Hidden in the movie were the smallest details that you could only glean time after time after time of watching the same scenes over and over again. It's not until you can mimic the scenes, breathe the performance that it all becomes apparent.
(more) It's in the way the water separates in the glass, where the lips leave the curved edges and leave behind indelible prints. It makes you realize that you leave behind so many things. Memories, finger prints, the touch of lips on glass.
And yet where does it all lead? Do the details come together and coalesce into something tangible or does it all come to this mismatched patchwork of experience where we try to glean some meaning?
It's hard to say. Even harder when the details aren't as readily apparent. All that's left to do is re-watch and re-live and pick it all apart until the patchwork becomes clear.
The sum of experience is the sum of who we are. It stretches beyond the individual, even beyond the collective.
Within that grand, cosmic equation lies hidden beauty. At least that's what I keep telling myself. (less)
Saying that anyone has grit is a blasphemy to all that's come before it.
Moments and spaces in time are disjointed, random, nonlinear. To have grit is to say you can handle it, that you can put forth with the sordid memories, the deep regrets, the quiet moments(more), all to disregard their flow. A reminder here, a tangible moment-- a touch of the skin, the lips on your neck, tangled up in strings beyond your knowing. A tapestry of red wire cut in the middle where the gaps are found.
She throws her head back in ecstasy, my face buried in her neck. I'm outside her door, hesitating to knock for the sorrow the lies within. Where do they connect? What parts am I missing? Where does the plot follow? Where's the common thread?
Can you bear it when you walk away? The hallways echo. Can you hear her voice?
I don't knows prefaced with quiet smiles. The tilt of her head. The wideness of her eyes.
Not here again. No hot toddies and plates of fries. A diner booth tucked in the corner. Her elbows on the tale.
Flash in the dark. Unstuck again. She cries into my shoulder silently, thinking I don't notice.
Daniel Day-Lewis on the screen. Poisoned mushrooms her and I.
There's a highway ahead. It forks toward the Tetons and toward Idaho. You know where each lead, but which is the preference? Equitable in their own rights.
I try to think in McCarthy tones. Long descriptors that flourish in their completion. Yet they elude me. There's no beauty in this world in its turning as to that of the human memories. Furnished for comfort, but never to please. (less)
I pulled over about 30 miles outside Seeley Lake, having been on the road for almost 20 hours. Mountains on all sides. Dense undergrowth and trees in a corridor all along the lakes. Dirt roads leading to trailheads and(more) homes so far removed it was hard to believe anyone could live out here let alone make a living.
As freeing as it was, as far away as I had run, it wasn't enough. It was all still there lingering just in the background. There's no where left to run, but the distance still wasn't enough.
"Hey there, you doin' alright?"
He chugged up in his Bobcat, the preferred method of transit around the sparsely populated towns. Summer tourists darted by, carving their way through the forest. The locals lingered, taking their time. Where did they have to be? They had all the time in the world.
"Yeah, yeah man." I replied, holding out a hand in greeting. "I'm all good."
"You sure? That your car making that awful grinding noise?"
"Well, why dontcha follow me up to Glen's? He'll get ya sorted out."
"It's fine. I can manage."
"I don't know about that."
"I said I don't know about that."
"How'd you figure?"
"That look on your face. Y'ain't from here and you have no idea how you're getting home."
I sighed, leaning back against the car. "Dunno if I have an argument against that."
"Ain't here to have an argument, just wanna help you out."
"Yeah, alright. I'll follow you."
He nodded and took off ahead. I climbed back in my car and followed. If ever there were a place worth staying, this would have been it.
Would have been, being the operative phrase. (less)
Wooden interactions. Small talk punctuated with work jargon. Where once fire and passion burned, little embers slowly died, snuffed out where once they wanted to spread and grow and burn the world to its foundations.
(more) Now she smiles at you and it's empty. A memory of the way she looked at you as you laid in her bed, waiting expectantly for her to lean over you. Hair of dying maple leaves. Eyes of pools, clear blue. The smell of her plants, verdant and fragrant.
Doomed from the start. Stars crossed to hell and back. We both knew it, and yet we persisted. A weekend spent snowed in. Late night movies gave way to intimate hours spent talking face to face about all of our deepest secrets, our silent regrets. Each moment spent together a small death. Each lingering gaze a small sadness.
Yet we self destructed in the same way. We tore out our own hearts, but she put them both into a box. No holes for air, just suffocating stillness.
