schlub

if it was easy like smearing an eraser back and forth across a page vigorously until everything was gone, I would delete every post I had made up until this point. like if there was one button that said "Bye-bye!" on the Blogger homepage... I'd click it.

a year ago I was less focused on Christmas and the holidays, anticipating my imminent departure from the fair-weathered southern California and imagining what my life would be like in the near future living and working in Seattle. now I'm back home looking for a job - just like I have been for the past three months - and all the money I made in the last year seems irrelevant. it's like wearing your high school letterman jacket in your late twenties once you're overweight and out of shape. you peaked too soon and you have nothing to offer now except fond memories of what you used to have, but you act like it still means something.

the sad fact is I'm making no money. yeah, I saved some up from before and I'm trying to be frugal with it. but whether it's going away quickly or slowly, what does it matter? my balance is only going down.

I feel like it's time to quit living in the past, take off the jacket, stop acting like what I used to do makes me cool, and delete my bloggies. I should present myself as what I currently am... not much at all with nothing to offer. you can only go up from that point, right?

oh, "college"!

every time I open the door to the men's restroom at starbucks I be sure to look in the mirror to see if anyone is lurking behind the door, because I know the one time I don't is the time I get stabbed.

I'm sitting here alone under the ice cold air vent trying to find information on mercury levels in vaccines. I have to present an informative speech thursday five to seven minutes in length, and I have yet to do a damn thing.

the ONLY reason it takes so long to get a college degree is to see if you can put up with years of meaningless shit, not to actually make you any smarter. and once you have a paper proving you can put up with years of meaningless shit, you'll get hired by a company to do thirty more years of meaningless shit. the end.

Dear loud Chaldeans at the gym,

(if you're wondering what a Chaldean is, it's someone who owns a liquor store in El Cajon. or their cousin does.)

stop dropping the weights on the ground when you're done lifting them. I know you're thinking "Loud noise must mean I'm strong, bro!" but that's not the case. keep doing your bi's-and-chest workout, but do it more quietly please - set the barbell down like an evolved hominid.

stop standing in a group by the freeweights talking about how you went up to the guy at the party and said, "look, bro, I stabbed two fools over there! we run shit!" because I'm simply not impressed. all you run is your mouth and a rundown playground in El Cajon where you kick it with the homies. honestly, I'd be much more impressed to see you run on a treadmill and acknowledge that there are other muscle groups.

Regards,

Brian

P.S. - I'm not racist. I'm not hating on all Chaldeans. there are some there that I know and who are cool. but you other guys - and you know who you are - just knock that shit off. thanks.

I got expelled from high school for some zero-tolerance pussy-footing bullshit like this. the administration was and is too scared to make a case-by-case judgement, so they hide behind their mantra and save themselves the trouble of thinking about anything ever. I say the biggest possible "Fuck You" to everyone in any position of power who does the same.

here's a real gem:

"[M]ore school districts have removed discretion in applying the disciplinary policies to avoid criticism of being biased,” said Ronnie Casella, an associate professor of education at Central Connecticut State University who has written about school violence. He added that there is no evidence that zero-tolerance policies make schools safer.

No, you don't say? zero-tolerance doesn't make schools safer and only results in good people getting screwed over? I never would have guessed.

bum bum

To everyone who has read my blog and checked for new posts at some point (all two of you), I want to say thank you and I'm sorry for being lazy and uncreative as of late. I blame the lack of creativity on being content with things in my life. I'd say I'm happy on the whole. I have a good relationship going and it will continue going. that, in addition to keeping busy with school, doesn't leave much room for incisive, introspective brooding. at times I miss being alone in a foreign city.

as I said, things are good now and I'm happy. but I'm not terrific. I've always felt like I need to have a job, to make my own money and be self-reliant to the greatest possible extent. because relying on someone else is a point of weakness. if you become dependent on others either financially or otherwise, these buttresses can collapse and you will be far less stable, if you're still standing at all. I know it's not a great mentality to have, but it's what I've got.

and it's just a pride thing. I don't want to be the kid who lives with his parents and spends money they worked for. right now I'm back to living with them and not paying rent. I don't ask them for money and I haven't for probably over a year, so it's not like I'm mooching. I couldn't live with myself if I felt I was being a mooch. but I'd rather be moved out, living on my own. that'll be a long way off at this point, but hopefully sooner than later.

so I'll continue to spend the money I've saved up from my last two jobs until I find another one, or I'll spend away the savings I worked so hard for until I really do have nothing to my name.

for those of you (both of you) who will read this: a good blog post goes somewhere and says something, as you well know. it should feel like listening to a good speech or watching a well-crafted short film. this post was more like me thinking out loud and ultimately getting nowhere from where I began. you coming upon this post is the equivalent of walking around downtown and passing in front of a homeless man talking to himself, starting straight ahead, oblivious to the fact that you are there and might be expecting something intelligent to be behind all the words. so you stopped to listen to a rambling bum who said a lot of nothing. tell me, do you feel creeped out now? (and do I smell like stale urine?)

When I was in Seattle doing construction, I think I found comfort in the fact that I took a completely different direction than everyone else who went away to college. They couldn't say they were better than me because our lives were on different tracks. Now I'm back at community college and on the same track as them, just very far behind.

And Janet, don't worry! I'm not ignoring your nomination, I just haven't found the time to go to a coffee shop and blog. (I'm at work right now. hehe)

above the belt

for the record, fuck the FAFSA. if you fuck-eating fuck-fucks didn't want to give me any money, you could have told me up front that I have to be an orphan or destitute to get anything besides the loans that are available to anyone willing to put themselves grossly into debt, and I could have foregone the hour-long application. don't act like you saying "Low-interest loans may be available to you, depending on the cost of the institution you will be attending and your year in college" is some act of generosity. I hope your website crashes forever and you all take baths in high-molarity nitric acid.

