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..."

another time, another year

It wasn't all for naught!
Because I can make these mistakes alone
But you know we can make them better
Stay with me, eat crow with me
Sometimes the moon's hues resemble
Your skin's tone, and I think maybe
It's your face up there, and perhaps
we're not so bad off after all.

Because it is the last day of the year
I'm writing a list of everything I love
And it grows long because there's no sense
in harboring contempt- we do what we have to
I'm accustomed to this cycling up and down
the dirtiest streets looking for a way to turn
the tables (and me) to face the wall.

I wanted to tell you, after dinner over wine,
Or on your doorstep smoking cigarettes,
when your hair stuck to your sweat-
soaked face, which complimented the lines
that have grown around your eyes.
I wanted to tell you in the park where
the dogs were swimming, and then at
The river when we just stood there thinking,
"More time."

I would have said that of the last 365 days,
360.5 weren't ever this fine.

she said, she said. (not suitable for children)

"He forgot we were supposed to go out for lunch," I said. "Why would I expect him to call on Christmas?"

"I think that's what started it," she replied. Sincere enough.

So is it? Did I make him feel like a failure by setting up a lunch for which odds were, he would fail to show up?  That's how it breaks us. I wondered what would happen when he realized he forgot about it, which he only realized because I told him.

That was Monday. By Thursday, Christmas Eve morning he checked himself into the hospital because he was depressed and thought he might kill himself. He told them that much. He didn't tell them that on top of the bottle of vodka he finished, he'd started in on the Cymbalta. They didn't account for that when they gave him something for the DT's that caused a reaction that made him confused and unrestrainable, except by the sedatives that made him unable to breathe on his own. That's as much of the story as I know thus far, because that's where he lies as of today.

The other reason I haven't been writing. I have the material. I'm spilling over with it for chrissake. I just don't want to be mistaken for crazy by strangers, when even today I'm processing the fuck out of everything, and I'm still getting out of bed every damn day regardless of how many times I come up short in the end. Today I just got up much later than usual. Tomorrow, I won't.

I wonder sometimes in this life how much of it we create, and how much is created for us. And how late in the day one must stay in their pajamas to feel better about all of it.  I say this now, while I'm still in them. Later on, I'll have the right clothes on and these words won't come, which is good, because this sort of thing has to pass, or it becomes all consuming.