After: "Andy Petty's Summer" (Andy Petty Chapter 1/1)

After my trip I've started a major round of revisions. I started typing in my manuscript notations/corrections and spending several days on each chapter after going over the notes in my Horseshit notebook. The first result of this, obviously, would be chapter one: "Andy Petty's Summer; the Idylls of Child." I thought this chapter was in decent shape before, but I think I really fixed it up. It probably needs a few more adjustments, but I got a flow I was really happy with and think I added a lot of focus. I've posted the last draft, so I won't recap much. I'll probably do a before and after thing for the other chapters, too. So here's the new draft of chapter one:

“Andy Petty’s Summer; the Idylls of Child”

Andy Petty’s last day of summer began and ended with dead cats, in Horsehit, PA. The first was forgotten in a wooden shed. It sat still and looked alive for who knows how long.

He took his old Huffy from his aunt’s trailer and rode about a mile. Aunt Debbie lived outside of town, north of Selinsgrove and under the curled billboards and mountain apostrophe. She earned $18,000 a year because she made it through high school. She didn’t buy her anti-depressant medication so she could play the lottery. Both she and Andy lived alone. They weren’t sure if they were happy with each other, so took the family route and pretended to get along.

He could feel it as he drove by. The voices of the germs between its hairs and on its flesh whipped through the corn rows. And in the center of the field, slightly to the left, sat the shed which looked like a tandem outhouse. The hexes on the side made him think of the room in the trailer where his cat slept. The one with Aunt Debbie’s old things he didn’t recognize.

But as the cat called—the draw of somewhere from this Dinty Moore earth crust—he rode his bike and thought about a song a friend played for him at school. He couldn’t remember the title. He whistled something else. A girl he jerked off to earlier came back into his head. The corn looked so green against the butter, Redenbacher sky that he thought of her teal eyes and wheat-shining hair. Her little freckles burned, but didn’t pop. He would never talk to her. He couldn’t figure out why he would never talk to her. She was Beth Cuomo.

He hid his bike so no one would take it. Bikes in the country were like sculpture. They decorated roadsides. They disappeared like lost children and turned up on foreign corners later, used and worn out. Most were Amish.

The corn was wet-spider-leg plantation. Andy was five-foot-five and the sharp green leaves scraped against his cheeks’ acne. Aunt Debbie was supposed to order new lotion this month. Andy kept going further into the sunset dust, Goodwill Nikes scraping the pressed dirt from the tractor treads as he kicked the molded rows of earth apart. His socks browned while he ran fast through the arms of the earth. Finally he came to the shack and tried looking through the cracks. He knew the yield shape, traffic light, and 24-hour photo. But, the hex signs here and along the highway…they were mixed in with a fashion of 70s sequined talismans for places like the Showboat, down south on the river. Near the sex dungeon-style cobblestone and prison cleft on the hill surrounded by the mountains. He never knew how to feel when he saw part of his history.

In the distance he could hear a tractor turning over dirt. He could hear the cars on the highway, but they were so common that he hardly noticed the roads anymore. They were covered by rolling breasts of corn and brown creeks with mosquito bites, where steeples bothered the sky and crosses eclipsed masts.

Insects buzzed inside. The cat sat on the floor. Nothing moved. He stared. He wanted to pet it. It made him sick. He needed his zolpidem. Everything felt razed and he couldn’t open the door no matter how long he touched the knob. He didn’t like to see dead things, but he wondered why it was there.

The ice cream place near town was still open and Andy thought he could go see who was around even though he didn’t have any money and didn’t have any friends. Or maybe he’d try the pool. He needed something to brush the dead whiskers out of his head.

Drew and John hung out by the pool, so Andy rode by. They’d pushed his head down the toilet so many times, sold his clothes, threw his shoes on the roof at adult swim. He wanted to see people eating ice cream. If Aunt Debbie wasn’t watching her soaps he might have asked her for money. She didn’t have money because he didn’t have acne cream. The acne spread.

Andy skidded into the stone parking lot next to the Tire Iron, where Jed and Trevor decorated the ice cream stand. His bike was shit and they looked at him funny. Jed spoke.

“We should get an apartment. I can’t be living at home this time next year.”

“I gotta get a better job,” Trevor said. His jacket flapped and it was windy.

“I know Cheeve, he ain’t gonna be in on it. Too wrapped up in Emily Tokars. No money’s coming out of that. But this time next year, we get an apartment. We have to.”

“I hate this town,” Trevor said.

“You see that thing they’re building downtown?”

“What?”

“The vacant lot. I wonder what they’re building. I hope it’s apartments.”

