Amazing Grace

Alaska and I have had several conversations lately, and I wanted to tell her about it. The whole thing. And the effect it had on me. But I couldn't. I will not, choke up, in public. All this about funerals, and life, and the last of it, and who cares and who doesn't and why and what next. And she has a friend who wants to change the world. Compelling stuff, that. I used to want to do something big. Something grand. Something that would make people I don't even know recognize my name. But that is not me. I have come to realize I have no profound vision. I am no prophet of ideas, no example of grace or beauty. I will put these words down, struggle to get it right, knowing already that I won't/can't do it justice. And I will pass. Fade. And then. Nothing. I will be gone. Just...gone. But here is something I can do; I can tell you about Andrew.

A couple of weeks ago, it was the anniversary of Andrews last breath. That I can't remember the exact date makes me want to lay in bed for 5 straight days in a pharmacological haze. It's a personal shame I have a hard time getting past. I will never forget something like that again. My Mother's last breath? August 6th. About 3pm. Last year. I felt it on my face. And it was Andrew that gave me the strength to stay there. To make it through the final 2 days of deep gasps. To stop the sobbing when I thought she could hear me. To try to be strong for her. To kiss her cold face after I begged out loud for her chest to rise just one more time. Because that is the type of guy Andrew was.

We weren't close friends. I'm not sure if he ever knew my last name. But it didn't matter to him. He was warm and open. His greeting was a smile, a genuine smile, not some slap-back glad hand, or no-press hug. It was strange at first, this beautiful man, being so conspicuously nice. I didn't want to like him. The kind of asshole, I thought, born with the silver spoon in his mouth that most of the rest of us spend our whole lives trying to shine. I mean he seemed to have everything. It wasn't common knowledge, but through mutual friends I knew his family was wealthy. And because my family used to be, but was no longer, I ridiculed his trust fund and distrusted his financial comfort. If he has so much money, I wondered, why does he wait tables while trying to go to med school? You know why? Because the fucker didn't want his family to know he was spending his trust fund money going to Malawi over the summer set up vaccination stations. His own money. Out of his own pocket. A gift. Not some fucking Sally Fields just-send-me-a-picture-of-my-little-poor-kid kinda help. He went there. He stayed there. He stuck crying, wraith-like little kids, trying to find enough fat or muscle so as to not hit bone.

But he never even talked about that really. He probably sensed, rightly, that it might just highlight how much the rest of us do-gooders actually did not do. I mean we didn't even want to be confronted with the reality that this guy, this guy we actually knew, was out there doing something good. Something that involved more effort than walking down the street waving our anti-flags against all the more fashionable injusticisms. Besides, we always just wanted to hear about his skiing stories. He shared a cabin in Banff with Warren Miller for a week each winter, and we wanted to hear exploits! Stories about drinking and pussy and fuck all whatever. He would tell us how they were dropped out of helicopters. How one year, they were almost caught in an avalanche. And so on. He was the guy we wanted to be. Handsome. Perma-Fit. And he could dance. Secretly, everyone who can't, wishes they could dance. He seemed to us, for all practical purposes, perfect.

Which is why it was so weird to learn that he had checked into the hospital with a back pain he couldn't seem to shake. All the doctors, his med school professors many of them, seemed a bit confused, but assured him that they would get to the bottom of it. Well, they did get to the bottom of it. The bottom of it was that xrays showed that he had rabid tumors barnacled up and down his spine. His body was attacking itself, consuming itself. Out of control. They had never seen anything like it. When Andrew looked at them, in their white coats, their clipboards, their nice cars and glasses, they couldn't tell him anything. They couldn't tell him it would be ok. But he already knew. The way they smiled too much, were too boisterous. Non-committal.

So here is what Andrew does; he drops out of med school, his pain becoming too overwhelming. He convinces the University to hire him as an adjunct professor. He will teach a course...from his bed...in the oncology unit...about what it is like, from the patients perspective, to be dying suddenly of a cancer you can do absolutely nothing about. Fucking guy. I will never be half the man he is. Ever.

