Caught like a siren on the movie screen of my mind I was found wondering, lost, and perfectly contemptuous. Colors swirled around me, bright, beautiful, and more appealing than anything I had ever seen. Alone; I walked alone in the beginning, yet surrounded by people I did not know, people who had no attachment, no acquaintance with me. I walked on, quiet, contemplative, pondering what it was that stirred me so from my slumber and brought me into the streets. Lost, disconnected, I became immersed in thoughts of India and was then caught in the delight of its appeal. A parade soon formed behind me, loud music; tambourine, sitar and chanting. People danced and clapped along to the music, it was apparent that I was the intruder upon this celebration. No sooner had this thought come to me than I was swept up and placed on a pillow. Seated like a goddess and clothed in rich sari’s covered in gold and jewels, it was palpable that I held some sort of significance to this celebration. The parade continued on and I was raised high above the heads of colorful shirtless men devoted to my praise. Monkey’s danced before me as flower petals were laid in my servant’s path. High in spirit, the world seemed to be breathing and beating for my benefit alone. Along we went further and further into the depths of the afternoon. The sun shone bright, high above me and the people delighted, pious and celebrating me were small and beautiful from my tower of self-righteousness.
As suddenly as I had been whisked away and celebrated I was abandoned and left frightened in the lone night. Shadows danced around me, muffled noises and the smell of decay filled my senses. I looked about feverishly seeking companionship, a familiar face. What I found was a black abyss, nowhere to turn, no one to run to. I tried to run, I tried to break away and breathe fresh air, but the odds were not in my favor. I could see nothing and as I tried to run I was tripped and sent flying into the darkness, unaware of what caught my feet. As I tried to stand again I felt the blood running warm and with fervor from my skull. Try as I might to stop the blood from flowing I could not. All around me my blood rushed; drained, and as it left my body so did this once beautiful soul. Rising higher and higher around me I could smell nothing but the stench of my filthy blood. I floated along the streets swept up by the current of disease. Where was I going? My hands searched about; beneath, above, beside me. I could feel nothing but souls. I could feel the souls of those whom had once loved me; those I had killed in spirit. They were surprisingly solid, for I had always imagined a soul to be more gelatinous in tangible form.
I could hear them crying out, these souls. They cried out “Mercy, mercy, save us, bring us to peace!” They cried louder and with more intensity with each moment. I could bring them no salvation, for I was at best a ravenous beast who once devoured their mortal souls. I no sooner recognized the cry of my brother than the world became bright once again. I saw that it was not blood at all that I had been drifting about, but my sheets and pillows. And those torrid souls were but clenched fists. As I regained consciousness and found again my breath I remembered what was said aloud by one of the pious men at my feet, “This is a mere psudo-reality which you have created to escape the mundane.”
The world became clear and bright as I lay still with shallow breaths in the winter morning sun. The world seemed, once again, familiar and bleak. I pulled the covers over my head and hoping to forget the truth, it repeated itself with persistence; I am alone, and so shall I remain.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
When winter was approaching last year, we were in the field, on the hill, above your father's house. Trying too desperately to make it work, we clung to eachother's limp (and barely warm) bodies. I collected old glass bottles from the woods, but couldn't carry as many as I liked. You couldn't help me. You had your own treasures to collect. Then, standing in the open expanse, I saw the middle of nowhere church where you first told me you loved me and I said, "too fast, baby, too fast."
I left the window open last night and felt those same cold, fresh, winds I felt when we shared a bed and a home. The winds, they smelled the same, and I was happy, not reaching for you.
It's another year, then, I guess. And it's good this way. We know that it is.
I left the window open last night and felt those same cold, fresh, winds I felt when we shared a bed and a home. The winds, they smelled the same, and I was happy, not reaching for you.
It's another year, then, I guess. And it's good this way. We know that it is.
song 4 move E
by the Leonard Cohen Brothers
you want me to come around
you want me to come clean
but you don't understand what that would mean. . .
i don't wanna lie and say,
there's no reason to cry
why try? what if i'm right?
what if it's time to kiss me goodbye?
so if you're afraid
let me take the reins
and drive you away. . .
i wrote you a letter
instead of screaming
(for a change)
but it was just another note out of my range.
you want me to come around
you want me to come clean
but you don't understand what that would mean. . .
i don't wanna lie and say,
there's no reason to cry
why try? what if i'm right?
what if it's time to kiss me goodbye?
so if you're afraid
let me take the reins
and drive you away. . .
i wrote you a letter
instead of screaming
(for a change)
but it was just another note out of my range.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
- As if these books of blank pages purchased as gifts are going to be full of ideas…
- Why is it that we feel like we’re constantly being watched by some ungodly force? A voice that only we can hear resonate as we finally lay our heads down on the desks and continue to search for the proper bubble to fully darken in. All of the above and all of the below. We need normal kids for these game shows.
