Sunday, September 10, 2017
In the still of the night
I used to read Clive Barker's The Thief Of Always every year. From somewhere around 5th grade till I was out of high school. The story focused on a little boy finding this wonderful house where everything was odd but great. The kid finally leaves finds out time slowed down while there or speed up on the outside world, whatever. So now the dark side of the Hull House shows its true colors. The main point to all this was the house was really alive with minion creatures living, sleeping, and doing what minions do. So now in the still on the night I lay in bed. I can hear the sounds in the house. The creaks, shudders, and settling. I can hear the house breathe. The wind whips along the siding giving off a sound like someone in corduroy or wind-pants is walking down the hall. The furnace kicks on with its own little rhythm. It begins with a hiss and works its way to click-bang. The blinds begin to dance from the heat escapes the register below.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
The Unknown
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Fear of The Unknownby ilhamanThe Unknown |
Since the dawn of man, we have feared the unknown. While we took steps outside the caves and gazed into the sun, we have taken steps to quantify our fears and rationalize them in some way. The burning ball of fire came from a sun god, the wind from a weather witch, the sea had its own god, and so it goes with death, crops, fertility and everything else. Eventually, a majority of humans settled into monotheism and a belief in one god. Because believing in so many was ridiculous, so it had to be just one.
Flash:
God. Or Gods. Man creates in order simplify the biggest questions. Why are we here? What is our purpose? What am I supposed to do?
Humankind's fear of the unknown is overwhelmingly present throughout our history.
Flash Forward:
Late 1970's The AIDs epidemic is just becoming news. Fear spreads, "Gay Cancer" is spreading to junkies and those that conduct in unprotected sex. Fear of a person with AIDs or HIV anywhere near your general vicinity is at an all time high.
Flash Forward: Hate crimes and bullying against those that are different continue and happen far too often.
Flashback:
The South pre-, during, and post-Civl War: The hate for the Afirican-American slaves/freemen and woman that continues into this era. The transitional phases between property and a person have still yet to take effect in some people's mind till this day.
Flash:
Our morality in the most basic elements of human nature is to survive. Ever try to drown yourself as a child in a pool. Its impossible, we kick, float, and hold out till the surface comes.
Flashback further:
Salem: American paranoia is its purest form. Something isn't right or part of the societal norm, we must extinguish it. The paranoia spreads like a plague. Some feel that paranoia is a foundational structure of the American Self.
Flash Forward:
The Red Scare/ McCarty Hearings: The Communist will steal everything and corrupt American Rockwellian existence if we don't do something about it right now. Hundreds Blacklisted, many killed, and a fear spreads.
Flash Forward:
9/11: Terrorism will win if we let it. We must stop it. Nothing more tragic has happened on our soil.
Flashback:
The Trail of Tears is the name given to the ethnic cleansing and forced relocation of Native Americans following the Indian Relocation Act of 1830. Named for the tears shed by Indian mothers along the route.
Flash:
All the questions we ask, we create answers when none are given. Yes, faith is powerful. The most powerful of all faith comes from faith in one's self. But the notion we are on this planet, living and breathing, is just too large a burden to bare, so we give the questions and answers to something else.
Flashback:
The Crusades, argueably starting in 718 and stretching well into the 15th Century and still continuing in some capacity in the modern era. Papal decree started a war for the Holy Land against the Islamic people and some experts say just to stop the spread of Islam.
Flash Forward:
Your daily life. Something happens and it becomes so fucking catastrophic that you feel the need to remind yourself to breath because if you don't remind yourself to breath you're going to die. It could be a job, relationship, or a death. It could be anything you deem the complete utter destruction of what you knew to be, knew yourself to be, or whatever mental construct that gave your life meaning or purpose in recent memory. Now all that is left is the unknown. And that my friends, is scary as fuck. You've spent X amount of effort, time, and more importantly self investment into creating yourself in this very specific way. And now. Now. It is gone. You're left standing there as the life you've lived runs between your fingers like the sands of time. Grasping and clutching at anything to try and repair the damage done. Just let go. Life wasn't built with nets at the bottom. Or safety ropes. Its nice to fall a little, you see all the things you were too busy to notice on the way up.