And he does, but he fades quickly. He is a fraction of himself. He cannot control his bowels. Nervous young students, all pumped with the sweet-smell dream of life saving gather around his bed. They shuffle their feet. Ask him too-earnest questions about the nursing staff. And he smells. Andrew smells like he is dying. And he knows it. He can see it on their faces.

Soon, the class ends. The kids go back to their promising text books. They are again filled with the benevolent hope and power of new medicine. Andrew withers. His girlfriend and family sit with him. We, his friends, come see him. The sight of him is instant tears. He looks like he is already gone. Most of us can't stand it. And it is hard to feel the benefit of standing their. For him or for ourselves. We know death is there. Andrew is going to die. And then he does. That quickly, he just dies. There is no fanfare. There are no awards for trying hard. The clock just keeps ticking. It doesn't miss even one tick as he passes. Like it didn't even fucking care. His family is there, and the doctors. But I am not. I cannot take that. I hate myself for being thankful that we were not that close. Make me cry motherfucker. I cannot get past this.

And there is, after word makes it around, a service. Nobody knew Andrew was Jewish. He seemed, somehow, outside of religion. Unencumbered by the various rules and protocol for being a good person. He just was good. And I swear, I will never forget this day as long as I live. It is trivial to remember the driving rain. But the quiet...I remember the quiet had a weight to it. Like everyone holding their breath. A collective denial. I can barely get through this even now.

And so many people came up to the front of the church to speak. Friends, holding their emotions back. Making everyone there smile with stories of good, happy times. Most of us relieved because we could sniff. And discretely wipe our eyes with the distraction of the nervous laughter. And then it started to get hard. His father tried to speak. He and Andrews mother just stood there, weeping quiety in front of what must have been 500 of us. Five hundred! Five hundred people touched by Andrew's life. Not five hundred moved by his death, but five hundred touched by his life. This man, just this friendly guy, had been quietly touching lives all over the fucking place. Nobody the wiser. Just Andrew. It was almost too much.

And then, I didn't even know...his brother, his identical twin brother steps forward. I didn't even know. I didn't even know. His brother is standing there trying to stay composed. Waiting. Trying to get a word to come out. And just as he starts to say something, bells ring. A long chime. A space. Another long chime. And in the distance...way off somewhere I don't even know where, there is a bagpipe. Faint. A far away Amazing Grace filters into the church. His brother hears it. We see him break. He cannot help it. He says, "There was just one last thing Andrew wanted to hear. He asked me......". And he begins to wail. Andrew's identical twin brother standing there. He is Andrew. He is shaking and crying so hard he is making unnatural noises. He doesn't leave. The bagpipe is walking towards the church and getting louder. Growing. Swelling. It it feels like Andrew. His strength. And compassion. His loneliness. And frailty. And we all lose it. Everyone is sobbing. We look at Andrew's brother and see him. His Mom and Dad and Sister all come forward independently to comfort him. He is still wailing like he is hurt so bad. Hurt so bad he can hardly stand it. Uncontrollably. And they all put their arms around him. They weep in a tight circle. They weep around Andrew. We all do. None of us can help it. And the bagpipe walks into the church. Tears streaming down the player's face. His face is strained. His shoulders shaking. It is loud. This is the only sound. It feels like he is here. We all wish he was here. Please can he be here? Please can he be back? Can we please have him back?

I mean, why? What are you going to tell me? That this is part of the "Big Plan?" That this God decided to take Andrew? For what? Why? Give me one good reason fucker. Just one. Because if we are just supposed to take it on faith, just because You say so...because You know what's best and we don't.... You have to better than that fucker. You want me to love? You want me to believe? And you take Andrew? Fuck You. I'm done.

I love you Andrew. And I miss you.

Narcotic Prayer

Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray tonight my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray tonight my soul to take

Wave

Some things bother me about myself. Take that last post, for example. I can still see so much of that in my head. Play/Rewind/Play. And I find that there are little parts so appealing that it seems to me that they must speak to some very basic part of my personality.

