Wednesday, October 27, 2010

No, If You Think Twice

Pass on the passive
And rock it, so blast off
The aggression of depression
Is a lesson
To pull casts off

And if that’s soft
Cover it with loud coughs
And imitate the appropriate
That will create
Sudden stops

Listen, give and take
Wishing, live and break
Chuckle over white knuckles
And buckle
For goodness sake

Cause life is so funny
We miss darkness when it’s sunny
All slaves of the graves
Trying to save
All that money

So, words of advice
No, if you think twice
And older is not colder
If the molder
Is out of sight

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Now Supersedes

And my smile is refreshed
With unannounced lips on my cheek
Chilled from foreign atmosphere
Prepared by a timid tongue

An armless embrace
Wanted in the best way
So cheers to being interesting
Maybe never again but now

And we can be what time allows!
Mysterious, if only for a moment
Excited, if only from anticipation
Apprehensive, if only from mistakes

But as heart race, I'll risk another
Raise the stakes so to not regret
Raise a glass to potentials for security
For validations of pre-sleep wishes

For stories to tell
and to life as we know it
And in the rush of the good times
Let history be history

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Complexity Between Needle and The Record

As I am typing these words the understanding of how this computer works comes so naturally. My brain articulates the sentences and then simplifies it one word at a time. These words are then filtered down to letters that my finger tip identifies on the keyboard; simple circuits then make their way to the computer tower which processes the information and puts everything back together again; projecting it on the monitor. Justin Timberlake's Ayo Technology is playing through the speakers while I type and I explain this simply as the result of a laser that scans the digital information that was printed onto the plastic disc, sending that data to an application that translates it into sounds. Advanced, are we, the generation of the iPod.

I often laugh at my parents when they fail to understand the concept behind the above. I shake my head at them when I am asked to burn them a CD. And I sit back and think, this is a good thing. As an offspring of these two individuals who met when they were in their early twenties back in the dinosaur ages, I’m doing right by outgrowing them. I mean, my comprehension of the world as we know it far surpasses theirs. God help them when they are out there having to deal with email bank transfers and skyping! And I feel good about it; I feel superior, in a sense.

Earlier, in my "single's chair", I listen as my parents talk about how they met; my father trying to be attentive with his newspaper open and my momma reminiscing on the love seat with him. “Did you know that your father is my first boyfriend? And I’m his first girlfriend? And we’ve been in love ever since?” BARF.

I put Ray LaMontagne’s Trouble record into the record player and let the needle feel the grooves in the black disc, hoping to drown out this corny romance story of theirs; an explosion of guitars, violin, vocals, harmonicas and drums flow through the speakers into my ears. Now, if you ever listen to a vinyl record you’ll notice how organic and true it is. Honestly, it is the next best thing from listening to the artist live. Why is that? I guess it has to do with a little connection between the needle and the record. Apparently, as the record spins, microscopic bumps and grooves on the surface of the disc initiate a vibration that resonates into a symphony of sounds. As tangible as that may seem, I always have a hard time understanding how bass and synthesizers, electric guitars and a human voice can come from bumps and groves and one simple needle. So as the record plays I glance over at my parents, hand in hand laughing at some fossil memories that they dug up together and I shuffle in my "single's chair". I retract my earlier statement. I’m not superior at all.

Last night I was asked, “How many times in your life have you fallen in love?”

To which I replied, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I know how many times I think I’ve been in love," I think about what I just said, "It’s funny because you don’t really know that you’re in love until you’re there. Then you question on whether you were really there, when you’re not anymore. Truly, I don’t know. Maybe twice?”

Funny. Ask me about the inner workings of the latest modern hand held devices or theories of why time travel to the past is impossible and I can explain it to some degree but ask me about love and I can't give a straight answer.

