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His eyes
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19 Views
04/04/12
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I see him walking up the street. He's wearing blue velvet pants as only he can wear them. Here he comes. Beautiful man. He's humble and gracious too...the best kind of beautiful. He manages to try on a smile, (he's trying...for me...some kind of valor), but it's weak, it's contrived, he gives up on it as the air becomes thicker between he and I as our distance becomes closer.
He asks me to go home with him...again. I ask him (again), what he thought coming to the city would do, this time he has an answer, something about how he thought it would be a distraction enough that he could pull himself together in the meantime. He was wrong.
I swallow hard. I know this will be the last time I see him, and I'm not ready for it.
He looks at me with those eyes. Eyes that reveal what no other pair could hope to even comprehend: God, maybe...maybe the universe, infinite, esoteric, made flesh. Eyes that like, in their veiled way, showed you everything, if only you were willing to look. And everyone looked, then most looked away...just darted their glance away or made stupid jokes to ease the stark truth those eyes cut through and made so clear, to soften the staggering blow of their stealth, feather light spell, hypnotizing beauty of the most disarming intensity.
You know then, the gravity of what those eyes sought and you also know those eyes would never find it....they know they'll never find it.
They look into you and then look away as they discover your insufficiency. They look away and begin to fill with icy tears that preserve the whites of their sclera. In that moment, you'd do anything for them, to be and to do, to possess everything they already are yet you could never dream to be.
But that's all. Only a moment, only a piece...we all only want a piece.
And his eyes know it.
You want so badly to be everything for them, but you physically, mentally, spiritually can't...and his eyes know that, too.
Then they look back at you; they've reddened now, but his tears are slow and as dignified as his anvil, square jaw.
You know he'll never find it. He knows he'll never find it. You wonder what will become of him, how will he sleep tonight?...in his bed, on the floor, spread out on some pine needles in the forest? You wonder how he'll die: a lonely old man, an intense young man, soft middle age?
If only you were enough...but you're not. Then he's left with no choice and does what a man of so high of integrity should, and he walks away in silence to accept his penance-fate.
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I want to know you
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23 Views
04/04/12
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I wonder about you. I pay attention to you. I watch the way you walk, how non-nonchalant you are...except for your conversations...you're active when talking with someone. I notice the way you push your hair back when it's still wet from your shower, the things you carry with you...I like your things. Sometimes your bag droops open when it's sitting beside you...I try to peek at what's inside. I want to know you.
I sit in the back so that when I get bored I can glance your way without you realizing that you've become my new object of study...the way the bottom of your pants are fraying, the tattered shoe lace on your left shoe that needs replacing...why don't your replace it?--it seems like a nuisance the way you're always retying it.
You wore that same sweater last time I saw you...I noticed because I like the way it hangs off your shoulders.
I pay attention.
How do you sleep at night? I try to imagine the soles of your bare feet as you dream away in an empty bed. What do you smell like in the morning, after the perfumed soaps and strong coffee—do you drink coffee or is that tea in that paper cup from the coffee shop on the corner? Do you like the cute girl that works there?
What about me?--Do you like me?
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The wanderer's creed
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22 Views
03/13/12
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One year, to this day. Suicide is something you never really get over. I found my bag though, somewhere among his ashes...among our ashes and the mud that the storm flooded into my world. I found it, I cleaned it off, repaired it through watery eyes and shaking hands, and in part with the help of others who showed me how at their expense. It fits to my body like it used to and I'm traveling again.
This is my bag. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
- My bag is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.
- My bag, without me, is useless. Without my bag, I am useless. I must pack my bag true. I must carefully select what to carry with me throughout my life. I must carry the essentials, I must leave the extraneous. I will.
- My bag and myself know what counts in this war are not the items we pack, the cuts that bleed or the dwellings we crash. We know that it is the integrity of miles that count. We will traverse.
- My bag is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a sister. I will learn its weaknesses, it's strength, it's parts, it's acccessories, it's slings and clips. I will keep my bag clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We have become part of each other. We will.
- Before God, I swear this creed. My bag and myself are the defenders of my life. We are the masters of our life. We are the saviors of this life.
- So be it, until victory is on high, and there is no pain, but peace!
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One year
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23 Views
03/13/12
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It's been one year everyone. I've survived one year...through the deepest, darkest hell I've ever been through. Most of the ones who got me through that year, I don't talk to anymore for whatever reason. A couple of you saved my life...
...I think you know who you are...
...even if we don't talk anymore.
