Stream of consciousness has become my preferred method of writing lately. Perhaps this stems from feeling confused. From the feeling of inevitability. From growing older. From watching time pass. From being 35 years old, next week, and still trying to find my way in life. From trying to understand the world and my place in it.
I write every day. I don’t always post my writings on one of my blogs though (yes, I have more than one).
I used to smoke cigars when I was a young man. I can remember standing outside coffee houses with my buddy Brian, deep in conversations about philosophy or maybe just bullshit, puffing on a cigar. I was in a cigar club at the bar I worked at (Moose McGillycuddy’s in Long Beach). Each week a different member took a turn buying cigars for the other members. We took pride in our selections, oh yes. It wasn’t about the most expensive cigars at all. It was about finding the right smoke to fit the mood for the week. I can remember smoking cigars and sitting on the stairs outside my apartments in Long Beach with various friends. I used to smoke cigars with Cindy. In the cigar fad heyday of the mid 1990’s there were a plethora of cigar shops where I lived, and each one let you smoke inside, outside, wherever. These were comfortable places to hang out. I started smoking again in Chico. I would buy a cigar across the street from school and smoke it on the way home. Today when I smoke a cigar my mind is awash in memories.
Being a poor man, memories are just about all I own.
Being a night person means knowing that you’re different from everyone else. Normal people are asleep when I feel most awake. Everything about the night is exciting to me. The air feels more alive. It’s quieter–I can hear myself breath, and I like that. The darkness envelops me like a warm blanket, comforting and welcoming me. My light-sensitive eyes prefer dark rooms and dark nights. I love walking under a blanket of stars. I like doing errands at night–no lines, no crowds, and best of all: I’m with my fellow night peoples.
I can remember something that happened to me when I was in the 8th grade. My high school was 8-12; the junior highs were closed in my home town. I was a new student in a new and scary place and having to make all new friends. One day I overheard another person talking about me as I walked past. I distinctly heard the word “loner”. This memory has stayed with me all of my adult life. A loner is what I have become. When Cindy left me I took a year to mourn. When I started to think that it might be time to start dating I thought more carefully about what that might mean. And I decided that perhaps I’m a better person, a more real Tom Bissell, when I’m single.
But this doesn’t mean that I like to be alone all the time. Sometimes I’ll go to 24 hour places just to be around other people, my people, the night people. My gym is open 24 hours. I remember the first time I went at 3am; it was packed, and I was pleasantly surprised. Sometimes I’ll go to the supermarket and walk around, not buying anything, just to be “out”. And when I go to places like Las Vegas I’m in heaven–LV is truly a 24 hour town.
One of my ex-girlfriends once called me a “tumbleweed” because I don’t put down roots anywhere, I like to move around. Some people might be comfortable working the same job, living in the same town or the same house, their entires lives (like my mother) but not me. Once I’ve lived somewhere a couple of years I start to feel like I’m rotting. I feel a sense of urgency that it’s time to move on. Like now. I’ve been in Hayward for two years. I feel the rot.
I’ve moved around so much. I’ve tried different careers. I’ve gone to many different colleges and had many different majors. I’ve lived all up and down this state. The thought of moving someplace complete different and starting over doesn’t worry me, it excites me. Exploring a new neighborhood and making new friends is just plain cool.
I remember when I was a kid there was this streetlight that shone right through my bedroom window. I’d stare at that light for hours at night, waiting to fall asleep, while I listened to my sisters sleeping soundly down the hall. I hated that light. Ever since then I’ve always tried to place my bed in such a way that no fucking street lamp will EVER shine upon me while trying to fall asleep.
When I dated Michele we had our favorite foods. Buffalo mozzarella with pine nuts and cucumber slices and roma tomatoes topped with olive oil and black pepper, apples and peanut butter, clam dip; these are the things that I recall. This was monkey food. To this day, when I eat these things, I think of Michele. I still refer to these treats as Monkey Food, after Michele the Monkey Girl, the girl that I truly loved like no other.
That’s about all I feel like writing about, right now.
