park

Dead grass and concrete.
It is 42 degrees and I am walking through a park, silent
The children are absent and
The swing sets do not move,
Just the sound of distant cars on black motorways
And a memory of you:
An old cardigan, tattered blue jeans and I was playfully chasing you on a chilly night in October
The way she touched me parted skies and
Made missing children cry.
Where have they gone?
And where are you, Vandalia?
She is miles away
Sorting knickknacks and colored fabrics.
I could fabricate a lie
Tell myself I am not alone
But it is 42 degrees and this park is empty and
The swing sets do not swing.

Dead grass and concrete
Under my aching feet
The bones do not fit and
My flesh is aging.
"Abandon the flames raging inside your head and embrace the love of Christ!"
Is what the man on the television shouted.
His suit was well pressed
And his Rolex glistened
Like the plastic and confessed.
My confessions are concepts
Tasteless confections lacking nutrients and significance.

Dead grass and concrete
And above my body
Clouds like castles tumble and collapse
Shift and slide like the chemicals inside.
Cold rooms, a shattered mirror and bottled medications await my arrival at my place of residence.
If I could cast a spell and
Sprout wings from this weathered spine
I would drift above the tree tops
Cradle broken angels and seal their crystal wounds with off-key lullabies,
But it is 42 degrees and my head is full of
Fairy tales, daydreams, and tranquilized soliloquies.
The last time I saw my mother she said,
"You look so sedated."
"But I feel better, so much better,"
Was my placid reply.
I am beginning to believe those words were just another lie.

Dead grass and concrete and it is 42 degrees.
The children are gone
Inside homes basking in the warm glow of television shows.

mc

observe random time

Everything you hear or read is hearsay. Always demand documentation.
The world's population is approximately 6,600,000,000. I am simply one person among the billions.
"Do not exceed the recommended dose. If overdose is suspected, contact your local poison control center or emergency room immediately." (Authorized personnel will promptly dispatch uniformed professionals in a flashing vehicle.)
Before signing legally binding documents always read the fine print.
"You may have already won $10,000,000.00!" (If it's too good to be true, it probably is; otherwise, strings are attached.)
The sun is hallow. It is filled with a million screaming infants, all blissfully oblivious of their existence.
When you speak you're repeating what you already know.
"Remember that your doctor has prescribed this medication because the benefit to you is greater than the risk of side effects."
"IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS" (OR RUN LIKE HELL)
"FLAMMABLE Keep away from fire. Keep out of reach of children. Not for internal use. MADE IN USA"
Do not talk to strangers or actors portraying friends.
Lies and deceit have destroyed many a man.
"Exact change only. No change given."
"ROAD CLOSED AHEAD - FOLLOW DETOUR"
"Avoid Hell. Repent today. Trust Jesus."
"Take 1 tablet 3 times a day. If you miss a dose, use it as soon as you remember."
When speaking to another person, always maintain eye contact. Be wary of those who avoid eye contact; his or her movements should be scrutinized. Beware of suspicious body language (i.e. wandering eyes, nervous head and/or hand movements, crossed arms, restless legs, etc.).
The US Department of Justice reports 797,500 children were reported missing in a one-year period of time studied.
Everything you hear or read is chaos encoded into a conceivable language.

