And so we give up on dreams—-and sometimes even on love—-just one trifling morsel at a time. We trade them away for security, so as to not appear the fool, to be accepted, to fit in. Love is not being accepted, nor is life about fitting in—no, it’s being drenched in petrel and then set afire.
As far as anyone knows, we are only given this one life—and that’s what makes it precious—–we are all perishable—- one moment at a time—- Keep this in mind, as I implore you to ignite your dreams and to set a hopeless love ablaze. Do this before it’s to late, do this before they suffocate beneath civil manners and polite obligations. Make no mistake, nothing is forever. There is no one here to protect us, but maybe the threadbare scraps of secondhand truths. I pray for faith,—-such a sublime oxymoron.
Oh my god, where does hope go, inspiration withers with age and now we find ourselves, no longer so very brave.
My soul has grown to frayed and warn to carry me comfortably—-pieces of me seep from its cracked walls and leak onto the floor, I’d need a soul-horn to squeeze back into that old life—time moves us on—. With corpses come flowers, freshly cut and ready to die—. For some, love becomes only a word, four letters, uttered with the sincerity of a grocery clerks “have a nice day”. What a trite and meaningless salutation, What’s my other option?—Have a bad day? In-spite of my failing words and their treacherous rabbit holes, I do still love you—I have no other option====
I think the two of us should take the day off, walk around in faded wrinkled pajamas, sitting face to face, two miss matched coffee cups, all sheepish grins and tousled bed-heads, two unclaimed valentines, no return addresses, awkwardly belonging to one another, hearts locked on spin cycle, outcasts in a world consumed by trends and fads, our kind of love never pales or goes out of style, sitting beside one another watching the sky snow, taking it all in–holding hands in silence, best friends communicating with drowsy morning eyes-
We’ll watch “Harold and Maude” and dig Cat Stevens, we can bake hot gooey brownies and wiggle our toes as we wash-em down with ice cold milk, and then take a vanilla scented bubble bath—candles flicker, bubbles burst—-we’re the lucky ones—–knowing that nothing, or no one, can take these moments from us—all else is broken glass, flashing in the sun, glimmering and shattered, inconsequential-
My music and spoken work projects are available at cdbaby.com, Artist Victor Uriz My novel and book of prose are available at amazon.com, Author Victor Uriz
What’s success—What is a life well spent? When does a dream become so laden by time that it’s easier to set it aside, to just quietly lay it down, to allow it to cease to exist—-to concede that it’s no longer a part of who you are. Is this how we begin to lose our way, to forget who we are—or worse yet, give up on what we were meant to be—
I mostly remember her smile, her laugh, the way she walked next to me, excitedly talking as we made our way across the best part of the morning, moving together, stride for stride, word for word—-heart to heart—-afire with life, fueled by the strongest drug of all—that unexplainable euphoric feeling that comes with knowing you are understood. Love is an elixir that combines understanding with compassion—where there is dharma, there is no separateness.
At night, we’d lay in our bed talking, staring up into the darkness, and when it got real late and the room was totally cloaked in blackness, it was here—yes, here is where the magic would take hold. We weren’t speaking to one another, but instead, we were entering each others thoughts, inhabiting one another’s souls, sharing ideas and feeling telepathically, in a silent confessional—-the conversations were strung together more by the purity of emotion than the imperfection of words. Just like a tightly written poem or a an austere prayer, the words cracked open, and from their insides oozed our soul goo. I know this must sound funny, because it is strange—but oh so beautiful and rare—-all things of beauty are fragile and temporary—but we didn’t know this at the time, so we carried on until another jealous sun rose.
I’ve forgotten the words to that old song we use to sing—I’d find myself half humming and half singing it in a crippled attempt to get through to its end, or maybe it was in the hopes that I might resurrect something left behind within its faded melody—I’ve done my best to stay true to its tune , but the words have grown faint.
I’d call, but numbers change, email accounts close—-but mostly, I keep at a safe distance, because some memories are like impressionistic paintings—-where you can see what you choose, while overlooking all the tiny flaws and betrayed truths.
