An Old Friend, Or Not?

My most recent complication comes from my attempt to contact an old friend of mine. He and I first started playing our instruments at the same time, and in that certain way have an inborn connection with each other. I remember so many times playing along with him and it always sounding perfect. We knew when the other would change, and how to compliment, and in effect could go on and on without having to stop. It was some of the best times I have experienced with music. Since then we have fallen apart. We were once in a band together; a simple little pop-punk band. It was good times. Fun songs, and I even helped with the lyrics a little. Then I began playing with some other musicians, and in turn decided to stick with them for the long run, thus ending the project with this dear and long lost friend.

I'm not sorry for the choice, but am deeply wounded by the outcome. I'm sure its all blown over by now, by I really do believe that our falling out was first caused by this event. Since then, he has been in different bands, and I in mine. We have played a hundred shows, both at the same venues, and different ones. I have grown to know what kind of music I am really interested in playing, and he has come to play the type of music he has always sort of been made to play, and they are coincidentally not far apart. He has become, by his own terms, an amazing musician. I think I always knew he would be. What saddens me is that we may never again be the friends we once were, or even good friends when it is all said and done, ever again. Normally I would accept that circumstance, simply knowing that eventually people grow apart, but in my mind he has always been one of my dearest friends. I have, within myself, radically changed throughout the years, and I think for the better. I only wish that we could be good friends again, and perhaps my greatest hope is to one day play along to him again.

I have tried numerous times in the past few weeks to get in contact with him, and to no avail. When I left for this state, we were briefly for a time talking again, though I often wonder if it was simply him being polite and not actually retaining any resemblance of a friendship to me. I hope, too, that that was not the case. Tonight even, I called his parents to find out if he had changed numbers or something, but it is still the same, and I always get his voicemail.

This could perhaps be the one friend in my lifetime I will be truly sorry to have lost.

-C

To Be Free

I look into the faces of those around me and wonder...

What is it to be content? What is it to be comfortable in ones own skin? For so long now I have been building myself up to be the person everybody loves. You would not think so, but in my own eccentric way I am setting the sights of those around me as someone who knows who they are; as someone with their purpose to be their own.

How must this not be so?

A drop of rain is more sure of itself than I; falling and fading and crashing to the soft or hard surface first found. I am falling, but from where I do not know, and to what I cannot see.

So the question lingering in my brain for so long now it seems is what am I? Surely not that drop of rain, nor the producer of of such drops, nor the receiver of such falls. I beckon all around me time and again fro the answers to my question and there is never a reply. I dare not ask another soul what I myself would rather answer, and yet I cannot answer what I ask. It is frightfully dilemma that occurs within me and I am tired of the trial. It is much more than what I will do in life; the answer to that question is so simple to me: anything. I can do almost anything, and be nearly content in most circumstances. I suppose the question that remains standing is what I mean. What is the worth of a man in the world? If you can answer that, than you surely have my attention as to the arrival of your answer. I see before me great men, not great from their fame, or things they have done. I know they are great through the content of their lives and their relentlessness behind their actions. It's the spin behind the substance that matters the most in life and what you do. More and more lately it seems I find myself explaining my dilemma of cunfusion rather than actually searching for answers.

One could justifiably say that this is a question of meaning in life. I don't care what the meaning of life is, I care what my meaning in life is. I'm not looking for some preordained path I am to walk, or fate, or destiny or any of that other bullshit. I am searching for truth in innocence, and whats behind innocence, and the rest of that glint of white heat surrounding the natural purities of life.

