it's a wicked life but what the hell?

oh! sweet nuthin'

2010-04-27T00:23:00.003-04:00

the lone ranger.
the one and only being who
knows how atlas felt.
struggle of the halves,
self upon self,
a repetitive persona.
truth is lonely sometimes;
finding sadness to be
a rebirth of soul.
"oh sweet nuthin'
she ain't got nothing at all"
her mind condemns the
brutal thoughts of her mother
while sewing a silver lining.
impressions of youth,
a bitter pill, the end of days.
but salvation exists only
with the underground.

tell me it's only darkness

2010-04-14T14:57:00.003-04:00

sounds of darkness -
broken occasionally,
by the owl or auto -
that tender deafening,
wishing our dreams
of over the gentle slope.
endless thoughts, questions.
I can't see you out there,
stumbling with your nervous life.
think of me tonight when
you tell her your secrets.
dream dreams of you and me,
give us the morning and
tell me it's only darkness.

midnight rambling #1

2010-04-04T22:47:00.005-04:00

the sense of being that comes
with being loved is unmatched
by any other one entity.
a calming effect, like a drug,
speeding through the vein,
killing the anxiety,
forgetting the memories.
a bright, new tomorrow;
shiny and sweet with the
promise of forever.

slipping

2010-04-02T09:39:00.005-04:00

the last embers of a dying fire,

settling and cracking,

marching slowly to the eternal.

inevitable ending to a day

in which you had the world

in the palm of your hand.

everything was as it should've been,

first time in weeks.

but the whip comes down,

silence becomes normal.

the warmth cools to a chill

and the wine and cheese

spill and spoil and

the whole thing falls apart.

and you're left, laying there

staring at the ashes

of your one true love.

a sad realization made

sadder by the constant fear

glowing in your eyes.

your real grip loosens,

leaving a shallow indentation.

in the nighttime

2010-04-01T10:55:00.004-04:00

stillness in the nighttime

might be the greatest fear

for the nervous heart.

darkness, the eyes struggle

to maintain contract with

familiar figures, ideals of

safety and refuge, a lie.

that terrible urge at the

bottom of the stomach,

to run, to flee, to scream.

a constant reminder of

the crippling loneliness
that crawls desperately

into the mind of even the

most satisfied woman,

on some nights, when the

shadows cast those certain dreams.

afternoon ramble #1

2010-03-31T17:08:00.004-04:00

the hardest part of never knowing you

was not getting the chance to see

your glorious face in the morning

when you first wake up, eyes full

of confusion and excitement.

I would've held your hand whenever

you needed it, like after a bad day

at work or while walking through the park.

those tears that you cried at night

never had to touch your cheeks.

every terrible, horrible thing that

you had to go through, all of it,

could've been avoided.

but I never knew you.

your problems were yours and yours alone.

strength and weakness are a matching set.

the days of the week,

every second flashed by without

our souls ever crossing, for whatever

reason, determined by whomever.

I could've known you.

I could've loved you.

to die today

2010-03-31T13:50:00.005-04:00

to die today would

be a dream come true.

this world of piss and shit

and republicans, their grubby

greasy fingers grabbing

for the last ticket to heaven,

as if any of it mattered.

the south will die again.

pain from neighbors

and brothers and

not one shread of knowledge

or logic or reason.

to die today would

be a retreat from the fight.

no white flag ever waved with pride.

to quit this world would

betray our mothers.

meaningless words #2

2010-03-30T23:52:00.003-04:00

a fresh sun shines
on every sinful heart.
the stumbling world,
far from divine grace,
scratching and biting
for mother's milk.
the yawning infant,
an exercise in innocence,
easy excuse for excess.
every answer a riddle,
closure isn't cheap.
breathing is digital.
we inch closer to the edge
of the merry-go-round.

she watches you and I

2010-03-30T14:35:00.003-04:00

somewhere between this life
and the silence of the next,
a ghost resides peacefully.
she watches you and I.
she waits with a grace
for an untold moment
which could knock us out.
with an army of spirits,
she overtakes us,
overthrowing our senses,
shaking our notions of
love and pain and truth,
rendering us slaves to fear,
whimpering cowards.
she watches you and I,
her eyes fixed on fate,
her heart set to destroy.
one final love story.

meaningless words #1

2010-03-30T11:41:00.009-04:00

sitting in the corner, alone and guilty,
nothing more to talk about.
no hard feelings, okay?
doing what you have to do
isn't necessarily a crime;
only if you don't mean it.
friends only exist in
fairy tales and romantic comedies.
today was hard.
tomorrow will be torture.
every day, more pain.
the smile that once decorated
that sullen canvas, lost
and torn by misuse
and mistrust of the highest grade.
so stand in your corner,
your guide and backbone.

2010-03-25T23:50:00.003-04:00

I can't find my soul
if I've never been to england.
lives and loves lost
to a glorified history.
an echo of anyone
who was anyone
that said the words I can't.

she said I'd never be
that little boy, sitting
and smiling and laughing
at all the love I have.
she said the soul is an angel,
waiting for the death
of the make-believe.

a former pastime

2010-03-25T16:10:00.003-04:00

that nervous waiting,
never truly extinguished.
the world as you know it,
hanging by the slightest thread
that is no stronger than
your childhood willpower.
the only thing on your mind.
nothing can distract you.
a singular action can
impact your basic essence.
goodbye to apple pie and baseball,
there is no american anymore.
woody guthrie had it wrong.
this land wasn't made
for you and me.

to be high...

2010-03-23T00:12:00.006-04:00

to be high is to
have the world
at your fingertips
and the devil
in your shirt pocket.
to be high is to
have life pass you by
as a chorus sings mother
and stillness is surrounding.
to be high is
a pain behind your left ear
that defies diagnosis.
the one that seems to
bring up that terrible memory.
to be high is to
tell someone that without them,
the wind doesn't smells
as sweet as it once did.
to be high is to
see the heaven in brown eyes
and a silky white complexion.
to wish the world it's best.

ramble @ 12:30pm

2010-03-20T12:38:00.003-04:00

shining like the heaven
above the parting trees,
glory glory, lovely prize.
my eyes oft deceived
by cosmic oddities
and the notion of desire
and the idea of pain and love
this terrible world
where we are believers
and the vaudevillian deceivers
in glowing victory
staring at the moon
and howling at nothing.
sometimes I get heartburn
when I think about the
poor little priests and rabbis
and the nonbelievers alike.
but the answer is worth its
weight in gold, just like hope.
nothing will ever be as good
as a memory of that one day
when you finally did something.

OU? OH YEAH!

2010-03-19T10:31:00.004-04:00

congratulations to my alma mater, Ohio University, for upsetting Georgetown in the first round of the NCAA tournament.

GO BOBCATS!!!!

