The coming revolution

1.

“Oh! Where did the blue sky go? Oh! Why is it raining so cold, so cold? I can’t sleep tonight; everybody’s sayin’ everything is all right. Still I can’t close my eyes. I’m seeing a tunnel at the end of all the lights.”
-Travis, “Why does it always rain on me?”

“Where’d you get your information from, huh?You know you can’t front when Revelation comes!No…you can’t front on that!”
-Beastie Boys, “So whatcha want.”

“There’ll be no shelter here; the front line is everywhere.”
-Rage Against the Machine, “No shelter.”

Winter/spring, 1996

Since neither Todd nor I had cars, we walked around parts of St. Louis where we had no business walking. Todd was a good lookin’ southern boy from Lexington, Kentucky. He had moved to southeast St. Louis a couple of months after I had, and we worked together for a short time at the same restaurant. We liked each other quite a bit, but romantically, not at the same times, which was probably for the best anyway. We still remain friends.

Very Aquarian in his ways, Todd would disappear at different times, for days, weeks, or months sometimes, and then re-appear; picking up our acquaintance where we’d left off. Nights out at the bars were the same, also. Somehow, some way, he’d show up right when we decided that enough was enough and it was time to go home. Then there he’d be, shots in hand, beckoning, calling, cajoling, and imploring us to stay, “Just for a drink.” Then one more, then another, then he’d say, “Let’s go to the East Side!” Nights with Todd almost always ended with a morning drive west to Missouri, the sun chasing us home to our beds for a few minutes or hours before our next shift, a hangover, imminent. I got into a lot of trouble with Todd, but we were never bored in each other’s company.

One night, early into our friendship, we decided to go out. We met at Magnolia’s, a bar fairly close to his apartment. I liked Mag’s, as it was the most integrated boy bar in the city. A lot of cute black and white guys dancing together which was unusual in racially polarized St. Louis. The music was loud that night, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. The dance floor was on the first level, with pool tables and a jukebox and a kind of cruise-y, leathery, country theme-thing happening on the second.

As our friendship was fairly new, we hung close together, not dancing that night, just drinking and talking. About Kentucky, Florida, Branson, St. Louis, the future, some boy watching, along with some casual flirtation thrown about. Comfortable conversation, light and affable, and increasingly drunken. Laughter, and lots of reflected smiles.

Towards the end of the night, a black man approached us. He was handsome and smiling. It was nearly 2 a.m. when he sat down on the barstool next to mine and started with the come-ons. Todd was playing video trivia, leaving me to fend for myself. “You are good lookin’, man,” he said. “You got a pretty face, a pretty face. You know that?”

“Yeah? Thanks.” I was drunk and laughed, flattered, prepared, feeling cocky and cool.
“My name’s Boe and you pretty.” He was smiling a big smile.
“Thanks.” I said again, still laughing, alternating looks between Todd and Boe, looking for a little help from Todd, but enjoying Boe’s attention.

“I’m straight, ya know. I just wanna get a blow-job.” I laughed in his face.“That’s pretty ballsy, Boe. You couldn’t find a girl to take care of you? Why’d you come here?” He was cute, but the tide had turned.

He looked at me for a moment, unsure of what to say. “You pretty. I got some friends here. I just wanna get a blow-job.” I looked at Todd. He purposely stayed fixed on the video game. He was not helping at all.

“Well, Boe…” I said with that extra confidence being drunk allows, “I’m flattered and all, but I’m hangin’ out with my friend and we’re gettin’ ready to go, so I’m gonna have to say no. But thanks for the offer. Not tonight, though.” Not ever, I meant, with that approach.

He looked at me, his expression serious. “You know the revolution’s cummin’, dontcha?” I stared at him.
“Yeah, Boe, I do.”“Things are gonna change. Poor people aren’t gonna take it forever.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Ya better be ready.” He was staring, his beautiful eyes dark, fixed on mine. “It’ll happen here.”
“I don’t doubt it, Boe,” my eyes locked on his. He stared at me a few moments more, looked towards Todd, then me, then left without a word.

Todd continued to play a couple more games; we drank another beer, and then walked the 12 blocks or so down Vandeventer to his apartment. We didn’t want to wait or pay for a taxi. Not a real wise decision on our part, as the neighborhood was a pretty tough area. A couple of months later, in fact, Todd got jumped by some guys while walking down that same street.

Nothing happened that night, though. Todd and I were drunk but aware, walking fast, looking around, looking tough, and establishing our presence. Boe’s words echoed in my thoughts and steps. “The revolution’s coming. You know that, dontcha?” It could be anything. It could be anytime. “It” is the statistical inevitability of catastrophic disaster on any number of fronts. Eventually, the wrong (or right) elements will combine, or synchronize, or form, and events leading to the end will occur soon after.

