Mushrooms

Felix came over twice a week, usually unannounced. Laura and I would be sitting
at the kitchen table under a single 40 watt bulb, bugs bouncing into it, ragtime
music playing over the stereo, starting at each other, or doing whatever it is you
do when your waiting for something better to come along.  And then the door
would be kicked open, and there he’d be, relieving us from that palpable nothingness that existed between us like Schrödinger's cat.

Felix wore the same thing every time came over and you got the feeling that he
might have a dead animal in the glove compartment of his car just incase he saw
a cute girl jogging down the street that needed road kill tossed at her. “Fur is
murder,” he’d probably yell and then hit the gas and grab the pack of cigarettes
out of his right sleeve and light one up to celebrate the moment. The feeling was
almost as satisfying as that feeling he got when he hid across the street from
Kearny high and shot kids with a pellet gun as they walked home.

Felix came by twice a week to check on the mushroom cakes that were
developing in several mason jars in our broken oven. “About three weeks,” he’d
say looking over the whitening organic mass in a mason jar and then he’d put
the jar back in the oven. Seven days later he’d come over. “About two weeks
maybe? And we’ll move them to a terrarium.”

“Ten more days,” he’d say four day’s later. The mushrooms received more care
and attention than the baby I was growing in Laura’s womb.

“How long after they go to the terrarium?”

“Maybe two weeks for the first flush and then we gotta soak them in water and
then the second flush will start to grow.” And then he’d take a sip from his bottle
of Seagrams then he’d leave Laura and I to stare at each other.

And Laura sat across from me, at the vintage table her previous boyfriend had
found for her, and stared at me while the ragtime music played on the radio and
the bugs overdosed on the forty watt. And Felix would walk through the door.

“First flush will be ready by tomorrow. Those fuckers had a growth spurt over
night!”

And Laura told us, “I’m going to my aunts house tomorrow because I don’t wanna
be here watching you idiots getting high when I won't be able to because of the baby.”
And then she took a drag off of her cigarette. The nothingness that existed between us
was a fragrant menthol.

Austin Stores vol. 1

"Ok then, that sounds fair, take em."

I hand my keys to the bartender. I chug the glass of merlot I was promised if I peacefully gave him my keys. That done, I head for the door.

"Where you going," asks the bartender.

"Gonna grab a smoke, brb."

"Ok."

I walk out of the comedy club. Stumble a bit. Eric's outside smoking. The first time I saw Eric I thought he was a bit too pretty. Fresh faced, clean shaven, glint of hope in his eyes, but the years have taken that away from him. Thank god

I stare at Eric and give a shrug.

"They take your keys there buddy," Eric asks.

 "Yep, sure enough did."

"Here." Eric reaches into his pocket and tosses me my extra set of keys I gave to him earlier in the evening.

"Thanks a pants load," I say.

Professional drinkers you ask? Yep. Always a spare set.

"Well," I say, "I gonna head downtown, you need your keys?"

"I'm good actually, some friends are meeting me here in a little while. Go have fun."

"Can I have another," I ask, motioning towards the bulge in his jacket pocket. Eric pulls the flask out of his jacket. I unscrew the top. Take a pull. Hand the flask back to him.

"Go get em tiger," says Eric.

We exchange nods. I get in the car and drive.

I drive drunk to meet my friend on 6th street. I drive drunk to get more drunk. I drink and drive, I drink and drink. And yet, somehow, people still love me.

 "Yeah, she's got bigger fish to enjoy," I say to myself at a red-light. I don't really mean it. I knew what I was getting into and I'm completely happy for every moment we shared. And who's to say what's what? It's a Sunday night, I'm drinking. Seven days of the week. Seven deadly sins. Coincidence? Or Convenient?

I've never read the bible. Jesus never read the bible. He did alright I suppose.

Red-light
Green-light
Interstate.
Parking spot
6th street.

I flash my new drivers license to the door guy. This new license looks more like me. The old one looks like the guy that went to college and had plans to make six figures after graduation. I looked so different then. I like my new license.

The door guy nods me in. I try to get up to the second floor of the bar, but it's over capacity. I wait. I'm getting good at that.
I'm good at drinking. Still waiting.

 Red-light,
Green-light.

