I was staying out longer. Wandering. No more midnight. No more two. Now four, five, daybreak. Nightly.
Close out the bars. Wander. Sit on the ledge of a parking garage and drink and write and watch the serenity below.
At some point I had stopped seeing people as living. Now all just shadows and cardboard and obstacles. I think I can pinpoint where it started, but more likely than not it was a slow progression. I know I've always been alien. Always distant. I know I've always had trouble living among them but it was so easy to lie. So easy to mimic. To be one of them, at least superficially. And mostly I think it worked.
And then, when dark, when people disappear, me. Staring at the street from four stories up. Alone and at peace, mostly.
Mostly.
Drink.
Fall now. Mid-October. Wool cap. Long coat. Hands in my sleeves and I don't mind the beer warming in my backpack.
Someone told me once that in fall I fall in love.
Fuckin' cheers to that, I think and pull from the beer.
I lose my balance and fall backward onto the concrete and it hurts and I lie there. I stay concious. Nothing feels broken. My beer remains upright in a well trained hand and I stare at what few stars I can see through the residual light of the town.
Out there it's plain to see.
Out there it's absurd to think.
Tired, but I refuse to go home and sleep. I could sleep here, I think. No. Keep going. To madness. Keep going.
TO MADNESS.
Soak my brain. Wring it out. Destroy it. Destroy. There is no beauty at the top. The gods see domain. The mortals see beauty. Send me to the fucking bottom. Show me beauty. Show me light. Show me something astonishing. Make me feel. Make me feel. Make me feel. Make me feel.
I sit up and drink. Turn myself around and set my well bruised and scabbed back against the wall of the parking garage and laugh for a moment to myself.
Who fucking lives like this?
Me, I guess.
Not for long, I imagine.
Fucking good.
TO MADNESS.
There is nothing else for me there so I stand and begin the walk through the garage. The angled floor that after left after left after left eventually spits you out into a parking lot where years ago I parked and I can see my old office from here. That other life. That other me.
Hey! I think at the window on the top, at the corner where I stared from each day, Hey! Here's your goddamned future!
I throw my can at it but it disappears somewhere in the bushes.
A thousand thoughts and words spinning in my booze and illness addled brain.
"It makes my heart hurt," you say.
I know.
Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do?
I walk toward home, though I probably won't end up there and I pull another beer from my backpack and open it and drink as I stomp through town.
"It makes my heart hurt."
What are you saying? What does that mean?
Speak.
I am no one.
I am nothing.
Of course you don't speak.
I want to write you a love letter, you deserve one, but I'm scared of what I might say.
Hi, I want to be closer to you. I want to be more to you. Hi. I want to try. Hi. I'm a hand in rubble. I'm a whimper among screams. My heart beats for you and I am incapable of expressing it accurately but I hope you live well.
I fall in someones yard a few blocks from my house and I lay there. I stay there.
To madness.
Friday, October 20, 2017
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
In Connecticut
On a Sunday I woke up when my mother called. Phone vibrating against the lamp on the nightstand and through my skull. A gut of Taco Bell and three bottles of wine, two hours of sleep and I answered my phone.
“James,” my mother said.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Listen... my mom's not doing well.”
“I know, Ma. You all right?” Still asleep.
“Yes, but, she just had surgery and they aren't sure if she'll survive another one.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah. So, they are saying it could be any time, now. I wanted to give you a heads up in case you wanted to throw together an overnight bag. It could, you know, be anytime.”
“Weeks? Days?”
“They don't know. She could surprise us and have a couple years still. They don't know.”
“Okay, Ma.”
“I'm going to let you go. I'm trying to...”
“I know. I love you.”
“I love you. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Crawled out of bed. Onto the floor.
“Everything all right?” Elle asked from the bed.
“I don't know.” Slid into the bathroom, pissed and drank from the tap. The circles under my eyes were darkening and I thought they looked red also, but it had been a rough couple of months and I wasn't surprised.
“What'd your mom say?” she asked.
“My grandmother's not doing well. She wanted me to be prepared.”
“Oh shit, I'm sorry.”
“Thanks. It's okay. I might have to disappear to Connecticut at some point. Don't know when.”
“Of course.”
The slime of morning fell away over the next couple of hours. I made eggs and toast and listened to a few records and when it was near eleven Elle decided she would be visiting her parents so I poured a glass of wine and a few more and we watched a show I was forcing on her.
Hours passed and my living room grew dark and the wine was almost gone. We mumbled back and forth to each other about how bored we were and suggested all of the things we could but wouldn't do. Paint. Play music. Write. We decided we'd drive to the store. Get more wine. Maybe the things we'd need for baking something or other.
My phone vibrated itself off the table and I thought I should really turn that setting down.
“Hi ma,” I said.
“They think it may be tonight.” Her voice was stone.
"Shit. Christ.”
“I am driving down now,” she said. If you want to ride down with us, or drive on your own, or you can stay. I know you work, so...”
“Ma, just give me a few minutes to make plans. I'll call you back.”
“Okay, but I am leaving soon so don't take long.”
“I got it ma. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Elle looked at me from the couch.
Eyes big.
“I have to go to Connecticut.”
“I know. Do you want me to come?”
“You can if you want, but I don't know when I'll be back. You won't make it to work.”
“Okay.”
“I have to call my job.”
I went to the kitchen and left a voicemail on my boss' phone and finished my wine and thought about being a kid and running through my grandmothers condo with my cousins and that horrible couch in the basement and the portraits of clowns and the framed pencil drawings of my mother and aunts as young girls. The organ and grandfather clock. Ceramic cats and pecan pie. She would swear in french rarely but enough that I'd remember and I stood over the sink in my kitchen, now a couple decades later, and I put my glass in the sink and pulled my face together before I looked back at Elle.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I have to get ready.”
