When It All Stands Still…

There are days when everything stands still, when the sleet in Chicago stops between skyscrapers and the neon lights don’t pulsate in rhythm to the jazz or blues; when the good intentions of recovery lounge in the revolving door of another red brick club; when the belief that tomorrow will be better is as still born as the smile everyone expects.

And it isn’t the stillness that bothers me as much as the echos I can’t escape or the unpredictability of precipitation…condensation rife with the ashes of what could have been.  A frozen moment spanning 24 hours in a city I used to call home, just mere miles from the hospital where my son was born and the woman I once loved still loved me.

Here, in the windy city that isn’t currently swaying on the anniversary of his birth, I feel the distance between then and now as each breath propels me further away and I try to convince myself that between now and then he’ll find me again but know that statistically speaking the needle is no longer in the haystack.

Making Our Selves Disposable

I have an addiction to the History Channel.  Smithsonian TV is another and of course National Geographic.  Perhaps this comes from a need to reflect on things other than the present course of relationship or career…but regardless, I often find myself watching shows on topics I never before cared about and am not really sure I care now.

Combine that with the opportunity to see the King Tut exhibit recently and I find myself wondering…with all these amazing artifacts of civilizations long gone…Egyptians, Mayans, and Aztecs to name a few…in 3,000 years, assuming we haven’t destroyed the planet and there are humans looking back on today…what exactly will they find?

Oh But to Sleep, To Dream

I love the days when I wake up from a deep sleep and stumble into the dawn with a smile, slowly shaking the last vestiges of the night to feel a true sense of being restored.  I love how with each step the pleasant dreams of far away beaches with setting suns and waves tapping at soothing fade slowly but leave their sheen on the day-to-day world around me.  Ah yes, I love these days.

Yet I know these nights are like winning the lottery.  The illness I possess spins like a psychotic slot machine pulled by a killer clown with a half pack of cigarettes in his mouth, his makeup smudged, his big red nose stained with fragrant curiosities.

Is That Really Me Staring At Myself

Do you remember the first time you looked in the mirror and realized the person on the other side was slightly out of phase with your own self image?  Was there a time when you were checking out how bloodshot your eyes felt or attempting to determine how you once again missed that spot shaving only to realize the eyes staring back at you carried more malevolence, more intent, more anger than you were feeling at the moment?

I’m not talking delusions.  I’m not talking about the reflection of guilt from scratching that car in the parking lot or the result of saying something that hurt someone’s feelings.  I’m not talking about what happens when you look in a mirror after a night of drinking or during an acid trip or even after an all-nighter.  I’m talking about those moments when you least expect it, when you feel content or happy or during those effervescent moments of peace when you glance into the mirror and something causes you to pause.  Something isn’t quite right.