Flash Forward:
The unknown has a debilitating effect on the belief that it is okay to be content. Content can go fuck Monday Morning's ass with a chainsaw. Complacency is the most horrible feeling we can have as humans. Time has past and we survive. Our fear of the unknown will never conquer our will for survival. We repair ourselves through reflection, friends, and the passage of time. We mend our wounds and move forward. We start over the parts of our lives we need to; in order to move on. We find meaning and beauty in the things we never once look upon and for a bit of time we forget fear and we live again.
Monday, December 23, 2013
In the Wall-Up City of Self...
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| http://fav.me/d59dfvd |
Once upon a time a boy was born in the city of Self. The city of Self was a vast open space that stretched as far as the eye could see. As the boy grew so did the city of Self. Through the power of the boy's mind the city grew and grew to whatever his heart desired. He could create towers, buildings, gardens, roads, and whatever his imagination could conjure.
As the boy lived and grew he came across feelings and emotions. One time the boy became so scared he couldn't move. This feeling of fear was something new for the boy. He didn't like it, not one bit. Along the edge of the city of Self, a brick plopped into existence from the boy's fear. This brick remained alone on the outskirts of the city of Self until the next time boy felt vulnerable. As time moved on more and more bricks were placed together. From the boy's fear, hurt, and pain, these bricks began to form a wall. As the boy grew, so did the city of Self, but now so did the wall. The boy felt he must need protection from being hurt or scared and the wall could give him protection.
Slowly, the city of Self, became the walled-up city of Self. Protected from all things that may harm the boy. The walled-up city of Self was still a beautiful and amazing place. Massive hanging gardens overlooking the bluest lakes the world had ever seen. Towering buildings shot into the atmosphere above. The boy continued to create what the boy wanted to see and be, but so did the wall. The hurt he felt and fear that scared him made the wall tall and thick. So the walled-up city of Self was now completely surrounded. The monstrous walls now matched the tallest of tall skyscrapers.
Every once in a while someone would wander by the walled-up city of Self. They would come to the front gate, now firmly locked, and ask the boy if they could come in. The boy would feel the excitement he had back when he was young and go to open the gate. Only to stop just short of actually opening it when the thoughts of fear and hurt would return. He carried on living in the walled-up city of Self, safe and secure. Throughout time people would come and go from the gates. Sometimes the boy knew they were hurt or had their own fears and he would try to help them the best he could from the large gates of the walled-up city of Self. They could see into the walled-up city of Self; just glimpses of the magic that laid behind the walls. The boy would tell them everything would be okay and that they need to make a city for themselves. They could be as free as they wanted to and just needed to believe once again in themselves. They would leave the gates of the walled-up city of Self feeling better and once again able to not be afraid to venture out into the world. And so, this is how the boy lived.
His encounters with people were not always good. Every few years, it seemed, he would actually let them into the walled-up city of Self. They got to enjoy the wonders behind the walls and things could not have ever been better. This is, until the hurt came. They were exiled and the fear returned, looming over the walled-up city of Self. The boy withdrew into the protection of the walls and the city went dark. Eventually, the boy would return to the days of old and the walled-up city of Self lived and breathed once again. This cycle happened many times in the boys life. All the while, the walls grew taller and thicker. Sometimes just by a brick and sometimes by miles and miles. But they boy lived on and so did the walled-up city of Self.
One day, the boy was playing within the safety of walls. When he looked up to see someone peering over the edge of the walls. He asked what they were doing and the voice of a girl asked the same thing back. He said he was playing and living in this city. She asked if she could do the same. The boy had never seen a visitor like this in all his time in the walled-up city of Self. The boy thought to himself, how can she just look over the walls right into my city. For years the walls had stood firm and never been broken. Yet there she was atop the tallest stretch of the wall; looking right at him. He felt for the first time in a long time, panic. He was panicked because this was something new, something he had never encountered before in all his time in the walled-up city of Self. He told her to wait outside while he had time to think. So for day and days he sat in the towers of the walled-up city of Self and thought. Oh, did he think.
