Can you drive stick shift?

A new friend just told me in passing, that he liked cars. I went to sleep wondering what kind of car man he was.

 

Lots of questions for him, way after the conversation was over. Do the cars you have work? Did you work on them yourself? Or are they broken and in need of repair, and you'll get around to them at some point? Are they collectible, expensive, and fawned over by others? Or are they just special to you? What color are they? Do you drive them, or do they sit covered? Have you had sex in your cars? Or, no way, because you stand there with a soft rag to hurriedly brush out any fingerprint or mark from anyone touching them.

Men always say "cars are like women", but that's only because, at first, only men were allowed to have and play with cars. I think, because of how I grew up, men can be just like the cars they pick out and drive.

My Grandfather ran his own automotive repair shop. He started on the Model A's and Model T's. He would let me sit in them and pretend I was going somewhere fantastic. Sometimes, when no one was around, he would pretend with me. We would take wonderful imaginary trips together, long drives to China. He would drive them in the town's parades. Sometimes, I got to ride in the parades wearing an brand new outfit my Grandmother sewed for me. I don't even remember what the parades were about...Only the people, the noise, the waves and claps, my new outfit,s and my Grandfather with the car. His was always the best in the parades. He would later die of cancer because of the asbestos brakes he worked on...we just didn't know then. His shop was one of the first buildings to go up in the tiny, dusty, dry, cotton farming town. He would always wear coveralls and didn't talk much. Sometimes, I would get to go to the shop with him. I would help with handing him tools or kind of fixing stuff. He made me feel important and just like any one of the guys. I wasn't different there because I had a vagina. Lots of men hung out at the shop, shooting the shit among the dust and grease covered chairs.

I grew up liking cars. I can work on them, I don't much care to, but I can do it. I don't get swindled much. I wanted to race cars. I wanted a huge dually truck truck with KC lights. I like early Camero's over Mustangs. And old giant Cadillac's with the giant trunks you can either hide yourself or possibly someone else in. 

I have a Honda Civic. Why? It's economical and dependable, it doesn't even have any bells and whistles on it. It's just a get there and back car.  

But, in my dreams I have all the cars that I wanted, and I have my own coverall, too.

So you think you're better than me? Okay...We are at an impasse then.

Talking with a friend who is still working.  He was having issues with someone who was talking down to him...thinking they were better than my friend.  How annoying.  And always middle management, how boring.  Total time wasting snore.

It only works if you believe it to be true. You have to put of a serious wall of Ignore.  And they won't stop.  They can't, it's not in their nature.  AND -if they are better than you, there is always someone better than them, and so on, and so on.

I have a personal list of people that I think are better than me. People who I feel insecure around, people who I marvel at, people who humble me.  But, the people who really think that they are the ones better than me, never seem to make it onto my personal, very exclusive, private, invite-only list. You might remind them that they are just not on your list. I would do that.  Sorry, access denied, back of the line, please.  

I recently had someone tell me that they were smarter than me.  I didn't know what to say to that.  I could have fought about it, I guess.  Brought all my friends to testify.  But, you can't fix other people and their opinions.  I marveled a bit, that someone would think that much of themselves with such conviction that they would need to say it out loud - really need to say it out loud   

I tend to think if you have to say it loudly, then it's a bit of "no matter how many times you say it, it won't make it true" business.  And, of course, I didn't believe it.  What a silly thing to say.  We all know who's really the smarter one, here.  Silly-billy. Pat on the head. All I could say was, "Okay".

I was deeply hurt and damaged, early on.  And now, I'm busy.  I don't sit in hurt as much as I did before.  I don't seem to focus so much on it.  It could be age and experience.  It could be lack of being in touch.  It could be a host of things.  I think once you've been hurt deeply and recovered...lived to tell about it and go forward from it, then whatever someone tries to do or say becomes like water off a duck's back.  No one can ever repeat what has already been down before.  Like a sequel to a movie, never-ever as good as the first one.  

