I can't sleep…
5:15 a.m. Traffic flowing. 16 minutes to the office.
Long day yesterday. Whaddya remember? What Stuck?
In bed. 9:40 pm.
ZzzQuil slow drips.
Mind whirring, but in slower revolutions.
Right ear bud pumping in “The Daily Podcast” with “The Anatomy of a Warren Rally.”
Words drift in and out, sleep meds seeping deeper. And then Mind stops, and locks on. Continue reading “Driving I-95 S. Tethered to Nothing?”
Here is how I spend my days now.
I live in a beautiful place.
I sleep in a beautiful bed.
I eat beautiful food.
I go for walks through beautiful places.
I care for people deeply…
I cry easily, from pain and pleasure, and I don’t apologize for that.
In the mornings I step outside and I’m thankful for another day.
It took me many years to arrive at such a life.
~ Ottessa Moshfegh, Eileen: A Novel
Notes:
7:05 am. Stamford station.
I’m waiting for the 2151 Acela to Baltimore. Overhead board flashes On Time, Track 2.
There are two empty seats adjacent to a scruffy, long bearded old man. He’s wearing a heavy jacket, way too heavy for August. A rollerboard stands to his right. His head bowed, sleeping. You’re asking for trouble. Find another seat. I look around, and can’t find another seat. I catch others watching me, judging, ‘The Suit won’t come near That.’
And Mind, ever so efficient, calls up a Marie Howe poem, The Star Market:
“The people Jesus loved were shopping at the Star Market yesterday. An old lead-colored man standing next to me at the checkout breathed so heavily I had to step back a few steps. Even after his bags were packed he still stood, breathing hard and hawking into his hand. The feeble, the lame, I could hardly look at them: shuffling through the aisles, they smelled of decay..Jesus must have been a saint, I said to myself…stumbling among the people who would have been lowered into rooms by ropes, who would have crept out of caves or crawled from the corners of public baths on their hands and knees begging for mercy. If I touch only the hem of his garment, one woman thought, could I bear the look on his face when he wheels around?”
He lifts his head, turns towards me and stares. I freeze. The Others are now watching. I pause, and make my move.
I take the seat next to Him.
Others watch for a moment, eyebrows raised, and then go back to their smartphones. Did you do it because you wanted a seat? Or because others would think less of You, or that you didn’t want this Suit to meet their expectations? Or because you didn’t want Him to think you thought any less of Him?
There’s one empty seat between us. But there’s tension in the gap. He turns to look at me, I can feel his eyes on me. Here it comes, Can you help me out with a few bucks, Sir?”
He sits silently. Continue reading “Waiting. At The Star Market. Trying to Bend the Image.”
He arrived on time. At the end of a 14-hour day. I’m bushed.
This day, which was preceded by five hours sleep on an alien mattress, which was preceded by a late night dinner, which included one oversized slice of home made peach pie (à la mode of course), and this was chased with a s’more. Yes, a S’more, you read right. With a home made golden graham cracker at its base, topped with a thin slice of Swiss chocolate, and a giant, home made marshmallow, with the waiter cautiously holding the blow torch as the sugar crackled and blackened into a light char. Three bites, and it disappeared. A sugar addict with his fix, floating lightly above the table, abstaining from my dinner guests’ chatter, floating higher, higher, up and up in his delirium.
I slide into the back seat.
“How was your day Sir?”
I’m not in the mood for banter. Please, please, get me to the hotel. A long hot shower. Room service (sans S’mores). And early to bed.
“Great, thank you.” A.K. Benjamin’s passages dripping in and out of consciousness: “Studies have shown that your generation, our generation, lies on average two or three times every ten minutes, men to make themselves look better, women to feel good.” And he’s right.
I did not counter to ask him about his day. A direct signal that this door was not open for chatter.
“Would you like a bottle of water?”
“No, but thank you for asking.”
I pull out my smartphone, drop my head, emitting another direct signal of non-engagement. I glance up and see his eyes in the rear view mirror. Tension rises in the cabin. He picks up on the body language: This guy is shut down.
He has a teddy bear on the console. Rainbow colored. Odd. Continue reading “Driving Down MacArthur Blvd. Full of Pride.”
Tuesday. It’s late. It’s been a long day. I glance at my smart watch, 4,500 steps, well short of 10,000 target. Should have walked across town and taken the train. No you shouldn’t have. Air is heavy. Feels like mid-August. My head swims from the second glass of red wine. I walk half way up the block and back, while I wait. 4,935 steps. Well that’s Something.
I’m in back seat of car. Phone rings. Work. The call carries on. Something is off. Antennae go up. I can feel him. Driver is listening. I’m conscious of my words. I shift to deeper code, quickly end the call, and set the phone in my bag. I sit quietly. Irritated. No privacy anywhere. Rude.
It’s silent in the cabin, air blows cool. Tension seems to rise a few clicks in the silence. You’re just tired. It’s all in your head Pal.
He breaks the silence.
“Sir, what is it that you do?” I’m wary about my response, but I respond, and at 100,000 feet. He’s not getting anything out of me.
“How long have you been doing it?” I respond curtly.
“That’s a long time.” At this point, I feel I need to take control of the conversation. “Why do you ask?” Continue reading “Driving I-95 North. Private One-Hour Conversation.”