just checking

i check to see if their chests rise. I check to see if they breathe. I always look to see their bellies rise up and down to be sure they are still alive. I do this with grammy and dad. I dont do this with anyone else because no one else falls asleep at random times during the day. I occcasionally glance over at them in the green chair. That green chair that no one else sits in. Its one of those recliner chairs. The kind that makes all that noise when they yank that lever to open the leg rest. It pops out into mid air and your feet flop up and then down landing softly on the green fabric. Its that ugly forest green. We have this color because it was the only one in the furniture store that was on sale, probably because no one else wanted its ugly forest color. You sit in this chair and then before your feet hit the cushiony green fabric, your eyes are closed and you've corked off. I always check to see your chest rise. I look to see your diaphragm fill with air, and then out again. I check if youre still alive

On shit

These sewers run underground around the entire city. Cities upon cities all over the world with sewer systems. People shit and flush it down and with the gallon of water it travels farther than you'd ever imagine. Your shit, my shit, everyone's shit, has traveled everywhere. Anywhere. Public restrooms. Restaurant toilets. Hotels. Theme parks. Libraries. Hospitals.

If I could track all the shit I've flushed away at Dunkin Donuts across New England, that would be something incredible. Is my shit in Portland still? Or has it made it's way down to the Hamptons in New Hampshire? Is my shit soaking in a pile of other shit that maybe includes some famous person's shit too? Is my shit decomposing with Paris Hilton's shit? Does Paris Hilton even shit? I will assume it comes out covered in diamonds and fur.

The point is, shit is something we hardly think about past the bowl. Once it squeezes its way into that dark ceramic hole, we no longer think of it. Our only thoughts are "I have to shit" then "where can I shit?" and then "go down, go down.... ok good." and that's it then its gone forever. Into the sewer systems. This amazing other world underneath the grounds we walk and drive on. We all drive above our own shit. All day long. Unless, you live in the suburbs, where you have septic tanks.

This is where my thought came to me, sitting in my mother's window seat, reading my Chuck Palahniuk book. I stopped to take in the disturbing chapter I had just read, and as I gazed out into the back yard from the second floor window, I noticed the small round slab of concrete in my yard. This is the lid to our septic tank. This is where they stick that giant tube attatched to the huge tanker truck and suck the shit out of our overflowing pool of waste.

I play frisbee and catch in that yard. I lay out for a tan in that yard. I do all these things without even noticing I'm doing them on top of my own pile of shit. How crazy is that?

And.. who these people are- the ones who work for the septic tank cleaning business.. the ones who hold onto the giant suction hoses with those eagle-proof gloves on.. who are they? and what to they tell people who ask them at a cocktail party "So, Mark. What do you do for a living?"

Do they respond "I suck shit out of peoples back yards." or do they have some fancy code name for it? Like "waste management" or something? I wonder these things.. but I'm just too lazy to look them up.

Taking a different route.

You said "I'm not talking to you!" and when I replied "I'm sorry, I must have misread your mouth pointing at my face while sound was spilling from your lips." you simply raised one eyebrow- the left I think- and pursed your lips together and turned around- facing west I'm almost sure- leaving me stranded in the corner- completely out of the social loop, once again- trying my best not to appear as though I've just been left stranded in the corner- completely out of the social loop, once again.

And as I lingered there for what must have been about 20 seconds in silence, it hit me. You are the worst friend I've ever had, and as of last night, we are ex-friends.

And when I woke this morning, feeling betrayed for the umpteenth time, I decided I should take a different route this time.

This time I will keep you. I will keep you near, and dear, to my once warm but now bitter and cold heart, and I will use you. I will use you in all the ways you have used me. This time I will purse my lips. This time I will raise my eyebrow- the left one even.

This time you will linger in your corner, out of this loop.

my new game

I play this game. I play this game by myself. I can play whenever i want, but its best to play when the weather is warm, and preferably with little wind. If its too hot out, i can become sweaty and start to get tired and lazy. But if its too cold out, the chances of being able to play are pretty slim. This game requires one person. If two people attempt to play, confusion and possible injury may occur. This game involves running back and forth in a jerky motion that usually causes that squeaky sound from rubber souled shoes. This game involves sneakers. Arms. Feet. But most importantly... A tennis racquet. This game is a fuzzy yellow ball on a long rubber band tied to a weight. This game is for tennis doubles without a double. Or single. Just you and the rubber band. And lots of pavement.this game makes me look silly. Swinging at no one. My imaginary tennis opponent is really good. I need to practice.

You wait

And you wait for us to pick u up. Someone to come and transport you where u need to go. You don't drive. You never learned how and you never will. I ask you once in a while if you want me to show you how. You laugh and joke "yea. Thats a good idea. Stupid bastard that i am...DONT GET OLD"... I wonder how it is someone who can go 89 years with no car. No form of transportation. No way to escape once in a while when you just need to be alone. I wonder maybe if you had that opportunity in your life.. That chance to just cruise around with the wind in your hair... Maybe you would have turned out to be a little different... A little less miserable. Maybe. Maybe you'd be telling me stories of when you went across country with your girlfriends. Maybe you'd be telling me when you got stranded with a flat tire in the middle of nowhere. Maybe. Instead you wait. You wait for us- someone to pick you up- anyone- only to be transported to another air conditioned cave to dwell in. Another hole to rot in. and thats it

MOBILE BLOGGIN

Since i got this wonderfully handy new phone, i figure i should make
use of its features, right? Well thats what I'm trying to do right
now. I'm on this new env2 that i just got for a steal on ebay
yesterday. Brand new. Still wrapped nicely in the unopened box...which
was probably stolen.

Two days ago a Cingular- er I should say at&t- store got their ass
robbed. Something like a hundred phones were stolen..and they'll all
end up on ebay by tomorrow without a doubt. People pay money for this
shit..lots of ridiculous money.. I didn't spend half as much as some
people would for a hunk of plastic.. That by next year will be
horribly out of date and i'll be browsing ebay once again for my
plastic piece of fittin in. Cus thats all it is really. I mean how
convenient does life really have to be? (she says from her mobile
phone while sitting in her car at the drive thru waiting for her
oversized iced coffee to bring with her to the tanning salon...)

Poor me.:-P

The House On Calamus Meadow

As I sit in front of this small flame, I am reminded of our trips to the lake house in Maine. The nights were much darker there, in the cabin burried forty pines deep on Calamus Meadow, and the only sound we'd hear were the crickets' symphonies and the crack and pop of the damp wick on the table candle, just like this one. Its wick is sunken deep into the jar. The once clean and clear glass is now blackened and each time I reach down inside to light the wick, my hand rubs the sides and I'm left with black knuckles. This particular candle is one of those fancy Yankee Candle candles, except it's an immitation, so the fragrance is weak and stale smelling, and the lable on the front has started to slide around now that the glue has softened from the heat inside the jar. Just picking it up once will result in sticky, smelly hands for the rest of the day. The flame jumps back and forth with the breeze of the ceiling fan in a wya that has begun to irritate me now. The light shoots in every direction so violently, it almost hurts my eyes to look directly at it. Instead of this being a warm and relaxing experience, it's rapidly changing shapes have gotten me so frustrated, I look away. This relentless flickering remains in my peripheral vision, so I decide I've had enough. I shove the poor cat off my lap and lunge at the candle from the couch. With one agressive breath, I huff out the flame and then smother the smoking wick with my spit-soaked fingers. I am satisfied now, and soon I'll fall asleep in the dark, and while this stale smell lingers through the night, I'll wake in the morning remembering a dream I've had of the house on Calamus Meadow.