Vanity; "I don't know you"

It's a very strange sensation to look at yourself and not find what you'd expect looking back at you. I look nothing like the person I was four years ago. I have worked very hard to change my outward appearance. And while I'd tell you it was motivated by health concerns, I'd be lying to you.

I have actively been making an effort to dispose the things in my life that have brought me unhappiness. My personal appearance was one of those things. I got very good at acting like things didn't bother me but they did, more than can be expressed here. I was a miserable person who put all his energy into putting on a face that showed otherwise instead of actually changing it. In 30 years I had gotten very good at acting I was something I wasn't.

Unfortunately the immensity of my past negative self image is now something that I will carry with me, probably all my life. I've finally accomplished my original goals from 3 years ago and I find there is still more to do before I'm done. Highly superficial changes that I feel I've earned or am in some way entitled to because of my accomplishment, so it didn't surprise me too much when he said, "You're so vain."

The words hurt, only because they were becoming increasingly true. If you were to see the collection of images that I have accumulated on my phone of late you would fully understand. It takes me twice as long to leave the house than it used to. I didn't even see it happening.

I've thought about those words daily since they were said to me over a month ago.

I was angry at the accusation, feeling entitled to my vanity by means of hard work. I was ashamed of myself for exhibiting something so foreign to who I've been in the past. But in the end I was confused. Confused because I couldn't rationalize the definition of vanity without first being able to understand the definition of self.

"I don't know you."

*****

I woke up this morning and went to the bathroom to wash my face. It was early, before 8 am, which is early for a Sunday. Not unlike other mornings I stopped and stared at my face in the mirror, still dripping with water.

"I don't know you."
"I understand you feel that way now, but in time you will."
"We've been doing this for years now, and I still don't feel like we've made any progress."
"That's because you continue to change, as do I."
"How can I ever keep up?"
"In time you'll find a way. Remember it's more than just in image."

A thick fog hung over the concrete as I made my way down Delridge. I've traveled this road as many years as I've been around but today all the differences were alive. Yards that were once filled with cars so rusted they couldn't even be sold for scrap were replaced with townhouses so tight the dandelions can't grow. Where there was once white painted fences in varying stages of decay now there was wrought iron bars topped with Fleur-de-lis'. The bodegas now coffee shops.

Some of the old buildings still remain untouched. It's obvious that their time will come soon. I could see their replacements already sprouting in land-use action boards along the sidewalk as I spoke with the concrete.

"Can they see their own fate?"
"Our time here is short, but they remember the good years."
"Doesn't it make you sad to know we're all so replaceable?"
"It brings me happiness to know that they've served a purpose for so many years. Our purposes will all near an end and we must make room for those to come."
"I wish we could just make more room for everything."
"If you got that wish you wouldn't like it either."

In time all things come to an end, an inevitability whose resolve is ignorant to my disposition, though I'm learning to accept it. I cannot stop it, through fire or age we all must experience ruination, and not just us as people. It will happen to trees and cities, monoliths and friendships. How can I ever keep up?

As I reached the final stretches of Delridge the past was even more removed. None of the old buildings remained, save a plumbers workshop and a school, no longer a school, who was able to keep its facade in the chaos. The play fields were full of life, soccer matches and little league games. The children ran about the grass as their parents and grandparents sat idly on aluminum bleachers.

"You see it happens in all things."
"There are some things I want to hold on to. Some people."
"The longer you hold on the harder you make it for yourself, and for them."
"Can't I keep just a part of them?"
"If you do remember to pick a part of what they have become and not what they once were."

*****

I've also started dreaming again. I doubt these things are related. 

Touring the Elwha; tearing down the dams and the differences between us

In the year nineteen hundred and ten the Elwha was damned by man. For 102 years it bore its perdition, wondering what it had done to fall victim to such punishment. It had done nothing but existed, and at that point for humanity, that was enough.

There was a stillness about that can only exist in the dark hours of a Sunday morning. The sun was still hidden and the church bells unsung as I put on my shorts and hoodie. The day would be long, but I would soon learn my failed understanding when it comes to the concepts of time.

He arrived at 6 am, backpack and hiking boots in hand. A groggy exchange of words failed and we rode in silence south. We had one more detour, to pick up his mother, before hitting the long road out. As I slept in the backseat I could hear the echoes from far away.

