January 09

My lucid dreams cripple me back to realitiy

I sink, stutter, and attempt to swim

Im looking for the air that pours though the cracks

Of the loose soil, covering my face and arms

Light tickles my peripherals

My heart races as my muscles are locked and constrained

I am trying to get back to “utopiaville”

The cool liquor attempts to break the seal

But I can’t indulge enough without the world going cold

My tolerance is up and I am down

The chair rocked back and forth as I pressed my back gently against its old frame. The ebb and flow was stopped by the wall, sitting too close. Lacking the energy to slide the 30 pound fixture one foot forward for fear that it would move me to far from the coffee table, I repetitively knocked the ends of the rocking portiong against the white wall. Paint slowly chiseled away as I did this every night after dinner. A high ball of Macalan sits comfortably staring at my with a half a cube of ice forming a slight mist at the top after its cold contents dissolve into the room temperature elixir.

Part of the reason I never slid the chair away from the wall was because it would offset my reach for the scotch glass which conformed to my hand. I could be stricken blind and ridden with parkinson’s and be able to obtain the glass while holding Hemingway’s Old man and the Sea in my left hand. Its elegant physique resting amongst the glass side table, delicately poured into a tumbler, just heavy enough to feel like a full beer, but light enough to lift my weary, overworked arms.

The portentous bookshelf to my left gorged my peripherals as I lift the dewar’s marked tumbler to my parched lips. I evaded the second of distress as I thought what book I should begin next by lifting the tumbler almost regimentally to a height to let gravity overtake. The 12-year old cherry oak cast Macalan drips its reddish brown nectar on to the tip of my tongue. Its cool but peaty as it dances upon my taste buds like a marionette. The burn of alcohol replaces its first chilling touch and I slowly lift my head enough to continue the gravity forcing routine. I leave the drink in just enough to work its way through my gums giving an instant release of serotonin in my frontal lobes.

In the same motion of allowing the rest of the sip to flow down my throaht and sink quickly to its final resting place, I relaxed my arm. Bent it at a gentlemen’s 120 degress from its cramped 37 that helped me to the drink. Slowly, and without a single glance in that direction, I place the glass neatly in the ring marked by its initial resting point. Now, both the sip I have endured, exasperating once again, no energy, and the glass are where they need to be.

This process will take place each day after work, immediately following dinner. Whether it is that I order out, pick up on the travels home, or even cook, the delicacy would be invited inside me. Suddenly I am slightly rejuvenated by the amalgamation of scotch and the cooler air setline with the half past 7 hour whistling through the screens. I breath in like a taking a self yoga class.

The chair rocks slowly and less that fluently as it abrupbly darts against the wall that I will be all too lazy to repair myself . The house keeps come tomorrow where they will look at the small dents in the wall, arrive at the fact they cannot fix it, then sweep up the debris.

Washington DC

My name is Sebastian Boress lives in the NW quadrant of Washington, DC. My townhouse is in a slightly pretentious, and located in a passively racist section of town. They city board of overseers still ,to this day, does not allow the metro to have a stop near the neighborhood. The closest railway is 2 and a half miles that can only be reached by foot, bus, or taxi. The idea behind this is that if cheap transportation is not readily accessible and more than one method is needed people wont come. Infer otherwise if you’d like, but a holding contention is to keep the black, lower class, riff-raff out.

Me, I’m indifferent to the situation . While my exposure to diversity may have been restricted, I rarely had a desire to live elsewhere. Not bothered by the lower class, but sometimes easier to not see it. Those who are in the upper class, or even upper-middle class are often blind to the harsh realities due to this exact situation. How can an member of Congress in the upper eschelon of society truly undertand the depth of poverty when he grew up in Greenwich, CT, attended Georgeotwn University, and bought his first house on the Potomac River off MacArthur Blvd?

The truth of the matter is there is a separation, there is a divide, a drastic dichotomy between the haves and the have nots. The federal reserve will prove this data for you, I need not. Glance around Glover Park and notice the ratio of white to black, or white to any other race, it is surely steep. The Federal Reserve data from 2009 shows that the median wealth of a white, Non-Hispanic citizen, is $149,000. The median wealth of a Hispanic or non-white citizen was $23,330. Is everyone equal? Ask the Federal Reserve -  it shocks me that this is allowed to be public knowledge.

While lecturing on economic equality is interesting and the sides could argue for days filibustering the hell out of the daylight, but its exhausting. Not only exhausting, but it is pointless. There will always be a class separation, unless of course our constant heedless strides towards socialism finally get the best of us. Find me one person who says we are all equal and I will show you a liar.