Suicide is something you never really get over. I found my bag though, somewhere among his ashes...among our ashes and the mud that the storm flooded into my world. I found it, I cleaned it off, repaired it through watery eyes and shaking hands, and in part with the help of others who showed me how at their expense.
And I learned how to pack it again and adjust it to my body and it fits like it used to and I'm traveling again.
I'll always carry him as a golden secret, my greatest, finest love...and I'll never be the same. But, it's been a year.
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do better than i
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6 Views
02/20/12
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Did you know that the person who took care of you when you were sick, did so on the offhand chance that you would do better and have better than they do? That they don't believe in Love or all the things you talked about and prayed about, the things that "make life worthwhile" but because you care and you believe in those things, that person gave you their time and their energy the best they could, so that you would take it and do *better*? Did you know that, that person is rarely told that they've done a good job, or that they're appreciated (much less, loved), or even told “thank you”, but in fact, is constantly reminded of the things they do wrong, or the things that the caretaker before them did wrong, and often in the form of someone yelling at them? And they left their job exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally, to drive themselves home to an empty apartment where they sit alone and take care of themselves because there is no one else around?...that, that person puts in as few hours as possible because they need all the time they can afford to muster that little bit of energy they give you, and it must be generated/recuperated by themselves alone, because there is no one else around, and that energy comes at a heavy price for them...but they do it anyway, and they give it to you...
...all on the hope, the offhand chance that you will do better than they do.
So do better.
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His first ghost
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20 Views
02/01/12
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Heavy, black, floor to ceiling curtains are one of the only furnishings in this empty apartment; they block out overcast sunlight now. Precious sunlight that I don't get enough of anymore, sunlight that I used to love as it turned my pink skin its summer peach, turned his skin a deep bronze. Sunlight whose absence erases memories of warm golden days and causes indifference.
And in the dim light, I see you. There's a ghost in this place.
I catch you sometimes: a diaphanous thought manifesting itself thoroughly enough in my mind that your image flickers in the eye; walking down the hall, in the kitchen, through the door. I see your body taking up space. You smile--I feel you smile and then you're gone. Maybe a thought, maybe a feeling so real, maybe a hint of what is to come, maybe a glimpse into another world, another dimension of what should have been. But you're gone so quickly.
I get home from the night shift: Dramatic curtains limit light, and as I walk into the bedroom and my eyes are still adjusting to the dark...for a moment, I know your body is in my bed like it used to be...and I hesitate to let myself feel a long forgotten swell, could it be true, could you be there? I let the undulations grow as I imagine and remember sliding in next to you, fitting my body to yours and I remember all the nuances, muscles careening into one another, a slow heartbeat and the scent of your skin. I let my body feel it and my eyes well...could it be true?...really?...nothing I wouldn't give...and there you are...and my heart bursts as it dies and is reborn a thousand times, blood stains all over the walls...because you're here now and everything is good, and right and sweet and safe and beautiful again.
And then I realize my clothes are dirty, too dirty to sully our bed, and my hair hurts from being tied up all night, and then reality sets in: the body I can fool myself into thinking is in my bed is really just the unmade covers piled up the way I left them as I dragged this weary flesh from torturous dreams to a torturous reality.
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Dream Goth Car
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36 Views
12/23/11
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There are many beautiful cars out there. Like many men (and maybe some women), I get a little giddy, a little dizzy, a ticklish sort of feeling that runs through my body when I look at a beautiful automobile, motorcycles included, with visions of me cruising over land of all sorts, all chill and super cool...ok, maybe even with a touch of "more holier than thou"--I admit.
Nevermind that I've settled on a big Tacoma as my next vehicle (although a motorcycle has been serious consideration lately), if I could, on my hard earned nurses wage, this would be my car ultimate:
Rolls-Royce Phantom I Jonckheere Coup
A girl can dream.
Whadaya think?
(Adding: I'm all stupid excited for Christmas...I can't get excited until a few days before, after all my gifts have come together and are wrapped and the 'phews are shaking them for the sweeeeet, sweet ring of Legos. Merry Christmas and all that to all of the Christians and us non-Christians! Hope you're able to spend it with people you love...and even if we don't have a vintage Rolls in our garage/hanger, that we don't lose sight of the things that matter.
Forever, Levi.)
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Can't even remember
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15 Views
12/06/11
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I used to sit out here in the warmer months; I used to write and write and write. But then things got all fncked up, and you stopped loving me and I stopped writing and creating.
