NOTEBOOK

Cleanliness is a struggle.

Things get dirty, then I clean to scorched earth. Middle ground is rare.

The notebook of childhood doodles was meaningless during a small purge — I didn’t see a use for it, so it went into the Hefty bag. The bag landed in the dumpster with a resonant clang. Ordinarily that satisfies me; today it didn’t.

The notebook was giving me anxiety almost immediately.

Club sandwich, please, with mayo. No tomato.

As the toast cooled in my apartment, I was holding a broom inside the dumpster, grabbing the jawstrings of the Hefty. Out it came.

The notebook was back in my life, still not offering its secret as to why I desired it.

And then it did.

I still can’t draw. I’m barely better now than I was then. While I didn’t find inspiration in pad and pencil, I found it in cameras and the keyboard.

It led me to this pursuit of making and documenting.

I still don’t know why I take photos, make films, or write.

But it makes me happy.

The notebook is on my shelf and safe. The club sandwich was mediocre and overpriced.

CLIMB

The conversation lagged. Even after six stiff drinks apiece, he couldn’t find a rhythm with her. She began to text on her phone, her cigarette pointing towards him from her fingers as if accusing him for the lull. He stared at the yellowed wall, then through it, and then closed his eyes. The drumming rain on the window got heavier, and he smiled slightly.

“Did I ever tell you how I started drinking again?”

She drew on the cigarette and leaned back.

“I don’t think so.”

He poured each of them another generous portion of bourbon and took a look at the candle, the only light in the room.

“I took up hiking. That became my new addiction. I couldn’t manage a mile at first. My joints weren’t used to it. Any time I really, really craved a drink, I’d drive five minutes to Verdugo Park. I’d beat the shit out of my knees, get bit up, covered in dirt...it was how I cleared it all away.”

She re-ignited her cigarette.

“It didn’t take me but three, four months before I was covering that whole park. I’d even do Stough Canyon and cross into La Tuna. I had these legs like fucking tree trunks. Still do, sort of. Few years later, I was hiking Los Padres. Multi-day thing, you know. Packing a tent, hiking north, was gonna meet friends in Creston.”

He touched the scar on his forehead.

“I fell. Hard. Got turned around one night, fell about ten feet. Cracked my head on a rock. Could’ve died, now that I think about it. That whole night’s a blur. Somehow I found a creek, washed myself off, dressed it as best I could. Didn’t pack a mirror. I had a concussion, so I just kept walking until I dropped. I woke up around eight the next morning, filthy. I still wasn’t at all cognizant...I just kept walking, didn’t even really look at my compass. I wanted out. It was fear and panic.”

Her eyes were narrowed.

“It’s not a huge park, but if your head is scrambled like mine was, it’s a maze. I drank all of my water…I got real worried. I thought to myself, ‘this might be it’. Right then, though, I saw it in a clearing. I found a fire watch tower. It was a beacon. That was it, I was gonna be fine. I climbed the stairs, knocked...then I looked around. Fucking thing was closed for the season. Didn’t much matter to me at that point. I threw my weight into that door, damn near destroyed it.”

Her eyes darted away momentarily, distracted by a bump from somewhere in the poorly-insulated apartment building.

“I ransack this place, right? I mean, turn everything over, ruin all of the equipment. I’m about to set this thing on fire, ‘cause in my mind at that point, I needed out. Fast. Let the government bill me, let them lock me up, I needed people to find me.”

One last sip from the glass, and the seventh drink was done.

“I’m about to do it, and the sun hits a bottle of this.”

He waved the bourbon bottle in her face, smiling.

“Guess the last watchman didn’t clear out his stash. Didn’t matter. I start hitting this bottle. Hadn’t drank in five years, it was disgusting. I start walking away, sipping this whiskey, and it burned bad. I knew what would happen, and that I was making it worse. I was working on instinct. It was liquid, and I was thirsty.”

He poured again; one more drink for the road. His bed was four feet away.

“Somehow, I stumbled onto the 101 and a Japanese tourist found me. Spent a week in the hospital, drained my savings paying back the government and my lawyer. And here we are.”

He took a moment to watch her face as she strained between laughter and pity. He reached into a knapsack a few feet away and grabbed some trail maps.

“Someday, I’ll have to start from Verdugo Park again.”

18SEPT30

The speed is expensive.

Our passions are the fuel for the already-rich, the ones who got there first.

They know how our endorphins work, and the knew how to trigger their own with them.

Every rise has a plummet, and that’s the cycle they trap you in. They’re fucking geniuses, the lot of them.

Accept it. Work with it, not against it; you go try and build your own, see how far you get.

18JAN20

The frost on the windows is something I'll miss. And yet, it's like the frost on a window in Colorado in the morning air, or maybe northern California, gracing a cabin in the redwoods. 

I'm jellied into the middle ground, grasping, wondering what it means to yearn and mourn.

Frost is frost. 

It's what's around the frost that everyone attaches their own little meanings to. 

17DEC19

Slow death is a straight line, bordered by fast food restaurants and department stores.

There's no progress made in artificially lighting a place to park and feeling safe under security cameras. All walks of life atrophy with every step against concrete and stained discount carpet. 

Soul and character isn't found here. We're fools to think enlightenment is found on the pavement, amongst the others, all warmed in the glow of fluorescent bulbs. 

Convenience is hell.

Leave it to those who prefer it, and walk into the woods with me. 

17DEC7

The wheels shriek every single day.

There's a collective cringe and a darting of eyes.

We're ready for a murderous fight to begin.

It never does, but to some, it'd make for an exciting beginning.

There's dismay and relief at the lack of a brawl, and as the sun turns over, fists clench and unclench. 

17DEC6

It was Florida, and it was hot. Humidity snuck through gaps and the light was yellow from past-due lightbulbs. 

The evening was pale blue against the louvered windows, and distantly, there was a dry snoring. 

I smiled a bit at the clack of the old refrigerator, and remembered that this never lasts long.