I know times are getting hard

but just believe me girl
someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
we'll have it good
we'll have the life we knew we would
my word is good


(Q) is divorced from her husband. She is an amazing, incredible girl. You meet them sometimes, you know. Those girls. And you wonder how they got that way, how anyone can be so fantastic and still be here, and here enough to be perfectly normal and cool and rad. And two minutes after meeting her you forget how beautiful and funny and kind she is, because quickly she is simply (Q). But if you were on the trolley she would not be (Q), she would be holy shit who is that girl and where are they making them? And she had a great husband, as great as her.

She used to sit on the floor in my living room and nurse her baby. And then she would stand on the porch of my house and watch her swing. And then she was sitting in my car and talking about the divorce, which was coming and coming rather suddenly. She had had a dinner. Not a liquor and dancing dinner, but a cocktails and Scrabble dinner. That's more her speed anyway. She invited the neighbors who had just moved in and she was very excited about them because they are a married couple the same age as (Q) and her husband (may he rot in hell) and they did not have any couple friends of their own, it was always (Q) and us or him and his friends or a bunch of us together but never (Q) and her husband and another couple, and those things are fun, and those things are important. So she was excited. And they were friendly and cool, and she invited them to her home because yay.

So the neighbor's husband was in the bathroom or had gone home to get something, she does not know, but (Q) went in to the kitchen to make some drinks. Five minutes? Two minutes? The rest of your life? She came out and her husband was having sex with the neighbor's wife. She said he didn't stop when she came out, but finished, then got up, walked past her, and went to the back yard and peed in a bush. This is what makes her think that the husband was in the bathroom, because why is he peeing on a bush? I guess the bathroom is occupied. These are the things you fixate on. The bathroom. The bathroom.

So very quickly a divorce is coming. In the meantime she does not want to live in this fucking house. She takes their girl and moves out, and the neighbor's wife moves in because there is a divorce coming very quickly for them as well. So (Q) moves out, but there is still the baby and visitation and necessary communication. And every once in a while her phone will ring and it is the neighbor's wife, because arrangements need to be made to pick up the baby and he is too busy or too dick or too something, because what kind of fucking asshole would have the neighbor's wife call to arrange this? That is another long, long rant, but meanwhile, (Q)'s phone rings and it is the neighbor's wife. And here is the thing. (Q) has moved out, but has not managed to take care of details yet. So the phone rings and on the other end of the line is this woman that (Q) was so excited about, that (Q) had visions of friendship and babysitting and birthday parties with, this woman that came into (Q)'s home and helped to destroy it and is now living in it with (Q)'s not so fabulous husband. This woman is calling (Q), but because she is calling from (Q)'s own living room, when (Q) looks at the phone it says "(Q) calling". Her own name. Get the phone, it's you. And this is the only time that she loses it, when she talks about this. Seeing her own name come up on her caller ID.

It really is the little things.

And sometimes, these times, when I am feeling particularly vicious or wronged or just fucking insane about what is going on right now, (Q) comes back to me. Even though I have not seen her in a really, really long time. And even though we were not super close friends, but close enough that when everything went wrong in my own life, she came and she shared and she understood and she took some of it, and still, amazing and good and awesome. And this is not one of those situations where I go It is not so bad because someone always has it worse, because that is fucking ridiculous. If your arm is cut off it does not stop hurting simply because someone's arm AND leg are cut off. No. But I think about this now and then, because I go, you really do just do what you have to do. You really do just pick it up and keep it up and stop fucking crying about it at some point, and sometimes it is necessary for that point to come sooner than you think. What are you going to do? Your life is not going the way you thought it would. Nothing is going as planned. The dreams you had are gone and the people you love are monsters and the life you had is over, what the fuck are you going to do now?

What are you going to do now, self? That thing that you hoped for, that thing that you waited for and pretended not to think about and swore you would not accept but really, really wanted, that thing has come and gone and the things that you had put on hold in anticipation now have to be dealt with, you have to take them down and live with them, you cannot ignore them because that thing is here and gone and now it is up to you. It is not going to happen. It is not going to fucking happen.

You are calling, pick up the fucking phone.

yoshimi

they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots eat me



Sometimes it's hard to see things for what they really are. It's hard to filter past hope and expectations and experience and see what it really is, now, this time independent of everything else. It seems like it would be so easy, doesn't it? It is round and pocked and orange colored, thus it is an orange. Right? Who knows, maybe it is a tangerine. And maybe the girl in the coma is really a superhero. And maybe I am completely wrong about everything that I think. Maybe. But probably not.