2.

“Don’t everybody like the smell of gasoline, well burn motherfucker on American dreams…”
-Outkast, “Gasoline dreams.”

“When I am king, you will be first against the wall.”
-Radiohead, “Paranoid Android.”

Some white folks laugh at the possibility of a race war. Some black folks wait only for that day..

People who laugh off the doomsayers who predict the end of the world aren’t looking at the whole picture. Even if the world doesn’t end in total annihilation, fire raining from the sky, race wars, space wars, class wars, biblical Armageddon, an evil strain of Marburg or Ebola, something major along these lines, so many things could change forever the way we live, thereby effectively ending our world. The world as we know it, what we take for granted, things that we love, things we don’t know we love. So many scenarios, so many possibilities, and so many opportunities for us to light it up and end it all.

Life as we know it hangs in a balance of which we have no control. Are we ready? Am I ready? Probably not. But Boe senses it, as do I. We’re getting closer to massive changes, closer to crossing an unknown point of no return. All points of anger and catastrophe and strife, despair, dissidence, and dissonance are coming to a single unified point.. sometime soon.

The people with their placards and bibles, walking the streets, yelling at strangers, proclaiming the time is near. What possesses them? What do they know? And the others, they still wait, waiting for the signs to manifest. “Patience child, the Mother ship be here soon..”

Todd and I, we made it safely to his apartment that night in early 1996. We drank some more beer. Since he had no furniture, we made a bed out of some sheets, and slept on the living room floor. We laid there, in our underwear, on our stomachs, my arm on his back, listening to his breathing. He fell asleep quickly, and I lay there, thinking of all the futures the Future might hold.

I vanna be a DJ!

Do you sometimes have an insight, a vibe maybe, as to how your future feels? A karmic inclination, maybe, about the general rather than the specific, that can propel you through the day, because you know, on some level, really know…that everything will indeed be all right in your life? Do you? Do you feel badly that you have been blessed so much in life? Why is it easier for people to be unhappy? Why is happiness so hard? It’s not, really.

Instinctually, you are aware of rhythms that others are not. You are compelled to create them, when others barely, if at all, acknowledge their existence. How does that make you feel that a very special, very relevant, very significant portion of your life, your creative direction, is misunderstood, under-appreciated, and dismissed by a majority of the populace? How should it make you feel? I’ll tell you; you’re right and they’re wrong.

Fuck ‘em.

Instantly

Car crash.
Backseat-
baby and passenger-
baby seat.
Side impact from the west.Red car.
Flash reflection.
Reaction time?
Protect the baby!

Pull the baby to the right…
Please… To the right…

Spinning. Then quiet.

Are we alive?

Darling

“I think I could give myself up to you, ‘cause you pushed your way through my attitude…”
Neneh Cherry, “Twisted.”

The endless repetition of this life’s job is broken like magic when you nod your head and bid me to come to you.

Because you, deep down, are unsure, I must be all the more.

And I must remain true to me, as well as you.

Because, you see, you are beautiful and fascinating and electric and extremely attractive…but if you are not the right one, I will not succumb to your temptations. I must.. not..

But, if you are, I will gladly acquiesce.

Mmmm…

What I’d like to say to the love of my life, whomever that might be…

“More than anything in this world; I wanna be your man-yeah.”
Lenny Kravitz, “More than anything in this world.”

Ooh, I’ve got a deep crush on for you now… I smell the areas where you have recently stood, hoping to catch a whiff of residual ions left in your wake.

It’s beyond physical, too. You’re the only one I wanna talk with. You’re the only one I want to impress.

You for you

It really is so totally
alright to have apprehension
about the implications
of addressing your emerging
homosexuality
within yourself,
and the change in dynamic, either real or perceived,
between yourself and all your
friends,
family,
peers…
everyone.

Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ scary.

Because, when you’re a thinker,
you can imagine all the bad things
that might happen…vividly,
with much clarity.
But the upside, well, is cloudier,
not as easy to interpret,more…
unknown.

But that’s all right.
Really.

This is a period of discovery,
for yourself, and for those around you.
And, depending how you look at it,
a very negative,
or a very
positive experience.

For you, it will be a great time in your life.
For you will figure out,
very easily,
who loves you for you,
and you will be so happy to find
that almost everyone you know
does love you for you.

And, once you’ve got that figured, everything else will slide right into place.

