« October 2005 | Main | December 2005 »
November 29, 2005
dude, she got a dell
i just came out of the smokeshop at halcyon, and the crowd has thickened slightly, a skin of random nightowl humanity cooling atop the normal pudding of students and the affectationally disaffected intelligentsia.
couple snuggles on couch. blue flame flickers under tableside s'mores. cold blast of air as the door opens and more pour in, clouds of breath dissipating at the threshold. a table of three strikingly attractive women, sitting with adam dell, michael dell's younger brother.
years ago, when i was in my last year of my law school purgatorial confinement, i knew of the guy. i met him, but first i met christy.
christy showed up at the law school one day that summer, with her mother, wanting a tour of the law school. at the time, i was heavily involved in recruiting and admissions for the law school, helping people into the place i loathed myself for being in, encouraging them to enter the space and life that i so desperately wanted out of. go figure.
at the time, there was no one officially available to give the tour, so she was turned away. but, being me, it bugged me. she was tall, striking, and she wore a hat, which was completely out of the realm of my normal experience.
i ran down the hall to catch up to her and her mother, slowed just in time to look nonchalant, and offered to give the grand tour myself.
christy and i became fast friends, though only friends. we still share connections, some of them dubious (many friends know her by an epithet that would give too much away here).
my enfatuation eventually passed,at first out of practicality, then out of sanity as i got to know her better, though we have always remained friends and i care for her dearly.
but before that happened, we went to a party, one to mark the beginning of the law school career for these freshlaws. christy and i had already solidified a friendship over the summer. we showed up together. i think she wore a hat again, which few people can pull off, but she clearly could.
my friend billy had entered the law school that year, as well, and i had met a new kid named paul garvey, the grandson of the famous leader marcus garvey. i bought christy a drink, then let her wander off among her new classmates, as i sat down at a window booth with paul and billy. they asked about christy, and i answered - at that point, possibilities and scenarios and pipe dreams still swirled through my mind.
wait. crap... he's heading this way. he sees me. actually recognizes me - do i really not look unrecognizably better than i did in law school? he extends his hand... he's almost able to see my notebook, and a tsunami of adrenaline floods me -
i make eye contact, rise slightly from the barstool, my left hand coming to rest gently on the keyboard, pressing the keys softly and smoothly to flip to another application, hiding these words and memories and judgment and yeah, a little jealousy years past.
i introduce him to my friends here clustered at the end of the bar, who i had just related this same story to, which in turn spurred me to tell it here.
he's warm, more than merely cordial. he remembered me from law school, even if not by name. he's kind and attentive to my friends. he doesn't practice law, and i tell him my estimation of him rose accordingly. he says he lives in manhattan (why not say new york city? is that a manhattan/nyc thing?), as an investment something or the other.
he leaves. i feel a little bad about the stories i have to tell about him.
so, that night, years ago, over ten years ago, now, i'm talking about this girl, and billy and paul look out the window, and they start laughing. i look out, and there's a white porsche parked prominently right in front of the club we're in, just outside our window, and adam dell is holding the passenger door open for christy.
my friends laughed, and patted me on the shoulder, and bought me a beer and said, "sorry man, that's just too fuckin' funny. but hey, don't sweat it. what do you do? forget about it."
christy would later tell me that he ran hot and cold with her, until she came to the realization that he "just wanted to fuck a gentile, not date one."
he gets his two glasses of white wine, makes a point to get change to leave a good tip for the other adam, the bartender here. goodbyes and "nice to meet you"'s seem genuine, and he moves off, and a few comments are made in his wake.
ten years, and christy's on her second marriage. he's in manhattan, and i wonder how muh this story bears a relation to him. i'm sitting here, hiding this memory of the past with an email to a girl i just met.
the past is always flowing into the future, and the future just opens so wide with every passing moment. people come and go and stay, clean white car doors swing open and closed, and we sit and watch through the window with the memories and the friends that persist, each laughing at the jokes, the irony, even the disappointments, slapping me on the shoulder, and saying, "dude, that's just too fuckin' funny. but hey, don't sweat it. what do you do? forget about it."