“Hey guys.”

“Hey Andy,” they said, looking away.

Jed always spoke. “I just don’t wanna die here like this. I need to graduate.”

“I need something to smoke,” Trevor said.

Jed coughed, waiting for Andy to leave, until: “So, Andy, ‘sup with you?”

“Nothing guys. Just riding around. Wanted to do something and came over.”

“We’re going to the park if you wanna come. This place is dead.”

“Yeah, sure. What’s going on there?”

“Who cares? It’s the park. It’s the end of summer. What do you want?”

“Okay.”

Andy, Jed, and Trevor went to the north parking lot and tied their bikes to a tree. Sometimes when Andy parked his bike somewhere and forgot his lock he pissed on the seat to keep people from stealing it, but not when other people were around. He rubbed his hands in sweat from the ride up.

They walked alongside a macadam path without walking on it. Their feet never left the dark grass except to rise forward, or when Trevor jumped on a thick tree stump as wide as their overweight bus driver Carl Schroeder. They all sat down at a busted picnic table stenciled with razor blade. Most kids in Horseshit carried razor blades, either to use on themselves or public property. They were cheap.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Jed said, tossing an acorn at two ducks.

Trevor hummed something.

And they didn’t say anything for a while.

Jed drummed on the table. “Beth Cuomo’s been developing nicely.”

“Haha, yeah man. Nice jugs. Like the pears at that Amish stand outside town. I’d be ‘eatin’ ‘em and eatin’ ‘em and eatin’ ‘em.’”

They liked quoting that sign. “You like ‘em Andy?”

“They’re nice.”

“‘Nice,’” Jed laughed. “You’re stupid.” He kept laughing to himself, in breaths, and flicked a cigarette away before saying, “What would you do, Andy, if she came to you and let you do anything to her? And don’t be easy about it. Let’s see if someone in this town has an imagination, man.”

Andy thought for a moment, looking toward the sun-slip as it hurt his eyes and made them aching muscles. And he could feel the guys’ eyes bleeding all over him, their mouths open and wet for answers, their hands dangling over his face waiting to grab his words.

“Andy . . .”

“I’d fuck her.”

“And?” Jed said.

“What the fuck?” Trevor laughed. “Oh Jesus.”

Andy’s voice was small. He spoke like rattling wheat, awkward trembles and scratching. Irritating.

“Get in line,” Jed said, turning back to Trevor. “Wouldn’t she be great in a gang bang? Not that I could share her.” He lit his high beams, and felt high.

“Who cares, if you’re not dating her. You don’t care about chicks in this town anymore’n I do.”

“Shit, I need to get out more. You’re finally right about something. Someone almost understands me. And I hate stuck up girls like her, who think they won’t be stuck here.” They sat quietly, the other two wishing they had something to smoke and Andy wishing he could just burst. “I really wish we had my dad’s porn here,” Jed whispered. He pulled out a small CD player, like the boom box sitting in the corner behind the counter in the Rinky Dink. They took turns listening together. A cat ran out from behind the open amphitheater. It prowled behind a tree, peed, stalked, fading. A bird landed on the branches in the swarm above them, shitting across the azaleas. They let the radio play, and it played screaming, and it felt authentic.

Jed walked to the amphitheater.

Trevor trotted along with his shoelace falling apart. “What are we doing?” he said.

“Checking out the cat’s place. I don’t know. Why don’t you think of something to do?” They came to the small opening, where Jed stopped. They heard kittens inside, too small to see because of the sundown. “Where’s a stick?” Jed said. He found one a few feet away while Trevor smiled and Andy waited to see what Jed would do, already feeling it. He looked quickly behind them. Silent houses and old furniture stores. Couples walked by but no one noticed what they were doing, despite the wet feeling of heat over Andy’s back and face. He tried to hide his face.

“Poke around in here,” Jed said, handing the stick over to Andy. “I can’t reach.”

“Why? What are you giving this to me for? I don’t wanna do it. It’s stupid.”

“Make them talk. Come on. The mom’s gone, you pussy, they’re just babies. What’s it gonna do to you? You keep trying to hang with us and don’t want to do anything. You’re giving me a headache. You’re starting to become bad for me, and I’m being as polite as I can. Do you like us?”

“Yeah, it’s just . . .”

“Then do like us. Do you care about anything here? Is anything in this town for you? No, there’s nothing. You make your own shit happen here. That’s what I do. And there’s nothing to do right now. The pool’s closing, we got no money, your bike is shit. What else are you gonna do, Andy?”

