"Today is a holiday invented by greeting card companies to make people feel like crap,"
Joel Barish of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
mc *cheers*
14 February 2006
happy st. valentine's day
The St. Valentine's Day massacre is the name given to the shooting of seven people as part of a Prohibition Era conflict between two powerful criminal gangs in Chicago, Illinois in the winter of 1929: the South Side Italian gang led by Al Capone and the North Side Irish/German gang led by George 'Bugs' Moran.
On the morning of February 14, St. Valentine's Day, six members of Moran's gang and an optician who associated with gangsters, were lined up against the rear inside wall of the garage of the S-M-C Cartage Company in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago's North Side. They were then shot and killed by five members of Al Capone's gang (two of whom were dressed as police officers). When one of the dying men, Frank "Tight Lips" Gusenberg, was asked who shot him, he replied, "Nobody shot me." Capone was conveniently on vacation in Florida at the time.
The massacre was a result of a plan devised by Capone gang member Jack 'Machine Gun' McGurn to eliminate Moran, Capone's chief criminal enemy. The massacre was planned by McGurn partly in retaliation for an unsuccessful attempt by Frank and his brother Peter Gusenberg to murder him a month earlier. McGurn assembled a team of six men led by Fred Burke with the intent of having Moran lured into an ambush. Moran and his men would be tricked into visiting a warehouse on North Clark Street on the pretext of buying some bargain hijacked bootleg whiskey; Burke's team would then enter the building disguised as police officers and kill them. The chief suspects, McGurn and Capone, would be well away from the scene.
Five members of the Burke team drove to the warehouse in a stolen police car at around 10:30 a.m., two dressed in police uniforms and three in ordinary street clothes. They found seven members of Moran's gang but not Moran himself. Moran had been approaching the warehouse but the premature arrival of the police car scared him away. The gang members were told to line up facing the back wall, which they apparently did willingly, believing their captors were real (and comparatively harmless) police, and were then shot and killed using a tommy gun. The dead men were James Clark, Frank and Pete Gusenberg, Adam Heyer, Johnny May, Dr. Reinhardt Schwimmer (the optician), and Al Weinshank. The massacre marked the end of Moran's power on the North Side, and his gang vanished into obscurity, enabling Capone to take over the area. But the event also brought the belated and full attention of the federal government to Capone and his criminal activities, which led to his conviction and imprisonment on Volstead Act and income tax evasion charges in 1931.
from Wikipedia
mc *cheers*
13 February 2006
[subject missing]
I usually spend Monday afternoons at a local cafe with coffee and notebook but not today.
(This is the part where the reader rolls his or her eyes, shakes head and wonders what mc will whine about this time.)
My stomach hurts. I'm tired. My eyes move like marbles through molasses. I'm a dying dog hobbling over familiar territory, searching for some place warm and new and I'm not finding anything promising. I want to disappear.
Outside, a breeze of ice blows and the wind chill factor is 15 degrees.
Inside, I'm watching I Am Trying to Break Your Heart: A Film About Wilco.
Tomorrow is the holiday for lovers and I wonder how many people will kill themselves out of spite for that bastard Saint Valentine (how apropos he was beheaded).
"The tragedy of it is that nobody sees the look of desperation on my face. Thousands and thousands of us and we're passing one another without a look of recognition,"
Henry Miller
"Maybe you can tell me something. Why does it always have to go in this direction, writer to reader? Maybe you have the one thought that'll change everything for me. The one thing I haven't considered in my relentless, obsessive, circular thought process. Is there that one thing? Is it possible for one person to impart any transformative notion to another person?"
Charlie Kaufman
I don't know what I want from you. I feel like the forgotten punchline from some mindless joke and no one is laughing. Everyone is averting their eyes from my sagging and pathetic presence. Ha Ha - the joke's on me.
I know what I want from you but, like everyone else, you can't provide those fragile pieces and now I've trapped you.
Go. Stay. The past, the present and the future - and I'm breaking things all the time.
And now I'm tired...
mc
(This is the part where the reader rolls his or her eyes, shakes head and wonders what mc will whine about this time.)
My stomach hurts. I'm tired. My eyes move like marbles through molasses. I'm a dying dog hobbling over familiar territory, searching for some place warm and new and I'm not finding anything promising. I want to disappear.
Outside, a breeze of ice blows and the wind chill factor is 15 degrees.
Inside, I'm watching I Am Trying to Break Your Heart: A Film About Wilco.
Tomorrow is the holiday for lovers and I wonder how many people will kill themselves out of spite for that bastard Saint Valentine (how apropos he was beheaded).
"The tragedy of it is that nobody sees the look of desperation on my face. Thousands and thousands of us and we're passing one another without a look of recognition,"
Henry Miller
"Maybe you can tell me something. Why does it always have to go in this direction, writer to reader? Maybe you have the one thought that'll change everything for me. The one thing I haven't considered in my relentless, obsessive, circular thought process. Is there that one thing? Is it possible for one person to impart any transformative notion to another person?"
Charlie Kaufman
I don't know what I want from you. I feel like the forgotten punchline from some mindless joke and no one is laughing. Everyone is averting their eyes from my sagging and pathetic presence. Ha Ha - the joke's on me.
I know what I want from you but, like everyone else, you can't provide those fragile pieces and now I've trapped you.
Go. Stay. The past, the present and the future - and I'm breaking things all the time.
