I realized, the other day, that I had for some time forgotten to feed your ghost the diet of nostalgia, half-imagined memories and too-fond reminiscences on which it subsisted. Back when it was new, when I snapped it off of you like a cutting from a vine, I carried it with me everywhere. It was a terrible companion. It claimed to love me, and probably it did. When I tried, hesitantly, to find someone new, it mocked me in just the way I mock myself. When I tried to walk down the street and empty my mind, to fill myself with the sound of wind through the trees, it would blow the scent of your perfume across my face. When I spoke with you it wound itself around me and squeezed, and in a quiet scream insisted "She'll come back she'll come back you're not alone she'll change her mind." I think it really did believe that. I loathed its idiot droning, its irreparable sentimentality, and I hated myself because I could neither correct it nor banish it... and I must admit that I did not want to. It was the worst friend, the very worst, but it was there. It was my pretend-loneliness, my little game, and without it I would have to look at the cruel, cloudless sky and let the life stream from my eyes out into the void.
I think you saw it once, and if it scared you, what can I say? It scared me too, sometimes. Often.
It's dead now, anyways. I went looking for it and I couldn't find it, just a few wisps of ectoplasm smeared across a canvas. It's gone to the second afterlife, the land of the dead for whom no one pays remembrance. But one thing more is left: its own ghost, a shadow of a shadow, a feeling like emptiness... or more like void. Not an empty room, but no room at all. Once I kept a cup which I would fill with your essence. When it began to grow dry, I poured myself into it, because I could not bear to see it empty. But now even the cup is gone. All that remains is an epitaph.
And now that is done too.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Two roads, two bridges, one river: Race relations, transportation, and the way I walk to work
I live in a college town and work on campus. On the mornings I don't carpool with my roommates, I walk downtown to the nearest campus bus stop to catch a bus in to work. There are two optimal ways to get there by walking; each way is about as long as the other, so I tend to alternate. I'll call them North Ave and the back way. North Ave is a highway five lines wide with lights, intersections, and sidewalk on either side. Turning out of our neighborhood onto North Ave, a beautiful view of the downtown skyline is visible over a scenic railroad trestle that passes over the road at the same place it passes over the river, down at the bottom of the hill. North Ave is lined with new, spacious, and dense housing: rental housing for the numberless college students who want to be within walking distance of the night life. Taking North Ave down the hill means crossing at the bridge beneath the trestle. When I cross that bridge I always turn and look up the river; it is a small river, about fifty feet across, but very slow and deep. It has dignity, and even after heavy rains it flows along with the same solemn stillness. Beneath the bridge, on either side of the river, is the homeless encampment. The banks of the river are public park, so they can stay there during daytime all they like. In the grass of the riverbank a network of dirt clearings and paths have been beaten in by constant comings and goings. Semicircles of molding lawn furniture, fire pits, and a scum of beer cans mark the enclaves of the homeless: their friendships, groups, and territories. They ignore me as I ignore them; to them I am another anonymous face in the heavy stream of foot traffic that passes by. As for me, I think they're mostly harmless, but I worry late at night, or when I see a group of them talking and glancing at me. There's a police station just across the street, and an alarm kiosk on the corner nearest them, so I have to trust them to know better than to cause trouble. Across the river is the high road; but first, the back street:
Turning right out of my neighborhood instead of left, there is a road that runs behind our carefully manicured townhouses, along the railroad. Here, at the top of the hill, it runs alongside the road at the bottom of a twenty-foot deep gash blasted into the bedrock. Neat semi-cylindrical scars are visible in the crumbling rock walls, spaced at precise intervals: presumably marking where the blasting charges were placed. A concrete footbridge with a nearly-complete cage of chain-link fence crosses over the tracks. The inward-curving tops of the narrow fences make a silhouette like a Gothic arch with a fallen keystone. On the other side of this footbridge is what I think of as the neighborhood. From two driveways and strange sort of hilltop parking lot the road coalesces hesitantly, making a sort of beleaguered split-level cul-de-sac that spills precipitously down the hill, heading for the river directly. Homes line the street; real homes, not rental crates. Some are run down; at least one, I feel sure, is abandoned. Others are clearly cared for and long lived-in. Some sport excessive lawn decorations, and some expensive cars. A low wall of stacked stone lines the road for a few yards; it looks old enough to be native. The residents of this neighborhood, so far as I can tell, are all black and lower-class. They congregate in the street smoking and talking. When I walk down the road, most days they ignore me and I ignore them. I try not to walk through the middle of them, but I also try not to go so far out of my way that I draw attention to myself. It's an awkward situation for me; probably less so for them. I don't believe many people at all take the back way through their home. At the bottom of the hill is the lower of the river roads; away across the broad floodplain and the river is the homeless encampment. Barely visible through brush and at least one hundred yards away, it doesn't mean anything from over here.
