Stripped

Photo by Kevin Basted. Source: Flickr.com

…the light turned red. The twilight moon beckoned, and uncertainty shadowed the space I occupied. The vagueness of crepuscular love finds me scrambling to resuscitate, to darken the lines from number to number, to repaint the masterpiece, for even Jesus questioned, for one fleeting, bleeding instant, absolute commitment. Who am I?

ChickyBabe recently wrote of a Record of Purchase. Her post provoked me, moved me to comment. I love the phrase "record of purchase" as applied to memory. Often, memory remains as our only record of spent time. Our receipt, acknowledging our entrance into the binding contract with time. Our medium of exchange, time. Our product options, virtually unlimited. People, hobbies, religion, career, frivolity, education, and on and on. Given a finite amount of time to spend and no substantive way to earn more, every purchase brings us closer to bankruptcy. However, time well spent brings wealth beyond measure. When a wise spender is bankrupt of time, many other accounts are bursting at the seams. How true this wealth. How incredibly more worthy of being earned.

Youth revels freely amid the absence of the abstract. The time account overflows with tomorrows unlimited. Poor choices and spendthrift ways are like pennies to the Trumps and Gates. Age brings realization, and from intimations of immortality we slide seamlessly into realizations of mortality. We begin to see the gates. We want the trump card we know is not in the deck. Rearview mirrors are useful when driving, dangerous when living. Missions and goals and dreams and account balances receive greater attention. Life insurance blankets the worry and fills the gaps between choices. Youth itself becomes abstract. Death is real.

I hold a photograph of a girl. The photo was taken when she was twelve. How our purchases would change our lives could not have been known when the camera’s flash blinded me that day. I have squeezed more blood out of certain rocks of time than one could ever imagine. I also have tumbled minutes and hours into the pit like dice, willing to gamble on tomorrow. Not always a sure bet. She lives a life changed markedly by my expenditures. I live a life marked by hers. We move through this Walmart life with larger carts, more empty now, less willingness to fill them simply because we can, more willingness to shop for meaning. Nonrefundable is reality. Customer service is a line of malcontents being ushered out the backdoor. The records of purchases made with her and for her, they are many, and they are framed and well-lit. Nonrefundable, yes. The thought is unthinkable, though. Long-term value is uncertain, for we have inflated our portfolios with penny stocks and junk bonds. Speculative at best. Time to investigate adjusting the portfolios, recalculating the ratios, changing the allocations.

Time past cannot be reinvested. Present time costs more than past time. Future time is priceless, with the most uncertainty. However, with wisdom and thrift, with greatly improved management skill and sense of priority, present time, if invested properly, can serve staggeringly well as the best kind of reinvestment. And… if there is shown clearly a willingness to throw all future time into the fund, then the value goes through the roof - to the moon, as it were.

Memory is its own record of purchase, and I realize I have enjoyed most of my shopping, whether done of mere impulse or with purpose. I also realize that my portfolio needs to be more wisely allocated. I think of this and begin to plan as the light turns green.

When I was five, I walked down the aisle, carrying the rings that would signify that my favorite aunt, my most beautiful "girlfriend" and confidant, the one who would steal me away from Sunday school and take me to the store for candy, was no longer "mine." I didn’t stumble but, instead, walked proudly, oblivious to how absent she would become.

When I was nine, I walked into the lawyer’s office and told my dad not to worry, that I would live with mom until I was fourteen, and then I would live with him until I was eighteen. It seemed extremely equitable to me, about four and a half years each.

When I was eleven, I ran away from home. I left at 4:00 in the afternoon, before mom got home, and was found down by the river aroud 10:00 that night. I learned to run away from home in my mind after that.

When I was thirteen, I walked around the block with mom, answering questions she had about decisions which lay before her. I remember telling her to not sign the papers that dad wanted her to sign. I told her she would not see any more child support if she signed them. She signed them anyway. She didn’t get anymore money, but dad spent a few nights in jail several times.

When I was fourteen, I stumbled home at 1:30 in the morning, severely violating my 11:00 curfew. We had recently moved to Fort Lauderdale, and I had gotten high for the first time. I am unsure how I made it home, considering I do not remember anything between the moment two girls undressed me in the front yard of Robby’s house and the moment I got out of the shower and saw a Reader’s Digest on my pillow, opened to an article on marijuana.