Called my mother back and threw a toothbrush, pajamas, and socks in a bag and waited.
Elle stayed for a while and I finished what wine was left and we listened to another record and then my mother showed up on my porch.
I went to Connecticut.
My grandmother, my grandmother.
There is nothing I can write here to articulate my love for her.
I stand in the corner of the hospital room.
She is lying in the bed and I am numb. Something inside of me has distanced myself. No, detached. I am not here. She is not her. Her face is distorted and... she is. Not. Her. I refuse it.
Aunts are there. Cousins. I love them all, but I am not there. For hours I sit in the corner and I watch. I write. I drink water and don't understand why hospitals don't have bars and my cousins cry and my aunts cry and an uncle shows up and he cries and I wish I could but I am just not there. That is not my grandmother.
After a long time, a day, she goes, though I have no memory of it.
Only watching my mother crouched over her bed, clutching her hand and whispering in her ear, holding back.
In silence mostly, my mother and I drive home, and I am finishing this story a year and a half later (although quickly) because... I am able to accept it now.
You were loved.
I hope you knew that.
You were good and you were loved.
“James,” my mother said.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Listen... my mom's not doing well.”
“I know, Ma. You all right?” Still asleep.
“Yes, but, she just had surgery and they aren't sure if she'll survive another one.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah. So, they are saying it could be any time, now. I wanted to give you a heads up in case you wanted to throw together an overnight bag. It could, you know, be anytime.”
“Weeks? Days?”
“They don't know. She could surprise us and have a couple years still. They don't know.”
“Okay, Ma.”
“I'm going to let you go. I'm trying to...”
“I know. I love you.”
“I love you. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Crawled out of bed. Onto the floor.
“Everything all right?” Elle asked from the bed.
“I don't know.” Slid into the bathroom, pissed and drank from the tap. The circles under my eyes were darkening and I thought they looked red also, but it had been a rough couple of months and I wasn't surprised.
“What'd your mom say?” she asked.
“My grandmother's not doing well. She wanted me to be prepared.”
“Oh shit, I'm sorry.”
“Thanks. It's okay. I might have to disappear to Connecticut at some point. Don't know when.”
“Of course.”
The slime of morning fell away over the next couple of hours. I made eggs and toast and listened to a few records and when it was near eleven Elle decided she would be visiting her parents so I poured a glass of wine and a few more and we watched a show I was forcing on her.
Hours passed and my living room grew dark and the wine was almost gone. We mumbled back and forth to each other about how bored we were and suggested all of the things we could but wouldn't do. Paint. Play music. Write. We decided we'd drive to the store. Get more wine. Maybe the things we'd need for baking something or other.
My phone vibrated itself off the table and I thought I should really turn that setting down.
“Hi ma,” I said.
“They think it may be tonight.” Her voice was stone.
"Shit. Christ.”
“I am driving down now,” she said. If you want to ride down with us, or drive on your own, or you can stay. I know you work, so...”
“Ma, just give me a few minutes to make plans. I'll call you back.”
“Okay, but I am leaving soon so don't take long.”
“I got it ma. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Elle looked at me from the couch.
Eyes big.
“I have to go to Connecticut.”
“I know. Do you want me to come?”
“You can if you want, but I don't know when I'll be back. You won't make it to work.”
“Okay.”
“I have to call my job.”
I went to the kitchen and left a voicemail on my boss' phone and finished my wine and thought about being a kid and running through my grandmothers condo with my cousins and that horrible couch in the basement and the portraits of clowns and the framed pencil drawings of my mother and aunts as young girls. The organ and grandfather clock. Ceramic cats and pecan pie. She would swear in french rarely but enough that I'd remember and I stood over the sink in my kitchen, now a couple decades later, and I put my glass in the sink and pulled my face together before I looked back at Elle.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I have to get ready.”
Called my mother back and threw a toothbrush, pajamas, and socks in a bag and waited.
Elle stayed for a while and I finished what wine was left and we listened to another record and then my mother showed up on my porch.
I went to Connecticut.
My grandmother, my grandmother.
There is nothing I can write here to articulate my love for her.
I stand in the corner of the hospital room.
She is lying in the bed and I am numb. Something inside of me has distanced myself. No, detached. I am not here. She is not her. Her face is distorted and... she is. Not. Her. I refuse it.
Aunts are there. Cousins. I love them all, but I am not there. For hours I sit in the corner and I watch. I write. I drink water and don't understand why hospitals don't have bars and my cousins cry and my aunts cry and an uncle shows up and he cries and I wish I could but I am just not there. That is not my grandmother.
After a long time, a day, she goes, though I have no memory of it.
Only watching my mother crouched over her bed, clutching her hand and whispering in her ear, holding back.
In silence mostly, my mother and I drive home, and I am finishing this story a year and a half later (although quickly) because... I am able to accept it now.
You were loved.
I hope you knew that.
You were good and you were loved.
Saturday, October 14, 2017
Counting Streetlamps
It's three in the morning and my feet are on the dash of the passenger side. Through the parking lot the headlights bore and glow and fade. My hand on my forehead and I try to remember all of the things I said to you today and what they might mean and what they might mean later. I think I have relied too much on subtletey and I think I underestimate you and I think I'm an over-indulgent piece of shit and I think I'm over-thinking.
The car backs out and the headlights glide over the cars near and into the dark and into the end of the night. It moves and I move with it. I'm drunk. Focused only on the memory of watching you walk away. Watching you leave.
I wonder;
How many have thought of you like I do?
The rhythm of your name?
