being sincere makes you sound like a chump.

lots of people that i know have relayed stories that were told to them by their grandfathers. i've tried to understand this bond that they've had, and to some degree i think i get it. unfortunately, one of my grandfathers had alzheimer's disease. i have very few memories of him, but i do remember going to visit him at the nursing home once. he didn't recognize me or his wife, that much was clear. my grandmother told me that he was joking, but even though i was probably only four or five years old, it was obvious to me that she was lying. i remember when he died, and going to his funeral, but i suppose it was all pretty abstract to me at the time.
my other grandfather, on the other hand, remained pretty sharp up until the end. he grew up during the depression era, and it was pretty obvious in a lot of ways. he certainly valued having a surplus of anything and the idea that every member of his family was well provided for. in a more esoteric sense, he loved to go shopping during big sale events, and was always really happy when he came home from the local clothing store having gotten a good deal.
i could tell after entering into my teenage years that in some respects he disapproved of the way i was acting. he knew i was smart, but i kept getting progressively worse grades in school as time went on. in some ways, this was overshadowed by other things that i did; i mowed his lawn and visited him and my grandmother weekly for lunch or a movie. i kept the same job for a long time, and managed to move out and pay my rent and bills without outside help. he had a deep respect for sticking by one's own family as well as doing what needed to be done to get by in life.
i remember at christmas, when everyone was sitting around their pile of gifts, he would say (with a certain degree of sarcasm, i might add), 'too bad for us.'
it always seemed obvious to him that whatever minor problems any of us could be experiencing, as long as we were still eating and had a place to live, it was just crap. it's easy, especially for me (you're looking at the upper-middle class white boy, here), to become overwhelmed by car repairs, interpersonal problems, and the occasionally job-related squabble. i've certainly inherited a respect for the man who signs my paycheck, despite any personal tribulations that might arise between the two of us. in fact, i've gotten plenty of values from my father and his father.
as i get older, i don't realise so much that they were right, as they told me i would, but that in a lot of ways i'm very much like them. my dad and i are different in a lot of ways, and i think we both can see the places where the other is slipping up. we engage in these little verbal battles because, let's face it. we're both very smug, and we love to say i told you so. we're terribly stubborn, and i know it's probably difficult for him to stand by and watch as i make the mistakes that i have to in order to learn in much the same way that he did. in the same way, it's sometimes difficult for me to watch as he ignores problems which i know he is aware of and could easily fix if he had the resolve.
the same is true, i suppose, of my father's relationship with his father. both of them were too stubborn to make amends with one another up until the very end, and i'm sure that was tough on them. i know that my father hated to see his dad sit in his recliner and watch soap operas, tend his lawn, and generally live the retirement stereotype. and meanwhile, he works his hands to the bone and never gets any sleep.
it's situations like that which have taught me, most importantly, that while i want to avoid the mistakes of my father, that includes not doing the opposite and assuming that it's right, either. the father/son battles that my father had with his father during his teenage years were practically repeated when i was growing up, and i'm sure that was difficult for my dad to get through. eventually, even though i did not spend most of my time growing up with my father, i think he sort of found his identity as a parent. it means a lot to both of us.
okay, so it sounds like the end of a herman hesse novel, but it makes me happy that my dad had his chance to be a parent and maybe picked up a trite catcher in the rye metaphor along the way. regardless of whether you're being holden caufield or siddartha, the literary symbolism and plot devices always seem contrived in real life. you pick it up as you go along, and i've realised that my father and his father have both been pretty good guys.
i guess what i'm getting at, here, is that my neither of my grandfathers was a storyteller, but i suppose a narrative wasn't neccessary, because i ended up with the same thing in the end. i've learned by now that the point someone is trying to get across is rarely as enlightening as the one you pick up when it's simply observed.

an odd encounter.

