12 Days - Her life: An investment of Time
It’s always a hassle, an unnecessary juggling. I imagine a clear vision and all else falls to the side.
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I've been waiting years and years
Finally I see that you appear
My friends are here, and they ask of me
"Is this the time that we're gonna see her
Put the sugar on your tongue?"
“Wild plans tonight? If not come drink some wine.” The invitation is sent despite knowing in 10 minutes I’ll want to be alone.
“I’ll be over in an hour.” Check mate. Now to put on a mask!
It’s Friday, the sun has been down for hours and the clock on the wall lies to me, “4:08.” It doesn’t do this on purpose, I just haven’t replaced the batteries.
Friends are worried about me: “Man, are you okay?”
Women are scared for me: “Haven’t heard from you for days, where are you? are you safe?”
Family is on edge: “Are you alive?”
And to put it simply, their worry has caused a whirlwind of emotions to stir! I’m good. Great even! Hey, man, you know what! I’d bet the house on my feelings of positivity, I’d risk it all on my attitude being one of “optimism.” At the core, that’s what being okay, being safe, being alive is, yes? Being… hopeful?
This personal belief doesn’t discount my actions:
Yes. I have been staying at the pool hall until 2am talking to the freaks that call it home. They’re interesting, unencumbered. Who are they trying to impress?
They’ve decided, or have been forced to through lack of personal ambition or luck, to live on the outskirts. This makes them aliens to normal society. This makes me look at them with the wild eyes of a child.
I learn more here than I ever did in college.
Yes, I see why this would cause concern.
Yes. I have been staying up until dawn and treating the sunrise as bedtime. There are Day people and Night People (homage Allen Toussaint.) People that thrive during the bright hours. Sun People who gain power from light and feed off the bustling energy of peak society. Then, the Night People. The moonlight advocates. Silence enthusiasts who prefer to live when the majority of asleep.
For me the day begins to pick up speed and get strange at 7pm. When the sun goes down so does the large blanket of anxiety that lay across society. That -fear of judgement- is tucked behind the shadows and at night, people start removing their masks.
This only last until they’re laying in bed thinking about tomorrows worries. A tortoues merry ground round of reality. But a couple hours in between these two differences you find the sweet spot. The cherry on top. There are more genuine smiles from 7-10pm than any other pocket of time.
Yes, I have been locking myself in my joint surrounded by half full coffee mugs, mid way open books, and $35 dollars worth of ink pens I stole from target and yes this is creativity, I hate that I can’t answer the phone, and talk about your day, or tell you of mine, which is more or less more strange by the turn of every new 24 hours.
This said, I see why the worry is there.
But Friday night the idea of balance and totality burnt me like a wildfire. It was shown to me how incapable it is to juggle conflicting passions:
Private Writings Below
There’s a knock at the door and I’m enthusiastic to open it up, maybe not to see her, maybe… stay cool… but excited for her to see the place which has been cleaned and low lit in red light, with music such as Dope Lemon’s Honey Bones album coming from the back and a floor of exotic Persian rugs ready to be laid on.
Standing outside is a woman younger than me. Her face is youthful. Her complexion is unaffected by tragedy, untouched by the long term consequence of vices. I feel like a dirty old man. I’m not going downhill in age. This is not to say that. Every day we look better, get smarter, - as You better be! - it’s just to say that there’s a metaphysical difference that screams at you when you look into the eyes of someone with childlike curiosity, a nearly naive perception of the world. It’s only three years difference but looking at her reminds me of when I was that age. So young and confident that everything I’d ever need to know was already known.
I’ve always wanted to protect these people.
Sol Brah & I have hour long conversation about:
- The release of my new novel, Celebrating The Funeral
- Moving from Worker to A Creative
- Writing as an Extension of the Soul
- Stimulants: Performance Enhancer or Crutch?
- The Role of the Artist
- Breaking Free of Weed
and you can listen here!
We’re sitting on the floor, wild blue and red colored rug beneath us. Glass of pinot noir in my hand and an ear pried open, listening to her over Dope Lemons Uptown Folks. Anytime I’m in this position I allow myself to hear it all. I want to get below the surface of what she’s studying and hear about why she winces at certain things, want to know the memories she lands on in moments of quiet. And, if attentive, if directing the conversation with genuine curiosity, people will tell you the depths. They’ll share with you why their Soul is the color is it.
I make a point to never talk about myself and, if explicitly asked about something personal, make it a game to slingshot it back.
I know about why her parents split when she was 13. My heart aches. That’s such a tough age for divorce. I know how it made her feel when she moved cities with her dad, leaving her mom across state lines. I’m listening. I know how she felt when she got her acceptance letter from university, how her family celebrated the first to go to college.
I’m looking at her and I care about every word being said. It’s all landing on my body, sinking through my skin, under my bones, becoming an ingredient in my world view. This is how loud the voices of others are. You, if sensitive enough, can be changed by too much of this.
I’ve invested too much into right now.
“I’m going to go write.”
“Right now?” and she looks at her full glass of wine with a soft air of confusion.
“It really is now or never when certain ideas strike,” and I stand up, grab my parliaments from the table, light one while asking, “come with me?”
She smiles and nods then one eye sqiunts, an eyebrow following suit, the look of a question about to escape, “yeah okay, sure that sounds good, uhm what are you going to write about?”
With a wide, toothy smile, “something sad.”
