Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop

That encounter--that very embarrassing encounter--well, it made me realize something. It was the first time I wasn't in . . . I was just someone. It was the first time I was a one, and not the One. I guess that may not be strictly true. I guess that had probably happened before--I am sure there had been rejections and semi-rejections and what not. I don't know. But for some reason, that encounter stuck out.

It stuck to me--or maybe pierced me--like a stake. Yes, amidst all of the investing and divesting of stakes that were happening at that point--this was one was definitive somehow. Somehow it lit up a bubble in my brain. Somehow, it made sense of some of the stakes.

Life is about stakes. It is about piercing things--places--souls--in order to erect something--make something. God pierced the Bride in the Song of Songs thousands of years ago--God--the Bridegroom in this story--pierced her with his wounding, seducing arrow. God, the Divine Seducer, drew her into a movement--a dance of presence and absence--that included separate and simultaneous instances of anguish and ecstasy. God held that soul captive with the promise of fulfillment--of a penetration--that would fill so deeply, so unnervingly, so interior within her--that she herself would dissolve in a moment of ecstatic disappearance.

Life is about stakes. About digging under layers in order to make a home out of wounds--welcome wounds--risky wounds--desirable wounds.

Yes, we make tents all day everyday--professionally, politically, religiously, and erotically. In love, in living, we erect places to make temporary spaces in order to clear a temporary tent in the forest--the dark, but beautiful forest of breathing--of smoke--of tears--of hunger--mortality--and desire.

That event was a shattering stake--an illuminating stake.

That event showed me that my tent was based on stakes--a perpetually moving, shifting, contingent set of stakes. That event showed me that my tent was always moving in different directions and different ways in order to make space for everyone. I wanted to be able to pierce and be pierced--to be God and the Bride--the object and subject--the Seducer and the wounded, captive Lover--all at once. I wanted to convince that I could erect spaces.

But, it meant my stakes--my personal stakes--my attempt at congealing the chaos of my little world--of forming a coherent mass in my little psyche--the day by day, moment by moment job of running a motor rather than a firework in my head; of running good set of irrigation pipes throughout the flowing circuits in my pink, cephallic center--of letting the water of desire and voices keep within the banks of the canals I had dug--were heavily dependent upon the refracted pieces that were returned to me in the desire--the compliments--the appreciation of those--the others--the ones.

I realized the tents I was making were based on an empty center. I realized that I had been running on the basis of an absence--one that I would fill at a moment's notic in order to receive and dispense with piercing, convincing stakes--ones that would result in melting and liquified insides.

My center--the empty, absent center--the space that was only a space because nothing was there--was not only the site where those stakes were dispensed from, but also the place wherein a new tent could be erected in a matter of moments, days, encounters.

I could construct an open space out of the returned, refracted fragements returned to me from the other.

My tent was nothing. My tent was contingent.

My tent was dependent upon me knowing that I had pierced--that I had crossed--in ways that are and were liquifying.

Without the liquid, I would spill no liquid. Without the crossing, I wouldn't and couldn't be crossed.

I miss that Old Man. I miss his grumpiness. I miss his moods. I miss the questions he would ask me about his crossword puzzles and how he never thought I was right. I miss how he would try to flirt with Sage and the other semi-hippy women at the shop; how his swagger carried him through even the most awkward moments. But, mostly I missed his otherness. I missed him sitting across from me--outside of me--without a care in the world as to my stakes and what I was trying to accomplish. He didn't care about being pierced. He didn't care about melting. He just sat there--and let the tent build itself. He just sat there and let the tent between us--between he and whomever he encountered--built itself each time they met. He was always happy to see you--any you--and you always knew it. How did he do that?

I still talk to him most days. I still talk to him when I walk in the Shop, or go for a walk on the boardwalk. I tell him about my day, or the girl I am seeing, or what I am reading about. I don't know where he is--I don't know how he exists in my psyche still--within the circuits that are always threatening to become jumbled and the overflowing canals--but he is. He is there. And he is still other--still foreign. It somehow reminds me--or gives me hope at least--that someday I will figure out how to not let my tent be so contingent; so wrapped up in other peoples returns.

The Best Book Ever Written in the English Language

So, Louise (mainly), Kevin, and Brad wrote this book. You can order it on Amazon and wait until they get it in stock, or get it here http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=1589797488&searchurl=an%3Dlouise%2Bnelstrop%26sts%3Dt%26x%3D0%26y%3D0
.

If you buy a copy, I will wash your car. If you buy two, I will wash your car with my shirt off.

A Song for You

So today I wrote a song for you
Cause a day can get so long
And I know its hard to make it through
When you say there's something wrong

So, today I wrote down some words for you. I wrote them in my brain. I wrote some of them on a page, too (but not all of them). I wrote because a day can get very long--you can forget who you are, what you are, and what you are doing, all in a day. Yes, a day can get long and life can too. Life treads on--always in the interim--in the in-between--but the poles on one side get longer and longer, and the inexpressible one on the other remains there--measureless. You would think this squishing of life between these two would make it short--at least one day. But, for whatever reason, it does not.

So Im trying to put it right
Cause I want to love you with my heart
All this trying has made me tight
And I dont know even where to start

Maybe thats a start

The words that I wrote--that I am constantly writing--I want them to be right. How do you make write right? How do you press words into disciplined, rigorous service? It does make me tight. I don't even know where to start with you--really. I guess you could say that, in that way, you make me speechless? I don't know. But, yes, I don't know where to start. Is that a start? I don't know. I have started before and ended too. I have begun and not finished. I want to finish this song--this poem--this story--this narrative. I want to insert the definitive plot line that will lead to the climax and the finish. You know? But, I'm tight. I'm tight trying to get the write right.

Cause you know its a simple game
That you play filling up your head with rain
And you know you are hiding from your pain
In the way, in the way you say your name

It is a simple game. We have played alot of games, you and I. They have not all had simple rules--but they all have had a simple purpose. Why do they end with rain--with heads full of rain precipitating coiled up words? Rain isn't bad. I like the rain. But, rain isn't good if it means denial or running.

And you're so tired you don't sleep at night
As your heart is trying to mend
You keep it quiet but you think you might
Disappear before the end

I know you sleep. I know you mend. I know you sleep in different places for different reasons. I know you sometimes keep it incredibly quiet--but not always. I know you won't disappear before the end--not you. But, I don't know how to mend the two ends. I don't know how to mend your end with mine. Oh well. In the interim, int the perpetual in-between, I'll keep writing songs for you. People like that, don't they?

I talked to an old, ex-friend today. She said, "Thanks for writing about me, I am flattered."

"What?"

"You know, your story and your electronic diary. You wrote about me. I am the character in your little story. I means some of it is confusing, but I am flattered to be written about."

I was dumbfounded.

"I think you missed the point of the story and stories in general. I also think you missed the point of the flickering ones and zeroes. Neither of them, the story or the numbers, were ever about identification. If you look for you in them--look to identify fully and wholeheartedly--well, you missed the point of fiction. Yes, fiction. Yes, stories--with narrators--are fiction. If you want to be--be--a character in a story, you will only be frustrated. Stories are not about being something. Stories about pieces and fragments and thoughts and events that happen in and through us. Some of them in the far past; some of them in the near past--but all of them portray an amalgamation that can never be explained through identification. You are not here. I am not here. Do you understand?"

By the time my rant was over, she had turned her attention to another friend. Oh well.

She said, "What's next?" I was feeling lyrical: "Darlin, I am going to take a stinging toke, rustle in the restless smoke, and hopefully deliver the punch line to my psychic joke."

Writing is breaching. --Derrida

Writing is breaching--a crossing inside that is not only unplanned, but unable to be remedied. It is an explosion beyond the border of safety that leaves one paralyzed with trauma. Life is about breaching--about the moments of crossing--where there is something inside of you that leaves you helpless. Life is about breaching--about one--another--something--crossing a border and leaving you traumatized in a speechless paralysis.

When it is love--we call it beautiful. When it is a lover, we call it by screaming its name. When it is not--we call it death--or something like it. We call it worse than death because it traumatized in a way that means we are still here to experience it.

Yes, life is breaching--about moments of decision that scare the shit out of us because it means letting something pass beyond the border where we are able to defend ourselves. Life begins with a breach and never stops being constituted by them. Life is about the space--the decision-between who and what can breach the borders of our personal sacred space.

Breaching--eruption--can result in anger.

Writing is anger.

Writing is the being-sick of the trauma of a breaching that is not love, but death. Writing is spewing-forth something that appears to be a congealed, coherent substance of sick resulting from the trauma of an unexpected breach.

Writing is anger congealed--the fabrication of chaos congealed--the chaos of death congealed.

Writing is life. Breaching is life.

Flake

All flakes are different, right? Snow flakes are never the same. I suppose dandruff flakes are unique, too. Flakes come in different--and sometimes alluring--sizes.

I know she said it's alright
But you can make it up next time
I know she knows it's not right
There ain't no use in lying
Maybe she thinks I know something
Maybe maybe she thinks its fine
Maybe she knows something I don't
I'm so, I'm so tired, I'm so tired of trying

It's alright? Actually, it is not. It is not alright, it is not right, and it shall never be again. She knows--kind of. She knows only because she was reminded--probed--investigated. She knows, but not really. She knows, but she isn't willing to know too deeply. She knows something I don't? Actually, no. She doesn't even know the things she should know, much less what I do. Yes, now, at this point, I am tired. I am tired of trying--trying to forget; of trying to stop trying to exert energy forgetting. Why is it so easy to remember and so impossible to consciously--intentionally--forget?

I know she loves the sunrise
No longer sees it with her sleeping eyes
And I know that when she said she's gonna try
Well it might not work because of other ties and
I know she usually has some other ties
And I wouldn't want to break 'em, nah, I wouldn't want to break 'em
Maybe she'll help me to untie this but
Until then well, I'm gonna have to lie to you.

