I haven’t updated this blog in a while. I could go into details as to why, but none of us has time for that. Let’s skip it. It’s not important and all that really matters is that I haven’t completely given up on this thing yet. Yet.
Happy New Year. If it is a Happy New Year. Which I doubt.
I’ve discovered something: The time to become introspective towards your own life and accomplishments (or lack there-of) is not when listening to Tom Waits. But dammit, I just can’t help it. I once read a critic describe Tom Waits’ music as an glimpse into a rainy, filthy world as infested with jazz as with cock-roaches that never quite exists but the romantic in us fervently wished did. I don’t know about that but after listening to the man gargle caltrops, I still manage to feel like being drunk, broken-hearted and soaking wet would be cool.
I’m not going to dwell on this too much cause luckily I’m past the worst of the holiday-induced depression but every year around this time (not so much Christmas, it seems, as New Year’s), when for one literal moment in time the most important thing to everyone around you is to have someone to kiss as a glowing, pulsing orb of Doom descends to a “0” and we all fervently wish Dick Clark would just RETIRE FOR FUCK’S SAKE! (we love you, Dick Clark – for the love of honor, go to bed! you look like a prune sitting in tepid water and you make us all sad! Stop making us sad, Dick Clark!); meanwhile, I sit there alone and most definitely kissless. I hope I put on a pretty good show to the contrary, but I’d be lying if I said this didn’t get to me every year. It’s not that I’ve been single forever, I just usually find myself alone on New Year’s. Enough so that I’m beginning to hate the freaking holiday as much as Valentine’s Day (don’t get me started).
The alternative is not that alluring either, I have to admit. I am not in a rush to date someone. I’m not so alone and desperate as to think that anyone is better than no one but being amoung even my good friends on New Year’s, the combination of champagne, kissing, Tom Waits and Wii was enough to make me want to crawl into a closet for a good long time (what? all the good games are two-player; you think I didn’t notice that?!). That and nothing inspires run-on sentences like despair (see above).
Like I said, I don’t know that I’m desperate yet but the time up here in
And of course, the preceding thought leads me directly to the proceeding thought ...
My House Sits Upon a Hell Mouth.
You laugh like I’m making this up. I submit the following proof:
Exhibit A: The Gateway Mirror. In the massive cavern that passes for my living room, above the tectonic shelf that passes as a fireplace mantle, sits a mirror vaguely the size of a stargate. The thing must be six feet wide and eight feet tall. It’s huge. Zelda has a tendency to sit on the back of the couch whilst the rest of us eat dinner and watch TV. She just sits there and stares at it. I’m convinced she sees the spirits of some past Age floating from it into our world. There are times when she starts staring at that mirror and trills like she does (my kitten never begins by meowing, it’s usually preempted by a kind of kitten clearing-of-the-throat) and then intently follows absolutely nothing across the room like Claude Rains is dangling Swarovski Crystal tied to dental floss. . . . See, it’s very hard to see . . . Ah, nevermind. Regardless, if something’s there, it is not visible by human eyes. And unless Zelda’s having acid flashbacks, I’d swear she was watching something float around the room. Not to mention that it can get cold as my ex-girlfriend’s sexual desire for me in front of that fireplace (which, I have it on pretty decent authority, is VERY cold, indeed . . .). Oh sure, it COULD be the chimney’s flu that’s not properly closed but I know better: Spirits. From a bygone era. Mark my words.
Exhibit B: My Zombie Basement. You know how some people have finished basements with carpets and widescreen TVs and a half-bath? Some people have unfinished basements with concrete floors and a washer/dryer? Some have wine cellars? But then again, some people have dirt holes in the ground where they throw captives and force more-than-must-be-healthy amounts of lotion into their skin (or else they get the hose again)? The basement in my house is a damn cellar. The floor is compacted dirt, for Pete’s sake. The walls are cinderblock that have been painted a hundred different colors over the years, each peeling away to reveal yet another carcass of latex below it. There is the odd assortment of work tables and yet more plastic-wrapped furniture stored by BRT (I swear, the day we decide to have a yard sale we’ll be able to mount Les Mis and Cats. . .); but what’s really creepy are the nooks & crannies.