This is the second leg of either route: the river roads. On the far side, the side I live on, lawns of bright grass slope gently up from the river about a hundred feet to the road. This is more park, dotted with benches, picnic tables and one small parking lot. On the other side of the road is neighborhood. The houses with a good view of the water tend to be well-maintained. A few look only into marshy scrub, and these are a bit more run-down. One house in particular has a lovely stand of bamboo and sits next to an odd empty lot; the whole thing lies in a depression and is covered in bright green creepers. On the far side, two identical ancient microwaves sit stacked one atop the other. Old tires and concrete pipes lie in a ditch. At one point, they were assembled into a sort of monument. Whether it was intended to resemble a penis is an internal debate I have yet to conclude. On the other side of the river, dry scrub covers a narrow, steep embankment running up to a massive stone wall that stands twenty feet high and runs for a quarter mile. Steel handrails and faux-iron lampposts top it like the filigree and jewels of a crown. On top of that wall is the second river road: the high road. The high road has a nice view of the river, though the height makes it seem small. It is broad, well-lit, and faced by row after row of tall, bland townhouses. It shares this side of the river with the multi-modal bus station, the conference center, the police station, and further, the entirety of downtown. These two roads run on either side of the river for a quarter mile to the rusted steel trestle bridge that connects them. My two paths intersect at the corner that is home to a local down-home restaurant, near one of the shadier parts of town, lying low and dark in the swampy old growth at the river's edge. Just up the hill is downtown and my bus stop.
Today, while walking down to said restaurant, I took the back way and the low road. A few old black men where sitting in the back road smoking. They shifted and went inside when they saw me coming, but one called out to me. I said hello and kept walking, but a conversation ensured nonetheless.
"You from around here, son?"
"Yep, I live just up the road."
He fanned a handful of scratched lottery tickets at me.
"See now, we have this friend they're tryna put away, if there's anything you can do to help--"
"I don't think I can help with that."
"Oh, alright, but if you change your mind, you can always leave it in our mailbox right there."
"Alright, thank you."
"Thank you, God bless."
If you're confused by this conversation, don't be alarmed. I was confused as well. What friend? Put away for what? By whom? What was the point of the tickets? Was I supposed to buy one? Was he trying to win and buy his friend a legal defense? And of course, the whole thing reeked of random panhandling. But why ask if I was local and then panhandle me? Isn't it better to get people from out of town? And what was up with the mailbox bit? Is this some kind of local political cause? Regardless of the reason and whether or not it was all just a complicated panhandle, it was clear now that walking through that neighborhood would result in requests for money in some form. They know my face now; I'm worried that they'll bother me again or harass me if I walk back through. I took the high road to get back home, and resented it. The clean, broad, sterile street was the lot that society had earmarked for me, just as the vibrant but dilapidated homes across the river were the black part of town. Walking past informative plaques describing the history behind this stretch of river, I felt comfortable and safe. I felt that I was in my proper place. I want to walk past that old stone wall, past the trailer with a lawn full of flamingos, past the stand of bamboo and the microwave lot, but none of that is my place. My place is with the joggers, the college kids, the towering apartments in inoffensive colors, and the streetlamps every twenty feet that make sure the road never sees darkness. By panhandling me, the locals made it clear that I am not a neighbor to them; I'm a score. They let me know that I was not in my place.
Turning right out of my neighborhood instead of left, there is a road that runs behind our carefully manicured townhouses, along the railroad. Here, at the top of the hill, it runs alongside the road at the bottom of a twenty-foot deep gash blasted into the bedrock. Neat semi-cylindrical scars are visible in the crumbling rock walls, spaced at precise intervals: presumably marking where the blasting charges were placed. A concrete footbridge with a nearly-complete cage of chain-link fence crosses over the tracks. The inward-curving tops of the narrow fences make a silhouette like a Gothic arch with a fallen keystone. On the other side of this footbridge is what I think of as the neighborhood. From two driveways and strange sort of hilltop parking lot the road coalesces hesitantly, making a sort of beleaguered split-level cul-de-sac that spills precipitously down the hill, heading for the river directly. Homes line the street; real homes, not rental crates. Some are run down; at least one, I feel sure, is abandoned. Others are clearly cared for and long lived-in. Some sport excessive lawn decorations, and some expensive cars. A low wall of stacked stone lines the road for a few yards; it looks old enough to be native. The residents of this neighborhood, so far as I can tell, are all black and lower-class. They congregate in the street smoking and talking. When I walk down the road, most days they ignore me and I ignore them. I try not to walk through the middle of them, but I also try not to go so far out of my way that I draw attention to myself. It's an awkward situation for me; probably less so for them. I don't believe many people at all take the back way through their home. At the bottom of the hill is the lower of the river roads; away across the broad floodplain and the river is the homeless encampment. Barely visible through brush and at least one hundred yards away, it doesn't mean anything from over here.
