The Scratch

I slept in because it was my day off. Sometimes, I wake up with scratches on my body and I don't remember how they got there. Today, there was a scratch above my right eye. It wasn't a particularly big scratch, but it was bright red, and when I looked at myself in the mirror, it startled me. It burned when I ran my fingers over it, and when Warden licked my face later in the day, it kind of hurt.

Sometimes, I forget about these scratches, but this one was on my face, and when I went to the store to buy supplies for butter, I was certain that everyone was looking at the scratch. The woman working at the register said, "Long night?"
"Excuse me?" I said.
"You look beat up," she said.
"Oh, that, I...fell down the steps," I said.
She raised her eyebrows, "Never heard that one before."
"One only has to climb up so many steps in order to fall," I said.
"Yeaaaaah," she said. She quickly bagged my groceries and put the receipt in a bag.

She was strange!

Anyways, made some green onion (because I couldn't find any chives!) butter dip for an Olympic gathering I'm having tonight. So far, I've invited Bailey and Guy. I called Helen and left a message.

And Warden will be there of course!

did this happen

It was very early this morning, and I was backing out of the driveway on my way to pick up my papers. It was still snowing, enough to make it a little hard to see when combined with the darkness of the predawn. I can't remember what I was thinking about. Maybe there was something on the radio, an infomercial, something about investment oppurtunities. That sounds right, not music but something of no interest to me, just hypnotic words that didn't need to be strung together into meaning that early in the morning. Whatever, happened, whereever my mind was, the morning's quiet and comforting harmony, it's similarity to the hundreds of identical mornings that had come before, was abruptly broken by a loud cry. "OH FUCK!" I heard. I'm not sure that I felt any resistance from the car, but there was somebody back there, and I had hit him. Had I not checked and double-checked my rear-view? Was this my fault? At that hour of the night, isn't it the pedestrian's responsibility to stay out of my way? Isn't it?
The man, a young man, was walking somewhere, bundled up, awake and heading off to do something, just like me. And I had hit him with my car. "I'm okay," he mouthed, and gave a half-hearted wave. He was moving quickly like he had somewhere to be, like the inconvenience of being hit wasn't enough to distract him from that morning's business. I just stared back at him. I didn't feel as though I was programmed with a response to this sort of thing. I just stared, empty, and then hit the gas and drove off.

Here I am

I hear myself saying, "Here I am, Curt." It's a nervous reaction and I try to catch myself before I say it because it reminds me of Mom. I can still hear her saying, "Here I am. Here I am. I am here. Here I am." This was before I knew that everything inside her was disappearing. This was before she forgot that I was her son.

Long ago, in the town I grew up in, there was a store that sold fish that my mother said her mother took her to every Saturday morning when she was a little girl. The store stood on a large plot of land. But the store closed, and a young couple bought the property and flipped the building into a house. They planted a garden. And everything in their garden grew monstrously large. When this couple had children, they decided to build a pool in place of the garden.

Here I am. It snowed today, and I couldn't finish my second route on time because the roads were not yet plowed. The Ghost told me that I'm close to having one route again, but that he'd give me another chance because I looked after his dog yesterday.

I don't know if I care anymore.

When I got home, I wanted to talk to someone, anyone, even a stranger trying to sell me things I'd never use, but I didn't want to be the one to make the phone call, so I waited by the phone, hoping that it'd ring. I prayed that it'd ring. But it didn't.

I thought of Mom's favorite story. "Tell me a story," she'd say. "Any story, something I haven't heard before."

I'd tell her this story and the next day I'd tell it again. And each time I'd finish, she would smile and say, "Wonderful."

She'd kiss me then, on the cheek.

After the measurements were completed, the ground was broken, and a hole was dug for the pool. And when the first large clod of dirt was lifted from the ground, in it, were thousands of fish bones, as if an ocean had once existed where the house now stood. And when the hole grew larger, the whale bones were discovered. At first, they poked through the dirt like tiny incisors. The monstrosity of the bones did not become apparent until a crane came and lifted them, one by one, rib bones like mammoth tusks, into the sky. A crowd came and gathered by the hole. My mother said she ran her hand against one of them. In the end, the pool was built and the bones discarded. The children swam like fish. Water was where it had not been before, although it seemed to have belonged there long before the idea of its place in that spot.

"Wonderful."

A siren passed the house. Warden wagged his tail into the side of a chair, but it didn't seem to bother him. I made dinner and thought I saw something in the corner of my eye, but I didn't turn to look, because in the end, I knew I wouldn't be able to catch it in its entirety. That's the thing with seeing something in the corner of your eye. It is always moving. And if you just catch it, you will not catch it at all if you bother to move.

Before I went to prison, I told Mom the story she used to tell me and that I would tell her. And she listened because I told her that I was going away for a long time. When I finished, I thought she was going to say that she'd heard it before and my heart stopped, but she said, "Wonderful." She smiled. She kissed me on the cheek. Dad took her by the arm.

