(See what I am saying?)

The Albany separation

I open my eyes. For a minute i thought the world had laid down on its side. And i was jealous of it. The sun shown sideways into the train and passed out the other side. I had been sitting upright for 28 hours and wished i could lie down like the sun. The train passed through the bare forest and the tree limbs grasped like bony fingers into the vacant sky.

The train was coming into Albany. The conductor said to remain seated as preparation for separation began. The front half was leaving us for Boston. I would remain here for New York. It was the most painless separation i have ever undergone, and as i stepped out onto the yellow line, I watched the severed front of the train roll into the ochre light shining sideways on its aluminum ribs i wished all separations were so easy.

Four months earlier, she came up the escalator and through the glass doors from the platform like my favorite record from the jukebox. She was bright and clean and everything else there was so dark and cold. This time i ran up the staircase alone and walked through the crowd remembering her and her backpack and finding myself thinking of her like i think of childhood, like cherry trees, and everything i wish was closer to me.

Bloodshot eyes stared at me in the mirror. Liquid hand soap, automatic flush toilets, and over filled trash cans are my newest memories of the Albany train station, but they are not my fondest.

I walked back on the train as the sun finally rolled over on the horizon and went to sleep. I wished i could do the same.

Unlisted

"What you need to do," Claudia said to me as she sat cross legged with her arms around the pillow, "is to write down a list of what you want to accomplish in the next five years."

I leaned back on the beige carpet and looked at my blank list and tried to fill it out.

"When i was your age, i wanted a happy marriage and good kids." She continued. Behind her was a kingdom built of primary colored wood blocks, complete with a zoo and a gate for the 4x4 monster truck to enter. across the carpet was bruce lying on his back.

She smiled.

"Now it seems harder to remember that i have that, than imagining that i ever would." She said.

My own list was still blank.

"I am willing to bet that what you want now, you will get, and you will still want more. and i wish sometimes it wasn't like that." she said as she looked into the beige colored carpet.

It was 3:00 in the morning. The lamplight floated onto the angled ceiling and leaned on a 45 back into the room.

I tried to make a list.

I looked up at the angled lamplight and looked at my blank list. I realized i was ungrateful. i realized i was lazy. i realized i was scared.

I was ungrateful for never making a list. i was lazy because i have never defined what i want to happen next. and i realized i was scared to commit to a list, and i didn't know if the thought of accomplishing, or not accomplishing my list scared me more.

in my head, my life left the present like a bullet leaves a gun. it shot a hole right through tomorrow and tomorrow spider-webbed, shattered, and fell onto the beige colored carpet. And i realized i had no aim. i had no target. i had no list.

and like a recoil from the chamber, i shook at the thought. i turned around in my head and looked the other way.

Mark was sitting on the black chair leafing through a magazine with one eye and Bruce began talking about the hollowness of misplaced success. Then i realized my present circumstance and my present company. Instead of five years in the future, i thought about right then. Five years in the past, i never would have dreamed i would be sitting there on the floor with Bruce and Claudia Strong, and Mark Mirko leafing through a magazine on the black chair in the attic. And on my last night of school, i felt that no matter what my list might have read five years ago - had i the recognition, the motivation, and the courage to make one - it would have never read like this. and on my last night of school, we talked about things i needed to hear, things i needed to think about, and things i needed to try to understand. and if my list gets written and every item crossed off, i hope it brings me right back to evenings on beige carpets in lamp-lit attics at 3:00 a.m. hearing and thinking and understanding this.

this world is big and the possibilities are bigger. and my gun is going off in directions i don't know. but for that night, it felt like it had hit it's target.

Searching for a Special Occurrence

How do you spell occurrence?" he asked.

I have a hard enough time trying to correctly write down girls numbers that i meet.

But that might because i don't meet any girls.

Or they just give me the wrong number when i do.

So i typed in dictionary.com. i typed in occurance. it told me how to spell it.