Posted by Rob at 10:37 PM | Comments (0)
November 23, 2005
challenge accepted
so, i get this email back from a running buddy. she must have been drunk. she doesn't have access to the blog, but she threw out a challenge, and it piqued my interest.
did i already write about my initial disillusionment with the book "the 3AM epiphany"? i'm wanting to be given scenarios to write from. anyway, her email threw one at me, though it was pretty damned cheesy (I guess now she'll never have access to the blog.)
(Setting)San Fransisco 1929, late cold evening, soft mist is in the air, the smell of the pacific comes through the window.....a young woman begins to write......
(Juanita)
My Dearest James,
I'ts been 2 days since we've last spoken over a pleasant breakfast of.........
Ok now it's your turn to continue the story.......
so, my response to the challenge is also pretty damned cheesy. but hey, gotta go with what i'm given, and it took me about 50 minutes, so what do you want? it does bother me that i'm beginning to suspect that maybe i'm just prone to melodrama. but, i also intend to take a comedic swipe at this challenge in the next few days... anyway, here it is:
My Dearest James,
It's been two days since we last spoke over a pleasant breakfast of
poached eggs and bacon, juice and coffee.
She looked across the bay, its icy waters smooth tonight, a dark mirror under a dark, moonless sky. With a bit of wine, and the silence, and time, she came to a point where her mind could release, let go of just a little of what it knew, so that it no longer was clear which was sky and which was sea. All was depth and darkness and
the twinkle of stars.
The only thing that disturbed the illusion (or was it true perception?) was the rocky crag of the island jutting up out of the waters, crowned by the lights from the construction that had just begun on what was to be a prison for the worst of criminals, a life of
isolation on a barren rock where hope was suspended, in the midst of beauty.
She understood something of, but did not forgive, the criminal mind.
But she felt some kinship already with those that would soon inhabit
that island, Death's own waiting room.
She looked back at the letter he had written to her, as if it held the
clues to what she could possibly say to James now, to answer the
question that had finally come, that she had dreaded. But the
immediacy of that crisis was lost as she read...
Juanita, My Love,
Forgive me writing you. My own self-loathing flows through my blood
even now, and I am weak. This opium haze reveals so many lies, but at the same time, it compels me to truth.
I only ever tried to win your favour. When I found I had it, I then
tried to be worthy of it. When I ran across that field that day, I
cared for my mates, for my country and the cause. I was spurred by
fire, and bloodlust and the drive to live. But I was steeled by the
thought of you. I saw myself running, firing my rifle, I saw as if
from above, as you might see me, all heroism and courage. The wind at my face was your breath rising and falling in your sleep. Even as the shell whistled towards me, it was drowned out by the memory of the sound of your voice, low and soft the night I left.
I returned home, richer a medal, poorer my legs. In my mind, you saw
the heroic charge fail. I feared you saw not courage but the reality, hubris and pride. War is not a game, but a necessity, a horrible necessity, not a vehicle to inflate one's self-esteem or sense of self-importance.
So, I hid from you. I hid from everyone, from myself, succombing quite willingly to the grip of the morphine that I had become accustomed to. But in time, your memory saved me, gave me will. I tried to find other means to heroism, to be worth the love you seemed so willing to give.
I returned to college in Boston. While my friends caroused at pubs,
seeking the favor of as many women as possible, and while they sought their own moments of fame playing rugby and rowing for the school's honor, I studied the art of business, of securities and trade and commerce.
For almost ten years, I built. I was always underestimated by my
peers, as if the loss of my legs had also crippled my mind. I
surpassed them. I invested carefully, helped others invest their own
savings, the result of toiling towards their own dreams. So many
times, I wanted to write you, to appear to you, to walk through your
door, tall and strong and successful. But I knew that could not be, so
I waited, for what, I don't know.