When I speak of my troubles to others, they ask me, "what do you want to do?" and I reply, "everything!" I am spread so thin it isn't even funny. I could think of a hundred lives, all worth living, and instead of choosing one I want them all, and more and more I realize how this cannot be so. So I attach myself to others living lives that I too wish to experience, and for a time it is everything I wished for, but it never lasts. Somtimes its words that I feel are my following, to be a writer and a teacher of that which is timeless and pure. And sometimes it is the raw and unsophisticated essence of music that calls my name; to be on the bank of a muddy river in the middle of the country with nothing but an acoustic guitar and my words and the beautiful notes that fall from my fingers. Or to be a fisherman, free and easy, seaspray from sunrise to sunset. Whatever my endevour, there is great urgency and energy contained in me, and nothing to expel it upon. I often think of my circumstance in relation to time of old. If I were generations before, perhaps I would have been a great explorer, or a pioneer of music or art or war or leadership or something of the sort. These days there is nothing to explore; nothing to conquer. Everything is classified and ordered. Any war waged is out if ignorant and materialistic measures. Literature is dumbed down. Art is for upscale New York assholes full of themselves. I feel as if the greats have come and gone and now have failed in the minds of their contemporaries, of every sort. Does that make my a cynic? Probably so. I have always believed that any answers I must achieve must come from looking inward. When writing, one should not ask others of their criticism, since that is the very thing that is classifying, that is killing the meaning in the first place. Even this blog, this public display of my inner workings is somewhat of a plea for criticism, and in effect is wrong and contrary to my beliefs. And yet here I am...

In the end I will probably be nothing special. I will have spent far too long settled on the porch somewhere rocking back and forth with all these thoughts and ideas until I have resigned myself to whatever answers I am seeking to clarify, leaving out the entire experience. Therein lies the problem: I wish to offer myself and whatever it is of me to more than just a few here and there. I feel there is something of me that is needed in this world to be felt and heard by many. It is not necessarily fame I am seeking, but rather to leave behind what so many of those I have grown to love for their respective endevours have left behind; truth, reality, excellence.

I suppose when one is forced to look at oneself and answer what it is they are, it is a shocking and troublesome task. I am, for the first time in my life, forced to realize what it is I really am, and what I will be, and it is very hard for me to take. That is my current affair.

Then again, why would you care? You have your own life to live.

-C

The Soundtrack To Our Lives; Poor Jeremy; Thoughts of The Common

The Soundtrack To Our Lives

Sounds like a good concept, doesn't it?

It would probably be forever impossible, or at least, at the very fucking least be one of those television order box sets of like twenty discs of folk music from the middle ages to now. I'm listening to a bit of it right now though. Currently playing: Jack Johnson's "Coccoon." This song brings me to the very moment I first heard it, and reminds me only of the person it was introduced to me by. Bruggs. Summed up the end of our relationship, too. Some songs are like that; built to fit only one person, at one time, for one situation. I fell asleep to that song last night, and its so reminding to me that Bruggs was even in the goddamn dream. Craziness, I tell you.

But enough of that shit. I've other offerings on the plate of exausted, contemplative thought to offer you tonight, as soon as I can derail from the painstaking night I've just endured. Ah, good idea, Chuck; lets delve into that subject first.

Poor Jeremy

Tonight, a good old fashioned Monday, for sure. I woke up late, it was raining and cold, (pause that, why the fuck is "I'm So Excited" on my fucking iPod?) and my car decided to finally crap out on me on the way to work. I got to work late, but it didn't matter, since our luscious house of flesh maintained a maximum occupancy-breaking record of three people from 5pm until 11pm. When it finally did start to get busty, I mean busy, we had a few young fella's one of which was celebrating his 18th birthday. My only statement for this child: "poor, poor Jeremy." Why? Well, I will be more than enthused to tell you. This kid strolls in with his buddys, I'm sure all around the same age bracket, and sit right up front where the action is. Now, its a well known fact, (among us in the working part of the industry, of course) that strippers don't take kindly to little boys. They are rude and have no money. Well... this was our case tonight. The fellas were being a little cocky, a little mouthy, and just a little too cheap for some of our deliciously sexy ladies, and a few didn't take as kindly as they should have to it. The reason why I say, "poor Jeremy" is because his friends decided to get him a celebrator at our lovely club. In case there is confusion, a "celebrator" is when someone is celebrating a birthday, or what have you, and is called upon the stage where three or four of our fair ladies give him a very public display of affection and well wishing to the occasion. If you're in the right spot, this is a fun, embarassing, and entertaining way to spend the evening. If there are other circumstances...(you may start to get an idea of where I'm headed) it can be shear martyrdom. Well, poor Jeremy, guilty by association to his discouth comrades, was placed upon the alter, and guess which lovely ladies took the stage to wish him well? Thats right, the very angry ones. Jeremy was doomed, for sure. I witnessed three very, very hard kneeings to the balls. That was ouch, bigtime. I also watched as the other girls sat on his lap, grabbed the poll, and raised themselves up to be dropped back down right in the family jewels, with gravity working its neverending magic. That poor little son of a bitch. He will most certainly remember his 18th birthday as the day he decided never to return to our establishment again. When he took off I was outside smokin a cigarette and told him to go home and ice his balls.
That was pretty much the event of the evening. Other than that, I got asked out by one of the girls, which is very confusing for me. Do I say no? Do I say yes? I'll be gone in a couple weeks, you make the call.

