Chautauqua

I’m sitting on a comfy blue couch, looking up at one of the prettiest ceilings I’ve ever seen. It’s a light, red wood that changes color with the time of day, and it towers over me two stories up. I’m in the Great Room of the “Chautauqua House,” Mat’s family’s getaway in the snow-covered hills that surround Chautauqua Lake in lower New York State, and I am in love.

Looking out the eight great windows, I see a snow-covered Eden; three-feet-thick in perfect white, mottled only by the snowmobile tracks we made this morning. In the distance is the lake, looking like an untilled snowfield, and earlier we saw a plane take off from its frozen surface.

In the center of the Great Room is a stone fireplace that stretches the height of the house. The whole house seems built around this pillar of stone, beautiful symmetry on either side. It’s is a bright, cheery house, unpretentious, with wooden accents and unassuming splendor, the kind of place where, if the walls could talk, you would hear the laughter of happy people.

Like I said. I’m in love.

Nate, Dave, Mat, and I are up here with Mat’s dad for the weekend, enjoying the late days of winter. I had to work last night so I ended up driving myself, and it got a little dicey at the end when I was heading down a one-lane road with snow banks on either side and no outlet, no light, and only the stars to light the way. I made it after some Dukes of Hazzard motions with the car, and after a game of ”Scene It: Sports Edition,” which is the equivalent of me in a ballet class, we headed to our rooms and zonked out.

I awoke to fresh donuts, bananas, and juice. Apparently a pipe had burst over the course of the night and Mat and his dad had been up early trying to clear the frozen water out of it. We sat in the sunroom around a little pot-bellied stove and watched Mat’s dad trail the snow with a snowmobile. It’s a rather dangerous affair if you don’t know where you’re going, seeing as, well, just about anything could be under all that snow and you need to have a sense of what’s around you before the snow falls. We suited up and headed out to “the barn,” which is where the trailer and the snowmobiles are kept. We got a crash course (and I choose this name carefully) on snowmobiling, and then proceeded to have the best four hours I’ve had in months.

I can’t really put into words how much fun snowmobiling is. You’re on a jet-powered pair of skis and you’re screaming across fields and over jumps at sixty-plus miles per hour. No joke. My first run I was nervous – I didn’t know how to balance my weight right, and as such I hold the honor of “First to Fall Off His Snowmobile.” [Granted, I was going literally two miles an hour and it was the equivalent of that scene in “Austin Powers” when that guy gets run over by the forklift.] Nate and Dave followed with much more spectacular crashes, and since the snow was so deep it was like falling into, as Dave called it, a “pillow.”

I recovered quickly, glad to have gotten that out of the way, and proceeded to kick ass the rest of the day, taking jumps at ludicrous speeds and nearly flying off many times. It was a natural thing by the end, like I’d been doing it forever. So. Much. Fun.

We followed that with a game of “King of the Hill,” where we proceeded to throw each other off a six-foot-high snow mound in front of the house until we were so exhausted we couldn’t breathe.

After a short nap, the four of us got in the car and headed to Peek’n Peak. This was my second time there, and I still have no idea what the name means. My first time there is a long, hilarious story about trying to teach Jessie how to ski, which I shall not utter here for fear of embarrassing the poor girl. Suffice it to say, we were not on speaking terms until the next day. [I told you to ride the chairlift with me!] Tonight, however, was pitch-perfect, and I had a blissful three hours of skiing down the mountainside.

I’m not a fast skier. I am a large mammal with incredible Newtonian physics governing the massive momentum I gather falling down a hill on toothpicks, and were I to simply unleash, simply let go, I fear for what consequences would befall the world. Therefore, I ski under control. Ski casual, even. Mat accused me of looking bored, but really I was just enjoying a leisurely stroll down the hill. That is, until we went down a black-diamond, my first, and I kicked tail and roared down the mountain just to know that I could in case I had to save someone in a movie someday. Not that the velocity was entirely by choice, seeing as said hill was nigh a 40-degree-angle, but I didn’t fall, not once. Kept it under the hat. Good form, Peter, good form.

We caught a late dinner at Texas Roadhouse in Erie, where I ordered a 24oz steak I am still digesting, and then headed home, watched TV until we couldn’t, and fell fast asleep, sore and elated.

