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.

***

But it is not the end that I will remember.

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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.

Hello, my name is . , , ,

She had the talent, brains, look, and degrees. She walked with a purpose, dressed to impress, and had a wiggle that made men stop, whistle, and wonder what the hell had gone wrong in their own lives. But tears that accompanied her to bed were real, painful, and endless. For all her possessions and ability, she wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind and to run into the nothingness with the man she thought she knew. . . .

He was marginal, talentless, forgettable, and restless. He walked with his head down, appeared disheveled, listen to music instead of dealing with the everyday, and attracted the attention of the fringe. He wanted to be happy, mingle with humans, but did not know how, and that frustrated him into suicidal thoughts. For all he lacked, he sought nothing more than to run into the madness and to be part of the normal with a woman he knew existed, but had not yet met. . . .

From me to you, whoever you are . . .

I have too much to say at the moment, so, as is always the case, I cannot seem to say anything at all. As such, as I have done in the past, I have decided to let my music catalog dictate tonight's piece. As always, I put it on shuffle and wrote one line per song, using each as a springboard (I skipped all rap songs). Below is the result, and the songs relied on. From me to you, whoever you are . . . When I think of you, I am deafened by angels bellowing an unrecognizably beautiful melody. And I know now, even before we are through, I wish I had packed you away, and stolen you off to the place of my birth. In said place, we could have laid in an endless field, and forgotten the world. You know this, and have long since prepared, and practiced the lecture of why you have to leave, and will insist on me letting you go. In a brief moment of clarity, in an otherwise clouded existence, I will recognize that my only real talent is to disappoint, and, had you stayed, you would have ended up crying endlessly in total silence. Instead of longing, you will reconcile it all by blocking me from your memory, and existing as if I was never really there. In this, you will do what I will be incapable of, helping yourself. And if there is a chance encounter, the love in your eyes will be reserved for another. I tried to break away prior to this point, but your being convinced me that I wanted nothing more than to travel blindly in your shadow. The problem is, and will always be, that being with you is like being on ecstasy, the euphoria is overpowering. Just know that, no matter how far you wander, and you will wander, I will be here, waiting patiently for you to come back to me. Harry Gregson-Williams, The End; Coconut Records, West Coast; Snow Patrol, Chasing Cars; The Postal Service, Nothing Better; The Weakerthans, Watermark; Young Coyotes, Momentary Drowning; Sad Brad Smith, Help Yourself; Bree Sharp, Not Your Girl; Leonard Cohen, Suzanne; The Magnetic Fields, Take Ecstasy With Me; John Legend, Where Did My Baby Go.

Opening lines

The tickle of your words in my ear allows me forget about the endless clutter of my days. I know you . . . and you me. I relish the past that includes us. I hope you know . . . . You are as lost as I; it comforts me. I swore I would save you, but fear I am the cause of your demise. The next words on the page will not be easy to digest. It would have been epic, if only . . . . I changed for you and you consumed it, me, and my future. The curtain will be drawn, and my pain will be hidden behind. A savior I am not. Show me the way. I need you to be strong. The heart is incapable of surviving a passion this devastating. It is unbecoming to lose ones mind at this age. At what point did I become a thorn in your eye? You haunt my days, yet pleasure my nights. I could explain it all, but you would not understand. I am much worse than I appear.*

* When I write, I formulate a central sentence, then I build around it. This is not an exact science, and a lot of deleting takes place. Instead of scrapping the wasted many, I decided to forgo the actual story, and to put them together. The above was tonight's castoffs. Each sentence was intended to be a theme of its own.

Open arms

I hope, beyond all else, that I never forget the generosity that those around this globe have shown me throughout my many travels. It would be easy for all of you, many much less fortunate than I, to write me off as a spoiled American traipsing through your country on a holiday without a care in the world. Instead, I have been welcomed in with open arms and treated as an open mind, desperate to learn all that you have to offer. There is no way to adequately thank you all, but please know that I, a privileged human, will do all I can to return the favor if and when the opportunity arises.

Inspiration

There was girl, who inspired a boy, to want to be more than he was. He saw in her perfection, a life worth being close to, and a person he wanted to be present in his everyday. She radiated greatness, perseverance, and love. Could tackle a challenge at any given moment, and prevail with the success that many only dream of. Now this is not to say that she did not have her moments where she doubted her ability, lashed out at the world, and longed for the simple. But the boy admired this, for it was a sign that she was human, and did not think she was “better” than those around her, which of course, the boy thought she was. And while maddening, the boy appreciated that she would not always accept his praise, admiration, and fawning, for she too questioned her prowess. In her, a goddess he saw, and it made him want to be a god of equal proportion.

Sunday Scribblings (Mess)

This week's word is Mess:

His suit is pressed, shirt ironed, tie perfectly in place and matching, shoes shined, and cufflinks polished. The eyes sparkle, smile radiant, laugh gentle and reassuring, and the walk is purposeful. His speech inspires confidence, his written words are admired, and he is held in high esteem by his peers. His athletic prowess, while weird, and seemingly insane, does nothing to hurt his reputation. In fact, a google search turns up a litany of accomplishments and no failures to speak of. Nonetheless, he lacks focus, desire, and the ability to see past tomorrow. He agonizes about the attire, stresses about his word choice, loses sleep over his inability to connect on a personal level with those around him, and fears that his body will break at any given moment. The faith that a person such as him should have in his ability is nonexistent, and the thought of failing, for that first time, is a weight he cannot shake. Instead of striking out, and possibly showing the world what he is potentially possible of, he will suffer with the mundane, avoiding any “real” challenge, out of a lifelong fear of being exposed as a nothing. He is a beautifully adorned book that has never been opened to reveal his true contents He is, at his core, a complete and utter mess.

