Blocked

I find myself in a familiar place (again?!).

I can't seem to write - well, not anything of import. Unlike the senseless drivel seen here (why, you ask, do I write it and post it if I believe it to be drivel? The semi-public nature of this blog - like a dark corner of fenced off alley, it's only seen by people who have become horribly lost, or those blessed fools who seek out the cob-web encrusted caves, seeking the paintings of long-lost locals, trying to find some sign of life - forces me to take a much closer look at my writing, and critique it thusly.)

It's not that I don't have any ideas - I do, I do.
It's not that I don't think I can write - I humbly believe that I have a modicum of talent in that regard - I am no Faulkner, but I think I can out-do a Dan Brown... dot dot dot.

I think it's that I've lost my way. I used to write the stories I wanted to read, write songs I wanted to hear, and poems I wanted to feel. The outside world did not enter into it, and what I created was all the more beautiful for it. Now, I find myself trying to write with a purpose, and, much to my former English teachers' delight, a sense of my audience, such as they are.

So, the stories I have burning in my head - all a bit dark with a slight glimmer of hope - get stuffed away, while I try to write something for a someone that will get me somewhere. But it doesn't - it never does.

The artist - and I loathe to call myself that, having known some truly great ones - has only a duty to be true to himself. It's the world's job to try to make sense of creation - the creator just has to create.

And so that's what I'm going to try to do. Think of it as the Andy Kaufman (and, for that matter, the Charlie Kaufman as well) philosophy of writing.

Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

from the ash and smoke arose fear and salvation;
gods and demons are as they always were -
intertwined and interchangeable,
the one and the same, nothing and everything.

the mask always has two faces,
a god and a monster;
the way we see ourselves
and ourselves as the world sees us

Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself.

Huddled in masses
some strangers stopped to ask us
If we were lonely too
we answered the truth -
We are hugging each other
to fight off the fear of
playing the fool

Turns out the great parade
was another masquerade
I was holding onto you
when you spoke the truth -
We could never love each other
when there are so many others
for you to cling on to

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;

we number our days
as if
measure could grant meaning
9431 days and counting
and I'm still not certain
I've learned a thing

They Will Not Sing for Me.

I walked the coast,
Cold sand and stone
Stabbing exposed heel and toe.
The naked moon hanging in the vacant sky -
Beautiful and alone.
A ghost was born
Shivering and bright eyed
On that lonesome shore.

I drove from the city,
The noise and love left
Somewhere in the chaos behind.
A new start in an old place
Creaking boards and peeling paint
Crying and waving their
Hellos or goodbyes.

Sitting in the dusty dark
I saw the ghost that followed
Me to the place that us
Used to exist as we,
Eyes questioning and
A trembling, whispering voice
No louder than the wind outside.

I know you, the voice
Said to me.
Your words are counterfeit,
Your life forfeit
On that lonesome shore.
You have found your home,
And you will never go
Anywhere where you will not be alone.
Come back into the fog,
Into the sea you crawled out of,
Don't sully the air with hollow words like love;
You know you knew you had had enough.

Genius!

I admit it - I'm using itunes right now.

I haven't used the program in ages, sick of them pushing their music store - selling songs formatted such that they can only be played by their own players, and a drab, featureless design.

But I downloaded and installed itunes a few days ago - I was making a couple of cds for... a girl, and the tracks were in an unfamiliar format, which I had to convert to wma, then to mp3, using itunes for the latter conversion.

Since then, I went ahead and let itunes update itself with my library. And I noticed this little feature, called Genius - so I turned that on, and let everything update.

Now, I'm wondering why I was missing out on such a nifty - yes, nifty - little feature.

See, genius works a lot like Pandora, but with music you already have. It takes the information from the tracks you have, and, based on what track you select, it creates a playlist with similar songs.

This is quite handy, as I have somewhere around 70 GB of music, and counting - and often forget I even have some stuff.

I just like this genius thing, is all.

