Last night was an in out bar night. By in out, I mean I remember walking in and dont remember how I managed to walk out. It was stupid, but fun. Kind of a 'goodbye to addiction' fest for me; today makes it day 3 of sobriety. I'm proud of myself. A little conflicting that I would drop an addiction... and celebrate by getting drunk... but hell, I'm a walking contradiction. I can't drink like I pop pills anyway; pills dont taste like shit.
I really want to know... how to stretch my leg properly!! Really though... I know its the side of my calve and behind my knee, and I can do static stretches and stuff against walls but ... I'm seriously walking like I shouldn't be walking. I almost want a wheelchair... ugh, help. Advice ?
This year was long. It was full of speed bumps and dope. Fights and misunderstandings. Deceit. Tears. Acid. Lots of that... horrifying amounts actually. I delivered a liter of puppies (grossly amazing, I'll admit!). I taught two classes while simultaneously taking 4 classes. Made deans list. I was invited to compete in a National Poetry Slam event, Rustbelt in Ann Arbor (reppin' KZOO)- and I got the worst score in the entire competition. I relapsed twice. Had to be literally picked up off the floor after being left crumbled and homeless. Went to jail after defending myself against my father. Gained a love for dance. Watched EVERY movie known to man. Legitimately... an epic year in my book.
Last year, I finished out the year saying, "yup, that sucked." - and then moving on like the past 365 days were worthless. Like 2009 had no quality or lesson. That ignorance... was my lesson. It taught me to be present. To take ego shatterings and dumb moves in and accept them for what they are. To be understanding of others faults and flaws because what I see in them, I really see in myself.
I made some mistakes this year. Some involved my heart, and others involved my sanity but most of all... the biggest mistake I made was not loving myself enough. For letting chemicals like heroin and cocaine into my system. For laying on the couch waiting for my dreams to come true. But- I am not ashamed this year. I am screaming to anyone who cares that I AM FLAWED AND I DO NOT HATE MYSELF for that.
Today, I am embracing yesterday. It was. It happened. I accept it. And I love myself more for being strong enough to come out of 2010 alive and in charge of my OWN FUCKING LIFE.
Dont step into oncoming traffic. I might just run you over.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Warrior
"In joy and sorrow all are equal,
Thus be guardian of all, as of yourself"
Finally moving. Body back to mobility. Thank god or whoever for the good timing because today is a big one. Loads of productivity and that feels good :)
I was driving downtown the other day talking about my New Years resolution and what this next year is going to entail for me with an old friend. We have history but now we stay close because at one time, we were inseparable. There's tension, as expected, but the light hearted atmosphere of being outside the confines of a relationship always helps. No jealousy. No asinine arguments. She can simply be my ears, and I'm thankful for that.
She had asked me if I was still planning on joining the Army, and I had told her yes. I said, "Yeah, I'm going to have to get clean after the Wu-Tang concert and then head down to a recruitment office." She carried on, warning me about my 'criminal history' (which is petty) and a few other details. As I listened to her talk, I had my radio turned up just enough to hear Pretty Lights- Keep Moving playing sensually. I let out a huge , " UGH... I so wish I was going to see them on New Years Eve. I'm so jealous everyone got to go..."
Then the gears started moving. I started feeling scared of the thought of going through with my plan. I started flipping through memories and reflecting on what drugs made those memories so special. All the 4th of July's, all the random Friday nights in my Dad's basements throwing local raves and parties. All the performances induced by belief in my talent and a number of intoxicants. And what scared me... is that I've never had a completely sober moment. I've never acted or wrote or been social without some sort of chemical crutch, and I started wondering if maybe... I might lose myself going down this path. If maybe I'll stop writing. If maybe I wont listen to same music or enjoy the same things. If I wont talk the same, or act the same, or be... me. And that made me feel bottomed out. Like I might be making a horrifying mistake....
But that was exactly what I needed to process. As the tears started building up, and my lip started quivering, I looked over at my friend and said "You know what I've started to embrace as feeling good? That natural, instinctual fear we all encounter when change arises." She seemed perplexed by my statement. How could fear be something that feels calming?
I have made several life changing decisions, on my own, this year. And that's a first. They were scary. I went in head first with no clue where I would land. And I always had this initial feeling of utter abandonment of security. Like I was letting go of everything and there wasn't going to be any level of comfort ever again. After making these decisions, and seeing where they have brought me, I've become more aware of my emotions and what they mean. That fear... is a good thing. It means I'm making steps forward. Of course its going to be scary, change always is. But I know now that gut wrenching, tear jerking feeling that beats within my chest for the New Year...
is beautiful. Period.
Thus be guardian of all, as of yourself"
Finally moving. Body back to mobility. Thank god or whoever for the good timing because today is a big one. Loads of productivity and that feels good :)
I was driving downtown the other day talking about my New Years resolution and what this next year is going to entail for me with an old friend. We have history but now we stay close because at one time, we were inseparable. There's tension, as expected, but the light hearted atmosphere of being outside the confines of a relationship always helps. No jealousy. No asinine arguments. She can simply be my ears, and I'm thankful for that.
She had asked me if I was still planning on joining the Army, and I had told her yes. I said, "Yeah, I'm going to have to get clean after the Wu-Tang concert and then head down to a recruitment office." She carried on, warning me about my 'criminal history' (which is petty) and a few other details. As I listened to her talk, I had my radio turned up just enough to hear Pretty Lights- Keep Moving playing sensually. I let out a huge , " UGH... I so wish I was going to see them on New Years Eve. I'm so jealous everyone got to go..."
Then the gears started moving. I started feeling scared of the thought of going through with my plan. I started flipping through memories and reflecting on what drugs made those memories so special. All the 4th of July's, all the random Friday nights in my Dad's basements throwing local raves and parties. All the performances induced by belief in my talent and a number of intoxicants. And what scared me... is that I've never had a completely sober moment. I've never acted or wrote or been social without some sort of chemical crutch, and I started wondering if maybe... I might lose myself going down this path. If maybe I'll stop writing. If maybe I wont listen to same music or enjoy the same things. If I wont talk the same, or act the same, or be... me. And that made me feel bottomed out. Like I might be making a horrifying mistake....
But that was exactly what I needed to process. As the tears started building up, and my lip started quivering, I looked over at my friend and said "You know what I've started to embrace as feeling good? That natural, instinctual fear we all encounter when change arises." She seemed perplexed by my statement. How could fear be something that feels calming?
I have made several life changing decisions, on my own, this year. And that's a first. They were scary. I went in head first with no clue where I would land. And I always had this initial feeling of utter abandonment of security. Like I was letting go of everything and there wasn't going to be any level of comfort ever again. After making these decisions, and seeing where they have brought me, I've become more aware of my emotions and what they mean. That fear... is a good thing. It means I'm making steps forward. Of course its going to be scary, change always is. But I know now that gut wrenching, tear jerking feeling that beats within my chest for the New Year...
is beautiful. Period.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
me+100 dollars+ pretty much zero dignity+ alot of pop tarts = .....
This. Yeah, I did this. And it was rad.
My body is chaos right now; I struggle to stand up because I was really smart and decided to spar with out stretching. Feels awesome... kind of like someone tightened my joints with fire and acid. Amazing.
My head is screaming for going cold turkey. I'm not getting along with myself today, I guess is what I'm trying to get across. So, instead of delving into a topic... I'm just gonna post this video. Ugh... have fun. And don't eat two Pop Tarts!!.... Apparently, legal doesn't want to promote 'unhealthy diets' yet the damn company packages them in TWO'S. Dont ask me, all I know is we had to re-shoot everything that involved 'holding two pop tarts at once.'
My body is chaos right now; I struggle to stand up because I was really smart and decided to spar with out stretching. Feels awesome... kind of like someone tightened my joints with fire and acid. Amazing.
My head is screaming for going cold turkey. I'm not getting along with myself today, I guess is what I'm trying to get across. So, instead of delving into a topic... I'm just gonna post this video. Ugh... have fun. And don't eat two Pop Tarts!!.... Apparently, legal doesn't want to promote 'unhealthy diets' yet the damn company packages them in TWO'S. Dont ask me, all I know is we had to re-shoot everything that involved 'holding two pop tarts at once.'
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
You're not alone.
Sometimes I look to my brothers for inspiration. For thought. Today, I am too sore to even write so they will say what I need to.
There's never too many firsts
"Don't pass me by
without looking at me
my autumn is warmer
than your spring
I am like you
a child"
As I walked out the door of my therapists to a half snow covered, dead surrounding- I smiled regardless of the scenery. Probably one of the first times I've done that without premeditating the dreary, uncomfortable shaking induced by the cold and just going with it. Or being high and saying fuck it. But honestly, for the first time in years, I allowed myself to go into a situations today with zero clue of what to expect, anticipate or do. I went in with my guard down, my mind open and just went with what felt right. And the good thing is it payed off.
Today was epic. Not necessarily something to go running around rambling about but definitely something worth giving myself credit for. Its been a while since I've felt like I can get up and be active and engaged and social without a hesitant instinctual reflux, and today it just felt like clock work. Like I actually WANTED to get out and be productive.