***

It's top shelf Sunday at this bar. All liquor, same price. Top shelf is the same price as bottom shelf. I'll stick with the bottom though, I won't abandon my friends. The ones that are with me when I only have a few dollars in my pocket.

I stare at the liquor selection at the bar.

"Hello Popov Vodka," I say.

And then Popov Vodka says, he says, "Once a week the pretty bottles come down from their ivory tower, their box seats, and they slum it up with us."

The Popov bottle spits, "Such filth. They use us for their entertainment."

Popov is a mysterious and gentle bottle.

And I ask Popov, "Will you marry me?"

And Popov shifts the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other, and says, "I don't know, I guess we'll have to find out."

***

Buttercup taps me on the shoulder and hands me three dollars.

Bartender asks me, "what do you want?"

"Whatever it was that made Milwaukee famous."

He nods.

I tell Buttercup, "I'm thinking about quitting drinking for a while."

"You think you're better than me," she asks.

The bartender hands me my drink.

 "No, I'm just tired of exploiting my stupidity." I put a beer to my lips and raise my eyebrows, "I want to prove I don't need alcohol to be a failure."

"Cool," nodding her head. "I hate this place."

"Yep."

This bar wasn't my choice. I'm surrounded by men that are all taller than me and smell much nicer. There's enough body spray to choke a small child, and I'm thinking--too bad I didn't bring a small child.

I stare at Buttercup when she's not looking. There's a connection there. There's a connection, but the cord is frayed and the wires are exposed. We have a past. If we flew on a plane together I could store her in the overhead because she technically qualifies as baggage.

She looks at me. I look away. She looks away. I'm in love with her. Deal with it. Anyways. Hanzel and Gretyl had bread crumbs. Some people seem to use broken hearts.

It's ok. I'm unhappy most days anyways. With or with out her.

She kept trying to make me feel better but I kept shooting down her arguments. I think if you play around too long with something you either get really good at it or you just waste time. That's me and pessimism. Like chess, you sit across from me, I'm depression and you're happiness. I play black, you play white. I know all the openings. I know all the traps. I know I know. Until someone comes along and schools me with happiness I'll continue to hustle with the black.

***

We're in my car. I'm driving her to her car because she's afraid to walk to by herself at this hour. Conversation.
"Remember when we went camping," I ask her.

She nods. I continue.

"I was following you. We were driving down 22. Going east. Before I took a right on 6 to Waco. We passed the picnic rest stop."

"The one we ate our donuts and murky coffee," she asks. "Yeah."

"The one with all the lady bugs," I add this important detail. "Anyway. Did you see the four motorcycles parked there?"

She nods. I continue

"Four tough looking dudes sitting at the same table we had sat at a few hours before. I had a thought. In my head of all places."

I pull the car over next to hers and continue to talk.

"Biker one, Bulldog, was talking to his friends, Stinkfinger, Mudflap, and Chris. Bulldog was telling them, 'I'm on the run from Waco. I laid all the women. I hustled all the pool. I won all the fights. The law came after me, so I...wait...what the hell just bit me?' And they all look down at his arm. Bulldog continues. 'Ah a lady bug...take that.' And Bulldog swipes at it with an arrogant hand. And his friends chuckle...And then a loud buzzing. The sky goes black with ladybugs. And they were never seen again."

"Cool," she says. "Dinner tomorrow?"

***

I dream of a crucifix with the sign--"out to lunch"--tacked on it. And I wake up with the theme from M*A*S*H stuck in my head. I walk to the bathroom and look in the mirror. Man, what happened to my face? Age and beauty are married and sometimes its a great relationship and sometimes it's an abusive one. I pull a long black hair out of my black beard. What happened there?

Clothes on. Spend a few hours ignoring the nice day. Grab my keys.

I'm driving in the car surveying random objects. A picture of a friend on the floor of my car. I'm pretty sure there's dried semen on the back of that picture. That, or it's dried snot. Neither snot or semen would be out of the question. Most bodily fluids don't age well outside the body.

I see an 80-year-old man pulling himself down the street in a wheel chair using his one good leg. Two wheels forward. One wheel backwards. He's still moving why shouldn't I? Most people don't age well outside the womb.

