I've been dirt and I don't care

Humor in horror: there seems to be no end to it, the subtle nuance of disaster which starts with a chuckle and ends in an ache, tears streaming down your face as you grasp at your stomach from the pain. Life takes on the nature of a television sitcom sometimes, with the requisite laugh track in the back, the smallest indignities eliciting the stock laugh until you find yourself a master of comedy, a primetime television series in the making. It wouldn’t be all too impressive, though, in the end. It would probably just get people down.

Ivy seems to have snatched away my unemployment benefits, fucking up the entire weekend, and stretching out into the foreseeable future, like a stain on a tablecloth, stretching out from its center and seeping out into infinity, ruining a houseguest’s pants. But, ah, well: it was bound to happen this way. There was probably already a park bench with my name stamped on it, its existence situated solely on my own waking existence in the world, waiting precisely for this moment, when we would intersect. And some things are like that.

If you need me, you know where I’ll be, face paint and motioning to the masses, a real sad clown.

Eyes lit on sharp threats from dark lips
Things have gotten out of control. I seem to be out of a job again, which seems to be my natural state, scuttling around all day, like a lobster, claw-like feet audibly scraping the sidewalk and naked pincers reaching at the sky for something, anything to grasp on to. Luckily, every other person in my life, with the notable exception of SG—whose frame of mind seems to border on a state of total serenity, like someone entertaining a perpetual ambulatory state on the shores of a white sand beach somewhere, with only the sensation of tepid wave pools gently touching against her feet, totally unawares of my own flailing—seems to be on the verge of a suicidal depression, and so it makes my own situation look OK, comparatively.

The only thing threatening this way of existence seems to be the temp agency, and a woman named Ivy from the labor department, whose been phoning me and telling me my unemployment benefits are in jeopardy because I have refused a job offer. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, although totally known by the people at the ye old unemployment division, someone has offered me a job which I apparently did not accept, which is an offense of the highest order at the labor depot. Ivy promptly has me on the horn about this matter at nine am one morning, my head still a contusion of cobwebs and confusion, completely unable to get my story together that I did not in fact refuse employment, and that I am, actually, at nine am, in the fevered throes of scrapping my way to the top of the food chain. Ivy is unconvinced, however—so versed in these matters perhaps—so used to dealing with lowly life forms like my own—that she mine as well be teleporting to my bedroom at home and beating me with a rubber hose until I get up and march out, onward, to my new job. She ploughs gracelessly ahead, asking me a succession of the same three questions over and over again, as I issue new and completely original answers each time.

“But so you did receive a call, and you did proceed to take the insurance agency job and then not show up?” she asks in the incredulous voice you use to talk to small school children. “Oh, man,” I whine. “Well, it’s hard for me to remember, because that conversation took place, like, over a month ago. And besides, I would never accept a job like that.” Answers like these only seem to press Ivy to a further state of irritation, and she begins to let me have it. “That conversation, mind you, was not over one month ago, and you can’t remember what was said??” I stammer, looking for the answer, finding little of merit in the overwhelming fact that I should be swept from the earth in a great cleansing flood, and then, almost simultaneously, I begin to feel a real sense of reverent awe for the psychic abilities of Ivy and her ability to deduce from our ten minute conversation the complete and utter transparency of my answers. And then, simultaneously, I begin to feel a real sense of compassion for her too, having to make these calls all day, dealing with people like me, the sloth-like visage formulating from the sound of my voice, and the naked imagery forming in Ivy’s mind as she stews over her coffee-stained desk calendar and the clacking of keyboards all around. It seems unreal to me that such a job even exists. And then I realize: Ivy was probably a real slack-off in a prior life, having been sent back to bestow the virtues of grinding it out, and threatening one’s very important unemployment benefits from her mighty throne as unemployment intermediary. That seems like a fair enough perception of the afterlife to me, although not a very reassuring one.

I try and sweet talk Ivy before the conversation ends, but things look bad for me. “—But so wait,” I ask her, before hanging up. “What happens now?” She informs me in no uncertain terms that it will take some discussion with her supervisor and then she will formulate an opinion, at which point in time I either will or will not continue to receive unemployment checks from the state. “But so you can’t tell me right now?” I want to know. “No,” she says firmly, “I cannot.” I hang up the phone and fall back into the gentle embrace of a sweet, if not slightly paranoia-tinged, sleep, as Ivy, simultaneously, goes back to her own situation, tinged with who could say what? I had hoped that she would show some compassion for me, and that she could see my side of the story, which was a sketchy side, I to admit, but a sometimes enjoyable, if not overwhelmingly money-less side, most of the time.

Before falling asleep, I thought of neon lighting systems and recycled air and perspired underarms on shirts buttoned up to the top, and then a concrete sleep subsumed me.

No fun to hang around/freaked out for another day

Talking to SG’s friend outside of a bar Saturday night. It’s her first time visiting Albany and we are out for the night. She can’t help but note the particularly pungent smell of the watering hole we happen to be patronizing. “Can you smell that in there?” she wants to know, wrinkling her nose. “It smells like lavender and old people and grim death itself.” We have a good laugh at this. Scent, NPR has recently related to me, is strongly associated with memory, and I chide her that her olfactory association with Albany will be forever associated with sordidness and a putrid smell. And so there you have it, Albany, New York: grim death itself.