A story without a plot

A moment of zen

Friday evening after work I hopped on the treadmill at the gym and I ran. And I ran. Then I lifted some weights. I skipped the abdominal crunch machine. I went home.

On the way home I called someone I usually call on a daily basis. The conversation went differently than planned. The person on the other end was in full crisis mode. The crisis involved the person on the other end of the phone about as much as it did me. I haven't been able to convince this person of this fine distinction yet. They continue to attempt to understand and interject. They remain involved in a situation in which they constantly get burned.

This lead me to this full realization: I don't have to go there too. This is not my life. The problem is the other person's. It is this person who continues to make foolish decisions and to live a tragic life. It is the crisis of the person who adopts the foolish person's crisis. The crisis is not mine. My only crisis is of my own making.

I hung up after I listened and said very little. I fixed dinner. I ate. I over ate late in the evening with friends. I decided for Friday I felt a bit of zen. If I keep eating the way I do I'm going to develop a belly like Buddha.

My life is good.

Life's soundtrack

Punch it
I got, uh, fed
I got, uh, too much things on bounce, uh, my head
I got to burn 'em up

-- Soul Coughing, Ruby Vroom, "True Dreams of Wichita"

There are certain songs that at times make cruising through life easier by putting emotions into context. Lyrics and melodies, beats, voices, samples, cuts, mixes and familiar refrains congeal a fractured and re-constituted past held together by present experience and mood.

An evening last week found me driving through worn down streets, in a worn down urban area, past worn down people walking down worn down sidewalks. Soul Coughing's 1994 slacker jazz full disc debut fit my mood.

I was hauling 12 large cups of White Castle coffee, three black and nine with heavy-heavy cream, in my trunk to a place most folks don't know exists. They probably wouldn't want to visit if they did. Luckily for the occupants and the community at large the building is tucked away behind an unassuming grey facade with decorative bars over the first and second floor windows.

The guys I was on my way to see that night led some pretty serious lives. Some of their stories are more brutal than others. I've yet to hear one that is not more extreme than any experience I've ever had. Some of the guys may get out from behind the grey facade and live productive lives. Many will only eventually leave to return, or worse. While there they all have hope. They say thanks for the coffee. A few feel comfortable enough to share their problems with me. Many of their daily concerns are reflected in the lyrics above, with "uh, too much things on bounce, uh, my head." Perhaps that is why the song seemed so fitting while I drove.

I remember being like the guys in the grey facade with way too much bouncing in my head. Sure my bars were the one's I placed in myself but I could still relate to the gist of confinement.

Nowadays though after 12 empty coffee cups and an hour's time I get up and walk out, free of my grey locked up place. I look up to the sky over lonely streets and I hum more nonsensical words that make sense.

I've seen you
Fire up the gas in the engine valves
I've seen your hand turn saintly on the radio dial
I've seen the airwaves
Pull your eyes towards heaven

Shit

"The paunch has returned," I declared as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror this morning, surveying my portly profile while in a white t-shirt and boxers.

Usually I can sufficiently deceive myself by wearing loose fitting tees, button downs, pull overs, no belts, or elastic waist bans – and avoiding scales. I mean I know I've been putting on weight over the last two and one half years, but this now sucks. I worked very hard to get down to a lean 148 before I moved back here.

It took months of 15 mile bike rides to shed the 40 plus pounds I gained from binge eating as I went through the divorce and the cravings for sugar from the lack of alcohol. The weight loss then was a hell of a lot harder than when I was 14 and miraculously lost 30 pounds just by thinking about it.

Looking in the mirror I wondered if it would even be possible to drop weight now. I mean come on, don't they say you GAIN weight when you stop smoking? Doesn't your metabolism slow down naturally at the age of 30?

"I'm fucked," I thought as I finished off my blueberry and cream danish before popping another Commit lozenge.

In Brief

For the moment, at least, I am through airing the family's dirty laundry. I have no deeply morose posts left either. Instead I just thought I would take a moment to do a little bulletined checklist:

1. First I would like to thank Scott for turning me onto Commit lozenges. So far so good. Day two completely smoke-free and no overwhelming urges to gnaw my arm off and bludgeon anyone with the detached appendage. The only thing I can say though Scott, is only 2 to 8 ciggies a day? And you call yourself a smoker? Pwah, try a two pack a day habit instead. (See why I want to quit NOW).
2. Second, thanks to blogger Evel for the de-lurking comment. I should try that this week, though being an unannounced voyeur seems so much more . . . risque.
3. How did I ever survive without Netflix? I know, once again I'm behind on the learning curve, but really, how? I mean I go home and there are these delicious little gifts in my mailbox. Plus I'm not hounded by post cards, phone calls, and e-mails concerning late fees and force purchases. Woot!
4. Which leads to my last moment of clarity . . . How did I miss Inside Man? What a tidy little heist film by Spike Lee. Phenomenal cast and atypical as well. Loved it. It just goes to show how far from grace I've fallen after leaving grad school and slaving away at a nine-to-fiver. Sigh. Hopefully the next 23 films in my Netflix Que will redeem me.

