Posts Tagged ‘ Just Thinking’

Bella Luna

Posted on March 20, 2010

You would like the space your guts used to occupy in your torso to be patched up.

Your insides are shivering.

You have nothing. No words. No thoughts. Just the rain.

Just the sickening snap and the loss and the filthy complication of life unrequited.

Just the abstraction of reality.

Reality, even? The entire concept… foreign.

There is a busted lock, a broken ladder on a fire escape, a blown fuse, and a drowning girl. (Reality.)

This is death and life and hope for life after death.

This is skipping and running and leaping and crashing and bleeding and stitches.

This is the post-infernal smolder fed only by the air and nothing left to burn.

This is punched in the guts. Hard. Again and again and again. This is the dull ache that follows…

This is the point of no return. (This is the point, obviously…)

These are the bony fingers belonging to goblins beckoning from the shadows. Tempting and taunting…

This is your funeral now.

Organ music plays in 40-second loops. It blasts forth through the crummy speakers of a dual cassette recorder which was considered ‘top of the line’ in the 80’s. There are no mourners. There are no tears. There are a handful of celebrants gathered in one corner.

They seem rather unaffected.

This is you…not really blaming them.

(This is having so very far to go. This is feeling completely unable to begin at all.)

The water is seeping and dripping through the windows of the space and all you can do is stare with glassy, bloodshot eyes at an inconsequential point in the darkness, surrounded by nothing in particular.

You attempt to predict the patterns of the ferocious gusts of  wind. As if such a thing were possible. Still you try…

The rain lashes obscenities against the windowpanes and you just listen. You are empty.

Tabula Rasa (?)

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I Got F*cked By Fleetwood Mac

Posted on August 23, 2009

How we ended up like this...

How we ended up like this...

We are the children who were told by our post-hippie parents that the ‘life-map’ was bullshit and that the ‘road less traveled’ should be sought out and pursued at any cost.

But suddenly, we are no longer children. We are adults.

And we are wandering down that “dark desert highway,” with all that “cool wind in our hair,” living just a beat to the right complete vagrancy, and the drugs aren’t cool anymore and our parents are either sipping champagne cocktails in Boca or in some 12-step recovery program, and no-one can guide because we are ‘fucking pioneers, man,’ but when the romanticism behind all that wears off, we’re just a group of dual diagnosis nomads self-medicating on the Adderall and Xanax we’ve stock piled, and wondering what the answer is. We’re lost.

So, now you have this generation of alleged ‘adults,’ thrust upon a world already dry-heaving with too much information, too many people, and way too much ‘enlightenment,’ and half of us are rebelling against our parents rebellion by being anything but what they told us to be, and getting corporate jobs and churning out scores of babies, while the other half of us are rebelling against ourselves for not rebelling all along; rather attempting to straddle the system, and thus creating mass chaos in our lives, which we now have to deal with but wouldn’t even be on the damn table if we’d just believed what we’d known from the start.

Hello. My name is Girl. And I am exactly like you.

The Girl has come to spin a yarn of truth from within this web of lies that we call life. This is a naked tale of folly, surrender, greed, lust, and cheeky disregard of all that is righteous and pure, with an evolutionary dash of pious morality sprinkled throughout; in vain attempt to satisfy the balance of the counter-balance scale which so harshly judges our counterculture.

Or our counter-counterculture, depending on who we are being today.

Thanks to “The Fleetwood Mac School of Spawn-Rearing,” from which my parents graduated with honours, I am acutely aware of the following realities of adulthood:

A) That I should always be “shacking up” and “packing up.” In other words, I should always, always, always, “go my own way.”

B) That it is completely fair that I might, in one moment, be “like a cat in the dark” and the next I might very well be “the darkness.”

C) That it is not mere fancy to genuinely believe that I am absolutely, “just a wish” and am, in fact, a “Gypsy.”

You see, my parents hath spun me these tales a great many times, and I’ve no cause, reasonable or otherwise, to question such plausible and obvious truths.

So, “Thanks, Stevie, Lindsey and Christine McVie!”

With morals and values like these at the helm, there is absolutely no chance that my generation will ever fall off course.

No damn way.

Still, I must explore the possibility that this may not be the plight of my generation, as a whole.

To be sure, some of us were equipped with a highly effective ‘internal distillation device’, right?

You know, that super-useful tool that enables its user to separate the fanciful pieces of cocaine-induced lyrical content, from a bona fide, sensible, ‘life-plan.’

Sadly, some were not given such advantages.

I believe myself to be a ranking member of the latter group.

On the up side, I got a bitchin’ first name out of the deal.

My search continues. If you need me, I’ll be somewhere in the desert, ruling my life “like a fine skylark,” when “the sky is starless.”

Hello. My name is Girl. And I am exactly like you.

