There is a lot of “Everyday Carry” bullshit on the Internet. A loosely connected group of people who have put a lot of thought about what they fit into their pockets and bags. Most of these people are prepared for too many situations. Situations that they most likely will never run into. I think that’s a problem. I know it’s been a problem for me. A problem I’m getting better at. I don’t carry a letherman anymore or most of the things I carried a year ago.
I think the problem comes from fear, since most problems do. If you don’t see the problem in carrying a knife and lock pick kit everyday then you probably don’t see the problem in spending three hours coming up with a backup system for your files annually. Always fine tuning it. It might seem like a sensible thing to do to you. Still not seeing the problem?
What are you backing up?
What are you using that multi-tool for?
Probably not much of anything.
Coping with that worried feeling by over preparing is a waste of time and creative energy.
Time, we all know, is limited. No next second is promised. Think about that the next time you’re tightening your belt to hold your everyday carry load. Think about it the next time your reorganizing your tasks that never get done.
This is not saying empty your pockets and go out into the world with nothing. This isn’t another cry for minimalism. This is a helpful reminder that you’re going to die. This is a helpful reminder that you’re going to die with things undone. Everyone dies with a to do list. This is a helpful reminder that a multi-tool doesn’t make you a man. A reminder that having a system is a great thing, only if you use the system.
What is my system? What do I do? What’s in my pockets? What kind of pen do I use to write things down in my Field Notes Brand notebooks? Something, something, OmniFocus. Write. Keys, wallet, Space Pen, etc… The one that works for me the best.
His breath was layers of coffee and mint and it reminded her of winter nights alone. Tonight she wouldn’t be alone, she had him. She had Dave. She hadn’t done this a lot, but she had done it enough to find the ones that would stay the night. Something about them staying the night made it okay to her. Made it feel like more than random, mostly anonymous sex. It was the cuddling after that made it okay, that made it feel tender. There wouldn’t be any real tenderness; she has only felt real tenderness once since her divorce three years ago. It was on one of only seven proper dates she’d been on since. Out of those seven, five led to sex, three to her orgasm and only one of those made her feel beautiful. His name was Robert and he was tender with her. His hands moved slowly, his mouth always slightly open waiting for the right moment to grab her skin and his eyes looked at her body like it was beautiful. She didn’t think she was. A cute face, maybe, but her body was curvy and she took herself as fat. A few years of being called that by your husband will do that to you. It will make you believe you’re worthless and ugly. She should have left him for that, but in the end he was the one to leave her which only made the lies truer.
She was beautiful, not in any traditional or mainstream way, but evolution wasn’t wrong in making most men look at her more than once. The ones who didn’t wouldn’t have their genes passed on for much longer. She was a great girl too, but she needed saving, something most men her age were tired of doing. She was in her early thirties. She wondered when she would think of herself as a woman and not as a girl. She thought about this during sex, but only when her back was turned to Dave. It was the polite thing to do.
Sara lay in bed, unspent, thinking about Robert. What had she done wrong with that one? She wanted to be held, but asked Dave to leave. She knew she hurt Dave, and wish she could say it was her and not him, but he is the one that let her mind wander. She became depressed anytime she thought about Robert. That date with Robert was easy. He stayed the night and most of the morning. She made coffee for him and he drank it slow. It was nothing to savor, but the company was. He called her the day after and tried to make plans, but she was working. She should have taken the day off sick to be with him. That must have been the decision that ruined everything. Sara didn’t remember the phone calls between them, the calls to set up dates after that, dates that were always canceled. She just remembers the time he begged to see her and she said no. In her memory of him worn by two years, his schedule was clear and it was her fault for not making time. In reality he was as busy as she was. Robert still thought about her too. He had kept her number, like she had kept his; they both just stopped using them.
Robert would go through periods where he would look at Sara’s number in his phone and think about calling. It had been too long now. It would be creepy if he called. Even though he thought about ways to make it seem like a causal accident. He couldn’t do it. He remembered it as his fault. He came on too strong after a great night. He should have waited longer to call her and he shouldn’t have canceled the dates he did get with her. He was so damn busy back then. It had been a long two years and it had turned his dark hair a little lighter around the temples. His job was managing a group of banks and hers was managing HR at an office that took up four floors of an office building. Neither of them were driven by their careers, they both believed in doing a job right every time, then asking for more. Unlike her he’d never been married. He found the right girl a few times, but was always too cautious with them. He thought that Sara could have been one of the right girls too, he still thought it. There had been girls after Sara, but none of them looked liked her, reacted like her, or seemed to fit like she did.
She would slightly squint her eyes and smile at him while he talked to her. He could see her focus on his words and he could see her care about them. He never liked the sound of his own voice, but that night with her, he talked just to see that look on her face. He made jokes he would never make to hear her laugh. Jokes he would only let live in his head for his own smiles. In that one night and morning she brought out the man that was in his head and he never went all the way back in.
There was a coffee shop. It was early for her and late for him. She was set up in a corner. A coffee, a book and music lightly playing over the speakers that wouldn’t be part of anyone’s generation, music she didn’t recognize from her youth or the radio. It was nice.
Robert’s truck was playing classic rock as it pulled into the coffee shop parking lot.
“Damn.” He said to himself while looking at the drive-through line.
It was busy and he was running late. He sucked hard on the mint in his mouth and decided to go in, instead of waiting in line.
Her face was in the book and his eyes were on the cute young barista. They didn’t see each other. He ordered his coffee and waited to the side for his name to be called. Her eyes stayed in the book and her body stayed in the corner. He looked around some, but mostly at his watch.
“Robert.”
Sara looked up and saw a man from behind that wasn’t her Robert. It was a man with lighter hair and a thicker waist. She looked back down at her book, a little sad and tried to find her place.
Robert took a drink and thanked the cute young barista, they shared a fake smile.
He saw her and it caused his feet to trip over nothing.