And now I'm tired...
mc
12 February 2006
shelter from the storm
After work last night, I spontaneously decided to leave my apartment and drive to Indy and visit AA. With Roommate being out of town and my head a mess, the prospect of spending a Saturday night alone and locked in my apartment seemed rather terrifying so I had to flee.
It's always good knocking back shots and shooting the shit with AA. For one drunken night I was absolved of the static in my mind, but this mess would resurface in another's head with a 2 am phone call from his girlfriend which later would result in his absence as he would leave to be by her sobbing side.
I was drunk and ready to crash, he wanted to console his lady and she wanted his presence so everything worked out amicably, relatively speaking.
AA, thanks for providing shelter from the storm for a night. You're a true comrade.
mc
It's always good knocking back shots and shooting the shit with AA. For one drunken night I was absolved of the static in my mind, but this mess would resurface in another's head with a 2 am phone call from his girlfriend which later would result in his absence as he would leave to be by her sobbing side.
I was drunk and ready to crash, he wanted to console his lady and she wanted his presence so everything worked out amicably, relatively speaking.
AA, thanks for providing shelter from the storm for a night. You're a true comrade.
mc
11 February 2006
whiskey, static and charlie kaufman
It's 1128 pm and I'm filling myself with phosphates and enzymes and whiskey and diet Coke while watching Being John Malkovich for the umpteenth time.
Yeah, this is the life.
I'm chain-smoking American Spirit cigarettes and wishing She would come through the door (unexpectedly) - or at least call. I spoke to Her earlier (via telephone) and I'm sure my monotone and indifferent stance turned Her off, but what can I say?
I am the flash of black static between channels 7 and 8 on the television dial.
CHANNEL 7: "...And tonight I'm joined by the star of More Hollywood Bullshit, Tom -
CLICK - - FLASH
CHANNEL 8: "...The four year old was found dead in a dilapidated house on the 800 block of -
Did you see me? The flash between channels 7 and 8? No? Yeah, I didn't think so...
I remember watching Being John Malkovich for the first time and being blown away by Charlie Kaufman's unique and mesmerizing screenplay. The film's concept was completely original and the main character, Craig Schwartz (played wonderfully by John Cusack), was someone I could identify with on a personal and painful level.
I recently completed Syd Field's Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting and to continue my screenplay studies I purchased the Being John Malkovich screenplay by Kaufman.
After reading the four page introduction written by Kaufman himself, I immediately realized what draws me to his films. Here are some excerpts from the introduction:
"They asked me to write an introduction to this screenplay. I told them I didn't know what to say. They told me it didn't matter, just something. They said people studying screenwriting often purchase these books and they'll be looking for a word from the writer. They told me I owed the readers something. I said I would try. I prefer not to owe people. So I am sitting here tonight trying. It's three in the morning. I haven't been able to sleep for several weeks now. Things are falling apart. I have personal problems. Perhaps I've been drinking too much. This was suggested to me by someone I once considered a friend. The point is, things are confused..."
"...Sometimes, when it's late enough and dark enough and quiet enough, I am even a man without questions. A lack of curiosity, a numbness creeps over me and I just sit. I stare at that weird, suspicious stain on the wall and think of nothing. I don't wonder about the universe. Then a little question will slowly bore its way to the front of my brain. The question is why am I in this situation? Who am I that is so terrible that people must respond to me with such brutality? Yes, brutality. A brutality of the spirit. I am a person. I have my weaknesses, certainly. My insecurities, my desires. But I have a right to them. I'm not going to let anyone tell me otherwise. So if the price I have to pay for living my life is to be cast out, then I guess that is the price I have to pay..."
"...I am a miserably lonely person who has no charming anecdotes. The only thing I can talk about, the only thing that's on my mind at the moment is that the human being can be a treacherous creature. And that sometimes they can tell you they love you and they care about you and maybe they don't. How terrible is that, to come to that realization? Of course it makes sense. Nobody could really like me. I mean, nobody ever has before..."
"...Look, the truth is everything is a mess as far as I can tell. It's just a messy, junky world. People are mean. People are lonely. People are lost. Nobody knows a damn thing. Some people pretend they do. Don't trust them. Some people pretend they like you. Don't believe them..."
A sidenote...
It's now 1240 am and She just called me from a party - drunk. The whole conversation was depressing because She was a million miles away at a party filled with people (I heard their drunken happiness in the background) while I wasted -
She just called again - still drunk - and I'm on the outside looking in...And on a night like tonight, it's awfully cold - and lonely - on the outside...
mc (@ 2 am: drunk and full of shit - and whiskey too)
Yeah, this is the life.
I'm chain-smoking American Spirit cigarettes and wishing She would come through the door (unexpectedly) - or at least call. I spoke to Her earlier (via telephone) and I'm sure my monotone and indifferent stance turned Her off, but what can I say?
I am the flash of black static between channels 7 and 8 on the television dial.
CHANNEL 7: "...And tonight I'm joined by the star of More Hollywood Bullshit, Tom -
CLICK - - FLASH
CHANNEL 8: "...The four year old was found dead in a dilapidated house on the 800 block of -
Did you see me? The flash between channels 7 and 8? No? Yeah, I didn't think so...
I remember watching Being John Malkovich for the first time and being blown away by Charlie Kaufman's unique and mesmerizing screenplay. The film's concept was completely original and the main character, Craig Schwartz (played wonderfully by John Cusack), was someone I could identify with on a personal and painful level.
