(See what I am saying?)

Eleven things I've Learned:

Lately, my nights are hard enough. And now, so are my days.

Controversy and dissapointment seem to follow me wherever I go. There was the Quark episode. Then there was the infamous Graduate School debacle. Now there is my current associations:

Bad press has been hit from the local (Santa Barbara), and state (San Jose) levels, and has now been printed from Coast to Coast regarding the latest installment of the Todd Roeth vs. the real world game.

After a 3 1/2 hour meeting with our president tonight, i have come to, or have been reinforced to these conclusions:

1. The business of sales is a curse to humankind, and will try my best to always stay far away from it.

2. Everybody, is a salesman.

3. Words are not reality, only a subjective description thereof.

4. So are numbers.

5. Promises are words, and sometimes so are numbers.

6. Dreams are promises you make to yourself.

7. All we have are dreams. And we are all willing to pay to make them come true.

8. Promises are only met by actions, never by more words.

9. Actions aren't lies. Words are.

10. People believe words, numbers, and promises too easily, when actions -often their own- are always what they need most.

11. Dreams will never come true with words, numbers, or more promises. But rather by simple actions: i. e.: busting your ass. (in this case, busting your ass to be a good photographer. but there isn't much in life i can tell that doesn't apply.)

I say these things because, i feel like i am the only who sees it this way. as my experience tells me, they seem secret to most of the world. At least this world, where the american dream can be sold, promised, and quantified, but never needed to be worked hard to get. I am not very old, and have a lot to learn, but by some fourtunate coincidence, i have learned very plainly, that words never mean as much as they are meant to. My own actions, hard work, and a long time, will be the only thing to change my reality. There are many people who seem not to understand this.

For these reasons, i don't tend to talk much, except in this contraption, about what i do, or what i feel. They are just a description of it anyways. I am not always good at what i do, but i am always better at doing it, or feeling it, than explaining it.

My distrust and caution towards words, both written and spoken; promises, marketing and sales tatics is warranted. Conversly, my understanding is getting painfully clearer that money, and the making of it, is what makes the world go around- and that there is really nothing wrong with that. Even when it comes to promises and dreams. My goals, values, and my perspectives are being challenged and redefined from both ends, and from multiple angles. No one can sell creativity, passion, talent, and drive. Everything else - including skill and education, however, costs money.

And i am busting my ass to understand that.

Of all the barstools in this world

I looked across the bar. Woody was bright eyed and blow dried and beckoning me over to him with a grin.

There is a particular refrigerator far far away from my that location that night. And there is a magnet on the refrigerator that says, "Everything happens for a reason."

And there are certain nights in certain seasons that i feel i just need to be in certain places. Tonight, the-somewhere-in-the-middle-of-the-summer night hung low in Hammondsport. The edges of town are tucked in tight between the rippling hills of somewhere-in-the-middle-of-new-york-state. 54A forks out of the tucked in town along the west shore of the lake, leaving an angular corner at the edge of town where Mahoney's pub takes up it's lot in life.

It was on this specific corner on the edge of this specific town on that specific night where I occupied a barstool in this world. Out front, on the white railing sat a bachlorette and her bridesmaids, biker boys and saturday night girls. inside the man behind the microphone stand was playing an elvis song.

I got up off of my barstool and walked over to woody.

Without a word, woody grabbed my arm and pointed at the bartender, who looked at me and held up a bottle of George Dickel #9.

After a brief introduction to the aforementioned bartender and an abbreviated tour of our long history with the bottle in his hand, he proceeded to pour us drinks stiff enough to stand up without the glass. Soon woody was reciting our black bear story and bargaining for bourbon, and the glasses started pilling up from the whisky we were drinking on top of the money we weren't spending in the night that i hope wouldn't be ending. the man behind the microphone stand began singing a John Prine song. Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, on that barstool, on that somewhere in the middle of the summer night, in that somewhere in the middle of a tiny tucked in new york town, i felt like i was right where i should be.

