aren't we just terrified

God. I wish I could remember half of the shitty songs you played in your truck.
We'd be spinning by midnight, drunk in the salty air, windows down, curling on those endless back roads on a treasure hunt for five hour energy so we could speed all night. It was the summer of influence and potential - bending any rule meant to keep us safe- everything resting on our fragmented bygones and our delicate future. It was brittle. Brittle as could be; but these were the memories that had our "nights" beginning with a high moon, a few drinks in, always with at least two blunts. Plus added treats. You always had those ready to impress.

I see you in the background of pictures. I search through each one carefully in case your face may have been caught on the edge of the frame. There you are dancing at a wedding, your arm tightly around a pretty girl's hip. Your stare is deep, like I remember. I always felt nervous when you stared because it pierced into me. It is so easy to remember the feeling...how I couldn't tell if your eyes were undressing me down to my underwear, or if they were undressing my soul. You sought into me like I was a combustible figment of your imagination. Someone who could so easily explode into the night with a rebellious, flaring fight, or someone that would concave if you wore me down enough.

Funny to think that both possibly have happened since. It's so desperate of me to write this. I know we would have never worked. It was the idea of you and the way you held the door and held my hand, and briefly, held my heart at its fullest.

It's the natural regret that has sunk in. That feeling tends to rise when you've done wrong with that conniving harm you tried to deny ever existed. I had it. I knew what I was doing...not the whole time. Definitely not in the very middle, but at some point in the very beginning and at the obvious end, I knew which road I'd surrender to. I am so terribly sorry you were caught up in my desperate confusion of my heart and my head. I can't believe the unnecessary amount of times I make myself relearn this lesson. The people I've dragged through this dirty muck is getting to be so offsetting, especially since I have to live with myself for creating this nostalgic mess.

I can't help wishing sometimes I was across from you in those pictures; that your arm was linked around my back. Then again, saying it only makes sense because it would happen for the briefest moment in my dreams, because once I awaken, I know deep down the only way to keep this regretful feeling lasting is the sense of abandonment I induced.

But, come on. You know I'll never forget making fun of your shitty country cd's in your truck. The times that we ran barefoot on the beach not knowing which way the sun would rise or at what point we'd be swallowed in the sea. Those nights were filled with longevity of the finest kind! The simple pleasures of being so penetratingly fucked out of our minds - booze and smoke and songs and treats. More treats and songs and smoke and warm sheets to complete a night of running barefoot and infinite. Please forgive me. I wrote to you a few days before. I hope you never read it.

Departure

I haven't been here to write in a while. I started devoting all my time to my "professional blog" but in reality, it just became another space for me to vent and cry to the world. Not very professional.

It's the eve of my departure. First stop, Chicago. Next stop, the mountainous hills of the west coast. We will travel through the Badlands, say hi to Old Faithful, and then visit cities that I've only read about.

For everyone I'm leaving behind, here is a song to take with you on your many travels and new experiences that await you in the foothills of your future.

I love Beach House

But I'm not about to review the album, mainly because I don't know any of the song names. In fact, I haven't spent the time committing them to memory, because I've been too busy running through sand and bars and young men's hearts.

But I know Beach House like I know which spot on my bed sinks down. Or where I hide a twenty dollar bill in my wallet just for safe keeping, but never meant to be spent. And always, out of the entire mess of my car, I can always find two mismatched socks to accompany my work shoes.

Beach House reminds me of that night I spent commiserating my misery to your in-tune ears. That night when I was down on love, thinking that I had once again been burned and beaten, you put Beach House on repeat on your Itunes. You literally wrote out who and what was bothering me like a pie chart. You listened. I sulked. You listened. I cried. You listened. I wanted to take a bath.

And that bath I took. And I read a book that you had given me. And you lit a candle to keep me company. And you made the toilet an armchair where you then sat and kept me company. And I kept the shower curtain closed, because I was still sad, but didn't want you to see.

Now I write in my own armchair in someone else's house. The family I live with is having dinner, but I have work to get done. My first official paid writing job where money that I've never seen in check form is waiting on the horizon... But I'm distracted from everything. Because also on the horizon is this little place called California? I think Sandra Bullock lives there, maybe some cute guy named Leo too.

But they don't matter right now. Because I have this vision of driving there. I'm in the passenger seat with the windows down and my hair's kept tucked back only because I'm resting my head in my hand. I'm smiling, admiring you. You're happy. It's a real happiness that I've been getting used to since you started to free yourself from all burdens. You're you again. And I'm trying to believe that he's here to stay for a long while.

