Brooklyn NY 2009
Los Angeles CA 2009
Jordan Rae. Liked by every girl that I like. Works at Family Bookstore. Gonna be on Entourage because of it. Charmed life.
Ex-Shit
For years I've held on to shoe boxes filled with old hand-written letters from girls, pictures of adolescence, and other general not-so amusing crap that only I'd have any interest in knowing anything about. It's usually whatever crumbs are left over after a typical conversation that goes something like this:
You're fucking dead to me. Don't ever talk to me again. Just leave whatever shit you have of mine on my doorstep and go to hell. Yes, this includes the records you claim you bought for me that I never had in my possession. I don't want that fucking toothbrush, though, because it'll just remind me of sleeping over at your house. The house you're now using to fuck you-know-who.
It doesn't really matter who's on the receiving end of such an ordeal, just that it happened. Multiple times. What's really important is that once you've either received your belongings, or you've delivered someone else's, what follows is a cleanse of a bedroom (or whatever sort of dwelling one may occupy) that results in taking any reminder of the ex and stuffing it into some box. Sometimes shit gets ripped up, burned, or otherwise thrown away. However, often times people pack up these constant reminders of failure and/or discontentment, with every intention of disposal, and hide them back in the closet; behind the old bedding, the bags of clothes meant for the Goodwill, and the embarrassing shooting targets that werent' hung up proudly in the hallway along with the one where you finally got your shit together and saved the hostage.
Every couple of years I go through a near mental collapse and decide that everything I've been doing and everything that I've accumulated up to such a point has all been completely contradictory to where I wanted to be and what I ever wanted to accomplish. I blame this on my utter fear of success. (I'm obviously not afraid of failure, because, let's face it, I've failed plenty of times thus far). Anyway, in the past, I've whittled my life down to as close to absolute zero as I could bring myself to accept. No car, no job, no money, a laptop, and a duffel bag full of clothes; albeit a rather large duffel. But I also managed to send one box criss-cross-country that contains a bunch of heavy reminders of a past that I can't bring myself to leave.
The following is an example of such an item:
I don't hold onto this note because of my attachment or feelings for the person responsible for writing it; even though I do I have great adoration for her and still feel a tremendous amount of guilt and regret for poor choices I made in our relationship. I keep it because it reminds me that, in spite of all the people that think I'm a crude, abrasive, self-absorbed, arrogant and overtly opinionated creep, I've still managed to get immensely close to some wonderful people whom I hold in higher regard than they will ever know. That being said: I'm not a complete prick, you shitheads.
You're fucking dead to me. Don't ever talk to me again. Just leave whatever shit you have of mine on my doorstep and go to hell. Yes, this includes the records you claim you bought for me that I never had in my possession. I don't want that fucking toothbrush, though, because it'll just remind me of sleeping over at your house. The house you're now using to fuck you-know-who.
It doesn't really matter who's on the receiving end of such an ordeal, just that it happened. Multiple times. What's really important is that once you've either received your belongings, or you've delivered someone else's, what follows is a cleanse of a bedroom (or whatever sort of dwelling one may occupy) that results in taking any reminder of the ex and stuffing it into some box. Sometimes shit gets ripped up, burned, or otherwise thrown away. However, often times people pack up these constant reminders of failure and/or discontentment, with every intention of disposal, and hide them back in the closet; behind the old bedding, the bags of clothes meant for the Goodwill, and the embarrassing shooting targets that werent' hung up proudly in the hallway along with the one where you finally got your shit together and saved the hostage.
Every couple of years I go through a near mental collapse and decide that everything I've been doing and everything that I've accumulated up to such a point has all been completely contradictory to where I wanted to be and what I ever wanted to accomplish. I blame this on my utter fear of success. (I'm obviously not afraid of failure, because, let's face it, I've failed plenty of times thus far). Anyway, in the past, I've whittled my life down to as close to absolute zero as I could bring myself to accept. No car, no job, no money, a laptop, and a duffel bag full of clothes; albeit a rather large duffel. But I also managed to send one box criss-cross-country that contains a bunch of heavy reminders of a past that I can't bring myself to leave.
