November 26, 2012 § 1 Comment
I watch her in the corner of my eye. She’s in my peripheral vision. Peripheral vision is something your going to need. Work on it young. Work on everything young. She’s typing away on one of those old heavy suitcase type writers. She thinks it gives her some edge. Some sort of step above the rest of us. Typewriters are for people who don’t make mistakes. She’s with me, she makes mistakes. She was she found it but I think she bought it. She breaks the silence with a curse. Another slipped finger. Another ruined page. The novelty is starting to become as faded as the rusted green paint that covers the back of it. She loads in another page. Computers do lack that though. That cold mechanical feel. The bit where you slip and slide things into place. Like loading a gun. Sometimes more dangerous. She breaks the silence as she reaches the end of the first line. Ding. She smiles. Simple things. Our eyes meet. We smile. Simple things. I go back to pretending to I’m staring out of the window.
It’s only your life by Kevin Devine is threading it’s way out of the speakers. Sometimes music takes me back to where I first heard the song. For me this song will always be knee deep snow in the North of England, long walks to work, soaked canvas shoes, football socks, sweating off the vodka in the morning. Memories and music hold hands. Memories and music watch each other type.
My clothes fit well and I’m told they are in style. New ground for me. Unfamiliar territory. I was on my own, in a relationship sense, for a long time. There were girls, sure, there were girls, but none that I really cared about. It was just easy. Relax. Go easy. Since the last time that actually cared about a girl I thought I had grown. I thought I had grown emotionally. I hadn’t. Thirty seconds into the mad, drug rush, twisting blood, swollen blood vessel approach to feeling it all followed. Like a come-down, like a hangover, just two steps behind, I always run, it always catches. All those old feelings, the anger, the petulance, the twisting lack of faith, the sad. The things that make me act like a spoiled child. Oh what a terrible relapse. So this is why I stayed away from all this for so long. Just when I thought I could trust you.
Ding. The typewriter breaks my thoughts. She looks up and smiles some more. She smiles like a punch drunk moron. I should know, that’s my smile she’s wearing. Sickly sweet. I scan the window sill for my drink. Sat deep an inch from my left hand. Some movement out of the window distracts my train of thought which is set further off the tracks by more thought. I don’t know where this ends you know? I have no answers. I have no quick-fix. But I stopped being afraid of all that years ago. That is what affords me to live the way that I do.
Ding. Smiles. Punch, drunk, moron. But it’s OK. I’m keeping all that at bay. At a dull knife point. In a Mexican stand off it is usually the most apathetic man who dies. Apathy and luck. My old friends. Speak soon. Ding. Smiles.
November 10, 2012 § 1 Comment
Make ’em worry. Dance. Fuck. There’s a beauty that comes with being lost like this. Lost like us. Lost, entirely lost but not without hope. Hope, not that we will be found, but that we will not be found. That we will stay lost. Lost is us. Lost is safe. Lost is home. Firm ground always made me dizzy. Made my head spin. Made me lust after exactly what I wanted to be. Made me chase and chase and chase. To be young is to be lost. To be drunk is to be high is to be lost. She still dancing out in some field somewhere. I’m bouncing. I’m kicking. I’m making those wild eyes, the ones I wouldn’t get any with with anyone who really knew me. These people don’t know me. All the worlds a stage. This, here, this is my stage. These people aren’t audience, they are players, they just need guidance, hey, what can I say? They forgot there lines. They don’t need to trust me forever. The next three hours should be fine. The next three hours was all I ever asked, not what I ever needed. Yuck. That madness. It’s so unclean. So unme. I want to fade out and wake up somewhere else where no face is familiar and I’m left by myself, to keep plugging away at my own wasted time, to eat badly and spend all my money and write, to not fell to guilty and be tired at night, since were not fixing things here lets just leave it behind, so make your decisions, I’m through making mine. Easy. My heart always beats on heavy when I’m like this. Like pebbles on a rake. Like a real, physical weight, imposing itself. Fuck. I have this one then two more. That makes three. Three. I have three left. Three. That’s one more than I’ve had. I switched off. This ones for me. Zing. Finance can go hang. Go easy, you’ve been working hard, treat yourself. But you look so sober! Two left. Feel that slip, like someones twisting the dials. It feels like falling from a plane in the dead of night. An extraordinary feeling. A feeling of that cold November wind, perpetual motion, terminal velocity, dropped in middle of nowhere. Kicking out. Scanning for a sense of light. Falling, seemingly