My parents are still holding hands. I guess it has to do with a little connection between the needle and the record.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Balancing What We Call Life

The cold fall weather flows through my truck like a tornado in Kansas City robbing the tip of my nose of any heat that it may have had. I crank up the heater to its maximum level and open the vents that would deliver hot fire air, counter attacking this cold front. I reach for the wool tuque equipped with ear flaps and tie it tight to my head as if it were a motorcycle helmet and I was Evel Knievel sitting at the top of the grand canyon. The warm tea in my right hand delivers rations of blanket-like warmth down my throat, causing the chills to scatter, if only for a moment. I turn to my brother in the passenger seat to see how he’s making out.

“You are fucking retarded?” He screams. “Let’s just roll up the windows!”

“But I like the fresh air, stupid!”

Ah, life is complicated isn’t it?

Friday, October 15, 2010

Dear Sigh The Sign,

She texts me at 11:11, truly this is a sign.
So naturally I sigh when I see my mind at the picket line
holding up stop signs. And as my motto goes,
"barriers will bury you," and I step forth
with my left foot as a sign of good faith,
truthful or not, it's effort that will go rewarded.
For I can look back with regret but I will not forget
the feeling of control and accountability. And I construct a sign
reading "errors permitted." Surely, where I stand
years from now will be paved
from the mistakes and great choices I make now.
And I can wonder about the various stories
that I can never tell
but I'll realize that this is me, mistakes and all.

Signed,
Me

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Repeated Offender of Mistakes

Today I grab one of many pens out of my stationary holder only to realize that it was out of ink. No, it wasn’t the manufacture’s fault. I actually remember using up all the ink and putting it back into the holder. My bad. Out of shear laziness I scribble blanks onto my paper pad hoping to unclog something that will release more ink, but I knew deep down inside that it was empty. I put the pen back into the holder and grab a fresh one.

How many times do we have to repeat our mistakes before we grow up?

To You, It Don't Concern, Stop

My heart beats like morse code
Desperate to send a message, stop
The way you smile like you use to
Is pulling my attention, stop
Tap tap tap on my chest it goes
Hoping for translation, stop
So obtuse to this truth
That I dare not say it, stop
And to be transparent is foolish
So let's put on this act, stop
Watch these stars in the night
Until my heart beat stops

Sincerely, etc etc. Stop

Monday, October 11, 2010

Be Thankful for the Bad Times...But Also for the Good Times

I feel like an anthropologist right now flicking away at the saved videos, pictures and screen shots of a beautiful moment in my life. Much like the dinosaurs, that world was buried deep by a tragic destiny. What lay beneath the dirt now are fossils of an idea that was never meant to last. So, as if I were equipped with a brush and scraper, I dust off the fossils that I buried for one last glance. You see, my own cell phone had become a bit counter productive for my post-her life. Through being somewhat of a hardcore documenter, I have shot myself in the foot. Clips of us together, along with beautiful text message conversations have truly feed to that tiny bit of hope that we would one day reunite. Yeah I admit it. Although 97.25% of me knows that I’m yesterday’s news to her, that remaining percentage still hopes that something can happen. I’m not full of myself nor am I failing to move on with my life but lets be honest, don’t we all have some hope in these cases? It’s like those people that dream of their favorite fairy tale coming true. Unlikely as they may be, it’s still fun to dream of once in a while you know?

So why the anthropology? Well, like I said, my cell phone has become a bit of a drag on my new life so I decided to savior the moments one last time before deleting them. In all honesty, I find it a real shame to be deleting them like this. I mean, that’s moments that can never be created again, not with anyone. But it’s time. The memories of how poorly she treated me in the dying days of our relationship also helped fuel my delete commanding finger. “She’s not coming back anyways. These moments you saved aren’t gonna do anything for you!” And why would they? “Plus, when you were with her, you had no creativity! You couldn’t write worth shit!” It was true. I was in a slump. I was too happy to be looking for words. And then I stumbled on this; a text conversation between us.

