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A journey of three thousand, one hundred words begins with the letter A. I am a weirdness magnet. Strange things happen to me. Strange people seem drawn to me. In every aspect of my life, I’ve been going through a state of flux. My city is going through a similar process of renewal, reinvention. Thirty-one days and I’ll take you into my life. Different aspects, different thoughts, different ideas. Some of this may scare you or disturb you. Some of it may make you wet or hard. In the end if I’ve made you think, then I’ve done my job.
I’m in a state of transition. I think I’ve aged beyond redemption. But now I see my work has only begun. I need to get this shit done. I can’t let it keep me buried. The past deaths. I’m clawing my way up. Trying to add something to existence. Something direct. I’m sometimes scared by the length of words. I need to put more down. Words and bitter bean juice. Some for fun. Some for healing. Some for you. Some for me. So if you wander near my life, Be prepared. Your life becomes my ink. I want you there.
Sliding through the streets of Manhattan I end up in an oasis of green. Central Park on a bright summer day. Belvedere Castle in the near twilight. Japanese tourists chatter like the bids do. And as the evening wanes their voices drown out the Shakespeare beneath me. Once more unto the breach. And there is nothing wrong with tourists, nothing that can’t be cured with a rocket launcher. A brief conversation on the Battle of Agincourt. Dinner at a good Puerto Rican restaurant. Then home again, home again jiggidy jig to write more about them. Where is this leading me?
It’s the fourth and I’m trying to update this but the site seems to be down. Maybe I have a gremlin? Maybe they do? Is it true that all of life’s mysteries are answered in movies? I’ve discovered that my liver is a super hero. It’s mightier than the average beer, more powerful than malt liquor, able to leap tall bottles of Absinthe in a single bound. I’ve seen domestic bliss in the eyes of others and I accept that it is not my path. Not at this time. I am an agent of chaos. I am a modern gunslinger.
Take a good look at modern cinema. What does it tell you? Are we being fed a message? Are be being manipulated into a particular state of being? Are we really in danger of machines and computers controlling us? Destroying us? Ah…but I think it’s too late. I think as a species we’re always controlled by our creations. We are the victims as much as the antagonists. We are heroes and villains. Or maybe it’s all just bread and circuses. Maybe we live a revolution through the arts, so we don’t notice that we are in fact an evil empire.
To continue the theme; consider if you will the lack of power we sometimes have to effect a positive change. Anyone above a low-grade moron could see that the second oil war was based not so much on fact as it was policy. Now that they are looking for a scapegoat (anyone but the people responsible) it should make those who were against it feel a little vindicated and very small. But as you read these words behind the screen, consider your advantages. Like Bob Hope said, “I just thought I’d show you boys what you were fighting for.” Freedom.
The holiday over, Freedom has a new definition. Freedom means owning a car. Freedom means having your cable and your computer. Freedom means the “American Way of Life” and our “Interests” are an interest in preserving our upward climb. I could be against the war. I wish it were about N/B/C weapons or terrorism. I could support it then. But I can’t say I’m against it. To do so while typing on a computer seems hypocritical. Maybe I’m wrong, but I just think I would have supported things better if they’d said what the war was really about. My America.
Forgive the previous political rants. This isn’t a platform for skewed political views, just my skewed brain. These musings should have a direction. This stems from myself needing direction. A little over a year ago I moved back from the Sonoran desert. Since then things have not gone like I planned. The adventure has been strange and wonderful, but the poor economy of New York is one of many harsh factors. I’m trying to claw my way into a new career path. I’m trying to live a different life. In that I’ve succeeded. Though this is not what I’d expected.
I’ll avoid bitching about how totally screwed things are. To concentrate on the negative is to enhance the negative. A downward spiral. On a positive note, since my return to New York, I’ve been in a better creative groove than ever before. Stories, prose-poetry and photos have all improved and I’ve even branched into film and TV. I may be on the bottom rung of the ladder, but I’m on the ladder. So while the City is being a bitch, while things are in some ways at their worst, in other ways, they couldn’t be better. I’m living the dream.
I recently saw an Indy film about a secretary. She was pretty and neurotic and even though she had a taste for razors, she was alluring. She had a boss who was as troubled as she was. Master and Servant they fell in love through the physical sensations of pain and pleasure-dominance and submission. They both needed correction. I look at some relationships I’m around and remember ones I’ve been in and ones I’ve seen. The fictitious couple had one thing that many real ones don’t. Look at the one you are in and ask yourself if TRUST is there.
