6
M y   H a u n t e d   C a r r i a g e

If a boy's father is absent or emotionally unavailable, then the boy will spend most of his time in his mother's world. Unwittingly, his mother may instill 'feminine' qualities in him by rewarding him for being sweet, gentle, cautious, and well behaved. Boys who do not have a strong father figure wander around in a kind of No-Man's-Land.

I arrive at the motel where there's a manger specifically set aside for me. I requested a room with two twins, the living breathing kind. They didn't think it was very amusing and downgraded me to a berth absurdly close to the front desk clerk. I'm guessing the quirky and clever remarks made into my imaginary hand-held tape recorder make the on-duty dweeb suspicious; my allegedly unsocial conduct further ostracizing me from the troops and once again, building a strong case for The Isolation Chamber. I get him back by mumbling out of earshot, "Ya hairy-assed, 5 dollar-an-hour, skeezax jughead prick." That'll teach him, I think to myself and may even say aloud. By nightfall, there are two blond, pig-tailed twins in lacy pink Sunday doily-dresses in my room, groomed beautifully, warming up for some twisted Jon Benet beauty pageant. "I'm shiny, feisty and super clever, brush us pretty, mister!" This, they say in precise unison. The nightmare is befalling me.

My idea of a quality assignment with bite used to involve driving across America with a hot-chick-photographer, trying to score dope in every city and then writing about it. Today, it's a little different. I prefer to take the pictures myself and as far as the scoring of dope, well, I'm much more above board (With the grain, as it were) - these days, so to speak.

*Note: who to speak with about acquiring such grains? Oats and 'fibre-ish goodness' I've heard so much about, yet have felt inadequate to get involved with whole-heartedly and make a commitment to. Also, use more 4-syllable words, and the word, 'Indidacticism'. Don't be afraid to be verbose.

Comments and verbal notes such as these have been commonplace for most of my time here, but being too cerebral, overly analytic while reflecting endlessly on my own peculiar actions (as well as scribbling myself memos in public) seems to have left me at arm's length from most everything.

I've wondered for a hell of a long time if this is the way things are supposed to be or if this is simply how things move through me. I feel I have no way of knowing.

There was a time when I had an homage to Annie Hall in my basement: pictures of Diane Keaton, melted candles, sacrificed squirrels. I felt this to be an achievement, maybe even impressive, but more than once ended up being on the business end of haunting and demeaning laughter from curious dates with the wrong questions who had come back to the homestead. I finally assessed that working with an arsenal of morbid though eclectic, ritualistic behaviour had left me fairly empty. I further have discovered that to be neurotic, elitist and emotionally distraught (though possessing a keen fashion sense), has become outdated and useless and also unattractive to the opposite sex, and apparently comes across as being really, really gay.

Could it have been I, and not just my manner, my carriage, that was outdated and useless (AND unaccountably gay?) It's also become a rarity to even find a gal who isn't convinced I'm just homo-hypocritical, just hiding in some closet. Not correct. True, I've ventured into armoires, a couple arboretums, a wardrobe (or whatever they're called), but that doesn't count, as I was only hunting around in there for a secret door leading into a mysterious land, some Narnia-like village (tf#6) which certainly couldn't be considered In The Closet. {flexion of upraised fingers to signify tone quotes}. Plus, since I'm on the council for 'Hedonism and Deviant Decadence' it makes little sense that I'd veer away from something just because it might be deemed socially odd and non-conformist - knowing me, that would make me wanna do it even more.

I know some French, maybe a few show tunes, can cook when the situation really calls for it and yes, I've taken yoga, of the 'Bikram' variety; but that's only because I was trying to detox while simultaneously hitting on rich, sweaty divorcées while living the grand lacuna in Laguna Beach, California. I've always said that I'm comfortable enough with my own sexuality that I've never needed to act the male beast role. I'm pretty unhampered by rigid traditionalist notions of what's masculine and feminine, and I sure have never felt the need to adapt the post-coital-male-gusto-elbows-on-table-open-mouth-pose when ingesting food. Why should I be suspect on account of having refined tastes or using a few sissy words like Thus or Whence or Tempestuous? (and that one, I'm not even sure I use properly.) I do what comes naturally, thus side-stepping any machismo stereotypes. The kind of girl I end up with will find me extraordinary, rare, even intriguing for the first couple years of marriage (if that) (tf#7) but will ultimately leave me for a furrier, less artistic, knuckle-dragging, more employable, less winsome lad. I'm guessing this'll be unavoidable, unless I can get an act of sorts together. Or at the very least pick up my socks. One can only act out that scene from Say Anything for so long: the one where I'm standing outside the girl's window in a trench coat, holding a ghetto-blaster above my head blaring Peter Gabriel's, 'In Your Eyes' at a volume only bats and sheep can hear, before they in turn (the gals in question, not the critters) see the movie for themselves inevitably rendering me fraudulent, creepy and unoriginal, not to mention, regrettably, sending all plans for enticing interplay, even just cuddling, dismally downhill. The closest I got to that kind of cinematic-gooey-love-parade-of-intimacy was getting Ione Skye (the lead in that exact movie) to be my sponsor when I joined the Narcotics Anonymous program for a spell. I truly wanted to clean up and improve myself, but in all honesty it was her narcotic essence and promise of something more that kept me coming back. That was ultra cool.

"All right, I'll be your temporary sponsor, but you know, you're supposed to have a guy take you through all this."

"What you said at the meeting last night really hit me," staring at her, glassy eyed, "What are you doing after?"

"You know if you don't take this shit seriously, you're gonna die."

God, she smelled great, just like in the movie.

A spooky curiosity entwined with eerie interest in all things dark and macabre has propelled me into being someone who makes terrible, self-sabotaging choices with regard to drugs, repeatedly. Though, rather than define myself as a once hyper-active addict, I like to spruce it up, spiff it along if you will, most often with a thick English accent, as if I was ordering a spot of Earl Grey, and stick with the old reliable, more acceptable-for-conversation stock statement:

"Yes, I've made some rather peculiar decisions with regard to my relationship with substances." It sounds a little more above board.

