Used to be one of the rotten ones, and I liked you for that.

It’s easy to romanticize what you don’t have, be that security or lack thereof. Lately, I find myself resenting comfort as much as I resented poverty. I’m jealous of the kids like stray dogs, wearing their hunger like a badge of honor. I want to see the sunrise from the other side of morning. I want to drink wine and grow poetry; talk philosophy, and flirt shamelessly with 2am on a weeknight.

Instead, I:

·     Perform mundane office tasks

·     Beat my head against every wall I can find

·     Offer strangers my poetry like a promise

·     Thank people for their time/consideration/cooperation

·     Perform, perform, perform, perform

              

I feel like a coward for living comfortably.

What is courageous? Am I breaking cycles or perpetuating them? How many parallel circles can I run until I’ve eaten up the space between myself and the root of this compulsion to run away from everything I work to obtain? None of this makes any sense.

my specialty is living said a man(who could not earn his bread because he would not sell his head)

Sometimes the right thing happens at the right time and everything makes a little more sense than usual. That’s a really big, vague statement but I’m not sure how else to describe my current state of flux. Last night I visited a friend at the club where she dances a few days a week.

Since moving to Portland I’ve learned to enter strip clubs like I own them. There’s no sense in looking vulnerable. Square shoulders, hands in pockets: 8pm, Wednesday night. Walk straight to the bar. Glance at the stage, but don’t stare unless you plan on tipping. There’s a certain kind of look that exists primarily around food courts, farmer’s markets, and strip clubs. A look of hopeful expectation that makes my skin feel too tight.

When I arrived there were six people in the building. Two dancers, the bartender discussing Jersey Shore with her friend at the bar, one man apparently sleeping in the corner of the room... The dancers were out back, swapping cigarettes and nursing the last drink of the night. I’d come in on the tail end of a 10-hour shift. The girls bantered easily while methodically uncrumpling $1 bills, adding up their earnings.

Pay the house, tip the bartender, cover gas… $7 left. I need another drink. If I’ma be poor, I’ma be drunk.

My friend’s cohort calls herself a coconut; she understands her body as a novelty. She doesn’t have any regulars here. It only takes one to make or break a night. But she’s here for her girls, she loves the girls she works with. I buy her a drink, tell her there are better places to spend her money. She orders a bullet of whiskey, chases it with small swigs of cola.

We sat with a gentleman from Texas. He found his two adult children on the internet three months ago and came north to meet them. He calls me ma’am when he thanks me for his PBR. He’s got a foul mouth and a slow drawl; he could say anything and make it sound pretty.

Pussy? You’ve gotta peel it back and eat it like an Alberta peach.

When he smiles, he holds up a hand to hide his missing teeth, but his smile is beautifully crooked and more than a little drunk. He says he’s earned every scar on his face. He’s weather-worn with sleepy eyes and a quick wit. He doesn’t have time to tell us everything, his ride’s here and he has to stumble out the door.

Girl, I’d like to get a pup out of you because damn would that dog hunt!

The rules bend and blur in that place. Everybody seems so tired. She dances because she lost her identity, literally not figuratively. There’s no romance when you have no escape route.

A little over a year ago I asked Is it arguably as courageous to forfeit all sense of control as to maintain it perfectly?. I’m still not sure how to answer that. The word “courage” comes from the Latin root cor, or heart. The literal translation: honoring truthfully the heart’s innermost desires.

You guys. What does that even mean? Do people actually know their heart’s innermost desires? And when they change, do you uproot everything you’d previously worked for and call yourself courageous? Sometimes my heart’s innermost desire is a turkey sandwich. My heart could be a pendulum, or a compass, or a metal detector depending on whether I need to find something or be found. Or become unlost. Or become.

I keep finding words that aren’t saying what I want to say. Maybe because I’m not sure what to say, except I get scared sometimes and I hope that’s ok. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I hope that’s ok too. Courage is a messy and complicated thing, and it may be a long while before I achieve it. There's no method or plan here. Be patient with me, please? I'll make it worth your time.

I love you all very much.

-b