I've been trying to find a narrative in all of this. A thread of truth amongst a collection of half-thoughts, of unexamined realizations. Instead, I find myself with a shoebox of undated, unfinished postcards. Of living words and death sentences. Of water-damaged TODO lists. Of notepads scrawled with mixed emotions, or the lack thereof.
Rather than whittle down the moments and polish the remnants, I'm opting for a simple purge.
Be gone.
-----
The first day of 2012 opens with a skull-crushing hangover. 15 people deep in a rented beach house, everyone rises from their slumber, everyone clearly thrashed. We recuperate with eggs, english muffins, blindingly-strong coffee and Jurassic Park on VHS.
I sneak off the the beach in search of a little solitude. I pick up a stick and drag it behind me as I walk along the shoreline. Deep in thought, I'm snapped back to reality by a burst of sun on my back. Looking behind me, I realize that my stick-trail extends further than I can see, that I've been walking for miles.
My heart swelling, I'd been thinking about her. We've been separated for five days, set to reunite in two. A smile passes over my face. Unexpected emotion. Rarified anticipation.
-----
Before entering the aerospace museum, we sit in my car, drinking 40s and listening to Hall and Oates. She's wearing a leather WWII flight helmet and telling me that the B24 has a 110 ft wingspan and a 2,400 mile range.
-----
A take-off delay and a lengthy trek across Sky Harber International, I barely made the flight from Phoenix to Austin, the last passenger to board the crowded airplane. Walking to my seat in the rear of the aircraft, the aire of judgement was almost palpable. It's the first day of the music portion of SXSW and the plane is filled to the brim with raised eyebrows, guitar cases, disapproving stares, MacBooks, beanies, tattoos and namedropping. I find my seat, right next to a small, wirey kid clutching his MPC like he's shielding a child from danger.
-----
For the second time in as many months, someone broke into her car. This time, they took an Ikea bag of medical textbooks and some half-completed homework. I arrived at her place, finding her in the bath. Shutting the lid of the toilet, I take a seat. Producing a whiskey-filled flask, we take trade sips. Her ukelele in hand, I quietly fingerpick an improvised song, pretending like I know what the fuck I'm doing.
-----
It's 1am and we're sneaking into my office for some ping-pong. Drunk, I fumble with my keys as she tries to shield herself from the rain. I insert the key and start to turn it, stopping to remove my phone.
"If you could listen to anything right now, what would it be?" I ask.
She answers, without hesitation: Van Morrison. Obviously.
Smiling, I hit a few buttons on my phone, finally returning it to my pocket. Turning the key, we enter the warehouse to find it filled with the opening notes Astral Weeks.
Game on.
-----
We board the plane. My third trip to Austin in a year. About 45 minutes outside from Phoenix, the pilot interrupts an otherwise uneventful flight. He warns the plane that we might experience a bit of turbulence as we approach the city. He was right.
Minor trembles in the plane slowly grow to violent shakes. The child next to me begins to cry. His mother holding him tightly. The plane makes quick, drastic drops. Clenched, white knuckles throughout the cabin. Someone starts vomiting, then another, then another. I'm nauseous and the preemptive feeling of vomit puts a knot in my throat. Gulp. I'm taking long, controlled breaths trying not to breathe in through my nose. Cold sweat, I'm seconds away from losing it.
But I don't.
-----
It's 2am and we're sprinting across the bridge. The rain comes down in sheets reducing the city to a soggy, illuminated haze in the distance. Halfway there, she's taken the lead. I'm totally soaked, but still running. I close the gap, but she pulls away, looking over her shoulder as she pours it on.
We arrive in the middle of the bridge. The walkway bends around the bridge upright, yielding a small, covered alcove. We're sopping wet. And cold. And laughing. Uncontrollably.
After we catch our breath, I pull a marker out of my pocket. Standing on my tippy-toes, I write our initials in the corner of a metal brace. I turn around to find her smiling.
"Race you back," I say, breaking into a sprint. "Double or nothing!"
-----
The connecting flight has been delayed for two hours. Nevermind, three hours. Nope, five hours.
Six hours later, they finally bring in a plane to get us to our destination. As we're boarding, the flight attendant tells us that the air conditioning is broken on this plane and that it "might get a little hot." He was right.
