December 24, 1999
8:36:03 PM
Most mornings I wake up, try too hard to keep my eyes shut, and shower in the
dark for at least a half-hour. I sit down in the shower. Regardless of the
temperature outside the window beside the shower is open, and I half-assedly try
to decipher the mumbling sounds of "All Things Considered" when my radio alarm
clock goes off in the bedroom at 6:45 a.m.
If I know what the news is for the days at hand it is surprising how often I can
tell exactly what they are saying on the radio.
What lies between this brain and the voices in the radio are several hundred
miles, two closed doors, a hallway, a shower curtain, and the water raining down
on top of my tired, indifferent head.
When it is time to leave this apartment I walk toward the front door and the two
questions I ask myself each and every morning are:
"Where am I going?"
"What do I intend to do?"
Without fail the answers to both questions are "I don't know" and "I don't
know," respectively.
I decided yesterday morning that this is hopeless. For all the seemingly
interesting things that happen to me each and every day, everything inside
remains the same. I thought these numb feelings had gone away, but they are back
and they weigh five thousand tons, just like they did 10 years ago, just like
they did 15 years ago. Next year I guess it is back to the shrink.
For some reason I am watching "Piranha" on UPN.
Last Monday I decided to move out of this apartment. I looked at a dozen or so
apartments, set aside the many thousands of dollars it would take to move from
here to wherever, then changed my mind.
It was the same experience as in 1991 -- the time I decided to leave room 317 at
the Parc Lincoln (166 West 75th Street).
I looked at a few rat's assholes of broker-supplied apartments and decided that
I had it pretty good in the roach-infested asshole of humanity that I lived in
at the time. So I stayed in room 317 for another few months.
There are metaphors to be drawn between these events and those that occur during
my general life. But like the fact that Christmas is almost here, I know I care
but there isn't shit I intend to do about it.
(This is not a rat-infested asshole of humanity in which I live in right now.
Not even close.)
I
have made no plans for new years eve. I am trying to remember if in high school
I ever promised anyone I would meet them somewhere at midnight, January 1, 2000.
Am I supposed to meet Pete or Mike at a Wag's on Dale Mabry Highway, or at a
particular mile-marker on Interstate 75 outside Tampa?
Pete, I don't have your latest phone number at the re-constituted drug-lord
apartment you're in now. Please advise.
Tonight I am listening to songs by Joan Osborne, Mahalia Jackson, Aretha
Franklin, and imaging what it would be like to get sung to like this by a
bad-ass woman like one of the above.