Display by Label: TheLine

Then there's the whole problem of choice. Goddamit. We like to think having choices makes us happy. But we now know the great paradox about that, don't we? That the more choices we have, in general, the less happy we seem to be. Because there's the fear of making the "wrong" choice. And there's the regret that comes with making a bad one. And, of course, in a certain time and place, every choice can seem like a bad one. At root, I think is the illusion of control we like to maintain—that we have power over our lives and that our choices give us this power. That we determine our fate, in part, through the decisions we make. And shit, when you think of it like that, it's paralyzing, isn't it?

It's why I like to feel the burden of self-imposed boundaries. It's also why I like to be addicted to things. Because when you're addicted to things, when you set up boundaries for yourself, you remove the element of choice from your day. When you're operating under compulsion, you take away the risk of making the wrong decision. Because it's already been made. Long ago. And now you're just carrying through, brother. And I'm good at the carry-through.

Everybody sets up these boundaries for themselves. Some people call the construct of boundaries "religion." Some people call it "the law." Some people go green, or vegan, or organic, or sans gluten...or only the orange ones, daddy, only the orange ones. At root, though, they're all the same—huge constructs of self-imposed limits, of socially-shared burdens, which help people whittle down the decisions they have to make and at the same time feel like they're participating in something larger than their own isolated, random preference. If I believe I will be healthier by using all-natural shampoo and eating organic, free-range chickens that were raised on a farm where at least 15 percent of the diet is flies and all the people working there are left-handed, well that helps me decide which products among the hundreds out there I will pick up the next time I go to the store. And if other people share this belief with me, well that just reinforces my decision and helps me feel...right. Bonus. (Just to be clear, my shampoo ain't natural. But my chicken sure is organic and free-ranging, doncha know. I compromise on the left-handed thing.)

I listened to a great Radio Lab episode on choice recently. There was this story about a guy who, because of an injury to his brain, had lost the ability to experience emotion. And the gist of the thing was, hey, wouldn't this make him a better decision maker? If you think in terms of Star Trek, which I have to admit sometimes I do, this would be the equivalent of being a Vulcan. Without emotion, you'd be hyper-rational. And the usual logic, um...dictates...that this would allow you to be a better decision maker. Well the irony in the Radio Lab piece (and there's pretty much always an irony in Radio Lab pieces) was this: without emotion, this person actually lost the ability to make a decision at all. About anything. Because he was constantly rationalizing. Should he use the pen with the blue ink or black ink? Should he buy Grape Nuts or Wheaties...or the Honey Nut Cheerios? For a person who can only be rational, these seemingly simple decisions become impossible. And so he became paralyzed by them. It turns out we need emotion. Because in the end, some things can't be rationalized. In the end, we have to go with something.

Moses and I are grilling free-range chicken in my back yard. He spits in the grass and takes a drag on a fat cigar. Honey is next to us waiting for the drop of deliciousness that's sure to come.

"Maybe I suffer from a lack of emotion," I tell him.

"Maybe you're deciding not to choose," says Moses. "How's that working out for you?"

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Chewing  TheLine 

I had written down some things I wanted to talk about the next time we met. I had written them on a piece of paper, the kind you get from one of those glue-bound, square scratch pads. But not the kind that are sticky underneath, like post-its. Just simple paper. Three inches by three inches. And maybe three inches high, at least to start off. You know the kind of pad I'm talking about. They usually have some sort of corporate logo on them. But you don't know whose it is. Because you've forgotten how you've come into possession of the pad in the first place. Or why.

And none of this actually matters, anyway.

When I asked the girl at the counter for something to write on, she looked all around her, totally ignoring one of those pads I'm talking about, which was right there in front of her. I had to point at it. Then she made a face like Of course! and tore off the top piece from the pad and gave it to me. Funny how we overlook these ubiquitous pads, especially when we're looking for that one thing that can do exactly what they do so perfectly: provide a temporary blank slate to make possible the quick unleashing of an idea or the jotting of a bit of information.

And so I took my pen and I scribbled on the piece of paper three things as I climbed the stairs. So I wouldn't forget the feeling, and so I could describe them in a way that might make sense. So I could explain how and why. And that sometimes this shit scares me. I even numbered them...1, 2, 3.

But I lost the paper. And I've forgotten the three things. Like most of the stuff I care deeply about. Or couldn't give a shit about.