i was in a train station. no idea why, really, so just don't ask. my mother was there, and i was getting ready to depart. unfortunately, it soon occurred to me that i wasn't wearing any shoes. this would pose a pretty big problem when i got to wherever i was going, so i decided i'd best go and find some.
i told my mom to wait for me and i would be right back. i left the station to go to one of the nearby stores, but all of them were closed. and no, this is not a stairway to heaven reference. there was snow on the ground, and it was making my bare feet pretty cold. naturally, i was in a pretty big hurry to find suitable footwear.
by some strange turn of events which is unclear to me, i ended up at my grandparents' house. they were both in the kitchen, my grandfather sitting in the chair where he always sat and my grandmother standing my the cupboard. they invited me in for a sandwich, which i gratefully accepted.
since both of them are dead (and were at the time) one of my first questions was, 'aren't you dead?'
i meet dead people on a pretty regular basis in my dreams, and they almost always answer, 'yes, of course!' sometimes followed by 'and so are you!'
in this case it was only the former, although usually when someone tells me that i am dead as well i decide that if it is in fact true, i'll have a good long while to evaluate how i feel about it. first thing's first, you know. in this case, that would be my sandwich.
i had a very good conversation with the both of them. my grandfather let me know that he understood me better now, and had a good deal of respect for me. my grandmother asked about girls and we played a hand of cards. the whole thing was very reassuring, and i was glad to get a chance to hang out with them because... well, i don't see them much anymore.
as i was heading out the door (i really did need to catch my train) my grandmother told me to wait up a minute. she returned from the hallway closet having produced a nice pair of red shoes. 'you won't get far without these,' she said. it was true.
i put my new shoes on and headed back to the train station. i couldn't find my mom, but i did happen to run into her best friend. i told her goodbye and to tell my mother something or other. but i don't really remember that part very well.
i'm pretty sure i'm not dead, but you know how it goes. i suppose it's a moot point, anyhow.

please tear carefully along the perforated edge and don't talk out of turn.
or
true dream that really happened.

stop me if you've heard this one already. the redundant rejection letters fountaining out of the box. it can skew your outlook if you're not careful. repeated goodbyes. tail lights that disappear around corners accuse you of being a cop out. you aren't sure it isn't true. always plotting some escape or triumphant return. you'll show them this time.
well, i was planning to hop a plane straight out of this mess. a delayed development across an ocean. assuming they couldn't guess. these pejorative thoughts bring on messes that i have no choice but to accept. save my critical acclaim for later.
i was making the obligatory rounds before quietly filing out. hopefully unnoticed. a girl approached me and let me know where the blame was placed. being pretty cinematic by this time, i leaned in to kiss her, but her body tensed up and i got the impression that this had not been her intent. mixed signals. caustic whims, the lead in to unforgiving fickle consequence. this is the story of my life. this is how the big house got empty years ago. this is how things go from bad to worse but haven't yet. i send a prayer up and hope my wit is still about me.
it's at that moment that one choice is clearly pivotal that i feel right. the surge of adrenaline as i bit my lip, flicked my wrist, shifted and hit fifty. the first few delicate seconds as i become aware shitfaced and discontent. well, i'm not pulling any punches. the reality and melodrama of passing time are some things that i still have adequate space to deny. please withhold your judgments in the meanwhile.
so i hit the motherfucking puddlejumper with luggage and a tin full of phone numbers in tow. left this city which i am far too frustrated to be bittersweet about. littering symbolism and poetic plot device to the winds. expectations all shot to bits in the transatlantic drift.

true stories of real life happenings part III or the sad story of the mustard couch.

one day i was driving my car around town when i spotted something on the curb. i immediately parked the car and walked over to take a closer look. it was a big mustard-coloured corduroy couch with a sign sitting on it. the sign said 'FREE.' needless to say, i was pretty excited about this.
on further inspection, i noted that there was a cigarette burn or two on the cushions, but after switching them around and flipping them over, they were completely hidden. aside from that, the couch was in fantastic shape.
since this couch was clearly meant for me, and was possibly the coolest piece of vintage furniture i had ever had a shot at owning, i immediately drove to work and borrowed a pickup truck. i ran into a friend across the street, and he agreed to help me with the move.
unfortunately, we were working under some sort of time constraint, so we simply set the couch on the porch of my (rented) house, and i took him to where he needed to be. i returned the truck and resolved to deal with the couch later, when i would have time to rearrange the furniture already inside the house to facilitate safe passage.
when i came home that night, my roommate begrudgingly agreed to help me move the couch upstairs. we tried and tried to maneuver the couch over the railing, around the landing, and so forth, but to no avail. the ceiling in the stairway sloped at just the wrong point, and the couch itself was about two inches to wide to pass through. after several attempts, and a few small dents in the wall, we gave up.
now, when i say gave up, what i mean is that i gave up on trying to get the couch into the apartment. however, i was still quite enamoured of this couch. since it was too late to borrow the pickup truck, i resolved to leave the couch outside and figure where i could put it in the morning.

