I have been busy.

And all over the place.

And there is so much to write.

I actually have a long vacation for the holidays. So here are a few things to look forward to:

Infiltrating a charity dinner at my hotel in Stamford last week, The night/morning that follows, Black Bear Trivia night with Joe, The origins of Joe, my Dallas road trip with Tim L. which includes learning much more about him and myself.

There’s a lot more to this, and there will be a lot more, so expect either several long posts or one very long post. Until then.

Maybe it was the very attractive waitress, or the three dollar shots, or the three dollar domestics, but I am in a state.
What is this state? That’s a dumb question. It’s a foreign and familiar drunkenness. It’s that strange feeling, that novelty I get while watching the Stamford gloom. While watching those idle ships of vanity sitting in the dead harbor.
I’m listening to those same songs again. While the songs remain the same, the feelings are different. What are those memories, those bygone and unfortunate beings, traveling in a world that never existed at all, a world I declare in prose that no one can redeem. It’s all lost and a lie and a poor and pathetic thing.
At the moment of you reading this, someone loves you, and that’s reason enough to live. As you read this, stop and take every single thing around you, breathe it in, absorb it, take every sense that you have and try to evaluate every stimuli received. These are the most important things. These are the things we can’t make even though we make it all. These are those small significant moments that make up the better part of our life. Those sweet moments of solace that we misplace for loneliness are the most important moments. Introspection is the most valuable currency because we make it ourselves.
Do not worry about mortality. It’s a waste. We are all mortal, get over it. Your life is everything and nothing and simply what you make it. If you love it, life will love you, and your blessings will be numerous. Hate it and you will receive as such.
“I take you more as a philosopher,” she said. Her voice was nothing but whiney drivel, during the day she would tell me to cut my hair. I would sit next to Sara. Did these moments happen at all, as I slept through these classes of oxygen and hydrogen and reaction? What philosophy can I produce? So many thoughts in such little time? Am I put here to do amazing things? Are you here to do the same? We and only we can decide such matters, no higher beings control it, there is no destiny, our actions are our own, and they interact with others with complications that can’t be predicted in theory or math. There is no science for the science of people.
There is a story here and I will tell it, but for now it’s a stream of consciousness. I exist to capture this moment. I once wrote in my journal, “I know why Hemingway drank.” It’s a stupid statement. I don’t know why Hemingway drank, but I know why we all drink. And here I feel like Hemingway for reasons I want to believe are true. I want that adventure and that romance and those experiences that can only be documented in the style of American post modernist prose. As I read “The Sun Also Rises,” I feel so close to him but yet distanced through ink and papers and those years. But why does it speak to me and why do I try to speak to this dead man that killed himself? Can I put myself in his shoes? With half a head due to my own actions? A morbid thought that none of you wish to read but I read it myself always. I will never be Hemingway, but I am always.
This music is not loud but it’s at full blast. The Pixies, and the Strokes, and Kid Cudi.
Asides, and goodnight world.

I do not like Stamford, Connecticut.

The people are assholes. The sun never shines. It hasn’t been cold enough for me to enjoy the change in climate. The Hyatt denied me service. Where I’m at, nothing has that pretty northeastern aspect. The project I’m working on is a mess. This is where I whine and rage and be frustrated. This is where I let myself pretend to be a young man again for a second.

—

I had my first full weekdays at home last week. I spent them doing what I wanted to do. I tried to sleep in, but couldn’t. I stayed in my underwear until the afternoon. I gave myself a private marathon of Breaking Bad. I browsed the internet for too long. I contemplated going for a bike ride (never did.) I stood at the door of the open fridge while scratching myself. When I finally went outside, I squinted more than I should have. I ate dinner with an old friend on Monday. I ate dinner with a new friend on Tuesday. I felt happy and the lack of stress was welcoming and I didn’t think about work until I got a phone call at six in the evening on Tuesday.

“Do you know that you’re going to New York tomorrow?” (To get to Stamford, CT.)

No. I did not know.

—

3:30 AM: Wake Up.

