Asshole Stole My Bricks

[A paean to Marty Barrett’s Asshole Stole My Bike.]

Gone, baby, gone

Gone, baby, gone

Getting the mail last week I chanced to look down and see the theft. Recognizing it took almost a full minute. What is wrong with this picture? The gravel is stacked too high and should not be visible, covered as it is by bark. Isn’t there more moss? What has happened here? I realize bricks are gone. I am not an expert in bricks, but it is not my experience that they sublimate into a gaseous form or enter the spirit realm, their secrets intact. There is only one conclusion: someone boosted my bricks.

I am not angry, but flummoxed. Why would anybody steal bricks? You can’t make a treehouse out of them, put them in a gas tank, smoke or drink them. They are the ding an sich of the unstolen. It’s bizarre.

It’s not a major loss. The bricks were offered by a friend, who got them free from a demolition site, and after using them as patio pavers has a big cube of them left over. A bright fall day three years ago, I stacked a small pile of them in my car, the moss cool, the spiders letting them go without a fight. My plan is to make a sort of vertical French drain to make up for an unaccountable gap the builder left in a foundation wall. Jammed in the gap, they keep junk from running down the driveway when it rains. The only thing I paid for were two torn, half-price bags of gravel. It’s no feat–gravity does all the engineering–but moss grows on them and it looks okay. It makes me feel competent that something so cheap can work.

But, still. Four or so bricks stolen out of a wall? Could the thief not be bothered with a crime worth committing?

Kids. I think this like the jowly old man who will suffer any injury to defend his emerald lawn. Damn kids. 

Like some life-size spooky interaction at a distance, I have had some arm’s-length run-ins with kids. There is a high school one block up, at the top of the hill, and we all know what nascent dangers brood there: punchies and swirlies, or nowadays, hate texts and black market Adderall.

One morning I found my side gate’s latch torn off, and a backpack stuffed inside. It was pink and small, Dora’s saucer-eyed visage smiling out at me. I realized kids had jumped a girl–a young girl. For several minutes I was enraged. I wish I had been there, with a gun. I imagine the kind of girl that would wear a small Dora backpack, how the asshole boys would have surrounded and pushed her, and at the height of the hitting, called her the worst things they knew. But the backpack is empty: there is nothing to trace, no one to call. I straightened the backpack and buckled it to the mailbox, giving it some dignity. Later it was gone. I repaired the latch and keep it padlocked now.

New Year’s 2014 had me outside at 2 a.m. I forget why. The gate’s latch was again torn off between sometime around 12:30, when I got home, and now. My trash bins are disturbed, and the ground is ravaged with wild kicks and drags. My neighborhood has a lot of Asians, and New Year’s and Fourth of July can pass as re-enactments of the Tet Offensive. I surmise some kids tracked a rocket behind my fence, were terrified of fire, and wrenched the gate open to make sure nothing was alight. This is noble, and I’m grateful. The latch pieces are even collected and placed on top of the nearby mailbox. The next day I consider using stronger screws, but then, it wouldn’t be so easy to keep my building from burning down. I use the same ones.

If adolescence is a continuum, these events mark the far end, and somewhere our side of halfway. Among all the stupidity I remember, there were a few truly depraved young people: the animal-torturing kind, the ones with wild eyes who liked knives and guns, the raw ones who just liked to hit. Some of these went after Dora, I think, and they go to school just up the hill. The ones that checked for fire are what I like to hope are the majority: just having fun, some a little dumber than others, but realizing a house catching fire is worth some risk to prevent. Good kids, I can hear my parents and their co-parents echo twenty-five years ago, with approving nods. Sometimes I wonder. But they’re good kids. 

Dumb, to be sure. I see them walk past, heading down to the bus when school lets out, shuffling and lugging packs, laughing in groups or alone and grim-faced in the afternoon sun. Did one of you steal my bricks? I just want to know why, really.

And why is that?

When I was in high school, I had a loose friendship with a kleptomaniac. We wrote surreal poems in homeroom:

I was dead in a bed

With a hole in my head

When I perceived a liquid that appeared to be red.

“It’s only blood,” the doctor said,

But I didn’t care.

I was already dead. 

He giggled frequently, was extremely intelligent, affable and failing everything. All he cared about was pushing the klepto boundary. I asked him about it: aren’t you afraid of getting caught? He giggled. Yes. That’s why I do it. It’s the challenge. It’s beating something that’s not up to me.

I never accompanied him, but he would return after weekends with handfuls of cassettes looted from music stores, or electronic pieces from Radio Shack. No liquids. Nothing that smells. Gotta be small and quiet. The audiocassette was perfect for him. He did not take requests, but was thoughtful and would bear his friends’ preferences in mind. I never saw it, but others described a dresser drawer in his bedroom filled with tapes, all still in plastic wrap.

I don’t know if he was ever caught, or graduated. Like whining and fart jokes, I am hopeful his klepto days were something he outgrew. He may not even remember them. I do, quietly, to myself.

He would not steal bricks. Why bother? That won’t impress anyone, not even the thief. But I imagine kids that would steal bricks, laughing as they struggled not to laugh, dumping them off a few blocks away after the minor thrill of doing something stupid has worn off. I haven’t seen my bricks anywhere, but I haven’t seen any broken windows or smashed windshields either. The kids that stole my bricks–if they were kids–were assholes in that moment, but not star assholes. They will outgrow it, probably.

The story behind the Dora backpack lingers. That was not the work of assholes, but sickness. I would rather they had taken all my bricks and smashed anything, but left Dora alone, and let her be a little girl.


