Winter nights in Maryland.  The mist sticks to my jacket.  Moistens my beard.  Saturates my skin.

This is what I feel as I saunter down to the bar.  Stepping over puddles and past open garage doors.  By men shouting to each other for wrenches or pliers or whatever, under and around elevated cars.  

I make my way.  Along the sidewalk.  In darkness.  Alone.

But the bartender lulls me.  With her pony tail and plaid shirt.  With her ease of moving up and down the bar. Handling glassware and beer taps.  Beer patrons and bar guests.  With her cravings for a cigarette, which she verbalizes only to me. 

She permeates.  Gets in.

And I feel vulnerable.  For one Tuesday night, I feel open.  Exposed. Naked.

And it feels good.

Even after she leaves me for the cold

and some smoke.  I know she'll return.  And I know it'll make me smile.  Make me what I want to be.

What is that?

12/22

I wander over to the bar two blocks down.  I make my way there.  End up inside.  On a stool.  Pint in hand.  Sorrows on shoulders.  Blending into the shadows.

This is where I'm drawn on Monday nights in December.  Specifically the Monday before Christmas.  Specifically so.  Here I am.

And I think of the books, stacked on the table in my apartment, that I could be reading.  That I could be exploring and knowing.  With which I could be broadening my being.

But I choose beer instead.  I choose beer because beer is easy company.  Beer doesn't need to be entertained. Beer doesn't need much attention or cognitive assertion on your part.  It only needs a mouth.  A mouth and maybe a few organs and a body to help achieve the goal.  And I'm always striving for that goal.

To transcend.  Cast beyond.  Float above.  Get out.

I need that.  And though the books promise the same result.  Promise that joyful plain of ecstasy.  That heightened understanding of life and love and consciousness, I avoid them.

I avoid them because they require more effort and energy than I have at the end of the day.  More persistence and resolution.  More than I have.

But beer has the fuel to get me to the front stoop of where I always wanted to be.  To plow me past all the problems and plights I disdain.  Just never enough to push open that damn door and shut em out for good.

But I still put my faith in the bar.  And show up there at ten at the night.  And down a few to stumble home.  Instead of winding down with some tea and a shower.  Lying with my cat and allowing a novel to expand my existence across the imagination of another soul.

Right.

12/17

The nights get to me.  Like they always have.  The majesty about them.  The towering buildings, warming the dark with their soft glow.  The hum of car engines idling at traffic lights.  The lone souls smoking cigarettes on sidewalks.  

I'm captivated.  Transfixed.  Elated.

How can I turn away?

And maybe this fascination started in DC.  At the window of my girlfriend's dorm room.  When I couldn't sleep and I'd sit up at the edge of her bed.  Lean my head against the wall and stare out at the nearest intersection.  Watch the green, yellow, red.  The flash from the occasional siren.  Sit there for hours. 

Sometimes she'd wake and ask what's wrong?  Hold her knees and peer into me.  What's wrong?  But I wouldn't ever really acknowledge.  I wouldn't ever really respond.

I'd just want the city to take me for a little longer.  Just a little while longer.  Release me.

12/10

Body aches.  Waking is painful.  Consciousness.  It reinstates my pain.  My suffering.

But I rise from the floor as the cat bites my hand.  Demands something.  Attention.  Breakfast.  Something.

There's sunlight today, and I smile as it kisses my face.  

The clouds have been smothering me.  Coating my existence in a haze.  A thick fog to trudge through.

Last night I venture out for food.  In the drizzling rain and the sparkle of the wet city lights, I walk towards nourishment.  But as the wind attempts to steal my umbrella, as I'm passing the Thai restaurant, coming up to a bar, I lose my direction.  I pause.  Stop.  Don't move.

I look through the window.  At the figures seated on bar stools, leaning towards one another, exchanging stories of moments past.  Laughing with the help of warming spirits.  I watch the couple of folks locked into place, hunched over the bar, fixated on the television.  Pints in hand.  Worries else where.  

I stand there for a minute.  Viewing.  Observing.  Contemplating.

Then I turn back towards my apartment.  Twist my head down. Spear my umbrella into the wind.  Take long, quick strides.  

Who needs food anyway?

12/7

Where does my mind take me?  My body?  Who is in control?

My feet rest on the windowsill of my Baltimore loft.  It's cold and the cat claims the sole patch of sunlight heating the frozen floor boards.

What am I doing here?

My belongings lay scattered about the enormous room.  Backpacks and boxes lining the walls.  Piles of

clothes and kitchen-ware.  Mounds of stuff.  Junk.  Accumulated rubbish.

Such is my life.

So I do the things I feel I should.  I shower.  I shave.  I brush.  I do laundry.  I sweep.  I organize.  Or at least make an attempt.

