i've stopped writing.
i just thought about that this morning, after the second cup of coffee. it makes sense i guess. i've been friends with a professional writer, which makes my attempts look more like a hobby. i worked to prove i could do anything at my job. and i did. the result, unfortunately, is that i'm now tasked with a broader scope of responsibilities (design being one of them. i hate design). the writing has been completely taken from me and given to the new guy. he's become the writer here. i'm treated like the most literate non-writing person in the world.

so it's a natural progression i guess. to stop writing. it's depressing though. it's hard to lose things you love.

i seem to be doing that a lot lately. losing things i love.

apparently facebook doesn't really allow you to quit. not really. i got an email today that says "[some person] wants to be your friend." which was interesting to me as i didn't think i existed in facebookuniverse any more. i was wrong. it happens sometimes.

so i go back to login to see what happens. "welcome back" it says. like i just took a short vacation or something. while i'm flattered that facebook cares so much that it doesn't want to let me go, i don't know that this is actually a good thing. social networks shouldn't miss me and hold on when i say goodbye. i feel like i'm being stalked by facebook. not by anyone. by the actual program. it's kind of scary. i'm wondering if i should lock my door. like maybe a big computer is going to show up on my doorstep and ask me to go for coffee. which is just ridiculous i know. computer systems can't drink coffee.

it's amazing to me how much i censor my thoughts even when i know that no one is going to read this. i'm on draft three of a simple note about how i deleted my facebook to allow myself the freedom to really write my thoughts on a page that no one will read (sort of give me that daring sense of openness that someone could actually know what i'm thinking, but with little danger because not even i read this page). and i'm still censoring. brilliant eh? maybe i'm hiding these thoughts from myself. (let's play at psychology right?)

i'm thinking things i don't want to admit to thinking. connecting dots that aren't in the same picture and staring at the picture like it's some zen revelation. it's not zen. hell, it's not even real. i know that. but i still keep looking at the picture and tracing the lines.

i think that's one of the main reasons i feel like disappearing right now (there's always a reason. maybe not a good one. maybe just plenty of bad ones). to disconnect from ideas. long enough that i can change the perception of the people around me. back to a more (less) comfortable place.

i wish stories didn't always get told after they were finished. you hear bits and pieces along the way. chapters within the story. but not the whole book. that seems to only get told at the end, when everyone's gathered around sharing their portion. their memories.

that was this weekend, and the one before, after my grandmother died. many of them i knew, the stories. i was in a lot of them. the unruly child that refused to be tamed. the chocolate cakes and birthday wishes. cat scratches and skinned knees.

but of all of them, i think the one i loved hearing most, was the one at the end, both in telling and in life.

i don't think anyone really knows the the details of the beginning. i don't think she shared that part, out of modesty i'd guess. she loved my grandfather, never stopped, even when age made her stop changing the flowers on his grave every so often.

so, since no one knows, i'm going to give you my version. it's mostly factual. i just filled in the gaps.


Grandmother's Bingo Partner

when everyone grew up, they grew out. all the children and grandchildren going in their different directions. grandmother couldn't stand to be too still for too long. life had to move, have some purpose, some action, some something. so amongst the many activities that took over her time, from baking for the church, and sending cards to every sick person with a mailing address, she played bingo. weekly. the kind of bingo where people actually care about winning the prize, even if they don't totally care about the prize itself.

she was a spark, my grandmother, even if no longer the whole fire. so i guess i shouldn't be surprised that old age and poor site couldn't hide her from the smiling, elderly gentleman that came to sit next to her soon after she started attending.

i'm assuming, of course, that he had poor site. for all i know he had perfect vision. i don't think anyone knew that part, and i forgot to ask. not that it matters. it doesn't. so since it doesn't, let's give him bad vision.

it started with polite conversations and lots of smiles. modest smiles, deep with age, that form from years of experience. they aren't light, these, looking at shallow depths. these smiles have eyes that see your entire life in ways we youth can't even understand. he could probably know my heart and soul from the color of my socks and how far i pulled them up my calf.

but i'm losing you, i can tell. back to the story.