2014 – Last Things

Last sachet

Last sachet

As years go, 2014 was better than it feels to write about its passing. Things were done and said I don’t remember that were important, and that weren’t. Some may remember the unimportant things, and forget the important ones. Who can know? I’m sure you are in the same boat.

Above is the last dishwasher detergent sachet (a far more artful word than “pack”, which sounds like a borax mule) from a package I must have bought over a year ago. I manage one dishwasher-load a week, so this box of sixty must be over a year old. I’ll admit it’s a strange nostalgia to have–the passing of one’s dishwasher detergent supply–but these little orange gems earned it. Their orangey-lemony-janitorial scent wafted through the house, providing a daylong smell of clean-not-chemical. Touching them was an exercise in kindergarten fascination: sticky-gooey like a jellyfish, but firm like fresh bread. Don’t hold too long! All the engineering effort to make each package with its perfect seams of orange and yellow goo, tense against the transparent membrane. Did this stuff work any better than the box of boring white powder? For my child mind, the point was each load of dishes had a single quantum of exactly right clean. This was Fifites space-age magic, a product designed by Ray Bradbury to thrill and delight and prepare us for Mars, smelling like golden apples of the sun.

What else?



Shawna came into my life. She is my golden apple from the sun. We are going up together.



In the fall, I went back to work. Just three months, just for surprise bills, just to assure myself that everything was all right. If nothing else, I told my adolescent imagined audience, it will prove what my real work is. Leaves reassured me by taking on brilliant colors.

Working fall

Working fall

You and I and everything we know went around the sun. We traveled time together, sixty seconds every minute.

What ancestors knew

What ancestors knew

I had phone calls with my oldest friend. We talk about daily marvels and mundanities. The world is different from a year ago, free of panic and the walls closing in, the sense of failure and pointlessness. The world did not change at all, of course, its living and breathing stuff, all its processes and procession going on with imperceptible certainty, mortals like us no more substantial to it than a cloud’s shadow. But still the world was different. I kept plodding on the book, a little every day, and every day it became a little clearer. Plodding is okay because that’s how anything gets done. He rolled with big changes at work and a new sense of being here now, moving ahead, his music reinvigorated.

Each time we talked at his lunchtime, I hid in a meeting room or walked outside the building where my job was gradually succumbing to not penciling out as a going concern, having these talks, looking at ducks in a pond or the Moon high in the afternoon. Everything was different, even more different than when we looked up at the Moon in college, separated by barely an hour’s drive. But it is the same Moon. Evenings, once a week or so, the house smelled of dishes future-clean.

There were flowers.





Treasure Winter

He finds it

He finds it

I haven’t written since September. I had just started a new job back at the old place then. I was panicked by dental bills and a sense of summer ending: a beautiful summer, exhausting with class and naps to recover from class and another round of Flagyl and keeping the writing going. But the job kept at bay that fear all middle class people have of ending up like the guy above, that guy we are all programmed to think we are one screwup away from. And we are, if powers so decide. And big dental bills make uncomfortably close.

WordPress keeps a Drafts folder, and in mine are a half-dozen starts with notes and ideas. They are all different from the stark raving navel-staring this blog has mostly been about. One could become a wonky treatise on nuclear waste: why not store it in the center of town, where it can be looked after, and provide eternal hot water? (It’s so safe and all.) Another began as lashing out against some nerd fantasist I heard on the radio, waxing poetic on how “intelligent” machines will finally, at last, for real this time, solve all our problems. Having seen how software is made, I would find the supposed incipient release of self-driving cars the amusing grist of a Laurel and Hardy movie, except I doubt it will be funny when real people suffer. That one is mostly about how technology is another tool used by elites for their purposes, a theme familiar to anyone who’s read exactly one serious (or even not so serious) science fiction book. If nothing else, nerd fantasists do not seem to read these books. That post is titled The Rape Machines. A happier one is mystic, star-staring, diving down into deep past and out into the deep future. It’s inspired by the Kepler spacecraft, now broken, that’s found all those exoplanets. That one is titled Kepler’s Planets. One my girlfriend suggested, about the old guy who shows up at the house across the street Saturday mornings in an aging sedan. The house is maintained at the margins, its vacancy obvious to any practiced burglar: the leaking gutters and collapsing garage door aside, the house exudes emptiness. Standing on the street, you can feel the Sears chain-link gates never open, the mail is forwarded. The old man takes five minutes to walk the thirty feet from parked car up the steps to the front door. He carries plastic grocery bags weighted with something. Maybe there’s somebody tied up in the basement, my girlfriend muses. I don’t have a title for that one.

Instead, I have focused on a novel. It has been with me so long I’m not sure it’s now something I want to do so much as at last get out. Sometimes I feel enthused and get caught up in it. Confidence increases as much as it abandons me to the old tapes: who cares about this, this isn’t any better or different than what anybody else has done, it’s old now. But every day I put in a half hour, an hour, and hour and a half. It’s slow but it’s steady and I listen to the good voices, like I’m at a party tuning out the noise.

Fall on Elliot Bay

Fall on Elliot Bay

Autumn’s dazzling clear gave way to deeper autumn’s murk. Heavy air that had been in Hawaii only ten hours before made the green land feel like a sweaty sock as it rained and rained. This gave way to cold breaks where the sky reached up to space, everything crystalline and blue.

Winter space

Winter space

I went for walks; I rode the bus. I splurged more often and drove to work by myself, exchanging gas and road time for free time and a free ride. Every day I worked on the book, a day off here or there.