It just created a playlist with tracks by the eels, Sparklehorse, Spoon, Tom Waits, the Mountain Goats, and much, much more.


I'm sort of warming up to this whole "technology" thing.

Excitement, Dystopia, Transgression and Other Unrelated Words

I just spent a ridiculous amount of money on liquor. I've never spent more than $50 on a bottle of anything - and I just more than tripled that on one bottle. And threw in another, slightly less expensive one. You know - just in case I wasn't over-indulging enough.

I don't say this as a form of bragging, or of ashamed confession.

In fact, I don't even regret the purchase, even though I haven't received the items yet. After the purchase, I felt excited - it was, after all, two bottles of high quality Absinthe.

I'm not excited about the drunkenness - that is just par for the course these days.

Nay, I'm excited for what it signifies for me - the clarity and vibrance with which I'm seeing the world.

This is bliss.



I can see a light at the end of the tunnel - a light that never goes out, some may say. I can see a way through my various trials and tribulations - not an easy way, and I don't know what sort of happily ever after may lay ahead, if any at all - but a way through, at any rate.

And that is something to be giddy about.










Wait, did I really just spend that much money on alcohol?




Crap.

the softest lips

the softest lips
always seem to be
across the room
on somebody else's cheek
as mine grow hot
with wonder
burrowing under
my strange heart
my strange heart
beating quicker
as the words grow thicker
and get stuck in my throat

i find my self racing
with the pace of that organ
just shouting and racing
to the same place again
such a strange life
such a strange life
i feel it wasting
as i go pacing
down a dark hall

what a sweet hell
we create for ourselves
never know what you will
do, one minute to the next
such a strange world
such a strange world
we create for ourselves
always wanting that one thing
on the other side
of a sad goodbye

People have to really suffer before they can risk doing what they love.

in the midst of finding random bits of media for the previous post, i stumbled upon a posting of a posting, and now i'm posting it here. i could try to just say what it's saying, and pass the words off as my own - but i'm too tired for that, and, let's face it, i would probably get it wrong anyway.

(remember - the following is not my words,
though I pretty much feel the same)
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I see this question posted with some regularity in the personals section, so I thought I'd take a minute to explain things to the ladies out there that haven't figured it out.

What happened to all the nice guys?

The answer is simple: you did.

See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He'd tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn't feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.

At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were "just friends." Besides, he totally wasn't your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn't know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.

Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you weren't dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren't the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you're single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, "What happened to all the nice guys?"

Well, once again, you did.

You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive "just-a- friend".

Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren't really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you're upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he'd have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.

Fact is, now, he's probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I'm sorry that it took the complete absence of "nice guys" in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.

So, if you're looking for a nice guy, here's what you do:

1.) Build a time machine.
2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass.
3.) Take a look at what's right in front of you and grab a hold of it.

I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don't really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you.

So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you've fucked yourself over. You're getting older, after all. It's time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn't want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn't fucking want you, now.

Somewhere between anticipation and nostalgia we should have been happy.

Today I traveled back in time.
No, no Delorean, and not some emaciation induced mind-trip.
I began the highly ritualized series of events that those in the know know all too well. Sorting through old records (vinyl, not economic) and long-forgotten comics.
I read through some books I never got around to finishing - or even picking up the final few issues, even though I loved the series. I listened to records I forgot I even owned. And it brought around an all-too familiar thought, made all the more poignant looking at the dates on the books, and remembering where I was, and when I was, when I bought some of the records -- What, exactly, have I done with my life?
A bit grandiose, I suppose.
Really, though, I was wondering - what happened here, exactly?
A few years have slipped by, and I'm no closer to where I want to be, and find myself making the same mistakes over and over again (still liking the wrong girl - that classic story, still working a job that doesn't fulfill me, ever the lone wolf).
Now, don't misunderstand my motives - I'm not here to whine or moan, but instead am feeling that introspective curiosity. And for me, the only way to work through these sorts of things is by writing them down. And here I get to blather on, and create a kaleidoscope of random musings and pictures, so, eventually, none of this will make sense to anyone but me.

