Three Long City Blocks

Man, remember owls? Flying around, eating mice. Turning heads all the way around like a god damn boss.

The only reason I've ever wanted a house was so that I could sit on the roof, snagging a few brews. In my imagination, this situation involves a lot of high fives that I'm not exactly comfortable with, but home ownership is worth making some sacrifices for.

Right now my cat is jumping and clawing at some invisible creature. My assumption is that this is some sort of spider or winged bug, and that shit just will not suffice. He cornered a bug earlier today and simply sat next to the damned thing. He didn't try to eat it, he didn't try to kill it, he didn't play with it. When the bug moved, he moved. And sat. And watched. Don't get me wrong; I appreciate the early-warning system. I have some pretty specific rules RE: bugs in my house--you stay in the living room and don't come near me, we are going to get along swimmingly. You go in the bedroom? That shit is like THUNDERDOME: only one person leaves. Ladies, I'm being facetious.

I'm taking medications now. This is in addition to my love of self-medication; this is some doctor-prescribed horse shit about being "unhealthy." Why I put that in quotes I'll never know. Some tweets were posted earlier this week in which I talked about my doctor and his nurse describing me as "a fat sack of human garbage" and that's largely true. Should you get a chance, sneak a peak at the computer they use in the examination room; the descriptions the doctors use can be pretty hilarious. My previous doctor left a four-word note: "Mildly overweight but pleasant." What did she expect, exactly? Fatties are notoriously ill-tempered, but I've never bitten anyone. What would make me not pleasant? Who tells a doctor to go fuck themselves? Man, America just continues to grow on me, like a big patriotic malignant tumor. Good times all around.

So yeah, pills. My cholesterol and blood pressure are higher than they should be. It makes sense, considering my diet consists largely of booze and salt. No regrets here, but apparently some "quack" with a "medical degree and residency" thinks I need to make some lifestyle adjustments. Okay, great. This is something I can do.

Forming habits is harder than maintaining them. In my head the previous sentence appears as a revelation; in reality it simply is a matter of objective fact. People toss out arbitrary numbers--"You need to do something daily for two weeks for it to be a routine!"--but come on. The human will (or at least my own) is permeable to all sorts of osmosis. For instance, I don't drink every day for two weeks, but goddamn if my drinking isn't some sort of habit. Hell, it's a perk of the job. I don't masturbate daily for two weeks. Who has the time? But willpower can be fickle. It can be hard to pin down sometimes.

Making myself do shit I don't want to do--exercise, eat healthy, not kill my liver by drinking too much, show up to work, be nice to others, finish the half-gallon of milk before it expires--is easy in theory but difficult in execution. Learning habits (especially the bad, fun ones) is so easy. Learning the good ones, the ones that take work and dedication and perseverance and a sense of self-preservation isn't just hard, it's boring as hell. All of the males in my family have a tendency to die before the age of 50. Those who last longer are considered weak and different. This is the template that I've used to chart my life; I have 50 years. I need to squeeze out what I can. Some of the best times of my life have occurred when I've made some truly awful decisions. Why change now?

There's a certain sense of responsibility that erupts when you realize that other people want you around. I've lived my life solely for me, yet I've found myself in orbit around others. At first, this was just a kind of annoyance; one of my first break-ups happened because I lied to a girlfriend about being busy when in reality I was playing Spider-Man 2: The Game. Those who have played this game know that I was ultimately in the right, but actions have consequences and that shit is unfortunate.

But is it? Is it unfortunate? The liberation found in being solitary is profound; no drug available can mimic the feeling of being truly beholden to oneself--free. But there is a comfort found in being needed--no, wanted. Desired. I know the darkest tributaries that exist within me: the horrible, isolating, belligerent, unknown horror of my personal existence. "THE FEAR." It's different for everyone, but for me it's a close companion. And more often, I'm reminded that people see it sometimes. They see the load that it is. They offer to carry, if only for a few feet, a few minutes, a few moments. A brief existence. This is humbling and disconcerting and needed and thanks to everyone.

I never expected or wanted to live as far as 50. It's years away but just around the corner. But sometimes it's not about what I want. This is tough to learn. What I want can't always be right. Seeing what others want isn't comfortable in the least. But nothing worth doing is ever easy. Sometimes, you just need to put the work in.

It's a long distance to traverse. Repetition breeds routine; habit. Put the earbuds in. Fire up the new album. Make the walk. I don't want to be around forever. But some people want me to be around. The least I can do is oblige.

Until an asteroid,
Adam

Throwing Shadows

Of course things change over time. The very nature of being is change. Life is the story of a person choosing to change or die. It's not particularly difficult.