Occasionally, he would walk to the gate and peer out the bars to the fields outside the city. He watched the girl play and live without fear. He watched her encounters with other people. He saw the care that she gave them. On one of the days after the person left, the girl sat crying in those fields. The colors that usually surrounded her became dim and dull as she sat, hands in tears, in the fields outside the walled-up city of Self. He wanted to run to her. He wanted to hold her and say that everything would be okay and that she need not be afraid anymore. But something was holding him back. Behind the bars of the gates of the walls that contained the walled-up city of Self. He felt sad for her, but safe from everything else. The days went on and girl returned to her colorful self. She played and he began to think about opening the doors. But he needed to ask her a few more questions.
He called out to the girl and she came to the large gates of the walled-up city of Self. She looked at him between the bars and he asked her why she was outside the walls playing. He asked if she was okay from when she was sad. He asked what she wanted from him. So there they stood. The girl did not respond for some time. The boy just waited. Finally the girl smiled at the boy and walked forward. The gates of the walled-up city of Self opened even though the boy had not commanded them to open up for the girl. The girl and the boy now stood eye to eye. The girl said that the walls do not protect the boy. The boy felt weak and vulnerable. But the boy stood tall and asked why. The girl, still smiling, said that walls had stood too long and that she could see clearly into the walled-up city of Self and straight to the boy within those walls. The boy felt naked. The girl said that all along she could see the boy and the city of Self, that she had wanted to come to the city in order to learn and know the boy. The boy feeling so afraid but so calm understood that the girl knew more about him than anyone had in a long time. Through the gates and walls, she had seen what he was, is, and will be, and continued to wait for the boy to be accepting of the fact that the walls didn't protect him from fear or hurt but only prevented him from living and loving.
So the boy and the girl looked at each other. For the very first time the boy looked just like himself and the girl smiled. Then a sound that started with a crack, became a rumble, and then a crash. The walls of the the walled up city of Self began to crumble and crash from the skies above to the ground below. The girl laughed and held out her hand. The boy smiled and held her hand as they walked and explored the city of Self. The boy knew that the girl may leave once she had seen everything in the city of Self but for once he was glad. He was glad that someone could see all that had been created. The city of Self stood tall and proud from that day on.
And without the walls around the city of Self; you are, I am, everyone is...
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Waiting for wisdom.
The blank page... stares back like a cock-headed and confused dog, grinning at your failure, some oblivion of possible words, ideas, and feeling are currently not in the slightest fucking realm of possibilities. Stuck! Bitch! You're stuck without a worthy thought or quip to jot down on that off-white page of uncertainty taunting you like a class full of preteen shitheads and fat kid on the climbing rope. Stymie fucks. Disintegrate, you bare soulless page; into a perfectly pressed concept that completes and expels my thoughts from the trenches of my mind.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
The dark demanding night
hangs over
the concrete blocks of the city
terrorizing and antagonizing
those below.
Engulfed,
the people scurry
from one doorway to the next.
The wind is soft and
passes over and around them
pushing subtle sounds from the distance.
The cars bustle by
without care.
The trains rattle and smash
their way down the tracks with a sense of shaky determination.
The shadows rise
on the walls and walkways
throughout the street
as if to snatch that in which they’re made.
Complete silence is
unheard of in the night.
The smallest creatures creep
through the darkness of the streets
evading detection from those that
wish to exterminate their existence.
One can taste the waterfront’s misting air
swirling across their tongues.
Fear feeds
the sadden souls
huddled under
the highways and alleyways.
The seedy underbelly
reaches for the streetlights
to collapse their flame for good.
