Chicago, and The Harbinger of Death

Since I’ve been here, I’ve grown to fear hearing the song You’re the Inspiration by the band Chicago. “Here” is a kind of purgatory: It always begins on June 4th:I live my everyday life, I go for walks in the park, I listen to music, I drink coffee, I work on the writing, the weather is sunny and crisp, and I sleep well at night. However, at some point in this existence, an end is brought on that sends me back to waking up on the morning of June 4th.

On a random day in this purgatory cycle, I’ll be out living my life and trying to get something done, and out of nowhere, as if played out of a stereo in the sky, comes the huge opening notes of that song, sounding like it’s being played on a piano the size of a football field. I’m not wearing headphones, and there is no stereo playing, and yet the song is still as loud as if a wall of amplifiers had been dropped into my ears. When that happens, I know two things are about to occur; I’m about to see her, and I’m about to die.

The first time it happened was a few days after the fourth. I was sitting on a short brick wall downtown, drinking an Americano and wishing I remembered my sunglasses so that I didn’t have to squint at everything like an idiot. Another sip of the Americano burned my tongue, and I felt like it would be one of those mornings when the world seems stuck in the “inconvenience” setting. Then came the music. I described the feeling above, but I’m not sure anything could capture how truly strange it is to hear music as if you are in some kind of movie. However, before I could come to grips with the sound in my ears, even before I heard the second line of lyrics, I saw her.

She was carrying a full French press of coffee, and the sun caught her hair in one of those ways that you read about in terrible romance novels. The second I laid eyes on her, it was like the whole world went into slow motion, and I knew what love was, truly knew was it was, and that this was the woman that I was meant to share that love with. All bullshit aside, I knew from the second that I laid eyes on her, that we were meant to be together, and the song that played made it seem like this was to be a perfect moment ordained by the entirety of the universe.

Then a fucking dump truck hit me. It jumped the curb. I woke up and it was June 4th again.

Sometimes I’m alive for a week, sometimes it’s a month, and sometimes it’s only a few days. Regardless of the length of time, I inevitably, I hear You’re the Inspiration by Chicago, I see her and her full French press of coffee, and then I am killed. The method of my death differs: once it was a load of bricks dropped from a crane, it’s usually fucking dump trucks, once it was a seaplane crashing into me, once a bus full of elementary school kids, and in one odd instance a moped ramped up off an angled truck trailer and took my head off.

I don’t remember the death that got me into this state of purgatory. I remember all the ones since I’ve been here. Every time it happens, I still forget that death is coming until a second before my lights are put out. Because I know when I hear that song that I get to see her, and when I see her, I forget about impending death. That feeling of warmth that comes from seeing her is enough to make me forget about getting my head taken off by a moped.

Death isn’t painful, not when you know it means nothing. However, because I have her taken away from me again before I get to say a single word to her, I have come to hate the band Chicago. Chicago heralds the end. Chicago heralds pain and misery. Chicago heralds loss of her all over again.

I never even get to the second minute of the song. I don’t even remember what comes after the first chorus. I know the opening piano lines and those few opening lines better than I once knew my parents, or what the back of my hand looks like. If this has happened hundreds of times that means that I have heard that song hundreds of times, and I’ve come to detest it’s big bouncy chords. Once, there was a moment when someone played it on a radio in a coffee shop I was sitting in, and just the first few bars of it, even in a form that wasn’t the all powerful world ending version, sent me running into the street like a scared animal. The slow motion, epic, girl-of-dreams parts of the experience didn’t happen, and as I stood outside the coffee shop waiting to get hit by a crate dropped out of a plane, or a stampede of runaway horses, or a chef riding a motorcycle, on his way to work, who loses his grip on his knife bag right at my head level, I thought that if I ever break out of this purgatory, heaven will be a place where I never need to hear that fucking song again, and hell will be a place where I need to hear it forever.

And on and on it went. I would like to hear her voice. Sometimes I would spend afternoons imagining what she would sound like, that unknown tone and cadence rolling over her lips. I question what she would say. Would she know my name? Would she tell me hers? Would she ask if I wanted any of that coffee that she was carrying? What kind of coffee is it?

I reach the end of these late afternoon thinking sessions always a little let down with the realization that I probably will never discover what the answer to those questions. I thought about keeping a journal about each and every time I see her, but when I get sent back to the start, there would be nothing written, and the pages I had filled would be empty again.

Stuck in a loop of live, see her, die, and then repeat.

Part of me wondered if it’s me that somehow triggers her appearance. As if I conjure her up with some small action of my own. If I reach a certain unknown point that then dooms me to begin the cycle all over again. Is it when I hit a certain page of the book I’m reading? When I move my body a certain way? When I hit a certain weight? Or when I hit a certain amount of hours of sleep? I used to think that it was the amount of days that had passed, but I ruled that out after the amount of days between incidents jumped between two and twenty and fifty-two. It was an unknown quantity that I didn’t think I’d be able to decipher.

