Chapter E, as in a Greater Sense of This Path

I awake but my eyes are still closed. I’m afraid they will hurt when I open them, and I don’t know why, but they have to come open eventually, so they do.

I’m sitting in a wooded area, somewhere different than where I was. The sun might just be starting to rise, or maybe it is just setting, I can not tell. My sense of direction is not always sharp, and it certainly is a bit confused right now, as is the rest of me. The ground below me is wet, and it has soaked through my layers to my skin. I feel cold, which is a feeling I don’t get all that often in these parts. Or at least the parts where I used to be.

I blink my eyes to try to get a better sense of space. All I can see are trees, branches, very little on the ground, and very little light coming through from above.

I don’t have much on me; I mean, what I typically carry with me, which is not much, and it’s nothing worth mentioning (here it is: lighter, cigarettes, sometimes a pack of matches but not today, sometimes a wadded up napkin but not today, othertimes a penny and today I have two). Then again, I don’t need much out here, looking around, seeing nothing, especially nothing to spend my two pennies on.

And the quiet. Not quiet quiet, but that woodsy sort of quiet; there are noises, I mean, but not they’re eerie in that the are accompanied by this sense of loneliness.

After my ears adjust, they detect a kind of wailing noise coming from the same direction as where the sun is coming from, whichever direction that is, but it doesn’t sound like road noise. And even if it is, this road or these roads are multiple miles away, and I’m not even sure how to get there. The winds, albeit light ones, are swirling up the sound so that it sounds like it’s coming from everywhere.

I mean, not that I really care that much, but since I don’t know where I am right now, I’m wondering if those people do.

I slowly kneel down next to a small pile of sticks — not much to sit on, but at least something to associate myself with. I then slowly reach into my pocket for my cigarettes, and shuffle one towards my mouth and fire away. The wind gives me a bit of a fit, but on the fourth launch I’m rolling, just blowing and thinking what I’m going to do next. And I do have to say, I really don’t know.

I have a bit of bearing now, and I turn full-circle to really judge how I’m fitting into this space, and how I got here. I look down and see no noticeable path to get to where I am. Then again, the floor of these woods looks the same in every direction, and only if I was bleeding and leaving a trail of my own juices would I be able to see where I came from. Looks like undisturbed nature to me, at least to my untrained eye.

I take the last pull and stomp the remains into the ground. They go down without a fight because it’s a bit damp down there.

I’m pretty sure I’m alone, but see, I’ve been through this before.

The Doctors Office: Act 4

After some careful consideration — and you know my, I consider it all fairly carefully, really — I have decided that today is the day I make my clean break. It seems more logical (and you know me, as a man of sound logic, like the sound of a hammer hitting the nail’s head) to do it today vs. any other day, when I may perhaps be distracted by the state of affairs, or of things I may see outside my window, or people I meet when I perhaps do not want to meet them.

More importantly rather than less importantly, I’ve decided to give the doctor’s office one more shot (even though we know what happened last time), and I think I know what I’ve done wrong: I haven’t been true to myself.

Yes, true, it’s true, I haven’t been true to myself. I haven’t fully explained myself — I mean, I HAVE explained myself, but not fully, and by that I mean I haven’t displayed my true character, while I have displayed my personality and expressed my mood, and this is something I should do, indeed, if I want to continuedown the path.

And I’ve decided that I need to do this with my mask, all the way on, I really do think. See, I find it hard for people to take me seriously just as I am. So I’m going to find some other way to make it work.

I do think one of the greatest risks in this world is overexposure. It is much more difficult a task to hide oneself from the dangers that can easily occur once you let yourself go: scrutiny, pity, and even jealousy can head your way. It is best, in my mind, that these emotions are kept behind close doors, as they only add to the growing trauma that builds within this world and manifests itself on an individual level oftentimes.

Personally I must say this is selfish, as I have been a victim of the world’s trauma on numerous occassions. Selfishly, then, I must take this step in order to get back at the world for making me miserable on a consistent basis.