LumpLump

1996. The first lump appeared on Saturday, along with a couple of red rash like marks on the side and back of my neck. It was pretty hard, and when pressed, became sore. My imagination made it grow a bit over the weekend, coupled with bad eating, and a three-day drinking-binge, maybe. But then on Monday, today, it seemed to get smaller again, although the red rash had not changed. After work, I stood in the mirror and pressed and pressed, and it did feel smaller. I was not too worried at this point, as cysts run in my family. My sister has had at least one removed, as well as my Mother.

I was doing some laundry and napping this evening, and happened to touch my neck, discovering another, much more troublesome lump just south of a lymph node on my neck. I must admit a buzz of fear running through me, which was only a few minutes ago, so the impact of this new discovery is influencing these words as they are written. It is smaller than the first one, and not as painful, but the lump’s proximity to my lymphatic system is a little alarming.

What does this mean? The negative implications could be staggering, if I let them. After all, I don’t feel bad. In fact, aside from the fact I’m still smoking, I haven’t felt this good in years. I walk between six and twelve miles a day, mega-dose on vitamins, and for the most part, get enough sleep. Mentally, the outlook is good. Confidence comes easily, and the ability to get the most out of every day and every experience is much more assured.

So what’s with the lumps? God damn it, now I gotta go to the doctor. The terminal illness scenarios jump to the forefront of my mind: Cancer, AIDS, brain tumor…other shit I don’t want to deal with or think about. I wasted so much valuable time in my life dealing with hypochondria and all the associated crap-n-baggage that accompanies it. Now it’s time to be done with all that negativity.

So, of course, these lumps decide to show up to test my resolve. Maybe this is just a wake up call. After all, the body has many, many ways of dealing with impurities in its system. Cigarette smoke, marijuana, increased alcohol consumption, French fries, could all be factors…

1998-Oh yeah, this turned out to be multiple spider bites.

Uh…oof.

At Sandra’s

The wind blows. The shaded region of the apartment’s walkway is at the lower end of the comfort zone. It feels close to the mid 60’s. It's the perfect temperature for St. Louis in September.

Out from the shadows, one sees aqua clear blue skies. The wind touches and soothes the hair on my legs, my toes, and my ears. My mind churns along rapidly. So many abstracts to manage-all those balls in the air. Most of the time, innate machinations perform these tasks with little effort, little extra thought. Other times are more bipolar, and the struggle for serenity becomes much harder to accomplish.

When problems appear, do what you must to regain your inner-balance. Think thoughts through; diffuse negatives with the power of your intellect, your logic, your self.

Flex your muscles.

You are strong. Be strong.

1996

My little house St. Louis, MO, October 1996

I live in Maplewood, Missouri, next to St. Louis, bordering on the bigger city’s southwestern boundary. I am renting the “mother-in-law” cottage on my landlord’s property. Both houses are yellow. Mine is maybe 750 square feet, with a somewhat finished basement.

Built in 1926, it is a kit house from a mail-order catalog. Built in shelves in the living room and hall, the original kitchen sink, new paint inside and out, and new blue carpet. I am the first to move in after various improvements have been implemented. The inside walls are white. The front door is maroon. I have a porch, a front yard, and a really cool landlord.

I love this little house. I feel very light when I’m here. The very thought of it makes me smile. Although I have no furnishings, I walk through its emptiness and am content. I am alone and am not afraid. I can continue to heal and grow and process all that has happened.

Another dream involving airplanes

The plane was quite large, nearly empty, and it was night. The flight seemed to go on forever. I kept napping and waking, my grogginess never dissipating fully. The plane was traveling long distance, landing and taking off, always in darkness, no dawn or daylight on the horizon. The take off and landings seemed to be standard operating procedure, no sense of imminent destruction or danger, but each time we began final approach, an overwhelming sense of dread would drown out all other perceptions, all other emotions.

I was very tired, vaguely aware of having no control over this situation of flight. During the dream, vampires that resembled people were touching me, the feeling very pleasurable, yet at the same time, I could feel them drain life out of me, my essence slowly flowing form me to them. Their procedure was simple enough, their touch on my hand, or on my leg, their gaze directly into mine. The sensation was delicious, but I could not enjoy it fully because they were taking my life’s energy. This was not verbalized, but the vampires knew I knew and was unable to stop the process. That further empowered them. Their hollow smiles and dead eyes chilled me.

I woke up at 5:45 from a really heavy sleep and realized immediately that this wasn’t my bed. He was sucking my penis again, for the fourth time, and was relentless in his technique. I asked him to stop. I really needed to sleep.

The previous night was spent wasted again, drinking too much, allowing the old persona, the weak one, the lonely one, to take over and go home with someone hardly known, out of some misplaced need for affection; some need for something. And that need had bit me in the ass again. As he was bobbing up and down on my cock, I wondered if I would ever learn.