“Sara?”
She looked up and it was her Robert, “Robert?”
There was small talk, the cautious kind of talk that is supposed to die off with your age. They both liked each other still, but they both didn’t want to make a mess of this second chance.
For too long Robert forgot he was running late and only the habit of checking his watch reminded him.
“Oh shit, I’m late.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t want to be clingy, “Go. It was nice seeing you again.”
“No, it’s okay. I can be late.”
A part of her was happy, a part of her felt guilty, and a part of her made sure she said, “Are you sure? You can go, I don’t want you missing anything important.
She said it in the most honest voice that a lie has ever been told.
He took it as a man would take it, “Oh, okay, but it’s not really all that important. It’s okay. I can miss this.”
“No, go. It’s just me.”
“I’ll call you.”
“You still have my number?” She tried to hide her excitement and she did hide it from him, he took it as her thinking he was creepy.
“Yeah, I think so…”
It turned bad quickly and the conversation became more awkward. They said goodbye and each promised to see the other one soon. He made it three steps before his brain over thought the situation, over analyzed every word said, and eventually gave up. The man he was in his head took over and turned back around, took three steps and sat down next to a surprised Sara and put his hand on her thigh. He told her that he thought about her often and she was the most important thing to him right now and kissed her. His breath was layers of mint and coffee and it reminded her of Dave. It reminded her of all the anonymous sex she had. It reminded her of all the tender-less men. It reminded her of her ex-husband. She pulled away from Robert out of reflex to these thoughts.
“Sorry.”
She quickly collected her things and walked with quick steps out embarrassed; as he sat there feeling like everyone was looking at him.
They were.
He felt bad. He felt like he ruined this again. He called to apologize a few days later. She didn’t answer. He didn’t leave a voicemail.
Sara didn’t call back. She was too afraid, still too embarrassed. She let herself get in her own way and lost a chance at something.
Robert moved on.
Sara bought a cat and named it Bob.
toloveawallflower asked: Oh, no darling, I just know how to appreciate beautiful art, writing, and people. You and your girlfriend are absolutely lovely. My boyfriend, Kenny, and I plan on traveling around within the next three years so if we are ever near you two I will most definitely drop you some sort of line.
I keep getting sucked into this blog. Not trying to smother you with compliments but that piece about submissive Lucy...holy fuck. The sexual tension was overwhelming and I was restless reading it. Honestly, bravo.
You make me blush. Thank you so, so much.
toloveawallflower asked: This is terribly brilliant. I am a floozy for words and your blog fuels my hunger.
Just beautiful.
You are just such a nice person. I want me, my girlfriend, your boyfriend, and you to drink coffee together, like an uncomfortable amount of coffee. Then we should drink an unhealthy amount of whiskey. No matter what it would be fun and I bet your place smells nice.
Thank you.
I take her hand
Slide off her ring
Put it in a drawer
Take her like I did before promises made
She should have never not been mine
I love you from the top of my heart since the bottom is broken
The last girl fell right through the bottom
Maybe you could help me fix it
You seem like a girl who knows how to use the right tools
They’re all in the kitchen
I don’t expect that to be where you live
But some cookies would be good
I’m a suicide survivor, multiple attempts. I’ve been institutionalized because of an attempt and before that I talked myself out of being institutionalized for an attempt. Both times I tried to kill myself the same way. Both times I was sent to a hospital and then sent to a mental health facility. The second time I don’t remember the hospital. I’ve always under estimated how much I needed to kill myself. This is to say that I’ve had more than just two attempts. I’m currently medicated with the following:
Abilify
Lorazepam
Oxcarbazepine
Temazepam
Vyvanse
They all, even the Vyvanse which is for ADHD, have helped me not attempt again. Why did I try to kill myself? I’ll tell you they have been different reasons for different times: girls, self-hatred, a fear that I will never amount to anything, feeling unloved, feeling undeserving of what I have, not being creative enough, and just wanting to avoid things. Like I said, I’ve had more than just two attempts. Ask a professional and they’ll tell you it’s because I suffer from a dopamine deficiency. They’re right, I am too. Some of my attempts have had nothing to do with my mental health problems. Most of them did come from a part of my brain not working right.
I’m not a doctor. I do not know what I’m talking about. I’m a ADHD-bipolar-social-anxiety-disorder kind of guy. With this psychotropic cocktail I’m still a ADHD-bipolar-social-anxiety-disorder kind of guy, but I can pass for normal most of the time. I can pass as normal because it levels out my dopamine. I have a pipes and wires problem.1 There is something physically wrong with me. It is not a mental problem. Most mental problems are physical problems. Your brain is a physical part of you. It is an organ. The most complex organ you have.
The more complex a system, the more likely it is to fail. Most people2 have brains that fail them. Some people’s brain fail them in a very mechanical way. My dopamine factory is very lazy. So it needs help. It needed help for a very long time. I denied that help for a long time.
Sarah Marcy, is an ex-girlfriend. She is the reason I’m medicated. One night she showed me all the pills she took. She put each one in her palm and told me what each one did, then took them all with a smile. I pretended to understand what I just now am getting. A pill is a way to fix a problem. It’s not a crutch. It’s a wheel chair and you have no legs. You wouldn’t tell a man with no legs that he could walk if he wanted too. You wouldn’t tell him that if he just exercised more or ate better his legs would grow back. He has no legs. It’s a physical problem. It’s just a physical problem you can see instantly. I have physical problems you can’t see instantly. If you don’t believe in mental illnesses. If you think ADHD is a myth or that bipolar disorder is just someone that needs to smile more ask the people around me. They’re all believers. I’m not a completely different person. I’m just a good day, almost everyday now.