When I first started this blog I thought about just telling stories of that place, but I'm not so good as some would be, and I miss most of the real action since I'm not the weekend DJ. The manager of the club is writing a book about it all though, and she may start a blog as well, to which I will promptly inform you to read upon its creation.

Thoughts of The Common

Thoughts, oh wonderous, ceaseless thoughts, chaotic at best. My mind has been so scattered lately. I have had frustrations with writing as well; you may be able to tell by my infrequent postings. If I am full to the brim with ramblings this would be a daily event. I think if different things; things that have to do with nature, love, loss, the presence or absence of God and my acknowledgement of it, so forth, so on.
I wrote a verse the other day after thinking of something that ran through my mind before sleep the evening prior. It went as follows:
In the silent, silent night
When stars have put themselves to bed
Beneath the clouds, and I rest my head
For the long-drawn dream flight
I talk to the air, or is it you?

A sin or an action?
Of morals, or God?
By the silence, or a nod,
My confessions found in fractions;
O, what compells these ghostly words?

I suppose it is a reflection of my dealing with the dilemma of the existence of a higher power.

Other than that, my words have been scarce and of little real content or dedicated energy. Whether it is a lack of observation or discipline or wisdom on my part, I'm sure I've just not been paying attention.
Enlightenment is obtained when the soul is in opposition. When we struggle, we are at our highest plane of relative thought, as contrary as that sounds. I've found more and more that in my times of greatest distress and confusion in my dealings with life that I have, out of pain and sacrifice, given birth to some of my most immortal thoughts and feelings; realizations about life and how I am enveloped in it. It is so very helpful in seeing what is really important in life and what you can sometimes do without. All of life is gestation and birth, as Rainer Maria Rilke puts it, out of that one great book that has, on more than one occasion saved me from myself being engulfed by fruitless and undesirable behaviors; Letters To A Young Poet. If you ever get the time, I highly suggest picking yourself up a copy. I think at this point I am just lacking in inspiration. As a friend of mine always quotes of Jack London, "Inspiration isn't something you obtain, ispiration is something you have to chase with a club." I probably didn't get that right, but I know what it means, goddammit. Well, onward, Allons.

"The most visible joy can only reveal itself to us
when we've transformed it, within."
-Rainer Maria Rilke

-C

Five Minutes To Kill...

Five minutes until I am off to the strip club; off to do the dance in the booth for the girls and play the songs and say the names and collect the cash at the end of the night. I am so fucking sick of this job.

Here I sit, at the hub of my thoughts here in this town. The little coffee shop between 7th and 8th on Germain. I've got a double mocha in hand and a cigarette always lit. That's how I live my life, folks. I keep hearing that Spring is here, a time for the heart to find its feet. That's true, I guess, but for these last few weeks it seems I have been on autopilot. I began packing the other night. I think it's one of my favorite things to do. I don't really know why, except that it is a "straight, in your face" indication of change. At this point there's nothing that makes me happier.

Soon there will bee some goodbyes, and these, my friends, I am not looking forward to.

One in particular...

I'll leave out her name, but of course, there is always a she. We have agreed to make goodbye mixes, and mines two discs long. They are to be exchanged the day of my leave. That is going to be a tough goodbye, for sure.

I do apologize for the lack of dedication that this entry holds. I suppose when I am pressed for time I can never really gather what I want to say in the best way to say it. I am a lengthy person by design. Now I really do have five minutes left, and I'm going to spend them talking to the cute co-worker behind the counter whose having a bad day.

