pink and green
I was born over there, and then I moved here. Between that time, the only dreams I can recall are two. One was of two sisters, and it was based on a true story. Two sisters in a high-rise opposite ours, who—whom, is it?— the kids said were witches. In the dream, I was hanging out of their window and they were about to let me fall. There was an ostracized girl in the neighborhood, at whom we were supposed to throw rocks, or that she would throw rocks at us—I forget. I'm getting an image of an old lady with purple frightening hair throwing cats, but I think that's just the Simpsons. No, it is. That's from the Simpsons, not my life. The other dream was of a dead girl, in an elegant coffin in a room. The room was all pink, the kind of pink from bedsheets and layers on a cake. The curtains were creamy pink, as well, blocking the sun, but you could feel its presence throughout the room. That dream most recently has taken significance in my mind, as I consider my life. I don't think I just remembered it; I'm sure I've had it stored throughout the years, and it may or may not have come to the forefront here or there, or perhaps in some feeling or sensation of deja vu.
My favorite cartoon, like all the other kids—I don't think there was much from which to choose—was Nu Pakadze, a Tom & Jerry construct, a rabbit, and a wolf who smoked. I fell in love with "A Million Roses," due to an episode from the show, where the wolf looks down at his reflection in the pond. The day before setting sail, I watched the show with my cousin and gave him my tapes. We were leaving.
In America, I was afraid of kidnappings. That was the first thing I learned about this country, missing kids, milk cartons—my dad would walk us to the 7-11 down the street, where he later revealed he would be scared we'd want something he couldn't afford. There was no such thing as sliced bread over there. We were crazy about bananas when we first encountered them, now how dull, they were tropical and exotic. My favorite toy was a plastic, little yellow corvette my dad bought for me during a layover. I love airline food to this day, the tin foil over the meal and the surprise. Now it's just the anticipation. We didn't have much money; we stayed in an apartment with dad's friend's family. They worked in a little sweat shop sowing T-shirts and shorts, pink, orange, and green.
Growing up, my dream was to live in a mansion, with a yellow corvette and a blond wife, and be a lawyer. That's what I would draw. I'd take a couple cushions out of our sofa and couch while my parents watched TV, and set them side by side on the floor with papers strewn across them as my desk, and I'd get to grading with a red marker or being a lawyer. One time we were driving down a street—Colorado is the word I want to use. Yes, it was, it was Colorado Blvd, across from the Galleria. We saw a barefooted woman in a baggy dress sprawled on the ground near a couple steps on the sidewalk. Her face was smudged with gray and her skin was dirty. She was painting the ground with her hands. There were empty tin cans in and around her bare legs. Her mouth was open and her eyes were smiling; her face was happy and sick. I'm not much of a fan of my sister's most recent work, the alien themes—I prefer her earlier stuff, and my themes seem to be witches and white snakes. I had some Golden Grahams left, so I poured some soymilk over it in a bowl. I unwrapped a hershey's little-finger sized bar, and broke it up into four and added that over the cereal. I hoped it would melt over in the microwave, which it sort of did, but the bowl was too hot for touch. So I used a towel to pour the concoction into a cup. I lost some of the chocolate that had melted into the porcelain bowl after the milk
during equestrian therapy, I walked away from the group for a moment to linger by a little makeshift koi pond that had suffered from the drought. I thought about a later episode of The Office, where Michael falls into one, and I decided I would look forward to watching the series again. I recalled the relaxed air of binge-watching a show on my bed, a quiet wholesome joy. The show could be viewed on Netflix and I felt the latter stages of how I used it. We didn't have Netflix back at the house, and I could rent the series from a library; we didn't have a DVD player back there either. I imagined a library full of DVDs, going to the bathroom, then browsing feverishly.
...
(maybe it's the font I don't like)
Ah, Rudy. That Rudy again. As the officer says to Richard Hoover when he finds the stack of porn, God bless ya,' God bless ya.' Kelly and Rudy treat my parents and me. When dad joked he'd like five wives, Kelly retorted only if mom can have five, too. Once, mom let it slip Joe Dassin may be handsome. He doesn't let her forget, about Jordasen.
