There is no right way to deal with darkness, except to look for a sliver of light that escapes through the cracks. But sometimes there is none. In times like these, a short circuit happens, neurons misfire, airways get obstructed, and destruction ensues. Injuries are inflicted, towards the self and outside, and memories get erased, though all the wrong ones.
Things that worked earlier have no effect. The night light gives way to regular ones, the walks become longer, lying down to rest just hides the inability to get up. And just when you think it couldn't get worse, the gloom deepens. Because the part of the brain that thinks too much just informed you there is no reason for it, and the same part can't remember the last time you really laughed.
Not being able to recall moments of joy, or be happy for things accomplished becomes a problem. Doubting that you've ever achieved anything, or believing the pointlessness of it all is a problem. Sleep is dangerous in these times. It's worse than the memory erasure, cuz all that space gets replaced with high def images, and those stay. But it is still worth a try to change these or fill the emptiness with arcane facts, useless bits of data, like it takes 47 minutes at 6 miles an hour to walk twice across Christopher St Pier up to Horatio St, and take a circuitous route to Carmine St. As if that really matters. Because all that resounds for those 47 minutes is You lock the door/ And throw away the key/ There's someone in my head but it's not me. Not Hit Me Baby One More Time. Thank you old man in the sky. Sorry Brit. (Though I imagine it would help from oding on self-pity).
So now it's back to 'Let's waste time/ chasing cars/ around our head'. Talk about this little light of mine hiding inside shadows.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Three years... and counting
A lot seems to have happened, 'seems' cuz half the time I'm not even sure what's real. The darkness got violent at times, but we've become good pals, and go bingeing on everything together. We have a living arrangement with its usual ups and downs. Friends of the biped variety have had less patience and have gotten overwhelmed with this friend I keep, or keeps me, since he has an irritating habit of sneaking up on them and poof!(I included show cause clauses to curb this behavior, but no point), so they (the bipeds) have left. Winters have been long, Christmases were blizzards, springs had the occasional flights to someplace, summers were spent drinking hard and walking in circles.
Have I told you about my little blue radio? RayD is a good friend. He has a functioning brain unlike most people I know... (true, I don't know many people). But he reads me better and comes up with songs I hate myself for loving. Actually he is a sadistic bastard that makes me... um... suicidal? homicidal? depressive? manic? Check all.
B'cuz sometimes the ground caves in. The center doesn't hold.
Has it ever?
My iPod is another dear with a mind of his own, but I take the blame for that - after all I put all those songs in there, Hallelujah, Love Bites, Poison, Too Much Love Will Kill You, My Immortal... aah that order is suggestive... and I carry this guy with me. 'Shuffle' though, is a pretend function, I kind of figured out the algorithm to that one... now I know the order of shuffled songs if I start with a particular tune. Random is not exactly random.
So, anyway, it's been three years. In Gotham city. With or without my RayD and Pod men. Mostly with. Three years. That's the longest stretch I've stayed put in one place, without moving in and out of apartments like I'm prone to doing when I know it's goin' to be a long stretch... (must be the rent). But things are never a constant in this city, except perhaps for the morning coffee. Even that is unreliable, but I like it that way.
Constants are scary things. But I still need the coffee.
Three years and I've feared for my sanity on and off, for whatever's left of it. I've woken up wondering where I got the bruises, and scars (and why). I've discovered that coke in small doses is like viagra. I've read The English Patient 8 times cover to cover so far. I still watch the tango, and the manic Ferrari drive scenes in 'Scent of a Woman' every year. I listen to 'Where I Stood' everyday. I play Dido's Here With Me every night on my guitar. And know that despite over 60 hours (so far) of practicing Fast Car, I can't sing and play it well at the same time. I can never ever sing anything. I know Auden's 'Stop all the clocks...' by heart.
By heart, I haven't used that phrase in years, but yes, that poem I know by heart. I say it by heart in my head everytime I walk the piers and it is the one thing that brings tears to some forgotten pain.
......
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; .....
Never mind. Got distracted.
I haven't sky-dived (yet) cuz it was over a 100 bucks. I've paid 100 bucks for (apparently) jumping the turnstile. If I stop my daily quota of substances today, I could clear my loan in one year exactly. I could also die in that year from deprivation a la Winehouse, without the records and fame of course.
I've tried convincing friends to stay, keep talking, if only to get the noise out of my head and failed. Mr Pod puts sound in, he doesn't absorb the emanating static. So it's a weird key stuck between a diminished chord and G# in my head, and so irksome at times. I've been told to stop my obsessive humming at work more than twice. Maybe I hum wrong.
I've taken good care of my play list, the classics remain classics, newer perspectives and song-listening inclinations are carefully compiled in a separate folder. I am proud to say I have been faithful, and experimental at the same time. To Misters iPod and RayD Oh. Creates a lasting, mutually satisfying relationship. I now measure time in segments of crime shows. And I have learned that you know you're older when the nights seem longer than days.
Three years. The problem with anniversaries, passport expirations, and password changes is it forces you to consider time. Waves of new and past ghosts suddenly hound you and howl incessantly into the night. (Yes my ghosts are of the werewolf banshee types). The wails of were-bans.
And you never can seem to remember the loss, you only know the feeling.
Sure we know. The songs and obsessions tell you. And all the changes. The point is people don't really change. They just reveal the truth when they think no one is looking. Or reading. But we try. Someone who used to be afraid of the nightmares just sleeps with a night light. Or doesn't sleep at all.
And we all have a price to pay for giving up what is good for us.
Three years is a bitch.
Have I told you about my little blue radio? RayD is a good friend. He has a functioning brain unlike most people I know... (true, I don't know many people). But he reads me better and comes up with songs I hate myself for loving. Actually he is a sadistic bastard that makes me... um... suicidal? homicidal? depressive? manic? Check all.