The following is an example of such an item:
I don't hold onto this note because of my attachment or feelings for the person responsible for writing it; even though I do I have great adoration for her and still feel a tremendous amount of guilt and regret for poor choices I made in our relationship. I keep it because it reminds me that, in spite of all the people that think I'm a crude, abrasive, self-absorbed, arrogant and overtly opinionated creep, I've still managed to get immensely close to some wonderful people whom I hold in higher regard than they will ever know. That being said: I'm not a complete prick, you shitheads.
Family Reunion, Topeka KS 2009
My cousin, David, 15, and my dad, Gene. Basement jam session. This was the highlight of the trip.
David's (pictured above) shoes. Customized DVS. I wrote a whole post for Mashroob and Moustaches a while back about how kids draw the swastika on desks and folders and shit when they're young, with no clue as to what they're actually taking part in. Needless to say, the powers that be rejected my little story.
My cousin, David, 15, and my dad, Gene. Basement jam session. This was the highlight of the trip.
David's (pictured above) shoes. Customized DVS. I wrote a whole post for Mashroob and Moustaches a while back about how kids draw the swastika on desks and folders and shit when they're young, with no clue as to what they're actually taking part in. Needless to say, the powers that be rejected my little story.
Short Stories
Lime
This isn't about heart break. It's about the pitfalls of the social indoctrinations pertaining to destiny, or fate, or love, or any other bizarre sense of trying to extract meaning from extraneous moments in life. Philosophies are neither right nor wrong. However, university students near and far sit in lecture halls, casually debating the tenets of capital punishment, abortion, environmental friendliness, and so forth.
Fuck man, we were so passionate when we were young. Younger. We were so opinionated, outgoing, and rebellious (to whatever extent it meant to bend the rules you were convinced you were confined by). Teenage angst worn on our sleeves; patches on our backpacks, dyed hair, and band tees. The four bars of the black flag.
I remember the first time we made love. The next day you asked me why I had scratches all over my back. It was as though you had some transcendental experience, streaming in and out of consciousness and uncontrollable, yet subtly violent, adoration. I couldn't, however, credit myself for any such reaction. You were self-contained. You let me join in. I was afraid you'd tear open my bacne.
-
We met again a few years later. Long distance relationships never work, they said. You're too young to move in with each other, they said. We nearly wed at city hall. You needed me to help make sense of your life. Our lives, in general. I needed you to give me some sort of purpose. Codependency forced out of our economical short comings. You worked days, and I nights. We saw each other for about 5 minutes every morning when I crawled into bed. I spent my days off down the hatch. Phone calls from jail, phone calls from scattered homes in the valley, phone calls from guilt brought on by my inability to keep faithful. We knew it was over 3 years in. It's unfortunate you had to be a casualty in my own personal battles with substance abuse. My own personal martyr.
-
Las Vegas. Fake IDs from a passport shop near MacArthur Park were sufficient enough to appease the bouncers at the club that night. I knew from the moment I saw you walk in that I was fucked. It wasn't the alcohol, selfishness, or any sort of animalistic lust. This was pheromonal, baby. This was "meant to be." Months of late night phone calls out on my porch, ducking out of the house to meet you at the local 18-and-over nights. It was only a matter of time before I'd get caught. A call history log showing 4am conversations to a guy named Steve. I had to move out the next day.
We were never "official." I spent 3 years not fucking around on you. Never even considered it. You spent the same amount of time worrying about it. "Why haven't you called me yet? What took you so long? Why is your car parked that way?" It was justice for all the shit I pulled years before. I bailed. Clean slates were all I ever wanted. To this day I can't get the muck off this one.
-
I had met you years before, through a mutual friend. I wasn't impressed at the time. A winter holiday that carried over New Year's would change all that. It took all of 10 minutes to flip your world upside down. I have to admit, I had no intention of it going anywhere. Every couple of weeks, secret rendezvous in hotels, friends' houses, parks. We argued about the same shit all the time. When are you going to leave and come be with me? I asked you why you loved me, and you hadn't any response. You asked me and I told you it was because I loved who you wanted to be, how you wanted to help people, make changes. I told you I loved your sex appeal in spite of your modesty. I loved that you loved me, and for the first time I wasn't afraid of such a thing. This certainly wasn't a comprehensive list, but it was enough for you to call it quits. "Let's get back to living our lives again," you said. The harshest goodbye.
