Tuesday, June 08, 2010

N is for Nostradamus...

I could tell from the beginning that this wasn't going to turn out the way I had thought. There is the smell of sulfur in the air. I put it there. I'm burning wood matches to stay awake. They are in a rectangle box from a bar named after half of my yearly income. That half of my yearly income shares its name with a bar is suiting. I have the shakes from the last five or six years, but probably more from the last five or six months. I can really see them right now; I am spinning the matches as they burn towards my fingertips so the chard part twists to give a physical presentation of the twisting of the chambers of my heart and the tightening of the muscles around it. There is no solace in the sweaty can that almost slips out of my hand to empty its contents on my keyboard. Nothing changes with that. I still shake. She still doesn't call. I write more though, and I guess you have to be tortured to be a tortured artist. My four chambers are quitting on me. They used to make these: passion, desire, courage and love. Now they sleep through their shifts. There must be holes in them, letting all the good things out. It hurts when it beats. It hurts when it thinks. It hurts when it feels. It hurts because it feels like waste.

It isn't though. Not even close.

It is life.

And today it is great.



Amelia said...

You know what, I think I just put my finger on what is so great about your writing, and this blog. Idealists are always trying to make reality fit their ideals, as though putting it down on paper will make it true. It doesn't quite work. And then realists like myself have trouble getting to any level of warmth or compassion that is worthwhile. But you're not either one, or maybe you're equal parts both. You lie to others quickly and easily I suspect, but never to yourself. Best of both worlds, that.

Anonymous said...

I'm not sure, but I think Amelia just called you a sociopath.

WV: vipsessp