square_the_circle_chapter_1_ crOwl "there's more beauty in the truth, even if it is dreadful beauty. the storytellers of the city gate twist life so that it looks sweet to the lazy and the stupid and the weak, and this only strengthens their infirmities and teaches nothing, nor does it let the heart soar." ~john steinbeck, east of eden square the circle chapter 1 he smelled diesel fuel, stale cigarette smoke, garlic breath, and now the perfume like some foreign flower of the girl who just sat down next to him, the only seat left in this packed greyhound on its way to los angeles from new york. he heard a baby screaming, laughter that seemed manufactured, someone coughing phlegm of the lung cancer they did not know they had. he closed his eyes again. they stung from insomnia, from the hours of living this sardine life. he pressed his ringless fingers against them and exhaled his frustration like the air brakes of the bus. his mouth felt dirty. he longed to brush his teeth, to clean himself of more than just the plaque his tired tongue could feel. he pushed his head against the stiff seat, crew cut smashed flat. he stretched his legs and bumped his carry on bag that sat smashed under the seat in front of him. a steinbeck novel lay open on his worn corduroy lap. the cord of his i-pod ran from his pants pocket up his white, pin-striped oxford shirt past his leather roped, beaded necklace to his ears. the music, a mix of some obscure indie bands had ended. the tapestry of smells and suddenly this new passenger yanked him back to the present. to another contemplation of his escape. an unbroken circle of introspection. what was he running from? what did he leave behind? where was he going? what would he do when he got there? 041122 ... unhinged god. full bus. just what she wanted. no empty double seat to curl up on and fall asleep semi-comfortably. god. what was she doing on the damn thing anyways? she was an east coast girl. she knew that. she knew she should stay away from the evils of the west coast. flashy, selfish, greedy, fashion-forward; all the things she liked to think she wasn't. into the lion's mouth. she stood next to the driver looking for a seat. only two empty seats left and the last person was climbing on the bus behind her. empty seat number one next to a relatively non-threatening but slightly dirty looking dude. empty seat number two next to a rambuncious about five year old turned around and jumping on the seat talking to someone behind him in the annoying way that adhd kids are wont to do. she made her way next to the dude and sat down; like most guys he was taking up more than half the leg room of the seats. he anxiously gathered himself up when he saw her standing in the aisle about to sit down. she didn't have the strength to smile at him to reassure him she wasn't going to bite his head of f sometime during the trip. he looked like he was likely to talk to her during the trip. she didn't have the energy to be nice to strangers anymore. she had felt herself becoming a cruel bitch for months and it was just unrepressable. all the misdirected hostility and rage boiling over into her everyday interactions, which had been dwindling at the thought of things ending up the way they were now. she wanted to throw her phone out the window and shatter it into a million pieces, take the computer and smash it with a bat...anything and everything to cut off all outside communications. he looked up at her for about the fifth time and stuttered out a nervous 'hello.' she sat down and looked ahead 'hi.' which came out more like a brick to the head. she pulled her jim carroll book out of her bag. he glanced at it 'you read jim? he's pretty rockin. i always liked the book of nods.' and she turned and finally looked him in the face and the wall crumpled. 041122 ... crOwl when he first boarded the bus back in new york at the port authority station on 8th avenue, it was also packed and he was forced to share a seat with a retired, elderly third grade school teacher who never looked him in the eye but talked incessantly, recounting an endless string of piquant memories concerning her favorite students. she continuously patted at the corners of her mouth with a kleenex and he wondered what the fuck she was doing. it wasn't bad at first, actually entertaining, but enough was enough, and when she went on even as he started to read, he knew he was in for a grueling trip. finally, he stuck the earphones in and she kept going like tv on mute. fortunately, she made the long anticipated exit somewhere in the middle of pennsylvania and he had the seat to himself all the way to pittsburgh. there the bus filled up again and she was replaced with a nerdy asian college boy who fiddled with his gameboy and said only one thing the whole way to youngstown, ohio. it sounded like something in chinese. something only his mother would understand. and so, when this new girl sat down and he looked over at her, a certain sense of relief washed over him. he was suddenly aware of his frumpled, travel weary countenance. he peered up at her anyway, several times before she sat down, consciously willing her to choose the empty seat beside him. "she's hot," he thought to himself. he loved the way she smelled. the fragrance reminded him of the first time he had been to california. flowers he did not know the name of. although he avoided staring, he kept her in perpetual view with a demure, sidelong glance. when she pulled a book from her carry on, he strained to catch the