The Lights are Much Brighter There

The Soup

2009-09-23T09:38:00.001-07:00

As my bowl of soup rotated in the microwave, I stared out the window, hands in my pockets.
"Contemplating better days?" asked Blake, who had slipped into the kitchen to refresh his cup of coffee.
"It's not that hard to do."
He laughed. "That all depends on your perspective."
"Blake Scott, the eternal optimist."
"Nah. I just believe in the power of positive thinking." And he left. This is why I like Blake- he isn't afraid to use phrases like "the power of positive thinking" in conversation.

Warm, September Rain

2009-09-15T18:16:00.000-07:00

I'm drinking to get drunk. This is the one thing that Pam, my old boss, forbade when allowing us to drink after the shop was closed (we sold wine and beer at the cafe), though she herself was seen not infrequently letting slip down her throat rather large glasses of port, usually in one or two lively draughts. She taught by example and I tend not to infringe.

But tonight is an exception. It is considered by most to be dangerous for one to drink alone; my response is that I am almost always alone (please, please- this is by choice. By choice, I say), so what choice have I? To enjoy a glass of wine with dinner, to crack a canned Boddington's or two while critiquing Jay Leno's new show, to throw back a handful of starry-eyed bourbons-on-ice while the southern rain drenches my deck- these most isolated of life's pleasures I indulge in private, in the same manner as the myriad other pursuits of a solitary life.

And, so, I am mostly drunk. I won't be entirely so tonight; my definition therein is a bit stricter than that.

What are my thoughts this fine evening? So kind of you to ask.

I'm thinking of biking. More than likely, it won't happen. It just so happens that my eyes are bigger than my stomach as far as dreams are concerned, not to mention my propensity for idealistic nausea. But here it is anyways- I'd like to bicycle to Seattle in the spring. No- I'd like to do it now. The truth is that I can't right now, for I'm in the midst of a rather overwhelming project at work and feel the need to see it through to completion (relative as that is in my line of work), and don't care to cut my 'funding' unnecessarily short. So spring is on my mind, when the northern plains have thawed and the Holiday Inn project is complete and my job is endangered anyways, and the open road.

Why Seattle? I have a friend there. Why not?

I'm going to finish my wine beneath the humble overhang of my attic's roof. Best of luck to me.

The Morning Fog

2009-09-04T05:10:00.001-07:00

I left my wallet at home this morning. I'm pretty sure that's a first for me.

Update:
Our receptionist got engaged last night. Her high-pitched squealing is worse than usual this morning.

Fair Enough

2009-09-02T12:33:00.000-07:00

I'm back in my cozy office in Tennessee after venturing home for a long weekend. The drive back was nice enough, but I felt a new sort of nauseous for most of the trip and it's still hanging around this afternoon. I took the picture she took of the both of us down from my laptop's background and that seemed to help.

Entity Framework

2009-08-19T12:07:00.001-07:00

I'm about ready to kill this thing.

Tuesdays

2009-08-18T19:38:00.000-07:00

Tuesday evening, lying around in lactose-induced discomfort, reading The Odyssey. I expect to finish tonight.

I am debt-free as of July 15th. In other news, I have actual funds in savings, as of August 15th.

In other news, my brother's wife just had their first child- a daughter.

In other news, I really had something I was going to post about but forgot altogether. I've forgotten how to blog.

"The time has come for us in turn to cast
our shafts against their rank; my friends, don't let
that crew, to all their wrongs, now add our death."

Weight to the Words

2009-03-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-24T19:06:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-01T19:55:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-25T18:24:00.001-08:00

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

Tapping the wood of my pipe on the deck,

2008-12-16T06:02:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-03T18:57:00.000-08:00

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

The Runner

2008-11-03T18:28:00.000-08:00

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

2008-08-21T07:02:00.001-07:00

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...