10:51 ramble

2010-03-11T22:56:00.006-05:00

smoke-eyed miracle,
your heart does beat
and lips do kiss
and the touch of
your hand, softly upon mine,
sends chills too heavenly
to be of reality.

this letter to you,
a note, nothing more.
I've no talent at all
except loving you.
my existence survives
on your words and thoughts
and nothing more.

machine gun

2010-03-10T21:45:00.004-05:00

oh pretty world

i frown on you from heaven.

your seas and hills,

elastic meadows of industry.

this pretty world

once a beacon of something.

people for the sake of people.

being of the sake of needing.

no pretty world

this is not your own.

i lived for you,

not from desire but pity.

friendlessness is a disease

born from phobia.

oh pretty world

no use of mine.

living among stars

dying beneath moons

a grand situation

that certain pain

2010-02-28T00:08:00.005-05:00

on a page, dusty and forgotten,
in a book of yesterday's dreams,
the love and the loss.
a child missing a home
a parent missing the point.
neglect is a fiery stove
which burns and scars
and teaches not to play
with that which hurts.
but pain, that certain pain,
the one that can kill
as easily as it can inspire,
is a drug of the heinous kind.
it's a fiend, feeding off love,
fending off the last pure emotion.
and I find you to be
the most indifferent kind
of suffering saint.

dancing #2

2010-02-24T00:39:00.007-05:00

the dance and the dancer,

one in the same.

a soul cannot be contained

within five feet of flesh.

it bends, beats and breaks,

escaping through fluidity,

with a violent grace.

the dance, a complex birth

and equally unsettling death.

beauty from tragedy,

liberty from pain,

a freeing devastation.

the dancer, heavenly specter,

a revelation of courage,

insecure and bold,

knowing every step

is towards the truth.

to be vulnerable

2010-02-24T00:01:00.005-05:00

to be vulnerable
is to be naked
in the middle of the day
in the middle of a room
filled with enemies
and neighbors
and your childhood sweetheart.

to be vulnerable
is to stand alone
in the rain and hail
in the middle of Hell
and decipher
Judas from Lucifer.

to be vulnerable
is to die violently
at the hands of friends,
in the eyes of God,
every day of your life
and know that heaven
isn't a possibility.

sweet Nell

2010-02-22T23:49:00.002-05:00

living is grueling.
it's a tiring sport
without winners.
no trophy, no check,
only grief and sadness;
insatiable sinners.

something, somewhere,
is worth your hope.
faith isn't just for the righteous;
the deaf and blind.
no, you're mine.
whatever got you here,
whatever got you near me,
divine or devil,
it's miles in the past.

now to live.
smile for once,
your laugh sublime.
don't worry or fear.
no, now you're mine.

wander with me

2010-02-22T13:17:00.005-05:00

wander with me.

take my hand and wander with me.

whisper your secrets,

tickle my ear and my fancy.

you're my fantasy, don't you know?

the sun rises for you,

the moon hovers too,

floating like a dream.

wonder with me.

see the world with a smile.

think of saints and gods

and how sad they are.

little people, little souls.

no knowledge in the world,

only intuition and hunger.

but wander with me,

and we'll be okay.

dancing #1

2010-02-20T22:19:00.009-05:00

it lifts and goes,

release my demons.

the preaching never stops,

"something about heaven"

I'm too cold to know.

soft lights, like a dream,

welcome me, as Emily

takes my hand, leading

to a strange staircase.

logic defied, reason smashed,

a new belief system,

yesterday's morals stale.

I miss my demons.

they kept me honest.

tomorrow's devil is here,

that chill across your leg,

your mirror image.

the biting chill

2010-02-18T13:03:00.006-05:00

your ghost still roams,
admiring every action,
feigning reaction.
the biting chill,
I sense you near,
always behind me.
that voice, that tone,
echoes of love and death.
mirrors flash a brief memory.
oh coy ghost, forget me,
leave me lonesome.
you've destroyed it,
I cannot rebuild it.
one person could be so much.

dinner in the oven

2010-02-17T14:14:00.006-05:00

this is me, now.

this is who I am.

is this who I wanted to be? no.

is this what I dreamed? no.

but it is reality.

my memories are vivid

but so distant.

everything is out of reach.

I've forsaken myself.

dinner is in the oven,

my heart is in the deep freeze.

dreams are for youth.

no happy balance.

no happy ending.

I am a wife.

I am a mother.

I am dead.

time to settle

2010-02-17T13:50:00.006-05:00

goodbye dreams,
see you on the other side.
I've been overtaken by impurities.
losing isn't hard,
it's the realization that sting.
right through your fingers,
shattering onto the floor.
life is a hellhound,
it'll catch up with you.
overwhelmed by riddles
I can't possibly solve.
it's all over now.
no way to continue.
time to settle for failure.
time to get comfortable.
property taxes and diapers.
begin the suburban nightmare

blow wind, blow.

2010-02-16T15:22:00.004-05:00

blow wind, blow.
blow away fears.
blow away insecurities.
take pity on me, wind,
my baby's dead and gone.
blow away my pain
til there's nothing left
except my heart, my true heart.
blow wind, blow.
I hear you whistling.
blow my mind clean
of any doubts.
blow away my sin,
leave me good.

a smile in your mirror

2010-02-16T00:34:00.006-05:00

early morning,
a bright sun shining
on the untold fortunes.
coffee and a cigarette;
breakfast of the underdog.
a faint Miles blows,
the obtuse neighbor's bacon mocks.
you're hungry today.
finally you'll get yours.
lady luck lies
with her head on your pillow.
a smile in your mirror,
foreign, baffling.
no time to be sad,
you're hungry today.

something about heaven

2010-02-14T21:54:00.008-05:00

a simple act of truth.
dreams become movement,
pain becomes art.
freedom for seconds.
substance and style
and a serene demeanor.
i see you die every night,
with each detailed sting.
blood and tears,
adrenaline-induced euphoria.
for once, to be,
chance of a lifetime.
the heart beats
a somber bossa nova.
whisper with your soul,
be godlike in your little way.
heaven is in your feet.

absolution: a long time coming

2010-02-12T00:14:00.007-05:00

desperation suits you.
never have I seen you truer.

one last nerve,

that heavy breath,

muted meditation,

cloudy eyes.

a stressful beauty.

this is a big one.

everything is crushed.

crying never helps,

it only slows you down.

the sun is brighter

on two hours' sleep.

pain is subjective.

hunger is faith.

the forsaken never waver.

all too much

2010-02-11T00:38:00.007-05:00

this room feels like the Grand Canyon.
you're so far away.
a fissure for sure.
it's no fun anymore.
talking is labored.
disingenuous chit-chat;
those mocking eyes,
your isolated demeanor,
unsympathetic, steadfast.
when did the glass shatter?
sit there, I wouldn't want to trouble you.
kettle-calling gets you no where.
ruminate on Saint Vitus;
dance among the lightning.
it's better to be struck dead
than to seek complacency.

an atypical tone

2010-02-09T23:55:00.003-05:00

"tomorrow," you said everyday.
to put off living,
the moment you become content,
that deadly happiness.
nothing will ever be born,
a stagnant disposition.
your words are the same
but in an atypical tone.
the voice echoes off
every anemic dream.
you blew it, you know.
the box you closed yourself in.
a slow, delicate abortion
of any future at all.
heroin on the silver spoon.
the falling hammer.
a goddamn shame.

anger and hunger

2010-02-08T23:31:00.002-05:00

a thousand knives have torn
through your velvet.
scorned dozens,
all bastards, all lonely.
masculine speed bumps.
a gentle reflection.
joy lives. happiness lives.
the beating, breathing soul.
peace is the midwest.
it's no tea party when
your friends are violence and
anger and hunger.
those degenerate bastards.
what have they done to you?

the long road home

2010-02-02T13:51:00.005-05:00

the long road home,

familiar, boorish.

the need to get free.

a despair in vain.

something you forgot

all on your own.

comfort kills creativity;

it's been dead for awhile.

daydreaming is nice,

but you've got to live.

no more settling.

the long road home,

a crashing bastion,

a failing guide.

1-2-3.

