Lyon

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FEET

I’m sitting at my desk at work right now and I can literally smell my feet. With my shoes on. Does this ever happen to you? I mean, I don’t mind, I kind of like the smell of my own feet. But it is unsettling when someone comes over to talk to me and the whole time I’m thinking, “can they smell my feet too?” I knew I shouldn’t have worn my skate shoes. The sad part is: the stench is only going to get worse throughout the day. It’s only ten, and my thick, black cotton socks are only going to get wetter as my feet get sweatier.

What should I do when someone comes over to talk to me? Do I make light of the smell by joking? Something inappropriate like, “Hey co-worker, your feet stink. Just kidding, those are mine.” Is that funny? Would other people respect that?

Three people taken the poll. Don’t forget to vote.

When I arrived at work,
I noticed with a smirk,
That the feet underneath my belly,
Are really quite smelly.

I shouldn’t have worn these shoes,
They are too yellow in hues.
I might have worn my vans,

But I'm not much of a fan.

As coworkers approach,
It’s like they see a roach.
Because the smell from my feet,
Has been likened to rotting meet.

When we talk I am worried,
My speech with them is hurried.

I try to laugh and smile,

Using all my guile.

I say It doesn’t matter,
It’s only mindless chatter.
But the truth is present,
The smell isn’t pleasant.

Depression session

I finished my story about John and Steve. It’s currently 8 pages long and, per your request, quite depressing. I will post it as soon as I’m finished revising.

Sadness and depression is relative. What I find depressing, you probably find cheery (i.e. the suburbs, high paying corporate jobs, most Bob Dylan). I also think true and genuine pity is the most gut-wrenching of all emotions.

Waiting for a subway in Boston this past weekend, my friend Jake commented on how sad and horrible he felt for a blind man singing for spare change. I, on the other hand, thought the scene was quite relaxing. The blind man didn’t look sad (he looked drunk, which at 1:00pm on a Sunday is pretty sad, I guess). His voice was pleasant and heartfelt as he belted some Motown hits. What is depressing about that, I asked Jake. Jake claimed the man’s life was probably riddled with alcoholism and lost loves. Jake looked at the blind man through a different lens. What caused Jake to feel sadness?

What we find sad is based on something innate that isn’t necessarily universal. Jake has a tendency to see blind people as tragic figures, while I do not.

I get pangs of guilt and depression when I witness severely mentally handicapped people enjoying simple pleasures. In Boston we sat and played in a fountain. I watched a mother happily wheel her handicapped child to the edge of the fountain, and although his facial expressions were hard to distinguish, the boy laughed and clapped with joy. Other children were running and jumping in the fountain, but the boy was content just watching the fountain work and the other kids play. The mother stood by her son and pointed at the high streams of water with a smile on her face. I thought of how that boy would never run from water, never scream with the other kids. I thought of how the mother, who knows more about unconditional love, perseverance, and tragedy than I could ever fathom, enjoyed watching her son feel good. I realize that the mother would probably take offense to fact that I felt pity for their situation, but this is the reality of my emotion. The scene was heartwarming and excruciating at the same time.

Why did I find this particularly sad and Jake didn’t? I don’t know. What makes us sad is complex and powerful. Also, why do we sometimes like sadness? Why did more people want a depressing ending than a happy one? Do we find pleasure in pain? Of course.

What makes you saddest?
-a kitten who is the runt of the litter
-your parents selling your bed from childhood
-an industrial town that is dying
-watching someone botch a public speech
-none of the above
-these are examples of pity, not sadness

OK. Enough of that. I’m kind of interested to see if people vote. Next post will be about something happy, I promise.

The Fog is Thick on a Sunny Day

This weekend, I will brave a four hour barf bus to enjoy a weekend in Beantown. Me, Louis G, Eric, Rob, Jake, and maybe this kid Corey are taking somewhat of a dude weekend up in the Walking City. So, if anyone knows any spots we should hit up in the Hub, let me know because I w….

Phew, that paragraph was exhausting. I couldn’t think of much to say about Boston and instead tried to insert nicknames for the city in order to fill space.