mc

pieced together

Last Wednesday marked my first Valentine's Day spent with someone special -- very special. As L and I approach our two month anniversary (I think "anniversary" is a rather grandiose term to use considering the length of time) I'm amazed she has chosen to remain by my side. I'm not a perfect man, far from it, and while I realize we all walk cracked and flawed, my blemishes seem to glint brighter and sting harsher, especially in interpersonal relationships. In light of this uncomely fact, L remains and we continue to grow closer. Her constant and steadfast presence has provided the one thing I've need for so long -- stability.
That very stability kept me together last weekend. L's best friend was married in Kentucky, and the experience was not an easy one for me. Leaving the safety of my cocoon, especially for a formal event filled with strangers, was not an easy choice, but I felt obligated and made the journey.
I purposely neglected to take my meds (I packed them but simply refused to take them) during the entire weekend. (My reason for doing so would require a separate post; perhaps a future entry).
The wedding was Saturday evening and Saturday night was a blur of assorted mixed alcoholic beverages -- too many beverages. With L riding shotgun and my new found comrade C in the back seat I left the reception scatterbrained. As I traversed freezing foreign roads my head buzzed with a million electric wasps, all of them scraping and screaming, determined to push my consciousness to the edge of some unbearable spine shattering reality.
Somehow I guided my ship back to home base.
"Tomorrow" seemed like a cruel illusion, a pristine fragment of suspended time that I wouldn't see alive.
Splintered memories like washed out photographs are all that remain from that night, but I vividly recall L by my side, preparing my bed for the night and caring for my alcohol saturated body. Her touch was a silent lullaby and precious sleep soon came.

I opened my eyes and it was Sunday morning, glorious Sunday morning. That unblemished fragment of time arrived and I had survived to see it. Breathe it. And L was by my side sleeping peacefully.
Stability.
My fingertips lightly brushed her cheek and my lips gently pecked her forehead.
Stability was by my side.
And even when she's out of reach and miles away, her face only a mirage glimmering in my mind, she is here, inside.
Stability.

Thank you, L.

mc

weekend

L spent another weekend with me; she left a few hours ago. Whenever she leaves I'm filled with regret -- I take her presence for granted and don't treat her as well as I should. She tolerates my volatile personality, and I'm amazed by her patience and constant love -- I couldn't ask for more. I wish I could refine myself, smooth out the rough edges and become the man she deserves. Inside my head is a Hollywood/TV image of a loving boyfriend -- and I fall dreadfully short of this image. I realize this image doesn't truly exist, but I want to exceed all of her expectations and satisfy her every desire. Unfortunately my actions tend to belie my heart's intentions; I'm puzzled by this disconnection.

I finished the first draft of an untitled short story. I'm now in the process of making revisions and I'm also working on another story. Rummaging through a notebook of potential screenplay ideas recently, I realized that many of the sketches are better suited for short stories, not scripts. I use much imagery in my writings and it's hard to convey what I "see" in the form of a screenplay. I still hope to complete a screenplay someday, but at this moment my creative energy is pushing me in a different direction.

My head is whirling with many thoughts of multiple shades right now, too many to pinpoint and plaster with words. Tomorrow awaits.

Goodnight.

mc

finally

South-Central Indiana finally saw its first major snow fall today, approximately six inches.
Despite the single digit temperature I went outside at 9 PM to smoke a cigarette and sip on a Bad Elmer's Porter (a beer brewed by local brewery Upland Brewing Co.). The ethereal silence of a snow covered earth is one of those rare instances when one is reminded of what it is to be alive, when the tranquility of the vanishing moment is realized, and the uniqueness of existence tingles the spine. Or as Jeff Mangum once sang, "How strange it is to be anything at all."

mc

dust

Much time has passed since my last post but I'm still here -- and doing quite well. L and I have now been dating for over a month and despite my occasional episode we're very happy together. Romantic relationships -- especially when you've experienced so few throughout your life -- are strange mechanisms. Our relationship works differently than most because of our geographic locations. We're separated by 50 minutes so weekends are usually our time to spend together. Nightly phone calls and periodic text messages throughout the week lessen the distance and she never feels far away. While the distance can be difficult at times, I think it helps moderate our feelings and prevents us from "rushing" things.
I could easily saturate this post with sentimental cliches and confessions of love but those things shall remain private. She knows how I feel, and I know how she feels.
I haven't posted any recent writings because I have many stories (?) working their way through my notebook. I've never worked on multiple pieces at one time but thus far I've managed to keep each piece fresh and interesting.
The screenplay I started several months ago has been filed away but remains floating in the ether of my imagination. I haven't abandoned the script; we need some time apart, that's all.
Right now my writing philosophy is simple: just write. I'm confident that if I keep plugging away these pieces/stories/whatever will weave together and become a cohesive unit or they will forever remain separate and eventually form a collection of short stories; I find the latter very intriguing.
I'll try to keep T.S.Tv.S. fresh with a weekly update or two. Despite the many conflicting and contrasting pieces that make up TheSkyIsATelevisionSignal.blogspot.com, I'm very proud of what this blog represents.
Ugliness.
Beauty.
Heartache.
Love.
Pain.
Joy.
My life.

