Bought On A Road

This is what started as a free-verse poem that became a sort of epic. It's cut into parts, though the parts do not need to be read in any specific order.


Bought On a Road

I.
Giants walking, fiends talking hyphenated spells on wretched little ears.
I borrowed these flowers for you.
We all want to be discovered by the right people.
I want to be discovered.
This vanishing act is getting old.

Sunday I wrote a poem for our dead fathers.
We have these ghosts around us.
They shriek and moan and they tell us they didn't have to tell us it doesn't happen this way.
Without these verses the forest is just wood and chlorophyll.

Undying rest, spare my love this awful burden.
She knows not of the whispering you and I do and with a binding kiss such as this we will never grow old. We will never believe in another single thing.
It will be this and only this that makes us and the world and nothing in between.

But I cannot refer you to a clown who shares his shoes with a politician.
I cannot lie to you anymore.
It will be a hard, hard rain that falls on our heads.
Yours and mine.
Black is white and color is a mystery onto us again.
We won't worry ourselves with such sensibilities.
Instead, we've only this tangerine.
Will it last us all night?
Will the candle last us dear?
Don't tell me you love me again.
Our breathes must be still.
I have only the one match and you still have your corduroy dress to mend.

So did you see that great white beast rolling down the highway in the dead of night?
His knuckles as white as the headlights that lead him to that terrible place.
Where the ghosts leapt up from their chairs and shouted, "What the fuck are you doing here!?"
You and I aren't welcome here.
Their faces twist and contort like some awful circus side show.
We run out to the desert where the wind cuts our face and the sky is a cracked painting.
Your great-grandmother hands me a peach and asks me to recite your name in Arabic.
Again and again she says until my mouth is filled with dirt and Indians build fires on it.
They dance around.
Drums are played loudly and children laugh uncontrollably.
Coyotes smoke peyote and witches brew tea of Egypt.
And there, in the center of their madness is my father.
He is wearing purple stones around his neck and asks you to recite my name in the old language.
You open your mouth but the guttural sounds of the old language cannot be said by such a beautiful tongue.
He says, “Speak!"

II.
Now is my own discontent,
Where from behind panes of glass I am mocked,
As a stowaway on my own vessel.
I christened her in the beginning of this journey but I am losing control.
Again and again I am reminded that I must quit this life of the imaginary.
Return to my home in Glastonbury and be quick among the moors.
Dance, Prance, be quick along the moors, boy.

We die tonight.
I hope we die tonight.
With, Without this club of heroes.
Always arguing,
They laugh,
Always at each other’s throats.
Like wolves.
They feed on the weakness of our great uncles and our granddaughters.
It is nothing I cannot worship on my own.
What we were asking for were answers.
What you offer does not console us.

Someday you and I will cry,
A dehumanizing cry.
A tirade for tyranny.
A fulmination at fascism.
Our gums will bleed.
Our skin will crawl,
Up your walls.

I wrote you a letter on a leaf of paper.
How elegant it was, the way the ink formed letters,
Then syllables, then words.
It was my intention to fold this letter into a boat.
A small paper boat.
I could sail in the gutters, along the street.
The rain water could carry me to the heel of your boots.
There, I could dock my vessel,
And be taken up in your empty china hands.

III.
You and I,
We play these games,
Running around in Circles,
Until we are sick.
And we die.

And if you die,
You’ll worry me sick.
Spinning on the lawn, in circles.
Playing your games.
Wouldn’t I?

IV.
Hey Alan, You look like a Tuesday, you sure that tie ain’t on too tight?
Hey Alan, Hey man.
Hey Alan, You look exhausted way up there.
Hey Alan, Hey, Hey man,
Hey Alan, You know, we all miss ya down here at the pool hall.
Even Frank admits he misses ya.
And you know how hard it is for him to say that.
Hey Alan, Hey man,
Hey Alan, ya know Margery cut some Guido punk the other night at the pool hall.
They locked her up for a night but you know Frank and the boys bailed her out.
Hey Alan, Hey man,
Frank’s boy Tommy had a concussion at the game last Saturday.
They say he might not make it through the night.

On/Off

"When I was five
I went fishing with my family.
My dad caught a turtle.
My mom caught a snapper.
My brother caught a crab.
I caught a whale.

That night we ate crab.
The next night we ate turtle.
The next night we ate snapper.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale..."
Tao Lin

I got talent. I got a taste. My story "Thursday" was published in the University literary journal. I guess that gave me permission to go wild. I was looking down a road that could have ended me in my mother's position. I can't keep going on like that. There's something I need to be working on. I haven't had a drink in five days. What started as a pact has now become closer to an endurance contest. The smell sickens me. I think of that feeling in the back of my brain and the pit of my stomach turns. Whatever.

Yes, I was published in my University's literary journal. Which means... something. It means an audience of six credited editors found a story I wrote one morning as practice (a Thursday morning) worth putting in their simple typo riddled journal. But I appreciate it. It gave me the initiative to submit to other journals.

Last night I had a dream my significant other was unfaithful. I wasn't angry. At first. It was Halloween. I dressed as a vampire at a Church function. I thought this was clever. When she told me I remember I thought, "She buys me everything, why shouldn't she be allowed to see other men?" I'm smiling. I'm still dressed as a vampire when we lay on a hotel bed and I ask why. I got angry but a black man told me not to argue. He told me she was so good to me I had nothing to complain about. He went downstairs below our hotel room to a room filled with water where he was attached to a machine. He said, "I can hear everything down here." Fuck.

Death.

Me? I prefer to drink until I feel that irreversible feeling that my head is about to fall off. I dream of a day this feeling goes away.

As for my father. I hate to think this is where I get out all my demons. I always think about how he never met any of the women I've dated. For all he knew I could have grown up a fruit. Or someone of the homosexual persuasion. I'm an atheist. I believe that when someone dies, it is a tragic thing. What's worse, is it becomes more tragic to an atheist. The death of a person is also a death of a life, a legacy, a story. So my father could never see the women I've dated. He will never see the children I bear. He will never see the beginning of their stories. So I think that is tragic. What is saddest is most beautiful. I know a girl. Her father died in a hospital about a mile from here. In the waiting room, she held his glasses in her hand. She cries now because she could never give them to him. I tell her this is beautiful but she doesn't understand me. I don't even understand anymore. Maybe this life isn't beautiful after all. Maybe it just begins, and it ends. Sometimes abruptly, sometimes late. My great grandmother died in her nineties. Far after her siblings had died, I remember her saying,

Sometimes I think God has forgotten about me.

Something That Happened Tonight

I don't know what happened.

My Mother has been going through a trunk full of family records. Pictures and letters mostly. I read a note written down on fragile yellow paper from my father to my mother while undergoing his treatments. His handwriting was terrible.

"I hope you can read this because I am very nervous."

He asked how I was. He said I was growing like a weed. It's hard to imagine my father saying that. I don't remember his mannerisms. Or his voice.

I put the note back where I found it and decided to investigate pictures. Pictures of Eric, pictures of Aaron, Christopher, Ashley. Some of them brought me back just as memories do. I came across a picture of my father holding Eric. It moved me. I moved on to a picture of our first dog Penny, a Black Labrador. Like my father, she seems like a memory from an entirely different life. Sometimes it doesn't even seem like my life. Like a movie I saw one afternoon in my old room, at my old house. A dead father, a dead black dog.

These things moved me so much. I had to write something down. A poem. In my head the words kept repeating: a dead father, a dead black dog.

I sat down and opened up my laptop but the words stopped there. How can that happen? How can something move me that much I can't put it into words? Maybe words can be said but they could never resemble any decent articulation. A dead father, a dead black dog. A dead father, a dead black dog.

Eleven.

I'm sitting here. I'm watching Lynch's Mulholland Dr. with my younger brother and I don't think he quite understands it. Besides this, I'm aimlessly wandering the internet. I have an interest. Something I want to read about, but I don't know what it is and have no idea where I'm going to find it. I stopped a moment ago when I read an article called "The Three Traits of a Writer..." by this idiot, K.M Weiland.

Weiland begins her list of the most important of her three traits every writer must have with talent. Talent is an abstract concept. What one person views as talent is not what another may view as talent.

...I'm attacking an article posted on the internet. What am I eleven?

taPe.

"You aren't an artist until you find a crumpled wad of tape in your supplies and you exclaim, 'this is exactly what i need.'"

Today

I have work in 45 minutes. I haven't done anything productive all day. I mean, I picked up a little bit around my girlfriends apartment. I've been here since Saturday. The reason being is that I'm broke. She lives twenty minutes away as opposed to the hour and a half drive I typically make to work each day. To save gas and money I'm here. I miss being creative. I have this painting sitting in my room collecting dust because I haven't worked on it since Friday night.

Today I remembered something my 8th grade Geometry teacher said to me. She knew I hated math and I didn't take her class all that seriously so consequently, my grades were suffering. One day after school I'd gotten in a fight with some kid and was sitting in the office waiting for a ride. She noticed me, asked what had happened and I explained it to her. She asked me if I needed any help with Geometry and I explained her my utter disdain for Math. She told me there would be a lot of things in life that I just don't want to do, but I should do them anyway because of their outcome. She got real with me. She went past the babbling of a typical 8th grade teacher and bestowed on me some advice she thought I would benefit from. And I have. So today, I'm gonna keep her in mind. Wish I remembered her name.