There are certain nights in certain seasons that i feel i need to be in certain places. Everyone once in a while, i end up making it there. Riding away that night up 54A, piled in the backseat with the windows down, i didn't feel bad for being where i wanted to be. I commended woody for his bargaining tactics. and I began believing in refrigerator magnets.

Living Life without a LifeJacket (or: Hope Doesn't Float)

I jumped off the end of the boat and held my breath.

The water was exaclty the same temperature as the air. and as I sank softly down into the water, i opened my eyes. The lake was a bright as the sky. It reminded me there are balances in this life.

Like having freedom and friendship.

Like having family and independence.

Like having adventure and familiarity.

Even if it lasts only as long as one breath.

Night Rider

"Would you like something to drink, sir?" she asked me.

The lights flickered and faded into a dark glow of aisle lights and overhead icons of safety belts and cigarettes.

"They're still free up here, right?" i replied.

"Yes sir." she said with a smile.

"I'll take a gin and tonic then."

We ascended into the night. Through the window was nothing but black in all directions. Inside my head it was about the same. I leaned back my seat and closed my eyes. No one on earth who could ever possibly have been thinking about me then knew where i was, or where i was going. Even i didn't know exactly where i was, or when it was, or when it was going to be when i got there.

There were very few things i understood right then.

The lights went out. I finished my gin and tonic. and for the fist time in a little while, i smiled.

{Listening to: Nights Like These.}

Heart. Body. Once Removed.

"Go be outside, it always makes you feel better" my mom said as i hung up the phone.

I drove down to the harbor. The moon was up and the sun was down and the light stood inbetween and still above the angry ocean like it was brushed on by a heartbroken Winslow Homer. It was high tide and sand shook when the waves fell like a ballerina driving a bulldozer. I ran along the edge of the ocean. I ran through the very edge of the surf where it boiled like caustic poison and foamed like jaws of a mad dog, drooling under my feet.

I ran past the vacant volleyball courts and lifeless lifeguard stands. I ran until Homer's sky began to fade like feelings.

Then i stopped by a jetty wall and took off my shoes and shirt and walked into the ocean. The water was a dark creamy red like an old bottle of wine. I walked in until the waves slammed into my ribs and took out my breath. I dove into the darkness and began to swim.

I swam until i couldn't see prada standing in the surf. She stood strong in the boiling foam with her wet ears flexed on her cocked head as she stared at me, swimming away .

Then i turned around and kept swimming.
I kept swimming because i wanted to get away from everything that was the way that it had become.

I swam until i couldn't feel the bottom in the troughs of the wave. The lights from the beach houses went dark between the breaks. I kept swimming because i wanted to be more alone than i ever have been. I wanted to get it all out of my system.

I kept swimming until i couldn't see the jetty wall on my left, and until the angry ocean carried me up and down it's black tide until all i could see were the oil wells on the horizon before i slid down the backside of the wave and into the darkness. I kept swimming because i felt helpless and wanted a real reason to feel that way.

The black water poured in both of my ears and up my nose. I hung my feet straight down and allowed myself to sense the unfathomable darkness below me. And then i kept swimming. I swam farther because i wanted to get as far away as i possibly could from everybody and everything. i wanted to get as far away as i could from love letters, Los Angeles Traffic, salad bars and sad songs. i wanted to get away from every memory i have made in the last 2 years. and there, more than a quarter of the earth away from the central park sunrises, far far away from the arching arms of concrete in the decidious forests of the Pennsylvania turnpike , the crumbling brick in Nashville, the hazy hot flowers along the gravel roads of the Ohio Valley, and as far as physically allowed from the smooth white hotels in Miami- i was out on the edge all alone. Surrounded in pounding, drowning darkness.

i couldn't go any farther. i turned around and tried to see it all. and there like a feeble beacon i went to the edge of my world with nothing but the immeasurable space of the pacific ocean at my back. i was as far away as could ever be from everything i have ever known. i couldn't get a wider perspective of the world i live in. I was at the edge, any farther and i would loose sense of direction in the darkness.

