I
I don’t
I don’t care
I don’t care about
I don’t care about you
I don’t care about you and him
I don’t care about you
I don’t care about
I don’t care
I don’t
I
A day in the life…
19 04 2013Some days are better than others…today was not one of them. A trip to the dentist has left me with the left side of my face a numb mess, which one could safely assume the left side of my brain must also be affected to a certain extent. I don’t seem to possess the necessary problem solving skills to prove or disprove this theory, so by default it is proven.
I was scheduled to replace a filling that had began to fail. It seemed like a clear case of double jeopardy to me, but being neither a dentist nor a lawyer I found no leg to stand on. The dentist asked if I would like to replace the filling with a silver amalgam or a composite. I began to consider the very real possibility of out of control inflation and warehousing a bit of precious metal seemed logical enough.
He informed me that the composite was “tooth colored and a little more expensive”. To which I informed him that “I was no mouth model and cheaper is better”. We both sat in stunned silence trying to figure out exactly what a mouth model was, or did for that matter, as I just nodded knowingly. He recommended the composite due to it ability to resist drastic temperature fluctuations in addition to its cosmetic advantages. It seems the silver amalgam is prone to cracking teeth during these events. Thoughts of an ice cold Stella pouring over an unsuspecting tooth, leaving it a shatter mess, convinced me the composite was the way to go. Besides, if this radiology thing doesn’t work out, I can always fall back on what one would expect to be, a lucrative mouth modeling career. Oh, the travel.
After an hour of sheer dental ecstasy, I was done. I strode into the parking lot taking a quick inventory of my senses, ensuring it was safe for me to operate a motor vehicle. I decided that as long as I avoided any left turns, I would be just fine.
I was hungry, but the fear of eating my own tongue suppressed any hunger games that my dwindling blood sugar could argue for. I decided to head to Walmart, because it was the only place where intelligible speech was not required for commerce and I needed a few things too. Now as you enter a super Walmart, faced with the reality that you could buy diapers, ammo, and a treadmill in one store, the scope of it all seems daunting. I decided to swallow my pride and ask for directions to the outdoor speakers, in a desperate attempt to recoup time lost in a supine position with a mouth full of purple fingers.
Now I didn’t fully appreciate the havoc being placed on the V3 branch of my 5th cranial nerve, and as I do all to often, opened my mouth to speak. I boldly charged into the minefield of oral motor planning with out a plan. I didn’t realize this, but apparently employees of Walmart spend a fair amount of time in some type of speech and language school honing their skills in deciphering garbled speech, and was soon rewarded with a quick answer to my question. Ahh…competence.
Now I am quick to reward competence and fancy myself polite by nature, so I summoned up a sincere ”thank you”. Apparently when I swallowed my pride to ask for directions, I forgot to swallow my saliva. The polite gesture was rudely interrupted by an impressive amount of slobber that drained from my numb lip onto the floor between us. We both looked down, and after admiring the impressive volume of spit that came out of one person at one time, looked back at each other. Not being fluent in the bodily fluid protocols of Walmart I did the only thing I could think of . I quickly raised my finger to my nose and blurted out “Not it!!
What happened next will stay with me forever. The Walmartian, with out breaking stride opined the following. ”Don’t worry, it’ll dry’. Truer words were never spoken. I now tried to distance myself from the crime scene and any possible liability stemming from an unfortunate slipping accident, and the magnitude of his wisdom began to unfold inside the functioning right side of my cerebral cortex. How many times in life had I worried unnecessarily? How many situations would have simply resolved themselves, given sufficient time and humidity? It simply boggles the mind.
I now sit on my back porch as the shadows from the Queen Palms stretch across the pool, reflecting on things I waste time and energy worrying about. The left side of my face is now returning to normal, and I assume the areas of reason and logic will soon follow, but for now I will pour out my worries, my fears, my anxieties…and simply let them dry.
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Confessions of a 44 year old man.
5 03 2013I was recently informed by the lady who cuts my hair that they now make a shampoo that helps with balding. At first I assumed she was just making small talk, but soon realized she was talking about me, not to me. It should be noted this lady is a close family friend and runs with my wife on a regular basis. I am not accusing Brenda of having someone else do her dirty work, but I am all about full disclosure, especially somebody else’s.
Apparently the scalp goes through a transformation that leaves the surface shiny, signaling the end of youth and any chance of being famous for something other than a horrific crime. This new wonderpoo is suppose to eat away at the sands of time and leave your scalp fresh and ready, leaving me with visions of that afro I have always wanted.
