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Late night thoughts to no-where.
Feb. 27th, 2004 01:35 amFreedom.
A short poem by Anthony R.
( Read more... )
I had an interesting freak out moment earlier. I thought that I had completely fucked things up. Who was supposed to call who? I hadn't called, and she hadn't called, and the paranoia--the Fear set in. Don't sabotage this one my boy; you know that's your M.O., so knock that shit off. I was ready to just give up, throw in the towel, and figure it was done, because, once again, Anthony had blown it.
The phone rang at 9:40pm.
We talked for two hours, about nothing really. And some of everything. And I rambled, and she laughed; and then she rambled, and I laughed and coughed; and then we had awkward moments of silence. Had we been in the room, this would have beem filled with kinda looking at each other, smiling and giggling into our Martini's or our Coffee.
Got off the phone, put on some music, and then wandered over to Mom on the computer. She was searching for dress suits for short, plus sized women, and failing miserably. She cursed, and then ranted about the ongoing struggle that she's faced in finding good office clothing. And she's right, because, I've seen the fight she's had to endure, and it's bull shit. The world, it seems, is crafted for tall, skinny women who don't dress professional style. At least, that's what she's getting.
Too bad, really: The Mom has taste and style. She knows what she wants, but has no idea where to find it. This is something that I've been able to relate to my whole life. I mean, where does one really find a well cut suit for under $200. You can't. And she can't either, and it kinda blows. I mean, for goodness sakes--$400 for A SKIRT? What kinda shit is that? *sigh* Nordstroms can blow me.
I left her to her surfing, and grandma to her snoring, and broke out the Bukowski.
I've been stuck trying to read Hemingway (who I adore, but am having "the slows" with), and decided to pick up my currently ignored copy of Bukowski's Women. It's an interesting read, more raunchy than most of his other writing, but well...there's more sex in it. But more sadness, I think. No, I know. There is much more sadness in this one. Longing. One that I can somewhat understand.
Somewhere in there, a friend of his dies, and his widow calls him to let him know. His first reaction is to pour a drink. And in that moment, he reflects, and writes the best summation of why many of us pour one back from time to time to time to a lot:
That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens yhou drink to make something happen.
Most of us (those of us who do go out drinking) drink to make something happen. Because, more often than not, there ain't a damn thing happening. Even in the middle of a club, or a party, or a room full of beautiful people.
I put my bookmarker where I'd stopped for the night, and rolled over in the bed to make sure the alarm clock was set. It was. And I lay there looking up at the cobwebs in the corners. And then I have to write. Something. Anything. Now.
I got up, and went to the kitchen, got a glass of juice, sucked it down, and then shooed mom off to bed.
And then this. Whatever this is. Ramblings of a mind. A bit too late, I think. I need to move my tape recorder back next to the bed. I had other things to say here, that were in my head earlier. And now they're lost. I took too long.
Sometimes it is both a curse, and a blessing to have a time when your mind runs freeflow circles. But mine, it seems, only gets active when I'm tired, or when I *should* be tired. Middle of the day at work, when I'm pooped; middle of the night, in bed, when I'm exhausted.
This is my life. This is that strange experiment that I call a life. Wow, this is a neat thing, ain't it? Ain't it?
( Another Poem )
A short poem by Anthony R.
( Read more... )
I had an interesting freak out moment earlier. I thought that I had completely fucked things up. Who was supposed to call who? I hadn't called, and she hadn't called, and the paranoia--the Fear set in. Don't sabotage this one my boy; you know that's your M.O., so knock that shit off. I was ready to just give up, throw in the towel, and figure it was done, because, once again, Anthony had blown it.
The phone rang at 9:40pm.
We talked for two hours, about nothing really. And some of everything. And I rambled, and she laughed; and then she rambled, and I laughed and coughed; and then we had awkward moments of silence. Had we been in the room, this would have beem filled with kinda looking at each other, smiling and giggling into our Martini's or our Coffee.
Got off the phone, put on some music, and then wandered over to Mom on the computer. She was searching for dress suits for short, plus sized women, and failing miserably. She cursed, and then ranted about the ongoing struggle that she's faced in finding good office clothing. And she's right, because, I've seen the fight she's had to endure, and it's bull shit. The world, it seems, is crafted for tall, skinny women who don't dress professional style. At least, that's what she's getting.
Too bad, really: The Mom has taste and style. She knows what she wants, but has no idea where to find it. This is something that I've been able to relate to my whole life. I mean, where does one really find a well cut suit for under $200. You can't. And she can't either, and it kinda blows. I mean, for goodness sakes--$400 for A SKIRT? What kinda shit is that? *sigh* Nordstroms can blow me.
I left her to her surfing, and grandma to her snoring, and broke out the Bukowski.
I've been stuck trying to read Hemingway (who I adore, but am having "the slows" with), and decided to pick up my currently ignored copy of Bukowski's Women. It's an interesting read, more raunchy than most of his other writing, but well...there's more sex in it. But more sadness, I think. No, I know. There is much more sadness in this one. Longing. One that I can somewhat understand.
Somewhere in there, a friend of his dies, and his widow calls him to let him know. His first reaction is to pour a drink. And in that moment, he reflects, and writes the best summation of why many of us pour one back from time to time to time to a lot:
That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens yhou drink to make something happen.
Most of us (those of us who do go out drinking) drink to make something happen. Because, more often than not, there ain't a damn thing happening. Even in the middle of a club, or a party, or a room full of beautiful people.
I put my bookmarker where I'd stopped for the night, and rolled over in the bed to make sure the alarm clock was set. It was. And I lay there looking up at the cobwebs in the corners. And then I have to write. Something. Anything. Now.
I got up, and went to the kitchen, got a glass of juice, sucked it down, and then shooed mom off to bed.
And then this. Whatever this is. Ramblings of a mind. A bit too late, I think. I need to move my tape recorder back next to the bed. I had other things to say here, that were in my head earlier. And now they're lost. I took too long.
Sometimes it is both a curse, and a blessing to have a time when your mind runs freeflow circles. But mine, it seems, only gets active when I'm tired, or when I *should* be tired. Middle of the day at work, when I'm pooped; middle of the night, in bed, when I'm exhausted.
This is my life. This is that strange experiment that I call a life. Wow, this is a neat thing, ain't it? Ain't it?
( Another Poem )
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