The riffraff stir,
and the old men cure,
in the alcohol lights
blinding the outside night.
the concrete blocks of the city
terrorizing and antagonizing
those below.
Engulfed,
the people scurry
from one doorway to the next.
The wind is soft and
passes over and around them
pushing subtle sounds from the distance.
The cars bustle by
without care.
The trains rattle and smash
their way down the tracks with a sense of shaky determination.
The shadows rise
on the walls and walkways
throughout the street
as if to snatch that in which they’re made.
Complete silence is
unheard of in the night.
The smallest creatures creep
through the darkness of the streets
evading detection from those that
wish to exterminate their existence.
One can taste the waterfront’s misting air
swirling across their tongues.
Fear feeds
the sadden souls
huddled under
the highways and alleyways.
The seedy underbelly
reaches for the streetlights
to collapse their flame for good.
The riffraff stir,
and the old men cure,
in the alcohol lights
blinding the outside night.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Evolution of Thought
It started around nine o'clock on Sunday May 1st. President Obama was going to make an address of some sort, eventually it was leaked that it would be about Osama bin Laden. Even more to the point, as time went on, it was that Osama bin Laden had been killed. My initial reaction was one of joy. No lie. I was happy he was dead, and borderline ecstatic about it all. Some news correspondent brought up that it was eight years to the day that George W. Bush waddled across the deck of an aircraft carrier with a "Mission Accomplished" banner waving in the background. I, of course, trailed off in my mind about how much I hate George W. Bush.
Then I come back to the newscast. I'm still excited that this Boogieman of the last ten years is dead. For so long he had been the embodiment of the most horrific act on American soil, and for all those alive after September 11th, pure evil incarnate. I can understand the cathartic release those that lost loved ones, friends, family members, or coworkers in the attacks. It must be the same for those that know someone that have lost their lives, been injured, or are still serving overseas in the multiple wars we, the American "we", continue to wage. America has served up a huge heaping tablespoon of retribution for all those involved since September 11th.
In the flurry of modern day social media the next hours were bombarded with words like, "RIP Mother Fucker" "Rot in hell Bin Laden" and a personal favorite "Osama bin Laden Hide and Seek World Champion 2001-2011." Pictures, I can only assumed photo-shopped, of a bloodied bin Laden started cropping up and another one with The Statue of Liberty holding bin Laden's head instead of carrying a torch. Crowds began gathering in front of the White House and at Ground Zero. People at baseball and basketball games joined in with the chants and cheers of a victorious America. Chants of "USA, USA, USA" and the singing of the National Anthem broke out across America.
President Obama confirmed the news leaks and reports that Osama bin Laden had been killed. So there we have it. A country rejoices in the death of one man. A man that plotted in the deaths of thousands on a single day and even more since then. In the modern age, wars have always been against a target, normally a country or faction contain within the borders of a country. America has made bin Laden the target. But terrorism, or even terrorists, don't belong to a singular country. Terror is a feeling. Killing one man will not bring an end to these wars or the threat of another attack. But that isn't the point. The point comes when I wake up in the morning.
I read an actual headline taking up a majority of the front page reading "ROT IN HELL" placed over a photo of Osama bin Laden. I open my computer and it hits me.
And I mean really hits me, I'm reading this as someone's status on Facebook.
"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that" -- Martin Luther King, Jr.
The "hit" portion of that is what alcoholics call a "moment of clarity." For the better part of the past evening and still continuing through the morning, America has been celebrating the death of a man. Evil, yes. A single man that served as the head of a terrorist organization that have committed horrible attacks against our country, yes. If your memory banks are up for it, try and recall how you felt on September 11th. You've just witness passenger airplanes flown into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and one downed in the wooded fields of Pennsylvania. Then news footage of radical Muslims is broadcast as they cheer in the streets at footage and reports of the attacks; they burn America flags. They have killed thousands of people, and... and they rejoice. Chants, cheers, and singing break out. The aftermath of September 11th saw the American people swell with nationalism and wage war against an entity, that entity had a face in Osama bin Laden. But the real fact that I seem to be lost in is our reaction to the news. We rejoice just as those who struck out against us did. If he had died on American soil would we have dragged him through the streets cheering as his beaten and dismembered body flopped behind the masses like they did to journalists, soldiers, or other victims over the years?