Rudy asked us in group to consider what book we'd like to start reading next week. I felt like pleading, not another Latin man, please. Rudy is Mexican; my dad told him he thought Cuban. Rudy told group here's a clip of an interview with Don Miguel Ruiz. I asked if he was a flamenco player and the words floated in the air. I had been joking since the first breath of morning. I was on edge. People know not to fold a paper along its crease anywheres near me. I felt like running out of the room blah-blah-blahhing with my hands wrapped around my head hearing him speak—on Oprah, with an accent, speaking of a woman who speaks her truth.
You can't mention the pool-man around him, you can't mention the cable guy; not the professor, not the tutor, not the director of the chandelier factory. You'd think the awareness of the caricature would lessen the pain. But it don't. I think pain here is a most apt and sincere effort to convey a feeling, or state—a hapless frustration towards something so trivial to others, it's almost hilarious. I could sense my counselor's grown tired of it. I told him I could sense it and he conceded he felt helpless and frustrated.
Oprah asked about the people who make fun of her. They don't even know me—what about those people? He suggested they have nothing better going on. I realized why I cringe each time we go through the Four Agreements. There's a fifth one, I hear—that's beside the point. Everything bounces off her. She don't take nothing personal. It's not her job. He demonstrates every spec of her indifference, every God-loving act. He cuts down my entire existence. The son of a bitch praises her for not letting me bring her down to my size.
I read an article on Yahoo! arguing against a 1984 world under Trump, as opposed to a Huxley vision. It reminded me of the Orwell essay I read long ago. A paper about using figures of speech seen in print, about the importance of sincerity in language; and if I can recall correctly, lazy in words, lazy in thought. I wish they never invented vulgar words. I wish I never allowed myself. Just love—the whole and not the sequence. I can't even be a darkness to her if she loves God.
The day my ego was bruised
It all started when she didn't laugh at my joke. Some reality show she was watching—she said I joke around too much—where the guys and the girls decide to strip naked on the beach and run in. Probably they live together—came back from a club or somethin.' I had made her watch Cobra the night before. You know, it's been scientifically proven watching those shows lowers your intelligence by point something percent. I don't know if I was cognizant of the blaring irony at the time; I bit my lip just now, if that counts for much. You watch retarted things, too. You always make me feel bad about myself. She said I was rude. She stripped me naked, yes she did. I paused for a moment, apologized—in case she's ever interviewed for some memorial documentary. She brushed it off and I hated her. I've been cold to her since. I note how frequently she eats. I whispered to the house manager, she's got her ice cream in our fridge. A pizza, too. It's carrying over, I cried. I went out and bought a bunch of frozen shit I didn't need. And it's carrying over.
My head's gotten heavy lately. That's how I fall. I've found a niche exploiting my vulnerability. I've been telling on myself, trying to impress them, that I'm trying to impress them.
Another writing assignment. It's been feeling like college all over again. I tried to tell her I'm not used to interacting, and that's partly true. The last time I used—playtime was spent—I sat in a soothing, uncomfortable clarity. It must have gone on for hours—by the door, looking out into the backyard on my deskchair, chaining-smoking and hunched over. I ran through a long list of people and friends I had subtly undermined in our conversations.
The group dynamic again. They brush off the jokes I interject from the back of the van. They don't see me as a serious man. I bite my fist each time I do it again. We love you, ____. There was a slight before it, I'm sure of it. So I put on my best suit and ask a lot of questions, seizing any solemn moment, an opportunity. Wrestling inside, just let that one go. And here I thought you were going to say something serious again. You should have passed on that one, buddy. I bite my fist each time I do it again. Ever hear of: here's a thought, watch it pass? I've been in a heated debate in my head, wherein I hate them.
He asked for Jack's number—Why didn't he ask for mine? I wanted to start shouting out random numbers—11, 92, 12. It's that flaming petulance, growing in me. The Matts and Armens of the world again. Jack's got in good with him. He sits shotgun in the van. Nick and him are boys, he says. George had a job interview; we did mock sessions and schooled him in group. He couldn't make eye contact. He's a lovable bear, and said the interview went great. He relapsed the very next day. He was about to start school, worked on letters with his counselor for various courts, then she went off and quit. Jack had took his spot about a week or two ago—he put on his hoodie and his head hung low. He was quiet, I noticed, from the back of the van. I'll show those bastards. I'm the crusader for the humble guy.