The water roared around me. I felt small and insignificant. I was alone. i reached out in every direction to grasp for balance but there was nothing solid to hold onto.

And there, finally; my body was in the same situation as my heart.

Skateboarding barefoot

...and the consequences thereof:

The Assumption deserving of a Double Cheeseburger

On average, i eat about 14 times a week. Or at least 14 meals with the aid of utensils. Of those, i average experience about 10 by myself. Eating alone is economical. you eat cheap. at home, and seldom do even have to dirty dishes. i eat out of the pot, drink from the carton, and scoop from the container.

But last night i decided to go out for dinner.

After the crushing the realization that the local salad bar buffet was closed (forever), i went to the Habit. The habit is billed as a California classic. A high end hamburger stand. A glassed-in hybrid of an A&W root beer stand and a boneified fast food joint. The doors are open and you walk up to the counter with about 5 hamburgers to choose from. The whole thing is vaguely reminiscent of the Dairy Queens in the parts of the woods where i grew up.

He must have been watching.

I ordered my sandwich. As i reached for my wallet, he pounced like a puma from behind the drink station.

"Hey Man!" he said in an overly jovial tone. (Think Steve Zahn.)I just watched the movie, Sahara)).

"You got any change i have?"

"Dang." I thought. It's one thing to to be asked on the street. but this guy was in the restaurant and struck for gold at the precise point of purchase.

I was paying with a Debit Card, and had no currency on me. But out of respect for his tenacity and deft timing, i reached in to my pocket. All I found was one 1 dime. And, i figured, at least i know waht he will be using the money for. I looked at him, cupping a hand full of pennies and nickels, counting his money to make his purchase.

"Here you go". i said and tossed the dime in to his pile.

"Right on!, man." he said from behind his oversized 80's style sunglasses that resembled the tinted windshield of 35 ft. RV. he even had bugs stuck on them.

"Surf's up, huh man? Catching waves!?" He continued.

I haven't cut my hair in a long time.

"Semper Fi dude. I just got back from Iraq, and man this state was worth saving! i love this state." he says as he voice began to raise and entered earshot of the growing line of Californians behind us.

"Where are you headed?" i asked.

"Man I'm gonna see this whole state. I put one foot in mexico and i am headed up the coast."

I examined him. he was weathered, with a full size, extended trip backpack, with a tent and a bag. he was wearing 501's and leather sandals. and was covered in a chapped and dusty film of exhaust, sand, and smog.

He continued his story, as he counted his change, and ordered a double cheeseburger. The crew-cut hispanic manager walked up behind the register and called him over. In a rather drawn out and hushed conversation, the manager kicked him out of the Habit Hamburger restaurant.

The guy handled it pretty well. -that is to say, he handled better than i would have. in an exasperated voice , he vented to himself as he walked out past the now long line of Californians, "I'm a fucking marine, i just got back here! man, i can't believe this..... I just got back here!....."

There was assumption to be made right then. And, standing by the drink station, I made it. I assumed he was a United states soldier hiking the 31st state of our union in his 501's and leather sandals. I guard my gullibility closer than anyone, and seldom would believe in a story like that, but was amazed at the irony of the scene.

I stood there by the drink stand watching it all. Not a single person in the line even looked at him. Not a single person took their eyes off the menu on the wall, or their cell phone. Not the business man with his black leather cell phone holster. Not the short woman in pink flowered flip flops and an american flag t-shirt. Not the tan kid with abercrombie 4 inch lettering on his shirt and replica army camouflaged shorts. Not a single person looked his way. He walked out the front of the Habit Hamburger restaurant and stood on the street corner pacing in a flustered frustration.

