Thursday, September 7, 2017
I found myself alone. Members of the cast and production team, each gone their separate ways, and there I was. By myself, as I so very often am. I couldn't bring myself to leave the place yet. I sat in the empty parking lot of the Fringe Factory, staring into the night sky, and smoking my cigarette. It was calming. As smoking so often had been over the past decade. It soothed my troubled soul, and allowed me to melt into something else. And so I melted. Lost in though, and the tragic romance of the whole thing. (There is always tragic romance, if you don't bother looking for it.)
In that moment, something strange happened. I...I dunno. I can't explain it. I was exactly the same, and forever changed. I didn't want to be a smoker anymore. I didn't have a reason. There was no compelling argument. There was no motivation behind it. There was no stimulus, or promise of reward. I just...
I didn't want to be a smoker anymore. So I quit. Right then and there. I quit smoking.
And then I immediately felt the panic that happens when you quit smoking. Even though the nicotine was still fresh in my blood, and the smell of cigarettes not yet gone from the air...I felt that thing, that you can only know if you are an addict. If you have been there. If you don't know the feeling, I can't tell you what it is. I can only say it's one of the most horrifying feelings outside of imminent threat.
So I started smoking again. Not ten seconds had passed between quitting smoking, and starting again. And I felt better.
And I felt worse.
I still wanted to quit. I was ready to quit. I didn't quit. Instead, I did something else. Something I decided would be just for me. Something that went unannounced, and without fanfare. Instead of quitting, I gave myself a quit date. This helped appease both the part of me that wanted to be done, and the part that was nowhere near ready to be done. I sat there in the night, overwhelmed with a variety of emotions that I won't ever discuss, and told myself that August 31st, would be my last day as a smoker.
This was all just me. I never...not once...discussed this decision with another person. I didn't talk about it. I didn't let anyone know. I left myself room to fail, knowing that since I was accountable only to myself...I was most accountable of all. I didn't want anyone else to know, because this was something that could be mine alone. And I carried it with me every single day, in my back brain pocket.
Once that decision was made, it was really very easy. I never felt anxiety leading up to my quit day. I didn't ever feel like I had to extend it, or change it, or change my mind entirely. I was still ready to not be a smoker anymore, and soon after, I actually began to look forward to it. The internal fear that comes with letting go, never came. I was going to quit smoking on August 31st.
The day arrived, and I had a not quite full pack. I smoked at my normal rate. I didn't change or adjust anyhing. The only thing I didn't do, was purchase the next pack on my lunch break, as I normally would. I still went ito 7-11. I bought a soda. Probably chocolate...because there should always be chocolate. The lady behind the counter knows me, and my habits, and when I didn't ask for a pack of my normal brand, she offered. I simply said no thank you.
That evening I went with a friend to another friend's house. Just to hang out and visit. I only had one cigarette left. Just one. One lone nail, sitting in its near empty box...and I was never not aware of it. I knew that it would be my last. It was a wonderful evening with friends. Finally the time came to go home. Upon arrival, I went to the back patio, as was my daily routine, to smoke. I didn't make a ceremony of it. I didn't try to draw it out, or take it slow. I didn't romanticize it, as I am prone to do with just about every goddamn thing I ever do. In fact, I was largely distracted with a home project, and worked on that while smoking...hardly paying attention to the cigarette at all. When it was done, I put it out, and emptied the little bowl I'd been using as an ashtray. I finished the project for the night, and went inside. And that was that. 10:30 p.m., Thursday, August 31st, I smoked my last cigarette.
My first true make or break moment came the following morning. The entire drive in to work, I fixated on just stopping at 7-11, getting a pack, and saying fuck it. It'd only been about 9 hours since the final smoke on the back patio. At this point, it wouldn't even be as though I'd quit. it was just a night of sleep without, and nothing would have changed. I wanted it. I wanted to make that stop so bad. It's been a VERY long time since I've exercised that kind of self discipline, but...
I didn't want to be a smoker anymore. I watched the 7-11 pass by through the window. I went to work.
That first day was awful. I knew it would be. All I could do, was look forward to 10:30 p.m., just so I could say that I'd made it a full 24 hours.
