The end of the world. It’s a different place for everyone, but everyone knows where theirs is, although sometimes they don’t know how to find it until the moment they need it.
That highway calls to us, the highway to the end of the world. If you feel inside yourself, you’ll find you know instinctively where the beginning is. Sometimes, driving, you might have the sudden urge to make that turn, take that freeway entrance, and just go.
It’s not like the lure of the bridges; the bridges are something outside of you, coercive, malicious. The siren song of the bridges is to distract you, to trick you. The bridges, beautiful, old; they have no love for you, other than their love of your sorrow. Just walk across one, you’ll see what I mean, the water glinting grey and deep between the slats under your feet. I have the fear sometimes that a bridge will get me and then that last moment will be eternity, the fear and loss and the cold and the choking, the taste of mud and corpses and sewage, the bones breaking as I hit the water, regret and heartbreak and agony all rolling into one permanent instant as I wish I could change my mind about the bridge, about everything, walk back up the street for a pack of cigarettes, a shot of bourbon, cry it out, shake it out, scream it out, sleep it out drugged and curled on the couch, anything but experiencing that one last moment more than forever, because when time stops there can be no end of the world.
No, the end of the world is something inside of you, which is why all the bridges stay the same for everyone, but everyone’s end of the world is different. It may be only a few minutes from home, but usually it’s a long drive away. The end of the world is not danger, it is solace. It’s where you go in your mind when everything is crumbling, the place you long for when the steel band circling your heart is two notches too tight. You close your eyes and feel it calling for you, yearning for you, loving you. It wants you there as much as you want to go.
Down the street, a left turn, a slight right, up the freeway north, north through the city and past the volcano, past where the cooling towers used to be, through the small towns and the capital, past the religious nut with the billboard and past the 47-year-old Columbus Day Storm snags of trees jutting like broken teeth along the wind tunnel of the I-5 corridor, north into the riparian jungle, the wetlands and marshes, off the freeway and onto the highway, past the casino, off the highway and onto the winding rural roads that take you through the reservations and the small, small towns, north until you get to the place where you can’t go north anymore, and you get out of the car and walk through the trees to the spot where the water crashes against the rocks 60 feet below, and maybe you take a small object out of your pocket and throw it, or maybe you sit on the edge looking down, or maybe you don’t, and you know that in all this solitude, in all this quiet, your dirt and loss and all your pain will be washed away, washed clean and smooth like an eggshell, like the blank slate you imagine you used to be, and out here at the end of the world no one will ever, ever find you.
I don't think anyone wants much more of an afterlife than they want from this one; a warm spot in the sun, a garden, that moment of bliss when you wake up in the morning and sense that the warm body next to you is someone you love. It's when all that goes awry that we have to run, have to lock the car doors and piss in a bottle driving ninety up the rain-slick freeway at one am to get away, to get the hell away from the city and the bridges and the wreckage of hope. Or you run by pouring it out onto paper or into song or by pouring whiskey down your throat, or you run by fucking someone new but the new never quite stops reminding you that those brown eyes and that smile are not the brown eyes and the smile that you're running from, and pretty soon, no matter how far you run, you can't quite remember if you were running away from something, or trying to chase it down.
That's why we need the end of the world, and that's why we need the wastelands and the bridges. The wastelands and bridges, their siren song scares us and makes us run, and the end of the world is the place where we get to stop. It's not the afterlife but it's close enough, close enough to let you sit down and catch your breath and try to remember whether you were chasing something or fleeing from it, and remember that the cigars and the bourbon and the tranquilizers and the sex and the running never did get you any closer or any farther away from whatever it is. And maybe you just take a minute, and that's all you need, but maybe sometimes you go to the end of the world and you never come back, and if there's anyone to talk to, you never, ever talk about why you're there.
Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them sevens with nothing lose
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
You called all your shots
Shooting 8 ball at the corner truck stop
Somehow this don’t feel like home anymore
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try
Your body aches…
Playing your guitar and sweating out the hate
The days and the nights all feel the same
Whiskey has been a thorn in your side
and it doesn’t forget
the highway that calls for your heart inside
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try
Your lovers warm kiss…
It’s too damn far from your fingertips
You are the man that ruined her world
Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them sevens with nothing to lose
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
(Ryan Bingham)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zelvaxvTaUk
Friday, April 2, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The true story of Mr. Earfinger
Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
I walk to the upscale-ish restaurant/bar in my neighborhood, arrive exactly on time, belly up to the bar and order a well bourbon with a beer back. I'm wearing something cute but not risque; jeans, T-shirt, cowboy boots, leather jacket. It's a lovely evening, for winter. The door opens a few times and I keep turning to check. The third time, it's unmistakably the guy from the ad... 40 pounds heavier and a lot less attractive. I am tempted to bolt, but instead I smile and greet him politely with the requisite Portland half-hug (I greatly prefer a handshake, but everyone here seems to think hugging is the way to greet strangers).