It feels like so many of those things were a lifetime ago...I don't even remember them...I can even barely remember you...I only know that you existed through the writings that I made at the time...no more "you" so instead: I can barely remember him, his voice or even his ghost, which no longer haunts me in this gray wasteland. It came, it haunted and did it's awful deed though the annihilation of my world...now the aftermath of a nuclear war....the random rats and cockroaches of life scurrying about, but everything's forever changed and I can't see the beauty in it yet (if there is any beauty to ever be seen in this new world). What grows here?...what grotesque, deformed "life" survives such an event, what does it say about such life that it survives such a thing, and why am I a part of it...am I indicative of this new life, and how can it possibly be loved? Especially compared to the golden, sunlit world of before, with it's colors and flowers and the songs of birds...birds in flight have turned to stifling overcast skies and muddy snow.
"Every day, I tell myself it's time to be getting over this - I know that people expect it of me. But if anything I'm getting worse. The first year was like a bad dream; I was there at his bedroom door in the morning before I'd remember he wasn't there to be wakened. The second year is real. I've stopped going to his door. I've sometimes let a whole day go by without thinking about him. Now I'm far from everyone. I don't have any friends anymore. And everyone looks trivial and foolish, and not related to me."
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Summation of trying to move on
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51 Views
08/27/11
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How easy it is to forget "good" times. And even then (during the trip) it wasn't a "good time" but things were ok enough, laced with enough of "I feel ok" and then peppered with "Hey, I feel kinda good" times that it was all livable, that I felt a breath of life again, I almost felt alive. I didn't shave my legs for a week after I got back, trying to hang onto something to remind me of that trip.
But now i'm back and i want to go away. I don't even know what that means aside from wishing I was a ghost with no one (which I really don't have anyway) and no responsiblity, even to myself. Just a ghost. Free to float and observe and...something.
He told me that he's got a date. That's good, but it upset me, I'm jealous: I want to desire someone, a real someone, an alive somone. Dates?...sure. Dates are everywhere...I have dated since you left this plane of existance, and maybe a little slutting around (you know how that goes) that I have never done before...but I don't want that, I don't want a date...I want you. I want to admire someone, be in awe of them, like I am you. I want to be in love. And I'm not. Not with anyone, anyone alive anyway. Not even myself.
It's time to change.
Time to grow the long hair back and go for all the colors and awe and sparkle and Bohemia I grew up with...even if mostly in my mind. The sleek, minimalistic sophistication that appeals to my eye doesn't appeal to my soul and it's been an expensive lesson. I don't know how to combine the two.
But I'm trying. I AM trying. This is me trying. Road trips that serve no purpose other than to drive, other than to reacquaint myself with my only home, behind the wheel on the road, an army surplus bag with the essentials on the passanger seat beside me, car in fifth gear. Do they even make stick shifts anymore?...surely they do, my car isn't *that* old....broken speedometer, gas gage and tachometer and everything...2005.
Now I'm supposed to be sleeping...
but I'm not very good at that.
I haven't been very good at that. It's been something that in the past that I've needed to work on, and now, over the past five months, it has developed into a problem. The state inspectors are supposed to be at work tonight...I hope I don't fNck up...wish they had come in during the two weeks that I was off...I hope I don't fuck up.
So I don't know what I'm doing. I have no plan. I have no dreams, aside from you. Every night, every day, waking, sleeping, my only dream...a dead dream, almost six months now, you know. I need a change. I need to move, we all know that, except for the people that I've known for almost 31 years who think I need to move across town and get established before I do anything else...because I just do things on a whim...and you know...that's not a way to live, not if you don't want to live paycheck to paycheck and not if you want to have your sh!t taken care of, not if you don't want to depend on the good of the universe. A nice comfortable life.
"Get established".
I have a smart phone now after years of the cheapie flip phones that come free with the basic plans...the ones that never quite work correctly. I dropped a wad on it and it's been kicking my a$s trying to learn how to do the most basic of things, like adding a phone number to a contact...or h3ll, even getting to my contacts list. So I've jumped into this decade and have all my childish, psuedo online accounts linked up to my phone so I'm disgustingly always connected to my friends who are too far away to meet up for drinks....those are my only friends anyway, except for one, who I have a crush on, and we work opposite schedules anyway. So I have this device now and "my life" is stored on it and if it were to crash, I'd be SOL...kind of...except for the fact that I'm coming off of having nothing and I remember how to do it...I hope I don't forget.
