Why Would you Stop?

Guy and I used to watch it, and talk about it. The part where he says "shove it up your nose". Guy used to get excited and he'd talk about what a feeling it must have been,  to be singing with that amazing band behind him, to be stoned out of his mind, and just to be Elvis. What a glorious mess. He can't stop. Would you have been able to stop?

Monica is looking at buying a house. She asked me if I wanted to come along with her to look at a few. Sure, I told her, why not, I am not a bad person. What a grown up thing to do! She says she likes my perspective, though I am not sure what that means. She has another date with the blind man on Wednesday. She says she cannot tell if she likes him or if she just pities him, and she has to figure it out. There was a blind man in prison I knew who was locked up for stealing a lot of money from a church. I am not sure if he was a bad person or not. Monica is not made of money, and the first house we see is very small. Too small for Loving Hand and Burning Hand I say, but she says, "I could make it work!" The second house is a wreck, there is an open house and everything is a mess and the owners are clearly hoarders who have let life get away from them.They are sitting in a van outside smoking cigarettes, and their 5 dogs (!) are sitting on the back porch pawing and scratching to be let in, or maybe just wanting to be told that everything is going to be ok. I wish I could tell them that. If I could be that guy. The carpets, the kitchen, everything, is a disaster. Monica says she sees through the mess and feels the potential of the place. All I see is sadness. I could not live here, but it is not my house hunt.

I have been feeling at times a big emptiness lately. I wonder what it was like to be Elvis, to have such success and such big thrills and to still have such huge appetites that were so impossible to sate. I think if I had what he had I might not have made it as far as he did. I am poor and lazy. What if I wasn't? Could I say no to so many temptations? I once read a biography of Elvis by Bobbie Anne Mason. She writes short stories that remind me of my mom. Elvis really loved his mom. I forgot that I read that book, and then I kept wondering how I knew so much of Elvis' life. Then I remembered.

Curt, you are so complicated! Monica says. I do not feel complicated. I just feel hopeless. Where is my great moment, my pinnacle? If you found yourself on a Las Vegas stage in front of an amazing band singing a great song, and you were Elvis again, wouldn't you want to stay there as long as you could? As long as you could sustain it? Forever if you could? Is there something better? Will I ever taste anything remotely like that?

Monica says that the blind man lost his sight when he was working in downtown Philadelphia building a skyscraper. He had a wife and kids and his life was good, and work was hard and tedious but he was excited to think that someday whenever he drove by that building with his family he could point to it and say "I helped build that," to his sons and his daughter and that they would know that there dad didn't just leave the house in the morning to do nothing, that he was a man who built things. Then there was an accident, and then his marriage was over, and then there was nothing left except that he was a blind man. All of his old adjectives turned into a single one. But he had turned to Jesus, and he was starting to understand things, Monica said. A man who could overcome something like that, Monica said. Monica was apparently drawn to broken people.

"Which house do you like better?" I ask Monica.

"I like them both," she says, "but I'm not sure how much. I'm not sure if I like them for me."

I try to picture Monica living in the houses with her dogs, and I can picture it, but it doesn't make things any clearer. Buying a house is a big commitment. You don't know how long the roof is going to hold out, whether something will happen and you won't be able to make your mortgage payment, whether a rendering plant will be built next door that will destroy the value of your property. Houses have secrets, I say. Monica says that good things can happen too, that maybe you buy a house one day and then find out that Elvis was born there and you won't have to work another day in your life! Sometimes there are good secrets, she says.

I remind Monica that there's only one Elvis, and she seems to have had enough of talking to me for the day.

Bring Me Up To Speed

Whew, yesterday's adventure left me bushed!


This post is a recap, a sort of bringing us back up to speed, a revving up, a gearing up:


The infamous nuisance.
The quietest mourning.
How I sometimes always feel before I post.
The appearance and disappearance of Clyde.
Curt's curtness.
Breaking the 4th wall.
The curious Ronny.
How to pronounce Guy.
The Ghost...terminates.
Holy Fok.
Super Bowl.

