Sunday, September 10 - ..wake me up, when september ends...
" Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
and the Terrorists terrible Plot.
Keep in mind,
that in time,
those that shall be forgotten-not.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
and the God-less ones who shall rot.
Keein mind,
that in time,
their souls shall, sinfully, be begrudged and never sought.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
and the Towers that fell.
Keep in mind,
that in time,
of those for whom we ring the bell.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
and those that plundged down in firey rain.
Keep in mind, that in time,
that their legacy shall not be in vain.
Remember, Remember the 11th of September;
and they who gave their lives and fought.
Keep in mind, that in time,
the heros of the lot.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
and in 2001 the year from hell.
Keep in mind, that in time,
we are the ones that shall be well.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
and how the skies themselves wept.
Keep in mind, that in time,
from ashes, memories shall be kept.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
and those that we praise as a saint.
Keep in mind, that in time,
our children shall see it in paint.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
the day innocence died,
keep in mind, that in time,
it was us who persevered and try'd.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
and all that we hold dear.
Keep in mind, that in time,
we shall loose all fear.
Remember Remember, the 11th of September;
and the terrible days that came,
Keep in mind, that in time,
it shall be washed away by faithful rain.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
for in 2001 there was a terrible plot.
And in all time, that Day shall be forgotten-not.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September;
forgive and live,
reconcile and strive,
for it as dream that is still alive.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September. "
- Mr Conrad Johanan
(c) 2006
I didn't loose anyone in the tragedy that is September 11th.
I didn't have to attend a personal, family, or friend, funeral or mass.
I didn't have anyone to call in New York or Pennsylvania or the Distric of Columbia. I didn't need to remind people of the loss I had suffered.
The only funeral I had to attend was that of youthful innocence and misconceptions of the world. The only tears I could share, when permissable, were for those who had last others. The only true death we had to deal with, was that of our Nation- the one before, and the one after, 9/11/2001.
It's funny that I can still recall everything, so well. Even when last week is a blur and a mystery to me all the same.
I was sitting in American Liturature class in the west end of my high school. I was shooting the shit with a few friends at our shared table, about the party-of-weekend-prior, and the parties-of-days-to-come. We talked about the most recent Student Senate trip to So'Po (South Portland City) and the antics of which we partook in. There were four, maybe five, of us, from what I remember. Mr Majors was sitting at his desk using the internet when William came in- "Man, the Pentagon's on fire..." he calmly said, as he slammed his books down on the table.
Mr Majors turned the (thanks to 'No Child Left Behind') Cable-in-Class TV, to CNN. For some reason, no where on the upper half of the Peninsula, can we get cable service but in that crumbeling, dirty, old school building.
Katie cocked her head and made some sort of stoner joke. I was still in sweat pants (from running tardy, as usual) and yawning. William sat down and attentivly watched- the personification of perfectionist seeking people-please'er. Maggie, whom we called 'Pegg' or 'Beg' brushed her soft, apple-enchanted blonde locks with her hands and sort of gawked out the window.
The clock was ticking and we were all tired of English, Lit, Books, and Bad-Ideas. The CNN report was a bit sketchy at first; they showed the fire at the Pentagon in Arlington, VA/DC, and flashed quickly to reports of a fire and smoke from the World Trade Centre in Lower Manhatten's Downtown Finance District. The North tower plume was massive and encompassed the entire building's upper levels. The hole in the side looked as if a sardine can had been detonated- the pressure building up inside of it must've been pure insanity.
We began all creeping ourselves closer to the TV.
"There are reports of a plane enroute...."
We all say it come into view. We all witnessed it.
"I wonder if that's a news service plane or something"
"Perhaps the National Guard"
or "The NYFD"
... all speculations and assumptions died onthe table at that very moment;
the plane crashed through the glass and right through our hopes that it was simply some sort of rescue or information airliner...
As the fire in the second Tower grew and the first one began to consume the very fabric of the universe in chaotic, sparatic, pessimism, we all sat back down. In awe we watched as the lava-like rain fell from the black cloud.
Mr Majors quickly, after it sunk in, shut the TV off and said "class dismissed". While normally we rejoice in such words, the revele' of such mutterings were not a blessing this time- it was a curse. With an hour left of a block, we rose, and left the room. Katie, William and Helena, and myself, walked to the LibMediCent enclave off the main wing. We parked infront of the big screen and watched as reports came flying in. While the world was in anarchy and the craziness consumed all time- flying by instant to instant- we sat there as if time were still.
No one said a word. Nothing about soccer or homecoming or student senate. Nothing about the begining of the year and who we'd nail or corrupt or punish for violations of our social sanctity. No discussion about cars or women or dope or college dreams or business aspirations. No talk of how to get the next answer sheet from Mr Blackwater's American Studies Course- for all that would change. No picture taking or contraband cell phone using. No early dismissal plot or skip day in sight.
That was the day, that nearly 3,000 people, 3,000 heros, 3,000 patriots, and nearly one million peices of infinite innocence died. Not on the table in Mr Majors English Hall. Not in the couch cushions, where everything from cum-stained pantise and joint-riddled change dies. Not in the text books. Not in the gym. All that died there, in lower Manhatten. Our perceptions and misconceptions ended there, when the plane hit. When flight United93 crashed in Pennsylvania, and the Capital was scrambled and evacuated to their secret bunkers, a bit of hope began to rise again.
All reality-as-we-knew-it and understood, stopped.
When the Federal Congress stood united on the stepps of the Capitol Congressional Building, and the flag dropped down behind them and waved with the breath of a new era, we rejoiced in national unity. No more bipartism or regimeists. When the President was applauded and gave us, the people, his employers, a speech that shook us to the bones, we celebrated the clairty of our leadership. No more problems. When Congress invested the administration and the regime with powers to expodite the war, and send troops to seek those who had wronged us, we asked no questions. When flags rose up from every peice of open dirty and ever magnetic surface, we praised our patriots. When the first bomb fell on Kabul, we screamed with joy as if it were the Fourth of July- our Independence Day.
It wasn't Independence from fear or terror that we were celebrating, after all. It was the Independence from Innocence, I suppose, that we were so excited about. My generation had finally learned the price it takes, but the reward it redeems, to be free.
While long ago the aura of avengence fainted into nothing more than a mist; and long ago the Political Powers that Be stepped away from their roles as leaders and unified mentors, and again took on the blue and red robes of their prophetic, dogmatic parties, to acheive alterier motives all their own. While long ago it stopped making sense and we stopped celebrating 'victories' and stopped not-questioning-them. While the feeling of Independence from Innoncence turned more into a heartache of reality, and the rush and surge of aspiring adrenaline caved in to somber and simple changes; While we returned to our often excessive-ness; We have never forgotten. We will never, ever, be free of what happened. And we never will. Ignorance may be bliss, but innoncence is blinding. It is a quality of youth that is charitably charished, but inevitably, goes the way of the binkie and the blankie. Our eyes are open. Our minds are made up. We have never forgotten. And we never will.
Our prayers and our condemnations go hand in hand, with our path to recovery for what we lost that day. Perhaps the path will take another five years, or five centuries. Perhaps it'll never end. Like our parents before us, we will have to answer questions. What was Pearl Harbour like? Instead, What was 9/11/01 all about? What was this WWII and Cold War/Korea/Vietnam all about? Instead, What was the War on Terror? You wore what? Instead, What was cooler, ripped jeans or baggy ones? We will have to answer questions, and be accountable to our children and their children, for the actions we take today. Our memories will committed to history books and English papers or novels or vignettes- for our children to read about in their schools, long before, they loose their innocence.
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Sunday, September 10 - the Sunday Blues
Sunday is the new Monday, although, Friday is still a Friday. Twittling around, watching the sheetrock crack, anticipating it's own demise. Keeping tabs on the houseflies as they scurry around amongst clothes that have long forgotten what a good laundry day feels like. Remembering last minuet bills and all that bull shit. Trying to figure out my next scheme of "today is a holiday in my religion" way to get out of working Sundays. Except, the way of the Sabbath and the Day of Rest has long been lost to our modern, 21-century, hard-come-easy-go, fast paced society.
I've got to get to work tonight, yet, I don't really care. I just pray it's the usual, a-typical, oxymoron job-day, with nothing more to do than the same I am doing here, just with different topics and scenery- watch the paint and wall paper peel away like a sunburn. keep tabs on the maintence and housekeeping people, as they flitter and fuckaround through a building that has long forgotten what a good-day-in-general, feels like. See how manytimes bosses go for smokes or coffees or concubines. Look how often car parts fall out off or snap or crack in the parking area. Stamp a few peices of paper and write my initials a thousand times in a log book. Come up with new, perverted, or pervasive ways to write my initials so they resemble the Kama Sutra, or perhaps Rush Limbaugh's perscription cupboard. Just like home, except, I get paid. The mastery of mundane menaughteny (I take no responsibility for spelling) and articulation of mediocre.