- And so we become the dust sleeves and slip covers of a forgotten trend that has ultimately given up on trying to tell us which way to walk and how to contain our originality, just so long as we file ourselves under the right heading before the closing bell falsely rings at five o’clock sharp.
- At this point, we’re so insignificant to each other and everyone else that there is absolutely no reason why anyone should even pretend to be friends or even acquaintances. We aren’t like the looks we give, or the words we force ourselves to refrain from shouting, biting our tongues until everyone is miraculously turning red again.
- We’re swimming around in this unconscious center of being alive in this square and having to deal with being the only people who hear these thoughts as they slowly start to reiterate the same message that sounds recycled and yet nevertheless still coherently blank: We’re talking and they hear nothing and yet we’re always available to listen.
- A forced offer of reconciliation is supposed to work better than the awkwardness of simply dealing with the fact that this other person is still alive, still breathing and still thinking the exact same thing. A clean and concise message that looks, feels and tastes like “fuck you” with the bleak and staged subtlety of a communal passing of the wine bottle, like snubbing your neighbors while mowing the lawn.
- And so we become the dust sleeves and slip covers of a forgotten trend that has ultimately given up on trying to tell us which way to walk and how to contain our originality, just so long as we file ourselves under the right heading before the closing bell falsely rings at five o’clock sharp.
- At this point, we’re so insignificant to each other and everyone else that there is absolutely no reason why anyone should even pretend to be friends or even acquaintances. We aren’t like the looks we give, or the words we force ourselves to refrain from shouting, biting our tongues until everyone is miraculously turning red again.
- We’re swimming around in this unconscious center of being alive in this square and having to deal with being the only people who hear these thoughts as they slowly start to reiterate the same message that sounds recycled and yet nevertheless still coherently blank: We’re talking and they hear nothing and yet we’re always available to listen.
- A forced offer of reconciliation is supposed to work better than the awkwardness of simply dealing with the fact that this other person is still alive, still breathing and still thinking the exact same thing. A clean and concise message that looks, feels and tastes like “fuck you” with the bleak and staged subtlety of a communal passing of the wine bottle, like snubbing your neighbors while mowing the lawn.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
I remember Mike Haertzel talking about Trish Ogden. He said he would like to drink her bathwater. I was 11. I told him "All work and no play. You're not working." He and the boys laughed at me. Just like my father, they probably thought I was. I just didn't want to hear about Trish Ogden's bathwater.
The car broke down on the way to the movies one night during winter. I was probably in high school by then. I remember being so angry at my father for his car breaking down--for everything in his life always breaking down, and for him never having the money to fix it (or the peace of mind). My feet were freezing in my boots. My mom was still in the passenger's seat. What I mean is, they were still together.
One Christmas, I asked my dad what the videotape was on a shelf in the garage. He didn't answer me.
My grandfather liked King of Queens and would always say that my cat, Ralph, had Gene Tierney eyes.
Gene Tierney.
My grandfather traded a carton of Pall Malls for a monkey in WWII. Stationed in Australia, he met my grandmother. She ripped her stockings on the ship to America to marry my grandfather. She also broke up with her fiance when my grandfather walked into the movie theater where she worked. Chip, was her fiance's name. He dropped dead of a heartache, my gram says. It's better, though cause my pap liked cheap chocolate covered cherries and wanted to save 35 cents on taking my father to a non-professional haircutter, Lizzie, who cut three of his moles off by accident.
And my pap didn't mind when my gram flooded their first apartment.
He knew he was going to die for a long time. He fell asleep upright in recliners with his hands in his lap and his head down. When he had his first heartattack I was laying on the red carpet and I watched him throw up as my mom ran over, and he grabbed his chest. I got up and ran outside, behind the shed, and sat on his tractor. I looked at his fruit trees. Pear, apple, peach. And his grapevine and the structure he built for them to flourish.
The car broke down on the way to the movies one night during winter. I was probably in high school by then. I remember being so angry at my father for his car breaking down--for everything in his life always breaking down, and for him never having the money to fix it (or the peace of mind). My feet were freezing in my boots. My mom was still in the passenger's seat. What I mean is, they were still together.
One Christmas, I asked my dad what the videotape was on a shelf in the garage. He didn't answer me.
My grandfather liked King of Queens and would always say that my cat, Ralph, had Gene Tierney eyes.
Gene Tierney.
