If anyone believes that life doesn't move in circles, I gladly buy you a drink and prove you wrong.
In the midst of this struggling economy I've been able to score a new career. Actually, an old career with a new face. I've been accepted for a position as a Psychiatric Case Worker at a long-term care facility in Evanston, mere blocks from where I live. It's a step up from any Psych position I've had before, in that I'll be directly in charge of the treatment plans of 30 residents, leading groups in therapy, holding office hours. It's a nice combo of the University of Iowa Hospitals and Mental Health and Deafness, all in one position. Plus, the pay is equitable to my old positions, with opportunities for job advancement and/or grad school.
I kinda sorta feel, at this point, that my life's been given back to me. That one point in October 2000, 9 years ago, when everything fell apart and unraveled into bedlam, has now had its foundations restored. Like then, I was living in the basement of retired people on the outskirts of a Big 10 college town, immersed in my Psych career and wishing of being a writer. Instead of a tenuous relationship with an estranged artistic girlfriend, I maintain a tentative schedule with an obscure art museum; I find I love them equally dearly. But now I am older, wiser, armed with journeyman experience. Things returned to center, but they can only get better from here.
If anyone believes that life isn't circular, I will gladly buy you a drink and prove you wrong.
----------------
Now playing: Indigo Girls - Least Complicated
03 October 2009
02 October 2009
Re-tired
When was it? Tuesday night, September 29th... Went to help a friend from Starbucks move to his new apartment. As I left my place to get there, a black cat crossed the path of my car. Now, I'm a brighter bulb than most, and I know fact from superstition, but damn if the coincidence of it didn't linger with me. Kept me a bit more hyperaware, especially in his new neighborhood. Devon and Western is a bit more ghetto than most. We get done and he invites me in to chill. There's no parking for blocks around, so he allows me to park in the building's space, this gated-in little piece of driveway instead of the dozens of tiny garages that line the alleyway. As I maneuver Hermann in to the cramped gated nook, my tire catches the iron latches and digs them right into this minute tear in my sidewall, puncturing and deflating my rear driver side tire with a quick, classic PFFFFFT!
As bad as that was, I was able to chuckle it off, which is good because things got worse before better.
Marcos, my buddy, and his roommates came out to help with the tire, but none of us could get it off. First, the jack was not cooperating with the ground beneath it, its handle jamming into stones every second revolution. Once a replacement jack was found and Herman lifted, no one could get the lug nuts off. They had rusted on too tight. I attempted to call a tow truck but the dude couldn't speak English well enough, so I balked. The guys allowed me to crash there that evening and we'd deal with it in the morning.
It's funny; the things I'll do for weed when I can't afford it.
After a lopsided night on a folded futon, the morning went better than expected. There was an auto mechanic nearby, two blocks away via alleys, so I could take my time and not block traffic while riding my rim at 2 miles an hour. Even with a torque gun the tire was nigh-impossible to get off, but with some lube, a half-hour wait, and $20 later the spare sat comfortably on the rear axle. I was an hour late than I was scheduled at the Block Museum, but I volunteered to come in on my day off to cover hours, so it ended up being win-win. 6 extra hours of pay, and I was able to explain my new job situation and scheduling issues in person. I believe they will make concessions for me. Then off to Peter Pan rehearsal, mindful to steer clear of expressways, and nailed dance practice so well they changed choreography to accomodate me.
Crisi-tunity incarnate.
I think that was probably the best outcome to that situation.
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - No Sunlight
As bad as that was, I was able to chuckle it off, which is good because things got worse before better.
Marcos, my buddy, and his roommates came out to help with the tire, but none of us could get it off. First, the jack was not cooperating with the ground beneath it, its handle jamming into stones every second revolution. Once a replacement jack was found and Herman lifted, no one could get the lug nuts off. They had rusted on too tight. I attempted to call a tow truck but the dude couldn't speak English well enough, so I balked. The guys allowed me to crash there that evening and we'd deal with it in the morning.
It's funny; the things I'll do for weed when I can't afford it.
After a lopsided night on a folded futon, the morning went better than expected. There was an auto mechanic nearby, two blocks away via alleys, so I could take my time and not block traffic while riding my rim at 2 miles an hour. Even with a torque gun the tire was nigh-impossible to get off, but with some lube, a half-hour wait, and $20 later the spare sat comfortably on the rear axle. I was an hour late than I was scheduled at the Block Museum, but I volunteered to come in on my day off to cover hours, so it ended up being win-win. 6 extra hours of pay, and I was able to explain my new job situation and scheduling issues in person. I believe they will make concessions for me. Then off to Peter Pan rehearsal, mindful to steer clear of expressways, and nailed dance practice so well they changed choreography to accomodate me.
Crisi-tunity incarnate.
I think that was probably the best outcome to that situation.
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - No Sunlight
07 September 2009
Citation Needed?
I did something that needed to be done.
Proofread, anyone?
Entropy
The Secret Integration
Thank you.
Go read Inherent Vice.
Proofread, anyone?
Entropy
The Secret Integration
Thank you.
Go read Inherent Vice.
24 August 2009
Year of the Hangover
I haven't seen the movie Kids since college when it was first released. Still haven't seent it since, but I remember the last line of the film. It's always resonated with me.
After the scenes of skateboarding teens, of awkward latchkey survival, of late-night hideaways and social explorations, of drunken drug-crazed basements of iniquity, of lonely boys wailing in bathtubs and perky girls squealing like adults, of cock-slappingly snuff-induced violations of AIDS-infested statutory pedophilic fun, our infected adolescent serial cherry-popping antihero shakes his hazy head on the morning after and mutters:
"Jesus Christ, what happened?"
Welcome to 2009.
After last year's self-aggrandizing vacation, the wheel of fortune hath spun another turn and now demands remittance. This isn't to say that progress hasn't been made or joy not achieved, but in light of last year the price has increased exponentially.
2009 has become the Year of the Hangover.
Not literally.
But you know the feeling.
I won't bore you with specifics or mealy-mouthed self-pity, but it's kinda, sorta like this:
As you set to scale a prodigious rock formation, you dream of the challenge, the bite of stone cutting your ankles and the numb callus that will soon become your hands, all made with gusto just to claim the jutting apex of the mountain for yourself, the champion taste of mineral saline ringing your lips and searing the scrapes on exposed skin when, without warning, the elevated climb cuts short, abrupt and violently placid, s,ooth and expansive, planar and monotonous, your marathon-stride muscles downshift unexpectedly to victory lap as you crawl upon the top of the plateau, its still oxygen-rich air filling your lungs with crestfallen awe as you stare at the towering peaks around you, proud and respectable, iconic and taunting, still a distant desire, leaving you behind on this plateau, this stable and routine plateau, its tabletop stretching on an on into an unrugged, dependable, predictable, no-nonsense, self-maintained, milquetoast flatline.
Perhaps this is a good thing.
It certainly isn't bad.
But I want MOAR.
The sky's the limit.
But the road stopped rising to meet me.
And I grow weary of waiting.
Ow, my fucking head hurts.
I had a year like this in high school: 1994. Many bittersweet memories. Had lost some weight and took the only school picture I've ever been proud of. But my grades were the worst that year. Got chosen for my first mainstage play, but I had no lines and died in the first scene. My grandmother died that year to bone cancer and her brother, my great-uncle, died months later. Both were fixtures in my childhood. Threw off everything I knew about myself. I remember drawing labyrinthine sketches with signs for the next year above every way out.
So, on the plus side, I'm so geared up for 2010. It's gonna be a year of opportunity.
----------------
Now playing: Bob Dylan - Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
After the scenes of skateboarding teens, of awkward latchkey survival, of late-night hideaways and social explorations, of drunken drug-crazed basements of iniquity, of lonely boys wailing in bathtubs and perky girls squealing like adults, of cock-slappingly snuff-induced violations of AIDS-infested statutory pedophilic fun, our infected adolescent serial cherry-popping antihero shakes his hazy head on the morning after and mutters:
"Jesus Christ, what happened?"
Welcome to 2009.
After last year's self-aggrandizing vacation, the wheel of fortune hath spun another turn and now demands remittance. This isn't to say that progress hasn't been made or joy not achieved, but in light of last year the price has increased exponentially.
2009 has become the Year of the Hangover.
Not literally.
But you know the feeling.
I won't bore you with specifics or mealy-mouthed self-pity, but it's kinda, sorta like this:
As you set to scale a prodigious rock formation, you dream of the challenge, the bite of stone cutting your ankles and the numb callus that will soon become your hands, all made with gusto just to claim the jutting apex of the mountain for yourself, the champion taste of mineral saline ringing your lips and searing the scrapes on exposed skin when, without warning, the elevated climb cuts short, abrupt and violently placid, s,ooth and expansive, planar and monotonous, your marathon-stride muscles downshift unexpectedly to victory lap as you crawl upon the top of the plateau, its still oxygen-rich air filling your lungs with crestfallen awe as you stare at the towering peaks around you, proud and respectable, iconic and taunting, still a distant desire, leaving you behind on this plateau, this stable and routine plateau, its tabletop stretching on an on into an unrugged, dependable, predictable, no-nonsense, self-maintained, milquetoast flatline.
Perhaps this is a good thing.
It certainly isn't bad.
But I want MOAR.
The sky's the limit.
But the road stopped rising to meet me.
And I grow weary of waiting.
Ow, my fucking head hurts.
I had a year like this in high school: 1994. Many bittersweet memories. Had lost some weight and took the only school picture I've ever been proud of. But my grades were the worst that year. Got chosen for my first mainstage play, but I had no lines and died in the first scene. My grandmother died that year to bone cancer and her brother, my great-uncle, died months later. Both were fixtures in my childhood. Threw off everything I knew about myself. I remember drawing labyrinthine sketches with signs for the next year above every way out.
So, on the plus side, I'm so geared up for 2010. It's gonna be a year of opportunity.
----------------
Now playing: Bob Dylan - Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
23 June 2009
Right Now...
My life has changed drastically in the past few weeks.
I recently moved all my business to Evanston and work and life are all centralized.
New location's a 20-minute walk from my place.
I can walk to the beach on my breaks.
And pass by kudzu-covered mansions.
Even scored myself a second position.
At Northwestern University.
At the Art Museum.
I know. Me neither.
It's small and part-time, but has such great potential.
Especially their cinema program.
It's all almost like starting school all over again.
Good and bad.
All the friends and acquaintances I've built up for years are gone.
Again.
My once magnetic personality doesn't appear to be attracting anyone.
At work or in town.
I'm so busy I rarely get a day off anymore.
And when I do I don't want to do anything.
And the 19-year-old I've been kinda, sorta seeing for the past few months
Dropped me to be with one of her old friends.
*chuckles*
Happy New Moon
I recently moved all my business to Evanston and work and life are all centralized.
New location's a 20-minute walk from my place.
I can walk to the beach on my breaks.
And pass by kudzu-covered mansions.
Even scored myself a second position.
At Northwestern University.
At the Art Museum.
I know. Me neither.
It's small and part-time, but has such great potential.
Especially their cinema program.
It's all almost like starting school all over again.
Good and bad.
All the friends and acquaintances I've built up for years are gone.
Again.
My once magnetic personality doesn't appear to be attracting anyone.
At work or in town.
I'm so busy I rarely get a day off anymore.
And when I do I don't want to do anything.
And the 19-year-old I've been kinda, sorta seeing for the past few months
Dropped me to be with one of her old friends.
*chuckles*
Happy New Moon
01 June 2009
Blackout
I was meeting a friend for lunch. The weekend with Melissa was a bust. So glad that's over. Sorta been skipping out on this friend for months, so I thought I'd finally man up and chat with him. We were headed to the Yard House, patio, nice sunny Sunday. After he arrived and the waitress started paying attention (Mmmm... a tall, thready blonde with a sharp sense of humor and a cute swagger), we started in on the first of a good half-dozen pints, after only four in did we add on Jim Beam shots. This is good, I thought, as I was still murky from the weekend's hangover, a twelve pack of Amstel Light Melissa and I shared. Mostly me. The alcohol unhazed and loosened up everything. Dude and I teared through a stacked-up California roll, let the stories drip from our tongues, and sweet-talked every waitress we could (who all turned out to be lesbians; amazing how a guy can do that to a girl). I was feeling no pain and no worry. Why should I? Got a $50 in my wallet to pay the bill and 10 singles for a fresh pack of smokes. We got there at 2 and I remember checking the clock at some point and seeing we had been there for 4 hours. Dude had a basketball game to go to, but he chose to stick around. We had to step away from the patio to smoke and end up making our scene at the fire hydrant outside the movie theaters. Little Miss Thready Sharp-Tongued Blonde starts telling us that the giraffe we were hanging around actually got run over by some driver before. It's hot but it's breezy and I don't wear my hat in the shade, sorta counterintuitive I guess, but I like the way my bald head fee-
I remember waking up. It felt time to. Faint thunder rattled the pane, and I saw the clock read 4:13. Dark. Early. I'm laying face up in my bed, completely tucked in.
I am fully clothed.
My shoes are off.
I can only shift slightly but notice I'm laying on my wallet. Inside are a $10 dollar bill and an ATM receipt for $62.75 at 8:11pm.
Next to my bed is a fresh unopened pack of Camel Ultra Lights.
Inside the apartment everything that's supposed to be unplugged is.
In the bathroom my face is beet red, my jaw hurts, and I find the receipt for the cigarettes and a charge of $1.95 for Groceries from the corner gas station blocks from me, last oasis before returning home. Receipt says I was there 8:13 last night.
There's a can of energy drink on my dining room table.
I remember that there's tree pruning going on this morning on the street out front. Can't park out there, or you'll get towed. I put on a sweatshirt and head out the door. And it was locked.
And it was locked.
I step outside my building and realize I have no idea where I parked. Nor how I even got home. But the car's not where it's not supposed to be. I walk very awkwardly around and find Hermann expertly tucked behind an SUV next block over, within allowed parking signs, not needing permits, no tickets left on him.
Not a scratch of new damage either.
On my passenger side floor is a spent package of Strawberry Nilla Wafer Cakesters, pricemarked $0.99.
*shudder*
I remember waking up. It felt time to. Faint thunder rattled the pane, and I saw the clock read 4:13. Dark. Early. I'm laying face up in my bed, completely tucked in.
I am fully clothed.
My shoes are off.
I can only shift slightly but notice I'm laying on my wallet. Inside are a $10 dollar bill and an ATM receipt for $62.75 at 8:11pm.
Next to my bed is a fresh unopened pack of Camel Ultra Lights.
Inside the apartment everything that's supposed to be unplugged is.
In the bathroom my face is beet red, my jaw hurts, and I find the receipt for the cigarettes and a charge of $1.95 for Groceries from the corner gas station blocks from me, last oasis before returning home. Receipt says I was there 8:13 last night.
There's a can of energy drink on my dining room table.
I remember that there's tree pruning going on this morning on the street out front. Can't park out there, or you'll get towed. I put on a sweatshirt and head out the door. And it was locked.