Until that day, my friends.

-C

To Dancing, Music, and Surrendering...

I surrender myself to this day, and now to this night. It is late again; apparently the only time I ever feel inspired to conspire with words I seem to acquire in the low-lit skies as those outside.

I've given my notice, the first step is taken. Three weeks from now it will be boxes and packing tape, moving and phone calls and goodbyes and farewells. How is it all such a magical transition from something that surfaces mere mediocrity, slightly above the average circumstance? I tell you, it is because I have gained and strained to remain focused on the qualities of life contained.

Nothing says you all cannot do this. Listen and look carefully. A dear friend of mine and I always speak of these things. The qualities of life. It is not something that can be extracted from life, and it is not something that can be obtained. It is something that "is" and only "is." It is the point at which subject and object meet, and are thus created, in a sense. The Quality of life, my friends.

So tonight I danced; released myself from every ounce of exausted worry and frustration to be in the quality of the moment. I love to dance. It is not because I like the music I dance to, or the social engagement it is appealed to. It is a form of surrender. I once heard a story of dancing, and it has stuck with me since, though from what exactly I can't recall.

A little town was collectively in frustrations. All the people of the town gathered to the temple with the news that a high Rabbi was to visit one day of mass. Shortly before the Rabbi appeared in the temple, the assembly was in commotions over all of their problems, social, local, and personal. When the Rabbi appeared, everyone began to quickly gather around him in the hopes for answers and to ask their questions, and to vocalize their concerns. Upon seeing these people, the Rabbi began to sing. While he sang, he slowly broke into dance. The people, though slightly confused, began to join him. After a time, the entire assembly was singing and dancing just as the Rabbi. Shortly after, the dancing slowly died down and the room was peaceful. The Rabbi conclusively stated, "your problems are solved." The people began to thank him dearly and smile and shake hands with one another and be happy again.

It is one of my favorite little stories. I almost feel no need to even explain the meaning of it to you.

I didn't feel that kind of resplendence, but it was not far from it. It is all interconnected with the meanings of life and how you should care to more examine yourself in relation to that great and vast universe around you. Start small, and grow outward. before you know it you will have considered things not yet imagined, and continually find yourself in awe of those surroundings. Now, I know it would not be realistic to say that one could achieve this sort of attainment and perception every waking moment, but one could now and again remind themselves of such a thing.

My dear friend of mine and I discuss how there must be an even balance between anylitical and social thought process. Have you ever noticed an extremely intelligent, anylitical individual in a crowded social environment? It is almost as if they are permanantly detached from their surroundings, however it is precisely the opposite. They are too involved with their surroundings to be engaged in the social activity. More than it being a state of mind, it is an absence of an entirely different perspective of perception; of understanding. Perhaps I am talking nonsense now, but since this is my blog, I will do what I damn well please, since no one has apted to prove me wrong or form an opinion on the matter.

You silly bastards, say something, have an opinion. Don't become part of the numbing decay and overly cautious PC society that is being created these days out of too many people afraid to speak their real thoughts on the various matters. In the words of motherfuckin' En Vogue, "Free your mind, and the rest will follow!"

What more is there to say? It's three-thirty in the morning and I am sitting in a cold, empty coffee shop with a little music, some cigarettes and my vomiting mind for you to enjoy. Spasm after spasm the words are piled onto the clean white surface of this electronic page, and if I'm lucky, it will someday be acknowledged by the poor son of a bitch who steps in this mess and stops for a moment to scrape it off and anylize. Oh, the delicious visual-imagery astounds me so.

FACTS OF THE NIGHT:
My car is finally telling me to "go to hell" by deciding not to shift into proper gear at nearly every accelleration. I left my cell phone at the club, and now am phone-less for the greater part of today, after I go to bed and wake up, of course. I'm not really a big fan of cell phones, minus the menial uses provided, but it is my only way of communication with the outside world, being that I have no land line or internet access at my humble abode. Other than that bullshit, I have some cash in my pocket and a nice feeling in my head to take with me to sleep.

