Abstract Jazz Brain

Sometimes my hands ache, full of words for a page. I see the ending. It’s me, I’m old, I’ve lived partially not fully like some. Enough. I’ve helped animals, taken care of my husband, listened to people’s problems. Made a mark nowhere but in the immediate landscape. Broader strokes, that’s where I feel that I’ve failed. There is potential to be known, to be respected but the fear abates. Fear of being that certain kind of honest that it takes to make it. The honest words that ache for the page. The one’s I’m afraid to write. The one’s I’m afraid they will read. I think of the old days. The early 90’s when everything seemed so impossible and possible. Every second felt like it could be the best one or the end. The insecurity of wondering if anyone would ever love me, be there for me, appreciate my soul and the kindness that I have to give. I have that now and don’t appreciate it like I thought I would back then. Now it’s more of a yearning for those years of uncertainty. I watch movies now as a middle aged adult, flicks about young people that are still trying to figure it all out and I envy them more than I could ever imagine I would have. The time they still have, that I’ve let fleet into the sky with the dreams of a 21 year old chick who thought she would achieve something more than this. A cubicle rat. There is still time. There is still time. I have talent but for some reason I push it away. Do I love to write? Sometimes. Like all things. Sometimes. I just want to be alive all the way again. Not in the sense that I was in that time, where I wasn’t sure if I wanted to die so I did the craziest shit I could think of to see if that would indeed be the end result. Today I want to live as long as I can without any assistance in wiping my ass or walking around. To be relevant to those I admire and to those dumbass kids like myself looking for some sort of inspiration in an older person who seems to have an answer or more.

Create, freedom, create, live, beauty. I can be those things. I can. I must. 

That Night I Ruined Race Relations

“When the hell is this shit gonna kick in?”

We had dropped about 35 minutes prior and even though I told him that it took anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour, Terry was getting mega antsy. I reiterated this statement again which seemed to only serve as an irritation.

“I mean I thought we was gon’ be laughin’ and shit. So far all I feel is the weed.”

I had a premonition that regret might be involved after taking on this project. When Terry came up to me at work the week before and said “Yo man, I wanna try some of that white people shit you always talkin’ bout. That acid shit. Hook it up!” I should’ve immediately told him it was a bad idea. That I’m not a drug Shaman. That I didn’t think it was compatible with his humongous ego or vigorous “ho” schedule. Terry rarely slept. Most nights were spent creeping from one hood rat’s house to the next. There’s no way LSD would be conducive to his habits. I should’ve said all those things but goddammit if I didn’t think this would be hilarious.

I chose “Demon Knight” from my extensive collection of VHS tapes. I figured since he hated horror movies, it would freak him out the most. He brought 3 blunts and we were already on the second one when it hit him. Billy Zane had just conjured up a fresh crop of Hell Spawn and I noticed Terry trying to hide his eyes. There was absolutely no way he was going to let on that he was scared though.

“Yo, this is stupid man. I mean how you gon’ grow some fuck’in Demons out the ground?”

“Just wait man” I pleaded. “Something funny is about to happen. Keep Watching.”

He listened to me. What a rube! His hands were under his legs now, making sure they wouldn’t block his view and make him look like a punk ass. Then the demons attacked, chasing our victims back into the old Church/Motel which, actually, was one of the least funny parts in the whole movie. About this time Terry involuntarily began kicking wildly from the overstuffed love seat into the air, screaming 

“Oh Shit! Oh Shit!!!”

YESSSSS. This is what I’d hoped for and it was fucking magical. I laughed so hard that I slunk off the couch on to the old shag carpet and just rolled around for a few moments until I heard him yelling at me.

“Ay! Ay man! What is this shit dude? What the fuck did you give me!??”

I actually had to pinch myself to stop the howling. I couldn’t breathe but the whole thing was going sideways, he was super pissed which was definitely not good for my trip and if I got derailed we were doomed. I had to reel it back in and get him on board again.

“Look dude, you’re gonna be fine. Don’t fight it, just go along for the ride.”

“Nah fuck that Steph! There’s sumthin wrong with my piece. Those Demons looked like they comin’ out the screen and shit!”

I continued to try and be a voice of reason.

“That’s cool. That’s what it’s supposed to do!”

