To the extent that you wanted me to quit drinking, I probably should’ve, if it meant I could’ve really had you (if that was possible). To the extent that I should’ve played in a band all along, it was always on my mind. To the extent that you would sound good on (at least) one new song, it’s true – like Neko Case, like Neko Case. To the extent that I miss you, infinitely, infinitely. To the extent that I realize it was all wrong, infinitely, infinitely. To the extent that I want you and Ramon and Travis to be happy, infinitely, infinitely. And the glasses. And the bully pulpit. And the children. And the screen door. Great American novels. 23 minutes. Grocery lists. Saturday sandwiches. I can cook. You cannot. If we had fallen in love under a democratic regime, i am sure it would have all been different. Right? You would’ve kept your hair short, and had no reason for fear nor lent. No reason for retreat nor fear. Sometimes I wish this was a text message, and that you would come running, but that’s just wrong. When/if you cry, I (want to) taste the salt in your tears, or for the salt to be tasted, married, children, screen door, you singing that...
Too many images tonight reminding me of forgotten (and thankfully so) desires. There’s the hair that hung down and the hair than didn’t. I guess there’s just less hair altogether now – shaved pubes, balding – but there’s more of us: bodies consistently expanding. Then there’s the creepy thing that she cut the 5th grade version and the 12th grade version out of something, possibly even a larger photo, and montaged them together. All runnerly and jaw-thrusted – everything was ahead. Now Franklin-stove-esquely, waiting for something to happen. Off my meds for three days. Should be in bed. Get back to the gym before the gig. Drop a few. Fit into spandex bodysuit. Live...
Let me know when you can come see the house and pick up your stuff. It is in the wrong house here and is taking up much-needed space. Just let me know what works for you.
There’s still certain things I can’t do. I reckon you thought I would write after today. I should be out at Goth/industrial night in downtown with the boys. None of them, minus Craig, do you know. I still imagine a life in which there is enjambment of friends. Never existed. I never remembered all of the weird beginning to Sling Blade. Just the good story part and how much you loved it. It’s hard to watch tonight, but I persevere, waiting for the “you will be loved” moment. Why did we do such things to each other? Why all of the emotion when it was a thing that existed but stopped doing so? Love but difference, when the latter won out. That’s how I mark it up. Why is Sling Blade so weird at the beginning? Wy can’t I listen to Coal Miner’s Daughter? Or Jolie Holland? Where are you tonight? I’ve got mustache too. OM. Original mustache. One last hurrah that couldn’t, possibly, make any sense. I miss you. I miss you. I miss...
All the turkey dwindling in a freezer container seven feet away. When I moved in here my parents were here and it is apropos that they should be here this weekend – my last. My fingers are scarred, thumb pads rent from the mesh. Today was a long day. The walls have told all their stories and I am itching, this day after thanksgiving, for new palates on which to plaster new stories – clean walls, my walls. I am running naked and wet through the rain tonight; the family quietly sleeps in sudden slumber. The fun that was had will be had again – but not quite in the same way – if not now, then very soon. I ate the jello cranberries: my favorite. I sucked my thumb. I played Ken and Barbie and Ken. She can’t stand up. She’s dancing to stay upright. Kicked the high-heels into the pool. Goodnight this place; it is slowly dismantling. Goodnight sweet prince; he’s dead. Goodnight Candler Park, or Lake Claire, or whatever you...
In this dream you walk in here while I am entranced and grab me and my wonderful face (so wonderful!). Bob loves us and says we should toss it all: keep renting. It could always be you. It could. Living room when we were in love. Monkey love. O M G! There’s a ghost… godammit a ghost.. for fuck’s sake… S.C. will remain… all the dirties full on. They will watch; of course they...
For a little over three years, spanning from August of 2005 to August 2008, I spent one hour a week – sometimes Thursday afternoons, sometimes Tuesdays, and for a brief period on Wednesdays – sitting in an office with dim lighting and half-closed blinds trying to figure out what was wrong with me. When I started going to these sessions, I was in an awful place in my life in which my then live-in girlfriend had moved out (ostensibly in an effort to save the relationship), who then subsequently left the relationship for good a few weeks later. I had spent the better part of my previous 10 years nightly carrying out a love affair with alcohol, and whereas I had tempered these wicked ways a bit in the previous couple of years, my anger and frustration with myself would still boil over from time to time – whether drunk or sober. During those three years of weekly meetings I would come to realize that I was in, and had likely been in, a deep depression that extended back into my teen years. The man that I talked to (and I mean “to”, like when a pitcher throws a ball to the catcher, because our sessions were 95% one-way) in those sessions was Stephen O’Hagan. I would come in most of the time thinking I had nothing to say, pretending that everything was okay, only to leave an hour later realizing my tongue was tired, and most times feeling much more levity than when I entered, all at the expense of tear-stained cheeks. Steve didn’t speak much, but when...
Every sound in the universes tonight. All such cacophony; guitars breaking down. I’ve been with the little men, the little man you schooled with – the little violin playing men – and I am the abhorred drunk, or drunken. At least I am alive, and I am. New house. New life. New neighborhood. Leave this place behind. Good memory. Forget the bad. I guess it’s finally time for me to give you Thama’s clock...
I was with you in 2004. Just realized that tonight. Wish I could share all of this tonight with you as well. Working at CNN. Leaving at a certain point. Crying black woman hugging me. I hope the whole world will be different because of this. I would have loved to hug and screamed and danced with you tonight. I guess I did in some small...
Family is in town. Realized today you wanted to see. Carrla asked for pictures of you. Know you still look at this some. Know you are out of town. Wish you were here with us.
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