He orders, pays for my drink, we go to the back and sit near a window. I am internally steeled for a polite hour of being pleasant and interesting. We chat.
He is actually not so bad to talk to. Quite nice, actually, fairly interesting. Kind of funny. He pre-emptively orders me another drink (a good reason to insist on going dutch on the first date) and I figure, oh, what the hell, I'm having a decent time. Shortly thereafter, though, the conversation starts to become decidedly less interesting and funny as he begins bloviating about the hospital he works in and how being in a hospital gown is the great equalizer of men blah blah blah. Then I register what it is he actually does, and where; he's an MRI tech in the same hospital my friend Surfer Boy works at. "Oh hey," I say, I don't suppose you know my friend Liam, do you? He's a film librarian there."
There's a pause, and he looks deliberately thoughtful in the way people only look thoughtful when they know immediately who you are referring to, but want you to think they don't.
"Liam? Hmmm. I don't know, there are a lot of people in my department... Liam... what's his last name?"
"Sandusky", I say, "Liam Sandusky".
More pretending not to remember. Then, a snap of the fingers; "Liam! Of course! He works my front desk sometimes when one of the ladies is out. Cocky little guy... really full of himself. He thinks he's the cock of the walk, doesn't he?"
Is this fucker really saying this about someone I just told him is my friend?
"Um. No, actually he's quite shy and self-effacing. He's a creative guy, writes poetry. He's really smart."
"Well he sure comes off like he thinks a lot of himself, the way he struts around flirting with the ladies."
I can see very clearly what the problem is. This bloated old fuck sees Liam's youth, his gentle quietness, his good looks, and the fact that women like him, and he's envious and threatened. Then he asks the obvious next question:
"So, how do you know Liam?"
"I met him online and dated him for a while, about a year ago."
"Oh... so, it just didn't go anywhere?"
"No, it went somewhere... he just realized he liked me too much to keep it casual, but isn't into kids, so we decided to just be friends."
Faux-sympathy. "Awww. That's too bad!"
"Not really."
Pause. Then he starts in on a story.
"You know the funniest thing? You know how Liam has those sideburns? Well, I used to have big mutton-chop sideburns, and it wasn't until I grew mine..."
"Oh, actually," I say sweetly, knowing exactly where this was going, "It's funny but I hounded him for MONTHS to grow those. He didn't want to but I was relentless."
Pause.
"I'll be right back," he says, "I need to use the restroom."
I sit in kind of mild disbelief at his rudeness for a couple of minutes, and then he returns... and oh FUCK, he's bought me another drink. FUCK FUCK FUCK. OK. I can live through one more. He sits down, sliding onto the bench next to me instead of the seat opposite.
"One more," he says, "I hope that's OK."
"Oh, sure... but this has to be my last one."
"You know, when I walked in I couldn't believe how cute you were. You're so... tiny. You're just really, really tiny and lovely. A tiny, tiny lovely creature."
WTF? What is this "tiny" shit? Is this supposed to be seductive?
"Um, thank you?"
"I really just couldn't believe it. It's like, you could fit in the cup of my hand. Is that perfume I smell?"
He leans in and sniffs, and then, suddenly, he is KISSING me. I fell for the oldest fucking trick in the book. We are in a restaurant, with people, and he is kissing me in public, in front of people, and I am contemplating how I am going to get away, and his hand is on the back of my neck, and then...
He puts his finger in my left ear.
Not like, a caressing fingertip. He sticks his dry index finger into my ear canal. I freeze, stunned like a deer in the headlights. Is this weird? I think. And then, the other finger inserts into my right ear. Fuck YES this is weird! Break contact! Break contact!
I don't really know if I jerk away, turn my head, slump into my seat, but blessedly, both lip and ear contact are broken.
"Ohhh, that was so lovely" he says with a little smug smile. "You know what? Those hipsters over there keep staring at us."