Excited to meet the new Joe, I hoped into the shower to begin the fist day of the rest of my hairy life. As I worked this magic elixir into my scalp a noticeable tingling began to assuage my fears of being left not only bald, but shiny bald. This comfort was interrupted by a subtle change in the aforementioned tingling.
I realized that I had neglected to read the directions, which by the way is what will probably be engraved on my headstone. I have been shampooing my own hair for some time now, and rarely do I take the time to make sure nothing important has changed. I bravely finished the shampoo portion and moved confidently to the conditioner phase. As I applied what one would think to be a balm, a relief, or at the very least some chemical formula on the other end of the Ph scale to neutralize my science project. Not so. One might even suggest an escalation had taken place leaving me to consider the importance of reading the directions.
The tingleburn was now front and center and providing ample covering fire against any bastions of my pride that felt compelled to attack as I tried to read what was surely important information. Unfortunately my eyes started to fail me around forty and I rarely shower with my reading glasses on anymore. This left me with the “squint and stretch” technique, a mating dance employed by middle age men the world over when trying to attract beautiful women. It involves bringing the bottle close to your face and squinting, then stretching your arm out as far as you can to try and discern the microfont laser etched into the side of said bottle. After a few back and forths, common sense kicked in and I simply washed it out.
After my shower I returned to the scene of the crime, reading glasses at the ready, to make sure a call to poison control was not in order. As it turns out the directions I was trying to read were in French and anybody that really knows me, knows that my French is worse than my eye site. Sacrebleu!!
As fate would have it, everything worked out. My scalp eventually stopped burning, plans to invade Canada (they are closer) subsided, and I learned a few things about myself and medicated shampoos. Now the only thing I can do is sit back and wait for my soon to be, sweet chia pet afro to rear it’s ugly head.
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Chapter 2
23 06 2012There is comfort in knowing how your life will end. Not exactly how or when, but enough of an idea that spending any time worrying about it seems like time wasted. Most men are born of the land. They till it, shape it, cut it down, and build it back up. They find comfort in the steady beat of terra firma and depend on a set of predictable factors to govern their lives.
I was born of water and will be taken back by the same. She is a wicked mistress that ebbs and floods inside those taken by her. She requires a steady diet of souls who find comfort in her solitude, make their living off her excess, and crave to taste her briny secrets. There are very few certainties in life, but for those who choose a lifetime of trespass, an inevitable last chapter is written for them.
***
Walter Davis was a man full of of his past. He seemed to have endless supply of places in his soul to hide his collection of sins. As if he took pleasure in strolling through his memories and fondling the keepsakes of his past. Most men possess at least one honorable trait, but Walter Davis was not one of them. I almost admired his ability to not feel, to not be burdened with the daily trappings of a human conscience, almost.
My father told me that my mother had died during childbirth and her soul was now in better hands. There was something about the way he looked at me when he told me that I knew part of him blamed me. People around town spoke of a different man than I ever knew. They said he seemed pushed by an eternal optimism that sought to find the kindness in others. I never knew him. I knew a man that had died many years ago, but didn’t have the good sense to quit walking around with the rest of us. He was a human facade, propped up only by his devotion to one thing…his sloop. He had managed to keep a roof over our head by running a small mercantile on the first floor of our house. We lived upstairs in a two room apartment devoid of anything that resembled happiness.
Walter Davis was the town’s apothecary and anything else he decided he chose to involve himself in. There was a nasty rumor that surfaced from time to time that Walter had also involved himself in my mother. The story of my mother dying during childbirth was probably better described as, because of childbirth. Most people around town knew my father had killed my mother and would have been just fine if she took the bastard son of Walter Davis straight to hell with her. He never lifted a hand against her, he just let her pour out.
A local fisherman came into the store and found my father sitting on the floor with his hands pushing his head into his knees. The doctor came to find him in the same place and my mother halfway home. They said I was found clutched in my mothers arms wrapped in a blood soaked night shirt.
***
I was saved from myself by the sound of a brass turnbuckle beating against the mast. The wind had shifted again now the once welcome warmth had become a stale guest. I adjusted the main sheet traveler and eased the jib and began to plot a course toward Sucia Island. The Spanish named it for a word in their language that means “dirty” because of an area littered with unforgiving rocky formations that lie just below the surface at high tide. Most people had enough sense to avoid this area, even the tax collectors were hard pressed to test their fate. If the wind held I would be there around midnight.
