31 December 2005

she's running

The clock is ticking and she is running down a hall infinite.
"Where are you going, Dear?"
Her legs keep moving and her soul is churning.
"What are you running from, Babe?"
The end of this hall is an illusion that she cannot realize. She keeps moving (in slow motion). Her arms flailing, flying, running wild.
"What you're searching for is here. It is here and it is inside me."
The clock is ticking and she's running. The clock is a mirage in a desert sky beaming bright.
"Lets dance in the moonbeams, Babe. We'll be surrounded by nothing. In all directions - Nothing. Lets dance. Free ourselves from the constraints of the complications."
The end of this hall is an illusion that she cannot realize. Her eyes are filled with frantic milk in which nothing is reflected. She deflects she deflects she expects the impossible.
"What you're searching for is here, Dear. It is here inside me. Inside forever."
She keeps moving (in slow motion). Her arms waving. Her arms attempting to transform into the wings of the falcons of the black night (so useless is all of this).
"The end of this hall is an illusion. An illusion forever.
"I am here trapped in this elevator (dead).
"We will be separated.
"For forever."


mc

30 December 2005

the shifting raging beauty

I'm resigned to settle and collect dust in rooms of stale cigarette smoke and red lights. On this table is a chess board with pieces scattered.
I want to be the King. The King dispatching pawns to wage wars on battlefields distant.
I want to be the Queen. The Queen, sipping wine from a goblet of gold, in a palace with curtains of immaculate fabric.
I want to be the Knight. The Knight galloping gallantly and saving hundreds from the clouds of toxic smoke raining from above.
No. I am a pawn sacrificed for reasons that I will never comprehend. The first casualty and the Last. Bleeding for someone.
Bleeding for You.
I threw myself into the line of fire. I thought that would be the noble thing to do.
Comprehension escapes me in moments like these.
Escape.
Flee.
Leave me.
Please.
Leave me to die here gazing at the twinkling stars of fire burning in the cradle of the sky tonight. On my back and on this battlefield - Somewhere I can hear the explosions ringing. Somewhere I can hear the screaming. The yelling. The pleading of the brave and of the Weak.
Somewhere.
Inside.
They're all inside me. And O Sweet Love, they are all beautiful. The Shifting Raging Beauty. Set them free. I'm begging you to break open the flood gates and send them fleeing into the night - and into You.
From me and into You.
You - O Sweet Love - You.


mc

29 December 2005

connections and the shifting

Things are shifting inside.
Is that all I have to say? I feel like there should be something else. I know there is more but I'm feeling overwhelmed right now.
Connections...These connections that we form and establish with other beings...What are they? Why do I feel like every connection must result in a destination? Do others feel this way? Sometimes I feel as if these associations are puzzle pieces, missing no more. Will I ever complete the puzzle? Is the puzzle even real?
I've said many a time that human beings complicate their lives unnecessarily. We create phobias, problems, joy, pain, fear and so on. Am I guilty of constructing some elaborate temple unnecessarily? All I need is an earth to sleep on and a soul to love. The temple is a beautiful structure to gaze upon. So large. So tall (reaching into the heavens). Can we appreciate the flesh, blood and tears that went into the construction of this monumental structure? Do we realize that while the men that assembled that temple have long since passed on, they are still there? In the frame of the temple, the foundation, the...
Where the hell am I going with this? So complicated...So unnecessary...Perhaps we complicate as a means of justifying the 'shifting' inside all of us. After all, this post started with "Things are shifting inside." Why can't I accept this feeling and move on? This shifting is filled with uncertainty. Uncertain about a couple of connections. The uncertainty of tomorrow does not bother me; the uncertainty of others does. Where do we go? Is there anywhere to go? Miles and miles separate us, both literally and figuratively. Some are so close yet so far away. Others are so far away yet so close - painfully close.
I have so much more to convey but there is no point in pursuing this. I'm talking to myself...I'm talking to myself...I'm talking to myself...
I just wish it was you
That I was talking to...

mc

26 December 2005

return?

Too many posts. Too many useless words. I'm tired of retreating to this space like some kind of fox hole. I'm not taking cover from anything. Shrapnel is flying all over the place and it all seems to be hitting me, opening up tiny wounds all over my dying body. The blood is getting in my eyes...I can taste it trickling into my mouth...And I wonder, what the fuck happened?
I'm bleeding on everyone and they're all growing weary...Tired of hearing another pathetic story from the trenches.
"You've exposed yourself right in the line of fire!" some soldier yells through the gunfire.
"Yes. I know," I reply softly.
Too softly. He can't hear me. Wouldn't want him to.
"Why are you so goddamned needy? You know, I hear you bitch and moan about being alone, and all this 'longing' garbage, give me a fucking break, man! Do you think anyone, especially a girl looking for some kind of relationship, wants to live in a wasteland? Doctors are supposed to isolate the cancer - you want to spread it all over the fucking place! And then you say..." some voice from somewhere trails off.
I'm aware that I'm bleeding on everyone but I can't stop the flow. The blood doesn't clot. I can't stop it.
Strangers and friends share the same face. I no longer know how to act. Like some blind-hearted fool I spilled everything to M. Poor M. Such a horrible position to put someone else in. How can I communicate with her when she knows how I feel about her? I feel like the poor soul strapped into the guillotine on the town's square exposed in front of everyone. Mock me. Throw your garbage. There is nothing left to hide. So naked.
I don't want that skeleton of pity hiding behind the faces of the familiar. Be friendly, act like everything is okay, realize the person you're talking to is a pathetic piece of shit and there is nothing that you can say or do to repair this. So fucking lovely.
Am I looking for pity? No, I really don't think I am.
I don't know what I'm looking for. Should I even be searching? Yes. There is a bridge in desperate need of repair inside the cage inside of this chest. Vehicles keep falling through. And falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and...


