Cognizant

I call "Dad, dad," but Dad doesn't answer and I feel strange. I know it's his hearing, I see him, he's right there watching TV, cognizant, cognizant. If I'd screamed, "Dad," he'd turn my way, cognizant, as if I'd whispered and would ask what I wanted, cognizant. These are the shortest, coldest days.

I watched the original Walking Tall with Dad last night and couldn't tell if the film was taking itself seriously, until the end. The bitter end: how could an ending not be tragic? How could it not be unrelentingly cruel? The credits rolled. I felt sick. Dad's eyes were open, wide open, and cognizant, but he was so quiet and still; I hoped he was breathing. What else could we do? There was a strong, cheesy smell coming up from the carpet. We were cognizant of it all.

If I hadn't killed Tony, would I remember him now?
What if I hurt him a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, a million times, but he was alive and well, would I remember him now?
Would I think about him, in flashes, whenever the world got quiet?
Would I remember him now, after having watched Walking Tall , sitting beside Dad, would I?
Would Tony say, "Curt, Curt." Would he say, "Curt, Curt," if I hadn't killed him?
Would I have noticed something different about him, on the inside, somehow less magical, colder and less hopeful, meaner.
He was so full of hope when I killed him.
Would he be full of hope now?
Would I grow tired of him?
Would he grow tired of me?
Would he try a little less to be a friend?
Would I try a little more?
Would we be cognizant of these changes?
Would I say, "Tony, Tony," and would I say "Tony, Tony," and would he say, "You're killing me, Curt."

I spotted two owls a few days ago before the sun set. They were large and beautiful. I stood below them, moved. One owl took off, flapped wildly to another tree.

The other struggled to keep up.

2 Years!

Guy and I used to try and watch movies together. Watching movies isn't necessarily a very hard thing to do, but Guy and I could never make it through a whole movie for some reason. We would always get a ways into something, and then he would fall asleep and I would go home, or he would decide that he didn't want to finish for whatever reason. He used to say he knew whether a movie was great or not by whether he could make it through a second sitting without being bored, and if he could, that meant it was exceptional. But he rarely could sit through any movies a second time, and he never wanted to watch anything new because he would get angry if a movie was really bad and lots of movies are very bad and he always said it wasn't worth the stress to find something good. So we rewatched lots of movies he remembered being okay in the 80's that I probably missed and then quitting and starting all over on something else. That happened two hours into Amadeus. And some part of the way through Broadcast News. And that was how I got into Breaking Away, but I had to finish it at home. Zelig, too.

Sometimes, it's nice to start things. And it's also good to finish what you start. Some things have a natural ending, some things you have to work hard to stop them, and some things just keep going because whoever started it is stubborn or stupid or both. Two years ago, on this day, I started writing about butter. I don't write so much anymore--not on this blog, anyway--but the Betterbutterblog still exists, and that's something.

Happy anniversary, Betterbutterblog.

Euonym

In the olden days, way back when, people were given last names because of their occupation. Woodman was a man who worked with wood. Wheelman was a man who worked with wheels. Goodman, well, he was just a good man. If I lived back then, I wonder if my name would have been Curt Buttermacher. Except, I haven't been making too much butter lately. Maybe, my name would have been Curt Sitzmann. Or, Curt Nada. Or, Curt Houndlessmann.

I had a dream the other night, where Warden was biting me, but I still loved him. Can you believe that nearly two years have passed since I began blogging? I can't. Nothing really changes in prison. You wake up, you walk around, you do some things, you go to sleep, and then you wake up again. But outside of prison...it's almost too much. Even my handwriting is different! Can you believe that!

I just wish, sometimes, that I knew, without a doubt, I was a winner. I wish I could walk around knowing that I won. Just sometimes though because if you win all the time, winning doesn't mean a thing. I almost pity Curt Winner, but not too much, because Curt Winner is still a notch above Curt Jimenez. Like this post. It isn't great, but if all my posts were great, what kind of blog would this be? Boring, imho.

But it would be nice, for once, to feel like this:

Some Other Person

Here, I went back and looked at what I posted last year on this day. 10/28/2010. Can you believe that was the same person who is writing this post now? It is the same person, it must be, and you can probably believe that without too much effort, but I am not so sure sometimes. That Curt had so much vim and vigor, blogging daily--or almost daily--and working two jobs, and caring for two large dogs, and paying bills and living on his own.

How wild is that? Where is that Curt now? Is he gone forever? Why are things so much more difficult now? Is it all just chemistry? Do I have a slow leak? Do I need therapy? Drugs?

But am I so different now? Is this way of thinking just revisionist history? Were things ever easy for Curt G. Jimenez?

I suppose not. For me, maybe there are just degrees of hardness. Sometimes things are hard like a diamond, and sometimes--if rarely--things are easy like Sunday morning.

Reboot. Reboot. Reboot. Reboot. For a day or two, I get it together, I have a plan, I execute. And then it is gone, and I reboot. Reboot. Sisyphus, bottom of the mountain, Present Curt, I have seen the future and it is just as s**tty as the past only your the back pain is more intense and you start drinking earlier in the day.

I am losing. I don't even notice my motivational posters anymore.

I should say something positive. I should take some fiery breaths. Here is something:

Perhaps I expect myself to be this, when I am really that. A lot of people have a difficult go of things at points in there lives. Think of Scott Fitzgerald! And R.P. McMurphy! And Dickinson! She shall lift us up:

He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,	5
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!

October

One October afternoon, Mom drove me and my sister to a field of pumpkins to choose pumpkins to carve. A man came up to Mom and said, "These aren't for picking," and my sister and I stopped searching the ground, and the man said, "You see, this is private property." Somewhere, a gunshot went off. Some birds flew up from a nearby tree and Mom held our hands as we crossed the field and got into the car. She drove to the grocery store and we picked white pumpkins on a shelf of straw because they were the only ones left. The seeds inside were large and when we baked them, they tasted like nothing. She was emptying , slowly, always crossing, it seemed, into private property.

