Sunday Scribblings (Bright Idea)

This week's word/phrase is Bright Idea: You could feel the beat . . . thump, thump, thump; the glow sticks danced in sync with the chaos; she pumped in and out of sight. I concentrated, aided by the powders, pills and caffeine of a night off the grid. Shirt off, sweat dripping, teeth grinding, movement chaotic, but focused. She was my prey, I was her gyrating predator. My frustration, sense of anticipation, and arousal heightened with each passing moment. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get her to come into focus, to stop, to let me feast. I knew I would love her in the light of day, but day it was not. If only the sun would rise, I was convinced that she would see my chiseled body, drugged out smile, raging libido, know my desire, and match my rhythmic wiggle. In a moment of clarity, or insanity, I saddled up to the curtains, lit them ablaze with my cigarette, and waited for her to observe me in full light. A bright idea it may not have been, but it was an idea, and it brightened the room, mission accomplished.

Two pieces, one soul

He promised himself, long ago, that he would only take the bare minimum of what he needed. He would not, could not, and deplored the idea of taking more than was necessary to survive. For the vast majority of his existence, he stood by this principle, leaching only enough from the few he cared to bleed so as to survive. It worked for all involved . . . he was whole, and they were, well, mostly the same. Then she came along and all control was lost.


At what point does the consumption of ones soul become disastrous? When is the breaking point crossed, with no hope of return? Is it the moment where you look in the mirror and see a reflection that you can no longer comprehend, understand, or look at? Is it then, where the you, the one you nourished, babied, and built from the ground up, in shambles, for good? Is that a negative, or the necessary evolution of a flawed species? Should I worry that I do not see myself absent her?

The Funeral

I found this written on my phone; I wrote it while sitting on a plane a few months back:

As the world closes in around, and the nights grow increasingly grizzly, the beauty in the moment wrestled is not lost on his soul. For a brief flash, he enjoyed the freedom that he once thought would be his everyday

Vision

I am a runner. I am blind without corrective measures. Why I would decide to do the former with out the latter is beyond me. I, however, being the brain dead moron I often am, decided it would be a fantastic idea to go for a jaunt with out my contacts or glasses. It did not go well.

I should have known the end result when I noticed that the lights in the distance looked like fireworks exploding in the night. I pushed on. I never saw the curb end, but I sure did feel it. I recovered from my stumble with only a few choice words and staggered on. I have no clue where the cement post came from, I have never seen it before, and am convinced that it was erected today. I thought of turning back, but I am Irish, so I refused to accept the obvious, and continued. The last straw came when I ran down a smallish woman who tried, in a moment of shocking realization, to dodge left. . . .that was my reaction as well.

I am a runner. I am blind without corrective measures. I know now that I cannot skip the latter while doing the former.

Silence

I am afraid to write the Story because I do not know what emotions will be set free and what that will do to me.

Listening to The Cure, Disintegration and The Clash, The Clash (UK release).

Sunday Scribblings (Flashback)

This week's word is Flashback:

I was drawn to her unpretentious, yet careful, attire, the smirk that shot across her face when she thought others were not paying attention, and the manner in which she held her beauty. She was the most inviting woman I had ever laid eyes on, and there had been many. This one, unlike those before, did not stir my sexual response as much as light my mind on fire. I longed to hear her story, and for her to hear mine. Her presence made me love both myself and the future.

The normal me would sit back, hope, and wait . . . if it was meant to be, it would. I was keenly aware, however, that if I did not act, and do so right then, she would drift in and out of my days many feet from me, with only a smile here and there to keep me going, until she was gone. That was not an option. Therefore, I attacked the situation, inserted myself into her path, and refused to be absent, for even a moment. I knew that failure would dent my delicate psyche, and an arrest for stalking would do the same to my career, but I was going to get her to notice me. I felt that with that much, I could do anything.

Once I got her ear—a much easier task than I had anticipated—I took full advantage, and told her every good thing about myself, with just enough bad sprinkled in to keep me honest. I talked a lot and made a complete fool of myself. But she laughed, assured me that I was fine, and disclosed her most intimate secrets. With some reluctance, a serious talk or two, persistence, and time, she accepted what I was offering. We embarked on a romance that proved to this lost soul that love is real, painful, and exhilarating.

