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Waking up to the fact that Iím an asshole is critical, but I want the easy way out. I desire an intervention, but my friends are too pussy to conduct one. I just need to accept who I am. Thankfully, every now and then someone says, ďyou *could* changeĒ. I am mostly like ďfuck thatĒ (because Iím an asshole, right?). Where is the proper line? Are constraints truly unnecessary? Can I learn to settle down? P, recall that dating someone who is as terrible (if not worse than you) doesnít help. Oh sweet girl, school me in your sweet ways.
My, thatís a terrible start, but Iím too exhausted to do anything about it. Too tired to do anything at all in fact, save grin and reminisce about those ideal times we all had last night. Itís a rush when experiences fly at me that fast. Usually the wild ones are all spread out. The rate is increasing. People are whisper whisper and Iím gaining momentum. Iím not concerned that this new and fast is burning me out. Fun and rich and rife with fodder it is, so who cares if itís just plain wasted-making. Take rest when you can.
The canoeís been taking in a lot of water this past week and now itís time to steady it, bail it out, and paddle onward. Only trouble is getting down to doing that. All I want to do is sleep or laze around in my jammies with toast and tea and a telephone connection with a good good friend. Or a movie instead of cleaning up the yard from winterís excess uncovered by springís thaw.
And for some stupid reason, thoughts along these lines make me think, ďOh wouldnít it be nice to have comfy slippers? etc.Ē So easily distracted.
What can be done about creeps who follow, judge, and harass? Perhaps you can have them charged. What if they know the boundaries of the law and they operate just under the radar? That is, the offender offends enough to annoy and upset, but not enough to be fined or jailed. I think your only recourse is to somehow ignore that person. Itís tricky, but I have increasing faith in my abilities here. Jam your buttons so that they cannot be pushed, look the other way when slapped, and distract yourself with all of the good things around you instead.
Donít want to harangue. I would rather drink Tang.
Got the pills for my mystery rash. Dr foreignness was quiet and head-shaking and I quickly offered that I havenít changed my laundry detergent or diet etc. Finally, he said in a feeble way, ďno, no, thinking.Ē Then he scribbled a script for green gel pills that taste of candy. These help with the itch, but the affliction spreads. It began at the ankles and has vined its way up my legs to the knees.
And somehow all of this reminds me of funeral song #2. I have no idea why.
I want you to feel as though you can talk to me about oral sex. Really, I donít mind. Some will feel uncomfortable and Iím blown away by just how relaxed you are when the subject finally comes up. We didnít get into the mechanics of it this time at all. Rather, I allowed the other to lead. Of course, we spoke of its general function, whether it is required, obligations, who can engage in it, and consent (the biggie). I leave the room feeling strong and connected again. Selfishly, I want to brag about this, my Good Friday achievement.
M found me at the restaurant with S, my date. Huffy begins to describe her demeanour.
M:ďHowís training going?Ē (sneers)
P:ĒOk, I think. Says the trainee, that is. You should ask the trainer though.Ē (I introduce S to M)
M:ĒI hate it when you lie to meĒ
P:ĒThatís what makes you special.Ē
I was watching her fire stoke higher and higher throughout and I know that sheís insane, but I did not expect what came next. She picked up my hoegaarden glass and smashed it across my face, blood on the pickled food dťcor and a tooth in my masala.
We dance all night in our jammies. Well, not exactly.
Stars donít shine so bright when you wake up from under the desk with a bruised head and blistered toes. Still, these are my fulfillment days, the pure embodiment of a life out of focus.
Lying on my bed at brackenridge, I stare at the industrial grey metal shelf that houses my things (books, games, trinkets). Iím not tired, just bored. I let my eyes cross over on each other and watch as the shelf multiplies. One. Two. Three.
I remember thinking, ďI could live my entire life this way.Ē
Mid-afternoon naps with loud music, driving to my hideaway without informing anyone first, and preparing for my next phase secretly. I list things in threes for a good reason. And my forehead is a misshapen lump of flesh and bone. The whole area is tender and begs to be pressed, little pangs help wake me up during my daytime imprisonment. Confines that are real (this desk, pc, these users) and others that are mine (self-judgement, desire, mental exhaustion). Mine are not real. Here is my tendency again to subjugate, to push down. Remind of the freeness and unravel your confinement.
Rounding corners a bit too fast in the parkade with the organ grinding on my stereo, I inhale for Tuesday. How many more Tuesdays can I take? And the air rushing into the nose transforms to a memory. Is it the dusty smell of a snow-moldy spring or one of those unscented back-of-the-throat sensations? Close my eyes for just a split second to see grandpa in his hospital bed of last year. Holding his hand while he dies, I return with him to our pasture. I drive and we indulge in one more walk back on our very own land.