She loves the sunrise, the sunset . . . well, the sun in general. Under that sun--the sun being maybe the only one who knows all the things we are speaking of here--she had/has a few ties. I kind of knew this. I was kind of in the same boat. And, actually, I did want to break them. I wanted to break the ties--to be the only tie there was. I thought untying both of our respective knots might result in a story--a line--that led somewhere down the road--somewhere new--somewhere where we knew without lying. But, the knots were more tangled than we knew. The new could not emerge because, among other things, she knew not what she should have. What a flake.

It seems to me that maybe
It pretty much always means no
So don't tell me you might just let it go
And often times we're lazy
It seems to stand in my way
Cause no one no not no one
Likes to be let down
It seems to me that maybe
It pretty much always means no
So don't tell me you might just let it go

It may not always mean no, but most times--overwhelmingly so--it does mean disappointment. No one likes to be let down. Her ties and her unwillingngess to know herself--these let me down. Her knots--and her inability to realize her knottiness--are disappointing. You are not a memory. You are a an attempted-forgotten. See the difference? So, don't tell me to let it go. Don't tell me to let it go so we can be friends. Don't tell me to let it go so we can be nice. It's useless. You don't even have the capacity to know--to try to know--so what's the point? Disappointing; altogether disappointing. You are an attempted-forgotten disappointment flake--one melting into the landscape at the hands of the sunrise. When the sun gets high enough, you shall blend back into nothing--into a nothing of which I know nothing.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Your Stake was not Worth It

Yes, life is about stakes. The problem? Stakes are made to pierce--to open--to violently cross erected boundaries. We pound stakes into the ground in order to setup a temporary dwellings--to make homes, always temporary, in order to work, sleep, and rest.

Stakes open.

Stakes violate one border in order to make it possible for there to be a place--a temporary home. We make tents all day everyday.

Life is about this--this piercing, wounding, transgressing opening--crossing borders in order to erect the kinds of places--spaces--in which we want to dwell.

Yes, life is about stakes. Life is about deciding where and when to hammer--to break a boundary in order to try to make a home; to destroy a border in order to make a space; to try--through violence--to make something new, special, unique, different.

How could it not hurt when the stakes are divested--when the home collapses--the space evaporates--the trying is no more?

Of course it hurts. Piercing is one thing, but dealing with the trauma of a breached boundary--with the fact that someone's stake has crossed your border and then for one reason or another been taken out again--this hurts. This stings.

Life is about stakes. Most times, at least it seems for now, the borders we cross--the places we dig and let dig into us--are not worth it. Most times, they are overwhelmingly disappointing. The soil, the foundation, the consistency of the place you stake--the dull, indescribable pain of a stake being pulled from layer after layer of the space beneath your breached border--well, it hurts. It hurts because you are closing a wound. It hurts worse if the wound involves disappointment--not being rejected, but realizing the place you staked--the place you stuck yourself--was never worth it in the beginning.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Words and their Stakes

Life is about stakes. What is at stake? There is always something at stake. Always. No matter how hard we try, everyone of us is always already committed--entrenched--circulating--within a world of significations, meanings, and networks. On top of that, we are always responsible for our stakes--our stake.

A man Heidegger taught me that. He was a Nazi.

Disappointment comes from staking in something that didn't want your stake, or wasn't worth it. Sometimes we are sad because the one--the thing--the something--doesn't want us. Other times, we are sad because what we thought was worth our stake is actually not worth our stake.

The Old Man was shaking his head and looking out the window. I don't know what was on his mind, but something was on his mind. His crossword puzzle was on his lap in front of him, but it was just a poor disguise for his pensive involvements.

I think stakes were the problem between myself and the semi-hippy woman. I don't know where her stakes were--or are. I don't think she thinks of that too consciously.

The Old Man got up to take a piss. He almost walked into the women's bathroom despite having been in the shop everyday for months.

Nothing changes when there is nothing at stake. For her, fucking held no stakes. It was fun. It was amazing. She loved it—I know she did. But, she wasn't looking for anything there—those encounters weren't a place where she expected to find something, discover something, hear something. Those times weren't a place she expected to dig deep at the limits of our possibilities—to fucking defy all our bodily limits in order to stretch into some other realm; to be taken elsewhere somehow.

I guess I can't blame her. I guess for most people fucking is fucking—some people love it, some people love it and are horrible at it, some people think it is nice once in a while, or a good way to feel close to someone, or nice way to show someone they love them. That all sounds great. That all sounds ordinary. It is ordinary—it accepts the fact that fucking is nothing more—nothing beyond—nothing extraordinary; like our bodies don't have secrets pent up in hidden, seemingly inaccessible places that can't be unlocked by words. It accepts that fucking is controlled by words just like every other aspect of life. We talk while we wait for the bus. We text each other at every goddamn minute of the day. We update our personal pages to tell everyone when we are eating dinner, changing clothes, and taking a shit. We talk during dinner. We talk at work.

Even those times we don't speak—when we listen—the words are in charge. Films talk to us. Music speaks to us.

Words. Words. Words. Words. Words.

The words are ubiquitous.

Words. Words. Words. Words. Words.

Always words.

Even silence is just a momentary ignoring of words—it doesn't cancel them, surpass them, or provide anythig more than the opposite (and thus the same) as the words. It is a band-aid, not an elixir.

We are born into words. We are born into a situation in which words have been developed into a languge that has labeled the vast network of things we encounter in the world—from trees to traffic signs to the moon—with a signficance. The network is already mapped out—we just jump into it—or are thrown into it. The world already exists, and each and every fucker here showed up without a choice in the matter. If we are to manuever the crossing, complex networks of the human world—well, we have to use the fucking words. Words are the lifeblood. Words are the only way you can think. You can't think without words—you don't have the means. Words are us. We are words. floating—moving--changing--being pushed and pulled perpetually by the flows of words—signifiers—meanings--apellations--nominations--accusations. You are not, apart from words.

I have always felt them following me. I have always loved words and hated them. I know life is meaningless. I know life is a random grouping molecules thrown into fucking deep fryer. I know life is a balmy, unforgiving trek through time's hell. And, the words are time's foreman—the SS Officer standing at the top of the tower watching over the camp.

I know that politics, or good deeds, or humanitarian acts are all useful. But, they are also all meaningless. Most of the time, I accept it. I don't want to sit around thinking about this bullshit. Do you? Nietzsche did and he ended up fucking a horse in the street and going mad (at least, that's what someone told me). That sounds terrible. I don't want to cut my ear off, or commit suicide, or even worse, start a revolution. No, I don't. I like people. I enjoy things at times. But I have no grand illusions. They all collapsed long ago in a heap of adolescence and optimism.

She just didn't get it. Fucking is a chance to escape the words--even for seconds, or a second. Fucking is one of the few realms where there is a chance that for a minute the words will disappear—the world will disappear—time will stop. There aren't many chances in this world to experience something—sometime--when your stream of consciousness is literally halted by a wave of overwhelming darts to your self. There are not many times when you literally cannot think because your body won't let you. There are not many times when the world—when the context of all of it—the bed, and the nightstand, and the house, and the sweat, the tits, the legs, ass, feet, toes, fingers, forearms, shoulders, quadriceps, hamstrings, eyebrows; when the breathing, the glancing, the uttering, the showing, the trying, the performing; the wondering, hating, worrying; when the time and the space disappear into an abyss of nothingness and you exist nowhwere. There are not many times you can be nowhere. It is like trying to forget something, it just doesn't work. There are not many times, you see, when you can be dead without dying.

I'm not a freak. I know there are times you fuck before bed, enjoy it, and then say goodnight. I know there are times you fool around a little on a Saturday morning and then go make breakfast. I don't want to spend my life at swinger parties or sex clubs. I'm just saying, there is more at stake in fucking than a hobby. Fucking is a more existential phenomenon than darts, gin rummy, knitting, flying kites, kayaking, or your local book club.

There is a chance to communicate with another—to communicate in a way that doesn't require words. There is a chance to strip down to nothing—to bodies—to sensations—to let the secret part of yourself—the part you are most embarrassed about because you don't know it—haven't dealt with it—be seen, touched, and explored. There is a chance to let the forbidden space that you don't know how to access be revealed to another person. There is a chance to explore the concealed depths of mortality. There is a chance to surpass the words in order to communicate in a way that is not normal.

And, yes, that is what I want. I want to communicate. Yes, I want to communicate so well that I do not exist, and you do not either. I want to communicate so well that there is an in-distinguish-ability that renders our normal way of being mute. I want to communicate so well that you and I are mute. That is my goal. That is what my desire hinges upon.

How to do that? Well, it seems not with the words. The words can't help us here. Words are for this world. Words denote the everyday. We need the words, but here, we need something different. The way I want to communicate won't work with the words.

Yes, I want to communicate apart from the words--with means--in channels--via pathways--and inacessible secrets--in places unseen and unmentioned--spaces surrounded by fear and taboo--rings of filth mixed with a pain that is pleasurable--where the cut of time has incised unforgettably, but not ineluctably--where I don't know, but you can find--where you won't go, but will let me explore--where there are no words . . . where there is a deep, insatiable reach for continuity--for union--for the ability to transform, tweak, and distort bodies and words and thoughts and feelings and perceptions and images. I want to disappear from the world into a place that does not exist. I want to leave the world for a non-place untouched by space and time.

Of course, of course--this requires risk. It requires vulnerability. And most of all, it requires obscenity.

