Being Michael Jackson

I am sitting here locked up in my small room listening to old Michael Jackson albums. I have put on my old Beat It jacket that no longer fits and “Rock With You,” plays on my old record player. I have used up an entire role of toilet paper with my tears. My feet are refusing to do a final moonwalk in the solitude of my room because they are so filled sadness (after all, Michael brought my feet to life). Michael Jackson is not a pop icon for me but rather he is like a dear old friend of mine that I never really got to know. He shaped my musical and aesthetic sensibilities in ways that not even I think I am willing to admit. He has had an effect upon the body and world in which I live in more ways than any of us can comprehend and in my current dark moment of mourning I am grieving the loss of an era. I want to get up and dance, but my body refuses to move- so I think I will just sit here and write.

As a young man I would sleep in my Michael Jackson Beat It jacket. My father nor my mother could relate to my obsession. The eighties were an era shaped by Michael Jackson and I was one of its major casualties. I suffered the weekly red neck beatings that were the result of dressing in tight black pants with white socks and penny loafers along with the Beat It jacket and my sparkling single white glove. I am not sure if I really imagined myself to be the Caucasian manifestation of Michael Jackson- but I was certainly a devotee to his cause. Everyday after school I danced in my bedroom mirror to the sounds of his music and I mastered the moonwalk so well that people at parties would pay me to do it. I grew up in the suburbs, a long way from the world of Michael Jackson- but in my small town, for a select few- I was as good as the real thing.

My Bar Mitzvah speech was dedicated to Michael Jackson. I wanted to acknowledge him in front of all my peers for the massive influence that he had upon a thirteen year old, soon to be man. I told the audience that I had never been the same young man since I saw the Thriller video. I never knew that man was capable of making such inspirational music or moving their bodies in such magical ways. Michael Jackson opened up the world of song and dance for me and I told all the ladies in the audience that even though I was only thirteen, Michael Jackson had taught me how to be comfortable in my pants. I ended my speech by saying “thank you Michael,” and it was at that point that my mother brought my Beat It jacket to the stage, which I proceeded to put on and then do a final short Michael Jackson dance off the stage. During the party that proceeded my Bar Mitzvah I danced with a Michael Jackson impersonator and did the moonwalk several times across the dance floor. Over the years I have not been able to live my Michael Jackson phase down with the multitude who where present at my Bar Mitzvah- but now as an older man, who rarely rocks the night away, I am not regretful that I was able to spend a lot of time beating it when I was young.

I have received numerous text messages from family members and friends all informing me that Michael Jackson is dead. It feels like a shock that the great majority of people are having a hard time coming to comprehend. I have resentment when most people talk about the Michael Jackson who was accused of molesting little children and dying his skin. I never chastised Michael for the things he was accused of doing but rather I always accepted him for the eccentric that he was. At parties I will occasionally acknowledge Michael in the few moves I make during a dance- and every so I often I have been known to be an aging man who likes to do the moonwalk across the kitchen floor. I can not deny the fact that Michael Jackson is a man that defined my youth. I used to dream about running away to his wonder land. Often times when walking down a side walk I could swear that I would see the pavement beneath my feet light up just like in Billy Jean. I grew up in Michael Jackson’s  shadow and now I sit in the dark, listening to old Michael Jackson records- knowing that with his death, a large part of my own youth is now….. officially gone.

“Free Packing”

I have been getting more massages lately. I prefer Asian massage simply because of the delicacy with which Asian women handle the human body. There is a softness in their touch that sends the person being massaged into a state of relaxation that I would say is akin to bliss. Massage is not for everyone. I myself was adverse to massage until the later age of thirty two. As a younger man I was always embarrassed to lie down with nothing but a towel between me and a strange masseuse. Body aches eventually drove me to overcome my insecurities and I actually found that I enjoyed being massaged, while wearing nothing but a towel. For a while, I was getting massaged once a week and eventually I became a connoisseur of various massage parlors. I settled upon a particular massage studio in Berkeley that specializes in table showers and deep tissue rubdowns. There is nothing more enjoyable than being nude on a massage table, while a stranger rubs your achy body with a warm sponge filled with the aroma of lavender soap. I frequented this massage parlor more than once a week until I discovered a new Asian massage parlor in downtown Oakland that was offering “free packing.”