I apologized to Rudy after for being so defensive. I said I realized only after what was my true vision of sobriety, but it was too private to share. Prior, some of the guys talked about the face Natalia must make looking back, being stugotzed from behind. The face transformed and I snapped my band.
I was itching to raise my hand. Don't appear too eager; play it cool, play it patient. I thought I'd have to pause in between the laughter. Don't go and lose your mystique. I envision gold, women, cars, gold cars on a TV screen that I won't see... But the lines weren't landing. It was so flat. Cause I'll be reading. I felt naked again.
We went back and forth. It's all practice for me, I said, but I oozed a sheepish beseeching. Every face was a body of water through which I was sinking. I don't even know what the hell that means. He said it was funny, but I didn't hear them laughing. You're a good writer—I know it's important to you. Ah, don't say that! Then he said I didn't do what he asked, and I felt like my parents were scolding me, like she caught me insincere; she knew I want to have sex. I don't compromise my writing. The vision is there. How is it not there? I refuse to make lists—I don't know what else I ranted. My body started to shake and I lowered my hands from view. It was getting embarrassing. He said I didn't ask you to make a list. He made me tell him that in high school I read The Stranger under a tree during a field trip; and how fun and easy it was to follow War & Peace once I opened it, probably under some kind of tree, too. On my bed. There were no sweat stains from the back of my head. He wouldn't let me slide, not me, he said. I mumbled it was my ego, but it wasn't very audible. I sank in thought once the attention was off, guilty inside, like I had committed a crime no one would admit. The transferred face came back to life.
All those years. Then God's cruel joke on me. There was another writer in the group. He had said, Rudy, come on, it's not that bad, Rudy. Before I knew it he outdid me. His vision was poetry—it didn't even rhyme. I knew the jury was in. He carried the reader deep into each sentence, descriptive adjectives, images, and the texture of granite. He envisioned living in a community where social interaction was not like competitive jousting.
she walks away, the sun goes down
I saw the Amy documentary in group today. I broke slightly, sawing her body be stretchered underneath the burgundy sheet. First the date on the screen, before the footage, before anything else—the day, the month, the year like your head being jarred. A jolt, you know? But psychological—more the nervousness or neurosis, when comes out the four with the flop and you have pocket fours. Poker. I knew what was coming, the final frame. It felt good to cry, real. I broke slightly. It felt good to cry. Sawing? Idiot. Feels good to laugh, to shake my head and laugh. I put on my hoodie and wiped my tears, and they kept continuing, peaceful and soft—sweet, poignant, and determined. It was listening to "Stronger than Me" that my mind wandered. My insides began boiling. I calmed myself down saying Amy was honest...not like that stuck up darwinist. The elitist. I don't judge Amy. I don't have time. The frame changes and it all comes back to me.
I could smell her when I came off the plane. What a line, what a line. Look at that line. Ah, what a line! Deserves something special to follow. Here, get up. Look at it from this angle.
I could smell her when I came off the plane.
Now come around from the rear. View it from the front. Not a scratch, not a scratch. What's that—what is that? Ah, it's just a leaf. It's winter, the wind, pesky crevices. Come inside from the rain.
I could smell her when I came off the plane. I know where I'll go. Artbridge. They thought I could meet a nice girl. Sent me over to dry out, experience a new kind of crowd, he said. I drank the entire time. He was supposed to send for me at the VIP. My clothes were the most important thing. He was late picking me up. His coughing was a revving engine in park. He was driving. He was subtle, cool, and blunt in his tone—a sharp, jaded eloquence that went with a man with his name. He danced around with the citing officer, subtle, subtle enough anyway to remind him. He said don't wait for me at the flight of stairs. He was magnetic to me when he would speak, eliciting a childlike response from me. He was magnetic to me except for his breathing—the only decrepit building on the strip his foil wanted for the price of water. It was a sensitive, principled matter. Once, Zidane had visited. He had the photo somewheres; now it was Persians on their New Years.