Somewhat of a social maven, a mover and shaker of things at times, a zealot, if you will, zany on occasion, a people-pariah even, I've taken delight in having the sense (though intently aware it's more than likely false) that I'm on the cutting edge. Of what, I have no clue, and as to what I've been cutting into or on the edge of, even now is out of reach. But I'd venture a guess that after putting myself out there so many times, maybe it was I who was being cut into.

________________________________________________________________

tf#6: a village with no pesky laws against carving mantras in trees with chainsaws, like Sartre's "Hell is other people." That's a good muffin. I mean, Mantra.

tf#7: and me, fulfilling her sweet wish, to rescue me from myself and oh, if she knew what a job she'd be taking on, if she only knew!*

*

7
T h e   A r r i v a l   &   T h e   M i s s e d   F l i g h t

Everyone and I mean everyone gets theirs.
For the simple reason that we carry around with us what we've done
and what's been done to us.

Many memories washed over me as I made my way apprehensively through my cantankerous, lost chilling city. Almost every street I turn onto brings up an image; right now this area makes me miss Melinda and those days spent curating a dwindling, stormy and all too often neglected relationship, so I keep driving. The hours in this day (and all these reminders) scream SEDATIVE, and I ain't feeling too motivated in the capability department, no, not so hot on doing much of anything these recent days back at headquarters. Maybe some minestrone soup? Yes, the Italian's answer to Sodium Pentothal. It's warm and nourishing and I could come by it honestly: a tomato-vegetable redemption with a comforting homey feeling - of whose home, I've no idea and on this day, I couldn't care less.

From the car stereo, Take The A Train plays. The tune is joyous, playful, upbeat, suggesting a hotbed of high nightlife from the 1920's. But nothing is like it used to be and they can't fool me.

I, of course, find a way to see through this filigree façade and nearly tag a tardy molten senior after flying through a stoplight, too busy pondering where I went wrong, what store might still accept a post-dated, personal, out-of-state cheque and how I might scrounge up enough change for a postage stamp, or better yet, an alluring healthy meal.

J u s t    t r y    d o i n g    s m a l l    t h i n g s .

Don't get your head up in the clouds. I need a buddy to bounce a few things off, and not one of my animal friends or inanimate objects that mention things, but a real pal. That would be great. But me, with no real Fall clothes to speak of, drained and snively, driving around this shadowy town with that shot-out window; this is so strictly for the birds. Ill prepared, ill advised, far from at ease. Just ill? Just get the soup. The doctors say these are only feelings, and the doctors say they'll pass. But doctors, I've found, will say anything, just in passing.

I guess I should mention a little bit about how I exactly came to be here, but that will come.

So here I am back in the city, The Great City of Sulk, my application, to fly up to the family cottage after driving 3000 miles across country, rejected. The last time they saw me they thought me all stupid and loused with substances, so that pretty much covers that. My high holidays nodding off into hollandaise and stuffing doesn't make for much of a Norman Rockwell or help with anybody's appetite, on anyone's side of the table: neither does using the cranberry tray as a soaking dish after an imaginary manicure, no matter, one must always moisturize. I've got my people looking into alternatives, but what to tell the youngsters?

"Sometimes one need rest their hands in... (I drool here, one eye heavier than the other) something other than ones hands." Immediate gratification with relation to cranberry doesn't sit well with some. Admittedly, even I thought something was off base and burning in the kiln, too easily reminded of glowing injections with turkey-baster-sized-syringes. My feelings of jealousy towards the dressed up, oily brown and buttered bird that stared back at me from the center of the table, he unable to grasp just how lucky he was to be center stage, a recipient of repeated glimmering injections. I won out in the end, asked to leave the table, my foe left behind, defeated in the fight ring, spent and badly eaten (beaten), flesh ripped apart, innards devoured by ravenously disrespectful relatives, his carcass now resembling a younger, but still skeletal Cloris Leachman. Oh well, seems I need not concern myself with any of that hullabaloo this year.

Anyway. I've always been suspicious of a holiday that doesn't fall on precisely the same day each year. Why on earth this floating party, this 'Moveable Feast', made convenient for extended weekend warriors to catch up on shluffy-land-nappy-nap-sack time? Overworked long-shore men, misplaced marble-headed good old Brandos, brooding off their waterfronts in need of deserved down-time away from the sloth of dock life.

On one occasion, during the giving of hellish thanks, I found myself at good old Swiss Chalet. By myself. It was unwholesome and the worst of dreary.

Melinda and I were supposed to scoot out of town, take some public trans type thing earlier in the day, so we could make it out to her family's home for the evening. We'd been pre-selected to be one with 'The Big Spread'. Unfortunately, we were very much 'In the Bag', or had 'Too Many Bags', or was it 'Not Enough Baggage' to keep us afloat per se? Needless to say, needles were involved and we slept right through the only bus departing on that most glorious of uncinematic black and white days.

"I made sure our alarm was plugged in, don't yell at me."

"It's a digital clock and it runs on batteries, sugar."

"Shut the hell up."

"And where in God's name were you last night? You can't tell me it's just the phones you're working at that escort agency? Your parents are going to be so fucken pissed. Christ, we'd better call them. What do you mean you used the phone bill money for more of that shit?"

The only thing certain and in the bag was going to be our lack of nutrition, and our maudlin, pathetic, self-seeking dis-interest...but in a really pleasant festive way. (I'm trying not to let things sink too quickly here.) Thinking of those two pitiful, empty spaces at the dining room table was no easy sentence, let me tell you. We were missed. (tf#8) The only thing I didn't miss were the holiday crackers of absurdity you tug at with an assigned grub-inhaling neighbour, those crappy plastic prizes inside as the anti-climatic reward. For whose pleasure these repeated holiday gestures are for, I've no idea, as it isn't often mine. No sir, not at all. Ripping open the less than festive parchment leaves me perpendicular with open-ended queries. Maybe I'm putting too much of myself into it? But those screwy puzzles puzzle the fuck out of me, what with all the multiple linguistics and that magnifying glass. One time I didn't even get the English version (I got stuck with the one that should have been en route to Bastille or Copenhagen) and ended up trying to construct this crazy miniature Ikea-like croquet set out of what I'm guessing were barley-like-wiener-sticks (though tasted like a Bundt cake made from fennels, leaks and kitty litter.) It became a complex chore taking hours and leaving me lonely and mis-aligned, not to mention missing dessert (at times the only reason for showing up at all) and again landing in the neighbor's garage, pretending to know what I'm doing with their tools. ("Um, can we help you?") I know this much: in some third world country sweatshop, dozens of overworked, underpaid sweat shirted ladies named Consuela are laughing their asses off.  

