*Once the feeling of isolation settles inside you it seems impossible to become more alone.

This keeps walking Jenna’s mind in circles. It is a fair internal struggle (heightened on this occasion by her environment - she is currently sitting in the cone of directional light emitted by a small reading lamp positioned above the desk in the corner of a large (otherwise dark) enclosed room).

Maybe to someone else there are degrees of isolation. But Jenna is an all or nothing kind of girl. You’re isolated or not. You’re happy or not. You’re ready or you’re not. There is no grey area.

The blue glow of two large TV monitors split into 9 sections each are what keep her from getting lost completely in her own mind. She’s got to keep an eye on the 18 scenes deemed important by the management of The N. Welc Mental Hospital. It’s funny that there has never been something going on in all 18 of the monitors at the same time. It’s been close a few times. Excitedly she would stare at the monitors, seeing all 18 at once, hoping they would all be filled. One night there was something happening on 16 of the 18. Sitting straight up in her chair she hoped, even imagined what it would feel like to have the empty 2 fill.
“Come on – just fucking go to the shower! You smell and you know it. Damn-it. Take a god-damn shower. It’s just down the hall, walk there you lazy bastard…”
She knew they couldn’t hear her (no one could hear her through the bullet-proof glass completely surrounding the monitor room, let alone into the resident’s ward) But the monitor room was conducive to talking aloud. And Jenna was predisposed to talking to her self.

“Make a left, come on. Just lef… nooooo.”

But 16 out of 18 was the closest she has come.

This was emailed to me from a good friend, and it sums it all up quite niclely:

"Do you think that you can find girls less scary by July if we practice really hard???" - referring to me meeting a friend of hers that is comming into town.

*Pushing into the wind the bus station soon appears a few blocks away. This bus stations doesn’t usually have a lot of traffic. Not too many people ride the bus anymore. Everyone has a car, or flies. That’s part of the reason why I take the bus. You don’t have to talk with the people on the bus, don’t have to go through metal detectors and don’t have to show 2 forms of ID.

So I get a ticket for the bus that leaves in less than an hour now, and even though I knew there would be a seat for me I always get a bit anxious… wondering what I’d do if they were full. So really, the challenge of this morning is over. Just have to wait here for a few minutes, get on, and I made it. (again)

Waiting around the buss, watching a dad kiss his young son on the forehead before he walks up the steps into the bus. They both have done this before. Little Billy must be going back to his mom, after the obligatory weekend with dad. Maybe I’ll get to meet Billy’s mom, on the other end.

And as Billy disappears into the bus it seems like time to do the same; so up the steps I plod. (only holding onto a small day pack that breaks off my main pack) A little further down the aisle a passing glance allows me to enjoy Billy’s love for his dad. He’s already at a window near the front pressing his face to the window in a ritualistic goodbye. Smashed nose, lips and forehead ensure that dad will be there next weekend.

I find a seat and slide into the window seat myself. My little pack sitting on my lap, strap twisted around my arm. I recline my unreserved seat and finally drift off to anonymous sleep.

*I don’t have to look into the pocket to know what I’m feeling in there. A little food, some batteries, a book (Don Quijote or how ever you spell it), My lucky rock, and there it is; the pager. Pulling it out I make a quick check of the time and see that no one paged since coffee. Cramming it back in I look back up at the girl. Her name, I decide, must be Madison or maybe Sarah (but spelled Sera; and she’d make sure you knew it). Yes. She must be Sera. And I wonder who put Sera on the wall in here, and where Sera is now.

Remembering the damn bus I twist to my knees, grab a strap of the pack and get on my feet as I swing the thing onto my back. Make one last look around, catch Sera’s eye one more time and begin walking briskly back out the way I came in. Just like a tunnel it gets brighter as I walk toward the fence. The sun is up now, but just doesn’t filter into the alley this early. When I reach the fence the wind catches the left side of my jacket flinging it open. Damn, I forgot about the wind, and the chill. But, I pull the pack off one shoulder and gently lift it up and over the bar. It’s tough to keep it from dropping out of my hands, or ripping my shoulder out of socket, but by now, I don’t have to think about any of those things anymore. Just gently set it on the ground on the other side by balancing the pack on the bar, climbing half-way up the fence and gently lowering it. Once it is down I hurl myself over and heft it back up.