Maybe it's a case of when your younger, we all believe that everyone is going to be our friend, our partners in building an awesome world and sharing stuff.  Then, at some point, you realize that there are billions upon billions of people on the planet, and you realistically cannot be friends with everyone....Oh shit, how tiring THAT would be.  Save that woman that give hugs to everyone.  People line up for her.  I think she's got an fantastic friend mission, but can't personally be involved with everyone, has to be cut off at the hugs.  But, total A for effort with that one.

I was reading some psychology and neurology texts.  We have discovered that some people's brain development stops a bit after a traumatic incident.  I'm not saying actually brain damage.  I saying development.  We can go ahead and put brain DAMAGED people in their own category  just to be fair and all.  Also, sometime in brain damaged people their brain remaps and stuff, so they may actually be quite brilliant and fine.  And sometimes they end up jacking off in public and not even realizing that's what their doing.  Definitely their own category.

Before there were names given to specific things like Peter Pan Syndrome, Wendy Syndrome, lots of others, etc.  Hell, it's even made it's way into Science Daily, the articles. Sometimes there isn't even a trauma, it's just the way people were raised.  

We apparently have a host of bat-shit-crazy-stuck people just running around rampant.  And you can't know who's got what from what and when.  From the nerd who got beat up, to the football player who peaked after that one goal, to the girl who was kidnapped and held as a sex slave, to the car accident victim, the kid who got the belt, the kid who got the trust fund ....Oh, the list can just go on and on.  

Yes, the thought of that should make us all a bit paranoid today.  You can thank me for making that connection.

Oh, they could get fixed, with therapy, and maybe religion or something.  However, is it unlikely that's going to happen.  Probably not. 

So, my dear friend, what say you?  Shall we sit, scared? Paranoid? Annoyed? Or can we go around and have a piece of cake and some coffee?  Maybe something exotic to our region? There are planets, there are bugs, there is a nice breeze....a breeze....a breeze that we can't even see, but know it's there.  Those people are only seconds in your life.  And right now, we have seconds to use as we like.  

Hmmm...define interesting.

My friend texts me to see if I've been doing anything interesting lately? Define interesting. I have not been sky diving, or seen the coral castle, or Ireland, or edible bugs, or the space station, etc., etc.  So no, not really.  I read about interesting, I know it's out there.  I know people are doing it.

I.

Right now, I am taking care of by neighbor's chickens.  My neighbors are on vacation - I'm sure that's interesting.  It's a cruise - on the giant, endless, strangely populated ocean - so, I know it is interesting.  It won't be so interesting when they tell me about it and show me the pictures. 

I did lay in the grass with the chickens examining me close up. They coo'd at me and pecked at my hair and glasses.  Personally, I was glad I had the glasses on.  After dropping an egg of theirs and watching them eat their own, I do suspect my eyeballs might have been to them, what fried chicken feet are to us. I'm only guessing though.  I did smell like chicken shit. I probably laid in some, but it washed off.  Better chicken shit than cow shit or human shit. Why yes, I do think there are levels of shit...human shit being the very worst. Yes, I am a self-loathing human shit hater.  I am very comfortable with it.

Some people say chickens are stupid.  I'm not convinced that they are any more stupid than some of the humans I see.  They seem to be a highly organized tribe - a bit of a well-oil/feathered machine.  I think they are probably more like a Communist Clan over a straight-up Dictatorship.  If one gets out of line, then they are pecked at severely and sent "over there" for a bit for re-education training.  And there are the Have's vs, the Have Nots. Oh, to be at the bottom of that barrel.

Two of them sit on me and let me pet them fairly often.  Which I think it quite forgiving of them, since every day I steal their eggs...their unborn.  Perhaps, they are just horrible mothers and thankful that someone takes the damn things. 

II.

I have an old lady neighbor stalking me, a bit.  She is short, and frail, but seemingly good health.  She knows that I am watching the chickens, and she keeps making excuses to call me and see me...be it all "for the chickens". Every day she calls me with yet another batch of slightly moldy bread or almost going bad fruit and vegetables..."for the chickens". And I forgot to give her back her Tupperware.   And last night, she was conveniently out taking her evening walk near the chicken house, and just happened to see me. Shit, now she knows my car. 

