He said he couldn’t find his key to get in, and he thought maybe he had lost it in the cab. I asked what he was going to do. He mostly shook his head and glumly said, I don’t know. He’d been out drinking a bit and must have taken a taxi home. I told him I could let him in, but he still wouldn’t be able to get into his apartment.

Do you live with anyone?
No, he shook his head.
Is there anyone you can call?
No.

I let him into the building lobby and then put my bike away in the garage. When I walked into the building he was leaned over again, partly out of his chair, picking up money. He was holding a hat in his lap containing his wallet, cigarettes and other things you might normally carry in your pockets. He had been rummaging through the assorted items, looking for his keys. I picked up the money, gave it to him, and then walked over to the office door and read the notice about the emergency maintenance number and what to do in case of lockouts:

The management is not responsible for lockouts and it is not considered an emergency. Locked out parties are responsible for calling a locksmith who may assist them.

I told him what it said, asked if he wanted me to help him call a locksmith. He said no. I asked if he wanted me to call anyone. He said no. I asked if he wanted me to just leave him there.

Yes.
All right man, have a good night.

I got into the elevator thinking over different scenarios, judging how I’d handled the situation, what other people would have done. I kept picturing an overly concerned woman who would call him honey and would dig through all of his stuff trying to help him find his keys. She would refuse to just leave him alone and would insist on helping him call a friend, a locksmith or do something.

When I left him, he seemed a little despondent. I thought leaving was the appropriate, respectful thing to do. I didn’t really treat him any differently than I would anyone else because he was in a wheelchair. I think that woman in my head would have only made him feel worse. So I left him alone to either figure his shit out or wallow in self-pity, as he pleases.

I’ve decided I don’t trust any automated calls claiming to be calling about bank accounts or anything important, so I hang up instead of pressing 1 like it wants me to. That would confirm that I am __________. Maybe I should have pressed 2, the other option. I wonder if the robot voice would have apologized for wasting my time or if it’s just another way for them to hook more people. Maybe it would transfer me to a 1-900 line. At least then they could try to make some money off me.

I looked up the bank’s phone number and call back, key in the information it asks for to identify me, and then get connected with a live person. At first I am wary because there is a lot of static on the line and the person sounds far, far away. Was that the plan? I would call the number back and the bastards trying to steal from me would intercept the call and get me anyway? I think he said his name was Joe. I told him I couldn’t hear him, and suddenly it got a lot better and he was standing next to me, although it sounded like Joe lives in India.

Joe explained my account was past due and wanted me to make a payment over the phone. Fuck . . . collections. I worked as a credit card collector for about 6 weeks once. I knew exactly what he wanted and what the steps were if you can’t do option #1. I tried to be reasonable and explain my situation, but Joe didn’t really care and his script didn’t have anything in it that would allow him to be personable or understand that I’m not someone who misses paying my credit card or tries to worm out of things. I was patient. Rather than hanging up I tried to explain my reasoning, but Joe wasn’t having any of it. He doggedly pursued me using the same methods I had once tried on others. I always knew it was a soul-sucking job and got out when I could.

I finally had to let Joe go. Hopefully he has a nice day. I won’t be answering calls from numbers I don’t recognize for a while.

Welcome.

I watched Leaving Las Vegas tonight. Shitty sound quality. Might as well watch the whole thing with subtitles on. A friend of mine from the Army said it was his favorite movie and he wanted to die the way Nick Cage’s character does in the movie someday. That’s always been on my mind. I knew before that he drank himself to death, but I’d never seen the whole film. Funny that I should do so now, when sometimes I think of doing the same thing. If it’s anything like what happens in the film, I haven’t got the guts and am nowhere near close.