Sometimes I force myself to meditate on such things, and I will my thoughts out into a porous sky, focusing all my energy into a small shiny ball. If ever you awake in the middle of a dark night and feel a power moving through your veins, crawling under your skin, breathing on your neck, don’t open your eyes—-don’t speak, don’t even move—-just be still, and in that moment feel yourself open up—
a crazed woman cut my heart out of my chest, she then carelessly disassembled it and put it back together all wrong, it was slippery with blood and hard to handle, so she shoved it back inside me where the organ for caring and giving a shit use to be…..these days I compulsively check my pulse in search of a rhythm, but all I feel is an occasional spastic fluttering within my chest, like a bird beating its wings against hurricane winds—and when it gets dark, it stops all together—
come close and put your ear against my chest—-now be still and listen as I tell you how it is for me, at night those blues come stalking me, they peer through my blinds like some nefarious wide-eyed peeping Tom, leaving foggy predatory breath on the window pane——–the bleakness of it all tramples across the nothingness of another specter ridden midnight—I can feel my heart go still, like an unworn love left hanging in someones dusty closet, an addiction traded against a corrupted souls collateral, broken people warehoused like damaged goods, young kids with no fire in their eyes, an old guy going in circles on the metro for an as-semblance of company, the scent of morning rain on dirty pavement, damp leaves smoldering in the drizzle, the stench of alley piss—time is blurring by like a whirl-wind whooshing past my car window on a Sunday drive to nowhere in-particular—-once again I’m tired of me and how I get things all twisted up, I’m left staring into the futility of a gray weather beaten morning, realizing I’m no longer running from something, nor running to something—-I’m slowly being crushed under the ache that comes with knowing that there’s got to be something better than this—-someplace—–somewhere—-cause this life is way to long to be miserable and far to short to be boring—it’s time I set that lil caged bird free—
say something, I’m giving up on you—-
there’s too much pain in the world to believe I’m immune to it, or can hide from it—–or selfishly fear that I’m the only one being consumed by it—that would be a righteous sadness, the kind of sadness that beckons the lugubrious to replay a heartbreak love-song over and over again. Real sadness has no soundtrack, no words, no explanation—-it’s like tree sap that mysteriously shows up on your hands and can’t be washed off—-
people always ask me the same question “Was that story you told true or made-up?” To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure anymore. Most of the stuff I once thought was true, ends up being a lie or an illusion, and what I thought was fiction (made-up) is just an alternative version of truth or reality that I’ve failed to grasp. I’ve come to believe that what’s true, and what’s made up, is a predilection reserved for the teller of tales.
but I do know this, one day that little bird trapped inside my chest will be set free—-
It’s mid October and I’ve missed that brief one or two-day period when the Aspen leaves are at the brink of losing their last flash of Autumn’s dying beauty—-even death has its display of pastel-ed glory, and then the wind sweeps all vanity away. I am left with only stark branches like the bones of summer to carry me through the skeleton of another season passed. At my feet the fallen leaves stir as I make my annual hike around Spooner lake. This is the month of quiet contemplation and a time to face ones marauding ghosts that emerge from the shadows and are carried on falls chilly winds—-
Every season seems to have its emotional and psychological landscape. I find myself missing spring in autumn and the freshness of winter in the heat of summer, I’m a discontented soul, always wanting what’s just out of my reach. Here, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, each of the four seasons have dominion over their portion of the calendar. The seeds have been planted and the harvest is in, the metaphor of reaping what we sow is played out—–the nonbelievers burn off their barren fields. A big orange moon reigns in the sky reminding me that the masks of Halloween will soon be donned. I think of all my old friends and how time has changed our appearance, yet I know that their souls are the deep well from which I draw my sustenance. A good song will always be a good song and the steps of a shared dance will never grow old, nor be forgotten.
I keep my hands warm, carrying them deep in my pockets. I’m not sure where I am on this leaf strewn path, I’ve always been more lost then found. A map and compass possess no value when my destination is between each footstep. A low lying fog fingers its way through the tall pines, the branches sway and I listen to their whispering voices. I think of my family and friends and mumble a prayer for the goodness of all. A chicory squirrel stares at me and then giggles as he scurries across my trail—-he knows God’s plan better than I.
