Within the ethos of love, loss and or just being simply pathetic, communication seems to be a practical notion of life. Growing up in the generation where you called the home phone while silently praying that her Dad didn't pick up first; having an auditory experience with another human being means a lot to me when there is distance involved. I've experienced all forms of distance. From having a crush on the girl that's just down the block, to trying to keep up with family affairs thousands of miles away, I am no stranger to picking up the phone. But with that said, I am also one who is terrified of the phone. There have been late nights, early mornings or sunny afternoons where I've picked up the receiver to hear news better saved for when hugs can quickly be applied. So when one is attempting to transverse the miles and miles of your own unexplored personal constitution, you tend to need that auditory experience to keep you grounded.
As I've been exploring not only my own personal cognition, but as well in the academic world, I have come across two rather interesting things that I begun to apply to myself. An ontological framework and epistemological conclusion. Ontological, or ontology is from the branch of metaphysics that deals with the nature of being. Traditionally this philosophical framework deals with this question of what is real? Essentially ontology makes you question the existence of 'being'. Yeah, I know what you're probably thinking, "Dude... are you trying put me to sleep?" Well just think about this, if your body can simulate a fever but you don't actually have one, is the simulation of the fever more real than an actual fever itself? Or what about this. You are fairly positive that someone has caught feelings for you. So therefore you do everything in your power to find out if these feelings are real or not. And for a short time you interpret everything that person does through the lens of "They like me." What is more real in that situation, the feels that you perceive, acted on, and also can cognitively sense, or the reveal that the person actually does have feelings?
As for epistemology, it is essentially knowledge. Basically, what can be known. So take the previous example of the random dude/chick that you perceive to totally dig you. You calculate what is known. They've texted you several times.
They've smiled in your general direction, whether you were looking or not.
Your friends constantly tell you, "Hey, you'd be a great match."
Hence, it is simplistic data gathering.
Basically what I am saying is that every time you look into a persons eyes and think, "Sweet Jesus, I think want to go the party in their pants", you're about to have an ontological and epistemological experience. Are these feelings real? And what do I know about these feelings or that person in particular (this is also a very post-structuralist way of dealing with feelings, but I won't get into that). I believe that we become very philosophical when we are horny. Balancing out the "do's and don'ts", the pros and cons of doing this or that, and so forth. Perhaps I am the only one who believes that we don't only think with our genitals when making an intimate decision. There's math involved.
ANYWAYS.
Back to the phone, or lack there of.
Back in October, I wrote a series of letters to Scully. I oddly preferred epistolary relationships, which is essentially what we did as kids. You'd be in class, and you'd find yourself passing notes to that cute girl several rows back. Just the idea of receiving physical mail made my heart flutter. That feeling of parchment in your hands. The ability to imagine their face while they wrote it. Oh, it was all glorious. The written word was my phone. And I always was certain that she would call.
I called a lot.
Sometimes my conversations were short and sweet. All nicely dulled out on the back of a scholarly postcard. As for the others, well they were pages long. I know for a fact that some of these letters were received with glamour. The others,
well it took a fortnight till I got a response, and the response included
a single sentence and an emoji. The sum total impact of those letters on her heart or mind are still a mystery to me. I simply ran out of data to collect. My referential sign of our reality faded like a song that ends to soon.
Either way, I was digging through my documentation box on my computer this evening and I found a letter that had not been sent. It was a phone call that never happened. As for why I never sent it, well I can only assume that I buckled on the pressure of trying not to be a complete psycho. Or perhaps I was just to sad to send it.
But now, here it is.
And if you're wondering how I am doing mentally right now, here in this very instant.
Well to be honest.
I am completely fine.
Whether you believe this sort of expression is unhealthy or a sign of mental fortitude, I personally this method of unearthing the past extremely therapeutic. To be able to present it, call it for what it was worth and move on is the greatest form of personal healing that I can do.
And also, may I remind you... You don't have to read it either.
This song is what this letter sounds like me. And no, it's not on the playlist. But there are hints to what was on the playlist within the letter itself.
But to complete the playlist, tune in next time.
I've made many spur of the moment decisions in my life. "I've never lined up a shot in my life." Currently trying to coin that as my catch phrase, well besides, "HERE'S THE THING!" Either way, these ad hoc choices range from the clover tattoo on my ass because I thought, "Aw, fuck it. I'm in Ireland", to signing up for an exchange program in Japan because Japanese girls were incredibly appealing to me as a sixteen year-old boy. And its true, the Asian-persuasion is a very real thing. But that's not what this is about. Months before I met Scully I tried my hand in standup comedy and it was one of the best choices I ever made.
It takes a lot of guts to get on stage in front of bunch strangers and make witty dark comments about your life story. And much like this blog, it was extremely therapeutic. But sometimes the experience was even more painful for me because I was preforming at the club in Chattanooga where my brother-in-law got his start in comedy, JJ's Bohemia. He now lives in Los Angeles and has become very successful at what he does. So the night that I decided to go check out the local comedy and become a part of it, it was extremely nerve racking. All the comedians already knew who I was because my older sister and brother-in-law are considered 'Chattanooga Royalty'. So when I entered the smokey saloon I already could hear, "Brady Effler?! What are you doing here?"
Around May of 2015, I had my first night at hosting at JJ's Bohemia. Yes, I had worked my way up to the point that Ryan Darling, the MC of the comedy room presented me with the honor of being the first and last thing the audience sees. It was also the night that Scully met me. I remember her telling me much later that she thought I was cute and funny. She might as well have said I was the sexiest man on the planet and could bench press the hopes and dreams of every third world country. I remember reflecting on this night over and over again when I moved to England. Each time I thought about it the memory got less and less real, but the feeling stayed the same.
I record the experience in my personal journal. The events that follow are real.
And if you've been keeping up with the other posts, you know that these entries revolve around a particular playlist. Well since this is technically the start of the tale, here is the first track of Is That You, Scully?