And it was locked.
I step outside my building and realize I have no idea where I parked. Nor how I even got home. But the car's not where it's not supposed to be. I walk very awkwardly around and find Hermann expertly tucked behind an SUV next block over, within allowed parking signs, not needing permits, no tickets left on him.
Not a scratch of new damage either.
On my passenger side floor is a spent package of Strawberry Nilla Wafer Cakesters, pricemarked $0.99.
*shudder*
28 May 2009
End of the Honeymoon
A rumpled red construction paper cutout of a heart
Dotted with glue and dusted with sparkles
Adorned with five crayon letters:
I-L-V-Y-U
Held aloft between index and thumb nails
And with a single match
Burned in effigy
Your feet are too cold
That joke isn't funny anymore
You've had a headache for two months now
I never liked your pot roast
You used to be so much fun
Why are you staying out so late?
Don't start that again
Pick up your own dry cleaning
Mother said you were bad news
Whose hair is this?
I'm too old for this shit.
Dotted with glue and dusted with sparkles
Adorned with five crayon letters:
I-L-V-Y-U
Held aloft between index and thumb nails
And with a single match
Burned in effigy
Your feet are too cold
That joke isn't funny anymore
You've had a headache for two months now
I never liked your pot roast
You used to be so much fun
Why are you staying out so late?
Don't start that again
Pick up your own dry cleaning
Mother said you were bad news
Whose hair is this?
I'm too old for this shit.
05 May 2009
First Chakra: Work
De-de-de-de... De-de-de-de... De-de-de-de...
Alarm clock.
But not the usual one.
I ignore it. My eyes open. Early sunlight seeping in hits the TV screen, stuck on the DVD menu which has been looping ad nauseaum for too many hours. A hand brushes my shoulder. I start to glance, and suddenly a bounding elephant charges from behind the couch and lumbers down the hall. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM slam! a bedroom door closes.
Christ, the kids are awake?
Sandpapery mouth, my head hits the armrest as I reach above me to turn off the travel alarm clock sitting on the endtable. Got an hour before staff arrives. Much work to do.
First thing to do is ditch the evidence. The bottle and any remnants of cork are gathered and taken out to the car; put in the trunk next to the paraphenalia ditched the night before. Then check the kids. All of them in their beds, splayed in every direction, gaping mouths drooling, snoring like buzzsaws. All except one: a neat egg-shaped mound enrobed in a perfectly turned-down comforter.
Now we clean. Everything. In essence, at least...
Laundry switched from washer to dryer. Bathrooms look okay, and they'll be cleaned three more times today. Dishes left over from last night's snack. Floors? Meh. Same goes to vacuuming.
And now the paperwork. Sleep checklists, med sheets, activity reports. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, right? No nightmares, blow-ups, emergencies? No, I would've remembered...
Set the morning meds out, too. Just to be nice.
As I'm calling in the shift report, the Overnight Sleep staff (the one paid specifically to do just that) leaves unceremoniously. And then Robin shows up, early, as usual. With her around I excuse myself to grab a quick shower.
The hangover persists as I rouse the kids up and get their day started. Some wake up with the slightest bed shake, some are so medicated it'll take two hours and a bulldozer to get them up, if at all. The egg-shaped mound takes a shake, pause, shake, and unzips seamlessly from the comforter, fully-dressed, wry smile on his face, plodding down the hall to breakfast. Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom.
Big, tall, strong kid. They're bad when they blow up. But you can expect it and prepare. It's the scrawny medium-sized ones that are worst. Never know what sets them off, and they're relentless.
The AM shift is rather rigidly structured. After breakfast, hygiene, and Morning Tasks, the day students arrive. Then it's down into the basement for calisthenics. Everything the kids do is set to a point system. Waking, cleaning, going to class, good behavior, eating, participating, working with their behavior program, taking meds, pooping, not getting out of line. The more points they earn, the more freedoms they receive. And no one wants to be put on Restriction. Or sent to the Hospital for medwash.
My title is Mental Health Professional. Really I'm a babysitter/Teacher's Aide with an appropriate degree. My job, aside from observing and recording notes on half the house's residents, spans from preparing meals and meds to leading a lesson plan in American History to driving the kids to and fro wherever they're supposed to go to talking them down when they get agitated. And be a role model. Ever a role model. Because these kids are a diverse cocktail of Abnormal Psych diagnoses: Schizophrenia, Autism, Bi-polar Affective Disorder, CHARGE Syndrome. Heartbreaking histories of neglect, abuse. Plenty of sexual assault stories, and only some are victims. The remainder had the choice of prison or here. Most of the kids here are 21 and under, with a couple older ones slipping through cracks, the oldest being one year younger than I am now.
Many of them will never live independently.
A couple of them have no family, not even parents.
And all of them are Deaf.
Robin's hands fly effortlessly as she lays out the directives for the day. She's very good, a dedicated Deaf Ed graduate with her first full-time teaching job out of school. Hearing people without Deaf relatives who get involved with Deaf Culture fascinate me. I always have to ask why, and I rarely remember their answers. Her's didn't really matter, though, after you saw how much she loved her job. A short Aries brunette, but oh, so much presence. Sharp eyes, a winning smile, and a can-do attitude who saw promise in all the kids, no matter how complex. I was a dark brooding Libra, her complete opposite, so we worked well off each other that year.
Never in my life have I done so much signing. Every day at work was like living in a country where the primary language is ASL. Hearing people were, in fact, the minority in the house. Even with what I know I find myself floundering for a long time, at first getting used to rhythm and regularity after living brother-free in Iowa forever, not to mention all the new technical jargon the DSM-IV has to offer, to later figuring out how to present Algebra and Poetry lessons at moment's notice. Just the kind of issues total immersion is meant for.
After Morning Classes and breaks for Snacks and Lunch, we may go outside for games if the weather's good, or we stay inside for an activity. By that time the day students are starting to be bussed back home and the residents wind down with homework or free time while staff discusses behavior, tallies up points, and gets to the ubiquitous paperwork. Here, now, and at lunch, are probably the times when the division between Hearing and Deaf are at their most evident. Staff, mostly Hearing, band together and discuss how the kids did without them knowing. Deaf Staff are addressed to discuss vague bits and pieces, but they never get the full discussion, especially when the subject spreads off-topic. Which it does often. Sometimes, just because it can. It's inadvertent but undeniable.
The day's scheduled to end at 3:30. Subject to change at any time. Which it does. But no one got violent and had to be taken down. And paperwork might just get done on time. And replacement staff is showing up just as planned.
At this house, anyway.
The phone rings just as I hang up from my second shift report of the day.
It's the head office.
Someone didn't show up at House II.
Would anyone there care for a double?
Robin's going out to pick china patterns with her fiance.
The other staff have returned to their care facilities.
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
And extra money sounds good with my rent-free lifestyle.
Besides, PMs are much easier.
I accept and get in my car to head on over.
The clients we care for are split up by age and level of functionality, spread out over three houses in a North Chicagoland suburban village. In these houses the kids do everything: School, Work, and Everyday Life. If they're on Restriction they never leave, needing to earn enough points just to step onto the back patio. Three undisclosed, unsuspecting cookie-cutter homes. Could've been living right next to you. In fact, if there were no registered sex offenders in the house, the neighbors needn't know a single thing. Which, I believe, is the point of the whole program.
The house I left was older kids (aged 13-21) with high-level functioning (remedial to mainstream intellect, self-regulatory, low dependence), and I was driving to the low-level functioning older kids (mental retardation/autistic, developmentally delayed, high-dependence). As I walk in the front door I am treated like a rockstar. These boys were all bussed to my house earlier today, Robin being the sole teacher for both houses. They're both confused and overjoyed at the fact I'm here right now. And Jesse breathes a sigh of relief as well. She's the other staff, the one who showed up. The boys adore her, and why shouldn't they? She's profoundly Deaf herself and quite gorgeous. Plus, unbeknownst to them, she's an actress and a lesbian. She and I did a show together last year. And she makes the most seductive throaty sounds without ever knowing it.
PM shifts are more free-form, more laissez-faire. Homework gets finished up, and the kitchen gets prepared for dinner. The houses get catered food for every meal, but the boys have a budget for groceries and usually cook for themselves. It's good for them, and the food is usually better than whatever gets sent to us. After dinner and Evening Tasks is Free Time, either video games, a movie, or activities inside, or games outside. Tonight a client from House III, where I started my day, comes over. It's Mr. Egg-Shaped Mound, wry smile and all, basketball in hand, wanting to shoot hoops in the backyard. So he and another client step out the sliding door, Boom b-boom b-boom b-boom, Jesse following along to monitor them, while I sit in the living room watching TV and starting on paperwork.
During the course of the evening things on the back patio get loud. Mr. Egg-Shape, who stands 6'3" and weighs as much as I do, is getting pissed off. He's winning, but his lower-functioning counterpart is getting away with flagrant fouls, and Jesse's not calling anything. His yells shudder the glass of the sliding doors. I get up from the couch and cross over to the threshold, open the door and stand, not blocking the entrance, hands folded by my waist in front of me, still keeping an eye on the kids watching the movie. This is non-violent crisis management in action. We get him to stop the tirade and express his feelings. Between Jesse and I, we talk him down from agitation to mature discussion. He's responding well to his behavior program, and is able to talk things out without resorting to violence. This is subtle but it is progress. In fact, relative to his case study, it's profound progress. He won't earn the maximum points for the evening, but he won't lose many. And that's good enough.
The movie's winding down, as is the scene outside. Dusk settled in nicely, stars are starting to twinkle, and the House III staff arrives to take Eggy back home. Crisis averted. Perhaps this mild flurry of late-day activity will help him sleep through the whole night. Right after he leaves another one of the residents picks up the phone receiver and places it on the TTY.
NO SORRY CAN'T USE PHONE NOW, I sign.
CALL DAD NOW
TOO-LATE
I point to a piece of paper taped on the wall near the phone.
RULES SAY USE PHONE AFTER DINNER. TOO-LATE NOW. TIME BED.
MUST CALL DAD NOW. ALWAYS CALL DAD EVERY-NIGHT.
SORRY TOO-LATE. TIME READY BED. HANG-UP-PHONE PLEASE.
And the kid loses it. In one motion he screams, slams his hand on the kitchen table, picks up a chair and heaves it, metal legs whizzing by my face, almost hitting a resident behind me and breaking a window. Then he charges me. His wiry arm and hand reaches up and smacks the shock off my face. The other clients panic and scatter, not leaving the room, shouting or cowering behind pillows. Jesse hops on the TTY, tapping out pages for backup. The kid gets a good couple shots in on me before I get my head in the game. He misses a connection and, while off-balance, I get behind him and secure both arms, take his knee out with mine so we both drop slowly to the floor on our butts, him sitting in front of me facing away like teammates in a bobsled. I wrap his arms around him like a straitjacket does, loosely but firmly, and slip my legs over his to keep them both spread apart. This move is called a basket hold. It's usually meant for younger kids small enough for one person to restrain them. His head comes up to my shoulders, so it's effective in subduing him, but he refuses to give up, ramming the back of his head into my chest. On one of his backswings I tuck my chin into my chest, using the top of my head to press against the back of his, stopping the blows. I can hear Jesse, now off the phone, hands slapping together rapidly, trying to calm him down. He can't sign back; I've got his arms pinned against him, and right now he's too tense and agitated for me to let up. After about 10 minutes of this the Night Supervisor shows up with the Nurse and one PM Staff from House III. Like a game of Improv Freeze Tag I get tapped out and everyone except Nurse take over restraints. I stand next to Nurse and he mediates a breakdown of the incident between the kid and me. It's all formulaic song-and-dance. When he's calm enough he can count out of restraints one limb at a time. Once he can sign we enter the Incident Questionnaire:
WHAT HAPPEN?
THAT FOLLOW RULES?
WHAT YOU DO?
IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT YOU DO NEXT-TIME?
FEEL SORRY?
WANT TELL STAFF SORRY? TELL CLIENT SORRY?
Stock apologies given all around. This whole rigamarole takes two hours. Nurse tells me he'll be on Restriction here on out but doesn't tell the kid that. With his evening meds he's given his PRN for agitation. Then it's calm-down time for the house. I go out to the front lawn for a cigarette. Nurse joins me.
"Whoa, sorry about that, Kevin. That's quite a scuffle you had there. You okay?"
Yeah. I'm not bleedin'. Got a couple good shots in on me.
"Still got a hand outline on your face. Get you some ice for that."
Thanks.
"Hey, hate to do this to you, but we had a call out at House I for overnight. It's Sleep Staff, though."
Overnight Sleep Staff. $50 to crash at one of the houses as passive back-up, for worst-case scenarios. Rarely ever used in that capacity.
"You think you might...?"
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
$50 is $50, and an easy $50 at that.
Sure. Why not?
"You're the best, Kevin. The Best."
Yeah. Thanks.
Still got paperwork to do, though.
Now more than usual.
It's well after midnight when I get out of there. House I is all young kids (ages 6-13) with assorted functionalities. There's even a girl or two living there. All of the residents were put to bed hours ago. Only Anton, the Hearing Overnight Awake Staff, is awake. He's very hip, a tall gangly soul dressed all in black, very mystic, very austere. He has no Deaf affiliation but has worked many care facilities before. He's well-read in occult subjects, something I'm quickly gaining interest in, and he has done Tarot card readings for me before at work.
"Heard you were coming. Was very pleased. Rough day, huh?"
I start to recount the evening when Anton's face pulls sharply away from me, to the stairs behind me.
No, he signs weakly, time bed. go room.
Th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom, the little feet pound the steps unknowingly, down to our level, stopping right behind me sitting on the couch. Before I can turn around to see I feel a small hand pat me on the head gently. Then immediately a leather belt whips from behind the couch around my throat and is held there, loosely but firmly, for a few long seconds. Just as danger registers in my brain the belt slowly, smoothly retracts back behind the couch, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom from behind around the side, now facing Anton and me.
His toothy, beaming grin is one of the most adorable I've ever seen. Two foot tall, pajama bottoms with the booties sewn on, Chicago Bears T-shirt, glisten of drool round his lips, wide sparkly eyes. And that smile. This 6-year-old's so cute he could hawk Gerber Baby Food.
The leather belt lays limp in his hands like a dead snake.
The same belt wrapped around my neck just now.
His chart will make you weep.
And make you fighting mad.
"He likes you," Anton chortles to me.
I stare blankly.
go bed, Anton signs. now.
The 6-year-old chuckles like a cherub, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom up the stairs, belt dragging behind him, all the way down the hall upstairs until he gets swallowed by the blackness of his room.
I bury my head in my hands.
"C'mon," Anton says, "let's step outside."
