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.

Do you know what it’s like when you have a glass of orange juice, finish it, then neglect to wash the glass and refill it with apple juice? The acidic qualities of the orange juice, stray bits of pulp, they all come through with the apple and make a strange cocktail. That’s how I envision lovers upon lovers in a lifetime. The next becoming more and more of a cocktail with bitter—and sweet—remains of the lover before. The final being nowhere near as pure as the first. Or maybe nowhere near as pure as the third, or fourth. Perhaps after the first couple I still retained the energy to wash the glass before pouring a new one. But my energy, I fear, is depleting. I’m on my way to drinking cocktail after cocktail.

This is the third time I’ve listened to Pet Sounds today, it’s 11:44, I’ve been awake something like four hours. Three times in four hours. A bow without resin. Powder flying, strings scratching, notes resound with impurity.

Adam ordered me a sandwich. That’s the kind of grace I need. Shantell smiled bigger than big, that’s the kind of grace I need. I slept on a cold pillow that smelled like someone else’s hair. I opened the window to hear the inconsistent drops of the gutter. A mountain of pillows laid beside me all night trying to breathe. A fan whistled a monotone tune it wished was a lullaby. Vodka nourished me. The blankets could be held tight but not tight enough.

I dreamt of grocery shopping, I think. I rolled and rolled, over and over. I dreamt, I think, of grocery shopping. The domestic kind, “Do we need this, honey?” That sort. “No, we’ve already got some.” You know the kind. “And what about this?” With the inevitable, “Well, is it on sale? We don’t really need it.” And the produce. Looking for the unbruised fruits but finding none. Settling, finally, for only the mildly bruised. Settling for the mildly bruised.

Here’s a secret. Sometimes I walk grocery stores late at night, early in the morning, mid-day. I don’t purchase a thing. I just walk down the aisles to see how much all the items wish I’d purchase them. I like the way their packages try to lure me in—they just want me so bad. Except the cheese, the cheese never tries too hard. It smells funny and is wrapped in clear plastic. But it doesn’t need to look nice, right? It’s cheese, it knows someone will buy it. Same with the milk. And the eggs. It’s only the packaged cereals, snacks, crackers, cookies—the things we don’t need that want me to buy them so badly. I think I dreamt of grocery shopping last night.

Let us quickly assess the state of my being:

Are you here?
Are you?
Are you breathing?
Slowly.
Did you sleep well?
Define well.
Who woke you up this morning?
Am I awake?
What time is it?
11:56
What day is it?
January 9, 2010

Anywhere but here would be nice,
But maybe what I mean is I quit,
Or maybe let’s fall and only sleep,
And let’s stop trying—
Only let come what may.
I mean, really, anywhere but here still
Has me me me
Perhaps I mean anywhere but here
Or there—nowhere.

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.

Shantell and I have studied infrequently and spent many a night sharing our disparaging love woes. Mixed up hearts and mixed up minds make for fantastic conversation and aided with the power of wine, conversation is inevitably good. I once saw a horror film, Paranormal Activity, alone. There was one other person in the theatre, an old man with a bucket of popcorn big enough for a family, a soda large enough to fuel a bus, and a box of candy hidden beneath his battered old fedora. I was tense and nervous, the armrests my only relief of tension beneath my clasped fingers. After the movie Shantell and I met up to study, she confessed that she’d never seen a movie alone. This shocked me, but made complete sense. Most people see movies on dates, or with groups of friends, somehow movies are a social activity. Or perhaps they’re easier to accept than two hours of awkward social inactivity at a restaurant or in someone’s living room with flat Coca-Colas. She told me I need never see a film alone, if I had no date or otherwise found myself in complete solitude, she was only a phone’s extended reach away. Today, after a tough day of study, attendance, exertion—too much reality for an artist—I needed escape. I needed the $10.50 ticket to another world, legally. And Shantell, the accompanying movie-goer she is, was down.

Perhaps the reason we get along is due to a lack of sexual tension. When I met Shantell her limbs were tangled in a dense affair (whose aren’t really?) and so mine were on their way. The mating game was suspended and friendship sprouted in its place. Stress-free, one might deem our relationship. Free from the boundaries of scattered emotions and complicated misunderstandings. What things we do disagree on blow over our heads like snowflakes in the wind. We are friends of the easy sort. We can discuss without consequence the intricate details of the world of love, as if what we’re saying we’re not really saying, but only implying. As if at any moment one of us could say, “Ha, just kidding! I never touched him!” and we would laugh off the entire conversation and continue our lives as if the molestation of the heart we’d just discussed was a story and nothing more.