The syllables and how they dance and sway?
The relief of my fingers on your skin and your breath on my neck.
Thought "her"?
Been me?
My feet on the dashboard and out of the parking lot. The hood of my sweatshirt tight around my head. The sunglasses ridiculous on my face. The beer in my hand. The absence and you can't understand. Maybe it's the absence of me. Maybe it's less than I believe. Maybe.
I don't think that's true
and I don't think you do either.
I drink the beer and as the streetlamps pass I count them and I want to stop for food but I don't speak up because when I take off my shirt I want you to think more of me than I am.
Though it would be nice to be distracted for a minute.
Count the streetlamps. The syllables.
My feet on the dashboard and why haven't I quit yet? I'm not sure I have an answer anymore.
It would be nice.
The car backs out and the headlights glide over the cars near and into the dark and into the end of the night. It moves and I move with it. I'm drunk. Focused only on the memory of watching you walk away. Watching you leave.
I wonder;
How many have thought of you like I do?
The rhythm of your name?
The syllables and how they dance and sway?
The relief of my fingers on your skin and your breath on my neck.
Thought "her"?
Been me?
My feet on the dashboard and out of the parking lot. The hood of my sweatshirt tight around my head. The sunglasses ridiculous on my face. The beer in my hand. The absence and you can't understand. Maybe it's the absence of me. Maybe it's less than I believe. Maybe.
I don't think that's true
and I don't think you do either.
I drink the beer and as the streetlamps pass I count them and I want to stop for food but I don't speak up because when I take off my shirt I want you to think more of me than I am.
Though it would be nice to be distracted for a minute.
Count the streetlamps. The syllables.
My feet on the dashboard and why haven't I quit yet? I'm not sure I have an answer anymore.
It would be nice.
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
A Heavily Edited Narrative While I Avoid
Oh. Well, that was a bad idea.
Another stretch of sleeplessness. I do it to myself. Force myself to keep going. To have more. Take more. Do more. More. More.
That sort of indulgence... Guided destruction. Goddamn. I see what I'm doing.
I'm writing to that fucking song and not reading anything into it.
I'm in a bar I frequent. The bartender and I get along. We understand each other, I think. I came there early in the night and as I walked up I realized too late you were there. (Fuck you, then.) Ignore. Breeze by.
"Booze me," I say to the bartender, who is outside and not doing his goddamn job, charmingly.
"Hang out outside," he says.
"No."
I go in. Find a seat no one will ever see. My headphones are missing but I have a notebook and a pen and I think that that is good enough.
I sit. Write. The bartender comes in. Slaps me on the shoulder.
"What do you want? A drink?"
"Please," I say.
"Wine?"
"Sure."
He fills a large glass to the brim. He knows I've been trouble lately and we talk about it briefly. I'm not proud. I'm not ashamed. I feel the weight of sleeplessness. Of the self imposed isolation.
Fuck you, then.
Drink.
I have a fight coming later and I'm not sure if I should be concerned. Maybe. Maybe I should. I'll get into it and see how I feel then.
Elle and I...
Well, no.
Last night I got drunk. More drunk. More than normal. Drank a few bottles of wine. Came to this bar. Drank another. A few shots. Beer. An hour or so and the day (fuck you, then) disappeared. Got into trouble and eventually a girl that Elle and I saw briefly a few months back messaged me. Wanted to hang out again. I thought it odd but I was drunk and I tend to follow the wind when I am.
"Yeah, we'll swing over. Elle is at work. Message her."
FUCK YOU, THEN.
A minute or so later I left and walked to the girls house. It was cold and I was bored.
Arrive. Elle messaged me and told me she was hurt that I was there and I played it off. No. I ignored it because I have been losing my emotions. She doesn't believe me when I say that, but I think she might now because
She came but didn't want to stay.
She stayed but didn't want to fuck.
She fucked but didn't want to sleep.
She didn't. Stared at the ceiling. Sometimes at me.
I never helped. I watched her drain into this and that is the person I am.
Let's
Get
To
The
Bottom.
Fucked.
Slept less than an hour, if I did at all.
Now drinking since noon.
Here at this fucking bar. Don't want to go home. Ever.
Been thinking about going to Florida.
Might go to Florida.
Fuck you, then.
Fuck all of you.
Fuck me. I need a drink.
I need...
I need a reason to... anything.
Stay here. Drink more. Go home. Wander. Fight that fucking piece of shit. Ignore whoever he is. Ignore you. I need a reason.
I don't have one. I sit and drink.
An hour. I'm getting loud. A fire is lit. Asa is here. Fuck. I'm going to start a fight.
Good. I think I need to start a fight. You fuck.
You are avoiding coming in here. Just like I am avoiding going out there.
Fuck you, then.
Poor Elle, sincerely.
"What are you writing?" a guy near me asks.
"I don't fucking know. The narrative." I drink.
"The narrative?"
Drink more. Breathe. "You know," I say. "If someone was narrating your life. The threads. The themes. The important bits. Your life. How would that read?"
"Boring, probably," he says. "Boring and sad."
"Well, fucking... there you go."
Another stretch of sleeplessness. I do it to myself. Force myself to keep going. To have more. Take more. Do more. More. More.
That sort of indulgence... Guided destruction. Goddamn. I see what I'm doing.
I'm writing to that fucking song and not reading anything into it.
I'm in a bar I frequent. The bartender and I get along. We understand each other, I think. I came there early in the night and as I walked up I realized too late you were there. (Fuck you, then.) Ignore. Breeze by.
"Booze me," I say to the bartender, who is outside and not doing his goddamn job, charmingly.
"Hang out outside," he says.
"No."