Taking the weekend off

After facing the ordeal of going to the movies Friday I did something I rarely do. I spent most of my time at home this weekend camped in front of the television. I have a cold.

I watched the rise and fall of the Roman Empire in a two hour sitting, a band of brothers battle Nazi Germany in five, and an hour and a half battle in heaven. The last, despite its title, was replete with a disturbing, non-pornographic b.j. (if such a thing is possible). It also marked my first Netflix delivery.

I did manage to go out in three brief intervals. Two times involved dinner with the parents. The third marked the defeat of a healthy ambition.

I rationed my cigarette intake over the past week down to two ciggies a day. I smoked what I hoped would be my last on Saturday. By six p.m. Sunday I was gnawing my fingernails until I couldn't take it any more and went out to purchase a new pack. I smoked two ultra lights in two hours. Oh, and my sinus cavity filled back up due to the pollutants.

My head currently feels as if it will explode.

On leaving the theater

I faced a hard decision lately. Either I continue to boycott movies at the cinema or I go alone. You see no one I know is a big cinemaphile. So many are part of the "wait until it comes out on video" crowd. Of course two-thirds of them have entertainment complexes in their living rooms. Eight bucks for a movie or $8,000 for the system? Hmmm, wonder which fits in my budget.

Anyway,  my pride and resolve broke and I went it alone Friday. (Come to think of it, if I'm going another 5 months with no dating this may be the perfect time to go it alone) My film choice was Children of Men. I'll let the pro's review it, though I will comment that I think 28 Days Later did a much better job of putting it all out there.

Friday was the opening night at the only cinemaplex to show Children of Men in my area. That cinemaplex is located within the uber-modern entertainment hot-spot along the river where all the yuppies and their barely legal-spawn congregate and parade. Some bled into the theater. The screen for the movie was packed.

While in the movie I thought about the plausibility of mankind's doom in the next two decades. With small rivulets of sweat and chaffing in my neither regions because I dressed seasonally appropriate, not temperature appropriate (temps are 20 to 25 degrees above average where I live right now), I determined the premise was plausible.

(Oh, and Portuguese Man O'Wars float off the Atlantic coast of Florida stinging the shit out of people because sea water temps are a good 6 to 8 degrees above the norm for this time of year.  The jelly's behavior isn't abnormal. They usually migrate along the near shore currents this time of year. It is Man, driven to swim because the temperatures,who's the culprit. Mankind's doom at the hand of his own stupidity, very plausible indeed.)

After the movie, as I walked to my car, I had a second notion. A gaggle of middle aged women walked past, noses up, and tits out. One beer burped and then said, "That's what Bill is getting tonight. That cocksucker!"

Uproarious laughter was followed by another snide remark as she pointed to a near by bar, "Ooh, let's go there and see what young stuff we can find!"

More chortling. A group of younger versions then vroomed by and almost hit my parked car with their Escalade.

For a moment I thought, "If the world went sterile I may understand why."

New Year's Resolution, 2007 edition

This year's resolution is quite simple: I resolve to go one year without dating.

2006 was a complete wreck.

A year in review:

• The last woman I dated I met on-line. She lived an hour and a half away. We spoke often and went on two dates. She died in a plain crash. I kid you not. I did not discover this until I sent her an e-mail to see how she was doing. Her mother responded with the news. She asked how I knew her daughter. Yes, I felt quite shaken and guilty. "Um, Mrs. Mother-in-morning I met your mother on Desperatepersonals." Luckily my initial correspondence was kind and rather hesitant since I thought we were getting along so well and did not understand the sudden unreturned phone calls. I weaseled through an ackward condolensce via e-mail instead.

• Before that I dated some crazy lady I was told to avoid. There were "implications" for a friend who sees her more than I do. I did nothing little wrong, other than saying shoo once I realized HOW gonzo she was. My friend took it upon himself to interfere as if we were in middle school and try to "smooth" over a situation where I felt no smoothing over on his part was necessary. I've spoke with neither since May. Really, I don't feel guilty about it either.

Also for 2006 you could include a few crappy Internet dates, dodging a couple femme fatales , and worrying that I might have contracted social leprosy. Oh, and a generally pining for being 30 and "alone" for good measure. Sigh.

The best part of my 2007 resolution? All of the aforementioned 2006 stuff (minus the social leprosy and pining) happened before May 28th, 2006. Yup. I haven't went out with a woman alone in over 7 months. That means only five to go, a completely obtainable goal for the new year with the amount of dating-stank I'm carrying around at the moment.

And if for some reason I do meet someone before May 28th, 2007? Well, I guess I won't be too crushed over another failed resolution.

