I can't go into Recycled w/o buying a book.

When nothing else feels right, there is something comforting about books, but only old books with past lives that you can feel speaking to you from the pages making you feel if someone were to open a book while you were there, that your life would bind to the pages, and when they returned the book to the shelf, you’d be home.

Back Again.

To start again is what scares me. As long as I don’t look at it, I can convince myself of its worth and believe that at some far away date, I will finish, and it will be everything I ever expected and more. But to sit down and open up that file and again, and begin the process of beginning again, that makes me take a serious look at what I actually have in my hands, and the next step is even harder: picking words like apples hoping none of them are rotten and will spoil the rest.
The hours I’ve spent working on it are a weight in my stomach making me sick worrying that I’ve wasted them all, those hours. But won’t I have wasted them if I go no further than all the pieces lying on the floor waiting for me to sew them together into something beautiful rather than some disjointed Frankenstein’s monster that I’ve made making a mess of all those perfect parts? Fear of failure is worse than failure because your fear and only your fear is the reason for your failure letting inaction become the deciding factor. Fuck it. I’ve begun again. There is no other option. Progress has been halted for so long because of other things. Now that I have the time, I will put those 2 years behind me, and make something out of it, or fuck it up. Damned if I care. I have no right to complain anymore if I don’t do something.

the price of breakfast

The booth became smaller as my grandfather turned talk to religion and marriage. “You need to find a good church and a nice girl to be your wife.” The song “gives you hell” was playing my mind, which only made me think of becoming famous, so that all the past girls would regret , though I knew I was kidding myself, though if I let him just keep talking he would think I was soaking it all in never imagining I was thinking about what my next failed relationship was going to be like, and how we’d run across the country before we got bored with each other. “Denton Bible Church has a large congregation. You should be able to find a nice girl there, though I can’t say anything about whether their theology is sound or not. You’ll have to look into that.” I didn’t tell him that it had been over 4 years since I had been to a church, and that I wasn’t planning on it anytime soon.
As our meals were brought and my coffee refilled, I realized this was why he had invited me out to breakfast, but I rarely turned down a free meal, and this was a valid excuse for being late for work. My father owed my grandfather money, so my father went along with whatever my grandfather said.
Then he asked me what worldview I was taught, and I’ve studied religion enough to bullshit my way through this discussion, I knew, and he was satisfied with my answer. I hoped it would end there because I was full and already had 5 cups of coffee, but no. “Your grandmother and I were both virgins when we got married.” I wanted to tell him that maybe he should have had this conversation with me 10 years ago, but instead I kept listening to the song in my head. “I started praying that God would prepare the right woman for me when I was a boy, and I knew she was the one because I tested it.” Grrreat, another grandpa story. This was going to take at least half an hour, but at least I would skip more work. It would have been worse if he had invited me to his church, but luckily there are no single girls my age there.
I ended up getting to work at 10 when I was supposed to be there at 8, and what was even better was that grandfather needed a ride to the airport, and Simon smokes too much, so that only left me. At 11 I was off to take grandpa to Love Field having only accomplished checking my email. Luckily the conversation was politics, on the ride to the airport, and I laughed to myself thinking that if we were in a bar we would covered every topic you’re not supposed to talk about.

An Old Clown

An old clown under a half-lit USA sign stares at me as I turn the corner walking away from the café. I feel like being alone, but I’m supposed to meet some girl. My Peruvian friend, Paulo set it up, or rather his wife did, because they seem to think I spend too much time alone. “You need a girl, and then you’ll stop being lonely.” “But I’m not lonely,” I tell them, and they don’t believe that. “Of course you’re lonely, you’re always alone.” They can’t imagine that I prefer my own company to some girl I can’t talk to because we have nothing in common.
“She’s a lovely girl, and I’ve already told her all about you.”
Great, that means she’ll expect me to say something clever, that because I travel I should have lots to talk about.
I’m wearing my last clean shirt, and I put out my cigarette before I walk in. As soon as I see her next to Paulo, I know the type. Fuck. What have I agreed to? But if I don’t go in, my friend will find me the next day, and give me hell about it because I’m no good at hiding. I always go to the same places, and damned if I didn’t have money to leave town.
They’d already had a few, “and why the hell was I late?” I made up some lie that would placate, and I didn’t say that I was stalling hoping they’d be good and drunk before I got there, so that I could slip off later, but it seems that it hadn’t worked, and they’re expecting me to be entertaining to make up for being late. Instead I slip out of my stool to get a drink, which I’m going to need. I get a double whiskey for myself and bring back a couple of shots hoping to finish what my tardiness hadn’t taken care of. When I get back I’m relieved to find my friend well into a story about his younger wilder days, though I can’t imagine him being younger or wilder. Something about a couple of girls he met while traveling Europe. Paulo has an endless supply of “dirty little stories” he calls them, and I’m happy to sit back with my whiskey wishing they’d let me smoke in this place.
After an hour and a half they’re both silly, and I’m looking for an out. It didn’t come though, and as we’re leaving, and I get her number, which I don’t plan on using, just to satisfy my friend. It’s still early, and maybe I can sneak into a show or something, so I call a friend who is always willing to open a back door.