forever, waiting for that big black landmass to come up out of the big black nothing and end this. Like riding a bike with your eyes closed. That’s where I am. Wow. Go easy. Make ’em worry. Did you ever think that making them worry as a atavistic pre-approach to putting yourself in a large amount of danger. Who cares? One that makes one. And the last two are kicking like mules. Like jack hammers. Like go easy. Holes in doors. Here’s Johnny. Why break a hole in a door just to nearly die in the snow? Because, why go to work? You got nothing. Hands coming up empty, a pair? A pair? fuck that. All aces. Run and a flush. A jump. A fall. A big black splat. If a boy falls from a plane in the pitch darkness, will anyone see him die? I look up. It’s two and 550 words later. It bled. I know little about it. I think about proofreading. No proofreading is for liar. Cowards. The dishonest. Those with something to hide. Intense. Outense. Pastense. Soundbite. Bloodcells. Bibles. Blankets. Slingshots. Pillows. Calm. Rested. Refiled. Eggshells. Regroup. Where is it. Calm. It’s easy. Guitar. I missed you. You got a bit broke but that was just outta love. Aimless graduate. Loans. Marks. Marxs. Blood. I watched an old friend hit the drums. I watched that look, the one, you know the one? Relief. Home. Easy. Worst case, dressed and dazzling. Boy that bubbles bound to burst and what a tragic way to fall. I sad to say we’re lost and I’m embarrassed for us all. Everything else is borrowed. Actors. Running lines. Her. And her. Want it. Want it fucking all. Why can’t it be yours? If you think the greats would turn down an opportunity? The problem with you is you never had the fear. The fear. God bless the fear. That makes none. None green bottles. Hold tight. Go easy. No wall. I asked his empire eyes. Answer. Tounge. Tell. Director yelling ACTION, set, aswell. Sense is lost among all of this. Don’t you think? Sense is conclusion. Conclusion is for the dead. She works hard. She types. She threw her typewriter, that her boyfriend bought her, from the window of their third floor window onto his two month old car. Windshield fucked. Bad boyfriend 101, don’t leave a fucking paper trail. Don’t you watch TV? Might swoop? She has a mother fucking type writer. That has to be worth something.I write like this for a reason. It’s not just words, well, for now it is, but in your head it can be more. I write, to say to you that you are normal, relax, you are not alone, we’ve all got crazy. We’re all vulnerable. Relax. The worst that can happen is suffering, and suffering is good for the soul. It’s loving lives we long for. Heaven bound and glory be. You see. It’s not easy. This isn’t easy. This is words. I have to deliver the oldest form of entertainment of the newest of median. Words on the internet. I just hope I keep you happier than me. It’s just comfort. If I had one more that would be none. Bang. Off goes her gun.
November 3, 2012 § Leave a comment
“A tempting sample of who I could be, without the broken glass waiting underneath.” – I could be with anyone Kevin Devine.
Sarah’s here. Sarah’s new. The cold, fresh sun of the November morning falls on her face like gold. This is new. She smiled one of those smiles that fizzes with the fatigue of the night before and the joke at the end of the conversation that just passed. The silences are long and comfortable. Another delicate Saturday morning. Fried meat, tipping the balance of unstable appetites. The radio’s on but no one’s hearing it. We don’t need it. The news is outside our perfect bubble. News, social media, phones are all dead to us in here. Our clothes are our worst but we don’t care. It’s so easy.
There’s great joy in those fragile moments. The ones where both people are slow from the night before. With the right people everything’s funny. We lean on each other. We look out the windows at the fields that are the surrounding here. Sarah’s in my home. My home. She’s in my home, and she isn’t talking and I want her to stay.
Eye contact is brief but not awkward. Conversation flows with out being forced. I’m watching those little movements she does, trying to second guess if she wants to be here. Is she reaching for her shoes? Looking for her keys? What if she never comes back? And just like that, that sharp kicking bullet hits, dead center of the forehead, I’m off my chair and my dead weight body is falling to the floor with what was left of brain that I used to make sense of everything sprayed across my window. I see the floor coming on my brief trip. It doesn’t matter.Nothing matters. Because just like that, in the comfortable silence of a November morning, that bullet hits, I’m that 14 year old kid again. It all comes back. The highs and the lows, the insecurity, the moments of blind confidence. That stubborn roller coaster called love. All of that mundane style living. It’s over. I can feel the overwhelming difference. I can’t take the thoughts that rush around my veins and swim in my blood, I get up, easy, she thinks it’s routine. She has no idea of the under-surface of the scratch she made in my paint.