Two more are already on the front lawn, PM staff from Houses I and III. Anton grabs the glass pipe between them and reloads it from the stash in his pocket. It's usually weed, but Anton has been known to bring opium before. A couple rounds between the four of us, and fingers start flying wildly, as well as a general disregard for volume control; stories from today, war stories from before, general bullshit. Why should we care? No one in the house can hear, they'll sleep through the night without consequences. Out on the lawn all we need is a keg, some cups, a few other people, and it'd be just like most college house parties I've been to. An unsavory scene, yet nothing feels more familiar than this.
One more puff and the whole day catches up with me. My head feels like a throbbing brick, and my muscles are made of molten lead. I excuse myself.
"All right, brother. I'll be watching Highlander if you care to join."
Grab my overnight bag and head to the basement. It's been recently redone, and the cool cement walls feel welcoming. A rickety second-hand futon sits in the corner, my nest for the night. Don't trust the frame, so I pull off the mattress, very like an untenderized slab of chuck steak, and lay it on the bare cement floor. Travel alarm clock set for one hour before work tomorrow. I've got Mr. Egg-Shape and Mr. Restriction to look forward to come daylight.
That's the last thought going through my mind as I drift off into narcotic slumber.
Alarm clock.
But not the usual one.
I ignore it. My eyes open. Early sunlight seeping in hits the TV screen, stuck on the DVD menu which has been looping ad nauseaum for too many hours. A hand brushes my shoulder. I start to glance, and suddenly a bounding elephant charges from behind the couch and lumbers down the hall. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM slam! a bedroom door closes.
Christ, the kids are awake?
Sandpapery mouth, my head hits the armrest as I reach above me to turn off the travel alarm clock sitting on the endtable. Got an hour before staff arrives. Much work to do.
First thing to do is ditch the evidence. The bottle and any remnants of cork are gathered and taken out to the car; put in the trunk next to the paraphenalia ditched the night before. Then check the kids. All of them in their beds, splayed in every direction, gaping mouths drooling, snoring like buzzsaws. All except one: a neat egg-shaped mound enrobed in a perfectly turned-down comforter.
Now we clean. Everything. In essence, at least...
Laundry switched from washer to dryer. Bathrooms look okay, and they'll be cleaned three more times today. Dishes left over from last night's snack. Floors? Meh. Same goes to vacuuming.
And now the paperwork. Sleep checklists, med sheets, activity reports. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, right? No nightmares, blow-ups, emergencies? No, I would've remembered...
Set the morning meds out, too. Just to be nice.
As I'm calling in the shift report, the Overnight Sleep staff (the one paid specifically to do just that) leaves unceremoniously. And then Robin shows up, early, as usual. With her around I excuse myself to grab a quick shower.
The hangover persists as I rouse the kids up and get their day started. Some wake up with the slightest bed shake, some are so medicated it'll take two hours and a bulldozer to get them up, if at all. The egg-shaped mound takes a shake, pause, shake, and unzips seamlessly from the comforter, fully-dressed, wry smile on his face, plodding down the hall to breakfast. Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom.
Big, tall, strong kid. They're bad when they blow up. But you can expect it and prepare. It's the scrawny medium-sized ones that are worst. Never know what sets them off, and they're relentless.
The AM shift is rather rigidly structured. After breakfast, hygiene, and Morning Tasks, the day students arrive. Then it's down into the basement for calisthenics. Everything the kids do is set to a point system. Waking, cleaning, going to class, good behavior, eating, participating, working with their behavior program, taking meds, pooping, not getting out of line. The more points they earn, the more freedoms they receive. And no one wants to be put on Restriction. Or sent to the Hospital for medwash.
My title is Mental Health Professional. Really I'm a babysitter/Teacher's Aide with an appropriate degree. My job, aside from observing and recording notes on half the house's residents, spans from preparing meals and meds to leading a lesson plan in American History to driving the kids to and fro wherever they're supposed to go to talking them down when they get agitated. And be a role model. Ever a role model. Because these kids are a diverse cocktail of Abnormal Psych diagnoses: Schizophrenia, Autism, Bi-polar Affective Disorder, CHARGE Syndrome. Heartbreaking histories of neglect, abuse. Plenty of sexual assault stories, and only some are victims. The remainder had the choice of prison or here. Most of the kids here are 21 and under, with a couple older ones slipping through cracks, the oldest being one year younger than I am now.
Many of them will never live independently.
A couple of them have no family, not even parents.
And all of them are Deaf.
Robin's hands fly effortlessly as she lays out the directives for the day. She's very good, a dedicated Deaf Ed graduate with her first full-time teaching job out of school. Hearing people without Deaf relatives who get involved with Deaf Culture fascinate me. I always have to ask why, and I rarely remember their answers. Her's didn't really matter, though, after you saw how much she loved her job. A short Aries brunette, but oh, so much presence. Sharp eyes, a winning smile, and a can-do attitude who saw promise in all the kids, no matter how complex. I was a dark brooding Libra, her complete opposite, so we worked well off each other that year.
Never in my life have I done so much signing. Every day at work was like living in a country where the primary language is ASL. Hearing people were, in fact, the minority in the house. Even with what I know I find myself floundering for a long time, at first getting used to rhythm and regularity after living brother-free in Iowa forever, not to mention all the new technical jargon the DSM-IV has to offer, to later figuring out how to present Algebra and Poetry lessons at moment's notice. Just the kind of issues total immersion is meant for.
After Morning Classes and breaks for Snacks and Lunch, we may go outside for games if the weather's good, or we stay inside for an activity. By that time the day students are starting to be bussed back home and the residents wind down with homework or free time while staff discusses behavior, tallies up points, and gets to the ubiquitous paperwork. Here, now, and at lunch, are probably the times when the division between Hearing and Deaf are at their most evident. Staff, mostly Hearing, band together and discuss how the kids did without them knowing. Deaf Staff are addressed to discuss vague bits and pieces, but they never get the full discussion, especially when the subject spreads off-topic. Which it does often. Sometimes, just because it can. It's inadvertent but undeniable.
The day's scheduled to end at 3:30. Subject to change at any time. Which it does. But no one got violent and had to be taken down. And paperwork might just get done on time. And replacement staff is showing up just as planned.
At this house, anyway.
The phone rings just as I hang up from my second shift report of the day.
It's the head office.
Someone didn't show up at House II.
Would anyone there care for a double?
Robin's going out to pick china patterns with her fiance.
The other staff have returned to their care facilities.
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
And extra money sounds good with my rent-free lifestyle.
Besides, PMs are much easier.
I accept and get in my car to head on over.
The clients we care for are split up by age and level of functionality, spread out over three houses in a North Chicagoland suburban village. In these houses the kids do everything: School, Work, and Everyday Life. If they're on Restriction they never leave, needing to earn enough points just to step onto the back patio. Three undisclosed, unsuspecting cookie-cutter homes. Could've been living right next to you. In fact, if there were no registered sex offenders in the house, the neighbors needn't know a single thing. Which, I believe, is the point of the whole program.
The house I left was older kids (aged 13-21) with high-level functioning (remedial to mainstream intellect, self-regulatory, low dependence), and I was driving to the low-level functioning older kids (mental retardation/autistic, developmentally delayed, high-dependence). As I walk in the front door I am treated like a rockstar. These boys were all bussed to my house earlier today, Robin being the sole teacher for both houses. They're both confused and overjoyed at the fact I'm here right now. And Jesse breathes a sigh of relief as well. She's the other staff, the one who showed up. The boys adore her, and why shouldn't they? She's profoundly Deaf herself and quite gorgeous. Plus, unbeknownst to them, she's an actress and a lesbian. She and I did a show together last year. And she makes the most seductive throaty sounds without ever knowing it.
PM shifts are more free-form, more laissez-faire. Homework gets finished up, and the kitchen gets prepared for dinner. The houses get catered food for every meal, but the boys have a budget for groceries and usually cook for themselves. It's good for them, and the food is usually better than whatever gets sent to us. After dinner and Evening Tasks is Free Time, either video games, a movie, or activities inside, or games outside. Tonight a client from House III, where I started my day, comes over. It's Mr. Egg-Shaped Mound, wry smile and all, basketball in hand, wanting to shoot hoops in the backyard. So he and another client step out the sliding door, Boom b-boom b-boom b-boom, Jesse following along to monitor them, while I sit in the living room watching TV and starting on paperwork.
During the course of the evening things on the back patio get loud. Mr. Egg-Shape, who stands 6'3" and weighs as much as I do, is getting pissed off. He's winning, but his lower-functioning counterpart is getting away with flagrant fouls, and Jesse's not calling anything. His yells shudder the glass of the sliding doors. I get up from the couch and cross over to the threshold, open the door and stand, not blocking the entrance, hands folded by my waist in front of me, still keeping an eye on the kids watching the movie. This is non-violent crisis management in action. We get him to stop the tirade and express his feelings. Between Jesse and I, we talk him down from agitation to mature discussion. He's responding well to his behavior program, and is able to talk things out without resorting to violence. This is subtle but it is progress. In fact, relative to his case study, it's profound progress. He won't earn the maximum points for the evening, but he won't lose many. And that's good enough.
The movie's winding down, as is the scene outside. Dusk settled in nicely, stars are starting to twinkle, and the House III staff arrives to take Eggy back home. Crisis averted. Perhaps this mild flurry of late-day activity will help him sleep through the whole night. Right after he leaves another one of the residents picks up the phone receiver and places it on the TTY.
NO SORRY CAN'T USE PHONE NOW, I sign.
CALL DAD NOW
TOO-LATE
I point to a piece of paper taped on the wall near the phone.
RULES SAY USE PHONE AFTER DINNER. TOO-LATE NOW. TIME BED.
MUST CALL DAD NOW. ALWAYS CALL DAD EVERY-NIGHT.
SORRY TOO-LATE. TIME READY BED. HANG-UP-PHONE PLEASE.
And the kid loses it. In one motion he screams, slams his hand on the kitchen table, picks up a chair and heaves it, metal legs whizzing by my face, almost hitting a resident behind me and breaking a window. Then he charges me. His wiry arm and hand reaches up and smacks the shock off my face. The other clients panic and scatter, not leaving the room, shouting or cowering behind pillows. Jesse hops on the TTY, tapping out pages for backup. The kid gets a good couple shots in on me before I get my head in the game. He misses a connection and, while off-balance, I get behind him and secure both arms, take his knee out with mine so we both drop slowly to the floor on our butts, him sitting in front of me facing away like teammates in a bobsled. I wrap his arms around him like a straitjacket does, loosely but firmly, and slip my legs over his to keep them both spread apart. This move is called a basket hold. It's usually meant for younger kids small enough for one person to restrain them. His head comes up to my shoulders, so it's effective in subduing him, but he refuses to give up, ramming the back of his head into my chest. On one of his backswings I tuck my chin into my chest, using the top of my head to press against the back of his, stopping the blows. I can hear Jesse, now off the phone, hands slapping together rapidly, trying to calm him down. He can't sign back; I've got his arms pinned against him, and right now he's too tense and agitated for me to let up. After about 10 minutes of this the Night Supervisor shows up with the Nurse and one PM Staff from House III. Like a game of Improv Freeze Tag I get tapped out and everyone except Nurse take over restraints. I stand next to Nurse and he mediates a breakdown of the incident between the kid and me. It's all formulaic song-and-dance. When he's calm enough he can count out of restraints one limb at a time. Once he can sign we enter the Incident Questionnaire:
WHAT HAPPEN?
THAT FOLLOW RULES?
WHAT YOU DO?
IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT IS APPROPRIATE?
WHAT YOU DO NEXT-TIME?
FEEL SORRY?
WANT TELL STAFF SORRY? TELL CLIENT SORRY?
Stock apologies given all around. This whole rigamarole takes two hours. Nurse tells me he'll be on Restriction here on out but doesn't tell the kid that. With his evening meds he's given his PRN for agitation. Then it's calm-down time for the house. I go out to the front lawn for a cigarette. Nurse joins me.
"Whoa, sorry about that, Kevin. That's quite a scuffle you had there. You okay?"
Yeah. I'm not bleedin'. Got a couple good shots in on me.
"Still got a hand outline on your face. Get you some ice for that."
Thanks.
"Hey, hate to do this to you, but we had a call out at House I for overnight. It's Sleep Staff, though."
Overnight Sleep Staff. $50 to crash at one of the houses as passive back-up, for worst-case scenarios. Rarely ever used in that capacity.
"You think you might...?"
I got NOTHING better to do tonight.
$50 is $50, and an easy $50 at that.
Sure. Why not?
"You're the best, Kevin. The Best."
Yeah. Thanks.
Still got paperwork to do, though.
Now more than usual.
It's well after midnight when I get out of there. House I is all young kids (ages 6-13) with assorted functionalities. There's even a girl or two living there. All of the residents were put to bed hours ago. Only Anton, the Hearing Overnight Awake Staff, is awake. He's very hip, a tall gangly soul dressed all in black, very mystic, very austere. He has no Deaf affiliation but has worked many care facilities before. He's well-read in occult subjects, something I'm quickly gaining interest in, and he has done Tarot card readings for me before at work.
"Heard you were coming. Was very pleased. Rough day, huh?"
I start to recount the evening when Anton's face pulls sharply away from me, to the stairs behind me.
No, he signs weakly, time bed. go room.
Th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom, the little feet pound the steps unknowingly, down to our level, stopping right behind me sitting on the couch. Before I can turn around to see I feel a small hand pat me on the head gently. Then immediately a leather belt whips from behind the couch around my throat and is held there, loosely but firmly, for a few long seconds. Just as danger registers in my brain the belt slowly, smoothly retracts back behind the couch, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom from behind around the side, now facing Anton and me.
His toothy, beaming grin is one of the most adorable I've ever seen. Two foot tall, pajama bottoms with the booties sewn on, Chicago Bears T-shirt, glisten of drool round his lips, wide sparkly eyes. And that smile. This 6-year-old's so cute he could hawk Gerber Baby Food.
The leather belt lays limp in his hands like a dead snake.
The same belt wrapped around my neck just now.
His chart will make you weep.
And make you fighting mad.
"He likes you," Anton chortles to me.
I stare blankly.
go bed, Anton signs. now.
The 6-year-old chuckles like a cherub, th-thoom th-thoom th-thoom up the stairs, belt dragging behind him, all the way down the hall upstairs until he gets swallowed by the blackness of his room.
I bury my head in my hands.
"C'mon," Anton says, "let's step outside."
Two more are already on the front lawn, PM staff from Houses I and III. Anton grabs the glass pipe between them and reloads it from the stash in his pocket. It's usually weed, but Anton has been known to bring opium before. A couple rounds between the four of us, and fingers start flying wildly, as well as a general disregard for volume control; stories from today, war stories from before, general bullshit. Why should we care? No one in the house can hear, they'll sleep through the night without consequences. Out on the lawn all we need is a keg, some cups, a few other people, and it'd be just like most college house parties I've been to. An unsavory scene, yet nothing feels more familiar than this.
One more puff and the whole day catches up with me. My head feels like a throbbing brick, and my muscles are made of molten lead. I excuse myself.
