...the shapes of ghosts

Sand(shit)storm.

Thu, 03 Nov 2011 00:10:54 -0400

Sitting bleary-eyed and perched high above the blistered and scalding landscape before him, he wrapped his hand knitted scarf tighter around his parched throat. His government issued gear fit around him in such a way that when his knees were pulled up to his chest, rifle resting atop them, it appeared as though he were encompassed in a tortoise shell. The colors blended seamlessly into those of his surroundings and the rushing, sand filled wind only lent its hand in his concealment. While he appreciated the sentiment from the only company he had for miles, he thought the wind sure could be a real bitch.

Miles from anything that made any sort of sense, he was only four hours in to a shift that had no end in sight. Spare hands were few and far between and any interaction was kept short and to the point; much too short as far as he was concerned. But he was here to do a job and to do it well. So on he sat. On he sat and on he waited. Waited for what he was never sure…for the Evil to creep up over those mountains in the distance? For the Evil to slither up from all sides and finally spring him into action? What was this Evil, anyway? No matter now. It would not do him much good to doubt his resolve and it would not bring home any closer. It would not bring her any closer. All he could do every second of every day was believe that his choice had purpose and that his reasons were pure.

Moving through the bodies of water that were his loneliness was never easy. Sometimes those bodies were ponds and puddles but most often they were the deepest trenches of the deepest oceans and it was fucking hard to swim.

Keep treading, little brother.

Tripping! pause. Repeat!

Sun, 26 Jun 2011 21:02:41 -0400

“arizona curled up with california

then she tried to hide the whole thing from new mexico

who knew before he saw them making out in yuma

that she had been loving someone new

but california not california

how could you?

the bully loved her cactus the underdog her pine

but she would only love one at a time

new mexico has always hated california

and though he knew that arizona wore the pants

he got loaded and he started throwing punches

the poor injun never had a chance

scissors cut paper

paper covers rock

rock crushes scissors

scissors fall apart…”

These lovely lines are from one of my favorite writers, David Bazan…let me tell you, there is nothing better than hearing this song at just the right time.

Come on freeway…lead us on…

Violeta.

Tue, 10 May 2011 01:04:00 -0400

That first step taken onto new land hit her in the chest with a brut force. The feeling in her lungs was unlike anything she might have imagined; the timid wisps of frigid air curling out from her nostrils and around her lips brought a childlike wonder to her eyes. The landscape was lonely. The trees wore hardly any clothing, specks of ice the night lost in its rumble with the selfish ground were trying with all their might to be released once again to the clouds, and quiet animals were hobbling away from the country roads to find solace in the immaculately constructed frames of branches they had labored so intently over. The hum drum moaning of the distant freeway was the only reminder that man had infested this sanctuary.

As the early morning sun began wiping the sleep from his eyes his yawns slowly brought meaning to his subjects. The near naked branches began crackling in the light as the she cardinals made their way to and fro, and their fingers quickly made games of their shadows on the golden ground. Skeletons from last season’s corn harvest lay rigid and broken like toothpicks at the table of the world’s strongest man. The last bit of purple fog dragged its toes through the dirt and made promises to return that it couldn’t keep with the fast approaching symptoms of summer.

This is beautiful, she murmured to herself.

It’s funny how it sometimes takes a glimpse through someone else’s eyes to remind you of how you really feel about home.

Pride and Glory.

Thu, 17 Mar 2011 00:16:57 -0400

(With an emptying glass, and some old soul song rippling through the airwaves, it hit him. Square in the jaw, it hit him. All the thoughts he thought he knew came flying out of every pore like they were circling some great black hole and couldn’t resist its force any longer. He couldn’t figure out where the change came from or what had triggered it. What he did know was that it came for a reason and he’d learned enough to let it be.)

