appdev

So this is the opening to a story I never have finished, despite numerous attempts. But I dunno, I always liked this opening. And I want to post some writing tonight. So here you go.

I think, in times past, people counted the ticking of the clock while they were waiting. Does anyone have clocks that tick anymore? I don't think so. Everything is digital, built into our phones. There’s an app for clock ticking, I suppose. I think the waiting is worse in total silence. Nothing to distract. It might be possible to create a house that's totally silent, but I have my doubts. Doubts about getting the silence, I mean. There's always the hum of electricity. I guess you could not pay your bills and they would cut the electricity off. Then you'd be pretty cold, unless you had a wood stove or a fireplace. Building a fire makes noise, a fire burning makes noise. There is always some complicating factor. There is never true silence.

                I’m rambling.

                I can’t count the ticking of the clock, this apartment is absolutely silent and it really doesn’t matter, I know she is dead. Our four years together are over today. I wasn’t even there when it happened…if it’s happened by now. Jesus, I just don’t know.

                I remember a post a friend of mine made on Facebook, back before all this crap happened and I did things like read Facebook. A dude asked my friend, an avid cineaphile, what he should be prepared for before watching his first Tarkovsky film. My friend told him "deep existential grief." I guess that's pretty much where I'm at now. I used to like Tarkovsky, though I think Bela Tarr had the market cornered on deep existential grief. The heaviness of human existence. Used to, but not now. I don't need films for that now, or music, or any art. The universe is punishing enough.

                Why did it have to be Sequoia?

                I know the answer to that, but I don't want to accept the answer. I suppose that’s one definition of deep existential grief. The universe doesn't give a shit, one way or another. It destroys and creates pays little attention to what it spits out. A million years from now the human species will be dead or evolved into something we can't even recognize. I think I'm pulling for death. Species that unleash shit that we don't understand and then run away don't really deserve to survive.

                It’s too fucking quiet here. I can’t sit still and I can’t move. There’s a bottle of Maker’s on the coffee table in front of me but I don’t even have the stomach for that. Sequoia…she kind of hated that name, you know. She had nothing but derision for her burned-out hippie flake parents. Yet she never changed her name. When I asked her why, she just shrugged and made a comment about it not being worth the trouble. I think there was something deeper there, though, something she would not say. And now I’ll never know what it was. There are lots of things I’ll never know. That’s true of all of us, but when your number is coming up and you no longer have time for any bullshit, you become extra aware. Sharper perceptions. I should dull them with the whiskey.

                Eventually they will miss me at work, and they’ll figure out that I know. Sharpie would miss me right away, but Sharpie is dead. Lucky bastard. He went quick, too—lethal injection of [x]. Sequoia and I dumped the body in Panopticon Lake yesterday. By the time it’s found, it will be irrelevant. The body and us. We may have been followed. It’s hard to know, those fuckers are everywhere.

                Oh Sequoia. I know you must be dead by now, and I should go check to make sure. But I can’t bring myself to do it. They’ll figure it out soon enough, if they haven’t already. They’ll come for me. I don’t know how many, and I can’t hope to take them all out. But I’ll take as many of those fuckers as I can. That’s what the gun on the table is for. I’ve never fired it. But I will. I’m going to go out firing.

fallow

Writer's block is a weird thing. I never know if I'm experiencing it or if life is just pressing down too hard and nothing creative comes out. This summer has very much been a fallow period. I can offer excuses: some trying times in my life, my office laptop that I do most of my writing on being borked, etc.  But those are just excuses, and in my eyes not justified. 

Thing is, I can *feel* the stories just...around...the...corner. The vibe is there, the scent is strong, but I can't quite tease them out. When this happens I can get too far into my own head, over-thinking everything. Because I want it so damn bad. Yet I have expectations of myself; too often I start a piece and it reads like the same goddamned thing I've written before. I lose the joy. It is no longer fun to write.

I hate it when it's no longer fun to write. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I do my best to combat it but you know what? Sometimes it gets the better of me. 

At this current time in my life, I rarely get to talk about writing, creativity or even just a rambling sprawling conversation about life, the universe and everything. Virtually all of my conversations are about everyday matters, be they work or home. I think this limits my perspective and makes it harder to climb out of the slumps. I don't know how much of an effect this actually has--my gut says I'm just making another excuse--but it is a weird kind of loneliness, sometimes. Folks with whom I might have these conversations are, for the most part, physically far away, and technology can't bridge all those gaps. It's a consequence of getting older too; we are all so consumed with our day-to-day grind. 

I know I have things to say. I know I have to get out of my own way. And fuck, I need to just have a little confidence. I still tend to view everything I write as worthless. Not good enough. I keep telling myself that doesn't matter--it's the creation process, it's doing something meaningful, it's telling a tale you want to hear, it's trying to communicate to the world...and yet too often this lecture to myself doesn't take. 

