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Oh hai [04 Dec 2014|08:37pm]
Since I called the end to my eight year relationship a month ago, I've made a wholesale amount of personal changes. First being the realization that I was only truly alive when I was writing, so LJ will be the beneficiary of that urge. I also feel like I have something to offer in the currency of a voice. Not to others, that would be a tad self indulgent...but I am back in my old hood, bleeding heart, vodka in the freezer, and some years to make up. So, that is enough for me to attempt a sequel. Honestly, I've got nothing else. Pretty profound motivation.
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My Name Is: WhoAMi [16 Feb 2012|05:04pm]
Since getting into a six year relationship (that is still going on, although feels a bit like the ventilator recently kicked on to avert a cold blue), I have basically given up on LJ. Which is strange, because when I was writing here, even the really stupid shit, it was an amazing outlet, and means of flexing the ole' writing muscle. I honestly don't know what the fuck happened. I can't blame growing up - because I still lack even the most basic maturity. I can't blame facecock, because I hate that piece of shit site more than I loathe club remixes of hip hop. The only thing that is starting to become clear to me - especially after so much money spent on therapy, is that when I started to give up here, it was a symptom of creative apathy that I had no idea was going to spread to the rest of my life/ writing.

I met a ton of great people on here. Most are completely gone now - I've been going back and looking at when most of you quit blogging, and the consensus seems to be around 2008/2009. Yes, that would be just about the time when facecock was fucking your creative juices dry with shit like farmville. I used to think people that took those quizilla quizzes all day were annoying. Nope. I nearly chose to blind myself rather than see anymore shit like "who watered who's fucking crops." Now that shit was vapid. Additionally, I think I just completely lost track of what the hell this journal meant to me. I started trying to impress communities, groups, and certain poops. The tone began to take on this whole "my cock is this big, and I'll show you if you show me yours..." And I actually started to care/ to worry about the what ifs. The what if my GF happened upon my journal. I couldn't really say what I wanted to. Because I liked getting laid more than I liked talking shit. Well, cut to fucking six years later, and again - in therapy, there I am talking about livejournal. Nothing like life coming full circle. I would also like to ask LJ if they would also please reimburse my ass for that session too, since I basically spent an hour talking about the emotional merits of blogging and having cute, nerdy girls relating to you and occasionally talking all sexy an' shit. But in the end, the great thing that I look back on and like - is the period when "it" was put out there like a neon sign for all to read, good/ bad, tragic - whatever. I found a rhythm here, and I found people that listened for the first time. Pretty great.

I left the entertainment biz about four years ago. Biggest. Fucking. Mistake. Ever. I left because it got too hard, and I got too disenfranchised, and I was trying to impress my new girlfriend with my huge corporate balls. Well, in choosing that path, the screenwriting went bye bye. The blogging became more of a tedious last experiment in prose, and my voice internalized. I was afraid to acknowledge what writiing meant to me, and I was also afraid to be poor - and disappoint my girlfriend. I was afraid the things I would say, write, or do would be met with disapproval. Bottom line, for whatever reason, I became drunk with trying to please a bunch of other people. I'm still trying to get back in touch with that part of me that grew so tired of rejection or disappointment. I'm trying to engineer some way back into the ent. biz, although that is proving to be quite the punch in the gut. Reading old journal entries is pretty great. Especially after it has traced along a timeline that seems and feels so foreign now. It is precisely that feeling that I'm trying to rediscover. It is also proving to be one bitch of a hard thing to do.

Things change, people change. Things fade to black, and are recycled back into the grid. But there is some level of magic that was exchanged from user to user, and I was lucky enough to feel You. Part of me secretly hopes that some of you will find your way back, and we will rekindle the touch. It won't be the same, but it certainly doesn't have to mean that it has to be too grown up and droll.

Five PM. Time to drag my corporate ass out of this ergonomic chair, get into my Jetta, and go sit in traffic.

That previous sentence was the single most depressing thing I have ever written in my entire life.
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I Spy...... [15 Feb 2012|04:45pm]
I have also discovered that some of you people have actually taken the time to go back in my journal and delete commments from 10 years ago...

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uh........ [15 Feb 2012|04:36pm]
WTF? I just realized I have had this LJ for ten years... TEN FUCKING YEARS?!?!


Things always sound best in the beginning. [15 Feb 2012|12:38pm]
When I was younger, hell - when I still had some means of my ideology in tact, I envisioned where my footsteps might be on this day to be so much different. The only real given to getting older is that there is no certainty of anything, and there is no sustained bliss. The world is in a state of flux, and that constant motion is the main driver of unspoken dull aches.