author. jim carroll. the book of nods and a couple others were in his stuffed bag inside the belly of the greyhound along with a few changes of clothes and all the normal things one needs to begin a new life. he didn't even think to comment. it just blurted out like a bird announcing its sudden happiness. there was an undeniable aspect of recognition in her quick glance. "did you read the book of nods?" he asked. she said yes. "remember rimbaud's nitrous dreams?" he asked again and he looked into the girl's eyes, searching. they were brown, the color of horses just before the sun sets when light is a bath of golden water. she narrowed them in acknowledgement and smiled slightly without showing her teeth as if some hidden frustration was melting. he looked away and pushed against his seat like rimbaud himself in the dentist chair. "rodents sealed in kegs of blue water," he said, trying to recount snippets of the vivid text. "lightning shaped like freight trains, the smell of burning rubber." he sat up and turned towards her. 041124 ... unhinged oh brother. pedantic memorized quotes...why did anything anyone ever did inspire such a bitchy reaction with her? he was just trying to have an intelligent conversation with her; she put a smile on her face hoping it wasn't too contrived. 'actually, 'silent money' is my favorite one from the book fo nods. surreal like most of his drug phase stuff but real at the same time. unfortunately, i don't like the stuff he wrote sober as well.' 'is that the one with the bum in it?' 'yep.' there was a slightly awkward pause; she could feel him staring. they were barely out of town; the highway signs still had too familiar names on them like austintown and cleveland and akron. that anxious boiling feeling started in her stomach. she really was leaving. her fingers anxiously ruffled the pages of the book in her lap. he didn't come to the bus station; she knew he wouldn't. but she just wished there would have been one movie scene left between them where she turned to stare at him as long as she could as he stood in the parking lot watching her leave. the awkward pause turned into an awkward silence. 'i'm sorry. i don't feel much like talking right now.' he was still staring. 'that's ok. i don't want to annoy you the way the lady sitting next to me between new york and pittsburgh did.' he flashed her a sad little grin and pushed play on the ipod. she laid her head on the back of the seat and turned to look out the window on the opposite side of the bus. why? why was she such a bitch? she didn't want to use him as an excuse but it hurt to wake up in the morning let alone get out of bed; and now she was moving across the country to forget. even though she knew she wouldn't. 041124 ... crOwl music was his cloud, that place in the blue sky where he could feel the world, the branch at the top of the tree where he landed and stopped flying, the bed where he dreamt and did not sleep. the hiding place where people looked for him and found him crying. he pressed play and closed his eyes. the girl beside him was growing smaller as he watched the memory of her, the mistakes he already made, a small speck as he rose higher, as if he was a balloon that she held for one brief moment and then let go. the tires rolled round and round like the earth, tight lug nuts holding the spinning hot rubber, asphalt river to the sea of his oblivion. he saw his reflection in the glass. it could not be him. he appeared to be like someone he would want to avoid. she was there beside him for this time. he could read the book she read. he could speak the language she spoke. he lived the life she lived. did it mean anything? was there nothing? there was everything. his world and her world were equal. they were traveling to the same place. they had been there before and were returning. hearts as muscle, batteries with a given energy. time. this time. they would remember the time they ran blinfolded screaming. and when they got there it would not be different. when the knot was untied they would discover they had arrived without going anywhere. he would not speak now. his words would be her silence. yet, he had something to give her. sometimes he would open his eyes, gaze out at the rushing world, at woods, at trees like comforting arms he ran into without moving, feeling the embrace of the people he left behind. of ones who thought of him and wondered why he no longer cared. how he could be so numb. how he could come to the end so easily. just like closing my eyes he thought. seeing a brilliant flash and every silhouette was someone he had known. just turn the music on. he would see standing corn withered to the colorless shade of death, rolling hills where he swore someone was standing. it was him. it could be him. a scarecrow that fed the birds little pieces of the past he now kept inside. when a song would end he hesitated. he paused. he looked at her without looking at her and she seemed alone. she was without someone. he was like something shiny a bird could find but flew over, missing. she read. she turned pages like each mile that passed. she sighed. she gazed over him. she blinked. her eyes watered. she saw the things he did but gave them different names. she was lost in feeling but she knew where she was. across ohio, into indiana, into a life span. he was weightless until the motion ceased. and the movement became those behind him and in front of him. standing. yawning. stretching. he pulled the earphones out and shoved the worn copy of east