Each wooden interaction carves a notch, a weakening of the structure. I'm already broken, termites have taken root. Will I find you again, before the end? (less)
I thought when I came out of the mountains I'd be a whole new guy, but instead I was just the same with a few photographs in tow. Memory baggage.
The idea that you can run away and become someone new has become bullshit to me. The traumas,(more) the heartbreaks, the daily stresses are going to stick with you no matter where you go to run. Mountain peaks, sand dunes, wide prairies leading to a barn your future self built. Generous hideaways, but even they can't shield you from the memories you've sown.
Instead I found myself staring at 30 square miles of sand thinking about how small we all are. Might as well be atoms in the gram scheme of things. No, smaller. Once you divide down to that point the sadness seems less immediate, more distant. There you are in the moment waiting for, what, exactly? Salvation? No. I don't think there is salvation in this life or any presupposed next.
All you can do is make the best out of what you've got. If what you've got is 6 grams of weed and a sure thing laying on your bed, then I guess that's an easy call to make. But it isn't. It finishes and you sit up in the bed stoned off your ass and wondering how you got there in the first place.
So you sit on that hillside, at the miles of sand, and you let your thoughts blow away with the wind. Maybe, like the dunes, all you need is time. The memory baggage will pile up, but pieces will blow away.
It's sad, but it's something. Sometimes it helps to let time make your decisions for you, because you know where your conscious mind always leads. (less)
I had some good shit written, and when I pressed backspace to edit it deleted the whole goddamn thing. So then I smoked a cigar and chewed a guitar pic instead.
Sometimes, you just wanna say 'Fuck it,' ya know? Leave your thoughts never opened. Instead they'd sit(more) mint in your mind and no one would have known they ever existed. That's the real shit. That's the Swiss Army Man shit. What you hide beside your farts. The real thoughts. The what if's. The times when you look at that co-worker with the long legs and think "If only I'd just ask her to dinner" all while stressing over the fact you're underperforming at work.
At least that's what you think. That's all before you take the drink that can safely be described as five-fingers of Crown Royal. That's when you realize the standard straight whisky is probably only two fingers, yet here you are with a fist. But perhaps the fist is appropriate. Perhaps a fist is what you need when you face the next stressful, time-constrained day. Not in the sense of gripping a drink, but rather in the sense of grabbing the day with the strongest fist you can muster and whispering in its ear "Fuck. You. Dude." and flinging it across the office.
Bake the chicken, boil the green beans, stare at the wall and empty chair that's only pushed out from the table because the last time you sat in it you were stoned and discussing the finer points of The Meat Puppets with your buddy. Play the guitar, croon the love songs off-key.
Maybe for now you're better off never opened. Maybe for now that's okay.
Maybe she's out there waiting for you. Maybe tomorrow needs to be taken with the fist. (less)
For a long time I've framed myself the distancing type. I always leave, I keep my feelings to myself left to rot deep down somewhere inside where they turn to bitterness and a longing for fantasies that may never be.
(more) Turns out I planted all that evidence myself, and upon searching you'd find me guilty of all charges. The truth is just trapped. Trapped somewhere where it all gets distorted and fuzzy into twisted images that come out as a vague representation of the life I'd prefer to leave.
Truth is you never know how much you enjoyed something until you can't have it anymore. Truth is I can't count the consequences of my planted evidence on one hand anymore. Truth is that some distances become insurmountable, no matter how many miles you hike up into the mountains to try and hide from them.
I once wrote that promises to myself come a dime a dozen, and each one has turned into cigar-leaden ash in my mouth. As I sat smoking and listening to the bittersweet playlist that Spotify has availed me, the world suddenly felt empty. The pink-bellied clouds crossing the Colorado sunset hung lazy over some vast emptiness that I worry has taken too much root.
I've framed myself for crimes I can never repent. (less)
Sinead O'Connor was found and is fine. Stop already.
The buffalo is dead, euthanized, because you were too careless to leave only footprints in your environment. Stop already.
(more) Donald Trump would have been a joke if you would have taken a moment and stopped already.
Bathrooms never would have been an issue since, ya know, they were already using the rooms that suited them best. Stop already.
Take a moment, a deep breath. Look at the news. Tell them to fucking stop. Tell it to the politicians, the legislators, the writers, the soap-boxers, the people who claim to be experts on your child's vaccinations. Tell them to fucking quit, and the rest of us can live our lives and build a better worlds. We all stopped already years ago. The homosexuals, the trans, the straight, the ones who just live for a change. We all stopped. We all decided that, in the end, it didn't matter anyway. We shook hands, ordered a pizza, drank a beer, laughed at a shitty film, went to work, went home, and called it a day.