Shantell was a gift from another friend, you might say. Kimberly, a deserter some would say; a lover of adventure and seeker of better things, others might say, introduced me to Shantell. You see they’re related and before Kimberly packed her bags and dove into the Californian metropolis, she introduced me to Shantell so that I wouldn’t be left alone in the cold Pacific Northwest. This isn’t to say Kimberly was my only friend, but it is to say she is a very valuable friend. Like Shantell. The kind of friend one needs, devoid of complication. Of course, I’m exaggerating, if the person in question is in fact human, they’re not devoid of complication. But something about the friendship I’ve shared with these two is both safe and comfortable.

The thing about being a writer is that there are things you must write. Meditations one sits on that must be manifested in the written word. The thing about social writers is that much of this is often related to people the writer knows directly. And so these meditations, lest the writer choose to change names and the like, become a sort of test. A test of friendship, or possibly a validity of said friendship. Fortunately the meditation set before you isn’t much of a revealing or embarrassing one, but there’s still the potential for disagreement. I might find that within a couple hours of submitting this my inbox has two horribly disgruntled emails from Kimberly and Shantell with elaborate details of my misinterpretations and daft assumptions, but this really would discount a good deal of my previous assertions. Precisely why these two girls are my friends are because, if I did receive said emails from them, I would be quite deserving. I would have been an obvious asshole who overstepped his boundaries. Either that or Shantell was listening to Lady Gaga or Britney too loudly as she read this and took their anti-man pop messages a little too seriously. Or maybe Kimberly was placing an order in a catalog and, disinterested in her reading, mistook me for claiming that I now liked Shantell more than her. But here’s the thing about these two: at the briefest of glances they may seem to belong to one of many all-too-commonly applied stereotypes (I confess I was guilty of making completely misguided first impressions of the both of them), but they’re so far from belonging to any of them. Each of them has this view of the world. This view so terribly unique from everyone else’s. One might mistake their interest for inattention, their attention for interest, one might see many things in these girls at first but certainly, one does not see who they truly are. And to claim I truly know either of them would be to claim too much.

I know this much: first impressions are bullshit and good friends are damn invaluable. Moral explicitly stated; time well spent.

During my early promenade to lecture this morning, I fished two quarters and a penny out of my front pocket. As I walked, my boots clacked step by step, echoing through the frosted rose bushes and atop the surface of the gargantuan frozen fountain. I slipped my right glove off and grasped a quarter between my thumb and pointer finger. I pulled my arm back and lobbed the coin up at the sun. It gleamed against the rays like a star during the day and came down spinning in more perfect form than a figure skater. It met the ice of the fountain with a tinny clank and bounced a couple of times. The sound was so satisfying that I did it again with another coin. And again. The bouncing, frozen wishes were somehow legitimized by the cold. What normally would’ve been a vacant, meaningless action became a real wish. I’m not superstitious but this ice, this abrupt winter freeze, has somehow made me believe in the unbelievable. That was the best 51 cents I’ve spent since I could buy Double Bubble for that price.

As if to defy the way of the world, I’m blossoming in these winter months. My petals are extending their reach and requesting the gentle nourishment of the bumblebee. I’m giving and receiving, coming out of a dense hibernation. I’m learning to love and be loved, and not to give too much. I’m learning that the cold is not a time to solidify, but a time to use the ice as a lubricant for progress. As much as Pam hates ice skating, I’m afraid there’s a time when everyone must lace up their skates and take advantage of this opportunity to skate over our lakes of trouble. The ice may crack, but taking that risk in return for the effortlessness and grace of the skate is something I’m willing to do. During the summer we’re forced to swim and fight the waters, the winter offers a less common way of overcoming adversity. But build a safety net. It’s okay to fall through the ice so long as someone sees it happen. They’ll call up a team of expert-trained firefighters to pull your curdling blood up from the dark waters.

