It Sounds Like You

Because in general, some people aren't nice. At least some, almost all the time. There's always some. No matter where. That have to be small. And mean. And judging. That will ruin it for me. I don't want to deal with it. So most times I don't.

But boy, it would make your head spin, how nice someone will be to you when you buy them a car.



When you’re in over your head. When he’s so breathtaking, when she is so lovely and perfect, when how the hell did you get there. Don’t blow this. Don’t.

That kind of once.

Don’t give things order. Things are better with Out.

And he asks how this came to be. How I write these things.

Lyrics, and the wording, here and there, of this and that. Lyrics. And the whispers. I’ll play, he would say, and you write the Words. Make the Words.

And I would.
And I did.

He Asks

My virginity comes and goes with a little gin.

Cleaning out the basement. I haven't touched some of these boxes in decades.

"Some day when we're dreaming,
Deep in love, not a lot to say,
Then we will remember
Things we said today."
-The Beatles


He asks, how many.

I laugh and tell him the rules.
Divide by 7.
Lie, deny, and fake an appendicitis.

The politics of belonging, the social outrage, the moral majority.
The sin of alienation, and the crime of independence.
Perception of thought process is opposite of Socratic.
The realization of ignorance delivering us is actually a distraction. It's in the understanding that I have kept sane. And I'm tired of thinking. So I dig into the next box he's pulled down for me. Postcards. A script. A rock. A notebook.

Perhaps his most attractive feature is his ability to take it.

He asks, "What are you reading?"

I'm not sure. Something I wrote. Dated 1988. I wrote this in 88. I don't remember.

So strong, so long.

He asks, "Where were you living in 1988?"

California. No wait, it was Jersey. I left California in 87.

I read the quote out loud:
"Certain people were just not designed to handle situations, and people and places, that will forever be beside you."

He asks, "Who said that?"

I shrug. I don't know. Someone in 1988.

He asks, "Was it you?"

Doubt it. The verb is split.

Here's another one. This is a quote from Nancy.
"Some people are so spastic that if you give them an extra beat, they just can't handle it."

He asks, "Who's Nancy?"

No fucking clue.

He shakes his head. "Don't you think that's sad?"

What's sad?

"That you don't remember these people."


My life has been bigger. And these people shared Words with me. And I saved them. And shared them back. That's what I remember. And there's nothing sad about it.


"How very special are we,
For a moment to be,
Part of life's Eternal Ride."

-Charlotte's Web, by E.B. White

Not

It's deadening. It's so painfully sad, that it's deadening.

I used to feel confrontational about it. I used to want to tell them, teach them, yell at them, but the ignorant seem to just stay that way.
And I would only be exhausting myself.
In the end,
you can't talk sense into someone that irrational.
That intellectually lacking.

It is just beyond my comprehension how any one could be that stupid.

I'm tempted to quote the stupidness,
for the sake of this Song.
But I can't bring myself to do it.
I can't give it any extra airplay than it's already had.
And I can't help feeling such a deep sense of pity within my disgust,
for the fool
not from Earth,
not from the animal kingdom,
that could say something so harmful,
that could believe something so dangerous.

Note

And sometimes at night I drive my car to catch my breath.

Of this and many reasons more.
He doesn’t quite know how to read them, how to absorb them. He paces as he tries. He reads a line that strikes a chord, and he looks at me. He looks at me. As if I knew. Something secret. He puts that page on the bottom, and reads the next. He walks, he sighs. He nods. The next page.

He sets them down on top of the head, and picks up his guitar. He makes motions with his fingers, thinking out something only he can hear.

And late at night I race my car to catch my breath.

He hums and taps his foot, as he plays a coherent chord. Quickly it’s stopped while he marks the page with a chewed pencil. Then it starts again. He nods as he plays it out. He plays it out.

I’m quiet. I listen. I watch him discover his voice in lyrics he will make his own. In a way he is alone in my head. Just as I was alone in his. The music comes. The lyrics are.

He looks at me.
He’ll take them all.

He only hired me for one. I wrote three so he’d have a choice. I wasn’t trying to -

He’ll take them all, he repeats. He‘s not giving any of them back.
They’re him. Completely.

And every night I crash my car to catch my breath.
Of this and many reasons more.

Quotable LD

"In high school everybody used to call me MacGyver; I could smoke pot out of anything."

"First she couldn't go out with me because she had Lyme disease. Then she couldn't go out with me because she was having a root canal. Now she can't go out with me because she's pregnant."

"I love this one eye brow."

"Sssh, I'm trying to tell you a pot story."

Good

I get that Christmas letter from my ex every year. The kind of letter we all make fun of. Where she and her new partner vacation, where they are living, Little new bits about her family, or her career. And there is always a photo. Posed and perfect. Smiling. And every year I read it. And re-read it. And carry it around with me for a few weeks.
Like an old Jackson Browne song, when you’re driving home and the stars are out, and the world looks new but entirely familiar at the same time.

“How long have I been sleeping
How long have I been drifting alone through the night.”
-Jackson Browne


There is power in the knowing. There is such relief.
But there is comfort in wondering.

I close my eyes in reverence and gratitude
To the gods who have seen to it
That I
Have loved so many strangers,
Lived so many adventures,
And never argued greater good with the nature of man.

Passing the 100,000 mark. Many thanks.

"The Bible contains six admonishments to homosexuals and 362 admonishments to heterosexuals. That doesn't mean that God doesn't love heterosexuals. It's just that they need more supervision."
- Henry Miller


Inspired by the ever - inspiring

One Letter At A Time

If you aren't reading Jason's blog, you're really missing something brilliant.


My favorite people can be described as accepting, open minded, and non-judgmental.
I hope I can be one of my favorite people.