Random Memory

So this one time my mom was choking.  I can't remember what she was doing.  Eating chocolate or mixed nuts or something.  But we were both on the couch, just chillin, and all of a sudden:  "GAAAAASP!  ACK!  KAF!  AHACK!  ACK!"

My mind immediately went to all the first aid training I'd seen Merri giving.  So, I start with what she calls the 'Keith Swift Question'

"Mom?  Mom, are you choking?"

Her response?

"GHASP!  WHEEEEZE!  ACK!  KAF!"

Alright then, that confirms that she isn't only choking, but that she needs immediate help.  So, I start with step two.  I stand her up and turn her around, and with one hand holding her shoulders straight I give her a single, firm strike to the back.  SMACK!

Immediately she reels and SLAPS THE SHIT OUT OF ME!

"Weh di RASS wrong with you!"  She screams.  "You nuh  DO that to people!"  And she ran off to drink a glass of water.

Sometimes I wonder if it would't have been better to let her choke.

Ginsberg, Pound, and Baudilaire

I've been staring at An Eastern Ballad by Allen Ginsberg.  I received some really interesting reviews on my Writerscafe.org profile over the weekend.  I was compared to Ginsberg, and Pound, and Baudelaire.  I decided it might be a good idea to find out who those people were.

I'm...not like them.   These were real writers, people who weren't afraid to write.  To do little more than write.  To let the craft run their lives.  Or ruin their lives.  I can see how my style is similar though.  And I want to be like them. 

I'm just still too afraid.  Still too secure in my mundane life. 

"Don't let go of the branch you're holding to reach for one you're not sure of." --Dr. Kenrick Leslie  (Who has perhaps forgotten that only half his success has come from hard work.  The other half...from blind luck, and taking risks.)

On crying at work, and other things.

I've been telling everybody I can about my nightmare last night. How I opened my eyes and found myself paralyzed and frightened. I tell them about how It made me angry. How i got up and, with stiff arms and legs tried to walk out of the room to get a glass of water. But then I tripped, and floated in air, changing positions, until I was right back in bed where I'd started.

Only, That's not where the dream ends. What I haven't told anyone is...I called out. Moaned weakly, but it was supposed to be a scream. Only no one answered. There wasn't even anyone there to hear me.

And that's when i woke up.

My supervisor just came in to give me my second talking to for the day. It was the usual turnaround. I nodded and smiled and shrugged and said things like "Yeah, I understand." and "I'll try to do better." She mentioned that I seemed disinterested in the job, like I didn't want to come to work and I jokingly thought 'Oh no, you've caught me.' And then she mentioned loneliness. And then she mentioned disappointment. And she mentioned having no one to turn to, because all m y friends that I once relied upon for support were alcoholics or smokers or womanizers.

And that's when I truly thought. "Oh Jesus. She's caught me." I sat down. And I lasted a good five more minutes before i started to cry.

Can we talk about sex for a minute?

I've been feeliong a little repressed to tell the truth.  Now, this could be another instance of me writing about how I haven't been writing, but lets just fast forward past all that, yes?  Felene said to write about what's real.  Well, real life is mostly boring, but nothing really cem ebts reality into place quite like sex.  i could go all psuedo-existential and tirade on about th e melding of souls and selves, or make a list of the bits of my sexual partners that h ave left permanent stains on my personal essence, but no.  That would involve far too many sidebars for any one conversation.  For now, lets settle on sex and reality.  That is, the reality we most easily perceive with all six of our senses.

 I like sex.  A lot.  I think it would be safe to say that everyone likes sex, but Oh!  You hate sex compared to how much I like sex!  And yet, its something I don't really talk about.  Not outright anyway.  Sure I may be suggestive at times, but you won't catch me having a long conversation about it.  Its not as though I'm ashamed of it.  In fact, there's a part of me that's been yearning to scream at the top of my lungs: "I've been having AMAZING sex!"  The trouble with that is, while it may be all well and good to display my own dirty laundry, sex tends to be, at the very least, a two person deal.  Therefore, it becomed unavoidable that my pertner's unmentionables should get mixed up in the wash.  i've taken off my pants int eh middle of night clubs and lobbed coins at strippers.  i have no shame.  My partner, on the other hand...well, lets just say that if I intend to keep her as a partner, then the less I say the better.

 So how do i brook that balance between the urge to brag about post-coital paralysis and maintain respect for my woman's prvicay and image?  Will I ever fin an answer to that?

I'm reminded, though, of something once written by someone awesome.  'Sex is nothing to be ashamed of.  But it is private.

[Written...probably in late January, 2009.  Again, no date.]

Leave me on the corner

Its probably not a good habit. I guess its something born of my own survival instincts or coping mechanism. I le go. I give up. I'd rather not have that feeling of the things i love; people, relationships, friendships; taken from me. Or, perhaps more damning and honest, I'd rather not acknowledge the fact that i may be even partially responsible for losing them. So i hold on, but loosely. And when they're finally gone I'm not the one that lost them. They just left.

Save the condemnations. Coward. Fool. Selfish ass. There's not a single one I haven't called myself.

So what's the point of self-analysis if you don't do anything about it, right? I'll have to get back to you with that. It might take me a couple years, though. Years that i'd much rather spend with you. Years that you've convinced me you don't have. I've never had to 'fight' to hold on to something. Someone. I'm not used to it. I don't know how. I've never set out to change myself either. That, I think, will take even more time. And that's part of our problem.

No. My problem shouldn't be your problem. My problem. Mine.

(Written some time around the beginning of 2009. Entry not dated.)