This is the second leg of either route: the river roads. On the far side, the side I live on, lawns of bright grass slope gently up from the river about a hundred feet to the road. This is more park, dotted with benches, picnic tables and one small parking lot. On the other side of the road is neighborhood. The houses with a good view of the water tend to be well-maintained. A few look only into marshy scrub, and these are a bit more run-down. One house in particular has a lovely stand of bamboo and sits next to an odd empty lot; the whole thing lies in a depression and is covered in bright green creepers. On the far side, two identical ancient microwaves sit stacked one atop the other. Old tires and concrete pipes lie in a ditch. At one point, they were assembled into a sort of monument. Whether it was intended to resemble a penis is an internal debate I have yet to conclude. On the other side of the river, dry scrub covers a narrow, steep embankment running up to a massive stone wall that stands twenty feet high and runs for a quarter mile. Steel handrails and faux-iron lampposts top it like the filigree and jewels of a crown. On top of that wall is the second river road: the high road. The high road has a nice view of the river, though the height makes it seem small. It is broad, well-lit, and faced by row after row of tall, bland townhouses. It shares this side of the river with the multi-modal bus station, the conference center, the police station, and further, the entirety of downtown. These two roads run on either side of the river for a quarter mile to the rusted steel trestle bridge that connects them. My two paths intersect at the corner that is home to a local down-home restaurant, near one of the shadier parts of town, lying low and dark in the swampy old growth at the river's edge. Just up the hill is downtown and my bus stop.
Today, while walking down to said restaurant, I took the back way and the low road. A few old black men where sitting in the back road smoking. They shifted and went inside when they saw me coming, but one called out to me. I said hello and kept walking, but a conversation ensured nonetheless.
"You from around here, son?"
"Yep, I live just up the road."
He fanned a handful of scratched lottery tickets at me.
"See now, we have this friend they're tryna put away, if there's anything you can do to help--"
"I don't think I can help with that."
"Oh, alright, but if you change your mind, you can always leave it in our mailbox right there."
"Alright, thank you."
"Thank you, God bless."
If you're confused by this conversation, don't be alarmed. I was confused as well. What friend? Put away for what? By whom? What was the point of the tickets? Was I supposed to buy one? Was he trying to win and buy his friend a legal defense? And of course, the whole thing reeked of random panhandling. But why ask if I was local and then panhandle me? Isn't it better to get people from out of town? And what was up with the mailbox bit? Is this some kind of local political cause? Regardless of the reason and whether or not it was all just a complicated panhandle, it was clear now that walking through that neighborhood would result in requests for money in some form. They know my face now; I'm worried that they'll bother me again or harass me if I walk back through. I took the high road to get back home, and resented it. The clean, broad, sterile street was the lot that society had earmarked for me, just as the vibrant but dilapidated homes across the river were the black part of town. Walking past informative plaques describing the history behind this stretch of river, I felt comfortable and safe. I felt that I was in my proper place. I want to walk past that old stone wall, past the trailer with a lawn full of flamingos, past the stand of bamboo and the microwave lot, but none of that is my place. My place is with the joggers, the college kids, the towering apartments in inoffensive colors, and the streetlamps every twenty feet that make sure the road never sees darkness. By panhandling me, the locals made it clear that I am not a neighbor to them; I'm a score. They let me know that I was not in my place.
Monday, February 20, 2012
I don't know what to write,
but I know I want to. So fuck it. Here goes.
Looking back at my old poetry is always a trip. Reading the things I wrote a long time ago wakes up parts of me that were asleep. Seeing my reflection in the paper is like seeing a ghost. I had a certain style, then. It was Stephen King's style, to be fair, but it was something.
I feel I have made it through a crisis in my life, and I see in it the roots of the inevitable crisis to follow: I have finally succeeded in casting off the urge to do with my life what others expect. I am resigned to and comfortable with the prospect of living an unremarkable, uneventful life, provided it is fairly comfortable. I think that some part of me, maybe the greater part, wants to "do something" with my life, and if that is so, it may be able to emerge now without being channeled through others' expectations. I won't make it come, though. I am relaxing. I think it may have taken several months for my subconscious or what have you to realize it, but I am finally relaxing. It is the contentment that comes not from knowing all of your obligations are fulfilled, but from having no obligations, and wanting none. I don't want to do this or do that. I don't want a career, I don't want a family, I don't want a degree (at least not right now). I don't want to go down in history, I don't want to change the world, I don't want to make a difference. I just want to chill the fuck out, listen to music, eat good food, and have a few good friends. That doesn't mean I can't have long-term goals and aspirations; just that I don't need them. I was raised with the impression that it was my destiny to help mankind in some enormous way, and that's a big shadow to live under; the shadow of your potential. Bigger for me than for most, not to be an arrogant dick. My life was a vehicle built to take me from the present to that world-shaking future, but I had only the vaguest notion of that future, and each time I felt it should have come closer, like a mirage it was just as far away. I reject utterly the notion that I must be "productive" in the way that proves my worth to society, and I will produce as little as possible until I feel I have established the sincerity of my belief to myself. I hope that once I have reached utter relaxation and unconcern, my innate interests and desires will become clear. I have always had poor emotional intelligence and have for a long time flat emotionally; it makes sense, then, that I need a sort of emotional quiet to be able to understand how I feel. All I have to do is chill out.
