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Today a handicapped girl walked into the restaurant with her mother and what looked to be her grandmother. She was placed at a table in the dining room while the two women ordered. Bruises were all over the elderly women's veiny arms, and the overhead lighting at the counter made her look like a corpse. Nevertheless, she ordered a wholesome double cheeseburger and a large chocolate shake. Later, on my way home from work a chicken wrap, I avoided hitting a partially smashed rabbit whose leg was kicking in the road but secretly hoped the person behind me would not.
I need younger friends. I suggested going to a club in Detroit tonight over text message with my friend, Steve, and after many minutes of what he deemed 'debate', he said he'd take a nap for an hour and get ready then. In the meantime, I went to Kohl's to look for another pair of shorts and a shirt. Walking back to my car, I saw a UHAUL truck running and entertained the idea of driving away cross country in it when my phone beeped: "Well, instead of feeling refreshed, I feel zapped so I need to cancel." Well, shit.
Technically it's August 4th, but since I haven't drawn a close to this day yet, it's still August 3rd in my mind. My fingers are striking the keyboard softly because technically, my dad should be sleeping across the hall but instead he's next door in my brother's room (Guests are in his room). I should be in bed right now, but technically I am not even though it's dark in my room and the only light is that coming from my monitor. More importantly, I'm not addicted to the computer. I'm addicted to looking for a reason to live.
Randazzo's? The name sounded familiar enough. And since I'd been given an intersection, it's location was reasonably hypothesized. When I turned right into the parking lot, I discovered I was right. The initial confusion was in the name: we never called it Randazzo's, we called it Joe's Produce. The inside consisted of rudimentary flooring and wall length windows. It was simple. No 37 different types of beer, bread or dairy products to choose from. Just fruits and vegetables. Torn between whether Barry needed Broccoli or Lettuce for his rabbits, I bought the lettuce. Rubbing them like tits walking toward checkout.
I am getting a gut and I am not comfortable with it. This morning, observed it in the mirror and felt like one of those fat medieval kings. I guess that's what you get for drinking a bottle of wine, two glasses of water and half a carton of Tropicana orange juice in a 24-hour period, though. So I just deduced it to that because it's better than accepting the inevitable that my metabolism is slowing down and I will have to work harder to stay thin. Working at Wendy's doesn't help either. All those half-price grill wraps are it.
You ever pay attention to the sound you hear in a quiet office? That air rushing through the vents--that sort of invisible boundary between daydreaming and reality? Well, multiply that sound by ten and you get the sound of my computer's hard drive. How I long for the ability to turn on the old circuitry withough having to debate over whether or not information in exchange for the sound of a miniature jet engine is desirable. Though considering I bought the machine two weeks after I began my life in Florida, it's probably way over due from some maintenance.
My purple mardi gras necklace is clinking softly against my closet door along with an expired black ice car freshener. The computer is off tonight, and I am laying on my stomach in bed writing this entry by hand. A dull pain persists in my molar despite having used oral anesthetic and Ibuprofen. Earlier today, I saw an older man in a green polo shirt at Wendy's. He had blue eyes. I immediately thought of my grandpa then--briefly accepting the fact once again that he's gone. Devotion, creativity, gentility, the color green, poker, and spearmint-juice gum. All memories of him.
During the winter months, I remember going on joy rides through the middle class subdivisions in Plymouth, contemplating some of the street names--
. I used to wonder why the developer chose these names: was it something in nature? Are most of the names reserved for Northern States? Who names the roads? Today, I went down the same roads on my bicycle, smelling cedar, sun-tan lotion and flowers, admiring the outdoor lighting which I let take me to Cedar Point in spirit where there'd be cotton candy galore, offshore breezes, people screaming in the distance.
Tonight I got to thinking that I envy the people who lives in the past. Specifically in the middle ages, but any past before the dawn of the information age would apply also. People back then had so many more freedoms we take advantage of today, they were outside more, they got to experience the pride that comes with physically making a life for yourself through hunting and gathering. Much the same in the 80's before city lamp posts were replaced with shorter, brighter ones. It was darker in the past, but there were less addictions and everybody knew this.
"I don't care if you like golf or not," the man said. "You're not getting it because it's all about the beauty of the shot. The beauty of balls."
I ordered another beer, figuring I could handle it because I wasn't quite as bad as him yet--but he returned.
"What makes you so special to think you weren't created by something? You want to be anonymous and famous?"
In response, I just nodded occaisionally, checking out the guy at the pool table.
"It's not about what's in your head or your balls, it's about what's in here," he said, nudging himself in the chest.