Singing, “This I’ll be the day that I die.”

Shivering as I eat my chicken meal, which is hot but doesn’t keep me from being too cold, I take my book to the park and sit in my truck where the sun would keep me warm. The girl who took my order asked me about the book, but how do you describe Henry Miller taking about sex in front of a line. She told me it was ok she was over 18, but I couldn’t find the words, so I said it was good but too graphic for most.
I hadn’t shivered like that in years, but my teeth were chattering, so I wasn’t about to be another collapse. I’d eaten all my meal, but it felt like nothing, and I wondered how well they cooked that chicken because maybe I was dying of salmonella, but that’d take hours. Instead I reason I was recovering my sanity from lack of sleep. I wasn’t behaving more these days, just getting up on time. So what did that make me? Henry talked about his job, and it reminded me I had one, one that was counting to see if I was late, though no one knew when I left. I came back sat down, and thought about the midget and her dog that Henry was describing, nothing new today, except they should let me go home early, but they never do.

This Morning's Poem

It was the worst morning to wake up to
But I was on time
For once
That was it
Nothing else but the coffee coupons
Got me by
With a lady in the back seat sleeping
I had to open that door
It was Tuesday
The second day I was on-time
Ever
In America
Still no reason
To justify my occupancy
Behind that desk
Would they need me if I left
Or miss me
Too late to know
With trying to buy a house
In a town
Where my trouble started
Or did it end
Me that night
On a couch
My lady on the floor

A Few Words on Africa (no more than a few).

Descending from the clouds on a Thursday, my first view of Africa wasn’t quite what I expected. It was just another city with paved streets, houses, pools, and highways. Flying further in, Africa was still covered in clouds, though on the last break through the clouds I found a different city waiting for me. It looked like Africa was supposed to be: set in the Kalahari with dirt roads spider-webbing the countryside and only one highway leaving the city to other cities four hours away.
Luke was waiting for me outside of customs by his Toyota that would take us the 3 hours to the tribal capital of Botswana. After the first shower in 2 days travel we were off to his family ranch where he told me we would be hunting problem leopards. One in particular had killed off all of the horses, donkeys, and was working on the cattle. It was too smart for traps and wouldn’t come to a bait, so it would test all of our limits, the dogs’ limits, and Jako’s driving skills as we scanned the cattle roads looking to get lucky and find a fresh track we could chase down. In all we accounted for at least 4 large males, but the one we were after took us all of 3 days to catch a lucky break, and find a fresh track that more resembled a lioness than a leopard. For 2 hours we tracked it that day, but by 10am we were close enough to set the dogs on it chasing it for 8 and ½ hours that day. By the end we realized that this leopard had tested us all and found us out, and we realized just how smart this thing was, smarter than us. The next day, my last day, we weren’t so lucky. It got away, and Jako left us to go back to his plot close to Maun where he overturned his truck on the way. Luke and I had nothing better to do than cook a beer chicken while I finished up another hunting story. It was a good meal, and I was ready to be back home where things worked out better. I told Luke I still hadn’t finished the story, and he said I needed to come back in October, work or not, and we would get this leopard. So in 8 months I will come back and finish this story. I could tell you of all the scratches I got, how my skin burned, and the names of all the trackers, and their dogs but, I will wait until I have an ending, and hopefully his leopard will not kill as many as last year. In all 100 were accounted for between these 4 leopards, and some people told me, we should just let these leopards be.