Looking back at my old poetry is always a trip. Reading the things I wrote a long time ago wakes up parts of me that were asleep. Seeing my reflection in the paper is like seeing a ghost. I had a certain style, then. It was Stephen King's style, to be fair, but it was something.
I feel I have made it through a crisis in my life, and I see in it the roots of the inevitable crisis to follow: I have finally succeeded in casting off the urge to do with my life what others expect. I am resigned to and comfortable with the prospect of living an unremarkable, uneventful life, provided it is fairly comfortable. I think that some part of me, maybe the greater part, wants to "do something" with my life, and if that is so, it may be able to emerge now without being channeled through others' expectations. I won't make it come, though. I am relaxing. I think it may have taken several months for my subconscious or what have you to realize it, but I am finally relaxing. It is the contentment that comes not from knowing all of your obligations are fulfilled, but from having no obligations, and wanting none. I don't want to do this or do that. I don't want a career, I don't want a family, I don't want a degree (at least not right now). I don't want to go down in history, I don't want to change the world, I don't want to make a difference. I just want to chill the fuck out, listen to music, eat good food, and have a few good friends. That doesn't mean I can't have long-term goals and aspirations; just that I don't need them. I was raised with the impression that it was my destiny to help mankind in some enormous way, and that's a big shadow to live under; the shadow of your potential. Bigger for me than for most, not to be an arrogant dick. My life was a vehicle built to take me from the present to that world-shaking future, but I had only the vaguest notion of that future, and each time I felt it should have come closer, like a mirage it was just as far away. I reject utterly the notion that I must be "productive" in the way that proves my worth to society, and I will produce as little as possible until I feel I have established the sincerity of my belief to myself. I hope that once I have reached utter relaxation and unconcern, my innate interests and desires will become clear. I have always had poor emotional intelligence and have for a long time flat emotionally; it makes sense, then, that I need a sort of emotional quiet to be able to understand how I feel. All I have to do is chill out.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
An exercise in extemporaneous writing
First draft, no outline or preconceived ideas, editing only for grammar and punctuation.
This is the story of a gopher named Constance Mathers. Constance was a normal gopher who enjoyed burrowing into the ground, eating plants, and avoiding hawks. On roughly the 523rd day of his life, he was foraging by a stream when a nearby hunter took a shot at a deer. Constance was so startled that he fell into the stream and was carried downstream for several yards before he could clamber his way out. Unfortunately, he climbed out of the bank into a small overhang in the roots of a large tree, where a viper made its home. The viper slithered out from his home and stared at Constance. "Hello, Constance," said the viper. "Hello, Franklin," replied Constance. "Do you remember," Franklin the Viper asked in a casual sort of way, "our time together in primary school?" "I do," replied Constance. "I seem to recall," Franklin continued, shifting his coils ominously, "that you took issue with the scaliness of my skin in a most verbal fashion." Constance had no reply to this. "I would like to let you know, Constance, that I have forgiven you. You are a small and stupid creature, and it is simply unfair of me to expect you to conduct yourself in a proper fashion." "Oh," said Constance. "Thank you." "As a matter of curiosity, Constance dear, may I ask you what your feelings are of those distant days?" Constance stuttered: "I, ah... don't actually think about it very much. I have rather a lot of foraging to do, you see--" "Oh, I see, I see!" interjected Franklin. "You are the very Busy Beaver, sss-sss-sss," said Franklin, snickering at his own wit. One of Franklin's undulating coils began slowly, in a pulsating fashion, to slide nearer to Constance's flank. "It is a funny thing, old friend, how some move on in life, while others seem to stay behind. You live for today, but I live in yesterday, steeped in memory, plagued by the past. It is only with a deliberate and concentrated effort that I am able to let go. Many a day I spent on a sunny rock contemplating time and aging, intelligence and morality, culpability, justice, and other such obscure and academic things. In my long reverie I came to some conclusions, which I would like to share with you now. Will you hear me out, Constance?" Constance had begun some time ago to shuffle slowly backwards. "Err, you see, the sun is beginning to set, and I really should be in before the wolves are out, you see..." Franklin's far coil had already slithered its way behind dear Constance, and with it he gently nudged the gopher towards him. "Don't worry, old friend, you can stay with me tonight; we will take our tea together and have a grand time remembering the old days. We can talk of the finer things, of philosophy, and science, and art." "That's very kind of you, Franklin, but really, I can't stay out tonight--" "It wasn't a question, dear friend. You will hear me out." Franklin locked eyes with the gopher and began to sway his head from side to side, speaking in a low, slow voice. Constance was obligingly occupied. "If we let today's injustices become tomorrow's memories, Constance, then nothing is ever done. How long must we let pass before crimes can go unpunished? A year? A month? A day? Seconds? You see, time is an illusion; it is arbitrary. So long as I have memory of an event, it occurred. Justice does not grow stale; if anything, the oldest injustices are those which most cry out for resolution. Forgiveness, you see, is another way of simply capitulating to the injustices with which this world is filled. I apologize, friend Constance, for having lied to you, albeit unintentionally. I have for some time been under the impression that I forgave you long ago, but now that I see you here before me, I think I could do with just a little piece of justice." So saying, Franklin lashed out and bit Constance in the side, who squealed with pain and fell back onto the ground, scrabbling towards the bank. With his coils Franklin lashed out and shoved Constance into the water, wherein he floated away.
