Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Closer to understanding

Telling him the opposite only makes him try harder. To prove me wrong. Only tightens that noose around the neck of his feelings. And so I let it go. Like a balloon or a dove. A lone moon burning amidst a billion stars as the ocean draws its breath from so far away.

Sometimes it feels like I am taking pictures of nothing. Recording events that have never happened. The scene existing only in my head. A curve in the road as it disappears over the horizon, like the world really does go on forever, but I’ll never be able to see it.

Tears don’t always fall. Sometimes they grow wings and fly. Carried by eager winds and thoughts never acknowledged. Shy and anonymous as they seep into the very lives they are trying so hard not to interrupt.

I’ll pretend to believe the lie if it will make him happy. Imaginary grapes on empty vines. The juicy sweetness of love in my throat, but I’m still too afraid to swallow.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Right there

They were right there. On the tip of my tongue. So eager to jump. So anxious to be on their way. Like a trapeze artist high up on that tiny platform, waiting for that big moment in the spotlight.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let them go. I held on. For dear life. And let the moment pass me by. The words have been in my throat for so long I’m used to them. Learning to breathe around them. Yet another detour. It feels like the closer I get, the longer the drive.

As much as it hurts, at least I know what it feels like. That’s what I keep telling myself.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Still going

My fault, I guess you could say. I could have stopped it at hello. Left the bed unmade so no one would want to sleep in it. Scratched my fingernails across life’s chalkboard, but they’re so short hardly anyone would have heard.

Maybe I'm just paper after all. Little scraps made by careless scissors. And now there is too much. Too many. The doorway too small for me to pass through. Tangled up in the words. In their meaning. Trying to tame my thoughts with wooden chairs and fraying whips. The roar of my heart from within its cage. I believe it’s called inertia. Why things keep going long after they should have stopped.

Monday, March 16, 2009


Balanced, we’re so perfectly balanced right now. Or so it seems. Our feet dangling, but it’s fun. Avoiding any real contact with what’s below. Gliding over the world like children on swings.

A game, perhaps. If we were to be honest with ourselves. But we rarely ever are. Because lies can become truths if you’re not careful. Just as readily as the truth will admit it never meant what it implied. But if chosen, or stumbled upon, it becomes awkward while waiting for translation. So misunderstood in the darkness. In that fragile balance between lover and friend.

Balanced, but only because the lies keep it so.

Friday, March 13, 2009

You've never been there

If you don’t know why, then call yourself lucky. If you just can’t even comprehend how something like this can happen, then you’ve never been there. And you’re very lucky. You’ve never been pushed and pushed and pushed until you’re so close to the edge you can’t believe you haven’t gone over yet. Until every thought in your head becomes so jagged and sharp that you can only wonder why you’re still in one piece; that you haven’t torn yourself to shreds from the inside out. That you haven’t exploded, or imploded, or just burst into flames. And still people keep pushing. As if they didn’t know.

If you’ve never been there, you’ll call it madness. Insanity. You’ll blame drugs and peer pressure and the devil and rock music. You’ll wonder why no one noticed, why no one reached out. You’ll wonder why the person didn’t get help. Why they didn’t turn to Jesus, or Prozac, or their friends, or their family. Because surely that’s what you would do.

Guns, ammo, murder, suicide?

You’ll wonder. You’ll shake your head and wonder.

Because you’ve never been there. You've never even been close.

You’re lucky.

Ask yourself

So many people I work with take so many pills. Little bottles all over their desks. Constantly rattling and shaking and popping. Must take with food. Must take on an empty stomach. Some younger than me, some older. Mygod, why so many pills?

I don’t believe in doctors, not like most people do. I would never go see a doctor if I didn’t know what was wrong with me. And I would never go see one if I did, and I usually do. Because rarely is there anything wrong with me that I can’t identify. Aches and pains come and go. Always have and always will. There’s aspirin for when it gets too much. There’s hydrogen peroxide to chase the germs away. There’s soap and water to keep your hands clean. Your hands which touch almost everything.

“Eat right,” they say, but no one does. They’d rather rattle their pills. “Exercise,” they say, but no one does. Park as close as they can, take the elevator, no time, have to pick up their new pills.

Heavy, getting heavier. Lazy, getting lazier. Healthcare costs go up and everyone is whining. The price of their pills, how will they ever afford them now?

Ask your doctor if you must, but you’re the one who should know. Try asking yourself, it’s your body, treat it right. Or don’t. But stop bitching about your pills.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

The words

The words long to be released and will then beg to be erased. As if the light is too bright and the shadows weren’t such a bad place after all.

Barely coherent in any language. How I'd love to give them wings. The freedom to go wherever they wish. Then there would be no need, no reason to string them together with black ink and white paper. Because my voice is going hoarse from all these repeated failures. Fingers strike random keys, but it’s not music.

Splattering them upon the walls. Knowing they will be painted over later. My best writing is always about what I cannot have. Footprints from the past trapped in dried cement.

Smearing these mistakes with my fingers, before they dry, wiping them on the back of my pants. Until it’s all a whisper. Like soft wind across my skin. Hesitant thoughts swallowing the ragged shards of their surrender.

But still they ache. The words. Still they beg.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Seven guys I’d do

Jeff Probst – The host from Survivor. Jeff is the main reason I watch this show. I think he’s incredibly hot. Jeff was born November 4th, 1962 (which makes him a few years older than me) in Wichita, Kansas, but grew up primarily in Bellevue, Washington. He likes to cook, helps babies born with AIDS and is currently divorced, I think. I’d definitely do Jeff.

Nathan Fillion – Captain Malcolm Reynolds from the television series Firefly. Nathan was born March 27, 1971 (which makes him a lot younger than me) in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. With the exception of Firefly, nothing Nathan is in ever seems to do very well. Doesn’t matter. He’s hot and I’d do him in a minute.