I think about the footprints poem with that guy Jesus. I wonder if the Mormons have a poem called bicycle prints. I don't pray often. I'm not religious. I can't say that I am, but believing in something else is easier than believing in yourself sometimes. I don't really know what I believe. I don't even know what I want for lunch most days.

Red light.

I see a homeless man asking for a dollar so he can buy fuel for his jet. I ask him if I can have a tampon for my vagina. He laughs. A mouthful of yellow teeth. I hand him 92 cents. I tell him that I hope he gets his jet running again. That's the fifth time he's heard that today but he treats it like the first.

My life's been on hold for a while. This is what it's been like since we broke up. I fell in love with a girl and all I wanted was the best for her and all she wanted was the best for me. We never ended up together so I never got what she wanted but I hope she gets what I want. I'd rather deal with regret than uncertainty because I know that regret will be a mutual acquaintance of ours. I'll always feel close to her because of that.

***

"Dinner sounds good," she said.

***

And I'm talking first here.

"First of all, if you're pro-life, that's probably just because you haven't met the right guy yet. And if you're having sex at the age of twelve it's probably not consentual or it's with an animal."

"Or you might be a redneck," she laughs.

The clank of forks on ceramic plates.

"What do you do," I ask. This is a game we play. It's called first date.

"I put tit-smudges on brass poles to pay the bills and feed my son," she answers.
I nod an approving nod.

"What about you," she asks, "What did you do before comedy?"

"Honestly," I hesitate, thinking of a good lie, "I made stuffed animals using donated belly button lint."

"That's a new one."

"We had a series of teddy bears that were stuffed with celebrity belly button lint. Sandra Bullock. Owen Wilson. One of the bears fetched 500 dollars. Of course all the money went to charity."

"Which one," she asks.

"Does it matter," I respond.

"Yeah, right," she mulls. "Tell me something else about yourself? How much sex do you require?"

"I don't know," I shrug and take a sip off my beer, "I guess--enough to keep my mind off of it and on to more important things."

"That's a shit answer," she shifts her gaze from my face to a handsome gentleman sitting across from our table.

"That's the answer you get."

"You're the son of a mother fucker," says she.

"Jesus had a crown of thorns, I have you," says I.

I smile. She smiles.

I pull a cigarette out of the pack. I drop my lighter. Pick it up. Drop it again.

"You're a funny drinker," she acknowledges. "Is this you're first time to drink?...It's cute?"

"You're a mean sober," I accuse. "I'm not an angry drunk. No violence. I'm just sloppy and happy. Uncoordinated."

"Yeah, I noticed," she says while shaking her head.

"I can't drink this," I say pointing to the half pint of beer in my glass.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she grabs her purse. "I'll be right back. Drink the beer before I get back."

She walks to the bathroom. A few minutes pass. She comes back and much like her bladder my glass is empty.

"Good job," she begins to say, then notices the quarters worth of beer in her once empty glass. She shakes her head for a second time tonight, then drains the contents of the glass. No food tonight. A full bladder or an empty stomach. I'll probably wake up to one of those in the morning.

She sees the wheels turning in my head. "You're not going to write about this?"

"If I did write about this you'd have to be the man in the story and I'd be the woman."

My voice cracks at the word woman to really drive that point home.

Most of my days are spent avoiding the late hours by myself. This fear of being alone has led to some bad choices. A warm shoulder to rest your head on in the early hours of the morning works better than any glass of warm milk or soft pillow.

The mind wanders like a dog excited by the smells of the day. When left to my thoughts I find parts of myself I didn't know existed. The good thing about being an insomniac is that you can't cry yourself to sleep. I guess.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking - " There's no breaking news. The fires still burn. Violence in Iraq. You have to have education to have school shootings. And the herd thins like my fathers hair. My hands will weaken, my face will wrinkle. My eyes will close. And someone who loves me will say a few words about this life. I want to park in a handicapped spot and eat meat at a vegan party and eat vegetables at a steak house. Some shit like that.

"What are you thinking about," she asks again.

"I want some pancakes," I tell her. "The goals in life change. I want a job. I want a wife and kids and a home." I take a drag from the cigarette. "And In the end I think it just whittles down to please God don't let me crap my pants while the priest reads me my last rites."

A half smile upon her face, "I just want a job where I don't have to hear a grown man say 'work it girl'."