A swift current

In my dreams, you are so close, yet so far. I try desperately to reach you, to pull you close, and to comfort you, but I lack the strength to do any of it. Instead, I am forced to watch you drift away, into the arms of a more able protector. It never changes, and it breaks me, a little more everyday.

Silence is rarely golden

I feel to the point of physical pain, but lack the ability to express those emotions in a vocal way. Looking back on my life, I see the littered remains of those that never knew how I felt for them; how much their existence made my life worth living. And it is not because I did not want them to know, because the truth is, I had “that conversation”, the one where I told them that my world revolved around their presence, approval and love; how I cried for them when they were in pain; celebrated when they achieved; and made excuses when they did not. The problem is, ever one of those conversations occurred with only one of the two essential party's.

On more than one occasion, usually centered around the death, or the permanent departure of a non-expendable, I promised that I would change, that the next time, things would be different. But, as is always the case, I was lying to myself. I am, unfortunately, a throwback to the male culture that vilified any sign of weakness; and somehow I convinced myself, at a young age, that any sign of emotion made me less of a man. The sad truth is, that my inability to express myself is my greatest failing. My fear is that when I die, the only way people will truly know how I felt about them will be to read the words I have written here, for complete strangers to read.

9-5

I have been down this road before, the path that seems to lead to isolation, loneliness, and burnout; and it was not pleasant. Nonetheless, I am here, a living, breathing human being with friends, loved ones, and a future that will not end with me spending endless hours behind a fake mahogany desk. Now I value my career, and care deeply about performing my functions to the best of my ability, but I learned, the hard way, that the best of me will never surface if I am so deeply unhappy that the very act of rising from my nightly slumber is a moment of pure depression. The truth is, no matter how important, I, you, or anyone of us feels we are, short of a very select group of individuals, we are fungible. The second I accepted that reality, my life changed exponentially for the better. . . because, at the end of the day, work is nothing more than that, life is something completely different.

Sunday Scribblings (Courage Part II)

Courage for him would be keeping his mouth shut long enough to allow her to move on with her life. Instead, in an act of cowardice, words that he knows will keep her close roll out of his mouth. He should fear destroying the careful balance she has created, but selfishness, a touch of desire, and greed, stops him. In a different place and time, the world he could provide, and he would, with reckless abandon, but that was never an option. From the start, pain was the reality . . . for him, for her, and for countless others. But because of her beauty, stunning intelligence, and the chemistry between them, his words are boundless, his charm unending, and his wit biting. The right thing would be walk . . . far . . . and long . . . out of her life. But courage has never been his strength, so he is here, longing, waiting, and counting down the hours until he whispers sweet nothings into her ear.

Sunday Scribblings (Courage)

This week's word is Courage:

He never once backed down, cowered from a challenge, or tired from the futile nature of his task. He faced the worlds foes, stared at death on a near daily basis, and did so without once asking for fame, wealth or recognition. Instead, he kept his identity secret, worked a thankless nine to five, and toiled with the likes of the normal. At any time he could have demanded riches, pimping himself out to the highest bidder, but he did not. Not once was he provided with monetary riches, even thought they would have been provided. In him, the world saw its greatest, humblest, and most honest warrior. He did what was right, what he could do, for no other reason than that was his talent. He cared, and would stop at nothing to allow good to prevail. In him, there is a lesson to be learned. We ask, all too often, what is in this for me. He was a prince on his planet, but here, he was a man, a man who understood his strength, grasped the same, and made the planet a better place for us to live. Superman may be a joke, a story to be told to a child, a movie to watch on a quiet Friday night; but more than that, he is the epitome of courage, and someone who should be admired.

Pour me another.

A spectacular darkness has taken hold, with no immediate signs of loosening its grips. This storm, like all others, will inevitably pass. My only hope is that it does so sooner rather than later, because I cannot handle this for too long.

In the meantime, the hope remains that a scotch and a cigarette will allow me to push it into the background long enough to sleep.

Cheers.

Women in my life part I

This is inspired by an article in this months Esquire.

Freshman year.

Lori offered me every part of herself, in a way no woman before her had, but all I wanted was a friend; when I repeatedly refused to take her in a physical way, she cut me out of her life. Alicia, for one drunken hour, I was your attempt to make him jealous, it did not work . . . oh how I paid for that. Sarah was an amazing enabler, and looked like a grown version of a cupie doll; for reasons to be explained in a later post/year, we no longer talk. Joelynn was a holdover who willingly provided an outlet for many of my sexual desires; I made a complete mess of her; she was married with a child within a year. Melinda was five years my senior, and I did not love her, my only regret is that she found out at the least opportune moment. There was the nameless woman who boldly asked me to accompany her to her sorority dance; I left with another; the last time I saw her, she stared at the side of my head with an intensity that chills me to this day. Jenny took advantage of a drunken me, it required my first AIDS test, I will never forgive her for that. I never worked harder for any woman as I did for Rochanne; I loved, and pursued her in an unhealthy way . . . we destroyed each other for years.