Nature without check with original energy, my friends.

-C

The Plan

I'll only say this once: 820 cc's of pure hell on wheels. Oh, now you think I sound like a macho biker prick, right? This is a one way ticket to adventure. Look at the upsides: great gas mileage, you're actually apart of the road and not a spectator, freedom at your command, easily travelable, less to pack, more to ride, and its just so fucking cool to be on a bike. You know you're interested, don't fight the feeling. All you have to do is save three grand and drop it on the bike, take a small loan for the rest, get your license and ride, my friends. We'll go and go until we're actually sick of seeing mountains and cities and places we've never seen. How does that sound? It's not so hard. Wait until the summer.

You know you want to.

I'll let you mull it over and get back to me.

-Chuck

The Apple In The Ashtray

I just back back from St. Paul after a show at some downtown venue with Big John Bates and The Voodoo Dollz. Nice night, I suppose. Go-go dancers and everything. It's late; too late for any rational people to be awake and functioning...

It started to rain when I decided I would drive down here to write all this; fitting for the mood. Are you wondering about the title? No this isn't about fucking apples and cigarettes. I didn't eat any apples today and there are always cigarettes but they mean shit to me. Just a little visual imagery to play on what I want to say, I guess.

You ever just know when a night is going to be one you always remember? This is one of those nights. I walked around the city after I finished playing and lay my head down as I walked. Thinking of the past, thinking of the future, thinking of what is lost and gained in the schemes of change one makes in one's own life. It is hard to remember when things were not so difficult. So I'm going to tell you a story. A short one, for far be it for me to intrude too much on your daily life; you who have problems of your own and no conceivable way to relate to mine. You would have to know me to understand or give a shit. I tell you, I am weary of chickens.

Tonight is a night in my life when I get a glimpse. A glimpse, by definition, is an impermanent thing. Seeing myself on the stage with the two other members of my band was a glimpse. Seeing how far we've come and how well we've done is now a glimpse, too. It is sad, my friends, that I not take myself any further down that road. You give and you give and you give and there is always more wanted and needed and asked of you. That is a tough life, let me tell you. We've all known it. So why the big fuss, right? I guess I'm just a sentimental fool for genuine passion in the name of things. My right hand boy is leaving. He wants to go home and go to business school, the prick. That's fine, you can't hack it, you can't hack it. My dear friend is staying, and it's out of pride and fear and anger and all the other wrong reasons one could stay. Blinded by his own ego and short-sided thinking to even conceive whats really going on. Not only that, but I get two for the price of one with this kid. So here I stand. Walking on some street in some city I have never been too, and not giving a damn about it, or the rest of the night that most people in their waking lives will ever get to experience. I can't savor it. I can't just live it up like people do.

I am a drifter. I am always and never happy. I stay, I go, it makes no difference to me. I will always be just as I am at this moment; stuck in an open cage. Do you want to know what the really bittersweet thing about it is? I could live this life. I could go on and push and push and we WOULD make it and I would be that person you knew who made it and worked for it, and yet I let it go. Why? Fuck, I don't know. It's not pressure from friends or family. It's not practicality or morality issues. Feelings. Fuck em, sometimes. It's all I have ever had in this world. I tell you one thing, I pity the poor girl that meets me one day and decides to take up the challenge of putting up with my crazy shit.

I don't know many things. You get one life, and one life only. 75 years if you're lucky. What to do? Everything, if its possible. I have done many a thing since being hatched into this world. I've been crushed and crushed others. I have travelled to different cities and met some amazing people. People who are in it, people who are living a life, doing their thing. People content and distressed, people in and out of love. Yet here I stand, forever in some strange transition. Derived by the belief of ultimate contentment. I want things that are real. I want a day when I wake up and relief is the first arrow into my chest, rather than grief and heartache. I'm not talking about a girl. I'm not talking about hating my job. Think if a wave. This wave is emotions. This wave is everything you have experienced in the past and everything you prject for the future, and your emotional connection to them. I feel this wave when I wake every morning. I wake up, and immediately I am hit by all the things I feel I have done wrong, and all the things I can't control, and all the things that I want to do and should be doing and everything thats wrong now. Everything. My dreams are ridden with puzzled abstractions about the future and the past and I don't know what I can do to strip them from my mind. A psychiatrist would be in order, I'm sure, but fuck that. Point is, things aren't always as carefree as you might think they are.

