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Thursday, Sept. 19, 2002 / 11:41 a.m. ~Jim, and the Memory Lane Bathroom~ I think I am becoming one with this chair. I never thought I�d sit so much, and that�s my fault entirely. I could �work out�, I could walk or run, well, I walk all I can� Major interruption!!! Someone just called me, someone inside the building, and why me, why me, why me? The Corporate Liaison caught a raccoon this morning, she has it in her office, she said it walked right up to her (I said, �It probably has rabies!!!!�, she says, �That�s what I told her�). She wants me to go the bigwig and tell her to let it go, to call Animal Control. I repeat, WHY ME?! No, I can�t get involved. I�m a fucking peon. My Nick Drake CD is over, I have to listen to The Doors now, I�m sorry, I can�t get involved in raccoon issues. Yeah, �Roadhouse Blues�. Why me? Why did she call ME? What did she think I would do? Run over to the Corporate Bigwig and tell her to let the cute little raccoon go? Call Animal Control and risk them killing it? I�m supposed to get involved why? This person, this woman who called me, used to work in this department, and she was one of those people who went behind my back and �told on me�, betrayed me to management, and it was horrible. I can trust no one here. When she left to work in another department I was SO happy. Now she is responsible for auditing my work. Ah, the irony. I barely say Hello to her, and that took a long time to happen. It was months before I could even look her in her eyes. So she wants ME to deal with this raccoon thing. Huh? Jim Morrison is snarling in my ears. Sing it, Jim! Whoo, major contrast to Nick Drake from a few minutes ago. My caffeine is hitting me hard this week. I come in here at 9:00 and I�m ready to go! Like, GO! It�s wholly inappropriate. And what�s with my bathroom becoming a walk down Memory Lane? Every time I walk in there I start in, self-analysis, memories, the men, the parents, the sibling, the locales, the events, I run through all of it, like the shower is a couch, and the warm water Dr Freud�s soothing cancer-ridden voice. What? This morning it was my first lover. I know why, I know how it started, he loved a particular Rolling Stones song, waxed on and on about it over the phone that night, the night we talked and talked and talked and I left with him for the night, we went to a hotel in the morning. It popped in my head, this morning, only some 26 years later, that I ran into him at the Aerosmith concert. When I was 15. Fucking 15! I saw him with someone else and it hurt, and I crossed the building so as not to let him see me seeing him. Why do I need to go there? To that memory? First thing in the morning? What is it about my bathroom that forces me to take these trips???? Give me half an hour, maybe less, the sugar will drop me, the caffeine will be washed away with the copious amounts of water ingested, I�ll fall, I�ll sit and read and all will be well. I won�t be ready to rumble, I won�t be thinking of my old bestest friend and her husband, how they let out the cat I gave to them, how the cat was run over and killed and my friend told me by leaving a message on my answering machine. I don�t want this memory, I don�t want many of them, there are too many and they tend to replay themselves against my will. It�s like reverse Alzheimer�s. I can�t help but remember every little thing. From a minute or two ago to 30 years. Skipper hated The Doors. Said they had no talent whatsoever. He thought Ray Manzarek�s keyboards sucked. Horrible, he said. I gasped. Don�t take it apart, I said, it�s not a symphony, look at it as a whole, Jim�s voice, his poetry, on top of these other layers, the guitar, the organ, the soft drums in the background. It�s nothing to be dissected. No rock and roll is. Skipper�s a jazz purist, rock and roll is not for him, which, in addition to him being 60 years old, was a good reason we�d have a big gap in any relationship we tried to entertain. Entertain, hah! Poor Skipper. I never contacted him. I only assumed his cancer was back. I can�t deal with it. How horrible am I? I barely know the man. But when I got on the bus last time, on the road again, another protest, another mass onslaught in D.C., I had the tunes cranking in the Walkman and he asked, �What are you listening to?�, �I�m sorry, what???� (loud, you know, I couldn�t hear�), repeat, �Oh, The Doors�. With scrunchy face he says, �I hate The Doors�. The gasp, the dismay, the live and let live attitude overtaking me in my old age maturity. Ah, well, we can�t all love the same things, now can we? So, first thing this morning I was thinking about my first. And where is he now, and does he ever think of me, and what is his memory, and there is no question mark here because these are rhetorical questions, they don�t merit the punctuation. 9:39 a.m. I have the free weekly, I need to dig into it, I�ve got Jim, but I can hear all the chatter over him, beyond him, it irritates me, like sand in my shoes. If I could shake these women out of my ears like sand from my shoes I�d be happy. I�d forgotten all about seeing him in the concourse at the Omni all those years ago, and was it before the show or after? It was Aerosmith, it was �75 or �76, and I was drinking, I was too young to drink, and it was cheap beer, it was a 40 of Miller we passed around and I have no memory of with whom� that memory is gone, but seeing him, with her, that�s still there. What is up with that??? �I�m a spy� in the house of love�� Okay, I�ve gone from caffeine high and raring to go, to caffeine jittery and intensely irritable. This is fun. Not. The music is supposed to relax me, to take me away from here, but the sounds are too loud, I hear it ALL on top of the music and it ends up being this horrible cacophony, this scream real loud (Remember Pee Wee�s secret word??? When you hear the secret word, scream REAL LOUD!) kill me now intense more than just sand in shoes, more like ice picks in eyes irritation. Kill me now. Time to stop writing. The typing is yet another sound, this clunky old keyboard, this sticky, keys stuck have to press hard to make anything happen keyboard. Blech! My favorite song on this album, and then I�ll go, �Indian Summer�, I sing it to Norman and Gladysan, all the time, �Iiiii love you, the best, better than all, the rest� � it�s beautiful. I joke when I sing it to each cat. I love them equally. Ooooo, it got quiet in here for just that moment. How could Skipper hate this music, it�s so beautiful. Cost of the War in Iraq
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