I pulled over and noted my shame in not returning her Tupperware quickly. And she said it was fine, but in that old lady kind of fine - where you know that it is NOT fine. She directed my vehicle to her home for more free, slightly outdated items.  She asked me to come in and meet everyone.  Her home is HUGE, and filled with lovely things, and animals and people.  Wonderful old lady things, that I just know have fantastic stories to them - Coffee clutch kind of adventurous stories. She is really super fixated on chatting with me. And now that I've seen the house, I am certainly tempted.  Maybe she is responsible for her mother, her adult daughter, her husband, and just needs another adult to chat with. But, am I really that person?  I'm not completely sure how I feel out being that person. It's not her, I think quietly, it's me.  I'm just so noncommittal these days.  I don't want to feel obligated to answer the phone every time. But, then, the other nagging part of me, the needing to care for and respect my elders. Oh, and the stories with the stuff.  And I do like coffee. Can you catch Stockholm Syndrome that fast?

Before I left, she gave me the lowdown on her yard, which is beautiful. Perhaps, I am even a bit jealous that I did not get to do all the similar projects in my own yard.  It's cool, and green, with many different plants and bugs, and small critters.  It smells nice, and I would like to nap there, I think. The fireflies greeted us.  The chickens do not stay up to catch fireflies.  How lucky for those bugs is that?...Well, or smart. 

She pointed at the neighbor's house across the street that she's in a slight feud with.  He always parks his car right in front of her driveway, making it hard for her to get out, and all because he stepped on her lawn once without asking permission.  She didn't care that he was on her lawn, but only, that he did not ask.  Now he plays "that car park business", just to get at her. And she did hope that I didn't have any trouble getting out of the driveway. I didn't state that I had about two cars worth of space and could totally get out.  No, I didn't say that.  

He's one of those Proud Mexican men, she noted.  Never like a woman to tell them anything.  I said if I accidentally hit his car, would she laugh or tell on me? Her eyes widened, and she did not reply.  But, she did smile a sneaky smile.  I think I would totally get away with it. But, I don't know her all that well enough yet, to commit a crime.

I took a drive last night before chicken/old lady time.  The road was long and the traffic was bad getting there. I saw three Latino punkrock boys crossing over the bridge to the river.  All had such great styled jet black hair. And they just looked like they were going somewhere to do something someone else would want to call them out on, but I would totally love...or maybe they were just walking.

I volunteered. And during that volunteer time, I met a lesbian couple who had just gotten married in New York. One was Jewish and one was Christian. I asked if they had a cake, since I love wedding cake.  They did.  And I also noted that I loved those tasty little melt-away mints and mixed nuts that were had at wedding and wakes alike, but I didn't believe in marriage for myself.  The idea of having a binded contract with any Government about who I could love or not love just drove me crazy. However, I loved that they got married and wished all those who wanted it, could do it.  But, mostly, I loved the cake. I also told them I was a non-believer, but I liked some of the stories. The Jewish lesbian said she hadn't wanted to marry in a synagogue. 

So, there we all were...different in some things, yet able to co-exist in the volunteer world.  If only the larger world would just do the same. The same with wedding cake for everyone.

III.

And on the drive home, I saw a drunkard, homeless man at a bus stop. He was sun-beaten, in a winter coat and jeans, covered in dirt, filth and stains. He was picking his nose. I mean, really digging in there to get that boogery treasure.  I wanted to ask him, "Why bother?".  The rest of you is dirty and stinky but you seem to be intent on cleaning out your nose.  What a strange thing.  And I didn't get to see if he actually got the booger, and if he ate it or not - the light changed.  Maybe I would have gagged, maybe not.  Maybe he would have just flicked the booger. Or maybe he would have wiped it on the bus stop for someone else to sit on and/or find. MAYBE he would have eaten the booger because he was starving? (I told my other friend about this, he asked me if boogers were considered Vegan. I didn't know the answer. Maybe, but they have all the days germs and pollutants in them, so surely not.)

The drive home to the chickens was quick.  I got on this familiar stretch of road.  And I still remembered how to time my speed from my pizza delivery day.  I didn't hit one red light.  got a little sad to see more cool places being torn down to make room for more trendy shitbag stuff.  The awesomeness that made this town, cannot be recaptured in strange paint jobs and high-rise condos.  Those people already missed it...missed it all. 

