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I slid into Quizno's and the woman inside waved her arms in an 'X' pattern, signaling the store was closed. My right blinker remained on as I circled the parking lot and returned to the main road. I settled for McDonalds across the street, but not before I rolled down the window and went around the block.
Getting the stink blown off myself
as my mom used to say. It was dark, white and hazy and the sky reminded me of Clarke's
gum as I winded the court slowly, returning home and munching on a handful of french fries.
I heard the sound of the alarm clock in the movie,
in my head, and immediately knew that if I was in the film, this day would happen again. I had a few more hours until I was supposed to show up at the Groundhog Day party I was invited to but failed to attend. "It'll be good for you, I kept telling myself." So much so that eventually, showing up at the party became more of an obligation than fun, so I watched
with my dad and returned to my hole in the ground.
Superbowl Sunday to me is just an overly glorified football game. It felt better avoiding the event when I reminded myself that I'm not alone in my opinion. "I don't allow sports on my television," Hector said once. While Denton and Geoff, they would rather watch paint dry or make up a holiday instead of watching the game. In my case, today I agreed to be the courier, picking up submarines and later grabbing a
bar. I watched the national anthem when I decided I had enough and lost myself in video games instead of television.
I went to the Secretary of State office three times today. First I arrived in the morning just as they were unlocking the doors and allowing a small line of customers inside. I blinked heavily with sleep still in my eyes and was informed I'll need everything but my dental records to change my Florida license to a Michigan license. I came back later with a copy of my birth certificate but was told it needed to be the original. Whoops, that meant a trip to Mom's. Later the attendant smiled because my eyes were closed for the mugshot.
As the weighted arms of exhaustion grab hold of me tonight, I recall emerging from a familiar fog today amongst old, brick homes. I snatched open the file cabinet and spotted the folder,
, when the Bryan Adam's song
Cuts like a Knife
resurrected a day working in Clearwater: walking to the gas station in air hot enough for an oven, returning
, finding a potato in the toaster and a river in the backyard. A musty carpet smell and a cracked bedroom door revealed she'd forgotten. In turn, out of what seemed necessity, I'd forgotten all nightlife inhibition.
I decided to write this entry in bed, where I belonged much sooner. It's just past midnight and have driven a total of three hours today. One hour to work, while avoiding the expressways, and two hours back home in lieu of the snow storm that left tiny white pellets everywhere, resembling styrofoam. I just finished dusting an old Windermere fan from the hall closet and placed it beside my bed with the intention of reorganizing my blanketed reading chair, coffeestand, computer desk, nightstand, futon and trashcan. The most recent addition was a TV flashlight my brother recently gave me.
I racked the pool table and broke forcefully, sending a myriad of solid and striped colored balls in every which direction. A stripe stopped just shy of the pocket. I picked it up and examined the faded white color of the pool ball, offset by the green stripe. The former owners of this house went by the name Beech, and I wondered how often they used the table over 13 years ago. Thoughts of Yellowknife, Canada and far off places invaded my thoughts under the basement's flourescent lights. I knew that eventually, I would soon need another place to stay.
I successfully concealed my interest when a young man among the mere half dozen or so men approached my department. He spoke with the women of various ages softly and calmly, occaisonally breaking into a loud bellow with them about his upcoming move to Washington DC, where Verizon was sponsoring his last two years of baccaulerate education. I merely continued entering contract numbers into the foreign system, occaisionally seeing him outside the peripheral rim of my black glasses. After work, I finally responded to Paul's email, congratulating him in no more than 50 words on his upcoming trip to France.
Black was Christopher's color. His car was black. The frames on his glasses were black. Christopher had black shoes, a black coat, black furniture and a black ash tray. Now I understand why he liked the color so much. There's a certain comfort in black. Black is professional and sophisticated. Black is the color of determination. As I look around my room, and my wardrobe, my color dark blue and green, blood red and dark brown. A purple mardi gras necklace and a Black Ice car freshner hang from my closet door. Sometimes I long to forget. To be black.
One more day to get the sleep out of my system until returning to the office. So I woke up, did two loads of laundry, cleaned and vacummed my room and made it a point to just sit with a pen in my hand and write this entry. Nothing magnanimous to address, just a lazy Sunday as I like to call it. i suppose some 100 words entries will be like this, especially when trying to get back into the habit of writing something honest everyday for a month. Well, back to hearing Morgan Freeman's voice reading the
Inga was not at her desk, but Haley advised there was a stack of papers for me to do on them and I could use her computer. Ginuwine sat in her office and I could feel her attention on my back, but it wasn't like the hot sun laying on a beach, more like an apprehensive breeze, like the circular hallways the other temp and I take to the lunchroom. "You're staying," Ginuwine said after closing her door, "but we haven't decided what to do with the other
yetm so don't tell her I gave you a card key."