November brought a sense of good. Describing this is hard: it’s ineffable, always there the way anxiety or depression is always there, but instead of lurking this new thing soars, gently, its tether to the sky just off the ground, where I can take hold. There is something about the light in the November trees, the leaves on the ground, the crunching. It comes out of the trees and the sky, the black background of the command windows I stare into at work. They’re like the whole screen was when I got my first computer, running MS-DOS 3.2, in 1986. Out walking around or at my now desk, I can feel the excitement of that time like cool water on a hot day. I don’t know what it is or where it comes from. Here’s a picture of it:

How the beautiful feels

How the beautiful feels

Do you see it? I’d point, if I knew where.

A month later, I examine with care a supplement my doctor has suggested. Lithium orotate is a major ingredient. Months prior to this, the New York Times ran an opinion piece suggesting we all take a little lithium. Is this it? I’m not asking questions. It only took me months to figure it out.

Thanksgiving brings the end of my three-month quickie job. The Man is pleased and reeks of desperation, so I make a deal to continue another three months, but at 20 hours a week. The project is nearing an end and they are short-handed as ever, and the compromise makes everyone happy. It feels like the third way. Thanksgiving feels like middle school, with turkey and friends and cartoons.

In the long slide to Christmas, I keep writing everywhere but here.

Bright lights

Bright lights

My girlfriend and I put up the lights and a fiber-optic glowing tree she has given me. We’ve been together over a year, through challenges on both ends, everything getting better. It feels brisk and clean and open, the sky nothing to hide from.

Mid-December I use up my allotted hours and my time is my own. My noble ideas to get up early and write on the book are kept in spirit, if not in all-out attack: I have trouble getting up before nine and don’t write much more than when I was at work. But I am cutting down the klonopin, and the adjustment dents my sleep. I can handle it now, and I’d rather give up something I don’t need. Anxiety isn’t sniffing around, and while it motivated me to write this blog in addition to everything else, I’m okay with the trade. I don’t fear your judgment.

Belltown Christmas

Belltown Christmas

I am accepted to a film directing intensive. Lugging a cold, I meet with the theatre director and an assistant director to be interviewed. All the young adult noise of doubt and self-defeat and terror is on another channel as we talk about directing Chekhov and trading off photography duties with other directors. They seem more excited than me. Afterwards I take the picture above, amazed at how grown-up I feel. They say they will make decisions in the next week. I get a thumbs-up email the next day.

I take a break from the novel and finish a short story, I’ll Be There All Night Tonight. It came to me all at once in a dream. I wish I could write them down all at once like that.

And now I am here. The sun is out again, crisp, dew points dropping into the teens. Behind me, the cat enjoys the heater after annual shots-at-the-vet trauma. And I am writing this because I feel this needs attention. I want it to stay alive.

Cat heat

Cat heat

Lights are still up. I like lights. They engender a feeling of childhood wonder–all its freedom and amazement, none of its powerlessness and fear–that feeling of lying under the Christmas tree and looking up into it, where the magic lived. That is the promise of Christmas lights: that feeling is available any time I want.

Streetsweeper, on time

Streetsweeper, on time

Things are going as they should. I apologize for my absence, but good work is happening, for you and me both. The streetsweeper does its pass late Saturday night like always. Stephen Colbert is off the air, but new things are coming. The future is coming. It is the only place we can go.

New Year’s is coming, but not the dread after it. Fear feels optional now. It feels like everybody else figured this out ages ago, but it’s a new ride to me.

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Fall Starts

Alternate synergists

Alternate synergists

It’s like that last bike ride. 

It is Labor Day, the sun past setting. Labor Day is cordoned off, a liminal world unto itself separate from the before and after it separates. But there’s no big sky religion here, only the mundane profane of a day rich white men terrified of Communists moved from May to September. Dogmatic leftist historians may fume, but this move is an inadvertent gift. We now have a day to celebrate the end of summer that is a transition in itself. Inside this day nothing is solid. Everything is being formed.

I can’t remember which summer it was–fifth, sixth grade, because I was really dreading summer being over and the next day being school. I was riding my bike around Norwood [Elementary School], around the playground and down along the treeline that led to the creek. I just rode around, looking and thinking about how everything was going to change. When it started getting dark I went home. I remember pulling up into the driveway and realizing this was the summer’s last bike ride. No more summer bike rides–there wasn’t any more summer to have them in. And that was it for summer!

I am on the phone with my oldest friend. A new job starts for me tomorrow, and it could not be more like that time when our ages were just in double digits: night descending with finality, every moment a world. This is more or less what he said…more or less. We both know the feeling but in recounting it I want it to be even more than it was. I was listening, then and now. I was hanging on, just a little.

He finished that bike ride and went in, and after the pile of crisp new school supplies was checked and the last moments of Hee Haw ignored, he was in bed, staring at the ceiling. I was too.

Since February or March sick tickles have sizzled inside my arms, sweat drenching the bed nights, fatigue settled over me in the classic leaden suit, the strange not-quite-headache sensation I describe as “helmet head” but with the helmet inside the skull–these all have settled in this muscle or that connective tissue, rummaged around a while, and then left. It was never bad. It never upset me, but I noticed. I could have been more B-movie about it: So. We meet again. Instead I kept going to work and writing evenings and weekends and made sure to not skip vitamins.

Last year’s heebie-jeebies have been nowhere. Thanks, little pink pills. You get in the way of what little blue pills are supposed to superinvigorate, but I’m told those wouldn’t be a good idea. I won’t argue with a good trade.  But the weakness, fatigue, zip-zinging lightning in the arms that once was everywhere: that must go. Doc and I talk. Doc says: Mmmm. I offer that Bactrim worked great two years ago: it cleared up nights of sweat-soaked bed in three months, four tops. She flips through lab slips. You taken Flagyl? It’s even better.