Abalone

Ne hao, I say.
Bao yu, I say.  
Shh, Guy says. I can't take it anymore.
What you got here? a man says.
Ne hao, I say in my head.
Stuff, I say in my head.
Junk, I say in my head.
S**t, I say in my head.
Things you probably don't need, I say in my head.
Or want, I say in my head.
Things falling apart, I say in my head.
Fine things we've picked up along the way, Guy says.
Cheap, Guy says.
Sturdy, Guy says.
Bao yu, I say.
Shh, Guy says.
Nice, the man says.
Very nice, the man says.
We are on the sidewalk. The things are on a table. The table separates us from this man. This man says, I'm Paul. This man says, I like old things because they make me feel good, because they don't make em like they used to, do they?
No Paul, Guy says, they don't, Paul.
I'm from Arizona, Paul says. It's hot there, but in a different way.
I know what you mean, Paul, Guy says. Dry heat versus...
Versus all this humidity, Guy says.
Half the time, I feel like I'm melting, I say.
Paul says nothing.
Guy clears his throat.
The other half, I'm freezing, I say.
I know what you mean, Paul says. He says, I'm working on a house.
He says, blah blah blah drywall blah blah blah drywall.
Guy says, I know what you mean about that blah blah blah blah drywall.
Drywall, I say.
Paul waits.
Is tough, I say.
Paul leaves.
I say, Goodbye. It is too difficult for me to say it in Chinese. So I say, Goodbye. Come back soon.

Pet Mother

Guy opens a cabinet. He tells me, Curt is to butter as Guy is to kombucha.

There are jars and jars of the stuff. He takes one out and shows it to me, lets me hold it, and says that I should take it, that I should take care of his mother. I say, Don't tell me what I should do, and he says, You can take one if you'd like, it would be something like a pet.
A pet? I say.

Now, at home, the mother is on the table, my new pet. I watch it for a while, but it doesn't do much. But I am afraid that I might kill it, that something will happen and it will get loose and I'll never be able to find it, or that it will get run over by a car.

I pour a little bit of the kombucha into a glass and take a sip. It is sour, burns. It fills me, and Dad walks in and asks what the h*ll it is! I say, It's my new pet. Well, he says, get it out of here, it looks filthy! So I take the mother into my room. I set it on my bureau. I try to come up with a name. I fall asleep.

What it means

Guy takes me to a house, and I don't even know why I agree to go with him, except I have nothing better to do, what with not having to work today, and without having anything to fill my days, so I go with him, to a house on the outskirts of the outskirts, in a cul-de-sac covered in trees and shrubs in need of manicures, lawn ornaments, fences, long driveways, dogs tied to trees with tennis balls in their mouths, or bones, and we go into the house and we walk from one room into another, around one person, into the kitchen, where I see these butter knives, and I know that I must have them, feel with my entire being that I must take them home with me, but that I must not use them, ever, and Guy moves on into another part of the house while I pick up the knives, remember the one I stole, and why did I steal it? and why do I want these knives? why do I feel that I must have them but must not use them to spread butter? and I gather them into my hands and pay for them, two dollars, and I put them in my pocket and when Guy comes back, with some knickknacks under his arms, some albums, a paperweight, a poster, a picture frame, and a koozie, he asks if I'm going to get anything, and I say no, no that I will not get anything, and he asks: How will we be able to sell nothing? I say, I don't know if I'm going to sell anything, and he pays and we drive back to my house, and I say goodbye to Guy, who says that he is going to sell what he's bought and if I want, I can join him to see what it "all about" and then he drives away and I make my way into my bedroom and take out the knives and place them on the pillowcase and crawl into the bed, beside them, looking at them, wondering what I'm doing, why I am like this, and I love them, and I will take care of them, good care of them, and I will never sell them, and I wonder how anyone could let them go, and for two dollars! I pick one up and pretend to spread something in my palm, a nice, cool butter in my palm and I spread and I spread, and I watch the knife move and do its thing, and it is doing it nicely and I set it down and I pick up another one and spread something, a nice, creamy butter onto my other hand, and then I set it down, and I am feeling something, something so strange and this must be what it means to be alone--to spread imaginary butter onto your hands in a bed on a Saturday afternoon, yes, this is what it must mean.

Future Past Present Tense

From time to time I show up in myself just long enough for people to know that they are not in the room alone. Usually, these are people who expect something from me--a near future, a not-too-distant future. What I tell them is limited to the people I have already had myself married against. Everything I say is to the best of my knowledge and next to nothing. It comes nowhere close.

--Gary Lutz

Bailey says, “You’re a little less kind.”

I say, “I am, but a little more patient.”

Bailey says, “You say a little less.”

I say, “But I think I think a little more.”

Bailey says, “Hmm.”

I say, “What did you expect?”

Bailey says, “I’m not sure, but I know there were expectations.”

I say, “What kinds of expectations?”

Bailey says, “Ones that haven’t been met.”

I say, “It’s been awhile.”

Guy says, “This is boring. Listening to you two is like watching a long commercial.”

Guy says, “Neither one of you has moved a piece in over five minutes, isn’t that against the rules or something?”

Guy picks up my pawn. “Look, you can move here or here. Or here. Ta-da.”

Bailey says, “Maybe we should have played another game.”

Guy nods.