Oren and I looked up at the stars through her windshield, perched below the stoplight at N Territorial.
This is N Territorial,
I proclaimed awkwardly, considering there was a sign. The image of my friend Joe cupping his hands over his belly while his friend with benefits lyed in the grass, writing, came to mind, however, the more recent memory of Joe struggling with diabetic neuropathy and still living in David's dark basement superceded it so I let the memory slip between my fingers like the smoke Oren and I used to vent from her car, cruising invincibly through collegetown.
"I was here visiting Tampa, you're going to Detroit for vacation?"
the man beside me asks.
"You moved back here from Tampa?"
my coworker asked while I smoked with her outside under the arctic sun.
I like the seasons,
I got homesick,
I'll elaborate upon further questioning. After getting the perspective I've acquired moving back though, those reasons make less and less sense to me. I realized getting over a place is similar to letting go of a flesh and blood relationship. I miss the palm trees, the sunny days and the downtown block parties. I miss Tampa.
Joe lives in a house off Miller, close to downtown Ann Arbor. I never had trouble finding his house because it was the one with the overgrown shrubbery and a red car in the driveway, inoperable for years. Mary, the cook and encyclopaedia head of the house, had died of a heart attack at 56. This woman used to help me with my english renaissance homework, twirling her gray hair around her finger, wide eyed smoking two packs of cigarettes and downing a 12 case of Big K each day. I hope you get well soon, Joe.
I FEEL THAT I'M ON AN ALIEN SPACESHIP, DARK PERIPHERAL VISION BRIGHT, PROFESSIONAL TERMINALS IN SPOTS...LIKE REFRIDGERATORS IN A HOUSE--EERILY, BUREAUCRATICALLY SLICING THROUGH THE DARKNESS-- I SEE PROFILES AND BIOGRAPHIES, OPINIONS DIRECTLY QUOTED FROM PEOPLE INSIDE THESE TERMINALS...WHERE ISOLATION IS GIVEN TO ALL BUT THE SOFT PECKING OF FINGERS... COMMUNICATING HOW THEY MAY KNOW BEST, LOOKING... FOR ANSWERS ON AN ALIEN STARSHIP, "WHO AM I, WHO ARE U" "I AM BLUE, U ARE GREEN" I BLINK HOPE, U DREAM IN REPTILIAN, STROKING WE'RE GAIAS JASMINE, HUMAN BEINGS YET ANIMALS NOT IN HEED
Foals in winter coats, White girls of the North, Fire past one, five and one They are the fabled lambs of Sunday ham, The EHS norm And they can float above the grass, In circles if they tried, A latent power I know they hide, To keep some hope alive, That a girl like I'm could ever try, Could ever try. So we just skirt the hallway sides, A phantom and a fly, Follow the lines and wonder why There's no connection. A week of rolling eyes, And cheap shots from the trite, And we're off to Nemarca's porch again, Another afternoon of the goat head tunes, And pilfered booze. Family portrait circa ninety-five, ~Courtesy the Shins,
Hi Mom, Grandma
I drove toward emergency yesterday, surpassing the parking lot after confusing it with a construction project. I was irritated at my mishap, turning around at a senior citizen courtyard and parking beside the plastic tarp and frame of a new addition to the department. It's been awhile since I was here, for various reasons but this day the reason was more than justified. I got out of my car and walked serenely toward the entrance, recalling the day I walked into emergency in Tampa during a panic attack. When the doors parted I saw my mom's sobs and hugged her.
The plastic palms shone My thoughts a wad of gum The glow from street lamps- A technological dream, and an ignorance. The "NO WAR" sign on Oren's lawn In a colder climate where my roots were sewn. "You don't go to War to start a democracy" I heard within, coming to a panther-like stop At Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd., down South A raggedy soul outside said hello. I looked at him and the many tailights ahead-Like a dozen clown masks laughing insidiously at him, silently. Alas, my vision, in the slow dilation, And unfurl of my well kept emotion focused on the road, waiting for a Change of color perhaps, Even-- A change of Season.
I arrived to work today and noticed the
were gone. The coffee mate and sugar also seemed to be pushed back further out of reach and briefly hoped I hadn't been over doing it- pouring in a creamer and a heap of coffee mate and a smidgen of sugar. And, when I was feeling especially ambitious, would top it off with a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar. I knew were the box of Moo-Moo creamers were kept in the other kitchen, so that wasn't the question-it was just my willingness to retrive them after observing the new full-time employee's nametag.