I take a seat on a log and plug my earphones into my iPod. J. D. Souther comes on singing, “Silver Blue”. The melody is a perfect sound track to this mystical vista of lake, aspens, pines and fog—what a sublime speck in time.
In all the chaos and madness of life, it can feel at times that people and events have no rhyme or reason, but in retrospect (when looking back after the fact) things come into focus and have a purpose and a reason for happening, maybe that’s faith—believing that the future will workout the way it is intended and that the things in the past have occurred for a greater purpose—-this is how I remember my Mom looking at life. She always saw the positive in all things, even when things were not going as planned—-
I pull a smashed sandwich from my backpack and have a bite. I take a sip of peach tea and have a laugh at myself—
Tomorrow I’ll head south to Hope Valley and wander through those stands of Aspens—-all things change at their own pace.
“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” Albert Camus
Wanted—A buddy/pal/partner—or a BFFN (best friend for now)
I don’t care about your political views, religious beliefs, tax bracket, sexual orientation, profession, race, gender, visual appearance (picture not required) physical condition (disabilities are a plus) IQ, marital status, your merits or accomplishments, educational background, your favorite sports, interests or nationality——
ONE STRICT REQUIREMENT:YOU MUST BE OLD, VERY OLD, IN-FACT—–THE OLDER THE BETTER!
The following traits, suggestions and activities are not mandatory, but preferred:
You must not be computer, iPad or smart phone savvy. Preferably, modern technology leaves you hankering back to the good ole days when shaking hands, looking someone in the eye and sharing time and thoughts were a valued pastime (prior to the advent of multitasking and trying to do a bunch of meaningless bullshit at once). Please do not confuse emailing, Facebook postings, texting and voice mailing with the art of communication. Yes, it’s an art, not an exercise in technical maneuvering. Communication requires a commitment of time, patience and compassion—-as does companionship.
I don’t want to have sex with you. At this stage of the game I don’t even like looking at my own naked body in the mirror. I don’t mind hugs or holding hands regardless of your gender–tenderness is good.
I am attracted to anarchist, recluses, eccentric’s and those possessing a sense of rugged individualism—-in other words, I prefer those who are off the social grid e.g. “I wouldn’t belong to a club that would have me as a member” Will Rodgers.
If you express your political and spiritual beliefs by displaying them on bumper-stickers, please do not apply. If you believe the world is flat and that global warming is a farce, you need not apply (I will not suffer a fool).
I don’t care if you are vegan or prefer a super-sized McDonald’s meal, but—being a fan of ice cream and all things sweet is a huge plus.
Must enjoy taking slow inconsequential walks while idly commenting about the weather and other such insignificant topics. After all these years, watching the seasons change is still a divine experience worth observing and discussing.
Must possess a silly, ridiculous and absurd sense of humor. This includes busting out in spontaneous giggles (best reserved for solemn occasions such as funerals, medical waiting rooms and fine dinning venues). Immaturity, lack of social etiquette and refusing to act age appropriate is a total bonus—-at this stage of the game, who gives a rats ass what anyone else might think of you. Must possess the capacity to laugh at oneself and be comfortable in your own wrinkled, saggy, age spotted skin.
Must not be afraid of silence. Especially while watching children play or when enjoying a sunrise or sunset.
Preferably you enjoy petting cats, dogs or any other animal that understands unconditional love—-oh yeah, this may include feeding birds.
Wearing clothing that is colorful, out of style and mismatched is much approved and appreciated. This includes, wild hats, large print moo moo’s, suspenders, onesie’s, bow-ties, snuggies, overalls, fancy shaw’s, jumpsuits, afghans, scarfs, sequins, cat-eye glasses, squealing hearing aids and all things comfortable, expressive and fun.
Music, music and more music. Turn off the depressing 24 hr news and all the crap that passes for entertainment on the TV. Shut out all the clutter and noise that fills this manic modern world. There is nothing better than spinning an old vinyl record from back in the day. Better yet, breakout the piano and the tambourine and start singing and dancing your ass off. It’s great exercise and nourishes one’s soul.
After a long walk a group nap is always an enjoyable activity of choice—BYOB—Bring your own blanket.
