The Big One

I doze off into that perfect space between dreaming and reality, where each face grows longer, and eyes deeper, and all of the sudden my feet are tingling and I pray for 'The Big One'. 'The Big One' is a concept I only recently learned how to toy with. We need have 'any' where I came from, let alone some bigger than others. It is terrifying and dreamy at the same time. Knowing that each second of this listless rest will be countered with one second of violent shaking. It is just wonderful to know that in an instant, I may never have to deal with that broken elevator, that tricky lock, or that creaky stool ever again. The prospect of the earth like liquid beneath my toes- terror seeping up from the molten core, turning men to monsters. Everything you once thought of as home, gone. Crumbled to pieces, covered with silt and filth. This is what they mean when they say 'The Big One'. Not one to be taken lightly be any means. Maybe this is scene is the cause and the solution. Maybe it does takes great tragedy to bring about great strength. Maybe I’ve never crawled down deep to once again rise above the oppressive weight of the sky. Maybe this terror is really hope. Maybe that is why 'The Big One' scares the shit out of me.

Here and Now

Consider this the first step. The first step away from your pre-destined path and a step towards your epistemological destiny. At first the words will be slow, and your fingers will ache with inactivity. 'We haven't written in so long!', they'll scream. But ignore them, they are your slaves- you must work them as you would work anything totally under your command. Write furiously, like a hypographic madman, it’s not yours yet but it will be.

And you will be here to listen.

To listen, and to wonder.

To wonder how you get up every morning before you knew how to tell them what to do with their passing hours. Slaves in the hot, hot, heat- computers burning their tips, callusing their edges as if they had been working with weapons or musical instruments.

All that humidity, those poor little scoundrels, designer collars tied around their necks, cutting off the blood flow to their already stiffened brains. But don't worry about their brains- this about yours. Your brain is a muscle and you must exercise it as such. Occipital crunches, parietal push-ups, and don't forget stem lunges. Be diligent, make it hurt; progress always hurts.

Wednesday.

Could this day get any longer? The time seems to drag like a limp body on dirted road behind pick-up truck under the Texan sun. Burning and grinding, scraping what little surface protection I have left so by the end of the day I am left red and slimy with the fresh blood of torture.

My boredom is thick and heavy and drips down my face in the most obvious way. It’s hard not to notice. It’s even harder to care. Everybody deserves a glimmering light at the end of their personal daily hell. It should be written into our laws right next to the right to bear arms or reversed robinhoodism. I guess the question becomes- do you care enough? Enough to leave everything in search of happiness yet again? Find someplace with minimal temporary appeal, a few smiling faces, maybe a lousy lay and another paycheck; not necessarily in that order. Is it worth it? I don’t know- I don’t remember, it’s been a while since I plopped my enthusiastic ass down here and climbed 6 flights to my watchtower.

A Blue Day

Standing in a sea of faces. Faces I do not know, faces painted with distraction, faces I do not love, faces I cannot love. All I can think of is to chug the heavy bottle in my hand. My eyes bounce from brow to brow, lip to lip, looking for an acknowledging glance- someone who will look back and know what I know. But alas, the music hops louder and the crowd dances itself into frenzied oblivion. That kind of loneliness is more than I can bare. Being lost in a crowd that is lost within itself in the middle of the city by the bay. Cold and restless, homeless and alone.

As I walked back to board the bus or walk the 35 blocks back to my urine stained block, I stared hard at my shoes avoiding eye contact, already disappointed and ashamed to be a part of this fabulous nothing. I just wanted to run. I wanted to run across the bridge, over the mountains, across the plains, through the snow until my lungs bled. I wanted to feel that great escape burn in my muscles, in my eyes and let it chap my skin. My skin had grown too soft and tan from the warm sun and clean cotton clothes I’d been wearing. It was time to taste the dirt and thirst, in the most real way. Not the way that you thirst when you realize someone just drank your last beer and it is after 2am. That isn’t thirst. That is just more distraction.

I loved this place. I thought I’d found home. Home for now at least, but not home, real home.