Something else crazy happened in the movie causing Terry to abruptly jump up, slap his hand on the power button, ending my torture session.

“Ya’ll like this? Seein’ crazy ass shit??? I thought we was just gon’ laugh, maybe see some colors or whatever. I didn’t know ….fuck this. How long does it last??”

“You got like 6 to 8 hours before you should drive. I told you that. Who’s “Ya’ll by the way?”

“Ya’ll!” he projected loudly. “White People!”

“Oh wow…. Come on! I don’t know. I like it though. Just settle down, I’ll find a comedy to put in.”

“Well I can’t stay no 6 hours. Told Trina I’d come through around 4 after her man leave fo’ work.”

I tried to explain that he wasn’t allowing nearly enough time for the drug to run its course and that it would be downright dangerous for him to climb behind the wheel of his Accord anytime in the near future.

“I’m goin’ to the bathroom, spramp some water on my face, try and fix this shit. We on the out’s after this one Steph. You did your boy wrong.”

“Did you just say “spramp”?” I ignored his threats of terminating our friendship and decided to dig in deeper.  He didn’t want to, but a giggle escaped from the hole in the middle of his perfectly manicured goatee before he skulked up the stairs.

Using the down time wisely, I chose my recent purchase of “Dumb and Dumber” as our next viewing pleasure. In the meantime, all sorts of muffled cry’s and whining lilted down from the upstairs bathroom. I was just about to go up and check on him and then the door opened. It probably took about 5 minutes for him to descend the 10 stairs and when he reached the bottom, he’d gone as pale as possible for someone of his dark pallor. The regret was kicking in just as hard as the acid now.

“Terry! You alright man??!!”

I grabbed him by the arm, helping him back to the loveseat.

“Nah man. Not at all. I was takin’ a piss and I looked at the shower curtain and those fuckin’ fish started swimmin’ and eatin’ each other and shit. So then I was like “fuck this” and I looked over at the mirror and my face man...it was crazy. Stretching out, coming back in. I looked like a cartoon….like one of them muh fuckers on Fat Albert…the big toothed one…I don’t like this at all.”

Now I just felt bad. I grabbed him some orange juice and somehow, I don’t know, he fell asleep.  It’s the only time on the many occasions I dropped acid that I witnessed someone nap at the height of tripping. The whole incident was so sobering that I spent the next 2 hours splitting my time between t.v. and checking Terry’s pulse. Around 3 A.M. his inner cock-clock must have went off as he sat straight up, wide awake.

“I gotta go.”

Ignoring every horrific scenario I explained that could happen, he left and stumbled out into the night. That’s just how much pull illicit poon had on him. Terry would risk his life for any woman willing to get her ass beat over bangin’ him. That was his power source. I worried about him all night and since this was before cell phones, I paged him every couple hours until he finally called back around 10 the next morning.

“So are we still friends?” I asked sincerely.

“Yeah man. We still cool. But I ain’t never doin’ that shit again. When I was walkin’ across your parking lot, I heard somebody walking behind me so I started runnin’ and then I heard’em comin’ faster so I grab my keys out my pocket as fast as I could and then I realized…I was wearin’ that Miami Hurricanes warm up suit.  I was hearin’ the material rubbing between my thighs makin’ that shooshin’ noise. Weren’t nobody chasin’ me. Bout had a fuckin’ heart attack.”

I died laughing.

“Shiiiiit…I got to Trina’s and couldn’t even fuck the bitch. Never realized how much she looked like James Brown before, blinded by that ass I guess. Might be one good thing that came outta this.”

We did remain cool for the next few years until I moved away. However, Terry never missed a chance to tell people his harrowing tale and it was always accompanied by the pearl of wisdom he gleaned from that night.

“That’s why I don’t trust white people.”

These Are The Crap Bags In My Neighborhood

“He’s retard. Bonafied! I know that to be fact cause I know’d his teacher and she told me he was bonafied.” 

Well goddamn. I mean I can’t stand the dude either. He’s made my dog walks hell for the last three years or so and I get what the old man is sayin’ and all, like he’s not right in the head but, geez. I mean this old buzzard didn’t even put an “A” in front of “retard”. Just straight up called Steven “retard”.  Kind of harsh for a Sunday morning stroll down the block.