I just found this scrawled out on a scrap of paper that was balled up under my bed…I wish it had a date with it. I wish a lot of things. What I’ve come to realize lately (and what folks have known for centuries) is that when something good comes your way you have to wrangle the hell out of it and tuck it into your pocket. Whether it’s the front pocket on your pantolones or the breast one in your blazer makes no difference [afteralltheybothhavetheirhighpoints] as long as it’s kept close. I’ve something now that no matter how hard I try can never be kept close enough. Just a little bit more and I think I’ll have it. Just a little bit tighter and I think it will be better. It’s silly how long it takes us sometimes to get to where we knew all along we should be…

Ghosts leaking through these walls

As I wait for them to come tuck me in

Ropes hanging from the ceiling

Crying and begging for my sweet little neck

Dreams clawing inside me

I try not to listen to their howling tune

Shadows shaping and shifting

Trying to fool me into their arms

But your heart it is a bastion

Somewhere that I should lay my head

But a soldier must finish his fighting

‘fore he can come home…to be your man

Tongues twisting through tired mouths

Forming the wrong words can’t get nothing out right

Hands all anxious and idle

Weary and tiresome can’t give no relief

Words all shallow and breathless

Ain’t doing us no good better find some peace

Intentions get lost in the clutter

But I’m doing my best at keeping you safe

But your heart it is a bastion

Somewhere that I should lay my head

But a soldier must finish his fighting

‘fore he can come home…to be your man

Now I can sleep.

Hilltops.

Fri, 18 Feb 2011 11:49:15 -0500

He was alone for the first time in that space that was theirs. Almost everything was the same as far as environment goes; a light mist was rolling over the tops of the canyons, a faint but adequate glow was coming from above him, and the tree lined circle of open flats swallowed him whole to keep him from the city. He couldn’t have been more grateful because the city looked especially fidgety tonight and he was in no mood for confrontation. All he wanted was to sit and smoke and feel forgotten about for just a little while. It was so comfortable there but he was never very certain why. After all, they had only been there a couple of times. Maybe it was because the novelty never had the chance to wear off. Maybe it was because sharing bits of utter quiet with someone doesn’t happen in very many places. That was the angle he chose to go with. He’d determined that his analyzing never got him anywhere and it was best to just leave some things be.

sometimes…everything just fits.

Thu, 10 Feb 2011 12:15:35 -0500

sometimes…everything just fits.

Dream Machine.

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:59:14 -0500

I wonder what it means to really understand movement and time and your role within these two things. I’ve spent so many hours these last few weeks on the constant go and have placed myself in other people’s lives for varying amounts of time with fluctuating degrees of interest and sincerity. There have been obligations to meet. There has been advice to be given. There has been the need for a listening ear and steady shoulder. I left for “Home” two and a half weeks ago only to be reminded why I left…that’s not to say that most of my time wasn’t enjoyed, I saw amazing old friends and caught up on years of silence, but the social climate is devastating. Homophobia a RAGING epidemic, the religious and political conservatism, at times, made me physically ill. How could I be a product of this? was a running theme in my brain.

So here I am, nearly half way through my late twenties and am finally beginning to feel at home and at ease. Not ease in the letting up sense, but more like I can breathe easier because I believe I am where I should be. I think of everything and everyone that has been a part of my makeup and personality, my ideals and opinions, my sense of humor and humanity, and can’t help but wonder how I have positively or negatively affected their makeup. The bending lines of space and time and thought are zig zagging and swooping and climbing and arcing and plunging into the depths all around us and we are caught up in the mix together. How do we do life? How don’t we do life? How do we get from A to B with the confidence needed to traverse such wide margins? I have no fucking clue. But I do think I am figuring it out…slowly, very very slowly, but surely.

I know one thing: there are people that come in and out of our lives for multitudes of reasons…and recognizing the good ones for their worth is paramount. Owning your status and situation and believing that you’re doing whatever it takes to get you where you need to be is not always easy, but I know that I am working on it.

Tonight will be a night of restful sleep after what feels like ages of the opposite. My brain runs in patterns and shapes that keep me up but I have a trick up my sleeve. You see, I built this incredible little device and I assure you it’s real:

You will need…

A favorite memory

A physical reminder of a piece of your life not currently with you

A small box

Put the memory and physical reminder into the box and place under your bed. If you concentrate really hard while falling asleep the two will grow into a landscape so believable you might wake a little confused because somehow you went where you really wanted to go and saw who you really wanted to see and did the things you really wanted to do…

I’ll be seeing you.

One Hundred Thousand Times.

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:59:00 -0500

Cigarette number fourteen (for the day) stamped out and laid to rest amongst his fallen brothers. Half empty (full?) glass of warm brandy loosely cradled in the left hand. A brain that feels like it’s been in one of those industrial sized washing machines just tumbling and tumbling and tumbling. Cold and smooth floorboards in a terribly modest single apartment in an overlooked pocket of the city. No sound coming from the radio because nothing is right and even if it was right the atmosphere needs its silence so there’s no point in pitting the two against one another.