I recently completed Syd Field's Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting and to continue my screenplay studies I purchased the Being John Malkovich screenplay by Kaufman.
After reading the four page introduction written by Kaufman himself, I immediately realized what draws me to his films. Here are some excerpts from the introduction:
"They asked me to write an introduction to this screenplay. I told them I didn't know what to say. They told me it didn't matter, just something. They said people studying screenwriting often purchase these books and they'll be looking for a word from the writer. They told me I owed the readers something. I said I would try. I prefer not to owe people. So I am sitting here tonight trying. It's three in the morning. I haven't been able to sleep for several weeks now. Things are falling apart. I have personal problems. Perhaps I've been drinking too much. This was suggested to me by someone I once considered a friend. The point is, things are confused..."
"...Sometimes, when it's late enough and dark enough and quiet enough, I am even a man without questions. A lack of curiosity, a numbness creeps over me and I just sit. I stare at that weird, suspicious stain on the wall and think of nothing. I don't wonder about the universe. Then a little question will slowly bore its way to the front of my brain. The question is why am I in this situation? Who am I that is so terrible that people must respond to me with such brutality? Yes, brutality. A brutality of the spirit. I am a person. I have my weaknesses, certainly. My insecurities, my desires. But I have a right to them. I'm not going to let anyone tell me otherwise. So if the price I have to pay for living my life is to be cast out, then I guess that is the price I have to pay..."
"...I am a miserably lonely person who has no charming anecdotes. The only thing I can talk about, the only thing that's on my mind at the moment is that the human being can be a treacherous creature. And that sometimes they can tell you they love you and they care about you and maybe they don't. How terrible is that, to come to that realization? Of course it makes sense. Nobody could really like me. I mean, nobody ever has before..."
"...Look, the truth is everything is a mess as far as I can tell. It's just a messy, junky world. People are mean. People are lonely. People are lost. Nobody knows a damn thing. Some people pretend they do. Don't trust them. Some people pretend they like you. Don't believe them..."
A sidenote...
It's now 1240 am and She just called me from a party - drunk. The whole conversation was depressing because She was a million miles away at a party filled with people (I heard their drunken happiness in the background) while I wasted -
She just called again - still drunk - and I'm on the outside looking in...And on a night like tonight, it's awfully cold - and lonely - on the outside...
mc (@ 2 am: drunk and full of shit - and whiskey too)
10 February 2006
the withering
...Haven't been sleeping well. I find myself waking up every 90-120 minutes hunched over with my head in my hands. A sore lower back tells me that I sleep sitting up most of the night, which is odd because I never catch myself rising from bed.
The dirty mirror tells the story: I look like shit. Blue bags of blood droop below my eye sockets. Bloodshot cobwebs span the whites of my eyes.
I feel like shit.
This nightly ritual is a sign of something. Stress. Loss. Something. I'm uneasy right now. An ill premonition has been floating over my head recently so I've been preparing myself (whatever that entails) for bad news. Something is brewing in the spaces between life and light, and my attempts to sway the unknown are (as always) futile. The tide rolls in only to recede. I'm fading in. I'm fading out. I wish not to be bothered in times like these. No phone calls. No questions. No surprises. Nothing. The is The Withering and I will let its wicked vibration run its course and pick up the pieces later.
I feel like a beleaguered circus performer on a tightrope miles above and I'm looking for something reassuring below - a net - a person - some kind of safety device. I need a pair of warm hands alive with pure and pulsating white blood cells to heat these hands of ice. The right hand furiously scribbling words on this clean page. The left hand trembling and empty.
My cold belly is churning with fluids of flame stabbing and scurrying. Stabbing small intestine then scurrying...Stabbing spleen then scurrying...Stabbing liver then scurrying...Kidney to liver...Stomach to large intestine. Imagine an astronaut in his hovering pod viewing an electrical storm firing in clouds over a covered continent below. Balls of lightning like flashing neurons strike a desolate prairie, then a city, then a valley. Flash then scurry.
I feel things inside. A bag. A sac. A placenta filled with a still and defeated fetus that failed years ago. It's quiet and motionless floating in fluids void of nutrients, minerals and preservatives. The things not nurtured are the first to die and something has indeed died inside. Was it aborted? An accident? Would it have been stillborn? Was this form of undeveloped pink flesh innocence? Honesty? Childhood? Manhood? Love? It has died and can no longer move but if I press hard enough, a memory of movement, a once living ghost creeps into my mind. This memory is blurred and distorted; a vague image of a mysterious presence plunging murky depths. My only hope of identification lies in its ability to resurface and flash a ghastly face but it is gone forever, eternally buried and drowning in fetal fluids.
I wish not to have this tiny, lifeless body of rubbery bone and slick skin removed from the shallow pit of my living carcass. It should linger and nest; it needs to remain to remind me of something sweet that was once alive and left unmarked and untouched by this world; a mass of malnourished jelly that once thrived for reasons beyond its comprehension.
mc
The dirty mirror tells the story: I look like shit. Blue bags of blood droop below my eye sockets. Bloodshot cobwebs span the whites of my eyes.
I feel like shit.