I recently walked into a store, “The Greenwood Space Travel Supply Company.” If you cannot identify my intrigue, I can offer you no more evidence of it. I stepped in with Pam after a pleasant bite at Mr. Gyros. Once in the door, I froze. I looked up, down, left, and right. Tiny metallic objects, books, freeze-dried food, canisters with chemical labels, pens, pencils, robots all lined the walls.
At the counter was a woman. “What do I do now?” I asked her. As if the question was one she receives often, she replied without hesitation. “You find any and all of your space travel supply needs.” “What if I don’t have space travel supply needs?” “Well…we’re actually a front for a non-profit youth writing and tutoring center.” It all began to make sense. The atomic teleporter at the back of the store wasn’t actually a teleporter, it was an elaborately designed door that led to a classroom where tutoring sessions were held. All of these products weren’t really for space travel, they fund an organization with more valiant of a cause than NASA could ever hold claim to. Pam looked at me with the eyes of knowing. Her gaze said, “Danl, you need to volunteer for this shit immediately.” It’s the culmination of recent revelations. Of my need to help others, of my need for purpose, of my need to write, of my need to impart encouragement and support to a group so troubled by the aspects of growing up.

As the quarter wraps up, December closes in, and the winter grows harsher I intend to do just the opposite. I’m going to volunteer at either 826seattle.org (The Greenwood Space Travel Supply Co.) or some like-minded non-profit place that involves both the upbringing of youth and a culmination of the arts.

A mountain of personal and emotional problems came so close to destroying me that I was forced to retaliate with equal force. When life takes away your lemons, make apple juice. (Lemonade sucks anyways.) The University of Washington has around 45,000 students in attendance, of which, I am one. Such a looming ratio can make one feel quite insignificant. When you add in the factor of prescribed realities—the eerie orange bottles of medicinal benefit—the ratio heightens. On top of this, a history of familial fuck-up, repression, unhealthy relationships, and too much Dr. Pepper equates to, at least, the weight of the world—if not the known universe.

I cannot carry both my books and the weight of the known universe with me to class every morning. When the ability to move is revoked, when the desire to pull one’s legs from the sheets in the morning is nonexistent, when you have, for lack of a better term, become a zombie; something must change. And so feeling someone must either blow my brains out or find a cure for this undead disease, I sought first the cure. After a few thorough sessions with my team of life strategists, not enough sleep, some Belizean rum, and a number of other uncounted outside influences, I deduced that my current academic load was holding down a life that could barely stand on two legs without it. Was I wrong in this assertion? Not at all. Was I going to admit defeat? I considered it, briefly.

Instead, I gathered up that team of strategists, still not nearly enough sleep, no Belizean rum this time, and, again, a number of uncounted outside influences, and decided that rather than get slapped in the face by the bitch that is life I, Daniel Robert Spendlove, doctor, philosopher, writer—pimp—smacked that bitch and said, “You listen here, whore, you give me my money or else.” Then I gave her a very resentful look and spit on her strappy shoes. She turned her story around real quick and gave me back my lemons. One by one I threw the lemons back, all the while screaming, “You do that to me again and see what happens!” She’s been behaving like a dog with a shock collar ever since.

If you’ve been reading with as much astuteness as I now hold you responsible, you’ll have deduced that rather than dropout of the University of Washington I decided to double major in Creative Writing and Early Childhood and Family Studies, and maybe a minor in Philosophy. Some people have to fall off the horse and get back on. Others have to come so close to killing the horse that in nursing it back to health they take the opportunity to reform what was once merely field grazer into a steed of resounding brilliance.

With a glass of apple juice in hand, life at my knees, a wallet devoid of green but brimming with possibility, I now embark on an adventure to be twice the man I once was and five times the man I ever expected to be. This, friends, is a new set of tires, a sharpened blade, a pair of newly polished shoes, a bed with fresh sheets. This is a light burnt out, and me choosing the fancy new energy efficient bulb that lasts 70 times as long rather than replacing it with the same. old. shit.