That was the last time I saw her.

The whale bones were placed in the bed of Roy Gambier's pickup. He wore waders and a group of men helped place them one by one in the truck bed. He drove down to the lake and there, another group of men, also dressed in waders, lifted the bones out of the bed, one by one, and slid them into the water where they still remain, softened by algae and boys diving into the water and carving their girlfriend's initials onto them.

Sometimes, I wish I could forget like Mom. But there are too many stories to tell. Even though some stories are worth listening to over and over again, all stories should be told at least once.

Here I am.
Here I am.
I am here.
Here I am.

A good day? You decide!

Some days, it feels like you know right away when it's tilted one way or the other. It's 3 in the afternoon, your car has broken down, your dog has GDV, your girlfriend has left you to join a nunnery. Today, as far as I can tell, might be a good day. Here's what I've done:

1.) As previously arranged, I picked up the Ghost's dog Taxman after work this morning. Taxman is an old dog, a husky. The Ghost is going on a "work related excursion". I am not the biggest fan of Taxman, but I do like having two dogs in the house again. Taxman and Warden had some territorial thing going on, but I think they've come to an understanding.

2.) I don't think work needs to be considered in the equation here. It was neither a good day nor a bad day at work. I got my stuff done on time.

3.) I got home from work and made some soup. I had some oldish sweet potatoes that I needed to use up, so I made some Split Pea Sweet Potato Mustard soup. (I sauteed my celery and onions in my leftover Mexican butter from last week.) It is delicious. A good day for soup. A good soup for a (blank) day.

4.) There is a shared patio that I share with the two other apartments in my building. It is surrounded by a vinyl fence. It is not too big, enough for a table and a few chairs. It was cold and a little snowy today. I didn't have the energy to take two dogs on a serious walk, so I thought, "we can go out to the shared patio for a spell!" There's a lot of snow our there, so the dogs can enjoy playing out there, more then they would on concrete. Warden rolls and rolls around in the snow. I figured I would bundle up, grab a bowl of soup, and read a book out there while the dogs played. "The soup will seem even more delicious out in the cold!" I thought. It did. It was cold though.

5.) Taxman is a very smart dog. He figured out how to open the gate, and he took off. I was engrossed in a story about firemen. Warden took off after Taxman. I was wearing sweatpants, unlaced boots (no socks), and my coat and hat. Picture it: an old and panicked Curt Jimenez running down the street after two large dogs. I am not much of a runner, even less so in unlaced boots. And my sweatpants' drawstring no longer exists, so there was that. Can you imagine if I lost the Ghost's dog? I would have bigger problems then just unemployment.

6.) And they ran. I finally caught them about a half mile away, (that's what it felt like). Okay, I didn't "catch" them. I saw them, and called "Warden" and Warden stopped and ran toward me. I put my hand up to stop a car speeding down the street that separated us. Warden leapt at me and licked my face. Taxman, amazingly followed right behind.

7.) So, there we were. I didn't have leashes, so I walked them home holding them by their collars. So, there's another picture: Curt Jimenez, winded, wheezing, sweatpants falling down, unlaced boots, dragging two large dogs for a half mile by the collar. But I had my dogs!

And here we sit. I lost them (has this happened before?), and they came back. An adventure. You know what though? With a life like mine, I think it's nice to get some exhilaration as long as in the end ends up being okay. Spontaneity, you know? I'll remember today for a long time, I think. Maybe the flavor of the soup will hang in my memory longer than it would otherwise. Maybe I'll never forget that story about firemen (did I finish it?) I think this was a good day!

I'm going there

Went for a walk with Warden in the cemetery because it was an especially nice day. But while walking, I became extremely fatigued, so much so, I couldn't form a coherent sentence, which wouldn't have been a problem, had I not bumped into someone I knew and when they asked what I was up to, I tried to form a sentence, then a word, but all that came out was, "Blurp."

I've been working hard lately, taking on more work than I need to and I'm starting to wonder if it's really worth it. I mean, I want to go on this vision quest, but I also want to enjoy myself in the meantime.

Warden knew I was tired because when we got home, he licked my hand, then my face, and left me alone in the living room, where I took a nap on the couch. This is what I dreamt about:

My feet were anchors, but my arms were wings and everywhere I walked, people stopped to offer advice. "Cut your feet off," some said. "No, pick a spot and remain there, forever," others said. They were shouting at me.

Guy called, waking me up. Thank goodness! He wanted to know if I could make it to his farewell party (Guy's leaving for a logging job out West). I asked when it was and he said in two weeks. "I hope I can make it," I said.

People come and go all the time. In prison, I used to dream of all the places I'd go when I was released. Homes would describe New Mexico to me, saying that sometimes, he couldn't tell if the mountains were really mountains, or clouds. Can you imagine? All I see here are grey skies and dirty snow. When Homes would tell me about these places, I listened to him and I said to myself: "As soon as I get out of here, I'm going there."