I’m stealing this phrase from the wonderful Merlin Man from his life changing podcast Back to Work with the also wonderful Dan Benjamin. Really, S01E03, The Second Arrow and S01E09, Out of Scope! talk about dopamine and ADHD. They will make you see most mental problems as physical problems. ↩
By most people, obviously I mean everyone. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you took a test? Exactly. ↩
wickedscript-deactivated2011041 asked: Wow. You are an amazing writer. Hands down, very talented. Your SS Little Lucy Learning was extremely well written, it played on all my senses. I can only aspire to write more like you. Thanks for sharing.
How long have you been writing? And do you do it professionally? (If not, get ON that shit! A-sap!)
Wow, thank you. Really, thank you so much. Comments like that really make me happy. I haven’t received many of them, so I don’t know exactly how to respond to them just yet. So, I’ll just say thank you.
I’ve been writing for years, since I was a kid. Some would still say I’m a kid at twenty-four. I’m looking to do it professionally. I just haven’t felt like I’ve produced anything worth publishing yet. I’m getting closer though.
Again, thank you.
He grabbed her hair and controlled her with it. He didn’t do anything without passion or purpose. He pulled it to make her slam back onto him. The harder he pulled, the harder she would slam back, until he pulled too hard and there was a pause. Just a slight stopping until she pushed back with all the force she had. That was the moment he broke her. Where he pushed her passed her limits and she decided to keep going, decided to moan instead of whimpering out the safe word. Some would say that it made her stronger, but it didn’t make her any less his. She was his. His property, his slave. Her name was Lucy, but her collar said bitch. That’s what she wanted to be and what she wanted to be good at. He was training her. Teaching her how to be his dirty girl. She was a dirty whore. That how she felt. She was raised in a conservative home and sex was dirty. She liked that it was dirty and wrong. She loved being bad. She loved disobeying her master. She loved the punishment, her milky white ass turned pink then red by his rough hands. She’d squeak just thinking about it. Sir loved it when she squeaked and he loved it when she disobeyed.
He was older than her, every good master would be since she was only eighteen. This was her first non-vanilla relationship. This wasn’t random role playing like it had been with her past boyfriend, her only real boyfriend. This was real. What she wanted before she even knew what a submissive was. She wanted to be owned and used. Her ex-boyfriend was too much of a sweetheart and could never pull off the role. They lost their virginity together and he thought that meant they were meant to be. How could she have married someone like that? How could he have asked? They were so young. It half-way ruined her life. He stole her friends away with his crying. She kept some, but all her relationships were tainted by him. It wasn’t fair that they sided with him. That they felt pity for him. She might have been a heartbreaker, but she never had an orgasm with him and he acted like she was broken because of it. He made her feel like less of a woman because of his inadequacies as a man. At least now there was college. That’s where she met sir. He could tell what she was and he didn’t ask for her number because of it. He gave her a place, a date, a time and a simple slip of paper with everything he said and something else he didn’t.
“Wear something sexy, a dress that will come off easy and panties to match. Keep the glasses.”
Not a name, a number or anything, but a look and dominating attitude that made her feel like she was being dared to do something bad.
She wanted to do something bad, but that didn’t make it easy. She was ready for another guy— needed one. She missed sex, even bad sex. She longed for good sex. She just thought it would happen like it did before. She expected another normal, vanilla relationship or two before she found someone into this. She wanted something like this to happen, but she didn’t know if she was ready for it yet. She fought with herself about it. Part of her was offended by the note, but a bigger part was turned on. The place was a restaurant and she could keep it from going passed there if she wanted. Still she was excited. Her excitement outweighed everything. Him being so direct with her made her feel like a sexual object. Something that was deserving. Something of worth and of use. It made her feel beautiful, sexy, and dirty.
She understood that this wasn’t a date. Lucy understood that he wanted one thing and she was going to make it pretty for him. She took the day off from classes for a wax and built her outfit panties first. Dark purple satin with black lace, a matching bra and garters. It was the type of lingerie guys wanted girls to keep on. She had a floor length mirror and it now knew every angle of her. There were trouble spots. She didn’t like that her thighs touched so much and her arms could be toner. She took a deep breath and pushed the thoughts out of her mind. She changed her thinking and took her imperfections as trade offs for her nice ass and apple green eyes. Her hair had a natural curl to it and was the only thing she didn’t worry about. She worried about the heels and the purple sweater dress that clung to her curves. Then there was her make-up. She never really wore a lot of it. It took time, but she was a con-artist with make-up. She covered up her skin’s imperfections and made it look smooth and natural. She spoiled herself with the good stuff since it always lasted her. Lucy put on her glasses and got a good look at herself in the mirror. She gave herself a smirk and had bi-curious thoughts about herself on the way out the door.
The thoughts lasted as long as it took for the door to close. She felt all the confidence she had leave her once she was out of her studio apartment. It was her safe place. Where her fantasies always worked out. No one judged her for what she wanted a man to do to her, but outside she felt ridiculous and she felt like a slut. She was raised better than this. She let her body fall against the door and she pushed herself away from it with her fists. She was an adult. She was interested in this guy and she looked too good to walk back inside. She unlocked her car and slammed her head against the steering wheel. Took a breath, grew a little as a person then fixed what make-up she messed up in the car’s mirror.
At every stop light and stop sign she had to talk herself out of turning around. She would think about him and that would help. She wanted to please him. She wanted to know she could do a good job at something. She hoped that the dress was okay. It was one of the few she had. Would she have to buy more? She was thinking too far ahead. She pressed her foot down a little more than usual and got to the restaurant too early to go in. She sat in the car and tried not to sweat. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head and feel her father’s disapproval and disappointment. Lucy may have gotten out of her sheltered childhood home, but it stayed with her and played with her self-doubt and her sometimes low self-esteem. She saw him pulled up almost jumped out of the car. The more collected part of herself stopped her. The part of her that learned social norms and awkwardness, a part of her that was finally getting exercise after years of home schooling. It wasn’t the most developed part of her, but it kept her ass in the car and she thanked it for that. She waited for him to go in and looked at the clock. Five minutes would be too fast and ten too long. She decided to wait eight. She made it through six minutes and justified it in her head, it might take her two minutes to find him.