Feel the sun on your face, walk in the rain, catch a snowflake on your tongue. No matter the season, there are always new and interesting things to do. Life is never boring, there are only boring people.
Aging requires that we all become more Zen like. God has a funny way of teaching us these simple lessons. The key tenet of Buddha’s teachings is this “Attachment leads to suffering”. Aging demands that we let go of everything——when you get old, you need less and less material crap. A game of dominos with a friend or a Sunday drive to visit family is more treasured than winning the lottery.
No need for fancy cars, boats or planes (can’t operate them anymore and there is no place you really need to go) no reason to own a big house (to much to keep up and no one to share it with) no storage sheds, garages or spare bedrooms full of possessions (just a bunch of crap to dust and worry about losing) no job title or profession (don’t have that to hang your identify on now (it’s just you hiding beneath wrinkled skin and brittle bones) no more vanity (can’t make it on outward appearance, fashion or putting on airs, its all about letting that little inward light shine) no need for pridefulness (age will humble your ass, and force you to realize that you were never as important, smart or pretty as you once thought you were).
You no longer have anything to win or lose, nothing to conceal, to protect, to defend, to covet, to prove, to own, to desire, to lust after, to judge or hate, to atone for, to forgive, to worship, or to define————– and in this state of mind you will discover an all-consuming peace.
You will learn to accept and enjoy living in the present moment. This is mainly due to the fact that your long term and short-term memory is shot to hell—-your entire past is a blank slate. The future is at best tenuous, you’re surprised and pleased to have woken up this morning to find yourself currently alive and still breathing—your future is a mirage. All you have is this precious fleeting moment.
Companionship is based on how you are being treated—right now. You have no grudges, no obligations or biases; in fact, you have no memory of the faces and names of past friends and lovers. Every one you meet, even old friends, once again become new friends. If someone is being kind to you, then you will respond with kindness or visa versa. And, at some point you won’t even remember your own name, or your own face in mirror. Finally, with no motives, hidden agendas or selfish intentions, you are now free to love yourself and all others unconditionally.
If this request for friendship connects with you, I would love the opportunity to make your acquaintance. I can be found most afternoons sitting on a bench at Kiva Beach. I’ll be the guy wearing plaid shorts, stripe shirt, a white bucket hat (Gilligan style) with black socks and brown sandals—-
I can often be heard whistling a little tune that goes like this——
“Row, row, row your boat—Gently down the stream—Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—–Life is but a dream”. Ain’t that the truth.
Sometimes being alive is good enough. Breathing, walking, thinking, feeling—–waking to color, to sound, an awareness that I’m unexplainably here, a pulse circulating blood, air filling these lungs—-one more glorious morning—-(I mumble to myself) “how accommodating—-another day tailored to fit”—–I know such a statement must sound arrogant and self centered, but I take this life very personally. Maybe that’s being a success, just knowing that out of thin air we all walk this earth. This thing called gravity stubbornly holding all this shit together, only God could think up something so unimaginable as this. Gravity—like the grace of God holding us together. Planets circling suns, a black-hole in the center of our Milky Way Galaxy swallowing entire solar-systems whole, in one bite—– and then they too, are once again gone, into thin air—-hurled beyond this limited version of time and space—-everything spinning, tumbling, upside-down and caterwauling into eternity—-I feel your smile, and for that moment we’re eternal, twin evanescent souls dipped in heavens ebony well.
Come with me down to that old cemetery where on September nights we use to walk your dog, as this was the closest thing we had to a park beneath those tired Denver skies. After all, cemeteries are nothing more than parks for the un-living being re-remembered—no street lamps burning here, just the spine of the Milky Way bending over us. I’d watch your dog as he stared intensely into the blackness. I swear that he could see them frolicking and dancing about—free from the gravity of these earthly woes. The neighborhood is windy and dark—-the tree limbs moan and creek—- a damp fog crawls its way across the pointlessness of this American suburb—- there must be a God, cause even the stanchest atheist needs something to fill this landscape of loneliness. The bland rows of stucco track homes suck the life out of everyone and everything. There is no staving off Autumn now, even the hell-hounds in the distance howl in defiance of September’s grievous demands. The moon tags along, watching over my shoulder, reminding me that he too is a child of gravity.