“Well I just wanted you to know, cause I see you’a walkin’ your puppies all the time and I see you carryin’ that stick. Lemme see that a minute…”

I hand the old dude my stick, well really it’s one of those wooden poles used to hang clothes from in a closet. I like it because it’s long, light and smooth. I’ve tried actual sticks but they just feel awkward.  It’s because of Steven that I started carrying it in the first place.

“Yeah, you won’t last a second with those two vicious dogs of his. This fuckin’ thing’ll snap right in two and they’ll be all over that little’n of yours. You should’a seen what they just did to this dude who lives here. He was walking with his two little dogs and that idiot came out with those two big ass dogs just’a draggin’ him down the street. Fella who lives here had to take of runnin’ cuz that bonafied moron couldn’t barely control them dogs, they was just about to get away.”

Steven isn’t right in the head, we all know that.  When my husband and I first moved in 10 years ago he was probably about 17 and would come over and talk in the driveway sometimes. That quickly escalated into him just walking up in our crib without so much as an attempt at knocking. After we screamed at him and flipped him off a few times, the message got through, he stopped coming over and I could peacefully hit the streets with my mutts without driveway chats about “I.C.P.” or whatever horrible music he was listening to.

Then a while ago, Steven found a stray German Shepherd that had been abused. He named it Daisy, nursed it back to health and nurtured all of its insecurities. After that, pretty much every single time it encountered another dog, Daisy went to Psycho Town. What does Steven do when she’s trying to murder his fellow neighbors? He pets her and says “There, there girl.”  You bet.  So I guess, since that was going so well, Steven decided to rescue a giant Pit bull and have both of them walk him together.  It literally looks like he’s being pulled down the street by plow horses. He’s gotten dog trainers, I’ve seen them working over there but it’s him. He just doesn’t have the cognitive capacity to take charge of such powerful animals.

“Hey you don’t have to convince me.” I told the old man. “I’ve spent the last few years of my life being startled by that Shepherd since Steven never looks to see if I’m coming down my driveway before he comes out his front door. The thing just goes totally nuts and scares the crap out of me. Now that he has the other one, I say a prayer before I come down my driveway every time that he won’t come out.”

To be perfectly honest, I’ve pissed myself several times. For real. I also slipped on an acorn once and rolled down the driveway like a goddamn beer barrel. My dog’s extend-o leash flew out of my hand and was dragging after her, she was running in terror, it totally sucked. And it’s because Steven is brain challenged that I haven’t made a bigger deal out of it. Plus his parents are like disabled or something and they’re dealing with his loopy ass, it’s just a messed up situation.  

“Well that’s horseshit” said the geezer. “Lemme tell you something, I served in Vietnam. I was a pilot, I taught pilots, hell I wrote the goddamn Top Gun program. You ever see that movie “Top Gun? With Tom Cruise?”

I nod.

“Yeah well I wrote the manual, developed the protocols, ya hear me?”

“Wow” I gasp, all the while feeling like the chance of his proclamation being nonsense is probably somewhere around eighty percent. Especially the way he’s getting all amped up, staring deeply into my eyes like he really wants me to be impressed. It starts to feel too intense so I glance down at my dogs who generally seem uninterested as well.

“Anyways, I’m a smart man. Ya hear me? And I got into it with the retard about a month ago. He said I better back off or he’d put his “G” dog on me. I told that little stupid shit if that dog comes at me, I’ll put his ass in a fuckin’ hold and choke him out. You see these biceps?”

He flexes. I nod again.

“Hey I might be old but I’m still tough as shit. I’ll kill that retard and those dogs.”

The old man is now officially added to the list of things I will try to avoid on my street but still… he continues.

“Hey did you ever see “Debbie Does Dallas?”

Kill me.

“Well that couple ya’ll bought your house off of, you remember the wife? The brunette with the perky little boobs?”

I’m not even nodding anymore but he keeps going.

“Well I didn’t know until after they moved that she was doing all of Snellville. Everybody on this whole fucking block but me.”  

Now it’s just creepy.

“Well, I mean I don’t know what to do about Steven.” I inched away a bit more, hoping my seed of redirection would take root and this old perv would get back in his truck and keep going the three more driveway’s to his place. Luckily, Jim comes outside to further Steven bash and expound on his most recent run in. I commiserate then fade out into the horizon as they continue their plotting.

