Write?

Today is already perfect. The stars are aligned. What I mean by that, is that I am sitting in my favorite spot at Nina’s Coffee Café, and between the All-Star morning cast. To my right is a woman who makes amazing drawings with nothing more than a few pencils, some of which have been seen on the walls of this very establishment, and undoubtedly art shows throughout the area. To my left is the man of mystery. His computer is fancy, and he wears headphones when he generates his magic. I can see that he is writing music, and on occasion, I see him rocking back and forth, and I wish I could be the first to hear the symphony he has formed for the world.

And then there’s me. I probably smell like last night’s fire, my hair appears to have been pressed against an immovable object for a solid few hours, and I had some issues inserting my contacts this morning, leaving my eyes with a rouge that would normally betray a stoner’s buzz. I wonder if they have ideas about what I’m in here writing at 7am. It must be important. Like the songsmith, I rock back and forth when I type, as if I were hearing the rhythm in my keying, and keeping the beat with a quiet nod. It comforts me, and although not probable, I think it helps unlock my mind. I used to think that I was swaying to the music until I realized I only moved when I was typing, and that my rocking did not match the beat. I like to think that I am somehow in the same league as these two morning rivals, but I undoubtedly have half a lifetime to catch up.

Writing has been my therapist for over two years now. I have been able to tell you people anything and everything that has come to mind, and all the while I’ve been healing inside. I don’t do this to entertain you, gain popularity, or showboat my criminal career. I do this to help me, and others like me, get through the daily grind that is life after devastation. I find that it has been so therapeutic, that I want to impart on others the benefits of writing our wrongs, and telling the world our story. In the rooms of recovery are thousands, no, millions of stories just like mine or better (worse). Not everybody can write, and my early work was spotty at best, but I would like to help others get their message heard. A few in recovery have stated that they would like to try their hand at writing, but only one has followed through, with a little encouragement. You know who you are, and I can’t wait to see what you’re capable of.

On a completely unrelated note, last night we threw a little bonfire to celebrate, uh, Saturday. We don’t just burn wood at our fires, we burn all sorts of shit from the basement that has been collecting mold and mildew, all possibly from previous tenants, and some likely from the deceased home owner. The house is now owned by the brother of the departed, we aren’t squatting. Anywho, we burned several hundred glow sticks which are absolutely amazing when heat-activated, along with half a dozen chairs, a box-spring, and several bags of clothing. I went into the dungeon-like basement one time to see if I could find anything to burn and I found a bag that looked quite flammable. I announced to the crowd that I had found a mystery bag, and promptly threw it in the fire. At that same moment, my roommate cocked his curious head in the direction of said fire-bag and announced that it was actually a part of his winter wardrobe, then frantically kicked it out of the flames and began pulling smoldering sweaters from the seared, and smoldering bag. There was a cashmere sweater that did not make it out alive. Everybody but him seemed to think the situation rather humorous, but he lightened up in the end and we enjoyed the rest of the night. Lesson learned. What lesson? Don’t let me into your basement if there’s a fire nearby.

The Vincident

I’ve got nothing. I have started a few sentences, backed up, and started over again several times. Normally when this happens, the result is a very well received post that came from somewhere I can’t figure out yet how to consistently access. So, I will ramble on until something clicks, and I can move forward one paragraph at a time.

And here we go: The Vincident.

Many years ago, when I had just been dragged out of the meth world for the first time and moved my few belongings to the small town of Fountain, MN, I had a particularly busy night. I was taken out for a night of drinking in the town of Lanesboro with a few people I had just met, and that I needed to impress with my inability to control my behavior while drinking.

Flash forward, after a substantial buzz had been applied directly to my brain, it was time to go. I was under the impression that I was leaving with the people that I had come with. I was wrong. One of them did look like one person I had arrived with, but that was the extent of it. I was ready to keep drinking, so when we pulled into a place that was described as a learning center, I was confused.

It was dark all around save for a few lights on in buildings. They looked like cabins, and probably were. We all walked toward one well-lit cabin and entered. This is when I was brought to what I might call a dayroom, and told I could sleep there. No, no. This did not compute. “No, I want to keep drinking!” I thought we were there to party. My suggestion was dismissed, and off everybody went to sleep. Shitty.

I sat for a while. There was no T.V., or any other form pf modern entertainment for me to use, so I decided to go for a walk. Now, here’s where I start telling the story from the point of view of what society would call the “victims.” I went to a laundry room and promptly dumped out all the detergent I could find. They said that it looked like I spun around letting it fly all over the walls. Next, (the actual chain of events remains a mystery as there is no footage on tape, or in my mind.) I found a defibrillator which I may or may not have used to discover electricity, and which may have been found deep in the woods years later.

