Four Minute Nap.

the city sounds whisper through window and the resting damp laundry in dryer says, "hello morning.  this is today."  my body disagrees:

face down, feet up, chin down, ass up, hands under thighs, huge exhales, uninhibited sighs.

i don't want to get up but i might not have a choice.  "i could sleep all year,"  is the first thing through my mind most monday and otherday mornings.  if my roommate hadn't reminded me of my suicidal tendencies following half-hour sleep-ins i may have seriously considered sleeping all year.  i could have moved a couple appointments around here and there.

really though, i owe him.  i can think of some bad things done by very familiar people who likely suffered less self-inflicted guilt than post sleep-in, guilt-stricken me.

so as i breathe warm air into pillow and face i think more seriously about getting up, check the time and decide to remain in bed a while longer.  after what feels like an hour or so i wake to a man singing hits from the Little Mermaid Soundtrack.  no, i'm not being burglarized by the cast of Disney's Little Mermaid...it's my roommate burglarizing early morning sound space.  operatic mermaid-themed sing along sing song hour is no more surprising than my realization that four minutes have passed since i decided to remain in bed.

"that was an oddly satisfying bunch of minutes?"  i think, questioning the last four minutes.

wouldn't it be great if four minute naps always felt that productive?  not when you least expect it...

always.

like when you're driving home for the weekend, the inevitability of traffic is kicking your ass even though you left later so you'd miss the rush, the caffeine crash is imminent and approaching and you're so delirious the thought of putting the car in park, in the middle of a major highway, seems more logical than pulling over.

sleeeeeepy time is near.

or, you're at work, hungover from a night of drinks with people you don't like.  you just exited the worst staff meeting of all time where you learned the proposal for a "first-date dress code" has been nixed (which is the only thing you've learned since taking this brain-shitting job a year ago) but you deal because, "when is the last time i was on a first date?  what do people wear for those?" you think to yourself, the free coffee machine is no longer free and 4 o'clock fridays are a thing of the past.  oh yeah, the new deadline on those reports: 5:59PM.

the hour long four minute nap is a would-be cure all and its elusiveness makes needing it now an unquenchable urge likely to follow me/us around forever.

the hour long four minute nap produces an awkward sensation of familiarity because you've felt it before but, like nostalgia, it's pretty well impossible to re-create on command.

unfortunately for me there's nothing inspiring or nostaligic about shaking the stiffness and waking this morning.  if not for merman i'd still be standing on the podium receiving my gold medal in the "World's Most Well Rounded, Knowledgeable, Skilled, Socially Comfortable Human Being: Championships Of The World."  who says dreams don't come true?  it's probably best i woke though.  i can't quite recall but i think i was on my way to "Aspiring To A Life Of Fame With No Particularly Fame-Worthy Talents To Offer The World:  Championships Of The World."

instead (disney tunes in head), i slowly pull my hands from under my thighs, slide them toward my shoulders and push my upper body ceiling-ward.  my lower body is paralytic so i do a backbend which with shooting abdominal pain, offers a head rush reminiscent of that one time, at that one party, after that one keg stand.  i just had to "CHUG!CHUG!CHUG!" choke, drool,  spit, fall,  kneel, stand, kneel, puke, yummo.

the backbend-head rush is rarely worth the woozies and this morning is no different.  i unlock my elbows and resume my torpedo-like sleep position.  after the blood trickles, tickling its way back home, i once again lift my upper body and this time my legs are hips.  they twist, turn and find themselves attached to moving parts but, aside from pulsing, do little in the way of propelling still-life.

*montage: twists, turns, moans, groans.

might i actually want to get up now?  panic strikes.  what do i do?  backbend?  shouldn't one start the day with a good stretch, neat making of the bed, maybe some quality cardiovascular exercise, a short, cool shower, a healthy fruit and grain breaky and a few cups of knowledge (newspaper or internet form)?

nope.  coffee and leftovers rule the disney-clad ear molestation of a morning.  i don't stop to think of this as my way of disapproving of Disney Mornings On Delaware Ave, but it is a little out of character.  i love fruit.

now we've moved on to the Lion King Soundtrack and for some reason i'm compelled to stretch and roar.  an onlooker may have mistook the stretch for a cat dog yoga pose but i stand firm because my bedroom doesn't house onlookers.  i am a lion emerging from his dark den.

