Monday, July 30, 2007
it begins
"I have, what more than one subordinate has called, a 'death stare.'"
The old man swings back in forth in his recliner, sipping his whiskey on ice, the marks and cuts on his legs, bruises from an old accident, put me ill at ease.
"Now what do you think of that Mr. Tibs?" He says as he apparently attempts to give me the legendary look of malignance; which has held politicians, professors, bureaucrats and students in ire.
I take a drag from my tumbler, the cool glass is sweating out its ice, leaving my palm damp. The whiskey is sweet, mellowed from the ice. I stare directly into his eye and say: "It's not what I think, it's how I feel. The trick to a good bad look isn't what it makes the reciever think about, its how it makes them feel, preferably like they've done something wrong. For Instance, the look you would shoot a puppy when he shits on the floor. The poor creature doesn't think 'oh I shouldn't shit on the floor because that rug cost him 68.97 at the local Costco', he's feeling like garbage because you've basically bet the hell outta him with nothing more than a glare and telepathic intention."
"Haha! How right you are Tibs." The old man takes another sip from his glass, "I like you Tibs, you're sharp, a real merchant of thought with a good grasp of the economy of words."
I'm taken aback, slightly. I'm not too sure what to say, I have difficulty taking compliments sometimes, especially from someone two generations my senior with more pieces of paper on his wall and letters after his name than a Saudi prince. I nod and say thanks, feining interest with my glass.
"Alright boy, I better level with you, I have ulterior motives for asking you over, besides the reward the gods will give me for feeding a poor student some of the city's finest whiskey." He's my neighbor and has been known to send me on errands for time to time. He was in a car accident about fourteen months ago and although he has been recovering, slowly, I didn't mind giving him a hand when he needed it. "As you know, the divorce has been hard on me. My wife's daughter, the bitch, has cleaned out the old house." His third marriage had just fallen apart, the once respected professor has since retired and forced into a mousey old apartment in the historic North End. This suited him fine since he was once wrote the book on the area.
"What can I do ya for?"
"I need you to go to my old house, I don't have a key and I don't think the automatic keypad works anymore, if its still even there. I want you to break into the house, through the basement and see if you can find my mother's old elctrolux vacuum cleaner. The rug here is in desperate need of a cleaning."
An odd request, to be sure, but I figured I'd have a go at it. After the first time we went there he nearly broke down. The great house, once his home filled with happy memories and a loving family, had been scavenged, cleaned out, and used by vagrants. There was little hope I would find his vacuum cleaner, but there was a chance that it was still in his basement. The last time we went he found his collie, mistreated and hungry, and I'd never seen pain in another man's eyes like that, infact, it was after that experience that we took a cab to the liquor store and bought the whiskey we were gently sipping now.
We both take another gulp, the stereo was playing a compact disc in the background, Harvest by Neil Young.
"You'll never find a better songwriter than Young, Tibs."
"Oh really? I think there's alot of Dylan and Lennon fans that would disagree with you. Although I did find that his stuff with Crazy Horse was both well written lyrically, musically and could really rock."
"Ha! Typical young guy and his rock and roll. The key to a good writer is one who can appeal to a wide range of peoples and have a message to convey, listen to this album, its more folk, more country, sure. But I bet more people can identify with 'Old Man' than 'Cowgirl in the Sand'."
"That may be true, but it isn't what other people think, it's how it makes me feel."
"Yes, and believe me, that'll change in time."
I finish my glass and put it on the old, highly stylized coffee table in the center of the room. "Alright Doc, I hate to drink and dash, but I've got a meeting at the coffee shop down the road with an animator friend of mine. I'll take a shot by your place tomorrow afternoon, I'll stop by here with your stuff around 3, does that work for you?"
"Sounds great Tibs. See you then."
The old man swings back in forth in his recliner, sipping his whiskey on ice, the marks and cuts on his legs, bruises from an old accident, put me ill at ease.
"Now what do you think of that Mr. Tibs?" He says as he apparently attempts to give me the legendary look of malignance; which has held politicians, professors, bureaucrats and students in ire.
I take a drag from my tumbler, the cool glass is sweating out its ice, leaving my palm damp. The whiskey is sweet, mellowed from the ice. I stare directly into his eye and say: "It's not what I think, it's how I feel. The trick to a good bad look isn't what it makes the reciever think about, its how it makes them feel, preferably like they've done something wrong. For Instance, the look you would shoot a puppy when he shits on the floor. The poor creature doesn't think 'oh I shouldn't shit on the floor because that rug cost him 68.97 at the local Costco', he's feeling like garbage because you've basically bet the hell outta him with nothing more than a glare and telepathic intention."
"Haha! How right you are Tibs." The old man takes another sip from his glass, "I like you Tibs, you're sharp, a real merchant of thought with a good grasp of the economy of words."
I'm taken aback, slightly. I'm not too sure what to say, I have difficulty taking compliments sometimes, especially from someone two generations my senior with more pieces of paper on his wall and letters after his name than a Saudi prince. I nod and say thanks, feining interest with my glass.