smiles. lots of smiles. that only grew wider and more permanent. then one day, standing over the prize table he asks, "what would you like. tell me what you want and i'll win it for you." like two teenagers at the fair. she pointed and smiled. he didn't let her down. a tradition was started. each week it was the same. they'd stand over the table and he'd deliver the same line with the same smile that she couldn't tire of. and he would win. he would always win. i think it's a testament to love. love rigged bingo, on some cosmic, this-shouldn't-happen-every-time, miracle level.

even in the end, when she was in pain, and words didn't want to leave her mouth. the phone would ring. his name would be called. her hand would extend. all she wanted was the phone. the voice didn't make the pain go away. it just helped keep the smile there.

he wasn't the whole smile. no one was. their were pieces for my mother, my dad. aunts and uncles. they were big pieces. along with grandchildren and friends, the world in general. everything was her smile, because she saw her children, her happy life in everything around her.

but he was the finishing touch. he was the last love in the last days that took that smile, and broke apart the lips to let the teeth gleam from behind.


***


it's beautiful isn't it? i won't cheapen it with morals and takeaways. it needs none. it is its own takeaway.

"do you remember when we walked down halls with high ceilings. me in my green eyes. you in your black boot."
"i remember a lot of stairs and doors that would never stay open."
"they never would stay open would they."
"i think they hated me. the doors."
"no. they just wanted to give you something to do.
"they succeeded."
"for a while."
"yes. for a while."


"i still have the black boot."
"i still have the green eyes."

"and those doors, they're still closed."
"they always did."
"yes. yes they did."

"i remember them all. the conversations we never have. or most of them at least."

i like to tell myself that even though i know it's not close to being true. the truest version of that statement is "i remember them all. the conversations we never have. the ones that i imagine would have changed me. i remember them. or most of them at least." and even that is missing some of the nuances of reality.

or better still, "why is there nothing more in my mind than the alternate endings of these invisible conversations?"

granted that's not really a statement. close enough though. it's getting distracting trying to be grammatically correct.

i wish i could forget them. the conversations. because they too are distracting. distracting me from the other distractions. the ones that have some relevance to reality.

when i was in high school and much more social than i am now, i worked as a waiter. i know. that sounds amazingly different than anything anyone would expect from me now. my entire wage was dependent upon sucking up to strangers. i was good at it though, at convincing them that i cared in the slightest whether their steak was cooked to their specifications. all i cared about was how much they would be willing to tip me if i was willing to pretend i liked them for half an hour or so. i pretended well. they tipped well. it was a good combination.

but even a good actor gets bogged down when there are too many shows to perform at one time. everyone knows that. so we had a code, me and the people at the restaurant. whenever you were in over your head you just yelled "i'm in the weeds." anyone who heard that phrase knew that, for whoever uttered the tragic phrase, the world was falling apart. not falling apart and drifting away into nothingness, but falling apart and collapsing in on itself like a supermassive black hole. nothing escapes. it all condenses into infinitely compact nothingness.

i remember those days, when the weeds seemed like such a tragic place to find yourself. straining to see the world above the green masses that flowed with the wind in front of you.

it's funny to hear myself say this, but the weeds seem boring. i'm in the jungle now. not the "i'm on safari and trying to pretend to be a man" jungle. i'm in the f---ing jungle. like, "i'm being mauled by tigers" jungle. and it's not like i just stumbled into the outskirts of the jungle either. i live in it. in the rainforest of all places. there's no sunlight. no outside world. there's only the black dampness of the jungle.

it sounds cliche to say (what doesn't these days), but i think you get use to it. eventually life in the light, in the fields of weeds, or, god forbid, the grassy hills, feels boring. you don't know what to do with yourself. so much light. so much wind. so much...

silence.


in the jungle i'm on my toes at all times, ready to spring into, something. in my first days in the jungle i was springing into a run from whatever ridiculously odd noise came too close to my ear. usually an innocuous insect. occasionally a hungry tiger trying to rip me apart and snack on my lower intestines. these days i'm springing at the noise. strike first. worry about the consequences later. i've become amazingly adept at wrestling with tigers.

i'm an adrenaline junky. it's one of my many addictions. i don't get enough chances to put my life in danger now. so instead i put my sanity in danger from too much thinking and far too little sleep. some days i thrive. some days i go insane. i'm not sure which today is.

i've lost track of what day it is.

all i know is what i see. orange and black stripes in the darkness. moving through the day that is night that is day.

i am in the jungle, laughing. i am the jungle. and it's time to start hunting.