish breasts on my female sidekick. Definitely an improvement. Shopping alone at Best Buy, requiring assistance or just a Best Buy experience with one of the experienced staff, is a mixed bag. The man whose practiced raised brow-"Can I help you" who took my side in selecting the optimum components, was honestly jockitch__ish. It's great when you can land a nerdcore employee to help you in a place like Best Buy. I confess, I know a bit more about computer hardware than I let on. Getting in an excited conversation, rather than the obvious issues on expiration 'til obsolete, is the Best Buy experience. I tend not to elbow my nerd cousins too much, so perhaps I'd not have chosen to write of a stellar Best Buy experience. But the guidance was cold. I offered a memory of my first 3D accelerator card as we proceeded to the checkout. He said he'd had the same kind of memory, but it's hard to believe he was sincere; kind of the final blow. I'm happy to say that the card has no defects and the detail is amazing. However, between trips from the computer to the bathroom, I cannot begin to tell you how I appreciate the 3D effect of the cardboard box it came in, as I pass by.

On the forefront of my budget is nine months of back child support. Before judgments are made in the minds of readers unfamiliar with me, please believe me... The family I have mixed with is not one to reckon with. In my defense, there were factors preventing payment to, and even contact with the mother for what now seem like ages. My fervor for computer gaming accrues less damage than my apparent fervor for unprotected sex, but I am much happier to provide this. I feel it is an unwritten sin to regret a child. Sinning is not my only deterent. It was kind of hard to squeeze all of those digits onto the blank on the check. My daughter will be eleven months old on the ninth of November. I made sure to append "11" cents to the rounded-even amount of the check.

I can and will take responsibility for my child. I cannot, however, take full responsibility for indulging in violent video games. I'm remissively ill, mentally, but I think I'm balanced enough to avoid urges to kill real people. Do games waste time? Oh, yes they do; perhaps building small muscle motor skills; but mostly a waste. I can't take full responsibility. My boss, who recently left the company, asked if I played games. At the time, I hadn't set eyes on one in what seemed like ages. He figured that's what I did with all my time. He seemed to think I should be studying the science of television. He'd rant at me about it, making me feel small, every day. But he left, leaving me with the idea to get back into gaming, perhaps somewhat for spite. I thought he was alright, but I thought he hated me. It was Boss' day the day after he left. One of the ladies in the office baked a cake for everyone... Raspberry cake.

title

My dad left when I was two. The earliest and only memory I have of my mom and him together is of my older brother and sister shrugging off a verbal argument they were having outside. The memory is convoluted with the concept of yogurt, and perhaps I'll never know why. Not to start out each blog as a free associative autobiography, or anything. There actually was a high level of functionality between my parents, fit for a fourteen paragraph blog of its own. It might have gone on to fill its own e-book, but my mother has recently passed on. There was a scene near the very end that seemed to go beyond functioning beyond divorce. Of course, I was young when they were divorced,

a lotto bull

Impulsion versus compulsion, it's what separates us recreational users from the addicts. Just as drug addicts and alcoholics have support groups, so do the stalkers of Lady Luck. This habit can be equally destructive. So, Gamblers Anonymous is there with a wagon, as well. You don't need to be an alcoholic or a junkie to catch a buzz. So, it follows that moderate gambling can give a taste of the kinds of fantasies a compulsive gambler experiences. And in the case of compulsion, the stakes are often high.

The first lottery ticket I ever purchased was not bought for the thrill of winning four lousy bucks on a five dollar game. My experimentation in chance was related to a different vice, women. The service counter girl was spectacular. I tried a number of segues: cigarettes, chewing tobacco, returning spoiled produce (I jest). I could have struck up speaks about her hair, which frequently changed from one punky color to the next. Perhaps I should have been straightforward, that I was more interested in the number behind that face, than the ones behind the scratch-off junk.