I nod. She nods back.

The night fades away.

They do that don't they?

I smell her on my clothes when I get home.

Then I sleep.

I'm sure there's more to this story, but this the part I wanted to share with you.


Originally posted by Lucas Molandes at 2:23 PM
Saturday, April 26, 2008

Generally speaking, what role do you play?

But how can it recognize you

Unless you step out into the light?

Daniel Johnston

03.24.2011

Lucas Molandes 

I get out of my head for too long sometimes and I begin to feel like a fraud when I haven’t written enough. The good thing about having done comedy for so long is that I’m aware of the ebbs and flows of creativity -- I know they’re inevitable, so I don’t get concerned when I haven’t written anything in a day or two. To pull the point of view back, there are moments of stillness in life that qualify as times of “wait and see.” These moments of downtime are necessary; they’re the moments between harvests, when the intellectual land has been leeched of it’s nutrients and is in need of experience-based replenishment. Sometimes with life you got to lay back and let the downtime happen naturally otherwise your actions are no better than ripping a square peg out of a round hole -- unless that’s your thing.

I suppose we exist in an emotional ecosystem. I’m not saying that in the sense that certain emotions have dominance over the others. I’m saying that all of the emotions are necessary to the world in which we live. If one emotion falls or dies off, the environment becomes unstable. If you try to make one emotion the focus of your existence, you’re no better than putting a hat on a polar bear and making it balance on a ball at the circus when it should be contributing to it’s natural environment. That’s somewhat how I feel about people who always tell you to “be happy” or “don’t worry your pretty little face.” They’re putting a top hat on the idea of what happiness is and making it dance for spare change. But this true of any emotion you use incorrectly.

So the idea I’ve been working towards is this: if putting an emotion into a specific role is bad, then putting a person into a specific role is an equally bad idea.

What are you to me? What am I to you? Why do I have to be defined in your mind? Why do I need to define you in my own mind? When people put you into a certain role (boss, relationship, enemy ...), they balance you on their expectations and insecurities. It seems to me, however, that to truly experience someone is to allow their existence to occur beyond your control or insecurities. Putting someone into a role in life is like making them into an emotional appliance designed to help you deal with the reality of your existence, and I don’t see how that can’t lead to letdown when they fail to meet those needs. How can your reality not be compromised when you put too much of yourself in something else?

Ideally, I want your existence to be as right for you as possible so that you can be you and I can enjoy the real you. But at some point, I’m going to expect you to be there for me in ways that may or may not be reasonable. Does someone fail me by not hugging me at the right moment, or not smiling at me at the right moment, or not including me in a conversation, or renting the wrong movie, or not getting me the right gift for my birthday? Are these petty needs, or are these needs valid in all relationships? If I speak up, am I being impatient or voicing a legitimate concern? Am I putting too much into you, or am I asking for you to meet me half-way?

Here’s where the conundrum occurs:  Why would I put anyone on hat on a polar bear and make it dance if that’s not in it’s nature? I mean, could I find fault with what someone fundamentally is if I love them? I think we have faith that people will change and grow with our changing and growing needs, but can a person I care about let me down when I’ve made peace with the fact that they are who they are in spite of me, and that’s ultimately why I cared about them in the first place? If I have the freedom to walk away at any point, then is my choosing to stay a reflection of my inability to face my reality? Can I have faith in someone else if it’s ultimately about me?

I don’t have a definitive answer to these questions. I think it’s reasonable to ask certain things of a person, but it is unreasonable to expect someone to always know what you need. But where does the line between the two rest? Where's the line between faith and entitlement?

How much does an ecosystem owe those things that enable it’s equilibrium? The answer rests within our emotional evolution and our ability to be honest with ourselves. We aren’t the same person we were 10 years ago because what we fundamentally are has been altered by the weathering we have encountered in our existence. There are times of prosperity, and times of drought. Some experiences are introduced into our lives like a creature that has no natural predators and thus depletes our reserves until almost all life dies off. Other experiences merge gracefully into our world as if they had been born out of the same set of circumstances.