The loop continued on.

Sure, there’s a bit of a cynical humour to be found in the whole thing. When I return to the start of the cycle, the song that wakes me up on the morning of the first day is Who Wants to Live Forever? by Queen. It comes on the radio I use for an alarm clock at 8:30 in the morning on the first day. The broadcast is the same. It is a few minutes into the song. Apparently I am living forever. You’d think that I’d use that to my advantage, and use this shared memory between similar lives to learn how to play the piano, or paint a picture, or watch every movie I’ve ever wanted to see, or rent a car and drive away as far as I could foreseeably go. I just never get around to it though, because it seems like the wrong way to do things, and the motivation just isn’t there. I think it’s something about the idea of being sent back to the start all the time. I could be the smartest person in the world, having read 1000 books, having learned everything I could have possibly learned.

None of it would tell me what her voice sounded like though, and knowing the truth of that statement came with an apathy I couldn’t seem to overcome with my endless lives.

In an attempt to get this information down I have typed the phrase, “Since I’ve been here, I’ve grown to fear hearing the song You’re the Inspiration by the band Chicago.” so many times I have lost count. It’s a kind of way to rehash the situation when I start over. I have to retype it at the beginning of every new cycle, but I find it helps. Gives me something to do to give this whole thing some continuity. Someone would think typing the same few thousand words over and over again would be a waste of time, but I have nothing but time. Sure, each and every version of this document will be different each time, but that’s not the point, the point is having some kind of continuity, a physical manifest of memory, even if it is retyped and rebuilt every time.

Remember, retype, restart, and repeat. In this document, I hypothesize a future that I don’t know will ever come, and a disjointed and repeating past that defies logic.

Then there is one Thursday where the whole narrative changes. I am sitting in a large park drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book. Flipping yellowing pages of an old novel and listening to the sounds of the birds chirping and thinking that this is a moment that I could relive over and over again without much of a problem. Sitting against a large oak tree, with the feeling of the blades of summer grass under my fingers.

“Hey, that’s a great book you’re reading,” says a woman’s voice above me.

I look up and it’s her. I heard her voice. I did not hear music. I didn’t hear Chicago playing over anything. I heard her voice and it sounded like milk and honey. It sounded like waves crashing over the beach when you skipped work to go there. For a moment I was stunned, I couldn’t say anything. I looked around for a truck, or an airliner careening out of the sky, or ten junkies with baseball bats and a picture of me with the words, “this man has all the free heroin you want.” scrawled underneath. There was nothing like that though, just me sitting reading my book, and her standing above me with a French press full of coffee, talking to me.

I stupidly looked at my book. Probably to remind myself what I was reading. I tried to say something. I couldn’t say anything. Part of me instantly thought that saying something would cause instant death. My heart would explode. My brain would melt down like a candle in the blast of a flamethrower. If I didn’t say anything though, she’d walk away, and if she walks away then what happens? Do I never see her again? Does she disappear into the ether of time forever? I was in new, uncharted territory, and it seemed like every tick of my heartbeat was different, and therefore dangerous.

“It’s…a book,” is what I finally managed to say. Profound. Stunning. Enlightening. I turned the book over in my hands like it was a foreign object that I didn’t understand, or that I had forgotten what I was reading. The woman of my dreams had spoken to me, and I had responded in a way that meant she would never speak to me again.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked, as she sat down across from me and pulled out two mugs from the bag she had slung across her shoulder.

“I would love some.”

It seemed a simple start to a conversation with the harbinger of death.
The coffee is hot. We both take it black. It tastes delicious, and I sip it anxiously while she looks around the park at the birds. We have a conversation. Something simple and mundane, yet it was an astounding event, and every sentence she spoke seemed like beautiful couplets strung together by perfect strands of string. Just hearing her voice dance over the words lit chambers of my heart I thought had been caked with layers of lost hope. The fear of death faded as we spoke. I no longer looked for a bus full of cinder blocks; instead I just looked at her.

“So, do you just walk around with a French press of coffee, offering it to strangers?” I asked her at one point; curious as to why she always seemed to have something you’d normally never see outside of a kitchen. It hadn’t mattered where I had seen her, she would still always have a French press of coffee.

“I always seem to leave my house with it. When me and my ex broke up, he took all of the travel mugs, and now this is the only thing I can bring with me when I leave the house to keep the coffee hot.”

“and the offering it to strangers part?”

She hesitated for a moment. Took a sip of her coffee and seemed to collect her thoughts by tilting her head skyward and looking at the branches of the tree we were sat under.

“Do you ever get the feeling you’re living the same life over and over?”