She walked to the door, then swayed to the man. He was in a dark corner of the restaurant with his back to the wall, so he could see everything and when seated, she could only see him. He stood up and pulled out her chair. She kept her eyes on his, they were intense, as she sat down she blinked and found his eyes moving over her body. He had a half-smirk that he licked while sitting down. He smelt like sandalwood, leather, and bergamot— which is to say he smelt like a man and not like a body spray.
His dress shirt was the right size on him and his coat had been tailored shorter in the sleeves to show off the right amount of cuff. He wore a tie that she wanted twisted around her wrist.
He leaned back in his chair, his voice was steady and commanded answers more than it asked questions, “Name?”
“Lucy.”
“Dominic.”
“Hello, Dominic.”
“Hello, sir.” He corrected sternly.
She looked down at the table blushing and managed a sexy innocence in her voice, “Hello, sir.”
“Age?”
She didn’t want to answer this question, but she didn’t want to have him ask her again. She didn’t want to upset him. She knew guys around his age got weirded out by her age. She lied and mumbled twenty.
He heard the pause of her thinking and saw the lie on her face, “Twenty?”
“I’m sorry, eighteen.”
“We’ll, do something about that later.” He said it looking satisfied and she wondered what would be done about it, she squeaked and he smiled.
The waiter came by and sir ordered for both of them, an Old Fashion and a virgin daiquiri, whipped cream and cherry. He called the waiter sir, looked him in the eye and said thank you to him sincerely.
She relaxed in her chair and smiled. Her breathing calmed for a moment before she felt it all fall apart in her head. She felt safe and that what started the crumbling. She dropped a hand on her thigh and dug her nails in hard. She straightened her back and decided to be honest.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
Her eyes fell to the table again, “This is my first time.” There was no response from him, and she didn’t look up to see his reassuring face, so she kept talking to fill the awkward and empty air, “I’ve never done anything like this, I like this, I really do. I just don’t want to disappoint you.”
He leaned in for the first time, his hand touching her knee underneath the table, “I’ll teach you.”
She takes a drag off his cigarette
Burning the taste of sex from her mouth
The stale taste of flesh and sweat
He smiles at her knowingly
He doesn’t know shit
Probably never has heard a woman cum
He probably has a signature move and a name for his junk
She hates herself a little more, but is better than him
That is why she does it
What kind of revolution? Just some kind of revolution; where he was pushing for something better. Something that would reach the complexity of beauty through the simplicity of evolution, him and a single idea that would grow into something beautiful. He could think clearly. Life became an easy choice, some days an unconscious one. His past dogma was erased. He pushed out thoughts of heartbreak, Dawn and even of all the things he could have been. The bad things stayed in his head, but now they pushed him. If he wouldn’t remember the things he did, he’d make sure other people did for generations. He would change lives. It was a simple thought in his head. Not a heavy one like it should have been. Being great was just a step in his mind— a to-do item to tick off. He just needed the idea. He needed to know what his revolution would be.
He thought Martin Luther King, Jr., and thought civil rights. He thought Gandhi, and thought independence for India. He thought Jonathan Gardener, and went blank. Jonathan Gardener he thought again, he then thought of gardeners not his family, then of trees, tomatoes, apples then wanted pie. His mind jumped from thought to thought until his mind was numb and stayed clear of everything. Until the thought of not thinking crept into his mind and ruined his brief moment of peace. He thought being dead must be like that and he thought it beautiful. Pie. He and Dawn used to make pies together. He put his hand in his pocket and rubbed the small pill container on his keychain and pushed away the bad thoughts without needing to take any medicine. He smiled and started to daydream of his revolution. It would be outstanding. He would be championed as a hero. He would change the world; make it a better place for people. What kind of people though? They’re so many people that struggle, so many places for improvements. Where to start? He thought about the things he was good at and could only think of serving tables. Then a dark memory came and led to an idea.
Maybe his revolution would be the homeless. He always felt sorry for them, but one day he felt more than sorry. He was working as a server and a homeless man came in and the manager allowed him to stay warm and drink water at the bar since that’s all the homeless man asked for. You could tell the man had been homeless for some time, he looked kind, but clearly the man was not sane. This was before Jonathan himself was medicated and he had a much harsher view of the mentally ill. The homeless man carried a doll with him. He overheard the man tell the bartender about the doll. He referred to it as his only friend for the past three winters; a donation from the kindest soul he ever met, a child. The child had won it from one of those claws machines that are sometimes in supermarkets. The child was proud of himself for winning it and the homeless man could tell that the kid loved the doll instantly. The child had gambled his money and won what he wanted. The child was kind though, and when he saw the man outside of the supermarket begging, the child gave him the doll since he had nothing else to give.
“The most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me.” said the homeless man.
No one doubted it. It was clear that the homeless man treasured the doll. It was the only thing of any value to him. This is why Jonathan felt he left it after he swiped fifty dollars from the bar counter. Jonathan thought it must have been a hard decision and to the homeless man it was. The bartender was angry though and just threw the doll in the trash. John had hated himself for not fishing it out of the bin. It was a treasure after all.
This memory made Jonathan feel ashamed, if he offered the man some cash then maybe the man wouldn’t have stolen the money and would have been able to keep his only friend. He never looked at the bartender the same way again after that night. They were supposed to move in together and become roommates. Both had saved up money, but Jonathan was able to wiggle out of it thankfully.
He wrote that memory down in his book. He was ashamed of it yes, but it still was a memory that made him who he was and he wanted to remember it. He didn’t write it big, but he did write about it in long paragraphs. There are character defining moments in life and like the times he didn’t kiss Dawn this was a moment he passed up a chance the world gave him to be a better man.
