Interlude : the Gait

I must first start of with a definition for this word as it is taken directly from the dictionary, Webster’s:

Main Entry: ¹gait
Pronunciation: 'gAt
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English gait, gate gate, way
1 : a manner of walking or moving on foot
2 : a sequence of foot movements (as a walk, trot, pace, or canter) by which a horse or a dog moves forward
3 : a manner or rate of movement or progress <the leisurely gait of summer>

Now, in reference to what I have seen, I would be hard pressed to differentiate between 1, 2, and 3 in the description that I previously had given to determine how it is that I knew the man that I said I knew (I mean, I will allow this in the presence tense: know), can only say that this word I chose, gait, does have particular function within this context in that it is helpful to determine who indeed this person is in a way that is not necessarily helpful in painting a picture of said person, but does much within the clarification bit to coalesce some sort of story around this character.

And that, I believe, is worth digression, I mean, I believe it to be so?

Chapter S, as in Slightly Less of That, Please

If I had to pick a day in which I was a bit happier than other days, it would be Tuesday. (I mean, once my roommates are gone, EVERY day is a good day.) See I do indeed appreciate taking a step or two into the week, because at that point I am displaying a certain momentum which will push me forward in my activities and things such as these. So there is no greater disservice to me, then, when Tuesday becomes less of a momentum builder and more of, well, an episode.

Allow me to take certain steps to float my thoughts into the open.

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who make forward progress and those who either stand still or somehow move backwards. In the former, the degree of forward progress is not as much of the issue as in the latter, where a lack of movement is poor while a negative movement is somewhat poorer.

In Miami, you are afforded plenty of opportunities to not do much with yourself. You may sit in the sun, take a short or long walk on the beach, have a long brunch, or simply do none of those things. You may have sand in your toes or you can go without it.

I, frankly, possibly surprising to you, have never had sand in my toes. And I’ve never thought about taking a long brunch. I will never acknowledge a brunch. I will eat at some point in the morning or near the noon-hour and it will simply be a meal without repercussions. I really don’t see the need to make it into something more than that.

But, today, I am out, having a morning meal that is borderline noon-ish, sitting not so much in the sun but in the shade in the back corner of an outdoor seating area. I, for one, as I have mentioned to you time and/or time again, am not one for interaction, and I find that sitting in the unhealthy Miami sun draws attention to yourself/myself in a way that is not necessarily flattering if that attention is not in any way what you are looking for. That is why there are seats in the sun and there are seats that are sometimes in the sun and sometimes not and there are seats that will never have a chance to be in the sun although these seats are indeed out of doors! It is possible, due to architectural designs that allow for this sort of thing, to breathe the outside air (although the benefits of this, mind you, are negligible) without having to make a spectacle of yourself.

But on this particular day, a day that works out on my wall calendar to be a Tuesday (and I really do think that my wall calendar is accurate, and if I had a desk calendar, that would be accurate as well, really), I have been approached by a man who is larger than myself, who walks with a particular gait, who is familiar on this way in which I absolutely know, and he looks over at me, perhaps with a sense of curiosity or perhaps with a random case of the wandering eye, as if he knows me although I should say that he certainly doesn’t!

That is, to say, he shouldn’t. I am the unmasked man in the mask, to this man.

He sits down at a table that, frankly, is very much in the sun, and as he sits he looks in my direction with a bit of a squint (although, if the sun is not coming directly into your eye, as it is not into this man’s eye at this particular instance, then a squint is less of a squint and more of a, indeed, a scowl), and he sits in his chair with the sun on half of his face and one of his eyes as he looks in my direction, me the only other person in this outdoor seating area on this a Tuesday, and he puts a cigarette in his mouth as I often do and grabs for the right pocket in his shorts, and out he pulls this thing and sets it on the table.

This thing, being an ashtray, looks very much like the thing I was handed by the man who ended up with only one arm just a day or a few days before, it seems!

Into his other pocket he is reaching for a lighter, which he pulls out and tugs at until fire does the job. And he leans into the shade, which happens to be closer to my seated area, and as his eyes look up from his cigarette he says, “I hope you have enjoyed the ashtray.”

Well, I mean, knowing that I have not been noticed — I mean, it IS not possible in this day and age to notice someone such as me or such as ANYONE who is walking around with a face covered in mask! — well I am not saying anything, as I am going to look at him distantly from a crouched position in my seat and say the following,

“I am not exactly sure what it is you speak of, right now.”