Not much to say

2008-08-18T19:57:00.000-07:00

I met my girlfriend for a drink at a restaurant downtown after work but before heading out into the country. I had champagne and she a gin and tonic; the server was the cheery but deadpan same as he always has been so I left him an extra couple dollars on the credit card slip.

Sometimes I wonder why, what with my inability to slow down, to appreciate my job, to smile back at the morning sun on my drive in, to enjoy my smoke breaks, to eat without giving myself indigestion, to drive back home at less than ten miles per hour over the speed limit, to just sit on my perfect porch swing, to fall asleep sober, to slow the fuck down, I don't take a serious look into Buddhism. I really do wonder.

I ordered a subscription to The Economist. I might become a Buddhist after it starts arriving.

Baseball

2008-07-21T18:38:00.001-07:00

I don't know if there's a game on but I'm going to go turn on the television and find out.

Tennessee Writers

2008-07-19T16:04:00.001-07:00

There is a disheartening lack of literary talent in middle Tennessee, or at least from what I've seen so far. This remark is not intended to contrast with my own work; rather, I'm terribly interested in finding other writers within an hour's drive with whom I might become acquainted for the purpose of getting better at writing. That's all. And my search for this exact thing has been terribly disheartening.

Christiana

2008-07-17T20:34:00.000-07:00

And, with that, he was back.

It's mid-July, a few weeks after the day I picked up my sorry behind and took the Greyhound from Atlanta to Nashville for the last time. I was offered a job near the airport doing- what else?- software development. I signed a lease on a house that my friends lovingly refer to as "The Cabin" some 45 minutes southeast of the city, a small, two-bedroom number with a covered deck and five acres of diverse trees and bird feeders. I woke up this past Saturday, an idea for a short story mumbling in the back of my mind, and sat down in my writing room (can you believe that? I have a writing room. Just a desk and a chair.) and turned out what I consider to be my first piece of fiction. Ever. And you know what? It's not lousy.

So here I am, sitting on my deck with a gas lamp whispering sweet nothings and the night air sweeping a soft 75 degrees, drinking Yuenglings (I just looked at the bottle- I meant to get Black and Tan), a gift of my not-all-that-distant past, smoking cigarettes that I know I shouldn't be smoking, and "surfing" on my newly-installed internet connection. I used to complain quite a good bit about my life, at least when asked, in subtle, humble tones; now I gently explain that I have everything that I want and, though I am not what one might refer to as "happy," I continue by saying that which I firmly believe: I have absolutely no excuse to be anything but happy.

And I am not happy, but I am calmer than I've been in years (at least since mid-high school), and I am well on my way to paying of all of my debt. In fact, just today I received word that I am to work directly with a designer in Nashville in assembling websites in an ad hoc manner from here on out. The additional funds, while supplemental and nothing more, will ease the otherwise bothersome burden of hefty debt payments.

It's nearly two hours past my bedtime. I need to change my cell phone number to a 615 area code, and soon. I'm desperate to be rid of Atlanta forever.

Eastern

2008-06-20T19:54:00.000-07:00

It's nearly eleven here in the eastern time zone- it may be the last of the EST 11s I see in a while. I'm at a sports bar a few miles from my house, getting very into the NCAA college baseball 'World Series' game between the Tar Heels and LSU. I'm rooting- hard- for North Carolina. I couldn't say why, although I suspect it has something to do with my affection for the state itself.

I've felt strange for the last few days. My girlfriend tested positive for mono on Monday and so, naturally, I am hypersensitive to any physical oddities that my body experiences. Unfortunately, my body is made up of 70% water (like everyone else's) and 30% physical oddities (not like everyone else's) so it's hard to distinguish between being sick and just being me.

Everyone bade me farewell today at work, even the folks who I know nothing about save their first name. It was a little sad, if only because they all seemed so sincere in their well-wishes. The taxi driver that pulled my sorry behind up to this sports bar, a Long Island native, told me that he was sorry I was leaving, too. "We don't want people like YOU leaving," he said, implying that it was everyone else who was unwelcome.