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter // The Anniversary.
(Sometime in May.)
Riveting. That’s what I need to be… riveting. How many times should I... How many times do I need to hear this.
Being in church has always been a despondent place for me.
Growing up in a religious household one would think that I would have either come to love church or hate it. That seems to be the integral paradigm for a pastor's kids.
You are either are a saint, or you are a heathen.
Hymns not sins.
Prayers not affairs. Hugs not drugs.
Pews not brews.
And so on.
Possibly by the end of this I'll remind my self that I am not unique to this binary system either. I mean I do have several more potent blogs to write that exfoliate my motley past. But church has always been a sad place for me, and sometimes the mystery of why stands the test of time. Perhaps it's the graphic design of their power point sermons, the tap-water coffee or the great expectation to be boring... Butoh well.
If you couldn't tell I just shrugged at my desk.
When I was a teenager growing up in the new land of Chattanooga Tennessee I tried my hardest to fit in. Fuck, I even joined the football team because all the bleach blonde kids in Nike trainers with Big League chew did it, and they seemed to dictate at the time who was in or who was a 'faggot'. I certainly did not want to be 'faggot'. I can't recall if it was the piss in my cleats or that I didn't know what "coon hunting" was, but I felt out of place most of time. I was missing the golden plains of California where the ocean was just a short drive away. And oddly I really didn't care for the beach when I was living there either. As I spent more time in Tennessee I found my self dreaming about the beach, or literally anywhere else. As I grew older I made it my personal vendetta to see new lands and move out of my comfort zone, because like or not, some asshole is gonna do it for you anyway. Thus there's the the time when I fought to fit in at church.
I taught myself to play the bass guitar, then eventually the regular guitar, which in my mind was the one that would either give me the worship leader position or get me laid. At that point in my life, both seemed dangerously cool and out of my comfort zone. Eventually I was both annoying and dedicated enough to actually convince the Youth Pastor to give me the gig. I Brady, landed the position of youth group worship leader. Terrifying.
Yeah, I did that.
In retrospect it still kind of shocks me.
I led kids in ages of 11 to 17 in worship.
I said all the cool things worship leaders are supposed to say.
I love Jesus, but I'd sin for pizza. (LOL)
Lift your hands, or you can rock out silently.
Who wants to go to the Skillet concert in Atlanta!?
I had the proclivity to always pick songs in a minor key. I wanted songs that echoed the torturous grief of being human. That was my shtick, and it worked. I often pawned that off as being a "free thinker" while openly explaining the tattoos I was going to get once I left my parents house. Thus, if someone wanted a happy song I'd say some thing like, "You're not paying attention to the world brah! We're all dying here?! I need the lord to set my soul ablaze..."
That would shut the haters up. And on occasion the haters were my age, therefore I'd just flip the conversation to be about Relient K and how they are the christian equivalent of the Offspring to our generation. Those were always nifty conversations... Well until someone said that Pillar was better than P.O.D. Those people got bumped to the back of the prayer list.
But yeah, church made me sad. And I made it sad. It was reciprocal relationship.
I held the worship leader position for only a year and some change. After a death at a local high school, falling out with a friend of mine and getting rejected from a cute piano player, I couldn't take it any more. Life had caught up to me. So I left the worship position, decided to be a rebel, take up drugs and alcohol and got kicked out of college for a laundry list of reasons.
Drugs not hugs.
Brews not pews.
Sins not hymns.
Affairs not Prayers.
And so on.
So if we fast-forward to today; I woke up in England, miles away from any one close and with the same sadness. The sadness of church. And she was softly sleeping within her thermal nest that's somewhere above my heart and below my neck. And that sadness comes generally comes from this question: What Am I Doing Here?
I asked my self that in church. I asked myself that in a hospital. And now I have been asking my self that here. As I shuffled around my bed, I began to recall the night I had before. It was July Fourth and I had managed to get into another serious argument with one of my best friends. Fairly certain our conversations will now be in ques at grocery stores where we accidentally run into one another. I can't tell if I fucked up again, or I'm just really, really good at staying alone. As I walked home alone last night I opened up "Is That You, Scully?" again and put it on shuffle. Family and Genus by Shakey Graves started playing.I started silently singing as if I was back in church. I remembered why I put this song on here for her too. I saw into the future one day while we were driving with the windows down; the breeze splashing our hair around, laughing like a pair mental patients. As her hair toppled past her ears I knew I'd lose her. I knew that some where in life one of us would drift away, like a balloon in the mist. If that happened, I wanted this song to comfort her:
"If,
If I,
If I ever wander on by
Could,
Could you,
Flag me down and beg me to
Drop what I'm doing and sit beside you."
Life is sad. Life is tough. But fuck it. I traded in my candy cigarettes for real ones a time long ago. I'm turning Scully into a song for all of you to hear. I'm sure when I get to the end of these tales (Because I am going somewhere with it, don't you worry your pretty little face) I'll have a deeper appreciation for the moments I let atrophy into antiquity.