It’s a fine reaction for him then I suppose for one to hear this and to lean back in his chair, now fully in the face of the sun, with the cigarette still in the mouth (although in the corner and not front and center) and the smoke going up while still looking toward me (as I sit in the shade and slumped in my chair, or not so much slumped as leaning back in a not-so-exceptionally slouching sort of way) with still that sort of scowl that is also now a squint, due indeed to the impending sun.

Grunting, and leaning into an ashing motion while looking down, now in the shade and looking up, “You know more than you let on.” And then placing the cigarette with full force down into the ashtray in a motion that certainly extinguishes it, but does not let go of the cigarette, as in one other motion he stands up and forward while kicking the metallic meshed chair back, buries the ashtray back in the pocket of his shorts, and flicks the non-flaming cigarette toward me, as it bounces off the cement and onto my shoe and then off, all while looking me mostly right in the eyes.

And then briskly moves away from the building, around the corner, as I remain seated.

I left cash on the table without receiving my food. And I kicked the cigarette butt to the side and close to the fence as I did, even making a point to go after it and grind it into the ground with my shoe. For things such as these have no business happening on Tuesday, on my day of momentum, in which I possibly have not come any closer to understanding what it is that is happening to me these days, and potentially I have not gained any ground toward this understanding, and in fact am resigned to say I am, indeed, heading backwards. And that’s no place to be. I really don’t think so.

Note to Self : What Sorts of Things Have I Seen?

I will acknowledge that I have entertained an odd situation or two in my day, but I really mean it when I say that I have never seen some of the situations in similar circumstances at previous points in my short time on this hot and salty planet.  There are things which do not make much sense and there are things which make a bit of sense and then there are things, well, I just have a hard time keeping a straight face when talking about this latter class of things.

I put a cigarette in my mouth and with the lighter I pulled the trigger.  Sometimes all I must do is have a smoke and then have a think and then things such as these are making more sense.  But it seems as though this is not always the case, and certainly not at this point in time, although, perhaps, in some moments, my luck will change …

Interlude : Ashtray Culture

Let me talk for just a second about ashtrays — for one, I don’t believe in them, for two (seconds? second?), I neglect to empty them when I do.

But they really make great gifts, see. I received an ashtray today and brought it all the way home. I may even keep it, or I may give it to someone else, but that is ONLY if the need arises. I reserve the right to give anything of mine away, including the things that are precious enough to others that they give them to me.

Ashtrays are not as mobile as they seem. Once an ashtray is full of contents — and I do mean really full, I really do — the ashtray becomes hazardous, as it’s potential energy becomes greater (i.e. has more potential). Especially if there are things within that ashtray that are things that are not commonly associated with the contents of an ashtray (which, if you can begin to imagine what something like this can look like, could lead to results that may be deemed tragic, if those contents were to somehow make their way outside of that ashtray and on to something that may be negatively impacted by the contents, and again, those contents might not be what is expected in an ashtray!)

Unfortunately I cannot find this ashtray right now, otherwise I would show it to you. It has some color to it, which is more than I can say about certain people places and things at some points in time. And I really do mean that.

Chapter J, as in Join the Dots Together with a Line (or a Circle)

Usually, in the afternoon, I’m occupied with whatever I’m supposed to be occupied with that day. I mean, sometimes that’s not all that interesting to anyone other than myself, and really, I can’t think of any other way to do it. But this day, I don’t know something doesn’t feel right. My roommates don’t come back for a few hours, and when they’re gone and I can’t see their shapes or hear their ridiculous voices under the door, I get a bit restless, see. I really do and I don’t know why.

So I had this idea that involved me being getting out, which is rather unusual for me in case you didn’t know, to get something. I’m not sure what I want, but for some odd reason – maybe a past scent, stuck deep up in my nose close to where I remember these things – I have a feeling I know where to find it. As is the custom in these parts, I put on something respectable to wear before I head out the door, and I’m sure to dress in layers, as is my norm, although un-masked (I know I will not be going THERE today, really!).

Opening the door and experiencing the first light can be intense if you haven’t prepped yourself for it. This happens to be one of those days where I didn’t prepare, and when I unbolted the deadbolt and let it fly, the brightness halted my forward momentum, which isn’t all a bad thing, because it jolts my head into reassessing where that momentum was taking me, see. I jumped down to the third step and then down to the pavement, as I sometimes enjoy doing, and took a hard right with my head down and then my fists in my pockets.