On Christmas

The evening of Christmas day found my mother and I sitting at her kitchen table playing cards. She suggested the activity. We had not done this in a few years.

Long ago (about 18 years) I remember feeling so grown up when mom showed me how to play Gin Rummy, then invited me to sit with the adults at our large Christmas gathering after the supper was ate and gifts opened. I remember some of the dirty jokes told and my embarrassment to hear them at the card table. I was also nervous. I felt warmth and love. The first year I played brought new meaning to the season after all beliefs in Santa passed. Sadly though, one-by-one, Christmas after Christmas, the relatives either passed away or moved on. Our playing table grew smaller.

The last three Christmases in particular have been rough on my family. Two years ago we held our first seasonal celebration without my mammaw. Last year my papaw was gone. Perhaps because of those losses this year's Christmas was more poignant, and thus the cards for old time sake.

Early Christmas Eve, around 2 p.m., we went to my one remaining grandmother's house where the holidays always truly began.

This year my grandmother's well being has been measured in the time between mental lapses, swollen ankles, and amounts of sleep. I arrived at her house before my parents. I greeted her and my second cousin who lives with her. When I told her what day it was she didn't believe me. She said she wanted to go home. I reminded her she was home and of the day. Grandmother forgot how to play cards a long time ago. There was a time when every time I visited the blue deck of cards and a note pad came out. Grandma recorded our scores. She kept track of my card playing progress.

During Christmas Eve dinner this year, and when opening presents, she became increasingly agitated.

"I was hoping this would be a new outfit to wear out," she said to me after I helped her arthritic hands tear the paper and open another package with a nightgown in it.

"What is today again?" she then asked in a conspiratorial tone.

I chuckled and told her. Her brow furrowed for the fourth or fifth time and she let out an, "oh no." She wondered why she hadn't gotten anyone anything. My mother swooped in and said she did. This year she was giving money and fewer gifts.

"Oh! My memory is shot. How much did I give? Was it enough?" she'd ask.

Around 6 p.m. the kitchen table was cleared and we left as grandma and my second cousin began snoozing in their respective recliners. I got the dog and went to my parents house. The weather outside was unseasonably warm and damp. We all watched A Miracle on 34th Street and A Christmas Story. Both films are classics and always move me in odd ways. I stayed the night because my mother asked me to. I always used to.

Christmas day we went to my half-cousin's house. We ate ham, sweet potatoes, green beans, and pie. We caught up with my cousin's father and second wife. My mother's half-sister passed away from cancer about 10 years ago. She and her family were always part of our Christmas celebrations. My mother's niece gracefully rekindle that tradition this year.

And then the evening ended at the card table, just my mother and I, after we went to grandma's one last time to warm the turkey and dressing fixed especially for her the day before. We didn't mention Christmas. We just teased with grandma, held her hand, and kissed her forehead. I told her I loved her.

On the way home is when mom mentioned the cards. My sister went out. My dad snoozed in his own recliner. We ate chips and homemade onion dip. We wiped our hands on our pants between deals and discards. When one of us won a hand after having lost a hand we'd say, "I get the deal back" in jest. It was a typical tease given when growing up, a polite victory cry.

My mom kept score. We quietly and comfortably shared a moment of familiarity, love, and kinship.

In Brief

No one was hurt, arrested, or offended (too much) this Christmas. I did feel like Ralphie in the pink bunny suit at one point when opening a particular present Christmas Eve. Worthy of a post? Maybe.

A million little stars

I awoke in the wee hours of the morning. The luminous green numbers on the digital alarm clock read 5:30, an hour and a half before it was set to go off. My pup laid at the foot of the bed. She yawned and cocked her head at me as if I were an alien. She's learned not to disturb me until the alarm blares. I got up.

After putting Gracie on her blue nylon leash we walked outside. The sky was still black with a few stars shining brightly. Frost glinted on blades of grass, catching the florescent glow of the back porch light.

The air was quiet. High winds that usually glide between close houses and cause pine trees to screech eerily against wood privacy fences were still. There were few other sounds. No neighborhood dogs barked, not even my own. I stood in solitude and a comfortable silence.

For the past couple of weeks, a couple days each, I've done this. I woke up early, automatically, whether or not I slept five or six hours. I've come to enjoy the peace of those early mornings when I wake up on my own accord.

This morning I realized the facts of my life are as quiet and constant as the mornings in which I get up early. Outwardly I'm doing better than many. I own a home, get along well with family, live within my means, and have a few solid friends.

Last night before I went to bed pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pencil. I began to write all of this down and more. I wrote for an hour and a half. The fact of the matter is when I put the pencil down I felt good. I felt empty and full in a particularly healthy way. For the four or five hours I slept, I slept well.

When I awoke very early this morning that emptiness of thought and emotion was still there. I was as quiet and calm as the early morning.