I Am Not Kidding

Hypothesis: I am shrinking.

Evidence:

1. Clothing that once fit is now too large. All kinds and in all ways. Shirts are baggier, pants are looser, shoes are easier to kick on and pull off.
2. Clothing that was previously too small now fits quite well. Again, many different kinds of clothing. Pants, shirts, even bras.
3. I seem to have more hair than I am accustomed to dealing with. Not longer, but more. Note: my hair is not a part of my living cells, therefore would not be shrinking.
4. My perspective on familiar objects seems to have shifted slightly, as if all my parts are rearranged.
5. Normally, at this "time of the month" my clothes would be fitting more tightly, not loosely.

I shall test this theory by marking my height on a "tall wall", such as one might have used perennially, as a child. Further progress of this experiment shall be chronicled here.

Suspended

I walked out of my parent’s house last night with my father’s concerned and uncomprehending silhouette in the doorway, with my face slumped into my unfolded laundry. I played “Winners Never Quit” and smoked three cigarettes in a row while I drove. I found myself in industrial neighborhoods, surrounded by what where once bustling storefronts full of promise, stripped of their character and effectiveness by zoning laws and metal siding, gaping dusty windows like dead eyes, the pupils reading “For Sale” in faded letters. I am discouraged. I have lost my most reliable source of financing for the shop. My newest and best idea to both achieve my original financial goals and conserve my mental stability has been proven unfeasible. Things are not working out. As I drove through those dark and bumpy streets, mournfully singing, “If I were you I’d give up, the path is too narrow, the way is too steep,” I felt my heart crumple.

I believe that if you just care enough, love enough, give enough, somehow, things will work, things will be all right. It doesn’t matter what you may or may not have, how much you know, but if you are always willing and ready to give everything for what you love, it will be worth it, somehow. Passion will always get you where you need to go, if you’re true to it. It will be hard; it’s not the most efficient way to go about things. But if you are committed, if you just do it, if you MOVE, it will be enough.

But right now, I feel like I’m giving my all to combat shadows, that everything I give to and love falls away when I get close enough to touch it. Skating, I gave up my comfort and safety to pursue that passion, and all it got me was a bum leg and an inability to even ride the damn thing. I show people something real in me, I reveal my affections without any bullshit, and my reward is to lose what I had. I give everything, and I lose it. “Love’s just like a magic penny, hold it tight and you won’t have any, lend it spend it and you’ll have so many, they’ll roll all over the floor . . .” A song we sang in my childhood. Goddamn it, I want to believe that. I throw, I spend, I move, I give, I go, I strive and learn and teach and want and believe! But it’s not happening. Nothing’s happening. I send it out into the void, there is no response. I send these words into the void, there will be no response.

I go and go and go and go and sometimes it feels like I’m just kicking up dust.

Too Much To Drink Town

Population: My ass

But it was a lack of sobriety that made the ladder to the roof so damn alluring, even though I was already late. Did you hear my "Good morning, Tulsa!" at 7:30 this morning? Did you feel the kiss I blew to this whole fucking town?

I'm skating today. Torn muscle, shmorn muscle.

SOB Goes Digital

By the time I finish my shift today, I will have spent more than 12 hours behind this godforsaken counter, and there will be nothing but caffeine in my system. No food, no blood, no electrolytes, no H2O. I'll be running on a solution of mingled willpower and coffee. I have been here since midnight last night. I spent all night updating the shop computer, putting new software on and clearing off obsolete stuff, and transferring the entire Shades of Brown music collection to the computer. This is hundreds of CDs, exactly 2068 songs. I worked from 12:30 AM to 6:30 AM and was a little more than halfway done. It is now 11:03 AM, and I am completely finished. If I ever see another upload dialogue or sharpied CD-R again, it will be too soon.

The image below is how I felt when my first customers walked in the door.

6:42 AM

No Detail Unworthy of Record

Anytime I think my writings or thoughts are a tad too mundane, I remember that Mcsweeney's has an entire section of their site devoted to reviews of new foods, and that they'll go on for paragraphs describing the attributes of saran wrap.

The Battlefield of This Town

Last night I stayed up all night.

Last night, we let it ride. We may not have torn this town to pieces, but that’s how it felt. Maybe no one else knew exactly how important we were, but we knew. This night was like no other. There’d been no moment like this before, and never would be another one just like it again, and so it was to be observed, celebrated, screamed through. It didn’t matter that we might have just been standing on a street corner or sitting on a bare wood floor, it was still perfect and incredible and full to bursting. Destiny, Laura, George, Maggs, the man who asked if we “Would like to go somewhere to have a good time”, the shitty punk band, the vodka, The Rapture, Hunter S. Thompson, all together and BOOM.

