It's a mad dog's promenade, so walk tall, or baby, don't walk at all.

Ideals float heavy in the air here-- as does contradiction. Words like 'Hope' 'Change' and 'Progress' call out from the same savage streets where I've seen men turn hands into fists that tear flesh from muscle. It is strange to come from the quiet mountains and small places of Maine to the bustling streets of a city that for one week actively boasts having more riot-cops on each street corner than it has civil protestors and activists. I've seen eight or more policemen on bikes swarm and circle a homeless man with eyes younger than mine like cul-de-sac bullies before sweeping him off the streets with the same ease that a shop-keep might exercise whilst clearing cigarette butts into a sewer gutter. I’ve seen a man dragged to jail for having ‘heroin pushers’ that were in reality the chop-sticks that he probably used to eat his meals, few and as far in between as they must have been, in his back pocket while he tearfully cried in innocence. I’ve heard tales or protests organizers whose apartments were systematically raided days before the conventions and handily detained for their durations.

Still though-- those words and ideals call out and rise above savage streets. Even with Orwellian ground forces and police actions, protests took place. People gathered and howled through dry days and desert nights for change in displays that would not have been able to take place in most countries the world over. War veterans, again with eyes younger than mine, marched proudly with the hip and the disheveled. Groups like Food Not Bombs fed the homeless the city tried to hide by offering them tickets that were redeemable for haircuts and matinees. Poets gathered in Civic Park and sounded off a cry for action. Some of it was silly, some of it was stupid but everyone got to say their piece once the camera’s showed up to town.

Moving west was like dying a little death

Images of a former life passed me by like miles at the roadside

Regrets

Lust

Love

Laughter

Tears

Exit 230

Countless cigarettes and bottles of cheap vodka

Are the bones that I left lying in my grave

The only tangible proof that I existed at all

Lovers

Friends

Enemies

And the indifferent will eulogize or fillet me over drinks:

For better or worst

I didn’t tie up loose ends

I didn’t say many goodbyes

I just loaded my corpse onto a bus like a human cannonball

Aimed for Colorado

And I lit the fuse

Cars now. Driving.

Sitting. Laughing.

Typing in the dark with a new friend at the wheel

I’ve always hated the Midwest

Loathed it really

I used to say with boisterous indignation that it was where dreams went to die

A land for those not interesting enough for a coast

For me though it has served as a sort of purgatory.

A river of Styx to cross from my east coast life

to whatever awaits me in my west coast afterlife

Hope

Change

Luck

Purity

More lust

Confusion

Trouble

frenzy

death

ahhh

Either way these flat places seem less disparaging to me now

Or more

They’ve been a strange mix of cleansing and torturous introspection

Jacob’s ladder has nothing on quiet miles in Shelbyville, Illinois

Hades trial by fire has nothing on the black coffee in Clay Center, Kansas.

Greetings my malevolent malcontents;
you bastard children of the revolution,

I am terribly ahead of schedule today. For some reason I uncharacteristically crashed after dinner last night and was out from 8pm until about 2am. I made an ill fated attempt to fall back asleep, but my bastard body is so used to only getting 4-6 hours that I ended up bouncing around the house like a demented Daffy Duck who had smoked a fat bag of crack. The ripple effect from this was that I was awake to see Beth off at 6:30/7:00ish, have a proper breakfast, fuck off at the house for a few hours and still be off on my merry way well before noon to run my errands, and to get to the North Star Cafe for my ritual pre-work coffee a good 4 hours before my shift.

            So with so much time to mindlessly slaughter, I’ve naturally swung by to tease my on-again-off-again internet relationship with Livejournal. While I don't have anything all that original or exciting to post, I am a self-felating, self-selling, egomaniac and I am more than ready to supply you (my clamoring public?) with an update on my super exciting life.

HA ETCETERA.

Firstly, my new life goal is to graduate before my fiendish little sister. A lot of people I know are graduating or have just graduated, and the way I’ve danced in and out of school the last few years I am understandably behind the pack. On the upside I feel that for the first time since my sister got sick, I am in a position to make a clean run to a degree without taking another semester off along the way. As I’ve always said, if I can get myself enrolled I perform at a focused level; and for the first time since freshman year the money is there to make this manic blitz for the finish a reality.