So, today, I will head out to get the things in which I need to survive. Before I have done this with the help of my mask, although this has been during the other part of my journey toward self-fulfillment. I have now decided, as part of my plan, or maybe as an altered step in my pre-existing plan, to wear the mask at this stage as well, to ensure my success at this level, or at least to help ensure my success at some level, with myself in mind!

It is somewhat earlier in the day than I choose to operate that I am now operating, and I am moving outside my door and down the street to my destination.  I am wearing my mask and, as always, I am equipped with my layers (the hot Miami sun, it comes and goes, and when it goes I want to be prepared, see?), and I have my plan in my head.  I will follow the steps in order to get what I want and then get on my way.  I have this thing figured out, and I’m here, so let the fun begin.

I’m greeting this doctor like I greet the other ones, with a handshake and a nod, although I usually get a different reaction.  This time around, this doctor, he is puzzled.  He wants to inquire immediately about my status underneath this mask, and I just am not going to give up that kind of information just for the sake of giving up that type of information, because I do respect my privacy, even if this man doesn’t.  Unfortunately he seems to be persistent; he wants to know more about me, and to do so he must see my face.  I mean, this isn’t going like I planned, but that’s fine, I’ll take the mask off.  I grab at the back of my neck and pull forward–

–and I’m in a different place, in the lair of my “man”, as he jumps back in shock.  I knew it was you!, he says, as he almost falls back in scrambling for something on the table.   It is a weapon, a sharp weapon, or a loaded weapon — it seems I can’t tell — but a weapon nonetheless.  He lunges toward me as I duck off to the side, a near miss, and I push a chair in his path.  I’m grabbing for a small table when on it I see something familiar, yes–

The ashtray.  I grab it with my forefinger and thumb as I bolt for the door, which thankfully is still open, and straight out onto the street, running and running and running some more, blocks away, still running and running and sweating under my layers, and I do not know where my mask is but it is not here, and running until gradually the night has come, and I can not see but I keep running, running, until I stop.

I turn around and no one is behind me.

That is good, because I have just run a long way, longer and farther away than maybe anyone has ever run from where they once were, and I am especially tired, and ready to collapse, and this is fine. I’ll just lay down here and sleep it off.

Interlude : the Stabbing of Words

I have to go back and think about my use of the word “stab”, as this can
tend to have some violent connotations in this world we live in.
Historically, if we were to think about the context in which stabbing was
used, we would think about war, about battle, about assassination, about bad
blood between two individuals (or, at least WITHIN one individual and
directed towards another, as stabbing is, at times, a one-way street).
Throughout the years the stab tended to have a dark sort of vibe attached to
it.

I, for one, would like this to change, as I intend to use this word for the
good of things, especially my own things and myself.  When I think about a
stab, I think about my will and determination and everything that wells up
inside me when I want to accomplish a goal of sorts. A goal is sometimes not
understood until (or much after) it is achieved, simply because that goal is
within a territory that has not had many goals previously associated with
it. This is often my case, as I seem to blaze new territory often or at
least often enough that I need to think about these sorts of things, with
this new territory not being necessarily new because someone else surely had
been there although it is difficult to see without the evidence of tracks in
the ground or air and this again comes back to my indifference towards
communicating with others who I may indeed would have related to if I were
to make the effort of being social.  And you know what I indeed think about
being social and of course being fashionable as an extension of that.

So, see, I will not back down from using the word “stab” and to talk about
“stabbing” or to “take a stab at something”, mainly because these actions
are not directed toward anyone in particular or at least anyone who is not
myself, and really you should know that wanting to stab yourself is not a
crime (except in the places of the world where it is a crime as it typically
results in suicide, but we can talk more about that later) and that if you
do not take stabs you will not get the things accomplished and the questions
answered that need to be accomplished and answered, respectively, as it may
be.  I really do find this to be true, yes!

Chapter D, as in Dogged Determination to Get My Melon Straight

As evidenced by my path to current successes, I do not take the short path
coated in rose petals and lined by lillies to get from point A to point B; I
take whatever path is necessary. And in my explanations I hope, really, I’ve
made an attempt to insinuate that I am but an amateur in this process of
life living, making it up as I go along, so to speak (and I will, now, and
in due time). I will take a stab and stab and stab until I get things done
the right way, although I don’t know what the right way is, so my way, I
mean.