Sunday is the new Monday. Friday's still a Friday. Saturday's an entire 'weekend' rolled into a breif, fleeting, 22 hour period- (I work till 1am that morning, typically)- and then, blinking blissfully, and a breath or sigh of relief, gone, and the stint starts all over again. Sunday's the new Monday. I wonder if Monday, the 5th anniversary of the September 11th Attacks, and now 'Patriot Day', will be a holiday for us. Well, we don't "do holidays" per se. We are never closed.
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September,
and the Terrorists Terrible Plot-
Remember, Remember, the 11th of September,
I can find no reason why it should ever be forgot.
ever heard the "Nov.5th Rhyme" about the Gunpowder Treason in England?
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Sunday, September 10 - Saturday- what the hell happened?
I really didn't do jack-shit today, and that scares me. Woke up around noon time, finished up some laundry, went and got a few redbulls, and played one round of bash-the-ball-against-the-walls tennis for about fourty-five minuets before that too, got pretty damn boring. I didn't accomplish anything on the forever-getting-longer agenda of daily affairs.
The rain came and I took advantage of the OnDemand movies TimerWarnerAOL/Adelphia Media now provides, at such a lovely rate of 'first born child' or 'soul' (proof that one should really invest in Netflix for $5 a month instead of $6 a wack on TWAOLAM) and had the oppertunity to finally watch 'V for Vendetta'- which I have been in a drooling-obsessive-prozac-chewing way, excited about seeing since it's release. Nothing like putting Natalie Portman in to the ol' Spank Bank Library to make me happy.
It wasn't as good as I thought it'd be, but it defiantly wasn't a snoozer. I'm not much for writing movie reviews or statistcal shit like that, but I must say this gets five out of ten tequila shots from me.
My buddy Bill called sometime around 9pm, to see if I was up for a drinking adventure up in Whitmore Park. Which is more of a 'questionable' housing subdivision than anything. Ooh shit do we really have to drink again. While I'm usually up for getting blasted at a rager with pantiless freaks and creepy geeks I just really couldn't must up the stability to be in a social setting, tonight. Rain-check, please.
I remember, when we were young and foolish hooligans, the first time we went to WP. It's close to two of the bigger colleges and is a communal area for vagabonds and valiant consumers of wishwashpishposh alike. We'd park at a dorm or park somewhere nearby (there is never any adequate parking- anywhere in Maine, yet, we've got plenty of trees!) and walk down-the-road-a-ways, sauntering cool-like, hold our shoulders high and our ego's higher. Gota look tough, after all. Gota try and look sober, right. Backpacks full of booze and cigarettes and whatnot bouncing down a crumbeling pseudo-sidewalk. There's jokes all about walking from certain buildsings at the local colleges or trying to find parking or making a trekk across a six mile campus to a party and catching everything from an STD to frost bite because of it. I remember we used to only associate or become friends with certain people because they were within "walking distance", and anytime someone from across campus would come it'd be like "woah man, you go here" and so on. WP is definatly a circus if I have ever seen one- where Woodstock and Haight-Ashburry and West Point / Annapolis Naval and the State Prision, all come together in a happy barrage of bud light inspired, tuition depraived, manic madness- where dreams were made, friendships started, virginity ended, innocence lost, licenses suspended, and grades made or broken depending on who was sleeping with the TA.
My 'sort of x' Alana called. Her voice has always been a cross between a concherto of comedy and a symphony of sweetness to listen to; so welcoming and so intriguing, like little mysteries or those old school 'self directed' books that had alternate endings written in them. It's often hard to speak with her now.
I should've cleaned up the place, by now. I should've done some laundry, before the end of time. But instead I treb'd out to a movie that I lost little interest in as soon as the ending began to play itself out for me, long before it was over- the typical social and political satire coupled with creative melodramatics and sexual undetones, repackaged in an extravaganza of specialFX and rhyming music- which just sort of sucked the fun out of it.
All in all, for the first day off in like-ten-days, this was a welcomed change. I sort of miss the Resort or other jobs before this- the pure chaos and insanity, the need for order and change, the constant struggle between anarchy and precision. I sort of miss how my hands cracked after digging for worms, or how glasses broke everytime I tried to make a martini. I miss how paperwork would pile up until the only reasonable excuse was an allnighter. I hate drama and chaos but for some reason, it is my fuel. It sparks some sort of passion or cross-wiring that just drives me. I become blinded and all seeing. Frail and invinsible. Broken and strong-willed. Perhaps this all means, that I should start drinking more redbull.
I decided today, that there was need for a change. Alana kept commenting that "you don't have the rest of your life, to make the choice about the rest of your life". Be that as it may, change is really the only choice, and only constant, I have. Whether it be career, education, spiritual, or just plain relocation and change of scerenery, it'd be a welcomed one. Or, perhaps, 'staying the course', would result in an unseen, unexpected, change after all.
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Friday, September 8 - bighting my lip
Lessons learned by the least-likely-ones often fall, long after their failure or exuberant success. A temporary fix. The inevitable crumbeling crazy glue. The end of the means and ways. It's funny how time is more of a circle, than anything; and what's more horrificly funny ( genetically, I inherited the typical sadistic humour of my family ) is that people often repeat the same mistakes over and over, expecting different results- the abridged deffinition of insanity.
My cousin Jerome got busted last year or so for illegal poaching of moose. He served time in the big little house for it. He also has a habit, when inspired by a long weekend of coffee brandy conversations and bud light brian farts to pick the worst time for swimming or taking a canoe (that doesn't belong to him) for an adventure. He also has the ill-fate of opting to take a ride from the worst of all drunk drivers.
My cousin Dennis, and a few others, are drug addicts so blinded by their pursuit of instant gratification and endless escape, that forget about their consquences here in reality. So detached and devoured by their damn'd deriliction, that they totally have little regard for life. OUI's, illegal this and that, possession-of-this-and-that-and-the-other-substance, endlessly spiraling out of control into abomination.
My brother, with all his dreams, is blinded by his own narcissim and insecurity. Hindered by his own creation, digging his way deeper into the crazy circle he himself is responsible for, and that we, the casual observer, are guilty of witnessing and not stopping.
My old acquaintences, completely unaware of life beyond the ancestral and geographic boundaries, continue to believe that they are God's gift to the universe and that all laws-ever-made-and-to-come, do not apply to them in the least; convinced by constant barrages of beer and continual community casting-out or support-of their debauchery, lost in the tide of time... to be swept in, and swept back out, and nothing but crumbeling rocks and barnacles to remember them and nothing more than a mere picture here and there to recall the glory days. Which, as the old sayings go, weren't that glorious and weren't that old.
My Aunt Helene, weakened by her own desires and goals, loosing touch with the fleeting glimpse of what-was-once her family. Driven by fortune and her own private affairs. Too concerened with erasing her past or re-writing it, to notice that she is indeed not waiting for the final judgement- that it is here and now and today that she must stand for her actions. Her children lost somewhere between her demands and craziness, her staunch neoconservativeness and fundamental business attitude, are only begining to find and come into their own.
My Uncle Ken, an alcoholic so depraived by his own sense of self-richeousness, and benevolent dreams, forgetting that in the long run, no one really cared. Hardworking to the point he has a desire to control everything and everyone. Judgemental to a flaw. Takes business decisions of others personally, yet, would kick you in the stomach for ten bucks.
My Uncle George and his wife, selfish to no end. Sacrificing their souls in the pursuit of a "higher" existence with the help of heroin; only to awake to the wreckage before them, finding solice in another form of drugging.
While it is so easy to say "poor them", and then wonder why this breed even bothers to reproduce, it isn't so easy to remember the sweet, inspiring, kind member of the family- or the actions of others in it that truly made a difference.
While I find it easy, mostly, to use these examples to make myself and my false sense of personal stability feel better, it isn't as easy for me to face the fact that I am not in a position to judge them. I cut my ties with many of them years ago, and that is something I will just have to live with- and probably, the way this group forgives- and die with.
Jerome's attempts to recreate himself. Dennis' endless excuses. My brother's endless need for pitty, approval, and help. Old friends running out of things to talk about, awkwardly stirring a straw around the ice cube dancers in a glass. Helene's attempts to 'pick up where we left off' nearly ten years ago. Uncle Ken's need to be the patriarch, and groom himself for it, when pup leaves this earth- to be in control and have the last word that is considered above allothers. George's chaos that spills over from time to time to tarnish what is left of a pedigree we all hold on to with feudal and futile veneration.
Am I so different? Am I so pure and honourable? Am I unbiast enough to act as magistrate or judge of these people, who have done nothing except live their lifes on their own terms? I'm just not so sure, I am just not sure.
Instead, I must learn to embrace them for what they are, and instead of washing my own sin away, denying my own history and hertiage, claiming pedigree, claming amnesty-- I must learn to understand them, or, if not understand (which would inevitablly destory any sane person), accept them. Must have an oppertunity to make peace with them. And in doing so, I can accept, if not understand, and make peace with, myself. Is that so narcisstic afterall?
Just as there are family circles, no matter how shallow the gene pool has become, or how tight the circle is enclosing around one's neck, it is a tie that binds. Just as there is a social circle, no matter how deranged and crazy and ecclectic it may be, it is a ring that reminds. Just as there is all this, there is a circle of time- one that can either continue rolling along a preordained or less-travelled path, or be broken unto a new fate.
