The unknown

There are things said, just between us, that will never be known to the world. Now I understand that this is true for most everybody, but this is different somehow. When people see you, me, and the us that that entails, they see a truth that is anything but. For they do not know that as anchored as I appear, the dreams fluttering through my days are of you, this, and the happiness it brings.

Senior year

Delani was a predator, a woman experienced in the ways of love, loss, and destruction; she consumed her kill and I was the prey. Rochanne lingered, fought, clawed, and hurt me at every opportunity; she was in love, I think, but with a me that was not a reality. Delaney was a teammates ex, and was too beautiful for her own good, and mine. The hands of gold, immense heart, and intense love belonged to Christina; the end was drawn-out for her, but immediate for me; I did not savor this conquest and feel bad about it to this day. My roommates older sister, whose name I can no longer recall, was clingy, cute, obnoxious, and refused to putout, and I respected her for that more than she knew, even if I did refuse to hold her hand in public. I thought I would marry Sarah . . . the good times were amazing, bad times nonexistent for so long and, honestly, I do not know where it went wrong, but know that I eventually wanted to smoother her with a pillow; it broke my heart.

When it comes

There is going to be a last day, moment, and word, regardless of how much I don't want that to be so.

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But it is not the end that I will remember.

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I will panic, forget to breath, and get caught up in the sick cruelty of the situation.

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I will laugh about the endless phone calls, and the fact that I despised that devise more than most.

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The self-hatred for not remembering every word that left your lips will punish me.

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Happiness for having known you will engulf me when the thought of dropping off the grid takes hold.

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When asked what is on my mind, I will internally lash out that it is the emptiness.

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People notice that I changed because of you--without being asked--and became a better person.

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The things I did not say will loop repeatedly until the day I die.

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You were the “beautiful girl”, the one by which all others will be measured.

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For the briefest of moments you were my muse, and the written word will be lost without you.

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The markers in my life will be before and after, to my detriment.

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The laughs, fights, and silence were painful, but worth it.
***

There is going to be a last day, moment, and word . . . and this just is.

This is me

I love politics, the game of it excites me, and makes me want to get involved in the fray.

If I could be anything, besides a baseball, basketball or any other player, or a rock climber, I would be a judge, because I think I am fair, and understand the failings of people.

The fear of dying doing something I love does not at all scare me, but the thought of being dead keeps me awake at night.

I hate the aftermath of drinking, but enjoy the buzz that comes with a few drinks at the end of the day.

I put words on a page because I am detached from them, and can be honest without immediate reprisal.

My ability to detach from a situation scares me.

I wish I was taller, because if I was, I would be making ten million dollars a year.

I have seen, heard and experienced more than a man of my age should, yet it makes me want to live, to see the good, more than anything.

When I pray, which is not often, I call on my brother for protection.

I feel other peoples pain, deep in my soul, and it breaks me at times.

I do not confront my own pain, it keeps me sane.

Without the support of my best friend, who knows who he is, but does not know the effect he has had on my life, I would have given up along time ago.

I could care less what each individual thinks of me, but am crippled by the fear of disappointing the masses, even if they do not know who I am.

A slightly disheveled woman turns me on.

I hate looking, appearing, or acting disheveled.

For all of my imperfections, there are things about me I would never change.

I hold those close to me to an almost impossible standard.

I find myself funny, even if those around me do not.

People often laugh at things I say, even though I am being dead serious.

If it were not for lists, I would accomplish nothing.

My Words

I am a demanding individual, one who expects, commands, and desires nothing more than for every human being to tell me, to my face, exactly what they are thinking and feeling. Moreover, I want it to be set forth in a coherent and concise manner. When these specific requests are not met, I am hurt, befuddled, and beside myself. “Why can't you just tell me your exact thoughts in a way that I can comprehend,” I wonder, often to the complete destruction of those around me. I am a law man, so this is in my nature. The problem is that I do not, in my personal life, adhere to my own standards. In my work, I am a model of efficiency when it comes to the spoken word, often cutting people off at the knees with my complete honesty and frankness. I pride myself on this ability, and garner a great deal of respect for this approach. From nine to five, there is no place for coyness, misgivings or vagueness. It is my job, and I am a master. Moreover, my words written here are honesty defined. This is who I am, right or wrong. But to others, to those I love more than they know, I am muddled mess of confused words and emotion. I can never say what I want without sticking my foot, arm, or any other available appendage in my mouth. The problem stems from, as far as I can tell, my inability to face the fact that, above all else, I care more than I let on, and hate stronger than I care to admit. It hurts that I know what I want to convey, but immediately become a wall of silence or an ass, neither of which helps those around me. Either I lock myself off from any real emotion, or I reject anything put forth by those I hold dear. I have tried to correct these flaws, but fear that I am what I am, and will run those I hold dear off before I overcome my own failings. I am an ass, I know that, and want to be better . . . I promise.

. . . . .

When you go, take all of me, I do not want a single piece of my soul to be left behind, an empty being is all that should remain, and I will be okay with that. In my own absence, I will stumble, stagger and fall, but as my once life filled body is drug through the mud, I will think wildly about the moment that we shared together. For eternity, your words, long ago spoken, will linger, allowing me to carry on and to know that this life, seemingly wasted, was worth something . . . once. Words for you will continue to appear on this page, or some variation thereof. As I have learned, love is being alone and longing for the one who is not yours, never was, and is happily out of yours arms. The crushing part is that I will not be by your side in old age when you fade into the night, and you will not be by my motionless body. Just one more time, I want to hold you, whisper into your ear and kiss you . . . . Sadly, if that occurred, it will not have been enough.

Sunday Scribblings (I'd Like to Thank)

This week's phrase was I'd Like to Thank:

I'd like to thank my mother for, amongst other things, passing on her insane love of music. There are many things I remember from my childhood, some good, some horribly bad, and there are many things that I have blocked out, for better or worse. However, the memories that never faded, and are in the forefront of my thoughts, are the times I spent listening to music with my mother. In my house, there was never a silent moment, for it was always filled with the sounds of Anne Murray, Bread, Fleetwood Mac, Paul McCartney (post-Beatles), Kenny Rogers, The Carpenters, The Moody Blues, The Beach Boys, Boston, Chicago, Foreigner, Air Supply and many more. Now I understand that these are not the greatest artists to grace us with their presence, but they were my youth, and I loved them all (except for Michael Bolten and Barry Manilow, who had prominent places in our home). My mom and I did not have much in common, but in music, unlike all others in the house, we shared a passion. We had a 100 disc CD changer long before they became fashionable, and had thousands of 45's, vinyl and CD's. And while we did not have much money, my mother made it a point to make sure that I always had the newest and best music player, whether it be a boombox, CD player, or Walkman. The first album she ever purchased for me was Jerry Lee Lewis' greatest hits, and to this day I can sing Great Balls of Fire with the best of them. There were many others over the years, and they all came from my mother (Mazzy Star, Tone Loc, Pink Floyd, Meatloaf, Steve Miller, Robert Plant, and Tom Petty, to name a few) . And for that, I cannot thank her enough, for without her understanding, willingness to spend money we did not have, and desire to feed my obsession, I would have never turned into the music crazed person I am today. As I write this, I just finished listening to Pavement's Terror Twilight and am now listen to Sonic Youth's Goo; without the lyrics, songs and albums, I would be a shell of the human I am today.