I made it.
I am still getting nicotine. Some people quit with the help of gum. Others the help of the patch. I have a vape pen, and it's working. Some may call it a cheat. I don't fucking care...it's working. I am grading my nicotine levels down...and will eventually put that away as well, but until I'm fully off the cigarettes...it's what I have. I am not a smoker anymore.
The second day was rough. Not as bad as the first, but...pretty rough. The third was actually...well...I could feel it getting easier. The fourth day was okay. The fifth was amazing. Almost easy. Habits were starting to die. Times that I would typically light up, were passing by unnoticed...until I noticed that I hadn't noticed. There was a certain thrill that I just may be able to get through this. Day six was hard again...frustrating after the ease of five, and today...
One week exactly...
Has been the worst day yet. I don't know why. I don't know the psychology, or biology, or anyology behind it..but...
Today was actually worse than the first day. Most likely because I expected it the first day, but thought that after a week, maybe it'd ease up a bit. Especially since day five was such a cake walk.
There are very real, very physical reactions. I am experienceing those things. Headaches. Shakes. Anxiety. Tight chest. Stomach tightening anytime I even think of eating. On edge. Oh my fucking christ am I on edge. Little things driving me crazy. I'm forgetful. Not because I'm forgetful, but becuase my mind is so goddamn focused on one thing, that nothing else is getting any mental attention. I need distraction, from the distraction of severe drug deprivation. It is literally the ONLY thing on my mind...and I can't fucking stop thinking about it.
I've been sucking the ecig, like a goddamn newborn on mama's tit, and I can't get enough. I can't stop the pain...both physical and mental. I wan a cigarette. I don't know that I've ever wanted anything so badly in my life. I know...in my stupid stupid brain, I KNOW, that with just one puff....all of those things will go away. I will no longer be on that edge. I will be calm. I will be relaxed. I will be able to think again. I will stop thinking about how much I want one, because I will have had one.
As badly as I want one...
(and sweet mother of god, I do)
I don't want to be a smoker anymore.
It's a funny thing. I've been asked many times, since I went public with quitting...why? Why am I quitting? Why now? What made me want to do this...now? And the answer is...
I have no fucking clue.
It isn't a health thing.
It isn't a money thing.
It isn't a self improvement thing.
There is no girl I'm gonna get...or reward I'm gonna achieve.
It isn't an anything.
I've never been able to give satisfactory answer to those questions...because I don't have one. Under that August moon, I told myself that I don't want to be a smoker anymore.
And so I'm not.
It sucks real bad.
I very literally had to lock myself away from humanity tonight, and that was very much the right decision.
I don't know what tomorrow will be like.
I don't know for how long I can keep not buying a pack...except...
I think maybe forever.
This is the worst thing I have ever done to myself, and I do fully aknowlege that I did this to myself...but....it's just what I have to do now, because...
I can't really tell you why.
I don't know why.
But I don't want to be a smoker anymore.
So I won't be.
Fuck you. Because I hate everything and eveybody forever.
Or at lieast until...
This also passes.
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
If I have ever hurt you, I am sorry, and please know it was not with intent. I have been hurt, and I know that hurt was not the intent.
I will hurt again. I will be hurt again. I will once again set myself up for the pain that is inevitable with breathing... and not talking. I'm very good at that.
What is, is.
The foundation of reason.
I have been very involved lately with the thoughts in my head. Some I will share. Most I will not. I am not intentionally enigmatic, if you find me so. I just... prefer to not share the more significant parts of me, and so I therefore elaborate and exaggerate the insignificant. That IS intentional.
It has been a very very long time since I've wanted to let someone else have that. There were a couple times over the past while I thought I may want to let that out again. I was wrong. So back in to me I go.
I've been thinking lately. (A terrible pastime, I know.) Most is for my brain stuff, but some I'll share.
I've been thinking about the merry-go-round... but that...
That's going in to the play I'm writing, unless it gets cut in final edit. So you'll just have to come to the fringe fest this year for more on that.