I may have a roommate issue. A little while ago, something happened that, added up with lots of little things I’ve noticed, made me wonder if I might. It resolved itself and I wondered if I might be losing it a little bit, seriously, for the first time. Now, I’m pretty sure that I am not losing it and something is askew, though I still might have been wrong about before. Before, I bought a bottle of Scotch and suddenly it wasn’t in the place I normally put it. I searched, to no avail. Due to lots of little things that made me question my new roommate’s character in general, I suspected him. The opportunity arose, and I casually mentioned it to him. He said he hadn’t seen it, and I asked him to keep his eyes open. Not much later, he produced the bottle, supposedly from behind the door of his room where I must have left it when I was visiting earlier. Except that’s completely unlike me. I don’t lose track of things like that.

One of the first nights after he moved in, I smelled cigarette smoke in my room. I mentioned it to him later, but he assured me he had not been smoking in his room. It was awkward for me to even bring it up, so of course I assumed that it had drifted in from elsewhere, even though it only came in when the furnace kicked on and there is an intake in his room (as well as mine). I haven’t smelled it again, until tonight. I was already a bit annoyed because he ate all of the sausages I left out. I offered him one, but I guess I wasn’t clear enough about the ONE part. I saw him prepare two buns, but I decided not to say anything. Later, I found that he had taken all of them. Who does that? Why would you take the last of anything without it being very clear that it was okay? I would never take the last of someone’s food. I realise we’re only talking about sausage here. But then, later, the furnace kicked on and my room filled with the smell of cigarette smoke. Undeniable and there is no way I made a mistake and the smell was in my head. I stewed for a bit, but eventually said something.

Approaching the door to his room, I quietly said, “Drew? Are you awake?” He replied right away, saying yes, but he sounded half-asleep. I asked if I could come in. He said yes. He was in bed, fully-dressed, and obviously very disoriented. His eyes were sunken, and I know he has been trying to get some pot. I decided to be very upfront about it, so I asked him if he had been smoking in his room. I told him I smelled the smoke in my room when the furnace came on, and I couldn’t imagine where it had come from. He said he hadn’t and, attempting to avoid any further confrontation, I asked him where he smoked outside. He said on the porch.

I told him he was a liar. He looked at me with glassy eyes, not quite comprehending what I was saying, but starting to feel a little indignant and ready to protest. I could tell by the color rising in his cheeks, and the way his eyes sharpened for a moment, as though there was sudden clarity through the haze in front of him. I could tell I had hit a sore point with him, something contentious, because he’d never liked being called a liar since he was young and his father hit him and accused him of lying for his sister about her boyfriend, Ricky, but I didn’t give him time to try and put the words together to reply or think about how all of the pieces came together. I pulled a revolver out of my pants where I’d stuck it between my back and the waistband of a pair of Levi’s 501s and shot him, one round in the gut as I raised my arms and another in his face once I’d drawn a bead, right between his eyebrows as best I could with my hands shaking like they were.

My issue is what to do next. I’m not even that worried about the body. If someone wants to find out what happened to him, it won’t matter if I dump it in the Willamette or anywhere else. They’ll talk to enough people and figure something out, and then it will only be a matter of time. I don’t think I can stand up to scrutiny. My weak response to my current feeling of helplessness, right now, is to write a bloody blog post. I guess I figure this is anonymous enough, and whoever has been reading probably doesn’t know who I am, anyway. I’m not religious, so going to confession doesn’t really do it for me. But I need absolution.

There’s no music on in the house and I think I’m the only one here right now. The outside world isn’t being intrusive, either. There are no loud blue-jays squawking, not too many cars, no neighbors mowing their lawns or drug dealers in the street hollering back and forth. Things on my mental to-do list are calling to me: I have a stack of mail (mostly junk) that has accumulated on my desk and in a box for months that needs to be sorted through; I need to find my sleeping bag downstairs and wash or at least air it out, as well as anything else I might need for a little camping on the coast this weekend; my body would probably like it if I did yoga, but it might also be happy to just rest for today–it can’t decide. For now I am ignoring all of these things, tempted even to close the laptop and just sit on the couch in the sun with my eyes closed or read a book. I am writing here because it is meditative to me, and I felt compelled to do so rather than just write in my journal.