“I am insatiable.” He said, looking up, pausing from his efforts to drain my juice, my life, from me.

childrenAll those poor children St. Louis, Missouri, 1997

They line the highways, or sometimes they assume the shape of miniature cemeteries. The little white crosses, each for a life never created, for all to see. Oh, the little smiles and the little clothes and the little beats on the ceiling from the second story bedroom at bedtime that will never be... And oh, the collective guilt we should feel, so they say, for letting the slaughter continue. So passionate on this issue they are! They construct these abortion “cemeteries” all over the country, stage protests, enact legislation, print tracts, and harass and disturb the populace with pictures of aborted fetuses, all to ultimately, outlaw abortion. Enthusiasm wrapped around righteousness, covering the directed heart of a modern American zealot.

When I started writing what was to become what this is now, I felt strongly about the aspect of choice. To have or not have an abortion was no one else’s business. And it still isn’t. But now, my answer remains the same, but with a very different perspective on why this option is important: Range of circumstance and the singular spiritual impact between the God Force and person(s) involved that no one else, none of us, is able to comprehend. God works in mysterious ways y’all. Don’t you think that, if the fetus were really meant to be a baby, God would allow the abortion to happen?

The point that really grates my nerves about the whole “Pro-Life” trip is this: That because you are not “Pro-Life,” you are, by default, “Pro-Death.” This little if/then construct forms the basis of what is fundamentally ingrained within the collective consciousness, though not articulated by all, in the anti-abortion movement. This little thought compels thousands of mommies and daddies and little baby parrots to throw themselves and roll around in front of Planned Parenthood’s, and now, the homes of doctors who still perform abortions.

They demonstrate in Washington D.C. every January to mark the anniversary of Roe v. Wade. They want media visibility. They sling fetuses around in crowds and plant bombs. They tell 14 year old girls that they’ll go to hell if they abort their babies, and those 14 year old girls will believe that for the rest of their miserable lives, no matter what option they ultimately choose. No matter that her family might abandon or abuse her as a direct result of the pregnancy. This is not a concern.

Nor is it a concern when the mother is a crack addict, or an alcoholic, or suicidal, or locked in a relationship with a mentally or sexually abusive spouse. Or that the mother and father who are reprehensible enough to actually use abortion as birth control might not be ideal parents. This doesn’t matter. Nor does it matter that the baby will languish in an orphanage, or grow up in a ghetto, or not grow up at all, because mommy or daddy didn’t wanna take no lip from the screamin’ brat, and kicked it ‘til it died. That little consideration is of no consequence. They win their game when the baby lives: that’s all. The shit-hole existence the child actually gets to live in is all very interesting intellectually, but there are more fetuses to sling.

First of all, no one should be (or is..) in favor of killing babies. Infanticide and abortion are two different things. This point should be stressed, as anti-abortionists always minimize it. Some religions feel that one’s soul enters the body at the moment of birth. If this is so, the soul-less, physical vessel is, even moments before birth, no more human than the zygote at the moment of conception.

But if the soul does enter the body, at the moment of conception, and never sees the light of day due to miscarriage or abortion, is it without sin? Will it go to heaven? Now think about the unborn child. I am operating under the assumption that if a fetus dies, for whatever reason before birth; its soul goes directly to Heaven.

If this is not the case, do they burn in Hell for the sin of not being born? What is their sin? To me this sounds ludicrous. That wouldn’t be the reaction of a loving God. So in this circumstance, there is either one or the other.

Now how many of you Christians say the babies burn in Hell? Ok, then. So that leaves “Hey! One for God’s side!” So what’s the fuss? The soul receives free passage to where all the Christians wanna go; Heaven, and they don’t have to live through the soul-testing experiences of this “Hell on Earth.” Now stay with me here…

Maybe…the abortion is actually a spiritual test for the mother, and since baby gets to Heaven free, interference from those anti-abortionists is actually against God’s lesson for those involved, having nothing to do with the life of the child, whatsoever…. I know many women who’ve had abortions, and their lives have all been changed by the event. Some had dramatic reactions, some not. But they all learn things. About themselves, and others, what they are capable of doing and feeling, and what others are capable of feeling, saying and doing.

And then there’s the matter of those lucky little fetuses born into the heaven that is the life of an abused child. The little boy with cigarette burns and suspicious bruises, the little girl with semi-regular (2-5 times a week), stress-onset diarrhea, the daddies who shake, or beat, or intimidate, or molest, or who are absent, or the mothers guilty of the same behavior. And then there are others, who just weren’t wanted, facing their own set of disappointments, and humiliations. Operation Rescue, where are you? There are living children, right here, all around us, who need so much. Why won’t you help them?

There is the argument that, because this act is really only between that person and God (Ultimately, like all other acts), interference brought on by anti-abortionists interferes with the free will God offers.