I go in. Find a seat no one will ever see. My headphones are missing but I have a notebook and a pen and I think that that is good enough.
I sit. Write. The bartender comes in. Slaps me on the shoulder.
"What do you want? A drink?"
"Please," I say.
"Wine?"
"Sure."
He fills a large glass to the brim. He knows I've been trouble lately and we talk about it briefly. I'm not proud. I'm not ashamed. I feel the weight of sleeplessness. Of the self imposed isolation.
Fuck you, then.
Drink.
I have a fight coming later and I'm not sure if I should be concerned. Maybe. Maybe I should. I'll get into it and see how I feel then.
Elle and I...
Well, no.
Last night I got drunk. More drunk. More than normal. Drank a few bottles of wine. Came to this bar. Drank another. A few shots. Beer. An hour or so and the day (fuck you, then) disappeared. Got into trouble and eventually a girl that Elle and I saw briefly a few months back messaged me. Wanted to hang out again. I thought it odd but I was drunk and I tend to follow the wind when I am.
"Yeah, we'll swing over. Elle is at work. Message her."
FUCK YOU, THEN.
A minute or so later I left and walked to the girls house. It was cold and I was bored.
Arrive. Elle messaged me and told me she was hurt that I was there and I played it off. No. I ignored it because I have been losing my emotions. She doesn't believe me when I say that, but I think she might now because
She came but didn't want to stay.
She stayed but didn't want to fuck.
She fucked but didn't want to sleep.
She didn't. Stared at the ceiling. Sometimes at me.
I never helped. I watched her drain into this and that is the person I am.
Let's
Get
To
The
Bottom.
Fucked.
Slept less than an hour, if I did at all.
Now drinking since noon.
Here at this fucking bar. Don't want to go home. Ever.
Been thinking about going to Florida.
Might go to Florida.
Fuck you, then.
Fuck all of you.
Fuck me. I need a drink.
I need...
I need a reason to... anything.
Stay here. Drink more. Go home. Wander. Fight that fucking piece of shit. Ignore whoever he is. Ignore you. I need a reason.
I don't have one. I sit and drink.
An hour. I'm getting loud. A fire is lit. Asa is here. Fuck. I'm going to start a fight.
Good. I think I need to start a fight. You fuck.
You are avoiding coming in here. Just like I am avoiding going out there.
Fuck you, then.
Poor Elle, sincerely.
"What are you writing?" a guy near me asks.
"I don't fucking know. The narrative." I drink.
"The narrative?"
Drink more. Breathe. "You know," I say. "If someone was narrating your life. The threads. The themes. The important bits. Your life. How would that read?"
"Boring, probably," he says. "Boring and sad."
"Well, fucking... there you go."
Monday, October 2, 2017
Scribbling in a Bar with Headphones in on My Lunchbreak.
Okay.
Shooting stars and the dark.
Four stories and the walk.
The kiss, the touch, the look, the thought.
The night, the drink, the fear, the talk.
Okay.
If you say so.
Shooting stars and the dark.
Four stories and the walk.
The kiss, the touch, the look, the thought.
The night, the drink, the fear, the talk.
Okay.
If you say so.
Friday, September 29, 2017
In a Dream
In a dream, I was beautiful to you.
Your eyes, wide and alive. Never moving away. Into mine.
Your smile was the picket fence. The dream. The only desire. And it was for me.
To me.
Because of me.
In a dream.
In a dream, I was the only other thing in yours.
Glowing and endless and warm and safe.
And your hand on my skin, and the pull of you. Your breath on my chest then and the smell of your hair and serenity.
In a dream.
In a dream, nothing could end.
In a dream.
Your eyes, wide and alive. Never moving away. Into mine.
Your smile was the picket fence. The dream. The only desire. And it was for me.
To me.
Because of me.
In a dream.
In a dream, I was the only other thing in yours.
Glowing and endless and warm and safe.
And your hand on my skin, and the pull of you. Your breath on my chest then and the smell of your hair and serenity.
In a dream.
In a dream, nothing could end.
In a dream.
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
Four A.M. Roof Vignette
It's around four.
I think.
The dark will dissolve soon into pale blue, a serene warning of day. My feet dangle off the ledge, four stories up. My bag next to me, one beer left in it. My notebook is still missing but I'm writing on scraps of paper I stole from the bar earlier and they are scattered around me and I hope I remember to pick them up. I will forget and they will soon blow away, off of this roof and into the air, landing in trees and streets and nowhere. I see the metaphor, I don't care for it. I open the beer. Drink.
A world of dark forever and the soft, content hum of alcohol. Forever. Please.
Voices and I look. Two people hold hands on the road below me. Maybe drunk, but walking smooth enough. The girl pulls close to the man and rests her head on his shoulder and he kisses the top of her head and they are speaking, but too quiet for me to make it out. He puts his arm around her and I hope they feel that way tomorrow. I hope they feel that way forever. I would fall from here if I could guarantee them that. If I could guarantee them either one.
They fade into the dark and that cavern inside of me yawns and shifts and I drink.
I have unbuttoned my shirt and my hair is pinned back, wild and greasy, under my sunglasses. If I were to fall right then, it would be clear to anyone what had really happened. Four stories high, a mess of a person, scraps of paper.
Drink and my mind wanders and my heart remains still.
I slide back onto the roof, away from the ledge. It's time to leave. Wrong mood for a ledge now.
I pick up a few of the papers, and I thought there were more. I finish my beer and put the empty in my bag and find the hatch I crawled up here through. Lift. Get in. Climb backward down the ladder and hope my shoes don't slip and I go crashing down the ladder and then the stair case. It had happened a few weeks ago and for an instant then I blacked out and was dizzy for an hour but I was fine. The memory makes my anxiety flair and I shove it down. I make it to the stairs, and after a few flights, the door, and I slip out of the building into the fading dark. My head is swimming with envy and emptiness and a gallon of wine and beer and whiskey.
