LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

PHOTO/ILLUSTRATION/POEM/BLOG ENTRY - This Morning at The Brite Spot

Brite Spot is a diner.  The ketchup bottle was on the table.  My burrito was pretty good.  I can't sort through my thoughts.  Lately, (today's choice description) I feel like the air has hair and every sound (both sonic and otherwise) pops through my thoughts - sometimes with a hint of chlorine and a pocketful of quarters (the singular hum of complete and total disappearance; bowl cut chub boy with half deaf asian ear on hot concrete - hummmmmmm - you bet).  sometimes, not so much.  I want a new drug.  More time. Less care. Long life. Less razor - and my finger with a smile scrawled with sharpie on the tip of it to be pressed on the spot that does not eject, destruct, activate, demarcate, stop, start, whine, bitch, rant, rave, hug, love, fart, frankenstine, fumble, crumble, illuminate, elevate, sanctify, blame, postulate, theorize, spar, flick, tickle, topple, tag - the thought that scrawled it.  

PUSHING THROUGH THE PAUSE IN THE FORM OF PERVERSION

This here is an expensive scrawl of scribbles.  I haven't been writing.  It's bumming me out.  

(must push through this natural pause - right here.  9am at the fix looking at some lady with 

wet hair whose dude wearing black glasses and cut like henry rollins gave me the gawk in return.  me,

i look like charlie - army jacket, black glasses, beanie, cuts on my hands ((primarily from my belt. 

i dig my hands down into my pants about 85-88% of the time either absentmindedly or with intention. 

its as if my testicles are a pair of those smashing stress balls one finds at an office supply store like 

staples; an impulse buy for the believers - and when i give em a good squeeze the universe goes 

goggle eyed like a coyote making a cat call or like a tea kettle's life coming to a nice and tidy

conclusion . . . . 

yes.  i pushed through that pause nicely.  now back to trying to say something.  

something:  (n).  that thing that lurks and needs to get flushed out.  

but first - a diagram:  

side note:  I have a burn (from the toaster over) on the top of my right pointer finger.  it didn't

           hurt when it happened.  which was both unexpected and delightful.  

           

true note:  I don't want to be the guy who spends his time cutting out images of the moon and taping

            them to his wall - and goes nowhere.  

      

now note:  I am not writing.  I blame (or have been blaming it) on my imaginary workload.  Imaginary

in the sense that I'm the only one that sees it as a workload - which means that it will eventually

pay off - i am building a business "animal style".  i hear the chickens coo and the pigeons chortle

and i feel like the gauntlet has been dropped - i do well then comes paralysis.  i am not writing.  

so goes the blame.  then my computer broke - then i got a desktop - then my back hurt from not 

having a desk/proper sitting situation - then i set up my desk/proper sitting situation - the 

workload remains (animal style continuous) and now my new reason for not writing is that i'm not 

used to writing at a desktop, especially without a proper word processing program and trying to

scrawl something in these conditions is just too g.d. weird and with my workload (animal style) i

don't have the time or energy to punch my way through it.  

i am not writing because i am all jammed up inside and have fallen into a streak of fear for 

sharing about:  

item one:  

eating an eighth of mushrooms locked into some brilliantly crafted chocolate lolli-pops, the shape

of laughter, guacamole, my birthday dip party (as in chips & dip), giving up on the gray lady (i 

asked, the cigarette dropped, she said move on, i picked up the cigarette, and moved on) ((not so 

slick and tidy like that but that's the way i put it here because that's how moving on happens)), the

son of hulk, the phrase "monster make monster until monster make right", and how 10-11 days later i 

taped drawing paper to my bedroom windows because i finally decided 10-11 days after my neighbor 

brought guacamole to my dip party and the contents of item one were generated for the record I 

decided that blanking out the windows with drawing paper was not a losing battle because since the

contents of item one became contextual i realized that blocking my view of the hill outside my

bedroom was not a losing battle because:  

a)  my little fantasy about my prom date who i thought i saw at the coffee shop/sandwich joint that

sometimes gets chinsy on the turkey smiling at me (she looked healthy rich - with Kampuchea aesthetic 

