When in Doubt…
June 21, 2004
Feeling alone again. I am the only one who can relate to myself.
Another summer swelters by, and lately, the brown waters of the Gulf have been a turn off. Nothing new, I’m going nowhere and growing old in the process.
The past has passed and all those faces I used to call friends are unrecognizable to me now. I’m better off anyway.
Out of money. Out of time. Out of ideas. I trudge forward believing in hope for it is in our nature to hope.
I am the master of excuses, and with a lifetime of experiences to draw from, for I have not lived an ordinary life, I am just being lazy, I have no reason not to write. “Get it back, whatever it was, retrieve the only talent you’ve got. It still lurks.”
Trying again to stay faithful to what I once believed in. What kept me going. What set me apart.
Anything, Everything, Something
And maybe I’ll go all by myself. Jump in the car, take to the highway and follow where I may until the view comes into view and I’m pleased with what I see. Maybe I’ll do what I once wanted to do and see the rest of the country, see what I haven’t seen, see something other than me. Fading fast, but it’s what they say, nothing ever lasts, but if I could just keep the boredom from seeping through, if I could just forget about myself, I could do or be anything. Constantly distracted by everything else, I can’t find the want or the time to better myself. Temporary fulfillment is wearing off. I think my biggest problem is not having anyone else to relate to and feeding only from myself.
Greetings From New Mexico
June 2004
Just got off the phone with Cole. He’s a friend I met in Jellystone. I’m glad we’ve kept in touch. It’s 2 in the morning, and when I heard the phone ring, I almost didn’t pick up. He’s in New Mexico right now working at a movie theater. He’s the guy who sits up in that little room upstairs and runs the movie reels, the same job Lyle had. The same job Lyle had when he hanged himself in that little upstairs room…
I’m glad he called. We talked about collaborating on an independent magazine. I know, and I even told him how idealistic it sounded and not very practical. He reminded me that idealism, although far-fetched can lead to success and happiness if carried through with enough confidence, hard work, and, most of all, talent. We’ll see. I’m watching the Sharon Osbourne Show right now marveling at the wonders of plastic surgery.
Already Cancelled
It takes work. Sometimes it just doesn’t come to you, most of the time it just doesn’t come to you, but you keep writing, you keep trying, you keep filling your pages with anything that comes to mind. Anything. Anything eventually turns into something, and page after page, something begins to take shape…
Shapely forms invade my space and, forced to compete, I dress in my finest and strut about as if I’m the next big thing…
The next big thing is not such a good thing. They’re out as fast as they’re in. Wait ten years and you’ll be back in style…
Style is debatable, and if beauty really is in the eye of the beholder, why does society and the media behold the exact same replica?
Beauty fades with youth, but then again, Sharon Osbourne’s already discovered the fountain of youth.
Efficiency Blues
June 22, 2004
I spent way too much money on my last bag of weed, but that’s what I get for letting Bay City hook me up. That’s what I get.
My money is running low, but I don’t want to get a job. I don’t want to waste my time working for someone else to keep my skinny little head above the muddy bayou waters.
Cancelled plans cause mild disappointment. There’s no time to make up for lost time. Oh well, I’ll do my best to make the best of the situation. But let me say this, I want my own place.
Working through this as fast as I possibly can. Something good has to come from it. Sooner or later, something brilliant will come my way.
Too Much Eye of Newt
June 22, 2004
I wanted to go to the beach today, but lightning and rain kept me home. I was supposed to go to the beach for my birthday, but lightning and rain kept me home. It has always been this way since I was a child. Plans for the beach are always rained out.
Summer thunderstorms carry on through the night, and as the thunder grows more distant, I hope for another round. Not a good time for the beach, but nonetheless, I do love “nasty” weather. My best friend calls me a witch because Mother Nature always delivers on my birthday. When I was in Yellowstone I got snow, and back home in Houston I always get thunderstorms. Gwen calls it “witch weather.”
The floods are back, but in another month, we’ll be in drought.
Just Venting
June 25, 2004
Thunderstorms are still going strong, and next week’s forecast is forecasting more rain, meanwhile, the west is going through a drought. June is coming to a close, and as August creeps closer, I know in the back of my mind that I’ll never reach South Padre this summer. I just keep watching the days effortlessly pass by, drawn out like an overly complex movie without a plot, but yet you keep watching, waiting for something to happen, waiting for an end, waiting for a climax, waiting for an explanation.
I am self-absorbed and wading in my own closed-off world. But isn’t that the mark of any true poet or musician or artist? Self-absorbment? Is that even a word? It’s amazing how many words there are in the English language that I didn’t know existed. Thumbing through the dictionary, I realize how limited my vocabulary is. I’ve been biding my time with crossword puzzles, and the dictionary has become my new best friend. Speaking of best friends, mine quit smoking. I never realized how much of our quality time was spent outside smoking cigarettes. I actually don’t feel as close to her now. Isn’t that sick? Surely I’m not that shallow. Surely I’m not that bad of a friend. But I’m being supportive, and her mood swings aren’t that severe. I should quit.
Content again, content and bored of being content, maybe I should try challenging myself. I’m still planning on taking piano lessons from my mom, that’s challenging. My mom broke her hip about three months ago, I almost fainted when I saw her in the ER. Nothing gory, I just couldn’t handle it, but that’s a different story. She’s back home now walking with a cane and getting around well. Pretty soon she’ll be able to ditch the cane.
Kiddie Stuff
June 26, 2004
I miss you sometimes. I miss you now, but not enough to call. I still hate you more than I miss you. But life is getting to me again and I need your ear, your always open ear. I won’t let myself go crawling back.
I cried today for a girl I barely knew in high school. A girl who died her freshman year at the hand of her “friends.” I barely knew her, we talked maybe once or twice, but my friends were her friends, and so we were part of the same expanding group, the same exhausted high school clique. It’s a disturbing story, more like something from a teen movie gone bad, like one of those things that happens in a different school with a different group of kids in a different state far removed from my reality. But it happened, and as I age, I can’t shake it, or forget it, or accept it. As I age, it becomes more disturbing and I can’t put it to rest.
In 1993, when I was fifteen (but much older it seemed), I lost most of my friends by standing my ground, and as insane as those years were, I can look back now and know I was right. A true test of morale, individualism, and self, I found my strength when I was fifteen, only to lose it again and again in following years.
And justice never gained…what do we do with that?
I can’t comprehend the pain suffered throughout the world. Starvation, abuse, senseless death, death of a loved one, death in general, murder, poverty, rape, torture, war, death, death, death… But yet we are still in danger of overpopulating the earth. How can that be possible?
Plagued by Dead Rodents
July 5, 2004
On the way out of my neighborhood the other day, I saw a squirrel get run over by an SUV. He saw it coming. My Camry was almost culprit. He freaked out, couldn’t find his way, and after running erratically from one side to the other, he found the wrong way. Didn’t make it.
Rats invaded the attic. I’m counting mosquito bites on my exposed body, and although the deadly chemicals emitted from a passing truck are stifling to my lungs, I welcome the toxic spray—we’ll worry about the environmental effects later, I hate those blood-sucking bastards.
A foul odor worsens in the hallway, it is the distinct smell of death. We look to the attic, and upon pulling that inevitable string, rat droppings sprinkle down upon our heads. Who wants to crawl up there and take care of the smell? Find the rotting rodent, dispose of the carcass. Any takers?
Stagnant Water in Rising Ditches
Here I am, back in time, watching the calendar flip through another year, and here I am, caught up in another minor crisis, worrying about the future and wasting life.
The subtle changes that permanently invade my generation’s face grow more defined. Waves bring in a new tide. Old debris is taken back out to sea, I can see the point on the horizon where brown waters merge with the green, the point where the Gulf flows free of deposits from a muddy river, green waters on the horizon. But I’m not allowed to venture towards the clear and inviting sea for local rains have produced too much runoff and the sewers are overflowing. My ocean is off limits because of the amount of feces polluting her waves. I am stranded inland waiting for the waters to clear as the sun grows nearer.
Sunday Barbecue
July 24, 2004
At times like these the last thing I want to do is write, but I have to. I have no other choice, besides losing my mind, and I might do that anyway. So yeah, I have issues, probably need to seek therapy, but instead I sought out my best friend. In an insanely clear night brought on by tequila shots, I told her. Through sobbing and occasional vomiting, I told her. Now, a year later, we both must face the inevitable. I hope she can bite her tongue, I hope I can do the same. I plan on being drunk before our arrival.
I never wanted this moment to occur, but I’ve never been able to say “no” to an old friend. She’s oblivious to my secrets, she just misses her friends. Gwen and I miss her too, but much has changed. I no longer lie. I am beyond the past and full of hate. I am scarred for the rest of my life, but no longer alone. I feel used, certainly abused, and stupid for keeping it to myself for so long, but I am no longer alone, not as much as before anyway.
But tomorrow is fast on its way, and I must mentally prepare, like that’s even possible, but I must try. It has been a year since I’ve last seen any of them, I don’t even fully understand why I’m going, or maybe I do and I just don’t want to admit it. Yeah, this is the perfect time to run out of drugs, but I’m dousing myself with alcohol and cigarettes, what else can I do? So yes, I’m full of hate and ready to come clean to the rest of the world, anonymously of course, an instant publication. Who would turn my passion and experience down? Getting off track, avoiding the real issue here. I was sexually abused for most of my youth by a close friend, a confidant, a loved one. An evil stepdad. There’s the point. What do I do with it?
Letting Go of Holding Back VI
Hey Lyle, thought I’d write. It’s been a while. Your sister is living with us temporarily, just until she gets back on her feet. Your mom and dad aren’t helping her, they’re self-absorbed assholes. Did I tell you they divorced? I really don’t have much to say except you’re still missed. I really wish you were still alive. I wish you hadn’t killed yourself, but that’s redundant isn’t it? You did, and that’s that. There’s nothing else, you gave up and left us behind.
Finally, I think I’m numb for the night, even without the aid of my most cherished chemical. Sucked dry. In the same breath, I think I’m still sober. Sober and emotionless.
Better Days Beyond the Haze
June 30, 2004
No time for time. It’s inevitable and fleeting.
I cry when I watch the news. I think we’ve lost our minds. A 95 year-old woman was working in her garden in the backyard of her home and was raped in broad daylight by an unknown intruder. Locked doors and shut windows mislead my sense of safety, and fear of the outside world is fast becoming my disease.
My mood is in better shape than it was a week ago, but I have yet to fully recover. On top of all that’s bad, my cat ran off and never came back. I hope he found what he was looking for. I hope he’s okay. I miss him.
An owl approached me the other night, and I was impressed by his fearlessness. We sat staring at each other until he caught a glimpse of something in my neighbor’s backyard.
Gage Holden Niemann
(My nephew)
My sweet baby boy, you are only two weeks old and already you’ve experienced the pain of this world. The first time I held you I was nervous and unsure of myself. I think you were probably nervous too. I’m not used to babies, and you’re not used to life, so we can both figure it out together.
