Sentimental Friday

Really quite pathetic when you think about it.

The other night I was looking around for something — I forget what — when I found a necklace. It's a simple chain with a red trinket and sturdy clasp, a woman's necklace. It took me a moment, but I recalled the day that I'd bought it. I bought it in a little store in downtown Bentonville, quaint, years ago. I wanted to do something nice for the girl I was involved with. I'd borrowed a CD from her earlier that week, and decided to return the case empty and the CD with the necklace — it was supposed to be cute. Well, that was the day she cut me loose. I can still remember my hands shaking as I took the CD from the brown paper sack, which also contained the necklace, then running the disk up to her doorstep.

That night I found the necklace again I began to think of other gifts unreceived. It's strange, because I can't remember the times when I actually succeeded in giving a gift to a lover; I remember the one's that're still littering my apartment. Like the stylized japanese fan that I bought for Ms. Couey. There's another necklace for this girl that used to meet me at the Cannonball (if you're savvy), only this one I didn't buy — I found it in the desk they gave me at a summer internship! I've got a canister of pecans that I bought for Temperance, with the promise of pecan pancakes. Those've been around the place for a while. I've got a necklace — green, gaudy, just her style — that I picked up at Cool Stuff for Ms. Juckno, which actually was the beginning of the decline, considering that I wanted to wait for the right time to gift it to her, and it never came (this story bothers me). I can't forget about the last couple of shots in that handle of gin I was saving for my favorite lush — the handle's still in my freezer two years later. Here's a little ditty I've written about in the past. A gift of concert tickets, which was also never received to the intended party, turned out to be a first date with another girl.

A few days ago while waiting in line at the Post Office I spotted a young couple in line for some passports. They'd looked exhausted, probably after a night of love. Still, I saw something in the woman's eyes when she looked at her lover. It was love. It was beautiful. When she looked at him her face changed and she glowed with love of him, trust in him, fidelity. I remarked my observation later that day to a friend who disagreed with me in my assumption that I'd never receive a look like that from a lover. She disagreed that no one would ever hold me in her eyes the way that woman at the Post Office held the love of her life. Still, my friend's eyes are still young. Mine are old and have probably seen too much. And hey, if that statement's not enough, then I've got a whole apartment full of ungiven gifts that serve now as evidence. Nevertheless, I feel that what was between the lovers at the Post Office is what I truly want. And even as I try I collect everything but that.

I can't stretch this to 50 words:
Nobody should waste their time thinking of me.

Sentimental Sunday

I dreamt the other night of undergoing a medical checkup. It was necessary because I was planning on leaving the country with some group. The doctor showed me a scan of my brain on a computer screen and told me I had high blood pressure. The scan of my brain showed a neon side slice with yellows, blues and oranges in areas of high movement. The area that is my cerebrum was pumping constantly; it was out of control.
I awoke in a cold sweat, drank lots of water and went back to sleep.
And when I gripped the sides of the steering wheel, as I always do, I felt a surge of rage crawl into my muscles. The inexorable truth lies just beyond what I am willing to accept at the moment: I am incapable of being alone. "I told you so P-bone." Yeah, yeah. Well, not this time.

So here, a 50-word story:
Under pressure, he steps into the machine.
"Hold still, or we'll have to start all over. You can talk if you like."
The cylander of sensors comes around him. It's in that moment that his past catches up with him. His dependence is exposed, crossed, and his eyes close again.

At this point I really cannot stop. Even though I'm trying to just slow down, my speed quickens — fighting a slackening that goes unseen and nonessential to secondary consciousness. Any second now I could either drop dead or sprint across traffic. Neither is surprising anymore.
"Just lie still, and concentrate!"

Making a list of objectives to accomplish is driving me ...

Bat-Shit Crazy!!!

I don't even know what that means, but that's what's happening. Here's something spooky. On my list, there's everything, ... but me. I've been left clean off. Typical.

"A plan is just a list of things that don't happen."

I remember the words spoke to me long ago: "It's over for you, isn't it."
For as much dodging that's involved, the explicit's always a two-way street. These words, "Reciprocity is the key to all relationships," spoke by Confucious, whom I hate quoting, spell what's always lacking.
Me: "Bollocks again!"