I told my therapist last week that my New Years resolution was to do a complete 180 and head down a path I haven't tried. In accordance with that, I also told her I wanted to do some energy healing and acupuncture. Now, I was raised very western. Very Judeo Christian, with less abstractions and outside sources to give me a different perspective. A lot of this nurturing drove me to be rebellious and to find out the other side. Ex: I never saw myself doing drugs because I was told they were bad- therefore, I smoked when I was 12 and realized that the feeling I encountered was phenomenal. It made me feel like I was a kid again, like I could experience parts of my childhood silliness that were skipped because of cancer and more cancer and death. And if this feeling was so damn great, and was so accessible yet everyone was telling me its bad? What else could 'they' be lying about?
Since then, I've toned down my rebellion. I don't do things 'in spite of' facts or statistics- made up or not, I just do what I feel I'm meant to do. So this ear acupuncture talk and energy work sounded like something I wanted to experience. And this wasn't an experience I could study and research the effect of and go into it with an awareness of 'this is what I'm doing to my body, and this is what I should expect'. I even told my therapist " ya, I have a really horrifying reaction to needles and I dont really know what I'm supposed to be doing or focusing on so I'm kind of nervous" and she simply replied, " Just relax, close your eyes and if it feels uncomfortable at anytime I can stop."
I trust her. I trust my instincts. And I knew this was an opportunity to possibly encounter a waking moment.
I'm still having a hard time explaining what I felt, and still feel- but it was beautiful. See, with the drug background I have, its very easy for me to label a high or a feeling. Someone gives me some Kush and asks me to describe the high vs. some Diesel- I can give a pretty distinct interpretation. Likewise with psychedelics. I'm familiar with that realm of escape so well that I can articulate the inner effect it has in a universal manner. But today... I sat speechless. I had random spurts of wanting to just weep mixed with a calming natural chuckle and it truly confused me. But it was that confusion that made me feel right. Like I had just broadened my perspective a little.
The crazy part about the few things I could express I felt ( a. like there was a tuning fork ringing constantly in my right ear. B. burning sensation in my lower thighs and solar plexus, ect.) was that my therapist sensed all of them. Sensation for sensation. To sum it up, she said that for half the time- it was hard for her to get past this certain, close to the body energy we all have and it was stopping her from sensing my chakras. Once that tension released (which I sensed as well), she began working on my other levels of energy. She told me that she didn't feed much off my lower chakras ( meaning my grounding/ footing or confidence in reality, i guess, are off balance) and also that right side is off balance.
The irony, I told her, was that today was also the first day for me back on the mats. Putting the gloves back on and going toe to toe in the gym again. And when I fight, I never lead with my right foot...
So tonight, I went to this gym for the first time. Another experience I didn't know fully what I was getting into. I saw little kids with shin pads and smiles on their faces, rolling around punching each other. I asked my boy, " So do we fight the little kids?" and of course, we didn't get to do that (sigh, totally would've been hilarious). But what we did get to do is do a real quick warm up and start punching each other. Now, all these dudes have form. Have some discipline and technique. And me... well, I'm pretty much just a street fighter who knows his 1,2,3,4,5, and 6 punch and that he fights orthodox. Other than that, I am quite incompetent. Leg checks, kicking even- absolutely no clue. So we jump roped for a while ( which of course, I was already winded after) and then got right to sparring. Dudes throwing kicks and combos and I'm sitting there thinking for the first time in a long time that... I... am gonna get my ass whooped.
My boy turned to me, commenting on the fighter in the ring at the time and said "Irish doesn't know how to take a punch yet". And I thought to myself- I love a good punch. That impact reassures you that your alive and feeling and have to think on your feet. So, I put on some gloves and said I was going in for the last two minutes with some dude. The trainer looked at the fighters, looked down at me and said " no he can't go in, I haven't seen him do anything yet and he hasn't signed a waiver. Sorry."
I knew he wasn't confident in me. Shit, I wasn't even... but I still wanted to go throw. Might as well, that's what I came to do. Fortunately, someone in my weight class stepped down to me and invited me to just spar outside the ring. More so just see what I bring to the table.
When I marked up to him, that was probably the first time I had felt like my hands were useless. I felt so unsure of every move I was making. He wasn't throwing punches, he was laying in the cut just waiting. And thats my move usually; the one thing I do is duck and come over the top with my right on the counter. But he was making me open up. And boy, I did not do good. He caught me a few good times as I ducked and tried to work closer in on his reach and I got him maybe twice with some decent connections. All in all, I sucked.
He sat down with me afterwards and gave me some tips. Told me if we were doing kicks, he woulda kicked me in the face a few times with my ducking. Also told me my form is tweaked and some other stuff but he felt my power. Shit, I'm a buck 20 and can bench twice my weight almost. I got some heat in these arms, I just need to hone it correctly. Without gassing myself and overworking and just being composed and aware.
The great thing about being looked down upon is that someone, somewhere is going to see your potential and step up for you. This kid, who didn't know me, who just wanted to test whatever skill I brought, went up to the trainer and told him that he wanted to have me sign the waiver and he wanted to work with me. I overheard him say , "Dudes got some power, hes just a little all over the place with his arms." And that acknowledgment felt good.
Today was a lot of shuffles in the right direction. My ears are still burning, my necks a little soar but I feel full. Like I did everything a person should do in a day. I went into two situations blind and I am proud of myself for making those strides. I dont care that I can't jump rope. I dont care that I was confused with energy work. All I care about... is I did it. And I didn't reserve myself and hold myself back for once.
I'll be making this mma training a regular thing now. I need some discipline. I need something to force me to want to be healthier. Watch out, thats all I gotta say. Fighter since birth.
without looking at me
my autumn is warmer
than your spring
I am like you
a child"
As I walked out the door of my therapists to a half snow covered, dead surrounding- I smiled regardless of the scenery. Probably one of the first times I've done that without premeditating the dreary, uncomfortable shaking induced by the cold and just going with it. Or being high and saying fuck it. But honestly, for the first time in years, I allowed myself to go into a situations today with zero clue of what to expect, anticipate or do. I went in with my guard down, my mind open and just went with what felt right. And the good thing is it payed off.
Today was epic. Not necessarily something to go running around rambling about but definitely something worth giving myself credit for. Its been a while since I've felt like I can get up and be active and engaged and social without a hesitant instinctual reflux, and today it just felt like clock work. Like I actually WANTED to get out and be productive.
I told my therapist last week that my New Years resolution was to do a complete 180 and head down a path I haven't tried. In accordance with that, I also told her I wanted to do some energy healing and acupuncture. Now, I was raised very western. Very Judeo Christian, with less abstractions and outside sources to give me a different perspective. A lot of this nurturing drove me to be rebellious and to find out the other side. Ex: I never saw myself doing drugs because I was told they were bad- therefore, I smoked when I was 12 and realized that the feeling I encountered was phenomenal. It made me feel like I was a kid again, like I could experience parts of my childhood silliness that were skipped because of cancer and more cancer and death. And if this feeling was so damn great, and was so accessible yet everyone was telling me its bad? What else could 'they' be lying about?
Since then, I've toned down my rebellion. I don't do things 'in spite of' facts or statistics- made up or not, I just do what I feel I'm meant to do. So this ear acupuncture talk and energy work sounded like something I wanted to experience. And this wasn't an experience I could study and research the effect of and go into it with an awareness of 'this is what I'm doing to my body, and this is what I should expect'. I even told my therapist " ya, I have a really horrifying reaction to needles and I dont really know what I'm supposed to be doing or focusing on so I'm kind of nervous" and she simply replied, " Just relax, close your eyes and if it feels uncomfortable at anytime I can stop."
I trust her. I trust my instincts. And I knew this was an opportunity to possibly encounter a waking moment.
I'm still having a hard time explaining what I felt, and still feel- but it was beautiful. See, with the drug background I have, its very easy for me to label a high or a feeling. Someone gives me some Kush and asks me to describe the high vs. some Diesel- I can give a pretty distinct interpretation. Likewise with psychedelics. I'm familiar with that realm of escape so well that I can articulate the inner effect it has in a universal manner. But today... I sat speechless. I had random spurts of wanting to just weep mixed with a calming natural chuckle and it truly confused me. But it was that confusion that made me feel right. Like I had just broadened my perspective a little.
The crazy part about the few things I could express I felt ( a. like there was a tuning fork ringing constantly in my right ear. B. burning sensation in my lower thighs and solar plexus, ect.) was that my therapist sensed all of them. Sensation for sensation. To sum it up, she said that for half the time- it was hard for her to get past this certain, close to the body energy we all have and it was stopping her from sensing my chakras. Once that tension released (which I sensed as well), she began working on my other levels of energy. She told me that she didn't feed much off my lower chakras ( meaning my grounding/ footing or confidence in reality, i guess, are off balance) and also that right side is off balance.
The irony, I told her, was that today was also the first day for me back on the mats. Putting the gloves back on and going toe to toe in the gym again. And when I fight, I never lead with my right foot...