Andy bent down and saw partially inside, with his face close. The kittens had patchy light hair that reminded him of pink skin. Or Peg Oleander’s orange afro tease-hive. He used to stare at her cheeks when they had class together. If he had a voice, he’d approach her. They both had skin that looked easy to break. Jed said, “You guys are the most boring gang in the world. You’ll be cleaning my apartment, while I live in it.”

Andy stood without saying anything and poked the stick around. The cats meowed and broke a little. Andy jabbed the stick around, dust splintering, half-dry from the rotting sun. They watched while the boy meekly did his damage. “I’m going home,” Andy said.

“Give me the stick. I’ll do what you pussies can’t.”

Jed etched into the cats the invisible tattoos that filled with blood and acted like the Jed Simp they both knew. Jed Simp couldn’t stop thinking about other people in his life, no matter what he was doing.

“You see? Was it hard? Am I dead? Did I get arrested? Jesus. Let’s get out of here,” Jed said after the cats’ whimpering disappeared. “You’re both so sad. Always going to be stuck in this town, living off your parents. Hoe bag girlfriends and Salvation Army pants.”

“I just really need to go,” Andy said. “My aunt’s a crazy bitch. She’ll take away my bike if I’m not home. And I need it. I can’t afford a car yet.”

“‘S cool. Let’s all get out of here. Nothing happened and we’ll pretend nothing happened.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure, whatever.”

They walked back next to the path, under the blue, pink, white sky turning black. And the bike sat until Jed broke it. He stuffed it full of dents. He took it and beat it, letting the gears loose and bleed all over a tree while shrubs caught the best parts. Then Andy was stranded and had nothing left but spare parts of nothing.

“Hang with us sometime,” Jed called out. “I’ll pick you up.” He and Trevor walked down a little hill where the park boiled up from the sidewalk and headed back for the center of town. The harvest moon broke the cotton and had silver poured on it. And Andy walked a long way home thinking and wondering why this happened whenever he went out. It was hard caring for things, and about things. Maybe the mother would feel sad when she saw her loss, too, when her eyes met the punctured bellies and seam-split eyes. Or maybe she was just programmed by natural mystery to care for her babies because they were small and her own.

Town Cryer

I've written some things here about other people's work, but I don't think I really care about that anymore. It takes time, which I'll have less of soon, and there's no real point. I have enough fun thinking about it on my own and using those thoughts for my own creations. Plus, I hate critics. I'll probably just keep this space for my own experiences and writing.

Also: excuse the formatting on some of the stories. Blogger doesn't work well with Word if you cut and paste.

Before: "Are All These Schools..." (Sulky Peters Chapter 1/8)

Sulky was kind of the first real character I had, and is one of my favorites, but I've had to try to not make her dialog too cute. Any cuteness she has should kind of stem from her awkwardness. She's a self-conscious person. I think I took her name from the Belle and Sebastian song "Sukie in the Graveyard." The bit about writing the Dead Kennedys song was something I did in 11th grade math class. Got in trouble for that one. Just bored, not homicidal. This was another chapter that seemed to come together easily, but when I look at it now I know it needs to be cleaned up. So I'll post the embarrassing earlier version. Chapter two:

“Are All Schools Full of These Colorful Losers?

Hey, are you dead yet? Some days I think this school day isn’t ever gonna end, and you know I find that a lil’ depressing. 2:40 and the clock’s draggin’. My gut’s hungry and legs are jumping in total nerve-mode like I’m hella bored and still wiry. I’m still gettin’ used to school again, this third special day, and it sucks so royally. I press my fingertips across the closed lids. It’s sunny and fucking hot like the sky’s made of fat just dripping down on us. And this global warming’s gotta be the end, right? I think I’m gonna take a nap if I can, but—nah. Argghh. I think I’m gonna—what am I gonna do?

Mrs. Chalkly’s lovely voice crawls across the desks and everyone’s watches like a slug with rancid juice trails, while I’m trying to find some interesting cracks in the wall. What’s the point of dragging out this school thing each day? I mean, sex hours of school? Haha, err . . . six hours. Hell, that’s stupid. I’m so tired I’m gettin’, like, kinda high. The body’s producing weird drugs and stupid juices. Chalkly keeps grinding the chalk. And I have an itch on my thigh that I’d love to work on but Trevor two seats back keeps staring since my pants are half under my ass because of this uncomfortable seat draggin’ ‘em down. Like admiring my ass is going to get you in it. I don’t put my finger in there, so why should I ask for yours? I bet most dicks are the size of a pinky. Y’know, just ‘cause guys talk too much. Pee-pee can’t be all that.

“Yo, Sulky . . .”

