Right around the corner

Having just finished perusing NPR's article on the drastic lows in Wall Street, I have to say I'm growing more and more worried about the state of my current inability to garden effectively.

I feel like I ought to have been fostering the growth of a smattering of nutrient-rich vegetables and perhaps even raising some chickens what with the soon-to-burst balloon of debt this whole country seems all too blithe to keep inflating.

I'm just waiting for the day that I wake up to find that there have been countless runs on the banks and all of the numbers in my online bank accounts are simply that: numbers.
Meaningless, valueless, pointless numbers.

Then again, maybe that's just my problem: I'm just waiting.
Maybe that's all of our problem.

Seriously though, when I ask myself what it is I'm actually doing to counteract or at least prepare for these declining times I come up with precisely squat.

This is simply not acceptable.

Sitting in a class where we talk about media

I'm finally jumping into a class that compels me (just a little).

Me and a small cadre of my die-hard Speech Comm friends are currently sitting in our favorite basement dungeon classroom getting ready to embark on a weekend crash course in journalistic bias and contemporary media literacy.

This may sound like a mouthful but the truth is that it's an amalgamation of many topics we've all already addressed in individual form via various and sundry other courses.
Needless to say I'm very much anticipating what these next three days are going to have in store for us.

For once I'm excited about school.

And just when things couldn't get any bleaker

In the last week I've spent a few nights battling insomnia, a few mornings battling anxiety, and an afternoon or two wishing I could just ditch this conventional little life and run off to Barbados.

Seeing as how that's not likely to present itself as a realistic option at any point in the near future, I've decided to stop being unhappy for awhile.
Lord knows I deserve the break.

Not to mention I'm less than 5 months away claiming my hard earned degree, I have a beautiful and enriching group of close friends, I'm in an incredible relationship with one of the most handsome and adoring people I've ever encountered, and I still have all of my fingers and teeth...unless you count the curiously named wisdom molars.

All in all I don't have it too bad.
Sure, I have some debts (who doesn't and no, I wasn't asking you Amish people), I have a less than ideal job, and my iPhone freezes up sometimes.
Boo-hoo, I'm a such a martyr.

The fact is that I allow myself to become entirely too ensnared by the complications of wanting something I don't have, not wanting some I do, and wishing that I could gratify my desires in the blink of an eye.
I'm pretty sure prolonged attitudes like these will give you cancer.

I don't want cancer.

I like my hair.

A lot of people like my hair.

Like senior citizens.

And I would feel horrible disappointing them.
They lived through the depression.

I'm simply stating that I need to stop being such a wet blanket and live a little more fully.
That said, it's time for me to sleep.
Pleasant dream, me.

Sitting in a class where we talk about beer

I'm getting really tired of how much class time we spend just for the sake of filling up a period.
If there is anything I really cannot stand it's unnecessary use of time.

Why waste my effort, attention, and valuable time? (Yes, I would consider my time to be a very valuable thing.)

I'm not saying that what we do with the nebulous time is always of no value whatsoever, and yet I feel as if I ought to be allowed to choose whether or not I am willing to partake in the non-salient discussions.

I'm almost finished for God's sake.
I'm tired of merely meeting criteria.
My college experience is supposed to be saturated with learning new and innovative ways of thinking by being presented with scintillating concepts.

This is inanity.
(Ever notice how that word is one "s" away from "insanity"?)

Perhaps I'm just jaded.
Scratch the perhaps.
I am.

In a time of trial and apology

I've received two rather noteworthy apologies today.
And after spending the last several months constantly being the one doing the apologizing, it's a very refreshing and enlivening position to hold.

That said, I just finished a response to Maekol's ex-boyfriend, Sam's note of apology for some rudeness on his part during last week and I felt it warranted placement in my blog along side my other documentings of time's passage.


Sam,

I accept and appreciate your apology.
I'll admit I was made slightly uncomfortable by your insistence on coming over the other night mainly because I don't ever like being put into a situation where I have little to no choice in the matter.
I just find it to be without consideration on the part of the one making the demand and it is quite rude.

That said, I wanted to extend my own apology for saying that you were drunk. I must have misunderstood you during our phone conversation that night. There was a point in the discourse where I believed you to have mentioned that you were "trashed."
You very well might have said something like "trapped" or been commenting on everyone around you. Whatever the case, my misunderstanding led to me conveying an untruth to Maekol in my discussion of the situation.
For that, I am sorry.

I'm happy to know that you're looking to be civil and can see it in your message. However, considering the present situation in regard to your talking with Michaela about Maekol's and Tommy's frustrations with her, I must admit that I have begun to consider you with a moderate amount of wariness.

I'm glad to hear that you apologized to Tommy for speaking out of turn but at the same time, Michaela is still refraining from speaking directly with the boys as a result of your unnecessary input and that frustrates and disappoints me on behalf of all 3 of my friends who are now hurting because of the complexities of the situation.
This is not meant as a roundabout way of placing some kind of blame on you by any means. This is me making sure to let you know why it is I have grown more standoffish toward you of late.

I haven't harbored ill will for you in any fashion previously and this time period is more sensitive because of how much I am seeing what's conspired as a result of gossip hurting Tommy and Maekol.
As you are well aware, Maekol is my best friend.
I love him very, very much and hate to see him hurting.
Thus, when he is hurt, I am very protective and defensive against those involved in inflicting the upset.

Unfortunately, in this situation you happened to be a part of the source of that upset warranting the raising of my guards.

I, too would like to be civil in this but simultaneously I think it's understood that while we are able to get along, we've got conflicting positions with regard to what's best for this group of friends.

I understand that you're in something of a strenuous time of life what with relocation, joblessness, and a general sense of lacking direction. There are numerous external factors contributing to your difficulties right now and those things are acknowledged as being out of your control.
And yet, in lieu of working out a definite plan of long term action for yourself, I would advise that you focus on the small victories.

-Find some kind, any kind of employment (I know it's incredibly difficult to do so in the current state of things but it's not impossible and the ability to support yourself will be rewarding and maturing.)

-Find housing outside of your present situation (From what I've been told by both you and those around you, you're far from happy there and the people who reside with you sound as if they're heavily detracting from your ability to find success.)

-Assist in the diplomatic repair of Michaela's relationship with two of her closest and dearest friends (Whether this means re-couching the things you imparted about Tommy's and Maekol's opinions or simply stepping out of their triad long enough for them to clarify and heal everything solely within themselves.)

These things will each provide you with an individual sense of completion and accomplishment. Thus, you'll find yourself working toward realistic goals and ensure your own growth of inward peace, self-satisfaction, personal security, and maturity of behavior.

Considering the fact that we are all on the same path toward these common goals, understand that I'm not singling you out by advising these things. I'm doing the same for myself, as it Maekol, as is Tommy, as is Michaela.

Be intentional, be considerate, make a point of thinking carefully about the ways in which your actions consequentially affect those around you. And avoid inflating anything to a higher level of sensationalism than necessary. Just take everything you encounter with a grain of salt and focus on the essentials as opposed to making light of the frivolousness of gossip and melodrama.

I think you'll find yourself in a much happier place.

I have no qualms about being your friend but you must understand that I've made a decisive point of surrounding myself only with people who edify and encourage me and those I love.
If ever a person begins to detract from the well being of those I care about and/or myself, I hold them at an arm's length until they either make amends for wrongdoing or prove their integrity consistently improving their behavior.

I know I've left you with quite a lot to consider.
Just think on it.

Please feel free to ask me any questions you might have.

Sincerely,
Noah

The end of a very long day

Here I sit in somber dejection.

I told myself that today would be surprisingly productive and that I would feel surprised by the fact that I'd accomplished so much.

Well, I got my wish...and I missed the concert I've been looking forward to for weeks.
Granted, I did get a fair amount of random shit dealt with and finished.
None of it was terribly well done, but at least it's done.

So bleak, the revelation

I came to a solid conclusion this evening:
I've set unrealistic goals for myself and they are bringing me down.

In perusing the scraps of information I have concerning my future, I'm constantly gripped with a paralyzing sense of suspension.
It's like I'm dangling in some transparent vacuum space above and between all that I want to be and do, and yet without ground or walls off of which to propel myself I am left to unceremoniously look at everything I hope for without any conceivable momentum toward its obtainment.

One would think that making this statement about my own future would damn me to a self-induced sense of victimhood, and yet that's just the answer.
I would be the cause of it.
In this same vein of thought and flow of logic it would only be sensible to think that I could just as easily be the cause of my own success, of my own attaining of high merit, my own victory.

I long for championship.

And now, as my own propellant I can release myself from the arbitrary bonds of flawed plans rife with expectation and obligation.
I can be free to redefine my goals and ultimately myself.

This is a time for shaping and shaving.
Chipping away the larger portions of my accrued worry and self-doubt, I'll then begin to sand my new shape into smooth satisfaction by means of the sanding of flexibility and will to accept all that is unchangeable and a hope to discover just what can be altered.

Limits only exist where failure is perceived.

That's my new maxim.
Get it tattooed.
Just credit me.

In bed under the covers at 11:06am

Morning.
A time for worry,
when the dog's weight on blanketed feet feels so confining.

No amount of pulling will
raise the neatly tucked sheets
over my head.

Yes, my eyes are open.
No, I am not awake.
But I am not sleeping.