mc

waiting for the light to change

Clipping these fingernails. I'll cut my hair soon. Then I'll throw them out. Pieces of me going to a landfill that I'll never see. Pieces of me. Out there. Somewhere.
I need to go to the grocery store. With clipped fingernails and freshly cut hair I feel good and clean and safe. Just another soul moving through aisles lined with products the color of rainbows. Yes, this is what I should be doing. Being a consumer. At the point of transaction I will hand my cash to the lady and she will give me my change. Yes. Clean and orderly. Like my fingernails and hair.
In my metallic shell (with wheels) I drive back home. At this traffic light, a late 90s blue Ford Taurus is in front of me waiting for the light to change.
Lady Violet drove a car just like that. I wonder, where is she these days? I'll see if I can get a look...Make sure it isn't her.
P A U S E
No. Of course not. Even if it was I wouldn't know what to do or what to say. She'd probably be freaked out anyway.
"You can't rekindle a dead log, son, so move on. Just move on," dad used to say.
Sounds so simple. But it isn't.

I remember driving to her apartment many years ago. It was July 4 and the rockets were puncturing the heavens. Such beautiful explosions of the Heart. All those colors. The flames. The sacred ash.
But she wasn't there. I never found out where she was that night. I found the letter, though. Tucked under one of my windshield wiper blades. Like razor blades slicing my clean, meaty heart.
"Blah blah it isn't working blah blah it's better this way blah blah some hearts are doomed to run like rabid dogs in the night blah blah..."
I remember looking through that windshield with her. Gazing at the black interstate racing under the wheels at 70 miles per hour. So fast yet so slow. We'd listen to music that we both liked.
"Where were you the first time you heard this song?" she loved to ask me with eyes filled with anxious anticipation.
It's like she was just hanging there, you know? Like she couldn't wait to hear the first sound from my lips.
My left hand on the steering wheel. Guiding us through the night and stars. My right hand in her left hand (small and warm).
"You need to cut your fingernails, babe. They're getting loooong," she said playfully.

Yeah, I feel good with my freshly cut fingernails. I feel safe.
The clippings go to a landfill somewhere. Pieces of me out there. Maybe I shouldn't dispose of them anymore. I don't like the thought of pieces of me being out there...Hanging out there...For someone to grab...For someone.


mc

amongst the patterns and away from my bubble

25 December 2005

every snowflake

I don't like this feeling right now. Anxious. Afraid. Needs. I don't know what I need right now. Someone or something to tell me this moment is real. Right now. This moment. The snow is falling outside...So beautiful. Every snowflake seems to contain a piece of my heart. Falling...And falling...And falling. Gently.
Today is Xmas. What does that mean? I wish I could express this feeling. Right now. But the words escape me. I'm struggling at the bottom of a pond...This water is beginning to freeze...I'm crawling...Reaching...Grasping to reach the surface. Someone throw me a life-saver...Something that will float over the waves...Something I can depend on. I need a warm hand, wrapped in flesh, to reach into these freezing waters..."I'm here, Love. Don't give up. I'm down here, reaching for your safety, your warmth...you. Please, keep trying. I know this water is cold but I am down here...I'm reaching, hoping, grasping...Where are you, Love?"

mc

christmas fog

Here I am at mom's computer. Alone. Whiskey in hand and body. Cigarette smoke floating like wispy ghosts. Everyone has gone to bed and sister has left. She showed up a few hours ago and appeared to be under the influence of something. To say sister is back to using the pharmaceuticals probably wouldn't be accurate. Even after all the legal woes and whatnot, I seriously doubt she has been clean and sober for an extended period of time.
Needless to say, Xmas evening went from bad to worse. I don't care to recite the slurred speech, the excessive eyeliner (which she usually wears when under the influence...I guess to try and hide the explosions in her eyeballs), or the incident that crashed the evening. I just sat in this very chair, sipping this whiskey, listening to the yelling, the accusations, the nonsense..."Well, now that Xmas is fucked, I guess I'll leave," sister said through tears and streaming eyeliner like fireworks falling from the sky. I remember shaking my head. 'Tis the fucking season.
All in all I'm okay. I just wish I would have known this shit was going to go down because then I would have been able to stay at home (two glorious hours away) and listen to the black circles on my turntable in my dark room. I would have been able to sleep in my own bed. Then I'd get up tomorrow afternoon and make the trek here, stay for a few hours and return to my safe apartment. But no. I'm stuck here. Outside this window, an eerie fog is crawling over the street lights, the stale snow, the dead blades of grass exposed...crawling...consuming.
I want to start something. Something of my own. I want to run away with Lady Sweet. "Let's just run, Baby. Get away from all this nonsense. They don't understand us, Baby. We can go out west and plant our feet in fertile soil and grow, extend, reach for that shining sky like fresh tree tops, swaying in a sweet spring breeze. I'll get a job in the city and..."
That's a line from a movie. That's a dream in my head. That's a blog entry. That's a song lyric that makes me swim in pain unashamed*. That isn't real...But why can't it be, goddamnit? Get away from all of this. Just get away...


mc

Interpol's "Obstacle 1"
"We can find new ways of living..."

24 December 2005

this bed

Well, it's the morning of Xmas eve.
O to be that ignorant child from long ago - giddy and galloping through the house anxious with anticipation.
Flash forward to this moment in time. A 27 year old man in his bed. A sheet over the window. A black room. Writing.
The voice on the radio says rain is on the way. Good. Puddles of rain reflecting a grey and swollen sky. 'Tis beautiful. Sometimes I'll drive around these city streets listening to Interpol or Joy Division as rain gently wraps against my metallic shell with wheels. Other times, just the sound of the windshield wipers is enough to send to me to some peaceful place.
I don't want to leave this bed. Fuck. I need to shower, shave, brush my teeth and prepare to leave for mom's. Every year on Xmas eve, sister and I spend the night at mom's so we can recreate that Xmas morning thing. I think it's ridiculous but I do it to make them happy. See, I'm not a completely selfish asshole.
I really hope UPS is delivering today. I was supposed to receive the Xmas gifts I ordered from Amazon.com yesterday but the brown truck never appeared. I'm going to feel like shit if I have no gifts for anyone.
An emptyhanded apologist.
'Tis the season...

mc

23 December 2005

home alone and eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

Roommate left town last night. Home alone on a Friday night and I decided to pop in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I thought I might be able to gain some kind of peace of mind in viewing this film but I think it fucked me up even more.
I'm watching the part where the house on the beach is crumbling as Joel's memory of Clementine is erased...