This open road is now a church. Journal Entry #11** "2/11/2015 A form of ridiculous. This childish pander for love and affection. I've written letters and mailed post cards to her, but still no reflection of anything that I've done... She has truly added silence to this distance. And perhaps that's for the best. I still have no waded fully into the waters here. I've dipped my toes into this new life. But why? I have this fear that if I fully submerge my self that I'll lose her forever. But maybe that's supposed to happen. I am not doing well in my studies either. I frankly don't know what I'm doing. Am I ashamed? Is this what I really want? Scully, she lit up my soul. I had soaked it in the rains of missery and painful memories, but when she met me... It was as if a pillar of fire burnt my alter dry. The artist of my heart is sleeping restlessly with the corpse of our memory. I just long to be desired by what my heart has begged for. I don't know how to quit her. This place... it is making me question who I am. And more importantly how I am to be. What would it be like to forget you? WOuld I be tossing away what I fought for? Or is this even a fucking battle? [...] Now for some acctual documentation. Met this girl named Farah, well rather Steven made me talk to her. Made out at the bar several times. She came over last night and [...] how romantic right? Bar work has been fun, but I think I hold myself back from having more fun. I'm sitting in Cobble, a local coffee shop, avoiding work. I'm not going to give up... I'm going to press on. [...] God show me the path. Whether I walk alone or not, at least light the way." ** **Also, these journal entries are real. But they have
been edited. Obviously names have been changed and some graphic details
are omitted... for now** **
It is time to stop sulking quietly, and at least start exercising my frustrations out loud. Over the past several months I have built up this incredible amount of bile. You know what bile is right? It's that dark yellow, greenish liquid that is excreted in your stomach to help you break down yum-yum food stuffs. But if your stomach builds up to much bile, then your stomach will develop the personalty of blood-raged cowboy who lost their family and small baby calf in an Indian raid. It's about to bust a cap in your side and not even ask if you feel lucky, punk.
Anywho, I need to burn this shit off like a rocket burns fuel before it breaks through the atmosphere, and we are going to start with what's at the bottom of the tank. And in this particular metaphor, I have no clue what the atmosphere could be, well besides that soft-core hip-hop duo from Minneapolis. But I do know what bile consists of, therefore this could make for an interesting adventure for you readers.
In fact, I've been internalizing this venomous melodrama for so long that my next several blogs could be as impetuous as Han shooting first. And don't you argue with me on that either (There's a time and place to discuss the tragedy of CGI).
Either way, in my last blog post I mentioned a particular playlist that was constructed for a female from the past. Ha, ha, oh wait. Aren't they all from the past?
Anywho, the mix was titled, "Is That You, Scully?" And it wasn't titled that just because Gillian Anderson is a one serious sex kitten, but because maybe every once in a while I felt like Fox Mulder when she unconvincingly sighed in my general direction. For those of you who do watch the X-Files, you know, as I know that I'll be stuck in a constant state of wanting to believe if I am to play the role of Mulder... So to be the Fox, is to be forever alone. But just in case all the tacky fan fiction holds up, SCULDER FOREVER!
I think I went off on a tangent, back to "...Scully."
Have you ever looked into someones eyes and thought to your self, "I know what the second to last track will be on the mix I make for you when I ask you to marry me?" Come on, raise your hand if this particular phenomena has happened to you.
Don't be shy.
Ah! Yes! You in the back.
I see that hand... May the lord bless you child.
But yes, I remember looking deep into those fathomless titian eyes. My insides expanded as if I were a crumpled piece of dry parchment that had just been soaked in water. Kind of like when as a kid you'd shove the wrapping down off of a straw so it would make a small chode like pile. Then you'd put one droplet of water on it and watch it turn into a worm. Yeah, that was feeling... well that coupled with an awfully dumb smile and the thought of, "I already know the second to last song that would be on your tape."
And just in case you're wondering what the fuck I am talking about, here is a Youtube video that could possibly destroy this sweet and lovely imagery.
So with that said, have you ever wished that time travel was real?
Not so you could win the lottery, but simply so that you could go back and watch a moment one more time. One more time before it all turned to shit. And let's be honest here, you are reading the ramblings of a hopeless romantic. One that has a hard time letting go of the past, simply because he thinks he hasn't learned his lesson.
And maybe this is it.
Maybe these new blogs are just for me.
Perhaps all I am doing to taking my self through some metaphysical therapy session with bad-ass pictures and sad songs as my guide.
Or perhaps there are other people that feel this way as well, and for some reason you're glad to be in good company.
The second to last song for Scully was Wolves by Phosphorescent. And I wanted to use the live version of the song too. I thought the ambience of him being in a church would be a nice touch to the end of the mix. I chose this song because we would not understand extreme joy without reflecting on extreme sadness. And there's a lot more I could say about the song, but I'll reserve that for someone that cares to listen. But I'll also let you take from it what you wish. Also, while you listen, down below is an old journal entry from when I first arrived in the country.
Journal Entry #5
"28/8/2015:
Its been several days, and frankly I thought I'd be writing more, but I haven't. I've been distracting my self with drinks, trying to meet new people and consistently talking to Scully. We've literally talked everyday. I'm sure at some point it will taper off, and I'm already dreading it...
I'm confused about the reality of my feelings for her. Am I in 'love' or am I just in the wrong place and the right time? Classes haven't really got hard yet, and maybe that's because my heart isn't into it.
I don't know where I want to be...
Do I want to be home with Scully? Or do I want to be here pursuing a future that has yet to take shape and form? Maybe I'm just a bum waiting to get lucky. You know, have fortune fall into my lap just like my misfortunes have.
I hope I am doing the right thing.
Maybe one day, I'll return and be a better man.
A strong man.
A man worth a family and job.
I need to be asking myself, why am I hung up on Scully? I mean she was instant. It was like I was sleeping bullet that had been loaded into a sniper rifle. The blast awoke me, and then all of sudden I was in someones heart. Maybe when you know -- you know.
I just don't want to be wasting my time or hers...
I know she cares for me, but I am a very selfish man and its almost never enough for me. I am constantly thirsty for love and passion. Perhaps its an in human thirst that can't be cured by the touch of a woman, or maybe it can be.
Fuck it Effler, make a list: Start Comedy Society, Phone Calls, Address, Read-read-read, and Grow."
So I haven't written publicly by and large for some time now. As to why that is the case, I can merely say the lack of verbiage is due to my personal self-repugnance, or antipathy because I have not felt as though what I have to say is worth sharing. In fact this is the fifth paragraph out of the brood of ten that has survived. The others, sad to say have died off; slaughtered by the space bar. But we can get into my own personal scourging later, for if writing was my religion then I'd truly be upon the pyre.