I've been thinking about lies. The lies we tell other people, because they are the lies we have told ourselves, and believed. I've been telling a whopper for about a decade now. Until I found my truth. This one's gonna sting for a while, and the end result will be invisible. Tarnished thread in my own little tapestry.
I've been thinking about decades. How each for me is like some strange chrysalis, and I'm now very near my ten year mark in SLC. I feel transformation coming. I'm not yet sure I'm comfortable in this new skin. It's different. It's neither pretty, nor shiny, but it's mine, and I must wear it.
New realities I must adjust to, and as I've always done, I set the emotion aside, and go in to my head. My head. My stupid lying to myself brain, that thirsts for epiphany, yet closes its own throat when epiphany arrives. That's a neat trick.
And there's more... So much more... and I know the tone of all this is maudlin, but the tone is perhaps as misleading as everything else. There is no pity in this self. Only discovery, and a charmed, if not overly romanticized sense of selves colliding.
I've been thinking about all the times I've died. Killed myself, or by myself been killed. Been reborn, once more with new illusion. Do I rise each time stronger? Wiser? Or just with a new map of lies with which to navigate this altered reality.
Is my frustration born of new doubt, or lessons not yet learned. Or once learned now forgotten to be learned again... and is there a difference.
Is this heartache new? Or a newly opened old wound? Is this longing mine? Or does it belong more to the fantasy of who I wish I was? Or used to be?
Can necromancy be used on only the best things we've left behind, leaving still to rest those parts we intentionally murdered?
Aren't I too old for identity crisis? Or is this the crisis that comes at mid life? Is it really a crisis if it's all in my head, and my outward appearance remains the same? Is it crisis if I can still sleep at night, or is it the same crisis that has plagued my entire life with lack of sleep?
And most importantly, how can I justify the new discoveries, with the existing desires? It is said that a true contradiction can't exist in nature. There is ample philosophical diatribe to support the thesis, but on the other hand Freud said everything is dicks, except cigars, and I'm pretty sure Freud was full of dick shaped shit, and maybe everything that is said is contrary to everything else that's said and there is no such thing as objective truth, but if that's true, then one could argue there's no such thing as objective lies, but that can't be true so there...THERE...is a goddamned rhetorical contradiction, which if nowhere else exists in my brain, which to my knowledge is natural, and ergo a contradiction does exist in nature so fuck you hypothetical semantician. I think two things, therefore I am two things. Very very contrary things.
I am my own best hypocrite. A veritable Janus on the rock, and both faces are true. And both faces lie. And so...
I will hurt.
And I will be hurt.
And I am I am I am
True to all of my selves.
Without apology, or exception.
Because this is what it means to be human.
To be alive.
To be open to new experience
And new truth
And because tomorrow I may be different than I was today
Does not mean that I didn't mean every single word I said yesterday.
I simply, and absolutely refuse to be limited in my experience by stagnation of principle.
The grey Jedi.
The chaotic neutral.
The Paladin of disorder.
Christ does it hurt.
My god how I laugh.
Just because your truth is not my truth does not mean we're dishonest.
And as always...there is the quest. The hero's (or anti hero's depending on perspective) journey.
Love in every step.
Beneath every breath.
Under every star, and atop each grain of sand. The motivating agent on every decision... truth or lie... laughter or tear drop, all of the words spoken...
Is the oh my god you've stolen my breath by simply existing...
Someday that love will kill me. It will. I will supernova because I've lost the strength and ability to contain it any longer.
But until then...
My god, you've stolen my breath by simply existing.
Thursday, March 16, 2017
I'm much more a road hazard when listening to the classical radio station, than any other. No really. Any normal station, I only have to sing along. When it's the classical station, it takes both hands to conduct the orchestra.
There are a ton of things in my brain, and I can't seem to wrap around any single tangent and give birth to true cohesion, so here's to no sense and nonsense.
There are currently three unwritten plays, and one needing revision, all fighting for front and center, and the one needing most immediate attention is dozing in the back.
I think a primary reason I don't online date, is because I don't have the energy to prove to strangers that I'm not the dirtbag they kind of have to assume I am.
Also I don't date.
I also have an uncanny ability to blow it with any woman within 2.5 conversations. So as long as I keep my time and attention with them under that, there's still a chance.