So I'm leaving. Saying the long goodbye and hitting the open road. A little soul-searching, if you will. Who knows who I'll be when I get back. Hopefully not the same; not so ridden with problematic insecurities about my life and what I do and and do not do right.

Any words of wisdom? Didn't think so. The e-mail address is at the top of this blog page, you tell me your story.

-C

The Sleeping Giant (Some thoughts while attempting to detach myself from the strip club)

"Our nation and society of today is something of a sleeping giant. Many people are seen going about their daily lives as if all is usual and of normal circumstance, however it is very much not so. Profound change is in effect as we rapidly approach each day.

The earth is violent and tumultuous. Famines, pollution, and the instabilities of foreign as well as doemstic governments are found at an all time high. The people do not see this, either by choice or by simple distraction. Technology has, in its own way, produced a kind of numb distraction from the everyday inconveniences of modern life. Infact, the entire movement of our generation seems to be aiming at the proposition of convenience, and the simple stimulations thus produced by it.

It is a frightful time indeed when we, by means of our own device, are ill-prepared for the immense and apparent forces that will dramatically change the way we now live and think. We must take care in observing the obvious nature of our surroundings; worldly, social, and nature-driven."


Sounds pompous and altruistic doesn't it? Well fuck. Really though, there is a sort of distraction in the faces of our everyday common passer-by. People more and more these days have resigned themselves to the simplest information given, leaving no room ofr investigation or personal opinion. It appears that "weather talk" has spilled into all kinds of topics and what is heard is decidedly so. I guess I'm saying, "stop, look around, what do you think?" Sure, we all, by inborn instinct, adhere to this action, but it is less and less seriously considered. I mean, take for instance our last presidential election. Did anyone actually consider what was going to happen with either party. Not really. Not apparently. We all just wanted to watch Kerry bash Bush at the debates, more or less. I don't know much about politics, so I won't use it as my chief source of example, but there are many things that coincide with this problem other than politics.

It is one of those things that is wont of outside opinion. It is one of those things that is a producer of thoughts, and a stimulator of opinions. So say it loud, motherfuckers.

-The Chuck

The Band, The Girl, The Future, The Failures

The title suggests some all encompassing passage of my life; don't think you're getting all that shit tonight.

Lets start with the band.

More and more these days do I find how I'm not found loving it like I used to. For five years I've been working with my fellow musician on what would be a perpetual project, but alas after five years I'm just about ready to kill the motherfucker dead cold in its tracks. Of course, it's not all up to me, but nevertheless it will surely put a damper on his days to come; having to now find not one but two replacements, bass player and drummer. Poor son of a bitch, it'll be a set back for sure. I know, I know, this makes me sound like a quitter and an asshole, and you will see it how you will, but you don't know the whole goddamn story and this defiantely will not suffice for a proper explanation. It is one thing to aim high, doing what we do, but it is quite another to be completely full of shit, which I think is more so the case. I suggest a small local label to help alleviate the pressures on us and get more shows with less work, and I promptly get a big, "no. Fuck that. We're beyond that now; we need something bigger." Does anyone out there understand how this game works? Exactly. In the meantime I'm going to go ahead and make myself sound like more of a jerk by saying as much as they are his songs and his vocals, guitar parts, etc. he does the least amount of actual work it takes in every other area of something like this.
All I ever wanted to do was play my music and have my fun and be glad when people liked it. People kept liking it, which inflated all of our ego's, but mostly his. Now we can't stop until the record man comes knocking on the door shouting, "deal! deal! deal!" and it fucking sickens me to my bones. Of course, this is only part of my quarrel with the situation. The other part is that I am moving in another direction. The types of music I want to playing are slowly and surely differing from his. That is the sad part. I could ignore all the other drama previously mentioned and just keep on going through the fight with him until the bitter end. I think I have been doing that for quite sometime now. When my music tastes and wants of creation start to divert from his, that is irrevocable, and so here I stand, watching it all just crumble and fade. We played together for the first time just last night, and I almost wanted to set my drums on fire and call it quits. It wasn't me- at all. It did and does not reflect the person I have become over the accumulation of the past five years. When I go home at night, I don't listen to the type of music I play, at all. I will never regret the times I spent onstage in the different cities and for the different people. I am thankful for every last ounce of sweat I have ever expelled in the name of this music. I must move onward now, with the promptings of my own heart and soul.