"All right, brother. I'll be watching Highlander if you care to join."
Grab my overnight bag and head to the basement. It's been recently redone, and the cool cement walls feel welcoming. A rickety second-hand futon sits in the corner, my nest for the night. Don't trust the frame, so I pull off the mattress, very like an untenderized slab of chuck steak, and lay it on the bare cement floor. Travel alarm clock set for one hour before work tomorrow. I've got Mr. Egg-Shape and Mr. Restriction to look forward to come daylight.
That's the last thought going through my mind as I drift off into narcotic slumber.
24 March 2009
Last Rites
When my spirit leaves my body,
I want as much as possible to be given up for organ donation.
Then I would prefer the remainder to be given to science, to be used as a gross anatomy cadaver or for organ biopsies.
Then I should like my skeleton to hang in a pathology lab, or in a magic store, or get blown up by Mythbusters. Or any museum's BodyWorks exhibit.
Whatever is left, please cremate and spread in the River Trails Woods in Mt. Prospect, IL, or the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Chinese Gardens in Vancouver, BC, Canada, or on the Japanese Island in the Chicago Botanic Gardens, or along the Left Bank of the Iowa River in Iowa City, IA, or perhaps a touch in all four.
If you think of it, sprinkle a little bit if you're ever near la Cathedrale de Notre-Dame in Paris.
Aw hell, I'll probably end up going out like Donny.
Just don't get too much of me on The Dude's face.
I want as much as possible to be given up for organ donation.
Then I would prefer the remainder to be given to science, to be used as a gross anatomy cadaver or for organ biopsies.
Then I should like my skeleton to hang in a pathology lab, or in a magic store, or get blown up by Mythbusters. Or any museum's BodyWorks exhibit.
Whatever is left, please cremate and spread in the River Trails Woods in Mt. Prospect, IL, or the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Chinese Gardens in Vancouver, BC, Canada, or on the Japanese Island in the Chicago Botanic Gardens, or along the Left Bank of the Iowa River in Iowa City, IA, or perhaps a touch in all four.
If you think of it, sprinkle a little bit if you're ever near la Cathedrale de Notre-Dame in Paris.
Aw hell, I'll probably end up going out like Donny.
Just don't get too much of me on The Dude's face.
15 March 2009
First Chakra: My Room
If ever you get lost, here is where you always end up.
Green.
Yellow.
Green.
Yellow.
Green.
Yellow
Green
Yellow
Green
Yellowgreenyellowgreen
The straining stirs of the remote clicking channels down the hall, sports, news, sitcoms, so quiet you can only make out the canned laughter, filter into the room like thready fog, the only light in the whole downstairs coming from the television as I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling watching the walls spin around me, green, yellow, green, yellow, each wall painted a Hallmark-y pastel version of the primary:
Green: Orchard Pear
Yellow: Pale Plantain
Green: Lilypad
Yellow: Butter Creme
...and Roenick takes the puck around the net...
...fair and cloudy with a high of 45...
...what'chyoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?...
This room used to be ours, then it was hers and I moved next door and it was hers forever, then it was no one's, now it's mine again, her color scheme still attached, I haven't slept here since 2nd, 3rd grade, my stuff feels clumsy in here, had to fight with the outlets to get everything placed right, underneath the two transom-like windows which look out ground-level with our driveway sits my altar, a small bit of nothingness which I barely sit at, and then assorted appliances and lights circling the perimeter with my bed facing away from the hallway, using the wall as a headboard, both sides of the bed away from any other walls which I've never done with a bed before, floating like an island, untethered and spinning like a turd circling the drain...
Green
sweet pea
Yellow
...can be yours for 3 easy installments of $49.95...
autumn sunrise
Green
irish spring
...things you can say to your dog but not your girlfriend...
Yellow
golden shower
Green
...shot at the buzzerrrrrrraaaaand IT'S NO GOOD!...
leprechaun puke
Yellow
stale urine
...six were killed in the brutal fire. More to follow...
I am waiting, I am waiting for my father to go to sleep, waiting for him to turn off the TV and go upstairs to bed so I can sneak out to the patio and smoke a cigarette or a bowl or finish my drink or all three, usually all three, my feet hanging over the side shuffle about and hit the spent beer and wine bottles underneath me, my hand shifts under the pillow and knocks into the well-used lube and cock pump, the wallet jutting out of my back pocket with a razor blade digging into my ass, I can't get to sleep yet all I dream about is grade school and weird stories with people I haven't known in years, and her, always her, every hour, awake or not, always reviewing the events of last year, what happened, why, how could I have been different, better, perfect for her, why wasn't I perfect for her, how did it all go wrong, life was so perfect so perfect everything was going to work perfectly but it didnt why didnt it why why why cant i get it out of my head why cant she see her mistake why did i lose everything why did i end up back here why isnt she going through the same shit why do i have to do this all on my own why
...USA Up! All Night...
green biting envy
...starts tomorrow everywhere...
yellow crippling jaundice
...sponsored in part by...
green rotting carrion
...Act now!...
yellow sebaceous pus
...fair and cloudy with a--
*click*
Or maybe it's not like that.
Maybe the TV's off, been off for hours. Maybe I drifted off already, stirring out of an alpha-wave nap. Maybe I had a real busy day, worked a double-shift or hit the gym for an hour or two afterwards; couple miles on the elliptical, kicking ass on the rowing machine, some weights, abs. Maybe I kept myself to less than 5 cigarettes today and passed up the liquor store on my way home. Maybe I meditated to stave off the jonesing and fell into a trance. Maybe I sat up waiting and fell asleep of my own accord. Maybe I can drift back off with no provocation, without the thoughts, and get a natural night's sleep so I can start tomorrow with a fresh new beginning.
Maybe.
It doesn't really matter.
Since it's still now I walk out to the kitchen downstairs, find my father's hidden bourbon bottle, pour myself a healthy glass and pour water into the bottle. I tell myself I am helping him. No lights on but I don't bump into anything, a practiced swerve, as I move to the sliding glass door, unlatch it, and flow out onto the patio. Over to the seldom-used gardening hutch, open a drawer, and pluck out the half-filled bowl. And then it's me and the patio. I look out over the prairie land stretching beyond and beneath the developing subdivisions and golf courses. And I think about what it might have been once, the busy street bordering our backyard like some tributary of the Mississippi. And I'll venture onto the lawn, littered with cigarette butts like mutant snowflakes. And I lay down staring up. And I bellow and scream. Drink way too much. Recite π to 45 places, the alphabet backwards, my own poetry. Break bottles. Hurl lighters. Curse the world and everyone on it. Sometimes I go up the stairs. On the deck. It's just a short hop to the roof. And I'm on. Every inch of it. Fixing the dent in the chimney. Dancing right above my sleeping parents. Jut right against the edge like Stallone in Cliffhanger. Blearily looking out onto the crisp clearness, the night so beautiful it sucks everything in and never says a word.
But only sometimes.
Usually I just sit silently on the steps rocking. And I think. And wonder.
Why.
Her.
Why
why why
for hours.
Just like leaving Iowa.
I'm so strung out.
My circadian rhythm's gone to shit.
I'll be hungover bad tomorrow for work.
Probably still drunk.
The staff'll know.
So will the kids.
This becomes what I look forward to every day.
I'll come to base my schedule around it.
When I've had my fill outside I'll come inside the patio doors and cool down in the living room watching some TV. The only television in the house with cable is downstairs, and I used to spend childhood evenings waiting for my Dad to go to sleep so I could surf the channels after hours. I would grab the cable guide right when it came in the mail and search the movie listings in back for anything marked Brief Nudity, Nudity, or Strong Sexual Content. Then I'd stay up until 3 in the morning waiting for flashes of boobs or soft-core grinding, and exploring myself. But always wary, always anxious, thumb forever circling the Power button, ready to strike at the slightest sound of a floorboard creak upstairs. At any second Mom or Dad could come down those stairs. "Kevin, honey, is that you?" Heavy breathing, flesh on-screen, me holding parts of myself; how could I explain that? So, every time, the volume hovering over nothing, blanket strategically in place, ready to shut off at the slightest sound.
Even though I know better.
Back in high school I was playing with a candle late at night when I threw a spent match into my garbage can and set it on fire. In a panic I tried to bring water from the bathroom down the hall to put it out but it just got bigger, so I brought the garbage can to the bathroom. Smoke alarm goes off. I extinguish the flame and cut my finger snapping the 9-volt battery out of the casing. Then I shoved the can in my closet and sat, rocking, shuddering, wondering what I was going to say to my parents when they arrived. But they never did. Nor did my sister sleeping next door. Didn't mention anything the next morning, either.
Every day since, whether I'm getting blitzed under the deck, dancing on the rooftops, or touching myself in the living room, the same thought pops into mind:
Thank God they sleep like logs.
Green.
Yellow.
Green.
Yellow.
Green.
Yellow
Green
Yellow
Green
Yellowgreenyellowgreen
The straining stirs of the remote clicking channels down the hall, sports, news, sitcoms, so quiet you can only make out the canned laughter, filter into the room like thready fog, the only light in the whole downstairs coming from the television as I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling watching the walls spin around me, green, yellow, green, yellow, each wall painted a Hallmark-y pastel version of the primary:
Green: Orchard Pear
Yellow: Pale Plantain
Green: Lilypad
Yellow: Butter Creme
...and Roenick takes the puck around the net...
...fair and cloudy with a high of 45...
...what'chyoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?...
This room used to be ours, then it was hers and I moved next door and it was hers forever, then it was no one's, now it's mine again, her color scheme still attached, I haven't slept here since 2nd, 3rd grade, my stuff feels clumsy in here, had to fight with the outlets to get everything placed right, underneath the two transom-like windows which look out ground-level with our driveway sits my altar, a small bit of nothingness which I barely sit at, and then assorted appliances and lights circling the perimeter with my bed facing away from the hallway, using the wall as a headboard, both sides of the bed away from any other walls which I've never done with a bed before, floating like an island, untethered and spinning like a turd circling the drain...
Green
sweet pea
Yellow
...can be yours for 3 easy installments of $49.95...
autumn sunrise
Green
irish spring
...things you can say to your dog but not your girlfriend...
Yellow
golden shower
Green
...shot at the buzzerrrrrrraaaaand IT'S NO GOOD!...
leprechaun puke
Yellow
stale urine
...six were killed in the brutal fire. More to follow...
I am waiting, I am waiting for my father to go to sleep, waiting for him to turn off the TV and go upstairs to bed so I can sneak out to the patio and smoke a cigarette or a bowl or finish my drink or all three, usually all three, my feet hanging over the side shuffle about and hit the spent beer and wine bottles underneath me, my hand shifts under the pillow and knocks into the well-used lube and cock pump, the wallet jutting out of my back pocket with a razor blade digging into my ass, I can't get to sleep yet all I dream about is grade school and weird stories with people I haven't known in years, and her, always her, every hour, awake or not, always reviewing the events of last year, what happened, why, how could I have been different, better, perfect for her, why wasn't I perfect for her, how did it all go wrong, life was so perfect so perfect everything was going to work perfectly but it didnt why didnt it why why why cant i get it out of my head why cant she see her mistake why did i lose everything why did i end up back here why isnt she going through the same shit why do i have to do this all on my own why
...USA Up! All Night...
green biting envy
...starts tomorrow everywhere...
yellow crippling jaundice
...sponsored in part by...
green rotting carrion
...Act now!...
yellow sebaceous pus
...fair and cloudy with a--
*click*
Or maybe it's not like that.
Maybe the TV's off, been off for hours. Maybe I drifted off already, stirring out of an alpha-wave nap. Maybe I had a real busy day, worked a double-shift or hit the gym for an hour or two afterwards; couple miles on the elliptical, kicking ass on the rowing machine, some weights, abs. Maybe I kept myself to less than 5 cigarettes today and passed up the liquor store on my way home. Maybe I meditated to stave off the jonesing and fell into a trance. Maybe I sat up waiting and fell asleep of my own accord. Maybe I can drift back off with no provocation, without the thoughts, and get a natural night's sleep so I can start tomorrow with a fresh new beginning.
Maybe.
It doesn't really matter.
Since it's still now I walk out to the kitchen downstairs, find my father's hidden bourbon bottle, pour myself a healthy glass and pour water into the bottle. I tell myself I am helping him. No lights on but I don't bump into anything, a practiced swerve, as I move to the sliding glass door, unlatch it, and flow out onto the patio. Over to the seldom-used gardening hutch, open a drawer, and pluck out the half-filled bowl. And then it's me and the patio. I look out over the prairie land stretching beyond and beneath the developing subdivisions and golf courses. And I think about what it might have been once, the busy street bordering our backyard like some tributary of the Mississippi. And I'll venture onto the lawn, littered with cigarette butts like mutant snowflakes. And I lay down staring up. And I bellow and scream. Drink way too much. Recite π to 45 places, the alphabet backwards, my own poetry. Break bottles. Hurl lighters. Curse the world and everyone on it. Sometimes I go up the stairs. On the deck. It's just a short hop to the roof. And I'm on. Every inch of it. Fixing the dent in the chimney. Dancing right above my sleeping parents. Jut right against the edge like Stallone in Cliffhanger. Blearily looking out onto the crisp clearness, the night so beautiful it sucks everything in and never says a word.
But only sometimes.
Usually I just sit silently on the steps rocking. And I think. And wonder.
Why.
Her.
Why
why why
for hours.
Just like leaving Iowa.
I'm so strung out.
My circadian rhythm's gone to shit.
I'll be hungover bad tomorrow for work.
Probably still drunk.
The staff'll know.
So will the kids.
This becomes what I look forward to every day.
I'll come to base my schedule around it.
When I've had my fill outside I'll come inside the patio doors and cool down in the living room watching some TV. The only television in the house with cable is downstairs, and I used to spend childhood evenings waiting for my Dad to go to sleep so I could surf the channels after hours. I would grab the cable guide right when it came in the mail and search the movie listings in back for anything marked Brief Nudity, Nudity, or Strong Sexual Content. Then I'd stay up until 3 in the morning waiting for flashes of boobs or soft-core grinding, and exploring myself. But always wary, always anxious, thumb forever circling the Power button, ready to strike at the slightest sound of a floorboard creak upstairs. At any second Mom or Dad could come down those stairs. "Kevin, honey, is that you?" Heavy breathing, flesh on-screen, me holding parts of myself; how could I explain that? So, every time, the volume hovering over nothing, blanket strategically in place, ready to shut off at the slightest sound.
Even though I know better.
Back in high school I was playing with a candle late at night when I threw a spent match into my garbage can and set it on fire. In a panic I tried to bring water from the bathroom down the hall to put it out but it just got bigger, so I brought the garbage can to the bathroom. Smoke alarm goes off. I extinguish the flame and cut my finger snapping the 9-volt battery out of the casing. Then I shoved the can in my closet and sat, rocking, shuddering, wondering what I was going to say to my parents when they arrived. But they never did. Nor did my sister sleeping next door. Didn't mention anything the next morning, either.