I silently pray that the trip itself is only our satellite launching point. We are about to sleep under stars in states where they have one-way dirt roads that lead to the only bar in town where women with big, unpregnated bellies drink straight up Jack and flirt with hunky men with tangled beards and hearty laughs. We'll have neighbors at campgrounds, some being wanderers just like us, and some being families of seven that will cast distasteful looks at us the next morning as their ginger kids run raggedly around the campsite. The mom will be frustrated and running on little sleep, and the dad will secretly applaud you for banging such a sexy chick. We've seen this before, and we both are happily complimented.

Whenever we arrive at said-destination, the fun can't end! I scream this internally, because I can see the patience drying up.

"Welp, sorry kid, that's all the patience he's got, and it's all used up. There's not a refill station in sight for another several years." "Shit," I curse myself. I should've seen it coming...

But then a different resonating voice steadies my racing mind.
"Honey, if never take a chance, then you'd just be hanging out in the regular world. Your trip is just starting. Your traveling the country and landing in an unknown apartment with just an air-mattress. But you have adventure at your fingertips and a good heart filled with stories to scribble on bar napkins, just like your old friend Jim did. And look at all the poems and songs and words that he created that people still admire and sympathize with. So relax. And trust. Never lose that thing about ya, kid."

I breathe a sigh of relief. Nothing's ever permanent, but you two will be fine. You both are seeing the world differently and seeing each other in different shades of light. If you compromise and selflessly live, you will grow into one another.

... but I can't pretend I'm still not nervous. Just in case, let's make a mixed tape of Beach House. I feel like it'll be perfect for watching the Western sun set in the desert of Nevada, or some other state that we have yet to meet.

some which way

I'm choked up today.

I went to bed with the one I wanted.

I woke up beside him and felt patience as he slept.

I have no worries about material things or money problems.

But I can't catch my breath today. I can't breathe fully. I can't hide these brimming tears.

The way my mind and soul works is starting to tangle me up in myself. I want to be tangled in you, him, them. Not just me. I can't do this again.

enlightment and a case of miller

This evening made me understand things that I have seen through my rose-colored glasses. The gems that each of us are and will recognize down the road, well, that shouldn't be pushed to the side by people/circumstances that are purposely there to detour us into ditches.

For you, the girl with the brain that sometimes falls to the ducks. And to the boy with the brain of bread; absorbs everything, but so easily is dispersed to the hungry flock of your stereotypical ducks.

You used to be fuzzy. It was like you were there, but only in some weird hazy medium, where I interacted with you on a lifeless basis. Looking back, I have learned to see you for what you, and I, both were at the time. My problem in relating backwards is that no forward progression can exist. But the one resonating sound within the strums of my soul, is that you were not the person for me as I wasn't the one for you. At that time, at least. The good thing about that hazy alter-world we coincide in, is that sometimes, on the most unclear, confusing nights of our life, we can understand the why's of the past, which hopefully, can lead us in the right direction for explaining the future. And if not, these little "learning lessons" become a bump in our existence. And these bumps, well, they indeed mellow into an insignificant pothole that in the future, you're tires will learn to avoid in the traction of the understanding ground.

random night at the jazz cafe

About two weeks ago I went to open mic night at this bar in my hometown. Now trust me, I was having a wonderful night that night, joking, giggling, flirting, being a complete asshole - per usual - but I still had time to formulate some necessary thoughts in my head. Which led me to the story I'm about to retell.

My ex dated this chick who is the type of girl that morphs into the "picture perfect" girlfriend depending on what her man is into. If her guy likes photography, so does she. If her guy is a buff athletic dude, of course she hits the gym five times a week and spray tans incessantly. So this chick is there.. and I guess she's now dating a keyboardist. This was my message to my ex. (This is basically for my own benefit so that I don't lose it in the folds of facebook. Note, names have been changed, and ignore the spelling errors.*)


So I have this story that involves Mary and its not funny or mean it just is a story. but i don't wanna forget it while its fresh in my memory.. so your the one whos gonna hear it since u know her.

so i assssummmee she is dating a dude in a band that plays at the jazz cafe. i see her tonight, we both clearly know each other but each pretend like we don't to "save face". here nor there. so there is this two man band on stage at open mic night. one fro'd dude on the drums and mary's man (i think) on the keyboard. they are playing music straight out of Garden State, except more drug enhanced. its like electronic lsd'd white album type of shit that marilyn manson's cronies would listen to right before they kill a bunch of famous people related to roman polansky.

so the 2 person band is on stage and it went from like jam-bands classic rock, even dmb style music, and turned into the type of music hipsters play right before they eat a bunch of E and dance with little arm gestures but very rhythmic and vivacious footing. and there is miss mary herself, sitting next to her inspired boy/fuck guy, on the piano stool. she isn't playing music, but she's reallllll into it, like shes never heard sound before this night.

so my friend starts making fun of her to me. he's sayin how she basically is up there so everyone in the audience knows like "yeah, i'm fucking this keyboard player- i'm the shit". so i start giggling, clearly knowing you guys were in love. but then mary gets even more into it. just at the pinnacle moments of the radiohead/postal service wannabes song, mary just starts groovin to the music. her heads bobbin up and down as she slowly actually, physically mimics the way she appears to everyone else- as a deusche - and i start laughing because my friend then goes: yeah, now shes showing everyone like "what, yeah! this is how i suck my keyboard boyfriends dick at night"

maybe it was funnier if u were there. but it was a real treat for me. even if you can't picture it, just take my word for it.