But I just wanted to share this song, like I normally do with any of you who are out there to experience it.
It has been a rather emotional experience since deciding to get a Masters degree in England. Not only have I found my self entangled with academic problems, but I have also led a life of debauchery. In the quiet moments of reflection today, after Skyping with my parents (to tell them how broke I am) I hunted and pecked for a song to listen to as I sat there and decayed in front of my blank dissertation. As my fingers squirreled away, with my eyes scanning the endless fields of my music library I decided to hit shuffle on an old playlist that I had made for a girl. Her laugh was the greatest part of my day for a short period of time.
Ah yes, those playlists. I'm fairly positive that I have listened to, and adversely fallen in love with myself more times than any other female has... That's because they probably never listened to them. And each time I realize that they probably never listened to any of my artisan mixes a new ulcer grows within my stomach, causing my heart to corrode just a little more. So why did I hit the shuffle button on the mix titled, "Is that you, Scully"? Because I am a self-destructive putz, that's why. I'm fairly positive that if sadness was an actual pill-like substance, I would have overdosed on it publicly on a commuter bus sporting some "L.A. Lights" and a Reel Big Fish shirt from the thrift store.
Also, for your information. I changed the name of that playlist just now. So, none of you will know which one it was if you so chose to follow me on Spotify. *game changer*
But yes, the song. The song that played was Happiness by Riceboy Sleeps. You know -- that side project of Sigur Ros? The side project that still manages to sound completely the same but you don't care because it still makes you cry the good cry. You know what that good cry is too. It feels like doves from the heavens are shitting warm pallets of butter on you while you're sat in a hot tub that some how manages to be a portal to every sentimental thing that had happened in you life. Or maybe that's just me.
Either way, as I was listening to it, I recalled an interview with Louis C.K. on the Conan show. He went on as to why he won't give his children cellphones yet. It was a great interview and in it he said, "We don't know how to be alone anymore." Louis went on to tell a story of when he was driving his car on the highway and then suddenly felt the sadness of being alone start to intrude upon his thoughts. But instead of getting out his phone and looking for a fetishistic quick connection via text/facebook/whatever he just pulled over. Turned off his car, and let it happen. He had a good cry.
To make a dumb story short, as I sat there listening to this song that was dedicated to a lady as lovely as Dana Scully I started to feel that loneliness begin to waft into my rib cage. I even reflected on what Louis C.K. said!!!
And I did the exact opposite.
I messaged a girl that I liked.
One that now knows. Oh, glory! Right?
You know that feeling when you've just exposed your self, and not in the flasher-in-the-park manner either? Well it feels like your stomach is a decaying cocoon for a heaping pile of old hefty pudding packs swirling around like hot liquid garbage set right out side the gates of an abandoned cathedral... or you just feel lame.
After I texted her, I let the phone lay there in my palm for a second.
About four seconds pasted when I realized.
I realized that I don't know how to be alone, and that is some tough shit.
I guess, to make a long story short. I'm going to start writing again. I'm going to write about the people I've seen. The places I've gone. The money I've wasted on train tickets, booze, films, books, printing papers, down payments, and alas... on a broken Xbox 360 (mother fucker). Why? Because when I write, I don't pick up my phone.
So yeah, check this song out. Maybe you'll think of some prodigious shit.
Keeping Track Of History: Dreaming With Intention.
From my idyllic sub-cranial creations that harvest my real-time comprehension of existence to my consumeristic need and desire for affection, I am balancing between a world and a sylph of thought’s that might not even be real. Jean Baudrillard, a french philosopher and Christopher Smit, a communications professor at Calvin College would be having a field day with my mind at this very moment. Right now I am in the throws of finishing two books, applying for graduate school and experiencing “all the feels” for a particular woman. But that is neither here nor there, for Baudrillard and Smit, they’d be laughing at me because my instant need to process these experiences through both a consumeristic standpoint, but also a personalized prediction of a “what-if” simulation. Baudrillard states in Simulcra and Simulation that the simulation is positively more dangerous to those who believe in it because it manipulates their ability to distinguish between natural law and simulated law. For within simulation, there is no boundary or limit to what can and will be manipulated. And it is at this point that I can feel you, the reader slipping away into darkness. So therefore I must reassure you two things: This is about life and music (I promise), and there will eventually be a dick joke (hang in there).
I’ve been thinking a lot about dreams lately, but more importantly how I’ve been consuming them. Smit said once that end result of consumption is excrement. Smit went on to say that this consumption has become routine, “we love the puppy, hate the dog, buy now, think later…” and so on. I often feel as though my dreams, our dreams, become advertisements for what we desire to consume. One could make the joke that I think about dreams every night, but all jokes aside, I have experienced strong and realistic dreams in my past. These dreams fragment my emotional reality and tear a hole into what I believe to be “actual”. Or maybe this whole life is a dream, and what I’ve experience during “sleep” is just a reverberation of a some eternal echo. Or maybe I’m just really, really high. When I was doing these pieces in the past, Keeping Track of History, I often had a very real story to tell you. Some of you may recall the one about the lost love from California and how I made her my very first ever mix cd. Or the one about the oriental beauty who stopped time in the middle of a Japanese subway. These memories, as real as they were, are now dreams of a tired heart. But the story I am about to tell you, well most of it never happened. But much like a simulation, or the hyperreality of what dreams become, it is and was very real. The dream was so real, that I in fact shared it recently with someone special, as if it was a testimonial as to how far gone my heart had stepped into the darkness of dedication.
