An example of how life is like fiction

If you are brave, you can try to imagine middle school without the benefit of the keloid of passing time. Time heals all and distorts the truth like heat on the asphalt.

I remember this traditionally beautiful girl. She was blonde, dated soccer players, wore cool clothes from Delia's or wherever. She had dimples and permanently tanned skin. In short, she was popular. As the years wore on, popularity began to take on a different hue. As a self professed "outsider", I relished in being an observer. I still do. But being near the golden children, with their expensive clothes and their exalted status, I was intrigued. I was a jester to their court, at times.

This one girl in particular was at a party once with older kids and ended up stripping drunk on a table. I'm sure bad things happened. Not bad things in the sense of teenagers shouldn't do this, WHAT ABOUT THE HONOR ROLL? but in the sense that moral ambiguities were no longer ambiguous and people did the kind of things they do that set a pattern for their life.

I saw this girl again on Facebook and she is now a kindergarten teacher. She is dating a man with the surname Good.

Stock Futures and Dead Soldiers

"You're just a virgin who CAN'T DRIVE."

I've driven more in the last week than I have in years. As I am not a sexually active person, it would be safe to say I have driven more than I have had sex. Both activities are metaphors for freedom and later, responsibility.

So this week has been filled with crashes of all sorts, financial and helicopter and the world spins madly on. Even from the safety of my air-conditioned tomb and rapidly expanding library, current events seep through with the circulated air. These are dark times. While they are no darker than periods previous, it seems like the atmosphere is tinged with a bit more anxiety and the whiff of fear is redolent on the sporadic summer breezes.

There is a large framed portrait of Marilyn Monroe that my niece and nephew have recently noticed. Biz, 5, remarked on her beauty as did my nephew Roman, 3. They asked me when they could meet her. I told them she was dead. They wanted to know how. I decided not to answer that question. Then we spiraled into a frank discussion about death and dying. All this while making Mac n' Peas. Rationality is not lost on children. They know they will die. I will die probably before them and so on.

The future is happening and there is no return policy.

Rear Window

It is not inertia alone... (Rilke)

The patterns of alienation and ethnography that mistake themselves for progress appeared today, slow and simple like the dropping temperature of late. A new place and the oft repeated phrase of going out and making friends, widening the pre-existing circles we find ourselves surrounded by. Much like the rings left by discarded cups, we can only guess the circumstances of the fading stains. The new person dynamic, the evolving hierarchies of favor and fortune is enough to ensure I will spend most Fridays in my own company. I seem to be the one that is forever unaware of time zones, National Holidays and the ilk. I suppose unaware isn't the right word, unimpressed would be more accurate. Observe and report, kvetch and retort.

What A Circus

"So share my glory, so share my coffin" - Evita (Andrew Lloyd Webber)

Today I mourn the loss of another young person who self destructed in front of millions only to end up a punch line. Yet another 27, another chuckle about famous junkies. Far be it my style or desire to quote the Bible about casting stones or spells, but does loss really need to be a pissing contest? Death happens all the time, every day and onwards until I die and don't have an opinion.

Is a death worthier of some? Should we all aspire to die in our sleep surrounded by pets and grandchildren. Cue the sepia toned water works. Regardless of the method, are we so hard pressed for emotional currency that we don't have dignity to spare? A simple quiet moment to the passing of a life, be it a singular act or the loss of thousands?

Even on the internet, obscured among the ones and zeros, it is difficult for me to be honest and confront the rank sentimentalist beneath my ashtray heart. But today is a day deserving in truth. Today is no different than any other.

Amy Winehouse, a Virgo, trainwreck, smartassed junkie with an incredible amount of talent and wit. She said in an interview the more stage fright she had, the bigger she teased her hair. She was famous for being honest. She became popular(notorious) for song titled Rehab. I suppose if anyone had listened to anything other than the self-aware chorus, they might have heard "I just think you're depressed/This me, baby, and the rest". She wasn't glorifying anything. She was a mess. She knew that. The whole goddamn world did too. So is this the vindication... the aha moment, a corpse? Drugs are bad. That's why only bad people take them eh. I'm sorry the world lost another person wrapped up in the petty problems that make the world go round. It just seems a bit sadder today. Another reminder that the battle isn't always about winning or losing. It's why we fight to begin with.

So I'll cry for her today. For Norway, for Cobain, for the past and the future bon vivants, the Icarus in designer clothing. Every day we can erode ourselves with the sadness of human traffic. It doesn't mean I will stop drinking. It doesn't mean I'll stop listening to the music that took the lives of their creators. It doesn't mean anything.

The Void Is Thusly Filled

Slow moving poetry. Halogen lightning. Freedom is bass influenced, the protracted footfalls of going nowhere in particular. Freedom is crafting the perfect line and walking it in your most comfortable footwear. Meteors on the glass. Immersing yourself in the baritone of Summer’s last rites. The unimagined, half-remembered past that lines the street. The repetitious, favored words of the digital dead. A million flags will mark momentary change in status. This doesn’t last forever.

Tom Wolfe Misquoted

Greetings From Camp Clever -

Whether or not you hold court or teach clown college, you are convinced your path is the correct one. Wherever you go, your advice is priceless and your actions are tenable. Every relationship has it's share of the truth and the divine right to change metaphors mid publication.

The choice of no choice, of aimless drift and lazy self destruction is obviously the worst sin of all. We are only defined by our jobs if we enjoy them.

And this is what I have. The sand of time lost stuck in socks and unworn shoes. While the wake for the past is ever ongoing, the present unfolds with much aplomb as we compare anecdotes and shots both cheap and plentiful. Nobody ever put a gun loaded with adjectives to their temple much as nobody ever overdoses on self righteousness. It's the good advice you just can't take, and not because irony is the currency of the underpaid and overly entitled. The biological imperative implores as not to raise children who aren't ours and not to accept advice that we haven't expelled spent from our rich interesting lives. The trash piles and the proof sinks.

An analyst in nurse's clothing

You are so terrible at keeping in touch. So I'll leave this with a memory. I want to smoke cigarettes and listen to Regina Spektor with you in this quiet snow shower. Resume your busy life.

Every night before I go to bed, I make lists of whatever I learned or created and try to arrange not only a meaning, but a subtext. Austerity suits me in life, but in letters I think in terms of a buffet. Whether or not I even desire it, the lighting and environment demand some stacks.

I've become quite interested in biographies, which I feel is some subtle cue that I am growing past fiction, or that fiction is somehow juvenile. I miss fiction, but lately I find myself only reading biographies and anthologies of poems or short stories. It's a gross kind of pretension that seems fitting with my new job. People may not be able to spell or pronounce ciabatta or baguette, but they can put them away like nobody's business. Like so many... er creative? types, I feel ill-suited towards labor. Perhaps it is the general interaction; so far everyone at my new job, like so many before them, have tried to impart a lesson in insincerity re: public interaction. My formal politeness is somehow more hostile than shrilly exclaiming at their every utterance.

I havent been writing much, just happily devouring book after book. I've neglected Netflix and any attempt to court someone in favor of a chaise lounge and iPod. Post-modern Oscar Wilde is ready for the gallows.