Every day since, whether I'm getting blitzed under the deck, dancing on the rooftops, or touching myself in the living room, the same thought pops into mind:
Thank God they sleep like logs.
14 February 2009
[untitled]
Compulsive thoughts enter my head
Of sliver-thin silver strips
Sharpened to a point and scratched across skin
A crimson trail left in its wake and a sucking gasp
of peace released
No admission of fraility but a boast of virility
A vermillion victory stripe
A tribal tattoo of tenacity
Severed skin shows my strength
These thoughts enter
Again and again and again
And my face just ends in a grin
Theoretical thoughts put to practice
Transplanted from the danger zone to further on top
My shoulder is a tangle of scar tissue slits
Aiming every which way
Too bad I heal fast, for my fair skin turns them phantom
Too fast
Of sliver-thin silver strips
Sharpened to a point and scratched across skin
A crimson trail left in its wake and a sucking gasp
of peace released
No admission of fraility but a boast of virility
A vermillion victory stripe
A tribal tattoo of tenacity
Severed skin shows my strength
These thoughts enter
Again and again and again
And my face just ends in a grin
Theoretical thoughts put to practice
Transplanted from the danger zone to further on top
My shoulder is a tangle of scar tissue slits
Aiming every which way
Too bad I heal fast, for my fair skin turns them phantom
Too fast
07 February 2009
The Harsh Light of Sobriety
I am
atilt
a simmer
aloof
& alit
atilt
a simmer
aloof
& alit
Restless in bed,
but getting more sleep,
and dreaming vividly.
eVerY LitTle thiNg BUgS mE.
SnapPInG rotTweILer iNside,
aNd out, a hOT shEet of iCe.
Sharpness stings,
nothing sounds right
everything feels prickly
but the heavens assure me
all is as it should be
SnapPInG rotTweILer iNside,
aNd out, a hOT shEet of iCe.
people do nothing but stoke my fire
Sharpness stings,
clarity kills,
avarice avails,
and mundaneness murmurs moribund
God, it's all crap
into a goo of chaotic good.
God, it's all crap
everything feels prickly
but the heavens assure me
all is as it should be
thank you?
29 January 2009
My Ideal Girl
11/7/01
My ideal girl would be very comfortable with her natural beauty.
She would explain to me what it's like to menstrate.
She would have a beautiful tummy and wide, ample hips, and know how to enjoy a good meal.
She would love to wear long, flowing skirts, Chuck Taylor Sneakers, 1970s TV-character t-shirts and costume jewelry; sometimes in the same outfit.
11/11/01
She must like to be sung to.
She must be able to regress into a four-year-old for playtime and exploration.
She must like oral sex, show and tell me how to do it right for her, and beg me for it.
She must like hugs.
She must glance over at me with knowing eyes, speak a silent language only the two of us know.
My ideal girl would be very comfortable with her natural beauty.
She would explain to me what it's like to menstrate.
She would have a beautiful tummy and wide, ample hips, and know how to enjoy a good meal.
She would love to wear long, flowing skirts, Chuck Taylor Sneakers, 1970s TV-character t-shirts and costume jewelry; sometimes in the same outfit.
11/11/01
She must like to be sung to.
She must be able to regress into a four-year-old for playtime and exploration.
She must like oral sex, show and tell me how to do it right for her, and beg me for it.
She must like hugs.
She must glance over at me with knowing eyes, speak a silent language only the two of us know.
25 January 2009
Prologue: Year Zero II
“So this is what Death feels like...”
Yesterday, July 29, 2001. Bloomingdale, IL. Stratford Square Mall. 12:06 p.m. Sitting outside the Food Court staring at children tossing pennies into the indoor fountain
This is exactly where I was when I realized what death was.
Numerologically, for me the day was a 7, indicative of its time in a nine-day cycle to get in touch with divinity and to be alone and ponderous. It was also a Sunday, sacred to Wiccans and other magickians as the day to praise Saturn, the Roman god of death. For most of the rest of America, Sunday also represents the end of the week, the day to sober up from the frivolities of the weekend and ready themselves for the work week ahead. Even God himself stopped creating life on Sunday and took time to look back over all he hath done.
Spiritually and culturally, everything was in place.
And there I sat, in the middle of a temple of suburban overdeveloped commercialism, watching snot-nosed suburban Abercrombie & Fitch kids toss shiny pennies into the timed choreographed blasts of an upward-shooting Disney-imagineer-styled indoor fountain, and the clearest thought that entered my head was,
“So this is what Death feels like...”
Seventh chakra fully open and glowing. The pinnacle of Maslow's hierarchy attained.
Self-actualization.
White light. White heat.
White noise.
All else droned out.
“So this is what Death feels like...”
Let me tell you a bit about myself. I'm twenty-three years old. I have spent the last six years of my life living alone and independently in a college town. Iowa City. “The Athens of the Midwest.” The first four-and-a-half of those years I spend studying towards a B.A. in psychology, which I attained. I also, through that time, acquired a huge circle of diverse and close-knit friends, held a salaried position as a nursing assistant in the psychiatric ward of the University of Iowa hospital, and met my officially first and hoped-to-be-final girlfriend.
I was deliriously happy.
The latter year-and-a-half I had free time to pursue other interests. My eternal desire to be an actor. A burgeoning desire for screenwriting and film. Performing my own monologues and poetry in front of a crowd. Moving in with my girlfriend and planning to follow her to Pennsylvania for grad school once she finally got out of college.
Nothing in life could seem to be better.
Then, all of a sudden, right around October of 2000, a 7 month for me, things began to change, to die. My girlfriend and I re-evaluated our relationship and decided that at our youthful age, we could maintain our devotion to one another (under the same roof) and start to venture out to try new terrain. She was in school. I was a working stiff. She had my car, my attention, my resources, all donated to help her get through school easier. I had a 40-minute walk to work at 6:00 am most days from a basement apartment located 25 minutes walking from anywhere social in town, friends still in school whose schedules were incompatible from my erratic non-9-to-5-Monday-through-Friday work times, and a growing sense of ignorance from her. I gripped harder, she shunned stronger.
She had study sessions, alcohol and flirtations galore.
I had a basement, alcohol, and independent films to relate to.
Things didn't work out.
We eventually grew so much tension between us that we both moved out to go our own way. Both living alone. She grew closer to her cultish new friends and even developed a new love interest. I grew deeper and deeper into myself, studying Taoism, Numerology, Chakras, and dreaming of going off into the world to strike it out on my own.
Everything in Iowa City reminded me of her.
Every CD in my collection reminded me of her.
Every book I read reminded me of her.
Everything I wrote was based off my memories of her
(including this)
Somehow we still kept in touch
Albeit rather painfully at times.
Depression set in. Low-grade alcohol dependence. Increased marijuana use. Stolen barbituates from the hospital. Panic attacks. St. John's Wort, Kava Kava. A pack-and-a-half a day smoking habit. Four-and-a-half hour conversations with myself in my secluded one-room apartment. Shaven head. Meditation. Insomnia. Money spent frivilously on myself to buy happiness; New clothes, good food, pot, Daily six-packs of Milwaukee's Best. A failed relationship with an immature, guarded 19-year-old. Impotence. Mental breakdown.
I was beginning to resemble the psychotic patients I took care of.
I should have known. Numerologically her destiny number is a 7. She's a Pisces, too flighty and idealistic for a grounded Libra like me.
I broke. Hit a dead end.
Nothing to do but go back to the place that bore me.
So yesterday I sat, three days after I moved back in with my parents. Sat categorically broke, with less than $150 to my name and no independent savings. Sat in an area of the country I was so happy to leave, an area based on brand names, strip malls, SUVs, ritzy designer homes, snobby upwardly-mobile families with more money than they can deal with. Sat in this testament to consumerism watching this water fountain, this antithesis of a fireworks display. Sat without a friend to call my own save the two people who were about to beg me to move back in. Sat with my crumbled dream 240 miles away with friends I froze up too much within myself to enjoy during our last weeks together. Sat numb in a web of overlapping villages where every restaurant advertises a children's special and a senior discount daily. Sat without guidance, an art-house theater, a community acting troupe, or any kind of burgeoning bohemian underground. Sat in a land of career mobility, fluorescent lights, resumés, aggressive office mentality, softball Friday nights, corporate mentality, and automation. Sat in a target audience I was too old, too young, and too intellectual for.
Mid-twenties breakdown.
Ground zero.
“So this is what Death feels like...”
Thing is, I still love her even though I can't bear to speak to her. She will still be the death of me.
Yesterday, July 29, 2001. Bloomingdale, IL. Stratford Square Mall. 12:06 p.m. Sitting outside the Food Court staring at children tossing pennies into the indoor fountain
This is exactly where I was when I realized what death was.
Numerologically, for me the day was a 7, indicative of its time in a nine-day cycle to get in touch with divinity and to be alone and ponderous. It was also a Sunday, sacred to Wiccans and other magickians as the day to praise Saturn, the Roman god of death. For most of the rest of America, Sunday also represents the end of the week, the day to sober up from the frivolities of the weekend and ready themselves for the work week ahead. Even God himself stopped creating life on Sunday and took time to look back over all he hath done.
Spiritually and culturally, everything was in place.
And there I sat, in the middle of a temple of suburban overdeveloped commercialism, watching snot-nosed suburban Abercrombie & Fitch kids toss shiny pennies into the timed choreographed blasts of an upward-shooting Disney-imagineer-styled indoor fountain, and the clearest thought that entered my head was,
“So this is what Death feels like...”
Seventh chakra fully open and glowing. The pinnacle of Maslow's hierarchy attained.
Self-actualization.
White light. White heat.
White noise.
All else droned out.
“So this is what Death feels like...”
Let me tell you a bit about myself. I'm twenty-three years old. I have spent the last six years of my life living alone and independently in a college town. Iowa City. “The Athens of the Midwest.” The first four-and-a-half of those years I spend studying towards a B.A. in psychology, which I attained. I also, through that time, acquired a huge circle of diverse and close-knit friends, held a salaried position as a nursing assistant in the psychiatric ward of the University of Iowa hospital, and met my officially first and hoped-to-be-final girlfriend.
I was deliriously happy.
The latter year-and-a-half I had free time to pursue other interests. My eternal desire to be an actor. A burgeoning desire for screenwriting and film. Performing my own monologues and poetry in front of a crowd. Moving in with my girlfriend and planning to follow her to Pennsylvania for grad school once she finally got out of college.
Nothing in life could seem to be better.
Then, all of a sudden, right around October of 2000, a 7 month for me, things began to change, to die. My girlfriend and I re-evaluated our relationship and decided that at our youthful age, we could maintain our devotion to one another (under the same roof) and start to venture out to try new terrain. She was in school. I was a working stiff. She had my car, my attention, my resources, all donated to help her get through school easier. I had a 40-minute walk to work at 6:00 am most days from a basement apartment located 25 minutes walking from anywhere social in town, friends still in school whose schedules were incompatible from my erratic non-9-to-5-Monday-through-Friday work times, and a growing sense of ignorance from her. I gripped harder, she shunned stronger.
She had study sessions, alcohol and flirtations galore.
I had a basement, alcohol, and independent films to relate to.
Things didn't work out.
We eventually grew so much tension between us that we both moved out to go our own way. Both living alone. She grew closer to her cultish new friends and even developed a new love interest. I grew deeper and deeper into myself, studying Taoism, Numerology, Chakras, and dreaming of going off into the world to strike it out on my own.
Everything in Iowa City reminded me of her.
Every CD in my collection reminded me of her.
Every book I read reminded me of her.
Everything I wrote was based off my memories of her
(including this)
Somehow we still kept in touch
Albeit rather painfully at times.
Depression set in. Low-grade alcohol dependence. Increased marijuana use. Stolen barbituates from the hospital. Panic attacks. St. John's Wort, Kava Kava. A pack-and-a-half a day smoking habit. Four-and-a-half hour conversations with myself in my secluded one-room apartment. Shaven head. Meditation. Insomnia. Money spent frivilously on myself to buy happiness; New clothes, good food, pot, Daily six-packs of Milwaukee's Best. A failed relationship with an immature, guarded 19-year-old. Impotence. Mental breakdown.
I was beginning to resemble the psychotic patients I took care of.
I should have known. Numerologically her destiny number is a 7. She's a Pisces, too flighty and idealistic for a grounded Libra like me.
I broke. Hit a dead end.
Nothing to do but go back to the place that bore me.
So yesterday I sat, three days after I moved back in with my parents. Sat categorically broke, with less than $150 to my name and no independent savings. Sat in an area of the country I was so happy to leave, an area based on brand names, strip malls, SUVs, ritzy designer homes, snobby upwardly-mobile families with more money than they can deal with. Sat in this testament to consumerism watching this water fountain, this antithesis of a fireworks display. Sat without a friend to call my own save the two people who were about to beg me to move back in. Sat with my crumbled dream 240 miles away with friends I froze up too much within myself to enjoy during our last weeks together. Sat numb in a web of overlapping villages where every restaurant advertises a children's special and a senior discount daily. Sat without guidance, an art-house theater, a community acting troupe, or any kind of burgeoning bohemian underground. Sat in a land of career mobility, fluorescent lights, resumés, aggressive office mentality, softball Friday nights, corporate mentality, and automation. Sat in a target audience I was too old, too young, and too intellectual for.
Mid-twenties breakdown.
Ground zero.
“So this is what Death feels like...”
Thing is, I still love her even though I can't bear to speak to her. She will still be the death of me.
21 January 2009
Poem: Won
I am wan.
Pale-faced and shrivled, nothing left but a hole
Alone with myself, a figure of solitude
Fully encased in a thick, constrictive shell, meek as a mite
While inside my mind inflames to the strenuous strain
Grating away as I compress down low to rest
Pale-faced and shrivled, nothing left but a hole
Alone with myself, a figure of solitude
Fully encased in a thick, constrictive shell, meek as a mite
While inside my mind inflames to the strenuous strain
Grating away as I compress down low to rest
Break the flow of pain, let it wash out
My self begins to emit a change, magnified by a
mere roar
A magnificent change, a time to begin myself
Shhh-out against the pain to force a break
My self begins to emit a change, magnified by a
mere roar
A magnificent change, a time to begin myself
Shhh-out against the pain to force a break
Wrest myself up high as I come, pressed with great
Strength stemming from my mind aflame with wise wile
Might like a mean, well-constructed truck driven in a caged fool
Too, solid, my figure alone
Whole, yet left everything shifted and facing no pale
I am one.
Strength stemming from my mind aflame with wise wile
Might like a mean, well-constructed truck driven in a caged fool
Too, solid, my figure alone
Whole, yet left everything shifted and facing no pale
I am one.
18 January 2009
Compassion For Boxing Lessons
Thoughts turn to vapor before their conception
Is it Zen or apathy?