Today, my sister stopped by while I was at the gas station. There were small, white pumpkins on top of the TV and on the radiator cover by the back door. There were pumpkins on the kitchen table, and two, one on each side of a vanilla scented candle with an image of a snowman in a blizzard on the glass that held it, and there was a pumpkin on my dresser with a note--

Hey Curt,

Stopped by. Hope you're well.
Dad kept talking about soup.
You remember when mom
took us to that pumpkin patch?
Call me sometime.

Love,
Sis

The Worst Betrayal

the poop

was lying there,

still and steaming.

when Stella,

with obvious intention,

kicked it.

all over the leg of the one,

who gave her so much.

but i guess it wasn't enough.

if she was trying

to cover something up,

she was unsuccessful.

Exterminator

I've never read Remembrance of Things Past. Things pass. Things are remembered. But it is the book I've used on the cockroaches in the house. Early mornings, there they are, lazy and unafraid, or maybe surfacing because they know I will drop the book on them. Vol. I. And they've committed to dying. I give them a chance. I say, "Run for it," and put my foot close by, to give it a reason it can see, maybe even feel. Can it feel the displaced air from my footfalls? Maybe I should read Remembrance of Things Past so that it is less of a weapon and more of a literary device, so that I do not crush the cockroaches with it, or I do, but with more of a purpose. That I've killed them with some device I despise. Vague pronouns, everywhere, I don't like them too much.

After I've done the deed, it looks like I've just dropped a book on the floor. It is there, on the floor, and I am looking at it. I lift it up, anticipating or hoping that the cockroach will run behind the refrigerator, but that is never the case. I turn the book over, and there it is, crushed and juicy, a leg dangling and certainly dead. I wipe it off with a paper towel but there is some remnant it leaves behind--it is a silvery patch on the navy blue cover. It is one of many.

The sound of a book falling in the morning and hitting the ground is louder than you'd think. But the sound is abbreviated. Then it is replaced with the sound of coffee brewing. But early in the morning, the sound sticks with you like a sore, when it is in that empty space before coffee it carves a notch in your skull.

Today, I returned Remembrance of Things Past to the library. I will never read that book. I look for a bigger book, one with a spine as thick as the width of the book. It is Atlas Shrugged. This book, when it lands on a bug, I bet it will open up to a gray page with closely knitted text and I bet it will sound less...heavy. Less...despairing. Then I can go on with my day. Then I can remember the page I read in Atlas Shrugged as I picked up the book. Then I can feel more productive and less guilty. Then I can feel less guilty. Yes.

Elsie May

We took acid, and we went to the cemetery.

I remember the statue, and I remember how she was young and old and beautiful and wise.

We circled her, Tony and I. We said, "She is young and old, beautiful and wise. If you are standing here, she appears to be one thing, and over there, another." We said, "here is something profound, something bigger than anything we have known before." We talked in circles, convinced that we were wise. That is what you do when you take acid. You figure it out, and then it disappears.

If I was by myself, I imagine I would have been scared. The voices in your head can grow too loud if you are by yourself. I found that out later. At times you need to talk to someone to keep them quiet.

Elsie May was the name of the woman memorialized with the statue. I wonder now, as we wondered then, what kind of wife she was. What kind of mother she was. If, when everyone left for the day, she was sad. If she cried out audibly, or suffered in silence. Or if she felt free in a way she only felt when she was alone.

We wondered if she died in childbirth, or of some terrible disease we don't even think of now. It is sad to think of people dying young. We talked about that.

It is sad to remember.

Werner! Herzog!

In 1982, I killed someone and Werner Herzog had a steamship dragged across and over a mountain for a film he was directing. The ship weighed 300 tons, or something like that, heavy. Why am I writing about Werner Herzog? I'm not sure. Why not? He ate a shoe because he keeps his word:



He ate his shoe in 1980. In 1980, I was getting high with Tony. I don't remember 1980. Except, there was Tony, and getting high. I was not eating a shoe. I did not own a gun.

In 2006, Werner Herzog was shot during an interview.

He did not stop the interview. I was in prison and there is not much to this story, except in 2006, Homes asked me if I'd heard of Werner Herzog. I said, "No."
"He's a ridiculous man," Homes said.

Now it's 2011 and Werner Herzog has a new film in 3-D, about something very old, ancient. I have a new life. Werner Herzog says there is nothing glorious about filmmaking. It is an endless sequence of banalitites, and sometimes, I feel that way about life. Then, Werner Herzog says:

However, there's very rare moments where I get the feeling sometimes I'm like the little girl in the fairy tale who steps out into the night, in the stars, and she holds her apron open, and the stars are raining into her apron. Those moments I have seen and I have had. But they are very rare.

On Bicycles and Darkness

Here is a dream I will tell you about. I thought about not saying anything about it, because it seems very personally and very painful--kind of--but then I looked at it again and I thought it was meaningless, so I wondered, what? Is this the inspiration I have been looking for?

Here is the dream. I am at home, lying in bed, and I have left my bicycle somewhere public. It is locked up, and the place seemed as though it would be a fine place to leave my bicycle for a day or a few days. There are nice people that walk by this place, and there are trees and flowers and things you associate with places that are okay places to leave your bicycle.

Let me tell you about this bicycle. Tony gave it to me. It was a gift from Tony, for some reason. It is an okay bike, not a really nice bike, but a very decent bike. Tony did not give me very much, so to have something from Tony made me, and it, feel very special. So in that, it is very valuable.

This was a very long dream. In a sense, a dream 30 years in the making with characters from the past who have become different people in my head through 30 years of daydreaming and them changing and becoming more complete in my imagination, in my subconscious, in my dreams that have worked together to build this new dream. The real people in the dream are probably not real people at all, if you want to know the truth.

Tony never gave me a bicycle. In real life, I gave Tony a bicycle. I built a bicycle for Tony from a frame and parts that I stole from nice suburban kids who didn't deserve to have their bikes molested by some drugged out 16 year old. But that's what happened in real life. That is not something that goes away when I wake up. But I gave Tony a bike, which is nice too. It's complicated.