Russo

It was late. Damn late. The thought of my mother waiting up had me fighting back tears. The recent occurences had me wondering. Was I ever here before? What could have brought me to this place I’d never expected to be? All these thoughts were racing through my head, interrupted briefly by a spook here or there. Nights like these made me wish I’d gotten to a ophthalmologist sooner. I can’t make out a goddamn thing and my heart is beating fast so I pedal the bike faster. I check my watch. It’s two in the morning. The rest of my life is depending on whether anyone got up and realized the car was missing. I can ditch the bike in the creek out back and...

I feel myself lifted up over the handlebars, my ass is over my head and my back is on the ground. Everything is covered in freshly cut wet blades of grass. I’m alright, just had the wind knocked out of me. It’s happened before. But this is the first time in the last hour I’d been given a moment. I look up at the sky through the tree branches. The pain in my back suddenly hits me and I start crying.
Before, when Russo and me would go out at night, my mother would sit in the living room watching Lifetime movies until I got home.
“I don’t like him. Or his family.”
“He’s alright, Ma.”
I’d tell her and bolt out the front door. With lightning footwork, I’d jump off the sidewalk, over the azaleas and into Russo’s big grey Pontiac. It was a big loud monster that he’d gotten from his older brother Richey. The thing had an exhaust that’d smoke like you wouldn’t believe. In high school, Russo was your typical renaissance jock. Varsity football, weightlifting, track, these were his trades. He didn’t get the grades but the principal always had his teachers fixing the books.

“The guy’s leading us to State, not graduating Harvard.”

Russo had this billowing laugh that followed his twisted sense of humor and swept over me and the other guys like a gas that silenced doubt. We were quiet when he told us about the girls he slept with. I think it was the laugh that scared us the most. Probably because we knew he found his sick stories so amusing. He told us about one girl who got it particularly bad. Michelle. She was tiny, skinny, a pretty face but wasn’t in with the same crowd as Russo and the rest of us. So, it goes without saying the school didn’t know about the two. What’s the use in publicizing another adolescent drama? Anyway, turns out one night they had a terrible fight when she got home from a party at Clarissa Davenport’s crummy boyfriend’s place in the north-end of town. They screamed back and forth over the phone for a little while. Kicking and cursing and crying they broke each other down. He called her a slut and she called him a psychopath. Russo dropped the phone, drove that grey bird over to Michelle’s house and beat the shit out of her in her own front yard. We didn’t see Russo for awhile after that, between court dates and juvenile detention, it wasn’t until a year later we heard this story. Michelle we never saw again. I hear her and her parents moved out west. Somewhere in Arizona maybe.
Russo and his family weren’t the most reputable neighbors. Quintessential suburban black sheep. They had money, but they didn’t waste it on rosebushes and sequined patio-parties. They were the kind of family that settled their differences on the front lawn. From the big bay windows in our kitchen, I’d watch Russo and his pops wrestle, spitting and throwing punches.
“Savages.”
My mother would say when she’d catch me watching the brutes scramble around in the dirt patch out front of their house. She’d tell me to go upstairs to my room, where I’d masturbate thinking about some of the girls from my class and fall asleep.

I was dreaming about my father again. It always bothered me when he’d show up in a dream. He was never who I remembered him being in real life. Always slightly different. His voice would be somebody else’s. He would be shorter than I remember. Or skinnier. Sometimes he wasn’t my father at all, but every time, I called him dad. This time he was the exactly as I remember. It was nice seeing him healthy and normal again. But he wouldn’t talk. He was dropping me off at my grandparent’s because I had the day off from school and he had to work at the shop. The radio was telling us that the military would be testing nuclear bombs a few blocks from where we were headed and I should expect showers all day. They man on the radio sounded like my father and said testing would continue throughout the day, so I should stay inside. He said if I absolutely had to go outside, I should wear my blue Washington Wizards windbreaker.
When we got to my grandparent’s house, the testing had already started. The sky was red and black and grey and it cracked the way an old painting does. He walked me to the front door and kissed me on the cheek. His beard was scratchy and he smelled like cigarettes but when he left I cried for him to pick me back up and take me back home. My grandmother came out, took my hand and brought me inside. We played Parcheesi and watched The Price is Right until she fell asleep on her recliner. I knew she was fast asleep because of how loud she snored. After a few minutes, I wanted play outside but I didn’t want her to know so I left one of my walkie talkies next to her and left.

Outside the air was warm and smelled sterile. It was raining now and I could see my grandparent’s neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Foreman standing on the railings of their porch. I shouted to them that it was too dangerous, but they stepped off together, holding each other’s hands all the way down. I looked around at the other houses, Mr. Walt, Mr. and Mrs. McGregor and Mrs. Kojak were all laying facedown and motionless in their front yards. I walked past my grandparents house and into the neighbor’s yard. I’m standing over Mr. Kopalchek. I watch a stream of army ants carrying Goulash from out his mouth. They are so depraved. Is there nothing they won’t do for their insidious queen? Where is the line? I was crying and the rain had me soaked. The skin around my eyes burned and my nose was running so I wiped it with the sleeve of my blue Washington Wizards windbreaker. I could hear my grandmother’s snoring overhead but my concentration was interrupted by a faint ringing in the walkie talkie.

It was 10 o’clock when Russo called me. I grabbed my authentic Kermit the Frog phone off the nightstand. The receiver was this plastic Kermit the Frog lounging back in his chair while the yellow handset hung on his feet. A pretty genius idea for a phone I thought, but I hid it in the back of my closet anytime I had friends over. It was my father’s back when he was my age and I remember seeing it in our living room growing up. Now it was mine but I was too embarrassed to let any of my friends know about it. I forgot to hide it once when Russo came over to watch Monty Python and he called me a faggot. I didn’t say anything. That prick was always saying shit like that. I don’t know if he knew how ignorant it made him look.

“Hello?”
“I’m leaving, Mark”
“What’dya mean, man?”
“I’m skipping town.”
“Where’re you gonna go?”
“Richey is out in Oakridge, I’m gonna stay with him while I get things straight. Then, I’m thinkin’ Miami, maybe further south.”
“Are you sure about this? Is it about whatever you and your old man were fighting about?”
“It’s about a lot of things, but right now I need you to give me a ride.”
“Aw man, it’s late.”
“I’ll pay you, man.”
“I just got my license,”
“Just hop out your window and take the car. Your mom won’t even know you were out.”

I dropped the phone back on Kermit’s legs and rolled out of bed. I put on my Dickies jacket and searched around in the dark for about five minutes looking for my wallet. I knocked my knuckles on the dresser and found it in my change dish. The keys to the car were in the kitchen so I had to creep past the old lady’s room. I held my breath while I tip-toed down the hallway listening to my heartbeats play call and respond with my footsteps. When I made it back to my room I let out a heavy breath of
relief and felt my heart try to jump out with it.

“I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”

I opened up the window and climbed out. The ground was a good six feet below the window so I sat myself on the windowsill and jumped into the flowerbed under me. I landed on my feet and crouching, but the mulch was so soft I fell forward and rolled into the backyard. I wiped the dirt from my hands off on my jacket and walked around the front of the house. The moon lit the front yard and everything beyond in this great blue hue. I felt like the world had been frozen in the chaotic mess I’d found it in. In the next second, Russo was walking across the cul-de-sac toward me.
“What’s up dick flinch?”
“Let’s just do this man, I wanna get back as soon as I can.”
“Alright, we’re meeting Richey on the Nickel Bridge.”
“Let’s do it,”
“But drive slow, I don’t want any attention.”

He reached into the pocket of his tan Carhartt and pulled out a small, black pistol. I felt the blue stillness from before shatter into a million pieces falling to the ground in a loud, sharp cacophony. I was scared. I’d never seen a gun before and I was always on edge about Russo anyway. I’d known him since his family moved across the street from us eight years ago but I knew what kind of guy he was, and I wouldn’t trust him for a minute with a gun. He was suspended in middle school for bringing a knife to class. Somebody told a teacher about it and when they found it in his bag he said he was just holding it for protection. The day before that, he told me it was for this black kid he saw kissing a girl he liked. He said a beautiful girl like her shouldn’t be getting into anything with those people.

“What the fuck is that about, man?”
“I’m takin’ it with me! You want me out there without a piece?”
“Whatever man, just keep it in your jacket. I don’t wanna see it. And if I see you even put your hand back in that pocket, I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”
“Deal.”
He says, with that shit-eating grin of his. It's that same grin women find irresistable. We get in the car and drive off down the street. It’s a pretty suburban part of town where we live. On a Monday night like this the neighborhood is desolate. We get out to the highway and wait at a red light...

“So what’s this about man?”
“You don’t wanna know. It’s better if I just don’t tell you.”
“Is it about Michelle?”
“Who the fuck is Michelle?”
I was stunned. He didn’t remember her. He cracked her ribs. He busted out her teeth. He left her scarred, physically and emotionally. Me and the guys would give our right nuts for a shot at any one of the chicks we've seen around Russo’s arm. What an asshole. Even if he never did any of those things, he was in love with her. How can anyone forget that? I’m thinking all this and I look at Russo. He’s fidgety. He’s sloped in the seat next to me and with every set of headlights that pass us, his eyes jump along the bottom of the window. Watching him, I felt any sympathy I had for the guy slip away. The light turned green and we drove on. I was still tired from waking up so late, the yellow dashes on the road hypnotized me, but the disdain I had for this guy was just overwhelming. I couldn’t keep focused so I turned up the a/c and rolled down my window. The night air will help, I thought. That, coupled with the constant duh-dunk, duh-dunk of the tires rolling over the little notches in the road, woke me up to the realization of what I was doing.

