I have no idea why, but I'm glad I have.
I haven't had a black eye in a while. Seems like I might be overdue. Let's do this.
Thursday, October 18, 2018
Friday, April 24, 2015
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Garrett General
1
There is this small town in West Texas that died decades ago. Yet, if you have studied even a modicum of biology, it tells that even in death organisms continue to thrive. The natural processes of decomposition can turn life's dead end sign, into a community that might be more active that it ever was. This was Juniper, Texas.
"Theresa, get up. Seriously, last time I'm gonna say it. The store was supposed to be open fifteen minutes ago", her mother's voice rattled through Theresa's hazy, over slept mind. For a fleeting second, even with it's impatience, her mother's angry voice was not vastly different from her singing voice.
"We had one customer yesterday, and it was Hugh", Theresa shouted, knowing this argument would mean nothing.
"Just because he's your little brother, doesn't mean he's any less a customer", mother's counterpoint wins.
2
There are thousands of towns across the U.S. that were settled by German immigrants. You can see it in the large "A" framed faux cottages of tourists traps. Towns that litter the Midwest and South have been bilking people out of their hard earned cash for almost a hundred years, at this point. Packed with wine stores, biergartens, and shirts reading, "Octoberfest is All Year Long". Juniper was not this place.
When a fender well cover comes loose it makes an unmistakable sound as it hits the tire. Blap...blap...blap...blap.....resonated throughout the cab. Taking over the loud mumbling of static and Bob Wills coming through the speakers.
"Fuck", yelling the most obvious thing to myself. Pulling the car over in the middle of what looked like a post-apocalyptic landscape was not in my plans today. Nor was my toolbox even close to prepared for this type of repair. "Well Robert, do you think you can deal with this fucking annoying sound for another five miles?", I questioned out loud to no one. Looking up at the sign that read: "Juniper 5", I decided I could.
3
Behind closed doors, especially in desert towns, dust settles in a strange way. When a door is opened it is like you have surprised the air, and it is doing it's best to act like it's been working the whole time you were gone. The outside air pushes in and causes a swirling, that seems magical until you take a breath, and realize that it's choking your lungs.
Theresa did her best to make sure that as little of that dust hung around, lazily, as the day passed. If you were a frequent patron, it wouldn't be unusual to see a feather duster sticking out of her rear pocket. There was a full length mirror hanging in the back of the store where they sold cheap Wranglers, and pearl snap button shirts. One time she passed it, and saw the duster hanging out from her ass pocket. She spent the next five minutes walking passing the mirror, and pretending she was a chicken. Arms folded in a Mick Jagger-like stance and softly clucking, she walked back and forth bobbing her head and giggling.
At 19, and stuck in this "one horse town". She didn't even know what that meant. "One horse town"? She had always heard that expression. Yet, she had been all over Texas, and she knew that often towns like Juniper, had more horses than people. These are the thoughts that went through a young girls head, as she sat on a stool, looking out the large, single pane window, of her family's store. "Garrett General" was slightly faded, and hand painted across the window. She watched very few trucks, and people, pass by the window that morning.
It was the loud noise of an El Camino pulling up in front that broke her steady stream of daydreams.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
The Truth of the Matter
The predictability of life had hit him hard in the last decade. Sometimes he would sit, and watch people standing in lines at food trailers. The cloudy days outside, during the last summer, seemed to accurately mirror the weather in his brain. Not a sad, rainy cloud cover, but a shade and comfort that allowed him to sit and confirm his feelings about human behavior. Counting down from 3....2...1, he could single out the person that would switch from the pressure from one foot to the other. This is not a story of boredom that would normally come with that ability. This is the story of his willingness to resolve himself to the unpredictability of something that he was even more highly skilled at predicting.
"Watch yourself", he would whisper into his own ear. Doing this became instinctual to him. Slightly whispering out loud. These things that he should say only in his mind, had become a habit that was ongoing since elementary school. Hoping no one could hear these whisperings, followed this same age long process.
"Why?", she asked, in the same whispered tone. Leaning in slightly, as if they had just shared a secret. Yet, there was no other occupants of their picnic table. In the second, literally second, between that question, and his response, he pictured this in his mind.
The way she hugged him as she left that evening, didn't contain any different inflection of body language, than any other friend that had left his side after a night of drinking any loud 'talking". He tried to do the same. Tried to hug her just as ordinary, and plain, as he knew she was hugging him. Yet, her hair always seemed to catch him just right. Directly in his open mouth. Softly blowing air through his slightly open lips would normally cause the hair to leave, but her long fragrant locks defied physics. Which, he noticed, is the same thing his heart defied everytime she held him close. If even for that second.
"Oh, nothing. Just trying to remember something", he dismissively said. She knew this wasn't the truth because he could never remember anything. With a mind that could recite the air velocity, and speed, of a penny falling from the Empire State Building. He couldn't even remember the color of the couch sitting the living room, of her house, that they literally just left thirty minutes ago.
This was them. Sitting on this bench. Watching a slow moving crowd. Dreaming of what was happening, currently.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Truth Does Not Need Exaggeration
There was a hole in my heart, that she seems to fill perfectly. - Me
Friday, February 21, 2014
Discovering Destructive Reciprocation.
“Real sex is as much about reciprocity as it is exploration and if you need a reason to resent a man later on, just consider the guy who doesn’t believe in cunnilingus...”
-Unknown
The group of warehouses looked as if they had come from a black and white Pink Floyd video. Long, grey, and creating sets of parallel tin walls that you could tear apart and spray paint without any retribution. Causing damage to property had become a celebrated pastime in my early teenage years. That isn't out of the ordinary. It, at times, still isn't that far out of my range of desires. Walking through the gravel "alleyways" I would carry two six packs of empty bottles. Occasionally stopping to set the cardboard carriers down. Pull one of my mom's empty long necks from its comfortable sleeve. Take a three step hop, and throw it in a random direction. As if I was responsible for starting a revolution with no enemy. Shhhhhhhhh. The slow quiet of waiting to hear anything. The shatter of window glass. The thud of corrugated metal. If I was lucky, and the bottle didn't break, I could hear where it landed. Then, I would run and have another try with the same piece of alcoholic destruction. I was the original recycler. Fuck you and your blue bins.
This was a time of no friends. No schoolmates. Bad acne, and worse breath. The fact that I was poor, stuttered, and lived in a trailer park afforded me the time that only the shunned youth have on their dirty little hands. I hear people talk about being a fat kid. Or a poor kid. Or the kid that peed his pants. The kid with the alcoholic parents, or worse, the drug addict parents. Try being that kid in one short, scrawny package. Some kids went to Little League. I went to the warehouses. Pitching pebbles up against an adjacent wall was "passing the time". Throwing those bottles, as hard as I could, off the two story roof, was my after school program. There were always plenty of bottles in the trailer park. Something tells me this hasn't changed in most the trailer parks that still exist.
"My dad is gonna be mad when he catches you", she screamed at me from the other side of the dull, metal hallway.
"WHAT!!!!", I screamed back. I've always been good at pretending I don't hear people. I still am.
