Wednesday, December 19, 2007

And I don't need no hook for this hit/'cuz shawty right dere.....

She was the sheeit, back in '02. Now she defies human eyes, you kind of have to turn away from beauty so regal. Could it be that I was dumb enough to pick her out, diamond in the ruff, so many years ago only to throw her away on some fools' gold shit? would not be the first time, hell, I don't know why she or anyone else doesn't hold it against me. i guess i hold grudges so heavy, i just expect everyone else to follow suit, and i'm always surprised, no...shocked when the rest of the world doesn't get small, and bitter and petty, just like me.

so when we got back in touch, i was excited to see her, witness her growth and hopefully get in where i fit in. i mean, i entertained grandiose fantasies of sliding up behind her at a café's crowded coffee counter and slipping my arm around her waist to kiss her neck, just to let her know that i was oh so confident of the dickdown that i was going to put on her later. there was even one, where, we never even made it out on the date, we just fell into each other's arms half exhausted, half relieved that we had found each other again, and it was cool, so cool.

but, here's the rub, i'm not talking about the certified dime that i had dinner with last night. you probably already guessed that i am talking about my ex that i still can't fucking get over, get past, get around or plain get away from. (my man from maui said, give it at least a year, and ride the waves for what they are worth, and use this time to look at yourself, by yourself. and i'm doing that, but i am lonely, and my ego don't stop, so i am dating as a preemptive strike against an enemy force i can't even predict. i guess, i'm trying to put as much physical distance between me and her that i can, because the whole "let go" emotionally jazz? that shit still ain't working, and it's almost been a year, already. lately, i just think that this thing is turning into a big iraq-like snafu, where i can't let go of my feelings, or move on because i feel compelled to finish some job i started that it's not mine to complete nor was it ever. i know that's a 30 Rock level, political metaphor stretch, but i just feel so hopeless right now that it steals my breath when i sleep. gawd, i am fucked up. i got t.i.p.=thoughts, issues and problems.

but back to my date, and rather me realizing that these fantasies i was entertaining were not about her, in some weird mind flip, i had done the reverse of what so many men do: i had popped my ex-girlfriend into my fantasy about "new pussy." i told you i had fucking issues. so here i am sitting in a very crowded restaurant with the prettiest girl in the room, and all i can think is: "how come B.I.G. don't want me."

i'm fucking screwed up right now, and trying not to take others down in my descent, but it's hard, because some days, and most nights, i'm more lonely, than i am anything else.

so i soldier on, i don't even know where this energy is coming from, i just keep going, not in a daze, but a determined haze. i don't even know what i'm trying to complete. i think it's about finishing this year and not letting it finish me, but between sickness, bad luck, drama and plot arcs coming to their logical ends, i am feeling more and more undone even with less than 14 days left to go.

i love to hear my heroes talk about their reactions to terrible things, you know the whole, "it's not what happens to you, it's what you do about what happens to you" that whole shtick. yup, i am just trying right now, to make it to my chance to take some of the worst things that ever happened to me, and turn them into some of the best. but as we all know, i have a longstanding tradition of ducking greatness. i hope this time, i'm just too old, to dumb, or just too plain tired, to duck.

Monday, December 17, 2007

redemption. a second shot.

cover me.
for a moment
or two.

this season
has grown short
making miracles minimal.

still Terra swells to her icy blessing
and d'evils d'escend
to dissolve our d'esideratum.

this season
has grown too short, to pay penance
still i wait for midnight sun to bathe my stigmata.

in the embrace of amity
she is still; sated.
sowing serendipity.
slowly reclaiming
her marks as my own.

but this season, this season
has grown, so short
providence promises naught.

my soul subsists in this
sackcloth cielo
awaiting aurora.

sentient eyes seek nocturnal sunshine
for only one season
and this season, grows short.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

I hope you're lucky, so lucky....because December has a way of being cold for some of us.

 I just found my new favorite Christmas song. In fact it murders all my expectations of a christmas classic: it should be funky, or at least cool, written if at all possible, or better yet: reinterpreted by a black person, and most important: above all else it must be melancholy, nay even sad. 

There have been obsessions in the past, perhaps it stems from my father's love of Nat King Cole's interpretation of the classic christmas song. I was far too young to dig any nuance out of Cole's flawless reading, couldn't decipher the double entendre of a negro performing America's defining Christmas song, at the time that it was recorded. I always thought it a pale,(HA!) withering "classic" better left on the old cassette that pops was wearing out even with an annual play every christmas day. 

