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Ick R Us's blog: "Just South of Blue."

created on 06/24/2012  |  http://fubar.com/just-south-of-blue/b348855  |  8 followers

I gotta hold it all together.
Just a little longer.
A lot longer.

Things are getting worse. I mean... before they get better.
I have to be fair. Things have been bad before.
Passed out on the floor, no sun for months. Bad.
Guns, broken glass, and post-morphine glee. Bad.

Something tells me I'm aspiring to those days.

My job is changing again.
I'm moving across the hall to be in a room with three other people instead of one.
My least favourite person at work overtook my (and this other lady's) office because she's

well
awful.

So my options were
learn a more complex job, for no raise until August.
Change schedule again, or
spend
EVERY day with my least favourite person at work.

I obviously took the option that dumped the contents of my desk into a box, moving down the hall, and another 2 weeks of probationary training.

The good news is, the job I'm taking is going to look
fabulous
on a resume.

Hell, I can even do it from home if I can get over the hump.

I'm also losing 80% of the panic inducing assignment (the last 20% pending). I'm rather pleased at that fact, especially since my favourite person at the agency, whom I only see on that assignment
is leaving at the end of the month.

Changes babe.

So things are going to be hard.
If things stabilize (which they never have) I come out ahead.
A lot ahead.

I dunno how but the other shoe will land and I'll be doing this job, my six old jobs, and the panic job by June.
I'm sure.

I'm winning out by attrition.
Though without some extra scratch, what I'm winning isn't all that clear, and only 6 people in an agency of hundreds have the salary range I'm gunning for by the end of the year.

Meaning

... meaning...

I'll re-evaluate my options after land, fort, and freedom.

When there's a need, they ask me first.
So either I'm a chump, or go-to. I'll try to assume the best.

Ask again in six months.
Maybe this is that weird, tense, painful moment before everything turns in my favor, and I get what I want
or at least what I'm working for.






















I've been listening to a lot of prog-rock. That whole, pre-punk era of high concept artsy compositional rock.
Procul Harum specifically.

"Barnyard Story".

A lot going on in the imagery of that song, that album, and A Salty Dog.

I sing when I'm sad.






I only dance when I'm happy.








You're not the only thing I think about.


I think about a cabin where there's no lamp-posts, or roads.
Tall grass tickling my wrist, and a run of nearly-wild dogs, and dirt trails to wilder pastures.

These days it's just me, and it doesn't seem to be quite enough.
My head can't quite wrap around a solution to that.

But there's perch on the fire, and a surprising lack of agenda and intent.




I guess that's what this is all for.
A life of weekends, and playing in the dirt.
I'll take what I can to get by.

Tomorrow I move into my new desk, and probably get hammered by a bunch of new shit that is weird, nit-picky, and could kill someone if I fuck it up.

Solution
don't fuck up.

I'm getting pretty good at that.

I had that dream again.
Your hand was catching the clouds.
And you could fix me with a glimpse.

Everything got worse when morning stirred.
I woke to a new stiffness, a new dead limb,
and the increasing hollow of dawn unaccompanied.

Did you stop loving me because I was broken?
Or was it simply that I was never there.
To be fair... neither were you.

I could still kiss you every day.
Bad breath, cracked lips, bleeding hearts.
Makes no difference to me.

Let's call this "reconstruction".
Still employed.
Still housed.

I guess that's progress.
But, I'm at the smorgasborg, and nothing looks good.

Games.
Books.
Comics.
Girls.
Projects.

I have the faintest, most lukewarm of interests right now.

I hate when these slumps come on because they're tremendous time wasters.
I'll pull out of them, and look around realizing all the time I lost sulking or feeling grey.

I'm at the smorgasborg, and I had homecooked perfection for almost 2 years.

She's a hard act to follow.

I'm training half of my replacement. Still maneuvering to wiggle forward in the company.
Other half of my replacement may or may not be in-bound.
Won't know for a while.
Keep having minor explosions, and bailouts, and flakes.























I feel like you were the edge of the world.
Like after you there's nothing.










Maybe that feeling will disappear. Maybe you will first.

At this exact moment, I want neither to happen.

There's a silence that follows her through every broken window.
A lingering scent of dried pasta and cheap cigarettes.