I can’t wait until you reach your toddler years where you’ll be talking up a storm and walking only to fall down. You’re trying to crawl now, but you can’t quite do it yet. Holding yourself up with your hands and knees, you stay in that position just staring down at the floor. I can tell you’re thinking about crawling, but every time you try, you do a belly flop face first on the carpet. Nothing is sweeter than watching your father cradle you as you both fall asleep together.
Mad Gambling
August 10, 2004
I have the air conditioner turned down to 65. The electric bill is not my concern. I’m in Louisiana right now with my dad. We’re staying a night at the Isle of Capri in Lake Charles. With the casino in walking distance, it’s a convenient location. It’s ten till four and dad is already gone for the night, but I’ll be catching up with him soon. I’m gambling with the $40 he gave me, otherwise, I wouldn’t gamble at all. Not that I don’t enjoy it. I mean, what’s not to enjoy? Free drinks, interesting people, flashing neon lights and matching sound effects – I really do like this atmosphere but I’m not about to blow my money on the chance that I may or may not hit the big one. I’m tight with money but I’ll spend dad’s, and if I do win anything, I get to keep it.
Left to Wait
August 30, 2004
Stranded on campus with nothing to do but write. I have about 30 minutes to kill before my ride gets out of class. I’m hungry, thirsty, and I have a headache, but my classes for the day are over. It’s the second week of the fall semester and so far so good. I have yet to see Jerry, a blast from the past I have successfully been able to dodge, and although I have presentations to give in not one but two classes, my fear level is not as high as it has been. I’m sick of school and ready to get on with my life, but I won’t be finished with my BA for another year. Who knew college would take this long? I’m burnt out and ready to improve my resume. It’s time to replenish my supply and brainwash myself into believing in something again. Yellowstone is once again a part of my plans and the only real thing I’ve got going on.
Designated Writing Time
September 13, 2004
Saved perhaps for some other time, pictures carved from poetry are nearing expiration. Saved and then forgotten, I am forgetting what their purpose was.
Another long day finished and spent, I look forward to a night to myself. Just like thousands of other nights spent engulfed in myself, I still follow the beat of my early twenties. Changed but still relatively the same. I’m watching myself grow old in this manner, and sometimes it drives me to madness. Sometimes I can forget about age altogether. When I’m once again inspired by being uninspired, perhaps I will access all those carved pictures and broken verses and create what was once envisioned. When I am not so wrapped up in myself and am able to see beyond my own eyes and remember my reasons for keeping track, even if it is nonsense, maybe I will create something from scratch, something new.
Somewhat inspired this morning by a guest speaker, a poet, I now want to take his creative writing course. I think it might help my situation.
I am a Communication student at UH - Clear Lake and I'm interested in working as an intern for Media Mania. I have taken a number of design courses such as graphic design, web design, and computer imaging. I was the assistant design editor for the college newspaper, the UHCLIDIAN, and the design editor for the college magazine, Bayousphere. At your convenience, I would like to come in for an interview and show you my resume and portfolio, if needed. Thank you for your time, I look forward to hearing from you. Lindsay Niemann
“Ya got caught stealin’ your mother’s food stamps.”
Recovering from a Nap
November 3, 2004
Bush has been re-elected and I have absolutely no faith in his promise to unite our divided union, but Kerry couldn’t have done it either. I’m depressed, but it’s not just the election. An estranged friend is becoming more estranged, and I don’t know how to reach her. I would write her a letter but I don’t have an address to send it to. In order to do that, I would have to call her dad who I absolutely despise. It would be worth it. I want a beer, maybe a couple, but I have to go to my night class; I’ve skipped way too much this semester. It’s almost over. After next semester, I will be graduated. Then what? I’m aging fast and approaching the inevitable 30. I’m moving through life faster than I thought possible.
January 29, 2005
This is what I need: to chase away dust bunnies who laugh at my life-term reluctance. To recognize a talent for words and exercise my mind daily, or nightly, or both. To turn off the TV and be constructive with my time. To re-evaluate the course I’ve inadvertently taken.
Where Yellow Rocks Lie I know she waits for me, majestic and lonely, she waits. Adorned with new growth, mini pines replace charred poles, boiling pools burn my toes, a symbol of freedom seen fishing perfectly perched in a hiding tree. Chained rocks welcome snow, like a new bride in her white dress, they glow radiance when first jeweled. On a day long mile where valleys look to forests, bones of prey pollute my step, a reminder of my vulnerability. In sleeping nights she reoccurs to me, chasing away time with enhanced visions of beauty. A keeper of promises to keep in my title, but as my ties grow tighter, and my roots dig deeper, I wonder how much longer she will have to wait?
Advice
Graduation is near, but never mind the fear, the end is almost here, and a beginning is still not clear.
Don’t lose it by acknowledging it. Ignore it as it flows through you. Ignore it but use it, don’t force it.
Wasted time worries my mind in a state of doubt and relief, what could have been had was left to fend off nothingness instead.
Inside the mind’s eye I see nothing at all.
Tonight, to my delight, another page is turned, my attempt was a success, another poem is earned.
It is happening again, like the past will preach, but I have the means to stop a reoccurring nightmare, I’ll find the means to lessen the blow.
When I heard your familiar voice on my voicemail, I knew it wasn’t over. Couldn’t be that easy. Going through the motions was never something I thought I would have to do with you, then again, wasn’t that all I ever did, physically speaking? But here we are, awkward, estranged and growing old. Well, you’ve grown old but I’ve grown bold, and by the way, to your dismay, I told!
Save it for a rainy day for the weatherman said its well on its way.
I really hate my major. I’m doing an internship for a small, local newspaper, and I hate it. The people are nice, I just really don’t enjoy the work. Three more months and it will be over. Three more months and I will be free of college and forced into the real world. The working world. Well, I already know I don’t want to go into my field of study. I guess I’ll find something. I have a dream, far removed from the world of writing. I would like to own a record shop. Just sell music, all kinds, I don’t care. I’ll work my own counter, talk to customers, go home at night and write poetry. I should have majored in business.
I will make tomorrow better and not worry about my worries quite as much. I will loosen up and take whatever I get.
“What do I care if John Doe and Joe Shmo get married?”
That’s Terrorist Talk
February 15, 2005
I’m sick of halfwits, hypocrites and incompetence.
I am not proud of my country right now, and I’m still in shock that Bush got re-elected. I thought more people felt the way I feel. I thought it was a bigger movement. Our nation is torn and unity only occurs in the wake of another tragedy, and then it quickly fades. I’m steering clear of bumper sticker wars, but still, I can’t help but take a side. Down here in Bush, Texas, plastered on SUV’s and extended-cab trucks, the ever popular “W” is winning the war. I guess he needs to win because the war on terrorism will inevitably lead us to a dead end. Even if terrorism was wiped out in every country on every continent around the globe, we would still have to declare war on ourselves.
So, weapons of mass destruction are still at large, but weapons of mild destruction are still killing soldiers and civilians. I understand the need for war, the need to protect ourselves, but we are reacting to a national tragedy that occurred on our home soil. We had to do something, and since Osama Bin Laden is well hidden in an unknown cave, hopefully running out of air and surviving off his own feces, we had to go after the next best thing, Saddam.
The Iraqi people are free, well, except for suicide bombers and insurgents, but what next? How will things go in North Korea, Libya, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia? One thing is for sure, we’re going to need more soldiers.
The Girl Who Cried Wolf
A female student was attacked in the parking lot of the Bayou Building at the University of Houston – Clear Lake.
That’s how the newspaper article would have read if the alleged incident would have taken place.
I was immediately on the story and anxious about writing it after gathering my quotes. My roommate was my insider, my source, and I knew I would be able to beat the college newspaper. My internship would surely turn into a paid job.
A girl in my roommate’s ceramics course showed up for class one morning with a frightening story about her brush with almost being abducted in the school parking lot. She stood up in front of the class with her professor and relayed the story to her fellow art majors.
There was a white van parked next to her car, and when she went to unlock her door, a guy started grabbing at her from underneath her car. She started screaming and kicking him and ran for one of the emergency phones in the parking lot. The guy drove off and she filed a report with the campus police.
Students were frightened. Her professor warned the rest of his classes about what had happened. My mom was calling six times a day.
I contacted campus police when I noticed that there were no postings about the attack. The police chief had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. I contacted the Houston Police Department and they knew nothing about the incident. When I told my editor about what was going on, he suggested that campus police might be trying to cover up the incident. A cover-up. Time for some investigative reporting. I told my insider to talk to the girl who was attacked and have her call me, but I never heard from her.
My roommate and I actually had an easier time believing that the report was never filed because of a cover-up than believing the obvious alternative. When my insider confronted the girl in class and told her that her report was never filed, she complied with our conspiracy theory.
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “The security officer told me to keep it quiet because he didn’t want to start a panic, but these things happen and we just have to move on.”
She told my roommate she would call me and made her way to the other side of the classroom. My insider was now totally convinced she was lying.
It was all we could think about. Why? Why would she lie? It didn’t make sense. I kept waiting in vain for her telephone call. My editor told me to drop the story and work on something else. I was reluctant to let it go but went back to working on a story about NASA’s technology transfer program. My roommate, however, needed closure.
By now, the story had made its way around campus. The police department was overwhelmed with calls from concerned students wondering why nothing had been posted to warn them about the attack. My insider asked to talk to her professor privately. She told him what was going on, that the report was never filed, and he said he had already talked to the girl about it. She said she was concerned and would try to file another report about the incident with campus police.
The next day, I was on the phone with the police chief. He told me that she did finally come in to file a report, but she was reluctant and preferred to do it over the phone. He told her that was not allowed, it had to be in person. So, maybe the attack did happen. She wouldn’t carry it this far, would she? I asked the police chief what he thought. What exactly did she say?
“Well, if you want to know all the details, go to our urban legends webpage,” he laughed. “I’m getting two different stories from her, but we’re still looking into it,” he continued.
One such story involved a campus police officer throwing rocks under the girl’s car to chase out the attacker. She never mentioned that version in class.
The man in the white van was never found. The girl was never confronted about her apparent lie. Once you carry something that far, you have to follow through. So much for the truth will set you free. Why would she lie? For the attention? Maybe she was just bored.
Rantings
“I accidentally got bleach on my Pixie’s shirt, and now it is ruined.”
Maybe I had the right idea in my early twenties. Just work some brain-dead job for eight hours, and when it’s time to go home, that’s it, no bringing work home. I had time for poetry, time to read, and I had inspiration because I hated my brain-dead job so much.
It’s fucking hot. February shouldn’t be this hot. A cold front is on the way, but not nearly fast enough. I’m inspired again to travel and leave my familiar world behind. Sucked in again. Sucked into a rut, but I know where to go when this happens. One more year and I will be grazing with the bison. My fan is on full blast as is my mind. So many ideas to work with – too many, but something will materialize into something.
