i wrap you in metaphors

i put myself somewhere else. this seat feels better than any other...today.

i've been thinking about us. yes, us. i can't figure another way to understand it, all the everything that goes on between us, seemingly in spite of us, but at the same time, because the both of us create it. i can't figure another way to understand it, so i talk about it...alot. it's okay though cause i know you're not reading this. i don't say that in any sort of resentful way, rather this blog is like the empty chair technique--all the things i would say to you if i could, set out in front of you but not physically addressing you. you see, we should just have a written relationship, that way i could say everything that i wanted to say without fear of interuptions or inflections or interrogation. and you, well, you would have the same liberties. but you're a verbal boxer, an older and stronger one than i. i'm a fencer, words like the foil flicking close to your ear but never leaving a visible mark. we both have our strengths, i guess, none of which do us much good when the goal is to tear each other down.

i've come to the conclusion that i must be far-sighted. the doctors have always told me i'm near sighted, but the truth is, when i'm close to you i don't understand a damned, damned thing. but given some distance i'm able to breath empathy, i'm able to rub my eyes and see that there is a man to love in the monsterous shell, that there is something afraid and misunderstood, lashing out in frustration and impending loneliness. but who am i to shape you with my words into the mistaken heartless brute with the most fragile heart of all. distance perhaps is not clarity, but imagination set free roaming in dreams and expections and putting together a picture of how things ought to be. but the lover in me and the memory in me reminds me that this fire, this you is not evil. for as many times as it has burned me, it has warmed me. what i need to remember is to keep a healthy distance and a genuine respect for it's energy.

i wrap you in metaphors to try and understand you. perhaps this is silly, or childish. perhaps i am weakly forgetting the hurt you've caused me and the monster you harbor inside yourself. perhaps i'm too anxious to stay warm and drive headlong into the flame. i wrap you in metaphors to keep my angry mind from consuming you, gnawing ten thousand teeth and foaming at the mouth with pain and distrust. i could quickly banish you there, chew you until all i have left is a hard stone of hate to carry as my token of you. but i wrap you in metaphors, find things i like, no, i love about you. i remember all the good you are, even if that good has been in short supply in recent years.

when one asks what love is, i usually respond with the same gushy sentiments that can be given to first love--the feelings of elation, not wanting to be anywhere but in that persons arms, having your thoughts revolve around their being. and yet, i realize, and i don't say this lightly, but i love you too. if i didn't i wouldn't try to save you from my angry mind. i wouldn't bother looking at you from a distance and most importantly, i wouldn't see the goodness in you. this is a love not of elation or overwhelming joy, of feeling better about one's self or seeing the world with rose colored glasses. this is different kind of love. this is a love of appreciation, of saddness, of hope. this love sees the imperfections, knows the ugliness, and accepts it. this love has history and depth.

so to answer the question, can you love those that hurt you? yes, and you will love them, even when you think there's no possible way you could. you step back and see them, see their light, see the good.

i don't know what's happening to us. yes, us. but i do know that distance is a good thing. i don't want to say it to you because i think you'd think i was forgiving you. i haven't forgiven you. but i do love you. i still see you...

to be continued....

scatter-brained

this will be my 50th post. wow. perhaps i am as talkative as people say. i made a deal with myself, and perhaps writing it here will guilt me into actually keeping that deal. a post a day i said. shouldn't be too difficult right? it's about 7:30 pm and i'm not feeling like writing much of anything. in fact, all i'm doing is writing about how i have nothing to write. i make up all sorts of excuses in my head, mostly, i'm a morning writer and thus my zeal has gone down with the sun.

yeah, i'm not convinced either. i could continue on with the story from yesterday, but she's not in my head right now. the only voice in there is the nagging one that says, "now look what you've done. you've gone and told your entire fan base (all 4 people) that you'll write everyday, and now you're bemoaning your lot! why don't you just keep your trap shut?"

i can't help it, i like to talk.

i had an interview today. i think it went well. at one point i lost the connection, but i didn't even notice. it wasn't until the phone started ringing in my ear, did i think, "gee, i don't think she heard a word i said". of course, i admitted all this. why? why not? she laughed though i can't be sure it was in a favorable or disfavorable way. eh, no matter.