I hear music, but it won't invoke anything
It stays static in the air
Won't give a spark, won't stir the coals
Just lingers in the air
As if it liquefies into water and slides off my oily mind
But even my oiled mind won't set into motion
Insert coin here
Turn the crank
Hook up the cables and give it a boost
Nothing
Quiet
Dormant
Stationary
I am aware of
Bad pop music on the jukebox
The smattering of people among the rather vacant booths
The fact that I've have half an hour before rehearsal and I've done nothing really practical today
The fifth-rate prose I've written after months of a dry spell
The day feels frivolously wasted
I'm not even daydreaming, a scary thought
Is it worth it?
Is this a much-needed rest, or am I succumbing to my Libran laziness?
I should exercise
I should try to work up an appetite today
I should make the day worthwhile somehow
I should go out and do something
But I don't feel like it.
Angsty
Desireless
Pensive about wanting to be pensive
Frustrated
I want to sleep and start the day, the year all over again
Fucking time won't allow
Unidirectional bastard
I want to do nothing and have everything completed
But it's not happening
Broken responsibilities
Casting off necessary ballast
Piece-of-shit goddamn motherfucker
Fucking with my head
Making me feel useless
Unworthy
Stupid
Like a goddamn boil on the face of humanity
Pissed-off
I want to break something
I want to smash plates on the floor and listen to every delicious crash
I want to beat the shit out of a random passerby
I want to come home bruised, bloody, scarred and satisfied
Fuck guns; What a pussy way to inflict pain
Let's tussle on the ground, pull hair, tear skin, dig in nails until blood pours out
Punch in the gut and make him deflate and melt into a puddle on the pavement
Stand over him and just cackle as I kick him in the ribs until something snaps
No remorse
Not one fucking ounce of remorse
Walk away proud, content, and ready for more with the biggest grin on my face
As if I just came into a virgin who fought back
Walk around and have people not respect but fear me
Know that I have such power over them
Never take anything back
Never worry about the consequences tomorrow
Never be scared anymore
Fuck up someone's face until their Mom doesn't even care to know him
Make it deliberate, unrepairable, permanent
And sing arias all while it's happening
I have wanted to smash a guy's nose into my knee
Drive bone into bone into brain
Leave a crimson butterfly stain on my pant leg
Not smack someone across the head but emboss my knuckles into their cheek
I'm just pissed off and frustrated
Repressed, I guess
It's been so long since I've regularly been a part of my friends' lives
Since I've been a part of someone's intimate life
Since I've been a part of her life
I miss her. A whole fucking lot
But I don't like what she's become
A selfish drunken tart with no sense of object permanence
She daily hangs off the elbow of that alcoholic asshole author
And still, for reasons only Allah knows, she floods messages on my answering machine
And like a goddamned dog, I hear the beeps and salivate
Let her mop up the floor with me
Ask for nothing in return, even plead for no remittance
Stupid-ass weak-kneed motherfucking pussy
I'm way too good
Not only for her but for most everyone else I know
I'm too good for my own good
Need to be like every other 23-year-old
Need to learn to play by the rules, even if the rules were written by the largest group of freeloading retarded monkeys
Motherfucking psychotic hedonistic meat puppets
Apparently, the true love doesn't enter life until your 30s
Any earlier and it's a mutation, an anomaly, a freak of human nature
“You haven't experienced enough to really know what true love is.”
The biggest lump of pure Grade-D bullshit I've heard
Motherfucking puritanical dribble copout
Music again
The same fucking song I heard twice over when I was in here earlier today
Ate too much too fast
Getting too tired to be rageful
Blah
Nothing
If I were a cartoon, a black scribble cloud would form over my head
Good Motherfucking Grief, Charlie Brown
I'm not happy
I haven't really been genuinely happy since things were going wonderfully with her.
I know she's happy. Weirdly happy. My fucking eye.
The girl could find happiness in a motherfucking scratch on the wall to stare at.
I wouldn't be bothered as much, but everything's happening right under my goddamn nose
I worry to death when I don't know, I beat myself up when I do know
I want to not care
I've overpaid my dues and there's no fucking rebate
Time to punch the clock and return to me
And what a mess I am
I don't understand...much, really. I like to think I do, but it all comes back in my face and I end up looking and feeling like an idiotic fool
Self-esteem shot through the basement
Happens way too often
Can't really shut it off
Listening without digestion or reaction; a fool's game
I've lost sight of how others see me
I reinvent myself every day
Consistency for shit
I need to buy a strong, steadfast personality and implant it into my spine
Right now I can be anyone at all
Right now people want someone for the moment
I don't match
I have become cumbersome to this world
Clunky and tangled, a child's scribble of impotence
Even my dick agrees
Male sensitivity isn't supposed to be inborn, it's supposed to emerge from the female in your life
She can “change” him for the better
Uh-huh
My ass.
This is who I am, and I can't hide from it.
Right now I hate the situation, but, God help me, I can't pass on just yet
I want a lot of what I haven't got
I'd gladly trade
Two pounds of sensitivity for two of aggression
A good listening ear for an everpresent libido
Compassion for boxing lessons
All who I am for a girl to want me
Fuck shit goddamn pissant cocksucking bastard
I feel
Unacceptable
Rejected
Disposable
Unnecessary
Stuffed into a shoebox and shoved on the top shelf of a guest room closet
Saved for later
I need an expiration date
Mold away, decompose and help form other, better things
Is it Zen or apathy?
I hear music, but it won't invoke anything
It stays static in the air
Won't give a spark, won't stir the coals
Just lingers in the air
As if it liquefies into water and slides off my oily mind
But even my oiled mind won't set into motion
Insert coin here
Turn the crank
Hook up the cables and give it a boost
Nothing
Quiet
Dormant
Stationary
I am aware of
Bad pop music on the jukebox
The smattering of people among the rather vacant booths
The fact that I've have half an hour before rehearsal and I've done nothing really practical today
The fifth-rate prose I've written after months of a dry spell
The day feels frivolously wasted
I'm not even daydreaming, a scary thought
Is it worth it?
Is this a much-needed rest, or am I succumbing to my Libran laziness?
I should exercise
I should try to work up an appetite today
I should make the day worthwhile somehow
I should go out and do something
But I don't feel like it.
Angsty
Desireless
Pensive about wanting to be pensive
Frustrated
I want to sleep and start the day, the year all over again
Fucking time won't allow
Unidirectional bastard
I want to do nothing and have everything completed
But it's not happening
Broken responsibilities
Casting off necessary ballast
Piece-of-shit goddamn motherfucker
Fucking with my head
Making me feel useless
Unworthy
Stupid
Like a goddamn boil on the face of humanity
Pissed-off
I want to break something
I want to smash plates on the floor and listen to every delicious crash
I want to beat the shit out of a random passerby
I want to come home bruised, bloody, scarred and satisfied
Fuck guns; What a pussy way to inflict pain
Let's tussle on the ground, pull hair, tear skin, dig in nails until blood pours out
Punch in the gut and make him deflate and melt into a puddle on the pavement
Stand over him and just cackle as I kick him in the ribs until something snaps
No remorse
Not one fucking ounce of remorse
Walk away proud, content, and ready for more with the biggest grin on my face
As if I just came into a virgin who fought back
Walk around and have people not respect but fear me
Know that I have such power over them
Never take anything back
Never worry about the consequences tomorrow
Never be scared anymore
Fuck up someone's face until their Mom doesn't even care to know him
Make it deliberate, unrepairable, permanent
And sing arias all while it's happening
I have wanted to smash a guy's nose into my knee
Drive bone into bone into brain
Leave a crimson butterfly stain on my pant leg
Not smack someone across the head but emboss my knuckles into their cheek
I'm just pissed off and frustrated
Repressed, I guess
It's been so long since I've regularly been a part of my friends' lives
Since I've been a part of someone's intimate life
Since I've been a part of her life
I miss her. A whole fucking lot
But I don't like what she's become
A selfish drunken tart with no sense of object permanence
She daily hangs off the elbow of that alcoholic asshole author
And still, for reasons only Allah knows, she floods messages on my answering machine
And like a goddamned dog, I hear the beeps and salivate
Let her mop up the floor with me
Ask for nothing in return, even plead for no remittance
Stupid-ass weak-kneed motherfucking pussy
I'm way too good
Not only for her but for most everyone else I know
I'm too good for my own good
Need to be like every other 23-year-old
Need to learn to play by the rules, even if the rules were written by the largest group of freeloading retarded monkeys
Motherfucking psychotic hedonistic meat puppets
Apparently, the true love doesn't enter life until your 30s
Any earlier and it's a mutation, an anomaly, a freak of human nature
“You haven't experienced enough to really know what true love is.”
The biggest lump of pure Grade-D bullshit I've heard
Motherfucking puritanical dribble copout
Music again
The same fucking song I heard twice over when I was in here earlier today
Ate too much too fast
Getting too tired to be rageful
Blah
Nothing
If I were a cartoon, a black scribble cloud would form over my head
Good Motherfucking Grief, Charlie Brown
I'm not happy
I haven't really been genuinely happy since things were going wonderfully with her.
I know she's happy. Weirdly happy. My fucking eye.
The girl could find happiness in a motherfucking scratch on the wall to stare at.
I wouldn't be bothered as much, but everything's happening right under my goddamn nose
I worry to death when I don't know, I beat myself up when I do know
I want to not care
I've overpaid my dues and there's no fucking rebate
Time to punch the clock and return to me
And what a mess I am
I don't understand...much, really. I like to think I do, but it all comes back in my face and I end up looking and feeling like an idiotic fool
Self-esteem shot through the basement
Happens way too often
Can't really shut it off
Listening without digestion or reaction; a fool's game
I've lost sight of how others see me
I reinvent myself every day
Consistency for shit
I need to buy a strong, steadfast personality and implant it into my spine
Right now I can be anyone at all
Right now people want someone for the moment
I don't match
I have become cumbersome to this world
Clunky and tangled, a child's scribble of impotence
Even my dick agrees
Male sensitivity isn't supposed to be inborn, it's supposed to emerge from the female in your life
She can “change” him for the better
Uh-huh
My ass.
This is who I am, and I can't hide from it.
Right now I hate the situation, but, God help me, I can't pass on just yet
I want a lot of what I haven't got
I'd gladly trade
Two pounds of sensitivity for two of aggression
A good listening ear for an everpresent libido
Compassion for boxing lessons
All who I am for a girl to want me
Fuck shit goddamn pissant cocksucking bastard
I feel
Unacceptable
Rejected
Disposable
Unnecessary
Stuffed into a shoebox and shoved on the top shelf of a guest room closet
Saved for later
I need an expiration date
Mold away, decompose and help form other, better things
14 January 2009
Poem: Know This Is True
For The Girl
When I dream I can see...
An essence of beauty, so wholly complete
So perfect in my eyes that none can compete
A modern Pygmalion, Helen of Troy
Could wish to achieve this though devious ploy
Skin smooth as chenille spun by a silkworm
Botticelli body, heavenly and firm
Hair finer than spiders' webs, softer than down
Great ocean of red locks where one prays to drown
Her eyes grey as stone; a flint with sparks afire
Her talented hands teach muses to inspire
When I dream I can see...
Her back is a magnet my hands cannot leave
A tailored embrace, fit like arms through a sleeve
The sight of her causes mens' knees to collapse
One scent and a woozy drool, heartbeats in lapse
Her smile, a porcelain glow filled with pride
But brighter much more is the light from inside
Wisdom and intelligence beyond all scope
A strong, driven, undying beacon of hope
Her quest for fulfillment is, itself, an art
A six-year-old spirit dwells within her heart
When I dream I can see...
One day not far off when we'll stand together
White lace and black suitcoat, bouquet of heather
A nervous ascent toward symbolic Oneness
A family-filled hall, tear-strained with happiness
I'll promise I'll love you through all that will come
You'll know this vow holds; already it's been done
Our hands will be bound in a gauze made of trust
We'll not be 'part through whate'er's to come of us
Then they will congratulate with wine and song
Though I can't help but know I've felt this all 'long
When I wake I can see...
It's not just a vision, my dream is alive
All that I would want is laying by my side
As if desires formed in my sleepy head
Flowed out, made a wish, crafted her in this bed
But she is reluctant, she won't hear my praise
She thinks that the world casts a cold, mocking gaze
My voice has gone hoarse in attempts to persuade
Her of her majesty: Shadows in the shade.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Please know this is true, dear: That you are divine
None less than your quality claim hearts like mine
Ere will I be true so long as you accept
The mirror's reflection, a benchmark done set
Appreciate all who you are in my eyes
Not just my beloved; a sought-after prize
Believe that you are the One, out and within
For when this light hits you, our love can begin
When I dream I can see...
An essence of beauty, so wholly complete
So perfect in my eyes that none can compete
A modern Pygmalion, Helen of Troy
Could wish to achieve this though devious ploy
Skin smooth as chenille spun by a silkworm
Botticelli body, heavenly and firm
Hair finer than spiders' webs, softer than down
Great ocean of red locks where one prays to drown
Her eyes grey as stone; a flint with sparks afire
Her talented hands teach muses to inspire
When I dream I can see...
Her back is a magnet my hands cannot leave
A tailored embrace, fit like arms through a sleeve
The sight of her causes mens' knees to collapse
One scent and a woozy drool, heartbeats in lapse
Her smile, a porcelain glow filled with pride
But brighter much more is the light from inside
Wisdom and intelligence beyond all scope
A strong, driven, undying beacon of hope
Her quest for fulfillment is, itself, an art
A six-year-old spirit dwells within her heart
When I dream I can see...
One day not far off when we'll stand together
White lace and black suitcoat, bouquet of heather
A nervous ascent toward symbolic Oneness
A family-filled hall, tear-strained with happiness
I'll promise I'll love you through all that will come
You'll know this vow holds; already it's been done
Our hands will be bound in a gauze made of trust
We'll not be 'part through whate'er's to come of us
Then they will congratulate with wine and song
Though I can't help but know I've felt this all 'long
When I wake I can see...
It's not just a vision, my dream is alive
All that I would want is laying by my side
As if desires formed in my sleepy head
Flowed out, made a wish, crafted her in this bed
But she is reluctant, she won't hear my praise
She thinks that the world casts a cold, mocking gaze
My voice has gone hoarse in attempts to persuade
Her of her majesty: Shadows in the shade.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Please know this is true, dear: That you are divine
None less than your quality claim hearts like mine
Ere will I be true so long as you accept
The mirror's reflection, a benchmark done set
Appreciate all who you are in my eyes
Not just my beloved; a sought-after prize
Believe that you are the One, out and within
For when this light hits you, our love can begin
11 January 2009
Monologue: The Last Word
(Open on a man sitting on a bench reading a newspaper)
Heh heh heh. Get this shit. “Small-town lawyer appointed to President's National Legal Board. Attorney vows to bring sensibility to government”, (turns page) “Firefighter receives medal for valiant rescue of woman from South Side inferno.” (looks further down page) “Local Girl Wins Talent Search: Filming slated for 2012” (puts paper aside) What a waste of newsprint. (addresses audience as if passerby) Am I right? I mean , do you really wanna wake up in the morning with your cup of decaf and your Egg McMuffin and read this? Just like you woke up yesterday and read the same crap, and tomorrow you'll wake up and find the exact same paper on your doorstep. 'Course not, man, you expect something better. You read the paper 'cause it's the daily diary of history and you don't wanna read all about how she's always got a crush on this guy in biology class, do ya? NO, you wanna read about how she got to second base in the back of her Dad's Cadillac. You wanna read about how she's terrified of askin' her father for a ride to the abortion clinic, huh? You wanna skip that basket of bread and butter and go right for the veal scallopini. Am I right? 'Course I'm right, you know that.
