...and with it, a perhaps stormy attitude. As the thunder rattles the building, streaks of electric blue light flash outside against the muggy grey of afternoon sky. Rain hits the windows, normally a sound of comfort for me, but today I feel more trapped. I went to the farmers market this morning for an hour. Pickings were slim, and I felt the storm coming in. Time to go. Zach came over for an hour or so, and we sat catching up on the past 5 years since we'd seen each other last. I was struck by how much has happened. How much has changed. The many different lives I've led in such a small span of time. He as well. The storm continued after he left, and I spent the rest of the day truly at a loss for what do with myself. I yearned to go outside, to take my bike out, work and stretch muscles, pedal and pound out my stress, and sweat out all the annoying thoughts that flood my brain. Flood. I think of the steady downpour outside and begin to picture it coming through the windows, filling up our living room, surrounding and engulfing me as I sit in my arm chair. I try to collect some sense of peace, quite, stillness from the water that has now entirely filled our apartment, try revel in the tranquility of drowning. I can't. My mind is elsewhere and everywhere, and though I feel like I can't breathe, it's not a peace but a panic. I don't do well when I'm bored. It only aggravates and frustrates me. Rick and Jolene come over at night. We make a huge batch of curry and fill ourselves to satisfaction. Our conversation is good and goes on well into the night. But, eventually, they must go, and I am left again to deafening silence and solitary sleeplessness. I would take a sleeping pill, but on call starts in a few hours. I am realizing that I picked up too many extra shifts, and it is taking a toll on me physically and mentally. I want the sun to come back. I want to feel the air drift over my face as I cut through it on the trails. I want to feel my skin burn and turn to brown in summer rays. And I want to stay out and avoid coming home to an empty apartment.
I feel like maybe I'm being needy and whiny right now. But maybe it's just the weather.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Friday, May 30, 2014
Uptown Kinda Night...
The hum of the night, the hum of the cars,
As whirring and blurring and traffic lights change,
The pace of my feet keeping time, and forward, always forward,
Carry me through the lucid, night air.
Join us in Uptown, join the dance,
The whirring and stirring, the writhing, contorting mass
Of flesh and of fog, and cheap alcohol special,
Drenched in sweat and whiskey soaked enthusiasm.
Outside for air are the words, the words of half-grown children,
Mix with the words of the ancient crowd, and the old men sing
Sad songs of girls or of boys they have loved in their youth.
Love past. Long past. Life passed.
The one-eyed wince of cigarette pulls,
Who needs to live forever when we can live it up tonight?
We throw our hands towards the starry sky,
We lords of the night, and romantics clinging to hour-long love affairs.
Hangovers.
Hospital beds. Receipts of the night's revelry
Are for those who will live tomorrow morning to pay the bill,
But they are not for us to worry tonight.
We fill our lungs a little deeper, open chests a little wider,
The more our ribs to push.
Pupils dilate against nightlight backdrop and the twinkle of the teardrop strings
Prevail now over daylight.
Join us in Uptown.
You're in Uptown, baby. Uptown, downtown,
You're a jazz town, a snap town,
The rasp of the vowel when you say the word,
Jazz.
Jazz and the snap of a snare plays on behind sweat sticky brick walls
And thunder drum rolls. Uptown.
She's the gentle Jezebel we take to our beds for the night and
Throw our stones at come sunrise. We dance and whisper in her ear,
"Hate me in the morning, only tell me you love me tonight."
It's a town I could love if this weren't already lust.
America, the beautiful bastard, is a gluttonous youth,
A horse straining against our parental starting gates,
But, oh, doesn't she know how to party?
You'll know her when you see her. You'll feel it in your feet.
Look to the ground and see it on the dance floor,
And you'll know, you're in Uptown, baby.
You live in Uptown now, baby.
As whirring and blurring and traffic lights change,
The pace of my feet keeping time, and forward, always forward,
Carry me through the lucid, night air.