"They have told me that you are coming."

"I'm sorry I didn't wait for you to ask."

"I've been waiting for years."

"I couldn't hear you."

"I wasn't ready to call for you.”

“I wasn't ready to come.”

“We're not so different, you and I."

We met with a larger group in front of the Olympic National Park Visitor’s Center. Most of their faces had seen more life than myself, but still held a child like innocence, as if they've chosen to ignore the weight of Atlas and instead embrace the ignorance of youth. Such a feat is something I can admire, but could never do.

We waited, and waited longer, for the final participants. Their faces all reflected an idealism appropriate for their age, and their voices proclaimed they've yet to understand how truly insignificant each of us are in the eyes of the forest. None of that mattered, we loaded in cars and departed.

"Why do hold judgment against them?"

"I used to be like them myself"

"You're still more like them than you accept."

"I don't like that part of myself "

"But there are other, more important, parts you hate more. Let’s talk about those."

We were still barred from seeing the removal on the upper river, only two weeks completed. The first stop was at an old ranger station just north of the fresh wound. We walked a hundred yards or so down to the shore where a ranger began to talk about the scale of what was trying to be accomplished. While interesting, the waters spoke will such vigor I couldn't ignore.

"Many years have passed since I've been seen this way."

"I'm not sure I've ever been seen this way before."

"You have not changed to us. You are who you've always been."

“It doesn’t feel that way to me.”

“Dams can change the way you look, but cannot change what you are.”

A pair of salmon, each over two feet in length, appeared by the shore and began a mating ritual. They couldn't understand our presence and therefore ignored it. They simply did what they knew.

"Your dams are crumbling too."

"I had to build them."

"They told us it was out of necessity too."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for what comes next."

"There is much more to show you."

We tracked down the river to our next stop, the once flooded lands of Lake Aldwell. While life could be seen struggling all around, there was still a barren hopelessness than hung in the air and whispered on the wind.

"This is what will happen first."

"Its so desolate."

"The land is still healing. My scars are far easier to see than yours."

"How can I restore what I cannot see?"

"When you drain the waters, its far easier to see the damage."

We walked a mile through the silt. When we reached a goose neck in the river we couldn't pass we sat for lunch. I finished earlier and wander off along the shore. There was a larger group of salmon this time, all struggling up the current. As they continued to swim, I thought about those that were here before the lake was drained and what had happened to all of them.

"They have been waiting to return. There are others that wait for you."
"What about what was here before? A whole lake filled with life. Did it all die?"

"It was not the life meant for me. It was all a lie."

"I guess we really aren't so different."

"You have much more to see."

We hiked back along the opposite side of the moonscape and proceeded to our next destination. It was just around the curves we were unable to hike beyond, high above on the hillside. Looking down you could see the exposed bedrock where the power plant once stood, and river flowing freely beside it, where 100 feet of concrete stood. Nothing grew where the power plant stood, two years had passed and only a sterile slope remained.

“Some places are harder to rejuvenate than others.”

“Will this land ever come back?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“Only have faith that time is the ultimate remedy for the tragedies that befall us.”

“What if it never comes back?”

“That is a fate I have had to accepted. But I still hold out hope.”  

The final stop was along the shore, at the mouth of the Elwha. We walked out along the dike, fully expecting the typical rocky shore of coastal Washington. What came into view couldn't have been more unexpected. As we crested a small embankment a sandy beach stretched out in front of us for hundreds of yards. All of the silt and debris, pent up behind the dams, had returned to the ocean and with it came the land I was standing upon. Seabirds covered a spit in the distance and you could almost hear the faint song of the whales in the straight.

“This is the last thing I have to show you.”

“It’s amazing.”

“It’s how things should be. For both of us. You must rebuild the land that's been lost. You must tear down the dams that remain.”

“I’m trying, but it isn’t easy for me.”

“It isn’t easy for any of us, but I will be here for you. Remember, we’re not so different.”

I sat on the sand bar and stared off towards Baker. He looked different from what I’d grown to know it as. The southern contour is far more uniform, reminiscent of St Helens, before her awakening. From here the peak was jagged and off center. I guess we all look different depending on your vantage point.

The rest of the group was ready to make the drive back. I paused for a moment longer, unable to look away from the mountain.

“I will come and speak to you in person.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“You won’t be waiting long.”