She sits alone in her parent’s house. She hides behind a fake accent, away from the world. She’s been hurt before. Exactly how is unclear. If asked, she’ll mention rape. Perhaps it’s true, but she leaves room for doubt. She’s a recluse. A modern hermit. A pathological liar who has sucked the truth from all she has known. She’s stuck in a holding pattern of deceit. She is in a hell of her own creation. Pity her if you want, but you can’t save her. Only she can save herself. I would like to meet the person she could be.
They sit in their house in silence. A few years ago, he’d cheated on her with a friend’s wife. He broke up that marriage and she unknowingly consoled his mistress. It was such a shame. Then she discovered his betrayal. She learned the woman she’d offered comfort to was fucking her husband. The mistress left the scene, tried to fuck her way into better relationships with what few friends remained. They sit in their house in silence. She won’t divorce him. She’ll change him. Alter him. Destroy him. She’ll hurt him every single day as much as he’s hurt her.
If you ask him, he’ll say it’s not his fault. He had a close circle of friends once. But the pain of his life grew. One by one he founds reasons. Found them unworthy. He found other people. People who were generous. People who would give him money. People who would let themselves be taken advantage of. People who didn’t care about him enough to tell him the truth. He sucked as much from these people as he could and moved on. The old circle of friends misses him, but they don’t pity him. This is how people fade away.
He was a generous young man. He was a kind heart. Maybe he didn’t have so much luck with the girls. Maybe he was shy. Perhaps his being a little overweight made him less than attractive. But you could see his kindness in everything he did. Like everyone, he had pain, but he rose above it. He was strength. One day, he found something on his skin. The cancer grew and metastasized to his brain. I only knew him a few months. His strength touched my soul. Pity yourself for never meeting him. Fear, like me. He was my age.
I guess I’m a bit of a hypocrite. Didn’t I say that I shouldn’t concentrate on the negative things? Yeah, the past few entries were really dark. During my time in the desert, I learned who in my life mattered to me. I concentrate on them. They are my true family. We are each other’s strength. In a way, the last few entries are lessons. They’ve taught me. The scary thing is that the people I’ve described are real. Maybe I’m a bastard, but I count myself lucky. As bad as things are right now, they could far, far worse.
Eyes closed in slumber deep. Not entangled by nightmares but pleasant dreams caress his mind. Fear runs down the walls in silent streams as the dust of memories whirls past his static mind. Golden dawn, a killing demon now before a gentle caress on tanned, upturned face. Children’s laughter, a summer breeze in a lush park where picnics thrive. It was there at the end of innocence where the shadows formed a growing rage from a moments betrayal of love into something more. A fated encounter drunken bravado and the loss of a soul, agony, as he died that night.
You are a fucking tool. A victim waiting to happen. Again and again. What does it take to wake you up, get you conscious? Why can’t you hear me? Are you shy? Or dumb? You are a puppet. Proud of it’s strings. Why do you continue to play their game? If not, then you’re gonna go through your whole life being their implement. And when you die, (and God fucking forbid you’re allowed to breed before then) they’ll bury you completely. Right now you’re only in up to your neck. And your coffin is a toolbox. Wake the fuck up.
he asks me if i am in pain. would i be here if i wasn’t? western medicine is scary. all it does is kill pain. and he let me drive home. i look down and see the blood running down my arm. he had all these things in his hand, but i felt normal. voices ran by. voices in the night from the other tables. keep it silent. i do, but if I didn’t write, i think i’d explode. when he said he needed to take some blood, i never imagined what he meant where exactly has your mouth been?
Welcome to the Hotel Arizona. The heat burns me into memory, bitterness. The company I keep reminds me of the near past. The sand speaks to me, says Mr. button-down T-shirt needs to be reconnected and the small letters need to run around and play and change the furniture. Change the space into something more determined. You were so beautiful, but I’m so much better. I’m starving, but never had a better head. I’m one step closer to the bright empire. You may not believe in your derision, but wait for the proof. Everything you said was shaded in falsehood.
I have is this cyber-psychosis and I’m anchored to the stage and the mic is glued to my fist and attention is nice but I’m living the life of a roman candle and I’m saying these words fast because someone is going to start talking and then I’ll have to answer and so we go back and forth and stop propositioning me and let me have a minute to see my friends’ kids grow up and I’m on the lam anyway and it’s hard when you’re on the move and there’s a real pretty girl out there in the audience.
I need time to think, regroup. I need time to put the commas in place. Because I have things to say and not a lot of time. I want to put emphasis into it. Show the meaning in clear clever phrases and have time to speak words of peace and justice and god and love and angst. Hi. How are you? How was your day? I’m fine. Kinda busy but, no. No, I’ve got some time. Maybe we could go out for coffee? Cool. See ya. Sometimes you need to stop. Find someone to talk to. Someone who will listen.