In that downtown grocer, I came by her glass cage a conspicuous number of times, I'm sure. I realized a subconscious plot, more ingenious than a simple excuse for a transaction that I barely felt worthy of. If I won anything considerable, we'd paint the town together. After all, she'd be partially responsible for my winnings. Though I'd probably soon find that in the end, money cannot buy me love. That is, when our three story love nest was burning to the ground, she raging at me 'til hoarse, from her horse, and I projectile vomiting into the tropical fish pond.

Of course, in order to get that far in life, I'd have to graduate from the gateway scratch-offs, and get serious about the weekly drawing games. The lack of effectiveness I had in hitting it off with this finest service rep might have had something do to with her vision of a future with a man playing only low-stakes games. Also, the names of the tickets I bought want be considered. I tried my best to avoid the ones that were pink, cartoon covered, or with other such fu fu. Still, it's hard to go off from, "Here's your Oodles o' Moolah ticket, dude!"

For sure, fantasies of love must sometimes intertwine with those of fortune, and to the point of sickness, in someone really in trouble with money gaming. Occasionally, fantasies might only involve getting an account in the black. Maybe a lotto player really likes getting their picture taken, as big winners do, for the Wisconsin lotto website. Luckily, none of these are my primary motivations for participating in the lotto. I've been lucky to stay out of the red with my bank. And, although holding an oversized check in front of a camera could be slimming, it's just not a money shot. To continue the topic of love and money, I almost see it as a risk to put oneself out to become a millionaire while single. A hooker, money can get you. A million in cash can get you hookers for life. But imagine being in sweet admiration of someone so fine in every way. Things seem to be moving in the right direction. Then, one day you're loaded for life. Intentions between you and this someone could get very convoluted. Especially when she finds out about the hookers.

I am not an avid gamer, but I have tried the heroin of multimillion dollar number games. Thus, I can make assumptions on the mind of someone sick. My first purchase of a Powerball ticket occurred last January. In Powerball, five numbers and an additional "Powerball" number are played. Drawings take place twice per week. Each play costs a buck, and the odds of winning millions... or your buck back, are one in ten. I researched the game after I bought five plays (cost: five dollars). On the frequently asked questions page on the Wisconsin lotto website was the question (and this was frequently asked, mind you) "I bought ten plays, but I didn't win anything. [What gives?]" The answer went on to explain simple odds and that they did not make a guarantee. I surely hope this has caused some epiphanies in compulsive lotto players.

It was the day of the drawing, and I checked the numbers against my ticket at work that night. The preceding phase of fantasizing was mild. I remembered my father playing at the peak jackpot, when I was a child. He snorted, "I didn't even match one number!" I matched four numbers, which had a handsome prize. But, they were spread between three lines of plays. And, I had matched the Powerball, but it wasn't in the Powerball position. I checked with the website, but these topics weren't covered. They weren't even frequently asked. In my frustration, I hastily assumed I had lost. So, the ticket got wadded up and recycled. This has bugged me ever since. The rules could have been made clear, or I could have doubted my judgment and taken it to a gas station to be digitally read. I could be rolling in a handsome amount of prize money. My life could be a few K happier right now. And, my odds are now wasted on the luckiest ticket my shit luck will probably ever grant me. This was proven true__at least, in the realm of my relationship with Powerball within the last two years.

I have continued to play scratch-offs, but only the ones that you gung-ho scratch off all the gunk. I can't be messing around with crossword puzzles and Sudoku when it's the cash I'm after. In fact, I allow the machine to randomly select my Powerball numbers, rather than darkening circles on a form. Which is to say, yes I've played Powerball more than once. I bought a ticket last week, a fiver as usual. This is my second and last offense trying to defy rational statistics. I'm in a bit of a jam. Ends aren't meeting the way I'd like them to. That's not to say they aren't meeting, but there are expenditures in which I'd like to begin participating. I have a daughter in another part of the state. A winning Powerball ticket could mean she'd have, in some ways, more than she ever needed. As I walked back from the gas station where I purchased the ticket, this is what I fantasized about. Bursts of false hope came, and temporarily alleviated stress. I imagined the fantastical life I'd live when the millions came through. It caused a general euphoria. I really see how people get hung up in it. No, I didn't win anything. On five plays like before, I yielded no matching numbers. I'm pretty sure of the rules in that case.

