January 30, 2013 § Leave a comment
“I’m as calm as a fruit stand in New York and maybe as strange.” – Ryan Adams – Dam Sam (I love a woman that rains)
It still amazes me, how much I change from person to person. From swaggering, confident, wild-eyed madman to scared, nodding child. Every notch on the spectrum, at some point in the month. Just when I though I had all this figured out again. I’ve been going slow. Easy. And it’s made me make choices. I’m too young to glide. Coast. From day to day. Long shifts, short shifts, sleep, Day off, week on, day off, week on, pay day, rent, food, essentials, poor, long shifts. 65, dead. It’s a loop. It’s a loop and no one is going to break it for you. Moments like this require action. A line allows progress, a circle does not. Strive. Break the grip of gravity. Fight, fuck, fucking be a man, even the girls. Need it. Your life is slipping through your finger tips. It’s passing you by. It’s oozing out of you, like the last breathe in the lungs of road kill. Too long in bed. Followed by not enough in bed. You need the later in your life. Really. I love how the guitars sound on this album. Angry. Like they are going to do something. Like, if they had too. If they were forced too. They could fight. They could feel that surge of aggression, passion, that fear and pulsing rush, that maybe, just maybe something sharp and beautiful punch through the extra thick bubble we blew around ourselves. Fight, fucking fight. Want it. Fucking go out and get it if you have to. Rest is rust.
I can hear her glide across the wooden floor boards in the next room. I know she can hear me hitting keys through the low noise of this Tuesday night. She thinks I’m doing something grown up. She thinks I’ve got this all sorted out. I hide the fact I don’t because I know the thought that I would, gives her hope. Hope that she can join me in my charade. False hope? Yes, but hope none the less. Glorious hope. Naive, stumbling hope, that maybe, hey, just maybe, this all might be OK. I yet to make up my mind about that too. All I know is that she is her. Beautiful her. Sweet, perfect, never hurt anyone, her. Blissful, easy, extension of the best parts of me her. Time bomb her. Maybe that’s the trick. Maybe I need to get away before the bomb goes off. Who am I kidding? I started doing that years ago. Maybe this time I should stick around to see what’s left. See if the smoldering earth is habitual. Too see if, were I to plant my seeds there, would anything grow? Would I grow another time bomb? Maybe it would be good to get a little shell-shocked. Hell, at least you’d know you were alive.
January 26, 2013 § 1 Comment
“You ought to head for the exits. The sooner the better.” – Autoclave – The Mountain Goats.
From sober, it’s like looking through clouded glass. From sober, it’s a code, it’s old lost letters and solutions in a dusty book. That’s the way I’ve always seen it. Of course, I am talking about the actions we make once our sobriety has been comprised. Once we have that morning hue. That half bottle ease. That numb. It’s not crystal balls, it’s bathroom glass, when we look back. Fuck. Shit. Paycheck‘s. Lottery. I hope. I hope. I have all this hope, I had it at least, I wetting it down and threw it up on the wall, just to see what would stick. Little did. I started to fear that I’d become everything I’d ever hated. I started to fear. Then I realised, that to live life with passion and self-loathing, that to turn that around you must become what you hate. Do you see what I mean? No. It feels like no one ever does. Warhol. Sixx. Cobain. Something like that. I don’t know. Let me piggy back, let me sing and dance and screw and feel easy. Is that too much to ask? No. No it isn’t. I don’t think. But I’ve asked for some much already. Like a spoiled fucking child. Fuck. It’s one of those isn’t it? The words just fall from my fingers and I smile. I know. I know. I’m making no sense. I think you have to be on my level to make sense of it all. I mean, by that, that you should take the contents of your wallet, take it to a bar, part with it in exchange for hard liquor, then read this again. I plan it to make a little more sense. I keep the TV on silent while comedy faces stream out. Faces. Faces I recongise. I love. I love. I loved. Now I’m just on auto. I’m just on a phase. I’m on a sleepy easy. I work but who gives a fuck? I mean, really? Who gives a fuck? Not me. I take another sip as the words all fall out of my head, like the cuts I suffered where as real as they feel. Like you could see them. Red words oozing out from below my hair line, blood on a keyboard. This is blood on keyboard. I miss her every night but I’m blocking it out. Shit. I distance myself. I distance the reader from me. I drink some more. Line the shots up. Did you ever notice in films, the way they line the shots up? Hit me again, they say, another, they say, like there is trust, like it’s a given that they will pay. Well I say line them up, watch me run. Catch me if you can bar man. Run rummy run. Fuck. Messy. Messy. Messy. Hungover social networking statuses. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. “It’s pretty but you hate yourself, I can see it clear as day. I’m OK, ok? Love. Hate. The rolling thunder. Shit. What? Who even cares anymore? I mean, at this point, the only person reading is someone watching the car crash. Watch the thunder roll. Watching the glass break. Let the good times roll, no we’re not in control and we’re crazy to think that we are. Laid. Torn up again. I’ve heard enough? Haven’t you? I mean really, to what extent does crazy stop being crazy? stop being mad? stop being a novelty, stop being an act? Fuck who’s even reading now anyway? She’s just reading the wheels fall off. She’s just reading another post like this. Maybe I should sober up, would that be fun to read. Sarcasm.
