Untitled 05/08/10

and we sat together and watched the night burn until the flame fell, and in the morning we sat stared at the ash.

over the years the ash has blown away and left only a small mark in our memory, where, when we look back hard enough, we can see the spot of that night when the flames were so high and fire so bright it melted us into one.

Suicide Theives: The Alley

Smoke hung high in the air and drifted into my lungs. The smell of old carpet, old bowling shoes and angst was palpable. I strode through the entrance aside a confident, purposeful Samantha. At the lobby I paused to admire the dusty trophy case, in it were decades-past portraits of polyester-clad champions. Their prideful smiles couldn't have been further removed from the scene ahead of us. I turned to face the lanes. I moved through the smoke and inebriated laughter like a keen anthropologist. Being only among the faces, not a part of them. I stood beside and apart from Samantha.

I introduced myself to her friends then retired to the periphery. In dress and spirit I felt in absolute contrast to the bodies around me. Wearing faded shirts of their favorite local metal bands; wallet chains fastened to stained and shredded jeans; and tattoos of spiderwebs, hemp leaves and scorpions, the roughly half dozen of them stood loosely. Always one eye on the crowds around, they never appeared completely at ease -- for good reason too. It was common knowledge on weeknights this bowling alley was harbor to individuals described here. Their deprivation was smug; respect had to be earned. I respected myself enough not to try.

I sat without notice at a sticky table colored with neon pins and balls. Samantha was different. I knew she was, but I was naive. Surely, being alone around friends she would miss her boyfriend, Ben, not yet two weeks underground. She had deep disarmingly cold eyes. Almost common if one were to look at them for only a moment. However, a long gaze, the kind we presently shared from opposite sides the table of spilled drinks and pizza scraps, gave those cold eyes a quantifiable value. We held each others' gaze. Was what I saw sadness, fear or a mournful indifference? Could she see the insecurity and youth in my eyes, or were they, as I hoped, well masked by a supportive and concerned face?

A ball crashed into the pins. We looked down the lane. "Spare," shrieked one of the girls in our group. I looked back at Samantha. She was talking to the man next to her. I listened intently and waited to join the conversation. Wondering how, or when, she will introduce me. Am I the friend, the date or simply Adam. The conversation started with sympathetic apologies and condolences to the still somewhat grieving girl across from me. It quickly digressed.

"Dude got ten months for slammin' Nick face to glass," Matt said. He thought Nick deserved the 18 stitches from Dan. I couldn't keep the whole story together. Samantha looked at me knowingly.  "After all, fucker slashed his Honda after the split with that bitch sister of his," Matt justified. "I miss that car," Sam said. I looked at her and shrugged. I couldn't piece together the names and faces and criminal records of everyone I'd met since we arrived. I didn't know these people or their lives, and I didn't want to. I knew Sam, and they meant something to her.

Another crash of the pins.
Why did we come if we didn't intend to bowl? I must have been invited to meet her friends. If not, she felt bad leaving me at the ice cream shop. Haven't decided which. But was I being presumptuous allowing myself to fantasize of a place in her life. I looked over to Samantha, about to ask if we should go buy shoes to start a game. She was looking beyond me with warning.

My chest struck the table edge in front of me. Samantha gasped. I spun around. Fists up and head down, the man who was pushed into my chair charged toward his aggressor, a stocky Native American man with long dark hair and an aged jean jacket who belong to another larger group of people several lanes down. I jumped up and took several steps back until I was alongside Samantha.

We watched as the bald-headed man who crashed into me took a long-winded swing at the Native American. The dark haired man stepped back. The punch hit the air with force and Tim lost balance. He swiftly hit the wooden floor. His friends, or my friends by way of Sam, quickly stood him up and restrained him. Darin, the dark haired man, said they should go outside to finish. Matt suggested a parking lot in Bismarck. He led Tim out to his car and pushed him into the passenger seat. Sam and I jumped into her messy Saturn. We were now in a line of several cars en route back to Bismarck to watch a fight.