Life is good right now. I have new tasks at work and I am getting paid more, I have friends, school starts in a few weeks, the weather is nice and I am healthy. What more could one ask for? As an aside, if any of you are regular coffee drinkers I suggest switching to tea for a while. I don’t get as jumpy and anxious, but maybe coffee just affects me in a stronger way than it does for most. It has an affect on my emotional and mental status, and not just making me more alert. I’ve been surprised that my withdrawals from coffee weren’t that severe–only a slight headache for a day or two. Of course I am still getting caffeine, but it’s different (I think) and not as concentrated. If you try it, make sure you get high-quality loose-leaf tea from someplace that knows what they’re doing. I got mine at a great place in Seattle, but there are definitely locations in Portland and I’m sure the rest of the world, as well. Cheers, to your health and to being more “Zen”.

I don’t know if I can write fiction right now. That’s the feeling that I have, that I can’t craft something appealing and meaningful while still keeping it distant and not too personal. The last point isn’t a requirement, of course, but currently I don’t feel like exposing myself more than I already have. Too many people (like two or three) that I know personally and talk to occasionally may read what I write, and my social structure is fragile enough right now that I don’t want to damage it. That’s the thought in my head, I can tell, even though I know that there hasn’t been damage done in the past when I’ve been open and vulnerable. If anything, sometimes it is better. But that doesn’t mean that the perception isn’t still there, and I just feel like whatever I wrote would boil down to being whining, needy and desperate. So I’ll just put it here instead, where some may still read it but it’s not “fiction” and I’m pretty sure at least one person won’t read it because I don’t think they know about it. Such a scared little boy…

The weird thing is, that’s complete bullshit. I’m hardly a scared little boy. I’ll kick your ass…and yours…yeah, you too. C’mon; bring it on. So maybe this has nothing to do with writing. Writing is the scapegoat. Using it as my topic allows me to introduce a notion which you probably don’t get yet, and which I’m not going to explain to you, but it’s something constantly swimming around in my psyche and my retort to it is: Fuck you! Okay, so what it is … it’s a cloak I hide behind. It’s a habit. It’s something I’ve always done. It’s saying “I don’t know” and then continuing on to answer or state something, showing that I do actually know, but somehow the disclaimer beforehand release me from all liability if you don’t like what I’m saying. I fucking well do know. And some people get to see that in me, and once in a while I do.

I want to blame our society. I want to say that it’s what we learn growing up: that some things are good and some things are bad; that we should do certain things to be successful and if we don’t then we are achieving less than we could, than we should; and maybe there’s a personality or character underneath that we’re born with or we somehow develop, I don’t know, that gets this framework built by society laid on top of it, and that framework ends up fettering us and keeping us from behaving as we would naturally. I started all of this out by saying “I want to…” which is another disclaimer, a way of making what I say less harsh somehow.

The funny thing is, I have this idea about natural behavior, survival of the fittest, and the way some of the ancient Greeks used to think about the strong taking what is theirs. I don’t like that type of behavior. I see it in modern times as an integral part of our corporate, capitalist structure, and the attitude that lead so many to despise the rich, the politicians, the greedy crooks of Enron and others who just haven’t been caught. So I don’t believe in what Ayn Rand wrote about in Atlas Shrugged. Anyway, what is the real value of gaining power, of being driven and successful, of being a mover and a shaker? I guess you could take the question to the next level and ask what really brings people happiness, what is “worth it” in this life, and if there is anything after it.