Anyway, I could just feel   W i n t e r   s e t t l i n g   i n .

Everything getting dark, very windy and wobbly and with darling M. still out for the count, I was getting kind of famished. At the back of my mind something told me to seek out the closest thing to a home cooked meal. So, not too far a cry from home (tf#9) was chicken at Swiss Chalet; the place of peculiar tasting sauce; though nothing really 'Swiss' or 'Chalet' about it; no alps, no Von Trapps, just booths made of plastic, dirty utensils and horrendous music. A setting as mercilessly lonely as making the most of a strip club in the day time, or worse, having an old lady tell you she's on her way home to defrost a meat pie for her supper, and to wait by the phone for a call from her only son, tha t will not come. I ended up crying for home, anyone's home.

My charm and flirtatious box step coupled with musical finger snapping, and an offer to pay with racked-up Zellers points, unbearably entertaining. To me.

"Hell of an operation you got here missy, and no reservation needed? My, my, lady luck is sure shining on me to no avail this evening. You must have holiday specials; I've a coupon here somewhere."

To make the already awful evening worse, the waitress I got stuck with wasn't in the mood for my kind of pathetically-soul-bruising duplicitous interaction, and with English being her second (or third) language, she wasn't connecting so hot with any of the subtle, sarcastic, self-deprecating humour I was sending her way. And I was rambling a lot.

"What you mean fella, you 'feel like chicken tonight'?"

The imaginative genius of my clucking and off-colour-gobbling falling on deaf eyes from other booths, me, just trying to stay out of my head, distracting myself from more cheerless thoughts, while remaining focused on the task at hand, finding a cushiony abode and a Welcome Sign that hadn't burnt out.

"Excuse me," I said interrupting my streaming self, clicking my tongue, "Why don't cha take a break, they sure seem to be working you to the bone. You deserve some down time, why not have a seat here beside me?" Tapping the chair beside me three times, preparing my new queen's throne. She may not have been as perceptive as I was, but still I welcomed the opportunity to converse with something more or less human and more or less without feathers.

"Let me take that for you. Hey, did you see that movie where the..." She'd already split the scene, having moved on to attend to important orders and pick-ups. I sure wanted to 'pick-up' and forget all this, but who could I call? Even the dealers were at their fucking families.

If I thought about it for too long I was going to get really depressed, maybe start in on some good old sentimental sobbing, but I caught myself. That would've been grounds for suicide - actually, I think it's a law brought in by some Rhinoceri-like government years back, "...if one cries whilst in a Swiss Chalet-sit-down-dinner-situation, then...", well, let's just say authorities ultimately would have been involved.

________________________________________________________________

tf#8: parents despise it when you miss once-a-year occasions: eating functions you've sworn up and down you'd be in strict accordance with, where further extenda-family-entities have been called in from across the globe to get a good look at your dumb mug. An infirmary we became unto ourselves: no one should have been near us anyway, let alone 'Pulling For Prizes' or 'Bowling For Cranberry.' Surely, questions will be bellowed into the answering machine, "Where are you? I know you're there! Just who the hell do you think you are disappointing and worrying all of us" - Yeah, those folks you may have met, like once, somewhere around when you were maybe, like 2 years old.

tf#9: one must tell themselves false and fanciful conceits in order to get by on occasion, "Things aren't THAT bad," all of that. As to truly examine and explore, can make one very, very down-trodden. Swiss Chalet & Harvey's are more than adjacent. They now are ONE ENTITY unto themselves (!) sporting all kinds of services under one roof...from this day of reckoning forward, nothing will ever be the same.

*

8
C i t y   o f   S u l k

"Risks must be taken:
the greatest risk in life is to risk nothing at all...

It escapes me at present the exact cereal box I cut that puppy from. I deemed it worth saving though, it's pasted somewhere in the back of my notebook. Maybe it works fine for some people, but I've played in the field long enough and admittedly need a stand-in, a replacement. I partake, then retreat, re-group. I take part, disengage and run away again, all the while on the lookout for my gaggle, bevy, band, a chattering of I-don't-know-what's - a comforting group of warm mangy squirrels that understand? RISK is a game best served cold, (tf#10) and these frigid days, just a beginner in this town once more, I don't feel so much like playing, whatever temperature may be or whoever decides to pop by unexpectedly for a challenge match.

...they may avoid suffering and sorrow, but they simply cannot learn to feel,
and change and grow and love and live...

This city, an undramatic one, longs to be a more intense character. Come to think of it, it really doesn't know what it wants, or where it wants to go. I see it as an only child - on break from receiving multiple wedgies from upperclassmen - phoning its parents from a far away prep-school, saying, "I thought you said it would be okay here?" Alas, the parents no longer live at that address, and have discontinued any trust they swore they'd provide to educate further. They've already moved on to another town that boasted of greener pastures, less starch and no egotistic, self-serving offspring that muck up the yard and order pricey meals they're not prepared to pay for. The taller parental cities have changed their telephone number, and their names. So we're all left to go it alone and scurry, mentally frazzled, left to borrow beyond what we know we can't pay back, and procure what we're able to from other provinces and scattershot lands, even bogus villages and mini-mall-towns that may have something worthwhile to offer; so I, I mean it, acts the role of the ragamuffin, does drugs, sticking to what he - it - thinks is under control and ultimately messing everything up, has to start all over, re-group, move on and out, trailing another sorrowful, unhealthy corrupt reference, recoiled within sinister sickness embracing that which should be expunged: you stick with what you know.