mc

built to spill

We are not data.
We are not black fonts painted on clean white sheets tucked in manila folders and hidden away in gun metal gray filing cabinets.
We are not an appointment scheduled on an over sized calender in a professional's office. (His desk is adorned with high class knickknacks, among them is a gold framed portrait of his family beaming under a Cancun sun, perfect. They are tanned. Healthy. Smiling mouths expose perfect white teeth. A picture of the american dream.)
We are not an account number with an accompanying profile photograph.
We are not a job title.
We are beings miraculously floating through time and space, trapped on a planet searching for something, someone. Seeking love. We rummage through the senseless debris of modern life looking for that spark, that _____, the ineffable flame that unites two exiled souls and transforms the meaning of self. Two beings fuse and the spectrum through which they view life changes.
Men have murdered for the flame of love.
Men have disappeared never to return upon experiencing love's crushing departure.
Lovers have committed themselves until death for that light.
Others have made final pacts and chosen an early exit when the cold shadows of authority won't allow their flare to flash.
All of this for love. Sweet love.
We've shot men into space and left proof of our existence on a lunar surface. We've developed technologies to kill thousands and save millions. Yet love has befuddled the human mind. Love's implausible logic leaves us silent, but a kiss speaks volumes.
Perhaps some day scientists dressed in white lab coats and trapped in sterile labs of fluorescent lighting will discover love's true name, its actual source. Is it a chemical? A component in the brain? What organic matter could possibly bring two separate beings together with such undeniable force?
What has brought L and me together?
What is driving us forward, closer?
Why does my entire body flutter with electricity when I look into her endless eyes?
How can the simple presence of another soul generate a peace -- a mutual peace -- that dissolves time and transcends two bodies from this physical realm?
She says, "I don't want to rush this. I've made that mistake before and I don't want to make the same mistake again."
I say, "I don't want to rush things. I've made that same mistake as well."
We want this to last.
But love is illogical, an untamed beast beyond comprehension. Is it possible to temper the flame? And if so, are we thereby harming its process?
And how do we know if these feelings are genuine?
One can question his or her feelings until they become meaningless drivel, and when love is involved the questions, as well as a subtle fear, quietly hum like distant radio static, fading in, fading out.
I did not ask for L's blessed presence, but here she is. I refuse to compute the risks involving myself with her; I'm enjoying each second and striving to plant myself "in the moment," knowing that tomorrow may never arrive. I won't mince my words, dear. I do not have the time -- none of us do.

"I try to think of what time is and all I can think is:
Time is.
Time was."
Andy Warhol, artist

It's my opinion that subconsciously, and in some cases consciously, we seek to control -- despite the fruitless nature of the task -- every aspect of our lives. Yes, you can control what you consume, who you see, where you travel, but the things that shift our lives, the things that make life real, the things that flash our brains and flush our hearts are ultimately beyond our control.
Love tells us to go. Move. Proceed. Forward. Experience. Open ourselves to that Great Unknown.
Love is a purpose. A reason to reach. Touch. Kiss. Exchange. Feel.
Love allows us to escape ourselves, we shed the flesh, bone and hair and become something... else. We become the greatest vessel this planet will ever know: a transparent body of peace, appreciation and tenderness.
The Uncontrollable.
Won't you join me, love?
All we're losing is time. Wretched time. Damn the consequences.
Tick. I.
Tock. Love.
Tick. You.
Tock. ..................