When we got to the bridge I drove slow. Russo told me to slow down and pointed to a car in the distance with its headlights on.
“That him?”
“Yeah, that’s Richey. Pull over here.”
I pulled off on the shoulder and got out. Richey was smoking a cigarette and leaning against the hood of his car. A real James Dean. Richey was Russo’s older brother who’d gotten kicked out before we started high school. Sometimes he’d by Russo cigarettes and alcohol and we’d hang out in the creek behind my house. I remember one summer the homeowner’s association posted signs around the neighborhood.

“Attention! Drought regulations are in effect! Please conserve your water and be careful of open fires.”
Laurel Branch Homeowner’s Association

Russo smoked the cigarettes because I wasn’t big on smoking. I really dug the alcohol though. I liked the way it left a small, searing tail in my throat and settled in my belly, immobile but influential. I enjoyed the numb feeling in the back of my brain, the way my worries and inhibitions melted away. Once, I felt obliged to let Russo know how I really felt.

“Russo, what do you think about the girls you date?”
“What do you mean, man?”
“I mean, do you like them or are you just using them? Are you really that guy? That nail-and-bail high school jock?”
The words were spilling out of me. I felt them well up in my mouth like alphabet saliva and dribble all over the place. Russo had a look I couldn’t distinguish.
“I dunno, Mark. Why don’t you tell me who I am?”
I felt my heart race. It was thumping in my throat and catching fire with the rest of my body. But the alcohol was already working on me and I felt that beat fade further and further into a place deep inside of me.
“You’re a fuckin’ jerk man. You treat people like shit and you laugh about it to their faces. I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you? I’m seriously curious as to how somebody like you can live with yourself. I mean, you joke around about kicking people’s asses and call us names and we’re afraid of you. Nobody is really your friend, we’re just afraid of you.”

It was as if I’d woken up to find my heart in my throat. My brow was sweating and I was contemplating running or standing my ground. I kept my eyes on Russo because I didn’t want to miss whatever it was he was planning next. He flicked his cigarette and marched toward me. He got really close to my face and I could feel him shaking. This homicidal maniac wanted to hit me. I couldn’t let him hit me. He would be hitting people his entire life. It’s better if he realizes his mistakes when he’s young. He took a swing anyway but I ducked it. He was standing on the bank and the soft pebbles gave way. He fell into the stream and I laughed. I was laughing so hard I didn’t notice when he started mumbling and pointing behind me. His face had terror in it and I sick in the pit of my stomach when he shouted,
“F-F-F-Fuckin’ fire, man!”
I turned around to see a heap of brush completely engulfed in flames. We must’ve been too heated a second before to realize what was happening. Now it seemed that the more we stared into the fire, we became suspended in time. Our bodies were frozen in terror and confusion. I wasn’t allowed out with Russo for a few months after that stunt.

Richey was leaning on the hood of his car. The way he was normally seen in public, smoking cigarettes, wearing his aviator shades so he could watch the young jail bait walk by without being detected. I got out of the car first and waved at Richey.

“Is that Markie? Damn, I haven’t seen you in a minute. How’ve you been?”
I fucking hated that name. No matter how much older I got, anyone from my childhood could call me it and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Russo had gotten out of the car now and was searching around in the back of the car for his bag. When I looked back, I could see him through the front windshield struggling with his duffle bag and the strap to another bag. I decided I’d help him out though I’d swore this was the last time I’d helped this creep do anything. I opened the rear driver-side door.
“What the hell are you doing?”
His bag is stuck around some mechanical bits under the seat. His hand is clawing and tugging at the strap to his bag but it won’t come loose. He’s grunting and cursing and I tell him to give it a rest. He’s all worked up and as he’s yanking the strap I see the pistol slipping out of the pocket of his tan Carhartt. Before I could say anything a white light filled the back seat and I could smell gun powder. My ears were ringing and when my eyes could finally focus, I was looking at Russo laying in my back seat. When my hearing came back, I faintly heard myself screaming,
“Russo, what the fuck was that?!”
I was panicked and angry but this subsided when I heard Richey running down the bridge toward me. I realized Russo wasn’t responding so I turned him over and saw the enormous wound in his face. I was so scared I stumbled back a little and looked away from the car. I caught my breath and turned my back to the car. I looked out at the river, the stars dancing in it like dragonflies. There were no cars this time of night so all you could hear was the whooshing of the water underneath us. Watching the water, I almost forgot where I was and thought if I turned around everything would disappear.
“What the hell was that? What’s going on in…”
Richey paused when he saw what was in the backseat. It must’ve been any combination of the smell, the sight or the silence around us that made Richey puke immediately. I was resting my head on the hood of the car. My head was spinning and I had to look of the other side of the bridge briefly to collect myself. After he was done throwing up, I heard Richey mumble something. I turned back around to ask what we should do but he was already walking back to his car. Still muttering something when he opened the door and jumped in the driver’s seat. His door slammed shut and he spun the car. Back towards Oakridge I supposed. It wasn’t as dramatic an escape as I’d thought he’d make it. James Dean would’ve done it better. I wondered what he’d been saying. I wondered if he was going for help. These questions were suddenly interrupted when I realized I was alone with my friend’s corpse in mother’s car. I covered my mouth with my shirt and walked closer to the door to check it out. I watched Russo’s body lie motionless for about twenty seconds and looked around at the rest of the car. The ceiling was completely red. The back windshield had streaks of his blood running down it and a pool was forming in the crease at the bottom. I couldn’t stop wondering what the fuck I’d gotten myself into. But I knew that time was over. I needed to collect myself and fix the situation.

I thought about Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction. I thought there must be someone that can fix something like this. But I’m not John Travolta or Samuel L. Jackson. This is my friend’s dead body in my mother’s car. There’s no cleaner. There’s just me and a choice. I take one last look at Russo. You fuckin’ asshole, I’m thinking. I’m not cutting this guy a break even if he’s our dearly departed. I walk around to the other side of the car. The side where half of his dead body is hanging out onto the road. I gather my nerves and shut down my emotions. I hoist him up by the waist and pull him out of the back seat. My legs are shaking and it takes everything in me not to drop him and start bawling my eyes out right there in the road. I think about every little thing he did. I think about Michelle. I think about the way my dad beat the shit out of me after we’d gotten that fire put out. I think about my Kermit the Frog telephone and how much it meant to me and how awful it felt when Russo called me a faggot. I was so busy thinking about these things I almost forgot the dead dumb fuck was dislocating my shoulder. I came to the edge of the bridge and laid him on the rail. I said good riddance and pushed him off. I watched his body falling toward the water below but turned around to look out at the other side of the I heard the loud splash and laughed when I imagined his heavy body floating down through the water like bait for the weird fishes below.
After a few minutes I almost believed I was calm and collected. But I still had the car to worry about. I couldn’t bring it home in that shape. Maybe, if mom hasn’t woken up to find the car missing and me along with it, I could play like it was stolen. So I started walking. And thinking. I thought about hitchhiking after a few cars passed me but I didn’t feel like explaining why I was out at midnight on a Monday night. My mother frequents the local church circuits. She knows a lot of people around town. What are the chances one of them are out this late. Probably slim. Mostly murderers and rapists out now. Drunk drivers on their way home from cheating on their wives to kiss their children with whiskey breath and five o’clock shadows. I wonder if one will clip me while I’m crossing the street. I think if I was hit by a car I’d be ok with it. And when Mr. Infidelity comes around to the front of his Mercedes or Lexus and start panicking I’ll tell him,
“It’ll all be a-ok. Thank you.”

A few miles into the hike I stopped thinking so much about Russo and the car and focused on my heart. I thought it might explode if I didn’t stop. I could feel the muscles in my legs begin to seize up so I took a seat on a bus stop bench. I wished my dad were next to me. On that bench. Not the way he was in my dreams. The way I remembered him. I started to cry. I was almost home. A few more miles and I’ll be in bed and I’ll play dumb to the entire thing. I look down the street. I see a white cat walk into the street, stare at me, and turn back the other way. I remember thinking,
“You don’t want anything to do with this. Trust me.”

I look up at the streetlight. My eyes are so tired I stare into it for a minute before realizing what I’m doing. Madison. I knew a kid that lived on this street. He was homeschooled because his mother wouldn’t put him in our school. I saw him sometimes. Outside mowing the lawn or working with his mother in the garden. He wore a prosthetic mask that covered his forehead and the left part of his face. A pair of thin glasses reached across the mask. Covering one beautiful twelve-year old blue eye, and one painting of an eye that didn’t exist anymore. There are stories about a gun. There are stories about his enraged father throwing a glass vase across the room. A gesture meant for the Mother but ultimately exploding in an innocent child’s face. There are stories about a ravenous hog let wild back home in Arkansas. There were stories about his bike. About his father sending him these gifts every other week from some far off city. Of course, these were all stories. None of us in the neighborhood really knew why he wore the mask.
Last Halloween Russo bought a phantom of the opera mask and painted a blue eye on it. He bought a pair of thin wire glasses and large overalls just like we’d see this kid wearing outside.

“Come on man, don’t do this. Don’t fuck with the guy.”