I am still the back bone of Colucci’s Hilltop Superette and Deli… which is an awful lot like being the nicest guy in prison, or the best looking guy in a burn ward—but hey, it pays the fucking bills (most of the time.) I do start a reduced schedule soon though, and with luck I’ll be able to manage my savings until this summer.

I am in terrible shape right now. I am not to busted up over it though, and have been joking about it quite a bit. I kind of look like a retired boxer right now. I am still shaped the same general way I’ve always been… just sort of ravaged. I’ve always had certain Muppet qualities but they are really shining through right now—my features look particularly exaggerated. A lot of people get depressed about this sort of thing but it happens to me every year. Just look at my Facebook photos. Rob is in generally good shape from April to September and shite the rest of the year. I am hoping to break the cycle in aught-eight, but it is tough to do an hour of cardio on a shot ankle every day when you run 300 hangovers a year. [End favorite excuse.] HA ETCETERA.

I’ve been writing letters a lot lately. If you’d like to receive one leave me your mailing address. I sent several letters out, complete with artwork in the margin’s, to a random selection of friends based on their Facebook addresses hoping to surprise some folk (because who doesn’t like getting mail that isn’t a fucking bill?) and only got half back due to the addresses being grossly out of date.

My partying has slowed down considerably as of late (and my deteriorating body rejoices.) When I have been going out I’ve been hitting up this old school bar called Shack’s. The first time Dustin and I stopped in we were the youngest people there by twenty years—easy. As we walked up to the bar all eyes turned to us like we were villains Old West who just sauntered through the Saloon doors. The bar tender was a gritty old man, presumably Shack, with a beard and shirt with a small lapel of the Irish flag.

He narrowed his eyes before asking, ‘What’ll it be?’

‘I’ll take a vodka seven, forget the lime.’ I ordered out of pure habit.

‘That’s a pretty serious drink for a young man.’ He cynically barked back with eyes that barked, ‘What the fuck are you two doin’ in my bar?’

‘Well I am a pretty serious young man.’ I replied with a grin.

‘Then we’ll have to see a pretty serious I.D.’

After that we made our way to the pool table where, to the disgust of many onlookers, Dustin and I (two decent pool players 5 nights out of the week’s 7) shot the shittiest game of pool Shack’s had ever housed. Cue ball’s bouncing off the table, missing simply shit shots... and all the while listening to some shit hits of the 70’s mix on the jukebox and laughing our way through the lyrics as we sang them out loud. We eventually moved to the dimly lit dart throwing area, and tagged the Cricket board with the most flamboyant names we could think of: Robtastic vs Dustiful and took over the Jukebox with some heavier tunes that climaxed as we left with Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie.  HA ETCETERA.

Ever since we’ve been going back, and have grown on Shack considerably. While our music may not be up his alley we have drawn in more business than he is used to and for all our brashness, we do tip well and tend to bring our empties back to the bar.

But in any event, I should report that I am about as happy as I’ve been in a long time and have a seemingly decent 6 months ahead of me financially. With my school load increasing, continuing work, and trying to get that damn hour of cardio in every day I should be a busy Grifterman, but in a good way. I can’t really express how happy I am to be past the Portland to Rumford hauls, the daily Portland to Gorham bike rides, and the 50 hour work weeks.

I don't get to post here all that often anymore-- mostly because we (Alvah, Beth, and I) have decided not to get the internet turned on at home until the summer ends, but for some reason I felt rather compelled to do so today. I don't have anything in particular to say, or any grand story to retell. I don’t have some joke to shill, or lyric to quote. Still though, I fell as though I should write something, and see where that takes us. 

I got to see a lot of people from home all at once yesterday. The madness that is the West Athens Parade provided the reason and venue. I laughed at how some of my oldest friends and acquaintances had trouble recognizing me, and pulled bottle after bottle of Budweiser from my seemingly bottomless backpack. Someone gave me a seemingly insignificant, but very sincere compliment after figuring out who I was, ‘I knew it was you as soon as you took those sunglasses off and I saw your eyes. I’ll always know those terrific eyes.’

The last year or so, I’ve been a little withdrawn. I haven’t spent much time with anyone outside of the old Vesper roommates save the occasional party across town. Now that I am going to bars more often I’ve been bumping into people more and more. Most of the times they do a sort of double take akin to the ones that I experienced yesterday at the parade. I usually laugh, and make some sort of joke about being there to carpet bomb the place, or claim that I’ve been hanging out with Ravi Shankar.

