and although it was fun to finally sit in the middle of a snake pit,

I'll be here for the summer:

fleaingtoseattle.blogspot.com

Today I finally threw out those nazi cookies.

I got stood up by Rachel J Thomas.

But Carina put together a flyer, and I got to laughing again.

EXT. Single Story House - Afternoon

Stranded rooftop in a sea of suburbia, three friends sit honestly, sticking to
plastic lawn furniture. The long, LANKY ONE raises his cup to toast:

LANKY ONE
(to audience)
Let's have the summer's end
sanctioned an annual holiday,
remembering what was
The Time of Our Lives.

Just as the phrase had been finished, all three hands were left in the air. But the REDHEAD and FEMALE are silent.

The two stand and fold their chairs, to toss them onto the small grass patch in the back yard. The Female helps the Redhead down the wooden shingles and despaired gutters.

Lanky is alone, except for the orange sunset.

His expression and lip gaping led me to believe he had something to say. So naturally, under inquiry, I waited it out. Would there be any information, or poetic language that could capture my attention long enough for me to stay behind?

Ultimately no. But I like surprises, and it surprised me that he even took a second shot.

We were joined by several people I didn't know. It was comically stereotypical, but I told you, I was laughing. They all held their cigarettes out and talked about their days of recent past and recent future.

My contributions were few, but I felt confident in anything that I did say.

For a moment my mind wanders, when I’m refiguring arm behavior. My appearance described my efforts pretty accurately, jeans and a V-neck thrown on in a rush. I tuck a piece of my shirt in the waist, revealing part of my brown leather belt. This subtle change actually helped me feel a bit better.

I laughed at what was said, equal parts content and delivery. And now that I think back, I probably produced some sort of eye-smile combination that could be recieved as flirtatious.

She took notice, and attempted more witty observations or film reviews she thought I might appreciate.

The kid closest to me stops outside of the conversation and apologetically offers me a Newport, after he’s just finished his. I told him I was trying to quit. And just then, his friend mentions how he is disgusted with himself for going through a half-pack-a-day.

I said something like,

“Don’t worry, you’re only nineteen. You still have time to work up to a whole pack.”

I’m not so proud, just thought, how fun.

Looking around, I knew better than to think about some book I read or the scenes I've seen. But it's hard not to romanticize the experiences we've yet to own.

I try to convince myself that I'm appalled that she's using her sex to get what she wants. I immediately decide that I've made enough change for one summer. On my way back, I face the oncoming traffic. Jokingly stated, with a half-laugh on the end I say,

"I'm fearless."

Pulling at the palm leaves, none of them break. I don't know what I was expecting. I turn up the corner, going West there is a black row of abandoned frat houses and in between a softball field. I imagine men with black ski masks bagging and tossing me into the rear of some van with double doors and only hearing ambiguous bangs, muffled voices and a radio going in and out of static.

At A Generic Outdoor Bohemian Rest Stop

and although it was fun to finally sit in the middle of a snake pit, I know it's just novelty. These people are talking about the same thing that's been on my tongue for the last three years. I grow tired, we've traced over the endless texts that rattle brains 'bout the future of relationships and spirituality and politics. What's your review? Oh, haven't you read --

From across the street, I saw you approaching with long stride (as if you were a tall man or a man in a hurry). It's been awhile and I'm not sure which way you're headed. I try and look away as you mock any sort of bravada with your step.

Now I don't know if we exchanged glances, but in a minute I'd find you vanished.

It doesn't matter, because of that inconvenient light pole, or power box or newspaper stand that's always obstructing my view.

My head gave me something of an awkward conversation. "What you say to someone you never really knew."

In The Cab Of My Pick-up Truck

Chasing the electrical storm, or the storm that seems to be quietly silhouetting the small mountainous range I'm heading towards...

