Been gone for awhile...

Life is confusing at times. Sometimes we are so sure of who we are that we forget that we really don't know.
I'm still working on the novel, though I put it aside for over a year. Perhaps the break was necessary. I've been focusing on my art as of late instead. Now I'm diving in all at once. Every bit. This crazy cycle of complacency isn't working for me anymore. Inspiration was all around me, but I chose to ignore it.
No more excuses. I'm surrounded by dangerous people. They're after my happiness, soul-sucking sycophants. Go feed on your own dreams. (You know who you are).
So, I'm ranting. Aren't we all?

xoxo

sooooooooo........

Well, it's been awhile since the last post. Longer than I thought. A lot has happened since then. A lot of crap, but we all deal with crap and sadness and songs and loss and inbetweens and tears and melancholy and ups and downs and missing of friends. Sometimes the fear needs to be turned away. Sometimes the so called strength needs to be compromised. sometimes we just need to forget. Sometimes even the strongest of creatures feels barely bold enough to become a tiger instead of remaining the kitten everyone knows and loves. Claws, Iago, you treacherous snake! Was it Iago? I can't remember at this moment. Frankly I'm surprised I can type, let alone spell. I haven't been drunk since March at the convention, but that's on the other page, isn't it? And yes, it very much emulated Thompson, thank God, or it hardly been worth it. Blackjack was not my friend. A sad cat(not blackjack... Thompson) with so much more to give and expect. Millions of words would never be enough. How could you deprive the world of that? And still we forgive. But I digress.

I've created enemies, though not by choice. A self-defense mechanism triggers in me that seems to be destructive mostly to those around me. It wasn't intentional... know that! Numerous times I've tried to watch the movie, but it simply replays in my mind.

So many come and go, not always by choice, but circumstance. But we always have the words, don't we?

question I

Ah, the rantings are few and far between. Some are regretful, but most do not care. I choose only this time to post a question... all responses are welcome. I'd be interested in those answers. I think I'd like to try this at least once a month and see how it goes.

Q: When does altruism become suicide?

I know it seems like a big fuckin' philosophical question, but I really am curious.

My Answer: It always was...

another stripping of personal freedom

Remember the days of yesteryear, when we could dine on coffee AND cigarettes in the same fucking place?! Now, you must understand, I hail from a province where smoking in public used to be far from a crime and, yes, accepted! Believe it. I am telling the truth. But recently in my particular province, smoking has since been banned for the sake of the non-smokers that refuse to dine in non-smoking establishments for health concerns or what the fuck ever because smoking voters found more important things to do than vote. I consider myself lucky if I can smoke in my friends' houses, for cryin' out loud! Fuck me! No more intellectual conversation amongst coffee house ninjas like Kerouac had in the good 'ole beat days. No more late night Denny's excursions consuming unlimited mass amounts of coffee for a dollar (give or take) while, dare I say it, smoking. No more lonely nights where one can wander and find unlimited friends for an evening simply because one has bummed a smoke.

Our poor children will never know what it is like to half-smoke a fag while discussing altruistic and existentialist point of views to no avail. No more tears for for me, my friends. We will survive. In non-smoking restaraunts and malls and coffee shops and anywhere else we might make friends. We are officially outcast. In Neveada of all places. But we still have prostitution.

God bless freedom!

new year's day

Well, once again, ye grande ole' new year has come and gone. Many of us wonder where the last year escaped to. Perhaps some distant island far away from the macabre little existence we admonish only for its right to exist.

I trust we've all made new friends and hope we have not lost touch with the old ones. Resolutions, I'm sure, have already been forgotten. Probably with the hangover you know you endured, as did I, directly following the making of said resolutions.

Me, I make no resolutions for new years. Mostly because I never keep them. I do however carry static resolutions year round. I am much better at those. They aren't so "cold-turkey" and painful. However, I have been considering one. It's only in consideration at this point, but it sounds like a good idea.

I feel I should make a point of not being such a fucking basket case. Hmm. Now that I've said it, it no longer sounds like a good idea.

Alright, fuck it.

Happy Fuckin' New Year Everyone! More alcohol should take care of those hangovers.

a simple quote

A quote worthy of posting: It is up to you what it means.

The sciences, letters, and arts spread garlands of flowers over the iron chains with which mankind is burdened, stifle in them the sense of original liberty for which they seemed to have been born, make them love slavery and turn them into what is called civilized peoples.

