I’m not entirely sure. However, I know exactly what’s going on.
These things make perfect sense, while at the same time, I can’t even wrap my head around one thought.
Basically I don’t care, but when we get complex about it everything means the world to me.
When I write poetry it rhymes, but not this time.
dammit, I’m a bit confused?.,;’:!
I like to observe and write about random people as much as possible (not much lately working 10 hour days on a boat with one other person). Now I’m on the train to the city, enjoying the people watching and eavesdropping. However, I just got a wonderful thought. I would be curious how someone would write about me if they were to observe me doing the weird shit I do in public (such as having full blown conversations with myself in public and making faces about my thoughts). Just curious…
I may have a problem… whenever I think a new thought with a storyline “the voice” narrates it. You know what I’m talking about, the narration voice; it’s not the same for every situation, but there is a narration voice for every situation. The great thing about the narration voices in my head is I’m constantly entertained and feeling important. Ex: (Morgan Freeman) “the human fisherman wakes up early and brews a pot of coffee to start the morning ritual… his lunch is prepared the night before and his clothing ready to layer…” Or there is the the Samuel L Jackson approach: “Does this Mutha Fucka really think he’s gonna get away with sleeping 4 hours before 11 hours of manual labor? Tomorrow should be entertaining!”
Those are just two of many voices I hear when performing daily tasks. I don’t think that makes me crazy, I just have more fun.
I’ve been trying to write, and I have been doing so. Turns out, I get frustrated and can’t finish a complex thought. Which is why I say now that this post is complete. I can’t stay awake long enough to finish a thought at this point; so, thought complete before commencement!
Fun recollection. Back to liberal boulder as it was when I was young. I went to an alternative elementary school where I was in a bilingual program, we alternated between speaking English and Spanish every other day (the bilingual part is beside the point, I’m just trying to show off my impeccable sophisticated worldliness, or something like that). Being alternative and liberal, this school and its administrators did not dole out detentions; rather we received GSTs (Give it Some Thought…s). We also had a “Leadership Team” instead of a principal, which changed every few years and consisted of two of the school’s teachers (again I digress). I remember the only GST I received… in kindergarten my first grade friends and I thought it would be a good idea to play with the bottles discarded in our playground by the local frat gentlemen. How exactly did we play with them? No spinning for kisses. Nope, as 6 and 7 year old boys the best option was throwing them against the chain link fence and watching them shatter… Yes!! Later in life I evolved to light bulbs because the had a nice pop to them and the little ones were conveniently carried in my oversized pockets (middle school). So, apparently I gave it some thought, sitting on a bench outside for a few days watching everyone else enjoy recess. Turns out I still like breaking glass objects, at least I know better than to grab the mouth of a bottle some disease ridden college kid has drunkenly slobbered on now though… consolation? I think so.
12 18 10: On my 24th birthday these numbers were permanently inked onto my forearm. Why? At the time it seemed simple to me: my grandfather was born on December 18, 1910; I graduated from Colorado State University on December 18, 2010. Side-note: I was named after my grandfather; hence, I am The II. An awful lot has happened to me since I’ve had this number on my arm: I was engaged, then single for longer than 2 months (much and still longer) for the first time in 12 years, I learned several new trades including bookkeeping, and oyster fishing (similar in so many respects…), I made some of the best friends I will ever know (2 of whom also know special meaning in 12 18), the biggest change may not have happened if it weren’t for the numbers on my arm.
Last year I made a visit to my grandmother and aunt in Connecticut with my parents and a family friend. When we left it was as hard as usual, as my grandmother has had cancer for some time and has been up and down since she lived with my family when I was in sixth grade. This is my father’s mother, the wife of my grandfather from whom I received my name. As I said goodbye early in the morning I hugged my grandma as she lay in bed, as I pulled away she grabbed my arm and looked at the numbers written on it as she smiled and a tear slid down her cheek. This wasn’t the first time she’d done this; in fact, every time I departed home from a visit after I acquired this tattoo the same thing happened.