If we are communicate ourselves into silence, there will have to be some discomfort and some risk. Stripping naked can be a bit tenuous. For some, it is no big deal; they want to speak the silent words we are speaking of here. I don't know if they know the secrets pent up in the criss-crossed channels that lead from their pores to the endless space that makes up the little room where the words come from in the first place. I know, I know. Not all nakedness is about this quest to find the silent words. I know that it is not always about communicating without speaking; I know we can't always render the words mute through a meeting--an encounter--that dispossesses us. But, shouldn't it be most of the time? Sometimes? Is it unreasonable to search for the sacred in the obscene? To find something--something extraordinary--in the terror and vulnerability of nakedness? Or have we given up on that idea, amidst the plethora of stretched, augmented, and displayed bodies in our space and cyberspace? Have we let that go in lieu of the commodified ease of voyerurism? Have we given up on obscenity--sacred obscenity--in order to feed ourselves a constant diet of spectacle, shine, technique, gossip, and mechanics?

Dancing is easier than this. Dancing is safer than nakedness. You can fuck and dance at the same time. You can fuck and dance with your clothes on and off. Yes, back to the dancing. There is always dancing in these instances--it is an easy way to try halfheartedly. Let's move. Let's shake. But, no, let's not dare strip naked--let's not dare show ourselves into the ugly, awful, nauseating, limitless soup of atoms that constitute the space behind the words--the place that is untouched--the place where separation gives way to the rupture of the nameless disquiet.

We are one flesh--for moments or seconds or hours or days--but, I know, I know . . . . . . . I am naive . . . endlessly naive . . . always stars--always separate--always discontinuous.

I know. You don't have to tell me. I know the quest--this one of communication, silence, and nakedness--is impossible--I know it leads nowhere but to a frustrating, fatal cliff--I know it ends in the world re-appearing--with us re-appearing in the palce where we are visible, temporal, and slaves to the words. But, it's worth a try. Sometimes at least. It's not even that she didn't want to try. She didn't have the capacity to understand any of this in order to try.


The Old Man returned from the bathroom with a small, but noticeable wetspot on his cotton, cream-colored old man shorts.

"What you lookin at?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. You okay?"

Evenings on the Porch with the Ohana

Smoke fills the cold air from the cigar in the left hand. As the port is sipped gently in a singular movement of the right hand to the mouth and then down the throat, distant thoughts are lured to the foreground--thoughts lodged somewhere between sub-consciousness, recognized consciousness and the chaos of existence.

The thoughts filter out through the comfortable breath of exhale as the left hand brings the cigar to the mouth resulting in a surplus of breath, mixing with the mystical smoke, which then evaporates into the darkness of night. Within seconds, the strange conglomerate of smoke and breath are gone--not only to never be seen again, but also never to exist in the unique combination of flow, movement and ease in which they were excreted. The seconds of their existence wisped away without meaning or signficance. No crowd is present on the porch, in the void of the night to see the hybrid of elements disappear into the air. No recording takes record of their existence. No one applauds. No one cares.

But, for a moment the awe and wonder of the weightless gas, the combination of thought, reflection, interaction, absurdity and meaninglessness which pervade the exhaled breath are suspended in mid-stream. Weightless, bodiless, and formless the suspended moment of exhale remains long enough for the eye to catch the mystery which they contain.

And, this is why we sit on porches, sipping port and smoking cigars. This is why we breath each day--breathe in the no's, the chaos, the hurt, the tears--because we have caught a glimpse before--a glimpse of the mystery within the evaporating exhale and it is just enough to keep us breathing in each moment. The moments which seem impossible--the marriage of breath and smoke hanging in front of nothing--contain the glimpses of creativity and wonder which somehow constitute the breath of life.

It's all in Genesis 1 . . .

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop

She said, "What is all this about the words?"

The semi-hippy woman wanted to know about my nonsense. She wanted to figure out my little misfiring brain and all its idiocracy.

"I don't know. The way I see it, the words are anger and chaos congealed. They are anger and chaos formed into a fabricated ball of incoherent coherence. The words are anger and chaos mortally immortalized--made immortal by a mortal who is already dead. They are a hopeless chance to live forever--to form a life that is immortal out of chaotic events and stinging anger. Writing is anger. Writing is fabricating chaos."

"Huh."

"Let's get another beer and listen to the music. This shit is depressing."

You and Me and Words (more words)

Was it you who spoke the words that things would happen but not to me
Oh things are gonna happen naturally
Oh taking your advice I'm looking on the bright side
And balancing the whole thing
But often times those words get tangled up in lines
And the bright lights turn to night
Until the dawn it brings
Another day to sing about the magic that was you and me

Things will happen. Things are happening. And, yes, naturally--they have to happen this way. What's natural about the situation? I don't know. I don't know. Looking on the bright side? Yes. I think so. At the moment, the bright side is that there are words--lots of them. The words spew forth, yes, naturally. It's like there is no creating involved anymore; it is a matter of emanation, not trying. They are there, always. Dawn? I don't think the words will bring the dawn--I think the words keep the hope of dawn alive. There is a difference, an important difference.


Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just read of
Others only read of the love, the love that I love.

Yes, we loved--both of us. But, we didn't speak of it. We didn't speak of it and that's the reason that we can't read about it, just like everyone else. Others try to read the words--the natural ones--that flow from what we both loved--from the non-thing that gives rise to all these words. They try to read about it because the words try to describe it. If we had spoken about it, it woudln't exist. If we had spoken of it, others wouldn't have to try read about it; but more importantly, it wouldn't be ours--it would be something altogether different. It wouldn't be love--it would be something worldly; something wordy.



See I'm all about them words
Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words
Hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards
More words then I had ever heard and I feel so alive

Yes, the words are unencumbered. They come without burden or restriction. In fact, the words are the burden. The words are the burden of every day, every second. The words plague me. I have to work to crack myself open--to puncture every hidden space to bring those words to light--to let them breathe--to make them earn their existence. The words are coming, and the words are the burden. Almost out? No. Not even close. The words seem endless. And, thus, so does the burden.


You and I, you and I
Not so little you and I anymore
And with this silence brings a moral story
More importantly evolving is the glory of a boy



The silence? Don't get it confused. There are words. There will always be words. The silence doesn't signify the absence of words. No, the silence signifies the inability--my inability--despite the endless burden--to speak of what we loved. In this way, the silence is the reason for the words. The words are the silence.


Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just dream of
And if you could see me now
Well I'm almost finally out of
I'm finally out of
Finally deedeedeedee
Well I'm almost finally, finally
Well I'm free, oh, I'm free


Others dream of it, but I am not so sure I don't either. But, don't worry, make no mistake, I'm not free. The words are free. The words come with ease. But, if the words are free, I am the opposite. Freedom isn't a matter of power--freedom is a matter of having a space in which to describe the love--the non-thing--that can't be described. In that sense, I am free. In that sense, the burden is a free one.


And it's okay if you have go away
Oh just remember the telephone works both ways
And if I never ever hear them ring
If nothing else I'll think the bells inside
Have finally found you someone else and that's okay
Cause I'll remember everything you sang

I know, it has to happen naturally. I know. I know that the silence--even if it doesn't mean the absence of words--might mean the absence of ringing, and even singing. I know the bells will sound for you again--you know how to sing too well, to call too well, and to play all too well. But, that doesn't mean the words will stop. It doesn't mean a double silence. No, the words will always come--keep coming--gush forth onto the page. With those words--with every letter--comes the hope of inseminating the page--the hope that someday the page will give birth to what we sang of--what we loved. Couldn't it, just once? Couldn't the unspeakable come to fore on the page? The revelation of love reveal itself on pages, in time, and, yes, in words? It is why the words exist, isn't it? I know, I know, it is admittedly a hope against hope. But, like I have explained, even if the words are free, I am the opposite. The words have me--possess me--so they'll keep coming, into a dawn that is nowhere--no how--in sight. And, if we aren't willing to hope against hope--at least once in a while--occasionally--well, is life--the breathing that makes both the speakable words and the unspeakable love--worth it?

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Me and St. Augustine

I saw St. Augustine today. He always drinks cold drinks during the day--you know, adult cold drinks. Anyway, I'm not judging--but every time I have seen him in the shop he has been drinking an adult cold beverage. Who knows.

He is old, probably as old as the Old Man. But, he doesn't take care of himself nearly as well. He never wears shoes into the Shop, and he is always unshaven. Sometimes his beard is so thick he looks like a hobo. And, he is certainly fragrant.

I walked past and said hello.

"Good to see you son, why don't you sit down?"

I sat. He seemed to know something was wrong.

"Well, what's the problem? Love, isn't it? It is always love."

I tell you, that St. Augustine is always going on about love. He loves love. It is all he talks about. And when he does, he always has a bit of a sketchy look in his eye.

"With all apologies, I don't want to talk about it."

"No problem."

"I do want to ask you a question, though. What is the greatest sin?"

He wasn't at all taken aback. He just flowed right into his answer like someone being interviewed on a topic about which they knew very much.

"Well, son, you remember all those confessions I did? I wrote those down because I was obsessed with myself. I wanted to know who I was and what I was supposed to be. I also wanted to be happy. I thought, "If I can just know myself--who and what I am at my core--I'll be happy someday. I emptied me out--I confessed it all and realized two things: God was inside me in a place I can't describe or locate. I don't know how he got there, and I don't know how I found him. But, it was then that I realized that self-knowledge--self-awareness--is the key to life and happiness. Without that, you are committing the greatest sin. You know why? Because you are ignoring the gift you have been given--what makes you you--you are ignoring the image of the highest inside you--your true capacity and your true self. If you never stop to consider who you are, what you are, and how you should be--if you never examine--incise--tear--open--build--re-build--gather--explore--assess--yourself, well then you are ignoring the highest, and committing the worst."

He looked at me with a deep grin at this point.

"You know about self-examination?"

"I do," I replied. "It is hard work."

I was about to take my hot drink elsewhere to read, but he stopped me.

"Wait, that is only half the story. The second part of it is your will. Once you are there--once you examine--find--and realize that there is Love--there is Love around you--well, you have to have the will--the commitment to go for it. You have to leave everything--including yourself--to become yourself. It is scary. It is risky. But, it is how it is. You know about that?"