A friend of mine sent me this last night, or perhaps the night before. I had to ask him who said it. Rousseau, he told me. I should have known that. It speaks to masses and holds too many truths near to us all. I suppose I said something to him to prompt the gesture, which was very much needed at the time.

We suffer alone and occasionally find some poor soul to pick up the remains after others have had their fun and discarded the beautiful pieces to the vultures for breakfast at dawn. Those are friends to either extreme. And we welcome them not always with open arms, but perhaps a half-cocked smile or a brew or commonalities that which seem too hard to come by.

In different forms we relish this life or detest it or survive it or in too many cases, take it for granted. Time. The one thing we can never retrieve. Once spent is spent forever. One should be careful as to how one spends it before that one becomes road kill on busy highways, scattered amongst the gravel with no regard. If you're big enough to pose a threat, someone might scoop the remnants into a bucket or to the side of the road, the 21-gun salute to faceless creatures who have run out of precious time. Rarely remembered.

Make a mark. Make memories. Make quotes. Make love. Make apologies. Make a song. Make amends. Make a move. Make a statement. Make art. Whatever makes you. Time is running out.

close call

I awoke to find myself in a bit of a disoriented state this morning. Both of my phones were ringing simultaneously with equally important calls. I eventually answered them both and played tag throughout the messages. I forgot I had to go to work today since it was holiday yesterday. I suppose I wanted a day of rest. The bed was very warm and cozy. And I was enjoying a new blanket. My dog (for once) had not trashed the house over night, but did take an interest in something underneath the book cabinet in the corner of my room. I thought he had lost his ball. He goes crazy when he loses his ball. A simple green tennis ball has the power of the universe in his mind. Then I realized, after investigating the situation for myself, mostly because I couldn't handle his incessant pawing and barking at mere carpet anymore, and found that he was trying to fetch my rat! He had let him out of his cage. Yes, he finally figured out the mechanics of a simple rodent cage and released my poor, helpless pet prey out into a house with not only a dog, but three cats as well! Thankfully I have my rat trained a bit and he knew better than to travel too far in such a dangerous abode. Poor Boo Radley! (That's my rat). Alone and curious only to find himself at the end of an enormous nose and even more enormous teeth and claws. So I had to lock the dog up to keep him away, scooped up my frightened little friend, and helped him to safety. People think I'm crazy and stupid for caring so much about a thing that was born to be someone else's food, but they too have little brains and hearts, and there has been times when that little furry morsel has been nothing but a friend. Besides, he freaks everyone out. I find that amusing in itself. I had no idea how may people are afraid of rats until I started keeping them as pets. And no one wants to admit either. It's very funny. Anyway, that was my morning. Or at least the most interesting part of my morning. Boo is safe and sound and now dining on Christmas leftovers.

Believe me, nothing is trivial...
(BRANDON LEE, FROM "THE CROW")

who really cares???

The novel is nearing it's end and no one really cares. People are dying all around me and now the experience comes full circle where I can feel the pain full flush, not just by trusting the instincts of the most dearest friend; but by trusting what you know is true, even when you don't want to believe it.

I myself now face the inevitable. And a hunger finds me that cannot be satiated. A never-ending quest for the unquestionable and irrefutable demise we all will encounter eventually.

Everyone fears it.

You do.

She does.

We do.

Embrace it with futility and always understand that it was the way it was meant to be.

uncontrol

Restless and uneasy,
watching daylight fade
while others find sleep
amongst sleepless nights,
and we left awake to ponderings
of why we don't belong here.

In search of candles for light
to light words among pages
to give us the answers
we so desperately seek,
and longing for arms
to desperately hold us.

Secrets are evil
and bind us to duties
that were never our own.
Taking flowers from unguarded gardens
for the takers of givers
until the taking is done.

Wanderless wonder
of what we could share
and defeat what they tell us,
writing backward in script,
observing the cures
for society's pain.

Gluttony of stars painted and faint
for nights we will always take for granted.
Tombstones only make efforts to remind us
that we are merely forgotten.
Occassional flowers dawn the spirit,
but ignore the war within.

Hours spin recklessly
as seconds for present.
Generations of lonely
mingling in masses,
always alone minus moments
of inclusion and distraction.

We'll remain and remind ourselves
of moonlit trails
and teenage tendancies
and fluttering hearts
and drunken nights
and good times spent.