I've taken a good hard look in the mirror, also speaking with a multitude of run-on sentences while sinking into an overstuffed chair in psychoanalysis to Miss Hundred Bucks An Hour, and there is no clarity. Age doesn't deliver peace, it delivers pieces. It feeds off of indecision and insecurity, and grows into that indescribable -thing- we see every night inbetween REM and deep sleep. I don't know about yours, but mine? Her teeth are polished and sharp with all the questions, and I've only tapped the second vein. Looking around at the other bits of guts and arranged cosmic dust, has started to make me think that our wiring was somehow reconfigured for a predisposition to choose being alone rather than risk the "inconvenience" of sharing space, of cultivating patience, or plugging in to another being. Instead, pine for the unattainable. Worship anothers ring, while becoming skilled in the art of crafting a fulfilling sex life that never lives beyond fantasy.

I see it happening all around me, and I cannot help but internalize the extinction level event. Our asteroid, our hundred year darkness, is a restlessness that flares, then subsides, then stings, then quietly whispers. It keeps breathing, until you look at the person who shares your bed, who sweats with you, who cums, who calls after you with sugar, who feels the life under your skin, and no longer see her as your mate. You feel the wind outside, and in the echoes of it's spin through downtown, begin to hear an underlying language. Telling you to seek out your undiscovered potential. Retreat inward, and color it up to anyone else who may listen as a period of self-growth. But it never comes. Instead, we long to return to the wicked match. The neverending pendulum of wishing back the dead, but doing so silently. Loathing, aroma-therapy, and many spirits - leads to the nights where it is sworn the evolution has occurred. But she is no match for the next day. It is waking up in an empty room, at an hour of my choosing, when the self-flagellation doesn't hurt so bad.

Tonight, I'll drink to the shelf-life of others. I'll take a long look in the mirror, as I do so, and toast the self-inflicted. The liquid will slowly drain down the back of the tongue, and settle into a stomach stuffed with unspoken words.
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Negotiating the low end of smart in the smartphone [13 Jan 2012|07:53pm]
My therapist says i must blog before our next session. I speak of you, livejournal with great affection. Thank you for not leaving me as I negotiate through this desert of linguistic domain. I have every intention of dating you again.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

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Dear El Jay [13 Jan 2012|07:42pm]
When will I be able to update from my iPhone? That would be rad. Kthxbye.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.


Gah! [20 Jan 2011|04:27pm]
Holy Shit! Livejournal!!!! Hai!
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Test [03 Jan 2010|08:43pm]
Alright. Checking to see if this app works from my nifty iPhone. Check, one, two...

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

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Freedom, brought to you by a demon bitch. [14 Dec 2009|09:51pm]
Privacy is a fleeting concept - especially in the world of ultra-gacked fones, and the every watching eye of the big house, along with the slick minds of your neighborhood IT department. I've been following (I wish closer) the case that is now in the Supreme Court's hands - which in a nutshell addresses privacy in relation to a company purchased laptop, or cell phone. The question is, if you are not emailing, instead texting/ facebooking/ myspacing/ livejournaling/ etc - is it legal or just for your employer to spy on communications sent from a device which they purchased for you or is used by you on their network? Can you be terminated for a text? A message sent on FB? Is it just for them to look at your friends, etc on social networking sites, and subsequently make work related decisions concerning your fate based on what they see - minus context?

In a word? Yes. The Supreme Court is expected to rule in favor of big business. So, ultimately it will be legal for them to look at your text messages, status updates, blogs, etc. And I don't know about y'all, but I am sure at some point, things that I like to talk about, or have talked about, violate some kind of corporate cookie-cutter, boiler-plate policy.

So, reluctantly, because I still cling on to my privacy with white knuckled-clenched fists, I will reluctantly buy a personal cell phone asap tomorrow and will kiss using my BBerry and the free service for anything other than vanilla work-related bleh. Its tricky, you know? You get a corporate job, and in your offer letter, they talk about "benefits" (one of which was a bb) you naively get rid of your own phone, and start using it (minus work email - I'm not that stupid) as a personal way of communicating with friends, even co-workers. Well, welcome to the new world order - because even if you are chatting away on your own time, all of it can be monitored and accountable.


So, I refuse to lose my job because I had a mustache night, or have a friend on myspace that might be deemed inappropriate by someone hundreds of miles away, sitting in a room, with a mouse and a bad day.

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VW Scirocco [03 Dec 2009|08:39pm]
His footsteps crunched over broken stone, over gravel, and made a noticeable grinding noise as he made his way down Mulberry Street. A red, Volkswagen Scirocco sat idling on the shoulder. Outside of a hum of the four cylinder, life around her steel chassis was completely still. It was as if the car had been abandoned, discarded, and left for some lucky soul with a lack of tact and a bad disposition to have his way for a few hours before the haze of impending repercussions became too thick and acrid to stay in drive.

But he walked up, knowing something the world didn’t. His pure and purposeful fingers reached down to the handle, and as they hovered a millimeter over metal, the distinct sound of automation made the lock release. He opened the door and cigarette smoke slowly billowed out, with the pill of Poison women's cologne on its tongue. It was the first time he’d smelled such a thing. The combination of overly sweet with nicotine. Up the nostrils and into the head, for a word that simply read “trouble.” But being young, this was two by two that made his mouth salivate. He could taste three minutes from now, and it was almost too much for one human to digest.

