18 January 2011 § Leave a comment

This is going to be intense. How many times can I say ‘I miss her’ and how many different people can I be talking about before seeming like a needy slut of a man who never really got over his sexual hangups until the past few months or so, when everything has fallen apart, burned CDs riddle his timeline with excessive emotion, her writing, her handwriting, beautiful as it was, and at times it was the only beautiful thing about her, after the days had gotten so long and filled with smoke and bones and skeletal faces, hollowed out with alcohol and starvation. find the unequivocal reply to the things we discussed over all that pot and wine in that little apartment I paid for in pennies and sometimes dimes. steal the cookies from the grocery store so we’d have something to eat that night, so she’d have something that she said she wouldn’t throw up. but i was ignorant or hopeful, forever too trusting. i knew what was going on but refused to believe it for a moment because things had to be better than they were. I was working for the moon and I was stuck in a sewer with a once beautiful girl who wanted nothing more than to die a prolonged and delayed death. suffer. hear them suffer, like the walls in zadar.

she came to me, I came to her, we learned about the world, we taught each other what we knew and discovered music from the screen and the beersoaked floors of tropical summer shows. let’s just sit out here and sweat for a while, we’d say at midnight, at three in the morning, let me just have you for a moment, let me believe that I can do this forever, that we will do this dance forever, this pretending to be elegant, this life of lies and maggotgrease. I wasn’t lying when I said I loved her more, with my whole heart and all I had to love with – I was sucked in and even the spider would let me go before I would have let myself escape that shit with my life. god damnit, I loved her. and when i finally realized that, i had to let her go, because i couldn’t manage that passion anymore, I couldn’t be the caretaker, I couldn’t be the unwilling boss and doctor, ignorant psychologist, motivational speaker and wine buyer all in one – i had to break free and read my journalbooks through and pay attention to what I was writing. take those wishes and pitch them at the brick walls with the fresh black windows and that little balcony I stood on, not far above the street, and I wonder what would have happened if I jumped from there with a semi coming down patton avenue – I could have ridden on the roof to the other side of the world if I timed it right, otherwise I would have been bug splatter on the grill of those delivery trucks, and at the time neither seemed better or worse than the other.

so I can look back now and know what was what and what needed to happen when it did – and while I’m sure I was a little late – I’m 24, and because I’m vain and ridiculous, I consider that too old for many things I wanted to do – web design, vagabonding across the US for a couple of years – what am I to do with all these anticredits to my name? I can’t pick a friend that won’t fuck me from behind with compulsory lies and worthlessness, I can’t NOT be taken advantage of because it seemed to be what I needed, to learn my lessons, to take my beatings, to be the whipping boy – remember that fatalist story – dark and foreboding, self prophecy and the bright yellow moon across the too perfect navy blue sky on the cover of that book. when did I read it last? A wrinkle in time had nothing on that shit. a wrinkle in time. when did we hear that? sociology? mrs. graham. katie was in that class, that hippie girl with the orange hair that I got paired up with involuntarily but then willingly. her skirts and my trenchcoat went well together, but my pretentious mind had me in a caste system of rage of odd complexes. i loved her then, and I knew it then, though I would never have said that word, probably never thought it – and then,. standing in my room, under the green and black lights, near that shrine and the writing on the wall that I took from some movie about a demon, it was all too perfect, it was all too insane, and I couldn’t have a part of it because i didn’t deserve it then and I don’t deserve it now, though this girl was in the back of my mind for half a decade and more recently gave her whole heart to me so I could fumble it away and not talk to her for an entire summer. oh, what were you thinking? how much more had you to learn, and what was it that motivated you? unwilling? jesus fucking christ. no, you can’t go back to her and say you’ve changed, even if you have, because how could she believe you? what else haven’t you told her? but also, what else does she want to know?

who knows that for sure? I can only account for what she says and those rare moments in conversation when we’re going forward and I say something unexpected because I wouldn’t normally admit something like that, and her eyes widen just a little because she knows this is special, like the other day down by the port, with the sun coming up over the buildings from the glass and the cold nipped at our lips, which hadn’t seen each other in a month or more, which was far too long for both of us, but cultivating passion that whole time. not for a day I didn’t skip out on the thought of her while I was gone, in fact it was train ticket this and katie that, oh shit look at that ravaged building there, i wish katie was here to see that, and it never stopped, but time is supposed to heal these things, time is supposed to make me not think so much, it’s supposed to, it promised to settle my debts and be done with things, so I didn’t have to write about her every sentence in this punishing medium, this finely tuned intrument of torture, of course, a freewrite is whatever is on your mind, sean, and guess what’s there, guess who’s there, and how are you going to get her to go away from being there because are you Really going to go to her to say that oh, you’ve changed, you can trust me now, I want to travel with you and go the the edges of the planet with you – is that REALLY what you want? It can’t just be about the sex or that wine connection anymore sean, if you go and say that shit, you’re done for – you have to follow through on something in this newfound life of yours – not like you ever did before, but now you’re without all that independent dignity you once pretended – paying bills and having a place and taking care of shit like you did, driving and stealing and lying and working and throwing yourself into all those crazy things, asking for things you had no right to – but they were given to you by people who had seen you work your magic, and what did we accomplish with that, then? let’s see. some money, a little bit of self-respect, certainly some value, knowledge. lots of lung and liver damage and quite a bit of experience you wouldn’t have gotten otherwise. keep up the thievery, that’s good for you, the think doors provide the inspiration, the shielding when you need it, and there she is again, hanging from the rafters, and every one is watching now as you’re filing out your millions of minutes and the cables wrapped up in the room with the piano and the organ. the guy with all the ego that breaks things to his left wasn’t so particular about his coffee, remember that? and the people from alaska, grey hair and camera ready, they didn’t eat well at all, if you remember that, but you’d rather not – but what are you trying to fall back on now? something you first attained by lying? but you were good at it, and you could be good again, if you could focus, stop jittering, maybe stop drinking but that’s probably not going to happen now – europe was a landfall, a missed opportunity of landmarks and fireworks, cellos and perfumes, what about that club with the pop anthems and the teenage girls with the tequila and the miniskirts? we had to get out of there, quick, before the sight and sound would damage us and forget to place us back into reality on holiday. that’s where we were, on summer’s new year’s eve, but in the northern hemisphere. the greeks fought over this town and someone once called it beautiful, while we were warned not to climb the hill because there might be mines there. take the bus and never talk to her again. london with the rebels and the riots, she’ll go there to be amazed and I hope she does because after the stories that we told each other, I told we’re both human now and wrenching all the juices and the oil that make our mistakes worth retelling. walking disaster, that we are, every once of us and we’re both worth the discovery.

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