2010-02-01T15:49:00.011-05:00

waltzes were your favorite,
when we used to dance.
1-2-3. 1-2-3.
your eyes fixed on mine,
my heart on yours.
1-2-3. 1-2-3.
your feet of wind,
my awkward soul.
1-2-3. 1-2-3.
I never held on tight enough.
you were too strong for me.
1-2-3. 1-2-3.
we were both young.
we were both wrong.
I loved you.
1-2-3. 1-2-3.

coffee and a talking-to

2010-02-01T13:57:00.009-05:00

so now what?
you can't go out on that note;
you're better than that.
this morning is fresh,
anything is possible.
drink your coffee,
you need to be alert.
they'll come at you from all angles.
be stronger than you know.
attack or be attacked,
be smarter than them.
the world is cruel and foolish,
so you can't let them see you cry.
don't take pity,
take chances.
be yourself
and you'll always be happy.

what if it's true?

2010-01-28T23:44:00.009-05:00

another hard night,
sleep, an afterthought.
a naked burning
deep in your womb.
what if it's true?
a commencement
and a death.
dreams mean nothing
in the long run.
what if it's true?
you're damn strong.
it'll have your eyes
and that smile,
that inerasable smile.
what if it is true?
a delicate decision.

smiles do exist

2010-01-28T15:20:00.003-05:00

your stare,
blinding, deafening.
broken little girl,
your troubles are mine.
so long ago
and you've come so far.
infinite bliss awaits.
a world of ecstasy,
days of sun,
nights of rapture.
broken little girl,
what took so long?
no more tears, babe.
no more fears.
smiles do exist,
as does forever.

redhead

2010-01-28T00:01:00.004-05:00

the kindest pale,
covered by a million
tiny brown specks,
each one a reflection of God.
the truest crimson,
unraveling down,
resting on your breast.
my hand rests there too.
my head on your stomach,
my heart in your hand.
every inch, silk.
you've nothing to be ashamed of,
you're perfect.
Aphrodite should be jealous,
Venus is a nobody.
how stunning.
how blessed.
a rich beauty admired with eyes,
felt with the soul.

i'll keep it with mine

2010-01-27T21:08:00.006-05:00

don't look sad,

you're too pretty for that.

your problems can't be that bad.

you've a place to sleep,

you've food to eat.

what's wrong?

oh dear, that is bad.

no, no I won't tell.

is there anything I can do?

I'm so sorry,

I had no idea.

maybe if things were different,

I could've rescued you,

or I could've loved you.

someone will love you.
someday.

dancer, dancer

2010-01-26T22:15:00.006-05:00

dancer, dancer,
please forgive my tongue,
movement to me is exotic.
my soul cannot jump.
my heart cannot turn.
my mind cannot fully comprehend
the extent of your being.

dancer, dancer,
speaking without words, you move.
crying without tears, you die.
you're a broken glass.
you're a world away.
you're alone and lost.

dancer, dancer,
your future is unclear.
pathway after pathway disappear.
the journey is dance,
a distant unknown,
dancer, dancer,
i want you here.

a composed destruction

2010-01-26T13:48:00.006-05:00

quiet recollections of a violent end.
a demeanor befitting the moon,
voiceless, shattered, immobile.
the brutal beast, your love.
sadistic, cruel, indifferent.
memories of dancing
thoughts of running.
missteps turn to fury
lies lead to rage. rage
the inccurable malady.
how did we get here?
where do we go?
questions you can't, won't answer.
pain so fresh, it hurts
it hurts but tickles.
at least you're feeling, for once.
it couldn't last, nor will this.
tomorrow bleeds to next week.
jesus bleeds to heaven.
you're not forsaken,
he never cared for you.
at least you're feeling, now.

a straw dog

2010-01-25T23:51:00.005-05:00

always scared

always scarred

a venerable circle.

today i died,

like each day.

never ceasing

never easing.

a straw dog,

indifferent sufferer.

a child screams,

like a ghost,

like a ghost

caught between hell and here.

i love you.

my heart says "hello"

2010-01-25T14:27:00.006-05:00

my heart says "hello"

as you pass by.

my lips, frozen in fear,

dare not speak up.

those eyes,

those beautiful eyes,

precious stones,

heartbreakingly tragic.

soft sweet breath

and rich, flaming hair.

little words for little ears,

little hopes and little fears.

if I were better or bolder

and warmer not colder,

my voice might be found

and a trembling sound

would greet you.

script inspiration

2010-01-25T00:04:00.003-05:00

I am expanding a short script that I wrote, Dancer, Dancer, into a full-length film script. It centers on a modern dancer and I have been studying various things from dance to fashion to music to try to put this character together. Here are some of my inspirations.

round and round

2010-01-24T22:29:00.005-05:00

round and round

same old song,

"i used to love you"

"but i can change."

"no, you can't."

another broken heart,

useless hard tears,

no more plans,

no more tomorrows.

round and round

the record plays.

"my name is jack"

"my name is jill'
"i think you're special."

"i think you're naive."

they will try.

they will fail.

they will try again.

round and round

nothing's new.

you've been here before,

it's all so familiar.

but the tune keeps humming

the failures keep coming

and the only solace is that

one day someone will save you.

summer's end

2010-01-21T00:08:00.005-05:00

stand there

DON'T!

look me in the eye

when you break my heart.

have guts

take the high road

be a princess.

it's not like you to distant,

not that distant anyway.

i know

i know everything

its all led to this.

come closer

NO!

what came over me?

i know where we stand,

stand there

away from everything.

there's no middle left.

my sand castle engulfed,

lost at sea.

On your wedding day

2010-01-20T00:13:00.005-05:00

the cool silence,

a roomful of elation and nerves.

all eyes on you, dear

a once sorrowful portrait,

restored and pristine,

talk of the gallery.

whispers and smiles

and love love love.

panamanian goddess,

red against soft white,

a freckled heaven.

youve ben waiting for this,

salvation and aspiration,

cloud 23.

I'm obsessed!

2010-01-18T15:48:00.016-05:00

I picked up the Winter 2009 edition of I-D Magazine which has a spread featuring Australian Abbey Lee Kershaw. I had heard of her before because of my recent interest in high fashion, but I had never studied her. Needless to say, I'm very obsessed with her at the moment, which is odd because I thought I would be obsessed with Lily Cole after seeing The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus on Friday.

What a face!!!

from Winter 2009 I-D Magazine

Vogue Italia December 2009

her eyes have it

2010-01-11T00:22:00.005-05:00

Courtney stared at her ten-dollar lunch, wasted, at the bottom of the toilet. There was a small green bottle of mouthwash from her purse; she turned to the small picture frame-sized mirror over the sink. She gargled the minty mixture around her mouth and looked long into her own eyes, ignoring the years of irreversible damage she had done to her child-like body.

She had acquired a taste for vomit. Not acquired really, she could stand it, much like a lottery winner acquires a taste for pâté or caviar. The taste could be tolerated.

The method behind her madness was unclear, even to her. Her bulimia had started in the twelfth grade, immediately before prom. The dress for which she had been carelessly fitted months before was suddenly impossible to zip. Her friend Susan told her of the practice, and later instructed her. Susan was a weight-loss guru at the school, herself being addicted to Slim-Fast and smack. She even held Courtney’s hair on the first attempt, which was an altogether bad experience. Frightened at the last minute, Courtney pulled away from the toilet and proceeded to coat the front of her “Say Yes to Michigan” t-shirt with a mixture of Fritos, Mountain Dew and gummy bears.

The subsequent attempts proved to be much more successful. In total, Courtney had lost ten pounds by prom time, and she never looked better than she did that night. She was a modern Cinderella. She had never been so complimented in her entire life, although never had positive reinforcement had such a negative consequence.