"My daddy is gonna call the cops on you", she's still screaming while death marching in my direction. This cute blond girl is B-lining towards me, and she looks like she means business. I start thinking about running, but then I realize, she is all by herself. "My daddy owns this place and he's been wondering where all these broken bottles are coming from. You're in deep shit." She is now, literally, nose to nose with me.
"Fuck your old man. Where the fuck is he, by the way? I don't see him. I bet I can out run his old ass, and you", if you were wondering, my cussing ratio has not diminished since I was very young.
"Well", she starts to stammer. "Well, he's at home."
"Good. leave me alone.", I pick up my bottles and walk off. Obviously my knack for drama hasn't diminished either.
"Why do you throw bottles all over the place?", now she's following me. Great.
"I don't know. I just like the sound of glass breaking, I guess", I'm starting to realize how awkward my speech patterns were around that time. I don't think anything I said in my youth sounded smooth.
"That's kinda cool. Can I try?"
"Absolutely", I'm always willing to corrupt. She runs up next to me, and before I can utter one word of protest, she has snatched a bottle from the holder. She let's it fly. We waited, held breath, and then that beautiful sound. The smash of glass caused her to jump up and down, and shriek like an excited Japanese girl. So, the next hour was spent throwing bottles, kicking in walls, and making her father very proud.
"So, you think you can run fast?" Obviously property destruction hasn't made her completely forget how we met. "I mean, you did say that you could outrun me and my dad."
"I can. I'm real fast", am I the only one that is recollecting me as Forrest Gump.
"Let's play a game", now she has my attention."I'll give you a fifteen second head start. You start running. If I catch you, you have to do anything I want." To this day I am a sucker for a good bet.
"Let's do this. You will never catch me", and the game was off. It took my twelve year old brain about thirty seconds for things to register.
"My dad is gonna be mad when he catches you", she screamed at me from the other side of the dull, metal hallway.
"WHAT!!!!", I screamed back. I've always been good at pretending I don't hear people. I still am.
"My daddy is gonna call the cops on you", she's still screaming while death marching in my direction. This cute blond girl is B-lining towards me, and she looks like she means business. I start thinking about running, but then I realize, she is all by herself. "My daddy owns this place and he's been wondering where all these broken bottles are coming from. You're in deep shit." She is now, literally, nose to nose with me.
"Fuck your old man. Where the fuck is he, by the way? I don't see him. I bet I can out run his old ass, and you", if you were wondering, my cussing ratio has not diminished since I was very young.
"Well", she starts to stammer. "Well, he's at home."
"Good. leave me alone.", I pick up my bottles and walk off. Obviously my knack for drama hasn't diminished either.
"Why do you throw bottles all over the place?", now she's following me. Great.
"I don't know. I just like the sound of glass breaking, I guess", I'm starting to realize how awkward my speech patterns were around that time. I don't think anything I said in my youth sounded smooth.
"That's kinda cool. Can I try?"
"Absolutely", I'm always willing to corrupt. She runs up next to me, and before I can utter one word of protest, she has snatched a bottle from the holder. She let's it fly. We waited, held breath, and then that beautiful sound. The smash of glass caused her to jump up and down, and shriek like an excited Japanese girl. So, the next hour was spent throwing bottles, kicking in walls, and making her father very proud.
"So, you think you can run fast?" Obviously property destruction hasn't made her completely forget how we met. "I mean, you did say that you could outrun me and my dad."
"I can. I'm real fast", am I the only one that is recollecting me as Forrest Gump.
"Let's play a game", now she has my attention."I'll give you a fifteen second head start. You start running. If I catch you, you have to do anything I want." To this day I am a sucker for a good bet.
"Let's do this. You will never catch me", and the game was off. It took my twelve year old brain about thirty seconds for things to register.
"You have to do anything I want..."
I slowed my pace, drastically. Took a hard right into one of the dilapidated, empty offices, and boom.
"Gotcha", she yelled as her hand grabbed my shoulder.
"Damn, you're fast", I pant. I'm faking this well.
"I knew it......you're not that fast. That was easy. You better never have to outrun my dad. He's faster than me." Shit. I thought. Now, I'm glad that he's never wandered up on one of my destruction sprees. "Take off your pants", she blurts out.
"Wait, what?" This escalated quickly.
"You agreed. You said you'd do anything I want. Take off your pants," Seriously, this girl is not missing a beat. "Come here, I'll help you." She grabs me by the fly of my jeans. Pulling on my pants, she has taken a bit of an aggressive turn.
"Okay, okay......I can do this." Of course I could. She hasn't backed up and it's turned into a struggle between the zipper and the waist. "I can do this!!!", I yell. Dropping my pants to the knees, I stop. I mean this is public. I have already heard the word "dad" too many times today. This is my luck.
"You aren't getting off that easy. At least down to your ankles, and these have to come down, too", she yanks my boxers down. This is most definitely a first. Here I am. Leaned up against a cement wall, naked from the waist down. My dick literally staring this girl directly in the face. You know, as well as it can with one eye. I just typed that. "See, that's not so bad. Thirty seconds. You know the deal. She starts counting.
"This is fucking embarrassing." She doesn't care.
"26....25....24.....23...."
"You are counting too slow", I fained protest. Then it happened. Here's the deal, and I'm just going to put this out there. It was fantastic. I don't know if you've ever done acid, but I found oral sex to be the sexual equivalent of opening the doors of sexual perception. I think back on it and I picture rainbows shooting out of the top of my head. Does any of that make sense? It caused a vibration to shoot up my spine like one long, warm goose bump.
I would like to clarify something here. I think that there might be a misunderstanding. That I thought I was going to get a blowjob. That is untrue. That did not enter my young, teenage mind. The initial thought that ran through my head was that she would ask for a kiss. We would mess around. That is it. Then, dropping my pants, I thought maybe a hand job was in order. That is all. Her mouth on my cock, was the last thing I was expecting. Back to the story.
I don't know how long she did it. Or better yet, how long I lasted. I do remember that I had manners in the form of this statement.
"I'm done. I'm about to be done", and that's how quick it's finished in your youth. She didn't spill a drop.
"How was that?", she was asking a question, where in the answer was obvious.
"You had to ask that?"
In my youth I remember the disgust that came when teenage boys discussed the idea of eating pussy. It was treated just like every other subject that involved us being sensitive to the needs of a female. The bravado and machismo that only the inexperienced can speak with utmost stupid authority. Yet, that day I realized something. If a girl was willing, and could give me that much joy, why the hell wasn't I doing the same. It was the day I learned that a certain amount of concession has to be given in order to bring happiness to someone you care about. Even if you only care about them in between the sheets. Or on a living room floor. Or against a wall in a vacant warehouse building. I never viewed give and take the same way after that.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
The Ways We Think...Are Immeasurable.
"Human fate gives itself to human fate, and it is the task of pure love to keep this self-surrender as vital as on the first day.”
-Martin Heidegger
I'm not going to pretend like I'm the best looking person in the world. Yet, I'm also not going to pretend that I have the creepiness factor of an aging hipster that owns a vintage clothing shop. I like to feel that I fall somewhere in between having to bribe a decent looking woman, and Justin Timberlake. Plus, I never discount my personality. I account 90% of all intimate relationships in my life to nothing more than personality.