Koda, an ambient artist that weaves electro beats, cathedral harmonies and spaced out pads is the perfect sonic companion as to what I have been thinking, feeling and also processing. It was about two or three months ago, when I was working on a web application project with a good friend of mine, that I first heard of Koda. He paused in the middle of work and told me that I had to check out this picture/video released by NASA. It was titled, “Gigapixels of Andromeda”. In the video we start off with a gorgeous capture of the galaxy. Then over time, frame by frame the video takes pieces of the photo and zooms in. With each zoom the smallness of my being increased ten-fold. But as the video played there was this ambient angel that softly hummed. It was Koda’s song “The Last Stand”, and it was mesmerizing. I immediately looked the artist up and listened through all of his material that I could find that evening. I knew, within the depths of my soul that I was to use his music as an inspiration. About a month later, like tales of angels visiting, it came to me in my sleep.
Go ahead and press play if you want. And if that doesn't work. Here's a link to the song.
Like the progression of the song, in this dream, my eyes slowly began to find their focus. First the barbed light of halogen bulbs crept into my gaze. Then the walls materialized into cream and charcoal, while the floor bled out in a dark maroon. Tables and chairs started to materialize with people in them like flower pots. I rubbed my face, I was a spirit looking out onto this room. Like an invisible camera I turned and pivoted, scanning the room, and then saw my self. I had small round glasses, a glorious beard, shorter hair and dressed like a champion of literature. Or perhaps to some people, an uber nerd in a sweater vest. In my right hand was a computer remote that I was using to progress through a power point that was being projected on the wall and in my left hand, there was nothing but pure passion and expression for what I was talking about. I could hear my self think. It was as if I had duplicated and had an extension of my body and soul hovering invisibly. My physical body knew of my spiritual one and vice versa, an odd cosmic harmony. At this point I knew I was dreaming, or at least the “third eye” did and was aware of these duplicated beings being created in another reality. I was consuming my dream, frame by frame and beat by beat. I had always wanted to be a teacher, lecturer or highly esteemed academic and now I was “living” that out that fantasy.
Do you remember the last car accident you were in or saw? More importantly do you remember the noise before impact? It’s as if a seismic charge had gone off, pulling in all sound through a giant straw to the epicenter of carnage. A most alerting silence. As my lecture started to progress the “seismic straw” began to suck all noise from the room. I didn’t realize it at first, much like one doesn’t realize they are being slowly cut, but the suction of sound grew. It was getting louder and louder as if a child was slowly turning up the static on an abandon TV channel. I frantically looked around the room and noticed that the physical me didn’t seem to hear or feel what I was feeling. I covered my ears and knelt down on the ground, then it stopped. I looked up and didn’t see anything. Everyone was still taking notes and I was still lecturing. But then, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a door in the back of the room start to open slowly. A woman was walking into the room. As soon as I saw her face, my point of view and entire being collected its self into the physical body that was lecturing. I paused the power point with the remote and stared.
Her hair was freshly cut, a shimmering dark hazel brown that had little flip right above her shoulders. It danced on her shoulder like the lace would between the bed and carpet. The eyes of this woman were uncommonly soft. Fixed between short dark lashes, they changed colors between light blue and a sea green as they rested like frame and picture on their cream pale wall. Her top was black, cut just below her neck and above her breast. It looked warm as wool but as soft as thin cotton. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and it snuggly fit around her torso. She was holding something though her left arm. It was wrapped in a blanket. But my eyes did not stop there, they traversed the rest of her body. The black top connected with a silk, shin-high dress at her waist. It was also black, but it had small dotted pearls sewn in like a tapestry. Her feet had small flats. Her gate, as she walked in, swayed allowing the dress to be caught in the wind that entered with her.
As I gazed upon her, she lifted her right hand and index finger to her lips, silencing me in my already stunned state. It was as if she wanted me to ignore her and allow her to watch me, unnoticed. But I looked again, I looked to what was in her left arm. She was cradling a baby. It’s bunny soft head peaked from behind the wrapping of the blanket, and shifted from side to side. He was awake. My dream told me — he was awake. She sat down in the back of the class room, holding the baby and looking at me. She looked at me in the way a mother looks upon her husband. She looked at the baby as one does when it’s theirs. She looked at me again as if to say he was ours. My students looked at me, pencils in hand, waiting for my next breath. How long was I out? How long was I lost and voiceless? I shook my head, apologized, clicked over to the next slide and then that’s when I awoke. My conscience rocketed back to my bed and I found my self awake and covered in sweat.
Dreams, crazy right? The last time I had a dream that vivid was a little over a year ago. I won’t share the entirety of the dream, but I still could tell you to this day what people were wearing, saying and doing. And in that dream I had a year ago, I did nothing about it. I silenced it, shut it away in my journal and never talked about it. But as for this one, well that girl who was holding the baby. I told her about this dream. But after I told her this dream I felt guilty. Why was I really telling her this? To win her over, to guilt her or to inform her of some weird alternate universe? This dream was a simulation of a deep desire of mine, but does that mean that I should consume this dream, give it life and use it as a road-map? This dream actually has nothing to do with the reality of my life. Yes, I want to be a teacher. But I am no where near to that being a reality. Yes, I was a child. But I am no where near that reality. Yes, I am romantically inclined and desire this woman, but I am no where near that reality. After I told her this dream, she was rather speechless. Much as I expected. But I’m glad I did. When we share our dreams, I believe we no longer become consumers, but we become benefactors. We open our hearts and souls to others which allows us to fully comprehend the meaning of what we had experienced. So what do we do when we receive dreams that touch the core of your soul? Songs like “The Last Stand” by Koda give me inspiration to keep track of these dreams. Even though they may be unrealistic interpretations of life, they still birth creativity and need of expression. Dreams, simulations, hyperreality, they are just soft remainders that we live in a world where are not confined to this physical body, but we in fact can share in a different universe without being mindless consumers. How do you keep track of dreams? What’s a song that reminds you of something so vivd it becomes real? Are you afraid that you’ll just consume your dream instead of finding courage and wisdom in it?