I turn to look, and sure enough, three young hipsters are looking right at us with combined expressions of amusement and disbelief.
"Wow, I really ought to head home! It was nice meeting you." I say, getting hastily to my feet and putting on my jacket.
"Hold on, I'll walk you to your car!"
"Oh, I didn't bring my car, I walked." OSHIT why did I say that? WHY?
"Well, you can't walk home alone in the dark! I'll drive you home!"
"NO um I actually really want to walk and it's my neighborhood and really very safe also I was um, planning on going to buy cigarettes first."
"I'll walk with you, then. I insist."
SHITFUCKDAMN.
I'm thinking, rolling over plans in my head. Can I go to the bathroom and call someone to rescue me? Or wait... maybe I'll just go to the mini-mart in the exact opposite direction of my house, so that he'll be tired out when we finally get back here, and he'll ditch. OK. Try that.
He settles up and we set off, me walking a bit faster than normal, him huffing and puffing to keep up. He tries to make small talk, but I don't really reply. At one point, though, he thinks we will hold hands, and his palm and fingers are eerily dry and scaly feeling, and warm like a lizard that's been basking in the sun. Repulsed, I pull away. Not one to take a hint, he tries again a couple of times, and I start walking faster. He's struggling to keep up, his great bulky body sweating and wheezing in what would otherwise be a lovely crisp night.
Three goddamn stores. The first two are closed, and I renew my suggestion that we go back to his car and I walk home alone but, inexplicably, he refuses to take a clue and follows me doggedly around my neighborhood until I finally score a pack of cigarettes at the Chevron five blocks from my house. Thankfully, by now his efforts at impressing me by talking have ended, because he doesn't have the stamina to walk and talk at the same time.
We get to my house. "Well, here I am" I say, extending my hand. "It was nice to meet you, have a good night!"
"Oh, it's been wonderful! Do you mind if I sit and catch my breath for a while?"
By now I'm past any pretense at being polite. "Uhhh fine" I say, and lead the way to the front porch, choosing to settle into the fortress-like rattan chair in the corner. This leaves him the bench, from which I am untouchable. I light a cigarette and offer him one. I know he doesn't smoke, but I was hoping that he would take it out of peer pressure and it would give him emphysema. He's shivering from the cold; he didn't bring a jacket.
"Would you mind terribly if I use your bathroom?"
Oho. He thinks he can get me inside. Think again, Earfinger.
"Sure, it's straight through the kitchen, to the right. Don't mind the dogs, they're harmless. Try not to scare my housemate."
It's an awkward moment, and I don't care. He goes inside, into dark and unfamiliar territory and barking dogs, and emerges a couple of minutes later. Unfortunately, he sits down again. I have to pee, but I am not going into my house until this behemoth potato on toothpicks departs.
I smoke. And smoke. I sit in my impenetrable rattan fortress for three or four cigarettes, and at last, after what feels like an hour, it finally seems to filter through his dense mass of cluelessness that he is absolutely not going to get anywhere with me, and that I will gladly keep him out on the porch until dawn.
"Well, I'd better go I guess. I had such a great time, it was so wonderful to meet you."
He stands up and I extend my hand from my fortress. "'Night" I say, and he pauses in one pathetic confused moment, then accepts my hand, says good night, and like a portly, oppressive cloud, blunders off into the night.
I walk to the upscale-ish restaurant/bar in my neighborhood, arrive exactly on time, belly up to the bar and order a well bourbon with a beer back. I'm wearing something cute but not risque; jeans, T-shirt, cowboy boots, leather jacket. It's a lovely evening, for winter. The door opens a few times and I keep turning to check. The third time, it's unmistakably the guy from the ad... 40 pounds heavier and a lot less attractive. I am tempted to bolt, but instead I smile and greet him politely with the requisite Portland half-hug (I greatly prefer a handshake, but everyone here seems to think hugging is the way to greet strangers).
He orders, pays for my drink, we go to the back and sit near a window. I am internally steeled for a polite hour of being pleasant and interesting. We chat.
He is actually not so bad to talk to. Quite nice, actually, fairly interesting. Kind of funny. He pre-emptively orders me another drink (a good reason to insist on going dutch on the first date) and I figure, oh, what the hell, I'm having a decent time. Shortly thereafter, though, the conversation starts to become decidedly less interesting and funny as he begins bloviating about the hospital he works in and how being in a hospital gown is the great equalizer of men blah blah blah. Then I register what it is he actually does, and where; he's an MRI tech in the same hospital my friend Surfer Boy works at. "Oh hey," I say, I don't suppose you know my friend Liam, do you? He's a film librarian there."