I smelled burgers, just for a second, and then it was gone.

I proceeded down that street a short ways, past some blocks, still not knowing where I’m headed but quite trusting of my judgment to let me know when I get there. I mean, I’ve been down this road before, not knowing where to go, but I usually end up in the right place. Today, though, something tells me to not trust myself, and for good reason: I’m heading toward a former doctor’s office. I’m smarter than that, at least today, and I force myself off path, and right into 79th Street Liquor.

I don’t go to 7SL (my acronym, not a common abbreviation) often, probably because for quite some time I was under the legal age to purchase alcohol, and yes that constitutes the majority of 7SL’s product line, and after I was of age, sometime around the time after I became of that age, I lost my taste for liquors, beers, and wines of all types. But I still like candy, particularly gummy candies in a variety of shapes. So I go inside for that.

I pull the screen door open with one hand and hold it open with the other after dropping my cigarette on the ground. If I could smoke in here, I would, but I don’t want to cause a tizzy, see. I’m non-confrontational today.

I’ve been in here quite a few times before, so I go to the section that I planned on going to and take a gander. Five different options of the gummy variety. I make my choice, affirm that I have enough change in my pocket, and head to the counter.

But there is no one there.

The man who typically stands behind the counter is standing near the front door, facing me. I’ve seen him before, and he’s seen me, and we recognize each other fairly quickly. But he looks slightly different than I remember him, probably because he’s shrouding part of his face with an oversized floppy brown hat, but not enough for me not to recognize one of his dark, sunken eyes. He’s not moving, and neither am I, and my ears aren’t catching much other than the buzz of a ceiling fan and some clinking bottles outside.

“We know the same people, you and I,” he slithers, soon after breaking into a cackling cough that seems to be breaking down his frail body. I don’t know who he’s referring to. Then he turns around, opens the door, and steps out, leaving the screen door slapping against the building.

So I’m in this store with no one else, just the fan above me, holding my single gummy product. See, if you think this makes sense to me right now, you’re mistaken, because I haven’t a clue what’s going on, although I figure I’m soon to find out. I mean, this guy just left, and although there’s nothing else to focus on, I really can’t take my eye off that door.

I look at the clock on the wall, it’s about 2.

I look at the clock again, it’s about 3:30. I’m still standing next to the counter, waiting for SOMEONE to come back, to step behind the counter, to take my 30 cents so I can do something else with my life. I mean, I’m not a thief, in the literal sense anyway. I’m sure I can point to some instance in my life where I didn’t exactly do the right thing, and maybe I ended up with something that wasn’t mine, but even when I did I always at least planned on giving it back, or enjoyed it with such fervor that the gravity of that emotion easily outweighed the guilt that didn’t really bother me all that much, I mean!

Another 15 minutes pass. My patience is gone (and I’m a fairly patient person, see, I really mean that), so I decide to leave well enough alone, throw 30 cents on the counter, and walk toward the door.

As soon as I take two steps, the door flies (figuratively here, it certainly moved quite fast) open and the man with the floppy head piece reappears, and in his left hand he has an ashtray, and he begins to drawl, slowly:

“If you aren’t going to pay for that item, please accept this gift.” I can see that he is referring to the ashtray as a gift, and I deduce this because he raises his hand higher and in the direction of my face as he says this.

At this point I’m not really interested and continue on my journey, which is past him and out the door. He slides a bit to the side just enough to tap his arm against mine, at which point it falls off. Really, that being his arm, it fell off. I stand next to him with my head turned, eyes to the floor where his arm lay, and back up to his eyes (well, really, his one eye, because his hat covers the other eye, see). He’s still holding the ashtray out with his one arm.

Although I had no expectations today, this is not really what I expected, as far as expectations go.

I grabbed the freaking ashtray and pushed through the screen door. My hand stabbed through the screen and out into the sweaty Miami atmosphere, thought I did a fairly quick job of pulling my hand back in and pushing on the door handle this time and getting out of there lickety split! I wasn’t going to look back because I just had about enough of this journey, which I did mention did not have any expectations attached to it but was quite enough of a journey for me, especially as far as journeys go. (And, for you keeping score, I left 30 cents next to that cash register — I do not lie.)