Clem: Joely? What if you stayed this time?
Joel: I walked out the door. There's no memory left.
Clem: Come back and make up a good-bye, at least. Let's pretend we had one.
-LONG PAUSE-
Clem: Bye, Joel.
Joel: I love you.


I lost it. I began crying like the eight year old boy that skinned his knee after a tumble from his bike. Literally losing my shit. Bawling. I don't think this was triggered by the film as much as it was triggered by something in my life.
Things have been rather turbulent over the past few days. It's an odd thing when a stranger becomes something else entirely. The stranger transforms into an important, special subject.
It's a sad thing when life doesn't follow the poetic script of a film.
I recognized with Eternal Sunshine's Joel Barish.
"Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who shows me the least bit of attention?" he asks.
When I heard this, I had to rewind the film to make sure my ears weren't deceiving me. I was stunned. I recognized the sound of this reflection.
At the start of the film, Joel and Clem soon realize that there's something else between them besides the fact of them being strangers. There is a connection. And they go with it. Why can't there be Joels and Clems in real life? Why do so many insist on complicating their lives with imaginary walls and fears? Why can't more people just run with it?
In another part of the film, Joel and Clem listen to each other's memory tape in which they are brutally honest about how they feel with the other. After hearing a particularly offensive comment, Clem leaves, upset...

Joel: Wait.
Clem: What?
Joel: I don't know. Just wait. Just wait.
Clem: What do you want, Joel?
Joel: I don't know. I want you to wait for...Just a while.
Clem: Okay.
Joel: Really?
Clem: I'm not a concept, Joel. I'm just a fucked up girl who's looking for my own peace of mind. I'm not perfect.
Joel: I can't see anything that I don't like about you. Right now I can't.
Clem: But you will. But you will. You know, you will think of things, and I'll get bored with you and feel trapped because that's what happens with me.
Joel: (Shrugs shoulders) Okay.
Clem: Okay.
Joel: Okay.
Clem: Okay.


In a world of Kings, Queens and Knights, there is a price to be paid for being the only Pawn on the chess board. But I refuse to think like those mighty pieces. Their lives are filled with the ghosts of complexity, of intricacy. I refuse to accept these ghosts as something material, real. But this will is weakening. This Pawn is tiring. This pawn is weary. Where is my Lady, absent of ghosts?

mc (as the closing credits roll, I hear Beck singing, "Change your heart/And look around you/Change your heart/It will astound you")

22 December 2005

the challenges of being a faucet and other painful musings

Well, the last few posts have been, I don't know, short stories, prose, something. Lately I've only been able to communicate my feelings through these characters. I don't know where to go from here.
Expose yourself. Grab a 12" butcher knife and slice a clean line from your esophagus to your naval. See what falls out. It isn't pretty. It's bloody. It isn't real. That bloody mess isn't...Shit. I don't know.
Why do I feel like some used-car salesman in a wrinkled suit? Why do I insist on convincing myself that these feelings aren't real?
Now that I've typed that, that isn't how I feel.
Be a faucet. Let the water pour through. I guess this is our purpose on this planet. This rotating mass. Let these things flow, pour. Should I be worried that the water is collecting and the drain is clogged? A faucet isn't concerned with where the water goes or what the water does.
But it isn't this easy. No. Unless I convince myself. What if I convince myself that it is easy? Am I lying to myself? What the fuck am I doing?
"How strange it is to be anything at all," the singer sings. How painful it is be anything at all. Am I the only one that feels this way?
I guess this pain is what drives me. Or is this pain driving something else? Is it driving my creativity? Yes. Is my creativity driving me? No. I suppose I feel fortunate to be able to compile sounds into a song. I suppose I feel fortunate to be able to compile words into something that moves someone. Seems like a cruel game of catch-22.
Is any of this making sense? Why do I feel like I don't know my friends? Why do I feel like they don't know me? AA stares into his mirror. What do you see, AA? Is this the same man that your friends see? How about you, D?
Convey something. Convince someone. Are they not one in the same? In one of my first posts (jesus, I started this thing way back in July? that's crazy), I AM SOMEONE/SOMETHING REAL, I said "And why do we (meaning bloggers) post our feelings and thoughts on these “pages?” i suppose it is the same reason we have our photographs taken....to prove that we once existed....that we/were something real....some of us are shouting out loud with mouths parallel to the sky, 'I AM HERE....DOES ANYONE CARE TO NOTICE ME...I AM A HUMAN BEING AND I HAVE FEELINGS, DESIRES...I AM NOT SIMPLY AN IMAGE...I AM FLESH....I AM BLOOD....I AM ME ----- AND I AM REAL.'" I still feel that way, but what am I trying to convey? Is it enough to simply notice someone? Fuck no. I notice many things every day but...Fuck. Can anyone help me out here?
The aging athlete. He's won seven world championships. He's regarded as the best ever to play his sport yet he can't seem to say goodbye.
I guess we all want to escape the cure...