Lost in the Alpine Wilderness; where whales can't swim and the roots run deep

The sun was already on my face as the alarm went off. 7:30 am. I can sleep a little bit longer. It rang again. 7:45 am. I could sleep a little longer, but Olallie told me to wake up and I've learned long ago to respect the waters when they speak to you. After a short walk along the hillside with a friend who couldn't comprehend the concept of judgement, much less pass it upon me, I was ready to depart.

The ride was the kind of uneventful situation that once time has taken it's vengeance I will look back upon and miss. I'm sure that there were more pressing matters for each us, the things life tells us we should talk about, but in the end the small talk was more important. We spoke about nothing of value, but in the absence of content you could find decades of struggle, contentment and pride.

As we reached the end of the road, pockmarked in pot holes and left in disrepair for the only ones who travel it care not for the concrete or asphalt, you could still hear the sound of the highway beneath us. Only a mile under us and it seemed like a lifetime away. The subtle hum of the cars was soon replaced by the whispering of the trees.

In the stranger parts of the world voices come from places you wouldn't expect. This was one of those places. While the pristine aspects of it's power have long been trampled away by those who couldn't begin to fathom the depths of their own footsteps, there is an underlying spirituality and oneness with existence that even an army of logging trucks couldn't remove from this land. It knows who you are before you come and who you'll be when you leave, a secret it holds within the ferns and only reveals through riddle and mystery.

Words are useless in the wilderness; in the alpine the air is far too thin for them to carry any weight. They are but a burden of our urbane life that we carry with us because we've lost the ability to communicate without them. We clung to them for the initial ascent, but as soon as the sound of burning gasoline faded, so did our need for them. We spoke only with our roots.

As I rounded a switchback an image appeared in the distance, a great humpback whale, gliding among the branches as if they were made of kelp and not pine. I stared in fascination, completely enthralled with the sight before me, when a jarring voice broke me from my trance. It was not the kind of voice that you hear, but one whose genesis is found inside you, somewhere you can never see.

"This isn't the place for whales. Don't bring them here where they cannot swim."
"I didn't bring the whale, it appeared to me."
"It appears for your benefit, not for ours. It doesn't belong here."
I knew they were right.

I often traveled ahead, much as children do, knowing that when I reached the bend I would have to stop and wait. I could have slowed my pace, but it seemed easier to take those moments of calm than to slow my progress overall. 

"You still haven't left it behind."
"I don't want to leave it behind."
"You don't have to leave it forever, just while you're here."
"But what if it isn't there when I get back?"
"It might not be, but he will always be there."
There was no longer a distance between us and I continued to move forward.

The trail continued to cross back upon itself. Occasionally we'd pass a spectacular waterfall that we easily ignored. Talapus spoke my name. "It will always be there on the way back," he reassured me. I still wasn't sure it would be, but I had no right to question faith in this place, it only had the right to question me.

"Our roots run deep beneath the earth, so do yours."
"I am only learning to communicate with my roots. I don't know how to see all the words."
"Your roots are less visible to your eyes, but they are evident to ours."

We stopped at a fork in the trail, to eat a sandwich and rest. One direction took us to our destination, the other unknown. As I chewed the ham and cheddar I thought about the other path, fantasized where it led. Could there be a lake even more remote? A stream not before witnessed in it's current incantation? The possibilities continued to haunt me as we continued on our way to Olallie.

Once again I took the lead, but this time I didn't wait. There were no longer divergent paths and enough years had passed that I knew I'd have to return here again. I passed the face of Olallie and didn't as much as hesitate. "It will always be there on the way back." The trail became far more demanding, rising and falling as it weaved along the shoreline. The ground became less stable and mud rose higher from the waters edge, never so much that it covered my boots, but just enough that it was evident where I'd been. I stared back, completely opposite from my original destination and decided it was time to go back.

"It was good of you to visit us."
"I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer."
"You'll be here forever now."
"I'm starting to realize that now."

When I returned he was already waiting for me. "I figured if I waited long enough, you'd show up here." "Sorry, I went ahead." "Don't apologize." We stared at the water for some time in silence before heading back. Often times the return journey is the easier part, the ghosts that spoke to me had other plans. The trail left behind was still fresh in my mind and I said I was going to break off for a bit and see where it went. "You'll find me at Talapus, I'll be waiting."