For Jena
February 21, 2005
I watched her throw it away without even realizing that’s what she was doing. I think about her often. I write about her often. What’s she doing? How does she feel? Does she think about me? Maybe. Or maybe she’s so far gone she doesn’t even remember my name or my face. I remember hers. Model material. Her want for magazine living was irritating at times, but we all supported her. She never made it to New York or Hollywood, well, once, for a visit, but Marilyn Monroe didn’t have flowers and the smog was too thick to catch a glimpse of those famous white letters stationed on a hill. The Pacific was gray and the stars were in hiding. We came back home, and that was the last of our travels.
The Death of Hunter S.
(Gone Journaling)
February 21, 2005
Hunter S. Thompson died today from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Another suicide.
Gonzo journalism. My kind of journalist. My kind of hero, so of course he went out the way he did. Why would a 67 year old man commit suicide? Why not last a few more years? After all, you’ve come this far. I am familiar with suicide. Seen a lot of death in my short lifetime, but suicide is the worst kind of death. Hunter S. took journalism to a whole other level. He was a complete original and stayed true to what he was: a rebellious, drug-using, political activist who was around to take advantage of the 60’s movement. Through the craziness of the time and of his own life, he managed to obtain success. “A doctor of journalism, man.”
In the wake of dying icons from his generation, another name is prematurely added to the list. It is a sad day for me and many others. A sad day for aspiring writers and up-and-coming journalists already burnt out with and uninterested in the mundane chores of hard news, inverted pyramids, and the who, what, when, why, where and how of a repeated story. He broke the confining boundaries of journalism and went for it. Wrote what he wanted to write.
His friends say he was the last person they ever thought would kill himself, but don’t they always say that? It’s not comforting to think that suicide may still seem like an option in the twilight years. It’s a young man’s disease, you grow out of it – you grow out of suicide? Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.
Well, Hunter S., your death made the news. Maybe you were sick of where the world was heading. Maybe you were sick of yourself. Maybe you were just sick, but whatever the reason, I wish you well on the other side. I wish you well where tides roll back and return again, just for you, one last time.
Smiley Faces of the Millennium
You will fast grow numb and your tears will become more sparse. Life will become more familiar as your face grows longer. Nothing will turn out as you had planned, and you will always be striving to obtain something you don’t have, but it won’t be as bad as high school.
– for the kids –
I can’t get it all out, but I don’t even know what I need to get out. I’ve missed my therapeutic writing. My mind grew lazy and went on a 3 and a half year hiatus, but now is not the time to consider lost time. I’m, once again, attempting to hone in on my craft. I don’t know how it happened, but I think I’ve actually become a stronger writer. More confident for sure. Imagine how good I would be if I hadn’t quit writing through my “dead air” phase 🙂
My Internal Holy War
Hey Hunter, tell Lyle and Kurt I said “Hi.”
I’ve heard that it says in the bible that anyone who takes their own life will go to hell. I don’t accept that. I can’t.
I wish I could find religion. I wish I could be authentic in my belief and faith, but I’m cynical and ignorant when it comes to religion and Christianity. I scowl at Jesus freaks and roll my eyes when someone thanks God for something good that happens in their life. My family is very religious, but I guess I’m not 100 percent convinced.
On the other hand, I feel that something else has to be out there. Something beyond technology or science. Something beyond myself.
I wish I could pray but practicality gets in the way, and as I go through the motions at family feasts, I feel like a hypocrite trying to cheat my way into heaven.
February 22, 2005
I will write a page a day, just like I used to, before everything that needed to be said was said, before I gave up the pen for TV.
Portfolio
Although I have no working theme, I’m hoping it will all come together. Tomorrow I must put in my three hours, but things are going well despite my reluctance for the learned craft of journalism. I would like to someday write a novel, and although I’ve started many, I have never made it past the first chapter. But I’m writing again and happy to say that I’m well on my way to prolonged creativity.
Role Play
(Ashley)
“What do I say to him? How much I love him, how much I take pride in his very being? Too young for a child, but a child he is, and a father I am, but he doesn’t see it that way. He doesn’t love me that way.”
Hunter S.
February 27, 2005
I can’t quit thinking about the death of Hunter S. His family says that he had been planning his suicide for about ten years now, but they said it still came as a surprise. I went to Barnes and Noble today and bought one of those many books that I had been meaning to purchase and read for quite a while. Songs of the Doomed is the book I decided to buy, and although I’m not even past chapter one, I’m already hooked. I wish I could have met you.
I’d Like to Trade My Trade
February 25, 2005
Let beauty fade. I don’t think I care anymore. It will happen soon enough anyway. Men don’t have to worry about this as much, they’re not expected to be pretty. If a woman is no longer young and attractive, you might as well bury her alive. I could have been a model, maybe not Victoria Secret, but I could have made a living with the Sears catalog at least, but I wanted to put my mind to work instead, and it’s proving to be a bad move.
My selected profession is not going well. I’m interning for the Clear Lake Citizen, a very small weekly newspaper for the Houston bay area. Of course I’m not getting paid, but it’s probably for the best since I have no idea what I’m doing more than half the time.
I had an assignment to cover the Kemah city council meeting, and so reluctantly, I did, well, kind of. I took my tape recorder with me because I suck at taking notes. Deciding to rely entirely on my hand-me-down mini recorder, I jotted down only one quote from the mayor, who looked to be enjoying the meeting about as much as myself. I had never been to a city council meeting before, and the only thing I had to draw on was the yellow and brown citizens of Springfield gathering at city hall with mayor Quimbly at the podium waiting to discuss the latest tyranny brought on by Mr. Burns. In reality, city council meetings aren’t nearly as exciting as they are on the Simpsons. It only lasted an hour, but my eyes grew heavy after the first five minutes.
This morning when I arrived at The Citizen for my daily sentence, I was confronted with an awful realization. My hand-me-down recorder was a piece of crap. Nothing on the tape was audible. The mayor’s voice went from sounding like he was recovering from a severe stroke to sounding like one of Alvin’s chipmunks. “I’m screwed,” I thought. “How am I going to write this article?” I had to rely on memory, and for the life of me, I don’t know where my mind was during the meeting. The Simpsons, I guess. I sat in front of the computer, which still ran on DOS with its black screen and yellow letters, wracking my brain for something to write about. I began my lead knowing that it would be dropped by the editor:
“In the midst of a buzzing fire alarm, sick council members, and broken microphones, the Kemah city council meeting trudged forward.”
I couldn’t remember what was voted on or what their final decisions were, but I came up with something to turn in to the editor, and I don’t even know if it’s accurate. I am a horrible journalist, but I blame my incompetent school for that.
Graded Nonsense
March 1, 2005
On the way back from Bay City last weekend, I saw a sign in someone’s yard that read “Divorce Sale.” Although I was by myself, I read it again out loud and cracked up. Who does that?
"Keep on rockin' in the free word." (Neil Young)
I hate criticism. My creative professor gave me a B+ for my poem “Hillcroft,” but it’s not so much the letter grade that bothers me, it’s the way in which he worded his comments. When speaking of the last four lines of my poem, he writes, “Not to sound harsh, but none of these lines are particularly luminous, and then they get more or less repeated which nails the coffin, so to speak.” I actually cried when I first read this. I was crushed and outraged. After printing out the email, I read over it again and then crumbled it up and tossed it in the corner of the room only to pick it up an hour later, fold it, and stick it in my journal. I’m over it now, but I’d still like to know what his credentials are. It’s safe to say that I won’t be making an “A” in this class, but who gives a shit anyway? I’ve never had a 4.0, and I haven’t made the Dean’s List since my first semester, but fuck the dean, he’s not on my side.
Graduation is right around the corner, and as my internship proves to me how green I really am, I dread the day when financial aid no longer supports me. I don’t want to be a part of the real world, but I have no choice – student loans are piling up along with outstanding bills. Two more months.
Night Hiking
(creative writing)
“We were watching the sky for funnels as we walked into the storm.”
“These are the Crazy Mountains,” I thought. “Anything can happen in the Crazy Mountains.”
But was it worth it? This incredible idea of hiking the Elephant Back Trail at dusk just in time to see a full moon shine bright over a glacial lake. Was it worth it? My acquaintances thought so, but I still wasn’t convinced. Had we taken into account the fact that we would be hiking back down this mile-long trail in complete darkness? I hadn’t, and my lack of a flashlight confirmed this point. Hopefully someone else brought one, if not, we will be hiking back by the light of the moon, that is, if these clouds lift.
“Hey, don’t bother waiting up!” I yelled. “We’ll meet you at the top!”
My roommate and I watched the others disappear around the curve of the mountain. Once again, I was being out-hiked, but as my wheezing worsened, I knew it was useless to maintain my somewhat steady pace, but at least I wasn’t alone. I could hear the sound of my roommate wheezing with me.
“It’ll be much easier coming down,” I said. “This steady incline is killing me.”
“Yeah,” she responded breathlessly.
“Yeah,” I thought, “easier, unless we get eaten by a hungry grizzly and her cubs.”
We trudged forward in silence, and by the time we reached the top of the mountain, our destination, our long-winded hiking pals were already seated, smoking, and situated on a long bench overlooking the lake.
“Hey, there you guys are,” Ben said with a patronizing smile across his face. “We waited till you guys got here to spark this thing up.” He put out his cigarette and pulled out a fat joint that looked more like a tampon, minus the string.
We sat down, still exhausted, and took part in the offering. There was five of us, my roommate and I, Ben, Brad, and Tara. We were seasonal employees working at a ski resort in the Chico Mountains in southern Montana. It was still early October, and although ski season didn’t start until November, we were asked to show up early to help prepare. Soon, tourists from all across the globe would be in Chico enjoying the popular slopes. We had only been working together for two weeks, and although we were still getting acquainted, there was a common bond just knowing that we had left our homes to be in Chico for the winter season. Montana was the perfect place.
“So, did anybody bring a flashlight?” The following silence answered my question.
“Shit! Nobody brought a flashlight?” Ben introduced the question again.
Brad began laughing, “Well guys, look on the bright side, at least there’s a full moon.”
“Yeah,” my roommate piped in, “we don’t need no stinkin’ flashlight. We’ll use the moon to guide us back down.”
We all laughed despite the situation and continued toking on the joint. I took two hits and passed it to Tara who had distanced herself from us. The metal bench we were seated on was probably about 10 ft long, and the four of us were sitting within arm’s reach of each other. Tara sat on the edge of the opposite side of the bench and I had to stand up and walk the joint over to her. It was odd behavior to be antisocial in such an obvious way. It was a known fact that Tara had emotional issues, but I had never witnessed it firsthand. When I handed her the joint, she took it saying nothing. I waited for her to hand it back to me and then walked it back over to Brad who was next in line. “I’m not doing that again,” I thought. What I found even stranger was the fact that none of us attempted to talk to her. We just tried to ignore the weirdness and figured she’d come back around eventually.