Man, masturbation really has lost it's fun.
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Friday, September 8 - The Brady Bunch
If I have to come home at 3am and unscrew my smile with a pair of wire cutters again I am going to barf. There are days that you just have to force yourself to smile, sometimes, and this is one of them.
I have been up and down lately as my life continues to sprial in a thousand different directions. I decided today that staying in my current apartment is pyschological posion, based on the stigma left in it, and the constant feelings every time I come home. I shouldn't feel like that, but I do. It's a friggen deal. It's a friggen beaute of an apartment, and I am more than lucky to be here- but exaspirated with exhaustion over it is no way to really live. I consider this chapter of my life closed and over with, and seek greener pastures. Although, finding a new, un-lived-in, wicked-good-deal place like this, in this city, will be a hard thing. But is staying here worth the cost of my mental health? No.
My job has begun to really cause knots in my shoulders just by the sheer overcompensation I must spout out. To make up for my chaotic mood swings behind close doors, I must wipe everyone's asses with my tounge-in-cheek demeanour and just pray that someday soon my endless drooling smiles are endowed with a big fat raise or promotion of some sort into a department that is 'survivable'.
While it isn't the hardest, most-dramatic, complicated job or demanding one that I have had, it does take it's toll on one's pysche. It pulls out the necessary baggage and replaces it with cheap knock off plastic bags full of endless paramounts of protocol and paradigms of a sociopath.
At work we are expected to be all smiles.
Tonight, a security person really gave a patron a crock of shit. I displayd a look of shock so massive that I think I gave the patron a heart attack on top of my own- how the fuck could he say that? The guest was asked to leave over the stupidst circumstance and I really wanted to step in, but those in this place that tread water tend to get eaten by the sharks. He's no shark at all, but he is a superior in the chain and I value my job enough to keep it; and sometimes, that takes sacrifice of what I-feel-is right... which is sad.
I told my buddy today that I felt "unfufilled" in my 'career'. I felt "unfufilled" in my overall life right at this time. He said it was just bad gas and I would get over it. I took a prevacid around 9pm and that helped some, but the angst crawling in my stomach really didn't disappear as quickly as I would've liked.
My parents spouted of rhetoric all day about 'pride' and 'hope' and 'hard working' and 'you're time will come' and 'just try hard' and 'it'll fall into place'. I reminded them of something I said long ago; "I happen to be tired of waiting. I'm tired of busting my balls . I think twenty-one years is damn long enough", which got little sympathy to these fiftysomething baby boomers who've been married since the last dinosaur was pounded into dust and debris, long ago. While I know that life is a big chunk of what you make of it, and a bigger chunk of how you take it, I find little solice in that- and that is prehaps why I've found myself taking more respite in the bottom of a bottle these past few weeks. Trying to wash away my sins, drown my past, and flood my mind with enough fog to forget.
You're not telling me anything I don't already know (one of my biggest pet peeves is to be told something that is blantently and painfully obvious, and to be repeated-to or have to repeat myself endlessly) that drinking won't, and doesn't, solve any problem. I understand that. I know that. It may notdo anything good in the long run- but atleast it puts my mind in neutral and gives my higher thought processes a break once in awhile. No more social static. No more emotional inconsistencies. No more physical aches. No more mental magadrama. It just is. Now, I havn't ever been drunk enough to wake up wearing a toga on the ferris wheel of the state fair at 9am, but I've been drunk enough in my past to loose a weekend or two...
... but atleast it helps my smile come unhinged and allows me to wallow in the wasteland of self destruction for a little bit, instead of forcing me to try and put the best foot forward, when all I really want is to just take a nap and be as far away from here as I can.
It seems every six months to a year, I cut all sorts of ties and change everything in my life around. After all, scorpio men are (in)famous for their reincarnations. At least, that's what I am told, again, and again, and again.
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Tuesday, September 5 - How I Remember It
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell you that one shouldn't wear nonsecurable shoes when drinking. Of course, it also doesn't tell you a medical doctor to tell you drinking can be hazardous for your health, but they never tell you how hazardous it can be for others.
I have always had a foot problem. Nothing like a missing toe or ingrown toe nail (although i am infamous for my fred flinstone flat ass feet and poor grooming of that extremity- but who honestly looks at it?) or anything like that. My problem is that my feet reject anything I put on them- it'd take more than a padlock to keep a fucking pair of shoes/boots/sandals on. I am forever loosing one shoe or breaking one or waking up after a long night of swimming in the bottom of a few bottles with my friends and noticing a shoe and a shirt or a belt or something hanging from a tree or halfway out a window.
As a kid, I never tied my shoes- ever. I begged my parents to buy me velcroe until the sizes and width needed just ran out and I was reluctantly forced to cave and go into 'big shoes'. I never understood that whole bullshit of "rabbit gets chased by a fox throuhg a hole and then bomm " or something. It took an afterschool course and a boy scout training to finally learn how to tie anything other than a sailor's knot in my shoe laces. Then again, I did try ducttape before that and it worked just the same.
As I grew older, I'd opt for manclogs or slipper-like-shoes or anything that was comfortable, conveinient and easy to take on or off. No matter how easy it was, I'd still end up breaking the heel out or walking on it for so long that I know have developed a strange walking pattern and a snappy achele's tendon that cracks every three feet or on cold days, every two and a half.
A few years and sometime ago, there was a time in College when I went back home Downeast to a party at my cousin Carson's. Carson and I had been great friends since childhood and were each others wingman. More often then not, we'd ditch the other for the better looking girl or colder beer any day of the week- as is family tradition. Carson lived out off a long dirt road in a massive sprawling house on the shore, that his daddy's lobster boat and mummy's inheritance and secured for him. The nearest stop sign was twenty minuets away, and town was about an hour. This place was what we called Mariner's Reach, a small settlement of no more than tweleve houses in a six mile area along the shore with a small lobster co-op and a market that I don't think I ever saw open. Most of Mariner's Reach was populated by Coffee Brandy drinkers (of course) and loose legged women- just how we liked it downeast.
Me, my girlfriend Anna-at-the-time, and two of our friends-in-common, tripped over atleast six snow banks on the way form the parking area to the front door. Anna looked, when we entered, like she had just lost a battle with a bear, and I looked as if I had just probably crawled on my stomach through Antartica hunting wild polar bears that were beating her. The house was freezing since Carson's parents (who weren't there) always felt the need to have the heat off and all the windows open- and then wonder why everyone catches pneumonia or the flu. Obligingly, Carson's Slut of a Sister finally turned on the heat and took the deathchill out of the air.
Drinking, Card games, beligerent fights, snowball fights, fist fights, screaming-into-a-cell-phone soundblasting conversations (never any service down there), some really bad dancing, some even worse dancing, and the firing up of the whirlpool tub played out like a half-decent game of "Gypsie Poker" (sort of like five card stud), and our faces burned red well into the night.
It didn't take long for the noise to travel the three million miles or less to the neighbour's backdoor, and it took even less time for the friendly Unorganized Territorial Constable (a drunk old man who had once been a County Sheriff, now a sort of cross between a Statie and a Park Ranger meets Maine Guide) to show up. He drove a 1991 Cavalier with blue lights litterally hotglued to the top, and his horn was his siren. He was blind in one eye and had a bad limp. But he was none the less a "officer of the law", and that, coupled with about one-hundered ounces of one-hundered-proof booze and bad tolerances, equalled trouble. Most of us instituted the Flight or Fight repsonse and began running awkwardly from house to garage to attic to artic-back-yard to hide from Old Jimmy the Warden.
Anna and some other screaming blonde cheerleader types fled and abandond us, their male protectors, for the security of the top floor and hid in a closet. What's even stupider is that she was 21, and I was 19, so which one had more obligation to hide, right?
I decided, along with my buddy Charlie and Rick, that this would be the best time to uptake the oppertunity of checking out the back woods. So we ran and ran and ran, until a snow covered log ended our Rum Inspired Relay.
We sat and smoked butts and managed to pound the last little bit of booze left in our Solo Cups. We shot the shit before we heard Carson's voice break the cold winter night in two-- "it's okay, you deserters, he's gone"
So, we meandourd our way through the woods back to the house-
Rick tripped over a log or some part of an old fence that must've been more aged then the redwoods, and cut his leg all to hell. Charlie layed down in a pile of compost from two summers ago thinking "how connected with nature" he was... or "how disconnected from reality" would put it better. Rick and I got him to get up and we kept going. I looked over my drunken shoulder, parinoid (I had just seen the Blair Witch Project) and managed the most unfortunate step, and fell into a small dug-in-the-ground hole. Full of snow and slushy mud and shit and frozen leaves, and Rick and Charlie laughing their asses off, I finally came to the realization that I was never ment to join the Polar Bear Club.
I crawled out and we returned to the house.
Finally Carson's Slut of a Sister kicked everyone out that was sober enough to drive, and Anna's roomate from school took the keys and we headed for the door. Sliding shoes back on (on top of frost bitten toes) I winced as I had to kiss Anna and squeeze my foot into something that felt like a bear trap from our pervious adventure in the door.