A place I have never been

There is a place in his my mind and he knows it well. It is where he goes when the day is burnt, body aching and thoughts out of control. It is, as best as he can describe, a mountain full of climbable faces, a lake replenished by snow fed waterfalls, and trees checkered atop the visible peaks. By day the sun's brilliance shimmies across the glass smooth water, the air warm, but dry; in the darkness, the stars and moon directly overhead shine with a heaven like glow, broken only by electric storms dancing in the distance. In this place, he needs none of the distractions that get him through his life, namely, the constant noise pumped in through headphones, the liquor, the cigarettes, and the occasional compliment. All that is required is a pair of climbing shoes, chalk, swim trunks, a partner in disappearance and something to lay his and her lazy head atop. In this place, life is everything he ever wanted.

It is in these moments, however, that he is saddest. For he knows where he longs to be, with whom he seeks to share it, what they would do when they got there, but cannot find it in the real world. As it is, in its truest sense, a place he has never been, will never be, and will die longing for.

You will never read this

You were an important part of my life, but one that was centered wholly around my 9-5. During our time together, I never once thought about the life you lived away from your duties and obligations. I valued you for what you could bring to me, not for what you were, and I am sorry for that.

There is a family mourning your loss at this moment, and their grief is real, painful, and heartfelt. I do not know them, never will, but hurt for them nonetheless.

It was an honor to be in your presence, even if it was for just a moment. I found you to be engaging, honest, and hard working. . .I do not use those words lightly.

Goodbye, you will be missed, by many more than me.

Sunday Scribblings (Clean)

This week's word is Clean:

As I sit alone on the patio, staring off into the rain-soaked semi-lit darkness, I think of all the things I should have said, should not have done, and the person that is part of me. We both wanted something pure, unending, and impossible. Accordingly, our time, and by that, you know of what I speak, included painful realities, tears and frustration. The words I have written and spoken throughout time have started to wear thin, I am sure, as they bother even me. So instead, I have written a song, or lyrics, or something. It may not read different than the others, as there is no background music, no instruments, and my band members are sadly absent, but it is, at least in my head, something revolutionary. The ballad, in all its failings, goes like this:

I want to tell you that you are the bridge between the person I am and the one I long to be
I wish I could have put my actions where my mouth is, and followed through on my dreams
But I did not, and nobody, not even you, knows the sleepless, destructive nights this caused
You are my muse, freedom, someone that keeps my struggling head above the waters edge

If offered the chance to give it up, snare all this world could offer, but lose the memories of you, I would pass
There is nothing, regardless of value, worth sacrificing all I have accumulated with you
The pain may be debilitating at times, and the tears often, but the life with you in it is worth it
When I was broken, dirty, and covered in shit, you were there for me, pulled me from my knees, cleaned me off, and gave me hope

I will love you till my dying day, regardless of what comes my way
You buried me with kindness, peppered me with beauty, and gave me the strength I needed to carry on
At all stops, through this time, I have turned to you for guidance, and you never flinched, even when the effort took a piece of your soul with it
I know the cost I have have extracted, and know I will never be able to repay, but hope this rhyme helps in some small way

If offered the chance to give it up, snare all this world could offer, but lose the memories of you, I would pass
There is nothing, regardless of value, worth sacrificing all I have accumulated with you
The pain may be debilitating at times, and the tears often, but the life with you in it is worth it
When I was broken, dirty, and covered in shit, you were there for me, pulled me from my knees, cleaned me off, and gave me hope
. . . .

It is not complete, I know as much. Hell, it doesn't even make sense. Honestly, I lack the talent to make this meaningful, the patience to fully express myself, and the absurdity to sing.

The Gift

The approach, like every other, was the same. I slumped and staggered away from the broken and beaten SUV towards the door, depressed by the day that had unfolded in spite of myself. I could not help but dread the nightly walk the dogs were expecting, the meal that needed to be prepared and the wife that was waiting to ask, painfully, what had happened during the prior twelve hours. Energy was gone, food nonexistent and imaginary stories of a day spent in excitement running thin. But that was the world in which I lived and I accepted as much. One foot in front of the other, it would all be over soon enough.