I’m so afraid it’s Trevor, but he’s too far back. Turning head as Jed plays “Taps” on my shoulder—he thinks he owns a piece of me too. Just ‘cause we partied a few times, you know. Like all guys think. He forgets that the parties we were at had like a hundred kids—easy. In his Viewfinder it was just us and he thinks I’m the only girl for him, probably ‘cause he hasn’t had his dick in anyone despite the fact that he’s been writing the nastiest diary-type shit in all the boy’s stalls. Under everyone else’s name. Even his handwriting sucks. Probably wishes I was his sex slave. He’d build a mannequin just to say he got some. Also, curiously, is never absent from his gang of boys. For real. Catholic booty breaker, probably.

“You got a pencil?”

“What? Yeah I got a pencil. I’m in school.”

“Yo, for the test today. She said it was a form, right, where you need a pencil. Don’t be queer.”

“Dude, the test isn’t for another three weeks. Pay fucking attention.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? I know—you get squirrelly, Sulky. You told me Lincoln raped his slaves, and that one got marked wrong. You definitely sure? I’m talking about the real truth here.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m in the class, asshole. I have the course schedule.”

“The chapter two test? I’m talking about a specific test. I need to know so I don’t fail. I got a ‘D-,’ Sulky. C’mon. Help me not suck at life. My other friends are useless. I’m depending on you.”

“Oh. Chapter two. That was last week. Teabagger.”

“Bitch. You’re a—”

“Here’s a course schedule.”

I wish I was at home listening to the sound of the walls making babies out of dust. Pennsylvania’s blackhead. I can’t stand this place. Horseshit. You gotta pop to get out. You gotta dig the whigger pants if you want to really survive. This dreary scene named after some old spy. I guess that’s ‘cause no spy would ever want to come here. All you’d find is Hessian’s Ford Trucks and one okay convenience store with a broken slushy machine spillin’ rust. And lots of rednecks with acne on their asses and old faded jeans gone white. Disgustingly rich spoiled bitch kids, nerd hermits, crack kids, meth kids, kids who like whippets and even bio nerds who dig crickets. And I should mention the town has way too many testicles. My two cents.

They really need to build a fuckin’ turnstile here so I can get the hell out.

“Yo.” Another tap and I’m ready for violence.

“Yo, what the fuck, man??” I zip around and really hope he doesn’t care about the bounce in my black tank top. I’d cover up if I didn’t like the summer. September’s the last warm month here if you count 60 degree highs as still summer. We wear mittens for Labor Day.

He whispers: “Hey, calm down, babe. Let me help you unwind those yearning panties. Your ass is crying for help and I think I know why.” Arggh, Cheeve.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“You look stressed, and I can tell that someone who cares about your health is needed. So I spoke up. It must be hard work having tight clothes holding all that beauty.”

“You can bite me.” He gets to see all of my purple lips, straight teeth fresh after the braces are off, new lip ring. I snuck that into school this morning after hiding it during breakfast, in my cereal—then I swallowed it, and hid it in my teeth. Normally I’d hope he’d just notice the new hole, for God’s sake. Now he gets to see everything.

“So are you planning on going, because I hate doing to these things alone and you know how easily I get bored?”

“To what? The homecoming orgy? Oh wait, our school’s too poor for a football team.”

“Haha, no shit. I’m talking about Laura Turner’s thing.”

“Right, yeah. Cute girl, decent jailbait. Not my style.”

“You should come.”

“Eh, how ‘bout no way?”

“Why? You’re too good for drinking, me staring down your shirt, and possibly a whole lot more?”

“I’m not into that shit. Why would I spend my night with a buncha drunk bitches trying to find their reflections in a glass? Especially if they’re trying to screw kids at this school.”

“Hey, I’m just going ‘cause everyone else is going. If I have to spend a night alone, I need at least one person there, and I can’t see that happening. See, I haven’t found the right person at this school yet. So why would I spend my night alone when I could be with some people who are going because they just want something to do?”

“Solid reasoning.”

“I’ve got another indecent proposal for you.”

“Suck a knob.”

“I’ll let you change your mind later,” he says. Cheeve’s an interesting guy. But, not so interesting as he thinks he is. Sometimes I feel like pretending Cheeve doesn’t exist. But he is cute, in his stuck up, derivative, misogynist kind of way.

“God, do you hear that?” Cheeve asks. A kid snores next to him like he’s got a bee hive’s horny queen in his nose. The boy’s not asleep, but he breathes heavy like big kids do. Cheeve starts nailing this kid’s shoulder with his finger. He’s fucking disgusted like when he found out Clinton never went further than the stogie. “Hey. Hey. You.”

