Author: jabarid

Ive been trying to write about this hole in me for a while now. How and why it got to be and how hard it was to attempt to fill and how ultimately the solution is just to leave. I never make it through the first paragraph tear-free and I never finish. I can turn and twist words for all kinds of reasons, but turning them inward  has always been..  well. My track record for honesty with self aint great. I suppose one day, While im perched at a laptop or whatever sipping something deep and red and bittersweet with soft music of some sort flitting in the background ill figure that its finally time. And I’ll make my achy fingers bend and curl and stretch and pour out my middles to page and i’ll feel done. Not yet though.

Im a storyteller. And right now my most gullible, captive audience is me.

Theres a storm out here.Thunder rolls overhead and the engines thrum on trying to hold our ship in place. The portholes light up every now and again to give stunning seascape vistas while Thunderhorse burns bright in the distance. And we pitch and heave and shimmy and shake- and then its dinner time! A few of us stumble in a lose line from our workstations, swaying with the floor which is surely drunk. Occasionally I bump off things just to make those poor bastards who arent used to the boat rocking feel better about their inability to walk a straight line. … Moving on. We get to the galley and the food line, and I can sense.. something amiss. A disturbance. My brain chews on it for a good few minutes before I realize that the Christmas carol medley, sung with a pretty heavy very distinct accent belting out from the sound system in the kitchen, has no end. Fish evolve into mammals and crawl out of the muck, dinosaurs come and go, Mash runs its full career and this song burns on. It just crashes from carol to carol cutting a screaming swath of holiday cheer and leaving all good sense and reason flailing in its wake! Song after song after song after song blazes cheerfully on while I stop chewing to try and work out how this could possibly be. Then ,parting the fog of my stupor like a Christmas colored lightsaber- the voices of the kitchen staff ring out. Loudly. Singing like they were each in their own shower far, far away from prying ears. I could only blink.

A side note. I love Christmas carols. And I like that people feel moved enough by anything to make music. All about that bass line, I promise. So I dont write this to poke fun at Filipino Christmas carolers. We should all be so lucky to feel so swept away in something to sing full out like that. Honest. But I couldnt help thinking about old friends bundled up back home singing the tunes the way I wish I could hear them now. While not eating the tuna steak of a man who has only had a vague description of what tuna should taste like. So. While I rock and sway and bump back to my room for a motion sickness pill smoothie, Ill have pleasant thoughts from Christmases past and the good friends I got to share them with.

Thanks, you guys.

Caffeine and Vinyl

On the record player of the universe sits my record. (and everybody else’s record it’s a pretty complex setup- the universe. Just go with me ok?)  There was a hiss and some static and then the music and everything was good. A few times the table got bumped and there have been some scratches but I still spin on except, every now and again, for no discernable reason- I lift the needle and drop it back in the middle somewhere. I am the most annoying DJ everywhere. I refuse to let my song play out. Generally it takes me a while to even notice that ive done it and even when I do I don’t really try very hard to fix it. Im comfortable sliding backwards. I feel like ill get a redo or something. Ive often wished I had moments to live over and I guess by lifting the needle I feel like im making that chance for myself. But it’s a record. I am what I am.  And while I am free to change the speed or maybe mix up the order a little if I try really really hard, the songs don’t change.  What I figure I need is the will to let it play.

In still other new- Im still offshore. And probably will be through the turn of the year. Im going to miss some very important things. I know the work is important, as is my ability to sustain myself as an adult. But that doesn’t make it not suck, that just means I need to suffer through it because age. These are not new concepts, and still Id rather be cuddle up on my couch with my girl while my kitten attacks my hair until he gets exhausted and passes out in a little coil on my chest and I sip something strong and alcoholic watching a fake fireplace ap on my smarter tv.

I can be shallow too.

And then theres me. In a metal tube in the sky with stewards and moms and dads and workerbees headed to St. John’s. In New Foundland. In Canada. Which is not and should never be referred to as ‘America’s Hat’. They do not like it. That is but one of the life lessons I have tucked under my arm in the great north. Among the others:
1. Stewarde- flight attendants smile. Do not mistake this gesture as friendly.
2. Whether or not you actually order and pay for food at the irish pub next to gate C82 at Newark Liberty Airport has nothing to do with you actually getting food. Do not be fooled.
3. You can be pleasantly surprised by the quality of your single serving airbuddy neighbor in the most delightful ways if you just concentrate on not being a dick.

We are cruising at altitude and have been served our liquid refreshment. The LEGO movie is in full swing and the adorable little girl at the end of our row has just settled in for a nap. All things [it occurs to me to wonder if other passengers can see me flub these words before spellcheck catches them] — All things considered it’s probably going to be a decent fli- holy shit theyre serving dinner. actual. dinner in first class. Elitist punks!

PS: No wait, shes back up. we’re going to color with markers in her book.
Jelly?

My news feeds are full of things I just dont care about. And not because i dont care about things, I care about a lot of things, but I just dont like the news cycle of fear and lacking. I know theres better news out there. I know theres more for me out there. I just really havent had a solid want to prune away all the crap before right now. But just now, sitting at my table with a great view of the great morning, a great cup of coffee in my mits and the sound of rushing water at my back – Ive decided I dont have time for things that dont move me forward. things that dont move US forward.

#notmadatthemorning

is that a thing just cause i said it?

what an age we live in.

