Archive for the ‘personal essay’ Category

Tangled

Thursday, January 21st, 2010

Some days I can’t get anything right. I feel as if I’m working on a car and I’m so far under the hood— tangled in the engine—that I can’t reach out to get the tools I need to fix it. I do my best to gain an understanding of the world around me, I test my understanding of it using my detailed observations and calculations, but the world always turns out to be incalculable.

I’ve been climbing this ladder, that’s all I really can do. Climb climb climb and, every once in a while, stop at a floor to look in a window. See how people are getting along. Hope to see some broken reflection of myself in glass meant to be looked through, not reflected upon.

Just when you think you know everything, realize you’re only being tricked. The point at which everything seems clear is the point just before your reality is overturned. It’s easy to be proud of how well you get through hard times, but it’s harder, for me at least, to be proud of the times when I got by and it wasn’t hard.

I had an amazing summer. I went on a road trip to California, I met so many new people; pretty much began a new life. But when you meet new people you inevitably lose others. To think we understand the purpose of someone’s relation to us is to claim to know more than anyone’s ever known. That’s probably why everyone gets divorced now. They all think they’re signing a contract to relieve their loneliness, only to find they’re signing up to spend years with someone they don’t even know.

I sometimes toy with the idea of just traveling. Backpacking through Europe, learning about the world and writing about its beauty. But it all comes back to that saying, Wherever you go, there you’ll be. I go through waves of content and discontent. Every time I feel a positive wave coming on I hope that this time it will stay. But I should never be so foolish.

Once, I met two amazing people at nearly the same time. These people were on opposite ends of the spectrum. One romantic, involved, clever, sincere, but almost wholly untouchable. The other receptive, playful, intelligent, and hungry for knowledge. Both beautiful. These people got along well enough, but by no means were best friends. I, however, managed to be best friends with both of them. I could connect with both of them unlike either of them were able to connect with each other. I wasn’t so much a bridge but a system of underground tunnels to both. Each of them often spoke of the other and I felt conflicted in their intentions. A game of tug of war it seemed. There was the first, she couldn’t hide a thing with her eyes. And the second, I fear could do it all too well. Neither of them was better than the other but they, as well as me, have at least one thing in common—we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing aside from making it alive and in bed every night. If we’re lucky we might even get some sleep.

Posted in love, meditations, new experiences, pain (mostly), personal essay, philosophy | No Comments »

Some Dogs Have Too Many Days

Wednesday, December 30th, 2009

I can barely keep my eyes open. Each sentence is forced. I feel like sleeping but am too awake to. I feel like doing something but am too tired to. I tried to write in my journal and smeared ink on my hand. I tried to come into the café to find a place to write and a crazy guy started asking me if I had a rough day at work. “No,” I replied. He was talking way too loudly and obviously making the others uncomfortable. It’s awful being uncomfortable around oneself. I feel like the crazy man in my own café disturbing myself.

My mind is a battlefield and the armies are made entirely of me dropping little me bombs all over my cities and drowning innocent me’s in rivers, imprisoning caught me’s, me’s jumping out of burning buildings, planes of me flying over runways made of hardened me.

And then a me plane drops a nuclear me on myself and I blow up into billions of me. Now billions of me are running around trying to patch up radiated me’s and my bits of limbs are lying around bits of my shrapnel. A mushroom me rises above it all and laughs an impenetrable laugh.

Me’s winning.

Me’s losing.

Me wins.

Me loses.

Me sits in a corner of the house and strums away at the guitar. Me taps away at the piano. Me sings in a closet. Sometimes I get tired of myself. But like the rotten stepmother you can’t get rid of, I can’t get rid of myself. I am my own rotten stepmother who tells me I’m ugly and needs to do my chores. I am the rotten stepmother who tells myself I’m not pretty and I can’t go to the ball. I’m the rotten rotten stepmother who wishes she could get rid of me but keep the husband that she married into the family for.