“Eh?” The boy turns around slowly like a drunk stag. He was happy staring at Mrs. Chalkboard’s flat pinpoints and 80s shoulder pads. Quite the horny time warp.

“You asleep?”

“No.”

“So why don’t you stop snoring.”

Cheeve gradually leans back and the kid goes on breathing as quietly as he can. But I think it makes it worse, because I can hear his nostrils tremble. His insecurity’s like a fart. Then the dinner bell rings and we get to leave.

“Second thoughts?” Cheeve asks in the hall. I always try to make for the girls’ room after class before I hit my locker. Boys always target you at your locker, but if you spend a lot of time in the bathroom they totally ignore you. It’s genetic. Even a brief trip will get them off your back, because they don’t want to know what goes on in there. They always think it’s some infection or bleeding or sexual crap. They never think that sometimes we gotta take a nice dump or a big leak too. Nothing better than a huge load to knock out the early morning groggies. Especially if it’s late in the day.

“Not exactly. I thought I’d go home and write some poetry. You know, get real depressed in my room and check out what the warts coming out of my uterus have to say. See which one inspires me. There’s a yellow one named Bertha. She’s winning.”

He puts his hand against a locker to block me. To hold me like a tree blocking soil. Somehow he got his jean jacket on already. “You always have something to say to me. Always try to gross me out with dirty jokes like that. I don’t think you’ve even had sex. So what’s wrong with me? I’m just a nice guy, right? I’m just trying to make friends. Repeatedly. Until you say yes.”

“I try not to think about it too much.”

“Oh, but you do. I find notes with your little one-liners on them after class. What were you writing on your desk today? Something to convince me you’re an angry dyke who wears boxers and doesn’t use deodorant? Come on. You shop at Bath and Body Works like every other girl. I don’t care if your mom still cuts your hair or you ride a bike. You’re a fucking chick.”

“‘God told me to skin you alive.’ I was writing a song lyric.”

“Touchy.”

“Hey, feel free to leave me alone, corn-fucker. No one’s forcing you to bother me. I’m only here to amuse myself. I got nine months ‘til college, and I could really give a shit about being here. It’s not my town.”

“Just hang out with me, Sulky. It bothers me that we aren’t closer. You might actually find yourself not missing that bitterness you wear like a cheerleader skirt. We don’t even have to hold hands.”

“No hands—really?”

“No, but we can make out.”

“Get AIDs and die a sickly welfare death.”

“Give me AIDs, Sulky. Then we can have sex without worrying. We’ll be able to focus totally on us. No complications.”

I should like girls, but he’s so extra charming today. I want to hang out with him. He’s too much fun, too much for me to openly like. “That’s really morbid. You should have that checked out.”

“Fine,” he huffs, pouting his lips so that he looks so vulnerable. I love him. I love watching men break down like their muscles do their crying. Oh, it’s sweet, but none of you are tough inside. All of you have something for me to take, and I can be good or bad. “You want to hang, you know where I live. Not that I couldn’t be doing something better, but I’ll give you a chance. ‘Til I get bored.” He walks down the hall and down the stairs. I assume he’s out of the building before I move. I stand there for a moment listening to the janitor come out early—probably trying to get home in time for Jeopardy.

The walk home is sticky and lonely. I didn’t bring my jean jacket to school today because I’m afraid he’ll know I’m copying him. But I still sweat and simmer. Irish skin always does, and black clothing gets hot. I think of his fingers—dry lips—hair—bad jokes—lame taste in music. And his always crush-worthy skin. He’s gorgeous, you know. But, God, I hate boys. I hate everything on this Earth. I hate that there’s trash for me to take out when I get home. When I get to my room I put on the jacket because I feel like sobbing but don’t have the guts. And I don’t have the time. I’m busy waiting for Cheeve to come over, but only because I know he’s waiting for me at his house. The gross feeling that this is a beautiful life. Tonight I’ll settle for masturbating before sleep, and wonder what will happen to us. Every single one of us. Because as much as I hate here, I know I have nowhere else to go yet.

Dream

Another dream where I'm in high school. But this time I get along with people and feel like I'm part of the class. It's my first day that year and I'm going around to all my classes. The class types are probably more like college-level stuff. I have two drama classes for some reason. I wish I could remember more of the dialog. One kid says something about being old enough to be imprisoned I think. But it was a pretty good dream. Usually my sense of displacement in these high school dreams is in intense, but this series seems to have reached its conclusion.