mc

O, Doctor

Huh? Am I awake? What's happening here?
BEEP ^ ^ BEEP ^ ^ BEEP ^^
I'm on my back. On a table. Gazing up a circular fluorescent lights like halos such a heavenly glow.
I look around. Four people dressed in blue medical scrubs. White surgical masks hide the faces but for the eyes. The eyeballs are busy. Looking. Analyzing. Busy. Working.
On me.
Stainless steel utensils are moving quickly. Back and forth. Quicksilver flashes.
These instruments are going in. Coming out stained with something red. The instruments are snipping. Cutting. Extracting. Inside me.
Surely my eyes deceive me. No. My abdomen is not open. Exposed. Gaping. No. Surely not.
Those aren't my guts hanging out like wires from a machine beyond repair. No.
My guts are spilled like milk. Red milk all over this sterilized white floor.
"No sense in crying over spilt milk, I guess."
The operators don't seem to hear these words.
"O, Doctor, what's happening to me?"
Her response is a stare like eyes to a bare wall. Did she hear me? Am I a hopeless case?
She is cutting. She is sewing. She is stitching. But not fast enough. Leaks are springing like explosions on a minefield covered with fog and crawling with lost soldiers. The soldiers are fleeing. The soldiers are panicked. The soldiers cry for Mother.
But she is calm. Clean and unmarked. Unscathed. Extracting pieces, objects, feelings, desires. She is undeterred. Her hands, fingers of porcelain are steady and defiant. She is a bomb technician diffusing a destructive device. She is the negotiator speaking soliloquies to the hostage taker. Disarm the man from his cold gun.
Disarm the damage.
Disarm the damaged.
Disarm me.
Repair me.
O, Doctor.
Replace my guts with something shiny and plastic. Something that won't fail me. Again.
O, Doctor.
Replace the red milk in my body and on this floor with something pure. Something saturated with nutrients and minerals and preservatives.
Tell me I'm worth preserving.
Tell me I'm worth saving.
Tell me you won't let me die on this cold table exposed in front of these strangers. No. Not like this. Please.
Don't give up on me, Doctor.
If you can repair me I promise to repent. I'll become a Shining Sun. Burning simply to shine. For you. For the world. For the wastelands. For the bonfires raging in the night. For the glorious. The refused. The broken. The obscene. The naked. The bloody.
O, Doctor. Please stop this bleeding. Don't speak truths colored false. Paint me a picture of hope that will sink my heart into holy water.
Your words are medicine. Medicate me. Fix me.
Don't tell me that it's too late.
But the red milk keeps pouring and my wound is a fountain.
She's trying so hard. She refuses to abandon this wound.
BEEP ^^ BEEP ^^ BEEP ^^ (getting slower now)
She's losing me. I'm losing the battle.
But I refuse to lose her.
"C'mon fight, you son of a bitch! Don't give up! Hang on! Just hang on!" I'm screaming. I'm pleading. I'm losing. She still can't hear me.
She's saying something. Her words are medicine. Sweet nourishing nectar from the most precious blossom. Her fleshy petals. I rub them against my cheeks of fire and fever. Her sweetest endeavor. To save me. To sustain me. The sweetest parasite to ignite the extinguished. The glorious. The refused. The broken. The obscene. The naked. The bloody.

Thank you, Doctor.
You saved my life tonight.

BEEP ^^ BEEP ^^ BEEP ^^ into infinity...


mc (for M...thank you)

20 December 2005

jealous of sparrows

I was looking for a reason to flee. All the exit signs were flashing and all those noises in my head were crashing. My hands were dripping with sweat. The faces of the Friends and the Foes were foreign. All of them dirty strangers. I could feel the heat of the flames raging in their eye sockets.
"Sock it to me, Baby. Give me your best shot. I won't let you see me flinch. The facade says I'm 'taking it like a man' but inside I'm really dying. I built a wall with flesh, with blood. It's held together by this foul whiskey, but the wall is crumbling. I can feel each piece fall away into a black sea. It hurts, Baby. It hurts like hell.
"But I won't flinch."
She stares at me. Shakes her head.
And I wished that I was dead. Rotting. I hope the stench of my decaying flesh disgusts you. I hope you turn and run away.
So I don't have to.
Those exit sings (flashing holy and profound) beckon me like cold earth (six feet under).
"You are a wretched beast that grows stronger and bigger as you consume another poor soul. I gave you pieces...PIECES!...of a human being - like some kind of holy sacrifice. You take them. You took them all only to refuse them under the fat moon that burns tonight."
I've always been jealous of sparrows. Without flinching they can spring into action and away. Away they go. Never to be seen again. You attempt to follow its trail into the sun. But the sparrow is gone.
A flash.
A blur.
Like the force that sustains this heart.
I attempt to move my feet. I'm hoping they will carry me to that flashing exit.
But where will I go?
Her stain is etched in me - somewhere.
I remember cutting myself shaving and rubbing like hell to erase the blood stain from a brand new starched white tee shirt.
"COME OUT, GODDAMNIT! COME OUT!"
I'm rubbing like hell to erase her stain.
I'm rubbing.
I'm rubbing.
I'm running.
Running down a street in No Man's Land. My apartment is 99 miles away via the cold interstate. I don't know these streets. These cars. Parked and collecting snow and the moon's glow (pure). Keep running. Just keep running.
Maybe a meteor will fall from the sky and an ambulance will come screaming out of that wicked-hell-black and it will contain gentle paramedics eager to pump my frail body full of anesthesia and other soul numbing agents. A chemically induced coma sounds like treatment fit for a King. A Glorious and Mighty King. Yes! Soft like his flowing robes. Such immaculate fabric for such tender flesh.
But the meteor does not come. No. Not tonight.
I keep running.
And running until - ?