This October, my world crashed with everyone else's. I have failed you again. I know people who leapt from windows, ran before streetcars, disappeared into poverty. Me, I leapt too easily back into the arms of medication.
I am laboring to a point. But that is what I have done since that day
on Belgium's muddy fields. The point is that I have lost the things I
wanted to be able to offer you in return for the love you offered me
without cost, a love I should have accepted long ago.
I saved just enough liquid funds to perhaps rebuild some meagre life.
I do not know your current station in life. But I have risen from worse circumstances than the lack of money. I have my education, my
experience. I only need my will to return, for you to return..."
The words blurred, and her eyes lost focus. She blinked and looked
back out the window, trying to see the horizon.
But it was only hours before morning now, and the fog was rising.
Posted by Rob at 03:35 AM | Comments (0)
November 21, 2005
show and tell
she said, over our vegetarian pasta meals at romeo's, "you like to do show and tell." it sounded like innuendo, but (almost sadly) it wasn't. i had shown her stuff about me (but, this time, not too much). some writing, some photos i'd taken. she said she appreciated it, and thought it was a good thing. like me, she believes that things in this world, in our experience and thoughts and hearts, are lost if not shared.
been a while since i put up some pictures. the pictures i take are only rough recreations of what i see. they don't measure up in a lot of ways, and i wonder if the flaw is in my vision or in my lack of fluency with the language of light and lens... for something real, see the link to "Mad Media," to the right... it's the photographic evolution of julie's website...
and the sky was all meaghan
yes
it was not enough
clean
you should have seen the bees. giant, metal, robot bees.
Posted by Rob at 06:50 PM | Comments (0)
still there (here)
last monday, i think it was, i walked into the coffeeshop, and amelia, looking slightly confused, said/asked, "you look happy./?"
i'm still in the space i found myself in ten days ago, that metaphorical eye of the storm. the staying power of the mood and optimism this time is unusual. i have to wonder - did i end up there as the consequence of some upward trend, an event, a series of events, a chemical change? or was it some original cause in itself: a choice; determination's payoff; a blessing?
there was the promise of something new, maybe. the "one you probably won't hear about." the friendship is there. common ground. that much is mutual. i've consciously kept myself mostly in denial about anything further, but it's been nice. someone to talk to, to be with. it gets me a step closer to believing. i've gotten so far away from imagining being close to someone, no matter how much i know i want that.
did this help me get to this place? or did getting to this place help us get together, help me relax more and be myself? i suspect it's a vicious circle, but a nice one.
in this time, i also got my legs back. I ran the race for the cure that first sunday, and the legs just weren't there. for the first time, i didn't let it get to me. it was just one race, one day, and i knew i hadn't prepared myself for it. i also knew that i was surrounded on that day by so much more importance, that i was lucky to run, lucky to have my friends, lucky that so many people care about a cause that might, will, someday eradicate a killer.
i picked back up on the training, and i felt strong again. yesterday, i ran the Motive Half Marathon. 13.1 miles of the hardest course i've seen yet, period. i set a reasonable goal of 2:15, a high goal of 2:10. my previous best, in february, was 2:26:38.
i finished at 2:10:04, even with taking about a minute to stop to pee. my form was good throughout, and i was in control almost to the end, though i crashed in the last couple of miles, something that'll be easy to beat.
last week, i was introduced by a friend to someone. given the self-imposed denial and iffiness of my time with the "one you probably won't hear about," i stayed open minded, and again, i think i've made a friend, at least. she's a swimmer, she bikes, and she's just getting into the running. we rode together to the race yesterday, and this morning, excited about her performance, she suggested we do the dallas white rock half marathon in december. i'm down. on that course, i think i can beat the two hour mark.
my life hasn't changed in ten days. i don't know that my mind has, that my brain has, or even that my heart has. i don't think i'm holding out hopes of anything great happening. maybe it's the zen outlook that i wish i were disciplined enough to always be happy with - that the universe is giving me little bits along the way, a trail of tidbits that are just enough to make me a little happy, a little content, and keep me moving on to the next one.
whatever it is, it's keeping me here in the calm center of that storm that i can still see swirling around me.