I am worrying.

Worrying over my worrying.
A vicious cycle.
And I am pinned beneath the comforter
like a teddy bear who is missing his button eyes.

I can't feel my fingertips

I've just resigned my keys to the house on Clinton.

It's a strange sensation, knowing I'll never go back there.
Then again, who really knows?

Perhaps some metaphysical element of that space as my home will one day ask me back, like when people drive by their childhood homes just to get their fix of nostalgia.

I rode my bike today for the first time in months. I can't feel my fingertips. My stomach feels like it's wrinkled and shrinking. My throat is lines with rigid tissue paper.

And now to work.

Posted with LifeCast

The morn of my 23rd year

It's official: I'm 23 years old.

There is something particularly unremarkable about this age, I think.
23 is a nice enough number, I guess.
But it lacks va-va-voom.

I guess that means that this will be the year during which I learn to more deftly provide for myself in the area of excitement and sensationalism.

I see this as a good thing.

This is the year I intend on doing a few things.

-Graduate from PSU
-Write a collection of short stories
-Finish the first installment of my memoirs
-Delve more passionately into professional modeling
-Grow out my curls
-Go to France
-Get out of the service industry
-Get married (kidding)

Here I am with this new list in front of me and it's the first thing I'm doing with a set intention in my newest of anniversarial endeavors.
I think that means I'm setting goals for myself rather than expectations.

This is the year of accomplishment.
And with that, I bid you all a good night.

Here I am, once again.
It's too late to be awake and too early to be asleep.

My mind is in such a messy turmoil.
Sure, I'm conniving and manipulative and jealous and angry and indignant and vengeful and bitchy and sad and buried and ugly and mean and judgmental and tired and bored and antsy and impatient and brilliantly prideful and painfully stupid.

So what?

Everyone really is, deep down...


...at some point.

Spirals aren't always pretty and graceful

I'm beginning to feel that I need medical attention.

As much as I used to criticize and riddle the notion that a person might need some pharmaceutical substance to balance out their moods, I'm at the point where I feel like every moment I'm cognizant is a guessing game of how I'll feel.

It seems like I have no control over my emotions.
I'm on this cruelly bucking wave of misty, cresting highs followed by plunging and darkened lows.
And the sad truth is that every time I reach the lowest part of the tidal dip, I take on a bit of water.
And I've been so up and down lately that I've accrued a dangerous amount of additional weight in my vessel of self.

I'm sinking.
I'm growing more and more reticent to rise to the top of the rolling water's peak.
Sunshine is growing to be more and more of a stranger and I'm feeling the salt water sting of the ubiquitously blinding brine of angst.

I don't want to see anyone or be close to anyone.
I don't want to be kind.
To others or myself.

I think I need help.

I can't seem to find sleep.

I thought I'd captured it a little earlier in the evening but somehow, between brushing my teeth and finding the perfect lullaby, it eluded me once again.

And after a day filled with mandatory accomplishment I felt it only fitting to write something of my own volition.

I caught myself scouring Craigslist for jobs again today.
It's moderately upsetting that I can't just find contentment in what I'm doing for longer than a brief season or two.
It's as if I'm hardwired to behave as if life's would be definites are little more than lily pads.
I hop from one to the next and the next and so on.
Occasionally, I land on a fresh and undulating floating green to discover that it plays home to a burst of gradient fuchsia petals resting in the soothing cradle of the serenely rippling surface.

I've always loved floating lilies.

But coming back to my metaphor, these lilies seem to wilt and fade causing me to jump to the next pad in hopes of finding a new blossom.

Whether that blossom be a kinder boss, a more appealing living space, or a better relationship, there is still an itch in my lengthy limbs telling me it will only be a matter of time before the vulnerable petals of each of my newly discovered blossoms will eventually suffer the mercilessness of entropy.
And once again I'll bound to the next green berth in hopes of discovering a stronger, more beautiful beauty.

But what of the argument that my presence might just be the cause of my discovered flowers' destruction?
Perhaps my arrival saps from the existing loveliness whatever life force it might have held sans me.
Perhaps.
Or perhaps I might offer an opportunity to play the botanical gardener, providing love and attention to the stillness of organic blooms.

Life is funny like that: so full of mutable things that seem to fall away from focus and/or importance.
And funnier still is that fact that so many of us just accept that the failure of said aspects to persevere and live on with us is a natural thing.

Could it not be said that our investment in those natural elements might sustain them?
And the practice of providing care to those things that are outside of us, could it not be that which best sustains ourselves?

I wonder if this metaphor has grown murky or perhaps stagnant.

Even so, I tire of leaping.
I'd rather rest in the open arms of my budding life.

Wipe that silly plaid off your lips

Perhaps there's something to the idea that we all think of our relationships as too special, too independent of contemporary problem and strife.
Those common issues that "regular couples" face aren't applicable to us because we're just too incredibly unique to be bothered with the riddling doubts and confrontations of the everyday dyads.

Maybe the answer to all of the discomfort, the sour stomach, the unmet expectations is to behave with an assumption that in at least a general sense we're just like everyone else.

Blending with the crowd might actually prove to be an element of saving grace.
This whole idea stems from the notion that too much of the time individuals craft for themselves a sort of "personal fable"; some people believe themselves to be living a life completely outside of the norm and in accordance with that belief think of everyone around them as being able to see the blatant contrast between their puny, regular, vanilla lives and the bright, shiny, one-of-a-kind lives of those with this misconception.

Perhaps that last paragraph didn't make much sense.
Perhaps it's just because I'm so different than all of you.

Well now I'm just making an example using myself.

But this whole issue seems to be so obvious and yet so arcane.

The Town Crier: A Short Story in 26 Sentences, A to Z

I just completed a writing exercise that one of my author friends told me about.
The function is mainly to exercise both an attention to short story plot while simultaneously developing flexibly creativity within a limited set of options.

Here's the skinny:
-Write a short story in 26 sentences.
-Beginning the first sentence with the letter A, each progressive sentence must begin with the following alphabetical letter (2nd sentence B, 3rd sentence C).
-And as a final push, one of the 26 sentences must be exactly 100 words long. No more, no less. It doesn't matter which one, just so long as one of them has that precise count.

This is my first try but I'm pretty happy with the outcome.

Enjoy.
And feel free to give it a hand yourself and send me the result. Maybe even post it as a comment!


THE TOWN CRIER

Already the people around had begun to hiss and whisper at what they took to be quite a spectacle.
By the time the rumoring crackled through the crowd Hans was up on his feet brushing the dry khaki dust off his clothes and hair.
Center of attention was never his place of preference.
Delighted by the sight of the freshly pommeled boy rising from the pile he'd just been left in, Hans' hound pup was quick to come and lick his master's wounds in some unwelcome offering of comfort.
Everyone began to break out of the tight circle that had formed around the youths wrestling in the streets.
Fights rarely occurred in the small town of Xylophone Springs.
Granted, the berg's name garnished plenty of public attention, attracting the drunk and over-sexed teens from the nearby suburbs to canvas the downtown streets with trouble in their lazy eyes.
Hundreds of people flocked to the unremarkable little populace to chance hearing a "musical trickle".
It happened that the tiny river running through the town (appropriately names the Xylophone after is matron spring) ran so lightly over a section of stair step layered shale that whenever fresh silt or tiny pebbles washed down the feeble flow over the stones, their sprinkled impact would create a tart and hollow resonance very much like a quiet Xylophone, bringing different musical tones out of the variously sized shelves beneath the water's sun-dappled surface.
"Just get off of me," Hans shushed sternly as the pup persisted in trying to salivate the bruises and abrasions now covering the boy's dirty legs.
Kids in Xylophone Springs were always known to be quite polite, well behaved, and well kempt.
Lately the cleaner, louder children (the ones whose parents clearly had an excess of means) had begun to heckle Hans for his shyness and dowdy wardrobe.
Mostly the harassment consisted of little more than the occasional jeering comment or ditty, ("Hans the hobo, Hans the hobo", "Hey trashcan", and "Are your pants sewn from a burlap potting soil sack?" were the most popular) but there were still the more aggressive and menacing attacks like the one that had just ended where Hans was either made target of whatever object the offending kids could obtain as a missile or actually directly accosted by the more proactive children who would pin his limbs and tickle him to the point that he began sobbing or crying for his mother.
Not that much about the present day's cruelties strayed far from the established pattern where the physical abuse at school was concerned, but this time the town brats had started their bullying in the middle of a crowded street full of the town's working adults and elderly crones.
Obviously it would seem a bit public for such a childish sin and yet the kids beat up on Hans with a particular sunny abandon that Sunday afternoon.
People around the kerfuffle did nothing.
Quiet perturbation and maybe even a little bit of spite tainted all of the proud citizens, looking on as "that dirty little boy" received what they took to be his just comeuppance at the hands of their bright and shiny offspring.
Rarely did anyone step in to defend Hans.
Several times a number of the surrounding playground children had thought very seriously about just how unfair it was to gang up on their sad and quiet classmate.
Thinking wasn't ever the same doing.
Usually, Hans would submissively weather the bitter abuse and then sneak into the backstage of the Primary school's auditorium to conceal himself by sitting cross-legged between the floor-length heavy felt curtains.
Veiled from sight, Hans would silently talk to himself confirming that he was still a good boy no matter how all of those people treated him.
Wiping rebellious tears from the corners of his eyes before the hot salt had a chance to stain his cheeks, he would calm himself and then walk out onto the blank stage in front of 220 empty seats and take a bow, imagining the freedom of knowing that the beautiful audience in his head would always be giving him the standing ovation he craved so intensely.
Xylophone Springs Primary school was currently thirteen blocks from Hans' blood and muddied shins, and so were the empty auditorium, the curtains, the stage, and his adoring and thunderously approving audience.
Yearning for the safety of his secret cocoon, Hans felt the expected tears fighting their way to the rim of his lower eyelids and, for the first time, didn't raise his hands to keep them from marring his countenance, instead allowing them to fall freely, tracing brownish pathways down his smudged cheeks.
Zipping his ripped jacket all the way to the top of the collar, he stood in the middle of the street and cried liquid release for all the town to see, pausing as the last of the hot water spouted from his Xylophone Springs...

