The Spin Theory

It’s been a week here, and if I could, I’d never leave. Trips like this have you thinking about how you could leave everything behind, start a new life somewhere else, and be fine. I could farm. Or breed horses. Probably. Live in a 2000 person town that has two months a year without a sunset. Maybe that’s the life. What the fuck are we doing back home anyway?

Crunching numbers for a paycheck.

That’s not fair, really. I love home. I miss my cat; my neighbors; home. But there’s something about this place that has a charm unlike most of anywhere I’ve ever been before. It’s cold, sure. And the weather has been pretty brutal, but I could live here.

She was right, after all.

That’s maybe the worst of it. Being wrong. But I suppose she’s always had that on me anyway.

Skál,
Spin

I like being alone. I don’t really like connecting with many other people. Maybe I’m full of it, but people get frustrated when I talk – obsessive reasoning and terrible spending habits: just another hole I’ve dug myself into. I feel like I’m in my own, tiny world. People are always trying to get me to break out of it, like too much reason or thought or introspection is frightening. Like it questions their reality. I already know the answers. That part where there’s silence in the middle of a conversation? It’s beautiful. I live for that. I feel like the world is moving and I’ve just always been ahead of it. Sidward understands.

I’d love to take pictures again. She said it’d be good to see them. My suspicions say she’s the last one watching, but perhaps, this writing thing is easier. Silver and gloss; ink on paper; pixels on a screen — I suppose it’s all black-and-white at the end of the day.

Sometimes I wish the world were more colorful. Oh, the fucks that could be given. It’s all bus rides and public transportation; shared experience, as it were. But —

Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose. 

I am sorry, though. I’ve been out of the game for so long, and it’s really not fair to either one of us. There is, after all, a universe where you’d get to enjoy these. And another yet where they never existed. Those are the strings that have yet to be cut.

That’s the fun, no? Everything exists; Schrödinger had a cat; bliss in ignorance — I never could get the phrasing right.

If you were an Archer fan, you’d’ve laughed.

You see those dots on the ceiling? You mentioned them. I stared at them as a kid; made constellations; told myself that patterns mattered. Everything can be defined; there is nothing a data point couldn’t explain. But that’s not what you want.

I can always make you laugh. That’s what I’ve got. It doesn’t mean so much these days. Everyone wants more. Perfection is bliss — there’s that damned phrasing again. But, really, what else is there? We’d all just be full of shit otherwise.

How is it the world keeps spinning and you stay ahead of it?

They gave me a name for a reason.

-spin

Another year yet. And, really, not much has changed. I’m still listening to the same albums; my Spotify history is embarrassing. It’s just playlist after playlist of what should have been.

I guess it’s not so bad. Maybe I’m being a little dramatic. Let’s start over.

I’ve had the most wonderful things said about me recently. I’m not normally one to get caught up in it, but it’s difficult not to when someone else’s words catch your throat. Someone, somewhere, thinks I have value. I know we tell ourselves that — that we’ve got something to give, that we mean something to someone, but it’s easy to lose sight of it. That’s what I’ve been missing in my life.

Some days I miss you. Others I don’t. Given enough time, I’m sure we’ll end up the way we used to be. Each day begets that. And bringing it up makes it worse, I’ve found.

There’s not so much time in a year — it’s easy to let it pass you by. I got caught up in this last one. I forgot the things I learned not even that long ago. And maybe it’s a little late for resolutions, but I’m giving myself this short year to get it sorted out; to find the people that mean something to me, who still think I mean something to them.

“Be selfish” — you taught me that.

But you were wrong.

-spin

The anticipation might kill me. I can’t sleep – I can hardly breathe. Three years. Three stupid, fucking years. Every ounce of this city bleeds the memories I’ve projected on it. Green, circular, cement filigree; geometric, cold, technological hearts; my fat, ridiculous cat. It’s you. All of it. And why? It should have been me all along.

How many times have I dreamt this moment?

…am I just going to wake up again?

The things I forgot to say. The things I should’ve done. The things I forgot to say. The things I should’ve done. The things I forgot to say—

Stop.

I hastily shuffle through the papers on my desk before crumpling the majority of them and throwing them out. It was always just a happy waste of time. The morning light breaks through the window like I have written about before – faded yellow across the dust that has collected on everything; it doesn’t have the same romanticism in real life. Everything is a fucking rip-off. Not a single one of these has a point, or, if they did, they hardly matter anymore. It’s so easy to get lost in your head, when it contains the only place you want to be.