----
i'm out tonight. i'll drink just enough to loosen things up, and i'm on the writing. the chronicle has its short story contest up again. i entered it years ago, to no avail. we'll see what we can do this time.
Posted by Rob at 06:04 PM | Comments (0)
November 11, 2005
the eye
ok.
i've always had a vision in my mind of standing in the eye of a hurricane, in quiet and stillness, looking up at the walls of cumulus clouds stacked high around me. i can feel the sense of intimidation, but also of control in the knowledge that i could either remain an observer untouched by the maelstrom of rain and wind and debris, or that i could tie a rope around my waist and plunge through that wall from time to time, just for a moment, knowing i could pull myself back to safety.
i never feel like i come out of the storm that is my life; the storm that i have made of my life; the storm that i have let my life become; the storm and the life that repeatedly spin out of my control; the storm that raises a deafening roar in my own mind, voices in the howling of the wind.
there's no holiday, no weekend, no sick day that frees me. i'm always out in it, sometimes fighting the wind and waves, sometimes just lost. i can't find my way out of the storm, and i'm not even sure there's an edge. i can't find my way to the center, and i have no rope or buoy to guide me.
but something was different this morning. i woke to calm, as if some trick of wind and wave had carried me in the night, and the storm had spit me out into the stillness at its heart.
today is a holiday from work, but without the guilt of being self-imposed. there was the hangover, and i slept in just a bit, not for the usual reason of seeing no hope in the day, but because i saw an unusual potential in it, and i needed to be able to make the most of it.
i thought of coming to the coffeeshop this morning, of being one of the people i always see that spend the day reading, working, maybe creating. i see some of them are as wind-whipped as i am. but i catch glimpses of some of them through the rain and darkness, and they're in that eye, in the calm. and, i can see their lives in the context of time, time in the context of their lives.
i rarely have that sense of my life and the passage of time being concurrent and intertwined. i feel myself moving through something, but yet i'm somehow not tied as i should be to the turning of the earth beneath me, the light of the sun, or the pull of the moon.
but something's different today. it's not that repeated feeling or self-deception that i'm going to change my life starting... now, or that everything is suddenly going to turn around, or that i'm going to be happy now, or that things will miraculously begin to resolve themselves.
no, i only know that this is today, and maybe it's only for today. it's just the eye of the storm, and in a way, that's better. i'm not trying to disbelieve the storm, not trying to pretend it'll go away, or that i can dive into the waters and survive it. but i'm not lost in it either, and i feel that control that's in my vision, this feeling that i can move with the storm, staying in the eye, staying safe but not numb. and here, in this calm, just for now maybe, time and my life seem to be back in sync.
today, the sun shines. clouds move over its face and past, thoughts move through me and past me. the earth turns and shadows swivel and sway, and words fill pages. the wind blows the hair of the girl on the porch, and i breathe. the ice in my tea melts, and i feel time here around me, neither of us pressing or blaming the other. cars and people, blood in my veins. dust floats in streams of light, synapses fire.
there are still things to be done here, but it's quiet in my mind. i can move, but be at rest. i think a little of tomorrow, the day after, and monday. will i lose this feeling?
the storm in my vision never dies. it moves over the face of the earth eternally, continually fed and driven by jet streams and currents and warm water, the flapping of wings, the soft breath of saying "love," the percussive gust of saying "hate," the starting and stopping of the beating of innumerable hearts.
and i imagine myself walking within it, mathing its pace, staying in its center. i imagine today.
Posted by Rob at 01:19 PM | Comments (0)
the real thing
leora just showed me a poem her ex-boyfriend wrote for his sisters wedding.
i feel very small. whittled down. more and more, and the only question is what's left? what's left?
words. voice. heart.
lost. silent. not enough.