It's difficult, when you can't trust yourself. When you have to question your instincts. When everything in the universe seems to be telling you something but you still wonder, even though you know. You know. You know, you know, why do you question? Because you have been wrong before. But not really. Cause even then you knew, you just thought that if you didn't acknowledge it it would not be real. She is not going to die in that hospital bed. She's a fucking superhero. He is not really doing what I think he is doing, he's my damn husband. Or ex husband. This cannot possibly be what I think, because if it is what I think then I am going to lose it completely and I would like to head that off as long as possible. But you can't do it forever. Maybe you can do it the rest of your life, but you can't do it forever.

everybody having a good time

except you
you were talking about the end of the world


I always wonder about people. The choices they make, how they get there, what drives them. I try not to think about it too much, because I would go crazy, but I do. Little things.

There was this man, once. A man that I, um, read about. He was not much older than me. It was his birthday, which is something that I always notice. He shot himself. At his birthday party. In front of his wife and kids. On, actually, his wife. I remember him specifically not because of the horrific nature of our meeting, through the newspaper, but because he was particularly memorable in his own right. It's weird, what you can tell about a person. Fastidious. Clean. Ridiculously well groomed. Perfect. Physically, perfect. Here is the thing that stuck with me. He had a very small Band-Aid on one finger. Very small, one of those teeny ones that are harder to put on than even makes sense. The useless ones that come off ten minutes later. He had one of those Band-Aids on. And when I took it off there was a perfect little line of what was clearly Neosporin. Such a small injury. Possibly a papercut. But this man had taken the time to put Neosporin on it, before he covered it with a completely unnecessary Band-Aid. Such a small injury, so well taken care of. Such a small matter to command the attention of this husband and father in the hours before his birthday party. I wonder what he was thinking about when that happened. I wonder if he thought Dammit, that's going to sting when I go swimming (because he was clearly a swimmer). I wonder if he thought You know, I have really got to get a letter opener. I wonder if he had the first aid kit readily available or if he had to make a special trip to the store in order to obtain the supplies necessary to treat that wound.

Mostly I wonder what the fuck is going on with you when you will spend who knows how long treating a completely innocuous wound ten minutes before you stick a gun in your mouth. I wonder if the little things become so routine, so rote. I wonder if you really actually THINK that you need a Band-Aid when you know perfectly well that you are going to be dead before it has time to heal. What I really wonder is why we spend so much time on things that don't fucking matter and nothing, at all ever, on the things that do.

I would like to drill that into my own head, and the heads of the people I am close to. Not you. I mean those people. The ones that might be having the sort of conversation with me in which I have to ask Is this really worth getting upset about? Because, seriously, this is like the Band-Aid before the head shot. Because really, there really are such bigger things to worry about. To spend your time and energy on. How many times have I asked him to stop wearing his shoes on the carpet, when what I really mean is Please do not sleep with my friends anymore. How many times have I said I really should get more exercise when really I should find out why the fuck I can't stop falling over. At what point do I decide that five twelve twenty little teeny things are enough to warrant a really big explosion? Cause individually, they are being batted away. They are such small things. They are papercuts. And I wonder if I will even notice when half my head is missing, or if it will simply seem like one more thing.

they don’t ask for much

but it ends up bein everything
oh, if you ever
lay your guns down


You expect people to fight for what they want. I do, anyway. I expect that if you want something bad enough, if anyone wants something bad enough, they will do whatever is necessary to get it, as long as it takes. That makes sense to me. A lot of things go into that, though, which allow for the gracious acceptance of defeat. Do you want what you already have more than you want that? All right then. Do you want that more than what you could have, if you gave this up? All right then. Are you really attached to your self esteem? Do you like who you are more than who you might become in the pursuit of this thing? All right then, let it go. Because no matter how you want it, you want those other things more. There is nothing wrong with that.

But the first things, the real things, the things that could change your life, those things? If you want those things bad enough, why would you ever stop short of it? Because it is difficult? Because people and times and situations are difficult? It is a challenge? She is a lot of work. You are being hammered with guilt and it would be easier to just stop here than to wade through it, it’s like the fucking Swamps of Sadness and it’s sucking everything you brought for this. You simply did not realize how much work this was going to be. Man you’ve been to college, you know how hard you have to work to get where you want to go. Years. Years of work, hard work, and when you’re done you get to work the rest of your life to pay for the privilege of getting to work, don’t fucking say you didn’t think you were going to have to work. Jesus. You get one life. Only one. It gets shorter every day. It is shorter now than it was at the top of this page. And now even shorter. What are you going to do with it?

You have, I suppose, a perception of where your life is going to go. It does not go that way, for most people. Sometimes it does, though. That is just dumb luck most times, and if it isn’t it’s because you pushed it the way you want. It’s like driving a car with no power steering. You’ll get there, but your shoulder is going to need some work. But you have an idea of it. This is my plan. These are the steps I need to take in order to achieve my plan. These are the tools I need to take the steps necessary in order to achieve my plan. What are you going to do when you show up with your bag of tools and it turns out that you are building not a treehouse but a mansion? What? You are still a carpenter. You are still building. It’s not what you thought, but that doesn’t change the fact that you have everything you need to get the job done. It is just going to take longer. And while you are building it the owner has to live in a motel. The owner is going to be fucking pissed, man, cause he told you you were building a mansion and you showed up on your bicycle with your stupid backpack on and now he has to live in a motel for three years. But because you built him a fantastic boat once, he wants you to build his mansion. Build it, man, the longer you cry about it, the longer it’s going to take. All you have to do is start building. The plans are there. Everything you need, it’s all there. And the best part is, the moment you start building, the owner is going to hire a crew to help you. And the bester part is, when you’re done building him his mansion, he’s going to let you live in it. As long as you keep up the maintenance.