"Kind of."

With that, I left. Augustine kept drinking cold drinks well into the afternoon.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop

"I can't believe you. It's like something has misfired in that little squishy egg inside your head. I think you should check into getting rewired or something. Do you have good insurance?"

The Old Man was lecturing me. His moral outrage was part old-fashion and part his right as an old person. I mean I think there were moral sensibilities built into him that caused these sorts of sermons. But, I also think he just thought this was how he was supposed to speak to me--like he had earned it and even though he didn't want the free drink that comes with the meal of age, he was going to refill it as often as possible just to make it all worth it.

"I know. What do you want me to say? I told you, I agree with you."

God created it. What God created was quickly divided--the chaos that came from nothing was quickly classified--organized--and partitioned. Here, within the creation, the chaos was ordered and then disordered all too quickly. Whether that poor decision involving a reptile and some produce was planned or not, we shall never know. The point is that the disorder caused the partition--the primal partition--the original cubicle. We are now sat in a 3 sided space, with a desk that faces a temporary wall. Sitting, we face a wall mixed with appointment reminders, calendar items, extension numbers, account listings, a few pictures from last year's vacation, and a screen--a flickering, luminescent screen that is a portal into a world of sinful ones and zeroes.


"Why do you think you can do shit like this? I mean, who acts this way?"

"I don't know."

He was incensed. He stood up and paced to the counter of the Shop and back.

Well, that partition can't be crossed by either of us. Not by the Nothing that created the Nothing--to do so would be a compromise of the grandest proportions. And as good a conflict resoluter God is, he just can't bring himself to it. And not by us, either--the door to the boss's office is closed. We are here--in the swirling nothing, organized into a sham of institution, language, and other mortal economies. We are here. He is there. That is the important part.

From here, it is all a matter of intimacy. It is all this paradoxical, stupid try to get as close as we can to another--to somehow bridge that unbridgeable gap without dissolving ourselves into the other.

IT has all gone from nothing to chaos to a garden, and now to this paradox. Life is about getting as close as possible to one--to One or one--whatever you prefer, or can believe in, or see, or find. Some of us find the One. Some of us find one. Some of us find more than one, over and over again. Regardless, it comes to intimacy--to having an encounter in a place that is locked. It comes to having some-one (some-One) unlock the door that lies so deep that you can't get to it by yourself.

Let's get close, or pretend we don't want to. Let's meet--dance--speak--move--around, through, over, behind, and backwards. Let's use each other for intimacy and then move on. Let's believe in dual myths of the One that lead to the spiritual Bridegroom and a heavenly wedding. Let's stride--pace--and fight to get as close as possible . . . to pull the two sides of the strings--the ones fabricated from the chaos--so that they touch, even if it is just for one second at one point. Let's stretch the bungy chords of forgotten souls as far as they will go with the goal of hooking them up at the end.

Let's get close. Let's touch. Let's touch--show me the way to the most intimate part--I'll unlock it, believe me. Show me the way to the hidden valley--I'll put you at ease, peel the layers of chaotic sedimentation, and traverse the terra that is untrammeled and unseen. Let it out--let the place that is not a place out into the open--let's touch--let's see what we find . . .

The One? No, no. I'm not the One. Did you think? Oh goodness, this is a mix-up. My secret? My layers? No, no. I'm not going to do that. Did you think? Oh my, we are really on different planes here. Well, this is awkward. Maybe I should . . . well . . goodness.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know."

"You are a horrible human being."

"Thank you. That helps."

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop

At this point, I didn't know why I inevitably let myself create chaos. It was swirling--terrorizing--and inspiring all at the same time. Why is that? Why is the chaotic enthralling and terrifying at the same time? Why is chaos always a spectacle?

I sipped. He sat. We didn't speak for a while, but I knew he was trying to figure what to say to me. The Old Man could be a careful listener when he wanted to, and now he was figuring out if he had anything to say about it all.

"In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth."

God created it. God created it out of nothing. I guess that's the first step? Creating--at least in this story--begins with nothing. It seems like that nothing comes from somewhere both unexpected and familiar. My suspicion about God is that the nothing was something both surprising and near--something he called forth, but something that came forth from inside somewhere.

God created it and it was chaos. There was a surface--some material--some swirling, terrifying mess of nihil--a swirling dervish of potential--atoms--pieces--entities--particles--sand granules--folicles--molecules--and little, tiny, black souls. The chaos didn't last long. It seems that with creating the nothing goes to chaos and then the real creating begins. I guess the first step is impressive, but the second is definitive. If the chaos would have remained, well it would have been a spectacle, but there would have been no witnesses--no eyes--no admiration, praise, terror, or movement. And what fun is chaos if no one gets to see the result?

"You are an idiot."

"I know. Thank you."

He sat back and looked the other way.

So, is this a God problem? Is the problem wanting to be God? I don't think so. Maybe. No. I don't think so. Well . . . I think it is a creative one. I think it comes from a desire to want to create--to make--to fabricate--and yes, to do so with/for witnesses. It comes from a desire to show something--let an-other see what has come to be. In that sense, I need the chaos.

I need the chaos. I need to let the waters of the surface--the deep--run over my head like a powerful, fatally cold waterfall of blades--cutting, grabbing, piercing, opening. That's right, let the chaos flood--let the waterfall of incisions open a flow from within--one that flows from nothing to nothing--from the utter wordlessness of having your face stomped into pavement as a circle swoops around in ferocity and laughter; as I run wild in a revelry that is decadent--exuberant--use-less--expending energy on things that have no return--laughing--crying--running into situations--into mire--into the baseless deep of the night as it turns into morning. Let the flow move as we stay up past the time of the horizon in order to inhale the smoke that sputters into an atmosphere that means its spuriousness will be forgotten in the morning; let us breathe in the air that expands into the void within our lungs causing just enough breath to keep my eyes fluttering and my mouth moving, my tongue laughing and my eyes open to the onslaught of moments that come without welcome and deliver more air--more faceless deep--than is healthy or helpful or useful or usable. Let's drench ourselves in an attempt to laugh deeper than we hurt and scream over the silence of a deep beyond that cannot--will not--be fabricated--molded--into an order that let's the children sleep soundly and the parents sigh a breathe of relief--one in which the moments are held at bay and the deep made shallow with 90 degree angles, pythagorean theorems, and the equation for presence.

Let's create the chaos--advance where we are not welcome--spit words that are awkward, inappropriate, and unable to be swallowed once beckoned. Let's lay face down in the mud of a field in the middle of trees--wind--fire--let it cover us--envelope us--let's run through the rain as the sun hides under the moon and the grown-ups turn their backs. Let's eat candy for dinner and stay up past our bedtime; spoil our appetites for productivity and oversleep the alarm for labor, organization, and manners.

And yes, when exhaustion sets in, when fatigue means the breathing of smoke--the imbibing of drink--the movements of eros and thanatos--the dance of aphrodite in front of a full moon--the skinny dipping at midnight--when it is time to sit--when the music stops--the laughter falls mute--the dancing stills--when my expanse falls expended--well then, let's take that fucking surface--let's take that fucking deep well of nausea--let's take the unbounding chance of the molecules, atoms, elements, and consciousness--bound it into 6 days of creating and one to sleep; 6 to spew it forth--let the words swell over in the hope of speaking a Word, and then one to rest and think about all that has happened. Let's take 6 to fabri-create and one to put our head under the cover and not look. Let's take 6 to crate and one to be embarrassed by it all. Let's take one to build and one to be sorry for it all--to not look--to wish that . . .

To wish the nothing that comes forth wasn't the nothing that is familiar; to wish the void that erupted hadn't left an open wound wherein the guts and insides and intestines had spilled out into a pile of fecal fecundity. Let's wish we didn't have to look. Above all, let's wish there weren't witnesses.

And after that 7th day--well, we'll peek our head out--and hope for the 8th--hope for the new one--the time to do it again--to re-surfac-rrect the void into something else. And when it is time--when the Father says to hand over the keys; to stop playing in the dark streets; to stop creating forts out of old wood in the backyard, or from the pillows on a rainy day; or from the pencils and paper left in my childhood cabinet; or from the words left scattered from the death--the annihilation--the shattering--of his Word--well then, we'll lie down and be embarrassed no longer. We'll hand the keys to the Kingdom to someone else and take a deep rest.

Then, we'll let the chaos settle into a nothing that is not ours.

"Tell me the story again, I want to get it straight."

The Old Man is senile. I get so tired of repeating myself.

I got nothing. Not now. Not for now. It's over. See you later.

A Girl I Met

I met a girl today.

She ordered a gin and tonic from the bar. I ordered a Black Velvet.

She said, "Why did you order that?"

I said, "Because that was my nickname in high school."

She looked at me funny, forced a laugh, and said, "You are weird."

She then got real serious on me, real quick.

"So, I know you. I mean, I like you, don't get me wrong. But, I know you claimed to have been dating the 'words' before you started dating me. Or at least that is what people told me. I mean, what is all that about? That isn't normal, you know. I dated a guy who was bi once, but never anything like this."

I said, "Yeah."

. . . . . . . . . . .

She said, "Well?"

I said, "Well, you know. The words are unpredictable. You know? They weren't a faithful lover--or a kind one. But, I could tell them anything. I could tell them anything. I mean, it got old after a bit. It was more about who could hurt the other one more, rather than about anything constructive. It was about me hurting the words and them wording the hurt. After a while, there is only so much you can take."

She said, "Yeah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . you want to go somewhere else after this drink? There is a live band down the street."

I said, "Yeah."