...and then he bowed.

Checkmate

That's it!
No more moves for me.

And yet unlike Chess, I'm happier knowing that no amount of strategy I possess will counter this state.

I have yet to put everything away, I have yet to transport the last of my belongings from my prior residence, I have yet to figure out final bills, but I am here.
I'm living here now.
And I happy.

This is an incredibly welcome change and I couldn't think of a better person to be sharing this with than my dear friend, Maekol.
We spoke about how it kind of always seemed like this situation was going to come about at some point. And here we are: roommates.

I think I can confidently speak for both of us and say that we're both thrilled at the good luck of having landed one another as living partners.
And here we sit, side by side on my old leather couch, sipping french press coffee and listening to Sufjan.

Life is beautiful.
And the sun is shining.
And we are free.

And then there was more

Everybody seems to have their own idea of Heaven.
For some it's the empty countryside on a clear, warm day.
Others might say it's complete silence.
And still others might say Manolo Blahnik.

For me it's Powell's Bookstore.

Walking through those impossibly spotless glass doors into the literary mecca of old, new, used and never been cracked volumes upon volumes is enough to calm me in even the most doomsaying mood.

Having just come back from one of my many trips to my own version of paradise, I sat down with my book bag and removed each of the new purchases (none of which I really should have made but all of which are completely necessary). I carefully placed each of my three new pieces of verbal candy on the desk top in front of the computer with careful attention to my need to see each of their title and author. It's just this thing I do.

Adding to my library are Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake, Tobias Wolff's This Boy's Life, and Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse.

I couldn't seem to keep from pawing through my canvas sack as I walked from the book store and ended up pulling out the Atwood novel, beginning its first few pages as I walked.
I wish I could say I narrowly missed an offending telephone pole, walked across a busy street against the signal and caused a number of near-collisions, or ran headlong into some other booky with their head buried in someone else's words but none of those things actually occurred. I simply read until I reached my destination and then climbed a set of rickety, oily, dangerous and skewed steps to an over noisy office so I could make a point of recording the otherwise uneventful happenings of my last half an hour.

This seemingly pointless endeavor might go unnoticed by any number of people who don't relate notions of Elysium to gargantuan book stores but for any of you who might have some sort of slight connection to my present excitement, simply insert your own experiences.
Think of running through that open field with your eyes closed, not worrying at all about tripping or running into anything.
Think of hearing the echo of a single drop of water as its muted staccato is quelled by breathy nothingness.
Think of obtaining the last pair of a limited edition heel in just your size...for half price.

This is how I feel right now.
36 minutes and 20 dollars later, I'm happy.

a title that is in all lower case

People everywhere have strange habits.
A lot of times those habits tend to inflict a minor amount of damage on the person but typically that damage is counter-balanced by some new skill, growth, or achievement.
Take coffee for instance.
It's moderately good for you where nutrition is concerned but the sheer quantity by which some people choose to saturate their minutes, hours, days and lives is enough to be considered dangerous no matter what the substance.
And yet the invigoration of caffeine combined with the social culture built around obtaining coffee (going to cafes, supporting local roasteries, feeding the limp and pallid economy) is enough to balance out what little harm an overdose of java might inflict.
The basis of justification is in the even trade off.
However, when that trade is at an imbalance in favor of the self-damaging side of things the habit poses a large threat to the person's well-being. It can do little more ultimately cripple and challenge them by means of an overdose of self-medication.

My job rides on just such an imbalance.
I feed into people's abuse of alcohol and profit from their selfishness, stupidity and baseness.
No, no, no, not everybody's abuse, only some are abusers. But it's the abusers that cause me to pause and reflect on the morality of the situation.
When it comes to people who are crippled by their bad habit I blind myself to the eventual negative energy and anti-production that my provision of alcohol will ensure.

Or should I say I used to blind myself.

I believe I've come to a crux.
I've reached an important juncture in my travels through the jungles of philosophy in my own developing and still-learning mind. I've come to better understand my misplacement of misanthropy on many by locating the few who really deserve. The frustrating part is realizing that I've been playing a vital role in what makes them so deplorable to me.
It's completely Utopian...the book, not the concept.

It's as if I make drunks and then punish them.

Hmmm...This thought alone brings me to a place where I just have to stop and consider all that I've made out to be so worthy of my disdain and if it's only because it somehow relates back to me.

Am I saying I hate myself?
No, I doubt it. (I'm too much of a narcissist to actually hate myself.)

I believe I am a perfectionist.
I hate when I see people behaving similarly to the way I behave because I want that behavior to be just right and if it isn't then it's a poor reflection back on me (since we're ostensibly of the same personality/character). In other words, I don't like people who are like me because I think they're going to screw it up.

Wow.
Do I have a big head or what?

Seriously, I'm curious now.
'Cause now I'm going to hate people with big heads even more.

I'll find some reason they're not doing it right.

Houston, we have a problem. Right?

There are moments in our communal lives during which we recognize an overarching sense of dissatisfaction.

We're not happy to simply accept whatever people have dictated as blatant and true.
We want to know more.
I am wont to be happy.

In that my happiness is based mostly on being comprehensively overcome with newness, with something other than the common.

I guess you might call it progressive bourgeois.
Even so, I am wanting.
Wanting and waiting.

A woman sat across the small coffee shop engaged in a phone call to which she had no idea I played the unwitting eavesdrop.

"How much longer can I safely work?" The woman's voice had the burnt, deflated sound of wind brushing past crackly dry grass. The question itself harbored the emotional remnants of arduous labor.

"Well I've still got a lot to do," she said, answering some unknown question, "I've been at this for three hours and I've still got so much to do I'm just waiting for some kind of implosion." Her tone seemed like it should be coming from a misanthropic switchboard operator.

The tale woven by the words and noises of the solely auditory aspects of the situation would have made me think the woman was copying the Bible, curing cancer, or digging a ditch in the sun. I decided to actually look directly at the wall facing speaker and more particularly, at whatever exceedingly gravitational activity she might be engaged in.

What I saw puzzled me: she sat facing a mostly empty table top with a few stacks of purchased Christmas cards, a smattering of pens, and a single white sheet of paper with one and a half columns of names listed in a ten point font.

She was filling out Christmas cards.

Now, I don't know about any of you but I really don't think that this temporary, self-induced (and apparently Holiday-obligatory) stress warrants such a level of reproachful exasperation. It's CHRISTmas, not some inescapable rerun of a Richard Simmons holiday themed workout.

Indiana Jones does less intentional self-injury than these holi-crazed Susie Homemakers and he makes a habit of brushing with death. And to top it all off he's kind of clumsy!

It's just a DAY!

And in addition, the fact that you feel that kind of obligation when contemplating Christmas as opposed to any notions of family, togetherness, or tradition means that you most likely don't really even get Christmas.

So in surmise, you're killing yourself for some socially mandated trend that you don't really even understand!

You're doing this to yourself and you're proliferating the problem in those around you who suffer from the same misguided sense of celebration.

JUST GO GET SNOWY!

GET CAROL-Y!

GET JOLLY AND WHATNOT!

Money and time are both valuable for different reasons to different people but in the end they both have to be related to you to matter in the long run.

So Merry Christmas! You're Awesome!

Now get into the season and start helping everyone realize it about themselves.

And all is set to rights once again.

Failure

I've decimated my fingernails.
I'm all dry skin, sour aches, and a dreadful feeling of empty lacking.

Once again I've come into contact with the part of me that so palpably experiences lost causes and failed attempts.

Saint Jude and I have a meeting today at four.
I've decided we should break up.

But drat it all, that Saint Jude has this insufferable ability to convince me we should stick together.

This is all drivel.
I write garbage. (Thank you E. Iguana)
I am writing more of it now.

I have zero motivation because it's all going to be the same.

Fuck everything.

Past Scribbles

I found this page from the beginning of the year and I felt it appropriate for adding to my log.

1/9/08 - Neuberger Hall, Room 59

My stomach won't release whatever tightness it seems to have become so friendly with in the last several days.
I have no doubt that the bowl of cinnamon Puffins and mil along with the reheated (and let it be known overly large) portion of last night's lemon, cilantro, tofu and shell pasta have some part to play in the present exacerbation of this discomfort.
Damn appetite.
But the altruism in me tells me that if pain and my stomach have become amiable I really have no place telling them to stop being friends.
I would hate to be told not to continue a new friendship.
I feel like a parent and my stomach is my child. The pain is that little boy with dirty hand and the mismatching shoelaces who eats more than one cookie without asking or saying thank you.
But my child is home-schooled, afraid of people I don't personally introduce and thus he cannot continue a friendship with pain sans my direct involvement.
I kind of have to be friends with pain too.