In fact, lately I’ve been having difficulty thinking of much to write about. Anything blog worthy, at least. Blog worthy-yuk. Why is this? Where is my mind? What would atrophy a normally churning mind filled with half-cocked ideas and hardly thought out proclamations in a week? Could it be that seven days of boozing with Louis G has turned my mind into a pink margarita? Nah, that can’t be right. Have three months of work as a mindless city drone waiting to be devoured by the metaphorical queen bee of bureaucratic society gradually digressed my brain power to that of a third grader’s? Does that bee analogy even make sense? Obviously not. But what happened to my brain? Where did my ideas go?

For a long time, through most of college, my thoughts were clouded by fog. Everything I tried to wonder about exclusively, things I wanted on the tip of my conscious tongue, was behind opaque glass. I could only think in images, in general motions, in figures, not specific constructed thoughts. It’s difficult to explain the feeling, other than you know it when it’s there. It’s roughly like the side effect of the devil’s weed: never total awareness, even when you desire it.

The fog is a coupling of anxiety and general despair. John Cheever talks about the fog in Bullet Park. The fog pushes Hammer to drinking and madness. Although Hammer recognizes the fog, he never speculates on a specific cause, largely because there is no cause, no epicenter of haze. He lies and waits for a clearing, unable to sleep or eat. He changes his surroundings desperately but seems to know all active efforts to completely escape the fog are useless. He only hopes to escape through the minutia in life; living completely in a yellow room that brings him peace. What pains him most is the inability to leave. But Hammer fights, he knows it is a loosing battle, but he fights anyway.

Perhaps what Cheever misses in his consideration of the fog is the apathy. Apathy is a leading symptom. The knowledge that there is a pervasive nothingness, a falseness in life, and not caring to act against it.

I hated the fog at first, but slowly accepted it once I realized it was always present. It’s like someone pulled off my rose colored glasses and exposed me to the dullness of reality. I grew comfortable. I also recognized the importance in acknowledging the fog. Like Walker Percy quotes Soren Kierkeggard in The Moviegoer, “the specific quality in despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being despair.” Since I recognized the truth, I could finally work within the truth. Also, like The Moviegoer, I grew content in an existence within. The fog was there and after brief searches for escape, I accepted the damp, clouding blanket. The search for escape was exhausting, so I stayed inside.

And because I didn’t fight the fog, the fog cleared. Out of apathy and love and interest in various things, I seemed to see things again. I could think with complete mindfulness. In fact, it’s cleared so much I forget what it feels like. I have occasions of immersion in the haze, but I’ve generally lost the Fear, the Dread, malaise, or whatever you want to call it. And this has inspired a different kind of apathy. I’m happy tending to my garden.

Is this why I can’t think of anything to say? Because a life without fog is a life of happiness? I miss the edge of the fog; having a foot in both worlds. Anxiety and despair were, on some level, exciting.

But maybe, and perhaps the scariest thought, I’m back in the fog and don’t know it. Has the war against the malaise and routine been lost, and I didn’t even notice the white flag? Did I put on my rose colored glasses again? I don't feel passion about much this past bit, at least not enough to write about. Is this surely a false sun?

The Louis G and Me

The results of last week's poll are in! 9 people voted, about 8 more than I anticipated. And the winner...

Depressing fashion!

Ahh, good old depressing fiction, could you ever lose? And the more I read the story, the more excited I become. There is great potential for a depressing story, and I'm glad you chose this option. As for more good news, no one said the story sucked. That's promising.

I quickly abandoned posting on a daily basis because Louis G is here in NYC. The stinky-footed Frenchman is sleeping on my floor ( I don't have a couch big enough to support his ample frame). So, needless to say, instead of writing I have been drinking. Drinking and skating after work don't lend themselves to the writing process. Neither does having a 6'2 Frenchman sleeping on your floor. The little writing I have managed to do in the past week has occur ed while at work. It's well worth it though; Louis G is one of my best friends. I can actively say that unlike most foreign people I meet, I legitimately think he is funny. Usually with foreigners, there is such a language barrier that humor is demoted to a base level, where we resort to awkward gestures and quick, funny sounding sentences instead of real humor. But, Louis has mastered English on such a level that there is a perfect combination of wordy jokes as well as awkward sentence fragments. For instance, we were walking through the grocery store and he insisted I 'Drive' him to the beer aisle. See, instead of 'lead' him, he said 'drive me'. Funny stuff. Or maybe you had to be there?