And dick size.
That being said, I am still astounded by the utter lack of sexual energy that comes off the normal human being. I am also equally shocked by the subordinate disgust that sexual energy gets met with. Now, I know that not everyone is as casually energetic as I am. Trust me, I have had my share of run ins with those lackluster in the field of intimacy. The problem is the occasional conflict of personality. The bored attitude I have towards those unable to digest casual conversation about what I consider one of the greatest gifts we have to give each other. The ability to make each other lust.
J'aime la luxure
That is putting it simply. The adoration of lustful thoughts, and the subsequent ability to manifest those into action is no less than heavenly, to me. It is overwhelming at times. It is a burden of thought and time. It can come with a bit of regret. These things are easy for me to admit.
My mind wonders about the mind's of other people. How do they not feel this way? Why do they not wear it on the outside of their psyche as I do? Does this mean it is an addiction, or a personality flaw? My answer has constantly been, "I don't know."
This is a short blog because right now I am in the midst of a conundrum. Writing, for some people, helps with large questions about life, love, lust, friendship,...etc. It doesn't do that with me. Writing makes me unable to think. It sets up a roadblock in my psyche. This is why I write when I am at my most despondent. It blocks out the bad thoughts for a brief shining moment. I have no bad thoughts right now. Just weird questions.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
If I Die Before I Wake
She lives in this oddly, fragile bubble. What makes it worse is that I don't want to pop it. Don't get me wrong. I want to crawl inside it with her. Do you realize how hard that is? Bubbles do not take kindly to the intrusion of foreign objects, and that is exactly what I am. I am a foreign object, in all sense of the words.
"Do you ever wonder if I'm just a novelty?", she asks through wine stained eyes.
"You don't think that I wonder the same thing about myself?", it's rude to answer a question with a question. "I'm sorry, that was rude, but let's be honest. I could be the same thing, Yet, I'm not going to spend our time worrying about that. When I look into your eyes I don't see a series of clichés, or interests. I don't see someone defined by what they wear, or where they go. When I look into your eyes, or hold your hand, or walk down the street with you, I see.....hope. I see respect. I see interest in what I say, even if it is ridiculously ludicrous. When I am with you, I am with you. Not a novelty."
"You talk too much."
"Isn't that why you like me?"
"That's one part of it", she slinks down in the booth seat, next to me, as if she's hiding from someone. It's no less than adorable. This is new for me, and by all accounts, new for her also. This is the best part. It feel new to me.
I don't miss seeing her body. I miss seeing her. I don't miss dirty words coming from her mouth. I miss any words, from her mouth, that take the time to grace my ears. I don't miss making out with her. I don't miss sex with her. I don't miss the groping, and late night sweating that comes with being in bed with a past woman. I just miss laying there, listening to her breath, and moving her hair away from my mouth so that I don't end up chewing on it in the middle of the night.
At one time I was confusing her shyness with a lack of self confidence. I was wrong. She is a woman. A confident, radiant, independent woman. She is also coy, aloof, guarded, and meaningful. Spending so much time defining people by one quality has made me pretentious. It has made me judgmental. The realization that one faceted people are everywhere is not a new thing. Yet, it does not mean that I have to surround myself with them.
She is not a novelty.
She is a novel.
And as long as she is writing it.
I will continue to read every page.
"Do you ever wonder if I'm just a novelty?", she asks through wine stained eyes.
"You don't think that I wonder the same thing about myself?", it's rude to answer a question with a question. "I'm sorry, that was rude, but let's be honest. I could be the same thing, Yet, I'm not going to spend our time worrying about that. When I look into your eyes I don't see a series of clichés, or interests. I don't see someone defined by what they wear, or where they go. When I look into your eyes, or hold your hand, or walk down the street with you, I see.....hope. I see respect. I see interest in what I say, even if it is ridiculously ludicrous. When I am with you, I am with you. Not a novelty."
"You talk too much."
"Isn't that why you like me?"
"That's one part of it", she slinks down in the booth seat, next to me, as if she's hiding from someone. It's no less than adorable. This is new for me, and by all accounts, new for her also. This is the best part. It feel new to me.
I don't miss seeing her body. I miss seeing her. I don't miss dirty words coming from her mouth. I miss any words, from her mouth, that take the time to grace my ears. I don't miss making out with her. I don't miss sex with her. I don't miss the groping, and late night sweating that comes with being in bed with a past woman. I just miss laying there, listening to her breath, and moving her hair away from my mouth so that I don't end up chewing on it in the middle of the night.
At one time I was confusing her shyness with a lack of self confidence. I was wrong. She is a woman. A confident, radiant, independent woman. She is also coy, aloof, guarded, and meaningful. Spending so much time defining people by one quality has made me pretentious. It has made me judgmental. The realization that one faceted people are everywhere is not a new thing. Yet, it does not mean that I have to surround myself with them.
She is not a novelty.
She is a novel.
And as long as she is writing it.
I will continue to read every page.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
I Feel Remorse, For Whomever Knocks on My Door
The car ride was nothing less than completely uneventful. I was kept busy by the constant, rhythmic thump of the creases in the road. Normally, my imagination would devise some sort of song, or rap to go along with it. This was not one of those trips. There was a consistent low hum in my brain, that caused me to become myopic in thoughts. I looked to my passenger seat, hoping for a sneaking smile. Maybe she would see that my head had gotten ahead of itself, and gently reach over and hold my hand. She was wholeheartedly asleep, in the back seat of the truck.
This is a flashback. This is how they come. It is a whirlwind tornado, of all encompassing thought, that gets away from me. There is a smell, or a sound, that triggers it. When that happens, it just fades in for a few brief moments, and leaves, like a thief in the night.
Dinner was odd. Is it strange to set up a dinner with an ex lover, so that she can pick you apart mentally? Literally, on purpose, we had planned dinner around this psychological profile she had worked up in her time knowing, and being apart from me. She was spot on. Yet, she held back. Why? She was constructive, when she could have been harsh. I can handle harsh, and she knows it. She looked amazing. She always does. The low cut tops that bare enough cleavage to remind me of what I was missing. Her eyes, bright, full of optimism, and determination. That little click sound she makes with her mouth when she winks knowingly. I think that is where she was being harsh. Killing with kindness. I could still see her laying on my couch, fully nude, on Christmas day. Eating an enormous meal that I somehow pulled out of nowhere. That day, we laughed, and danced, and fucked like it was our last day on Earth. Little did we both know, it wasn't far off.
When the mind wanders it can only be described as a frail woman holding the leash of a determined Great Dane. It is going to lead you. You will follow. The leaves of your senses, start as a small wind swept swirl, in the middle of a suburban street. Slowly, it grows and takes them upwards. Since these memories are merely daydreams, it takes just seconds for them to become a tornado. Grabbing the Midwest homes of your psyche, pulling them into the air, and tearing them to shreds.
