Another sad sack work of fiction, or: We (heart) Carver

And that’s how it ends. We’re posted up on the porch in the dead of night. The fog sits low over town, low enough that the glow of the prison lights are reflected like an amber heaven, and the airport tower slices through at regular intervals, first white, then blue. The night is cold, and the cigarette smoke hangs in the air around us, and his last statement with it. I’m left thinking, this is how it ends.

It was always going to come out this way, with him begrudging me, or maybe me hating him, or both of us turning to other cheeks, other warmth. I’ve been ready for this since the day we met, when I knew, even then, that between the two of us there wasn’t enough warmth to hold up in a frost, let alone a hard freeze. We’re rich in soul, but poor of heart. I think now that I chose him because I knew it wouldn’t end dramatically; I understood that between us it would simply end. It was a nice enough go of it, for all it was. I’m only sorry it’s ending now, just now, when it seems one needs another more than anything else.

The foghorn bleats, keeping time and measuring the distance between breaths. The local stray cats slink by, streaking home to the widow who feeds them. In passing, they incite the neighborhood dogs to barking, and suddenly the stretched silence is filled with an apparent cacophony. Between the horn, the dogs, the barking seals, and the neighbors arguing, the silence seems almost enough to make me sorry over this.

But I won’t be regretful or sad, it’s not in our idiom. “So that’s that,” I manage, my own contribution to the noise and lack thereof. And it is; we loved in our own halfhearted way, each too busy protecting our own to actually reach out and care for the other. It is done, and was done, and will now be gotten beyond. He has finished rolling his cigarette and tucks the package back into his deep pocket, mutters to the affirmative; we have finished the last beers in the case and lay the empties beside their fallen bretheren. And we get up; he steps off the porch and into the mist, and I make sure to lock the door behind me.

In Which I Manage to Cock-block Myself

This post brought to you by Bacardi Silver(TM).

I managed, through complete and utter fabulousness, to cock-block mySELF last night. In summation, the drunk me hates the sober me and doesn't want me to be happy. It was likely my subconscious trying to save me from a poor fit, but feels bitter nonetheless. Not once, mind you, but twice. Twice. And I repeat myself.

Talking to so many old lovers recently, and wondering who I'd be if things had been different. Did I ever tell you that we got pregnant? That I killed it, and that I was secretly glad; not so much because I was afraid of being a mother, but that I was afraid of telling you, and finding out that you weren't the man I envisioned you to be? But we were pregnant. It happened, and lately I have trouble ignoring it. Also because lately everyone I know is pregnant, and I can't go a single stupid day without hearing about the status of some dumb broad's uterus. This kills me.

I was never good at friends. So much about envisioning another life is scary, but so much of this one is already played out and old. It's maybe time to leave. It's too late to leave gracefully, but just the right time to cut one's losses and head for the hills of my youth. Stubborn has gotten me nothing but hurt.

I'm so glad to be older. I'm glad in that I think I've finally arrived at some sort of peace. All that anything requires any more is time. Everything passes through me, all the joy and all the anguish, and it feels so much at the time, but it all passes. It's nice to know that you just have to have the patience to wait it out anymore. Things all felt so goddamn important when I was younger, and now I have the ability to relax, to let the swell pass over me, bend me and release me, and know that I just have to let go and hold my breath. With enough waiting, everything is right as rain. Imagining that rain is right, in this case.

And I bid you good day, or good night. Know that I am thinking of you, as it would seem that only dearest friends read this, and I have not even the common courtesy to return your calls. In my own way, always in my own way. Here's to us, to you, and to the unknown pleasant occurrances of our futures.

The terms of Secret Squirrel Project 887-F

If I move to SF, we must commit to doing all of the following:
-frequent the flea markets,
-eat outrageous food,
-develop a penchant for elegant yet ridicuolous cocktails, and
-become known for hollering.

These are my terms. I'm turning in my application today.

Get beaten with the Ugly Stick

Behold: The Ugly. An original Con Ugly, which fell into my possession through a rather circuitous route. Belonged a while back to a friend’s brother, whose ex-girlfriend I ran into one day on the beach. She was trying to raise gas money to get to Portland, and wanted to sell a bunch of boards he’d given her, including the Ugly. For sixty bucks, I was the new owner of four, mostly busted, boards. They hung out for a while in my garage, while I dreamt of hacking them up for patio furniture. Then my friend wanted them, and we made a trade – the boards in exchange for a moderately thrashed shortie. The boards ended up lying in the side yard for months before I asked for 2 of them back – the ugly and a Noll, both missing most of the underside glass. It was a hot commodity – I had at least four people offer me grand things in trade for it. All of them wanted to reglass it, use it. Noble, really. I wasn’t tempted, except to reglass it for myself. Then my friend’s sister wanted the Ugly, and I couldn’t say no. She said it belonged ‘in the family.’ I scraped about 15 years of what seemed like mostly beeswax and straight paraffin off of it – a 6-hour job – and polished it with an old pair of nylons. It became a birthday present to her, and she had planned to hang it in her house. It’s now holding up her garage wall. Such is life. Farewell, Ugly. You belonged to me, but were never really mine.