This morning, at work, talking excitedly to a boy about my evening, Shakespeare, my cat, Joseph Cambell and skateboarding, he asked me “Are you an alcoholic?” And changed the subject to the new Star Wars movie and his job at Wal-Mart. The crash of my enthusiasm confounded, escaped, and frightened him. While we talked, and he sat too close for someone who is just not getting it, Francine Ringold came in. I had never met her personally, though her husband is an old professor of mine. She saw my books on the counter and we started talking, and I told her I recognized her, knew who she was. But the two of us, clapping hands and nodding heads, talked about mythology and writing and photography while the boy looked on, tossing dull bits of information on MLA format in an attempt to regain my attention and diffuse a volatile situation over which he had no control or understanding.

She’s a lovely woman, Ms. Ringold is, and a beautiful person. A new friend, a new ally in the battle for this town. I also met an architect named Todd who is an advocate for sustainable housing and other cultural benefits here in Tulsa. We spoke smoothly of Le Corbusier and Richard Florida to the TulsaNow forums and the convention center and sustainable housing experiments in Portland and green spaces in Berlin. It feels damn good to know there are people like this on our side. Every day, I find new connections in this uprising. And get to know the enemy a little better.

I Named The Muscle Sandra

I am, apparently, really injured. I believe I have a “severely torn muscle”. My leg is swollen and striped with the magenta of pooling blood beneath the skin, backed by the gray of bruised and damaged muscle. I did this on Tuesday, it healed a bit, and I guess I ripped apart any regenerated tissue on Friday when I went out and did the exact same thing. I noticed, showering, the discoloration. I thought, “what a curiosity, I wonder how that got there” and dismissed it, limping about my business. Casually discussing it at the shop later, someone recognized the symptoms as something I maybe should get checked out, or at least treat.

Well, I tried. I searched the internet for “torn muscle” “severe muscle tear” “treatment torn muscle” “consequences of untreated muscle tears”. Every site said to use R.I.C.E. (rest ice compression elevation) on symptoms slightly less severe than mine. As it got near to describing the level of swelling and pain I had, it said, “consult a physician” “seek medical attention” or most alarming, “immobilize as for a fracture and airlift to medical station” (from a mountain rescue site).

What do you think? Did I follow those instructions? I, who, after feeling the initial rip, pushed herself to ignore the pain and skate till she thought she’d burst, pounding her offending thigh in frustration when it failed her? No, I did not. I was raised on the sound medical advice of “Walk it off”. This philosophy, taken in conjunction with a steady flow of joint and muscle problems (scoliosis, carpal tunnel, various and sundry sprains, and near breaks because of weak or poorly constructed joints. My x-rays reveal a nicked and tattered frame.) which kept the threat of surgery and permanent injury hanging over my activities give me a healthy fear and distrust of medical help. In other families, a child like myself might have been coddled and kept indoors, been the archetypical “sickly” child. I, however, was encouraged not only to be active, but also to shake off any injuries. Large families don’t abide much complaining about little things like bronchitis and broken bones.

Anyway, no, of course I didn’t go to the doctor! I tell myself I’ll take care of it, ice and all, confine myself to the apartment. But this is much easier said than done.

The truth is I’m struggling to not go over the cresting wave of self-pity and anger. I just want to skate, godddamnit, is all I can think. I was trying to do something brilliant, something beautiful, something glorious and good! Why did I have to get hurt this way, it’s not fair! Why should I be the one who gets hurt all the time? Why should I have scoliosis from carrying a satchel for years? Why should I get carpel tunnel for writing too much? Why should I have weak kidneys from drinking too much coffee? I’m 20! Other people do these things without consequence for years! I love my satchel, I love writing, I love coffee, I love skating! Why do the things I love cause me harm? It’s not fair. Why, goddamnit, why! I want to just say “fuck it!” and keep going, but I’m afraid of surgery. I’ve always said “fuck it” to those problems, never showed any caution in how I used my body. But the words “immobilize” and “surgery” and “severe” have never been used in such close proximity to my actual symptoms. It’s frightening. The nearing threat of not being able to walk or live normally frightens me into attempting to take care of myself.

Not like it really works. I spend most of the time I’m confined to bed fuming, getting distracted and throwing aside book after book, slamming fists into walls, smoking cigarettes to relieve my anxiety and frustration. And feeling lonely, because no one likes to be alone and wounded, especially immobilized. After a few hours, I can’t stand it. There’s a thunderstorm rumbling, it’s a lovely night. Fuck. It. I go out.