I think the greatest indicator I'm a horrible person, is that I actually really look forward to saying, "I told you so", to Trump supporters.
Last week I tried quitting smoking. I went 37 hours before I quit quitting. I learned nothing new about myself from that experience.
I used to think I was a very patient person, but then it occurred to me that it's not patience if you're not really waiting for anything.
My thoughts are far less pornographic than my social media presence might indicate.
I also have WAY more fun.
And laugh. A lot. Every day. If you don't, you should try it. It's fun and easy.
The intricacies and delights of my life are defined by accident, and bad timing. I almost never get what I want, therefore by extension I've gotten everything I ever wanted.
I've also learned a lot about love. Not really though, but what it is to me...and that's enough.
Things I like:
Outside nighttime smoking sans shirt and shoes, mid March.
Listening to people talk passionately.
Meaningful looks in crowded rooms.
Emotional bonds that transcend description.
A gajillion (that's not a real number, that represents the impossible nature of listing all the things I like).
But mostly I like being alive.
This is my favorite fucking thing of all. Every second of every day that I have awareness, I am aware that I am doing my favorite thing, and lately I've been far too painfully reminded that this is not an option for everybody, and will someday no longer be an option for me.
So while it's still an option, I'll do the things I like. I'll do all the things on my impossible to realistically number list. I'll do those things with people who would like to do them with me. And if they don't want to...that's okay. Won't stop me.
Make your list. Or do your things.
I ain't gonna listen if you try to tell me how to live my life, I'd be a hypocrite if I told you how to live yours...but...
I hope there is joy.
Goddamn I hope there is joy.
And I hope you know that if I love you, well...
There's not a damn thing you can do about it.
Monday, February 27, 2017
In my youth I had more than ample opportunity to attend county fairs, and rodeos. This was simply part of life in Wyoming. A reality I grew up with....I grew up in. It is no longer a part of the reality I exist in, but the memories remain. These events are fraught with the most entertaining combination of child and animal abuse. The mutton busters were great. Little kids in football helmets on sheep. Always a good time. My favorite though was the greased pig chase. This is, well...exactly what it sounds like. Some asshole would grease up a pig, scare the shit out of it, then turn it loose while a bunch of kids tried to catch it, all while drunk parents stood outside the gates screaming, "Come on Dusty, go on catch that sumbitch", and sipping on Pabst signature Blue Ribbon from a plastic cup.
I don't really remember if anyone ever caught the pig. Probably. I don't remember what the prize was if they did. Hell, maybe they got to keep it. Take it to the butcher and fill the freezer. I don't really know. I do remember kids falling down a lot. Getting bloody. Trampled. Crying. Cheering. Tons of laughs to be had all around.
Maybe there's a god above,
but all I ever learned from love
was how to shoot somebody
who outdrew ya.
I would watch and laugh with the rest of the folk dressed in their farmland finest. I would eavesdrop the conversations about the weather, and the coming harvest, and the local gossip. Wanting nothing more than escape. Wanting to be the angel staggering on tenament roof. Wanting to rage against the dying light. Wanting to be that mind, starving, hysterical and naked, destroyed by madness. Not knowing then that the madness was in the wanting.
And I often felt like that pig. Scampering. Running. All these strange hands reaching for me, to catch me. To control me. Fuck I dunno...take me to the butcher and fill their freezer.
I still feel that way sometimes.
He watched her. She knew he was watching, but he wondered if she was aware the scrutiny. He needed...so much he needed a way to let go of her. She had caught him. She knew. And she knew that when she had, he immediately became uninteresting.
He knew this also, and was desperately attempting every method to escape the snare of her.
And now I share this rock with so many strangers, and have discovered that although we call it by so many different names, it's all just chasing greased pigs. And there is trampling, and crying, and blood, and laughter, and some drunk asshole cheering us along. What seemed novelty at the time, is now so much background distraction, on a much grander scale.
Visions. Omens. Hallucinations. Miracles. Ecstasies, Gone down the American river, but this time without exclamation. Because we've taken this trip so many times, and now when I rage against that dying light, the guy in the window above me, tells me to get a grip, shut the fuck up, and quit thinking I'm special. The tenament rooftop dance has ended, and my card is empty.