I think I've got another single Maker's Mark coming up. I don't want to get completely drunk on my last night in Atlanta, but I sure as hell don't want to be sober.

I laugh every time..

2008-05-10T18:15:00.000-07:00

On a lighter note, Jessi came down last weekend- we had a lovely time. I bought a digital camera (a Kodak, my first. The lady at the counter said that they're mostly "family cameras" but I don't care. Rochester represent.) and, while taking various pictures of the two of us, I accidentally switched it to video mode. The above was the result.

My head aches

2008-05-10T17:54:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on a grandmother's couch in a cafe / wine bar / music venue in Oakhurst / Decatur / Atlanta, GA called Kavarna. It is five minutes to 9 and I'm slated to perform in two hours.

I couldn't be less enthusiastic. No- that can't be true. I've surprised myself in the past with tremendeously low amounts of enthusiasm, even venturing into the negatives realm at times. At the moment, though, I am very tired (I left at noon today, anticipating a long hike. It was a very long hike, and guitar in hand no less. I got in around two or so, if I remember correctly, which landed me a solid nine hours before my scheduled performance. I dropped my hardshell load in a back hallway and slumped across the street to Steinbeck's, a neighborhood pub owned and run (at least while I was there) by an Irishman with whom I got along just fine. We talked a lot and drank Guinness (putting me at four drinks before the hour of five), I read my book (God Knows by Heller), and finally returned to Kavarna, where I read more, ordered a cup of coffee, sipped a bit from this cup, met the ever-so-Nashville kids who were playing before me and who had invited me to play in the first place, tried to be friendly and conversational to no avail, and just generally avoided people) and sitting with a very good glass of wine at my side with a notable headache.

The redheaded girl who is playing right now just sang something to the effect "lovers sitting beneath the light of the moon." It is definitely not the most offensive-sounding music I've ever heard, but it is irrevocably bland and trite in kind of the worst way possible. I'm just in a bad mood, that's all.

And I'm afraid that I'm getting to be depressed, or something similar. Discouraged, yes, but that's nothing new. The hazy, empty non-breeze that I walk home to every night feels hauntingly familiar and, to be frank, it is nothing short of frightening. I am lonely, sure, but the unfortunate part is my inability to miss anyone in particular, to think about much of anything besides the shit hole that is my apartment and the lackluster job that is my life. When I think about it, this is not unusual behavior for me, but I've always had friends (real friends) nearby to knock me out of it, to be unintentionally uplifting and encouraging... anyways. Blogs are the pits.

Camel Cigarettes, Miller High Life, and the Georgian night sky

2008-02-04T18:29:00.001-08:00

I just got back a little bit ago from the grocery store- I was elated as I paraded up and down the colorful aisles, plucking various frozen and other almost-ready-to-eat foods from the shelves. This past weekend, I spend all of my time in my room with my door shut, clicking and clacking away at a web application that I've started developing for a friend of mine. I have no car and I don't always get along with my boss / roommate, the one with the vehicle, so I didn't feel like asking him to borrow it. So instead, meals were few and far between and typically comprised of eggs on toast with Kraft singles limply hanging over the edge.

So groceries I had, and a pack of nicotine gum. And here I am, on my front porch, smoking Camel filters with two beers at the ready. It's a beautiful night, mostly clear and staggeringly warm for early February (I'm wearing a coat but could get away with a long-sleeve shirt) and I am happy enough for this opportunity.