So he slid into the bucket seat and closed the door. His eyes began to scan floor, to gears, to stereo and cassette tape, and ended upon her legs. Her legs that seemed to start at the sunroof and end at the accelerator. They were immaculate. They were smooth. Tactile silk. Toned. They were tight around curves, and fast from stand-still. He paused here. He paused because this was a new thing. Something so adult, and foreign. He was used to a menu of “not for you,” or “you couldn’t afford this,” so seeing such a perfect thing sitting across from him was a tandem trick and a treat.

Without saying “hello” or “how’re you today?” she simply reached across his knee and pushed the white cassette tape slowly into the open slot. She stamped out her cigarette on the way down. A little REO Speedwagon and a lot of chipped red nail polish made him take a second look outside. It was a place he desperately wanted to remember.

To his left, a run-down park with a single swing presiding over an overgrown baseball backstop. To his right, massive Oaks whose branches were swaying more and more violently as the skies became more and more ominous. He watched as they dipped below what Newton would recommend. He looked up at cumulus that seemed to open and close in a chorus of angry mouths. He waited for what they had to say, then the crack of thunder and her hand touched his leg.

He’d never been the type to have this type of woman. Who drove a quick car and wasn’t afraid of his sex. The entire cab reeked of a young man’s self-imposed expectations. Outside – the air was thick with the ninety-nine percent chance of collusion.

She grew tired of the diorama and slid her driver’s seat all the way back and reclined the leather until it rested on the back. She took one of her legs and placed it just below the steering column and pulled the few inches of textile up until the center of the universe coincided with the tachometer. He watched as her finger disappeared and her breath began to echo the wind outside. He followed her body all the way up to her eyes, which were fixed on him – waiting and watching for a next move. And in his head, he felt so far removed from Saturday morning cartoons and pancakes with extra maple syrup that he almost missed the taste of milk and flour and gluten.

It was a transition that took place in the blink of an eye. His childhood, his inner “remarkable” was stamped out, while another undefined forward soul assumed its place. He leaned over and hovered over her body. He could feel her temperature. He could smell her cologne at the nape. He could feel her moving side to side below, as her pleasure began to ladder climb. Her hips rose up and touched him. She wanted the weight of him upon her. She wanted to coordinate with cracks of lightning and the rhythm of in between rain. He stood at the feet of Libra and felt balance spiral. So he unzipped and awkwardly worked his twenty-nine Levi five seventeens below his mother-bought whites.

Even as he stood at this precipice of transition, of the wicked feet of evolution and ecology, he was acutely aware of the road he was about to embark on. And he mourned. He mourned in the excitement of how he would feel tomorrow, of the loss that was about to take place today. In the shadow of rocket park and the swirl of a low pressure system, he bid farewell to the mother of invention. Her hand reached up and moved over combed cotton. She touched him, and the chipped red nail polish pulled his last defense to the knees. It was purposeful and dripping in lust.

“Take control…”

She whispered as she waited for the rook to slide right. But on his lips:

“I’m afraid.”


And she kissed it quickly into an afterthought.

She tasted sweet. Her lips moved around the crest of his and played with lower. He felt so unrefined and basic that everything he wanted to try felt like a laughtrack. It didn’t matter. And as slid over to her seat and put his bodyweight over hers, he could feel the seconds draining away from a clock he had become so familiar. His body transformed into a lightswitch. And as the voltage that moved from red to black to white coordinated with an outside crack of lightning, he plugged himself into the swirling mouth of cumulus and a fifty-mile-an-hour gust of wind.

She spoke of pleasure. He pushed deeper. She moved to accommodate. And in wild Technicolor – he watched birthdays of ice cream cake and roller skates yellow and drift out of focus. She drove him up, he pushed down, and all the slow dances became insignificant. He felt her underneath. Her sex on his flesh. Her voice, her calling out in the reverb and chorus of Speedwagon would now be the benchmark for the end of a sentence whether he liked it or not.

In the Scirocco was Eden.

A bitter and sweet scent, moving in and out of hundred percent humidity, to the guitar and drums of mediocre rock and roll.

Image [28 Nov 2009|07:42pm]
Another found, another recent. Thought I would share. Despite the cheeky grin, I really was doing my best to remain focused on the upright.

Plus, with a smile, you never know what will come from it...

Read more...Collapse )
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hai [19 Nov 2009|09:14pm]
Its been awhile since I've uploaded any kind of self-portrait. I figure why not add some kind of recent me to this period in my life. Lord knows, I'll inevitably look back in the future and --cross my fingers-- laugh. Who knew such uncertainty, such self-reflection would linger with such tenaciousness...

This is me, in widescreen...

Read more...Collapse )
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hi. [07 Nov 2009|08:42pm]
I've been unavoidably detained. I think my corporate IT department tracks what websites I visit whilst on the clock. A month or so ago, Livejournal became suddenly "blocked."

