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.