I was dangerously close to ditching my job and moving back to Nashville this past week. My boss (and, again, slash roommate) has been something less than respectful as of late and I was, to put it directly, at my wit's end. And my wit, for those of you who know me, is all I've got. So I spent several nights, pacing the long, empty, unfinished streets of this barren, unfinished neighborhood, venting to my girlfriend, wishing to God that I could get out of here. I talked to my dad, too, and vented the same to him but in a more coherent, less emotional manner, and, over the course of eight cigarettes and an hour and a half, he more or less convinced me that my situation was not 100% bad; no, in fact, it wasn't half (50%) bad. Living with my boss, whose temper is short and ego is long, is a bad idea, and I've known this from the start. At any rate, my dad emphasized the importance of moving out, of getting my own place, someplace close to work. Today, I met with an Ecuadorion named Nelson whose apartment has an empty bedroom at the soft price of $400 / month. It's less than a mile from where I work (it's a 45 minute commute from Marietta) with laundry facilities on-site (and a dryer in the apartment) and an active bus line half a mile away. Also, there is no lease. Seriously.

So, who knows? I'm trying to make the best of things here, somewhat actively, which is a better statement that I have been able to make these last four months. I miss my girlfriend, I miss my other friends, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And this man has another beer waiting and a paperback copy of Frankenstein. This could be a good night.

My Day's Work

2007-12-04T15:32:00.000-08:00

Ay-hey!

Overdrafts

2007-12-03T13:58:00.000-08:00

A check that my brother-in-law wrote me for work I did on his website bounced the day before I got paid for my regular job, last Thursday. The timing was convenient enough, as I had been managing my finances very carefully and calling my bank's automated phone system before every purchase to make sure that I didn't overdraft and so was in the clear. Or, wait, that's not how it works, is it? No, it's not. No, your available balance apparently includes the not-quite-yet-confirmed checks that have been deposited in your account.

I overdrafted just over $600.00 including the $200.00 that I didn't get paid. I went to my bank to see if they would refund the fees, as it was clearly an erroneous move on my part and one not due to carelessness, and the lady I spoke with seemed optimistic. I cut out of work early today (which means I went in early, too) to meet with her manager, who called the branch in Nashville, whose manager simply said, "No." I closed my account on the spot.

So I'm out $400.00. I came home to a quaint, simple, clean overdraft notice in the mailbox. I took it out back and burned the motherfucker.

Crystal's or Paradise

2007-11-26T19:34:00.001-08:00

I was feeling a little under the weather when we finally got home this evening, largely on account of the impractical amount of time I spent on the blustery and snowy shore of Lake Ontario this past weekend (I braved the cold to skip stones alone). In the near-darkness of my corner bedroom, I changed into jeans and then went down and started up my old Volvo, determined to get out and put some words on paper. I was to begin my novel.

Wynan's, the coffeeshop outside which I tend to do my work, was clammy and cold inside when I arrived, and there was a flat-screen television broadcasting Bush's face as I sat and chewed on my tuna sandwich. I don't know which factor ultimately decided my fate, but I left shortly after finishing my coffee though I'd barely begun the storyboarding process. It was relatively warm outside, over 60 at least, but I shivered and staggered around feverishly (though, at the least, the worst I could complain of was that it felt like I had a cold "coming on") until finally settling on the dark, low-profile bar with the neon Guinness sign in the window. I figured a Guinness might warm me up. No sooner than the moment I made my entrance did the bartender, a Jersey lady with a thick Northern accent, yell out a greeting and shake my hand. Her name was Maureen. She filled a glass with Guinness and learned my name, telling me not to take notes on her patrons as she nodded towards my open notebook. I hadn't taken so much as a swig before another woman had broadsided me, loudly introducing herself as CJ and asking about my life. None of them were visibly drunk (though Lord knows they weren't completely sober either), but they were punchy, witty, have-a-shot-of-whatever-you're-having people with good natures who talked about quarterbacks and Broadway musicals simultaneously. I got a couple pages of not-shit written and a guy named Bruce came and sat next to me, a 50-something Delta pilot who was perfectly conversational (and this coming from someone who doesn't tend to take to people strongly). There were jokes about Evan and Bruce Almighty, there were beers passed around, there was dancing to Otis Redding.

I drove home in the best mood I've been in for quite some time.