This cultural melting pot is dripping all over the place, and all unearned joy will have to be paid back. Sometime. I can't find the drawbridge, again, and me, now the unattended moat, left holding a crappy makeshift paddle-boat. No way to get across. What was surprisingly fun and invigorating, strangely novel, upon my return, cooly shucking and jivin', wandering amongst city dwellers, back on my old grounds of stomping, equipped with 'Californi-eh?' license plates, pictures of people and stories to tell, all of that fluff has abruptly become frightening - an all too spooky reminder of the manner in which I'd become slothed and betrothed to, before I left for the West Coast. Must think. Options? Anyone?

I feel as if I am the Charlie Browniest of them all, the bottle has spun my way and I get to go into the closet and get all kissy-kissy with the foreign exchange young lass, the one with braces, acne and halitosis. I am nincompoop squared, or cubed if you can do the math. I am dunder-pate, a cautionary tale. Blunder buzzard against a backdrop of beautiful but stupid loons that don't know it's too damn late to catch the last gust of warm wind to fly south to meet up with family. That's me. Too late, not enough, wrongnesses piled-up blind, long-winded.

Got to get it together.

It's all very overwhelming. Clichés from the program still embedded in my brain such as 'Easy Does It', and 'Do the Next Indicated Step', all get catapulted out the metaphoric window wrapped in a rug doused with wit, Sambouca and gasoline: them spirits spiral to the wayside since I can't complete even one task at a time. Is it death or deal? It's all ordeal. Is that what's been put to me? What am I doing here? More apropos, "What the fuck am I doing here?" I mean Christ, no stability, inconsistent and ungrounded. To be back living at Moms is going to be a bizarre rehashing of things I don't know I can contend with, but the alternatives set forth are looking kind of grim right now.

I'm not even so interested with investigating complete and total sobriety, although I'd like to, maybe. If I stopped the drugs for a period of, oh, let's say a month, would things get less hazy? When you've told yourself that substances (my treats) are the one and only thing keeping you aware and engaged, afloat - a desperately needed navigator, then the questions without answers come knocking in a loud masquerade and leave you feeling more than unsolvable.

You don't think you'd be able to make more sense out of this, say,
without these drugs?

I like many parts of it. I do not like where it takes me though. I'll make you a deal, Sporto; no coping mechanism of any kind for a couple weeks, then come-a-knocking and we'll work all this out.

At this point, this moment, I want to risk nothing and would prefer not to venture forth or go out for anything at all; disappointment is more death and I've got enough stored up in this dehydrated mind to last me through a number of what might be hibernating months, even years. Same goes for submitting myself, enlisting or applying for anything - I don't want to appear the fool, the sentimental man, risk showing my true self, whatever that is, or chance not being loved back after putting forth my grandest shot at it all. I subscribe to the belief that there's still too much crud lingering in my life under the Bullshit Category. It's a broken umbrella going to pieces altogether, drenching me with frustration - which is sure funny, but more than likely just to you, as I'm the one who has to live here, the one who has to find breath here, the one who can't keep it together adequately to earn the monetary means to buy the proper-ply-towel or pesky vowels sorely needed to dry off and come clean.

...only the people that risk are truly free."

My parents took me to specialists, this told to me years after the fact. I can't even recollect all the different 'doctors' of varied lengths, denominations and degrees that were sought out to advise and complain to about my off-balance childhood. At the time, no one could figure out just what it was that possessed me to ingest pieces of board games. (tf#11) (My later redemption: (revenge?) having graduated to the inhalation of foreign substances.) The Blame Game is an all too easy and common one and that's not what we're going for here. I'd rather be made up entirely of blame and spoiled Yorkshire pudding (not pudding at all) than be considered common. I'm god damn sure of that.

Further, I've been unable to figure out just why I am the way I am, kind of like the way there's no clear cut explanation why you are who you say you are, or feel you claim to be. I'd like to trust you, but lets not get off on the wrong wing here.

In my opinion, we all seem to be the sum of some startlingly complicated board game, occasionally eaten by bigger, meaner players. We're more than pawns but less than kings and queens and unsure just when we're permitted to - when it's safe to - if we're even allowed to - move two spaces up and one over. Or is it just consistently diagonally-down, just backwardly spiralling, neither of which are any good in the Getting Ahead Department. Getting rooked is unsatisfactory to me and castling of any kind is more than unfair and just plain confusing. It all borders on crossed tennis court lines made up by insane judges, there only to find fault and again to throw me fundamentally out of touch, off track and permanently courtside.

And to tell you the truth, I've never been so hot on BORDERS, (tf#12) the daunting multi-levelled conglomerate or the Referee-people that work at them. More than likely, they have my picture up in the back room on the 'Ten Most Wanted' list...though I cannot keep straight, for the life of me, the ten most wanted what? And for what literary crimes exactly? Actually, if I had to, I probably could come up with some evidence of my own. But just how they got a picture, I'm coming up empty. Real empty.

You are here because, well, because you're in here, and you're not going anywhere just now.
Nothing is going to change. Not unless we arrive at an understanding.
Maybe, to change, to get at something new...
you're going to have to say goodbye to some things.