And then there are those things
we'll fight to forget.
Our temporary fixes
of bad hair cuts and cheap suits,
cheap flowers,
cheap happiness.

Cheap pens still put the words on paper.

leaving

Tragic tears falling of wretched desires,
We fight to hold on, but are left to the fires.
Others have needed us to play favorite liars,
So selfless endeavors cut with their wires.

Beauty and damage in singular meaning,
Hearts, spades, and diamonds help with the bleeding.
Bandaged up scars don't bear repeating,
Still repeat by reminding every day leaving.

Playing and praying the same sorry song,
Wishing it different for why you are gone.
We'll see tomorrow, when sun breaks at dawn,
If anyone is left to where they belong.

dead letter

I had the good intention of writing an old-fashioned, hand-written letter to an old friend of mine today. We said "goodbye" some months ago, but not on bad terms or anything. I was even going to hand-deliver the letter, anonymously of course. I was really excited about this. I have found that I miss the little things more often than not like letters and drive-in movie theatres and and sweet wildflowers sprouting optimistically from a crack in the sidewalk. But, long story short, a phone call ruined it all. Sometimes things need to be said, but instead, they are stifled and interrupted. So be it. I will save the occasion for something with more splendor. I shouldn't have answered the phone, but I didn't know who it was. So I never forget, here is the start of said letter:

I called you today. You didn't answer. I tried to leave a message, but the words stopped short in my throat. I never forgot you. I've thought about you daily wondering if all is well. I hope it is. I would love to talk with you again, share a laugh or two. Maybe even a dance to some funky in-between song we couldn't agree on.

And, as I already mentioned, that is when you called and I never finished the letter. Instead I chose to rant to myself (and anyone else here, I guess) about how crappy people are because they are so selfish and coldhearted and I could really use a drink right now and a tattoo, a really big tattoo, the one I've been wanting for so long, and make up a new Irish toast, even though I am not Irish, so I guess it really wouldn't be Irish, but a "cheers" nonetheless, and it went something like this...

Here's to you, and all your cheers,
For me, I'll have a few more beers!

Not too creative, but it made me smile at the time.

just a sunday night

So I was driving this evening and I noticed a thing I have noticed a hundred times before, a thing you all know and on occassion you all notice. The moon, atop a skyline, (which coincidentally happens to be the name of the road I reside upon), and I realized that for a brief moment I was literally on top of the world, so to speak. I was on top of the only world I have ever known. Not many can say that they have lived in the same town for the duration of their entire life, but I can. I fail to embrace the beauty I am accustomed to at times. This is a beautiful though tragic place to call home. The town is large enough that the conveniences we take full granted of are available round the clock, but the serenity of the surroundings is bypassed for the muck of the days end. We are slaves and sheep for the system. The same system we can never call our own. We work the daily grind and produce less than satisfactory fundage for the tasks and still continue to dream that there are far better places than here. I am among those masses. Truth be known, we all are.

But alas, I am drunk on a Sunday evening, lucky to make it home safely again, missing my kids for they are at their father's, and dreaming of finer places than here. A cigarette burns quickly in the ashtray to my left, where it is always kept, reminding me of the life we pass through too quickly, and forgetting that I have any feeling at all. I fear it is time for the slumber that has evaded me so l give in and fold to the weanesses we all suffer and say, "Goodnight, all," and pass out to the tune of absolute nothing, alone and mislead, to figure out why these are the things I detest.

The end

He startled at the image the lifeless woman on the street. He rushed over to offer assistance but others had tried and urged him to move along. It was no longer necessary. Surprisingly she had very little blood leaking from her body. Still the warm fluidity of the fresh kill felt human. He wondered if there would be a man, a lover, a best friend to miss this sweet angel. He then thanked God it wouldn't be him.

Reprieve came with the silence of the end of a life that was supported by tears and sorrows from those around her who never their kept promises and refused to consider her fragile little soul. She was now lifted up beyond the clouds so they can no longer cover the sun from her face. A happiness not experienced before would be welcome. He wouldn't miss her. The mark he claimed she made on him was faded and forgotten before he ever reached the river. She felt no sorrow for him. He deserved every bit of what she gave him. He would never doubt that.

