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.

I drop them off with love and warmth, set them on a Washington winter avenue a block before the Loft so they can pull sweetly on their cigarettes for a minute or two. I weigh my foot down on the gas pedal, pull a u-turn, blow a kiss, and disappear into the night. A phantom for now. I drive through the darkened Edmonds streets, eerie with the crisp vacant feeling of the 18 degree weather. Every turn becomes a drift in my mind, every stop smooth and calculated; the lights do not turn red to stop me, I turn them red to take a break. When they turn green it’s only if I’m ready. My evening ritual: I drive to a 24-hour diner, order a breakfast plate and an Oreo milkshake. I write. When I’m done, I head back towards Edmonds; all the while commanding the street beneath my tires. I stop at the QFC to buy two electrolyte boosted water bottles so that the girls will have a less hung over day tomorrow.
In the parking lot of the QFC a man is driving an old Ford pickup truck wildly. Obviously drunk off his ass. It’s unnerving, but I am a phantom and would take a hit from his truck like a patch of fog. I head back towards Edmonds. The girls have nearly another hour of fun ahead of them. I do not tell them I’ve arrived; I want them to feel no pressure. After a very deliberate bout of parallel parking, I step carefully out of the car into the frozen night and feel naked it’s so cold.

I hop out of the car in a dance-like maneuver in my winter garb. I dash behind the buildings and duck into the alleyway. I hop onto a metal dumpster and leap up towards the roof, grabbing the edge of it. I pull my body up and over the side, rolling onto my back and making sure not to ruin any of the buttons on my pea coat. I breathe hard with adrenaline pulsing through my veins. My breath is visible in front of me, before the starlit sky, like a cloud. The Beach Boys are in my ears.
They’re mocking the night; the world. I sit up quickly and begin to prance about the rooftop like a bandit in the night. I’m frolicking up there like a raccoon in a garbage can. It’s exciting and wonderful. From business to business, I gallop over their thousands of sleeping products, merchandise all waiting to be bought, empty rooms full of money and nothing all at once. Liberating. Absolutely liberating. Living on the edge, but not criminally. I would never steal or hurt others. That’s not me. I just need to do things mildly against the rules. Bend them really. Add a spark but never light a fire.

I’m lying on the marquee of “The Fabric of Life.” The girls step out of the Loft and walk up the block, just below me. My phone rings. It’s one of the girls.

“Where are you?” she asks.
“I’m nearby. Where are you?”
“We’re smoking at the Fabric of Life.” I hang up.

I lean over the edge and shout shrilly like an old woman, “Could you girls not smoke here?! The fumes bother me.” It startles them and they retaliate.

“Don’t fuck with us when we’re drunk!”

But one of them laughs. They love me. They’re glad I’m there. I love them. I’m glad I’m there. On this night I would choose nothing different to do but be there for these girls; to allow these girls to have a night of fun the world would otherwise never permit. To say that we are simple or that it doesn’t take much to please us would be a lie. Maybe. But when pleasure comes it comes full force, and in a way that I’m sure no one else understands. The night’s a success. I run over the rooftops again, slip on the slanted edge of one and think about the embarrassment of being caught doing something so ridiculous. I realize that being caught would be worth the feeling. Like these girls and their escape in the lights of the Loft, I need this escape above the people of the streets and above all the problems of my daily life. I hop down off the roof, onto the dumpster, and walk back to the car. I open their doors one by one and help them gently into their seats.

But, before you fall asleep, the reason I’m here today.

This one’s pretty standard. Tried and true. The lesson to be learned is cliché: those closest to us are the ones most likely to be hurt. But there’s more to be learned than just that. When we’re brimming with pain and repression we throw it onto others. And even still, there’s more to be learned than just that.

You see, like most human beings, I have problems. Moreover, like most human beings, I (no matter how much I may claim otherwise) seem to think mine are at least marginally worse than everyone else’s. Well, it’s not true. We’re all fucked up. It’s cool. Unlike most human beings I can live with this contradiction openly and would like to pin myself on the wall, an example of all that we are; walking contradictions never to be solved, only tolerated. Now. On with the tolerating.

