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


Touch this angel in a clutch of snakes.


“When man is happy, the meaning of life and other eternal themes rarely interest him. These questions should be asked at the end of one’s life.” – Andrei Tarkovsky, Solaris 1962 

“I wish I would’ve screamed fuck you more often instead of being considerate of your feelings while you failed to give a damn about mine. So…fuck you, better late than never.” -Should Haves, R.H. Sin

Session 2 – Hand And Nail

Session 2Session 2 of 3 – excerpt from chapter book draft/screenplay Bad Girlfriend Red

Dr. Wynn always looked at me as if I were crazy. He’s been close to my family and siblings for a decade or so and always seemed to pick on the fact that I acted distant in most social situations. Distant or quiet, or whatever – who really can tell the difference on the outside, and who is the best at lying about it on the inside. I began hearing his counsel two years ago for bouts with agoraphobia and anxiety, which pretty much go hand in hand. Sometimes I would lay in a dark room unable to move for hours staring at the ceiling trying to follow the patterns of what my eyes were painting subconsciously along the walls. That looking into the total blackness, and finding the images that form much in the same way clouds bend into three-dimensional sculptures in the sky.

Wynn asked “Ava, do you ever feel depressed before or after these bouts of anxiety?”

“Depressed. Like hopelessness? Despair?” I answered. “Not really, I don’t feel any kind of impairment. I never feel any disempowerment much at all. The anxiety generally triggers the opposite. Maybe it’s a fight or flight type of reaction, some people crumble under the tightening of boundaries, I tend to focus.”

“You see Jason, I feel a lot of absolution in the past. It’s like a nail driven in – the hand behind it knew exactly where it was going. Someone told that hand what to do, gave it the strength behind it, and the aim to give it force in the swing. A mind gave it the precision to hit that nail exactly on the head. How can I feel anything such as a sorry for that? When someone lies, very rarely are they puppeted by another, and if by chance they are – their eyes will give them away, every time. They cannot hide that from me.”

Dr. Wynn plays this chase game with me. I know he’s trying to get me to say things to find growth in my own crisis of understanding – that’s how these doctors work. They really want you to answer your own questions for them. It’s pivoting, like a seesaw – you give a little, and they wrap your conversation in a woven comfort. I hardly fall for that either.

“Looking back over my notes here Gracey I’d like to talk about your references to their eyes. You speak of the eyes almost like they are books or a script of one’s actions. I don’t exactly disagree with you, but I’d like to hear your views on that”.

I again find myself going towards my window, I see my breath misting against the glass. If I really have to think about this I am sure the color in my face will begin to bleed.

“Well, Doc without being crass or an elitist I will have to say most people are just ignorant to what comes out of their mouths. And even more so  to what exudes from their posture. Don’t get me wrong, there are some great liars out there – but unless those liars have had their eye lids sewn shut, their actions can be quite transparent. No one does anything they do not really want to do, maybe physically they carry out an action, but hardly emotionally. People don’t blatantly understand that the eyes subtlety communicate with everyone. They do this unconsciously, it happens on a level when the brain breaches the connection of when an organ such as the ‘heart’ raises or lowers its beating pattern. Like for instance when we are in crisis, or our blood pressure shifts. The brain reacts instinctively, and we get things like glassiness, or a slight redness and engorging around the eye sockets. Next time watch the direction someone purses their lower lip when you talk to them. These things yell beyond what the voice can. It is the hand that holds that hammer, and drives that nail. Most will never get it, and I have no room for that anymore inside here. You see?”

Mind Under Matter


Hearing the Fall

Closing this door was easier than I expected. I actually did not even take a second glance at you to watch the light wash from your eyes. You never understood the depth of what I ever thought, and you seamlessly walked forward believing to yourself that you never felt it either.

The amount of insensitivity in your breath and tact gives me enough momentum in my grip to find great sensation as I hear bone splinter, plunging this steel into your left ear. Oddly enough your expression as you sleep looks benignly the same as it did before I ever stepped into this room.

Did you really believe that I would just sit in my abode and ingest the parade that you put on in front of me? Did you actually find this part of the story to be more of a dessert than that of the main course?

Now that your head has more of an open view, you can hear the things that were dancing outside your door. Maybe the splitting of your matter can permeate inside, finally to water the thoughts that you once believed to be true.