I can't keep picking this scab. It's as though I've been bumming people out with this same old exhausted rhetoric about how all my short comings are no fault of my own. I'm not afraid of success, I'm destined for failure. A lot of mediocre, yet somewhat entertaining and moderately good looking people die alone. It's part of the reciprocation of life. Yours were the lips last to touch the vodka tonic we last had together; now a fossilized lime on a nightstand.
"All fires have to burn a life, to live"
-from All Fires by Swan Lake.
This isn't about heart break. It's about the pitfalls of the social indoctrinations pertaining to destiny, or fate, or love, or any other bizarre sense of trying to extract meaning from extraneous moments in life. Philosophies are neither right nor wrong. However, university students near and far sit in lecture halls, casually debating the tenets of capital punishment, abortion, environmental friendliness, and so forth.
Fuck man, we were so passionate when we were young. Younger. We were so opinionated, outgoing, and rebellious (to whatever extent it meant to bend the rules you were convinced you were confined by). Teenage angst worn on our sleeves; patches on our backpacks, dyed hair, and band tees. The four bars of the black flag.
I remember the first time we made love. The next day you asked me why I had scratches all over my back. It was as though you had some transcendental experience, streaming in and out of consciousness and uncontrollable, yet subtly violent, adoration. I couldn't, however, credit myself for any such reaction. You were self-contained. You let me join in. I was afraid you'd tear open my bacne.
-
We met again a few years later. Long distance relationships never work, they said. You're too young to move in with each other, they said. We nearly wed at city hall. You needed me to help make sense of your life. Our lives, in general. I needed you to give me some sort of purpose. Codependency forced out of our economical short comings. You worked days, and I nights. We saw each other for about 5 minutes every morning when I crawled into bed. I spent my days off down the hatch. Phone calls from jail, phone calls from scattered homes in the valley, phone calls from guilt brought on by my inability to keep faithful. We knew it was over 3 years in. It's unfortunate you had to be a casualty in my own personal battles with substance abuse. My own personal martyr.
-
Las Vegas. Fake IDs from a passport shop near MacArthur Park were sufficient enough to appease the bouncers at the club that night. I knew from the moment I saw you walk in that I was fucked. It wasn't the alcohol, selfishness, or any sort of animalistic lust. This was pheromonal, baby. This was "meant to be." Months of late night phone calls out on my porch, ducking out of the house to meet you at the local 18-and-over nights. It was only a matter of time before I'd get caught. A call history log showing 4am conversations to a guy named Steve. I had to move out the next day.
We were never "official." I spent 3 years not fucking around on you. Never even considered it. You spent the same amount of time worrying about it. "Why haven't you called me yet? What took you so long? Why is your car parked that way?" It was justice for all the shit I pulled years before. I bailed. Clean slates were all I ever wanted. To this day I can't get the muck off this one.
-
I had met you years before, through a mutual friend. I wasn't impressed at the time. A winter holiday that carried over New Year's would change all that. It took all of 10 minutes to flip your world upside down. I have to admit, I had no intention of it going anywhere. Every couple of weeks, secret rendezvous in hotels, friends' houses, parks. We argued about the same shit all the time. When are you going to leave and come be with me? I asked you why you loved me, and you hadn't any response. You asked me and I told you it was because I loved who you wanted to be, how you wanted to help people, make changes. I told you I loved your sex appeal in spite of your modesty. I loved that you loved me, and for the first time I wasn't afraid of such a thing. This certainly wasn't a comprehensive list, but it was enough for you to call it quits. "Let's get back to living our lives again," you said. The harshest goodbye.