This is the story of a gopher named Constance Mathers. Constance was a normal gopher who enjoyed burrowing into the ground, eating plants, and avoiding hawks. On roughly the 523rd day of his life, he was foraging by a stream when a nearby hunter took a shot at a deer. Constance was so startled that he fell into the stream and was carried downstream for several yards before he could clamber his way out. Unfortunately, he climbed out of the bank into a small overhang in the roots of a large tree, where a viper made its home. The viper slithered out from his home and stared at Constance. "Hello, Constance," said the viper. "Hello, Franklin," replied Constance. "Do you remember," Franklin the Viper asked in a casual sort of way, "our time together in primary school?" "I do," replied Constance. "I seem to recall," Franklin continued, shifting his coils ominously, "that you took issue with the scaliness of my skin in a most verbal fashion." Constance had no reply to this. "I would like to let you know, Constance, that I have forgiven you. You are a small and stupid creature, and it is simply unfair of me to expect you to conduct yourself in a proper fashion." "Oh," said Constance. "Thank you." "As a matter of curiosity, Constance dear, may I ask you what your feelings are of those distant days?" Constance stuttered: "I, ah... don't actually think about it very much. I have rather a lot of foraging to do, you see--" "Oh, I see, I see!" interjected Franklin. "You are the very Busy Beaver, sss-sss-sss," said Franklin, snickering at his own wit. One of Franklin's undulating coils began slowly, in a pulsating fashion, to slide nearer to Constance's flank. "It is a funny thing, old friend, how some move on in life, while others seem to stay behind. You live for today, but I live in yesterday, steeped in memory, plagued by the past. It is only with a deliberate and concentrated effort that I am able to let go. Many a day I spent on a sunny rock contemplating time and aging, intelligence and morality, culpability, justice, and other such obscure and academic things. In my long reverie I came to some conclusions, which I would like to share with you now. Will you hear me out, Constance?" Constance had begun some time ago to shuffle slowly backwards. "Err, you see, the sun is beginning to set, and I really should be in before the wolves are out, you see..." Franklin's far coil had already slithered its way behind dear Constance, and with it he gently nudged the gopher towards him. "Don't worry, old friend, you can stay with me tonight; we will take our tea together and have a grand time remembering the old days. We can talk of the finer things, of philosophy, and science, and art." "That's very kind of you, Franklin, but really, I can't stay out tonight--" "It wasn't a question, dear friend. You will hear me out." Franklin locked eyes with the gopher and began to sway his head from side to side, speaking in a low, slow voice. Constance was obligingly occupied. "If we let today's injustices become tomorrow's memories, Constance, then nothing is ever done. How long must we let pass before crimes can go unpunished? A year? A month? A day? Seconds? You see, time is an illusion; it is arbitrary. So long as I have memory of an event, it occurred. Justice does not grow stale; if anything, the oldest injustices are those which most cry out for resolution. Forgiveness, you see, is another way of simply capitulating to the injustices with which this world is filled. I apologize, friend Constance, for having lied to you, albeit unintentionally. I have for some time been under the impression that I forgave you long ago, but now that I see you here before me, I think I could do with just a little piece of justice." So saying, Franklin lashed out and bit Constance in the side, who squealed with pain and fell back onto the ground, scrabbling towards the bank. With his coils Franklin lashed out and shoved Constance into the water, wherein he floated away.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Insomnia
After much thought I have come to the decision that I am going insane.
It isn't a thing with attributes. It's just there and BURNING BURNING BURNING all the time some of the time. Black boiling turning swirling churning tar in my head like beez like buzzing black bile that makes me want to vomit. Soon it will begin to show. I hope I can still do my best trick, the Straight Man trick, I know you who reads always did love that one, do you remember how Straight I was back when when everyone marveled in awe in my supreme Straightness? A stern face and a solid diction and a peculiarly Straight way of dressing Hello My Name Is Sir Young White Male With No Accent And Clear Diction Money Please Thank You And Good Day. What a fucking farce that way. I'm batshit now and more every day and I can't say I love it but goddamn if it isn't me. GOD DAMN. Fucking God fucking Damn. Fucking fuck fuck head spinning turning noise silent buzzing. Can't get this shit out. Love it. LOVE IT FUCKING NOISE. Don't love it at all, really. Sort of sad sometimes about having lost who I was. We all do anyways. No use mourning. Good place to be crazy too. But I'll have to play the Straight game for a while longer just a while. Fool some HR bitch who thinks he's smart. Bright young college grad with a head on his shoulders and a degree on his wall and JUST A FUCKING MORON. Fucking morons everywhere not just janitors and grease monkeys they just got unlucky. White-collar Fred got fucking lucky and got sent off to SCHOOL to LEARN A TRADE and he's every last bit as motherfucking idiot as the rest of the drooling fucks. Play the straight game work a job get some money and FUCKING BAIL. Fucking straight game is probably what's driving me crazy anyways. Crazy moron fuckers with their money game.