“We’re not going to see the moon tonight if these clouds keep rolling in,” I said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Visions of myself being eaten alive by a bear raced through my mind. My level of paranoia rose to a level red.
“We’ll just have to wait it out,” Brad said, “they seem to be moving pretty fast anyway.”
“Man, I don’t want to be stuck up here during a thunderstorm,” my roommate said. “We’d be sitting ducks, perfect candidates for a lightning strike.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I told my nervous roomy. “Brad’s like 6’3 or something, he’ll get struck before any of us.”
My roommate laughed but Brad seemed to ignore this comment.
Notes:
Snowstorm blowing in. Tara’s gone. Main character has a gun. Stray bullet went off. Roommate suddenly gone. Need to throw in how windy it has become. Put in description of fallen trees. Change roommates description. Make her quiet, reserved, “Unlike the rest of us who were eccentrics and loudmouth know-it-alls.” Include Crazy Mountain description.
Brad stormed off into the darkness, and Ben and I sighed in relief as we watched him disappear into the swaying trees. The cold was seeping in under my many layers of clothing and the wind was burning my eyes. I took the last sip of rum and noticed white flecks were falling on my black gloves.
“Hey guys, it’s snowing,” I said with some excitement in my voice, but when I turned around to face Ben and my roommate, I only saw Ben.
“She must have left when we were arguing with Brad,” Ben said. “We better get going before the snowstorm gets worse.”
It was almost impossible to see. The ground was quickly turning white and I kept tripping over rocks and fallen pines hidden under the piling snow. The wind was fierce and I could no longer see Ben ahead of me. Fastly falling white flakes impaired my vision and the rum had impaired the rest of me. I was not prepared for these conditions, and as I pressed on, trying to avoid falling and breaking my ankle or head on a rock, I realized I was alone. Ben was completely gone, the others were probably at the campsite by now, and I was alone on this wooded trail in a snowstorm. “Don’t panic,” I thought. “Just don’t get lost.”
I heard a noise that wasn’t familiar to me. Over and over again it came sounding as if ancient native tribes were beating on ceremonial drums. What is that knocking sound? It can’t be an animal. No animal makes that sound! I picked up the pace, but my feet were clumsy and my shoe got stuck under a fallen tree on the trail. I lost my balance and fell forward, freeing my foot but falling hard on my left knee. I screamed out in pain as I grabbed my knee and leaned back against the tree. I sat still waiting for the pain to subside and wondering how much further I had to go. “Little less than half a mile. I can handle that.” My body was burning from the cold wind but I had to rest a little longer. My leg was killing me. To my right, I heard something that sounded like a large animal snorting or grunting. Tales of bear attacks raced through my mind as my paranoia rose to a level red. My ears became radars as I broke out into an ice-cold sweat.
Slowly, I reached for my backpack, felt around, and pulled out Brad’s handgun. I gripped it with both hands, placed my right index finger over the trigger, and pointed it towards the darkness where the sound was heard. I waited. Stone-still and alert. Something was rustling and I saw a dark form emerge from the dense forest, and without thinking, with the jerk of my nervous finger, I pulled the trigger. An unexpected shot rang through my ears. An elk ran past me and I jumped to my feet at the sight of it.
“An elk,” I laughed, “that’s all it was!”
But I saw something else in the snow. I saw a dark form in the snow, and I think I even heard it hit the ground. I crept closer. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving.
“Oh God,” I whispered.
The form was familiar. I stood over it with a blank stare fighting off the urge to faint. I stood over it in disbelief.
“Oh God,” I repeated. “No…Tara?”
My voice was loud and intrusive. My eyes were frozen and my body was locked in place. Snow was still steadily falling and the wind sounded more like an ocean. I stood there, no longer affected by the weather. I stood over her, contemplating the reality of the situation. I panicked.
“What were you doing out here, Tara?”
Drama for Creative Writing
Highschool setting
“It’s a superficial popularity contest and I don’t want to be a part of it.”
Passes note in class. Teacher takes note & reads it aloud causing the class to laugh.
Profiled
“Kill em’ all. Let Allah sort em’ out.”
While driving down the dreaded Bay Area Blvd, I saw these words proudly displayed on a bumper sticker decorating the back of a young white couples’ car. I was behind this car for about five minutes, reading the words over and over again until they turned off onto a side road. This can’t mean what I thought it meant. I must be missing something.
When I reached my destination, I jotted down the words on the back of a high-priced gas receipt. I sat in my parked car observing surrounding bumper stickers pasted on cars, trucks and SUV’s. “Support our Troops,” “Proud American,” “W,” “One Nation Under God,” “I’d rather be fishing.” “I must be missing something,” I thought.
What Would Hunter Do?
April 14, 2005
I can’t stay focused. Everything is coming to a head, deadlines are nearing their end, graduation is relentlessly biting my exposed heals. It’s been a longtime coming, and I wish it would never get here. I wish I was still in high school along with a foreign generation and all the time in the world.
I’m homesick for a home that no longer exists.
A pleasant breeze makes the sun bearable on a day like today. Seagulls fishing down by the lake keep coming up empty-handed and I realize that they are as unsuccessful as me. I should be looking for a job right now, but my sanity has become first priority.
Five some-odd years dedicated to earning a 4 year degree, and now that the goal has almost been met, I’m wondering what the point was. All this time and money spent, but what have I got to show for it? A full bookshelf and empty wallet, a lifetime of debt and a useless resume. Maybe I can make a career out of therapy writing.
Five some-odd-years spent chasing after a bachelor’s degree, and now I find myself chasing after minimum wage jobs, and I can’t even land one of those. “I have a four year degree, and you’re going to subject me, a college graduate, to a goddamn drug test?”
In three hours I have to attend another city council meeting in Kemah, and I have no confidence that I will do a better job than last time. My hate for reporting and journalism has worsened. I really have tried to enjoy, or more to the point, grow a liking for it, but it’s just not working. I can’t picture myself doing this for the rest of my life, wouldn’t want to. But therein lies the problem. What the hell do I want to do when I grow up?
I’ll tell you what I want to do, Drink Dr. Pepper, smoke a lot of weed, gorge myself on falafel, drink some rum and sleep all day. Yeah, who’s going to pay me to do that? I know, I should have been a musician, but that industry sucks more than the wonderful world of writing. What would Hunter S. do?
College is a joke. $20,000 some odd dollars later and I learned that I was on the right track before I decided to go to college. Work a shit job and do what you love on the side. It’s a simple concept, but it stands the test of time. I refuse to leave this park until I’m in a better mood, not a good mood, just a better one. I’m slowly getting there.
Currents
April 19, 2005
Here we are in a place I never thought we’d be. Maybe I knew, I don’t know. This is the life of the drug culture, and through it all, the only addictions I’ve seemed to maintain are caffeine, nicotine, and THC. Not bad, considering the position of everyone else I used to call my friends. Pills are the new heroin and they’ve taken a toll on my social life. I’ve been out of the loop, but a face from the recent past filled me in on all the latest. After hearing about all the soap opera bullshit I’ve missed, I’m sorry I even asked.
Abortions, overdoses, addictions, lies, deceit – nothing has changed. I have the mind to call, but what would be the point. They are in a place that can’t be penetrated, and I can’t put my life on hold for friends who don’t even realize my absence from the scene. So, this is where we are and nobody’s dream came true.
Graduation Blues
May 2, 2005
Money is running out but we can’t live off the government forever. We can’t stay in college forever, however, I am feeling very much inclined to go ahead and get my master’s degree, as is my faithful roommate.
Empty bank accounts may end up spoiling our summer, but at least the beach, well, parts of it anyway, is still free. “Gotta go to work, gotta go to work, gotta have a job,” but this is easier said than done. I have a bachelor’s degree for fuck sake, and I can’t even land a crappy minimum wage job. The economy is complete shit and nobody’s doing any hiring. My mom still pays my gas bill and part of my rent, but I’m not ashamed, at least I’m not living with her – not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m just saying, at least I have some independence.
Ramblings
My friend, Stacy, is working her ass off in Yellowstone right now, and I want nothing more than to be there with her. I am beginning to think I’ll never make it back like I said I would. It’s even harder the second time. Harder to plan, harder to commit, harder to fund, harder to leave.
I’ve been smoking way too much lately, and as I repeat this phrase for the millionth time, I suddenly come to a realization, I just smoke too much in general. A pack a day, give or take a few cigs, but cancer is the furthest thing from my mind these days. Turning 28 has been eating at me, which is stupid, because when I’m a senior citizen, I’ll be kicking myself (not literally of course, I’ll be too old) for not realizing how young I really was.
This is my new favorite beer. It is brewed in Shiner, TX. Better than the Montana brewed Bayern.
Nothing Shocking
(Nothing Sacred)
May 4, 2005
The progression of “popular music” is a frightening and all together irritating thing. I’ve bitched about this before, but I think I need a second installment in my account of “popular music” in commercials. Let’s stop beating around the bush.
I almost keeled over dead in my computer chair the other night when I heard one of my favorite bands blaring from an unknown source. For a second, I thought, I wished, that my radio turned on all by itself. I knew this wasn’t possible so I figured my roommate had turned on her radio, but I knew what the source was. I knew where the familiar song was coming from. “Mountain Song” was being used to sell Coors Light. That fabulous beginning bass riff was unmistakable, and when I heard Perry Ferrell’s unique voice belt out the beginning lyrics, “Comin’ down a mountain,” I knew there was no turning back. Nothing’s sacred. Nothing Shocking. Irony gets the best of me when I think about the lyrics of that Janes Addiction song. “Cash in. Cash in honey. Cash in now baby.” I guess I should have seen this one coming, but I still feel as though I’ve just lost my best friend. Worse things have happened.
Let us not forget about the legendary Bob Dylan. Not only was one of his songs used for a Victoria’s Secret commercial, not only that, but he appeared in the ad sporting black angel wings. I think it’s safe to say that rock music has lost its edge. Punk is dead, grunge didn’t have a fighting chance, and the recording studios are taking over. Subpop sold out to Capitol a long time ago and there is no room left for anyone to “Break on through” with an original idea. I have only seen the Coors Light commercial once, and I hope to never see it again. Maybe then I’ll still be able to live in denial.
Predicted Drought
I’m trying to catch a quiet breeze in the park, but weed whackers keep whacking, trucks continuously run over speed bumps, and I think the nearby airbase has all of its pilots in the air.
I have just found out that my monthly payments for my student loan will be about $200 a month. This, I had not expected. $100, yes, but $200 a month is insane. I’m going down, but before I start preparing for my burial, I do have options. One being to postpone my master’s degree, true, I’ll have more debt in the long run, but shit man, the damage is done. So, I still can’t find a job, but I still have confidence that something will come my way.
