Recognition

Is it so hard to believe that Belle Star did not recognize me today? I went to the diner. Ordered a breakfast, and Belle Star didn't say anything to me that indicated that she knew who I was. She looked different. Thinner. Sadder. Maybe less angry. Maybe I looked different too. Wiser? Dumber? Older? Younger? It has been hard to write on here lately. To give it time. I think that someone reading these last few posts wouldn't recognize in them the Curt they'd seen in earlier posts. 

Here is a man that has had many looks: 

Radar

Hello. It's been so long since I last wrote. Sorry! There have been many changes! It's nice being back in the city. It's the same and it's also different. I sleep with my bedroom window open. This is something I used to not do.

Now it is sliding past the middle of summer. Heavy air. Across the street at the rescue mission, men sit in the shade of sunflowers growing in three small garden plots. Or they run across the street into the park. I can see them from my window. At nine o'clock they are ushered inside to sleep. Then it is exceptionally quiet outside.

Goodnight! Goodnight!

Roommate

Busy now that it's spring. In the time since my last post, I moved into an apartment with Monica and her dogs, Burning Sand and Loving Hand. Moving is always emotional. There are always loose ends. There is something of a push and a pull in every direction that you move. Now that I'm somewhat settled in my new place, I feel like I can think again. It has been many days since I could entertain a thought outside of thoughts of moving. Today, I wondered if I would be a good roommate. What makes a good roommate? "What makes a good roommate?" I asked Monica. She was organizing things in kitchen drawers. There were boxes on the table and on the floor. So many boxes. "I don't know," she said. "Respect? Care? Understanding?" Then she stopped what she was doing and said,"Not to scare you or anything, but I've never had a good roommate. Once," she continued, "I lived with a roommate who was so excited for me to leave that she invited over the person who was going to move into my room one morning. I was sleeping when they knocked on my door, opened it, measured my room while I was still in bed, and talked about the future like I'd already left. Right there, right there in front of me. My heart broke." Monica put a rolling pin in a drawer, then removed it like she didn't like the way it looked inside.

A roommate is still a new concept to me. I wonder how different, or how similar, it is from having a cell mate. My cell mate. Have I written about him already? His name was Eric and he was six years older than me. Even when he smiled, I could see how sad he was. He was tall, but had thin toy-like legs. There was something about the way he sat that reminded me of a kettle sitting on the stove ready to be heated. There was potential. He wanted to boil over. When I talked to Eric, I felt that he would never open up to me. When we slept, his snoring sounded like he was on the verge of saying something. Once, I thought he was saying my name. I answered, "What is it?" excited that he might finally tell me something. We were both murderers. But Eric, I would learn from others, had accidentally killed his daughter. We were cell mates for nearly five years before I felt that he started noticing me. I watched him pull his hands out of his pockets, look at them, and put them back in. He said, "I like pockets, Curt." I was so shocked, I didn't know what to say. So I didn't say anything.

Monica filled a bucket with water and soap to wash the floor and set it in the middle of the kitchen. "If I'm a bad roommate, would you tell me?" I asked.
"Depends," she said. "Once, I told a former roommate of mine that I thought she could be better."
"Then what happened?"
"It wasn't really about being a better roommate. It was about being a better friend and a better person."
"Did she understand what you really meant?"
"Yes, I think so. She became a better roommate, taking out the trash and doing her dishes, but became a worse friend. But maybe she became a better person. I don't know. I don't know." Monica dragged into the kitchen a rag, push broom, dustpan, and even floor wax." It depends on what kind of person you are," Monica said. "I would be honest with you if I thought it would do some good. With that roommate, I don't know if it was really good, what I said. I lost a friend and gained a roommate."
"I see," I said. "Would you want me to tell you if you were a bad roommate?"
Monica laughed. "Sure, Curt."

Eric and I were cell mates for fifteen years. In that time, we watched each other grow old like how I imagine husbands and wives do. His hair grew thin and his arms became thick. My hair grew thin and my eyes became smaller. I tried to imagine what Eric would be like outside of prison. This was the day before he was set to leave. "I'm leaving, Curt," he said that night.
"I know," I said. "I'm excited for you, Eric."
I imagined Eric wearing tasteful, plain clothes. Someone on the outside might think he was brutally simple. They might think his nostrils were large. I imagined Eric eating alone in a kitchen at a round table with a brave look on his face. I imagined Eric sitting in a park and looking at the people on foot, then the cars, and then the people on bicycles, and think that everyone was in a hurry. Eric told me a story that night. He told me many stories. They were funny. It was the most I heard him talk. He must have been nervous about being outside prison. Most of the stories were about his daughter. His voice was pebbly when he told these stories.