Teenage heartbreak rocketed "Last Christmas" by George Michael right up the list. I will forever be 16 and feeling used by some little girl to get what she reallly wanted for christmas, read: not me. Lately I must admit the reggae version of "Last Christmas" does me one better, you know the whole black people reinterpretation thing. 

Oh, but the daddy of them all inspires fanaticism in me. It makes me feel like those collectors I hate who flaunt holy grails they will never appreciate in the face of mere enthusiasts, who for instance are passionate about a subject, like music. Yeah, this song when it became so widely available about 10 years ago, sort of had to leave the top of my list because it's lack of availability was one of it's strongest points, and what does THAT say about a song written and performed by Prince at the cresting of his creative powers? It's cheese, it's schmaltz, it's sad, chic and ever so low down. "Another Lonely Christmas" is the kind of gag that Robert Smith would be ashamed to play on even the most devout Cure fan, but dammit, from that first swooning riff, I am always hooked, and around Christmas time, I am always lonely, with or without my family, my friends or a lover. 

The prevailing mood of the world sends me toward solitude, I just can't help it, I like to block the world out, even if for a few moments on Christmas Eve, and just be with me. I had always thought however, that I would find someone, who felt comfortable enough to invade that space, someone right at home disrupting my navel gazing, I thought I found that person, but I think a lot of stupid shit, it's called digressing, are you noticing a pattern? 

Back on topic, there are a few honorable mentions, Vanessa Williams valium inspired "What Child is This?" (the sheer irony of America's at the time number one whore, serenading America's number one innocent, leaves this one high atop my list for all times), Mahalia Jackson's Christmas album, James Brown's, "Christmas in Hollis", worthy as these all may be, they lack that essential feeling of egress created by the season's feelings of good will, hope, desperation and regret. Twice, believe it or not, black music has completely hit that nail on the head: "Merry Christmas Baby" covered and perfected by so many great artists has all my requirements in spades, it's a blues for god's sake! Oh so elegant, it just strolls along and dares you not to think about your loved ones, your greatest Christmas memories, and just smile. 

Oh but the big dog in the room, my number one in this High Fidelity inspired Funky Five Christmas Songs plus one more, is the standard by which all others are judged. So much has been said about Donny Hathaway's "This Christmas", and so much more still remains to be said. I won't try to improve upon what other greater minds than mine have said, I can only speak to my feelings about this record. Say what you want, Donny Hathaway had a way of really speaking to the souls of black folks, it is the same gift that R. Kelly has: the ability to present a skeptical people with almost anything and have them consider it. Dave Chappelle could have been talking about Donny when he said: "that R. Kellly can make a song about anything!" So if you can imagine, being raised your entire life somewhere between Mahalia's "Holy Holy Holy" and Nat the King's chestnuts, only to find that everything you thought you had been missing in Christmas music was right there, hell, you were hearing  it in utero, it was made for your first Christmas. Somehow you missed it for 9 years, but now you are riding in your mother's best friend's daughter Vickie's Toyota Celica GT, and she is beautiful, and we're alone now, and she is singing this song for you. (ahem....) The best way I can explain is to say that you are 9, it is Christmas, and suddenly you realize that Black is the best possible thing you could be, at the best possible time in the world, something about this sound, these words has always been waiting for you, and you just want to thank the man who knew you before you knew yourself. So, thank you Donny, and I hope you don't mind the company, but now, we got one more: 

Monique Bingham is probably not a name that you are familiar with, but she has written 3 of the most singularly beautiful songs in the last 15 years that I can think of: "Pure" performed by Monique as part of the group "Blue Six"; "Get Another Plan" by the group Abstract Truth, and you really should kneel down before the might of another record by Abstract Truth entitled simply enough: "(We Had) A Thing". If there were any justice in the world all 3 of these songs would have enjoyed fortnight runs on the top of the pop charts, for they are pop at its best, and Monique at her best. She has outdone herself with another sparsely arranged masterpiece, just in time for Christmas. "December" featured on the excellent album "Christmas in the House" available now on King St. Sounds, the venerable house music label, has no business being so undeniably groovy, thought provoking, sad and uplifting at the same time. Ms. Bingham's performance is so coded, rife with pain and promise, I don't wanna overtalk it, let's just say that, Donny, and Nat et. al, have got some seriously funky company. Listen to it right now, and tell me what YOU think. 

