I woke up this morning a little chilly, as I had kicked my blue sleeping bag with the defective zipper off of my person while I was sleeping.   I was on the floor, outright,  Sultan Faggers coiled away someplace at The Shop as I could not abide travel with the top down on the Saab with the weather in the state that it was in.

Last night I brought my first load of the bare necessities over here to the new Victorian house on 17th; some towels, a pot, a pan, two drinking glasses, three cans of tuna fish,   half a jar of mayonaise,  400 Starbucks napkins, a laptop, speakers for the laptop, a modem,  250 computer cables, a roll of toilet paper, some old bread, a section of an onion that was wrapped in an old produce bag on the top shelf of my refrigerator at the Old House for the last week, 4 pillows that should have been burned long ago,  and two pairs of thick, clean socks.

What a night I had!   Unpacking my napkins and displaying a few here and there on counter-and-tabletops I was overcome with a sense of calm, of optimism,  things are really looking up now!  I admired my own attention to detail as I remembered to bring both a can of tuna  – and get this-  a can opener.   Maybe I am finally growing up?   I took care of myself just fine, and made a tuna sandwich and enjoyed one of these last fine evenings I will ever experience again stag.

You see, the FMM could not make the journey into town as she had promised to me  that morning, due to an early appointment in Salem to see her eyelash doctor.      At least that’s what she told me.   I’m sure it had nothing to do with not wanting to sleep on a floor, freezing, eating tuna fish sandwiches long into the night and possibly arguing about where we should store the dried pastas.   There was inclement weather about as well, and one would not want to tempt any dark fate navigating traffic amongst the blind and thoughtless people driving out there like a bunch of Chinamen.

So I was by myself,  and after enjoying my sandwich I bundled up and went out on a little tour of my new neighborhood.  Could there be a purveyor of frozen yogurt nearby?  Could my recent good luck extend that far?   I told myself I was going to find out.

The news was bittersweet as I found there was indeed a nearby  yogurt shop, but the owners apparently had the bad taste to close before 10:17PM on a Wednesday.    I made a mental note to have a discussion with them about this matter on my first visit, which would be as soon as possible.

I continued on through the slick, black streets of Portland, hands in pockets and nose down to keep these things warm, or at least not-frozen.   Around and around I walked, up hills and down making mental notes – a Thai ‘bistro’ ?  Hmmm.    Several bars were passed by in acts of willpower exercise.   Culinary Institute of Portland?   Churches old and new…  Lots of old houses and a few high rise apartment buildings were admired, the occupants in each window displayed like  Japanese fighting fish in their separate bowls on some great rack  someplace.    The walk was peaceful and productive and after about an hour, I had had enough.   My toes were finally getting numb.

I returned home, still impressed that I had a new key and lock to put together and twist, and a new space to possess and explore and slither about in.    I missed the FMM, and felt as if I were betraying her a tiny bit, hanging my towels there in the bathroom without her.    We should have carried our filthy pillows across the threshold TOGETHER.    But, I remembered, there will be plenty of time for that soon enough.    A Forever of time.

I settled into the nest I built there in front of my laptop and eventually went to sleep to the sound of gunfire and helicopters strafing Mogadishuans issuing from my powerful speakers.    Sometimes, A Man just needs to feel he is someplace familiar in order to get a good night’s sleep.

The trouble started as soon as I looked out the window this morning.    There was a light blanket of snow, yes  -and that was fine-  but there was also a bright yellow parking ticket under the windshield wiper of the Saab.    I looked at the tiny clock on the corner of the laptop screen: 7:12 AM.    It is true I did not yet pay for a parking permit,  but I live here!   Do I need one?  These were my thoughts as I pulled on clean socks and several layers of thermal undergarments before going outside to investigate.  I had already devised a plan to slip out of paying the ticket, which I assumed would be for not having a permit, by taking pictures of the ticket on the snow-covered windshield so I could then claim the permit was hanging, obscured, inside the car from the rear view mirror.     It should be noted;  I am very clever like this.   After taking several pictures which I would include in my scathing letter to the Portland Parking Enforcement Office, I snatched the ticket up and opened it to see exactly how much those mongoloids were going to try to fleece me for.

$140 for ‘Registration more than 90 days expired on plates’ .