There's a pause, and he looks deliberately thoughtful in the way people only look thoughtful when they know immediately who you are referring to, but want you to think they don't.
"Liam? Hmmm. I don't know, there are a lot of people in my department... Liam... what's his last name?"
"Sandusky", I say, "Liam Sandusky".
More pretending not to remember. Then, a snap of the fingers; "Liam! Of course! He works my front desk sometimes when one of the ladies is out. Cocky little guy... really full of himself. He thinks he's the cock of the walk, doesn't he?"
Is this fucker really saying this about someone I just told him is my friend?
"Um. No, actually he's quite shy and self-effacing. He's a creative guy, writes poetry. He's really smart."
"Well he sure comes off like he thinks a lot of himself, the way he struts around flirting with the ladies."
I can see very clearly what the problem is. This bloated old fuck sees Liam's youth, his gentle quietness, his good looks, and the fact that women like him, and he's envious and threatened. Then he asks the obvious next question:
"So, how do you know Liam?"
"I met him online and dated him for a while, about a year ago."
"Oh... so, it just didn't go anywhere?"
"No, it went somewhere... he just realized he liked me too much to keep it casual, but isn't into kids, so we decided to just be friends."
Faux-sympathy. "Awww. That's too bad!"
"Not really."
Pause. Then he starts in on a story.
"You know the funniest thing? You know how Liam has those sideburns? Well, I used to have big mutton-chop sideburns, and it wasn't until I grew mine..."
"Oh, actually," I say sweetly, knowing exactly where this was going, "It's funny but I hounded him for MONTHS to grow those. He didn't want to but I was relentless."
Pause.
"I'll be right back," he says, "I need to use the restroom."
I sit in kind of mild disbelief at his rudeness for a couple of minutes, and then he returns... and oh FUCK, he's bought me another drink. FUCK FUCK FUCK. OK. I can live through one more. He sits down, sliding onto the bench next to me instead of the seat opposite.
"One more," he says, "I hope that's OK."
"Oh, sure... but this has to be my last one."
"You know, when I walked in I couldn't believe how cute you were. You're so... tiny. You're just really, really tiny and lovely. A tiny, tiny lovely creature."
WTF? What is this "tiny" shit? Is this supposed to be seductive?
"Um, thank you?"
"I really just couldn't believe it. It's like, you could fit in the cup of my hand. Is that perfume I smell?"
He leans in and sniffs, and then, suddenly, he is KISSING me. I fell for the oldest fucking trick in the book. We are in a restaurant, with people, and he is kissing me in public, in front of people, and I am contemplating how I am going to get away, and his hand is on the back of my neck, and then...
He puts his finger in my left ear.
Not like, a caressing fingertip. He sticks his dry index finger into my ear canal. I freeze, stunned like a deer in the headlights. Is this weird? I think. And then, the other finger inserts into my right ear. Fuck YES this is weird! Break contact! Break contact!
I don't really know if I jerk away, turn my head, slump into my seat, but blessedly, both lip and ear contact are broken.
"Ohhh, that was so lovely" he says with a little smug smile. "You know what? Those hipsters over there keep staring at us."
I turn to look, and sure enough, three young hipsters are looking right at us with combined expressions of amusement and disbelief.
"Wow, I really ought to head home! It was nice meeting you." I say, getting hastily to my feet and putting on my jacket.
"Hold on, I'll walk you to your car!"
"Oh, I didn't bring my car, I walked." OSHIT why did I say that? WHY?
"Well, you can't walk home alone in the dark! I'll drive you home!"
"NO um I actually really want to walk and it's my neighborhood and really very safe also I was um, planning on going to buy cigarettes first."
"I'll walk with you, then. I insist."
SHITFUCKDAMN.
I'm thinking, rolling over plans in my head. Can I go to the bathroom and call someone to rescue me? Or wait... maybe I'll just go to the mini-mart in the exact opposite direction of my house, so that he'll be tired out when we finally get back here, and he'll ditch. OK. Try that.