There.

There is here, I guess. It's not much better than there or there or there. Some days, I want to fly and other days, I want to anchor. Both these acts are terrifying, and so most days, I oscillate between the two, flying someplace wonderful and far away in my mind, but anchored in a chair in a building in a room I have a difficult time calling my own. It hurts.

Guest Blogger

I'm a little busy, so I'm handing blogging duties off to me dog Warden today. Perhaps this will provide a fresh perspective--CGJ

Curt is so funny sometimes. Ten times out of ten, I'll jump onto his bed when the alarm goes off, climb on top of him, and lick his face a few times. Nine times out of ten, he'll make some pathetic groan, say "Warden, off", also pathetically, and push me back on the floor. But every once in a while, he lets me stay on the bed. And it's enough to make me keep doing it. He'll always say, "Warden, I'm going to start being consistent with you, and we're going to break you of that!" He says that about everything. But I know what I can get away with.

Curt is always running late. He doesn't have a yard, and he knows I won't "dookie" (that's his ridiculous name for number 2) on concrete, so we have to walk down the street a little bit in the mornings to a little patch of grass that I find acceptable. But I love pooping in the snow, so this time of year he can just take me out back and I'll take care of business. I guess it's a win-win for both of us. One less thing for him to worry about in the mornings.

I know that Curt is lonely. I don't know that I ever really understood until Stella passed. Stella was there when I first came into Curt's life. She was there when Curt left in the mornings, and when he came home. She was there when Curt got drunk and let us run through the Cemetery in the middle of the night. Sure, she would find a way to break out of the basement--or wherever else we were sequestered--without helping me get out too, but I never took it personally. Sure, she would nibble at my hindquarters and pound me with the most annoying bark in the world, but that was all a part of who Stella was. Stella was a free spirit, and just love, pure love. Her energy was contagious.

But I think because of the way my simple brain works, I never can truly feel a loneliness as consuming as human loneliness. I'm only a bone stuffed with peanut butter, or an unfettered cemetery run away from feeling complete, even if it's fleeting. But I see Curt pull thing after thing, and person after person into his life--chess, butter, gin, Tina, Bailey--and I know that it's exceedingly "hard" for him to get to that place where I can go so easily. When he is down, he walks around mumbling things. "All is vanity, Warden, vanity!" or "Just hanging on in quiet desperation, Warden!" I don't have enough licks to give that man.

But Curt's story isn't just about sadness. He came back from dark, dark places to be able to get out of that bed every morning, and to find things that he loves and to find the means to do them. He has people in his life, and a dog, who couldn't love him any more if they tried. There are people who thought that he would always be a failure--and maybe they still do--but Curt Jimenez is anything but. Curt Jimenez is a good man, and the best damn dog owner this dog could ever ask for.

-Warden

"Nutty" Monday

Like I said in yesterday's post, today is a new day (except it was tomorrow, yesterday!).

Today, is a new day. Today, it rained instead of snowed. Today, I let my ideas "germinate" because I sat and thought of many things and I let these thoughts simmer for a few hours, just like a good stew or chili! I read cryptic stories by Joyce Carol Oates and these stories casted a strange feeling over me. A pressing feeling. A feeling of spontaneous dread. Spontaneous because I felt it in the most unexpected places at the most unexpected times. Walking down the steps. While feeding Warden. Checking for mail. Dread because it made my stomach sink, like I was about to receive...bad news.

So, I decided to go for a walk. I saw many things on my walk. There was this woman that just stood on the sidewalk, talking to her shoelaces. There was a man that crossed the street with a newspaper stuffed inside his pants pocket. It made me want to grab a newspaper of my own and roll it into a tube and carry around in my hand until my hand turned gray. I saw my reflection in the hospital windows and I decided that the architecture of this establishment of hope and unabashed suffering was not aesthetically appealing to me. Too bulky! Too demanding on the senses!

I got hungry.

I walked to the grocery store because my mind chanted, "Food! Food! Food! Butter! Food! Food! Food! Food!"

Fast Forward.

I made a delicious butter. It was a hazelnut mint butter. Strange, I know, but I might have forgotten the mint, because I couldn't taste it! Ha! So it was more like a hazelnut butter. And who doesn't love hazelnut and is named Curt G. Jimenez?

You tell me!

"dirty thirty"

Well, you may have noticed, I missed another day. I had good intentions (I always have good intentions!) but, you know the saying. Here is what happened: Bailey called me and wanted me to go bowling with him and his brother who was in from out of town. I'm not much of a bowler, but I said "why the heck not!" and we went. Bailey's brother, Dalton, is a bit feisty. He brought what he called a "dirty thirty" to the lanes, a 30-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Well, would you believe it, the three of us drank all that beer in about 3 hours! I bowled pretty well too, a couple games in the 130's and a 154!