I don't know, man, I don't know. I need to keep plugging away and try to get out of this creative funk. Because there are few things more frightening than a blank screen with no words forthcoming.

clean-up

Seriously, I didn't mean to post poetry so often. It's just easier than taking one of my old stories and typing out. Anyway, this poem fell out of me exactly one week ago. 

I walked through the house and broke every single glass I could find.
Broke--that is too gentle a term.
I smashed every single glass.
Shattered them all. 
I've been drinking too much.
I suppose I thought that breaking all the glasses would make drinking more difficult. 
Oh hell, let's not kid, I didn't think that at all.
It was an impulsive act.
It won't stop me from drinking. Drinks come in bottles. 
Even water comes in bottles now.
Glasses are not required. 
But the mess! All the broken glass. I had no idea we had owned so many glasses. 
I need to clean it up before the kids come home.
I don't want them cutting their feet on glass shards and leaving bloody footprints on the floor.
Plus, cleaning it up will give me time to think of an explanation. 
A lie. 
Oh hell, here I go again with kidding myself. They'll know what happened. They are smart kids.
Goddammit.
It's a good thing I'm wearing boots or my own feet would be cut. 
I don't know if we have a broom.
I'm sure we must, all houses come equipped with one, right?
That's a rule, isn't it?
Goddammit, goddammit.
So much glass. Why did we own so many glasses? We never had company. 
Hey. Wait. 
I forgot about the plastic cups. The ones the kids used when they were toddlers. 
Sentimentality, we held on to them. 
Cups work just fine. Liquid in plastic is the same as liquid in glass. 
That is, if I don't want to drink directly from the bottle. 
You know, I could test one out.
I could, I could.
If I did, I bet I would clean faster.
I would, I would.
The kids won't be home for a while yet.
Things are looking up. 
This is not such a disaster.
Better to light a candle than curse the darkness. 
Or worry about the lack of a broom.

chant

I don't really know where to start this or what I want to say so I'm just going to type and see what happens. I could start with a rant: Windows products get more difficult to use with every iteration. I just spent five minutes figuring out how to open Notepad in Office360. As someone who works in the tech industry, I think it's all just gotten to be too much noise. So much crap we really don't need, burying the useful stuff. Not just MS. All of tech, big and small. I don't like it because I can't figure out how to fully unplug anymore. And so I want to yell at them instead of making personal changes in how I interact with technology. Because I'm an American, and that's what we do. We huff and puff and threaten to blow the house down even though we are completely out of breath. We don't do silence so well.

But that's a boring topic. Like listening to your ignorant, xenophobic uncle rant about immigration, oblivious to the fact that all of us were immigrants at some point. I still hate that the space bar only half works on this computer though, even though it's brand new. And I hate that my normal writing laptop is not functioning. I'm writing this in the living room instead of the hovel that I call my office. Maybe the words will be different.

There's been a lot of death around me lately. I'm not going into details. I do not need sympathy or condolences, though I appreciate the gesture and love you all. No, it's a cyclical thing, this messy thing we call life, and the last couple of years have seen a lot of death. Perhaps the next couple of years will see fewer in my circle of family and friends. Processing death is an ever-changing experience for me, as it's part of what I would loosely term my "spiritual practice." I was raised a Catholic, rebelled violently against it in my teen years, became an agnostic fascinated by but not connected to different spiritual paths (Eastern and Western), evolved into an atheist--or more accurately, a Saganist. Say atheism and people assume you have no spiritual practice. This is simply not true.

It is fair to say I have a lot of anger to much of organized religion as an institution. The disgust I feel for the Catholic church is the same I feel for WalMart. But that anger has mutated into something more like despair as the years have piled on. How do we evolve as a society past the backwards thinking that allows so much power to both? Everyone has a right to believe what they wish. But neither religion nor corporations should be controlling the conversation about what is best for society. Health, education, public policy--these things are too important for megagiants to control the conversation. Yet it is happening. And I do too little to combat it. I sit in my own little world, writing my stupid stories, too distrustful and tired to actually get off my ass and make the world better.

I've no interest in politics aside from the very big fact that they directly affect a lot of my daily existence. But I'm not a political writer, I'm not a debater, and this is not territory I feel comfortable talking or writing about. There are nights for pushing one's boundaries. I don't think this is one.

What a weird turn this pile of words has taken.

Look, I just don't know, ok? Life is fragile and amazing and beautiful. Why are we so intent on making it worse for so many? Can happiness for one only come at the expense of another? Does anyone read Whitman or Thoreau anymore; are they completely irrelevant? We are imperfect animals. Must all imperfections lead to destruction?  I'll stop now.

I will list the things I love. This will be my chant for beauty:

The first sip of scalding hot coffee in the morning.
The woods surrounding the house Jeff grew up in.
My youngest daughter's giggle.
The first four Def Leppard albums.
Smoking a clove on an autumn afternoon.
My oldest daughter explaining the Hunger Games story arc.
Beer at the Elysian with friends.
Running my hand over my wife's curves.
Everything King, Carver, Plath and Murakami have written, even the stuff that's not good.
The spicy burrito I get at Acapulco Fresh for lunch 3-4 times a week.
Lighting a candle.
Drawing a bath.
The cosmos.
My wife, my daughters, my friends.