This nightly ritual is a sign of something. Stress. Loss. Something. I'm uneasy right now. An ill premonition has been floating over my head recently so I've been preparing myself (whatever that entails) for bad news. Something is brewing in the spaces between life and light, and my attempts to sway the unknown are (as always) futile. The tide rolls in only to recede. I'm fading in. I'm fading out. I wish not to be bothered in times like these. No phone calls. No questions. No surprises. Nothing. The is The Withering and I will let its wicked vibration run its course and pick up the pieces later.
I feel like a beleaguered circus performer on a tightrope miles above and I'm looking for something reassuring below - a net - a person - some kind of safety device. I need a pair of warm hands alive with pure and pulsating white blood cells to heat these hands of ice. The right hand furiously scribbling words on this clean page. The left hand trembling and empty.
My cold belly is churning with fluids of flame stabbing and scurrying. Stabbing small intestine then scurrying...Stabbing spleen then scurrying...Stabbing liver then scurrying...Kidney to liver...Stomach to large intestine. Imagine an astronaut in his hovering pod viewing an electrical storm firing in clouds over a covered continent below. Balls of lightning like flashing neurons strike a desolate prairie, then a city, then a valley. Flash then scurry.
I feel things inside. A bag. A sac. A placenta filled with a still and defeated fetus that failed years ago. It's quiet and motionless floating in fluids void of nutrients, minerals and preservatives. The things not nurtured are the first to die and something has indeed died inside. Was it aborted? An accident? Would it have been stillborn? Was this form of undeveloped pink flesh innocence? Honesty? Childhood? Manhood? Love? It has died and can no longer move but if I press hard enough, a memory of movement, a once living ghost creeps into my mind. This memory is blurred and distorted; a vague image of a mysterious presence plunging murky depths. My only hope of identification lies in its ability to resurface and flash a ghastly face but it is gone forever, eternally buried and drowning in fetal fluids.
I wish not to have this tiny, lifeless body of rubbery bone and slick skin removed from the shallow pit of my living carcass. It should linger and nest; it needs to remain to remind me of something sweet that was once alive and left unmarked and untouched by this world; a mass of malnourished jelly that once thrived for reasons beyond its comprehension.
mc
09 February 2006
right where it belongs
"Right Where It Belongs" by Nine Inch Nails
"See the animal in his cage that you built
Are you sure what side you're on?
Better not look him too closely in the eye
Are you sure what side of the glass you are on?
See the safety of the life you have built
Everything where it belongs
Feel the hollowness inside of your heart
And it's all
Right where it belongs
What if everything around you
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you think you know
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection
Is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks?
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?
What if all the world's inside of your head
Just creations of your own?
Your devils and your gods
All the living and the dead
And you're really all alone?
You can live in this illusion
You can choose to believe
You keep looking but you can't find the woods
While you're hiding in the trees
What if everything around you
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you used to know
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection
Is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?"
"See the animal in his cage that you built
Are you sure what side you're on?
Better not look him too closely in the eye
Are you sure what side of the glass you are on?
See the safety of the life you have built
Everything where it belongs
Feel the hollowness inside of your heart
And it's all
Right where it belongs
What if everything around you
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you think you know
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection
Is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks?
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?
What if all the world's inside of your head
Just creations of your own?
Your devils and your gods
All the living and the dead
And you're really all alone?
You can live in this illusion
You can choose to believe
You keep looking but you can't find the woods
While you're hiding in the trees
What if everything around you
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you used to know
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection
Is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?"
08 February 2006
beautiful people and the laws of nature
from my notebook...earlier today
I'm not sure what has happened. I started the day in relatively high spirits but over the past hour or so that mood has completely deteriorated and now the fear of eternal loneliness pervades. I don't want to be that 37 year old single man spending evenings alone at home with TV dinners and sitcoms.
I see beautiful people everywhere.
Here...On the bus with their cellular phones and iPods.
There...Leaving the mall with Abercrombie & Fitch bags and designer perfumes.
There...Gliding down a sidewalk surrounded by similar looking bodies.
The hair. The teeth. The skin. The clothes. The technology.
And I feel like a deflating balloon of flesh and veins.
A little kid, probably 4 or 5 years old, just got on the bus. I don't like being around little kids when I'm in this state. I feel like the "after" of a "before and after" montage of a patient suffering from some kind of wretched disease - and death is at the doorstep.
I want to pull their small bodies aside and whisper in their ears, "Get out before it's too late, kid. Enjoy your ignorance while you can. This is all just a charade."
But they wouldn't understand me. I've never been able to properly speak to children. I use words that they don't understand. I feel like I'm talking to a tiny alien...Maybe I'm the creature from outer space.
Their short time on this planet has taught them some valuable lessons; lessons the caveman had to learn. But the painful and most important lessons will be learned later as their ignorance and innocence fades. They will discover these lessons through the interactions with their fellow human beings. They'll taste lessons of cruelty, heartache, betrayal and compassion (but only occasionally); they will learn the true laws of nature.
mc
I'm not sure what has happened. I started the day in relatively high spirits but over the past hour or so that mood has completely deteriorated and now the fear of eternal loneliness pervades. I don't want to be that 37 year old single man spending evenings alone at home with TV dinners and sitcoms.
I see beautiful people everywhere.
Here...On the bus with their cellular phones and iPods.
There...Leaving the mall with Abercrombie & Fitch bags and designer perfumes.
There...Gliding down a sidewalk surrounded by similar looking bodies.
The hair. The teeth. The skin. The clothes. The technology.
And I feel like a deflating balloon of flesh and veins.
