everything has its place, everything goes back in its place no matter the extenuating circumstances.
every day i wake up and know that everything is in its right place even if i can't remember what happened, where i was or how i got home. at any given moment, you can count on the notion that in my front left pocket, right next to my cigarette case is a zippo, there's a wallet in the back right pocket, and my keys and pocketknife are in the back left. if you need a pen, there's always one in my front right pocket("in my pocket, my pen is"), which is essentially the junk drawer of my pants, so you might also find some change, scraps of paper or other random things in there. if there's a fifth pocket, it's reserved for my pocket jazz.
one time i woke up on a couch in new orleans with a feeling more devastating than the hangover--i knew that something was missing. as i lay there, before i'd even checked, i knew that my zippo was gone, permanently interred to a murky grave somewhere in the missing scene of last night's blackout. the mystery of how the hell i'd made it from the french quarter to uptown was of no concern to me; i was missing a limb. that lighter was a gift given to me in london five years prior and had survived uncountable missions in the war on sobriety and memories. it was my comrade, and i knew that i could always depend on it to be in my left front pocket as long as it could depend on me to put it there, and it had become more of an instinct-like reflex to always put it back. i'd let it down and i felt like the captain of a ship and had allowed one of my best mates to go overboard in last night's storm.
it's not the actual objects, the stuff that i lose(after all, it's just stuff), it's that i lost it--i never lose shit. well, extremely rarely.
as of sunday morning, i can't find my pocketknife, a faithful crewman of S.S. Pants since 2002. it was a gift from my mother and it was perfect for me; if i have to buy a replacement, i'll try to find the exact same one. apparently though, somewhere between friday night and sunday morning i did something stupid. most likely and hopefully it fell out of my pocket as i dressed in the darkness in the early hours of saturday morning just before i left her place. i'm not certain that it was in my work pants that evening; i don't remember using it at work. it was after work saturday night that i realized it was missing. i called her and told her to keep an eye out for it but haven't heard anything yet. i've retraced my steps, searched my house, even cast a sigil and tried to remain positive that it will turn up, but it has been driving me nuts, the thought of losing such a major piece of my pocket arsenal in a period of relative sobriety.
oh well, i tell myself, it is just a pocketknife, after all.
still, i can't shake the feeling that it's here, right in front of me somewhere, just out of view like the tip of a nose, mocking me. little bastard.
every day i wake up and know that everything is in its right place even if i can't remember what happened, where i was or how i got home. at any given moment, you can count on the notion that in my front left pocket, right next to my cigarette case is a zippo, there's a wallet in the back right pocket, and my keys and pocketknife are in the back left. if you need a pen, there's always one in my front right pocket("in my pocket, my pen is"), which is essentially the junk drawer of my pants, so you might also find some change, scraps of paper or other random things in there. if there's a fifth pocket, it's reserved for my pocket jazz.
one time i woke up on a couch in new orleans with a feeling more devastating than the hangover--i knew that something was missing. as i lay there, before i'd even checked, i knew that my zippo was gone, permanently interred to a murky grave somewhere in the missing scene of last night's blackout. the mystery of how the hell i'd made it from the french quarter to uptown was of no concern to me; i was missing a limb. that lighter was a gift given to me in london five years prior and had survived uncountable missions in the war on sobriety and memories. it was my comrade, and i knew that i could always depend on it to be in my left front pocket as long as it could depend on me to put it there, and it had become more of an instinct-like reflex to always put it back. i'd let it down and i felt like the captain of a ship and had allowed one of my best mates to go overboard in last night's storm.
it's not the actual objects, the stuff that i lose(after all, it's just stuff), it's that i lost it--i never lose shit. well, extremely rarely.
as of sunday morning, i can't find my pocketknife, a faithful crewman of S.S. Pants since 2002. it was a gift from my mother and it was perfect for me; if i have to buy a replacement, i'll try to find the exact same one. apparently though, somewhere between friday night and sunday morning i did something stupid. most likely and hopefully it fell out of my pocket as i dressed in the darkness in the early hours of saturday morning just before i left her place. i'm not certain that it was in my work pants that evening; i don't remember using it at work. it was after work saturday night that i realized it was missing. i called her and told her to keep an eye out for it but haven't heard anything yet. i've retraced my steps, searched my house, even cast a sigil and tried to remain positive that it will turn up, but it has been driving me nuts, the thought of losing such a major piece of my pocket arsenal in a period of relative sobriety.
oh well, i tell myself, it is just a pocketknife, after all.
still, i can't shake the feeling that it's here, right in front of me somewhere, just out of view like the tip of a nose, mocking me. little bastard.