She slipped away to better things that awaited her. The service was beautiful though solemn. No one came to say goodbye, but she said it anyway. Birds sang a lovely song that day in a melody unlike any other. The trees bowed their limbs in remembrance. And the gravediggers took extra care of this one, leaving a flower for the one they did not know. The clock struck noon and strangers moved on. It was always for the best.

part VI

There were things she told him that only he knew, but he couldn't comprehend the extent of information in his own right. Perhaps he would remember once she was gone. Perhaps he would not even know the things that were so deep and so personal as what she chose to share with him. Him alone. She wouldn't realize some of the things she had bestowed upon him in confidentiality or southern moments of inebriation. She had welcomed a comfort with him that was beyond what she was willing to accept. All in due time. But she was too young to understand the future effects they might have.

The aformentioned swim was more pleasant than she had expected. There were things to accompany her on her journey that were well past explanation. Beside the icy cold tormented stream, she found that there was a mere absence of the negativity. It was true freedom. Her body relaxed and took in the inevitable. There was no pain or displeasure. There was no regret or remorse. There was no one to remind her of the iniquities or transgressions of a life that never had the chance to begin with in the first place. There was no guilt.

Tattoos adorned her skin and tatters adorned her frame. Condemnation adorned her frail mind that fought to be hers alone. The only thing she left behind was a puppy she had not the chance to get close to. No loss. Someone would surely take the place in the heart of such a simple being at so young an age. As she rode the torrent and remembered when, she succumbed to the river's morbid effect and slipped lightly away to a far better place. It was only for the best.

Remember the last goodbye? Remember the kiss he laid on your cheek and lips and heart for eternity and memory? It will be all that remains. It will be enough.

part V

The young man ran as fast as he could. He had no idea where she was, but he let determination be his guide. He knew of places that she loved like the bookstore and the coffee shop and the rooftop of this abandoned building where the rats had even moved away. He knew not where to begin so he decided the logical choice was the coffee shop for it was the closest.

There were times when he traveled faster than the traffic beside him, but he took no notice to it. The rain had begun to fall and was getting heavier with each passing minute. He broke through the door of the coffee joint as if he were on fire. The hippies and internet junkies and businessmen were startled and upset by his entry. It seemed he had disturbed their plastic reality encased within the walls. She was not there. As quick as he came in, he left just the same and continued on his journey.

The next stop would have been the bookstore, but he was stopped by a crowd of people and police before he could turn the corner. Traffic was not moving. There was an accident that had put this tiny portion of the city at a standstill. He too was halted in his previous agenda. Curiosity got the best of him and he wound up becoming one of the strangers behind the taped up police line wondering who it was laying in the street. Nothing brings a group of strangers together like a tragedy. Little did he know of the tragedy that was waiting for him around the corner.

part IV

The river ran quickly and violently, but somehow she found the peace in its presence. Where did it go? Where would it end? She was tempted to find out. After all, choices needed to be made. Ducks and sticks seemed to fly by on the current. Water tumbled over the rocks that couldn't be seen. It would be so simple to disappear. She heard the church bells ring in the distance. She climbed the rocks and stood atop them. And then she chose to disappear.

The woman could not shake the girl from her memory. She wanted to go back and find her. Maybe, she thought, the moment just wasn't right. Besides, she had things to do. She continued to walk. Absent-mindedly she stepped off the sidewalk against the light. She never saw the truck coming. There was no time to react. She too was gone. She would only be a story on the evening news after this. And then everyone would forget her too.

The authorities phoned her next of kin, a husband who worked around the clock on the east side of town. He was unreachable for hours. Apparently business was pressing. Truth was he worked late entertaining his secretary more often than his clients. As he was far and away making love to another, the one he had chosen to love forever would never grace his arms again or feel his warmth again or be lied straight-faced to again. I wonder if he would really miss her even though he didn’t deserve to. He already had a replacement anyway.

part III

Downtown was quiet. The river was not. It ripped through the middle of downtown with such fury. It was not to be messed with. It was angry that day. Perhaps, she thought, it was a good day for a swim.

She was entirely too young for the choices to be made. She was sure she knew what love meant. He said he loved her, he even meant it, but it would never be possible for him to protect her the way he should have. He was the one who had planted the fatal seed to begin with. He was free to walk away unaware of the damage he had caused and oblivious to the wreckage he had left behind.

