The Novelist

There are puncture wounds in the middle of his arms that elicit questions regarding drug use. He almost wishes it was that tragic, but they only drew his blood because he needed a physical. He's at that point where reflection and action find themselves to be awkward bed mates. One is always looking one way, while the other is looking down a short road. On recent trips he's reminded of that time when there was a wolf in his veins. When his fangs were killer. Razor sharp. They tore rips in the fabric of the universe. They bit through the most durable of hide and disarmed any obstacle that stood in his way. Now they find themselves dulled, and the wolf lies lazily in the sun, unable to find the top speed in a stride that used to bring down the most formidable of prey.

Twice divorced. In love once. He washes the wine out of the coffee cup that he drank the night before. And he washes the coffee out to make room for the wine in the evening when he sits and thinks. He finds his art to be quite like a hair cut. He cuts off the excess only to find it growing back. In fact, there's been times when he's wished it would stop growing and he'd find other things to fill the mass that grows from his head. He prays that the thoughts stop appearing and that a bloodlust for material, or women, or hobbies would take it's place. That would be manageable. That would be copacetic. That would be structure. It would be a sterile environment instead of the bloody volcano of ash that spews in a fit of chaos out of the top of the summit; raining down and covering everything in sight, making it hard to find your bearings. He's lost his faith over and over again, only to find it waiting patiently around the corner each and every time. He's sentimental, and it bodes well for him.

He types by looking at the keyboard; never the screen. He never learned much about the particulars of typing, but then again, he never learned much about the particulars of so many things that beckon those unlike him. Business, money, pride, conceit, television, cars, greed. He missed out on several of these things, and he feels it to be to his detriment. But he is a machine. He's a machine of memory and recall. And he's a machine of words. He can paint with ten fingers and no brush. His canvas is a blank page, and his reward is tangible. It sits in front of him to be reviewed and analyzed, examined and critiqued. It's his. He made it. He did it. It was owned by nobody but him. He thinks. He thinks. He thinks. He thinks. He thinks. He thinks.

He thinks about self-awareness and what that means. He watches the sun rise and what that means. He watches people chasing people and what that means. He runs and he runs. He appreciates good advice and what it means. When he finds himself listless he finds ways to escape it; shedding all that drags him down. He's an escapist of sorts.

He's held jobs. He's ditched jobs. He's held women. He's ditched women. He's seen the heights of certain hills, and seen the depths of a few valleys. So he chooses his direction of travel carefully. His body grows old, but his mind won't let him lose any edge. He has a difficult time making the two connect on an operative level.

Drugs don't help. They excite, but they only delay or further the confusion. He wonders what the hell he's doing. When ideas race, he writes them down. Napkins, mirrors...he leaves himself voicemails. He finds that it's easy to be aware of inspiration, it's easy to be inspired; almost a natural instinct to him. But funneling that inspiration is a violent process.

Sure, he's thought about checking out, but that's not his way. It doesn't fit...in any way. He doesn't want to be remembered as "tortured," because he certainly wasn't.

He just feels too much.

I did it...

...I finally did it. We have some work, but we did it. It was a good show. We finally did it.

Scathing

Fuck it. I'm not censoring myself anymore.

Sigh...forgive me....this has been a long time coming....












When those looks you've got have run out of gas, good luck finding yourself in the ashes that remain. Good God...you stupid fucking idiot. You're a nothing girl. Nothing whatsoever. A fucking bookend for my interests. Tonight I normally would've called to talk to my loved ones to get me through the stress, but the simple fact of the matter is I just don't fucking care. Because you're forgettable. In fact, I would purposely not bring you around the people I cared about the most because I was fucking embarrassed by you. Because you're a vapid, shallow shell of a woman. You drink TOO MUCH. YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO HANDLE YOURSELF. And you drink too much because you can't handle the cards that life dealt you. It became too much. I remember the exact moment in time when I was done with you, and there were several. Something inside me tells me how fortunate I am to be rid of your methods and bullshit pandering. Actually, you're despicable. You're everything I've tried not to become throughout the whole of my life. What was tricky about you was the way you hid everything behind a mix of attraction and pseudo-humility. But you don't give a rat fuck about anybody other than yourself. It's your world and the rest of us are just paying rent. So you could possibly come at me with the dissent that is offered for those who know they're getting (and furthering) a situation that is wrong for them. Save it. I know all of this. I know where I went wrong. I guess we all do with some people. It's the great fault of everyone of us. I wrapped you in a package of something that ran parallel with what I was looking for because you were so good at talking the same speak that I wanted to hear, but you placed yourself into that category of people I despise when you opened your mouth on one too many occasions. I don't really blame you. Trust me, I blame myself more than you know, but I've got to say...blessed is how I feel to be out from underneath your love for the insane. And you are insane. The shit that would come out of your mouth...shit man. Someone telling you how pretty you are and the attention you need will get you through any day. YOU HAVE NO DEPTH. You use the things close to our hearts to draw people in, but you FUCK THEM over and over again. Even your best friends. Fuck...even your family. I can't even look at you the same way. You're fucking ridiculous. To think that I even gave you a tenth of redemption and encouragement to get over the stupid decisions you've made makes me cringe. Yeah, I judged you. Even though I wouldn't let you know that. Because people who do what you do deserve it and rightly so. We're not young and blissfully blind anymore. So you think I'm the asshole. Because I was honest? Honest about everything. But you hide, and you take, and you take, and you take, and you take, and you take. The best part of all of this is that I couldn't really care any less (other than the five minutes its taking me to write this), but I've let you say the things that you've wanted to say. All the while staying quiet and letting you live your life the way you want. You might even be able to group me with those people who don't have the balls to tell you what you need to hear, but I don't care because it's really not worth it. I don't want to hear your excuses and your pleas for forgiveness. I don't want to invest myself in a lost cause. So yes, I'm not saying this to your face, but it's because it's not worth the effort. It never was. I rolled my eyes then; I roll my eyes now.

Okay...I feel better.

Now we smile, and we put one foot in front of the other.

High fives and butt slaps all around.

Keep Me In Your Thoughts, Don't Disappear

Do me a solid and throw your flares in the air every now and then, so I can scour the western horizon and know that you're still fighting the good fight. My overpour of emotion always makes people react differently, but I've become more adept in accepting it as the fiber that stitches me together. I also know when to rapidly punch the off button. Both have been valuable tools in times past, and I expect their usefulness in the future. I just recognize your smile and I'm golden.