Maybe if I were forced to go on a date with myself to a ball, I would learn to like me.
“Hello, my name’s Daniel.”
“Hello, Daniel. My name’s Daniel too.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“And you.”
“Shall we dance?”
“I’ve always wanted to, but don’t really know how.”
“Me too.”
“I used to dance uncontrollably wild jigs at weddings when I was younger. Rose between the teeth, sliding on my knees—that sort of thing.”
“How strange, me too.”
“Would you like some punch?”
“Does it have lemon?”
“I think so.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I don’t like lemon either.”
“I’m picky.”
“So am I.”
“It’s nice that we find so much in common.”
“They say opposites attract.”
“They don’t know anything.”
“No they don’t.”
“But then again, who does?”
“Not me.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much.”
“Me neither.”
“Shall we sit and have something to eat?”
“We shall.”
“Fantastic.”
“Steak?”
“Pas moi, c’est tres mal.”
“D’accord.”
“So you can speak French, too?”
“Only sort of. Je parle francais tres mal.”
“Yeah, moi aussi.”
“Chicken fried steak?”
“I’d love it but always regret it. And it doesn’t seem appropriate for a ball.”
“Perhaps salmon.”
“Perhaps salmon.”
“And to drink? A red wine with your seafood?”
“I know red’s good with meats and fish, but I really do prefer white.”
“The similarities between us truly are endless aren’t they?”
“I think they might be.”
“I think dessert should be bigger than the main course.”
“As do I.”
“What’re your innermost desires?”
“What’re YOURS?”
“They’re hard to articulate.”
“So are mine.”
“I’m a writer.”
“Me too. What do you write?”
“I don’t much like this question, but I always answer it. Personal essay, short stories, and poetry mostly. You?”
“Same.”
“I’d also like to teach or do some sort of social work. Something for the greater good. I like music too. I’m a musician. I want to make music for movies and life.”
“You’ve got a lot of lofty aspirations.”
“As do you.”
“Think you’ll attain them?”
“Probably, but maybe not.”
“Would you rather have a beer?”
“Probably.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Waiter, two salmons and two beers, please.”
“I don’t like it when people order for me, I wish you hadn’t.”
“Yes, me neither, but I do like to be in control.”
“As do I. Which is why I don’t like others to order for me.”
“Are you a control freak?”
“No.”
“Do you always take things personally?”
Silence.
“What’s your favorite song?”
“Stupid question.”
“Author?”
“Dumb.”
“Band.”
“You’re very persistent.”
“That’s my curse and my gift.”
“Do you like winning?”
“Yes. Who doesn’t?”
“Do you like losing?”
“No. Who does?”
“I do like the lack of responsibility involved with losing. There’s definitely less of a reputation to defend.”
“You can only go up.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re rather sarcastic.”
“As are you.”
“Yet another surprising similarity.”
“You hardly know me.”
“Apparently that’s not true.”
“You’re good looking but not quite.”
“Uh, thanks, you too.”
“Just being honest. It’s like you’re rather intriguing in appearance but covered in a dab of doofus.”
“I think I’m going to need a few drinks if we’re going to survive the night.”
“Yeah, me too.”

Posted in meditations, pain (mostly), personal essay | 2 Comments »

On This the 25th of December

Friday, December 25th, 2009

It’s Christmas morning. Millions of kids are unwrapping their presents at this moment. My tires slipped on the ice coated streets—most of which were bare—on my drive to the espresso shop. Everyone was inside with their families opening gifts, drinking coffee and milk, looking at the leftover cookie crumbs from Santa’s cookie feast and the ends of the carrots that the reindeer left behind. “Why do you give the reindeer carrots?” the dearest of my dear friend’s daughter asked her a few days ago. “Because reindeer don’t like cookies,” her mother responded. “Reindeer don’t like cookies?” “Nope.” “Momma, that doesn’t make sense.”

Today’s the one day of the year where going out in your pajamas is absolutely acceptable, thought not in the least peculiar. In America, Christmas is a holiday you celebrate even if you don’t celebrate Christmas. America shuts down, and the only thing left to do is look at an evergreen decorated with lights and unwrap some paper-wrapped items, too. I went to my mother’s house in Olalla yesterday to see her for the Christmas season. The house had never been so clean before. I went out to their back forty and disposed of some Halloween pumpkins that I still had sitting in my car—on Christmas Eve. My brother came with his wife and their kids, all bouncing with Christmas cheer and warm love.

Today is Christmas. Today I am in a coffee shop at 9:36 in the morning, and strangers are saying “Merry Christmas” to one another—not altogether strange—but the smiles that accompany their sentiments are. I enjoy watching others spread and absorb the Christmas cheer. Sometimes it’s nice to live the Christmas season vicariously.