I don't recall being awake (but you never know) for the ride home to Rick's (parents) house. God love Christmas/Holiday/Winter Break.
After some sloppy sex and an even sloppier shower, Anna and I crashed in the spare room and fell into a saturated, saturday-night, sleep.
Rushing to get out in the morning has never been a forte in this crew, and it always resmbles more of a terrorist attack than it does the Begining of the Day. I went to the hall to put on some shoes and go start the car, as Anna finished up her morning Hot Cocoa and Vodka, and realized-- fuck-- I had worn home two left shoes, two sizes difference, and not even resembling the correct shoe. Rick and Charlie and Sarah laughed even harder.
Carson called a few days later stating they had found a shoe and a few solo cups out back near what was once where they barried dead pets and where the septic system had just been pumped before winter started. He asked if I wanted the rum/snow/shit soaked shoe. I calmly reminded him that he's a fuckhead.
And that's how it usually goes. Loosing shoes and reality, all on a saturday.
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Sunday, September 3 - Calling Home....
Of course, in life, my parents and I have had our fair share of problems. For awhile there, it was pretty bad. While we got-along-just-fine, there was always an underlying animocity sort of looming around their like the smell of dog shit stuck to someone's shoe. The thing you don't really mention until they get it on the carpet, for fear of realities ricochet'd. I can say with all honesty know that I love my parents, flaws and all. I think that comes from being on my own and realizing that hey, afterall, I was and am truly lucky.
It also stems from the fact that I am continually reminded that my father may not be here in another ten years, who knows; and that my mother may not be mentally stable much longer after that.
I have my fair share of issues, too. And many of them do relate to my relatives and my parents in particular, as well as my brother. With Bunghead, it's a combination of sibling rivalry (even though he's 11 years older) meets disappointment- he isn't really my picture perfect version of a brother, but then again, things always look better in pictures than they really are.
Sometimes I feel, against my better judgement, that my parents sort of deal with me on their own terms in order to accomodate whateverelseisgoingon in their lives. I convince myself that 'they just think I'm the capeable one' and remind myself that I was always 'suppose to be the good one' and the fact that I was called 'the independent one', however loosely that term is. Sometimes, that little kid still inside lashes out with agony and frustration, in some sort of temper tantrum of timelessness; of course, I let no one know and see it.
I always felt that my dad was somewhat frustrated with me. While I enjoyed hunting, I didn't want to do it for his reasons. I hated sitting in a tree stand and waiting for the game to come to me- I wanted to learn to track it and go after it, I wanted the adventure. I hated sitting in a truck and driving for hours to go to some god damn backwoods place to look for a bird that we could've seen in the woods out back. I disliked sitting on a riverbank not talking and throwing a fishingpole into an empty river- "they don't call it 'catching fish', Bubba, they call it 'fishing', there's never a garuntee"- I'd rather be on the ocean or on a lake in a boat enjoying myself. Eventually, I gave up hunting, I didn't want to kill anything for fear of bad karma (at the age of 12). It was also my dad and brother's thing. Bunghole would always have to come or he'd get insanly jealous and cry and whine to mum until she had enough, which is saying a lot. His blood would boil out his ears and steaming from his toes if he couldn't be dad's little tagalong, which left little room for me.
Dad would often try and do things seperate with me- like boy scouts, or an art class, or church youth group stuff. Sometimes, I felt like mum made him. Sometimes, I felt like dad made mum let him. But my interests and my 'callings' changed so much and so often that he couldn't count on me to go to soccer practice the week after that because I was 'begining a new project' or something of the sort. Dad never really understood that aspect of me, my constant need to "reincarnate myself every five days".
Dad's brothers had never heard of a son in our line that hated sitting in a treestand- it was "unheard of" and "unmanly" of me to not want too. They said some really terrible things, to their friends or to my father, in confidence. Dad never told me but of course I heard them anyway from their kids or from someone's kid that overheard. Being young, I didn't understand what it meant, but I knew it made my dad feel insecure and sad. Eventually I grew to understand what those things ment. Though their tales weren't true, yet hurtful, I really don't give two shits what the egomaniacs think. I am a man, and I'm a good son. Dad, in recent years, has expressed his guilt over not really knowing how to handle that, and how he reacted. It put a strain on our relationship because he bought in to that bull shit- but that isn't his fault; and I know that he is a good man and a great dad.
Mum was the same, in a different way. She was sort of a business woman. She'd rather go to the beach than climb a mountain. She'd rather go to a gallery and see a rare once-in-a-life-time masterpiece than sit in an iceshack on a lake for six hours with my sober father and his drunken brothers.
She'd often come home tired and wake up tired. She'd often take us to plays or performances or to her sister's that would take us on a vacation. She'd take us (when we had time/money) to Boston or Quebec City and do sort of cool rare things that kids in Maine don't always get to see or do. However, it was the same. Either Dad asked her too or she made him let her , or vise versa.
She'd often be too busy with a phone call or occupied in a meeting. Or taking care of my brother's lifetime of crisis or something of the sort. When I was little and Dad was at work or 'in disagreement with mum', or headstart was closed, she'd try to spinoff how fun it'd be if I 'went to work with her' for a day- which meant colouring markers and construction paper and running envelopes that were empty to other people's desks. Yeah, real fun. Mum's family was convinced that we were spoiled rotten brats; which we probably were, but that always made her so guilty and self concious about everything that it did put a strain on her, aswell. Today she knows that was untrue.
My dad always would get talking a the local store, which seems to be an Old Downeast Mainer tradition that is dying out, and he'd talk for hours- and all I'd want to do is get going. "You're always in such a hurry, slow down and enjoy it" was his sort of way of saying "shut up", god bless'im. Mum was always running a bit late or leaving just in time and speeding down the street saying "hold on!" or "c'mon hurry up!" - inevitable truth that it is opposites that attract.
When I got a bit older and my grandfather had to live with us, I felt sort of shorted. My brother had just gotten out of his relationship with his first "concubine" and had his first daughter, my parent's first grand child, Lacey. So they had my grandfather, my brother, his daughter, myself, my dad's father, my mum's grandaunt and other family members that we'd have to either have live with us or go visit to make sure they're okay. I wasn't always shorted quality time, but sometimes, I feel it wasn't the quantity I would've wanted.
So, when my own crisis or problems or depression came up, I'd first pretend everything was fine and immerse myself in solitude, before it all came crashing down like a card pyramid of solitare with really shitty cheap cards on an even shittier table made by one armed midgets at kmart's sweat shops. My parents would drop everything to help, as long as I took my own consequences and learned from life's little lessons. One time my parents told me; "are you sad just so we'll pay attention to you?", trying to phrase it politley of course, which just made it worse.
I don't care what our relationships were when I was a kid or even as teenager, sneaking out and drinking or smoking dope or partying and getting to school tardy (if I even went, although I was always an honour student I'll have you know, and class president at that) or driving around smoking butts and fucking the neighbours daughter; "I'm at the library" or "at walmart". I don't care what it was- all I know is from the ashes of my youth, we've built an understanding and a friendship that not many people have. I have an understanding of my parents now that I never thought I could ever evolve into having.
Looking back at my relationship with my parents, I start noticing the sacrifices they made or the reasoning behind their choices- and understanding them on a better level. I don't blame my parents for anything. They've helped me where they could and have been amazing friends and confidants. They have been there for me when it seemed the world turned on itself and shut me out. They have done, and did, the best they could with their resources. While I'll never know if the ends justified the means, I know the means justified the ends- and even though when I was younger and felt so awkward or short'd, I know that wasn't really the way it was, all the while. All one can do is take the cards, and play out the hand, and be greatful that they had such a good seat to begin with at a table where the crazy and the conspicuous all come together.
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Friday, September 1 - Political Post #2
"All to often, Revolutions, no matter how benevolent they may be in the eyes of their followers, have a habit of devouring their own children; whether it be the dream of a compatriate, or the sin of the condemed. Once a revolution has ended, no one can escape it's whim. The words once spoken from the Pulpit of Promise, can go one of two ways- bad, or not as bad"
I find that quote all too true, these crazy days. While I praise and respect and revere our armed forces overseas, fighting the good battle, I am also still very hardend (probably not as much as they are by now) by the fact that the Iraq Mujahedine (Insurgents) and the al-Qeada Terrorists are pretty much utilizing the same ideology we are: Struggling for a superior way of life; Granting more freedom and power to the people; and utilizing (in some cases) religion as a weapon- after all, religion (no matter if you are atheist, agnostic, orthodox, whathaveyou) is probably one of the most powerfull tools.
The Islamic Revolution some call it; like the Persian-Americans and the Arab-Americans and the rest of them. Some call it The Great Jihad (which litterally means ' to stuggle for a noble cause' whether it be an internal or external one) against the Pax Americana. We call it a 'a new crusade' or 'establishing democracies and enusirng our own national security' and pray that Whatever's-Up-There in Who-ever-'s-name that we win. That's history. That is just how the world has worked for a millenia, and will probably continue until humanity has breathed it's last, and the ashes of infinity burn holes in the bodybags. I always said "I would fight and die for my country, no questions asked- but I refuse to go and fight and die for someone elses, ecspecially if it's nothing but dirt" But my thoughts have changed
I respect to no end the American forces overseas- They are fighting for a cause they believe in (or don't, but they're still there), and in the name of Our Nation, For Us. Whether I condone or support the war, is my own subject matter and opinion. I do however endorse, support, and hold great esteem in the American troops.