Shall we speak of the girl? (You would do just as well skipping this portion, its long and boring and impersonal to anyone but I and the respective party spoken of. You have fair warning.)

Why not. I shall refrain from using her name out of respect to her privacy. I shall only give you her initials: K.G. It started over Thanksgiving break of 2005. I was sitting at a bar with my good friend Mr. Childs, drinking and thinking and talking and shouting about the days gone by and the things to come. The one I speak of was at the end of the table where I sat between my brother in law and my dear friend Andrew. I had seen her before and decided that conversation should be in order. So we talked... small talk, don't ya know, and thats how it goes at bars with folks you hardly know. Sparing the unimportant details of the middleground, by the end of the night we were sitting face to face, shouting and laughing and drunk as could be. It was nice. Hadn't been there in awhile, sitting across from someone who was refreshing and new and incites all our curiosities like people do. We shared a ride home and made plans to see each other Thanksgiving night after we were both good and worn out of family affairs. I was to call her at 9pm, but I didn't. It was out of my own lack of self esteem that I refused to acknwoledge even the phone reminder sounding off in my pocket an hour before. I didn't believe that she really wanted me to call her. Way to go Chuck, fucked that one up alright. So I called her the next day. After explaining myself, we decided to try it again over Christmas break.
Christmas break was much more successful. I picked her and her friend up and we met Uncle T. at the bar for drinks and some shuffleboard. We talked and flirted and made fun of each other and it was great all over again. By the end of the night we were the last two up for anything after the bar, with a little strategic help by a good friend who promotes the endevour. We went to my house, played a few rounds of pool, silently and awkawardly, partly I'm sure due to the eventual consequences of being alone with each other. I walked her unpstairs and put on some music. Elvis Presley is what I found to play, and I asked her to dance. We laughed because I can't dance worth a shit, but being drunk and drawn, its what I like to do. Then we kissed... it was passionate and sweet and fun and felt so nice after so long without two lips to meet and invite. We fell asleep together, (kissing is all that took place, by the way, you perverts.) That is the bulk of Christmas. The dilemma that would follow with us comes out of the fact that I would not return for over three months, when something good like this has just begun, and you want to stick around for whats in store. When I say, "return" I mean return to my hometown, and I am coming from 700 miles north, where I live and drink and do my daily things. I have just recently returned home, and I did meet her again. At this point I thought nothing would come of it. We were apart for so long with nothing to really go on but a mutual attraction, and anyways who wants to complicate things on such little fuel as that? But it happened all over again...
This time I am affected fully. I want to be back there. Tomorrow, tonight, this minute, this moment, and yet I'm still far away. She has made an impression on me that is irrecoverable, and now I'm left to play the hand. There are many things that can account for my feelings and their mixtures and measures. I am a bit fucked up, like all twenty-somethings, and I have not too much experience with relationships. Like I said, I dance like shit, and this is a common dance for most people but not for me. So I sent her a mix. A childish way to use the words of others to express what I could say myself. It is almost always misinterpreted. I figured that I should take some kind of risk. No risk, no gain. Play it safe and play it on the bench. Anything of that sort of common sense jargon could sum it up. All I know is that the absence thins the air between us and phone calls never do.

