Another episode of nothing at all.

I drove my Jeep out to Saxaphaw
to see The Tallest Man On Earth.
I bought tickets - apparently -
one night when I was drunk at the Clarion hotel.

My nephew came to stay with us and
he needed my room so
instead of spending time with him
and his little deaf ears
I got a drink and slummed around.

So there I am at this concert,
just me and myself as a companion,
and I couldn't get out of the car.
Something was making me nauseous about the whole thing.
I don't know if it was the crowds or
the odd location of the venue
or the smiling concertgoers
and teenagers smoking their stolen, smuggled, cigarettes
or what.
I just couldn't get out of the car.

So I drove my jeep away
and met up with those few who I still call
friend.

It strikes me that throughout my life
I have been followed, and harassed, and annoyed
by people constantly wanting to get near me.
This is an odd phenomenon
when you just want to be left alone.
I try to blend into the background
but I constantly stand out to someone.
Maybe its the height, I don't know.
They tell me I have presence and
I am dynamic.
Well that is all well and good I suppose
except I wish I could attract something
worth keeping around.
Most just want to prove they aren't intimidated or
they can stand just as tall.

I don't care about being the tallest,
I just don't want to stand alone.

7/29/2012
Six months and twelve days later.
This time last year I was warm in the bosom
of a great big apple and I didn't feel so hopelessly
lost.

Today's forecast.

Sometimes there is nothing to talk about.
That's ok.
Nothing is better than bad things
or sad things
or get ups
or let downs.

I wish it would rain
and rain
and rain
until yesterday was washed away
and today could begin again.

When I dream I dream of before
when things weren't yet where they are
and there I am where I used to be
and it seems much better than it is now.

I think they might be onto me.
They are starting to know that I don't like it here
and that I would rather be somewhere or someone
else.

Other than that nothing new to report.
Just another weather report from the same old place.
End transmission.

Fernweh.

I had this whole clever post thought out
where I would begin with an abstract thought
which would somehow tie it into the metaphorical bottom line.

Well.

Here is the bottom line:
I moved so much when I was a child that
it is almost impossible for me to ever feel
at home.
Every day I feel myself searching for the cracks
and the downside of the present situation
with the hopes of convincing myself to pack it all up,
again,
for the fifth time this year,
and move my carcass to another locale.

I'm restless.
I changed the bedding today and
I am almost confused as to why.
I haven't slept under the sheets since she left me -
some strange manifestation of mourning
or perhaps I believe that if I get under covers then
it is all true
and New York is much further away than I want to believe.

Stupid sobriety.
In the morning I will feel like a king
but the nights find me just a little bit
lost.
So I make the bed
and lay down to sleep.

How dry I am.

I thought tonight
about how I used to have long talks
over green teas
with Stephanie during Brooklyn afternoons.

She and Mike had called it quits
after two years of giving it the old
college
try.

She used to call me on the phone while
he would be in the next room
making some young thing scream
as a sweet revenge.

Then I moved out there and it had been about
six months since the whole thing happened
and she started to get that twinkle back
in her eye.

I splashed water on my face to
clean the gel from my skin and
when I opened my eyes I saw it.

It has been five months since I left.
Six since single.

I asked Stephanie at that time how she felt
and she had an uneasy easiness that was hard to
explain.
She needn't worry though, because I get it now.

I have it too.
The last stage: acceptance.
I accept that life is completely different
and it is completely random
and I have
ABSOLUTELY. NO. CONTROL.

All I can do is stay true to center.
Embrace the unknown and stay the same.

My writing is starting to look foreign to me.
I don't consider myself some great author but
my voice has changed.

Maybe its the lack of alcohol.
Maybe its the growth of spirit.

All I know is:
I miss Stephanie
and Brooklyn
and green teas
and
sublime afternoons
on the
JMZ.

I don't like the wording but it all seems true enough.

Day two of my newly found desire to live
beyond the barstool.
Already the ghosts have come to haunt me.
Their faces are so vivid when
I lack the proper substance
to drown them in oblivion.

Josh.
Casey.
Alice.
And all the other "could have beens"
or
"I wish they had beens" come
cascading down through
actual,
considered,
clarity of
thought.

I, the martyr.
I, the villain.
I, the failure of so many moments
that may have brought the definition of
a better life.

Without blood rushing to my head
it gets so quiet in my little room.
Living with two very kind souls who I fear
know nothing about me at all.
Just that I will play the Jester
for everyone so that
I won't feel so
very alone.

The undercurrent of every day
is this unshakeable dissatisfaction.
Not a melancholia
or great victimized drama.
Just a constant buzz of dissatisfaction.

It really does hurt to try.

To attempt to be more,
do more.
To reach some level where
people begin to expect things
from me.

Like greatness.

That is something I fear more than
the ghosts that visit me.
I don't want to let myself down.

When in the grip of the bottle
I feel absolved from my sins.
But then I impurely awaken
and find them etched all over me.
In my mouth,
on my tongue,
across my arms,
wrists, and chest.
Living testimonies to how I really am
not enough.
I don't have what it takes.

Yet I have always had a talent for destruction.
I can bring everything good in my life
to hopeless ruin
in such a fashion as to amaze.

It burns to realize the years
- years -
I have actually wasted
with self-destruction and
vice.

I wonder what I could have been had I just
actually
tried.

I would never have met her.
He would never have died.
I would never have hurt
even half as much
as I have.

Perhaps the worst part of all this
is that without distraction
the smoke actually burns my lungs and
I can taste the poison.

I am a piece in progress
and hindsight is
a waste of
time.

I'm glad that no one reads this mess.

I stood over the street and rocking on my heels I
watched the celebration as everyone cheered for
America.

I found a different place to go
where people actually said hello to one another
and everyone had tattoos.

I wasn't going to write tonight
because I don't want this to turn into
what I did over summer vacation
or
I don't feel like going to work tomorrow.

...But seriously I don't.

I was born to be the boss.
I should be the beginning of it
and the end of it.
Punching timeclocks just doesn't work for me
and I always end up getting fired anyway
or going off the deep end and quitting in the morning
(Right Babe?)

I actually had the thought today that
if she wonders if I hate her
she can rest assured
that I most certainly
do.

I really wish I could just get it all together
and tear her and New York and the whole tainted thing
from my memory and heart
but at least once a day
I think about it
and end up cursing her name all over again.

Sour grapes.
I hope her world tastes like
rancid
sour
grapes.