He looked for the chances to be better every day now. Like a lot of things though, they never came around while he was looking for them. Girls, for example, never seem to be around when he was looking for one and this is exactly why one came around while Jonathan was looking for anything else, but a girl. Her name wasn’t important yet, but her body was. He first saw it from behind and it was beautiful to him. It had the right curves and moved the way he liked. He felt love but dismissed it as lust, which was probably right. He saw her when he walked into the pool hall, she was talking to Mike. It was a few days after Christmas and a couple before New Year’s Eve. He thought she might be Mike’s new girl, so he just nodded at Mike and grabbed a table you could see the bar from. It was early and if the girl left he knew Mike would want to play a game with him. The traffic was horrible getting there and caused John some anxiety, but it was better being in a house still full of relatives and holiday cheer. He looked up and made eye contact with the girl, they both smiled and he thought about how beautiful she was. Mike looked back at John with a smile too.
Mike yelled, “Go get my cue, the office is unlocked. I’ll be right there.”
Jonathan had never been in the office before. He’d been in the back room to help get ice for the bar a few times, but the office was always off limits. He went in and grabbed Mike’s cue and when he came back the girl was gone. Mike was already racking up.
“So, is that a new girl?”
“Cousin.”
Mike’s answers weren’t usually short and John thought this meant she was off limits and tried to quickly change the topic, but before he could Mike offered him a beer.
“On the house.”
“On the house?” It’s never been on the house, it’s always been a “free water.”
“Yeah.”
“The old man catch you?”
“No.”
John looked confused and Mike smiled, “My dad is opening another pool hall.”
“Cool…”
Mike held up his arms and spent around, “All of this is my Christmas present.”
“What?”
“Yep.”
“He gave you his first pool hall?”
“Yeah, it’s still his on paper, but this is mine to run.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. You know what, screw the beer let me make us a real drink.” Mike motioned for John to follow him, “I think you should brush up on how to make drinks again.”
“Why?”
“You’re still certified to serve alcohol right?”
“I don’t know, three or five years right? I should still be good. Why?”
“Well, I’m going to need a new morning bartender. You like Old Fashions?”
“Yeah, I love them, but I can’t be your bartender, school starts back up soon.”
“Come on, screw school and just take night classes. I did, they’re easier to pass and they have nice girls in them.”
“Mike, you’re not going to be able to talk me into this.”
“How about just some days?”
“Maybe some days.”
“See, already talked you into it.”
Mike finished off the drinks and they were good, strong, too strong for eleven-thirty in the morning.
Mike smirked and said, “So I caught you checking out my cousin.”
“In my defense I didn’t think she was family. I just thought she was your girlfriend.”
“I love how you define off limits, Johnny boy.” He laughed and continued, “She’s got a job here and she’s single. Said you were cute.”
“She did not.”
Mike said sarcastically with a laugh, “She did get a job here, I hired her.”
“So she’s really single?”
“Yeah.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I’m not attached to her to be honest. My mom wanted me to give her the job. I’ve only ever seen her at Christmases.” Mike stopped and suddenly became very serious. He took a drink and looked deep into John’s eyes and said, “But if I have to come in on my day off to cover for her because you broke her heart, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Mike broke and ran the table for a bit. He used every bit of skill, concentration and control but still lost. Jonathan wasn’t the better player he just always had the better luck. Luck was always something Jonathan always seemed to have. Some say luck is just chances that are taken by people brave or stupid enough to take them. Jonathan didn’t believe that though. He didn’t think of himself as brave or stupid. Lucky though, he thought he was sometimes. He came from a family that always had food and kept him in new clothes and that was lucky. He felt bad that he had so little suffering in his life and tried so hard and thought so many times about ending his own life over what most would think as petty heartache. Everyone has their own levels of pain though. Life is a bitch that way. It sets you up to expect things and with Jonathan it set him up to believe things would just be handed to him. Life stopped handing him things and that’s when the depression really started.
He never remembers himself as a happy kid, then again he doesn’t remember much of his childhood at all. Thinking about it leaves a dark, empty emotional after taste in his mouth. It also leaves him feeling sad, lonely, helpless and afraid. Still, some remember him as a happy kid, it was an act mostly. Not to say he was never happy. Children always seem to find happiness, even if it’s in the nooks and crannies of developing mental illness. He had happy times; he’s seen some of the videos. They we’re only videos though, he was missing the memories. That’s what the mind does though. It’ll take big pieces of sadness and push them out for you to survive. Jonathan felt bad about pushing so much of his childhood out. He was born into so much, but none of it was what a child really needed. He had things, just not the right things.
He remembered the night he decided he would lose his mind. His parents had been with his great aunt sorting out her life. That’s what they did with her life since her husband died. He never met her husband, but he heard good things. Her husband did everything for her and when he died she was helpless. A helpless old woman, but she still had her mind then. Everyone he knew did. He was younger and didn’t know that the bad things ran down both sides of his family. He found out that night though, and decided it would happen to him. He swallowed a milligram of lorazepam to help fight the anxiety he always had and tried to think clearly. In his mind it wasn’t a possibility, but a fact that one day he would lose all his memories. It wasn’t uncommon to forget about memories, to let them get dark around the edges, if you didn’t think about them regularly. There was something about losing them that scared him. He had lost so many of his memories already by then— all of his childhood. It was as if he was only a child for a few days, a teenager a few months, and in his twenties for only a few minutes even though he was four years into them. He wondered if this disproportionate interpretation of time was an early sign of the bad things. He wondered why he kept calling them the bad things when they had names; Dementia and Alzheimer’s. He found his answer and was scared by the irrationality of it. He was afraid by having the words Dementia or Alzheimer’s in his mind would rot away the space where they were stored in his mind. As if the words themselves were poison and had some kind of power. He took a few deep breaths and a few more milligrams of lorazepam. One day he would find himself with a mind that lost names, faces, places, smells, loves, hates, everything— except for language and the ability to control himself. He could never lose those. If he did he would have to kill himself, since pride, shame and guilt are things in the heart, not in the mind. He knew even if he forgot everything in his twilight years, he would remember that decision and hoped he would stand by it. He never wanted to be a burden.
