Insomnia

There is a certain stagnation that results from living with the constant burden of unpredictability, caught inexplicably immobile as the first hesitant sparks of an upcoming war that threatens to be anything but civil rain down upon the desiccated tinder of everyone’s day to day good intentions, just waiting for the right mistake to catch and take hold. An accompanying exhaustion, crippling and numb, often robs the restful sleep so desperately needed and replaces it instead with the regret-filled void of decade’s old sin.  It is a wickedly infectious insomnia, red and raw, twirling around a ticking clock whose only remaining function is to lie convincingly about the time. And all I can do is simply lay there in silent subjugation, night after sweat-soaked night, watching …

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F**K Human Resources

How do I tell her? How do I explain in a text message that I am inexplicably caught constantly tabulating the incalculable burden of obligation? How do I confess that every single sleepless night my mind unintentionally fills and chokes full with formulaic frustrations, all neatly tallied and categorized into tidy little lists? Every day dawns stubbornly stillborn here in this place no longer fertile with the initial promises of illusive stability.  Life instead gets bogged down and impregnated with a cacophony of humdrum dial tone stagnation. The compulsion to try doing the “right” thing- measured by someone’s unlisted definitions, anyway.  Paying that bill.  And the next one.  And the one after that.  The unceasing drive to do a good job, even though very few people …

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Texting Tag

I have always been overly sensitive about receiving overnight texts, those snippets of conversation hitting my phone randomly in the emptiness of another sleepless night spent straddling the solitary decay in a fading City of Wayne. There was once a time when those texts were almost always transatlantic in nature.  And they almost always contained some form of bad news- another friend buried.  Or arrested.  Or overdosed.  And even when the content of the texts bouncing across an ocean contained happier tidings, there was still an invisible, underlying melancholy attached that taught me caution and stiff-lipped reserve when caught unlocking my phone after midnight. Now, though, here in the tempestuous midst of a pandemic still raging hard… and the western forests burning uncontained… and the progressive …

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typer

Rambles

She came at me hard, unexpected on that late Saturday night inexcusably caught bleeding its way into another Sunday in the drunken tick-tock rhythm of my irresponsibility.   Missed calls initially unanswered. Hesitant texts, tagging along in 1600 character bites.  Communication coyly re-established after years of dormancy, missing not the beat, but rather each other in the absence of a meaningful upper middle age destiny mutually unfolding.   She wanted to hear my voice; I wanted to hear the experience of her stories.   And on that clear summer night we drunkenly satisfied one another through the conversation that should have been shared years ago, but was always somehow postponed.   Kind accolades for my words hit me undeservedly, leaving me embarrassingly mute in the unwarranted praise.   …

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Day 100: End of the Line

100 days. 50 bottles. And a typewriter. From those seemingly innocuous things arose these many words written to share with the rest of the world my little part of the national quarantine experience here in the supposed backwaters of flyover country. Despite the fact that I often complain, to just about anyone who will listen, about how hard the writing is and how exhausting and draining it can be constantly chasing down the words, I am proud of what I have here created.  Where once there was only an isolated emptiness, now there is something else that helps fill that space.  I unflinchingly stared down the worst that a global pandemic, and accompanying civil unrest, could throw at me and I fought that shit back with …

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