It was slow at the bowling alley in the afternoon, but there were a few other people there. There was this young man bowling on the lane next to us, maybe an Indian or a Pakistani, and for some reason I felt compelled to comment on all his throws. "Pick it up like a truck!" I would say, or "take a trip to spare city!"! Maybe it was the alcohol. Yes, it must have been. It seemed fun for a while, but I guess I was a little too "friendly". I had some beef jerky and I offered him some, but it seems that maybe I stepped out of line. He was very cold to me thereafter. Maybe he was a vegetarian.
Needless to say, when I got home I wasn't thinking about blogging. I had all these ideas though, and I was hoping to have some germination but nothing yet. I want to take the BBB to the "next level" with some really inspiring posts. I feel like I've said a lot in just a few months and that it's only getting better, and I guess that's the whole point really! Tomorrow is a new day!

For the record, my favorite beer is Schlitz.

Neither he nor his powers fall outside the sphere of Nature

T.G.I.F.

After work, I decided to have some breakfast at a nearby diner. I sat at the biggest table I could find and when the waiter came over to take my order, I said, "I'll have a coffee and a glass of water, please."
"Do you need more time to look over the menu?"
"I'm waiting, for more people, that is," I said.
"Okay."
The waiter brought me my coffee and water and I asked for crayons because the place mat was a paper sheet covered with images of monkeys in Hawaii or some other tropical island/place, like Fiji or the Bahamas.
"Okay," he said. A minute later, he dropped off a box of crayons.
"I don't think my friends are coming," I said. "I'll have a vegetable omelet though."

I sat at the table and colored in my place mat. I drank my coffee. I drank my water. I ate my omelet and home fries and my two pieces of wheat toast. I paid my bill. And still, I sat at the biggest table, alone. Why? I'm not sure why. I'm weird, I guess. It felt good to take up space and to think about many "things" and imagine that these "things" were sitting with me at this table with the place mats.

I thought about a short story I read in which the narrator described the greatest act of love he'd ever witnessed--a man lifting his daughter from her wheelchair and placing her in his car. I thought of books, big books and tiny books, and how they make me feel nice. Just nice. Warm. Full. I thought of people and their dreams. I thought of failure. I thought, "What happens? Why is it all like this? Why is being unfulfilled such an accepted part of life?" Empty. Cold. There was a time I almost gave up. Sometimes, I feel myself getting cold. Even today, I could feel ambition leaving me.

I guess that's the reason why I sat at the biggest table. I sat. And I waited for something. Like I do, sometimes. For something. Where are you something?

I saw the waiter speaking to a higher up, maybe a manager. They looked in my direction. And I knew that it was time for me to leave. So I put down my tip and I walked out the door. And when I stepped outside, I was blinded, for just a second, because of the sun and the snow.

And all I heard were the cars, and someone exhaling cigarette smoke.

Ambiguity

Whew! I did it! I actually finished both my runs on time. The Ghost didn't say, "Good job," or "Way to go," but I don't care. I'm just glad that I finally did it and now that I know I can, I think I'll be able accomplish both runs on time, everyday! This is big news in the world of Curt Jimenez. This means more money. This means vision quest.

Maybe I'll take on a third run. Ha! Yeaaaah right. Could you imagine? I sure couldn't!

When I got home from work, I kicked off my boots, gave Warden a big pat on the head, and plunkered down and read some more short stories. How do they do it? How do these authors know how much to reveal and how much to keep hidden. There's always some bit of ambiguity, but boy does that bit draw me in!

I'll give you a for instance--what if, instead of beginning this blog entry with: "Whew! I did it! I actually finished both my runs on time," I began with: "I accomplished something great today."

And what if I never explained what that "something great" was? Would you be frustrated? Intrigued? Moved?

I think I'd be kind of, a little bit...I don't know, interested, but ultimately let down.

Shoot! I just spilled some Cccofzee oN thhte Kkybrd. Hve, eto goo1!

Is there any faith left in your cup?

I took Warden on a long walk today. Some people haven't made much of an effort to shovel their walks, which can make it a little difficult to get around, but I enjoy being out in the snow, and Warden really does too. Stella really liked the snow, she would roll in it, and shake the snow off, and roll in it again, ad infinitum.
I decided before I went on this walk that I was going to try to do some serious thinking. And I did, kind of. I've been reading a lot of short stories, and between that and writing this blog, I take everything I see and do, and think "how interesting! I should put that in the blog!" or "wow, what a great conceit for a short story!" I think it's unhealthy. I'll give you a for instance: It is very beautiful being out in the snow, but it's also a huge annoyance to try to get around in it, and I thought about how this time of year makes me wonder why anybody would ever want to live in places that it snows a lot, and also why anybody would ever want to live anywhere else. It seems like you should think one way or the other, even though my opinion is right in the middle. That's a story, I think, loving and hating the snow at the same time. When the weather was crazy, my mother always used to say, "everybody complains about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it!" I never knew if she said things like that just to be funny or not, so I would just sit there and say something empty but affirmative, like "Honestly! Nobody!"
I'm staying up late, even though I have to get up early tomorrow. Bailey was selling me this pitch a while ago, when I was complaining about work. He said, it's a good idea to stay up later than you should on nights before you have to wake up early, and to have a few drinks, because then you get up and you get to work, but you're barely conscience. You know your job so you can sleepwalk through it, and by the time you know what's going on your day is practically over. Bailey is smart, so I'm going to test his little theory. Just so my alarm clock wakes me up! I know The Ghost will probably tell me I'm screwing things up, even if I'm not, but I don't think I care.