that being said, I love coffee shops. they're great to hang out at because... just because, ok? where else can you simply sit for three house and only spend $1.92 to satisfy the unspoken obligation to spend money in exchange for a chair in which to park your ass? granted, a movie theater has slightly more comfortable chairs (for the first hour, then they start sucking because they don't recline). but that'll cost you AT LEAST 2.2 times the hourly rate if you choose to make the theater your sitting place. and I tend to get bored very easily. I'm around the level of long-term-focusability as a first grade boy. the girls are better at sitting still and behaving, but those little boys will just start throwing shit if their environment lacks suitable stimuli for long enough. so I might get bored in a theater with a bad movie, and I'm SOL until the credits mercifully come. but in a coffee shop such as this that has free WiFi, I can feed my attention deficit with facebook, wikipedia, blogger, or any other internet realm of stupidity that I choose to frequent.

what else was on my mind? oh yeah, today I decided that it's not fair for men to fight with women verbally as well as physically. everyone knows it's not right for a male to get in a physical confrontation with a female, even those eraser-hucking first graders. but I'm saying that it's an unfair fight even when the fight is kept within the (somewhat, at least at the beginning...) civil bounds of discussion. why, you ask? oh you didn't ask? well I shall keep going anyway.

physical fighting isn't fair because it is obviously in favor of the guy. but I do declare that arguments are waaaaay easier for the woman to win. because guys can fight fair. or maybe somewhat more fairly. they'll stick to the issue and slug it out with some right hooks of logic and some quick left jabs of reason. and don't think I'm saying the fairer sex doesn't utilize these weapons. they can definitely land blows left and right. I'm still sore from a few recent good ones.

but girls.... they can win in one shot. after they get tired of duking it out fair and square and they just want it to be over, they go for the swift kick to the nuts. guys tend not to do this cuz that's just not what you do to win a fight and normally we respect this man law. but women... see, they CRY, and it isn't fucking fair! when you start crying, it doesn't even matter if I'm totally right and I know exactly the one-two combo I'm about to use to knock you down for the count, I'll put my fists down and say "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!!!" and hug you and say how mean I am and how much of a jerk I was being.

not all guys do that I guess, but I'm not a dick. so on behalf of every person who possesses a wiener but isn't a dick, I wanna say... it just isn't fair!!

double espresso

most coffee shops have sub-par or only marginally tolerable poofy chairs.  the drive-thru starbucks has those ones that look really comfortable at first, but then you sit in them and they actually lean forward.  it's maddening.  but this chair is great.  it's a five-star poofy chair.  it's clean; soft, but not overly soft; and it has the right posture so that you don't feel like you'd rather slump down.  you can sit in it for least two hours and five minutes without wanting to get up or shift positions.

I've decided just now that this could be the perfect coffee shop.  half of it is the actual coffee, the WiFi, the furniture, the decor, the latin-esque music intermingling with trip hop... the stuff they consciously decided on and intended to do.  the other half of the awesomeness is the other stuff.  the atmosphere, you might say.  indicative of a good coffee shop is being able to go at any time and being likely to see people you know, with whom you don't have to fake being excited to see. I just ran into two old friends here.  and there's the floor-to-ceiling windows flung wide open to drink the cool summer evening air, letting several flies in to twist in a happy knot in the middle of the room.  I don't see it as unsanitary.  it's endearing more than anything.  

so I'll sit here for a while more and let the time pass.

are you really gonna publish that?

I'm sitting on a couch at the living room with Chris.  if you don't know why I would say "at" instead of "in," then you should go to the corner of 59th and El Cajon Blvd. [and whore yourself. The local pimp's name is Q-tip. Ask for him, he might take all your money, but atleast he doesn't slap a hoe.]  that was Chris' mischief while I was replying to a text.

anyway, the living room is what I always wanted to find in Seattle but never could.  it's a coffee shop open til the wee hours of the morning with free, not-overly-complicated-to-log-into wifi.  and it's cool.  Chris is currently sulking with one hand under his chin and the other touching his bloody vag.  now he's debating whether or not he's sulking.  (he is.)  (yes you are.)  (yes... you fucking are.)  (yes.  ok I'm done.)  (fine.  no you are.)

ok Chris is bored and distracting me.  what a terrible little blog post!  hopefully I'll have something real to say soon.  (maybe I will, Chris.)  

she said aw baby I feel so down

mother's day

my grandma has been in a nursing home for like five or six years.  those are the saddest places I can think of.  that's where old people go do die alone slowly.  just the thought of one starts getting me depressed.  granted, some patients - I guess you would call them - have a spouse there, and some have family members who visit them often, so maybe it's not too bad.  but some have degenerative diseases like my grandmother, who has Parkinson's.  her lot in life is to die slowly, staring at the white ceiling above her sterile bed sheets and shaking.  

I can sort of remember her walking around about fifteen years ago, her in a wheelchair about ten years ago, and the rest of my memories of her in this hospital bed.  I think my grandpa - "Nanu," as we call him - tried to feed her for a while, but her masseter muscles and swallowing reflex gave out, so that was the last food she will ever eat.  she was given a feeding tube that drips nutrients into her stomach to keep this whole thing going, dragging on and on.  for a while last year they thought she had pneumonia.  I remember going to visit her once and hearing her bubbly cough, which was really no more than an audible exhaling - that was all her frail body was capable of.  luckily though it wasn't pneumonia.  eventually the nurses there figured out that the feeding drip was going too fast, which caused her stomach filled up completely with the brown liquid that's her breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert; then it filled her esophagus; then after that it had nowhere to go but down her trachea and into her lungs.  she was being drowned by the one thing keeping her alive.  