mc
"We're always losing the moment, it's always vanishing."
Stephen Koch, author

sister sadly

Mother and Stepfather now have temporary custody of Sister's newborn son. Apparently she relapsed last night but this is assuming she ever freed herself of those venomous substances.
I won't delve into the sad details of last night's conversation with mother. If Sister doesn't check herself into rehab she will a) overdose unintentionally or b) commit suicide. My family has fought this battle before (Sister's previous problems are blogged here... How long ago did those heartbreaking events transpire?... Time lines blur but memories do not) but now a child, a baby is involved, and once again I'm prepared for words informing me of sister's death everytime the phone rings.
Last night I told my mother to just give in, give up and give in to the Great Magnet. The great Unknown that renders us all powerless. Accept the fact that control is an illusion. We develop products that give up temporary control. Remote controls. Thermostats. Alarm clocks. PDAs. Computers. Our roads are lined with white and yellow lines guiding us. Signs are posted warning us of upcoming dangers, limiting our speed. Stoplights control the flow of traffic.
Look around.
We're surrounded by things that aid the illusion of control -- a control that does not exist.
Give in.
Find beauty in the lack of command. The absence of might.
You are free.

mc

L

New Year's 2007 was a very special celebration thanks to a lovely little lady named L. It's difficult, if not impossible, to express the significance of her presence. She became a vital part of my life at such a crucial time that I'm not sure where I would be without her.
When you know that another soul reciprocates your feelings and understands your unspoken language (a glint flashing in your eye, an emotion burning in the pit of your belly, a heart racing from flesh touching flesh) you know you've found a rare and unique individual.
L, thank you for making last night a memorable and unforgettable experience.
I love you, babe.

mc
(I still can taste you on my breath)

morning

It's 2 AM Christmas morning and the uncomfortable lover writes from his bed under the flickering glow of two candles.
And she exposed him.
The naked and ugly parts.
His room was ransacked.
His scars made clean and visible.
He sips biting whiskey from a glass stained with fingerprints and he ponders of stations, places and locations to hide -- there are none.
Smoke from a burning cigarette curls and colors the dimly lit room and it's Christmas morning. The uncomfortable lover pictures his unwrapped gift miles away, sleeping under sheets decorated with her lovely scent.
He recalls a kiss, an embrace, a look, unspoken communications and her tiny hands were always warm.
This cold room is confusion and the uncomfortable lover realizes that some things are incalculable.
"It's so difficult to compromise the desires of an aching heart."
A gift wrapped in soft flesh.
A heart swimming in blood of untamed devotion.
And the uncomfortable lover will sleep alone tonight.

mc (2.25 AM Christmas morning)

"the world just screams and falls apart"

U P D A T E :

I'm great, I just wish it would snow, rain, sleet, something. Fifty degrees and no snow in early December is ridiculous.
I'm currently working on multiple pieces -- a wonderful feeling. Specifically I'm piecing together a short story about Brillo pads, a floor of linoleum, the Blessed Virgin Mary, a young man with OCD, and escapism.
My screenplay is on the back burner; I'm focused on compiling a collection of short stories.
Speaking of short stories, every reader (all three of you) MUST read Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son. It's an unforgettable read of short stories and it's a definite must read for fans of Chuck Palahniuk. Steal this book. Visit your friendly local library. eBay it. Hell, send me your address and I'll send you my tattered copy. JUST READ THIS BOOK. Period.
x x End transmissioN x x

mc

i was walking down the street and everyone looked like actors, their costumes reeking of perfumes and bonfire smoke. briefly i wondered if the carnival was in town, but the carnies don't come here anymore. no, not anymore. they've left the scavengers to fend for themselves. birds collect crumbs with broken beaks and drug addled freaks struggle to speak. the lights of christmas illuminate this spectacle of humanity -- a rainbow of hearts, oxygen, pills and pretty girls of cell phones.