hear my roar.

they say the roar is a marked territory stamp.  they also say it can be heard up to 5 miles away.  this morning i roar and my roommate stands 4 feet away.  we don't have paper walls, we do write on them, they are thin and they are the only thing between my roommate and i.  he could be bending over to plug in his laptop as i stand, arms outstretched, back arched in the middle of my morning yawn.  paper-thin i can handle but translucent would be nonsensical.

this morning i am fierce and i feel like a lion, but i still have no control over my territory...

we've just graduated to the Aladdin Soundtrack.

sharp, spicy, tangy, pungent, mild or sweet?

all i wanted was uninterrupted play-time at the park.  all i wanted was free, fresh air.  i wanted to be outside, run down the sidewalk avoiding cracks and broken backs, past the Mulroy's and Suddaby's.  i wanted to cross the street without looking both ways because i had badass peripheral and still do.  i wanted to jump down the embankment connecting School Board Of Ontario, Scott's LawnPro manicured-lawn to parking lot, fire across the cement fearing scraped knees with each stride and cross the last strip of sand-scattered grass bordering the park.   i wanted sweaty toes in warm sand and balmy fingers on slippery monkey bars.  i wanted to fly down the slide and sail off the swings.

my mind occupied itself with the getting of these small, enormously pleasurable play-things.

all i wanted was a snack.  nothing big.  a small snack for pack on back or pocket round back.  maybe a fruit roll up or even a piece of real fruit.  i'd grab an apple from the fruit jar on the windowsill.  "see this ma?  it's a real apple.  i'm a good boy.  you love me.  i'm your favorite son.  i'll eat the whole apple just like Opa, you'll see."  even then i thought i was funny.  i was her only son.

all i wanted to do was spit on my apple, wipe it on my ninja turtle hoody and eat the shit out of that apple.

primal urges type-shit.

eating an apple raw was the extent of my urges back then.  oh how

a boy's mind changes when he discovers a girly magazine.

my parents were watch dogs, but forced suppression triggered monumental neurological shifts no different than pleasure-seeking closet acrobats.  when a door opens you can walk through or look over your shoulder and stay put.  either way the option weaves its way into your future.  i had, somehow, invented women.

but still, all i wanted to do was be a child in a democratic country.  i wanted to enjoy my summer vacation free from the tyranny of being forced to do things:

TO...

sit through lectures given by nerdy, pregnant teachers who'd play Roxette during the only time our minds were ever given true individual attention.
nap-time:  time to nurture our imagination and Roxette was interrupting our freedom to explore.
then we'd have to sing songs.
sing songs in french.
draw pictures.
say words.
write the same sentence over and over and over and over and over again until my cursive R's looked the way they were supposed to.
then write the same sentence 50 more times for good measure.
play pity-taking dodgeball with uncoordinated fat kids when all i wanted to do was dominate (especially the kid who dug his nails through foam balls.  he was a cheater).
sing in the school pageant.
jump rope for heart.
the ridiculous shit show...show and tell (what were they thinking?)

these are things reserved for months September through August and no kid should unwillingly endure the like outside the alloted months-of-to do's.  zombies are fun to watch in movies but being a human trapped in a zombie-like state and forced to adapt is a walk in the dark.

all i wanted was the freedom our forefathers fought for.  i didn't think it was so much to ask for, but then again i didn't generally ask much.  then my parents had to move in across the street from the weirdest family in the world.

no contest.

weirdest.  family.  ever.

i didn't know the parents well, or any adults at that time.  i was 10 years old but i thought my personality-gauge was fairly accurate and still believe it served me relatively well.

weird parents = weird child and weird child = weird parents.  all other elements responsible for a child's personality, preferences, likes/dislikes, quirks, mannerisms, impediments, skills, chemical imbalances, tendencies to swallow pencil shavings, glue their fingers together and all things individual to them...didn't matter to me.

my neighbors had the weirdest daughter in the world and all its galactic spaces.

she had a play house in the backyard:  AWESOME!  she had a play house LITTERED with sweet onions:  NOT AWESOME!  my maiden trip to her playhouse was the first time i experienced an out-of-body listlessness.  the play house was filled with onions, onion peels, one small white wooden table, screen-filled windows and doors (which you'd think might swallow the onion stench, but didn't) which you'd think might keep the flies away (wrong again), two old, rickety, paint-chipped red chairs that could've been one of two things:

