Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Up All Night

The pile of loose earth had grown from a small mound to a small mountain around my house. I was below the foundation of my basement at this point. Some jack-ass had written his initials on the outside wall.

“Who names their kid Flint?” I muttered to myself.

The checkout girl at Home Depot now knew me by name and in turn, I knew all of the illegal aliens in the work pool in the parking lot. Needless to say, I was broke, but I had found the source of the noise that had been keeping me up for years.

Unfortunately, It was the ice maker.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

EFIL LANRETE

Matters of the soul seem to elude most mankind. Those who dare consider the possibility typically latch on to inherited beliefs, old wives tales and superstitions-- “I’m Catholic because my parents are Catholic”, “masturbation leads to blindness” and “never start a journey on a Friday”. I’ve realized that these things have little to do with the soul and more to do with ignorance, convenience and/or laziness.

Books on beliefs were piled on my desk for years as I poured over them highlighting everything that seemed pertinent and then going back and rereading that which I didn't highlight to see if something slipped between the cracks as I felt my soul doing just that. Slipping.

Jesus was cool, but it seemed strange that every depiction in western civilization of the man-god had him wearing a dirty blonde mop and gazing at me with deep blue eyes. He looked more like a surfer than a saviour. An angelic Johnny Utah. Maybe Neo was the chosen one.

I went the other route and became an Atheist, but the worst kind, the fake kind. Real atheists don’t hate god. God doesn’t even cross their minds. It’s like talking shit about the Easter Bunny or S1m0ne or Cadbury Eggs or Al Pacino.

After a while you just stop asking questions and get on with it, life that is. You focus on work, family, friends and alcohol. Being busy keeps the questions from coming up and alcohol helps wash them down when they get a little too close to the surface. It’s where indigestion comes from.

And then, you get lonely, not alone. People are still around. The same people that helped you forget about the question(s) that you were asking before you got too busy to ask them. There you are having a conversation with someone and an intense wave of despair washes over you. There’s a .22 in the night stand. It’s loaded. It waits patiently. Their mouth keeps moving.

You start talking to yourself because you think you’re going crazy, but then you actually start going a little crazy when “yourself” answers and it’s not you. You’re not doing this. It’s not Jesus and this isn’t church camp. Something fucking said something. Fucking Jiminy Cricket.

We talk. I have no choice. He comments on conversations I’m having with other people. It's like a running commentary. We have conversations, but I like them. I’m yet to bend my finger up and down when we speak though.

He's an old soul with a classic sense of humor. I think he’s Jewish, but not in the Keanu Reeves Surfer Jesus kind of way. It's more like a combination of Mel Brooks on one shoulder and the Dalai Lama on the other.

I wonder what the hell he does all day. Today at work I could hear him rooting around in there. It's like he was going through the attic planning a yard sale "Do you need this anymore?" he asked as he pulled out a box of bitterness that I've been harboring. "I've been saving that for a rainy day, jack ass. Put it back." I can see him shrug, but he doens't say anything.

I went looking for it later to fuel a fire because some asshole cut me off in traffic, but I can't seem to find it. He didn't even put a price tag on it. It just ended up in the trash.