I awake to find myself in the diner of a Meals-For-Wheels truck stop. The air is thick with sweet cigarette smoke. The sound of the soft clanging of stainless steel spoons stirring cups of coffee and Hank Williams' "Take These Chains from My Heart" (Take these chains from my heart and set me free...Take these tears from my eyes and let me see...Just a spark of the love that used to be) laces the background.
I sit up in my booth to find a cup of coffee (with packets of sugar and plastic shells of creamer - how did they know how I like my joe?) and a glass of ice water.
No one seems to pay me any attention as -
"Hey, sweetie. We was wonderin' when you were gonna wake up. Can I getcha somethin' ta eat?"
"Uh, umm, yeah...That, that sounds great. How about a, uh, stack of, uh, b-buttermilk pancakes?"
"Comin' right up, extra fluffy."
Before I can express my gratitude, the waitress (her worn and faded name-tag reads "Angel" - can you believe that?) has floated away.
I look out of the window next to my table to find a sight takes my breath away. The sun is slowly rising and a million snowflakes slowly fall from a frozen sky.


mc

earlier today...

I had another one of those biodegradable moments.
At a red traffic light.
Yellow sun above. Burning like a fading astronaut.
Tears, cradled in the corners of my eyes. Hidden behind black sunglasses.
I'm always hiding.
Hiding from regret (burns like a bastard).
Hiding from desire (hurts like an acid papercut).
Hiding from hiding.
This desire is dying, Doctor.
("Shit - we're losing him," says a blue surgical mask in a flurry of panicked ER personnel)

This desire is the goldfish that has leapt from it's glass palace (underwater).
Glass is invisible.
GASPGASPGASPGASP GASP GASp GAsp Gasp gasp
Oh, Fishy - where did you get the desire to escape from your aqua-safety-net-life?
Now you're exposed
and slowly dying
- g a s p -
Fading like a burning astronaut.
"Houston,
we have a problem."
Mission control is strangled and tangled like
Her hair on sunday morning.
These wires are all a mess.
Inside of me
Inside of you
I want to be
I want to see
Someone untangled and sailing free
Save me
O, Babe - please save me
From me
From me
From me
From me, To you
(A dozen technicolor flowers, freshly cut and bleeding, in my left hand)
"But they have no scent," she said.
The presence of a ghost, an absence of scent.
These technicolor flowers
For the ghost before me.
"Before me, angels hovered over treetops with plastic wings beautiful."
O, Angel of Beauty and Ghost of Tenderness,
Tuck me under your wing shining with warmth,
These flowers are for You
From me, From me,
Take me,
From me.

The sound of a car's horn. The traffic light is green.


mc

16 December 2005

295,734,134

This longing nearly drives me to tears. There are 295,734,134 people living in this country.
I want to connect with only one.
Only one.
Where are you? Lady of Black Highway and Lonely Heart, where are you, Baby?
I need you to coat my soul with your presence. Cover me with the things that cannot be seen by Man. The naked eye and my naked soul. Waiting for you at this snow covered depot in No Man's Land.
My hands are hidden in my pockets. Smoking this cigarette. Looking left. Looking right. Where are your headlights? I long to see them creeping out of this black night. To hear the black tires of your automobile crunching white snow and ice would surely send this heart out of this chest (trembling) and into the heavens with wings of fire (beautiful).
We will go to Nina's All Nite Diner and smoke and drink coffee and talk and dare to dream. Share the novel of your existence with me. My eyes will absorb your words. Your silent words. Graceful brush strokes on a fleeting canvas. Graceful is the smoke that billows from your red lips as you remove the cigarette with blue painted (chipping) fingernails growing from your fingers and your hand and the smooth milk that is your arms.
I cannot touch you. I dare not spoil your perfection (so effortless!) with this foul soul. The observer. The witness with dirty fingernails in a gallery of clean and unmarked beings.
"I lost the other mitten," she speaks, showing a tattered and worn pink mitten. "Without the other, this mitten is useless."
Could I? O! Could I be the mitten to complete the pair? To provide! To furnish! To deliver! To give! Is this an invitation?
O, Insulated Majesty - I will do my best to keep you warm. Your hands, your body, your presence. I will shield you from this putrid torrent of the skies. I will shelter. I will protect. These wicked bones (with rotting marrow) will do what they can and what they can't I will muster (from the Belly of Hell) the strength and courage to guard, preserve, shield and ward. You.
You
You
You
You
Through.............through............................
.....................................
...............................
.......................
.................
............
........
....

Through the snowflakes, these pure white feathers from frozen heaven, I can see the sun slowing ascending. Where are you, Lady of Black Highway and Lonely Heart? I've been at this dilapidating depot for O so long, so many years, so many. My vigilance will not (must not!) waiver. I shall be here, weathered and tattered and worn (like your pink mitten). I shall be here.
Waiting.



mc

15 December 2005

snake oil

My first appointment with Dr. S will also be my last.
I don't really care to share the reasons for this decision.
I'm tired of being broken and simply speaking to a stranger about very personal issues isn't going to change that.
So sick and tired of being sick and tired...

mc

14 December 2005

the trembling anticipation

Tomorrow at 330pm I will have my first (and last?) appointment with psychologist Dr. S; this date could not come soon enough. The last hour of work today was completely insane. I felt like a flag flying from its last thread in a hurricane. [Why are you doing this to yourself? You know this is a self-imposed exile, don't you?]
Before I came home I had to stop by Osco's to pick up a few things. I held up my hand in front of my face.
"Jesus, am I shaking?" I asked myself.
I wasn't, but a trembling sensation rattled my entire body, inside and out. I found myself gazing at a wall of colorful cereal boxes.
"Okay, okay...Why did I come here? Don't need cereal. What am I looking for?"
The entire experience was surreal. There are some things in life that words cannot explain adequately. Terrifying, exhilarating...I don't know what it was.
Through the freezing rain I sped home. Everything cold. The key to the front door (trembling). The rain on my face. The air. The body. The soul. Cold.
Pick up the telephone. The dial tone flashes and then flatlines. Check the voicemail.
"You have one new message," the electronic lady says.
It's some goddamned automatic political message. I'm sick of the agendas. The voices. The noise. All noise.
Check the email. No new messages.
Turn on the television. "Seinfeld" is on. I try to laugh. I try to loosen up.
No whiskey. No. Not now.
It took an hour to settle down.

