Tuesday, February 21, 2006

A change that stays the same.

Every day, you’re never quite the same.

You wake, your eyes flash-focusing in light of the sudden lights, trying as hard as they can to find a solitary thing to concentrate on. They always do. And hurrah, hurrah, you’re once again a part of the world. Congratulations. Every day.

Yet it does something. Those moments where your mind and body are out of touch, whether you’re asleep or not, whether you’re truly awake or not; the moments in your life, big and small, no matter where they find you, or what they are, they amount to something.

You wake up, and you find yourself different. Even if you don’t realize it. Even if it’s for the better. Even if it’s for the worse. It happens. And the fact of the matter is, there’s not a thing that you could ever do about it.

Of course, once you realize the change is happened, once it finally snaps into place with a tremendous metaphysical click, that’s where the problems come from. Because sometimes, you can look at yourself, look in the mirror with a smile on your face. Happier and older and wiser. Better? Different. Sometimes, these things work for us.

Sometimes, we don’t like where we’ve gone. Even when we do.

Am I making sense? Is this a sensible issue to begin with? Or is this one of those things that are beyond our understanding, the things that exist within ourselves every day, always working, always confusing, always making us live. Not physically, but emotionally. Working our hearts and head to the bone until the day that the pair of them peter out, letting passionless lumps of cold sit there until we decompose into the Earth. Can we work this? Can we think this? Can we comprehend this?

Let’s try. Come on.

I have to tread lightly on this. It’s in my heart and in my head not because of how I’ve been affected, but because instead of how it’s working on someone who is dear to me, almost devastatingly so. The pair of us haven’t spoken much as of late, our words drifting away from me in a manner that saddens me deeply. But I cannot stop caring and worrying and trying to help. So to this person, if you read this…I apologize for thinking out loud. I’ll take it down, if you ask me to. Until then…

People are complicated.

You see it every day, you know it to be true. You watch people cry over things that seem tiny, you hear them dismiss that which you feel should be huge. You look at people trip, and sometimes you might do something, and sometimes you might not. You know what it brings, either way, whichever choice you make, whatever you do. You might not know the reason. But you have one. Always.

Way of the world. Right?

I’ve said that, on occasion. On many occasions. When talking about different things. But for the most part, I’ve said it when speaking on the subject of people. Because of our complicated simplicity, because of our maddening human nature locked deep in the synapses and receptors of our monkey brains, sometimes it seems like the only thing that makes sense. Broad enough to be logical…yet people know what you mean.

I think. I hope.

I said this to someone recently.
Someone wonderful, who had been telling me that they are a horrible person. And in my stupid monkey brain way, I got a little bit angry. Angry because this person is intelligent and exuberant, lovely and interesting, kind and thoughtful. I cannot handle such a thing coming from one of the best people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

It’s a situation. A situation that happens sometimes, to everyone and anyone, a bit of unforeseen change that is unexpected yet not quite unwelcome. A situation that causes good people to think they’re bad, so much so that you wish you had permission to come closer and softly whisper the phrase, “Sono Nukumori ni you ga aru,” into their ear, simply because you’re too much of a coward to say words they’ll actually understand.

But what I can say, what I’ve seen in the past, what I’ve thought my way through in the wake of a truly despicable series of events, was this:

Impossible situations don’t make people horrible.

I can remember, once upon a time, talking to someone after the fact about the aforementioned despicable series of events. The person wanted my forgiveness, something which I was perfectly willing to give. This person in question had indeed done horrible things. There was violence in him, violence put in there by almost two decades of being submerged in hatred and regret, violence that he could have cast aside, but he dealt with through vengeance.

But despite all this…he wasn’t a bad man. I’d seen him laugh, I’d seen him cry, and I knew damn well what kind of person he was.

You’re not a bad man. But you have to decide if you can be a good one.

People should never just forget it, and should never just act like nothing is wrong, as if nothing were ever wrong. But that doesn't stop living. And it never should, because our lives, our wonders, our experiences, and our sorrows should never be cast aside. Our feelings might alter us, but they don’t always define us. We define ourselves by how we react to them, and how we live through them and around them. The feelings themselves are nothing to be ashamed of.