I used to go with my parents and brother to visit her, but every time I'd get sick of the place after ten minutes.  the walls secrete death and it permeates my skin.  I'll endure it for a little bit, for as long as I can, because she needs to see people.  she needs to know we still love her.  but after not too long I start to die too, so I have to leave.  I would end up mumbling to my mom just loud enough for her to hear but not loud enough for Nanu's hearing aid to pick up, "let's go."  she'd give a nod and mouth, "Ok," then look back at her mother, stroking her skinny arm.  it looked like a piece of chicken that was in the freezer too long, with the skin stretched tight over the bones, and it was pulsing regularly twice a second with involuntary contractions.  my mom was touching it and looking into my grandma's pale blue eyes and said with no false sincerity, "I love you mom.  I love you."  with her other hand she stroked the hair that was turned gray and thin and straw-like.  my mom smiled genuinely, and my grandma stared back with her mouth hanging open to one side and her body shaking gently.  the part that makes me want to cry is that I know my mom sees her mother not as the fragile, bed-ridden ruin of what she once was, but as the beautiful, middle-aged woman she was thirty years ago, and my grandma can just stare back and know what she's thinking and shake.

once I got my license, I would stop by every now and then when I was driving home from Parkway.  the home is on Magnolia, so I'd feel bad driving by and not stopping.  the first time Nanu was surprised and asked, "you came by yourself?"  I talked with him awhile, about school and college plans and life and such.  I would give him enough of my attention to show I was listening, but I would be looking into my grandma's blue eyes because I knew she could hear me.  they were fixed dead into mine.  they followed me.  I like to think it's because she was thinking "he understands.  he knows I am trapped.  he knows I don't want to be here.  all I need is to watch him talk to my husband.  that's all he needs to do to make this moment great."  her blue eyes followed me right out the door of her room each time I left.  after a while, I would be driving up Magnolia on my way home, but I couldn't bring myself to stop.  I couldn't handle it.  I would keep driving straight.  it's so fucking draining seeing that, seeing her still there.  I swear it sucks life out of me.  her in that bed is a fucking black hole of death, but thanks to the machines my Nanu insists on keeping her plugged into, she clings to life indefinitely.  every morning when the home opens, he shows up to be by her bedside, and he stays til closing time.  every fucking god damn day.  he loves her and insists she'll get better, that there might be a miracle and she'll get better.  he loves his wife too much to let her go and he's killing me.

I just woke up from a terrible dream.  my grandma was dead.  my dad was sitting, I was standing to his right.  it was evening and I don't know where we were, but we were outside and things around us were dark and indistinct.  he turned to me and asked, "are you ok?"  I nodded at first, thinking I was.  but before I finished nodding, I thought about how many years she was staring at that god damn ceiling while I was thinking I was busy with self-imposed obligations, so I drove past her nursing home countless times because I'd rather listen to my new cds than brighten her day and say hello.  I started crying softly at first, then I lost control and I was sobbing.  I turned and walked away into the night saying between sobs, "Grandma!?  Grandma!?" expecting to see her ghost appear and tell me it's ok, she understood I was young and I had to live my life.  but she didn't appear.  it hit me... she is gone.  I had my chance to show her I love her, and now that time is over.  it's too late.

I woke up and realized it was a horrible dream.  but even worse, she's still alive.

may 2

tonight is my last night at this house.  my uncle wants to start packing stuff into the moving truck at 9 AM tomorrow.  I didn't think I'd become emotionally attached - it was supposed to be a temporary deal from the beginning.  but I think of the phone calls I had in the back yard as I was stepping from one jagged stone to the next.  or the ones sitting on the white plastic armchair in front of the entry door, and I was wearing my big black jacket to keep the snow from soaking my sweatshirt underneath.  we talked early into the morning.

I feel homesick.  I never get homesick, but I am.  every trip I've been on, I wished it was longer.  I never wanted to come home.  even here I bitched for months about missing my friends, and I really did.  but I was missing the comforts of home, the people and familiar places.  right now, as of maybe an hour ago when the reality sunk in that this is the last time I wake up on this hateful, worn out, creaky, third-hand mattress and look out the window to the blooming trees and skyscrapers far behind, I feel like I'm losing something I just started to love.

I dig deeper and realize it's not this house I'm missing but the idea of "home."  as I'm about to lose one again, I'm realizing how abstract and transitory that idea really is.  it doesn't exist within four walls so much as in our heads.

shittycakes

$583 a week, respect from grown men that took months to earn, a great church with many rock-solid mentors, complete freedom

or

her, him, him, him, them, everyone, it, that, all that, everything.

fml.

I should go home

four years ago I broke my leg playing soccer.  some ethnic kid on the other team got confused and thought my leg was the ball, so he kicked it as hard as he could as we were sprinting at each other.  there was a loud pop and I ended up on the ground blah blah.

some days - normally when it's cold - my leg aches terribly.  the pain goes from the middle of my shin (I don't know if it's my right or left shin because I can't remember which direction is which) all the way up to one of my knees.  in the knee it's the worst.  throughout the day the pain will ebb and flow, sometimes a dull ache and others almost too painful to remain standing.  about fifteen minutes ago it was horrible.  I thought about picking someone out of my contacts to text and complain to.  I already told Gina earlier this morning... who else will give me their pity?

I imagined texting "I'm fucking in pain."

if I texted myself that, and the receiving self didn't know what was going on with the sending self, the former would have replied "having painful sex or you're in a lot of pain?"

then we would both think I was clever.

april 24th

I've had nothing to say this whole month.  there are a few possibilities as to why this is.

1. I have nothing to say.

it's pretty straightforward.  but this fact may in turn have some sub-causes:

a) after being in Seattle for almost four months, I've learned everything there is to learn about myself from being friendless in a new city, and hence I've said all there is to say.  I've got to the bottom of myself, I guess.  of course if I got to know people and started cultivating friendships, there is no limit as to how much I can develop and discover new things about me through others.

b) I've already thought every relevant thought I'll ever think.  I've been afraid of this since I was seventeen; with each passing day it becomes more plausible.  now I'm recycling old ideas, so of course I have nothing to blog about cuz it's already been blogged.

c) over the past few weeks I've been having multiple mini-strokes all over my brain, slowly losing function in chunks of my cerebrum, ever diminishing my mental capacity.  soon I'll be left with only a few thought processes mostly limited to evolutionarily archaic impulses, including, "I'm hungry," "I'm thirsty," "I'm tired," and "I'm horny."  based upon the past week, the multiple mini-stroke theory seems extremely likely.

d) cerebral osteoporosis.  now you might say, "But Brian!  that doesn't make sense!  the brain isn't a bone.  it can't get osteoporosis."  well you just need to quiet down.  you know how old ladies get osteoporosis and their bones decay faster than they're rebuilt?  then they get frail and hunch-backed and walk slowly with canes??  ya know???  ok well that's my brain.  no mental stimulation and I'm getting mentally hunch-backed.

as for the sub-sub-cause which is responsible for mental osteoporosis, I'm not certain.  maybe I'm not drinking enough milk and getting enough vitamin D (which aids in calcium absorption and is generated in the skin after ultraviolet exposure.  this further supports the fact that I should be in San Diego lying on the beach).