I don’t think that I look all that different under this beard, and I don’t feel like my hair is much more than 4 inches longer than it has ever been before but we live in a funny age where you can go months without actually seeing anyone, but follow their day to day routine with a blog, or their physical changes on facebook. I guess when you drop off the grid for a while you are subject to the surprise.

Well, I’m back on the grid now I guess… for now.

Walk on softly, walk on slowly...
These days need to be breathed
If these days are to be believed.
So draw it in softly, and let it out slowly.

I am going to get stoned this weekend, and no one is going to stop me. Not the 3 closing shifts at work, not the 4 term papers due Monday, and not any of you dirty motherfuckers! This is my divine right! MY MANIFEST FUCKING DESTINY. HAR HAR!

...

I have to work St. Patty's this year. I am not overly crushed; I get out of work at midnight, and plan on playing catch-up when I do. This will be the first time since college has started that I haven't had a party for it, but hey, BILLS GOTSTA GET PAID.

I'm feeling pretty good right now. I just walked to campus after having lunch with Beth, and now I am in the computer lab killing time until class. As I am sure you've guessed from my freak out above, I am going to be scoring some pot sometime soon. This excites me. There has been a bit of a drought at Vesper the last month or so.

I will always love that song.

Speaking of songs, I don't know if any of you livejournal types remember a while back when I asked you all to leave me two or three songs as comments so I could make a mix of new/rediscovered music, but I am calling on you guys again. The last one came out so well, I am surprised it took so long for me to do this again.

Moving along...

I am in the computer lab right now. I should be working on William Blake poems, for some reason my focus is severely lacking. My iPod may have something to do with this. I am on a good run of songs this shuffle: Waits, Costello, 3, The Doors, Fiest, Cursive, The Beatles, Cold Play... mmm.

Don't Panic by Cold Play just launched a flash of vivid summer memories from one or two life times ago.

This weekend is going to be a long and shitty one. A kid at the deli quit without giving any sort of notice and the result is me picking up closing shifts on Friday, Saturday, and... (drum roll) Sunday. I'd like to thank him for putting that gun to my weekend's head and pulling the trigger.

    The lights are dimmed and decorative porcelain plates sit like smiling faces at the dinner table. Each plate has a happy neighboring family of silverware living comfortably in the loving embrace of seasonally adorned napkins, and on the other side an above-ground pool of wholesome 2% milk. A woman, with perfect hair and a frilly apron, draws a roast from the oven and sets it on the counter before her husband, a well to do business man wearing thick framed glasses and an ear to ear smile, starts to carve the roast savoring the aroma that is released with each sawing movement. At promptly 7:00pm their 2.5 children stop playing with the other kids who live in the cul-de-sac and come racing through the gateway of their white picket fence and into the house—remembering to take off their shoes at the door. When dinner is served they pause for prayer, and then recount their day for the rest of the family as their dog spot looks on obediently from the next room. Little John announces that he is the new captain of the football team, and young Jane has made the cheer-leading squad. Big John has a new promotion to celebrate, and Evelyn’s sterling clean home and delicious dinner speaks of her successes without the need for words. They all smile and laugh before settling in and eating their food—32 chews per mouthful.

            Growing up the closest I ever came to seeing a scene of suburban bliss like the one presented above, was in an Olive Garden commercial. Typically, I was the one who made dinner, my mother was rarely home from work in time to eat with us, “Big John” ran out years back, and my sister and I usually collapsed on the couch for dinner. Hell, I am not even sure why we owned a dinner table—maybe it was our silent ‘fuck you’ to the Joneses. I don’t know. I am not saying that life was terrible for me growing up; events like that have helped to define my character. I don’t think many people get painted into the picture above anymore, more often than not, even happy upper-middle class families have one sit-down dinner a week. Mom comes home from work, stressed and tries to throw something together that won’t keep her over the oven for too long, while Dad loosens his belt in the living room with the hand that isn’t holding his beer before having a nice long scratch. The kids track mud across the carpet and take there food to their rooms so they can watch what they want on TV while they eat and then run out to smoke pot with the neighbor’s kid. The mother knows, but feels like if she busted them she’d be a hypocrite. After all, she needs a nice Zoloft-Valium cocktail to get her over how trashed her home is.