A price appears on the television screen along with a 1-800 number, but more importantly, an item; not of futility, but utility. This item, suddenly, is the one item I’ve been waiting for all my life. It makes that one seemingly simple task not so simple, and necessitates its own purchase by a mere 30 second display of its endless features. I’m mind-blown. In fact, daily, I am forced to pluck cat hairs from my coat before prancing out the door. Such a terribly complex and time consuming task. But now, Mr. Sticky, an unconditionally lifetime guaranteed cleaning device which serves as a combination lint roller, broom, vacuum, mop, and duster, makes all the aforementioned “tools” absolutely useless. And for only $24.99, plus S&H, but wait! A free Junior Mr. Sticky, and Giant Mr. Sticky, too. I pick up the phone at 1:03 am and place an order. If I purchase five the sixth is free and 6 free juniors and giants too. Can I really afford not to? A toothy white smile on the screen convinces me they make great gifts. I hate goddamned cell phone manufacturers for making me available at nearly any given time or place in the known universe; I may be on the toilet and God can call to check on me (a particularly disturbing thought) but, because I own this cell phone, this plastic piece of technology produced by the Apple Corporation, I can call and order Mr. Sticky at 1:03 am and wait wait wait till the package arrives, for life to get easier.

I push the red metal cart full of Christmas toys; remote controlled helicopters, handheld videogames, stuffed animals. I don a red polo and a name tag that says “Daniel” and above that “Target.” But, the director of HR tells me, this name tag is not mine. It may say my name, but this name tag belongs to the Target Corporation. At the end of the day, and especially if I quit, or worse, am terminated, I must return this name tag back to a box of Davids, Dougs, and Daniels. I loathe the way the cart clunks and will purposefully stock one of these items on the wrong shelf with a hearty, “Fuck you, Target Corporation.” “Daniel?” My manager call from behind. “Could you come here for a moment?” God, apparently, does not approve of my internal sentiments towards the Target Corporation and has sent one of his prophets dutifully to reprimand my self-righteousness, but fortunately has not called me, because I’m not supposed to have my cell phone on at work. He echoes in my head with that ridiculous booming voice, “Daniel, you’ve bitten the hand that feeds.” And I have, but the flesh of the hand is so much more pleasing, now at least, than the stale paycheck the hand feeds at the end of the week. I hate the tile floors and the goddamned red branding of the Target Corporation, but they make me able to afford food and gas, and to satisfy that impulsive spirit in me to purchase my way out of those small issues I’m not presently aware exist in my life. Fortunately I can depend on the television to inform me of them.

“…in less than one minute now, you will receive your free promotional advertising gifts not regularly available in this store. A representative will be rushing there shortly.” With my tower of department store items in hand, I look around to see if anyone suspects my curiosity of the loudspeaker’s offer. I feel naughty. But really, how often does such a prospect occur? I walk with an air of indirection towards where the loudspeaker directs, looking every once in a while over my shoulder. I hop on the escalator. I hate people who are susceptible to these types of obviously misguiding promotions, but I am riding the escalator and can see the red and black counter the loudspeaker spoke of, and look, there! The representative rushing towards it! I look down at my shoes to avoid the gaze of a young man walking past.

“Daniel, we’ve been meaning to talk to you. You’ve been here for 90 days and it’s time for your assessment. I’ve met with Susan at HR and we discussed your performance.” This, I know, either means I’m fucked, or that, ironically, I’m fucked. “We want you to stay with us, you’ve been doing a fantastic job. And we’re giving you a dollar raise.” I’m fucked. I despise Target, I don’t particularly like Susan either, she told me I had nice teeth, that I must’ve had braces when I was younger. In retrospect, this was not a compliment. She was telling me that my face would be good branding for the Target Corporation. She thought my teeth would sell Target Visa credit cards, just like the teeth on the television had convinced me to buy not one, not two, but five Mr. Sticky’s; but hell, the sixth was free. The Target Corporation headquarters in Minneapolis just approved a pay raise for me. For my disrespect, hostility, and general loathing of each and every tile in the store, they gave me more money. God, apparently, is cleverer than I thought. He does not reprimand me, he guilts me. But I’m getting more money, which makes the price of guilt easier to swallow.

A man appears from behind the red and black counter. “Hello, I am your representative.” It’s the same man who spoke into the loudspeaker. First, he hands us all, all five of us, a free promotional advertising gift. It’s a towel that expands in water. Usually, they sell for $3.95 in a pack of three. I’m intrigued, what else might we receive for free? He pulls then, from behind his counter, slowly, Mr. Sticky. This man is a representative from the Echo Corporation and is here to sell me Mr. Sticky in person, and he won’t charge me S&H. I curse the cell phone manufacturers for allowing me to place that order. 4-6 weeks in waiting, and here’s Mr. Sticky in the flesh. I curse Target once more for giving me the money to place the order. And I curse the Ford Motor Company for producing my gas-guzzling, ozone-destroying, 1989 Ford Escort hatchback that drove me here, today, to Sears, and drives me five days out of the week to a giant red store where I try to convince customers to sign up for Target Visa credit cards. The man is different from the one on television, but the smile is the same. It’s a smile I posses myself. I walk away, distraught, towards my 1989 Ford Escort. But first I purchase my tower of department store items.