So tonight, I went to this gym for the first time. Another experience I didn't know fully what I was getting into. I saw little kids with shin pads and smiles on their faces, rolling around punching each other. I asked my boy, " So do we fight the little kids?" and of course, we didn't get to do that (sigh, totally would've been hilarious). But what we did get to do is do a real quick warm up and start punching each other. Now, all these dudes have form. Have some discipline and technique. And me... well, I'm pretty much just a street fighter who knows his 1,2,3,4,5, and 6 punch and that he fights orthodox. Other than that, I am quite incompetent. Leg checks, kicking even- absolutely no clue. So we jump roped for a while ( which of course, I was already winded after) and then got right to sparring. Dudes throwing kicks and combos and I'm sitting there thinking for the first time in a long time that... I... am gonna get my ass whooped.
My boy turned to me, commenting on the fighter in the ring at the time and said "Irish doesn't know how to take a punch yet". And I thought to myself- I love a good punch. That impact reassures you that your alive and feeling and have to think on your feet. So, I put on some gloves and said I was going in for the last two minutes with some dude. The trainer looked at the fighters, looked down at me and said " no he can't go in, I haven't seen him do anything yet and he hasn't signed a waiver. Sorry."
I knew he wasn't confident in me. Shit, I wasn't even... but I still wanted to go throw. Might as well, that's what I came to do. Fortunately, someone in my weight class stepped down to me and invited me to just spar outside the ring. More so just see what I bring to the table.
When I marked up to him, that was probably the first time I had felt like my hands were useless. I felt so unsure of every move I was making. He wasn't throwing punches, he was laying in the cut just waiting. And thats my move usually; the one thing I do is duck and come over the top with my right on the counter. But he was making me open up. And boy, I did not do good. He caught me a few good times as I ducked and tried to work closer in on his reach and I got him maybe twice with some decent connections. All in all, I sucked.
He sat down with me afterwards and gave me some tips. Told me if we were doing kicks, he woulda kicked me in the face a few times with my ducking. Also told me my form is tweaked and some other stuff but he felt my power. Shit, I'm a buck 20 and can bench twice my weight almost. I got some heat in these arms, I just need to hone it correctly. Without gassing myself and overworking and just being composed and aware.
The great thing about being looked down upon is that someone, somewhere is going to see your potential and step up for you. This kid, who didn't know me, who just wanted to test whatever skill I brought, went up to the trainer and told him that he wanted to have me sign the waiver and he wanted to work with me. I overheard him say , "Dudes got some power, hes just a little all over the place with his arms." And that acknowledgment felt good.
Today was a lot of shuffles in the right direction. My ears are still burning, my necks a little soar but I feel full. Like I did everything a person should do in a day. I went into two situations blind and I am proud of myself for making those strides. I dont care that I can't jump rope. I dont care that I was confused with energy work. All I care about... is I did it. And I didn't reserve myself and hold myself back for once.
I'll be making this mma training a regular thing now. I need some discipline. I need something to force me to want to be healthier. Watch out, thats all I gotta say. Fighter since birth.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Kids with guns
Under watered lillies. Fire dancing between clay logs and a TV newer than my own. Feet up on a new couch in house I have so many old memories. Crawling around on the living room carpet, playing some game that involved going in circle and giggling. Getting force fed homemade cookies, filled with butter roasted pecans and a grandmothers love. Coming in on a sauna Lake Michigan summer day to a mini couch, some cartoons and probably... more cookies.
Theres still a lot of cookies. Tons; after dinner thats pretty much all I was asked was , " do you want a cookie? just one? are you sure?" and after saying "no, no- I think I'm gonna take a time out really quick," I eventually had three plates filled with fudge, sugar cookies and other shit I simply just had to eat. I think grandmothers know that shit; just put it in front of them, and peer pressure them into eating EVERYTHING- and they will. Love it though. But other than the glutonous supply of deliciousness, everything here somewhat uncomfortably reassures change.
After my grandfather passed two years ago, she decided to go down a pretty positve path for an 85 year old. She didn't let the loss of two of her children nor her husband bring her anything but growth. And I give her respect for that. I hate to watch one grandparent pass and then watch the other one wait to leave us too. So she is a soldier in my book. She started going out and being social and riding motorcycles randomly and changed up the house. Redecorated gramps' den, the living room, new furniture. The works. And as I'm sitting in a place with pictures of passed loved ones, and a 40 inch LCD 1080i TV... I feel conflated. A mixture of the old ecompassed by the new. Change personified. Tangible.
I'm starting to embrace the roll 2011 is going to play in my life. And I'm starting to realize that my credibility as a writer... has reached its limit. I am writing the same shit, over and over and over and its all about drugs and being depressed and living in a hole I made for myself. I am by nature, unreliable. My writing needs to grow. Its where I'm stunted. And in order for me to perpetuate any form of growth here... is by getting out there. Getting some real life experience instead of just drugged up, college student rhetoric.
I've never agreed with the war. To be honest, I've learned to desensitize myself to the 'American way' because as an individual, I'm becoming more and more aware of how little I have to do with anything. How my vote doesn't really matter. How our politicians are really just faces in seats to make it look like were a democracy. But what I know I can do... is fight. I've been doing it all my life. In one way or another, I've fought my way to where I am. Through all the bullshit I've been through. And I'm still here. Shattered ego, broken nose and wrist; I'm still taking life on, toe to toe, day to day.
Next week, I'm going to start sparring again. Get back on the mats and get some confidence back. After New Years, I'm going to get clean and go to a recruitment office. Even though I dont believe in the war or our policies, I believe in myself and what I am capable of.
I need a change and I am the only one capable of making that happen. Its time to get on my own two feet and stop putting my weight onto others.
Theres still a lot of cookies. Tons; after dinner thats pretty much all I was asked was , " do you want a cookie? just one? are you sure?" and after saying "no, no- I think I'm gonna take a time out really quick," I eventually had three plates filled with fudge, sugar cookies and other shit I simply just had to eat. I think grandmothers know that shit; just put it in front of them, and peer pressure them into eating EVERYTHING- and they will. Love it though. But other than the glutonous supply of deliciousness, everything here somewhat uncomfortably reassures change.
After my grandfather passed two years ago, she decided to go down a pretty positve path for an 85 year old. She didn't let the loss of two of her children nor her husband bring her anything but growth. And I give her respect for that. I hate to watch one grandparent pass and then watch the other one wait to leave us too. So she is a soldier in my book. She started going out and being social and riding motorcycles randomly and changed up the house. Redecorated gramps' den, the living room, new furniture. The works. And as I'm sitting in a place with pictures of passed loved ones, and a 40 inch LCD 1080i TV... I feel conflated. A mixture of the old ecompassed by the new. Change personified. Tangible.
I'm starting to embrace the roll 2011 is going to play in my life. And I'm starting to realize that my credibility as a writer... has reached its limit. I am writing the same shit, over and over and over and its all about drugs and being depressed and living in a hole I made for myself. I am by nature, unreliable. My writing needs to grow. Its where I'm stunted. And in order for me to perpetuate any form of growth here... is by getting out there. Getting some real life experience instead of just drugged up, college student rhetoric.
I've never agreed with the war. To be honest, I've learned to desensitize myself to the 'American way' because as an individual, I'm becoming more and more aware of how little I have to do with anything. How my vote doesn't really matter. How our politicians are really just faces in seats to make it look like were a democracy. But what I know I can do... is fight. I've been doing it all my life. In one way or another, I've fought my way to where I am. Through all the bullshit I've been through. And I'm still here. Shattered ego, broken nose and wrist; I'm still taking life on, toe to toe, day to day.
Next week, I'm going to start sparring again. Get back on the mats and get some confidence back. After New Years, I'm going to get clean and go to a recruitment office. Even though I dont believe in the war or our policies, I believe in myself and what I am capable of.
I need a change and I am the only one capable of making that happen. Its time to get on my own two feet and stop putting my weight onto others.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
I want to be everything for you.
What exactly do you do with emotions that confuse you? Do you tuck them into that 'difficult times' space we all have or do you wear them on your shirt like a label?
I guess, like many writers, my vice is emoting too openly. Exposing those dark, judgmental sections of myself and saying 'here you go, here I am, take it or don't.'
I picture myself as a dryer. Some emotions get lost and never get found but others are all comfy to lay on and roll around in. I've never really tried to empathize for an inanimate object, especially one with ordinary nuisances. But right now, that's precisely how I feel. Tumbling feelings around for hours, days even, trying to do what 'i'm supposed to' with them. Process them normally. Dont shrink or leave anything damp and produce everything as expected.
The expectation level out of a one cycle, one process machine is pretty ridiculous. Sometimes, we are the ones at fault for the missing sock.
I do not hate you. I simply hate the person who attempted to be you. She failed. Horribly. Every conversation fell short of who you really are and I am now starting to realize how shallow her intellect was. It would be an insult to compare you two. Unfortunately, I have to. I was subjected to a fraudulent, make believe version of you and I feel short handed. Like the real you would have challenged me and persuaded me to be so much more of a better me and would have never dragged me through dirt and piss. You are amazing. You are a nebula and I hope someday, I'll be able to see you again in someone else. Someone who can make me laugh till I cry. Someone who can make me wonder if I'm thinking straight or if I'm following the right path. Someone who can inspire me with her art and intrigue me with her accomplishments and keep me on my literary toes with her words.
No one can mimic your slashes correctly. No one can move my insides with their movement like you. No one can be you... but I wish I could prove myself to be good enough to be with you. Just once. Just one real chance.
