It's Like the Military Without Honor
It's Like the Military Without HonorFinding home becomes a rabid struggle. I open the door and there is everything exactly the way it was left. My house has been described as one huge office. Its true. The detritus of all my comings and goings are blanketed among the walls, shelves and odd furniture that fills the house. As I travel I wonder what to keep; what will jar the mind in 20 years, when I am on the porch, yelling at those damn kids who ride through my yard. I try to be sparring, I keep only the kobe steak of souvenirs. I have great hotel books, amazing hotel pens, first class cashmere airline blankets, fancy, contracts of interest, posters of shows, commemorative shirts, the usual. One day, I hope that my daughter will do something with this stuff. I don’t really want to see this stuff in a hard rock café (I saw Kurt’s publisher’s clearinghouse junk mail in a hard rock café in Barcelona (its near the men’s room) and what was I doing in a hard rock anyway? See my other blog sickof paella.com) And what was the point I was trying to make. Familiarity. I like to see my shoes right where I left them; even the load of laundry STILL in the dryer is somehow comforting. Opening the fridge is another story. Old food. Big plans for those lemons. Intentions wilted in the crisper drawer. Once I came home and there had been a blackout. I don’t know how long or when (this was one of those 9 week stretches that makes me forget how to clean up after myself). I came in, checked the garbage for smelly stuff and looked in the freezer. On the shelf above the icemaker, was melty, wavy colored goo. It came out, as if it were Technicolor carpet, creeping out under the yellow box. The popsicles had melted! It was semi-artistic. You know what I am talking about too. The syrupy stalactites edged down toward the lower shelf, frozen. To marvel at all that sucrose and maltrose and red, orange, purple, and yellow dyes frozen almost made up for the fact that I had to clean up the evidence. Just off of 3 planes and two layovers with no sleep.
Sometimes I come home and dive for the television. Tonight was one of those. I often hope when I come home that some stoner at Fox has put on all the episodes of the Simpsons that I haven’t seen and locked himself in the control booth. Usually, there isn’t such a fortunate occurrence but tonight the Shawshank Redemption was on one of the channels. A woman I once let down used to always say to me, “You love movies where they talk to you!” That’s basically true. All the movies I like, even TV shows, have a form of narration. In the 90s I loved that show, The Wonder Years. I didn’t mind the way every episode had that Daniel Stern guy saying “..and from that day, my life would never be the same. Blah blah” it was comforting. Friendly. Like an old tshirt that fits just so. I got to watch the S. R. tonight and I still enjoy it. Morgan Freeman is such a calming narrator, the way he lulls you to sleep with that milk and cookies timbre in his voice. Its your basic prison movie-rape, fighting, corruption. But the human part of it, the ennui of losing 19 years of your life for a crime you didn’t commit and having to go to an inhuman place to become human again. Its only missing light sabers. When I travel, which is often, I carry a few movies with me. There are a few standards I usually have; some are macho and full of testosterone; others are so utterly devoid of substance its almost embarrassing to type. My late night friends are usually, Gladiator, Braveheart, Forrest Gump, Training Day. Those are pretty missionary position when it comes to movies. The embarrassing ones are (and I don’t want to start a dialogue, just listing) Visionquest (who knew a 1985 wrestling movie could be so homoerotic); Superstar (Molly Shannon’s Citizen Kane) Notting Hill (Julia Roberts makes me weep like a little bitch with her “I’m just a girl” speech) Love Actually (It really hurts to LOOK at Keira Knightley. The part where the wedding choir sings “All You Need Is Love” also gets the tears flowing.) I also bring the movie Practical Magic. I know, I know. Sandra Bullock is such the epitome of restlessness. And some of the cheesy lines just get me in the heart. I will check into a hotel and just put one of these movies on repeat until I check out. Its like having a friend that doesn’t talk to you but still sits in the room, quietly, without tearing into the minibar.
I have to go. I am beat. The words really aren’t falling out.
