The Mumbling Inferno...

Yesterday, my dear friend and companion Max, left.  He was a good, good dog, and never met a person he didn't love.

Being a boxer, and having lived a longer-than-normal boxer life of 14-15 years (not really sure as he was a rescue dog), he suddenly developed a harrowing health condition that was irreversible.  And rather than paying thousands of dollars to prolong his life for my benefit...I let him go. 

I've run into people who think that a dog is merely just another walking piece of meat to kick around and abuse.  But I'm sure that if they had actually spent the time with their pet...they'd come to realize that in all aspects, dog really is god spelled backwards. 

A dog is the closest embodiment of god on this planet.  Unconditional love, boundless affection, fun.  Max and Kita, both had to deal with my wavering sanity and mood swings for a few years, but no matter what I said or yelled...they always offered a furry head and butt to pet, and a warm moist tongue to swipe at my hand, or to give kisses with. 

Kita was the first to pass, last October...and now Max.  My life is emptier without either of their wiggling butts, and tail-stump wags...but my life is infinitely richer for having had them a part of my life.  I'll miss hearing the click-click clack o their nails clip across the hardwood floors as they came to say hello.  And I'll definitely miss the combined weight of 150 pounds vieing for a space in my lap in the cold of the winter.  Or the summer.

Max and Kita, brother and sister, are together again, in whatever dog-heaven they have in store for them.  Mouth-wrestling, and boxing, as only boxers do. 

Goodbye my dears.  I'll be seeing you. 

Today, my son arrived into my life.  March 19, 2007.  6.14 pounds, 20 inches long.  1:07pm.  I heard those statistics only once, and yet they are burned into my memory as though with a white hot iron. 

I held him.  And I played with his hands, and feet.  I soothed him.  I rocked him.  I talked to him. 

I have a bracelet around my wrist that states "Father".  I'm a father.  A dad.  Pops, if you will.

I like Pops.  Pop.  Baba. 

Do you know that almost ubiquitously, around the world, the word for "father", "dad", "pop" is just about the same?

Baba.

Wo shi Baba.
Baba yem.
Baba khem.

I'm a father.

desert valley

God, what am I doing?  I don't know anymore.  It seems as if nothing I do brings any good to anyone...least of all myself.

The expanse of the southwestern desert stretches out before me.  I pick up a loose stone and hurl it hard.  I watch as it sails through the air in a beautiful inverted parabola.  It grows tiny quickly and then disappears.  I hold my breath hoping to hear as it strikes the rocks and ground below.  All I hear is the wind in my ears and the silence of desert life.

All it seems I do is reflect back on the good times that I've had, because it just seems as if they don't come around anymore.  I live in the past.  I can't look to the future.  It's as bleak as the desert here before me.  

And then I hear the Voice again.  That infernal damnation.  

So do it.  Why bother any more?  You said so yourself.  You have nothing to look forward to.  Your now and future is as, how did you put it?  'As bleak as the desert?'  So just do it.  You can't live in the past forever.

Oh God.  Why can't I ignore that fucking voice?

High above, I spot a vulture soaring on the thermals created by the morning sun.  With a simple flick of it's tail feathers, it switched directions.  I spotted a few more, higher than the first.  They were circling.  Something had died.  

That could be you, you know.  Out there.  Without a care in the world.  You wouldn't even feel them plucking out your eyes.

Fuck OFF!  

You know I can't.  I'm you.  You know that.  Just listen to me.  All this pain, this worry, this sadness would be gone forever.  You know it's true.  How often have you joked about it?  'No more bills?'  'Sleep forever?'

The sun is beginning to get hot.  It was about 10 in the morning.  I could feel my skin starting heat up.  In a few hours, I'd be burned.  I suddenly noticed that the wind had stopped.  I start breathing very slowly.  

Silence is astoundingly loud.  It seems almost unnatural when you're used to the noise of cars, trucks, TV, music.  But when there is nothing in lieu of noise, it's louder, for some reason.  Lost in the silence, the Voice has gone away.  Even my mind seems to have slowed with my breathing.  I stare out into the desert to see something, anything besides the sand, and rock, and scrub.  Nothing.  

So, this is it, I'm alone, I've finally gotten my wish and I hate it, how funny is that?  There's no one here.  And there will never be anyone here, not now, or then.  Why do I do this to myself?  I want and want and when I get it, I push and push and push and push...what an idiot.  

You get what you deserve.  And you don't deserve anything, do you?  You've failed at just about everything you've ever set out to do, and you want something?  You know the universe doesn't work that way.  You have to give in order to get.  And you've gotten, but you've never given.

The Voice was right.  

Maybe you don't really deserve to be here anymore.  Maybe you SHOULD just end it. Maybe you-

"Hey man, there you are.  We've been looking for you."

Mike and Sam crawled over the hill and sat next to me.  They sat on each of side of me.  They didn't say anything, and just looked out at the desert with me.

"It's beautiful."

I forgot about these two.  I forgot that I had climbed up and away from them.  Mike, Sam, John, Josh...You idiot.

The names started to flow, and with them, faces, and memories of only yesterday.  