It's unpopular, the way I think, but fuck it, ya know? I've got friends from all camps, and all any of them, and I, want to do is live in peace. Stop already. Find the peace that we found. Breathe. Cross your legs. Feel the Earth. Get the Yoda or the Maz advice and live it. Piss in a toilet. Eat that pizza that has pineapple on it. Celebrate yourself. (less)
Dingoes in the hall, ravenous blenders of teeth and fur. It's cool mate.
Gun to his head, his mouth. Teeth chattering porcelain chimes against steady steel and polycarbon mold.
Squeeze the trigger, paint the walls. A click(more), a bang, a splash, a drop. A heartbeat echoing down the twisting curving lurching hallways. A mere instant of chaos and silence. It's cool mate. It's business.
He picked up the meth, the money, and a pipe and turned hell towards the stairs feet sticky with viscera. He scraped his foot on the stair like a business man tracking in dog shit. He adjusted his crotch as he left the building. Laughed as he walked away. (less)
Memories of melodies. Of that shitty Taylor Swift song that played ad nausea on the hospital radio stations tuned to DJ's that sound more hungover than enthusiastic. The schizophrenic shaking his head side to side on each line. The patient who lived three lives singing off-tune and kilter to(more) lyrics she frequently forgot.
And there I sat, only a year ago now, scared out of my wits trying to lose myself in a study of Urban China huddled up in scrubs not quite my size. For all intents and purposes *I* looked the crazy one. I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it every night before I fell asleep, if I didn't think about that same schizophrenic being pulled screaming by his arms and legs so he'd just stop fucking hurting himself for one minute.
Here I am a year later. Button down shirts, smile on my face, grew out a small goatee but I'm not sold on how I look with it yet. Published twice online, graduated with a bachelor's on time. No idea what the fuck I'm doing really, but do any of us?
I still worry about what I put people through, though it seems like most everyone either doesn't think about it or now it's so far away it ceased to matter. They're still far away too, but we're fixing that one month at a time. I think I'll head back this summer to stay. Maybe I can afford it, maybe I can't. Won't know until I just do it.
For now I'm just sitting back in my office pretending to look busy, fidgeting with my beard to decide if I like the coarseness of it, thinking about the gymnastics coach I have a date with Friday. A gymnastics coach. Imagine that. (less)
Don't lose sight long light your long face rolls. Of squat equines of roots do show their minds of bark and tendon lines where I can't yet decide. The strength of men lies where cowered in their mother's sights of tears in streams, torrents of muddy waters-- screams in(more) silence yet conveyed so clear.
Threw you the obvious to see what was left behind the eyes of a fallen angel-- lines that aren't mine I see in your eyes, the creases at the edge of your lips I so define by mine-- the soft the rough the vivacious climes. Of mine, you're mine, we're in this time. We shine, you shine, you are a star of molten helium roiling beneath your atmosphere of swollen waves and clots of ammonia. Your love--- a toxic sting of heart. The numbness of my toes a part.
Your secret furrows of your brow betray your nauseous tongue. Flip grip your chip's dip where lies the clitoris of your missus, the shame contrived of old. Haunted vulva, the oasis of the young and lost. Perfume ambrosia, your aroma of malcontent. (less)
Let's make love on the back of a whale somersaulting over the moon, thick as thieves as we weave into writhing ribbons of color and energy that paint the quiet moonlight in rainbows of God himself come to take light on his creation. Cum twice, set me back a light.(more) Inherent vice. Only watched thrice. Rhythmic thoughts of passion in star bright night light. Bob Seeger dreams of Night Moves. Tell me your Argentinian tales of Chileans up the Amazon of your content. Wrap your legs around my soul and find that it was never hard to find. Swing dance into portals streaked of crimson hue your eyes they coo their tones of sweet nostalgia. Tear my heart unto your razor blade, heart stained lamp shade. Small blades, quaff the shade. Quoth the ravens of your tongue, that all shall be and none shall run. Tensile strings prehensile into shades of Lovecraft. Dagon glides, sacrifice. Eroding trolls, stepping roles in stone of chisel and lectern polls.
Let's make love on the back of a whale somersaulting over the moon. Paint the strands, building hands, embracing fans. Burn the breach. Light the fog. Let's show that hell is yet to come. (less)