My Scheduled Release

predictability and excitement usually accompany various opposing adjectives, respectively.

i drive a car to work and back, down a hill, south, about 5 or 6 miles. the passing includes concrete, grass, vacancies and fulfillments, stores, lights, traffic woven like women depending on the time of day. on the way there, my mind's drift occupies the tide of sound inside the car; my car stereo layers loud music that purrs at a doorstep beside. the drive back is usually more conscious and purposeful, hence the music is left off in recognition of my usual ignorance of it. the battery power saves it's breath.

i drove to work; worked.

i visited the store before returning home. i entered the natural foods store with only the plan to buy a sandwich for lunch. i bought a falafel flatbread sandwich, 2 bags of kettle chips, and various marked-down beers. $1.51 a single, lost it's other 5 friends, seemingly cheapened by the schism but really about the exact same price. perspective.

on the quiet drive home i heard clanking from the paper grocery bag while passing over the road's imperfections. stopping fast for a yellow-then-red revealed more noise from the bag. during momentary stoppage, i turned my head and looked at a liquor store parking lot, saw a woman taking butts out of the ashtray at the front door, layering them in her hand, carefully placing them in the right side pocket of her stonewashed jean jacket. her skin looked a mess, it seemed like i could see details in the roots of her hair near the top of her head, from 45 feet away. estimated. i always used to look forward to a drunken release, a time of the week, or day, that i could completely melt, leave thinking or memory behind and sink into emotion, good or bad. i found solace in this, i found health in this. i seem to think, these days, that i find potential release from buying alcohol, without ever releasing that potential, without much consumption at all. but the purchase still finds it's way into my life, it still serves a purpose for me. it's harvey milk's threatening letter under a magnet on the fridge. i shook my head, narrowed my eyes, peered at green above in traffic. i turned on music very loudly, distorted guitars with sharp vocals, the still breeze of winding punk made me feel like i was back in high school.

i know that nothing is black or white, but it's nice to pretend things are, if for no other reason than functionality. like a light switch.