4:00 AM: Cab Arrives.

4:17 AM: Arrive at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport.

5:35 AM: Board Plane to Memphis.

8:35 AM: Change Planes to NYC (La Guardia)

12:15 PM: Land at La Guardia.

12:17 PM: Find out my pick up can no longer pick me up. (Gery)

12:18 PM: Think about one thousand thoughts, plans, and possibilities.

1:30 PM: Take shuttle to Penn Station.

2:00 PM: Arrive at Penn Station.

2:01 PM: Buy Ticket for train to Newark Penn Station. It leaves in 4 minutes. I’m not really sure where it’s leaving from.

2:06 PM: Depart Penn Station. I don’t really know if this is the right train. I’m simply a dumb Texan.

2:40 PM: Arrive at Newark Penn Station. Locate new pick up (Eric V.)

4:00 PM: Arrive at the Stamford, CT Hilton. Meet Gery. Proceed afterhours work.

7:00 PM: Finish working. Get ride to my hotel. (The Hyatt)

7:08 PM: Arrive at Hyatt. They deny me a hotel room because I’m not 21. This has never happened before. The room is already paid for. I speak with multiple managers. I tell them I’ve stayed in two Hyatts previous to this one. I reason with them. I batter them with calmly spoken rhetoric. I watch sweat form on their brow. I tell them of my disbelief of their atrocious service. They deny me still.

And for a moment, I feel like a child.

Recently, I have felt like a lot of things. During the week I feel older than I should, or wiser than I should, or more weary than I should. I feel like the road warrior, the business traveler, a master of ground and air and lights. On the weekends I feel 20. I feel youth and vigor and recklessness. I decide not to care and I have no reason to care and all is well. But at that moment, I felt like a child. I felt wildly frustrated. I wanted to cry. Not out of sadness, but frustration and contempt for a hotel manager named Spence, who wore too many pounds and too much cologne. It was hopelessness. I felt too small for the chair I was in and too young for the life I live all at once. I wanted to forget myself, just for a second, curse up a storm, maybe just slug him in his sweaty jowls. It didn’t take long to snap out of that thought. I am better than this sweaty fat man in front of me. He may deny me a hotel room, but life has denied him much more, like fitness.

After fighting with the Hyatt to no gain, I ended up sharing a room with Eric. Eric is a fantastic guy. Wholesome is a wonderful word to describe him. He’s great at his job, he doesn’t swear, he loves his wife, he’s expecting a child, he could talk your head off about cars, he’s conservative to the bone, he’s from the Midwest.

And he snores like a cannon.

We ended up going to bed at around 10. We said our goodnights and the whole scene was something fraternal. And so it began. I have never heard such unholy sounds escape the human head before. Now, I was far too tired to really let it bother me. In fact, I was impressed. This was truly a feat of the natural human engineering. I actually found myself waking up in the middle of the night to laugh. I could have applauded him, but I don’t think he would have heard me over that cacophony that sounded like a lawnmower making love to a jet engine. He snored so loud, that he would even wake himself up.

We were both up at seven. I felt like a new man.

This particular jobsite is stressful to the point where I’m skipping the details so it doesn’t come back to haunt me like a Vietnam flashback.

On Friday, Gery gives me the ride I wasn’t able to get before. We exchange words. He’s Dominican and his accent is flavored with Spanish and the strange English of New Jersey. He’s loud and funny and we get along right away. We speak our backgrounds and of home and of our mothers’ cooking. His mom’s cooking sounded fantastic. I missed home for a small moment.

My flight is scheduled to depart at 5:05 PM.

It leaves at 6:35 PM, well delayed. To quote someone: “Satan’s busy.” I almost miss my connecting flight in Charlotte. I get back to my apartment at 10:45 PM. I’m greeted by a cat and two bottles of Sailor Jerry sitting on counter. The note on one says “HAPPY HOMECOMING ❤ LIZ”

The other: “JOKES ON YOU, THIS ONE’S MINE :)”

Home sweet home.

