Looking sideways

When I'm driving in my car, I cannot help but look at other drivers. Once in a very infrequent while, they manage to snap out of their robotic daze and look back at me; but most of the time, they are too deep in process, in thoughtless autopilot, to look anywhere but exactly where they need to. Sometimes, I realize that I haven't been looking at the road for a really long time. Subconsciously, I was taking care of the turns, the pedals and lights of driving, while my conscious mind was busy with the rest of the world, with looking at the other drivers, who never look back. A metaphor for my life. I can't figure out how everybody can seem so damn focused on mere tasks, when there are so many more real things to pay attention to. It's always nice when the mindless journey to a mindless task such as work is, by itself, an opportunity to step outside that autopilot. What most people do to step outside the mindless autopilot of work is merely the autopilot of home, and that won't get you anywhere.

Memories of my Childhood

The sky turns a bright wash of pink as my head hits the concrete. I love that feeling, when alcohol has taken you to bed and you are simply playing your body like a marionette, clumsily prancing about with all the strings tangling up. As I fall, I have no awareness of anything at all. When my head hits, like I said, I only know that the sky changes color, and I realize that I’ve fallen, as the sky has now opened up in front of me, pushed the earth back, simply to get my attention. My friends are manic with laughter, help me to my feet. Alcohol at age, I don’t know, we’ll say 16, is freedom. We’re suddenly stereotypes of ourselves in a stupid ‘90s movie. In the parking lot of the gold dome church that night, I have no other memories, just falling, then a little bit of blood, nothing too bad. I think we smoke and drink and kiss the girls and spend time sneaking around, feeling like our souls are on fire. We own the world at night, when grown-ups are confined to their houses. If we can make it outside and run, which we usually do, we can get to a hilltop somewhere with a backpack full of Mickey’s 40s or a bottle of something that makes you retch. We can get fucked up and hug each other and be sincere and somber when we’re exhausted from acting like crazed apes. It’s less a memory of an event than a memory of a feeling. A good feeling. Well done, us.

holding a dry rose head