A little kid, probably 4 or 5 years old, just got on the bus. I don't like being around little kids when I'm in this state. I feel like the "after" of a "before and after" montage of a patient suffering from some kind of wretched disease - and death is at the doorstep.
I want to pull their small bodies aside and whisper in their ears, "Get out before it's too late, kid. Enjoy your ignorance while you can. This is all just a charade."
But they wouldn't understand me. I've never been able to properly speak to children. I use words that they don't understand. I feel like I'm talking to a tiny alien...Maybe I'm the creature from outer space.
Their short time on this planet has taught them some valuable lessons; lessons the caveman had to learn. But the painful and most important lessons will be learned later as their ignorance and innocence fades. They will discover these lessons through the interactions with their fellow human beings. They'll taste lessons of cruelty, heartache, betrayal and compassion (but only occasionally); they will learn the true laws of nature.
mc
07 February 2006
loose inside
Eager to escape the house this afternoon. Things feel unsettled and loose inside. Even though these feelings are all too familiar, they always seem to trouble me.
I've decided to hunker down in a booth with hot coffee and notebook at Encore Cafe. I felt very anxious as I parked my car but forced myself to enter the bustling establishment.
I'm not sure why I'm feeling so uneasy. She spent the night again and there was a moment in bed when She turned silent and away. I know She's dealing with stress; She's confused, lost and sleep deprived and the last thing I want is to contribute to the mess. She said something peculiar that made me stop for a moment. She said there was a voice, a feeling She got when She was with Her boyfriend years ago; She failed to heed this "feeling" (a warning?) and apparently this "feeling" is resurfacing with me. I don't wish to speculate what this "feeling" is or what it means but I hope She will tell me in time.
She has a poor self-image and this causes Her to reject anything positive. I've been candid about my feelings for Her and my opinion of Her as a friend and as a person. Does She think I'm simply trying to inflate Her damaged ego with empty platitudes?
My words aren't ghosts, Dear. They are real and true and I wish you to take them.
I want Her to trust the person speaking those words and perhaps She will open and share.
Her apparent lack of trust has made me ask myself an important question: Should I trust Her? Has it been wise to share those intimate facts of porcelain with Her? Yes. My trust in Her is absolute. She could damage me. She could break me. But I know She would never intentionally do such a thing. Her guarded demeanor reflects a broken heart still in disrepair. Knowing this, oddly enough, validates my trust in Her. I know She would never maliciously wield the things I have confided in Her because She has felt that cold blade of betrayal Herself.
I know the scales of trust are extremely unbalanced, and this makes me feel like a vulnerable pinata, but I need Her presence (in whatever form or title).
I hate the feeling that I need others more than they need me.
I hate the feeling that this might be the case more often than not.
I hate the fact that my self-image is so poor.
But what is one to do (remember Palahniuk: "Self-improvement is masturbation)? Change, permanent change is not easy, if even possible. Denial doesn't work.
Acceptance. Yes. Accept the broken pieces; for even a shattered mirror offers a reflection.
mc
I've decided to hunker down in a booth with hot coffee and notebook at Encore Cafe. I felt very anxious as I parked my car but forced myself to enter the bustling establishment.
I'm not sure why I'm feeling so uneasy. She spent the night again and there was a moment in bed when She turned silent and away. I know She's dealing with stress; She's confused, lost and sleep deprived and the last thing I want is to contribute to the mess. She said something peculiar that made me stop for a moment. She said there was a voice, a feeling She got when She was with Her boyfriend years ago; She failed to heed this "feeling" (a warning?) and apparently this "feeling" is resurfacing with me. I don't wish to speculate what this "feeling" is or what it means but I hope She will tell me in time.
She has a poor self-image and this causes Her to reject anything positive. I've been candid about my feelings for Her and my opinion of Her as a friend and as a person. Does She think I'm simply trying to inflate Her damaged ego with empty platitudes?
My words aren't ghosts, Dear. They are real and true and I wish you to take them.
I want Her to trust the person speaking those words and perhaps She will open and share.
Her apparent lack of trust has made me ask myself an important question: Should I trust Her? Has it been wise to share those intimate facts of porcelain with Her? Yes. My trust in Her is absolute. She could damage me. She could break me. But I know She would never intentionally do such a thing. Her guarded demeanor reflects a broken heart still in disrepair. Knowing this, oddly enough, validates my trust in Her. I know She would never maliciously wield the things I have confided in Her because She has felt that cold blade of betrayal Herself.
I know the scales of trust are extremely unbalanced, and this makes me feel like a vulnerable pinata, but I need Her presence (in whatever form or title).
I hate the feeling that I need others more than they need me.
I hate the feeling that this might be the case more often than not.
I hate the fact that my self-image is so poor.
But what is one to do (remember Palahniuk: "Self-improvement is masturbation)? Change, permanent change is not easy, if even possible. Denial doesn't work.
Acceptance. Yes. Accept the broken pieces; for even a shattered mirror offers a reflection.
mc
where you'll find me now
While I was driving home earlier today I was listening to Neutral Milk Hotel's beautiful album On Avery Island. "Where You'll Find Me Now" begins playing and the lyrics struck me as if I had never heard them before. Jeff Mangum (singer of Neutral Milk Hotel) seemed to be singing the thoughts swimming in my heart on this cold, grey day.