But what happened in this new oddly constructed dream thing is that Curt, who didn't do anything wrong really, in the dream at least, he left this gift bicycle in some reasonable place, and now it's gone, and Tony who wasn't in the dream but who I guess was more of just an idea in the dream--a force if you will--is deeply injured because of it. The idea of Tony, you see?? The bicycle is gone. Tony, the big force, the dark cloud looming over my entire existence, turns darker. As if he didn't already have everything to be angry about. I cannot see the increasing darkness, but I can feel it. Very deeply and clearly, even in waking life.

Can you imagine? A horrible nightmare about a stolen bicycle?

Is that a song? Jesus.

Running

What's gotten into me? There is a song inside my head. But it won't come out. Arrr, it's driving me nuts!
September, and the heat's broken. What happened last September?
So I run today because I put on my shoes and there are leaves on the ground and they are brown and dead and make a sound and I run. Yes, I do.
If the song will not run to me, I will run to it, and if we are running in opposite directions, eventually, we will run into each other, but it will take a much longer time, so I hope this isn't the case. I am feeling myself move and I am hurting, but I run. My skin is floppy because I am old. Or, older. My feet thud. People run past me who are walking very fast. So I run harder.
How hard is the song running. Inside my head, it is running away from me. Very hard. Very fast.
How long will I run? Until I stop running.
A child waves to me from a car. It passes, and I do not wave because I think that a child cannot be nice.
I run harder. A dog barks. A squirrel runs away from me. I run home. I run into the house. I run past Dad. I run into my bedroom. I run around my bedroom. I run on my bed. I run, into the wall.

Leggie Blonde

Yesterday, I woke up early so that inspiration would come to me. Yesterday, I woke up early and had coffee with Dad so that inspiration would come to me. Yesterday, I waited for inspiration to come to me and while I waited, Dad said to me, "I think I've decided on cremation," and I said, "What?" and Dad said, "When I die, I'd like to be cremated." It was hard to wait for inspiration to come to me after Dad told me this, but still I waited.

In the afternoon, Dad mowed the grass, and the noise from the mower made concentrating "hard" to "do" and I drove to the nearest coffee shop and ordered a latte. The caffeine made me dizzy. All I could think about was cremation. And Stella. Cremation and Stella. Cremation and Stella. Inspiration would not come to me there. So, I left the coffee shop and drove to Lake Erie and rolled around in the sand with all my clothes on and thought about Stella. Some teenagers laughed at me, but I didn't care, because I would have laughed at myself too if I were with them. I didn't want to go back home, but I did. I took a bath. Afterwards, Dad told me to clean the sand from the bathtub and I did. I thought of cremation then and inspiration did not come to me. We sat in front of the TV. Dad told me he ran over a cat. I told him that I stole a fork from my old workplace. "Figures," he said.

Then this played on TV:



and I felt inspired. Then Dad turned the channel.

On Moving On

I noticed a sign today that someone had posted, as I was walking dog-less. I was dog-less because many things have not been going right for me lately, things that I am too ashamed to have brought up in this space. Part of me feels as though I should have mentioned what has been going on, but part of me feels that it is better this way. You should know that I am moving on, because I have to. Warden and Regrette are in the past, existing only in memory now with Stella. This is where we are. I am still living with my father, but I am still working my two jobs, and I am very ready to move out.

This sign that I saw said:

Fulfill Your Dream!!!! Record A Song in a Professional Recording Studio!!! $100

$100 dollars does not feel like so much to me today as it might have a year ago. And I think I am ready to express myself, in a big way. And I do not have to work tomorrow, miracle of miracles.

Tomorrow I am going to write a song, and I am going to make a phone call.

I think I have a lot of things to say.

Something in the universe is telling me something

I was working at the gas station when someone came inside and asked if I was Curt G. Jimenez.
"Are you Curt G. Jimenez?" this person asked. This person was a man in drag. This man, whose stage name might have been Ivanna Foch, did not know how to apply lipstick. I don't either, but I remember as a kid, my sister taught me how to color. She said, "Color within the lines." Ivanna did not have lines. Ivanna did not have boundaries?
"I am Curt," I said.
"I just love your blog," this man in drag said. "I follow it religiously. I read it as soon as I wake up. When there are no new posts, I have a sh***y day. When there is a new post, I dance the best I've ever danced. I strut in my heels like I know what I'm doing. I love you Curt," this man said. "I really, really love you. I love butter too. I love dogs too. I love every single thing, every fiber, thought, movement, everything about your existence."

Then, I woke up. I had to write about this. Something in the universe is telling me something.

August

It's August, already, air-conditioned spaces, non-air-conditioned spaces, air-conditioned spaces again.

I think I am ready to move, not because I don't like living with Dad, but because I am ready, I am ready to begin, again.

How many beginnings can a person have that aren't really beginnings? Have I used up all my beginnings?

Air-conditioned spaces. Non-air-conditioned spaces. Air-conditioned spaces.

Beginning. Beginning. Beginning.

Where am I?

I am so tired that I woke up this morning and didn´t know where I was. I am working very much. And I have been looking for those dogs. I have found one. I will not tell you which yet, so you don´t get excited. But I am very excited. I have to pull some strings. I have to find time to pull some strings, and make things happen. I think I am ready to move out. I have so many things to do. Wild!

Code Brown

There is a break in the heat, kind of--at least there's a wind.

It's nice working in the hotel and at the gas station, where the air conditioning works, where butter wouldn't melt, just soften a bit. Where I actually can get cold.

Dad wanted to go to the pool. So, I took him. We paid six bucks each for admission and as soon as we changed into our bathing suits, someone blew a whistle and said, "Code brown! Everyone out of the water!"

Bummer.

Dad and I, we sat around, in the sun. I bought juice from the concession stand and sat around some more. We watched the lifeguards gather together and then bring out a long net. "Are you sure that won't break it apart and make things worse?" I heard one of them say. "Things are already worse," another said.

I guess Code brown is a pretty serious thing. Everyone wanted to know who the culprit was, but no one would confess, of course. Who would?