I'm not sure if it would be better stated as hypocrisy or irony when thinking of our American ideals, but I am left thinking of the last line of George Orwell's Animal Farm:
"Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which."
Barbarians, heathens, terrorists, or whatever label, we, as a people, media, or country can give them seems fitting after the atrocities we have witnessed. Yet, here we are ten years later, we've all shed tears over loved ones, claimed pride of their sacrifice and service to the cause, and now, finally, we all have rejoiced in the death of the enemy. Publicly and proudly.
Then I come back to the newscast. I'm still excited that this Boogieman of the last ten years is dead. For so long he had been the embodiment of the most horrific act on American soil, and for all those alive after September 11th, pure evil incarnate. I can understand the cathartic release those that lost loved ones, friends, family members, or coworkers in the attacks. It must be the same for those that know someone that have lost their lives, been injured, or are still serving overseas in the multiple wars we, the American "we", continue to wage. America has served up a huge heaping tablespoon of retribution for all those involved since September 11th.
In the flurry of modern day social media the next hours were bombarded with words like, "RIP Mother Fucker" "Rot in hell Bin Laden" and a personal favorite "Osama bin Laden Hide and Seek World Champion 2001-2011." Pictures, I can only assumed photo-shopped, of a bloodied bin Laden started cropping up and another one with The Statue of Liberty holding bin Laden's head instead of carrying a torch. Crowds began gathering in front of the White House and at Ground Zero. People at baseball and basketball games joined in with the chants and cheers of a victorious America. Chants of "USA, USA, USA" and the singing of the National Anthem broke out across America.
President Obama confirmed the news leaks and reports that Osama bin Laden had been killed. So there we have it. A country rejoices in the death of one man. A man that plotted in the deaths of thousands on a single day and even more since then. In the modern age, wars have always been against a target, normally a country or faction contain within the borders of a country. America has made bin Laden the target. But terrorism, or even terrorists, don't belong to a singular country. Terror is a feeling. Killing one man will not bring an end to these wars or the threat of another attack. But that isn't the point. The point comes when I wake up in the morning.
I read an actual headline taking up a majority of the front page reading "ROT IN HELL" placed over a photo of Osama bin Laden. I open my computer and it hits me.
And I mean really hits me, I'm reading this as someone's status on Facebook.
"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that" -- Martin Luther King, Jr.
The "hit" portion of that is what alcoholics call a "moment of clarity." For the better part of the past evening and still continuing through the morning, America has been celebrating the death of a man. Evil, yes. A single man that served as the head of a terrorist organization that have committed horrible attacks against our country, yes. If your memory banks are up for it, try and recall how you felt on September 11th. You've just witness passenger airplanes flown into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and one downed in the wooded fields of Pennsylvania. Then news footage of radical Muslims is broadcast as they cheer in the streets at footage and reports of the attacks; they burn America flags. They have killed thousands of people, and... and they rejoice. Chants, cheers, and singing break out. The aftermath of September 11th saw the American people swell with nationalism and wage war against an entity, that entity had a face in Osama bin Laden. But the real fact that I seem to be lost in is our reaction to the news. We rejoice just as those who struck out against us did. If he had died on American soil would we have dragged him through the streets cheering as his beaten and dismembered body flopped behind the masses like they did to journalists, soldiers, or other victims over the years?
I'm not sure if it would be better stated as hypocrisy or irony when thinking of our American ideals, but I am left thinking of the last line of George Orwell's Animal Farm:
"Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which."
Barbarians, heathens, terrorists, or whatever label, we, as a people, media, or country can give them seems fitting after the atrocities we have witnessed. Yet, here we are ten years later, we've all shed tears over loved ones, claimed pride of their sacrifice and service to the cause, and now, finally, we all have rejoiced in the death of the enemy. Publicly and proudly.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Oh Where, Oh Where, Can You Be?
