It's floating all around me. Like memories of dreams that never came true.
These pitiful scraps cannot support me. Far too quickly, they become waterlogged and I cast them aside.
I abandon them as the failures that they are, and I resume my frantic search for something, anything that can withstand the burden that I am.
Help me to keep my head out of the water, for just a little while, so I can rest.
It was the Summer of 2003 when I got the idea to do this blogging thing. I'd just attended my high school reunion, and I'd had such a good time that I thought I should write it down. I'd been reading about this new (to me at least) blogging craze, and I already had a website of sorts. So, I figured, Why not?
As it turned out, I never did write about that high school reunion. And I didn't start writing here until a couple of months later. I did mention that reunion once, but I think that was it.
That was the first reunion I'd gone to. I'd never lived anywhere near here when the others were going on. But for the one in 2003 I was back in Southern Indiana, so I went. It was fun, like I said.
Now, it's 2008. Five years have gone by, and so now another high school reunion is approaching. This weekend, specifically. Friday is supposed to be casual hanging out at a bar, and Saturday is more formal. Waltzes or whatever.
My own thoughts about this reunion have been thus:
I'm soooo going.
I'm soooo not going.
I'm definitely going.
What's the point? I'm not going.
Okay, maybe I'll go.
No way am I going.
And so on and so on...
I think the thing is that I don't want to go by myself. I'm sick and tired of going places and doing things by myself. But there's nobody to take with me. It's something to which you take a wife or a girlfriend, and a quick search reveals none of those around. And I don't really think it's something to which you'd take a casual date, though I did consider that for a while.
My family and my friends tell me that I should go, at least to the casual Friday night thingy.
"Maybe you'll meet somebody," they always say.
They always say that, but that's not what they mean.
What they mean is, "Maybe you'll meet somebody else."
I've done a pretty good job of biting my tongue when I've heard that. People do mean well, for the most part.
Even when they're totally wrong.
Nope, not talking about me. Though that's certainly an understandable mistake.
I'm talking about my brother-in-law, Chris.
So Sunday evening we're all sitting on Dina's deck, mostly watching the kids splash each other in the pool, and all of a sudden I hear Dina shout out, "Chris, be careful!"
I glanced over toward Chris, and caught a glimpse of him falling off the deck. Then about a half-second later, I saw the extremely heavy wooden bench fall off the edge of the deck right after Chris. There were several loud thuds and maybe even a crack.
I think that, for a second or two, every single one of us figured Chris has just been killed right in front of us.
Dina, being younger, was faster than I was in getting up and running to where Chris had fallen. I was about a second behind. Chris's wife (my sister Neisha) was in the pool, as were all the kids.
But before anyone (except Dina) could really start to freak out, Chris announced, "I'm fine."
And, apparently, he was. Despite falling several feet at an odd angle and then having an 800-lb bench fall on top of him, Chris stood up, did a quick count of limbs and digits, and again announced that he was fine.
In fact, he was in much better shape than Dina was, what with the fifteen simultaneous heart attacks she was having. But all ended well.
So, whew! right?
The theory I came up with is that Chris is indestructible. Seeing several rocks, sticks, and other assorted improvisational weapons scattered about Dina's yard, I suggested that we should test my theory.
It would have been fun, I thought. But nobody else wanted to do it, so I left and went to Red Lobster for dinner instead.
You know what I've never really understood the appeal of?
Right!
First guess, too. I'm impressed.
Anal sex is correct.
I mean, for gay guys, I don't suppose they have much choice in the matter.
But when it's a guy with a girl, there's a perfectly good vagina right there. It's only a couple of inches away, fer chissakes.
I don't get it.
I never really enjoyed it, except vicariously I suppose.
And, if it never happens again, I won't miss it.
(bottle) Hazy gold. Large white head that was kind of a pain in the ass. A very nice aroma of citrus and spices and flowers. Mouthfeel was very fizzy. Flavor of apples and Belgian hops, but very well-balanced. The large yeast flakes at the bottom of the bottle really grossed me out. Still a damn fine beer.
Damn, I really thought I might write about something. But I forgot what that something was.
And so now I've got nothing to say. My stupid fingers are just tapping away at my keyboard, saying nothing at all. Stringing letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs.
Maybe it will still count as an entry, when I'm done here. When this nervous energy flowing down my arms into my hands finally dissipates, maybe there'll be something. Anything.
Remember that line from that movie, in that place with those people?
Dave's not here, man.I myself have no idea what movie that line is from. I never saw the thing. But I have heard that inane Dave's not here, man an awful lot over the years. Probably because that's my name, but also because the speaker was usually drunk and/or stoned.
Whatever, the point is that it's a fitting line. Because I'm most certainly not here at the moment. I kinda wish I knew where I was. I think I owe myself money. And a good ass-kicking.
Just got a fucking spam email. My computer did its little ding-dong thing, my heart did its little thumpthumpthumpthump thing. I was excited for a second there.
But no. It's just some dick spam. I get a lot of that.
Anyway, does this count as an entry?
Paragraphs strung together into an entry, perhaps?
Gasp gasp gurgle gurgle glub glub.
(bottle) Pours black, with a thin whitish head. Aroma and flavor of roasted malts and coffee. The coffee was very understated, so it didn't bother me at all. This is a very good malty stout. Extremely drinkable.
It's such a nice day outside. I need to go somewhere, anywhere that's not here. So I'm going. Probably to Dina's for a bit, at least.
I seem to have developed this annoying (to me) habit of just reposting old entries when I don't feel like writing anything new.
Well, here I go again. From last November:
I was talking to this girl tonight, about various topics ranging from my ass to how good I smelled, and eventually she asked me what it was that I wanted. As in, what did I want in a relationship?I became a little tongue-tied. Which was strange because I've certainly thought about this subject a lot. Probably more than is healthy.
But, despite all of my thinking, I couldn't really come up with a definitive answer. All I could think of were examples from several diferent relationships. An amalgam of sorts.
---
Driving late at night, with her and the kids else asleep in the car. She counted on me to get us to our destination safely. She trusted me.
---
We'd watch a movie, and she'd lie on the couch with her head in my lap. She'd invariably fall asleep, and I'd be unable to move for hours. I could never bring myself to wake her, she was so pretty and peaceful.
---
She'd be feeling sad, and she'd lean her head against my shoulder and sigh.
---
She'd come into the bar and look around for anyone she knew, and she'd see me and she'd smile.
---
She came to me crying, and she hugged me, and she kissed me, and we made love. We didn't say a word to each other for hours, because we didn't need to.
---
She'd call me or text me whenever she wanted someone to talk to. I was always there for her.
---
That way she'd blush every single time I gave her even the slightest compliment.
---
Sparkles.
---
I talked to her, and it was like we were the only people on Earth. I had her complete attention, just as she had mine.
---
She was tired. I didn't even know her. But she slept leaning against me on the plane.
---
We talked for what seemed like hours, and our faces were so close that our lips were almost touching. Eventually, our lips did touch.
---
I grabbed her hand, finally, and she squeezed my hand soooo hard.
---
I'd look at her in a certain way, and her nipples would harden.
---
She could never simply touch me. There always had to be something more. Little circles she'd make with her fingers - they'd drive me insane.
---
She simply understood me.
---
She forgave me.
---
She loved me.
---
I'd watch her sleep, and all of the stress in my life would wash away like it was never even there.
---
That's what I want. More stuff like that, please.