1) chairs owned by a weird family who somehow managed to convince their daughter an onion-themed playhouse was a good thing.
2) retardation-inducing, over-priced vintage furniture from a boutique in an unnamed metropolitan city.

the interior design (aesthetic and care[lessness]) of their home was enough to deduce number two an impossibility.

the onion-girl was really the only thing standing between me and the park.  both routes to the park were visible if onion-girl cared to watch, and she did.  if i'd had a bigger shovel i'd have considered digging a tunnel, but it's southern ontario.  i likely wouldn't have covered half the distance before frost.

if i used the back door i could run through fenceless backyards to the park.  for weirdo, onion-girl and my fenceless backyard-running, a lack of shrubbery made watching me run an afterthought she could and would enjoy while sipping lemonade, chewing on pickled onion.

this being the case, as it was, i would be met by onion-breath AT the park which would effectively ruin my assault of the park AND force me to a post-park, onion-shed visit.  my parents expected me to be kind to those who were kind to me.  "you never know what kindness may lead to," they loved to say.  i was to drink lemonade with the old ladies and play with children on the block, though they made it clear i was never to chat with strangers.

this was one of many rules they had which i was raised to follow unquestioningly....that is until our neighbor to the West hooked a chair, holding one of the Johnson twins, to a ceiling fan.   lucky for him a complete stranger chose not to ignore the shrieks, broke in through a tiny basement window and saved the kid.

if Mr. Lackerly, respected accountant and volunteer basketball coach could do that to an innocent boy, what might an onion-obsessed family cook up?

understandably this helped them re-think their stance on neighbors and strangers, and neighbors who might very well be complete strangers.

but i didn't care about kids tied to chairs.  i was finally free of the onions.

december drops.

ASLEEP?AWAKE?A DREAM?A NIGHTMARE?...awake he fumbles to interpret

the windless post-rain drip of a December spit turning the rusted trough to a raucous amphitheater, screaming without choice or orchestration...sound pockets of a lost time, a girl who never licked the sweet of a lime (her time), her naught wrought virgin innocence spliced to immaculately drenched split second splays:

drip, drop, start, stop, dripdripdrop brings flashes of the ice cream, roller-rink root-beer float, marmalade, lemonade, sunday at the parade. "Is that Slick?" she'd twinkle as the man-faced boy, smoke clouded eyes, lead sheep through the graze-ending maze. The only difference beTween men and these bOys was the size of what theY didn't know life could seem to be.

Will he call by Wednesday?", or will it be a night of Lucy VS. Assembly line. Assembly line: 1, Lucy: 0.

IT'S REAL AND THE RAIN...

The rain won't stop. It continues to drip, continues to drop. It slides, falls, crawls to it's place; a splatter of matter too slippery to cumber, numerous to number. The sound can be stopped but the drip will drip drop...

"It will be (a night to remember)," as she ironed the Poodle for Slick's Hot Red Rod. Slick Slick and the click of the lighter as they vroomed to the Point overlooking the people. No agenda but faking and taking; with gulp, with gasp. No roof to scratch for railroad track. No kiss of balmy palm.

Didn't learn to unlearn, see enough to SEE.
She knows she knows.
It's not right it's not right.
But the people are far, too far out of sight.

The drops they drop and the drops they stop....Unsayable shrieks scratch untouchable ceiling. Sleepy stars fading; cascading down streets once bright for an end with no sight...

they don't know it but girls will be girls and boys will have cars....

to sleep.

pulsating plastic-wrap-covered jars.

mmmirrors.

value village has these distorted mirrors that, instead of giving you a crisp, honest reflection of yourself, say, "it's-a-four-dollar-shirt."

i want to...

i want to give you just 5 more minutes.

i want to, just a little bit longer, satisfy every inch of your body.

i want to quiet your mind.

i want to give you that guilt. that amazing, beautiful guilt.

i want to give you that feeling of "nothing else could possibly mean more than this moment."

i want to allude you in to thinking the next 5 minutes will last the rest of your life...or at least until you're ready to move on. that is why i am here, always.

i want to give you more than you can possibly imagine.

i want to surprise you when you're least expecting it.

i want to be encouragement when you're feeling useless.

i want to be silent...then EXPLODE in to your life without the slightest hesitation.

i want to be unavoidable (in a good way), even if you can't see the truth in that.

i want to sound less annoying than you think i sound but need you to know i serve a purpose.

i want you to know there are powers above me.

i want you never to question me.

i want you to never question using me.

i want to be interrupted by beams by of light, sunshine and baby blue skies.

i want you to be done with me, move on and embrace rain drops and grey skies because like ocean deep and sky high they hold wonders you'll never fully grasp while asleep.

i want to help you with the getting of goosebumps and chills even and especially when it means embracing those cold floored winter mornings.

i want your touch.

every.

single.

day.