Pain left and now my stomach is mine again. It seems almost Oedipal, our relationship.
Perhaps that's why my stomach has seedy friends from time to time; to keep me from being too completely attached. To make friends with other stomachs.


Going back even further still, the following poem is off of a napkin from Whole Foods leading me to believe I wrote this during a break from serving at P.F. Chang's.

Consideration - 8/18/07

While rude people are annoying,
those who don't realize their rudness
tend to be so much more aggravating.

In a city where only the rich can afford to
be healthy and the careless can access
fashionableness I find myself scrounging
for bits of propriety.
What should be said at what times?
How should one look for an occasion?
And yet love rises about what is thought
of as appropriate or acceptable.
It supersedes the trends and vogue of
any culture.
It cannot be stopped except by the hand
of ignorance.

Perhaps a smile plays on both sides of
the fence. It can be loving or ignorant.

The nature of a smile notwithstanding:
What of kisses?
What of hugs?
What of gifts?
What of fucking?

Can all be one or the other,
loving or ignorant?
Or perhaps just rude.

My Foreign Counterparts

And thus you see that I do, in fact, aspire to be yet another international man of mystery.


Like these gents.

When Humoring a Hypocrite

Last night Joel told me that he didn't want to speak to me anymore.

Having read a memoir piece I posted about a former relationship poisoned by infidelity and observed pictures of me embracing my boyfriend, he accused me of being "inconsiderate, tactless, intentionally hurtful, and over-sensationalizing."

"You knew when you were doing this it would hurt mom and dad's feelings," he spat with brusque force.

Yes, Joel. I maliciously wrote a story without either of them as the subject and posted pictures of me with my significant other...like almost everyone else on Facebook who has a boyfriend or girlfriend.

Are you truly that misguided?

Throughout the course of his condescending and judgmental bout of talking at me he made several blatant conflicting statements. Statements which showed not only his irrational and over-passionate zeal for being "right" at any cost but also his incredibly misguided sense of Christianity.
First Instance:
During the hour and half conversation he made a point too many times to count of seeing to it that I understood that he didn't know me.

Noah: "But you don't ask about me. You just take it upon yourself to assume that what little of me you're exposed to comprises the whole of who I am."

Joel: "I don't need to ask you, I'm your brother."

So, you "don't know me," and you don't feel the need to ask me about what you don't know because "you're my brother" which I take to mean implies that you know me? Pick one.


...hmmm...


...You know what, I'm through with this listing of offenses, for now. Believe me, I have plenty more. But what I've realized is that I'm bigger than this. I'm bigger than him.
And I refuse to attempt to make myself feel better by pointing a finger at him.

Instead I'll serve him the same just dessert he's attempted to force down my closed throat: Pity.

I pity his misanthropy and lost sense of justification.
I pity his obsession with a lazy belief system that answers most of its questions using the circular logic of "faith works for what I believe but not for what you might."
I pity his tragic sense of piety as it deteriorates his ability to love others and truly love himself. God would never want that now would he?
I pity his running away from the real world in an attempt at staying safe and warm inside his Bible School Bubble.
I pity his confusion and double standards.
I pity his passing judgment on me for being someone who is actually and truly free while he subjects himself willingly to the bondage of an invisible authority translated by condescending, pontificating men.

And above all,
I pity his willingness to cut off a loving brother in an effort to demonstrate his disgust with someone who is unobtrusively different in behavior and mindset.

I'm not injuring you, Joel.
It's like I said- over and over- what I do is arbitrary in that it's my action, my choice. And while my actions and choices do have consequences your reactions are your choices.
If you're hurt by my disagreement with you (when I merely disagree, I do not judge) then you're allowing a hurt upon yourself. You're choosing it.

And while we spent nearly an hour and a half on the phone during which he pointedly criticized, demeaned, and berated me and my mindset and behaviors, calling me any number of derogatory names, I stand by the fact that I refrained from calling him a single name other than his own and engaged in no kind of disagreement other than debate.

And for all of the times you called me "ridiculous" and told me that you had the right to judge me for your perception of my having changed friends, personality, morals, and position, I never once brought up any of your faults or projected some number of equivocal shortcomings.

For a "sad, lost little boy," I seem to be much more grown up than you.

Of Casuists and Mutiny

A part of me will always hate Alaska. Having spent the summer of 2006 as a tour director for Holland America Cruise Lines, I learned a keen bitterness towards the largest state in the US. A bitterness that broadly encompassed lost luggage, room complaints, and thousands of miles in the front of a tour bus filled with demanding senior citizens. When it comes to mind, many regard the place with a sense of naturally inspired awe while I am temporarily crippled by an arresting spite as my mind struggles to subdue the saturating weakness of betrayal. I was a restless 20 years old when my Christian boyfriend turned Bathsheba.


Christopher Stewart Keith. We met a year before going north at our private Christian university in Langley, British Columbia. Like all students, we had signed a behavioral contract with the school which banned drinking, smoking, sex, dancing, and “homosexual activity,” to name a few. I remember the first night we kissed when he told me how each of his three titles could act as first, middle and/or last names. At the time I found such a mundane fact endearing. At the time I was endearingly mundane. I had altered a thrift store plaid shirt for him and he had baked a strawberry rhubarb pie for me. It seemed like a fair trade. That night, we ended up taking a long walk and then broke into the campus music room where we watched a movie on my laptop while cuddling beneath a grand piano slip cover. I told him that I liked him and wanted him to be my boyfriend. “Alright,” he responded, “I’d like that.” We wouldn’t end up sleeping together until eight months later. It was awful.

I have slept with some very unattractive people. They weren’t all so bad to look at when we met but even the moderately handsome individuals seemed to wilt and gnarl with the time’s elapse. In the instances where I actually reached orgasm I still slunk away from each encounter with a feeling of hunger, of lacking fulfillment, like when someone hands you a stick of gum and your trusting fingers close around nothing more than an empty wrapper.

The night Chris first fucked me we were in a drafty cabin behind an expansive Alaskan resort in Denali National Park. The employee housing space, furnished with two creaky, sagging twin beds (little more than naked mattresses but for the faded. threadbare sheets that reeked of one-night stands and cheap detergent), rivaled Alaska’s finest honeymoon suite, to be sure. The whole situation was so stark and obligatory. We didn’t speak. We didn’t kiss. I let him inside, he came, and it was over. He turned to face the wall and fell asleep while I showered and resigned to the second bed. The sporadic, muffled drumroll of the leaky showerhead thudding lazily against the fiberglass floor beating my eyelids apart, forced my gaze to fall on the patchy moonlit pattern across Christopher’s dormant form.
“How did we get here,” I silently asked the lurid ruby numbers on the bedside alarm clock face (tour directors were not afforded tardiness). “11:59” blinked casually to midnight.


Christopher had a face reminiscent of a child playing house. All too-big suits and light pecks on tightly pursed lips. He always seemed to be reading life from a script he’d compiled from what he saw real adults doing. He cared fiercely for everyone around him in a way that cried out for recognition without words. On campus, there were three things he was known for: he offered well-worded advice, he provided patient back rubs, and he knew Mario Brothers by heart. Even the secret levels. I thought it so selfless how he wanted to become a children’s counselor. Now I realize it was due to the fact that he was still mostly a child himself. Then again, so was I. I remember the secret pride I felt when Chris’ dorm mate told me I had given him the best massage he’d ever received. And the sense of victory I greedily savored when Chris received the email from Holland America notifying him that he’d been reconsidered for hire and they’d like to offer him a summer position after all. (I had contacted the tour company following Chris’ rejection and requested their further attentions to his application and resume, both of which I had written).

We both longed to be necessary. We both worked fastidiously to become so. For me that meant being available, flexible, convenient. For Chris, that required independence, distance, and feigned maturity.

I can still remember with crisp clarity the first time we called off our relationship. March 12, 2006. Two days before our three-month anniversary. Two days after he had been denied the job in Alaska. I was the one who made the final call so Chris wouldn’t have to. I felt so big and small at the same time. We barely made eye contact. My pajama sweats felt lumpish and unattractive and the vinegary stains beneath the sleeves on Chris’ white undershirt posed an unavoidable cynosure. Long prior he had begun intimating that he was afraid of people finding out about the two of us. I said I cared too much about him to be the cause of fear or worry. We gave each other an extended hug, the phlegm dripping from my nose adding new stains to his garment. And then he left my dorm and mostly avoided me for the remainder of the semester. I grew increasingly torpid, vacating my room less and less. I told myself it was because I wanted to be there in case Chris happened to stop by. One of the few times he did actually make a brief visit was to inform me that he had been offered the summer position. I intentionally avoided telling him of my efforts to that end. I merely saw it as convenient. He saw it as something he was entitled to.

Three months later we would be in Alaska, separated for the first time in the two weeks we had been in training. Chris would call me, asking me what I thought of the future and I would transparently relate my hopes for the two of us to finish school together and move to Seattle after graduation. He would admit that he wanted the same and we would reinstate our relationship just before what would have been our six-month mark. Less than a month after he would kiss another boy.