2. I'm busy... too busy to blog.  last night (technically this morning for you terrible people who change your concept of "yesterday," "today," and "tomorrow" exactly as the clock strikes midnight) I clocked out at 12:18 AM, this morning clocked in at 7 AM, got home, showered, passed out for a couple hours, started cooking dinner... when is there time to blog, I ask you?  (one correct answer would be after dinner is done, while I'm waiting for it to cool down.)

3. just cuz.

I'm not sure what the actual cause of my blogging lapse may be, but you're welcome to speculate.  ok so I just tried to eat my Safeway brand fake mashed potatoes, like the ones you mix the packet into boiling milk and butter and water... and they were watery as shit (diarrhea I guess).  fuck you safeway.  if your magic mashed potato powder doesn't congeal properly then don't fuckin sell it in a box that says magic mashed potato powder shit or whatever it said.*  sell it in a box labeled "powdered white goop."

*I just checked.  actually it says "roasted garlic mashed potatoes."

I'm just looking for attention really

I have heart palpitations sometimes.  it's happened occasionally for the past several years or so.  I noticed it would happen more frequently when I was going to bed after a night of too much booze and too many cigarettes, or it would happen the next morning when I woke up hungover with my lungs tasting like tobacco each time I exhaled.   when it happens it makes me tense up and cough, sort of, just once.  and when it happens once it normally happens a couple more times in the next twenty minutes.  but normally after a few of those it's done and it doesn't happen again for quite some time.

a few weeks ago it started happening a little more than "normal," I guess I'll say.  so I gave up smoking.  (finally my new years' resolution came true!!!  I'll admit it was easier to stay resolute when I thought the next cig might make my heart pop.)  but my ticker is still acting up, and I'm a little worried.  maybe more than a little, to be honest.

on Saturday I think it was, I told Gina I was having a bad heart day.  I had some palpitations, some worse than normal and they went on for over twenty minutes, more like thirty or forty.  and my heart felt like it was beating hard, like every pump was more forceful than usual.  I was worried, so I decided to call the carpenters union trust fund (they pay for the health benefits that are supposed to kick in for me on May 1st) when they were open on monday.  I asked if I could see a doctor this month and they could pay the bill once I'm covered.  the man on the phone, quite the blathering idiot, eventually rudely explained, "Sir?  Sir.  Sir if you see a doctor before May 1st you will not be covered." 

"Thanks."  click.  well, more of a flop / clap sound of me closing my cell phone, but you get what I'm saying here.  anywayyysss...  that was yesterday.  today I was sitting in the apprenticeship training class getting certified for CPR and first aid allll damnnn dayyyy.  my heart was doing the beating-harder-than-normal thing the entire time. at one point they were showing and explaining how to use the automated external defibrillator and I was wondering if I should volunteer to have them put the thing on me so the class could see the thing in action.  

so when I got home I decided to look up short-term health insurance.  I even talked to Scot's dad, an insurance broker, to get some advice.  he said to look up blue cross or blue shield.  I ended up finding some decent policies on some online site that compares rates.  but I read the fine print and what do ya know?!  coverage won't start until May 1st anyway!  sick.

I'm in my room on my bed worrying about my corazon, feeling lightheaded and slightly dizzy.  I don't know what that's all about.  I'm just hoping I'll be fine and dandy until the first AND that my paperwork goes through on time so that I can see a doctor or a cardiologist that friday afternoon.

if I had to guess, I'd say the doctors will come up with mitral regurgitation.  a backflow of blood into my left atrium could account for the weird sudden pressure change in my chest that makes me tense up and for the feeling of a sudden change in pressure in what I assume has to be my aorta and the arteries branching off.  also the handful of times I've woken up at night gasping for breath might also be explained by a bad mitral valve in my heart.  it's something called paroxysmal nocturnal dyspnoea (I'll admit I had to look up the spelling on that one), where someone will wake up gasping for air.  the cause is a buildup of fluid (blood) in the lungs - actually not IN the lungs, but in all the blood vessels in the lungs - because of insufficient blood flow away from the lungs, back to the heart, and through its left chambers.

I'm somewhat of a hypochondriac, and I know it.  I learned a lot of this stuff from wikipedia, so what do I know?  I'm not a doctor yet.

fine, I'll post something

I was downtown today.  it's the best weather I've seen since I've been here.  (my weather widget says it's 68 degrees, and fifty has become warm to me.)  for the first time, I had to take my jacket off up here because I was too warm, and I walked around in a T-shirt.  it felt great.  the sky is uncharacteristically clear; I can see across the Puget Sound to the Olympic Mountains to the west and all the way to Mt. Rainier to the east.  I decided to take a bus up Pike St to wherever it would take me.  The number 10 brought me up Pike to Capitol Hill then north on 15th, I believe it was.  after a couple blocks everything became residential with the exception of a drug store, so I got off and went for a walk.

a quiet street invited me down, so I obliged.  every house was raised off the ground by a high foundation and had a porch, and every house had a different front fence.  some were high and obscured my view of the houses, but most were short and in some way see-through.  some chain-link, some picket, some hedge.  the sidewalk was old concrete, darkened by moisture and moss and years.  between the sidewalk and the street was a strip of soil and lawn and cherry trees beginning to blossom in wonderful pink and white.  this strip was broken regularly by more old concrete bridging the street to the driveways.

I felt that if I lived there I would never be in a hurry again.  that street kept things in perspective.  at that moment there was no need to walk any faster than necessary.  the only valid reason to walk was to keep from standing still, but if that's what I had wanted it would have been fine too.