The south Texas landscape prepares itself for another scorching summer, and with April showers few and far between, cracked dirt and brown grass will decorate the scenery.
Debriefed
May 5, 2005
I’ve been institutionalized, and I’m quite happy to be that way. College has opened my eyes to so many things. Plate tectonics, John Stuart Mill, journalism, politics – I am constantly aware of what’s going on in the world. I have access to unconditional resources, friendly critical feedback, and a comfortable and supportive atmosphere in which I can express myself openly, after all, every opinion is welcomed. I am reluctant to leave, but I can no longer afford to stick around.
The daunting task of locating a job continues. I have sent out about 10 resumes in two weeks, and from what I hear, that’s not nearly enough. Whatever I find, mark my words, I will have weekends off.
I’m still expecting something to happen that will prevent me from graduating this May.
May 5, 2005
I rode the newly installed rail for the remainder of that Sunday and toured the city I call home with an observant eye and open mind.
My friends and I (relatives actually) had just finished viewing an art exhibit downtown at the Museum of Fine Arts, and we were not ready to go home – it was hard enough getting away. My sister-in-law had yet to experience the metro rail train, so we bought some tickets like good, upstanding citizens, and rode the rail as far as it would take us, which was all the way to the UH Main Campus. The place was desolate, and when we stepped off the train, it felt like we had just been dropped off on the edge of town in some old western movie, set in Texas of course. We must have pissed off the locals, and instead of shooting us, the sheriff and his deputy gave us a break and escorted us here to fend for ourselves against vultures and tumble weeds. Only, instead of vultures, they’re pigeons, and instead of tumble weeds, they’re bums. Lots of them. The sun was beginning to set and had already become hidden behind the near distant skyline – the all too familiar Houston skyline that always looks different, and I discover a new design element every time I see it, depending on my angle.
Earlier that day while we were strolling around the skyline district, the triangular building I’m used to seeing from a distance looked flat and one dimensional up close.
What Did I Learn?
Learned how to read the mechanics of literature (i.e. dialogue, time, scene, language, etc.)
Learned how to give constructive criticism to my classmates’ work, and look at my own in the same manner.
Course encouraged me to retrain myself to where I’m writing everyday again and rediscover how to brainstorm and come up with new ideas.
Become more comfortable with presenting my material to an audience.
Taking a creative writing course helped me to open up my eyes and ears to literature and understand and realize the strengths and weaknesses of my own craft.
Graduation
May 12, 2005
Tomorrow is graduation. I don’t feel as excited as I should. I still can’t find a job and my prospects are no longer prospects.
Along with my diploma, I’ll be handed insta-debt – a ten year shadow over my biggest accomplishment.
May 13, 2005
I felt very smart today. Something inside changes when you put on that cap and gown. Pride emerges from some hidden place within yourself that you never thought existed. I’m glad I decided to walk – I’m glad my mom made me.
Friends and family made the already unforgettable experience a hundred times more enjoyable. My mom, Gwen, Aunt Judy, Grant, my cousin Evan and Danielle all came to watch me graduate.
Cover Letter
The hunt is on. Graduation is over, as are my student loans, and faced with the daunting task of locating a job in my field of study, I thought it might be a good idea to check out the job fair being held at the Reliant Center. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew it would be the first fair I attended without being offered cotton candy and funnel cake.
I arrived with two of my unemployed friends, anxious and hopeful about finding jobs. The first booth I saw was for the Houston Chronicle, and a slight smile spread across my face – if I was going to find anything at this job fair, it would be at that booth.
I thumbed through the blue packet listing various job openings and quickly found two positions that were right up my alley – Features Reporter and Copy Editor. I handed the lady behind the booth my resume, gave her a firm handshake, and walked away reluctant to visit any other booth. I had found what I was looking for.
My name is Lindsay Niemann, and I am a recent graduate from the University of Houston – Clear Lake. I obtained my BA in communication and have experience in newspaper layout, writing headlines, and copy editing. I was the assistant design editor for the college newspaper, the UHCLIDIAN, and worked as an intern for the Clear Lake Citizen, a weekly newspaper where I mostly wrote feature articles. I have a portfolio featuring my published articles and layout designs that I would like to present during an interview, but I have sent two samples of my work.
Although the position I would most like to fill is the Features Reporter, I would also like to be considered for a copy editor position.
Thank you for taking the time to read this long-winded cover letter. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Lindsay Niemann
Attack of the Seaweed
June 15, 2005
I venture outside for the first time on a new day, and my car is the only car left in the covered lot. “Everyone is at work,” I think to myself, “and I’m right back where I was at 21.” But that’s not altogether true, if I may give myself some credit. I have accomplished many accomplishments. I have grown despite outward appearances.
Here I am where I love to be despite the massive amount of seaweed. Believe in something again. Anything. Age will not drag me down. There is a man running on the beach and I can’t tell if he’s coming or going. I sit in my Wal-Mart bought chair as the riddle fades from my view. He’s not heading my way.
The sound of the ocean lulls me as it always has, and the stench of the seaweed has taken over my sense of smell. I can feel myself burning. Time for a dip in the flat, warm waters of the Gulf.
Not a Team Player
June 23, 2005
Inside the realm of family, I am suffocated by love. Unconditional love dripping from the pores of aunts, uncles, cousins, grandfathers and mothers – I feel undeserving, selfish and immature. All I want to do is go home and be by myself, but in an attempt to fulfill a selfless deed, I agree to stay a week in a little-known town called Bay City and help out with Vacation Bible School at the Nazarene Church. The same church my mom and her sister grew up in and sang duets every Sunday in front of the congregation. The same church where, Hazel, my mother’s mother, whom I never met, married my grandfather, aka, Papa Al. Most of the members of the church now are all well over 60. About 15 people show up for church on Sundays and even less on Wednesdays. It’s a small church that probably won’t be around for much longer. Bay City will pull the plug.
Vacation Bible School was more like free babysitting for the mothers of Bay City. People were dropping off their children and they had never even attended a sermon there before. I helped out for three days, and then decided I really wasn’t helping much. Everyone else had a job, but I could never find anything to do. To make a long story short, I think I angered a loved one by deciding to come home, skipping out on the last 2 days of VBS, but like I said, I just needed to be alone. I even chased my mom away. She was going to spend the night at my apartment, but she could sense my mood. She said she understood, and I know that she does. My mother and I have become much closer through the years. She understands me more than I know. So, suffice to say, I feel like shit. Unworthy and selfish. We all have our faults, but I’m having a hard time dealing with mine.
In the Market for a New Passion
June 23, 2005
One of my biggest problems is the ironic realization that I no longer feel the want to travel and see the world. It’s still there, but it’s more like an after taste, an afterthought. The idea of living on the road and traveling the states as a freelance writer/drifter, no matter how far-fetched it may have sounded, used to rule my mind. It was a constant obsession that lasted for a good six or seven years. I got as far as Yellowstone where the obsession reached its peak and then fizzled out, flooded and extinguished by reality.
A shift in the tides, a shift in the Earth’s restless plates has left me without reason. I returned to the dreaded Houston, changed my major from Geology to Communication (a decision I will always regret) and blindly and almost braindead, graduated from college. And now, here I sit in some crack town outside of Galveston called Dickinson, looking for a job in my hated field of study and coming up empty-handed. What the hell am I doing? I have to find something else. I need a plan of action. My mother told me to listen to my heart, that it was easy, but I seem to be having a difficult time doing that. It used to be easy, and maybe it still is, maybe I’m trying too hard.
I Need a Fucking Job
July 12, 2005
Graduate students beware. The job market ain’t hirin’, and ladies, if you decide to take a waitressing job down at the local T and A bar to pay off student loans, don’t tell them you’re a college graduate.
“20 years of schoolin’ and they put you on the day shift. Look out kids, they keep it all hid.” (Bob Dylan)
“Can you pass a drug test?” “Sure.”
I actually considered getting a job at the post office. The pay was pretty good, $17 an hour, but they wanted me to send them $139 to take some postal exam and take a drug test. I have a BA for fuck sake! No more tests. I’m worthy. The next thing I’m going to try is advertising companies. I am almost out of money, and almost to the point of extreme measures, but I have yet to know what that entails exactly. Maybe I should go back, get my master’s and live off the government for a little while longer.
Lost confidence. Crowded institutions cater. Go-getters fight for first place. Experience outweighs talent. Outspoken people-persons ensue. Lost Confidence. Lost Time.
Educated Beggar
July 20, 2005
I just got back from a job interview for a job I really don’t want. The title of the job is Enrollment Counselor for the University of Phoenix, but that’s just a façade, what it really is is nothing more than telemarketing. A sales job where the lucky employees get to sit in a crowded room divided by cubicles and talk on a headset for nine hours out of the day, but I can’t find anything else, and my time and money are running out. I’ve got $800 in my account, and once that money is gone, that’s it, game over, you lose. I have no credit cards, no assets, no hidden savings, nothing. Beggars can’t be choosers, even when you’re a beggar with a BA. Ten people showed for an interview and at least 3 of them also had BA’s. They said they would call me in about a week or two. I’m still looking for a different route.
Ten Year Debt At a complete loss and blind to whatever. I post my measurements and wait for a bite. Educated ignorance toasts my passing. Welcome to the real world. Now take a number and get in line. What motivates you? What do you call success? What is your biggest accomplishment? “Life” One last question: Why do you want this job? “Well, I’m almost out of toilet paper.”
“Give me life over this.” Coldplay
Storm Chaser
Remnants of Emily gather and drift as Galveston surfers enjoy actual, bonafide waves. I await the rain outside on a rented porch wishing the hurricane had hit a little closer to home. The wind has become livelier, altering my mood from a dull perspective to a hopeful disposition. Storms spark more energy in me than Red Bull itself. Here comes the rain.
Another Door
(A different route)
I will try again tomorrow. News from the Bay has informed me that a reporter/photographer position has just opened up at the Tribune, but that’s quite a commute.
There’s a lot to be said about Bay City, Texas, although I can’t think of anything at this moment. More goes on in that small town than most people realize. I don’t think the majority of the locals know what’s going on in their own backyards. Corruption, cover-ups, the elites are in control and even the Tribune is told what to print and what not to print. Maybe I should look into it, give it a shot. Why not? I’ll take less pay. I don’t want to sell education.
Afterthoughts
(after the fact)
July 21, 2005
I thought I’d give myself room to grow and save my sanity instead of sacrificing it for benefits, but I have yet to grow and my sanity is already debatable.
I woke up with the rain today. The driest June in Houston’s history is put to rest as July greets us with tropical storms and torrential rains. We were in drought and now we’re flooded out.
11:00 a.m. I know what I need, see, but it’s clear to me that I don’t know how to be, free to roam and leave home, and play the part down to an art, form and function, what’s your lead? Mine is a drone in a life I fear I own.