(holds up paper)
Now these people, they're the crush. They think they're making a difference, but they're nothing but a drop of water in the bucket of history. Just like a high school crush. You know what a crush is, don't you? It's a whole lot of time and energy and nervous posturing that results in a brush of hands in the hallway of life. Just like these people. They're nothing. (opens up paper again) Look at these stories. The lawyer out to shake the system. Great, another blood-sucking shyster with “good” intentions goes out to take on Big Brother. You know what they say about good intentions, right? He's gonna end up a patch of asphalt on Highway 666. Ans how many of the government know-it-alls started out the same way as Mr. Smith here? All of 'em, every single last one of them. Once he gets a taste of the power and knows how the game is played, he's gonna take off the sheepskin, too. A recipe for disaster, that's what you got on the front page of your morning news. What a way to start your day. You deserve something better.
(turns page)
Here's that fireman. Hey, you ever get a medal for just doin' your job? 'Course not. You slave away 40 hours a week doin' what's expected of you. (points and talks directly to people in audience) When's the last time you got a certificate for landing that million-dollar deal? Does the mayor come to your house and shake your hand 'cause you did that oil change on Mrs. Jones' car? Or how about a simple thank you for bringing out that guy's coffee hot with two creams like he asked? Nope. Doesn't happen. Am I right? Now, what's a fireman do? He fights fires and saves people, right? Guy does something in his line of work that's right for once and now we gotta stop the city and hold a ticker-tape parade just 'cause he didn't screw up? Is that justice? But you're gonna say, “Oh, but he saved a life. That's important!” Lemme bring something else to mind: What if that lady he saved is a crackwhore and her freebasing started the whole blaze in the first place? Great, now we got a guy not screwing up at work and all he does is keep a drug addict and arsonist back on the street ready to torch another building. And what does the city do? They pat him on the back, give him a hunk of gold, and tell him to do it all over again. It's not right and it's not fair. Not fair to you, am I right?
(looks back at paper)
Oh, the talent search. Don't get me started on this one. Hollywood is such a cesspool nowadays. All TV and movies do anymore is turn kids' minds to goo and make them beat up their best friend. Do we really gotta exploit more chances to raise brain-dead children who kill each other? It's mindless prattle begetting mindless prattle. “Oh, but she worked so hard to fulfill her dream! That's important!” Yeah, she worked real hard. She probably spent lots of time running in place in her room in front of the mirror, eating only a salad a week just to get that “perfect look”. She probably spent lots of her Daddy's money getting cheek lifts and tummy tucks and a boob job just to get that “perfect look”. Any of us got that “perfect look”? 'Course not. We don't got the time or money. We accept our overgrown stomachs, our flabby arms, our imperfect nose. And what do they do with her? They congratulate her self-inflicted torture and frivilous waste of money with a pedestal to present us with another idiotic example of values we cannot attain. She's not changing history. She's killing herself and telling our kids to kill each other. Should we stick her right in the middle of our Monday morning seach for the meaning of life? Please. Now she's becoming a waste of your time and your money. (puts paper aside)
Now I want you all to stop me if I'm not making a lick of sense, but are these the people you want going out to change the world? 'Course not, 'cause they're the wrong people. You know what their problem is? They're delusional people with too much going for them and they haven't a clue how to deal with it. They're the “lucky” ones, born with a high IQ, money to burn, an exciting life, great hair, perfect teeth, so-called talent. They're elitist scum and they think they got what it takes to tell us what to do. Friends, I've read history and I know the ones who actually make a difference are the ones who start off with nothing and then learn the secrets which they share with everyone. That's were true history comes from: Average people who rise up and speak the truth. Martin Luther, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Paine, Rush Limbaugh. Average everyday people. Like us. (points to audience) Like you. Like you. Like me. I got nothing. I'm an ugly son-of-a-bitch with no job, no money, no home, no girl, nothing. But I've been learning. I'm at the library readin' and studin' every day, and I know the truth. And I look around me and all I see are lies, dirty stinking greasy-palmed lies. Am I right? 'Course I'm right. And I'm sick of it. Somebody's got to do something to save the world from the monotonous parade of dangerous deception, and it's up to us, us regular people, to stand up and do something about it. We gotta turn the tide of history.
That's why I'm here today. I'm sittin' on this platform, waiting for the 5:15 because my destiny, our destiny awaits on that train. Today is the beginning of a new era of history, and we're all at the ground zero of a new way of life. No more will we be spoon-fed the lies of society for the sake of conformity. Today our minds will be open to the truth, and everyone will understand our crusade and the news everywhere will ring of a new way of thinking, a new way of life: How things should be. And it's all gonna happen on this train. With us. With you. With me. (pulls out pistol) With this. 'Cause you know what the biggest problem in this world is, huh? Overpopulation, am I right? We got 6 billion people squeezed on this tiny planet and there's so much crap going on. People are starving, everyone's fighting wars, there's not enough food, the rich bastards hoard all the money, the oxygen's getting polluted by too many cars, you can't walk down the street without being mugged or attacked, babies can't dream of becoming President. Our world is becoming hell. And who are the people in the driver's seat? (holds up paper) These crazy pompous asses! They think just 'cause they're so damn special they can write the rules for the rest of us. Today no more. Today we cast off the unnecessary flotsam. Today we thin the herd of the sickly and unjust. Today we make the world a better place. Everyone gets a piece of the pie. Everyone gets their moment to shine. The rules will be rewritten for us by us. We are the future. The future is now.
(looks off Stage Right) Right on time. (puts gun back into pocket) I'm so excited I could burst. Finally we reclaim our birthright. And it all starts with me. (walks forward as if boarding train, but pauses, addresses crowd) See you on the other side.
(holds onto pole on subway train. A couple beats, then he pulls out the gun and holds it barrel pointing to the ceiling)
All right, everyone! Today we're gonna give the world something to read about!
(Gunshots sound)
End.
Heh heh heh. Get this shit. “Small-town lawyer appointed to President's National Legal Board. Attorney vows to bring sensibility to government”, (turns page) “Firefighter receives medal for valiant rescue of woman from South Side inferno.” (looks further down page) “Local Girl Wins Talent Search: Filming slated for 2012” (puts paper aside) What a waste of newsprint. (addresses audience as if passerby) Am I right? I mean , do you really wanna wake up in the morning with your cup of decaf and your Egg McMuffin and read this? Just like you woke up yesterday and read the same crap, and tomorrow you'll wake up and find the exact same paper on your doorstep. 'Course not, man, you expect something better. You read the paper 'cause it's the daily diary of history and you don't wanna read all about how she's always got a crush on this guy in biology class, do ya? NO, you wanna read about how she got to second base in the back of her Dad's Cadillac. You wanna read about how she's terrified of askin' her father for a ride to the abortion clinic, huh? You wanna skip that basket of bread and butter and go right for the veal scallopini. Am I right? 'Course I'm right, you know that.
(holds up paper)
Now these people, they're the crush. They think they're making a difference, but they're nothing but a drop of water in the bucket of history. Just like a high school crush. You know what a crush is, don't you? It's a whole lot of time and energy and nervous posturing that results in a brush of hands in the hallway of life. Just like these people. They're nothing. (opens up paper again) Look at these stories. The lawyer out to shake the system. Great, another blood-sucking shyster with “good” intentions goes out to take on Big Brother. You know what they say about good intentions, right? He's gonna end up a patch of asphalt on Highway 666. Ans how many of the government know-it-alls started out the same way as Mr. Smith here? All of 'em, every single last one of them. Once he gets a taste of the power and knows how the game is played, he's gonna take off the sheepskin, too. A recipe for disaster, that's what you got on the front page of your morning news. What a way to start your day. You deserve something better.
(turns page)
Here's that fireman. Hey, you ever get a medal for just doin' your job? 'Course not. You slave away 40 hours a week doin' what's expected of you. (points and talks directly to people in audience) When's the last time you got a certificate for landing that million-dollar deal? Does the mayor come to your house and shake your hand 'cause you did that oil change on Mrs. Jones' car? Or how about a simple thank you for bringing out that guy's coffee hot with two creams like he asked? Nope. Doesn't happen. Am I right? Now, what's a fireman do? He fights fires and saves people, right? Guy does something in his line of work that's right for once and now we gotta stop the city and hold a ticker-tape parade just 'cause he didn't screw up? Is that justice? But you're gonna say, “Oh, but he saved a life. That's important!” Lemme bring something else to mind: What if that lady he saved is a crackwhore and her freebasing started the whole blaze in the first place? Great, now we got a guy not screwing up at work and all he does is keep a drug addict and arsonist back on the street ready to torch another building. And what does the city do? They pat him on the back, give him a hunk of gold, and tell him to do it all over again. It's not right and it's not fair. Not fair to you, am I right?
(looks back at paper)
Oh, the talent search. Don't get me started on this one. Hollywood is such a cesspool nowadays. All TV and movies do anymore is turn kids' minds to goo and make them beat up their best friend. Do we really gotta exploit more chances to raise brain-dead children who kill each other? It's mindless prattle begetting mindless prattle. “Oh, but she worked so hard to fulfill her dream! That's important!” Yeah, she worked real hard. She probably spent lots of time running in place in her room in front of the mirror, eating only a salad a week just to get that “perfect look”. She probably spent lots of her Daddy's money getting cheek lifts and tummy tucks and a boob job just to get that “perfect look”. Any of us got that “perfect look”? 'Course not. We don't got the time or money. We accept our overgrown stomachs, our flabby arms, our imperfect nose. And what do they do with her? They congratulate her self-inflicted torture and frivilous waste of money with a pedestal to present us with another idiotic example of values we cannot attain. She's not changing history. She's killing herself and telling our kids to kill each other. Should we stick her right in the middle of our Monday morning seach for the meaning of life? Please. Now she's becoming a waste of your time and your money. (puts paper aside)
Now I want you all to stop me if I'm not making a lick of sense, but are these the people you want going out to change the world? 'Course not, 'cause they're the wrong people. You know what their problem is? They're delusional people with too much going for them and they haven't a clue how to deal with it. They're the “lucky” ones, born with a high IQ, money to burn, an exciting life, great hair, perfect teeth, so-called talent. They're elitist scum and they think they got what it takes to tell us what to do. Friends, I've read history and I know the ones who actually make a difference are the ones who start off with nothing and then learn the secrets which they share with everyone. That's were true history comes from: Average people who rise up and speak the truth. Martin Luther, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Paine, Rush Limbaugh. Average everyday people. Like us. (points to audience) Like you. Like you. Like me. I got nothing. I'm an ugly son-of-a-bitch with no job, no money, no home, no girl, nothing. But I've been learning. I'm at the library readin' and studin' every day, and I know the truth. And I look around me and all I see are lies, dirty stinking greasy-palmed lies. Am I right? 'Course I'm right. And I'm sick of it. Somebody's got to do something to save the world from the monotonous parade of dangerous deception, and it's up to us, us regular people, to stand up and do something about it. We gotta turn the tide of history.
That's why I'm here today. I'm sittin' on this platform, waiting for the 5:15 because my destiny, our destiny awaits on that train. Today is the beginning of a new era of history, and we're all at the ground zero of a new way of life. No more will we be spoon-fed the lies of society for the sake of conformity. Today our minds will be open to the truth, and everyone will understand our crusade and the news everywhere will ring of a new way of thinking, a new way of life: How things should be. And it's all gonna happen on this train. With us. With you. With me. (pulls out pistol) With this. 'Cause you know what the biggest problem in this world is, huh? Overpopulation, am I right? We got 6 billion people squeezed on this tiny planet and there's so much crap going on. People are starving, everyone's fighting wars, there's not enough food, the rich bastards hoard all the money, the oxygen's getting polluted by too many cars, you can't walk down the street without being mugged or attacked, babies can't dream of becoming President. Our world is becoming hell. And who are the people in the driver's seat? (holds up paper) These crazy pompous asses! They think just 'cause they're so damn special they can write the rules for the rest of us. Today no more. Today we cast off the unnecessary flotsam. Today we thin the herd of the sickly and unjust. Today we make the world a better place. Everyone gets a piece of the pie. Everyone gets their moment to shine. The rules will be rewritten for us by us. We are the future. The future is now.
(looks off Stage Right) Right on time. (puts gun back into pocket) I'm so excited I could burst. Finally we reclaim our birthright. And it all starts with me. (walks forward as if boarding train, but pauses, addresses crowd) See you on the other side.
(holds onto pole on subway train. A couple beats, then he pulls out the gun and holds it barrel pointing to the ceiling)
All right, everyone! Today we're gonna give the world something to read about!
(Gunshots sound)
End.
09 January 2009
Prologue: Year Zero
Early October 2000
It was autumn. Shortly after my birthday. Kid A by Radiohead was released just the week before, and a ton of us stood outside Record Collector during the Midnight Sale like a bunch of slackjawed fanboys, a delightful little gift to myself. The Ped Mall downtown was usually a bustle of activity: Students rushing to classes or drunkenly shuffling around aimlessly, townies shopping locally from pushcart vendors, and the occasional vagrant playing music for pocket change. Any time of day, round the clock. But this was 5 in the evening. Dinner time. For a good hour and a half, the wide expanse of brick-paved walkways and gazebos line with newly-renovated benches gave way to a Brigadoon-like period of stasis. AdSheets rolling around like tumbleweeds. None but a straggler walking to and fro amongst the fallen leaves.
The Tobacco Bowl was almost as empty as outside. I was inside, sitting, tending to my projects. Since graduation I wanted to get back to my creative roots, and I was spending my time constructing at first a screenplay and then a series of monologues about the price of fame. My girlfriend, The Girl, walks in and gives me a clipping about a new release in books. It's a history of the Second City, stories and interviews from the people who gave it life and made it big. Complete with a 2-disc set of classic routines culled from live recordings. She asked me what I thought of it.
I loved improv. I practiced on my own and even tried to break into a local improv troupe. But I wasn't in a good mood. Especially with her. We had started to drift apart. She was still in school, I was a graduated working stiff. Her life is lively, mine is mundane. I never saw her at home anymore. I didn't like the guy she was hanging out with, a long-haired hard-drinking intellectual English major who captivated her just a little too much too easily.
I said the book was alright. Nice idea, but I don't know how much of a market there is for it. I wouldn't spend money on it.
