can't be wronger.

I suppose I could be more wrong, but what's the use? The way the word rolls off my tongue just doesn't feel right, though.  I've done things that were wrong. I've checked off the wrong answer. But me, just wrong?  As in, the whole of me...my being, my lifeline, my heart? Never.

I say this a lot nowadays: "I don't know what's wrong." And I've been correct. But finally, the answer is finding me, or I'm finding out, and I don't like it one bit.

Fact. I have free will. You do, and she does, and he does, and they do. That doesn't mean everyone's free to do as they please, because let's face it, a lot of people aren't, and for a lot of reasons. A guy in prison can't get out, but he can choose to die trying. If you're dirt poor, you can't run over to the next car lot, buy a fast car, and drive off into the sunset; but you could walk. Free will is still inside of that guy, inside my creepy next door neighbor, and therefore, must be inside of me. What I'm trying to say is that I feel trapped, but there's something building. That's not wrong, and it's not bad, and not even close to evil. I never was. I never will be. 

I remember how horrifying it was to simply get on a bus. Out of context, this seems silly. But it was the kind of bus where the kids would place their backpacks on the seat next to them so I couldn't sit down (and believe me, I couldn't sit down fast enough to keep my heart from breaking). It was the kind of bus that would take me to fourth grade. The kind of fourth grade that said I couldn't look at this or that kid because they'd always ask, "What are you looking at four-eyes," and everyone would laugh. The kind of fourth grade in which the teacher would look over my head instead of at it when the spit balls were filling up the back of my stupid, bowl-cut hair. 

But this ain't no pity party, kids. This is real life, and it keeps coming, like it or not. Grown up or not. Everybody knows this, right?


The problem with all of this is that I stopped getting on the bus. I fought my mother, I fought myself, and by then, the bus had won. I wonder if anyone remembers those mornings. I forget them most of the time. But right now I need to entertain them; to remind me that it's just a frigging bus, and regardless of where or with whom I sit, there's nothing wrong about me. Pause. And I think more recently, both because of and in spite of all of this, I may have been catching all of the wrong buses, even in my adult life. I know this because they were all bringing me back to the same place. And if I weren't wrong enough, it didn't stop there. I've finally stopped catching them at all. The bus won again.

Whenever you find yourself in a box, it's wise to ask yourself who's constructed it, and then find out where the seams are. And finally, what's holding them together. Most times, it isn't much more than a thin layer of glue. I'm holding out for the rain.

have at.

I've been absent. Not absent-minded, and still here physically. But the words don't come, or when they do I've been stuffing them down and in the end I've felt disconnected. Incomplete. Not present. 

Honestly, I've just been trying to figure out where I fit. And I've decided that it's wherever I want to be. Wherever I feel the happiest, repercussions be damned. After all, it's not what happens to you (or because of you), but what you do with what happens. A year ago, I stopped at Hooligan's to meet a friend for a beer. It was open mic night. About an hour later, the guy running the thing asked me, "You wanna play?" 

I only knew three songs by heart. I stepped up all by my lonesome and played a song, mainly because I didn't feel like being absent that night. Or invisible. Then someone said, "I know that song. You should have told me and I would have played it with you." I also didn't feel like being left alone anymore. So I looked at the guy running the thing and asked everyone in the room if we could do the same song again, the two of us. And I received a warm and resounding, "Yes!" from all of them. It was one of my favorite nights. It changed the way I felt about playing music until then, and it stopped me from shaking in my boots every time I've done it since. It's the reason I fell in love for the umpteenth time, and it's the reason I'm still hanging on, when everything I feel says to let go.

I don't want to shut up and be absent anymore. I don't want to be quiet. 

This time, it's really about me.

panic, rinse, do not repeat (long story, short)

Found: Three lumps along rib cage next to right breast. 

Call to the doctor one: nurse requests immediate visit. Panic ensues.

Visit to the doctor number one: she thinks they're cysts. Check back in one month. Panic subsides.

One month later: she's not entirely sure they're cysts. More panic. Please visit general surgeon in one and a half weeks.