I left the building and walked into the daylight draining out of the sky and began thinking about what type of occurrence I am searching for.

i thought about how hard i seach for something that has meaning, that has beauty, and integrity, and purpose, and all the things i want to be part of.

and as the courderoy boys in front of the frat house perched on the porch like roosters and watched the daylight drain out of the sky with me, i thought about everything in my life that is special, and that i remember, and that i love, and how i came to find it. i walked across the bricks under the bare trees. i imagined a seach engine that would show me where to find what i am looking for.

What i want is not easy to find. what i like is not popular. what i love is hard to hold on to. and if there was an easy way to find it, if there was an easy way to keep it, it wouldn't be as special.

i began to think about how easy information is to get. and now, being smart has lost all of it's luster.

i can find out how to spell any word in my language. i can find out how to get anywhere on the map. i can tell you how tall mt. fuji is. and i can see pictures of a guy named brett who climbed it.

but what i want to say isn't in the dictionary.
where i want to go isn't on a map.
and brett and his snazz-a-rama photos of mt. fuji are his, not mine.

it is easy to be captivated by what is popular. it is easy to want to belong to it. big websites that advertise big magazines with big photos with big brand names are exciting to see. but they are easy to see. and they seldom are as special or as rewarding as what i find on my own, what i find unexpected, what i find by accident, or what is introduced by and shared with a friend. it is hard to resist the temptation of finding comfort and enjoyment in the thought of things so big, so easy to see, and so popular. sometimes though, i think it would be even harder not keep looking for more even if the big things were satisfying.

it is like having enough muster to resist the temptation and choose the smallest gift at the 4th grade christmas gift exchange when the big one wrapped up in red paper is the shape of a remote control firetruck and looks really nice.

i picked the big one. Chad Grimm picked the smallest one. i got a santa clause shaped sack of walnuts. he got a rubicks cube and everyone wanted to play with it. i sat off by the reading table acting like a santa clause shaped sack of walnuts was just what i always wanted.

i walked past the parking meters standing upright like an Easter Island post card. i walked over the cracks in the sidewalk that broke above the elm tree roots. i wondered if smaller was better. i wondered if secrets made things bigger. i wondered if music sounded best when i was the only one listening, if art was more beautiful more when no one was looking. if fame was better when my only fans were my friends. and if truth was better when i was the only one who knew it.

and i wondered if there is anything that google hasn't found besides my occurance.

Three Things

"Do you think when you are playing the drums?" mugur asked as he wheeled the antiquated wheelchair around the table and leaned back into the wicker and wood.

Dave replied, "sure. i wonder what in the world he is doing next." as he pointed at arvai and began to laugh.

The others had left and and we were sitting around a table in front of his stage. The room was at the back of his studio, past the countless chisels, vices, and piles upon piles of wood chips that have accumilated under his benches like scales from a butterfly's cocoon, and the shapes that laid silently above the wooden scales on the bench were as gentle and as graceful as one flying away from its metamorphosis.

"He played wonderful tonight." Dave continued.

i agreed. earlier i was sitting by myself beside the piano and watched Arvai and Andre sit side by side. Their fingers moved like cylnders in a sports car engine. they pressed the keys with precision and timing, driving from rythms and timing encrypted in the sheet music that laid tattered and stoic on the stand in front of them.

i watched them play the piano. i watched dave behind his drum kit smilling. i watched their eyes as they stared into the invisible music that was right in front of them, but so far way from me.

i sat by myself beside the piano and realized that some art makes time stand still, while others use time as it's medium. and as the tempo flexed and fluttered i realized that andre and arvai weren't reading the music that laid tattered and stoic on the stand in front of them. They were reading each other. and there were no words or thoughts exchanged between them. without knowing it, they were making the time that moved through the evening dance.

"no, when it is right, we are not thinking about it." arvai replied.

Dave agreed with a smile. "music, art, and women are the three things that are like that." he said. "And when you find them, and you connect, thinking about them doesn't do it justice. you can only feel it."

By reflex, my mind gathered everything in my life that he was talking about and slammed them into the center of my brain like the like the big bang theory played in reverse. orange and blue horses ran through lighting storms and sunrises as picasso's crow and sat with the woman and listened to a million notes of music dressed up as alphabets in illuminated manuscripts that read every word i have ever remembered in my life.

