Month: February 2013

No reading. Simple things. Bug reports, emails, and forums for work. Work is a reason to continue. Reading is thought, and thought is energy. No energy. Scratching at the surface of things. Tomorrow morning, refreshed. Good vibes. Life is hard afterward. Those other waking dreams between five o’ clock and ten o’ clock. An angelic handjob from a hand that’s been squeezing cheeseburgers. Something like it.

Debt grows. There’s debts buried deep. Layers of unfulfilled commitments. Promises made in the moment. Layer upon layer. Left to whither on the vine. Failure to launch. No reliability after five in the evening. There’s that debt ceiling. I’m licking the mold of its paint. Tastes like the ocean smells. The mound’s lifting me higher. Adipose tissue isn’t so much liquid as it is blubber. They could light a fire by my remains. Walking along over all that I owe. Dunes.

Bitterness is the strong stuff. God, yes, more. Terribly attractive. Makes me want to hump an older prostitute for ten minutes. Fall asleep. Paralytic. Soother of imbalance. Dullness to being. The sadness of inability to afford company will be so tough. The frustration. No relief.

Sympity is the last thing. The absolute last feather on the wind, come down on top to topple it.

No reading. Simple things. Bug reports, emails, and forums for work. Work is a reason to continue. Reading is thought, and thought is energy. No energy. Scratching at the surface of things. Tomorrow morning, refreshed. Good vibes. Life is hard afterward. Those other waking dreams between five o’ clock and ten o’ clock. An angelic handjob from a hand that’s been squeezing cheeseburgers. Something like it.

Debt grows. There’s debts buried deep. Layers of unfulfilled commitments. Promises made in the moment. Layer upon layer. Left to whither on the vine. Failure to launch. No reliability after five in the evening. There’s that debt ceiling. I’m licking the mold of its paint. Tastes like the ocean smells. The mound’s lifting me higher. Adipose tissue isn’t so much liquid as it is blubber. They could light a fire by my remains. Walking along over all that I owe. Dunes.

Bitterness is the strong stuff. God, yes, more. Terribly attractive. Makes me want to hump an older prostitute for ten minutes. Fall asleep. Paralytic. Soother of imbalance. Dullness to being. The sadness of inability to afford company will be so tough. The frustration. No relief.

Sympity is the last thing. The absolute last feather on the wind, come down on top to topple it.

I wrote a poem a while ago from the perspective of a crow, didn’t I? Perhaps it was a raven. I can’t remember these things and think, once again, that I need a personal assistant to manage things I can’t be bothered about. Like remembering what I’ve done in the past. A living repository of all completed acts to date.

In any case, I have no tattoos. I keep thinking I shouldn’t bother with anything you might consider a commercial brand or image because tattoos are the easiest and most visible things to regret when they’re terrible, as most of them are with unfailing certainty. Almost all of them.

But a crow tattoo inspired by a poem I sort of remember writing last year or the year before that, which in turn reflects a fascination with these curious members of the Corvid family that started when I found a neatly decapitated raven at Centinela Park as a kid, well, that would be something I could possibly not decide is terrible later in life. An icon such as this silhouette so as to not worry about things like color and lighting, of which I am not particularly interested in my imagery. Starkness and contrast. Defining.

‘As the crow flies’ is one of my favorite idioms for a number of reasons. Directness, little time wasted, over passes and fields, across mountains and valleys, driven on and free to navigate in all manner of directions, whether higher or lower, and all the cardinals. A representation of A to Z with a view of everything in between. It could really work.

Where’s that fucking poem?

I wrote a poem a while ago from the perspective of a crow, didn’t I? Perhaps it was a raven. I can’t remember these things and think, once again, that I need a personal assistant to manage things I can’t be bothered about. Like remembering what I’ve done in the past. A living repository of all completed acts to date.

In any case, I have no tattoos. I keep thinking I shouldn’t bother with anything you might consider a commercial brand or image because tattoos are the easiest and most visible things to regret when they’re terrible, as most of them are with unfailing certainty. Almost all of them.

But a crow tattoo inspired by a poem I sort of remember writing last year or the year before that, which in turn reflects a fascination with these curious members of the Corvid family that started when I found a neatly decapitated raven at Centinela Park as a kid, well, that would be something I could possibly not decide is terrible later in life. An icon such as this silhouette so as to not worry about things like color and lighting, of which I am not particularly interested in my imagery. Starkness and contrast. Defining.