So, sitting there today, after work, watching grainy football on a rather large screen (which totally blows goats by the way), I made a realization.  It's not a very good one, and I won't bore anyone with the details, but it really does seem that my high-school prediction is coming true.  Setting, slowly, and my feet are stuck.  See "A Fish Called Wanda".

But my spirits perked right up with the second half of the Patriots-Colts game.  It was everything a championship game should be.  Ups, downs...it had them all.  Neither of the teams are mine, but I chose the Colts to cheer on (mainly, also, to annoy my housemate ;), but also, I have never really liked the Pats, but anyway), and so, I was quite pleased with the final.  Colts-Bears.  It should be a good game.  Should be.  One never knows nowadays with the Superbowl.  The past few years it's been Supersuck.  We shall see how it goes in February.

And...to top off everything.  It finally snowed today.  Only about an inch.  But it freakin SNOWED!  I almost danced a jig in the cafeteria on my out for a smoke break when I saw the tiny flakes dropping from the clouds.  And to top that off...(a whole lot of tops here...and not a lot of bottoms.  HA!), six of us got together after werch and played some soccer.  In the snow.  When it was 25 degrees outside.  It was glorious.  I lawft it.

I've been up for about 20 hours now...and I'm a bit tired.  So, I think I will go to bed and read about how and why we dream.  It's a really interesting book.  Lots to think about.  Are our dreams merely our brains discarding the trash memories that we don't need and filing the ones that are important?  Or are they indicative of what IS important, and the trash is already thrown away?  Are they mostly just a biological version of a training simulator?  Questions, questions. 

Ciao bella.

The skin separated from itself, like undoing a zipper.  Only there was no sound.  Just breathing.

Disappointed by the lack of the red-line, it was done again.  Pushing harder against the arm, dragging the shard, hoping for the red, cursing.

This was for all the failures of life.  All the lies.  All the will-dos that never happened.  This was the punishment.  This was revenge upon the self.  

Finally, pay-dirt.  A thin line of scarlet red welled up from the broken skin, shiny and glorious.  A hand smeared it over the skin, as a kindergartner would do with finger paint.  The pain started to swell forward.  A dull ache at first, followed not too long after, by a sharper, more bitter pain.  

Sitting back, tears well from their ducts as the act settles upon the soul.  Is this what it comes down to?  Is this the reason that conversations seem dull and empty?  Is this the reason that everything falls apart?  The self destruction seems useless, futile in the grand scheme of things.  But it's the only way to keep moving forward.  Without imploding.  Without exploding.  The pain is the only thing that appears real anymore.  Everything else is just a dream.  Nothing concrete.  Often filled with anxiety and the unsettling feeling that something is on the pursuit, not far behind.  Always running.  The pain brings clarity of focus, of vision, of being.  

The lines criss-cross the skin, much like the contrails of airliners 35,000 feet above do, across the sky.  Each one holds a memory of deeds done, or not done.  Memories.

Scars are memories.

It seemed that everytime I drank from the cup, the coffee sucked all moisture from my mouth.  My tongue screamed as the hot liquid slithered down my throat.  How long has this been sitting?  I wondered as I took another swallow.  How fucking hard is it to get a fresh cup of coffee nowadays?

"More coffee?"

"Uh, sure."  

What the hell, might as well get my money's worth.  The waiter poured without spilling a drop.  Obviously well practiced at his trade.  

An old man sat at the counter, hunched over his plate of one egg over-easy, grits with butter, and bacon well-crisped.  As he coughed it sounded as if his lungs were scraping sand-paper together.  He lit a cigarette.

I didn't know any of these people, but every night we gathered together at this place of dirty knives, greasy food, bad coffee, and quiet company.  We were in some ways, a family.  The old man always sat on the same stool, facing the open-faced fridge with milk products and old pastries.  Always ordered one egg over easy, grits with butter and bacon well-crisped.  

John always sat in a booth facing the door,reading the days paper.  Crosswords and sudoku filled his time.  Occasionally, he would engage in political discussions with Rob, who sat behind him.  They wouldn't even face each other when they talked.  The mistakes of the current Administration, of the war, the economy always cropped up in these conversations.  Some times, a science discussion would be held.  It seemed to me that these two could have been professors of some sort as in depth as their conversations would get.  Historical significance would always rear it's head.  Grover, Garfield...Einstein, Newton...Pasteur, Curie.  Minute details.  

Sally would wander in at about 2 in the morning, wrinkled and bundled in a long coat.  About two weeks ago, she had apparently cut her hand or something, becuase she had been sporting a snow-white bandage on the top of her left hand ever since.  Her white hair was thinning and permed.  Liver spots covered her, as the white spots do on young deer.  Except she was the photo negative to youth.  Smallpox had riddled her as a young child, it was easily seen.  She always sat next to the old man and drank two cups of coffee.  And then she would leave.

As much as the coffee sucks, this place is great.  

"What can get ya tonight?"  

"I'll take two eggs over easy, ham, and home fries, with two orders of wheat toast.  Thanks much."  

"Sure thing."