"And isn't that funny?" I say. "I can't tell the difference anymore."

"Maybe there is no difference," says Moses. "Why don't you tell her that."

link to this | comments (1) | File:  TheLine 

There is forever a new set of words each day. We change them like pairs of shoes. And it's harder to hear them over all the other sets of words that make up this grinding sonic landscape. We chirp and croak in these public places we've come to inhabit, all loud and reeking, humid with hot-breathed irony. Hundreds of sincere people all practicing the same sardonic tone.

And if you stop for a moment and you're quiet and you just listen, you'll hear it—frogs in a pond, all going on about this thing we're thinking. Right now, at this moment. This minute. This second. The fat cricket on the cattail. Again. The uncomfortable temperature of the water. Again. What's the trend? What's the topic? Chances are somebody's done it. Chances are somebody's said it. But that's okay. It gives the topic weight. Substance. What matters is that you say it. Do it now, before it's too late! Nobody cares if you say it in a new way. Just rehash it. It's still you. Always you. Now look for the next thing. Because there's a certain see and be seen aspect to this stuff now. It's no longer about the voice. It's about being in the pond. And, holy crap man, you better be in the fucking pond. Because if you're not, what are we to make of you?

What, indeed?

The social Web is killing our voices, not empowering them. Killing style. Quality. The unique, the idiosyncratic, lost among all the others who are unique. And idiosyncratic. There is only the cacophonous symphony of isolated, anonymous frogs, croaking and lonely on our lily pads and just burping these things we've heard...whatever. Whoever. It doesn't matter. Hello? Echo.

We are at the same time more connected and more isolated. More aware of each other and less together. We stand among each other and tell the same jokes, endlessly. We speak at each other. We generate content. We build our fucking brand.

Oh, and have you heard? It's fashionable to be broken. And damn aren't we lucky, that?

Moses is sick of my bitching and carrying on. At Starbucks, he sips his coffee and taps his finger and looks out the window. He has cleaned up a bit. He wears dress slacks. A button up shirt. His hair is slicked back. He looks downright respectable.

"These things I do are kind of ridiculous," I say.

"Everything we do is ridiculous," he says. "So get on with it."

link to this | comments (4) | File:  TheLine  Chewing 

Sometimes this spot—the one on my glasses, the right lens—sometimes, it doesn't bother me that much. But sometimes, like right now, it's all I can see. And I have to cock my head back in an abnormal way in order to get it out of my line of sight. It's not a spot that I can just rub out, either. So maybe spot is a bad word for it. Because spot might imply something akin to gunk or a smudge. Like the sort from a greasy finger that's been dipping into the chunks of rotisserie chicken treats in a coat pocket. (Canine motivation.) Or spots, plural, might indicate the things you get from a fine mist or drizzle. And it's not like either of those things, really. It's more like a chink in the lens. Like the lens connected with something hard and sharp and it just put...well, a goddamned chink in it, you know? Or a dent. Maybe that's the word. Either way, it's not a spot. I shouldn't have called it that.

Look, I'm sorry for saying spot.

I hope you know, I don't go around using words like that all willy-nilly. I should have thought about it more carefully.

I was just sitting here thinking about that and looking out over Baltimore Harbor at the smokestacks. Just thinking about what a glorious shithole this town is, and listening to the strung-out woman across the street screaming at the hard-candy mess stuck to her shoe, an unlit cigarette butt glued to her dry, brown lips. Her hair, an elaborate straw roost for all matter of the hinky.

And just screaming, brother. Screaming with an anger and a crazy. Screaming the bloody murder bellow of a sanity shredded and tossed to the fire.

This is Charm City, and there are demons here. Believe. In the neighborhood corner bars. The cobblestone streets of Fells Point. The pink flamingos of Hampden. And I've come two-hundred miles just to commune. Because despite the gangrenous streets filled with the feet filth frenzy, something about this place seems right and holy. And if you put your ear to the ground you can hear it. You can smell it. Among the brick scum and the shit. An inspiration. These are the right demons, brother. These are the demons Poe knew.

"When there's a spot on your conscience, everything else is clouded by it," I say. "And it doesn't go away, no matter how much you scream at it."

"It's not a spot," says Moses. "It's a chink. It's not supposed to go away. Dig?"

link to this | comments (4) | File:  TheLine  Chewing 

Of course, there's the whole issue of balance. I'm sure part of the problem has to do with that.