Her, “haha I want to go rent that game!!! What are you writing about?...or am I not allowed to ask that? Lol”

Me, “Lol you are allowed to ask me anything. I’m writing about going to the hardware store. I should be writing about your sexy butt.”

Her, “new blog? Or just for your journal?? …what would you write about my butt?? Haha”

Me, “A blog ☺ I would write “I inhale the fresh air of spring that is her skin’s scent, abandoned by her perfume, now expired; a surface as smooth as the earth eroded by years and years of flowing water. How else to tell her but with a kiss on those full soft lips, cold and refreshing from the glass of water she just drank that made me a little jealous. I reach around her lower back, a curve that fits my embrace like she was made for me. I reach lower and firmly grab what belongs on a baker’s pan…hot buns.”

Until this text I just recited, I use to think of these saved texts, video footage and pictures as poor attempts at keeping a piece of something that wasn’t mine to keep anymore. And by doing so, hurting my very being. I looked back and thought, “poor bastard. Thought that these pictures, videos and texts would be specimens that he could show his children one day and say, 'Kids, these are memories of your mother and I. See how cute we were? I hope you find your soul mate the way that I did.'”

But I read and I watch and I smile. I wasn’t stupid or na├»ve for documenting. Obviously they won’t be for my kids to look at, but right now, they serve a bigger purpose. They are here to remind me one last time that with her, I was happy and that I was still writing, even though they came in the form of poems, one with a racist theme (which isn’t as bad as it seems. Actually, I still think it was cute as hell) among many others. I know now that I love who I was when I was with her and have no regrets about any of it.

So this thanksgiving day, I’m thankful for everything that she was to me. And I hope that you find a way to make sense of everything in your life. Even the tragic times! Take care!

Delete.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

This Spine of Mine

The lingering of a hopeful heart
Tingles in my spine
As if the impossible has a fighting chance
All from a glance of past romance
So is it impossible at that?
Or was it the realist in me who shuts the door?
And thumbs circle one another in thought and the phrase "you'll never know until you try" hovers my head along with the rain clouds and sunshine
Where do we draw the line of not wanting to know anymore?
And who dares say that I didn't try?!
As clear as July skies, I jumped in with both feet and if effort were rewarded then I'd be rich with recognition
But dreams are dreams for that particular reason.
And the tingle jolts me another thought,
"is that which I want truly what I want?"
For it's been some time since real was real
and it's been some time since my imagination has rebuilt; made over and captured a moment when perfection ruled. But did it ever really?
Like a post card from paradise showing a beach all dolled up, infesting my memory like a coat of sugar.
"Never again!" I shout as I stand in that rainy beach;
the post card image I should have remembered.
And I nod and smile, bitterly and sweetly
Respectively
Is the opportunity I seek more for closure?
Cause there are days when I know I'm better off.
Yet, the tingle in my spine whispers,
"you'll never know until you know."
But would I know if I knew?
Is this time 'round suppose to be new?
Through and through, the risks you make are equal to the risks you don't take
It's not about whether it's worth it or not.
It's whether I can deal with the consequences.
The very contemplation sways me to believe that deep down I'm reluctant to venture forth.
Yet still it tingles., this spine of mine.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

There's Always Going to be Construction

Do people not realize how ridiculous they look cussing at the top of their lungs in their vehicles at traffic as a result of construction? Granted, we haven’t moved more than a smart car length in the past 10 minutes but screaming? Really? There’s only a couple of things that occur because of those screams; one, it makes you look like an idiot and two, it makes your girlfriend in the passenger seat duck and hide of embarrassment. What it doesn’t do is make the road pave itself. I recognize that what I just wrote is quite obvious to anyone in their right mind and yet here and now, I witness a fellow in an SUV determined to make a path through all the rush hour with the power of his voice and the ridiculous expressions in his face.