My grandfather traded a carton of Pall Malls for a monkey in WWII. Stationed in Australia, he met my grandmother. She ripped her stockings on the ship to America to marry my grandfather. She also broke up with her fiance when my grandfather walked into the movie theater where she worked. Chip, was her fiance's name. He dropped dead of a heartache, my gram says. It's better, though cause my pap liked cheap chocolate covered cherries and wanted to save 35 cents on taking my father to a non-professional haircutter, Lizzie, who cut three of his moles off by accident.
And my pap didn't mind when my gram flooded their first apartment.
He knew he was going to die for a long time. He fell asleep upright in recliners with his hands in his lap and his head down. When he had his first heartattack I was laying on the red carpet and I watched him throw up as my mom ran over, and he grabbed his chest. I got up and ran outside, behind the shed, and sat on his tractor. I looked at his fruit trees. Pear, apple, peach. And his grapevine and the structure he built for them to flourish.
I know I know I know old hat old news but...
"... paying attention, remembering, filtering what you see and answering back, participating in life."
maybe i'll never be original, but i don't know if i'll ever care. they've seen it all anyways. it's just passed down and down and down and down and down and down and down.
happy holidays from my one track, family oriented mind
Family Stream
Uncle Ross and Aunt Zoey (both deceased)'s apartment above the garage. There were always places for the hummingbirds at the farmhouse. The treehouse where Grandpa Thorton and Uncle Ross would cook greasy foods and look for white tail deer. The porch of the farmhouse, white banisters and dark wood siding and floral couches in the keeping room. The spring behind the house is what kept all 8 children alive, so says Great Grandmother Laura. The keeping room. Grandma's house, the stone wall, the living room with Grandpa's hospital bed (pancretic cancer). The railroad tracks in Big Run lead to the playground by the Big Run Elementary school that is haunted by Mrs. Sheashley who made a student sit on the heater, burned his bottom and he screamed and Dad still hears the screams to this day. Grandpa threatened her when his daughter Laura (Aunt Lolly) was in her class, and she never hurt any of his children. Aunt Lolly wrote letters about old women and dead cats when I was young. The graveyard on the mount, I was bored and sat in the Buick, thristy, wishing I could drink all the antifreeze Grandma kept in the back seat. The blue looked cool and refreshing.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
'The nights are rough, yeah.'
Not bothering to side-step any of the puddles in his path, Everette's attention wandered from his listless homeward stroll; and strayed aimlessly before retreating to the beginning of the day. Around six in the morning he'd awoken in his roommate's bed, confounded and paralyzed in the grip of a hangover. Forcefully blinking and rolling his eyes to bring them to focus, he first noticed a gray hue seaming the white, infirmary-like walls of the room; telling of a dreary and demure dawn. Everette struggled against his phantom captor to stretch or sit up or yawn, but, enfeebled by its clamoring presence, could muster only a tiny, exhausted fart. He chortled in spite of a throbbing head-ache and with this capricious act felt the tension of his limbs relax; allowing him to stretch and sit up and break the pin of his massive hang-over. Putting his bare feet to the cold, overly lacquered hardwood floor, and roughly applying the heels of his hands into the blood-shot holes below his wrinkled brow, Everette struggled to recall how he'd ended up in Mike's bed. Then a voice spoke from somewhere in the grayish haze behind him, but he ignored it, taking it for an echo from his still not too remote unconsciousness. Its reiteration, clear, present and masculine, caused him to jump out of bed, and fall backwards into a bookshelf sending quite a number of candles from the top of the shelf crashing loudly to the floor; all the while covering and protecting his genitals in frightened bewilderment. The voice grew a body which then sat up and turned on a reading lamp - whose head had been knocked eschew by all of Everette's asinine commotion. And it was Mike who quickly shielded its bright, curious stare from Everette's stunned nakedness. And it was Mike who'd moments ago just asked him what time it was - twice. And it was Mike, the night before, who had struggled like hell to rouse the unconscious intruder, and then only to fail in imploring Everette to get out of his bed and to get sleep in his own. And it was Mike who consented to let Everette sleep in his bed so long as Everette didn't 'try to pull any weird, touchy shit.' And it was Mike who barely slept a wink next to his snoring, rolling, kicking, flailing, drunk, and haunted friend. But it was Everette, at that moment, who felt the worst.
'Mike, I'm so sorry. I have no ide-'
'Dude, you gotta just get out.'
'Okay, man, okay - yeah, you're right. I just gotta get out of here, and I'll clean this up in the morning, and I'll just get all - man, I'm really fucking sorry, dude.'
'Dude - '
'Yeah, man?'