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

redemption–a work in progress.

float down on me
one moment at a time.
so that no two moments
are alike.

this season has grown short,
miracles once expected
in abundance
are minimal in measure

Terra swells to recieve her
icy blessing and d'evils
to d'issolve

this season has grown so short
and I pay penance
while I wait for
midnight sun
to illuminate
my stigmata.

in the embrace of amity
she is still.
supplying serendipity
her marks
as my own

and this season, this season
has grown short.
so that providence promises nothing
save possibility

my soul survives in sackcloth sky
awaiting your touch
to ignite these darkest days

nocturnal sun
only one
and this season,
has grown

Monday, December 3, 2007

It's Been A Long Time, I shouldn'a left you....

So what the fuck eh? Why the hell haven't I been writing? A better question is why haven't I been publishing? Been writing a lot, but it's all been hella personal. I gotta hold something of myself back right? Maybe it should be AlmostNaked and Damn Near Forgotten. Well consider this missive an attempt to right the ship and plot a more steady course. A lot has been going on, and mostly I just felt bad for posting up 3 total downer posts. Everything has been down lately though, these are tough times....might as well document them.

So, as insomnia grips me once more, I turn to the last resort this blog, to fill those creepy quiet hours between last call and first light. You will be hearing a lot more from me, although entries will be kept brief. Updates a coming, so strap in....

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Please don't bother trying to find her.....

Spotted tonight at Walgreen's (the most wonderfullest place in the whole wide world!!!)
In the throes of a 48hour bug, I sought the comfort of a new humidifier, but didn't feel well enough to shop for it until about 11 this evening. Composing myself and disguising the shambles that I've become, I headed toward Walgreen's. Fun Fact: Walgreen's has been the most dependable thing in my life in the last 7 to 9 years. Dwell on the sadness of that for a moment, and then realize that I have come to depend upon Walgreen's more than almost any other relationship. Somehow no matter what I'm shopping for, I've found it at Walgreen's, seen it on the shelf, or just known that they would have it, but this is not the focus of this entry, SHE is.

She will remain nameless, mostly because I would much rather pin my expectations, judgment and bias on my impression of her, than know her name. Join me in judgement won't you?

So it's 11 o'clock on a Wednesday night, no one is out because the wind is making a serious issue out of it. But here I am, disoriented, congested, and bleary comparing overpriced humidifiers on aisle 9 at Walgreen's when SHE steps out of my periphreal and into this blog.

She was a not ugly white woman, that I would peg somewhere near her dirty 30s(that special time in a woman's life when she says "fuck it" to the plans she had as a young girl, and wildly gets her fuck, drink, and party on) but someoone had saved her from herself. I could see her washing off the scent of her dirty 30s with every step she took. But no matter what, you can't help but be who you are right? Even if you are wearing a wedding dress and veil. Let me repeat that, a wedding dress, a veil, a pair of ballet slippers and a denim jacket that wasn't going to stop the wind outside or the advance of her past on the current proceedings. I immediately thought to myself, how strange that a bride would look so much like a wife.

As brides go, she had none of that hope, none of that careless self centered unease. Her uneasyness was entirely based upon experience and not expectation, you could tell by the way she looked at the sleep aids on the shelves. I swear I tried not to judge, tried not to linger too long on her visage, but I was struck.

My humidifier under my arm, I headed toward checkout and chided myself for being the snobbish asshole we all know me to be, and then there she was again, taking forever to check out. As the cashier rang up two huge bags of scented votive candles, the Bride produced the largest zippered bag of prescription pharmaceuticals I have ever seen. I could easily count 2o different amber bottles packed tight head to foot, foot to head. Who carries that many drugs with them at any given time? Why was she having such a hard time checking out? Why did I get the feeling that she had not just come from her bacheleorette party, but that this was her wedding night?

From what I'm told brides make for uneasy bedfellows, so do wives, but for far different reasons. Here is to the Bride of Walgreen's and her large bag of drugs, I hope you have a safe middle passage.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

I cannot wait to completely forget you, and deeply regret you; getting close to me...

Once more into the fray. I'm at it again, how long will it take to ruin this relation ship, that showed such promise such spark. I am a professional at this you know, I approach a new relationship like the cast and crew of Extreme Home Makeover, carefully budgeting for the establishing shots, teardown, and the big reveal. So watch my dust I will keep you posted.

How is this for an establishing shot?

We met for drinks and dinner at a restaurant that should be crowded with the type of people that Denver needs to become vital. Instead it was crowded only with the broken hopes of the thin young men and women, stuck at work at this pretty restaurant on a frost bitten night in downtown Denver. But hey, wasn't gonna let that spoil the mood, the air was sweet with the hope of being able to take three steps and not think about my last relationship. I was cautiously optimistic, to say the least.