I almost think it is human nature to get bored. The curse of being human is that we are always looking for the next best thing, never content with what we have. This is why I search various periodicals for new massage parlors that I have yet to find out about. I am excited by the prospects of finding something better than what I currently have. On a weekly basis I search for new massage parlors without much luck- so when I found this one massage parlor that was advertising its “Grand Opening” with “free packing”- my interest was sparked. “What the hell is free packing?” I kept thinking to myself all that night. I thought about calling the massage parlor and asking them personally, but I felt embarrassed by my lack of knowledge. You see, I need to be someone who appears to be all knowing all the time. Just the idea of being perceived as someone who does not have all the answers- sends my body into a minor panic response. I simply need to seem like I know what is going on- and this is why I had to find out what “free packing” was all by myself.

I Googled free packing/massage but nothing came up other than websites for moving companies. I went onto various massage message board websites and searched for info on “free packing.” I even left an add on Craig’s list asking anyone who knew what”free packing” is to respond to my email. I had various people reply with suggestions. Some thought that “free packing” was a new form of prostate massage, others thought that free packing could have something to do with inserting things into my rear end. One person wrote that whatever “free packing” was- it sounded like it would make it difficult for me to walk out of the massage parlor on my own. Even though these suggestions sounded feasible to me- no one new for certain what “free packing” could be. I returned to my usual massage parlor and asked my masseuse if she would be willing to give me “free packing,” but she laughed at me and told me that she had no idea what I was talking about.

Yesterday, I finally decided to find out for myself. I ripped out a copy of the massage parlor add, which offered a “Grand Opening Special Of Free Packing And One Hour Massage For Half The Price.” Since I have been doing a lot of heavy lifting and packing lately I was excited to not only get a half priced one hour massage but to have the new and unknown experience of “free packing.” The massage parlor was not far from my home and it sat on the corner of a dark and not very busy city street. Over the door hung a sign that said GRAND OPENING and in the window was a red neon sign that let potential costumers know that they were open for business. I put some cologne on under my arms since I had forgotten to apply deodorant and went into the massage parlor with the fake confidence of a man that appears to know exactly what he is doing.

A buzzer let me in through a gated door, which led me into the lobby of the massage parlor. Various Asian ladies sat scantily dressed on a red couch that sat in front of a big screen TV. They all watched me as I walked towards a man who sat behind a large mahogany desk. “You want thirty minute massage?” he yelled at me while I was still far away. I looked around at the Asian masseuses who sat staring at me from the couch and I noticed that they were all much more attractive than I had expected. “I would actually like what you advertised for your grand opening special,” I replied. “Oh… you want half off, hour massage?” the man said to me with a look of disappointment. I suppose he was hoping that I had not seen the add. “Okay we give you hour for thirty minute price, this our special recession price for you.” Just before it looked as if he was going to call over one of his girls, I said “I would also like to try the free packing.” Everything went silent for a moment and he looked at me with a glare that seemed to say, what the fuck are you talking about. He asked- “what you mean free packing?” I was confused. “What do you mean what do I mean free packing?” I said- returning the question with a statement so as to hide my not knowing. I pulled the advertisement out from my pocket and put it on his desk. “You see right there you are advertising free packing and I would like to have it,” I said with the confidence of a man who knows what he wants. I was dead serious but the man started laughing as he read the add. He said something in Vietnamese to all of the girls sitting on the couch, which then sent them into a fit of laughter. He held up the add and they laughed some more. What the hell? I thought. I had not a clue that I was the one that failed to detect one simple error- until the man looked at me with a smile, lit a cigarette and said…”sorry sir…..this is mistake….. because add supposed to say….. free parking….. which we have for you in back.”