Robert Sean Leonard – I first saw Robert in the movie Dead Poets Society. He played the young and confused Neil Perry. What a cutie. Now he plays doctor James Wilson on House, a show I hate, but sometimes I watch it just to get a glimpse of Robert. Robert was born February 28, 1969 (which makes him a few years younger than me) in Westwood, New Jersey. He just married some professional equestrian lady. Oh well, I’d still do him. She'll get over it.

Dylan Walsh - Born Charles Walsh on November 17, 1963 (which makes him a few years older than me) in Los Angeles, California. You probably know him best as Dr. Sean McNamare from the series Nip/Tuck. He’s been married a few times, has a few kids. I just think he’s a cutie. Yeah, I’d do him.

Adrian Pasdar РNathan Petrelli from the TV series Heroes. Adrian was born April 30, 1965 (which makes him a few months younger than me) in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. His father, Homayoon Pasdar, was an Iranian immigrant and cardiac surgeon. His mother, Rosemarie was born in Königsberg, Germany and worked as a nurse.

When he was in college, he was injured in a car accident during his freshman year. The accident left his face scarred, his legs badly injured, and kept him in a wheelchair for several months.

He can play the guitar. He has a tattoo of an anchor on his arm. He also has a tattoo of the Chinese character for Strength, which he got while filming Shanghai. I usually don’t like guys with tattoos, but I’d do Adrian.

Ronald Joseph Livingston - born June 5, 1967 (which makes him a few years younger than me) in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He’s been in a few movies (Peter in Office Space) and a few TV shows (Standoff). Nothing all that spectacular about him except that he has the look I like. Brown eyes, brown hair and looks like he just got out of bed and could use a shave. Sure, I’d do Ron.

Robert Downey Jr. – I know. I know what you’re thinking. Robert Downey Jr.? Really? Yes, Really. Born April 4, 1965 (which makes him a few months younger than me) in New York City. High school dropout, drug addict, numerous arrests for drug possession, in and out of rehab. But there’s something about him. Maybe it’s the “bad boy” thing. As long as he wore a condom, I’d do him. And probably regret it later.

Connection lost

Sometimes I’ll be at work, actually working, and a message will appear on my screen, “Your connection has been lost, attempting to reconnect.”

It’s a strange feeling. Being disconnected. I lived with it for years. Assumed I would always feel that way. Got used to it, even. Always on the outside, looking in. Always adrift, alone, reaching out but never finding anything substantial to grab a hold of. Constantly seducing shadows and ghosts and memories into remembering what it was like. To feel.

Afraid, I would never feel again.

Until one day, I connected. With someone. Instantly. And it all began to unravel. Like tugging on a hanging string of a button. I was alive, not just an empty shell. And I watched the chalk outlines around my body blow away. And I stopped trying so hard to be what I was not.

Connected. A part of something, someone. No songs to be sung to make me forget. No instruments needed other than the steady beat in my head. And so I listened. As the beautiful music spread throughout the universe.

And now my biggest fear is that my connection will be lost.

Attempting to reconnect.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

New things

Last week my boombox died. It was kind of cheap when I bought it nearly 10 years ago, but it played CDs and was easy to haul around. It has played my favorite music through many a construction project. Actually, the CD part is the only part that died. The laser reader thing went. It has probably played a million CDs so I guess it was time. It also has a cassette player, but nobody has cassettes anymore. Nobody. And yes, the radio works fine, but it’s kind of a big thing to be used as just a radio, so I bought a new one. On eBay of all places. One of those “Make An Offer” deals. I offered $39 for a $49 listed one and got it. Makes me wonder now if I could have offered $29. But $39 didn’t seem too bad. The store claims it lists for $120, which isn’t true at all, but it’s fun to say I got a $120 boombox on eBay for $39.

I love places that offer tracking. It’s coming by UPS and as of this morning, it has arrived in my hometown. I dunno why, but I find it fun to track the progress of a package. All the stops it makes and the towns it goes through. As if it was a person on a bus, going home. I imagine it looking out a dirty window, watching the highway signs go flying by. Trying to estimate how far it has to go. And when it will arrive.

I like new things. I do. Technology continues to evolve which is why I wasn’t too heartbroken when my old boombox died. It was a good boombox for its time, but time has passed it by, as time does. This new one should have all the latest bells and whistles and will probably sound a million times better than my old one.

I can’t wait to go home and meet it.

Shhhh, the butterflies are sleeping

It’s just a mood, I hope, or a phase. Something I can go through, get through and then put it behind me. Like a bad movie, or a bad song. Something temporary that can be forgotten.

The butterflies – I think they are sleeping or resting. I guess everything needs to take a break. Like keeping secrets on myself. Little thoughts all folded up and tucked away. Still there, but disturbingly motionless. As I listen for words that will never be said. Wait for promises that will never be made.

If life was only about beginnings and ending, I think I could handle it a lot better. But we all know it’s not that simple. It’s the in-between that kills me. All those shades of gray bogging me down like quicksand. Scaly vines wrapping themselves around my ankles.

I just got so used to the flutter. That amusing little dance that made me feel so warm. And now the sting of disappointment burns all the way down. As I swallow this new flavor of reality.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Wounded memories

I’m holding on to these memories like a child cupping a wounded bird. Not too tight as to cause it further injury, but not too loose so it can wriggle free. It shouldn’t be flying just yet.

My shaking hands hold them near my chest, so if they vainly attempt an escape, I’ll be able to pull them closer yet. Feel the flutter of tiny wings and the frantic heartbeat of a frightened soul. It takes so much to keep them safe. To keep them from harming themselves. But even if they had the strength, I lack it to ever let them go.