It is your fault that you are in this situation. It is your fault that we are all in this situation. You did this, you made this, and I gave you a gift, a gift. The gift of work. The gift of you doing anything you can in order to ensure that we get what we want, as long as it takes. Because that is what you have to do, if that is what you want. And I will not fight you. I will not make your job harder. I will do my best to make it easier. Because even though you are a carpenter now, you were once a fighter pilot and I know that it is hard for you to sit out there in the sun and the dirt and sweat your way through manual labor when you remember what it was like, when it was not like that. And I know that it is hard. Because even if right now it seems like I am a maid, do you remember when I was a dancer?

shelter me, oh genius word

just give me strength


Sometimes people talk about the things that they have done or are doing or plan to do as though they are watching themselves. On a screen, or from outside, or even from the inside as reflected in the mirror of someone else, watching. Not actually doing it. Not actually being present or part of the process, but simply allowing it to take place and, watching. Often this is a defense mechanism. We cannot bring ourselves to do whatever it is that is necessary at that moment, or maybe we can but we do not want to, so we pretend that we are not actually doing it, that we are an observer and will later critique the performance of that person that was so obviously miscast as ourself. It makes it easier, and sometimes it makes it possible.

I do not do this.

What I do is constantly write it and rewrite it and rewrite it in my head. I diagram the sentence in advance, as though it is a set. This is where this will go and if I move this over here then this could fit and I think that if I pull that out then this would mesh very nicely with that right there to achieve the effect that I am after. I do this in advance sometimes. I do this sometimes in the midst of a conversation or interaction. Sometimes I do this after the fact; upon discovering that things have gone horribly awry I realize that I could simply rewrite it the way it should have gone, thus it becomes. And it is done. It is printed and bound and placed on a bookshelf in my head, where I can pull it down and read it if I want to. But probably I will not.

I run into trouble when I fail to recognize that the other people involved in whatever situation it may be are not doing this as well. When it occurs to me that they took what was possibly a rough draft and had it etched permanently, a collector's edition, with the gold and the leather and the staggered payments. And I do not understand. I do not understand how they can take something that I have said and give it such weight. Because clearly, obviously, I said that in pencil. And I will make statements. I will make a proclamation, and it will sound good. It will sound real and it will sound thought out and he will think that it must be that I had written that weeks before in preparation for this, that I had worn out my white out and that was that, and that he can take it to the bank when actually I am already editing. To myself. Because I was really only trying out those words in that order, and once I put them down I saw that while the alliteration is there and the tempo is like a damn siren, it was really not what I was after at all. But between the time that I say it and the time that I realize that, it is a best seller. There is no taking it back. It's on his shelf now and what am I going to do? Issue a rebuttal, to myself? And hope that it does the trick? Half the time I do not even know where it went wrong. It was 'whom' again, wasn't it. Fucking whom, always mucking it up. But I would always, alwaysalways rather give it a shot than let the words back up. Here is what I think, man, because I have to think something and I can't not express it but the odds are good that ten seconds from now I will discover that I do not actually think that, but by then it will be too late.

This is because I write. And in writing you have the opportunity to kill those things in the edit. I talk like I write. Start to finish in one. I edit midstream. This is because I do not often read what I have written. But now and then I will receive feedback from someone saying How in the hell could you think that, let alone write that down? And I go Shit, I better go read that. Not so with speaking. It is boom/fast: out, it's gone. And it is left to me to defend it, because those are my words, my words my words, and without words I have nothing. Words protect me. Words give me an alibi. Words are there for me when I am not there for myself. I will defend my words with my dying breath, because I can, because even if it didn't come out the way I meant it initially, by the time I put enough words on top of it he will not even remember what it was I said. And I am all right with that. In these situations. If I write him a letter, right now, then no matter what I said on the phone five minutes ago I can still fix this. Conversely, but similarly, if I write him a letter right now then no matter how happy I made him on the phone five minutes ago, I can still take that away. Because that is what I do. They are not knives. Boy. They are not knives. They are armor. And I can use them in place of the real thing, if necessary, to pretend that it is not actually me, that I am not actually responsible for these actions, these decisions, that I am simply the pen by which this scenario travels from thought to being. That no matter how I actually feel, if I throw enough words on it, I can convince anyone. Even myself.