Dad and I left after an hour. We didn't look into the pool, at least I didn't. We got ice cream instead.

Assessments

People are asking me all the time lately, "Are you okay?"

I say lately, but of course, people have been worried about me for a long time. Well, I am busy now, which is stressful but good. I have a bit of purpose again.

You want to know the truth? I think I am doing great. I ate five cupcakes this morning, and did not feel guilty. On my day off, I slept 13 hours, and told myself I deserved it. I did deserve it, by God. Who is the boss of Curt? Curt, that's who.

I am sure there is nothing original about this post. I remember when I was first arrested, all the assessments, all the questions. The men with red pens and the sympathetic women with funny hats. People asking if you are okay when they really know the answer and just want to find out why. What is wrong???

I would like my epitaph to read, "He was okay."

Maybe not, but it would be nice in the end if that were true. Hopefully, I am getting there.

Little Bit Fancy

The hotel I work at is a little bit fancy. Because it is a little bit fancy, it supplies robes to its patrons. And shampoos and lotions in little bottles. The patron is charged if he or she takes a towel or a robe, that is how precious the thread count is, which is pretty precious, I guess, because on more than one occasion, I have searched for a robe or a towel, and not been able to find it, and then I have to report it to my manager, Jo, short for Joanne.

The robes are white. They have little side pockets. I imagine that they are not funny if someone tries one on in an attempt to be funny. Unless, that person sticks their hands into the side pockets. That would be funny!

Wouldn't that be funny!

Carpe "Diem"

It is crazy to go from not busy at all to very busy. It is nice. It is good to work towards something. It is good to have goals.

I bought some pickling cucumbers yesterday at the flea market. I am going to make bread and butter pickles, and if they turn out well, maybe I will sell jars for supplemental income!

I have to sleep! Tomorrow is a new day!

Buenes "Noches"!

Napes

It is five letters.

A gas station is well lit at night. I guess I never noticed how well lit a gas station is until I started working at one. Not much happens during my shifts, I'm finding, except a few people pulling up and filling their cars with gas and then driving off. Sometimes, someone will buy coffee or use the bathroom. Sometimes, it is a stick of beef jerky.

I read the newspapers. All of them. Because I can and because I used to deliver these newspapers so that other people could read them, but I never looked inside, flipped the pages, smeared inky fingers on tabletops or on coffee mugs or on my face, by accident, haha! If only I had looked inside these bundles earlier! What great pleasure it gives me.

Down.

It's all about the Funnies. Dad never let me read the newspaper, or, maybe I never wanted to read the newspaper. Either way, it doesn't matter because I'm aware of the Funnies now, and that's what's important. That I know about the Funnies. The games. The comics. The crossword puzzles.

A clue is way of getting to know someone.

Neck parts.

Someone walks in that wants to talk, but not necessarily with a stranger. I have worked two shifts and already I can tell who these people are. They possess a nervous kind of energy like a bowling ball without a hole for the thumb, buy vitamin enhanced water, knock before using the bathroom, etc. They come to the register and there I am. Waiting.

I ask: What's a five letter word for neck parts.

In most cases, the response is a: What? Or a: I don't know.

But sometimes the person really gives it some thought, really doesn't want to let me down.

Sometimes, they come up with an answer that fits.

Beauty

I remember once, I was walking Warden and Stella. This was a long time ago, shortly after I had adopted Warden. Warden went into his pre-poop spins but somehow forgot what he was doing or got distracted by a smell and he lifted his leg and went number 1 instead of number 2 and then he just spun a little more and got back into the deuce. It was awkward, and kind of intense. And very beautiful, in its own way.

I guess the point is, sometimes maybe you start something, and maybe you lose your way, but it's important to finish, or try to finish, I think. I think persistence is what makes special people special.

Today, I stocked the minibars at the hotel. It was nice, better than cleaning up after people. The boss said that I did a much better job than the regular minibar stocker, who is blind. I met that person the other day, Melvin, and he was very nice. But I guess he is not a very good minibar stocker.

America, America!

Today, I eat a burger cooked with butter. Today, I drink beer. Today, I watch the fireworks. Happy birthday, America, America!

This Economy

Dogs need food. And shelter. And flea medicine. And heartworm medicine.

These things cost money. And of course, Curt Jimenez has needs too, which also cost money. He can no longer live with his father. He is emotionally spent.

Thus, Curt needed a job. Curt needed to find an employer as desperate as he is.

So now, Curt is working as the rendering plant.

Just kidding.

Curt is now working part-time cleaning hotel rooms.

Also, he is working two midnight shifts at the gas station.

Things are happening!

Fast!

You understand. You must.

I don't know, sometimes. All the time. I wish I never came back home sometimes, it hurts because there are disappointments, everywhere, all the time where I did not expect them. The kitchen counters are not as tall as I remembered, the living room is not as bright as it was in my youth. There is a smell that I cannot place--it is neither good or bad, it is not even in between sometimes, never. All the times I thought I could not remain for too long, I did not know that too long was not too long but was still long enough. I invite the dogs into my house one day and tell them to leave and it hurts because there are disappointments, everywhere, all the time where I did not expect them. Leave, I say, you understand. I'm sure because sometimes, all the time, everywhere, one cannot remain too long. I laugh at hurt faces, even if they are the faces of dogs. Too long is still long enough, I say. You understand. You must because you have things to do like stare at walls in silence, at reflections, and pace. I do not enjoy your company, it seems, as much as I had thought. How could it be otherwise?

Why would the dogs want to come back home? Over and over again, they are hurt sometimes, disappointed, everywhere, all the time they do not expect it.

Progress

There is a hard Swedish cookie, or cracker, Dad brought home from a Swedish store that sells Swedish furniture and pillows made from highly flammable synthetic fibers synthesized in Sweden. It is round, with a hole in the center and reminds me of something you'd toss to someone in distress, probably in a pool, or like, an ocean, except it is very flat and brittle and would do no good except soak up a minuscule amount of water, which is pointless in the grand scheme of things. That is part of the reason why it is deceptive.

