Throw me into the ocean please.

We get sucked into the shit storm, it crashes headstrong across your face until you choke on it. I stumble and reel and try to make sense as I feel the six degrees of every mother fucking disaster I’ve sat through echo over and over and fucking over again. It really makes me want to hurl things off bridges. I imagine how good it must feel to plummet twelve feet under water and understand that the only thing you can really hear is your fucking heart, and the total silence that it becomes.

And I get sad when you and I are apart for too long. The fear of us both being in the dip at the same time. I’m not a super hero. I can’t snap and make the world change like I wish I could for you. It’s not fair, and life really does not care. And who gives a rats ass about “well life’s trying to tell you something by making you suffer”. I don’t buy that shit. I’ve sat through piles of soap opera catastrophes, suffer is something I know well. I’ve lost every dear person to me that I have ever cared about in some fucking horror storyesque misadventure that I only wish was a fucking fairy tale.

You sit still while the clock ticks, and plunge your hand directly into an open face fan blade just to god damn feel something else than what you are feeling at this very moment. Because at least it’s something.

My chest is tired. I feel the air waves shake. I wish that you understood that, really I do.

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Tell me what you see.

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Notes somewhere around (1280-1285)
I look and wonder where your head will be in ten years. Whether you will say “I’m glad I jumped”, or “I wish that I had”. I spend day after day wrecking myself with how things could be, but we know that nothing ever works that way. It’s as if we are both built like asymmetrical cogs that have teeth that sometimes make contact, and other times spin free. And it’s the momentum of that wheel that carries on the spin until we hope they connect again.

I’ve spun a lot in the last few weeks. I have had some warm nights, and days. And I always understand what connection can feel like. I also know well what its absence creates. And you tend to contemplate what the ‘dips’ are telling you. Their bombardment over and over again. Your head devours what the chemical feeds, while it soon becomes the physical that needs.

I am very tired today. In my brain and on my feet. Maybe someone will punch me on the way home. Or tell me they would “like to grow old with me”. Either would make me feel a hell of a lot better.

 

“You know, I can feel the fear that you carry around and I wish there was… something I could do to help you let go of it because if you could, I don’t think you’d feel so alone anymore.” – Samantha, Her

It’s very loud to me, on this side.

SUBWAY // NYC

NYC Subway // Scott Glover // 2012

I woke today, chest weighted and head racing. I dreamed that Kristen and I had moved to Brooklyn NY. I don’t get it. I don’t ask for it. I don’t even visualize things like that consciously much anymore. So I suppose the residual, fingerprints that stay behind tend to find their way to surface in suspicious ways. Or maybe the empath part of me is screaming things to my face.

I could smell the wood and feel the unevenness of the floor. The brushing past door frames of the apartment and seeing the scuff marks along the bottoms with their layers of gray. Scattered shadows dancing across the ceiling while moving a lampshade. The weathering across the stoop, and it’s oddly comforting hearth welcome (we don’t even have those in Texas). The sound of cardboard boxes sliding across a gritted floor.

I wiped the damp snowing off of my face.

It’s penetrating to wake up like this. It’s like wires pulling me across thousands of miles. A stapling of notes to the back of my head. They echo, they ring, and they resonate. It will fuck with me, and linger. As things like this constantly challenge my comfort zone, rattling any kind of idling that I have. It makes me add up everything that I have seen in life and ask myself “is this all you ever want to see?”. And my answer is always and absolutely, definitely, “no”.

She‘s been gone for sometime now. I tiptoe around the haziness of what was, and what it leaves behind. I somehow forgot the way she smells. Or maybe I distanced it away, hoping that it’s absence would make finding it again that much more exorbitant.

I do know that I fully worry about this winter ahead. And what it brings. My thanksgiving, Xmas, and new years will be finding their way into the stitches of course. It’s all part of it, a never-ceasing storm when you feel everything too much.

And at the end of the day, please just fucking put me on that plane.

Working through the seasons. Pressed up against the ceiling. Pushing down on me. – The XX, Lips

It likes you because you feed it.

Note 1256
A lot of shows in a row makes me ache but I’d rather have that soreness than the other types. It’s easier when I don’t have to count the disasters but more so the ones avoided (I count them on my free hand now). I’m tired a lot, constantly. I carry a shit ton inside and I’ve decided to just shut the fuck up. I’m way too old for this kind of nonsense. I gave everything I had left, again.

Note 1258
I overheard a conversation at a show in south Texas almost a year ago, a musician stating how many times he had cheated on his girlfriend over four years. He said twenty-seven times. Three times while she was pregnant. He acted like it was some kind of trophy staple to playing music. Fucking ridiculous behavior. Considering how many times I’ve had to regurgitate people’s bullshit over and over, it really drastically alters my view on things. Even when you are one hundred and eighty percent to the point where you may as well skywrite devotion to someone, sometimes it still doesn’t matter. I will never understand that. And I fucking hate my hometown and all the garbage people who behave like that there, or anywhere.