I told him to lay off but he just smiled that stupid grin and told me to keep the car running. Before I could ask why, he was out the car and walking up the sidewalk. He rang the doorbell and stepped a few feet back. I heard him whistling Enter Sandman the door creak open. I felt the silence between Russo and our masked neighbor from the car. In a split second I watched Russo knock the orange and black bowl of candy to the ground and barrel toward the car. Behind him I heard terrible screams. Something painful and primal echoing out into the air around us. I fight to look past Russo and out the driver side window where the boy is frantically scavenging the porch on his hands and knees. The shrilling only stops when he finds the orange and black plastic bowl and holds it to his face. In the car, Russo is in hysterics when he tosses a prosthetic mask into my lap.

I’m staring at his house. The boy with the mask. I’m in the same spot out in the street I was a year ago on Halloween and I can hear his screams calling back to me from that night. I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to be five again playing Batman and Superman in his room watching Cartoons. I want to be his friend and never have even met Russo. I walked up the sidewalk. It was dead silent tonight except for the quiet buzz of the streetlights and I heard the game of call and response start up again with my feet and heart.
“My heart won’t take anymore of this tonight,”
I thought. I was breathing heavy and feeling like I’d never get home. I sat there on the grey painted wooden stairs leading off the patio. I contemplated ring the doorbell. But I knew there would be time for that. Russo was gone now. I can make amends for him later. I walked around to the side of the house, I trudge through the flowerbed of hostas and azaleas and whisper a little apology to his mother. There, around the back, leaning up against a white picket fence is the bike only a desperate father could afford.
Frigid gusts of wind pelted me like ghosts. All shrieking as I pedaled madly down Sycamore. Down Birch. Down Poplar. Giant oaktrees pierced me with daunting eyes on their twisted faces. On either side of the street, they reached down with their mangled hands, ready to grab me, eat me alive.

Fin.Gers.

I have a hemorrhoid. And my girlfriend tells me to see a gynecologist about it. I ask her if gynecologists see men. She says she doesn't know. On my way to the car I glance at a little black girl with braids laying face up on the sidewalk. A boy is standing over her with a stick. They notice I'm watching them and run off. Observations. These are observations. What good are these to the reader?
On my lunch break Vanessa sits across from me eating a sandwich. She has short curly orange hair. I wonder for a moment why they call women with orange hair "redheads", or why redheads have orange hair. It must be my hypothalamus receding. I think she can tell.
"What are you writing?"
She's speaking to you.
"I'm sorry?"
"What are you writing in that book?"
She takes a bite of her sandwich. Her legs are crossed and her skin is the pale eggshell color of the table. From where I'm sitting I can imagine the table reaching up with its dainty white hand to feed Vanessa another bite.
Say something clever.
"Things."
She's smiling at you.
"What kind of things?"
Say something clever.
"Literary things."
Now she probably thinks I'm a writer. Nobody likes writers. They are all pretentious and think they are the greatest writers of the new century. They scribble notes on Awful House napkins and soak their cigarettes in mud. She probably thinks I'm boring. She’s probably right.
"Really? I love to read. Have you read Bosworth?"
Pretend you have.
"Yeah, I have. I really liked his delivery of dialogue."
"Kate."
"I'm sorry?"
"Kate Bosworth. She wrote the Never Again series."
Lie.
"Oh, I think we're talking about two different people."
If you keep lying like this you'll lose the reader's trust. What little merit they have invested in you is definitely lost among these inner monologues. Nobody likes a narrative. Especially not boring narratives such as this one. This is a terrible character. There's no development.
When I look back Vanessa is getting up from the table. She walks to the door and tosses a Ziploc bag in the trash. Her legs are long. And beautiful. I imagine what she would look like naked. Sweating Porcelain. She runs her fingers through my hair and along the right side of my face. She tells me she's in love with me and kisses my left cheek. My stomach is making noises again. I've gone to the bathroom five times this morning. Maybe six. I’m falling apart. What would Vanessa think if my face fell apart. She would probably think I’m boring.

A Telegram from Perth Amboy to Dr. Quentin Hayes

Dear Dr. Quentin Hayes,

I only just recieved your postcard. I hope the Poconos are treating you well. As for all those people you've mentioned, yes, I know them. They have done little to mention my notoriety in the states among the decades. What will you do now? Your family has disowned you and I can be found in the Village with Maria. I sing songs now, Quentin. Or should I say General? The Gulf is quite a place for inconsistencies. I appreciate your inquiery in my affairs, but please leave the inquieries for the media. They have a grasp on that sort of thing.

Your Friend,
Perth Amboy

An Indian in the Cupboard (Where is this disaster's eyes?)

These are a few notes I made last week on the go. It's super convenient having a smartphone to write down things to say in the blog. The first is about an art exhibit I saw in Richmond, the second bit is about a moth I saw outside a gas station, the last bit is quite boring. You may skip that if you wish. I'm contemplating purchasing this domain name. It is $10 for a year. Not sure if I care enough though. But first, the most amazing idea for a story to ever fall in anyone's lap...

Following the events taken place on the infamous September 11th, 2001, much of the country unfurled their phobias and madness in unrelenting patriotism. In the midst of this three friends embarked on an escape from the city towards the west. These three friends were Michael Jackson, Marlon Brando and Elizabeth Taylor. This is a road trip that will forever be lost in the imaginations of thousands. I have taken it upon myself to begin the story.

2:45 a.m. Thursday
I don't know what to make of it. Last Monday I visited the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond. My mother obtained free tickets for the Picasso exhibit so me amd my lady friend made a day of it. The Picasso was wonderful of course. Much of it I hadn't been exposed to previously. Never the less it was enjoyed. What I enjoyed more were the Artists I had much more invested in. I enjoyed the Lichtenstein works and many others. At one point in the museum, I happened across an Installation called "Buddha Watching T.V" by Nam June Paik. After watching the awakened one watching the awakened one on T.V via a stationed camera, I listened intently as a Mother explained to her two small curious children what they were looking at.

10:25 p.m. Saturday
I notice a beautiful flying insect leaving the store. It looks like a butterfly but I don't believe butterflies are nocturnal. Maybe a moth. From my car, I sit waiting for someone to notice it. A little girl and her mother pass it. I hope she notices it. I hope the fluorescent green insect excites her or she cringes at it. She doesn't. I'm parked in a handicap space. The moth swoops and dives in these incredible broad arches. But I think its injured. The movement almost seem violent. Its a little frightening.

1:21 a.m. Tuesday
Meh. I need to be sleeping. In a few minutes I will be. I'm just putting the last touches on this post. In a few hours I will wake up and slump into the passenger seat of my mother's car where I will be driven to my girlfriend's place. I'm hoping I'll be able to get back to sleep once I get there. I have been on a very irregular sleeping pattern lately. I tried breaking it today by getting up early but I fell asleep twice this afternoon. This succession of getting carted around everywhere is killing me. I've had a few questions about selling the guitars. Hopefully I'll get the funding for the engine soon.

Please.

Wake me up.
Before my chest erupts to unfurl an enormous blossom.
Before my veins unwind furiously and my hair falls out.
Before my teeth tumble to the ground and an insurgence of ants take refuge.
So scared are they for their families.
For their lives.

From out my cavities they peer into a uncertain fall of night.
It is this black.
This enveloping black that frightens us.
What lingers in it is for us.
And us alone.
Do we stand?
Our breaths are so loud.
Can we stand?
Our heart beats so heavy.
And who will tell us when we are standing upright?

There's a lump in my throat and I think it's Cancer.
I try to swallow and everyday it grows larger.
It's a comfort to know those around me care.
And when I die they may live, laugh, cry and err.

"It's on random..."

Some of these are random quotes I remember from dreams, others are words that pop into my head in that moment before I fall asleep. Enjoy.

"Miriam, we're a thousand miles from home and the roads lead every direction but where we need to be. I can't think of a single reason for you to trust a word I say."

"It's a word or two that really sound the alarms, Benjamin."

"Drive it like you stole it, put a foot through the passenger side window and thell that poor bastard to never look back."

"You swim?"
Uh, no. I've been thinking of starting.
"You look like a tuesday."

Confessions of St. Amboy

Something is bothering me tonight. I think I'm going to blame these tempestual feelings on the problems at hand. The problem with my car. The money problem. I can't come to a reasonable conclusion about my art. I can't tell if I'm unoriginal or just plain bad at it. Maybe I shouldn't put so much stress on it. I found a picture on someone's tumblr,

Vandalchicks.tumblr.com

It said "Don't try to be original, try to be good."

A similar sentiment was relayed to me a couple of years back from a friend regarding my art. He was an artist as well and showed me a lot about painting I would've taken years to learn on my own. We still talk. With a country between us, he says, Trial amd Error. I say I can't afford trial and error. I realize that the only thing I stand to lose in this process is time. Something I have an abundance of tonight.
Its a numb feeling. I have no sensation at all.
A fly has been buzzing around my room the last few hours. I wonder what the hell his point is. He just flies around in sporadic circles and criss-crosses. But maybe that's all we're doing. Who am I to say what I do all day isn't just mindless meandering through this room or that? Life has too many twists and turns. Too many rooms. Its all too complex. Please simplify the feeling.

There isn't too much to say anymore. I feel like I've driven my life into a wall and now I'm bleeding out into the street. My blood finds it's way to manhole where it joins the city's blood. But the city's blood is too rich. It is loud and intoxicating and smells of jazz and cigarettes. So they separate. Like oil and water.
Frame me up in some gallery somewhere where the little boat captains flood the rivers with posies and heartache.

I feel like I've been separated from some paternal grapevine. I feel as though my father never existed. I know he did. That isn't at all what I'm saying. What I'm saying is he feels like a television show i watched an awful lot as a child and then one day it went off the air but i didn't noticed because i was outside playing down the street.