I don’t know if any of this will make sense to anyone else, or even to me later on. It may not be cohesive enough, but I’ve written plenty here that isn’t. The funny thing is, I could be a hell of a mover and a shaker if I chose to. I’d be a terror. But I’ve never had the inclination. Sure, I used to think I wanted to be rich and be able to afford all sorts of fast cars, but I realize that doesn’t really matter anymore. One thing that always comes up in my brain, though, is that maybe I really am ruthless, amoral, and a perfect match for the type of person I describe (at least in my head), but I’m just too scared or timid or something to let it show. My ex saw it in me and liked it, but she’s a lot more one of those people than I appear to be. It does feel good to wear the clothes, though–to step into that role once in a while, as needed, and have the power to own a situation, to take control. Yet I rebel against it so…

Perhaps I’m in the middle of an existential crisis. I’m balancing on the line separating reality from fantasy, and the choice forced upon me determines how I live the rest of my life, or how I answer questions about my life. If I choose reality over fantasy (and perhaps reality should be set apart by quotation marks here), it feels as if it will require an entire reworking of my values, my belief system, and of my personality. Gone are the days of believing in old movies, believing that Cary Grant was really so smooth and that love can be so romantic and ideal; gone the days of believing that life is more than just a job one works at to get by and survive, and one’s life is what one does in one’s free time, yet even then (believing in that) there is a certain disappointment that things aren’t quite what one had hoped for; gone the days of believing in the inherent good of people (?), instead choosing to believe that morality is relative and that life is bound the be the way it is, with certain elements of “good” and “bad” inherently a part of humanity and completely unavoidable (?); and gone the days of believing that it truly matters a great deal who one votes for, what organizations like Greenpeace and the Peace Corps do, the idea that each individual can make a difference and humanity is not just one gigantic juggernaut wherein an individual’s actions make the whole deviate from its course one iota.

Have I wrapped too many elements, too many varieties of “realism”, up together and made it difficult for anyone to stomach my definition? Perhaps, but only because we each live our lives somewhere in the in-between, not able to fully commit to one extreme or the other, but equally able to ridicule anyone who doesn’t reside in the particular state we are in, whose world is at a different point along the reality-fantasy continuum.

To return to my original point, I’m not able to churn out anything creative or humorous or life-affirming. Even when I have plenty of material, plenty of things to start with and expand into whatever they choose to become, I am unable to invest myself in it and truly believe that it matters or will be worthwhile. And so not being able to commit to my former world of fantasy leaves me unable to spin a tale, and yet I’m not ready to commit to what some might realism, and not able to create anything that might contribute. Instead, I offer this, whatever the world might judge it to be. At least it is probably in line with what I set out to do with this blog, but no one should have to suffer it.

• Kerry Cohen lives in Portland, OR, has an MFA in creative writing and an MA in counseling psychology, she wrote a book or two and wrote this great posting on the Powell’s Book blog. Oh, and if you don’t click on the link, at least know that she is reading at Powell’s on Wednesday at 7:30.

• Didn’t read this online originally, but it’s interesting. It’s about Google. Obviously, there’s a bit of a spin from the author to make it read a certain way and be entertaining, but it makes one think. At least it made me. Made me think about how maybe the real evil bastards in the world society might be the CEOs, board members and all higher-ups of big corporations. Or at least maybe we should look into what’s happening and what the future holds a little more by examining what’s happening at that level and not just worrying about the Kim Jong-il’s and Saddam Hussein’s of the world. Oh yeah, I used Google’s search engine to look up proper spellings.

Most courses of study, even the ones that are very close to being purely vocational training, are preparing students for a career that will keep them indoors and sedentary, for jobs that are intellectual but only in the most ordinary and hum-drum sense of the word and thinking is mostly a matter of following instructions or collecting and organizing data, for jobs that will require them to use their hands only for keyboarding, manipulating a mouse, and checking off items on lists.

What used to be called with good reason white collar jobs.

What are now usually self-flatteringly self-designated “professional” jobs.

 I know a lot of people that have jobs like that, and my last job was similar, although anyone would be hard-pressed to point out how it was professional, with or without the quotes.

