Down the street there is a car.

In that car is a man who can only walk so far before he needs to rest. He needs to rest because he is a large man and is not as young as his incessant and creative cursing would suggest. He walks, and curses, and sometimes smokes his way from the bus stop to his house, taking short rests at points in between. He sits on back porches, low rock walls, park benches, and finally in the car parked in his driveway. Once he is in the car he doesn't curse with the same veracity as he curses with resting on the low rock wall. He listens to the radio and waits for someone to talk to. Sometimes it is his son (who lives with him or vice versa), sometimes it is the mailman, sometimes it is a kid walking home from class, sometimes it is me. Sometimes he talks to no one, he just sits there for a while then goes inside and sometimes I think he's still in the car but it is just the backseat head-rest or a shadow.

Not much gets done these days

I've got a little break in the work schedule and have been thinking of doing some job hunting. I reapeat: "thinking of doing". That's a pretty good summation of my approach to almost everything related to my eventual elevation into "adulthood"...nevermind that I'm 24 as of a week ago. But who wants to do anything when thinking about doing it is just as good as doing it? In weekly conversations as in high school reunions as in internet weblogs, the perception of accomplishment is worth just as much and requires only half the work, less if you lie about sexual prowess (afterall, you only HAVE to prove yourself to 1 gender if called into question). So, maybe I can just spread the rumor that I'm doing well in some career/relationship/adventure and that will be good enough. My cat does that and no one looks at him and says "You fucking self-decieved idiot, that fabric pom isn't a real mouse and YOU are not a good catcher of mice." No, he just gets treats and back rubs. Then again he's never really tried to convince me that he's a wildly successful author/seducer/world traveller so it might be a question of scale.

Might be.

Other than looking for a career I think I might actually consider finding a new city to live in. But that will have to wait until later, because, as you can see, not much gets done these days.

Onto a less "I'm thinking of becoming a liar" subject: Let's try, "giving up the ghost", as ThElizabeth advises me to do. With so many "ghosts" lingering about Madison these days and so many "people" leaving it the landscape is getting very haunted house-ish. And when every bar, coffe shop, bookstore, and bedroom that you like to spend time in is either full of people you'd like to forget or people you hope don't forget you it does start to feel a little crowded, inside and out. So, "giving up the ghost" is really about cleaning house and making space for new things/people/drinks and that is a lot easier typed than done, especially when the house you are trying to clean has such small doorways. Maybe "giving up the ghost" is about destroying the house and plowing salt into the earth or maybe it's about donating the house to charity and laughing as the underprivelidged dance on the indian-burial mounds of your past, blissfully ignorant of the "ghosts". Whatever the case may be: arson or "for sale buy owner", I'm going to have to find some way to make some space for myself otherwise all I'll ever do is hang around the ouija board and kick myself for not having bought Life instead.

So, consider the ghost given up. And consider this my notice to those not in my area code that I'm looking for some new pen pals, at least until I find a job and a new area code for myself. I hope that everyone I know, stretched far across the US or right here in Madison, is rid of small doorways, clunky furniture, and haunted houses.

You would think; wouldn't you

The man buried in his coffin.=Disbelief. For now these things happen to other people, for now.
The woman dead in her bed surrounded by family.=Inconsolable sorrow. The thought of something that you forgot to say and now it’s too late to say it.
The stillborn child in the grocery bag.=Self Condemnation. For the failure to succeed at even the simplest tasks.
The cancer growing inside the body.=Mistrust or Doubt. Life is as trustworthy as a 7-day weather forecast.
Mir disintegrating in the atmosphere.=Degraded. The decent from family fame to social obscurity.
My scuffed shoes in the hallway.=Shame. Your body is imperfect.
The tree in the backyard split in two by lightning.=Besieged. The threat of intervention looms large.
The man in the bath of ice.=Desperate. Wishing for a solution that works.
Hill’s interception and touchdown.=Measured jubilance. Your success is predicated on the failure of others.
The silent telephone beside the empty bed.=Peace. A quiet space for thoughts.
Kate Moss’ car accident.=Inconsequential tragedy. The knowledge that your troubles do not transcend.
The motorcyclist driving past my apartment window.=Vanity. Say a prayer for immortality.
The smoking nurse in the hospital waiting area circa 1972.=Resignation. There are no more lifeboats on this ship.

All the Sun could think about

All the Sun could think about was setting, but the Hillside insisted he stay up for just a little while longer. “Just a little while longer,� the Hillside insisted. But the Sun had already made up his mind. He was thinking about his wife, specifically: her slight curves and gentle touch. He would be with her soon and soon they could spend the evening hiding beneath the horizon in the comforts of their home. Cold beer and evening television were the fleeting delights of their brief time together. It was a precious stretch of rest enjoyed while his brother tended to the business of lighting the other hemisphere.

The Hillside, rooted in boiling magma pools and caressed by the swift and ever-blowing winds, did not understand the Sun’s reluctance to stay aloft. “She’s seeing someone else,� the Hillside offered quietly. The Hillside had such an easy job ever since the War had left his hemisphere. "She's seeing someone else," he repeated.