Join us in Uptown, join the dance,
The whirring and stirring, the writhing, contorting mass
Of flesh and of fog, and cheap alcohol special,
Drenched in sweat and whiskey soaked enthusiasm.
Outside for air are the words, the words of half-grown children,
Mix with the words of the ancient crowd, and the old men sing
Sad songs of girls or of boys they have loved in their youth.
Love past. Long past. Life passed.
The one-eyed wince of cigarette pulls,
Who needs to live forever when we can live it up tonight?
We throw our hands towards the starry sky,
We lords of the night, and romantics clinging to hour-long love affairs.
Hangovers.
Hospital beds. Receipts of the night's revelry
Are for those who will live tomorrow morning to pay the bill,
But they are not for us to worry tonight.
We fill our lungs a little deeper, open chests a little wider,
The more our ribs to push.
Pupils dilate against nightlight backdrop and the twinkle of the teardrop strings
Prevail now over daylight.
Join us in Uptown.
You're in Uptown, baby. Uptown, downtown,
You're a jazz town, a snap town,
The rasp of the vowel when you say the word,
Jazz.
Jazz and the snap of a snare plays on behind sweat sticky brick walls
And thunder drum rolls. Uptown.
She's the gentle Jezebel we take to our beds for the night and
Throw our stones at come sunrise. We dance and whisper in her ear,
"Hate me in the morning, only tell me you love me tonight."
It's a town I could love if this weren't already lust.
America, the beautiful bastard, is a gluttonous youth,
A horse straining against our parental starting gates,
But, oh, doesn't she know how to party?
You'll know her when you see her. You'll feel it in your feet.
Look to the ground and see it on the dance floor,
And you'll know, you're in Uptown, baby.
You live in Uptown now, baby.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Love Did Come...
I must keep this brief. The difficulty of posting from a smartphone in a basement with sporadic internet cannot be overstated. I had meant to go to the library. Or Gigi's. Somewhere I could take the computer, sit down and get some stuff done, write a proper blog. I had meant to go biking. These things, though, did not happen today. Work kept calling me in. I am finally home, tired. Hot. Haven't had enough water. It's in the 80's here, and humid. I lie on the bed, cooling off and eating frozen peaches from Rick's work. My day wasn't entirely wasted. Aside from overtime pay from work, I made it over to national camera exchange for an appraisal, and I went back to your old place for the remainder of your magnet words and a couple other things. There was a lot of words. It actually took a while to get them off, some because alcohol must have been spilled on them, adhering them solidly to the mini fridge. I threw them away, but at least got the whole thing cleared off and most of the words put into a bag and brought home. I left three words for the guys to find. Just so they wouldn't freak out that, suddenly, several things were now gone from the apartment. "Love did come" I wrote out. Hopefully, they'll remember my last name and understand, I think Nico will.
When you get the chance, tell me about what you're doing, what you're seeing. People, food, places you've visited. I want to know what it's like.
I miss you like crazy. Love you forever.
B
When you get the chance, tell me about what you're doing, what you're seeing. People, food, places you've visited. I want to know what it's like.
I miss you like crazy. Love you forever.
B
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
On the trail...
Gigi's is closing in about half an hour. Can I pop out another blog? Can I write as much as I need to say in that amount of time? I think I can. Most of the thoughts I've had today raced through my mind as though I were composing the words to write. Did I ever tell you that? Did you know that when I'm speaking, or listening, I see words in my brain as they enter my ears? You say my name, and I see it there before me, spelled out, like on the page of a book. I developed the technique very early on, perhaps to help with my mild dyslexia...and it helped. Unless I don't know how to spell a word that I'm hearing, then I'm just momentarily confused. Now, the technique is habit, and I do it unconsciously. So, as I rode my bike today, guiding it down the various trails of the greenway, my thoughts formed in my mind in a way as though I were already seated before a computer, writing it out. The actual act of writing has always been easy and fast because the words are already there, sentences and phrases already formed, and my typing feels like merely taking dictation from my brain, my brain the author, the words already strung together.