"Where You'll Find Me Now" by Neutral Milk Hotel
"All I perceive is wasted and broken
Silvery streams, sacred when spoken
Slam into me and into the ditch of debris
And you smoke in the park and sleep in the greenery
Everyone barks and they are all still believing
To tear out your heart would send all your secrets to me
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
Your teeth believe that teeth are for tearing
Tear into me and the scent of you sweating smells good to me
As long as we keep in our clothes
And out in the dark the world is still rolling
Kids in their cars, cigarette smoking
And all that they are just reeks with the sweetest belief
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
All I could want is silver and spinning
Out from your arms and into the pretty pit of your heart
So simply and softly we'd flow
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
Into you I will glow"
...And I sat in my car speechless, shaking my head.
mc
"Where You'll Find Me Now" by Neutral Milk Hotel
"All I perceive is wasted and broken
Silvery streams, sacred when spoken
Slam into me and into the ditch of debris
And you smoke in the park and sleep in the greenery
Everyone barks and they are all still believing
To tear out your heart would send all your secrets to me
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
Your teeth believe that teeth are for tearing
Tear into me and the scent of you sweating smells good to me
As long as we keep in our clothes
And out in the dark the world is still rolling
Kids in their cars, cigarette smoking
And all that they are just reeks with the sweetest belief
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
All I could want is silver and spinning
Out from your arms and into the pretty pit of your heart
So simply and softly we'd flow
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
Into you I will glow"
...And I sat in my car speechless, shaking my head.
mc
borders of thoughts
*from my notebook...written 06 February 2006
Today being Monday and a day off, I make my regular afternoon stop at a cafe. Normally it's Encore but today I've decided to spend a few hours at Border's Cafe. Frankly, Encore's clientele can be a little too earthy/organic/hippie for me so I've decided to go mainstream corporate and a little less liberal (if that's possible in this town) today. Plus, I like the view from this window; people are passing on the sidewalk as cars and buses glide by.
I'm nearing the end of my screenplay workbook and I'm a little anxious about this. The completion of this book will mark the beginning of construction on my first screenplay attempt. I have a few ideas about possible stories but I'm missing the conflicts needed to propel the stories forward. I'm unable to form conflicts - now that's ironic.
She spent the night again last night. Three consecutive nights and I don't seem to grow tired of Her presence. While I wish that something more would grow from our friendship, I must realize that wishing for an unrealized reality and accepting the facts of actual reality are two different concepts. If I'm honest with myself, I don't even know if, at this time in my life, I'm capable of fostering a healthy romantic relationship. Addressing the cold, meaty truths of my own problems is difficult enough, nevermind sharing them and accepting the burden of another's problems...
"The true delight is in the finding out rather than in the knowing," Isaac Asimov
...But the idea, the glowing image of walking hand in hand down a sidewalk with fires burning in our eyes and bellies is a beautiful, albeit false (is it false? the embers of hope still glow) one. Damn Hollywood.
Perhaps one of the motors driving my desire to write a screenplay is rooted in constructing and controlling a reality, an existence of my own design. I know how the story will end. The characters won't surprise me. The strangers won't be foreign or unknown; I'll even know them to a certain degree.
This is a birth.
Extract the bodies. The ideas. Cradle them. Nurse them. Watch them grow. Hand in hand.
Flaws of perfect construction...
...And I'll know how this story will end.
"No alarms and no surprises please," Radiohead's "No Surprises"
mc
Today being Monday and a day off, I make my regular afternoon stop at a cafe. Normally it's Encore but today I've decided to spend a few hours at Border's Cafe. Frankly, Encore's clientele can be a little too earthy/organic/hippie for me so I've decided to go mainstream corporate and a little less liberal (if that's possible in this town) today. Plus, I like the view from this window; people are passing on the sidewalk as cars and buses glide by.
I'm nearing the end of my screenplay workbook and I'm a little anxious about this. The completion of this book will mark the beginning of construction on my first screenplay attempt. I have a few ideas about possible stories but I'm missing the conflicts needed to propel the stories forward. I'm unable to form conflicts - now that's ironic.
She spent the night again last night. Three consecutive nights and I don't seem to grow tired of Her presence. While I wish that something more would grow from our friendship, I must realize that wishing for an unrealized reality and accepting the facts of actual reality are two different concepts. If I'm honest with myself, I don't even know if, at this time in my life, I'm capable of fostering a healthy romantic relationship. Addressing the cold, meaty truths of my own problems is difficult enough, nevermind sharing them and accepting the burden of another's problems...
"The true delight is in the finding out rather than in the knowing," Isaac Asimov
...But the idea, the glowing image of walking hand in hand down a sidewalk with fires burning in our eyes and bellies is a beautiful, albeit false (is it false? the embers of hope still glow) one. Damn Hollywood.
Perhaps one of the motors driving my desire to write a screenplay is rooted in constructing and controlling a reality, an existence of my own design. I know how the story will end. The characters won't surprise me. The strangers won't be foreign or unknown; I'll even know them to a certain degree.
This is a birth.
Extract the bodies. The ideas. Cradle them. Nurse them. Watch them grow. Hand in hand.
Flaws of perfect construction...
...And I'll know how this story will end.
"No alarms and no surprises please," Radiohead's "No Surprises"
mc
06 February 2006
the super bowl lie
Last Friday I was invited by a co-worker to a Super Bowl party. As CoWorker asked me if I wanted to come I knew I didn't, but for some unexplained reason I said yes. I always do that kind of shit.