If there was a Make a Wish Foundation for broken hearts, or if there really was such a thing as getting what you want, I would ask for 25 minutes with you. Just 25 minutes to sit down and drink tea and play checkers and actually feel your presence. Just once. And I know I'll get passed this, and someday I'll look back and laugh at my actions... but until then... I'll just be that crazy guy who once told you he fell for you on accident.
I'm fine with being pathetically honest.
I guess, like many writers, my vice is emoting too openly. Exposing those dark, judgmental sections of myself and saying 'here you go, here I am, take it or don't.'
I picture myself as a dryer. Some emotions get lost and never get found but others are all comfy to lay on and roll around in. I've never really tried to empathize for an inanimate object, especially one with ordinary nuisances. But right now, that's precisely how I feel. Tumbling feelings around for hours, days even, trying to do what 'i'm supposed to' with them. Process them normally. Dont shrink or leave anything damp and produce everything as expected.
The expectation level out of a one cycle, one process machine is pretty ridiculous. Sometimes, we are the ones at fault for the missing sock.
I do not hate you. I simply hate the person who attempted to be you. She failed. Horribly. Every conversation fell short of who you really are and I am now starting to realize how shallow her intellect was. It would be an insult to compare you two. Unfortunately, I have to. I was subjected to a fraudulent, make believe version of you and I feel short handed. Like the real you would have challenged me and persuaded me to be so much more of a better me and would have never dragged me through dirt and piss. You are amazing. You are a nebula and I hope someday, I'll be able to see you again in someone else. Someone who can make me laugh till I cry. Someone who can make me wonder if I'm thinking straight or if I'm following the right path. Someone who can inspire me with her art and intrigue me with her accomplishments and keep me on my literary toes with her words.
No one can mimic your slashes correctly. No one can move my insides with their movement like you. No one can be you... but I wish I could prove myself to be good enough to be with you. Just once. Just one real chance.
If there was a Make a Wish Foundation for broken hearts, or if there really was such a thing as getting what you want, I would ask for 25 minutes with you. Just 25 minutes to sit down and drink tea and play checkers and actually feel your presence. Just once. And I know I'll get passed this, and someday I'll look back and laugh at my actions... but until then... I'll just be that crazy guy who once told you he fell for you on accident.
I'm fine with being pathetically honest.
The science of lying
I hate to be political. Really. That gymnasium filled with jackals and ass holes isn't a place for my mind, but sometimes I can't avoid that work out. Politics usually trigger a long train of thought that's fueled by my issues with deception. It brings up feelings of regret and embarrassment. It makes me want to jump into a different dimension where truth is real. Where the people actually know who's ruling brothel capital hill, instead of getting fist fucked by the media. Unfortunately, I'm positioned directly in the mouth of this slut economy. Michigan.
I passed a sign the other day that said " Welcome to Michigan . Great Lakes. Great Times, " and I don't think I've ever been that tempted to swerve across 3 lanes of traffic and graffiti on state property. I wanted to write ' Horrible winters. Even worse economy'. At least when you get off a plane in DETROIT (of all places), you wont be searching for those great times and great lakes and instead can just look around at the monotone, desolate existence of a state that once created ALOT OF SHIT. Home of pharmaceuticals and those big 2000 pound things you trust your life behind when you go places... what are they called... oh ya, cars. We create cars. But we've been forgotten, lost and marginalized. Our state politicians always have the same cue cards; - say something about bringing our jobs back-. And thats it. "So and so wants to take your job and send it to China. He also wants to ravage through your village and rape all the children. Vote for me"- simultaneously, on a different channel, his competition is reading the same card. Claiming rape and pillaging and all. Ultimately, this leaves it up to the viewer to do the research. The sad thing is that the viewer usually doesn't. The viewer does about as much as congressmen did with the Patriot Act; we look at the commercial, once maybe twice, and then say 'I think I like that one better.' And even if that specially invested citizen out there wants to do the research... well, all that time spent is going to be spent finding the same garbage. Just in a more persuasive container. You can shit in two places and just because ones televised doesn't make the other pile of shit... any less a pile of shit. Its still shit. And theres no way around that.
I was speculating all this deceit while I was in the shower earlier and I realized how odd it is that we accredit "The Real World" as being the 'first reality show'. I'm pretty sure we've had these 'shows' on all day long, 7 days a week, 365 days a year on 10 or 15 different channels since CNN and news 'coverage' even started. Filled with drugs, war, violence and death. Constant turmoil. Constant drama. There's always chaos in the house; one person gets upset because the other person drank their tax money. Eventually, they all make up and have picnics and fuck like rabid dogs on top of a big pile of bored viewers... who would rather watch all this literally happen in 24 and a half minutes. Thats why "The Real World" has that title. Politics are far too indirect and 'boring' and viewers would rather watch 8 meaningless people do 16 meaningless acts and make out with each other rather than get interested in the reality that is America. I'm not condoning you to watch CNN because truly, it is fucking boring. But inform yourselves. Period. Don't let this carnival keep you from looking passed the mirrors and the clowns and seeing the actual workings. See the real puppet masters. The money laundering criminals hidden behind the title of Secretary of Treasury or director of National Economic Council. Smoke and distractions only last so long.
I am writing this in embarrassment for the vote I cast in 08'. I voted for change, for someone who spoke with confidence and instilled confidence in the American people with his anti-lobbyist, anti-war, pro economic developmental 'strategy'. What saddens me is that he hasn't done a damn thing right. He created his entire cabinet out of Wall Street exec's and a few military vets. He campaigned saying there was a '6 month withdraw' plan from the middle east, which turned into a '14 month withdraw' plan, which turned into a ' maybe half by 14 months', which turned into 'maybe half by 23 months'. And now, even with some of our troops out of Iraq, we surge 30,000 more to Afghanistan?! Almost doubling our forces over there. And economically... he hasn't done jack shit...
Enough said, I feel bad for Obama. He will go down as one of the biggest puppets since Kennedy, but worse. Kennedy at least realized how disfigured our system was, and attempted to reform quite a bit of it. However, he was killed... ironically. Wonder if it had to do anything with going against the Federal Reserves agenda...
If you want to take up anything with your representatives or congressmen about ANYTHING, I implore each and every one of you to save yourself the wait and just go to PNC. Or Citibank. And ask them what their going to do with our fucking country.
That is all.
I passed a sign the other day that said " Welcome to Michigan . Great Lakes. Great Times, " and I don't think I've ever been that tempted to swerve across 3 lanes of traffic and graffiti on state property. I wanted to write ' Horrible winters. Even worse economy'. At least when you get off a plane in DETROIT (of all places), you wont be searching for those great times and great lakes and instead can just look around at the monotone, desolate existence of a state that once created ALOT OF SHIT. Home of pharmaceuticals and those big 2000 pound things you trust your life behind when you go places... what are they called... oh ya, cars. We create cars. But we've been forgotten, lost and marginalized. Our state politicians always have the same cue cards; - say something about bringing our jobs back-. And thats it. "So and so wants to take your job and send it to China. He also wants to ravage through your village and rape all the children. Vote for me"- simultaneously, on a different channel, his competition is reading the same card. Claiming rape and pillaging and all. Ultimately, this leaves it up to the viewer to do the research. The sad thing is that the viewer usually doesn't. The viewer does about as much as congressmen did with the Patriot Act; we look at the commercial, once maybe twice, and then say 'I think I like that one better.' And even if that specially invested citizen out there wants to do the research... well, all that time spent is going to be spent finding the same garbage. Just in a more persuasive container. You can shit in two places and just because ones televised doesn't make the other pile of shit... any less a pile of shit. Its still shit. And theres no way around that.
I was speculating all this deceit while I was in the shower earlier and I realized how odd it is that we accredit "The Real World" as being the 'first reality show'. I'm pretty sure we've had these 'shows' on all day long, 7 days a week, 365 days a year on 10 or 15 different channels since CNN and news 'coverage' even started. Filled with drugs, war, violence and death. Constant turmoil. Constant drama. There's always chaos in the house; one person gets upset because the other person drank their tax money. Eventually, they all make up and have picnics and fuck like rabid dogs on top of a big pile of bored viewers... who would rather watch all this literally happen in 24 and a half minutes. Thats why "The Real World" has that title. Politics are far too indirect and 'boring' and viewers would rather watch 8 meaningless people do 16 meaningless acts and make out with each other rather than get interested in the reality that is America. I'm not condoning you to watch CNN because truly, it is fucking boring. But inform yourselves. Period. Don't let this carnival keep you from looking passed the mirrors and the clowns and seeing the actual workings. See the real puppet masters. The money laundering criminals hidden behind the title of Secretary of Treasury or director of National Economic Council. Smoke and distractions only last so long.
I am writing this in embarrassment for the vote I cast in 08'. I voted for change, for someone who spoke with confidence and instilled confidence in the American people with his anti-lobbyist, anti-war, pro economic developmental 'strategy'. What saddens me is that he hasn't done a damn thing right. He created his entire cabinet out of Wall Street exec's and a few military vets. He campaigned saying there was a '6 month withdraw' plan from the middle east, which turned into a '14 month withdraw' plan, which turned into a ' maybe half by 14 months', which turned into 'maybe half by 23 months'. And now, even with some of our troops out of Iraq, we surge 30,000 more to Afghanistan?! Almost doubling our forces over there. And economically... he hasn't done jack shit...