Reading through a few blogs published by writers who talk about the writing life, their books and the interconnected network of writers has me feeling envious and wishing I could be a writer. Sure, sometimes they sound pretentious, and there seems to be much literary cock-blocking (I really wanted to use that phrase), but it seems like a cool community. I read something about it here.

Maybe I will write more later when I don’t feel so dull…

I tried making another page and having it be subordinate to an existing page, thinking maybe I could make a new page every time I wanted to post and it would show up under that existing page, somehow. It didn’t work. I dunno if anyone will read this who can help, but if you can please leave a comment or contact me.

For now, I’m going to put my updates in this here blog post. Rhyme or reason? Maybe not. As far as Taste goes, I am about to take a sip of some Kenya Peaberry Ruera Estate that I picked up at Extracto. I think they’re getting all their supply from Barefoot Coffee Roasters these days, but I can’t be sure since this one doesn’t show up on their website. I’ve been using my Aeropress for normal coffee lately, with some really yummy results from Stumptown’s Costa Rica Montes de Oro, so that’s what I’m using this morning. The smell is right on for a yummy cup of some Kenyan coffee, and the taste is close. Not mind-blowingly great, but that might be my technique or choice of extraction method.

For the Flicks, I’ve seen a few things recently. Most recently, I saw “The Bank Job”. Not bad for that type of flick. Interesting that it’s based on a true story. You have to wonder how accurate it is. You should know what you’re getting into when you go to something with Jason Statham in it. It’s not as action-packed as “Transporter” and it’s not “The Italian Job”, either, but it was enjoyable. Not that I’m putting those movies on a pedestal, understand. The night before that I saw “Be Kind Rewind” and felt let-down. Jack Black is all right, and I liked Mos Def as Prefect Ford in “Hitchhiker’s Guide…”, but I was expecting more considering it was directed by Michel Gondry.

I loved “Eternal Sunshine…” and “The Science of Sleep”, but his latest film doesn’t live up to his previous work. It seemed like the story jumped very quickly and unbelievably to get to where it was going in the beginning, so I guess I would say the screenwriting left something to be desired. That and I was watching for Gondry’s tricks using the camera, perspective, props and scenery to create the effect he desires instead of using CG or other special-effects techniques. There were some bits of the absurd and some tricks in the film, but it felt more like someone holding out a hand that contains a description of a magic trick and how it’s accomplished rather than performing the trick and leaving it to the audience’s imagination to figure out how it’s done.

In Tunes, I went to see Silverhawk a few weeks ago. I really enjoyed their live show and would recommend them to anyone who likes good, live, rock ‘n’ roll music. One thing I am disappointed with is their CDs. I bought two after the show and they just aren’t as powerful as the live act. I don’t know if it is just the mixing, something else about the studio atmosphere or what. See them live, then buy the CD. It is good enough to remind me of what the live act was like, and I enjoy some of the songs enough that I’ll keep listening to it at home, but when I saw them live I didn’t feel like any song was just dead. They put on a good show, those Densmore brothers.

On the Reading front, well, I guess that page is pretty up-to-date. I’m still reading “Diary of a Bad Year” by J.M. Coetzee. I’ve been reading too many little things online here and there to mention. I am putting some links to stuff I find interesting on my other blog, though, so check it out.

I set myself up for a fall. I intentionally elicit a response akin to being slapped in the face with a partially-frozen tuna–albacore or yellow fin, it doesn’t really matter. And I did it, no one else. But it was a ghost fish. I’m the only one who can give it a tangible quality, make it so the impact has an effect. I got myself nailed by a couple of fish last night, and I was feeling it earlier. I felt like maybe I was sliding to the edge of the spinning disc, out there where it gets harder and harder to hold on as the pull increases. I thought I was already off, but as I sit here I realize I’m not.

Thank you, M, for being honest with me. Don’t change or hold back for anything. Like you said, changing patterns of behavior, response. I didn’t even know this one was changing, was worried about myself, but evidently work has already begun on a new pathway.

UPDATE: I fell off.