We continued to walk towards our destination;
the streetlights were getting thinner with each passing block. I needed a
drink. I needed to refresh my mind. Like a game of pong my thoughts tossed
between brittle ideas, “well she’s not
your ex, right? There were reasons why you loved that girl. This one’s
different, obviously, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Did Conner Oburst ever
write anything on this? What about Elliott Smith? Maybe if I listen to
Frightened Rabbit one more time I’ll be able to center my self...” My mind
continued this barrage of thoughts until we entered the alleyway where the bar
was quaintly located; in the back, behind a black steel door that looked like
it needed a sliding peephole.
The Bitter Alibi normally occupied
10 to 15 people tops but tonight was different, tonight obviously had to be
different. The chipped-brick lined the alleyway and
echoed it’s vast amount of inhabitants. There were jeers, stories, the scraping
of glass on pavement and varieties of laughter scratching my eardrums as we
passed under a thin canopy of Christmas lights. Even though the walk to the
steel door was only 20 feet, I looked back more times than necessary; as if I
was Lots wife, afraid she'd dissolve into salt and spread like ashes amongst
the crowd. Each time I looked back she gave me a reassured but privet smile and
then went back to observing her feet as she followed. I grabbed the handle to
the door and yanked it open. It was packed, from front to back and on either side
with burnouts, college frat groupies and sneering locals. Standing room only in
this burrowed tavern. As we entered the bar itself, the wooden room was filled
with ten times over the reflection of what was outside. We approached the
counter.
“What would you like to drink?” I
asked her. She glanced around the room, pivoting from eye contact to scouting
out exits.
Typical girl answer in 3...2...1...
“I don’t know.”
“You like beer, right?”
“I love beer” Claire said dizzily.
“Awesome, well would you like a
PBR, Fat Tire, Red Stripe, Rolling Rock....”
As I listed the beers I could see
her mind working. She was getting her bearings and scooted closer to my side.
If she were a kid I would have expected her to grab my belt loop. We inched
closer to the countertop. The counter was up to my chest, and if you peered
over you could see one of the bartenders trying to prepare at least ten
sandwiches in a frenzy of confusion and anxiety. Claire tugged on my arm, “I’ll
have a Fat Tire.” There was no wrong answer here, well except for Red Stripe. I
didn’t know how to reassure her that her choice of beer wasn't going to be an
issue. Claire then pulled out her wallet and it was all white with the Imperial
logo on it from Star Wars. What a cutie.
I hastily held out my hand, “Oh no,
I got you.”
Claire grinned, “Really?”
I placed my arm around her
shoulder, “Of course.”
Like Frank Underwood from House of
Cards I double tapped the counter and yelled, “Jason! I need my usual and a Fat
Tire for the lady.”
Jason popped up from behind the
counter, “You got it man.” Jason was a younger looking guy. He was clean cut,
and had a neat dirty blond poof that bobbed on top of his head like a
wad of tissue paper. His hands, still a little messy from the sandwich grease, slid
open the cooler, snagged our beers (PBR for me, duh), popped the tabs and handed
them over the counter. Jason gave me a little wink and nodded in Claire’s
direction. I wouldn't call myself
a ladies man, per say, but every time I’ve been in Bitter Alibi it’s been with
a different girl. I can only assume that Jason believes me to be a Mac Daddy,
and I'll let him continue to think that.
She held her beer like a juice box.
I leaned in close and shouted, because that’s what you do, “Would you like to
go back outside?” Claire nodded as she took a sip of her beer. I pivoted and
opened the door for her and lead us out back into the alleyway. When we were in
the alleyway I ran into yet another person I know, my buddy Zach. Zach is
generally an exciting human to be around. Everything is fantastic and new. We
can laugh about as much as we can talk about, and for Zach and I, we can talk
about the moon. We stood in the corner underneath porch by the black metal
door. Smoke plumbed the air and not one shit was given. For a moment I forgot
that Claire was there. Zach asked me what I have been doing with my time
lately. As I was explaining to him about the job hunt I felt a jab in my ribs.
Claire nudged me with her elbow, “Did Brady also mention that he has met his
soul mate?” she said grinning at Zach. Zach’s eyes echoed with excitement, “Oh
my, oh no, no he hasn’t. How long have you two been together?” I quickly
replied with, “Oh you know, for a good... long while.” And Claire laughed and
inched in closer to me.
Zach and I talked about old times, including when we were in
a fraternity together, to which Claire sharply said, “Oh! A frat boy, good to
know what I’m getting myself into.” Zach shook his hands in the air, “Oh, it’s
nothing like that. Trust me. It was the most musically nerdy fraternity you’ll
experience. Has nothing to do with Pucca Shells.”
As the three of us chatted Caitlin and Ashley
showed up. Like mermaids in sea of broken sailors they dodged prying eyes and “hey girls”. They made their
introductions, shook hands like gentlemen, smiled like long distance relatives
and retreated to the inside of the bar to grab some beers. As we waited for
them to return Claire started to shuffle her feet.
“Are
you feeling okay?”
She
brushed her hair from her face as if they were tentacles of anxiety, “Yeah, I'm
fine” then let out a small sigh, “I just get a little claustrophobic.”
“Why don't we sit down on this
bench, would that be better for you?”
“I'll
do what you want.”
“Then
let’s sit on the bench.”
We
plopped down on the green bench in the alleyway that had just been abandoned a
couple of college girls. When we sat down we started talking about her life to
which immediately led into her asking me, “would you like to see a picture of my
ex?” How could I say no to that? So I just nodded my head. Claire took out her
phone, “Okay, here he is.” This dude looked straight up like he was juggalo.
There were facial tattoos all over this unkempt rats nest of a boy. I
immediately felt two distinct feelings. One, I am so much better than this guy
and second, and what does this say about me? If she is coming from a member the dark
family to wanting to spend time with me does that mean that I share similar
qualities with this dude? I surely hope not. Caitlin and Ashley came back outside and propped themselves
up against the adjacent wall. We continued to drink, discuss what we were all
“good” at. I'm assuming, in hopes to create some common ground, Ashley and
Caitlin started talk about shopping, you know, like you do.
