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Friday, December 19, 2008

Really cheap shots are the one's you take when no one else is in the room.

You are almost fifty. Whatever that means. But for you, it means you've lost a step, and you unfortunately know it.

Sweet suffering Jaysus...your body; it's grown, and softened. And done things. You will never be chiseled again.

At one time you modeled. Years ago.

Quietly and desperately to pay the rent, but so what?

That won't happen again.

One day-you wake up, and realize with blinding clarity,that it has never happened for you.

Just like the monkey at the zoo-masturbating against the glass- "Nor will this ever happen for you!"

None of it-the picket fence, the faultless marriage, the 'Maytag' way of life.

The success (defined by others) that you were denied. Much of which is your own fault-and you know it.

They say being fired is nature's way of telling you you had the wrong job.

At one time you wanted to play blues-guitar.

Really, really wanted it.

You would practice in front of your baby in your eyes as you sang to her.

Her mother...your biggest fan.

The memory...fuck.

The haunting.

Your angel was pre-raised on Eric Clapton and Stevie Ray. Headphones on the belly of the most beautiful woman you will ever know. You read his autobiography to the belly. It was good.

And the belly kicked.

And deserved. More than you could give.

Your daughter will always be your special angel for too many reasons.

You go through your motorcycle-drinking-blues guitar-playing, power slide into 40. Holy Shit. Streak... baby daughter- hot wife -great job and she walks away.

Are you kidding?

And takes your heart on a cocktail fork. Nice.

The boob-job for your ex-wife, payed for by your ex-boss, as well as all her new furniture, colored your outlook for a long time. Damn good job though.

But what could you do? You failed to provide.

The 64,000 in back child support, delivered certified mail by the State's Attorney Generals Office to the double-wide in the boonies outside San Marcos, may have had something to do with it.

Hard to find because of the Cedar. Wind could be heard everywhere. Deer, your largest neighbors.

Scorpions you attacked, in the huge mound of undefined earth ,adjacent to the front yard, defending hearth, and home. Sons-of-bitches were everywhere.

As were the deer, and oak trees.

You told your step-son, eight-years old, her son, about the Hill Country, dreaded, weenie-dogs.

His room in the double wide had a window, the bunk beads he 'had' to have, taking up all the space in the room. The wind moaned outside it. There was scratching on the window.

"There are packs of wild dogs in these lands, lad...some of which you may hear on a warm summer night." His eyes would grow.

"Don't be afraid. But do not listen to them, for whatever they promise. And no matter what you do, never, ever, open the window.

They are small, but be warned they are clever. They like to stand on the shoulders of one-another, and try to get in through young-boys windows. And once they do...?"

He would gulp, pulling the blanket to his chin.

The next day; after navigating our way for 1.5 miles down rutted, potholed hell, to the county road, taking him to school-he saw them.

At the intersection.

Three dachshunds. Seriously.

Staring at the car motionless as it passed.

He flipped.

I laughed long and acted like I knew... and he hated me for it.

But the whole thing. Represented what? Some kind of man-vs-nature bullshit, Americana-musician-frontier?


Cheap housing for white folks.

Just like you though- buying into the dream by representing the dream -hand-sanding the baby's crib; work boots, Wranglers, Shiner-Bock after work -every day for three-months. That was one smooth crib. It was given away, once she outgrew it.

Even had a pickup. Sometimes-in Hill Country-spring weather, it was grand.

Was anyone watching?

Then practicing guitar. And you do it...all of it. For her.

You breathe for her.

The mother of your daughter? Always.

The love of your life?

Regrettably, but nonetheless.

The only woman who ever, really had you. And you would say it was all okay, the past forgotten, for just one night...pathetic.

"I didn't sign up for this." Parting shot. Door- literally hitting her in her perfectly-cheerleader heart-shaped-ass.

Exactly the type that her next five attracted.

Can we all exhale?

Your marriage crashed...bewildered and you stumbled, and you shattered your left hand. Wearing a space suit for some bullshit micro-processing company in Austin. No more guitar. No more motorcycle. Almost lost all four fingers.

They hurt when it rains.

But you wore tools. And got to work at six.

Steve McQueen would have kicked you. Coffee shops-lounging on sofa's, collecting checks and chain smoking. Crashing on pain killers outside.

Held together by pins and pain-killers for six months. Law suit-Doctor's-Attorney's- You are fucking drained.. Two years. Depositions. Bullshit.

Many joints still immobile.

Never again. Ever. You would never again play along and sing with Jeff Healey; however badly, but for the possibility of slide, but that would be to much of an after-school special.

Rather wallow in it.

You live alone, which you actually enjoy, but are starting to wonder.

Yeah, you think about dying alone.

And it scares you so badly you resort to known methods to put it to sleep.

You hate your job. I mean you loathe getting up and putting on this corporate attire. It weighs a psychic ton.

You 'smile' for a living.

You trudge through your day trying to act as though you care, but everyone around you knows the difference.

You are a trained monkey. And the demands of the job are such that you wake up knowing the aches and pains of an imagined rodeo clown. After work you have to stop and buy ointment and powders for sensitive areas.

"Yes, how much is this cream designed for swamp ass?"

Someone suggests Yoga. You suggest they go fuck themselves.

And you realize you wish to pursue your 'dream' job.

What do you do?

Go through a very dark place, allowing destructive habits to grow a few talons, but then starting over, knowing you never wish to do this again, and it comes to you.

You are one-unhappy motherfucker. You are absolutely no fun to be around. You make Eeyore look like Peewee Herman.

You start going down the list; the 'perfect' job, for you.

Having a large selection of been there done that's- while you make the list-you realize you are up against a wall.

It comes to you.

To be paid to be yourself; or paid for what you represent, so that you may sustain yourself and all past due debts and obligations.

Wow, I guess if you are a professional, a Doctor, Lawyer or other individual with letters behind your name, I suppose that sustains you.

But what of us?

The ones who are never quite certain where we fit...the one's who hear the internal voice-" No...not this...God I hate these people. I really do hate my job. What the fuck."

The one's who know we are writers, or artists, or actors with our own voice, not someone else's.

Journalism is dictation bound by archaic rules of grammar and 'news', held together by strange dysfunctional hierarchies.

I'd rather cut off a foot than do that again. But- I loved the act of writing- although whatever I had written was so badly maligned by my publisher it was hardly my work after all.

Maybe I just dig typing.

No comments:

My new disclaimer...yeah I know.

Okay, the old disclaimer was tired. The ideas were outdated and keeping me stuck in a place I don't want to be now for something more refreshing.

I have recently changed my views regarding women. Seems I had some issues with the fairer sex due to past pain and self- centered fear. (Yes...duh applies.)

I'm done with that.

Being in recovery has helped me change my entire life, perceptions and attitudes. I cannot change my history but I can change my today and my future.

I recently realized that the women I know in recovery are some of the strongest, bravest, most gentle and kind teachers I have ever had. You exemplify integrity and spiritual growth, and I hope you know who you are.

Some may know of my past marital and relationship history and been a participant in them as well. It's past and that's where it the past.

I own my part in those failures but claim no more responsibility in any misery you may be experiencing. I am sorry, but it's time to get off the cross. We need the wood.

Thank you all...