We were in Dawson City, Yukon Territories, just east of the Alaska/Canada border. Our tours had serendipitously overlapped and I had finagled a swap in order that Christopher and I could share a room during the one night we were there simultaneously. We had just gone to bed and Chris was avoidant, terse, and brusque.
“You’re acting all detached and sulky. What’s the matter? Are you angry with me,” I asked the questions without needing an answer. Christopher’s behavior was all but incriminating. The weekend before, while I was on layover in Skagway and he was in Anchorage I had spent 3 days trying to get in touch with him to no avail. I lay awake all three nights with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. By the third night I had memorized the flaws in the ceiling and counted the brass rungs on the bed frame with my toes to the point of sheer panic. When I finally reached him the phone conversation lasted a distant and inconclusive four minutes and 28 seconds. His voice was dull and labored and each of my inquiries was followed by an excruciating pause. He wasn’t talking to me. He was obliging me.
“I’m not angry. I’m just tired. Can we just go to sleep?” His last question sounded accusatory and immediately I felt like a child being swatted away while tugging on a busy parent’s pant leg. I left him be. After a half hour I knew neither of us was sleeping and turned to kiss his shoulder blade. He cringed as if my lips were acidic. Then he shifted his form so that he was face down in his pillow as if to smother what he was about to say.
“I allowed myself to kiss Lee.” Even though I was already anticipating this disclosure I still felt the knife of infidelity in my duodenum. All I could ask was why, why, why. Chris kept his face buried in the pillow. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. His sobs combined with the plush down made his words even more unintelligible.
We made love urgently, the sweat and salt water swilling together on our angry bodies. The room stank of perspiration and deceit by the time we went still from exhaustion. The next day he left early and I proposed that we not talk about it ever again.
“We’ll act as if it didn’t happen,” I pled with all of the pathos I could muster.
But it did happen. And I later found out that it happened again and again only this time with a different partner.


I met Scott in August, three days before Christopher kissed him while I slept next to them in the king sized bed in our Anchorage apartment. I knew immediately that I was attracted to him and wanted to be close to him in any way I could. But a part of me was still forged in brassy determination to recovering the feelings Chris and I once shared.
I felt that introducing him to Christopher would ensure my own loyalty while making Scott aware of my commitment to the relationship I was currently weathering.
I knew I was smarter, better dressed and more confident than my boyfriend but I still had my worries. And rightfully so. Scott was also in a relationship floating on stale bathwater and he spoke often of its dizzying spiral toward the drain. This gave Christopher and me opportunity to counsel, advise, and encourage this chiseled, six foot two, Mormon boy in the struggles of his love life, an opportunity that became a constant point of silent competition. Which of us could offer the keener insight, the better suggestion, the warmer shoulder.
It therefore came as no surprise that the day I had to leave for tour preparation I put Chris at a decisive advantage. That night, when I returned home, the three of us, Christopher, Scott and myself, ate dinner and settled into a movie in the large bedroom. Scott lay between Chris and me and before the opening credits had finished their infiltration of the unfolding plot, my eyes were closed, my body still, allowing the two of them unhindered access to one another.


September 1st Christopher and I flew south to prepare for another school year, him in Canada and me in Portland (I had transferred following the school’s discovery of my “homosexual activity”). By the time we had returned home our interactions had become elaborately maintained melodramas. And while we had planned on my staying with him the week after returning, our exchanges consisted of little more than laconic bouts of rehearsed speech.

Christopher: I’m going to the coast with my sister for the weekend.
Me: I’ll just head home then.
Christopher: You should call your brother to come and pick you up.
Me: He’ll be able to get me by tonight, I’m pretty sure.
Christopher: I’ll call you when I get back.
Me: Whenever you have time.

I would later be informed during an international phone call that “going to the coast with my sister” actually meant “flying to Utah to see Scott.” But just like before, I already knew.


I fucked Scott the morning of Chris’ birthday (May 2nd) the following year. January of 2007 Chris had moved in with me in Portland after running out of money in Canada. We played house for five months while I grew less and less invested and finally exacted my childish revenge, successfully destroying our relationship along with Christopher, Scott and ultimately myself.

Scott was driving from school in Utah back to Alaska for yet another summer in tourism and had called to see if enough time had passed since the previous summer’s offenses for a reparative visit. We had been talking off and on (unbeknownst to Chris) for a few months and I said I would need to ask my boyfriend. Chris was reticent to say the least but eventually agreed in what I took to be an effort at testing the fortitude of what he thought was a refurbished intimacy between the two of us.

When I broke it off for the second and last time I did it because I wanted to. It had nothing to do with Chris’ feelings. And the night I related my shameful behavior I spoke with uncharacteristic aplomb and little to no remorse.

Five days later I moved out leaving only a few dishes and the old leather couch I had bought at Goodwill. A few weeks later I took that too.

In some ways I felt relieved, as if a complicated and painful tumor had finally been sliced off of my body. But the scars from the operation were many and the residual clash of reason and justification clouded my perspective. The last thing I remember throwing out in the move was my box of pay stubs from Holland America. I would return to Alaska once more the following summer for a brief two week tour to help out the company at the end of a busy season. While there I would sleep with Scott one last time and then vow never to return.
I’ll most likely always hate Alaska.

When She Gave Me Lemons

Hello Lauren Williams,

It certainly has been quite some time.
I will say that our last real conversation of any consequence was more of an ultimatum on my part than a dialogue. That being the case I guess I ought to see to it that this time around I let you know right up front that I'll be doing a lot of the talking.

(This IS a message after all and I guess it goes without saying that that simple fact predicates it being one-sided).

First off: I owe you an apology.

I know.
It's crazy, out of left field, unanticipated, and so on.
Nonetheless, it's true.
Whatever the circumstances I should not have publicly exploded on you the way I did that fateful afternoon in the cafeteria.
I'll be forthright in saying that while I wish to make amends for how I said what I said, I don't mean to take back what I said.

Truthfully Lauren, I was very hurt by what happened those months and years ago. I felt as if I had been deceived and then betrayed.
And by two beautiful women who I considered friends, no less.

And yet, in having had these past seasons to ponder just what it all meant and how it was all meant to be, I've come to some very enlightening realizations: your actions were not inspire by spite or punitive intention; you had limited options; and you were surrounded by people and an institution influencing you to do what was "right" according to an arbitrary set of human-set ethics.

Clearly, to make you out as some sort of villainess would be not only inaccurate but also hypocritical.
Much like myself, you were doing only what you could with what you had.

And while the topic of my sexuality is an unavoidable and integral aspect of my person as a whole, it is minimal in comparison to the overwhelming beauty that is you and me and everyone we know.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that if there was ever any question about it in your mind, Lauren, know that I've let it go.
It's forgiven, it's over, it's past.

And you're still you and I'm still me.

And really, what more could either one of us ask for?

I wish you happiness, peace, and the presence that comes with them.

Namaste,
Noah C. Buck

And now it's the next time

We've hit one month.
Today is the day.

Right about now is when I start wondering whether or not history will repeat itself.
I certainly hope not.

I'm terribly happy. I can't comprehend the entirety of the gladness I'm feeling right now.
And there's this fiery romance and desperate creativity and care.

Whatever might I have done to deserve this?
Let it be.

My left is in its happiest state.

Reminiscing

Riffling through an envelope of old scraps and sundries I was pleased to come across this poem I scribbled on a napkin more than a year ago.

I felt it deserved a place in this, my online annals of pondering and prose.


"Consideration" - 8/18/07

While rude people are annoying, those who don't realize their rudeness tend to be so much more aggravating.
In a city where only the rich can afford to be healthy and the careless can access fashionability I find myself scrounging for bits of propriety.

What should be said at what times?

How should one look for an occasion?

And yet love rises above what is thought of as appropriate or acceptable.
It rises about the trends and vogue of any culture.
It cannot be stopped except by the hand of ignorance.
Perhaps a smile plays on both sides of the fence. It can be loving or ignorant.

The nature of a smile notwithstanding,

What of kisses?
What of hugs?
What of gifts?
What of fucking?

Can all be one or the other,
Loving or Ignorant?

Or perhaps just rude.

And Thus the Gates Did Open

I can't really explain why I did it.
I just did.

And right from the very beginning of the night something told me that drinking was a bad idea.
And yet I indulged.

It's beginning to seem like I'm rather prone to indulgent behavior.
I don't like that I'm seeing this trend in my character.
Then again, I'm glad to be taking note.

It started with a martini which was later amended by an americano with a shot of whiskey.
These vices were quickly followed by more whiskey only this time I had it framed in a chipper pool of ginger ale.

I could sense the tiny hairs on my cheeks going all mushy and they began to tingle a little. It was as if the carbonation from the ginger ale were creeping up the inside of the skin on my face. And while I enjoyed some reading, some writing and a few laughs, I slowly melted away from reality.
Ounce by ounce.

Drinks 2 and 3 were not enjoyed alone.
I was happily attended by Marc, Floyd, Julia and Michelle and together we managed a briskish conversation going from literary snobbery to the fashioning of a perfect runway gait.

By the time we all disbursed I was beginning to forget the snipping, cold air and think only of how I hoped my night would include a few choice romantic interactions with Sean.

God, I feel foolish now, looking back on the progression of things.
It's like I wasn't paying any heed to the facts.
I was drinking.
A lot.