So yesterday was gameday and I woke up feeling anxious, uneasy, not good...Just one of those days. I spent several hours tormenting myself over the phone call and accompanying lie. I make the call and after the first three rings I'm hoping for an answering machine; lying to a machine is easier than lying to flesh and blood. Then I hear the glorious sound of a prerecorded message.
"Hello, we are unavailable to take your [CLICK] Hello?"
Fuck.
"Hey, CoWorker, it's mc. What's up?"
"Not much. How are you?"
"Good. Hey, I don't know if I'm going to be able to make it over for the game. My girlfriend wants to go to this party and she wants me to come along so if I can make it over I will, but I'm not sure."
I can't even give a concrete 'no' while lying. So pathetic.
I then proceed to ask for driving directions even though I know I won't be going. I even write down the directions, for Christ's sake!
In case CoWorker asks me about my fictional girlfriend, I'll need to compose a character sketch.
A name...Length of our relationship...Steelers fan? Seahawks fan?
Better living through lying...So fucking pathetic.
mc (call me Costanza)
So yesterday was gameday and I woke up feeling anxious, uneasy, not good...Just one of those days. I spent several hours tormenting myself over the phone call and accompanying lie. I make the call and after the first three rings I'm hoping for an answering machine; lying to a machine is easier than lying to flesh and blood. Then I hear the glorious sound of a prerecorded message.
"Hello, we are unavailable to take your [CLICK] Hello?"
Fuck.
"Hey, CoWorker, it's mc. What's up?"
"Not much. How are you?"
"Good. Hey, I don't know if I'm going to be able to make it over for the game. My girlfriend wants to go to this party and she wants me to come along so if I can make it over I will, but I'm not sure."
I can't even give a concrete 'no' while lying. So pathetic.
I then proceed to ask for driving directions even though I know I won't be going. I even write down the directions, for Christ's sake!
In case CoWorker asks me about my fictional girlfriend, I'll need to compose a character sketch.
A name...Length of our relationship...Steelers fan? Seahawks fan?
Better living through lying...So fucking pathetic.
mc (call me Costanza)
05 February 2006
the absent muse
A phone call in the black of night.
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass.
An estranged voice on the opposite end.
The receiver in my shaking hand.
Dusty cobwebs diffusing in my weary head.
"But she is next to me. How can this be?" I respond.
Under blankets her shadow rises - then falls. The motion of breathing.
The oxygen.
The carbon dioxide.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
I'm still for a moment then slowly and carefully place the phone's receiver on its cradle and gaze upon the blankets and shadow and wonder what this means.
Who are we?
What are we doing, Love?
Does any of this mean anything?
I light a cigarette and ponder the sleeping muse.
Under thin sheets of skin her eyes rest. What have they seen? Can those visions be matched by what her heart has felt? No. Long after the faces have been erased and replaced the remnants of their actions remain restless in her heart - forever.
O, Love, please do not forget my face and I will float harmlessly in your heart like plastic fluff swimming in a snow globe. You are a painted figurine trapped in a world of rusted monuments and failed men; I wish not to be among those dying structures. I wish to be alive and be with you, trapped in this globe of incalculable equations and artificial precipitation. The plastic pieces of heaven are floating and falling all around us.
O, Muse, the silence of your breathing shadow softly glows like the city lights in a midnight drizzle and I'm left helpless at the sight. The lamps reach into the halos of the heavens; out of my reach and beyond my grasp and your scent is so sweet and I sit here spoiling in your presence. Helpless, so helpless...Won't you open and unfold your pristine petals so that I may catch a glimpse of your flawed beauty? An effortless attempt that shakes the sky open and sends drops of nectar to the earth. A surface aching for something pure and sweet and harmonious and you could break something; crack a face coated with dust and time; seal the wound with lips of silk, wet.
You are a source of unknown illumination and I am a fluttering moth pursuing in vain. In vain? Is this all in vain, Love?
Who are we?
What are we doing?
Do these crashes in the night mean anything?
A phone call in the black of night.
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass and smoke.
An estranged silence on the opposite end.
"But she isn't here. Where is she?" I respond.
Under blankets a shadow rises - then falls. The motion of a ghost, breathing.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
Her silent ghost - she's everywhere.
mc
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass.
An estranged voice on the opposite end.
The receiver in my shaking hand.
Dusty cobwebs diffusing in my weary head.
"But she is next to me. How can this be?" I respond.
Under blankets her shadow rises - then falls. The motion of breathing.
The oxygen.
The carbon dioxide.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
I'm still for a moment then slowly and carefully place the phone's receiver on its cradle and gaze upon the blankets and shadow and wonder what this means.
Who are we?
What are we doing, Love?
Does any of this mean anything?
I light a cigarette and ponder the sleeping muse.
Under thin sheets of skin her eyes rest. What have they seen? Can those visions be matched by what her heart has felt? No. Long after the faces have been erased and replaced the remnants of their actions remain restless in her heart - forever.
O, Love, please do not forget my face and I will float harmlessly in your heart like plastic fluff swimming in a snow globe. You are a painted figurine trapped in a world of rusted monuments and failed men; I wish not to be among those dying structures. I wish to be alive and be with you, trapped in this globe of incalculable equations and artificial precipitation. The plastic pieces of heaven are floating and falling all around us.
