Trapped in a vacancy

Solaris 1972 film outtake // A. Tarkovsky

Pretty much how I feel daily. The weight of the season may as well just extend itself to covering your face in plastic wrap. Fingerprints leave a lot more than you would ever think.

“Solaris helped initiate a genre that has become an art-house staple: the drama of grief and partial recovery. Watching this 166-minute work is like catching a fever, with night sweats and eventual cooling brow. As in Siegel’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), to fall asleep is to risk a succubus’s visit. This time, however, the danger comes not from any harm she may do the hero. True horror is in having to watch someone you love destroy herself.” – The Criterion Collection


Last In Translation


I have written this in my head for weeks. I delete it from my mouth over and over daily, and it still screeches across the chalk board and wakes me in my sleep. Its damage, its poison, it is a dragging of nails across a wall of sand paper. To think that two years ago, nearly to the hour and minute, I was flush with something that was so new, a vital breath I had not seen in fourteen fucking hailing years. And to the exact year and nearly hour later, I was swimming in a fire and a boil that I still relive every fucking day. Thirty-two years of reeling over and over with the pummeling, the showers, the unnerving stare of faces that have the devouring mask and the utter will to glance and lie in a faceless, operatic, act of desperation. The sad facsimile of your own narrative leaves piles and piles of unrepairable damage in its path. How do you, how does anyone sleep and then paint your face in a mirror every fucking day without pulling needles out of your throat. I’ve dreaded today for months and yet it laughs as it chokes me in my blanketed room. You lived your life in disbelief as your past whittled your self-esteem into nothingness, and then as you stared at me, I offered over and over the blooms of understanding. Only to feel punished and bare as they sent me stacks of all the blatant displays of failure. The photos, text messages, many I never shared. It makes me sick and anemic from everything that I felt. For what, so that you can lay there and stare at your phone in silence. Ignore it. Cover up in the flattering faltered sparklers of that place. Just to fall into a circle of badgering and manipulative behavior of every tile that covers that toxic belittling satire of a place.

It’s ruin. It’s a battery of taste.

For the last fourteen years, no one has ever said “hey, I am really sorry for lying. I am sorry for how I behaved.”

We’re not perfect. But we all need to own everything we do.

Some never do. Some never will. And I grow tired of letting that split walls in my life.

“It matters not to Kelvin whether his wife’s doppelgänger, who committed suicide 10 years earlier, is real or not. Whether she is a simulacrum, a manifestation of a decade’s worth of grief-stricken memories, or a celestial hallucination, to Kelvin she is real. He can hold her, speak to her, and so he alone gives licence to her existence. Tarkovsky extends this idea to all our relationships, past and present, and asks us whether they really exist at all. Do we love the people around us, or simply how we perceive them? Is it the idea of them that sustains them, gives them life? How much do we really know about someone, save for our own mental colouring of their character?” – Little White Lies, Why Solaris is the greatest science fiction film ever made

Spilling over

Production Film Set Solaris 1972 // Andrei Tarkovsky

Damaged. Broken. Unthinkable. Pointless.

When people lie to you over and over, you just kinda find it hard to feel the truth in anything.

To make conscience manifest, and to face it.

“Tarkovsky’s Solaris is about a similar communication barrier, except the alien is one’s self. It’s not about experiencing the beyond, but experiencing the beyond within. About reaching the hidden facets of one’s consciousness, and becoming perfectly aware of one’s innermost thoughts. To make conscience manifest, and to face it. Tarkovsky utilizes Solaris as a metaphor for his examination of the human condition. The visitors, who are physical manifestations of conscience, allow the characters to experience a profound insight into themselves.” –

39 Days

Note 1398
Maybe when someone wakes up and really sees the value in what was there, it will matter.

Note 1399
Winter, it’s really all I can think about. And yet it petrifies me at the same time. A cardboard box of things that will dump all on the floor at once. My safest place is always there, in the times that made a difference. As you leave your comfort zone, you unravel everything – you walk under branches and over the leaves. And years later it unfolds and reads like a beaten book. I could tell stories all day about very short intimate events. I can go there in my head and smell the air, I can feel the cold in my lungs. I can remember a shirt on my fingertips. And these places just are more real to me nowadays. I’m tired. I’m quiet. And I don’t want to lose the very little I have left.

There is just not enough time, and I really should not be surprised anymore. Why would I think the next one should ever be different.


“Most people have a rope that ties them to someone, and that rope can be short or it can be long. You don’t know how long, though. It’s not your choice.” – Nick Hornby

Good luck at 4am.

I always thought you should love people through the good and through the bad. You stick out the shit days, in waiting for the good ones to come along. We are all flawed, continuously. It’s a penetrating reality to swallow, but the sooner you absorb that detail, the better. I guess when the struggle becomes more abundant than the reward, people cave in. They surrender. “The Retreat,  and then leave” is the most consistent behavior that I have ever experienced from people I have chosen to share life with. In fact I generally smell it weeks before it arrives.

