Friday, November 27, 2009
But it turns out that the hippie man's only purpose was to spread discourse in our hearts, and the friendship was nothing but a twisted, tangled web of lies and deceit.
I am writing this from a table in a cafe downtown over a flowering tea and the first cigarette I've legally purchased with my own cash. Which brings me to about twelve bucks. I. am. fucked. I've called Jupiter and Peter. They're on their way.
Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday. To celebrate I've taken my freedom. Self liberation. It's very exciting and frightening at the same time. I spent last night in the car. And while I'm not exactly sure of my next move, hopefully now the nightmares will stop. I once heard a poem in a movie that I can't recall off hand. "I was walking up the stairs, and I passed a man who wasn't there. He wasn't there again today. I wish I wish he'd go away". Maybe he'll be gone now
Some time has passed between the last paragraph and the moment in which I am writing this one. Jupiter is going to try and find me a room for the night.
Here's to the adventure.
I am Good featuring Jupiter, by Stars, Salt, and Skin
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A boy crawled out from the dark hollows of the corner room. He was clutching his torn and faded photograph. Beneath his soft fingers I could see my image among the dust and age. He looked at me, then turned to the piano. He climbed onto the bench, a portion of an old pew that had been salvaged from a fallen church, and I watched his bare feet press the keys so lightly, before he pulled himself atop the old upright and sat down. His eyes met mine. I sat on the floor before him, and, unsure of what to say, turned my gaze toward the ceiling. He had my hands.
Aroused from the silence by the familiar sense of a presence behind me, I looked over my shoulder to see an old man standing at the door. I knew his face well.
"Boy, you best stand up," he said, "'Cause you're gonna be runnin' fast."
As soon as he had spoken, I heard the engine of a car pull into the street outside. I glanced toward the window, then turned to the old man. I felt an intense sense of urgency arise in my blood. He had my eyes.
"Here," he said, and motioned towards the piano.
With his left hand the boy held out the photograph, and with his right he brushed his light brown hair from his face. His feet were swinging lightly as they hovered above the keys. A car door slammed outside.
I grabbed the photograph and, without another look at the old man, ran toward the back door. As I stepped into the evening, the cold of the weather burned my skin. Still, instinct had taken over, and I ran. Barefoot through the snow and frozen earth, I ran.
As I passed through the gardens and lawns of other men and women, as I turned each corner, I could hear the screeching of tires in the distance.
My lungs had frozen over. The ice was clawing at each tissue. Photograph still in hand, and with my feet still on the ground, I reached the water. It stretched out into forever.
Lights from behind heralded the arrival of the car. I turned around, and against the blinding light and the dark, I saw the figures of two tall, slender men emerge from the automobile. I turned toward the water, closed my eyes, and jumped.
I am sitting on my new bed in my new room listening to my new used Radiohead album. A chat room is pulled up on the Laptop. These men and women are online looking to touch and be touched through a series of wires and signals that are neither tangible nor warm. Is there love there? Or merely the sense of some kind of companionship? To not be alone. It is all so easy. I can't feel a soul I want to keep with me. It would just be for a moment, so what would be the point? Music is constant. It is bonbarding me right now. There is a particular song haunting me through the guitar, which still only has five and a partial strings.
I find myself looking for comforting things lately. X is leaving for L.A in March, and I am still here for another year due to the lease. I feel weak. Sometimes. I feel stupid. Maybe it's not a bad thing though, just to fuck someone for the fuck solely. I find it comforting. You both know why you're there. It's not awkward. I don't know what's going on with X. He says he doesn't like his penis to be touched. I don't see how that will work out.
I still don't eat as well as I should. Mostly TV dinners.
I bought this notebook because I decided I need a little truth. I need to produce a little truth. For myself. I feel as though I need to collect the contents of some sort of filter in the raw form of private language devoid of sound, though somethings may not be private forever, or even at all. But when the truth is gone, what else do we have? In some instances a lie can hold more validity than the truth, I suppose, but still... even at the core of myth one sometimes finds truth.
It takes a certain kind of bravery to be honest to transfer that honesty , that is, that absolute honesty from inside onto a sheet of paper. I will do what I can. Perhaps one day I will expose these words to myself, to others, or I won't. It doesn't matter because eventually they will expose themselves. There is nothing inside that does not show itself on the outside either through the source another individual, or event or situation.
I don't know if it's possible to be original. I hope it is. But i do know it is possible tobe genuine. Whatever. At any rate I will write. It's what I do. I hope I can find a little peace. For now, back to work. More events to come.
Kispin by Stars, Salt, and Skin