I have taken Flagyl. It’s a mean one. It pulls no punches in getting the job done: biting hard into nerves, striding across the blood brain barrier, cleaning out the mind. 2004 was the first time, when I was desperate and only knew I was sick. I could hardly move, the pills came down so hard. A couple more tries after that, though only certain about 2010, the date on the remaining pills. That was easier, but still tough. I appreciate toughness. Sometimes that’s the way it has to be.

I wait until the job ends, not wanting to be incapacitated. I give in to the modern impulse to check the internet and find warnings of a first-week honeymoon before Flagyl takes the gloves off. The pills are such a plain white disc they could be placebo pills: a little powdery, one side blank, the other stamped with F 500.  They go down easy.

The first minute

The first minute

New Year’s Day is perfectly placed: an entire day to recover from at least staying up late. It also provides a still place for anxiety to pool for the new job starting the next day.

January 2, 2013 was grey and not too cold, but a shock from the previous day’s brilliant sun. The job is here, the one to pull me out of the dark, thin months of the previous fall (even though half of them, too, were full of sun). I don’t want a job, but need a job. I need a place to go that is not my head.

The job did what it was supposed to. I realize now for one of the few times in my life, I used a job more than it used me. At the end, everything changed: the project cancelled, people let go. Everyone is sad or flummoxed. I thought it would make things easy, but I am one of the few arranged to keep going. No thanks, I tell the shocked woman. It was calm to tell her, though some anxiety came after. It was time to be free. There was nothing to worry about. There still isn’t. Mostly, I don’t.

My mother has always had pills: vitamins, mostly, and then various antibiotics or anti-inflammatories for her allergies, “pleurisy”, and other complaints. During the Eighties War on Drugs these never registered as The Enemy. Why should they? The TV constantly hawks pills, mostly for pain. I realized the difference was the TV pills just dimmed the pain a little, if at all. They never made you feel good. The Calvinist zeitgeist approved.

Now my parents are in their 70s and, like all older people, are walking pharmacies. Blood pressure, cholesterol, blood sugar, a few others I don’t know: and that’s just my dad. My mother, with her host of indefinite aliments, has even more. To travel, she transfers pills from the labeled pharmacy bottles or over-the-counter packages to zip-seal sandwich bags.

I think it was middle school when I first called my mom’s pills her junk, her doctor her pusherman. I’m your doctor when in need. My father said something unappreciative once. They might have said more if they knew the Curtis Mayfield song. I was my parents’ main boy, thick and thin. I’d never get mixed up in that stuff, I’m sure they thought, but Nancy and white suburban neighbors pumped the air thick with fear.

By and large, I have shunned pills. I barely tried anything in college, and didn’t understand drinking’s appeal. (I rarely drink now.) I was reluctant to try antidepressants. Since being sick I have cycled through many antibiotics, antiprotozoals, antifungals and antivirals, pills and capsules of interesting colors. MDs would be horrified, but the pills have no promise of fun. One makes pee orange, but that’s about it. The antidepressants make you crazier before they show the upside, if they have one.

Benzodiazipenes have the soft teeth of need. I understand why there are songs about them, why they engender fear. I have a bottle of them–exactly one–and I take them as directed. I don’t play around. I don’t wait for kids walking up the street to the high school to lure them into iniquity or to see what they’ll trade. In fact, I now realize my last refill was for half-strength pills: pale sunshine half-milligram instead of faded pistachio one milligram. For the past couple years I’ve been snapping the stronger ones in half, leaving the other half for another night, or reserve. I’ve been good about it. But I don’t forget. I can’t. Missing the evening dose means no sleep, and I’ve got to sleep.

Am I a junkie now? My psych nurse therapist counsels a half-milligram is nearly nothing. The hardest part about prescribing benzos, she says, is the stigma. People won’t take them. They fear being hooked. I’ve been hooked on sleep meds before. I’ve gotten off before. It could be argued I’m not off now because I am lazy. Sleep is more important than virtue.

Work in the woods

Work in the woods

Labor Day faded out with the double-whammy Sunday letdown it always has, at least when I’ve had school or a job. Every elementary school weekend had its last milling walk with fellow stragglers to the end of the block, its last trip out to the garage, that last bike ride. After that, it was 60 Minutes and steam from Sunday dinner, then making sure everything was ready for school. The end was the sound of the TV down the hall and looking out the very black windows, the darkness thin and empty. Now is the same when the next day is a new job. Ten o’clock A.M. may not be the crack of dawn, but is still inside the walls.

But the job did not come. Bureaucratic inertia prevented the proper triplicate form being stamped in the correct ink. I am awake in the fractured headache reality that comes with never really sleeping, and by the time it’s figured out there’s no job to go to, I am too much awake.

Awake and alive and a free man yet. Tuesday, September 3, 2014 was astronomical summer’s most productive day: farther into a new chapter, farther into a next batch of Twitter stories, more on this blog, attended writing group where I focused through the coffeeshop’s Eighties pop and a giant, friendly man’s single-finger huff-puff typing to write a little bit more. I even mopped the floor. Twice long, the day’s length stretched out like as a child: the day keeps going. For once as an adult, I had more time.

All week returns to me, but I never get back to Tuesday’s double living. Relief doesn’t wake me in summertime excitement like it did in elementary school, ready to see what’s out there. I know everyone is back at school or work, and it’s uncomfortable. We are well-trained.

Starting early

Starting early

What is a life for? 

Therapy is good for many things, including restoring a sense of surprise.

I do not have a gotcha therapist, she explains. I’m not asking open-ended questions for you to guess at and get wrong. I am like Carl Rogers, here to get in it and wrestle it with you. There’s no point in being a spectator in your own life.

