Wood

It's kind of like Skindive meets t.A.T.u.

"Adrenaline begins in the marrow,
And then intoxicates your oxygen."

The song is "Wood"
The album is "The Elements"
The band is Second Person

And we were both wearing yellow.

LD - See that guy?

Me - Which guy?

LD - The one with the briefcase.

Me - Yeah. He's cute.

LD - I slept with him. Want to know what's in that briefcase?

Me - What?

LD - Maps.

Me - Maps?

LD - Maps.

Me - Why?

LD, shrugging, sipping her Mojito - Don't know. I guess because he doesn't know how to get there.

Me - Get where?

LD - I don't know.

Me, pausing, sipping my martini - That was one of the most profound stupid conversations we've ever had.

LD - Makes ya think, doesn't it?

Me - About what?

LD - Dude, I have no fucking idea.
.

The Whole Fucking Thing

I think I may have met him in Boo Boo's in Hoboken. (Boo Boo's was in Hoboken, right?) No wait, Boo Boo's was in the Village. Then what the hell was the name of that place in Hoboken where we saw that Reggae band? Well, anyway, that's where I met him. It might have been New Years. 1992? 93? He looked like Joe Jackson. He was a lawyer. We hung out a few times. He spoke highly of his family. He taught me how to cook a coconut curry rice dish that I still make on occasion.

Nothing really happened between us. But that's alright.

I think about him from time to time. And him, and him, and him. Because they were alright. They represent moments, that were really all right. And life is about exactly those moments. Every day moments and every day people,
that get missed,
because we seem to forget that the journey is really the whole fucking thing.

Life is not all about the huge cum.

Life is about much smaller,
better,
significant things.

I can't promise you where it will go from here. I can't promise you much.
But I will promise you this:
I will not forget you.

I will not forget you.
.

Didn't I

"Sometimes it's hard to tell the wishing from the well."
--The Wallflowers


I lack objectivity, and often the clarity of control. I do however, realize this weakness, and withdraw before accidental misfires take out innocent bystanders. And maybe now is the time to withdraw.

I finished reading the review, the review I promised myself I would not read.


"I have a feeling that my next big relationship will be with myself."
-- Peter Hardman


I walked to my car through the wind.
My love is the Words. No matter.
No matter.
And then I was gone.


"You ask me if there'll come a time
When I grow tired of you.
Never my love,
Never my love."
-- The Association
.

No wonder I love her

Interviewer: How do you prepare for a character like this?

Jessica Lange: I always work out a back story. I'll create a journal which takes me right up to the moment of the character's entrance into a story. I like to do that because it's my one kind of lame stab at writing. I have no desire to write and I don't think I could, but I do create these journals for my characters, who their families were, where they grew up, what their experiences were. It's kind of fun, because it's the only time I engage in that kind of make believe.

Interviewer: Do you show the journals to Sam?

Jessica Lange: It's just for me.

lividity

rigamortis doesn't last forever. it sets in a few hours after death. it only lasts for a certain amount of time. and then gradually, just as it came, it leaves. and the body goes limp again.
but the blood will pool.

don't move the body.
they can tell.
lividity.

i think he loved her. i think he really loved her. his intentions were pure, and his motives were selfless.

i think she asked him to do it. i think she was suffering, and i think she needed to go.
i think he loved her that much.

and i believe
that any one of us
is lucky
if they can spend,
or end,
this life
being loved like that.

The Demise of Saint Patrick

Saint Bridget walked up to the altar in her little costume carrying her woven cross. She couldn't have been more than 4 or 5 years old.

It was an outdoor Saint Patrick's Day service years ago, in upstate New York.

She read her little piece while the priest sat and waited. She curtsied when she was done, and ran back down the aisle.

And then came Saint Patrick. He was maybe 7. He wore a very authentic costume with a huge head dress, and made his way proudly to the podium.

Now, I have no idea why, but the little guy decided he had to hold the microphone.

He pulled it out of it's stand. As he brought the mic to his mouth, the wire got caught on the mic stand. He yanked at it and the stand fell down to the floor. He got down on the floor to try to pick it up. Distortion and feedback trickled backward through the sound system. Saint Patrick pulled at the microphone now tangled around his feet and the mic stand. He rolled onto his back, pushing at the mic stand and the wire with his feet. Trying to free himself, he rolls again.

Now the wire has wrapped around his hat and removed it, tying it to the mic stand. He looks more determined than ever.

This goes on for a couple of minutes.

The boy looks mad. He wrestles and grunts. The congregation is giggling. The priest is muffling a laugh. Finally he can't take it any longer. He stands up, spreading his arms grandly presenting St Patrick to us all.

And in the best brogue I'd heard in a while, he says, "Well, whad'ya know. The snakes have finally beaten old Saint Patrick."

I laughed until I peed.

Blink

I woke up
And for a brief moment, I had no idea where I was. Or what time it was. Or anything. It could have been morning. Or evening. Or noon. I had no idea. I had to look around to see what room I was in. What house, what state.
And for just that brief instant,
the whole world was new. Just for a moment I knew nothing. Like a do-over.
And it was all possible.

Recede

"Inside this noise is a weak and godless soul... I'm the one that I can't control.
And the kids just love it."
- KMFDM

Sometimes when solitary, you hear a song that just cracks a towel at your wet ass like a locker room buddy, snapping you right back into consciousness. You re-connect to the Earth, because surely this lyric is about you.
Surely, through the rain and the radio, someone is telling you're not alone. In fact, we are all weak and godless. At least sometimes.
Somehow the connection is made. The communion. These most powerful understanding lyrics penetrate the ocean of you, and make ripples. Many ripples.
And you finally see it: You're one of many.
You can't be segregated if another soul has said that. If another soul knows.

Normally that would give me an advantage,
My being keeper of the lyrics and all.
But tonight that only exaggerates the solitaire.

At 8pm I will recede.

I will go to airport, and I will wait at the gate, or as close to it as I'm allowed. And he will arrive. We will get his luggage. He will offer to buy me dinner. I will accept. He will order just a salad, and then eat half of whatever I'm having. There will be wine. And an apology. I will drop him off at his brother's after he's done protesting. I will stop for one more drink alone; a toast to all things that make you disconnect. I will get home after midnight. It will be dark.
Maybe I will write, maybe I won't.

The bed will seem bigger.
And I will feel smaller.
Eventually, I will fall asleep.

And no song in the world is gonna change a god-damned thing.

.