I crossed a small intersection.  a guy about twenty with his lip pierced and hair dyed black, but not a douchebag, was sitting and smoking on a ledge in front of the house on the corner, his one leg resting on the other knee.  he was talking quietly with a girl sitting cross-legged at the very corner of the sidewalk.  I looked at her, then him, and I asked, "How's it going?"  he asked the same.  I kept walking.

next house down there was a generic-looking guy sitting on his porch playing an acoustic guitar.  he was in his thirties, and he wore some cheap, nondescript sunglasses.  he was playing something cool that made me wish I could do the same.  a few more houses down there was another guy doing the same in his front, behind a taller fence so I couldn't see.  

even when I got back towards Pike and started passing more businesses, just seeing the type of people on the street made me realize that I should live on Capitol Hill.  it's the more artsy part of Seattle.  like Hillcrest is to San Diego.  and yes, it is also the gay part of town, but I've heard that it's much less gay now than it used to be.  now only about half the bars here are gay bars.

I'm in Tully's (coffee shop) using the free Wi-Fi.  I have this tendency to get sick of things or situations for no real reason, which is what's currently happening.  I want to close up my MacBook and take the number 10 back to downtown and then the 125 back home to West Seattle and sit in my room.  and I'm sick of this post and don't want to click "publish" because I just keep talking without saying anything.

care to join?

I just got home from work.  I'm cooking myself dinner at midnight.  I work again tomorrow morning... uh today at seven.  anyone wanna come to my pity party?  anybody??

PROLOGUE

Sergio is staying in San Diego and not coming back to live with me.  now it's just my uncle and I living here, along with his insufferable new lady friend that shows up to make dinner and dumb comments from time to time.  today I moved all Sergio's things out of his room, and I am now relocated from the air mattress in the living room to the shitty mattress in the second bedroom.  

I'm not ok.  I feel like Kevin Spacey's wife from American Beauty, trying to convince myself that everything is fine and I'm happy and life is good and normal.  but no, it isn't.  when I'm distracted at work, things are fine.  but every day for about the past week, I've gotten home and, after relaxing for a bit and having something to eat, the sobering reality hits me again.  I'M ALL ALONE.  every person I care about is 1,269 miles away.  what the fuck am I doing?  I'm stuck here.  I'll go back and not have a job and be behind in school and never go anywhere or be able to love anyone or make something of my life...  it's a runaway cycle of negative thoughts.  

since I can remember, I've had a problem with getting sad.  I don't get sad, I get mad.  coincidentally, when I get extremely mad - which is exceedingly rare and hard to bring about -  my eyes start to water like I'm about to cry.  I think some axons got crossed and mismatched in my brain.  

early this evening I was sitting on the edge of my bed, leaning forward, intently staring at the suitcase in the corner that still holds all my clothes.  I am all alone.  I should be in San Diego.  I got so sad I wanted to break things.  most people call this emotion "mad."

I realized I'm not about to strike up several friendships anytime too soon, so my time alone in the near future should be spent in a productive way that can provide an outlet for what I'm feeling.  I needed music.  in one of the closets here, I came across an old Yamaha electric keyboard that I assume belonged to my uncle's friend who moved out in January.  I pulled it out, saw it had no DC adaptor, and turned it on to see if it had battery power left.  no.  frustrated, I decided to get on a bus, go downtown to a pawn shop I checked out once before, and blow my grocery money on an acoustic guitar.  as I was getting my wallet and house key, I realized it was already 7:30.  pretty much everything in downtown except bars closes at 6 or 7.  maybe tomorrow.

MONOLOGUE

"passion" was taken from Middle English, from Old French, from the Late Latin "passio," from the Latin word "pati," meaning "to suffer."  the word was mainly used in Christian theology to refer to Christ's suffering.  Mel Gibosn's Passion of the Christ wasn't referring to His love for mankind as many would think, but rather to His suffering so graphically depicted in the movie.

an artist may declare, "Painting is my passion!"  with the way our language has developed, we understand him to be saying, "Painting is what I live for!  It is what I'm driven to do, and I do it for the love of it, and I will never stop painting unless both my arms are cut off."  

and it's easy to see how this evolution of meaning came about.  there were artists like Van Gogh, who quite literally suffered for art.  you know... the story of how he cut off his own ear because no matter how hard he tried he could not paint it perfectly???  actually that isn't the real circumstance behind the incident, but it makes for a good illustration here.

people calling something they felt great affection for a "passion" was hyperbole, but not to a great extent.  a man says he is passionate for football.  he is a true die-hard fan.  he will go to the away game in the snow with his chest painted and no shirt on.  he loves his team so much, he feels so strongly for it, that he will in fact suffer for it.  

his act of suffering for something shows his level of regard for it, and this is called being "passionate."

if I was passionate about something, I would probably be sad for days, weeks, even a whole month if I thought I had lost it.  I might ruin my own life just so I wouldn't have to see the thing itself be ruined. 

it's not something I have asked myself recently, but wh am I really passionate about?

my bad sleep habits

I was tired all day.  I passed out on the couch this evening some time past nine.  I woke up at eleven with the lights on, my phone open on the ground, and five new texts.  so I got ready for bed properly, got "in bed" (more correctly, "on air mattress"), and of course now I can't sleep at all.  

It occurred to me that I should get on Craigslist and look for a cheap acoustic guitar.  I've been meaning to get one and see what becomes of the two of us.  

on the Craigslist main page, I was browsing the categories and sub-categories wondering where I might find me a guitar.  under "for sale" is the link "music instr".  I was looking for a free guitar, not one for sale.  no selling or buying desired.  my eyes went back up the page and landed on "missed connections".  I was thinking "What?"  I saw it was under personals, and I wondered what entertainment this might hold.  

I clicked w4m - woman for man.  I don't know why I chose that, it's not like I expected to see one for me (I'm not quite that vain).  just curious I suppose.

if you went on the Seattle Craigslist and checked out the missed connections and clicked "Costco cutie!!!" you could read about a W who saw an M looking at muffins or some shit at Costco, and how she wants him to email her.  

ok this is not entertaining.  what was I doing again?  a guitar?  I clicked back.  

similar dumb headlines, then farther down one said "Your arms around me - w4m - 42".  my interest was sufficiently piqued for whatever reason.  there was one solid paragraph at least fifteen lines long.  I didn't think I would read it all until I started, but for some reason I continued through all of it.