A few hours later and here I am at the keyboard.
I'm really nervous about my date with Dr. S tomorrow. I talked to her briefly on the phone last week. Her voice was rather soothing. I suppose I'm looking forward to the appointment. This is hard because I don't like entering situations where I don't know what to expect.
What will her office look like?
What will she look like?
How old is she?
What questions will I have to answer?
What should I wear?
Something comfortable, yes. Loose fitting clothes because my insides will be Saran Wrap tight.
I'm afraid of feeling like some kind of laboratory animal. Poking and prodding the animal. Stimulate the creature and see what it tells you. Record the observations. Don't worry about how the creature feels.
I better stop this line of thought before I talk myself out of the appointment.
We'll see what happens.
For better of worse.
Stimulate the creature and see what it tells you...if anything.

mc

13 December 2005

a witness

FOX News correspondent Adam Housley was one of 39 people who witnessed the Tuesday morning execution of Stanley Williams.
Williams was convicted in 1981 for gunning down convenience store clerk Albert Owens, 26, at a 7-Eleven in Whittier, Calif., and killing Yen-I Yang, 76, Tsai-Shai Chen Yang, 63, as well as the couple's daughter Yu-Chin Yang Lin, 43, at the Los Angeles motel they owned. Williams claimed he was innocent, but witnesses at the trial said he boasted about the killings, saying, "You should have heard the way he sounded when I shot him."
This is Housley's chilling report of Stanley Williams' last minutes:

I have seen death before, but never actually witnessed a last breath. Tonight that changed.

Tonight I saw the deep breaths of nervousness, the breaths of annoyance when an IV couldn't be inserted easily ... and the last quick breaths of air as a man's chest went still. This man wasn't a friend, a member of my family, or even an acquaintance. This man was convicted of brutally murdering four innocent people and later bragging about how he watched their last breaths. Tonight I saw his.

The timeline is actually long and detailed. I have shortened it, without detracting from the important facts or feelings. The most captivating: the moment when 39 men and women walk into a light tan room and gaze through protected glass as this convicted killer, Stanley Tookie Williams, is brought in, strapped down and put to death.

The timeline goes like this, from 12:29 p.m. Monday in California until 2:57 a.m. Tuesday.

Monday, Dec. 12: Preparing to Witness Death

12:29 p.m. I have been picked as a witness to the Williams execution. We all await the governor's decision. Clemency from Arnold Schwarzenegger is really the last hope for Williams and those who say he should live. It is at this time that I get the tip — clemency is denied, and I call the word in to our crews.

12:31 p.m. The drive to San Quentin Prison begins. I arrive at the location outside the prison's east gate a short time later. News crews line the road, and some protesters have arrived. In the background, I see San Pablo Bay and the Richmond San Rafael Bridge. This location is beautiful; the men who are housed here are not.

6:30 p.m. At this point, we leave for the west gate of San Quentin. It is here the witnesses and media crews will gather. Satellite trucks are lined up; I am sitting in ours waiting for the officers to wave us into the outer range of the prison.

7:04 p.m. We get clearance and we drive through the first gate of San Quentin. Our truck is searched; we are patted down and then issued a pass depending on our clearance. Our satellite truck operators get blue media passes and I receive a gold badge, which signifies a witness to the execution. We then are escorted on a short drive to a location outside the San Quentin Prison main wall, but just in front of the main building.

9 p.m. Our first briefing inside the prison. We're told that Williams has refused most of his rights. He requested no last meal, is watching little television and spends most of his time on the phone. He had six visitors, he spoke with each individually and then all of them together at the end of his meetings. The convicted killer also received a bundle of 50 letters, all spiritual in nature.

9:14 p.m. The 17 media witnesses are separated from the rest of the media mass. We are escorted into a small room, then out a side door into a shuttle. Our trip is very short, maybe 100 yards or so. We go through yet another gate, this time we stop at the historical main building. Here we receive a quick briefing about grief or psychological effects we might feel after watching an execution. The talk is short, to the point and understood. We then return, via shuttle, back through the gate and join the rest of the media.

11 p.m. I am now removing all my personal effects. Inside the viewing room I will be allowed only the clothes I am wearing and a watch. Off comes all jewelry; no money, no wallet, not even a receipt in my pocket is allowed. A pencil and sheets of paper will be provided once we get inside the main prison fence line. I give my outer coat and effects to my producer and prepare to load into the shuttle.

11:14 p.m. I am escorted onto the shuttle along with 16 other media witnesses.

We are taken to the employee lounge, which is inside the main gate of San Quentin, but just outside of the east block, which is death row. Here we are patted down and each witness is assigned a prison guard escort.

11:52 p.m. Ten prison officers form a makeshift wall that lines our path from the lounge area, perpendicular across a small road and into the death chamber viewing area.

11:53 p.m. I watch as the other witnesses enter the death chamber viewing area; we are guided into the room right behind them.

11:54 p.m. We enter the death chamber witness room, which I am told is called the execution chamber witness gallery. The exterior door is similar to what you see on a warship, or some cruise liners. It is heavy, metal, and large rivets are visible. There is also a cell door that has been opened. The room itself is small, tan and has 20-foot ceilings. We are escorted to the east wall and are asked to stand on two risers, similar to ones used by church choirs. Everything is tan, except the chamber. It protrudes like half of a giant octagon into our narrow rectangular room. The execution chamber is all green. On the outside, on the inside and even the table and its pads -- all green. There is a tan railing about a foot from the thick glass; it curves around the chamber. The setup reminds me of being at an aquarium. The execution chamber looks like a tank and is obviously airtight. The room is dim and there are about 12 people sitting in folding chairs that line the railing. The media is on risers on the east wall, official witnesses on risers on the south wall and Tookie Williams' chosen witnesses (he is allowed 5) are on risers on the west wall.