of eden back into the bag at his feet. it all came rushing back. "there will be a thirty minute rest stop for maintenance and refueling," the bus driver said, his voice sounded like a robot. he noticed the girl beside him was already gone. 041125 ... unhinged as soon as the bus driver stopped she bolted for the door. it had been a couple hours; surely he would stop. she felt leaden, heavy and she could feel the vague beginnings of her lungs constricting. that always ended with her breathing into a bag between her legs. which only came around when she couldn't stop thinking of him. she took her purse and ran into the bathroom. and as soon as she closed the stall door, she fell to the floor in a ball of tears. how could he? how could he not say goodbye? and his little leash around her heart tightened and she choked a little on the sobs she stiffled, letting the tears silently fall. she needed to be away from this, him, the choking, the puking, the hyperventilating. but, they say first love is always the worst love. she scrambled frantically for the right pill bottle in her purse. his only benefit in recent months being he could procure plenty of perscriptions that weren't written for her. with the names of the old ladies he cleaned house for, a one time offer, klonopin, valium, oxys, tylenol 3....oxys. she had so many pretty little pills in her purse; a nice supply. and in her experience the white ones always being the most lethal. she pulled the generic oxyconton out of her bag. ethel valentino, 18769 hillview way, austintown ohio. the thought that maybe ethel was missing them quickly flitted across her mind and she anxiously twisted off the child-proof cap and spilled a few out into the palm of her hand. how many? they were 80s....maybe only half of one if she chewed it. she pulled the box cutter out of her purse and stood up to place it on the little pull down shelf bolted to the inside of the stall. she quickly spliced the pill in half and popped half of it in her mouth, eagerly chomping on the horribly bitter white pill. she tossed the other half back into the bottle, replaced the cap, and threw all the paraphanlia back in her bag. she exited the stall and stood in front of the mirror. her mascara had run down her face in dissolved black rivulets. she took the rough bathroom paper towel and wiped her face where the salt tears stung her cheeks like glass as she scrubbed them off. why did she where make-up anyways? it's not like it did any good... she glanced down at her watch. she'd been in the bathroom for 20 minutes. one of the middle-aged ladies from the back of the bus bustled out of the stall next to the one she had been in. she quickly ran out of the bathroom. enough time to smoke a cigarette. the rest stop was barren because it was almost december. it probably was beautiful a month or so earlier, leaves like hands falling in rainbow colors to the grass. she shuffled her hand around in her purse looking for her pack of cigarettes, only blindly perusing the smooth plastic edges of pharmacy pill bottles. she finally closed her fingers around the pack of cigarettes and anxiously pulled them out of the bag. in the time she took to smoke a cigarette, she would be euphorically and blissfully stoned. the irony of the source of her drugs was not lost on her, but when she was high she couldn't remember in her head how she got that way even if she knew why in her heart. pills were her easiest most preferred method. no telling smells, only empty glazed-over eyes. and all of a sudden it started to hit her, and she started to grin her fucked-up chesire grin. 041129 ... crOwl he stepped across the empty space her sudden absence created, slinging his carry-on across his shoulder. there was nothing in her seat to mark she had been there. nothing she left behind to claim it was hers. the aisle of the stopped greyhound was crowded with exiting passengers, a clogged artery. they moved slowly, all trying to get out at once, impatiently drumming their fingers on the tops of seats and headrests, gazing out past bodies to the fabricated landscape of the rest stop, its parking lot choked with a collage of foreign and domestic cars, trucks, rvs, and suvs. he stood behind a middle-aged hispanic woman, the silver clasps of her dangling turquoise earrings catching the morning light coming through the dirty windows. with a relaxed pride, she held in her arms a child that could easily be her grandson. the little one sucked on his chubby fist and stared at him, bemused curiosity temporarily etched in his cocked face like an interested bird confidently peering down from its safe perch. he crept along towards the door, looking down at the vacated seats, transient worlds left behind, some messy with read-over newspapers scattered about and candy wrappers spilling out of the seat pockets, others neatly and consciously arranged, disparate lives cohabiting. finally he reached the door where the bus driver still remained talking into his cellfone a language of highway numbers, codes, and schedules. there was a cheap, frameless, walmart studio foto of what must have been his wife sticking out of the console. down the steps and into the chilly december air he went, squinting at the red sun, a round wound bleeding into its bandage of white clouds. there were dying weeds desperately growing out of the cracks in the asphalt, bare trees, and dead mums in the planting beds. one inside the rest stop he figured he could be anywhere in america, except for newspapers that gave