Seven years later, she faced that mirror, still an image of beauty. But it wasn’t the outside that she had a problem with anymore. The years were beginning to take their toll. More and more, she had to work to cure what her coworkers believed to be chronic halitosis. Her molars were being eaten away by the acids from her stomach, so too was her esophagus. Frequently she suffered through what felt like heartburn or indigestion, which it was to a degree, but was totally of her own making.

Framed perfectly in that mirror was a liar. How she’d kept this from Dave, she never knew. But that didn’t really matter much, now. The writing on the wall came in the form of emails and text messages, late night meetings and secretive calls. This was to be their final meal together. Her mom had told her to break up with people in a public place to avoid a scene; Dave’s mom must have told him the same. She wanted to cry, but instead, she gathered herself together and went back out to the table.

He sat there, talking on his phone as he always did, never actually communicating anything, just speaking. The empty plates still lied there, reminding her of what she had just done.

Both were now seated, opposite each other, looking off at happier people around them. “I suppose you know what’s coming,” Dave stuttered while looking down at his fork. “We had a good run, longer than most. I would like you to think this is my fault, but it’s not.”

Courtney sat, silent. Her eyes, as empty and as blue as the sky on a late summer’s day, stare at him.

“You never seemed to mind me; you never cared for me. I don’t want to place blame. You could have been kinder.”

“I don’t know what to say. I knew this was coming. Is there someone else?”

“I don’t want to discuss this here.”

“So there is. Do I know her? Dave, do I know her?”

“No…I don’t know. Yes, probably, yes.”

“This is my fault? I’m I not pretty enough? I’m not skinny enough? What is it?”

“You’re pretty, very pretty. She’s prettier. I didn’t want to have to say that, I didn’t. I know how that sounds, but it’s the truth. You always said to tell you the truth.”

“The truth is that I’m not pretty enough for you.”

“I wanted to just do this and part ways. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m an animal. I’m a fucking piece of shit. Is that what you want me to say?”

Immediately after Dave stopped talking, he stands up, throws money down on the table and walks away. Courtney sat, humiliated, not by the facts, by the words. She didn’t want to cry, not in public anyway. After a minute or two, she stood and walked out.

At six o’clock, her stomach was howling. Eating wasn’t an option because she knew that she wouldn’t be able to keep it down. The scene from earlier kept replaying through her mind. He had been such a jerk. His character was awful, but she had known this their second date. On one channel, they were showing The Apartment. When she had been a little kid, her mom had made her watch it. The scene where Shirley MacClaine had tried to commit suicide had stuck with her all of these years.

Courtney walked into her bathroom, just after watching Jack Lemmon win Shirley MacClaine. Again she stared into the mirror. You can look into a million mirrors, but you’re always going to see the same thing. So many things were on the other side of that mirror. She couldn’t see them, but she knew they were there. Problems could be solved on the other side of the mirror. There was only one way to get to the other side. Her hand reached down pulled the open the drawer. A small bottle of sleeping pills looked back at her.

She removed from the small amber bottle nine of the blue, horse-sized tablets. Her palm was facing heaven, one by one she swallowed them, each one becoming more difficult. She never looked at them, just gazed into her own blue, blue eyes in the mirror.

The inevitable sleep was approaching and the bed seemed to be calling her name. She walked over, sat on the edge flipping through the channels. On one channel was Waterloo Bridge, the version with Vivien Leigh. As luck would have it, the moment it came on was the moment in the film where Leigh throws herself in front of a truck. Her eyes fixed on the television.

Suddenly, suicide seemed like a severe and drastic solution. Her eyes, fighting to stay open, filled with fear and urgency. Extremely drowsy now, she stumbled to the bathroom, knocking over a lamp and a rocking chair that had belonged to her grandmother. In front of the toilet, she fell to her knees as if at the altar of God. She’d done this a thousand times before. Her middle and index fingers were thrust frantically down her throat. The difference now was that nothing was happening. She had become immune to them. Years of self-induced vomiting had virtually eliminated her gag reflex. Thrashing wildly about on the floor, panic was setting in. Once in middle school, when discussing ways to fake illness, she had heard that mouthwash makes you vomit.

There was a need now to leave the cold linoleum and get her purse in the foyer. Slowly she crawled: hand, knee, hand, knee, left, right, left, right. Her strength was completely gone. She reached up to the chair and grabbed the strap, pulling everything down. The contents fell onto the ground and scattered. No mouthwash. All of a sudden she remembered it sitting on the sink in the restaurant’s restroom. She rummaged for something, anything. The carpet pressed against her left cheek. All that was there was her compact. Gradually she pried the clam-like shell open. Her eyes caught their reflection in the tiny mirror. She stared for what seemed like years until she fell asleep.

Jan. 7th, 2010 @ Midnight

2010-01-07T00:27:00.009-05:00

the unsettled hair atop your head,
moments after you've taken your cap off,
reminds me that you're human, imperfect.

once, in the mess of a party, i saw
a crack in your smile, almost begging
for a delicious, unknown freedom.

you make it so very hard
to get to know you. a peek
inside isn't too much to ask.

just walk away, renee

2010-01-05T23:00:00.005-05:00

i always wanted to be a ballerina. once, when i was a little girl no more than four years old, my grandmother took me to the ballet. it was the most beautiful that i had seen in my life, though when youre young everything is beautiful and magical and inspiring. i got my first slippers when i was five. at the age of twelve they told me that i was too short and too old.

i needed movement to breathe. searching, i stumbled upon a clip of "diversion of angels." i still get chills thinking back on it. martha graham was too short and too old. i was made in her likeness. there is nothing more stirring than modern dance. i finally had an outlet for pain. i move and you feel. i die and you cry. a new technique. no more lines. no more fears. emotion. emotion is the only way out, the only necessity.

ballet is fraud. form is disgusting. freedom is truth, good or bad. stop praying to a decadent god. the virgin mary was kinesthetic.

Walt Whitman wears Levis

2009-12-07T16:05:00.003-05:00

These are probably two of my favorite commercials ever. They are double poems, with Walt Whitman's words in voiceover and a visual poem to the spirit of America. These give me chills.

the longing pain

2009-11-03T22:04:00.001-05:00

RUN RUN RUN!!!
Run from your fears.
Run from your past.
Run from yourself.
Forget what you could’ve been,
what you should’ve been.

RUN RUN RUN!!!
It’s not good enough.
It’s never been good enough.
You’ve never been good enough.
The story is always the same,
you're the villain again.

RUN RUN RUN!!!
They’ve got you cornered.
Your back’s to the wall.
There’s only one way out now, Billy.
You’d better have your wits about you,
this is going to be a long, desperate night.

RUN RUN RUN!!!
There’s no fight left.
Cut your losses.
Cut and run.
The past can’t hurt you now.

Only you can hurt yourself.

desperation @ 10 pm

2009-09-29T22:59:00.002-04:00

Looking at the clock, you see the day is gone. In a sudden and mind numbing instance, you realize you life is gone. It hits you like nausea after a cheap shrimp dinner. Everything you ever wanted to be is impossible. Too many bad decisions, too many “easy way outs”. You’re old. Youth is a fleeting notion that you let leave you stone drunk at 3 am.

It wouldn’t be so bad if you were alone; you could kill yourself. But sadly, something went seemingly right in your life. And it makes you even sadder realizing that she still loves you, she still believes in you. Stupid kid. She doesn’t see past your bogus intellect and fallacious confidence. Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s in love with your countless defects.