Pandora and Sylvia Plath

I feel contrite, to some degree, tonight. I think Sylvia Plath was part of the problem, although calling it a problem is a mistake in itself. Sylvia tortured herself with her own philosophies and the reasoning behind her pains and concerns. She came from a kushy upbringing, brazed with golden looks and a sharp mind that could outscore the fastest of women and men. Here I sit, jealous of her words that seemed to mimic each thought I ever have pursued. I've craved some grain of inner peace for months, antagonizing over the fact that my days are either too mellow and beige, or just so outrageous that every breath I take wears down my troubled heart. I substitute melody for sadness which is the only way to spark the water ducts in my eyes. I feel as though I have been trying to "be", a place that is far from the future and more closely steps on the heels of the past. I try not to reach too far to the future because I know that is never promised nor ever accurate. Some people have this uncanny ability to organize and plot each stepping point in their life, as cliche as a calender on a leap year. Then there are those mad, mad minds like my own. Our minds decide the best way to find happiness is to torture ourselves with the unknown. We realize in so many less words, dates, and events that our lives are forever an unplanned cycle of peaks and terrible pits.

My wish more than anything is to assimilate my soul to another soul that is in exact step with my own. I want more than anything to be burdened by the thoughts from a person who equally challenges and keeps up with my own feisty and wanderlust-filled mind. Never have I purposely detached myself from people with the hope that I could reattach myself to someone like me, without sounding too self-centered. I actually have this conscience recognition to become more selfless, even if it makes me appear as a fool or a person who allows others to waltz over their skin. Knowing that I can take a few decent steps to help with humanity's brazen horizon would be a good thing for everyone, especially myself. I'd love to be the person who can wear a smile for days on end, knowing that bad times are just little stumbles backwards. But we all know that when we trip, picking ourselves back up is the most self-assuring and proud moments we have.

My dad always relishes in my drama filled absurdities. He thinks all of my problems are bullshit. . . he's right. Nothing in my padded life has ever been that terrible. I have always had a set of walls around a place I can call home. I've always had a set of solid heads in my corner, fighting for me in the most awkward and baffling situations. I've never had money problems where I wasn't sure what was going to be for dinner, even though my dad lived through this exact grievance as a child, eating boiled potatoes with tomato sauce on Wednesdays, spaghetti Tuesdays, and no-meat any days - not because they were vegetarians, but because they were the discarded poor. It's actually so disturbing the stories I hear from his side of the family. The idea that my two aunts and Grandmother slept in a full sized bed, with the youngest at the foot of the bed like a sleeping dog for the sole reason to escape the drunken "father" in the house frankly just departs me even more from actual "problems". None of the shit I go through is actually a severe concern, just petty nonsense in an even more nonsense filled hometown. I am in shame of myself that I take part.

Recently I suppose I was worked into a tangled web of boys and girls (and I use these terms because that's what these people are, just kids who thrive off of demoralizing others and fighting maliciously, even if they aren't of concern). I went through the motions where I was in disbelief, followed by an attack of fitting humor where all I did was laugh, and then reality sat in. None of us are anything. None of us are better than one another. None of us are important. We all just fall victim to immediate gratification of our own wants, other people's desires, and our mutual attraction to be part of it all. We all are shit. Nothing but shit. Those who aren't complete shit? Yes, they exist, but they are so few and far between that it looks as if they also do not exist. Any many times, the only way they ever seem like the real ones can be found posthumously, when they are rotting in the ground.

Listen. I am not attempting to be morbid and utterly depressing, but sometimes I need to fall deep into it. When I do this, I learn to appreciate the big picture much more than the meticulous monotony of the ticking clock. Sitting at a bar, reclining in my bar stool, people watching quietly, I learn quickly that there are some people who do this as well. And when I meet there stare and our eyes connect, for that split second I have looked into their soul. Recently, one other soul who actually is a tangible human being struck this very feeling in my heart. He made me feel complete for a brief second of humanity. I thank him. He wasn't the first, or even the only, but he was recent, he was ready, and he felt it too. He also perplexed my brain and challenged me to keep up with him. How can we not appreciate this notion in people? Seriously. . . it's so fucking celebrated.