The Hooker In A Tree

I never would of expected that I would rescue a hooker in a tree on my way home from work. I may fly or win the lottery and still believe it, but a hooker in a tree, who would of ever thought? The older I get the more I resign myself to the idea that truth really is stranger than fiction. On my way home from work I briefly stopped off at the nursery to look at plants. Lately, I have been doing as much as possible to reduce my stress levels and a friend of mine told me that looking at plants was a good way to relax. Teaching high school is a job that seems to leave me devoid of any energy after five p.m- so lately I have been trying to look at plants everyday.

As I walked back to my car with a new gardenia plant in my hand (occasionally I will buy a fragrant plant to surprise my wife with) I heard what I had initially thought was angel calling on me from above. Since I am certain that when I die, I will go to a place that is some what like heaven, I refrained from looking up because I was not yet ready for it to be my time to go. Instead, I continued forward pretending as if I did not hear the voice from above. “Stop, stop, please stop and come help me,” the voice persisted and when I finally did look up, I realized that if it was indeed an angel that was calling me- she sure looked like a hooker stuck in a tree.

She was wearing big black boots, both of which were braced against opposing branches. I could see the crotch of her pink underwear that was exposed by the wide opening in her mini skirt. I tried looking at her in the eyes but I had difficulty taking my eyes off her exposed bare thighs. “Hey, you…please help me get down. I am stuck in this fucking tree!” she pleaded as I stared up at her in disbelief. She was not more than fifteen feet away from the ground and when I asked her why she just did not jump down she told me that it was because she was terrified of heights.

I put my new gardenia down onto the pavement and asked her how she wanted me to get her down from the tree. “If you stand with your back against the tree I can climb down onto your shoulders.” If anyone would of told me an hour before that I would end my afternoon with a hooker standing on my shoulders I would of thought that you were nuts. The impossible became reality when I felt the heels of her boots  digging into my shoulder bones. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” she kept repeating as she struggled to slowly get her self out of the tree.

Once I was finally able to help the hooker get onto the ground, she struggled for a few moments to regain her composure. My body slightly ached because in her frantic attempts to find her way to the ground, she stepped all over my head, shoulders, hand, chest and thighs. At one point during her descent- my face rested comfortably in the warm embrace of her crotch as she had both her knees resting on my shoulders (I can only imagine the shock and disbelief that passers by must of felt). Her odor was not terribly disturbing but I could smell the scent of cigarettes and sex emanating from her flesh. Once she was able to get herself composed and firmly planted on the ground she threw her arms around me and repeatedly declared, “you saved my life!”

I have never had the opportunity to be a hero before. I have often thought that heroics alluded me because I simply do not have what it takes to be a hero. If “life is a fortuitous collaboration ascribable to the fact that one finds oneself in the right place at the right time” (from a passage I read in an essay on karma)- than it could be fair to say that I have never before found myself in a situation that I needed to act as a hero. Helping a desperate woman out of a tree hardly qualified as “the right place at the right time,” and as the hooker continued to passionately declare that I had saved her life- all I could do was take a deep breath and say, “lady I am no hero.”

Apparently, she had not climbed into the tree just for fun. She had a legitimate excuse for being perched up fifteen feet high between branches, leaves and a few vagrant squirrels. “Men ain’t got nothing better to do then to mess with us bitches. I was mindin my own buzness working my usual street, when two thugs got in my way and startin to makin me feel threatened for my life. When I tried to get away they be relentless so I saw this tree and I knew it was my only way to safety cause thugs don’t like to climb trees.” She informed me that she had been in the tree for hours, waiting for the coast to clear. There was a childlike lightness and play in her new found freedom and I was tempted to give in when she asked me if she could repay me with a quick blow job or a ten minute lay. I turned down her offer not because she was unattractive, nor because I am a man with strong moral sensibility. No, I turned her down simply because I was already late to meet my wife for our once a week dinner date.