The Future

The future is as wide open as the great plains of the Dakota's. I have read that their expanse is so immense that you can stair for miles with nothing beyond and watch a storm come in, in all its dark and powerful presence, from far as the eye could see. I am going to take my motorcycle and watch that storm roll right on in front of me, and I will tell you how it feels one day, if you care to know. But that is not the basis for a life of long years, as sad and true as that seems. Many will say that my choice to embark on this journey through our great and diverse country is me running from myself and what I should be doing in the ways of growing up. The jealous bastards can shove it up their asses. If you get a chance to do something such as this you don't pass it up, no matter the outcome. I could very well die on this excursion, and it would not be a death unfettered of greatness and reality. I do what I feel I am compelled to do. I may not have a degree to my name, or money or power or fame to expell, but I have my words and my heart and my love of the things I love, and that is what I have always set out to accomplish and maintain. I know I will find myself settled one day in an endevore that is issued with practicality and responsibility, but it will not be now, not while I still have some chance to make it worth my time. When its all said and done I will probably return to education and become a professor of English. They say that today it is considered admirable to profess because long ago it was once admirable to live. That quote isn't right but I don't give a damn, I know what it means. Or I'll take over the family business. Who knows, and who cares. If not me, than no one really should. I'll find my feet someday, and so will you, dear reader.

The Failures

Sure I've had my share of letdowns time and again, who hasn't? Who hasn't felt afraid and distant from some words or judgements or actions they beset upon someone else, for whatever reason? Everyone does. My failures are more than anything those in myself. I have ignored my inner voices and ideas for so long now it is hard to recognize the voice. I am changing that. I would write more, but as we have gone on with this entry it has become more and more vague and metaphysical, and so therefore I will spare you of the tortures that would ensue were I to delve any further on the subject at hand.

Take care and exercise a little fate now and again. Make sure to NOT have a plan sometimes.

The poet, the idiot,
Charlie-be-good.

My Parade Was Cancelled Because Everyone Was Out Drinking Frapuccino's.

My oh my, how Joplin has changed.

I come to this place, this place of old; familiarity slighty irrecognizable. Well, there's the family, which almost never changes. There are the friends, who come and go and bitch at me for mot calling them while I was in town even though I gave them fair notice. Then there is Joplin. Now that its all said and done, I would have to say that two weeks were too long. Sure it was nice being back home for a good spell to get myself thoroughly thawed from the great white tunda I hail from, but nevertheless it was painstaking at times. It could have been shorter and sweeter, thats for sure. Highlights of the trip: a few friends, the ones I still keep in contact with on a fairly regular basis. Of course, uncle T., its always a pleasure, (plus you're probably the only one reading this.) My little brother PV2 Ryan H. Russell, who taught me about war. This kid has been in the desert for the last year or more and he is happy to be home. We chilled quite a bit. Mostly I spent my evenings in my front yard being shot with an airsoft gun hiding behind some goddamned trees, but who the hell said you even have to grow up? A one Thomas MacQueeney was part of the group. We had drinks at 609 and in between my gulps of scotch and his sips of merlot the crazy old man sitting next to me lectured us about fundamentals of sports and how is son is the great poet who now works at U.S. Cellular. At least I know where I'm headed soon...

All in all I'm not good at recap. The bombs of reminiscence were dropped on me again and I just find myself more and more scattered and scarred in the end. A familiar kind of terrible, if you will. Near the end, I awake from dreams that tear at my heart somehow, and I wake up with the ghost of what they leave behind, giving me the day to sort and sift them from my heavy head. I get to be controversial sometimes.

Then there were the women. O, but living ghosts that breathe and cut me with their tangible ways. Try one, try two, guess it always comes down to "Its alright, its ok. I guess its better to turn this way." I won't go into to it too much. For my own good it is best to prescribe discrepancy in the name of preservation for the future. After all, we know so little of one another, and it would be a shame to let it be done before the shoes are tied.

Tomorrow I'm going to wake up, shower, dress, drink coffee and reduce myself to the spectator of the open road. The music in the car will bounce about the cab as the thoughts inside my head will bounce about, echoing through the limitless halls of obscurity and uncertainty until I find myself in Minnesota once again, where I put them to sleep until the summer when I return. The busy life; the daily grind. Tomorrow will be music, road, and later perhaps a little coffee and some conversation with that ridiculous northern accent my newfound friends encompass. Some are worse than others... and I don't mean you, Cappy.

Asta, mi amigo's and amiga's.

The Chuck.