Mr. Sticky doesn’t just pick up kitty litter, dust, lint, and dirt; no, Mr. Sticky will pick up the scattered pieces of my life, and pocket-sized Junior Mr. Sticky will pick up pieces of it when I’m on the run; I can de-lint my red Target polo before walking into work with a white, toothy smile plastered to my face. And Giant Mr. Sticky, maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to solve this God problem. More than anything, I fucking hate waiting 4-6 goddamned weeks for everything to get a little fucking better.

My father always played 97.3 KBSG on the radio in our green Ford Escort station wagon. “Good times and great oldies, 97.3 KBSG.” Most of the music drove me bonkers and I could only tolerate it when, rarely, I Get Around or California Girls came on. The Beach Boys were the only marginally sane musicians to be heard from the God-forsaken station. I would’ve given nearly anything for Star 101.5 or KISS 106.1, but could not listen to my Backstreet Boys CD because The Wagon didn’t have a CD player. Even then I had no deeply rooted affection for these boys of the beach. But now, all blossoming and full of adulthood, with the winter months coming on fast, I play the Beach Boys at least once a day. I do not listen to them for nostalgic pleasure, nor to warm my Pacific Northwestern skin and think of California. Fuck California. I listen to Brian Wilson, Al Jardine, Bruce Johnston, Mike Love, Carl Wilson, and Dennis Wilson because I need these boys to help maintain my sanity. Or at least to come to terms with losing it.

In the Beach Boys I find absolutely no clichéd love song. The Beach Boys were merely onto something before the rest of us. They knew that however many years later these songs would become a sadistic juxtaposition to a life hardly worth living. Pet Sounds, widely considered their most influential album, and one of the most influential albums of all time, contains absolutely no songs about California, beaches, surfing, or cars. Pet Sounds is as incongruent with the rest of the Beach Boys’ discography as its name. Pet Sounds appeals to the boy in me. The one who, when stuck at a red light, throws tantrums inside, beating his fists against the inner walls of my chest. I’m re-teaching myself. That boy missed something big in his upbringing, there’s supposed to be something in there about love and loving others, being loved, having a family; whatever-the-fuck, that this boy missed. I press play and Pet Sounds spins its way through my brain teaching me all the lessons my parents forgot to. Perhaps that’s an overstatement. What exactly would I be learning from the literal translations of these songs? I guess I’d learn that it’d be nice to be older, which, I suppose it is. I’d learn that girls treat you much better than you do them (ha.) I’d learn that sometimes you shouldn’t talk, you should put your head on my shoulder and listen to my heart beat. Just listen.

Pet Sounds is a progression of maturity. It appeals to the boy in me as, I can only guess, a father would to his son. Whereas Celine Dion’s latest album probably has a title track that claims I can both be a completely independent woman and yet I can’t live without you, boy; Pet Sounds only learns. There is no backtracking. There is, I understand, some contradiction. But as any reasonably taught Lopate-ist will tell you, contradiction is absolutely necessary. God Only Knows is one of the most intelligently written love songs ever. Fucking ever. Let us for a moment consider the lyrics: “I may not always love you, but long as there are stars above you, you never need to doubt it, I’ll make you so sure about it. God only knows what I’d be without you. If you should ever leave me, though life would go on believe me, the world could show nothing to me, so what good would living do me?” Though it took at least 137 plays of this song for me to grasp the true nature of its honesty, I have come to understand it. About a month ago, sitting in my blue Honda Civic LX, Carl Wilson sang me some of the truest words to carry me through countless years.

Confucius, The Beach Boys; Beach Boys, Confucius; teach each other some shit.