Post-Breakdown Road Trip/New Job

Two days ago I decided to go on a little (actually it was like 9 hours) road trip to Central PA. I just started some time off between jobs and it was necessary. I've always enjoyed thinking time, which is what I use baths for and used to use bike riding for in elementary school and junior high. These are good times to let your mind wander and try to see yourself for who you are. I had to leave my other job because I spent the past two years in a state of shock (I guess you could call it a very gradual nervous breakdown or prolonged anxiety attack), so I was overdue for some deep, deep reflection away from my apartment and in the heart of more natural areas.

This breakdown started when my last girlfriend and I broke up and I started my last job. She and I were very close, but moved way too fast, creating a mountainous honeymoon period and very low breakup. We lived far apart when we dated, so when we met each weekend it was like a little vacation. Our feelings were real--I don't mean to be slight toward the relationship--but I think part of the allure was that we were living in a fantasy when we were together. It was a trip to meet each other, and often we went on road trips together. Everything was a vacation from the families we didn't get along with. When we moved in together (she being from the area I live in now, me moving an hour and a half from home) that kind of ended. She was really jealous and didn't like my writing in privacy, I didn't share her video game interests--we saw that we were doing too much separately, I guess, and couldn't quite understand how we went from such passion and shared experience to this drift. She expected me to help solve all her problems, but I could never go to her for help and she never took the advice she wanted so badly. Even after a year together, we didn't know each other nearly as well as we thought.

After one "fight" where she guiltily insulted me for a while, I began the tailspin. I was living with her and her family for two weeks until she and I could find our own apartment, but I went home alone that weekend to my mom's. On the ride there, while I was stuck in traffic for hours, I developed this pain in my legs. I kind of thought I was getting blood clots, but it ended up being a nervous tic which involved muscle contraction and cutting off blood to a part of my body I kind of liked using a lot. So sex became very painful and impossible. Driving in cars became very painful (so much vibration). In fact, as our relationship deteriorated--we broke up two months after moving in together--and my job took me nowhere, I became so miserable and pessimistic that I was in this pain essentially all day for about two years. I believe now that misery is a choice, but it's not an easy choice to leave. We can find comfort in depression, and I was stuck in that hell for a long time.

After that fight I felt like I had no one, which is why I had the intense physical reaction. I've never been able to go to my parents emotionally, something which still bothers me a lot. They'll buy me things, but they can't open up. I feel like I can't trust them. My dad, the ex(?) alcoholic, and my mom are very afraid of life. They tend to push their insecurities on you. And with my brother in LA, my good friends starting to move around the country, and my girlfriend turning on me, I really felt like what security I had was taken away. I was moving to a place where I only knew this one person, I had to move there for work, and going in it was obvious that everything was falling apart. So I willingly walked into that fire. I forced myself to pretend it was alright, because in my family everyone pretends. My parents pretended their marriage was fine, though I've seen them be affectionate maybe twice. My dad's family pretends he's never had a drinking problem. My dad's family pretends to be okay with my grandmother's bullying, drinking, control, and insults. So I didn't really see another option for myself, until I could grow enough to teach myself a way out. I went with the abuse, and she and I became pretty cruel to each other.

I realize now how deeply insecure she was, which is why she felt the need to belittle me. Not that it was right, but it doesn't bother me anymore. I understand it. At that time, it was just excruciating, and I felt like my life was over. This was the best relationship I had and it completely transformed. I also hated my job and now got to use it to pay off my schooling. I worked hard at the job, but their rules were never stable and after a while it was hard to take the job seriously. I would get in trouble when I excelled and get in trouble when I didn't. It felt like what I did had no real value, and after a while I stopped feeling like anything was real. I just kind of drifted miserably from weekend to weekend, not really enjoying anything. I also developed a drinking problem, until I started getting shakes the next day at work. Then I stopped. By pretending all the time and always expecting a punishment at work or some personal criticism from the girlfriend, I developed a performance anxiety in relation to my total life. I couldn't even look at a billboard without feeling agitated, because I knew a certain reaction was expected of me. When I talked about my job with the girlfriend or her family, they always asked why I wasn't advancing faster, even though I'd just started. And the job had no advancement opportunities. I agreed that it was a bad job, but after having some of that security slip away, it was nice to rely even on that place, as perverse as it sounds. I hated the job, but could count on the money, the same way I still lived with the girlfriend even after we broke up. Funny how we stay dependent on things which are slowly killing us. It's easy, and after a while pain is comforting because it becomes your new normal. Instead of taking it easy and getting more help, I would still try to "force" sex. I'm even amazed now sometimes that my sexual interest has come back, because those were pretty bleak times.