Broken Afternoon

sometimes you feel like a shame or like a ruse
a half cooked idea or a trick to be used
then sometimes you feel so lowly haunted and stark
waving in the wind like a flag that's torn apart
but we all walk blindly when we stagger and we strut
and we're all dealt the hands with the cards of our luck
and we all bow down silent and the words are awe struck
by the shameless light of the broken afternoon

Yes, we all doubt ourselves, don't we? If you don't, your life isn't worth it. I mean it. You feel ashamed or a fool or like a bottled up joke that deserves laughter . . . like you have shown something of yourself--something you may not have even known you had--much less knew how to show--reveal-give--and now, well, now the whole class has seen you come to school in your underpants--yes, everyone can see the secret you should have kept hidden (the one you didn't even know you had) and they are laughing. Their laughter isn't a grumble or a chuckle--not it is a bellowing roar that comes deep from their desire to see one--another--fall into indignity--into nothing. . . . well you get the idea.

And yes, even when we have regrouped, regained our shaky confidence, and venture out--strut--we walk blindly over an abyss. Even when we strut, we do so without any justification as to why.

Then it happens: the ubiquitous afternoon sun beats down, rendering the hollow meanings we had superimposed on the morning into collapse-able tents of nausea. I don't think the words are awestruck at that point--no, they are just empty.

i went walking in the night all alone
darkness seeping slowly in my flesh and in my bone
and the solitary biting at the thoughts inside my head
and the words came slowly and the unborn dream said
that we all lose the path to the black and the blue
but we are come back slackly to the tried and the true
we'll all come together, though it's never too soon
we'll all see the light, of the broken afternoon

I have walked alot lately. The darkness is mine, I realize. And so are the flesh and bone. The thoughts--the words--the dreams--well, they are mine and not.

i used to be young but i'm not old now
the shimmering passing of you scotty pal?
the path to now or never is paved with ambition plain
as a sail in the wind or an empty garden space
and we all till and toil in the slowly rising dawn
and we're all fit to fail til the future's finally won
yeah we're all faintly waiting for the young bride to bloom
in the shuttering light of the broken afternoon

I am not young. But, I am old.
The path to now or never--it seems there have been plenty of these over time and the never never seems to come. That said, I have dreams of toiling--of trying--of a dawn that is a long time in coming. I have dreams of the broken afternoon giving way to a fresh, crisp morning--not one that will stay morning forever, but at least one that will come long before the next broken afternoon. I have dreams of blooming and a new kind of light--one that doesn't lead to the solitary darkness, but one that does involve quite a bit of flesh and bone.

At the moment, the ubiquitous sunlight of the afternoon has rendered everything to pieces--fragments of sense that hurt when touched. I don't want to unify the pieces--I want to transport them into something the darkness has birthed, but not touched.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Shelly's Friend

I was a bit depressed after the Old Man's funeral, I am not sure why. His brother really irritated me for some reason—maybe it was his lack of respect, or his cocky grin, I wasn't sure. Nonetheless, all I wanted was some cold drinks at the Coffee Shop and to be left alone.

After precipitating my confusion with a handful of Jack and Cokes, a loud group of semi-cougars came in along with the Handsome Young Professor. I couldn't have imagined worse timing for such a crowd. Stumbling and drunk, he sent them to the bar and then meandered over to me.

“Hey man, I am glad you are here. I got a group of raunchy ones here, and ever since your little escapade at Shelly's, you are quite the legend with some of them.”

“Escapade?”

“Oh don't play dumb about it. You are one sick fuck, but these are the types that love it. Well, at least one in particular.”

Caught off guard, and not exactly sure what he was referring to, I told him I just didn't want to play.

“I am really not in the mood for this bullshit.”

“Okay son, but don't say I didn't warn your perverted ass.”
More confused now, I went back to my precipitation and tried to ignore there raucous, drunken laughter.

Its funny. When you are sitting alone in a place, feeling a bit lonely, but not wanting company, a group of revelers has a strange effect. Their very presence somehow makes your more lonely, but not in a way that makes you want their company. It's like you resent them for being there—for presenting the possibility of company—even though it is the last thing you want. It's like you resent the universe for making you one of many. At those moments you wish there was only One. I wish the ones were enveloped into the ubiquity and dominance of One that is Nothing. I wish there was no movement to and fro—no going close, far, between, near, or behind. One means movement. It means having an identity based on other ones. At that moment, I didn't want other ones and didn't want them wanting me. I didn't want to pretend to be happy. I didn't want to make small talk. I didn't want to pretend to care about people's names, or what they are interested in, or that their talk was anything less than meaningless. But, I did.

When I had just about tuned them out, I looked up and one of them was standing over my little round table, hands on her hips, with a big grin on her face.
“Hey you, I have heard about you.”
She wasn't unattractive, but she wasn't a stunner either. Her hair and makeup were all fixed up for a 'night out,' but her natural features just wouldn't cooperate with her cosmetics to make her beautiful.

“Oh yeah, well I hope it was good.”

“It wasn't good, but I wouldn't be standing here if it was? You are a kinky perverted motherfucker, aren't you? I heard what you are into, we all know about your stunt at Shelly's. She's a bit tame for that kind of thing, but me, well . . . you fucking animal.”

She was looking at me and agitating her own face in a way that was supposed to be sensual. Her face's muscles looked like they were convulsing.

I wasn't sure what she was talking about, and I was getting a bit annoyed, but it is always nice to be the center of intrigue.

“Why don't you come over here and join us?”

She wasn't sexy, this woman. No. There was something awkward about her. It was like she was trying to be sexy and seductive and shiny and smooth, but it just wasn't natural. It's like those rare occasions you hear a woman talk about going to the bathroom—like “making an accomplishment”--if you know what I mean. There is just something about it that we are taught is not to be mentioned. It is embarrassing for you and for her. It is like all the mystery and aura is swept away in the realization that at some point she was sitting down, pants and underwear around her ankles, toilet paper in hand, and making a huge smelly accomplishment. Or, maybe it is like when you go to a disco and see a woman who just can't dance. Dancing—at least well enough to fit in—is easy for women. As long as they move a little bit and don't force it, they are fine. Most men have to work much harder just to make it look acceptable. But, if you see a woman who is trying too hard—flailing—working--moving in a way that makes it look like her arms and legs are trying to vomit—it is embarrassing for both of you. It is like the mystery that is supposed to stand at the center of her is filled in with some bland, skin colored pigmentation that reveals dry, rotting skin. It is like the hole—the abyss—the place where you convince yourself that there is something in the world that is incalculable and unceasingly moving—is filled in with sharp, unforgiving gravel that spills out, disclosing the abyss to be a hard, scraping surface that portrudes into a space it shouldn't.

That is what this woman was like, standing in front of me, trying to be a seductress. Her forced attempts to be shiny betrayed her—swept all the confidence out from under her shaky psyche—and launched her into a place that was anything but fitting.

“No thanks, I would rather not tonight, but thank you.”
“Please . . .”
At this, she started rubbing her breasts in a strange way. I wasn't sure if she was adjusting her bra or trying to be alluring.
“I'll make it worth your while. I am a lot of fun, you know.”
I looked away, out on the beach. I looked at the waves crashing on the shore, a perpetual source of noise and activity.
“No thanks, really not in the mood.” I said without turning towards her.

“Okay,” she said in a deep voice.

As I looked back she was actually licking one of her tits. This was strange. She kept licking and tried to talk at the same time, “Surrr, yuu dawwnt wont tt cme over?”

What a sight. A grown woman, in semi-tacky cocktail dress and even semi-tackier heels, shiny earrings, and a huge handbag standing in front of my table, drunk, with one tit in her hand, trying to talk as she licked her own nipple in an attempt at seduction.
I guess whatever Shelly told her about me had led her to think I would enjoy this type of act.
“Okay,” I said curtly, “I am going to go, see you soon.”

As I walked home, the waves kept making noise and the activity didn't stop. Not for one moment.

Hubert

I met a friend today called Hubert.

Hubert told me he went on a date with a woman called Margaret.

I said, "Hubert, how was your date with Margaret?"

He said, "Not so good."

"Why?"

"Well, she asked about me. You, know what I am good at. I said, 'baby, you know me, as a poet, I'm straight specific; as a lover, overwhelmingly salvific; and, as an author, impossibly prolific.'"

"So?"

"She said she believed in a woman's right to choose. Then she left."

Hubert is a good guy with bad luck when it comes to women. He'll figure it out someday.

Communicating

Striping naked is the decisive action. Nakedness offers a contrast to self-possession, to discontinuous existence, in other words. It is a a state of communication revealing a quest for possible continuance of being beyond the confines of the self. Bodies open out to a state of continuity through secret channels that give us a feeling of obscenity. --Bataille

Yes, I want to communicate. Yes, I want to communicate so well that I do not exist, and you do not either. I want to communicate so well that there is an in-distinguish-ability that renders our normal way of being mute. I want to communicate so well that you and I are mute. That is my goal. That is what my desire hinges upon.

How to do that? Well, it seems not with the words. The words can't help us here. Words are for this world. Words denote the everyday. We need the words, but here, we need something different. The way I want to communicate won't work with the words.

Yes, I want to communicate apart from the words--with means--in channels--via pathways--and inacessible secrets--in places unseen and unmentioned--spaces surrounded by fear and taboo--rings of filth mixed with a pain that is pleasurable--where the cut of time has incised unforgettably, but not ineluctably--where I don't know, but you can find--where you won't go, but will let me explore--where there are no words . . . where there is a deep, insatiable reach for continuity--for union--for the ability to transform, tweak, and distort bodies and words and thoughts and feelings and perceptions and images. I want to disappear from the world into a place that does not exist. I want to leave the world for a non-place untouched by space and time.

Of course, of course--this requires risk. It requires vulnerability. And most of all, it requires obscenity.

