January 2006 Archives

Does it not matter that I thought I had a vision that would die before 35? I hope it's not true and Owen knew his foolheartedly. I always wanted more than that. I always wanted to get to bed earlier. I always wanted to be a baseball superstar. It doesn't matter much anymore. I strapped my dreams to a sinking ship. I will figure my way out of this, but I have, at last, lost the last of my innocence. I knew what the cost was, but it was worth risking... and still is, I guess. It's not that it doesn't hurt, because it does. It's not that I cannot live without you, or you, or you. I can live. It's just that once I knew love like I knew the way my hands write my name, and now my name is strange to me, but I know love, and I know you, and I will follow and love and break and enter and crush my heart into a pulp. Itwasalwaysyouitwasalwaysyouitwasalwaysyouitwas
alwaysyouitwasalwaysyouitwasalwaysyou, and now I have to figure out a different dream.

I cannot bring myself to sleep in the bed tonight, so I think I will turn on a movie and sleep here on the sofa, like a man who is in trouble with a woman who sleeps in the other room.

Oh let's do the first kiss
all over again.

Tomorrow I will go
to the theater to see
someone else believe in
themselves for a while.

I can hear your heart
palpitate too on this
strange recording.
It's the strange way
these things roll around.

In this city,
you will come to understand,
that we like to eat,
but just as surely
we like to dream.

We make it up as we go,
even when the script
has been written forever.
I said the L word...
Oh, fuck, I said the L word...

This pillow is too big tonight -
too big to hold just my dreams,
so I will try to dream for the both of us.

"or no we won't. Instead tomorrow begins a long weekend in which I will be twisted in to knots, or things you cannot understand, and I will think of the ways in which Steve nailed my testicles to the wall today, and the ways in which he still loves you, and in the ways in which I keep F-ing up all over the place. I need to find my way into that bed back there with all of the knotted up bed sheets and the moisture with this moisturous air all about, and try to put myself out of misery for the night and to wake up in the morning with a new deposit in my bank account, and to finally realize that I am happy for my friends who have carried my ass this week that I began with only $11 in my account. Thanks for the dinners, camaraderie, joy and conversation. I guess at the end of the day that is all you need, and not a late night phone call. We all have something to do tomorrow, and some of us don't get to choose when we get to do it."

-- As William was speaking tonight.

That clock never worked, now did it? We never could find the weight so it could tell time, so time just stopped. It has been perpetually 3 AM or PM in this house since the day it first graced the mantle. It seems so strange that it takes a little weight for time to move on, but to much weight can bring it to a halt again.

I have just passed 3 AM tonight in the middle of another one of my fits of insomnia. Out with L to the movies and dinner tonight, I came home alone and restless and that clock just sat there telling me nothing much has changed. I had to get out of the house again and go to places where the timepieces do keep track. I need to feel like I am moving on, even if this place can seem warped in time.

Okay, I washed my new fancy pen that JC gave me this afternoon and it bled all over y hands and I can't get the black off, but I also did another recording of this one. Don't think these little presents will continue to come with this frequency, I just like the washy sound I am getting out of the setup right now and am trying out some new versions.

Bob Dylan's Beard

I have been sitting here peeling this orange for five years, or maybe two, or just a few months - and as it unfolds I am waiting for that sweet fruit to fall into my hands - but instead it unlayers like an onion - layer upon layer of orange rind with no discernible fruit. I wait. I peel. I hope. But, alas there seems to be no fruit there, and I begin to wonder about the truth of fruit, sugar, diabetes, hope and sickness. All I ever wanted was to get to the fruit, to feel that rush of fructose as it hits the bloodstream, but I get rind, I get zest, and no fruit. I can't figure out if the fruit is reacting to me, or if it is just me, or you, or another - or is it the rind that is all of us. I am trying to discern the nature of citrus in the middle of January. I might paint over the fruit and call it 'soap.' I might write something that has nothing to do with oranges and call it 'citrus.' I think I will put the orange back on the tree, attaching it with super glue and paper clips, and sit and wait a while longer.

I haven't done this in a while, and this is not a very god recording, but I have done an arrangement of 'Fly Me to the Moon' that I wanted to share. The song and arrangement seems to sum up my feelings over the last few months. Here it is:

Fly Me to the Moon

Late on these nights when The Daily Planet is published, and just before I drift off to sleep, I have these half-waken dreams of love. There is darting and furrowed brows, and then there is Newtonian physics, and the laws of gravity (there are more than one as far as I am concerned). I have my cutoff, and sleep beckons, but dreams cannot be all. There could be warmth, I have been praying, in this bed, but you are all too far off. This is the year to get on with it. Elvis wedding chapel or something cheaper. I am glad for the day off. I am glad for the beauty that is shown, and has been for so long, to me. I will love you all when I have the time, but let me just love me for a little while now. My head cannot handle what my heart feels.