Wow. Maybe, just maybe, that abortion would have changed one unknown woman and her self-destructive ways, whatever they might be. Maybe that act would have changed her husband or boyfriend, too. Maybe, through that one act, everything would or could change about them.

It’s all about free will and the free will to love God the way God wants you to. Everyone is on a different path. All will arrive, at different times, if they arrive at all, this time around. Yours is not condemn, but to love. Unless, that is, you think Jesus is wrong…

Central West End, St. Louis, 1995-1996

At the corner of Euclid and West Pine, there is an abortion clinic within a building of other doctor’s offices. Three or four times a week, a man and woman wore placards saying “Abortion Kills Babies” on one side, and a picture of an aborted fetus on the other, the famous “Silent Scream” picture. Fuckin’ perverse. You have to be a sicko to walk around with pictures of dead fetuses hanging off of you.

So they’d be there in the morning when I’d pass by, headed for work, wearing their placards, smug in their position. And everyday, I’d yell at them: “If you cared so much about babies like you say you do, why don’t you become foster parents or volunteer at an orphanage or find parents for the kids already born?” To which they would always say, “God bless you.” To which I’d say, “I don’t want your God’s blessing!” That’s always how it went when we crossed paths.

Fuck them. They just wanted to condemn others, stir up shit, and wear those placards. Radical “Pro-Lifers” are a bunch of fucking sadists, especially about their cause. Their definition of “Life” is so skewed. The zygote means more than the infant does. They kill the living protecting the unborn biology. All should live, but those who don’t agree should die. Sling a fetus for LIFE! Bomb a clinic or shoot a doctor for LIFE! How dare you. How dare you speak for God, for which you obviously know very little.

Shut up and fuck you. You can’t imagine the spectrum of circumstances out there, and the very real people who have them. This is not your garden to tend. Help the ones already born. They don’t need your dogma, just your compassion and aid. Like you and yours are so fond of saying, “just give it to God.”

No, you’re not. You can’t even imagine how very wrong you are.

Random thoughts of Café Balaban.St. Louis, MO, November 1995 - August - 1997.

1. Café Balaban was not a place I would have ever ventured into socially, or to eat, for that matter. It looked too expensive…and above me, somehow. But, as fate would have it, this became the primary place of employment during my stay in St. Louis. Two sets of double doors led to the restaurant, first into the atrium/café, with windows running the length of the room that could be opened when the temperature was pleasant. Another set of double doors led into the bar area, replete with deep reddish/maroon banquettes, hardwood floors, exposed brick, and an eight by eight mirror dominating the south wall. The mirror’s size and placement enables almost everyone in the bar to see everyone else via reflection.

A very subtle way for the mixed crowd to cruise, and very popular, too, as the bar was and still is usually packed. The near-darkness and red lights help, too. Everyone looks good under red lights. I learned that at Balaban’s.

Go downstairs from the bar, down the mirrored stairwell, treading on irregularly striped, muted reds and mauve, patterned-carpeted steps, into the “Disco Room” (as some of the waiters called it, as it looked and felt mid to late 70’s Glam down there), a.k.a. the Downstairs Dining Room. There was more brick and more banquettes. It was tasteful, in an outdated sort of way, with vaguely scandalous artwork adorning the walls. The linen, silverware, napkins, candles, place settings, all beautiful in their arrangement, the same as everywhere in the dining room, still the basement was the “ugly step-sister” to the Front Room, upstairs.

Balaban’s was/is a place one goes to see and be seen. The crowd was Jewish, St. Louis Old Money, Gay, Famous, Yuppies, City people, and well to do Suburbanites. And a table in the Front Room (or upstairs, for that matter, depending on the night, or holiday) meant one had some Clout, Money, Glamour, or Looks that the maitre de, or the owners, acknowledged via placement within the dining room. Not necessarily always, but sometimes this was the case. The Front and Back Rooms were unified in decoration, with large, European Art-Deco prints, plants, and mirrors complementing the red brick, white linen, and light wood that caught and held one’s attention by the very act of entering its space. The best waiters worked here, along with the best or most good looking, of the rest of the support staff.

The most amazing aspect about Balaban’s, to me, was the synchronicity of the staff during busy periods. I could look around the room and watch the other employees moving about, in time with the other, pulling and placing, re-filling, allowing, presenting, insuring that everything was in its proper place, and that everything was delicious and perfect. Movement felt almost choreographed yet was unspoken. The hardwood footfalls of myself and those working around me would increase or decrease in speed, depending on the volume of business. People dressed up and looked good when they ate at Balaban’s. I loved to look around the room while working. I felt glamorous and beautiful by association and inclusion.