Enough said, I feel bad for Obama. He will go down as one of the biggest puppets since Kennedy, but worse. Kennedy at least realized how disfigured our system was, and attempted to reform quite a bit of it. However, he was killed... ironically. Wonder if it had to do anything with going against the Federal Reserves agenda...
If you want to take up anything with your representatives or congressmen about ANYTHING, I implore each and every one of you to save yourself the wait and just go to PNC. Or Citibank. And ask them what their going to do with our fucking country.
That is all.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Love forgives even lovers.
About a year ago, I wrote a piece personifying love. Or at least my perception of it. The piece is pretty much a conversation between Love and I and I'm noticing all of the flaws she has. How beaten, savaged and torn from her roots she's become. How we've all nurtured this luxury into a mangled whore, who gets thrown around like 'footballs and paper plates'. The piece ended positively; at the end, love leaves me as I'm begging to know her secret and tells me that I need to find love in here before I find any love out there. All warm and fuzzy.
I've got some cringing, some laughing, and some 'mmhmm' responses out of the piece but I guess what I'm stuck on is that main image. That marketable, cheap abstraction of a feeling we've all placed on shelves to forget. And then hope, that someday, maybe when its been gone for long enough, we can take it down, dust it off and start it back over. Change our perception of it. Rewrite some of those old memories that scare us when a girl tells us their true feelings or when we see them out with their guy friends. But there's always two sides and I can't help but wonder what I've done to love. How exactly I've treated her. If I'm responsible for her wounds, lack of credibility, her addiction... her facade.
I am.
All my life I've expected something mythical out of love. I've beaten wants, physical preferences and selfish ignorance into this term for years now and I'm starting to understand why I've never gotten close to her. She has a restraining order on me for the damage I'VE inflicted; there's no way for me to get close to hey. Especially right now with that cookie cutter ideal of a dancing, successful, quirky yet sexy dime piece I have in mind. Not going to happen. Probably more realistic to say that will NEVER happen.
I need to expect less and accept more. I need to search less and find more. I need to smoke less and eat more and really I need a damn hug. Do they sell those are target yet?
I've got some cringing, some laughing, and some 'mmhmm' responses out of the piece but I guess what I'm stuck on is that main image. That marketable, cheap abstraction of a feeling we've all placed on shelves to forget. And then hope, that someday, maybe when its been gone for long enough, we can take it down, dust it off and start it back over. Change our perception of it. Rewrite some of those old memories that scare us when a girl tells us their true feelings or when we see them out with their guy friends. But there's always two sides and I can't help but wonder what I've done to love. How exactly I've treated her. If I'm responsible for her wounds, lack of credibility, her addiction... her facade.
I am.
All my life I've expected something mythical out of love. I've beaten wants, physical preferences and selfish ignorance into this term for years now and I'm starting to understand why I've never gotten close to her. She has a restraining order on me for the damage I'VE inflicted; there's no way for me to get close to hey. Especially right now with that cookie cutter ideal of a dancing, successful, quirky yet sexy dime piece I have in mind. Not going to happen. Probably more realistic to say that will NEVER happen.
I need to expect less and accept more. I need to search less and find more. I need to smoke less and eat more and really I need a damn hug. Do they sell those are target yet?
Saturday, December 18, 2010
For Christmas, all I want is happiness.
Last year at this time, I was looking up. I was focusing on what was to come and nothing that was in the past. I was hopeful. I was writing. I was being present as much as I knew how. I was embracing the little things and family and friends and when Christmas came around, it wasn't about presents for once. It was about unity. Sharing time with the ones who know you best. I finally felt I was growing up and out of the greedy holiday phase.
My mistake last year was making the resolution that I did. I told myself, along with a crowd during show I featured in and a class I mentored- that I was going to follow my heart. That I was going to stay true to what I wanted and follow that 100 percent. The meaning behind this was that I felt I had found what I had needed all along, and nothing was going to get me to turn my back on that. Nothing.
I gave up a lot this year to make myself available for that 'relationship'. I spent all of 2010 making wishes and hoping and turning down job opportunities and relying on the power of love to make sure everything would go as planned. There was never really a plan; there was actually never really anything at all. All there was was a large dose of crazy sitting on the other side of the phone. She was probably the most negative, parasitic energy I could have invited into my life. But my heart kept telling me 'dont give up'. For some reason, no matter how long this person told me it would take to get from point A to me or how many times we fought about who she was writing about in 'her blogs', I always trusted and had faith that it would work out. That once she was done with dance camps and auditions and off her contract that I was going to get the attention I deserved.
Patience didn't pay off. It actually made me look like a fool in multiple ways. It disconnected me from the present; I'd allow myself to focus so much on tomorrow and the next day and the next month or when ever she said she would have time to come see me. I became a shell, and the people around me saw it. They saw the pain in my eyes as I would simply get up to get something to drink. My brother even told me at one point that my energy was so negative that it was even starting to effect him...
Since I made that deal with New Years, I have lost more than I knew I had. I never really thought I had much, but after the events of this year- I realize I had it pretty good. I had a roof over my head. I had a family I could be with over the holidays. I had my college paid for, I didn't have to buy Mercedes' dog food... I would call that 'living the life' compared to where I'm at now.
I am heartbroken over someone who doesn't know me at all. Its a double whammy, cause the real person behind the face of who I thought I was with would never give me the time of day. My father told me in August I'm no longer his son after he decided to punch me for the lawn not being mowed. I didn't finish up my degree this semester; I actually didn't do anything. All of 2010... I sat waiting... to be crumbled. Living on a friends couch. Shifting between cocaine and heroin addictions and never once feeling like I like myself at all.
Some people count down the days until Christmas, but I'm personally just going to act like its March. Like the 25th is just a day. Emotionally, I can already sense that the day is coming. The heaviness in my stomach. The feeling of emptiness. The tears in random intervals. I want to avoid this as much as possible. Its not going to feel like Christmas waking up for the first time in 23 years alone, without a family, homeless and broke. Its going to feel like every other day. Lonely. Purposeless.
However, I did write Santa this year. I asked him for a few things, but most were unrealistic. I asked for a type writer. I asked for a bed. And lastly, I asked him for happiness and love.
Santa isn't fucking real either.
My mistake last year was making the resolution that I did. I told myself, along with a crowd during show I featured in and a class I mentored- that I was going to follow my heart. That I was going to stay true to what I wanted and follow that 100 percent. The meaning behind this was that I felt I had found what I had needed all along, and nothing was going to get me to turn my back on that. Nothing.
I gave up a lot this year to make myself available for that 'relationship'. I spent all of 2010 making wishes and hoping and turning down job opportunities and relying on the power of love to make sure everything would go as planned. There was never really a plan; there was actually never really anything at all. All there was was a large dose of crazy sitting on the other side of the phone. She was probably the most negative, parasitic energy I could have invited into my life. But my heart kept telling me 'dont give up'. For some reason, no matter how long this person told me it would take to get from point A to me or how many times we fought about who she was writing about in 'her blogs', I always trusted and had faith that it would work out. That once she was done with dance camps and auditions and off her contract that I was going to get the attention I deserved.
Patience didn't pay off. It actually made me look like a fool in multiple ways. It disconnected me from the present; I'd allow myself to focus so much on tomorrow and the next day and the next month or when ever she said she would have time to come see me. I became a shell, and the people around me saw it. They saw the pain in my eyes as I would simply get up to get something to drink. My brother even told me at one point that my energy was so negative that it was even starting to effect him...
Since I made that deal with New Years, I have lost more than I knew I had. I never really thought I had much, but after the events of this year- I realize I had it pretty good. I had a roof over my head. I had a family I could be with over the holidays. I had my college paid for, I didn't have to buy Mercedes' dog food... I would call that 'living the life' compared to where I'm at now.
I am heartbroken over someone who doesn't know me at all. Its a double whammy, cause the real person behind the face of who I thought I was with would never give me the time of day. My father told me in August I'm no longer his son after he decided to punch me for the lawn not being mowed. I didn't finish up my degree this semester; I actually didn't do anything. All of 2010... I sat waiting... to be crumbled. Living on a friends couch. Shifting between cocaine and heroin addictions and never once feeling like I like myself at all.
Some people count down the days until Christmas, but I'm personally just going to act like its March. Like the 25th is just a day. Emotionally, I can already sense that the day is coming. The heaviness in my stomach. The feeling of emptiness. The tears in random intervals. I want to avoid this as much as possible. Its not going to feel like Christmas waking up for the first time in 23 years alone, without a family, homeless and broke. Its going to feel like every other day. Lonely. Purposeless.
However, I did write Santa this year. I asked him for a few things, but most were unrealistic. I asked for a type writer. I asked for a bed. And lastly, I asked him for happiness and love.
Santa isn't fucking real either.
Rural Living
The smell of coffee and anxiety wakes me up daily.
Steam engine wind is my alarm.
I sit in my light house
waiting like a widow for bad news.
Its been cold the past few nights,
shivering nerves, drinking during fighting and
I can't help but wonder what happens when the storm comes.