He settles up and we set off, me walking a bit faster than normal, him huffing and puffing to keep up. He tries to make small talk, but I don't really reply. At one point, though, he thinks we will hold hands, and his palm and fingers are eerily dry and scaly feeling, and warm like a lizard that's been basking in the sun. Repulsed, I pull away. Not one to take a hint, he tries again a couple of times, and I start walking faster. He's struggling to keep up, his great bulky body sweating and wheezing in what would otherwise be a lovely crisp night.
Three goddamn stores. The first two are closed, and I renew my suggestion that we go back to his car and I walk home alone but, inexplicably, he refuses to take a clue and follows me doggedly around my neighborhood until I finally score a pack of cigarettes at the Chevron five blocks from my house. Thankfully, by now his efforts at impressing me by talking have ended, because he doesn't have the stamina to walk and talk at the same time.
We get to my house. "Well, here I am" I say, extending my hand. "It was nice to meet you, have a good night!"
"Oh, it's been wonderful! Do you mind if I sit and catch my breath for a while?"
By now I'm past any pretense at being polite. "Uhhh fine" I say, and lead the way to the front porch, choosing to settle into the fortress-like rattan chair in the corner. This leaves him the bench, from which I am untouchable. I light a cigarette and offer him one. I know he doesn't smoke, but I was hoping that he would take it out of peer pressure and it would give him emphysema. He's shivering from the cold; he didn't bring a jacket.
"Would you mind terribly if I use your bathroom?"
Oho. He thinks he can get me inside. Think again, Earfinger.
"Sure, it's straight through the kitchen, to the right. Don't mind the dogs, they're harmless. Try not to scare my housemate."
It's an awkward moment, and I don't care. He goes inside, into dark and unfamiliar territory and barking dogs, and emerges a couple of minutes later. Unfortunately, he sits down again. I have to pee, but I am not going into my house until this behemoth potato on toothpicks departs.
I smoke. And smoke. I sit in my impenetrable rattan fortress for three or four cigarettes, and at last, after what feels like an hour, it finally seems to filter through his dense mass of cluelessness that he is absolutely not going to get anywhere with me, and that I will gladly keep him out on the porch until dawn.
"Well, I'd better go I guess. I had such a great time, it was so wonderful to meet you."
He stands up and I extend my hand from my fortress. "'Night" I say, and he pauses in one pathetic confused moment, then accepts my hand, says good night, and like a portly, oppressive cloud, blunders off into the night.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Many years ago
When Madonna released her "Sex" book, and my friends were saying, well, what could she do next to shock the world? I said, she could have babies, and settle down and be a really good mom. And they laughed.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Novelty.
Today I learned
Or re-learned
That I am very tired of being a novelty.
I feel self-conscious when I talk about this, or even think too much about it, because of the us vs. them dichotomy, but at the same time I have realized that it's healthy for me to recognize it because I need to protect myself from getting emotionally engaged with someone who will inevitably, ultimately, tire of me.
I am not holding freakishness up as a higher state of being, because it often comes with drawbacks, sometimes major ones. Being high-strung or struggling or just plain crazy are not really things to idealize, and frankly, being weird in ways that permeate your life is not usually something that makes you feel good all the time. It's hard on you, and hard on your loved ones. And you get down on yourself, especially after the hundredth time you really liked someone and thought you had a connection with them and then they tire of your amusing antics and find someone else to spend time with.
Straight guys or girls like my ex, who think they're edgy or alternative because they wear funny clothes and/or like the art/music scene and/or open relationships and/or dick meet me and think "oooh, eccentric girl! Look how funny she is, with her quirks and cones and lard and her thing about some obscure Greek goddess! This will make my life fun and exotic and cool." But they don't get that actually at the end of the day they want to go home to something comfortable and not be challenged by someone different and gradually they start to realize that it's 24/7 and not just a new kind of hipster, and I start to grate on them.
Because I'm still awake making something that's not even serious in Photoshop, and I am seriously going to leave those traffic cones on my roof forever. Not because it's funny, but because I love them. And maybe, just maybe, I really am going to wear a moustache to a party, and how embarrassing is that? Plus the weird shit on my walls. It's funny at first, but it's so cluttery, and am I really going to leave that up for the dinner party?
They're like perverts... just because they're perverts doesn't make them freaks. They just think freaks are neat, you know, so they want a pocket one to take to parties. For a while. Or, sometimes, they have a whole stable of them they rotate through and invite to parties. You gotta check this guy out, man; he's such a trip.