He made every attempt to lose his attraction. He watched her through worlds eyes, and noted everything this existence defines flaw. He made her voice nails in his head. He painted her gray, and erased her from his desire. He took from her the power she'd given him. He knew she'd never miss it. He let it fly on the wish of other things, and closed the night alone. Knowing the flavor of that false kiss. He left the night reborn.
One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple. So said once a madman, and I hope he did. I hope I will.
A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved going the opposite direction in this too big world. So said once the same madman, and I still hope he found the words. I need him to have found the words, because if he did, that means they exist, and maybe I will too. But then again...he was a madman.
We're all mad here. So said once a mad cat.
The pig used to squeal a motherfucker. I might too if being chased by a multitude of strangers intent on my capture. Like that pig, I have no where to go, but I have to keep running, because the alternative is not running, and not running means I may just end up in someone's freezer. Or my own freezer. This world is too big. There is too much. I will miss all of the good stuff, but goddammit if I am not intent on not missing the good stuff. I will see the things I want, and do the things I do, and live in abject poverty, and abstract delight. I will watch. I will listen. I will jest, and my god will I laugh, and my god will I lie. I will give you the exact fiction of me that I want you to have. And I will keep myself for myself. This is far more fun.
Every day he remembers her. And her. And her. And her. Every day he feels the name of her scratch the blood in him, and he thanks her. Every day he remembers the little things. Everyday he plants a new seed somewhere else, that will not be her, or her, or her, in hopes that the future forrest provides the shade that will hide him from her, and her and her. He walks the days a vision of calm, while the fire inside comsumes the hope he had of her. And her. And her.
There are so many stories to tell. So many little treasures to hide in plain sight. There is in each fucking moment, of each fucking day, a new flame to fan, and fire to build. There are worlds to build. I'm currently building three, and it is slow, but my christ is it rewarding. I watch these people who don't exist anywhere but inside my mind shape new words, and new pain. Tell new secrets to old friends, and I can't do this...I couldn't do this...
If I wasn't like that goddamn pig. I have to run. I have to squeal. I have to find my way away from hands that would trap me down, and fill their freezer. I have to turn over the rocks that everyone else walks on, so I can see the bugs underneath....also running and squealing to keep away from my hands. I have to write on this page....all the things that don't make sense...so I can write on other pages the things that do. I have to let the words happen. My brain cup runneth over. My heart cup is empty.
And now I will put this one to rest, so that I may move on to another. I'll stop chasing the little pig in my head. In another place up in that dusty attic, are four campers who probably don't like each other as much as they tell each other they do. Or...maybe they like each other more. I don't know yet.
In another place in my brain in a man in a bathtub, who can't see the woman who is also in the bathtub. Or maybe he can only see her when she is. I don't know yet.
In yet another gray cavity is a woman mourning the loss of her husband. He recently died, and left behind something she's discovered, that he never got the chance to explain. It's all very tragic. The things we don't say to each other, and the moment we realize we'll never be able to. Really though...it probably doesn't matter....
It all ends in tears anyway. - Jack Kerouac
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government and business. -Tom Robbins
On a warm Las Vegas night, early in 2006, my wife came back to the apartment we had shared for some time, to gather more of her things. I helped her load them in to her car.
Once she was finally ready to leave, we stood in the driveway and held each other. I could feel her tears. I was glad, because I genuinely wished I was making some of my own. It's not that I didn't feel the pain, I just...
I just held her.
Finally there was nothing left. She told me she loved me. She got in her car, and she drove away. I stood there, and watched the taillights. Those red squares becoming increasingly distant. Until I couldn't see them anymore.
In my memory, she never returned. A few months later, the divorce was finalized.
Not quite a year later, I was preparing to leave Las Vegas. I didn't really have a plan, but I felt that Salt Lake City was probably it. I didn't leave with fanfare. There was no real announcement of departure. I didn't tell many people. A couple. A few.