I am so lucky to have you as a friend in my life again, after so long. I remember when your arms around me felt like heaven and there was nothing that could distract me from that loveliness. I got to feel your arms around me again last night, hanging out as old friends do, and I thought I was strong enough not to cry about how your arms made me feel when we said hello and goodnight. I don't know what you are working through, or why you can't follow your heart to me, but I respect you and am only hoping for you to heal from whatever it is. Anything beyond that would be greedy, but I do really wish I could tell you that you still can make me feel all tingly and I imagine you could so easily spark up my teenage crush on you again. I don't know why you keep looking me up, I don't want to be just "something to do on the eastside" when you are here. A little part of me hopes you are testing your feelings again. A bigger part of me wishes I was immune to the feeling of your arms around me so that I could just dive into some kind of therapeutic affair to get over you again. I remember you telling me you loved me, and you tried to again years later, and again years later, and I feel like I must be good for you in some way that you aren't all the way receptive to. I really want to get over you if you are actually not going to explore your feelings with me again. It is a little hard to get over you when you look at me the way I think I saw you look at me last night. I wish you touched me, I have not let anyone touch me for a long time. Don't you want to feel love, even a little love, from someone who has been enjoying you for so long? Doesn't your skin feel lonely? Don't your lips miss being close to mine? Don't you miss teasing me and laughing together and flirting? Oh my god I wonder why I bother asking these questions. If you don't know what you want, I shouldn't be interested. I should pay attention to the guys who have been really after me instead of ignoring them. I had given up shallow affairs but maybe I shouldn't have. I have put off my passions for too long, I think, and it is muddling my brain. I bet anyone else reading this thinks I should just get out there and forget you.

this woman is 42 years old, apparently single, and still feeling like this for her teenage crush it sounds like.  she can't go for the guys who want her because she can't move on.  but she's 42 and her life isn't waiting.

to me this was one piece of thread on a needle passing through the lives of two strangers, of people I know, of my own, through my fear of the passing of time, of love lost and not regained.  her paragraph could be made into a whole movie that people would love and hate.  I don't know the thread's place in the tapestry or why it's there or the larger picture to which it might be contributing its color.  I saw this one tiny thread, and I was looking at it up close wondering what it is going to mean.

a good night, too many words

tonight at 8:00, M. Ward played in Seattle.  I still don't have any "friends," per se, so I caught the bus downtown by myself.  when the bus was halfway there crossing the West Seattle Bridge, I realized I forgot to  bring my paycheck with me, and I had less than $20 in my checking account.  I was pissed at myself.  where I went wrong: I bolted out the door and down the street after I realized the bus was coming in less than two minutes.  I forgot to look down and to my right as I exited, at the coffee table by the front door and the paycheck lying on top of it.

after a couple minutes of being mad, I accepted it.  "ok Brian, this means you'll have to catch the next bus home, grab the check, run back to the bus stop, and head downtown again."  but after 6 PM (it was ten past seven), my bus runs on the half hour.  so I'd have been arriving downtown with my paycheck in hand at least one hour from then.  I knew I'd probably only miss the opening band, but still... I hate that.  I might like them, they might have something to say, I'll give them a shot.  (it's funny how I'm so different with live bands versus music people recommend to me.  live, I'll give anyone a fair chance;  I normally try to dislike bands I'm not familiar with when I listen to their stuff on myspace or iTunes.  it's closed-minded and dumb, but that's me.)  

I was speed-walking to the bus stop on 3rd Avenue, hoping to catch the 125 as soon as I got there.  as I was half a block away from 3rd I saw a bus pass down it headed south, the way I needed to go.  I was thinking, "I hope I didn't just miss the 125.  I wonder what bus that is..."  the 125, of course.  fuck me twice.

so now I'm thinking, "ok my Capital One credit card has some available credit left, but I don't know how much, and I don't know if they'll let me get a cash advance.  maybe I can put it into the ATM and see what it says."  I need twenty dollars.  somehow, I'm going to get into this show.  

and suddenly I remembered... oh that's right.  I have several hundred in Savings.  I just never think about it because I hate spending my Savings money.  so I hit up an ATM, took out $40, quickly quelled any qualms I had with the withdrawal, got some teriyaki at "Scaryaki" (the construction workers' name for it), and talked to Gina on the phone with my mouth full.  bad manners.  with $34.50 left, I jaywalked Pike past a bunch of people over to the Showbox.  then I realized the bunch of people were actually the line to see Mr. Ward.  cool.  I got in the back of the line.  

a bouncer walked by and I thought he said tickets were sold out.  I asked the guy in front of me if that's what he heard.  he turned around, reluctant to talk to a stranger but polite enough about it.  yeah, that's what he said.  

shittiness.  ok, well I saw a couple black guys walking up and down the line mumbling, "who wants tickets?"  I thought I'd catch one of them next time around.  about twenty after eight, the line started moving up slowly.  for a minute I was worried I'd reach the door before they came back.  he came by, I said "Hey.  how much?"

"Fifty bucks."

I laughed and shook my head.  "No man."

"How much you wanna pay?"

"I'll pay fifteen."  

He pulled out a ticket.  "Man look.  It's twenty bucks a ticket.  Tickets cost twenty bucks, and they're sold out.  Gotta have a ticket to get in."

"Nah it's for my friend.  He wants to come.  I'll pay twenty-five."

"Man I'll give it to you for forty."

I laughed and smiled.  "Nah."  he walked away.

when I reached the very front of the line, the main bouncer held out his arm to let the jam at the door clear up.  I asked him if there were any tickets to buy, he said it's sold out.  right then the same scalper came up to me and said, "Man I'll give it to you for thirty."

