Three.

We would go to restaurants and you would order us a fine bottle of wine because you knew wines for some reason even though we were in high school, and then we'd charge it to a parent's credit card. We'd talk about really personal things while drinking a bottle or two, and go back to my mom's and you'd sleep on the couch because you were going out with my best friend, and my girlfriend was waiting back at school. I'd get back to her and she'd ask about my weekend and I'd tell her I hung out with you because I didn't do anything wrong and she'd get angry and jealous and stop talking to me and by the end of the week I'd be getting suicide threats slipped under my door in the middle of the night. You would hang out and have tea with my mom while I was away, and a few weeks later I would come back and it would happen all over again.

The line.

I feel bad for not feeling bad. I feel bad for the ones who do really feel bad, though some of them may be hypocrites. But her personality was so strong, for better or worse, that her presence is seared into my brain, and it's hard to believe that presence is dead, even though I never expected to see her again. She was another in a long list of people I knew, both junkies and not, who just went somewhere, and that was that. So I don't feel too bad this time, but I have more of those calls coming to me.

Two.

You would call me every night for maybe a year, and eventually we'd go on our first junior-high-type movie date where you tried your hardest to encourage me to make a move, but I was scared or embarrassed, and why didn't a big talker like you make the first move anyway. You liked my smile and I think you lied about your age and everyone thought we did far more then we did, but I never said a thing about it either way cause you were pretty cool. I saw you years later in a different town in a different era at a Jesus Lizard show, and you mentioned your boyfriend an unnecessary amount because you must have been afraid I only wanted one thing. A few years later still, a small world moment brought us face to face again, but you didn't look happy to be seen. I'd still like to run into you again because I feel like there's some unfinished business we need to take care of.

AC

One (in no particular order).

You were my friend, and made me mix tapes, and drove me to town, and showed me around the darkroom. We went to the other side of the world, and we often shared a bed there, just to keep warm. Our travel companions thought there was a romance brewing, and maybe there was, in a way, but we just slept in each other's arms, fully clothed. When we got back, you became the first friendship casualty I let my girlfriend take.

Land.

I packed in my head. Decided what cameras to bring. Tried to figure out how I would acquire two months worth of meds at once. Thought about who could pick up my mail. Had a conversation with my boss in my head. Added some things to the list. When I woke up, the reasons not to go were winning handily. There are better ways to go about exploring the bounds of freedom than seven weeks in someone else's van. Focus. Focus.

Tourd

I've been offered several tours for upcoming months. This last one very tempting. I'm missing my long lost freedom, and I'm not even married or a father or anything really important. My sense of responsibility can get in the way sometimes. My sense of loyalty, as I've learned in the past few years, is often unearned, and not reciprocated. Oh, time to go to work.

Aging rocker pirates.

It was another night of staying up late with people on drugs. I like when the sun rises, and they all wonder how I can stay up with them when I'm not doing any. I think it has to do with ups and downs. Every up is followed by a down, and vice versa.

At one club I was at last night, this guy came in and sat at a booth. The type I like to call the "aging rocker." He had long black hair, a headband with stars on it, and wrap-around sunglasses on top. Cut-off sleeves, and striped arm bands. Black jeans, tattoos, all kinds of shiny metal things, and matching girlfriend. Both well into their forties.
J-Ho said, "there are pirates behind you."
I said, "I thought they were aging rockers."
"Who want to be pirates," she responded.

Analogs.

By the time I got out of work, I didn't feel like going to the show. When I plan on going to some show, and don't go, I feel like a loser. I would have seen some people I haven't seen in years. To make up for it, I went to the street carnival until I ran out of film.

I feel left out and forgotten lately. The more I try, the more I miss. The more I try to make contact, the more I get left behind. The farther I reach, the further my intended catch. It's one of those scenarios that people, people with problems, use as a starting point for some kind of desperate act, maybe one of violence, but I can't imagine even acting out, turning that anxiety outward, but always inward. To curl up into a ball. I have all I need in my protective shell. That's how it manifests in me, and maybe that's an important difference among the troubled, and maybe that's why I haven't left my apartment yet on this sunny July saturday.
But I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups aren't supposed to run upstairs and hide in their room, and I don't even have an upstairs. Most grown-ups in an unsteady state go out and get drunk. Others do recreational drugs in a less than recreational manner to hide in their own way. Some make music. Some paint. Some take pictures.
What's so great about being a grown-up?
Who said it was great? It is what it is. Different. Either I feel confident and have nothing to prove, or I've given up on thinking I can change anything. I haven't decided yet. But it isn't necessarily better than you kids. I know it isn't worse. I've been there too.
But isn't there a next step? Does the fact that I'm asking this question prove there's hope for me yet? Bruce Allen would say so, or at least that it proves I'm not an existentialist. Anymore.

Now that I got the 2000 book done in mock-up, pasteboard form, I see what it's lacking, and I'm once again adding pictures. I guess sometimes it takes seeing it all laid out in front of you before realizing what's really important. But really isn't it all laid out in front of us all the time? Is it a matter of laying it out, or finding it all? This predictable, simplistic analogy for life isn't working for me.

Vow.

Showing us how it's done. How love and commitment is done. Surviving through the struggling. Struggling though the untold lows. Living to tell, but not needing to say. Nothing to prove to no one but yourself. I'm sorry I didn't come get you. It's another thing I'll regret not doing. But this time I don't mind that I'll never get another chance. Proud and so happy. All our families grow in number.

All mashed together, or another day, another U-haul.

It took me a while to clear off a large enough flat surface in here, but I'm now using that surface to lay out the next book. It was one of those days where not a lot happened. I mostly waited around for a couple of people to not call like I thought they wouldn't. They didn't let me down, and disappointed me at the same time. I took a nap and had a really bad dream. Sometimes in a dream, I'll be trying to do something, and won't be able to physically do it. I'll be trying to move, with all my energy, what little muscle I have, and my limbs just won't go. In this case, I was trying to get dressed. It just wasn't working, and the anxiety caused me to wake up and take inventory of my surroundings. The dream took place in my apartment, or at least a slightly more frightening version of my apartment, and that dream premiss always blurs the moment between REM sleep and sitting up making sure you're not paralyzed. So now there are 120 little pictures laid out on my darkroom sink in a preliminary order, and I'm listening to James Booker, and wondering if I'll really do what I should do tomorrow. There are new people moving into my building finally. A new moving vehicle every day. It's gonna get strange. The girl that moved in today looked a little scared, but mumbled a hello. The neighborhood bombs are getting bigger and louder and make me jump, even though the sound is preceded by a flash that should prepare me for the sound of the explosion. I guess my brain doesn't work that fast. Maybe it will learn.