Month: September 2012

Originally Posted by Bird

Learn how to love.

I scoffed at this because it meant nothing coming from Bird, but I had a good talk with someone yesterday and it cleared my head a bit re: love.

I’d stopped expressing my bitterness (read: writing) a while back. I cut myself off from some people who’d been supportive and willing to listen to me rant about how fucked up my situation had become. Since then I’d become intensely focused on keeping shit to myself and getting pussy. It was satisfying. And not just any pussy, but women who were unhappy. I get off on it. The opposite–abject happiness–is disgusting to me, because I’ve given up on it myself and sure as hell don’t want to be reminded of it. There are joyful moments and laughs, of course, but that sort of unabashed glee that people feel when they’re in a good situation… it’s bullshit to me. It’s waiting to be torn apart and laid bare in gleaming heaps of emotional flesh.

Which all leads to this love thing. This talk I had with an older gentleman was in fact about what I wrote above. Love is hopeless, pain is inevitable, don’t love the ones who are in love with love, etc.

Just get pussy, he told me. You’re young, man. Just get laid and enjoy yourself.

That’s the plan, I told him. I asked him if he’d ever married. He must have been in his fifties.

Fuck no, he said. Fuck no. Fuckin’ woman’d just take it all from me. My youth, my money, my time, my love. Rather share it on my terms.

But that’s what they get anyway, isn’t it? I asked. Money, time, attention. Whether it’s an hour or fifty years.

Yea, he said, but a girl can’t break your heart when you met her an hour before.

A good one could.

He turned inward then and said, You don’t know shit.

That’s the worst part, I think. Feeling older, wiser, and still being taken in. Not taken in by pretty eyes or a nice ass, but by my own mind. My own expectations and fears and desires. Realizing–no, remembering–that fuck it all, it’s still on me. In spite of unforgiveable actions others in my life decide to follow, the choices to be bitter or love or forgive or even become a drunk whoremonger remain on my shoulders.

Originally Posted by Bird

Learn how to love.

I scoffed at this because it meant nothing coming from Bird, but I had a good talk with someone yesterday and it cleared my head a bit re: love.

I’d stopped expressing my bitterness (read: writing) a while back. I cut myself off from some people who’d been supportive and willing to listen to me rant about how fucked up my situation had become. Since then I’d become intensely focused on keeping shit to myself and getting pussy. It was satisfying. And not just any pussy, but women who were unhappy. I get off on it. The opposite–abject happiness–is disgusting to me, because I’ve given up on it myself and sure as hell don’t want to be reminded of it. There are joyful moments and laughs, of course, but that sort of unabashed glee that people feel when they’re in a good situation… it’s bullshit to me. It’s waiting to be torn apart and laid bare in gleaming heaps of emotional flesh.

Which all leads to this love thing. This talk I had with an older gentleman was in fact about what I wrote above. Love is hopeless, pain is inevitable, don’t love the ones who are in love with love, etc.

Just get pussy, he told me. You’re young, man. Just get laid and enjoy yourself.

That’s the plan, I told him. I asked him if he’d ever married. He must have been in his fifties.

Fuck no, he said. Fuck no. Fuckin’ woman’d just take it all from me. My youth, my money, my time, my love. Rather share it on my terms.

But that’s what they get anyway, isn’t it? I asked. Money, time, attention. Whether it’s an hour or fifty years.

Yea, he said, but a girl can’t break your heart when you met her an hour before.

A good one could.

He turned inward then and said, You don’t know shit.

That’s the worst part, I think. Feeling older, wiser, and still being taken in. Not taken in by pretty eyes or a nice ass, but by my own mind. My own expectations and fears and desires. Realizing–no, remembering–that fuck it all, it’s still on me. In spite of unforgiveable actions others in my life decide to follow, the choices to be bitter or love or forgive or even become a drunk whoremonger remain on my shoulders.

my days in D major

“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”

I keep fingers curved and the thumb firmly on the neck, but don’t press too hard. Press, don’t strangle. It’s better for my fingers. Look straight ahead as often as I can. Watch myself in the mirror. Watch my eyes.

“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”

The wetsuit hugs like mummy wrappings. The principal challenge of the cold takes a backseat to balance. My twitch reaction muscles are slow learners. I shove my legs into the water before a toe can get a feel for it.

“… ocean, across the U.S.A. Then everybody’d be surfin’ like Californi-ey.”

At night, when there ought to be silence, there’s clanging. And splashing. Clangs and splashes alongside the occasional footsteps on the weathered dock. There’s a big sign telling tourists about future upgrades to the pier. If they remove the old wood and replace it with new wood, is it still the same dock?

“A bushy, bushy blonde hairdo. Surfin’ U.S.A. D, A7, D, A7, G, D.”

I sit and eat my sandwiches in the evenings. The west is in front of me and north is on the right. When I dream, I dream of women, and of the things I’d like to write. I may or may not write them. I think if only I can work here, or if only I can meet someone as bitter, or if only I can learn to fly. Wistful in the evenings only, with a sandwich and a beer. My neighbor takes his boat out on the weekends.

“We’ll all be… we’ll all… we’ll all be gone for summer. Tell the teacher we’re surfin’.”

If I placed one thing in a box at the bottom of the sea, it would be a marble. I would draw a map on leather parchment. I would place the leather parchment in a tin case. I would bring the tin case with me to a mountain. I would place it in a sack beneath my body at the peak. The wind would blow in from the risen sea, having flooded over the lands I knew. The tiny fish and jellyfish would float where I ate my sandwiches. The sun would shine on flooded valleys and the infant inland seas.

“Everybody’s gone surfin’. Surfin’, D, U.S.A.”

my days in D major

“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”

I keep fingers curved and the thumb firmly on the neck, but don’t press too hard. Press, don’t strangle. It’s better for my fingers. Look straight ahead as often as I can. Watch myself in the mirror. Watch my eyes.

“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”

The wetsuit hugs like mummy wrappings. The principal challenge of the cold takes a backseat to balance. My twitch reaction muscles are slow learners. I shove my legs into the water before a toe can get a feel for it.

“… ocean, across the U.S.A. Then everybody’d be surfin’ like Californi-ey.”

At night, when there ought to be silence, there’s clanging. And splashing. Clangs and splashes alongside the occasional footsteps on the weathered dock. There’s a big sign telling tourists about future upgrades to the pier. If they remove the old wood and replace it with new wood, is it still the same dock?

“A bushy, bushy blonde hairdo. Surfin’ U.S.A. D, A7, D, A7, G, D.”

I sit and eat my sandwiches in the evenings. The west is in front of me and north is on the right. When I dream, I dream of women, and of the things I’d like to write. I may or may not write them. I think if only I can work here, or if only I can meet someone as bitter, or if only I can learn to fly. Wistful in the evenings only, with a sandwich and a beer. My neighbor takes his boat out on the weekends.

“We’ll all be… we’ll all… we’ll all be gone for summer. Tell the teacher we’re surfin’.”

If I placed one thing in a box at the bottom of the sea, it would be a marble. I would draw a map on leather parchment. I would place the leather parchment in a tin case. I would bring the tin case with me to a mountain. I would place it in a sack beneath my body at the peak. The wind would blow in from the risen sea, having flooded over the lands I knew. The tiny fish and jellyfish would float where I ate my sandwiches. The sun would shine on flooded valleys and the infant inland seas.

“Everybody’s gone surfin’. Surfin’, D, U.S.A.”