These are ruminations from the abyss.

This is but one tale, one example plucked from millions of possible tales that lurk within this unorthodox faction of the Earth’s populace.

It is a metaphorical microcosm within the macrocosm.

We are the creators of the template.

We are the authors of the doctrine being written from the trenches.

“Who cares?” you ask, “Is this not the responsibility of each generation? This task of rising as one, unified in the quest to mold the rules to our desired specifications and revolutionize the status quo?”

And you would be justified in this query…for this task, in and of itself, is not unique.

Our disparity, our burden, if you will, is that this amendment of propriety and expectations, was not our idea.

It was their idea. Their dream. Their displaced and malnourished concept, laid to rest on the shoulders of their kin for implementation unto a world unready to accept this gift.

The puppet masters gave us life, and saw to it that we grew strong, while programming our feeble minds with the propaganda of this Liberal Mafia that they’d dreamt up.

They were the Capos and we, the low-ranking foot Soldiers…but we knew that if we were loyal and enterprising, the worlds into which we would be initiated, would challenge all that had ever been, and our efforts could give rise to an un-restrictive, peaceful and non-judgmental Utopia.

We were taught that there was Virtue in Selfishness, that ‘settling’ was for Pilgrims, and that ‘commitment’ was only for pussies or the certifiably insane.

We set about our travels to spread the groundbreaking word, bolstered by the prose of Miller, Bukowski, Rand and the good Dr. Gonzo.

We smoked joints rolled with the finest cannabis, while we laughed in the face in of failure.

But one day, we looked around us and saw no real ‘breaking of ground.’

We got scared.

We glimpsed the proverbial Looking Glass and we saw ourselves for what we were: a group of self-important, pompous, hemp wearing assholes, in desperate need of highlights and a job.

So we threw out our Phish CD’s, watched a few episodes of “Friends” on TV, and were magically transformed into publicists and attorney’s and other such nonsense.

We became all that we’d been taught to abhor.

Then we meet the Others.

The Others look like us and talk like us, and do not appear repulsed by the anti-societal rants which we still practice aloud from time to time.

Though perhaps these Others hadn’t been as militant in the ‘freedom fight’ as we had been, they were kind and good and it seemed that they suited us well.

We even found ourselves enjoying this Brave New World of brunch and Broadway Musicals.

Fuck Free Love!

I want a Condo with a view!

So, we float along the River of Bliss, buying duvets and pillow shams, praying that this whole scenario isn’t a sham, all the while shaming ourselves for even allowing the thought that it could be.

Suddenly many months have passed and the disquieting voice of the wanderlust within has not yet been silenced, and we are petrified that it may necessitate some tending to.

We decide to assess our surroundings.

We dust off our oh-so-familiar anti-societal rants. The ones that charmed the shit out of our Others a couple of years back, and we begin inserting these ideas into our everyday conversations.

But the years have robbed the words of their youthful exuberance, and the Others are now the opposite of ‘charmed’, instead they are openly dismissive of the notions we’ve posited, which leaves us feeling misunderstood and alone.

We console ourselves as the simpletons do…

We buy some new shoes and a bag.

But when we arrive home and look at our purchases, we realize that the ‘shoes’ were made for running and the ‘bag’ is actually a suitcase.

We gaze around the lives we’ve built and are gobsmacked by the reality that none of it matters a bit.

It could all go away…vanish without a trace and in the end it is only “the Gypsy that remains.”

Hello. My name is Girl. And I am exactly like you.

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The One I Might Never Be…

Posted on August 18, 2009

Possibility Lies Within...

Possibility Lies Within...

I would very much like to be considered a “woman of letters.”

It is a most egregious atrocity that this art form, this art of the hand writ epistle, has gone the way of human-to-human meetings and deep breaths…now almost extinct.

Merely a memory now (nearly)…

A delicate flame from a space in time which is no longer, soon to be permanently extinguished by the careless and regrettable gusty wind of ‘immediacy.’

Letters were beautiful.

So many facets…

So many elements, all brimming with analytical possibility.

The paper, the ink, the penmanship, the style, the wording, and the subtext

(how I love subtext)

All fodder for exam.

But like most forms of expression, letter writing is most rewarding when reciprocated.

I should think it frustrating to continually pen crafty missives, never to hear worthy rejoinder.

I’d certainly expect a reply heavily laden with equal amounts of minutiae and comparable levels of intellect as I have put forth.

This seems to be something of a fool’s errand.

Expectations and such…

Besides, my handwriting is sloppy.

And when it isn’t, it is only because I am trying too hard (always visually evident)

I fear both the ‘trying too hard’ or the ‘sloppiness’ would greatly detract from the mystique of the scented paper in the linen envelope and monogrammed wax seal I’d affix to the front…

Sadly, I may never be known as a “woman of letters.”

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