January 25, 2013 § 1 Comment
“Reflections are only memories” – Evergreen – Ryan Adams.
The night was just starting to settle in my blood when my friend put the question to me. I have to admit it’s one that been pacing around inside my head in recent months. One that I’d spent many passenger seat journeys and expressionless stares on. “Do we ever sort all of this out? All of our problems? I mean, really, do we ever level out?” He put to me from the other side of a stained bar table top. Ok, so when the question finally came it was made three trips, but it was never a question that was to addressed efficiently. I thought. I thought about exactly I had worked out from when I was 16. I had made progress, sure, that I was aware of. I was less anxious, less wide eyed, more sure of myself, sure that I could be trusted with myself. I have since found my limits when it comes woman, drugs and drink. Found those limits by crossing them and crossing them, just to make sure, then double, and triple, the count turns to a drink order and the time the limits crossed turns to notched blood on a wall in my brain. I’ve had positive experiences. I’ve had negative. I’m not sure if I’ve seen more battles lost than I have seen battles won. Maybe it’s good that I lost count. Hell, who am I kidding? I’m still lost. Still anxious. Still wild eyed and fucking crazy. When you get older the crazy just gets further between. You learn what you should stay away from, but that’s it, you don’t learn to stay away from it. Be it drugs, drink, or pretty girls with cocaine smiles. The conclusion came soft. Easy. Like being punched jokingly in the arm by someone you used to love, but don’t really know anymore. Imagine if you worked it all out? Imagine if you had that three drink ease. Fuck. This is another messy one. I think it’s because I had a dream last night. Someone I used to love was there. It’s strange. That kick they give you. Like I just slipped away from her. I slipped into another universe, where enough time had passed that she never existed. Where waking thought wasn’t her. Where the alarm and shower and the moment before the toaster pops isn’t her. Like the train and the walk and every love song isn’t her. Like I escaped some kind of extraordinary Orwellian thought police. Like I made the impossible possible. Like I gave up some terrible drug, after months and months and months of clucking. I got to promised land. I got to clean. Clean of her. Almost everything will turn to poison if you hold onto it too long. I learnt that. But no. I wasn’t free. Not for today at least. A trip back to that dark place, just for the day, until she slips my mind again. Nothing heels like time. I sure as hell learnt that since 16. Sure as hell.
Oh, and for the record, the conclusion I drew – Who the hell would want to sort it all out anyway? Wherever you’re at now, beats boredom doesn’t it?
January 17, 2013 § Leave a comment
“Why not hang those angel wings above my bed this evening?” – Al Baker & the Dole Queue – Thank God I’m an Atheist
I still remember that feeling. Love. It’s one of those feelings that never really leaves you. It’s always in there somewhere, kicking up dust in a dark corner of the brain. At least, that’s where I’ve been keep mine. I remember the feeling. The way it made me walk. The way it made me smile like a drunk who’d clicked. The way it turned up the light and put everything in a rainbow hue. I remember. I remember how it changed how I thought, how my brain ran, how I reached conclusions and the attributes I attributed to things. I remember the thought that stayed with me most. A lot of people who think they are in that situation have that desperate fear that soon these feelings will pass, or they will be left. Conclusions which lead to irrational thinking and actions, like a man blind with panic trying to climb a smooth vertical wall. But no. With those feelings you are not in love. You have affection, sure. But not love. Love is doubtless. Limitless in potential. No. The feeling that stuck with me was really a simple question and a conclusion that I drew from it. That question was “Why didn’t they tell me that love made you feel this good?” I mean sure, almost every play, story, book, film, and song on the radio tried to get this message across. But I didn’t believe it until I looked in her eyes. I didn’t know it. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in love, it was just that it seemed plastic in art form. Insincere. I just wasn’t buying it. They tried to tell me, it wasn’t that I wasn’t listening, it was that I didn’t hear. So this is it? I thought. The opiate of the populous. That thing that lets you abandon that teenage fire, lets abandon all that angst and fight and piss and vinegar. The thing that makes you content. I used to think, in the before time, how can you be content in your 9 to 5? How can you just exist? Don’t you want more than this? As they’d smile on the way home to their wives. They’d listened and heard. I get it. Sign me up. Turn the blinkers on. Put those sideways slats over my peripheral vision like a parade horse. Narrow my sites, narrow my aim. Straight on ’till morning.