October 27, 2008
3 Years
I've been blogging here for three years, today.
I have lots of mixed emotions about that.
I recently had a conversation with Richard about writing. About the focus and the effort. We talked about pen and paper versus typing and the web. The things you save so you can give them to the real investment. The concentration. The work. The Words you breath and the path you follow. The place where you invest your best, where you think, where you worry, where it matters.
Where you try.
And I've tried.
I've tried.
Lonely Roads & Psycho Paths has been my most focused effort, my real investment, for the last three years.
I really appreciate those of you that have bothered to read, to comment, to follow, to link, and to receive the mailer. More than you know.
More than you know.
Thank you.
I have lots of mixed emotions about that.
I recently had a conversation with Richard about writing. About the focus and the effort. We talked about pen and paper versus typing and the web. The things you save so you can give them to the real investment. The concentration. The work. The Words you breath and the path you follow. The place where you invest your best, where you think, where you worry, where it matters.
Where you try.
And I've tried.
I've tried.
Lonely Roads & Psycho Paths has been my most focused effort, my real investment, for the last three years.
I really appreciate those of you that have bothered to read, to comment, to follow, to link, and to receive the mailer. More than you know.
More than you know.
Thank you.
October 22, 2008
Mea Culpa
the world got loud, and hateful. I grew small and mangled up inside. I
am a city all alone whose only strength is how to hide. I
hurt in places most don’t see, I ache in ways unjustified. I’m
over-sensitive and lonely, hit head on when hearts collide. I
wish, I dream, I whisper, stutter, Word and reWord things I’ve said. I
under-react fully loaded. Swallowing what’s in my head. I
turn away from confrontation stepping back to cry instead. I
offer this apology. Misfired. Misused. Mistook. Misled.
am a city all alone whose only strength is how to hide. I
hurt in places most don’t see, I ache in ways unjustified. I’m
over-sensitive and lonely, hit head on when hearts collide. I
wish, I dream, I whisper, stutter, Word and reWord things I’ve said. I
under-react fully loaded. Swallowing what’s in my head. I
turn away from confrontation stepping back to cry instead. I
offer this apology. Misfired. Misused. Mistook. Misled.
When 2 guys named Dino are in the same story...
Lady at the writing workshop - I had one of those huge old projection TV's. Damn that thing was heavy. I had to ask all these neighbors to come in and help me move it. Dino Benedetti, Paulie Pedesto, Dino Daluca..."
Me - So, then, this took place in Brooklyn?
Lady - Yes! Wow, how did you know I used to live in Brooklyn?
Me - Wild guess.
For the record, for the first 12 years of my life I lived in Brooklyn where I had 3 friends named Dino.
They were all great kids.
If you pressed my buttons? What do you have to do to get off?
No wonder I liked this show so much.
WPIX TV, New York. 11 Alive!
.
Me - So, then, this took place in Brooklyn?
Lady - Yes! Wow, how did you know I used to live in Brooklyn?
Me - Wild guess.
For the record, for the first 12 years of my life I lived in Brooklyn where I had 3 friends named Dino.
They were all great kids.
If you pressed my buttons? What do you have to do to get off?
No wonder I liked this show so much.
WPIX TV, New York. 11 Alive!
.
October 17, 2008
Molested
The first thought I had when I saw him was how beautiful. Large dark eyes, deep set and innocent, and at the same time having witnessed much more than any one should. But even aside from his looks there is something so beautiful about him. About the way he bites his lip. And the way he smiles politely because he wants you to feel at ease even when nothing in him is glad enough to smile.
He knows his limits. He's testing yours. He compensates for what you're leaving out. He fills in your blanks. Because you're standing there staring, unsure and unnerved. At a loss for Words. As is he, as is he.
"Can I have a pretzel?" He gestures towards the vintage glass jar in the center of my kitchen island. I nod, and he unscrews the jadeite colored tin lid, admiring the old piece as he takes a hard sourdough pretzel. His movements are slow. His touch is gentle. I wonder what he's thinking. What he remembers, what he blocks out.
He's been taken. Forced. He's been expended. Damaged. He doesn't know it, but he sets the comfort zone you're not in.