I begin the mile hike to my bed. I wish I had one more beer. I wish I had one more hour of dark. I...
Shut up.
I shut up.
I walk and let the emotion drain from me and now I am just another shadow on the street. My eyes slide over the road and yards and trees and streetlamps and I see none of it. Distantly I am aware that the pale blue has begun and I am nearly home.
I see nothing.
From some window, from some doorway, from some roof, I may be watched and I may be wished for, and I may be fallen for.
Fool.
I crash through the front door and throw my bag across the floor. Go to the fridge and open a beer. The blue has faded and daylight is here. I stand at my sink and stare out the window at the backyard, at the neighbors back yard, beyond. I drink the beer and another and someone recently asked me how I am still alive, and I have no fucking idea.
I go to the computer and I write this.
I think.
The dark will dissolve soon into pale blue, a serene warning of day. My feet dangle off the ledge, four stories up. My bag next to me, one beer left in it. My notebook is still missing but I'm writing on scraps of paper I stole from the bar earlier and they are scattered around me and I hope I remember to pick them up. I will forget and they will soon blow away, off of this roof and into the air, landing in trees and streets and nowhere. I see the metaphor, I don't care for it. I open the beer. Drink.
A world of dark forever and the soft, content hum of alcohol. Forever. Please.
Voices and I look. Two people hold hands on the road below me. Maybe drunk, but walking smooth enough. The girl pulls close to the man and rests her head on his shoulder and he kisses the top of her head and they are speaking, but too quiet for me to make it out. He puts his arm around her and I hope they feel that way tomorrow. I hope they feel that way forever. I would fall from here if I could guarantee them that. If I could guarantee them either one.
They fade into the dark and that cavern inside of me yawns and shifts and I drink.
I have unbuttoned my shirt and my hair is pinned back, wild and greasy, under my sunglasses. If I were to fall right then, it would be clear to anyone what had really happened. Four stories high, a mess of a person, scraps of paper.
Drink and my mind wanders and my heart remains still.
I slide back onto the roof, away from the ledge. It's time to leave. Wrong mood for a ledge now.
I pick up a few of the papers, and I thought there were more. I finish my beer and put the empty in my bag and find the hatch I crawled up here through. Lift. Get in. Climb backward down the ladder and hope my shoes don't slip and I go crashing down the ladder and then the stair case. It had happened a few weeks ago and for an instant then I blacked out and was dizzy for an hour but I was fine. The memory makes my anxiety flair and I shove it down. I make it to the stairs, and after a few flights, the door, and I slip out of the building into the fading dark. My head is swimming with envy and emptiness and a gallon of wine and beer and whiskey.
I begin the mile hike to my bed. I wish I had one more beer. I wish I had one more hour of dark. I...
Shut up.
I shut up.
I walk and let the emotion drain from me and now I am just another shadow on the street. My eyes slide over the road and yards and trees and streetlamps and I see none of it. Distantly I am aware that the pale blue has begun and I am nearly home.
I see nothing.
From some window, from some doorway, from some roof, I may be watched and I may be wished for, and I may be fallen for.
Fool.
I crash through the front door and throw my bag across the floor. Go to the fridge and open a beer. The blue has faded and daylight is here. I stand at my sink and stare out the window at the backyard, at the neighbors back yard, beyond. I drink the beer and another and someone recently asked me how I am still alive, and I have no fucking idea.
I go to the computer and I write this.
Friday, September 22, 2017
We Begin
I'm concious.
Waking.
Eyes still closed and then I realize I am making an effort to keep them closed and my head still spins from the night and my mouth is dry and my body aches and I remember I am angry. I feel you next to me. The weight of you, inches and miles from me and you are neither close or far enough and I'm still making the effort of darkness in both respects.
But, I'm not angry. I remember I am supposed to be and I remember why. I feel nothing now. Again. Back to normal.
I have to piss but I want to be unconcious.
Moments pass and I feel you wake. Your breathing changes. I imagine you didn't sleep well, but I did. You shuffle off the end of the bed and use the bathroom and you leave and I lay there, eyes closed, lying and lying.
I hear the door slide across the carpet. Open, closed. You left the room and I think that now I can take the costume off. I can piss and you won't see me. You won't know I am here and I get out of bed, dizzy and fine, and use the bathroom. The fucking en suite, which I hated having but was usually pretty goddamned thankful for (alcoholics need three things; alcohol, a place to sleep, and a close place to piss).
I want to know where you went. Apparently I'm still looking for trouble. I put pants on because I'm afraid of being seen for who I am. I know I'm shit, but you don't see the right shit. No one does, so I put pants on and maybe you'll take me seriously this time. Maybe you'll know what I mean. Maybe... maybe I'm just peacocking.
I slide open the door and I know wherever you are you hear it. Like the bell for class. Like the new ticket printer in the kitchen. Like the sound of Dad's car pulling in the driveway or the sound of the beer I'm going to open, echoing through the house screaming "HERE HE GOES".
The house is lit well and I don't know what time it is, or care, but it is probably around noon and you aren't in the first two rooms I look in and I think to myself that that is a ridiculous thought to have and I think I should burn the fucking house down and I think to myself I should sit in it as it does and I think to myself I would listen to Chopin in my headphones while my skin melts from me and my nerve endings die. I think to myself that I already am burning my house down. Slowly.