She looked hurt. I didn't really care. I went back to my monologues. She disappeared. A few minutes later she came back in, left a plastic bag on the table, and walked out. Inside was a brand-new copy of the Second City book from the article. And the receipt.
I knew it wasn't going to end well.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - Everything in Its Right Place
It was autumn. Shortly after my birthday. Kid A by Radiohead was released just the week before, and a ton of us stood outside Record Collector during the Midnight Sale like a bunch of slackjawed fanboys, a delightful little gift to myself. The Ped Mall downtown was usually a bustle of activity: Students rushing to classes or drunkenly shuffling around aimlessly, townies shopping locally from pushcart vendors, and the occasional vagrant playing music for pocket change. Any time of day, round the clock. But this was 5 in the evening. Dinner time. For a good hour and a half, the wide expanse of brick-paved walkways and gazebos line with newly-renovated benches gave way to a Brigadoon-like period of stasis. AdSheets rolling around like tumbleweeds. None but a straggler walking to and fro amongst the fallen leaves.
The Tobacco Bowl was almost as empty as outside. I was inside, sitting, tending to my projects. Since graduation I wanted to get back to my creative roots, and I was spending my time constructing at first a screenplay and then a series of monologues about the price of fame. My girlfriend, The Girl, walks in and gives me a clipping about a new release in books. It's a history of the Second City, stories and interviews from the people who gave it life and made it big. Complete with a 2-disc set of classic routines culled from live recordings. She asked me what I thought of it.
I loved improv. I practiced on my own and even tried to break into a local improv troupe. But I wasn't in a good mood. Especially with her. We had started to drift apart. She was still in school, I was a graduated working stiff. Her life is lively, mine is mundane. I never saw her at home anymore. I didn't like the guy she was hanging out with, a long-haired hard-drinking intellectual English major who captivated her just a little too much too easily.
I said the book was alright. Nice idea, but I don't know how much of a market there is for it. I wouldn't spend money on it.
She looked hurt. I didn't really care. I went back to my monologues. She disappeared. A few minutes later she came back in, left a plastic bag on the table, and walked out. Inside was a brand-new copy of the Second City book from the article. And the receipt.
I knew it wasn't going to end well.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - Everything in Its Right Place
03 January 2009
Monologue: A Cup Of Coffee
Honey! Honey! Quick, turn on the news!
(grabs a chair and sits down)
Have you heard yet? Oh, it was amazing!... Shh! Quiet, quiet! Here it is! (stares at imaginary television) There! There's me! See me?... There's the kid. Yeah! No, it's true. It's all true. It was amazing, it all happened so fast. I wasn't even thinking. It was like a reaction, like an instinct, y'know? I just... did it. Oh honey, sit down, I gotta tell ya all about it! (adjusts chair to be more conversational with wife)
So, I'm workin' at the site, right? And you know we're putting up that new hotel, that 900- room deal right next to the stadium downtown. And this camera crew from Channel 4 Neighborhood News comes by this morning and they're filmin' the site, 'cause this hotel's gonna be, like, the hugest in the state or something. It's big. So they're settin' up all their stuff and there's lights and camera and wires everywhere and I'm on the ground mixing concrete, and I can't do my job good 'cause every time I stir, my ass bumps into this huge ('scuse my French) lamp the set up right behind me. And those suckers get hot! Jeez! I think I gotta hole back there, you may gotta fix.
But anyway, so I'm tryin' to work and this crew's comin' 'round askin' the guys on the site what they think the hotel's gonna mean to the community. I'm tryin' to work without burnin' my ass and this broad in a suit and this guy with a camera for a head come up to me and she shoves a microphone in my face and she says, “Do you think this hotel's a good thing for the city?” And you know me, honey, I ain't the most eloquent speaker in the world, so I clam up 'cause I don't know what to say and I don't wanna sound stupid or nothin', but I gotta say somethin', so I just open my mouth and I say, “Yeah, It's a good thing. Keeps me workin', keeps my kids fed, keeps my wife in fancy clothes, and maybe more people'll come see the Blackcats play some roundball.” Yeah, sounded pretty good to me, too. The broad liked it, too. So, we got done, they thanked me, and they moved on to the next guy.
So they get done interviewin' a bunch of the guys and they give us a huge thank you and start packin' up their stuff. And it's about 10 now and I haven't had a cup of coffee all mornin', and I'm gettin' dog-tired. So I tells Jack to make sure the cement don't set and I head off to the cart to get some coffee. And this is where it all happens, honey. Ya better sit down 'cause here it comes.
Okay, so I'm going to the cart for some coffee and you know that cart's right by Shepard Street, and you know how busy that street gets. So I'm walkin' to the cart, and I see this little kid, gotta be only about four or five, playin' with a ball by the curb all by hisself. And I'm thinkin' to myself that's crazy. Who in their right mind would leave a kid alone all by hisself near a busy street like that? So I'm walkin' to the cart and I'm keepin' an eye out for the parents, y'know, maybe they're nearby and I can tell 'em where their kid's at, 'cause I don't wanna see the kid get hurt or nothin'. But, I don't see no one nowhere and I'm lookin' everywhere. And then it happens. I still can't believe it, it's like a movie goin' slow-motion over and over in my head, I can't stop it. You sittin', honey? Awright.
The ball bounces on the curb and goes into the street, and the kid just goes into the street after it, don't look both ways or nothin'. Just goes right into the street. And the light's changin, and the cars are startin' to tear down the street, right at this little kid. And... I don't know. I just reacted, like an instinct, like I said before. I ran after the kid. Just dropped everything and ran. I ran down to the street, into the street, grabbed the kid by the arm, and pulled him outta the way just as this Chevy Nova was gonna plow into him. Guy didn't even see the kid. If I wasn't 'round, kid would've been roadkill. And all I was thin' to myself was, y'know, what if that kid was my kid, huh? I mean, I don't want that to happen to anyone's kid, but what if that kid was mine? And I just ran after him, on instinct, y'know?
(Beat)
Lemme tell ya, I didn't need no coffee no more. I was so wired I could run a marathon. Kid was fine, though. He didn't even know what was goin' on. I asked if he was okay, and all he could do was stare at the street, lookin' for the ball. But he was fine. And, all of a sudden the broad with the suit runs over to us and asks if we're okay. I couldn't say nothin', but I nodded, and she says they got the whole thing on tape and they wanna do a story on it, right there, right now. Serious, honey, they wanted to do a whole news story on me and the kid. So Camerahead comes back and they test their equipment and whatever and then this broad's just asking questions and stickin' that microphone in my face. And I couldn't unnerstan' a thing she was sayin', the whole thing's playin' over in my head, so when the mic comes, I'm just like, “Uh huh... mm hmmm... “, and like that, y'know? So she asks a bunch questions and we get done, and the broad thanks me and calls me a hero. I said getouttahere, but she said no, that I'm a real hero. I ain't no hero, the kid was just lucky. But she asks my number and tell me they want me to come on their morning show later this week. Y'know, that Four in the Morning? They wanna talk to me on live TV. Can you believe that? And everyone watches that show. I'm gonna be a celebrity. Then she gives me her card, tells me to watch the six o'clock news, tells me to keep in touch, and then they take off...
Yeah, I'm gonna do the show. I gotta take a day offa work, but I'm gonna do it. An opportunity to be on TV don't just fall in your lap. And we gotta tell everyone to watch, tell 'em I'm gonna be on TV. I'm gonna be famous!
The kid? No, the kid's fine. No one could find his parents or nothin', but the police came by and they took the kid and said they were gonna help him, so he's gonna be alright.
Oh, I gotta tell you what happened next. This is great! So the crew's gone and everything died down and I'm just standin' there dazed 'cause all this stuff just happened, and I just start wanderin' over by the cart, 'cause that's the last thing I was doin' before the kid and everything, and the guy at the cart says he saw the whole thing and he gives me a hot dog with everything and a Coke for free. So I gotta free lunch outta this. And another guy standin' at the cart says he saw the whole thing, too, and he gives me a card and says I can have free dry cleaning for life, whenever I want. So I'm already doin' the celebrity thing now. And all the guys at the site were congratulatin' me and pattin' me on the back, tellin' me what a good job I did, and they all pitched in, and I didn't have to do no more heavy liftin' for the rest of the day. So, yeah, it's been a real amazin' day. Yeah.
Thank you, honey. I'm proud of me, too, but I was just doin' what anyone would've done in that situation. I just didn't wanna see the kid get hurt.
(knock at the door) 'Scuse me, honey. (walks over to door and opens it) Johnny! Hey, man, how ya doin'? You see that? Jesus, it's been an excitin' day. I gotta tell ya all about it.
(End.)
(grabs a chair and sits down)
Have you heard yet? Oh, it was amazing!... Shh! Quiet, quiet! Here it is! (stares at imaginary television) There! There's me! See me?... There's the kid. Yeah! No, it's true. It's all true. It was amazing, it all happened so fast. I wasn't even thinking. It was like a reaction, like an instinct, y'know? I just... did it. Oh honey, sit down, I gotta tell ya all about it! (adjusts chair to be more conversational with wife)
So, I'm workin' at the site, right? And you know we're putting up that new hotel, that 900- room deal right next to the stadium downtown. And this camera crew from Channel 4 Neighborhood News comes by this morning and they're filmin' the site, 'cause this hotel's gonna be, like, the hugest in the state or something. It's big. So they're settin' up all their stuff and there's lights and camera and wires everywhere and I'm on the ground mixing concrete, and I can't do my job good 'cause every time I stir, my ass bumps into this huge ('scuse my French) lamp the set up right behind me. And those suckers get hot! Jeez! I think I gotta hole back there, you may gotta fix.
But anyway, so I'm tryin' to work and this crew's comin' 'round askin' the guys on the site what they think the hotel's gonna mean to the community. I'm tryin' to work without burnin' my ass and this broad in a suit and this guy with a camera for a head come up to me and she shoves a microphone in my face and she says, “Do you think this hotel's a good thing for the city?” And you know me, honey, I ain't the most eloquent speaker in the world, so I clam up 'cause I don't know what to say and I don't wanna sound stupid or nothin', but I gotta say somethin', so I just open my mouth and I say, “Yeah, It's a good thing. Keeps me workin', keeps my kids fed, keeps my wife in fancy clothes, and maybe more people'll come see the Blackcats play some roundball.” Yeah, sounded pretty good to me, too. The broad liked it, too. So, we got done, they thanked me, and they moved on to the next guy.
So they get done interviewin' a bunch of the guys and they give us a huge thank you and start packin' up their stuff. And it's about 10 now and I haven't had a cup of coffee all mornin', and I'm gettin' dog-tired. So I tells Jack to make sure the cement don't set and I head off to the cart to get some coffee. And this is where it all happens, honey. Ya better sit down 'cause here it comes.
Okay, so I'm going to the cart for some coffee and you know that cart's right by Shepard Street, and you know how busy that street gets. So I'm walkin' to the cart, and I see this little kid, gotta be only about four or five, playin' with a ball by the curb all by hisself. And I'm thinkin' to myself that's crazy. Who in their right mind would leave a kid alone all by hisself near a busy street like that? So I'm walkin' to the cart and I'm keepin' an eye out for the parents, y'know, maybe they're nearby and I can tell 'em where their kid's at, 'cause I don't wanna see the kid get hurt or nothin'. But, I don't see no one nowhere and I'm lookin' everywhere. And then it happens. I still can't believe it, it's like a movie goin' slow-motion over and over in my head, I can't stop it. You sittin', honey? Awright.
The ball bounces on the curb and goes into the street, and the kid just goes into the street after it, don't look both ways or nothin'. Just goes right into the street. And the light's changin, and the cars are startin' to tear down the street, right at this little kid. And... I don't know. I just reacted, like an instinct, like I said before. I ran after the kid. Just dropped everything and ran. I ran down to the street, into the street, grabbed the kid by the arm, and pulled him outta the way just as this Chevy Nova was gonna plow into him. Guy didn't even see the kid. If I wasn't 'round, kid would've been roadkill. And all I was thin' to myself was, y'know, what if that kid was my kid, huh? I mean, I don't want that to happen to anyone's kid, but what if that kid was mine? And I just ran after him, on instinct, y'know?
(Beat)
Lemme tell ya, I didn't need no coffee no more. I was so wired I could run a marathon. Kid was fine, though. He didn't even know what was goin' on. I asked if he was okay, and all he could do was stare at the street, lookin' for the ball. But he was fine. And, all of a sudden the broad with the suit runs over to us and asks if we're okay. I couldn't say nothin', but I nodded, and she says they got the whole thing on tape and they wanna do a story on it, right there, right now. Serious, honey, they wanted to do a whole news story on me and the kid. So Camerahead comes back and they test their equipment and whatever and then this broad's just asking questions and stickin' that microphone in my face. And I couldn't unnerstan' a thing she was sayin', the whole thing's playin' over in my head, so when the mic comes, I'm just like, “Uh huh... mm hmmm... “, and like that, y'know? So she asks a bunch questions and we get done, and the broad thanks me and calls me a hero. I said getouttahere, but she said no, that I'm a real hero. I ain't no hero, the kid was just lucky. But she asks my number and tell me they want me to come on their morning show later this week. Y'know, that Four in the Morning? They wanna talk to me on live TV. Can you believe that? And everyone watches that show. I'm gonna be a celebrity. Then she gives me her card, tells me to watch the six o'clock news, tells me to keep in touch, and then they take off...
Yeah, I'm gonna do the show. I gotta take a day offa work, but I'm gonna do it. An opportunity to be on TV don't just fall in your lap. And we gotta tell everyone to watch, tell 'em I'm gonna be on TV. I'm gonna be famous!
The kid? No, the kid's fine. No one could find his parents or nothin', but the police came by and they took the kid and said they were gonna help him, so he's gonna be alright.
Oh, I gotta tell you what happened next. This is great! So the crew's gone and everything died down and I'm just standin' there dazed 'cause all this stuff just happened, and I just start wanderin' over by the cart, 'cause that's the last thing I was doin' before the kid and everything, and the guy at the cart says he saw the whole thing and he gives me a hot dog with everything and a Coke for free. So I gotta free lunch outta this. And another guy standin' at the cart says he saw the whole thing, too, and he gives me a card and says I can have free dry cleaning for life, whenever I want. So I'm already doin' the celebrity thing now. And all the guys at the site were congratulatin' me and pattin' me on the back, tellin' me what a good job I did, and they all pitched in, and I didn't have to do no more heavy liftin' for the rest of the day. So, yeah, it's been a real amazin' day. Yeah.
Thank you, honey. I'm proud of me, too, but I was just doin' what anyone would've done in that situation. I just didn't wanna see the kid get hurt.
(knock at the door) 'Scuse me, honey. (walks over to door and opens it) Johnny! Hey, man, how ya doin'? You see that? Jesus, it's been an excitin' day. I gotta tell ya all about it.
(End.)
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