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.

X is for Xeno...

I am not sure where I have gone. These last few days I make choices, turn down streets, pull my wallet out, or stare into a mirror and it is like watching a bad play. My movements are stiff, the dialogue is disjointed and unnatural, and there are new participants every scene. It is strange, awkward at least, painful at best.

That fall really took it out of me. It was forced detox, cold turkey. That routine is gone now. That habit doesn't fit into my daily routine.

But it was always anything but routine.

A goodnight kiss between beers at a bar down the street.
A couch cuddle session on a thirty minute break.
A sunrise through a window when least expected.
A declaration of desire in a tent in a yard.
A long walk with no map or sidewalks.
A poem.
A look.
A word.

No routine.

The silence that has taken the place of that is overwhelming. All my thoughts are as sharp as a pin dropping into my skin. My breaths are hard and deliberate, no longer my body remembering to stay alive. My words are strewn everywhere, left to rot, be crushed, be lost, and be forgotten on front yards, in alleys, on stall walls and on the ceiling of my bedroom.

A stranger walks the hall, drives my car, makes my money, and writes this.

These words don't look right either.

24/26

heartburn

It was 11:35 one night, and I was standing in the middle of some street. It was a slow residential type of road. The moon was out, I could see whatever part of it it felt like showing me between a street light and the branches of a tree. I was smoking a cigarette. I'm pretty sure I was falling in love.

It is always one or the other: fall in love or fall out. I keep it going, the cycle, to be consistent, to keep someone happy, to make sure the bets keep paying out.

I talk all of the time. When I'm not talking I am thinking. When it isn't that it is this, or some song, or some poem or story. I always have something to say. Always.

At 11:35 that night I had nothing.

(I am exhausted right now. I'm taking 36 second cat naps. My eyes are burning from the combination of old cigarette smoke, no sleep and thinking about this. It must come out)

I was destroyed at that moment. There were valleys of thought, mountains of feelings, rivers of, well, rivers of everything. It was a strange feeling.

Because I couldn't tell anyone about it. I didn't know how. Fuck. I don't know how to tell anyone about it now.

I know this:

Worse case scenario: this is the last time I ever feel like this again.

Best case scenario: it isn't.

I miss my inside joke about sandwiches that only I got. I miss the routines of car trips and parking permits. I miss my secret life and my not so secret life.

And I miss that night on the street. At least the way the air felt on my skin. And you being so close and so far away.

memorial day celebration via youtube

The amount of effort I put into this is seriously lacking. Tomorrow, it will be much better, I promise. Enjoy your day bbqing, I'll be rocking out in Pomona!

That last one is my two friends Roach and Bert and me smashed on Christian Brothers in the front of my house.

About Last Night...

Dear smile I see almost every morning I wake up,

I was laying in your bed last night, on top of your blankets and sheets. You were sitting next to me and we were sharing a burrito. I picked up your phone to take a picture, that technology has yet to make its way into my pocket. The picture I took of us was blurry, poorly lit, and the composition seemed off. I thought it was just the camera, so I asked to look at your other pictures. And it wasn't the camera, it was me.

There was the Statue of Liberty, and Times Square. There was me in the kitchen. There was that picture you sent me when I sat alone in that bar one night. And that was all that was familiar. There were a couple of a guy I have never seen before or met. But I think I know his name, and who he is, but I didn't want to ask, and you didn't offer any information, not like you did with the other pictures.

Now I know, personally, what you were talking about when we saw their pictures of San Francisco and the pictures of their visit to the mid-west accidentally showed up. When all you can think about is spending time with someone, missing them, wanted them to be around, and you see them enjoying their life without you, well, that is a feeling I don't care to revisit.

But you can't go back, you can't take away those smiles, those laughs, those tears or those kisses. And there is no reason to get rid of those mementos. If you do, you might forget why you don't visit those place anymore, it happened to me.

Then there were pictures of your friends. And of car rides. And babies. And pets. And you and your ex, the one I know. And that was a year ago. Or more. And you looked so happy.

I was hurt. Not for all of these pictures, but for the ones that weren't there. Of us. I thought that you didn't want pictures of us together in your phone, mingling with your past lives. And I thought that you might not take as many pictures as you used to. But I didn't say anything.

We shared a couch later, and some drinks. I remembered the flowers from mere hours before. Your surprise, and your smile.

And I wasn't hurt anymore. Who cares what pictures of who are where? Who cares if your interest in cellular photography has passed you by? At the end of the day, we share a bed, and in the morning, you wake up in my arms, smiling. And all of those hours between mean just as much, if not more. So I'm sorry for the brief cold sentences yesterday. Patterns are easy to repeat, ruts are hard to get out of, but I'm trying.

I hope you find this.

Sincerely,
Me.