I guess you can't see videos, so I should focus on writing and pictures. Good to know. We talked a lot today. Well, a lot in comparison to how little contact we've had in the last week. It was what I needed. The motivation to get up, get out. You asked me to post tonight for you. I probably would not have gone out, but I knew I would have to if I wanted the internet access.
You either fell asleep or you lost internet access. Whichever it was, the conversation stopped. I took that as a good cue to get off my ass and get going. Life doesn't happen to those who sit in dark basement apartments in boxers and sweaters. Life happens on the trail. Whatever form that trail may take, you get on it. You get up, you start moving, you stretch your limbs forward, even as they ache and beg to stop, you push forward, ever forward, and run towards that which is alive. I can't stay in the apartment alone for too long. It makes me lazy and despondent. I feel it suck my energy the more I sit in there. I need the feel of the air hitting my face, the burn of muscles that have sat idle for too long. My legs are now starting to adapt, though it's taken more pain than I had expected. After the injury, they lost most of the strength that they used to have. A year of inactivity and "taking it easy on myself" may have helped the injuries, but the muscles are now complaining as they are being forced to wake from their overly long vacation.
A burned out lighter. An empty bag of fun-sized snicker bars. A stray tabby cat that looks at me and I look back and it seems to say, "what the fuck you looking at? haven't you ever seen a cat on the greenway before?" I know I've hit midtown. The smells. Grease and spices from various restaurants mix in my nostrils, and garbage cans sit longingly looking at garbage that was so close to being put in the right place. It's a small stretch. It's a dirty stretch. But it holds a certain charm, a bit of nostalgia for me. Was it two years? Three? I don't remember. I was a visitor to this city. California kissed and a rookie of the Midwest. Used to cars and traffic and smog and overcrowded freeways. I had sat under an overpass here, watched the bikers and joggers on the greenway, ate my lunch and wondered, "what is this magical thing, this trail, this freeway free of cars, this road dedicated entirely to the bikers?" I remember swearing then that I would come back, that when I moved here, I would bike this trail. And now, here I am. Thighs burning, tan forming, lungs and heart pumping, my legs keeping time with the squeak, squeak, squeak of the gears beneath me. Which overpass was it? There's a few it could be. I'm not sure now. But they all mean the same. They mean a goal reached. A promise to myself that I have kept. And that's important.
I pedal on. A rest stop. A cafe along the way that's just for the bikers. They sell smoothies and energy drinks, and soups, and sandwiches, and they fix bikes, and they sell any and all parts you may want. The leather sofas look inviting for tired limbs, and customers walk around in spandex shorts as they browse the clothing selection or pick out a new muscle rub. I order a smoothie called the "Vegan Suicide." I could use the chia. It's a pretty amazing drink, I must say. The bikes are overpriced, but you pay for what you get. There's an interesting feel to the place, half cafe, half repair shop, and a pinch of retail. Customers don't linger there long. They are there for a brief stop only, the trail calls us back. We must keep moving.
Refuelled, we pedal on. The more I ride, the more days I spend out there, the more I feel a part of a new and exhilarating community. We communicate through silent or brief acknowledgement, a head nod here, a call of "left!" there. When I started, I wore jean shorts, black chucks. Normal clothes. Now, I find I get more of that quiet affirming, more nods, as I ride. Black spandex shorts, backwards baseball caps. That is my uniform now. There's an unspoken dress code that seems to get you more respect. You can see who's serious about their sport. You can tell by the legs who's been out there longest. You can see it in the legs, this hierarchy, this road respect. Like bucks with biggest antlers, we measure each other, size each other up by our calves. My chicken legs are getting stronger, my muscles slowly more defined. I count more nods each day.
I guess you can't see videos, so I should focus on writing and pictures. Good to know. We talked a lot today. Well, a lot in comparison to how little contact we've had in the last week. It was what I needed. The motivation to get up, get out. You asked me to post tonight for you. I probably would not have gone out, but I knew I would have to if I wanted the internet access.