That’s why anything that happens to me that causes me friction, that causes
me to waffle from prior decisions I’ve made regarding how I do this and
that, I will carefully observe these happenings and try my damndest to keep
these things from happening again (at least as much trying as is possible by
my being — I mean, I do have plenty of issues to attend to that take up
much of my time mentally, and I do need to tend to my body so that it does
not crumble under the weight of my next decision, or, God forbid, next point
of friction). I consult a list of steps I have detailed in dogged fashion in
order to rectify past problems, I mean points of friction, and it results in
an algorithm so complicated that the typical mortal mind might very well
begin to smoke (the smoke, then, exiting the mind through the mortal ear
passages) and bubble and steam and toil and trouble!

So this particular turn of events in recent times, these points of friction
I have encountered, are tossing the old melon back and forth and stirring up
the insides, making it much more difficult for the inner contents of that
melon to make an educated decision about what to do next!

What I’m thinking about here, mainly, really, is that I can turn things
around and around here in this sweaty sprawling city, or I can take what
lessons I have learned (ALL the way down the path, I’ve learned things, see,
and these things come back to teach you something when you’re in a time of
need, and I can tell you that’s happened often) and apply them in a new
environment, really. I’m not stranger to change; in fact, I feed off it. I
mean, making a change can be viewed under two different microscopes, or
telescopes depending how far you are away during your analysis, and if you
are analyzing this from afar I just you take that route, although either
choice will produce the same two profiles:

The first, a person who makes a change is a person who is running away from
a problem, a person who can not handle the “real world” as it may be. This
person exhibits a floppy spine, a shattered ego, and little if any will to
live.

The second, a person who makes a change is a person who recognizes that life
is short, that internal drive and focus is directly in relation to external
stimuli, because that stimuli is utilized during that person’s output of
creativity. This person is a forward thinker, see, and is strong in his/her
sense of self and ability to manage his/her life as a contributing member of
the society.

I really think that, while I know several individuals in the historical
books who would go the route of the former, and in this situation my
roommates indeed would each fall in the camp of the former and view anyone
else who is NOT them as falling in the camp of the former, I know better,
act better, AM better than that, this I know, and that’s why I can fit into
the profile of the latter such as a woman of refined tastes fits snugly into
a fine mink coat even in front of the faces of people who do not agree with
such things (fur! don’t do it! — that’s what the detractors would say).

So this has spawned a new level of thinking in the ‘ol noggin, yes, it has
initiated this first step which is absolutely vital in taking the next and
next and next steps in order to create some sort of visible change in my
life (because, as you know, changes in thinking happen quite often, and
often these are just minor tweaks on the tried and true “working” model,
insofar as the model is working to keep you a functional member of your own
society, not necessarily the “greater” society, and unless the model is
upgraded for the newest model, that being a new version with a new skin,
most outside observers will not notice any change even though, indeed, one
has been implemented, although slight).

So back to where I am: here, holed up behind my closed doors, on the floor
with maps and scissors and glue and glitter and various writing utensils for
sniffing and/or writing (I caught you sleeping there!  I do tend to only
write with my writing utensils — really), plotting my next strategy for
something greater, as it will happen.  I will WILL it to happen, I really
will!

This is all part of the second step, which is mapping a course of action
either literally or figuratively (in this case, a good amount of the former,
a taste of the latter) in order to keep myself locked into a particular
pathway (because, as I have found, if I want to arrive at a destination in a
timely fashion, and at this time I do, I need to allow myself to follow a
particular set of directions in order to arrive there, even though this is
counterintuitive to how I normally go through this process of allowing steps
to morph before my very eyes and ears and brain, and knowing that my
particular pathway, in steps, is typically formulated during ONE particular
moment in my existence on this hot and salty planet, and that my decisions
are most definitely affected by my particular mood and personality and
chemical makeup at the time, and at some point at a later date when I am on
this particular path I may decide that my mood and personality and chemical
makeup at that particular time is suitable to make changes to any steps in
said path, at which point the pathway will alter from it’s permanent state
to a NEW permanent state, because I realize this is the best thing for me to
do at that time and that I am not a waffler, by nature!) AND in order to
ensure that my journey is, indeed, a pleasant one!