I awoke this morning to Nate’s voice outside the bedroom door. “Hey Martin?”
“Yeah,” I groggily replied.
“If you want to go snowmobiling, you have to be ready in 10 minutes.”

Ten minutes later I was roaring down the slope, my eyes still crusted over, the wind blowing them open. Dave and I flew around for half an hour, hitting 70mph on the cornfields, and I said goodbye to Chautauqua in a roar of sound and snowflakes.

We caught a huge breakfast at Bemus Point, and then made the three-hour ride home, trying to figure out when we could return. Amazing. Amazing. Amazing.

Like I said. I’m in love. Hope you find your Chautauqua someday.

-m

I Am Hitting On You

Yep. Definitely hitting on you right now.

I figure if you're seeing me like this, the seduction is pretty much over. I've wined you. I've dined you. Said interesting things and asked perceptive questions. We've talked about old loves and forgiven each other for past sins. We've walked outside and put our hands in coat pockets and realized how great it would be to just bypass the question marks, just say "You have me" and move on. I have you. You have me. Now we can enjoy the moonlight without worrying about the sunrise. You're here. I'm here. We're in black-and-white.

What do you say? Let's wake the neighbors.

-m

Makes You Want an Amstel Light

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Okay, so I've been thinking about the fact that women don't have hair on their feet. Now, normally, I don't mind the biological differences between men and women. We don't have to have to squeeze a watermelon out of a quarter, don't have to bleed every month for 25 years, don't have to put on make-up or bind our feet in pointy shoes. And yet, tonight, as I was pulling off my socks, I realized that women do not have hair on their feet.

Now, I have hair on my feet. I am a man. I have hair in places God put hair, including my feet and my back (not too much, but enough to be gross). If you're still reading, you'll see that my point is about to be: Feet hair hurts like a mofo if you leave socks on too long. Am I the only man to experience this? The pain of socks left on too long, and the weird discomfort that comes along from hair redirected too long in the wrong direction? And it's not like you can shave this hair. Oh no. Because, on a man, any shaved hair only gets angry and grows back blacker and more angry, vengeful even, until you are a wildebeast with straggly black fur all over your once soft body.

Is there any part of growing up that doesn't involve losing "soft"?

Anyways, now that we've gotten aquainted, I feel like I can tell you about my day, because it was damn good.

I awoke at the crack of 2 PM, the sun dimly misting through my curtains. I checked my phone and found 20 missed calls, all from Jessie and to the effect of, "Why the hell aren't you awake, you were supposed to come down to the South Side and have fun with me." I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, and hopped in the car to catch the last our of the Soup Festival on the South Side, one of Pittsburgh's "cultural districts," i.e. where all the magic and pawn shops are. They have lots of tasty restaurants, including a Primanti's, and we had fun with her 'rents wandering the streets and getting free soup. I had a mushroom soup with truffle oil that was absolutely delicious, and only later did I try to imagine how one squeezes oil out of a fungus. Yick.

Jessie and I headed back to my place and I got cleaned up, showered and shaved my face. I wish there was some applause track I could carry around in my pocket, because every time I shave I feel like I should be congratulated, fussed over. I don't know if its because I feel like, by applying the foamy stuff, I'm getting dressed up, but afterwards I'm always disappointed if no one's around to feel my face and go, "Ooh, so smooth!"

We went to the store, bought some wine, bought some veggies. Tonight, Tooch and Jeep hosted a fab "W(h)ine and Cheese Party," with delish fondue and wine, and Jess and I ate about a half-pound of cheese each. Yum! It was gruyere and swiss, according to Tooch, and it was scrumptious on bread, apples, and anything else we could stir around in that pot. We drank whine, played a dirty game of "What the F*ck," and drank more whine. I'm still drinking, dammit, as evidenced by the above sketchy picture. I'm at Mom's house, tucked in the single bed, typing on her laptop like a little kid. She was sleeping on the couch when I came home, tuckered out after a hard day of work on the budget for her friend's business. I was very glad to see her.