It’s now Sunday, and since my surrender to activity the bruising and swelling have doubled. My leg is now almost numb, warm, and I can feel the lump beneath the skin shift of it’s own momentum when I move. I have managed to rest all afternoon (after working this morning) but that’s mostly because I was sleeping the sleep I should have slept last night. Now it’s 8:30 and I’m surrounded by half eaten sandwiches, lukewarm glasses of apple juice, books splayed open across their spines and wrinkled blankets. I am still resting! Good for me. But you know, when night is fully fallen, I’ll be back at SOB again.

Note From The Author

Blogger has been down for a few days, otherwise I'd have posted other things than "Frightened And Alive". Just wanted to be clear on the fact that I have indeed had other things on my mind than the negative.

"Skate or Die"

The slam of my car door and the heavy clatter of my new longboard on the sidewalk. Music, the complete works of Pedro the Lion on random, courtesy of the ipod. Perfect for a zen-like ride around an abandoned TU parking lot at 9am on a cloudy, cool morning. "Simple Economics" starts me off as I place my left foot just below the screws, balance, push off with the right.

Immediately, pain. Pain worse than I've ever known, except the time I fell out of the tree when I was eight, flat on my back, the pain unceasing and me immobilized for half an hour. A cruel, sharp tightness shoots through my right leg from my hip to my knee. It burns, it screeches. It is squealing tires and snapping powerlines. Shocked, breath taken away but still gliding, I lift my leg from the back of the board to push off again. The mere effort of lifting my foot from the surface of the board redoubles the pain. I stumble, I'm down.

What the fuck. Why? I try to get up, push off again, try to keep going. With each execution of my muscles movement, the pain gets not worse, but stronger, until it feels like it has overcome the entire muscle structure of my right side, turning each cell from a healthy striated muscle unit into something who's nature is only pain. My leg will not even move by the time I’ve gone ten feet.

Alright. Fine. I rest, I stretch. I already stretched, but maybe I just didn’t stretch right. After a few minutes, the pain seems to have lessened, so I here I go again. Left foot on board, right on the ground, Pedro in my ears, push off . . . FUCK. Worse than ever. What is this? This is not just soreness, this is a localized, distinct pain. As I keep trying to stretch and rest, massage out whatever this cramp is, I am beginning to realize that this might be an injury. It will not go away, and I recall the enigmatic diagnosis of something femurosis when I was a child. Some hip related injury I incurred playing baseball that forced me to abandon sports before I was eleven. Is this related? I don’t care.

I try to skate again, after seeming to stretch the right muscles so that it doesn’t hurt hardly at all, even when I move. Right, left, push. And the pain is so sharp, so bad that it turns my curse into a sob. Why? Why why why?! I just want to move, I want to go, I want to speed and fly and zoom under my own power, why must something always stand in my way? Goddamnit, I want to skate! Fuck this, fuck this shit. I don’t care. I lift my head from the roof of my car where I’d laid it in frustration and pain. I will not let this stop me.

I pull the ipod from my pocket. I put it on a playlist I made, called “songs to kick ass by”, containing songs like “Red Bull of Jurez” by Frodus, “Acropolis” by CopyCopy and “Another Burnin’ City” by the Dingees. That’s better. Right, left, deep breath, Spoon’s “Back To The Life” . . . push off. Keep pushing, moving, muscles will function despite their destruction. Ignore the burn, the scream of my own body.

“I’ll kill you before I let you stop me”, I say aloud to my legs, my body, my board, the parts of me that want me to turn around, call my mom, take some pain killers and go home. I will not let this stop me.

The music is kicking my ass. Each song encourages me to keep going, let my muscles rip for the sake of the wind and the movement. I knew it would. I am my own harshest master. Each time I want to stop, I turn the music up, switch the song. Louder! Drown out the pain with life. I’m ready to quit, but then Bright Eyes’ “Let’s Not Shit Ourselves” is in my ears and I’ve got to skate along to that “goddamn song for all you goddamn people”. Each contact with the asphalt is torture, each stumble (which get fewer and fewer) seems to rip my leg from its socket. But the movement, the gliding, the forward momentum of this sport, this life, is worth much more than the price I’m paying. I go and go and go and I can feel the earth move beneath my wheels and sometimes it feels like I’m the one making it turn . . . Dave Eggars’ words fit. I push off the ground with my agonistic leg, and it means enough to me to push though it hurts, I might as well be rotating the earth on it’s axis. It is worth that much, to move this way.

Finally, I skid on a patch of gravel and catch my entire weight on the column of my right leg. I swear, the ball of my hip joint must have crunched something as it slammed into the socket. Ok, I’m done.

