A Letter to Tchotchke

You'll probably never read this, but I hope one day you stumble onto it.


There are three things that I keep as my memory of you:

1. I like you. I never didn't. Your brash, loud-talking Peppermint Patty demeanor got me curious about you from the day I met you. And for as much as your brashness kept a lot of people at bay, it allowed me to see what happened when your defenses went away, when you became sweet and generous and completely the opposite. Even when we were at odds and spoke in tension or not at all, I still liked you. Even now.

2. You were good for me. You taught me how to argue, how to present my thoughts and motives patiently in an organized and effective manner. I had to bring my A-game every time because I knew you would. And you deeply cared about what I did, in my career and in my life. You were my loudest cheerleader and my fiercest critic. And I know I would be nowhere near as dedicated in following my heart and my dreams had I not met you.

3. At some moments, you were absolutely the most perfect person at the perfect place with perfect timing. To this day I recall our trip to Paris as the best vacation I ever had, solely because I had the most perfect tour guide ever. You threw my first and only surprise party and succeeded in delightfully shocking me speechless. You took a stronger personal interest in Deaf Culture than any girl I ever dated, and that meant the world to me. And how many girls would sit in their man's broken-down car fending off cabbies waiting for the tow truck to come? I felt like a complete loser and you defended my loser-ness.

If you think I haven't been hurt this past year, you're wrong. So many things happened where I wanted you to be the only one around me, and I know I missed out on a lot of big events in your life, events I wanted to share with you.

I know you're seeing What's-His-Face now, and I'm sure you're having a wonderful time with him. Even if you're not seeing What's-His-Face, it's easier and better for me to believe that you are.

A good friend is a rare commodity and a priceless treasure, and I lost one of the best the day we stopped talking to each other. I understand why it is this way, but nothing can stop me from having hope.

Miss you lots. Would love nothing more than to meet up with you some place and catch up with everything.

Fade to Black

No doubt you've seen the news. Damn, that was some cool storms goin' on yesterday. Magic. Magnetic. The aftermath... not so much. People acting like it's Katrina when it's just an overbloated thunderstorm. Couldn't even muster up the bombast to become a tornado. Nevertheless, the power's out. Goin' on almost a day-and-a-half. And, I don't know if it's repair progress or Industrial Revolutionary wiring, but we gots the most jack-assed pattern of power outages here in the suburbs. Some neighborhoods yes, some not. Right now, from my candlelit loft, I can stare across the street of my subdivision at brightly lit townhouses like a Neanderthal peering into the future. Crazy, dude. I foresee this not lasting another fortnight. Could be sooner. The house could spring to life in an hour. Cool.

Had to charge my laptop at a Starbucks today. Just sat in the corner for hours quietly and inconspicuously draining a good outlet. Wasn't wasted, though. Broke in my brand-new journal (seventh in a series) and finished a novel. Reading one, not writing. Pynchon is a writer who one needs to just plow through, like a textbook. Very like an absurdist textbook. And I plowed through a good hundred pages between the gym and everything after.

Such an anti-climactic deus ex machina. Usually, at this point in the story, such an elemental intervention would shift our heroes' stories from Act II to Act III, the cataclysm of heaven touching earth and actions bending fate. She would fall in love with him, He would fuck her, Dad comes out of the closet, Aunt Mabel comes back to life. The kind of petri dish soap operas spawn from.

Instead it's crickets and candlelight. It's points of ellipsis, a tantric bath suckling the atmosphere. It's Prairie repression and Rumspringa's end.
Fermata.
An 8 on the Karmic Scale.

And there's work tomorrow morning.

How blaa.


...And, SCENE!...

What's Your Biggest Fear?

That every relationship I will ever attempt will result in complete obliteration.

That I will never again find that girl who makes me gooey inside, smitten and deliciously helpless.

That the biggest drawing power of my life will be seen as nothing more than a handful of parlor tricks.

Or, just the opposite, that some kind of monster I create runs wildly out of control.

That my brothers will never get to experience the full beauty and potential that life has in store for them.

That all of my dreams and wishes come true.

Closed Door/Open Window

So check this shit out...

Today: My last day at Saks.

Last week: Theater call out of the blue.

Monday night: Callback in West Suburbs.

After work: An hour to drive there during gridlock.

Three minutes before: Fuck it, go.

Later that night: "Wednesday's rehearsal is 7 to 10."

Check that shit out.

If I could...

If I could play any role, I'd play the male lead in Oleanna.

If I could paint anything, I'd have a canvas Rothkoized with Kandinsky sprays and a flute.

If I could write any book, I'd produce an amalgam of The Basketball Diaries, Barrel Fever, Generation X, Haunted, and The Tao of Pooh.

If I could live anywhere, I'd live in a Vancouver condo, or an Osaka hut, or a Belgian hostel.

If I could perform any song, I'd massacre the entirety of The White Stripes' Icky Thump. The whole album.

If I could make any movie, I'd make a short silent film of a man catching a fish.

If I could design any building, I'd create a three-story pentagonal office campus, complete with fitness center, game room, and hammock bay.

