Women

Alright. So it's been three weeks since I last contributed to this space and the time spent has been a slow and even roll from normalcy into the desperate oblivion that is my typical mess of a life. Upon arriving in Chicago a little over a month ago, I made it a point to create routines. Things I did everyday, or every week, to keep my schedule alive with destinations, goals and most importantly things that bring me joy. I'd drink 8 glasses of water a day to help digestion. I'd play more golf until I broke 85 every time out. I'd write everyday for myself and share some of the better things when I saw fit. I'd quit smoking and break into the highly elusive lakefront bike riding scene. And eventually, I thought, all these little things would somehow produce a producer. A man who would climb a mountain one day and paint it the next. A Renaissance Man in the Information Age. A stark contrast from the collegiate persona I created for myself with hours of EA Sports notched under the belt and pipe cleaning skills so adept you'd wonder why I'd leave it off my resume. So after a noble effort, I'm back to drinking on weekdays and sneaking onto my back porch for red-eyed midnight stargazing by myself. The laments of a lazy soul.

So anyway, that's why I haven't been writing more. But here I am now and I promise to get more out in the weeks to come. Since I've been the lyrical equivalent of a penniless MC living in his moms basement (that is to say, rather depressing) lately, I'll attempt to catch you up. I've been keeping to myself these past few weeks because it pays to keep a short leash on your emotions at times. Much more manageable. I've been walking around a lot more. I walked for 6 hours the other day with no destination. Headphones, backpack, notepad and a heaving sensation of self. I ended by eating a ham sandwich outside Wrigley Field, then I caught the EL to Witts, the one Paulie bartends at... that's another thing... writing at the bar is fun. I feel like a barfly and although I am not, the basic components of being a fake barfly are very rewarding. Free from judgement. A Chainsmoking guru. A swollen belly and a quip for the outspoken patrons. Fuck you, I'm taking all comers, drinking whiskey and writing hard-guy poetry while I'm at it. Yeah, that's it.

As far as women go, I've become increasingly more aware of my own attractions and what they mean. I remember a simple time when it was about the chase, the pursuit, the fleshy wriggle of limbs as you fell into tousled sheets during your first go-around. But now, I've learned there is more at stake, even if things on the surface things look the same. I talk with old loves over the phone who are in new, more stable relationships now. They are in New York. They are in Virginia Beach. They are happy. And I am happy too. For them. And in our monthly conversations they ask the same predicable question with equal amounts curiosity and playfulness, "So, what's her name?". I strain for a moment and reply, "Um, let's see... I THINK her name is ((fill in the blank)), but you know how that tequila scrambles your head." We laugh, we talk some more and then we hang up. The thing is, I think my major difficulty in a department I used to be so good in isn't the newfound beer gut or the questionable maturity or even the approach... it's that I've given myself too many outs. I've rationalized too many reasons why it isn't important to me. I love time with the guys. Who wants to meet her folks? Hungover Sunday obligations, fuck that. She'll just try to change me. Etc. Etc. Etc. With all these thoughts hanging down on me, I forget the great moments that lead up to that. The longing for a phone call. The tired expressions made interesting and new because she said them. The feeling you get watching her, drunk, dancing in the kitchen while you steal a moment of your own from down the hall. The whole deal elevates you and mesmerizes you and, if you get a good one, consumes you in the best imaginable way. I haven't had that feeling reciprocated since college and I think after a few years you forget that it's out there. You see, one never forget about the woman and her ticks. The decorated rooms and the soft and subtle eye contact. The finely teased hair and the sloppy outdoor kiss at 3 in the morning. Those things become almost mechanical if you let them. No, Im talking about the way you break your plans with the entire world if it means there is a chance you will bump into her. The way you overthink the wording in emails and underthink everything else. The way you keep telling yourself that something will happen even though you honestly don't have the slightest. That shit never gets old and that, my friends, is the problem at the heart of this matter I'm afraid. Hopefully I'll snap out of it and let my guard down enough to find her. Who knows, maybe I'll see her out at bars this very weekend. She'll ask what I'm doing and I'll say I'm writing and she'll say At a bar? Why? and I'll say something like I'm a goddamned Barfly, what's it to you? and then she'll ask if I have a light and I'll nod gruffly towards my pocket and she'll dive in there with her delicate fingers to fish it out, then she'll lean in and ask if I like tequila and it'll be perfect...

I gotta stop reading Bukowski.