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Categories : Fiction
Chapter 1
22 06 2012I pushed the tiller over, released port jib sheet, and gathered the starboard sheet onto the winch. The old sloop dipped and relucantly leaned back over, settling onto her new course to a symphony of knots tightening and the sound of cordage stretching. There was very little need to tack, other than escaping the shade of the mainsail and the morning sun seemed necessary. The warmth felt good and did not seem burdened with worries, and for a moment I was able to join her. As I leaned into the welcome change, I was able to drift away into the space between here and now.
I became preoccupied with the tiller handle and studied the worn areas. The gentle curves reminded me of a woman and I became mesmerized by the irregular grain pattern, like there were hidden answers if a person just looked hard enough. The tawny varnish gave way to a neglected area that had suffered the constant sandings of hands made rough by hemp sheets. Again, reminding me of a woman.
***
The sound of the gun shot was so out of context that I had a hard time understanding if had really happened. I sat in stunned silence as the sound rapidly tried to escape, as if to avoid any wicked association. Time began to bend and warp as my mind unfolded the scene. The second sound was different. A slower thud that seemed less concerned with leaving.
The blood soon found it’s way through the floor boards of the old house. It traced a straight line across the ceiling and then found a split in the wood. At first the stain spread across the ceiling as if the whole world had tipped upside down. But soon enough, a saturation point was reached and began the inevitable weeping of a life poured out.
***
The wind had shifted from E to SE and had all but given up her efforts. The sails luffed and soon the push of the current was stronger than the wind. We floated along like a hearing gull, much in need of rest, and I soon drifted off into a restless sleep. I now feared sleep, for there was no escape and little rest. The subconscious has very little concern for the rest of the body, and will not be governed. And much to the detriment of every other member, will replay our darkest memories and weave them with gross distortions of reality, leaving a person to struggle with it all means.
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Categories : Fiction
Flip flop life.
9 06 2012For some time I have been craving a flip flop life. It represented a day well spent. For some reason, flip flops seem to ward off anything that resembles responsibility. They will lead you to task like hosing stuff off and/or having another. I assume the magic lies in the message that they convey to everyone around you. If you are an adult male walking around in flip flops on a Tuesday afternoon, nobody is going to ask you anything too important. Also, heavy lifting, for safety reasons, is out.
I now live in a flip flopatopia. My first indication was my flip flop tan lines in January. I suppose this was more a function of the white Washington feet I had before, but tan lines in January can’t be all that bad. In Washington I scanned a disproportionate number of patients with MS. The common thought was a lack of sunshine and Vit D production. I suppose on the other end of the spectrum is the number of flip flop patients I now have. Due to the hordes of like minded flip flopatonians, plantar fasciitis seems epidemic. Myself included.
Like everything new, a learning curve is a must. While I can’t always hit a learning curve, there is hope. After a little manual labor helping a friend move, he felt obligated to to reward my effort with what must be the highest evolutionary example of thonged footware known to man. These flops are not your grandfathers TG&Y specials. I don’t have proof, but I am pretty sure that NASA was involved in their development (they have a little more time on their hands now). These flops boast ample arch support, an air cushioned heel that MJ would be proud of, and a bottle opener on the bottom. Not just one bottle opener, but one on each foot just in case. I told you these were not your Grandfathers flops.
Just when I had almost lost faith in humanity, in a creative process that could only produce new and more painful ways to punish ones enemies, these little gems come along. I don’t think there is a Nobel peace price category for footware, but there should be and a nice pair of Reef’s should be strongly considered.
That is all for now…
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Hello
6 06 2012Welcome to the inside of my head. I should warn you this is not for the faint at heart, the politically correct, or midgets. It’s not that I have anything in particular against midgets, I just feel that if a blog has a certain exclusivity to it, it will make the rest of you feel special. Also, statistically speaking, it is a safe demographic to exclude and still have a large enough pool of potential people to make this site relevant. I am not sure why relevancy means anything, but it seems somewhat important. I guess relevancy is a distant cousin to sanity. Society tends to judge a person for walking down the street talking to themselves, so to avoid such comparison I will make the path to myself straight and the gate wide.
There is a good chance you will not learn anything here, nor will it change your life. I think we all need a brick wall and a can of spray paint to express ourselves and since I am afraid to go into neighborhoods where this is acceptable, I will do this from the safety of my living room.
That is all for now…
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