'You just gotta get out. You just gotta get out right now before I freak out, you just gotta get out.'
'Okay, man. I'm outta here. I'm sorry. Okay. Sorry. I'm going. I'm outta here right now, dude. I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry. Okay. I'm -'
'Get the fuck out of my room!'
'Mike, I'm so sorry. I have no ide-'
'Dude, you gotta just get out.'
'Okay, man, okay - yeah, you're right. I just gotta get out of here, and I'll clean this up in the morning, and I'll just get all - man, I'm really fucking sorry, dude.'
'Dude - '
'Yeah, man?'
'You just gotta get out. You just gotta get out right now before I freak out, you just gotta get out.'
'Okay, man. I'm outta here. I'm sorry. Okay. Sorry. I'm going. I'm outta here right now, dude. I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry. Okay. I'm -'
'Get the fuck out of my room!'
A Christmas Gift from L. Mansfield
Three tall glasses of fruity wine, handfuls of liquor candy, individually tooth-picked appetizers of varying size and consistency, commemorative mugs full of warm apple cider, cinnamon-sprinkled eggnog and hot chocolate with name-brand miniature marshmallows; steam rising from all liquids and bodies as the dimly lit living room (an offshoot of multicolored lights and reflective bulbs) spins around the point.
“So this is Christmas.”
Bullshit conversations about newer technologies with family and friends; lonely businessmen and their secondary wives sloshed by their own accord; their eyes bloodshot from elongated camera flashes and white smoke seeping out of red lipstick marked cigarettes.
The family beagle joyously dry humping several exposed legs; chocolate-chip-cookie stained faces giggling over the sight. The green-eyed feline strutting across the mantle, past lopsided portraits of past celebrations (both comic and tragic) contemplatively judging each and every set of rosy cheeks; exaggerating over mundane details.
Late arrivals entering through the wreath-decked door, offering up their robin-breasted winter coats and viciously searching for a corkscrew and a corner to suspiciously tuck themselves away in.
Mischievous teenagers getting high from thinly-rolled joints in the backyard and porch, before returning to the heated fold of the basement, spinning empty bottles and opening their mouths to other foreign substances. They repeat the same callow reiterations over and over again in the back of their cloudy minds as sweaty palms and foreheads become interspersed through developing alcoholic diffusion.
Meanwhile, the confused and highly misguided faces returning from adventurous semesters out of state with widely noticeable bloodshot eyes and seeping dye in their hair, attempt to convince themselves and everyone else in the family that it’s all okay, and that the rising strangeness not only in their less than level bodies but also in their dehydrated hearts is absolutely normal. It’s only the specials, and the questions; the last looks, conversations and finally a return to the reality of sensible destructiveness that keeps each and every one of them going as the seconds festively tick at a warped rate.
Upstairs the degrees of clarity start to bend and contrast like those of their spoiling offspring; patiently awaiting the proper tinfoil and refrigerated resurrection. Those with schedules are all convinced that it’s just their heads not their hearts subscribing to this yearly dosage of self-indulgence, and in this evolved fashion, everything will feel reliably sound by Christmas morning.
Crumbled sheets of tissue paper and bubble wrap, scattered on the living room floor as choirs of white-winged sophisticates preach harmonious lessons of commercialized value. They freely discuss the true meanings, while we all sit and wonder what to expect in the days to come.
Leftovers and ways to kill time with the same flushed expressions, cups and shallow decorations before its time to sentimentally look back and joyously sing out:
“We Upstanding Sons and Daughters
Saints and Sinners, Drunks and Martyrs
Find our Lovers under Covers
So Hungover Christmas Morning!”
“So this is Christmas.”
Bullshit conversations about newer technologies with family and friends; lonely businessmen and their secondary wives sloshed by their own accord; their eyes bloodshot from elongated camera flashes and white smoke seeping out of red lipstick marked cigarettes.
The family beagle joyously dry humping several exposed legs; chocolate-chip-cookie stained faces giggling over the sight. The green-eyed feline strutting across the mantle, past lopsided portraits of past celebrations (both comic and tragic) contemplatively judging each and every set of rosy cheeks; exaggerating over mundane details.
Late arrivals entering through the wreath-decked door, offering up their robin-breasted winter coats and viciously searching for a corkscrew and a corner to suspiciously tuck themselves away in.
Mischievous teenagers getting high from thinly-rolled joints in the backyard and porch, before returning to the heated fold of the basement, spinning empty bottles and opening their mouths to other foreign substances. They repeat the same callow reiterations over and over again in the back of their cloudy minds as sweaty palms and foreheads become interspersed through developing alcoholic diffusion.