Perhaps, I thought this morning at the table, the first thing I should do is call the kennels to find out about Regrette and Warden. I started making a list of questions that would be appropriate to ask over the phone. Questions that were short, without double meaning, and ones I could enunciate, if I was asked to repeat them. Questions like: How are you? Then: How can I find out about the dogs I did not want?

But I was hungry because I started writing this list before I had had anything to eat. Then I saw the cookie, or cracker. I wonder if in Sweden, a cookie is something that is not so sweet. Because, the cookie or cracker I had was not sweet, but it wasn't salty either. I wonder too, if in Sweden, a cracker is not so salty. I felt like a cow, because cows eat grass, which I imagine tastes much like this Swedish thing and now I understood why Dad never ate much of it after he had brought it home, along with a bookshelf that was a giant square divided into many smaller squares, like a graph.

What did I find in the fridge? Cream cheese.

I broke off a piece of the Swedish cracker, or cookie, and skimmed it along the cream cheese and what I ate was much better than how it had been, and I felt like a person again, and not a cow. And I found I could continue with my quest in reattaining my dogs, thinking of these questions.

Everyone has his or her pet peeves. My father's, I remembered just then, was that he hated when there were crumbs in his cream cheese. And there were a ton of crumbs from the cookie, or cracker, that I had stupidly dunked into his cream cheese. This made me upset. I broke off another piece of the Swedish cookiecracker and tried to fish out the crumbs, but things only got worse.

In short, I finished the cream cheese. I ate the entirety of the Swedish cookie, or cracker, and felt like a cow again. These things happen, I guess. Progress is slower than one often thinks. Look, over there, although you cannot see it, the bookshelf is nearly empty.

Regrettes, I've had my Share

If you are anything like me, you spend way to much time asking "why".

Sometimes, not often enough, I can get going without getting too hung up on the question. For a while, I was able to just get things done.

When I was on my own, with my dogs, a lot of stuff made sense. Or it seemed to make sense, or I was able to ignore that things didn't make sense just because if I didn't get out of bed everybody would starve. And dogs can't wish their movements away.

"Why?" Then, it was for me. For Stella. For Warden, and Regrette. For Us. For Tony's memory. For ex-cons everywhere who were trying to make it on the outside.

In prison, I could get by just dreaming of being on the outside. But on the outside, what am I living for, when the soothing dog rhythms are gone and the only thing left is a middle aged man who can't get out of bed?

I remember, a couple years before I fired the shot, Tony and I were biking to a party when my chain slipped off. I didn't know how to fix it, but Tony was gone. It was dark, and I was all alone. Miles from home, and miles from where I was going. I wasn't upset at Tony--he had an urgency to the way he operated that kept him from ever slowing down--but when your best friend can let you down like that, the world feels like a much darker place.

I go to the diner with my dad sometimes in the morning. The old retirees meet there and they talk about baseball, and houses, and stuff like that. They get excited, and they talk about whose kids are are on drugs and the ones that got arrested and then they remember that I'm there and they twiddle their thumbs and they look at the ground and they wish I wasn't there, and my dad wishes I wasn't there, and I wish that I wasn't there. But where else can I be?

I am not going to ask "why" anymore. I am going to get on my feet, and I am going to get my dogs back.

A Poem I Found Crumpled Up in My Father's Coat Pocket

Hot.
Hotter.
Hottest!!!
Hot.


Cool.

Curt Jimenez Attends a Talk. Thinks.

It takes a lot of energy to imagine how things appear after looking at them from all angles and then not having the pleasure of watching them, not even watching, but running your eyes across them, anymore. Or just observing these things, with multiple surfaces, from one angle. That is difficult.

I think I understand.

This idea of imagining the entire dimensions of something from nothing or from one angle is not my own, but that of a woman who was talking about her films on radiation and plum. I've never seen her films. I don't remember her name. But I remember she was insistent that plums could not be more than one, not under any circumstances. Therefore, several plums were several plum. That, too, I think I understand.

I went to her talk because I felt especially worldly today, and because of the tornado watch. What would I do if I saw a tornado? I wouldn't watch it.

After the talk, I tried to imagine a tornado from one angle. It came to me like this: how I used to draw flags on top of castles, which I also used to draw. The tornado was a flat triangle. Then, I removed the lines from the triangle because tornadoes don't have solid walls, and imagined lines like eyebrows. My tornado did not move. It did not make a noise. It was difficult to understand.

Do you know because I tell you so, or do you know, do you know.

Evian said, "I don't know how to stop," before I knew she was Evian. She was sitting in the library, so she whispered these things, but I heard her still. "I'm moving all the time, I have motion-less sickness. I'm dry," she said. "Like dehydrated." She knew I was listening because why else would she say these things in whispers meant for someone to hear?
"I'm Evian," she said.
"Curtis," I said, because I am tired of meeting people and writing that I've met so-and-so on this blog, and then never really seeing them again and then never writing their names down again on this blog and because what was the point of telling Evian that I was Curt, instead of Curtis? How could it offend her? How could I hurt her feelings? How did I know that her name was Evian, and not Ivana, or Else?
"Do you know because I tell you so, or do you know, do you know," she said.

What is boredom but nonsense? I could have walked away, I could have asked her what she meant, I could have told her that I had been moving, also, that I had lost a great many things and gained in tiny increments, vague, frustrating, and delicious interpretations of myself.
I should have ignored Evian. But she didn't give me a chance. She stood up and walked away.

The barcode on my library card was blurred. The man at the check-out counter told me so. He typed in my numbers and said I had a twenty-five cent fine. I dug in my pockets for a coin and came up with nothing.