Like binoculars. At first two distinct circles, two independent fields of vision, two dimensional. Not yet whole. And then, as you adjust the focus, the two circles rotate into one. And now you see the image clearly. 3D.

Emotionally, that is what it feels like. There is some powerful yet shadowy desire. Some lick lip lust. Just below the surface. Waiting. Wordlessly demanding its release. A situation, an environment, a look in her eye. And I latch on. The true-life vision rolls together with the subconscious. And the emotion is complete. It is wave-strong and it will not tolerate being denied. What’s worse is that I love it. I crave it. I like being overtaken. We have all done it. Played in the surf. Rolled in the belly of a wave. It is thrilling to feel something so much more powerful than ourselves.

But, if that wave we seek is lust, if it is sustained sexual tension; it may come with a price. My fear is that I will, at some point, find myself thrashed and pulled under and out, having taken in too much of the wave. Drowning.

Freud defined the Id (forgive the loose definition) as “the personality component made up of unconscious psychic energy that works to satisfy basic urges, needs, and desires. The Id operates based on the pleasure principle, which demands immediate gratification of needs.” And that is the problem. Those vague lusts in my head, loitering just below the surface, once brought into focus by the details of some situation I find myself in, can take me over. It is wonderful. Intense. Beautiful. And quite possibly…the malevolent beginnings of my undoing.

Handshake

It's so slippery. The way one thought can slide into the next. Some little thing, some detail, catching my attention and suddenly I'm all jumped-track distracted. But for better or worse, I count on that. Days like today leave me wanting to walk outside, kneel down at the edge of the bike lane, and scrape my teeth on the curb. My deductible is ridiculously high, so I opt for a beer instead. Besides, Alaska is there. And if anyone is apt to turn this day into something that tastes good, it's her.

We are new to each other, she and I. Far too unfamiliar to have the conversation we slid into tonight. And - most of you know this about me - that atmosphere, where you can nearly feel the air vibrating on your skin, that is my poison. My brain smack. So, go ahead asshole...buy your wine. Sail your boat. Shine your trophy wife all mirror slick. You can have it all. Give me the girl that will, when I ask her to, tell me something she knows she shouldn't be telling me. Something that lays her bare. Give me the girl that knows that power. And is willing to use it against me.

Alaska knows. She knows how bad I want it, me hanging there, hook half set. And so it goes. Playing each other. Toying. Each story, each fantasy shared, just a little more intense than the last. And then, for me, it tips. Alaska, sitting there, in her long summer skirt, reveals that, sometimes, in public...maybe at dinner, maybe sitting at the bar, maybe where-fucking-ever...she subtly, and almost without evidence, masturbates. She will position herself, just so, just right, and grind. And I see her now, on the couch, shifting her weight. That little pearl surrounded by all that perfect grip-slip flesh. Squeezing her thighs as she is talking. And I nearly lose it. I am so close to reaching over. Reaching over, shoving her chest against the back of the sofa, her head hanging over, her knees on the couch, my weight on the small of her back so her back arches. So her back fucking arches and puts her pussy right there. Right fucking there where I can take it. Hold her, shove her. And do what I want to her.

Instead, she just smiles. Pleased with herself.

"Show me," I say. "I want you to show me how you do that." Because right now, there is nothing else. There is nothing else in my world. There is this. And I need to see it. I need to see it so I can have that with me. Carry it in my head. How this girl, how this adorable girl, makes herself cum wherever she fucking happens to be at the time. That she thinks like that, that she is, at times, so lust-stuffed; this is what makes my head swim. And in that moment, it does. It may be the alcohol. Or the hour. But as she gets up and goes over to the chair, to do exactly what I have told her to do, to show me, in fact, how she positions her body to....its just a little too much and I actually become vaguely dizzy. But this isn't something I can let go of. I cannot let this pass. She will, we decide, make a point of doing this for me. In public. Perhaps when she, and my girlfriend, and I are at a restaurant sometime. There will be a signal. And I will not, I promise you, miss that signal.