When I was fifteen, I stood on my feet for hours on end, washing dishes at Po’ Folks restaurant. I was trying to make money so that I could take my girlfriend to the best restaurant in town - it wasn’t Po’ Folks.

When I was sixteen, I walked on stage in Greenville, South Carolina, playing keyboards for a band I had recently joined. I caught that virus, and I still have it.

When I was eighteen, I walked down the aisle to receive my high school diploma. I felt as though everything worthwhile that I had learned had been taught in places other than school.

When I was nineteen, I walked out of the university, throwing away a scholarship and much more because mom made me live at home and because the band was a hell of a lot more fun.

When I was twenty-one, I walked back into another college in another state. I had a different plan, and I decided to major in classical piano performance.

When I was twenty-three, I decided to marry someone who didn’t appeal to me (almost word-for-word a Bob Dylan lyric).

When I was twenty-nine, I walked around the delivery room holding my first son.

When I was thirty, I walked out of the courtroom, single, happy, and ready to move on.

I have walked in thirty-two states. I walked to and from work for months, waiting until I could afford a car. I ran from the cops more times than I care to admit. I walked before the Supreme Court and raised my right hand to get sworn into the Bar Association. I walked around carrying several more kids. I walked into bedrooms and out of them. I walked into lives and out of them. I walked with God, and I ran with the devil. I danced in the street at 3 in the morning, and I danced at wedding receptions and one funeral. I jumped rope, played hopscotch, kicked ass, kicked footballs, and walked for never-enough-time with my kids. I have walked and ran and strolled and skipped and lumbered through retail jobs and retail shopping excursions, through churches and strip clubs, down dirtroads and Madison Avenue, into courtrooms and into schools. I have walked to the light. I have walked away.

So far, so good. Now, as new days dawn and wisdom falls like scattered, singular flakes of teasing snow, I promise to take better care of you. Most importantly, I promise to direct your steps in a much wiser manner. Feets don’t fail me now.

I removed the alternator from the Jeep the other day, had it rebuilt, and reinstalled it. It was 100 degrees outside. For those of you who are not familiar with humidity, have you ever put your face in the steam of boiling water? Imagine walking outside into that steam. Needless to say, I was drenched. I was also dirty. The back of my shirt was covered in dirt from laying on the ground underneath the Jeep. My head was full of sand. My shorts and shirt had dirt and grease stains on them. My hands were black. Totally black. The picture above does not reflect my hands at their dirtiest. I saved approximately $220 having the alternator rebuilt and doing the rest myself. It was worth it to me. I don’t mind getting dirty.

I love to work in the yard, both on things that must be done and things I simply want done. I get dirty as any five year old boy with a shovel, a water hose, a pile of dirt, and no supervision can get. No problem.

I have a problem, though, with a willingness to get "dirty" doing other things, more important things. If you have been or are in a relationship, you know there will come a time that you have to work in 120 degree, 70 percent humidity weather. You will break a nail. You will stain your clothes, cut yourself, ruin a perfectly fine and beautiful day, get so dirty that it takes days or weeks to remove it all. That is, if you are willing to work on it as you should, you will get dirty. Sure, maybe you will get lucky and never have to get to that point. Get married. Then get back to me.

I try to solve things as amicably as possible. I try that even long after I realize that hard choices must be made by one of us. Stalling is destroying what good things are still there worth preserving. I try to keep the fan off so the shit doesn’t get all over the house, the kid, me, her, the dog, the neighbors, the rest of the family, and CNN and Fox News. Sometimes the fan needs to be on and be on uber-speed. Sometimes you have to trudge through that shit. If you don’t, that pile will grow. I know that. I really do. I have a problem with dealing with it for too long, though. By too long, I mean… a day or two? Maybe? Hey, I am good, evidently, at playing with the dirt, the mud, the hose, and the shovel, and the Hot Wheels…. Let me tell you, I can get some kind of dirty. I have been known to track dirt through the house, so to speak. The dirt from the car, from the yard - I clean that up. The other dirt… that metaphorical soil we must encounter at times…. Maybe it will rain really hard tonight…. Meanwhile, I need to take a shower.

I should not think of you again
unless I can dream
free and clear of heartache
and the next big earthquake

I shouldn’t wake but I do
and I think of you
ever, still, and will
free and clear like the morning train
and I sure would love to see you again

~jericho~