It was all totally her idea, and I am forever grateful. I sat down next to her at the bar, and within seconds I was in the center of her storm, it felt good to be carried away by the winds of youthful exuberance, and battered by the flash of her artisitic brilliance. She is one of the most singularly artistic people I have ever met. She simply cannont help it, she sees art, where we see the world. Beautiful.

And what was really cute, is that she's at the age where the idea of being bitter, codgered and ill at ease, is romantic to her, within seconds she was in the middle of my storm, and now I doubt that she still feels that way. There's a big difference between the idea of a dissatisfied life, and an actual dissatisfied life, I think she came up close and personal for the first time with true despair. I hope that one look into the breach was enough to make her retreat from the edge.

Let me put you at ground zero: as we sipped our boutiqe martinis, I was careful not to "be on a date" I was excited just to talk. So I was just talking to her and she told me that she was a skynic. "I'm skeptical and cynical, and I like it." I smiled and replied that she was full of shit, (you can't shit a bullshitter, bullshit's a bargain, that's why I carry turds in my pocket) "you my dear, you wreak of optimism and positivity." And you know what? I wasn't just taking the piss, I meant that. How wonderful to wreak of optimism? I used to, in fact I'm still known to my close friends as the most blindly resillient brother they know. HA HA! As if I would only open my eyes, I would concede defeat right? But I digress.....

We didn't even eat dinner, she was my sustinance. (Okay, I- just like you, just threw up in my mouth a little. But it's true! ) I wasn't hungry for food, being with her. Being around her, makes the idea of eating to live obsolete. Why consume food, when you could consume her?) And so, I continued to feast on her. And her breasts continued to try and break out of the camisole that she was almost wearing out. "I'm having a hard time talking to you and looking you directly in the eyes," admonishing her breasts with her left hand again before saying, "my mind races to so many things I'd rather do than talk to you when I look in your eyes."

Sex, the lack of it, and need for it, lets us forget many important things, until sex is no longer lacking. Then we focus on all those wrong things. How long will it talke to tear down these feelings and reveal the big mess? I told you I'm an expert at this,watch my dust.

Together, we shared disdain, and then she asked: is there anything you're afraid of? Success. I said and I laughed so long and hard I realized I hadn't truly laughed in a long time. She knew I wasn't kidding, and she still didn't run away. "I'm afraid of snakes," and I laughed again. For I know now there are far worse things than snakes to be afraid of.

Friday, September 21, 2007

No we can't dance together, no we can't talk at all; Please take me along when you slide on down.

Any man who claims he would not try and fuck a 19 year old, doesn't know any 19 year olds. I however am in the business of young people, young girls, young pussy. All I know of life is what young girls have to offer. I am simultaneously sustained and saddened at this realization, and I will not be moved from the stake I have claimed. Mostly because I live a life unaware.

In fact I have never been good at recognizing that exact moment, you know the tipping point, when everything changes, after which nothing is ever the same. I've fallen victim to this blindness, often in my life and times. I've always been distracted, concerned with bigger and smaller things. Focused on any and everything else about a situation besides what's going on, that is until today.

Today, I saw my tipping point, and I watched myself cower away from a life less ordinary. There is one very special 19 year old scorpio in my life, and she is going to be the bomb one day, maybe. perhaps. She has a lot to overcome, and her friends and family will be of little help, her beauty transcends her surroundings and her attatchements. My greatest fear is that she, like so many other 19s I've known will be pregnant and hopeless, and stuck forever in the shortcomings of her gene pool.

But for now, I just enjoy being around her 1970s style Jane Kennedy good looks(as the title of this blog suggests she don't remember that queen of soul photo shoots) and her personality which by some small miracle of God is so pure and endearing that you fall in love with her provincial ignorance.(yeah, i know) I know I'm sounding a lot like Woody Allen in Manhattan right now, but more on that later. I just need to stop and capture that moment with her, waiting for the elevator on the top floor of the Denver Pavilions outdoor mall. There was a slight breeze, and as it played in her hair I gazed at her, realizing that beauty devoid of backstory is empty vessel at best, folly at worst. She had been the vessel for me in many ways, and she had outlived her usefulness to me, I like so many times before did not realize this at the time, until I did. Let me elaborate.