Before we went to the party, Jess and I headed to Mt. Washington, which is the hill that overlooks Pittsburgh. It's got the best views of the city, the restaurants that line it aptly named the "Grandview Restaurants," and we rode the Incline down the hill and up and stood on the observation deck. We were standing in the snow, overlooking the foggy, snowy city, and Jessie surprised me with hot grilled cheese sandwiches, brownies, and hot cocoa. She looked so beautiful in the night, snowflakes in her soft, brown hair. She asked me to marry her. Started crying, and I held her, said "Yes," and we cried and laughed together in the snowflakes. I don't deserve her. She is amazing and beautiful and we've shared so much together it will take the rest of my life to try and write it down. I love this girl!!!

She loves her ring, btw. It's so sparkly it glows in the dark.

Anyways, a lot is changing for me. A lot is in motion. As the "Dude" would say, it's a very complicated case, a lot of layers. I've decided for the time being, I'm only going to focus on the ones that I can feel, that I can affect, and leave the rest to the Universe, to the Amorphous Deity who organizes things. What else can we do but trust to our heart, trust to our feelings?

I hope you're well. I miss you.

Yours always,
m

Freezing Rain

So dark.

That’s how the sky is, even with the snow. It’s raining outside – freezing rain. The trees are glistening and this is how the world would look if a sorcerer froze it, cast a spell. It would glisten like it’s glistening, sit motionless like it sits motionless. I heard the wind blow outside and the trees groaned and trembled with the effort of moving, cracked and bent under the weight of the ice like old men bemoaning the weather. The snow, all five inches of it, is hard, crackles under my feet as I walk. I wonder how it would be to take my sled out right now in the dark and hurtle towards the bottom of Frick Park. I wonder if I would even see the tree before I hit it, even perceive the solid mass at the end of the white funeral. I think it is precisely because sled-riding is ridiculously dangerous that it is so damn fun.

I know that, recently, I’ve seemed rather cryptic. And it’s because the blog has been a reflection of how I’ve felt in the past couple of weeks. I know its hard for the people who love me to read how much I’m struggling, how damaged the words ring out, even if they are pretty. I’ve been feeling pretty shattered recently, been feeling rather lost and insufficient, using the people who love me to confirm myself, to feel better. This blog post is another effort at reaching out, I guess, though I know full well that it won’t matter to what I connect, won’t matter who replies. The sky will still be dark; will still be frightening.

I am on the wrong meds. I know this for a fact. When I’m off of them, I feel no desire to drink or smoke. When I’m on them, I feel exactly the opposite. I don’t know how a pill that is supposed to make you feel better can so completely ruin you; so completely dismantle the things you hold dear in the world. I tried going off of it over the weekend, and I couldn’t stop shaking, wanted to blow up the Chik-Fil-A that Jessie and I ate at, wanted to drive the car into the Chuck E Cheese and hope that I put the tire in the “100” slot of the Ski Ball machines. Seratonin withdrawal. But I felt really no desire to drink or smoke. It was like the old me, the old Martin. The ice outside has taken out the internet, and I’m typing this to you, sans connection, on the desk I gave to Mat for a dinner and a dodgeball season. Mat and his roommates are sitting in the next room watching “Terminator 3” and are simultaneously enraptured and amused. The ending of that movie was such a disappointment, as though the previous three hours had been all for naught. Arnold dies (again). And this time, he accomplishes nothing. Achieves nothing. Is remembered for nothing. At least it was cool when the truck ran into that building. I hope I never make a movie where the audience leaves and goes, “Eh.” Where the audience leaves unchanged, maybe slightly annoyed that they wasted their time in my world. And that is saying a lot, considering how people spend their time nowadays, whittling away hours on the Internet reading the ravings of people like me, feeling sorry for others and at the same time better about themselves.

I have some good news. Apple has hired me to be a part-time employee! I am no longer seasonal. I can go to the “Young Professionals” luncheon with nothing to be ashamed of, because I, too, have a job. I, too, am contributing something, am helping someone better their own life with technology, with computers. It’s a small thing, but I DO feel better when I go, do feel better when I work.

Helzberg hasn’t called me yet to let me know the ring is ready. I know its bothering Jessie, and frankly it’s bothering me, too. I wish I knew when it was coming, when it would be ready. It is really such a pretty thing. And this time, I know she loves it, know she’ll be delighted when she receives it. I can’t wait to make her happy. I will be happy on that day, too, happy to know that she’ll be in my life forever, at my side forever. Woo!!!