"and you know, tonight was such a treat to play with andre." Dave continued on as beauty continued to collide in my head. "it is such a shame that more people don't understand great music and the people who play it."

as music faded in my head and the horses galloped away, i returned to the conversation.

"i thought you were amazing," he said to arvai, "and then to meet your teacher!"

"and did you you know andre has played at the Lincoln Center 4 times this past season?" arvai added.

Suddenly i began to understand realativity of fame and success by way of making art. i leaned back in the chair. i looked at the stage and the studio and the millions of chisled strokes of wood that laid on the floor and thought about and how much art will never be seen. i thought about how much music will never be heard. i thought about all the things i felt about her that will never be abe to explain. i was surrounded by sculptures and just had a front row seat to an international concert pianist as he played the piano like and made the sleepy evening dance.

i thought about how many people in the world would be envious of my situation leaning back in that chair.

i thought about how many more would never know enough to care.

i felt lucky i was there. i felt sad for the lonley world and it's tv sets and top 40 radio and it's dateless browsing the new release section at blockbuster who didn't have what i have. i felt good to think that art, music, and the right girl can make me feel that way.

and sometimes, i am learning, it feels good to not think about them at all.

Singing instead

It was 2:30 a.m. on the am radio. the trucker talk show filtered through my car speakers like bad coffee through a cheap coffee pot at 700khz from cincinnatti.

Annie was sleeping shotgun. Woody was sleeping on an empty fast food bag of onion rings in the back seat. the dotted line of the interstate perforated the black basin of north central somewhere in Ohio.

i was bearing S/SE out of BGSU after meeting up with molly and perez to watch the lyrical surgeon Mike Doughty and his six string scapel, and the next big thing, Mike Genovese.

My eardrums had stopped vibrating from speakers at my front row bar stool, and settled into the hum of rt. 23 under my seat. the black sky was my baltic sea as my eyes focused on the perforation stretching out in front of me and my mind drifted in the dark. i began thinking about the relationships between causes and effects.

mike doughty writes his songs because picked up a pen and paper and wrote them down. genovese plays his music because he learned to play the guitar. woody was sleeping in the back seat on a greasy onion ring bag because he decided to road trip to a bar in bowling green in middle of his 50-something-an-hour work week.

and i was driving down the interstate in the middle of the night because i admire people who pick up pen and paper and guitars and do what is is that that they want to do.

and also because woody wouldn't drive his car.

as the dotted line kept crawling under the headlights that swam into the black sea above me, i realized there are far to many roads to drive down, and far too much money to spend, and far too many nights to stay up. and i have far too little gas, and far too little cash to ever see all of this world and do all that i want. and i never get enough sleep as it is.

but once again i was driving down a road in the middle of the night. mike doughty was traveling to his next show. genovese was trying to make it back to work in the morning. and woody and annie were sleeping in the car. and none of us had to ask permission for what we were doing. none of us had to apologize or explain it. we did it because it is what we chose to do.

my life will never happen if i don't live it. my life will never be happy unless i do what it is that i want to do.

i turned off the a.m. radio percolating through my speakers and began to sing out loud. and under the black baltic night when i could have been sleeping, i was driving down the road. and under the black baltic night i could have been saving my money, but i was spending it instead. and under the black baltic night, i could have been frusterated, i could have been lonley, i could have been sad and i could have been tired, but i was singing instead.

Saturday night. (alt. lyrics)

The night was black. Steam was falling out of our throats like from the tail pipes of idling cement trucks. and it felt as heavy. It was saturday evening and we were walking down the road where Prescott and i grew up. we were still young enough to be foolish, cold enough to feel old, and dirty enough to be happy. the tailights lit up like a nickle slot machine in a reno truck stop. They stopped up ahead after passing us and sat still.

"It's your dad." Prescott announced as jogged up ahead to welcome our rescue.

We piled into the truck bed like a black and white photo of wounded soldiers being rescued in a helicopter from vietnam. Water ran down my leg and out of my pants onto the black pavement as it slid under the open tailgate and fell onto the road were we grew up.