________________________________________________________________

tf#10: actually, 'Risk' is a game devised by a couple of horribly cretinish and disfigured brothers named 'Parker', and not of the 'Posey' variety or the 'Nosey' sort either. This complicated, tiresome past-time sits dusty and unforgiving in all our closets waiting to be plucked from beneath the wintry boots and old saucers wrapped and in boxes to be used for some spectacular Anglo-Saxon-gathering that in all probability will never occur. It does seem to get dusted off and hawled-out during thunderstorms, blackouts and after funerals and wakes once everyone begins to get uncomfortable and doesn't know what to say to one another. I was never much for the sport, really, admittedly not for any other reason than I plain just didn't get it. I liked all the pretty colored countries on the board but it came with no dice, nothing to yell "Pop-o-matic-trouble" at, no words of any kind to unscramble or muck around with, just some weird 'dungeony dragon-like stench' that never surfaced beyond the brainy ones who excelled in the now defunct Latin Club in high school. You can dominate your stupid countries, provinces and states, I'll be over here building this really-neato-swing-set out of Lego and monkey-barrel paste, wearing my fully equipped home-made utility belt with pick-up-sticks and edible Playdoh, that I quickly (maybe not so quickly), have discovered, is not edible. I get all that confused with the game that came in the shape of an egg that I'm convinced you could eat part of, or if you rolled an image on it, the image would appear on the gummy, nerfy-type substance, and Whammo, Presto, Change-O, Good Snackin'! It's one of the things I'm going to look into when I get the chance. All this, also tied in to those unfestive snap-Cracker-Jack tug 'n pull holiday things I spoke of earlier. I'll get to the bottom of me. I mean, the bottom of it.

tf#11 : it became almost impressive, the system I had designed for working things out and planning my future. To gobble up the Top Hat when I landed on Boardwalk, meant I'd confirmed my seat in some non-existent literary stock exchange, somewhere in New York or The Hamptons. For good measure I ate and digested the Sports Car piece once my game-piece landed on any worthwhile real estate. I figured having the prized possessions inside me might make me feel more complete and guide my process. The horsie I couldn't swallow. I was called "competitive" by many teachers, and parents would rarely - if ever - allow their children to come over and play for fear I would "eat their parts," and thus run the risk of leaving their psyche scarred (and adopting an even unfriendlier disposition towards me back at school as well as exhibiting sullen rebellious attitudes towards other adults in power positions). I was even taken away for a time by some council because the school aficionados were convinced I wasn't being fed properly at home.

tf#12: nor do I want to invest time or money in any kind of 'wax museum display', inside a Border's Book Store (#12A): edible gooey statues of overgrown philosophers and wrongly looked-up-to-encrusted existentialists who partaked and promoted in extra-marital affairs. I'm sure I'm not in league and sure don't possess the proper managerial gumption an undertaking of that magnitude would require. Just ask my Uncle Al, as he's good at telling me about my lack of proper work ethic.

tf#12A: Borders is the same thing as 'Chapters' or 'Indigo' - American or Canadian matters little, these kinds of Injest-Caffeine-whilst-buying-books-and-other-pointless-overpriced-impulse-items-conjured-by-brilliant-marketing-folk-that-have-a-creepy-way-of-looking-like-an-Ikea-underwater-kind-of-world, all result in the same end: You paying through the nose.

*

9
A n y b o d y   H o m e ?

The boy appears to be deaf to her criticisms, so the mother repeats them over and over again. What she doesn't realize is that her son is paying very close attention. But he's not listening to her pleas for better behaviour. He grows up feeling there is something inherently wrong with him. It's not his actions that are unacceptable to his mother; it's his very being.

Marvin Allen
In the Company of Men

So this is where my dear Mother and I are re-connecting. A litany of crumbs to be picked up, the last of the fallen leaves to be raked, cusped between Fall and Winter, a predictable onslaught of snow to be shovelled amongst skeleton trees, an assemblance of 100 years or so of living we've managed to pull together here on this Planet Earth. We share my Dad and his death, also her second husband most recently taken from her, both tragic, devastating and sudden... the latter more so for her, as my assigned step-monster and I weren't terribly fond of each other. We've got her two strokes, her mysterious Multiple Sclerosis which no physician can clearly determine or make out exactly what to do with, and of course my frustrations and failures, battles mostly lost, out there in bigger cities... some similarities spliced with some clear-cut uncommoness. We also share her Lorazapam, but I'm pretty sure she thinks the missing pills were the work of a crackhead tooth fairy, some forboding fly-by-night-figure with weathered wings who can't keep track of what cargo she's supposed to pick up and which kind of currency to leave behind for molarless humans. She doesn't care much either way as long as she gets a pretty penny for the pills back on her corrupt cloud. I could be wrong. I'm just hoping she doesn't hold a proper Law & Order-like investigation (my mom, not the hopped-up hero who sells her wands and wares.) Mommy has her own fantastical explanations for just how things operate on Planet Earth. We all have our own ways of coping.

This is where we'll repair or at least, attempt to.

They keep removing sections of her skin as they think she might have Cancer, which makes her look as though she's been picking at scabs on her face - but they say it's necessary to be sure. It's a little unnerving, but I suppose I'm getting used to it. They thought I had Hepatitis-C when I got back from California (one of the reasons for not rushing to return to a pricey American medical matrix I couldn't afford) but they also said that I'm one of the freak cases where the bad blood has just kind of vanished, at least for now. It didn't show up on any of the last tests and I'm keeping fingers crossed. Also, none of the pens here work.

A spooky overtone that seems to flow un-fluidly along with all the clocks that are tick-tocking away, marking time in this dungeon of threadbare opulence, my mother's kingdom, so clearly not mine for thousands of hard-earned reasons: all hers. I hear the cuckoo clock chime, "Not mine, not mine, not mine, not..."

The continuous deluge of raking, all so never ending. I'm sure if she could, she'd find a way to tie me in to failing to attain some made up 'global leafage accumulation measure' the proper 'per-square-capita-per-day' of leaf luggage. I could see her doing it too. It's never enough, as the leaves fall faster than I can stuff them into the goddamn Hefty bags. But even I'm stunned into momentary stillness when, with a voice dripping syllabitic accusations, she queries, "Why in hell do they still make trees like this?" (I'm under suspicion here.) What all this adds up to is some twisted and gruesome nepotistic bout in the mother and son ring. Maybe it's interesting to stick around to see what it is I'll get knocked down or nailed for next. Actually, it's the farthest thing from interesting. But I have to invent games up here, it seems, as this is one uninspiring hopeless hole of an unsocial Isosceles-isolation-tank, this my view after living the life I have. There's nothing worse. Not that I can see. The not knowing what to do next, and worse, not feeling very good about any of the possibilities. I'm probably not even that bad off but I'm having a rough-and-tumble-time in that department. That 'Perception is Our Own Reality' is sure be a killer.