She was one of them. We had a very brief moment. Spent with some words. An exchange of sentiment. I'm not going to share much of it, because it's mine, and I intend to keep it, but it was nice. It was...
And every day, of every year since, I see those taillights.
And I remember that I have known love. Love like that. It was transformative. It made me different. And although we are not together, she will never not be part of me. In this, there is gratitude.
I tried it again a short time later. That was also nice, though in the end, it was confirmed in my mind something I'd suspected before.
I am, and I hold, a different kind of love. I am not meant for certain things, and sometimes my aloneness is lonely, but ultimately I think, for the best.
So much I think, I do much to cultivate it. I don't date. I don't pursue. I don't make myself available. I use my social media as a barrier. I make myself generally less desirable. Less...
I make myself less.
I have frequently and often stated my dedication to my bachelorhood, and I hold to it. This is, I assure you, not simply posturing. It is calculated and intentional.
A few days ago, I engaged with someone I hold very close to my heart, in conversation about love. You see, although I have, and do maintain my singular status, I also understand that to close all the doors in life, limits opportunity of experience...and my god do I love experience. That said, it is not an absolute zero in the scale of probability that I will remain single til death. It's very likely that I will...but...
So in this conversation I explained the type of person it would take get me to make that change. I also explained how and why I don't think that person exists. I don't think I explained it well, but it did help me clarify in my own mind, exactly what it is I'm not really looking for.
Because every day, I see taillights.
And every day I love. And I do. I love you. So fucking much it keeps me awake sometimes. But not just you. I love...I love this fucking life. I love every tainted breath I take. I love that emptiness inside me. It's a goddamn drug. It's heroine, and cocaine, and LSD, and caffeine, and nicotine, and I get to put a name on it. And sometimes it's your name. Sometimes it's her name. Sometimes it's a name you'll never know. It is every name, of every person, male and female, old and young, married or single, who has ever had an affect on me.
And there are so many of you.
And on not a single name, not a single person, not a single entity of consciousness in existence, do I place even the smallest expectation or obligation.
In fact...that is key. That is paramount. THAT is the crux of the mystery and puzzle. The absolute necessity that there never be expectation, or obligation.
There is only life. This one glorious explosion of consciousness. This brilliant supernova of observable experience...before that final sleep.
And I will live mine without apology. I want nothing more than the same for you. That is how you will shape and break my heart. I will never ever begrudge you not wanting to walk this rock with me. I will only ever be grateful for the few moments that we did.
And there will be taillights. There always are.
There will also be magic, if you choose to breathe it. It is after all, the very essence of things.
And there may yet, be a story to tell.
Sunday, February 19, 2017
There is lightening tonight. In the sky and in my head. Flashes of electricity that briefly illuminate the darkness, and gives the smallest glimpse of things previously unseen.
And spark the night.
I got to spend time today with someone very dear to me. We spoke of love, and fear, and the story we will tell together. We began what I hope will be the start of something fun. Something new. We will write a play together, and today we opened the door to what that may be.
We spoke of love. The love we have in this world, and the love that will exist in this world we create together. We shared our thoughts and where we are, and what we want, and my heart leapt for her, because she has it, and is in it, and it scares her, and she's doing it anyway.
And today I got to witness bravery and joy.
I shared with her some of my thoughts as well. Where I am...not having it, or in it, and what it would take to make that happen, and why don't anticipate that it will.
She only got to witness the cynicism of a stone heart.
And from these two very different places in life, we will come together and write a play. I look forward to that.
And in the sky tonight there is lightening.
I like the rain. Little drops of water. Four billion years ago there was rain falling in this exact spot, on a planet that looked so much different, and in that water, life.
I don't know why my brain goes to the places it goes, but I follow along.
I think about numbers. Prime and perfect. I think about scale of probability, and scale of value.
I think of a universe exploding into existence thirteen billion years ago, and I can't imagine a time so vast.
And nine billion years later...nine...billion...years as we understand them, (which in universal relation is meaningless, and is given meaning only by our understanding that a year is the amount of time ((another construct)) it takes for the the earth to make one revolution around the sun) our solar system was born.
We mark a year according to our sun. We count time further back than the existence of the thing by which we mark it.