I was sort of shocked and numb, trying to calculate what this meant, and at what time during the night was my vehicle’s registration scrutinized?    I climbed into the car and started it,  gunning the engine for quicker warmth,  directly below about 50 or 60 windows containing sleeping persons. What is wrong with these parking people?    What kind of a neighborhood IS this, anyway?   I began to have my very first suspicion that things may not go so smoothly here as I had first hoped.

I walked across the bridge again today for the first time in several months.  Certain tinglings surfaced, and the mind began to pulse in anticipation. Anticipation of what?  The future is right out there, dangling and waiting to be owned, like a swollen fruit.

(Photo of a Bonobo)

Speaking of ‘Swollen Fruit’, I was visited today by my editor.   I had a couple of carburetors out on my workbench, and I was making progress in their disassembly.   Aramotized chemicals were adrift in my section of the building, and I was a little on edge when the garage door rolled up to reveal his corpus magnum there, smiling for some reason unknown to me.    I felt annoyed and tried to pretend this insult was not happening.   It was no use.

There he remained standing beside my workbench, with that ridiculous toothy smile still, fidgeting.    He dug about in the armpit of his nylon parka.   He scratched his bald head, and then began to pick at something on the front of his pants.   His smile persisted.   It reminded me of a great ape at the zoo, or a minstrel show participant sans blackface.     How was I supposed to dislodge a broken main jet carrier bolt from the carb body under these conditions?

“What is it!”   I finally demanded to know.    “I told you already I would have your money after I was paid this week!  How am I supposed to get anything done with you calling me and stopping by every ten minutes!!?!”

He glanced down at his shoes, in shame I guessed, and fiddled with his laces for a moment.   This obvious admission of unsavory behavior emboldened my sense of outrage.

“Speak up man!”   I threw a wrench to the floor to punctuate, “What is it?  Use your words!”

One month and you will not be able to recognize all of this.

Wallpaper curling down from the ceiling, moist and rotten, the pattern mush.   Once, hopeful voices filled this room, tools swinging from hand and belt.

The lemonade waiting nearby in a tall glass pitcher, sweat beading up along it’s flanks on this summer day, making it hard to hold, making the handle more useful than usual.

Happy voices mingling with laughs and playful chiding.   Up goes the wallpaper.   Mother’s choice.

See the bathtub.   See the chain leading down to the rubber stopper.  See the big brown stain along the porcelain under the faucet.  Roll up your sleeves.   Hold your breath.  Set your jaw in it’s place of determination.   Go to work.

Smells surround you, mildew and mold.   Burning chemical sour.   But underneath this, something else.   A ghost of her smell, something hidden in the porous surfaces that is reluctant to give up and go away.    Repetition leads to comfort.  Comfort leads to inertia, momentum.    Resistance.    One-two, one-two.

Bring your can.    Everything you remove will leave something behind, as everything else that was left behind before you got here.     You are better off leaving something here on purpose.   You think you understand this distinction, but you do not.  This is the riddle you are not even aware of yet.    Bring your can.   Fill it.  When do you know you are finished?   Will you have to be told, or do you know instinctively?

One month after another, but this one a little different than the others.     Hands become claws.

She mistook my silence for anger and looked away from me, she turned up the volume on the radio then looked out the window at the passing scenery, and while the back of her head was directed at me I whispered to her I loved her. I told the back of her head I wanted to be with her forever if it meant I could wake up and see her and spend all the rest of my mornings and subsequent days with her, or even just one more day, I told the back of her head she made me happy.

She must have heard my whispering because she suddenly spun her face back around on me like a surprised owl and demanded to know what I just said to her.

I smiled, hoping my warm feelings would float happily across the car and lodge themselves into her brain or her heart, and words would be unnecessary in this instance. This would prove something to me, it would prove my feelings had transcended this physical world and our understanding and mutual respect was of a different dimension altogether. I continued to smile, sending my benevolent wordless transmission to her through my every opening, glancing away only once or twice, briefly, just to make sure we were staying in our lane of traffic and I was not going to ram into anything or anyone. I watched her and waited, I was looking for the slightest sign of her detecting my message of love.

The expression on her face began to change, it softened a bit and then she said to me, “Take me home.”

We were already 30 miles into our journey, and so I was confused as to why she wanted me to turn around now. Perhaps she wanted to be ravished suddenly? I felt that could be done just as easily parked on the side of the road in a somewhat obscured location as at her house though. Maybe she forgot something there? Some electrical heating device left on perhaps?