His frame of reference is different. We say taboo, we try not to bring it up, we avoid and defer.
But this isn't deferrable for him. This is his world. This is what he knows, all your taboos and avoidance. He just can't find a way to tell you. He just can't find his Words.
I pull the cork out of the wine bottle and pour myself a glass. I have a hard time taking my eyes off of him long enough to put the bottle back down. He looks at me as if he knows I can't stop staring. After an awkward moment I lift my glass. "Can I pour you one?"
"Thank you." He nods. He looks at his hands, eyes cast downward.
I slide another stem from the rack. "You're twenty one, right?"
"Twenty two." He nods. He's beautiful. He's quiet. Damaged and Wordless. Strong and still.
I sometimes think we're all going to hell. The question is, why. Why are you going to hell? And at this moment, I am going to hell because I hope his grandfather dies an excruciatingly painful and slow death. I know better. And I pull it back. I karmically cosmically rationally Buddhistly know better, but I'm still feeling it. Thinking it. Fighting it. Still.
Some moments are longer than others.
"You're staring." He tries to smile. Just a little one. For me.
"I know." He's the kind of guy you see and you think his life is perfect. You think he's beautiful, and he has it all. And you'd be wrong. You'd have no idea.
"You know, you don't have to write my story if you don't want to." Eyes cast down. And then curiously, he looks back up at me.
Look at me. I'm where you can see me. I'm right here.
I finish the glass of wine off. I want to be as strong as he is.
I'll give you my Words: Words to the places where you have none, the moments you feel but haven't said. I will write the story you lived, I will say the taboos and name the demons. I will listen to you, and care about this. I'll find Words for the fears and the aches and the nightmares. I will write your story, where you won't, where you can't. Where you want. Where you are. I will give you the voice. I will give you my Words.
He knows his limits. He's testing yours. He compensates for what you're leaving out. He fills in your blanks. Because you're standing there staring, unsure and unnerved. At a loss for Words. As is he, as is he.
"Can I have a pretzel?" He gestures towards the vintage glass jar in the center of my kitchen island. I nod, and he unscrews the jadeite colored tin lid, admiring the old piece as he takes a hard sourdough pretzel. His movements are slow. His touch is gentle. I wonder what he's thinking. What he remembers, what he blocks out.
He's been taken. Forced. He's been expended. Damaged. He doesn't know it, but he sets the comfort zone you're not in.
His frame of reference is different. We say taboo, we try not to bring it up, we avoid and defer.
But this isn't deferrable for him. This is his world. This is what he knows, all your taboos and avoidance. He just can't find a way to tell you. He just can't find his Words.
I pull the cork out of the wine bottle and pour myself a glass. I have a hard time taking my eyes off of him long enough to put the bottle back down. He looks at me as if he knows I can't stop staring. After an awkward moment I lift my glass. "Can I pour you one?"
"Thank you." He nods. He looks at his hands, eyes cast downward.
I slide another stem from the rack. "You're twenty one, right?"
"Twenty two." He nods. He's beautiful. He's quiet. Damaged and Wordless. Strong and still.
I sometimes think we're all going to hell. The question is, why. Why are you going to hell? And at this moment, I am going to hell because I hope his grandfather dies an excruciatingly painful and slow death. I know better. And I pull it back. I karmically cosmically rationally Buddhistly know better, but I'm still feeling it. Thinking it. Fighting it. Still.
Some moments are longer than others.
"You're staring." He tries to smile. Just a little one. For me.
"I know." He's the kind of guy you see and you think his life is perfect. You think he's beautiful, and he has it all. And you'd be wrong. You'd have no idea.
"You know, you don't have to write my story if you don't want to." Eyes cast down. And then curiously, he looks back up at me.
Look at me. I'm where you can see me. I'm right here.
I finish the glass of wine off. I want to be as strong as he is.
I'll give you my Words: Words to the places where you have none, the moments you feel but haven't said. I will write the story you lived, I will say the taboos and name the demons. I will listen to you, and care about this. I'll find Words for the fears and the aches and the nightmares. I will write your story, where you won't, where you can't. Where you want. Where you are. I will give you the voice. I will give you my Words.