I can have faith that a person I care about will merge into my world, but I also feel that the line between faith and entitlement is blurred by our ability to be honest with ourselves. My honesty is only as valid as my ability to perceive my reality. I see through the eyes of sanity that have been shaped by life. The life around me is a fabric we all exist in -- which has it's own definition of sanity. If I pull you out of that fabric into a specific role for myself, then my ability to be honest has been compromised because my reality has been altered to balance my insecurities, which is done so that I might be balanced within the current sane zeitgeist -- which may not be right for me. Etc........It’s an interesting cycle.

I think what I'm trying to say is that if you are right with yourself, then you will find what is right for you. 

Judging Me Judging You

And I had a thought the other night, as I was walking back to the car: depression has to be a measure of the difference between who we are and what we deny, and depressing is having to walk through all that misplaced humanity. 

03.09.2011

Lucas Molandes

"Life is the only creation of art I now know." -- Vijaya Thakur

The ego gets easily tangled in so many things. After watching someone who is brilliant at what they do, it's easy to say to yourself, "I'll never be that good;" or, "I want to be better than that." I've been there. I think we all have faced our perceived limitations in the light of another person's achievements. These days, I'm at a point where I see someone unfolding life into art and I say, "this is life being lived to the fullest. I want to appreciate what I have. I don't want to compare myself out of insecurity, I want to dig deeper." You know, all that life-affirming bullshit. Art should cause you to appreciate life, not your ego, I suppose.  

I was at a show not too long ago, and several of the comics were handing in lackluster performances, each quick to pass the blame off to the audience. And I had this momentary impulse that I experienced all the time when I first started doing comedy, which was, "man, put me up there, I'd knock it out of the park here!" And that impulse though a lapse in where I currently am mentally makes sense, as comedy in many ways is about seeking out approval. The problem is that form of approval is a currency that may not have any value when compared to the product I'm striving to put out. 

I caught myself in that moment, reminding myself, "I don't need to get up there and show people how funny I am when compared to the people who have already gone on stage. I'm not an approval junkie."

In that scenario, the best thing I could hope for is being considered better by comparison. Is there any value to any of the praise that would come in that moment? No. But if I readily accepted that approval, it would reveal something about myself: it says I need to be judged against people who may or may not even be my peers just so I could feel relevant or better. Is my writing and my creativity all based on such a fragile economy of ego? My gut says no, and I hope my actions fall in line with that instinct. It's hard to know when you're following your truth and when you're acting as a reaction to what you're afraid of. It's in those moments where we see the truly depressing specter of what a person thinks they are and what they really are.

I love/hate it when people come up at the end of a show and say, "oh, you were the best one up there tonight." This is not me bragging about shows where I've done well. I think most comics have experienced this interaction at some point. I can't help but feel the people who feel the need to judge everyone else to make you "the best one up there tonight" will never fully appreciate what you do. What kind of person would walk up to you, most likely ignoring the comic/person you're standing next to, and say, "You were the best one..." In the scope of all my career expectations, is it that I should ever find solace in the praise of these people? I understand why this sounds like a compliment, but I feel like this is ultimately about the person telling you that they judged everyone and you came out on top. Thanks, I'm glad you need other people to "fail" in order compliment me. 

A day later, I was at another show. The comics were all fluid and in the moment and it was a treat to watch. For a moment, I experienced some intimidation, that feeling of, "man, I'll never be this good."  Again, I stopped myself. Seeing people who are good at what they do should not scare me. Really, it makes me want to dig deeper to help continue the forward momentum of those who inspire/d me. If I can mine from my life the things that are most honest, then the only reward I should ever hope for is a reminder that we're not alone in this thing called life, but that's me, do what's right for you. 

The Piano Has Been Sleeping, Not Me.

03.03.2011

Lucas Molandes

“Sanity is a madness put to good use.” -- George Santayana 

As I was leaving the house last night, my dad told me a coyote had attacked a jogger in our neighborhood that morning and I should be careful when I got back in later that evening. "I'd like to see a coyote fuckin' try it," ran through my head. I hadn't slept in nearly 40 hours and the scenario he was warning me about felt more like a bring it on situation. There's nothing quite like the idea of being attacked by a coyote when you're in the fog of full on delirium. 

I'm in an interesting place right now.

I need balance. I'm working out a writing schedule that will allow me to both step outside my head for a few hours a day and also allow myself to indulge my thoughts for a few hours a day (hence writing notes on facebook). What's the catalyst? Well, a couple of things.