I make coffee and sip at it as I stare out the window.  As I view the students shuffling into the university across the street.  Take in the shrinking puddles of water from last night's rain, atop the rooftops of the warehouses adjacent to my building.  Admire the chirping birds on my fire escape, before they shoot off to wherever.

Then it's only ten in the morning.  It's only ten and I've exhausted my methods of killing time.  A slew of hours stand before me.  A day that beckons me to dance.  But I'd rather not.  

I'd rather sign out and came back later.  Do this thing part time.  Two or three days a week.  Nothing too consuming.

At least it's only temporary though.  I know this.  I tell myself this.  Even if that time stretches before me like a welcoming eternity, I know better.  I know there's an end.  A drop.  A darkness.

I just can't seem to find it.

12/6

I survive in a state of shivers.  Unceasing shakes.  Steadfast shudders.

The cracks in the windows.  The holes in the floor.  The absence of heat.  Water.  

Help.

I'm not going to make it.

The cat eagerly crawls beneath the covers with me.  Something he's never done.

Something no one has ever done.

We steal warmth from each other though.  I squeeze him with my legs to extract as I much as I can.  And he purrs and burrows.  I'm not sure who benefits more.

My dreams are cloudy and fragmented.  I can't keep hold of them.  How much sleep am I actually obtaining?

My nose is frozen.  Best not to think about it.

When there's a hint of sunlight I bolt up.  Begin moving.  Pacing the room. Bending down.  Standing up.  Expending energy.  Generating heat.

But it looks like rain today.  Which means I'm on my own.  No assistance.  No relief.  Just me and the cat.  Fumbling through another day.

I have low expectations.

12/3

Eye lids won't open today.

The drive to Baltimore is surreal.  The clouds and reflections of light and early morning fog glaze over me.

I should not be driving.

So I sip on the coffee I picked up at a gas station.  It burns my tongue and I whimper.  Like a child.  Then a cigarette is in my mouth and I'm lowering the window.  Letting the cold air come rushing in.

Cars breeze by me.  To my left.  To my right.

I am not going fast enough.

I press on the accelerator and try to concentrate.  Widen my eyes and straighten my back.  A couple slaps on either cheek.

Then I'm playing with the radio.  I'm pressing buttons and turning knobs.  Catching static and country tunes, weather reports and pop songs.  A car horn blares at me as I drift into the next lane.

I jerk the wheel right.  Then left.  Then right again.

Angry commuters glare at me for the moment they have to peer in through my windows, before speeding off toward the horizon.  Such contorted and pained expressions.

I can't keep up.

So I check my mirrors and make my way to the side of the highway.  Coast to a stop.  Close my eyes and lean back.  Let the cigarette lackadaisically hang my from lips.

And ignore the cars streaming by my window.

12/2

I gravitate between Winchester and Baltimore.  Two hours lost in each direction.  Two hours stripped away, no matter which way I face.  How long have I stared at the highway?

In Baltimore I scoop coffee beans into buckets.  Into bags.  Where ever they need to go.  I do this all day.  When I leave I carry clouds of coffee fumes with me.

In Winchester I wander about the apartment.  I kick up dust and let the cat sit on my stomach and knead my chest when I inevitably crash to the floor.  Occasionally I'll stare at myself in the mirror for an undocumented amount of time.  Pull at hairs or poke at pores or trace all the little red lines of my eye.

In the car I smoke cigarettes and weed.  Drink coffee and beer.  Anything to modify the experience of sitting in the driver's seat and tugging at the steering wheel while maneuvering through fleets of angry commuters.  The radio goes on and off every fifteen minutes or so.  It fluctuates with my aggravation.

And I hope for an end.  I twist my fingers together and close my eyes in desperation, aware that I'm doing nothing beyond crossing my fingers and closing my eyes.  But I pretend it means something more.  I pretend it has substance and power.  That it'll make a difference.  That, for some reason, it will alleviate some of the tension and pressure of moving and transitioning and settling and remaining so undoubtedly apprehensive.

But when I open my eyes I see nothing but grey skies.  Condensation dripping from the power lines.  The flicker of a store front sign.  Brake lights.  

Do I feel lighter?

12/1

Nightmares.  I wake cold in darkness.  In a basement somewhere outside Baltimore.

Have I been kidnapped?

I wrap the checkered blanket around me tightly and curl into the fetal position.  Chatter.  Shiver.

Carpet lays beneath me and I dig my face into it.  Try to heat myself with my breath.  It doesn't work.  I spit strands of hair from my mouth.

And that nightmare.  Who was walking toward me?  The figure that gave me such a shudder I found myself mumbling when I woke.  Heart racing.  Fists clenched.

Better not to remember.  Better that it has left me.  Better to be alone.

Then I wonder of the hour and how soon the sun will rise and bring me some warmth, some light.  But I dare not check the time.  I dare not open my eyes or move from beneath this blanket.

If not for fear of the cold and darkness, then fear of my own imagination.  And the terrors it will create when I give it a window.