Be magic.

July 25, 2013 § Leave a comment


Actor Robert Downey Jr. photographed by the Ca...

Actor Robert Downey Jr. photographed by the California Department of Corrections (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Young people are fickle. People are fickle but young people especially. We find ourselves down there. Way down there. All the way. Spending untold time in the depths of the deepest darkest places in our minds. Fickleness finds us here, it leaves us here, it’s always on the around. From the depths it’s those wide eyed, blood pumping, arms out stretched in the dim light highs. The ones where we feel like it’s possible. All of it. Every imagined heart beat. Every strutting glance. Every pulse and smile in a short skirt. Every run at hope. Every miss seems worthwhile. Every sleepless night. Every fuck, every hangover, every single empty bag and bottle. It all makes sense again. It all feels warm and steep, on the way up. “Jets, in my shoes man.” As the night takes hold. The dim light. A solid beat. Hold tight.

Stuff like that gets in your blood and stays in your bones. It shapes the way you grow. I guess. But what the hell do I know? It’s all out loud really. Thoughts. Thinks. Thinks across a page.

A child once asked me how I make money so that I can “buy toys”. Who told him how I spend my money, I have no idea. But regardless, in the moment before the answer left my mouth I decided that simply telling him “I’m a writer” would not impress him, and if I can’t impress a child than who can I impress? No one. So I took a second, I got down to his eye level, and whispered ” I make blank pages disappear ” And with that, I was gone. Leaving the awe struck child to simply stand there trying to remember to breathe, the moment forever stamped on his brain as the second he decided that he when he got tall he too would fight the vast emptiness of blank pages. Or so I like to think.

I like to think a lot of things. I guess. I’m not sure. I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is, be magic. Burn like magic. People will remember you. And, more importantly they will smile.

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Quits for the next.

July 20, 2013 § 1 Comment


Oh my God, whatever, etc.” Oh my God, whatever etc – Ryan Adams. 

It’s all slow for a reason. It’s apathetic and it’s tired for a reason. I think this might be it this time. I think this might be me. I was all fight. Full of fight. Attrition was never my thing. This was never my thing.

For all my swings there are some misses. No one hits it out of the park each time. For every sun rise there must be a sunset. We owe god a death. He who pays him this year is quits for the next.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KynX4zYGsMg

Hell, I might just go to bed.

I let slip my guard, I let go of the rudder now we’re drifting in the current away from one another.

July 19, 2013 § 1 Comment


 

Brain scanning technology is quickly approachi...

Brain scanning technology is quickly approaching levels of detail that will have serious implications (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

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

Diary of a bi-polar boy. I miss my mind. I miss it like an old lover, like a dead pet, like a now go way of life. It’s what I’m left with now that takes it toll, does it damage and then walks out of the door. Too much time alone, I think. Too much time on my own, I think. Too much time to think, I think. In the same way when you come up, the down washes over you cold. Slow to take real hold. Gradual into the blood, like a rickety old intravenous drip. Once you feel that first drop slip and mingle with the blood, that’s it. There’s no escaping. There’s no unplugging. It’s going to get a lot worse before it even tries to get better. You fight it. It’s only the start of the bag. Go easy, I’ve got this. You feel the apathy wash over you. You give into it. Like the acceptance of drowning. Acceptance that this is the end. This is it.  So this is dying. It’s slower than I expected.

 

But this isn’t death. It’s a cold loss of perspective. Perspective and that troublesome mind of mine. I think they might have run away together over a rainbow. Laughing all the way. Balanced, blissful and logical into that rainbow sunset. While I fumble in the background for my senses. For my head. For quiet. For peace. For the ability to sleep when it gets dark. My kingdom for those horses. My kidneys. My throat. My heart.

 

It gets stronger ever year. I feel it now and I find myself facing two paths. I know this. It knows this. While I scrape away the walls. Fingernails and blood. Running in circles. Trapped in the melodrama and a impenetrable plastic bubble from salvation. Shit.

Air-break, pit-straight, battleship, battle.

And I think I’ve got problems. I think I’ve got problems. I’ve got problems. Serious problems here.

 

Offer hope.

July 13, 2013 § 1 Comment


English: Sunset at Porto Covo, west coast of P...

English: Sunset at Porto Covo, west coast of Portugal (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

They’ve only seen the show from the stalls.” – Balthazar Impresario – Frank Turner 

 

I could feel it whittling away at my bones. Every movement of the blade. Every sharpened point. I still do feel it, it’s just a little less than it was now. That bone sharpness has lessened due to hope. Cold, bright hope that had me fumbling and spilling my cargo and searching for a shield from the brightness that light up the blood in my hand in front of my face. Like a kick to heart. A rush of blood to the everything. You jump and you squeal. Your blood is born again. I smile as I feel the heat of the sun on my face. And the hope, I’m not forgetting the hope.