There is a lot of great art on that website. That... Tumblr... I clicked through every picture on it in about two days on my phone. It's created by some people out in Spain or London or both and has a lot of great shots of street art, graf and beautiful girls. Peep it.

I realize there is a hard break in the atmosphere of this post. I was heavily depressed in the first part of it (this post has been written in the span of about three hours now.) One could say much of my feelings tonight are a result of not seeing the sun in about two days. I have been off of work the last two days and I felt it would be a good time to enjoy a staycation. But perhaps I'm just not that person.

Damnit the Orange!

Damnit. I thought I'd bought Orange paint. I crafted this idea for my project Layers but I must have imagined picking up that can. Well, I have to shop for supplies Friday when I get paid so I suppose I can wait.

I destroyed my car. Apparently it had no oil in during the last few hour - hour and fifteen minute drives to work. Well I'm currently selling my guitars and amps. No big squig. They've sat in my room the last four years collecting dust. Relics from a rebellious age. I'm keeping one acoustic to keep an outlet (as well as the sentimentality of that particular instrument). The engine I have to replace will cost upwards of 1,300 dollars but i need to be mobile. These last few days I've been relying on other people to get me to work and I just can't do it. Soon I'll have to start paying them for gas. And I don't carry cash. And how do I get to an ATM to get it? It's a vicious circle.

My mom is currently asking me for a painting. She says impressionist. I don't know that word. I took a survey of art history class a few semesters back. Earth tones. Impressionist. Monet. Pretty colors. Check. These are the things she wants from me. Lets add:
Grandchildren
Decent Living
Christianity
to that list.

pOST.0 (Don't Leave Me)

Giants walking, fiends talking hyphenated spells on wretched little ears. I borrowed these flowers for you. We all want to be discovered by the right people. I want to be discovered. This vanishing act is getting old. Sunday I wrote a poem for our dead fathers. We have these ghosts around us. They shriek and moan and they tell us they didn't have to tell us it doesn't happen this way. Without these verses the forest is just wood and chlorophyll. Undying rest, spare my love this awful burden. She knows not of the whispering you and I do and with a binding kiss such as this we will never grow old. We will never believe in another single thing. It will be this and only this that makes us and the world and nothing in between.

But I cannot refer you to a clown who shares his shoes with a politician. I cannot lie to you anymore. It will be a hard, hard rain that falls on our heads. Yours and mine. Black is white and color is a mystery onto us again. We won't worry ourselves with such finite tangibles. Instead, we've only this tangerine. Will it last us all night? Will the candle last us dear? Don't tell me you love me again. Our breathes must be still. I have only the one match and you still have your corduroy dress to mend.

So did you see it? Did you see that great white beast rolling down the highway in the dead of night? His knuckles were as white as the headlights that lead him to that terrible place. Where the shrieking ivory ghosts leap up from their chairs and shouted,

What the fuck are you doing here!?

You and I aren't welcome here. Their faces twist and contort like some awful circus side show. We run out to the desert where the wind cuts our face and the sky is a cracked painting. Your great-grandmother hands me a peach and asks me to recite your name in Arabic. Again and again she says until my mouth is filled with dirt and Indians build fires on it. They dance around, drums are played loudly and children laugh uncontrollably. Coyotes smoke peyote and witches brew tea.

And there, in the center of their madness is my father. He is wearing purple stones around his neck and asks you to recite my name in the old language. You open your mouth but the guttural sounds of the old language cannot be said by such a beautiful tongue. He says,

Speak!

And you begin to cry. There is nothing to cry about. I hold you all night and the Moon fades into the universe as the Sun rises in the East and stretches it's loud firey bones. We drink coffee with the captain in his cabin and the waves that splash against the boat tell us they're rooting for us. It will all be okay. It was all a dream.

An E.mail

In an email to Milkdevotchka,

I'm not feeling well tonight. I miss you. I'm depressed I think and I don't believe the Prozac is working anymore. I tried going to sleep earlier when you went to bed. But I just laid awake with these thoughts in my head. They weren't the usual thoughts. I usually can't sleep because I'm excited about an idea or something. But tonight it's just This awful feeling of failure. Maybe not failure but definitely an awful feeling. I forgot to sign up for that class today. I'm afraid I won't get back on track. I'm afraid I'm not on the track I'm supposed to be on. I'm afraid there might not be a track for me. I don't want to work at Best Buy for the rest of my life. I want to be happy. I want to be happy with my life and I don't know if that's possible. Maybe I'll hit the road with a puppet show and a troupe of freaks and performers. That might be a long walk off a short pier. I just don't want to be stuck doing something I don't want to do and when I get into these moods I think I can't see a way out. It's like hell when it's late like this and I can't sleep and I can't write a goddamned thing or get inspired. I wish you were here. I have a hard time sleeping since I moved out. I'm very happy you have a bed now. I felt terrible with you sleeping on that couch. I suppose I should've left you one when I left seeing as I don't do nearly as much sleeping as you do. I woke up today at Three. I can't talk to you at night and you can't talk to me in the morning. We're almost star-crossed that way. A quick-fix-culture Romeo and Juliet. Anything for a dime I'd think. Please don't have those nightmares tonight. You're worth so much more than that. Perhaps I'll watch Science of sleep for the eighteenth time and practice Parallel Synchronized Randomness in my dreams. Then we can achieve what this world holds back from us. I love you.

Perth

Swept Under the Rug

It is currently 11:39pm and I couldn't sleep. So i suppose it isn't time for me to sleep yet. As it unfolded, I brushed my teeth, washed my face and hands and laid down in my bed. I play an album that always puts me to sleep, In Rainbows by Radiohead. The first two tracks are amazing but not exactly sleeping material. After these tracks of course it's smooth sailing. So there I am, my eyes stare blankly at the ceiling. The lights outside cast a light through my window shredded by the blinds. I always remember "The Wind Cries Mary", where Jimi says,

The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow and shine the emptiness down on my bed.

I'm still looking for a traffic light to change into three blue lights.
So I get out of bed and decide to write another installment of this blog. Today was no great feat in my life. This is perhaps why I'm have such great difficulty sleeping. I woke up today at 3:15pm. I think I could've slept longer. I always feel terrible waking up late. I have several projects I've been working on the past weeks. Art projects. Of course I've mentioned the Yarn Painting here before. The Yarn Painting is almost finished but I've started another project I've dubbed Layers. I've been very good with keeping up on these pieces, but today I hadn't made any progress. In fact, I set myself back a bit with an adjustment that didn't have the effect I was going for. So now I've got my work cut out for me.

What the hell am I doing? It's midnight and I have a problem with every little bit of drool that spills out onto this page. But I need to post it. I don't know why. I don't even know why I still post to this blog. I would like to think it's a nice outlet. Well what do you need an outlet for when there's nothing inside? Not a single imaginative or original bone in my body. I'm watching Twilight Zone episodes. I'm still listening to Radiohead. I watch the characters speak. I don't need words. He's a mechanic or engineer of sorts. He's found himself in a desolate town with an abundance of male and female mannequins. He's making a phone call? But who the hell is he talking to? My imagination fails me.

I think part of what makes this night so terrible is that it doesn't end. I feel like lately my nights only end with waking up and driving to work where I encounter idiots and slave over their tedious problems.

I recently performed a 180 degree turn in my life. I was set on a path toward being a writer. Now I've been working with these Art projects. I don't know what I want to do with my life, I want to create beautiful works of art; i.e art, literature, music and I want people to find the kind of solace in it that I do. That's all I want to do it. But that life doesn't exist for my generation. We don't do anything special here. We fade into the background. I'm brick. I'm wood. I'm a blade of grass and I grow and grow and you cut me down so I look good along side the rest of the blades just like me.

The art I've included in tonight's installment is by Barry Mcgee. I highly recommend those of you with a fancy in this sort of thing to check out his work. It might also be in your best interests to watch Beautiful Losers, a great documentary featureing Mr. Mcgee.

I'm going to stare at this screen a little more.

elastic ARTiculation.

First, an apology to anyone following this blog for my recent absence of material. You see, I am currently living with my parents again and the internet here is not the most reliable. I haven't stopped writing the blog, I have plenty of material to post soon. So as of now I will present you with a hodgepodge of the last week's work.

For some reason I haven't changed the clock in my car forward an hour since daylight savings time. I might just wait it out.

Lately, and this has happened an unusual degree of times now, birds have flown up to my bedroom window and grappled their tiny claws on the screen. They make noises like forks running on porcelains and when I get up to investigate they fly off.

Writing can be difficult. At times it can become difficult to stop. It feels as if I purge the words out onto paper or the screen (more appropriately.) Like in Kindergarten when the teacher pours out the box of crayons, yarn, fuzzy pipe cleaners, markers, paints and everything else imaginable. I pick out this or that, line it up, straighten it out and create something I didn't know I had in me. Its a wonderful feeling when you finish and you look at what you've done, whether it's art or writing or whatever. Some nights i never get to sleep because i keep sitting up to see what I've created from across the room.

It may seem like this post is coming from a completely random place and you would be right to assume that. The truth is I've been having breakthroughs and regressions in my productivity lately. One minute something daring and prolific might leak through the tips of my fingers but the next minute I find myself doubting everything I do. I'm impressed/I'm unimpressed. It takes a few hours after midnight for the juices to really begin flowing.

Lately a lot of my status updates on websites like Facebook are written without spaces. I don't know why I started doing this. It feels like it adds more to what is typed.

ifyouarepayingverycloseattentionyoullseeionlywritewhatiwantyoutoread.