and steam shower anesthetic) had lost its gusto (boner power) in lieu of wanting to be able to stop

playing puppet show with her (my prom date who over a decade later was smiling at me at the sandwich shop who i lost track of who i really liked but things got weird and there is a whole story there which really illustrates how knotted up my thoughts can become - in fact the fantasy runs deep and i wrote about her in "the first book of you" but let's not get into that here. i was hoping to see

her and be watched by her and see her again and know that smile and return that smile because it 

gave me a boner and was a nice ending to some unfinished business that would lay sweet with the

daisies in the idea that the smile i got from her at the sandwich shop - because it was a very long

and lingering one that i did my best to ignore because i was trying to hustle some work (animal style)

from some guy who wanted nothing to do with me and my mind got locked up on her and linked her to 

the hill behind my bedroom with all the windows looking at me and the one window with a brick sized 

square cut out of the mini-blinds that i had a strange relationship with (prom date excluded) that 

found reason in the belief that the reason why the stranger with healthy skin and slow roast smile 

gawked at me like she did was because she has been watching me through a brick sized hole in her 

mini blinds - and it was smile worthy.  IT WAS NOT A LOSS because my little fantasy lost its boner 

power in the name of being wanting to not worry about making sure i shut the bedroom door to take

a shit just in case i forgot to reload the toilet paper of turn on the furnace.  

it wasn't a losing battle because of aforementioned point "a" in addition to the fact that when 

my neighbor came over with a fine plate of guacamole in addition the ingestion of exotics coupled

with all the noise of aforementioned item one, she looked out my bedroom window right down into her

apartment and was like, 

"we were wondering what you could see from up here" - 

i tried to share my thoughts on the matter but couldn't.  

cut to ten days later and my windows are blanked out like a temple.  

*i feel trapped - animal style - its good to sit outside and write this (someone is mowing their 

lawn) - i won.  i'm a winner.  god dammit.  a winner.

like i said,

i do not (i will not) be the guy who tapes pics and ideas to his wall about trips he'll never take 

phrases that go nowhere.  

sleep tight.

CHARLIE X - a sort of story about panda bears, civil works and war with foreign languages

the other day i did this thing that i was very happy about doing because it was something i had been thinking about doing, like when i was younger and wanted to become a barnstormer.

but first,

there's this short, one hundred foot stretch of sidewalk on this block not far from me that i hate so much that i do all i can to avoid it.

sometimes, i can't.

sometimes, i get all locked up on something and it snowballs. its starts. at the time it makes sense. if you ask me why - i'll explain it with great conviction and logic. (as far as hating a stretch of sidewalk goes). i can give you bullet points. push pins. fenceposts. time stamps. dots. and the most symmetrical mounds of freudian dog shit to shine and whiff with marvel but when it comes down to it - i hate a one hundred foot stretch of sidewalk - and after a while; no matter what you say - there's no explaining it.

let's put it this way. its not unlike the time i got into it with the postman because he wouldn't stop putting junk mail in my box and left me a note telling me to empty it - and until i did he wasn't going to give me my mail. the cable was shut off. the phone was shut off. everything was shut off. electricity was paid for. so, i didn't empty it until i moved. a year or more. i'm not sure. i've told this story before - but this is the sort of thing that makes perfect sense to me -

the absurdity is not lost on me. self, says me . . . take care of yourself. do what you've got to do to keep it together enough to put that sort of energy into something else that's important (this is the motivation behind it - the way i feel inside when going by that piece of sidewalk is so upsetting that i don't want to feel it. i don't like feeling that way. the feeling itself as well as the fact that i know its happening and its a stupid thing to go to war with a piece of sidewalk because outside of that stretch - the place isn't half bad and the people (even in that stretch) aren't bad - it's not about them - it isn't. its a thing like deciding if you want to open yourself up to falling in love or if you make the choice to keep everything and everyone away because you don't want the pain of betrayal, loss, heartache, rejection, disillusionment - whatever you skulking fucks want to call it. skulking fuck, says self. yes, says i the fucking skulker. no matter what you do it's going to hurt. and what's worse is - you know it, you skulking fuck. - which is a whole 'nother dimension to going to war and getting stuck at a red light right across from that one hundred foot stretch of sidewalk.)