I’ve been over this one hundred thousand times! I’ve pulled the teeth of my reslove until he gave in to me! But somehow, that little sonuvabitch grew some of those teeth back. Or maybe he’d pinched his pennies until he’d socked away enough for a good set of implants. Whatever the case, the treaty had been broken, the cease-fire was now only a fond memory, and it was time for the trenches to become home once again.

I’ve been over this one hundred thousand times!

Perhaps one hundred thousand and one is the magic number.

When It Comes (It Shall Come Just Right!!!).

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:58:42 -0500

Bzzzzzzz!! Bzzzzzzz!! Bzzzzzzz!! It woke him so suddenly that he was pulled from sleep heavy-lidded and unsure of the reality of the moment. “What the? What time is it?” he said to himself. The morning was screaming through the cracks in his blinds but he felt as though his head had hit the pillow only minutes before. He didn’t recognize the number so he let it go to his inbox. Seconds later it came again, bzzzzzzz bzzzzzzz bzzzzzzz!!! “Goddamn bill collectors,” he thought. He picked up and scratched out a tired greeting. “HIIIIIIII!” came the voice on the other end. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, the finest of all wake up calls had made its way to his ear and nothing had sounded sweeter in ages. The composers of the early morning had deemed it appropriate to send a messenger for them to rouse him from slumber and spark a fire inside him. They knew that he needed just the right dose of goodness to stir his soul and set his gears to working and the elixer they concocted was delivered in a vessel that could not be beat! What a wonderful surprise this was. The Messenger had done its duty and done it well, and he was ever so thankful.

Until next time, Messenger…

Lane Changes.

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:58:00 -0500

After what seemed like countless hours fulfilling responsibilities and being at everyone’s beckon call, his evening was finally winding down. What he couldn’t figure out was why he felt the way he did. The last few days had been quite fantastic, really, but for some reason it was missing. But what was missing? Why wasn’t he still floating up among the spires? There was some little piece that wasn’t fitting into the mold and it was driving him crazy.

Arriving home felt like it did most other times, it felt formulaic. He dropped his gear on the floor, sat on his bed, took a breath and then moved to the kitchen to fix himself a drink. “Just this one for tonight,” he said out loud. He flipped the switch for the radio and was pleasantly surprised with what greeted him; a wonderful cover of an impeccable tune. “I should feel so accomplished right now!” was all that was replaying in his head. To be fair, there had been a lot to process lately…news from home that he couldn’t help but be unsure about, thoughts of inadequacy when it came to certain roles he held, and just a general but mild confusion when it came to some of the wheels that were in motion. Overall, life was moving in a good direction. Maybe it was just one of those things that can’t be explained. Maybe moments like these were meant to show you how good the other moments are. Maybe the silent drive across town was so he could be absolutely alone with no distraction. Maybe there was no grand meaning to any of it and he just needed some sleep. Regardless, he was determined to wake up tomorrow and own every situation he found himself in.

Cinema Club for One.

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:57:34 -0500

The warm and fuzzy vinyl spinning in unbounded circles on the turntable was taking him back. He’d started to get used to the open spaces and lapses in time that filled the void left by The Absence, but welcomed the disposition of the night with open arms. He felt good. He felt good because somehow, in the tangled mess of wires and electronic pulses, The Absence had figured out how to bring itself back home and have a real life conversation. The Absence told jokes (The Absence could always make him laugh) and reminisced about the old times, even played old memories on the wall like films from the projector tucked under the shirt on its chest. Some of them were ridiculous. Some were adventurous. Some were terribly intimate. They were the best films he’d ever seen. He wanted them to last all night but didn’t know how to make The Absence stay. Maybe if I just make some more popcorn.

See What You See.

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:57:05 -0500

“Hurry up! Let’s GO!” I was in no mood to follow after him but I figured that these particular circumstances called for action. We were on the roof of Miller’s grocery with the binoculars I had lifted from the chest my older brother keeps in the back of his closet. They were passed down since my great-grandfather and for some reason he thinks they’re too important to ever touch my value-less hands. But he’s also kind of crazy, my brother. He says that when he looks through them he can feel and see everything that has ever passed through their lenses, that he can connect with the men in our family that came before us and better understand himself. Have you ever heard of such a thing? See, I told you. He’s crazy. I wasn’t being mean about it, just telling you the way it is. Who in their right mind thinks that a pair of binoculars could possibly be some sort of time portal? I wish they were, but it turns out the best these things can do is show you the woman’s breasts who lives on the third floor of the apartment building on the corner of Johnston and 17^th.