And when I return to the abode, I'm usually so over staring at a computer screen, I can't bring myself to post. Makes me sad, really. This used to be such a great outlet. And now, my paranoid brain will only log on to crap sites like cnn dot com or wikipedia. Capitalism removed/ extracted the fun from life.

I miss you all.
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Kodak will save me... [16 Aug 2009|05:35pm]
“What do you think you lost your innocence?” She asked me.

I sat there for a moment, feeling as if I were slowly dissolving into the cushions of the couch. I looked up, and her eyes had set firm on me. They were reading my pupils, set to record upon every gesture, counting the passing seconds, and clinically interpreting the delay in my answer.

In the weeks that I’ve been in therapy, it has been brought to my attention that I have a fascination with innocence – moreso, the act of losing it. Not through penetration, but in the actual non-descript, ambiguous, slow process of taking away a child’s idealism, his ability to day dream in warm colours, his wonder…

I’ve written about it countless times. Of the child in me, the one that played under a canopy of oak limbs, who ran wildly without fear of consequence, who could hold a toy, organic or plastic and play with such commitment, time had no spine. Everything in the world was a discovery, and through those blue eyes, each moment held special meaning. I still think about many of those firsts. I treasure the simplicity, the purity of emotion. The lack of malice, the absence of contempt, or double entendre. It now seems so far away, yet knowing of its existence sets my heart on the deck of ship without the ability to navigate, spinning in the thrust of trade winds. I’ve grown to appreciate that power a child has upon the world, and every time it inevitably goes, or I think back to when moments became usual or painful, I feel a numbing sadness. Innocence is finite, and we are united with every single person on this planet in its loss.

“When do you think you lost your innocence?” She asked me again.

I looked up without an answer. I have a well of here’s and there’s that each took a small piece, but no ultimate culprit. No smoking gun or masked villain. Like a cavity, mine was slowly taken bit by bit until there were only memories of secret hideouts and friendly creatures.

“I don’t know.” I answered.

“But I can tell you my last memory of it, in its purist form.”

She leaned back in her chair and gave me a reassuring smile.

“There’s a picture that was taken of me and my dad. We’re both in blue, Lee overalls. We’re standing on a dock in Lake Vermillion. Its late afternoon, so the setting sun has made the surface of the water appear jeweled. The photo was taken from behind, so we had no idea, no instinct to pose or react. Instead, what was captured on film, was my dad teaching me how to fish. I’m four or five years old, and one of my tiny hands is holding his, while his free hand dangles the pole over the pine planks. I’m looking up to him, watching him, his young, thick, black hair and moustache look out over the unbroken surface of the water for his next place to cast. I can remember it felt like I was looking up at a God. That’s what innocence means to me.”

Pure, unbridled bewilderment upon everything in the surround is that picture. Love, chemistry, fishing, and pinewood docks all carrying with them the same newness. None discriminating over the other. The way I’m looking up to him, my hand in his, there’s no fear, no apprehension, or insecurity. Just love and safety.

“That’s what innocence means to me.” I said again.

I felt like I was going to break apart inside. I can feel the love of that child still inside me. I can feel the safe, reassuring grip of my father’s hand on my fingertips – yet, they are all blended deep into the greater fabric of adulthood. One that has inevitably been broken, remade, and broken again. The realism of that transformation also rests in my father’s gray hair. His aging face. Every time I see him, every time we embrace, I think back to that picture and then the two men who have come together in this moment. The dot from here to there feels crossed in a millisecond.

I am fascinated with innocence, writing, and recalling it. I am fascinated because the closest equivalent to such purity, also rests in the picture of my father and I. It is represented to me as a child holding his dad’s hand. Feeling safe is the next of kin now. We can never reclaim or remake purity, so it’s exchanged with feeling protected. I am fascinated with innocence because I am trying to understand how to feel safe again. How to give, to offer that part of me up to someone else. To reveal a calm, unfiltered love – free of insecurities, free of fears, free of other doubting voices. To offer that hand, and have it received without context. I am fascinated with innocence, because I know, deep down inside of me, that I haven’t given all of me to another for quite some time. All the defenses, all the numbing, and skillful deflections have made me the King of Fifty-Percent. The missing other half is why I head back…

And I return to the picture of my dad and I on the Lake Vermillion dock, to remember what such a gift looks like.

Our First Night [16 Aug 2009|01:58am]
Here i am. In the year two thousand nine, and looking back to a point, a spec in time that feels so new, so fresh, that I can still recall smells, still recall colours, still recall emotions. And in that spec. In that shred of fabric in space/time, I find such a massive disconnect in the man who types these words in this moment, in these waning seconds, to the man in the photo, who smiled at the lens, who had such Hope. There are miles now, thousands of miles between that place, between that Hope and the pain that now resides in this house.