I was biking.
A ways.

I was in a flippant and irresponsible mood.
A farce.

All signs pointed toward a more ascetic decision with regard to what (and particularly how much) I should have imbibed that night.
And yet I pushed the wisdom I knew away to make room for the next sip.

Quite frankly I'm surprised I wasn't more of an embarrassment earlier on in the course of the evening.

After saying my final farewells to Julia and Michelle I made my way over to Saucebox with a sluggish pedaling candor.
Locking my bike just outside the front door I felt the assault of heavily amplified music against my form. Every wave knocked into me with the clumsiness of a person rushing to get off of a bus.

In a slender moment of sobriety I realized that I was actually the person getting off and I was several stops too early.
In retrospect I ought to have gone all of the way home right then.
But who really thinks about these things when they've already gone farther than they really wanted?

Finding a seat in the dank, low lit, too warm interior was a bit of a trial but I eventually found myself perched against the bar. I watched Sean with his mechanical grace and urgent speed scooping ice, adding a splash of juice and silently counting out clear, pungent infusions.

He's so terribly good at what he does.
He's proud of it, I think.
And why shouldn't he be, he works hard (and without even a hint of competition) to be the best.
That seems to be the attitude he has about everything.
I think that's one of the reasons I respect him so much.

He asked me if I wanted anything and I left it up to him.
I tend to trust his ideas.
Moments later I was lighting yet another of the night's many, many (too many) cigarettes and tasting the beginnings of a fresh and soothing hot toddy.

Surrounded by friends and feeling social I passed the remainder of the hour in jovial conversation. I didn't want to pay attention to the insidious slurs entering my speech. The increasing difficulty in climbing on and off of my bar stool. The feeling that my body was in a permanent state of motion, like being suspended in water just beneath the surface.

Eventually the pushy music calmed to a ringing silence and the bar emptied.
Lights raised to a stark, white clarity.
This made my eyes hurt and the skin on my nape began to protest in silent tension.

I didn't care.
I didn't want to care.
I knew that the moment I started caring I would feel regret and remorse.

Sean made me another drink (I think it was a whiskey ginger) and told me that he was going to move my cigarettes and phone to the back table so he could finish cleaning the bar.
I remember feeling like I ought to have told him just how many drinks I had already had that night but something stupid told me that it would make me sound ungrateful or unappreciative.
Like I didn't want to accept his kindness.

He is always so kind to me.
So considerate.
He goes far out of his way to make me feel special, to let me know that I matter to him.
And that I matter a lot.
Again considering those moments in hindsight I see my flawed propriety and over care to refrain from giving any possible notion of distance.
It's like I was so intent on looking out for myself in my happiness that I neglected to look out for myself in my wisdom.

When we finally left Saucebox, Sean, David and I went over to Valentine's for a night cap.
(Incidentally, I fully recognized my then severe inebriation and yet I continued to feign a "moderate tipsiness" in order that I not appear foolish). I found myself upstairs, nestled into a worn leather couch with Sean, beer in hand, my body weary from the comprehensive poisoning it had endured throughout the duration of the still unfolding night.

We talked, we kissed, we stayed close to one another in a warm comfort.
And I finished my beer.

I think he had started to catch on.
I was far too smiley.
My sentences kept trailing off into unintelligible drivel.
I wasn't moving much.

When I finally got up to use the restroom I remember nearly tripping down the staircase, catching myself just in time to make it appear as if an unsuspected chair had simply surprised my sure feet.

I could feel Sean's gaze following me in a shepherding concern as I fumbled through the route from the mezzanine to the dark painted and beaten looking fiberglass door into the unisex bathroom.
I felt guilty.

I felt stupid and clumsy and I felt like I was disappointing him.

I've always been afraid of acting my own age and I have spent years trying to prove to everyone that I'm "just older inside." I remember once telling someone that I liked it when people assumed I was older because it made me feel like all of my efforts to that end were starting to show up in my constant behavior.

Closing the flimsy bathroom door I felt the inescapable youngness of my 22 years.
"See," said my own voice inside my ears, "you're just like everybody assumes you are."
I didn't even look in the mirror.
I couldn't bear the thought of staring my haggard, shameful self in the face.
Moments later Sean knocked on the door to check on me and I felt angry.
Not at him.
At myself.
"Great," there was my voice again, "now he has to babysit you. God, you're pathetic right now. You know better."

I grumbled something about being fine and tried to clean myself up enough to emerge looking at least somewhat credible.
Fuck it. It wouldn't have mattered if I had taken 2 minutes or 10, I would look just as slovenly and still be as drunk as I was when I shuffled in.

Sean and I walked out to the locked bikes with him calmly informing me that we would be walking over the bridge.

I don't really know what came over me.
I was still angry.
I was still ashamed.
I was still drunk.
But all at once I felt this urge to run away. To relieve him of the burden I was all too quickly becoming.
I quietly but determinedly mounted my bike and set off at a hearty clip. Sean began to yell after me, commanding me not to ride. If I had been less of an ass I would have stopped right where I was and realized the depth of care he had for me and my safety but instead I kept riding. I kept pushing and pushing, steering in jolted, noodling trails over the ridged gradient of the cement.

Upon reaching the other side of the bridge I suddenly realized that I had made a terribly mistake and the guilt I had begun to feel previously inflated into a crushing self-hatred. I halted my bike and stepped off, not bothering to survey the road behind me.
I knew Sean was coming.
He wasn't happy.

When the cold screech of his slowing bike frame pierced through the humming in my ears I looked up to see his face as he came to a full stop.

"Do you wanna fight me on this," he asked with a sad indignation.

My eyes fell as I quietly stated that I really shouldn't be riding.

"No," he replied, his voice settling, "now let's walk."

I didn't say anything. My throat had tightened to the point that all I could do was wheeze a tattered breath and nod without looking up from my crestfallen and dejected downward stare.

We walked for several blocks and I attempted to make conversation but all that ended up coming out were piecemeal snippets of different versions of "I'm sorry," and "I feel stupid."
I felt so low. So needy and unforgivable.

It felt as if attempting to ameliorate myself would be nothing but futile at this point so I instead went the route of self-implication.
But no matter what I said Sean refused to berate me.
He just walked with me, calmly reassuring me that we would soon be home, in bed, and he would hold me. Just hold me.

I wanted to accept him so badly.
I just wanted to grasp onto his words like a life ring and float above the surface of the expansive sea of self defeat I found myself floundering in.

But somehow I had convinced myself that I didn't deserve to be saved.
He was offering me life support and I was yanking the plug out of the outlet.

I was being such a baby.
A fucking child.
I was acting like everything I had always tried so hard to escape, to rise above.

And who would happen to have front row seats to the show but this man I loved so desperately.

"Why?"

The word forced its way out of my mouth like I had just vomited.

"Why what," asked Sean, stopping to look me in the eye.
I couldn't speak. In his face I searched intensely for a hint of blame, of disappointment, of something other than the beautiful comfort and concern etched in every feature. But there was no finding what simply wasn't there.

I found my voice. "Why are you putting up with me right now? I'm a mess. I'm an embarrassment."

He paused before responding. It's like he knew that I just needed to keep reading the care in his eyes for a few more moments.

And then he spoke,

"Because I love you, Noah."

For a brief moment I lost sight of all of the loathing and cruel scrutiny I had fixated upon myself.
Even in this most naked weakness I felt so, so happy.

I feel like I have a tendency to seek out happiness with a proviso of its fleeting nature.
That is, I want to be happy but once I am I begin to expect that it won't last.
I've allowed myself to make joy a conditional experience as opposed to a mindset and something I justifiably deserve.

We arrived at Sean's house and Aisha met us at the door in usual excitement. She nipped at my nose with a gummy snap and playfully jumped up, planting her solid paws just above my knees to make her ears all the easier to ruffle with my cold, dry palms.

She's such a beautiful creature with such a loving instinct.
It's like she knew I needed that little extra push of reassurance that I was, indeed, wanted.
She wanted me to be there. She wanted me to be with Sean, in her house.

The happiness I had been feeling (through the vague mask of a cloud of drunkenness) grew just a little more and I began to make my way upstairs.
Heading right into the bedroom I struggled to drop my heavy bag and kick off my boots.
They wouldn't budge.
I tried and tried and tried.
I couldn't get them to come off.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and surrendered to untying the laces.
And then it hit me.
What if this was the beginning of the end?
What if Sean was being sweet and caring for now but later on, reminiscing about the night when I made a drunken and childish fool out of myself, he would start to step out of love with me.

I tugged at the laces but even then they resisted.
I had made them all the tighter with the attempts to exit the boots by force.

Sean came in at that moment with a glass of water and sat down next to me.
I looked up at him and all of the newfound terror and confusion must have been written across my face because he considered my look for a moment and then matched it with his own confounded frown.

"Noah, what is it?"
He asked so innocently and all I wanted to do was kiss him and collapse.

So I did.

"Noah, what's wrong."

There was a smidgen of worry in his innocence.
I felt all of the air seeping out of my lungs as if they were made out of mesh.
My nape tightened again and the once mushy hairs on my cheeks now felt hot and uncomfortable like so many cactus barbs.
I found myself clinging to Sean's seated waste, my prostrate body curled around his like a shrugged off shawl.