Last night, with a half-full flask of seven times distilled vodka, a wool pea coat, and Pet Sounds I danced through the darkened courtyards of Meridian Park Elementary. And I gave no shit whether it made me insane. I realized in that moment, if my sanity is lost, then my insanity is all I’ve got and I will embrace that lack of sanity. God only knows what I’d be without it. And still, while walking through the school, snow falling silently, I thought, Wouldn’t it be nice if I were older? All of the doors were locked, I know because I tried. Like a bandit under the cover of night, I tried to open each and every door; peered inside. Looked for things the little boy Daniel might want to play with. Things that I apparently forgot to learn as a child. A couple of pulls from the cold tin flask and I sprouted wings. I vaulted a fence and climbed on top of an oversized metal container, the kind on the back of semi-trucks. I stood there as I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times lectured my ears. I looked up into the black sky, saw nothing, and back down. I could see over all the buildings at the school. “Sometimes I feel very sad,” Brian Wilson cried to me. Ah-fucking-men, brother. “They say I got brains, but they ain’t doin’ me no good. I wish they could.” Have truer words ever been spoken? I suppose this is beside the point. What might be the point is that up there, upon this metal container, with my breath turning to a ghost before me, all of the lights at the school turned off. All at once. As if cued by this event, Brian sang to me, “Each time things start to happen again I think I got something good goin’ for myself, but what goes wrong?” What the fuck goes wrong, Brian, what goes wrong? What Brian claims is that he “just wasn’t made for these times.” I, for once during the course of this album, disagree. I think I was made for these times. But perhaps you were not made for those times, perhaps you were made for my time, Brian. Your beach was something my boy needed. You, friend, get me through the darkest of times by singing in a brilliant harmony with your brothers that makes ice beautiful again, and makes Daniel a child again.

But even as little boy Daniel dances like a lunatic around empty schools in the middle of the night, the only thing he can think is how nice it would be to be older.

Additionally, Sir Paul McCartney considers Pet Sounds one of his favorite albums of all time, with God Only Knows being his favorite song on the album; perhaps ever. Does this make me a knight by association? Dylan said Wilson should will his ear to the Smithsonian. Elton called it “a timeless and amazing recording of incredible genius and beauty.” That’s two knights and a genius. If I’m not a genius knight at least I have two knights and a genius to back up my sentiments.

Across from me in Denny’s sits a silent Asian family of four. Across from them sits a nearly silent, save for the man and a couple of suppressed giggles, Middle-Eastern family of four. My waitress is Latino. It’s the first snow of the season. I have with me Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, my laptop, a phone, a glass of water, and a plate of pancakes is forthcoming. This first snow of the season is different for me than past snows. It’s almost as if the chemical composition has changed to something other than what it’s been my entire life. It now sticks immediately, it inhales like oxygen, it feels like happiness melting on my skin. Maybe my skin is happiness melting on the oxygen.

When did we first meet, snow? My earliest memories of you exist in the first house I ever lived in. Before I’d moved 10 times, before things changed from what they were to what they are; before the illusion of knowing what was right and what was wrong was lifted. At this house we had a long, steep driveway that led out to the street. If it snowed even a half-inch we did not wait. In Washington we learned the snow might not last a single day. You must take the chance immediately. We tore sides off oversized cardboard boxes, dumped the garbage out and used the bag, procured old laundry baskets; anything big enough to sit on became a sled. We took that half-inch of snow and made hundreds of feet of smiles.

The television in Denny’s is playing football replays, it’s snowing on tv too. Is it snowing everywhere?

I’d like to choose these memories to be the ones where I remember my oldest brother being carefree with us but the truth is all my memories of him are colder than snow itself. The time he hit me on my birthday and made me cry in front of my friends, donned the terrifying werewolf mask and cornered me in a dark room, gave me a lighter as a gift of reconciliation after disappearing from the face of the Earth for four years. Or the chances he simply chose to opt out of being a part of a good memory. Such as the time he was supposed to be my other brother’s best man, but was instead our worst brother.

The Asian family has spoken less than fifty words. Silence and consumption. It’s still snowing. Non-traditional Christmas music should not be considered Christmas music at all. Christmas rock, especially. That’s just bullshit. To even think yourself worthy of being an artist played the same time every year with an original Christmas song is a bit presumptuous, don’t you think? Maybe not. I find the balance between tolerating Christmas music and enjoying Christmas music is terribly difficult to maintain. Seasonal fruit at Denny’s apparently consists of bananas and grapes. Pretty sure bananas don’t grow in Washington. Those suggestively-shaped buggers are tropical. I guess grapes are seasonal. I would’ve guessed I’d get apples.