B'cuz sometimes the ground caves in. The center doesn't hold.
Has it ever?
My iPod is another dear with a mind of his own, but I take the blame for that - after all I put all those songs in there, Hallelujah, Love Bites, Poison, Too Much Love Will Kill You, My Immortal... aah that order is suggestive... and I carry this guy with me. 'Shuffle' though, is a pretend function, I kind of figured out the algorithm to that one... now I know the order of shuffled songs if I start with a particular tune. Random is not exactly random.
So, anyway, it's been three years. In Gotham city. With or without my RayD and Pod men. Mostly with. Three years. That's the longest stretch I've stayed put in one place, without moving in and out of apartments like I'm prone to doing when I know it's goin' to be a long stretch... (must be the rent). But things are never a constant in this city, except perhaps for the morning coffee. Even that is unreliable, but I like it that way.
Constants are scary things. But I still need the coffee.
Three years and I've feared for my sanity on and off, for whatever's left of it. I've woken up wondering where I got the bruises, and scars (and why). I've discovered that coke in small doses is like viagra. I've read The English Patient 8 times cover to cover so far. I still watch the tango, and the manic Ferrari drive scenes in 'Scent of a Woman' every year. I listen to 'Where I Stood' everyday. I play Dido's Here With Me every night on my guitar. And know that despite over 60 hours (so far) of practicing Fast Car, I can't sing and play it well at the same time. I can never ever sing anything. I know Auden's 'Stop all the clocks...' by heart.
By heart, I haven't used that phrase in years, but yes, that poem I know by heart. I say it by heart in my head everytime I walk the piers and it is the one thing that brings tears to some forgotten pain.
......
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; .....
Never mind. Got distracted.
I haven't sky-dived (yet) cuz it was over a 100 bucks. I've paid 100 bucks for (apparently) jumping the turnstile. If I stop my daily quota of substances today, I could clear my loan in one year exactly. I could also die in that year from deprivation a la Winehouse, without the records and fame of course.
I've tried convincing friends to stay, keep talking, if only to get the noise out of my head and failed. Mr Pod puts sound in, he doesn't absorb the emanating static. So it's a weird key stuck between a diminished chord and G# in my head, and so irksome at times. I've been told to stop my obsessive humming at work more than twice. Maybe I hum wrong.
I've taken good care of my play list, the classics remain classics, newer perspectives and song-listening inclinations are carefully compiled in a separate folder. I am proud to say I have been faithful, and experimental at the same time. To Misters iPod and RayD Oh. Creates a lasting, mutually satisfying relationship. I now measure time in segments of crime shows. And I have learned that you know you're older when the nights seem longer than days.
Three years. The problem with anniversaries, passport expirations, and password changes is it forces you to consider time. Waves of new and past ghosts suddenly hound you and howl incessantly into the night. (Yes my ghosts are of the werewolf banshee types). The wails of were-bans.
And you never can seem to remember the loss, you only know the feeling.
Sure we know. The songs and obsessions tell you. And all the changes. The point is people don't really change. They just reveal the truth when they think no one is looking. Or reading. But we try. Someone who used to be afraid of the nightmares just sleeps with a night light. Or doesn't sleep at all.
And we all have a price to pay for giving up what is good for us.
Three years is a bitch.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
How to shoot somebody who outdrew you
This should be easy. they don't expect it. you're dead, remember?
(so they think. if they even waste a thought on you that is.)
it is easy. just rise from your grave now and then, as often as you please, and BOO. one of the perks of being dead is the possibility of resurrection. (into what reincarnation may not be your choice, though.) also, there's the element of surprise. aah, imagine the look on their faces.
it is easy. preferably use the same knife they used on you. it never loses its edge. only dulls their senses to apathy but what do you care about the effect?
easy peasy. prepare for a zombie fest, but refrain from outright murder of your darlings. after all, you need the perpetual rage to feed your starved soul.
talk about rage and revenge.
why you ask?
when you're shot dead, how can you love anymore? enough reason?
(apologies to Mr Cohen for 'wrongful' use of the phrase).
(so they think. if they even waste a thought on you that is.)
it is easy. just rise from your grave now and then, as often as you please, and BOO. one of the perks of being dead is the possibility of resurrection. (into what reincarnation may not be your choice, though.) also, there's the element of surprise. aah, imagine the look on their faces.
it is easy. preferably use the same knife they used on you. it never loses its edge. only dulls their senses to apathy but what do you care about the effect?
easy peasy. prepare for a zombie fest, but refrain from outright murder of your darlings. after all, you need the perpetual rage to feed your starved soul.
talk about rage and revenge.
why you ask?
when you're shot dead, how can you love anymore? enough reason?
(apologies to Mr Cohen for 'wrongful' use of the phrase).
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
About dreams
of the kind that happen when you are asleep...or think you are.
ever had one where your four year old self runs up to the mirror, sees a fat pig for a head and breaks it (the mirror I mean), but it (the big fat pig now) keeps reappearing in various shades of size, color, and expression, all accompanied with a BBCish crime series-Batman Begins at Inception to be Psycho kind of music?
All this in color, mind you. God forbid if the shards scratch your not-four year old 'sleeping' self...but then...
sigh... of course. Sleep is overrated.
ever had one where your four year old self runs up to the mirror, sees a fat pig for a head and breaks it (the mirror I mean), but it (the big fat pig now) keeps reappearing in various shades of size, color, and expression, all accompanied with a BBCish crime series-Batman Begins at Inception to be Psycho kind of music?
All this in color, mind you. God forbid if the shards scratch your not-four year old 'sleeping' self...but then...
sigh... of course. Sleep is overrated.
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