I've found most people's lucky number is three. I'd say it's not a bad choice for a low end number on a Powerball, or other such ticket; the number seems to come up a lot. Some play their birthdays, and-or birthdays of loved ones. I've never heard of playing birthdays of infamous felons, but I'm sure it's been done. When I was a shave younger, numbers held an obsession for me, to the point of unhealth. I had made-up mathematical formulas and geometry for every concept under the sun. I wasn't getting much sun, huddled in my basement with a stack of paper, a ballpoint pen, and a vision for figuring it all out. I wonder what lotto numbers I would have come up with had someone challenged me, not to mention what the proof would look like. A delusion of compulsive gamblers, I've heard, is precognition, or special power to select the winners. Admittedly, with the residual associations I have with numerals, I look at each winning set and say, d'oh! I should have guessed that.

My mother, whose house I stayed at in the summers of my college years, lived near an Indian reservation with a ghetto-sorta casino. I'd made some friends at a coffee house, and they insisted I come to spin the wheel night. I'd been tearing ass at Trivial Pursuit at the pre party, so Hell, I'd give it a spin. I won twenty bucks, and made twice that on slots. I hadn't the guts to belly up to the blackjack table, but I am a freaking shark in practice. I found video poker to be the least entertaining video game in the house, but it only costs a nickle. I spent a lot of time in the area of my mother's house during the two years of engineering school I completed. Not once did it occur to me to go to the casino alone, and ante away my savings. Booze comes and goes, tobacco's here to stay, but I see no future with a gambling addiction. I saw that I had lost this last Powerball play, and began waiting for the cravings to hit. Curiosity is there for continuing to buy these tickets, but I ain't got the shakes.

I'll never stop getting a chuckle from the t.v. ads for new medications, barely out of their experimental phases. Well, first, you've got the graphic testimonials from actors about their growths, rashes, and urges. But, the voiceover raps about the side effects for half the commercial, as the actors smile at the sunset. Not only are the lists of side effects ridiculously long, but listen really close. I don't know when people started getting Restless Leg Syndrome, but I hope it isn't catching__cause I'm passing by people with restless-looking legs all the time. There's a medication for it, naturally. I can't remember what kind of bleeding, exactly, the medication causes on the side, but I did catch this: If you are taking the Restless Leg Syndrome medication, contact your doctor if you experience unusual urges to gamble or other such habits. Way to run a control group, AcmeMed Corp.

At a truck stop diner in my hometown, I'd occasionally see a bedraggled, dumpy, middle aged couple having coffee. I thought it was sweet, but let my imagination go when I witnessed them there on a Friday. They had purchased what might have been one hundred scratch-off lottery tickets. They shared a cup of coffee, and silently scratched to themselves for as long as my date and I stayed. Honestly, a bit depressing, but what cures depression like drama? As they sat across from one another, I imagined the man scratching off a $100,000 square... he glanced to his left, then his right. The man then scratched off another $100,000 square. A metaphorical thought balloon formed above his head. Just one more square should do it! In the balloon, the man held a knife inches away from his wife's back. He scratches__and... before his wife looks up, he pockets the ticket. "Gotta use the pot." The man escapes through the back door.

it was drizzling

I nearly plowed over her in the darkness. She sat on a short set of stairs, outside the patio of the apartment building. The smell of foreign brand tobacco might have flagged me to her position on the step. I told her she scared me, something I'd thought of telling her in the past. Why scared, she wondered? I recovered, I had feared I'd run her over on my way to the street. It was the neighbor's girlfriend. Or the girl whose boyfriend and she live in the door down from mine. Or the female part of a couple who lives close to me on my floor. Slice it how you'd like. I've found from experience it's best to slice it as evenly as possible; in these tight quarters. We said our hellos, and she explained her absence from her apartment as needing some time to toy with ideas of slicing her relationship. Spoke of tiresome dutch-style expense division, and chivalry. She sipped her Miller Lite, I lit a cigarette.