11:58 p.m. Five prison officers escort the prisoner into the room. Williams appears older than the pictures, his hair is speckled gray and cut short. He wears wire-rimmed glasses and a light blue short-sleeve shirt. His pants are dark blue and he wears white socks. He is chained around his waist, and that chain is attached to handcuffs. He shows no fight as officers lay him down on the green padded doctor's table. He is strapped across the ankles with large black straps. His chest is large and expands and contracts deeply and rapidly; it appears he is nervous. Outside I can hear helicopters faintly; they have circled San Quentin for several hours, providing security.

Tuesday, Dec. 13: Execution Day

12:01a.m. Williams has a short gray speckled beard. He raises his head a bit as prison officers fix more large black straps across his knees. His arms are secured next and he turns his head to the left. From that vantage he can see his five allowed witnesses — two lawyers, three friends. They exchange glances and nods and he mouths words to them that we cannot see. At this point, the convict is strapped at the waist and a shoulder harness is attached. Cables from the heart monitor can be seen running from under his shirt into the chamber's back area and into a heart monitor machine.

12:03 a.m. The officers finish the securing of Williams, the handcuffs and chains are removed in favor of the straps. All prison personnel inside the chamber now wear surgical gloves. Up until now, we have seen only men in the room with Williams, but the officer who enters with the medical supplies is a woman. She quickly inserts an IV into the convict's right arm.

I still hear helicopters outside and the room is eerily quiet. We were warned that no talking, loud sobbing, or outbursts would be allowed. The only sound besides the distant helicopters comes from pencils writing feverishly onto lined paper, reporters making every effort to get every detail as the execution process and protocol continues just 8 feet or so from where I am standing.

In the room, all witnesses are fixated on the process behind the glass. The metal strips that separate the panes still remind me of being at an aquarium, or inside a submarine. As Williams continues to mouth words to his witnesses, his attorney begins to sway nervously. He looks down at the ground; he and Williams will eventually make eye contact and nod at each other.

12:08 a.m. There seems to be some problem finding a good vein and attaching the second IV to Williams' left arm. As the prison officers struggle with the IV, Williams raises his head fully for the first time. He is strapped down tightly. He appears to look over his body and assess his predicament. He sighs and puts his head back down.

12:10 a.m. After surveying the room with the head movement he is allowed, Williams turns his head to his right. He stares at the media. It is a long look and one that attempts to pierce our being in the room. There is no mistaking, even as this man awaits death, he is attempting to be in control, he wants to intimidate. He stops after about 10 seconds or so. His breathing is still deep and nervously quick. His massive chest continues to fluctuate distinctly.

12:14 a.m. As the work continues to find a vein in Williams' left arm (the process took about 12 minutes), he sighs and then leans his head up and says disgustingly, "still can't find it." The female officer rises up, she is sweating, and with the back of her wrist she wipes her brow. You can tell the stress is building and it is beginning to penetrate the glass and envelop many in the room.

12:17 a.m. The IV process is finally finished. The room is now getting heavy, the air thick and warming. Two officers now take rolls of adhesive tape and tape the convict's wrists, hands and fingers. Williams now looks like he has two casts on his hands, it is obvious we will see no movement when he is put to death. Williams continues to look left and continues to mouth words to his supporters.

12:19 a.m. Now that the body has been prepared, the table is unhooked and swung around. No longer are we looking at Williams' right side, we now see the top of his head. There is no sweat and he continues to breathe deeply. Williams once again looks over his predicament, he now has to strain to see his supporters. His attorney smiles and nods his head. Williams wiggles his toes inside his white socks.

12:21 a.m. A small metal round hole opens in the vault-like door that separates the execution chamber from the viewing room. A paper is handed through that is read by an officer inside our viewing room. Her words echo through the chamber. The announcement ends with, "Stanley Williams has been found guilty of first degree murder and special circumstances … the execution shall now proceed."

12:22 a.m. Williams looks around one last time and nods his head toward his five witnesses/supporters. One woman covers her face.

12:24 a.m. The first drug is administered into the IV, followed by two more. Williams gulps several times. He appears to pass out as his deep quick breaths become shorter. They become quicker and shorter by the second. His large chest begins to move slower and his toes no longer move, his head no longer strains or moves.

12:25 a.m. The room is still silent. Pencils work furiously. People strain to see any movement by Williams. Witnesses shift nervously and his lawyer looks away. The convict is still.

12:34 a.m. The witness room seems to be getting smaller. People shift from one leg to another. We still hear the helicopters and the pencils and we also hear talking inside the airtight execution chamber. We cannot discern what is being said, we believe it is the attending doctor confirming the inmate has now been put to death.

12:36 a.m. The small hole in the door is opened again and another note is passed through to a guard. Her words once again echo through this stale environment. She says in part, "May I have your attention please, Warden Steve Ornoski declares inmate Stanley Williams dead." Pronounced dead at 12:35 a.m. by the attending physician. The room is now still. The pencils have stopped, the helicopters cannot be heard, and a few of the victim's family members have begun to quietly cry.

12:37 a.m. The lifeless body strapped is still strapped to the table. There are no officers in the room, he is alone and the subject of stares. Two officers now undo two sets of curtains that are pale tan and similar to shower curtains. They slide them around the semicircle rods and separate the dead inmate from our room. The first to be led out are the Williams supporters. His two legal counsels leave without incident or comment. The same cannot be said for the three others. Two women and one man in chorus yell, "The State of California has murdered an innocent man." Their words catch the room by surprise and a family member of one of the victims is consoled. She is Laura Owens, the stepmother of Albert Owens, who was shot twice in the back by Williams. Owens' last breath was touted by the killer to his friends. Now Williams' last breath has been witnessed by 39 people who will tell of this experience to the world.