Where are you? Seriously, I am getting older and I think my looks may only have, at most, the better part of this decade. That line of thought being brought on by finding my first grey hairs, but I may luck out and end up like Anderson Cooper, minus skin cancer, or George Clooney. God, let be like George Clooney, but without the lack of commitment. I have dated off and on for most of my life and now I have the feeling I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun. I see people getting married and they always do that bullshit “They’re my soul mate” line during the wedding and all I can do is try and figure out if mine is the room; or what they are doing at that moment. (Or after a rough break up, create a pool on the divorce date… Kidding keep those invites coming, I love open bars). I know the line isn’t bullshit when they say it, it just feels that way in my self-loathing think-tank that is drowning in whiskey at the time. So, where are you soul mate? When are you going to pop up?
Were you that girl I saw waiting for the bus reading a book, when I was driving to my cousin’s restaurant to consume an overly large bacon cheeseburger? I am a grocery store enthusiast, but I don’t really think that is where I’m going to run in to you. I mean, I get a lot of looks but I’m not the over 40 type. No offence ladies. Although, if the teaching job market continues this way, I’ll be trying to sign up for Gigolos on Showtime in no time. I just don’t believe that somewhere between a sack of potatoes and the mist of the produce, you are going to reveal yourself. You know what I mean, those moments where everything in the perceivable area, and presumably the world, fades away and all of sudden it is just the two of you. No one else is there. The world is yours. Just like the scene in Titanic on the bow of the boat, but without Celine Dion, a boat that will inevitably sink, and me ending up freezing to death somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That small moment of perfection that ushers in the honeymoon phase of a relationship that always creates this bar that everything after will be measured, judged, and for some will become the executioner. But you’re soul mates, right? You make it through the lull that follows; find ways to make everything new even when it isn’t. So where are you?
I believe at this point, everyone I’ve come across is damaged goods. I do NOT mean that I’m not. I’m fucked up, that is certain. I'm probably more fucked up than you; I just hide it better, or at least until it swallows me whole. If we get to that point, just tell me to write or sit on the beach. It’s like my version of Prozac, or whatever those moody people eat by the handful these days. I just mean that I’m not a bellboy at hotel and I really don’t want to carry around your baggage, you shouldn’t have to carry mine. I understand that the past haunts more us than we would like, or more than we are willing to admit, but there is fine line between acceptable and unacceptable.
Where was I? Right. I can’t get to the magical moment, the honeymoon phase, and whatever comes after because I don’t know where you are. Remember when you were little and the kids in the neighborhood all used to play hide-and-go seek? I always, no matter my pre-game ritual, had to really take a piss while hiding. Somewhere in my body the anticipation was so overwhelming that it demanded urination. Only thing that has ever been close to that is calf raises, not sure why my bodily functions are linked to my calves or hiding. So really, I’m getting older and I’m getting tired of pissing.
Where are you? Sometimes I think I’ve already met you. Even to the point that we have dated. We probably had a horrible break up that involved an onslaught of emotions, vulgarities, and blame. We may still be friends, or not. How many times have you just walked right by me without me noticing or not acting on it? I sometimes hope we haven’t met. That I can get that world fading moment and be in complete disbelief and look around like a jackass to see who it is you’re really looking for, because it cannot be me. But then, the opposite scenario plays out on the old eye-lid picture show. We’ve met before. You or I know someone that knows someone who knows one of us. Then one day we see each other and randomly end up walking around the town like time just stopped for us. Then as we drag our feet to part our separate ways, because the tension of the thought of what happens next is something we don’t want to face just yet. Then it happens. BAM! Just like that… the world fades… and it’s just us. In my mind this is usually followed by the hottest and most passionate sex that would melt celluloid and make Jeff Buckley come back to life. But hey, that’s just me. The one thing I do not want is to meet you in a damn bar. Seriously. I’m not gushy romantic type of guy, actually that’s bullshit, I am. I just don’t want to have to weigh out whether or not the world is fading away, I’m blacking out, or you’re trying to date rape me. If we do, we should end up talking all night only stopping for refills and empties, letting our respective friends pass by the wayside. Then I ask for your number, only to be nervous wreck before calling to set up a date. Everything after that is amazing, melting, and happily ever after.