I meet the boss that I’ve heard so much about. John stands a little taller than myself and exudes energy. He speaks with a degree of magnetism. His eyes and mind are bright and I know what this company came from and why it is what it is. He laughs at my jokes. I meet several others I’ve yet to meet. Guys who are now newer than me in the company. Evan, Scott, Maurice, David. All of varies shapes and sizes. Ages and ethnicities. I exert my faux seniority as a joke.

It’s the first week ever of in-house training for the company. The first class to run through the new training center. The first actual brick and mortar location the company’s had. Tim L. is here too as is Eric and we exchange our words. John speaks and the first day moves quickly.

We all go to dinner at a local joint. I make sure to sit across from John. I enjoy hearing his stories and I can tell he enjoys hearing mine. Tim L. sits diagonally, wearing Armani jeans and a leather jacket. John says that I could be Tim L.’s brother. The comparisons continue. The group rags on me for my age as usual. I don’t mind. I know what I am in this company and what I will be and I know the company knows the same. Later Tim L. asks me if it bothers me and I tell him the same. He replies with “We wouldn’t do it if we didn’t like having you around.”

—

Evan and I walk through the University of Delaware campus, following trails of red cups to fruitless doors. Evan carries himself with a youthful demeanor that lets me feel my own age again. We walk those dead streets with rum in our blood and our heads up and hopeful. We try a bar to no success. I say I don’t have my ID and Evan can’t seem to find his. When we leave I ask him if he actually forgot his and he says “No, I have it.” Solidarity.

I knew right away that Evan and I would get along. We sat in his room drinking wonderful Nicaraguan rum and swapping stories. His of volunteer work across the world and engineering school. Mine of Pro Automated and girls. We talk of hiking and nature. Life and universe. Austin, Texas. Ambition. Our talk contains substance and substances. The rum is like liquid ruby, blood red in the light. The mouth feel is cleansing. The finish doesn’t burn one bit. Floral hints. Sweet sugar cane. The bitterness and clarity that comes with liquor on the rocks. We talk and drink and when a suitable buzz is reached, we make our way to the heart of the college. To adventure and nothing at all.

We run into two moderately attractive girls at a street corner. I ask what there is to do around here and their only response is bars. We chat them for a while. 18 and 19. Freshman and Sophomore. One of them is still wearing her science lab eye protection. I make fun of it thoroughly and they both laugh. ”Where are you two going?””To a candy store.” Now, I could have responded with “Well uh…I have candy back at my hotel room,” but this would have come off as highly creepy and inappropriate. We flirt some more and all is well. Meanwhile, a pack of girls with shoes too high and skirts too short catch our attention. I ask them the same question and the response is the same. They’re remarkably less fun to talk to and they continue their way somewhere. Around this time, we part our ways with Candy shop and science goggles. To continue our fruitless search.

Through small and terrible college student housing. Through the alleys of two buildings. Through dormitory sidewalks. We smell skunk in the air and we laugh because we know it’s not a mammal. Back to the car. We didn’t get drunk. We didn’t go find some college party or easy college girls. But we were content. A night more rewarding than it could have been.

Solidarity.

—

An aside: For a spilt second, I knew what I wanted. But I won’t worry about what is or what isn’t because as it goes things just is what they is and nothing else. I can have no qualms and give no shits about the state of affairs because as it stands life is beautiful and life is great and like nothing else. But I will give this qualm and I will give this shit. For that same spilt second. Be bored and be tired of ease and no ease at all, of inaction, of honesty without being honest. Say sweetness in a silent scream and I won’t say much. I have nothing to say because there isn’t a ground to say anything. If I say something, I’m the same as the norm and I will never let myself be the norm or what you or anyone is used to. Carry on in molasses. Sweet and slow. 

Frustrated and perfect and beautiful all at once. A weekend of ghosts and zombies, but the good kind and the best kind. In weeks I feel old in the heart and old in the soul, but that becomes easy to forget and I’m glad. Absorb all that you can, the punch and poison, black lights and dry ice, names said only to be forgotten and words remembered you can’t forget. Not a syllable, not a sentence.