Because usually I would find shelter,
hidden underneath blankets of drugs or
in the security of lit words left as beacons for me find happiness.
But this time, I am the tornado.
I will wreck everything in my path and if you get in my way,
get curious about my destruction,
question whether or not you can figure out my power and my creation
without house, fence and car dismantling-
good luck.
I was made to break shit.
Tare down walls, smash the last thing you believed in,
the last thing you owned,
its beautiful from a distance.
Watching global art on doplar convas like
graffiti without
ever thinking of the people who called this their home.
But I am not sending 3 story buildings of bulldozer waves
to your shore,
flooding millions of homes and leaving millions homeless,
I am
in open fields.
Found only if you look,
if you search,
and if you find me, make sure
to find my eyes.
Its the one way to understand my purpose without being hurt,
dig your feet into my soul like sand and stand only for a second,
only for a moment because if you dont work with me,
and you dont move with me,
and you stay where you are...
I will end up ruining you afterward too.
It is my purpose.
I was made to break shit.
See, I am a tornado but on other days
Im just a guy.
Unnoticable on radars, invisible to pedestrians.
Waiting for his widowed heart to come back to him,
drinking coffee in his light house.
Hoping to one day be looked at from a distance,
just dont come any closer.
Steam engine wind is my alarm.
I sit in my light house
waiting like a widow for bad news.
Its been cold the past few nights,
shivering nerves, drinking during fighting and
I can't help but wonder what happens when the storm comes.
Because usually I would find shelter,
hidden underneath blankets of drugs or
in the security of lit words left as beacons for me find happiness.
But this time, I am the tornado.
I will wreck everything in my path and if you get in my way,
get curious about my destruction,
question whether or not you can figure out my power and my creation
without house, fence and car dismantling-
good luck.
I was made to break shit.
Tare down walls, smash the last thing you believed in,
the last thing you owned,
its beautiful from a distance.
Watching global art on doplar convas like
graffiti without
ever thinking of the people who called this their home.
But I am not sending 3 story buildings of bulldozer waves
to your shore,
flooding millions of homes and leaving millions homeless,
I am
in open fields.
Found only if you look,
if you search,
and if you find me, make sure
to find my eyes.
Its the one way to understand my purpose without being hurt,
dig your feet into my soul like sand and stand only for a second,
only for a moment because if you dont work with me,
and you dont move with me,
and you stay where you are...
I will end up ruining you afterward too.
It is my purpose.
I was made to break shit.
See, I am a tornado but on other days
Im just a guy.
Unnoticable on radars, invisible to pedestrians.
Waiting for his widowed heart to come back to him,
drinking coffee in his light house.
Hoping to one day be looked at from a distance,
just dont come any closer.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Like watching glass break
I'm really not sure what to do with myself. I need a cigarette and a hug. And some sleep, but I can't be greedy.
My heart strings have been cut. There's nothing left for anyone to play. No tunes. No laughter. Just tears.
I've been wondering lately what lies on the other side. If the grass is greener, or if it just seems that way because we're fed up with how long we've been here. I want change. I want to be loved. I want the cloning process to HURRY UP so I can be in her arms... even though her clone would probably still be out of my league. And there would still be no way for me to get to know her, even the second her, cause she'd have way cooler guys wearing skinny jeans and guitars after her too. I wish I could just accept failing...
On this side, I wake up to a knife on my nightstand and its not for protection. Sometimes I just stare at it, knowing the feeling it holds. Knowing that little piece of sharpened metal carries change in the handle.
My heart strings have been cut. There's nothing left for anyone to play. No tunes. No laughter. Just tears.
I've been wondering lately what lies on the other side. If the grass is greener, or if it just seems that way because we're fed up with how long we've been here. I want change. I want to be loved. I want the cloning process to HURRY UP so I can be in her arms... even though her clone would probably still be out of my league. And there would still be no way for me to get to know her, even the second her, cause she'd have way cooler guys wearing skinny jeans and guitars after her too. I wish I could just accept failing...
On this side, I wake up to a knife on my nightstand and its not for protection. Sometimes I just stare at it, knowing the feeling it holds. Knowing that little piece of sharpened metal carries change in the handle.
Strike 3
Its 5. The sun is rising in this barren desperate state. Lemmings are already out driving to their jobs, under paid. Over worked. And I'm up sobbing...
Tonight I went out for the first time in a while. The clubs around here are about as fun as clipping your toe nails... but because I'm transitioning out of this year long imprisonment, I gotta get my feet wet. I just wish this water wasn't so damn retarded. Like really, how am I supposed to meet someone with substance at a fucking bar when "I'm blue" is being blared at 15000 decibels over some glitched remix of "Poker Face"? Am I supposed to bob my way around this sea of uncoordinated box-fitters, find a girl who isn't sweating or puking and ask "so what's your favorite classical novel?" Psh... I think my calling is to be the wall flower. The observer. I ventured out a few times; I wouldn't call myself unsocial, I just don't consider small talk and pounding my hip bones into some random persons back fun. However, I put some sort of swag together tonight; all black, this rad puffy vest, white forces... pretty much the only reason I walked around head high. Regardless of if I am attractive or not by normal standards, tonight was the best of the best I personally could look. So I had to have some kind of strut. Show my feathers a little.
Even with the best of the best going on on the outside, I still sat down for the most of the time. I was force fed liquor because I dont drink and 'you gotta get drunk when you go out'. The entire time, sitting on the couch, sometimes all by myself, there was always a consistent amount of girls around me. Dancing, rubbing each other, pouring alcohol every where... (The three elaborate facets to a drunk chick)... I couldn't rock my head without hitting an ass cheek. And for some reason, I didn't have much of a desire to approach any of them. Not one. So I just sat , got rape drunk and sat. I laughed for a while. Looking around at the little clusters of smiles and straws and grabbing. Seeing guys act like they are magnetized by a stereotypical archetype of "the girl you want to tell your friends about tomorrow". Blind animals.
Sad part is that I still go to these places looking. And I know damn well I dont want anything to do with anyone I meet at a bar with a short skirt who caught my eye when I was plastered. Thats not me. Yet I still look. Like I need that validation that my all black was on point. ( which, I did have a chick tell me she was going to borrow my hat later- to which I responded with a 'o ya totally' and that went awsomely...) Or that reassurance that my smile is cute or that I'm not that short or whatever... WHY DO I GO TO A BAR FOR THAT?
The reason I'm crying is because I'm just damn lonely. And it gets worse when I go out to the places your supposed to meet someone and all I find are reasons why I wouldn't meet someone there. I'm looking for someone who can show me what real love feels like, not someone who can repeat everything thats already happened to me. To be honest, I dont even know what love is. At all. I've wrote about it for so long but look at me, I'm sitting on what... 5 or 4 or I dont even know which of them should even be counted as relationships but ALL of them have failed. All of them have been deceptive. All of them have included me being shattered and losing bits of myself that I still can't seem to find.
Why can't there be a magical playground where romantics can frolic under clear night skies, with music that turns up when the moments right, and where the only questions aloud are ones that matter?
Tonight I went out for the first time in a while. The clubs around here are about as fun as clipping your toe nails... but because I'm transitioning out of this year long imprisonment, I gotta get my feet wet. I just wish this water wasn't so damn retarded. Like really, how am I supposed to meet someone with substance at a fucking bar when "I'm blue" is being blared at 15000 decibels over some glitched remix of "Poker Face"? Am I supposed to bob my way around this sea of uncoordinated box-fitters, find a girl who isn't sweating or puking and ask "so what's your favorite classical novel?" Psh... I think my calling is to be the wall flower. The observer. I ventured out a few times; I wouldn't call myself unsocial, I just don't consider small talk and pounding my hip bones into some random persons back fun. However, I put some sort of swag together tonight; all black, this rad puffy vest, white forces... pretty much the only reason I walked around head high. Regardless of if I am attractive or not by normal standards, tonight was the best of the best I personally could look. So I had to have some kind of strut. Show my feathers a little.
Even with the best of the best going on on the outside, I still sat down for the most of the time. I was force fed liquor because I dont drink and 'you gotta get drunk when you go out'. The entire time, sitting on the couch, sometimes all by myself, there was always a consistent amount of girls around me. Dancing, rubbing each other, pouring alcohol every where... (The three elaborate facets to a drunk chick)... I couldn't rock my head without hitting an ass cheek. And for some reason, I didn't have much of a desire to approach any of them. Not one. So I just sat , got rape drunk and sat. I laughed for a while. Looking around at the little clusters of smiles and straws and grabbing. Seeing guys act like they are magnetized by a stereotypical archetype of "the girl you want to tell your friends about tomorrow". Blind animals.
Sad part is that I still go to these places looking. And I know damn well I dont want anything to do with anyone I meet at a bar with a short skirt who caught my eye when I was plastered. Thats not me. Yet I still look. Like I need that validation that my all black was on point. ( which, I did have a chick tell me she was going to borrow my hat later- to which I responded with a 'o ya totally' and that went awsomely...) Or that reassurance that my smile is cute or that I'm not that short or whatever... WHY DO I GO TO A BAR FOR THAT?