O, Muse, the silence of your breathing shadow softly glows like the city lights in a midnight drizzle and I'm left helpless at the sight. The lamps reach into the halos of the heavens; out of my reach and beyond my grasp and your scent is so sweet and I sit here spoiling in your presence. Helpless, so helpless...Won't you open and unfold your pristine petals so that I may catch a glimpse of your flawed beauty? An effortless attempt that shakes the sky open and sends drops of nectar to the earth. A surface aching for something pure and sweet and harmonious and you could break something; crack a face coated with dust and time; seal the wound with lips of silk, wet.
You are a source of unknown illumination and I am a fluttering moth pursuing in vain. In vain? Is this all in vain, Love?
Who are we?
What are we doing?
Do these crashes in the night mean anything?
A phone call in the black of night.
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass and smoke.
An estranged silence on the opposite end.
"But she isn't here. Where is she?" I respond.
Under blankets a shadow rises - then falls. The motion of a ghost, breathing.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
Her silent ghost - she's everywhere.
mc
02 February 2006
doll steak, test meat
I've been rediscovering Nirvana's final opus In Utero and though I've listened to this album countless times, I'm still floored by the bizarre and beautiful imagery of Kurt Cobain's lyrics, especially the lyrics of "Milk It."
"I am my own parasite
I don't need a host to live
We feed off of each other
We can share our endorphins
Doll steak, test meat
I own my own pet virus
I get to pet and name her
Her milk is my shit
My shit is her milk
Doll steak, test meat
Look on the bright side is suicide
Lost eyesight I'm on your side
Angel left wing, right wing, broken wing
Lack of iron and/or sleeping
Protector of the kennel
Ecto-plasma
Ecto-skeletal
Obituary birthday
Your scent is still here in my place of recovery"
-Nirvana's "Milk It"
lyrics by Kurt Cobain
01 February 2006
navigating
2.02 pm, 1 February 2006 - navigating this 40 foot ship over oceans of asphalt
It hasn't been a good day thus far.
There was something about the way She left this morning...I felt small and crumpled in my bed as I heard Her go. The front door closes. Her car door closes. Engine starts. Engine fades as She pulls away. I'm left alone in the dark feeling down, rejected, dejected, uneasy.
I remember something She said to me last night: "Don't read into it too much."
I feel like the contrary of Kind Midas; everything I touch turns to shit. Okay, maybe that's a bit melodramatic, but the things I deeply care about, the things I really don't want to fuck up, I somehow find a way to break. Sometimes it seems like I subconsciously plant booby traps just to have them spring into action and sabotage me at a later date, when I'm most vulernable. I'm left with hands tied, a puzzled expression and the words "I'm sorry" stumbling from my mouth once again. My intentions are always pure and true but something happens, something corrupts them.
"Don't read into it too much."
I feel another headache brewing and I want to disappear. I don't deserve Her as a friend, much less something more. I don't feel like I deserve anyone who will make me feel special, appreciated, or equal for that matter.
On one hand, I've been on the receiving end of a lot of bullshit and heartache throughout my life; unjustified bullshit that can be chalked up as wrong place, wrong time, wrong life. Am I not deserving of a loving presence? And if not a loving one, then why not a warm and caring soul?
Then I think of my inadvertent "bull in a china shop" mentality when it comes to dealing with friends and strangers, especially females that I have an affinity for. I have the uncanny ability to butcher a masterpiece and stab a room of silence with obscene static. Why this inability to simply appreciate "the moment?" Do I truly deserve that caring presence? Who wants to be the unwilling passenger in a relationship that's seemingly based on upheaval and restlessness?
"Don't read into it too much," She said.
It sounds so simple, Dear.
I'm trying...r e l e a s e...I'm trying (to release).
mc
It hasn't been a good day thus far.
There was something about the way She left this morning...I felt small and crumpled in my bed as I heard Her go. The front door closes. Her car door closes. Engine starts. Engine fades as She pulls away. I'm left alone in the dark feeling down, rejected, dejected, uneasy.
I remember something She said to me last night: "Don't read into it too much."
I feel like the contrary of Kind Midas; everything I touch turns to shit. Okay, maybe that's a bit melodramatic, but the things I deeply care about, the things I really don't want to fuck up, I somehow find a way to break. Sometimes it seems like I subconsciously plant booby traps just to have them spring into action and sabotage me at a later date, when I'm most vulernable. I'm left with hands tied, a puzzled expression and the words "I'm sorry" stumbling from my mouth once again. My intentions are always pure and true but something happens, something corrupts them.
"Don't read into it too much."
I feel another headache brewing and I want to disappear. I don't deserve Her as a friend, much less something more. I don't feel like I deserve anyone who will make me feel special, appreciated, or equal for that matter.
On one hand, I've been on the receiving end of a lot of bullshit and heartache throughout my life; unjustified bullshit that can be chalked up as wrong place, wrong time, wrong life. Am I not deserving of a loving presence? And if not a loving one, then why not a warm and caring soul?
Then I think of my inadvertent "bull in a china shop" mentality when it comes to dealing with friends and strangers, especially females that I have an affinity for. I have the uncanny ability to butcher a masterpiece and stab a room of silence with obscene static. Why this inability to simply appreciate "the moment?" Do I truly deserve that caring presence? Who wants to be the unwilling passenger in a relationship that's seemingly based on upheaval and restlessness?
"Don't read into it too much," She said.
It sounds so simple, Dear.
I'm trying...r e l e a s e...I'm trying (to release).
mc
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