I go into the kitchen as you are leaving it and your face says you didn't hear me. You were unprepared. A sadness. A fear. An anger. This is what I have done to you. This is what I have done. I ignore the flash of emotion. I make eye contact and go to the sink. Pour a glass of water. You don't leave. You are standing behind me. I drink the water, looking out the window, at the leaves, the neighbors yard, the September day. Set the glass in the sink. Leave the kitchen. I don't even see you.
This is what I have done.
Mister too cool. Mister artist.
Child. Brat. Garbage.
I lie down and feel the temperature of the air against my skin. I feel the disorienting motion slide off of my brain and I sink into the bed and I only want sleep.
The door slides across the carpet and you turn the light on. The interrogation light.
We make eye contact and you are ready now. The fight.
I remember I am supposed to be angry, but I don't feel anything. Emotional whiskey dick.
You slide into bed and sit upright while I lay there.
I feel your eyes bore into me and I look at you.
"So...", you say.
We begin.
Waking.
Eyes still closed and then I realize I am making an effort to keep them closed and my head still spins from the night and my mouth is dry and my body aches and I remember I am angry. I feel you next to me. The weight of you, inches and miles from me and you are neither close or far enough and I'm still making the effort of darkness in both respects.
But, I'm not angry. I remember I am supposed to be and I remember why. I feel nothing now. Again. Back to normal.
I have to piss but I want to be unconcious.
Moments pass and I feel you wake. Your breathing changes. I imagine you didn't sleep well, but I did. You shuffle off the end of the bed and use the bathroom and you leave and I lay there, eyes closed, lying and lying.
I hear the door slide across the carpet. Open, closed. You left the room and I think that now I can take the costume off. I can piss and you won't see me. You won't know I am here and I get out of bed, dizzy and fine, and use the bathroom. The fucking en suite, which I hated having but was usually pretty goddamned thankful for (alcoholics need three things; alcohol, a place to sleep, and a close place to piss).
I want to know where you went. Apparently I'm still looking for trouble. I put pants on because I'm afraid of being seen for who I am. I know I'm shit, but you don't see the right shit. No one does, so I put pants on and maybe you'll take me seriously this time. Maybe you'll know what I mean. Maybe... maybe I'm just peacocking.
I slide open the door and I know wherever you are you hear it. Like the bell for class. Like the new ticket printer in the kitchen. Like the sound of Dad's car pulling in the driveway or the sound of the beer I'm going to open, echoing through the house screaming "HERE HE GOES".
The house is lit well and I don't know what time it is, or care, but it is probably around noon and you aren't in the first two rooms I look in and I think to myself that that is a ridiculous thought to have and I think I should burn the fucking house down and I think to myself I should sit in it as it does and I think to myself I would listen to Chopin in my headphones while my skin melts from me and my nerve endings die. I think to myself that I already am burning my house down. Slowly.
I go into the kitchen as you are leaving it and your face says you didn't hear me. You were unprepared. A sadness. A fear. An anger. This is what I have done to you. This is what I have done. I ignore the flash of emotion. I make eye contact and go to the sink. Pour a glass of water. You don't leave. You are standing behind me. I drink the water, looking out the window, at the leaves, the neighbors yard, the September day. Set the glass in the sink. Leave the kitchen. I don't even see you.
This is what I have done.
Mister too cool. Mister artist.
Child. Brat. Garbage.
I lie down and feel the temperature of the air against my skin. I feel the disorienting motion slide off of my brain and I sink into the bed and I only want sleep.
The door slides across the carpet and you turn the light on. The interrogation light.
We make eye contact and you are ready now. The fight.
I remember I am supposed to be angry, but I don't feel anything. Emotional whiskey dick.
You slide into bed and sit upright while I lay there.
I feel your eyes bore into me and I look at you.
"So...", you say.
We begin.
Monday, April 10, 2017
Well, it was April
So, it was Spring again. Well, it was April.
So, I was unemployed again.
It was a day in the week, though I have no idea which. It was around midnight and I was walking to the gas station. People had been over and before each came I told them "bring booze" but it wasn't enough, not nearly. I knew these people, but they didn't know me.
The air was warm and I wondered if I had over dressed for the night but I was comfortable and I knew the flannel and sweatshirt were exactly what I needed. I had a dream the night before where I had drowned in a pool at a party and a girl I didn't know in waking had loved me there and screamed for me and no one reached for me and I died with contempt for them, all, but then I woke and kissed Elle.
I had only money that had been given to me but I had spent some on bills and most on alcohol and I spent five of the last seven on more and I walked home and as I walked I thought of worlds I hadn't seen, lives and words, hands and minds, and I imagined myself kneeling, fucking, bleeding, breathing in the road. I walked home. I opened one of the beers I had bought and focused on a sentence I had heard. I drank half of the beer and walked and I drank the other half and threw it in the bushes where once I had a moment of insanity with a lesbian who hated me and loved acid and I opened another beer and drank a good fucking amount of it and walked on.
I hated this town.
I hated who I d grown to be inside of it.
I hated that I was fine with it.
I thought "but... you're making something of it. Slowly. Art. Music."
The Waste's Manifesto.
I kicked the idea aside, drank more.
I knew love.
I knew of love.
I considered walking into town. Finding something. Anything.
I knew the doors to bang on. I knew the words to throw around. I knew the morning coming.
The idea of aging had been stuck behind my eyes the last few weeks. Burning. Was I? Of course. Was aging growing? I didn't know. I wasn't growing. That's for goddamned sure. Was growing necessary? I thought so, but, I never thought of growth as a path, more a system of roots or branches. Many paths. Many trails. Many lives. All end.
I heard the sentence again. Finished the second beer and threw the can into someone's yard. Opened a third. I was almost home, but that was okay. I could drink there. Write there. Wallow there.