Meeting you was a reinforced metallurgic exploration into the periodic table of elements. In the instant of our very first exchange, I felt spun, I felt propelled by gravity, an unexpected whir of wheels, of deliciously charged, fleeting and circular protons that rotated with such velocity they cast an under-glow into the already staged urban grid. And that light, that subtle spike in Hollywood Boulevard infrastructure resonated in a perfect hum under all the street lights, under all the trivial laughter, under the designer labels and twisted verbs. They spun and spun wildly in their own momentum until it was all boiled away into your voice. Into your scent, and into the glow of your skin. I heard distant taxi cabs, I heard palms give way to the Santa Ana’s. And it all blended together as I made my way beyond introductions, as we sized each other up, and we danced along the fine line of heavy metal, of xenon and hydrogen. We knew of the outs. Of the safety in combustion. Yet, as the warm air blew in from the desert, we stayed in conversation. We stayed, weaving our way in and out of the twist and turn of AC and DC, of the inevitable smiles, of the flirtations, of the suggestions. We both felt the wind, the fronds vibrating into a low bass, and it move our bodies closer. I can remember the texture of fabric in the tips of my fingers. I can remember the scent of alcohol denat and artificial flavor, of vanilla extract and bubblegum. I can remember the instant it joined with my wrist and bloodstream and I was hurled lightspeed into Hope. Into Neon and Oxygen.

I tasted you that night, and in a single moment, I felt plugged into the intersection of Hollywood and LaBrea. I felt a part of the shadows, of the whispering ghosts, of the steel and stone in the sidewalk. My story was just unfolding, yet to me it was neverending and sincere enough to warrant the blinking red and yellow and green of the horizon heading East. I felt as if all the years, all the blisters, all the carbon and calcium in my footprint were finally justified. I felt illuminated by you and it echoed in the reflection, the echo of the city. Your touch was to me was organic as the chlorophyll in the darkened hills above us, and as electric as the blinking sex and twinkle of modern vis a vis. You transcended it all, and brought me with you in the blast-cap of mid, treble, and bass.

There is nothing, nothing that remotely shadows that emotion. Nothing that can describe the sustainability of that first moment to now, because the sincerity defines the Hope that I still cling to. I have all the scents, all the noise, all the heavy metals, and illuminated bits of particles you inhabit. From that first day, to the thousand plus we spent rocketing up and down the nitrogen shield, my brain is overflowing with mercury. The end was never a diagram, or something my cells understood, so telling them now, telling mitochondria they must return to the beginning is not a ready task. Everything in me fights against the inevitability of a singularity, of going back to the beginning. Of starting at carbon and finding oxygen. You were supposed to be the end of all the inbetweens. I cannot find the out, I cannot find a trigonometry that moves along a rhythm without you. I cannot because of our first night. We began out of a solution.
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There will always be tomorrow to idealize. [09 Aug 2009|07:37pm]
Thursday, the evening when I met you for a second time, three years ago this week, I felt such extreme joy, such profound elation, in our luck of being same place, same time, it was as if my fingers had each become a fuse in transformer number one. Your smile, your voice, as we drifted in and out of small talk was something that breathed life into embers long since downgraded to charcoal. I felt that in all the hit and misses, patience had finally blinked away the blindness, revealing that very something I had wished for as a young man. A young man who believed in the purity of love, who felt hope unrelenting, and vividly imagined his fate side by side with a woman who was Perfect. Perfect in lines. Perfect in form. A child's decoupage. His first sketch of perfection beyond a monther or father's love. Perfect because there hadn't been anyone to taint his image. To sling paint across the brushstrokes, or cut tears with lies - the innocence of that love was absolute because it had just awakened in the boy.

I would lie awake and picture your face. I couldn't make out the curvature of your lips, or your jade green eyes, or the beautiful pitch of your laughter - I pictured the idea of you. The feeling of your arms, of your ninety-eight degrees next to me. The sensation of your body, of my fingers as I explored your skin from tip-toe to the nape of your neck. I found absolute beauty in the notion that our fates were shared from our moment of birth, to that instant our eyes met, and we began to satisfy the Gods in acknowledgment of said destiny. The magic, the unspoiled magic of knowing you existed, somewhere, was comforting in the stale rhythm of late night, and the isolation of adolescence. I would lie awake and think of you, of instincts deep inside that you felt compelled to act upon, that would set in motion a turning sequence of days that would lead to our introduction. I never doubted your existence. Or the capacity for sharing in the realization that we, each our own billion year old star, had finally joined into one by just a single introduction. Believing in that, fueled my prose, calmed an anxious heart, healed hurtful words spoken by malicious peers. I kept you safe from all the misuderstandings of growing up, and never let anyone cast thunderclouds into the perfect blue sky that I knew waited on the horizon. When everything inevitably lost context, as years slowly passed and took with them bits and pieces of the child, knowing the future of you, kept a sliver of light from going dark in pessimism.