I want to move soon.  I want to go some place that I don't remember when, so much.

IV.

And I got too tiny cupcakes for volunteering.  They had the good icing on them, not wedding cake icing, but not that "light" icing shit either.  I ate them both.

yeah, define interesting.

Not Seeing Red.

There were a thousand haikus sent to Mars.  It was a contest.  And humans sent in their thoughts, their pens to papers, to see it off to circle the Red Planet. 

 I have never been a master or the haiku. I think somewhere I have the one I did in fourth grade.  In my corduroy pants and polyester stripped shirt, I tried so hard. There were piles of crumpled papers everywhere before it was settled.  I transferred each word ever so carefully with my tiny hands on to cardstock. I cut the cardstock in half, after bending it to make sure the ends met exactly.  Then, I cut a piece of bright green construction paper the same way.  I used just enough Elmer's clue to put my haiku on the green, half sheet.  I carefully put a huge book on it overnight to dry, so the ends wouldn't curl up.   I hadn't even truly mastered handwriting, but somehow, I was supposed to come up with a fucking haiku. A decorative, fucking haiku, at that.  I remember doing the project begrudgingly, but I really gave it my duty-all. I turned it in, got and didn't get an A. I was mad, and I argued, with no relief - No one listens to you in the fourth grade.  And I DID NOT get an A, because the structure was incorrect.  NOT because it didn't make sense.  I got marks off for making up a word, a name for something that didn't exist. I got marks off for using my imagination. And I never did it again. That was the end of my haikuing career. 

But, to have your words put into space - just circling and circling a dry, desert, red, planet. The papers encased in metal and cold silence, held into place by forces we know of, but can't feel to the touch. I should like that.  I should admire that. But, I'm not sure if I like the idea or not.  I've been disinterested with Mars ever since we found out the Face of Mars was just a rock formation.  I think I liked it better when it was a face.  I just don't think a bunch of haikus are going to make me feel better about that loss. 

But, did I do anything better today?  I did my laundry. I did hang out my red underwear on the clothes line to dry. At the time, I did feel like I had done something brilliant, getting all the house chores done.  But, none of it will go into the history books. Of that, I am completely sure of.  

It's been quite a few long months.  And there will be a few months more, before things are settled.  I've been very quiet lately.  I think some people think it's depression.  It's not.  I'm just enjoying the quiet.  Preparing my reserves.  Enjoying the quiet. It's a little like cleaning out a dirty garage, filled with dust and clutter, and used and broken things. Old Christmas decorations, the too small and rusted bike, the cans and bottles for recycling, the tools, and smeared oil stains.  Hard work to get all that done.  But, when it's finished, I want to repaint the walls of my empty mind garage, redo the floor and the ceiling. That's what I've been doing.  I just want to sit in there, and enjoy the work done, and clean and quiet.  I know like any garage, there will be stuff, new stuff, piling up in it soon enough. It is our nature to continue to collect.  

I have been listening to music.  My favorite song of all is Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata - all three parts.  It may be, for me, the most touchingly brilliant piece of music ever.  I can listen to it over and over again, and never get tired of it.  Some day, I think that I will even have sex with someone to it.  And I would probably cry through the whole damn thing.  How could I not? But, that would be a very special person indeed.  I would never put my blessed Beethoven in harms way by attaching him to some ordinary sod.  And if I die before that happens, then so be it.  I do suspect I will die before it happens.  Hasn't happened in the first forty years, and not be super crass, but that's really going to have to be one hell of a guy and one hell of a penis. The purity of the song must remain above all. 

I had it turned way up in my headphones, so loud that my ears almost hurt. I laid next to the bed with my legs up on the edge my back on the cold floor. The floor was so nice.  My eyes closed and the dog's breath on my face.  And when it was done, I just played it again, two more times.  Beethoven is history, that will never be undone, or defeated.  All we have is his music. No one left who knew him.  But these notes, from a brain, a human brain.  He heard them in his mind - his brain.  Completely incomprehensible. We barely have any humans that reach this level of miraculous.  We barely know anything about the brain.  I hope in our studies we don't undo Beethoven like we did Mars.  

After that, I went out to hang my underwear...but, not a haiku.