12:38 a.m. We file out of the room, meet again with our assigned guards and are escorted back onto the shuttle. We then are taken back to the media staging area inside the outer prison wall. There we give a press conference and recount our thoughts and experiences.

My closing thoughts are simple: I was nervous at first, unsure what to expect. I now understand this process is choreographed down to the number of surgical gloves in the execution chamber. The lethal injection execution is clinical, it is sterile and in the minds of a great majority of California voters, it is a just process. I leave with an understanding and with an experience I will never forget. My thoughts as I sit here outside the damp cold gates of San Quentin are with the victims and the incredible hurt their families have endured and will endure throughout their lifetimes. Stanley Tookie Williams has paid the ultimate price. And as the governor stated, he never seemed to show any remorse.

09 December 2005

a defense mechanism

psy-chol-o-gy
n, The science that deals with mental processes and behavior.

de-fense mech-a-nism
n, Any of various usually unconscious mental processes, including denial, projection, rationalization, and repression, that protect the ego from shame, anxiety, conflict, loss of self-esteem, or other unacceptable feelings or thoughts.


I've made a tentative appointment to see a psychologist next week. I don't know what I hope to gain from this meeting. I'm an old dog (old enough, anyway) and none of the tricks of the psychology field intrigue me, but I'm in desperate need of repair, or at least an improvement, so we'll see what happens.
The following is from my little black memo book. I carry this book with me wherever I go. I wrote this while in the throes of one of my tornadoes.

THE FEAR
i think part, if not all, of this fear is caused by part of my personality realizing that i've made an island of myself. i tell myself that if all else fails i won't need anyone but myself. out of this i create a facade for friends and family to see. ostensibly, i want them to get the impression that "mc has his shit together." but this "tough" exterior is bullshit. the facade is cracking. inside i'm a scared little boy who is afraid of being completely alone. this fear turns into anxiety which turns into doubt which turns into anger...hatred...self-loathing.
this hatred is used to justify my flawed philosophy.
even if i know my feelings/philosophy is false, i'm unable to retreat from it. if you're raised to see the colour blue as red you will believe it, regardless of what the evidence of reality says. blue as red has been instilled into your mind/reality. retreating from this philosophy would also be a sign of weakness which contradicts the feelings used to hold the facade together. the psychology of mc is a veritable catch-22.
this subconsciously created island is a defense mechanism. the ridicule from my youth sprung this mechanism...i have absolutely no doubt about this. why did the ridicule stick to and agitate the development of my personality? i understand childhood ridicule is a part of growing up but this treatment had a profound and damaging affect on me. small problems/difficulties that most people chalk up to "don't sweat the small stuff" material sticks to me...it festers...it's a cancer. it gets inside of my head and extends its claws deep into my mind. what starts as a snowflake quickly becomes an avalanche. words cannot describe the seething rage that wells up inside. headaches and nausea result. i used to believe that this flaw was simply a part of my personality. it's a manageable flaw so what's the big deal? i used to think. i have the bull by the horns but my grip is beginning to slip. i'm afraid this rage will erupt with undesirable consequences. this is why i'm beginning to seek help.


I'm sure I'll revisit this topic later...Right now I'm sick of thinking about it...

mc

08 December 2005

Lennon and 25 years

"God" by John Lennon - From the album Plastic Ono Band

"God is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain
I'll say it again
God is a concept
By which we measure
our pain
I don't believe in magic
I don't believe in I Ching
I don't believe in Bible
I don't believe in tarot
I don't believe in Hitler
I don't believe in Jesus
I don't believe in Kennedy
I don't believe in Buddha
I don't believe in mantra
I don't believe in Gita
I don't believe in yoga
I don't believe in kings
I don't believe in Elvis
I don't believe in Zimmerman
I don't believe in Beatles
I just believe in me
Yoko and me
And that's reality

The dream is over
What can I say?
The dream is over
Yesterday
I was the dreamweaver
But now I'm reborn
I was the walrus
But now I'm John
And so dear friends
You just have to carry on
The dream is over"


mc (as the snow outside illuminates a cold night's December sky)

it's always the one that got away

It's always the one that got away that bothers you the most. She was a good girl who didn't ask for much. I always felt like I could be myself when I was with her. I could show the hidden parts that very few, if any, people have seen. If a stranger caught a glimpse of these shadows my sanity/mental stability would definitely be in question...but that's okay (I guess)...

mc

07 December 2005

a very guilty pleasure

Everyone has a few guilty pleasures so I'm no different. One of my biggest guilty pleasures is reality television.
This past weekend the television network Bravo aired a marathon of Project Runway season one (season two began tonight). This program "pits sixteen fashion designers against one another on the road to the runway." The winning designer walks away with $100,000 to start their own fashion line.
Of all the reality shows that I've watched and been a fan of, this one has me scratching my head and asking, why do I find this show so damn appealing?
Is it the super-model host Heidi Klum? Yeah...a little bit.
Is it the hot fashion models showing off stylistic threads? Yes...definitely some good looking ladies.
But the real reason I watch this show is for the clothes and their designers (duh). After all, the models are fashioning wearable art. An artist has an eye/ear for what works and what doesn't, regardless of the medium. I ask myself, "How can I apply his/her fashion philosophy to my philosophy of music (i.e. textures of fabric to textures of sound)?"
If an artist is to expand, he/she needs to learn and absorb as much as possible from other artists. A library of souls is useless unless one is there to taste the temperatures.

mc

02 December 2005

a sound in a damp cave inside my head

Okay, okay. Reset. Systems are go.

I've been in the zone for the past couple of hours. Working (and reworking) on some of my sounds. If only I could live inside the sounds inside my head.

This is a release.

This is a balloon. Filled with helium. Floating into the heavens.
"Where did the balloon go, mommy?"
"It's up there. Somewhere."

It is here.






For now.

mc