gee, i hope no one reads this. but i'll post it on promise. besides, i'll just have to get used to the fact that a large majority of what i write isn't very good. can't always expect the cream without the rest of the milk...or something like that.

i knew a guy who would say the most inappropriate or just plain lame jokes i'd ever heard. he would chuckle nervously to himself and offer up this excuse, "it sounded so much better in my head". probably where it should have stayed, i always wanted to reply. but i didn't because we all have moments like that. in fact, a majority of things in life seem better or at the very least, different in my head. i guess you just have to accept this fact and move on. there are times when i say things and i wish i lost the connection and someone missed the entire thing. that rarely happens though. guess that's what keeps life interesting. imagine if everything was as you thought it would be? beh! how boring.

i went for a walk the other day and the military must have been practicing some routines. i could see and hear the helicopter as it flew low and loud toward me. it was so close i could almost feel it ripping off my clothes (slight exaggeration there) and i wondered, all this action around us and we don't even know what's happening. i imagined that they were tracking me (highly unlikely as i'm of no political or national security threat, i mean, i work a shovel for a living, happily mind you, but a shovel none the less and my last name isn't jihad or anything (intentionally being racist for comedic affect...please no taliban supporters come after me)). i got lost in my parathesis. oh yes, the military tracking me. i thought, what the heck were these people doing up here on saddle road? pot farm! has to be. the government is cultivating some high end weed and putting it into the ginseng tea everyone is drinking...

i'm too tired for conspiracies.

bus tripping

shot one: a man, forest green hoodie imbibed with a geniune deep, planty green by the generous rain, dipped down like an insecure tear drop, picking up trash from a thin strip of grass, the pencil thin mustache on a once green, green face, now all ashen and concrete. he puts his red hand to his mouth, fingers bloated from the rain, and suspends a saturated cigarette from his lips, it dips low and forces a sharp angle at it's center, broken and humped in the rain, paper thin, like people, swelling and then falling apart, losing all ability to retain it's leafy interior. he collects bits of plastic and glass from nature's divide and carries them over to the road, unloads them as calm as one would salt a perfectly divine tomato. over and over, colorful strips of plastic floating along the street like motor oil caught in the sun. rainbow river running.

shot two: gel illuminates the bases of black hair folicals. i try to look away, yet i can't help but follow the shine across your dark skin and the plumpness of your scalp. i can almost taste the sweat welling up in those grooves, waiting to be evaporated by the artificial lights in this cap. black sun glasses push in tight on your temples. in fact, everything seems a little too, well, little. perhaps you like these lines, constricting yourself here only to let yourself bulge someplace else. you restrain yourself in speech, but your snores bulge. i watch sugar cane gallop on the waves of your inhales and exhales. i catch myself breathing in time. i hold my breath and try to imagine a different tune.

shot three: big, white and shiny. big, white, shiny and hard. a squeaky voice from a big head on a skinny legged body. incomprehensible noise and a big, white, shiny nod. i put together the sharp, dissonant shards of speech and ascertain she's talking about a number, a telephone number that matches the one in her small planner. the planner is washed out and worn. there's a picture of Arizona or New Mexico on it. Either way, it ain't here. the days are crossed out. she stares at the planner her hands shaking. what's there to read? and why the big, white, shiny helmet? what's she protecting herself against? the apacolypse or wayward bird droppings?

saturday

a saturday morning and the sun is wide awake. from my window, i can see that the landscape has changed. everything looks brighter with you here. i've missed you and i've missed me. stretching out these dormant peices, breathing life into viens abandonned like trails grown over, you reset these bones and call to me. my eyes are blurred but i see you clearly. i laugh out loud. oh, how i've missed you.

i feel whirled about, spinning without any knowledge of where i'm going or how or when. will i crash? it doesn't matter today. i'm on a magical, musical ride where everything is one suspended moment, fiercely free and uncertain. the only thing to know is i'm airborn, untethered, laughing and watching your hair whip in the wind. we are sky diving but i didn't see if i had a parachute. every now and again, i contemplate the moment when this momentum stops, when i meet harsh reality, then the ground wallops me, sending shock waves throughout my years.