Drifter for Hire
July 28, 2005
Well, I have a job interview with the Bay City Tribune Monday morning. What am I doing? I have no clue, but for the time being, it feels right. Of course, I don’t know what the pay is yet. Nothing’s in the bag. The bag remains empty, but I’m trying to stay optimistic.
I’ve opened another door only to close it, but I think I know what I’m doing. If I could condense all of these anxieties and unknowns and dreads into one long day, I could wake up tomorrow smiling.
My interview with the Bay City Tribune went pretty well, but I’m not going to take the job. I think it’s mine if I want it, but I don’t want it. She went through my portfolio and liked what she saw. We started talking newspaper, and I suddenly felt a twinge of dread as the familiar lingo passed back and forth between the two of us. “Why am I here?” I thought. I hate the newspaper biz, and that’s my biggest problem. I seem to hate everything these days. I’m a bigger cynic than I’ve ever been before, and as I grow older, my negativity grows stronger. The pay was a turn off. $10.50 an hour, which is just three dollars more than what I was making without my BA. Plus, I would have to commute an hour and a half out of my way, or move to Bay City, something I really don’t want to do. They also drug test, which is crap, and that is the only test I can’t pass. The hunt continues and I’m losing faith. Rent is due in a couple of days and after paying that and the electric bill, I will have about $200 to my name. Something will come my way.
Preparing for Monday with a Beer
July 31, 2005
Rent is due tomorrow. I have yet to find a job. I’m in a bad place right now – a bad point in my life. Graduation Blues. I’m right back where I was seven years ago, except now I’m $20,000 in debt thanks to college, but I’ll still be working a dead end job, hating life and dreaming of something else, something different, something better.
A big part of me is hoping that the University of Phoenix is going to call me sometime this week to inform me that they want to offer me the position. I’ve visualized myself working in a cubicle with a telephone growing out of my head selling education to interested prospects, and every time I do, I retreat into a deep bout of depression – manic tendencies. I bet I wouldn’t last six months.
“I’m cryin'” John Lennon
Owning Up
August 2, 2005
I’d like to hurry up and find a job so I can concentrate on something other than myself.
Keeping hope and losing faith, I am disillusioned and drowning. Forgotten paths where the idealistic nature of youth paces back and forth at the crossroads are once again catching up with me in the climax of my adulthood. I am moving backwards. There’s so much more, they say. Follow your heart, they say. Do what feels right, they say, but I’m no longer buying it, and I feel and fear and finally figure it out, there is no place for me. I have a friend who just keeps moving, and I have a mind to join her. Fifty states under her belt, thirty some odd candles on her cake, and an odometer that reads infinity, she just keeps moving. My feet are stationary, but I’ve got hope riding on tomorrow.
University of Rejection
August 3, 2005
I just got rejected by snail mail for a job I didn’t really want in the first place. Now that I can put that out of my mind, what the fuck am I going to do? I feel like crying out of pure desperation, but that would mean admitting defeat. I’d just assume give back my BA and take back the last four years of my life. This route is leading me nowhere. I chose the wrong major. I made the wrong choices. I’m in the wrong place, and I feel like I’ve learned absolutely nothing. My God, I’m almost thirty years old and still nowhere to be found. It’s a blessing in disguise this rejection, and I’m a horrible interview. I guess my first mistake was telling them I’m a poet, which is, in itself, debatable.
I will dedicate myself to you and nothing else. You define me, therefore, I have no choice but to submit.
The Hunt Continues
On a Personal Note:
Why do you always have to be right? Why do you always have to make the better grade? Why must you always have the last word? I think we could stand to spend some time apart.
September 5, 2005
I found a job with the Museum of Natural Science making $7.50/HR. It’s a crap job but at least it will keep me going until I can find something that pays more. I’m living back at home with mom and still deeply engulfed by the post-graduation blues. I have no money in my bank account and I’m sick of going on interviews for jobs I don’t even really want.
Last Friday, I went on an interview for a company called Marketing Concept. I just knew it would end up being some telemarketing crap, but to my surprise, it wasn’t. It was still sales, but they said they liked to talk to their “clients” face to face because it’s much more personal. When they called me in for a second interview and asked me to go on a ride-along with one of their associates, I became very suspicious and apprehensive, but I went anyway. Three hours after riding around the Houston area with a middle-aged Egyptian sporting a heavy accent going from business to business attempting to sell office supplies to places that were already happy buying from Office Depot, I called it quits and asked to be taken back to my car. The experience was a complete waste of time and I think I just narrowly escaped getting abducted by a lonely, overworked, door-to-door salesman.
I also applied for a job with the Texas Ren Fest. They are hiring Marketing Sales Assistants and the required education was a BA in communication. “Perfect,” I thought, and applied immediately. They called me back today and the guy I talked to sounded really impressed with my resume. Then he informed me that they maintain a smoke free workplace, and he asked me if I smoke. I said “yes” like a fucking idiot and blew my chances of landing the best job I’d managed to come across. I should have lied. But at least I’ll have a job, even if it’s just taking tickets for the IMAX on the Butterfly Aquarium. At least I’ll have a job.
I am, for the first time, proud of the city in which I live. Houston is now home to thousands of out-of-staters fleeing from Mother Nature and seeking higher ground in the Bayou City. “What has she done to the Big Easy?” Will it be possible to bring New Orleans back from the dead?
The Hunt
September 13, 2005
Well, that job at the museum fell through, but I still have prospects, well, one anyway. It’s a position with the International Motion Picture Corp as a locations manager. I got a call back today from a non-responsive, stern and altogether unhappy man. I was driving when I got the call on my cell phone, and he was very displeased about that.
“You’re breaking up, this isn’t working, this just isn’t working.”
I stopped him from hanging up on me and asked if he would mind calling me back on my land line at 6:30.
“Well, we have lots of people to call, we’re really busy, but I’ll try to call.”
He called back at 6:24. The phone interview lasted all of 3 minutes, his disposition managed to grow even more irritable in that short time span, and I was told that I would receive another call for a second interview from somebody in the Houston area sometime next week. I don’t know where he was calling from, I don’t even know his name, and I have my doubts about whether I will actually hear from someone.
The position calls for travelling locally and nationally for 60 percent of the time. I would be locating sites to use for filming and negotiating renting/leasing fees. The gig pays $950 a week with full benefits and paid travel expenses. The job sounds somewhat intimidating, but they do train. Suffice to say, the all too familiar waiting period will be complete torture. It’s only Tuesday. Later next week is at least a year away.
As for the museum, well, the staff manager informed me that business is really slow right now, and she was cancelling the orientation for new employees because she didn’t need them. I can do better than a part time job making $7 an hour anyway. As for my mental state, I think I’m losing it. I’m drowning in resumes, cover letters, callbacks, and interviews. Perhaps I’m unemployable, perhaps I’m going about things the wrong way. Perhaps the job field is just crap.
Four Weeks and a Day
September
Louisiana license plates swarm Houston’s streets, and I wonder if they even have a destination.
Ancient magnolias stand on root’s end lifting their bloomed branches already withered and browning but still intact from the storm.
Voodoo swamp tours cancelled until further notice. The Cajun Queen swept out to sea. Is this really the death of the Big Easy? Southern hospitality crosses state lines, welcome to the Bayou City, now sprawling its limbs even further across the flat land. Now growing to support the bulk of its neighbors. Her waters are rising past the boiling point, higher now than we ever thought possible. It feels like the end of the world outside. Too hot to breathe, too alive not to. Superstorms approach our shores, mammoth ice blocks change form, is this really the breakdown of civilization? The air is unnatural where the Gulf meets the city, millions flee in the wake of “you know who,” but our fate is far less tragic than that of the soggy swamp boot of the Deep South. Her locals are going home, through a trail of toxic mud they trudge awaiting to see the ruins of what used to be home sweet home.
Panic in H-Town
September 25, 2005
Rita was a bust. After a week of doing nothing but watching the news, preparing for the “Big One” I must say, I’m a bit disappointed by the outcome. Wednesday night I was almost in a state of panic at the thought of that monster making landfall in Galveston. I made a mad dash to Wally World to stock up on supplies, and it was the first time in my life I had ever seen the food shelves almost completely bare. No bread, no canned goods, no cereal, no granola, no chips, no dried fruit, no trail mix, and absolutely no water. While standing in the water isle contemplating what I was going to do (it later hit me that I could fill up buckets and bottles with filtered tap water) I heard a guy say, “Well, there’s no water but at least there’s still plenty of beer left,” and he loaded two 12-packs into his empty basket. I, instead, opted for champagne. I got back to my mother’s house, boarded up the windows, filled up the buckets, filled up the bathtub, brought all the plants and lawn furniture inside and braced myself for the biggest storm I thought I would ever see in my lifetime.
The neighbors to the left and to the right had decided to evacuate and my family and I wondered if we should do the same even though we were in North Houston miles away from the coast. After seeing Houston’s freeways turned into a nightmarish, citywide parking lot during what was the biggest evacuation in America’s history, we opted to stick it out where we were. It was a category 5 heading right for us, a monster of a storm, and then, it turned. By the time the storm made landfall as a category 3, we were so far out of its path that we barely even got any rain. I’ve seen severe thunderstorms do more damage to Houston than Rita. The only thing Rita managed to do was cancel any job prospects I had at the time.
The Good in Everything
October 13, 2005
Yesterday I was 18 and ready for anything. Today I am ten years older and ready for absolutely nothing.
There’s so much going on right now it’s hard to concentrate on anything besides hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, oil, and war. It’s hard to believe in anything besides the apocalypse, and even non-believers are giving it a second opinion. I was in Bay City last weekend, and at the request of my favorite aunt, I went to the small Nazarene church with her for Sunday services. Every time I’m in Bay City she asks me to go and I never do, so, out of obligation, guilt, and love, I went. Brother Warren preached a sermon about the end of the world. “The signs are upon us,” he said. “Will there be a place in heaven for you?” I don’t know, I certainly hope so, but I think it’s still too early to repent, but if this is the beginning of the end, it’s a relief knowing I don’t have to worry about the future anymore.
I still don’t have a job, no surprise there, and I’ve come to the realization that I’ll probably never find a job I really want. I can’t find anything that pays well because I’m still underqualified for everything that does, unless I want to go into sales, which I don’t. Having a BA has not helped me in the business world, but there is a sense of freedom in having college behind me. Over and done, forget getting a Master’s, I don’t see the point.
It’s time to celebrate the harvest again, and country roads yield bare fields – forgotten cotton litters the shoulders and ditches of small towns preparing for annual rice festivals. This is my favorite time of the year, and despite the state of the world, the economy and humanity, I’m still relatively happy.
October Owls
October 17, 2005
The owls are going crazy outside, but as I scan treetops for a glimpse of the elusive predators, I regret to see what I can only hear.