No matter whether I see her for a second, or sit next to her for hours on the patio of some local bar, she is both, elation and depression. I'm forever intrigued by her boots. They seem to turn my nearest hand into a magnet. She's never told me to stop. It has never been treated as an intrusion. Well, there was that one time, but I think even she knew it was an over reaction. Every once in a while I will wrap my hand around the shin part of the boot, and gently tap my fingers, as if to let her know I'm there. That small tap. That small pat. The slight, gentle noise of rain starting to hit the pavement. Our day could not have been more perfect, and her impromptu company made it exactly that. We had danced all day. Drank until the evening sun dropped into an orange and purple sky. The shows were loud, and we danced close like two wolves hungry to just play with each other. Earlier in the day, I had been mouth deep below her moans, which, at that moment, seemed like an eternity ago. We ran to the car, and that slow patter of rain began. It grew quickly. I was thirsty for any water, whether in my mouth or on my body, and I began to laugh. Throwing my hands in the air, I looked at her, and saw a small halo form over her head with each street lamp we passed. She was smiling that anxious smile of someone that thinks I have gone mad. I was grinning from the fact that she has no idea how beautiful she continued to look, even with her wet hair matted to her face. We grabbed each other like we had been starving for each other's lips.
Every time my rough hand, slides up and down that soft, smooth boot, I can feel that breath. The breath of a perfect day.
This is a flashback. This is how they come. It is a whirlwind tornado, of all encompassing thought, that gets away from me. There is a smell, or a sound, that triggers it. When that happens, it just fades in for a few brief moments, and leaves, like a thief in the night.
Dinner was odd. Is it strange to set up a dinner with an ex lover, so that she can pick you apart mentally? Literally, on purpose, we had planned dinner around this psychological profile she had worked up in her time knowing, and being apart from me. She was spot on. Yet, she held back. Why? She was constructive, when she could have been harsh. I can handle harsh, and she knows it. She looked amazing. She always does. The low cut tops that bare enough cleavage to remind me of what I was missing. Her eyes, bright, full of optimism, and determination. That little click sound she makes with her mouth when she winks knowingly. I think that is where she was being harsh. Killing with kindness. I could still see her laying on my couch, fully nude, on Christmas day. Eating an enormous meal that I somehow pulled out of nowhere. That day, we laughed, and danced, and fucked like it was our last day on Earth. Little did we both know, it wasn't far off.
When the mind wanders it can only be described as a frail woman holding the leash of a determined Great Dane. It is going to lead you. You will follow. The leaves of your senses, start as a small wind swept swirl, in the middle of a suburban street. Slowly, it grows and takes them upwards. Since these memories are merely daydreams, it takes just seconds for them to become a tornado. Grabbing the Midwest homes of your psyche, pulling them into the air, and tearing them to shreds.
No matter whether I see her for a second, or sit next to her for hours on the patio of some local bar, she is both, elation and depression. I'm forever intrigued by her boots. They seem to turn my nearest hand into a magnet. She's never told me to stop. It has never been treated as an intrusion. Well, there was that one time, but I think even she knew it was an over reaction. Every once in a while I will wrap my hand around the shin part of the boot, and gently tap my fingers, as if to let her know I'm there. That small tap. That small pat. The slight, gentle noise of rain starting to hit the pavement. Our day could not have been more perfect, and her impromptu company made it exactly that. We had danced all day. Drank until the evening sun dropped into an orange and purple sky. The shows were loud, and we danced close like two wolves hungry to just play with each other. Earlier in the day, I had been mouth deep below her moans, which, at that moment, seemed like an eternity ago. We ran to the car, and that slow patter of rain began. It grew quickly. I was thirsty for any water, whether in my mouth or on my body, and I began to laugh. Throwing my hands in the air, I looked at her, and saw a small halo form over her head with each street lamp we passed. She was smiling that anxious smile of someone that thinks I have gone mad. I was grinning from the fact that she has no idea how beautiful she continued to look, even with her wet hair matted to her face. We grabbed each other like we had been starving for each other's lips.
Every time my rough hand, slides up and down that soft, smooth boot, I can feel that breath. The breath of a perfect day.
Monday, December 2, 2013
My Homeless Looking Dog, Isn't Doing Me Any Favors
The all too familiar look,
and a small shake of the hips.
She lights up my life,
like an explosion.
With a smile she uses to get her way.
The light touch of conversation,
and the slight begging in her voice.
She drowns out the daylight,
like curtains I wish I owned,
With her raspy voice she shakes the trees.
Two of a kind,
they are the sun and the moon.
The enticement of warmth and heat,
but I still need the darkness that travels over the hills.
So, waking up next to two different ex lovers, in a matter of 48 hours, needs only one word for description. Weird. Really fucking weird. Having cast one of them so far from my thoughts, that the mere idea of being in the vicinity of her, is completely foreign. Let alone, going to dinner, and having her suggest that we "casually date".
"Um....Eliza.....not just no, but......fuck no", these were some of the hardest words I had said to another human being in a long time.
I think her reaction was typical, which made it even more, odd. She has never been one for typical responses. Yet, the dinner was enlightening. I learned things that made me realize that her brand of life may never fit easily into mine. I would have created a Powerpoint, but instead I give you my list.
Reasons why it is hard to love Eliza:
"You just can't let yourself be happy, can you?", she has said this too many times, and it sounds no different a year later in my truck. Here's the problem with that. I am happy. I am. I mean, life is never perfect, and sometimes contentedness is as close as you get to happy. I'll take that. I truly will. I can let myself be happy, and I do, often.
Yet, let's be honest. This is nothing more than holiday blues, hitting her. It's happened before. Well, it hasn't hit me. I actually feel a little better. Especially after writing this. It has popped my psyche open to things that aren't even mentionable here. I'll leave this with quotes from two texts that I just got from a dear friend. Batting a problem around with someone completely removed from the situation, like exes coming out of the woodwork, is something I highly recommend.
"Because they are alone, and want the comfort of something great, they once possessed."
"They want to see that certain look that you get when you look at a woman. I have seen it, and craved it."
Thank you, Adrienne. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
P.S. If anyone out there could get me off The Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack that would be very nice. Thank you.
and a small shake of the hips.
She lights up my life,
like an explosion.
With a smile she uses to get her way.
The light touch of conversation,
and the slight begging in her voice.
She drowns out the daylight,
like curtains I wish I owned,
With her raspy voice she shakes the trees.
Two of a kind,
they are the sun and the moon.
The enticement of warmth and heat,
but I still need the darkness that travels over the hills.
So, waking up next to two different ex lovers, in a matter of 48 hours, needs only one word for description. Weird. Really fucking weird. Having cast one of them so far from my thoughts, that the mere idea of being in the vicinity of her, is completely foreign. Let alone, going to dinner, and having her suggest that we "casually date".
"Um....Eliza.....not just no, but......fuck no", these were some of the hardest words I had said to another human being in a long time.
I think her reaction was typical, which made it even more, odd. She has never been one for typical responses. Yet, the dinner was enlightening. I learned things that made me realize that her brand of life may never fit easily into mine. I would have created a Powerpoint, but instead I give you my list.