It’s all pretty temporary, never more than a fleeting moment. Inside, we share a few drinks and the usual conversation. Friends and neighbors never suspect. In a room full of people who are together the two of us drift close despite the vows that we’ve made to others. In the real world, we nine to five and return to a spouse and 2.3 children and a pet of normal people. In the wanted reality, we feel the touch of skin whiplash through nerves and love is a many-splintered thing. How do you deal with infatuation when the reality comes home?
Happy birthday mommy dearest. Here’s to your strength and wisdom and coat hanger passive aggressive Italian complaints and bitching and things were better when I lived on the opposite side of the country. Go to hell and save me a place because I’m not far behind and don’t take al this the wrong way because I do love you but right not I’m clawing through the earth. And the rant eases out and I return to the day to day of living in a subtle form of hell and the drums are almost silent in the hills of city damnation.
OW. Mother fucking son of a bitch I burned my fucking fingers on a fucking pot trying to lift it from the stove and do you know how hard it is to type with burned fingers? Look at the flesh, it smells like roast pork and looks like burned chicken. Damn it now bits of it are falling off and some gunk is messing up my keyboard. Shit. That was a finger bone that fell off. I have to stop sticking them in my mouth because it doesn’t make it feel any better. And I’m starting to like the taste.
Pain is a good teacher. Pain is the well of inspiration. When has pain ever failed you? Did you ever stick a fork in a light socket after the first time? Did you ever taunt the bully after he beat you? Did he, after you beat him? After you cut your arm playing with that knife, did you ever… You did? You cut yourself on purpose? That wound on your arm is self-inflicted! What the hell is the matter with you? Didn’t anyone ever tell you it was wrong? Wait, you’re telling me you actually like it? Me too! Cool.
I’m trying to get into the groove, get into that space in my head where the words flow freely…that Beta/alpha mix of creativity and vocabulary. But today the characters are silent and my quiet cast I think are at the beach. It’s one of those days where you look forward to Monday. A lazy day afternoon where anything can happen but nothing ever does. Middle summer blues. I’m antisocial, misanthropic, under-caffeinated and a little seedy. The dwindling supply of cigarettes will eventually force me to go out and do…
It feels like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Fuck, It’s the end of JULY ALREADY?!?! I’ve finished the week’s leads in job hunting and I’m kickin back, trying to catch up on some writing. Website stiff is doing ok and will probably be better. Most of the writing expression lately has been tied into vampire genre stuff. I have a few new things simmering on the back burner though. While I’m waiting for them to cook, I’ve been going over Photoshop and have worked up a few new pics. Once the site is up, you’ll be able to see them. I hate leavening things in the Yahoo briefcase.
Oops I did it again. I invited Brit over and she brought out a bottle. I chopped a few lines and within minutes she was on her knees. She’s pretty good for such a young thang. Purty mouth. Even teeth. Even, scraping teeth. GOD DAMN IT! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I HATE THAT! I broke the mirror and quickly altered her boob job. But she wouldn’t stop screaming. So I gave her a faicial with the Glock. Now I owe the record company another good looking, talentless flash in the pan whore. Damn, I need some kinda rehab. Again.
Thanks for the memories. The Sunday afternoons, the road to Bali the TV specials, the laughs. Thanks for the history. Thanks for the shaping the world. Thanks from all the people you made laugh. Thanks for making me laugh. Thanks for the drive and the wisdom and the bad golf scores. Thanks I owe you here because I never had the opportunity to tell you personally. Thanks for showing me what we were fighting for. Thanks for setting the standard. Thanks for everything Bob, you are sorely missed by a world you helped transform. Thanks for making that world funnier.
To one far away, It seems we’ve made a connection. It looks like things could be better if we were closer. But miles curve like interstellar space and there’s no way for it to happen. The Eyes of the Nile watch as our lives briefly touch. You move past and further out of reach. We both know that it will never happen. We know what we really have and how good it is. So despite the miles, as you read these words, know that on this day, in this place we connected, if only for a brief period of time.
And so this step in the journey draws to a close. The month for me has really been a in the doldrums. But in the process of perpetual reinvention, you take what little steps you can. I hope you’ve enjoyed these little steps. But all in all these were done for me. Bon chance for now mes amis. This will probably continue through the next month. For more words there’s a live journal of the same name. If I don’t see you here, I’ll see you there. Or somewhere on the streets of New York perhaps? And so it continues…
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