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running up that hill

May 29, 2011

I’m always vaguely hoping you don’t notice the alcohol on my breath and think of me as your mirror image. Twenty years later, breathing bacardi instead of budweiser, still hoping to make my insides and my outsides match. I’m reckless and falling. I’m listless and failing and it’s my own damn fault. I don’t know how everyone else does it, faster and better. Leaving me behind as I plod along at the slowest pace. I’m trying. Maybe. I fail to see how every little thing is a part of the bigger picture. I have always had a hard time understanding the greater scheme, the greater schema, of it all.

[Who do I think I am second-guessing history, visiting your intentions?]

I felt a weight fall from my shoulders today. Four days stretching out before me with no obligations, a dead phone. Time spent unplugged. Freedom.

[and why do I think I deserve answers, explanations? Sometimes, there is no closure. And that’s the end of that]

I would like to live, just live, for awhile. To pay rent, live alone, read books for fun, cook because I have to, put up pictures, cover my walls with words. I would like to simply be.

[“maybe if we stopped trying to be happy, we could have a pretty good time”]

If there’s one thing I love about being a writer, it’s watching the people I love blend into one inconceivable you in everything I write. Faces blend together and I forget who said what, who did this, who wore that. I don’t know anymore whose heart was broken.

[It doesn’t matter anyway. It wouldn’t have worked. I tried them on, they were ill-fitting. There is no resale value on a man.]

I’m reading a book written by a man who loves the English language. He loves language and he loves love and it moves me. I’m tired of the carapace I’m forced to live within because people don’t know how to respect each other’s feelings. Why should loving someone be considered a weakness?

[because it is. we’re still just animals, remember? we go for the jugular when we sense weakness. hot on the scent of blood, remember?]

I haven’t written poetry in awhile and I imagine it’s because I haven’t felt intensely enough about anything to do so. The slow throb of existential thread (woe, ennui, distaste, disdain) and a far-off feeling of panic just aren’t enough to motivate me.

[a closer feeling of panic might do the trick]

I told someone I was making peace with the fact that I’ll never be great and it’s breaking my heart. He told me to forget that, to strive for greatness anyway. I’m not sure that’s how that works.

I know everything will be okay. But at times, it’s hard to imagine. If I had much hair left, I might have chopped it off tonight.

 

I’m drinking from a bottle of rum I bought 5 months ago. It takes me a long time to kill the things I love. (something I should work on, perhaps)

[I may not be able to kill, but I sure can maim.]

I had a dinner date with a girl yesterday I’d never met before. I think she was trying to get me to go home with her. I didn’t.

I took a picture of a couple in Central Park, they’d just gotten engaged. In retrospect, I should have sneered at her diamond. But I was too busy being overwhelmed by the warm weather, the sun, the fact that people actually look forward to letting their defenses down (I wonder what that’s like?).

I need to write poetry again.

It’s like I’ve been walking through this world trying as hard as I can not to let it touch me. And when it does, all hell breaks loose.

Ask me to write you something.

[please]

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. May 29, 2011 5:37 am

    Sneering at the diamond, but why?

    Reading this entry was like reading a poem.

    I would like you to write something about angels, please. Anything that comes to mind.

    • May 29, 2011 12:23 pm

      “sneering at the diamond”

      because I hate how easy it is to escape the socio-political surround of the fact. A diamond exists because of massive exploitation, of people, land, other resources. And to have it exist as a symbol of love is more than a little troubling to me. It’s almost as if someone is saying “I love you so much I am giving you something others suffered to produce”, and that’s unbelievably discomfiting.

      Maybe I’m too cynical.

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