She's a talkative, tall blonde, and if I hang around her in passing for more than a moment, I freeze into place. A conversation with a woman like her is a privilage, no doubt. There's no lack of charm about it. Like anyone from any land has an accent, she accents her often fascinating side of the dialog with a twinge of blonde. But no! Every point lands with insight and substance. So, she was in a tiff with her boyfriend, of seven years. She's a nice girl, I've met the guy, seven years? They'll work this out. I let my mind wander for a spasm. But no.

She spoke of fishing, and some of the local fish that have been caught in lakes of our region. I had not heard such enthusiasm for the sport since I heard myself talk to anyone when I was seven and obsessed with fishing. I thought it was great she carried it on in herself, to adulthood. She told me of a convicted arsonist once associated with our building, on the prowl about a year ago. The guy could've gone after our building if he'd not been caught. I think she was a little disappointed by my fear reaction. My nerves were still just a little apparent from her visage there.

We got on the subject of incense, when I asked where in town sells the junk. Junk; I'm looking for opium-incense, real extract if possible. My apartment smells like generic cigarette tobacco, I said. Apparently I'm not the only one in the building that will get to one's car, only to go back inside to be sure there's not a cigarette left burning. That was a laugh; really. Shutting off the stove is another one, I said. Like you're trying deperately to recall the synapse and feeling of twisting the knob to the 'off' position. Connotative, but inawkwardly delivered. I was doing pretty well at talking to this pretty lady. It was dark though, and the telekinetic tongue-tying rays her summer getups pump out were slight.

Anyway, she had to pee, informing me that she'd peed there outside the building on occasion. She was one up on me. I would eventually, she said. I continued my walk to the store to get a six-pack of rootbeer, so I could relax with one before bed. The conversation had held me up, though. Arriving at the store, it was 12:10 AM, ten minutes past the cutoff for purchasing rootbeer. I selected a forty-ounce of Miller Beer, and told the cashier that I was just lettin' the system know where I stand on this ordinance.

say it with me, sat-chel

The other day I had a few items to deliver to the post office. Feeling carrying them in my hands would be awkward, I chose what was to reveal itself as an even more awkward method. What it really is, is a bag. I call it my satchel. It's been called worse. It's camoflauge and sports a patch bearing a pair of tenis shoes. As well, there are punk rock pins affixed to the strap. No one's gone as far as to call the pins brooches, but some ask, what's with the man-purse?

I set off on my errands. Most days begin with the taking of coffee. Today, I'd give my trusty Mr. Coffee a break, and go to the only café in the town's radius that allows smoking. I'm told the place is actually a social club, and has dodged smoking referendums by assuming this classification. It cost me a dollar to join the club, and I haven't been spammed yet, in any way. There was a new waitress working there that day.

I swung my satchel, as I insist, into the booth and took a seat. The waitress seemed friendly. So, I got into a conversation with the waitress, about places I could break into the music scene. Well, she said, there is the Glass Hat. What an interesting name. I reached for my satchel, wherein was a pen and notebook, and jotted down The Glass Hat. I imbibed my coffee, and set out for the post office, I was halfway there.

Now, satchels can be worn a number of ways. My satchel has a long strap. The strap can be placed to cross the chest, done by some to thwart muggers. And, I realize this is the suggested configuration for women in larger cities, when speaking of a purse. Which, my bag is not, I repeat. My satchel may be worn over one shoulder, or, get this, it may be carried like a briefcase by the short cloth handle affixed to the top of it. Purses have chambers. My bag has zippered compartments, not unlike a backpack.