I hate Steven but I would never just call him “retard”. He loves those dogs and he saved them from the death. Well, actually his parents made all that possible since they take care of him and always will, but still, I’ve never thought of him as evil. That old man though, he doesn’t seem like a very good person at all. If the dogs do attack someone, he’d be as good as anybody I guess.

Death Doesn't Become Her

She is dead. I have to accept that and stop trying to stick it in a bottle like some random note cast out to sea hoping someone finds and reads someday, like whatever you wrote will mean something to them so you don't have to feel it now. This is real. I turned my back on this kid thinking we'd have so much time when she got older, freed herself from her mother's clutches but just like some cliche' Lifetime movie, she up and died from some crazy ass neurological disease that I'm not even sure they've a name for. I don't know because her mother never told me she died. Only through hours of web stalking did I finally come across an obituary posted to a random church site in Florida. There she was, completely grown up in her senior picture and dead. My mouth, breath, soul was hollow and suspended in confusion for who knows how long as I stared at that picture, still not believing this was true.

The last time I spoke to her, 8 years ago, she'd begged to come and live with me. Her mother had sworn she was lying, the guy she was marrying was a decent fellow, treated Olivia just fine. I wasn't sure what to believe, well going by her mom's track record I knew but didn't want to deal with it so I did the easiest thing, cut them off and moved on with my life. I never really forgot about her but truthfully, I'd been sick of her mother for quite some time. She was kind of a crazy, obese slut who perpetuated drama every second of her existence. I only hung in for as long as I did because I didn't want to lose the kid. Then-my husband's brother died. Then-my brother died. I was tired of dramatic, sad shit.

That day when her mother called and said "Dude, do you not want us to call you anymore? Are you avoiding us?" I should've been real, should've said "No you fat whore, I love your daughter just fine, I'd like to keep talking to her, it's you that sickens and torments me in ways that I can't even fathom at times." Instead I just replied "Yes, please leave me alone." like a total coward. It's what I've always been good at, running away, starting over, erasing people from my life like unwanted words.

Things had been going well. I'd finally resigned myself to the fact that comedy was over, made my peace with it and had turned my full attention back to writing the novel I'd been working on for the last few years. Then just before Christmas, while walking my dogs, this image of Olivia flashed in my brain. I had this overwhelming sense that something wasn't kosher.

Almost every year since social media became a thing, I would look for her or her mother, not to contact them, just to see if they were alright and would always come up empty. This time I kept digging and Googling until I discovered their names had changed after the wedding, which led to the church website and the obituary of the child who I saw the moment she was removed from her mother's womb as a horribly prepared lamaze coach. I lived with them for the first 4 years of Olivia's life since her father was nuts and urinated in Pepsi bottles that he kept under the kitchen sink. He wasn't the best role model. According to the obit, she'd been gone for over a year. According to the write up, she'd suffered from some sort of neurological illness and had done so for quite some time.

Naturally the guilt caused any sort of creative flow I'd been riding to completely cease up and being the born quitter that I've always been, I immediately abandoned my novel and went into a shell. Three weeks ago, I finally summoned the guts to write her mother a letter, telling her all the things I loved about her child, how I was sorry for abandoning her and that I couldn't imagine her grief. There was no extension to resume our friendship, I have no interest in that, just an overall message of pure regret. I hope it made her feel better to know that I will always feel like a massive shit heel, I really do, she deserves that and I can only hope it helps. It was still selfish though. In the back of my mind, I thought if I wrote that letter, maybe, just maybe it would unlock the mental stockade I'd placed myself in, that I'd resume writing.

It hasn't.

I knew my days were numbered as soon as the 4 word text came across the screen of my new phone. "I have a girlfriend."




NO!!! We were supposed to still have his senior year. I knew he was going away to college next year, I've been preparing for that but then he goes out and gets a goddamn girlfriend. I didn't think this was something I'd have to worry about because I thought his parents explicitly forbade all of their children from this rite of passage until they were out of high school. At least they did with his older sister and brother. I guess it's true, by the time you get the last one, you just don't give as much of a shit anymore.