The next time I visited was for grandma’s birthday a couple of months later. I ended up being able to catch the same flight out of Denver as my parents, we had a great time at the airport as usual (good drinks, good food, good company). When we landed we turned on our cell phones…
My aunt had called each of my parents to notify us that 911 had been called and grandma, unresponsive and barely breathing, had been rushed to the ER. The three of us were stuck in a helpless position, at the mercy of the transportation industry. We got off the plane then waited for our luggage, waited for the shuttle to the rental car, waited in line to rent a car. After getting a car and loading it up, my father drove us from La Guardia airport to the city where grew up in Connecticut, straight to the hospital, over an hour ride with traffic and tolls.
When we got to the hospital we were told that only two people were allowed in the “room” at a time. My mother and I both looked at my father with the same thought “go.” She’s his mother, she gave birth to him, raised him; he is who he is in large part because of who she is, and he is because of her. He went in and didn’t leave the room all night, came out after a bit and my mother went in, then I went in… by the time I saw her she was slap happy, I don’t know what was causing her mental state (probably a combination of stress, drugs, lack of oxygen followed by an oxygen mask, etc.), but when she saw me she smiled and said “hi, you look funny.”
We finally got to sleep around 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning, my poor father had to pick up my sister and her boyfriend at the airport around 8, so it was kind of a rough couple of days for him. For the rest of the visit we all tried our best to do what we were there to do, celebrate. It wasn’t easy, but I think everybody did the best they could to make grandma as happy as possible (come to find out later she didn’t remember any of it). Everyone did what they do best: my mother conversed with grandma (she is the best at getting her to talk about anything and everything), Auntie Di kept everything tidy and clean as her mother always did, her husband kept everyone thoroughly entertained, Auntie M kept everything and everyone in order in her mother’s home, my sister and her boyfriend provided a helpful touch that only massage therapists can, while keeping everyone grounded and calm, my father did what he does… anything that needed to be done.
So, leaving this time wasn’t quite the same. We all thought we were going to lose this amazing woman, it had been a reality for so long, but it the immediate reality had never been so apparent. Though she had improved significantly in the time that we were all present, her time seemed very limited. As I hugged my grandmother goodbye before my flight she didn’t grab my arm to look at. Before I could even pull away she grabbed my hand and tightened her grip. At that point I didn’t think I would make my flight, but that was ok. I held her for a few minutes and gave her a kiss goodbye, she loosened her grip and I reluctantly walked out of the room, out of the house, and flew across the country.
During my flight, I completely broke down emotionally. Before I even landed I had decided I was going back. I had to, if I didn’t I would never forgive myself…
I told my parents the next day, they were still in Connecticut. They asked if I had thought it over, but I didn’t need to. Yes, my Auntie M had done an amazing job taking care of my dear grandmother for the past several years, but she needed help. My father decided to stay until I moved out, my mother decided to drive with me across the country… I decided I was going to attempt to make myself useful to my family. I think I’ve done that since I’ve moved here: grandma has more energy, eats and drinks more regularly (still not enough), and seems to be thankful for my presence (she says so at least); Auntie M has a bit more sanity I think, someone that can hear what she says and responds, some help around the house (shoveling snow all day every day sucks, I don’t care who you are), and a well deserved trip back home soon for a little while (thanks to my father as well for that).
So, my thought started with a number and some ink on my flesh. Getting that tattoo has taught me a lot about myself that was always true but I may not have always realized: family means a lot to me. We all know you can’t choose your family, we all know family makes everyone crazy, but we all know when it comes right down to it, you’re stuck with them and they’re stuck with you. The number on my arm honors the man I was named after, a little Italian man with a big heart. Remembering him and learning from my father has taught me to do everything I can to help those I love, so here I am with a woman I love dearly, my grandmother (same goes for Auntie M). If you wanted to you could say a number brought me here.