It's 11pm and we're hurtling over Texas in an unmarked, unbranded CRJ-200. I'm sweating profusely, as is everyone on the plane. The temperature has been rapidly increasing during our journey. I mop my forehead with a tiny cocktail napkin with little success. It's excruciatingly hot -- easily above 100 degrees in the cabin.
The smell of B.O and hot breath, slightly reminiscent of sweaty, sticky summertime sex, drives itself into my nose. Gross.
-----
My friend calls. He has an extra ticket to see Roger Waters perform The Wall at the Rose Quarter. I don't have that an interest in a solo-Roger Waters experience, so I politely decline. He goes on to tell me that they're tickets for a private skybox, VIP parking, private entrance and free booze, at which point I agree to go.
And I'm glad I did. A truly remarkable production, a genuine spectacle -- leagues better than I ever would have imagined possible. Well done, Mr. Waters.
-----
One foot in front of the other.
The promise of sunshine,
The promise of love.
A drink or three.
A goodnight kiss in your car.
Backroads through the city.
Hands on the wheel.
Smile on my face.
-----
I awake to soft morning light and Sam Cooke quietly echoing through her apartment. The rain assaulting the large window that runs alongside her bed, it's so foggy that I can't even see across the street. A perfectly shitty, perfectly glorious Portland morning.
-----
Raining the entire drive there, we realize that we've drastically underestimated the weather report. Three cars comprise the caravan and we're the first to arrive at the campsite. The other two cars are at least an hour behind us. Technically, not really much of a caravan, I suppose. Nestled next to the Clackamas river, It's a remote spot, with nothing more than some crude outhouses as amenities.
The campground is empty, save for single a tent in a remote site. It's covered with a camouflage tarp. There's a small, smokey fire in the pit, with two figures perched behind it. They look bundled up, and rightfully so -- it's fucking pouring. I'm not a suspicious person, but their whole setup gives me the creeps. I swear I can feel their eyes on us. And I'm not alone: the three women in the car are all spooked.
We throw on our jackets and open the car in search of snacks. As we unpack things, I realize that our neighbors are walking towards us. I turn and start walking their direction. One guy hangs back, while the other approaches me, holding a beer. He looks rough. Wet and dirty. I can see a fresh, small wound on his left temple. Smiling politely, I ask how he's doing. He asks if I have a smoke. I don't. I ask him how long he's been out here. Four days. Staying dry? No, not really.
I keep catching him looking at both the open car and the women. His buddy eyes the women as well. I don't like this.
I find out that he's originally from a town about 40 miles down the road. I ask him if he knows of any old logging roads or rock quarries in the area. He looks puzzled, saying yes, but asking why. Oh, we thought it would be fun to pop off a couple rounds. He looks surprised. You have guns? Yep. What kind? My buddy is bringing a skeet-shooter and a shotgun, I have a .45. His eyes widen, slightly. I tell him to stay dry, to have a good night and that we're going to set up camp before it starts getting dark.
Much later that night, after the rest of our party arrives, after we'd set up the tents, made a bonfire, cooked dinner, and feverishly consumed tequila, the guy appears at the edge of our campsite. Everyone around the fire tenses up. Drink in hand, I try to intercept him, to keep some distance between him and the rest of the party. He's noticeably drunk. He asks if any of my friends has a smoke. Nope. There's a long, drawn out pause where again, I catch him leering at one of the women.
He asks what I'm drinking. Tequila. Can he have some? Sorry, we have to make our stash last all weekend. He looks displeased. Pointing to the liquor and beer on the nearby table, you can't give me anything? Listen, no offense, but we just want to party by ourselves. He smirks. Alright, alright, I'll leave, said in a sarcastic tone. Are you *sure* none of your friends has a smoke? Nope. He turns and starts walking back to his site.
He's gone, but I still have a bad feeling about the whole situation. Better safe than sorry, I fetch the unloaded .45 pistol from the tent, putting it in my waistband. I put a magazine in my back pocket. What the fuck.