Hurt Feelings?

Today, at work, the Ghost asked if anything was new in my life. I thought he was being kind. I thought he was interested in what I did outside of work. So, I said, "Well, I went on a date." And he laughed.
"Yeah right," he said, "that'll be the day." And then he said, "Get back to work Jimenez!"

When I drive around town, I imagine what it would be like to have lived in some of the neighborhoods I pass through. I drive past mansions. I drive past decrepit row homes. It really gets me thinking. How much of "me" is shaped by the environment I grew up in? How much of "me" is innate? Are characteristics like determination, laziness, frugality, and cleanliness learned?

I just wonder if I was meant to, or more likely to, mess up than other people.

Anyways...

I went on a walk with Warden this afternoon, and found this paper on the ground.

a bad date doesn't get you to 3rd base

I wanted to toss back a few cold ones tonight, so I bought a case of beer. At the beer distributor, I didn't know what kind of beer to get--a cheap beer or an expensive beer? The man at the beer distributor said, "what are you in the mood for?"
"Something that will inspire me," I said.
"Inspiration doesn't come cheap," he said. So I got the expensive beer.
And here I sit. Inspired. Maple beer--what a crock. But if you put any beer in a nice glass, it makes all the difference!!! That's not true, that's just what I've been telling myself.

But today was also an exciting day as far as butter making goes. I was at the store, thinking about what kind of butter to make, and I thought, "enough playing it safe. It's time to spice things up!" I thought about tarragon, but that didn't seem seasonally appropriate. It was an especially cold President's Day, so I decided to go with a Mexican pepper butter...to warm me up of course! This butter, however, was difficult to negotiate. In the end, the butter proved to be delicious, but had a...weird consistency. That's okay though--to me, butter is butter, no matter what! I melted the butter over some popcorn and it was one of the best popcorns I've ever had. And I have had some good popcorns in my life, let me tell you. When I perfect this butter...who knows what kind of food collaborations will be born!

That's not all there was to my day, though. I watched a movie. "The Safety of Objects", do you know it? It's based off a book of short stories. I'll be honest, I watched it with a woman. We sat across the room from each other while watching the movie. This woman, I met her through a dating service online, and this is the first date I've had in a long long time. She seemed to have enjoyed herself...although she left right after I offered her some popcorn drizzled with my homemade butter. It was odd, I said, "Helen, would you like to meet for a cup of coffee?"
She said, "I'd rather come over to your place and watch a movie, in the dark, of course, ha, ha, ha!" She is an odd one, Helen. She chose the movie and it was a little "sexual" for my tastes, I guess. Helen is a funeral director. Tonight, she wore a...tie. She has a strange laugh, kind of a cackle. It was something I'd imagine coming from someone who worked with the dead. She had just come back from China and kept relating everything that happened to her trip.
"Wooooow," I kept saying. I'm not sure whether I should keep on waiting for the perfect woman to come around. You can perfect many things, like butter, but you can't perfect another person. That's for damn sure. The closest one gets to perfection in another person is...youtellme. Frankly, I have a hard time imagining a woman in my life. It's complex, but I mean, it's not really complex. Like making a lasagna, for instance. I think I'll know when I know.
Helen is not a fan of maple beer. And I guess I'm not...and that's a start.

V-Day

I went for a walk with Warden. A man selling flowers asked me if I wanted to buy a dozen roses for $10.00.
"I don't have a valentine," I said.
"Me neither," the man said.
"Where are your boxes of chocolate?" I asked.
"Don't have any."
"If you did, I'd buy a box."
"I'd buy a box too," he said and laughed.
I looked at all the flowers. Hundreds of flowers. "What are you going to do with all the leftover flowers?" I asked.
"Half off! Tomorrow," he said.
A bus passed and Warden started barking. "Better go," I said.
"Have a good one."

Why do people buy flowers on Valentine's Day? A dozen roses. Two dozen roses. What do roses have to do with love anyways? I don't understand. But maybe it's because I don't understand what "love" is. What a strange thing. I hear it makes people do crazy things.