“What? Why?” I asked her “Are you hungry? We can stop up the road at the pie place – ”

“I don’t want to go anymore. This weekend is jacked. Just take me home.”

I became silent for a few minutes and considered my options. Nothing smells quite so revolting as desperation, so I did not want to beg her to continue on with our plans, but I also was aware that sometimes a person just wants to be reassured that they are wanted, they long to hear kind words. Into this equation was also figured my desire for dignity maintenance, MY desire to be told kind words and reassured, and it all became very confusing for me. I was silent. I continued to drive. I was not angry, but I was contemplative. I wanted to make the right decision here. I remembered hearing that love conquers all, and knew from watching many after-school specials as a child that one’s true feelings of fondness should not be stifled, and so I resolved myself to say the kind things I felt for her. As I began to draw in the breath which with I would begin this vocal expression, she beat me to this next step.

“I’m seeing someone else.”

Hours and days may pass like this, I manage to get lost in the simple single solitary thought:   You Are Gone.  -or-  I am Wrecked.    -or-     What If?  Just a tiny fragment of thought plays over again and again and again, as does the same song through the actual stereo I may be listening to, not quite aware that this song has been programmed to repeat as long as it has been.     I start to feel light or hollow,  I have to remember to breathe.   I do not want to be interrupted or pulled out of my trance,  I seem to need to do this.

This is why I can not find my wrenches, this is why I can not pay my bills.   This is why I find myself in my current predicaments, almost every time.    Sometimes, in order to break this spell, I have to break something or blow something up.   Like a slap across the face, I have to be shaken back into reality.  Staccato blasts or blistered skin either shock this device enough to function properly once more.  My mind clears and things seem to make sense again, I wonder where the lost time has gone,  I may be able to recall something.

-Zak is an American author, and citizen journalist. His thoughts, experiences, and musings will make you Laugh and Escape. You will also  feel the Lashings of reality,  the inescapable humanity that befall us all. Stay Tuned…

For some people, their light and energy,  motivations, creativity, comes from within themselves.  These people can go anywhere and maintain their sense of self.

Other people may not generate any light on their own, but move in orbits close to others that do, like satellite moons.   These people may have a light, but it is not their own, they reflect and are therefore dependent on another.

There are also people planets as well, orbiting, but not generating any real heat or light.   These are the life-givers.   The audience, the reason for the others to want to glow. Maybe.

Do you know what category you belong to?    Do you, really?

Check out Laughs and Lashings

I was feeling unusually energized, and it getting close to midnight I felt like I should be headed to bed and sleep, but instead I pulled a hoodie on and headed for the bridge.   As usual, I almost immediately began to feel healthy, free and megalomaniacal.   It was night and the river was flowing like shiny black ink below me.  I felt light and strong.  I thought about her, and in an hour or so found myself 4 or 5 miles away, feeling invincible.

I felt lucky I can walk.   I felt lucky I am still as young as I am.  I also felt lucky I know I can walk anywhere I want and do not have to worry about being mugged or run over.   I realized I no longer experience fear.   I do not feel fear for myself, anyway.  I do not fear pain or death or being set upon by hoodlums or the law.  Pain, I realized, is an interesting thing.  It is never as bad as you think it is going to be.  I do not want to have my eyes gouged out, but I am sure it does not hurt as much as you can imagine it would.    I have experienced some pain, things that most people would want to avoid, or think would hurt a lot, and I know from experience it is not the pain that bothers me or would bother me, but the knowledge of what is happening  *is* actually  happening.  The pain can be dealt with, shock and adrenaline will numb the actual pain, but KNOWING someone is crushing your balls or tearing your legs off would take some real serious concentration not to panic about. To be continued…

A NEW COLUMN COMING SOON….

After being kicked out of the the Ace’phale Secret Society, Zak started his own Society called “The Warehouse.” Zak is kept in human form expert handling of ‘The Helper’ – Tessa. She is a quiet, kind, but a powerful being. Sources claim she has  an amazing desire to eat food, felt as hunger. Sources also claim that ‘Appetite‘ exists in all higher life-forms, and serves to regulate adequate energy intake to maintain the energy. This is needed to help Zak.  Wikileak cables recently revealed she is in line  for sainthood when her current mission is complete. She claims she will turn down this Vatican appointment on principle.

Keep a look out for this column, it is coming soon. It is not to be missed.  Laughs and Lashings. Thank you may I have another.

‘The Helper’ builds an object for a undisclosed future use.