July 9, 2011

This path is long and I am lost. There are so many wandering ghosts…

I only left this place because it left me first. This place is made of people. Resplendent people, beautiful and brightly lit, like canvas priced and framed. Righteously produced, my gallery was nearly full. All things are easily lost.

And I wander this hilly path. Here is ever dusk. The golden hour, when the world is as held in amber, pocked with delicate bubbles of air where my friends used to be. I used to own this place. Now I can’t remember it’s name. More ghosts than a graveyard here, inside of me. More ghosts than a mausoleum.

Ugly, awkward summer. Chasing down mountains for memories. Chasing down cars for some sort of sick release. I wear suicide like a keepsake. My own picture cut heart-shape, to fit, and glued inside. It is heavy around my neck when I am drowning in mistakes. I say it is a joke. I say “who wears a heart ‘round their neck when they have one already in their chest?” But no one really laughs. They see through my devices.

And the wind shakes the trees. No one ever asks for it. Doesn’t help the trees. Doesn’t help the soil or the sky or the birds in the trees. Doesn’t help me. And yet it is a constant. Pushing. Sometimes for, sometimes against. It does not judge. Instead, it billows at the ghosts around inside.

And I am here because there’s nowhere else to keep my body laid. There’s nowhere to hide this mess. Lost and alone on the broken highway. A boy enamored by the subtle touch of ghosts that only blink and cry their sullen tears. This place used to be full up to the roof with life and promise. Just look at all the boy I have become. This gallery is closing. All the art has moved along. And I am left to wander through the muddle and the clutter and the shivering of winter in this ugly, awkward summer with my heart safe in my pocket.

Maybe if you see me you could offer me a ride.


Sordid Collections

July 1, 2011

Uncompromised disproval. Eloquent departure from the usual recipes for broken stations. Here is the apex of the quarter-life. Ten million strong but none worthy. Corrugated dreamscapes, like children at the zoo. We watch from underneath and yet it’s shadow does not touch us. Non-corporeal. Separatist.

Ghostly, electronic voices echoing forever through hidden chambers at my epicenter. Delicate, though hearty. Iconic. Disembodied and prolific, like memories of dreams you never had. Panic shakes like carbonated ice. Collapse seems necessary for recovery. Fresh starts. New old.

Instinct, drawn through openings left deep in damaged flesh. Like corrosive children, bandaged and still screaming as the fire steals their limbs. I can touch the fervor. Hospital continent. Emergency world, in a sudden state of understanding, seconds before entropy breaks forth and cuts our ropes. Everything soft halts.

Hard wire, in braids around our arms and legs, dams our circulation. Loss of feeling like loss of illusions upon waking. Terrifying and pitiable. Empty Christmas. Godless churches burning, heavenward.

Davey said it best…

Nothin from nowhere, I’m no one at all…

I once had an idea. There, in the stand of trees I had been walking past, I imagined a door. A tall, chipped blue door. Golden hinged and handled, it was fastened to a stump. No one ever saw it, save for those who needed to. And that was me.

In my mind, I walked the distance to that ragged stand of trees. The richness of their colors stolen by the jealous sunset sky, I walked among the bleached skeletons of trees. The ferns and bracken stole the candor from my feet. The ground was damp and soaked my frozen toes.

In my mind, I touched the handle of that door. It seemed to carry some small power, a vibration, something there to say it wasn’t from this place. Taking no extra time, I opened it. Beyond the door was only the silhouette of a staircase, going down and down towards muddy orange light. So down I went, stepping on the staircase in my mind.

When, finally, I had traveled those steps, I found myself in a subtly uncomfortable place, too warm and  just barely too large. It was a long hallway of doors, each one only barely allowing enough room for the next to open. In the low and orange light of this ungainly place, small shapes scurried here and there, tending to larger ones, many like myself, but many also strange and unwieldy.

You must understand… In my mind are not whole stories, like series of events. Rather, I carry only the structure of things in which a myriad of stories may take birth. I will no more describe this place. You may already know what it looks like. Rather, I will tell you it’s rules.

  1. This place only exists for those in crisis. Were you to look for it otherwise, you would be disappointed.
  2. It exists solely to console. To prepare you for a return. You ought not to stay beyond your welcome here.
  3. If you stay too long, as are the rules, you become one of those small scurrying things, bound here to tend to newcomers. You must stay until your place is taken by another who has lingered too long.
  4. One of those doors belongs to you. It opens to that perfect place where you take comfort. Everybody has one…
  5. You may stay as long as necessary. Take your time. You will be cared for. Perhaps you even share a place of comfort with another troubled one. Perhaps you find new friendship here.
  6. For as long as you remain, your world outside will wait for you. When you climb that long staircase again, open that door and step out, it will be the moment you stepped in and, most likely, when you turn to look upon that strange door, it will no longer be.

Generally silly story, I know. But I needed it then, and I thought I would share it now. Incidentally, in my story, my place of comfort was an empty auditorium or theater, with the lights down low and curtains closed.

Also, in my story, there was a girl there… But that’s for another day.

There is a desperate color here. It aches at his eyes. It aches, anathema of an already broken boy. He curses it, spits what hate he can muster, and yet it does not change. He cannot chase it away. This is because it is a color he has painted. It is a color he belongs to, holds onto, collects. The color of dark.

Here, in this box of a room, one wall is a clownish yellow, the others dull as sand. No memory hangs sullen from the walls. No bookcase for the mountain range that fills his yellow box. He is alone here with his thoughts of rocket ships (Bradbury colored) and all shades of super-hero. He cannot reach the world outside. Cannot break through… not even with this stupid blog.

Sometimes he finds himself losing confidence that anything he does will be remembered. He knows how to meter his words well. His head is a thesaurus. But what are these if no one wants to hear him speak?

End Of Days (3/17/11)

March 18, 2011

Silence… Delicate silence. And then the endless ration of noise. He rises daily, and there is nothing spectacular in this. He raises his eyes, sets his mind to motion, shakes the dust from weary lungs and begins to whisper promises to himself.

“You’ll Make it. You’ll see.”

Outside is the rabble, chaotic like the fleeing of wounded animals, organized like sickness to wither at his veins. He lets his eyes fall shut, and tries to forget there is a purpose to this. There is a purpose to all of it. A plan. A promise. Eyes shut, mind fighting to just forget that he has woken. He works his lips anew.

“You’ll make it. You’ll see.”

And he sleeps, dreaming sequences of violence and sequences of lust, but mostly just dreaming of all that he’s lost. And he wakes, the idiot alarm sending splinters of panic to his sedated mind. He sleeps beside his phone, his light-up voice box. It rattles every so often, bringing words across the empty air from her. Her… And she never lets him fall asleep again, not til his eyes burn with too much taken in. She brings the sadness in.

“You’ll make it. You’ll see.”

And so he’s up now, in his underwear, ugly in the mirror, though he strains to prove he’s grown his muscles well. He shakes his head like he is a bad joke he’s heard too many times before. He finds himself recounting all the ways he’s disappointed everyone. He knows the mirror’s a bully, but he lets it bully him. He takes some special pride in his loneliness, feels perhaps that he’s the only one to feel this way. In his head he’s become a hero, though he’s never been quite clear who it is he’s saved. He keeps his eyes open, and he breathes.

“You’ll make it. You’ll see.”