Some people go along doing this one thing. Because that's what they've decided they will do. And other things are secondary to the one thing and they're treated like secondary things should be treated. Because they are less important. Or maybe not. Maybe they're important, too. It's just that sometimes you've got to make a sacrifice for the one thing, you know? It's right. And proper. It's one of the things I admire about circus performers.

I tend to treat the secondary things like the one thing. But because the one thing is what it is—the one fucking thing—I never really put it away. I can't put it away. So, the whole time I'm doing the other thing, the one thing is still there. I just carry it around and do tricks with it and flip it like an empty beer bottle. It's all about show. And looking cool. But there's no real substance to it. Not like the man on the wire who juggles the fire batons. That takes talent.

Then I remember—holy shit!—there's this other other thing. You know? Like a second other thing. And I wanted to do that thing, too. And so I put the one thing in my back pocket and the first other thing, well, I stick that through my hair like a pencil. Or a syringe. And with it safely tucked away, I work on the third thing for a while. And there are various clangs and dings and tweets. Then this fourth thing comes along and, wow, that thing looks interesting and it's really something I'd like to do. So I balance the third thing on my forehead and I look down the bridge of my nose at the fourth and, you know, maybe I should save the fourth thing for later. Maybe I'll just stick that right ... and that's when I realize—fuck-it-all!—how long has this thing been in my back pocket? Goddammit! I've been ignoring the one thing again.

And it goes along like this. And it allows me to maintain a dependable feeling of alarm, which I've grown accustomed to. And it also leads to a state in which I'm never quite able to forget and I'm never quite able to remember. I'll call this state, "barely functional."

I know what Moses would say. Something about priorities. Something about doing what you've got to do. So I don't bring it up with him. Because I don't need to hear that shit.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Writing  TheLine  Chewing 

Moses has been showing up at the dog park lately. He wears a hoodie over layers of other clothes. His face is all eyebrows and a beard the color of road snow. We talk about the economy. He says things like, "When you're an architect, nobody wants to put you on retainer." I nod my head. I have been an architect. Of Web, of stories, of drinks. Nobody wants to put me on retainer, either. Moses speaks a lot of truths, and I like listening to him talk.

He brings Oliver with him—a bounding, white Labradoodle. When Moses wants Oliver to poop, he says, "Mooshy, mooshy, mooshy!" I like that. Honey poops when I say "Business." Now, that seems boring. I wish I had trained her with something more fun. Something like ... "Tucumcari."

Like Honey, Oliver has a lot of energy. But Honey is much faster. She's always beating him to the ball. But she lets him get it, anyway. It's because Honey likes older men. She listens to them. She follows them around. And she'll eventually let them win at games of chase. It's the girls her age she likes to antagonize. She never lets them win at anything. And she barks at them relentlessly. She's alpha to the core.

We like to meet there in the morning, Moses and I, while the temperature is still in the teens. It's mostly quiet then. It's good when there is a fresh snow and it's still white and powdery, before there are footprints in it, and before it's turned to the crunchy, icy stuff. We throw our tennis balls and the dogs fetch them and our fingers get numb in the sharp morning air. We make the first footprints in the snow, and we construct the day. And this is about as real and important as it gets.

"There's no real blueprint out there for how to do this thing," I say.

"Then you need to make one."

link to this | comments (4) | File:  TheLine  Chewing 

"I walked by Dave and C's today."

"Yeah?"

"They've always got more recyclables sitting out there than actual trash."

"Well, that's a good thing, right?"

"Except it's all beer bottles ... it's kinda embarrassing."

"Maybe not."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it's just embarrassing to you."

"No. Christ. I'm sure the whole street notices. And have you seen him lately? When do you think the last time was he saw a razor?"

"What do you care? He's not your husband."

"Thank God. Okay, I wasn't going to tell you this because I know you think he's alright, but ..."

"What?"

"The other day I saw him throwing the tennis ball with Honey in his back yard. I could see him from the street."

"Yeah, so? He's always doing that."

"Well, it was snowing and cold and ..."

"What? God."

"All he had on was boots."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"He was, like, nekkid?"

"Well, he had on underwear ... oh, and a hat. But that was it. And the boots."

"Wow."

"Yeah. He waved at me, too. Like it was all perfectly normal and shit."

