Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
1: A freshly minted woman is crying in a hallway. She is pouring her self out to a man in a studded jacket. She is covered in scars and bruises that she doesn't remember or care enough to know their history. I try to recall those days long enough ago that they are all happy. Maybe the drugs have caught up to her. Maybe the lighted scarf and glow stick wand didn't make up for the lack of cards. Maybe I'm too over caring to care.
2: People keep walking into the kitchen and turning on the stove. They are making ramen. It is various times between 5:30 and 6 in the morning. There has been too much this evening. And that is fine. Sometimes these things have their place. Myself, here, not so much.
3: This month is the end to a lot of things. The first year in a new decade and the final year for things. It is shit how most of this ended. But for some reason, in this house, where someone I loved lives, my head against a wall by a fireplace, hearing beds hopped on built up and destroyed, things make sense. I keep hearing loud voices from a hall. I keep hearing tears punctuate sentences that start with he. I keep being not be able to find answers. But excitingly, I keep closing doors, turning pages and finding things to burn. I had plans and goals tonight. I did not accomplish them. But that's good. Because the couple on the couch seem to be accomplishing enough of these things for me. And I don't need that anymore.
Posted by anthony at 6:01 AM
Saturday, December 18, 2010
There is rain. And a large tree is missing. It has been weeks, but it isn't so much worth paying attention. Did it fall on you, your car, your wife, or your future ability to make a living? No. Move on. I only practice my speech for quitting my job while waiting to make this left. I also come up with plans for rapid evacuation and/or decent into hell. It is fine.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
There's a tendon that is sick and tired of being in my foot. It is trying to leave my body. I totally understand it's argument. I've been wandering around this airport deciding if I'm hungry, thirsty or just adjusting to my new surroundings. I am about an hour into my layover. I have more than an hour to go. It is worth it. I'm in Oregon for the first time in three years. For the first time since I was on my way to Chicago, the great quarter life change that lasted almost a quarter of a year. I have less bags, but more baggage this time. I've never been in this airport, but it feels right.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
A couple of old men were knocking at the door. I was looking through the lower peephole that had been recently installed in the front door. I thought it was there because I was short. Actually it was there so I could be left home alone and people would feel better about it. I opened the door. It was Saturday and I had no shirt on. They were from a church I had attended a few weeks earlier on a whim. I filled out a visitor card and put in in the offering basket. No money though. I didn't have any cash on me and they hadn't earned it yet. The old men asked if I had been back since the first time. Then they asked why I hadn't. Then they asked if I liked coffee. And if I would take their gift. And if I would come back, or at least think about it. I said No, I was busy, No, I would, I might, I will. I closed the door while they walked back to their station wagon. The coffee mug they gave had old man candy in it. The wrappers made to look like fruit so you would feel better about sticking hard candy in your mouth that tasted like shit. I unwrapped one, put it my mouth, and promptly spit it into the trash can. I did this to every peace of candy. My mouth felt sugary and rotten. Maybe that is what Eve tasted so long ago; maybe that is what they wanted me to think. I put the mug on the proper shelf in the corner cabinet and got something to wash the overwhelming taste of sin out of my mouth. A little later I made some coffee to drink from the church mug.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
There is a fancy, nice, dress sort of style sweater from last Christmas. There is a beanie of orange and blue from a house a few houses ago, a couple of girlfriends before. There is a shirt left over from an art project, and pajama pants from a mother that wasn't yours but wanted to be. Other then that it is all the same. Another holiday. Another work week. Another Sunday distraction of beer and football. Or maybe champagne. Or pills. Or biscuits and gravy. Everything sounds good lately. Everything then some. I'd count the days to and after on my crooked fingers, using each separation to mark the rise and fall of the sun. But that is easy. The countdown is this: is it Christmas? No? Then put your head down and wait. Or plow though it. Or peek between your folded arms while your thumb is up and sneak a peak at the shoes of the girl who touches your thumb. But don't pick her. Pick the girl you think should have a life ending crush on you. You know what to do. Drink some orange juice. Take some vitamins. Spray some shit into your throat. Medicine. Then more medicine. You know how to heal yourself. Too bad you don't stop whatever happens between your sheets, in your bathroom, on the road or inside your own head that keeps getting you sick. Or at least let you stay healthy for the last eleven months. You'll be fine in the morning.
Friday, December 03, 2010
I took a month off. I needed a break. There was a birthday. There were shows. There was anything, any sort of excuse to not look at this. Anything to not think about my head being empty. Nothing felt right. No love. No interest. No desire. Just surface feelings, entertainment that barely scratched the skin. I threw it all at the wall, trying to get anything to stick, anything to make my heart beat faster, harder, more intense, more sincere, anything to make me feel. I wanted tears, pain, love, orgasm, hate, desire, lust or just some fucking interest in something. I wanted to not sleep at night. I wanted to toss and turn. I wanted to loose the desire for a partner, a warm body in bed next to me. I wanted a hand around my throat, I wanted to be shaken awake, I wanted to have my hair pulled, my direction changed, some sort of not very Devine intervention that made me take a left where I had been taking rights.
But that hasn't happened.
The parade has been beautiful. It has been nothing but party, one exciting day after the other. Did I say exciting? I meant empty. Faceless names. Nameless faces. Cold bodies. Warm bodies. Swallow. Sip. Chug. Snort. Smoke. Sneak in corners. Drag others along for the ride. Fake an orgasm. Forget a name. Develop a nervous reaction to any possible confrontation, or anytime someone remembers your name. Embellish. Divide. Conquer. Lie. Steal. Cheat. Be underhanded. Be divisive. Be manipulative. Forget. Don't care. Don't bother. Don't worry. Open the front door to let someone in while another is slipping out the back. Play wounded. Be hurt. Whatever. Make jokes. Be a joke. But make sure, no matter what, no matter anything else you might fucking do, don't feel. Don't let anyone in. Don't get hurt again. Hurt them. Fuck em, hurt them again. Then hurt them one more time. They didn't do anything, but they earned it. Go too far. Get bigger knives, twist them harder in backs. Because you are fine. No, I am fine.
I'm not the one taking a specific path to work to see a freeway overpass where I had the most passionate kiss of my life. I'm not the one repeating inside jokes to anyone within earshot just so they won't laugh and I can think "well, no one will laugh like you". I'm not the one finding excuses to take a shower because it is the only time I can feel free, comfortable, and close to happy. I'm not the one trying anything in their power to spin tales of fucking, drugs, drinks, women and cities not that far away to look interesting. I didn't mortgage my brain, my thoughts, or my passion. I didn't leave my heart on a beach, or was it that train, or was it that snowed in bus station in Denver that I have never recovered from.
I might be coming down. I might hate the holidays. I might miss everyone that has walked out of my life. But at least I'm writing, right?
If you could call this writing.
Posted by anthony at 3:48 AM