A)

I feel like I've provided a good model for how self-exploration can be used on stage. I feel like I have a decent grasp on who I am and why I say the things I choose to say, but in the grand scheme, I feel as if this will limit my ability to connect and grow.

I feel that I could be writing myself into an existential corner, which may be an interesting spectacle to view, but there are different types of attention, and certainly there is that attention which comes from being a trainwreck. Oh, the lovely gawking that crowds have given me in those moments where I regale them with stories I have brought back from the land of self-inflicted woe. Sure the attention is nice, but ultimately fleeting. That’s the problem with trainwrecks: Life doesn't have time to rubberneck for more than a few moments before continuing on. And you're left to pick up the pieces, thinking that you'll be able to catch up to where you once were.

Sure you will, kid. Sure ...

Well, as a spectator, nothing beats a good facebook meltdown. We've all seen our peers rattle off insights that the latest heartbreak has afforded them (myself included), and you can watch their mental state slowly deteriorating over the course of the day. That's the career I have made for myself on stage. 

B)

I was driving to the show last night, thinking about how I wanted to do a bit about the anger I was experiencing towards my trundle bed because of it's ability to mock my inability to be an adult. At that moment I was wearing slippers, a fashionable female button up, sleep deprived, thinking, "I'll show that fucking bed I can be a success!" It was at that moment that I realized how close I was to being insane. Literal insanity. So I began reasoning with myself, saying, "I can't talk about the anger I'm feeling at my bed. I look like a fucking mental patient as it is. They're going to call the people with the butterfly nets to take me away to a place where they'll assure me 'the mean beds won't hurt me.'" How long do I have before I replace the word "bed" with "aliens" or "Jews" and it's not a joke?

It was at that moment that I realized I could do a bit about how I couldn't do a bit about being angry at my bed because doing that bit would make me sound crazy, which I'm clearly not! I was still talking to myself at this point, out loud. Then I realized that my self-awareness was so acute that I can recognize when I'm crazy, work around my crazy to provide context so that it isn't crazy, which has got to be fucking crazy, right? 

I mean, is there precedence? There has to be? I'm not sure I'd be happy to be associated with those people who have experienced that kind of insight into their mania. Does self-awareness mean sanity? What if I don't believe what passes for sanity in our society is even sane? But crazy people can justify anything? Then I remembered what Angelina Jolie said, "If being sane is thinking there's something wrong with being different....I'd rather be completely fucking mental."

Then I thought, well...maybe I could talk about wanting to get into a fist fight with a coyote? That's not crazy, right? Fuck. This is what happens when you arrive late to the continental breakfast of sanity. 

I got on stage, tried talking about my bed, but that devolved into me talking about the lizard men who live inside all us, which made sense at the time considering the Lizard Man (Erik Sprague, also an Austin based comedian) was in sitting directly in front of me. Somehow, in the context of that moment, it wasn't crazy. And in the context of that day, it made complete sense. You can write this kind of shit. Lizard Men, Coyotes, and trundle beds, oh my. What a day. I got home late. Walking to the house, I took a quick, gangster look for coyotes. Didn't see any. Yeah, they knew better ... they were the ones who knew better.

I realize I need more structure in my life, maybe some health insurance, maybe 3 meals a day, maybe a few dashes of impulsivity (otherwise, what's the point) ... And maybe a nap wouldn't hurt. Now I'm starting to sound normal again. I'm really good at exploiting my weaknesses. I think I should try to balance out that equation.

Trundle Bed-Stuy

I'm throwing on a pot of coffee so that I can feel something other than the directionless malaise that has over-taken me since I landed in Austin 3 minutes ago. How long will it take my system to flush out the the hard-edged sensibilities New York left in my being? If I take a piss test in three weeks, will I no longer test positive for Edge, The Right Stuff, Grit, Heart, Moxie, or Keepin' It Real?

Oh New York, you are a sly one. All the difficult times and lessons that seemed to have no purpose are now revealing their greater import. Why do I have to spend 2 hours waiting for trains? Why am I always on someone elses schedule? Why is it not okay to make eye contact with anyone, yet I secretly stare at everyone? What does it mean? Well, Daniel-son, wax off, wax on, wax poetic -- you see what I'm saying? You dig? The Big Apple a day... These lessons add up to something called livin' la vida Lucas. Coffee is made. There's a little bit of life in each sip. New York is already on the horizon again. 