Knitting.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could fall asleep at the same time and wake up in the same dream?

"Oh I've heard of this, it's called Para...Para..."

Parallel Synchronized Randomness

"Exactly! Oh, how beautiful if it were possible..."

But it is! It's only extremely rare. We could build a raft and float out to the Atlantic and sword fight with giant Marlin!

"Drinking those Austrian wenches under the table! Shopping in Puerto Vallarta! Camping in the Catskills!"

All in six hours...

Perth Amboy's Rogue's Gallery (featuring Stuntkid)

So I had the idea for this post about three nights ago. The damn thing kept me up all night but I just never got around to writing it. As of right now I'm writing this on my phone. So excuse me for any typos or other elusive mistakes. Edits will come later.

Everyone at some point or another meets their match. In middle school I had Brandon Campbell who i believe i spoke about before in this blog.

A new threat has entered the picture. Diane Snead. This lady needs help. She comes in to purchase two cell phones. Before i ask if she needs any help, she tells me she just spent am hour on the phone with Sprint working out a rate plan for her family. While I'm upgrading her phones, she tells me, at great length, about how great Sprint has been to her and her family. How they set her up at the Grand Hotel in Las Vegas and her daughter winning a brand new Htc Evo 4G in a dance contest at a NASCAR event. There was more, but i tuned her out after the bit about the Evo. So i set up her phones. She takes a look at the contract I've printed out for her and a switch flips. She says I've changed her plan into two family plans at $129.99 each. I tell her there is no way i could have done that, it must have been a mix up from when she was on the phone with them earlier. She complains to my manager that I changed her plan and was "rude." Which isn't completely false, but I'd say i was more neglectful than rude. Whatever, she told me this situation made her stomach turn. I thought that was a gross exaggeration. I wanted to tell her that normal people don't act the way she is acting but my job description includes a clause of severe tongue biting. So whatever. That's why i have this blog. Anyways, she's on the phone with Sprint for awhile longer after i explain that i did nothing and can't help her with this. Of course, she gets it all straightened out and her stomach returns to its upright position. When she leaves my Manager tells me how this lady was crying because *Company Name Omitted Because this I don't have the money for a Constitutional lawyer to take you fat fucks on* threatened her life! Lady, who's life isn't threatened every Black Friday between the traffic and the over eager crowds of trampling moms much like yourself who need that Action Bastard doll for little Jimmy?

Gimme a break.

My manager told me yesterday that she called back after she left to say she was coming in Sunday to iron out a few other details. Whatever, bring it on. You're no Brandon Campbell. That kid had gumption and moxy.

I don't think anyone has noticed, but in case you have, I've adopted a pen name. You'll notice it in any posts from now on as well as any stories I publish here or anywhere else in the future. You may be asking why I would adopt a pen name. To be honest I don't think my name is very scholarly. So I when I was reading Drown by Junot Díaz. Díaz grew up between the Dominican Republic and New Jersey and several parts of the NYC area. Anyway, he mentions a city in New Jersey and it just kind of stuck. If you haven't read anything by Díaz I highly recommend him. As of now, he has one novel (The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao) and a collection of short stories (Drown) in his repertoire (these coupled with his work in various magazines I'll never get my hands on, though I don't really care, these two are enough to satisfy me for the time being.)

So that explains that.

I've included a work by a local RVA artist Jason Levesque Stuntkid. I really dig his work so if you'd like anymore information on him, you can find his blog and art at blog.stuntkid.com Unfortunatly I couldn't figure out how to post a link. So for now you'll have to copy and paste. Very sorry.

Hot Showers and Dead Fathers

Wow, okay. Now that I've taken probably the hottest and most relaxing shower I've ever been able to get in this house, I can tell you what just happened.

By the way, is it just me or does anyone else sit down in the shower?

Today my mother wanted to talk to me about something that happened to me and my father a while back. Driving to my Grandparent's house one morning, my father was struck with a sudden seizure with me in the passenger seat. We were barreling down Indian Head Highway at around sixty mph. I remember telling him about Pokemon. The game was relatively new then and I was explaining the intricacies of the card game. It was at that time the muscles in his face seemed to tense and contort and he began making a noise I could only describe to the nurse as how Chewbacca sounded. We ricocheted off the center guard rail and darted across three or four lanes of traffic and an intersection where we jumped the curb into a parking lot where we plowed into a parked car sheltering a family.

Years later I would be snooping through a box of my mother's keepsakes. Me and my brother's birth certificates, news articles and a cassette my mother had recorded of my father's message left from the answering machine. I believe she wanted us to always have something to remember his voice. I played the tape on an old stereo we had in the sun room of our old house. I must have been 16 or 17 years old here. After a brief introduction by my mother, there was an eerie dead air in the speakers. I know I was about to hear my father's voice by I didn't know exactly what to expect.

"Hello, You've reached the Whetsell residence..."

It wasn't familiar. I know tape recordings distort voices to a certain degree, but this wasn't distorted. It was clear but I couldn't fit his face to the voice I was hearing through those speakers. I played it a few more times over before I set it back in the lock box in my mother's closet. That was when I came across the police report of the accident. The report mentioned some small traces of marijuana found in my father's blood tests. As I read on I learned about the Mother who was left a widow and the children left orphans. This news was a very tough pill to swallow at the time but I've come to terms with that reality.

I feel a need to post this tonight not because it serves as any sort of therapy for me. I've long since come to terms with the death of my father. First, I write this out of a strong respect for the documenting of life, especially the tragedies held within it. I'm writing this for my mother. Because when she came to speak to me earlier she wanted to know what I'd thought as everything was happening. I told her I didn't want to talk about it. It's not a tough subject for me, I'm only exhausted of running through the story. After all the counselors, after all the family members, I don't feel any more need to talk about it. However, it became more and more apparent to me that my mother was blaming herself for what had happened this day. I poured my heart out to her. I explained that she could have never anticipated such a thing to happen and she shouldn't blame herself. She kept saying she felt responsible so I suggested that perhaps she had some issue with the accident. She got up quietly and walked away.

Bernhard

“It’s probably just before dusk. I’m eight and my friends and I are running across a field toward the edge of the woods. I recognize this place as Mr. Montgomery’s estate off Backlick road in Fort Washington. He was a good friend of my grandfather’s. We’d do yard work for him in the summer when I was out of school. Anyway, we’re running for the woods when I look to my side and recognize a young girl running next to me. She’s smiling at me and reaching out for my hand. I take it and we run together and I’m smiling and the high grass is cutting our legs as we race closer and closer toward the thick trees ahead. I hear laughing. It’s that common children’s laugh you hear all the time in movies or television, but this doesn’t register because I’m trying to place where I know the girl from. We slow down and watch my friends disappear one by one into the woods. It’s not a slow vanishing either. It’s like a blip, like someone editing them out of the dream. One by one. And I start getting this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. This feeling that something terrible is happening to us but I don’t know what it is and I don’t want to move. That’s when I wake up.”

I turn my head from the acoustic ceiling tile to look at Bernhard. He wants me to call him Bernard because he’s afraid I’ll mispronounce his last name. Something Swedish.

“Do you feel physically ill when you wake up?”

I’ve been seeing Bernhard once a week since my dad died. My mother set me up with the visits to help with some of the problems I developed. Anger and depression. The anger subsided about a year after when I realized the old man was really nothing to hate. He lived most his life (and subsequently, mine) in a drug induced haze. You can’t fault a guy for that. You get through life anyway you can.

“It’s not the same as in the dream. I was scared at first. But then I just really wanted to know who the girl was.”

She only exists in dreams. She’s not real. When I was eight, I had pneumonia. The fever had me hallucinating that small insects were climbing all over my arms and legs. My mother was up all night watching my small eight-year-old chest rise and fall. I dreamt of this girl before. I remember her curly brown hair and the yellow sundress. This time, I chased her down creek behind my house. When I’d finally caught up to her it was raining and she asked if she could be my girlfriend. I never answered but she would show up periodically in my dreams throughout my adolescence. Now I’m twenty-one. And she’s there again. Bernhard thinks this means something. I tell him it means nothing. I tell him it’s all Jungian, no Freud, but the guy won’t budge.

It’s a weird relationship we have. We’ve seen each other probably fifty weeks out of the year, but it’s all professional. I never crack jokes that I do with my friends, but we have this intellectual understanding between us. He understands my philosophies and I understand his. We may not agree but once a week we swap a story that in some way or another will jog the cogs of awareness.

...

I've been dwelling in this uninspired mood lately. It's a drag but I managed to purge a little something out for you this evening. Nothing spectacular. I can't work on Russo because I've become slightly disinterested in it for the time being. I made notes on a physical copy last night and even began to make changes to the electronic copy on my laptop. So there is a story. It is finished. It has an ending and I'm really happy with it. I just need to beef up some sections and amend a few errors and I'll have it posted here.
I want to mention that Russo started where it ends. Meaning, I wrote a small excerpt and decided to put it in a larger concept. I wrote that excerpt in retaliation to a poor simile written by James Franco in his short fiction I Could Kill Someone where he says,

"I rode fast and the cold air on my face felt like I was riding through ghosts".

I liked that simile so much but I felt it wasn't strong enough. So I wrote it better. It wasn't until a few weeks later I thought,

Why is he riding? There might be a story here...

So that's where all this started. The next day I had the day off so I jumped on my computer and wrote the first seven pages of what would become Russo.

Exit.