The point, if there can be said to be one, is that we always seem to be either looking forward or looking back - so the now never really exists, and if that is the case, when do we get to be happy?

Now go be happy.

btw,iloveyouifyoudidn'tknow

I started to talk to myself
but I pictured somebody else
someone who looks like
what I feel like

Someone who told you
what you needed to hear
the man who became what you dreamed
so kindly ripped out the seams

In the dark light
he just passed by
all these lost fights
Because I wish I could talk to you on the phone
but instead I am searching alone
trying to find
a reason to fight

all that remains
is a memory of a girl
some shades of shame
and a world full
of regret and passions lost
lovers turned into ghosts

friends have become memories
just pass along,
nothing left to see...
a prop to make the world
seem a little
more real
the bus fare in your pocket
makes it more real, and so
i told you so
the world will go
fade in and out
if that makes you believe
i love you
less than i do

I can't top anyone, not even myself.....

I honestly don't usually like anything I've written.

I think it's happened maybe twice in my life that I've gone back and read something I've previously written, and actually liked it. One was a short story about a flying squirrel named fudge (yes, Fudge the Flying Squirrel). Another was another short story, about a guy seeing a girl running from something - but that doesn't really count, as that was only half finished- and I've yet to actually finish it.

But tonight, I was feeling depressed - and therefore, creative - so I decided to write something new in all 3 blogs I currently have: here, the one linked to from here, and an ancient, decrepit myspace. I did the one here, and the one at the other place - but then I went to myspace, saw a post I did not recognize, read it, and decided that should stay as the top one for now. I remembered what I was writing about - a love so true it can only be experienced by a child - and it made me feel like whatever I'm feeling now is completely inconsequential. I actually kind of liked it. So this is that. Well, what follows this is that, I should say. This is not actually that. NOW this is that:





"A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened." --- Albert Camus



A smile.

I remember a smile.




I have been happy, gloriously, unflinchingly happy. Without regret or remorse. Without doubt or introspection.
Living in the moment, existing for the only thing that truly exists - right now.




The first image - an innocent smile. A smile given freely, without expectation of reciprocation. A smile given without thought, but with cause. A smile memorized, seen only in the depths of dreams - too fragile for consciousness.
Seen through the rear window of a moving vehicle, seen disappearing into the quickly disappearing dusk.
A smile as haunting as it was beautiful.

And so long ago, it can only exist in the vaguest of memories.





and after reading that - and the quote that is included therein - i guess that's what everyone who writes does. We just try to capture those two or three beautiful moments in our lives, and share them with the world.

I promise, I'll try to do a better job of it. You, and those memories, deserve better than my feeble follies.

Dusk in October

I saw your naked fingers
clamped around his neck
your eyes weren't wet
you kept your head

The aftermath was just
shadows and shapes
they called it fate
never said your name

I kept your secret
hidden in my head
buried with the dead
but could not forget

Paths of right and wrong
seem to dance and intertwine
and under that cold moon light
all i could think was that
you looked divine

When we wake from this coma
maybe we'll feel some regret
maybe we'll wish we could forget
until then let's share this cigarette
watch the night become day
and pay no attention
when we run out of things to say

somewhere in my head, buried in back
a thought still lingers
when will i see those naked fingers
around my neck?

only when the clock stops does time come to life

I've been waiting
watching the clock's hands
wave another day past
wondering if this
will ever
happen

I just sit in my dark car
watching the smoke die
so perfect and lovely
before it just
disappears

So maybe there's some
meaning hidden somewhere
in the clouds we see god
or maybe just a
butterfly


Ever so slowly
I'm starting to believe
there is just energy
we are just beings
bursting and floating
connecting and expanding
fading and then dying

So when I see you
on that lonesome interstate
I won't wave
No, I won't satisfy
that urge to say goodbye