But all to often, we sit here behind the walls that are the Contiental expanse of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and sometimes, we forget about it all- as if it were just some bad commercial on tv, and we can change the chanel. Or it's just another Inconvient Truth that politicians and Big Men and Women are debating about all the time. We become jaded in our lives.
Like today, I recently read an article here about someone's opinion that Maine needs to 'Slam the Door on the Slots', that it was a door "that never should have been opened in the first place". My first reaction was "what a fucking meatforbrain" and "unprogressive fucking old school person" , except my thought's werent that nice. He speaks of all the problems "casinos en mass" will bring "to our humble state". It's already here, dickwad. Maine has a huge skyrocketing drinking problem, and a love for prescription pills, which per capita is awfully high for a state of alittle-over-a-million people. We have education and budget and healthcare issues that are ravaging the state's koffers and the wallets of the blue collar beligerants and affluent classes (do we have any?) alike. We have industry after industry after commercial venture fleeing the state, as are younger residents ( I missed the boat ) as quickly as possible. Maine's tourist industry is victim to the weather. As is our lobster, tree/timber/paper, blueberry, seasonal-and-off-seasonal adventure industry, potatos, and whatever-else-we-do.
So, this Man is launching a Jihad against progress- much like back home when the first Walmart came into town (of course, "town" is thirty miles away) and the first "conglomerate" (ie Exxon Mobile) Gas station was built nearby. Much like when the Maine Board of Education issued a decree and then-Governor Angus King paved the way for a laptop, a Mac iBook, for each and every Junior Highschooler. People were flabbergasted and insulted that Our Dear Government of Maine woudld something so-un-Mainelike. Then, the Raceway and Slot Machine Initiative came up to the polls, via a Citizen's Action Initiative, passed by the State Assembly, and taken to the Public Polls in 2003- and Maine voted for it, per majority rule. I did. I recently read that the local "racino" has given the Bangor Area nearly $1.5 million just for the property rights alone, and is leasing the land from the Bangor Government until it's permanent structure is completed. They have donated millions to the local scholarship programs, chamber of commerce (both Bangor and I guess each regional one), schools, adopted two parks, and so on and so forth. From what I've read/heard it's created 500 full-time, above-wage paying jobs, and promoted job security and responsible gambeling to no end. They seem legit.
But that Jihadist-Jerkfaced-Jerkoff has nothing better to do than hate them. My mantra has always been; "you don't like it, don't do it" ie, if this Radical Redneck doesn't like slot machines, then hell, don't go gamble! He predicts increases in bankruptcies and everything else, broken familes, that wholedeal. Well bub, I hate to tell you but that sort of shit already exists and the same can be said about local Pharmacies promoting prescrip drug use, local bars and restaurants serving liquor is driving everyone to drink and beat their spouse, and local movie theartres are inspiring young minds to blow up coke bottles. Those are facts of life that are going to happen. People who have problems need to address them within their own capacity and seek the help they need- no one is forcing them to gamble. If we want to loose the $4.5 million the racino has already given to the State (not counting charities, taxes, etc) for certain proceedes, then let's go right ahead now and burn down all the pine trees, set up parking lots on top of Mount Katahdin, flatten Mount Desert Island into a beach, and tear down the schools and houses and swim into the middle of the Ocean and drown-- sound's like fun to me! If that's what he wants, go right ahead and collect your own fucking signatures. If they don't gamble here in Maine the profits are just going to go somewhere else and so are the jobs, and thus the youth will follow and the Babyboomers will be left behind in a deserted state full of moose and medicaid backorders.
And then I got reading about the War, and those crazy Iranians. And then the Koreans. And then the Chinese , and all the other problem nations. That made me realize that this man had a God given right to his opinion, and a right proclaimed by our revolution against the British empire centuries ago, thanks to the contiental army and the colonial militia, to say it and have it out in the press for all to see. A friend once told me, it's the soilder we thank for our human rights. it isn't the bureaucrat or the journalist or the campus organizer that gives us the rights to elect, the rights to speak, and the rights to demonstrate, it's the vertans and the causes they faught and died for that have given us that freedom to enjoy. I have several friends over there fighting, and regardless of the details, I am greatful. Whatever the out come of this New Crusade or this Jihad, I am calling them heroes. Whatever the outcome is, I will stand for this revolution against terrorist and their minipulation of religion and social orders, as well as the disfigurement of their own souls, at the expense of ours.
Sort of funny how it took a man's melodramatic editiorial in the newspaper, to get me to see all that. I just wish that ignoraemus-idiotica would respect other peoples rights to live their lives- per se they wanted to gamble, or go to war.
Carpe Paxa Americana, live in the american peace.
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Thursday, August 31 - The Fall One
I find it incredibly infuriating and fundamentally funny that, for a small company, like any microcosom, we've been able to fuck up such a small place. Well, not 'we' as in myself and others, but moreso 'We' in the concept of the-place-as-a-whole. Sort of like Downeast's township and muncipal-cross-region governments. Sort of, but worse.
First, I get to work and settle in for another fun filled night. In the typical 'pre-shaft' preshift meeting, we discuss and demean each other for a few minuets before heading out. I kept having trouble with my Ops Card to get in through the fucking door, but finally, it caved in and let me into the area where I could grab a few 'free' redbulls, and an assortment of assinine office supplies (with five-finger discount, of course) to use for the night and "accidentally" bring home. There is no need in this company to have 10,000 magnets. There is also no need not to give away free shit... people spend thousands of dollars if not more here and what the hell is the difference between a free pen and/or notebook and stuff, and a room comp because I can't get them to shut up? Usually, they start to bargin for items and I'll eventually have to make them aware that they are violating our Bribe Proceedure and would need to write me a cheque for such items. That usually doesn't go over as well- but'll do the trick.
My informants have emailed or Myspac'd or spoken with me in hushed wispers inback corners (out back smoking butts) or under an eerie code of silence (loud conversations over the headsets) about the latest on our Dearly Departed Supervisor. "In order not to violate the privacy of the recently resigned/terminated staff member, as well as to ensure their confedentiality in this matter, and to uphold our own validity and secure record keeping, at this time Personnel and RR will not be making any cross-departmental, private, privy, public, or administrative memo, or statement, at this time. Let the record show that if you do have any true questions or concerns, see your direct Supervisor, Department Manager, or e-mail PHR/RR" was the official email sent to my boss who in turn showed it to me. Surprise.
I flipped through our Activity Log at my desk and saw that their name had been x'd out and signatures whited out and replaced with the Auditor's and Dept Mngr's authorization and signatures. I noticed that all checks, comps, credit advances, etc, had been changed over into others names or cancelled completly and sent up the ladder to the Admins. It's as if The Dearly Departed was completly erased from history, in it's entirty.
Depending on Who-in-the-Rumour-Mill you listen to, millions of different things occured. I'd like to believe that it was simply a change of heart and they left on their own terms; but my rational logic and paranoia tells me otherwise.
Also, the new hires are driving me fucking insane.
The Supervisor position was re-open'd, but I doubt I shall even bother this go-around. I may wait a few more weeks and put in for the job in Audit or Accounting or Operations as a clerk or assistant or generalist or something different. It'd probably be a pay cut, but I am starting to think it'd be worth it in the long run, as far as saving on bullets and guns and prozac would be concerned.
I dont know, I've forgotten all I wanted to write for now, so I'll leave it at that.
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Tuesday, August 29 - Unpleasent Distractions.
I remember from reading Frank Herbert's Dune books a series of quotes that one can often contemplate; after all, everyone loveth a conspiracy! I also recall that his books have often played a minor supporting role in either voodo new age crap like Scientology, or even a few debates about political and theo-heritical ideologies. Say that three times fast. One quote from one his books (iornically, about an 'Orange Catholic Bible', an inevitable pun at the colour orange being a symbol of opposition/change/unconformity-unions [ie protestant ireland] and some sort of arabic word meaning 'illuminated one', I havn't read the book in about three years) that states: "Isn't it funny how the sins of the mother, blossom in the children they bare?", and a subquote from one text or another in our own universe that goes something like "becareful of the seeds thou seweth and the crops thou reap. do not curse God for the punishment you lay out for yourself", deep, huh?
While Mr Herbert's novels never really sparked my interest beyond that of a simple way to pass the time and just read a bunch of strange sound words about an even stranger time (even though they have always said 'reality is stranger then ficition') in the distant future (or past?) I do find his writing most profound. Well, a little anyway.