With physical objects, it's so easy. I can watch trees grow, die, fertilize. I can watch beaches expand, contract, disappear. More difficult to observe are ideas, notions, friends, beliefs. Over time, they change. Over time, you alienate yourself. But do you see this? Is it observable?

Like most things, I noticed this when examining myself. This weekend was my nephew's second birthday, and I spent a while with both sides of my "family"; both biological and expanded. My takeaway from this was a small game I played with my nephew and his aunt--a game of running, and hugs, and laughing; simplicity. Evan--my nephew--ran back and forth between his extended family and offered hug after hug. But it wasn't the sort of thing one does; these were hugs, things borne of love and desire. Borne from a need to express something deeper than words ever can.

A long time ago, I would have laughed at this. It's easy to make jokes about stuff and be distant. It's my natural state of being; the less I care about something, the easier I can deal with it. But watching a person--albeit a tiny two-year old with no concerns about what is cool or what isn't--engage in something pure was revelatory.

Maybe it says something about modern culture. The internet and text messaging and popular culture and being cool and having fun all come from a sense of aloofness. We try to hide it and mask it under our predilections and ideals and charitable causes and the other things we don't spend enough time on, but the point is we don't spend enough time on each other in a direct sense. It's so easy to say "I love you," but demonstrating that in a quantifiable way scares me. It scares everyone. It's our motivation each day to prove we are above satisfying ourselves. And we find ways to obfuscate and distract from that, but the reason you can't sleep well at night is because you know "I could have tried harder."

And I'm reminded of my nephew. So pure, so able to love regardless of the horrible things I've done to my friends and family. So able to forgive me for putting myself ahead of everyone, even those who needed help the most. So eager to welcome me even though I shut out those around me because I say I don't want to hurt them but really I'm afraid of them hurting me.

And I think of change. Turning around and looking at yourself... Imagine a dusty road in the American southwest (or, for the weird Russian guy reading this, somewhere in fuckin' Moscow or whatever) where you walk, thirsty and weary. It feels like months since you've rested, and sometimes the thought of going any farther shakes you to your core. So turn around. You see everything you've left behind--every friend, every significant other you left because you couldn't commit, every decision you didn't make because stagnation was comfortable and why change that, every branch and extension and change you could have made that may have brought you to where you wanted to be. And you fall to your knees.

And blink.

There's a shift--the sun hits everything just so--and things seem clearer. The shadows fall at a particular degree, and you realize that you made mistakes; stupid, growing-up-too-quick mistakes. The kind that everyone makes in the rush to be someone before you know what kind of person you want to be. And it clicks. It's a matter of perspective.

I'll apologize until the day I die to those I've wronged, because I know now what it means to hurt another. But every step I've taken until this point has been worth it. I can see the bad--god, can I see the bad in myself and the things I've done--but I always see the good. I see the steps I took to reach this point and know I needed to take them. That's no excuse, no shaking off of my demons. Am I remorseful? Yes, of course. But only because of what I know now.

Sometimes you look at a thing and see it. Really, really see it: the crevasses and imperfections and hand-made warts. Other times, you can step back and see how it affects the world. Either way, it's a gift. Just taking notice of how the sun strikes it can be enough. Sometimes.

Until an asteroid,
Adam

A Tragedian at Heart

A lot of my time--my free, absolute free-from-others time, the time I spend wallowing and dreaming and scheming and apologizing and reminiscing and laughing and thinking--is spent in a state of remorse. Why is that? Sometimes I wonder about what I did, or who I have become, or who I am currently. The mirror is broken, or more accurately, waxed. I see who I am, but not clearly. Without inhibitions, I can look at the reflection and know that this is not what was expected. But nothing is clear. Everything is in question. Why do I feel so bad about who I have become?

Maybe "bad" is too strict. Right now, I am alone--those who would shield me from myself are gone, asleep, and the only suit of armor I can wear is one of my own design. Tonight especially, but hopefully not only tonight, I have been on a crusade to show those that supported me when I was at my most base that they were not wrong. And it can be so easy when they fawn you with compliments and sentiments and thoughts and sentences and words and letters and detritus to agree with them and think "maybe this time things will be different."

And the head hits the pillow and sleep comes, not as a friend in the night, but a burglar to steal you away from your concerns and doubts and misconceptions and maybe one day you'll be the person every one said you'd be. But until then you wake fitfully and toss and turn and what is real then?

I love my friends; my real friends. It's because I know me, you know? I see the marks and scars and imperfections and malformed tumors of the soul that define "Adam M. Robinson" because the "M." is so elegant and part of the facade. They see it, too. They embrace it. They see me at the lowest they could--the person I am every day; the adaptable, charming, smiling, laughing, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake version of whoever this Adam M. Robinson person is--and grab hold. They don't give up. I could never, ever place faith in anything--even something I saw with my own eyes--the way they place faith in me.