2. I worked with a waiter named Terry. The others nicknamed him “Forrest,” as he was rather un-coordinated and far too scattered as an individual to ever be competent in the service industry. Nice guy, but waiting tables was so not for him. He became more awkward the busier he got, which was often, as brunch was/is/always will be a non-stop stream of work.

The few times we worked together, even casual observers would have no problem viewing his descent into his very own brand of clumsy, weeded insanity, running in and out of the kitchen and dining room, nothing in his hands, not knowing where to go. By then, someone on the staff would say, “Run, Forrest! Run!” And that, too, would set him off, running in all directions except the right one. I don’t know what his tables thought, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t amused.

3. Lauren.

A. My friend Lauren, the actress/waitress, was frowning in the wait station, collecting the required items for immediate delivery to her section. I asked her what was wrong. “Nobody understands the pain,” she said. “I got a section full of freaks drinkin’ iced tea and I gotta please ‘em!” She began to smile again, as it took me a while to stop laughing.

B. One night, as I had just opened my door in the 7-11 parking lot, she screamed, “You got the shot-gun, I got the panty hose! LET’S DO THIS!” The woman getting out of the car next to us got back in and drove away quickly while we laughed. Lauren has fun with words.

4. 1995, early 1996 Fucking brunch, man…the shift that tries one’s soul, like no other. It’s early and it’s on Sunday. It’s eggs and old people. It’s usually associated with a hangover (with most players-staff and customers included), it’s the before or after church crowd. It’s sports fans before the upcoming Rams loss, and it’s special needs regulars with their special needs kids. It’s fast and ugly and has nothing to do with Jesus or the true meaning of Sunday.

It’s the weekly tradition of those who have little else to look forward to. It’s multiple pots of coffee, a blueberry or chocolate chip muffin and half eaten (by the staff) egg mistakes along the back line of the kitchen. It’s looking at people looking at you as you serve them your food. It’s catching the eye of someone you find sexually attractive, even if they’re with someone else, if even for a moment. It can be fun, when you fully wake up, or have mastered your hangover.

Then it’s over at 3:00 p.m. The night waiters and staff replace the day crew, and the day crew moves to the bar to drink some of their earnings. Cigarettes are smoked, stories are swapped, joints are smoked (downstairs or in the alley), and plans for tonight are formed. I have begun to warm to my co-workers. I am less tentative, less reticent, and more comfortable in exposing more of myself to them. Some of these people, my co-workers, I think I can trust.

5. Station three in the Café always felt like a punishment, especially in the winter. There were six tables in all, three on each side of the main entrance. So, along with the usual burden of waiting one’s station, there were the extra added difficulties of (1) navigating through the overflow of people at the entrance, (2) dealing with the bitter cold (or unreal heat, in the summer) seeping into the building whenever anyone came or went (constantly), and (3) having the “stigma tables,” at which almost no one willingly sat, also for the aforementioned reasons. The patrons that did stay could also be counted on to be some of the least happy in the restaurant. My shift would pretty well be shot upon learning tonight’s shift was working in dreaded station three.

6. Expediting the food. The job of Expediter (Expo) at a restaurant usually consists of the following actions: (1) Grouping cooked/prepared orders together, applying proper garnish and sides. (2) Traying the complete order for the waiter. (3) Having a food runner or another waiter take the order to the waiter, or taking it his or herself. (And/or) (4) Wait for the waiter to appear to give him/her the complete order. (And /or) (5) Scream like a maniacal banshee until the waiter runs to the kitchen as if on fire for said order.

An example of (5).

I was working one day in dreaded station three, having a bad day anyway, and about two steps behind wherever I should have been. I went to the kitchen several times for an order that should’ve been up minutes ago but remained MIA. The Expo, kitchen, and my table were mad at me for different reasons concerning the order. The back of the house felt pressured, and the people at my table were hungry and grumpy, thereby pressuring me. As I was apologizing (again) for not having their food and pouring them even more coffee, the Expo yells out from the kitchen “LANCE! PICK UP YOUR FUCKING EGGS!”

I excused myself from their table, smiling, saying, “I think that’s your food.” They were happy when I returned with what was indeed, their food. They tipped me pretty well. I think the verbal abuse might have helped.

After work

“When I first moved here, I promised myself I’d write every day and be disciplined about it. I’ve written twice.” He said, passing me the still-lit pipe. “It’s just…so much has happened I a short time, and it’s too much to process all at once. I have to just step back and just, take it all in.”

“Yeah,” I say. That sounds familiar. I exhale pot smoke and shift into fourth. We are driving east on Colfax Avenue, in _____’s Isuzu Trooper, toward his house. I must, too, stop, step back, take everything in, and try not to leave anything out. Out of place. Every step, every acquaintance, every action; its all very important to remember now.