Meanwhile, the confused and highly misguided faces returning from adventurous semesters out of state with widely noticeable bloodshot eyes and seeping dye in their hair, attempt to convince themselves and everyone else in the family that it’s all okay, and that the rising strangeness not only in their less than level bodies but also in their dehydrated hearts is absolutely normal. It’s only the specials, and the questions; the last looks, conversations and finally a return to the reality of sensible destructiveness that keeps each and every one of them going as the seconds festively tick at a warped rate.
Upstairs the degrees of clarity start to bend and contrast like those of their spoiling offspring; patiently awaiting the proper tinfoil and refrigerated resurrection. Those with schedules are all convinced that it’s just their heads not their hearts subscribing to this yearly dosage of self-indulgence, and in this evolved fashion, everything will feel reliably sound by Christmas morning.
Crumbled sheets of tissue paper and bubble wrap, scattered on the living room floor as choirs of white-winged sophisticates preach harmonious lessons of commercialized value. They freely discuss the true meanings, while we all sit and wonder what to expect in the days to come.
Leftovers and ways to kill time with the same flushed expressions, cups and shallow decorations before its time to sentimentally look back and joyously sing out:
“We Upstanding Sons and Daughters
Saints and Sinners, Drunks and Martyrs
Find our Lovers under Covers
So Hungover Christmas Morning!”
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
"It's as pointless as how pretty your face looks when you're looking at him."
It's sad. It's very sorry. It doesn't mean to want the way it does. Or rigging nothing, for it's already clear---the long days, faces out windows, will be longing only.
It's already gone too far and the body that holds this knows already, all ready. Some construction, huh? Human couldn't stop it, though she tried. Though she did not try.
You did see it in her, working on breathing---it was a task. When the sun came indoors, you suspended it with only one finger to its raging. On sea, you'll see, I'll put you to better use and you will find what is underneath the point where the light stops. "And I will leave you there, alone."
It's sad. It's very sorry. It doesn't mean to want the way it does. Or rigging nothing, for it's already clear---the long days, faces out windows, will be longing only.
It's already gone too far and the body that holds this knows already, all ready. Some construction, huh? Human couldn't stop it, though she tried. Though she did not try.
You did see it in her, working on breathing---it was a task. When the sun came indoors, you suspended it with only one finger to its raging. On sea, you'll see, I'll put you to better use and you will find what is underneath the point where the light stops. "And I will leave you there, alone."
it seems i do what i want. get drunk on sundays. know that i have to be in early for work, but i sleep until i don't want to anymore. then i get up, walk around my apartment, listen to music, smoke, grab no bites to eat, but think about it. take no lunch to work, walk around outside with my headphones, and eventually climb the hill to work. i don't care about it at all. i don't know why they haven't fired me. maybe they will today.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
My mother's AOL Away Message ...
... Hope you have a good Holiday. I am sleeping for the night. Pray for my Mom (85 years) she is having a tough time making it a hard over the Christmas season.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
I stand contented with bloodshot eyes, starring blankly at the great frontier, while my brother lies dead in the thick sand; face, lips and cheeks stained red with the remains of a day that could no longer sustain him.
His wife is on her back, joyously letting the newest employee fulfill his job description, before licking the blue-ink stained envelopes and double checking his math on the yearly tax forms.
His mother sits alone on the lime green couch, hands chapped from white rubber gloves and thick lemony-fresh liquids soaking into her pores.
Her husband impatiently asleep in their unmade bed upstairs, his limbs sprawled out on the communal pillows and sheets; his mistress cautiously balancing her checkbook while the rent glimmers just out of reach this month.
Her landlord is cleaning the double-barrel shotgun passed down to multiple generations of tense morphine addicts as a surefire sign that not much of anything changes.
His two young daughters march back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, banging on pots and pans with wooden spoons and elongated grins stretching from cheek to chin.
Their teacher drunkenly pays the doorman, before investigating the extracurricular activities of his second girlfriend in the last five years.
She's busy buying flowers for her mother's grave when I call and break the news about George.
"He's gone," I say without any preliminary response "And it was beautiful."
"I guess I'll see you in a few days," she replies "Make sure no one can find him."
"Will do." I cough and then turn back to the landscape. It will be dark sooner than later for all of us.
His wife is on her back, joyously letting the newest employee fulfill his job description, before licking the blue-ink stained envelopes and double checking his math on the yearly tax forms.
His mother sits alone on the lime green couch, hands chapped from white rubber gloves and thick lemony-fresh liquids soaking into her pores.
Her husband impatiently asleep in their unmade bed upstairs, his limbs sprawled out on the communal pillows and sheets; his mistress cautiously balancing her checkbook while the rent glimmers just out of reach this month.