“All the time.”

“I feel like I’ve seen you thousands of times, and then something happens, and then I’m back to the start, like I’m forever asleep in a repeating dream.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”
“So when I saw you and recognized you, I felt this tug, of something significant, like I had seen you so many times before, and needed to approach you.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

We parted ways after a few cups of coffee. She gave me her phone number and told me to send her a message if I ever wanted to grab another cup of coffee. I smiled the whole way home. It was when I fell into bed that night, aglow and elated, that a crippling fear came over me, a fear prodded along by questions. Was I still in purgatory? If I died now would I actually be dead? Had things changed? Was the cycle at all broken?

I woke up the next day and sent her a text message. She responded, we talked back and forth and it was light and easy. We agreed to go and get a cup of coffee downtown. From the second I tossed my phone down onto my desk, it felt as if my spinal fluid had been switched out for ice water. I had never known such fear.

Since I’ve been here, I’ve grown to fear hearing the song You’re the Inspiration by the band Chicago. “Here” was a kind of purgatory: It always began on June 4th. Now, I’ve lived my everyday life, I’ve gone for walks in the park, I’ve listened to music, I’ve drank coffee, I’ve worked on the writing, the weather is still sunny and crisp, but I no longer sleep well at night. However, at some point in this existence, I now live in fear of an encounter, an end that will send me back to waking up on the morning of June 4th.
Or I wake up somewhere worse, or nowhere and all. Yet when I think about how her voice sounds, and how good it is to sit and talk to her, I think the fear is worth it.

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Dropped Phone Blues

And in that one swift moment
cement met Chinese child labour results
and power fled the hallowed halls of circuits.

Upon replacement of the displaced battery
the once laser like movements
were sluggish and deadened
like a quadriplegic playing starting line at a football game
and Siri now slurred her words
like a drunk in a dive bar.

Operator fingers move fast
but the machine can’t keep up
and lags behind
like a one legged dance partner.

The way forward
obscured
because googling it now takes
five fucking minutes.

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Waiting For 5 AM

There’s a loneliness to the 4 am grind. You step outside your apartment for some fresh air, and to escape that oppressive heat that seems to seep from the old walls of old buildings in the summer. It’s like you’re the last person on earth, with the busy street outside devoid of noise, devoid of traffic, and devoid of movement. You could walk out into the middle of the street and be in no danger. You feel it, that lack of presence of life, except for the sounds of your own heartbeat, and the caw of the seagulls that never seem to sleep either.

I should be sleeping. I’ve been staying up too late, too often. Now, when I get up before the afternoon, it feels as if the sun is in the wrong place in the sky, and that something about the composition of the day is different now that I have replaced morning with late afternoon.

Someone in the building across from mine is awake. I can see the light through their blinds. Yet they are unreachable, an outpost I can never make my way to. I think it would be nice to have someone else out here in all this haze, someone to have a cup of coffee with, to talk to, to be present, so that I would feel less like the last person on earth.

I go back inside and listen to the refrigerator hum, and the fan turn in the corner of the room. Maybe there’s too much to think about. Maybe the seagulls are keeping me up. I turn on the radio, and tune into a talk station, just to hear voices. The sun will be up soon, and when the buses start to run is usually when I finally fall into a dreamless dozing, sprawled out like a base jumper on a bed with the sheets and pillows kicked to the floor.

I think I sleep then, because I know I’m not alone anymore, that the world is out and alive again, and I have made it alone through the night.

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Hyperbolic Pretentiousness

If I was dying in an alley, and all I had was a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen to record my last thoughts, I would leave them unwritten, because I loathe ballpoint pens.

If I was locked in a cell, with one hour to go before I had to face down a firing squad, and the guard outside the room slid a piece of paper under the door, and pulled a ballpoint pen out of his fatigues and passed it to me, saying “give your last words, and I’ll get them out to your loved ones,” I would request that he give me a different pen.

It’s just the wrong tool. It’s like trying to take out a screw with the wrong kind of screwdriver. There’s no writing to it. There’s no grace in the movement of the pen. It is a device that should only be used to put a note on the back of a business card to remind you to buy more eggs. It shouldn’t come anywhere near anything to do with thought, or anything to do with emotion. The ballpoint pen has no place in these arenas. It belongs with multiples of its brethren, a harem of useless writing utensils, in a coffee cup on your desk.

That coffee cup should be labeled, “Use only in case of supreme dire emergency, and even then, probably don’t use these pens. Why did you buy so many of these fucking things?”

Hopefully you can fit that all on a piece of duct tape.