‘As the crow flies’ is one of my favorite idioms for a number of reasons. Directness, little time wasted, over passes and fields, across mountains and valleys, driven on and free to navigate in all manner of directions, whether higher or lower, and all the cardinals. A representation of A to Z with a view of everything in between. It could really work.

Where’s that fucking poem?

If you’re not sick of the ocean/water similes, here’s another: Chinese water torture. Everyone is familiar with the concept. I never put much stock in it until an episode of Mythbusters in which one of the co-hosts submitted to testing the effectiveness of being strapped down as cold water dripped onto her forehead at a consistent rate until she began to cry and lost it. Just couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t help but think, as she mentioned, that its effectiveness as a torture device was only enhanced by her own incredulity toward the whole thing. Fucking water drops. Who could expect anything more than a minor annoyance?

The analogy I had in mind is some people are like that. They seem small and incapable. Minor drips that are easily and unceremoniously wiped off. But they’re not a single drop. They’re a series of them, one after another. At times intentionally well-timed, but more than likely to be a semi-conscious affair. Intentional choices and ones made by forces in their minds that have been building up since their earliest memories. Looks, tones of voice, silences and outbursts. Drip, drip, drip.

And if so—if these individuals do cause someone to lose it—what of the other? I hesitate to use the word “victim,” if only on account of the charged connotation, but the parties who are affected by this process. The ones strapped down as the drops fall. Who stretched the leather over the wrists and ankles? Who tightened them and buckled them in place? And why, God, did they lie there and allow the themselves to be strapped down in the first place?

Why, God, do they just keep on dripping?

It’s complementary, of course. One type meets another and they fit together a certain way. Lots of ways, some good and some not. I just think about afterward. When the fear of what could be ensures that they remain what they are. When the analogy is over.

Cold weather causes every breath to materialize in the air and, if you’ve a moustache and beard, to collect between strands of hair like plankton in baleen. It necessitates a pause every few minutes to clear the condensation. Sometimes ice. I accept the responsibility when I step outside to watch my breath and listen to the music playing inside. It shakes the walls and windows, numbs the ears. That may be the cold.

I don’t do waiting well. It feels like time better spent on the road to somewhere, from which there is another road that leads somewhere else. An interconnectedness to the nature of fleeing.

You are standing in a bathroom. There is a long mirror before you, wide enough for two. You lean in close. Press your nose against the chrome-painted plastic of the faucet. Extend your tongue. Listen to the ocean.

In your mind is nothing more than an image. Standing, bent over, on a sidewalk. Red pumps. The thick sole beneath the toe types. Ankles exposed. Blue veiny, milky. Lateral lines along the bone. Follicular specks. Blue jeans, tight. Not fitting her character or personality. That ass. Midriff exposed. Tramp stamp even more unusual. A top, hard to make out. Perhaps not wearing a top at all. Long, dark hair with light-colored strands. Thick and wavy. A mop. Face turned slightly toward you. Glimpse of those eyes. Sudden death. She shuts down every dream. The whore fantasy is a stream of delusion.

You lean into the mirror. Feel the cold glass. Pray for a cigarette and mutter mumble. Every message ignored. Every phone call left to voicemail. Every step a false sense of progress.

There is a bath next to you, across from the toilet.

You shower and attend a wedding.

You return to bed and wake up tomorrow.

You are standing in a bathroom. There is a long mirror before you, wide enough for two. You lean in close. Press your nose against the chrome-painted plastic of the faucet. Extend your tongue. Listen to the ocean.

In your mind is nothing more than an image. Standing, bent over, on a sidewalk. Red pumps. The thick sole beneath the toe types. Ankles exposed. Blue veiny, milky. Lateral lines along the bone. Follicular specks. Blue jeans, tight. Not fitting her character or personality. That ass. Midriff exposed. Tramp stamp even more unusual. A top, hard to make out. Perhaps not wearing a top at all. Long, dark hair with light-colored strands. Thick and wavy. A mop. Face turned slightly toward you. Glimpse of those eyes. Sudden death. She shuts down every dream. The whore fantasy is a stream of delusion.

You lean into the mirror. Feel the cold glass. Pray for a cigarette and mutter mumble. Every message ignored. Every phone call left to voicemail. Every step a false sense of progress.

There is a bath next to you, across from the toilet.

You shower and attend a wedding.

You return to bed and wake up tomorrow.