Even it’s a case of a right love, at the wrong time.

Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, just feeling how you feel isn’t enough. Life isn’t a grand story, where everything works our for everyone, where the people who should be hurt instead nod sagely with a look in their eye that says the understand. Not life. Life isn’t easy, life isn’t neat, life isn’t tidy. It’s what we have. And sometimes, the best we can do is live with it.

Yes, I believe in romance. Yes, I believe in pure, beautiful love. I believe in deep connections, and soulful looks into other peoples eyes. But that doesn’t mean that I believe it conquers all. Even if you want it to, while at the same time not wanting it to. Yes, people are complicated.

I can remember speaking to someone about this, the first member of my holy trinity of lost confidants. They all left me behind, for whatever reason, some which I know, some which I understand, and some which I tear myself apart trying to puzzle out. But still, every so often, we still get a chance to talk. And as always, with these people that I miss speaking to as much as I miss anything, it’s wonderful.

This particular time, I was speaking about a similar situation to the one that is going on today. Her particular take was that if it’s really honest and true, romantic love, that you would be unable to stop yourself. Regardless of people who it would affect, regardless of anything else but your own feelings.

Ironic, really. Because this is the person who I once had a three hour conversation about the nature of love with, as she was convinced (at the time) that it didn’t exist. Eventually, she would meet a guy who she was attracted to initially because she said he reminded her of me. True story. I want to be happy for her, I really do. But it doesn’t make me feel right inside. And because of that, I cannot help but feel guilty.

Guilt is something brought on by ourselves, a buffer for the sake of our morality.

It hurts. It always does. And sometimes it’s unwarranted, sometimes it’s just another layer of psychosis, something that happens to neurotic people who cannot seem to help such things. Yet other times, the times that we look at right here right now, it’s essentially to keeping the world together. Everyone hurts. Everyone falls in love. Everyone gets torn apart, everyone, even the coldest of us, gets to a point where they feel as if they’ll go entirely out of control, and they want to, even if it’s madness, even if it’s wrong, often BECAUSE it is.

Yet all we can do is live. Live with our changes, live with our choices, live through the life that we can understand will always be bittersweet. Even if you know someone looks at you, and it makes you smile, even though it can never be. Or when someone else looks at you, without you bothering to notice, and the looker never says a word, because they know the way things are.

Way of the world.

It happens to everyone, and it's terrible, and wonderful, and so many things, so much so that reasoning it out as anything other than pure life will just destroy your head.

La dolche vita.

There’s nothing I can say. Things change, people change, perceptions change, the world moves on. And honestly, most things say the same. Sometimes it's subtle, sometimes it's not. Nothing I can do, nothing I can think to quicken the pace of my friends feelings, my friend who will always be amazing no matter how horrible she thinks she is. I wish I could be able to make her see it. I wish, I wish, I wish. Yet I cannot help. But I truly wish I could.

Perhaps, today, that can be enough.

Friday, February 03, 2006

A fuggered up something or other.

My head isn't clear. Can't think straight, can't think right, can't think clear, can't think anything.
So I'll do something else.

So I wrote some fiction.

Maybe it will help?


Margarine stole my shoes.

She did, I know she did, and they’re all asking me to prove it. They’re asking me to look at the words of the most cunning liar ever douched out of the crevices of Eva Braun’s demonic cunt, to sit and stare at the whore who took my precious leather shoes from me as I slept under that bridge that one time, stare at her and prove the crime, while all I desire is to cremate her ass, to baptize her with the fires that she was born of, putting her back in her rightful place.

“What’s up with those eyes, you think?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

Need proof, these days.
But there isn’t any proof, none at all, not a scrap of evidence to indict her of the crime that everyone and his Grand-Aunt Sally knew that she committed, right under my snuffling nose when I slept under that one bridge that one time. That’s probably why I couldn’t smell her, that has to be the reason, because my nose was damn cold, damn frozen, damn ruined by the nature of that night, that night under that one bridge that one time. That has to be it.