I had been stumbling in the hopeless desert for too long. My horse had no name because I had no horse. It does though, it does feel good to be out of that dark, thundering, shuddering rain. I remember once back in the old country, a friend of mine who’d spent sometime as a lover had experienced real loss for the first time. It all spilled out of her. Words, tears, movements, all erratic, like she was leaking it all. It just came spilling out as the last of the sunset light her face on the tall hill were we thought fitting to sit and watch the sun set that faithful day in July. We had gone from bulletproof kids to old and limp and shot full of holes. She spoke as she thought. She thought as she cried. It came out all squeaking and high pitch and low pitch and snorting and with words broken with those heavy crying breaths like it was her final throw before a long period underwater. It came out apologetic. I watched her. I watched it raw and bleeding everything there was to bleed. Rolling out. Spilling down the hill. Thoughts. Hard thoughts flying at me. Questions that I wasn’t given time to answer. Questions that weren’t for me. Questions that, at this point, had to be asked even if there was no answer. I didn’t feel uncomfortable. I felt like I was witnessing something. Like this was the most honest that I had ever seen anyone be. This is what we aspire to be. A crying mess warmed, but not felt in the setting sun. She paused. It had been around forty minutes when she paused. I hadn’t said much, not that I could get any words in edge ways, not that any could help. But that’s what she wanted. She turned to me and through the madness, if the quiet, she said “So what Simon? What? No words? So many words from you all the time. Long words, short words, words that I don’t know what they fucking mean. Poetic words, blunt words. You, of all people must have something to offer me?”

I paused and looked at the setting sun disappearing over the horizon. The red hue had blotted the sky that deep sunset red. I turned to her and said ” When people watch a sunset, they aren’t thinking. They are just seeing. They are seeing watching this burning ball of fire sink into being blocked out by the distance. But they aren’t thinking what it really means. They watch it like it’s their last chance to see it. Like the sun is never, ever, ever going to come up again. But it is. The sun also rises. And just because one day you’re watching it fall and don’t think for a second about how you will see it again, that doesn’t mean that you won’t. It just means you were distracted by the sunset. You lost perspective. I guess, what I’m trying to say is that, tomorrow, that sun will come up again and you and I will still be here. We will still be here and we will still wear these faces. And this will still hurt. It will still hurt. But, even though our heads are full of this sunset, maybe after a few hundred laps of the sun and the horizon, that pain will get a little less. So tomorrow, you and I will come back here. We will watch that sun rise again and we will put a big marker cross on the date in our minds, the first of many laps of the sun on that horizon, and you’ll feel just a little less bad each time. That’s all we can do. All we can do is remember that the sun also rises.” She sat as that madness washed over her. She didn’t say a word till the sun had gone completely. For now at least, she had stopped leaking the words and the tears and the movement. She was still. Calm. Almost collected.

What I’m saying is, offer hope. Always offer hope.

Tell tale signs.

July 4, 2013 § 3 Comments


Wintertime Sadness

Wintertime Sadness (Photo credit: BAV-Wutson)

 

 

Where is my mind?” – Where is my mind – The Pixes. 

I’ve thought about it. Sure. I don’t think I’m ashamed to say that I’ve thought about it. It isn’t so much that I resisted it as that I never considered it an option in the first place. I don’t think I could be that cruel, that selfish, that brave. It’s a sticky sort of situation this. Coming to terms with exactly how I’ve been wired. The frayed cross currents. The parts that I frayed myself. The parts that were always going to end up frayed. Buzzing and clicking and humming up in there. Kicking and keeping me up in night time. Hissing and whirring as I hold on to the bed for sweet quiet balance. It’s all thunder clouds up there. Clouds with no rain. Just dark, unforgiving clouds. Thunder. Lighting. No rain. It’s the moments when you are alone when you start to realise exactly how bad you’ve let yourself get. I catch my breath. It’s all my own doing up there. Every loose wire. Every wet board. Every millimetre of misplaced plug. I think about it some more.

When I was younger I used to think about the hangovers I got. I used to listen to normal people complain. It was the physical pain they would talk about. Always the physical. “My stomach” they’d say, “my liver”. I’d sit next to them and wish for that pain. I’d sit next to them climbing the walls inside my own head. Like a desperate lonely permanent prisoner in cell that was all tall walls and no windows. Paranoia. The sweet sweat of that very close madness. Lonely. Alienating. Desperate, desperate, desperate. “This isn’t normal.” I’d think. “I’m not normal” I’d think as those cell walls grew taller and the real world seemed just a little more distant. A little more unreachable. I lock myself away to face it alone. To try and get on top of it without any distractions. Some days it felt like pushing the lock home in a small room and turning to face a tiger. I’d have taken a tiger. All claws and physical fight. A simple fight. Oh no. No luxury like that for me. My battle was upstairs. It was a thinking man’s battle. You can’t land punches up there. You can take them though. You can take them. They hurt more too. Do more damage.

You want to fight but it hides. It’s waits until your on your own. Then it sneaks up and pulls you into the darkness with it. And you go. You fall with it. The darkness smothers and engulfs you. You disappear. You fumble and you scratch for that saving grace, that light in the darkness, a reason, any reason more than not to hurt, a reason to leave it. I’ve thought about, sure, I’ve thought about.

Where Am I?

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