"Please don't go away," I whispered in a dire sounding gasp.

"What do you mean," he replied. The worry was still there.
I clung to him tighter.

"Just...please don't go away."
The last syllable escaped in a screechy squeak as I felt the liquid heat of tears pressing its way up my throat.

"Noah, what do you mean, I'm not going anywhere." Sean's voice seemed to be getting more intentional. The worry was fully palpable now.

"Not now, no," I began in a quaky, meandering tone, "but please don't go away."
It was as if I was too overwhelmed to come up with anything else to say. Just then my chin jolted with the first staccato sob.
"I'm afraid."

At that moment I felt Sean's strong hands gently but firmly come under my arms and lift me to where he could wrap encircle my chest and speak right into my ear.

"What are you afraid of," he asked calmly.

I wrapped my arms around his neck like heavy scarves. I was crying now.
"I'm afraid you'll go away," I whimpered into his breast, wetting his shirt with warm salt water "I'm afraid you'll leave me- 'cause I drive you away by acting like this."
I crumpled into a slouching mess of convulsing pain putting my full weight onto the back of his neck.

"Noah," he said my name decisively. Strongly.
I was still too overcome to release the freedom of the sobbing.
"Noah," this time it came out quieter, hushed like an angel's voice, full of ethereal peace paired with a deep-seated adoration.

"I'm in this."
He said it like nothing else mattered.
"What I have with you...

... it's special...

...I love you."

As soon as I heard the last words I began sobbing with an epic fervor.
I became audibly racked with the rhythmic exhalations of the whole night's pent up fear, worry, embarrassment, shame, and hope for a second chance.

How could I have reduced everything I had experienced with Sean into something so menial, trivial even?

I was happy.
I deserved to be happy.
(There, I said it.)
I believed it, more importantly.

A few minutes more of the crying and phlegm and saliva I had calmed down enough to readdress my still-laced boots and was somehow able to convince the knots apart with my shaking, wet fingers.

Sean lay down next to me and stroked my cheek with the back of his hand and just looked into my eyes with a barely visible smile.
A smile that told me it was alright to be me.
It was alright to be 22.
It was alright to get drunk and ride a bike across a bridge.
It was alright to be afraid and to hold happiness suspect.

Just learn from it.



Just don't let it happen again.

Exhaustion

I am so, so tired right now.

This is most likely the result of having been the recent victim of a vicious cold.
As soon as it reared it's phlegmy head I responded with intentional and formulated retaliation: Emergen-C, gummy vitamin C, and Airborne have been the mainstay of my diet over the course of the last 48 hours.

And while I know that by nipping it in the bud, I rendered the longevity of the ailment moot, I'm still dealing with the feeling that my insides have been put through the ringer.

I wish I could say that being sick was likened to the micro form of vomiting: the anticipation is torture but the catharsis leaves such a purified and resolved feeling of cleanliness.

I feel kind of dirty.
Kind of thin.
Kind of worn.

Threadbare.

But I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow.

It's late.
I'm tired and a bit sniffly.

I think I'm experiencing the onset of a minor cold.
I'm telling myself it will be minor only to try and pre-convince my system to maintain a constant fortitude in the face of an onslaught of possible illnesses.

And yet I know I'm resilient.
I know I'll heal in completion and be all of the way me again.

And then there's that phone call.
The voice that tells me the truth and I crumble a little.
The fences designed to contain me are only there to protect passers by.
It's like those wire nets that hold off landslides from major highways.

And right now all I can do is let the pieces fall to the ground with a ramshackle happiness.
He told me something special and it's just his and mine.
It's just ours for now, for this moment.

I can't say no.

The Final Clash of an Unnecessary Cymbal

After having endured a small number of superfluous and overly acerbic comments made by a Facebook "friend" with whom I maintained a constant feeling of frustration, I finally reached my limit today (just now, in fact) and left him the following message, subsequently deleting him from my listed network.

I feel like I put it rather well ergo I'm recording it for myself here.

"Seriously Nathan,
I've reached my limit where your cynicism and negativity are concerned.

Not once have you written anything edifying, enlightening, or remotely interesting anywhere on my page, via message, or even in your public posts for that matter.

Clearly you have something of a comprehensive bitterness or an incredibly tasteless sense of humor.

Either way I am no longer willing to entertain your verbal garbage and would appreciate you respecting my aversion to any contact on your part.

Perhaps you'll come into a new found sense of hope and propriety at some point in the near future but until then I would contemplate very carefully any further writing you may or may not do in contacting others.

And on a final note, not voting is a vote all of its own.
Take some social responsibility and engage the system, imperfect as it may be.
Otherwise all of your complaint and correction fall on the deaf ears of those assertive and intentional enough to invest in the current politic."

I feel very, very good about this and think I'll treat myself to some chocolate.

Hurray!

Allowing myself (yet another) brief pause to reflect on a lovely and very uplifting compliment, I feel consciously mandated to record it on this, my literary effort at self-preservation.

Today, not a half hour ago, my writing professor told me, with a pleased gleam in her smile-squinted eyes and a "well, hm" tilt to her whole head that I have a knack for verbs.

That quite truly made my whole afternoon at school.

Pssssst...

*whispering*

I have so much to tell you.

*giddy silence*

One Final Chant Dans La Nuit

I know it's shameless and rather self-inflating but I really liked this comment I just posted on Ally's Blog.

I thought I ought to seal it into my digital annals as well.

"Incongruous.

It's so final and ultimate.
And yet it seems like the most aimless insurmountable thing.

I have been as improperly signified.
I have walked in such perplexity.
And I have been left standing in the midst of utter loneliness.
And yet I still have my crisp, black peacoat.

The one simple treasure of being alone is scoffing in the face of the cold and biting wind.
Why? Because you're dressed warmly in the knowledge of friendship.
And it just so happens that ours looks particularly smashing on you.

Love you."

And right when I thought things were looking up...

I've got to try being less dire in my titles.
This isn't a television show and I'm not struggling for ratings.

I'm up far too late this evening as a result of much-needed roommate talks, online quizzes, and procrastinated homework.

Here I am at nearly 5am finally feeling somewhat tired only instead of it being the calm, ready tired, I'm the antsy, achy tired.
The kind that makes your stomach hurt and your skin feel offensive to itself.

And then there are my fuzzy eyes.
It's like someone's squeezing them from behind.
Like their bathing in lemon juice.
And growing some hair, too.

I don't know.
I think this is all just a result of me being really exhausted from a long weekend, a great wedding (which I will definitely be writing about soon enough) and a marvelous take away breakfast (again, I owe myself more entries).

For now I'll try to sleep off this wretched clunkiness.

Garbage.
Wet, hot garbage.

Steamy little transparent tendrils of filthy moisture snaking toward the sky.

That's how I felt.

To Be Sinister

"Throughout classical as well as biblical literature (most specifically in Shakespearean poetry and prose) the left side is referred to as the 'sinister' or inferior; the side of imperfection and shame. Meanwhile the right is regarded as the dominant, better developed and therefore more highly regarded and honorable half.
When it comes to the notion of ability where the left vs. right concept is concerned I feel that the left is actually the side of truer aptitude because it is the real, honest, gritty and visceral manifestation of human imperfection. What one can do with their right/dominant side tends to be considered their best because it is the most disciplined. And yet, as I see it, that which is done with true effort and the 'lesser side', although the end result might be less than Plato's forms might encourage, is the representation of the best one might do when at one's lowest.
It's true. Therefore it is veritably beautiful."

And Everywhere A Haze

My bedspread is scattered
with the
paper remains
of too many responsibilities
to count.

Unlike my floor
whose peaceful emptiness
guides my soles to
safety.

Soon I'll climb
beneath the covers.
Maybe even all of the way.
Then I'll see
nothing but polka dots
and filtered light.

Because at least then I'll know
the light is there
to be my friend
and my guide.

Even thought it isn't
there with me.

I've wanted you more
than I've wanted
light. And more
than I've wanted polka dots.

And I don't
even know how much
I want them.

Your voice is warm
and light.
And dotted with the
the honesty you
refuse to part
with.

If I could have you
speak into my comforter,
if I could have you
scatter your remnants
even if only above and about
my blankets,
then I could know.

You are so much
more than an accumulation
of papers and ink.

But you weigh
down on me like beachwood.
Stripped.
Dried.
Abused.
And so beautiful.

And thus I lay a hand
on my own hand.
Smudged with ink spots.

And I am safe.

Daylight Not Far Behind

And thus we come to the close of yet another day.
Only this day, unlike all of the rest, made me feel so...

...so...

...intentionally vapid?

I couldn't really say without sounding like yet another one of those long-winded buffoons set so intently on coming off as brilliantly misunderstood and thus I maintain a moderation in tone.

Nonetheless, I shall remain honest.
It's my final and paramount pursuit.

Earlier, within the confines of just some more posed socializing, I remember informing (or should I say "finding verification in") a friend that we had arrived, we had become. We were, by all exterior examination, a newly finalized addendum to a preexisting clique of purportedly clique-hating elitists.

"We played our parts to perfection!"
I exclaimed with undisguised thrill and fervor.
Our bikes coasted hummingly along the 20th avenue corridor.
We were freezing in the unexpected cold and yet we still found reason to smile.
We patted ourselves on chameleon skin backs as we melded from "them" back to "us."