I suggest to Mom we play Beat The Clock and ask her to time how long it takes me to rake all of the leaves onto the neighbour's lawn while rifling through her purse for medication. She doesn't think this game is funny. I tell her, "You can have what's behind Garage Door Number 3 or settle up and pay off the accumulated allowance bill for the last fifteen years." She's weighing her options. I also offer to paint the entire house if she can pull an albatross, a prescription pad and a chess board out of her ass. I mean her purse. She's off to hunt through her wicker bag and I'm off my rocker and into the garage, remorseful. I really meant to propose Let's Make A Deal, that crazy Monty Hall reduce-and-shrink-wrap-humanity contest. I don't think it would have made much difference.

I build a flag from someone's tossed-out-wooden-leg and an old white pillowcase (though may've been a Handkerchief for someone with Gigantism) lying mockingly in the garage. I tie the cloth to the leg and with a black marker (that works) write S U R R E N D E R on it and retreat. Yes, retreat I do, behind a flimsy partition made from left-out Swiss-cheese. 'Return to the Womb' Ye s, please. I sure as hell would like to. I'll put in the paperwork so I can start again, get another shot at this, a proper one. But who would one apply to precisely? Those mice in this computer who I'm convinced are running a good part of the show? Those beady-eyed narcoleptic devils can't be counted on to read my memos. I'm willing to make sense as long as the rest of the world does, but again I find myself not knowing quite who to talk to, who to consult with about worldly matters, questions that have become constant companions, just who to make a deal with.

The surrender scene with the flag I find myself wrapped up in, reminds me of that brief stint in the 'All-Negro, All-Addicted, Non-Traveling All-Stars' at 'The Royal Palms Rehabilitation Facility' (i.e. Charles Bukowski's old digs). I was forced to sing in this recovery choir: 

"We are the soldiers in the army, we had to fight, although we
had to cry, we had to pull up the blood stained banners... we had to hold 'em up until we died..."

or pretty close to that. A soothing ditty, I can assure you. It never fails, when you are forced to sing anything, there will be no passion and yes, it has been a battlefield. (tf#13) I was sweating and worrying pretty heavy then, wondering just how all that mess was going to get sorted out.

"Hey, don't hang up, I've been waiting for that!"

"You can't accept collect calls here, who the hell do you think you are? It's time for group, get off the fucking phone. This ain't the Hilton, dude." Countless calls went out and came in, me desperate to tell who'd ever listen that this just couldn't be where I belonged, that someone had made a mistake.

As a rule, it's best to abstain from u s i n g during one's holiday in a drug treatment facility even though there are a surprising number of ways to procure the same substances which landed your ass there in the first place. Ah, sweet irony. You can always score inside which would really smooth out the journey, but...and this is a big one...they now seem to have devised this nifty, but irksome, rapid-result number called a 'Drug Testing Kit.' There didn't seem to be a suitable method for avoiding this new hi-tech random testing they'd got going in those residences, as it's just that: Random. I recall sitting in this counselor's office, him (whose name may have been Sully, Gus or Sal) juggling my urine, me forced to sit and watch it transitioning into a rainbow of colors, yellow to blue, swishing back and forth in this tiny vial, the guilty verdict, seconds away. A dwarfish smirk came across his face, seemingly pleased with his findings, as if he had discovered pants that fit.

He said it was 'positive' which sounded like it wasn't so bad at all, but in fact represented a disagreeable result. I had a few prepped pretties, "That CAN'T be MY specimen," "I'd like a recount," and "What's in urine, really?" and further umpteen excuses I'd rehearsed, but it took far less energy to just fess up. I was very tired. And I was kind of glad to be getting out of there to tell you the truth. I'd done my time (kind of) and was weary and annoyed, having sweated my ass off in the bowels of that harsh uninspiring dunk tank. I also may have not helped myself by cheating on all the 'Life 101' classes: I remember a kind hearted member of our group (who'd stolen the tests for the term) whispering softly to me, "When in doubt, choose C". I've found life to be pretty much all improv anyway, no matter how much effort I put into working out ways of cheating. So much for education, my blanks that never got filled in. I did manage to pick up the occasional exotic tid-bit of information; for instance, over 60% of all persons arrested for drug and alcohol-related offences report being sexually abused as children, with two thirds of the remaining 40% reporting that they curiously, they can't recall their childhoods in sufficient detail to report one way or another regarding abuse. How this helps ME in the long run, I can't say, but it's sure nice to be informed.

What actually came to mind as he was playing with my bodily fluids was the time I thought M. was pregnant and we had to go to the 'Drug Store' (a funny name, that.) We bought this instantly-earth-shattering-tell-tale packet: if it turned blue we were good to go and off the stork's hook; if it turned yellow, well, then we had to make a heavy decision or start squirreling away money for a college fund. It would have been hilarious if Sully told me that it didn't look like I was pregnant. Instead he buzzed an underling and on intercom announced, "Please remove Mr. Masterson's belongings from the Bukowski suite," so everyone could hear. He was a funny fucker - an asshole who thought I was causing dissention in the ranks with my hi-jinx. He wasn't too sorry to see me go, but what could he do? He was the same slimy cretin that barked the those exhausting lines at each morning meeting, moments before we began chores and tasks for the day: "Losers do what they want to do. Winners do what they have to do," or some such patchouli-ghouly-crossworded nonsense. I wasn't listening as I was out the back door busy not being a winner. From what I could surmise, that was the best time to sneak down the alley while everyone else, was busy being told how to not end up like me.