That’s why we were up there of course, the woman with the breasts I mean. That’s why we had been going up since the beginning of summer two and a half months ago. It never failed that every night at ten o’clock she would go through the same ritual while getting ready for bed and for six glorious minutes we fully understood why the Good Lord had bothered to create us.

I felt sorry for my brother sometimes. Sorry for the fact that he was so concerned with living in a place and time other than his own that he couldn’t take a break and see what was right in front of him. But I guess we all need our own perspective.

Living a day as just a continuation of the ones before it is a habit I’ve grown quite weary of. ...

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:54:28 -0500

Living a day as just a continuation of the ones before it is a habit I’ve grown quite weary of. When did this happen? When did I, you, he, she, it, they become so tired? When and why did the things we actually give a damn about gradually take a place further back in line? Back behind the things that have made us the terribly apathetic and self-medicating machines that we are? And more importantly, when are (am) we (I) going to own up and get our (my) shit together?

That’s my progression of thoughts on a fairly regular basis. But what’s eating at me now, is that it’s not all so dire as that. Really. I just have a disposition toward clouded vision. So do you. So do they. So does he, she and it. If we don’t talk ourselves out of it soon…

These blankets that we wear around us are made from tears and sweat, cold shakes and bad dreams. Blood from the cuts we’ve received gathers in crusty little colonies near the bottom and this blanket is fucking heavy. Mine feels as if it’s made of wool, and guess what? It’s too warm. And scratchy. And I think I’m allergic to it. So why do I find some sort of disgusting comfort within its shell? I’ll tell you why…because, to borrow from Aaron Weiss, “I’m not the boy that I once was, but I’m not the man I’ll be”. I’m in the in between. And I’m realizing for the first time, that embracing this in between is what’s important. I don’t need to be where I’ve been. I don’t need to be where I will be. I need to be here. Right here.

And strangely, writing this down is just what I needed for today. Tomorrow will need something different.

Which Way and When.

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:53:53 -0500

He stood on the metro platform counting his breaths until the eleven fourteen came lumbering down the line. If he didn’t count, everything would fall apart. If he didn’t keep his weak-kneed brain occupied his traitor heart would assume command and his Resolve would say, “Alright, old friend. I can’t hold out any longer. Hope you make it!” Resolve. What a fickle creature.

Open. Close. Open.

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:53:13 -0500

It was just one of those moments (her photographs would look so good on these walls) when you find yourself thinking of a life that isn’t yours. You’re caught in the ebb and flow of complete strangers (she would love this) meticulously constructing the patterns that will become the memories of things you haven’t experienced. You have become the world’s leading architect on daydreams. It’s really quite (what a lovely home this could be) impressive that you’re able to shut everything out and exist solely in this span of time and believe for a second that it’s your reality. You’ve decided (i can see how we could make this our own) to take up residence within a character stuck in the middle of the plot in the middle of the chapter in the middle of your critically acclaimed novel; and it feels good. So (the spiral stairs could lead to the bedroom. i could build a desk in that corner and encourage her to pick up those pens and pencils) you keep writing. And the thoughts just keep coming. And you worry for a second that maybe you shouldn’t be thinking (breakfasts could be so good in that nook) the things you are because it’s silly and then you think “Wait a minute.” But you don’t know what comes next. You get caught off guard and shuffled back into the current (oh man there’s a fire escape MADE for sipping wine while wrapped up in blankets) against your will and now you’re moving. “Not yet! I wasn’t finished yet!”, you scream. “I have loads more up here and if you would just let me get it out I promise it will be the most beautiful story!” But nobody wants (she would look astonishing lying in bed with the sunlight crawling through these windows and across her skin in the mornings) to hear it. So you tell yourself that it’s alright and they probably wouldn’t understand anyway. You had your break and you loved every fleeting second of it.

Have you had that kind of moment? We all need them, no matter if we think they are outlandish or not. There are plenty of dark days that come creeping around and I, for one, will take my dose of happy wherever it may be found.

Cumulus.