I put away the dishes, the bowls, the glasses, the mugs. Monica, behind me, was sweeping up the floor, flattening the boxes. "Curt," she said. "I think you'll be a good roommate."
"Thanks," I said. "What happens when you have a bad roommate?"
"You move on," Monica said. "Sometimes it's easy and sometimes it's hard."
"When was it the hardest for you?"
"Once, I had a roommate, and we had mutual friends. My roommate and I had a falling out, and it seemed like all the friends we shared didn't want to hang out with me anymore." She stopped sweeping the floor. Her face became soft. "It was always hard to see my roommate get in a car of a friend that we shared and know that I'd been consciously not invited to something. It felt like something heavy was sitting on my chest. I would be so sad, I wouldn't be able to sleep. I would be so sad and so hurt, I wouldn't even be able to cry."
"I'm sorry, Monica," I said.
"It's not always like that. Just sometimes."

The last story Eric told me was about how his daughter broke a crystal candy dish. She told Eric what had happened in tears and they cleaned up the mess together and agreed to not tell her mother what happened. "I'd never seen my daughter so scared," he said, laughing a little to himself. Her mother, Eric's wife, didn't even notice until four or five years later. By then, Eric's daughter was a teenager. She was wild and outspoken, but when she came home that day, her mother asked her what happened to the candy dish, and Eric watched his daughter's face lose all it's color, her eyes pinch with fear. After he was done telling me that story, he turned his head up towards the ceiling and shook like he was laughing, but I knew it was something else. "Eric, what is it?" But he didn't answer. It was the first and only time I hugged Eric. In the morning, he was gone. His bed was empty. I felt empty.

It's nice out today, and Monica is taking a nap. I'm sitting in the kitchen, wondering what Eric is up to. I wonder if he is living with someone, a roommate, and whether or not he is a good or bad roommate. Does he wash his dishes? Does he take out the trash? Does he walk quietly through the apartment when his roommate is asleep? Does he ask his roommate if his roommate needs to use the bathroom for anything before he takes a shower? Does Eric have a garden? Does Eric own plants? Does Eric remember me? Does Eric ever wonder what I'm up to? But I know, in my heart, that when Eric left prison, I also left his mind. That's how it is sometimes. Though there might be some small thing, some small tick that Eric has learned from me. Like the way he might move his hand, the pinky turning up, when he explains something that's hard to explain. It is hard to explain so many things, I think. That's ok. That's ok. 



              

Happiness, Long

It is finally spring. This winter was long. My indoor projects were few and small. Monica says she likes to garden. She says she will plant tomatoes and peppers and kale and she will buy potted herbs and put them on her windowsill. It's official. We are going to be roommates. We are moving in less than a month to a new place with nice amenities. I still have to break the news to Dad. That means I'll have a garden too. That means I'll have potted herbs on my windowsill.

The days are longer. I should be happier than I am, I think. I am pretty happy. But something tells me that I'm not as happy as I can be. Maybe it was the fortune cookie that said: Happiness is not short. It's long.

I'd just eaten spicy tofu. This fortune cookie made me really think. Monica asked me to read it out loud. I did. She didn't say anything. She looked more excited than I knew she really was. People always want to hear fortunes read out loud. But why? I can't remember a single fortune that was read out loud.

My sister was born in the year of the dog. My father was born in the year of the monkey. My mother was born in the year of the rat. What does that make me?

Twist it, Soften it

In the park, I talk to a man who doesn't speak very good English about the missing plane. He is very upset. He is Filipino. He knows someone who knew someone on the plane. He is worried about orphaned children. I agree with him, there is not much that is sadder than orphaned children.

Burning Sand is with me. Monica is at work. I am in charge. I am mad at Loving Hand. Loving Hand never stops asking for things. With a look, with a bark, with an insistent paw. Loving Hand can stay home and demand things from an empty house.

