Saturday, June 30, 2012

This Will (Should) Probably Be the Last One of These Types (I Guess)

Raymond Carver opening; my stuff on the lawn, but no dancing. No Will Ferrel movie version. Other shoes where my shoes went, other moments where mine, ours, used to be. Our house, our bed, our Oregon, our story-- something different now. Just a prologue, apparently, but now separate. Other shapes and shadows occupy the space where mine had stood, sat, slept, ate, laughed and loved. And was loved. Deconstructing through rearranging, replacing through building over the old, is something I don't have the ability to do. I really don't. I'm terrible at it. I don't find and replace, erase, or try to forget. I had thought that was the worst thing ever, to distort those memories, or worse, lose them. Worse than just being somebody on a list, worse than being a poem in a collection of poems, including ones--I'm sure--about those who helped take something special from me. So I don't make overt steps to cover up those memories and moments by creating new ones right directly over the old. Or pretend they weren't there. But lying is a form of pretending and maybe I need to get better at lying to myself. At pretending. Then I could tell myself, I could pretend, that one day I could replace, forget, not-think-about. That would be easier, make it simpler to go about the world. Like, I could drink a sloe gin fizz, in Portland, Oregon, with someone else, create something new that would replace the old. Like someone else's slippers. Maybe that's all takes. I suppose that would make things easier. For some, it's all about what's easy, or what's easiest. And why should I be any different? At the very least, it would make it easier to order a sloe gin fizz.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Sunday Night Muse

I should probably preface this: I have had way too much to drink on way too empty of stomach. My routines were rippled and altered to the point that I don't know what the day is or the time, etc.If that's something one can ever know.  It's good to know, however,  that people that weren't my family I still think of as family, and they still think of me the same. First Street Hugs. Warms me up. I've had such a tough time with the latest story, but have not been more excited about a story as I am with this one. Too close to home, I guess, in some ways, in many ways. But I keep working at it. Damn her.

Also on my mind: 3am calls from far away places is an acceptable reason to be tired, up all night reading is acceptable, staring at the walls listening to worn out playlists...hmm, not so much. Not as much. It's tough to cut something out, when that something seems pretty damn important. Always has. Certainly seemed important at the time.  I'm slightly worried-- as worried one can be on a slight level-- how much I just don't care. How much I want to not care. To remove elements that make me care.  I have always loved The Stranger, but never because I thought it was an ideal way to live life. But maybe it is. When you give everything, you give your whole and complete self, and then everything is lost, or taken, or shat upon, then what are you really left with? Nothing, I suppose.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Oh, The Big O, Sing It OR Links to Songs To Drink Whiskey To

I just want to give Otis a big hug. It would have to be zombie Otis, of course.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Ocean Horse Repeats Or The Art of Skipping Songs

Meander and trudge through the brown sludge of the day, the cup. Don't worry that it takes a certain kind of light to notice the absence of things, and maybe a certain kind of darkness to create shadows where no shadows should be. There is a science and a philosophy to the idea of nothingness, and emptiness, but that doesn't mean it can be defined. Reaching across the bed for something that's not there... that's something, I suppose, but still nothing.