Today I acknowledged one of the only words I have trouble spelling sometimes is emerse(sp?) or is it immerse(sp?)? I immersed myself in a Dean Koontz book,
, where a beautifully knit family gets gruesomely murdered while the daughter's friend is visiting right at the "get-go". Even if Koontz is guilty sometimes of excessive exposition, I do enjoy his villains. They're so mysterious, impenetrable, a pain in the ass. I wish I could make compelling stories like that--which is why I've been trying to read like a writer lately. I suppose this could be more easily accomplished reading actual literature.
James Blakeway. The name of the photographer who took the panaramic of downtown Los Angeles--showing a
magnificent twilight view
of the city. I purchased it from Westland Mall for $55 over seven years ago and it has been hanging in my room ever since, with the exception of the three years I spent in Florida. Besides visiting my aunt there nine years ago and reading fiction based therein, I don't have any more of a reason to hang a panaramic of LA than I do to hang a panaramic of Denver. But it's there regardless, I can't take it down.
Joe is a recovering drag queen working in the health care industry with a major in Psychology. Steve is a Customer Service Representative for an entity which is essentially a temporay agency all these years, with no opportunity for advancement. Mariusz is fighting a losing battle with his mortgage company to maintain a prestigious position, Barry is contemplating applying his environmental consulting skills to a job in Australia. Joseph I have yet to heard from and don't know if I ever will again. I am eagerly looking for other work to replace or complement my current job. It's not me.
Mom called today and immediately thanked me for being the only one who answers the phone. She adamently began discussing her desire to move into a house again, and told me she'd be receiving a booklet advertising foreclosed homes soon. From there, she told me how much the first house cost and how 60k was a 'big deal' back then. I had to ask her why she called. "Now tell me the truth," she said. "Do you remember when I told you I had another set of keys to my car?"
I didn't recall. But I did visit her tonight.
I'll admit that I avoid using social networking sites at all costs. Ever since I fell out of touch with someone I cared about on Myspace, I stopped blogging, adding new friends or updating my profile. I felt like a social invalid, and the only thing Myspace was doing was advertising to him and the rest of the world how inept I am at communicating with others. I'll never forgive him for taking that away from me sometimes, and I wonder just how many shades of red anger and disgust are behind every blank piece of paper or window opened.
Tonight I noticed all the blinds in my dad's house were opened. I assumed maybe it was my brother's way of saying he wished my dad were more social with the neighborhood. Nevertheless, I felt empathetic towards him, so I closed them again and went to my room. My way of partying would be to drink a few beers and replace them before my dad returned, not leave all the utensils on the counter and lights on in the house. I never had as many people over, but also desired the freedom. It's space he needs now, to think.
tonight at Goodrich Canton. Even though the film was out of focus and there were a few holes in the plot, it was one of the best movies I have seen in awhile. But my friend Steve and I went to enjoy the movie though, not to discuss whether we should have turned around and told the fat black woman to shut the fuck up, or throw something at her teen, who sounded like she was eating shrink wrap throughout the entire film. But by the time I heard the loud bass coming from Steve's neighbor, we indulged.
Tonight, I thought about asking Mark if he has any pictures of me and the gang together. My first impression of them was that they were interested in me only because I was young, but for a short while (then intermittently), they were an invaluable resource to establishing myself in a foreign city I had just moved to: We went to parties, coffee shops, gay pride events; hell, we even argued over who was going to sing
, by Bette Midler one night during karaoke. But regrettably, I don't think most of them even know, or care, I left.
I went on a second interview at The Eaves this morning, dressed in jeans and a white polo shirt. It was located behind an old spanish restaurant, closed indefinitely eight months ago. Yellow and green weeds were beginning to sprout around its foundation. I couldn't see the booth I was sitting at through the tinted windows--but envisioned myself callowly sipping a margarita, savoring the sight of snow once again. "That's too bad that place closed," I mentioned after the interview. The gentleman squinted, "Did it? I'm just visiting this store." Comforted the memory would not be a threat, I acquiesced.
I didn't want to make an entry tonight. I am tired from walking around Ann Arbor with a friend who wanted to do nothing but scope constantly. Something that was amusing at first, but soon something he took far too seriously... and I couldn't help but roll my eyes at coyly after awhile. My friend was 13 years older than me, and bald, staring blatantly at any guy he'd chose to have his mate but relentlessly admitted to me he could never have. A practice I find tiring, which I couldn't help but carefully admit to him over a beer.
Someone who also lives in Plymouth sent me a message earlier this evening. We were off to a good start, discussing our ignorance in regard to who sings,
I will Survive
, but it soon soured. I asked, "Where in Plymouth?" twice. No answer. Did we set our standards too high discussing our taste in music right away? Is it too close for comfort to ask that so soon? Suddenly, "Well, I'm obviously boring you, go ahead and go to bed." WTF? I was informed of the general area, "By the RR tracks, the
side, but was no longer interested.