The other day my Mum came up and visited for a bit. I have been sort of down-and-out and waiting to move on to greener pastures. I've simply been a cross between depressed and manic- trying to take on too much at once to compensate for myself, and then just sort of saying 'fuck it'. A-Typical, as usual. Mum was in the 'hood waiting for Big Daddy to get out of yet-another-fucking doctor's appointment. The more and more I think about "impending doom and gloom" with Dad's health, I get a little more anxious.
I got talking about something and out-of that conversation Mum brough up something, and with those distant, looking-elsewhere-but-right-at-you eyes she choaked up that she had been sexual molested by my ex-uncle (and her former brother-in-law), Aunt Ginny's first and last husband. This I met with a repentant shock. At first she didn't tell me who had done it or much about it- but I made the mistake in asking.
"I was about 9, or so. Lacey's age"
"What the fuck?!" I felt such anger. I hated him, for what he did. Robbing an innocent child of their life, in a way. Ginny's about 11 years old than Mum, the difference between my brother and I- that'd make her and her ex fucktard maybe 20 something.
I don't know what gave Mum the impression I wanted to know. I know that she can't talk to really anyone else in the family about it- Dad would loose his mind and kill him, even though it's been fifty years. Ginny would never talk to her again, that's just how that is. My brother would spiral into a drunken or drugged up rage and loose his mind and then digest it as his own problem, 'all about me' is my dear fucking brothers mantra. The rest of the family would just keep taking medication or just simply ignore it, as tradition states.
But the fact of the matter is, I have to live with this knowledge.
Aunt Ginny's ex (of more than thirty or forty years now) and his current wife and special Ed step son (ironically named Edward) are always invited to family get togethers, regardless of occasion or holiday. While Ginny is reserved and polite in social situations, she has been known to spit venom. So is he. So we all have to keep it cool, thirty ot forty or fifty years later; he cheated on Ginny and left her. He pyschologically fucked with his kids. I guess, now, he's taken to appoligize to them and try to rectify the situation of the past by reestablishing an embassy (aka post cards) of communication to Ginny. Their relationships, of what little I remember, has always been the Inevitable Cold War.
Mum sorta broke down for a bit. From her ashes came a revelation- it all made sense now.
Her job, the way she lived her life, her habits. All of it really fell into place. I felt I finally had a grasping-at-straws approach no longer to trying and figuring out why she was that way. At first I was enfuriated with him and her and all of them. I wanted to play the advocate and burn his fucking rinkydink trailer to the ground. Then, I hated Ginny and my mother's parents for totally being inept. Then I hated Mum for telling me that.
Mum had always stressed our individual rights to our bodies and all that shit. She trained us to avoid predators, and worked hard to instill her children with a forthright honesty when it came to what was pissing us off. We'd have to conversate to endless degrees before a problem could finally be put to rest, we were the incarnated beaters or 'killers of a dead horse' growing up. I remember 'training' we had before vacations; secret knocks, safe zones, where police were, etc. And that was just going to Old Orchard Beach. California and Florida and Quebec were entirly different battles.
But this all explained my Mother's Valiant Crusade against domestic problems and to resolve the social status quoe, and help those in need- even if it ment sacrificing herself.
This got her kick started on a tangent all about Dad, too.
Things I never knew about Dad fell into place, as well. Apparently, since I was the 'somewhat stable son', I get to inherit all this unstable emotional baggage.
I have an intimiate knowledge, a bit to intimate, of my parents inner workings. And I can say I am still processing it. While it explains almost-damn-near everything, I'm unsure if I agree with all this piracy of privacy and plundge into perversion.
Mum cried for about a half an hour, and all I could really offer was a prozac and a hug, and try to console her. She seemed fine when she left to go get Dad. But then again, I'll never know with those brazen folks.
I just don't know. I don't know why she had to spill the beans. I mean, I guess I'm glad she thought I was mature and stable enough to handle that- but Damn! I really was just as content just thinking my parents were , yes, products of a fucked up childhood, but not that fucked up. Well, the cycle of this freedom of information shit will stop with me, I guess.
I love my parents, very much. I respect and honour them to no end. They have been there when I turned my back on the world and when it seemed everything was crumbeling into chaos. But, this isn't really how I pictured that playing out. I am still processing and sorting through it- knowing that it is, but isn't, really my battle. I will just have to be an allie, as best I can.
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Tuesday, August 29 - The Secret Police.
I get a taxi into downtown to work today, and they drop me off around back. I go and sit down at the employee, excuse me, I mean 'team', smoking area- I mean 'outdoor designated multipurpose area'- and sit down and light one up. A cigarette, that is.
A lady that works in one of our restaurants comes up and sits down next to me.
"Damn have I got news for you!" she says, eyes growing larger than my ever-present-erection that greets her kind grace of joining me outback. Believe me, it would you too.
"What's the dilly?"
"A Supervisor got canned," and she proceeded to tell me who and all sorts of different reasonings and rumours and all sorts of strange and bizzare steps beyond the ever-fleeting sense of reality here at this place. Needless to say, this was the subject of much conversation for the rest of the evening. We speculated and contemplated on any and all possiblities.
I eventually let my mind wander, until it came to be about midnight.
I walked up to the shift manager's office to try and weasel my way into getting out early.
She and I got talking about how things have changed at the job... how the 'friendly, family, and fun atmosphere'that once existed is fleeting. She commented that perhaps there would be 'some housecleaning' fairly shortly. I asked if that ment the housekeepers or janitors. She rephrased it "they'll be clearing out some people , I think"..
We then got talking all about everything... and sum'd it all up with "can you take the knife out of my back please, thanks"... is the new managment/admin policy.
"It's not like we have lives or anything, I guess" I commented.
"Nope. Apparently they believe not"
I began to question the validity or reasoning of us going into such a conversation,
"Well perhaps they'll open their position up and you can apply for it"
"I guess that's sort of a good thing, but I think that's awful that they're leaving it like this" I replied, "It's just breeding rumours and inter-departmental hatred"
"Yeah I hear ya"
"But, I guess it's all hush hush because of legal reasons; after all we can't afford bad press and neither can they violate confidentialty of the other supervisor"
"You're right" She replied, "wana go home, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Have a good night"
So it's been a busy news day up here. Manager canned. Heard a friend is getting married and is expecting to be a dad. Two others are getting divorced. Everything is just as I left it when I went to sleep the night before.
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Monday, August 28 - Kingdom of Heathens... I mean Heaven.
Now, since I know my coworkers have the internet, and are adept and well inclined to a multitude of medias- that, and the fact I'd rather not get 'dooced' because of what I write- I try to use easy-to-grasp concepts and metaphors to write about my more-than-questionable job. It's not an inmoral job, neitehr is it a bad one. I don't sleep with people for cash (although, admitadly, I'd love too, I am cheap), nor do I issue hits or 'contracts' on people (although, sometimes that would save me a good headache), I simply can't put a bad PR Spin on this place. I can't do that because I like it here. It pays well. It's an asset to the community. My job as a 'concierge' is as close to the true title as I can get, and, except for save a few things, my job is identical to a concierge. Seriously. I just can't afford to loose this job. But, there's one thing I can say about this place- is that it's fucked up, seriously.
As I said I trained a man named Jerry, who was 'challenged' somewhat. The other day, they had me working with School Marm, again. Granted, their youthful (at ages 45 and 55, respectivly) and "new-people" eagerness is most inviting and a true pleasure to be around. However, their inept grasping at straws approach to the job leaves me utterly stupified, like I had just been on a bad pot smoking all day bender and woken up at the Idaho state fair wearing a toga.
Here in Maine, there has always been a belief that you hire someone for their willingness and eagerness to work, and skill comes later. But Damn, these people are going to drive me insane. Jerry's great with guests and is really overall a nice guy. Except he grabs himself and scratches and digs and yawns all the time. I had reiterated to him several times, whether it is my place or not, that there is a time and a place for such things and it's called the Break Room. To a casual outsider, it's starting to look like he's digging for barried treasure somewhere in his wedgie; but he is from New Jersey, which maybe down there is a prime investment and safety deposit box like tradition. He took my comment as the go-a-head to sit in the breakroom all the time. School Marm will work 24 hours a day, all the time, if asked. Except she is very rough with our equipment and can come across as a bit, well, scandelous. She'll say a few things here and there that'll make the Pope, himself, wonder. I eventually just left them wonder on their own and abandonded them with the ever-loving "I'm going to go for a walk around the facility, if you need me, call on the wire and I'll be over- or someone will" and went about my business. The desk was being man'd by our new supervisor and my former mentor-here-at-work.
Oh, by the way; As I said in an earlier post, I had put in a self nomination for the promotion to supervisor. Whenever they open a position here, they open it up to everyone so that they can 'feel' that they have a chance of getting it. Of course, there is a lot of preverbial and malicous shoulder tapping and heir preperation, but sometimes that falls through. I put in my SNForm for the position two days before the position was due to close- granted, that was slow and tardy on my part. But still, it was open when the document was signed and handed in to my immediate supervisor. I saw them stamp "recomended" and put it in the I.O. Envelope to send to the Admins. Three days later, I heard that the position was going 'outside' or 'public' ie an ad in the paper or something. Then, two days after that, I heard they had made a decision. My immediate supervisors emailed their boss (whoever the fuck that is) asking if he had recieved my SN form. I called his desk a few hours later and left a message on voicemail that I was inquiring if he had any comments or concerens with my application; or whatever.