Her landlord is cleaning the double-barrel shotgun passed down to multiple generations of tense morphine addicts as a surefire sign that not much of anything changes.
His two young daughters march back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, banging on pots and pans with wooden spoons and elongated grins stretching from cheek to chin.
Their teacher drunkenly pays the doorman, before investigating the extracurricular activities of his second girlfriend in the last five years.
She's busy buying flowers for her mother's grave when I call and break the news about George.
"He's gone," I say without any preliminary response "And it was beautiful."
"I guess I'll see you in a few days," she replies "Make sure no one can find him."
"Will do." I cough and then turn back to the landscape. It will be dark sooner than later for all of us.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
"of course I'll be all right. I just had a bad night."
I don't sleep now that I'm alone. I end up staying awake writing and creating and listening to songs that I try to make me feel better, but most of the time I end up drifting off around 4 or 5 feeling nothing but numb, unnecessary and sorry for myself.
"I felt the shift," I told him on Thursday night after dinner. He said he felt it in me, too. "You're not as bright. It worries me because you're the most hopeful little being I know."
He said he thinks stuff he said resonated and he feels somewhat responsible for cracking that spirit, but said it wasn't a bad thing. "Well, you've got to grow up sometime," he said. "Life sucks and it's better you learned it now before you got too jaded."
I later read something he wrote me in a letter that I'm pretty sure is some pathetic regurgitated quote: "Becoming an adult means doing the right thing for those around you even if it hurts you." It didn't fit in the letter at all, and for a writer, it was quite misplaced. So was the letter. Silly rehashings of things he's already told me about how he feels about me, us and the world. Do the right thing? I didn't know what the right thing was, and I really wasn't in the mood to be hurt anymore. Just the day before, I was told to leave my house until I "figured out my so-called quarterlife crisis." When I tried coming back that night, the father I always thought was gold shut me out.
Feeling that type of hard love sent me for more, which I why I went immediately to another source of it. That's when he gave me the letter. I didn't read it until I got drunk, pissed him off for keeping him up and left because I was too antsy and he wouldn't have sex with me. I could've done what society would deem as mature and tucked away the letter, kept my emotions to myself and cry about it quietly in the private. But I did the opposite and acted like the child he was accusing me of being lately. I threw a tantrum by screaming and banging on the steering wheel of my rental car. Any passersby would've found my expletives completely audible. But there were none. It was 3:30 a.m. and I was alone on Spruce Street contemplating whether to disarm the alarm of my job and sleep on the couch until my shift started in three hours or just to fall asleep in my car. I chose the latter and woke up only because a street sweeper started honking at me at around 6.
It wasn't long until all my dire thoughts turned into motivation and hope. Sure, I was temporarily "homeless," but at least I had a car. Yes, I felt alone, but in reality if I were to count the people in my life who I know would do everything and anything for me, I wouldn't be able to fit them on one hand. Attempt to count the people who I know honestly love me? Well, I don't have enough fingers or toes to achieve that task.
And that's where I buckled. Right there in a red Indiana sweatshirt, blue jeans, flannel clogs, brown hat, red scarf and plaid coat. Shivering in 20something degree weather, my 20something body felt the weight of everything I have to be grateful for lifting itself out of my present heavy heart and flowing through my blood stream to bring me instant literal warmth. A different types of tears streamed down my face before the cold served as a thief. I unlocked the door to my job, shut off the alarm, sat on the couch and cried the types of tears you cry when you genuinely forgive someone -- only this time the only person I was pardoning was myself for getting lost in self pity.
Reality might have set in and I acknowledge that sometimes it's more than difficult to just brush things off and hope for the best. But I'll still always try. I'm convinced that karmic energy propels effort full circle. And I'll always live for the joy that's produced as a result.
"I felt the shift," I told him on Thursday night after dinner. He said he felt it in me, too. "You're not as bright. It worries me because you're the most hopeful little being I know."
He said he thinks stuff he said resonated and he feels somewhat responsible for cracking that spirit, but said it wasn't a bad thing. "Well, you've got to grow up sometime," he said. "Life sucks and it's better you learned it now before you got too jaded."
I later read something he wrote me in a letter that I'm pretty sure is some pathetic regurgitated quote: "Becoming an adult means doing the right thing for those around you even if it hurts you." It didn't fit in the letter at all, and for a writer, it was quite misplaced. So was the letter. Silly rehashings of things he's already told me about how he feels about me, us and the world. Do the right thing? I didn't know what the right thing was, and I really wasn't in the mood to be hurt anymore. Just the day before, I was told to leave my house until I "figured out my so-called quarterlife crisis." When I tried coming back that night, the father I always thought was gold shut me out.