Mi casa es su casa

The sound of the food processor drives Dad crazy, vrrr vrrr, mad, vrrr, vrrr, he shouts, "Curt! Curt! Turn that thang off!" I call Guy. Guy tells me that he's a vegan. "What's that even mean?" I say. "No animals, Curt," Guy says. But he's still not clear, or at least he's not clear enough for me. "No hamburgers," I say. "Nope," Guy says. "No eggs?" I say. "No eggs," Guy says. "What about fish?" I say. "Not even fish," he says. He knows it's coming. "No...butter?" I say. "No butter," he says. "Well, I mean, I can have something called Earth Balance." "I want to cry," I say aloud, even though I intended to think it instead. "Don't be so dramatic," Guy says. "I feel great. And, it doesn't mean you can't eat butter," he says. "I can't make butter here!" I say. "It's always, Turn that thang off," I say, imitating Dad. I am sobbing. "Curt," Guy says. "Mi casa es su casa."

I'm not dead,

am I?

Beginning, Again

Pa's house is cold. Cool, like the underside of a rock. Did I mention this before, about Pa's house? And what is this, me calling Dad, Pa? Did I write once that Pa and Pal were so close, but couldn't be farther away? That the L made all the difference?

The house is dark, just outside the city. I can't help but think the dogs would have liked it out here, running through brambles, bringing the smell of branches inside the house, that is, if Dad/Pa let them into the house, which he wouldn't have, he was never one for dogs, especially "big" ones.

This wave I'm riding, where does it really begin? Where does it end? How far onto the beach will it take me?

I can't say that "riding" this wave has been comfortable. I am saving money. I am away from all the ruckus. But my commute to work is 16 1/2 minutes longer and I have not concocted a single butter since moving in with Papa. Papa, now that's one way to say Dad.

I cannot walk to the library. Or walk in the cemetery. And me and Dad, we must begin again.

Homes: "If you begin and it is not the beginning, begin again."
Curt: "I will begin again."

Surf

Big changes are coming.

I'm moving back in with my father. After 34 some years.

Big. Changes.

Sometimes you just have to get on a board, and ride the tide. Or something.

Trespassers will be persecuted!

It is "hard" to believe, or at least it is for me, that March has arrived. The darkest, coldest days of winter have come and gone, I hope.

Let me tell you what I did in March so far. I went to the grocery store because I wanted to buy an avocado because avocados remind me of butter. An avocado is a buttery vegetable, except that it's really a fruit. A buttery fruit. When I got to the grocery store, the fruit and vegetable aisles were being stocked and I didn't want to bother the grocers stocking the fruits and vegetables because I didn't want to get in their way and have them stop doing what they were doing just so I could grab one avocado. Also, a long time ago, a man who worked at a grocery store told me that there were spiders in the boxes of bananas and that they were poisonous and fast and I didn't want to take my chances with poisonous, fast spiders. I thought about leaving the grocery store and coming back later in the day so I wouldn't inconvenience them because I know how it feels to be inconvenienced while on the job, trust me. But I didn't leave the grocery store. Instead, I wandered. I like looking at food in places other than my apartment because it looks different than it does in my apartment. The food in the grocery store looked clean and sad. I wandered for quite some time, but the grocers in the fruit and vegetable aisle kept stocking fruits and vegetables and I had to use the bathroom and so, I left the grocery store without an avocado. I walked past an abandoned house that had a message written across the rotted siding in black paint: Dangerous! No trespassing! Trespassers will be persecuted!

I walked home to my apartment. Disappointed. And then I thought, "Well, tomorrow, I will purchase an avocado and it will be even more delicious and buttery because I was patient."

Patience, I am learning, is important.

I will endure. I will endure.

On Beards

I didn't tell you that I grew a beard! It is very exciting. I am saving many dollars on razors, shaving foam, and aftershave. People grow beards for a lot of reasons. For me, there is the financial one, sure, and it is also helpful in keeping my face warm when I go outside. It is funny to look in the mirror and see yourself with a crazy beard and wonder, for a split second, who is that crazy bearded guy? But it is just me, the same old Curt.

My beard is very gray, which makes me feel a little old. I had thoughts of dyeing it, but of course that would negate the financial benefits. The other day a small girl thought I was Santa Claus, but I pointed to my sad butter-deprived belly and told her Santa could never be so skinny. Suddenly realizing I was a stranger, she ran.

I would like to find a way to dye it, if it wasn't cross prohibitive. Maybe red, or blue, or jet black, People could call me "Redbeard", or whatever's appropriate. I think I would like that.

Dear Homes,

Hi, it's me, Curt. I don't know why I didn't think of writing this letter sooner. Life outside of prison seems to move a lot faster than it does inside of prison. It's been over a year since my release. Can you believe it? Remember when we had dish duty together? Those were the days. Those were the days you spoke and I listened to what you were speaking. And how much I learned! And how much you spoke! All the wisdom you imparted unto me and how you encouraged me to write. Rock and a hard place. That's where I was. I was so angry. I was so sad. You took away the rock, or the hard place, and I entered into another world, one in which all the rocks and hard places were supple mounds and soft slabs of butter! Butter, butter, butter!

So much has happened. And so little, too. I don't know if you would be proud, or disappointed with the progress I've made. It seems like progress is but a circular path. I hope I'm wrong. You would tell me that I was wrong. You would say, "Curt, even the planets do not travel the same path around the sun, and around and around they go. Around." And I would think about that in my cell, late at night, of the planets moving around and around the sun.

One thing I didn't expect, Homes, was to hurt so much once I'd left prison. That was silly of me, wasn't it? The death of Stella, my beautiful dog. My life coach, Rick, and former chess buddy, Bailey. The jobs I've had and lost and regained again. Warden. Regrette.

I miss you, Homes. But I know I won't be able to see you for a very long time. I hope you are teaching someone else, speaking, and I hope this someone is listening. Always listening and thinking about what was said in his prison cell, late at night, when it is quietest. I want to help people, Homes. I want to be a Homes outside of prison. A Curt.

What do you think about that?
I think you would say, "Curt, I think you understand. Turn on the faucet. Let the water run."