I know this is an extreme view. This is not something to get worked up about. This is not something to really spend any time thinking about. However, when it comes to stepping into the literary gladiator pits, it helps to be well-equipped. Having a typewriter is being well-equipped, because it’s an object you can hit and punch and use to get the stress out at the same time as all the words. Also, you could drop it off an overpass and literally stop a truck. Pencils have the feeling of the rough thought, of a still beating idea, of a dream not yet fully remembered, and that cast off idea still breathes under each scratch, before you drag its corpse out for display in a concrete final version. A decent pen makes every word you write into a small work of art, there’s a swoop and a movement to each stroke, like steps in a dance, the ink on the page as the twirl of a dress and a quick step to the left or the right.

And computers? Well, it helps to be modern sometimes.

The ballpoint pen is none of these things. It sucks. I loathe to even write my name with one. It turns every sentence into something off of a government survey, a card for a liquor store contest draw, or a job application form for work you don’t want.

Yet, I still have 22 of them on my desk.

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Power Chord 

So the power chord on my computer is fucked. I have never known such boredom. This event has drawn endless spotlight bright attention to the fact that I am basically addicted/attached/dependant on my computer. I can only read so much before the idea of even looking at the printed word anymore makes me want to pull out all my teeth. Although, that hasn’t stopped me from writing this, albeit on my phone. Easily the most professional and fun way to write anything, right? I think it’s a good indicator of how bored I am that I’m writing about my problems and boredom, on my phone, and sharing it all with you. 

This power chord thing doesn’t help with the job situation. I can’t print resumes, or print anything actually. Somehow, I imagine that handing in a resume written on the selectric would lead to actually being laughed out of every single workplace on the lower island. Nobody is that pretentious. 

God, I’m such a child of the digital age. Helpless without my technological umbilical chord. This just leads to more time to think, and thinking is a nightmare whirlwind. 

I would just buy a new one, but my budget is so meagrely thin that it’s breaking its wrists trying to juggle the tins of beans I’m living off of. 
Ugh. Stay positive. Must stay positive. 

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Job Hunting While Slightly Depressed Blues

I hate job hunting. I think everyone does. I don’t think that anyone gets up on a Monday morning, with a handful of resumes, and thinks that it’s going to be a great experience, and that they’re going to fall into bed at the end of the day at a decent hour and think, “wow, that went better than any day of my life! I got a job serving bagels for eleven hours a week, and now I feel like a deity!”

I think that it’s the depression. You’re/I’m already slightly weakened, and the idea of getting a cup of coffee from down the road seems like an insurmountable struggle. Therefore, putting your best self forward and selling confidence seems like a bullshit idea that you’ll tragically rehash with every step toward your desired place of employment.

I’m never more aware of every flaw I have, than when I hand a resume to someone. I can feel every cell of my body just being a giant failure.

Here is a thought process: “I look like shit, I am shit, my resume sucks, why the fuck did I choose Helvetica? My job experience is an embarrassment, I didn’t open strongly enough, I’m talking too low, I’m not making eye contact, I’m fucking all of this up, I’m sorry I came in here, I am sweating too much, I’m looking frail, I can feel weakness gripping every action, why did I say part time? How much do I even want this job? Why am I even doing this?

Fuck it. Fuck this. I’m done.”

And since I know this thought process is coming, I usually do rehearse it in the morning while I’m laying in bed, before I’ve even begun to start the day.

Monday

It’s Monday, it’s 8:30 am, and I’m trying to convince myself to get out of bed and get and early start. The bank account is dwindling, and the only way to get out of that hole is bullshit employment. I can’t make a living as a writer (yet) so I have to do something else.

Here is my thought process at this particular moment:

“8:30, this is too early. I shouldn’t have stayed up so late. I have to get out of bed though, it’s Monday, and managers will be in. You need to shower, shave, put on a nice shirt, and get out there. You need to get out of bed and get out there. Seize the day. Don’t think about how you’d rather have all your teeth pulled out than do this. Don’t think about it going wrong. Think positive. Think that it will go well. Think that by the time you get home today everything will have gone right. It can happen. Stop doubting yourself. Yeah. But be a realist. A realist realizes how shitty this situation is. Wait. Stop. You’re going to die poor and alone. Well, that was fast. Fuck it. Hit snooze.”

I did manage to get up at around 10:30. I got all ready to go out, and hit the streets, all with the constant monologue of the usual miserable shit and occasional flashes of sunlight and hope.

But instead of job-hunting, I mailed some books out, and got a coffee. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. So now I’m at home writing this.

***

 

If you struggle from depression, http://www.betterhelp.com contains thousands of articles on depression, anxiety, and mental health.

https://www.betterhelp.com/advice/depression/10-depression-quotes-that-may-change-your-life/

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Books Now Available On Etsy

Hey all,

My three latest books are now available to purchase through Etsy. So, if you felt buying a book through the blog was a little sketchy, now you can buy it through them!

Thanks,

https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/cfsdpublications?ref=l2-shopheader-name

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