I move my rook, diagonally.

Bailey says, “You can’t do that, but I can let it go this one time.”

I say, “Okay, thanks.”

Guy says, “I’m going to leave. You want a ride back to your place?”

I say, “Yes.”

Bailey says, “No one won.”

I say, “No one lost either.”

Bailey shrugs. He picks up the pieces.

Bailey says, “See you soon?” 

I say, “In the future.”

Guy is waiting in the car.

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.

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.

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?

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.

The One That Got Away

I was eight, when the one got away. I don't really remember what happened, or what it was exactly that got away, but after it happened, Dad said, "Curt, that was the one that got away." I've tried many times to think about what got away, and from whom, and why. The easiest thing to do, I suppose, would be to ask Dad what it was that got away when I was eight, but it's not so easy when there is a strange tension broiling beneath the surfaces. And then, what if Dad doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about? Worse yet, what if he does, but pretends that he doesn't?

Sometimes, I wonder if its even worth thinking about anymore. But no matter how hard I try to forget about what I don't even know, I find myself thinking about the one that got away even more.

These are the things I remember about that day:
It was a bright day, Mom and Dad were in the house, so it must have been a Saturday or a Sunday, I was out back with Tony tossing a football, it was not hot, and it was not cold. There might have been a sound, some noise, a car? Then, later, Dad said, "Curt, that was the one that got away."

It's December. Nearly Christmas. I decided that I would make butter and wrap this butter up so that people could use this wrapped butter as stocking stuffers. Guy says that it's not such a good idea, on account that stockings usually hang on fireplace mantles and that it can get very "warm" there. I am going to make these stocking stuffers, regardless. I am going to make them and think about the one that got away.

Winter Butter

I tried to make some Winter Butter with some fresh snow and rock salt. Guy was incredulous, but I told him what Eleanor Roosevelt said, "do one thing every day that scares you," and he jumped on the winter butter train, so to speak.

Of course, it was awful. It didn't really "butter up", and the snow just became water as the food processor heated up, making the whole mess a bit soupy. I wondered out loud what kind of combination would make a nice winter butter. Guy suggested winter squash and beets, which I still consider fall vegetables, more Thanksgiving than Christmas if you ask me. But thinking about Christmas got me thinking about chestnuts and candy canes, both of which seemed like reasonable veins to tap. I wrote the ideas down on post-its, and got excited for the future. There will be a delicious Winter Butter this year. It's important.

A Circle Needs a Center

It's nice not to be lonely every once in a while. You get off work,and walk through the door expecting just dogs, and there is Guy! It's like a sitcom.
"Hi Curt!"
"Hi Guy."
"How was your day, you look very exhausted."

I have been told by more than one person that they feel like loneliness is the true central theme of the Betterbutterblog, and not butter. I don't have to tell you this is ridiculous. In fact, when people tell me this, I get a little angry. Sure, I am lonely at times, but we are all lonely at times! My dogs are always with me, and even if I am feeling lonely at any particular time, that's not something I am compelled to share here. That's not why you read this blog, I'm sure. Maybe I get away from it sometimes, but the center of the circle is butter here, if you know what I mean.

Having Guy at home is mostly nice. Sure, there are awkward silences, sometimes lots of them. Neither of us are very good at filling space. Maybe eventually we won't put so much pressure on the spaces, and it will be just silence, without the awkward. Maybe I should play more music. The only thing Guy likes to listen to is Neil Diamond and show tunes though, and I think I might prefer silence. Maybe we can do Christmas music for the next couple weeks.

Guy has been encouraging me to grow my mustache back. "It's you, Curt," he says. Maybe he is right.

Clarification

Okay, Pike didn't say, "I've been waiting, Curt." He said, "who?" and then, "oh right, that old butter-making guy, yeah, cool, yeah." He told me that, yes he had started a homesteading club, and yes, it would be awesome if I joined, but that there were only three other members right now so I shouldn't think it was the biggest deal in the world or anything. I told him that that was cool, and that maybe it would be a little easier for me to do if I wasn't overwhelmed by mass amounts of people. Also, he said, all the other members live in the same house and don't really have official "meetings", just that they do a lot of hanging out and making stuff, and that they would hit me up the next time something was "going down." He didn't even know if it was appropriate that he called it a club, and he apologized. "It's okay," I said.

When I got off work today, Guy and I went down to the bar and watched the food network, and played Wordster. We kept arguing over whether to keep letters or not. I kept telling Guy that I just didn't think it was worth it if you didn't think you could beat the high score, and he just wasn't hearing it. "Everything's not about getting the highest score, Curt," he said, which was absurd, because frankly I don't think I'm a very competitive guy. He just can't deal with it if the second set has an 'x' or something in it. Regret. "Sometimes you have to take chances, Guy," I told him, which was also absurd, because he had just dropped everything and moved west to become a logger!