I should be happy to be getting out of this city. Maybe I will be when I actually get on the bus, or when it finally drops me off in the next one. But I’m still in too much of a daze to really feel much of anything. I guess I’m just going through the motions, doing what has to be done.

I remember in 7th grade science class having to answer questions from the back of each chapter... but we had to put the question in the answer. Like "What % of the earth is water?" and we had to answer like "The earth is aproximatley 75% water." not "75%". And it really pissed me off. Fucking pointless. But now that skill has served me well in answering emails. Makes you (the reader) know what I'm talking about, what question I'm referring to, and allows for more complex answers and effective correspondence in general.

*Walking to the corner, the very back corner, I turn and lean up against the brick. A sudden onset of weariness forces me to slide down into the dirt. Just slowly slide down the brick wall, heels making tracks in the dirt below until I’m on the ground. There’s crap all around; a black metal futon frame held together with ductape (cardboard acts as it’s mattress), Several brown paper bags that encase empty bottles of cheap wine, a few wood palates stacked in the other corner, tattered pieces of 2 or 3 old flannel shirts, a fork, a full spool of 3 lb. Test fishing line and a poster nailed into the concrete wall of the building above the wooden palates. That’s the item I find the most disturbing (and most comforting at the same time) about this place. That poster. That black and white photograph. A young blonde woman whos haunting, wide eyes stare past you capturing a moment (a split second) before closing them, bringing her hands up to shield the world from her reality, hiding the tears that silently trace the black stains from the bottom of her eyes to her chin. She’s wearing clothes. A tight long-sleeve stretchy shirt with a white collar, and jeans that seem to be missing a belt. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

I look at her for a while, then lean over to grab the back pack leaning against one of the legs of the futon. I drag it across the ground to me and dig around in the top pocket for my pager.

I felt like an adult for a while today. (actually, felt like I was playing the part of an adult)

AND, it is wierd how a place chenges when you usually go there alone and then someone goes with you there.

*As the fence gets closer I enjoy the symmetry of its diamonds that the metal wires create. And taking a large step I jump, grabbing the top bar of the fence doing a sort of push-up swinging both legs up and over the pole. Landing on the other side in a crouch I get myself back to vertical and hug the wall as I make my way through the alley. There are a few puddles and tons of things that would be nothing except for their identity as fixtures of the alley. A few blocks deeper the buildings grow closer together. Fewer windows too, and the windows that now look out to this place must be in bathrooms; small, frosted glass. Nothing anyone could see out of, or open. Who would want to look into this dark alley anyway. And finally I make it to the back of the alley. To the back where someone 40 years ago, (or 140 years ago, I couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter) the owner of one of the buildings, tried to seal the alley up. A brick wall laid with irregular red bricks and way too much morter rose between the buildings almost 30 feet up. So really it isn’t an alley. It’s an urban cul-de-sac of sorts that feels more like a cave. But there at the back are more things that really would be nothing. Except they are here, and so they are forced to be something. And yes, my pack.

MAYBE: Success is not only being able to take time off from "work" for something (someone) important in life, but having something (someone) important to take time off for.

*Yes, the wind is still there. Still blowing. Plodding along lost in a dream like, sleep deficient daze a few pieces of brown garbage blows past, startling me. Fuck. That feeling again. That feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you are walking down a flight of stairs and you miss a step. Not falling, but miss a step, stumble and continue decending. But that leap in your stomach. Three blocks later it looks like the corner I need to turn at. Is it? Yes, there is the fence and just past the chain links the alley that leads to my pack. It gets so heavy. I remember the first few trips… so afraid someone would steal the pack I would carry it around everywhere. Wouldn’t leave anything in the hotel, nothing. Carry that heavy thing in crowds, on busses and trains. Through shopping malls, street markets and into temples. At the end of each day I would have to tend to the cuts on my hips from the pack’s straps rubbing, digging into my flesh. If I was fashion conscious and tucked in my shirts you could have seen the blood stains on the waste of my pants. But I never gave into fashion. I don’t think people would recognize me in a suit. Come to think of it, I think there is a suit at home, buried in a plastic thing to protect it from dust. It must burried in the back, behind the pants that don’t fit anymore. But so no one knew how heavy that thing is. No one saw the blood or the bruises. And that was ok with me. A little secrete I could keep to myself. Knowing I was tough, I could take it. Every time I felt it digging in, cutting a piece of flesh just above, or below, the mark yestrday I smiled (and still do) because I was just getting tougher. Tougher for this, maybe. But just tougher for whatever the future would throw at me.