If I had a valentine, I'd make a butter cake with sweet icing lined with butter rosettes. But I don't. I have Warden, and I think tonight, we're gonna stay in and watch a movie.

some times

Sometimes, the words come easy. Sometimes, you get the first sentence down, and everything else comes out freely, like a sailboat on a windy day. Sometimes, something happens in a day, and you have something to say, and it feels important, and people laugh and someone says, "great post Curt", and you say "thanks, it felt good to write it!" and you sleep a little easier that night. Sometimes you meet somebody interesting, and they inspire you. Sometimes, you create somebody on paper to have a conversation with that you couldn't have in real life. Sometimes, you imagine sharing a life, and maybe a bed with that person, and you smile thinking of all the wonderful moments you might have together.
Sometimes you think of your dead dog, and you remember, and you cry, and Warden comes over and starts licking your face. Sometimes, butter is enough to make you happy. Sometimes, you have butter but no toast. Sometimes, you have toast but no butter!
Sometimes, you go get a fish sandwich with someone, perhaps a family member, and you sit and have a nice long conversation with that person. And then, out of nowhere, that person starts saying things, hurtful things, and you just sit there, and you take it, and you fight back a little bit, but most everything this person says is at least somewhat true, and you don't know what to say, you've got nothing to say, and you wish Mom was there, and she's not, she's gone forever, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts more than you could have ever imagined words ever hurting. And you want to leave, but you can't, and you're fifty years old but you feel like you're twelve again, and nobody loves you, and most likely nobody ever will. And people are staring at you, they're whispering, and you know they know what you've done, where you've been, how you're the kind of person they warn their children about.
But you're not that kind of person, but nobody knows it. You've changed, you've made mistakes, but you've changed, and people that know who you are now, and not who you were then, know that you're not that guy from the 6 0'clock news, you're that simple-living, happy-go-lucky, butter blogger. And maybe you are okay. And maybe it doesn't matter what people say about you, it only matters how you're living your life now.

Maybe you should shave your mustache.

The O.W.E.

I think I drank too much coffee. No, I know I drank too much coffee. I feel a bit queasy. I'm a bit shaky. I'm on edge, but I'm not. It's still early in the day, yet I've duked it out with my O.W.E.

I thought of picking up some things at the store for making butter, but then I looked out the window and decided to play chess...with myself. What's that saying? You are your (o)wn (w)orst (e)nemy. And why not try to beat your worst enemy in a game of chess?

It was an intense game, to say the least. My own worst enemy is a tough opponent and I can see why I am my own worst enemy. In prison, my own worst enemy would tell me that I was a failure. My own worst enemy told me I would die in prison. My own worst enemy mocked me in my dreams, replaying the moment I'd killed my best friend, over and over again. My own worst enemy would have overtaken me, would have consumed me, had it not been for Homes. Homes took me aside, saw that my own worst enemy was closing in for the kill, and told me to snap out of it! And so I did.

Your own worst enemy is your worst enemy because it knows all your secrets. It knows what you're most afraid of, what you're ashamed of,what hurts you the most. But your own worst enemy, as Homes explained to me, helps you, makes you stronger, makes you a better person. Homes would tell me: "Anyone who claims to be in the light but hates his brother is still in the darkness. Whoever loves his brother lives in the light, and there is nothing in him to make him stumble."

I think I understand...

So who won the game of chess?

I won. But my own worst enemy, being a sore loser and all, said before he left: "You might have won this game of 'chess' but you won't win them all."

I'm not afraid.

Ben Sings

A girl came to the door tonight. She was going door-to-door for the AFL-CIO. She had a piece of paper, and she pointed to a section of it. It had a list of things, Health Care, Jobs, Education, a couple of other things. "Are any of these things important to you?" she asked me. What could I say? Warden was a little frantic. I didn't want to talk to this lady, really, but she was walking around knocking on strangers doors in nasty weather conditions because she believed in unions. What could I say? I invited her inside, and offered to make her a Hot Toddy. Economics are confounding to me. The impact of unions within our economic system particularly, and I wanted her to help me understand. She said no, she just wanted my signature and my address and my phone number and aren't these things important to you? I said, is space exploration really worth mortgaging my children's future? "How old are your children?" She had me right where she wanted me, I could tell. "Ben is 12," I said, "And I have to go pick him up from choir practice." We stood there, awkwardly. I like unions, I do. I think I'm moderately progressive, really. I have a contrarian streak sometimes though, I guess. "Curt Jimenez never thinks of himself as being political," I told her. "I admire what you're doing here, I really do. But Curt Jimenez is an independent spirit, and he signs nothing." At that moment, I wished for nothing more than for Ben to have been an actual person. Curt Jimenez was referring to himself in the third person in a conversation, and was questioning his own sanity. She seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. "Listen," I said. "I'm against jobs. I'm especially against good paying jobs, and I'd like for you to get off my stoop!"
This exchange, however mundane, was the highlight of my day. Winter is sucking the life out of me.

...