I arrived at the post office, posted my mail, and slung my satchel over one shoulder, ready to leave. Well, I saw a friend of mine from Jr. High addressing an envelope on one of the tables. I stepped over to him and said what's up. Back in Jr. High the two of us were in track and field together. I recalled that he was the one laughing hysterically at me after a short sprint I made. Now, to defend myself ahead of time, I primarily ran the 110 low hurdles as an event. And, I could beat somewhere just under half the competitors, not by raw speed, but agility. Runners would be falling down in the lanes beside me, but I lept on. But, at one practice this friend took good note of how I mistakenly ran a sprint against all of the girls on the team... and lost to all of them. Jr. High is far past, what is new, my friend? We chatted, and I mentioned that I'd started a music thing on the side, and that someone had suggested a venue. He asked which one, for he was a bartender at a martini bar. I replied, the Glass Hat. He turned red, the Glass Hat is a gay bar!

Now, I'd have no problem playing music at a gay bar, much less entering one with a close friend. But, I did hit on that waitress the next time I came into the social club. The news of the orientation of the Glass Hat tavern was a bit numbing, but I threw one rubbery leg after another out of the post office. I came to an intersection where two girls were parked in their car. By now I had made the connection between my bag and the waitress's suggestion, and was made a little conscious. I'd expected the girls to point and call at me. No, they were chatting to one another, and I don't know if they made note of me. But surely they saw me. What happened as I passed closer to the car, was that the girl in the passenger seat began fluffing her hair as they do, in the mirror. Now, I'm sure I've seen girls do this before, but was it on t.v.? It seemed, in my stress over my toting preference, maybe I was just like one of the girls. There is always attraction level to consider, and I beg to be modest. However, could've the assumption been made either consciously or subconsciously?

The next episode in the man-purse chronicles occurred on my way home, at a gas station. A young man and I came to the entrance at exactly the same time. He may have noticed the purse__no! I mean, he may have noticed my satchel. I was still conscious of assumptions about it. So, I insisted he go first, and to top it, I held the door as he entered. I caught a sideways glance as I was walking to the cashier, but perhaps it was suggestion. I purchased my diet berries and cream Dr. Pepper, and left.

memoir #437

I once casually went with a girl who would take me on dates to hospitals. I'd tour around for waterfountains and bubblers, while she'd get checked out. It was great fun, despite it all. Afterward, we'd go to restaurants, she very opiated- -Nearly passed out in her pancakes, and entertaining in her fuzzy coherency. She seemed very wine-drunk, i'd say. I had a deep concern for this one. All turned out well, I'm sure, though.

all this wishing is really starting to bug me

Anyone from a city would take note of the greatly enhanced starscape blanketing this tiny northern Wisconsin town on a night like this. When stargazing with cityfolk, it might still be necessary to clarify what they see, however. No that grayish haze directly overhead is not smog, factory smoke, or even light cloud cover. It's an arm of our galaxy. Though, even if the gazer is savvy, and can recognize constellations, they are now challenged by the addition of surrounding stars, once muted by the orange glow of a trillion sodium streetlamps on a canopy of pollution. And as for the astronomically uneducated, bystanders can take amusement in a suburbanite pointing out a satellite, clipping along as they do, and shouting "UFO!"

Shooting stars, as they're called, are infamous for their misconceptions. They've been thought of as actual stars burning out, as well as angels falling. These stories are perpetuated by children whose parents either don't know wiser, or are looking to dazzle the imaginations of their young ones. I probably need not inform the reader that a shooting star is a chunk of rock burning up on entry to the atmosphere like a poorly assembled Earthman's rocketship. And, the phenomenon is closer to home than a distant star's death, or a cherub's expulsion from Heaven.