03.02.2011

I've been sitting here for the last hour trying to figure out what to write. For some reason I'm unable to decipher all the nuggets of wisdom I scratched onto the wrinkled napkin the flight attendant gave me somewhere between Newark and Austin. These words made sense 3 hours ago. Well, I suppose the problem is that since I last put my head to the pillow, I've seen the sun rise twice. It happens.

I've gone from air-mattress in Brooklyn to trundle-bed in Austin. When I was a kid I worried about the boogieman under my bed. These days I'm concerned about the other bed under my bed. Trundle bed? A sign of success you are not. No one has ever found comfort in the idea, "hey, sure I sleep alone, but I have another mattress...just in case (sad tear)." That other mattress stands as a memorial to the idea that someday hope, like a runaway child, will return and you can say to it, "we haven't touched your room since you left." But she ain't coming back. She ran away to be in an abusive relationship, which is still better than living under your bed, by your rules.....

zzzzzz

coffee failing. 

The Thoughts That Drive Men Oscar Wild

We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

02.27.2011

Lucas Molandes

You're driving the down the road, making good time. The entire trunk, as far as you know, is filled to capacity with everything you'll ever need. You see something up ahead; it's on the side of the road. It's a person. They flag you down. Though time is of the essence, you pull over. The person hands you their bags. You check the trunk. There's just enough room for their stuff, but you don't have time to take everything out and rearrange. You awkwardly cram their bags in with the rest. Sure you could have done this step better, but getting back on the road is more important than getting it right -- you figure you'll have plenty of time to make things right later. Then you get back on the road. Though you're the first car to travel down the road in several hours, the person who flagged you down begins to wonder if they should have waited for another ride, too late for such questions. The sun begins to set as you continue driving towards that unending horizon.

---

In the final moments of the relationship, you experienced a moment of clarity: all the problems you've endured as a couple can be undone by one magnificent roll of the dice. This gamble feels as right as any of the gambles do when the only thing life has left you with is an amount that is perfect in its ability to mock you. Put those chips on the table, and then sweeten the pot by throwing in the keys to your sanity. Win, lose or draw, no matter how the dice land, at least it’ll be over. There’s some peace to be found in calling your own way out.

---

You're on a second date with someone you've known for a while. This person scares you. Not terrifyingly so, but in that sense you have a gut feeling this person might be right for you. You are peers, you get each other, you have similar experiences, you're both motivated and career minded. There's a mutual respect and sharing of perspective. Why couldn't this go well: making a relationship work would take more than you're able to give to it at this time in your life?  At this point you're both running side by side, sure, but the paths you are on may diverge, and so making room for this connection means you'll be left with that much space to fill when this ends. 

And you're not the kind of person to embrace short-term, shallow relationships for the sake of not being alone. You at least need the illusion of depth to put yourself in a position that could justify heartbreak, if that exists. As your friend told you, "heartbreak is nothing more than how much better the other person has it." 

She reaches her hand out. It's soft. It feels good. There's the warmth of life to it that's reassuring. You know that allowing optimistic feelings in will only cause a greater fall. It's not that she will hurt you. You will hurt yourself, again, and again, and again. No one will lie to you more than you'll lie to yourself. You tell yourself to enjoy this moment, but everything that always goes wrong will not stop dancing the devil dance on your right shoulder.

The night continues on. The physical distance between the two of you has decreased. The moments of silence are filled with eye contact that is not aggressive but a playful juggling of the emerging feelings you share for one another. That this is only the second date was washed away several drinks ago, and a revelatory thought (you won’t remember later) enters your brain. The thought sets you at ease. You lean in and kiss her. How's your breath?

The thought which was the impetus for the kiss was that it's okay to experience the relationship you are incapable of having. Fast paced affection is perfect for people who don't have time for the intimacy found in the 7-course-meal, long term commitments. Intimacy can come in a lunch serving, quickly and sensibly proportioned for those on the go. The expeditied relationship is an agreement that exists because two people need a fling that will simultaneously recharge them and remind them why the plants of commitment need more water than is available in these times of drought.