A cool breeze teases my hand, with not one drop from the sky. I nearly run off the narrow turn, but catch myself before

Standing In Front Of The Medicine Cabinet

Looking myself in the eye after a late shower, I took a razor to my face for the first time in eleven months. The impulse wasn't justified, but then again, if it's an impulse -- should it? Regardless, I barely recognize my reflection when I brush my teeth.

two and a half days past,

I witnessed and participated in the creation of life; attempted to become apart of history, twice; invented a new subculture for the middle-aged, and youth (of most of southern Arizona); attended, then informed all those who are in danger in the event of an apocalypse; shook hands with the president; used the funds delegated(to a cardboard cause) to buy booze and hallucinative remedies; exposed the malpractice behind the large doors of a reputable insurance agency; administered a life-saving drug in a "third world" country; enlightened a couple old men ranting rather loudly in some racist conversation outside of Seven Eleven,

I'm looking forward to a hard sleep.

ACT 1

Two oranges roll past the feet of an old man. He stands there unaffected, with his eyes a-glazed and bottom lip a-quiverin' too. But it wasn't the fruit that caused the quiver. It was the words he saw pantomimed from the lips of a redheaded beauty. She cries for help a lot, and wears one earring in the shape of a bull's head. Standing there the back lit, her freckles are lost in black mask.

She takes about three steps, a large horse runs fast passed, her hair is pulled in the direction of the wind trailing the action. Then she looks to the ground, but it's all fine dust-- for the first time she appears to be lost.

That dog following her playfully back and forth (running among the tall grass), found a face friendly enough to feed him. He's a stray, and at this time, most people wouldn't give his dirty brown and gray coat a second look. They don't know or understand each other, but in this afternoon they share a shadow and broken soul.

The hand that provides, serenades their passer-by's, with inviting eyes. Most react with disgust, but they're secondary to the farmer with the prize-winning pigs, his charm ignites a conversation that leads to a rendezvous more graphic than appropriate for admission.

Not that the town's women would ever stop talking. And so, men with large double-barreled shotguns speak loudly at city hall. Their empty ranting is interrupted when the mayor's pregnant mistress collapses in between the double doors. A grandmother pulls her rosary out from her purse and kneels down to pray. Amidst the chaos of the crowd, the blacksmith's son steals from the back pockets of the wealthy churchmen.

The mass unites, and with torches and chains, they all file out and follow to the straw-roofed home of the town's witch doctor-psychiatrist-philosopher-

he's not home, so they take his daughter and tie her to a steak erected in the center of the town. Someone suggests to burn a fire beneath her feet until her sins consume her mortal body. But the poor would much rather throw old vegetables, and spit. A sparrow flies overhead with a curled piece of reed paper attached to his left leg. The girl on a stick sees him and tears it loose as it passes.

She unfolds the message and to the surprise of the spectators, her face and hands begin to age rapidly.

Some guy handed me a "Free Pizza, Tonight Only" coupon *see restrictions, pick ups preferred*. I had been walking, and he did one of those eye contact moves (from a stranger) that catch you off guard. You know, you just grab out for what ever they're handing, as a default, notsomuch knowing if it's the golden ticket or the gospel. The reason I didn't toss it right away was because I thought when Pat got around to calling me after class, he might like a complimentary meal. But just then, without much thought or time passed, I crushed the pink paper in the act of forming a fist.

Tonight, I really didn't feel like being "had."

( front porch loitering after a night at the zoo )

I drove from home today.  I don't know when Tucson became home, but alas

Made for a long road, I waited 'til rush hour before my trip could begin.  Overcast skies warned me to put plastic over goods to ride in the bed.  So I did.  And gassed fast as I could.  I would come across a worker's truck, catching my attention with his spark and swerve. The chain that fallowed, seemed as it was dancing.  It were dragging, and wasn't safe, I was sure.  Raise my eyes to find four large propane tanks secured above.  My first reaction was to gun-it past this monster, oh ready to blow.  You might be waiting for the "next reactions," but I,

was gettin' the hell away, for this was not about to be my sad contribution to Final Destination.