He was a burden though, twenty-four and still living with his parents. He had no degree— only a high school diploma. He took time off to find himself and didn’t like what he found. Most people would have turned to drugs, but drugs were always too social for him. He turned to bad relationships and suicide. He was better by the night he decided he would lose his mind. Medicated and out of a mental care facility, under the influence of nine-hundred and ninety-two milligrams of different medicines. It was a strong, well mixed cocktail of psychotropics that he would washed down most nights with beer and most mornings with energy drinks— sometimes coffee. He always took them. Even though sometimes his mind would tell him it was okay, that he was okay, that he was better now and didn’t need those nine-hundred and ninety-two crutches. He knew that it was just the craziness trying to take over again. He wasn’t supposed to call it the craziness, or even to call himself crazy. He was supposed to distance himself from those words. They were comfortable and had a truth to them though. That’s what other people who didn’t know him would call him. He had a charm that he could work on people that met him. They wouldn’t call him crazy, at least not in a negative way, but if they only knew him on paper, they would call him crazy. They would mean it in a negative way and they would be afraid of him or for him.
His name was Jonathan and he probably should have had a few more or different milligrams in him. He wasn’t open with his psychologist or his psychiatrist, but they thought he was because of his charm. He didn’t tell them about the irrational fears; the fear of the bad things, the fear that there was something deeply wrong with him. A genetic switch flicked the wrong way, in a new way that’s never been seen before. Something a test couldn’t find. That he worried constantly about cancer, brain tumors, and aneurysms. Sometimes he’d feel twitching in his arms and feet. The doctors couldn’t ever find anything wrong with him. He was gifted. The only thing that really kept him together was his mind telling him how to act normally. He described himself as a bundle of problems tied together with loose ends. Every relationship and friendship wouldn’t be cut, but would fray and snap; and he would think about the ends and that would keep his mind off the bad things. It gave him something to analyze other than himself, even if he was part of the equation
Jonathan wouldn’t be a serial killer, even though he thought he might. He had a detachment from his emotions and he thought it would turn him into one. He was just a kid, afraid of what he would become, what he might have, when he would die, how he affected people… He was just a scared kid. A kid who thought he was going to lose the only the only thing important to him, his mind. He started writing down everything, not stories or anything, but writing everything down to remember it. He’d fill up composition books with his daily notes and file them away for reading when he lost his mind. He knew that it wouldn’t make everything come back to him, but he hoped some things would make it through. Those things he wrote big in the books. He chronicled everything and he became amazed at the things he missed before. He even missed some of his emotions. He didn’t have a distance from them. Sometimes they were just too complex for him to experience all at once without feeling somewhat numb to them. He became less afraid of being a serial killer, but he was still just as afraid of the other things and he felt how afraid he was when writing them. His hand would shake slightly and at first he thought it a symptom of something, but tests showed nothing and he figured out it was him just being afraid. This didn’t stop the fears though.
First his journals filled his shelves then a foot locker his mother bought him to keep them secure, but it was really to keep the tattered things out of sight. His mother was the type who didn’t understand that framing a poster, then hanging it up ruined the point of having a poster. She liked everything framed, squared off, and in its place. She had things wrong with her too, but would never admit to them even though it clearly bled into her child. She was a nice lovable woman, even though a bit loud. She loved her Jonathan, but thought all his problems came from his father’s side and not hers. Even though her mother was medicated for some of the same problems Jonathan had. Denial is easy, easier than thinking you tainted your only child’s genes with bad code. She thought about it that way sometimes until coping mechanisms kicked in and the house was clean and the toilets scrubbed. She made him a nice orderly house to combat the chaos in his blood and in her head.
She did everything for her son. Worked long hours to give him the time alone with himself he needed. It scared her to leave him alone after the last attempt, but she had too or he would never get better. He would just crawl back inside of himself and break down again. She didn’t understand why he needed time alone, but that’s because she was made the other way. She was social and was a good networker. She’d always have more friends than her son at any age and that made her feel sad for him. She’d never think anyway else about it, that’s why she would never understand Jonathan.
Jonathan’s father was distant and never played with him as a child. He was a lot like Jonathan and required time alone. Unlike Jonathan though, he had a short fuse and a loud voice that always seem to yell. Jonathan would always be a little afraid of him. He could also remember every time his father said he loved him. Those didn’t make more than a dozen memories. Jonathan never let those memories get dark around the edges.
Jonathan was an introvert.
He could fake being an extrovert well. It gave people a false sense of him; he was so good at it. It came natural to him. If he’d been born somewhere else he might very well have become an actor. He thought about that sometimes, but would dismiss it. He liked where he lived too much and already felt too old for something like that. He liked his room and he rarely left it. If it wasn’t for school or the few times he wouldn’t pass on a night with his friends, his room is where you would find Jonathan. It was his world. He still imagined things. He would put himself into situations he wanted to be in. Daydream about being better than he was, but well in reason of what he could be— most of the time anyway.
Most people know a Jonathan. The smart kid in class. Quiet. Fidgety. Spaced out, but highly focused on something always. An over-explainer. Non-fiction book reader. A kid that believed in Santa Claus a little bit too long and stopped believing in God a little too soon. A kid that never really looked at the grades he made because he knew he passed, but didn’t want to know by how much or how little. A little ashamed of his intelligence and really ashamed of how much he never applied himself. Funny.
Yeah, most people know a Jonathan until high school is over.