that night it rained, and rained hard. when i got outside, the couch was completely ruined. now i not only had a completely useless couch, but i also had to come up with a clever way to get rid of it. my roommate and i had no ideas on the matter, so we left the couch on the curb for a day or two. after that, the health department decided to intervene. they left something on our door, informing us that if the couch was not removed from the premises and properly disposed of within one (1) week's time, they would dispose of it for us and we would be made to pay the fine. to make matters worse, there was now snow on my couch. it was a very sad situation.
my roommate came up with the clever plan of moving the couch behind the garage, where we would not be able to see it, and thus we would be free of the woes and ill fortune that it had brought.
this turned out to be true, and due to forces which i do not understand to this day, it just disappeared completely one day.

thinking about that couch still makes me sad. it was a really nice couch. oh well.

true stories from real life. part II or crush.

i met the girl who i had a crush on at the local diner for breakfast. this happened many years ago, and i hope (god help us all) that's it's okay to talk about this now without stepping on anyone's toes.
i was about to embark on some endeavor or another, leaving town for a month or so. it was a very short time in retrospect, but when you have a crush on somebody and you see them every day, it can really seem like a colossal undertaking. or so it did at the time.
she had a boyfriend in another city; he was going to school there, but they had been dating since high school. she was looking for a way out, and one night, as we walked across a parking lot, she asked me to go to the park with her and smoke some cigarettes and drink some beers in the woods. i looked at her and (thought at least) i understood exactly what she was asking, but the offer was retracted when it was met with hesitance. she might have hugged me or something, but i'm not terribly sure about that now.
as i said before, she had been looking for a way out, but at that moment, and maybe even at some point previously, i decided that i was not it. she drove away that day, and a few weeks later i met her for breakfast.
she sat across from me at the table, but i pretty much knew that my chances with her had been over for some amount of time. we ate breakfast and reminisced, despite the very short amount of time we had known each other, and i said goodbye. on further reflection, i remember thinking about this crush that i had, and how it was probably much more fun to have a crush than to be engaged in some sort of relationship. and i enjoyed it quite thoroughly.
i returned after my month away, and i went to the apartment where she had been known to hang out. her car was outside, and i had a friend who lived in an adjacent apartment, so i figured i'd hang out with him until she left and catch her to say hello.
then it was five a.m., and i had a pretty good idea of what was going on here. she had found her way out, and i was definitely correct that it was not me.
for the next couple of days i was kind of upset about that in a selfish way, but it was easily shrugged off. now i am not fifteen anymore and can't honestly say i've had a crush so uncomplicated as that one. she was happy with her boyfriend at least for awhile, and at this point it isn't my business to speculate.
the part that's important to me is how much fun it was just being there and not expecting too much to transpire. how zen of me, right? laugh if you want. no, really, it's okay.

real story that makes no sense.

one day i was wandering out of my house. counting the stairs on the way down. you know, typical waking up type stuff. well. i got outside and walked to my car. a layer of mist had condensed to it. but that wasn't what caught my attention.
someone had placed a small cement lawn gnome on top of my car. i picked it up and examined it more closely. upon inspection, i determined that i had no idea why it was there in the first place, but that it was not for me. having resolved my thoughts on the matter, i placed the gnome on the ground safely away from the road and drove away.
it remained there for about a week, but i'd already formulated my opinions, so i didn't worry about it too much anymore.

part two!

this is not really a sequel, since it happened at least a year before the aforementioned events. but you'll bear with me. yes you will.
i was in pennsylvania. i had been wandering around and writing poetry. i know, how artsy of me. well, anyway, having worked myself all up, i stuck my hands into my pockets and felt around for some change. after producing three quarters, i approached a nearby payphone. i stood there and looked at it.
you see, i have this problem with payphones. they sit there and look at me like, what? why bother? what do you want anyway? they're symbolic in a lot of ways to me. some people get wasted and then confess things to others. i scream into payphones. while i was busy staring at this one, something caught my eye. sitting on top of it was a small gold hair clip in the shape of a dolphin. i picked it up and looked at it for awhile, and considered how it might have come to be there. after a short time i carefully placed it right back where i found it and walked to the twenty-four hour donut house a few blocks away.
i never made that phone call, and upon reflection i realised that the intended recipient was (and is) dead, so it was just as well.