It's Like the Military Without HonorToday I sat in the front, by myself. No one really bothered me. The little pad fell off my headphones. Otis sounded funny, like I was listening from across the street. We got to Paris and that is where the fun began. I won't even go into it.
During the whole ordeal, I just went to another place. Tried to keep my mind off the stress of travel.
I remember once, when we moved in the middle of the night (one of my new "uncles" got a little slappy with my mother. Not a new thing, but not the kind of thing you get used to when you are six). We were in the camaro, the gold one. It smelled like menthol cigarettes and drive through food. I recall falling asleep in the back seat, with my head wedged into that little triangle shaped window. The sun came up sometime and my eyes burned open. The car was slowing down and moving right. We were at a rest stop. My mother was up front, muttering something. Usually 6 to 8 hours after these conflicts, my mom would get super Helen Reddy and go on this long tangent. Basically, we were going to make a new start of it, go to a new place. She was gonna get a job and make her OWN money. I was going to go to a good school and get nice friends. (At these times, I just wanted to interject something about dinner every night and clean clothes, but I shut up and watched her convince herself of these goals.) This resolve usually lasted until she ran out of cigarettes and invariably had to go to honky tonk for more (because the 5 7-11's in the hood couldn't possible be peddling cigs!)--where I would get a new "uncle". He usually came with the following accessories, like one of those GI Joe's with kung fu grip;
1) facial hair, something from either a porn or off of a most wanted poster
2) a belt buckle where he kept pot
3) boots or no shoes at all
4) no id, but an out of town 3rd party personal check that my mom could cash for him, since he had no bank
5) a good right hook
6) the ability to get my mother to think that a huge drugged out biker party was a good idea on a school night
If you mix the above with just the right amount of beer, pills and domestic violence, you have the makings of many evictions and skipping out on rent after rent in the middle of the night. And this isn't a woe is me litany. Its just a retelling of a particular time. Let me get back to where I was, the rest area. I think it was somewhere in the middle of Kentucky.
This rest area, at dawn, was like a waiting room for the Island of Dr. Moreau. There were bikers, some hippies (remember its the 70s) and truckers. I got out, stretching in my pajamas. The air was sticky and tiresome. My mom, lit cigarette in hand, grabbed me and jerked me towards the toilets. There were a couple of little kids playing in a puddle outside the brick bathroom building. On picnic tables to the right of the toilet, these bikers were having a hoedown. Keep in mind it was around 8am. On a weekday. And it wasn't even a major holiday, just another day. Someone's truck blurbled a butt rock anthem out of its open doors and women with names like Tonya were taffy dancing on the grass. Hairy dudes, there were 3 of them, with fat biker guts, were watching the old ladies and grilling some sort of meat on one of those stationary public bbq's. It was something out of Easy Rider. I just marveled on the way into the pooper at these people and their fete. Here it was 8 am and I hadn't peed for 350 miles/2 packs and these guys were tailgating a make believe Skynyrd concert. My mom, of course, said hi to one of the bearded refrigerators. And swoop, I was in the pisser.
I could do it alone by then. It was hard to navigate the inch and a half of water, which was mixed in with spit, soda, beer and god knows what other fluids.
Leaving the bathroom, I beat my mother out of the building and back to the car. I waited by the door, staring at the truckers on the sidewalk. I wondered where we were going.
Sometime later, at a truck stop. I got to eat. I seem to forget what I had, something wrapped in cellophane with dextrose or something like that. A few days later, we surfaced in Mississippi. I know its not a really good story, but I just remembered riding in the car and how much I hated using the bathrooms at rest stops. And I needed to think of something else while these two idiots from Air France forced me to spend the night in Paris, out by the highway.
I just heard the sharif calling the 4 am prayer.
