The Males With The Best Plumage
Thoughts of anonymity, wage slavery, Jeremiah Johnson, and the like. Friday was opening day at Coors Field, and it was beautiful out. I like to think I’d have gone down there to tailgate if I’d had the day off; in all likelihood, it would’ve been something of a small miracle if I’d even made it down to Wash Park for the afternoon.
The weight of my name, and self-projections, and not to sound like too much a punk bitch, but if I were her, I think I’d want to hang out.
Such slop. Feeling like I’m stuck in the dregs of my spring, already showered and so not enthused to burn off with a run (as if that’s the excuse I’ve been looking for), I take to my tattered laptop and stare at the screen and type words that strengthen my resolve to feel anxious and/or sorry for myself.
We moved Kathleen into the house yesterday. The influx of furniture dictated we rearrange almost the whole of the first floor, so that’s how I spent Friday (which was Thursday) night. She thanked us with Benny Blanco’s; I’d hoped some might be available after work today, but it wasn’t the case, so the fact remains: I have had one toasted almond bear claw (which, after today, are discontinued-more on that) and one pint of orange juice and probably six or eight cups of water today and that’s it. (We’ve talked about roasting some vegetables and mixing them with our consolidated greens, and calling that dinner.)
This is the weekend. The second of April, which has already been something of a weird month. Work today was fun in a don’t-take-yourself-too-seriously-because-everyone-knows-this-is-a-bullshit-kinda-job-that-we’ve-all-held-onto-this-long-only-because-the-economic-reality-of-today’s-America-necessitates-and-bye-the-way-I-guess-the-benefits-are-good-too kind of way, but obviously I can think of something that would have made it much better.
We went for a bike ride along the Platt River on Monday, sharing with each other the ancestral histories-how my people ended up in Ohio, how hers ended up in Massachusetts, and her mom was in the CIA and worked in Ford’s and Carter’s White Houses; her dad was on the state Board of Health, but now he’s a manager at a book store.
“Are your parents still together?”
“No, they’ve been divorced for a while,” I said, standing in early April water up to my ankles.
We rode back, talking about being with our families for the holidays, versus the hipster holidays I’ve dreamt of. She mentioned Scott Brown derisively, mentioned a friend working for Bennett’s campaign, and then it was I who asked: “So, are you like, pretty political, or whatever?” It sounded so weird spoken from my lips; I’m always on the opposite side of that particular question.
Tuesday was a Desmond-centric episode of LOST, and since then, the week’s just been the week that was. Working two jobs keeps me honest (not like that’s ever been the problem).
Standing under limbs of trees, small morsels of leaves peaking out from the thin nowhere they hid all winter. Crumbs of leaves or white or pink flower petals-when a wisp of cloud partitions the sun, the air cools down and the breeze from off the mountains is felt all the more readily. I stood out there on Emerson and 11th and probably would’ve smoked a cigarette if a coworker had offered one. Spring still creeps, but it creeps ever closer to our point of no return.
It was Thursday night that I overheard Hans and Ashley having sex. I’d finished the double shift and showered and dressed in jeans and an undershirt and was thinking about going to the Mercury for the poetry reading that people are in town for. I was checking my e-mail and doing other bullshit internet activities-all in the name of distraction-and at first it was subtle, like it wasn’t actually happening, but soon enough the moaning began to crescendo, and mostly I just laughed.
People have sex. It happens.
Sex actually happens.
It’s not really a big deal-not for me, nor has it ever been, necessarily-but ok.
The rabbit’s been moved to the corner, almost completely irrelevant, thank god. Sage’s disposition’s made a noted improvement; she’s pleased to sit on the purple futon once again. I don’t know if Jonny (recently become mangy) gives a damn one way or the other-she is, after all, just a cat. Kathleen and Mike are off to Idaho next weekend to pick up the new dog, Precarious; I am nervous about my love of dogs betraying my anxiety over cramming this house full of organisms. Soon we will burst at our seams. Somehow I’m looking past May and June and July and just can’t wait until August, when we net a loss of three.
And thus I reveal my life’s ultimate goal, which is to strive for comfort, and that is the quintessential modern American in me, or something.
Discussion around the tank this morning between myself and two others who have escaped the continent-one is actually really well traveled, while the other is from Kansas and has been to Germany, or something… I guess.
Discussion leaned heavily on the word “freedom,” and neither one of any of us knew what we were talking about the entire time. Some of that vague you-have-to-miss-it-to-appreciate-it sentiment, and it was like the most sluggish bullet was pressing against me between the eyes, but couldn’t break skin for all of whatever it was worth. That was the day’s snapshot of my life: In a moist chef’s coat, holding a sheet pan greasy with gelatinous chicken fat, being told all about how America’s more free than New Zealand because in America, cars pull over to the side of the road when they glimpse an ambulance coming up in their rearview mirror. Ok.
