Al Sullivan's Journal 2013

  I’m constantly amazed at how stupid human beings can be. Many don’t say what they mean or say too much, or talk in riddles others struggle to solve. Last night I had a chance to have sex with my ex-wife and opted not to. It’s hard to explain why, except that it felt wrong – not morally wrong, so much as a misstep leading to a set of future circumstances I think I would come to regret. After all those years of pining over her, and wishing her back in my life, when it finally came to the point where it became possible, I balked. My ex kept hinting about it all day and most of the night, and seemed puzzled at my hesitation. Part of this has nothing to do with her or her past, or the fact she’s engaged in mankind’s oldest profession. Most of it has to do with I’m not the same person I was back then when we met or even later when we broke up, and I can no longer recreate myself in that image, since it appears she clearly wants the old me back. This is not to say I woul...

  She showed up at the strip club tonight, more than a bit of a surprise, as starkly attractive as any of the girls on the stage, yet carrying the baggage of her home down the street, as if I assumed she did associate with such people, especially after her how involved her ex-husband became, calling himself a dancer’s agent, when he really served as their pimp. Seeing her here made me wonder, had he pimped her, too? Had we all been wrong all along about her, and this only increased my interest, as I’ve been haunting these streets like a dog in heat. I live multiple lives, the supposedly straight-laced slightly older student up at college by day while at night I roam the streets and strip clubs. So, perhaps she does, too. Earlier today, I hung out with one of the girls at the campus newspaper, someone whom I’ve been involved with, but far short of anything approaching love. With her, we can talk reason, far from the illogic of this world of drugs, alcohol, sex and perversion. ...

  Rumor has it that on this day 32 years ago, I was born. I can’t validate this because I have not even the dimmest memory of the incident and must take the word of others more conscious of the event than I, though I cannot ask my father since he vanished a few years after the blessed event, my mother claiming, however, he hovered over me at St. Mary’s Hospital in Passaic like a proud rooster. 32? After all I’ve done in those three decades, I’m surprised I survived. I’m not alone in this. Paul is 34; Hank, 23, and Garrick, 32 as well, those whom I considered my closest friends. Twenty years have passed since my first meeting my childhood best friend, Dave, and all the antics we pulled from sneaking into the Clifton Swim Club to perilous treks through Emerald’s Cave, It’s been 25 years since Thomas Tannis and I marched up the center aisle to receive our First Holy Communion, a week after the rest of our class (Measles caused my delay, I don’t recall the excuse Thomas had...

   Fran’s gone again, this time north to Vermont rather than southwest to Texas, in search of blue sky, green trees and some inner satisfaction she can’t find in this neck of the wood. The lure of the road outweighs all other considerations, even love, a lure that sends Woodstock children like her and my ex-wife scurrying to remote places on the planet. Even Suzzanne, my brief college lover, could not resist, seeking to find salvation in the mountains of Colorado and the next step in her intellectual career, but perhaps more about escaping beyond her parents’ reach. All the women in my life consumed with their upbringing, just a bit ashamed of their roots, Louise with wealthy parents who adopted her, Suzzane, with her blue collar father and a compliant mother (who became a symbol of what feminists like Suzzane so opposed), and Fran, whose father haunted and perhaps abused her). All with other men in their lives, with whom I had to share, the not-too-successful artist m...

  We’re playing musical chairs, but with people. My uncle (after yet another attempted suicide) is back up at his room in the mad house, allowing, Fran and her brother to move in with me temporarily. My life overflows with women from my longest friend from grammar school, who sits in her apartment, burdened with the guilt of having chosen between two lovers – desperate to find meaning in her life. Fran, on the other hand, has given up pursuing any such noble efforts, completely living her life in the present without apparent regrets over the past or concerns over the future., starkly determined to live her life on her own terms, even when sometimes that might cause me hurt, as with the fact that she insists on my sharing her with her former lover, and goes back and forth between us, sometimes arriving at my place still bearing his seed inside her, and expecting me to add to it. Fran’s desperate need for love scares me, so intense almost all the time, I feel like a sex mac...

  More than a year later, after marriage, after the baby, she still thinks of that other man, about his being worried and hurt, and whether or not she made the right decision after all, trading this one for that. The trauma of being forced to decide still clinging to her, an open wound that just won’t heal, the guilt about the other man haunting her, most likely for the rest of her life. For more than a year, she fought tooth and nail to get the man, who is now her husband, out of jail, draining herself, becoming too weak to resist the seduction of the other man – a man hoping to sweep her off her feet, and did, but only temporarily. Love and marriage, and of course the baby, came at a time when she began to hear the tick of the biological clock, having turned 30 with out romantic prospects and a rapidly shrinking time when she could still live up to her wish to become a mother. Until her future husband came along, her life had been filled with empty men, hollow men, men ...

    They all pretend to be happy, under the façade of a wedding reception, wedding ring, wedding gown, tossed bouquet and pot roast, along with lunch time tea, me with jeans too tight and with a bag full of notebooks over my shoulder, photographers roaming the premises, snapping shots of significant moments, the rattle of pots and pans from the kitchen, thick rugs decorating all the rooms, a record player along with a bottle of record cleaner, boss and friends tossing bocce balls outside on the lawn, dust on the mantle piece where framed photographs depict a life, marking successful moment with plaques and prizes, drinks spread on the coffee table, the scent of spices I don’t recognize, the book shelf cluttered with abandoned waterglasses through which I can see the spine of books., brass pots in the corner, a dirty sock lost in the bathroom along with the his and hers towels, green spider plants with crusted edges drooping over the still steamy windows, records spread on ...

  I would say this is my lucky day, but I know better than to trust to that. Luck in my case has a tendency to reverse itself all of a sudden, and while I hope for the best of luck – out a desperate need for to attain it – I walk on pins and needles all day, waiting for the clock to strike midnight to breathe deeply again. I am nervous about the fact that this Friday the Thirteen falls on the day after my birthday. I have no memory of the blessed event, although I’m told mother and child got through it relatively unscathed. Nor am I about to spout details of my luck or ill luck, since it is a mixed bag. I sit here with my dog, Spud, whining outside my door for a walk, a necessary evil, now a habit for both of us. We take these walks for granted, missing as few as humanly possible, luck being less important than consistency. Sometimes, when something falls out of the usual pattern, we call it luck (good or bad). Sometimes, we claim someone’s life is ill-fated or char...

  That odd encounter July 18, 1982 A second chance July 25, 1982 On the road again May 11, 1983 Happy birthday, baby May 12, 1983 Friday the Thirteenth again May 13, 1983 After the wedding vows May 14, 2013 The other man May 15, 1983 A day in a life May 16, 1983 email to Al Sullivan