Feeling that type of hard love sent me for more, which I why I went immediately to another source of it. That's when he gave me the letter. I didn't read it until I got drunk, pissed him off for keeping him up and left because I was too antsy and he wouldn't have sex with me. I could've done what society would deem as mature and tucked away the letter, kept my emotions to myself and cry about it quietly in the private. But I did the opposite and acted like the child he was accusing me of being lately. I threw a tantrum by screaming and banging on the steering wheel of my rental car. Any passersby would've found my expletives completely audible. But there were none. It was 3:30 a.m. and I was alone on Spruce Street contemplating whether to disarm the alarm of my job and sleep on the couch until my shift started in three hours or just to fall asleep in my car. I chose the latter and woke up only because a street sweeper started honking at me at around 6.
It wasn't long until all my dire thoughts turned into motivation and hope. Sure, I was temporarily "homeless," but at least I had a car. Yes, I felt alone, but in reality if I were to count the people in my life who I know would do everything and anything for me, I wouldn't be able to fit them on one hand. Attempt to count the people who I know honestly love me? Well, I don't have enough fingers or toes to achieve that task.
And that's where I buckled. Right there in a red Indiana sweatshirt, blue jeans, flannel clogs, brown hat, red scarf and plaid coat. Shivering in 20something degree weather, my 20something body felt the weight of everything I have to be grateful for lifting itself out of my present heavy heart and flowing through my blood stream to bring me instant literal warmth. A different types of tears streamed down my face before the cold served as a thief. I unlocked the door to my job, shut off the alarm, sat on the couch and cried the types of tears you cry when you genuinely forgive someone -- only this time the only person I was pardoning was myself for getting lost in self pity.
Reality might have set in and I acknowledge that sometimes it's more than difficult to just brush things off and hope for the best. But I'll still always try. I'm convinced that karmic energy propels effort full circle. And I'll always live for the joy that's produced as a result.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
When Do We Finally Land?
- I'm waiting for this to kick in.
- She's waiting for this to war off.
- I only feel healthy when I'm unconscious.
- One day, reasonably soon, all of our ears will pop and the real sounds be overwhelmingly gray and stagnant.
- It's the same damn choices, all the time. Options for mile-high dinners are fleeting.
- We tried to watch this movie two months ago, and instead just ended up making-out in the back of the theater.
- Don't worry. I checked my list twice. Everything's in its right place.
- I hope I don't remember everything, that it's just in the air one moment and back on the ground the next.
- I'm looking forward to seeing my family, although I'm not exactly sure if they even remember me.
- I'm finally getting and it feels long overdue.
- The whole country's going to hell; I can't even sleep without thinking about it.
- My feet are killing me. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to this get-up.
- Yeah sure, I mine as well have a refill.
- Be calm, there's nothing to be afraid of.
- Shut the fuck up! We should all be dying happy at least.
- I know what they were all talking about now, when they said it's like blinking.
- You're all wrong. This isn't our fault. It's the world's.
- Place the blame. Go ahead and throw it around like confetti, see what parts of the wall it sticks to.
- I hope she knows I'm sorry. Utterly and completely remorseful about everything.
- I know I don't know you, but I'd like to thank you for being here right now.
- Jesus Christ, what a fucked up world w...
- She's waiting for this to war off.
- I only feel healthy when I'm unconscious.
- One day, reasonably soon, all of our ears will pop and the real sounds be overwhelmingly gray and stagnant.
- It's the same damn choices, all the time. Options for mile-high dinners are fleeting.
- We tried to watch this movie two months ago, and instead just ended up making-out in the back of the theater.
- Don't worry. I checked my list twice. Everything's in its right place.
- I hope I don't remember everything, that it's just in the air one moment and back on the ground the next.
- I'm looking forward to seeing my family, although I'm not exactly sure if they even remember me.
- I'm finally getting and it feels long overdue.
- The whole country's going to hell; I can't even sleep without thinking about it.
- My feet are killing me. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to this get-up.
- Yeah sure, I mine as well have a refill.
- Be calm, there's nothing to be afraid of.
- Shut the fuck up! We should all be dying happy at least.
- I know what they were all talking about now, when they said it's like blinking.
- You're all wrong. This isn't our fault. It's the world's.
- Place the blame. Go ahead and throw it around like confetti, see what parts of the wall it sticks to.
- I hope she knows I'm sorry. Utterly and completely remorseful about everything.
- I know I don't know you, but I'd like to thank you for being here right now.