Posted by Rob at 12:28 AM | Comments (0)
survive
ha ha! FUNNY! that's what we want!
eating cheese fries off a strippers
ask me about herbalife! find out how i became such a more
on and on we go, where we stop, nobody knows!
aagh. see, i'm out here, i'm out in it, embedded along the front lines. and it's ugly, ugly, ugly.
survival keeps me in it. my father and i are trying to break the sad cycle of my paternal bloodline. live through it. my father is doing well, if he'll do what it takes to stay healthy, stay alive and live to see me not not fail.
we've lived through love and what it leaves, when it leaves. we've lived through seeing dreams slide away. maybe the others felt that too, maybe they didn't, but the difference is, they all died before their time. were they happy? were they ok?
maybe the measure of time is all we have. time increases the odds of a life well lived. i love you and who you are, and that's enough, if you go away tomorrow, or one, ten, twenty years from now.
but let's not let it go so easily. get on the treadmill, dad.
me, i'm staying alive. i have the advantage over you, i've kept my body strong. my heart pumps like it should. but we share the same heart in so many other ways, i think. i'm doing my part, working on my own treadmill, trying to keep my own heart going in its own way.
that other guy did it after his quintuple bypass, and he lost, like, 30-40 pounds. i know i got that competitive streak from you. do it. show me. set the example. keep me alive.
we both have to make this. i need you to do this with me.
Posted by Rob at 12:13 AM | Comments (0)
November 09, 2005
tired
well, crap.
i keep trying to write, and i don't have it in me.
i had a veggie burrito from freebird's monday night, and i picked up the guitar again and started going through the lessons in the beginner's book. yesterday morning i woke, and i just couldn't, and wouldn't do it. i didn't go to work. didn't do anything, just kept trying to return to sleep, where there is no right or wrong, no winning or losing, no failure, no expectation, just oblivion interspersed with dreams, though even my dreams mocked me with stories of love and happiness.
yeah, here we are again. this has all been building, troughs and peaks still following a downward trajectory, despite some of the best efforts of my life to change things. the same words that have echoed throughout the entries of the blog are becoming oppressive whispers, constant, dissonant voices in my head - meaning, value, worth, hope, love.
the past month or so, old habits have returned. hard to maintain eye contact. hand-wringing. talking to people, walking alone, my hands are at war with one another, pulling, gripping, like they're trying to get a firm hold on.. what?
but the anxiety is just what's replaced the other pursuits that i used to fill my time and attention with. but i've increasingly come to see them for what they are.
i don't play basketball anymore, i think because i got tired of wanting to be a significant player, even on my parks and rec low-league team. i got tired of believing i could work hard enough and try hard enough to make that happen, only to be disappointed. for a while, i only played once a week, in the games. this season, i missed two games just because i didn't feel like being there, because i knew i couldn't handle the disappointment on that night. when i played despite that feeling, things got out of control, i got out of control, i played dirty, i bashed in the hood of my car.
i've gotten tired of believing that i could make myself better, more interesting, better looking, so maybe i would catch the right eye. i'm tired of women catching my eye, getting to know them, the wondering what if? tired of one of us, or neither of us, being what we had hoped.
i'm tired of living the lie of my "career". tired of my inability to decide what else to do, what i could actually do that would make me happy. tired of the knowledge that i've screwed myself financially to such an extent that my options are limited. tired of knowing that whereas the question in office space was "what would you do if you had a million dollars," my question is, "what would you do if your parents weren't here?" tired of feeling the guilt about that truth.
yesterday, i stayed in bed. i didn't get up to eat. last night i had two lone stars, because that's all that was left, and a few water crackers. this morning, i had to go to work. i had fun waiting for me, and i told my boss via email that i've been working really hard, but didn't feel like it was enough, and that i was beyond a point of frustration, and if that's where he was, too, then maybe he needed to find another attorney. we didn't talk today - i didn't really talk to anyone at work. i don't know what he wants or thinks.