Mass-produced scarecrows and shades of the cooling season are decorating yards with much needed festivity, but the owls aren’t fooled as they converse back and forth about the weather.
“Pleasant days we’ve been having, nice enough to breathe again, cold nights when the breeze blows by, cold days when the front moves in.”
A full moon wanes over the top of a troubled freeway and dusk welcomes the mounting fumes of daily traffic jams, but the owls enjoy time alone in the city while turmoil grips 9 to fivers. Molded pumpkins line walkways trying to hold out for the big night, and homemade ghosts hang randomly from trees, but the owls aren’t fooled as they fly down to take a better look.
The Season of the Jinx
October 17, 2005
The Astros almost went to the World Series tonight. 3-1 in the playoff finals, game 5 at home in Minute Maid Park, the Astros up 4-2 in the top of the ninth inning with the Cardinals up to bat – the crowd is going wild, 2 outs and two men on base, and then, Pujols is up with Lidge on the pitcher’s mound — I held my breath. When the camera went in for a close-up, I felt a rush of panic when I saw the look in Pujol’s eye – focused, confident, determined. In the blink of an eye, at the crack of the bat, he stole the World Series away from the Houston Astros by hitting a homerun and putting the Cardinals up by one. The stadium fell dead silent. Fans were shocked and in disbelief, the World Series no longer in their clutches. Not able to do anything but strike out in the bottom of the ninth, the Astros will be playing Game 6 in St. Louis later this week.
Shorts
October 18, 2005
Tomorrow could change everything. With a prospect waiting in the wings and integrity pulling at my sleeves, I remain hopeful in spite of me.
Rejection is here full circle again, thank you for your interest, unfortunately, you suck. Highly qualified I may not be, but I’m willing and ready to take it on. I’m anxious and restless and ready to jump.
With college out of the way and conquered at last, my mind is my own again, altered yet familiar, free to wonder beyond structured boundaries. Out of tune and dusty from habit, I exercise my time and attempt to forget over-priced knowledge.
Early morning hours invite my creative peak to once again take part in a ritual known only to me and the freshly painted walls.
As the stars lose strength and the moon shines dim, my eyes fall heavy, languid from limb to limb.
Nowhere Friends
October 20, 2005
This is where we end up when we’re unable to make our dreams come true. With nothing else left to do but age, we nurture our habits and feed our addictions, we continue on living a lifestyle that is much too familiar to change, but I always thought it might be different, I thought we might actually capture happiness. Is anybody ever where they want to be? Ten years down the road when I’m knocking on 40’s door, will I still be doing this? Will I still be a smoker with weak intentions to quit? Will I still be a pothead always looking for a better connection? Will I still be a struggling writer looking to get published, probably so, but maybe not, maybe I’ll be exactly where I want to be. Maybe tomorrow will change everything, but I don’t think they see it that way. I don’t think they think about the future. I don’t think they carry an ounce of hope.
Now nearing the end of my 20’s, I am faced with an absence of friends and regretful for looking the other way, and finally, walking away. Pills are their heroin, and I’m no match for this drug, but these junkies I’ve known since early childhood. With too many overdoses to count, I’m waiting for that inevitable phone call – time to lay out the black suit, time to bury another. But didn’t we have fun when addictions were still in experimental stages and boredom was much easier to cure.
I think about stopping by sometimes. Would I even be welcomed? What would I say? What do you say to complete strangers who used to be your best friends? I suppose we would make small talk until we were all so uncomfortable we couldn’t take anymore, and then I would leave the three of them, and that would pretty much be it. Such friendships are irreplaceable, but my hands are tied when friends are irreparable.
They go through about 140 pills each in a period of about three days, four if they conserve. When hurricane Rita was heading our way, they were unable to get any pills before the city shut down and spent the following 3 days vomiting and yelling at each other, placing blame for their current drought. Vicodin is the pill of choice but Soma and Xanax come in a close second. I understand addiction, I too, deal with it every day, and I can’t say that I blame them for self-medicating with heavy doses – the past is always a constant reminder. I just want my friends back, but time is too late for that, and our ties are torn and tattered and nearly nonexistent.
I Hate this Game
October 26, 2005
The Astros are down 3-0 in the World Series and if they lose tomorrow night, the dream is over for Houston – hey, at least we were in. Game 3 is the longest game ever played in the World Series, it ran for five hours and forty-one minutes, ending after the bottom of the fourteenth inning with the White Sox winning 7-5. My stomach is still in knots, and I’m debating whether to even watch the game tomorrow night. Do I really want to see the White Sox win the World Series on the Astros’ turf? I’ll turn the game off before that happens.
Fans file out of Minute Maid Park tired, depressed and wondering if the painful and excruciatingly long game that ended with their heroes on the bottom was jinxed by an open roof that should have been closed.
“Take me out to the ballgame…”
Sox Snag a Sweep
October 2005
Another week down, another week lost, and with nothing but baseball to occupy my mind, I’m hoping for a little more time in the World Series, but somebody has to score, and so far it hasn’t been us. The fans at Minute Maid still bee-lieve, but I’m starting to have my doubts.
It’s over. 4-0, and with Game 5 now cancelled out, null and void, I’m already anticipating next season. Let’s Go Astros!!
I didn’t turn the game off when the White Sox won the World Series. I watched with quiet reserve along with the rest of the sullen-faced Astro’s fans as the White Sox ball club took the field in celebration. What else can you do? So, the season of the Bee is laid to rest on a crisp, cool night in the Bayou City – a sad night in Houston, but history’s been made in the ball park.
Out in Left Field
(waiting for a fly ball)
November 3, 2005
I’m becoming a professional at job interviews. I have one downtown at 3:00 today, and although my nerves are more active than usual, I’m getting used to this routine. This will be my eighth job interview since graduation, and I have one lined up for tomorrow as well. Altogether, I will have had three interviews this week alone – surely something will come of it.
In that same breath, I regretted the words I had just formed.
“I read the news today, oh boy…”
The last great frontier has been tamed and stripped of its integrity. The hunt is on for an endangered species that lives underground, undisturbed yet all too detectable. Wildlife preserves yield to rising fears – all deals are off when oil outweighs global longevity. We are one step closer to finalizing our impact on God’s polluted earth.
– for Alaska –
November 6, 2005
Everything is wrong. We can’t afford to sit back and watch the past repeat itself, but as time speeds by, we realize how truly difficult it is to change set patterns. Future generations are still too young to understand, but as they play and eat and sleep, they are one day closer to carrying our burdens.
Same sex marriages have been banned in Texas, which isn’t shocking in the least bit, but I am a little uncomfortable with the government telling me what I can or can’t do in the bedroom.
Seinfeld reruns plague and distract my creativity, but in all fairness, it was barely there to begin with.
November 10, 2005
Today was one of those days…
I’d like to be somebody else for a while and forget about my current status as a human being. Nothing will come from anything, and I’m at the point of packing my bags and heading north for the spring season where I know there is always a place for me. My how we fall apart when things don’t go our way. Lost jobs, shelved dreams and pointless days are driving me out of my fucking mind, and I’ve been chasing after the green like a used car salesman – desperate and attacking any prospects within a sixty mile radius. Competition is brutal in this rat race known as the business world, and I’m continuously being “outshined.”
Today, I cried like my best friend had just died. I didn’t eat or run a brush through my hair or change into clothes that weren’t used for sleeping. I walked around the house, a dull-eyed, shaggy-haired mess, ignoring my crying pets and staring through the television where the chattering of news reporters turned into an unknown language. It had been building up for several weeks, this brutal breakdown, but with tomorrow looming ahead of me, I must temporarily come to my senses and pretend as if tomorrow is a brand new day with the potential to restore my hope and spirit.
November 11, 2005
Rested up and over myself, I gear up for another round of rejection, disappointment and self-loathing. Not yet on the receiving end of something wonderful, but something wonderful is overrated, and I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had it.
November 12, 2005
I want you to know that you cross my mind at least once a day. You must understand, I had to get away, with or without you, I gave us up to save myself, and you, I think you just gave up.
Day By Day
(verse by verse)
November 14, 2005
I’m surviving off stems and seeds, and with no relief in sight, I’m wondering how long I’ll be able to hold out. (remnants of Mary Jane)
Today was spent at the social security office in Conroe where I waited two hours for A67 to finally be called. Never again will I lose my SS card. I don’t know what’s worse, the DPS or the SS office.
The Right Choice
November 19, 2005
I’ve been offered a job at the Cleveland Advocate (not the one in Ohio), but I don’t think I’m going to take it. I know, I know, but the gig only pays $7 an hour and I would have to relocate to New Caney or Porter, and I probably wouldn’t even be able to make rent. I’m working as a stringer for the Spring Observer right now. They pay me $25 per article and $15 per picture. It’s hardly worth it, but at least I’m getting published. My Aunt Judy told me that the Bay City Tribune is still looking for a reporter. So far, out of all the newspapers I’ve interviewed for, The Tribune pays the most. Maybe I should move to Bay City. Currently, I’m waiting to hear back about an assistant manager’s position at an ice cream shop here in Spring.
November 27, 2005
I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know what my dreams are. I’m lost in my nowhere life trying to find stability and security in a city I used to run so far away from that the very name of the place sounded foreign to me as I repeated it in my head and said it out loud in an effort to make sure it still truly existed – Houston was my worst enemy, and I can feel myself getting pulled in for the long haul.
Verses
November 28, 2005
The weather has once again changed its mind like it does so often, but not as often as me.
My drug of choice is in demand, and I’m thankful it hasn’t had the same effect on me that it’s had on so many other burn-outs.
Something else is coming my way. I can’t stay here forever, locked in tune with a dying verse attempting to start anew, attempting to fall back and pretend time has no effect on me.
The 27 club has passed me by, and although I should be celebrating the fact that I’m not dead, aging is still not a happy alternative.
Some things you just can’t think about, because if you do, you’ll never leave.
Montana Graces My Driveway
November 29, 2005
My friend from the road has returned to her travels and I’ve returned to my mundane, daily routine of looking for a job and drowning in rejection. My friend from the road has direction mapped out in pen, but mine is far less concrete and a lot more abstract. My direction is up for sale and waiting for the highest bidder.
Having Stacy down for the last few days has been enjoyable. She’s an absolute riot, and I feel like I got to know her even better this time around. It had been two years since our last visit, and although we correspond by phone and snail mail, it’s just not the same as visiting in person. She just left about an hour ago, on her way to Tallahassee which is a 12 hour drive from Houston. She plans on sleeping in the Walmart parking lot when she gets there. I hate being left. I’m sitting on the couch in an empty house right now listening to Music Choice. Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” is currently playing on the retro-active station. Tomorrow I will be meeting with a man who used to be my step dad to talk business. I’m doing some freelance work for his company which is the only reason I agreed to meet with him. I’m hoping to do enough freelance work in the next few months so I’ll have money to go back to Yellowstone this next season. I’m hoping to get a job at the print shop, but I think my chances are pretty slim. We’ll see.