I give a lot of credit to Jung's dream therapy and Aaron Beck's cognitive therapy for saving me. I saw a doctor who gave me medicine for prostatitis at one point, but that wasn't it. I always knew, from instinct, that this was a mental issue. The doctor seemed to suspect the same, though he didn't quite say it. I didn't want to believe it at that point, because I knew a medicinal problem would be easier to fix, but I did persevere. It was the worst few years of my life, but I learned so much about self-respect, fear, and being comfortable from it. Before recently, I'd never really had moments of comfort. Not for long, anyway. I used to have a lot of dreams with people chasing me, and for a while I couldn't even fantasize about sex normally. It would just look weird, awkward, and wouldn't happen, even though it was my fantasy. I felt like the things I'd enjoyed had been stolen from me and started to cut myself off severely from everything around me.

Aside from my psychological experiments, I also used my writing to carry me through. This is one reason why I decided on that road trip. I wanted to head to the area I've been writing about in Horseshit. I wanted to see the real location and the places I love there, while immersing myself in the area for a bit before I begin what I hope are the final major revisions for the book. I even burned some CDs of the period music I listened to when doing the first draft.

My love affair with this region actually began thanks to that girlfriend. We took many road trips around State College when she came to visit. Renovo was our favorite place. I even appropriated their still half-razed, abandoned school for my book. There is something sleeping in these hills. A lack of time, I guess. I always like that sense of displacement, which is why modernity is often boring to me. Few areas are more beautiful than Pennsylvania's dead coal region. This time I wanted to see some new places--blip towns, I call them--and took the turnpike to Route 422, then Route 61 to 147 and 45, which finally brought me to State College. I took 322 and the turnpike back home. I felt like I got to live in the book a bit, perhaps in the same way that Charles Schulz referred to the Peanuts characters as his kids, though I'm not as bitter and spiteful as that guy.

From the weeded train tracks to the collapsing sheds and communal dilapidation, I feel an awe in Central PA usually reserved for sex, certain music, dreams, or a really nice sunset; those rare things that make me feel at ease. State College is the only area I've felt was home to me, and I want to live out there when I can. The locations are not expensive, but the job options are often nil, so that will have to wait for the teaching certification (most likely) or if I could actually put out a successful enough novel. Until then, I'll be driving and dreaming. I missed having a partner, but my jaw was next to the pedals as I crossed the bridge near Sunbury, took in the 60s shop signs (you'll find a local drug store before you see a Rite Aid, though CVS is visible in the region), and dreamed up stories for the local and lonely kids straggling home after school with their old hoodies and broken backpacks.

I made a little pit stop in State College to get food (grocery store!) and check out the campus. I haven't been to Penn State for a year, but it was very therapeutic. A lot of memories with the girlfriend came back, much stronger than I expected. But I didn't feel sad, I felt pretty good. I no longer thought of our insecurities, I focused on the good times we had together and how I could easily let that be and have a lot of space from that relationship. The campus was a little estranged, though. It's a bit humbling when you feel older than kids who are seen as "the youth," even though I'm still young. My old parking lot has been under construction for a while now, but I finally got to see the finished structure. Instead of making a gradual update to a block parking garage, they built a sloping glass building. It was like the future saying, "We don't need you anymore." Penn State was still available to me, and I'd like living among the Mennonites in that area, but it wasn't my place anymore. The memories became more memory-like. I've moved on, happily.

A few months ago I was going to post something about my childhood addiction to sadness. That was during one of the last times I drank. I deleted that post. I'm watching the same sunset, though, as when I wrote that. I feel the kind of clarity I used to have when I took that strong cold medicine people now use for meth. Though it probably sounds silly to other people, this kind of trip, even if it was solitary, was very necessary for me. I no longer have the nervousness or physical problems. Feeling safe, I could finally understand how I hadn't been able to express myself sexually during that time, especially as those old arguments stripped away my confidence; and that final piece of the puzzle just kind of slid into place as it was dark and I drove out of State College, watching the harvest moon turn silver over the mountains and creek beds.