and still, today, i didn't eat. it started becoming this thing of knowing i'd somehow be disappointed if i broke down and ate something. it wasn't entirely self-destructive, because i knew it takes a long time to starve enough to cause a real medical problem. eventually, i forced myself to reason through it, and knew that if i wasn't trying to die, that i'd give in eventually, and the longer i'd go, the more disappointed i'd be when i gave in.
so, i went and had some of the leftovers from a going-away luncheon, and they were pretty good.
tonight, my roommate said that most of the time, not eating was an attempt to reestablish a feeling of control. and yeah, i immediately knew that was what had been just beyond my grasp to answer the why of it.
tonight, i've tried to write. the other night, i was at the death cab for cutie show with someone who i have, to my annoyance, gotten to know, and have foolishly allowed myself to be interested in. the one you probably weren't going to hear any more about (except for this, of course). i had the idea of a story that would start there, that night, and go back and incorporate a lot of the blog entries, talking about the past, before returning the reader with all that knowledge, to see how it works out with this girl. it's resisting my efforts. it's too big, and i can't figure it out.
tired of trying to write, trying to make people think "wow." tired of writing the same thing over and over. tired of beating you all over the head with my thoughts and roller coastertired of the disappointment of not building an audience (though i'm grateful to those of you who've stuck with me." tired of yet another distraction, another thing that keeps me moving from day to day, from one mirage of hope to another, leading me to nowhere.
Posted by Rob at 11:08 AM | Comments (0)
November 03, 2005
the one you probably won't hear about
sorry, more syrup.
music came from the stage, and your voice sang the lyrics, even though you were talking about something else.
and we leaned in to hear each other, and i was lost, somewhere behind the two black straps that ran over the pale hollow of your shoulder,
above a thin strip of black lace.
you told me the doctors had found that your heart was not so strong,
that it could only stand so much, but i swear, when i stood close,
i could hear it beating over the bass drum and snare and lead guitar.
and i took a cigarette from you,
and i tried not to cough.
and i tried to look you in the eye
and i tried to look off,
so i wouldn't let you know,
to make sure you couldn't see.
and i felt like i had been there before, but the music was different,
and these days i know much more about the steady beat of fear and doubt.
and i wondered if and when the past would become the future again,
and if you'd be the next and last to play that part. but at the moment, it was just enough for that now to feel like then.
Posted by Rob at 06:20 PM | Comments (0)
errr. uhhh.
ok, i seriously need someone to tell me what to do. in general, yes, but i mean, specifically with the writing.
let's be honest, here. when i started this blog thing, there were two purposes. first, it was a good way for me to get back into the practice of writing, to get past the years of blockage. i think i've done that.
the other intent was for everyone to go absolutely wild about my writing, and for it to spread like wildfire across the nation, until the new yorker, publishers, and sandra bullock came prostrating themselves before my superluminous brilliance.
i have fallen just slightly short of this second purpose. i believe that i have about 30-40 hits a day, most from myself, and some from spambots looking for opportunities to post ads for online poker and/or penile enlargement potions. in fact, simply mentioning those two things will doom me to an increase in those hits.
time is whooshing by. each day, there's more accelerant being thrown onto the continuing burnout with being an attorney.
i plan to pull out bits and pieces, and start trying to shop them around. i will have to buy a book to tell me how to do this, and to whom.
but i could use some input. what works? what doesn't? should i try to pitch it as a collection of essays, like a severely poor-man's david sedaris? or maybe try to use the blog format to tell one story? lots of people have suggested writing about dating/relationships/lack thereof. but this is all a bit vague.
or, do you think i should just get hypnosis that will make me forget how to write and be happy to be an attorney? i've had friends quit smoking, so i'm sure they could make me quit writing.
anyway. feedback is appreciated.
Posted by Rob at 12:13 PM | Comments (0)