Monday, April 28, 2008

evolving definitions of good times

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I feel different. I wonder if I seem different.

I'd have to ask somebody who hasn't seen me for at least a year, the way people grow and change with you, or just stand still in their set ways and all.

More serious perhaps, or maybe I'm sad and confused right now. I can't really tell much with emotions.


Last night I arrived at a birthday party and a buddy says to me, "You look sad," and I said, "Maybe I'm sad." He said, "You shouldn't be sad, you should be happy." I told him I'd try.

Seems I'm so numb right now, and forward thinking, that I can't really distinguish the difference between being happy and apathy these days.

I wonder if happiness is more of a big thing with young people than it is with adults.

With adults what is mundane or even consistant can seem to resemble happiness, when challenges or inconsistancies render stress.

For me, I still feel restless, and I know this is some child in me, a very curious one, wanting to taste every taste, smell smells, have its bulging wide eyes surrounded by awesome architecture.

It's funny, the growing pains of transition; especially the final ones in leading to really letting yourself grow up. And for a while my worst fears sat trembling on ledges of boredom.

It'd be nice to be able to appreciate boredom after a few more trips around the world. To sit with a pet or a partner, warm, doing absolutely nothing and feeling good about it.

A year ago I wasn't thinking this way; a year ago I cared most about wine and sex and art.

After a while those things just become things to help pass the time.

Now I'd be happy for the world to slow down a little because days go by faster than ever.

I am 31 years-old. Maybe it's time for this.


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Wednesday, April 23, 2008

This is why Obama will lose and our nation will stroke from a massive embolism

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Why does Obama lose?
Because he doesn't say yes
to the people who
could make him win?
And she says yes,
I bet,
yes, I'll do it,
I'll do it for a gram,
a rock of respect,
a warm embrace from the blue flames of history books burning,
behind walls of puppet and emcees,
progeny playing house.
And theirs is the rules.
And it's been that way for a while
And it will stay that way awhile even longer,
as long as persecution sings,
its pretty package distracts,
our dysfunctional illusion
of order compels
a massive byproduct'd culture
stupored with denial.
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Friday, April 11, 2008

the artist

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She was driving drunk, and couldn't keep it together, jerking the wheel to keep it straight, watching the cars behind her hoping they weren't police noticing the swerving. She didn't think about jail, but imagined a sobriety test on the roadside, stumbling on one leg, adrenaline hopefully coming to rescue, to absorb the buzz before it was too late.

She made it eventually and knocked on his door, and so unexpectedly and conveniently easy he opened it. He had locked himself away with his scotch and his movie; he looked almost hostile, wrecked, muttered something about her probably having something to say and for her to say it...something about if she raised her voice again or patronized he'd kick her out, twice...rushed to say something about breaking up being a good idea before she could say it as to avoid the mind's poison of rejection.

Then came the storms of "unlesses"--the worst being the one long: "Unless you never disagree with me being right...and accept the things I do for leisure to be very impressive and lucrative seeming no matter what or how broke I will always be...or you don't believe in me or my art...like my father who painted landscapes after he got laid off from construction and my mom complained when he wouldn't rake the leaves...

Remembering the "My Mother Worked Her Ass and we were poor" story from a different night with scotch, she asked who him raked the leaves if his father wouldn't. He stopped for a minute after, "My mo..." then looking her in the eyes; lied in trying to maintain his arrogance, and long before, she knew he wouldn't know he'd be lying all the time like now, after letting his defenses down for the sake of either rest or ennui depending on the weather.

She was getting sleepy, his voice pleading and desperate, repeating redundant illusions for the sake of sound alone in her drifting; she watched his shuffling to bed in scoops of light, then exhausted, fell asleep finally allowing herself peace from a long and tired impending week of bracing some inevitable disaster.

In the morning the couch was cold, and her mouth dry, eyes swollen and sad in the bathroom mirror after getting up to brush her the soured copper from her tongue and lips. When she returned he was sitting up in bed.

She sat on the couch quiet for what felt like some sick sad eternity thinking, revisiting the carelessly thrown words from hours earlier, defensive accusations of obsession and self-centered delirium, before speaking.

"So what of it then?"she mumbled, without looking up, instigating his rattling off some drowsy romantic plan of experimental separation. In her mind, allswhile, crawled determination, dignity for a clean and bloodless break, though there'd certainly be a bruise and most likely a scar.

Listening, he'd put some thought into it, which she was proud of him for; he was all of 33, and it was the least he could do to put things into perspective at least once in a while aside from trying to be famous for artistic endeavours in an effort to prove himself to people he hated; like every other creative lazy asshole these days, she thought, like the pretty boys who played instruments before him from her self-proclaimed less mature phases, like her, like his father, but what was ambition good for these days--when she knew he slept well past noon on most sunny weekdays.

"I love you, I'm in love, there's no one else I want, I've imagined spending the rest of my life with you," from an artist with words borrowed from idiots, who borrowed from poetry read to gullible incubators worth trapping, those words like worms, dangled with their shiny hooks so obvious.

And he knew after her he was doomed in his drowning, that she was just foolish enough in his charm from a streak of luck, that the next would be foolish even without, some drooling mindless puppet, not even worth the distraction's sake of a toy, like all the others, just like him.

She hugged him holding tears and he kissed her neck holding her. She opened the door to leave and remarked on the light being nice, saying it was a good day to paint; he agreed.

A painting sat unfinished, of her reclining in a window, eyes closed and smiling as if nothing had ever been wrong. She walked out of the door, as he watched her walk away, wishing her a nice day at work, telling her he would talk to her soon.
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