You either fell asleep or you lost internet access. Whichever it was, the conversation stopped. I took that as a good cue to get off my ass and get going. Life doesn't happen to those who sit in dark basement apartments in boxers and sweaters. Life happens on the trail. Whatever form that trail may take, you get on it. You get up, you start moving, you stretch your limbs forward, even as they ache and beg to stop, you push forward, ever forward, and run towards that which is alive. I can't stay in the apartment alone for too long. It makes me lazy and despondent. I feel it suck my energy the more I sit in there. I need the feel of the air hitting my face, the burn of muscles that have sat idle for too long. My legs are now starting to adapt, though it's taken more pain than I had expected. After the injury, they lost most of the strength that they used to have. A year of inactivity and "taking it easy on myself" may have helped the injuries, but the muscles are now complaining as they are being forced to wake from their overly long vacation.
A burned out lighter. An empty bag of fun-sized snicker bars. A stray tabby cat that looks at me and I look back and it seems to say, "what the fuck you looking at? haven't you ever seen a cat on the greenway before?" I know I've hit midtown. The smells. Grease and spices from various restaurants mix in my nostrils, and garbage cans sit longingly looking at garbage that was so close to being put in the right place. It's a small stretch. It's a dirty stretch. But it holds a certain charm, a bit of nostalgia for me. Was it two years? Three? I don't remember. I was a visitor to this city. California kissed and a rookie of the Midwest. Used to cars and traffic and smog and overcrowded freeways. I had sat under an overpass here, watched the bikers and joggers on the greenway, ate my lunch and wondered, "what is this magical thing, this trail, this freeway free of cars, this road dedicated entirely to the bikers?" I remember swearing then that I would come back, that when I moved here, I would bike this trail. And now, here I am. Thighs burning, tan forming, lungs and heart pumping, my legs keeping time with the squeak, squeak, squeak of the gears beneath me. Which overpass was it? There's a few it could be. I'm not sure now. But they all mean the same. They mean a goal reached. A promise to myself that I have kept. And that's important.
I pedal on. A rest stop. A cafe along the way that's just for the bikers. They sell smoothies and energy drinks, and soups, and sandwiches, and they fix bikes, and they sell any and all parts you may want. The leather sofas look inviting for tired limbs, and customers walk around in spandex shorts as they browse the clothing selection or pick out a new muscle rub. I order a smoothie called the "Vegan Suicide." I could use the chia. It's a pretty amazing drink, I must say. The bikes are overpriced, but you pay for what you get. There's an interesting feel to the place, half cafe, half repair shop, and a pinch of retail. Customers don't linger there long. They are there for a brief stop only, the trail calls us back. We must keep moving.
Refuelled, we pedal on. The more I ride, the more days I spend out there, the more I feel a part of a new and exhilarating community. We communicate through silent or brief acknowledgement, a head nod here, a call of "left!" there. When I started, I wore jean shorts, black chucks. Normal clothes. Now, I find I get more of that quiet affirming, more nods, as I ride. Black spandex shorts, backwards baseball caps. That is my uniform now. There's an unspoken dress code that seems to get you more respect. You can see who's serious about their sport. You can tell by the legs who's been out there longest. You can see it in the legs, this hierarchy, this road respect. Like bucks with biggest antlers, we measure each other, size each other up by our calves. My chicken legs are getting stronger, my muscles slowly more defined. I count more nods each day.
the blog wherein Beckett hangs with real people...
Rick looking...angelic?
I guess we weren't supposed to bring Buddy. Oh well.
Hillbilly tomatoes
Jolene's coffee dance
Monday, May 26, 2014
How do you know your farmer's tan is authentic?
When you get it at a farmer's market!
I'll put up pictures tomorrow.
K, I'm done. I'm going to bed.
I love you.
B
I'll put up pictures tomorrow.
K, I'm done. I'm going to bed.
I love you.
B
Saturday, May 24, 2014
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