Me vs Robert Smith vs Camus

I am covered in sand. The sun is bearing down on my flesh, slowly aging me. It is the only thing that can do it. My mind stays young and sharp. My heart is probably reverse aging. But the sun takes my days away from me; takes other things away too. I push my feet as hard as I could against the ground to make a spot more permanent then the ones I typically occupy. The good book says something about people who build houses on the sand. I am a professional beach carpenter. Clouds sneak past above me. I hear jets but see no evidence. I stare at the sun. If I burn a hole in my retina then when I look to my left she won't be there. It is preparation for the next day, for the rest of my life, so I don't notice her walking away.

Everything is noise. The buildings collapse as I walk unfamiliar streets. No one knows me here, no one hears my voice, reads my words, or breaks bread with me.

Trees fall into the sea. People form committees to prevent this tragedy again. A parade route is planned. Someone hires a poet to commemorate the day. They dedicate a rock to where the tree used to be and put up a fence so no one gets too close to the rock. Or the edge.

I sit next to the stone. Next to the edge. I fall into the sea. No one notices, no one stops their parade, no one give a second thought.

But the sky grows dark. Storms rage in the distance. The waves crash backwards. The ocean wants to roll back time. It doesn't want another body, it was filled to the brim. It builds a life boat of the lives it destroyed to keep me afloat. It curses the sun, it curses my heart, and it curses the sand.

Spit back out onto land, dry, but cold and hardened, no one noticed I left.

Or that I am never going back.

Shooting myself in the foot with someone else's gun

I roll around in my queen sized bed alone. I just finished a book of poems given to me when I moved to Chicago. That was almost three years ago. I read the first half of the book sitting in a white lawn chair. It was a consecutive Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday two years ago. The valley, the new valley, was trying to melt me. I had no money; we had no money. I sat in that chair and watched the love of my life swim laps in the pool at the center of our little apartment complex. I was looking for work, she was looking for work, and swimming and reading kept us occupied until we filled out another application, took another wrong turn, got turned away. I almost worked as a dry cleaner. We screamed at each other. When we weren't fighting we smoked cigarettes and drank malt liquor. The cat ran around the apartment and people dove into their pool in China. Discontinued "chicken" patties were lunch and dinner. People called to check on me. My phone got turned off and we borrowed money. She swam and swam and swam. Some days I swam too. Others I just read. A series of events happened: fires, weddings, dances, fights, vacations, accidents and illnesses. Now there is this new room, with this new bed. It is too big. It could fit three lonely people in it comfortably. It chews people up and spits them out. If I didn't own it it would do the same to me. So I finish reading the poems, alone, in my way too fucking big bed. I might be losing more loves of my life. It feels like I am. People sit on the couch facing my bed and their eyes tell me things the rest of their bodies wont. I paint for them. I write for them. I get out of bed for them. They change. They go to work. They go to school. They move. They go to weddings. They go to funerals. And I have my own in this goddamn huge bed. I wonder how they spend their time when they aren't here. I wonder if they know my mind finds them in new cities and states, truly happy for the first time. I will be a stepping stone to greater things. Some of them will read this, most of them won't. There is no closure. There is no options. There is no choose your own adventure. There is nothing but this bed and some songs and jewelry and lessons and shit that gets left behind.

V is for Variables...

If we could go back, maybe to April, or, fuck it, March, and line up a group of friends, and past lovers, and acquaintances, and ask them, what would they say?

- Well, there's the age...
- You don't exactly know what you are doing...
- She seems nice, but...
- You know how it's going to end...
- How many times will this mistake be made...
- If you had your choice, is this how you would spend it...
or my personal favorite, revealed to me about 6 hours ago
- You pretend to be a bohemian artist type, who doesn't care, but you really just want to love these girls, and you smother them. It is a blessing and a curse.

Well, fuck.

It feels like I cant fall in love anymore. Or that none of my feelings are honest. My heart is beating, but maybe my mouth is full of lies? Maybe my heart isn't even beating. It's too strong, it cares too much, it is probably shit.

Let us talk about these variables. They have been attacking my mind lately.

There is distance: out of sight, out of mind.
There is situation: exes, dorms, family bedrooms, disease, or mental illness.
There is emotion: I am here, and I am something, but not enough.
There is everything else: What do you want here? Hair color? Music preference? Area Code?

Fuck it.

I could have been in love, forever, FOREVER!, sixteen times before. And maybe they never counted.

I don't fucking know what I am doing. I have no idea. But I know this, from the bottom of my shitty, failing, heart:

Two weeks ago, ten days ago, six days ago, two days ago, this thing, inside of my chest, was on the verge of pounding out of my body. I felt it in my fingers when I passed out coffee. It shook my steps around the cities I spent time in. It rattled up my spine, to my brain, where I couldn't form words, or thoughts, or emotions, that didn't involve you. The intensity was rare. The feeling was similar. I've been in love. I've wanted to die for things. I have been comfortable on quitting things for other things. But these days it bruised my chest from the inside out.

And now...

I'm a pawn in a scheme. I'm an alternate. I'm something you'd trade in a barter only society, for carpet cleaning or an orgasm or two. I am a monkey, and, yes, I am dancing, but I also have my cymbals, and they are crashing, and I am smiling, and someone, or everyone is taking advantage.

Change one of these variables, or eliminate them, and this entry is V is for Valuable.. or V is for Vanessa...

But with them, as they stand, I am trying to figure out a way to be and not look like an asshole, or at least a fool.

22/26

The few times I bother telling time

I know when it is late. I can feel it in my heart.
I know when it is early. I can feel it behind my eyes.

I don't really need a clock. It helps me get to work on time. And it helps me do other things that are dependent on that.

But the only time I look at the time these days are when I'm waiting to hear from you.

I know you are asleep.
Or you are at a party.
Or work is running late.
Or your car broke down.
Or it is your brother's birthday.
Or you are seeing your ex.
Or you are making a three point turn in a grocery parking lot.
Or you are on your way to see your new home.
Or you are the third car in a funeral procession.
Or you are sitting outside.
Or you are flying over more states then I have stepped foot in.
Or you are taking baby steps to destroy my heart.
Or you are reading this and might be sad that this is what always runs through my mind.
Or you are laying next to me, and that fucking sun is rising too quick.

I still check the time.

Just for you.

girls shoes

Yesterday I bought 5 dollar lady shoes to wear to work.

They aren't very comfortable.

And they dyed my socks black.

My kitten likes the way they smell.

I am alive. I still work too much. I'm moving again soon!

goodbye...

This is Big Dog. I met him 7 years ago. He was my step-dad's dog, but he soon became mine. I wasn't a dog person growing up. We had cats. Big Dog helped me to see how awesome dogs can be. I have great memories from living with him in both Lancaster and Sacramento. Big Dog passed away yesterday. They think he ate some wild mushrooms (which happen to be poisonous) that had popped up around Oregon. I will miss you Big Dog. I already do.