I am old enough to recognize unchecked attraction in women, finally. So when she came at me, and couldn't help but keep coming at me, I knew what this was about. I enjoyed, hell I even depended upon it, but only because of my bullshit, not because of anything real. There's an old saying that you're only as old as the person you're fucking, and I was hoping she would be my own personal fountain of youth. That didn't happen, this did:

It should no longer be a secret that I have a passion for dance movies. I love them, in my opinion the medium of film was created to record dancing, all that other special effects bullshit, is just that, bulshit. Hey 19 and I, decided to take in the new Omarion movie, because he's always dancing, and J.Lo was the producer of the flick so it should be full of dancing right? Wrong. No dancing, zero dancing. 90 minutes later we emerged from an afternoon matinee "safe date" to greet the bright blistering reality of what was really going on here.

I had tried to ignore it, even felt pretty good about it, but suddenly 2 teen aged boys would not let me spend another delusional moment thinking this had even a shot of working out. Make no mistake, I am not blaming the wolf, the wolf must kill and must eat, but even the wolf has regard for other predators. I'm losing you huh? Let me back up.....

There we were waiting innocently enough for the elevator, and I was thinking how much more beautiful she would look one day, when there was more rattling around in her head than who she should text next, when suddenly she was caught in the cross hairs of these two teenage wolves. Full disclosure, I could never pull off wolf, even as a teen, so I already had a heater. All of a sudden there was a new desire that didn't come from either one of us, it came from these two boys lapping at her 19 year old frame with their eyes, drooling uncontrollable thoughts about what they think they might do to her. It wasn't their regard for her, hell that's what teens are supposed to do, it was their disregard for me that totally fucked me up.

Pack hunters as they were, they exchanged a non verbal communication with their body language that I was of no concern, no sexual threat. I was the old male sea lion, with the best piece of real estate on the arctic beach. Yes, I'm attractive because of my status, and seniority but worthy of their respect? Their fear even? NO, definitely not. What's even crazier is that she sensed the moment too. She must have, because she did what any teenage girl would do, stare them down and wait for them to melt, flee, or crack her facade and expose her. It was amazing to watch her become self aware before my eyes, not that teenage self-aware, I dare say a more adult self-aware. It was a pair of epiphanies. I will entertain the fantasy that perhaps she realized that she needed to let go of her young girl ways, this is true and I might stand behind it, but she was loving being 19 at that moment, maybe for the last time.

As the boys shrank away from her glare, buying her poker face hook line and sinker, I thought about the rift between her world and mine, and how unlikely I was to ever make a dent in hers.(literally or figuratively, HA!) I had fancied myself a sort of sexual svengali, a familiar role for me to play but now I knew that whatever path she takes, she is outside my range of influence, and so my better sense has prevailed on the matter of the 19 year old.

I will not be the old man that chokes down his better sense in service of his dick, nope. I've already been that 20 year old, that 22 year old, that 25 year old, and against better advice that 27 year old, hell let's keep it real that 33 year old. Damn, at 36? Isn't about time to just call it?

It's so funny listening to her delineate her life's goals, making her mind up about certain things and plotting her life's choices. All the things she can't wait to "get out and start to do" I applaud her and I realize that that person has never ever been me. I have never made any plans for myself, and right now at least, I don't plan on it. (marinate on that for a sec....) I guess I need to get some dreams, because you know dreaming is free....I got that from the Omarion movie. Besides, you have to have a little faith in people.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Love Ridden I've looked at on sentences and all

"I'm not comfortable around you anymore, I don't know how to take your behavior." That's what she said to me as yet another uncivil discourse devolved into the kind of breakup conversations I'd hoped we'd avoid. Even after all this time, I was me, and she was she and our issues hadn't fucking gone anywhere. She explained, "You're suspicious of everything I say suddenly, you flipped out and said 'you had to stay away from me altogether', you call me at 8 in the morning and accuse me of sleeping around, I took me off your MySpace page..." So that's what this is about? That was not what this was about. She could care less about topping my top 8 right about now. Top 8? No, this is SO not about top 8, or MySpace or 8 AM inquisitions. 

Because, "Yes, I removed you from my Top 8, but YOU FUCKING LEFT ME!!!" I screamed into the phone activating the voice limiter, before spewing: "You decided that what we had was nothing... less than nothing, not worth it– do not resuscitate. So, you lit a match and set fire to what I thought was going to be the rest of our lives, and though I begged you to break away clean, you dutifully tended the flame until now we truly have nothing left but ashes. Why ashes? Perhaps to cast yourself as Phoenix and 'rise above' us? But I don't see a Phoenix right now, my mythology is more plain, you're looking more and more like Cassandra." 

