i got another text from him:
"you fell off the face of the planet again, friend. i'm still thinking about you."
i've written a letter to him about a million times in my head... telling him i'm sorry, i have to, because everything he wanted me to be i couldn't, and all i wanted him to be was a friend. he swore he wouldn't try and be anything else.... part of me wants to scream
you know?
tell him he just broke my trust and gave me the affirmation that my physical appearance is all that matters... or maybe just tell him is was every guy before him, and he just pushed me over the edge.
maybe i don't owe him anything at all, but every once in a while i remember how good friends we were before it all, and i wonder if i'm just being an unforgiving asshole about the whole thing.
we used to get into deep conversations, you know?
he was my other catholic friend.
the one i'd sit outside and drink coffee with till all of lakewood closed
and we'd talk about god, gods, or no god at all.
all the people we knew who died...
the ones we had to carry in our hearts.
hell... i still carry him in my heart, too, i guess, but i don't know if i can ever talk to him again.
how could i tell him "i figured it all out, and i got rid of everything in my life i hate, and one half of everything you did was a part of that"?
do people really change?... after they've grown old and are set in their ways? after they've become jaded and bitter and leave their dreams for a life as far from anything they thought they needed? ....leave their kid? he used to tell me how much i'd grown up since we first met (and i can't believe i've known him for almost three years now). i don't know.
i spent the last year getting rid of it all,
you know?
and then i just spent this weekend alone.
house sitting, of course, but alone for the most part, realizing i've come along quite a bit
and all that self reflection crap...
but really:
why does it always manage to have to take me to the point of fucking myself over before i get the idea that i have to change? probably because being stubborn will never be something that will change soon.
maybe i'll talk to him again.
maybe i won't.
and we ask many questions like children often do.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
dear cape, do you remember
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
sidewalk chalk.
"....and she doesn't understand that it's for her safety, but she's young and she's in love i guess.... how in love can you be when you're fifteen, though, you know..?" i'd been rambling about the kids all day. the teens. they aren't much younger than me i guess, but i'll look out for them anyway.
"i don't know how you can invest in them so much," he said as he took a drag from the last cigarette he rolled. we'd been rolling cigarettes all summer, and we were sitting on a ledge watching the cars cruise down broadway.
"huh?" i knew exactly what he meant, but i gave up giving people the benefit of the doubt, assuming i knew what they meant... i hang out with him enough that i guessed far enough what he meant, but he's young too.
"i mean, i don't know how you can invest so much time in them, i mean i'm interested in them if you're interested in them, i just can't follow it all because i don't know them i guess."
i reached out for his cigarette and took a drag or two, holding back every part of me that just wanted to give up and say "you know what, you're just really fucking young, and if you're not careful, the city's gonna eat you up." but patience has been my biggest struggle, my biggest virtue, my vice, my goddamned nightmare, and i didn't really think that was true anyway. sometimes it's just a big struggle to put into words everything i'm thinking, so it feels easier to just give up and give in... but what's easier is never the best thing to do.
i wouldn't have meant it anyhow.
see,
it's not an investment when you spend your free time with them...especially if it's just to tell them they're doing ok. i guess anyone can do that. i don't get anything back, i just think it's really important. it's not an investment when you hear who's dating who and who's dressing how, because god dammit i've been in all these teens shoes before and i know what they're gonna do next if they're careful and if they're not and.... it's not an investment.... you can't keep people like you keep money or murals or photographs. it's not an investment, it's life... but how do you explain that to someone who's never said out loud that that though has crossed their mind?
patience.
it took years to see the bigger picture, it's too much effort to get frustrated with things you can't control i guess.
"i don't know how you can invest in them so much," he said as he took a drag from the last cigarette he rolled. we'd been rolling cigarettes all summer, and we were sitting on a ledge watching the cars cruise down broadway.
"huh?" i knew exactly what he meant, but i gave up giving people the benefit of the doubt, assuming i knew what they meant... i hang out with him enough that i guessed far enough what he meant, but he's young too.