Artbridge was a haven for her, frequented by artists, intellectuals, sons of politicians. We had sat opposite one another at our table, pissy, I wondered about the male waiter. I would get angry when she would look back at a license plate. My cousins rejoiced and said they found out she had been seen with a Persian, after I told them I had dropped her. What I dropped was some brown mustard on my white Hugo Boss sweater—the stain and my heartbeat like a jolt to the brain—that made me flip about walking in. She didn't notice. She was sitting with some people, probably smoking, the bitch. Intellectual banter—I would probably have to punch a guy. I had been there taking shots, frequenting the place in the afternoons, telling their bar to put on Amy. The morning she walked in, I was staring down at my shot glass, leaning my head on my hand, then over to my glass of orange juice. Mariam had been sitting at the table next to me, with good posture and a book held up to her face. I remember noting this bitch looks pretentious. Mariam doesn't even know who the fuck I am. She was waiting for her friend.
I had a couple favorite bars—the one with elephant peanut shells carpeting the floor, and the lesbian one, the entrance to which were some stairs that led down to a cellar. Groups would come in for beers and a bucket of crawfish at the western themed place. I always said I was going to eat, but never got to it. The barkeep lady knew my preference for Radiohead, and patrons who couldn't read the jukebox would have me find them some Pink Floyd picks. In the afternoons, the owner would sit near me with the barkeep. He was young and classy with a beard, and liked Moby. I would get up and play "Natural Blues." I said bye to them the last day and told them thanks, this is my favorite place and they poured me a drink. Sometimes I'd pass out over night at hourly motels waiting for my lady of the night to arrive. I was always bitter she got to love. At the lesbian joint, I tried to win them over. The one next to me was mean but cracked a smile and said where's your drink? It was a small, dark place and I would drink and be the only one dancing. There was another drunk; we would drink and misunderstand each other, go outside, then come back in together with an understanding and a sprained ankle.
Then I looked up, and my head jarred like it was on a spring. She walked in, smiling at Mariam, the bitch who had the book opened to her face like a cunt. She stopped short, frozen, and wheezed out a hello that turned into a whimper. I lit my cigarette and gave her the cold glare. My body was shaking slightly, uncontrollably; she was looking down, with tears in her beautiful eyes, standing before Mariam's table with her hands at her side. We didn't say anything. Mariam asked for the check, closed her cunt and ushered her out. The waitress sensed something was off. I told her with the most spite I could muster, Get me another shot. I tipped her big and left to go eat khash.
Sometimes I would take cabbies to bars with me, before we would go off to find the hookers. I was running out of money and drank all my relatives' alcohol. I gave my cousin counterfeit gifts; he wore the jacket with pride. I couldn't leave because of all flights over Europe being grounded on account of the black clouds. I was tired. On my last ride, I had the cabbie take me around the city looking for women and brothels, but there weren't any options that early in the morning. We scouted various hot spots and districts he suggested—we passed by the lake. I thoroughly enjoyed shooting the breeze with him and we were friends, until about three hours later when he told me his price and we started fighting. He pulled over and called his brother, who arrived later holding his five year old son by the hand. He mediated a compromise that wouldn't leave me belligerent. They left me in a village I didn't have a clue where it lay. I had had it with crooked cabbies, broken streets and black outs. I walked into a little mom and pop shack and had them lay me out a proper table. They had a daughter who was not good looking. I told them to bring out the Russian vodka, none of that domestic shit.
the here and now
Dear Friends,
I wanted to stop by and say hello. The holidays are fast approaching and I'm writing to you in a letter, with pen and paper, on a page from my notebook, next to thinking patterns and consequential behaviors, and a writing assignment on lack of self-respect I've yet to tackle. I know what you're thinking: who do I think is going to win it all this year? Well, it looks like the Cowboys are primed to run through the NFC, but the Giants have got their number. We're currently sitting first in our division, but we gotta make sure we beat the Ravens in the upcoming weeks. I have a special place in my heart for Russell Wilson, the quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks, because he looks like Michael from The Wire. My counselor gave me a book called Out of the Shadows—I've yet to read it. It's nice to have two sports now, and dispel old bullshit anger. I'm sorry I'm not more eloquent; although I'm finally feeling some hints of creativity.
This place has helped me slow down my head. They say my thoughts move so rapidly that it jumbles me up. That made me feel really excited because they say that's the mark of a genius. When I talk to women, I make sure to speak superfast, but sometimes I'll trip over my words. Sometimes I'll find myself pacing about outside a group of people, and I know that makes me look really attractive.