Resolved: I am not doing enough, have never done enough, can’t do enough. This is the topic we have stumbled into. Why didn’t I write these books I supposedly so want to write a long time ago? Why have I been a wanderer, confused, doing well at everything I don’t care about? All that potential I had to live up to lies deflated in a pile of receipts.

For months, we talk about this. My fragile mental state then fixated on all my intractable failure. She was adamant, but still a therapist: like Jeopardy, every challenge was a question. Are you really a failure? Who’s telling you that? More important, why are you still asking the question?

Rembrandt painted and drew thousands of works, big and small. Vermeer made at most sixty-some paintings. Who is better?

Every couple weeks in her pleasant office looking out on the rhododendrons, she repeats herself. I need it. You were doing the work you needed to be doing. You were learning what you had to learn. We all learn these axes of good/bad and right/wrong, but the problem is for a real life they aren’t helpful. 

I’m not doing it right. It’s all wrong and always has been. Well, there’s lots of alcohol you can drink. Drugs you can take. You can watch American Larynx and Swamp Idiots and whatever else it is people stay up and watch. You can learn to be way more self-destructive than you are. She says something I don’t quite remember, but something like: You have that artist’s eye and you won’t settle for the surface of things. That’s a great gift and a curse too. I get it. But don’t think you’ve wasted your time. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s judging. Nobody but you. 

For months, we rehearse the same play in her little closed-off stage. Then, a little at first, then all at once, the play changes. The little closed-off stage is too small. The sky no longer threatens to come crashing down. It’s not so much that I’m not asking those questions any more. It’s that the the play that asks them is no longer interesting, and I have left the show.

I had exactly one date with a woman who also wrote, though more professionally than I have. We talked a couple hours. She was nice. She was making changes, testing her freedom. She said: not writing is still writing. 

What is a life for is the same as the answer 42 in Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy books. The entire mental world that question-answer drama implies is only one narrow possibility.

Big and small

Big and small

No choice in red or blue. Taking red doesn’t wake you out of the mass dream to the horrible truth, nor does the blue keep you oblivious. Both represent a grasping at freedom much of the medical establishment doesn’t believe in. People go broke over these pills, and doctors have been threatened for prescribing them. These pills are no abdication or escape. They make an extra pair of hardscrabble hands hands for grabbing, wresting, pulling through.

Red pills on empty stomach. Blue pills require food. Blue pill with breakfast, and red pill mid-morning sometime. Evenings are the red pill some time before dinner, if I remember. The blue pill is more natural to fit in.

The reverse is no calamity–just 20-30% less is absorbed. Now, in the future I once did not believe was possible, I’m more cheap than desperate. Ten years ago there was desperation, the pills taken with slavish devotion to their needs. I held them in tight fingers and drank plenty of water. I never thought they wouldn’t work so much that I didn’t want more punishment for doing it wrong.

The job makes it easier. Blue pill with breakfast, red pill around ten or eleven, before lunch. Red pill before heading home, blue pill whenever I eat. There is a third thing I’m supposed to take on an empty stomach three times a week, and that’s trickier. I don’t feel desperate about it. I eat a lot of vegetables and whole wheat bread and consider that a likewise effort.

Everything is temporary. The job was grabbed in a moment of worry about money, and I work for money and not much else. Leaves will lighten as the days thin out, and the bright fall sun will shine even though I am inside. I’d probably be inside without the job, peering into a different screen, doing my work instead of the Man’s. So far, the Man pays better. He probably always will. I’m not sure how hard I’ll work for myself.

Mornings I write down notes from dreams, and things become clear. A third through a first draft, it’s as good as I should hope. It’s better than the two books I wrote twenty years ago that you will never see.

Jonathan Evison wrote six novels. Three of them he took deep into the forest, dug a hole, and buried. He was doing the work he needed to be doing. His latest three he has not burned.

Even when I am not writing, I am still writing.

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The Severe Clear of Now

9-11-14, Severe Clear

9-11-14, Severe Clear

Yesterday was like today, was like the day the year before, and before. We don’t notice going from 43 to 44 any more than from 23 to 24. Maybe you can see a change with five years, or maybe not. I hope you can at ten.

Seattle has been beautiful, and warm. Free of summer’s weight, the sun is slimming down, dropping the flab, getting fit for its winter closeup. A fire warning is up for the dry and cool air. Desert air has come: warm days, cold nights, the heat fleeing up the sky.

Severe clear is what this is called, at least if you’re flying a plane. I associate it with winter, and snow, and stars that for a few freezing moments don’t twinkle. Now, of course, we associate it with something else.

Bus goes home across the bridge. Last year was no different. Was it different ten years ago? Living things age differently. If we all disappeared and stopped driving on it, the bridge would last eons. It would leave our timescale and join the sun’s, blind to each other as time ground them down.

I am glad we are forgetting, the TV not showing the fiery video over and over. I am glad this is just a bright day with a cool night and a big memory we can remember, or not.

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“Hey, It’s Mork!”

I'm sad too, Marc

I’m sad too, Marc

On August 11th, 2014, Robin Williams took his own life. He was one of the funniest people alive, perhaps to have ever lived. Who would say differently? Bitter people, and rocks, and things without backbones, but no one sad who needs light. If you are sad, you cannot be a monster. Robin Williams cried a clown’s tears, and drowned.