Today was not a good day. The simple act of thinking on each of these things I love (and there are more things I love, of course--I could write a list like this every day for a year) has me feeling better than I have for some time. Writing words is how I remind myself that I am the cosmos witnessing itself.

Lament for a Warm May Spokane Night

In the tradition of Throwback Thursday, here's a poem I wrote in May 1993 while living in Spokane. It's not good, it's pretty terrible in fact, but I was 19 and messed up and it brings back those evenings. So close I can almost touch them. I can remember writing this one; amazing as there is much I cannot remember of those days. What I most remember is how, regardless of my personal misery, playing with language and images was such a pure joy.

shot through bloodshot red marijuana eyes
viewing from a pebble soup Spokane sidewalk
coming home from a tiring day
a mild headache, 
     a memory of a night spent entwined with my lover weeks ago
weathered old businessmen in shriner hats stare at me strangely
asking who am i to be walking down this ghost street
the architecture full of stone dust
all gargoyles frown mysteriously
catholic cathedral proudly displaying its ugly evil
     across the street
cut in half by black meat cars
trees that have grown up breathing polluted air
     looking like cigarette-scarred lungs
oh child innocent spring night memory
a full moon extra cop cars (tainted)
     flashing! blowing! wigging out, the 
          unsuspecting children of the hallowed Spokane night
jungle rhythms cut headache into strips of hazy consciousness
a tribute to Ginsberg, yeah, this betrays his influence
but the death skull platitudes are all mine
down the street two beasts w/only one bright eye--Cyclops!--
     creep towards me
          spooky
i laugh as a soft mad child
safe in my headache nirvana.

Ten Songs From Another World

I wrote these ten pieces in 2009. I always imagined each accompanied by a painting, but I have zero artistic talent and no one has offered to partner with me. (I'm intrigued by the idea of collaboration, having always worked exclusively by myself.) Perhaps they are destined to be only words, after all. I like all of them but the tenth one is my favorite. Enjoy. And apologies for the uneven formatting; Blogger is a pain in the ass and I'm done fighting it for the day. I wish you could see my original document.


Clean Kills

My father told me: it must always be a clean kill. Sloppy work is not accepted under any circumstances. And when you are finished, you clean all your tools and put them back in the proper place. The cooks call it mise en place. Everything properly set up, each component occupies the space necessary, and there is enough space left over to perform the work in a quick, thorough and decisive manner. The final result must be of the highest quality. Always use your own knife. To use another's would be an ethical violation of the most degrading sort, put on display for all to see. These are the things my father taught me, and I learned the lessons well. He did not let go of life until I demonstrated I’d learned. When I was finished, I kept the eyes, because I needed someone to watch over me.

Step 2

Have you ever conjured a three-headed dog? It happens only by complete accident. Most likely you were distracted, talking to your brother over beer gone warm in the afternoon sun. Though it made annoying little yips, you probably wouldn’t have noticed the creature had you not tripped over it. Unlike you, there was nothing befuddled in its eyes--six of them: one pair green, another black, and the third a pus-like shade of yellow. It sat on the grass that you mowed yesterday and stared at you as if it had every right to be there. 

The only thing you could think to say was “Get off my lawn” but that sounded all wrong when it came out, it wasn’t what you meant, wasn’t even the best you could do. Your brain was hazy with the beer. Oh, old man. Your brother, who you’d forgotten about, informed you that the dog wasn’t listening. On this point, you had to agree, and so you let him stay.

I Will Go There, Take Me Home

Fourteen prayers: sun, dust, acorn, spider and ten more not named. History buried deep in the cool earth, covered by penance. Rotting wood, discarded magazines, you are as dust, as the things left unsaid. Fourteen prayers, each separate but said in order they form a greater whole. A cosmic weave, a tapestry of dark filaments shrouding you like a cloak of black stars. A chainlike series of cells.  

Metal corrodes but dirt is always soft. Soft, wet and cool.

the boys of summer

The kind of night when you listen The Boys of Summer over and over. And I fucking hate Don Henley. But that song. Brilliant. To those of a certain age, the most brilliant. The sound of the 80s, beneath all the coked-out fever dreams and anger. A long line of melancholy and regret. Realization of all that is gone and all that barely was. When he pleads that he'll love you even after the boys of summer are gone, there's a desperation that is so real, you know that if that love was real it only was for a moment and now it's just a ghost, another memory that won't leave him alone. And that echoing guitar in the break, crying like a seagull fading into memory. Another reminder of all that is gone. Echoes, echoes.

The sadness is always there, lurking. Some nights you can't put it down with beer or words or hugging your daughters. It sits on your shoulder and sends songs into your head. Scrambling  up these words and crawling off to bed, hoping sleep drowns it out. In a house of bodies, ghosts.

You can't look back, you can never look back. But you will.