Words could not merit what he had done to her and so surely the guilt would plague him. One day when the grass is not so green and the trees a little less friendly, he would be forced to face the demons he believed to have cast aside. And on the up side, no one would ever have to hear about any of it again. It would be one of the many lost pieces of history. No one would remember a sad summer day when she disappeared.

Life does not always go on for us. He stood staring at the very same river as it rushed by at a frantic pace. Even a river has secrets. The clouds had grown darker and more abundant. He was lost in thoughts of what he had put her through and decided there was nothing he could do to make it right again.

Behind him stood a man of age. He wore broken clothes on a broken body and he stood there alone. Clearly he knew of a life that was much brighter than now. One could see it in his eyes. Maybe he had a partner in life, someone he could always count on. She wasn't there anymore. That was apparent.

He wandered up to the younger man and said nothing at first. His presence was ominous. So much so that it shook the young man from his previous thoughts. He turned to the old man and asked him how his day was. The old man smiled a youthful smile and laughed a bit. And he said, "I've seen finer days in worser weather, son."

The young man said nothing. Of course there was nothing he could have said. Church bells sounded hard on the other side of the river. He had always wondered what they meant. Nonetheless, it was time to find her and at least try to make things right again.

part II

The tears fell harder upon her tired shoes. All she had wanted was a little reprieve, an escape if only momentarily. Her body sunk to the sidewalk with her back to the wall and her face in her hands. Thoughts raced wildly through her fragile mind. She was a phantom bride if only for a day.

No one concerned themselves with until one woman passed and stopped. She looked back over her shoulder and turned back toward the girl. She stood silently for a moment unsure of what she could say to the sad girl. The woman was busy, she had things she needed to do, but it would wait a bit longer.

The woman was older. It was obvious that her shoes as well had traveled a similar path somewhere in time. She made a point of avoiding pysical contact. A little concern was all that would be necessary.

"Excuse me, miss. Do you need help? Is there something I can do?"

The girl was taken by surprise having not noticed that someone was standing before her. She looked up toward the voice and wiped her eyes. Confused, she shook her head. There was nothing the woman would be able to do for her now.

Dejected the woman walked away. She looked back a few seconds later. The girl was gone.

part I

She walked down the street with her head down. She did not want the random passersby to notice the tears freely falling on her shoes. She walked alone with no idea where she would end up. A destination was never the priority. She stopped at her favorite bookstore. Maybe a book would cheer her up or at least allow her to escape to someone else's world for a bit. A girl of sixteen should not have been burdened with the heavy load of what had transpired the night before. She was witness to a murder that had not taken place yet. What fraction of innocence she still claimed was dangerously faltering. A decision was necessary and due sooner rather than later.

The sun was selfish with its warmth, remaining behind the clouds. People passed by at vigorous paces with no regard to how beautiful the trees appeared under casted shadows from the intermittent sunshine. Birds wandered and hopped about the sidewalk for morsels of food that could only be salvaged from the complacency of human beings to disregard what they did not consume themselves. The vendors swept and cleaned their storefronts in the hopes of drawing new business, but it never comes. She stopped, peeked in the window. It was closed.

ahhh... the things we'll do

So, what is it we will do for a dollar? Not enough? How about a thousand dollars? A million? Is there a limit to what we will sell ourselves for? Me, I won't. Not for any amount will I sell out what means the most to me or the things that are priceless to begin with. I could take a few hundred and finally get those tats I wanted done for so long. I could catch up on the bills that plague us all. I could pay my car off or move to a better house or get furniture that makes the place feel a little more like home or get f'd up beyond belief because I feel like it. None of which is worth the price I might have to pay. It shouldn't even be a question. Money rules too many to such an extent that I wish it was never a consideration in the first place.
Do what you must. Do what you will. Remember though, that there is always a price to pay and sometimes the wager is far more than you could have seen to begin with. Are you willing to sell something that may never be available for purchase again? Do what we must. But live with the consequences. You alone are responsible for the outcome. I'm preaching, I know. Kettles and pots aren't we all?
Tell me please what you have done to discern between the right and the righteous. Tell me what makes us all too human. What makes us all question our very own existence and suurender what we knew forever? I never will know for sure. I'd like to think that there are those of out there who thrive on the fact that we are humans and we all feel these emotions and pains and crossroads and dilemmas. Perplexing at best, do we opt for the road less traveled or the one that simply feels right? Again, I am ranting, but it is theraputic and necessary. We all have our vices. You know it's true.