Road to...

I love the sound of tires on wet roads,

cars leave behind rings of warped hues 

that look like tree stump rainbows,

oily puddles in the street.

Drivers in a hurry

to get to work

or school 

or nowhere in particular. 

Their minds elsewhere 

on everything 

or nothing in particular. 

Cars traverse paved surfaces which show pearlescent pools of color;

evidence of their journey

or stillness. 

Each contains a different situation

heading towards a different destination

a different point in a different life. 

One driver thinks of divorce 

another making a mental grocery list.

Wheels spinning

(of minds)

wheels spinning 

(of cars)

through the rain.

Dissecting dysfunction

I want to see the stars as clearly as they're meant to be seen, which is also how I'd like to see my life.

 I want my vision sharpened  so much that I see through false intentions. 

I want a clear path ahead of me, obsidian sky above me. 

Yet character is created from chaos, not constant clarity, which is simultaneously unfortunate and miraculous.

 Chaos is cloudy and difficult to navigate. 

Mental chaos is driving in heavy fog when you can't see anything in front of you. 

It's all you, your thoughts, some panic, fear. 

Unknown things lie in wait before you,

but you can't quite grasp what the fuck you're supposed to be prepared for.

You're stuck in your car, or in your mind. Perhaps both, which is usually me. 

Yet I'm a professional navigator now, and I hide so much from so many. 

My thoughts are that delicate gold chain in the bottom of some makeshift contraption I'm using as a jewelry box.

 They're tangled beyond repair. 

Maybe they'll be unraveled and figured out one day, but that might take more time than it's worth.

 How did these twists and turns work themselves into such a complex state of affairs in the first place? 

So they're left alone at the bottom of the jewelry box. 

Or mind; I neglect those kinks within.  

They take up residence with the rest of the contents of my psyche. 

Mundane memories are cheap rings from gumball machines. 

Cruel comments spoken by someone  who said they loved me years ago (and i believed them) are the jewelry my grandmother gave me the last time I ever saw her. 

Hurts the same?  Lies dormant the same?

 Is this to be figured out? Untangled?Dwelled upon? Or left as is? It's just hanging out there.

Does it retain it's value, it's worth?

 

Should such dysfunction be dissected in an attempt to reap any reward? 

Some days it makes more sense than others. 

Most days it's best to leave it alone. 

All that I remember.

It shakes me up like a snow globe to remember us 

as we were the day we met,

us

you and me

hard to believe

that we were ever that young.

You used to smoke all my cigarettes when I still smoked

I always paid for everything 

and lied about it to everyone,

embarrassed that you used me

acting like I didn't realize 

because I loved you so much.

You never loved me until it was too late by that time I had grown up enough to know it couldn't  work,                  

 I always knew

that awful truth

beneath my consistent disappointment.

My constant letdown

was poetic

as all things are in retrospect.

Some can't believe I would ever make amends

but we both know I was awful too.

There are things that happened

between us

Remembering them 

only for us.

And I am still sorry

And I still think about you

On the way home from work when the sun is in my eyes

and when I've had too much to drink.

You look happy.

The dwindling continues...

When crunchy leaves are lying on the ground, pretty but dead, and wondering what happened to their old grand view to which they had become accustomed, I like to shuffle through them. I don't bother to pick up my feet because I like the swishing soundtrack it plays for me while on the way to my destination. That noise indicates that fall is past it's prime. Those leaves have served their purpose, no longer green buds with a future of sunny days and thunderstorms ahead of them. They're now the indicators and mascots of the cycle of life and darkness. Literally and figuratively. Fall is no longer the crisp and refreshing new kid, giving way to a long awaited break from sticky days. It's on it's way out of the house to make room for winter. Winter has been away but is now home and needs a place to stay. it's first night on the town is a wild one. 

Sips of whiskey warm the throat on the way down. 

Smiles become looser, more flirtatious. That brown liquor makes the heat migrate all over, outwards, all directions really. 

Lips open easier. 

Whiskey wanting to overstay it's welcome, but makes friends with the music. 

Glances, caresses. Let's dance. 

Or stumble. Laugh until we fall down. Stand in front of me, your body warms me more, 

entertaining thoughts that I know better than to talk myself into. 

We're entertaining a crowd, but wait, no one is watching. 

Only my mind's eye, taking snapshots of the night, and leaves, and smoke, and liquor

Mental pictures to serve as souvenirs, 

no regrets about them. 

Of your soft yielding body against mine.

I'll drink to that~

Welcome Winter.

Don't you love those days?