Wish I could sleep now. Too much buzzing. Don't even need the tabs for it anymore. Don't fucking gloat. I hear you gloating, bitch. And I don't want your goddamned pity either. I'm fucking FINE FINE FINE so piss off. You're probably still pissed about the other night. I fucking tried, okay? I always fucking try. Sometimes I just can't fucking take it anymore especially with the fucking BUZZ BUZ BEEZ in my fucking head and then you come in and refuse to understand anything or accept answers or do the obvious things I've told you to do for years and years now. But still I fucking try and when I ask for a break, when I ask for one rain check, you flip the fuck out on me. Whatever. I don't care. I always forgive you. No fucking choice anymore, not for years. Phone is dead. Surprise surprise. Making it a priority to charge it in the morning. Fucking charging fuck fuck fuck. Fuck expletives in my fucking head turning chasing circling over over fuck fuck fuck easy short guttural whats not to love fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck you fuck me fuck us all in an apple tree YEAH GOT MY FUCKING IAMBS IN A ROW. IAMB LAMBS little Bo Beep rhythmic sheep can't fucking sleeeeeeeeeeep. First honest piece of writing in ten fucking years. Better be proud. Be a fucking writer now, that's my future, fucking future how I fucking hate you motherfucker shit fuck hell damn open up a can of SPAM. Fucking birds at four AM every fucking morning what the fuck are you calling for sun isn't up shit's down skipped town so SHUTUP SHUTUP SHUT UP SO I CAN SLEEP FUCKING BIRDS.
Psychosis isn't the word. Also skipped on: Crazy, insane, delusional. My personal favorite as of now: Deranged. Not all the way insane, you see. Not completely disconnected from reality. Just a little off just A LITTLE FUCKING OFF just like someone slipped and twiddled the volume knob and now no-one can find the manual to set the fucking thing straight again so IM JUST A LITTLE FUCKING OFF every now and then and always and forever. Getting worse getting better I like to ponder these things serious shit man serious fucking shit got to think it all through cause thats my speed and style thats how I roll yo if we can just sit the FUCK down and chill the FUCK out and think this all the FUCKING WAY through we can get a grip on it with our ADAMANTINE FUCKING JAWS OF LOGIC and crush that motherfuckers skull like every other logic problem that ever had the fucking balls to show its face to me stupid motherfuckers all. Just cant.....quite....get a grip on the fucker squiggly wiggly slippery fucker darting in and out and all about and not really a cerebral thing you see more of an emotional one more of a gut thing in the head in the gut in the throat squirming around in my digestive tract popping in to fuck with the brain and sliding back away down the back door to hide in the gut while the cops are scrambling up in the head taking fingerprints and DNA samples Officer Friendly scratching his head saying how did that sonofabitch get away again police chief getting more pissed every day pounding his fist on the table chewing the PI's ass I WANT THAT MOTHERFUCKER AND I WANT HIM NOW. Fucking miracle pills are useless too might even be the cause running out tomorrow and OH LAWS what EVER will we do then fucking HOPELESS without my MIRACLE FUCKING PILLS. Might just have to cut myself what else can you do when THE PILLS run out not a lot of hope left when THE PILLS run out sun shine goes to rainy days can't seem to see the brighter side without the MIRACLE FUCKING PILLS I always knew I would resent. Probably need to ditch that shit. Just need something dank a pretty skank a septic tank and something to scrawl on scrawl all this shit right the fuck out of my head in my special little chickenshit chicken-scratch scrawl that nobody can read but you and me and all the angels up in Heaven Praise Jesus May He Rest In Peace. Scrawl some shit out half-enlightened clawing at my eyes looking for the truth hearing shitty music head buzzing mind screaming masses eyes gleaming live streaming looking gazing gaping oohing ahhing awestruck step up see the amazing SICK FUCK WRITER only about a FUCKING BILLION of these left in the world so don't miss this ONCE in a LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY barks the barker fucking farker.