"Alright boy, I better level with you, I have ulterior motives for asking you over, besides the reward the gods will give me for feeding a poor student some of the city's finest whiskey." He's my neighbor and has been known to send me on errands for time to time. He was in a car accident about fourteen months ago and although he has been recovering, slowly, I didn't mind giving him a hand when he needed it. "As you know, the divorce has been hard on me. My wife's daughter, the bitch, has cleaned out the old house." His third marriage had just fallen apart, the once respected professor has since retired and forced into a mousey old apartment in the historic North End. This suited him fine since he was once wrote the book on the area.
"What can I do ya for?"
"I need you to go to my old house, I don't have a key and I don't think the automatic keypad works anymore, if its still even there. I want you to break into the house, through the basement and see if you can find my mother's old elctrolux vacuum cleaner. The rug here is in desperate need of a cleaning."
An odd request, to be sure, but I figured I'd have a go at it. After the first time we went there he nearly broke down. The great house, once his home filled with happy memories and a loving family, had been scavenged, cleaned out, and used by vagrants. There was little hope I would find his vacuum cleaner, but there was a chance that it was still in his basement. The last time we went he found his collie, mistreated and hungry, and I'd never seen pain in another man's eyes like that, infact, it was after that experience that we took a cab to the liquor store and bought the whiskey we were gently sipping now.
We both take another gulp, the stereo was playing a compact disc in the background, Harvest by Neil Young.
"You'll never find a better songwriter than Young, Tibs."
"Oh really? I think there's alot of Dylan and Lennon fans that would disagree with you. Although I did find that his stuff with Crazy Horse was both well written lyrically, musically and could really rock."
"Ha! Typical young guy and his rock and roll. The key to a good writer is one who can appeal to a wide range of peoples and have a message to convey, listen to this album, its more folk, more country, sure. But I bet more people can identify with 'Old Man' than 'Cowgirl in the Sand'."
"That may be true, but it isn't what other people think, it's how it makes me feel."
"Yes, and believe me, that'll change in time."
I finish my glass and put it on the old, highly stylized coffee table in the center of the room. "Alright Doc, I hate to drink and dash, but I've got a meeting at the coffee shop down the road with an animator friend of mine. I'll take a shot by your place tomorrow afternoon, I'll stop by here with your stuff around 3, does that work for you?"
"Sounds great Tibs. See you then."
Friday, July 13, 2007
He's lost his marbles.
My ideas, thoughts, dreams and feelings are written down and scattered about in a room in my brain. They're laying in odd little piles all over the place, usually I know just where to find them when the right moment comes; just the right quote or musing to pull out of my pocket and give everyone the impression of the witty socalite, filled with a powerful lonliness, an ancient despair which was spawned from the tree of knowledge and he has harnessed, making it a charming and subtle ally.
Last night I left the window open to the room. The wind blew a gust through my curtains, my papers went everywhere. Fragments of my mind were turned about, some of them I couldn't find. I was so out of sorts that I took a risk, and took my Doctor's medicine.
I had been fighting a beast recently, one whose eyes drew sadness up from my soul, rolled in the filth that is the human biological drive and fostered heartache. We've all engaged this monster, in one form or another, and I was confident going into combat with this skeleton in my closet. But the winds of change held a surprise on its tongue. My faculties failed me, my sight shut down, my droll witticisms were in remiss. The beast lunged at me, somehow my extra sensory perception warned me and I managed to duck, with him only taking a slice out of my arm. I scoured the floor for my mental provisions, he was behind me now, I could hear his sharp shallow breathing, gutteral noise, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. My blood slowly dripping onto the floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Then, with the speed of a cheetah running fast for breakfast, he lunged. I became disorientated, he was on my chest, swipping at my neck, trying to remove my heart. The air was thick with my blood and I could sense the metalic iron in my nose. I was swinging wildly, trying to get the beast off of me. I think I failed. I was consumed by a velvetly darkness and lost consciousness.
"Feeling abit abstract Tibs?" Augustus asks, looking in on me in my bedroom.
"Huh?" It is light out, the weepy events of the night seem to have passed, the sun shines through my curtains and dries the pavement from the early dawn rain. I feel out of it. Feverish. My head is light and my mind feels blank, as if God just took an eraser to my third eye. I feel drained of ambition and seriously begin to wonder where I placed my marbles. There is no blood on my floor, no vomit, only a torrent of spinned blankets, ripped paper (and in the far corner) a smashed coffee mug.
I get up, preform as little maintence as possible, and go for a walk in the humid overcast street. I go to grab a warm coffee from the local grindhouse and listen to the tick tick tick of my laces bouncing off my shoes. The sound spurns my thoughts, and I begin to find myself weaving a web of dispair in my mind's eye.