He thought about high school a lot. He thought about it a lot because of Dawn. She was always a relief to him. He grew up with night terrors and so did she. They would talk on the phone all night until they fell asleep. They knew each other since middle school, when the calls started. It never got romantic even though both of them wanted it to. He was always too afraid and she wouldn’t be the first one to make a move. He would remember the times he swore that the world begged him to kiss her and in his room, in his day dreams, he would. They would marry and have children and everything would be perfect. Dawn was gone from his life though. She went off to college and forgot about Jonathan. Not completely, she could never do that, but her mind forced a lot of memories of him out of her. If it didn’t she would have always been stuck on him and never grow into the person she was now. He hurt her so much by never kissing her and what seemed perfect to both of them, what seemed like the best idea never happened. It would never happen, but in his mind, in his daydreams it did happen.
He felt like he was searching for who he could have been in these daydreams; the person who took more chances, the person who did something and made something with his life. Yes, Jonathan was only twenty-four, but he felt like his life was already over. He felt like he lost the one girl he was supposed to be with. He felt like he lost all the things he was supposed to be and that made living hard.
See, living is a choice. Everyday Jonathan didn’t kill himself he was choosing to live. It was getting harder to make that choice. Even on the medication it was hard. There would be sad people if he died. He knew that it would even crush some, but he’d never have to deal with those consequences. He could die young or die old, broken and without his mind. These new bad things he learned about where pushing him closer to suicide and he could feel it. He didn’t want to lose his mind. He felt past his prime. He took a milligram of lorazepam and when he felt it kick in he took another to make sure the thoughts would go away. Of course they never really did.
He needed to get out. He called Robbie-Bobby and pretended to be an extrovert.
Robbie-Bobby was born Robert and raised as Bobby. Then freshman year he started to refer to himself as Robbie thus, Robbie-Bobby was born out of mockery.
“Robbie-Bobby!”
“What’s up John?”
“You working today?”
“No, I’m off. Why? Want to do something?”
“Pool.”
“Beer and billiards?”
“Hell yeah, I’ll buy the first round.”
“Anyone else?”
“No, let’s keep it small.”
“Meet you there in fifteen?”
“Done.”
Jonathan loved that about his age and gender. A phone call that lasted less than a minute could set up something that would be two hours of fun. For a moment he thought about how hard it was to set up things with Dawn or any of the other girls he was just friends with, this moment only took a few seconds since that’s all it took for him to process all the memories and thoughts. He took off his hoodie and put on a shirt then put his hoodie back on. He could get away with just wearing a hoodie when he was eighteen and in better shape, but now with beer and the medicine he couldn’t.
The pool hall had the normal pool hall set up. Bar in the front, tables in the back and smoke everywhere. It was early, but not early enough for the bartender Mike to play a game or two with them. The regulars were already there drinking cheap beer and needed constant attention. They’d be there for hours drinking. Alcoholism must be a hell of a monster to fight Jonathan thought about without a hint of irony. He did drink most days and some days too much, but he didn’t drink to get drunk, he drank to cope with things and he thought that made him different. It did not.
Mike greeted John and Robbie-Bobby. He’d seen Robbie-Bobby around, but seeing John was a treat to Mike. He was the only one that made him laugh after his last big break up. He’d only seriously dated three women and when he told John this, John held up three fingers and said, “You know which one she is?” Mike looked at him confused till Jonathan dropped two fingers and flipped him off with a smirk.
Mike rang up two beers as water and didn’t start a ticket for the table they were playing on. Jonathan and Robbie-Bobby both have served tables and tended bar and tipped more than the two beers and free table would cost. Mike knew, this but he didn’t do it for a bigger tip he did it because he liked them. Mike was older and was the owner’s son. He’d been working there since John and Robbie-Bobby where in high school and would come in after classes. They and one girl that used to be around them all the time were the only people Mike has ever served alcohol to underage. He felt responsible for their good taste in beer.
At the table John racked and Robbie-Bobby broke. John always let people go before him. He was a strong player and didn’t like the stress of running the table for so long, so early in the game.
They sipped their beers and took a few shots in silence.
“John, What’s wrong?”
“Nothing… Just needed to get out you know?”
“I know what that’s like. Most people know what that’s like, but you don’t know what that’s like.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes and sunk a ball.
“Do you remember the last time we played pool Jonathan?”
“Yeah.”
“Two days later you tried to kill yourself. Is that in your head again?”
“It always will be.”
“Is that why you needed to get out?”
“No…” John shook his head, “I just miss all the people I could have been.”
Robbie-Bobby didn’t say anything.
“You know, I had so many choices of what I could have been, and they’re all missing now. I’ve waited too long for them.”
“You’re only twenty-fucking-four. Stop acting like you’re on your deathbed, do something with your life.”
“Like?”
“You? You could start some kind of revolution.”
Jonathan smiled and wrote that big in his composition book.
I’m an artist, most would say I’m a writer, I’m writing this in a Moleskine with a Zebra F-301 pen, the ones with the great smelling ink. When I get to my MacBook Pro it’ll be transferred into TextMate and when I think of a title it’ll be copied into Scrivener. Between those steps ideas for this essay will be typed into my iPhone using Simplenote and then synced to my Mac with Notational Velocity ALT. There will probably also be a Field Notes Brand Notebook and Space Pen involved. These are my tools. I trust them and keep them at the ready. My system is redundant and the only holes are human error.
All these things: the pens, the notebooks, the applications and the gadgets are magical to me, but a fucking Moleskine didn’t write any of my stories. Simplenote is not a muse whispering in my ear and a Space Pen didn’t make me a writer.
Even the process I’ve made for creating stories seems magical to me, but it’s just a series of actions that have proven to work well for me, at least for now. I’ve tried a lot of different ways to create, I’ve read a lot of books on how to create and I’ve only learned one universal truth while doing so, no matter what you do you have to keep trying. There are no shortcuts. Sometimes these shortcuts seem like they work, but they just leave you wanting an even simpler, easier, less frictional way to create. It makes you lazy and it makes you addicted to finding the one thing that will make you a great artist. The great shortcut. The holy grail to genius. The one thing keeping you back. It stagnates you.