September 26, 2006 is when I began that job, so it's almost the two-year anniversary of these problems. The road trip was a fitting conclusion. I gave up the bad relationship, the alcohol, and got a new job last Friday, which I start in one week. These were the main problems holding me back. Growing up, my mom's always tried to instill in me the knowledge that sometimes you have to deal with things and people you don't like. Of course, this is true; sometimes you can't help it. But you can also choose to leave situations which hurt you, and you should be adult enough to do that if you can't fix them. I wish my mom would do this more herself, because she holds herself back by "enduring" unnecessary things, like staying married to my dad for so long and always looking for people to save her. I felt guilty so long for not being able to deal with that job, when I'd get in trouble for going above and beyond what was required. I felt like something was wrong with me for even thinking of complaining, because I've never really had anyone in the family to vent to. And the whole time I was actually pulling my penis into my body, almost, as a way of reeling away from what I thought were dangerous forces. But I slowly built up my confidence and respect and dealt with these things, so I'm very proud of myself. In many families, the first to go to college is a family hero. In my family I'm not the first to go to college, but I am the first to deal with these problems, to not be forced into a cage by shock treatments, manic depression, alcoholism, or depression and anxiety medications. And, after a series of dreams where I've fought or avoided peers playing games, I've finally had dreams where I'm playing games with them. I found some peace, and I think this is the first time in my life where I can say I've actually acted like a man.

And that's how I spent my summer vacation...

Date Four

This was about two weeks ago now, but date four was pretty good. We met in Princeton again, the Witherspoon Grill. She was more done up, which surprised me, but wasn't bad. She did look beautiful, and I was glad she didn't overdo the makeup, because I usually prefer none.

Most of this date was conversational. On our other dates we were either walking/browsing or in a theater. Not that we didn't talk a lot, but it was nice to see that we were still into the experience deeply when we didn't have something specific to comment on. They even brought out candles, which was sweet. She has a gorgeous, unusual smile--I call it a landscape smile because of the art connection--which I'd say is broad. Very attractive. Her face is sort of narrow and her eyes are long, too; she calls them almond-shaped. It's an usual and really beautiful combination, which was as picturesque as you could imagine with the soft candles and her dark, straight hair seeming to flood down into the floor and the walls and the background.

Our goodbye kiss was also really nice, though too short (the train was waiting). And that's when I gave her a little card I wrote, with a poem.

I don't have a lot to say about this date and have let it sit comfortably in my brain. I'm not sure why. I can replay memories and experiences so easily, sometimes I'm really content to do that and never speak of them (I can be intensely private). I like tiny details too. I've never been one for monuments or gift shops. I'd rather see an abandoned, collapsing barn than Mount Rushmore (which confuses my family to no end). One says something about the place I live in and one says something about how people want me to see the place I live in. And I'm always trying to escape from this world while finding a place in it. I could give a play by play of that night--I listened to Red House Painters on the drive; parking was about $3; I finally beat her to the location; she called it our "date date" and talked about Boy Meets World, Gilmore Girls, and Buffy; I pissed off a rude girl while turning onto Spring St.; Amy ordered a salad and clams, then we got cheese cake; the waiter's name was Maurice and the service was almost too quick; the bathroom had tissues and papertowels--but in a way it's better as a movie in my head. See, I started this blog with a few objectives. I was extremely depressed--coming out of a 2 or 3-year depression--and needed to vent. I haven't updated much recently, because almost all that fear has subsided. I also thought it would be fun to try a sort of biographical experiment. This is pretentious, but I still like it: what if you were going to write a memoir, but threw in journal and diary entries from throughout your life? I could comment on my parents' divorce at age 65 and look at what I thought at age 21, 30, 44, for example. Most memoirs are very dull because they gloss over everything and tend to offer one perspective, not the picture of a life as it evolved. I also wanted to put up writing and say, "I put this detail in because it comes from this experience." Hence, The Roadmap. Now that I feel more alive, I have a little less of that compulsive urge to capture, I guess. Part of me likes the idea of portraying my life my way, especially because my family has always kind of tried boxing me in, stereotyping, and second guessing me. I've been told what I like, what I think, and what I am like more than I can count. But, at the same time, who cares? I also tend to reject a lot of my generation's compulsion toward documenting every little thing. I don't own a camera or use MySpace. Anyway, I have no real definitive answer here. I'll keep posting, and as I've loosened up I understand more why people feel the need to capture all this stuff, even if I don't take part. It's just, I can picture us walking out of the restaurant while I held the big doors, with her joking about how it's sometimes awkward when people hold doors for you, and I can still see the sunset. So I'm there, now, two weeks ago. I don't need the picture and a streaming Mp3 to go with it. That sounds negative. I had a great time and like writing about it. I guess I'm just kind of floating now, instead of feeling adrift. Floating is a good thing. You never know where you're going in life or who you are, but you can have the intuition to know you're going in the right direction, which I spent the past few years working toward. That's where the dream analysis, in particular, has come in handy. It's good to have the right mirrors. Anyway...

Hopefully I will see this lovely person again soon. I think the hardest part is she has a really distinctive, alluring smell, which I can never quite get out of my head. So the memories are very there.