Reasons why it is hard to love Eliza:
- Eliza has a Body Dismorphia problem that causes her to think that she is simultaneously able to get whatever she wants because she is gorgeous, and still the little fat girl that was ignored by her parents.
- Her parents never ignored her. She's just an only child, with parents that drank a lot.
- In a matter of the year or so, in which we have been broken up, she has fallen in "love" twice, and already been through a 9 month relationship.
- I realize that she may have a completely different definition of "love" than I have.
- Eliza has an ability to make me smile on the outside. Yet, not spark a piece of intellectual excitement. This dinner was no different.
- Sleeping next to her was a reminder of why I never dreamed when I was with her.
- I love my dreams.
- She still, to this day, picks the worst friends and acquaintances.
- The realization that I give fantastic advice to people I care about, and love, and deserve someone that will listen to it when they ask for it.
- Her butt is still lacking. I know she's proud of it, but her face is so much more, and she doesn't realize it.
- Take note: If you are doing something for the better of yourself and the world around you, it doesn't mean you have to remind everyone of the same.
- Did I mention that she has already been in "love" twice? Hahahah
"You just can't let yourself be happy, can you?", she has said this too many times, and it sounds no different a year later in my truck. Here's the problem with that. I am happy. I am. I mean, life is never perfect, and sometimes contentedness is as close as you get to happy. I'll take that. I truly will. I can let myself be happy, and I do, often.
Yet, let's be honest. This is nothing more than holiday blues, hitting her. It's happened before. Well, it hasn't hit me. I actually feel a little better. Especially after writing this. It has popped my psyche open to things that aren't even mentionable here. I'll leave this with quotes from two texts that I just got from a dear friend. Batting a problem around with someone completely removed from the situation, like exes coming out of the woodwork, is something I highly recommend.
"Because they are alone, and want the comfort of something great, they once possessed."
"They want to see that certain look that you get when you look at a woman. I have seen it, and craved it."
Thank you, Adrienne. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
P.S. If anyone out there could get me off The Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack that would be very nice. Thank you.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Ocean Waves Recess
The week progressed just as I thought it would. Four days of rest, three days of excess, and seven days of grasping for the straws behind my psyche. Waking up at 3am is clockwork to me. I'm not up too long, but it gives me just enough time to dole out a few sets of push ups and sit ups. Jeff watches me with a look of disgust that only a dog awakened by nonsense can give to you.
"Listen Robert, I'm finally five years old. That's.....", dogs are not very good at math. "That makes me.....hmmmm...... thirty two?" See I told you. "I think we should talk, man to man."
"First of all, I'm not even going to talk about your poor arithmetic skills. Yet, I will say, it's three in the morning, I'm trying to wear myself out, and obviously the "man to man" reference doesn't really work in this situation", I am this sarcastic, even to my dog.
"You have good points, but I could also say, you are the one, in your briefs, holding a conversation with a dog." It is a really sad state of affairs when your mutt is dead fucking on point. Needless, to say, the push ups have ceased.
"Ok, you have my undivided attention", I sigh as I roll over onto my back.
"Robert, listen man, I keep trying to find a good way to bring this up, but I think I need to be direct", he has now switched into an oddly serious tone. Don't ask me what a dog's serious tone sounds like. It will just embarrass the both of us even further.
"Ok, just spit it out", I sit up and we are nearly eye level now. Yes, I let him sleep on my bed. I mean, come on, he's a talking dog.
"You've been single for what.....a year....year and a half now?"
"Jeff! That is not entirely true. I mean Amalie. That was a few months, right?"
"You know, I'm really wondering whether that relationship even counts", he said it. He really did.
"I don't want to discount her at all. Lovely girl. She truly was. Yet, was that really what we would call a 'relationship'? I mean, you gotta put yourself out there man."
"Wait. What? I put myself out there", I'm starting to get a little insulted by this conversation.
"Oh, I'm sorry, by yourself, I meant more than just your dick", my dog is well versed in the sarcasm, also. "Listen man, you gotta stop it with this wall building shit. Don't get me wrong. You really do...um......how can I say this.......play the 'man' role? But, you gotta be more giving with yourself."
"Example?"
"I need you to look me in the eyes for this", Jeff has turned dead serious.
"Sure", I say with just a bit of uncertainty. I ease up on my knees. A lot is starting to sink in. It's three o clock in the morning. I'm in my underwear. Kneeling nose to nose, in front of my dog. Having an imaginary conversation about my relationship with women. This is not a high point in my life.
We are now staring into each other's eyes.
I've always found it weird how human his eyes are. They seem to come from another place. It, at times, has been unsettling, but for the most part, comforting. I can see his nostrils flaring with each breath. His little black lips are thin and a bit pouty. He lets out a small bark. It refocuses my attention on his eyes.
"Robert, I want you to listen closely to me. You are wonderful. Not only the parts that you show people, but the parts you hide away. You are smart, and funny, and witty, and anyone can tell, no matter how much you hide it. You have a ton of love in your heart. I mean a fucking ton, man. I see it everyday. You can't ever stop hugging things. I think it's funny when you try to be all mean, and gruff. Because I see what your smile looks like when we wrestle around your bedroom. You're problem isn't that you love too little, and people think you're an asshole. You're problem is that you love so much, and it hurts people to watch you try to hide it. I know you have been hurt, and I know you want to do the same to everyone else. Yet, it's frustrating you even more because you can't. Just stop it. If I had arms I would hug you, but I don't. So, all I can do is this." With a quick motion his tongue hit me on the tip of nose.
I buried my face in my hands and started to cry. I found myself at an odd crossroad. A dog. A stupid, furry, mangy, mutt had told me what no one else has had the balls to say. In that one little doggy kiss, he had broken down everything I had tried to build. A big, fucking, mean, black, sarcastic, wall. I looked up at his gorgeous, brown eyes. Tears soaking my face. There was only one thing I could say to him.
"Who wants a tummy rub?"
"Oh, oh, oh, oh, I do!!! I do!!!!!", he exclaimed.
"Listen Robert, I'm finally five years old. That's.....", dogs are not very good at math. "That makes me.....hmmmm...... thirty two?" See I told you. "I think we should talk, man to man."
"First of all, I'm not even going to talk about your poor arithmetic skills. Yet, I will say, it's three in the morning, I'm trying to wear myself out, and obviously the "man to man" reference doesn't really work in this situation", I am this sarcastic, even to my dog.
"You have good points, but I could also say, you are the one, in your briefs, holding a conversation with a dog." It is a really sad state of affairs when your mutt is dead fucking on point. Needless, to say, the push ups have ceased.
"Ok, you have my undivided attention", I sigh as I roll over onto my back.
"Robert, listen man, I keep trying to find a good way to bring this up, but I think I need to be direct", he has now switched into an oddly serious tone. Don't ask me what a dog's serious tone sounds like. It will just embarrass the both of us even further.
"Ok, just spit it out", I sit up and we are nearly eye level now. Yes, I let him sleep on my bed. I mean, come on, he's a talking dog.
"You've been single for what.....a year....year and a half now?"
"Jeff! That is not entirely true. I mean Amalie. That was a few months, right?"