And upon the completion of the second step, which is not necessarily
necessary to completion of the following thereof but is helpful, the third
step may be initiated and then embarked upon, and this step is important
because it does indeed lay the groundwork for executing the path as a whole.
This step is, again, a complicated mess of inner communications and
arrangements and thinkings that I could definitely lay out in greater detail
– if it were to prove to be fruitful, see, which I am not particularly sure
of at this point.

Underneath the door I hear the light come on and I hear the voices, the
shuffling of feet.  I look at my clock and it is indeed that time when the
workday has ended, and as I can now tell I do have company, making it
particularly difficult for me to make any headway in these things I need to
make headway on.  But the time will come, really it will, I really think so,
I am glad this moment is here!

Chapter F, as in Figuratively Speaking

[This goes after I get the ashtray, and after the interlude where I can't find it, but before the confrontation at brunch.]

Best case scenario, today ends with a whimper and I spend an hour sweating it out in lieu of sleeping (hot Miami nights). But best case scenarios can’t be called on; they must be earned. And today it seems i’m a couple cents short, if I may coin a phrase (no literal puns intended, only figurative, for what it’s worth).

When I hibernate in my room I spend a lot of time staring, I mean sometimes not so creepily referred to as “gazing intently”. But you know, there’s not a lot to look at, since most of the objects inside my room are inanimate and not all that colorful. Still, when I pucker my lips and put a cigarette in my mouth and pull the trigger, I know I’ve got some time to do some thinking, and I’m a visual person, so I’m going to find something to point my eyes at, see.

And when my roommates are out of the picture (me = free of tension) vs. when they’re around (me = full of tension), might as well take advantage, don’t you think?

I do have a few windows in my room. I mean, I don’t get a lot of light in my room, and that’s never bothered me, see. That Miami sun gets in your eyes and burns like lemon juice. Sometimes I want to wear sunglasses as I stand inside and look outside even when I’m looking at something that theoretically is far away from the sun and is not to be affected by the sun! But today I will not, as I prefer to squint, to concentrate on what’s below, maybe blow a ring or three.

For just a moment I smelled the perfume of a woman, then it passed.

I hold the cigarette between my thumb and my ring finger. I think this is a great way to hold a cigarette, I really do. I haven’t seen anyone else do it, and creativity is a disrespected quality in this world. The smoke swirls as it rises up against the window as if it would like to get out but can’t, and it dissipates as it hits the top of the window frame. I blow a ring (of sorts — mine fall apart about a second into it) that follows the same track, and my eyes follow the same route.

As the ring breaks up near the top of the window, I notice, through the window it seems, that something is flying in the distance, a living thing, really. This thing is yellow like the sun, I’m squinting even more to see, so I can only really recognize its outline as the sun comes down above it. (I mean, I can go into more detail here, but I really wish you could just look for yourself, really!) It’s a figure of something living, at least that seems to be living by its fluid movements through the sky, as it moves from left to right across my screen. I’m catching a bit of reflection off the glass, and I shield my eyes with my cigarette-less hand and look down away from the sun.

I uncover my eyes, still looking down, in time to see a figure, very similar to the one I had just seen and also yellow-ish, ride by in the bed of a pickup truck full of mulch. He was holding a rake, the rake-part of the rake sticking straight up in the air. I could have sworn, really, I saw him wave as he went by. I rub my eyes with my free hand and look again, and he’s gone.

I look back up into the sky and see nothing but a couple clouds and the hot Miami sun blaring away.

So, you know, this might just be another one of those days. I’m thinking this as I look with this screwy look on my face toward my closet door. I jolt myself back to reality to see the cigarette in my hand almost burned to the butt, and I extinguish it on the sill of the window, which I do every once in a while (do not contain the cigarette — it does not belong). I then shake that hand out, waving it around, thinking maybe I’m experiencing a bout of the poor circulation that is messing with my head!