"i mean, i don't know how you can invest so much time in them, i mean i'm interested in them if you're interested in them, i just can't follow it all because i don't know them i guess."
i reached out for his cigarette and took a drag or two, holding back every part of me that just wanted to give up and say "you know what, you're just really fucking young, and if you're not careful, the city's gonna eat you up." but patience has been my biggest struggle, my biggest virtue, my vice, my goddamned nightmare, and i didn't really think that was true anyway. sometimes it's just a big struggle to put into words everything i'm thinking, so it feels easier to just give up and give in... but what's easier is never the best thing to do.
i wouldn't have meant it anyhow.
see,
it's not an investment when you spend your free time with them...especially if it's just to tell them they're doing ok. i guess anyone can do that. i don't get anything back, i just think it's really important. it's not an investment when you hear who's dating who and who's dressing how, because god dammit i've been in all these teens shoes before and i know what they're gonna do next if they're careful and if they're not and.... it's not an investment.... you can't keep people like you keep money or murals or photographs. it's not an investment, it's life... but how do you explain that to someone who's never said out loud that that though has crossed their mind?
patience.
it took years to see the bigger picture, it's too much effort to get frustrated with things you can't control i guess.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
circle
peace: like "where the hell am i?" and "where am i going?"
that sort of peace. the peace where i realize the world isn't a massive orb but really a platform and a plateau and an everythingnothing inside out. the peace where you realize every thing is fucking insane and there's nothing you can do about it.
that part.
the part where you realize there's nothing you can do, but it's pretty as hell, and then you really really think about things and realize it's going to be okay anyway. peace, like when you sit back and think about how you can (and probably have) mess things up really bad, but are willing to fix them, too, with a little less sleep and a little more love.
peace like when he told me about his favorite musician and grabbed my leg and shouted along with beautiful lyrics, and wondering (and knowing) that that alone made it beautiful. peace in knowing things are true.
i've heard we can make our own heavens and we can make our own hells, and i heard that i am the decisive element, too. i've heard it pretty clearly like there's no other water to swim in, like there's no other song to dance to, but i guess i've been swimming and dancing elsewhere lately and maybe i should give these things a try.
i guess i've been putting too much faith in fate and less faith in my own actions.
i guess i believe i can't be enough.
hell, i'd be lying if i said i've found the holy grail and i've found peace, but i can see it and i know what it could be if i let it.
peace: like the beauty of just letting go, and i'm gonna let 'im fly.
that sort of peace. the peace where i realize the world isn't a massive orb but really a platform and a plateau and an everythingnothing inside out. the peace where you realize every thing is fucking insane and there's nothing you can do about it.
that part.
the part where you realize there's nothing you can do, but it's pretty as hell, and then you really really think about things and realize it's going to be okay anyway. peace, like when you sit back and think about how you can (and probably have) mess things up really bad, but are willing to fix them, too, with a little less sleep and a little more love.
peace like when he told me about his favorite musician and grabbed my leg and shouted along with beautiful lyrics, and wondering (and knowing) that that alone made it beautiful. peace in knowing things are true.
i've heard we can make our own heavens and we can make our own hells, and i heard that i am the decisive element, too. i've heard it pretty clearly like there's no other water to swim in, like there's no other song to dance to, but i guess i've been swimming and dancing elsewhere lately and maybe i should give these things a try.
i guess i've been putting too much faith in fate and less faith in my own actions.
i guess i believe i can't be enough.
hell, i'd be lying if i said i've found the holy grail and i've found peace, but i can see it and i know what it could be if i let it.
peace: like the beauty of just letting go, and i'm gonna let 'im fly.
the one that's about nobody in particular. maybe just me and jesus.
i have absolutely nothing to say.
it's eleven thirty, i'm awake, the television is on and i hate it more now than i usually do. i don't like the ringing that sounds quietly whenever the television is on, but it's going to be too damn lonely when i turn it off. it's a dilemma that is so awful and meaningless but it actually matters, you know? it's been a long day. i feel like screaming or crying or
fuck
anything really.