I discovered Marc Maron’s WTF podcast only this year. After a long conversation with a friend on the difficulty–perhaps futility–of creative work (at least in terms of getting paid for it), my friend suggested I listen to Maron’s interview with Will Ferrell. Marc asks Ferrell about the vast universe of opportunities opened up by the internet, and Will replies that yes, in terms of absolute opportunities to have your material accessible to others, the number is now greater. “But it’s harder than ever to get paid,” says the very successful Ferrell.

I knew nothing of Marc Maron and wish I had. He is the perfect angry man: honest, incisive, unflinching, vulnerable, self-destructive, the child become a man who realizes he is still a child wanting his boo-boos fixed. Self-knowledge is power and it boils out of him. His studio is his garage in his house in some hilly and unpalatable part of Los Angeles, and he opens most shows with an update on the neighborhood cats that come to his patio door. He gives them food and later reports their lengthening absences. No man that reaches through his bitterness to care for furry creatures can be bad.

The friend that turned me on to Marc Maron and WTF lives in Los Angeles. He has a dog and a very senior cat. If there is anything holy, it is the fact that my friend is good.

I haven’t sought out Maron’s recordings or his many TV appearances or his writings or checked on local appearances, but should. I don’t beat myself up about this. I don’t beat myself up about a lot of things these days.

I have read through his website, particularly the about page. At the top are sentences of wisdom so clear, concise, and relentless they have transubstantiated not into truth but the vast shining beauty that makes jewels of truth shine:

  • The great philosophical question once was – What is the meaning of life? Now I think the great philosophical question is – How am I being used and am I okay with that?
  • If it weren’t for the shame of the rich there would be no charity.
  • In the American south there is an ignorance that runs so deep it actually has integrity.
  • If you’re a talented person and you’re not successful there is probably something inside you that is stopping you from being successful, and sadly, it might be your talent.
  • In most cases the only difference between depression and disappointment is your level of commitment.

The last two struck me when I first read them. They struck me again today, after having listened to Robin Williams and Marc talk, four years ago now.

I was eight or nine when Mork and Mindy was new. I remember a little of the show then: Mork in his suit at the close of each show, the three chorus members he addressed with the episode’s moral revelation having their backs to us in their strange helmets, the brilliant Jonathan Winters appearing as Mork’s son. It was a frenetic show, and I don’t understand why I didn’t glom onto it more. In middle school it was on every weeknight at 10, the half-hour before Star Trek. I seldom watched it. Star Trek was serious business then.

I have Williams’ first album, Reality…What A Concept, on LP, bought secondhand from Fort Worth’s Record Town. It went into my comedy album rotation with Monty Python, Bill Cosby, a Flip Wilson album, The Button-Down Mind of Bob Newhart, and, I think, a cassette of Spalding Grey recorded off the radio. I bit pillows and towels at George Carlin specials, made available on VHS by the kids whose parents splurged on HBO. They can say that? was the primary reaction. There was that for me, sure, but then there was the adult reality Carlin and all the rest had seen, grabbed, gotten messy with, and were now reporting back to us. School wasn’t telling us anything. We really needed to know this.

Williams danced around TV and in movies. I didn’t fixate on him but appreciated him. Catching a Johnny Carson or Letterman appearance was a random gift. That he could play a dramatic character with nuance and sincerity was the revelation of Dead Poet’s Society. There is more to us that we know.

Marc and Williams talk for an hour, as much about their mutual dark times as good-time-hey-do-you-remember-this. How did you deal with the resentment other comics had at your success? Well, you just have to be Buddhist about it and let go.

Williams is quiet, almost whispering: I struggle to hear him over Marc’s relative shouting. Only a few times does the big-top Williams come out and overwhelm with a character or a joke, Marc cracking up. We all crack up. They talk about how this is a defense, both four years ago and in Marc’s introduction and conclusion. It’s another side of drinking, doing drugs, anything to fill that void. Sometimes the room is immense. Sometimes it is the unfillable abyss.

They talk about depression, highs and lows, what was accomplished with drug use if nothing more than understanding why they used. Marc’s father had serious depression; Williams’ father told him to have a backup career, like welding. Neither shies from anything; nothing is forbidden.

Comedy saved me in eighth grade. It was a bad time: the start of the year missed due to mono (which hung around for decades as chronic fatigue), pressure to go back to school as soon as possible, adrift and drowning in classes meant to accelerate college-bound me. English was worst. A tiny, elite class of overachievers, underachievers, and one kid who was terrified of getting something wrong. Taught by a furious, condescending and capricious man whose hatred of teaching filled what had been a tiny, warm room with sharp grey fog, the class terrified me. I threw up before and sometimes after. A then-friend snorted at how badly my hands shook. I developed the insomnia that persisted through my thirties. The anxious depression I thought I’d felt earlier at contemplating the world’s nuclear end came out into the open, introduced itself, and sunk its icicles into my hand.

I asked my parents if I could drop TAG English. Just that one class–I’d keep up the others. They didn’t think that was a good idea. We had the conversation on a weeknight, with me already in bed, in my room. When they left I first felt the walls closing in just as they fell away, leaving my little boat lost in the great dark.

The Bill Cosby albums had been played plenty, but now I listened to them every night. Cosby defeating the chicken heart with the Jello-slicked floor was the funniest thing I knew, and after a week or so I could laugh at it. Andy Griffith’s What It Was, Was Football bit was the next thing that registered. Pryor’s records I first heard on cassette copies, the deck’s auto-stop like a bomb going off around midnight. (I listened to that one early, or sat up to stay awake and stop the tape myself. Quietly.)

At first I grabbed at each word, even though it was right there and at no risk of escaping: grabbed and lived inside the twenty minutes of an album side. As weeks went on I still needed the albums, and noticed the next day if I fell asleep without a sustaining dose, but I was less shattered, the gaps between my pieces closer. TAG English still felt like the copies of 1984 we were reading, but leaving the room left it there. I could struggle with algebra better, avoid bullies with kung-fu quickness. I was holding it together.