I’m about to get sentimental with this shit, maybe, we’ll see how I fair… I realized this week how family oriented my life has become in the past several months. Great, fine, I love having all my family here that I haven’t been able to spend a lot of time with for the past uuuuhhhh… 25 years. It’s weird because I feel the most obligation to the little ones. Yeah, I had always wanted my own children, but working in the restaurant industry kind of changed my mind a bit… crap all over the floor, indecision, inability to talk correctly, general disregard for real life in general (why do little kids have to be so damn clueless??!!). However, spending time with these small children makes me remember the appeal; I love to teach. Yeah, all the questions are obnoxious, but you have to recognize the difference between the little buggers just trying to be assholes and general curiosity (it helps to have time away from them to be able to figure that out). Point generally made, when these kids get older things are gonna get complicated, but I might have better advice. All I know is if anyone does anything to mess with my godson there’ll be hell to pay (and if he is an ass he’ll have hell to pay). Ha, we can choose our friends, but family is family, you better give them the time of day, because you’re always stuck with them, love ‘em.
Apparently it’s Valentine’s Day, I wasn’t anticipating this. My grandmother’s caretaker walked up to the house with two roses this morning as I was leaving for work. I was like ok, so it’s today. I was also like yes! I don’t have to worry about that shit for once in my life, as this is the first time in a long time I’ve been single on Valentine’s Day. When I was done with work I was all, I should probably get something for Grandma and Auntie M, so I stopped at the grocery store and got a couple boxes of good chocolates. Easy peezy baby! No need to impress, no need to stress, just heart shaped candy boxes instead of rectangular ones 😉 (gotta wink at the end of a crappily written post like that… fo sho!).
I feel old. I’m 26. What the fuck? I used to watch the olympics and it inspired me (mostly to slide down my staircase on a cardboard box as if in a bobsled). When I was a small child I thought I could be anything, I mentioned before I always wanted to be a famous musician or artist. I also had aspirations of being a professional athlete. I was always pretty athletic, and pretty damn good I put effort into. I was the ‘hotshot,’ if you will, on some of the teams I was on, but high school was a whole other beast. So many distractions, a relationship was my main focus, stupid lovestruck little kid. I switched to art so I could get high and find ways to express my emotion other than just hitting shit (that was stupid because I ended up breaking my damn hands on inanimate objects without the physical outlet). So, I gave up my dream of athletic greatness. Now, I look back and miss the competition, but mostly I look at up and coming athletes and think, shit, I’m getting old, and there’s no going back. God damn space time continuum, why do you have to be such an asshole; I just want to actually give it a go, now I’m stuck with my damn brain to try to get me somewhere (don’t get me wrong I realize the importance of a fit and healthy body and try to maintain that). And no, I’m not taking up golf, I know everyone else loves it, but it pisses me off (one of few things I don’t have patience for). So, 19, 17, and 15 year old olympians, congrats you did well, way to take advantage of it, 30, 35, and 40+ olympians… I don’t even know what to say but touché.
So, I’m sitting here listening to mainstream rap and pop (Kanye at the moment, It’s damn entertaining) and it reminds me of an earlier period in my life: the period in between when I listened to pop and when I listened to pop… a.k.a. the end of high school and beginning of college (university if you’re from anywhere other than the U.S., or if you wanna call it what it is). I wanted to be a hipster so badly, and one of my good friends was (still is) a total music snob and hipster. It was weird because he was just a hipster, it’s not like he became a hipster in the time I knew him (since the very beginning of freshman year in high school and from what I’ve heard that’s how he was before that), he was just a hipster. I suppose the Boulder, Colorado we grew up in was the perfect breeding ground for a real hipster (if there ever was one, and the portlandia comment comes full circle, I understand now, funny enough he wound up in Portland for awhile). Regardless during the aforementioned time period I was kept in the music loop by aforementioned friend and stopped listening to the aforementioned “pop” music (helped by the fact that I didn’t listen to the radio). I thought I was so superior when it came to my musical taste. Turns out I was trying to hard. I like pop, I like a lot of obscure artists as well, the fact is I like music; I don’t discriminate (unless it’s a song I don’t like, like the one I’m listening to right now, next). Etc.