Oh, fucking sleep. Do you forgive me yet? I'm so fucking sorry for whatever I did. I love you. Please take me back. It can be like it used to be, you and me, together, happy. We can forget all this shit and just love one another again silently on the couch in bed on the floor it doesn't matter babe I'll do it however you want wherever you want whenever you want just TAKE ME THE FUCK BACK I'm so sorry no shh so sorry for shouting that wasn't me babe that was the FUCKING BATSHIT CRAZIES talking just ignore that motherfucker and we can shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh our way down to sleepy lullaby land together and be in love again. That's right. Close my eyes. Sleep. Silent still restful agonized black dark quiet FUCKING FUCKING BIRDS FUCKING shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Shush little baby don't say a word Momma's gonna kill all those GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING BIRDS.
It gets so tiring after a while that you just run out and there's nothing left to do but collapse on the couch and run down like an old tire tumbling lazily through the hardpan cracked dried dust lakebottom with the sagebrush and the gila monsters and the lost little Russian mice stuck in tumbleweeds it rolls on and stops and rolls over and turns and tumbles crazily like a coin and winds down down down and lies dead in the dirt while the winds starts to bury it in sand. You wake up in the morning ha ha what morning it is morning moron you wake up int he evening you wake up some fucking time and time didn't even go by you were just unconscious you didn't sleep you didn't dream but thank God the night is done at least because you're too far gone to fucking care. It left and left you alone and it's all over now so let's suit up for a new day a new fucking day and pray the sun stays up because even though you hate the fucking sun at least everyone else is awake and nobody expects you to sleep.
It isn't a thing with attributes. It's just there and BURNING BURNING BURNING all the time some of the time. Black boiling turning swirling churning tar in my head like beez like buzzing black bile that makes me want to vomit. Soon it will begin to show. I hope I can still do my best trick, the Straight Man trick, I know you who reads always did love that one, do you remember how Straight I was back when when everyone marveled in awe in my supreme Straightness? A stern face and a solid diction and a peculiarly Straight way of dressing Hello My Name Is Sir Young White Male With No Accent And Clear Diction Money Please Thank You And Good Day. What a fucking farce that way. I'm batshit now and more every day and I can't say I love it but goddamn if it isn't me. GOD DAMN. Fucking God fucking Damn. Fucking fuck fuck head spinning turning noise silent buzzing. Can't get this shit out. Love it. LOVE IT FUCKING NOISE. Don't love it at all, really. Sort of sad sometimes about having lost who I was. We all do anyways. No use mourning. Good place to be crazy too. But I'll have to play the Straight game for a while longer just a while. Fool some HR bitch who thinks he's smart. Bright young college grad with a head on his shoulders and a degree on his wall and JUST A FUCKING MORON. Fucking morons everywhere not just janitors and grease monkeys they just got unlucky. White-collar Fred got fucking lucky and got sent off to SCHOOL to LEARN A TRADE and he's every last bit as motherfucking idiot as the rest of the drooling fucks. Play the straight game work a job get some money and FUCKING BAIL. Fucking straight game is probably what's driving me crazy anyways. Crazy moron fuckers with their money game.
Wish I could sleep now. Too much buzzing. Don't even need the tabs for it anymore. Don't fucking gloat. I hear you gloating, bitch. And I don't want your goddamned pity either. I'm fucking FINE FINE FINE so piss off. You're probably still pissed about the other night. I fucking tried, okay? I always fucking try. Sometimes I just can't fucking take it anymore especially with the fucking BUZZ BUZ BEEZ in my fucking head and then you come in and refuse to understand anything or accept answers or do the obvious things I've told you to do for years and years now. But still I fucking try and when I ask for a break, when I ask for one rain check, you flip the fuck out on me. Whatever. I don't care. I always forgive you. No fucking choice anymore, not for years. Phone is dead. Surprise surprise. Making it a priority to charge it in the morning. Fucking charging fuck fuck fuck. Fuck expletives in my fucking head turning chasing circling over over fuck fuck fuck easy short guttural whats not to love fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck you fuck me fuck us all in an apple tree YEAH GOT MY FUCKING IAMBS IN A ROW. IAMB LAMBS little Bo Beep rhythmic sheep can't fucking sleeeeeeeeeeep. First honest piece of writing in ten fucking years. Better be proud. Be a fucking writer now, that's my future, fucking future how I fucking hate you motherfucker shit fuck hell damn open up a can of SPAM. Fucking birds at four AM every fucking morning what the fuck are you calling for sun isn't up shit's down skipped town so SHUTUP SHUTUP SHUT UP SO I CAN SLEEP FUCKING BIRDS.