"You leave him behind, but for what?"
"There is more that you can tell me."
"More than you are ready to hear."
"I can prove myself to you."

A small waterfall was the first obstacle along the new path. It was crossable, but not without it's challenges. Then, for a short while it was flat and non descriptive, the same as hundred other trails I'd been on before. After a quarter of a mile, I only found a crossroads, one side going off into the distance, the other up higher along the ridge. I didn't even ask the advice of my surroundings before trudging up.

I went much further than I'd originally expected to go, up the most arduous trail I'd been on thus far. As I crested over the ridge the whale appeared before me again and the image faded away. I stood looking around, contemplating every inch of my surrounding. The trees were thinner up here, but life could still be found on everything. A small thicket of ferns blew gently in the breeze.

"Excuse me, how much further do I have?"
"Oh, the lake? Yes, yes, the lake, it is near and distant, that is where the whales live."
"I was told the whale don't live in the forests here. They told me it's only here for me"
"Aw they don't but they do, they do, they don't. It is for you."
 "Is it far?"
"Aw yes, far, very far, the distance, is far. But, aw yes, so close."

I thought for a moment about running as fast I can, sprinting over exposed roots and jumping the broken pieces of rock. I thought about getting to the lake and diving head first into the waters, baptizing myself in their purity and forgetting about everything to come and everything that's been. I thought about casting off any semblance of obligation to the world outside this wilderness. Then I thought about my roots and him waiting along the shores of Talapus.

"Well it will have to wait for another day, I have to get back down."
"It might be here again, it might not."
"I have faith it will be here again."
"Faith is your only asset, and your only weakness. Can you trust faith?"
"For now, that's all I can do."

I sped back down the trail, nearly running to catch up. I knew I wouldn't be left behind, but I also didn't want to leave him waiting. I'd already indulged myself for far too long. I became reckless in my pursuit, leaping over the falling water and disregarding cautious sections of trail as irrelevant to me. I could hear them crying all around me.

"Slow down. You're in no rush."
"I need to catch up, I took too much time."
"Slow down. You're in no rush."
But still I ran.

I was still a few hundred feet from Talapus when he came into view. "You got me before the lake. Find anything interesting?" "It was beautiful, but not really what I was hoping for right now." We continued on, oblivious to our surroundings so much so that we passed the turnoff for the lake. "Maybe it isn't really there on the way back." "Don't be silly, we can always just turn around again."

"You know he's right."
"I know. He usually is."
"Remember what he said, you can always turn back. Remember."

We sat on fallen trees. We didn't speak. We didn't need to. After enough time had passed we continued on. The trail head was near, and I could almost hear the interstate again.

"I trust you will find us again."
"Anytime you call me, I'll come."
"Remember to bring your roots, without them we cannot speak."
"I will carry them with me always."

When I was ten

A woman told me, "someday you'll do something great." She didn't know what it was then. I still don't know what it is now. But I think about that day from time to time.

Holy Hozomeen

M83

What are you looking for?

"What are you looking for Mommy?"

Julie's words jolted Mary back into reality. She been rummaging through every cupboard in the kitchen for the last 10 minutes. It didn't even occur to her that she didn't remember what she was trying to find until the little girls words reminded her that there was a goal. She just stopped and stared into the baseboard molding for a moment.

"Honey, I'm not even sure anymore."

She stood up, leaving the left over spaghetti in the Tupperware on the counter still uncovered, and picked Julie up. She was bigger than Mary had remembered, but it had been some time since she'd held her child. There just didn't seem to be the time anymore. She was thankful for the extra hours at work, even though they barely covered the increase in childcare costs, it gave her an escape from her reality.

It was a place that she could go and everything was in order, her place on the line never changed, and all she had to do was inspect one shoe after another. They all looked the same but every so often there would be an obvious defect, which she would throw casually to her side. She could usually see the bad ones coming from up the line, once you've seen as many shoes as she has the small faults become obvious. It was all second nature to her now. Often times she'd daydream at work. Her mind would wander and eventually it would always come back to Greg. Why wasn't she able to see it coming? What was so different between the men she meets and the shoes on the conveyor belt?

She laid Julie down on her princess comforter and kissed her on the forehead. "Mommy, do you think Daddy has found what he's looking for yet? I miss him."

"I'm not sure he remembers what he's looking for either anymore honey."