“So…do you know how we handle something like this?”

“Me? Hell no.”

She’s evil.
Pure evil, not a doubt in this crafty ol’ fuckin’ dome of mine, which is how she could slip around like a creepy specter and thanklessly take the things from me, the things that I want and I need to share with people the most, those shoes that I found, but they were given to me, even though I found them, pure nice leather, really smooth, feeling good all the time as my toes wiggled just a little, just a little too big, just like proper leather shoes should be. I miss them.

“But you’re here to break me in! Because I’ve only been on the job for a couple weeks, and…”

“A couple of weeks? So what? I’ve been on the job three years. Doesn’t mean I know how to handle something like this.”

How? How do you get evidence of some filthy demonic apparition, one who doesn’t have the decency to leave someone’s private residence alone, not treating the place as sacred, sacred like it should be, instead giving us all a scared heart because we don’t know when the hell that bitch is going to be coming by, slipping through our vision like the creepy sleepwalking skank that she is, getting ready for her nights of deception and thievery while the rest of us bother with breathing. I have to stare at her and give them the proof.

“Okay, man. You don’t have to get angry, I just figured that you might know. More experience, all that.”

“More experience? I’ve spent almost every day of my adult life filing paperwork.”

But where?
Where can I get the proof? Where am I going to look to send that bitch back to the place she was made, that greasy little slime bucket, trying to make me look a fool, well I’ll show her, I’ll show her but good what I’m made of, I’ll figure all of this out without even breaking a sweat on my brow. I haven’t broken a sweat on my brow in a while, actually I can’t even remember the last time that something like that happened to me, it’s probably a sign of something, something else that I have to figure out alongside this.


“Yeah, paperwork. It’s most of the job.”

That’s it.
That has to be it. It’s connected, the nose and the shoes and the sweat, all of it coming down to that one time I was under that bridge, that has to be the connection. That’s how I can figure this whole shebang out, by tying them together with that common theme, leather and snot and drippy drippy, exactly, no problem, there we go. But now that I know that, what exactly should I do with it, it isn’t exactly the easiest problem in the world to solve, but that’s okay, that’s what I got, that’s what I can use to my advantage in this whole deal, I can salvage my pride, get my shoes, show her, shoe them all, learn to walk again.

“But mostly paperwork? For two whole years?”

“Three years. And yes, that is how it’s been working out. So yes, this is kind of new to me. I’m sorry, but it is how it is.”

So I’ve got to figure out how I figure into all this. I remember that day like it were three years ago, even though it was last week, even though I spoke to that whore Margarine this morning, I think, yes, that’s right, this morning, I think, it has to have been this morning. What did I have for breakfast, do I think that she did something to it, something to keep me for speaking clearly to the people who want me to prove what it was that she did when she did it, so that we can get to the stake through her heart, putting my misery out of its pleasure, saving me from her and all her vile misdeeds. Jesus Christ, walking with me.

“Jesus Christ. I can’t believe that’s what I’m in for.”

“Hell, I don’t know. Might not go the same for you.”

That’s the ticket.
Try to remember. Remember it all, back to the first moment I saw her, saw her by that fire, where she was standing trying to keep herself right, right where she knew she belonged, and of course that’s the key, the clue, how all of this works, isn’t it, it has to be, I knew it was, I know it is, that bitch, that whore, that slut, that demon, that skank, that walking curse upon the planet Earth, the one made from Hitler’s blasted seed, or something, probably, I haven’t figured out the origin yet. This is getting side-tracked anyway.

“But you just said that it’s what I’m in for! I wanted to be a part of something, you know?”

“Hey, this shit works in different ways for everyone I’ve ever met. And besides, just because you’re not engaging in foot-chases every day doesn’t mean the job is worthless.”