It’s January of 1998, in Denver, Colorado. I have begun to equate my progressive emotional states with physical localities in which they have occurred. Key West equals devastating excess coupled with crippling manic depression and mental imbalance. Saint Louis equals isolation and ultimately, a greater sense of self and self worth. Hopefully, Denver will allow me the opportunity to grow, write, and progress.

Scott is a writer, too. We wait tables at the same restaurant, yet another in a growing list of restaurants of my employ. We talk and agree on a variety of subjects. We are both having internal discipline problems. He is handsome, and lets almost no one know that he is intelligent, not to mention a writer.

Denver, 1998

Flying into what was, in the dream, Key West, from an unknown location, some time in the future. The terrain was nothing close to the island in reality, as it was hilly and steep and curvy, closer geographically to the Ozarks. There were tropical plants, blooming varieties of flowers, and various types of other vegetation not indigenous to the area. Palms were next to trees whose leaves were the reds and gold of fall season.

From the plane, through the terminal..

I got on a bus. A friend from St. Louis was driving. She was also the tour guide for the shuttle. As she pointed and recited anecdotes in her Turkish-inflected English, I wondered how she ended up here, her vast knowledge and potential unrealized, like myself.

A midsummer night’s dream 1998

I dreamt this cartoon image, of a person’s mind, in which row after row of roses were blooming, continually, in rhythm, pulsing quickly, manufacturing colors, an overwhelming visual. Flowing and graceful, everything is b e au ti ful. Diffused, glowing colors, born almost textured, not quite physically tangible, the manifest of opiates.

Rows and rows of peace.

..And I dreamed of the homeless man dreaming of the roses, sleeping on a single mattress, in an alleyway, next to the Dumpster. No pillow, no sheets. A hot night, the space between life and death’s release.

So very far from his home.

In his dream, he smiles.

Friday night, Colfax Avenue, Denver, CO, 1998

The homeless man stepped on the crowded bus. The front of the bus erupted when his smell hit. That wall of…shitsmell. Truly unbelievable, and so immediate!

“Don’t let him on! Don’t let him on!” They yelled at the driver, who too, was visibly repulsed, yet did anyway. I’d never come close to a smell this bad. This pathetic fuckin’ guy walking around, living like this, utterly, completely, a pariah. What an awful, terrible life he must have.

His hair was matted, and his clothes had taken a dirt brown tint. He was holding two boxes. He was smiling in a way denoting confusion; unsure of what was happening, unsure of another course other than getting on the bus. He wore an absent smile for those yelling at and because of him.

People were yelling and moving away from him, from the smell, as he smiled that innocent half-smile. So fucking humiliating-he had no idea. Way too painful-gotta get away. I had to get off.

Walking down Colfax became much heavier. That poor wretch. I watched the bus continue its slow, westerly progress. The guy on the bench to my left turned all the way around to stare as I walked by John Elway’s Auto Nation. It was after 11:00 p.m. and the temperature still hovered near 90, sunrise still many hours away.

High ideal

“…And you are, not quite like all the rest…”
Ultra Vivid Scene, “Extra-Ordinary.”

Would you be my muse?

You wouldn’t have to do too much; there’s not a lot to do. Just be you. Let me look at and listen to you. Then, later, I’ll think about you and that experience. Then, maybe, I’ll write something, or make something, or someday, sculpt something beautiful, my inspiration born from the knowledge of your acquaintance.

How about it, would you be interested?

Does your smile count as a yes?

For..

It must be amazing to stand next to, or across from, the one you might just be with, possibly, for the rest of your life. The thoughts you must think! The chorus runs through my head from time to time, “How do I know you feel it? How do I know it’s true?”

But that question is answered by the look in your eyes, from across the room, as your lips upturn into a smile that throws its warmth in my direction, bathing me in you. And then, there you are, standing next to me, smiling, just like I wished only seconds before.

Quote from the Blue Nile, “Downtown lights.”

In the past…into the past

“…Life is overwhelming; heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
Limp Bizkit, “Re-arranged.”

His father, whose high position and esteem allowed him the disciplined restraint to cloak his disappointment, instructed them, once again, to retrieve his son from whatever mire mired him at the moment. And they did, pulling him out of stables and taverns and ditches, wallowing in filth, or from the arms of his many lovers, and from fights. They would clean him up and sober him up or put him to bed and force him to eat. Then everything was better, again, for the meantime.