Time slides, and as the hands fly around the face of the clock, and in a transition that only would make sense on this night and in this moment, I say something that I now know I should never had said. Clumsily, brain all a-swim, I recall out loud that she has mentioned that she rarely wears panties. And at this point, I am jumping without a net. And this is what she does...she leans back...she grabs the hem of her skirt. And she lifts it. And she spreads her legs. And she is, indeed, completely bare. She is naked and shaved and smooth and pristine and perfect and leaning back and making sure her legs are wide. And all I can think of, all I want to do...with primitive intensity...is taste her. Smell her. And then...make a mess of her.

"You have to go, " I say. And she just smirks. She knows. And this is why this so exciting to me. We both know what is happening. We are alive. We are in the instant. We are, at this precise moment, fully ourselves. Exposed. Wanting. Greedily ready to fully posses, to completely use each other in the very next second.

"Really. You really have to go."

Because, look, you can have a gun. You can have a bullet. Both useless without the other. But you put a bullet IN the gun, and THAT, my friends, is VISION. That is potential. And that is exactly, at this point, what we have. And I am SO ready to put that barrel in my mouth. Take my chances.

"I know," says Alaska.

I walk her to the door. And when we get there, she turns, her back hard up against the door. Her head is between my two hands. I am holding that spot where her neck becomes her head. And suddenly I worry that I may be holding her too hard. That I may have lost myself a little. I am close to her face. She is, literally, fucking adorable. And I hesitate. What am I doing in this position? How did I get here? I shouldn't be here. Look at her. She is just so.......

And at that second, at the exact second, she must have sensed something. Maybe it was my hesitation. Maybe she could anticipate where my thoughts were going. Because she says something that has been burned into my brain. It will never leave. She says something she, something we both know, she should not tell me. Her face is so so so close. I can feel her breathing. She says,

"You can grab me as hard as you want, you know." She says, "You can pull my hair." A couple more breaths. Staring right into her eyes. Her staring back. Her gun fully loaded. Aimed. Cocked.

"You can choke me," she says. And grins.

And this is too much. No coming back. I know better. I have to. I can't. Really....I can't. Fuck me. Fuck. Me.

I open the door. She turns. Walks to her car. And turns around. I expect a hug. I want to press against her. I want to feel her. I am unsure what has happened. Maybe too much. Maybe I have misjudged. Good Lord.

She holds her hand out. To shake my hand. And I feel instant discomfort. I have made a mistake. Queasy.

Unsteady, I take her hand. She looks at me and smiles. Her hand. Is slippery. We part. She gets in the car. I hold my hand to my face. It is unmistakable. It is...it is...her. I won't tell you what I did next.

I walk inside. And suffice it to say, sure enough, from out of nowhere, Alaska has turned this day into something sweet.



And no. For those of you not acquainted with the previous version of this blog...I do not make this stuff up. Well, friends...until next time....

Middle

This always happens to me. Something will set it off and, suddenly, I will have this thrilling urge to write. To get something down. Make it real. The need is compelling, even beautiful in its clarity. The thoughts coming into ordered focus, all sharp-edged and shimmery. This thought perfectly curving around that one; reacting to its shape. Lining up and becoming something more. My brain is a pinwheel, spinning, spinning, throwing sparks in brilliant arcs. This, this day, today...will be the day.

And then, in a windless instant, it's gone. Spent. The sparks having used all their air, leaving behind nothing but a gasping vacuum of nothing at all. And I sit, just sit. And stare. Gut-punched dumb. And it makes me feel like I get it. I can see why they do it. Shoving some tar-liquid void into their arm. Eliminating the pressure to live up to your own expectations. Just give your brain something to build a bridge with. Get across. Because you have something you need to say, but you can't get it out. You don't even care if it is good or if it's shit. If there is one thing, one thing you want, it's to have somebody else get it, to begin to understand why you are like this. And in that effort all you do is trip and slog, and for your life...you cannot find anything that is not a dead end. Every sentence comes out the mealy turd of a poorly digested thought. And like some thick-brow bloke with an impotent vocabulary, you just blurt "Fuck it!" And walk away.