October 12, 2008
We, Less Than 3, Vermont
When I first listened to Pearl Jam's Deep, I thought the lyrics were:
Jesus ain't nothin'
But he's got a great view
And he sings with the Beatles.
Deep.
They're not.
Turns out, they're:
He just ain't nothin'
But he's got a great view
and he sinks a needle
Deep.
This song has been out for what, 17 years? I only just learned the correct Words recently.
And he sang with the band.
Be open. Be out there. Be willing to listen. Be ready to be moved.
But in the end, be you.
Here's some more pearls from this weekend -
"I am the queen of down town Rutland."
- Karah
"So I get the hat because I decide to be nice, and I get back on the horse, and the horse bucks me off! And I didn't want to get back on, because, you know, it was right after Christopher Reeves."
- Lady in Mauve, Ludlow
"You gotta be smarter than the wood."
- A Mason, Wallingford
"The peepers were out in full force today, buying syrup, driving slow. Looking at this, looking at that. Pissing me off."
-A Local Guy, East Wallingford, on leaf peeping tourists
"If you can name one person that legitimately likes you when you are drunk, I will hang out with you."
- Karah, Queen of Downtown Rutland
October 07, 2008
I love that Word.
I have this over-sized navy blue Chicago sweatshirt.
Years ago I had a hold over in O’hare on my way home after a business trip. I was exhausted after a grueling couple of days and some long flights. I was wearing heels and skirt.
Along with a couple other preparedness items, I always have a pair of skips and little gym shorts in my carry on because you just never know where you’re going to spend the night or when you’re going to break a heel. You can almost always find a t-shirt or sweatshirt for sale someplace, but shoes and bottoms are another story. I just wanted to be comfortable. So I went to one of the souvenir stands and dug through the clearance rack, and found this big sweatshirt. It says Chicago across the chest in baby blue letters shadowed in white. I bought it, went to the ladies room and got comfortable. I wound up delayed in that airport 9 hours waiting for a flight out. Whatever. There’s worse things. I napped, I read, I had a few coffees, and I was comfortable.
Whenever I just want to be comfortable, I look for this shirt. Over the years it has gotten a little frayed and worn, and there’s a little white bleach dot, and the neck is stretched out. But it’s still that thing that makes me feel comfortable.
It’s my
woobie.
Years ago I had a hold over in O’hare on my way home after a business trip. I was exhausted after a grueling couple of days and some long flights. I was wearing heels and skirt.
Along with a couple other preparedness items, I always have a pair of skips and little gym shorts in my carry on because you just never know where you’re going to spend the night or when you’re going to break a heel. You can almost always find a t-shirt or sweatshirt for sale someplace, but shoes and bottoms are another story. I just wanted to be comfortable. So I went to one of the souvenir stands and dug through the clearance rack, and found this big sweatshirt. It says Chicago across the chest in baby blue letters shadowed in white. I bought it, went to the ladies room and got comfortable. I wound up delayed in that airport 9 hours waiting for a flight out. Whatever. There’s worse things. I napped, I read, I had a few coffees, and I was comfortable.
Whenever I just want to be comfortable, I look for this shirt. Over the years it has gotten a little frayed and worn, and there’s a little white bleach dot, and the neck is stretched out. But it’s still that thing that makes me feel comfortable.
It’s my
woobie.
October 04, 2008
Rumple 1988
I found this crumpled in the bottom of a box of concert t-shirts and old photographs. After thinking about it, I decided it stands on its own. Here it is, Word for Word, just as I wrote it 20 years ago.
Rumple
Apparently, I’d had a lot to drink, and supposedly, I explained synesthesia and fractals. I made several venomous statements about hypno-regression, The Doors, and cubists. I inhaled some Jager and several beers not to mention a young and intriguing artist from the East Village who left a black friendship bracelet on my night stand along with a note.
The note says: “I would set fire to my world for you. I would burn everything I have just to make a signal fire bright enough to hold your attention.”
Head East and Badfinger. Oreos and a pale ale from Massachusetts. Incense. A Discussion about artists that work in water color. A very long back rub that made me warm inside and out.