My dad laughed and told us he and my mother had been out shopping for new tires for the truck. he said they didn't recognize us when he passed. Obvioulsy he has never seen his son and his friends climbing out of the creek trodding down the road sopping wet in the dark. Or at least he didn't remember doing so.

They never even thought to ask us why were were soaking wet and filthy in 40 degree weather walking down the empty road in the dark.

As i sat against Prescott's cold legs and watched Matt open a flask and pour whiskey down his tailpipe. i felt my heart beat. i looked at my torn pants. i watched the moonlight blanket us like an iridium halo, keeping us young enough to feel and foolish enough to hurt.

i thought about all the struggleing and climbing and crawling and punching and writhing in the dark that we do in our lives when we are young enough not to be questioned for being soaking wet and filthy in 40 degree weather walking down an empty road in the dark.

i thought about what it is like to spend a saturday evening shopping for new tires for the truck.

i thought about what it would be like to feel my feet again.

growing up is hard to do. especially with friends like mine. and as we laid stacked like wounded soldiers in the truck bed, blanketed with moonlight and shrouded in youth, i tried to understand how much i had and how little of it can be quantified. my heart and my mind were sleeping warmly in opposite directions half a world away. and someday my body might be too. and should they all meet up someday at a tire store on a saturday night, i will try then to understand how much i will have, and remember the back of that truck with it's old tires and my good friends riding through the darkness of my youth.

The soldiers laid shivering beside me with black water running out of their boots. I began to laugh. I laughed at all the dark we live through, at the look on stephey's face, and at the thought of ever being questioned for being soaking wet and filthy in 40 degree weather walking down an empty road in the dark.

The privilege and rewards of a catapult contest

"You can have some of my underwear." Prescott said as we stood on the hardwood floor taking off our clothes.

Astonishingly, the water running down our pink legs was still in a liquid state. I think. My legs felt like concrete fenceposts. Puddles were forming underneath us as we took off our clothes and threw them an a heap like seaweed on the porch. Lostcreek turned to steam and rose out of the socks hanging in front of the fire.

Stephey kept telling us: "At last year's catapult contest, it was 20 degrees warmer and creek walking up to the bridge didn't hurt so bad last year".

I believe that is the first time those words have ever met in the same sentence in the history of the english language.

And in celebration, Cara said to me, "... you can have some of my homemade socks if you want."

"let's go up to the house and light the fireworks." Prescott announced.

and the linguistical explosions kept coming.

Blood began to percolate into my my ankles again. I grabbed a pair of Stephey's pants and Prescott's dad had a pair of shoes on the green floormat behind the door. I shoved the concrete on the ends of my legs into cara's homemade socks and wedged them into the Reebok's from 2 decades ago that were 2 sizes to small from behind the door.

Back outside the air was sharp and clear. I started the john Deere gator and prescott jumped in beside me. The rest of the ensemble piled in the back in a mismatched ball of hats and scarves and gloves like a ball of static clinged laundry stuffed in a dryer.

We bounced through the woods and out into the dark field. The moon began to softly wink at me as to acknowledge my situation.

Ahead of us the dark field rose up to the knoll. The catapults sat silently along the edge of the field like Sphinx sleeping in the African desert . Shattered pumpkins laid silent and still in the bean field like dead soldiers on a battle ground. The campfire burned like a sentry's station in front of the willow tree overlooking the dark field. and on the hillside behind his house were Prescott's and my parents sitting around the campfire.

And right behind us, bundled tight like a ball of laundry, the words friend and family could be interchanged as easily as my undergarmets.

i was cold because my body was running through the creek that flows through the farm. i was getting warmer because my heart was beating blood through my veins. the catapults sat silenlty in the field because we built them. the pumpkins laid strewn across the darkness because we have the space to smash them across the field with the catapuls we built. i was wearing homeade socks and yellow pants and Reeboks that are too small because i love my friends. Our parents were at the top of the field because they love us. The lunar eclipse was happening above us because the world I live in is spinning around a sun.

"You know." Prescott said to me as we spun around between the sun and the moon, "We are lucky."