I feel very happy right now. It may be fleeting--it may just be the booze talking--but I'll enjoy the moment, and it feels good to share it with all of you who have been to the depths with me at times over the last year.

Waiting

Cold heavy cream.
Chives.
Salt.
Paprika.

I mixed these ingredients, watched as the butter and buttermilk separated. The butter was pink and green, a nice Christmas combination. I piped rosettes of this butter onto a cookie sheet and stuck it in the fridge. The butter was beautiful, like a bouquet of flowers, minus the stems, and on a cookie sheet instead of wrapped in paper. Guy admired my work. "Never knew how serious you were about butter," he said.
"I'm pretty serious about butter," I said. I told him about Pike and the Homesteading Club.
"Call him up," Guy said. "Don't be afraid."
"I'm not afraid," I said.

I popped a rosette of butter into my mouth. It was delicious! I decided I wanted to share my butter with Pike and the rest of the club, so I called him up. "Hello," someone said on the other end.
"Pike?"
"I've been waiting, Curt."

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY BETTERBUTTERBLOG!!!!!

December 1. One year. 329 posts. Some good, some bad, some nothing, some maybe something to somebody somewhere. Happy anniversary, Betterbutterblog! Here's to the future!

So many posts. So much of my life shared. What have I told you about Guy? He is French. He was married to my sister for four years. He moved away to be a logger for a little while, but now he is back. I feel he understands my sensitive side, which I feel a lot of people don't. Sometimes I feel like I hardly have anything but a sensitive side. No wonder I feel so alone sometimes!

329. You know who picked me up on the day I got out of prison? Guy. You know who helped me find an apartment, and helped put me in touch with the Ghost after I got out? Guy. He is a good friend, and I owe it to him to be there for him now. I am grateful for Guy and his friendship, and if he wants to rearrange my furniture, so be it.

We enjoyed a few beverages last night, Guy and I, and I told him about this idea I have. I think they should do a modern day Dirty Dancing, like they did The Karate Kid, but it will be with the gender roles reversed, with Lady Gaga playing the Patrick Swayze character, and somebody like me, maybe even me, playing the Jennifer Gray role. I think it could be awesome! I mean, I can kind of dance, I think I have raw talent, and somebody with Lady Gaga's talent and charisma could really help me shine, you know? Why not? I know she is very guarded with her image, and it would have to be an awesome script, but she could totally carry a movie, and I think she's going to have to take that leap eventually. Maybe I will make that script my next project. If anybody has any plot ideas, hit me up!

I made a very special anniversary butter today. I will tell you about it tomorrow!!!

The Poetics of Space

So after I've delivered the papers, I come home to my apartment, except that it's not my apartment anymore, but it is. I open the door and stop. The furniture is arranged differently and I think I've got the wrong apartment. I'm about to apologize to someone when Warden and Regrette come bounding from my bedroom, wanting to be taken for a walk. "Is that Curt?" I hear from inside the bedroom. WTF.

There's Guy in my bed. There's Guy in my bedroom, except, he's rearranged that too. "Curt," he says, rubbing his eyes. "So good to see you."
"What happened, Guy? What happened to my place?" I say.
"Curt, Curt, Curt," Guy says, raising his hands, sensing that I'm agitated. "It's the Feng Shui. It was all wrong."
Regrette and Warden are barking in the living room. I want to ask them why they let Guy move everything around. Why?
"Feng Shui?" I say. "More like you F***ed S**t up," I say. I didn't really say this. But, I wanted to...
Regrette and Warden start growling.
"If it ain't right," Guy says, "it'll cost you your life, you know."

I don't know what he's talking about. Or who he's become. But then again, I didn't know him know him ever, but only thought I did. "I can't believe you've been living so wrong for so long," Guy says. "You'll see. This is the first day of the rest of your life." He gets out of bed. He's naked. He was naked in my bed! I am not happy about this.

Homes used to talk about the poetics of space. He used to ask me if I lived in a nest or a shell. "Do you live in a nest or a shell, Curt?"
"A shell," I said.
"That's nice," Homes used to say. That's all he used to say when we talked about the poetics of space. I wonder if it was like Feng Shui.

I wonder if Homes secretly wanted me to say that I lived in a nest. I wonder if Homes also lived in a shell. I wonder if today is really the first day of the rest of my life. I wonder when Guy will leave.

Decision

I can't decide whether to have tomorrow be the first day of the rest of my life, or if I should wait for the new year.

And where the heck is Guy? The suspense is killing me.