Me and the lock on the font door.

When the sun is barely up.
And someone in this house is already on their way to work.
And the only noise outside is that one bird.
And someone jogs passed my window, fitter and happier, they think, then me.
And the cans and bottles have moved from the desks to floor.
And the sun makes the outside look like the inside.
And my head looks on the inside like the outside.
And the clothes on the floor blend together to a blurry mass of fabrics and textures.
And old love letters fall from my hand.
And I pull up on the handle so my bedroom door opens easier.
And the pounding of feet down the hall is four.
And the lock on the front door turns one way, then seconds later turns the other.
And the pounding of feet down the hall is now two.

That is time I think I will never see you again.

So far I have been right and wrong.

Dividing a cloak in half.

His anxiety is more frequent. And much less specific. It used to be the impending divorce. Then the jail time. And the moves before that. And once about a job. Not getting one, but this one he had. Said he'd sleep twelve hours. But he decided to drink with friends and quit the next day. The anxiety left with that first shot.

And that is probably the day he figured it out.

Shakes. Voices. Pain.

Get it all to a dull hum, a television on in the other room, a car starting down the street, the only thing that gets his lovers off anymore.

Tell whoever sees it that its just some woman, some bill, some memory that hops on his back from time to time that he can't quite get rid of. Like this one:

His hands were covered in paint. He hadn't trimmed his nails in weeks and the paint piled up underneath them. He was drunk on wine and champagne. But mostly the way her head felt against his. She had an irregular breath pattern that he memorized. Four fifteen in the morning, mimicking breaths, watching eyes fluttering, counting stars that weren't even stars at all. They slept on an L shaped couch in her living room. He was the stem. She was the base.

He didn't shake at all.

The simple science of distraction and misdirection.

Always speak in sweeping generalizations. There may be exceptions to rules, but we don't operate in those areas of gray. Over react to everything. Bleed profusely. Scream. Cry. Run. Let the pieces, tears, bodies and chips fall where they may. Talk with your hands. Keep them constantly moving to hide the excess and anxiety. Consistently say "no" when you should say "yes" and "yes" whenever you can. Live in the future but always remind everyone that things were better. Or worse. Or at least more interesting. Recreate scenes from parking lots, hallways and bars in your bedroom or in full view of your new friends. Take the necessary measures so that anyone outside looking in sees everything is in line. Keep moving. Swim. Swim every chance you get. Swim in spas. Swim in pools. Swim in lakes and streams. Swim in oceans. Swim in the bottle. Never come up for air.

Z is for Zoo...

My life is a zoo. In all aspects of the idea of one's life being a zoo. It is filled with animals. It is filled with cages. The refreshments are shit and expensive. And it is free.

I've only been to one zoo in the last fifteen years or so, the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. And it is free. So all zoos are free, right?

Look at this, look at this project. I like to think it has been about You; but it has been about me. Every single sentence, every single thought; Me.

I've been nothing but honest in these pages. I leave out little details, or adjectives, because I can. I think I do a good job of showing myself to be the bad guy when I am. But I'm probably a little short in that aspect. It is ok.

This is my preface. This is my life. This is a zoo. This is a fucking mess.

And I am happy.

So let's go.

It is 4:30(ish) in the morning. There was an art show. I showed art. And the band played. Good. It was nice. Now here is where you come in.

Total honesty.

That is what we always said. A couple days before that first night, when we threw all the bullshit out the window, I was so honest with you about the state of my affairs, my life, my pain, and my happiness that you were honest back. We were having shit days. And every day after that, every single fucking day, total honesty.

Not any more.

You barely talk to me. Ever. And when you do, well, honestly, all you care about is getting back the painting you gave me.

I gave you a painting.

I don't want it back.

All of my friends had to hear about you, all of the time. Lovers and ex-lovers offered their advice on you, me, my ability to fall in love to fast and your possible ability to destroy me. But you know that.

Everyone knows that.

You came to the art show. You gave me a one arm hug. You should have just held my hand like Vanessa Escamilia did Memorial Day weekend, 1999. Fingers out, nothing coming back, like I told you about. You didn't talk to me. You didn't notice all of my art.

And you left.

You left before the band played. You left before we could catch up. You left before I could see how things were now, a month after seeing you last. You gave me no chance. You gave me no decision. You gave me no thought. And you gave me no hope.

But you sent me a text 3 minutes after walking out the door, right before we played, to ask about getting your painting back.

You can have it.

I don't want to be reminded of you anymore.

I started painting because of you. I wanted to impress you. I wanted to have something in common. I wanted to have more to talk about.

And then I started painting for you, about you. I was already writing about you, on here and in poems I threw together on trains.

I fell in love with you.

I missed you every second of the day. The slightest thought of you made me smile. I counted the minutes until I saw you. I knew when we worked together, I knew when we didn't. I listened to bands and songs you recommended. I thought about you all the time.

I am listening to a mix. Its for a road trip, a long drive. It is for a drive that I didn't make to you, for one I will never make.

I can't hold a flame for you anymore. I can't. That flame burned me.

Maybe you are the one that got away. Maybe I am the one that got away. Maybe we can't have people. Maybe all of this hurts too much to think about.