So I've been calling my mom everyday since picking her up at emergency last weekend. I make it a point to say, "I love you," at the end of every conversation because I really don't know what is going on half of the time with that side of the family. Seeing my mom always used to drain me, but now I seemed to have replaced that feeling with the relief I experienced after finding out she was OK after grandma notified me she was having trouble breathing and had a swollen face. I worry about my mom. That never changes.
Sometimes I feel so hopelessly complicated. I realize that only through getting to know other people that the realization
I'm not alone
hits. But where were these
in 7th grade when one day I walked to the mailbox in thick brown glasses and a cardigan,
pledging allegiance to myself
that I'd make more friends in 8th grade? All I got was a sappy Peter Gabriel song dancing with a big girl under the scrutiny of my Dad and 8th grade science teacher conversing candidly about over my disposition which continues in seemingly subconcious ways, hating it conciously.
Ever since I moved back to Michigan, I've put more belief into the phrase that
everything happens for a reason
. Heath Ledger's passing came up in casual conversation with a friend at the neighborhood box bar and immediately the conversation referenced
and the accidental death of Brandon Lee. I thought about why I brought up the movie star's death which was somewhat responsible for him taking his role too seriously. That's when I smiled and my eyes hit the gold foil lids of a bowl of Moo Moo creamers. So I pondered their significance while eyeing the waiter.
Tonight the wind chill was in the freezing digits so I placed myself on idle status in the messenger window, like a sail boat finding the right trade winds to navigate to a more habitable place. That habitable place this evening was inside my ice cube corner windows and vivid recollections of 16th century pirates ransacking for gold, treasures and honor. As much as I miss going outside whenever I want and not freezing to death, I usually end up missing having an excuse to stay in and read. I suppose the grass is always greener on the other side.
I reluctantly got out of bed to silence the beep on my phone that indicates I have a new text message.
Veralux Vizio Transitions lenses with Krizelle Aliz coating
. WTF? Instead of going back to sleep, I rolled onto my stomach, making the phrase my own:
Samuel fixed a pair of Veralux Vizio Transitions lenses with Krizelle Aliz coating over his eyes and observed the glint from a piece of quartz ricohet off the opposite wall of the crystal canyon and change color.
I sent it back and to another friend.
"What's this about barry?"
Criswell asked. Good morning Steve!
Jack has been working on the kitchen here for a little over 3 months. Before I got my job, he used to sit with my at the kitchen table moved into the dining room, vehemently taking in a drag from his Pall-Mall cigarette. A bottle of whiskey sat in the center of the table and his features reminded me of a graceful, old horse. Well, I suppose it's time to get back to work he used to say after giving me advice on how to apply for jobs. I followed suit and got back to submitting resumes, buzzsaw sounds amuck.
It seems I only run into someone significant in my life with I'm in the midst of a transition. Whether it be moving out of state, changing jobs, or going to college, it seems it's always been about timing. On one hand, when I ask myself "Do I want to move back to Florida?" the answer is hell no I don't want to move back to Florida, I want to settle down already. Yet the more I settle down, the more I wrap the corners of this dreamy, false security blanket around my shoulders choosing not to acknowledge harsher realities.
This morning I made it a point to tell Dwight it was my birthday as he was handing out verifications.
Susanne exclaimed on the other side of the cubicle. Even so, the work day progressed slowly. That afternoon, I sighed after hearing the courtesy flush in the stall adjacent and continued playing chess on my phone. I snapped it shut when I realized it was time to get back to work and spent the rest of the day envisioning the balloon with
written all over it I bounced over cubicle walls for comments between calls last year.
Sedrick rushed down the stairs carrying a tray full of draft beers, Wisconsin cheese and crackers.
Was I also carrying the NY strip steak?
He wondered as the tray catapaulted itself into the air and his arms flailed in front of him, attempting to break his fall. The decorative traffic signals were perpetually yellow as he waited desperately for each item to fall into place. First it was the gravelly edges of the crackers hitting his cheek, followed by the cheese. Not long thereafter, his hair was soaked in hops as the glasses shattered around him.
Where was the steak?
A few goals for next month: Getting an oil change (soon), bringing my lunch to work more often, sending out my resume more often, reading faster and exercising more/ smoking less. I would also like to be more confident with my own decisions, and not hesitate to do what I think is in my best interests and not necessarily those of others. I will work hard, play hard, relax and help others in need. I will make sense of what happened in Florida and make a decision about whether or not I can ever forsee moving back or visiting.
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