I don't know. Sometimes, I want so much out of a day, but it's always already dark out and I'm looking out the window, at what? I wish I knew. Today, as I was shoveling out my car (for the third time this week!), someone asked:

"How are you?"
I said, "Oh, I'm alright, I guess. Could be better. How are you?"
"Great!" someone said.
"Great?"
"Great! I'm going to work. Some people can't work. But I can," and someone walked away, to work I suppose, and had a great day.
"I'm great too," I called out.
I don't know. Sometimes, I like to trick myself into thinking that I feel great! But it's always a happenstance lie because what does feeling great even mean? I wish I knew.

Blah! I've been inside all day, thinking about stupid things and writing about stupid things!

I just want to own a mountain. I want to live on this mountain, alone. I want to walk up this mountain. I want to walk down this mountain. I want to build giant mobiles that only I know about. I want to make a ton (literally, 2000 pounds) of butter. I want to sing songs to dirt. I want to learn all the constellations and then give them all different names.

I want to move forward without shame.

galaga

I knew I was moving in a negative emotional direction last night, and with Rick out of my life, I've had some trouble with balance. I've been enjoying all the snow, but I think I get a little stir crazy, even though you'd think I'd be well equipped to handle some unusual isolation. You're never really alone in prison, and maybe that's why it's extra hard for me to handle sometimes.
Anyways, this is what I did after I posted last night: There is a bar a few blocks away, it is a bar frequented primarily by young people. They have an old Galaga arcade machine, and I like to go down there sometimes and blow 20 bucks, blasting old Springsteen and on the jukebox, and drinking Tanqueray and tonics (Mom's drink). It isn't too hard for me to imagine that it's 1975, I haven't screwed my life up yet, Mom's still alive. Galaga, it gets me into a state. You know that feeling you get sometimes, when it feels like there is no time to sense, when 3 hours can pass, but it feels like 5 minutes? "Being in the zone", that's what Rick used to call it. I can get that feeling when I'm listening to really good music, too. That's what I have to think about when I imagine what the afterlife will be like. No time.
Gin loosens my lips, and "loose lips are bound to sink ships". I didn't really sink any ships, I just like that expression. I did do a lot of talking with these kids that are really friendly with me, but I can never tell if the friendliness is genuine or not. They seem to be charmed by my moustache. People don't really seem to wear moustaches anymore. I wonder why men started growing them in the first place?
So I was really drunk, it wasn't that late (8 o'clock?) and went home. I let Warden outside to pee, and wrote a poem:

BAD POEM
Curt, you slave
to time.
Let go, it's time--
to let go.
In the future, when
there is no time
there will be no future.
if that's heaven, then
God bless it.

Milk and Bread

There is still so much snow, and it is cold! Today, I walked to the neighborhood grocery store. I needed some bread and some milk, and some heavy whipping cream. I don't drink milk, but everybody buys bread and milk when it snows like crazy. It's an American tradition.
I waited behind a few other customers in the checkout lane. The woman in front of me had two small children and was buying some bananas and a People magazine. She looked like she had worked way too hard getting dolled up before she came to the store. It's funny--with weather like this, nobody expects anybody to do anything other than stay warm and try not to get stuck anywhere. People are more likely to judge you if you look decent than if you haven't showered in a few days. Everybody you see on the street is carrying a shovel. Anyways, the woman struck up a conversation with me, even though I was trying to wear as unfriendly an expression as I could muster.
"What is it with bread and milk?" she asked me.
"I enjoy them," I said. "And they're perishable."
"Hmm."
"What if this never ends?" I asked her.
"Hmmm?"
"We assume the winter will end, because Winter always has ended in the past, but what if this one doesn't? What if this is the 'new normal'? What if we'll be digging our cars out of snow piles every day for the rest of our existence?"
The cashier was ready for her now. The woman smiled at me. She paid, and headed for the doors. "Bye Sisyphus!" she whispered to me. I felt silly. I didn't need this stuff. I took the milk back to the dairy cooler, and headed home.

Super. Bowl.

I wanted to walk to the library today, but it's closed! The roads are still pretty bad, but the snow is nice to look at. I was supposed to meet up with Bailey later this afternoon to play a game of chess, but he said that he wouldn't be able to drive anywhere because his car was plowed in and that he didn't feel like walking, on account of his condition.

Guy called just a few minutes ago and said that he'd stop by and maybe we could watch the Superbowl together. "The Superbowl?" I said. It's been so long since I've watched the Superbowl. I've heard about the Superbowl in prison, but this will be the first Superbowl I've watched in twenty years, if I decide to watch it... And I don't know if I want to even watch it, I mean, I haven't been following football since my release. "I don't know if I want to watch the game, Guy," I said. "Nonsense!" he said. I said, "No, really, I don't know anything about the teams."

