Good Morning

I'm writing this because I have to.
Because if I don't, the words will bubble and froth inside of me.
I'm writing this because I cannot tell you.
I'm writing this because I cannot ascend to your door.
And cannot descend to your bed.
I cannot outline your body with my own.
Enjoin and Entangle in the warm hours of the night.
Where only the moon has any say, and all her says are whispers on cat's feet.

I'm writing this because I have to.
Because the stale shades of the lamplight smother me at dusk.
Because the perverse sound of the television is hideous and droning.
Because the stiff drinks tighten my veins like snapped leather.
Because the very thought of you makes my blood run electric,
Only to reduce itself to viscous slime.

I'm writing this because I have to.
Writing while you drift away from me.
A paper boat in a sea of storms.
A child lost in a parking lot.
A blinking star in infinity.
How meager words are.

But I'm writing this because I have to.
Because in writing to you, I write to me.
So that I may come to terms with my shortcomings.
So that I may see what problems I caused.
Which equations were never solved.
Which failures got involved.
So that I may begin to accept a life without you.

And I'm writing this because I have to.
As the world sheds its skin.
As we prepare for lifetimes of heartache and disaster.
As we shelter ourselves from the omnipotent grief.
As we stand on the precipice, leering towards the future of unanswered questions.
Two tiny infants, smiling because they no not how.

I'm writing because I have to.
Because these words would only make you run.
My presence only make your eyes quiver.
My touch make your skin weep.
My offense trigger your defense.
And my voice would only make you run closer to someone else.

So I write.
I write because I have to.
Because the world is not enough.
Because you are the outlet to my sorrow, my joy, and my anger.
Because you are the window.
Because when I look at you, I see me.
And when I write to you, I write to me.

ily.

An Urge

Not really sure how to get this one down. Nevertheless, it should be written. Twice a week, I go and "help out" a 6th grade Language Arts classroom in Harrisonburg, Virginia. I stand in the corner and talk to them like they were my little brothers and sisters, occasionally assuming the professional status and teaching a lesson or two. Very simple stuff. But sometimes, I stand in the back or in the corner and feel an incredible desire to reach out and warn these kids. They stand at the brink of their childhoods, getting ready to say goodbye (forever) to the innocence they are too ignorant to realize they have. I want to stand behind them and kiss them on the backs of their necks, in a feeble attempt to express my sadness for something they cannot possibly know. A life of sadness, grief, heartbreak, death, regret, loss, betrayal, and failure awaits them. It awaits like a monster in the dark. I watch them talk about their lives, about the meager struggles of living, and I want to reach out to them. I wish them the best of luck in a world that will ultimately offer them up to chance, which may be interpreted as fate. I want to visit them in their dreams and assure that in spite of everythign they are about to give up, and everything they are about to face, to go ahead and go on living. Go ahead and face the world and its obstacles. Don't be afraid to walk along the sidewalks with tears streaming down your face. Don't be afraid to sit in the back of a movie theater and weep uncontrollably. Don't be afraid to love someone so much that the world blurs around you, that the very idea of logic defies the fire that seethes in your veins. Live in this world because you have no other choice. Because of the simple absurdity that you somehow managed to make it into this world, into this life, into these predicaments, has to mean something. It has to.

A Dream.

Sometimes, I have a dream that frightens other dreams away. I won't call it a nightmare, because it's intent is not to scare; rather, to awe. I dream of a giant, calm sea expanding to all points of the horizon. There is no shore in sight, no moon, no stars, just a black sky against a black pool. It is silent all around, but there is an ominous presence underneath the dark waves. Quietly cutting through the black void, a hulking leviathan treks through the darkness. A shark, older than the first pebbles of time, patrols the void. The ocean blackness silently gushes through his gaping mouth, glimpsing at the clockwork that comprises his ancient constitution. Its eyes gaze the dead landscape, never blinking, never hinting at any sign of remorse or apology for its grotesque construction.

I see it in my sleep and I do not shiver or turn away in fear. I watch it from afar, from the sheaths of the blackness, from the depths of my unconsciousness. I watch its glass eyes scan the perimeter, and I wonder if it sees me. I wonder if it sees the black blood beating through my heart.

Wall Street

A word of advice: Do NOT watch this movie if you've never been to New York City before. Oliver Stone's Wall Street (1987) is a Faustian tale about the seduction of power and its cohort, money. I'll quote David Mamet when he writes, "Everyone needs money! That's why they call it money!" It's proof that the world is not run by bureaucrats or governors or presidents or even dictators; America is run by the sharks. The sharks with money. And in this case, New York fears Gordon Gekko, and so does the film. Michael Douglas stands outside of his penthouse window watching the city, his city, waiting for his next prey. He is utterly terrifying, strutting around in his suspenders and thousand dollar suits. In fact, no one else in the movie really compares. Charlie Sheen's character isn't very believable next to this stock wielding devil. Here's a taste of his slyness.

Top Hat

This is proof that movies can step in at anytime in your life and let you depart. Top Hat (1935) charms its way into your hearts, making it hard to really respond in any critical way. While not very impressed with Ginger Rogers, Fred Astaire is something to behold. You might realize, at one point, that he's not a very good actor. What does that mean? If you mean channeling the human expression, perhaps you're right. If you mean harboring pure talent and using the film medium to get to the largest audience, Fred Astaire is an award winner. He embodies spirit, fun, and buoyant joy. I have to admit that I quit paying attention to the story; rather, I simply watched and mused over a world that believes in romantic love, that believes a man can break out in song in front of the woman he loves. What a world that must be. A world where everything falls into place, and no one takes their predicaments too seriously. A world where everyone has an in-joke. Watch this scene and tell me you aren't holding back a smile; what a world.