Point one: a rear end collision is always the fault of the driver behind. You were driving too fast, too close, too inattentively, you spilled your triple Americano with no room all over your blouse and looked down for a second too long; it was your fault.

Point two: if you die skydiving, it is your fault. You took the risk, strapped an oversized sheet into a backpack and jumped out of a plane hoping for the best. It didn’t end as you’d hoped; it’s your fault.

Point three: if you walk outside in Seattle without a waterproof coat or umbrella (even if the sky is clear and sunny) and you get drenched, it’s your fault. You should’ve known better.

Point four: not everything is about fault.

Point five: we need each other.

Point six: living, sometimes, is being so near to death that you remember what it is to live.

Point seven: if someone else has hurt you, there’s a good chance you’ve made yourself susceptible to said pain. Understand this is not to say that whenever you feel someone does you wrong it’s your fault for feeling hurt. On the contrary, people are assholes and fuck each other over. But, and this may be the optimist in me, it’s not because we’re truly assholes. In many cases it’s just because we don’t know how to say we love each other.

For instance, you had yourself a shit day. I mean shit. You got an F on the exam; scratch that, an F-. Your dog got hit by a car. You clogged the toilet in a friend’s bathroom and it spilled over the bowl. You had milk but were out of cereal. You tried to make coffee but forgot to put water in the pot so the glass cracked. This, friends, is a terribly shitty day. But thank God you’re terribly in love. You have this one person with whom you have the desire to share every piece of your life with, and forever. You know that talking to this person will help to bring you solace. It will. What do you do? Well you email them of course. What do you email? I feel awful. I’ve had a shitty day and feel all around terrible. I know that talking and/or seeing you would make me feel a whole lot better. That’s what you do for me. You make me feel the way other people can’t make me feel. You make me feel significant; cared for. No, you won’t say this because a) it feels self-indulgent, b) it sounds needy, c) it’s far too fucking honest. What you’re more apt to say goes something like this: Hey, I’m not having the best day. You probably won’t want to see me today. Why did you choose to say this instead? A) It dodges your true feelings, b) it doesn’t sound self-absorbing; you have the slightest expression of consideration, at least in so far as you seem to be considering their disposition, c) it’s a roundabout way of cluing them into how you feel, there’s a chance they’ll ask how you’re feeling, and you will have given them the chance to say whether or not they want to hear about your feelings before simply divulging them. In short, you feel less self-righteous with the second, completely dishonest, message.

Here’s the kicker. The message you actually send results in the outcome you had absolutely no desire for. She responds, Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m not having the best day either. It might be best to just not see each other today.

Point eight: the fatal miscalculation. The reason you’re in love is because you understand one another like no one else does. This, in turn, means that you don’t have to treat each other like you would everyone else. But you did. And since you did, neither of you have much of a chance feeling any better tonight. You see, though you do not need one another for survival, you do make it easier for each other to live.

Love is like a pillow. Somewhere to rest your head for a long, hard night. Don’t try to convince yourself you don’t need the pillow. For a brief moment of drowsy, clouded thought it seems like a good idea to sleep without the pillow. You put it beside the bed and rest your head on your awkward, boney hands. Your neck is strained, your ear squashed by the knuckles but you’re convinced for the time being that it’s better. This, in some ways, is a continuation of the strain and discomfort you’ve carried on throughout the entire day; it just felt too different to receive the comfort and support of the pillow. But half way through the night you’re going to regret this decision. You’ll fish in the dark for the pillow on the floor, frantic, and with a spasm in your neck. You find it and put it under your head. Relief.

The difference? Lovers have legs; pillows do not. Though results may vary, placing your lover on the floor beside the bed enough times will entice their legs to take step by painful step away from the bed altogether. And it was never what you wanted. But it was what you got.

I don’t know if it’s a generational thing. Maybe in the 17th century it was easier to love each other, but I doubt it. It was probably pretty similar. We’re afraid to love each other. Yes, we’re rounding back towards cliché, but it’s cool, because it’s true.

All I’m really saying is sleep with the pillow, even if it seems too different at first. Also, I’m saying a rear-end collision is always the fault of the driver behind.

Point nine: you are both your strongest and weakest asset to yourself.