I had it ready in my pocket.  "Here it is."  we handed off and I walked in.

the opening band was decent.  a couple of songs were pretty good.  I think the band was called Port O'Brien.  for their last song, they handed out pots, pans, and spoons for people to bang on as they pleased.  it worked out very well, and the band got a good send-off.

after much standing around, M. Ward (just Matt himself) came on stage with an acoustic guitar and a harmonica hung around his neck.  I was already smiling.  I'm pretty sure he improvised his first song.  at one point he stopped with a smile slowly creeping onto his face, trying to find a rhyme, and at a loss, used the same word again.  people cheered.  later on he actually got people stomping, dancing, and cheering along with his jam (no lyrics, just instrumental).  I've never seen anyone bring so much energy into a crowded room with just one acoustic guitar, but he did.

and his voice is beautiful.  many guys are careful with using that word, especially when referring to some attribute of another male.  but really, his pitch is close to perfect, and his tone is raspy enough to keep it from reaching perfect and to bring it to some other beautifully imperfect place.

then the band came on.  first one old guy with a receding hairline and at least forty five years under his belt came onstage to whistle an accompaniment to Matt's guitar playing.  I was about to laugh, wondering if this guy is paid and driven around the country to whistle (very well, actually) for this one song.  but after that song, he grabbed another guitar, and the drummer, bassist, and keyboard player came onstage.

much of the rest of the show is a blur of good memories, but the drummer stood out.  at first he was playing very simplistic, rudimental rhythms.  I was still thinking he might be a local guy the band picked up when they rolled into Seattle, just a session drummer to fill a spot.  but as the show went on, his demeanor began to make an impression.  he was cool, and I mean cool like you would describe an old, overweight, black jazz drummer wearing a suit every night to gig at a dimly red, blues / jazz dive.  he just did his thing.  he wasn't looking around to see if people were enjoying the show.  he wasn't looking at the band for cues on when to do more, when to do less.  after a huge fill, smashing all the toms and crashing two cymbals at the end, he didn't look at anybody to say "how do ya like that?"  he just did his thing and knew it was good enough.  

after at least an hour, the show wound down.  then the first, fake goodbye that everyone knows is fake.  curtain call, encore.  M. Ward came out with a smile on his face and all of their faces, and they played "Vincent O'Brien."  I loved it, everyone loved it.  one or two more songs, and it was the real end.  

I never realized until tonight how great of a vocalist, how excellent a guitar player Matt Ward is.  tonight was one of those rare occasions when I become re-invigorated to pursue music.

a thought to help me

you don't need to know that I care about you, or that I regard your happiness as more important than mine, or that I love you even when you hurt me.  you don't need to know how much you mean to me because I do, and for now that's enough.  but I wish you could know how sorry I am.

one thing I enjoy about work is getting to experience job-site humor. this week our guys moved up to the 11th floor. I mean we door guys... S. Madison Services is our company's name. different trades are on all different levels. for example the cabinet guys - they work for Perrott - are a level ahead of us. the fuckin tile guys (which is how they're always referred to) are always on the floor we're on and always putting their stuff in our way and their trash in our cans. one time I pointed out to Dennis (our foreman) that our can was full of tile trash. he said "What!?!" picked up the can, walked over to the pallet with all their tiles, and dumped it on top. I thought the tile scraps were going to break the ones still in the boxes he dumped it so hard. he said "Don't be gentle with their shit!"

I thoroughly enjoy the humor of the job site.

our port-a-potties here are called Honey Buckets because they all say that on the side. that's the name of the company who provides and services them. anyway, I was in the honey bucket on monday... of course this is the beginning of a good story. the sticker that normally says "IF THIS UNIT IS IN NEED OF SERVICE PLEASE NOTIFY OUR OFFICE" was skillfully altered with a sharpie to say "IF THIS UNIT IS IN NEED OF SERVICE PLEASE NOTIFY YOUR ANUS."

in the stair well, taped to the wall outside the door to each floor is an orange, laminated piece of paper with bold writing saying "LEVEL blah." next to it is another orange paper that says "ABSOLUTELY NO FOOD, DRINK, OR TOBACCO ON THIS LEVEL!!!" on level 11 someone added to that sign in pencil: "drugs & alcohol ok" two days later the safety guy came around with a red marker and crossed that out, just to clarify.

and on each of those level number signs, someone wrote a little something in sharpie.
LEVEL 3 "to pee" then in different handwriting underneath that, it said "you're a fag!"
LEVEL 4 "horror"
LEVEL 5 "stay alive"
LEVEL 6 I forget
LEVEL 7 "s heaven"
LEVEL 8 "s great"
LEVEL 9 I forget
LEVEL 10 "pig pen"
LEVEL 11 "balls"

after thinking

... but you're exactly what I need. absolutely perfect.

copy/paste

I think I’ve found it. Just now, continuing a conversation in my head.

I’m looking for a Christian, in the oldest sense of the word. Not Christian vs catholic, or churched vs unchurched, or any bullshit like that. I mean someone who emulates Christ in their selfless regard for the happiness of others. Someone who makes others (me) happy without caring what they will get in return. Many of these Christians have never been to a church. It is possibly for that reason that they are the best type, the unadultered type of Christ-followers. These people don’t know they’re doing the work of God, they just do it because it is who they are.

Maybe their happiness isn’t derived from somewhere completely within themselves and it’s ok. If they attribute value to helping and serving others, and they are around people who do the same, then their own sense of purpose and well-being is established by what each is doing individually and edified by the others like them.

the first time I left San Diego, I didn't know what was in store for me here in Seattle. this time leaving I knew full well what house I'd be living in, what air mattress I'd be sleeping on, what work would be like tomorrow, how cold it is at six in the morning, and what it would be like to be alone again. I was not excited at all. even watching the wing flaps open during the landing couldn't fascinate me like it normally does.

let's say I was home again, home in SD. would I be happy? no, but -er. let's say you called me right now and we had another great talk. would that do it? no, but getting warm. let's say I knew you would love to talk to me any time, and I knew I could call and have a quick catch-up or a drawn-out talk about everything and about nothing until we were mumbling with our eyes half open and the sun was coming up, and either way it would be fine. would that do it? maybe. let's say I got to touch you again or hold your hand for one more song in the back seat. am I happy yet? in that moment, just for the time being, I'd be doing great.

but where's the grand slam? I'm pissed I missed free Dennys day btw. what could I have that would allow me to wake up every morning ready to smile because I know things are going right? I've come up with two answers thus far. uno: to know that my love is being accepted and given back just as freely. dos: to know that I'm doing something meaningful with my life, that I'm headed in a directioin instead of just hovering and dicking around like a cloud of flies churning in the air above some poo. I'm starting to think about those two things and wonder if they're actually the same.