Also called a falling star, and more scientifically called a meteor, the phenomenon has played on the human notions of God, luck, and magic, probably for eons. The phrase, "catch a falling star," has age of centuries for sure. For many of these centuries, the misnomer could have been the assumed truth--no matter the definition or supposed distance of a star. Attaching romance to the witness of a meteor or occasional meteor shower is harmless to the cynic. And, the odds of a meteor becoming a meteorite, not burning up, and striking the earth, are very small. So, the brilliant streaks in the night sky are a violent and dramatic showing, but ultimately benign. Billy Bragg, folk punk singer of the 1980s sang a lyric: I saw two shooting stars last night / I wished on them but they were only satellites / is it wrong to wish on space hardware? / I wish I wish I wish you'd care.

Tonight, I am on a visit to my mother's retirement home, a few miles north of the handful of streetlamps in the tiny town. It is a crisp, clear night. As I walk outside to smoke cigarettes, the starscape crackles into view. The florescent-lit guest room adjoining the garage constricts my pupils so that I walk out into purple blotches, but my eyes adjust quickly. As I puff, I peer into the night sky. I'm not a follower of classic superstition. A house of broken mirrors or a herd of black cats wouldn't raise my pulse. The number thirteen, I've read, has many more applications than just bad luck. Fountains full of coins may as well be one arm bandits--slot machines.

But I have seen a few falling stars, at least I thought I did. That is, until I began seeing falling stars below the tree line, and even below the horizon. The june bugs were fluttering by the porch light; it was June, and the fireflies, the lightning bugs are out in full swing. In their quests to find mates, they buzz up into the starfield and blink their little thoraces. There is no way to tell the difference. Lightning bugs aren't hard to catch, certainly easier than an actual falling star, meteor that is. Tonight, I don't bother, for I have allowed some of the bugs into my room from the congregation of hymenoptera by the porch light, right above the door. I kill the lights, and bed down. Lines of light streak by my head. I make wishes, on phosphorescent insects. Is it wrong to wish on phosphorescent insects, Billy Bragg?

slash pound back slashing and pounding

Most say nothing of it. Although I speak of it seldom, I joke lightly and darkly about it. Best I could come up with was, "Everyone has a MySpace tomb except me... I wanted one too!" I've cursed fuel injected engines and the well ventilated garage. My feelings on it are mixed. Visiting the site of my first and only attempt at suicide brings a real combo to my head. There is embarrassment that goes along with survival, I'll forewarn. While shuddering in relief, I weigh my chances of survival, and they were not good. So, I question whether this is all a post death hallucination, as they say. Those who mostly say nothing of it have done little to refute this theory. The trip thereafter has been so strange.

The craftsmanship of the attempt was knowingly flawed, though persistently executed. I arranged plumbing for the gases, and gathered all garage door openers. I was told my mother had a side-door key, and that she discovered the shop-vac hose to be pinched in the hatchback door. My mother probably didn't know the word "Bejesus." Had she, however, she might have told me this is what I scared out of her. I can imagine her searching high and low for her "Bejesus," it having been scared out of her. In the same way, she probably searched high and low for the side-door key she needed in order to drive to work that morning. As the after death hallucination trudged on, in the confines of a psychiatric unit in a neighboring town I might have felt some fear myself. A couple of weeks into my stay, a nurse came to my room to tell me that my mother, who had visited the day before, was now in critical condition in the ICU of a neighboring ward. I had sighed many times since the emergency detention that brought me there, "What next?" These words surely crossed my mind after the news; though, I was back on a heavy regimen of medications, and still am. In the same way a wave of paranoia--i.e. my closest friend wants me dead--does not gel in my mind... I was prevented from panicking when the news came. And, I don't believe I've grieved to a natural extent since her death, which occurred several days later.