I sit in my car, door open, sweat pouring, ipod still going. The Dingees come on. Aw, fuck, I shake my head and know I can’t help it. I play them through the car speakers, knowing I won’t be able to sit here much longer before I’m driven to the board again. I laugh as I chug water, start “Ghetto Box Smash” over again, and with a clatter and a grunt, I’m off again.

This band, this album (Armegeddon Massive) is perfect for me, for this moment. The roughness, the passion, the joyful anger and abandonment. Riot! Smash! In a flash I abandon, no responsibilities! Youth! I am 14 years old, the way I should have been. I am a child without the desire to be adult. I am youthful and proud and happy and satisfied with smooth concrete. I have all possibility and strength, I can overcome pain and gravity and other people all for the sake of this movement. I will put a brick through the other guy’s windshield. I will take you all on. Nothing will stop me. Ever. Unless I let it.

Eventually, I collapse. My leg will not obey my commands, the pain is constant. It still is, now, hours later. I drove home, windows down and music loud. No other life but this. It is worth it. It. Is. Worth. It.

Frightened and Alive

How does one make feeling lonely and depressed worth reading about? How can I excise my sadness without boring you, or sounding self-pitying and pathetic? I don't want pity, that's not why I'd write about it. If I wanted support, I have people I can talk to, go to. I just want to share my burdens, send my worries and hurts out into the world. Show them for what they are.

I have a secret from people I truly love. The longer I hold it, the more foolish I feel about it, the more guilty and idiotic. It's not fun or intriuging, it's frustrating and stifling. I don't know what to do about it, I know it won't just go away. Someone is going to be hurt before this is over, and that hovers over these people, and they have no idea this is even going on. If this strange weight gets any heavier, I'll have to throw the shit into the fan. But for now, I'm torn and scared.

Tomorrow is when I find out about my Brady District location, if I get a chance to prove myself worthy of it. Melinda told me when she lost her ideal location, she got more drunk that she ever had and puked in a gutter. But it all worked out. I know things will work out, but it's all hanging right now. I just want to get on with my beautiful, beautiful store. What if I get 114 N. Boston? What if they say it's mine? What if they don't? I have back-up plans, but I'm just so scared, so eager, so helpless to decide anything. I tried to play hardball, tried to show them how badly I wanted this. It didn't work, they didn't listen. I'm still helpless. Whats going to happen? I don't know.

And, I'm just lonely. It's hard to shake old patterns, old expectations. I wouldn't know a healthy relationship if it hit me over the head, but I'd really like to give it a try. Destiny said I have some wierd tribe of men who hover around me at the shop, but the only ones who make any advances are over 30 or under 20 and have nothing in common with me. If only to learn how to relate to human beings in a normal romantic way, I'd like to date someone. Sometime, I'd like to give the normal format a try. All my relationships or encounters have ended up being incredibly devisive or dramatic. A couple, old-fashioned, plain ole dates would probably teach me a few things.

But moreover, I would like someone to kick in doors with. Everyone is paired off or leaving. Garin's got Kate now, Ash and Jon would much rather nap or skip rocks than execute a hostile takeover of anything. Kaygee is leaving town. I need someone to shake up, and to be shaken up by. Fuck old-fashioned plain ole relationships. I just want to feel alive with someone.

People Are Like Vinegarettes, They Have To Be Shaken Often To Stay Well Blended

There was a point, in the last 24 hours, when I stood on a corner in downtown Norman, looking across the intersection at a group of people, some in robes, all with candles, singing and chanting, at 11 o'clock on a Saturday night. With a forty of Miller High Life, with requisite paper bag, on the sidewalk between my feet, and This Was The Year To Lose Friends at my back, playing a block away. There was also a cat.

I sat in a bar that didn't have draft beers, that played the Eagles and had a confederate flag behind the bar, drinking another High Life, listening to George and Eric talk about sports and watching middle-aged singles play pool and shuffleboard.

I saw an incredible band that I'd never heard of, Make Believe, at a venue I'd never been to, The Opolis, and moved under their beautiful, caustic influence.

I needed so badly to get out of Tulsa. It felt so good to see new visuals, to do new things with new people. God, it was good. New things, new experiences, they propel you forward. They jerk your mind around, give it a shove and let it roll around on the grass for a while. It's a kick to the base of the spine. They tumble your thought patterns, forcing you to straighten it all up again, incorporating the newness and the things you've seen into an increasingly complex pattern.

I wish I'd stayed out all night. I should have gone to the river and smoked. I should have called someone. I should have made George stay with me and we could have gotten a couple more forties, sat on a curb somewhere or walked this town for miles, learning about one another as the sun rose. I shouldn't have slept. I should have sat in my car and listened to all that music I have and never listen to and smoked cigarette after cigarette.

We could go kick out some doors together, stay out till mornin', sharp as knives . . .