Wow

This is worse than death.

To You, My Dear.

Humans are capable of more hurt than they can understand.
Humans are capable of more pain than they can understand.
Love is fighting a dying battle.
Love amongst rogues.
Love amongst thieves.
Murderers.
Monsters.
Devils.

The only way out is this way.
The only way out is this one way.
You must realize you are nothing by yourself.
You MUST realize you are nothing. Your blood is poison.
Your hands claws.
Your teeth fangs.

The only way out is this way. This one way.
You must love totally and completely.
You MUST love wholly and truly.
That is the only way out.
You must love, because when you love, you transcend your limitations.
You must love because when you love, your exceed expectations.
You must love.

It is the only way out of this spiral.
Love is the only way out of this muck.
You must love because your shadow tells you to.
Because your shadow needs something to cling to in the dark.
You must love because you are loved.

This is the answer.
This is the way out.
You must love.
You must love because you are loved.

Silence Outside

Sometimes at night
I wake up in a startled hush
The quiet of the world patting me on the face
Whispering me back to sleep


And yet I quietly refuse the Night's wishes
Like a man to his dying mother.
I push her struggling hands away from me and rise,
Rise out into the night.
And in that brief moment, I
Don't know what I am.

I stand in the shadows of the room and feel ageless.
I look down and see the hands of an infant
yet they (all at once) become gnarled and grainy,
Ageless.

I stand in the middle of the room at night,
and become a part of the quiet dark. Outside
A streetlight colors the fog of the earth.
Silent streets that lead to where ever.

Eventually, I make it back into bed,
simply because there's no where else to go.
The drowned out face of the pillow hits my own,
and I forget just exactly how alone I was.


Only a silence outside remains.

That Feeling You Get Too Often

It's like there's this huge joke that keeps slipping out of my hand.
Snickers in the dark, always behind me.
A shadow with an impish sense of humor.
At what point did everyone's lives advance so far ahead of my own?
At what point did "being content" become "you're boring"?
I guess I'll just remain as the one who stands in the back and asks questions,
Whose laughter always seems one wavelength behind the pack.
Whose companionship is as a tick to the fleece.

The Virgin Suicides

This might be the first time I've ever seen nostalgia as horror. Sofia Coppola's The Virgin Suicides (1999) reflects on the "free-for-all" suicides of the five Lisbon sisters with a lackadaisically amused glimpse. The sunlight always manages to get in your eyes in this film, and it's hard to tell what we're actually seeing and what might be happening behind the stifle of closed doors. Is this a horror film? Maybe not, but I felt a real dread whenever I was in the Lisbon household, a sweat that wouldn't get off my skin. It was like going through an unpleasant dream; not necessarily a nightmare, but I wanted to wake up. I wanted out of this wealthy town because I couldn't breathe.

The movie is very good, but in a sickly-sweet sort of way. I think it lacks a bit of focus; the main story is about the obsession of a town over these girls' suicides, told from the perspective of young, obsessive boys. However, Coppola also seems interested in the time period, adding numerous distracting rock songs and side-plots that don't add enough to the movie's general progression. Trip Fontaine's story is interesting, but it doesn't feel complete; the other girls are not fleshed out enough, and we start to view them like Children of the Corn. Once again, prove me wrong that this is not a horror story. This is a film of memories, but they are memories we wish we could forget. Like the image of a 13 year old girl in her father's arms. Or a set of petite feet in church shoes dangling over the floor. Or a still-smoking cigarette in a pale, still hand.

That's it!

I got it.

Being depressed is like being the gray crayon in the 96 box. Everyone around you has something wonderful to offer, even brown, and all you've got is gray.

Amateurish but...

Written freshman year amidst some contemplative stupor. I'm not sure what to make of it; it's pretentious, yes, but I think it has some sincerity within it that I may have lost between then and now. I'll keep it on here for the time being. Think of it as artistic masochism.


Dreamscapes.

For what do I and me pursue through countless days and rhythmic nights?

To embrace a hundred thousand lilted memories of skin dripping with melody and adolescent sincerity?

To stab out at shadows within shade and grasp at a wisp of light, hoping, praying, conceiving for an unanswerable answer?

To stand above the eyes, sweating blind and ignorant passion, reaching for what's been there over and over?

To hunt the mystic tremors of wonder beyond the glass rivers, preying upon the terror of aborted chance and desert-baked risk?

To awaken and unleash a dream into reality, bleeding new life-alters into crevices of humility and disregarded faults?

To dance through bald streets of suburbia, screaming to the mothers with their cookies and ornaments and fireplaces that a wolf prowls tonight?

To rebuild hopes of misbegotten romances, breathing warm-winded sighs across the heath of a throbbing neck?

To race the guttural pulse of the moon, seducing the stars to tempt the gypsies that claw the frozen ground?

To believe within a hopeless soul, transforming, transcending the angel that aches to shiver an infinitesimal barrage of notes towards the mattress of your front door?

Sunshine.

It's intimidating to look at other's accomplishments.
What a slug I am. Drooling down the pavement.
People must walk by and wonder how
I could possibly be around on these beautiful warm days?
Why isn't he (it) in his hole, chewing on fungus cud?
This world's too fast for him, people move in a blur.
Look at him, but oh god, don't touch.
Get some salt and some sunshine,
Make him shrivel away.
Let his vomit dehydrate,
Let his soul cake away.
It's his nature.