That's what I should have said, what I would have said if I'd had my wits about me. If I was really as practiced as I should be about break ups. Because when it comes to breaking up, nobody has done it more than yours truly. Unions of any length, casual and weird, love and indifference, mistresses and friends with benefits. I've had them all, and they have all ended– poorly. So one could safely assume that I've heard every breakup line in the book. I have, I've had real world experience with almost every feasible breakup scenario. I can put you ground zero in any situation and give you some great breakup lines, real classics. Sadly, I am quite unrehearsed when it comes to matters of my ex, mostly because I really convinced myself that I would never have to refer to her as "my ex." It's even more shocking when the ex, starts kicking some of those famous breakup lines. Can you imagine? Classics coming out of those beautiful lips? 

I am a sucker for those lips, and those eyes, even on the phone. Therefore, today there would be no well played retorts, or piercing parting shots. Today there would only be studied elucidation. Explaining my actions, my voice broke: "I'm doing what I have to do to survive you." I meant that, and I spoke slowly choosing my words carefully. I apologized again and again for freaking out. She deserves the benefit of the doubt, even though she has done pretty much what every other woman I've ever broken up with, that doesn't mean shit. Does it? Of course it doesn't, she was different. No one has ever told me that they needed "some space, a little alone time to find themselves" only for me to find themselves on a date a week later, or in her case "some dates." But that shouldn't make me paranoid? It's not a lie, it's a half-truth or something. I should not be confused, she is different, even though everything about this feels familiar. Then it hits me, she really is different. Because it's not like she has suddenly become this other person, this stranger has been in my midst for some time now. I've felt her puling away, I could feel her start to hold back as early as  last year. But, it's not like she wasn't commited, for a time there she was still in it to win it: eyes on the prize. Turns out, she wasn't that sure she wanted the prize, and now she's confident that the prize is no prize at all. Waitaminit? What? 

So yeah, I'm a little flipped out nowadays, paranoid– suspicious. Stupidly listening to what other people say, trying to find some shred of logic to this situation, some reason for this same old rhyme that I been singing far too long. And yes, I am screaming your name into the void you left, and missing you, and checking every man's face for traces of what loving you used to do to me when I was with you, and oh yeah...I took you off my top eight. 

Make no mistake you are still number one in my heart, though I know I must get over you. Hate it or love it, you are moving on, and I must move on and the temptation was just too great to click a link and get a web's eye view of your life without me. Oh the places you'll go without me! I don't want to debate the intentions of whomever just left a glowing comment on your page, and called you a goddess or whatever. See over here, on this side; it's desperation time. I am having to relent my relationship, I'm cut off from my best friend, I can no longer sleep with my lover, my life as I had planned it is no more. You can't question my level of commitment, because I stayed even when I should have left, only to have you leave. So, seeing the digital you smiling, sad, or just plain moving on, right there? Right on top of my Top 8? Oh hell naw, HELL to the NAW! Better to let you as you put it, "grow without me" without me. I can't take a front row seat in front of your  second life as a single woman, dreading that day that my profile pic disappears from your Top 8, and another meaningless act becomes pointed in this macabre mambo we've hypnotized ourselves into performing. 

There's something else that's so different and troubling about this time around. The stakes have never seemed so high, I guess it's because I haven't just lost some girl, I've lost you. You carry for me so many connections, so much emotion, and now all we know of each other is this terrible time in each others' lives. Well, my life anyway, the person who leaves if nothing else carries with them conviction, that goes a long way towards joy. 

Soon, this will be just another faded memory too, an anecdote told at the mention of an old name that you haven't thought of in forever. All this discourse will be reduced to a pat turn of witty phrase or two. The reality of who we were replaced by catch all titles like: "the lil' young poetry chick" or "that crazy old dj freak". That day,will be saddest of all because, well; we simply won't be sad. Not about this at least, not anymore. The mention of me won't pause your heart or steal your breath, even for a moment. Perhaps you will smile wryly and laugh at a better memory, grace may even make you deny whatever title was used. But amidst the grace and memories you definitely won't be sad because I will definitely be gone, and if anything you will only miss, missing me. 

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Football Season is Over

So much to say today, and so much more to be said about yesterday and fearing tomorrow. Hating the changes, hating the same, hating it all and wishing for the end, even at the very beginning. I just want it to be over... football season.

"Football Season is Over" the last words of Hunter S. Thompson before he blew his brains out, and his friends respected his wishes that whatever remained be blown out of a giant cannon. Beyond judging Hunter, or judging suicide, beyond good or bad sense...can you understand how he felt? How it feels to be a man? The vessel of your own creation, however flawed; your very existence hewn from ruin, everyday. Trying to thrive, only to find that the Super Bowl as usual was predictable, just like all the others and in the end an anticlimactic let down– just like before. It's enuff to "make a nughhh go craaaayyyzaayyyy!" or at least get your ODB on and do some drugs... ...or a cocktail of heroin, ecstasy, cocaine and special k(fuck!)