I couldn't agree more.

making decisions

I am writing this on a 14" G4 iBook. here is why:

"..so i ended up walking home in my camoflauge pants and shirt from the bar alone. Anyways, what are you up to?" Prescott asked.

Prescott knows computers better than i know myself. So i decided to tell him exactly what i was doing.

"Well, i am having a dillema." i said into the cell phone. "I am driving to the Apple store right now and i can't decide if i should get a 15" powerbook, or just save my money and get a new G4 iBook. They both have the same RAM, same hard drive. they both have the same G4, a 933 MHz. or a 1Ghz."

The rain started coming down harder.

"You know, i have always wanted to buy a Mac." he said. "i would really like to work on an Apple sometime."

"Well if you have any advice for me let me know, i am getting off the interstate exit as we speak. i will be at the store in five minutes." i replied as i downshifted to 4th gear.

"It is a tough call, i know those titanium powerbooks are really cool. I guess you have to consider the differences." he said out of the cell phone speaker.

I saw the brake lights up ahead in the rain. I put my foot on the brake pedal.

"It is about a $600 difference." i said.

i wasn't slowing down.

Prescott began to reply. but the Toyota Sequoia idleing at the red light was approaching far too fast.

"I gotta go. i am going to get in a wreck." i said and threw the phone on the passenger's seat.

i put both hands on the wheel and my foot down hard on the brake. I still wasn't slowing down.

The giant black SUV was sitting still, 30 yards away. the light was still red. it was still raining.

i was still moving.

"What was i thinking?" i said to myself. "It is just a computer. i don't need the cool fancy one. i need to save my money."

the back of the jeep began to slide into the lane beside me. i let off the brakes and steered hard to the left. The giant black SUV was sitting still, 20 yards away. the light was still red. it was still raining.

i was still moving.

"Really, i said to myself, do i really need a computer at all?" my whole life was compressed and squeezed into my wet windshield right in front of me."They are a lot of money, and life is far too short to be worring about the difference between an 14" screen and a 15" screen.

The giant black SUV was sitting still, 10 yards away. the light was still red. it was still raining.

i was still moving.

"hell, i don't even need a computer. i just want to be able to walk." i finally announced to my entire life as it sat in front of me in the rainy windshield.

The chrome ball hitch on the Black SUV idleing at the red light in the rain knuckle punched the front of the jeep like Joe Avery used to hit Prescott and I in the back seat of the school bus in 7th grade.

The metal popped like a cherry bomb and my chest slammed into the steering wheel. I sat up as my momentum, at last, rocked backwards and came to a stop.

"looks like i am fine." the man in the black SUV said mildly aggravated to me as i climbed out of my jeep.

"are you okay?" i asked as we stood i the rain. the light was, still, red. "yeah, i am fine. but it looks like.... you're not."

We looked at the front of my jeep. it looked like a jack'o lantern grinnng wide and grotesque with missing teeth.

And finally, 30 seconds and a $500 deductable later, the light turned green.

"Well, i am okay, so i am going to go" he said and climbed back into the black SUV and drove away in the rain.

I got back in my jeep and put it in first gear. it moved. so i went.

my phone, now on the passenger side floor rang.

"dude. what happened? i thought i might be the last to hear your voice alive. Are you okay?" he asked anxioulsy over the phone.

"yeah. i just got a real close look at the back of a Toyota Sequioa... as i rammed into the back of it." i said.

"oh man. are you okay. is the other guy okay?"

"yeah" i replied.

"good. so did you say they have the same processor speeds?"

(*prescott has been known to fall asleep at 4:00 am while driving 95 mph on the highway in the dark coniferous forests of southwest michigan, and wake up as the drivers side door of his car is getting peeled down to primer by a red pine as he careens off the interstate and into the forest. and he will not think to mention it to us until weeks later.)

"um. no." i smiled. i pointed my toes out off the ends of my feet with my legs. looked at my policy statement on my insureance card clipped on my visor. and shook my head.

"but i think my decision was just made for me." i said to Prescott as i drove away in the rain.