Get a hold of yourself.

This city is a plague. Massive freeways twist around blue glass towers. Concrete, asphalt and silicon. It’s flatter here than further south, and I find myself constantly apologizing for the scenery. It’s not my fault, I know, but she deserves better. I have no control, and that scares me. I can plot out every scenario; every conversation; a veritable city map of the possibilities of the day, save for one unintended variable.

She knows it, too. I’ll beat myself up for weeks over that single phrase. Prometheus and his liver.

Don’t ask the questions you don’t want answered.

The things I should’ve said. The things I forgot to do. The things I should’ve said. The things I forgot to do. The things I should’ve said—

I open the door and a waft of senses overwhelms me. You’ve lit candles like you always do, but more so because it’s gotten darker in the late fall. The house smells familiar – fresh, and like meals have been prepared – but it is quiet. I move in through the living room, drinking in the moments of our family’s life. Pictures hang on the walls; family portraits, but not the same, stoic, mall-studio type you’d expect. Ours are different, unintentional. They are the kind of pictures most people would throw out, but you love them all the same. Sneaking through to the hallway my footsteps creak on every loose floorboard. I’ve said I’d fix them a thousand times, and you just smile knowing that we’ll grow old to the squeaks.

That smile. Oh, that smile! It’s all I’ve been able to think about for months. I’ve been away for years in my head, and longer if I counted. But your image is as clear as the day we met. This trip was difficult, longer than it should have been, but we had our letters to keep us company – “It’s a special thing, to have your words right there on paper, and your voice in my head.”

The sun is low in the sky, painting the rooms orange through the large, old windows in the dining room. The sagging glass stretches the light into every corner, warming the house to match the home you’ve built inside. I can hear you humming in our room, and imagine you dancing in circles to mundane chores, wholly at peace in your mind. I could spend my life listening to you, if I weren’t so anxious to see you again.

Peering in from the corner of the doorway, I see you – back towards the door, painting near a window. My noise hasn’t stirred you, so I move closer, ’round the bed. I can smell your hair; sweet, like the flowers I wish I could understand. Your humming is louder, confident. The same melody fills the room as it always has, making even the smallest speck of dust dance in the light of the setting sun. Closer in now, I can hear the breaths between notes as I raise my hands to your shoulders. You turn—

And I was dreaming again; back to the reality where I spend my days in love over a telephone line; unrequited; falling asleep with a computer, because it’s almost like you’re here. But then I read it:

“I miss you.”

I hear the words in my head. And it’s a special thing.

Disclaimer: I’m guest posting. Because he asked me too. Because I know he’ll smile when he discovers it. Forgive the intrusion, and the self-deprecation, I come in peace…

I was born the morning of June 20th, ushering in the summer solstice and a full moon. I breathed my first breaths on the longest day of the year and through the shortest night; I opened my eyes for the first time to witness the end of spring, and the first day of summer. My first cries, an ode to the sun. This day has been celebrated for centuries as a time when realities blend, where the walls between what is, and what could be, wear thin. Anything is possible, the fay and folk dance together, motions mingled…together in rhythm and close enough to touch, if only for a moment. For this reason, the days surrounding the solstice are known as the Cusp of Magic.

Those of us born under this particular influence are astrologically inclined to be caught at odds at the intersect of logic and emotion. In logic we find clarity, upon which we build our Popsicle-stick empires. The catch of course, is that watery emotion presents a threat to such a feeble foundation. Life on the literal edge, Gemini Cancer, always on the verge of catastrophe.

My birthday has provided ample metaphor for many aspects of my life, one led with a certain degree of self-introspection that borders on narcissism (please forgive me). But perhaps it explains my fascination with the literal bookends of life. Birth…and Death. Beginnings and endings are the first things I ever really knew. It’s these moments that stick out with abandon from the recesses of my mind; when it started…laid neatly next to where it ended, corners folded. The middle, by no means less important, remains for me, less vibrant than the start, less poignant than the finish.

The glory of life is that it is filled with beginnings and endings, which at the very least keep me occupied, with a dash of interested. But I believe that someday, the pomp of my birth with be matched by the flourish of my death. Time will bend, the walls will thin, linear perception will slow to feeble striations like heat waves off hot pavement, and I will go out…Blip.

The sun, set on paradise.