****
"Let me just grab my coat and I'll meet you outside."
It was early in the evening. The sun had set hours ago, but with the solstice only a week passed that didn't mean it was late. I had so many people to talk to, I didn't even know where to begin.

"How've ya been? Did the year treat you well?"
"Yeah, it's crazy though."
"Ha, tell me about it. Oh, by the way, I'm..."
"You're what?"

Everyone was wearing masks. There was no real reason, just wanted to try something different. Is it easier to express the truths of ones self while hiding behind a counterfeit facade? Gin has a way of making me over think things.

"Where's my goddamn coat?!"
"Did you check on the coat rack?"
"Do I look like an idiot? Just cause I'm drunk doesn't make me an idiot."

Somewhere across the room a shot glass falls to the concrete and a group of party goers gasp in horror as their taste buds burn away in an ecstasy that only 100 proof whiskey can provide.

"So, it's almost midnight and I promised myself that I'd talk to some people before the new year. You're one of those people..."
"Cool, what's up?"
"I'm....I guess I'm not sure what else to say here."
"You don't have to say anything else."

The clock struck and a song from years passed came on. I looked around the room at all the faces, many I'd known much longer than I'd known myself. I hope you all know I'm not doing this for your benefit.

"Have you seen my coat? It's blue with cigarettes in the pocket."
"No sorry, have you checked the coat rack?"
"Ugh, yes I have, keep an eye out."
"You just need a cigarette? Here you go."

Outside the air was cold, but clean, the same couldn't be said for the ground. Half finished cocktails and joint roaches littered the parking lot. It's funny how so many believe refuse to believe.

"So, you may have heard but I'm..."
"What? No, no no."
"It's the truth."
"No, you're not. Now let's go dancing!"

The smell of stale booze hung heavy in the air while everyone said their farewells. It would be another year before I'd see some of them. Others I'd probably never see again. When the only ones left were those I'd see again tomorrow, I found my jacket, hanging on the coat rack.

****

I thought about doing a third piece here, but now that I'm here it's not what I'm looking for right now.

Sonder

Now here's a word that I can get behind.

There's a lesson in here somewhere.

I saw it. I thought "this is gonna happen". I could have stopped it from happening then, but I didn't. Now it's happened. I'd be lying if I said this was the first time...


When I walked into the living room it was clear that something was out of place and while this was a common occurrence, today was different. As soon as I'd rounded the top of the stairs I could see it sitting there, a large ceramic pitcher we'd be using a vase to display a large bouquet of dried flowers and other various ornamental plants. Instead of sitting centered on the makeshift kitchen counter it was placed on the carpet, only slightly off the main path to three of the bedrooms. This was when I first thought about it being knocked over, not maliciously mind you, more that someone wouldn't notice it was so wide and catch a cat tail on the hem of their pant or an overly excited Wes dog tail shatters the porcelain as he tries to muster the strength of Atlas to hold his bladder just a little bit longer. It would have taken a small amount of effort to reach down and move it back to it's original safety but I thought to myself, "someone must have put it there for a reason, it's best not to disturb." I released the dog from behind the door and watched carefully as the scene I had just envisioned nearly took place at the speed I had predicted. We were lucky this time and in that found a false sense of security. Three more times we passed by without incident and I forgot entirely about the inevitable, until it happened. My thoughts were sidetracked from the never ending war in Alexander's former empire and hazy from too much weed so it came as a complete surprise when the left seam of my pant leg brushed just enough against the foliage to cause the entire still life to become animated and fall to the floor, spreading dried seeds and petals over the stained blue carpet. I just stared down at what had happened. Why hadn't I just moved the pitcher earlier? I wondered if there's a part of me that wanted this to happen, need it to happened, a part that feeds on the chaos created. A pining within for the days when Shiva ruled over men and all that existed did so only to be destroyed. We are so focus on bringing order to our surrounding it seems no one takes the time to stop and ask if the alternative is better. I spent far too long entranced by the situation.  

Fallen Vase by Mofazio (deviantart)

In with the ferns and hemoglobin

I've got nothing, we'll see where this goes...