I plead. I toy. I jiggle the fragments and blades still stuck in the wound.
Pawing at the scars and the oft-forgotten or outright ignored advance.

I got my first breaking the back door.
Stuck my hand through like magic, and twisted.

There was a crash.
A breeze.

The coy familiar beckon of spring, yard, and honeysuckle.
Squirrels conspiring and swearing in the pecan tree.

Came back red, and zig-zag all over my wrist. Like tiny tildas.
That's when I knew it was broken.

And so was I.

There's more to go, and all the blossoming parsley plants climbing up my window, and confrontations between mastiffs and pomeranians won't help.


Actually they'll help a lot.


There's more to go.

A lot more.

Still flying solo. I'm not really working on that right now. I wasn't when I wasn't either.

I don't really find what I need, it seems to find me.

So I've been asked to endure, but in the mean time I might implement a few challenge levels.

Like juggling with my feet.
Or doing this without you.

Sounds like flying without a jetpack.











No determination on my financial aid request from the hospital types. That was over six months ago.

No cancer.
No crohn's.

I probably need to go to the head shop more than a GI.

Probably.

I haven't had time to talk to my PA.







Two months til my mother's heinous judgemental drama-llamma bitch-mom lands. Start the countdown.

I won't be a rich man by then.

I lost my train of thought to that.









And why I had started this post.







I've got a ways to slug through yet.
August might be interesting for work, if I make it that long.
We're understaffed, and I'm bent backwards picking up slack and learning new jobs all the time.

Might get a raise and/or promotion though.

Especially since I've been promoted...
fucking
twice?

I wanna say twice.
At least.

Who fucking knows any more?
I don't hate it. It's getting me out of the hole. I help people.
That's most of what I ask for in a job.
In no specific order.













Wonder if I can make an offer by August.
Barring NO fucking CATASTROPHES.

I mean we did just have one tonight...










Everyone says hi.








And parsley blossoms are sweet.
Not as good as chive blossoms.

One of these days she's going to disappear.
What comes next is a mystery. Sobriety? Comebacks.
Better living through chemistry with your local barista and dealer?

Not sure I'll make it that long.
I haven't seen the right side of dawn since she left.
And thus conquered thirst, sense, and sensation.

A drop became a trickle, a stream, a downpour.
Obliviating the last four months like a bilge pump on overdrive.
Still remains the silt and lingering.

The phantoms and whispers require something more caustic.
A touch more abrasive.
Reach for the lye, reach for the succor, reach for the acid and higher octanes of memory-cleanser.

The rainy season nears.

There's a man under all the dried, matted blood and fuzz.
There's a story behind the stink-eye, jig-saw, and raw nerves.

He may have a penchant for underweight dimes and thunderously bitchy women with attachments.
Of married women, two-timers, spinners, and burners.

There may be a few ashy scars down his forearm,
and the distinct odor of six days without having a shave, or giving a fuck.

He may have a distinctive blur of event, desire, and repress.
Ten years too late, a hundred years too soon.

I should have called.
I should have called four months ago. Not quite to the day.
Stale cigarettes and peaty scotch can only divert for so long.

I guess to say nothing. Maybe have my nephew babble on the other end, and tell her I'm not dead.
Losing hair.
Not dead.

What's the term in sailing? Backed into a corner... without a knife to cut the rigging?

Found my knife.

All of em.
The strength isn't there if it comes down to it.
If I have to put it in his neck, I could make a decent showing, crossing the border, and drinking ground water for a week or two-

For so long it was We. Now I have to drag these old bones, and chipped steel back to Me.

I guess.
I guess I just wanted to say that I don't need you to believe in me any more.

I still want you to.

Things are slowly grinding to a state of reduced panic.
Not to jynx anything, but I'm nearly out of the hole for the year.

We could call this phase 2, but that'd be jumping the gun, it's more of a phase 1.3. When I hit $0, I can start building. Until that moment, we're doing some recreational research on food preservation/prep/handling.
Next month will likely be water capture and purification.

Back permitting, stone structures would like to be introduced on the agenda.

I think I have a year one crop picked out. Hopefully it's robust and not too monotonous after 365 days. I think I need to pick a grain, but have you seen all the trouble people go to harvesting and threshing that shit?

