office space.

i'm getting to the point where i have nightmares about my job every single night. something has to change.

friday night el ride.

friday night, about two in the morning. drunkenly ambling down division with a half-empty case of pabst tucked under one arm, the other draped around mike, telling some story too loudly and laughing while crossing in the middle of the street, forgetting to look both ways. we make our way down the stairwell into the blue line station, hoping that the attendant won't be there and we can hop the turnstile. alas, the attendant diligently mans his post. mike and steve have no cash, so i spring for their fares. even after eleven hours spent on my feet that day, waiting tables to the pseudo-bourgeois ranks suburbanites who like to treat those who serve them like members of an untouchable caste, money still just seems like paper to me. at this moment, lincoln and washington looking up at me from my raw hand forget the middle aged women that sat there on table eighteen for hours, sucking down one iced tea after another, splitting an entree, haggling for a free dessert, and ultimately leaving a sorry excuse for a tip--almost as if, in my eyes, they saw those of all the men that averted their gaze, never retuned a coy smile, and drove them to this: two middle aged hens pushing at the elastic of their waste-bands and drowning their sorrows in the finest unsweetened china black that the world had to offer. but lincoln and washington, they don't remember. they don't begrudge. they're just there to get me home. farecard in, farecard out. six dollars and three clicks of the turnstyle later, we're down in the tube.

it appears we've come at a good time. the station attendant tried to tell me that i couldn't bring the beer down into the train, but i bullshit something or other about the box not being an open container, merely a vessel for a collection of closed containers. either i was extremely witty and clever, or his fatigue and indifference for a job that overworked and underpaid him prevailed, so we made our way down the stairs with nothing more than a heavy sigh and i "well, i ain't seen shit, but don't say i ain't told y'all if the po-lice come on after you," from him. we make it down as a crowd nervously shuffles back and forth, waiting in partial silence for the next train to come. faces all point southbound, eyes transfixed on the tunnel. the tracks follow and vanish into darkness. ears strain to hear the rumble and roar of the oncoming train. toes tap, we're all just waiting. i look around and see faces; a dichotomy of those who have chosen to be out on this brisk night and those who just wish that they were home already. something about a man in soiled work clothes catches me off guard. cloth plastered to his body with dirt and the echoes of hard manual labor seems to droop towards the ground, bringing all of his limbs down in an eerily undead stance. however unwilling his body is to fight gravity, his eyes still maintain a steady, unwavering gaze. watching, waiting for that train. waiting to get home, quietly remove his boots, make sure not to close the door too loudly. maybe he has three children, their makeshift mattresses set up haphazardly about an apartment too small for two. fingers reaching out for their sleeping foreheads, fingers that curl back into the palm. he sheds his skin and washes in the sink. a shower would be too loud, would wake the mother, passed out in a bathrobe and a negligee with a bottle of gordon's keeping vigil over her on the nightstand. he sits in his recliner, the right side sunken in, the foot rest no longer lifts. he sleeps upright, head slightly craned down and to the right, arms rigid at his side.

the train finally comes. we all get on together, but it doesn't feel like it did on the street. all i can think about is those poor kids and that man and his gaze and i don't want to laugh anymore and i don't feel right carrying this case of beer and i can't believe i'm going to fall asleep drunk and happy in a warm bed surrounded by all the fruits of my youthful selfishness. there's nothing i can do. i crack another beer and laugh as steve does a drunken dance, a few passengers laughing, the other weary eyes cast towards the ground.

plans.

while everything as of late seems to have shifted and moved, apparently set upon its head by some force that is far more powerful than even the farthest fringes of my imagination can attempt to grasp, i can't help but let loose a sly smile at the world of possibilities that lay ahead of me. this one.... is going to be a trip.

"and it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time"
-death cab for cutie - "what sarah said"

valse.

so i might be a little crazy but i've got this heart that keeps on beating it goes "ba dump ba dump ba dump dump dump" and keeps on beating keeps repeating keeps me going through the day feeds the blood up to my brain where thoughts flow in then words pour out and maybe here and there a neuron fires a little electricity makes the muscles move makes my arms go up my legs go out makes me go through the motions of a little dance that i like to call life.

lifer.

i got a feelin' it didn't come free / i got a feelin' and then it got to me / when you don't feel it, it shows they tear out your soul / and when you believe, they call it rock and roll.