There is no shortcut or life hack that will make you who you want to be instantly.
The greatest life hack is discipline. I wish I learned it sooner, I wish I wasn’t still learning it now, I wish I had it mastered. It might be better to say discipline is a muscle I wish I had exercised more.
If you’re looking for that one thing that will make you write that novel, lose that twenty pounds, run that marathon, or what ever you want to do, it’s discipline now. Not discipline starting Monday. Not discipline after one last cookie. Not discipline in the new year. It’s discipline now.
You’re future self is just as lazy as your present self. If you don’t start it now, chances are you’ll never start it. You’ll keep putting it off. You’ll keep dreaming and not producing results. Stop telling yourself that you’ll do something in X amount of time. Tell yourself you can screw off after an X amount of time. This is not a new idea, you’ve been told it all your life, get it done now so you don’t have to worry about it later.
I’m just figuring this stuff out myself. I’m just now figuring out not to worship your tools but to use them and not be afraid to use them. Anything idea is worthy of paper in any notebook no matter how much it cost. You can even put it in the Moleskine you dropped a Jefferson on. If you can’t do that, carry around a composition book that will only set you back a Washington. Feel free to bend that metaphor in anyway that makes you more productive. Really, if you can only run your five miles wearing a matching track suit somedays wear it, but run your god damn five miles everyday until you realize it’s okay not to match.
I’m sorry to all the teachers that had faith in me
Sorry to all my friends too
I’m getting on the right track now but at twenty-four it seems a little too late sometimes
I shouldn’t have followed so many girls around
Should have made my own path in this life
I was smarter back then and a little older too
Unwilling to take shit from anyone
Anyone other than girls I knew would be wife
I miss them all and wonder what could of been even though I’m truly happy right now
I swear I was smarter then too
I’ve let raw talent go to waste and stagnate into mediocracy
Should have read more books and written a few myself by now
Or at least have a job and a place of my own
I feel like your coming down here to make my future for me
I’m so thankful for that I just wished I could have done it without you
Have a place for you to fit into flawlessly
This will be hard because I’m still a child sometimes
I promise to do the best I can to be with you forever
Always have medications in my system to hide the flaws that nature gave me
Keep you up at night until you’re not upset
This will be something perfect between us
At first she was his muse, but now she was his writer’s block. Everything was great, but great is nothing new; great is just a better good. There are no stories in good. Happiness is short lived for most artists. It’s like a Zen mind, a thoughtless mind, eventually you notice it and in noticing it you destroy it. He wrote all the poetry he could about her. He did all the thoughtful things he could do for her. He was empty now and felt it. Pain was an old friend of his, depression his oldest, but no art would come from this pain. This was a new pain and a new depression. He felt safe with her. That thought gave him fear. That thought was commitment. Something he thought he’d only have with his art, but there he was with her, telling her he doesn’t want anyone else. She agreed and his art died.
Inspiration couldn’t be sucked out of his fingertips and anytime she tried they just ended up in bed or against a wall. There was still his day job, his night job, his anytime he was scheduled to work job as a server. It wasn’t too nice of a place; he could have made more at a fancier place. Not much more though, he was the best tipped waiter there. He enjoyed the speed of it and enjoyed being one of the few that could help out anywhere they needed him. He loved it a little less though now that he saw it as his real job. The new slight distaste didn’t affect his tips. He always hated the customers and still faked that he loved them all just as well.
He still felt motivated to create and hated everything that he did. He looked over a poem that he wrote when he first was getting to know Emma. When they would both flirt and tease each other before they became each other.
The warmth of your body is still on my bed
It lurks with your scent
You told me what it was
The components, the mix
I remember your hair is strawberries and cream
Being teased is only fun for so long
You probably think the same thing
It wasn’t that good of a poem, but it was a happy memory. She would lay her head on his arm and let him play with her hair. Sometimes they would lay with cheeks touching, stealing each other’s breaths. She ran a few degrees hotter than normal, which he liked because it meant her skirts and shorts were shorter and would be worn more. Her style was the first thing he noticed about her. They would still lie that way. They were still that much in love.
His art was still dead. He thought about having all his old writing buddies over and having a eulogy for it, but that would have been too creative. He washed her smell off his hoodie to see if he could do without her. He couldn’t. He had her wear it around the house. It’s the only thing she wore and usually she was naked. She had a beautiful body; Italian skin, the color of aged porcelain. He’d tried other ways to see if he could live without her, like sneaking out of their bed to sleep on the sofa. He woke up feeling lonely and dead inside and would walk back to bed where she would snuggle up to him and make him feel alive again.
She thought her love would be enough, but it wasn’t. She thought about what was wrong with him and she knew it wasn’t his art, but it was what made him an artist. He was a depressive. She was afraid to say anything since he made a few jokes about all the pills she had to take. Those pills made it possible for him to love her and she wondered if he understood that. She thought about how she could bring it up softly, but then one day she felt him pull away from her and into himself. She couldn’t lose this one. She told him he needed help and he agreed. She had to take him everywhere or he wouldn’t have gone he was too afraid to get help. His parents brought him up in a house with a bi-polar sister they tried to cure naturally. There was a stigma to admitting you needed help in his family and she helped him get over that.
He started writing again; more than ever, with a clarity that he never knew.
He wrote a poem called Emma.
You found me in the dark and stayed with me there
You let me love you and trust you more than anyone
I would have broken your heart if you never found me help
Thank you for stopping me.
His medications changed him, for the better, but still they changed him. He became calmer and less self-destructive. He lost some of the things people loved about him but, he didn’t lose too many friends over it. He felt like he didn’t lose those friends either, but that he simply out grew them. With his new sober mind, that’s what he called it, he didn’t see how he was friends with some of the people he used to call his brothers and sisters. Emma loved him even more now that all the bad parts of him were gone as if by magic. He became perfect through prescriptions, and they became perfect through love.