In the half light of the new moon the canal is an oil slick, rippleless and unmoving - pointless. A blanket of mist clings to its surface and swirls. And it is only when I gently push back her hair to kiss the cheek just below the eye that I notice how cold she is. I button up her coat and pull the collar up around the ears. Even in stout shoes my feet are cold in the wet grass.

I am struck by the stars' reflection in the black mirror of the water's surface, something I'd not considered possible before. But so many things that did not seem possible then, before, must be possible now, after. Whatever 'was' then, is 'not' now.

Her eyes are closed, and I touch the lids gently and move my finger in a tight circle, the skin stretching and rucking under my fingertip. I kiss her again, this time on the forehead. A few stray hairs stick to my lip so that when I pull back they catch and are drawn back with my retreat. I break the connection with a chop of my hand and brush them back into place. I hear a vehicle on the distant road. I know it is time.

I take her to the edge and, standing behind her, my arms reaching around to her chest, lower her feet into the water. When the water level is at her knees, I release my grip and she slips quietly, perfectly, cutting through the blackness. Then she is gone with a comical plop as the head disappears and ripples dash across to the other bank. Now I realise that I should have wieghed her down, she is coming back. I think of Millais' Ophelia and turn to search for stones.

If I cannot truly understand what is in my heart, how can I expect anyone else to? I believe I may become a recluse and deny anyone access to my presence, much less my heart. I don't like secrets so much, but feel that my life and those around me are shrouded in them. I have a few good friends with which there is transparency between us. Maybe that is all I can ask for, but ultimately it all will need to be tossed out. Ultimately I will live in my basement with just the one window for light and I will grow pale and old there.

We are trying to create something, me and you two boys, that is truly masculine for us. That is our mantra. Something that is part of our fathers, but more of us - the way we see things. This is our project. Let's make it ours. Let's make it great.

God, JT, I put on finally tonight and they are so us, like we were all once, and that's the scary and comforting thing.

All around me are the vegetable eaters,
the people so full of the sunshine they eat,
and so sunny with radiant lips.
But above here, in that not-so-lovely place,
is all fluorescent glow.

And further below are the meat eaters,
gnashers, and blood drinkers, and
in the end will be the gravediggers,
and grave-robbers, and my toes will become relics
for some gothic basement cause.

Today moves me through
this city again, and the pace has
picked up. I try to block out
all of the city sounds with my own
sounds, until those sound becomes familiar,

and all the worries of the Arab women
asking for help, and directions to the mosque,
fit into a chant that soon boils over me,
until a familiar voice and song -
my voice, my song - penetrates the hum.

Perhaps this is the way it should have
been from the beginning, me and my song.
I walk away at the first sign of showdown,
I want no battles with friends or enemies.
I can sing to myself at night, I can

sing myself to sleep, as I begin to float.
But then the men in the other room
speak like my father, 'If you get that black
on your hands, you can't get it off." And
I think I have something to tell you,

but a far off distant voice,
from a forgotten time has
paralyzed all of that now,
and they strap this sailor to the mast,
and I can feel the blood slowly depart.

Why Tuesday?
When my brain has been so settled as of late,
and the organ grinder has stopped,
and the ladies on the corner are
making up names for the people that pass by.

Why Tuesday?
When it could be Wednesday and
we could now be half way there,
whatever 'there' means.

Why Tuesday?
When my heart has tried to rejoice
so much lately with hope
and the weeds don't grow so quickly.

Why Tuesday?
When tomorrow would be a better time
and I could figure a way for
you and me to rhyme.

Why Tuesday?
When, on a Saturday, we could
spend the day eating ice cream
and, very possibly, 'making love?'

Why Tuesday?
When any other day would do
and today is Tuesday, and so,
Why Tuesday?

I don't know, but I am getting mad as hell today that I seem to not be able, or rather it is not allowed, to feel anything fully. If I want to have any sort of pure emotion I have to start asking myself if this is the right thing for me, how is this going to affect me, how will it affect my therapy progress. I know it is my tendencies that have gotten me into the state I am in, but I really want to be able to just feel something raw and pure and unadulterated and unanalyzed. I don't know if that is even possible, but I would like to try. I really would.

Somewhere over the rainbow
my chronic fidgetiness
is slowly killing itself.
Something inside is

taking back everything
I ever said to you,
the bad, the good and even
the things neither of us remember.

Somewhere I waited by a
telephone too long for
a call to keep me
from breaking water.

I birthed too many panics.
I sounded the horns at the
first pain of the head pushing
through the pelvis.

I am birthing no more babies.

I am fathering no more miracles.

You will never
even read this.
It will burn before
the end of the day.

In town, this city,
except for a light breeze,
seems to stand still, or
at most just slight motions.

The city spirals into me
as the birds sit quietly in trees,
and the cars pull to the curb,
and my head stops aching for once.

And further through me,
the palpitations become manageable,
even my toes groan
as they finally stretch.

The sun is going down on the city.

It has been a labor day.

And the sky turns red,
and this once-pregnant sailor
prepares, at last,
to set sail.