(I wrote a different paragraph here. I deleted it here. I don't want you to know about it.)
I came to my porch and the light was on and I had the third half empty beer of my walk in my hand and Elle slept in the structure and the air was okay and the night was night and I stood motionless.
There was no indication of what to do or how to live and I had no interest in how anyone else had done it. I dealt in fantasy and I dreamed. I was doomed. Fucked. Lost.
I finished the beer. Threw it in my neighbors lawn and heard the sentence again.
Elle slept. I drank.
So, I was unemployed again.
It was a day in the week, though I have no idea which. It was around midnight and I was walking to the gas station. People had been over and before each came I told them "bring booze" but it wasn't enough, not nearly. I knew these people, but they didn't know me.
The air was warm and I wondered if I had over dressed for the night but I was comfortable and I knew the flannel and sweatshirt were exactly what I needed. I had a dream the night before where I had drowned in a pool at a party and a girl I didn't know in waking had loved me there and screamed for me and no one reached for me and I died with contempt for them, all, but then I woke and kissed Elle.
I had only money that had been given to me but I had spent some on bills and most on alcohol and I spent five of the last seven on more and I walked home and as I walked I thought of worlds I hadn't seen, lives and words, hands and minds, and I imagined myself kneeling, fucking, bleeding, breathing in the road. I walked home. I opened one of the beers I had bought and focused on a sentence I had heard. I drank half of the beer and walked and I drank the other half and threw it in the bushes where once I had a moment of insanity with a lesbian who hated me and loved acid and I opened another beer and drank a good fucking amount of it and walked on.
I hated this town.
I hated who I d grown to be inside of it.
I hated that I was fine with it.
I thought "but... you're making something of it. Slowly. Art. Music."
The Waste's Manifesto.
I kicked the idea aside, drank more.
I knew love.
I knew of love.
I considered walking into town. Finding something. Anything.
I knew the doors to bang on. I knew the words to throw around. I knew the morning coming.
The idea of aging had been stuck behind my eyes the last few weeks. Burning. Was I? Of course. Was aging growing? I didn't know. I wasn't growing. That's for goddamned sure. Was growing necessary? I thought so, but, I never thought of growth as a path, more a system of roots or branches. Many paths. Many trails. Many lives. All end.
I heard the sentence again. Finished the second beer and threw the can into someone's yard. Opened a third. I was almost home, but that was okay. I could drink there. Write there. Wallow there.
(I wrote a different paragraph here. I deleted it here. I don't want you to know about it.)
I came to my porch and the light was on and I had the third half empty beer of my walk in my hand and Elle slept in the structure and the air was okay and the night was night and I stood motionless.
There was no indication of what to do or how to live and I had no interest in how anyone else had done it. I dealt in fantasy and I dreamed. I was doomed. Fucked. Lost.
I finished the beer. Threw it in my neighbors lawn and heard the sentence again.
Elle slept. I drank.
Thursday, March 2, 2017
O, Lucky Elle
My memory has been failing. Faces and names.
Days,
months.
Fleeting. Fleeing.
Yesterday I heard a man's voice. It's been a woman for a year and I don't recognize him either.
Half a week ago I answered you in a completely different conversation. It scared me.
It's probably the alcohol. I'm probably fine, if I sober up. Fine.
It's sometime around three in the morning. The wind is smashing against me, and my coat and hair flap wildly behind me. I'm muttering to myself loudly. No, I'm screaming. Walking home, stomping home. I laugh. I am near tears and angry. I'm having three sides of a conversation all out loud and I am sure someone in bed, someone warm under their blanket is pulled from the dream and angry also, at the window and I scream and stumble away.
O, lucky Elle.
You don't have it so bad.
No shit.
So what's the fucking problem?
Who knows?
Who cares.
I round the corner of my street and I make the effort to shut my fucking mouth. I'm no man. No adult. No boyfriend, father, artist, employee, son, person. I'm no human.
I'm no human.
I'm below you.
I can feel the anger and sadness inside of me, trench warfare, gutting me, carving away at me.
Half a week ago I answered you in a completely different conversation and I heard a man's voice yesterday. It's been a woman for a year and I don't recognize either of them. They're ganging up on me.
Who knows, who cares. Fuck it. I'm home. Crash through the door. Asleep, hopefully, but I never really know.
O, lucky Elle.
Days,
months.
Fleeting. Fleeing.
Yesterday I heard a man's voice. It's been a woman for a year and I don't recognize him either.
Half a week ago I answered you in a completely different conversation. It scared me.
It's probably the alcohol. I'm probably fine, if I sober up. Fine.
It's sometime around three in the morning. The wind is smashing against me, and my coat and hair flap wildly behind me. I'm muttering to myself loudly. No, I'm screaming. Walking home, stomping home. I laugh. I am near tears and angry. I'm having three sides of a conversation all out loud and I am sure someone in bed, someone warm under their blanket is pulled from the dream and angry also, at the window and I scream and stumble away.
O, lucky Elle.
You don't have it so bad.
No shit.
So what's the fucking problem?
Who knows?
Who cares.
I round the corner of my street and I make the effort to shut my fucking mouth. I'm no man. No adult. No boyfriend, father, artist, employee, son, person. I'm no human.
I'm no human.
I'm below you.
I can feel the anger and sadness inside of me, trench warfare, gutting me, carving away at me.
Half a week ago I answered you in a completely different conversation and I heard a man's voice yesterday. It's been a woman for a year and I don't recognize either of them. They're ganging up on me.
Who knows, who cares. Fuck it. I'm home. Crash through the door. Asleep, hopefully, but I never really know.
O, lucky Elle.