Categorizing yourself as a failure would be too hard this early in the game. No, your life has yet to hit rock bottom. The end is far from near. Humanity just took a stool softener, so you’d better get your face ready for the collective shit. It’s going to be a very long life.

horror inspiration #2

2009-09-29T13:59:00.001-04:00

This might be one of the scariest things I've ever seen. This will stay with you and everytime it gets dark, you'll dear that you'll see Mary Wigman sitting around every corner waiting to steal your soul. Very inspiring!

horror inspiration #1

2009-09-24T11:13:00.018-04:00

The short script that I was working on is finished and it's time to move on to write something else. Since it is becoming autumn and time for halloween, I think it might be time to begin work on a horror script. So here are some of my early inspirations.

inspiration #3

2009-09-22T15:36:00.002-04:00

I'm writing a short film about modern dance and I love the way Jacqueline du Pre plays the cello. It's the most expressive instrument in the world and has been inspiring me greatly.

ode to inner conflict

2009-09-14T14:54:00.006-04:00

that sad low feeling

a coming disappointment

your forgotten desperation

your childhood bedroom

one foot in the future

one in the grave

one in your mouth

and one kicking you

for those terrible thoughts.

it still hurts...at times

you still cry...at times

the healing warmth of joy, gone

and what you were becoming

is what you were all along.

a footnote in a chapter

of a book you can't read.

and at night, your ghost still sings.

R.I.P. Jim Carroll

2009-09-14T12:16:00.002-04:00

inspiration #2

2009-09-08T16:44:00.003-04:00

inspiration #1

2009-09-08T16:05:00.004-04:00

I'm working on a script and over the course of the next few weeks I'll be posting some things that have been inspiring me during the creative process.

dreams and nightmares #73

2009-09-08T13:06:00.001-04:00

There was a time in my life when I was a kind person, one who might help the elderly cross the street or volunteer my time at the Salvation Army. Compass was an emotion that I felt often. But, as in any good Swedish film, the indifference slowly began to creep its grimy fingernails into my consciousness and eventually rooted firmly in my approach. Somewhere during the transition, I knew a girl. Now this was ages ago, and I haven’t communicated with her in any way in years. But the nooks and crannies of my brain can’t seem to forget her and in my sleeping hours, I often see her.

The last dream I had of her was three nights ago. She always had a distinct look; short strawberry blonde hair, an innocent boyish frame and large, magnetic blue eyes. Her eyes, they still haunt me. In reality, we were never close. But in a borderline-recurring dream, we’re dating, or were dating at one time. It’s impossible to tell, dreams don’t have a past or present, an accurate timeframe, only that it was an unidentified Christmas. I just know that we were in the basement of my aunt’s house. It’s a very unfinished basement with exposed concrete, bare light bulbs and mice. Through the small windows I could see the snow accumulating outside, the hum of the furnace providing white noise.

Though still daylight, the basement was unusually dark. Light bulbs were either burned out or unscrewed. As we cautiously made our way across the frigid darkness, the multi-colored glow of a Christmas tree began to light the way. For unknown reasons, neither of us had seen the tree before. It was a scene similar to the final shot of the living room in “A Christmas Story” with the parents sitting on the couch watching the snowfall. Under the tree were two presents, one large and one small.

2:11 pm, August 6, 2009

2009-08-06T14:45:00.003-04:00

long hot summer.
even longer
even hotter
deep red burn.
mosquito bites
ant-hill picnics.
drunken promises
drunken truths
cinema verite.
flowers bloom
candles boom.
funny people
public enemies.
lou reed sings sad
god smiles.

ZOOEY!!!!!!!!

2009-08-03T17:28:00.002-04:00

the silence beyond her eyes

2009-07-15T22:31:00.006-04:00

The yellow moon in the twilight of what might have been. With the glowing fog of doubt - the deepest doubt from the innermost child - tickling over the spines of the books and the spines of the lovers. As she slowly walks towards me, with her eyes carefully observing every movement of her feet, I notice a difference. There seems as though there is a rich sadness in the tilt of her head, the pout of her lips and the curl of her hair. Perhaps a feeling that the air was being let out of the balloon as the result of an insignificant prick. She lightly brushes the dew off of my shoulder, while still avoiding my sight.

"I told you I never was a liar," she started. "You could never really believe me, could you?"

"I always wanted to believe you."

"Well than believe me when I say that nothing happened, that you have nothing to worry about."

"It has never been that something happened, it's the fact that something could happen."

"Anything could happen," she argued with a tear trickling from the unseen eye. "You can't stop living because of what might happen. You stopped loving me because of something that some day in some strange and foreign future may take place. That's ridiculous. You're ridiculous."

"It's silly, I know, silly and stupid and childish and I'm silly and stupid and childish, but it's the way I am. I'm jealous of nothing and everything. My world is full of demons."

"How can I make you see that it doesn't have to be?"

"I don't think you can."

"I never would have. I never would have been bad to you, bad for you. I never."

She then glanced up to give me one parting look at those emeralds, but they were black. They were nothing. And as she walked away for hopefully the last time, she whispered, "You let your imagination get the best of you. It'll kill you one of these days."

5:37 pm, July 6, 2009

2009-07-06T23:09:00.002-04:00

my love was like stairs
before she met me,
bondage of anger and sin
of which she is free.

a romantic, a lover
a dramatic unknown,
a bird of happiness
that has not yet flown.

this might be foolish,
this may be trite,
but looking into her eyes
i know im right.

11:43 pm, July 5, 2009

2009-07-06T15:02:00.003-04:00

your spoon stirs my heart
mixing emotion and gentleness.
the best of the bowl
echoes in my mind.
a divine domestic
a beacon of bygone days
love made from scratch

a desperate brew of a tired man

2009-07-06T08:59:00.003-04:00

three a.m. and my mother is dying.
the horrible sounds of past lives
bubble to the surface of my wicked boil.
a failure. an odd failure that burns and stirs
and tells me that i shouldnt be.
i shouldnt be.
sleep wants me. dreams want me.
this whole damn thing is a mess
but rest is for the young and old.
my soulless shoes tread on.
my soulless body breaks down slowly, quietly.
my mother is dying.
i shouldnt be.

1:01 am, June 29, 2009

2009-06-29T01:31:00.002-04:00

late night
youre there
no lights
no phone
no hope? no.
i care
you see
some day
Jane speaks
to none
at heart
my heart
my senses
my sinces
the time
between us

7:55 pm, June 27, 2009

2009-06-29T01:20:00.002-04:00

heartache
heartburn
the fire inside.
biting my tongue
biding my time.
condoms are comforting.
sex is safe
at home
on a suicide squeeze.

1:54 am, June 27, 2009

2009-06-27T12:40:00.003-04:00

my pen is strong
my sin is mighty
the end.
the end.
the beginning again.
hot pants
hotheads
an unscratchable itch
the pain you remember
tears you smell.
heaven.
hell.
hardees.

3:11 pm, June 26, 2009

2009-06-26T15:10:00.004-04:00

those kind lies that you love so much
make me feel like hell.

and i dont know how to take it
when you tell the truth.

thank goodness it doesnt happen often

Rory Gilmore, why can't you be real?

2009-06-15T16:34:00.005-04:00

At the local bookstore, we'd both reach for the last copy of "All the Sad Young Men." Our hands would briefly caress, before I'd pull back as a sign of submission. To an outsider, the conversation that followed would seem banal, awkward and childlike. But to us, it was sweet and fulfilling. You'd mention that you'd just returned from Europe, then I'd suggest we dine at an little Italian place just up the street that is known for it's antipasto. You shyly agree and set the date for the following night.