(I think that's the word for the guy. He wails like a Honda passing me on the right)
I am lying, or rather, was lying in the couch area. My room has a sitting area that I can fall asleep in at the drop of a hat. I realize that I am alone. Its so quiet here within the walls of the riad. (riad is arabic/french for "huge mansion that I don't deserve but I put away for it so there.") The riad is enfortressed within the walls of the medina, the old part of Marrakech.
I got up for some water and climbed to the rooftop deck. I could see about 5 stars in the sky. All the riads are jammed together. As I hazily wiped my rest out of the corners of my eyes, I heard "Bon Soir, monsieur!" So I replied, "Bon Soir ou Asalaam Alekem!" The man was amused by my tepid French/Islamic greeting-"Walekem Salaam," he replied. And added-"Monsieur"
I fumbled-but I gotta use my Arabic- "Llabas?" And he replied "Llabas, allah or something that I didn't get from Frommer's.."
It was a swollen ten seconds or so, as we stared through the darkness and to stab the quiet, I said to him in french- The sky is blue, like the sea tonight isn't it? Yes he said, but the sea isn't always blue.
I made a motion to my heart and went back down the stairs to my room, stubbing my toe on one of the stairs, as always.
I have no real point to this just thought it was the most zen conversation I have ever had at 4 am with a man in a robe. Especially one on a rooftop in two different languages.
Last night I laid in bed from first prayer call to the morning prayer call. I closed both sets of doors to my room and stared hard at the ceiling. It is the darkest of darks with the doors shut. I cannot even make out the tumor of lights that is the chandelier. It reminds me of a hundred christmas tree lights jammed all together, like a hive.
I think about things. In this order.
1-How many pairs of socks do I have?
2-Should I call her? Should I stop contact. We live far apart. I hate flying.
3-Is there anything to drink besides water. I could almost drink a coke.
4-I miss Parker. I hope she is drinking milk in spite of her mother.
5-If I close the place up, its another failure. My people need these jobs. Why do I keep trying?
6-Morocco is insane. I like the mashup of Arabic and French cultures. I can hear someone hammering outside.
7-I took 4 showers today. Can I possibly take more tomorrow.
8-how can I make that snazzy tea that Saaid, our butler is making. I invited him and the two ladies who cook to eat with us but they refused.
9-what should I bring back for people? I think souvenirs are blasé. But what do I know. I live alone in a 3000 square foot house. And I have no room.
10-I hate my suburban. It belonged to a foo fighter. It could house about 10 people. (I didn't really like this thought) If I could sell it to someone, I would. Not for 4 dollars.
11-sometimes I cry for no reason. (welcome to emoville.) I cannot really follow that sentence. Maybe its age? Maybe I am realizing how few opportunities for greatness you get and maybe I have already taken mine. Is my window of greatness making hotel reservations for millionaires? If so, then I want a recount. Maybe my window closed ages ago and I don't know it. What if you were put here for all those years for one specific action- such as to delay someone from being in a a car accident or cooking a dish that makes someone sick and they fall in love with the doctor that takes care of them. Kinda like a bit part in an Altman film? Is that situational creationism? I.e. Being made for a long time for one specific action--like was I here for 30 odd years to find someone dead in a hotel room, revive them and move on...meaning, since that moment I was fabricated for has past, am I just in the waiting room. And no its not a morbid tip, mind you, its just a thought. One of those that you have in a bed in marrakech, alone. With no one to complain that you are snoring.
Today was a headache. I was down all day. My friends know that I get them from time to time. Not a big deal. Just a hassle. Luckily today it looked overcast and not too hot. I laid in bed and tried to manufacture interesting thoughts in my head, some mental exercise to sharpen the lobes.
I thought about kissing. I thought about the '79-80 Pittsburgh Steelers. I thought about my stepfather and how I hoped he was dead. I thought about chocolate pudding. I tried to give my dreams a push by starting a scenario where I went to someone's house to pick them up on a date, don't know who, but somehow I ended up drunk. It gets blurry after that. (the drunk part was made up by my head, without my help)..