“Where do you like to go shopping Claire?” Ashley asked in
her very sweet and innocent voice. Claire’s eyes lit up, “Oh! Oh I love Target”. Caitlin nodded
her head in agreement and also acknowledged that she as well loved Target. “Oh,
no. You don't love Target as much as I love Target.” It was at this moment that
Claire decided to take out her badass Star Wars wallet again. When she took it
out I looked at Caitlin and mouthed, “Yeah, she’s awesome”, eyeing her now
exposed nerdiness. Caitlin just gave me the “nod” and a thumbs up close to the chest, but then her
brow began to furl. I turned to my right to see that Claire had taken out her Target
card and was flicking it with the tip of her tongue like a snake. She was
licking her Target card.
I took a giant swig of my beer, “Yep, you certainly do
love Target” hoping by stating the obvious I would break the awkwardness of her
now molested credit card.
“Hey! I want to get a picture of us
together,” Claire said handing her phone to Caitlin.
“Could you take a picture
of us?”
“Um, yeah sure. I'd love to.”
Caitlin said rather reluctantly.
As Caitlin positioned the camera I
felt Claire inching closer to me. She got so close I could feel her breath on my face
and her eyelashes flickering. What was she doing? I couldn't turn to look at
her either; it would be like trying to back a car out of a compact spot. I
would have scraped her cheek with my own. Caitlin, being the keen observer that
she is said nothing about it, but instead started the count down. “Are you
guys, ready? Three...Two...One...” And on the count of three Claire opened her
mouth. From the bottom of my jaw line to right below my glasses her pierced
tongue slithered up my face. Caitlin’s face was horrified. Shai Hulud had
broken ground and revealed it’s God-like wonder. This girl had just straight up
tasted me. And without any thrill in her voice Caitlin said, “And there it
is...” Claire clapped her hands
and squealed, “Did you get it?!” Eyes bulging, Caitlin passed Claire’s phone
back to her as if she was feeding an unfamiliar dog.
“Oh, it looks great! Except it
looks like a I have a bald spot.”
Shortly afterwards the licking
Caitlin and Ashley graciously bowed out, leaving Claire and I to our own
devices. She wanted to go somewhere where it wasn't as packed, so I elected for
us to go to the Pickle Barrel, where we had originally planned on meeting. It
was the typical crowd there. Crust punk kids, homeless men treasure hunting out
front and then me. We sat down and ordered our drinks and my mind went blank. I
mean she had already licked my face, shown me a photo of her ex and told my
best buddy Zach that we were soul mates. So what else is there to cover? I
pointed at her arm, “So how many tattoos do you have?”
She
brushed her hair back and folded her arms out on the table and said, “Hmmm I
have about 26 tattoos. I started getting work done when I was 17 and just never
really stopped.” And like typical tattoo stories she grazed over some of her
more unique ones, such as to the initials of one of her exes to whom she dated
when she was pregnant. The way Claire talked about "her" was awkward, but she summed it up by saying, “oh, it was just a
phase.”
I’ll
go ahead and be gracious and tell you that we talked for a long time. She
shared with me why she had relocated from Florida to Georgia. We talked about
what she was looking for in a partner and also about her aspirations for being
a plastic surgeon. “I want to give girls boobies,” she’d say. “What a noble
pursuit...” was my response to that. Either way, I feel like I've taken much of
your time describing to you how unique Claire is, and I tried to make that point obvious. My reasoning for all of this is that even within the weirdest and most
peculiar of people there are and can be the sweetest of moments. The internet
dating game forces us to judge and assign value to people much faster than we
do in “the real world.” If I would have been privy to several pieces of
information about Claire before this date started I probably would have stayed
at home playing Skyrim, but as bizarre as she was, she opened my eyes to what
I've hid in my heart for a long time.
We started telling each other
horrible pickup lines and stories about strange people that we've met. She'd
listen deeply and I would find my self delighting in her desire to experience
new things, people and her need to take life by the horns. At one point, during this particular part of the evening I
told her a rather horrible pickup line, which in turn had also over exposed my supreme geekdom.
I’m sorry to parents and those over the age of 48 in advance, but Icompared her vagina to the Death Star from Star Wars: A New Hope. You know, like thermal exhaust ports, proton torpedoes
and gunning down the trench.
After the punch line, she giggled
with her whole body, but not after trying to fight it off first of course. I
could see it in her stare, twisted into a mocking gaze. (Oh god, I hope somebody’s home... I’m trying to not to try too hard here!).
Then Claire broke, it started with her lips as they tightened and the light
shimmered off of the microscopic tremble. The quiver then started its wobble to
the underside of her eyes. The longer she fought the more I began to
understand, I'm hilarious. My deer-in-the-headlights eye sockets transferred me
a grin like a dollar being passed under the table. My jaw was no longer propped
open like P. Diddys, questioning if I had done something stupid. Upon seeing, what
I'd call my “shit-eating-grin”, Claire’s hands slowly cupped her face, and her
tiny brown eyes were squinting at me through the cracks. I could actively see
that she was refusing to give me any credence or leeway to my retardation. Her
will was strong but I could see it burn inside of her. I am all too familiar
with this stage of cachinnation, a.k.a. girls fighting the moment, but not
physical fighting me – just to make that clear. Once her hands had firmly curtained
her mouth she stopped resisting and she let out a laugh as sweet and still as
the rest of her voice. My heart was instantly inoculated. Her eyes lit up and
they even shined under her eyelids as she closed them. Her hands dropped on to the
table, face turned to the ceiling and projected the sonic nature of her laugh;
laughter bounced off of the hanging barrel chandeliers.