I don’t really like how the holidays are less, for me anyways, a time of warmth, relaxation, and goodwill, and more an attempt to fit as many people into your schedule in the course of a day as possible. Every call from family members makes me want to ignore it and sleep. It’s overwhelming. What’s more overwhelming is the energy it takes to go to family gatherings. Their littered with people who look at me with a curious eye. On my father’s side they look at me funny cause I’m not Mormon, because I’m “sensitive and artistic,” because I’m quiet and disagree with much of the things they say, because I don’t understand how we can be so different and force ourselves to come together regardless. But I also know we’re similar. I just don’t know quite how. And that scares me. On my mom’s side (of which I never see more than about 5 of them at any one time), they just have absolutely no idea who I am. I’m a phantom who sits in the corner of the room hiding all sorts of secrets and abilities. They all watch with an anxious eye, waiting for me to perform a trick or dazzle them with my magic. I never do. At most, I’ll say something snide and, if they catch it, I’ll feel bad for it.

But really, it’s my favorite holiday. It always has been. I think anyone who disagrees has to provide some fairly substantial justification otherwise. I mean, St. Valentine’s Day? Whose idea was that? St. Make-The-Lonely-People-Feel-Lonelier-Day. It’s just a bad idea. I’m bearing witness to the strangest thing right now because it’s Christmas. There’s a father with his teenage daughter and son and they’re all getting along. He’s asking them what they’d like to drink. They’re past the you-get-hot-chocolate-by-default stage, which I’m sure they’re glad of. I feel as if on Christmas we force the world to operate the way we wish it did most days. Or we try to anyways. Every holiday I’ve ever spent—anywhere, with any of my family—has basically been a day of unwrapping disagreements and stuffing stockings with shitty arguments. Perhaps there’s a way to go back and re-do my childhood Christmases. The weird thing is that at the time, I enjoyed Christmas, for the most part. Sometimes I feel like my childhood was only terribly troubling in retrospect. As if one day I woke up and realized, “Actually that wasn’t how your childhood was supposed to go.” Ignorance is bliss and can’t be blamed. Really, if you’re ignorant you’re not missing out on anything. It’s only those who’re above your ignorance that have any trouble with it.

The only place at this time of day where the ice remains is in the shadows. The sunlight melts the rest away. Walking in the shadows is a dangerous idea. The evergreen forests are full of sadness, all wishing they were decorated too, but knowing that it’s only the domesticated trees that get the privilege, and for this privilege they must also soon die. But such a way to die. Such a way to live. The tree gets to guard those valuable gifts, be a shelter for the dollars that’ve converted from bills to thoughtful boxes. Christmas is the one day of the year that one of the deadly sins becomes, instead, a graceful gift. We hang our stockings above the chimney with care because our feet are never so warm as we’d like them to be. We must create a day of cheer and comfort because we lack it naturally. Without a human construction of happiness we would merely remain bipedal animals with enhanced cognition. Santa, the fat man, gets to be a fat lie, but a white one as white as his own beard. A safe lie. Maybe we all really start to grow up when we stop believing in Santa Clause. But then, do we even know now that he’s not real? What would make him real? Would he have to fly around in a sleigh with reindeer and bring gifts? What if there was merely a man who lived on the North Pole in red and white garb, all fat and jolly, by the name of Chris Cringle; would Santa Clause then be real? And what’s with the red nose? Is it really anything to be much embarrassed about in the first place, Rudolph? Perhaps I’m taking this all a bit too seriously. Regardless of my cynicism, Christmas cheer is evident in the streets and corridors of Seattle’s frozen feet. Whether it’s innate or a human construction is irrelevant. Most everybody is happier on this the 25th of December. And for this, so am I.

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In Response to Rape and Other Unsolicited Violations

Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009

Dearest landlord,

As you said, and as is typical, it is customary for a renter to give his landlord 30 days notice before moving out. In this same vein, it is customary for a landlord to give at least 24 hours notice before subjecting the tenant’s apartment to a “routine checkup.” I’ve never received notice before any of your “routine checkups.” Additionally, in order for you to have checked up on the apartment, you had to first scan the driveway for my car, knock to see if I was in and then let yourself in if it turned out I wasn’t. As it was, all of the aforementioned criteria were met, and early this morning you let yourself into my apartment for a “routine checkup.” What you found, undoubtedly, were many packed boxes, scattered laundry, cleaning supplies, garbage bags, and a trail of leaving all throughout the place. This, as you might’ve guessed, was not rightfully yours to see. It could very well have been my very personal belongings thought to be safely guarded in my own personal space. As you’ve proven, this space is anything but. And is it also turns out, these were my personal items. But you weren’t so wrong in asserting that I’m moving out. I might, however, deem it more of an escape.