http://phons08194.deviantart.com/
Were you that girl I saw waiting for the bus reading a book, when I was driving to my cousin’s restaurant to consume an overly large bacon cheeseburger? I am a grocery store enthusiast, but I don’t really think that is where I’m going to run in to you. I mean, I get a lot of looks but I’m not the over 40 type. No offence ladies. Although, if the teaching job market continues this way, I’ll be trying to sign up for Gigolos on Showtime in no time. I just don’t believe that somewhere between a sack of potatoes and the mist of the produce, you are going to reveal yourself. You know what I mean, those moments where everything in the perceivable area, and presumably the world, fades away and all of sudden it is just the two of you. No one else is there. The world is yours. Just like the scene in Titanic on the bow of the boat, but without Celine Dion, a boat that will inevitably sink, and me ending up freezing to death somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That small moment of perfection that ushers in the honeymoon phase of a relationship that always creates this bar that everything after will be measured, judged, and for some will become the executioner. But you’re soul mates, right? You make it through the lull that follows; find ways to make everything new even when it isn’t. So where are you?
I believe at this point, everyone I’ve come across is damaged goods. I do NOT mean that I’m not. I’m fucked up, that is certain. I'm probably more fucked up than you; I just hide it better, or at least until it swallows me whole. If we get to that point, just tell me to write or sit on the beach. It’s like my version of Prozac, or whatever those moody people eat by the handful these days. I just mean that I’m not a bellboy at hotel and I really don’t want to carry around your baggage, you shouldn’t have to carry mine. I understand that the past haunts more us than we would like, or more than we are willing to admit, but there is fine line between acceptable and unacceptable.
Where was I? Right. I can’t get to the magical moment, the honeymoon phase, and whatever comes after because I don’t know where you are. Remember when you were little and the kids in the neighborhood all used to play hide-and-go seek? I always, no matter my pre-game ritual, had to really take a piss while hiding. Somewhere in my body the anticipation was so overwhelming that it demanded urination. Only thing that has ever been close to that is calf raises, not sure why my bodily functions are linked to my calves or hiding. So really, I’m getting older and I’m getting tired of pissing.
Where are you? Sometimes I think I’ve already met you. Even to the point that we have dated. We probably had a horrible break up that involved an onslaught of emotions, vulgarities, and blame. We may still be friends, or not. How many times have you just walked right by me without me noticing or not acting on it? I sometimes hope we haven’t met. That I can get that world fading moment and be in complete disbelief and look around like a jackass to see who it is you’re really looking for, because it cannot be me. But then, the opposite scenario plays out on the old eye-lid picture show. We’ve met before. You or I know someone that knows someone who knows one of us. Then one day we see each other and randomly end up walking around the town like time just stopped for us. Then as we drag our feet to part our separate ways, because the tension of the thought of what happens next is something we don’t want to face just yet. Then it happens. BAM! Just like that… the world fades… and it’s just us. In my mind this is usually followed by the hottest and most passionate sex that would melt celluloid and make Jeff Buckley come back to life. But hey, that’s just me. The one thing I do not want is to meet you in a damn bar. Seriously. I’m not gushy romantic type of guy, actually that’s bullshit, I am. I just don’t want to have to weigh out whether or not the world is fading away, I’m blacking out, or you’re trying to date rape me. If we do, we should end up talking all night only stopping for refills and empties, letting our respective friends pass by the wayside. Then I ask for your number, only to be nervous wreck before calling to set up a date. Everything after that is amazing, melting, and happily ever after.
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