An orange light, smoked in tar and
low in wattage, slumped out of these barreled wooden chandeliers and bathed the
entire room. A linked chain connected this barrel to the over lacquered
ceiling, mercilessly rigid and stiff like a streetlight hanging upside down
blowing in the wind. Its dimness made my face burn and smothered us, privately,
in a smoggy silhouette. Her face looked like it was burning too. My favorite
moment of the night was creeping up on me like a tortoise hauling a load of
fine white Columbian powder. It was talking to me like the wisdom in the
etchings and carving on our table. These poets, from bar visits past wrote:“Fuck
what you know...” or “Rudy, die
tryin’...” or “even a motha fucka can
be a soft fucka...” alongside with the prototypical “Steven hearts Ally.” As she gathered her self I thought, I could be
a ‘motha fucka’, but that soft and sweet motha fucka. I don't know what that
entirely means; perhaps I'd be that motha fucka that steals your parking space. I'm sure that doesn't entirely constitute an ass beating, but maybe a hushed, under the
breath snarl. Each engraving was timeless, now black and charred down in the
wood; ready for you to read and sweetly feel with your fingernails as you sit
next a pretty girl. Claire lowered her head, had smiles for leftovers as she
turned to look at me.
“Are you back now?” I inquired.
“Yes, Yes I’m back...” She reached
into her purse, digging through it like she didn't know what she was quite
searching for yet, but then it dawned on her, her smokes were already on the table.
She reached across, opened the pack up and slid a single Marlboro between her
lips, catching my gaze from the corner of her eye. I was ready again, like I
was before with my little blue lighter. She looked at me differently, it was
weird but it was also... sexy. Her pupils dilated like a leaf wrapped around a
stone. I struck the wheel, the flint grinded and it sparked as the flame shot
up. Her pupils receded like a rabbit into the grass and she inhaled deeply.
Claire leaned back into her chair,
as Audrey Hepburn would have, pivoting her head so her black hair swooped
around her shoulder, crossing her legs and folded one arm under the other to
support her hand as she took her first drag. Still displaying symptoms of a
face wrought with laughter she hummed with a dim temperament,
“Thank you Brady”
“Claire...” I said, letting the a
few syllables fade like the smoke from her cigarette.
“Yes?”
“I always,
...Light
my bitches cigarette.”
Her face softened, she turned to me
and held her palm close to her face, smoke blanketing our line of sight. “You,
you're just cute you know that?”
I
had no time to respond, no time to be humble and politely repudiate my dainty
wit. No time to even think. She kissed me.
She
leaned in close, and placed her palm under my chin; her fingers unfurled around
my jaw. Like Magneto picking up change, or as to an asteroid being sucked into
the planets atmosphere, or like the Millennium Falcon getting caught in the
Death Star's tractor beam, or even light a 14 year old boy seeing tits for the
first time... I was powerless, speechless and lost in the silence of the
moment. When her lips parted from my body a trail of smoke followed, like the
smell from a pie on the windowsill.
She
leaned back in her chair and smirked, a tender wicked smirk; the kind of smirk
that we love to hate. I understood immediately what had just happened. The
acknowledgement of yes, yes you have won. You have my attention, you have my
voice tucked in the pocket of your eyes and I fold because every card you're
about to draw in going to be an ace in the hole. I acknowledge that if I woke
up now, this would be a most believable dream.
Claire
then stood up and leaned in once more. This time she bent over, examining me
like a kindergarten teacher to her pupil. Our eyes locked like traffic lights.
Were we going to kiss again? I mean if we were, I'm okay with that. Two thumbs ups, five stars, ready for
duty, sir! Should I wait, or is it my turn to go 90 and she goes 10. That’s
what Will Smith told me in Hitch. I could smell her perfume over the smoke and
hear her think as she peered into my eyes. Then she curtsied and whispered...“I’m
going to go the bathroom.”
“...k”
The
night continued on. We drank, we laughed and we kissed some more, a lot more.
Claire went on about her tattoos, their stories and what she wants next in life.
She talked about her daughter, and with a passion. She pulled out her phone and
had me listen to videos of her little girl laughing, talking and playing games.
She talked about her hair, her first steps, her little nose and most of all how much she loved
her. If you ever want to measure the temperature of another’s heart, allow them to talk about those closest to them. They shall paint you the most accurate version of their heart to date, but be careful, because true love for another is the most attractive thing in the world. I kept asking myself, "Was this what it would be like? Would it be like this? Would we have been happy together? Would we have been a good family?" My mind was jogging between the present attraction before me and what had ended six years ago.
We
walked back to her car holding hands. Then we sat, in her car, in a parking
garage alone.
I
was once asked by a particular girl, a long time ago, “What are six things you couldn’t do without.” I remember this
clearly. There was a fire pit, empty glass bottles and folk music in the
background. When this girl asked me that question, the fire crackled and the
wind around us shook the remaining leaves off the trees. The first thing I said
to her was “Winter...” Winter, a time for us to keep warm and tuck-in our
feelings while the world around us goes to sleep with its hand our body. As I
sat in the car with Claire I remembered this moment. She stared at me with a
gaze as sturdy as lumber, and with a voice that cracked like that winter fire
she asked me, “Hey... would you like some gum?” I let out a soft laugh, “Of
course. I'd love some gum.” She pulled out a thin piece and placed it in my
palm. We sat there chewing for a moment, crackling like fire with deep sighs. I
gazed out her window listening to the moment and then felt her hand as she
rested it on my thigh. Claire’s gaze was stern and steady. My memory eternal echoed, What’s the second thing you could never do
without... Claire rested her head on my shoulder; a memory familiar. My fingers became caught up in her hair, and for a moment our lips fell asleep upon each other's body.The candle in the dark of my mind whispered my response. A plea that was before the drugs, before the broken portraits and before I or my ex had even tasted the isolated dirt of a bathroom floor. The second thing I could never do without is, “...you.”
Fadeout:
We went down to New Orleans one weekend in the spring. Looked hard for what we'd lost. It was painful to admit it but we couldn't find a thing. - The Mountain Goats