He walked back to the kitchen and relayed my order to the cook.  I don't know what the waiter's name is.  I had been coming here for a few months now.  Names didn't really matter, I guess.   It's the company.

I liked the way the man talked in a loud brash voice.  His laugh raucous and grating.  His curly white hair sat on his head like a misplaced cloud.  He was in his late 50's, possibly 60's.  Missing a few teeth.  He'd probably been working here for a good long while.  And he probably just didn't give two shits anymore about much.  Who would?  

A bit later my food arrived.  After the addition of some ketchup, salt and pepper, I began to eat.  More coffee.  More talk.  More watching.  

The Tastee Diner.  A fitting name.  This ham rocks.

It's 0902L...I've been up for close to 24 hours.  20 hours.  I'm tired.  But, the simple pleasure of scratching my back with my back-scratcher feels oh-so-good, that I could scratch away for an hour or two.  It feels so yummy.  Almost as good as a real back scratch.  But this will do.  It makes me happy.

"So, why do you think you are angry?"

I'm angry because of the fucking questions you ask.  That everyone asks.  I'm sooooo tired of it.  Tired of everything.

"I don't know, really.  Being bullied?  Not living up to my potential?" I laugh.  "Doc, you don't seem to realize that there  is so much to be angry about."

"Hmmm."  I hear his scribbling.  As the graphite rubs itself onto the paper, it's orgasmic mewls are what fill my ear.  I haven't cum in over four months.  Nothing I do works.  Porn, fantasies, erotic novels.  Drugs, alcohol.  Nothing.  I'm a broken man.  Hell.  I'm not even a man.

Is this why I'm angry?  I wish I knew.  I do know that I want this fat fuck's warbling to stop.  What would he say if right now,  NOW, I'm thinking of slicing his lips off?  Waving them in his face?  Cutting an ear off?  Oh, I've seen the movie.  But I'm sure it would so much more satisfying to actually do it.

"Tell me about your childhood, Roger.  What was it like?  Happy?  Sad?  Where you abused?  Spanked?  Please, just tell me what you feel comfortable with."  He coughs.  "Excuse me."

"No doubt...well.  Uhhhhh," I sigh, looking for someplace to start.  "Well, it wasn't all that bad, but it wasn't great.  Just a regular run of the mill childhood, I guess.  My mom was a stay-at-home.  Smoked, didn't drink.  A clean freak.  She wasn't shy about using the wooden spoon on my ass."  I didn't mention the knife in my face.  Or the hot coffee.  He doesn't really need to know. 

"I see.  And what about your father?"

"He worked a lot,"  I laugh, a sudden ridiculous memory burgeoning forward.  "There was this one time, he smacked me across the face because I didn't know how to use a fork to cut through my food."  I also leave out the wildness in my fathers eyes as he reared his hand back to spank me. 

"Look Doc, can we move on?  I mean, my family wasn't bad.  You know how it is.  Low income, four kids.  Stress.  The usual."

"Ok, so what do you want to talk about?"

Besides caving in your face?  Fucking.  Hard fucking.  Sex.  How it's the only thing on my mind lately.  Every decent looking woman, or teenager, becomes a pornstar in my head.

"Do you mind if I walk around?  I think better when I pace."

"Please feel free.  And whatever you are thinking, just say it.  There's no judgement here."

I stand up, and walk around.  My right foot was starting to fall asleep.  It burned now as I put weight on it.  I looked around his office.  Plaques on the wall.  PhD in Psychology.  Numerous awards.  Pictures of sunsets.  His family.  I loved how his rotund face overwhelmed that of his wife.  How the fuck does his wife kiss him without suffocating on his jowls?  His pudgy kid.  A disaster in the making.  A figurine catches my on a shelf.  Aged bronze.  A naked woman reaching for something.  Stars?  The moon?  Her freedom?  I run my fingers over her smooth backside, her breasts.  I can only remember what ther real thing must feel like. 

The sound of the woman striking his skull aroused a feeling in me that I hadn't felt in ages.  Blood spattered in my eye giving me a red haze to look through as the doctor slumped over his desk.  I hit him again.  And again. 

"THIS IS WHY I'M ANGRY!  Are you listening?  I can't fuck.  I can't beat off.  You can."  I'm lost inside myself as I turn this man's head into stew.  The woman is glistening.  Lumps slide down her backside, as my fingers did moments ago.

I was hard.  Finally.  Hard again.  Welcome back...it's been awhile.

"Thanks Doc."

New inventions arrive everyday.  From making something that exists work better, to something entirely new.

The reason as to why am I posting about inventions...is this guy.  Watch the video.  Now close your eyes and dream
about flying.  Not encased in a shell of aluminum.  But really, truly flying like a bird.  At 200 mph.  And the ability to climb at 1000 ft/min.  Maybe do barrel rolls.  Immelmans.  Loop-de-loops.  Fly inverted.

The possibilities!!!!  My heart races at the thought.  This, THIS is a dream come to life.  This makes me happy.  This thought of strapping on a pack, and flying.  Weekends?  Hello?!  My weekends would be spent soaring in the sky with birds, although zooming past them. 

Dreams.  This gives me renewed faith in dreams.