That's the problem with being bipolar. Well, one of the problems. And it is one of the reasons I have started this blog. I want to just spew it out there. Raw and sloppy. Get it down. The pretty and the ugly. Release. And in so doing, for a moment, return to the middle.

Hello. My name is Nick.

I had been drinking. And, now that I mention it, it occurs to me that I still am. Figures. Not good. But that's the way it has been much of the past couple years, one moment bleeding into the next, having nothing at all to do with the clock or calendar. Or light. My past bum-rushing me out the door into the nervous company of my future, as if to say "Hey, I tried. Couldn't do anything with him. Your problem now." Fucking past.

Anyway. I had been drinking. Because the place was made for it. Maple syrup light. Bare-backed dresses on girls all lipstick primped. And the perfect sexy-sweet girl hired exclusively to bridge the gap between each of us and our chosen flavor of hope on her side of the bar. Mine happened to be scotch, Balvenie 12 Year, if you care, which, I'm guessing, you don't. I like that about you. See, this is a wine town. It draws many wine tourists and even the people that call this place home live what they like to believe is a wine lifestyle. This is supposed to indicate a refined sensibility, membership in the Club of Sophisticated Taste. A way to separate themselves from the blunt-tongued. People say things like "I'll do a Syrah. An '03. How about the Amavi." I don't consider wine something that you "do." It's a drink. You drink it. I don't look over the menu and say "I'll do the Macaroni and Cheese." Or "I'll do a Miller High Life." Despite the fact that it's the Champagne of Beers. The guy to my left tells Sweet-Sexy that he adores his Cab, that he loves the nose, and the hints of "wet slate and licorice." Asshole. When, a few minutes later, he asks what that amazing spiciness is in his mashed potatoes, and Sweet-Sexy says "horseradish" and he says "That's what I thought," she and I roll our eyes. I immediately wonder what she is like in bed.

I am doing some projects in this little town and am here about half the week, so I have picked up just enough lingo about wine that I can bullshit my way through most conversations without seeming like a know-it-all, or a complete idiot. But here's a hint if the conversation moves beyond your comfort zone: you ask questions. Questions like "With the amount of rainfall we get, what do you think is the best ph for the soil around here?" Conversation killed. The-guy-to-the-left's large, Tommy-fucking-Bahama muted floral print shirt is clashing with my mood, so I turn to my right to talk to the woman who wasn't sitting there five minutes ago. She has somehow moved the heaviest wrought iron bar stools on the planet and slid into the only open spot at the bar without me even noticing. Typically, this is not the kind of thing that escapes my attention. I rub my forehead to shield the fact that I close my eyes for a brief moment to asses my level of inebriation. It's worse than I expected. I decide I better stay for just one more drink. Maybe two.

As soon the new girl orders a glass of wine, the guy on the other side of her takes his nose out of his glass and asks what she ordered. She says "beer." I love it. "I see that," he says, "I meant, which one?" She pauses for two beats and then answers. I feel sorry for her. She re-crosses her legs in a way that results in her moving further from him and closer to me. One of these was done on purpose, the other, I am still un-too-drunk enough to realize, is coincidental. But it results in my being able to smell her. I think it's her hair and it's subtle, but immediately cancels everything else in the room. We fall into a conversation, something about the cheese plate (for fuck's sake). When she turns the conversation to an author speaking in town, I want to lean over and lick that perfectly smooth indentation right behind her ear lobe. I know it is time to leave.

See, that's one (just one) of my problems. I think that way a lot. A lot. Hence the name of this blog.

Feel free to leave comments. Good or bad. I can take it. It will be good to meet you either way.

Until then...