But how much difference might really remain?
Are the separations bleeding into noteworthy perforations in the papering of life?

Of course, with care and gentleness, we can separate ourselves from this bold tribe and yet we don't really want to.
If anything, we find it all too appealing to engross ourselves in the mendacity of a people group defined by their supposed genuineness.

And so we begin to shut the door of our closeted Gap shirts, H&M scarves, and good grades.
We deny potato chips and fast food.
We ascribe to the commonly held norms and beliefs and further fuel the ridiculousness of the drunken group think.

But what is the alternative?
Where is the true cut off between us as people and us as members?

Perhaps I ask because I don't know or perhaps I ask because I think I know and want to be satisfied with outward agreement.
Moot.

My right has been handling the entire night up until this point.
It's time for the left to step back into play.,

Today I've elected to do some very determined, very inescapable writing.

I've got an outline and synopsis.
I've got characters and situations.

I've got the words and the wherewithal.

And now all I'm missing is the determination.

I'm quickly learning to trust no one.

It seems so definite and disparaging and yet here I am, alone in a candlelit room asking myself that same question: why depend?

I look at life as some kind of bolt of fabric.
It's rolled together all neatly until I start to try and feel my way through the fibers and then all of the possibilities that hovered just above it like words or figures over a blank page seem to unravel.
To disappoint.

I try to be that one line of selvage grasping desperately at the passionately chaotic fraying at the edge of all of this madness.
I want to hold everything and everyone together and mostly myself.

But why do people have to let go.
It's as if their holding onto a vital string goes away and suddenly I have to come up with a whole new garment, tapestry, pattern.

I'm tired.

I May Lead a Life of Luck

Whenever I fall into a state of seemingly permanent malaise and backwardness I find that only the abnormal experiences of a happenstance life stand any chance of jarring me from my self-victimizing complacence.

But why did it have to happen like this?

Why did fate seem so willing to pull me along on a knotted string while caring so little for my bumbling, foul-footed romantic self?

That question has, I'm sure, been posed many a time throughout the ages by many different people in many different manners as a result of many different experiences.
Even so, I feel like my asking is something individual, something particular, unique, special.

When we arrived at the curbside I felt the rising warmth of recognition for the small group of people encircling the small black table.
And then, on second perusal, I found myself the object of a cosmic joke as the woman I love sat so close to the man I might and the man I did.

God, could I be any less prepared?
Don't ask.
Don't ask me that question.


Only do.
Please do.
I want and sometimes even think I need to talk about it but I still end up feeling ill-spoken, totally scattered, and all around childish when finally discussing the matter at any length.

As if I didn't have a hard enough time trying to make up my mind...about anything.

I've finally begun to have some faith in my potential.
Not to say it was completely absent before now but I could tell I'd wrapped it up tightly in a swaddling of over-analysis and bereft spirit.

And yet here I sit, new found excitement and propulsion rocketing me into a state of flight...or perhaps pre-flight.
I'm not quite airborne just yet.
But I know I'm well on my way.

I've seen the beauty of a fresh, crisp morning droop sloppily into a dank and uncomfortably gray afternoon only to once again rise from the cloudy ashes to exquisite, dawn like brightness.

In that metaphor is easy to assume that I'm like the daylight or even the sun itself however I choose to think of myself as being, well, me.
The person standing on the last corner of a rough rooftop, staring into the oblivion of an azure, to stone, to miracle sky.
It's all surrounding me in a watercolor blend.
I feel the occasional pebble interrupting the sloping tiles like periods in a descriptive paragraph, punctuating the otherwise apparent floor with the reminder that it's actually a ceiling...and I am above it.

Maybe this is flying.

My Fairy Godfathers

Having spent the last week in a state of lurching course and breakneck pace I found myself at the end of my rope on Friday night.

I happened to come to a state of sudden deflation (or should I say suddenly realized deflation).

It was then that in swooped my two Fairy Godfathers to rescue me from the misfit of malaise.

I love Marc and Floyd.

Whenever I find myself in a state of panic I tend to have one of those moments where I realize that no matter what can happen outside of me to distress and frighten, I'll still be here when it's over.

I'll survive. I'll continue.
It's nothing of an ending point.

Perhaps the notion of ending is just what I'm afraid of, just what holds me around the midsection just above my navel and pains me with relentless tension.

Perhaps.

Noah's Midnight Blunder

Somewhere owls, quite preened and screechy,
Hooted something fierce and preachy.
Hailing down the night's dark shutter,
Not a wing would dare to flutter.

You see this night would hold in feature,
Pain and suff'ring for one creature
Thick enough to coast quite blindly
Down a street shaped quite unkindly.

And here before we've gone too far,
Allow me to unveil our star!
A lad of lank and wit and mettle,
Blithe and happy e'er to pedal.

This happy, handsome, playful youth
Would soon be howling "oh, forsooth"
And all because of his neglect
To light his lamps so they'd reflect

The dangers of impending tangle
With the concrete sure to mangle
Any who might dare have tried
With its surface to collide.

But lo, I grow too quickly pointed,
(My this story seems disjointed).
Let's go back to pre-dismemb'ring,
(It's germane to keen rememb'ring).

It was warm and slightly gusty,
Prompting girls to be quite busty.
Guys would follow in like manner,
Wearing tank tops to get tanner.

I, of course, enjoying Summer,
Bore my skin (a future bummer),
And rode my bike with boorish grin,
This combo forming my chagrin.

For as it's said through time and story,
Dumb and young leads not to glory,
Only to a painful humbling,
Typically involving tumbling.

So there it was, a lovely night,
And once again did I alight
Upon my French-constructed bike,
Named Jean-Françoise (I hope you like).

The two of us then did proceed,
To follow fellow rider's lead,
Up a hill and 'round a corner,
I took front and so did warn her,

Of all minor interruptions
Found in moonlit street's corruptions.
And all progressed so peachy keenly
If only curbs bit not so meanly.

For on that sloping avenue
There soon approached a change in view.
Where 27th meets with Lincoln
Drivers should refrain from blinkin'

For the street does take a bending
Rearranging traffic sending
mobiles 'round an aged arbor.
One predating old Pearl Harbor.

And yet that night, as luck would irk,
A hateful force was fast at work.
And blocked this hero's chestnut eyes
From seeing my most cruel demise.

The moonlight fell in dappled spray,
Illuminating most roadway,
Except for where that dratted Elm,
Took up the street (and smacked my helm).

For though I saw tree's shading rafter,
I viewed the street before and after.
And thus assuming all was fine,
Did steer in a diagonal line.

Now this, of course, was my undoing,
For in my quick perfunct'ry viewing
I didn't make a point to seek
If soonish turn be more oblique.

Which it was and naught could change it,
Oh, that I could rearrange it.
And thus in my assumed route,
Did quickly, harshly find it out.

I coasted smoothly through the night,
Looking not for launch or flight,
And yet then I was given both
(I WAS, I swear it, by my troth).

So my direction did perturb,
For *SMASH* my wheel did hit the curb,
And off I went into the dirt,
with curses for my sleeveless shirt.

But this whole flight did take some time,
And my, I'm sure it looked sublime.
I flew and twisted like a sack
And landed square upon my back.

Whereon I slid to grinding halt,
My skin now filled with fresh asphalt.
And silent bones then got much bolder,
For don't you know? I broke my shoulder.

My body's once so silent frame,
Began to scream from recent maim,
And off I went with help of friends,
To the ER for meds and mends.

My clavicle and scapula
Were blown to worthless crapula.
And I was forced by curb's stark fling
To spend some time inside a sling.

And yet in all this happenstance,
I was given special chance
To see just how much people loved me,
Even though that curb had shoved me.

So here I am, now nearly healed,
And most all scabs are dried and peeled,
The thought still running through my head,
"At least I didn't smash up dead!"

But more than my own safe recovery,
My great treasure and discovery,
Was what my fellow rider said,
Once she knew I wasn't dead:

"This may sound wrong and kind of brash,
(Who knows, it very well may be)
I'm kind of glad that he did crash...

...'Cause if not him, it would have been me."

Sedentary

So, I'm sitting here, in bed, a lovely red blanket wrapped loosely around my naked torso, eagerly awaiting yet another episode of some show that I missed on television to finish buffering so I can sit back and be totally placated by something colorful and active.

I'm reading over that last line and realizing just how infantile it really seems.
Much like a newborn, all one must do to keep me quiet and happy is to lay me down in bed and place a lazily rotating mobile above me so that I can just watch its polychromatic dance.
Only my mobile is sex, violence, and witty repartee.

I wonder whether or not I should be alarmed by the plain and simple fact that I'm self-medicating my would be boredom with something not requiring much more than a few keystrokes and absolutely minimal brain function.

Then again, I could justify my behavior in saying that I'm quite aware of the innocuous nature of my current pastime and therefore find myself free from the clutches of its possibly harmful consequence: namely vegetablism.

If I know it and do it critically then I should be safe, right?

That's so full of loop holes that even I can see light coming through from the other side.
I guess if it were true I could be critically smoking right now. Critically eating nothing but sugar.
Critically stripping at Saturday Market.

The list goes on.

Regardless, the final point is that I really don't have any justification for sitting in bed, watching some television episode.

Ergo, I should get up and shower.
So I will.




After this episode.