As it goes to say ‘too much, too little now’ is the lullaby that is singing you to sleep. Hearing the point embed into what I understood to be the back of your skull was the graffiti I needed to leave in your mind, reminding you of those fairer days when words into ears carried more than the weight of a lash.

Hard was the fall dear, and the sentiment paints heavily upon your brow.

Excerpt from “Hearing The Fall” – Entries of Ava Grace, The Illustrated Journal 2013

Bad Girlfriend Red – Delivering Emotions in Mixed Media

AFE Staple 2013 Poster

And I guess the story is ending for now. Those of you who will understand it, I will yell loudly for. Those of you who don’t, well maybe you will get it better next time. This is my first attempt at putting out a complete mixed media recording along with its literary pieces. I don’t think any part of it stands solely on its own – it takes pieces from each other to fill in all of the spaces between the lines. I know that sometimes I look back and I see everything outlined in a little bit of crazy here and there, but you know that’s ok. It takes all kinds of unsettling things for me on the inside to write about things that seem to follow some crazy on the outside.

All in all, when creating fiction in music, art, or writing – I still have to return to translating the things that I know. It makes no sense to me to write about nothing, but I can write of something derived from other things I have experienced. I can’t say I know what it feels like to plunge an ice pick into someones ear, but I can say I know that sometimes words spoken and unspoken can destroy one another just as much. It just seems easier in my made up world this time, that instead of yelling about things you can never change – creating a character that can react in ways hoping to find her own level of absolution, may broaden ones discretion of understanding. I don’t necessarily agree with some of the graphic actions that this story paints, but I do find it colorful in projecting the parts of what some of all us may have on the inside.

Stitched emotions are rough, some of them linger on for years. Some wash away when we replace them with something else. Some scar up large enough that even though you cover them in new clothes they still find ways to edge through the seams. It’s just like that, I can’t write enough about the fingerprints people leave. And not just in one case, but in several as my story tells.

We are not programmed to control that, we only know that we accept different levels of impressions. Some good and some bad. In this case, Ava’s reactions are not all the same. In the song “Hearing the Fall” she greets one of her encounters with speed and finality. She has little to no regret and remorse for the killing that she carries out. It’s also reflected in the music,  aggressive and direct. She walks away denoting that this was a door that was easy to close. But as in the arrangement of “Sight For Sorrys” her emotions are obtusely inverted. She actually finds a lacquering of sadness that seems to almost preserve the emotions that were good from that relationship, by using his removed eyes to try to see the things that she had done wrong.

It’s all relative, in extreme terms of course. We each probably have acted out scenarios in our head that were less than commendable at times. Sometimes we snap in our own ways, carrying out our own justice in our head that we deemed was necessary. And that’s what she did, and of course a little more. Ava Grace’s terms were the terms of unconditional love that were breached upon. She felt taken, so she chose to take. She felt written over, so she decided to rewrite on. In lieu of again being walked on, she redefines the rules of how she should be the one to walk out.

And usually those rules were echoed by the sounds of heels atop a long hardwood floor. A splinter of thought here and there, some easily removed, some not as much. But none the less her red remains the color that we all bleed. The color that gives us all life, and in this case – that still color that takes it all away.

Copies of the Bad Girlfriend Red package will be available at Staple! Independent Media Expo March 2-3 in Austin Texas, or you can order it directly from my online store here.

Too much too little now.

Around a week ago I woke up about 4 am with this song in my head in my room, well I had only played the loud version for the record prior – sometimes during evening mix sessions I would have dreams about arrangements I had worked on, they would just keep replaying over and over. I grabbed my guitar next to my bed and began playing through it acoustically a few times and It ended up kind of slow and lullaby-esque. More creepy and eerie, like a dazed narrative.

It wasn’t 10 more minutes and I was stumbling around setting up my mics in the corner of my room to just kind of do a half live / half tracked recording. Anyhow 2 hours later I had a few mixes that I felt were personal enough to use, not perfect – but real enough that I believed put a closing twist on the  song.

A reprise of sorts. It’s weird how you can wake in the middle of the night and find strange inspiration to just grab and go, and that’s how the best leaps in creativity happen. We’ll that and a little bit of crazy mixed in.

Hope your today is all you hoped it to be.