The Pause

It wasn't a terribly difficult assignment. It wasn't an assignment involving extended travel or research. It wasn't a poorly paying assignment. It is just a very long assignment. It's just taking a lot out of me, and it isn't even half over.
And this gives me pause.

It's not the work that's causing strife. It's not the actual project that weighs heavily on me. It's the person involved. It's having to work Words with a non-writer.

Nothing means more to me.
Nothing means less to him.
And this gives me pause.

I'm not confrontational. Not any more. Not me. It's too exhausting explaining to those that don't get It, what It is.
Normally, I would bow out gracefully.
I don't know how to deal with a heart like that.
My intentions are in tact.
And this gives me pause.

I committed to the project. The integrity of my work exists. Despite my instinct to walk away I believe I need to see this through.
Nothing good can come of this now. It's ruined for all.
And this gives me pause.

I flinch, emotionally.
I'm just not good at this.

Jungian symbolism abounds.
Study the smaller to understand the larger application.
But in some things,
when hurt,
I can still go.
In some things, I have no pause.


"I'm a little man,
Running little circles,
In a little world."
-Henry Rollins

A Real Conversation

"So what are your plans for this weekend?"

I'm going to drink.

"All weekend?"

All weekend. Starting with Bloody Marys for breakfast and building from there. All weekend long.

"You're not going to do anything else?"

I may get stoned and eat cake batter, too.

"Wow. You had a really fucked up week, didn't you."

Sweetheart, you don't know the half of it.

The Line Not Crossed

Vengeance
Exacting revenge
Methodical
Deliberate

Getting even
Even the score
Even
Get the better of

Words of intentional, specific use.

Piled together.
Compiled,
Together.
To Burn...

The kindling.

The stuff regrets are made of.

These Aren't Options

You have to turn yourself over to the artist. You have to give up all your preconceived notions and limits. You have to surrender. If you can't give yourself over, you can't really learn anything new any more.

It's not up to you how to hear somebody else's song. It's up to them.
Either you can Listen,
Or you can't.

"I always try to save a couple
of the marshmallows till the very end...
but I never make it.
I always end up with...
a bunch of flake things
and pink milk.
My mind wanders."
-Garden State

Some things go without saying.
It's not on the artist anymore. It's on you.
Either you can figure it out,
Or you can't.

I fall in love with concepts like "forever" and "God", only to fall from cerebral grace when I re-swallow the limitations of the flesh.
It's about freezing time. Stopping the motion. Capturing a moment, a feeling, a thought. That's what we're doing.
That's what We're all doing.
One way or another.
Close your eyes and come back here. Remember.
Remembering is one of the greatest things you can do.
Either you can remember,
Or you can't.

Blessed are the mediocre. For they go unnoticed. Unblamed. Uncelebrated.

"I mean, what's the point of living if you don't have a dick?"
-Donnie Darko

I can't make amends for something I didn't tear apart in the first place.
My whale got away.

There. It's done. I said it. Be gone with you. Go with god. Get off my lawn.

And leave behind only the ghost of you.
Either you can forgive me,
Or you can't.


"You seem a little... home schooled."
-6 Feet Under
And that's not the responsibility of everyone around you that does not fall short.
Either you can understand Fight Club,
Or you can't.

I have this.

I have a friend who loves me, who'd do anything for me, and I refuse to let him know me. I can't now, it's too late. People and color. Back ground and back story.
It wasn't really like I was dating him. It was more like, I highjacked his plane and made him take me to Cuba. Viva la resistance. He was along for the ride, unwillingly, unwittingly. I don't think he ever knew what hit him.
Either you can cum,
Or you can't.

My 3 Favorite Dorothy Parker Quotes

"If you're going to write, don't pretend to write down. It's going to be the best you can do, and it's the fact that it's the best you can do that kills you."

"You can lead a horticulture but you can't make her think."

"If you don't have anything nice to say,
Come sit by me..."

Expectations Exceeded

I remembered two things yesterday:
The priceless companionship of a good friend,
And that deep down I am a New Yorker.

I discovered two things yesterday:
I can still walk up and down Broadway for hours in heels,
And that a new way to get to an old place makes all the difference.

I experienced two things yesterday:
The brilliant immediacy in the suicide art of a Broadway actor,
And feeling truly comfortable, the way you only can, with an old friend.

I learned two things yesterday:
Artists physically look different than the rest of the world.
And that people will still stand in line for BB King.

In Blue

I’m here for the fuel, babe.

I am here for the fucking fuel.

The waiter brings me another dirty martini. The room is impaired, the room is sinking. I’m wearing a blue gown. I’m the one in blue. I’m the blue one.

A big crystal chandelier, catered, event, Page 6. Photos. I’m ducking. I am the one in blue. The blue one, at the doorway, at the coat check, at the curb.

He is trying to hail a cab. He is pulling at his tuxedo tie. He is uncomfortable in his clothes, his skin, his surroundings. He is leaving. He is going.

He looks at me.

He makes his way toward me slowly. As if reluctant, as if forced. As if, he can't help it. I’m in blue, and waiting. He nods, not sure what to say. He used to tell me anyone that spoke to me in English was brave. He used to tell me many things. He stands next to me and we look out at the avenue. I notice his eyes don’t lift. They stay steady on the asphalt.