Anger has been welling up within me lately. I cannot find its source, and I cannot get it out in healthy ways. If I am not reasonably strong-willed at a particularly anger-filled moment, I take it out on the dogs. I am sad about that, and racked with guilt. I am feeling angry, and I am feeling weak.

Sometimes, I imagine Tony's unborn children. It does something weird to the anger. It twists it, it softens it, but it is still ugly. 

The Filipino man enjoys Burning Sand. Did I sit next to him, or did he sit next to me? I don't remember. 

"I am trying to stop drinking," he says. He is tired of it, just tired of it. He looks tired. He looks young and old. 

"I am trying to stop being lonely," I say. 

"One day at a time," he says. 

At home, Loving Hand will have pooped somewhere. I will get home and I will be upset, and I will yell. Loving Hand and Burning Sand will wrestle and I will yell again, and I will wonder where all this anger came from. 

In spring, I tell the man, we will all be reborn. I almost believe it.

I've got to get closer but I don't know how

Well, it was bound to happen. The blind man called.

He called when I at Monica's apartment. Let me tell you that Monica wasn't in her apartment when the blind man called. Neither were Loving Hand and Burning Sand. They were at a pet store.

At first, I wasn't going to answer the phone, because who has a landline (besides Dad) nowadays? There's no good in landlines, is what I was thinking, when I reached out and answered it. It felt good to pick up something heavy, something with some heft, and bring it to my ear. Then I understood why people still owned landlines. The voice on the other end said, "Monica? I need lyrics."I knew it was the blind man immediately. Something in my gut told me so, and I saw him clearly in his house, sitting alone at a table much like I was. Except he couldn't see the room I saw him in.

"I need lyrics, Monica," he said.
"Monica's not here," I said.
"Oh, who's this?"
"Um."
"You must be Monica's brother."
"Yes, I am Monica's brother," I said.
"Listen," he said. I pushed the phone harder against my ear. "Could you tell me the lyrics to a song. I can't see. I mean, I'm blind, and I can't look up the lyrics."
"Oh," I said. "Sure?"
"Great! The song is Sussudio by Phil Collins."
I went to Monica's computer and typed in: Sussudio lyrics. "Ok," I said. "Got it. Ready?"
The blind man cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "I am ready to hear the lyrics to the song."
"There's this girl that's been on my mind," I said.
"Very nice."
"All the time..."
"All the time?"
"That's what it says," I said.
"Ok," the blind man said.
"All the time, Sussudio, oh oh. Now she don't even know my name."
"No?" The blind man clicked his tongue. "What a shame."
"Do you want me to go on?" I asked.
"Yes, please."
"Ok," I said. "Now she don't even know my name. But I think she likes me just the same."
"Probably not," the blind man said. "I was afraid of this."
"Sussudio. Oh oh. Oh if she called me I'd be there. I'd come running anywhere. She's all I need, all my life. I feel so good--"  
"Oh boy," the blind man said. "This guy sounds like a whack."

This went on and on until I read all the lyrics. It was exhausting, really, but the blind man seemed content. He thanked me and hung up the phone. I'd never heard the song before because, well, I was locked up. But I wanted to listen to it. So I did:

)

Reading Chekhov

     

Last night, I read some Chekhov:
     
      "Life is boring," I philosophized to myself as I tried not to fall. "This isn't a life, but an empty, dull existence. Day after day, year after year, all the while still the same inside, no different than when you were young. Many years pass while you still only drink, eat, and sleep. In the end, they dig a grave for you, bury you, and have a party after your funeral with free food, telling each other, "He was a good man, but he didn't leave enough money behind for us, the scoundrel.'"

     In this story, the narrator, drunk, stumbles unknowingly into a cemetery where he becomes petrified with fear.

     No!

     What is funny is that he is not the narrator! This story is in the third person, but barely so. A few sentences let us know that Ivan Ivanovich is telling this story at a party. Hmmm.

    This Chekhov, he is capable of saying these things. He had TB for most of his life. He was alone most of his life. He was fairly confident that his work would disappear with him. He was a doctor who spent a great deal of time helping others, often for free. If this man didn't have a full life, I am not sure who does. He was also taken with wondering what it was all about.

     Great people wonder what it is all about. So to, do men who are not so great. I think of Bruckner, and wonder whether doubt ever showed it's face to him.

     When I am unable to do anything else, I eat peanuts. Peanuts provide me with great comfort.