Obscenity is our name for the uneasiness which upsets the physical state associated with self-possession, with the possession of a recognized and stable individuality. -Bataille

If we are communicate ourselves into silence, there will have to be some discomfort and some risk. Stripping naked can be a bit tenuous. For some, it is no big deal. I don't think they want to speak the silent words we are speaking of here. I don't know if they know the secrets pent up in the criss-crossed channels that lead from their pores to the endless space that makes up the little room where the words come from in the first place. I know, I know. Not all nakedness is about this quest to find the silent words. I know that it is not always about communicating without speaking; I know we can't always render the words mute through a meeting--an encounter--that dispossesses us. But, shouldn't it be most of the time? Sometimes? Is it unreasonable to search for the sacred in the obscene? To find something--something extraordinary--in the terror and vulnerability of nakedness? Or have we given up on that idea, amidst the plethora of stretched, augmented, and displayed bodies in our space and cyberspace? Have we let that go in lieu of the commodified ease of voyerurism? Have we given up on obscenity--sacred obscenity--in order to feed ourselves a constant diet of spectacle, shine, technique, gossip, and mechanics?


We are dancing in the hollow of the cup of nothingness. We are of one flesh, but separated like stars. --Henry Miller

Yes, back to the dancing. There is always dancing in these instances--it is an easy way to try halfheartedly. Let's move. Let's shake. But, no, let's not dare strip naked--let's not dare show ourselves into the ugly, awful, nauseating, limitless soup of atoms that constitute the space behind the words--the place that is untouched--the place where separation gives way to the rupture of the nameless disquiet.

We are one flesh--for moments or seconds or hours or days--but, I know, I know . . . . . . . I am naive . . . endlessly naive . . . always stars--always separate--always discontinuous.

I know. You don't have to tell me. I know the quest--this one of communication, silence, and nakedness--is impossible--I know it leads nowhere but to a frustrating, fatal cliff--I know it ends in the world re-appearing--with us re-appearing in the palce where we are visible, temporal, and yes . . . stars.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Swallowing

I didn't see the Old Man for a couple of days.

On the third day, I had a doctor's appointment that took up most of the time, but I ended up in the Smoke-Filled Coffee shop that evening. Well after dark the Old Man sauntered into the shop. He was obviously tipsy, and louder than normal.
“Well, funny finding you here! Oh wait, I forgot you have nothing better to do than masturbate intellectually in here all day every day. What's going on?”

He waved and began to make his way over to me. On the way he became distracted by Sage's presence at the bar.

“Hey, darling. How are you tonight? These boys bothering you?” he asked, looking around the room. She smiled in forbearance and told him everyone was being nice.
“Well, you let me know if they give you any trouble. You hear me?”
“Okay.”
At that he turned around and headed back toward me.
“Seems like you have had an eventful night Old Man.”
“Shut your mouth. You have no idea what I have been up to. I've been dancing—women everywhere—one on my left, one on my right. More than I could handle. Your mom even said to tell you hello.”
He sat down, but didn't have a drink. I waited for more insults or jokes or questions. But, he just sat. He didn't even look out the window. He kind of just sat there in a drunken haze. He slouched in his chair, his old fisherman's hat half-crooked on his head. The right leg of his tattered brown slacks was tucked into his orange sock. One too many buttons of his white button up shirt was undone. He just looked a bit scruffy, even for an old man. In the stillness time's wearing emerged. You could see how it had been so cruel to him—just like it is to all of us. He was once a vivacious, strong young man. Time hadn't crawled all over his hand and legs--leavings its wrinkles as a reminder of its dominance. At one point, he was fresh. But, not now. I saw the red spots on his nearly bald scalp, the wrinkles crossing up and down all over his face, the scar on his arm, and the bunched veins on his legs behind the tattoos. By all accounts, he was a brittle, feeble creature. The raucousness had evaporated into what appeared to be existential reflection.

After a few moments the Old Man actually started to sob. I didn't know if it was the boos or what, but he was crying audibly. His face turned red. His nose leaked. Tears ran down both cheeks. He didn't even bother to wipe them away—they just trickled down his leathery skin, riding in the crevices of the wrinkles which now characterized what was once his buoyant, ruddy countenance.
I sat there.
What was I to say?

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

After an eternity, he got himself under control. He wiped his nose and eyes, and tried to calm his breathing.

“I got a secret to tell you.”

“Okay.” I was curious, but not yet worried.

“Come here,” he said, “come close and listen." I moved my chair closer to his, and leaned in close. As I moved my ear near his now whispering mouth, I could smell the Jim Beam on his breath. The Old Man was leaning on one knee in order to position himself close enough to whisper in my ear. The combination of old man smell with the cheap whiskey was a bit overwhelming. It occurred to me that this was the closest I had ever been to the Old Man--right here, right now.

"Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and start the day. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning."

With a smug smile, he took a sip of his cold drink and sat back in his chair. His little revelation had apparently cured whatever sadness had plagued him only a minute beforehand.

I won't lie, I was caught off guard a bit. I responded in an irreverent tone. . .

I told him he was drunk, nostalgic, and deserved to die alone.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Trousers and Embarrassment

Later that same day, just as I was about ready to leave the Shop, two middle-aged men came in bickering about something or other. As they approached the bar one stopped and looked up at the menu while the other kept on talking. The first one then held his hand out so as to say, “Stop for a minute, what hot beverage do you want to imbibe?” The second one, who I might say was very rotund, told the semi-hippy girl what he wanted. He wasn’t fat. He was rotund. He was kind of short, with baldness (With baldness?). He wore a forgettable red sweater with a tan collar and khaki trousers. His friend was lean for that age, with a little mustache. He wore khaki trousers as well, with loafers, a pink button up and brown jacket. For him life seemed much more casual than for the other. Anyway, they ordered and went to sit at the bar, but as the rotund one moved his belt caught the end of table and snapped. Almost instantly one end of his belt stayed knotted to the table, the other slipped out of his rapidly falling khakis and he began to sweat even more than before.
“Harold, help me.”
“What shall I do?”
“Pull up my trousers.”
By this time they were around his ankles, his belt still impaled on the counter, and his over-sized, stained boxer shorts glimmered under the neon glow of the bar lights. Harold looked at him in disbelief trying to figure out if he really wanted to pull up the Rotund One’s trousers. He looked at him, paused, and then silently walked out the door. Stunned, the Rotund One stood there embarrassed. However, instead of stopping and pulling up his trousers, he made a fateful mistake: Looking up frantically for help and finding none, he tried to walk out quickly—to just escape. Well, being rotund and having his trousers around his ankles, he couldn't really walk. He took one step and tripped. As he fell, his face hit the floor and his nose burst with a flow of blood. Escaping isn't easy when your trousers are around your ankles, someone should have taught him that long before his poor belt snapped. At this point, a shiny woman walked in with her two young children and screamed. The children started crying as the Rotund One tried to get himself off the floor. This was all a bit much.

I laughed out loud a bit. I didn’t laugh at the Rotund One. I don’t think so at least. I think I was just laughing at the whole incident—the helplessness and helpfulness and the unexpected, unpredictable part of the whole thing. Trousers, boxer shorts, hot drinks—all of this was comical. I didn’t laugh because he was less or worse; only because such a situation was possible at all. I mean he was trying his best, just like all of us. Most of the time trying means embarrassment. Living is embarrassing. This fat fucker didn't know what to do. He really was just doing his best. Breathing means trying everyday to do things you have no idea how to do. It means not letting the fact that you had no choice about showing up here and no choice about when or how you will leave get to you. It means hoping others don't see that most of the time you have absolutely no idea what you are doing. Living is embarrassing, because living is a circular race none of us wins. It made me thankful for the chance to remain mired in smoke and text. No one asked for reports; there were no staff meetings; I had no appointments to make, or people to please. I hope that rotund old man feels good about himself somehow. I hope he is good at darts or bowling or fucking his wife—you know? I hope he goes to bed thinking about something else than being embarrassed for breathing. He probably doesn't. He probably falls asleep on the couch to some reality show, or to re-runs of the Simpsons. Whatever. When I saw him, he was just doing his best like all of us.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: The Old Man's Bullshit

"You know what's funny. When I was young I never asked that, I didn't care. I got up and went out to that damn sea every day. I woke up energized, ready to conquer, to swim, to catch. I woke up ready to give it my best. Janice was at home and I went to work everyday. We had kids and that meant putting food on the table. There isn't much time for bullshit when you have mouths to feed and a wife to keep happy. You know?
After the little ones grew into adults, things changed. I began to wonder. I began to see a horizon that never moved. I began to understand myself as trapped under that horizon--held there--and no matter where or how or what I did, there was no escaping. The horizon was my prison. In that prison everything melted into the same--all of it could fit into the same frame. Good food, good boos, good company--it all felt, tasted and looked the same. Because, I knew the next day that horizon would remain and no matter how far I went or how deep I plundered, there was no way out.”

"So how did you keep going all those years? Sheer determination? Duty? What?"

He said, "The secret is not duty, not its not guilt, or even any lofty goals of grandeur. Pretty soon son, I'll be dead and so will you. The universe will go on without a hitch--it didn't care before and it won't care then. You and I will dissolve back into the dust we came from and that will be that. All the dreams, all the trying, the accumulating, the success--every fish I caught--will melt into the sea's indifference. You know how you keep going? You don't move the horizon, no, you find something in this same which gives you a hint or an idea or a glimmer--a portal--into the somewhere else. You see, once you find something within the horizon that can't be held by the horizon--well, nothing else matters. Its funny, you could meet a girl in the bar tonight--see in her face, in her eyes, in her smile--something that can't be reduced to patterns, or molecules, or informational codes. You'll see right through the horizon into another world and it will make those days not unquestioned, but more than bearable and even exciting. You'll remain under the horizon's gaze for sure, but there will be something in the world that can't be contained by it, something that goes on forever."