I checked my stats recently. There were no homeland pageviews. I'm frustated that I can't help leave room for the fantasy. I try to double-bag, but my hands hurt—opps, I sound like Brooks in my head. What I like about my Steelers, other than the emblem, the unsavory aftertaste of saying Rothslickburger, reminds me of our familiarity with another country, and that's a nice transition to help me hop back onto that pogo stick of life. Again, I apologize for my syntax—I wrote that phrase in a more cohesive fashion in some notebook, some months back, but it doesn't really matter.
I have been feeling antagonistic as of late. In groups, I felt a nagging compulsion to tell people that I'm better than them. It's a defense mechanism my mind uses when I think people ignore me or dismiss my input in a crowd, but it ends up leaving me disconnected from everybody; and the things I thought I felt, they were never even there. I guess therein lies the problematic thinking. I told my therapist about Rachel, although I don't think either of us understands it. When I look at a picture of her, I feel like my mom does looking at that photo of Oreo.
Something strange happened that fought off the irritability which usually starts the relapse cycle. I shared at a meeting that I had been living in a bubble, wherein I was this humble hero in my own narrative, but I don't even like you. People came up to me and told me they felt the same. In group, we meditated and Sarah asked us to write what the meditation meant to us. I wrote that meditation is stupid and yoga people are snobs and they only use yoga to be flexible while they fornicate, and it was received so warmly by everyone in the group. They laughed and said what a good writer I am and I didn't know what to do with myself, as I only read it out of spite to tell them that I'm better than them and that they can go fornicate. A girl towards whom I felt instinctually embittered when she shared she used sex as a drug, approached me and revealed it helped her to hear my share. I felt like such a shit. I complimented her on her hair; it was purple. She's probably in love with me now and I paced around her talking a mile a second. I had her head spinning. I can't afford to live in shame. Self-pity for me breeds or excuses lack of self-respect, which leads to freedom, then everything is permitted. I'm sorry Kristen Marie.
The next day, I listened and stayed on guard against judging anyone or straying from the moment. At the next meeting that evening—we went because Kelly is such a beautiful speaker and a beautiful person—I sat in thought trying to compile a great share while she spoke. That's my thing now, the here and now; when people smile at me, I know they like my blog.
My daydreams from years ago are coming back, and I'm so curious and intrigued by it, that I indulge them like when I was a kid. I wrote that day in group, that when I was young, I would often daydream like Jonathan Brandis in Sidekicks. In one series, I was a superhero crimefighter with my cousins, and we lived in a fortress under the forest and rode jeeps with an arsenal of weapons attached—mainly machine guns—and we each had a girlfriend. I remember my girlfriend was sick, and I went to her house with hot soup in the rain, and we started having sex. That was a wonderful night. In another, I was a pro-wrestler. I would design my trunks in my head. I had a good build, but I was never buff. The match in Tokyo against New Japan Pro-Wrestling really took its toll on my career. That was one I lost. But it was one of my classics. We were both on the mat long after the bell.
The stories would continue and develop as I went about my days. And I noted that I've started doing that in group; only I can see the brain damage, as I get stuck in the same sequence over again and draw a blank. I wrote that when we meditate, I see a coffee-table, and I know that someone needs to be body-slammed through it. I know that when someone is sitting with his legs crossed like a four, what he's really asking for is a figure four leg-lock on the floor. On the way back, I put on Xzibit's "Choke Me, Spank Me, Pull My Hair," because the guys here like rap—and that's the song Matt would blast in his V-tech outside of the dorms and he was so serious and now he's married. I put the song on as sort of a joke—he's a good rapper—but I couldn't listen to it for too long when I started realizing the realities of a life that doesn't want me, and that's my sickness, and it all has to do with me.
I have frequent using dreams, and some babe dreams, sad and depressing. I have nightmares about doomsday scenarios that make me appreciate the day that follows. I like it here. I think I'll follow the television curfew. It forced me to open up my notebook; now I need to start reading again so that I can make picturesque allusions and get the intellectual nod at dinner parties.
P.S. What does gnarly mean? I can't tell if it's good or bad.
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