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:50:45 -0500

The Clouds enveloped the downtown skyline this morning in a restless haze. “We are here!” they bellowed. “I know you’re here,” I replied, “And you’re disrupting my view. Do you really think I woke early just to see you?” Of course, we all know, clouds are indifferent to the feelings of us wandering souls. They’ll come and go and do whatever they please with no regard for the rest of us. I generally welcome a sulky grey sky, but today was different. I wanted Warmth! I wanted Light! I wanted wanted wanted!

I wanted her.

I wanted her to be clutching my hand with purpose. I wanted to make her laugh as we walked around the lake. I wanted to gently put my lips on hers and say everything that could ever be said without actually having to say a thing at all. That’s when you realize that something has been done up inside you that can never be undone; when you can lie together and speak not a sound because words are not necessary. “Have you felt that, Clouds?!” The poor bastards. They very obviously had not felt that. Otherwise, why would they show up just to try to ruin my should-be-lovely morning? Jealous to the nines, I suppose. “Listen up Assholes,” I say, “I’ve got some good company on this walk today (of course they couldn’t see her, but I promise you she was there) and I don’t need you around fucking it all up.” “Us?”, the nerve…

I ignored them. She was with me. I could feel her. And nothing else mattered.

Old Zero, New One.

Wed, 22 Dec 2010 00:00:00 -0500

She left yesterday. I woke up again in the bed that was hers. Then it felt a little like ours. Her smell will never leave these fibers, and along with that smell comes every single memory I can manage to pull from the last year and a half. And, of course, they are drenched in her. There are other memories, to be sure, but they’re clouded, less important. You immerse yourself in her because she demands it. And how could you deny her?

“I’m proud of you” I had said. And I meant it. Most days I mean it, and then there are others when I’m a selfish prick. We were caught in this space, this vacuum, and we didn’t stand anywhere. We loved one another; that much we knew. What we didn’t know was how the fuck we were going to survive. I should speak for myself. I didn’t know how the fuck I was going to survive.

On a day like this the city is enough to put you just over the edge. And even then it will put you just a little bit further. All you can see is the vast and congested space filled with everything and everyone that isn’t her. She is still on a plane somewhere; waiting in a ferocious silence for it to come. And come it will. She is the kind that is immortalized in works of great literature. She possesses a voice that renders you powerless and a body that costs you sleep because thinking of her only causes the blood to rush to your shaft and there’s nothing left but to stay awake pulling yourself dry.

———————————-

And so read the last written page in his journal. I found it when I was going through some of his things in this room that once held the same bed he referred to in those first lines. I don’t know where he is now. He left what seems like ages ago without breathing a word to anyone. Even though the passage is short I find myself inexplicably wrapped up in his emotions. The tone was something I had a hard time believing could come from the guy I felt I had come to know so well. He was intelligent and tried to be kind. He was generally interested in the wellness of those around him. Humorous in his own way, he would find the most appropriate times to spout the most inappropriate of jokes. He was well liked by others, but I was really the only one that was allowed a closer look inside. There was a darkness clouding up just beneath his surface that I often thought would start leaking out the tiny cracks that were forming in his charming exterior. Something was just off with him. I don’t know why no one else could see it, or, if they could, why they didn’t speak up. It was so clear that he was about to go spinning off the map.

This girl of his certainly was a catch. She was everything he had written about her and more. I won’t hesitate to admit my envy of him. And though that particular shade of green doesn’t look good on anyone, trust me when I say that if you ever saw her you would grant me full pardon. To call her a “firecracker” only just begins to describe her and he loved her. But I could love her better. I think he suspected my feelings at one time or another but was gracious enough to allow me my indulgence. He knew what he had and knew that everyone else wanted it.

She had left that afternoon; in search of what she didn’t know. It was time for her to set out on her own and find whatever she could; time to strap herself in, punch the ignition, light those boosters and take her rocket to anywhere. I was happy for her. I believed in her. I wanted more for her than I could ever say to anyone but I think she could feel it. I am a better man than he will ever be and he knew it.

I killed him on a Thursday morning. It’s really not that hard to take the life of someone you’ve known like a brother, but of course my size gave me the advantage. I wrapped my hands around his throat and looked him square in the eyes. It didn’t take nearly as long as I imagined it would and I thought whaddya know…

What else are you supposed to do with the shit parts of yourself?