I never recieved an interview or the standard Return and Recipt form that we are supposed to get in our memo boxes. One of my supervisors, Anna, said she "mysteriously found the document in her mail box" a few days later, "I guess it got put in their by mistake, sorry"
to which I replied "it's okay, not your fault. I appreciate your endearing and unending support of my move to try and make myself available to the company. I also would like to take the oppertunity to thank you for your kind advice. I just find it funny that this is the second time I put in for a different position or promotion and haven't even been enterianed with the fact. Look, I know in this company, as in all, things and shit can happen. That's a given. Sometimes, for no reason, and sometimes for all kinds. I would just like you to know that."
She looked at me crosseyed and searched for the appropriate response.
"Look, Anna, I'm not busting your balls. Excuse me" (She and I talk like this all the time), "but I know they would've just laughed me out of the room- seriously. They think of me as some sort of stoner or something that just sorta sits here with a stupified smile on my face and chit chats with people and every now and then performs well on seceret shopshitter stuff. They think I'm just some young pup that'll stay stuck in this position for as long as they put me in it and I'll-just-deal-or-leave, because the company mantra has been 'they need to understand other people want these jobs' , which isn't always true. The fucking rings and holes one has to jump through just to get an interview here is impossible, not to mention the measuring rod they use to judge a candidate and the process it takes to get all the shit together! I waited a month and a half after my initial interview for Godzaache!"
"Now, I'm sorry you feel that way. But they are not discriminating you based on your age or anything. It's not that you weren't recomended. We had this sort of discussion before abour certain things"
"I know I am not always proffessional enough, to their standards. But I follow protcol, get the job done, and do it all with a smile on my face. I work overtime whenever I am not at my other job or trying to get something done that's equally important, and currently I have worked 14 days in a row. This is suppose to be a fun and happy enviroment for our guests and for us as well- I would really just like feed back when I do well and pointers/repremands when I do not. None of this all-stick-no-carrot philosophy, I know it's not you and I appreciate and respect you I just really get sick of it."
"Now, what happend last time?"
"I put in after my orientation was over (about 60 days) for a job in Recruitment as an Assistant or Generalist in both RR and Personnel, a combined position. I met all the qualifications listed and even submitted a resume and letter, and never ever heard back. I contacted them twice and got 'we are awaiting paperwork', and come find out from the Personnel Manager, that they never recieved my paperwork in the first place. I know that they intended to pull Mark into the position in the first place since he had been in RR/P for awhile and was already taking on the position defacto, and I shurgged it off and took the hand shake as a good ending. But, you know, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me"
"They aren't trying to decieve you, you know that"
"Yes I do, Anna, but c'mon. How would you feel if positions were reversed and your paperwork kept getting 'lost between point A and point B'- and that goes for my healthcare forms too, it took three months just to get that situated!"
"Well, now that you mention it, I'd feel pretty shitty. I'd want to rip the fuckers heads off"
"Wow, that isn't quiet how I feel.. but okay"
"No, I understand. It's also good that you atleast let them know you were interested."
"Thanks"
Jerry came over the radio about three seconds later saying the computers had crashed and the credit issuer till had just readjusted everyone's accounts to zero, even if we had just done atleast three cash advances and given out or made reservations for about ten patrons.
"For the love of God what were they thinking when they hired those two?" Anna asked.
"I don't know but Jerry is creeping everyone out. They love 'school marm' but she's still a bit rusty and a bit, well, from-time-to-time a little ultradifficult."
"They probably lost it so they could stick you with them , ahaha"
"Anna, I duno if you should say that. Isn' that discrimination?"
"HA!"
"haha yeah. -- " and I went down to help Jerry out. I guess maybe, if I had truly been prepared for a supervisory role, I wouldn't have left him alone at a desk in the first place. Then again, some sink, some fly, some swim, you've just got to cut the strings and see. The same goes for all careers.
Anna called the desk.
"Hey, by the way, I think maybe your comments to the Admins may have been a reason.."
"Why's that?"
"Well, when they walk by and ask how things are going and you randomly say 'tree' or 'chair' or 'thanks' or like when he came over and asked how you were feeling and you answered 'have a good night, thanks hi' may have done it"
"That was them?"
"Haha yeah"
"Well.."
"What made you say that?"
"I was on the headset phone. That, and I never know how to respond to him in particular. He's got that aura"
"that what?"
"I don't know, I think maybe I'll just tell them Durkaduhese is my first language, they'll buyh that right?"
"Probably, but as English a first language, you've got the nouns down pretty well"
"Thanks---" and then the phones cut out. Jerry had managed to sit down and knock over the big bank that routes all calls inward and outward through this particular desk during certain times. 55 Cables, 65 slots to put them in. "Damnit Jerry!" And then my boss' big boss walked right by. I threw myself to the floor and quickly pretended that I was trying to find Mecca; no disrespect to our Muslium friends intended.
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Thursday, August 24 - gracefully falling
I recently got talking at work with a fellow employee, and we got to the topic of Capital Punishment, Politics, Religion and Sex. All the taboos one is not suppose to discuss at work.
He quoted me the Christian Bible, and even Googl'd some of the Quran and Torah/Kabbalah. He ranted off all sorts of things denoting that it is Man's Right to punish another for a crime, providing the punishment is in the name of balance.
He quoted to me "He without sin, cast the first stone", generally meaning a cleric or judge or someone big and important who was too holy or too rich to have ever possibly commited a crime (have they ever visited New York?), or the victim's relatives, would often stone the person to death or deathwishing injury.
A coworker argued;
"It is taught in many religions and political ideology that Mankind fell from the Grace of whatever-or-whoever-they-call-it in their world, and were punished for their sin. Scientology talkes about some Aliens and Heavenly Temples and blah blah. The Jews talk about sanctifying and preserving all life at any costs, so as it does not harm another. Islam teaches those who follow their prophet to like thy friends, but love thy enemy, do not harm him. Buddhism states that we should not pitty the blind man for he will see the light and be awakend before we are. The Book of Genesis tells us flat out that Adam and Eve and their little snake friend got a three way going at the Gnosis Tree and doomed us all outa Eden, that the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve would suffer for the Original Sin until the Messiah came. Native religons taught that the Great Spirit wept for the world when man killed his brother, and now we must all await to be reborn into their world."
We sort of sat there and scratched our heads like powerball tickets on a wednesday... what's that?
to which she replied; "If we are all guilty of the original sin, who is without sin after all? It states that Mary and Jesus, born of emmaculate conception, were both unsinful and divine."
my buddy replied ; "but Jesus died for us on the cross and cleansed us of original sin"
to which she stuck-her-tounge-out and said "for what humanity did before he was nailed, not afterward"
my buddy looked shocked and I resolved that I was no longer part of this conversation;
"what about eye for an eye" he said.
"fuck that shit- where would it stop? the executioner has killed someone- which violates the Commandment: 'Thou Shall Not Kill', so if he chopped off a head, someone would have to chop off his... where would that cycle end? The problem is there's too much room for interpretation in all parabelles, and I don't know if God wanted it that way, myself..."
my buddy was getting pissed... and she was getting more and more furious with his inabillity to see her point or prove her right or see outside the box...
I took this as the perfect oppertunity to leave the discussion and go smoke a cigarette while I had the greenlight. But I'm sure the conversation that they had later on must've been just as proplexing. Notsosure what I personally think... except, that I'll think it over, outside of the box, of course.
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Tuesday, August 22 - Memories gone Manic
The cool breeze comes somberly over a shady, grassy field. The sun beats down, as if the Heavens are smiling and all-is-right. The faint squeel of tires, the utters of mix-and-match music (ironically, to quote someone it sounds like "nails on chalkboard" or "if they think higher bass/volume means higher quality") blaring at 'turn-that-fucking-noise-down' levels. It feels like the cross between a train station platform, and a bus depot, a welcome matt and the front yard. It feels like home, sort of. It feels that you've finally arrived to something with meaning.
Isn't it funny how things, over time, gain more sentimental value and resinate a certain volume in the back and buzz of one's mind, and that it's like wrapping-up an old present form a thousand holidays ago and realizing it's what you longed for afterall, even if at the time it wasn't quiet right.
I have been feeling that way more and more and less and less, depending on the day and what's going on, for the past few months. I feel itchy and irritant and uncomfortable with where I am in life. I'm on my own, for the most part, and love it. But I hate it. I hate the bills and being poor-all-the-time and the whole part of it that involves money. But that's reality, really. I don't want to live in this apartment/neighbourhood anymore. But I can't afford to move, right now anyway. Originally I was going to live with a friend from my first-freshman-year of college, but those plans fell through. What's funny is we were originally assigned as roomates- to which I chaged and opt'd to live with someone I knew. Big Mistake. Irony, that's karma. So, now, I'm left with the options of finding a cheaper place, staying here and finding an even stranger roomate, or begging my parents to let me live with them for a month or two to save up some cash- which I really one, wouldn't wana do, and two, they'd probably kill me if I asked, and three, there just isn't room at the Pond for another fulltime resider. Back to current, I am happy with my job- but have found myself looking forward to like starting school or summer or a different job or something of that sort. But summer's almost over. I'm not in school right now. No school would have me if I applied, right now. I am stuck in this job for the long haul.