I'd pick you up at seven o'clock sharp. You'd be wearing a light blue sundress that you'd say was "years old" but we'd both know it was purchased just hours eariler. Throughout the night, no courtesy would be spared; a very gentlemenly persona is important. At some point a silence would set over us, broken by a compliment, to which you would smile slightly.

Quiet conversation would be peppered along the drive home. I don't know if it could be called "quaint," but nevertheless peaceful. I'd walk you to the door, not expecting anything (a good thing too). You'd whisper "This was really great and I think you're really great but didn't it seem like..." and I'd follow by pressing my index finger to your lips (a bold move for sure). And I'd turn and leave. You'd stand there briefly, no knowing exactly what to do. And then you'd go inside, close the blinds and draw a bath.

WEEDS!!!!!

2009-06-09T16:59:00.002-04:00

2:59 pm, June 9, 2009

2009-06-09T14:56:00.003-04:00

a little boy
asked his mom
"where on earth
has my puppy gone?"

she lied
when she replied
and didn't say
that he'd died.

"he's a-okay
there is no harm,
he's with your grandma
on the farm."

he believed her
the fear retreated,
and age-old act
again repeated.

4:20pm, June 8, 2009.

2009-06-08T16:20:00.003-04:00

your hand, soft against
your heart, hard
enough to kill a man.

she said, whispering
a lie, meaningless
although pleasant and satisfying

Weeds! June 8th! 10pm! Showtime!

2009-06-08T16:12:00.003-04:00

I like the Christian life

2009-02-16T22:04:00.009-05:00

"We all care about you very much and this is for you own good," her father potificated.

"I remember once, when you were a little girl, maybe seven, I walked into the living room and you had all your dolls and stuffed animals sitting around the coffee table, like King Arthur's Court or something. And you told me that "when I grow, I'm gonna be important, mama. I'm gonna be something." Her mother sat with a thousand regrets in her eyes. "This thing, this thing has you. It's taken you. It's sad that this is what it's come to."

Lily shifted her weight around in her chair, looking awkward, lonesome and confused. She'd be railroaded. An ambush better than they could teach at West Point. She drank. She experimented. She always thought that she hid her extremes well enough. She maintained. But when staring into the heartbroken eyes of her parents, Lily was overcome with a sense of disappointment, not in herself, but in her parents. They didn't get it. They couldn't get it, ever.

Not that this would change anything; it wouldn't. Ever since Lily was a girl, nothing ever changed. The status quo is a fiery hell-beast; an unchangeable letter. Alcoholics drink, users use, sinners sin, God dies. We're all Frances Farmer.

a common strangeness

2009-02-04T14:36:00.002-05:00

it's cold.
where's morning?
that bastard sun.
pills.
those twisted pills.
too numb to be sick.

my head,
dizzy and misplaced.
how did I get here?
how can I leave without Them seeing?
impossiblity defined.

an awkward hotness,
a common strangeness.
that glowing elephant stares.
courage ceases.
goodnight friend,
I'm disappointed.

The Cow-Shaped Napkin Holder

2009-01-15T13:33:00.005-05:00

"In the first place, I can't believe you'd say that to me," she said while making sure that the other couples were out of earshot. "I've told you again and again that things are different now."

"You're the one that did this," he fired back. "I never had to slip around. I was never compelled to. I never wanted to. I've always had everything I've always needed right here at home."

"And it's my fault that I don't? It's my fault that I can't stand you anymore, that the thought of your touch makes my heart sink?"

"Goddamn you," he somehow muttered.

"I'm annoyed by you. Every little thing. I was naive to your imperfections. Don't get me wrong, I have flaws, we all have flaws, but yours are a sore thumb. When the spark is gone, your flaws all just kinda lie there on the kitchen table."

She knew what she was saying. She knew it would destroy him. At this point in the game, she didn't care. The only thing for her to do now was leave.

"I tried," she said, trying to make the tension more bearable. "You're stubborn. You're stubborn and I'm stubborn, two bulls. Neither of us gave, we both just took. After a while, you had your pile and I have mine and there was no common ground. I'm sorry."

"No."

"I am sorry that it came to this and I'm sorry that you can't see it too," she sincerely said. "I'll be by tomorrow to get my things."

She approached him gently, putting her hands against his shoulders for support, then leaned in to peck him on the cheek. Every muscle in his body was frozen. He was completely catatonic, just staring through her. She turned towards the door, mutting something about "God and man and war," and walked out. Even his mind was speechless.

The Gestation of New Film: Cosmic American Cinema

2009-01-13T16:28:00.009-05:00

“A film is never good unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet.” – Orson Welles

Many film movements begin as a reaction to something. Italian neorealism was a reaction to World War II. The French New Wave was a reaction to the French filmmaking status quo. A new style of cinema, Cosmic American Cinema (CAC), is a reaction to ourselves, a reaction to what we wanted to be and what we've actually become. Failed living. And the movement can be as broad as the country itself.

Gram Parsons coined the term “Cosmic American Music” to describe his blend of country and western, rhythm and blues, and rock and roll. The resulting music was a reflection of both the nation and the people in it. Cosmic American Cinema borrows from this idea in that it is a blending of influences: the playfulness and experimentation of the French New Wave, the surrealism of Luis Bunuel, life in the Midwest, the existential undertones of Ingmar Bergman, middle-class existence, Bob Dylan, the impossibility of sainthood, and the stanch self-examination of John Cassavetes. Minimalism lite; not too much, just enough.

CAC is mainly out to seek truth in everyday life. It’s about emotion and the fact that cinema can be driven purely on emotion. Story doesn’t matter. How do we become normal? How does it all fit together?

Some common themes or devices in Cosmic American Cinema are: the Midwest, extended conversations, usually some form of traveling, country music, daydreams, summertime, drug use, Christmas lights (or other forms of low-key lighting), handheld cameras, middle-class living and occasional religion. These are independent films.

The Cosmic American Cinema Canon
Five Easy Pieces (Rafelson, 1970)
Faces (Cassavetes, 1968)
Don’t Look Back (Pennebaker, 1967)
Persona (Bergman, 1966)
Easy Rider (Hopper, 1969)
Vivre sa vie (Godard, 1962)
Les bonnes femmes (Chabrol, 1960)
Hour of the Wolf (Bergman, 1968)
Hiroshima, mon amour (Resnais, 1959)
Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (Scorsese, 1974)
Renaldo and Clara (Dylan, 1978)
A Woman Under the Influence (Cassavetes, 1974)
Half Nelson (Fleck, 2006)
Cries and Whispers (Bergman, 1972)
The Go-getter (Hynes, 2007)
Talk to Her (Almodovar, 2002)
The Devil’s Rejects (Zombie, 2005)
Candy (Armfield, 2006)
Closer (Nichols, 2004)
Belle de jour (Bunuel, 1967)

Additional Influences
Hank Williams
Bob Dylan
Gram Parsons and the Flying Burrito Brothers
The Band
Miles Davis
The Velvet Underground
MTV’s The Real World
Jack Kerouac
Hunter S. Thompson
classical music
George Jones

Marquis de Sade: Greatest Human Ever

2008-12-03T23:31:00.014-05:00

There's an odd stupidity that comes over me every time I think about it. I would awake in the middle of a deep sleep, feeling something out there in the hallway. I'm a masochist, always have been. Nobody wants to hurt anybody. Everybody wants to hurt. If you don't hurt, what other emotions are there, really? Pain or nothing; no gray area, no sense of security, no rainbow.

