Hold the Line (i)
Poetic record of a day on the crisis line. December, 15, 2023.
“I’m stranded near a gas station.”
PTON is down 4.6%
Her voice is slurred.
She pronounces “programs” as “porkgrams.”
Eviction finalized — back to the streets.
Pop goes the weasel!
Mouth breather, labored puffs of breath overwhelm the microphone.
I think she giggled when I asked if she’d stayed in a shelter before.
You too, bye.
“Don’t think of it as a ‘crisis’; it’s an opportunity to befriend yourself in the deepest sense—”
“This:”
“—is Spiritual.”
“Roundabout bullshit is the reason people become VIOLENT!”
“V” as in “Victor”
“T” as in “Tom”
“S” as in “Samuel” (emphasis on -uel)
She thinks emails are case-sensitive.
Her brother killed himself.
2:14 pm — Phantom
Q: “What is your monthly gross income?”
A: “I have a large tumor in my stomach.”
She used to be in show business. She sings to me.
It’s nice work if you can get it
“My son hangs up on me.”
And you can get it if you try.
I hate that I can hear her breathe in my ear.
“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.” - Pema Chödrön
My leg became restless at 10:26 am. This is the newest part of my routine. My left leg always starts. At some point, both legs are bouncing wildly, vibrating, or swinging side to side like scissors. If I do it too fast, I feel my penis swell as my sweatpants rub against it. I don’t like this. It’s a rude expulsion from an unconscious fidget. I get anxious, I bounce, I get hard, I stop. I get anxious, I bounce, I…
… as in “important.”
“D” for “Dixon”
“A” for….uh…..”America!”
“N” as in “Nancy”
“I’m worried she might try something.”
This one’s birthday is tomorrow.
She told me she’s going to be 69.
She’s spending it alone.
The city took her lights.
She confused her area code with her ZIP code.
12:16 pm—Looking through the window above my desk at the big tree. I see it every day. Someone once asked me what kind of tree it is, I have no idea. If you tell me a ZIP code, I’ll tell you the city. If you tell me a city, I’ll name its county. I can recite the eligibility requirements for local infant cremation services in my sleep. Don’t ask me what kind of tree that is; I haven’t a fucking clue. If I want to find out, I’ll snap a picture and send it to my Dad, and he’ll write back: Araucaria araucana, or some such nonsense. Then I’ll forget I asked.
Writhing + whirling = insecurity.
mmhm, bye-bye now.
“You know who Alan Watts is, right? British dude? No?—oh. Well, he says if you crave security, what you really want is to be protected from the flux of life. […] What? […] Oh, flux! ‘F’—as in ‘Frank’—’L’ - ‘U’ - ‘X’. […] mhm, yup—‘X’ as in ‘X-ray.’ […] It’s like, um, uhhh—constant change; you want to be protected from the constant change of life. Yeah? Alright. So, life is flux—constant change—and if you want to be protected from flux, you want to be protected from life. See? So, have you thought that your desire to be protected from your eviction is—in reality—separating you from life? […] Exactly! Your struggle brings you closer to life. So hang in there, and remember: shrimp only turn that beautiful rose pink color after they’re dead and boiled; otherwise, they're hideous.”
Hold the Line is a series of entries inspired by a day of working at a crisis call center. I like to note how callers talk, what greetings and goodbyes they use, how they spell things, the phrases they use, etc. If it triggers me, I write it down. Things I notice about myself, imagined conversations, clips from articles, or responses I have to particular individuals can be interwoven into the text.
Golf photo credit/source