"You think he just ... forgot?"

"It begs the question, doesn't it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Maybe it's a symptom of all the beer bottles."

"I see your point."

link to this | comments (2) | File:  TheLine 

"I think I'll get Honey another one of those bones for this weekend."

"I don't know ... looks like she's still got some mileage on that one."

"Yeah, but it would probably be good to get her another one anyway, you know."

"No ... I don't. Why?"

"I don't know ... it just would."

"You just like buying her things."

"No ... it's just I think ... they've got expiration dates, those things."

"Bones?"

"Yeah. If they don't, they should. Shit ain't fresh."

"Jesus."

"She needs a new one, that's all."

"Do you even realize it's my birthday tomorrow?"

link to this | comments (2) | File:  TheLine  Honey  Cath 

Last week, untroubled, drinking Irish-whiskey lethe, forgetting words as soon as they were spoken and not really minding, I thought it would be easy to go where I intended to go. But sometimes arriving in a good place means going to a lot of other places first. And you just have to wait that shit out, brother. And sometimes waiting that shit out is worth it. Sometimes it's the best part.

So I went outside in the morning dark. The town already wide awake, excited, true. Like the quick intake of breath. Like the root and the stir. Like the clutch of a tongue-tied pinky swear. And packed purposefully into layers of clothes, I went chasing the down and the din.

And in those moments—before, during, after—I think we all found ourselves in the place we had gone searching for. And that was the place we wanted to be.

Today, I start the early things. The bedroom air is cold. By the bed, Honey tumbles over herself and makes morning sounds. Snorts. Collar clangs. She paws at my hands. She pulls herself across the berber carpet on her belly. As I put on socks and crocks, she angles for a tummy rub. I give in. We go downstairs and outside and then return and I put food in the bowl and she eats it.

And then, a switching on: of breakfast, of coffee, of radio. I stir up the grits. I try to stir up the living things. C is showering upstairs. Then her footsteps. Then her lips touching mine goodbye.

The heater begins it's loud surge from the night's off, pushing warmth through the vents. The oven hisses and I stand near it and look out the window. Outside it is all hard and freezing and beautiful. I click in the button on the espresso machine. I listen. I wait. I breath.

Moses thinks there's no such thing as arriving someplace you didn't intend. He says you find what you seek. He says it's that freakin' easy. I tell him I hope he's right. That there's a lot that's good here. But there's a lot I miss. And a lot I just don't get.

He thinks I will. He says he has a good feeling about me. But I'm not sure.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  TheLine  Chewing 

My hands are dry and cracked and bruised. When I bend the index finger of my right hand, sometimes the knuckle splits and bleeds. I think this is the way my hands should be. They are more interesting this way. They remind me that they've done things. And that they have purpose. And during morning walks, I sometimes keep my gloves in my pocket and wrap the leash around my bare hand and let my skin go numb in the bitter air to help the process along.

Right now, Honey is asleep beside me. Sometimes she barks at the things in her dreams. I wonder what these things are, and if they have names like "Daddy" and "Kong," or if her dreams are filled with monsters and ominous knocks on doors and garage doors opening. When Honey's not asleep, she's frighteningly awake. And when it's cold, she prays to a god called "The Space-Heater." She says one Hail Mary and three Our Fathers. She also farts.

My chest burns from Sambuca intake. Then it subsides. Then I wait. And I swallow again. And it burns some more. Sometimes, on a Saturday night, this is the cycle of things.

There is usually a call I do not want to make. Usually, I make it anyway.

Last week, C gave me two of the best birthday presents I've ever received. I watched one of them Friday night and it made me glad to be alive. I will listen to WNYC through the other present this week. And it will be good. Pretty much as good as it gets.

I used to figure life was something I was working towards. That it was full of good intention and determination and grand purpose. The thing about that—the thing about believing in a life's purpose—is you have to accept the fact that maybe it already happened. And you missed it.

When I go to sleep, I hope that I will dream. Usually, I do not. When I do, the dreams are usually bad. I'm thankful anyway.

I'm never too sure what a particular day will bring. But I'm always quite sure it won't bring anything resembling wonder, or awe, or any other thing I used to feel before thirty. Maybe I've forgotten how to be a kid. Maybe I need to stop making friends with the people on the radio. Or maybe I just spend too much time looking at my hands.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Age  Chewing  TheLine