She was sitting on the bus, lamenting the morning commute and what awaited her on the 23rd floor in an office with no windows, only waist height walls. She was familiar with every aspect of the ride. At 7:42 they would stop at Juneau and three men would board the bus, she could always accurately guess their attire based on the weather. Today there was no rain yet so two of the men would have North Face jackets, slacks and white button up shirts just slightly exposed, the other man would be in his trench coat and freshly polished black shoes, he carried an umbrella just in case things got worse. A middle aged woman that she named "Pollyanna" would be walking her two dachshunds just passed Dawson. Anyone who would try to convince you that humans are not creatures of habit has never worked a 9-5 job before. The mountain was out that morning, as people would tend to say when they couldn't think of anything meaningful to discuss but still felt obligated to initiate a dialog. Five people throughout the bus began such conversations. She over head one of them, "When's the last time you made it up there?" "Oh it's been far too long, at least a couple years." She was 34 years old and had never been to the mountain. Her whole life it had always been there in the distance like some relic of a long forgotten religion that no longer has meaning in a world of touch screens and RFID technology, but the people still respect it for its cultural significance. She imagined it was a similar thing for the people that commute around Notre Dame or Wat Arun, but she'd never been there, and had no desire to travel, so she had no way to prove that. Her whole life thus far had been spent within the confines of the city limits, the only cow she'd ever seen was in the part of the zoo called "Family Farm". She often dreamed of going to other places, seeing with her own eyes the things that she'd only viewed in magazines or featured in the background of mediocre television dramas. For lunch she had four carrot sticks, a fat free yoplait, one third of a chicken breast she cooked three days ago and a shot of insulin. By the time she left to go home it was raining, she thought about the man with the trench coat and his umbrella, but knew she wouldn't see him on the ride home. She often wondered which bus he took back. She imagined the phone call that he might make every night to his wife, explaining how things got crazy at the office and apologizing that he won't be home for dinner. As soon as he hangs up the phone he immediately makes another call where all he says is, "She's starting to get suspicious. Hurry, I can't be too late." It reminds her why she still lives alone. When she got home the rain had subsided into a mere drizzle. Three weeks prior a stack of phone books had been left on her door step, they were now waterlogged and soon they'd start to smell a little funny, but she walked passed them like she had each day before. She had completely forgotten about the mountain.

I guess that didn't turn out too bad.

Resuscitation of an old friend

Sometimes the things that we miss the most, we don't realize we even miss until we have them back...

Growing up I had a very good friend. We had a number of classes together and spent time outside of school as well. I wouldn't say that we were inseparable by any means, but we enjoyed each others company and never fell victim to the awkward silences that speak volumes about the underlying differences between people. Time inevitably progressed and there was nothing we couldn't talk about. Some things were still left unsaid, but only because the most important things have a way of making themselves irrelevant. There was one particular encounter that always stuck with me. In the moment it seemed like any other evening in June, just another insignificant piece of a mosaic that made up my life after graduation. We went to the beach. Not the sand beach mind you, the kind of beach where the concrete runs right up to the high tide and when the tide is low a landscape of jagged, barnacle covered rocks is exposed. As a child I'd go to this same beach to over turn rocks in search of small crabs, and the occasional large one, wearing shorts and saltwater sandals. In this particular situation we just sat on a bench and looked out over the Olympic Mountains as the sun fell slowly below their peaks. We talked about people and life and nothing. I didn't know it when we parted ways, I should have, but we wouldn't see each other for a long time. I've thought about the park bench more than I'd care to admit. In the following years we didn't see each other but for a brief moment when my mind couldn't handle itself much less the seemingly simple task of interacting with those close to me. I thought of them from time to time and how things might have been different, if the circumstance were different, if they were different, but mostly if I were different, a thought I entertain all too often. I used to tell people that there was nothing in my life that I'd done that I could regret because I liked the person I was and wouldn't want to change that. The truth is that hated parts of what I'd become but was too afraid to admit that to anyone, and even more afraid to admit that to myself. In my life I've spent so much time wondering what other peoples impressions of me were that I rarely stopped to ponder my impression of myself. It seemed like something that I shouldn't have to think about. Something that should always be right. I've learned that isn't true at all. We ran into each other again, nearly ten years later. We drank cold beers in the summer smog of our old neighborhood, the cars passing by only yards away while bands, that probably should have stayed in garages, performed in the streets. The conversation was trivial to say the least, but not in the way we'd talk about nothing before. It wasn't the kind of nothing where everything exists between the words but the kind of small talk that you'd make with a coworker or teacher, a hollow nothing. But even within that conversational void you could hear echos of the past. We saw each other casually at various events after that, birthday parties or celebratory events. It happened so gradually overtime I can't even say exactly when things changed, but they did. It struck me one day while sitting at my desk, it was as if the last decade never happened, like we'd always been friends. It seems sometimes that life goes out of it's way to make sure some things don't last. Then there are some friendships that, no matter how your life plays out, will always come back to you. You can call it fate, destiny, divine intervention, zah-mah-ki-bo, or whatever your heart desires, I'm just glad that it exists.