*stopped to read an article about landmass required to feed one person*
Holy shit this is more possible than I originally thought...


*stops to read more*
I'm sorry this is intriguing.

In less than a week I will be 30.
We tend to look back on years ending in 0 as the big ones. We tend to count scars, and tell tales, and tally our achievements to date.

2014 will not be the year I look back fondly on, and say "there, that's when everything -started- to get right". It came close. At the end there was a slightly diminished threat against my life after delaying a massacre in 2013, I was in a promising and positive relationship with a woman that loved me, and I had a full time job for the first time in years. My mother, father, and girlfriend were proud of me.
And my brother and his wife had moved in with us.

With that came conflict, chaos, and hurled decade-old resentment spewing like black tendrils of vitriol and hate.
On a nearly bi-weekly basis.

I've been asked to disregard it on those (and many other) occasions. Chalking it up to "stress".

But this post was about me. It's all about me, isn't it?
If I were to cease to exist, what could possibly remain of all this?

2014 is when the most promising romantic relationship of my lifetime (up to this point)
ended. Abruptly, and unnegotiably.
2014 is when I was mostly financially cut off despite needing a new car, and several thousand dollars of out of pocket medical expenses from an injury sustained due to someone else's drunk driving. The service provided was of no help, only expense, and suggested by my loved ones that refused to foot the bill.
2014 is when I got said job, and immediately set stacks of my hard earned labor on fire
paying endlessly for what was stolen from me.

And 2015 promises to be "the year of the move". Wherein my brother and his wife will vacate this place, move four blocks south, and start a business.
On my birthday.
On my 30th birthday.

I will acknowledge that there have been absurd, ridiculous challenges to their acquiring a house, loan, price, settlement, inspection, closing, license.
Etc. Et Al.

But in our lives we move many
many times.

How many times do we turn 30?

How many times do we get off probation and taste the free air of another far-off country?
How many times do we graduate college, the youngest in our family's history?

I feel as though my life is one parade cancelled after another.
And I have watched my life
burn
at the hands of thieves, tormentors and idiots

and I grow so tired of losing it.

2014 was going to be the year I took, but my heart softened, and my hate was shunned, abolished, and misunderstood by the people closest to me.

2015 holds no promises, no title, no tagline.
2015 will likely close as it opened. Timid, and spent in mindless toil at the whim of cruel, oblivious, grinding fate.

My year plan had to become a two year plan.
My year 30, with all its pomp and ceremony will be canceled due to more enticing festivities down the road.

After all? What have I accomplished?
We can say we are our own masters, that life is what we make of it, that we choose how to react.
That's not the truth. That's what the untested say to valorize themselves against people that no longer can control their situation and fall to it.

Some people are victims, and I don't even count myself in that category after abuse physical, experimentation sexual, parents absent, and peers malicious. Brain chemistry depressing, intellect superior, facaulties impeded, judgment impaired, addiction immenent, criminals and fiends everywhere.

I am not a victim. More was taken from me than I had, I couldn't process that.

I am simply defeated. I have not yet reassembled from that fact
despite my efforts.

But I am trying.

So ask not, on this holy day of zeros, what I've accomplished.
Ask not what I plan, what I hope, what I can.

Ask me if there's anything left; and I will strangle you with the bloody stumps I clawed my way out of hell with.

I will have my house, I will have my peace, and I will quit this world as I've intended. Just not right now.

That won't even be 2015. That won't even be 30.
But there's something... frighteningly heartbreaking about not having your thirtieth birthday.
Something I thought I was above, beyond, and over, but the truth is it hurts.

I'm a walking raw, exposed nerve rebuilding scabs, and spikes around that wound, and I manage to feel -that- of all things.

That's what I manage to feel?
Like some sniveling second child on his sibling's birthday?
Only... it's my birthday.
And it's all about me.
Where would you even be, without me?
















I want my day. I want it to be special, and I want to remember it fondly surrounded by friends and family. I want something that will briefly distract me from the gray purgatory of theft, pain, and delay my life has become.

I won't have it. That's the simple fact of the matter.

I guess that's my fault.
I mean, it has to be, right?

This week is going to be a strange cocktail of emboldened, stoic, bitter determination and basic hurt feelings.

HeartbrokenGram Parsons is still dead. Beck will have to do.
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