Here in my truck, I’m doing a different kind of screaming. With my windows down I’m blasting Gaslight Anthem’s American Slang album and singing at the top of my lungs. This traffic is no surprise to me anymore for a couple of reasons. The first is the fact that I have been commuting through this construction zone for the majority of the summer. I wave at the girl that holds the “slow” sign almost every morning and I solute the guy that holds it in the evening. In fact, I’m so glad that they are finally working on this pothole-infested surface. Last year I almost wiped out on my motorcycle because of these little gate ways to hell! I remember that day clearly because while I was riding I was thinking about something terrible that I did earlier. My momma was trying to start a conversation with me, asking me a few questions that really started to annoy me. They were not annoying questions but I guess I wasn’t in the mood. After a few short replies she got the hint and left me alone. I felt bad as I thought about it, cruising through the streets on that motorcycle and suddenly swerving around a pothole that snuck up on me. I realized that I really had to work on talking nicer to my momma. And I’ve been working on it ever since.

The second? A week ago while engulfed in a cloud of bad mood, I illegally U-turned out of the cluster of automobiles in search of a more easy flowing route. I wanted to feel the wind in my hair and the freedom through my fingers as my hand reaches out through the windows into forever. And I found it! For two blocks. I once again found myself surrounded by vehicles, all eager for another way. And it wasn’t until I was half way through cursing the damn traffic that I noticed a child in the red mini van beside me, laughing.

“What the fuck are you laughing at kid?” I thought, “What do you know about being late for a meeting?” But that laughing kid will get through this construction zone as quickly as I will. The difference is, he would have had a more pleasant journey through.

There’s always going to be construction no matter where you go. Screaming won’t help any. I know that now. And I’m working on it, screaming at the top of my lungs to some good music.

Neglecting the Wound

I pull the bandage off the right side of my torso, right above my hip hoping for the best. The attachment it has to my skin is strong. Looking back on it now I realize that I had much to learn about nurturing a wound. A mysterious wound at that, now a permanent scar to remind me of the times I guess. It has been said that every scar as a story. Well this one may lack one, which in turn be, in itself, a story.

To this moment, I can’t really tell you the cause of this wound which can be described as 4 punctures aligned to form a circle. I can’t tell you how I got it because I discovered it one hazy morning, following a 2 day drinking binge. However, I have pin pointed it down to the persist time that the injury may have occured; between 6pm Friday, after I left a friend’s dinner, and 8 am Sunday as I found myself safely in my bed. With great embarrassment and shame, I must admit that the moments in between these times are a little blurry but you have to give me credit for the great detective work. The point in this article does not lie in the things that I can’t recall; it lies in the things that I have learned.

There we are, the mysterious wound and I, like strangers sharing a booth on a passenger train, not knowing what to make of one another. I apply the anti-bacterial cloth to it like I’ve been doing it for weeks (because I have), q-tipped some polysporin to the punctures and neatly sealing a fresh bandage over to hold everything that should be there, in place. I wasn’t always this committed though. About a month ago, when the wounds first appeared, I declared them mosquito bites and left them open naively thinking that nature will run its course. A couple of days, tops, and these bites will be out of my life, I thought. Well, days turned to weeks before my friends and family really started to worry (on the account that pus and other shit was coming out of it) and here we are a month later with Dr. Me performing intricate surgery to it.

I have a scar on my left hand pinky from a cheese grater that required no pampering to heal. A faded scrap on my right elbow from a bicycle accident I had as a child took 2 weeks before it manned up and recovered with only the help of time. Come to think of it, all my little wounds have, for the most part, only needed time and a small bandage to heal. So for as long as I could remember, I’ve believed that although the aid of modern medicine will speed up the recovery of wounds, it is not needed. Your body should know how to handle these matters, no? But I guess that there is more to it than that. Time will do its thing, true, but some wounds require much more. Ignorance may numb the pain but it sure as hell will not help close a gash. Know what I’m saying? The right choices that you make regarding the wound may not help it heal but it will definitely keep it from getting worst. I let mine get worst.

So, hey. Take care of yourself. All wounds will heal, but you have more control over that than you think.