Me and Mr. Jones

This catchy pun/turn of phrase was sung by some chubby-ish cowboy-type at a bar the other night. He and his band were the act before the act before the act that we had gone out to see play. I had a whiskey drink and we left. Some other time perhaps?

This week was cold and typical.

I have begun to enjoy my work in a way that I’m not used to. Things were being put in their place and then my boss asked me to do another’s job. I couldn’t say no, but I didn’t yet say yes.

I’ve been working on a collection of short stories about some boys whom I have known for years. Wait, have I known them for years or worked for years. Be damned dangling participles! You misplaced modifiers…

There is so much heat in this apartment. Theoretical heat. It is noisy with heat, but not exactly warm.

If only I could open a window…

We should go grocery shopping today so we don’t have to go out tomorrow. There is something calming about not having to go anywhere. Our windows are closed with shades drawn and I live inside this cocoon.

We are out of things to drink, but I do plan to pick some up at the store.

And so.

I feel like there’s a 90% chance that he’ll get the e-mail and read this site, and for that 90% I want to give thanks.

An impulse and a coincidence lead me to an 8 minute phone conversation with someone lost but not forgotten. Really only a three year pause from a random phonecall while sitting at a DMV. In that time he has fathered another and I’ve accomplished a move and a new job not much else.

My first real memory was in the basement of Longden. He, Tamra, and I were studying together. They both had disrobed to some degree and I sat overwhelmed and mesmerized.

There’s little more I wish to divulge to the anonymous public, but to him I wish to say I miss, respect you, and I look forward to our inevitable return.

It has been touted as the recipe for freedom and liberation. It seems for me it just keeps me sane.

To explain–I realized the other night that there are a few things the quell my anxious mind: fantasies and the sometime reality (Sex), a regular and calming drink (Drugs), and headphones filled with soothing or distracting sonic pleasures (“Rock & Roll” and then some…).

These pallatives have lead to the death of some other, perhaps more talented, individuals. And they’ve entertained generations. Some days I just hope they get me to 30.

Sitting on our couch. Drinking whiskey. Feet resting on his lap. Watching re-runs of Noah’s Arc on Logo. I was wondering why I didn’t have anything much to write about. And then I realized. Not enough anxiety to make my mind work. I don’t think this is a bad thing but I can’t be sure…Literature or happiness? Is there a medium?

“…it seemed to him to be much better .. to fight by stealth .. against the mighty man; .. (crouching) on one side he devised for him .. bitter destruction; and he [Geryon] kept his shield in front of (his chest, but the other struck his brow with a stone); and from his head (immediately with a great clatter) fell the helmet with its horse-hair plume; (and it remained there) on the ground ..
[Herakles arrow] (Bringing) the end that is hateful (death), having (doom) on its head, befouled with blood and with .. gall, the anguish of the dapple-necked Hydra, destroyer of men [Herakles used an arrow poisoned with the blood and gall of the Hydra]; and in silence he thrust it cunningly into his brow, and it cut through the flesh and bones by divine dispensation; and the arrow held straight on the crown of his head, and it stained with gushing blood his breastplate and gory limbs; and Geryon drooped his neck to one side, like a poppy which spoiling its tender beauty suddenly sheds its petals.” – Greek Lyric III Stesichorus Geryoneis Frag S15 (from Papyri)

First I felt like I needed a name.

Then I added a bit of history.

Shortly thereafter, I also discovered some patterns.

And then I took a walk.

New pleasures have taken hold.

Yesterday we purchased a couch. A soft, full, adult-type couch. A couch we first met at the newly-weds’ house. A couch that belongs not to me, nor him…it belongs to US.

This has caused me to spend hours upon hours fantasizing about the possibilities of rearranging furniture. And building shopping list of other purchases that must be made to compliment the arrangements. So domestic. So tedious. And so wonderful.

In my mind this decorating revolution is intricately connected to my personal battle of nature versus nurture. My natural self has so far been my usual self. Inherited intelligences and impulses have guided my behavior. I have not ever edited papers nor have I attended to my personal affects. And this is starting to show. My belly is growing, my hairline receding, and that damn front tooth just keeps getting darker. Professionally I am paused. Things just continued by inertia. But not anymore.

It is the difference between unconcious breathing by body mechanics and the slow, steady inhale/exhale of meditation.

I hope the new year affords me much enlightenment.

“As glamorous as it all sounds, getting your nose pierced is very undignified. The guy used a long metal clamp to pull my nostril far out to the side before sticking it with a needle. He said I have unusually small nostrils; at what other time in your life would a stranger tell you this? Immediately after, my friend took me out for a glass of wine. I sat there sipping with a bloody, splotchy, angry-red face. Today, I still have dried blood all around the base of the stud, a lovely scab that must not be disturbed.

But…I feel beautiful.”

These words from Carrie Lynn. I have a lot to say about Carrie, many stories, but now I need to simply state that I concur. I’ve had my nose pierced twice, and she described it perfectly. There is no better, more sensible (in our opinion) place to stick your metal ornament. And no more awkward or painful place either.

My first piercing (I had a perfect silver hoop in my left nostril) was bumped, tugged, sneezed, and infected for months and months before I finally removed the offending metal obstruction. It’s hard to vigorously make out and remove clothing when you’ve protruded on your protuberance.

My second piercing was a more thought-out impulse (I decided a day before I had it done, rather than just an hour) in my third year of college. I already knew the tenderness involved, but had not accounted for the pain of scar-tissue. I re-pierced the left nostril, and spent a good six months catering to and displaying my pleasurable penetration. I don’t even remember where or why it finally went. But the memory and desire have never faded.