Touchy Subject
December 1, 2005
I watched Gus Van Sant’s “Last Day” the other night, a film inspired by the last few days of Kurt Cobain’s life. I’m still not sure what to think yet. I love Gus Van Sant’s work, but I love Kurt Cobain even more. It’s a touchy topic to cover, the death of Cobain, and aside from police reporters, the events and details leading up to his death are hearsay, but I’m getting ahead of myself, I’m not yet ready to start discussing conspiracy theories. The movie itself doesn’t really go into all of that. It doesn’t even show that the main character, Blake, commit suicide. (Gus obviously couldn’t get the rights to use Kurt Cobain’s name). “Last Days” is a character study of a disturbed, drug addicted, famous rock musician who isolated himself from friends and family and was plagued by hangers-on. It’s a total arthouse film. I think the script was about a page long, most of it was improvised.
I can understand the direction Van Sant was taking with very little dialogue and camera shots that require more than a set of eyes to comprehend, viewers feel like they’re invading someone’s private moments. Throughout most of the film, “Blake” is walking around his house in a drug-induced haze mumbling incoherently to himself and avoiding contact with the closest people in his life.
The beginning scene has “Blake” spending a night in the woods by himself and sitting next to a fire singing sorrowfully “Home on the Range.” The character is wearing a hospital bracelet and looks as though he was AWOL from a drug rehab center. Like I said, I don’t know what to think about the film, I like some aspects of the “Last Days” (the loneliness and desperation dripping from the best of the scenes) but “Blake” is just a little too docile and effeminate. Kurt had much more of an edge, much more of a cynical disposition than the “Blake” character. His clothes, however, were eerily identical to Kurt’s wardrobe. The actor’s face is seldom seen in the film and in some shots, viewers get the sense that they really are looking into the Last Days of Kurt Cobain’s life.
What can I say, it’s just not the same, we’re drowning in the backlash of your unwanted fame. Radio waves have lost their way, what would you say if you heard the news today? What would you say, “something’s in the way.”
Love is on the run, an all-time high hits an all-time low, gravity is weighing down on everyone you know. What would you say in light of it all? “Together we stand, divided we fall.” What do we do in spite of it all? Grow old and bitter replaying your call, with all your pretty songs we’ll always sing along. What can I say, it’s just another day.
The Furnace December 7, 2005 The world is waiting to die. Cold air seeps through spaces, the furnace unable to penetrate, silenced voices scream through speakers, seeping into my senses. Rising heat settles, the cold subsides, warming my intention. Discarded trends, discounted bins, a world undecided, persuasive, unstable, echoing voices mimic each other, radio waves conform, a standard chorus, the cooling furnace, what is left when apathy follows? A world without reason at best. The world is waiting to die. Clean air falls from graces, the furnace unable to catch a break, silenced voices speak through dreamers, seeping into my senses. Rising heat ignites, the cold arrives, warning my intention. Misguided trends, mistreated friends, a world under pressure, persuasive, unstable, lingering voices gather together, radio waves are torn, a broken chorus, the resting furnace, what is left when empathy hollows? A world out of season at best.
December 8, 2005
A quick note to Lennon: what would you say if you heard the news today? Everything is wrong, but that’s what you said all along.
This is the waiting period. Another one of life’s transition periods is underway, and I’m anticipating the coming arrival of complete and total upheaval of my current daily cycle. When chaos and unfamiliar territory engulf me, I will want and wish to have this moment back.
A friend I rarely see is heading for Seattle come January. Since the day I met him, twelve years ago, he’s been talking about leaving for the mountains and snow. I have my doubts that he’ll actually go, but I hope he does for his own sake.
– For Dave –
Time to try to tantalize tongue-tempting tasty treats.
Convinced and Confused
December 11, 2005
There’s no place for a writer in this town. I’ve been doing contract work, which is at least paying me something, but I’m still looking for a full-time position. Everything is so up in the air, and although stability and security used to be a turn off to me in my earlier days, I feel myself wanting it more and more these days. I don’t want to settle down in Houston, but I think I’m stuck for the time being. I thought about giving Yellowstone another go, but I don’t think I could handle living in the Bunk House again. I still have reoccurring dreams about that place, and sometimes I wake up wishing I was still there, and other times I’m happy I woke up. Mixed feelings. I did apply for a job with the print shop in Yellowstone, but they’re not hiring. I thought about applying for something in Human Resources, and I still might. It wouldn’t be so bad if Stacy and I were roomies. We get along fabulously and she’s very tidy. That’s a major plus.
Still lacking confidence after all these years. Too late to change now, but I’m better than I used to be, and as I grow old with myself, I realize how much we’re still strangers.
My smoker’s hack is driving me fucking crazy. I’m up to a pack a day. I can’t believe I’ve been smoking for 13 years now.
Until it’s taken its toll and music no longer fills my soul, until my mind begins to slow, I’ll keep living in the only world I know.
Back to the grind, sacrifice my time, but it’s better than it was before, a long time coming, for one final door, and what do you know, I made it through on a slim chance, and maybe a lie or two.
Microwaved Urine
December 24, 2005
This time last week I was facing one of the biggest dilemmas of my life.
I had returned from yet another job interview, and the graphic artist position was in the bag. She loved my resume and had already contacted my references without having met me yet. They were willing to train and wanted to hire me on character alone. Apparently, Mary Alys Cherry, Editor for the Clear Lake Citizen, had nothing but good things to say about me. Everything was falling into place, except for one impending detail: it was company policy for new employees to take a drug test prior to employment. I knew this day would come. I had been dreading it months in advance, before it was a true reality.
HCN (Houston Community Newspapers) owns 33 newspapers in Houston and surrounding areas. If I wanted to work for a newspaper, I would inevitably have to pass a drug test. I put it off once when the Bay City Tribune wanted to hire me, but I really didn’t want the position in the first place. I really don’t want to be a reporter, but HCN Classifieds needed a graphic designer to build ads, and Cyndy was ready to hire me except for a minor technicality. She wanted me to take the test the same day I went in for the interview, but I quickly told her I was about to leave town for the weekend (which was true) but that I could take the test Monday. Monday seemed like years away at the time, but my weekend in San Antonio with my dad was plagued by my mental dread. I knew what I had to do, it was just a matter of working up the nerve to do it. Cheating a drug test can be done, quite easily, and although it’s not an impossible task, it can sometimes get quite messy.
The first step in beating a drug test when your urine contains a high concentration of an illegal substance is finding someone who is absolutely drug free. For most people who socialize among the drug culture, this can be a difficult task, fortunately, my best friend takes no interest in marijuana anymore. Her piss is clean and she (knowing my dilemma) was willing to help me out. My best friend’s urine was a life-saver, but I wish to never be that close to it again.
The plan my brother laid out for me was to strap a 2 to 3 ounce bottle full of clean urine to my upper inside thigh. I used waterproof first aid tape, which was flexible, and a mini-bottle I picked up at Wally World. I would be wearing a long skirt so the bottle would not be detectable. The tricky part to this daring procedure is making sure the temperature of the urine is between 90 to 100 degrees Fahrenheit when you hand it over to be tested. My brother recommended putting it in the microwave for about 15 seconds before leaving the house, others say that it also helps to piss on the outside of the cup. The urine sample cups you’re supposed to fill have temperature strips that turn a different color once filled. It should turn a greenish blue color if the liquid is between 90 to 100 degrees Fahrenheit.
I collected my best friend’s precious bodily fluid first thing that morning, and before leaving the house, I popped it in the microwave for fifteen seconds. Paranoid about getting the temperature right, I popped it in for another 20 seconds (I had at least a 45 minute wait before the test). When I opened the microwave door, I saw in horror that my little plastic bottle had melted on the side and was now leaking my best friend’s piss all over the microwave. Panicked, I taped up the bottle to the point where I could no longer feel hot urine drenching my hands. I wrapped foil around it, threw it in a bag, washed by christened hands, and made a mad dash for Wally World to buy another bottle and funnel.
After purchasing these items, I drove next door to Burger King where it was less crowded. I parked the car and prepared to make the transition. Luckily, there was still enough urine left to use – I needed at least 2 ounces, and I still had a little over three ounces. While pouring Gwen’s morning piss into the new bottle, I miscalculated how much the bottle would hold, and the precious bodily fluid overflowed out of the funnel and into my hands that were positioned over my lunch cooler where I had it preserved. Once again, I found myself covered in my best friend’s urine. I used Burger King’s bathroom to wash up as best I could, threw away the old bottle, wrapped the still warm urine around my upper thigh with the First Aid tape, and headed for the clinic.
I got lost while trying to find the place, and paranoid of the specimen not meeting temperature requirements, I kept the heater on full blast with the vents turned down facing my left thigh. I sat in the waiting room about fifteen minutes before the moment was upon. I felt confident about being able to pull the charade off, but my nerves were not completely dormant. My jacket was hung up in another room and my purse was placed in a locked drawer. I was given a cup with a black strip around the outside of the cup. I was told to at least fill it to the strip, which was exactly 2 ounces. Before I went into the back, a blue dye was poured into the toilet and I was told not to flush or wash my hands after I was finished. I had 3 minutes.
When I shut the bathroom door behind me, my hands were already shaking. I pulled my skirt down like I was actually going to use the toilet, sat down, and, with much ease, peeled the tape off the bottle, slid it out, and with my hands still shaking, I poured a little more than half of it into the cup, just above the strip. After doing so, I checked the strip to see if it had changed any, and it had. Half of the circles lining the strip were now blue, but I decided to urinate on the strip (which took some maneuvering) as an extra precaution, but I don’t think anything happened. I taped the bottle back to my leg, stopped myself from flushing the toilet, and opened the door.
I handed my specimen to the guy conducting the test, and immediately, after looking at it, he told me I needed to drink more water. I laughed in agreement without asking any questions. He examined the strip on the cup quite intently and even moved in closer to have a better look, and then he wrote something down on the application I filled out earlier. After washing my hands, I used the antibacterial gel sitting on the table next to the piece of paper. I tried to get a glimpse of what he wrote down, but he picked it up, tore off the yellow piece of paper attached to it and handed me my copy.
One of the questions on the application was, “was the specimen’s sample between 90 to 100 degrees Fahrenheit?” There was a check marked in a box next to the word “Yes.” The deed was done. He handed me my purse, put my jacket on for me and told me “good luck” on my new job. I had flirted with him a little bit beforehand and I’m not sure if this helped my situation, but it sure didn’t hurt. Two days later, I was behind a computer on my first day of my new job as a graphic artist.
The hunt is over, and I’m still in shock of how quickly things happened, but that’s the case most of the time. I’m quite proud of myself for having the guts to pull something like that off and feel as though I’ve just beat a small part of the system by sticking it to the man with a cup full of microwaved urine.
The Apple and the birdcage 