March 2007 Archives

Why do you have to take a picture of every fucking thing? I've got a whole computer, because that's the way things are done now, full of pictures to remind me of things that I would be better off forgetting now. Oh yes, in case you have not figured it out, the heartbreak came back today, not like a lamb but like a lion - this month that began with my birthday and ends with the biggest case of emotional déjà vu I have had in over a year. You see, I thought I was over G, or at least I fooled myself into believing it was so, but the events of today have arrived to show me how far from the truth that thought was. I am so fucking mad at myself for not being there, not following all of your advice, but I finally have no other option, so in the end you all will proven correct and I will be proven wrong again. If we could only believe in the wisdom of family and friends from the outset our lives would likely be a lot more fulfilling. I am a mess, a thorough mess. I pretended Zen, that I was so good, that I was beyond desire where all pain starts. I am a stupid boy. I should go to sleep now and put this day to rest but I continue to intake caffeine to force myself into this exhilarating punishment. I promise I will not continue to bore you with all of this. I think there's a James' song in that somewhere. I will instead bore you with my lackluster ruminations on books, movies and the state of American politics in the near future, because you should keep your true feelings hidden deep inside so your vulnerability can go there and die too.

Was playing: Keep the Car Running by Arcade Fire

Because I believed in words
over braun the whole world shut down.
I thought your way of tilting your head,
of telling me you love me,
was beyond reproach,
but I thought the way in which I wrote it
was was so much better still.

I gaze the navel,
I bring the end about in everything I do.

I don't know who you are but
our team didn't win tonight,'
except, perhaps, yours did,
and, in that case
was it really our team?

What does it matter what they
said when it was Britain,
and it was 1765?
Only a serve and volley make the difference now.

Oh, the word can topple empires.
The pen is mightier than the sword?
I can talk all night and you
will still not understand me,
you will choose to not even try,
but your sword, oh your sword,
it is made of steel,
and it's slice is final.

As if on cue, the calendar brings in spring and waking this morning we witness what the night has brought us. A powdery-yellow coat clings to all surfaces outside the windows that we were just thinking of starting to open to let the cool air in, to cut down on the extortionary gas-electric prices. Without a day in between, we will likely have to turn off the furnace and turn on the AC. To open the windows would let in far too much of the harmful things. They would climb into your nose and down into your lungs while you sleep, and you would wake to an elephant sitting on your chest, African not Asian. Even the tarry-nicotine protective coating on the lungs, if you are lucky enough to have such in this polluted city, cannot provide immunity from this yellow villain. And the boss still doesn't understand that you may need to just stay in bed for the day, for to leave the house would be to risk further contact with the insidious golden haze.

Yet, I suppose, it is this time of the year in which we can all be reborn. Running begins in order to prepare us for certain summery challenges lying in the near future, and to make sure that the girls can still fit into the two-pieces, and the boys into the tighter Ts. It is in spring when Saturdays in the Highlands become necessary. The girls bare their shoulders and legs, tops come down on the convertible 3 Series BMWs. Our beers turn lighter as do our liquors, and perhaps our winter-weary hearts do as well.

Was playing: Missed the Boat by Modest Mouse

Randomly dowloaded image of Jean Baudrillard

It was odd to find out today that he had died, and recently too, because what is time or recent, or death for that matter, when he had only really been words to me back in college, and words that I likely misunderstood, all the while engaged in the ecstasy of reading them. Did Jean Baudrillard ever even exist? Could that face possibly really exist in flesh and blood, taken with the digital camera, and replicated through this cyberspace. Was there a real Jean Baudrillard when he was born and later he stopped existing? What about where he lies now? If we robbed the grave would we perhaps find a series of notes written on cocktail napkins, a bundle of computer cords, a one dollar bill? Was the Paris that he died in "Paris" or more like that Paris at the end of the war. And where will he be buried there, if he is not incinerated, and does that fire burn, or is that just what has been said of fire. I am so glad I have relieved myself of this now, although surely I have still gotten it all wrong.

Was playing: My Body Is a Cage by Arcade Fire

Tonight I'll take the street out here, left then right, and then left again and down by that place where we once sort of lived together, and then on out and east and past the all-girls school and the place where you sell your hands for presents, and even further past the place that serves the succulent rotisserie chickens and hard-crusted mac and cheese, and the place where I took the things I didn't want after I met you and had to make hard decisions. Things got easier and then harder themselves, the a period of simplicity, then constant headache. This headache drones behind my eyes such that I really cannot even see the horizon much these days. I try to smile through it all. I invest in vision plans. I continue further out past the nondescript pub that I drank non-alcoholic ales during one of my attempts to curb my burgeoning alcoholism, and then further past the place where we could sometime turn off for birthday lobsters, and before that the place where appliances go to die or be resurrected, and then eventually onto the piece of curving four-land and then the two-lane branch and further onto the Hwy. 33, where always lying on the horizon is Mexico and it's promise of ramshackled multi-colored structures and relief from the headaches in a more arid climate. The possibility to live among new others, or possibly completely alone, in a little ventilated place with an obstructed view of the sea, where all things are possible, and then I will forget, or pretend to forget, until the road crews finish the asphalt all the way, and the crews suspend the causeway to the island three or so miles off shore, or maybe to another if engineering obstacles arise, where the road ends and I can finally become Marlon Brando and you will become Morgan Fairchild, a grainy photo that fades in the forever sunshine, and I will smile until it becomes real.