Suicide Theives

That was really the first time someone close to me died by self-harming. What happened after was another strange series of events. I was close to the dead. Close as friendly coworkers are. We spent limited time together out of work: He, his girlfriend Samantha, and I.
Tall with dark blonde hair, she walked confidently through the halls of our work. She knew her duties, and she was an exceptional worker. After work she was controlled chaos; planning and cancelling without hesitation or remorse. He was like her. They complemented each other like the blades of a scissor.

I was the youngest of us three, younger still considering life experiences. Less so after the events of that evening.

One week after he shot himself in the head with an old revolver, Samantha and I made plans to get together. Ice cream and a movie. Nothing romantic or stressful. Only an easy night with a friend.

Kids were everywhere around us. Their parents sitting peacefully outside eating their vanilla cones. Lines of Friday night teens ordering dessert for their dates. Us sitting at a high-top, one waiting for the other to break the silence -- this was not the atmosphere I wanted. I cannot remember who spoke first, but discussion lead to which film we would see. Nothing at the cineplex piqued her interest.

She raised a brow reading a message on her mobile, confirming what I feeling; the air around us was stale with forced conversation and platitudes. We needed to split and quick, before the uneasiness became suffocating. I asked what she had read. She said several of her other friends were at different location. I saw in her eyes she wanted to go. I didn't press the film idea further. We left that low-key Friday night suburban scene and took nothing from it; as when we arrived nothing was given to us.

The inside of Samantha's old Saturn smelled of cigarettes and take-out food -- the evidence of both was under my sneakers on the passenger side. From my seat, I looked and her empathetically, her eyes fixed on the road as we crossed over city lines on a steel bridge spanning the cold ice-packed Missouri River. In a vehicle, did she think about him in his vehicle with the barrel to his temple? Was she thinking about me next to her, trying to take his spot? Or was she not feeling anything at all, driving only from one point to the next.
"Keep moving!", I heard the voice inside her say. She was hopeful the anger and sorrow and loneliness would give up the chase if only she could keep moving.
To my knowledge she's still moving; living life in the moment after you leave but before you arrive.

We came to a stop in a sparsely used lot under a large half-lit blinking sign atop a building that read, BOWL.

Blessing

A sad state indeed when cyclists go through a blessing ritual each year in hopes to decrease their chances of an accident, according to this piece in the LA Times. Once a year cyclists gather outside Good Samaritain Hospital for a blessing from clergy. And to bring awareness to the thousands of bicycle related accidents Good Samaritain treats every year. Roughly 250 of more than two-thousand reported accidents are hit-and-run."Not for the faint of heart" are the roads of L.A.

Of late I've been quite proud of Fargo, ND. On my 10 mile round trip to work I've seen the city marking a handful of new roads as either shared or with specific bicycle lanes. Now the hard part is informing public how to react around cyclists, instead of acting like they've just seen an orange zebra.

Hopefully they'll get it together before september. Otherwise it'll all be foregotten for next year.

Ghetto Hikes, Yo!

Found this site by accident a few days ago. From what I understand, the writer takes at-risk inner-city youths on nature hikes. He posts some of the things they say on a Tumblr page. I could not stop laughing while reading some of the things these kids said. I had to stop myself from reading them all at once. Take a bit now and leave some for later kinda thing. He hasn't posted in a while, leading me to believe the fun is over. Treasure what you find, that's all there is.

Also, the kids in this photo are not the ones on the ghetto hike. If they were, it would be a miraculous coincident.

Againt me! singer Gabel comes out as transgender.

New issue of Rolling Stone dropped today featuring a story on Against Me!'s frontman's decision to begin procedures and identification as a transgender woman, Laura Jane Grace. In a follow-up interview, the contributor who wrote the story, Josh Eells was asked rather matter-of-factly why this is news. To paraphrase his response, he said it pertained primarily to the bands image of hard punk rock music being seen as very manly. Her voice is very gravely and raw, often screaming lyrics of revolution and anti-establishment to a vast yet tight following of fervent fans. It will come to a shock to many of them as it did to me.

I may never understand the feeling of gender dysphoria, being caught between two genders not knowing where to fit, but if Laura Jane has finally found her place then way to go. Be who you are, whoever you feel that is. And don't let anyone ever tell you different.

Skiba releases second solo album. Go buy it now.