I know you hate me too. You always say you do.

June 8, 2013 § 1 Comment


mastegant mals d´alçada en un subterrani ( Coc...

mastegant mals d´alçada en un subterrani ( Cocaine ) – chewing altitude illnes in the underground ( cocaine ) (Photo credit: Jordi@photos)

“Who knew a troubled person could be creative?” – Bart Simpson

I am amazing. I am a man. I am that curious cocktail of contradiction. I want everything and nothing all at once. I want the feelings without the fear. The highs with out the lows. The blissful adrenaline ups without the back down black of free fall. I want it all, so fucking give to me, take it away, run me around in circles, lock me up in a dark room for a year, I won’t want to be bothered, wake me when it’s time to do this all over again. I want to sleep and I want to stay up. I want to taste it but I don’t want it to hurt. I am everything that’s wrong and everything that’s right with being young, with being old! With being human. I want to dance but I don’t want anyone to see. I want something to fight for but I don’t want to have to fight for it. I want to spill blood but I don’t want to get up close. I want to be on stage but I don’t want to work for it. I want to drink but I don’t want to be hungover. I want to be in love without getting hurt. I want to brave with no risk. I want to be plastic and bright and fickle and shine and easy and breeze through conversations and people. I want, I want, I want. So give it to me. Because I’m not going to take it. Give it to me. Pass it over, quiet and slick, just slide it on across the table to me. Quickly now. Snap, snap.

That’s our problem, don’t you think? Maybe. If you don’t, if you don’t think that is, than that all must have seemed crazy. No more crazy than the last 30,000 words but hey, you’re still here aren’t you? I’m in a spin. A dark spin I feel. It rushes around in me, it’s all heavy drums and electric guitars in the dark. The wind in my hair, the blood holding on inside my veins, holding on and waiting for this madness to pass. My brain putting pen to paper on exactly how long it can put up with this and what it is planning to punish me with when I wake. I know how that one goes. I’ve been on the receiving end a few times now. It kicks to the head and it’s spitting up blood. It beats being bored. Beats the hell out being boring.

Loosing my mind again

June 6, 2013 § Leave a comment


Championship fight between Cassius Clay and So...

Championship fight between Cassius Clay and Sonny Liston: Miami Beach, Florida (Photo credit: State Library and Archives of Florida)

Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.” – Mark Twain

Sandy came out swinging. She always did, it’s how she was, it had become here crutch. She needed to own the room and if she thought for any reason that her ownership was in jeopardy she would let her hands go like a prize fighter. She’d walk in, tall, taking the eyes of everyone in the room, strutting almost, like someone on a dangerous cocktail of drugs who was enjoying the balance before the twists and the turns and the ups and the downs. She had found that middle. She had taken it and made it her own. She wasn’t emitting danger. She wouldn’t play at danger. She was danger. It ran in her blood like a scared pack of animals desperate for survival, it twisted in here arms, it turned her open palms into fists. She was the jump of the alarm bell, a sharp and shocking sensation that shakes you from your slumber. You don’t just stop being danger.

She drives as you would expect as we hit the highway out of Reno. Back on the road. Back in Nevada. The sun, the blood and the drink, you know the story. She sways and swings the cars between lanes as we rattle around on her cars front seat. Open top, the whole sky to ourself. She drinks while she drives and she throws the empty bottles at passing cars. A public service announcement she is not. That’s the thing with Sandy. She’s on fire 24/7. You know those people who bounce around that old phrase “I live every day like it’s my last!” No you fucking don’t. Sandy does. Sandy is who those people wish they were. It won’t be long before we have a cop car for company. One of the passing cars will call them after Sandy put a bottle through the window. Maybe it will be that estate? Who knows. That is not a situation I want to be in. We’ve established that Sandy is mad and at wheel and drunk. Also, judging from her balance and poise, she was wired on cocaine. Also, not to take anything away from my deductive powers, she’d been snorting lines of cocaine off the dashboard. We don’t need heat but Sandy has no off switch. If it happens it happens. Until then, it’s just a perfect night, where I actually forget every angry moment. Every frustration. Every mind numbing maddening moment. And instead I just focus on staying out of the morgue and maybe, just maybe, spending the night out of handcuffs.

Where Am I?

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