Souls are a lot like socks when you think about it. And blondes are like dictionaries, MAN. It's a pretty cold Hell living in a constant paranoia. I believe in Dante more. But I believe in Hank Williams most. The truth lies somewhere in Mississippi, in a ditch; or maybe in a shoe box on the second shelf of your linen closet, neatly tucked away behind your trophy for "Most Improved Speller." Or, by some divine mistake, in a whisper from the mouth of a very forgotten person. One you thought you buried ages ago.

"Can't you stay, just for a minute?"
"If I stay any longer, I won't know how to leave."
"That's some awful doublespeak."
"I don't know what you want. I try be clever and you think I think you're stupid. I'm witty and you're lost. I'm sweet and all you do is stare at the small scar on my left cheek."
"You never told me how you got that scar."
"Does it really matter? You think it'll be the truth?"
"Sure"
"Well, when I was eight, I was really into the Ninja Turtles and at recess this kid stole it a Spliter from me. I confronted him and he pushed me into a merry-go-round while it was twirling at top speed. Do you believe that?"
"It's all the truth in the end."

A Hophead @ Midnight

2008-11-25T00:47:00.015-05:00

It’s amazing, the trance I’m in. Sitting here, great music playing, out of my mind. Sometimes all you want to do is remember, not think. It's a strange feeling, reliving the past. But it feel good, like it all meant something. Nothing in the present really matters until you look back on it. Fleeting moments. "Blue moon, you saw me standing alone without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own." It hits you, you know? All we want to do is be warm.

"I wanna be the boy to warm your mother's heart." Girls' mothers are where it's at. The secret is getting in good with the parents, especially the mothers. Unfortunately, the mothers tend to like me more than the daughters do. Older broads, as I'm learning, aren' that bad though. Now I'm just rambling. I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo.

My thoughts feel like those "little ducks in the water" carnival game, sitting there waiting to get plucked up. It's a real shame too, that i won't pick some of them up. I might be missing out on something great.

A hair fetish is an odd fetish to have. I wouldn't say that I have a hair fetish, I just admire hair, a lot.

I still can't get enough of The Shangri-Las. I have a recurring daydream involving a montage of Alexis Bledel and I spending a day at the park, set to "Long Live Our Love." I never knew picnics could be that fun. I'm rambling again, damn. Why can't the Gilmore Girls still be on? That show was so well written and could be brilliant at times with narrative and at using different storytelling techniques in both writing and direction. I feel that the Gilmore Girls are still kind of like my secret. Even now that it's gone, I'm the only one that actually understood it for what it was. There where so many references that anyone else watching WB/CW didn't get.

And after thinking all those thoughts right now, I fell empty. Not a good empty, not purged. Why can't Rory Gilmore be real and live next door? Why did the Shangri-Las ever breakup? Why is time flying? Why can't we just get with it already? Why are we all so lonely at midnight? What's gonna happen when we're all too old to remember? Will we have to start thinking?

Unfinished 170 (Big Balls in Cow Town)

2008-11-19T01:09:00.005-05:00

He wasn’t sure if they ever kissed. She may have never even put her hand on his shoulder ever so kindly. Maybe she never existed, a figment of a tormented imagination that had tricked itself into believing a brief relationship had occurred at some point over the last five-odd months. At night, in the brooding silence, when he closed his eyes, she’d be there. She’d be near him, next to him. The fragrance of an innocent phantom – with all her beautiful insecurities – danced across his cheek to this nose. Two outcasts, embracing as teenagers used to do. Nothing happened; nothing needed to happen. It was all well and good and for once, as close to perfect as he had dreamed.

Her name was Marie. He called her Mary at first, because of a misunderstanding. They met at one of those bars that seem to be on a side street off every main drag in Midwestern America, miles away from the popular scene. Both of them belonged there, a convention hall for lost souls. He bogarted the junk box, five dollars worth of Hank Williams, Steppenwolf and Credence Clearwater Revival. The mood was set for either a psychedelic orgy or a lynching. He didn’t care which, as long as he was in the middle of the action.

After coming from the bathroom, she parked herself three stools down from his perch, a safe, yet inviting distance. She ordered a rum and Coke, which he immediately offered to buy as an icebreaker. She offered an initial, polite refusal which neither he, nor the bartender believed. They made the small talk for the first three drinks before diving into truth, love and sin. Marie wasn’t what he wanted. Well, he didn’t know what he wanted but he knew it didn’t include a woman with a two-year-old at home. But she was there, easing his glorified pain.

Nietzsche @ Night

2008-11-03T01:03:00.003-05:00

At night, at times, I wonder what exactly it is that you’re doing, exactly where your planets are aligned. The possibilities outnumber the gold bars of the world. Who knows, you could be sitting at a bar, all alone or with a lively crowd of hooligans. Knowing you the way I do, it’s probably both. You’re probably drinking, lightly, your cocktail. A screwdriver, if I remember. Sickly as you are, Vitamin C is a must.

Maybe tonight you’re sitting on a stoop, watching the same falling stars as me. The thoughts that must cross your mind. “Why does the night creep so silent? Where is that heart of mine? When will he get his comeuppance? If God is love, aren’t we all God? What about me? What about me?” The most important of your queries.

Perhaps, and most likely, you’re not thinking at all. You’re doing, you’re a doer. Always with your eyes to the distant, burning future, ignoring the horrible tragedies of today. No time for the present. No time for anyone else. It’s all you, baby. You’re all you’ll ever need and all you’ll ever get.

But then again, there’s a chance you’re doing none of these things. You’re sitting alone, cold in your fiery room, on your desolate bed, philosophizing. “Somewhere out there, there’s a prince, a baron of understanding and beauty. Loveliness, I need loveliness in my lifetime. And I think that because of the hardships I’ve suffered, the calamity of living, I will get mine in the end.” You’re only lying down. Maybe you’ll cry a little out of anguish. Maybe you’ll cry a little out of hope. Or maybe you’ll cry a little because it’s what you think is expected of you. But no matter what you do, you’ll never think to pick up the phone.

King Forget-Me-Not

2008-10-28T14:54:00.003-04:00

King Forget-me-not ruled his kingdom with the utmost sorrow. Forget-me-not wasn’t the name of the noble man, but rather an epithet given to him by his faithful followers. They began calling him that after he made a decree to replace all of the flowers throughout his vast kingdom with little blue forget-me-nots. No one was quite sure what to make of this, but since they loved the king and knew that he wouldn’t steer them wrong, so they torn every other flower out of the ground. Gardenias were gone. Roses were ridden of. Violets were violently disregarded. Daisies were done.

Word had it that the King was once in love with a pretty, little servant girl that worked in his palace, most likely the kitchen. They say that she had the longest, loveliest brown hair that the king had ever seen. It was said to have reminded him of the autumn, when the leaves would grow brown and cover the ground like a wool blanket. Her sad blue eyes looked, to him, like the last remaining forget-me-nots popping up through the brown death on the riverbanks.

But as powerful as the King was, as mighty as everyone else believed him to be, the pretty brown-haired maid wanted nothing to do with him. Most girls would have jumped at the chance to move up, get out and get on, but not her. She despised the King for reasons unknown to this day. She continually rejected his courteous invitations.

This continued – the King hoping that she would change her mind and give him a chance at something – until she wed the court jester. Yes, the court jester. The King was destroyed. With every breath he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his side. He felt raw. The tip of every nerve in his body seemed electrified. He finally saw the world for the cold, bleak demon that it really was. The world masked by his successes.

Over the next few weeks, the King drank seemingly every drop of liquor in the kingdom. Nothing really seemed to help, but at least he could hide some of it.

