Luke follows up yesterday's post with the Christmas search results from a past life. Paired with a dope vintage ad for Jim Beam to warm us up to the whiskey of the season. Enjoy! #wirehousedaily
Part 2 of 2
Sis December 2008
(See Previous Post for background and SIS explanation, but this is a journal entry from 2008)
In ways I feel like ________. Not in the deep-dark circles under eyes and long walks way. But each day, teaching students how to be human I feel like my own humanness is pissing out of me. Like every day I explain how to read a clock or shut a door properly, I decay.
A gray hair with no story shoots out the left side of my head. I am slowly wasting away.
Maybe it’s selfishness or doubt. I don’t know. But I hope that grad-school is on the horizon. At the least it’ll be a nice respite from the day-following-day thing I’ve got going now.
I know I complain too much. I desire too much. I do. But someone’s got to. Someone has to be uncomfortable, disgruntled, dissatisfied, right?
December 19, 2008
The Holidays are here. Normally, when someone would say this or that about the holidays I’d get that nice gut feeling. Now I just ignore it. Everything’s changed.
And I hate that.
I hate that going back to my wife’s Christmas party I remember a sweet whiskey conversation I had with a then-stranger, now friend, ______. They didn’t have Coca-Cola at the party. They did have pot, which I didn’t have any of. So, it was whiskey neat for about five hours. I managed fine and remember now, a year later, what we talked about, he and I. We leaned into the two posts of a sliding glass door that led not to a deck or porch or whatever, but to another bedroom. A converted porch place like so many houses here. We drank whiskey and ____ talked about God. He knew T and I were Christians (at the time). I probably drank as much, if not more, than anyone else.
He was excited about the opportunity to be a Light—cap L. I hadn’t thought about things that way in a while. _____ knew the _______ owner pretty well. I think they’d made out a couple of times. I suppose a guy like ______—nice-looking, life pretty much together, well-dressed and well-spoken—is somewhat of a novelty to some girls. For the sake of contrast, that same night I talked to a guy named Chad or something monosyllabic. Chad was dating a cute blond who lived in the house. She had just divorced. He was clearly a rebound. Poor, sweet girl. Chad’s going on about a music festival in Strawberry, California. I’m about a foot above him, awkwardly adjusting my tie in the kitchen mirror, which also looks into the spare room, and trying hard not to focus my gaze on the top of his balding head. He’s telling about how, somehow, he’s managed to make some dough promoting shows in the lonely and hick-thick Sierra Mountains. Imagine that. Whole slew of sad mountain kids letting loose in a barn show with the Avett Brothers. Strawberry is a town of hundreds, literally. My dad used to always say, “You blink and you miss the place.” Strawberry does have a pretty nice hill that’s used during the winter for sledding. You park across the street, pay your ten bucks, and can sled and sled. The hill is at just the right angle. So he and I are talking and I’m managing my tie, trying not to look at the little version of myself reflecting off of his head, and juggling the question of why is his girlfriend, who’s sitting just behind him and I can see in plain view, is dating this schmuck.
______ and I had agree upbringing is critical—that really there was nothing fundamentally different about he and I and a crack addict.
We all are human.
We have our own proclivities, but it’s the grace of God or luck, if that works for you, that keeps me me and not the crack addict.
My parents were together then. Things had been going poorly, but I thought they right themselves like things always had.
______ had brain surgery a couple of months ago. He lives with his parents now and last I heard he’ll never really be able to function wholly again. He had a tumor, the doctors went in, and now I never see him because he needs constant care.
My parents are divorced because my mom cheated on my dad. _______________________ My dad’s neck broke. He has cancer of the bones.
This, all in a year. A sad, ugly year, during which I’ve lost faith in people, and looking forward to things, and have started a real adult job, which I’m realizing I hate and wish I could take pills for.
Someone—famous, I think—said that it’s not the thing itself, but the anticipation of the thing.
Most of my life that’s been true. When I hear or think about that I remember my second grade teacher I had the first part of the year until she had her first kid. Her name was Mrs. Freeman and her husband was the principal. Every Wednesday she would start the class by moving the little felt marker onto Wednesday and saying, “It’s hump day. The week’s half over.” Now an adult, this is my mantra. Wednesday is a sort of saving grace. Thursdays I get coffee at the best café during my prep period. Friday is drinks and lunch at the Brewery.