An hour later, well past midnight, someone spots both guys walking towards our site. Everyone gets real quiet, real quick. My heart pounding, I grab a flashlight and start walking towards them. Pointing the flashlight at their feet, what can I do for you guys? They stand spaced out, a little too close to me. We want some of your beer. I told you we don't have enough to share. You have a lot, I saw in your cooler.
You guys should get out of here. I told you, we just want to party by ourselves. With my right hand, I slowly raise my edge of my shirt, revealing the butt of the pistol. They both look down, then back at my eyes, saying nothing. With direct, unwaivering eye-contact, I tell them to have a good night, taking a few steps backward before walking back to camp.
We awake the next morning to find their campsite empty.
I've never felt like such a goddamn man in my entire life.
-----
-----
A week in Minneapolis. Mindblowing presentations at the Walker Art Center during the day, bookended with amazing food. Evenings filled with open-bar parties, remarkable people, drunken hijinx and pizza recon missions at 4am. It felt like summercamp for young, attractive, skilled, designer / programmer / academia-types.
-----
6AM, we meet at the office, bundled in our warmest gear. We drink mimosas and I play Hall & Oates on the stereo. We board a charter bus and head to Mt. Hood. From there, we climb into snowcats and ascend the mountain, to a private cabin for an all-employee meeting / holiday celebration.
We spend the morning talking about where we've been, where we are and where we want to be and most importantly -- how to get there. We spend the afternoon drinking and playing on the mountain.
As the sun begin to set, we slide down the mountain and get back on the bus. Arriving back at the office, everyone splits, goes home, cleans up and meets at an amazing restaurant that we've rented for the night.
And then they give me a fat bonus check.
-----
A late picnic on the bluffs, she forgets a blanket and utensils. We scoop pasta salad with crackers, sipping on warm wine. The sun setting, a Fisher-Price cassette player blares in the background, having just recently repaired it: My Bloody Valentine, almost completely fuzz. A brilliant pink horizon, she scoots closer to me, resting her head on my shoulder. Perfect.
-----
A blooming cactus, once held closely to the heart, withers.
Nightmares extinguished, the spines recede,
weeping wounds replaced with cold callousness.
-----
She's coming off a 16 hour day. She's wound up, stressed, so I lure her to a bar down the street with promises of relaxation and whiskey. I feed the jukebox a few dollars, we find a dim booth in the corner, I have two, she has three. Talking about everything but her crushing workload and impending tests, I loosen her up. Laughter. Smiles.
It's getting late, and we both have to be functioning humans in the morning, so we decide to call it a night. Hoods up, we plunge into the rainy night. Arriving at her place, she stands two steps above me, making her just a tiny-bit taller than me. Looking her in the eyes, she gives me this look -- a picturesque, wide-eyed, crooked-smile -- and I immediately know what's coming next.
She uses the L word. And it slices through me, as I just don't love her back. A remarkable affection, for certain, but not love.
Game over.
-----
Unexpected venom,
imbued upon the unexacting.
Shallow landmine,
poised to impart scars.
Muscle memories,
an inescapable outcome.
I feel like I should warn you,
but that might ruin the fun.
-----
It's the final day of the SXSW and I'm sick as fuck. My head feels like it's stuffed with gravel, my eyes sting and my throat is made of sandpaper. It's a hot-ass Austin afternoon and despite my sweater / beanie combo, I can't stop shivering. Bad fuckin' news.
I want nothing more than to curl up in my bed, but said bed is over 2,000 miles away, so the only logical solution is to get filthy drunk, attempt to ignore the fact that my body is yelling at me, and try to enjoy myself.
A full day of shows mostly a blur, I find myself in the photo-pit for the GZA set. I have a press pass around my neck and a DSLR in my hand, which I have no idea how to use, but I can pretend. I'm merely a few feet away from the man as he enters the stage. The opening sample to Liquid Swords blares and the awareness of my ailing body fades, leaving a feeling of excitement that I haven't felt in a very long time.
-----
And like that, there's a new one. She's way better at pinball than I am. She plays the ukelele. She's got dark hair, freckles and a healthy vocabulary. She has a scar from when she split her lip in a fight. She equates hearing Stevie Wonder to a religious experience.
-----
"Faithful are the wounds of a lover" -- Proverbs 27:6