Upon entering, I was greeted by two dogs full of exuberance, a bitter cat and a wife . . . with a perplexed look. “Were you expecting something?” “Hello to you, my day was fine if you must know.” My anger had broken the surface, and I had to breath to calm my nerves. “Sorry, not sure where that came from. No I am not expecting anything, why?” “You received a package today, and by the looks of it, you knew it was coming.” “I have no clue what you are talking about. I have no friends, stopped talking to my family years ago, and you know nobody ships to this godforsaken island.” She pointed at a box, adorned in GI Joe paper, sitting on the table. I stared, she stared, and the dogs fought. “What the fuck is this” I thought. I walked to it, excited by the thought of receiving a gift. The writing on the box was childish, but recognizable as . . . my own.

To: Bruce Pidd, 3242 Freidman Ave., Godforsaken Island, 34123
From: You know, just open it

I turned to the jury of one, opened my mouth to speak, but was at a loss. Innocence is not the default. “I. . . really. . . don't. . . know anything about this.” Nothing.

Knowing that this would not end until the contents of said package were in full display to explain away, I tore the paper away, opened the box and recoiled in disbelief. Inside lay six of my own possessions, five of which had a pastel post-it attached.

I took the picture out first, it was of my brother, when he was young, happy, and alive. The note read “What would he think of your existence?” My nerves were frayed, emotions uncontrollable and fear real.

The ratty stuffed buffalo, still missing its tail, was adorned with, “You were happy once, is it too late?” I cradled it to my chest, much as I did as a small child when the world seemed to be caving in.

I set it aside long enough to pick up the baseball that still had my signature with a dedication to my mother, circa 1989. “You were great once, it is not too late.” It fit so nicely between my fingers that I debated throwing it against the wall to see what I still had left.

The diary, full of words, emotions and my youth was next. “You had dreams, ambitions and goals once.” I trembled, let the tears fall and recalled a time when I had hope.

My diplomas, ripped and ragged were covering the remaining items. “These do not define you; never have and never will.” I crumbled them up, threw them aside and felt free.

I pulled out a photograph of myself with friends long since forgotten. “Have you forgotten how to love yourself, others and the world in which you live? If so, move on.” I had, did not want to be that person and said as much out loud, to my observers great surprise.

The loaded pistol sat alone. There was no note.

She looked confused, lost and angry. I ignored her, took my life's greatest possessions, minus the gun, sat on the floor and broke.

Time changes everything

I started this thing three years ago today. I did so with no preconceived notion of what it would be, what it would become, or what it said about me. I did it, as I said at the start, because I had an abundance of free time, a computer and an internet connection. Over time, it became a way for me to explore the past, the deeper parts of my soul, the pain that cripples me and the stories/characters that were begging to be set free. During said time, I have moved twice, changed jobs once, run more miles than my body cares to admit and acquired friends and loved ones on my lonely island. It is fair to say that I am not close to the person I was when I started. While I still have the computer, albeit a different one and a new internet service provider, I no longer have the free time to do this. Nonetheless, I continue to return as often as possible, not because I have nothing better to do, but because it has become a way for me to express myself in a way I never found possible in my everyday. Things written in these posts are the most painful, happiest, and craziest things that cross my mind; things I do not feel free to express. Some are about real people, pain, love and loss; others are pure imagination, often inspired by things I see, hear or read about. Regardless of their source, the feelings in each of these posts is real, all-consuming and exhausting. I have not yet learned how to distance myself from this, that, and the stories they create. And, as I am sure the few readers that I have have noticed, I tend toward the dark, hateful and melancholy. Despite my best efforts, the happiness of this existence, which I am capable of expressing in the real world, does not translate well to this forum. I am, by and large, a happy person. I see the inherent good in people, strive to make those around me better, and will do almost anything to make someone laugh. And while I often write about the joy I receive in watching others fail, it is not me. I want all to succeed, to get all they ever desire, and to enjoy the beauty of the accomplishment. It inspires me to be better.

If you continue to read, which I do not blame you for stopping, I intend to turn this blog into something different. Instead of a collection of off the cuff pieces, which tend to meld into each other, I am going to try and craft short stories, inspired by the things I see in my world. They will most likely not be good, but it is structure, and I need that in my life. I would appreciate your comments, thoughts, and suggestions, for that is the only way I will grow. I understand completely that they will not be all that different, but I am trying, so stick with me.

I could not say it better, so . . .

"It's not human to let go of love, even when it's dead." Rob Sheffield

"I grieve that grief can teach me nothing." Ralph Waldo Emerson

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. . . .