" He cracks his fingers and gets to it.
'P-bone, where are you?' the mantra of the world. Torn between three worlds he's caught in the nexus, or nexes.
'Nexes!' he exclaims, 'I love those!'
In time, oh yes, he will get down in his own nexus.
He types it later. "

Sentimental Sunday

Last night I slept well. Keep in mind that I had to wake up at 6:30 (really 5:30, time shift and all) to drop someone off. But, I slept like a lion cat sleeps: quite unafraid of everything in his domain. This scares me. Men like me do not sleep well. Men like me sleep with one eye open, and a mind ready for knotting up.
Last night at Mr. Sweet's top-shelf bonanza, and in other places, I spoke openly about my future. That is to say, I spoke openly about what will happen in months to come. As you all know, I'm unhireable. With my background I feel that jsoimsism will not be open as a career for me — despite having some documentation from this J-skool. My heart longs to write the stories I love. Like I said before, I feel the world will curtail this longing in me. Incrementally, the world will have its way with me. And I'm already almost completely dropped into the general population anyway, so why not just finish off the remaining soul in me? Why not just submit to them all? It's like those lights at night: they're immobile and they work. Perhaps I'll have a longer shelf life than the rest of the lights; maybe that's all I have to hope for.
And, following suit, I slept well last night. So, I'm plenty refreshed for today, which, as it turns out, is a good day to die.
"To the death of Idealism, to the death of me!"

Sentimental Sunday

I shut the door and started driving, radio on.
At some point my destination vanished and I continued circling the town; just circles. It seems, still, as if addition of the items involved in my life constitutes a fall in the end. If it could be described literally, it would not be a pendulum: a device which continues in and continues on under the constant pressure to react and keep the gears moving. It would be of a slow gathering of several pieces, all inconsequential in their own rights but when loaded together through gravity and downward motion represent great consequence to itself: a snowball.
Instead of an accumulation of questions that go unanswered I'm receiving answers which belong to no questions. And, instead of a desire to ask questions I'm merely rolling along, growing more massive and confused.
The lights of the night seemed just as hopeless, always burning for someone but never for themselves. And with every turn their reflections in my dash, rearview and windows bade me to stay with them. And I did, with nothing to smoke, and all the lumbaric support my trusty machine can offer.
After all my talk of independence, of self worth, of things that I'd fight for — Ideals — in the end and as I turned I'd never felt more dependent on anyone else, which made me afraid in a way that I exclude to my severe stages of vulnerability. The more that I roll, the more the destination doesn't matter. I'll smash it. And now, if I reach out then I won't be stopped, but instead will just pull the other into my snowball.

Then, a feeling from long ago. When the familiar key change occurred, I did — by God — begin to feel some reassurance. It's in the simplicity of a mere I to IV key change (*EDIT* not chord progression like earlier) that I realized that I wasn't the snowball, but instead I was the man in between the destination and the snowball. If I give in and let the fucker roll then I'll be lost. Maybe, and maybe, if I just point this mass of problems in another direction then my destination will be saved.
But what direction is there? Where do I go? As of now, I'm trapped under all my confusion and I don't even know what I should let be smashed or saved. But in that fleeting moment, when Mrs. Houston sang the remaining bars I felt as if everything would be alright, that whatever will be smashed and whatever will be saved will be right, and felt that the lonely lights and I shared a purpose, which is—

Going out on a limb is torture sometimes. Mostly because when I'm being tortured the contact between us sucks. Maybe I should just saw the damn limb off and go back to living like I'm falling. Maybe I should have faith, crawl out further.
Either way, it seems like —Splat!

If you see enough to understand the conflicting nature of these short, 50-word stories, you see enough to know that the rules I've internalized regarding this world are merely guidelines. Ambient at times, my lush life feels as if it will — any moment now — become unstuck; and I will simply—

I find nothing more depressing than contemplating my resume.
—What will go on?
—Whom will see it?
—After graduation, how many rejections will I receive before factory work?
My readership, all 1.5 of you, understand that there's nowhere for my talents. I'm a writer, not a journalist. I am afraid, though, that this world will never let me finish my book. No 'se-la vi' this time folks. Just the truth. Such is reality.

For the paper I've designed "Eyewitness", which's a photo spread that runs — as of this weekend — every other Sunday. I've received praise for my arrangement of the photos and text, which I appreciate. Maybe I've a place in journismisms after all. Maybe.
I'd rather write my book, naturally. Se-La VI!!!

My eyes land on another's so frequently during my week it's embarrassing. Not nearly as embarrassing as tomorrow will be. Between my numerous phone calls and nervous attempts at wit I'm surprised that I'm still capable of crushing. But I am; I can't control it.
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"You can't park here," everyone says to me.
I've been diligent enough to avoid tickets this year. In doing so I'm pissing off everyone else whose parking space I'm stealing. As if I don't have enough on my plate. But to have to deal with this?
Nobody cares. Se-la Vi!