"It's the feeling when everything overwhelms you. Seeing everything for what it is, but you're seeing it from every angle at the same time. So in this universal sense, you can never tell if this insight is everything. It grows up inside of you. Which could have happened a lifetime ago. Or it could have been eight years. It might as well have been your entire life. And then it ends and you know it will come again someday. But you forget that feeling. And so, essentially he laments for all the children who will grow to have this same experience. He laments for himself because he knows he might as well be a child, fated for the same experience again and again."

Just Another Working Class Rant

It's been difficult lately. I'm inching closer and closer to a reasonable conclusion. If it were up to me, I'd be more prejudice as to who I let in the store. Last night, in walked the loonies. I'd say about 9:00 post-meridiem, "Right on time," I say, checking my watch. I turn the corner and a young guy walks up to me. He's a little odd looking. Very well dressed, dockers, plaid button-up, a nice pair of dress shoes. He's got this real choir boy look about him that doesn't belong on a Tuesday night. The guy comes up to me and gives me this look like he knows me from before. He's holding a pair of head phones in his hands when he says,

Hey, remember me? They didn't work, can I get an exchange?

What am I stupid? I don't know you. I didn't say this. I could've been wrong after all. I can't be responsible for remembering every customer. So I ask him for his receipt. He doesn't have it.

Aw, no. Can't I just get an exchange?

This is where I call bullshit on the guy. I tell him I'm not taking anything back without a receipt. I offer to look the receipt up but he tells me he paid in cash. So no deal.

That's fine, I'll just buy another pair.

So I take the guy around the corner to show him the other headsets. I pick a pair up off the wrong shelf. Somebody must have placed them on the wrong hook. I tell him these are made specifically for his phone (Blackberry headphones for a Blackberry phone). He's looking at them, when he mother (or what I assume to be a mother, you never really know with these nut jobs,) walks up to us. She asks me how much and I tell her $24.99. She noticed that I picked it off a sign that said $19.99and starts to argue that because it's on the wrong shelf, I should give it to her for $19.99. I tell her that she can't be seriously holding me responsible for someone picking up a product and placing it in the wrong spot.

Do I sense a little stress in your tone?

You're goddamn right you do. I can't do this much longer. Dealing with these people. Somebody needs to say something. Somebody needs to say,

You're fuckin' wrong. And you're not getting your way, because you are a grown woman and you can pay five bucks.

We can't keep silent in the face of blatant idiocy. This is not how the world works. You aren't entitled to anything. You are a small, insignificant being. But with hard work, and humility, you can have those headphones at a discounted price, you can get your book published, you can pay off your loans. It isn't a ruse. There's no ancient Chinese secret. It's just hard work.

White (And the Plot to Vanquish the Worm)

My room is hideous. I wouldn't invite a pig over. I quit smoking. I have no craving for it what-so-ever. I have a strong urge to fly. But I've got nowhere to fly to. I'm hungry. It's raining. It's nice when it rains in the summer. It reminds me of when I was younger and I'd play in the woods behind my house. The air would begin to hiss because the little rain drops are all falling into the woods with me and hitting all the leaves. My mother or father would usually call me in if it started raining so I only had a little bit of time. But I remember slinking back up to the house because I liked the rain and I liked getting soaked. I started taking Prozac yesterday. The effects have been...
Well, I can't really say.
I think I've had ups and downs. But i can't exactly attribute that to the medicine. I've read that it may take up to a month or longer for the desired effects to begin. I can't wait that long. I need something to change. I want to be happier, more productive with my time, friendlier, healthier. I want all these things but I can't wait that long. Maybe I'll get a muffin. Maybe I'll finish writing this post and reward myself with a muffin.

012345678901234567890123456789012345678901234567890123456789012345678901234567890
5 4st f64nd the n40ber 36c2 6n the c60*4ter.
(I just found the number lock on the computer.)

What typically happens next is I scramble to the next idea that I can secrete onto the page. A lot of people take this drug. It's a brain drug so it's not uncommon I would have my reservations about it. I mean, it exists merely to change my brain. I don't want to be medicated. A lot of people are prescribed medication just like this one. I hear that it's over-prescribed, like not everybody who takes it needs it. I'm not completely sure I need it. Maybe I do, but I think I have this savior idea of what it will do for me (see above). Like the über-drug. Two days ago I didn't want to take it because I honestly thought the change would be so drastic I would be something or someone I don't want to be. But who knows what I want anymore.

When I was little, I told myself, "When I grow up, I'm gonna be somebody."
So what did you become?
I dunno, I guess I should have been more specific.

It's over-prescribed. People want attention. I want attention. But not attention to my problems. I want attention to what I can do. I want attention to my writing, my ideas, my art. What use is it to bring attention to my medication? How does that help somebody? Perhaps if somebody needed help as well. I would help them. That would be relevant to my medication. Otherwise, fuck off. Where was I..........................................................................
Oh, my art. No. That wasn't where I was....................................

So a lot of people take this medication right? I don't want to be that guy. The one that talks my ear off about how I take this and I take that. For those of you just tuning in, yeah, those people exist. And they aren't favored in this or any other social tier. On the same token, I feel like absolutely nobody wants to hear it anymore. It, being anything slightly pessimistic or depressing that may come from my mouth or my pituitary glands. Why do I care? Why do I feel this way? Is it because I do want to draw attention to my medication? Oh dear, have I imploded upon myself? Have I exploded upon my own grenade? Well hopefully the über-drug treats 3rd degree burns.

A Love Supreme, A Love Supreme

When I first became interested in writing, I read interviews with writers who said they often pulled ideas from experiences in life. I remember thinking nothing in my life was ever noteworthy. I must've been crazy to think that none of this is noteworthy, that none of you ever deserved mention in any of my stories. My new story Russo is riddled with these people and events. The other night I was feeling quite prolific and decided to write down a few.

In my Junior year, Me and my friends Kyle and Kevin drove around our high school racetrack in a van listening to Number of the Beast by Iron Maiden. They put us in in-school detention. This, among other reasons, leads me to wonder why it is I was ever intimidated by the high school administration.

When I was around 11, a boy named Brandon Campbell lived up the street from me. His family was poor. Brandon, along with this siblings were delinquent to put it short. I've grown up since then, and I've seen delinquent behavior. This family was ahead of the curb. I had an odd relationship with Brandon. He would tease me one day, calling me names, he would try to get in fights with me, but the next day would try being my friend. Fuckin' Crazy, I'm thinkin'. At the bottom of where his road and my road connected in the neighborhood there was a field where we'd play football. I remember my friend Adam, who lived next door to me, invited me down the street to play. I asked if Brandon was there and he said yes. We got on our bikes and rode down the street to play. Brandon was in the middle of the street, sitting, talking to some of the other kids and laughing with this grisly, cigarette-smoking, 12-year old laugh. It's funny what sticks with you in life. I can hear that laugh perfectly in my ears now as I'd heard it ten years before. Anyway, back to the story. I'm riding with Adam and telling him about Brandon. I'm fed up with the guy, I tell him. I look up and see Brandon sitting about ten yards away from me. I get the idea to race at him with my bike as fast as I can and hit him. I didn't know what would happen. I knew that I would probably hurt him and that's all I wanted. So, I'm barreling at the guy, hard pressed to start this here and now, and he notices me coming at him. Right as I'm about to hit him I chicken out. He jumps out of the way and I fly clean past him. I ride back around and he's cursing and huffing and puffing and I think he's ready to fight. I laugh and tell him I was just joking. His friends calm him down and I never tell him or Adam or anyone what I was thinking. I'm not even sure exactly what I was thinking. They left our neighborhood when I entered highschool. That summer a boy fell asleep and choked on his own vomit in Brandon's bedroom upstairs. I heard they moved to a townhouse close to the mall and I never saw him again.

I left work today and went over to the McDonald's across the street to grab a buck double. Before I ordered I headed to the restroom because I hadn't gone when I left work and knew I had an hour drive ahead of me.

"And while I waited he seemed to stare at me out of the gleaming panel - stare with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry, 'The horror! The horror!'".

Ok, so it wasn't Vietnam. Just a little piss on the seat and somebody's forgetful nature to flush. But with that I thought of whoever's job it was to clean it. The mental hurdles this person had to make. To clean up another person's filth, day after day. To face that task without fear. Without hesitation. It's amazing. I wouldn't ever be caught dead doing it, mind you. Though, if you caught me dead scrubbing a toilet seat I think you should call the Enquirer.

Unresolved Matters, But Nobody is Ever Really Caught Up

Ten minutes ago I tied one end of a piece of rainbow colored yarn to a key and the other end to a wire in my truck. If I'd done this sooner, My step-father wouldn't owe the towing company $150.00. Honestly, if I'd known he was paying for the guy to get my keys out I'd have found another way. I assumed he just had the right friends. What is about to follow has nothing to do with that...

I'm always trying to find something to hate you for.
Doubting.
Fatherless.
We are guilty of bigotry,
We rape your name with our tongues because it brings us solace, father.
But as all naїveté lets us do,
We are forgiven when we cry out,
Please help us.
As if your ear would bring us any comfort.
As if this world could ever yield such fruits.
Only it's cancerous routines.
Day in and day out.
Forever contemplating where I would stand if you hadn't left me with such a heavy heart.
For my Mother
For my Brother
And today wouldn't be the last.
Nor tomorrow nor any day after
that I should breath or speak or touch or see.
Or laugh or cry or think or love.
That you shouldn't impede such restful nights, father.
That without you I should live any life beyond those thirteen years.
That without you I should live any life beyond these thirty-eight years.