The hooker dug deep down into her purse and brought out a five dollar bill, which she offered to me. “Please, at least let me offer you something for your brave service,” she said holding out the bill. I put my hands up and refused her generous offer and told her that I worked as a high school teacher, which was a job that payed me well enough. “You a teacher!” she said with a sudden burst of surprise. “I am,” I replied with a hint of pride. “Well than…you take this five dollars, you hear me! You need it much more than me,” she insisted. I know for certain that a hooker can make in a few hours what I make in a week, so I resigned myself to taking the handout without feeling much guilt (although I have been thinking about how unfortunate it is that a teacher needs money more than a hooker). I thanked her for rewarding me with a cash payment and she said, “shit, it is the least I can do for a handsome young man like yourself who was just kind enough to save my life.”

She gave me another hug. It was almost as if we were like two lovers who were about to forever go our separate ways. “You stay out of trees now, you hear,” I jokingly said to her. As we started to go our own separate ways a part of my brain (the part of my brain that never makes wise choices) told the other part of my brain (the part of my brain that always makes good choices) to quickly reconsider the kind offer of a free blow job. As I have grown older, I am proud to admit, that the side of my brain that makes the right choices has started to win out over the more reckless side of my brain- so I just stood there for a moment and watched the hooker walk away with what felt like a hero’s smile upon my middle aged face.

The Run Away Jury

I had the day off today, the only advantage of having to do jury duty. I tried to get out of it by writing the court a letter in which I told them about my deep belief in the philosophy of anarchy. I also put in my letter that I always favor those that are being persecuted by the law and that I feel like justice can never be served in a court of law because the entire legal system is broken. This seemed to have little effect upon the court because they demanded my presence with the threat of a fine and possible jail time if I did not show up. So much for scare tactics.

I woke up before the sun and tried to talk myself into looking forward to a new experience. I had never served on a jury before and a part of me was proud that my state trusted me enough to hold such a position of authority. I showered, did my morning meditation and put together the nicest outfit that I could find. I gave myself enough time before having to report for duty to read the local paper at my favorite cafe and eat two sunny side up eggs with toast. It was one of the more leisurley weekday mornings that I have had in quite a long time.

After going through the scrutiny of the court registrar (personal history, finger prints and other forms of invasive identity verifications) I made my way into a small room where I took one of the two oaths that I would take that day. A fat man (why are they always fat men?) began to brief the virginal jury on the case that they were about to rule over. An older couple was suing Google because Google’s camera car drove up their private driveway and the resulting pictures were posted to Google’s street view. My first impression was that this could be an interesting case because I had always been concerned with matters of privacy and anonymity. The more I was briefed however, the more my mind began to think that this was just a ridiculous case of a suburban couple, with too much money, who was pissed off that Google showed pictures of their front lawn on the internet. I had better things to do with my time. I began to dread the impending case and wished that I could have fallen into something more interesting like murder, prostitution or a first degree robbery case.

Granted, my attitude was not good upon walking onto the jury stand. It would even be fair to say that I was bored before the case began. In my stated of impatience and agitation I thought about my students who were having to settle for an underpaid substitute teacher. A saying of the Buddha’s came to my mind, “if you can learn to enjoy waiting then you do not have to wait to enjoy,” and I settled into the fact that I was going to have to spend my day in this banal and stuffy courtroom. With my fingers crossed behind my back I was sworn to tell the truth and nothing but the truth to the court for the second time that day. I was able to have a pad of yellow legal paper and a pen upon which I wrote poems while lawyers made opening arguments and the judge briefed the jury on the legal aspects of the case. “Who gives a crap…..” was all I could cynically think. Sitting beside me was a younger Hispanic man who seemed to share a similar disinterest as mine, and for at least two hours while we listened to various testimonies about privacy infringement  and the legal rights of Google earth, I noticed that he was drawing caricatures of the balding judge. By the time a lunch remission was about to begin, Johny and I seemed to be struggling to keep our eyes open.