I keep returning to that night. The anniversary of us. The feeling of the child, the excitement of the child as we tested the waters of each others space. I had begun to question the painting. The words and prose that I had written during idealistic years. There was doubt innocence still had the ability to breathe oxygen into the very cells of modern amusement. That perhaps you had grown impatient, or been so hurt that you had stopped believing in the reality of my flesh? Regardless, all the losses, all the pain, all the hard knocks, were dead and now haunting promises made to the wishes of a boy who wanted nothing more that to honor you. And then, there you were and I let myself return to first words. Dusted them off, polished away the rust and tasted those thoughts on my lips as the adult I'd imagined. All those nights had been boiled down and concentrated into our night. I began to feel embryonic again.

Tonight, on our anniversary, I look down at my empty hand. I return to the picture and the paints and the all the vivid colors and try to make sense of its message. I fight the urge to curse the boy and his idealism, for that hope is now the motor for this hurt. He never anticipated the image of you cast from young eyes or innocent fingers, would have to be redefined. But that is precisely what I am left with. I have the tangible, but know that I must return you back to the indiscernible for this pain to heal. Tonight, on our anniversary, I'm left with no other choice than to tell him--your face, your beautiful face wasn't the one he pictured...
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A couch. Shadows of teeth. And silver rings. [06 Aug 2009|05:54pm]
“Try and think of yourself as an object. What comes to your mind?”

I took some time and thought for a moment. I wanted the first thing that I pictured to be what my lips formed and offered. I trusted spontaneity to be the most genuine. Putting myself in that context churned everything into a mess. I shifted uncomfortably in her overstuffed couch. I looked down at my silver ring and spun it several times ‘round, feeling the edge dig into the epidermis. The anxiety of putting my skin in that context crescendo’d into one big noise. Where to begin? Where to start? The origin of me as plastic, as concrete, as wood…Details flew inside the skull, orbiting the cerebral cortex, spinning in gray matter, faster and faster like a turbine engine turned full throttle until…everything began to slow, fade, and clear.

Leaving only a single, red balloon, tied on the end with a long white string. The helium inside was a day old, so it no longer had the ability to fly away, instead it hovered. I could see hands, multiple hands, little fingers, maybe even her hand trying to grasp the string. The red balloon would stay with a person for a moment, then be let go, to bounce, to move in currents, a wave of invisible, positively charged electrons to the next reaching hand or destination in the corner of a room.

The balloon was a perfect description of how I felt. An intrinsically happy object, one that carried with it a positive, almost childlike anima. Yet, it was something that floated, from person to person never developing roots beyond its string. And that string was only grounded as long as the owner, the possessor chose to hold it. In an instant, with the flick of a digit, they had the absolute power to set the balloon free. While the life, the fuel that made this red balloon blessed with structure, although an organic compound, was surrounded and protected by a precarious, latex shield. To be enjoyed and treasured by no one. If that inside was accessed, the balloon would deflate, leaving nothing but an empty shell.

My therapist sat there for a second, taking in the object that I had chosen as a representation of me. After a beat, in “that voice” she quietly asked:

“Do you know why you chose a balloon?”

I looked out the window. It was early evening, so the sun was a heavier shade of yellow. The light cast shadows resembling teeth along the retaining wall through the glass. For a split second, I became lost in the recto-linear patterns. I suddenly felt sad. Very sad. Like part of me was a spigot, and an invisible force had turned it clockwise and open. My eyes started to well up. I looked down at the silver ring on my finger, and spun it around once more.

“I feel like I’m only partially connecting to people. That my contact with them feels temporary, that I am the one at the mercy of their whims. I guess the balloon is a perfect representation. Perfect because superficially it is a fun object but at its core, is an incredibly fragile, temporary thing.”

She looked at me. Offered up a comforting smile. An understanding nod of her head.

“So why the color red?”

I gave her question some thought, but really had no answer. I said ‘red’ because I wanted the first thing that came to mind to be what I pursued, and that was it. I had no insight to bring.

“I don’t know.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her leg, her eyes never leaving mine. I could feel her reading my uncertainty. Tasting the energy for sugar or salt.

“I think you chose a red balloon because it is a very significant color in relationships. Romantic or not, it is a color that signifies deep feeling. Of a capacity for great emotion. Passion.”

She paused.

“You want someone to take that part of you in. But there’s been so much loss, that the balloon represents your constant state of flux.”

She was right. I did feel the shift was always on. That my relationships, while on the surface felt satisfying, were in some way, always moving. Like the balloon, they were at the mercy of outside factors – unexpected “fingers.” Death, distance, and deviousness all took their turns at grabbing the string. But all the same, in the inevitable end, the pain had become so expected, that my routine for dealing with it, for moving forward, had become more about being numb, than it was about addressing pain.

Knowing this now, made me feel incredibly helpless. It made me aware of how our own humanity, our own souls instinctively develop extra-sensory means of protecting us from hurting, but in doing so, restrict our capacity for pleasure. And the greatest tragedy is we have no idea the transformation has taken place. Slowly, we just feel less and less, until there are few highs, few lows, and a whole galaxy full of in-betweens and not-so-much’s.