As i mentioned, i guard my gullibility closer than anyone, and seldom would believe in a story like that, but I felt bad for the guy. I picked up my food and ate alone in the back of the restaurant, keeping an eye on him, standing on the street corner. I ate quickly and had decided that, if he was still there, when i was done, i would buy him his double cheeseburger on my way out. Had the line been shorter, i would have gotten right back in, bought him his double cheeseburger, and ate it outside on the picnic tables with him. Even if he was lying, I thought to myself, it still wouldn't be such a bad thing to get the guy a sandwich.

I began thinking, a panhandler savvy enough to infiltrate the staff at the Habit Hamburger restaurant and take up a reconnaissance position flanked behind the drink stand and who ambushed me at the precise moment my wallet was exposed, just might have had to be a marine. Or, with those skills, would have also been keen enough to use a patriotic marketing ploy for profit. Everyone else does. But if it was true, then what had just happened throbbed with apathy, irony, and a telling state of affiars, distinctly Vietnam flashback-ish. Even if he was lying, I decided, I would rather eat with him than then anyone else in there.

When i was finished, i got up and emptied my tray, and got in the back of the long line of californians, then peered out the window to find guy. he was gone.

and without his double cheeseburger, he was - I assumed, headed north.

The Birthday Party (#2)

They came in from all over. Cincinnatti, D.C, Buffalo, Atlanta, and Leanne and I flew standby in middle of night. My parents opened up the cabin a few days early and by the time we arrived, all the shutters and doors were open and the fishing poles were propped up against the porch railing and everything looked like it always had despite my absence for so long.

On the first night, Perez, Stephey and I hiked to the top of Kuhn's hill where the field grass was waist high with full heads of grain and the stars wrapped around us like a scarf and faded in the halogen glow to our northeast above Logan.

I stood there for a minute in the dark. I could hear the dogs sliding through the grass like submarines below the me. I could hear my friends voices behind me emerging into the clearing. i found my out to the old jeep trail faintly laid from tire tracks from the last half century across the spine of the hillside as it rose into the dark. i stood there and listened and felt everything like is should be. I could tell exaclty where i was in the pitch dark of the night, as if i were sleep walking in my memories. i felt everything like it always had despite my absence for so long.

It was sometime during the weekend, i remember the distinct vision in my head of the globe, - or at least it was this continent - and i could see the vapor trails and interstate routes that led us all the same campfire on the same night down in the dark corner of Ohio, singing the same songs, talking about the same things and laughing face to face. i felt like i was watching my big bang theory in reverse. My universe so often feels like is getting bigger and bigger, and farther away from everywhere it used to be. But for one weekend around one cabin in the woods had collapsed back together again. and we were there, singing like we always had, despite my absence for so long.

Citronella, cheap cigar smoke, and lack of personal hygiene kept the mosquitos far enough away. Dogs slept in the shadows of clothes lines sagging between poplar trees with wet swimming suits. The swimming point had it bar of ivory soap. The radio was playing Steve Earle through the speakers dad wired out in the rafters on the porch. My parents drove clementine down to Virgina's cabin for the weekend, letting us do exactly what they used to do while they did what they do now, which mostly was coming over and visiting with us. And for those few short days, there was the enjoyment of 19 inch bass and whisky flasks, corn on the cob and the comforting feeling that everything looked like it always had, despite my absence for so long- including woody's hair, still blow dried to perfection.

it's funny how fast i can forget about all the work i have made for myself that i have made myself think i need to do. Being with my friends- which I do too scarcley- has a way of making me forget what it is that i do everyday- which i do too much of- that must be important, but never important enough to talk about when i have friends around. And somewhere on a walk in the woods i realized we are all not ready to grow up, and we are far better at wanting than having, and the dust has not settled on any of us, and life may be short but it takes a long time to get to where we feel we need to go.

and as i am learning, it takes even longer to get back.

{For soundtrack to this entry, listen to: We Never Change (iTunes). Read Lyrics.}

The Birthday Party