As I reached the tire tread mine field portion of the freeway I found a bum couple.  It was almost eerily nice to see them there.  Walking with hand in hand, next to the speedy machines, that would honk once for the humor, twice if you're a bastard.  And they'd even clutch closer as each passerby drives to taunt them, highway side. 

Although I wouldn't yell, or tail gate.  I wouldn't be that person.  Not tonight, riding this cold asphalt, not in this hazy air. Calmed the rage, sat up straight, (to set the stage):

turned the Fiery Furnaces up, just a little louder.   Thought of how I could eat hot and sour soup every day, with crab puffs of course.  Thought how they have amusement parks for christmas.  Wasn't sure how I felt about that.

Rolled down the window,
cool wind on my mouth, nose and ears.  I put me on cruise control.  And not the luxury button in your steering wheel, you see, mine's been dis-con-nec-ted.   The pink and purpled sun was still being stubborn, (he likes to be seen).  It's arms and hands seem to struggle through the mountainous landscape,  painting dust settling over the city. I was happy that it was finally dark and only five-thirty.

Someday I want someone to take me to the ostrich farm.  We should pack a lunch, like we'd have on a school field trip, juice box included.  I feel like I shouldn't have to come right out and say these things.  It outta be like innate knowledge. 

Ostriches, of course!

You sway like a wind outta November. And how appropriate, for it is, November. Unlike any of the other “-embers,” this month is brisk. We stroll down a beaten-dirt path. You ask if I know where I’m going, and fallow up with one of those, answer-your-own-question-things. I’d call it one of my pet peeves, but I’m passive aggressive. So I call it “a tick.” Or “a thing.” I stop dwelling on your rampid idiosyncrasies,

We watch as an old man triumphs a slight incline in the road ahead, wearing a bright yellow helmet, riding his fatigued bicycle. Upon taking his mountain, a joyous, accomplished out cry is muffled by the urban beats vibrating from a large, black SUV (taking all of his glory as it passes). The man steadily rides on, now with a dusty, yellow helmet and a dusty, fatigued bicycle. An expected wounded pride, still left intact?

You stopped, so I fell to rest. Sat and watched as the man rode off to a sunset (necessary narrative embellishment), I asked myself, as I often do,

“What could possess a man?”

Completely un-awe-inspired, you changed the subject. It was good, shouldn’t dwell on these things as much as we do. We’re nineteen, some twenty. Makes me sick to think that, all the time spent on trying to figure things out coulda been some time I spent…

(Now play your accordion, while I sing in falsetto)

Hmm-mmm-uhm-mmm-hmm-mmm

uhm-mmm-uhm-mmm-mmm-hmm-

“The shit’s broken!”

“Fuck that, I was only just about to ‘spit’ a few-”

From there, it was silent until we stop to knock-on-door at kid’s house. Really wasn’t anything else for us to do; not a thing at the end of dirt path. We knew that going in. We sat on his sofa, drank his pitcher dry, and didn’t bother to refill. Words exchanged were better than we’ve done before. For that, I left with a mood uplifted. And I wasn’t in a bad place to begin, you know you just wake up sometimes (and geezus you wanna take a bat to something).

Tap water does us good; we had ‘a walk back’ now. Halfway there, there she was. God-damned waiting. Waiting for us, well you, but I say us.

“Hey totally rockin’ tattoo, it’s new right?”

“Well, five-months-ago-new, yeah.”

A comfortably awkward mess. Accompanied by amusing facial expressions describing the raw emotion of the moment. If you call nervousness an emotion. Maybe anxiousness. But anxiousness has a cure, and it’s a place we can quick forget. And if it’s easier for you to blame a night rendered ‘drunken splendor,’ paint your picture. But as fate had it, life handed a plate of macaroons. Sucks I’m allergic to cocoanut. (Once a child allergy, today just a strong distaste?) WhatamIsaying? I’M SAYING-

When it’s all over, someone looses their virginity.

You got this way about you. And I have this way I remember life.

Hand me that crooked wrench. Wipe that grin off your face, and I asked for that crooked wrench.

Oh, you have that way about you.