“I feel sad.” I said.

Again, I spun the silver ring around my finger. Now, several times before I was able to compose, to decipher the wicked game of back and forth. If I knew this woman better, if she were my mother, my father, my blood, I would have broken down and been that child until ‘time’ was called and we had to return to being grown-ups.

Instead, I muted, I siphoned the flood, and spoke.

“I think about things. And I think the greatest thing, the best lesson that She taught me in the three years that we were together, was how attractive, how beautiful vulnerability is…”

I started to feel weak. My eyes felt heavy. Felt as if they were full of water. Of sand. Of sadness.

“I know she desperately wanted to see and feel it in me, but I never fully gave it…”

My therapist quietly stopped me.

“It’s in our nature to seek things out in other people that we are incapable or afraid of feeling. The vulnerability she wanted from you, was to fill a void inside of her. It wasn’t malicious or calculating, we just seek in others what’s missing in ourselves.”

She paused…

“But yes, vulnerability is a beautiful quality.”

I want to be vulnerable again. To not be alright twenty-four seven. No longer cursed by twenty-first century versions of plausible deniability. I chose red because I have the capacity for this elusive emotion. To be wild, to be whimsical. To laugh, to bite. To tell stories. To tell the truth. To be human. To be weak. To open doors and fight the routine of closing it behind me. To be one which turns himself over completely to the throttle of another, and in that elixir sips red lips and wild promises of nothing. For being vulnerable asks only for a moment at a time. I can only speak for myself, but being vulnerable means aspiring to feel what’s north and south of okay…
7 decomposed | compose

One. [04 Aug 2009|04:29pm]
Trying to rebound. A lesson in futility.

“You know, I’m doing really well right now. I’m a big fan of life…”

This conversation did not go favorably. And to say that you want to have this type of talk with a woman while your own life is embroiled in the hot, throngs of reinvention would be like actually admitting:
1) your age
2) how many sexual partners you’ve had in your life

And believe me, I’m not into any of that twenty-first century shit right now. I’m drinking vodka, smoking cigarettes, and wearing black. I’m sitting on the edge of a fountain that is overloaded with dry ice for “affect,” surrounded by a cacophony of tattoos, body piercing, and hair dye, do you really think that I’m here for a nice cup of optimism? No. I’m that guy who is sitting there, talking to you, hoping to find some kind of common thread in pain and despair, which would most likely lead to making out, or better yet, totally naked, mutual regret. I want to have that depressing conversation where we both air out our issues, walk the fine line of co-dependence, and use our break-ups as pick up lines. I want you to be damaged, because I have no capacity of comprehension for your happiness. And while I’m being completely honest, I also know that I have zero capacity for the totally naked, mutual regret part…Who am I kidding? I’m an over-thinking, self-depreciating, Richard Lewis clone in a Gentile’s body.

“My boyfriend lives in Sweden, but we have an open relationship…”

Sweden???? Is this how the dating scene has evolved since my last episode of near drowning? Are we now using excuses that are such blatant excuses that the veil has been completely torn off of male/female interaction? I understand we just met, and your life is beyond rainbows and unicorns, but are you already setting boundaries three minutes into a conversation? Are we already playing games? Or are you already trying to impress me with leprechauns and seashells, AND your physical/sexual abilities that are so heralded that men in Sweden will lose their asses in international calling plans, just so they can fuck you twice a year? Regardless, I’m sensing that there is no part of me that is ready for this, to close the door on Her, or the idealizing that I incessantly rain down upon recollections of Her. Love for the sake of time is one thing, but when that time was spent single-handedly doing things that were geared towards sharpening your emotional bond, undoing/ separating yourself from that bond is akin to tearing off a limb. And staring at ruby red haired girls with Swedish boyfriends isn’t providing the right torque upon any appendage.

“I’m a Producer….”

It was at this point where I started to drift into an internal dialogue with myself. I watched her lips move, her smiles, her business card, but none of it made any sound. Everything was silent. I didn’t care that she was a producer, or that she wanted to talk financiers or distributors. Or that her film was a comedy about some Gothic adults who take a road trip from New Orleans to LA. What I was thinking was how detached I had quickly become. Not because of her choice of subject matter, or her Swedish lover – it was because we both were human beings at different square roots in space/time. It was the moment that was foreign, not her. She was a conversationalist, and her lips moved with skill, her mind was sharp, and her words were well chosen. To most men, she would have been fascinating, but to me she was non-existent. I wasn’t there, and subsequently felt nothing. She was conversing with a ghost.