- Jesus Christ, what a fucked up world w...
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Where Are We Headed?
- I could care less about anybody or anything, every one person is insignificant.
- All that means is that certain kinds of numbness are fully contagious.
- About a week now, but can foresee myself getting better by the time I'm twenty-four.
- Everyone keeps on asking me if I'm okay, as if it's the one one question they need to hear my answer to.
- I;m not sure if she misses him or not. I mean, do we ever really miss the people who fuck us over?
- Call the babysitter, put on something flashing and let's get over our mutual depression.
- I'm not sure what time it starts. I guess when everyone's drug dealers pull through.
- I haven't felt this irresponsible since college.
- You need to call and talk to somebody.
- You just need to get fucked-up and forget about all those minor piles of shit tonight.
- We need to start living right now.
- No one is missing out on anything substantial.
- I'm in no condition to meet new faces.
- I'm so close to being done with this new project.
- They both showed up? Wow, that's a bit unsettling.
- How could something like this happen? Why didn't any of us coordinate better?
- What a fucked up world we live in.
- So how's our son?
- Safe, how are you?
- We're finally okay with each other, I think.
- And all of this doesn't have to mean the world.
- All that means is that certain kinds of numbness are fully contagious.
- About a week now, but can foresee myself getting better by the time I'm twenty-four.
- Everyone keeps on asking me if I'm okay, as if it's the one one question they need to hear my answer to.
- I;m not sure if she misses him or not. I mean, do we ever really miss the people who fuck us over?
- Call the babysitter, put on something flashing and let's get over our mutual depression.
- I'm not sure what time it starts. I guess when everyone's drug dealers pull through.
- I haven't felt this irresponsible since college.
- You need to call and talk to somebody.
- You just need to get fucked-up and forget about all those minor piles of shit tonight.
- We need to start living right now.
- No one is missing out on anything substantial.
- I'm in no condition to meet new faces.
- I'm so close to being done with this new project.
- They both showed up? Wow, that's a bit unsettling.
- How could something like this happen? Why didn't any of us coordinate better?
- What a fucked up world we live in.
- So how's our son?
- Safe, how are you?
- We're finally okay with each other, I think.
- And all of this doesn't have to mean the world.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Who Do I Confide In Now?
- Now you know what secrets do to people.
- I'm not sure I saw anything. It was late. I was drunk.
- Why is it that people do these kinds of things to each other, especially the happily married ones. What is it, boredom?
- Didn't I tell you something like this was going to happen? I'm like goddamn Nostradamus.
- None of us really know what went on. It's not like there's any substantial proof out there, at least not like there has been before.
- I'm not saying I don't believe you. I'm just saying that your alibi isn't exactly reliable.
- She gets around so much it's not wonder he fell straight into the lion's den.
- A man can only return home to the same dinner scene so many times before it eventually starts to make his skin crawl.
- Is everything okay at home, dear?
- We can only tell our friends so much before their brains start to crack like eggs from the pressure.
- This is why people talk to God or go to confession, praying for some kind of minor solution or wave of spiritual forgiveness.
- Everything will be okay. You just need to breathe. Both of us just need to breathe.
- We're all watching over only each other sometimes.
- What? A fucked up world... We live in?
- I'll see you on Saturday, sweetie.
- I keep telling myself that it's better now, even though I'm fully aware it's denial.
- So I'm sorry about the whole dog thing.
- I'm sorry about the whole invitation thing.
- And now it feels like childhood again.
- I'm not sure I saw anything. It was late. I was drunk.
- Why is it that people do these kinds of things to each other, especially the happily married ones. What is it, boredom?
- Didn't I tell you something like this was going to happen? I'm like goddamn Nostradamus.
- None of us really know what went on. It's not like there's any substantial proof out there, at least not like there has been before.
- I'm not saying I don't believe you. I'm just saying that your alibi isn't exactly reliable.
- She gets around so much it's not wonder he fell straight into the lion's den.
- A man can only return home to the same dinner scene so many times before it eventually starts to make his skin crawl.
- Is everything okay at home, dear?
- We can only tell our friends so much before their brains start to crack like eggs from the pressure.
- This is why people talk to God or go to confession, praying for some kind of minor solution or wave of spiritual forgiveness.
- Everything will be okay. You just need to breathe. Both of us just need to breathe.
- We're all watching over only each other sometimes.
- What? A fucked up world... We live in?
- I'll see you on Saturday, sweetie.
- I keep telling myself that it's better now, even though I'm fully aware it's denial.
- So I'm sorry about the whole dog thing.
- I'm sorry about the whole invitation thing.
- And now it feels like childhood again.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