We fucked and then climbed into my car, new tfc pumping the stereo, and drove as fast as we could to the land of the craven. On site, I waited patiently for her outside the public toilets, clearing my mind and unfocussing my eyes.
Matthew Sweetís introductory guitar strains in the distance evoked something in me. I didnít recognize the feeling and I didnít trying to decipher which song it was even, I gave over to the memory that was being called up.
And just before he sang ďdevil with the green eyesĒ, I saw you before me there, gorgeous.
Written attempts to describe my insides will boil it all down to something unrecognizable. Often it takes me away from the feeling itself. The stream of consciousness self-analysis starts at point A and then goes to H and L and beyond. There is a decided lack of focus in the method that I employ to get at exactly where it is that I am currently at. Do others care so much about their inner details? Should I give a damn whether or how this inward project plays out for others? Or, is it through others that I can gain focus?
To critically peer at the state that I am in changes the state that I am in.
Itís like the sun shining on a plant. When the sun glances down through clouds, the plant is illuminated. It can be seen, though perhaps not fully. The plant strains to be seen as it moves toward the light, the food-maker. Further, when the sun burns down unhindered by cloud-cover, the plant is fully exposed (though perhaps only one side of it).
And the sunís effect on the plant is to change it, make it grow, and potentially kill it even.
N is quiet on the other side of the overflowing table. She is well into this party with its shared nachos and cheap imports. And K notes her behaviour, outward clues speaking only to him. If she is aware of his gaze, she is good at hiding it. N stutters now, though she is not speaking, mouth opening slowly, teeth narrowly revealed, a flick of her tongue. Surely she will catch him in this and truly K wants to be caught. Drawn in by her, Kís the newfound fan of her lovely cheek, that slight wrist, and her relaxed poise.
Itís important to have the propensity toward distraction. I envy people with this trait. I sidle up to them, gaze into their lives, and try to apply their techniques to mine (it rarely works).
Even when given a moment to rest, chill, or generally be distracted, I donít take it. Not entirely true. I do take downtime, but not distraction time.
That is, when mentally occupied, I dwell. I wish I could be lead away from the dwelling. Need to acquire that skill. Perhaps itís all about taking things seriously. Life is less serious than the treatment I give it.
Her form is yet unknown to me. Iím beginning to know, with new parts revealed every time we meet to talk and touch and evade our friends. She feels self-conscious about her size though she is not approaching over-weight status, a large girl though, my amazon. She was the original amazon, not some future pretender. And I found her pinned and mostly relaxed as I removed her layers and the woman sang about the greeks. Was it lorelei? It was the song that informed the moment. No, the moment made that song, captured, as she was, on my bedroom floor.
Canít I just call and make a plan to come over and shoot it with you? I dislike so many of your traits and at the same time I miss you. Scrub you from my life; wipe you from my past.
Your off-colour humour, witty lines, arrogance, charm, self-interest, stubbornness, consumption with the garbage end of western culture (is any of it worthwhile anymore?), and your view of politics as the ultimate game are all the items that I simultaneously love and loathe.
Itís the existence of the former mixed with the latter that keeps you on my relationship radar.
Rushing down the stairs, I fling my heavy steel door (they fixed the squelchy screech yesterday) and I almost hit you in the face with it. Yipes! What are you doing downstairs? I offer some words as I rush past, feeling the need to explain my downstairs situation, but you hardly notice as you're practically on the bench in the atrium already with your "phone to head" pose. It's 5 past 9, girl: a tad early for the out-of-office personal call. And here I wanted to justify my presence. How much longer are you planning to be with the company?
A vexing pulling of tendons in my forearm and hand puts me in mind of other sensations that I am not presently experiencing, thank god. Donít start at the physical.
I need to read more and write more and take in more art. Too much of this life is wasted on the self and its aches and strains and useless, disjointed memories. This leads me to consider whether my internal roadmap is bitched altogether. It could totally be bitched.
Hey, was there a tv show called ďBe BitchedĒ? Woman merely wiggles her fucked up nose and bingo, all is bitched.
The two of us walk down every aisle.
It is unplanned, but we are taking turns picking up objets, commenting on them, and returning them to the shelf. She mentions that she is particularly struck by the fact that we share the same taste. I smile and am only slightly disappointed by her statement. Itís a fact, like so many, that is most treasured when unspoken, at least at the very moment itís happening anyway. After the fact, you may speak and weíll glow again with the warm memory of that moment.