My mind clicked on to Addict Mode, racing images of just where I saw myself ending up that night. How can I make it back to Santa Ana from downtown? Where is my car? Did I still own a car? Who would pick me up? How am I going to get some cash? What month is this? Always have a back up plan. At very, very least, a place to go when they boot you out. I wasn't ejected as much as I'd like to think I was ushered, escorted with a measure of affection. Sal mentioned I was "insufficiently committed to the course of action that would be required to remove substances from my lifestyle." To me, he was communicatively-challenged with an accent unbearable to endure. I even caught him a couple times digging the aroma of his watchband when he thought no one was looking, a true sign of senility in my books. I'm sure they'd still roll out the magical but caustic carpet for me to vacuum again in a heartbeat, if somewhere down the line I made my mind up to buckle down. I'd like to think they came to enjoy my cutting remarks and predictable rebel rousing. Like when I brought in street workers, saying every time it was in fact my mom who'd decided to pop in during visiting hours. Why those were the moms I clung to, I can't say. I knew that I liked and respected them because they weren't lying about who they were, those pimple-ridden skitzy skanks stinking of disproportionate self-imagery and tequila, selling themselves at below-basement-bargain-prices, them turning tricks in the alley just behind the facility, who I seemed to feel a particular kinship with. "Mom's in the program, she's kind of been on Relapse Mode, lately", offering that kind of 'knowing look' to the guard, both of us men of the world, men who understand how these delicate issues have a way of working themselves out. Security permitted our conjugal-crossworded-visits until they found us in my room, rustling about, not doing the crossword. My strategy and flagrant unconsciously incestuous behavior served to hurt only me, but I thought myself cunning, an innovative hands-on artist who was convinced there were no calls from agents and personal managers only because the front desk chowderheads did not put them through, confidentiality rules only part of it. I was dubbed 'Crafty' by many staff and counselors there, and was also told to not take it as a compliment. But who were they to judge? They were supposed to be licensed though I somehow suspect they were not. Most of them were original guests themselves on this fruitless freak ship, too frightened to get out there and play real ball in the world, them just on a different type of drowning vessel, but who was I to umpire?

Tattered and war torn (on the insides), a fleet of ragtag individuals thrown together by a devil in cat's pyjamas. Somehow they're all Mum and me: spit out after having given it our best shot. And somehow, I am aware of how final and dramatic I make all this sound, but then I'm just a reporter from the front lines of and ultimate unbearable mute anguish. M. once said 'Take this truth home'. Trouble is, I can't seem to get back there, not to that special place. I wouldn't really know what to do with all that jazz, which is, as a matter of fact, what a good deal of all this is about. In the future (if at all there is one, or any further form of things to come) I'm guessing we'll muster up the courage, even take part in some small victories: times we'll look forward to an event or happening, the pinnacles in-between the tears, when the pain and agony from being forced to press on takes a break, when a genuine feeling might raise its head to the surface for a quick breath. Maybe the excitement is right outside my door, the chasing of carolers from the yard with a rake, battery acid and power drill prepped in my holster, might make me smile, even hopeful - but drastically, my whimsical hobby is but seasonal, though I'm trying to stretch it out. Mom and I must learn to share more than when the tea is just right, so, I'll still, maybe, drum up a good old college try, "Fight the good fight" - as Granny used to say, who knows? Questions come up. A lifetime worth of them. And Uncertainty (an ugly term I'm getting to know too well) is a belt I tie 'round myself first thing every morning to kick the day off that doesn't come off until I RETIRE (which is sure a funny word for 'Calling it a day'.) Through the darkness, I might speak and I might listen but all with just a little less of what I was before. I'm just hoping Mom hasn't devised her own sort of drug testing kit, cause as weird as things can get, I wouldn't put it past her.

Question for the day: What's worth retrieving and holding onto?

________________________________________________________________

tf#13: the unmusical urchins grated on my fillings and served only to arouse side-splitting grief, the mandatory attendance bereft of any proper addict sopranos or soloists, their alarming off-key depiction brought tears and baffled me.

*

STRONG COFFEE BREAK...ESPRESSO preferred, if you can hunt it down.

*

10
H o t   A i r

We loved to have people call us precocious.
We used our education to blow ourselves up into prideful balloons, though we were careful to hide this from others.
Secretly, we felt we could float above the rest of the folks on our brainpower alone.

From Chapter 2 in the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book

Constantly in orbit looking for another solar system to skip to and fro in, I'm going to need a lot more oxygen if I'm going to do this gravity/sobriety thing right. A helium tank that never runs out of steam, sounds about right for the job, to compliment my eternal air bag full of self-righteous disfigured dragons, them chasing me in a dirtied vacuum bag, far past the proper emptying stage; this, to say nothing of the skeletons and Shoe Tree People in my chaotic closet that scream at me night after night to do something with them. Maybe a film? I have my own 'Theory of Chaos.'

But the helium tank,
the kind that the tennis club I worked at used to rent back in California for silly syndicated sporty events, enlisting the likes of me to be Balloon Captain, when not spending time being mistaken for Gopher from the Love Boat, though gimpier, if that was possible. Wearing white knee high sockaloons and whatever shoes were discovered in the Lost and Found (playing 'Dress Up' was a kick), bantering and flinging fancy with others grappling with their own pathetic attempts at backhands and wildly excessive bar bills - me - blown back behind the front desk by Knee-Highs, scotch and cocaine, not the club uniform originally awarded to the holder of this junior position. Just prop me up to meet and greet at the welcome mat, nothing to do except check in luxurious members and play the role of the fading flirt with the older ladies on the Morning C League Team - all charming like Eddie Haskel with an exacto knife - cagily watching the clock, soon the escape down to L.A.: "Would you mind terribly if I left early today, the 405 freeway's a bitch to contend with on a Friday, you know how it is. Oh, and by the way, it's like 100 degrees back here behind the desk, is it really important that I wear pants?" Out there along the lost highway speeding to my beautiful freaks who were far from members on the Morning C League team but who accepted, and understood me. Maybe there's something to that?

"Remember to save a place for me guys, I'll be there as soon as I can cut out of work. Hey, pick up for me, would you? Of course I'll pay you when I see you." The family of drag queens at Westlake and Eighth had adopted me and welcomed me into their fold.

"Who is this? Hey Ebony, I think it's that guy calling again. Yeah, all right, but you owe us, bitch." They needed my Remington Steele-good-looks-and-Caucasian demeanor to flesh out the street demographics. They looked forward to my visits.