its like a permanent mood - a mood that has a dimension - a tangible space/portal/hub. yes. the best way that i can explain it is that if time were the earth and your emotions (the ups and downs) were the vehicle - that piece of sidewalk would be nothing more than a mood that can be bombed from space or scrawled down by some flower shop keeper in pasadena so that they can deliver the orchids.

i've had this same thing with the nice guy at the liquor/everything store on the corner. just outside my door. two hundred feet away. for a long time i wouldn't go in there because it was too much pressure to talk to him. we started trading phrases in korean so i would get in my car and drive six blocks to buy a pack of smokes or supplies for the evening.

i've been back there twice this week. i mean, i went to see him twice this week. as i make progress i still suck fuck at korean. nothing has changed.

to be honest with you, i had to do it because my want for smokes and building materials were greater than my desire to ask someone who blocked me in to move there car and the time for walking six blocks was over.

i have almost forgotten how this started. (speaking of this story/blog/post - whatever you want to call it).

its not about the sidewalk. its about the first sentence. doing that thing i did that i've been wanting to do - like a barnstormer.

but first,

so . . . i was there with a friend - eating some food across from the sidewalk which had turned the block into the most hated block in los angeles which became the topic of conversation - because the place we were eating was nice and it was a pretty afternoon.

my friend said, "don't you hate that one little stretch of sidewalk poisons a whole block?"

(then came the ramble - the try - the shiny bits of shit poof-ing proof - there was no explaining.)

then came a lady. the lady sat down. she was friends with my friend. not my friend. and i clammed up - because i'm not sure why. as i clammed up - there was no existing. for some reason - with this lady - i was invisible. which, brought up a feeling that i didn't like. the topic of conversation was about two coffee shops in our neighborhood - not unlike the sidewalk. this lady likes the sidewalk.

at one point, i went outside to get myself some air and smoke and across the street = there it was. i looked into the shops for something but didn't go inside. on my side of the street. with my back to my enemy.

you're turning 34, says self. i know, says me. self says, don't you think you should work this thing out? me, says - you're right. there's no explaining it because no matter what i say - there's no explaining because there is no answer.

so, i went back inside the eating place to sit down and eat all weird and awkward and decided to go ahead and wait it out - and look at something different.

my friend and the lady were in between me and the street and what was across from it - the sidewalk - behind all of that was the sillouette maker.

calm. calm. calm down. eat. eat. watch. don't be lazy. use your eyes. the lady can't see you because she is extremely interested in your friend - who can't see it.

so, i sat. and watched them eat. she had some quirks - these ticks. a panda tattoo on her neck. she like squeezing her lime onto her rice - i think it was her favorite part of the meal, a nice gentle down swoop with the crunch and a sharp up-swing as it sprinkled.

him, his hands would go down and dip into his plate - then up - to his mouth - something would inevitably fall - and their conversation was easy - awkward - and private. from where i was not sitting they were dancing.

i did not miss this. and it was better. it lasted for a flash. a little while. and i decided that i would keep working on this sort of thing. even if it was in short bursts and meant that i would have to sit in that eating spot and look across the street until i felt like going over their and licking it.

i still felt gross as i was thinking this.

on the way home, i told this to my friend - and i thought i saw something happen to him - because i think it was something that happened to both of us - just two clicks off tandem.

then there was the other night - the beginning of this ramble - where i was doing the thing that i was happy to have been doing (that is my secret that i can barely keep - a thing that i've been thinking about like the time of the barnstormer).

i was sitting there taking notes watching people - wondering what the fuck they were doing - why were they there - there were all sorts - much parody. images one would expect for sure.

as i waited for it to begin, i began to ask myself - why the fuck are you here? self, i said. aren't you a little too old to be doing the barnstormer song and dance again. and self said, i don't know. you tell me. why are we doing this.

the sidewalk came to mind with the disinterested panda and the eating dance of potential everything - it took the shape of korean - and i wrote myself a note.

practice.

for what?

practice.

GO WEST

>

it is not sadness

> But practice

> That brings me here

> For something

> Me self says.

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