Booth-Truth: Rob Booth shaved his head on a whim, and an on looker was so impressed with his beauty he erected a large golden idol of him. Miniatures of this statue are now given for outstanding achievement in film in a little ceremony known as the Oscars.

Well I've been shitting in a toilet for 20 years, and I know a steamy lump of crap when I see/smell it, and this has truly been one shitty assignment.

But now that I have that out of my system... things are otherwise pretty good. Working at Colucci's became infinitely better when I found out we could bring in our iPods and plug them into the speakers during our shifts. Prior to this I had been playing a vicious game of cat and mouse with the vastly hit or miss FRANK FM. For every good song they played there were two real stinkers.

I was getting real sick of all the Lynyrd Skynyrd I had to listen to before they finally gave me some Van fucking Morrison.

But alas, Frank giveth, and Frank taketh away.

2007 has been kind to me thus far.

I finally managed to get back into school which excites me to no end-- even with the knowledge that I will be in heavy debt for most of my adult life. The time away and the trials I've faced have left me reinvigorated, rededicated, and after about a month I feel like I’ve fully re-acclimated to the collegiate environment. To that effect I am grateful for the break. I feel a new sense of purpose and urgency.

 I knew-- before I was forced to-- that I would need to take time off from school. I had hoped to use that time, to find a part of myself that was missing; there was something that had fallen to the wayside in my first year and half. My hope was to drift alone across country in a beat up car or van, but fate dealt me a different hand. I didn’t leave the school on my terms and far from drifting I stayed stuck in place in every imaginable way.

 But all that time forced me to take a good hard look at myself, and through hellfire and brimstone I came out better for it. Life seems to be a continuous process of trying to grow into the person you want to be and breaking apart the person you become along the way until you get something that might have, at the very least, a crude resemblance.

 Beyond all that, my heart healed somewhere along the way and I found my smile again.

 Currently, I’m happily out of the trades and working as a cook/sandwich-artist at Colucci’s hilltop Market and Deli. The money is shit, but it is enough to get by with and that is what really matters. I’m writing with a blistering focus, one that at times can be a little overwhelming but ultimately very satisfying and beyond that I am finally making the bridge between my work and an audience—hell, I was asked to teach a workshop on one of my papers!

 Life isn’t perfect, no far from it. It is a god damned struggle, but it is one that I wake to a lot easier these days.

Booth-Truth: Rob Booth is...

    My thoughts drifted like broken spider-webs floating on a silent breeze as they disintegrated into a cool endless night. The drugs were beginning to take a strong hold. The four of us walked slowly at first before eventually moving in a sort of dizzy waltz across the last parking lot between us and the woods. We tangled and weaved in and out of formation, each taking ominous notice of our changing surroundings. I watched, with keen eye, the first snow of the winter season that thinly sugared the ground that was melting beneath our feet. Chris, a friend since introducing himself between shots of tequila the first week of our freshman year was the first to speak.
     "Look at that tree-line!" his voice echoed as a wide eyed grin wrapped around his face. We all turned and saw the thin naked birch trees that were reaching upward into the sky like broken skeletal fingers scraping out of the grave. One of my roommates, and at the time closest friend in the group Rossi, let out a pronounced, "haHA!" with an over emphasized gleeful second, "HA!"
     "That is where we are going boys!"
    "Yeah! It is time to chase down Pan and shit!" added my final companion Alex as he danced about playing an imaginary flute. I didn't like Alex but he was the third man in my dormitory suite this semester which meant I had to learn to live with him, so I forced a laugh. The only redeemable quality he had was access to drugs like the ones we were enjoy that very moment. Before long we had made it across the parking lot to the edge of the woods.
    "Well here we are, there is no turning back now," I said knowing full well that our fate for that night was sealed long before we ever stood bundled at the wood’s threshold. I smiled before tugging my favorite red flannel straight, so I could zip up my heavy brown work-jacket. As if I had given an order to follow suit, one by one, my companions zipped up their open jackets. Additionally, Alex pulled his gortex hood up over his head of blond hair and scraggly stubble.
    "Alright, here we go!" said Rossi with an exuberant smile before leading the way into the woods, followed quietly by Chris. Next Alex yelled something unintelligible and bounded in behind them. I walked to the path that would serve as our entrance for a moment, turning back for just one more look at the world that we were leaving behind. I could almost see my dorm window in the distance.
    "Rob are you coming or what?" Alex called back.
    "Yeah, are you ok?" added Chris.
    "Don't you worry about me." I answered before turning around and diving into the night.