I like broken promises. I like that position in which we have a plan; (it) planned. We can talk of a good time we had, good times to come. It has been forever, and it shall be for-ever-again before we will (re)meet. reacquaint.

"But how's work, life? Gettin' any better?"

"Well, it's stagnant, always has been- just my anxiousness that's gathering momentum."

Among our conversation you'll share, and I reply. I give advice like I have a clue. You turn the table, that damned lazy susan, and ask for the salt. I reluctant, but deliver, it's nothing but lame ideas of self improvement, and other boring logistics (in here). I make mini decisions, jump to mini-conclusions all the time-

quick, very quick.

"Overzealous? You mean over jealous?"

"No, I mean I really do run too fast sometimes."

They get diluted with rational thought provided by public opinion; and it's healthy, otherwise.

We feel as though we need a really big platform to speak on. I include myself in this statement of course. I sometimes want to shout out my lies really loudly. Reach the furthest depths and corners. Don't act like you're not doing the same. Shouting lies, or wanting to. Or have I forgotten,

you're high class.

The static, the noise, the lack of noise is even pressure to the ear drum. I take a walk and finally reach the middle of my nowhere. I'm resting and just comforted by the silence of the world idling. Then it's interrupted by,

an accommodating laugh.

I’m better off, off. I need to stop, worry, stop, stop worrying.  Because you see, with me, as I worry, I find that I cannot create, perform, produce.  And that's never good. And that is never; good.

 

Good!

 

I’m independent (or of the most), I usually boast.  I bash, with the lack of a relationship, or one that owns the title.  Although, I am not in-human. Maybe a bit inhumane at times, but alas not in-human.  I do require the company, rather the accompaniment of another, throughout the day: my day.  In this moment, I will buy you dinner just to make sure I can have your conversation.  For the next ten minutes, I will wonder how long until I can say goodbye to the night, so I can lay at'ome, with any music, entertaining my wandering mind as I trace over the milky way (to scale of my ceiling) with my eyes, so wide, yes so very wide. 

 

But I am not the person who always heeds such a need.  This will pass, like so many other things.  With it, friends that once held a precedence, with it- ideas of what we all want, what I want(ed), with it, a never end(ing): because with an end, there's really not space for a hope that one day things could and will turn out alright, one day you and I will all be happy. 

 

And that is why I do enjoy the now, rather than the latter, and not to get to superabundant with words but-

 

I think that when (the end) is left wide open, or yet uncertain, you are then still undecided in the way of happiness. The future is still not yet so decided that you will be forever in one way, narrowed down into a class (no teacher reference intentional, but what the hell) that will make sure for dissatisfaction in your choices, in your life (as it is standing, now in stone). No, no, no. That is left to the future, the future that is still wide open.

 

Although, reassurance for the decisions you do make, are always a bit encouraging - especially when you crave a push in the direction you're aiming.  And as of today, I am happy, because my future is still uncertain, but also because I finally focused in on the course.  And took the advice from the guy on the corner. He said,

 

"If you get lost, just make your way, as if you know where you're goin'.  'Cuz, everybody else watching, ain't any wiser."

 

I think I'll stop and call you though, if I get on the wrong highway again. Because truly those damned turnpikes get me so turned around, to the point where I can't make sense of any south versus north, versus my temperament, versus the jack ass who just cut me off.  Goin' the fuckin' speed limit, geezus!  But you’ve come to expect it.  You would never call me predictable—you're too nice.  So here it is: the most forthright words I will ever write-

 

Thanks for lending your face, and time, because without it I may have not gotten the letter I had been waiting for. 

not today

[Excerpt.] The sun served as a backdrop for the desperate-looking black hawk pigeon that was hovering over our entire afternoon. I would glance up at it from time to time to make sure it was still there, but I’d temporarily blind myself for the few seconds after. The city streets owned their colors, vivid and vapid in a simultaneous fashion. The heat had reached a warm that created an incommodious space for the all of us to share. T-shirts were damp and feet were draggin’. Naturally the dialogue had been reduced to an idle. An idling murmur of broken sentences, and muttering pleads for something to feed on. Just then, without much of a notice, Leanne grabbed a hold of the downtown trolley in motion. It'd take them somewhere, she wasn't quite sure where exactly (since Leanne doesn't live in this very lived in city), but no one questioned it.