Note 1259
Not much I can do about the residual webs anymore. Clear them out, pull them down. They still stick right to you. You roll over at 3am and reach for the empty spot where you once backed up against, just so that you could finally breathe. It is an empty that is so loud it’s like a piano on your face.

Note 1261
And it’s so easy now days. Social media allows you to rewrite your narrative to make it out to anything you could ever want it to be. In fact you can make faces just disappear with the click of a ‘delete post’ button. It’s like it never happened. You were really never ever there. Crowds just pass on by your feed like “huh oh, wow carry on”. No one sees the stitches underneath it all. It’s all too easy to wipe away. Must be amazing to pull that off, because oh how it makes one feel like total shit and less than zero all at the same time. Way to go, you deserve an ‘atta girl/boy’ ribbon for that fucking Houdini trick.

Note 1265
Momentum screams and that irony just bakes all around you. Anger is a such a plentiful tool isn’t it? How I know it so fucking well. It is a reeking hailstorm at times, and you just have to hold everything you have left over your head and just hope that when you lift your shoulders back up – everything that remains, the smoldering and battering of eyes and lies, YOU HOPE WITH GRITTING TEETH that it might not weigh as much as it did the day before.

Note 1255
Caring what people think is way over rated. I tell you with 46 years of experience in shoes and legs that I can’t even feel. The less you give a fuck about what people think, and the more about lending the focus of your heart and finding its place – that’s where you need to be. It’s raw and pure and you carry it like stones on your chest.

Find it. Throw it. Yell it across empty stares until it’s like dragging a screen door across someones face. Do it enough times, and  maybe a reason will tap you on the back and say “hey I get it, it’s ok”.

It’s ok. And unlikely. Trust me, I get it.

 

He kisses her. She wants to believe him, so she says nothing.

Note 1013
Just disappear off the horizon, don’t even finish a sentence. Let all the pieces fall where they may. Shrug your shoulders and walk off like nothing was ever there. That’s how people handle entanglements in this time. Run as far and as fast as you can, it makes no difference. Thanks.

Note 1048
I’ve hated May and June for the last 11 years. Like a plate full of needles that you have to swallow. Thinking “well if things all land in the right place” it will be fine. But odds are that will not happen. Just digest. And the metal will taste like blood. And it will paint your face even if you are quiet as fuck. Charge on. I leave marks over my shoulder for every time I have to walk by something I don’t care to even touch. Throw it all the fuck away. It’s everyone’s answer anyway.

Note 1037
I’ll hashtag #wastedtime or some other fucking witty crap to throw into a sparkling bucket of social garbage. Like it matters anyway as people are fueled by “likes and thumbs” so much they believe it’s going to ignite themselves in a way that makes them sleep again. Good luck with that.

 

“I’m not a poet. I’ve never moved anyone with my words. Maybe that’s why they chose me.” – Solaris

 

A room keyed for everyone, but you.

Note 1176
I yelled through the glass until everything began to drive in slow motion. I have no idea how that story crept upon me, but it closed off every crevice that I attempted to retreat into. People change on a whim while outside forces chisel away with a constant showering of mental debris that ultimately becomes what you thought were stepping-stones in directions that might cling unto stronger merits. It adheres like wet sand, and weighs down the attempts to find any reason, any footnote that could foretell some point of direction that you were headed. You will never know that magnitude. It sews my insides into a thousand knots, each one a pulsing reminder of how it feels to be kept outside of a crowded room. A room keyed for everyone, but you.

And then it all comes spinning down, the awards will be handed out two-fold. For someone who really won’t survive half as long as you did. It will be hollow and transparent. The cardboard walls will dampen and be flung to and fro. It won’t matter, and it will draw all to gray. People will look for you in them, and they will feel lost. Then and only then, will the spiderwebbing synapses of thoughts play out and write the story that you would “want to believe” was going to happen. The one that had already happened, you were just too entangled into believing how you wished people wouldn’t see it for what it was, and only being succumbed to what was really streaming right in front of you. It was real. More tangible then you’ll ever feel. And it slips away just as easy.

It’s written above your head, only you can’t see it. It’s tattooed under your skin, only you can’t feel it. It makes the timbering of your heart rattle when you breathe, leaving you shaken, and tired, and empty. And you will allow it to drag you behind the curtain one more time, until it spins you disarrayed back through piles of your own curtailed decisions. Decisions that now become an undertow over and over, spray painted upon the very direction that you walk. And those new stones will shoulder you repeatedly until your bruises all begin to bleed.

It’s gutting. Like meaty ropes growing out of your sides. Stumbling, with feeble ankles rallying across the grain of the floor. It’s hoping that you find that hearth, in something – anything. It’s being lost, surrounded by arms and you being blind to the touch. I leave it, pulling at my head. I lay there letting the minutes bullet across my face. They stitch me to the floor as I talk the rain into just drowning me out. Drowning me out loudly so that I can crawl under the covering of sleep, again.

 

“You own everything that has happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” -Anne Lamont