Weight to the Words

As an addendum to my previous post: a few statistics made their way into my mind on my way home from work today that I thought would add some gravity to my last post. I have a hard time staying in one place, doing what thing, and I have proof.

I am currently employed in my 18th job, not counting the array of companies I worked for during my stint at a temp agency a couple of years ago.
I am driving my 6th car.
I am living in my 10th residence since moving to Nashville.
I am 24 years old.

I found it interesting anyways.

Oh, Danny Boy

There are bagpipes being played somewhere in the neighborhood. The nasally tune is being carried by the cool wind that will soon carry with it the first of many good, southern thunderstorms. I'm sitting on my porch with a glass of bourbon and water, smoking my umpteenth cigarette this evening, enjoying the gorgeous, ominous weather.

There was some kind of hullabaloo next door whose illegal festivities I somehow managed to miss altogether just a short hour and a half ago. There were five squad cars idling in front of my house, boxing in my old, crumpled sedan, making me grateful for my earlier decision to order Jimmy John's delivery (for more than one reason, as it was tasty); we are still unsure of the details of what happened, though it apparently was some sort of scuffle, possibly ending with a weaponless rumble with the police themselves, probably involving drug trafficking and potentially all based around a fugitive who was maybe renting the back side of the house next door. Not that any of that matters- I walked my slippered feet down the steps of my porch and found myself chatting with the writer-in-training who lives downstairs; a few minutes later, as I stood quietly on the sidewalk in my padded, backless slippers with a cigarette, I was approached by the lady who lives across the street when she mistook me for the aforementioned writer-in-training. We talked for a good hour, petting cats and swapping stories over several cigarettes, exchanged phone numbers, and I came home.

Why is any of this worth mentioning? It's not especially. Except that I love it here. It's a beautiful neighborhood peopled by friendlies, good citizens who like each other almost as much as their cute pets.

And why is this worth mentioning? Because I'm staying. Not forever, no, but I'm not leaving yet. "Big deal," you say sarcastically. Big deal indeed. I haven't ever stayed in any one place willingly, not in my life. And that is a big deal.

What it comes down to is this: I've got a terrific job that pays well with people I more than tolerate, I live in a charming, little apartment to which I look forward to returning daily, and, well, I'm going to start sending money home to my family. I feel nothing short of old-fashioned in regards to the latter, but the truth is I feel that it would be impractical to throw away perfectly good job experience and resumé fodder while being afforded the opportunity to support the family that has allowed me to get to where I am today, the same family whose sole provider, realistically, will never be able to retire and whose number of intelligent but yet uneducated children are more numerous than the stars in the sky, or at least the fingers on my left hand, which is clutching a cigarette (word usage in post so far: four) as it tries to assist in the typing of this run-on sentence.

So for now, I'm here, and I'm not leaving. I just hope the bagpipes, those harbingers of that nostalgia of things not yet experienced, don't decide to settle down in the otherwise pure and comfortable airwaves of my humble and cozy neighborhood.

The Beginning of Something

After a long afternoon of work on a local business's website and a brief sitdown with a friend, I returned to my glorious attic and finished another page of the story. I've written short stories in the past but they've always been, at most, one day-long affairs resulting in a handful of obviously spontaneous anecdotes. I've got eleven pages so far for a tentatively long short story; I've contributed at least a page every day (except Thursday, when I read the second half of The Life of Pi instead of writing). It's been a reassuring exercise; a test of determination at the very least. I'm not completely behind the story yet, though I think the premise is worthwhile. What's more, it's a work of fiction- a first for me. The protagonist and I have a fair amount in common, but he is, at the most, merely a derivation; maybe even a bizarre mash-up of myself and a 40-something by the name of Mark (who, inconsequently, is remarkably similar to the peculiar and victimized character in Mystic River, whose name I've forgotten).

In other news, I saw snowflakes last night that rivaled the largest I saw growing up. They stacked up heavily on my porch, creating a pleasantly wintry scene; I began to appreciate their beauty when the wind stopped chewing up my nude neck. Pretty as they were, I'll be appeased when the average temperature hits 60. So much for being a native New Yorker.