way the fact they were in indianapolis and the speedway merchandise in the gift shoppe, t-shirts and sweatshirts with the favorite numbers of stock car racers. he found the restroom and pushed the door open and immediately encountered a fellow traveler he remembered from the stop in philly. "hey, you got a cigarette?" the young man said. his hair was flattened from sleep. his vacant eyes were casualties of a lost innocence. "no, i don't smoke," he answered, but it wasn't long ago that he did. killer weed. every morning at 4ooam, then again with his best friend at 9oo am, then once more alone at 5oopm. an endless cycle of oblivion that affected his short term memory, gave him a chronic cough, and filled him with a lingering sense of self loathing. it was one of the things he was leaving behind. several men were lined up at the urinals and he stepped up to one of the few empty ones, his feet sticking to the floor in front of it. he hated the carelessness of people. there was a chemical odor, not unpleasant. it battled the stench of human waste and was winning. he unzipped his fly and relieved himself. to his right was a father helping his little boy. "i peed dad," his son said. they both had the same stick out ears. to his left was a paunchy, balding old man who stood motionless, nothing coming out. when he was finished, he went to flush but it did so automatically as did the towel dispenser with a magic wave of his hand. he thought of how automatic he was. his hidden heart beating like a solar powered clock. his billowing lungs inhaling oxygen, exhaling carbon dioxide, breathing in good, breathing out bad, even as he slept. his brain, a computer that never crashed. his eyes, cameras with a never-ending supply of film. he stood momentarily in front of the mirror, saw his oily hair, his bloodshot eyes, his yellow teeth. no wonder she won't talk to me, he thought. he turned to go and noticed the old man was still at the urinal, staring forward at a foto of richard petty. back through the door, he checked his watch and ambled over to the newstand. he poured over the stack of magazines and was surprised to find the recent issue of filter. there were twin teenage girls not far from him, pressed side by side, giggling at the magazine they were looking at. distracted, he turned back to an interview with conor oberst and began to read. "GREYHOUND 48C WITH SERVICE FROM NEW YORK TO LOS ANGELES WILL BE REBOARDING IN FIVE MINUTES. THANK YOU." a tinny voice announced, and then repeated. the twin girls were grabbing candy and throwing it on the counter. he removed a leather journal from his bag and quickly scribbled a quote from the interview. "they say you're born alone and you die alone. no matter what you're doing or what you're surrounded by, love, friends, you're still living inside your own head. i think that's where isolation comes from. but to me, my salvation, the way i battle that feeling, my way of defeating that really overwhelming aloneness is by loving other people and being loved in return. and trying as best as i can to peel back the layers in hopes of being known to others. and peeling back their layers and knowing them. through that you feel less alone." he shoved the journal back into his bag and hurridly placed the magazine in the wrong place, then made his way back to the bus, thinking again how his feet automatically propel him, how balance is taken for granted. and that's when he realized he had not seen the girl who was sitting next to him. he was the last one to board. the refueled bus swallowed him and the door shut with a blast of air that pushed him forward. all heads and eyes instinctively looked up at him as he shuffled down the aisle towards his seat. she wasn't there. 041202 ... unhinged she saw everyone board the bus as she took the last few hits off her cigarete. all the way down to the filter. some sleepy boy was standing next to her huffing on the cigarette he bummed from her. 'looks like everyone else is on the bus. we should get going.' he threw his half-smoked cigarette onto the ground. what a waste she thought. she hated giving people cigarettes when they didn't finish them. it wasn't done til you could smell the filter. 'i guess.' the bus driver was standing impatiently with the door open, waiting for them. the last group of stragglers were always a hassle. she flashed him her chesire oxy grin and he genuinely smiled back. 'sorry. had to finish my smoke.' 'you should quit.' 'well, it's warm where i'm going anyway. no more standing outside in the bitter cold to get my fix.' she walked back to the seats she'd been sharing with the disheveled music guy. she loved to give strangers abstract nicknames. she plopped down and rearranged herself. suddenly, she turned to him. 'hey, my name is kayla.' she heard her own voice come out weird, half strangled half hyper. she got paranoid even with pills; she wasn't some street corner addict. she didn't want to be labeled like that. although, all the addicts she knew were 'normal'. 'uh, hi.' he looked at her eyes a little too intently. she turned her head. 'you ok? you seemed a little...upset before we stopped.' 'yeah, i'm fine.' the brush-off; she didn't think he wanted to know the real answer. 'what's your name?' 'scott.' 'what else you like to read scott?' and the bus lurched on out of the rest stop. 041202 ... unhinged square_the_circle_chapter_2_ 041206 ... a must read red blathe the story of kayla, scott, tim, and clara begins... 050725 what's it to you? who go blather from