Psychosis isn't the word. Also skipped on: Crazy, insane, delusional. My personal favorite as of now: Deranged. Not all the way insane, you see. Not completely disconnected from reality. Just a little off just A LITTLE FUCKING OFF just like someone slipped and twiddled the volume knob and now no-one can find the manual to set the fucking thing straight again so IM JUST A LITTLE FUCKING OFF every now and then and always and forever. Getting worse getting better I like to ponder these things serious shit man serious fucking shit got to think it all through cause thats my speed and style thats how I roll yo if we can just sit the FUCK down and chill the FUCK out and think this all the FUCKING WAY through we can get a grip on it with our ADAMANTINE FUCKING JAWS OF LOGIC and crush that motherfuckers skull like every other logic problem that ever had the fucking balls to show its face to me stupid motherfuckers all. Just cant.....quite....get a grip on the fucker squiggly wiggly slippery fucker darting in and out and all about and not really a cerebral thing you see more of an emotional one more of a gut thing in the head in the gut in the throat squirming around in my digestive tract popping in to fuck with the brain and sliding back away down the back door to hide in the gut while the cops are scrambling up in the head taking fingerprints and DNA samples Officer Friendly scratching his head saying how did that sonofabitch get away again police chief getting more pissed every day pounding his fist on the table chewing the PI's ass I WANT THAT MOTHERFUCKER AND I WANT HIM NOW. Fucking miracle pills are useless too might even be the cause running out tomorrow and OH LAWS what EVER will we do then fucking HOPELESS without my MIRACLE FUCKING PILLS. Might just have to cut myself what else can you do when THE PILLS run out not a lot of hope left when THE PILLS run out sun shine goes to rainy days can't seem to see the brighter side without the MIRACLE FUCKING PILLS I always knew I would resent. Probably need to ditch that shit. Just need something dank a pretty skank a septic tank and something to scrawl on scrawl all this shit right the fuck out of my head in my special little chickenshit chicken-scratch scrawl that nobody can read but you and me and all the angels up in Heaven Praise Jesus May He Rest In Peace. Scrawl some shit out half-enlightened clawing at my eyes looking for the truth hearing shitty music head buzzing mind screaming masses eyes gleaming live streaming looking gazing gaping oohing ahhing awestruck step up see the amazing SICK FUCK WRITER only about a FUCKING BILLION of these left in the world so don't miss this ONCE in a LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY barks the barker fucking farker.
Oh, fucking sleep. Do you forgive me yet? I'm so fucking sorry for whatever I did. I love you. Please take me back. It can be like it used to be, you and me, together, happy. We can forget all this shit and just love one another again silently on the couch in bed on the floor it doesn't matter babe I'll do it however you want wherever you want whenever you want just TAKE ME THE FUCK BACK I'm so sorry no shh so sorry for shouting that wasn't me babe that was the FUCKING BATSHIT CRAZIES talking just ignore that motherfucker and we can shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh our way down to sleepy lullaby land together and be in love again. That's right. Close my eyes. Sleep. Silent still restful agonized black dark quiet FUCKING FUCKING BIRDS FUCKING shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Shush little baby don't say a word Momma's gonna kill all those GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING BIRDS.
It gets so tiring after a while that you just run out and there's nothing left to do but collapse on the couch and run down like an old tire tumbling lazily through the hardpan cracked dried dust lakebottom with the sagebrush and the gila monsters and the lost little Russian mice stuck in tumbleweeds it rolls on and stops and rolls over and turns and tumbles crazily like a coin and winds down down down and lies dead in the dirt while the winds starts to bury it in sand. You wake up in the morning ha ha what morning it is morning moron you wake up int he evening you wake up some fucking time and time didn't even go by you were just unconscious you didn't sleep you didn't dream but thank God the night is done at least because you're too far gone to fucking care. It left and left you alone and it's all over now so let's suit up for a new day a new fucking day and pray the sun stays up because even though you hate the fucking sun at least everyone else is awake and nobody expects you to sleep.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Set and the Mountain
Once, a man named Set was climbing the sheer face of a tall mountain. He hammered pitons into the small crevices in the rock and ran ropes through them to secure himself. He had climbed this face for many days when, stopping to take a rest, he laid his face against the rock and heard a low groaning, as of someone in pain. "Why do you weep, mountain?" he asked. The mountain answered in a voice that shook his bones: "Wind, water and plant all conspire to bear me down. From the moment I was thrust up from the earth, the trees have pierced my skin with their roots, ripping my flesh up. Wind has beaten me cruelly and made my own children grind and strip me away. Water flows down me in cold, burning rivers and bears it all away so that I can be humbled yet again. And now you, man, come with the spikes you have smelted from the iron in my heart to pry me open once more. Will you not have mercy on me and ease my suffering?"
Set was very surprised to hear of the mountain's pain. "You are so great, mountain, and I so small. I did not think that it would make a difference to you, to lose a grain or two of rock to me. You will live on for aeons after I have gone, so how should I pity you? Life is a cruel place, and man survives only by being more cruel than life itself." So saying, he levered himself up and drove another piton home. With a great sigh like thunder, the face of the mountain let go in a massive slab and bore the man beneath it to the earth.
Set was very surprised to hear of the mountain's pain. "You are so great, mountain, and I so small. I did not think that it would make a difference to you, to lose a grain or two of rock to me. You will live on for aeons after I have gone, so how should I pity you? Life is a cruel place, and man survives only by being more cruel than life itself." So saying, he levered himself up and drove another piton home. With a great sigh like thunder, the face of the mountain let go in a massive slab and bore the man beneath it to the earth.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)