Why I was recruited to assemble an unfathomable amount of easily bustable orbs for some finicky wine and cheese gathering, an inexhaustible attempt to extract further monies from members, I can't say. This would go on all the time, these Very Special Occasions and drab activities that appeared magically on the schedule and seemed to pick up considerably when tuck shop purchases and group lessons were down. I don't know if I'd be so well-received if I were to return, all that sorting and sifting through the office managers' desk drawers caught on surveillance tape and all. "Uh, I'm just cleaning up, sir." There sure have been some attempts.

I used to have this special lemon PLEDGE (tf#14) can that I'd turn upside down, using its shiny and beautiful swirly concave-bottom to mix water and tar heroin. I'd sniff it all up using cut straws from the snack bar, as though I was drowning in their bubbly Jacuzzi, dreadfully past my allotted break time, sinking in the tar pit un-oasis, all that chemical compost flowing through my nostrils and suffocating any chance of advancement. Just who was hip to these goings on, I suppose I'll never really know. It got out of hand on a few occasions. There was some nodding off (again, not in the job description) coupled with irrepressible Mexicano dealers popping in, pretending they were there to peruse the pro-shop's lady's tennis skirts. There were some funny scenes and those were the days.

"Are they members, Carol? I can't say that I've seen them here before. They must have just been hired."

"Timmy, would you be a dear and sashay these cocktails out to court 12, Marjorie is ensconced in one hell of a match out there, she may even break a sweat - just sign her name sweetie, would ya?"

The affectionate and bored housewives treated me much like a mascot, the drunker ones inclined to placing the occasional tip down my trousers. "Now, don't cha' go off and spend this all in one place, you." I guess a more discerning, sophisticated shopper would have extracted more from that sweaty dollar bill moistening in my shorts. I used the accumulated bonus' for upcoming purchases downtown and gas to get there. Thank you, ladies. They weren't mean spirited or anything. Just blind.

It wasn't so bad.

I miss those luscious late afternoons where I'd work until closing, mucking about in goopy sentiment, reminded of summers as a child out at the park, maybe with my Dad. Better times. There'd be this strange surreal calm, the scorching sun slowly disintegrating, empty tennis courts, scattered stray balls left behind that needed collecting all the way out on court 18, one of the tasks of my job I wasn't too bad at. Some huge oak trees hanging overhead, reddish auburn leaves swaying in gentle breezes - all calm for the moment, no rage in sight - settling through the club and its tailored walkways. All could have served to build in me a glow, some monumental warmth, though it did nothing but fill me with a strange, tremulous and bitter sadness, only conjuring up Dad's absence, my tragic similarity to characters in books I loved and saw myself living in, convinced I was like-minded, feeling entirely simpatico with the hero in a story, right there along with him, and I absolutely knew what would occur or be said next. If I'd a hand to bet with, any winnings to speak of, I would have let it all ride, as a good chunk of the time when I turned that page, I was dead on. Dead on.

I kept a library of paperbacks under my desk and consulted them when I ran into trouble. For instance, that book, "How to Win Friends and People While Under the Influence," by Carnegie Melon, (tf#15) opened my eyes considerably and assisted with getting through the hilly slopes in relationships I was barely managing to keep up appearances in. A guide can be the most important thing for someone with substance concerns. These were times when I knew there was beauty in books and beyond, just under my fingertips, and where I knew I wasn't too badly off, not too far gone to see that there were good things still, not so distant from my mad mind, but my all too keen sense of inadequacy and negative disposition, as always, naturally doing me in.

Even with the books and the pleasant surroundings, there were things I felt too immature to truly understand, significance is what I think I mean. Those little jarring moments that I didn't know what to make of, but I knew a smarter man would have made the connection and know what to do with it. For instance, in my tennis bag, the one I would carry my rackets and balls in, my notebook and wallet and stuff, also got used for carting 'round with me this kind Glad Ziplock black leather miniature surgical pouch for my 'works': (the marsupial pouch I've always talked about getting?) syringes, cotton swabs, a silver spoon, a lighter (to this day, I don't smoke - now that's really bad for your health), unavoidable clutzy occasions it would fall out onto the court for a hitting partner to query. I would falsely confess these sexy trinkets of manlihood were on hand to light candles for impromptu picnics and desserts I'd put together for 'lovely young things' I'd meet at auditions (tf#16) or new members I'd have to initiate. My point being, that when I was 16, I wouldn't have known what any of those tools would be for. I know now.

Often, I was left unsupervised to saunter in and out of empty offices, amidst the backdrop of plastic pool chairs drenched in dew, making sure all was safe and locked, feeling much the mischievous mouse, while some feline boss-man was away, off playing, while I kept my own time - sometimes even forgetting my addictions in the infinite splendour during after hours moments, by myself. A din of crickets somewhere nearby, feeling the summer sky, warm and mysterious, innocent voices from kids on bikes, amidst moth haunted street lamps.

I wandered the complex grounds making my way out to court 18, lay flat on my back and right in the middle of the tennis court, stretched, and looked up at the sky not caring about the sandy clay court in my hair and on my clothes. I stared up and wondered which little lights were planets and which ones were stars. Luckily, this season, there would be no pointless below zero weather making its way into me.

O n e   p o i n t   f o r   m e .

________________________________________________________________

tf#14: " ...turns out Lemon Pledge, when it's applied in pre-play stasis and allowed to dry to a thin crust, is a phenomenal sunscreen, UV-rating like 40+, and the only stuff anywhere that can survive a three-set sweat." (David Foster Wallace revealed this secret in his book, "Infinite Jest". (1996 - Little, Brown and Company - Bay Back Books.)

tf#15: the book referred to is actually "How to Win Friends and Influence People" by Dale Carnegie.

tf#16: and tell me that isn't like the BEST cover for some Dating-Service-for-lonesome-insecure-actors-on-the-make and Can I give you a lift and... " That was sooooo good. Though I couldn't even get much meangled from that perfect unmissable, "even I couldn't lose in that situation! Jesus H Christ.

*