October 22, 2018
It was the end of the world, and I did not feel fine. I was a blubbering mess. The weather was weird, there were gods and demi-gods walking with such single minded focus, to locate their place in the ritual, and fulfill it. Rhea Pearlman maintained an attitude of optimism, but not sunny. "How about if, when this is all over, I open my own little spot? Where we could all get a drink? Would you like that?"
Cheers was closing.
We nodded that we would, but we were still glum.
I got into my Jeep. I had a Jeep because I've been reading Augusten Burroughs, and his own Jeep-dreams have filtered into my subconscious. R.E.M was playing on the radio, and that was a relief. Because the gods were assuming their places, it was all going to end. I just wanted to hear that song, at least.
October 13, 2018
I Lost My Phone in a Lyft: The Carma Nibarger Story.
Chapter One: Eating Cookies by the Dozen and Other Coping Mechanisms.
Like everything, it all started when I decided it was high time I took control of the chaos in my life, and get things organized. First order of business: re-arrange the whole apartment... get rid of some of the obvious surplus and clutter. Separate the wheat from the chaff. Just like it says in the the good book, the one that I spent so many days studying in my younger, gooder days. It's not a word. Who fucking cares.
Two bags full, and a pair of wings. That's what I was willing to part with today. I thought about it all day, how I was going to go about this process of depositing these garbage bags full of someone else's treasure... Sure. I could just put them in the alley. But that wouldn't give me the satisfaction of donating. Ugh. But it would be so much easier. But then my trash wouldn't be someone else's treasure. It would just be trash. Hauled off to the nearest landfill. That's not cool. That's wasteful.
I called a Lyft. His name was something. He was cute and he wore glasses. I asked him if he wanted some costumes. He said no. I said, "me neither!" We laughed. Or maybe it was just me laughing. Well. I'm not laughing anymore.
We chatted about how Chicago's changing, and how all the buildings in Pilsen are close together, and how some people, not us, live in buildings they can't afford, and spend all their money on rent, and not going out enjoying the city. Not us though. We're the responsible ones.
didn't feel the phone fall out of my kangaroo pocket, and I didn't hear it hit the ground. Maybe because it didn't... it probably fell on the coarse felt of the car floor. I deposited my wares, and headed off toward the nearest bus stop. Where I realized my phone was not with me.
On the walk home, I held on to hope that I had just left my phone at home. After all, I'm always picking things up, and putting them down, and forgetting where I put them... it drives my anxiety through the roof, and I want to see a neurologist. I think I have dementia. I know I have hypochondria, so my life is just a series of Ruling Things Out. I'm really worried about the dementia. I'm worried it's real.
My phone was not at home.
Cookies were at home. About a dozen stale cookies that I baked, but didn't turn out how I wanted. Now those are gone too. That's ok. Less clutter.
... You know what? It was only a one chapter story.
This time of year, when the light is amber, when it’s there, but most often it’s not. It’s a swatch of gray flannel. Apollo has parked his golden chariot in the garage. No sun. Instead, a pack of Weimaraners roam the skies. Their soft silvery sheen reflecting in puddles and windows.
It’s the time of year when I really don’t get out much.
Don’t quite have it in me to celebrate, as I’m feeling too much empathy for the granite, cement, and marble marking lives gone.
Like a ghost, but one who doesn’t haunt. I’m not going to seize control of your thoughts and scream at you to REMEMBER!
Much to sleepy for all that.
Like a ghost, but more like a fog. A light one. One you can pretty well see through.
Just a heavy air. Hanging around.