I fell hard. I gave my all. And at times it seemed like you did too. Or you were close.

Maybe you were. I can only trust the things you said. You never would have lied to me...

I told you once that you were my muse. That you inspired all sort of things in me. I never lied to you. I meant every single fucking word that came out of my body. I told you that I couldn't wait to publish books so I could put in the beginning of every single one "For Gina".

Gina, I loved you. It might have been too soon. It might have been at the wrong time. It might have been misplaced. I might have fucked up and let everyone see my heart on my sleeve. But, it was there. I meant it. I felt my heart pound. I saw the thoughts run circles around my head. I couldn't contain myself around you.

But not tonight.

Total honesty: things changed.

And I didn't change them.

This might not be a book. And this is definitely not the beginning. And it is closer to the end then we, or this, or it, or us have ever been. And I owe you this.

For Gina,
I never saw this coming.

26/26

non vegan delights and punk rock

I have had this window open for a couple of hours. Inspiration has been zapped. I am going to cook a grilled cheese club and listen to Propagandhi.

Talk to you tomorrow.

this year it is is this one, last year it was that...

The last two years, more than the years before, I have had a specific song play over and over in situations that would later become important.

Last year it was the song at the end of this post. Those times are another story entirely. This post is for the moments so far concerning the video above...

There is a radio station out here that considers itself indie, and apparently that just means they don't come in very well. (I'm kidding, they are really good, but their reception is shit.) I heard the song one night driving my car, or Stephanie's car, I don't remember. A few days later the video was on the "on demand" part of our cable box and I watched it 10-12 times. (It is on repeat as I type this, to put me in the mood.)

I've had some rough spots the last 2 months. I don't document them even though I would like to. Long story short, I am where I want to be, and a good portion of the people I surround myself with are not. Believe me, I wish I could, but I can't. I feel like Island Girl.

My loneliest nights and days have had this song attached. Some of the worst thing said to me have had this song attached.

I am both sides of this song. I am neither. I am this song. I am not.

Sleeping Houses at Dawn

Tender eyes and hearts close and pound,
silence deep enough to drown,
Proud words and turning ache
swearing just for swearing's sake.
Wrong turns and blinking blinkers
taking place of abandoned winters,
Shorter skirts and warmer hearts
begging for this to start.

Glasses sweat and empty out
fears and hopes and loves and doubt,
No equal level and no familiar gauge
to finally feeling one's age.
Glowing blue and yellow days
now batting, Willie Mays,
Your father's face evolves
to fit all of us involved.

Still some smoke holds on
to the horizon at dawn,
And visitors leave flowers crossed
where the innocence was lost.
We count the paper for it's worth
and pray it stretches over earth,
fills our every need today
or makes us hate to run away.

someone

someone is waiting for me to come home. someone is waiting for me to leave.
someone is waiting for me to write another song. someone is waiting for me to never write again.
someone is waiting for me to calm down. someone is waiting for me to not stop.
someone is hoping this isn't the same as all the other times before. someone is thinking they know better.

me?

I'm just waiting for the train.

the secret life of woman

this has been rattling inside my head for a couple of days.


One, two, three. A midori sour. A bud light. A lemonade for the pregnant friend. Ten children between the three women sitting at my table, but those kids are somewhere else. It might be eleven, I can't tell when they think it's life or not. Husbands being stay at home dads, at least for the evening, at least by the look on the rings on their left hands. Another midori sour, sides of ranch for the table. They giggle and smile and swear like sailors. They talk shit about another lady, about an ex husband, about the government. Another midori sour, more bud light. Flirty comments about after work Saturday night plans. Elbow touches and subtle winks. No more drinks, more laughing. Cash on the table and cash in my hand. Back to the car seats and formal living rooms that see no living. Back to families. Back to the responsibility, the doctor visits, the tax man. Back to the medications, back to preschools, back to happiness, of a different kind. The secret life of these women is over for now, an hour or so of distraction left like a french fry in a bucket of ranch. We have more in common than we know.

the more things stop the more they must go on

That is Tim Barry, he is good.

It's 3:15ish on a saturday night. I am alone in my bed for the first time in probably about a week. The days seem to be bleeding together. That happens when you do the same sort of things everyday. I wake up about 11. I eat some lunch. Some music gets played, either live or on speakers. I go to work. I almost break down. I drink. I spend my nights with a lady. Everyday. That is what I do. No ties, but it might as well be a nine to five. No wife, but it might as well be a nine to five. Sometimes it feels like no life, but it is still better than a nine to five.

I am in life reimagination mode right now. I put in my notice at work. I shaved off my beard, which I've had pretty non-stop for about 4 years. I am putting mental price tags on all of my possessions, in case of a fire sale. I am assessing my personal value, in terms of how much my time is worth, and if I can turn my time into a place to live and food and time with friends. I am making decisions with little to no thought. I am wondering if this is it, or if there is someother path, or door, or window, for me to take.

Dan said the other night that women were prone to trying to fix their lives by running away, by moving to a new town, finding new friends, new thoughts, new loves, but not doing anything different.

My X-chromosome must be acting up.