"You know, I'm really wondering whether that relationship even counts", he said it. He really did.
"I don't want to discount her at all. Lovely girl. She truly was. Yet, was that really what we would call a 'relationship'? I mean, you gotta put yourself out there man."
"Wait. What? I put myself out there", I'm starting to get a little insulted by this conversation.
"Oh, I'm sorry, by yourself, I meant more than just your dick", my dog is well versed in the sarcasm, also. "Listen man, you gotta stop it with this wall building shit. Don't get me wrong. You really do...um......how can I say this.......play the 'man' role? But, you gotta be more giving with yourself."
"Example?"
"I need you to look me in the eyes for this", Jeff has turned dead serious.
"Sure", I say with just a bit of uncertainty. I ease up on my knees. A lot is starting to sink in. It's three o clock in the morning. I'm in my underwear. Kneeling nose to nose, in front of my dog. Having an imaginary conversation about my relationship with women. This is not a high point in my life.
We are now staring into each other's eyes.
I've always found it weird how human his eyes are. They seem to come from another place. It, at times, has been unsettling, but for the most part, comforting. I can see his nostrils flaring with each breath. His little black lips are thin and a bit pouty. He lets out a small bark. It refocuses my attention on his eyes.
"Robert, I want you to listen closely to me. You are wonderful. Not only the parts that you show people, but the parts you hide away. You are smart, and funny, and witty, and anyone can tell, no matter how much you hide it. You have a ton of love in your heart. I mean a fucking ton, man. I see it everyday. You can't ever stop hugging things. I think it's funny when you try to be all mean, and gruff. Because I see what your smile looks like when we wrestle around your bedroom. You're problem isn't that you love too little, and people think you're an asshole. You're problem is that you love so much, and it hurts people to watch you try to hide it. I know you have been hurt, and I know you want to do the same to everyone else. Yet, it's frustrating you even more because you can't. Just stop it. If I had arms I would hug you, but I don't. So, all I can do is this." With a quick motion his tongue hit me on the tip of nose.
I buried my face in my hands and started to cry. I found myself at an odd crossroad. A dog. A stupid, furry, mangy, mutt had told me what no one else has had the balls to say. In that one little doggy kiss, he had broken down everything I had tried to build. A big, fucking, mean, black, sarcastic, wall. I looked up at his gorgeous, brown eyes. Tears soaking my face. There was only one thing I could say to him.
"Who wants a tummy rub?"
"Oh, oh, oh, oh, I do!!! I do!!!!!", he exclaimed.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
My Favorite Game
It's called, "I Wonder if She is Thinking About me, As Much As I Am Thinking About Her?"
Monday, November 18, 2013
The Lion's Den
They say, "There are plenty other fish in the sea."
I say, "Fuck you, she was my sea."
-J. Faulkner
The best foot forward
on the edge of a sliding cliff.
"I can hold you", she whispered.
"I can hold you better", I scream.
We all do, what we can,
and hope that the "best" is exactly that.
"I know you can do this", I sighed, hoping she would listen.
"I can't", she knew I was ignoring, all of it.
All the choices in the world
never means it will be enough.
"I gave this all to you so quickly", she wrote on a note and slid it across the table.
"I think you underestimate my pain threshold", I crumpled it, and threw it away.
Walking through the desert
was supposed to be easier.
"Come here, hold my hand", I reached out to my side.
"................", she said nothing, because she was no longer there.
Monday, November 11, 2013
The Shot Heard Around My Head
This is an embarrassing tale. With a less than classy set of circumstances. So, we are going to try and wind our way through it, without divulging all the minuet, possibly ridiculous, details. Let's start it with a bang.
That's what happened. I could tell from the second I saw her. I had fallen. hard. Now, I'm not going to pussy foot around. Most people that read this blog, should know by now, that I am prone to manic fits of endearment. I fall for a great smile. I blush with a slight wink of a gorgeous set of eyes. I have a "swoon factor" that is fairly unmatched. It has always felt right to fall easily. The enjoyment from it warms my chest, and I would hope that it does the same to the person I am complimenting.
"oh my god someone just said the sweetest things to me and I’m going to die because it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened. I’ve never been fawned over like that oh man
'I would want to be cute lesbians in New York with you making lots of really good art
I would ride the subway past 9:30 and keep you safe
I’m smitten, smitten
I want to drink whiskey all night with you
I want to open a record shop with you and sell vinyl to people who don’t deserve them, I want to be assholes to everyone with you
I just fell in love with a stranger
Everything about you is cherubic
You deserve to always have a pretty boy or girl next to you kissing your cheek, you deserve the best possible things always
I’m gonna scoop you up and eat Mexican food with you
I love you, I love you, I adore you
I’ll ride my bike over every bridge in PDX til I find you'"
This was all said, by me. This was all meant, by me. Our conversation still rattles in my head, and the memory of her smile still makes my skin goose bump. Here comes something that only a few people will understand. You can take this literally, or figuratively. I saw a lot of naked women that night. I saw sex, and skin being thrown around like it was a mere afterthought of existence. Hers, though? I had no want. I had no lust. I had no ulterior motive. I just wanted to hear her voice, see her eyes wince in giggling joy, and warm my heart in the glow of a happy woman. Yet, it gets worse.
I will, more than likely, never see this woman again. I will never hear her voice. I will never touch her, or feel the warmth of her breath. I will never fix her breakfast. We will never ride bikes together, or take her along as I walk my dog. I will never lay in a park, and watch her fall asleep, on the blanket I brought. She will never kiss me. She will never bring me coffee while I paint. We will never meet up, randomly on a side walk, as our friends drag us to drastically different places. She will never fix my crooked tie, and I will never try to get into her pants at socially unacceptable points in time. She will never heal my wounds, and I will never be the biggest cheerleader to her accomplishments.
Very early, on Sunday Morning, I fell in love.
That's what happened. I could tell from the second I saw her. I had fallen. hard. Now, I'm not going to pussy foot around. Most people that read this blog, should know by now, that I am prone to manic fits of endearment. I fall for a great smile. I blush with a slight wink of a gorgeous set of eyes. I have a "swoon factor" that is fairly unmatched. It has always felt right to fall easily. The enjoyment from it warms my chest, and I would hope that it does the same to the person I am complimenting.
So, I have ran over how I would write this blog post in my head several times. I think it might be best to let you hear what happened in her own words:
'I would want to be cute lesbians in New York with you making lots of really good art
I would ride the subway past 9:30 and keep you safe
I’m smitten, smitten
I want to drink whiskey all night with you
I want to open a record shop with you and sell vinyl to people who don’t deserve them, I want to be assholes to everyone with you
I just fell in love with a stranger
Everything about you is cherubic
You deserve to always have a pretty boy or girl next to you kissing your cheek, you deserve the best possible things always
I’m gonna scoop you up and eat Mexican food with you
I love you, I love you, I adore you
I’ll ride my bike over every bridge in PDX til I find you'"
This was all said, by me. This was all meant, by me. Our conversation still rattles in my head, and the memory of her smile still makes my skin goose bump. Here comes something that only a few people will understand. You can take this literally, or figuratively. I saw a lot of naked women that night. I saw sex, and skin being thrown around like it was a mere afterthought of existence. Hers, though? I had no want. I had no lust. I had no ulterior motive. I just wanted to hear her voice, see her eyes wince in giggling joy, and warm my heart in the glow of a happy woman. Yet, it gets worse.