I look back out the window to prove to myself that all is well. I mean, I really did not expect that sort of thing to be happening right outside, it should not be real! And I look up and don’t see much of anything, again except for the blazing sun, and I glance back down quickly.

Just in time to see two yellow figures with wings on a small patch of grass, holding hands and swinging around in a circle. They don’t seem to be noticing anyone around them.

Across the street, from inside a house comes a yellow figure with wings, and he reaches down and grabs the paper from that day. He looks toward me, waves, and goes back inside.

I’m quick to rub my eyes — what is this! Upon rubbing the group of merry-go-rounders has expanded to six, and their wings, which were before pressed down on their backs, are now fully extended out and flapping slowly. Just to their left, but much farther down the sidewalk, a short fat figure in a purple suit comes riding down the sidewalk on a skateboard.

What next? My gaze is surely fixed into a stare now as the group of yellow winged merry-go-rounders stops circling, looking toward the purple skateboarder, as he comes faster down the sidewalk, and faster, toward me. The group of yellow looks to be disturbed a bit, and they flap their wings and look to tense up in the direction of the skateboarder as the purple figure approaches.

And then the yellow figures begin wildly flapping their wings and head straight in the direction of the purple skateboarder!

The skateboarder doesn’t look to be paying attention and keeps riding along.

In this moment I am sitting here what is it these yellow demons are going to do to this short fat defenseless skateboarding thing! They are mere feet away from them when the skateboarder quickly stops.

He picks up his skateboard off the ground.

And swings it with both arms.

And every one of the yellow creatures disappears, their yellow cloaks falling to the ground.

I’m looking at this in dismay as the short purple man throws his skateboard to the ground, looking down toward the cloaks –

– and then up at me!

In this I am not interested at all! But he jumps on his skateboard, and now he is about a block away, and starts riding in my direction! He is riding faster and faster and looks to be huffing!

I turn back toward my room, looking for something to defend myself. A notebook? A plastic pen holder? A pillowcase? I decide that must do, so I rip it from my pillow and turn toward the window and my attacker.

The window is covered by a giant purple, glowing shroud.

And I’m standing there holding a pillowcase! The shroud is moving in and out, as if to breathe. Did I mention it’s glowing? Did I mention I’m holding a pillowcase?

I’m a bit on the frozen side right now, staring (yes, I’m quite certain I’m staring now) toward my window that is dark purple on the outer edge and a glowing, breathing light purple on the inner edge. My arms drop to my side, as there is no sound emitting from anywhere inside or outside of my room, save for my heavy breathing (really, I am quite flipped out here see!).

I stand there holding my pillowcase with one hand, not sure what to do.

A number of minutes go by. Then a number more. And more. I look at my watch.

Almost three hours have gone by since I first looked out this window.

I sit down on my bed without taking my eye off the window. I’m still not sure what to do. I will just sit here and watch. And sit, and sit. After some time, I hear my roommates come home. I still sit, looking toward the window. I hear the TV on outside my door. I hear the TV turn off, and the lights underneath my door go out. I’m still looking toward my window. Still looking. Still looking.

My eyes snap open and my head pops up. I look at the window. It’s black outside. I look at my watch. It’s the middle of the night. I jump up with my pillowcase in both hands and rush toward the window. The closer I get, the more I realize that nothing is in the window any longer. I look up and see the moon, and a fairly clear sky.

What?

I drop my hands, and my eyes, and on the corner of the window sill, I see it there. My ashtray, the one I was given. I pick it up and turn it over and over, seeing what I can see. Nothing out of the ordinary as far as ashtrays go. Really.

I’m looking closely at it, then away. Then I put it back down, and turn around, crossing my arms. I walk toward my light switch for this room with my arms still crossed and flip it off. Then I navigate back toward the bed, getting under the covers and laying my head on the caseless pillow, still looking toward the window, through it, at the moon.

It’s another day I don’t understand, as I stare out the window. I stare for a good while until my eyes begin to close. Then I see something–

A yellowish figure floats in front of the moon.

My eyes are open again. I don’t see anything outside, save for the moon. My eyes begin to close, and close for good.

Tomorrow, what a day that COULD turn out to be. I mean, really.

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.