I no longer need snow to last forever to satisfy me. As a child melted snow was worse than spilt milk. So much worse that tears didn’t even come when the snow melted away. No, a deep and serious depression blanketed me, filling the space the snow had. This year I’ve seen the flakes falling softly for only a few minutes and yet I’ve already had enough to quiet the hunger. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t like more, but I don’t need more.

I suppose this is indicative of a personal change. Happiness is not only real when shared, but temporary. Happiness is hardly worth the pursuit that its counterpart (contentedness) is. Happiness is elusive. Happiness is the carrot on a string. Happiness is a leaf in the wind. Happiness is an ice cube in Summer. Happiness is a joke. It even starts with “ha.”

The silent family has erupted in conversation. Fueled, apparently, by fried eggs, buttery biscuits, and syrupy pancakes. They’re now speaking in English. Now the waitress is not. They looked pissy before, but happy now. They crisscross between English and some foreign tongue. It’s like a broken translation machine. Nothing makes sense. Well, maybe not nothing, but I certainly know that everything doesn’t make sense.

If you’re wondering whether the original objective of my Denny’s outing was to get myself an Oreo milkshake, you’re damn right it was. The breakfast plate was only to delay the pleasure of the shake. I think it stopped snowing, but that’s okay. I’ve accepted the fact that snow doesn’t last forever. Everything melts. I just hope my shake doesn’t melt before it gets here. If nothing else, I need that to last forever.

In front of me lie the mangled remains of my pancakes, a melted butter ball, a single egg over-easy, a cup of syrup sitting in its own filth, and a bowl of untouched grapes. My fork is lying across the plate like the single shell at the crime scene that proves what occurred here was homicide, not suicide. I could really use that milkshake right about now.

Like that, they break my fourth wall. They gaze directly into the camera and break the boundaries between observer and actor. My suspension of disbelief is now increasingly difficult to sustain. This is the feeling I get when people look at me and I’m not expecting it. I feel they are intruding upon my world of make believe. The director, I think, did not instruct you to do that. Cut!

And yet, suspiciously, despite my perception of the world, Erin says this of me:
“You’re one of the only people I know who’s actually living.”

At 11:26 pm I see a Denny’s. I turn the car into the parking lot and park by the front doors. A large neon sign is brightly lit in the night sky that says “24 Hours.” It pulls me in like a fly to be zapped. I sit at the bar and order an Oreo milkshake. I have this “dairy thing,” Karli calls it. In fact, she has so assertively coined it my “dairy fetish.” But I can’t argue otherwise. There’s something about yogurt, ice cream, milk, egg nog, cheese, pizza, and basically any other combination of dairy product that just soothes my innards. Milkshakes especially. I like to go to all-nite diners and order a milkshake and write. Many people might consider it an atypical place to derive inspiration, but they aren’t actually living.

I know what Erin meant when she told me I was the only person she knows who is actually living. But really, it’s just that I love the general magnificence of things: an old man sipping black coffee; this is beautiful. His life, his history, whatever-the-fuck, it doesn’t matter. Right now he’s a faded grey man sipping coffee at Denny’s at a time when no one ought to be drinking coffee. His flannel shirt is wrinkled. This man is a mobile tableau, the Mona Lisa in real-life, in Lynnwood, WA, in po-dunk butt-fuck nowhere, in your chair now.

“You’re one of the only people I know who’s actually living.”

A photo of me clad in vest and trim pants, festive buttons pinned to my arms, dancing and singing with my guitar amongst a crowd of passersby evoked this response from Erin. I was living in the middle of the city, awake in a crowd of sleepwalkers. I digress; it’s not so much that I’m living and no one else is. I make movements and am aware of them as I make them, or at least I try to be. I consciously begin making the memory as I am simultaneously experiencing it. I guess this means I’m really living, but I’m no more alive than you.

Where do my interests begin to conflict? Am I both the director of this film, and an actor in it? I think this is the confusion I seek to reconcile. I’ve often tried to define myself on one end of the observer-participator spectrum, but maybe this spectrum is complete bullshit.

For that matter, who says I can’t be the director, screenwriter, actor, and composer of this film? No one? Good. I don’t anticipate simply living my life is likely to make me much money, but hey, it’s a start. And really, I’m no more alive than you.