What if I were Samson and you were dead?

Sometimes I'll wake up with no memory of my dreams except a statement or phrase. It's impossible to tell if it's a synopsis of what has just occurred, a fracture of the greater whole, or something completely unrelated entirely...

When I was younger I had long hair. I wasn't so young that it had a certain element of carefree jubilation, but more an testament to the complete hatred for all the existed around me in my teenage years. At it's longest it fell just below my shoulders. I would be lying if I said it was a thing of glory. More accurately it was a tangled, greasy rats nest, the unkempt nature of which I felt accurately expressed my general malaise with my own existence. I didn't like myself and it was a means of ensuring that not too many other people like me either. I don't remember this being a conscious decision, but things always seem more clear in the rear view. My parents always begged me to cut it. They would do anything to be rid of the horrific mop that adorned my head. As any good teenager, I resisted. It was a tragedy, but it was my tragedy and I embraced it like a child with a new puppy that hasn't been told yet that if you squeeze him too hard he might die of asphyxiation. It began as a sort of security blanket, but as with all things that give us a false sense of comfort in time it became a burden. I remember one specific day as I was lumbering between classes, out of the corner of my eye I could see a group of other kids chuckling in my direction. I gave it little bearing as it was common place for the social elite of my high school to look down upon those that were of a lower caste. I could see that one of them had broken from the group and was heading in my direction. I can't remember exactly who it was, but it could have been any of them as a major tenet of being a part of the upper echelon required that individual thought be suppressed and replaced by that of the collective. "Are you a boy or a girl?" Engaging in this conversation was futile, but I felt an obligation to respond. This is an ongoing thing in my life and maybe it's a character flaw, but in situations of conflict I am unable to simply ignore the problem. It doesn't always make things better, in fact it generally makes them worse, but it's not something I could change then and I'm not ready to change it now. "What do you think?" A grin reminiscent of the Grinch crept across his face, never have I seen a greater physical display of schadenfreude, "A girl right? I've wondered for a while but could never tell." At that moment I wanted to embed my fist into his face, wanted to tackle him to the ground and repeated beat his fragile face into the cement until blood covered the ground around us and anyone within view shrieked in terror as they realize that this is the first time in their life that they will see someones life end before them. Just the thought of it made me crack a grin so subtle Mona Lisa would be jealous, "Go with that." Laughter erupted as the boy returned to his group of friends, "IT'S A GIRL!" I shook my head as I trudged on to class, the sounds of their elation still ringing in my ears as I entered the building. I made my way into my math class, where I never participated in class but instead spent the hour sitting on the teachers computer composing a sort of murder mystery. I always finished my assignments weeks before they were even assigned and when it came time for the test the only time I would have to study is when I'd completely the material so long ago that I'd completely forgotten what it was. For that entire year it became a sort of refuge in my day. I miss that. It wasn't long after I decided to forgo my senior year of high school, to take classes at the local community college, that I cut my hair. My father joy's may have exceed that of the mocking children, but this was a more pure joy, without the flaws of malice. He took me to a small salon, there were only three chairs, in Bellevue and introduced me to one of the most animated people I've ever met in my life. He cut my hair with a fervor greater than anything I'd encountered. With each snip of the sheers his jaw would clench and release, like some demon faced insect feasting on a field of freshly fertilized grass blades, his joy was the greatest I'd seen thus far. I left with hair shorter than I'd had in nearly a decade, dyed red as the fire that was beginning to grow inside, of self acceptance and contentment that still has yet to reach it's full fruition. A few weeks later I was sitting down for dinner with my father. As we sat waiting for our food an elderly woman, who was as much 85 as she was 110,  walked passed our table. She more struggled with her walker than walked as we are accustomed to doing. It was then that she made an unexpected detour. We were maybe 8 feet out of her path, but she painstakingly made the adjustment necessary to come right up the edge of our table and with a voice as wise and understanding as it was serene she said to me, "you have the most beautiful hair." I could tell from the look behind her eyes that she wasn't talking to me, but to some lover, long dead, that now only exists in her memories. She saw him again in me and for that brief moment we were what each other needed. To this day her face is one of my fondest memories.