What was that time?
It was. It was about five years ago, on top of the bridge this time, that time, as opposed to the other time, and I think it was where I met her, where the pair of us shared a bit of something something, and I talked for hours about the dog that I had left behind that night that my father decided it would be best if I went back to school, even though tough fellas like me never needed it. Showed that one.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Not hard to believe.”

So the clock said seven-thirty. At least it would have, if I had a clock there, but I didn’t the only thing I had next to me keeping me warm and safe was the thing that she stole from me, the one thing that I needed next to my bosom, my arc d’ triumph, my goddamn prize whore of the Ganges, a prime export of my me that I needed to keep myself thinking right among all the other things that the world tries to pump me full of on a regular basis, and now I’m stuck here whimpering like some twirptich robot fucking loser asshole pap-smear, and I know exactly how I got down here. Exactly.

“Not that, I mean the guy. Look at him.”

“I know. Never saw anybody twitch like that before, ‘cept in the movies.”

I know.
I know it. I know how I got here but without my shoes keeping me free and clear, I can’t figure out how the how works, putting together the vapors of that evil ones existence into a tangible enough gathering so that the people around me will know what to do about it, being able to handle it in one fell motion swoop from the heavens, cleansing fire, wave of immolation, the new world of our new world order, where patent-leather shoes are given to the saviors as a symbol of their righteous path. I can do this.

“So…am I gonna have to field the paperwork on this guy?”

“Well, you probably should. Experience and all.”

Concentration is the key.
Force it, that’s what I have to do. Blare a path through all the bullshit and the distrust and the mistrust and the antitrust and the prototrust and the clear trust, a path so clean and virtuous that this mission that I’ve been given to steam-clean that slant-brained cunt wash off the face of the Earth, the way that it was all meant to be, all those times before, I just have to know the right place to looks and it’ll be so easy, so easy to fine it all, beyond everything else, beyond good and bad, righteous and evil. A new path.

“But how can I know what to file if I haven’t done it before?”

“Okay, come on. That’s not fair, you know how this works.”

That’s it.
I’m free, aren’t I? I’m free to choose the way that I make myself move, free to do this thing the way that I see fit, made free by the heavenly spirit’s the way that they made me free all those years ago, the first time that I was put on a crusade for the right of way, the time that has drifted away because there is too much confusion, I can’t get no relief, not without my shoes that keep me warm, except for the snwuffles I had that evening under the bridge, where I was sleeping because I had been put there, and now I think I know I think I know I understand what it is and what it was, all of it. All of it.

“Right, right, right. I’m sorry about this, it’s just…”

“Don’t worry about it, kid.”

So here.
Here I am, ready to work, ready to move. I just have to focus and concentrate, look into myself for that evidence that I still need, still need the proof, but I can get it if I focus, that much is certain and clear and right, no problem-o, all the way to the end, straight down the line, and you know, I think I might even be able to have fun with this one, fun with this charge in a way that I haven’t felt since back when I was still deceived by Margarine’s deceptive ways that had me dancing around in her clockwork web of cursed ways, making me the Rommel to her fucking Fuhrer. That bitch.

“No, I really should apologize about all this.”

“Experience is one thing, expectation is another. Don’t beat yourself up, you still have a chance to get your moment. You never know.”

You never know.
Not at first. Not when the pair of you are standing together, doing what some would call laughing with that pussy-ass joy of the moment, making your way towards a place where you might even call yourself happy, anti of the sad, making your way towards a different freedom than the freedom I just found. I thought I had almost found it that time. With her. In there. Over there. Where was I going, what am I doing, what did she do to me, who was she anyway, before I knew what SHE WAS AND WHO SHE WAS WHAT SHE DID WHAT I DID WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE. No.

“Sure, pops.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m like six years older than you.”

Don’t get crossed.
Keep it all together. All the pieces, the fluctuation and the interpretation, all that meaning that you just fixed together even though you didn’t have your pieces quite right, don’t let the lies of the past mess with the future of the path, just make sure that you know your enemy, remember who she is, who she came from, what she what she what she did to you, don’t forget, have fun with the thoughts remember what she did to you, the hurt and the pain and the lust and the evil, that slobbering mongrel of a horse-faced concubine, ruining your peaceful life with her entrance, sopping up jizz with her eyelids and not letting you think straight. Make it right.