Time-wise, the proximity of my attempt at suicide and my mother's untimely death were--to me--suspiciously close. It triggered my human tendency to see a correlation. First, the antipsychotics were working enough to muffle the event, but not enough to curb ideas that her death was part of an unfolding of a post-death hallucination. That is, those people in the picture drop off, beginning with the closest and foremost. My mother did, and of course, would have discovered me. I wondered who was next, and in what way they'd leave. While careening into the idea of a hallucination, I was gripped with fear. Second, I made a more real correlation. Though, I hate to think of it as being true. Psychosomatic stress causes rheumatoid arthritis, or so claims a professional in my treatment... claims a doctor of hers. My mother's death was sudden, gastrointestinal. My gut aches at the thought of losing anyone I'm close to. I'm told to put this out of my mind, and I have help from prescriptions.

Often in my psychiatric history have I considered an event to have ended my life, and that I was walking in the thereafter. The streets are filled with celebrities and rock stars--mostly. There was an architectural engineer off her circuit, as well, but that's another story. The belief that I walk in the afterlife is accompanied by a good amount of bipolar bliss, but also pain. Doubt soon takes over. The theory cannot be sustained. The last feeling to leave is what I call "Forever." It's essentially boredom with realizations that we are all still on Earth that no one has proven it not to be Hell. In brief, "Forever" is time standing still while I'm in a confined and stifling situation. Part of my treatment following the failed garage scenario was a month long stay in a group home. Leaving the psychiatric ward in a minivan, with the group home's administrator and her mother, I sang lyrics I'd written, to entertain them during the long drive. I neglected to ask questions about my new living arrangements--coed? Ages of the other dwellers? A home that turned me down bragged a pool table and a computer in its basement. I thought I'd be in good hands if their setup was similar. I was not offered the information, but I'd still have had a hard time preparing for what was in store.

I was to share a house with five women, mostly over the age of forty-five. The daily schedule of activities was posted on a large dry erase calendar, but all I really saw was everyone vegetating in front of Game Show Network all day. With few exceptions, I had no privileges to have visits from friends. Visits from family were restricted, as well. This was, until I had a job and thirty days had passed. I had my cell phone plan, and an acoustic guitar that a friend had lent me on an exceptional day. I pace a lot, especially on the phone. I wore a dirt path through the yard, and I often wandered into the sidewalk adjacent to the house. I was under strict legislation at every turn--I could not even take a walk from the grounds alone. Guitar playing was ruled to end at six o'clock. I was penalized for returning ten minutes late from a visit with my father. I was told by the assistant director to stay off the sidewalk, for it was lava, or something. When the director told me to stay off the grass I was killing with my pacing, I felt I was becoming closer to walking a literal tightrope. Through the weeks I stayed, I felt the same hellishly mind warping "Forever" as in psychiatric wards.

Another bit of legislation passed at the group home was a limit on the number of cigarettes I could smoke each day. I bought my own on field trips from the house, but I was only allotted one pack of twenty cigarettes per day. This would ordinarily be enough, but I had a lot of time to pass. I smuggled in extra packs I purchased during visits with my father, and refilled my rationed pack throughout the day. I was hurting, when the stash ran out, only once or twice in my stay. None of the staff suspected my crime, or let on that they did. The assistant director was strict, as I've said. Imagine your high school's assistant principal. She'd have found a dastardly punishment for me. I won out in the end, though; I gained satisfaction from subversion, and the thrill of the crime--as well as the extra tobacco. I swear it, though--it was the only thing I got away with.

I got to know some of the women (the staff often referred to them as the girls). An older one I'll describe, L, had a habit of talking to people who were not there. At these times, a staff member would intervene, though I saw the talking to be doing little harm. Once, as I walked through the living room, I noticed a game show carrying on to itself. No one was in the living room to watch it. I approached a staff member concernedly, "The TV... it's talking to itself again. You'd better check it. Thought I'd let you know." L was sharp enough at most times though, and a bit of a goofball. As I walked by carrying my guitar, she tried strumming the strings. I fingered a few chords for her to play, and she seemed delighted. Another time, L and I sat alone at the dinner table, the other girls gone off to watch television. She had the idea that she'd like a meatball sandwich now, instead of waiting for dinnertime. L was persistent with the staff member, who was occupied in the adjoining kitchen. She was about to give up, but I coached her in a low whisper, "One meatball! Just one meatball!" She repeated this to the sighing staff member, the staff member oblivious to my encouragement. I giggled for hours later. The food at the group home was pretty hardy. A dish I remember well was fried corn fritters, which I called "fornicritten foreign critters fer eatuns." The usual worker was first generation Polish, and sausage was served at least ten times in a week.