and the words are just running off my fingers like i'm going to get anywhere further than where i am once i'm done typing for the night. this sure as shit isn't getting me any closer to jesus. but, christ, god is love and love is real and the computer isn't getting me closer to anything lovely. i have nothing to say. nothing more than, "no, really, i don't like my photo being taken" or "yes, that's true, it makes the pain easier". i don't want the pain to be easier, i just want it to go somewhere further than the filth it's stewing in the pit of my stomach.
this is nothing personal and is nothing worth reading in to.
but it's still something right? because it's an itch i won't walk away from and they're just some words i can't get rid of and i won't shut down until i write and re-write and read re-readingly until they say something close to what i'm thinking. and sure, why not, i need a new job but apparently having an old man ask me every week if i'm a masochist isn't enough to get someone to help me the hell out of here fast. and i can't afford to quit, but he sure as hell can afford his starbucks every day. slick son of a gun, like i'm really serving more than coffee. it's men like him that make me want to vomit without trying.
i hate doing things alone.
or maybe i just hate telling the same story over again.
or maybe people just don't like hearing the truth- like if they ignore it or pretend it doesn't touch them... then it's not really real? i don't know, i really really don't.
i don't know what to do.
i don't know where to start.
i've got nothing to say, really. i might start with turning the television off.
it's eleven thirty, i'm awake, the television is on and i hate it more now than i usually do. i don't like the ringing that sounds quietly whenever the television is on, but it's going to be too damn lonely when i turn it off. it's a dilemma that is so awful and meaningless but it actually matters, you know? it's been a long day. i feel like screaming or crying or
fuck
anything really.
and the words are just running off my fingers like i'm going to get anywhere further than where i am once i'm done typing for the night. this sure as shit isn't getting me any closer to jesus. but, christ, god is love and love is real and the computer isn't getting me closer to anything lovely. i have nothing to say. nothing more than, "no, really, i don't like my photo being taken" or "yes, that's true, it makes the pain easier". i don't want the pain to be easier, i just want it to go somewhere further than the filth it's stewing in the pit of my stomach.
this is nothing personal and is nothing worth reading in to.
but it's still something right? because it's an itch i won't walk away from and they're just some words i can't get rid of and i won't shut down until i write and re-write and read re-readingly until they say something close to what i'm thinking. and sure, why not, i need a new job but apparently having an old man ask me every week if i'm a masochist isn't enough to get someone to help me the hell out of here fast. and i can't afford to quit, but he sure as hell can afford his starbucks every day. slick son of a gun, like i'm really serving more than coffee. it's men like him that make me want to vomit without trying.
i hate doing things alone.
or maybe i just hate telling the same story over again.
or maybe people just don't like hearing the truth- like if they ignore it or pretend it doesn't touch them... then it's not really real? i don't know, i really really don't.
i don't know what to do.
i don't know where to start.
i've got nothing to say, really. i might start with turning the television off.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
getting nowhere fast and the springtime that is here
sitting and writing
cheap poetry and simple words
to give a solemn goodbye
to an old world
where my letters no longer
stay on the lines.
yes.
to this another goodbye...
and an old song sings "outside
the rain is falling on the leave.."
to me it's something more
an open door where rhyming
makes something lovely
and
and leaves it at the threshold.
something quiet our loud
I can't really tell (either way)
what's on the other side...
and six simple words,
almost nothing, left years ago
at the bottom of a page.
gutter words.
where the most beautiful things
spend their times:
"i hope the colors overwhelm you."
cheap poetry and simple words
to give a solemn goodbye
to an old world
where my letters no longer
stay on the lines.
yes.
to this another goodbye...
and an old song sings "outside
the rain is falling on the leave.."
to me it's something more
an open door where rhyming
makes something lovely
and
and leaves it at the threshold.
something quiet our loud
I can't really tell (either way)
what's on the other side...
and six simple words,
almost nothing, left years ago
at the bottom of a page.
gutter words.
where the most beautiful things
spend their times:
"i hope the colors overwhelm you."
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