If I could wear any outfit, I'd wear a large grey long-sleeve T-shirt, a pair of Levis button-fly jeans, and black PF Flyers.

Witness: An Accident

Regina, Saskatchewan is a beautiful hamlet with a population of 200,000 nestled deep within the canola fields of a Canadian province located just north of Montana which has a total count of two million people. To fly over it is to bear witness of a colorful patchwork quilt of ya-hey-dere farmland. That isn't to say there's nothing but corn-like crops in Canada. Regina actually has quite an imposing skyline. A cluster of chrome-and-glass skyscrapers splay out into a small latticework of big-city sundries. Banks and shops, bistros and offices chunk off forming rehabbed brick beasts and plots of down-home ranches. These all empty out into a sprawling city park, a stone Veteran's Memorial, a technicolor polystyrene playground, all which stand in the shadow of the Hotel Saskatchewan, the majestic heritage manor where I stayed and where the wedding took place. This is indeed grand lodging. It has the kind of room where you don't touch anything for fear of devaluing it. The Queen has her own room there, only for her, though I'll bet Mick Jagger got his share of it when the Stones played here weeks ago. This ain't Vancouver, but damn, do they share genes.

From anywhere downtown the most eye-catching architechture in the sky belong to the HSBC buildings. These twin towers add a gender-bending twist to contemporary cityscapes. Their sleek skin of slippery glass, stretched tight around strong, firm, thick steel dowels, then sloped, a slice slit diagonally toward the center, velvety smooth and slippery into a tight, inviting, reflective V. Feminist architechture at its finest.

It was within this vulva where I found the woman.

She was old, squat, a gray tumbleweed. Dirty laundry hung around a rubber-ball frame with three blankets draped over one arm and a well-worn handbag hanging off the other. Between the buildings sits a brickstone plaza punctuated with metal benches and stone planters. I had just left a stroll through the Farmer's Market that erupted this morning right in front of the Hotel, tossing some loonies for the buskers and taking a snapshot of some Mounties. I was hunting for something to eat after my first night of drinking, and I wanted a place I could be alone. Didn't think much of the lady when she popped up in sight. She was at a planter in front of the Post Office, perhaps thirty feet in front of me, when she freezes. Her blanketed hand raises and guides her. Something's pulling her. I swear to God, it looks like she's being led by the hand, backward. Too fast, too far. Then slip, SLAM, right onto the brick. I was right there. I saw her fall.
That hurt.
People quietly start to talk.

"Ohmigod. Are you alright, miss?"

"Seizure. She had... that's a seizure."

"It looked like something pulled her."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've been trained in CPR and I have seen people hit the floor unconscious, but nothing I've done in years has prepared me for this. A small scuttle of people clamor, staring stunned at their cell phones like they're light-based puzzleboxes. I find myself already down on one knee gingerly talking to the woman. She hit the ground hard, I'm not gonna move her. But I want to know how reactive she is. And how bad it was.

"Miss, are you okay, miss?"

She doesn't stir for a while. She doesn't respond to my poking. The couple behind me quietly quabble about calling someone or finding some cops or whatever. I tell 'em there were some Mounties at the Farmer's Market, go get them. The guy leaves.
She's shaking, once, abruptly. She's moving. Her head turns and everyone can see the red splatter on her forehead near her eye. She's so out of it. Her body turns and I can see a Medic-Alert bracelet.

"Miss, you have a Medic-Alert bracelet. Can I see it?"

"No I'm agah mumnumblah fumma."
Word salad. Not good.
"Miss, just stay down. We're getting help."

She's moved around a bit. She can get up into a sitting position. We're getting help now and she's staying down. Good. I can try and orient her.

"Miss, do you know your name?"

"No, I'm okay, I'm okay."

"Miss, do you know where you're at?"

"No, I'm okay, I don't need it, I don't need it."

"Miss do you know what the time is?"

"I don't need it. I'm okay. I'm okay."

I'm looking her in her dark eyes but not into them. Can't stop focusing on the blood spidering on her head, now on her hand. She's regaining, a little, but she can't tell me shit about shit. She looks homeless, or mentally ill. Most likely both. Goddamn it, what do I do? She's getting up.

"Miss, please stay down. We're getting help."

"No, I'm fine. I have to go home."

"No, miss, please, don't move. You fell hard. Just stay down."