I wish you were here to rub my back, to scratch my head. I got my hair cut and I am damn sexy right now. Whenever my stomach hurts and someone rubs my back, I feel better, like my stomach is hurting for attention. Biological codependency. I miss the old me, the one who didn’t feel sadness so acutely. I miss the me before Paxil. Before drugs. I could handle sadness, could recognize anxiety. Nowadays I feel like a victim, act like a victim, want to be perceived as a victim and taken care of, looked after like a child, nursed and swaddled and loved to sleep. If you are looking for reasons to not take this drug, consider this blog your first stop. The next question is: What am I going to do about it?

I’m taking advantage of the fact that I don’t live alone. I asked Mat to throw away my cigarettes tonight, which he did with great excitement. Jessie sent me chocolate-covered strawberries from Edible Arrangements, and they are AMAZING. If you haven’t sampled these, you have not lived. I don’t deserve her, her amazing, scalding love. We had such a nice weekend together. I don’t want to cheapen it with words. I just loved waking up next to her, feeling her heart beat next to mine. It made everything in the world seem lighter.

I hope you’re well. I need to go see a movie, do something that takes me outside of myself for a little while. A trip, perhaps. Or a retreat, a Catholic retreat where I could go and talk to God for a little while, see what’s been up with him, see if he has any more clue about what he sent me here to do.

Until then I remain, always,

Your
m

Dearth

Okay. Short post tonight. I'm trying to get some Z's before the GRE tomorrow - I was up late tonight sucking out on analogies (CREDENCE:GULLIBLE::WHAT THE:FUCK IS THE ANSWER I DON'T EVEN SEE A QUESTION HERE), and now I've resigned myself to obscurity in the hopes that, by setting expectations low, anything will be a supreme, utter delight.

Have you noticed I like the word "utter"? I like words that communicate the depths of things, words that sit on the boundaries between sense and non-sense, capture the bigness of ideas.

The title of tonight's mini-post is in reference to a word I thought I knew and put on my grad school statement of purpose, i.e. "The dearth of experienced faculty members," and it turns out it does not mean what I thought it meant. "Dearth," to me, sounds like abundance. A dearth of corn. A dearth of money. No. No sir. "Dearth" means the absence of said thing, i.e. the ABSENCE of experience faculty. I wish Word had an "Idiot" check in addition to their Spell Check (though, since it's made by Microsoft, it would be setting itself off all the time and trying to correct itself interminably).

So. If anything, the GRE saved me some embarrassment, so long as it doesn't prove an embarrassment in and of itself!

I had an amazing weekend with Jessie. I awoke each morning to a made breakfast, sun shining through the windows in the brightly-lit living room of her Berkeley Springs apartment, and each day was spent doing fun things and gathering more stories to tell each other. I promise details - a big long post after my test. I haven't been smoking or drinking - not out of some idealistic, motivated effort to stop but out of fear of getting fat and dying of cancer. I'll take it. If the DeLorean can run on whiskey, man, then fill her up.

But now, I sleep. And wake. And test. And wonder.

Wish me luck.

-m

Looking Up

Howdy, you.

How often do you look up? I'm not talking metaphorically here, although you do know how much I love metaphor. I am talking physically taking your chin and raising it, aiming your eyes skyward? I know the Discovery Channel tells us that evolution decided we should look straight forward lest the sun burn our retinas, but tell me, how does a flower see the sun so clearly? Certainly there is more to us than hairy stamen.

I live 31 steps above the rest of the world. I stood on my porch tonight, gloved and coated, in the cold of the Pittsburgh dark, watching cars pass by. There is a guy in a striped black hat who drives a white Ford Mustang, the new one they designed that looks at the world with a rectangular grill and big eyes. I love this car. I'm torn between wanting a sports car and wanting a hybrid. One is my masculine side, my if-I-can't-fuck-it-I'll-kill-it side, and the other is my come-to-me-my-little-friends side, the one that likes candles because they smell nice and not the side that likes candles because I cannot fuck the wax so it might as well burn up.

The driver was a young guy. From his profile and gait I guessed he was mid-20's. You can tell how old someone is by how they hold themselves. He walked with a thin, kind of curvy gait, and I knew he was young because even though he was walking home he didn't look like he had a clear idea of where he was going. It was 2AM - where else are you walking? You are either walking home or are you walking to that girl's house wishing you were walking home.