The reason I'm crying is because I'm just damn lonely. And it gets worse when I go out to the places your supposed to meet someone and all I find are reasons why I wouldn't meet someone there. I'm looking for someone who can show me what real love feels like, not someone who can repeat everything thats already happened to me. To be honest, I dont even know what love is. At all. I've wrote about it for so long but look at me, I'm sitting on what... 5 or 4 or I dont even know which of them should even be counted as relationships but ALL of them have failed. All of them have been deceptive. All of them have included me being shattered and losing bits of myself that I still can't seem to find.
Why can't there be a magical playground where romantics can frolic under clear night skies, with music that turns up when the moments right, and where the only questions aloud are ones that matter?
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Sometimes dreams are just dreams
*my brother started writing this piece about an experience he watched me go through. Some of these lines I wish I wrote, others are organic. This is definitely still a work in progress.*
The story begins like any other.
Love seemed like the answer for so much
he longed for her touch, for her eyes to meet his but
she was simply a canvas.
A vapor.
She was a breathless character,
a voiceless face,
she wrote pages of nicknames,
events, and on most days,
she would tell him
I love you.
Locked him within this picture
that she was creating to make sure
he didn't fall for anyone else.
He can see her, but she isn't real.
His eyelids are movie screens
scenes of the first time he gets to
embrace her, snow flakes, scarfs
running his hands over hers, tracing
love notes into her palms.
This is why he sleeps, why he hides behind closed
eyes and hopes that when he opens them,
someday,
he wont have to dream anymore.
She doesn't know him.
She lives states away with no clue that he exists,
or that his city is more than fabricated lyrics.
Kalamazoo is as much of a joke as his ghost desire
to know the real her.
She doesn't stand with him in his dreams.
She doesn't do anything more than be herself,
living the life he once believed he was apart of,
and it was never her intention to leave him out.
But she never intended to include him.
He wishes that just this
one thing
would go his way.
He's been playing this game for way so long
singing the same song, antique music box heart.
After losing his mother to a disease he couldn't fight,
losing his father to a fight he couldn't win,
all he wanted was for love to ease some of the pain.
Just to gain his smile back, even if its just
for a day.
They both sleep alone. Living yin yang life's,
overbooked and unemployed,
diet coke and xanax, dancing with feet and words,
wondering when the right person will come along
and make their dreams come true.
They will never know that their hearts play the same song.
The story begins like any other.
Love seemed like the answer for so much
he longed for her touch, for her eyes to meet his but
she was simply a canvas.
A vapor.
She was a breathless character,
a voiceless face,
she wrote pages of nicknames,
events, and on most days,
she would tell him
I love you.
Locked him within this picture
that she was creating to make sure
he didn't fall for anyone else.
He can see her, but she isn't real.
His eyelids are movie screens
scenes of the first time he gets to
embrace her, snow flakes, scarfs
running his hands over hers, tracing
love notes into her palms.
This is why he sleeps, why he hides behind closed
eyes and hopes that when he opens them,
someday,
he wont have to dream anymore.
She doesn't know him.
She lives states away with no clue that he exists,
or that his city is more than fabricated lyrics.
Kalamazoo is as much of a joke as his ghost desire
to know the real her.
She doesn't stand with him in his dreams.
She doesn't do anything more than be herself,
living the life he once believed he was apart of,
and it was never her intention to leave him out.
But she never intended to include him.
He wishes that just this
one thing
would go his way.
He's been playing this game for way so long
singing the same song, antique music box heart.
After losing his mother to a disease he couldn't fight,
losing his father to a fight he couldn't win,
all he wanted was for love to ease some of the pain.
Just to gain his smile back, even if its just
for a day.
They both sleep alone. Living yin yang life's,
overbooked and unemployed,
diet coke and xanax, dancing with feet and words,
wondering when the right person will come along
and make their dreams come true.
They will never know that their hearts play the same song.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Bottomless
"I wanted to go
into the heights
and now I'm going to disappear
but for who."
For as long as I can remember, I thought my words came from clouds. I thought they were my balloons and as I walked floating on whatever drug it was, I believed my only connection to them was the string attached to my hand. This little fiber of productivity which extends into oblivion that no one else could ever reach themselves.
My perception was wrong, but I still haven't untied that knot from my fingers. My pen still needs ink, and as it screams childish nursery rhymes and 8 years of half assed thoughts- like an abused dog, I listen. I open my lungs to the 'inspiration' I've never closed out as being nothing but a few hours of mental r&r. Its always been my plane ticket, my way out and sometimes... I dont really know what exactly I'm leaving behind. The motherless child, the punching bag son, the aspiring wordsmith; all of these are apart of me yet I seek every avenue possible to escape them
So who I am disappearing from? Who am I doing this for?
People say drug users are selfish and that's accurate. The bottom line is that I am running from myself so therefore, I continue hurting. Selfish. Nothing ever gets solved. Its always there waiting for me when I come down and rarely do I ever just sit in that feeling. Loss, abandonment, need. These things shove me back to the pen, which leads me back to the blunt, which takes me back to those clouds where nothing can touch me. What scares me... is that I see this pattern... I know the triggers and I know the reasons. I am aware of what I'm doing. But because this space is my muse and my fuel, I can't see my feet ever touching ground fully. This creative space... is bottomless.
Someday I'd love to hear how my soul sounds without the muzzle.
into the heights
and now I'm going to disappear
but for who."
For as long as I can remember, I thought my words came from clouds. I thought they were my balloons and as I walked floating on whatever drug it was, I believed my only connection to them was the string attached to my hand. This little fiber of productivity which extends into oblivion that no one else could ever reach themselves.
My perception was wrong, but I still haven't untied that knot from my fingers. My pen still needs ink, and as it screams childish nursery rhymes and 8 years of half assed thoughts- like an abused dog, I listen. I open my lungs to the 'inspiration' I've never closed out as being nothing but a few hours of mental r&r. Its always been my plane ticket, my way out and sometimes... I dont really know what exactly I'm leaving behind. The motherless child, the punching bag son, the aspiring wordsmith; all of these are apart of me yet I seek every avenue possible to escape them
So who I am disappearing from? Who am I doing this for?
People say drug users are selfish and that's accurate. The bottom line is that I am running from myself so therefore, I continue hurting. Selfish. Nothing ever gets solved. Its always there waiting for me when I come down and rarely do I ever just sit in that feeling. Loss, abandonment, need. These things shove me back to the pen, which leads me back to the blunt, which takes me back to those clouds where nothing can touch me. What scares me... is that I see this pattern... I know the triggers and I know the reasons. I am aware of what I'm doing. But because this space is my muse and my fuel, I can't see my feet ever touching ground fully. This creative space... is bottomless.
Someday I'd love to hear how my soul sounds without the muzzle.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Trials and Experiments
"I want to choose
from the entire forest
a tree
to whom
I will confide
a secret."
I haven't had much of an appetite lately. I'll cook dinner just to watch it get cold. And even if I start to eat, I don't finish it. I always leave a corner of the crust, or the last half of the sandwich and I never understood the correlation this action has to my every waking moment.
I'm am an artist by nature. And when I say that, I mean I wasn't pounded through the public school system nurtured into scribbling on tests and taking overdose amounts of art classes to pass. I played sports and took honors classes, read mass quantities of Shakespeare in one sitting, and started writing competitively when I was 15. I wasn't your typical artistic stereotype either; I wouldn't wear trench coats, keep to myself, drink tea and carry around a portfolio full of unaccredited, structural depraved drawings. I was a socialite. I had cops at my house more than legitimate friends. I walked around the halls known as the kid who did this or the kid who did that, or for my fog horn bleached hair. All that mattered to me during those years was being known; was showing everyone that I am worthy of acknowledgment regardless of if I stopped growing and couldn't play basketball anymore. I was still " that kid who looks like eminem" and as much as I resented that phrase, I loved it. I felt that was all that mattered some days. Even in the blind stupor of popularity, I still found my ways to be artistic. I'd put a twist on all my actions; I'd surprise you with some random act of stupidity like smoking a bowl in the lunch room or by robbing one of my friends. I call that art because it never made sense. It was never rational. It was always open to interpretation and that's mainly what I got off on. Confusingly keeping you on your toes, wondering if that nice shy guy you grew up with was either going to sit down and talk to you or punch you in the throat. This was my teenage art. It was malicious and uncalled for and fortunate enough for me, I finally got the acknowledgment I deserved.
I always planned on finishing high school on time and with my friends and going to Hawaii University and never doing drugs and growing up to be a video game developing super hero. However, behind the wheel of my own destruction, I found the perfect routes to not finishing anything how I planned. I would always find a way to leave the crust; I would finish my tests thinking it was aced, come back to school the next day to find out I failed for not including whole answers. And instead of taking a step back and looking at what I did to get there, I would just simply get angry. I remember one day I walked into my Honors History class and literally threw all my teachers stuff off his desk and threatened to beat his ass if he didn't give me a better grade. Instead of saying , "damn I could have done this better'- I just deflected all the responsibility towards who ever else was involved. But the universe doesn't let people get away with that type of nonsense. Not finishing things properly was going to come back at me 10 fold. And it did. The artist had reached his block. It was concealed in the form of ecstasy and carried with it a life long lesson. Here's the lesson: Ignorance doesn't make you invincible. There are still laws. There are still bigger, tougher, better fighters out there. There is still worse things that can happen.