I should’ve been alarmed when we first met. When, though kindly, but with a touch of creepiness, you, a 60 year-old gay man, told me I was the cutest person who’d come to see the apartment. I was flattered as much as an open-minded straight man ought to be flattered. I took it, one might say, with a bit of pride and mocked it up to your gentle outgoing persona. I should’ve been further alarmed when you told me I was welcome to use the hot tub with you if I so pleased, and nude, we should fairly mention. But I was naïve and took it as an extension of compassion, the outstretched arm of a gracious older man. What I failed to notice is that this was anything but an outstretched arm. This offer was merely a figurative penis in my figurative mind, figuratively raping my all too accepting disposition. When, two or three times, I accidentally stumbled upon your naked hot tub gatherings, I was less alarmed than I ought to have been. More than once it was with other naked men. You also offered me, instead of the mother-in-law apartment above the garage, to move into a room directly inside your home.

I wish I’d taken the advice of my dearest friends closer to heart. The dearest of the dearest told me one evening, “He wants your body.” I laughed it off, though accepting that it contained a considerable amount of truth. She’s told me this many times. I’ve laughed it off many times. I’m not laughing anymore. My figurative anus is gaping from many a nights’ torturous rape à grâce de votre figurative penis. And it’s not-so-figuratively ethical. I recall when I would encounter you in the middle of your nude baths, “Hey, boy,” you’d say to me. Looking back, that’s fucking creepy. I suppose what I’m getting at is why haven’t you ever just properly asked me to bed with you? I would, respectfully, decline. But even so, you would move from creeper status to the much more respectable “acknowledged pervert.” Instead, you remain somewhere between; the advantageous homosexual with figurative raping tendencies. And you told me once that you used to be a counselor. You have a degree in psychology, in fact. What. The. Fuck’s. Up. With. That?

When I first came to view the apartment, you showed me the master suite in your “dream home,” the home which has a room for massage therapy, which you showed me too. In retrospect, I find it flamboyantly creepy that you showed it to me, and further creepy that you proclaimed your massage techniques above those of other mortal men. In this master suite you showed me, lied a bottle of lube in a rather phallically shaped bottle. I have often wondered since if this had been strategically placed; if you were silently asking me to a feisty bout of gay sex. I looked at it, looked away. Made mention of it to my dearest of dear friends, to which they responded, “No way. Daniel, he wants you. Watch your back.” I laughed it off. But…I’m not laughing anymore. Nothing’s funny. My asshole’s aching. I’ve had too much. You also have a shop in the basement with many power tools; a basement where you devise many machines for horrible uses. Your house’s worth is practically invaluable. It’s a recently built craftsman home. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands of dollars line the insides of its walls. And you bake, you told me once. “So be not surprised, boy,” you said, “if you find fresh brownies upon your doorstep.” “I shant,” I replied warmly. And they did appear. But then a couple of days later, from within the fridge of my locked apartment, appeared a nicely packaged homemade container of barbecued meatballs. My personal space had been for the first time, but certainly not the last, violated by your balls. Then it was lasagna. And finally more cookies. Then you offered me clothes. And when I would come upon you doing the laundry in our shared space, or collide with you inevitably in the hall, you’d swipe your hand down my back and act as if it was a gesture of fatherly kindness. But fathers ought not have erections during such gestures, nor eyes that unbutton shirts and pants.