No, no, no. Follow me on this. Picture this in your mind’s eye. There is one single, naked light bulb down there (the fucker’s on a chain that swings; it’s STRAIGHT out of Psycho . . .). It sits relatively in the middle of the cellar, which runs pretty much the length of the house. But what with all the support columns and the corners, perhaps half of the basement is actually ever lit at a given time. Just like childhood, nothing says unadulterated, unfettered Fear like the dark. My Zombie Basement has it in spades. There’s a crawl space, for fuck’s sake. Towards the back of the house (under the kitchen, I believe) there’s a built-up section that may have resembled a wall at one point. Behind this section, Zombie Basement continues WHERE NO LIGHT DARE ITSELF GO. Only now, you’ve only got half the normal Zombie Basement height. Keep in mind that I’m 6’1” (all leg) and can barely stand up straight down there as it is.
For now, I have not actually seen any zombies. Good thing, too. I’ve got a chair propped up against the doorknob, just in case we’re asleep when they decide to show up. But I know that won’t hold them forever. I plan on borrowing Mike Russo’s 20-gauge shotgun soon; just to be prepared.
You laugh, but when the zombies rise, they will first come from my basement. And I’ll be ready.
Exhibit 3: The Fucking Demon Living in the Radiators! Now, I’m not one prone to panic. Part of my job is keep a level head and reign with Logos in the face of Chaos. Still, as I try to convince my body to fall into blissful ignorant sleep at night, I can’t help but hear that . . . Thing’s rasping breath I can only describe it as the first half of Darth Vader’s breathing, just the inhalation. Like the thing’s constantly only sucking in air (and probably souls to boot). Now, Anna swears to me that it’s only the heated water of the radiator system being pumped up through the pipes and into the respective rooms, making a WHOOSHING sound. But I know better. Convenient, don’t we think, that this very same sound just happens to sound like a Balor demon waiting to devour my very soul? I don’t know if words can express the terror that fills my heart when I hear this sound. It’s truly too terrible for words to describe. So, . . . I won’t. Suffice it to say that every time I walk by a radiator I feel the need to mumble protection spells, chalk out the Evil Eye (traditionally diagrams meant to shield the inscriber from Darkness), or at the very least find my +2 Longsword of Demon-Slaying (I might have traded it for my Boots of Escaping, which would work in a pinch, too). I’m sure the creature has red eyes and I’m sure it’s the reason the heat seems to go so randomly from fanTAStically hot to fucking freezing.
Exhibit 4: Nothing Truly Survives This Place. Truth be told, I don’t know if this signifies Evil, per se, or not. When I first arrived in
You mock. But someday soon the powers of Darkness will attempt to rise and take control of our world and unless one of my three roommates happens to be a Slayer, my paranoia will be our last bastion of defense. Then again, I don’t know that I’d be all that surprised to see Anna or Stefi turn around one day and sidekick a vampire through a window. I don’t hold out much hope for Kate but then again it is always the quiet ones, isn’t it?
In the First Week of February, My Kung Fu Once Again Grows Strong.
This isn’t much, but it’s the simple things that sometimes can be the biggest turning points in our lives. I’ve been feeling lost recently. I find myself drinking more and more and of course I don’t feel any better about anything for it. I find myself dwelling on exgirlfriends and lost family members and people I’ve left behind and wondering (albeit not for the first time) whether or not moving up here was the best decision I’ve made in recent years. In short, I’ve felt lost and found myself feeling small (for lack of a better term) more than I’ve ever felt before. Then I realized not too long ago one thing that has been missing from my life for over a year now. No, it’s not sex; although that hasn’t exactly been falling from the sky recently, either.
This January marks eighteen months that I’ve officially been out of training. Martial arts have been a serious part of my life since I was a junior in high school. The discipline and the activity helped sculpt me into the person I am today. A year ago and a half ago, I found myself growing more and more dissatisfied with my TaeKwonDo dojann and with my training in general. A year ago, I found myself carless and completely unable to get myself to class at all. Indistinctly and without fanfare, I unceremoniously quit. I tried to keep myself in shape on my own but sit-ups and push-ups in my bedroom and a few-and-far-between stretching and combination sessions in the backyard just weren’t cutting it. I have little to no discipline when it comes to keeping myself in shape. I’m not proud of that, but when you’re used to being motivated by a room full of other like-minded people, it’s hard to muster that inspiration all on your own. That doesn’t excuse my abandonment of the past thirteen years of what, I now realize, was one of the cornerstones of myself, but it may help explain it. In short, I miss training. I miss the way I felt after working out, I miss kicking and jumping and teaching and even miss getting kicked in the head.
My hetero-lifemate Jesse lives in Philly and has been training with a dojo in
. . . I digress. Anyways, I start classes in a week or two. I don’t know if I can afford it (money’s not just tight, it’s taut) but I know I have to try. A part of me is missing and I hope kicking other people in the face will help me find it again. . . . That came out wrong. Ah, nevermind.