“You called me kid.”

“That isn’t the same thing, and you know it.”

Not hard.
It can’t be, it won’t be. Making it right will be the easiest thing in the world, know that you’re back on track, keeping everybody focused, moving around through the air just like Margarine did when she wisped about and took what you needed to beat her, or so she thought, but I’ve you’ve we’ve gotten around that little technicality, and now all we have to do is stay cautious, keeping our sights locked, and we can have more fun than a cracker barrel crammed full of horse heads, the way we were meant to with this thing. Oh yes, it’s gonna be sweet.

“Whatever. Eight years is enough to make a difference. Plus, there’s all that experience you have.”

“Six years. And we just talked about how much that ‘experience,’ is worth. Hey…”

It’s time.
Time for it all. Time for the bridge where I spent that night that one time, time for evidence and justice and all the things that make the world sweet, make it alright for the children and the puppies and the Christmas carols to flood the air whenever the cock they please themselves, ready to wear myself out with enough action to get it done, whatever’s in the way, isn’t in the way, not with the focus, not with the drive, not with that SCREAMING CUNT OOZING HER WAY INTO MY PORES WHEN I DON’T THINK HARD ENOUGH, time to work, time to play, time to rock around the clock, time to fucking move. Right.


“Did he just…”

It’s time.



Here we go! Here’s the motion, here’s the action, here’s the fighting, here’s the moving moving moving moving moving on to destroy the way I see the ones she sent and that’s alright I’m gonna get them these Nazi Gestapo pissSacks don’t depress me don’t scare me I know what I have to do and I’ll be damned if I don’t do what I gotta do gotta get where I’m going and to go where I’m getting they gotta get gone. Not my WAY!

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Which way did he…”

“South! He went south. You hurt at all?”

Gotta move.
Gotta move. Gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move

“My arm’s cut pretty bad. But I’m okay. WHICH WAY IS SOUTH?”

“It’s right behind…good god. Are you seeing this?”


“Jesus fucking Christ. That’s disgusting. And WHERE THE FUCK IS HER HEAD? It is a her, right? RIGHT?”

“I dunno where the head is. Calm down, kid. Where’s your piece?”


“It’s right, uh, it’s right here, I got it, I got it. I’m fine. It’s cool.”

“Okay. Go to the car, radio backup. Got that?”

Can’t let this go.
Can’t let those Gestapo fuckpants ruin all of this after the fact, can’t let them. I won’t let them, it’ll be ok, be alright, be fine, they’re in my way, they were in my way, that makes it fair, makes the mission clear, makes it right. You heard that, Margie? You won’t get me.
You won’t.

“Yeah, backup, okay. Right, uh, pops, watch yourself.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You. Won’t.

“Right, right, sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just get to the car.”



“Alright. Don’t forget he went…”


“…South, right.”

“Oh Shit.”

Can’t stop me.
You can’t Margarine. You wisp and you move and you try as hard as you can and you could but your ways don’t stop the purest of us and that’s me baby that’s this one right here. Can’t stop me.


“Oh shit. Oh shit.”

Fuck me, fuck you, fuck it all.
I’m not depressed, I’m crazy, I’m going to rape your face and shove you in a hole that I dug in my backyard. Sixty feet deep, a hole that lets the dirt smear all over your skin, covering your angelic features with the revulsion that’s been boiling inside my gut for these years and months and days and minutes. Fuck. You. Enjoy your days of green. Enjoy your dances and your songs. Enjoy your concerts, enjoy your social gatherings. Enjoy your love. Because I won’t. I’m going to sit and watch, festering like a colossal boil that lives on the underside of all that you know, all that you fucking trust, you pisspigs of the world, uniting to spread your moronic message of living and dying. Ugh.


“You can’t do tha”

It’s all mine, all of it.
Because I’m free.






What was I doing?

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