He loped by, 31 steps down, and I heard him cough into the night. I stood, in my colorful scarf and leather coat, watching him, and he never looked up. He never knew I was there. Last night I felt the need to hide behind the garbage cans beside my house when people walked by, but tonight I realized that nobody looks up anymore. We only look forward, hoping the blinding light of up doesn't find us before we're ready.

I had a telescope once. It belonged to an uncle who is no longer an uncle, and I only used it once in five years. I pointed it at the yellow moon. The orb filled the entire viewfinder. It was a cold night, like tonight, and I stood in the backyard of my mom's house and gazed up, blinded by its cold, white light. I realized that even the reflection of the sun would burn me, even the mirror image of truth would scald me, and I looked anyways. I put my hand over the viewfinder, saw as the white sphere filled the creases in my skin, and I knew why I looked up so rarely. What if we see ourselves up there? What if, for a moment, we glimpsed what it was to be really ourselves, our base, beautiful selves, and what if we melted right there, a little puddle on the stalks of the grass, reflecting moonlight in our droplets?

There was a black cat outside tonight. He walked slowly in-between the cars, as though some morsel of warm food would jaunt out in front of him and he could have a warm meal delivered to him, Meals-on-Legs style. I watched him edge between the wheelbases, and as I sipped my Riesling and puffed on my cowboy killer, he looked at me, straight in the eyes, 31 steps up. I froze. We watched each other for a long time, the white patch on his tail burning in the moonlight. Mentally I offered him milk. He walked gingerly on the asphalt, careful not to tread too heavily on the earth, but I guess he knew I didn't have any milk in the fridge and so he looked away, continuing his cautious parade down the street. I wondered where he would sleep tonight. I didn't have milk, but I have a bed. A couch. Peanut butter. I could have fed him, but silently he knew he would be better off in the cold. I hope he's okay. Black cats have it about as bad as a cat can.

I looked down, and saw a few green stalks pushing their way through the leaves and snow. I wondered what it was that had drawn them up so early in the year. They stood there, huddled together for warmth, and I realized that maybe the moon had tricked them, had summoned them prematurely, had promised the warmth of the sun and then delighted in watching them freeze as it does, hovering above the Earth. The moon was a razor tonight, slicing through the cloudless sky horizontally across the galactic veins. It was not the harvest moon, the Moon of bounty. It was the old moon, the cold one, the one who stood by motionless as the Earth boiled and seethed, writhed and groaned. I came inside after only two cigs. It was colder tonight, and since I had three last night I wanted to feel like I was making progress. I'll have one tomorrow, and then none this weekend. I'm learning how to dance with darkness, with the razor moon, and so far, so good.

The car across the street has a boot on it. It's pressed against the pavement like a claw. The car is one of those ultra-liberal things, purple and pretentious and, now, booted. On the back are bumper stickers like "Casey 2006" and "Punish Bush and Cheney for War Crimes" and "Life is short. Dance naked," and I wondered at how easy it was to ruin a color like purple. I only have one bumper sticker, and it is a picture of a stylized Darth Vader with a caption that reads, "Who's your daddy?" Yes. It is subtle, placed unassumingly in the lower-left corner of my bumper. I put it there because it is impossible to find my car in a parking lot. I cannot count how many times I have stuck my key into a green Honda Accord that wasn't mine. This is really the only time I miss the Thunderbird. I could spot its faded purple/blue roof from across the state. Now my vehicle fades into the sea, a wooden roof in an ocean of wooden roofs (shouldn't that be spelled "rooves"?), and I struggle to find myself, sticking my key in all sorts of crazy people's cars, hoping to eventually find my own so I can drive home with my curtain rod and curtain.

I've never been booted. When I first moved to Squirrel Hill I got about 5 parking tickets for being on the wrong side of the road on a Tuesday. I would be a meter maid, only my soul is not worth whatever they're paying. [If you hate children, become a meter-maid, because ultimately that is who's blood you're consuming. Small, small children with big, brown eyes.]

So I stood there, trying to figure out if I felt bad for the booted purple car, or whether I was just glad they never booted me, locked me into the ground, clawed me to the floor. The black cat seemed unimpressed. He'd seen it all before. Not even the frozen pavement fazed him anymore. Somehow, he would eat. He would survive the moonlight.