We'd had a blast like we always do at the Big Boi/ Killer Mike concert back in September but I could feel there was something different. The impish, white haired 9 year old boy I had met outside of his karate studio so many years ago had been replaced by this 17 year old dude, solidly looking down at me for the first time since we'd know each other. He'd been undersized for so long, it was easy to forget that he was nearing adulthood. I'd just turned 40 myself and to say it was something I've struggled with is putting it nicely. I threatened to slice the tires of any bitch in my office who dared put those fucking black streamers or cliche' "over the hill" bullshit posters anywhere near my cubicle. In fact, to be sure that I wouldn't kill someone, I actually spent my birthday on the beach 250 miles away. Fuck you guys. My youth has been my identity for so long and I don't want anything to do with this getting old shit.




Case in point- I realized at the concert that if Max and I were to continue our unconventional relationship, it would have to evolve into some type of a polite adult friendship. He didn't need me to drive him around anymore and unlike last year. right after he'd gotten his license, he didn't need me to stay with him when his parents went out of town. I'm not a r and took great delight in seeing my influence all over the things he loved or hated. lace, like maybe we could try this "friends" thing or maybe he'd become an A&R guy as we'd discussed, he'd inherit me from his father like a slave someday. Then I could be his secretary since I'm still sure, even at 60 that I'll know more about rap music than any other white woman alive.




That night as we waited by the stage for the show to start, which btw, this was a rap concert so that was a long fucking time, I got him to open up. Turns out he'd been drunk several times-smoked weed-I didn't act shocked. Instead I was the epitome of eazy-breezy, giving off the "I'm not your parent" vibe...I'm cool...I'm not 40..we can still hang out since I hate most people except for you and few others. I could tell that night when I dropped him off however that maybe that wasn't a good idea. It's not like I'm going to be getting drunk or high with him because even if he was 30, that would probably be fucking weird. But now here we were, he'd told me a bunch of teenage secrets and I was still old and not his real parent. Fuck.




Then- a week later-after I'd helped smooth out another one his college admissions essays-he sends the text. "Oh, I have a girlfriend now...haha.." I knew immediately this was truly the last straw. As a former teenage bitch myself, I was certain she would think her boyfriend hanging out with some middleaged woman was fucking weird and it would have to stop. When I didn't get another text from him over the next week, I was positive my scenario was right on point.




Then his dad texts me one night last week. "Hey, what is up? Max says he's texted you and you haven't responded. Is there an issue?"




OMG- I was so excited. He had been trying to contact me. I was totally wrong. Maybe we could evolve and Max might still find a place in his life for me. I texted him a couple of times with no response then later that day, I got an email from him saying he didn't understand why his messages weren't coming through but he had a couple more essays for me to look at and zazz if possible. Of course I JUMPED at the chance, plus I love that shit anyways. Admittedly, I found his story a bit suspect since I've been getting other folk's texts just fine, but denial is a helluva drug. He even said he was going to take his phone to the Verizon store to see if they could figure it out.

So I zazzed both essays, one of which was a total pile of garbage that I think he may have spent 5 minutes on and by the time I'd finished, they fucking ruled. I sent them Thursday. It's been 3 days and I haven't even received a thank you from Max. I'm pretty sure since his father is so worried about him getting into Georgetown or Penn that he was riding his ass about getting me to help him and in the heat of the moment he lied and said that he'd tried to text me and I hadn't responded. I doubt he counted  on the fact his dad would contact me immediately because he thought I was being an asshole to his kid. Then I suppose he had to keep the lie up and drag it out-all because, I guess he doesn't really want to talk to me anymore or at least for now anyways. I expect he's getting laid on the reg and the last thing he wants is some old lady texting him about Always Sunny in Philadelphia or Big Krit and fucking that up for him.

To any of you who have read my blog over the years, you know how crazy I am about that kid. This hurts pretty bad.

Oh man, it's my last day of vacation on St. George Island in Florida and I guess I'm ready to face stupid reality again. This has been one of the most relaxing weeks of my life which is kinda crazy since I turned 40 this week. Fucking 40 man. I've been dreading it for two years. Not exactly sure what I thought was going to happen except that it was going to suck ass. Like half the bitches in my office turned 40 last year and every time they would come into their desk being decorated with stupid black streamers and all of that cliche' over the hill crap. It kills me how everyone is all like "awww..40's not old..hey..it's better than the alternative right? Am I right?" Shut up. If it's not old then why do people feel compelled to layer your desk in tombstones when it's your turn at bat?