It’s just-it was almost enough for me to want to plunge the green-handled, organics-only knife that, theoretically, only the salad bar attendant ought to be using, deep, deep into my chest; a Whole Foods themed self-immolation in protest of the banality of our wage system-indisputably, the best system known to man. A frustration so hyperbolic that the metaphor couldn’t be completed, and…
I think I hate that word more than any other word. It’s almost context free, now-just belt it out, and the argument’s won, or, at least the issue at hand is thus defined as something not worth critically engaging. The freedom to own a big car, fill it up with Premium 93, drive it around wherever you want all weekend long, just so long as you’re at work at nine on Monday, no questions asked, and so we’re the freest people on earth. In the history of people! Who has been more free than Americans?
Anyway, I didn’t bring up wage slavery. I just expressed my frustration and got the rest of the fat off the sheet pan, put it in the dishwasher, got that motor running, stole some chocolate chips from the oatmeal bar accoutrements platter, and I guess I probably went on, happily carving up pineapple and strawberries for tomorrow’s salad bar, and gave little thought beyond momentary frustration to discussion that had transpired.
The point is: Jesus Christ, you know? Who/what are we? And, after all this decade: still?
Our house is so together. We did it-or tried to do it-all under our landlord’s nose; that is: move Kathleen in. He was on our front porch yesterday, waiting for us to get home and open the door and let him in so that he could fix our kitchen sink (which has a permanent leak) when we were returning with the second load of Kathleen’s shit. We didn’t mention it; I don’t think anyone actually gives a fuck.
It’s spring, you know? Or, at least, it’s getting better. Things are getting better, or so it seems, and why shouldn’t they, because isn’t the history of humanity progress? My dog, I fucking hope it is. I’ve gotten this far on the fumes of my idealism, fueled by the supposition that we actually can be what we fantasize ourselves as. To that extent, I suppose I could become something of a writer, poet, artist, bodhisattva, extension of Mother Earth and ambassador of nature to her people. I suppose I could become a romantic, a lover, happy and paired, creative and committed-cogs in a perpetual motion machine, belching enthusiasm, new aesthetics for a generation of aimless hipsterdom, the occasional culinary masterpiece, etc. etc. etc.
Youth carries great responsibility; I guess, as in: the frantic urge to not waste it while we’re young. “Pressure” isn’t the word for it. Maybe it’s just a cute little monkey-I don’t know. I see my life this April in comparison to monumental Aprils past; I stand beside the salad bar, reminding myself that I haven’t even heard the new MGMT album, and it’s been two tectonic years, and the pyroclastic flow of time changes the face of the earth in ways man nor beast nor dinosaur nor god could have laid. Our predictions, our plans, our follies, our hesitations, our early morning alarm clocks, our desire our need to be heard seen talked to understood liked loved wanted photographed left alone to be who we are want to be strive to be yearn to be ache to be who we want to see in the mirror and the tension now between my fingers who want to make the standard self-deprecatory jab at the thin spot on the back of my head, versus the gleeful storm behind my eyes.
Hey reader, thanks for reading.
The weight of my name, and self-projections, and not to sound like too much a punk bitch, but if I were her, I think I’d want to hang out.
Such slop. Feeling like I’m stuck in the dregs of my spring, already showered and so not enthused to burn off with a run (as if that’s the excuse I’ve been looking for), I take to my tattered laptop and stare at the screen and type words that strengthen my resolve to feel anxious and/or sorry for myself.
We moved Kathleen into the house yesterday. The influx of furniture dictated we rearrange almost the whole of the first floor, so that’s how I spent Friday (which was Thursday) night. She thanked us with Benny Blanco’s; I’d hoped some might be available after work today, but it wasn’t the case, so the fact remains: I have had one toasted almond bear claw (which, after today, are discontinued-more on that) and one pint of orange juice and probably six or eight cups of water today and that’s it. (We’ve talked about roasting some vegetables and mixing them with our consolidated greens, and calling that dinner.)
This is the weekend. The second of April, which has already been something of a weird month. Work today was fun in a don’t-take-yourself-too-seriously-because-everyone-knows-this-is-a-bullshit-kinda-job-that-we’ve-all-held-onto-this-long-only-because-the-economic-reality-of-today’s-America-necessitates-and-bye-the-way-I-guess-the-benefits-are-good-too kind of way, but obviously I can think of something that would have made it much better.
We went for a bike ride along the Platt River on Monday, sharing with each other the ancestral histories-how my people ended up in Ohio, how hers ended up in Massachusetts, and her mom was in the CIA and worked in Ford’s and Carter’s White Houses; her dad was on the state Board of Health, but now he’s a manager at a book store.
“Are your parents still together?”
“No, they’ve been divorced for a while,” I said, standing in early April water up to my ankles.
We rode back, talking about being with our families for the holidays, versus the hipster holidays I’ve dreamt of. She mentioned Scott Brown derisively, mentioned a friend working for Bennett’s campaign, and then it was I who asked: “So, are you like, pretty political, or whatever?” It sounded so weird spoken from my lips; I’m always on the opposite side of that particular question.
Tuesday was a Desmond-centric episode of LOST, and since then, the week’s just been the week that was. Working two jobs keeps me honest (not like that’s ever been the problem).