Although I resented the hard line rule making of the assistant director of the group home, I grew to respect her, and appreciate her for what else she was. We spent much time on field trips, and I found her to be more than what I disagreed with about her. At my time of loss, I wasn't interested in holding grudges or passing judgment. Though, I had a hard time with the bumper sticker on her truck, which claimed she was a registered terrorist hunter. Her three sons were enlisted in the Army, one soon to be in charge of disarming roadside bombs in Iraq. I witnessed her and her mother, who is a staff member, making burial arrangements for him, and my heart opened up--No matter the absurdity in what they were doing.

As well as virtually unlimited cigarettes, I entertained myself in the home through putting music to lyrics I'd written in the psychiatric ward. I'm blessed with a muse, a person, to whom I owe a lifetime of explanation. It's, again, another story. I'm unsure if any of the music will ever fall on her ears; but if one imagines the world to one day be in the absolute, the work is worth it. I've caricaturized my muse, in drawings I made to pass time after the six o'clock guitar curfew. I managed to embody the mother of my child in cartoon form, as well. (Funny, most would have no trouble differentiating between the two drawings... It's, again, another story...) My thoughts are with my baby's mother, and with my six-month old daughter, three and a half hours away from where I now reside. I'm determined to follow my father's example, and be as close as I can when afar. The mother's father is a bit of a challenge, and I've tried hard to do right by him. He's a bit of a grouch, but possesses a similar wit as I do. I've never been able to scoot any of mine in edgewise to our conversations, however. I completely understand his position, but it's been difficult to get positive recognition for my efforts since my daughter's conception. There's a sea of gobbledygook surrounding my parenthood. I'm looking forward to the day I can get some of my daughter's insights.

My mother did not meet my daughter. Though, she was by my side through many moments during the preceding nine months, and during the five months following my daughter's birth. We talked on the phone nearly every day. She had planned to take a trip the week after she passed on, to see the me, the mother, and the girl. When I told her that the mother was pregnant, her first words were an exclamation, "I'm going to be a grandmother!" She might have know my daughter into her twenties, had my mother lived a span comparable to my grandmother. This is hard to think of, as are the impulses to call my mother. I can imagine her laughing as I related some of the stories I've told in this piece so far. Then, I feel she is still in my audience, during everyone's end, if we will all eventually see the absolute.

The memorial services are now over, and I'm finishing my fourth day of new residence, solo, in a loft apartment. The whirlwind of faces of relatives and friends blew by with a surprise. I had not seen or spoken with many of the people for years. However, I saw little change in any. A female cousin might have been wearing stilettos for as much as her appearance and personality had transformed with age---Simply a little taller. Not all of the guests posed the difficult questions I had feared. And, with the distraction of others in the crowd pulling them away, I usually needed only affirm what they'd already heard. When I am required to outline my situation and all its details, it comes out sounding unendingly complex to me. I'm sure it's a woe of many adult lives, and I try not to feel too oddly unique. I'm off to a roaring start in fighting loneliness, having turned down my first party invite back in this town. I opted for pouring over the first draft of this piece of writing in a coffee shop, alone. Still rattled, I'm cautiously pulling those close to me, closer. It's hard to explain; not wanting a suicide attempt to be taken personally, when I'd been so thoughtless of what could be. It's hard to bear; my having wanted peace through death, side-by-side with the death of someone who found peace through living. It will be hard to explain to my daughter, but we've got time. For now, I'll thrive with those who are happy enough to let it go, but who sincerely chide to knock it off.