And then it dawned on me.

Ray had to reach the end of his rope before the sun goes down.

Tapping the wood of my pipe on the deck,

I stood uneasily, coasting gently on the caked bed of frosted ice pitted by a few shakes of last night's tablesalt. My limbs shivered momentarily at the thought rather than feel of the chill morning.

Back in Town

I've also got a new place, this time in Nashville. I like it a lot.

The Runner

I'm working on a short story right now (it's rather lifeless and a little disheartening as a result, though I'm glad to be writing at all) that revolves around a high schooler who is out for a run- working on it triggered a memory that may or may not have been suppressed. I wonder sometimes at the fact that I can never decide on my "most embarrassing moment," though the subject never really comes up; this memory could possibly be it.

It is nothing out of the ordinary from what I can tell; in fact, I get the feeling that it is rather commonplace in sports. I was new to athletics as a freshman in high school- I had played volleyball in middle school but, as most people know, middle school volleyball is typically lacking in athletic substance. A friend of mine, an emaciated girl with Rapunzel-esque hair who ran for fun ("Who does that?" I used to wonder), somehow convinced me to join the indoor track team in the interim season between volleyball and tennis. Being tall and skinny, I took to "distance" running, with the 1600m as my specialty. The boys' track team was ragtag- there were a few solid athletes who competed at the state level, a handful of decent runners, and then a bunch of jerk-off losers who worked out and drank beer to feel like college-age kids. I felt like the outsider I was, a band geek with a propensity towards pop-punk music, a middle child in a stigma-inducingly large family.

Practices were okay, so long as I was able to find my long-haired friend and run with her. Other days, the coach split the genders and conducted separate practices. On one of these days, a cold but sunny mid-November afternoon, we had something of a "free run," which involved splitting up and going our separate directions and jogging around campus. It was a silly exercise, but I think that its inception came as a direct result of a need for the opportunity to conduct what I now know to be initiation; that is, the absolute humiliation of the new kids. This particular day, I was running rather absently, slapping my heavy feet against the pavement towards the middle school with which we shared the campus, when I became slowly but increasingly aware that someone was running behind me. I cast a glance backwards and my heart leapt at the sight of eight boys, all headed straight for me. They gained on me quickly, though heaven knows I ran as quickly as my fiddly legs could carry me. I laughed loudly and nervously when they finally overcame me, totally unaware of their intentions but terrified anyways. In short, they jumped me. They pulled me down to the cold grass and piled up on me, and for a not-so-brief moment I truly believed that I was about to die. I breathed grass, which everyone knows is not nearly as respiratorily nutritious as air, and I could feel my stomach seizing up alongside my pathetic, video game-and-paperback novel lungs. A short eternity later, they decided that I had had enough, removed their greasy and slimy chests and legs and arms from my wrangled frame, and scampered off into the great wilderness of the soccer field. I lay, dazed, for several seconds, crying, before finally picking myself up and hobbling towards the high school. My coach spotted me and asked me what the problem was. I shook my head and between sobs told him that I just had to use the bathroom. I closed the door behind me and hyperventilated, feeling dizzy and grateful to be alive.

Not too long after, the jerk-off King himself apologized in an off-handed way, explaining that it was nothing personal, that it happened to everyone and, in fact, had to happen to everyone. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but I hadn't learned yet to use words like that, so I just nodded and looked away, eyes red and swollen, sore and still on the verge of tears.

There's nothing really more to the story. I just thought I'd write it down so that I don't forget it- I have to propensity to let slip the stories that most directly define who I am.

You're my water, you're my wine

I left my house a complete disaster this morning, but at least I got on the road to work on time. Traffic was exceptionally thick, but I made it in half an hour before I usually do, only to find out that my boss would not be coming into the office again.

My head is fairly clear, but I wish that I could be working from home so that I could clean up while I work.

You're my water, you're my wine, you're my whisky from time to time...