One and a half weeks later: Enlarged lymph nodes identified. Panic once again. Doctor says not to worry, he can check in two months but can order precautionary blood test, results to be delivered 24 hours later. Panic says take all of the blood you need, regardless of discomfort and fear of needles, then remains.

24 hours later: Blood tests are all clear. 

Lumps remain, but can leave anytime. Please and thank you.

not by train, not by bus.

Sometimes I run out of things to say. Or do. Passing the time isn't my forte, and neither is making up for lost time. At least I still have my senses. I can hear, see, taste, smell and feel. I'm soaking it all in until the moment hits me to get talking again. Writing again, too.

I have so many reasons to be thankful, starting with the people I think that I could never do without. And then there are the people I hardly know, who turn up out of the blue to save the day, or even just the hour, because sometimes happiness or even plain old contentment is just that short lived. I hold faith in the good that all of these people are doing, for the hours, the days, and even the years. Not just for me, but for everyone and the universe besides.

But I'm not going to sit here and wax all cheesy on anyone's ass.

It's not really my style after all, nor is it my real talent. The truth is, I'd love to be able to make up for what I lack in talent in some small way. Not boring anyone until their head slides off would be a start. So, I'm thankful. Who really cares anyway? And who isn't? Moving on.

I read "How To Be Good," once. I may read it again, and soon. This is not because Nick Hornby is a genius, although High Fidelity became one of the best goddamn  movies I know. If you know me, then you know "movies I know" are about as limited as the number of known Robert Johnson recordings. Books, less so.

Nick Hornby makes good points. Points so obvious that we totally forget them. But not in a bad way (if by "bad way" I mean "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs"). A bad way would be to totally condescend your readers, thereby making them feel stupid for forgetting how basic human instincts can turn even intelligent, witty, and even nice human beings into complete morons.

(THIS REALLY HAPPENS.)

I like that about Nick Hornby. I also like that about "How To Be Good." (What I like about "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs," is that it reminded me of how much I need to read Nick Hornby again.) I actually consider Nick Hornby books more or less "in between" reads. They're quick. They're to the point.

Then I can dig into Edith Wharton, or maybe even John Updike, to whom I've recently devoted about three months of my reading life (only to discover that Rabbit really is going to age and die right before and because of my very eyes). Precisely the moment to yell, "Mercy," or better yet, to call on Hornby.

So I thank him, too.

Cancer doesn't discriminate, but that doesn't make it good.

Cancer is terrible. So when I read a very well-written email from a mere acquaintance, asking for help with an event to benefit a friend of his and his family, I couldn't see a reason not to participate. While I can't divulge the entire contents of the email, I can say that there are people who love Bruce Siart, he has cancer but not a very good prognosis, and he and his family are going to need money to pay for expenses.

From what I can gather, Bruce loves music, he has a wife, and he takes pictures. If I knew him, I know we'd have at least two things in common.

That said, the benefit will take place at Ralph's Diner in Worcester on April 10th.

This being my own blog, I'd also like to add that it took me a few days to decide whether or not I wanted to donate my time and/or money to a family I don't know. Three things fueled my decision.

1. I've lost loved ones to cancer, and I've known survivors of cancer. I have health insurance, and I'm lucky enough that my employer offers cancer insurance. But I know insurance, and I know it's never enough. Between deductibles, lapses in employment, loss of wages due to appointments and shorter term absences - and the lack of physical stamina during treatment to do even the most menial tasks yourself - it's a huge expense. People sometimes need help due to circumstances beyond their control.

2. I've received recently a barrage of requests for donations. The internet makes it easy. For victims of the Haiti earthquakes, for homeless families, for drug and alcohol intervention programs, for bands trying to put together enough money to record their next album (fostering creativity would not be an ignoble cause in my book), for rape victims...the list is endless. And I wasn't feeling good about ignoring ALL of them. Problem number one, I don't have a lot of money these days. Like most people, my budget has finally been stretched as thin as I'm comfortable with. Thinner, perhaps. I chose this cause because I can both participate and donate, so I won't feel so terrible when I donate less, but participate more.

3. It's been a long winter, and I haven't been doing very much in the evenings or on the weekends. Given my budgetary woes, what's been a short bout of contentment (growing longer by the hour), and the realization that too much contentment leads to apathy, I decided that the best thing to do is say, "I'm in!" and ride it out 'til I've followed through.