Then this earth went ahead being a rock in space for 4.4, of the 4.5 billion years...without us on it.
I mean seriously...shit happened.
Multiple extinction events, before anything even resembling us came along.
And we're so impressed with our significance.
So we build because we can.
And we convince ourselves that it matters.
And so it does.
And the rain hits my face.
13 billion years ago, on an invented timeline, reality became real. 4.5 billion years ago, our little blue green space ship was constructed.
100 million years ago, our ancestors became passengers, and almost immediately began fighting over who gets to sit in first class.
And started a long tradition of not sharing.
And since no one really remembered how they got there, they started making up stories to explain it, then killing each other in defence of those stories.
We've been doing that ever since.
That 13 billion year old universe, and that 4.5 billion year old planet, and all of the mysteries know and unknown contained therein, don't care a bit about those pesky little monkeys who've been around for a cosmic microsecond, but....
Goddamn if we don't believe we're the center of it all.
And goddamn if we don't have to kill all the people who pray to different myths than we do.
And goddamn if we don't have to do every thing imaginable to this blue green spaceship, in order to better kill one another and collect more green paper.
And then after all those billions of years, numbers so vast I can't even fathom them, some few yesterdays ago, I got my ticket to ride this rock.
I learned the myths, and heard the stories of the good guys and bad guys. I was introduced to green pieces of paper, and various ways to accumulate it. I was told about all the various kinds of different passengers on the spaceship. A few times I attempted to find someone willing to ride along with me...but...in that...
Discovered I am prime. Divisible only by myself, and like those various numbers scattered in that universal language, content to contribute to the sequence, but forced by my own nature, into singularity.
However unlike those little symbols, I am aware.
I have the knowledge of both what I lack, and what I am capable of.
This spaceship, and all of the passengers aboard, fascinate me to no end, and it is in that, that I have become a collector of words, and stories, and an inherent need to give them back again.
And in there lies my joy. My heart. In there I can hide the parts of me I'm unable to share with other humans. In there I find secrets left behind by others. In there I can make sense of what it all might...
The rain and the lightening in the sky are gone, leaving only remnants in my head and on my face.
I visit the ghosts of those who haunt me. I tell my tales to the wind. I converse with the old lady, and the fat man, who have lived in my inside and upstairs for as long as I can remember,
And her. My her. My captive woman in white, who breaks my heart every day, and tells me the things I don't want to hear, because they are true, and she is right.
Goodnight spaceship. Goodnight you passengers on it and in it.
Remember for the small moment, that we are rust and stardust.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
A simple thing. A phrase. A thought. But I am tongue bound and silent instead. Resigned. Designed for solitude and watching. And I love.
I love, love.
I love this day and watching the people I love, love the people they love, and celebrate, and I wonder.
What was the combination of words? What was the play, or the act, or the book of poetry used to unlock that...what?
Reality caught up to fantasy, and played me fractured, and the story of it will make me laugh someday.
Like all my stories do.
I laugh a lot.
Today I bled distraction, and caught my breath. And wondered briefly where I've been, but it didn't matter because I had a great time, and brought back a mug that said wish you were here.
And that's the thing.
I have fun.
My god is it fun.
And sure sometimes I need a bandaid, or a face slap, but that's just part of the joy.
And not only do I anticipate making the same mistakes again, I look forward to it. To that brief interlude, that aria, that singular voice that sings me gently human.
Our fancies pass, and mysteries resolved and solved, but therein is deception.
For the blues in the rhythm is amore morte, and they all wear pink at the funeral.
And the man wearing black, said she'll never love you back, and it turned into a thought that quits.
But the music plays on, and the other dancers keep dancing, the players playing, and the world keeps spinning round round baby right round.
So I pound it against the rock, the stone, the sun bleached bones that cage it, to find the story inside...
Because the story.
Our story together...
That's what I am here for. I will bleed for it. I will ache for it. I will crave more desperately for it, than for food, sex, or nicotine....
the STORY of who we are
Versus who we may have been.
This is who I am.
The Astral bloke who will cry and decry mortem mortalis with the laughter of the living.