The rain is still novel to a point that it’s very welcome, a feeling that will probably stick around due to its curious absence over the summer. The wooden canopy I tend to sit under at this establishment is damp, an occasional cool droplet of water making its way inside, though not so much that it dissuades my use of electronics. My notebooks are strewn about, though presently my words are typed into a keyboard. My phone serves as a wi-fi hotspot, and also provides a somewhat delayed and occasionally interrupted feed of the Seahawks game. The beer is yellow, sour, adequate. The pretzel’s cheese sauce is perfectly salty and fatty, but almost gone.
I’ve written vignettes of this style for quite a long time now, over a decade at least. They’re a fine exercise, a way to keep one’s observational and descriptive powers sharp, and that’s generally my explanation for continuing.
An odd collective noise, one of excitement, then disappointment, issues from inside the bar, which prompts me to glance at the football game. An exciting but failed play, followed by a score from the opposing side. Meanwhile, rain trickles in trails from the street side of the canopy, collecting in the gutter.
There’s a more important reason for me to write in this fashion; my mind is a deeply unreliable narrator. Between the regular bouts of depersonalization and dissociation, it’s hard to feel like I’m actually present for a lot of the events in my past, especially these days. This past week especially has been mired with the two, and further weighed down with feelings of regretful ennui, as well as a vague related notion that I’m missing something in my life.
The traffic is, as ever, annoying, loud, uncomfortably close. A creeping thought reminds me that a moment’s neglect or error on the part of a stranger could effortlessly leave me maimed or worse. I have another sip of beer and try to put the thought from my mind.
That sensation, that dissatisfaction, is untrustworthy on its very face. The era it’s choosing to romanticize, to look back on as the ideal, was not a perfect time. The elements that it longs for were present only fleetingly if not speculatively. Simply put, that feeling is lying to me, a brazen attempt to create discomfort where none should exist. And it’s far from the first time.
The rain has turned into a downpour. Droplets splash against the pavement, leaving my ankles lightly damp. The Seahawks are ahead, but not by a comfortable margin.
I capitulated to these feelings plenty in the past, picked and prodded at things that were perfectly fine, only to cause myself more anguish in the long term. Now, I know better, or believe that I know better. My therapist was quick to suggest that perhaps the impulse is right, perhaps I am in fact missing something. But it seems to me, at least for now, that it’s not worth trusting that unreliable narrator to chase after a feeling that I might not have actually experienced.
The air chills to an extent that I’m tempted to request the waitress turn on the space heater above my table — something I’m perfectly capable of doing myself, but won’t out of respect of liability fears. Instead I order a mug of tea to accompany my last bit of beer, and put on my windbreaker (only to find one arm of it soaked). Minnesota scores, leaving the Seahawks back by 4. The Seattle team takes a second timeout.
For as gentle and peril-less as my life has been, the balance of it has been upset no small number of times. More often by myself, but repeatedly by outside circumstances to disastrous effect. As a consequence, I’m reluctant to upset balances, no matter how precarious they might be, no matter what a new order could look like. The past couple months have already hosted dramatic, dynamic change as far as I’m concerned — why tempt fate by changing things further at the behest of a known liar?
It looks warm inside the bar, but I remain unwilling to frequent the interiors of local establishments. Don’t people know there’s a pandemic on?
Best to keep leaving notes containing objective truth, events that verifiably occurred. Best to keep that untrustworthy bit of dissatisfaction from getting any real traction. No need to knock things over on account of a rogue bit of one’s heart.