We are going to Boston next weekend. And, as far as my break from writing, you know what my favorite dude Richard Yates had to say- "To be a serious writer you must be a serious drinker."

PS. I think of this when pondering a way to finish the story in a depressing fashion:

What a fate, to be condemned to work for a firm where the smallest
omission at once gave rise to the greatest suspicion! Were all employees in a body nothing but scoundrels, was there not among them one single loyal devoted man who, had he wasted only an hour or so of the firm's time in a morning, was so tormented by conscience as to be driven out of his mind and actually incapable of leaving his bed?

Help ME!!!

I'm in a writing group. Last week, I turned in 3 short stories, one of them was finished, and the others were not. The two other people in the group liked the one story I don't like at all, one that isn't finished. I think there are a lot of problems with this story. First, there is a tendency for new writers to fall into a Raymond Carveresque style of writing, one with a bare bones type of prose and very few, uh, stylized words. They (we) do this because they are afraid to lend too much for critiquing. By eliminating all but the absolutely necessary parts for your story, it is hard to criticize. Anyway, that is what this story does. And this is why I hate it.

But, they suggested I finish the story. And I need help. Should I finish the story? I'm not too attached to it, so in what way should I continue?

Help me decide where this story goes. Read the story and then answer the poll on the right.

Here is the question:
How do you want my story to end?
-Depressing fashion
-Happy fashion
-Surprising fashion
-Dude, the story sucks, give it up
-I refuse to read this story

Here is the story:




“Would you do it over?”

“Do what over?”

“This,” said Steve, sweeping his palm around his head like he was holding a lasso. “This.”

“You mean the job? Would I take this job again? Well man, it was either this job or sit at Can…”

“No, not just the job,” Steve interrupted. “Everything; this.” Steve stuck out his arm and carefully pretended to scan John from a distance, waiting for some sort of extraordinary, telling light to stream from his hand.

“You know, your life, this, everything.”

“Everything?” questioned John.

Steve finished scanning and his eyes slowly moved from John to the office, searching for items or mementos, snippets representing John’s life. Steve’s eyes widened and he quickly pointed to a framed picture of John’s daughters that hung on the wall.

“That,” said Steve. “Or,” moving to a picture of John’s wife, “That”.

John said nothing, only watched. Steve carefully searched the room and came to John’s desk. He recklessly picked up a stack of papers and files. “These,” he said and carelessly dropped the pile back into place, some papers slipping out to the floor.

“Everything,” Steve said again.

Tiring of his explanation quickly, Steve carefully moved his hand to his chest. His mouth curled in a mischievous, dumb grin.

“Or maybe, even this,” Steve said coyly. Satisfied with his finale, he leaned back in his desk chair and sipped his bourbon with a loud slurp.

John laughed.

“Well,” said John. “There are some things,” he flicked his hand towards Steve, “I certainly wouldn’t miss.”

Steve smiled warmly. They sat in silence for a moment, examining the office, letting the smell of bourbon sink into the room. Rain pattered against the office window.

“But seriously,” Steve started again, “if you had the chance to do it all over, everything over, would you?”

John didn’t respond. He wanted to recline and lift his feet up to his desk in the ultimate position of corporate relaxation and superiority, but he knew his shoes were too filthy.

“Imagine,” said Steve, leaning close to John’s desk with excitement, “if you knew you could have a re-do. Start fresh from the beginning. New job, house, car, wife, all that shit. The kids. Not a semblance of similarity with your current life. You start different from the beginning. You fail grade school this time, or, better yet, you go to Harvard.”

“No job in sales?” asked John with mock concern. Steve didn’t hear him.