and now for something COMPLETELY different

At the risk of disgracing everything I've written on my precious blog, I present this hilarious segment from the tragically short lived "The Andy Dick Show."

claire

I need to buy more blazers, more sport coats. I feel comfortable, fashionable if you will, sporting a fedora, blazer/sport coat with vintage tee, worn blue jeans and a tattered pair of Chuck Taylors.
I purchase all my blazers/sport coats and tees at thrift shops.
I'm sure many of the coats have been donated by blue haired widows after clearing the closets of their dead husbands. Those tiny rooms reeking of moth balls and leather, packed with clothing wrapped in dry cleaners' plastics. Plaids from the '50s. Fabrics from the '60s. Pristine polyesters from the '70s. A black pair of leather shoes worn once to a mother's funeral. The trench coat of an ambassador. Various ties for special occasions: meetings, holidays and more funerals. Artifacts worn by beings from another time.
I scour racks searching for a good fit. Some of the jackets have retained their jet fresh scent. Others emanate old flesh and dead cologne. A stray hair is occasionally found, usually gray and thin.
The pockets are almost always empty; however, many months ago hidden inside the satin lined breast pocket of a blazer (circa 1974) I discovered a worn and tattered black and white photo of a woman, beehive hairdo, thick wire rimmed glasses. She was oddly beautiful.
The name Claire seemed appropriate.
Over the thrift store speakers The Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun" played softly. Poor Karen Carpenter. Such a delicate voice. And that emaciated figure of bone and skin. It all made the song so bittersweet.
A sound.
A voice.
Trapped in time.
And in my hand was "Claire," black and white.
Trapped in a moment. Captured. Secured.
A high school sweetheart. A young wife perhaps. Now nameless and left to suffocate in the blackness of a satin lined pocket, carelessly packed on a rack of fabrics. Tags. Prices. Memories expired.
I sat the blazer aside and held "Claire" in my hand. I was frozen with her, trapped in the lack of color like some strange time capsule. I traveled and there she was mute yet tangible.
"Where are you? Are you still alive? Is your body cracked with age and time and locked away in some nursing home? Are the nurses treating you well?
"Once upon a time you were a beautiful creature molded from beauty's model and some young man, a strapping young soldier preparing for war, kissed your precious lips one final time and bade farewell while flags flashed and tears glistened. 'I'll be back before you know it, baby,' that's what he said, didn't he? And you couldn't let go of him, you just couldn't. Trumpets blared the sounds of America, Freedom, War and Courage, and you knew, you knew, you just knew..."
And as I stared at "Claire" somewhere, not from the shitty thrift store speakers, not from some passing shopper, but somewhere I heard a voice, the voice of a young woman say, "Months later his body would explode, bits were recovered, and days, weeks, I don't know, time passed and a flag draped coffin, a coffin--mostly empty--returned, he came back home. The newspaper said his body was returned to 'The Red, The White, The Blue and The Indebted.'"
Some brutal advertisement blasted over the thrift store speakers promoting Senior Sundays and her voice disappeared.
"Claire," something tells me you've passed too.
And some believe you're with him again.
Somewhere high above all of this.
Hand in hand.
Floating in white.
His body whole. Undamaged.
Your wrinkles gone. Your face a blazing brilliance of color.
I gently return your face to the satin lined pocket. I try the blazer on. The fit is perfect. It smells nice. It smells clean. The color is as gray as the sky outside. A beautiful sky.
I approach the cashier and pull some wrinkled bills from my pocket. The cashier punches some buttons, a tiny bells rings, a total is announced and I hand her my money.
"One dollar and thirty-seven cents is your change, sir. Have a nice day."
"Thank you. I think I will. It looks like rain."

mc

safety

In fields of broken glass and shattered love I crawled on broken knees searching for the pit where bodies bleed to become invisible and join the void of permanence.

I'm safe now.

I'm safe now.

And creativity is crawling.



mc

perfect