    The woods that sat on the edge of campus were privately owned, but had many paths sculpted for the University's cross country team. After entering the intial path we immediately came to a clearing where there was a small pond that we effectionatly exaggerated into, "The Lake." The Lake was the antechamber to the rest of the woods, but beyond that it was one of the prime places on campus to get stoned without worry of being busted by rent-a-cops under University employ, so it was no surprise when we saw a fiery orange glow floating at about head level in the path at the waters edge. When we got closer we saw that it was our good friend George. George was tall and almost alarmingly thin and he stood like a gatekeeper in the middle of the path.
    "What brings you boys to the woods tonight?" He said with a sly grin as he extended his glass bowl in offering. I took it and inhaled. The smoke filled my lungs, and swirled around as I reached for the words to answer.
    "We are here on a trip," I exhaled to him, "one of epic proportions."
    "That is a little bit of what I like to hear!" he said before taking the bowl back. As I looked back up at him through the smoke, I had trouble seeing the details of his face. I rubbed my eyes but all I could seem to make out was a rough, misty cadaverous outline. “Well remember this" he said, "The woods are only as deep as you are." We all laughed a mad laugh as George took one more hit before shaking the bowl out. "It is all cashed hash from here," he said before disappearing down the path and away from our platoon, leaving us only with his hyperbole.

Directions to my pad:

• Hop on 295
• Get off exit 7: Franklin,
• Stay on the Franklin Arterial until you hit Congress Street by the big church with all the scaffolding around it.
• Take a left onto Congress and go almost to the very end.
•  Vesper Street will be on the right, go through two stop signs
• Park somewhere on the side of the road... I am house 36. Apartment 2, up the stairs.

It isn’t easy. No, it is a real god damned struggle. It is like dragging the flea ridden carcass of a water buffalo up an Everest sized pile of broken glass on bloody stumps.

But, somehow, at the end of most days I make it and wave my hand—trying my best to look like Edmund Hilary.

Now that LJ and I have made up, I hope to be updating a little more regularly. I've been really busy lately. Work has been piling 14 hour days on top of another, and life-- though fantastic-- has been moving extremely fast. I'm on a much needed getaway this weekend, and as it winds to its inevitable closing I find myself sitting still, and alone, reveling in its luster and beauty.

I've needed to getaway. I've needed to retreat.

I've been at the grind, in the battle, fighting the fight, running the race, driving forward head down, pressing on for so long... I am just exhausted. Maybe too exhausted to fully appreciate the splendor that is trickling into my life with each soft breath and softer word. Each sweet embrace, and sweeter caress.

This retreat, let me drink it all in and gave me time to savor, and damn... it really is something to savor.

Booth-Truth: Do you remember the munchkin who hung himself in the the background of the Wizard of Oz? Rob Booth tied the noose.

There are things that I do that not even I can explain. They seem to be motivated by a phantom part of my inner most psyche. Typically, I don't regret these things, but I admittedly do not enjoy the inevitable questions that some of these actions spawn. No one seems to like settling for, ‘I don’t know, felt right,’ and that is too bad because in all honesty that is often the very best I can produce. It is as vague to me as it is to you; like the actions of a drunk, but with a strange contradictory level of control. Sometimes I just work in clandestine, even to myself

Moving on... here are a few quick bullets:

• Cheez-Its make me happy.
•  
• Irish died. His funeral is in Augusta on Monday.


• Elle moved back in. Yippie.


• Megan moved in. Yippie.


• There is a cute girl who has given me free breakfast at Amatos during my morning break for the past two months. Sometimes I feel as though I should ask her to the movies or something, and other times I think it is best that I just take the egg-sandwich and save her the trouble that is being involved, even if just for an evening, with a ravenous psychopath of my nature.


• In a month or so my company will have me working on the waterfront at a rate of 18 dollars a hour. Score

• Every morning I wake up and tell myself to shave my beard... but at the last moment decided to let it live for one more day. I fear that these feral follicles have gained sentience and may have taken root in my brain.