Maybe Williams was too much then. He must have been known, listened to, but I never picked it up. Trapped in suburban Texas, there was no chance to see him through the window of a Bay Area club. He was nearly twenty years older than me, in a different world. But I only now realize he was doing something like what I was doing: whatever was necessary to make the laughter come, because not having it was so much worse.

Only since my 40s have I thought about comedy as a means to share your darkness with others, and through that sharing expel it, or at least hold it off. Marc brought it up with Williams over and over again. Williams never told him he was wrong.

At points in Marc’s recording, Williams sounds uncomfortably vulnerable. It is probably one of the few times Williams ever was to someone publically. Even Williams, the great frenetic funnyman, his titanic free-association engine always compiling and ready to erect a hilarious edifice of funhouse mirrors, was spinning as fast as he could. Marc has done that. I have done it. I bet you have.

There are two points in Marc and Williams exchange that crystallize in impossible and subtle beauty for me.

At about fifty minutes in, Marc asks Williams what some of his favorite experiences have been. Williams relates working with Jeff Bridges. Something technical went wrong and the shot couldn’t work the way it was intended. It seems to me that Williams implies his anxiety, but Bridges channels his inner Dude: …and [Bridges] says it’s a gift if something screws up. It’s a gift. Don’t be afraid of it. 

I wrote this down and have it posted on my wall.

In the last few minutes, when Marc is hashing over Williams’ heart surgery and the closeness to death, Williams doesn’t give in:

I mean, when I was drinking there was only one time, even for a moment, where I thought: mmm, fuck life. I went like, my conscious brain went like: did you just say ‘fuck life’? You know, you have a pretty good life as it is right now. Have you noticed the two houses? Yes. Have you noticed the, uh, the girlfriend? Yes. Have you noticed, you know, that things are pretty good even though you may not working right now? Yes. Okay, well, let’s put suicide over here in discussable, let’s leave that over here in the discussion area. We’ll talk about that. First of all, you don’t have the balls to do it. I’m not gonna say it out loud. I mean, have you thought about buying a gun? No. What were you gonna do, cut your wrist with a WaterPik? Maybe. [Marc cracks up.] That’s erosion. What’re you thinking about that? So, can I put this over here in the ‘what the fuck’ category? Yes. Let’s put that over here in what the fuck, because–can I ask you what you’re doing right now? You’re sitting naked in a hotel room with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Yes. Is this maybe influencing your decision? Possibly. Okay. We’re gonna put that over here, and tomorrow morning– And who’s that in the bed there? I don’t know. Okay. Well, don’t discuss this with her, because she may tweet it. [Marc cackles.] Okay? This may not be good. Let’s put that over here in what the fuck category. We’re gonna put that over here, possibly for therapy if you wanna talk about that in therapy. Or, maybe a podcast two years from now. You wanna talk about it in a podcast? No, I feel safe. You’re talking about this in a podcast. I know. Who is this? It’s your conscience, asshole. Oh. Okay. So, have you ever thought about it since then? No. During the surgery were you thinking about death? No. Why? Because…eh, I was just thinking everything’s gonna be fine. Was that your mother talking? Maybe. She was a Christian Scientist who had plastic surgery. Wow. Is that a mixed message? [Marc laughs wheezes.] Yeah, it is. Okay. 

Williams delivers this in a soft therapist lilt, calm and soothing. Reading my transcript you don’t know where to laugh. It’s so earnest. It would be painful if you didn’t know it was from a comic podcast.

Robin Williams, Marc and I aren’t any different. I haven’t done the drugs and drinking, but from all accounts it sounds like we’ve been in the same dark pit, stumbling over drunks and furniture, going through the motions even though we understand the futility. There is no light there, no matter how much we may be laughing. And then there is light. With the pit behind us we forget even as we remember, because everything is okay and everything is going to be fine.

I can’t learn that lesson too many times.

Marc asks Williams about his quick rise via Mork and Mindy. What was the fallout from that? Williams said when his first album won a Grammy, he was proud, thinking this was the breakthrough, the real launch. Then, walking down the street, people still yelled: Hey, it’s Mork! 

Mork is what people remember, and he enjoys how that touched people. He accepts he has no control. He’s glad they still like Mork.

It took me almost a month to listen to Marc’s Robin Williams interview. I wasn’t avoiding it, but I didn’t have the time it deserved. Yesterday, facing a job starting and the loss of free time, I did. It was the strange space I expected, the voice so vibrant now belonging to a ghost.

I texted my LA friend after. I want to find him somehow, make him a sandwich, share a package of Oreos with him. The last ten minutes of him discussing with his conscience the nonsense of killing himself was hilarious, and like my experience. I just want to give him a hug. 

YES, my friend replies.

In the end, no matter what, the only option is YES.

Robin Williams, 1979

Robin Williams, 1979

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Perfect Little Death

Repose, for now

Repose, for now

Yesterday was perfect. I saw him, or her, while reviewing the graffiti longstanding on our communal fence. Two planks are gone, making the long gaps of missing teeth in a double-barrier against weeds and freeway. At first there was just wood and some kid’s bubbly spraypaint letters, dust and scum on the concrete foundation. I looked right at him or her and didn’t see the shape. The mind sees what it expects to see.