"But it's just Barnes and Noble," I said, observing the bookstore chain's characteristic dark, cherry wood shelves. Steve made a few comments about the cute guys in the establishment while I walked around, concerned more with my reflection in the second floor windows than books. Somewhat satisfied, I met Steve again near the restrooms as he was coming out...avoiding a scavenger hunt for each other later on. As we slid down the escalator, a tall dark form walking in my direction stole my glance. I dropped the book of
The Human Body
. Darren? Thank god it's you, I thought warmly.
As I stared for a moment at the back of one of the manager's heads at Wendy's, I wondered why I loathed this particular manager... She quite literally likes to throw her weight around, not so much for the sake of the store but for her own sense of well-being, continually chastising people far after a mistake has been made...a practice I find disgustingly ignorant, regardless of my instruction in Management. Hungover, her face buried between her gloved hands, I considered giving her the finger, but didn't want my reflection to be seen in the windows encasing the sandwich buns.
The trip to Clarkson was unexpectedly nice. I passed a couple lakes and remembered driving up to Crystal Lake to visit my dad. One time he bought me a carton of cigs and had me follow my brother to his cabin. Today, I was helping a good friend move back home for a few months. Because a full tank of gas was hard to come by, I had only visited her twice, but had no trouble finding the place. Her door was open and the trunks to a couple vehicles were open, filled with a variety of knickknacks and paraphalnelia.
Last night I dreamt I was in a store full of clay figures, searching unsuccessfully for the one I wanted. It was strange because everything was the same: a blue playdo monster with generic special abilities. I wanted something more specific, harder to come by, but instead, on the way, I stumbled on something else: a box full of malleable, miniature hands on top of another generic shelf. "All figures on sale for $3.00," the sign read. So I picked up a few, molding the hands into a particular position. Continually waking up and going back to sleep for more...
I spotted a bag of watermelon in the fridge tonight while I was holding onto a fresh banana. The watermelon was from my mom's and I've been thinking about her tonight, so I returned the banana to its place in the fruit bowl and chomped on a piece of watermelon instead. I'm snacking on it now, as if each hand-to-mouth repetition would enable me to more effectively wish her health and happiness...much the same way I read the results of her last CAT scan to her more than once--monotonously at first, but soon cracking up over the doctor's strange dictations.
As I was rinsing some 10lbs worth of overcooked meat, or
while listening to various customer's squeaky voices ordering junior bacon hamburgers, I secretly loathed the fast food industry and the mass slaughter of thousands of cattle daily for our complacence. I'm all for eating a nice home-cooked steak once in awhile, but as I was flipping each piece of greying carcass, burnt in places, squirting it down with cool water, I quite hypocritcally could not understand the point. But later, the grease seemed to coagulate off the back of my neck just as seemlessly as the dissonance.
After dreaming that I found myself unwittingly getting on the interstate, I made a Michigan left and immediately found myself in the midst of a game show, which I tactlessly avoided also. Later, as I was walking my mom's dog today, looking at the cars on the interstate through the fence, I wondered if driving on it still held a part of me captive, but didn't know for sure since I've only been a passenger on them for the last year. It's not like a fear them; rather, I've gotten accustomed to avoiding them when I DID fear them.
Sometimes, I wish I could see the future,
or change the past--
so I'd know if what I'm doing is right.
Sometimes, I wish I had more money,
or more independence--
so I could live where I want to live,
and be who I want to be?
But, now you've had your chances,
you've had the freedom to choose
so now I know that you know about,
this gurney's treads,
this everlasting pout.
Most of all, you know you wish I knew what you
But even if it's only something you think you want,
even if that will enable you to do what I have to do,
just to get there...
just to start...
You will do.
I'm watching my shadow play on the floor as I sit here with my arm's crossed thinking of a good topic to write about.
Takes a sip of Bud Light, hmmm
. How about that hurricane ready to hit New Orleans again? I feel bad about it, and a little more threatened. But I don't feel any worse after hearing about earthquakes that killed thousands in China, or the sick and starving in third world countries fighting battles with malaria on a daily basis. But needless to say, even though I've never been to New Orleans, the city has my thoughts.
I dreamt again that somehow I had murdered someone, and was driving away from it as fast as I could, barreling through people's garages, brick homes, fences and mailboxes. The cops had me as a suspect, but were also suspicious of a few others--so I was living the quiet life. When I ran into my dad, he didn't know how to help me out of the mess I had gotten myself into, but expressed his remorse without ever leaving. I remember wanting him to do more, but knew I couldn't live with myself if I didn't solve my own problems.
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