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
31 December 2005
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
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
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
28 December 2005
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
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
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
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
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..."
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
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")
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
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)
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
"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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