Thunderstorms flashed and boomed to the east yesterday night, but only castoff drops tantalized the city. The day was not hot but not cool either, sultry with the trapped tropic damp Hawaii was done with. By afternoon radar showed a swirling yellow and orange rain comma lumbering up from the south; the sky was the smeary haze that lives at the ocean, the sun the brightest blot in shapeless decks of grey. Today is trash day, and yesterday I took it upon myself to trim some bushes and dispense, with vigor and prejudice, a blackberry vine establishing itself on the retaining wall. A real fucker, like all blackberries, though not yet terrible. The vine folded up easily as I crushed it into a wad. I sprayed the stems still in the ground with glyphosphate: it’s blackberry, and it was only three squirts. I filled the neighbors’ undersized compost bins (we are all cheap urbanites with the smallest bins) and lugged them to the street, satisfied. I hate yardwork and it was done, so I walked the grounds, looking for more modest triumphs. I thought about finally cleaning up this graffiti and saw her, or him.

Yesterday I froze but jumped inside my still skin. He, or she, was perfect: the coat clean and soft even to look at, the paws poised as if to grip a pen, the line of the mouth as drawn as my cat’s mouth. The eye was mostly closed but open enough to see the black eye, jewel-clear. I thought he, or she, was napping. Many seconds passed before I realized it was dead.

I didn’t take a picture then. Yesterday it had not rained and he, or she, was perfect there, so strangely composed. He, or she, was beyond fluster. Entropy had not yet taken notice. He, or she, was a perfect mouse in every way other than not being alive. Honest: I thought it was asleep. Taking a picture would have woken it up.

August in Washington is free of rain, more dry than Phoenix, on average. Last night’s rain was something out of autumn going into winter: the steady but not drenching patter that chuckles in gutters and makes tires hiss. Months of it make locals crave the sun, but months of sun get tiresome. I was glad for it, even just plain rain with no lightshow. No lightshow is better for the fires out east.

The mouse held on through the evening. I thought about what it would do to him, or her: drenching the perfect coat, making the body sodden. Maybe it would hasten smell and dissolution, but that was clinical thought high up in the cerebral stratosphere. Mostly I thought child thoughts about the poor mouse getting wet in the rain.

Ego endures. Conservative gasbags on the shouting channels rail against the estate tax with statements like When I die, I want my money to go to my children, not the government. We all do this, not just conservatives, but conservatives are least amenable to having it pointed out that when they die, they are dead. There is no I in death. By definition, the thing that wants and needs no longer exists; they can have no wants. But the ego continues to be the star of its own movie, projecting itself into a future where it does not exist, and we pronounce such non sequiturs all the time. We can’t help it. We can’t understand what it means to not exist.

Life is hard outside. Feral cats are said to live five years or less, if they’re lucky. My cat, who lives inside with good food and unappreciated veterinary care, will probably live to be fifteen or so. To be four and a bird is to be a very durable bird. Outside there is disease, cold, hot, hunger, predators, and your own species, who often as not are competitors and assholes. Mice, says Wikipedia, only live for a year. Their problem is predation. Might as well be assholes.

This morning I get up refreshed, determined to get to work, to be productive. I wrote 90 minutes on the book yesterday and surely, despite fatigue and medicine’s icky feeling, I can do another hour or so. I can finish washing the windows, take pleasure in the garbage truck picking up that fucker blackberry. But the first thing I think of is the little mouse, and whether he, or she, got wet.

There is no he or she. I am firm with myself as I get the camera. Outside is grey and heavy with rain’s passage, air thick and not quite cool. Everything seems washed, unbrittled. The dry grass now has give against my feet.

The mouse is there, the it of it. It is drenched, the coat no longer perfect down but sodden and rough to look at, like discarded carpet. For the first time, I notice the separated leg. It is still. The eye is still barely open. It still holds some illusion of being asleep.

On the Fourth of July, I happened to look down at the neighbor’s garage. Fireworks lit and boomed everywhere, deafening and brilliant, and a dark spot darted from one edge of the neighbor’s garage door to the other. It paused there, ran a little more to the front door, then ran back. It was a mouse. Why was it out now? What could it be looking for? Poor little thing probably scared out of its mind, my girlfriend said.

Is this that mouse? No, ego again: was this that mouse? It escaped that terror to find the jaws or beak of another one, one that snapped a leg off and then lost interest. There are no other wounds. Maybe it was scared to death.

I take the picture. Should I bury it? It is an it, now. Does it matter to project human dignity upon it? It isn’t human and never was. It is a fellow creature, though, another mammal on the bus, and we are all on the bus together.

Trucks rumble on the freeway, planes fly overhead. Mammals have been around millions of years longer than either. Trucks and planes will disappear before mammals.

In Ray Bradbury’s “Frost and Fire”, people came to Mercury eons ago, marooned there by a crash. An undamaged rocket lies an hour away, but an hour is too short to reach it during the tiny interval between deadly day and night. Radiation has reduced human lifespan to eight days. I remember this story, one of the first I read: I still have the browning paperback of R is for Rocket. Sped up by radiation, people flitted their lives like vibrating strings during their eight days. The main character, taunted by the other rocket, dedicates himself to finding a way to it. I remember the rush I felt, sitting in bed in elementary school by the bedside lamp, as he scrambles the last yards, grabs the airlock, and falls inside as dawn breaks. Time lurches down a hundred gears, and protected by the rocket his life stretches out. Out the window he can see his marooned race buzzing about their caves in streaks and blurs. He has made it. He cannot go back. The rocket takes him away forever.

I leave it on the cement, in the open. Something will eat it in the way of things. I go back inside to my shelter of vaccinations and antibiotics, cleanliness and nutrition, electricity and science. With luck, these things will outlast me, so I can beat jungle’s odds and ask the jungle questions it can’t answer. Outside things will look in but live too fast to understand.


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