I WANT TO BE YOUR SNOOZE BUTTON.

i believed.

first i believed nightmares
and dreams were real
then i believed i could fly,
saw no reason to distrust my
unaffected imagination

then i believed in the boogy monster
the easter bunny
santa claus
peter pan

then i went to my first funeral

then it was macaroni
5 cent candies
forts
farts
stepping stone bridges
monkey bars and
mini sticks

then i believed in making friends
liking girls
holding hands
hockey

i believed in baggy jeans
and dominating gym class
kissing on the lips
roller blades
hair gel
tommy hilfiger
hockey; for the second time

less french fries
no soft drinks
GAP hoodies
high school athletics
having things
doing as little homework as possible
talent shows
dave matthews band

economics

then i believed in hot high school teachers
vanity
business clubs
golf clubs
goal setting
abstinence

I believed in the NCAA and
winning
believed i should listen to pink floyd...and transcend that shit

i believed in self deprecation
fucking up, badly
shaving my head and
cheap martinis

I believed in Detroit and then student government and
affecting change
no red meat
ethics
cheating
seinfeld
cooking
coldplay

I believed in a God
frat parties, beer pong, drunk girls
contraception
almond butter
the beatles
love
running

I loved the belief of the end of educational institutions
and i believed what people told me about myself as well as
sore knees
cormac mccarthy
stretching
following my heart
central park
the black keys

i believed i should like being single and thought of
law school
journalism
psychology
naturopathic medicine

I believed the words of howard zinn and
believed in changing history - its course

i believed in people
acting
listening

then i believed in more facial hair
being loved
chameleonism
then it was bukowski and
childhood curiosity which helped me believe in

depression

i believed in omega 3's
superfoods
Shantaram
writing
paying rent
moving
eating two legged animals
wine

cool new music. allofit, even the stuff i hadn't heard - hadn't been played (or at least not aboveground)
then i believed i should judge (silently, or at least behind their backs) people who felt the same way but expressed it through entitlement:
"i've loved them for so long. i listened to them way before they were "mainstream." like, their new single, it's an old song they decided to re-release when their ex-drummers best friend jumped off that balcony on tour. i saw them live at XYZ in ABC when Mr. Lead Singer took a bottle in the nose, picked it up, drank it and kept singing. all. night. long. i hate when people tell me they love them. they don't know the essence of that band, never will. i miss their intimate shows. they used to do an open mike bit. i mean, i'm happy to see them enjoying some success but, i mean, people just don't know, man."

I believed in drinking more
traveling
HBO
heath ledger
streaming
big mistakes

then I believed in
learning
online newspaper
"yes we can"
embracing

i believed in reading and
self education

i believed i could read every book ever written. ever.

then i believed in david eggers and the
global volunteer network
vegetarianism
pirate bay
tight jeans
running more
eating less
running less
eating more
loose fit jeans
the Raconteurs


then i believed sports to be pointless and the words of
j. krishnamurti as well as
aliens
confidence
solitude
blogs
shaving more often
those cool grey, white and red wool socks
buying less
sharing more
eating only when hungry - or drunk

i believed that a handshake does not a man make
as long as he offers you an animal cracker milkshake

or a
HUG

i believed in being less drunk and
biking everywhere - especially when drunk or listening to
lady gaga

i believed in what "is"

then one day i was walking down the street.
someone said, "look! quick! up there!" pointing skyward. "it's a flying..."
and in an instant i was taken back to the monkey and chocolate bars. i thought, "could it be? a flying human being?"
and as i looked up a lady shrieked, "no, it's a falling..." brick to the face which helped me realize:

it'd serve me to be selective in the way i choose to question myself, others and whether or not the sky is, or ever will, fall...

then i decided to believe in trying to believe in myself.

and stuff