The jury was sequestered into a small room without windows where we were given our boxed lunches. It was more like a lunch fit for lower employees than one meant for a kings and queens that we thought we were. I had known Johny for more than an hour when we began our first long discussion about how the court should have the dignity to feed us better after making us sit through such a boring case. The thought of going back into the courtroom for the rest of the afternoon weighed upon both of our shoulders like a heavy brick- and in a moment of wild inspiration I jokingly suggested that it could be fun to spend the rest of our afternoon hanging out in a strip club instead of a courtroom.

Twenty minutes later Johny and I were sneaking out of the courthouse. We traveled down a long corridor of empty, florescent lit halls and found a back door that led out onto a parking lot for police cars. We casually walked over to the cafe where I had had my leisurely breakfast and we order a lunch that was more fit for us kings. Over burgers and fries and two carrot juices Johny and I talked about immigrant rights, government control, anarchy and social revolutions. We shared similar interests and I was engaged in his stories about being a child soldier in El Salvador and coming to America on an academic scholarship twenty years ago. As we finished our carrot juices and began to leave for the afternoon of bliss spent in a strip club, Johny asked, “you think we can get busted for being runaway jury members?”

Tonight I have done my research and learned that walking out in the middle of jury duty is punishable by a $10,000 fine or a year in jail. I did not know this earlier when I tried to convinced Johny that we had nothing to loose by leaving a courtroom that fed us like undeserving pigs. Johny was not convinced by my conclusions and decided to go back to court after we had finished our lunch. I on the other hand decided to continue on with my plans. I after all work my ass off five days a week slaving away as an underpaid high school teacher who desperately wants to create social justice on planet earth. I deserved not to have to spend my afternoon off in some banal courtroom listening to a couple argue over Google earth. I deserved the afternoon that I would spend basking in the good fortune of an all nude strip club. Right?

Tonight, I am a bit concerned. All the lights of my home are off just in case the police come looking for me. I have received four phone calls from the court letting me know about the severity of the punishment that I face. I have never before been intimidated by legal threats and court ordered bribes (after all I am an authentic anarchists who has read Emma Goldman’s autobiography twice) but now that I am getting older I start to shake where once there was only a trace of fear. I see the damage my anarchist virtues may be doing to my future freedoms filled with dead end jobs because of a police record. What is this sense of responsibility that has suddenly overcome me like a quickly caught cold? Where once I would romanticize running and hiding from the law, now I am sitting in my home shaking in terrible fear, wondering if I should turn myself in for being a member of a one man run away jury.

$50.00 Cup Of Coffee

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The rain has been pouring down for three days straight. I am wondering if melancholy is starting to kick in. I awoke at around 10:30 this morning but would have stayed in bed if I did not have to drive my wife to work. So like the responsible husband and man that I try to be, I climbed out from under the warm blankets and dressed.

When we opened the front door to leave, our cat came running in wet as a used mop and whining at the top of his lungs. He was obviously feeling neglected and angry because we had forgotten to let him in the night before. To be honest the past few days my cat has been perturbing me, so I did not really forget to let him in, I just hoped my wife would not remember. It was reciprocity for all the scratches on my arm and the flees in my bed.

I dropped my wife off and then began driving back home. The inside of the car was warm from the high heat and I was uncertain if I wanted to return to my cold and over one hundred year old wobbly home. So I decided to drive for a bit. I listened to the radio and watched the world go by in the warmth of the car. There is something very enjoyable about driving around on a rainy day.

I decided to stop and grab a small coffee. I rarely drink coffee- if ever. It makes my body shake unpleasantly and my heart race. So I try to stay away from the acidic liquid. However, this morning I was feeling the need to have the bitter taste of coffee in my dry mouth and the aromatic smells in my nose.

There was no parking to be found on the busy street- besides a yellow zone which sat empty right in front of the coffee shop. I decided that I would quickly park in the yellow zone, run in and out- no problem. I could not of been more incorrect.