"Get established". So does this count?--the smart phone? Or am I supposed to have a nice, cute little place of my own with furniture and pictures of friends and family and my travels, food in the refridgerator?--because I'm not going to have that...maybe not ever. I don't think I want that...it makes me lazy and boring...like the smart phone is doing. Pillows on the floor to sleep on and a hundred candles...that's the best it'll get...maybe I create some thing to hang on the wall and get speakers for music.
remember.who.you.are.
Remember road atlases?--like they're some ancient relic because people can't follow them anymore because they're used to their gps's...forget about asking them to use a map and compass; orienteer--what's that? And kids don't know how to read analog clocks...some kid looked at my watch while I was at work and asked how to read it (granted, it looks a little intimidating, i guess, with it's three mini-dials on the face). I told him to google it on his smart phone.
What happened to pen and paper and beautiful handwriting and working on your penmenship? I heard that in England, they don't even teach kids how to write in cursive anymore. Hell, maybe they're doing that here now too...but there are people my age who don't know how to write cursive.
I wrote out a thank you note to a lady at work for her letting me know when a position opened up (which I got, yay). Do people do that anymore?--thank you notes, would that be considered weird?
I'm supposed to be sleeping. He's got a date. I miss you. And i don't know what I'm doing, I don't know what I want other than happiness. There are no dreams here anymore, no more strong trees and stars. Just a hung head and the only action is trudging one foot in front of another because that's what I'm supposed to do...that's what someone else, everyone else expects.
"I love you, Fierce." Thanks. Thank you, but I need you here.
To float again. To be the beautiful again, the untouchable, the ungroundable. I'm not that. I'm cloaked in navy velvet and try to slip through in the hot, dry, dusky sun unnoticed. That's all.
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the oak tree
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23 Views
08/05/11
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For the first time in my life I found a comfortable spot. A big, strong oak tree to play under, build a little nest in its branches, a little shade, an oasis in the dry desert, protection from mother nature. I unpacked my bag and began to settle in as the storms were brewing on the horizon, but it was a nice day and the shade felt cool and calm, and I smiled and laid down with my head on my arms and watched the sun through the leaves and loved my oak tree the best I knew how and didn’t worry about the storms way out there…I had been through their like before, but I had never found such a tree, so I stayed.
Then it stormed. It stormed more severely than the oak tree let me know; it’s leaves and branches shielding me from the weather, only sometimes did I catch a breeze from the harsh wind blowing beyond the boughs, a few raindrops here and there, as trees do, it felt refreshing. I didn’t know how bad the storm was, even though I was right in the middle of it, my tree protected me, it was my home and I loved it.
And then, one day, it was still storming, but I was still playing and smiling and mostly dry and very happy. I was resting with my back against the trunk of the tree when a loud thunder clash scared me and I hunched forward to cover my head...and then, I smelled the smoke of a burning fire and looked up to see that my tree was struck down by lightening…and I began to get wet…and as I watched what was left of my tree burn, I couldn’t tell which drops on my face were rain and which were tears. I was wet, and cold and the wind blew me over. The wind blew me over many times and I couldn’t get up.
And I got scared. I got scared because my tree was no more and I forgot how to pack my bag…I forgot where I even put my bag, I forgot how to go through the storm and come out on the other side. I got scared because I loved my tree so and I couldn’t just leave it, even though it was no more. So I stayed with it, even after the rain extinguished its funeral pyre and all the green turned brown. My happy little home began to fill with mud and I laid my head on what was left of the my tree’s trunk and I cried for hours, days, weeks, months and I was angry with it for not leaving a splinter sharp enough to impale myself on.
The storm passed and now it’s overcast and autumn and I’m wet and cold and have found my bag again and am trying to learn how to pack it, again. I look at my bag, the only consistent companion in all my life and I’m searching for an old branch from my oak tree to use as walking stick.
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dark nights.
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39 Views
05/10/11
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It’s a dark night.
I’ve had many of those lately.
When you pull out all your options, piece by piece and lay them out on your bed or your desk or your floor and you go through them one by one while you try to figure out the best choice, except none of them feel right, which is why you wish you had someone around, which is why you went out to buy a box of tissues. But no one is around, everyone so far away and the box of tissues is running out, and there your options are, all lined up, eeny-meeny-miny-mo...none of them feels right but you know that THIS sure as h3ll doesn't feel right either and you don't want to do it anymore.
The people who are far away say encouraging things like “In five years you’ll look back at this and think ‘wow, that was some fucked up sh!t’”, or “just keep swimming” or whatever else. And you love and appreciate them for being there, someone you can call up in the middle of the night…may have to wait a bit until they’re free, but you know they’ll call back.
But I need someone here to get me through the dark night.
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