It's humbling and confusing and wrong and right and the reason all at once. And it's not fair. I didn't ask for this. My dream was to wake up and change someone, anyone. I want to grab hold of them and shake and scream "You're making a mistake, can't you see?" and push and prod and exacerbate and alienate and be lonesome and go back to the beginning all over again. But no one lets me, because they are bold and strong and wrong, yet cowardly and weak and humanly all the same.

And no one, not one, has given up on me. Not a single person. And it's tragic. I can't move on from it. I see and know myself. But others have this vision, this embodiment of potential, that they actively choose to see. And it creates an imbalance which is infuriating. It forces me to look beyond--beyond me, beyond you, beyond my parents, beyond our ancestors, beyond our ideas, beyond our conceptions of the future--and prepare. I'm not a planner. Every day beyond 25 is a gift and a curse and an anchor and the reason I keep on going. Because everyone who knows me is right, and because I have to prove them wrong. I'm exactly as mundane as expected.

Until an asteroid,
Adam

The Bed Frame

I've been afraid to write about this for a while.

For a long time, I didn't have a bedframe. It seemed redundant; I mean, I had that other thing that the mattress rests upon and really what else do you need?

The bed frame is the subtlest of status symbols. Being ostentatious with my iPhone is one of life's little pleasures--at this point, almost everyone has the "rare" white one if they truly want it. But I know, man. Day one, I went to the store, and I bought it. And even when I didn't need to know the time I pulled that little baby out of the pocket and checked it. "12:14," I'd think, "Exactly as expected."

Here's a universal truth: humans are terrible, and we all try to demonstrate how much better we are than everyone else. You can be altruistic and try to help others and yadda yadda and it doesn't matter. When you examine the basest reasons for why you do anything, it's because you want it to look good. There's nothing wrong with that; it's part of being a social creature. I donate to charity, support the ASPCA, volunteer, help friends move--I do it all to raise my social stock. The actual assistance or help I provide someone happens to be a fringe benefit. Maybe this is cynical. To me, it's honest.

So when Facetiming with a friend of mine a few weeks ago, I gave her a tour of my apartment. When we got to the bedroom, she saw my bed on the floor and said "just like a real college kid." The conversation took a few more minutes to wrap up and when I hung up, I couldn't help but be fascinated by her observation. Is this how everyone sees it? I have girls over here! Part of being social is being social. Maybe this is shallow. To me, it's honest. Do people have a hard time seeing past the lack of bed frame? What does that lack of bed frame say about me as a person?

The littlest comments cut the most.

Procuring a bed frame, when you think about it, couldn't be easier. Hit up craigslist, buy one for five bucks, try not to get murdered in a Wendy's parking lot. In, out, done. But just getting some shitass' old bed frame wasn't going to work for me. Sure, it's just hunks of metal and slots and maybe a few functioning wheels if you get lucky, but people are going to see this. This wasn't just a bed frame. This was my bed frame, and it needed to speak a certain volume about me. Why I think this way is likely due to some sort of brain damage.

Getting a new one was the only answer. And paying a certain price was going to be key. When grocery shopping, I skip the generic food aisle. Are you kidding me? I'm not going to eat Fritz like some goddamn peasant in the Ukraine. I'm going to eat Ritz, like a man of my stature should. There's this lens through which I view the world--kaleidoscopic by nature, obfuscating, infuriating, necessary--but it makes a certain logical sense to me. I wasn't joking about that brain damage thing; there is a wiring misconnect there that affects day-to-day operations. And I would never medicate that away because in a way it defines me as human: unique in my insanity. Mundanity is overrated.

The curtain opens on an unseasonably warm Sunday. Like a dunce, I put on a fleece jacket because in my mind this helps hide the parts of me that I'm uneasy with. Off I go to a Slumberland furniture store, which--get this--is staffed entirely by people who couldn't making it selling used cars. Mean, maybe, but honest. A helpful Rick (is there any other kind?) offers to show me the bed frame section of the store after I make up an excuse for needing one, as the truth of the event would make it difficult for me to maintain face. I'm the only person who thinks like this. She's called the Iron Lady, or at least she is to me, when I introduce a woman obtainable only in my fantasies to her; the brown metal gleams with a grim urgency as the crossbars meet at Escherian angles. My bed is my playground, my fortress, my puzzle box. Together we will solve the mysteries of the universe, and the only reason she acquiesces to my offer is the Lady. Firm. Unbending. Comfortable.

Our Dark Lady comes with a steep price: my self-respect for knowing all to well that I'm doing this not for myself, but for another. Also, it's 130 dollars.

Until an asteroid,
Adam