My dream of becoming that super hero never came true, and its my fault. I fell into holes that were too big for me to crawl out of and even to this day, I still carry my shovel just in case. I am living a life full of mistakes and the sad thing is that I have yet to break that pattern. I am 23 and still leaving bits of my crazy, beautiful art unfinished. Sometimes for the better, but for now... I'd like to just start eating normally again.
from the entire forest
a tree
to whom
I will confide
a secret."
I haven't had much of an appetite lately. I'll cook dinner just to watch it get cold. And even if I start to eat, I don't finish it. I always leave a corner of the crust, or the last half of the sandwich and I never understood the correlation this action has to my every waking moment.
I'm am an artist by nature. And when I say that, I mean I wasn't pounded through the public school system nurtured into scribbling on tests and taking overdose amounts of art classes to pass. I played sports and took honors classes, read mass quantities of Shakespeare in one sitting, and started writing competitively when I was 15. I wasn't your typical artistic stereotype either; I wouldn't wear trench coats, keep to myself, drink tea and carry around a portfolio full of unaccredited, structural depraved drawings. I was a socialite. I had cops at my house more than legitimate friends. I walked around the halls known as the kid who did this or the kid who did that, or for my fog horn bleached hair. All that mattered to me during those years was being known; was showing everyone that I am worthy of acknowledgment regardless of if I stopped growing and couldn't play basketball anymore. I was still " that kid who looks like eminem" and as much as I resented that phrase, I loved it. I felt that was all that mattered some days. Even in the blind stupor of popularity, I still found my ways to be artistic. I'd put a twist on all my actions; I'd surprise you with some random act of stupidity like smoking a bowl in the lunch room or by robbing one of my friends. I call that art because it never made sense. It was never rational. It was always open to interpretation and that's mainly what I got off on. Confusingly keeping you on your toes, wondering if that nice shy guy you grew up with was either going to sit down and talk to you or punch you in the throat. This was my teenage art. It was malicious and uncalled for and fortunate enough for me, I finally got the acknowledgment I deserved.
I always planned on finishing high school on time and with my friends and going to Hawaii University and never doing drugs and growing up to be a video game developing super hero. However, behind the wheel of my own destruction, I found the perfect routes to not finishing anything how I planned. I would always find a way to leave the crust; I would finish my tests thinking it was aced, come back to school the next day to find out I failed for not including whole answers. And instead of taking a step back and looking at what I did to get there, I would just simply get angry. I remember one day I walked into my Honors History class and literally threw all my teachers stuff off his desk and threatened to beat his ass if he didn't give me a better grade. Instead of saying , "damn I could have done this better'- I just deflected all the responsibility towards who ever else was involved. But the universe doesn't let people get away with that type of nonsense. Not finishing things properly was going to come back at me 10 fold. And it did. The artist had reached his block. It was concealed in the form of ecstasy and carried with it a life long lesson. Here's the lesson: Ignorance doesn't make you invincible. There are still laws. There are still bigger, tougher, better fighters out there. There is still worse things that can happen.
My dream of becoming that super hero never came true, and its my fault. I fell into holes that were too big for me to crawl out of and even to this day, I still carry my shovel just in case. I am living a life full of mistakes and the sad thing is that I have yet to break that pattern. I am 23 and still leaving bits of my crazy, beautiful art unfinished. Sometimes for the better, but for now... I'd like to just start eating normally again.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Music of Forgetting
"My heart is unsettled
I also have a grudge against it
All my happiness
is a sweet and desperate
torment. "
Once upon a time, I heard this blogging thing was good for getting over. Therapy in words. Something I've always preached but I so often forget when it really matters.
Regardless, my name is irrelevant. My past will show its barbaric impact through these lines eventually. No background is necessary. I figure I'll just start day to day...
Today is day one back in the consoling tank. Day one of observing my real self again. I resented that damn couch for as long as I can remember. Different scenery, same disinterested lady across the room. Face in hand, legs crossed, counting minutes. I always associated that room and those conversations with punishment. Like I had done something so confusing and wrong that I had to seek 'professional help'. Which, is true. Mostly. Every time I've been led back into that arena, its been because of some horribly confusing choice that I've made. I wouldn't define these choices as 'wrong', because that means that there was a correct way to deal with the hand I was dealt. And trust when I say that UNIVERSALLY - jokers and 2's are bad hands. Even if you create the rules, its difficult to do anything in any game with that garbage. The only difference between me and the person who will fold is I'm good at bluffing. I can say I'm good, or that I'm happy or that I think I deserve great things and great memories.... and if you call me out, tell me that I'm not any of the above or that I dont like myself or what not, well... I'll put my poker face on. However, every bluffer will tell you that its rare to win every time with that approach. Its risky. It becomes obvious. Its dishonest and it shows through more than just your facial expressions. That lie rides on your back, forces your eyes to follow your feet and hides them from the sunlight. It becomes heavy. And the only way to keep that poker face is to completely isolate yourself so that no one can get close enough to see the real you. Bluffing... I've realized... needs to stop.
I decided to start this experience off clean. I contemplated going back to previous therapists; they already know my past issues and my motives and I felt that maybe it'd be 'less work' to go back to them then to go to someone new. What I had to embrace is that there is no such thing as 'less work' when it comes to getting back on your feet. There's no short cuts. This isn't Monopoly or Shoots and Ladders. This isn't some game, this is MY mental stability. The rule of thumb, I've realized , is to do the MOST work as possible. Dig into your past; shine light on all that is locked away in that big box of repression you keep inside. Do some good spring cleaning on your soul because down the road, you'll have to clean it up anyway. No closet shoving this time for me.
Thankfully, my therapist isn't some staunch Christian zealot or over booked court ordered chair sitter. She's definitely someone I know I , not only can confide in, but also someone I can learn a good deal from. First days are always a little awkward; like the first day of school, or a first date or a first anything... it can become overwhelming. You want to share more than just your name and what you do on the weekends. You want to rip open your chest and your mind and lay it on the table for everyone to see and so thats pretty much what I did... I sat down, took my coat off and said " Well... I guess I'll start with what I can remember..."
Today is the construction of a new beginning. One that is a foundation built of concrete, hard work and broken hearts. No more punching holes in walls. Only time to fill in the holes in my energy... in my life... I can't keep living like swizz cheese.
I also have a grudge against it
All my happiness
is a sweet and desperate
torment. "
Once upon a time, I heard this blogging thing was good for getting over. Therapy in words. Something I've always preached but I so often forget when it really matters.
Regardless, my name is irrelevant. My past will show its barbaric impact through these lines eventually. No background is necessary. I figure I'll just start day to day...
Today is day one back in the consoling tank. Day one of observing my real self again. I resented that damn couch for as long as I can remember. Different scenery, same disinterested lady across the room. Face in hand, legs crossed, counting minutes. I always associated that room and those conversations with punishment. Like I had done something so confusing and wrong that I had to seek 'professional help'. Which, is true. Mostly. Every time I've been led back into that arena, its been because of some horribly confusing choice that I've made. I wouldn't define these choices as 'wrong', because that means that there was a correct way to deal with the hand I was dealt. And trust when I say that UNIVERSALLY - jokers and 2's are bad hands. Even if you create the rules, its difficult to do anything in any game with that garbage. The only difference between me and the person who will fold is I'm good at bluffing. I can say I'm good, or that I'm happy or that I think I deserve great things and great memories.... and if you call me out, tell me that I'm not any of the above or that I dont like myself or what not, well... I'll put my poker face on. However, every bluffer will tell you that its rare to win every time with that approach. Its risky. It becomes obvious. Its dishonest and it shows through more than just your facial expressions. That lie rides on your back, forces your eyes to follow your feet and hides them from the sunlight. It becomes heavy. And the only way to keep that poker face is to completely isolate yourself so that no one can get close enough to see the real you. Bluffing... I've realized... needs to stop.
I decided to start this experience off clean. I contemplated going back to previous therapists; they already know my past issues and my motives and I felt that maybe it'd be 'less work' to go back to them then to go to someone new. What I had to embrace is that there is no such thing as 'less work' when it comes to getting back on your feet. There's no short cuts. This isn't Monopoly or Shoots and Ladders. This isn't some game, this is MY mental stability. The rule of thumb, I've realized , is to do the MOST work as possible. Dig into your past; shine light on all that is locked away in that big box of repression you keep inside. Do some good spring cleaning on your soul because down the road, you'll have to clean it up anyway. No closet shoving this time for me.
Thankfully, my therapist isn't some staunch Christian zealot or over booked court ordered chair sitter. She's definitely someone I know I , not only can confide in, but also someone I can learn a good deal from. First days are always a little awkward; like the first day of school, or a first date or a first anything... it can become overwhelming. You want to share more than just your name and what you do on the weekends. You want to rip open your chest and your mind and lay it on the table for everyone to see and so thats pretty much what I did... I sat down, took my coat off and said " Well... I guess I'll start with what I can remember..."
Today is the construction of a new beginning. One that is a foundation built of concrete, hard work and broken hearts. No more punching holes in walls. Only time to fill in the holes in my energy... in my life... I can't keep living like swizz cheese.
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