I will, more than likely, never see this woman again. I will never hear her voice. I will never touch her, or feel the warmth of her breath. I will never fix her breakfast. We will never ride bikes together, or take her along as I walk my dog. I will never lay in a park, and watch her fall asleep, on the blanket I brought. She will never kiss me. She will never bring me coffee while I paint. We will never meet up, randomly on a side walk, as our friends drag us to drastically different places. She will never fix my crooked tie, and I will never try to get into her pants at socially unacceptable points in time. She will never heal my wounds, and I will never be the biggest cheerleader to her accomplishments.
Yet, she is out there. She is reading this, and hopefully, for a few minutes of time, we lived a life unchained by anyone else, but each other.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
How You Look to Me
She told me today that she feels guilty. Working different hours than your partner is a strain, or so I'm told. I wouldn't know, and in this instance, I don't seem to care. This story is getting off track.
The circumstances go like this. She is a ball of anxiety and fret. Now, keep in mind, none of this is a direct result of anything I have done. Well, that isn't exactly true.
"Can I ask you a question?", she slurs, slightly as the rain hits the windshield of her small urban SUV. The funny thing is that no matter how many times this scenario happens to you, the situation always comes out of left field.
"Of course you can, Hon", I keep my eye-rolling buried deep in my conscious mind.
"The other day, when I told you I loved you, why didn't you tell me, that you loved me?", no matter how you answer this question, you are fucked. I don't really pause here. I know the answer. The worst part is, so does she.
"Because I don't love you."
The circumstances go like this. She is a ball of anxiety and fret. Now, keep in mind, none of this is a direct result of anything I have done. Well, that isn't exactly true.
"Can I ask you a question?", she slurs, slightly as the rain hits the windshield of her small urban SUV. The funny thing is that no matter how many times this scenario happens to you, the situation always comes out of left field.
"Of course you can, Hon", I keep my eye-rolling buried deep in my conscious mind.
"The other day, when I told you I loved you, why didn't you tell me, that you loved me?", no matter how you answer this question, you are fucked. I don't really pause here. I know the answer. The worst part is, so does she.
"Because I don't love you."
Does This Exist For Me?
She wears garters on a regular basis.
She reads novels, that weren't necessarily written in the last 60 years.
She paints me.
She can go through entire evenings without discussing herself.
She doesn't have to be mad, to be silent.
She has a style that others envy.
She watches a movie.
She truly watches a movie.
She listens to Slayer, yet you could never tell by looking at her. Or maybe you could.
She fucks me like a hate crime.
She lets me fuck her like it's genocide.
She doesn't say sentences that sound, such as, "Yeah, Robert isn't like the other losers I dated."
She bothers to learn the names of my relatives.
She understands why I don't want to see my relatives.
She understands why I want to see my relatives.
She teaches me something new, almost, everyday.
She can run.
She can jump.
She blushes, when I whisper dirty things into her ear, in public.
She moves closer when I do.
She does them, also.
She has common sense.
She has intuition.
She never let's me go away unresolved.
She will fight the war, but understands the battles are normally ridiculous.
She understands when I want a night, or two, or three, alone.
She surprises me.
She doesn't feel a need to schedule.
She doesn't go to the same place everyday.
She is not in constant mourning for something that is beyond her control.
She knows how to let go.
She can tell when she is going to ruin something, and doesn't.
She can tell when I'm going to ruin something, and doesn't let me.
She has a past.
She has a future.
She, most importantly, has a present.
She does not set standards for me, that are not standards for herself.
She knows life is not absolutes.
She can discuss anything.
She is not in love with the idea of me.
She is in love with what is truly me.
She reads novels, that weren't necessarily written in the last 60 years.
She paints me.
She can go through entire evenings without discussing herself.
She doesn't have to be mad, to be silent.
She has a style that others envy.
She watches a movie.
She truly watches a movie.
She listens to Slayer, yet you could never tell by looking at her. Or maybe you could.
She fucks me like a hate crime.
She lets me fuck her like it's genocide.
She doesn't say sentences that sound, such as, "Yeah, Robert isn't like the other losers I dated."
She bothers to learn the names of my relatives.
She understands why I don't want to see my relatives.
She understands why I want to see my relatives.
She teaches me something new, almost, everyday.
She can run.
She can jump.
She blushes, when I whisper dirty things into her ear, in public.
She moves closer when I do.
She does them, also.
She has common sense.
She has intuition.
She never let's me go away unresolved.
She will fight the war, but understands the battles are normally ridiculous.
She understands when I want a night, or two, or three, alone.
She surprises me.
She doesn't feel a need to schedule.
She doesn't go to the same place everyday.
She is not in constant mourning for something that is beyond her control.
She knows how to let go.
She can tell when she is going to ruin something, and doesn't.
She can tell when I'm going to ruin something, and doesn't let me.
She has a past.
She has a future.
She, most importantly, has a present.
She does not set standards for me, that are not standards for herself.
She knows life is not absolutes.
She can discuss anything.
She is not in love with the idea of me.
She is in love with what is truly me.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
I Did It
It's true. The last time I did it, I was not with you. The last time I felt happy, and pleased with life. You were nowhere to be found. You were not around the corner. You were not a mile away. Hell, I think it is safe to say, you were several zip codes in distance.
The last time I did it you were fast asleep. Dead to the world. The last time I was on my knees, half naked, fist clenched to the sky, and happy for all that I have taken from the world. You were nowhere to be found. It is not like I passed by the thought of you, idly. I stared into that "abyss" that everyone wants to throw around like a two dollar word. I cupped my hands, and yelled your name. You were not there.
Is that my fault? Quite possibly, yes. Should I be treated like it was? I say, emphatically, fuck no. That little slice of heaven, that crashed over me, like a boy in the ocean for the first time. That small "nirvana" that hit my soul, like a prize fighter, in over his head. That sliver that can only be described as, "the joy of joys", that gave me on full minute peace from my own ego. It was there. I felt it. I saw it. I tasted it. Where were you?
That night I fell into a deep trance. Covered in paint, and my mouth dripping with feminine honey. I slipped in and out of warmth, and heard yells that made me swoon. The space in which I existed became chaos. The time in which I inhabited lasted forever. I could do no wrong, without even trying.
You?
I do not pretend to know.
I smiled grandly, while staring into the face of the beast. I grabbed it by its throat. It enjoys that. I have found that I add to my joy, by strangling beauty. It is me. It is I. It is the large encompassing world that drives me to take the ferocity of smile, and cover it with the palm of my hand. Listen to its muffled screams of excitement. It is the death of your memory, and the infinite longevity that is my tainted existence.