Later on, you wonder when you'll have a handle on the fast paced nature inherent to the life you have chosen. Will there ever be a convenient moment for you to fully appreciate another person in a long term relationship, or are you unfairly using your fast paced schedule to hide the fact that you're unable of maintaining anything deeper? Later on, you'll wonder what could have been if you had met at a better time in each other's lives. 

Maybe in three months, you'll both realize that you have no more relief to provide one another. Hopefully by then you'll both be adults about the break up. Hopefully by then you'll be able to appreciate sleeping alone again. Hopefully by then you'll have a better handle on what you really want. Hopefully by then, the second season of your favorite show will be available online. Right now, the light of possibility casts a lovely shadow on all of these fears.

You pull away from the kiss. She smiles. Your breath must have been fine.

---

You lay on your bed. You've been sick for a week, and you wonder if you will ever know what it feels like to feel healthy again. You try to remember a time when swallowing didn't cause a pain. You know there were moments when that was the case. You can see yourself downing a beer before your friends funeral. You didn't feel pain then, but the memory brings you no peace now.

---

You're standing in line at a hardware store. You hear conversation going on all around you. The words might as well be in another language. At this moment you're trying to remember the great idea you just had. It's futile. The idea is gone and you are sad, not because of this one idea leaving you, but because in this moment you feel the loss of all the times life took one away from you.

The person at the front of the line hands the cashier a bill. A moment of panic. You check your pockets again to make sure you brought cash. After a few moments of reaching, you feel something in your pocket that feels like money, but you won't be satisfied till you see it. It's the 5-dollar bill you were handed back as change for your slice of pizza last night. You keep the bill clenched in your fist, worried that it might disappear if you take your fingers off of it. You're holding on to it. This won't leave you. There's that. 

--

Life is going well. You have a few plans for today. You call up a friend. They mention a television show you would like. "All the episodes are online," they tell you. After you get off the phone, you check out the first episode and are hooked. You find the rest of the season on the internet and download it. Within an hour you're watching the second episode. The second episode ends.

You look outside, it's only 10 AM. You figure that you have enough time to watch another episode and then you can get to enjoying your day off.

You look outside. It's 4 PM. You're 9 episodes deep in season one. No need for guilt. You figure if you were going to do anything today you'd have already done it. And there's always tomorrow. You get up. You make a sandwich and do a few stretches and then sit back down.

You look outside. It's 9 PM. There are 5 episodes left. You gauge the time. At this rate, you'll be done with the series before 1 AM. The show, as good as it is, has become more than a show. It has become a beast you must conquer. As long as there is more of this show to watch, it wins. And it's a really good show.

You watch the last episode and peace fills your body. The day is a blur, and though you're not quite sure what you've done, you've done it. You survived the journey through the manic atmosphere of impulsivity and anxiety and made a safe landing back on planet normal. You lay down on your bed. Looking forward to sleep you remember all that you saw, and you think about the things you really need to get to tomorrow. 

--

You left the first womb when the water broke. You left the second womb 27 years later when the heart broke. You were reborn on this planet, classified as a man, but weaker than a 10 minute old gazelle. There were no instincts to guide you through this parentless world called adulthood. It can't be adulthood. Have you seen adults recently? You walk down the street and see grown men wearing an 80's t-v shirts. In a sense, you are a generation of babies in need of inoculation. Instead of the nurse distracting you from the needle, you're using nostalgia to distract you from life. And you pack your fragile existence in irony so as to keep anything from damaging that which is already broke. And then you wonder, maybe you're still in a womb, waiting for the next thing to break. What will you be then?  What does it even mean to be a part of this life? Why do you experience joy pondering the future one moment and the next, you wonder if you ever knew what it felt like to be at peace? Then you wonder, was the peace you once knew just ignorance?

---

I spent a few hours on the trains last night. Riding through the guts of the city, I don't make eye contact with anyone. I stare at their shoes, their necks, or the ads that line the ceiling of the subway. I wish someone would sit down next to me and start a conversation. I couldn't do that. That's something a crazy person does. Well, the person to my left is sleeping and the people to my right are speaking French. I wouldn't know what to say to them. I always keep a small journal on me; it's perfect for these moments. I'll talk to myself. That's not crazy.

---

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