Next, and I vaguely remember bits of this part but maybe only because I have heard the story so many times, I found a classroom that was full of beautiful, shiny instruments, and I took several of them outside and lined them up for reasons unknown. I think there was a plan going in my head, but nothing clicks now.

I walked around the campus of Eagle Bluff Environmental Learning Center for about an hour causing general destruction and chaos. For a while I was going room-to-room, possibly looking for the people I had come with to see if maybe they had some more booze that they were hiding. Eventually, I had tried opening one door for the third time, and somebody became suspicious and came out to confront me.  He summoned another who came out of his room with a stick. This is when I “woke up.” Although the memories aren’t clear, I recall making up a story about how some people had driven me here and abandoned me, which was along the lines of truth. We were in a building where there was no visible eVIdeNCE of my destruction, so they bought it, but they still called the cops.

When the officer arrived, I explained again my story of how people tricked me into coming here and then left. The officer and the gentlemen all agreed that it seemed like some sort of prank, and we all decided no harm had been done, and I was given a ride back to fountain by the officer. Finally, I slept.

Early the next morning I received a call from the cop who had kindly driven me home the night before, and asked if he could come ask me a few questions. I said okay, and shortly after, three cruisers pulled into the driveway. Uh-oh. He asked strange things like, “Where’s the defibrillator, and what were you going to do with thousands of dollars of musical equipment, and did I make a mess in a laundry room.” Of course, I played dumb, because when you do that, you don’t incriminate yourself.

There was nothing the officer could do at that point but walk out of the house and tell the other guys that my lips were sealed. There was no evidence that I was the one who perpetrated the crime, and no further visits from law enforcement occurred. But for many in the Fillmore County area, the event will forever be referred to as The Vincident.

Focus

Good morning from A.M.G. Laminating world headquarters here in St. Paul. My head is a little foggy this morning due to a late night courtesy of the Chicago Cubs, who I happened to be rooting for. It was an exciting game seven that went into extra innings, and finally, after 108 years,  they won the big show. Congratulations to them. Sadly, that means that today is the longest possible time until more baseball, and I really don't care for other sports.

Last week at my homegroup, I volunteered to speak in front of everybody this week on step 9. For those of you who don't know, this is the step where we make amends. I'm absolutely terrified of speaking in front of people. My anxiety flares, my throat tenses, and my blood boils. I found last night that all of the thoughts I had were gone and I rambled incoherently about what, I do not know. Of course, that's not true, but that is how I saw it at the time. I remember when I sat down afterwards, I started to be able to hear again, and everybody was clapping. That's not a big deal, We clap for everything.

I'm pretty critical of people when they speak on the steps, and it was no different for myself. Fortunately for me, I was more focused on not throwing up, and maintaining my equilibrium as I paced back and forth through the halls and rooms of the Uptown House, all of which were full beyond capacity. I did choke on a few words, but recovered. I mimicked the abilities of an octopus by turning a deep red, especially in my face, but other than that I think it went well.

Now, it's one thing to preach the teachings of the Big Book, but entirely different to actually live it. This is where I, and many of my fellows in recovery sometimes have trouble. This is a program of rigorous honesty, so I must divulge to you that I have been slacking in my recovery work as of late. Working two jobs has taken up more of my time than usual, and I haven't met with my sponsor or made an attempt at making an amend for over a month. I noticed a pattern emerging and I told my sponsor than I needed to meet with him this weekend, so, that's settled. It's easy to become complacent and to lose focus. It's easy to stop working hard on my life as it has become, and revert to old thoughts and behavior. And with that can be only one outcome: my certain inevitable slow death. This is why I write; I need to check myself every now and then. I was out enjoying my new freedom and if only for a moment lost track of why I had it.

Am I on the verge of going out to the bar and having some "fun" at the expense of society? Nah, I'm still pretty well immersed in recovery which is how I was able to take notice, but more importantly take action. I can still picture in my mind's eye the destruction I have caused, and will cause again if I give myself the opportunity to do so.

Now I digress. It's the half-way point of my day here at the laminating factory, and I am thoroughly bored. I don't get to write while I am operating a machine, but I get to think about what to write as my machine drones on. So that's what I'm doing at work today; thinking about anything other than laminating paper.


Time for lunch, gotta go.

Shitty

Last night I had the pleasure of dining out with my mother before she takes off on yet another voyage out of this country, just in time to not have to vote. I don’t know that that is a specific reason for her exodus, but I have some suspicion. She has the ability and the means to leave home for travel quite often, something I hope for myself someday.