I’m too old for this.

And I thoroughly deserve better.


Loud enough, is never loud enough. 

I look back over the seven years of writing here, feeling through the thundering and the hailstorms, and what they leave behind. The absolute fingerprints that tattoo themselves to the insides of your ribs because that’s where we cover things up the easiest. I can’t explain enough detail of how incising the fast forwarding and rewinding that goes on within any sessions of  panic, anxiety and disorder. I could cut and paste pretty much any number of things here and I still feel that it is inadequate in conveying what exactly is going on – when in essence, inside you feel like you are drowning.

One day it will just eventually shut down. You think you’ve heard it all well guess what, you will get a surprise as long as you keep letting things in that have no business being ‘in’. Changing people is a joke, don’t even mess with that one. We’re programmed and patterned with so many things that as long as we ‘keep getting by’ – we’ll keep doing the same things, continue following the same ‘click bait’, regurgitating the same lines and writing the same rules down over and over until you are blue in the chest. It’s taxing, malignant and the bark you choke on will ‘be your own’.

I refuse to blame anyone. We are responsible for what we make, what we cultivate and what ‘we choose’ to grow. No one will ever say “this is yours to keep, this will make you be the best person you can be”. You eat and swallow what you want, you sleep with the same things at night that you wake up with. You attract what you think you want – when we never know, or even care to grab hold of what we need.

Years of seeing this in closed circles, either through it or beside it, or past it – hearing it, it just dissolves me from the inside.

Caring enough, is never caring enough.

Loud enough, is never loud enough.


“I always wanted to be the exception to my own rules, I told myself that if I screamed loud enough – it would be heard. That if I raged long enough, it would make a difference. I guess yelling down an empty hall that yields only to a voided room, it really doesn’t matter what you are saying, or how you are saying it – it is destined to fail.”

Water Those Seeds With Alcohol // 2011

It means not having to think.

I told myself today that if I have learned anything in thirty years of dealing with relationships it is that one day there will eventually come a happening that will spin you off your rails and decisively change you forever. It’s something that will shake your walls hard enough that every future decision you make, will pivot off of this one event. In most situations I have rallied through, it’s hard for me to believe that someone really understands the concept of loving until they have honestly ruined it themselves. Like how can I know how something works unless I tear it all apart and dissect it, to learn whats inside. It’s until you realize, and have this conversation with yourself – looking back, and saying out loud “what the fuck was I thinking?” and “what the fuck I have done?“. It’s really until you feel the ramifications and finality of your decisions spiderweb on, to digest that sense of losing a vital part of what had become of your life, I’m not so sure I trust so easily in hearing anyone say “I love you“. I’m not saying someone can’t ‘love’ someone at all. I’m saying that in time, the meaning of that word will change for them. It’s the person on the other end of that ‘love’, the receiving vessel, that I choose to challenge and warn.

Loving someone just doesn’t mean caring, understanding, and being able to bathe in a sense of well-being. It means being able to be kind, caring and understanding even when you don’t feel good. It’s un selfishness. It’s compassion and being able to feel grief in someone elses voice, it’s positively supporting the bonds when you know someone could fall apart. It’s being a mess and feeling deathly vulnerable, it’s to feel safe even when you are feeling ugly and destroyed. It’s you being there in their face even when maybe you “don’t understand”.

It’s hard, it’s all very tiring in my head. It’s like every day you are adding soft clay to a binding wire structure. Pieces fall off, some crumble and just wont stick. Some get twisted in overlapping fingerprints. Some never get smooth. Somedays you just have to chop off an entire fucking side because things are not shaping into what you want them to be. And that one piece of copper wire just keeps finding its way through, no matter how much medium you press against it. Days of piling shit on and grabbing clay everyday and pulling pieces off over and over again until one day you wake up and realize what? That you no longer have any more god damned clay to add-on when you need to just get by. Because one side of the relationship did what? They stopped. Because one side chose to no longer be there. Or maybe they walked off. Or didn’t answer the phone that day, or maybe they just woke up and something changed in them. Good or bad or whatever. When that clay is not there, all of that (your) support dissolves. Because you know for fucks sake every day needs you to be a part of that clay and what it holds together. If you want anything real, anything worth waking up to, anything just worth a second of your fucking time in the world – then you need that substance to be there.

Love or not, I just don’t bend like I use to – I know loss well enough. If you’ve lost it then ‘know why’. If you’ve never lost it then I say ‘prepare yourself’. And if you want to hold on to it – I say ‘make your choices smart’, smart like maybe that love that feels fantastic right now, might not be there tomorrow.


“I don’t want to hurt you” often translates into : “I don’t want to hurt you and then for you to find out about it”.