Thirty Something : Too much to think, so much to drink about

Drunken bewilderment
As I watch the world spin around me
The stars seeking to grasp my attention
Look here, no there, no everywhere
As we collide with your atoms
I can feel the universe pulling in through me
I can feel the blood thinning in my veins
Alcohol
How I’ve missed you
Making everything laughable
Everything I’ve heard tonight
Everything I’ve said
“What do I do if I can’t walk her off?”
I ask Poppy
She replies
“What do you do if you can?”

Thirty Two : Drive, Park, Run

Nothing is a genuinely new experience any more. My thirst for something different, new, out of the ordinary bites at my insides like a pack of hungry dogs. It’s more than an anxiety now, more than a want. Further down the rabbit hole than a need. Everything is gray and boring. Until I was fed up, stir crazy, out of my mind with boredom. I woke up this morning, threw on my clothes walked out the front door and drove my car into the woods. I drove for twenty five minutes before stopping. I parked on the side of a gravel and mud logging road, pulled my keys from the ignition and exited the vehicle, slipping the keys into my pocket. I shut the door, not bothering to lock it, and ran directly North into the trees. Suddenly all the colors were bright and alive. The rain drops sang their familiar love and the ground beneath me was soft and welcoming. Every branch or fallen log supported my weight as I sprang from mossy patch to fallen log to leaf and dirt and ground. Sounds had taste and substance in the air, as if you could run along it’s tail and find the source of any noise close by. To close my eyes was to see the world just as I had left it with my eyes wide open, only now in color and shape and sound, from memory, yes, but more so from sense.

Two hours later I snapped back to the reality that I had no idea where I was, found my way back to the car, and left vowing that I would return with gear and supplies to make a more prolonged visit into the silence and peace of the wood.

I’m guessing being out there is going to do a lot more good than being frowned at by all this concrete.

I wake up wrapped in the same blanket, on the same bed, in the same room. The same place. The same day, over and over and over again. No matter what I do to change it, no matter how many times I try every minor detail in place of another. The numbers on the calender change, of course; my computer takes no shit when telling me the time. Nor my cell phone, awful bastard that it is. November into December, January following closely behind on Decembers coat tails; ringing in the new year. On to February next and finally March. March goose stepping to, past, and onward like a war parade so April can finally show it’s magnificent, glowing face. The Spring returning the signs of summer, life slowly burning brighter beneath the remaining sheets of winters tears and ice. The end of purgatory. The start of a new season.

Another lonely gray hair plucked from my beard as I study the lines on my face in the mirror. When did this show up? I trace a line on my cheek with my fingertip and open one eye wide, my face nearly pressed up against the glass in order to more closely observe the signs of age creeping in on my visible skin. The dark rings around, but mainly under, my eyes. Black eye purple loops that fade in and out like warning beacons of the choices I’m making. Sleep more tonight -or- I guess it’s alright to stay up entirely too late.

I wonder what my face looks like without this beard. Would I drop five to ten years? Would I get carded again for cancer and poison?

I shake the thought from my mind and laugh, loudly, like a man. Or at least what I think a man should laugh like.

I stare at myself in the mirror with the wonder of a boy.

Thirty One : Maslow

I write a poem about Grace.

She told me in our email correspondence recently that she has written twenty something poems about me. I haven’t bothered to count the pages, strips of paper, scribbles dedicated to her lack of presence in my life.

My new years resolution is to forget her.

I’ve got three months and then another two thousand six hundred and sixty (give or take) miles to see if this can be accomplished.

Save, close the window. Move on.

I can hear the microwave, dreadful machine, beeping at me from the kitchen. Through the living room, down the hall, through my door. Shriek, shriek, shriek. My orange chicken is done.

I step through the house with mechanical precision and retrieve the food stuffs I decided to force myself to eat. Food has become such a bother.

When did food become less of a priority than sleep? Food used to be important; now I feel the hunger pangs tremble through my gut and I ignore it. Later, I tell myself. But when is later when you only eat once a day? Correction : When you have to force yourself to eat once a day?

I chew a piece of the brightly colored poultry and survey the scattered remnants of my life that stack and scatter throughout my room. I should put a sign out my window that reads “Everything must go – want it? Make an offer!” Lining the far wall with everything I own. Want the beat up guitar with no strings? Yeah, five dollars sounds fair! Sold to the man with no hair!

My eyes keep surveying the room as I shovel another piece of chicken into my face. The box of PCT maps looks at me defiantly. I need to cut them into more manageable sizes, remove the filler. I need to get my shit together. Motivation. I need a lot of things, but don’t. I don’t really need anything I tell myself.

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs (in order of most to least importance):

-Physiological needs

-Safety needs

-Love and belonging

-Esteem

-Self actualization

-Self Transcendence

These are things that need to be explored, questioned, thought about deeply.

April is coming.