I arrived on time
at their house. Last time I saw him was when I visited him in the hospital last
month. They had to postpone their European trip, but he was back to golf a few
days after. When I last saw Mrs. I’m not
too sure. I remember occasional visits to their house when I was younger, when
the whole family would stop by; the eccentric décor was still there.
Mrs. wastes no
time, and asks me about what lies in my future after high school. They tell me
Temple is a good school, and they give me all the ins and outs of choosing a psychology career.
We cruise through the back roads, and they give me advice and inquire about my
photographic services and my physiological interests, they then respond with
knowledge that comes with age, experience, and knowing all the right people.
We get out of the
car, and I ask about it, his Bentley, and the Mrs. tells me that it’s his toy.
He tells me that it’s how you separate the big guys from the little guys, she
whispers to me not to listen to him.
The restaurant is Italian, dim lighting, but we sat by the
windows. It’s the type of place that you’d drive by if you didn’t know it was
there.
So, we sit and
wait for their daughter and grandson to arrive. To Mr.’s surprise she’s on
time, and then I see him. The grandson is a boy I used to play with when he was a toddler and just going through early grade school, and now he’s as tall as me and about to enter prep school. He’s now
an athlete with a sturdy build, probably similar to the athlete his grandfather
was, and like him, he has his wit, and he keeps up with the business of his
tuition.I tell him with all sincerity
that I’ll make it out to his hockey and football games.
They tell me about the dogs, and the puppies I remember I
once played with are old now, with puppies of their own; Max, Lil and Buster
and now gone, but Springer Spaniels beget Springer Spaniels and it goes on.
We talk films and
the boy is able to keep up. Mr. says that Charlize Theron is more attractive
than Scarlett Johanson, and I of course, put him in his place.
The drive back to
my car was nice I look out the window at the twilight sky and I ask him where he
made most of his connections. I spot deer as he tells me about high school
buddies, the common bonds of athletes, and how every year they get together. He
tells me about golfing and how deals are made and networking is done there. I
need to buy a set of clubs.
Sometimes he
watches movies at lunch for his lunch break, and tells me to give him a call if
there is anything I want to see on opening day. I plan on taking him up on it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When people ask
me how I am I usually respond, “Tired.” They usually suggest I get some sleep,
but I they have no idea what I mean. It is hardly about sleep, and quite
possible it is the reason I hardly sleep, it’s about the routine; the monotony;
the familiarity; and all the things that make me sick or frustrated, and you
see after all of this... I’m tired.
Passion comes and
goes, and with it goes motivation, and with that comes the question: why
bother?
Is this my duty? That your kingdom comes?
Sometimes, in all honesty, I feel like Daniel Plainfield, in the fact that “there
are times when I look at people and I see nothing worth liking.” But there is redemption.
They say it is all for redemption, but how can I do your work when, I am just
so tired.
Sometimes I just forget about salt and light, grace and
truth, and sometimes times I’m just so tired to figure how they apply. But I
know it can change the world… I know… but I don’t do. Oh, G-d.
Today I asked
someone questions of safety and security after they she told me about
her near plans of solitary travel. Safety and security has never been the point?
Since when have I been an advocate for the familiar? That shouldn’t be the
point. I don’t ever want to be that guy.
The fact that I
am this breathing contradiction, that I have all of these dueling concepts in
my head, that I’m tired, doesn’t make this easy. No one ever said it would be.
So I don’t expect it to. I just hope, and pray that I’ll fight this
insomnia. I need more than sleep.
I got up this
morning earlier than usual. I guess three and a half hours of sleep is all I
need. I wandered around the house and in inside my mind which was filled with
the absent of thought. I wondered what it felt like to lose my mind. I wanted
to talk to a girl who used to be a little less than 200 miles away; I wanted to
talk to a girl who is 4000 miles away. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I
usually never do. I tried playing a waltz on the piano, but gave up frustrated.
I went to Boarders on a whim, because with the price of gas being so affordable
I can do so. First smile I cracked today was when I heard Gieco’s gecko on the
radio.
The café section
only had a few people who randomly poked in. Two of them, I assumed where
regulars, moms that probably come by due to a daily ritual, treating themselves
to a little “me time” in between dropping the kids off at school and picking
them up. I ordered my coffee and watched the steam break on the surface like ice
caps on a black sea; a sea of oil. The blueberry muffin was moist, so I didn’t
need the plastic knife that was probably as sharp/dull as the broad end of the
plastic fork. I looked through fashion magazines to get some ideas for an
upcoming shoot. I looked up and watched an older gentleman carefully,
stealthily, and quickly look at the gay interest magazines. I wonder if he ever
came out. On my way out I held the door for an old lady she said thank you, and I said your welcome, it was the first time I heard my voice conscious today, aside from the ongoing monolouge in my head.
I had some time to kill, so I went to the mall. I talked to
a Turkish man named John who was attending to the sunglass kiosk. He told me
about his country. He told me about the strife in Turkey between the cultures,
and religions. We wondered why people couldn’t just talk to each other instead
of hate like we were; he a Turkish Muslim, and I, a black, American Christian. I
bought two pairs of sunglasses.
I came home and there were neighborhood teenagers on my
step. I wondered if I needed to remedy the situation. The talking stopped, and
they became awkward. It was hot, so I offered them water, they didn’t want any.
A girl joked she could use a soda, I told her, “Well, I ain’t got no soda,”
they laughed and I went inside. Neighborhood kids, and that was my first
interaction with them, and I think I like the fact that that was my first.
I’m sitting at
Borders and it is raining something fierce outside. I should have brought a
coat or something at least to cover my arms. Even though I didn’t check the
weather I should have known that it was going to rain due to the weight of the
stifling humidity in the air. So I’ll wait it out, and hope it dies down.
Earlier I handed
my brief case which contained my laptop to the barista in order that I was
provided with the pseudo-security that it wouldn’t be stolen while I used the
restroom. Quite boyishly, I felt like I was making some secret exchange when
she handed me my black briefcase from behind the counter.
The stall had the
classic graffiti, and I always take time to read them. The remarks of course
where hateful, or full of some sort of pride people only display in secret or
in the comfort of a bathroom stall. The antagonizing remarks were met with
equal hate from the opposing side, and I’m thinking neither the “Nazi’s-rock-guy,”
nor the “kill-all-the-Nazis,” guy is right. Of course I smile at the cleverness
of the guy who inserted “bread” after “white” in “white power.” Also, I’m
wondering if any of these men would state such bold statements if they shared
the same space at the same point in time rather than sharing their opinions at
the same place at different times.
A girl in a dress
she bought for spring, who obviously didn’t check the weather report, sat down
just barely behind the corner, and for a split second I had to quite the
foolish urge to discretely change my seating in order to make 2 seconds worth
of eye contact.
I just tried to
scratch of a speck from my screen. It turned out to be a miss placed period.
I’ve been here
for a couple hours now, and I can proudly/pathetically/indifferently say that
of everyone in the café area. Since I’ve been here so long I’ve watched the patrons
come in and out. The older men seem to have a preference towards history books,
while the younger crowd seems to put a preference on school. Most of the middle
aged women all seem to know each other, so they grab their yarn and
knitting-needles, pull up seats, and get caught up on gossip. As I sit and occasionally
draw my eye from working on my laptop, or my book, to their faces I remind
myself that they aren’t part of the décor, and that they have a story. I become
curious to know it. Why do old men read history? What are the connections of
these women? Of all the interests, why have the younger crowd chosen to study
what they do? And what makes pretty girls who wear sundress when sky is
threatening read whatever it is they do?