Best,
Curt G. Jimenez

Save Yourself

I went down to the drugstore down the street to get some aspirin and to try to warm up a bit (my apartment is brrrrr cold!) when I saw this magazine, with a picture of a young man just getting out of prison. Of course, it reminded me of when I got out of prison, and the things I wished I had known back then. If only present day Curt Jimenez could warn fresh-out-of-prison Curt Jimenez of the mistakes he would soon be making in rapid succession. I know that's impossible, but it led me to thinking that maybe I have an obligation to help others who are being dumped out into society with a serious mountain to climb. Think about it--who will employ this Lil' Wayne? Especially now that his face is on the cover of a major magazine, and now everyone will know he is a convict. I know, I have my own problems, but I empathize. Could there be work for me, helping ease convicts back into society? Of course, I would have to overcome my communication deficits. And it might be a difficult sell that I should serve as a role model of success after prison.

But what if?

I shouldn't not try, right?

It's an idea, anyways.

Homes gave me the best advice I got from anybody about what my life would be after prison. "It's a dog-eat-dog world out there for everybody," he told me, "and an ex-con ain't even a dog." Then he gave me one of his I'm-so-serious-you-don't-even-know stares.

I guess he was right.

How a Logger Gives a Gift

Guy found a place to live. He packed his things and moved down the street. Before he returned the copy of keys I'd given to him earlier, he handed me this book. It wasn't wrapped up or anything--Guy is not that kind of person. I'm not going to lie. I teared up just a bit and Guy might have too.

"It's clear to me that you're pretty serious about butter," he said.

"Very serious," I said.

After Guy left, the apartment was very still. I miss Guy and Regrette and Warden. But, it has been a very long time since I've been in a room, alone. "A room to myself," Homes would say. "That's what I want the most and want not the most."

I flipped through the book.
I heard every page.

Where have I been? What have I been doing?

Despite the rumors, I am not dead. I am not sad nor am I lonely. I am not mad. I am not even very busy.

This is what I've been contemplating:

When you start on a long journey, trees are trees, water is water, and mountains are mountains. After you have gone some distance, trees are no longer trees, water no longer water, mountains no longer mountains. But after you have travelled a great distance, trees are once again trees, water is once again water, mountains are once again mountains.

This was said to me by someone who was studying the Zen teachings. It reminded me of: "The past and the future. The future. The past. The future and the past."

I am here. I have not left you. Guy is here too. He says Hello.

Acquiescence

I've been here before.

Asking for help. Taking whatever I can get.

Warden isn't dead, but I could no longer feed him. Regrette, too. They are back at the shelter, perhaps adopted by now by some caring soul(s). Perhaps I will get my feet back under me, and they will still be there, and I will take them back. Perhaps I know deep down that that will not ever be true. Curt Jimenez can't pretend that the way things were will ever be the way they are again. If I ever have a job again, I must know that it is as subject to sudden change as the weather. A person living such an existence cannot take on such things as dogs.

I have sold things. My computer. My accordion. My food processor. Were it that I had anything else of any value, these would most likely be gone as well. I think of Rick's voice in my ear--I am practicing detachment! The things I once loved are detaching themselves from me slowly, one-by-one. They have gone, as easily as they came. Rick would have told me that they were never mine anyways. The library still exists, and will still let me in to warm up and check my email, see if anybody has work for an old con. Nobody does, it seems.

So what of this blog? Alas, it is one of the few things that I don't think anyone can take away, even once my landlord stops taking pity on me, so maybe I will keep up with it, to whatever degree I can. I don't know that writing is therapy, but it is something. I have not brought much good into the world. At least this little blog might be able to supplement that sad legacy a bit.

Who invented the wheel?

I wonder how many times it took to figure out that a circle would work best.

How many times, Curt, can you move forward like this?

First, a triangle.

Then, a square.

Afterwards, a vision quest.

But still. The ride is bumpy. Lumpy. Something is not right.

Why is it that a hole lets so much air in?

Relativity

If you are worried about me, don't be. So many have it worse than me, why should I pretend that my suffering is special, that it makes me exceptional? Think about it--I've never sold my body for money or drugs, I almost always have enough to eat (sometimes very delicious things), and I have a roof over my head, for the time being at least, even if there is a little drip drip drip that I can hear but can't see that torments me just a little bit before I fall asleep at night. Perhaps my ceiling will collapse, and I will sue my landlord! What a boon that would be.

Warden had a few great years with me, and then it was suddenly over, before hip dysplasia could set in, before his teeth had rotted so irreparably that I would have to throw his kibble in the blender. He would regret then never having listened to my urgings for him to chew his food, if only for the sake of his teeth. But he took such pleasure in scarfing! He tried so hard, and in the end, it never even mattered!

What further ailments and sufferings await me, if I don't get so lucky to be hit by a car, or better yet to just *poof* have the old ticker poop out on me in the middle of the night?

If this is punishment for wrongs committed in the past, why are there such bright moments in between the miseries? Is it just to make the little hells be magnified? If it was all just suffering, would it feel so bad?

Every time I start to believe that everything is relative, I realize fully that it's not. And then the knife turns again, a little deeper into my soul.

Reasons I Did Not Post

Yesterday, The Ghost fired me (again).
Warden was struck by a car and died.
I got into a fight with Guy and he called me "burnt toast unworthy of butter" and I kicked him out, but not before he set the couch on fire.
I got second degree burns on my arms and chest.
I am despairing. I am in a very dark place.
I am letting you all down.
There is nothing anymore.
I have failed in every aspect of my life.
I am a big loser and always will be.
I am down and out, forever.
Don't look at me, you'll catch what I've got.
It's alright if you pretend you never knew me. I understand.
That is all.

Rung-less Ladder

I have been trying to stay warm. I have been doing this by drinking more hott beverages. And by staying very still underneath blankets. This is the time of year when delivering papers is the worst. Staying up late, on account of Guy and his video games, and waking up early, only to feel kind of burly.

The Ghost doesn't care how I feel, or how my hands feel, or how my nose feels like it's not even on my face! What does that guy even do, besides yell commands and poke chap stick onto his lips? Can I even work my way up in this business? After I excel at delivering papers, do I get to deliver magazines? Then "hott" magazines in paper bags? Then, normal mail? Then, government mail? Then, international mail? I doubt it. OMG. This ladder has no rungs! A rung-less ladder is the wrong ladder to be climbing up--I am just realizing--gaw!