I tipped the somnolent looking woman who served me my coffee a dollar and then put half and half with a bit of sugar in it. The smell was already awakening me to the pleasures of existing. I took a brief sip of my coffee and walked back outside.

There where two UPS trucks blocking me in. Behind my car was a police car with its lights flashing and behind the police car was a small meter maids truck. I rushed to my car pretending as if I was not the subject of this mass gathering. Once out of the rain I decided to wait patiently for the UPS trucks to move so that I could leave. I kept my mind focused on the scent of coffee.

Then an ugly man with nose hairs, covered in a black rain coat knocked on my window. It was a police officer. I opened my door frustrated by all this commotion. “What is wrong officer?” I asked stupidly revealing that I may have done something wrong. “Can I see your drivers license and registration?” he said with a seriousness that indicated that he may not be human but rather a clone. “What have I done?” I said with the innocence of a child. “We have a report that this car may be stolen.” “What?”

In the meantime one of the UPS drivers came up behind the police officer and said to me “hey man!! This spot is for commercial loading not for the convenience of people to get their coffee!! You need to never park her again. You have blocked up traffic because I have had to park in the street!!” I looked behind him and noticed that traffic was blocked up for as far as my eyes could see. People were honking their horns and trying to get around the UPS truck. “See what you have done!! Jerk!!!” And then he was gone.

Meanwhile I handed the officer the requested information and told him that I have owned this car for years. “We will see,” he said with a tone in his voice that suggested that I was already guilty. “Wait here, while I check out your information.” “Where am I going to go?” I said with a sarcastic tone in my voice. I remember thinking to myself with indignation, “the police are everywhere, they even watch you when you sleep. they are like phantoms!!”

There was another knock on my window, but this time it was a black meter maid who looked rather swollen in her cheeks. She wore a yellow rain coat with the hood over her head and handed me a green ticket which was already wet from the rain. “What is this for?” I asked with a hint of anger in my voice. “For parking in a NO PARKING spot.” “But I was loading some boxes into the coffee shop, I am the owner!!” I decided to lie. “Then why don’t you get commercial plates!” she said walking away and leaving me helpless. I am not normally prone to anger or disrespect but I lost control of myself in my moment of helplessness and yelled “bitch!!!”

It was bad timing, because as I yelled out the police officer was approaching my car. He looked startled and unsure of how to respond. “What did you call me?” he asked. I took a deep breath and said “I did not call you anything, I was talking to the ticket lady.” “What ticket lady?” he asked. “The one that just gave me this ticket,” and I held up the green ticket to show him what I was talking about. “Sir, that was placed on your window while you were inside getting coffee,” he said suspicious of what was going on. “What the hell are you talking about… she just gave me this ticket!!” I was frantic and did not know what to do. Was this officer of the law accusing me of being crazy, of seeing things? “Sir I suggest that you try to calm yourself down and sign this citation.”

“What citation?” “It is a fix it ticket.” “I thought I was being accused of possessing a stolen car?” “No we had the wrong vehicle, but your back left brake light is not working and you have thirty days to fix it,” he said with a hurried sound in his voice. I assumed he wanted to get out of the rain so I took my time. I read over the pink citation and noticed that I would not be charged any money if I proceeded to go through all these various steps to absolve the citation. “Sir you will be given a list of everything you need to know,” he said impatiently. I then signed on the dotted line and returned the clip board to him. I took another deep breath and could feel the residual anger and frustration in my chest. “You are lucky that I do not site you for your conduct towards an officer of the law,” he said staring me straight in the face. I decided to stay quiet. He ripped of a portion of the citation handed it back to me and said “I know you slandered me sir, happens all the time.” And then he returned to his bat mobile.