She's up and walking jerkily. I don't want to touch her but, she's not supposed to move. Can't force her down. She's by the planter where she got struck, then moving on down the plaza. She's about to leave all our lives. Just down the brick path and gone. No. She fell hard. She doesn't know anything. She's got nowhere to go. I can't just leave her like that. So I follow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm walking down some street trying to talk to some woman who's old, decrepit, and got blood on her face. What does that look like? Everyone walking toward us spots her a good block beforehand and they're already partin' waves. There's some kind of tandem marathon or citywide scavenger hunt or something going on 'cause there's couples dressed the same in running gear with racing numbers on them popping up at random times going to random places. And I'm talkin' to the woman the whole time tryin' to get her to listen.
"Miss, please stop. You hit your head real hard. You're bleeding. Just sit down for a bit."
"No no no I'm fine. I just have to get home."
A lady comes out of a doorway. She's carrying a small package of Wet-Ones. I ask her for one for this woman so she can wipe her face. She looks at me like I'm a foreigner but the sweet lady hands me one, insuring me her hands are clean. I catch up to the woman with the Wet-One, telling her she can wipe the blood off. She thanks me, takes it, and keeps on walking. Nothing but walking. It's been blocks now and I have no idea what to do. I can't do this by myself. Who do I call? Fuck! Does 911 work in Canada? Seriously! Do they have other numbers to dial? I have no fuckin' clue! Oh shit! If I call someone, some emergency number, they'll trace the call. They'll totally trace it. Is that smart? They can totally check me out. They'll know I'm American. Who knows what else they'll know? Do I want that? Fuckin' PATRIOT Act! And I fuckin' hate phones! Shit, I have no clue. What do I do? What do I do?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't care.
"9-1-1 Emergency."
"I'm in... Regina... Saskatchewan. Can you help me?"
"What is your problem, sir?"
I give 911 the full rundown, as best I can: Woman fell, looks old, blood on forehead, not oriented, walking, blah blah blah. I'm looking at street signs to give them an idea where I'm at. I can hear the lady on the other side speak the words as she types them in. The woman drops a blanket. I pick it up and rush up to her to give it back. 911 transfers me over to Regina emergency. I'm waitin' at stoplights and crossin' streets, phone stuck to my ear, following this woman. We're coming up to a Fire Station.
"So you're approaching Halifax, right?"
"I can't tell... Um... Yes... We're coming up to Halifax right now."
Across the street are a taco stand, a second-hand shop, and a bench at a bus stop. We pass some people outside perusing furniture, two guys talking to each other from their bikes. She sits down on the bench. I kneel next to her, holding the phone out.
"Miss, I have emergency on the phone. Do you want someone to come help you?
"No, I'm okay. I'm only 2, 3 houses down. I'm fine. Thank you. Thank you."
"Sounds like she's refusing help," comes from the phone.
"Are you sure, miss?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Thank you."
I stand up. "Yeah, sounds like she's refusing help."
The phone conversation pretty much ends there.
I can't really move. Or I don't want to. That's it? But what about... No. I can't just leave her. She's carrying three blankets, she's got nowhere to go. But what do I do now? It's done. She refused help. No one's comin' for her. We're across the street from a Fire Station and no one's comin' for her. She fell real hard and no one's comin' for her. That's it. I offer to get her some water and she refuses and thanks me. And I walk off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That's it. Nothing happened. All that sound and fury, signifying nothing. Goddamnit. I didn't do it. I failed. And the phone call. What was I thinking? What if they think I was fooling? Do they often get calls like this? Am I keeping them from more important calls? Will they check up on me, on the trace? Shit, what if they call Mom and Dad? I don't feel good. I feel like crap. I turn a corner, walk across the street and sit down in a parking lot behind a Vietnamese restaurant. I light a cigarette and call my parents. Oh my God, I feel horrible. They're not home so I spill everything out onto the answering machine, one syllable away from breaking down. I tell them I'm calling them before the authorities should try to contact them, but damn does it feel good to tell someone everything. And I'm done. And I'm so not hungry. And I'm nauseous enough to turn my stomach inside-out. I smoke two cigarettes before I start walking again. Wandering, walking back in the general direction I came from. The Farmer's Market evaporated as instantly as it erupted. I turn back through the plaza. I see the planter and exactly where everything took place. And I keep walking. I cross the street and enter a mall, loads of people everywhere. I take a lap around and find the Food Court on the second floor, buzzing, crowded. I get some teriyaki and then an spring roll from the Chinese place. I pull out the magazine from the airplane yesterday and turn to the crossword puzzle in the back. I don't react to any of the high schoolers passing me by or the custodial staff cleaning around me. And I am finally alone.

Winds of Change

Oy, so much coming up on the waterfront.

The weekend in Regina was phenomenal. A beautiful and emotional wedding, and an accident. I'm in the middle of a story about the latter, and I'm taking my time with it 'cause it's getting good.

My days at Saks are numbered. Less than two weeks now. Gotta get back into performing. So I'm gonna start my own Open Mic night somewhere...

Family issues coming to a head now: Sister's moving home sometime soon, one brother needs a new career, the other's heading into a rough season with his SO. It's gonna be my job to be the rock and the voice of reason. Hah.

I was telling someone a week ago that my life would be completely different in the next three weeks, and I prefer to live up to expectations.

So forgive me if I haven't written much lately. Soon will come a time when you'll beg me to stop.

Da Grate Wite Nort', Eh?

Good Day.

I will be gone this weekend, up nort' dere.

My bestest Canadian friend, Miss Dork Femme, is gunnin' to become a MRS. Dork Femme, and I'm headin' up ta give da bride away.

Not really.

But I am going to Saskatchewan.

For a weddin'.

Dork Femme's weddin'.

No, I am not giving the bride away.

But I should be. It'd be funny.

Sort of.

Not really.

See you next week.

I'm done.