Standing under limbs of trees, small morsels of leaves peaking out from the thin nowhere they hid all winter. Crumbs of leaves or white or pink flower petals-when a wisp of cloud partitions the sun, the air cools down and the breeze from off the mountains is felt all the more readily. I stood out there on Emerson and 11th and probably would’ve smoked a cigarette if a coworker had offered one. Spring still creeps, but it creeps ever closer to our point of no return.
It was Thursday night that I overheard Hans and Ashley having sex. I’d finished the double shift and showered and dressed in jeans and an undershirt and was thinking about going to the Mercury for the poetry reading that people are in town for. I was checking my e-mail and doing other bullshit internet activities-all in the name of distraction-and at first it was subtle, like it wasn’t actually happening, but soon enough the moaning began to crescendo, and mostly I just laughed.
People have sex. It happens.
Sex actually happens.
It’s not really a big deal-not for me, nor has it ever been, necessarily-but ok.
The rabbit’s been moved to the corner, almost completely irrelevant, thank god. Sage’s disposition’s made a noted improvement; she’s pleased to sit on the purple futon once again. I don’t know if Jonny (recently become mangy) gives a damn one way or the other-she is, after all, just a cat. Kathleen and Mike are off to Idaho next weekend to pick up the new dog, Precarious; I am nervous about my love of dogs betraying my anxiety over cramming this house full of organisms. Soon we will burst at our seams. Somehow I’m looking past May and June and July and just can’t wait until August, when we net a loss of three.
And thus I reveal my life’s ultimate goal, which is to strive for comfort, and that is the quintessential modern American in me, or something.
Discussion around the tank this morning between myself and two others who have escaped the continent-one is actually really well traveled, while the other is from Kansas and has been to Germany, or something… I guess.
Discussion leaned heavily on the word “freedom,” and neither one of any of us knew what we were talking about the entire time. Some of that vague you-have-to-miss-it-to-appreciate-it sentiment, and it was like the most sluggish bullet was pressing against me between the eyes, but couldn’t break skin for all of whatever it was worth. That was the day’s snapshot of my life: In a moist chef’s coat, holding a sheet pan greasy with gelatinous chicken fat, being told all about how America’s more free than New Zealand because in America, cars pull over to the side of the road when they glimpse an ambulance coming up in their rearview mirror. Ok.
It’s just-it was almost enough for me to want to plunge the green-handled, organics-only knife that, theoretically, only the salad bar attendant ought to be using, deep, deep into my chest; a Whole Foods themed self-immolation in protest of the banality of our wage system-indisputably, the best system known to man. A frustration so hyperbolic that the metaphor couldn’t be completed, and…
I think I hate that word more than any other word. It’s almost context free, now-just belt it out, and the argument’s won, or, at least the issue at hand is thus defined as something not worth critically engaging. The freedom to own a big car, fill it up with Premium 93, drive it around wherever you want all weekend long, just so long as you’re at work at nine on Monday, no questions asked, and so we’re the freest people on earth. In the history of people! Who has been more free than Americans?
Anyway, I didn’t bring up wage slavery. I just expressed my frustration and got the rest of the fat off the sheet pan, put it in the dishwasher, got that motor running, stole some chocolate chips from the oatmeal bar accoutrements platter, and I guess I probably went on, happily carving up pineapple and strawberries for tomorrow’s salad bar, and gave little thought beyond momentary frustration to discussion that had transpired.
The point is: Jesus Christ, you know? Who/what are we? And, after all this decade: still?
Our house is so together. We did it-or tried to do it-all under our landlord’s nose; that is: move Kathleen in. He was on our front porch yesterday, waiting for us to get home and open the door and let him in so that he could fix our kitchen sink (which has a permanent leak) when we were returning with the second load of Kathleen’s shit. We didn’t mention it; I don’t think anyone actually gives a fuck.
It’s spring, you know? Or, at least, it’s getting better. Things are getting better, or so it seems, and why shouldn’t they, because isn’t the history of humanity progress? My dog, I fucking hope it is. I’ve gotten this far on the fumes of my idealism, fueled by the supposition that we actually can be what we fantasize ourselves as. To that extent, I suppose I could become something of a writer, poet, artist, bodhisattva, extension of Mother Earth and ambassador of nature to her people. I suppose I could become a romantic, a lover, happy and paired, creative and committed-cogs in a perpetual motion machine, belching enthusiasm, new aesthetics for a generation of aimless hipsterdom, the occasional culinary masterpiece, etc. etc. etc.
Youth carries great responsibility; I guess, as in: the frantic urge to not waste it while we’re young. “Pressure” isn’t the word for it. Maybe it’s just a cute little monkey-I don’t know. I see my life this April in comparison to monumental Aprils past; I stand beside the salad bar, reminding myself that I haven’t even heard the new MGMT album, and it’s been two tectonic years, and the pyroclastic flow of time changes the face of the earth in ways man nor beast nor dinosaur nor god could have laid. Our predictions, our plans, our follies, our hesitations, our early morning alarm clocks, our desire our need to be heard seen talked to understood liked loved wanted photographed left alone to be who we are want to be strive to be yearn to be ache to be who we want to see in the mirror and the tension now between my fingers who want to make the standard self-deprecatory jab at the thin spot on the back of my head, versus the gleeful storm behind my eyes.
Hey reader, thanks for reading.