And then he woke up some time later; the sun was hanging high in the morning. He was in a pleasant, courtly mood. His hand was off of the stove, either by divine intervention or lack of tears. It was that day, that he made his lasting proclamation.

In the end, all he could ask for, King, was to forget me not.

21st Century Robert Ford

2008-10-28T00:30:00.003-04:00

“The fact that you would wear such a thing is beyond me,” she managed to squeeze through clinched, ruby lips. “You think you’re some kind of cowboy or somethin’?”

“I don’t know what I’m trying to be,” I gnarled back. “It’s just something different. Heaven forbid that I actually try something new and exciting.”

“Well you look like a goddamn tourist. You wanna go to a steakhouse or a petting zoo or somethin’? I don’t want you meetin’ my parents lookin’ like that. Damn shameful.”

I could see her point. I did look pretty foolish in a cowboy hat in the middle of Oregon. But I wanted to show her parents that I was something new, something they’d never seen before. I don’t know how a hat could accomplish that, but it was the only self-adjustment I could think of at the time.

“I don’t know what makes you act out like this,” she said after a well-placed, regretful silence. “You’re going to take it off before they get here, right?”

“It’s a hat. It’s only a hat. It’s not like I’m a yahoo or anything. Once they meet me, they’ll get it.” I knew I was losing the argument and I was beginning to hate it myself…and myself. “Me wearing this hat isn’t going to affect anything in anyway.”

“Why can’t you just do this for me? Why is everything always so difficult?”

She was right. It was difficult. Being with her was probably the biggest and most fruitless challenge of my entire life; I just hadn’t realized it until that moment.

“Oh my god, they’re pulling up the drive,” she shouted, as if a final warning. I went over to the door, hat still firmly planted. I opened the door and held it like some John Ford-inspired doorman.

“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Green. I’ve heard so much about you,” I said with my best-faked sincerity. They walked inside and I closed the door, me on the opposite side.

I’ve always felt like a coward and I did double-fold that day, even under the protection of my Stetson knockoff. As the days come and go, I feel more justified for what I did, though that isn’t to say that I don’t hold some guilty feelings. I haven’t talked to her since then. Someday I might want to, just to see how she’s doing, to see that she’s okay. She should be all right; she was strong then.

Ginger

2008-10-27T21:29:00.002-04:00

The color of passion,
An apple and a rose.
I admire red for none of this,
Only your curls.

A ball of glowing infatuation
Atop a genius machine.

Spaghetti served by God
On the loveliest plate.

A fiery, Amazonian jungle
Tamed only by the bravest brush.

Patch of wild strawberries
In my backyard.

Every morning must see
the burning sun rising
Over your blue horizon

Escape

2008-10-27T20:47:00.001-04:00

Today, I will break from your prison,
Over walls of unpleasantness and misfortune.
You should've seen this coming.

You said God is truth.
You took mine, Coward.
My God is in you now.

Dying is the only truth left
man cannot ruin.

I still dig Jenny Lewis

2008-10-27T15:06:00.000-04:00

An association with Jenny Lewis has never existed. I’ve heard some of her songs but I don’t necessarily dig Rilo Kiley. I do dig Jenny Lewis. It might be her hair. I have a bit of a hair fetish and redheads are the bees’ knees. Her solo stuff is good, like Patsy Cline stuck in a K-hole. I was reading through a journal I used to keep about all the dreams I used to have. (It should be noted that my dreams are far more interesting now that I’ve stopped using certain things, but I’m too indolent to record them) I dreamed of Jenny Lewis one night, I don’t know why. She was wearing the red dress that she wore on the cover of that Rabbit Fur Coat album. I guess that’s really only one of the few times I’ve actually seen her. She used to be an actress, you know. She was on Roseanne once. I dig Roseanne. A dream of mine would be to play the lead in The John Goodman Story if it were ever made. Cat Power acts too, and if you haven’t seen My Blueberry Nights, I suggest you do.

Anyway, back to Jenny Lewis. So there we are, sitting in the front seat of an old blue pick-up truck, much like the one owned by Luke, the diner owner, from the Gilmore Girls. I could talk for hours about Alexis Bledel and one day, I probably will. We were in the truck, side-by-side, staring straight ahead (I prefer it that way), talking about the prison system in American and if the human hand could possibly evolve anymore. During a moment of cruel silence – I call it cruel only because of the anticipation of farther conversation – she reached under the torn vinyl seat and pulled out a small card, like those valentines you’d exchange in elementary school. When she handed it to me, I opened it with a deep heaviness in my breath. All the card had on it was a picture of Hank Williams. She then began to sing “Tennessee Border” and I knew that when she got to the refrain all hope would be lost. I did pick her up in a pick-up truck and I knew that she would break this heart of mine.

But in the end, what’s a dream anyway? No, I still dig Jenny Lewis.

Sophisticated Boom Boom

2008-10-27T02:00:00.001-04:00

I can never go home anymore, Mary Weiss. Ever since I was a child, I knew the sweet, downhearted voice. I didn’t know her name, just the group, The Shangri-Las. The greatest girl group in the age of golden girl groups. It wasn’t until years later, when I would see video of them performing on ShinDig! decades before I was born, that I would fall in love with Mary Weiss. The innocence in her eyes when she proclaims that she’s “gonna walk right up to him and give him a great big kiss,” makes me wish I was “him.”

When I was a little boy, I used to stay with my grandma in the next town over. At night, when she got off work, when my mom would pick me up in her old red Nova. I would stare contemplatively out the window at the moon and the gray clouds that cut through it. The radio would pick up an oldies station out of Indiana, I think. The power of AM radio. Roddy, the nighttime jockey was a fan of The Shangri-Las. They provided the perfectly haunting soundtrack for my ride. The distorted guitar at the beginning of “He Cried” predicting where music was going. The ghost-like call-and-response of “Give Him a Great Big Kiss.” The horrible roar of motorcycles on “Leader of the Pack” and the Romeo and Juliet-esque “Give Us Your Blessings.” There was something terrifying about those songs, like they controlled the universe, they would make you a part of them. They sounded so distant in my heart.

Mary Weiss was from New York. Queens, New York. Her accent is probably the greatest I’ve ever heard, a filthy angel. I’ve never known anyone from New York. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. In college, I knew a girl from New York, upstate New York, so I might as well just say Canada. Although technically she was from Cleveland, by way of New York. I remember walking in the sand. But that was then and this is now, and now I’m concentrating on Mary.

They say The Shangri-Las were real badass chicks: getting in fights backstage and singing about the boys that the good girls wanted but knew better than to bring them home to Daddy. But it was more about the songs than anything else. They sang about death and dying and I guess that’s what draws in my emotions. That, and Mary’s big black-and-white doe eyes when she says that I’m “good bad, but he’s not evil.” The perfect imaginary doll. “If we can’t be lovers we can still be friends.”

Mary Weiss is still around; so is another girl, but two are dead. One died only a few years after the group broke up. I think it was 1970, the same year that got everyone else. There are conflicting reports about how she died. Some say it was an overdose of barbiturates. Others say it was some kind of infection. She’d been a heroin addict so I guess I believe the barbiturates story, I guess that’s what I want to believe. I have a soft spot in my heart for junkies.

I’ve thought about finding Mary Weiss. In a way, she’d be my Woody Guthrie. But I love her now the way she was then, not now. “Right now, and not later, baby.” And I can ever go back. I can never go home anymore, Mary Weiss. Maybe I’ll call that girl from Cleveland.