Distressed, the Sun gathered a cloud at his side and reached in for his phone. At this hour his wife would be on her way back from getting groceries, cigarettes, and a six-pack of beer. The Sun dialed the home number and got their answering machine. Dialing the private access code he arrived at their voicemail. “One new message: ‘Hey, it’s me: the Moon. I was just calling to see if you wanted to get together tomorrow for coffee. Let me know what you think alright?’ �
The sun knew the shimmering appeal of the Moon, that nearby orb which hung fat and low like a wounded god or strained with held breath to affect a wispy, artistic form. “Fucking Romeo was right to say what he said about the Moon.� The Hillside looked up at the heart-broken Sun and thoughtfully added, “She’ll never love someone she cannot look at directly.�

* * * * * *

That's what I think of love.
Not really.
Okay, just a little bit.

When calling collect was cool.

I've called collect once or twice in my life. In Chicago, at the Greyhound station and inside the Hotel Essex; in Florida, at the airport and outside Disney World; and in Washington, at the Days Inn and beneath Union Station. I was lonely and didn't mind making someone else pay to talk to me, even if it was only a nominal fee. I was lonely and didn't mind making someone else pay to talk to me. Point being: I understand the demands people make of each other when they are lonely, or just alone. It sucks to be apart from the action just as it sucks to see the action from just beyond the boundaries of the action, that's why kids shoot up schools or listen to The Cure: loneliness. It's also why people call collect or e-mail looking or some friendly conversation. So, I make this solemn vow to all of those newly distant from Madison: I will try to keep in touch, so long as you don't shoot up schools or call me collect.

In the "You have not been paying attention" folder, file this: My car is dead no more than three days after officially becoming "my car". In a gesture of queer sentimentality, or possibly sensing the opportunity to plumb the depths of my new social isolation, it died in the aforementioned TGIFriday's parking lot just before I could say goodbye to noraaaron. Fucking Camry with 200k+ miles, so unreliable.

Anyway, that's all the goodbyes I've got in me.

Gone:
Mark called Cheater
ThElizabeth
Karl's in charge
MCRobot
noraaaron

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.� Matthew, 5:4

Tuesday, after Monday

First things first.
In the proper order.
Everything in its right place.
Wait your turn.
Wednesday, after Tuesday.

Wednesday was the first day of post-work week rest. At least until 4pm when I packed up to drive, with parents, to Milwaukee to see the Brewers play. It was "Madison night" at Miller Park, a promotion that virtually guarenteed a rich tapestry of the usual un-ironic Brewers’ fans and the unusually irony-minded collegiate alcoholics, all in NASCAR hats. Well, at least most were. Even better was the collision-of-worlds theatre that Miller Park played host to by cross-promoting Wednesday’s game as "Waukesha-area Girl Scout recognition night" and "Lady Brewers night". It was a three-fer. In case you're wondering, the introduction goes something like this: Girl Scout meet drunken night-game attendee, drunken night-game attendee meet Girl Scout. See, it’s not that awkward. And it wasn’t, I’m exaggerating. It was a night of five dollar beers, fleeting glimpses of Bucky Badger, and a Brewers’ win. A Brewers’ win that was almost a shut-out but the Brewers, it would seem, are contractually obligated to remind the crowd of their inherent pathos, even in the face of a nearly complete shut-out. So it stands: near shut out.
Putting Milwaukee, the Girl Scouts, and Brewers’ history behind me, I got back into Madison around midnight and to the downtown parking ramps by 12:30.
12:34 and I was at Paul’s club (that’s away game turf for me) to met Karl and ThElizabeth (each returned for limited stays), “Jeff called Los�, “Ashley known as Ash�, and J_ME for some drinks and welcome backs (where appropriate). We did the drinking and even the liquor shooting thanks the indefatigable efforts of J_ME. Her summons of the “Peanut-butter and Jelly shot� left me questioning my refusal to shoot tequila but as she was gutturally chanting “crust cut off� in celebration of a successful shot I was convinced of her taste. She’s a bon-a-fide lady of the bar. Perkins’ color-coded dinner plates and a blunt, sarcastic assessment of the friends strategic picture ended the night. Not without a cigarette for ThElizabeth who sat down to wall-lean-smoke in true emo form whilst Karl and I enjoyed the higher standing altitudes of anglo-punk posing. “Jeff called Los� also sat but did not lean, as best I can recall there was no particular affiliation signalled by his posture.