Off topic, my question is why do we keep letting these maladjusted motherfuckers make our minds up for us in the first place? Are we all just a sucker for a moving sermon and a few well placed couplets? If an opinion is expressed in song form is it that much more convincing? Hell, rap music is the reason I stopped eating pork inthe 80s. So I know I'm always swayed, maybe more than I even know, y'know?

Back on topic: lately, say the last 9 years or so; I have felt like I'm standing in the berth of Hunter's canon and checking my shotgun, and my mouth for fit, and– I just haven't been writing, there– I said it. I haven't been writing, not really writing, not for a long, long time. Sure, I been moonlighting doing other people's term papers and giving away my best lines but my voice went mute a long time ago, it just didn't realize it was mute. But after my voice found out it was gone? Sheeit, we were really through.

You see, at one time I fancied myself a man of letters, furthermore I scoffed at those who would offer themselves up to the world part and parcel without the benefit of any life experience. Hemmingway haters be damned, just because you can doesn't mean that you should. I mean, come on dude, your droning on about "your student loans are late, and you miss your dead mom, and cancer, cancer really sucks, and you already named your kids and she still left you" and WHO THEE FUCK CARES? That was my refrain. Writing should transcend. I mean come on yawl: Emerson? Anyone? Ralph, Waldo, Emerson? Anyone? Anyone? Something-something-dentalism? The question we should all be asking ourselves in this post-post-post party is: Is it transcendent? Is it something that people can use? And seriously, how can you ever know without the benefit of some life experience?

Back in the day, I felt like I had better stories to tell then and better ones even still yet to come, or so I thought. So I sought them out, MY stories, good stories, things that I would go through that people could use. Transcendent experiences. So I set about subconsciously scripting my life, maybe even making choices that were not the best in the "service of my art" (no bullshit, I'm kind of a douche.) But I would be lying if I didn't say that I was thrilled by the material that my misfortunes, misogyny, misinformation and plain old mistakes provided. I was as much observer as participant making me some sort of emotional conscientious objector, in it but not of it.

Committed or not, emotionally– spiritually, even... ...episode by episode I have been killing myself. Unintentional suicide makes a shotgun an easy fit. But I can't go out like a nut, so you branch out, you try something different you don't say you quit writing, you just take some time away and promise yourself you will finish what you started another day. Of course you can't deny your voice, so you make some failed attempts at other things. Other things that don't satisfy you nearly as much, but all that gets you is that extra special soul crushing defeat that can only be manufactured from inside. THAT surprise ending is enough to make you start to think that maybe February is the cruelest month. Cue the Greek Chorus for a resounding cry of:"Hey, Deus Ex Muthaphucka– muthaphucka." Game's over, it's a fucking blowout, and you? You lose...again. Surprise! Ha, ha! For me, February has turned to August and unfortunately all that ammo that I loaded in my gun? What the fuck am I gonna do with all that sweet Pearl Jam? What are you going to shoot it at? You can't go blind, steadily complaining that you "slap the ham" because you can't find the pussy right? And hey, you can't go out without at least busting a nut...soooo..... you gotsta get your fuck on. Self propagation, that's even better than self preservation, right? Looks like I better find a pen.

In the midst of upheaval and mental unrest forms the perfect storm of impetus. Is it a herald of encouragement or a harbinger of the end of days? I still just want it all to be over, but somewhere between Cary Tennis' thoughts on creativity, Californication, numerology and Art and Fear; I've found myself the chance to get some niiice pussy. It's either that or the "lead- based" version of the master cleanse. 21 grams might not seem like incredible results, but damn the effects would be long lasting and how could that not be satisfying? I guess what I'm trying to say, and what you will see if you click them lainks is that I know I am not alone, but sometimes you just feel like you are by yourself. So this missive was my first shot out of the canon, fired over the bow; it was the only way I could think of to not become the ammunition.

You're so vain....I bet you think this blog.....

would you have still done what you did?
knowing everything from there would forever compare
to that moment?
a trick of the eye frozen in time, for–
days disappear without you Aurora.
time and I have conspired to lose me in the gloaming
since you have set me free.
but my heart, false witness refuses to go.
institutionalized by that look in your eyes that refuses to let me 
that is not
"We, Us."

those eyes,
can't lie.
your disguise 
is farce.
fundamentally lacking in deceit
I fool me for you– deception is my new passion

carving what I can remember of those eyes
into my wall, to let them watch me while I lie.
if I won't be sure, let me be forever in those eyes.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

well, i got the naked part down...