As you can tell, I don't really have anything to write about. Nothing happened today that I can share on the blog. No one really needed me. I didn't save any kittens or small children. I just wanted to write to you, to imagine you writing back, scolding me for smoking, offering to knit me something to keep me warm at night. I wanted to feel the blank page, to feel like somewhere in the world I could emit enough light to cut something, put some black on white. I bet you those green stems will live, if only out of spite. I kept the ash off of them. They deserved better, daring to grow when all that was around them had given itself to the freeze. That is what I feel I am doing, growing in spite of. Blossoming even though the air is thin and frigid, hoping to catch enough of the Sun to bear me through the night.

Thank you for being yellow light. We'll talk soon.

love,
m

A Good Couple of Days

Hurro.

A good weekend. A very good weekend. Jessie was home. I looked at stars. It was 4 degrees in Pittsburgh, single-digits. Farenheit. We are talking negative Celsius, people. I stood outside my apartment tonight, watching my breath escape in a little white cloud up towards its parents in the sky, and I could hear the windless snowflakes shivering. It is cold in Pittsburgh.

I love the cold. I love how clear the air gets, how all the heavy non-air stuff shivers to the ground and all that is left is the crystal refraction of light, how the moon and its seas cut through the night in the winter. How taut Orion's bow is pulled, aimed at the wary and courageous Taurus, unblinking, untwinkling in sight of his own death. I've always envied the ancients, the number of stars that swaddled in their night sky. I think it is a crime we are taught what to see in the stars. Sure, part of me enjoys the history of it, but another part wishes I could have named them myself, found the shapes I saw most fit. A ladle instead of a bear. A Christmas tree instead of Perseus. A flower instead of the Pleides. Because really, to whom does the night sky belong? We belong to it. I wonder if God looks at the sky and sees our little blue floating sphere and calls us the eye of some great dog, Cerberus or Scooby, the watchdog, the guardian of the night.

A good weekend. We went out Friday night to Jake's Barbeque and I had a cow on a plate, smothered in Texas-style barbeque sauce. We were celebrating Jessie's parents 32nd wedding anniversary. Holy. Crap. That is a long time, with no signs of slowing down. Jessie's parents amaze me. Inspire me. My parents were married 23 years. I've been alive longer than my parents were together, and here is Jessie, never having known that, never knowing what that is like, 32 years passing by expected, waited for, assured. A gift. That is what a marriage is. A column in the forum of the world, holding all the other friezes up in the sky. Married couples are like black holes, holding the galaxy of disparate people together, providing haven, release, serenity in the security of their gravity. Force-fields of sanity. At least, that has always been what happily married people have made me feel. Not that its a prerequisite, but there is a reason it is old.

Jess and I went to the Cheesecake Factory on Monday for lunch. We awoke and shared eye crusties, and then had a delicious lunch. On Sunday, we went to Wal-Mart and, remembering yet again why I want to punch the corpse of Sam Walton, we waded through the trough of lower-class Americans and purchased our question marks, including a sled, which we took to Frick Park and sledded down the hill three times with no hat or gloves. It felt so good to fall on each other at the bottom, to hurtle towards the trees and then crash in a burst of snowflakes, our legs intertwined, our faces wet. We came home and cleaned my room, which was by all accounts declared a national state of emergency, and Jessie used her Mary Poppin's power to heal it, to reshape it into something beautiful and sane. I bought one of those little stone water fountains. Its trickling in the background now, perched on my radiator, its drip drip drip filling the dark of my room with a comforting ambience. We moved my bed so my feet are at the radiator and thus never cold, and my computer and piano switched, making a grand entranceway into my tiny bedroom. I love it. Love it love it love it. I can create here. I can be sane here.

I stood outside tonight, cigarette between my fingers, watching the snowflakes fall. I really am not a smoker, adoring blog posts aside. I realized that I like fire and I like smoke, so I'm hoping soon to get a fireplace so I can stop being the chimney. But, they taste like peace to me. It is a grand irony, much like anything fried, that that which is pleasurable is in many cases bad for you. And there is no moderation in smoking. A piece of cake once in awhile will not kill you, but a cigarette, even one a day, has been shown to have deleterious effects on one's health (I've been reading up.) Jessie's new tactic, which I find brilliant, is to instead of attacking my smoking, attack my cigarettes.