I really liked that Old Man, but he sure talked alot of bullshit. We talked a bit more. He told me about getting sores on his hands from fishing all day. He told me what it was like to wrestle with a fish that weighs more than you do. He told me what it was like to live alone now that his wife was gone.
We walked back to the Shop and nestled back into our respective seats. If nothing else, our little excursion had helped to stop the race going on in my veins—the semi-hippy woman had left for the day and I sat in the corner as the sun went down, reading about love and laughter.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop

The Old Man seemed to be in quite a serious mood. I wasn't sure if he was just being grumpy, or if he was going to get strange on me and start talking about his life coming to an end, or his greatest regrets, or some other old person talk.
We walked out the door and took the sharp right toward the boardwalk and the beach. People whizzed past us as we got close to the boardwalk—skimming by on rollerblades, on bicycles, and everything in between. One guy rolled past on a unicycle.
“Does that look fun to you? Why doesn't he just ride a bike?”
The Old Man didn't answer, he just kept waiting for a break in the action so we could cross to the sandy side of the boardwalk.
Once we past the boardwalk, we hit the soft, warm sand. It wasn't hot outside, but it was warm enough to make the sand nice to walk on. I took my sandals off and enjoyed the feeling between my toes. The Old Man didn't take his sandals off because they were the kind that strapped on to your feet with velcro.

“Where we going?”
“Just thought it would be nice to take an afternoon walk—get outside for a bit.”
He looked at me and I was glad to see his expression was a bit lighter than it had been before. However, when he glanced over, the Old Man failed to see a rock in front of him, tripped, and fell to the sand.
It was strange. He went from a grumpy old man—one that I tolerated—respected--and somehow admired—to a fragile, brittle little creature, in the matter of 10 seconds. The image of God that hovered over my table moments before was transformed into something akin to Jesus' last moments on the Cross. All the divinity and royalty had been sucked from him in an instant. Now he just looked weak. He lay face down in the sand after falling awkwardly over himself. His aura evaporated. He was a skeleton—caught between living-death and death. There was sand all over his face and on his cotton shorts. He appeared helpless.
“You okay?”
He didn't answer.
I looked on, the awkwardness congealing on my arms and legs—settling there as it projected itself outward from the circumstances onto by body.
“You okay?”
“I'm fine, you little bastard. Help me up.”
“Okay.”
I grabbed one arm and held onto him as he picked himself up from the warm sand, coughing all the way. Once erect, he wiped the sand from all over his clothes. After a moment we continued walking toward the water.

It took him a while to catch his breath. I watched the waves break on the shore as they do each moment of each day. The afternoon winds made a mess of the surface—it was uninviting, choppy water with no illusion of order or any care for it. There were some tourist kids trying their best to ride a couple of cheap foam boards in the whitewash. With each wave came a new obstacle and a fun moment. I could see a fisherman out on the jetty that was to our left. He just stood there with his pole in the water.

After a while the Old Man was ready to talk. We sat on the shore talking about the sea. He told me about fishing and about his "lost generation".
"So, why did you keep going out there every day? How did you face something--the sea--so vast, so incomprehensible and so threatening? How did you grow to love it so dearly? How did you balance fear with enjoyment, anxiety with the presence to smile?"
He took a long time to answer.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Cells and Platelets

In the morning I offered her coffee and stuff. She said,
“No, I have to go serve hot drinks.”
I said, “Okay.”
It was nice, but all a bit awkward. Mornings are awkward. Her breath smelled. Then she left.

After she left, I went into the kitchen to fetch my German-English dictionary. My housemate was there (he is a little shorter, with a shaved head, and perpetual beard stubble). As usual, he was wearing old checkered boxer shorts and an argyle sweater, and no shoes. He walked around the house like this most days until about 10am; until he had to go someplace. This guy was a professional academic. He was probably the most intellectually capable person in my universe, but, as to be expected, his ability to render social cues was a bit tilted. He wasn't ill equipped when it came to social situations, he was just tuned to a different frequency than everyone else. This wasn't your absent minded professor, more someone who understood the world through a slightly strange lens. And, when he drank cold beverages he suffered from loud episodes of a cursing disease, which was embarrassing at times in bars and stuff since he wasn't used to controlling it all the time.
“Did that girl ride the bus last night?”
He said to me, sitting and sipping his coffee, scratching himself with his feet stretched out on the table in the kitchen, his face lit up with a mischievous smile.
“What bus? We walked home from . . .”
“You know what I am talking about. The pigskin bus. Did she ride the pigskin bus to tuna town?”
“Ahh. Got it,” I said. “No, not this time.”
He sipped his coffee loudly and scooped his scrambled eggs into a bowl with ketchup and some cold pieces of lunch meat.
“You think she is interested in experiencing an Eiffel Tower?” He said laughing.
“Maybe, but I don't think I will ask.”
He took a bite of his breakfast and let out his customary barrage of orgasmic noises,
“Oh God, yes, that is good, hmmmmmmm, sooo good.”
He did this any time he ate anything. I am not sure if it was a deliberate exaggeration or due to a mild case of a different kind of disease. Nonetheless, it continued as I walked out of the kitchen,
“Ohhhhhh, God, soo good, sooo good, yes, yes.”


I won't lie, that day when I saw the semi-hippy woman at the Shop my blood felt like it was racing through my veins—like all the platelets and cells involved thought there was a race to win, but that no one had clued them into the fact that they were racing in a circle. I saw her as I walked in and for some reason didn't know if I should say hello or walk by and let her attend to her work or something else altogether. So many things change in life—time takes them from us cruelly, heartlessly—our bodies change, or good friends move away, or you get in a car accident with some metal and a government. But, as I passed the semi-hippy woman in the Shop that day, the blood cells and platelets raced round and round the circular track of my body just like they had after the first time I kissed Lauren Olson in 6th grade at lunch time and then saw her in class afterwards. Am I just naïve? Shouldn't time have hardened me to this sort of childish excitement? Shouldn't time have taught me that one night—one couch and some dying bears—isn't a big deal? Shouldn't I just grow up? Did she think it was a big deal? Were here platelets racing or did they know there was nothing to win? Had she somehow clued them into this fact? I won't lie, I was frustrated myself for not having learned how to control or tame the cells and platelets any better than when I was in sixth grade; but I was thankful for the inexplainable, unexpected feelings of excitement, giddiness, wonder, and expectation.

After Brett had given me my hot drink, I sat down in the corner and tried to read some Flannery O'Connor, but none of it sank in to my brain. I think the blood race inside me meant that my brain was not able to do anything but think about the race—who would win? Is there a winner? How would I know who won? I guess technically they were my blood cells and my platelets, so I would win no matter what happened. But, I didn't have any control of them at that point, and thus it didn't feel like it was possible for me to win. I concluded that there is no winner for a circular race between cells and platelets, but I think it is fun nonetheless.

Are there ever winners for races that go in circles? They are fun at the beginning, but the cycle gets old, doesn't it?I should have remembered this, but at the time, I didn't care.

I kept glancing over at her to see if she was looking at me. I kept wondering what I should say. She came over after about an hour.
“Hey you. I am on break.”
“Hi, how are you today?”
“Well, my neck hurts because I fell asleep on a couch last night. And, my eyes hurt because before I fell asleep I was staring at a huge TV.”
I almost asked her if the small of her back hurt because of the erection that was prodding her on the couch, but I realized that this would probably not be smooth.
“Huh, sounds like an awful night you had. Sorry to hear it was so bad.”
“I didn't say it was bad. It was actually one of the best nights I have had in a long time, even though half my body is creaky as a result.”
I wanted to say that the next time she slept on that couch that her body would be more than creaky afterwards; but, I realized this would not be smooth.
“Well, what made it so good?”
“I had good company.”
With that, she walked off and went back to work.
This conversation did not stop the race in my veins. I went back to reading, and this time my brain allowed some things inside. So, that was good.

The Old Man came into the Smoke-Filled Coffeeshop later that day. After a about a half hour of reading the newspaper he came over and stood over my table. I looked up at the wrinkly, brooding figure above me—kind of like an aged God in some strange way. His tattered maroon polo shirt was unbuttoned. His gray hair protuded out from his fisherman's hat. And his face seemed to be petrified in way that allowed his eyes to zoom in and out. I don't know if God ages, but if he did he might look like the Old Man did over my table.

“Can I help you?” “Why don't you and I take a walk out to the shore?” I didn't ask questions. I just got up, got a refill of my hot drink, and followed him out the door.
“Okay.”

Collecting Connections/Connecting Collections

And surely we throw ourselves into erotic pleasures above all in order to remember them. So that their luminous points will connect our youth with our old age by means of a shining ribbon! So that they will preserve our memory in an eternal flame! -Milan Kundera

Life, it seems, is a moving between eternities. It is a stretched out continuum highlighted by points which link us--or at least give us the impression of linking us--to some sort of encounter with the infinite. And, of course, many times--most times--this happens in the throes of erotic desire. Life, it seems, is temporality lived out between the illusion of the infinite, and its infinite hope. This is who we become--not the continuum, but the points along the way that leave our memory seared with the mark of something more, something beyond. These encounters take us beyond ourself and thus, in some tragic way, end up defining us. The places where we are most vulnerable lead to the places where we are most ourselves by not being anything. The places where we surrender lead to victory over time--at least temporarily.


And take it from me, my friend, only a word uttered at this most ordinary of moments is capable of illuminating it in such a way that it remains unforgettable.
-Milan Kundera

In those moments, our lives become eternal. Within seconds, we build an image that becomes the irreplaceable, singular unity of the otherwise temporal existence of everyday life. And, yes, they are unforgettable. Isn't that the goal of all of this--this erotic (non)project? To be unforgettable--to be more than geometry, more than dimensions, more than physiology?

Shall we collect them? Mark as many points on that continuum as possible in order to create a storehouse of memories of the infinite? The hopeless quest of infinite memories? Does the infinite come in terms of quanity? Or, shall we connect? Shall we connect intimately, fiercely, ferociously--attacking the moments, the seconds, the breaths with the impossible dream of destroying them? The dream of timeless victory--timeless connection?