She suggested a little place called Mai Village on the corners of Western and University in St. Paul. I had never heard of it, but apparently, it was the place to be before the light rail. I left the Xcel Center after working the 8-4 prep shift and walked to the Science Museum ramp where I park my car, and headed that way.

We met in the parking lot after I circled the block a second time after missing my turn, and we discovered that Mai Village was closed for Halloween. It’s not uncommon to find an Asian restaurant on University, so with a simple 90 degree turn of our heads, we located another, and walked over.

Little Szechuan Hot Pot is much more appealing on the inside than on the out. We walked in and saw one table seated and eating which appeared to be made up of all employees. We were greeted by a Mexican man who tried to explain to us a menu written in Chinese. We glanced at each other; we did not understand. There was an all-you-can-eat option as well as an a-la-carte menu. We were given some time to peruse the two menus which were equally difficult to understand, and we waited for the Mexican to come take our Chinese order in English. We opted for the all-you-can-eat option because we are, well, American, and because we couldn’t order from both menus.

We got busy circling familiar words on the paper carte du jour and when the waiter returned, he noted that we had not filled out the type of soup base that we wanted. He explained in broken English what the broken English translated from Chinese on the menu said, and we reluctantly agreed on a level one heat, beef flavor. I think. We may have ordered giraffe soup.

So quickly our hot-pot was brought to the table and put on the center-of-the-table burner which the waiter explained and we turned on. Almost immediately the rest of the food came out, which we could not cook until the pot boiled. We waited. We waited…..

The pot started to bubble. It looked like a wicked brew of chilies, oils, and stock. It literally looked like it was going to kill us. We ordered a plethora of foods to dip including beef, lamb, pork belly, stupid fake crab meat, udon noodles, winter melon, Japanese pumpkin, seaweed, and so much more.

I put in a few slices of beef and lamb and took them out in about two seconds. It was sliced thinly, so it didn’t need much cooking. The flavor was intense, the heat was blistering, and the spice was mouth-fucking. My overall love for all food overrode my intolerance for heat (temp) and I was in heaven. I sampled a few more items, varying the cooking times based upon the ingredient. Japanese pumpkin is something you surely must try someday, it was delectable. My little octopi curled up and swam to the top to tell me they were ready to eat, and I obliged their desire to feed me.

The udon noodles are what started the decline. They came in brick form, frozen, so they needed to soak for a few minutes, until the concoction started to bubble again. I tried desperately to get them out with the slotted ladle—the only other tools on the table other than our chopsticks—which took me more time than I cared for. When I finally wrestled a fair portion on to my waiting plate, I made the mistake of shoveling a chopstick’s full into my mouth. The burn was the first feeling. I gasped which took the spice straight to my lungs which made me cough the noodles out. This was all followed by a series of choking maneuvers I haven’t performed since I nearly drowned in the Cayman Islands. I was now in a bind; my tongue was scorched, and the peppered brew had now made me tear-up, and there was only one napkin at my disposal.

Why do these places only give you one napkin? Well, my mom saved the day and brought over a stack and I blew my nose like I was suffering from a terrible cold. I needed to act, but I waited for my noodles to cool down first. Every noodle was the most slippery little son of a bitch I’d ever encountered and it took me a solid 15 minutes to wolf-down a few bites. My mouth was on fire, and I could feel a storm fermenting inside me. We both agreed that we had done enough damage to our personal buffet, and we waited patiently for our waiter to attend, but he was busy ten feet away playing on his smart phone. I had to stand up after sever verbal attempts to attract his attention, including the old fake cough. Finally, we paid and exited.

We said our goodbye’s and I got in my car and drove away. That’s when the fermentation process was concluded, and a force I hadn’t felt since my bout with Salmonella overcame me: I needed to shit right now. Of course, this happens every now and then in life; you’re as far away from a bathroom as you can be, and it’s rush hour traffic. Oh, I also decided to rename rush hour. It’s now called stupid idiot hour, full of jerks. I missed every opportunity to make a green light, and the pressure behind the wall (my anus) was mounting. At a stoplight about two miles from my house, the first knock came. I had to arch my back and contort every muscle in my body to focus on keeping the slurry inside. Sphincter-1, God-0. Round two came shortly after, this time while driving. I realized then that I may have to make the decision to shit in my pants, or on the side of the road. I again contorted my body in a fashion that, if somebody had looked through my window at that moment, I may have appeared to resemble Stephen Hawking. I was no longer in control of anything but my butt. The second wave passed, and slowly faded back to an acceptable level. Twice more before I made it home, I thought I would have a story that I would never tell, but alas, I made it home, and made it upstairs for the final solution.

I don’t need to get into any more graphic details but if you’ve been there, you know my pain. I went well over my allotted number of words for this post, but I thought it was necessary, and I hope you felt it.

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