Ex:

Jess: "What kind of cigarettes are you smoking?"
Me: "Marlboro Lights."
Jess: "Oh, wow. Real man cigarettes. Bet the light ones taste extra manly."
Me: "Shut up. The real ones kill you."
Jess: "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over your manliness. Have another light cigarette."

It's strangely effective. I find myself wanting to smoke real Marlboro's, and at the same time I have no interest. It's like I smoke for a reason to go outside and watch the snowflakes shiver, drink so I can hear the trees talking or the water falling. A good couple of days. I wish I was sled-riding.

Hope you've been well. I'm hanging in there. Sending lots of e-mails, which is awesome and I love how I've rekindled old correspondences and how much they are adding to my life. I've been composing, too. Mat and I worked for a number of hours tonight on building up the Dragontamer theme. When I'm with Mat (and I told him this today), I really get a sense of the journey as the destination. Walking the creative path with him is so satisfying its hard not to confuse the walking with the point, you know? As though sitting down and writing and talking and laughing were what I am here to do, who I am here to be. He's worried about me, and I'm worried about him worrying. We had Chinese tonight and watched the Penguins win. He is a gift from God.

I'm heading to Philadelphia this weekend, and hopefully planning a return trip to Houston in the coming months. Traveling, moving out of my own space, is very exciting and it is helping me to focus on the corners of my own space. Now I listen to the water and don't feel such an urge to run. The gift of a made bed. Of a laundry basket. Of curtains.

Sleep well.

always,
m

Smirnoff

I realized the other night that benzene is not what I am looking for in a cigarette.

It's been two days since I've had a drink. Well, two days and little under an hour, seeing as I'm sitting here, nice and relaxed, a glass of Smirnoff and cranberry juice in my hand. It's my third of the evening - amazing how happy disconnectedness can make a man. It's like pulling the plug is really just a metaphor for plugging in somewhere else, like a sound mixer moving around the plugs on his board. If we can just connect this preamp to this effect, we'll be good to go, you know?

Had a wonderful day with Jessie. I awoke with her next to me, playing with my nipples with the dildo I bought her for Christmas. Oh, sure, at the time it was a thoughtless gift, but we've come to adore its many purposes, its utility. She is so cute in the morning. It's like that scene in "The Graduate" when Dustin Hoffman wakes up in the middle of the night and kisses his girl - how intimate is that? You have morning mouth, morning breath, the crust of hours on your lips, and yet you connect, pulse with each other, even before your brain has had a chance to turn on and remind you of all its biases. That's what it is like to wake up next to Jessie: Christmas morning, each time with a new gift to unwrap in the midst of haze and excitement.

We bought a new engagement ring today. Zales has proved to be an incredible disappointment with their sales and service, so we returned that motherfucker and went to Helzberg, where we had a delightful customer experience. They have this little room in the center of the store, with glass tiles and bright halogen overhead lamps. That's where they take the folks who are obviously serious about picking up some serious stone, and we sat there and looked at different rings under a microscope, under the halogen. We learned about clarity, about cut, the 4 C's that diamond resellers have perfected in order to get you to spend as much money as possible and feel good about it.

We found a mind-blowing ring. It made the one I picked out look like old socks. The center stone burns so brightly its hard to look directly at it, much like Jessie; she's a Leo, and she burns like the Dark Phoenix at the end of X-Men III, and I am her Wolverine, the only person who heals fast enough to approach her scalding brilliance, her flaming affection. The only thing I'm missing is the claws.

Did you like my last post? I know Dave did, which was sweet. Sometimes I wonder what the nature of my posts should be on this blog, whether I should err on the side of caution or swing the proximate truth in the warm wind and care not who should happen to smell it. Definitely I felt the need to tell the truth, the whole truth, about Houston, seeing as one could talk about me nowadays in terms of B.H. (Before Houston) and A.H. (After Houston). Strange how a large landmass could have such an effect on one's self-perception, or how one body, one body of water could wash away so much soul-sediment. Do you like when I speak in metaphors? They feel sophisticated, typing them. I wonder how they sound.

Anyways, I'm doing okay. It's been two days since my last drink, not counting the past hour or so. Or did I already say that? Structures confound me, sober or drunk. It's hard to know anymore with permanence that which I believe I am or am not.

Yours always,
m