Allston Summer Nights

So, tickets in hand I bicycled over to her apartment. I didn't trust my piece of shit phone to hold a charge, so I had to meet her prior to the show. My week had been an eventful one, including an arrest, a couple house parties, and a hit of acid. As we pedaled back over to Allston, I regurgitated these stories, perhaps embellishing them a little, but hey, I am an entertainer. We arrived at the venue and I listened from the outside. Big D wasn't playing yet so we agreed to smoke a cigarette and take a couple drags of the Ol' Thompsons. I sat down on the cracked sidewalk, beside a vent that was blowing hot air, perhaps from a dryer. She got a phone call from a friend and began chatting. I began rolling a cigarette when an older long gray-haired man approached me and inquired if I had purchased my tobacco from the smoke store at Harvard Square. I had. That store sells very nice, fresh rolling tobacco for much cheaper than the mass produced corner store brands. Anyway, he sat down on the sidewalk next to me and began to explain how a friend of his smoke American Spirit tobacco but he thought it was awful. That Harvard tobacco is the good shit. He then introduced himself, his name's Ralph. He carried on his way, next door to the liquor store to pick up a few shots and a beer. We went inside, the show was about to begin.

A couple PBRs and we were ready to go. I scoped out the crowd to see if some my other friends had come, too. No one I know except the door guy from the bar I frequent. Big D stepped on the stage. They began by playing some new songs, which sounded a lot like their older music, much more punk than their last album. We were dancing from the back of the crowd, she was clearly enjoying herself. More beers and more music, the night was still young. The crowd was getting into the music. Crowd surfers and skanking kids filled the room. I stood in front of her, to protect her from flying legs and stray punches. The show was soon wrapping up and we ventured to the front. They saved their toughest songs for the end. She loved it. I grabbed her from her back and shielded her from the lead singer jumping pretty much on our heads. I do believe I even stole a kiss. We were sweaty, shirts drenched of perspiration. We left the club as soon as the last song rang its last note.

I took her to the roof. Now, I still have the key to the back stairwell of my former apartment complex. This stairwell happens to lead directly to the Harvard Avenue rooftop. We looked out upon the traffic, hunched over the rail like a couple of gargoyles. My thigh-warmed whiskey was still plentiful, and we polished it off, despite its temperature. We joked, wrestled a bit, and I do believe I kissed her again. She had fun atop that tenement, in the summer moonlight.

The booze had run dry, we went to the bar. We sat around the corner in the dart room, no other chairs in sight. A pitcher of beer accompanied our discussions. We laughed some more, she always brings out my drunken charm. I can go one of two ways... drunk asshole or drunk cool guy. Well, I was damn cool this night. Smooth, like butter. We finished the pitcher, and left. En route to my house we stopped again. More beer! We went to somewhat of a douche bar, but its okay because it closest to my house. I go there often for lunch. I run into a few former co-workers and say hello, but immediately grab her hand and embark towards the dance floor. We danced to some top 40 bullshit but in a drunken stupor, its some of the most mind-blowing music you can come across. As the bar closed we left for my bed.

Stumbling into my apartment, a couple roomies were watching television in my bedroom. They left, we stumbled upon my futon mattress placed directly on the floor. That thing has been killing my back lately, by the way. We fucked for a while, we were drunk. Next thing I know I'm waking up to the sound of her alarm at 8 am. She says she didn't want to go to work. She hit the snooze button and began hugging me fiercely. I rolled her over me a few times, and laughed. I asked her what her favorite part of the night was, and she said, “everything”. That's right. As she dressed I could not help but to stare. She is absolutely gorgeous. How did I get so damn lucky? She left, I smoked a joint, replaying, in my mind, that fucking awesome Allston summer night. This is the shit I live for.

found in my google docs... 5/30/09

The most influential person in my lifetime has been myself, though usually combined to a whole, essentially there are two of us. One in the inside, he knows the inner workings. He'll report if the system overloads. The outside man is looking for signs of life. Forever trying to make my visions of the world more favorable. Why must they delay their consultation for after they leave. Observance never kick starts the thought, only reflection will do. Why must I only realize the past and never what's staring me in the face.

Now just about everyone I have ever encountered in my lifetime has told me that I think too much. I'm quite certain that that is an impossibility. Sometimes I wonder what is going on in my mind... how do I arrive at my longings. What makes me tick. Yet sometimes when I dwell in my own aura, I burn the skin right off my arms. Well, as you will see, today I have uncovered the mystery. For some strange reason, I'm quite sure I knew what it was all along.