Thursday started with a kick out the door of the floor-sleepers before noon and then some house-cleaning. After all the cushions had been straightened and the beds made to look “made� I was sleeping off some of the Wednesday left in me. I had cake with my parents and then readied myself for a dinner with Melanie, it would be our last (ominous foreshadowing is fun). And so, where do an English major and his Philosophy/Math major friend/old-school flame go for a nice birthday/going away dinner? Damon’s, the place for ribs. I know. After sports trivia (we finished a respectable 3rd), domestic beers, burgers, and an even exchange of brown-bagged gifts we were ready to experience the more urbane houses of drink in Madison. That took us to TGIFridays. A quiet little sophist’s cave in secluded West-Towne adjacent Gammon Mall. Actually, Melanie and I had recently adopted TGIFridays as our own little close-to-home guilty pleasure so it was more a matter of tying up loose ends than a preference for their brand of coolly disengaged bar-humor. We finished with TGIFridays and moved on to Genna’s for the party-proper. Gifts and beer, the story is pretty much the usual except for the ending. While preparing to house-party after Genna’s last call I was confronted with the company of a serious Jacob Marley's ghost-of-the-past girlfriend. We ignored each other in that playful way that reaffirms our seemingly limitless resentment for each other’s happiness and avoided eye contact as though it were an Olympic sport. That would be classy enough had I not also been drunk and very aggressively (but in equal measure) play-fighting with a particularly playful friendster and occasional drinking partner/shower-sharer. Classy, I know, but it gets better. We were not only in public but we were using “safe words� to repel each other’s advancing hair-pulling, nipple twisting hands. That’s classy. But it was my birthday and I got to see almost everyone I like so that helps offset some of the italicized classy taint.

Friday was the official Melanie goodbye. I was sad; fuck you, she’s my little Maggie May. I dropped off some light-hearted road reading material and picked up some pirated Microsoft technology all before the heartbreaking “I love you� goodbyes were unleashed. Like I said: I was fucking miserable; fuck you, she’s my only ex-girlfriend that still talks to me, in the world, little Maggie May. But it was important to our friendship that I maintain my robot-esque marble-gaze and so I did until the pet store where I cried in the cat food aisle. No, that’s not true, I don’t cry. I’m dead inside. No, seriously, I was sad to see her go.
Anyway, Friday was scheduled to be a show night and was to be the J_ME meet up. Was to be show night, until we left four bars into the headliner and decided to get pizza and drinks. After the show (which we all left early) and the pizza (which Jeff and I ate) we moved to the bar for drinks (which J_ME and I drank together for reasons that can only be called Saved by the Bell-ish in there hair-thin variance from reality’s boundaries). After the other three left citing very “hmm-tha-that-thing� type prior commitments I was worried that the fix was in for J_ME and I but together we shrugged off the yoke of Saved by the Bell forced coupling and enjoyed some serious conversation about family and sex. Let’s hold off on the classy’s for the time being.
***Backstory: J_ME and I are ThElizabeth’s pet “social engineering� project. Think idle lady of the South schooling her Negro handmaiden and you’ve got the right mix of noble intentions and muddled desire. So, it was nice that J_ME and I actually could talk, it lends credence to ThElizabeth’s numerous assertions of “perfect for each otherness� but I digress.***
Actually, I regress. After leaving the bar, J_ME and I headed to the cell-phone triangulated location of the after-bar for a little taste of the “no good�. Our petty terrorism included crashing the after-bar and sniping on many of the guests, smashing some cups and saucers found on the street or unattended bathroom counters, removing some roofing tiles in a vain attempt to fashion a geographically accurate roof-tile map of the US, relocating door mats, and finally shattering an ashtray of mysterious origins. We did, however, stop at Peter’s new place for the tail-end of the tail-end of the Jeremy’s going to fucking Russia party and wish Jeremy goodbye. He was asleep, but it’s the thought (and the pictures of him sleeping) that counts. We congratulated ourselves with a cigarette and went our separate ways for the night. Sorry ThEliza-B, no giant babies made. Karl, J_ME and I did however block off a one-way street.

Saturday woke up early but didn’t get its feet until just before noon. I spent much of the day preening and laying about with Elvis but I did manage to get a majority of Al Franken’s book moved to the left side of the spine. It was a great read (I finished it Sunday) given to me by “Jeff called Los� for my birthday and I recommend it just for the Barbara Bush and the “I’m through with you� story. By eight o’clock I was climbing to the crest of the hill that looks down on Alpine Valley just as Radiohead opened with “2+2=5�. It was a nice moment in the totality of its senses, whatever. The rest of the show was a perfect swan song for my weekend, playing it off into oblivion. Well, we did eat turkey cold cuts and cheddar pretzels in a bank parking lot and visit 2 East Troy pubs before the night was over but Radiohead is the period to this sentence as far as I’m concerned. In a bit of parallel story-telling I have to mention that Melanie was only seven hours on the road (any a few of them spent doubling back) by my eight o’clock hill climbing moment—she was to have left on Friday by nine.

Sunday was a late morning and the rest of the Al Franken book before sunset. After the sun set it was a jog (that’s getting back on track) and then some internet correspondence (that’s catch up) all with enough time left over to get to bed late enough to miss my bus. Actually I missed it because it was obscenely early due to inexperienced drivers being given less critical routes. No, it was my fault. Well, it was a bit of both.

Monday will be work, jog, then sleep in the bank because on Tuesday Nora leaves,

And Monday always comes before Tuesday even when Melanie is at a U-Haul in Amarillo, TX. Night.