FUCK

I'm screaming this:

dont let me drag you down. I'm waist deep in the mucky shit on the side of the road, but don't you dare even look back. run. run exactly the same way you were going and don't ever think about me. you can still make it. I'll crawl out sticking, stinking, dripping with filth, and you better not touch me. someone up ahead can help you, and the two of you will make it to where you and I should have gone. more than I want to be there with you, I now want you to be there with anyone who can show you what I should have. forget me. remembering will only hinder you getting there.

C.

the first time I heard about "The Secret," it was on some morning talk radio show. During their segment on dumb people in the news, they said something like "last week a man's bank refused to accept a check he wrote to himself for one million dollars. after watching The Secret, the man decided writing himself a check for a million dollars would help bring about that positive change he was looking for in his life."

then a year ago in my lovely personal development class, we watched some excerpts from the movie. I think the gist of the fifteen dollar dvd that holds the secret of the universe was if you think about something, it will happen.

if you think about success long enough and hard enough, you'll be successful. if you think, "I hope I don't get in a car accident," you're still putting out the vibrations of "car accident" into the universe, so you're going to get into a car accident anyway.

anything good that happens to you, you earned it by thinking about it. anything bad happens, you caused it by hoping it wouldn't happen.

the second part is completely ludicrous, so I'll say nothing of it. but as for the first part.... I came up with something at work today.

The Secret got it half right. thinking about success is necessary to become successful. HOWEVER. they stop short of finishing the idea. thinking about success and then taking action will make you successful. if you think long enough and hard enough, "how can I make money?" you will get an idea, then you try it. it probably won't work the first time, so you think some more. eventually, with the right amount of thought and action, you will get what you want. tons of positive thinking alone won't get you shit. it's because you were so driven towards your goal that you thought about it so much, and after thinking about it enough, you had a viable course of action to realize your goal. then you achieved your goal. A causes B, B facilitates C, C causes D. a shitload of B, however, will never cause D. you need C.

working thoughts

so at work I'm often inside a half-finished condo by myself moving material, cleaning up, looking for tools, whatever. I take advantage of the alone time to sing (poorly) and think. today I had two good thoughts and one decent song. I can't very well share my singing with you through a blog, but here were my two epiphanies:

1. Construction is essentially moving things. No matter what trade you are, your job is to move something from the pallet on which it was delivered to the place in one of the units where it will remain for up to a few decades.

I was taking a couple trash cans down the lift to the dumpster on 4th Avenue, when I saw a forklift unloading a stack of drywall onto the loading dock. I envisioned watching the path of one sheet of drywall, following it in fast-forward motion as it got taken up the lift to the floor it was headed to, then sitting in a stack for a couple seconds as men scurry around like blurry ants taking sheet after sheet off the pile until this one was up. then it gets carried into some bedroom, screwed into the metal studs, painted over, and there it sits for the rest of its life as the inhabitants of its bedroom scurry around busily and age and move out.

2. Construction is essentially the male equivalent to stripping. a woman's body produces more estrogen than a man's, so she grows boobs and makes money off them. a man's body produces more testosterone than a woman's, so he grows more muscle mass and makes money utilizing it. we're all just exploiting our hormones.

a dream upon awakening

this morning I woke up on my stomach. my eyes were still closed, but I realized I was conscious. I lifted myself up while turning my head and opened my eyes to check the time on the alarm clock next to my bed. when I opened my eyes I saw an ivory wall and a sliding glass door, and outside the fog was glowing an incandescent white. it was such a disappointment within that one second of realization that my alarm clock was in a room in my parents' house in a city I no longer call home. the last two and a half weeks suddenly shoved itself between my dream and reality.

I felt so saddened by this because I knew that after one or two more times, I would stop looking for my stupid, black, plastic, Radio Shack alarm clock I've had since the early 90s. I will know it's not there anymore.

I know chivalry is dead

... because I killed it.

I was sitting at the bus next to Sergio when a mom and her four year old daughter got on. mommy couldn't find any empty seats, so she leaned against the wall and held on to little precious pooopy between her bipod. I thought, "I should give her my seat," and did nothing. heading down 3rd Avenue, I realized how I really ought to give her my seat and still did nothing. Sergio mumbled, "Brian, you should give her your seat," because Sergio is Sergio, and Sergio would tell me to offer a lady my seat when he could just as easily do the same. I remumbled, "When we stop." So then we stopped, and a lady farther gave up her seat for the lady without a seat, as I sat there and looked and felt like a dumb shit.

story of my life.

two things

1. "I've been in a sort of depression for a while now. a man - even a strong man - can tread water for a while. and he can stay up and keep going. but then a wave comes and knocks you under. then you have a choice. you can keep treading water. or you can get flushed down like a turd in a toilet, and that's it. I'm still going..."

don't bother googling it, you won't find it.



2. I wouldn't have told anyone this part of my motivation for going.

my plan was to leave before I got left. I don't expect anyone to stay with any permanence in my life, and only three people know why. I wonder how things might have turned out if I'd stayed.

seattle

it was exactly one week ago I arrived here. I have yet to befriend anyone up here, but I'll work on that. As for the city itself, I love it.

in Europe last February, as I walked through the cobbled streets of Belgium, I tried to imagine what it would be like to leave California and call this new place my home. that's one image that stuck with me - the masonry. it gave the place texture, made it feel different from home. in the last week, twice I've taken the bus downtown to wander the streets aimlessly. there are some wonderful bricks here, and they feel nothing like the red ones of 5th Avenue, San Diego.

currently, Scot is up here visiting his cousin Lisa who lives in Kent, about twenty minutes down the freeway (or a little longer when she gets lost in the ghetto). Lisa and Scot picked me up after work today. first we put some Dicks in our mouths. (it's the closest competition Washington has against In-n-Out. I'm unimpressed.) then we went to her house for dinner and a viewing of her notorious soccer video where she scored the winning goal two minutes after getting a yellow card. the whole damn time she swore it was right about to happen. and Scot finally gave me my going away present(s). presently, I'm enjoying the first cd as I type away furiously. "Chicago" just came on [:

it was extremely cathartic to see a familiar face. I've been so preoccupied with work, getting settled in, trying to find food in our kitchen, that I haven't been able to collect my thoughts and truly relax. it's going to be hard for a while, and I appreciate anything that will make it easier.