Now as I explain to you what I'll get my thrills from, understand, that it is not in the least bit tangible. This is something of the process of thought, the trail and the crumbs. How did I create these visions and formulated opinions in my head. I become skeptical of what is real, and sure of what I've imagined.

I find myself engulfed in my inner monologue. I replay the daily doings throughout my mind, as an instant replay. Like the color commentator, I'll scrutinize every last announcement. My fundamentals appear to have never been honed. It'll take me a few minutes to realize my dream.

Now in a solitary state, I'll see my own shelter. In a cave of... well, to be frank, only the observer would possibly consider this lonesomeness. There's swarms of company around this cloud. My fogs as strong as ever. A torrent will sweep this desert clean, soon the crops will prosper.

Then you look up to see, the tracks you just so recently left in the sand are going every-which-way. I'm quite doubtful that I've arrived in the correct manner. Where I am now is what I wanted. The means of transport has made me nauseous. The brakes were grinding, and the traffic was sporadic.

Now just about everyone I've met throughout my life has been conceived in my head. None of them were imaginary. Oh, they are are real people... as my eyes perceived. Everyone does it, no two people have the same view on life, if they had, they'd be the same person. They'd don the same outfit and the same skin.

So as I continued on in my internal soul search I would always find myself seeking pleasure of my senses. Not knowing what excited me, I was unaware of my interests. Oblivious to my dreams, I only sought after short term excitement.

I have tried many different methods of living my life. After all, this is the only one I've got. A few routes have began to led me to very different destiny's. I always did think in math class... which I do excel in, oddly enough. In elementary school, guess and check was the best problem solving method. Little did I know that it was only my best method because I had always known what the solution had been at or around. This would not be an ideal method to decipher life. No one can predict the unknown.

So as I approach yet another destined intersection, I can either wish for my longings to come to me or I can finally do this for myself. I'm in a better state of mind than ever, like an experienced cab driver. He's seen the routes but only has helped himself a select few times.

Is a child ever the same as the adult he or she turns into? How can you possibly know yourself from the beginning when its life experience and trial by error which shapes the people we become. I have been real with myself, and even attended the meet and greet. I have control of my life. I am the most influential person I can be.

I wanna thank you,
for awakening my soul,
like a bottle of champagne,
let the bubbles go,
find the sky,
make sure its outdoors,
that cork won't hit the cieling,
ever.
Its gonna go up,
up in the air,
in orbit,
the planet turns,
when its nightime there,
you'll see it.
That Shimmer.
That's me.
That's who you've helped me become.
-Thank You

Old Poems... dated between 3/27/09 and 4/16/09

When I found myself atop the podium,
my withered and weak voice rang, yet quivered;
struck a few notes, that are best left unscathed.

As I stumbled away in a whirlwind of doubt,
I assured myself recognition of my efforts,
would surely be left up in a vapor amongst the clouds.
Above our heads, I find myself there frequently.

So as my feet guide its way back to the surface.
I'll be as a real as your pal, Jesus Christ.
Returning from the sky, miraculously...
My second stint, with my feet on Earth,
my head will remain out of orbit,
and within reach of my arms, but not quite,
on my shoulders.

--------------------------------------------------

I tip toe around the cracks in the sidewalk.
Ants, careful and robotic by nature, circumnavigate the entire obstruction.
My toes won't get stuck, no twisted phalanges for me.
My eyes are on it like a hawk, but won't tell my brain how to act.
I trip and fall, the guidance was not adequate.


When i saw that old rusty bicycle
as familiar as they are,
i forgot the standard operation.
As I fell straight on my face
even the ants, minute and irrelevant
arrived in herds to assess the damage,
I heard a child cry as I scraped my knee.
he felt my pain, and knew I withheld.
Valuable information, clues of my existence.
Where did I go when I forgot my means.
I thought I left it right under the door mat.


-----------------------------------------------




my ever revolving thoughts fade in and out of focus.
the skies were clear and perhaps the unhindered rays singed my flesh a bit. today, i and the birds will retreat.
how do the neurons jumble themselves, intertwined, thus
inoperative. receptors not receiving and no ones even giving out a clue.

So I just got fired from yet another miserable waiting job. I told the boss what's on my mind. She didn't appreciate the disobediance. Apparently that 35 year-old skank, given her power, had me dangling by strings. She controlled my daily routine and income. Well, let the record show, I merely let her know what's up.

...plus, I was sick of her face.

I got all this free time on my hands...