– B

http://inthebyline.blogspot.com/

I talk a lot about being an open book. It’s something that I truly believe, but most people don’t believe me when I say it. I’ve been, for my entire life, accused of being introverted, secretive, and mysterious. I have ideas, sure. Crazy, mixed up, borderline-psychological issues that I deal with on the daily, but they’re only a page-turn away, if you’re interested enough to read on.

Truth be told, though, there are things that I purposely avoid telling people outright. Small details really, that have more of an effect on me than the information itself. I can turn anything into a joke – just another terrible experience spun, as it were, into another story that can make you smile. And why not? There’s not much that anyone should have to deal with, and I can make the most heartbreaking of my experiences read like the most beautiful story you’ve ever heard. Commas, and semi-colons; there’s not much to the science of it all.

It’s not to say that the information isn’t there if you want it, but most people don’t. No one wants a friend that is constantly battling nonexistence with reason and irrefutable logic. No one wants the liability of thinking they should have lent an ear. It sucks, but it’s the truth. You’d never befriend someone who talked about the shit you didn’t want to listen to. It’s easy to argue the counter to that, but consider your best friends now. Are any of them the kind of people who bring you down? No. Chew on that for a minute. So we keep things to ourselves, simply for the sake of keeping people around us.

But I guess I don’t really understand the alternative. It’s not like people are walking around shouting aloud their inner monologue. Or maybe people just don’t talk to themselves. That can’t be right. I can’t be the only person who’s been caught in conversation with a shadow.

What I’m getting at is this: we all have things to hide – embarrassing moments, massive failures, bad decisions, awkward situations, and shaming behavior. Everyone has a secret. Everyone lies. Self-preservation is a powerful defense mechanism evolved in the social environment we live in; survival of the fittest, adapted to the modern world.

Maybe then the mystery exists in being open. Always having a story to tell. Never being scared to laugh at yourself. Cloaking all the bad with a shit load of good. After all, if you wear everything on your sleeve, eventually you’ll need a jacket, just for the extra room.

-spin

My dad woke up in the ICU today. He’s been there for a couple of days, but he doesn’t remember anything – just an alien bed and white walls. Not an easy thing to deal with all at once. He called me from my little brother’s phone saying he just wanted to hear my voice. It’s weird being your father’s support system; it’s supposed to be the other way around. But I was happy to hear him as well.

It’s easy to ignore the realities of a situation when you’re so far away. I’ve been worried, sure, but I’m fairly ineffective when it comes to “being there” for my family. I’m usually the one that needs the help.

We only spoke for a couple of minutes, but I could hear the pain in his voice. Maybe not incredible physical pain, but emotional – we’ve got the same brain, he and I.

It’s weird waking up somewhere and not knowing the place. I’ve done it before. Not like this, but similar in its own way. The bed is unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and the environment itself is altogether unsound. Mine was a different country, and a war I didn’t want to fight. I remembered getting there, but I didn’t want to believe it was actually happening. In some sense, not knowing and not believing are the same, I suppose. But you come to terms with it after a while.

I told my dad all of this, in the best words I could find at the time: “You know, it’s just one of those things…”. I’m not sure he bought into the idea, per se; not at the moment. It’s a tough lump to swallow. But he chuckled when I told him that eventually, it’d just be another story he could tell: a survivor of a distant, warlike reality. He’ll make it through I’m sure, forgotten days and all. It’ll be hard at first, but my dad’s stronger than he likes to admit. Hell, I did it, and he taught me a lot of what I know.

I guess, in some ways, I’d consider him lucky. I’m sure it’s not a situation he would wish on anyone, nor would anyone on him, but every experience is beautiful in that it makes us who we are. My dad is a great guy, but not by default. He’s a great guy because of what he’s lived through to get where he is. Some trials are harder than others, but it’s the survivors that we look up to at the end of the day.

In any case, family and friends are near to fill him in on his missings, should he want to hear about them. And one day (I would hope soon), we might be sitting in his living room laughing about it all. Him in his favorite chair, both of us with a Miller Lite – just like when I came home and my brain wasn’t great at dealing with it all yet. He’ll have a story like the one his mother used to tell about her ambulance ride through downtown; painful, sure, but it’s hard be sad when you’re holding back the laughs.

Truth be told, I think we all have a few days we wish we could forget. And, I don’t know, maybe having a few less of them bouncing around in your head just makes the ones you do remember all the more special.

Get well soon, Dad.

1… 2… 3… (swoosh)

-spin (rsOr III)