Perhaps I view too many things as sacred.
Youíd best put those big eyes away along with your nervous disposition and adorable edge-of-your-seat-ness. Iím checking out your eyes and trying not to get sidetracked. Iím struggling to focus on moving my lips and tongue in such a way as to say things that I intend rather than say all those things that you call up inside of me. Youíre so tiny and well put together, girl. Those fitted black slacks and the open and easy vertically striped shirt. Why canít I just stand and throw you over my shoulder, march you to my cave, and make you mine?
Hot breath expelled in the room, permeated by heat. A rush in the head and the toes go flex. Inhalation finds one thing and then itís gone. A hint of something at the back of the throat, eyes close to capture the image. Water pours off the back and the skull tilts right. ďOh floppy neck, you canít sleep here.Ē An upright snap as I recognize the sound of someone approaching. My humming begins automatically. Is it to distract or put at ease? The insincerity in those low low notes is so evident to me. Will the other catch that?
I truly donít believe that the world is against me, but I take it that certain events in recent days signal a slight change in the breeze against my aged face. The change is minimal and no doubt imperceptible to some (as it bloody well ought to be, perhaps). The upshot means that it is no longer safe to be ďout thereĒ in the way I have been. I feel too exposed out here and like the turtle, I will return now to my shell. Shhh, this is a hiatus. I will take this opportunity to both chill and reflect.
They all look the same in here tonight. Misfits, Rancid, Good Riddance tees with standard issue studded belts, ripped jeans, spikey hair Ė cookie cutter cool. Itís also like 90% male, this audience. I need to go to a 90% female audience show.
Fists are up now. Mouths are stretched to eject the howl. Screaming makes the bad things go away. Meditation works for people without rage. It helps to clear the mind and rid stress and anxiety. On the other hand, screaming expels the rage, hate, and fear. Perhaps not the only viable method of expulsion, but damn, it works.
Being hyper self-aware is not necessarily a good thing. The ďhyperĒ focuses the already very critical eye ever deeper inward. All events, everything said, body language, and other public actions are heavily scrutinized against the newly-tweaked definitions of exactly what it is that makes me such a freak. It is endless torture and a massive part of my daily reality. Itís why I yearn to get outside of myself and ends up being the pivotal excuse for my escapist tendencies. Where is the true release? Running, writing, boxing, screaming Ė these things help, but the brain just never fully shuts up.
I like the way she wears her shirts. Itís not that she has the odd ďexceptionĒ shirt, but they are all like that. One could say too short, but I wonít say that because I donít agree. I like her walk, itís quick and purposeful and just a little bit flamboyant. Shirt lifts ever so slightly as she rounds the corner, exposing my afternoon hints.
Is she against tucking? Bad at laundering? No, itís her style. You just have to see it because it works, itís lovely, and it fits the walk. Itís all in the way you carry yourself.
These Saturday stairs are longer and steeper on this night because of the week that just passed Ė final exams, anxiety, drugs, music. At the top of the flight I have to speak with someone in order to get in. Donít they know me here? I work here after all. Or maybe dj-ing for free is not really working. Iím clearly in a state and it doesnít take much to set me off. On entering the booth I fling down my shit and begin the assault. Tonight I will have the metal doors humming, bar glasses singing, and patrons clutching guts.
Itís good luck when a bird poops on you. Itís also a good omen when you hear the same Journey song three times in as many weeks (BDB, DDR, amigos).
Better than omens are opportunities to create. This is karma, I suppose, the sense that good things happen when you do good things. Iíll setup your life, if I can because it will come back to mine.
And now, Iím addicted to good things, a junkie for the good life. Iím the smiling man and Iím wishing the same on everyone around me. Well, Iím wishing it on almost everyone.
Collecting these reminds me of my collections of old. Itís not the same as stamps, coins, garbage pail kids stickers, bottle caps, or rocks. But there is a certain sameness in it. How is it that I didnít see this value sooner? Oh yeah, my parents didnít teach me this one. Can I teach my kids? So far, they know what I knew. I need this to be fixed and the only way to sort it for them is for us to move. We must get to a better kids zone. They need that thing I never had (until now).
Too many people find it weird. Thatís a strange way for me to start. Iím completely torn on this one piece of the issue: whether I care.
I truly believe that I donít care what others think of two straight dudes in a hot tub, but fuck (yeah, Iíll choose my words carefully here), their comments are ridiculous. For starters, I like sitting in a hot tub, drinking in a hot tub, and conversing in a hot tub. Itís not about sex, kids. Itís about getting chilled by the heat. No company required, but companyís always welcome. Get over it!
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