The last time I did it you were fast asleep. Dead to the world. The last time I was on my knees, half naked, fist clenched to the sky, and happy for all that I have taken from the world. You were nowhere to be found. It is not like I passed by the thought of you, idly. I stared into that "abyss" that everyone wants to throw around like a two dollar word. I cupped my hands, and yelled your name. You were not there.
Is that my fault? Quite possibly, yes. Should I be treated like it was? I say, emphatically, fuck no. That little slice of heaven, that crashed over me, like a boy in the ocean for the first time. That small "nirvana" that hit my soul, like a prize fighter, in over his head. That sliver that can only be described as, "the joy of joys", that gave me on full minute peace from my own ego. It was there. I felt it. I saw it. I tasted it. Where were you?
That night I fell into a deep trance. Covered in paint, and my mouth dripping with feminine honey. I slipped in and out of warmth, and heard yells that made me swoon. The space in which I existed became chaos. The time in which I inhabited lasted forever. I could do no wrong, without even trying.
You?
I do not pretend to know.
I smiled grandly, while staring into the face of the beast. I grabbed it by its throat. It enjoys that. I have found that I add to my joy, by strangling beauty. It is me. It is I. It is the large encompassing world that drives me to take the ferocity of smile, and cover it with the palm of my hand. Listen to its muffled screams of excitement. It is the death of your memory, and the infinite longevity that is my tainted existence.
“Self-Portrait with a Mirror”, 1908, Léon Spilliaert.
Monday, October 14, 2013
It All Slips Passed You
I could hear it falling on the roof. The small "tink". That tiny knock that water droplets make to tell you that they are here. My ears, and eyes, wince open. I pull my covers tight over my neck.
"Where is my thunder?", I ask to the Rain God, in particular.
"Where is my partner?", I ask to no one, in particular.
I can tell someone has heard my mind asking questions, silently. I can hear the measured beating of my dog's tail. Beating on my mattress like a small bass drum. I roll over. The beat goes into double time. Peering out of my covers. His ears go back, and I can see the smile on his face.
There is my thunder. There is my noise. There's nature with my alarm clock. It's too early, when you know that your sleep hasn't even gone past four hours. Who cares? You have done more with less. Tis my life. The slow slap of my feet on the hardwood, seems to run in time to the now hurrying beat of the rain. It has gotten larger, and now sounds like one hundred tin drums.
Coffee, bacon, eggs, and jazz music try to cure something, that I try to forget ails me. My hands are empty. They used to be wrapped around a feminine thigh. My table is empty. Where there was once two plates filled, and two cups of energy, there is but one. My house has a silence in it that has become uncomfortably settling. The random ins and outs of women has slowed. My choice. The late night amalgamation, of knocking passer bys, has stopped. My choice. The Saturday morning phone calls of hurried energy, urging my presence, has become extinct. My choice.
I take my time. I take my breath. I take my vision. I take my abilities. They are mine. Mine, solely. Yet, in the back of my head, in a small little crevice, hidden from everyone. Hidden from myself. She sits. She sits here on this couch. She has a plate full of bacon and eggs, and a cup of coffee. She is urging me to hold her hand. She is laughing at my eyes welling up, over a story conveyed over the old wooden console stereo. She is prancing around, making my dog gesticulate wildly. She is different, in all her shapes and forms. She is simultaneously love and regret. She is simultaneously happiness and anger. She is simultaneously life and death. She is simultaneously a lover and a stranger.
The rain comes harder. My blinds open, and I'm in nothing but my underwear. I have no shame. She knows this. They all know this. The multitude of public stories told in mixed company has always been proof. I don't care who knows my faults. I don't care who knows my triumphs. I just care if she walks next to me. She doesn't. She hasn't. It wasn't her.....their choice. In the end, I provide the final push. I'm good at it.
"You're a smiling little fucker this morning, aren't you", I say to my bacon begging mutt. Someone has to smile enough for the rest of us. I can only stare. I can only stare, listening to the rain, and to myself. My breath and brain are working in synchronicity. I am sorry.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the other side of the world, listening to some band I've never heard of.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are half the continent away, enjoying a vast urban landscape with a family member you would never let me meet.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are across the state looking at a sunset that the rain is forcing me to miss.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the hip side of the city, wondering how to sleep longer due to the tin roof, rain combination ringing in your ears.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you are a mile away, know that when you sleep, I dream of you more than I want to.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you might be in my bed, know that I'll never hold you tight enough to fear losing you.
"Where is my thunder?", I ask to the Rain God, in particular.
"Where is my partner?", I ask to no one, in particular.
I can tell someone has heard my mind asking questions, silently. I can hear the measured beating of my dog's tail. Beating on my mattress like a small bass drum. I roll over. The beat goes into double time. Peering out of my covers. His ears go back, and I can see the smile on his face.
BOOM!!!!!
There is my thunder. There is my noise. There's nature with my alarm clock. It's too early, when you know that your sleep hasn't even gone past four hours. Who cares? You have done more with less. Tis my life. The slow slap of my feet on the hardwood, seems to run in time to the now hurrying beat of the rain. It has gotten larger, and now sounds like one hundred tin drums.
Coffee, bacon, eggs, and jazz music try to cure something, that I try to forget ails me. My hands are empty. They used to be wrapped around a feminine thigh. My table is empty. Where there was once two plates filled, and two cups of energy, there is but one. My house has a silence in it that has become uncomfortably settling. The random ins and outs of women has slowed. My choice. The late night amalgamation, of knocking passer bys, has stopped. My choice. The Saturday morning phone calls of hurried energy, urging my presence, has become extinct. My choice.
I take my time. I take my breath. I take my vision. I take my abilities. They are mine. Mine, solely. Yet, in the back of my head, in a small little crevice, hidden from everyone. Hidden from myself. She sits. She sits here on this couch. She has a plate full of bacon and eggs, and a cup of coffee. She is urging me to hold her hand. She is laughing at my eyes welling up, over a story conveyed over the old wooden console stereo. She is prancing around, making my dog gesticulate wildly. She is different, in all her shapes and forms. She is simultaneously love and regret. She is simultaneously happiness and anger. She is simultaneously life and death. She is simultaneously a lover and a stranger.
The rain comes harder. My blinds open, and I'm in nothing but my underwear. I have no shame. She knows this. They all know this. The multitude of public stories told in mixed company has always been proof. I don't care who knows my faults. I don't care who knows my triumphs. I just care if she walks next to me. She doesn't. She hasn't. It wasn't her.....their choice. In the end, I provide the final push. I'm good at it.
"You're a smiling little fucker this morning, aren't you", I say to my bacon begging mutt. Someone has to smile enough for the rest of us. I can only stare. I can only stare, listening to the rain, and to myself. My breath and brain are working in synchronicity. I am sorry.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the other side of the world, listening to some band I've never heard of.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are half the continent away, enjoying a vast urban landscape with a family member you would never let me meet.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are across the state looking at a sunset that the rain is forcing me to miss.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the hip side of the city, wondering how to sleep longer due to the tin roof, rain combination ringing in your ears.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you are a mile away, know that when you sleep, I dream of you more than I want to.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you might be in my bed, know that I'll never hold you tight enough to fear losing you.
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