“You become a world class physicist,” said Steve, his eyes lost in a manner that suggested he was talking about himself, not John. “You travel the world giving lectures. You spend years discovering some complex equation and are renowned all over the world. You’re written up in books and scholarly journals.” Steve cradled his bourbon in both hands. “You don’t marry because you don’t have the time. Intellectual discussions and writing books. The occasional dinner, but that’s it.”

“Ha. Do you think you’re stupid, Steve?” asked John.

“No, nothing like that. I just think maybe I missed the boat with this sales stuff. I’m a smart guy and maybe I’m wasting my l … uh, talent, but that is neither here nor there.”

John’s eyes once again wandered around the room. This is a great office, he thought. I keep a decanter full of liquor in my bottom desk drawer and no one can tell me otherwise. Steve’s question was boring him. It was too mundane, too everyday. Who the fuck cared if he could do everything over again? It’s a pointless hypothetical question and the opportunity for doing things over will never occur, so why dwell on the subject?

Steve saw John was loosing interest. He tried to change topics.

“You taking the girls to the lake this weekend?” asked Steve.

Tom rolled his chair close to his desk and grabbed the decanter of bourbon.

The Bitch is Back

Sorry I have posted anything in awhile. Between working, interning, and writing short stories, my blog has slipped into the backseat. And I'm not talking about that sought after backseat, where my blog gets a metephorical rub down from some college co-ed with knockers, I'm talking about the backseat where it goes untouched and unnoticed. But, since we are in the throws of summer (although you would hardly know it around here, with all the rain), I would like to start posting again.

Not much has changed since the last time we spoke. I still live in NYC, where I have acquired a bizarre liking to the city.

Today, I was walking down the Columbus on my way to work and was comforted by the smell of garbage. Somehow, the scent of expired milk soothed my pre-work nerves. I stopped to wallow in the stench for some time before realizing the insanity in taking pleasure from the smell of trash, squinched my face at my own absurdity, and kept on. This leads me to ask, why do I like things that smell like shit? A part of my brain wants to agree with a Dostoyevsky quote from The Possessed, saying how human being's minds are so screwed that we actually find pleasure in pain and suffering; but no, that is too simple. There are only two reasons why I could possibly like the smell of garbage: It reminds me of the joy I feel living in a city filled with garbage, or it brings up childhood memories of running the garbage can down the end of the driveway for it to be picked up for the next day's trash service. Either of these associations with garbage is acceptable.

I do miss the outdoors, though. I haven't stepped foot in a wooded area that hasn't had the minimum amount of handicapped accessible routes in order for the city of New York to label it a 'park' in quite some time. The lure and romanticism found in large wooded areas with lakes and animals just isn't available in NYC. Since it is summer, I also want to swim, and there is something about the water near Coney Island that doesn’t lend itself to wonderful swimming daydreams. I want Greenlake, or better yet, The River.

In terms of my daydreams of becoming the next Walter Cronkite/Richard Yates, this quote from Chris Anderson's Free: The Future of Radical Price, sums my life up nicely (stolen from New Yorker):

“Out of the (current) bloodbath will come a new role for professional
journalists. There may be more of them, not fewer, as the ability to participate
in journalism extends beyond the credentialed halls of traditional media. But
they may be paid far less, and for many it won’t be a full time job at all.
Journalism as a profession will share the stage with journalism as an avocation.
Meanwhile, others may use their skills to teach and organize amateurs to do a
better job covering their own communities, becoming more editor/coach than
writer. If so, leveraging the Free—paying people to get other people to write
for non-monetary rewards—may not be the enemy of professional journalists.
Instead, it may be their salvation."

So If I ever do write or make anything worthwhile, the best I can hope for is a non-monetary reward. That's OK, I guess, it's all for the betterment of oneself. And I kinda get paid to write right now. I just sit at my work computer, look upset, write what I please, and get lost in the bureaucracy of a big-office type job.

My internship is going well, they were thinking about sending me to Canada. Money be damned, my own half cocked and stumbling brand of intellectual ideas is entertaining enough for me.

Enough for today, I will have to save some of this energy for when blogging gets boring again in about 3 hours.