There is an art school for elementary through 12^th grade located 4 blocks south and 2 blocks east of my house. Each day a bus arrives from the SE corner of DC, the quadrant with the lowest median income level. The bus delivers the talented students to the school to play violin, read classics, write poetry, paint Dali replicas

The city is alive with new people. Anonther study from 2009 said showed that Washington, DC was the second most popular place to move to for college graduates, second to Seattle. Walking requiring the carrying of an umbrella while innately being subjected to coffee stains for warmth and social acceptance does not seem all that thrilling to be. So why people choose Seattle is beyond confounding. Regardless of my bias towards DC, it has a feel of new life at every corner. Each person trying to one-up the other. Constant battles by quarter-life crises stricken individuals for jobs on Capitol hill that pay the same as Joe Denny makes working at 701 restaurant on Pennsylvania.

I admire their astute qualities and blind ambition. Not to mention a sheer lack of party loyalty. It is so goddamn difficult to get a job on the hill that regardless political affiliation, an individual will overwhelmingly take the job, rather than not due to ethics.

Alive with the glory of persistence! I don’t blame them; visceral feelings for government and party lines cannot be held today. There is no room for it. Enough gridlock exists in the house and senate, let alone the American people. Sometimes I dream that we all were searching for a job on the hill and it was our only means to survive. We would be a lot more subservient to others views and open to vast interpretations. Unfortunately that is not the case, and a bleeding liberal will give his left arm to save the job of a first generation immigrant, and a tea party rioter would slap a black man for reciting the preamble.

I digress. The city is beautiful and filled with educated people. The air is relatively clean and there is a predisposition to recycling and keeping the group clear of dog waste. Everyone runs, bikes, or at minimum exercises conservative eating habits. People are not as thin as New York City, but public self-induced vomiting is more heavily frowned upon here and the work days are too long to stay malnourished an frail. In addition, cocaine seems to run a little less superfluously through the veins of the eager youth, fleeting husbands, and yoga cheating wives.

This is a splendid city. It lacks the hustle and bustle of your typical metoropolitan area, but still feels busier than getting lost in suburbia. The building an old and luxuiours dating back to our forefathers, and remind us of a younger, less informed, most likely better time. Architectural law states that a building cannot be built to a height that is of higher elevation than the US Capitol. A building can be structurally latter, but its peak must rest lower than the tip of the Statue of Freedom located at the top of the Capital rotunda.

I find that this town is similar to a massive state school. There are clique’s and groups mostly revolving around what job you have. Capitol hill in particular is similar to a giant fraternity. Therefore it is sometimes difficult to meet people in other areas of the city and professionally. There is of course the over extroverted souls who could walk into a church, take over the sermon, and have everyone calling them father by the end of the evening while exchanging sexual advances. Where I fall on the spectrum of relativity is around approachable yet skeptical.

This part of town feels safe. There are a relatively low number of homeless individuals shaking cans for coins, and while the diversity is low, it seems to fit the ambiance. Whole foods is the closest grocery store, and pretty much the only within walking distance if carrying a substantial amount of groceries.

The tennis courts are clean, or at least they were the few times that I went to play. Only two courts available to the neighborhood. Occasionally, you can sneak onto American University or Georgetown campus to use their courts if the teams are not practicing. I have always played tennis. My grandmother started me with a racquet at age 7, by the time I was nine, I was turned into a family spectacle forced to enter tournaments. The amount of money pumped into private lessons and court time had to have been fueled by delusions of grandeur that I would be the next Andrew Agassi.

The early entrance to the competitive nature of the sport made me more aptly characterized by similarities of John Mcenroe, toke bad boy of tennis with a fuming temper. I continued to play since I genuinely enjoyed the sport, however as my age increased so did my discontent with my play and unforced errors.
When I was a boy my well-advised in investments, particularly oil had sent me around the country to various tennis camps. Well versed in travel by the age of ate to Hilton Head Island or Orlando, FL, I had become acostomed to strange middle aged men holding my hips and arms like a marionette trying to find the perfect swing. I became confident in my skill and training and walked with a slight adolescnet strut when entering local courts to play amateur foes. My confidence took may have turned into tennis hubris when I entered  a statewide tournament and was savagely beaten at the age of 11 by someone 2 years younger. My drive to play instantly dropped off as the same demoralizing competitive nature I carry today was ever present then.
My father had always told me, "Son follow your heart." Not sure if I was following my heart or not but that loss surely stuck with me and I gave up tennis two years later to play baseball, and I was always average at best. I skipped back and forth like a rock on a the lack from the two sports in high school, trying to find where I can get the most playing time and appeal to whichever female friend I was holding at the time. The latter was secretly the driving factor. One could say i headed my fathers advice and followed my heart, however it was truly the tip of my dick that took precedent.