I sat in my car for a moment trying to register everything that had just happened. My coffee was cold and I felt like I was just the subject of a terrible prank. I waited for something to happen like someone who was suffering from post-traumatic stress. I listened to the rain pitter-paterring on the roof of my car. I then heard a loud honk and looked out the drivers side widow. There was the same meter maid driving down the other side of the street!! She looked at me waved and I could barley make out her lips saying “have a nice day, sir” with a malevolent smile on her face. I felt like I was going to be sick. I tried to yell out “wait!!” but it was I futile attempt. I looked down at the green parking ticket which said in black ink hand writing “your fifty dollar cup of coffee, sir!!”

Now I am back in my cold wobbly home. I am confused and forlorn. Once I am finished spell checking this post, I will get back in bed and try to sleep. Then maybe I will wake up and things will make sense.

The Drinker

I am drinking again. I should probably abstain from writing because I may say things that I regret and mis-spell words that I know how to spell, all to well. But what the hell- I always say things that I regret and I often mis-spell words that I know all to well. I am not a good speller nor am I a good keeper of secrets so I mine as well go ahead and write on. Is not alcoholic inebriation one of the better causes of literary fame? From the beginning of time authors like Homer, Hemingway, Joyce, Lessing and Fitzgerald have gotten away with writing things while drunk- and we now refer to these writings as literary classics! So I mine as well take a shot at literary fame while drinking. I certainly can not seem to achieve it while sober so allow me a minute to take another sip of my wine and then I will continue to write.

I have been drinking a half a bottle of wine to a bottle of wine on a nightly basis for more years than I care to remember. My love affair with wine and beer is frenetic and wild (and causes me to do things that I often later regret). Of course we have taken a few weeks apart now and then but my inability to exist without beer and wine in my life quickly drives me back into a week long binge followed by a nightly bottle of wine. I love booze. It is the only over the counter medication that brings forth the fruits from my vine. I achieve more inner peace after two glasses of wine than I have from five years of regular meditation. My mind seems defenseless against two glasses of wine or more- and drinking for me is fair retribution for the hell my mind puts me through on a daily basis. I don’t mean to be negative but when I drink I am able to achieve an objective distance from my sober mind that makes me wonder how I have not yet become a raging alcoholic. I suppose it is my need for control, or some semblance of sanity that I make myself stop right when I have had too much to drink…….but after twenty plus years of almost daily intoxication, it is a wonder that I still have a rational mind at all.

I have been meditating a lot on “what if?” scenarios the past few weeks. “What if clocks stopped functioning?” “What if the oceans suddenly dried up?” “What if my sister turned into my brother?” “What if vegetables could talk?” “What if I was 38 years old and financially independent?” I like to entertain these fantasies because it show me the expanse of possibilities that are out there. My normal anxiety ridden life is filled with all these possibilities, and I realize that when I get stuck in my anxiety I am unable to open the bird cage of my mind. “What if I was sober for longer than a month?” “What if I loved working?” “What if I had no fear?” “What if I was so generous that I gave away all the clothes I owned while walking down the street?”

Okay, I am getting a bit ahead of myself. I have far surpassed my ordinary faculties for imaging the impossible. This tells me I may have had one to many glasses of wine. I am often a very pragmatic almost middle aged male- but when I drink a particular screw becomes loose in my head. This may be why it is not such a good idea that I write now. Currently I am banging on my keyboard and typing with a hurried speed that is desperately trying to keep up with the thoughts that want to come pouring out of my head. But maybe I should hold back. Maybe I should not say everything that I want to say. I should just pick up my glass of wine and go sit outside and watch the sun set. In the morning I will be happier that I did so rather than finishing this blog entry and exposing all of my futile insecurities and transgressions to the world. “Just leave certain things that do not need to be said alone,” my grandpa always told me when I told him about the first blow job I received with a hair dryer. He maybe right….maybe I should know when enough is enough. I am overworked, tired and in a state of fragility- no great writing comes from this particular space. So, I am just going to pick up my glass of wine (refill it), go outside and watch the sunset- before I say anything else that I will later regret.