Was playing: Your Ex-Lover Is Dead by Stars

It was a little over a year ago now, after finishing work I headed up through South Carolina to Spartanburg, on my way, the next day, to North Carolina and home for the holidays. I drive into Sparkle and directly to a party where G is already, and there's time for drinks and then there is time for talking with her friends and then there is back home and to bed and all. But during that party there was a moment outside having a cigarette when I noticed that standing out from the moon, a good distance out, was a light ring. My grandfather had once explained to me that this meant "falling weather" was ahead. That was the Christmas party right before I would get the offer of an engagement ring that was also ill-self-advised.

Tonight I was out to a party for a while with CG and then back home I tried to arrange a phone call with St. Louis, but that wasn't happening, with the time change and all, and then there was a ring on the phone from T. The first one with him saying to someone else, "I am not an officer," and then telling me he would call back. The second was, "I am drunk and at the Winchester and hitting on women." I decided to head down as the aforementioned phone call with the midwest had not happened and I was curious as to seeing the scene.

So it's the first real weekend of the new year and what will you do? Try to find something that will make you believe this year will be better. Set the thing off right. There's been too much confusion, angst, anxiety, analyzation, and analysis.

The best I could do at this point is to water and fertilize my growing spine and hope for a quicker recovery from my rusty resolution. Stop prostrating myself before the gods of self-pity, absorption, indulgence. I'm not so bad. Just frantic lately. Maybe, it's the drugs. Oh yeah, although I haven't written about them lately, I am still on the drugs. Maybe it is me. Slowly, life turns, and returns. It's time to leave well enough alone, and start making a new life without all of the tears and sadness. This weekend is welcome.

Huh? What
you say?
Did I hear that
just right?

I'm out
tonight with
short lines
and crazy mind.

If we gonna
riff, might as well
with this crazy
myth.

Four and four
will maybe two make
and inspiration comes
for no one's sake.

How did you find
your way around this?
I couldn't read
a sign if

it hit me upside
this large head.

But if I break
with rule
it is not because
I'm the fool,

or maybe I am.
Just ask me in
the morning,
just love me tonight.

Saint Louis is dancing
its hair around
a chair in the
square.

I am asking the
questions that will
cause a pause
in the conversation.

Does it bother
that you stand
in a line longer
than the other?

If I come from
over the top
it is because of
love or loneliness, rather.

How heavy is
your lid?
I wanted this
to not be the USSR.

Come up to the
front of the queue,
I have always thought
the answer was you.

Why the rush toward definition?
Tonight I should take it easy,
at least that is what Steve has been saying.
I've been making faces at myself
in the grey-black blank television screen,
my head seems so big and
I begin slowly to think of
a beach somewhere I've never been
where I can hear the calm roll over
this columna de mi espalda,
where my tongue would massage this air into
a gambit that could end the game at the start,
and in this screen I am painted well
full with monobrow, and my statement
tells of a more full story,
full enough that I could take flight,
and be there for the making
of divots in a different land,
and not just waiting on another
arrival, revival or resurrection,
that will make my lonely divot
a little less so.

I am going to save Southern food, your collards and coleslaw and all. I am going to ride on the backs of strange waves off the Georgia coast. I will make it all clear to you all. With love, or without, I can inspire a whole region to betterness. This is the way things go. Potassium pulses through me tonight. I am great and will be greater. This may be megolomania, but at the end of it all... it is me that needs to be taken care of as much as anyone. Here's a road, and I think I will take it.

Clickety click! or that is the way it is supposed to happen. You on the phone tonight way past the point that you should be, but still there. This is two in one day, or three. What will we do with this? This city excites you, and maybe I do too. But at the end of the day we all want to retreat to the beach and fill our jaws with ocean meat, and to make pledges to each other that only a beach will make real. How's that humidity? How's that sleepy town? I hope your night makes you new again. I hope it creates great dreams that will teach me and you how we should feel again... after all of this.

I know i still love you in these strange ways and it hurts that it is not the way that it used to hurt, but I realize now that it can be something else, that perhaps you have to crawl back into your own cocoon. I could not even find you in a lineup now as the crazy muses make the effort impossible. I can lay down no more, which may be a great effort to you. Happy new year. Happy life. You, and I, will be happy. How's that, boo? I think I have felt some strange love lately, but it cannot be talked about, because of therapy and talk and gossip... I hope you find it. I think I have, or will, or can hope. I can always hope. Right?

This bed is cold tonight.
I get in rooting around
for a little scent of you
that may have been left behind.

Is it the pillow?
No.
Maybe try the divit in
the sheets where you layed.
It is there.

It is there but
will slowly diminish.
In fact, in a couple of days
I will not be able to
exactly recall how you smell.

It will then become a memory
unattached to any real sense,
that can only be awakened
by you again, my nose
against your nape again.

That too will come to pass
as you return to the winter
heat and humidity of that place
you have created - a sunshine city
for yourself.

I will stay here in the cold,
and rain, in this now quiet house,
trying to find a way
to warm this bed without you -
trying to find a way
to make that faint scent
hang around a little longer.