I dont do well at funerals. Even funerals for people I am close too. I always feel a little overwhelmed and not by grief,I do that.. another way, but by everyone around me. I feel like somehow they have more right to these moments than I do BECAUSE theyre all sharing this grieving process the same way. I feel like im taking up space. Like im in the way. And though I often have something to say- I never speak. Again, this is for them and my words are chiefly for the departed anyway. I dont like to get involved. I dont like to burden them with me when they clearly have enough going on. This is either very callous and cold or very self realized but ultimately- that doesnt matter. That’s how it’s perceived by the people HERE. I like to think that for better or worse, the departed and I already know where we stand.

Except.

My best friend’s dad passed away. I wouldnt know many people at the service, of course, but it’s my best friend and so I was right there. Abel and I never had many words, we didnt see each other very often at all and I was always a little uncertain while I was around him. But his passing made ripples. He was one of the men who raised Natalie and so theres as much of him in that as anywhere. Through her was him. His lessons, his warnings his warmth. He drove trucks for a living. I think about the vast stretches of open road he had to contend with to provide for his family and I feel a little embarrassed that I take breaks trying to get from Dallas to Houston. The things he must have seen out there. Wheels in every state- I am in awe at the kind of man that makes. I held him high, and respected everything he did- but he never knew it. Wasted opportunities. Theres never really enough time even though there is often plenty of time. If you make it.

Abel. You raised my best friend to be strong, and fair, and wise. You helped shaped a beautiful and caring mother and you were a strong positive male force in the lives of children who needed one. We are in desperate need of worthwhile human beings. Thanks so much for showing us what that means. Good night.

The couple after me strides in confidently. Heavy heady steps straight to the counter- with no one inside save me what could go wrong? How could this be different from every other coffeeshop in existence? But it is, and the menu confounds and confuses them and they are still muddling through asking for a latte, some coffee, a scone and some water as the next six people file in behind them.

It’s not their fault. They were unprepared- it happens. Just like it’s not their fault that they have turned the serenity into.. less. Now the empty tables are filling up. People are sinking into the leather bound black holes space evenly around the room, sitting down to the counter top tables. And there is a steady taktaktak of heels on a concrete floor. Swaying, yawning people everywhere. Chloe’s milk and honey latte is done so she gives her thumbs a tiny break from racing across the surface of her iphone. Like so many other patrons today. We never stop. We hardly sleep. Theres always another wordpress post, or another selfy to take or another facebook update to read or another snapchat to glance at. I dont suppose thats anyones fault either. But. Do you remember when coffee shops used to be slower? When you sat down with a mug of something hot and steamy to listen to whatever was playing on tin tiny speakers or read or heaven forbid TALK to your tablemate who may or may not have come in with you. We used to be a more social people. Not as connected, but more social. Is it easier yet for us to talk to strangers than friends? Than neighbors?

Valentines Day has always been kind of a mix for me. I understand what it SHOULD be- and im not sure when it stopped meaning that. Probably when I got a job and was drawn into the money cycle that is american holidays. Spend money because youre supposed to spend money. Because if you dont- then youre not really participating. Youre not really here. But, then, im not being caned in a jail somewhere in Singapore so, I’ll take it. If this is the price of freedom then yeah i’ll buy trinkets and baubles every year just like all the other good little boys and girls. Er, I mean I will show my affections in the finest traditions of the spirit of the holiday and buy my lady love the things she will treasure for ever and ever blah blah blah. I got nothing against the season. I just wish we were more honest about it.

Oh. And my car needs an oil change.

One a field of gradient blue sky, a small black child, hair done up in neat rows by a caring mother somewhere – sunglasses perched on a tiny pert nose and the LOOK on her face. Live Fearless, the text in the corner advised. Point taken.

Having purchased an iPad on the pretense of needing a PDF and image reader, and shortly thereafter purchasing a sturdy keyboard case with no pretense at all I have run out of excuses. This thing is built for blogging. So that’s just what I’ll do, etc etc. The best of me suggested a few topics for me to try and get me out of the funk I find myself in. It feels like nothing is good enough to talk about and so no topic gets picked and a week goes by, two weeks. My blog is my online home for my thoughts and such I cant just go throwing up just any ole thing. Only the best for you folks and your readership.

The good fight.

Every morning I get out of bed, go through my normal little song and dance, lock my door and take staggering steps in the general direction of my parking garage. I’m not really awake until I reach the forth floor walkway from one building to the next. It is terrifying. The ground drops away from what amounts to a concrete drawbridge with a little railing designed to laugh at you as you plummet past it to your doom clutching your new Target purchases. Theres also a biting wind and circling semi-feral dogs under the bridge having eaten their owners and grown accustomed to human flesh. Ya’ know. Just in case. Every morning without fail, two steps into the bridge- THATS when I wake up. The brisk, the view, the all of the wildly fierce dawn comes rushing at me and it feels pretty damned good. I get invigorated. Energized. I become certain that ill have the juice to get at least to my car. I might even get through the day. If I can make it across the pit below I can do ANYTHING*. So I cinch up my leather messenger bag constant companion and stride on. Purpose is in me. Works me like a sock puppet all the way to work.

Then reality takes a running start and kicks me right in the teeth. “Here comes 7:30 bitch!”

I fight the good fight. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, spirit beaten almost to broken by the day and the work and the feels and the deep- but not quite broken yet. Back in my apartment- eventually I sink back for a minute in a chair in my bedroom in the dark and try to regroup. Ive walked the day and into the night and made it home to tell the tale. Soon I will close my eyes to blink and time will pass. Pass pass pass. I’ll dream pretty little dreams for a too short a time and then the bleating demon sheep inside my alarm clock will shoot sound at me. And I’ll be standing over the bridge and the pit again before I know it.

Live Fearless.

* “anything” is a big word. We’ll talk about how wrong I am later.