My aversion to this birthday was great that 6 months ago my husband said "Hey, screw those retards at your job. How bout you book us a house on an island and turn 40 on the beach?"

Done.


But still, even though we were having an amazing time this week, I woke up crying on my birthday. I'm not sure why, maybe it was a farewell to something. My youth has been my identity for so long, it's sad to see it go I guess. Neil let me wallow for awhile then we got some liquor and laughed in the pool the rest of the day.

I don't know what I could've made of myself by now if I'd really applied hard work to my interests but I'm not going to let it dictate who I can be in the years that lie ahead. Something about watching the sunset on the ocean every night, while the waves playfully attack your feet and taunt your dogs just makes all the small stuff, the insecurities, the worries, seem so ...small. Fuck'em.

I planned on working on my screenplay this week but I haven't and I'm not going to get all down on myself about it like usual. There's plenty of time when I get home. I've eaten too much this week. I've barely worn make up. I haven't cared what I looked like at all. If this is how I'll be in my forties, it feels pretty good. Please enjoy some pics of paradise.

They Blinded Me with Boring

Two weeks ago we began implementing a new electronic medical record system in my office.
Two weeks ago, I thought I hated my job.
I've since come to realize that it wasn't so much hatred as it was boredom with the endless data entry, nauseating co-workers and finicky patients.

NOW I hate my job.

What used to take two key strokes now requires 14 clicks and the volume hasn't decreased in the slightest to make up for this nonsensical speed bump. It's so needlessly complicated, I actually began to wonder today if we were on some new corporate "Punk'd". And the truly maddening thing is to know why we had to do it. It's all about the government getting their stats and if they don't know how many Samoans we see per year, apparently the whole infrastructure will collapse. I mean, we could have rejected it but in doing so, would have been forced to take MASSIVE Medicare pay
cuts because that's how the government blackmails you into doing shit you don't want to. They take money away like a parent withholds an allowance if you don't take out the trash. They suck balls. I mean all the balls, in every universe.

 I can't tell you how fun it is to be challenged by a job you loathe at this age. The moments at my desk that I'm not stumped on what to to do next or  inwardly screaming at myself for not finishing college are usually filled with prayers that someone will strike me on top of the head with a lead pipe. Then maybe when and if I came to, it would be like the movies and suddenly I'd become some amazing writer or just tell them to go fuck themselves and run into the woods. Either would be a fine transition to my current existence.

People told us, they said over and over "Oh...you're converting? Well just be prepared for 6 months of hell."

I'm not sure if what my office is suffering from is the normal nightmare or it's beyond that. Like a Freddy Krueger type thing and we need some fucking Dream Warriors. I can't even rely on my boss because she doesn't know what the hell to do either.  I've never seen her cry so much. In fact all the chicks in my office look like someone has crapped in their Cheerios pretty much all day.Then this afternoon, something weird happened to me.

I was squinting way hard at this website that I'm supposed to be able to download my payments from. I went through the whole fucking thing with the dude over the phone last week, he took control of my PC and everything, walked me through all 4 thousand steps. Today, even going by my notes, I couldn't get it to do what he did.

"WHY Damn you??!!!!!!!!" Is what I was screaming in my brain when all of a sudden, there was this bright white flash and my vision went totally blurry. When I could focus somewhat again, I could only make out the top left portion of things. The bottom right of everything was just a blur. I went to the bathroom and couldn't even make out my face in the mirror. It reminded me of one of those caricatures of Hunter S., driving that brilliant red caddy through the desert. Face all stretched out on the bottom, glasses dripping down my cheeks in a runny rainbow. There wasn't anything good about it.

It lasted for about 20 minutes and then I started to develop a headache. Another woman I work with says it happens to her all the time. Fuck that. I'm starting to think that maybe I should just try to find another boring ass job instead of a challenging, boring ass job which, as I have discovered, is a million times worse. Maybe they need someone to sort the blank paper from the colored at Kinko's or maybe I could stack pallets of creamer and shit at Sam's club. Those jobs seem like just the right amount of boring without too much mental stress.