Full moon, I observe.

He nods, but doesn’t look. He won't lift his eyes to the moon. He won't lift.

The new album sounds promising, I try.

Thanks. Where did you hear it? He looks at me, lifts his eyes to mine. That's as high as they go. I’m in blue, and he has hope.

Radio.

His eyes drop again. He nods once. I see the hope go. He wanted to hear that I made an effort. He wanted to hear that I stretched and reached. But I hadn’t. It was just there. On the radio.

He shrugs.

I remember his broad beautiful shoulders, and his blueberry pancakes, and his dog. I remember his cheap scratchy sheets, that I used as drop cloths when I painted his hallway ivy green, making sure to ruin them, so I could buy him 500 thread count replacements. I remember the smell of ivory soap in his bathroom, and the little guitar on his keychain. I remember how he takes his coffee, and his whiskey, and his pizza. I remember those shoulders.

But I don’t pretend to know him.

He lets his eyes run off my dress like water. Blue is my favorite color.

I did not know that.

There’s a truckstop someplace off the Thruway, where we broke down in his drummer’s Nova, where we talked about vampires, where we had Doritos and Pepsi, where we fell asleep holding hands. Waiting.

A cab pulls over. He opens the back door and hesitates. Then he gestures for me. To go with him.

I shake my head no.

He tells the driver to start the meter, he will be just a minute.

I don’t remember his middle name. I don’t remember his birthday. I don’t remember where he was born. I don't remember if he snores. I’m the one in blue, on the curb, by the cab, saying good bye.

He moves close to me, I remember his shoulders. He exhales with nervousness. What went wrong?

Nothing. I smile. Nothing went wrong. It just … went.

He’s the one with the shoulders, head bowed, not looking at the moon.
I’m the one in blue.
He’s the one in the back of the cab that has just pulled away.

And I’m the one that goes.

Gridlock

I am in the traffic.

My Editor (Not mine. You know. We've been through this. Ghosts don't really have editors. Just jobs.)says I have been requested. She specifically asked for me. By name. It frightens me when writers know my name.

She has requested that I write a short commentary on her. Not on her work. But on her. As a person. My opinion of her as a person. And I am out here in the traffic. In between the lanes. I am no place in particular. I am moving slowly.

And now we are merging. We are going someplace that exists.

It's for a project she's working on. He says she's going to write a collection of responses to these commentaries, to be published without the commentaries. Some kind of plight-of-me book. She wants me for this assignment, he tells me, because she knows I will answer honestly. From out here. In traffic.

I sip the coffee from the maroon mug that his assistant has brought me. I walk around to his side of the desk, and open his lower left drawer. He slides his chair back so as to give me room.

"Ya know," I select a bottle of Sambuca and top off my coffee, "She isn't going to like what I write about her. And I'm not talking about her religion, or her moral right fucked up ideas, either. Just about her. She's not going to like what I write about her."

"I know." He edges his coffee cup toward mine so I will keep pouring. He knows the history between us. Her and I. He knows.

I sit back down, in the cordovan leather chair. In the office. In the traffic. I sip my coffee as he does. We're quiet.



You ask me what I think. You asked me for my take. You say it's because I am honest. You've put me in a very unfair place. What am I supposed to say? Should I really tell you?

I think that you will probably never marry. I think you will be alone for a very long time. I think you've ruined a lot of things. I think you prevent opportunities from presenting. I think you are the cause for everything you call unfair.

People don't want truth and insight. They want validation and agreement. They want to be right, not enlightened.

Because you build yourself a world, instead of living in this one with the rest of us.

Because the smaller you make it, the easier it is for you to justify yourself. And the easier it is for you not to allow other people to fit in.

The more fragile you create your world, the more it will break. And in the end, in the traffic, the more it will break you.

Narrow and small are the worst ways to be.

It breaks my heart to think how many moments you've missed.

How many Words you'll never say.

How many possibilities you turned impossible.

I am in the traffic. The traffic you will never know. And it's hard to feel sorry for people who cause unnecessary sadness. To others. And to themselves.

I am in the traffic,
And I am barely moving.
Because that's what traffic is.
It's all of us out here together.
It's the world,
Moving at once.

I am in the traffic. Inching my way home.

Wrong

"There's too much
That I keep
To myself
And I turn my back on my faith."

In this moment it matters. In the next, it may not. Because all things pass in gracious time in spite of how tightly we squeeze.
He remembers,
Or imagines.
I'm not sure there's a difference when the sour is so strong.
I told him I had the capacity to understand him.
This, he said, was possibly the only thing that mattered.
In this moment.
maybe not the next.


"When I break
I wish no one in my place."

And I promised he was forgiven.
And that thought took him to his knees.
He was scared to leave, and I knew why.
While he paced in the kitchen, I fell asleep. And I dreamed of whales and dolphins. I woke up swimming. I woke up refreshed and clear. He was neither. He was drowning.


"You let life
Get in your way."

I released.
And in that moment it mattered.
Maybe it doesn't now. Maybe never again.
Strange water moving.
I don't remember.
He does, and I don't want this. Not burden or proof.
This is not my water. Not my drowning. Not my moment.
This belongs to him.

And I don't.

I told him to let go for the last time.

"Goodbye,
Lay the blame on luck."
- Love Spit Love