They say for me that I'm a collector of women. In reality I'm far more a collector of words.
-Milan Kundera

For me, the infinite--the unforgettable--the reason--comes in the timeless connection--the connection that is capable of rendering time mute, even for a second. I don't want anything else, and don't want one who thinks differently. I won't fuck for physicality's sake. I won't fuck for geometry, or physiology, or even biology. In fact, in that way, I won't fuck at all. I don't want to collect. I don't want a storehouse. No, I want non-moments. No, I want unforgettable moments that are unforgettable because they are not moments.

When I can't write anymore I'll die. But I'll die loving. -Ivan Klima

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Bears and Piss

Then one night when we had had some cold liquid and some smiles after closing hours at the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop, I said, “Hey, why don’t you come watch a film with me at my house-by-the-sea? I am a nice guy, I promise.”
She smiled, ‘showing her cards’ right away. “I don’t know.”
So, I reassured her: “Don’t worry. It will be a vegetarian environment, I promise, no meat, especially no sausage.”
She laughed at this comment and then with a wink said, “Why not?”
On the way there, we walked along the boardwalk and listened to the waves. It was a brisk Autumn evening, one of those California days that turns into night really quickly. One minute you are sitting on the beach enjoying the warmth of the day, in the next the sun goes down and the wind rips right through you. The waves provided a pleasant backdrop to our walking—one that was loud enough to give us license not to talk. I could smell a bonfire in the air coming from down the beach somewhere, but there weren't many people around. The moon was bright. I could see the light bouncing off the water beyond us. The semi-hippy woman was a bit shorter than me. Not short enough that it was awkward to walk together; short enough however to make both of us feel comfortable. We didn't walk fast, but we didn't walk slow either. On the way there I grabbed her hand and held it in mine. Smooth.

For some reason my heart started to beat fast and I felt excited for no reason at all. I remember wishing that the moment would stop—standstill. I wished it wasn't a moment; that it was something different entirely. I remember thinking at that moment that moments are my worst enemy. I remember thinking how easy it felt to walk together surrounded by the crisp Autumn air, the waves sounding in the background, the darkness enshrouding us in a world only minimally lit by a few neon traces.

We went to my house-by-the-sea. I won’t tell about it now because I don’t feel like it. But, I will tell that we watched my big TV and that isn’t the only big thing she saw that night. Very smooth.

Ok, that is a lie. I would say that the only big thing she saw that night was my TV.

As we walked in the house I had to pick up some of my academic housemates coats from the floor. I am not sure why all of his winter coats were in the door hallway, but they were. She looked around a bit.
“What a nice place. This is amazing.”
“Thanks. I would give you the grand tour, but I think my housemates are asleep. Let's go into the kitchen. You want a drink?”
We talked a bit. She told me about her plans to travel in the summer time. I told her about what I thought of global warming. We laughed. We drank.
After a few gin and tonics, we collapsed on the couch and turned on the big TV. I wanted to say, “You know what they say about men with big television sets, don't you?” But I didn't think this would be smooth, so I didn't.
We watched a documentary about bears—bears that are dying in some woods that are disappearing somehow. She thought this was sad, so I thought it was sad too. After a few moments the semi-hippy woman relaxed into my arms. We were lying together. I could tell about the coconut smell of her hair and how it felt to enjoy her presence in this new way and how I was thankful to not be in my house-by-the-sea alone and how I thought she was a very nice person and how it was the first time I had such an experience in a long while and that when she dozed off a bit I thought to myself that she was a very precious gift to this world, sweet, lovely, and hopeful, but whatever. I was scared that she would feel my erection in the small of her back, so when I went to the bathroom in the middle of the dying-bears-documentary I tucked it into my underpants. Kind of smooth.

Before I went to the bathroom however, I said, “I am going to go to the bathroom and when I get back I am going to kiss you.” Smooth (?)
She looked at me with a forced smile. When I “took a leak” I actually pissed on my fake leather belt a little bit. This could have been because I had a semi-erection, or because I was excited/nervous to be laying on the couch with the semi-hippy woman. I suppose both reasons could be attributed to her presence. Nonetheless, I don't think she noticed that my belt had been battered by my own piss. When I returned, erection tucked away, we kissed a nice kiss. After a bit, we fell asleep on the couch. This was all very nice.

I won't lie, I don't see the overall goal. I don't have one. But I know that isn't the point. The goal isn't the goal. I know.

You told me, long ago, and many times. You relayed the message. You said, 'Let's build. Let's try.' I think you received that message from somewhere else long before you relayed it. It is funny, because I know you didn't have someone like yourself, you didn't have someone like I do, to relay the message to you. I guess maybe that is why it resonates so deeply within me. I guess why that, despite the lack of goal, the message is so meaningful. It wasn't given to you by someone else. You are not just repeating it to me. You taught me. You showed me. In that way, it isn't a relay at all. But, that isn't important.

I don't see the goal. In fact, I know there isn't one. I know that isn't a message you have received--not one that concerns you, or registers within you. But, it does with me. I received that message about the time you relayed your message to me--I learned them about the same time. I received two messages--one that didn't have a goal, and one that told me there isn't one.

For a long time those conflicted. On certain days, they still do.

But, for whatever reason, I can't stop wanting to show you that I got your's--your message. I did. I promise. I want to show you that you relaying it to me wasn't in vain.

I want to build. I want to try. I want to show you that struggle, and work, and good nature--that these things made it possible for you to relay the message to me and for me to share it with others. In this way, you are somewhat of an evangelist--an evangelist for the message with no goal.

I'm trying. I'm working. I promise. I'll show, and soon. But, thank you. Thank you for the relay. And thank you for giving what no one else gave you--for giving what you received from a place you can't name. I'm thankful.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop

At the same time we ought to understand also that it is impossible for human nature not to be always feeling the passion of love for something. Everyone who has reached the age that they call puberty loves something, either less rightly when he loves what he should not, or rightly and with profit when he loves what he should love. --Origen

As often as not, it seems to be assumed that man has his being independently of his passions. I affirm, on the other hand, that we must never imagine existence execept in terms of these passions. --Bataille




After a while, after I had filled some time at Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop, I became friendly with one of the semi-hippy people that worked there. And, yes, the person was a female. Smooth.

I would order a hot drink during the day, and ask her how she was doing. You know, I would talk to her about ‘green’ things, or why the president was what she called a douche bag, or even about text and smoke (kind of). She was shorter, a bit petite. She usually wore her hair in different ways—cute and variable (more signs of her semi-hippy status). Her clothes were second hand but still attractive. She was younger too. She was young—you know what I mean—young (not young enough to get me in trouble, stupid). Her smile was endearing and it always said something about her—something mostly pure, something consciously naïve, and something curious.
I sauntered to the Cofee Shop everyday with my words and texts. I'd sit and read. She was a pleasant distraction from all of that. At times I had to remind myself to read rather than to think about her, or to think of reasons to speak to her. The Old Man told me to grow some man muscles and ask her out. I told him to take his pills so that his man muscles might work again. This kind of talk happened almost every day.
Regardless, over time I got more brave. She’d give me my cup of hot liquid and I would wink and say something like, “Thank you beautiful.” Smooth.

She’d smile and pretend like it wasn’t a big deal. She'd walk away and flip her hair, or try not to look at me.
Then she began coming into the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop to talk to me even when she wasn’t required to serve drinks. She would come and bother me, talk to me about texts, or ‘things that matter’. She always had an opinon on a mix of things, from the best kind of coffee, or the conservative politics of the new Italian leader, or chickens.
“Have you seen how they treat the chickens?”
“What?” I would say, looking up from my text, over my glasses.
As she put her hot drink on the table, she would continue: “I saw this documentary last night about how they treat chickens. These poor animals are raised in cages with no freedom. It is completely inhumane what is done to them.”
“Huh,” I would say, stroking my chin stubble. “That is awful.”
“Did you know that it takes like 100 acres of land to provide food for a meat-eater, but only like 3 for a vegetarian?”
“Really? Goodness.”
“I am so glad I am a vegetarian. I couldn't live with myself if I knew I was contributing to such a thing. I am only going to eat free range eggs from now on too. You know, the kind where the chickens grow up in a free environment, not in cages.”
“You are right, that is horrible. I can see why you are upset. ”
“Oh, well. We are going to eat everything in this world and then it will be over.”
“Well, at that point we will be the winners—right? We win. That is why I still eat meat—I want to help contribute anyway I can. I won't hold it against you that you aren't contributing much.”
“Hilarious. You are so funny. Really.”
“Bye, gorgeous.”
With that, she would walk away with a frustrated look, but a bouncy step. Strange.

These kinds of interactions continued for a while. I was good at being and playing interested. I was good at caring, you could say. She thought so too. Smooth.

I watched her interact with people. She didn't go out of her way to be friendly—she didn't try too hard. But, nonetheless people were drawn to her. People seemed disarmed almost instantly by her humble smile and open way. It was like they knew she was thankful for their existence without having to say so. I liked how kind she was without being annoying . . .
A couple of times a week, I would watch her talk with the Old Man.
“Hey, darling. Fill'er up.”
“No problem, honey, how are you today?”
“Oh, you know—old, gray, but still kickin.”
“Still handsome too,” she'd urge him on with a sly smile.
“Well, thank you. Makes my day when you say things like that.”
“Because you like having cute, young women admire you?”
“No. Makes me feel good knowing young people still have some sense of taste—you can still spot a handsome devil like me. All is not lost.”
“Whatever, old man.” She'd say with a smile as he turned to find a seat.
Somehow, he didn't seem creepy or lecherous to her. He had grandfatherly qualities coupled with charm and confidence.
And, for some reason, I enjoyed watching her give time to him and to others.