like a child i enjoy this free fall, enjoy these brief moments in the sky, when the rest of the world looks small and far away. i do cartwheels in the air and forget that i have any limbs to be responsible for. i smile so big, i take out entire insect populations with my teeth as i hurtle through this wind tunnel life.

a saturday. the sun wide and awake. i wide and awake. oh, how i've missed us both.

a room of one's parents, but a room, a room nevertheless

a quiet room, lots of light, and a foggy view of the outside world. i sit in silence, such stillness is absolutely delightful. i take in the details of this scene, percisely for what they are, details. i try not to extrapolate by metaphor, instead, i consume, i consume this quiet. the light pushes softly on my retinas, intensifying and dimming in no particular pattern, and i match my breath to it, inhaling deeply at it's brightest. a fly moves in geometric pattern, cool, collected, methodical. i watch it for a while, like the hopeful watch the stars. i search for a story, then stop myself, and watch the text emerge from the carved out space behind its movement. there are artificial lights too, bright green and alien. they don't flicker or dim, they register as important points of endless energy i don't understand. a mass of crumpled blankets peak and valley like too many mountains i've seen before. i skirt the edges with my mind, imagine the lint slides and fallen hairs like trees decorating the landscape. i pick up my coffee cup only to be met with disappointment, when did it disappear? isn't that how it goes though? you go to sip and realize that all the anticipation and delight you imagined will not be fulfilled? don't think i'm being a pessimist, this isn't a metaphor for life. remember, no extrapolations, no calling one thing another in such grandiose sweeping terms, (ah, but i can't help it). a pessimist doesn't realize that the next cup of coffee is a mere few steps away. i pause.

where was i? i sip my coffee, ah Folgers...i'll spend my last dime on something with a bit more personality tomorrow, but i've had worse. oh the power of comparison, it can make anyone a pessimist or an optimist depending on how you pair (pare) things.

the rooster cuts in sure as the light and the fridge maintains the white noise of modern living. i let my back completely give into this coushioned chair, my baggy night-time clothes, still draping me in sleepy, seamless fluidity. it all feels like a dream. my mind wanders and bumps up against responsibility. i focus, bring myself back to the details. i am a tired warrior and i don't dare fight the dragon today.

a horse head looks at me from across this wide, open room. if i stare at it long enough it melts into the wall behind and i find myself living in a two dimensional world. i wonder if the ti leaf plant inside resents the plants outside? but resentment is a human emotion right? oh, i don't understand anything sometimes.

a post from the field

Things are whispy and yet sharp. My eyes track easily over these edges. I know them well. It’s been some time since I’ve written anything purely for the sake of writing it. That is, besides letters, I haven’t just written. It feels strange and I worry about how this all sounds and who might discover me tapping away on this keyboard, talking to myself.

Perhaps I’ll be fearless, write this knowing that in the end I won’t save it. I will simply highlight it all and press the backspace. What if life were like that? What if we could all utilize the power of the backspace? Ah, but this has been thought before by much brighter thinkers than I and yet lull in this dream-like childish naivite. I mean, nothing can be taken back, truly, truly, as if didn’t exist, right? Yes, and even this writing as very boring as it is, cannot be taken back. Sure, I can swipe away the script, but the action, the minutes devoted to it will never return. So is there ever a truly fruitless effort? If effort involves energy there is always the energy spent, but is that fruit? Is fruit a product? Or perhaps more importantly, can fruit be a by-product? I scratch my head.

Another day, no dollar. It doesn’t bother me nearly as much as I think it should. Perhaps I don’t think ahead, perhaps I’m too simple. I push my big bull head against the window and contemplate responsibilities. A chill, and I stop. Too complicated. So what is there to think about if not the direction of one’s life? I contemplate comfort. I contemplate the long drive, and what I want to listen to and where my mind will sail. My lips feel whispy and yet sharp. It’s dry out here in the desert, those idioms and metaphors were right. My fingers are starting to thaw unfortunately just at the moment where my mind has begun to slow.

I kick up dirt in my dreams, mulling over memories. I try to curl my toes, yup, still frozen. Where was i? Oh yes, my dreams. If this were my personal computer I would launch into a diatribe detailing every nook and cranny of my dream world, but seeing as this could be bearing to too much to…