Dear Dig,

So my name's Max and I live in Allston. After getting discharged from the Navy, (Guess I told them what was up) I started waiting tables back in CT, based from the folks' house. This, as you could imagine, got very old. Now I'm here. Whaddaya know.

Here, my buddy throws house shows in our basement a couple times a month, with great turnout. Who knew kids around here like free music?

I believe some of your crew has been here to cover a show. When our apartment turns make-shift venue, it is called the S.H.O.P. (...or the pancake house, to many).

I write to inform the masses.


-Max

Wow, I've been meaning to do that for a while... write to the dig...

I was inspired by my teacher at community college and honestly, I was attending one class just to keep me occupied during the winter. She always told me, "Fuck it, just try your luck...".

Well, over the years I've accumulated a few things...

...done lots of poetry, but I'm just about a year sober, it can be a dirty habit.

I've got some new shit, slightly more potent.

Well, here's a blog...

www.maxhrosenfeld.blogspot.com

It's mostly unedited bullshit from a while ago, but easy to type out a link in an e-mail... that picture was taken by a real-life rollingstone photographer. (I found it online while reading the review of the concert I was at. Neat, huh?)

I, assuming there is a living breathing soul on the other side of this particular chunk of cyberspace, could send you copies of the articles I wrote for bunker hill this year... I recently have found that I prefer to write with deadlines.

...Or better yet! Why not write back with a fiery inquiry. I, however, will forewarn that I do most of my research in the depths of my own bowels.



... and may heavenly mothers bless your holy souls.

So as I lay there, this particular morning, the slightest thread of sunshine weaves its way through my alley-faced window. I open my eyes, lift my weighted shoulders, and embark towards the kitchen. A cup of coffee awaits me, as one would be for an expected visitor. I sit at the kitchen table. My trembling hands, shaking as I light a cigarette. I’m lost in my own thoughts. Sometimes, however, aided by this therapeutic combination of caffeine, nicotine, and sunlight I am able to begin to untie the knotted rope affixed to my brain. I’m ready to begin my day.

I quickly grab my work uniform and apron out of the hamper, stuff them into my checkerboard print backpack, stuff my wallet and smokes into my pockets, pick my phone up from the ground. She called me at 4am. I’m not calling back. Not this time. I swear this to myself.

Now out the door, I’m smoking as I walk down the avenue. I’m thinking. Who does she think she is? It had only been a handful of hours since I had seen her at the bar. I hadn’t even fully comprehended what had happened yet.

I’m late to work. I punch in and I begin cleaning my tables. The manager’s not there yet either. Him and I are not that much different. It seems many of us in the industry have some toxic relationships.

Work is work. I go through the motions, as different each day is from the other, it never deviates too far from the norm. Oh wow, hamburgers were popular today... who cares? I interact with my co-workers. Weather’s sure miserable, huh? Oh yeah, you mean to tell me that your sports team won? Maybe this will be the day I’ll be enlightened with the meaning of life.

I go to the bar after work. After all, I’m only human, right? We, as a species, are creatures of habit. If I were to go home, it would be inhuman.
The usual 6 o’clock crew lurking atop the bar stools. They’ve probably been in the same seat for the last 20 years. That was when they were about my age. I’m soothed by the stale air and popcorn, as are they. That’s right.

Again, alone with my thoughts, I pull out my phone. The time’s late afternoon. I remember the call earlier. Maybe she wants to apologize. I call her. I slouch down in my chair. My back feels quite weak. It must’ve been from lifting plates at work.

An answer… I hear a hello embedded in a smile from the other end. This immediately makes my heart slow in tempo. I inquire about the night before. The tension in her voice increases. Obviously it’s not my business. Why should I care? I mean, our plans to go see a show weren’t solid, right? I sigh with forgiveness. My muscles are almost atrophied.

As I gracefully fell face first into a heaping pile of my own vomit, reality smacked me clean in the face.

What events forced me to end up like this? I haven’t the slightest idea. I could blame it on her, but that’s way too easy. Sure she drove me to the brink of insanity on a nightly basis, as did I, to myself, upon my awakening each morning. Sure she put me in a constant state of confusion, as did the thoughts that crossed my mind at night. Blaming her for my downfalls felt so right.

When I begin to think about how the whole thing started, I realize how wrong it was. How can a fruit pulled from a withered tree be delectable? Imagination and aspiration can often obstruct reality. The truth is that there was no hope from the beginning. The truth is that there’s still no hope, and there never will be hope.

So what exactly was this goal? Do I still strive to obtain it? Do I even know what it is? I know what I want in life. Well, I have a general idea of the likes. To say I want happiness is idiotic. I might as well claim to be human.