I was standing outside tonight chilled to the bone by a breeze of the first genuine fall night in the south. It was dusk, the sun had settled steadily while I was walking my dog against the backdrop of  a deep violet sky. I love fall nights before winter depression moves in on the sly. It's my favorite season and Halloween my favorite holiday (holiday?) for reasons I can't quite explain. I think there's a deeper reason for my love of spooky and horror, but I haven't delved into that yet. Sounds like an issue for my therapist. Nah, she's got more things to deal with than figuring out my love for Halloween, as do I. 

After it's over though, my brain backfires after weeks of planning Halloween costumes, themes, baking. A buildup, crescendo, and quick descent. It gives way to trying to live up to Christmas expectations (always unattainable) and frigid cold that is not Hallmark Channel romantic (read: BULLSHIT). No, not for me anyway. Maybe it's because I have no interest in sipping cocoa and ice skating. For me it's short days, depression, leaves twirling off trees, cycle of life, a "sunrise, sunset" frame of mind. Compounding this pending inescapable melancholy is the sad state of affairs that I am finding everyone in. Who is "everyone?" I am always fascinated by what people mean when they say that. So for that reason, I'll specify. For me, right now, and for the purposes of telling tales of turmoil, my "everyone" includes several close friends, my parents, sister and grandparents. The inclusion of so many leads me to believe that everyone is in some sort of pain, in the midst of change, and being dealt cards of sadness by Life working in some sort of twisted (even more so than in reality from what I've been told) card table in Vegas. Or Atlantic City. Yes, most definitely, LIFE would work in Atlantic City. I've been there. It's the gilded city. Looks shiny on the outside but underneath the faux golden veneer it's sad, tacky, but worth visiting just to say you've been there. 

So know this; life is hard for everyone. Love what you love and enjoy what you can when you can. You will suffer and you will see those you love suffer. So for that reason, when Halloween is over this year, when the trees are bare, and sunlight strains to filter rays through the occasional snow cloud, I'm going to sip bourbon instead of cocoa, I will accept change in my life and the lives of others, no matter how painful. Do I have a choice? I do not. As my dad says; "I'm just happy to be here." 

Mind on a hamster wheel, people. I really don't have Yeats-esque delusions.

 That great equalizer blindsided us

sneaking in behind us

we weren't prepared for the contents of our minds

working as vaults

letting hibernate, suppressing

thoughts of misspent youth.

Then anger

rode the coattails of sorrow 

knocked on memory's door

A celebration!!!

insisted the mind hosted party

but we knew better and cried

and shook our heads.

But still,

the party hostess bitch kept slides on loop and sipped from a Tiki mug,

a starburst clock watching

as the party started going downhill.

Watching the waiting

watching the line

nearing the maker at the counter

who is awful and exquisite 

and unjust.

Thanks, you're welcome.

I will forget about you

If it's the last thing I ever do

It's the least I can do for me

For you

Thanks for all you gave me

The memories 

And trinkets, I can't seem to find

Buried in boxes

Not too many of them

Remembering too much 

In abundance

Looking down streets, or up

Depending on which direction

You're coming from

Or going

Which was alwAys the case with you

Always going 

Leaving 

Me always on the way

Arriving too late

To see you through 

To see through you

Your promises, which never came through

Hard to swallow 

Being through 

With you 

You're welcome.

Wistful

While perusing a news website, I happened upon an interview with Sofia Coppola about today's 10 year anniversary of the theatrical release of Lost in Translation. The interviewer asked her if she thought Bob and Charlotte would ever cross paths again, or something to that effect. For some reason, (and also because I'm 32) that question had so much potential to elicit a dreamy and romantic response. Yes I just used the word "dreamy" and I meant it, dammit. Today, a mere 10 years later, of course Bob and Charlotte would meet. They would find each other on Facebook or he/she would Google her/him. And that makes me kinda sad. Gone are the days where you break up with someone and never have to log onto Facebook and see that the commitment-phobe you dated all through college is now married. You no longer have to lie in bed at night and wonder what happened to your best friend from the 3rd grade. Odds are, you know where they live, who they're marrying/divorcing/dating, where they work, you get the idea. 

There's nothing left to the imagination. No wistfulness. No love stories to re-live over drinks. You can't tell friends about how you used to sleep with someone that was "so hot!!!" No doubt, they'll respond with "pull 'em up on Facebook, Instagram, (whatever else the kids are on these days) let's look!!!"

So this is my eulogy to developed film, written love letters, memories that live on in the mind and aren't played out on the Internet. And the irony of me waxing poetic about all of these things using a blog and the Internet, is not lost on me. That's just like, my opinion, man.