It took me about 4 years of absolutely adoring my ex and doing whatever he wanted (or thinking I was) for me to realize that for him, the novelty had simply worn off. And another 2 of realizing that it wasn't ever coming back. Because the thing is, I didn't get him, either.
But I'm starting to recognize it in advance, and learning how to cut it off at the pass. I will not be collected. Like a goddamn Beanie Baby.
Now is probably a good time to stop being down about it, and look around in the world at the other freaks, and realize that we're totally okay, and not collectible novelties. We're not cute. We're not funny. We're just regular people who don't quite fit in with the other regular people.
When you're weird, you're going to get weirder as you get older, because all the weird just accumulates. In layers. Because it's your normal.
My friends, the ones who have stuck around and are there for me, have never treated me like a novelty. Because they are also freaks in some way. You get it. I need to stick to my people. I'm lucky to have some.
Holy shit, this post makes me sound like such an utter wanker. I hope I can at least excuse it by being drunk at the time.
Or re-learned
That I am very tired of being a novelty.
I feel self-conscious when I talk about this, or even think too much about it, because of the us vs. them dichotomy, but at the same time I have realized that it's healthy for me to recognize it because I need to protect myself from getting emotionally engaged with someone who will inevitably, ultimately, tire of me.
I am not holding freakishness up as a higher state of being, because it often comes with drawbacks, sometimes major ones. Being high-strung or struggling or just plain crazy are not really things to idealize, and frankly, being weird in ways that permeate your life is not usually something that makes you feel good all the time. It's hard on you, and hard on your loved ones. And you get down on yourself, especially after the hundredth time you really liked someone and thought you had a connection with them and then they tire of your amusing antics and find someone else to spend time with.
Straight guys or girls like my ex, who think they're edgy or alternative because they wear funny clothes and/or like the art/music scene and/or open relationships and/or dick meet me and think "oooh, eccentric girl! Look how funny she is, with her quirks and cones and lard and her thing about some obscure Greek goddess! This will make my life fun and exotic and cool." But they don't get that actually at the end of the day they want to go home to something comfortable and not be challenged by someone different and gradually they start to realize that it's 24/7 and not just a new kind of hipster, and I start to grate on them.
Because I'm still awake making something that's not even serious in Photoshop, and I am seriously going to leave those traffic cones on my roof forever. Not because it's funny, but because I love them. And maybe, just maybe, I really am going to wear a moustache to a party, and how embarrassing is that? Plus the weird shit on my walls. It's funny at first, but it's so cluttery, and am I really going to leave that up for the dinner party?
They're like perverts... just because they're perverts doesn't make them freaks. They just think freaks are neat, you know, so they want a pocket one to take to parties. For a while. Or, sometimes, they have a whole stable of them they rotate through and invite to parties. You gotta check this guy out, man; he's such a trip.
It took me about 4 years of absolutely adoring my ex and doing whatever he wanted (or thinking I was) for me to realize that for him, the novelty had simply worn off. And another 2 of realizing that it wasn't ever coming back. Because the thing is, I didn't get him, either.
But I'm starting to recognize it in advance, and learning how to cut it off at the pass. I will not be collected. Like a goddamn Beanie Baby.
Now is probably a good time to stop being down about it, and look around in the world at the other freaks, and realize that we're totally okay, and not collectible novelties. We're not cute. We're not funny. We're just regular people who don't quite fit in with the other regular people.
When you're weird, you're going to get weirder as you get older, because all the weird just accumulates. In layers. Because it's your normal.
My friends, the ones who have stuck around and are there for me, have never treated me like a novelty. Because they are also freaks in some way. You get it. I need to stick to my people. I'm lucky to have some.
Holy shit, this post makes me sound like such an utter wanker. I hope I can at least excuse it by being drunk at the time.
Monday, January 4, 2010
I am ungrateful
I realize that. And also grateful. And also very, very confused. Because I am nothing special, I really am not. Maybe my lack of social graces makes me more accessible, but if anything, that is all it is.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The quiet
You are my own rude grave.
I had buried myself within you
and to unearth myself from that
shallow hole was unthinkable.
A brother in sorrow and love,
you were my kindred spirit; you;
you understood everything I said.
You never took me for a novelty.
There is no way to tell you now,
nothing in the freedom you held
to be the shy, the quiet, the wild
listening bird you gave me to be.
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