Monday, February 6, 2017
Second Hand
The goddamned clock. I'm always waiting for something. Counting down to something. I have ten minutes until some fucking misery. Two hours until I can sleep. Two days until I have to work again. One day, twenty three hours. One day twenty two hours, one day twenty one hours fifty nine minutes, and on.
I wrote a line in a song once about it. That inescapable pull of the second hand. I often wonder if anyone hears that line as I sing it. If anyone feels it.
I was sitting at my computer, typing, drinking, staring at the clock in the corner.
I'm still there, panicking.
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Keep Walking
Spring was somewhere around the corner, maybe a few blocks up. I could almost smell the warmth, sun, life, relief.
Almost.
My coat was tied around my neck as a cloak and my spine was tense as I walked. I clenched my jaw as I had been doing for the last couple of weeks. When I noticed my spine or my jaw gnashing into themselves I tried to let go of whatever thought or emotion was burrowing itself into me, but it wasn't always possible. My back usually ached and my mouth bled. I walked on.
Watch for ice.
I had been hearing a woman's voice calling my name for the last year or so. Usually when I was stressed or sad, but not always. I didn't recognize the voice but it was always the same. Gentle. Pretty. It worried me sometimes, but it wasn't a priority.
Bottle of wine in my pocket. 1.5 liters. None of that 750 ml shit. It fit perfectly in my pocket and if I kept my arm down on main roads wasn't totally obvious. I walked side roads. Pulled from the bottle, stuffed it back into my coat and tried to keep my fingers warm.
I had a melody in my head and I would forget it by the time I was home. I had fear in my chest but I would forget it by the time I finished the bottle. A long time ago a doctor told me I needed to stop drinking immediately because my liver was about to shit out. It apparently hadn't and I smirked to myself as I pulled again.
Long stretches of cracked and filthy sidewalks unwinding past me and cracked and filthy houses filled with families and maybe love and maybe not and they may as well have all been the same people for all I knew or cared. I have long spoken of my own alienation and sometimes I wondered if I had made myself an alien, or if I was meant for this, but I don't believe in destiny, and I don't believe in making anything of myself either so there had to be another answer. The only certainty was that I wasn't one of them.
No, that isn't true, I thought.
Shut up, I thought right back.
The sun felt nice but the occasional breeze was difficult. Soon I wouldn't need the coat. Soon it would be spring and I'd be happy. Probably.
Turn a corner, pull.
A man in his driveway watched as I stuffed the bottle back into the pocket. I nodded. He nodded. I thought I might steal a slice of pizza from the gas station to see if I could. I thought I might hold up a gas station to see if I could. Lock the doors. Kill the clerk. Negotiate. I thought I might suicide by cop. See if I could.
Wind chimes somewhere, out of place with the snow and mud and brittle air. I looked around but didn't see them. A lot of porches with a lot of things piled on them and I wondered what that meant about the neighborhood. Lower middle class? They could afford homes, but not trash removal? Maybe they were rented houses or maybe they were all in renovation and soon all of the porch debris would be back inside, displayed cozily among the new floors and paint and fireplace.
I stepped in a puddle but it wasn't deep and I wasn't there long enough to soak my foot so I payed it no mind. Pull.
I couldn't remember the last time things had been going well, but I always kept walking.
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
A Desire to Wake.
I took a year off.
Now, write.
Now, speak.
Now,
where was I?
Dreaming, sleeping, wondering.
The world flowed around my body and I waded through it. The water, the mud, the time, the sun. I let my heart swell, I let my stomach swell, I let my anger fade and I let my hope come into focus. I saw, maybe not the future, but a future. I saw, maybe not the truth, but my truth. I saw, maybe not the world, but a world I occupied, a world I wanted, a world I deserved. Breath in my lungs. Pulse in my veins. A desire to wake.
A worry flits through the air.
I won't live up to my character.
I won't create.
I won't speak the truth.
A worry flits through the air.
It doesn't matter whether I do.
A worry flits through the air.
My validity is my suffering.
And I am invalid.
A worry flits through the air.
It doesn't matter if I am.
I watch you move through the living room. Hips and smile. Eyes bright and true. I am ashamed of myself. Who I am, no no no, what I am. How undeserving.
You walk and speak, and touch, and carry and I am ashamed.
A worry flits through the air
and is gone.
You speak and touch. Eyes, bright and true.
A desire to wake.
Breath in my lungs. Pulse in my veins.
A desire to wake.
You walk and speak.
A desire to wake.
How undeserving.
Now, write.
Now, speak.
Now,
where was I?
Dreaming, sleeping, wondering.
The world flowed around my body and I waded through it. The water, the mud, the time, the sun. I let my heart swell, I let my stomach swell, I let my anger fade and I let my hope come into focus. I saw, maybe not the future, but a future. I saw, maybe not the truth, but my truth. I saw, maybe not the world, but a world I occupied, a world I wanted, a world I deserved. Breath in my lungs. Pulse in my veins. A desire to wake.
A worry flits through the air.
I won't live up to my character.
I won't create.
I won't speak the truth.
A worry flits through the air.
It doesn't matter whether I do.
A worry flits through the air.
My validity is my suffering.
And I am invalid.
A worry flits through the air.
It doesn't matter if I am.
I watch you move through the living room. Hips and smile. Eyes bright and true. I am ashamed of myself. Who I am, no no no, what I am. How undeserving.
You walk and speak, and touch, and carry and I am ashamed.
A worry flits through the air
and is gone.
You speak and touch. Eyes, bright and true.
A desire to wake.
Breath in my lungs. Pulse in my veins.
A desire to wake.
You walk and speak.
A desire to wake.
How undeserving.
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