The cycle would continue then, again, and the father became increasingly depressed, consumed by the notion that he was the cause of his beloved son’s sadness…his ways. And he wondered what he did or said that generated such pain. But in reality, this was not at all the case. The son in fact, agonized over the disappointment and difficulty he caused his father, adding more to his burden. His problems he carried squarely on his shoulders as he sank deeper and more firmly into his own design.

In time, there was nothing to do. All the man’s power, his influence, was not enough to save his most loved son. He had loved his father so very much. But he was scared to be the king.

The five hurricanesThe five hurricanes.

In Key West, so the story goes, “El Finito” is the final hurricane, the massive tempest that erases the island, leaving nothing behind.

People who live on the coasts of oceans have always lived under the specter of the water turning on them, their provider, without warning, becoming their enemy.

St. Louis, MO, early June 1996.

She was trying to wake me. Evidently, I had woken her. “What’s wrong?” She said. “Why are you making those noises?”“The five hurricanes.” I said, still not conscious of being conscious. My roommate slept on the day bed; I slept on a love seat at least two feet too short. The St. Louis heat in our third floor studio oven, even in the middle of the night was more than uncomfortable. She told me of the exchange later, in the morning. I had no idea of its meaning. I was stoned when I went to bed.

Denver, CO, January 1999.

A few days before this particular day, a friend from work suffered a serious head injury while skiing. Most of us were wondering how long it would be before she died. The two of us had lived in Key West at the same time, shared some common acquaintances while there, and yet had never met; then. Fast forward to Denver and the realization of our near-miss friendship, and the bond of similar experience in the now, and my realization that our time this time around was to be brief. Now she was comatose, her brain swelling, her friends in disbelief, her death at hand.

Her effect on her co-workers was strong (As she was charming, beautiful, magnetic…), and her effect on me, intense. It was all right to reminisce with her. She understood that life; what it was like to live it (or live through it). She had experienced it also. Knowing her enabled me to let go of so much baggage just by talking with her. Her impending death was devastating; it’s impact driving me further and further into my own inward recesses, metaphorically parallel to the recesses of the loft apartment at which I was house-sitting. I could literally seal myself off from the rest of the city, co-workers, and the few friends on the outside with whom I chose to communicate.

I was completely anesthetized, stonedstonedstoned, the television on with no sound, music loud, dancing with her memory, waiting for more news from my more courageous friends who stayed at the hospital. A friend who called directly after the accident kept saying “What a bad, bad girl,” her tone far away, her state of psychological shock evident. The muted Weather Channel cut to a map of the Caribbean and South Atlantic. The map reported four hurricanes and a system brewing. I had forgotten about that night in St. Louis, but then, the memory returned. My thoughts turned to the past, then to the future. The eventuality “El Finito” will come to Key West.

My friend has made a miraculous recovery since. She now lives in St. Louis and is friends with some of my friends there. They’ve said, had they not known about the injury, they would have never guessed that anything happened to her, much less the time line of her injury and present recovery, which is just a week over five months. She doesn’t remember the accident, the eventual groggy return to this world, where her mind was during…which is probably for the best. These turn of events have significantly altered my life, my wanting to forgive, to live in the now, to make sense of this precious gift of life.

St. Louis, May 1998

My former roommate told me of a recurring dream of her being in charge of a group of people, their leader. She did not want this task, but felt like their entire lives depended on her. Her aunt has strong psychic abilities and some of those gifts, she feels, have been passed on to her. She didn’t understand the significance of this vision or dream.

St. Louis, April 1999

While waiting for my former landlord to return home so I could retrieve the last of my belongings left hastily in St. Louis before my move to Denver, I wound up in a New-Age bookstore near her house, thumbing randomly through books. I came upon a chronicle of Nostradomous, channeled and interpreted through three psychics, the book written in a multiple interview format. By 2006, according to this book, to these psychics, the geography of the United States has been severely altered through shifts in tectonic plates under the North American continent. California and Florida were gone, the Southwest, to the Rockies, underwater.

The most disturbing information in these pages to me, if this indeed transpires, the words that stunned and rendered me dumb struck in the well lit and pleasantly scented Mystic Valley bookstore was this: The three prominent cities of the new “Mid-West” were Omaha, Nebraska (A seaport), Jefferson City, Missouri, and Harrison, Arkansas, a town 36 miles to the south of my hometown of Branson. Most everything to the west was under water. Reading further, the psychics were questioned on the status and how these changes affected St. Louis. St. Louis, according to them, was gone. No trace left of the confluence of the rivers Missouri and Mississippi. Metro St. Louis, almost three million people in two states, nowhere to be found in seven years.

If the rains come, if the changes happen, I hope my friend will be ready. As for the dream of the five hurricanes…I hope…I really hope I’m wrong.

Maybe though, there’s no way to prevent the coming cleansing rain.