She had the kind of body that I knew would make me regret it if I didn't get to sleep with her. Incredibly fit for her age not suffereing any effects of her 30s. Wow, was all I could think to myself as she moved my way and took a seat at the table. looking back now it's amazing how comfortable I felt, after all; this was my first date in more than 3 years. Amazing for me, I know! A chance encounter led to an "honest" conversation and an exchange of numbers, which led to this evening, not a date- more like a "go see." Just a chance to see what's poppin. What was poppin? Me, fool! Swagger was not the word for it, this was pure, unadulterated flow, or at least I thought so.

I guess I'm failing to mention that my homies were on one side of the table taking their sweet fucking time moving on to the rest of what the evening had to offer, problem. Stil I thought I was charming, funny and just a touch sensitive, I was unaware that she was, what's the word? uncomfortable. But hey, I'm one of those big blustery personalities, all volume and another good story. I kept the party going or so I thought, though I managed to drop hints of my own doom saying things like "I feel like I'm doing all the talking here." Nevertheless, the evening ended late, later than she thought it would, always a good sign.

I retired home, confident in my accomplishment, I had tried the waters of the dating pool, and managed not to drown but to do a pretty impressive back stroke. Still, I couldn't suppress that nagging feeling that something was going to go wrong, things go wrong with me, that's what happens. This is the character I've created for myself, and my life's events all seem to bear the stain of this character trait: tragedy. Of course, one man's tragedy is just about everybody else's comedy, so people tend to think I'm funny; and I am, if tragedy=comedy, I'm REALLY funny.

So speaking of really funny, the next night I meet a few friends out for art and cocktails, but mostly cocktails. Question: is the sad girl with the bad songs our punishment for 2 dollar drinks? Man, there ought to be a law, now more than ever we need editors! (said the guy with the blog) Sometimes it feels like open mic people are punishing us for ignoring them and having a good time in spite of their poorly rhymed poem about everything that's wrong with hip hop (Complaining poets maybe?) Other times the world gets real small, like this night. All of a sudden I go from never having seen this woman, to seeing her out at the smallest out of the way place in the world, whoa! Some might call this serendipity, but I prefer another "s" term which is FAR more appropriate: schadenfreude. But I swear to you, I was trying to make it serendipitous.

At first I thought: What good fortune! we can skip the follow up call, gain some points for like interests, and seal the deal with the dinner invitiation. Everything's coming up Millhouse! I mean, things just don't go this well for me! Oh yeah, that's right, things DON'T go this well for me. So before you know it, I'm off and running, again, this time about numerology, and the celestial vibe that is forcing all of us to choose the path of light and less resistance or another path which will make things harder for us. ('Tis true, I would link to a post, but I'm already looking like a nut, just google: "light warriors." Check it, the heavy 9 vibration this year is compelling us all to finish our unfinished business, and choose a path, this shit is especially heavy for me, seeing as how my life path number is 9, my birthday number is 9, everything about me is 9. But I digress, if that's possible...) Now I think this shit is fascinating, but it turns out what it really is, is yet another one of the filters that my homie told me about, that help us eliminate people from our lives that will do us no good. At least it's one of the filters that's easy to listen to. I believe those filters, or red flags or whatever are constantly there, sometimes we heed them, but most times we ignore them, because after all how many times have you come to the end of another failed relationship wondering how you got there, and then turned around and noticed all the signs, filters and red flags that you gleefully ran over, ignored or just plain didn't trust? I can't be alone on this.

So back to the point, by the time I got to the "celestial light warriors," part I could see her looking for the eject button- and she found it, when the weirdest person in the bar, just happened to be an old friend of mine. By the time I had returned from my "what ups" and "long time no sees," and "how's the Paxil working out for you"she was gone, and at that very moment I knew just how gone she was. There would be no points scored, no dinner invitation, and regretably, no athletic sex with that plump set of breasts, smallest waist and biggest ass I've seen on a 33 year old, who just happened to be a Tarus, so you know what that means in the sack! Now I'm feeling all Florida Evans, like "damn, damn, damn james! couldn't you have just kept it closed long enough to see the titties?!!. " Worst of all, there would be no days of anticipation, no schemes, no 3 pronged date ending the next morning, just a return to normalcy, and another chance to finish my unfinished business, which is unfinished for some very good reasons.