passing tenses.

we sat down on the couch, all wound up and in random colours. turn your head and look back. see? i'm not kidding you this time.
she could care less about what i have to say. all this clever dialogue has been rendered useless. i can see it in her eyes. no point in questioning her intentions anymore. all i have to do now is sit very still and hope she doesn't notice me. too late to worry about the consequences.
she said, 'haha. you're already dead.' not knowing what to do i just looked at her. i don't feel awkward. i just don't know what to say, so i wait for her to give me some kind of indication. instead she pounces on top of me. i'm not sure what for, but one thing i do know is that there's no use struggling.
walking through the grocery store arm in arm. like that? no.
driving down the highway at ninety miles an hour? i don't think so.
hold on a minute. i've been warned about this.
sitting on the linoleum floor she took the place where i always sit and challenged me to take it back. i pick up an ashtray and light up a cigarette. no names, no faces, nothing to make me feel anxious. i just ease into it. like an idiot.
the flourescent light hums. i suddenly notice and put my hand over my left ear to see if it's real. the sound isn't muffled at all. i just keep looking up at it. it's yellow green, i can see the gasses rolling over each other flowing from one end to the other.
'does that answer your question?' gods no. i think we're going to have to start back at the beginning.
she looks at me with frustration. i can't tell whether it's sarcasm. the corner of her lip twitches a bit.
so. we sat down on the couch. i found myself surveying the room tinted in flourescent yellow oscillating the lumens in a very nostalgic way. she said something, and as i looked at her i knew once again that i was done for.

stories from real life. part one.

i think i must have been doing laundry at the time. i don't know; it doesn't really matter, it's just that i must have had a damn good reason to get in my car. or at least a good enough reason to rationalise it to myself.
i had been drinking that night, but not enough to be conspicuous, probably not even enough to blow a breathalizer. it was enough, i suppose, to rile me up a bit. there was some bit of me that was feeling very much correct to itself, self-assured and not so much damned to repeat its own mistakes. combine that kind of state of mind with a ton of metal hurling down the road, and...
well, i was driving very fast. maybe 120mph. it's hard to say at this point. i remember wondering to myself if i were to lose control whether i could knock a tree over or whether it would just stop me flat and send me through the windshield. i liked that a lot, but not in a way that would ever make me want to go through with it and figure it out.
eventually i drove my car (possibly with laundry in tow) back to the apartment. i wrote something or other in my journal which was there maybe to assure me that i was done with whatever self-destructive activity i had had in store for myself that evening. i suppose it doesn't matter now.
i went to sleep that night and i had a dream. this time i intentionally drove my car into the tree. i did this not because i wanted to die or hurt myself, but just to see what would happen. and this is what happened:
i hit the tree and was thrown right through the windshield. i could feel the rush of adrenaline flowing right through me. i hit the tree and my body crumpled up like a cartoon stick figure. and suddenly, like a tidal wave, television static washed silently over me and completely overwhelmed my field of vision. and then there were strings and pianos and a roar of sounds.
i woke up feeling much better and very satisfied.

and this seems to be how it always gets started, doesn't it?
well.
i've been sleeping restlessly (if at all) on couches, in diners, and any number of places which are especially not my bed. with a bit of coaxing i've managed to drag this tired body of mine halfway across the country accosted by dreams and resisted most of the way. or that's how i tell it; in an exaggerated fashion.
over the last several nights i've dreamed of girls, with whom i've had some sort of exchange in one bizarre setting or another. if it was sex i'm not really sure, but certainly i get the feeling it was something like that. we look at each other and there is very little verbal exchange. it seems to be going okay, though.
but, hey, i'm often wrong.
i wake up and i'm a mess of knots and sweat on whatever god-awful surface i've managed to lose consciousness on.
so i'm waiting to see what's next. there are these girls (real ones this time) around whom my usual composure and rational thought just disintegrates, and i am waiting for them to make their moves. maybe this is some superstitious part of me talking, but i believe once i've handled that, the rest of the situation will become cohesive enough for me to figure out how the hell i got here and what exactly it is that i am doing.

more on that later.