PATRICK STEPHENSON

Earthbound concerns of an ascendant adult

All’s Not Pissed Away

with one comment

Last night I dreamt I bought a cart-full of pumpernickel bread, and I was so happy because I’d always have toast if I wanted it. Pumpernickel toast with peanut butter. Then I thought, what if I don’t eat all this in time and my loaves expire. All that money on nothing. A waste! The dream after that became a nightmare. (Where’d they get ‘pumpernickel’ from, anyway? Pump her nickel!) Currently, I’m foodless and alone in my apartment. I thought, for a moment, that I could make toast, because I bought all that bread “last night” and my cupboard contains a half-full Jif. But I was mistaken. For help, I ordered Luce: pizza w/meatballs, jalapeños.

Also: a root beer.

Lately I’m finding that as I secure the bookstore—i.e., as I stand in one place too many minutes, goof with co-workers, drowse atop clothes displays, lip-synch to the songs overhead, punch decorative snowflakes and ogle passing girls—my life is becoming, or at least seeming, more hopeless. Hope free, the same as my last year in Rochester, when I’d been at RCTC tres años and knew I must leave home and start una vida nueva. So I did, and everything was all right. Now, I’m on a similar precipice—between one stage and its sequel. I wish I felt comfortable with stasis, but I need action. I need progress. I ain’t feelin’ that, señor. Maybe I’m hopeless because a beginning isn’t visible. Where should I go, and what should I do? ‘This’ is what I want and someone tell me how to get it. NOW. I’m impatient.

The existence of these stages disturbs me. I look back and realize, ‘That’s done.’ Remembering even insignificant moments—anything seemingly permanent now absent—from the past two years makes me wistful, and depressed. Remember turning over 7-Ups and looking through green liquid to see whether Free Song’s written on the cap? Remember biking Summit till 3am? Remember playing Super Nintendo baseball and listening to Thunderbirds Are Now? Remember school? That’s done with. You can’t regain it, and any attempts are shams. It’s sham-ful. New moments are coming, and they’ll disappear just the same. That applies to people as well. Anyone who seemed like a permanent presence might disappear. I knew this all beforehand, but now, if italics make emphasis, I know it.

Are these conflicting desires? One for permanence, one for change—or, if not change, then progress. I want an acceptable permanence. I don’t know if what I’m doing’s right, because I don’t have grades or professors to correct or guide me. That’s from within, now. Oh well well.

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Written by patiomensch

February 20, 2007 at 8:53 pm

Posted in Personal

One Response

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  1. […] Writing All’s Not Pissed Away […]


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