Samson and Delliah - Peter Paul Rubens 

Where I live

Here's a piece that I've been spending some time on recently. It seems to work better in my head as a spoken piece, which is where I've been struggling with it lately. I can't decide exactly how to express the inflection that I hear in my head as I recite the words. I also still hate half the words, I really like the other half of them. Being that as it is I doubt that it's actually done, they never are, but I'll put it up here for what it's worth...

Where I live

I want to tell you about where I live.

Encircled by steel rails and encased in concrete,

it’s rather nice mind you.

The people are friendly.

Dogs hide like rats behind the sheetrock,

if you listen carefully between the smell of freshly baked bread and the city skyline

you’ll feel the the person that you used to be slowly creeping out the back of your spine

and you’ll just watch with wonder and amazement

as that part of yourself distorts

mutates

before your very eyes.

The people aren’t really friendly.

Right now I can hear moaning from the other room

what the walls might muffle is only echoed upon the cathedral pitch

lightly refracted through loose ceiling tiles

I’m not even sure who’s moaning.

It doesn’t matter, at some point we all moan.

We moan because of pleasure.

We moan because of pain.

We moan because 20 years ago, she told us that we weren’t who she wanted us to be.

And now we moan with laughter at how silly it is,

that we give people that much control over us.

But this isn’t about me,

it’s about where I live.

Because, between the longshoremen and the hills

there is no concept of right and wrong,

truth and falsity,

morality and sin.

There are no sins here,

just mistakes that are long forgotten

and mistakes we still hold dear

like some kind of poison for which an antidote never existed

or maybe it did exist

but only after we became so far removed from the disease it’s become irrelevant

and by some twisted fate of the infection,

so have we.

But this is supposed to be about where I live.

Where at 3 o’clock in the morning the walls tremble

from the locomotive outside the door

and no one wakes up.

Sometimes people stay the night,

too drunk to drive home,

but not drunk enough to sleep in my bed,

and mention how it wakes them up.

I usually chuckle,

call them soft,

then ask how it feels to live in a normal house?

On a street with sidewalks,

with neighbors.

Where people have fences that aren’t crowned with barbed wire.

And a friendly conversation isn’t

“dude you come by here every single day, cracked out of your mind,

asking for cigarettes, I haven’t given you one before,

why would I give you one now?”

And then for some reason I can’t explain

and have no control over

I give him a cigarette

and tell him to fuck off.

I guess we’re friendly in our own way.

2 years and 20 days later

Strange to think that it's been over two years since I've had anything to say here. I don't remember making a conscious effort to stop blogging, it just seemed to trail off. Maybe it was just replaced by other things in my life that I found more important. It's perfectly natural to expect that things will change in time, so why am I back here now?

At first I thought about starting a new blog. After so long I thought that this place was done and finished, a testament to someone that I used to be, left lost between the 1's and 0's in some vain sense of obligation to posterity. In fact I did start a new one, three of them to be honest. Well, I got as far as giving them a title and then trying to write a first post. With each new attempt I found that what I was really looking for wasn't something new, it was the same thing that drew me here in the first place. If you asked me to define or explain it I'm not sure that I'd be able to do it. It's just a feeling.

Isn't that what this place has always been to some extent.  There's never really been a coherent story line or even a loosely established form of chaotic prose. Sure at time it may have seemed that way but really in the end it's just a feeling.

(I just accidentally closed the window I'm composing this in and thought all was lost. Thank you Google for preserving text in recovered windows.)

When I started this blog over 6 years ago now I posed the question "What is Desomnia in Drull?" I'm still not really sure how to answer that any better now than I did then, but I'm glad it's still here.

I can't help but wonder, is anyone still out there? If you are I'd love to be able to tell you what to expect, but I'm not sure yet. I have been writing more lately, so that's probably what you'll see most of for now. There's sure to be the random musings of the past as well. It wouldn't be the same without it.