Drew and Victoria get to my place in the late evening. I hadn’t seen Drew in too long. I give him a hearty hug. His beard is thick and I tell him it must be the rugby. Soccer is a game for gentlemen played by hooligans, he tells me. Rugby is a game for hooligans played by gentlemen.

Inside, Liz and Andrea prepare for their usual night of debauchery and booze on the 6^th. Liz starts her transformation as a cat, but reverts back to last night’s zombie stripper ensemble. Andrea dons something that hardly covers herself. She’s a maid. The strip of fabric and lace defies thresholds.  I start my addition of the latex and paper towel contusions that work better than they should. They weep blood and display a visceral sheen. My arm festers. My neck and chest look fatal. My contorted cheek begs for medical attention. Drew is a lumberjack, sleeveless flannel, chest hair, and axe. Victoria mimics the style of La Dia de los Muertos to wonderful effect. Onwards south to San Marcos.

Joey greets us with his interpretation of Justin Beiber. It’s mostly just a hoodie and jeans, but the wig and headset sells it. I missed him also. Inside, we meet all new faces hazed in black light and masks. Names exchanged with the premise that they will be forgotten. Drinks are found quickly, a toxic punch that tastes more of liquor than fruit juice. Kaybee is there and it’s been so long. I greet him with a hug and I drink and he drinks and we talk of Bailey’s shots and Thanksgiving and travel. The punch manages to disappear and reappear in my cup quite rapidly and my buzz comes quickly and for this I am thankful. Jello shots. Shiner Bock.

An Aside: Jon Benet.

The party fills with new faces and I make it a point to know them all. Superficial friendships that satisfy my need for sociability. People my age long forgotten. They praise my zombie makeup and I greet them with the lowest effort zombie noise ever created. It might have been my current imbuement, but the noise that escapes my zombified mouth resembles an old Jewish man suddenly surprised. The Count from Sesame Street. Someone who is a drunk zombie. This is coupled with my arms being raised in a dinosaur motion. I am the best zombie, I assure myself.

An Aside: That’s hardly a costume you have. But I talk and I say things that have been on my mind that I would have said otherwise, as a zombie or not.

The back door of this apartment leads to a clearing that leads to other apartments and therefore other parties. I stumble towards the new masses of people. My walk from a distance probably appeared authentic as a zombie. I achieve this without effort. The next party is like the shady underground of our previous one. The light is a caustic green and the girls are dressed more provocatively than the last. Joey makes his way as Justin Bieber. His picture will find its way onto many phones and cameras that night. I move in and out. Kaybee and Victoria bring up the rear. Victoria steals the final shots of a Jack Daniels bottle. We enjoy them in that clearing.

I see faces long lost. Old high school friends that were more names if anything. They lead me to another party hidden behind a rare closed door. More unexpected faces. At this point the night moves fluidly, without much thought, acting on instinct and impulse. Outside again. Joey flaunts himself as the Biebs and doesn’t seem to suffer the curse of diminishing returns.

Back in the original apartment. The punch and poison begins to catch up with me.

An Aside: You listened to all those words that could be and were interpreted as drunk nothings, but in reality were all something to be heard. I said things I shouldn’t have and opened up stories that I haven’t told, all so fast and so easy. It probably means nothing in the end but the end is unimportant right now. It’s the during and the doing. The acknowledgement and the happening. Take it all in and don’t forget it. Through the booze and the muddled thoughts I remember it all. I don’t forget the motions. Not here or now. It seems like forever in that corner.

Something prompts me to stand and I know by the spinning room that it’s time to take our leave. We say our goodbyes to the new friends we’ll never see again. I give Kaybee one more hug. I rip the fake wound from my face and chest. It takes some chest hair with it. The three of us pile into the car. We blast the Strokes and sing our hearts out all the way to Austin. At the apartment we make our way to bed without much fanfare. I wake with fake blood on my pillow and my head pounds. In the mirror, I look like a zombie and I don’t think it’s the makeup.

I feel twenty again.