Sometimes, it's hard telling people that you don't want to do something. I like Guy, but he doesn't understand. There's a bunch of things that've lost their significance in prison. Birthdays. Holidays. Summer. Vacation . The future. And the Superbowl. The Superbowl is forgotten. The Superbowl is the least of my worries.

Am I being stubborn? I don't know.

And aloneness is only a ghost. It likes to seep through cracks, at night or in the winter. But there are no cracks here. Here I feel sewn up, surrounded by substance like a nut in velvet or an eye in a sock. The room is seamless and all over my skin, enclosing. To keep me company, I have both dreams and memories.

I think that today, I'll start planning for the vision quest. I keep thinking about it, but that's all I do. Think. I need to act. I really care about the vision quest, and maybe that's why it's so hard to get started.

I want it to be prolific.
I want it to change me.

But, I can't think about all that or the whole purpose of the vision quest will become a farce. It just needs to happen.

Snow Day!

Did some shoveling this morning. Couldn't deliver anything! That's how much snow we got! It was nice having the day off. I slept in. I ate my breakfast slowly. I took Warden on a long walk. It was fun watching him run through the snow. He looked like a dolphin, hopping in and out of the snow.

Everyone seemed to be in a good mood. It's strange how many smiles this chaotic weather brought. So many people were walking in the streets, having a good time.

I helped a complete stranger get her car unstuck from a snow bank she'd slid into--I don't know why. I saw that she was having a difficult time and something inside my head told me to help her, "Help her, Curt," it said. And so I did. She thanked me and said that I was a gentleman. No one's ever called me that before!!! She even said that if she was single, she'd ask for my phone number. We both laughed (should I have thanked her?) and I waved as she drove away.

That made my day.

deus ex machina.

The snow came from nowhere.

Isn't it strange that sometimes when you feel like you're stuck between a rock and hard place, that an almost surreal occurrence happens? It is snowing right now. It has been snowing since this afternoon. And the weathermen and women are baffled. There was no sign of such a big storm, they are saying into the cameras. The Ghost called and said that I didn't need to show up tomorrow until 8:00! He told me to take my time. To be careful. I've noticed this with the Ghost. He's always very cautious whenever the weather takes a turn for the worst. I wonder why...?

The weather today reminds me of this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sWJuQD0cL8&feature=related

I think I'm going to make some butter today. And maybe some bread and pierogies! It's been a while since I've been able to devote time to real cooking.

incomplete

I remember when I was very young, my family went on a trip to the northeast. We camped in Vermont, and visited some family friends in New Hampshire. I remember encountering the phrase "live free or die" there for the first time, and being really confused. I must have been 6 or 7. There are some tough notions in there. Freedom, death. A lot to think about really. I have fond memories of that trip.

This morning, I couldn't get my route done any faster. It's not in me to drive like a maniac, and I think that's the only way I could really do it. The papers don't come off the presses any earlier in the morning just because I'm Curt G. Jimenez.

Second Route

Sorry I didn't post yesterday. It was a c r a z y day. I don't remember much of it, but I know that I'm exhausted.

The Ghost was giving me a hard time today, saying that I wasn't finishing my second route early enough and that people were starting to complain. I told him I was doing the best that I could. He said he'd give me another week to improve and if not, he was going to take my second route away. I honestly don't know how I'm going to get any faster, I already feel like I'm going as fast as I can. I just want a vacation. I just want to go on this vision quest.

Today, I talked to Stella. I held the urn and asked her what I should do. I said, "Stella, what should I do?" But, she didn't say anything. I guess it's one of those things I have to figure out on my own. What should I do? What am I doing? When I was a kid, I wanted to chase tornadoes. When someone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said I wanted to be a storm chaser. But now, I don't know what I want to do with my life. All I know is that the days are passing and I'm not getting any younger!

What I think is that one should do what one wants to do and do things as they want one day at a time. Whew! How convoluted, eh? Let me give you a for instance. Today, I wanted to make butter, so I did (it was delicious! (it was a blue cheese butter!)) I started reading a book and I didn't like it, so I stopped because I wanted to stop (it was about some big house with seven or eight gables). I wanted to take a walk to the library, so I did.

I just have to take things one day at a time. Tomorrow, I'm going to do the best I can with my second route. We'll see what happens.

Cracked

Today, I drank coffee from a mug that had a crack in it. At first, I thought I was just being careless with my coffee and that I was spilling coffee on my leg because I was moving the mug too quickly. So, I slowed down. Then, I thought that maybe I had been a sloppy pourer, and that the coffee puddles on the kitchen table appeared from coffee running down the side of the mug. So, I took a paper towel and wiped the outside of the mug. But coffee kept appearing in places where it shouldn't have been appearing. So, I examined the mug and found a hairline crack running down its side. When I saw the crack I exclaimed: "Geez-o-pete!"

I switched mugs and enjoyed the rest of my coffee. Then, I wrote this haiku:

There are many cracks-

like the thin crack in my mug-

in the life we live.