A few minutes later, I was moving forward quickly with my head down a few blocks from that store, a few blocks from home. With an ashtray in my left hand, I used my right to crumple and a gummy candy wrapper and direct it toward a fire hydrant.

Awakening : The Last of It

The end of my day, as is typical, is a moment of reflection, panic, and forces me to question my very being. I mean, I know my days are busy, and I fill my time, but I’m not exactly sure how.

One of my docs told me, when I described to him this run of emotions I felt at the end of the day, that I spend more time during the day evaluating my life in 15-minute increments. So today, as I spend my last waking minutes reflecting on doc visits lost (really, never an entire lost — I always end up getting what I want), I wanted to divide my day up into 15-minute increments, starting at square one:

12:15p = woke up
12:15-12:30 = lit my first cigarette, thought about my sheet life
12:30-12:45 = lit my second cigarette, continued
12:45-1p = went into the kitchen, looked for food, found nothing (worthwhile)
1:00-1:15 = went back into my room, lit my third cigarette
1:15-1:30 = thought about going outside, started getting dressed
1:30-1:45 = put my last layer on, decided I didn’t want to go outside, removed top layers
1:45-2p = lit my fourth cigarette
2:00-2:15 = started a book, put it down after a page
2:15-4:45 = started my daily ritual, blacked out, awoke on the floor
4:45-5p = lit my fifth cigarette
5:00-6:45 = nothing of importance
6:45-8:15 = roomies come home, sit quietly in the dark to not draw their attention
8:15-9:15p = searched through a list of doctor’s to seek out next
9:15-1:30a = I don’t remember

Done. I figure if I do this every day, and log it, at some point in my life I can look back and see a pattern of wrongness, as to why I’m having problems justifying my existence, see. Right now I see no warning signs — just the behavior typical of someone like me, someone intelligent enough to realize the sheet world out there, Miami, and those fashionistas that force me to bury myself within my quarters in order to avoid.

Or I might just sense that all I ever wanted was to be left alone. I mean, when a person positions him or herself to be a certain way, and I only wanted to spend my days just spending my days, then that person can be comfortable with his/her moral fibre, his/her destiny, his/her fluctuating demeanor over the long haul, see.

I’m usually going going until I completely run out of steam — I have no “set hours” of operation. But as I lie down I’m hit immediately: what made today any different than any other day. And I have no answer.

See, I’ve rationalized to myself, over the course of the day, every day, that tangible results mean nothing in this world. Then, I do not strive to produce said results. It is possible for one to exist and exist only in terms of fulfilling one’s destiny as a particular personality, yet leave behind no trail of existence that can be scrutinized, or even that anyone else can learn from. I really think that, that many put too much weight on turning the human existence into some kind of showcase, even if just to be a footnote in the record books.

But not me, see. I’m not going out like that. I mean, that’s what THEY want you to do.

Me, I’ve never had expectations placed on me. And if I have, I’ve blown them off accordingly. Things such as these are not worth my time. I can see how a lesser personality would benefit from these types of things, from having those around them tell them that they should be this or that or something entirely different from who they really are.

Really, I will not fall for that, here or elsewhere. My personality, here in the moment, is what I am for tonight, last night, and many nights to follow, until I succumb to whatever it is that will take me. This is very clear in my head, see.

These are the types of things I think about. And then I close my eyes and spend time looking at the shapes inside my eyelids, the constellations that shapeshift as I squeeze my eyelids tighter and tighter. This amuses me, and drives my interest, and it won’t easily bring the end of my day:

1:30-2:30a = see the lights in my eyes

Tomorrow could very well be much different than today, but it won’t be. It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to be a vehicle for my personality, as was today and yesterday and the days before and the days to come. I may smoke more or less during the course of the day, I may entertain ideas that I wasn’t keen on entertaining today, I may says things that I never would have considered today, and herein lies the beauty of my situation, the consistency, see.

Really, that’s what drives me every day. Because I know my personality will cause me to behave in a way that represents how I want to be represented. And each day will have the same results at the end of the day, with me contemplating my existence in the same way and me thinking less of my roommates in the same way and me squinting my eyes together in the same way. Consistency makes the days go by more smoothly, and in the end that’s what I want. Really, that IS what I want.

2:30-2:45 = realize what I want
2:45-3a = realize what I want is what I wanted the night before

Tomorrow, then, is a day, but it is not THE day. I will not have it that way.