I don't think there's anything wrong with any of these reasons. To quote Nick Hornby, "Human beings are millions of things in one day."

If a couple few of them are good, it's better than none.

a thousand names.

Illusions. Like my bank account, and that guy I was going to marry once; like my job, my car, and Christmas. I was looking at old pictures last night, and it made me feel as though I've lived a hundred lives in the same place without a single common thread. I don't think this is good or bad. I don't seem to be repeating any patterns, in that none of them were the same in any way that I can reasonably identify. Except maybe that I fall right the fuck down and always find a way get back up. Even then, it's never the same.

Sometimes I jump up, brush the dirt off real quick, and manage to gather enough grace to make it look like it never happened. Those times, I don't look back. Other times, not so much. Some things take a long time to get over. Everybody knows this.

So while I'm halfway upright at the tail end of one of the very long time things, I'm also at the starting edge of yet another time of my life. I think that this time will be good, just like all of the other times were good or better. I think this because I choose to give the gone wrongs their proper due and then let them go rather than applying adjectives to myself that indicate there will never be another good time. Adjectives like scarred, or hurt, or damaged. Fractured. Those words are just excuses not to say yes to yet another lifetime, common thread or none. I may not be voicing an emphatic yes, but it's a yes nonetheless.

My advice to me. Never punch a gift horse in the mouth.

even the rain can change overnight.

It's as if I'm waking from a deep sleep. I could stay very still and listen to the cats meow around, and the house creaking, and the rain outside pecking at my windows. Or, I could jump out of bed, make a fat pot of strong-ass coffee and give this day (all of these days) a fair shake. Either way, it could be beautiful.

I'm a little early, but spring's just around the bend. I have plans. I want to hike more, because they don't call it the out-of-doors for nothing. A door's better than a window, even if a window's better than a wall. There's something about the trees and a lesser-trod path that makes you feel like you're a pioneer. I say this now, where I used to prefer spring walking around a city full of walls and windows taller than any tree could endeavor to grow, in fact where trees are somewhat scarce, except where they've been transplanted from faraway places. I could reference more than one point here, but that only leads me back to nostalgia. I'm not going to talk about spring and talk about nostalgia at the same time. They're not going to meet in the middle today, because memories can sometimes foil even the best laid plans.

I'm not saying that I'm starting anew, because I've grown enough to know that when it comes to this love, ain't no such thing as a do-over. I meant to write "this life," but for as much as I've practiced thinking before I speak, I'm not exempt from the occasional Freudian slip. But guaranteed, there's always another spring for as long a life as we're allowed. Always.

So few things are like that. Always. I like the way the word sounds, though I'm wary that I'll mix it up with memory.  I might have, at times. I like things I can count on, and I'm not counting on winter to make me see anything in a new light. I could count on fall, except just by definition, I don't think it's going to pull me out of a rut. Summer's nice, too, but so often the air becomes thick and stifling. Spring, though. It can bring so much.

I don't know if anyone else appreciates that like I do. Frankly, my dears, I don't give a damn. I'm just in it for the oxygen. Without it, none of this could happen.

heart on your shoe. (every step of the way)

Sure, I have it all. Or at least what I'm supposed to have. But lately I find that I'm constantly wishing for more time. I've been doing so much mulling things over that I'm not getting it down. It's noisy here now. Lots of static, lots of distractions, and never enough peace. These aren't excuses. It's just true. Even right now, the house is rumbling (I think the downstairs tenants got surround sound for Christmas, and they seem to prefer movies in which things are blown up), a door just slammed, and my computer's fan is running in overdrive (mainly because it's very old). Another door slammed. 

I don't have a lot to say today. I'm thinking about what other people have said, and wondering what they want to say, and whether or not I'll be there in time to hear it.

Best lines ever:

"I want you to be my girlfriend, but you don't have to decide right now."

"I want you to do everything you want to do...and I want to be there to back you up."

"Come here. Sit with me so we can talk."

"I want to rip your heart out and eat it, just so I can be closer to you."

"Come on tour with us!"

"You know we love you, right?"

"You're real..."