I’d have to give the evening an “8.” It had a good beat and I could dance to it.
And there’s always a chance I will write about it.
But right now, I need to find another guitar. I have to try not to hock any more musical instruments.
eggs
milk
coffee that doesn’t suck
“Pitts pitts pitts. In my juice juice juice.”
- Felix Unger, The Odd Couple
.
Rumple
Apparently, I’d had a lot to drink, and supposedly, I explained synesthesia and fractals. I made several venomous statements about hypno-regression, The Doors, and cubists. I inhaled some Jager and several beers not to mention a young and intriguing artist from the East Village who left a black friendship bracelet on my night stand along with a note.
The note says: “I would set fire to my world for you. I would burn everything I have just to make a signal fire bright enough to hold your attention.”
Head East and Badfinger. Oreos and a pale ale from Massachusetts. Incense. A Discussion about artists that work in water color. A very long back rub that made me warm inside and out.
I’d have to give the evening an “8.” It had a good beat and I could dance to it.
And there’s always a chance I will write about it.
But right now, I need to find another guitar. I have to try not to hock any more musical instruments.
eggs
milk
coffee that doesn’t suck
“Pitts pitts pitts. In my juice juice juice.”
- Felix Unger, The Odd Couple
.
October 01, 2008
Erosion
It’s as if one demon so great expels the others.
Now there is only one flame, and it doesn’t bend in the horizon. And I don’t understand what fuels it. I’m not even sure if there’s any wood left.
I seem to run this circle repeatedly. The one I claim we all fear forgetting.
Alone I think I may be fine. It’s when I am with him that I am lonely. And what does that say about me. I think I like to hear his footsteps echo in the emptiness. I do this on purpose. I create these wells with which I can drown in emotional research and write the Words we dare not utter. But this time I dug too deep.
In the briarpatch of memories this is the one that will break me.
This is the one that is eating away at me. It has left this raw and quiet canyon, cutting and weathering it’s way into the Earth of me.
I wonder if he will get passed that viral emotional barrier. I also wonder if maybe I’ve just lost my grip on reality.
I have made myself sick
Because I can’t make myself whole.
There are physical manifestations of my ill spirit. He merely shines the spotlight on my incompletion. And that blinding brightness seems to define things in me that I can never find by myself.
This has nothing to do with him.
This is my spiritual bookmark: an arrow pointing toward my utter failure. So that I will never forget and never lose my place again.
Look, I’m not about to argue greater good with you or the cosmos right now.
I’m just saying.
I’m just...
Saying.
God only knows what really happened.
And I mean,
What the hell.
"I'm hanging on your Words
Living on your breath
Feeling with your skin
Will I always be here?"
- Depeche Mode
.
Now there is only one flame, and it doesn’t bend in the horizon. And I don’t understand what fuels it. I’m not even sure if there’s any wood left.
I seem to run this circle repeatedly. The one I claim we all fear forgetting.
Alone I think I may be fine. It’s when I am with him that I am lonely. And what does that say about me. I think I like to hear his footsteps echo in the emptiness. I do this on purpose. I create these wells with which I can drown in emotional research and write the Words we dare not utter. But this time I dug too deep.
In the briarpatch of memories this is the one that will break me.
This is the one that is eating away at me. It has left this raw and quiet canyon, cutting and weathering it’s way into the Earth of me.
I wonder if he will get passed that viral emotional barrier. I also wonder if maybe I’ve just lost my grip on reality.
I have made myself sick
Because I can’t make myself whole.
There are physical manifestations of my ill spirit. He merely shines the spotlight on my incompletion. And that blinding brightness seems to define things in me that I can never find by myself.
This has nothing to do with him.
This is my spiritual bookmark: an arrow pointing toward my utter failure. So that I will never forget and never lose my place again.
Look, I’m not about to argue greater good with you or the cosmos right now.
I’m just saying.
I’m just...
Saying.
God only knows what really happened.
And I mean,
What the hell.
"I'm hanging on your Words
Living on your breath
Feeling with your skin
Will I always be here?"
- Depeche Mode
.
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