"Get a fucking grip Tibs." I start to feel a familiar release in my skull, sending shivers into my quivering muscles, an emission of my neurotransmitters, clincally known as depression, commonly known as the "fucking miserables". Why? What the fuck is wrong with me? My feet carry me past a red brick building on Pitt St. I look over and see a woman helping her child out of the back of an SUV. I continue to walk, a lone figure on the sidewalk, hundreds of cars racing and zooming up and down the road, heading into a million different directions, or distractions. Why am I the only person walking? Afterall, its supposed to be good for you, body, mind and soul. And yet, I feel as if I'm doing something wrong. I'm heading to work where I'll be surrounded by a thousand different people, plugging away on computers, handling peoples complaints. Whatever, it's a job, pays my bills and keeps me consuming. Consuming? The American Dream. Buying an education, buying a car, buying a house, buying 2.5 children. North American Nightmare.
Is this the beast I've been wrestling with? This collective unconscious nightmare? This strange blend of autocratic, patriarchal and economic shit soup? Or could it be something less expansive, and considerably less noble, like a lonesome heart. Either way there's not much I can do about it, so why does the beast exist in the first place? Some redundant, useless mental roadblock designed to unleash horrors in my bedroom at 1:30 in the morning? Some subconscious desire to break my ex-girlfriend's coffee mug? Or just some curse placed on me by some preceived rival or worthless nuisance.
Of course, it would be more helpful if I watched where I was walking, instead of wallowing in my own misery. Then I wouldn't be hit by these damn cars.
From the recovery ward,
S. Tibs
Last night I left the window open to the room. The wind blew a gust through my curtains, my papers went everywhere. Fragments of my mind were turned about, some of them I couldn't find. I was so out of sorts that I took a risk, and took my Doctor's medicine.
I had been fighting a beast recently, one whose eyes drew sadness up from my soul, rolled in the filth that is the human biological drive and fostered heartache. We've all engaged this monster, in one form or another, and I was confident going into combat with this skeleton in my closet. But the winds of change held a surprise on its tongue. My faculties failed me, my sight shut down, my droll witticisms were in remiss. The beast lunged at me, somehow my extra sensory perception warned me and I managed to duck, with him only taking a slice out of my arm. I scoured the floor for my mental provisions, he was behind me now, I could hear his sharp shallow breathing, gutteral noise, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. My blood slowly dripping onto the floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Then, with the speed of a cheetah running fast for breakfast, he lunged. I became disorientated, he was on my chest, swipping at my neck, trying to remove my heart. The air was thick with my blood and I could sense the metalic iron in my nose. I was swinging wildly, trying to get the beast off of me. I think I failed. I was consumed by a velvetly darkness and lost consciousness.
"Feeling abit abstract Tibs?" Augustus asks, looking in on me in my bedroom.
"Huh?" It is light out, the weepy events of the night seem to have passed, the sun shines through my curtains and dries the pavement from the early dawn rain. I feel out of it. Feverish. My head is light and my mind feels blank, as if God just took an eraser to my third eye. I feel drained of ambition and seriously begin to wonder where I placed my marbles. There is no blood on my floor, no vomit, only a torrent of spinned blankets, ripped paper (and in the far corner) a smashed coffee mug.
I get up, preform as little maintence as possible, and go for a walk in the humid overcast street. I go to grab a warm coffee from the local grindhouse and listen to the tick tick tick of my laces bouncing off my shoes. The sound spurns my thoughts, and I begin to find myself weaving a web of dispair in my mind's eye.
"Get a fucking grip Tibs." I start to feel a familiar release in my skull, sending shivers into my quivering muscles, an emission of my neurotransmitters, clincally known as depression, commonly known as the "fucking miserables". Why? What the fuck is wrong with me? My feet carry me past a red brick building on Pitt St. I look over and see a woman helping her child out of the back of an SUV. I continue to walk, a lone figure on the sidewalk, hundreds of cars racing and zooming up and down the road, heading into a million different directions, or distractions. Why am I the only person walking? Afterall, its supposed to be good for you, body, mind and soul. And yet, I feel as if I'm doing something wrong. I'm heading to work where I'll be surrounded by a thousand different people, plugging away on computers, handling peoples complaints. Whatever, it's a job, pays my bills and keeps me consuming. Consuming? The American Dream. Buying an education, buying a car, buying a house, buying 2.5 children. North American Nightmare.
Is this the beast I've been wrestling with? This collective unconscious nightmare? This strange blend of autocratic, patriarchal and economic shit soup? Or could it be something less expansive, and considerably less noble, like a lonesome heart. Either way there's not much I can do about it, so why does the beast exist in the first place? Some redundant, useless mental roadblock designed to unleash horrors in my bedroom at 1:30 in the morning? Some subconscious desire to break my ex-girlfriend's coffee mug? Or just some curse placed on me by some preceived rival or worthless nuisance.
Of course, it would be more helpful if I watched where I was walking, instead of wallowing in my own misery. Then I wouldn't be hit by these damn cars.
From the recovery ward,
S. Tibs