Even though there was, what could be described as “a surplus seating,” Clara and Leanne chose to grab on one of the handles held at the top of the trolley train. Annie and I took a seat; they weren’t that uncomfortable, sporting a faux suede that made me faux smile. And as we left the thrift shops and cafes populated with the town's most original characters, the “conductor” made his rounds collecting money in exchange for blue one-way ticket stubs. The conductor and his friend obligingly offered some friendly conversation in order to pass the time, the time that it would take to get to Main Street. I asked him if the price had changed as of recent.

“It's a dollar Saturdays and fifty cents on Sundays.”

I hadn't remembered it ever being a dollar, or fifty cents. And with that, I'm not sure if any of us had given off the impression, but they mistook us as tourists. Guessing, very badly I might add, as to where we were visiting from. I gather it might have been a bit suspicious looking with all of our disposable cameras, and fancy sunglasses- you know the traditionally cliché things that can give off such an air. So it was only fair, to play along with the entire scene. I decided we might be from some rural part of the Canadian woodlands. I don't really know if there is such a place, but really wasn't worried about the elder men figuring that out before our stop. And a-matter-o-fact, there we were, stopped. With the careful instruction of these retired volunteers, we took safe steps to the place Annie narrated as,

“a much better place than we had been strolling, so casually, before... Thanks Leanne.”

But it was one of those statements that are really hard to not hear sarcastically. Not that it bothered Leanne much though; I doubt she even caught the fractious phrase. She was already far ahead of us, excited to find something interesting in this land foreign. But it wasn't just the excitement, I can't just deny the fact that with her professional jogging skills, she always seems to embarrass her fellow company. In a struggle, the lungs wrestling oxygen, my body gave up and I decide to take a nap (or collapse) on the ground. Clara joins me, with a Mango Coolata in hand and nothing but reassuring words for my now wounded pride.

“I think Annie ‘ill be back with Leanne anytime now. If you want I can call an ambulance. But to be honest I’m kind of tired and just want to be under an A/C unit rather than standing out here any longer.”

“But what about our new adventure Leanne was finding for us, now that we took a trolley all the way here to find it?”

“Hun, you want to talk to me about walking around some more in the dirty, hot weather that is this insanely ghetto town? Read the shirt. Okay, I’ll do the honors seein’ how’s your ‘incapacitated.’ ‘Where’s My Driver, Bitch'.  See, I’m wearing the T-shirt.”

I decided, instead of continuing our usual public specitacle, I would get up off the concrete sidewalk.

"Let's go help find Leanne, and we'll get outta here.  And, uh, Clara... can I have some of that Coolata?"

I talked the day over with myself, and I like to look at my life as somewhat of a satire.

When I took the turn, car jarred and jerked, swerved to just miss, a Miss.  It was my fault, something you chance when entering an exit.  But there won't be an apology; see I understood that it was wrong when I was making the decision to.  Does that leave any room for sorry?  Remorse is supposedly something genuine, something that you feel in accordance to a conscience, your conscience.  Although remorse or the act of showing or "feeling" such a feeling is that of what has become a societal obligation.  Tonight I'm really not up for the double sided bullshit, as if in conversation, where I feel as though I need to immediately correct myself,

"Well that's not to say that all people only feel remorse as a result of their watchful neighbor(s)."  Let's refrain from that sort of thing.  Because I'm not thinking that, I'm thinking what no one wants to hear.