I wrote that about thirty minutes ago. I always think of Sylvia Plath when I write something this close. It's obvious that her less delicate style has some influence on me. I hate that I love her so much. Some writers don't believe this sort of writing should be publicized. Instead, they make it cryptic. They play it close to home but write in a way that the casual reader would never suspect a tragedy. I would like to cite the work of Elizabeth Bishop, particularly her work In the Waiting Room. I say,

Why not both?

In a poem, I feel the words are what move a reader. Whether it moves them to anger or tears and whether blunt or tactful, I think the reader will get what the need from the work.

We Are Humble Factory

I need medication. Definitely. I can't help but let these people get to me. They influence me to much. I'm talking about the customers. These dumb shits that think they're entitled to something. They think it's OK to yell out hey! when I'm with someone already. Or they think I'm going to be copacetic with them coming in right before the store closes to fix their stolen computer. It's not alright. I'm not alright with it. This shouldn't be my job. This shouldn't be any body's job. Nobody should be paid to work with these dumb assholes. These incompetent jerk-offs who want me to wipe their asses with my nose.

Angry has three syllables when I'm angry.

I'm posting from someone elses computer tonight. At my girlfriend's place specifically. It's kind of cool. Like when a celebrity comes to your hometown to speak or make some other such appearance. Except I'm not a celebrity. And nobody really cares where I am...

I quit smoking cigarettes two months ago. But today I broke down and bought a pack at the gas station on the way to work. I only smoked two. One after I left the gas station and another just before I got to work. The first one felt good. It felt great. It felt like all my problems were melting off. The second one wasn't the same. My throat hurt and I got a crazy headrush. I felt sick and didn't finish it. At a stoplight, I waved over a bum on the side of the road holding up a cardboard pizza box lid. I asked if he smoked and he gave me a look like I was speaking some insane language he didn't understand. But when I showed him the pack of cigarettes he said,

Hell yeah, man!

I passed him the pack and told him I was quitting, and he was actually doing me a favor.

Real Groovy...

Yeah, real groovy thing addiction is and not being in control of your own body. Fuck...

Brought to You by the Good Folks At...

Ugh. I feel disgusting. I fell asleep for about an hour while watching TV earlier and now I feel like dirt. Add to that a feeling that certain people are disappointed/upset with me and an element of being broke as hell. I don't mean to do these things. I mean, I'm trying.

Today, I woke up late for work. I actually slept in about thirty minutes late and thought:

"What's it gonna hurt? They aren't gonna fire me for being late 15 minutes before the store even opens for an eight hour shift."

Well, I actually arrived to work on time. I don't know how I feel about that one. When I got to work I immediately felt sick. I've just been so tired lately. I need to be re-energized. I need a vacation. My boss told me I needed one. He recommended somewhere South of the Border. Maybe Mexico. He spent a few days in Guatemala last year, volunteered building stoves for the poor. I think I could do that. Making stoves in Mexico sounds good. I'd build them during the day, sweating and burning in the sun, then at night I'd drink beer and watch the coyotes. I'd like that.

My girlfriend doesn't like Superman. I don't understand it. Superman is something that transcends so much. It plays on such a universal desire. Anyone who has ever wanted someone to stand up for what's right. Someone to stand up for them. Even now, I'm 21 years old and when I see someone in the bottom right-hand corner of the page saying...

Look, up in the sky!

I get goosebumps, because I know when I turn the page he'll be there, saving the day. Doing what's right. It's such a simple thing, but it hits me so hard I can't help but get excited when I turn the page. I think people have this idea of Superman as goofy, with the red and blue tights. But I think it's amazing that the red and blues have survived for so long. I mean, that's an original superhero concept. Tights and underwear on the outside. And such bold colors.
My girlfriend likes Batman. But to me, they're almost the same character. Only, one's an alien. Maybe one could give it to Bruce that he went through some tough times to get where he's at, but so did Superman.

I guess I'm just saying I appreciate Superman. And Batman.

About Batman, the other night before dinner, we stopped at a print/book shop on Broad St. It's a great little shop with comics, books, prints, posters and just various other collectables. I found two Batman trades, The Black Glove and Batman:R.I.P for $4.00! AMAZING. These books go for about $15 or $18 each, retail and I can get them both for $8! ugh, I wish I had money. So, I hid the books behind some other books on the shelf for me to come back to. Made a quick little note in my phone so I could find them again and left. Now we play the waiting game. I hope they're still there. Gonna be so disappointed in my hiding skills if they're gone in a few days.

Valentine's Day, 2011

"Today I hit the thrift shop looking for bait. I'd recently decided to take up fly fishing and thought the thrift shop was as good as any place to start looking for a catch. So I walk in, past those hip shoulder-padded lady-suits and Acapulco shirts to the old lady at the desk. I ask her what she recommends for fly fishing and she points me to a back door with a bright glowing red exit sign. Just beyond is the a great big blue dumpster. I tell her I'll sleep on it, I've always been more of a rodeo man."

That was today, Valentine's day. I didn't think it would happen this year to be honest. Last Monday, I made reservations at a place called Avenue 805. Typically, this restaurant boast a deal they call "Cheap Date Night" on Mondays and Tuesdays. Apparently, this deal isn't available on Valentines Day. Instead, they have a different deal for $10 more.

Lately, I've made a habit of leaving restaurants before I order. I've done it a handful of times and everytime I tell the waitress I'm not interested and am leaving.

So tonight, when me and my date found out about this "Valentine's Dinner Special" I was more or less dissappointed. The last thing I was drop the big Not Interested Sign on another waitress (which I recently found out they aren't called anymore, they're referred to as "servers" like that's any different AND if your income relies on how much I tip you, I'm gonna call you what I want,) but I decided I'm not confined to socially accepted behaviors. I shouldn't have to sit here and pay $10 more for entrees, appetizers and desserts that I don't like.

Oh, and I've never wanted to burn every vineyard in the world like I did when I heard what the waitress was offering. I don't care about the crazy Italian words coming out of your mouth.

Recipe for a Dream

1 Cup of Random Thoughts
1 Cup of Reminiscences of the Day
1/4 Cup of Memories from the Past
1 Cup of Love
1/2 Cup of Friendships, Relationships and all those ships...

Let these boil in a large pot. Add songs you heard during the day, things you saw, to taste. Serving is for two.

Blue (no answer)

It's called Blue because that's the movie I'm watching. Or was watching. It seems second priority right now. Or third. It's Bleu by Krzysztof Kieslowski. It's about a widow trying to uncover her deceased husband's secret life. Kieslowski created the Colors Trilogy: Blue, White and Red as a commentary on the Political Ideals of the French Republic: Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, respectfully.

It's called Blue because I'm suffocating in reality. In the truth. It's a cold truth so there's also blue there. My entire life I've been sheltered in a middle-class comfortable life-style. I never knew about debt. I'd never seen a late fee. I didn't know what overdraft was or why anyone would undergo it.

The New American Woman: Through at 21.

I supposed today's post could also be entitled green. Seeing as that is where all my problems may be coming from.

The Back Story...

A few months ago, labor day to be exact, me and my girlfriend split. I lived with her for a year and a series of events led to the relationship's demise. I moved out and moved into an apartment in downtown Richmond. The apartment landed me in more debt than I could have ever foreseen. I thought I could afford it but I didn't take into the account the other costs of living and any other costs I might accrue.
So, I fell into debt. My other credit cards gained late fees because i was paying rent and other bills. This, coupled with my personal life in a mess and my school slowly spiraling into the like. So, I've developed some anxiety and stress problems, no big deal.

But I was able to salvage what was left of the relationship and rebuild it with commitment and hard work.

In December, I had somebody interested in taking over my lease. Ecstatic, to say the least. So i packed up all my things and moved back to my parents. On the way to my parents, with my dresser and mattress in the back of my truck, I received a call by the girl interested in the lease. She can't take it because she would be stuck paying for two rooms if someone doesn't sign as well. So she backs out.
Now, I live an hour from anywhere. It costs twenty dollars in gas to get to work and back home. By the time my next paycheck comes in, I typically average about $5 on a good two-week period.

But...

When things like Norton Internet Security charge me twice for the same account, it doesn't work out that way. So now I've over drafted and I have forty dollars to my name until Norton refunds my money (3 business days I'm told,) and that forty dollars is for two days of work.
I'm waiting for my tax refund now. I will probably be reimbursed enough to pay off my apartment and pay for a few other necessities including medication and parking tickets.
I feel like I can't catch a break. Everyday is another uphill battle. Everyday I am paranoid, neurotic, anxious, irritated, depressed, exhausted. At night I have tics. My little brother has tics. He bats his eyes heavily. The doctors told us it was a nervous habit. At night I yell things behind tight lips and gritted teeth. My head shakes back and forth as if I were saying "No". I fall asleep early in the day because I can't control my sleeping habits and wake up at night to write these posts. To tell you what is wrong and I don't know how much more I can take of it.
My girlfriend is bothered by some of the things I do, some of my behaviors. The depression, the sleeping, the irritation. I don't blame her, of course. Who would want to deal with that?

What happens now? I stop kicking against the pricks. I acknowledge that there is nothing I can do. I've tried the best I can and the best I can is good enough. There is a hint of worry but mostly indifference. I don't know if I'll ever understand it or stop driving myself crazy over life. To me, it just seems more complicated than it needs to be and I don't understand why everybody doesn't think this way and do something about it.

I may watch this again.