I think it's time for a raise for Curt G. Jimenez. Tomorrow, I think I will ask for a raise. Tomorrow, I will say, "Hey, Mr. Ghost sir..." Yeah, that's what I'll do.

Then, I'll buy a space heater. Or two.

Change

This year has not started off so well. It is no one thing, nor is it many things. It just is. Or I think it just is.

I have been thinking that maybe there is something wrong. Something big. Something that must change. I am not saying that it is Guy. I do not think it is Guy. Most likely, I think it is Curt.

Of course it is Curt. But what? Is it his job? His family? His dogs? God forbid, his hobby?

Change. Chains. Chains, changed. Change change chains.

Pink

I am wearing a pink shirt. The shirt was not pink, originally.

Guy thought he'd be nice and do my laundry. This was after he opened his eyes and said, "I will do your laundry, how about that?"

"Sure," I said. This was the seventh day of my new life and I figured, what the heck.

I am wearing the pink shirt because in my new life I am trying to be more thankful, despite the outcomes. Guy had good intentions. And my shirt is clean. In fact, the shirt has inspired a butter. Rose butter. Rose water and heavy whipping cream and just a spot of coloring.

They say it takes a real man to wear pink...right?

Cartwheels!

A short post today.



I am tired.


Last night, a very drunk man was doing cartwheels in the street. He woke me up.

"Do another one!" the girl with him would say, after every one. And he would do another one. And she would say it again.


They were not good cartwheels, but he finished enthusiastically, with a smile and his hands held high. Then he would almost fall over.


What an existence!

Containment

What I remember about Florida is that everything sounded like paper in the wind. The palms, the grass, even the people talking, so that it seemed like it was an artificial place, like a movie set, and that I wasn't me, but someone who spoke like paper when the the wind blew.

I did not know of butter then, not the way I know of butter now, and I had not yet met Homes, or killed Tony, and so the things I said were paper thin and I moved through time as if the days were much longer than they really were. And the whole time, I thought I was moving further away from disappointment, when in actuality, I had opened its door.

But my family traveled to Florida many times and every time, we stayed in hotels with green carpets and killed the cockroaches underneath the sink, in cupboards with laminate to appear like wood. It was in Florida that I called an old woman a b**ch at a swimming pool. I was six. Didn't know what I'd said, but knew that it wasn't nice and Mom pulled me by the ear out of the pool and I screamed the whole time.

Why did Dad take us there? He went to the races. He drank cheap beer from plastic cups and held ticket stubs like they were gilded in gold. He taunted jockeys he didn't like and gazed at the horses through binoculars he'd found on a park bench in Pittsburgh. He pointed out the horses that shivered with sweat and told my sister and I that they'd never win a race. And where was Mom? I don't remember. But she wasn't there.

I was the last to fall asleep. Of that I am sure. This is because I was afraid of the dark, of all the things that could be crawling around me that I couldn't see, but my feet were always too hot to keep beneath the sheets. I had to be brave every night, to stick my feet out into the darkness, where something could take them from me. Even after I'd grown older, and the darkness did not terrify me, I was the last to fall asleep because I listened to how the wind shuffled the palms like papers.

All four of us slept in a single room, in two beds. My sister and I did not sleep so that we pointed in opposite directions, our heads and our feet on opposite ends of the bed. We were not afraid of each other's breaths. I listened to everyone in their sleep. How Dad was the first to depart into his mind, his exhalations heavier, sometimes emitting a nasally wheeze. Then Mom, breathing through clenched teeth, producing a hiss. Finally, my sister, whose breathing became quieter. Shallow.

We were so close then, so intimate. All four of us in a small space, in a paper box. But we could not contain ourselves.

Ripening

I read that butter used to be buried in Ireland, in the book: The Ins and Outs of Butter. Buried in bogs, hundreds of pounds of butter, aging, rotting, attaining "bite" and ripening.

It's time to take my butter to the next level. That is one of the resolutions I made for 2011--to take my butter to the next level. I will ripen my butter. I will dig a hole into the hard ground and bury my butter and wait. I will be patient.

While I wait, maybe I will make medicated butter. Maybe I will crush pain killers into the heavy whipping cream. Maybe I will market this butter as the spreadable brain soother. Surely, this will take my butter to the next level.

Things are going to move forward much faster this year. I can feel it. I am ripening. I am nestled in a pouch. This pouch is part of a trebuchet. This trebuchet is ready to launch me from its pouch.

What a "Guy"

The thing with Guy is that he's gotten pretty serious since his logging experience. When I come home from work, he's asleep on the couch, except that he isn't. He says, "Hello Curt, how was work?" with his eyes closed. It didn't use to bother me, but lately, it has because why can't he say these things with his eyes open?

"Why can't you talk with your eyes open?" I asked him today.
"Because I am thinking about serious things and I can't talk and think about these serious things with my eyes open," he said.
"What?"
"Multi-tasking," Guy said.

But the thing about this kind of "serious" thinking is that it goes on and on. Sometimes, Guy doesn't move from the couch, not even when Warden sits on top of him and licks his face. Frankly, it's been freaking me out.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked Guy after I gave Regrette and Warden some peanut butter filled bones.

"I am thinking about this one time I was a kid and playing with all the other neighborhood kids and we were playing a game called 'Animals' and we had to choose an animal that we wanted to be. If you were an animal, what animal would you be?" Guy asked me.

"A cow," I said, "because then I could make all the butter I wanted," I said.

"You see," Guy said, "that's the way all the other kids answered. But I said I wanted to be a sad, white owl in a puddle of water. A sad, white owl that couldn't fly and became friends with all the field mice."

"Guy," I said. "How long has it been since you opened your eyes?"

"A very long time," Guy said.

Better Better!

Hello world,

Yesterday was the first day of my life!
I couldn't be more excited about this!

It is a new year for new and improved better better butters!