I sat in the cab, with the lights off, unmoved in terms of physics or gravity or the literal means.  The key remained in the ignition to keep the battery running, to continue conducting power to the stereo, in order to play the last song to finish.  Because I really hate to interrupt such a moving (in an emotionally affecting sense) song moment.  I used to think it was too much of a waste of gas, and if I am in a hurry I might not take the time to live through such a moment.  But in this most recent case, I had no place to go or thing to do that had priority over that song and now a full tank of gas.  The song in specifics becomes unimportant.  I only say that because, the way I phrased the before, really sets up for this amazing melody.  And I know one of you was asking yourself what song it would be.

The days have gone even faster now that I don't breathe the responsibility of a full time job.  I'm spent in a blur of nights gone by days, staying out late into the night, which is really early morning, which gets really confusing.  My indifference to time, life, and the interposed space that takes its place, came to a stop for a second or two today.  I was awoke with just a knock at my door.  But Reality will always remain as that unwelcome guest.  And I got myself too much into the habit of peeking a look through the blinds to find him waiting impatiently, but I just pretend I'm not home.  I hate to talk about the night with this fellow.  We only fight, and then after an exchange of "apologies" (lacking any real penance of course), I show him the door- it won't be 'til later when we'll actually settle the score, between us.  Even after this, I'm not rid of anything, just stalling for more time, time to procrastinate and forget again- only if just for a while.

"Experience urgency, and the lead up until the urgent."  What I would give to get my heart beating fast.  (If) I had something, something better than nothing.  Where would I be?  I'd still be here, I'd still be asking for what's more.  I wonder how I rid me of such disdain towards my situation. "Situation" is the general term I use in place of, or to distract from, myself.  I'm still growing, and "learning" and wondering.  But mostly just wondering.  It's now almost about that time when I stroll into my apartment, on a good night, after a long night to brush my teeth and try in sleep it all away.  This purple under my eyes isn't fading away the way I had hoped this summer.  No matter what, it seems I can't keep myself from finishing in a rhyming "-er."

I beat me. 

 

The last two weeks were a wreck in a blur.  But I must say I enjoyed them nonetheless. And yes, it's all one word. An appetite that is as sensitive as that goofy-homemaker-next door neighbor (with way too much time on her hands), is something I considered to get "checked out." Although to be "checked out" would require a visit to the doctor’s office. Or you could just go on the nationally televised Are You Hot?. But I hate doctors. I’ve hated them for so long I really don't know why anymore, but I feel, that I must, continue to hate them.  I am becoming something vain. Can you imagine me making a point to lay poolside, to "catch some sun"?

But back to the last (two) week(s).  I crashed into Ronald Milo!  And I was not affected in the least, well until I found that I left you a bruise and a headache. (Sorry by the way, for that - rather than this).  Problem: diagnosis.  I care not about the negative effects of my actions, or my negative actions, if I am the only in line for repercussion.  I was becoming entirely numb, and I know it's over used, but let me further entertain you with this idea that you've heard too much of.  The end of my summer course, steady (slowly damaging, creatively draining/exhausting) working schedule, lack of meaning, conversation, or meaningful conversation. 

I’m awake. Rightfully so, at just the right time, The Right Stuff.  All this may or may not be as literal or figurative as it seems.  I’m not trying to be confusing and pass it off as artistically misunderstood.  I struggle over enough mind games with myself; I need not another strategy or code to crack.  The last two weeks were a wreck in a blur. (In the last two weeks there was a wreck).  (The last two weeks were a blur).  In the last two weeks I made a new friend. And in the next two weeks I will be working on a “meaning” in terms of life and art.  When I get it down to grays and in-between-the-lines, I’ll gather it into a formula, turn it into a word document and present it in a leather-bound pocket folder. In the following October, I will be recognized with acceptance or failure, that is the failure to be accepted: rejected.

Leanne is a gem. Random, yet always at the right time.

 

And I can say that “the right time” has been familiar as of late.  Coincidence, next to ideal timing, creates an eager person.  And yeah, I fuck[ed] it up again.  I ask not for pity, or inquiry (especially inquiry).  I am relaxed, at an eerie sense of relaxation.  Hopefully not the same relaxation that leads to that pins-in-my-feet feeling.