I, like most men who have just emerged from a long term relationship, am guilty of talking a lot of game. Release the hounds and prepare for mayhem. Yet, when I appear from a shower, when I walk to the closet to decide upon that evening’s single man’s uniform, I am acutely aware that the chrysalis I have shed is not one that I was ready to lose, so therefore whatever skin that exists is raw. I see my sex try and work through their pain by fucking, plowing through as many women as possible, hoping that the parade of new voices screaming, calling out their name will drown out the insecurities that howl, growl, and hum. I see my sex indulge the animal to ignore the person, and it makes me sick inside. I desperately want to feel, to be physical again. To be consciously wild. Both spotless and dirty. To be unaffected, to make out, to pull hair, and whisper deliciously nasty verbs north of a woman’s earlobe. I would gladly flash those incisors, but I struggle to find the knowledge, the instinct of how to intelligently begin. The Id, I’m afraid, has to be rediscovered.

Saturday nights in Hollywood may boast the right intentions, so I salute you – whatever your name is- Producer. I know you are younger, that your idealism still may be somewhat in tact, while mine is held up with toothpicks and aluminum foil. I understand that patience is the lesson in this pain so I’ll keep putting on the suit coat and pretend to be interested. I hope your Swedish lesson works out, and financiers rain money down on you and your gothic roadtrippers. While I try and figure out a way to remove Her face from all the lipsticked mouths, her voice from the echoes.

To quote Mikey from The Goonies, "It all starts here..."
13 decomposed | compose

This is going to be the throughline... [03 Aug 2009|01:49pm]
Been awhile. I would like to say that the silence was due to pleasant circumstances, however that wasn't the case. Far from it, actually. My relationship died, and has been buried. Officially about 3 weeks ago, and for three weeks, leading us to today, I have been trying to understand how to express myself. Both IRL and here. None seem to have a cohesive voice, and quite frankly, it occurred to me that the content in deepdarkmonkey, this tiny speck on the url of the world needs to be switched up again. I'm taking a break from storytelling, from bullshit attempts to replace the sparkplugs in my writing, and to get completely boiled down and simple. Yes, it may be maudlin, it may be emo, it may be tragic, and it may suck with capital letters, punctuation, and the use of the gerund. But you know what? I. Don't. Care. And if you do, I highly suggest taking me off your friends list, because I'll just annoy you and my self-esteem is already in the single digits, and probably couldn't take the hit of pissing you off. So, be forewarned. I'm going down this road eighty miles an hour with zero excuses. I'm going to indulge all feelings, and see how it plays out. What happens from this point on, is me sucking out the venom. I have lost my lover, my best friend for the past 3+ years, and the adjustment, the silence is killing me. So, jack the faucet and let the water drench us.

Backstory. I started therapy about a month and a half ago. Not because my relationship was terminal, but because I genuinely felt it was something that would help me be a better person. I wanted to explore what was inside. Deal with my past. Acknowledge loss. I also wanted to work out some shit that I see members of my family crippled by. They are angry, depressed, detached, deniers and I wanted to avoid the same fate. It has become very clear to me, that in my relationships - both with friends and lovers, that I am only feeling thirty-percent and the rest is being lost somewhere. Kind of like bleeding internally. No idea of the location, you just know its happening and must be dealt with, or it only gets exponentially worse. I desperately want to feel again. It profoundly scares me that I am aware of it taking place, yet have done nothing about it until now. But, such is the nature of us as bipeds. We ignore symptoms until it is a wee heartbeat north of too-late. I am terrified - let me stress again - terrified - that I will not completely find a solution, and will be relegated to a mediocre, bland, lite-dressing, hold the mayo experience of sex and love. Don't get me wrong, I have hope, but at the same time, when you make the conscious decision to tackle something ambiguous head on (I know, a contradiction) you can't help but be a little half-empty. I've lost my idealism, which is precisely why I'm here in the middle of the pickle. Welcome to the vicious cycle.

In one of my first sessions, I said this:

"I have absolutely no desire, no interest in writing anymore. None. It's like someone turned off the spigot. I know I need to do it. I have ideas, kernals of ideas, but when I sit down to actually DO IT, the words escape me."

Any my therapist replied:

"How long has it been since you've written a screenplay?"

I answered, "About a year and a half, maybe longer. No, probably longer."

"And short stories, prose?" She asked.

"Same." I answered.

She sat back, and in her stereotypical therapist/ phone sex voice says:

"So start with a few words a day. Start with a few thoughts a day. Try something, because the guilt you are experiencing from NOT writing, is actually the biggest wall holding you back from writing."

That made sense. More sense than any other reason that friends, family, etc have proposed in the past couple years of nothingness. So, I thought - where to begin? What to write? And this weekend, it became readily clear. I needed to address the pain of this breakup. To write about the fear of being single in Los Angeles again. To have to start over after you thought you were with the woman you were destined to be with for the rest of your life. That outlet, that resource is the jumbled voice inside. So - this is meant to be a daily ritual. An exercise in healing. An outlet for trying to unjumble the roller-coaster and the hodgepodge.

So, to echo that sentiment, the temporary, on-going subject line of deepdarkmonkey will be:


Either way, I think you get the drift.

From this point on, all dice are boxcars.
54 decomposed | compose

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