I can't keep picking this scab. It's as though I've been bumming people out with this same old exhausted rhetoric about how all my short comings are no fault of my own. I'm not afraid of success, I'm destined for failure. A lot of mediocre, yet somewhat entertaining and moderately good looking people die alone. It's part of the reciprocation of life. Yours were the lips last to touch the vodka tonic we last had together; now a fossilized lime on a nightstand.
"All fires have to burn a life, to live"
-from All Fires by Swan Lake.
Short Stories
The Landing
I'm not sure what it was. Maybe I was sick of reading and dozing off every couple of pages. My neck sure hurt like a sonofabitch. I exhausted all the eye-fucking I was gonna do on this flight because the seat belt light had been illuminated for 10 minutes now as we began our descent. We were told to keep our fans on and shades drawn during the flight so as to keep the cabin cool. The older-yet-distinguished-looking man next to me was definitely encroaching into my arm space. You let that kind of thing slide when you got the window seat. Whatever the reason, I decided to pull the shade up to get a gander at what was below.
Normally, when flying into LAX, you get a pretty lousy view of South Central, Torrance, Inglewood, and other insignificant neighborhoods of Los Angeles. There's always the horse racing track, Hollywood Park, just below all the fuel droppings of every arriving flight into this airport. The racetrack also housed one of the lousiest casinos in the greater Los Angeles area. Nothing but degenerate gamblers whom were either on welfare or trust fund. The lazy, shiftless population of the selfish and unmotivated.
Hollywood Park: I sell my time here for an hourly wage.
Today, however, I was flying into Burbank, California, just north of Los Angeles. I pulled the shade up just in time to see Catalina in the distance and downtown LA just below. I scanned the grid with my eyes, following Sunset westward towards my home just passed the Silverlake reservoir. That fucker was bigger than the property that Dodger Stadium sat upon; parking lot and all.
Why the hell do I keep coming back here? My social life is an empty shell of who I was or what I was doing, or whatever the fuck people wanted to label other people by. You ain't shit unless you're doing something. I've become what I feared. A local burnout. We're everywhere. Still. People are nice enough to say hello whenever they run into us and always ask, "So what are you up to now?" I can't even fake it anymore. "Jack and shit," I tell them. And I usually never bother to ask what they've been into as of late.
I'm not sure what it was. Maybe I was sick of reading and dozing off every couple of pages. My neck sure hurt like a sonofabitch. I exhausted all the eye-fucking I was gonna do on this flight because the seat belt light had been illuminated for 10 minutes now as we began our descent. We were told to keep our fans on and shades drawn during the flight so as to keep the cabin cool. The older-yet-distinguished-looking man next to me was definitely encroaching into my arm space. You let that kind of thing slide when you got the window seat. Whatever the reason, I decided to pull the shade up to get a gander at what was below.
Normally, when flying into LAX, you get a pretty lousy view of South Central, Torrance, Inglewood, and other insignificant neighborhoods of Los Angeles. There's always the horse racing track, Hollywood Park, just below all the fuel droppings of every arriving flight into this airport. The racetrack also housed one of the lousiest casinos in the greater Los Angeles area. Nothing but degenerate gamblers whom were either on welfare or trust fund. The lazy, shiftless population of the selfish and unmotivated.
Hollywood Park: I sell my time here for an hourly wage.
Today, however, I was flying into Burbank, California, just north of Los Angeles. I pulled the shade up just in time to see Catalina in the distance and downtown LA just below. I scanned the grid with my eyes, following Sunset westward towards my home just passed the Silverlake reservoir. That fucker was bigger than the property that Dodger Stadium sat upon; parking lot and all.
Why the hell do I keep coming back here? My social life is an empty shell of who I was or what I was doing, or whatever the fuck people wanted to label other people by. You ain't shit unless you're doing something. I've become what I feared. A local burnout. We're everywhere. Still. People are nice enough to say hello whenever they run into us and always ask, "So what are you up to now?" I can't even fake it anymore. "Jack and shit," I tell them. And I usually never bother to ask what they've been into as of late.
On Holiday.
Getting away for a coupla weeks. There'll be a ton more shit after that.
End Transmission.
End Transmission.
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