Can I say yes even though that's not correct? Can I even respond to the question when I have no fucking idea what the answer is? I should be happy that they even asked the question at all.

Fuck! I can put those things in that thing

God Damnit- I want to have "seen the things".
God Damnit- I need to have fucking breakfast networking meetings.
God Damnit- I must keep pushing.

A few quotes from Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel I wanted to put here:

•But then the dullness of everyday life kicks in, and I get crazy.
•There was no such thing as salvation without a catch.
•Because the happier I allowed myself to be now, the more miserable I would be later.
•I am always so far from free because I am always enslaved to the caprices of my own mind or the whims of what the world has to offer.

Oh yea!! And, I look to someone like a construction worker. I'm going to start wistling at girls and throwing cinder blocks off roofs. fuck it.

I already told you I'm a dork.

Last night was pleasant. Content. Rare. No productive tendencies, just relaxing... good break from reality. (glad that's out of my system)

*One last sip of the slightly bitter cafe coffee.
What is it about coffee that makes you feel content, warm and even peaceful? It can’t be just the caffeine because a cup of tea or energy drink just makes me a little jittery. But a big cup of coffee is soothing. Makes you take a deep breath (not a doctor and stethoscope breath, just enough to be significant), hold it for a second, and exhale slowly. And, for that instant – that instant – life is bearable. Pleasant even.
So with that last sip, in that instant of pleasantness an old woman walks along the sidewalk below tugging the zipper of her red corduroy jacket all the way up to the dangling jowls hanging under her neck. She must be walking fast because that’s all I get to see of her before she rounds the corner.
$5 on the table and I take the cue from the woman and zip my (far too light for the chill outside) jacket. It’s a great jacket though. One of my favorites. A great wicking liner that keeps you dry, and a slick waterproof shell that gets more and more crinkly the colder it gets outside.

The bell above the door dings and the cool air gets sucked inside the café. The waitress didn’t hear the bell but felt the chill and looked up, saw the money on the table and looked back at whatever she was doing. I push outside, check the time and feel the pleasantness of the coffee fading… It’s 5:17am. The bus leaves at 7. I think I know where the bus station is, I know where my pack is, so, hesitantly I make a left. Walking the opposite direction of the lady (the only other person I’ve seen on the street since last night) I keep my head down and don’t look back. The wind must be behind me now because it seems to have disappeared. The sky is grey/blue now, hiding Orion for another 15 hours.

But I’m not. She’s not here, I’m not holding her hand, and no one knows what happened. But I’m here at the damn café drinking coffee trying to keep my eyes from closing; the only thing I really want to do. They close, I’m out. Because I still have things to do, a schedule to follow and promises to keep. Where her hand should have been I grip the lighter. Slowly turning it over and over, seeing the inscription roughly engraved on it’s flat black back side. Seeing it, but not reading it. Seeing the worn wheel you flick to spark the fire. How does it still spin, sending sparks to burn the gas soaked string resting near-by. how is it not rusted – that wheel and fire creating system are all made of metal…maybe too soon for rust to develop. And yes, I know what it says, those same damn words have been there since the beginning. Those same words, have I seen them before, yes, will I see them anywhere else, probably, but do I like them? Maybe I don’t anymore. Too damn early (or late) to think about anything other than the next 2 hours.

I would like to be sitting at a booth in a quiet cafe, so early in the morning that the sun isn't quite up yet... just a chilly, cool blue glow. Sitting at a table next to a large window looking down over the street. Sitting at a table across from her not saying anything. Not needing to say anything. Holding the coffee cup to my lips with one hand, hers with the other - knowing that she too is thinking about the time behind us, and what has to happen in the next 24 hours...

Over the weekend (yes, I know traditional weekend reference; due to being with people with normal jobs) I went to the BALLET. yes. AND, I really enjoyed 2/3 of it. Great lighting, gesture... who would have thought.