There is one school, well, three, honestly, that I've wanted to apply too. But it'd take a bankruptcy, a Papal Order, and an Executive Act of Congress, to get me to go. I couldn't just back up and move and give up work and job and responsibilities and go off to these places. I would also feel strangly out of place. The older I get, the hard it's going to be. I'm 21, but that doesn't make it seem any different. I also owe my last two schools a shitload of money. I mean a shitload. I have maybe two courses that are college-credit and two that are non-credit courses, of which, one would transfer. Square One. Everyone's gota start somewhere. But, who knows, I can be spontaneous.
Jobwise, I like my job and would be terrified to give up this job and end up or settle for one that I make even less. I get paid well, very well if I include bennifits and the fact that I claim 2 on my taxes, when it's just me. Ha. But, seriously, I've been through that. I feel that this is a good time to get in on this company and move forward quickly, hopefully, to bigger and better things. The Company pays/reimburses for school expenses/tuition/etc, if approved by the Admins, but only at certain and specifically qualified colleges/universities. While this is a great deal, I don't want to settle, anymore. The healthcare plan is tit and is one-fucking-good deal, honest. It's a good place and I enjoy it. Hate the schedule. Like the overall job. But I want it all, of course.
Livingwise, I live to close to people I know in a neighbour that I sort-of-like. I can't afford to stay here after my lease is up alone. And I'm tired of the roomate thing. I love living with people, but I am just sick of them. Haha. Well, I just don't want to split-this-or-that and so on. I need to send a cheque to my old roomate for the last months rent and a reimbursment for the security deposit, because it really isn't fair that they didn't live here the last month and still ended up paying it. So, do unto others as you'd have them do unto you, right? Thing is, I never really stay anywhere too long- jobs, school, address, etc. I even change my cellphone number on a regular basis. That or they disconnect it and I have to reconnect it with a new #. I form these relationships with people and often, am bad at keeping in touch. I am a Gypsie, I think. I just need a smaller place and a cheaper one. But, then again, who know's I could be living in a tent tomorrow.
I just look back with such candid candour and continual agnst about that carefreeness (to a degree) and hope-for-tomorrow. The whole living in the moment and seizing oppertunity and the whole freshness and excitment of the entire aww-inspiring jaw dropping knee slapping moment-to-moment drama and mind blowing ness of it all, the entire experience of everything... the past three years were so insane and so random.. and so enjoyable, but most of all, lessons. But who knows, I am famous for my reincarnations. I want to feel that sort of by-the-edge-of-the-seat, sweatty, excitingly youthfulness, again. I need to make it a point to live in the moment.
It's funny how we often remember things with a slightly more optimistic view, a bit more cheerfully, then when they were happening.
But what's even funnier is that at-the-time, I didn't want to be living in that moment, either.
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Tuesday, August 22 - Idle, Idiots, Incompetance and Incompletes.
I know that we've all sat and wondered, 'what the fuck is wrong with some people, seriously', and without any furthur assumptions, pack up and move forward- and let them know exactly how we feel about their idosyncrasies. Or, we share and snear and laugh-behind-hands at them to our closest things to a friend. Well, then the turning back point comes. Either we burned said bridge and need to build ourselves a raft to ford the mighty river of Cirucmstance, or we must look in said waters at ourselves and remember that we were once that way. And that, still doesn't make their being a fucktard any less of an annoyance, does it?
I just finished training Jerry, and set him on his own. A coworker, whom was promoted to Supervisor, handed me the reigns to the training of another new person, whom I'll call School Marm Mary. She reminds me of a Standard General Issue Recess/Hall Monitor with a degree in teaching the fine art of behaviour. She's got a Southern Drawl that would drive me up and down a wall and over a cliff if I could drive... well, drive-well anyway.
GI SM Mary fucked up bigtime. She issued a cash advance from the concierge desk atm system too quickly and added an extra zero. Her TAC card (terminal/application card) is bent, broken, and gnarwled like a dog chew toy (plus the same amount of slobber) and it takes IT three weeks to get new ones. I had to call up a supervisor, an IT Tech, and Security to clear the guest.
Everyone makes mistakes, but when we say 'let it go' we mean let it the fuck go now.
I have no patience. I try, but I know when I grind my teeth with a 'fuck you' smile, it's obvious that it's wearing thin.
It's my blog and I am going to moan-groan-and-be-an-asshole, alright?
I picked up overtime for all next week. I won't have a day off till Thursday, September something. It reminds me of working at the Resort. Only easier, less drama, and more sexual tension.
I also have a list of people to 'acclimate, educate, and familarize' with the facility and how we do things. When did I become a walking fucking poster child for human resources or a pictureperfect example of fucking how-to-do-a-job? That's new!
I need to clean up the parkinglot at my apartment. My neighbours are all coming back and it's been full of shit for over a month now. I have yet to have done it. Procrastination, and Misorganization, have always been my downfall.
I also need to clean shit up out of the spare room that my roomate occupied. I threw some shit in there when they moved out and just left it.
When I was a kid, in the old house, we had what-was-once called a "Summer Kitchen"; something they used 200 years ago in the "Maine Summers" (which are now either rain forst sweltering steamy that cause even steel to swell, or just a continuation of fall/spring) to keep heat out of the remainder of the house (of course before the invention of air-conditioning, which in Maine, we just open the windows and pray for the best, anyway) and had one wall somewhat open to the outdoors. This room eventually became my grandfathers. Before that, it was "the junk room" that was hidden by the refridgerator. My brother's old room, too, also turned into a "junk room" that was balls-to-the-walls full of shit that the door could barely open. When we had company, we hid this door behind a book case. I have, unfortunatly, picked up on this bad habit.
So I need to clean that room out. WIth my schedule, 4pm-1am, 5pm-2am, or 6pm-3am, have had little interest in doing so. But it must be done, before it gets any worse. My days off are "cleaning day" and "bill paying day", respectivly. Of course, I haven't really been as active as one would like.
I normally goto bed between 4am and 8am, wake up somewhere around noon, to go back to bed around 12:30pm or so and then back up before work. This does need to stop, however, lacking the inspiration or desire to change, I haven't made the proper accomodations.
I overwhelm myself with this sort of shit. Incomplete this, idle that. Wrong. wrong wrong wrong way to live. But it's become a routine. One can't live off a to-do lis alone; mine just keeps gaining in size and lack-of-importance.
My bed is covered in last months dirty laundry to which I just push on the floor at night/morning and say to hell with it.
So, I'm going to pop a few Lunesta, and pray that I wake up bright-eyed-and-bushy-tail'd enough to be a go getter, and
- clean room.
- clean out fridge (I havn't been grocery shopping in a month)
- find ride to work (I have $7.94 to last me till Friday)
- clean up / organize spare room
- clean up / organize rest of apartment
- clean yard
- avoid neighbours
- clean up communal porch area
- clean off desk and dining room table (which I refer to as my "home office")
- goto work and-
- Train GI School Marm in all tactics and
- listen to her stories from 1947 and onward about
- her doll collections and string of x-husbands and they're all pricks
- come up with new smart ass ways to be smug or write about
- daydream
- smile once I clock in, and not a moment before
- get new tac card for Marm
- finda a way to remain mentally stable until 2:15am
- Go Home.
- Think about how I wasted the day
- Dream of being rich, fuck happy.
- Scheme up ways of getting rich
- Overanalyze all things
- Blog about all my troubles and how to rectify them
- sleep
Oh well, that's life, I guess. I can't make any day longer- so I've got to strive to make each day better. Or get a personal assistant / coach to make it seem easier/better, anyway.
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Saturday, August 19 - You've Got to be Fucking Kidding Me...
Jessica, the girl whos family is renting out Camp Catchaifacan wanted to go on a scenic adventure of Downeast Maine. Well, on a three-day-weekend; why the hell not. I asked if she wanted the touristy Route One tour or the more Traditional Mosquito Bait tour. She opt'd for tha later. Upon the commencement of our journey, we packed some redbulls, sandwiches, a six pack of Molson Canadian, a bottle of Blind Moose Merlot wine, a couple o' blankets, the camereas, a change of clothes, swim trunks, condoms, tylenol, debit cards, and enough pride to grease one's ears through a keyhole with. Smug as a bug. Snug as a slug.
Well, I am more of a driver- for lack of a better term- and I prefer to sort of buzz through an area, appreciating what it looks like from the window, on the way to somewhere more picturesque or secluded so I could toss one out with her. Ha. Anyway, she's more of the scenic type. Stop and smell the roses, jack the lupin flowers, and run like hell from the skunks. Or massive armada of Mosquitos that seem to hold a greater majority of the population of downeast Maine than actual people.
On our journey, in betweem parking and pitty-pat-tit-for-tat and some beers and sandwiches and enjoying the afternoon, we came acros | |