No, I may not give you 30 days notice, but please do understand why I have not. In this letter you’ll find, I’m sure, many valid reasons why I’ve felt violated and scandalized many times in your presence. And maybe I’ve completely misinterpreted your demeanor. Perhaps your disposition is one uncontrollably covered in false perversion. I cannot discern with absolute certainty your intent. I can, however, realize when for the benefit of my own health, I must escape a situation in which I feel uncomfortably exposed. I should not, I think, feel that I’m naked before your eyes when in reality I’m dressed in many layers of clothes bound tightly by a tie around my neck and a belt about my waist. So please do understand why I didn’t give notice, and why you may never hear from me again. Also, it would be good for you to learn from this, if possible, that humans prefer to be treated as such. An innocent person should not, in my opinion, feel imprisoned in an uncharacteristically perverted house controlled by alarm systems and micromanaged methods by which you may determine my exact location at any time of the day. My discomfort is clear, I need not persist; your position is not so clear, and in this lies the evident chaos of our current debate. I hope, sincerely, that you find someone who can live within the confines of your densely polluted world.

Sincerely,

Your Violated Tenant in the Room Above the Garage in the House Surrounded With Perversion. (Who’s Leaving Pronto.)

Posted in decisions, personal essay | 3 Comments »

Less at Home at Home

Sunday, December 13th, 2009

Finals. The end to end all ends. The time of the quarter where every college student meets their maker. They stand at the pearly gates and submit their misdeeds and wrongdoings, add up their essays and skipped classes to see if they will be granted eternal salvation or eternal damnation. Will their GPA be made to suffer in their transcripts or will they be one step closer to their highly respected 5,000 pound paper granting them access to the places which were once labeled, “No child under a Bachelors of Arts admitted to this roller coaster.” This is the time of the quarter nearly every college student enters confident of their inability to survive. As if by agreeing to enter finals one is walking into a gas chamber, lying in the target zone, dropping into ‘Nam with no weaponry and a siren attached to their head. But, save for a select few unlucky ones, I think a majority of us pull through, somehow. And so rounding the corner myself, I find that my body is unscathed, my brain battered but not dead, and my hands shaking over this keyboard with caffeine overload.

The wrath of finals is evidenced by the exclamation of one of my friends, Cassandra, also a local barista, “You’re here like seven times a day,” she said to me, referring to Diva Espresso where she works. My only defense is an embarrassed, “It’s the only good place to study.” Which is mostly true. I can’t study at home. But honestly, how embarrassing. And then Karli backs up Cassandra’s sentiment with a, “Well, you are there more than you’re at home.” Which is totally true.

Isn’t home such a laughable concept? I think it is. Of course, my saying that home is a laughable concept is merely a coping mechanism. (It’s easier to say that than to pretend you’ve got the time to pull out a long chaise and permit me outline all of my internal complications which have caused this I-never-feel-at-home complex.) But I sometimes wonder how many people feel less at home at home than say, at Diva Espresso, or rather regrettably, Denny’s. No, I would not feel comfortable stripping down and changing into a different outfit, or running to the bathroom naked, or any other of these various at-home activities in either of these places, but my general day-to-day actions are quite a bit more comfortable at Diva or Denny’s than they are at home. Sitting and reading a book for instance, is easier at either of these places. Eating a meal. Drinking a cup of water. Writing this. Or even at other peoples’ houses. In someone else’s house, compiled of their memories and materialistic endeavors, I feel more warmth than I’ve ever felt in the places I’ve lived. My first home was the closest to home I’ve ever felt. And that was a sad excuse for a home. Arguments. Fights. OCD. Overgrown lawns. Fenced-in dogs. Crap-riddled backyards. Closets full of secrets; taboo, sexual, and completely misunderstood.

The dog should’ve clued me in. Any chance he got he would try to run as far away from our house as possible. He was not athletic or properly treated; he was a symbol of everything our family could not speak of. The indirect receiver of all our antagonistic indulgences. He would bark down in the yard. Endlessly. Crying for escape, no doubt. My father took my plastic Hot Wheels racing tracks and slapped them against the side of the house screaming, “Shut up!” in a way only a 5-year-old adult could sound. Terrifying. Awkward. Tyson, the dog, never shut up. Never. I see now why. Those plastic Hot Wheels tracks came to be scarred with thousands of bite marks, Tyson’s only method aside from crying out to request freedom from this place, or at least make it evident that he requested it.

Maybe that’s what I’ve become. I’ve become the mistreated dog we once owned. Needy of wandering, afraid of home. Crying out in silent rage when trapped in the bowels of my studio apartment.

But whatever became of Tyson? I don’t know. Perhaps he died. He was old. I’m sure he’s dead now, but hopefully he was granted better ownership first. Who knows. The difference between Tyson and I, I suppose, is that I own a car, and he did not.

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