I wish I were back home in California where the sound of waves pounding against the rocky Pacific coastline would put my jangly nerves at ease.
Life is a living thing that moves through us, from us and back into us, it’s everywhere yet inappreciable—-imperceptible. Hold on to it with all your might as it will roll over you, past you—– and then leave you in the park with the rest of the un-living, dancing to a choir whose voices only they can hear. No drug or drink can compare to being awake and walking out into the thin air. It is sustained by wonder, blind-faith and the gravity of grace. Everything collapses and then folds in on itself, where it leads from here, no-one knows for sure. So for now, we’re supposed to grow old.
One last time let’s hold hands and walk together under those big ole cemetery tress. We’ll kick a path through the dead dry leaves as the branches maliciously sway against the change of seasons.
Craziness, madness the big crack up is a disease of bad thinking. My latest drinking escapade has left me with two options in regards to what it says about me and the rest of the world as a whole. Either I drink too much or the rest of the world is too sober. I wish it were the latter, but at night when there are no distractions and I am stuck with only myself to consort with, it’s then that the line of insomnia creeps ever closer towards lunacy. In the shadows of a 3:00 am quarter moon, there is no backtracking, no sidestepping, no skipping through the spotlight of truth. At this hour, when the music stops and there is no chair to be found, I find that there is no place to go but inward. The voices in my head mock my foolishness, they scoff at my big plans, calling them nothing more than pipe-dreams, they let the air escape from my inflated thoughts of becoming a better person. To have flaws is to be human, to be flawed is to be broken. Isn’t it strange—-that the things you think may save you, may very well kill you, and those things that you think will kill you, may very well save you. I appreciate the words written by Bukowski, “Find what you love and let it kill you.” I’d rather die of fatigue chasing my loves, than blindly sleepwalk into oblivion.
My heart flexes with a contraction and then spasms outward like the legs of a startled bullfrog. Am I having a heart attack, is this how a massive aneurysm feels as it bursts within my chest? My body is suddenly glazed over in a cold sweat. My mood flips from a sullen depression where nothing seems to matter, to an all-encompassing sense of dire anxiety and a fear of losing my foot hold on the slippery rocks of consciousness. God please absolve me of all my sins, save me, don’t take me now, not here, not all alone in these loveless sweat soaked bed sheets. Where does that piteous sun go when I need it most?
Sometimes I just get plain sick and tired of everybody and everything; myself included. I swear—-nothing is ever good enough for anyone anyways, especially for someone with such a ruptured sense of wellbeing as me. I’m forever over-thinking things, over-feeling things and over-analyzing everything. People say, think like a buddhist and live in the present moment, but that’s so fucking clichéd and trite. I can’t keep pinching myself saying, “Now is now—-Now is now”. I need my past as an anchor to prevent me from being set adrift and left at the mercy of the currents. And, I need the future as my lighthouse to guide me through the fog keeping me clear of the treacherous rocks. I pop in and out of the present moment as it suits me. I prefer to fondle that illusive “now” in-between my daydreams and fantasies. Occasionally I catch a fleeting glimpses of that camouflaged illusion ironically known as reality. I prefer to say, “What is, is.” That way I can choose to surrender to it, or to do battle with it. “What is, is”, can be expressed as a statement or a question. The seeds of wisdom or madness always germinate within a question.
I’m better off alone. That way I don’t piss people off, or more honestly, they don’t piss me off. How is it, that everyone is so fucking calm, boring and self-assured. They plod along through life as if they’re going to live forever, as if the planet isn’t dying due to their own personal selfish excesses and abuses. They idly stare at the T.V. news as if they’re somehow exempt from all the calamity and misfortune that descends upon “those other poor souls”.
Life is not tidy, clean or simple—-it’s a madhouse, an asylum filled with desperate people running around seeking some form of refuge. Refuge means different things to different people. It might be a religious creed, a bottle of whiskey, a cause to defend, a love to possess, a dream to fulfill, a profit to be made——these concessions make up the tiny pieces of hope and faith strewn behind us, a trail of stale breadcrumbs to guide us back home. Beware of those thieving black-crows of time—as they steal away our paths, leaving each of us standing alone in the wilderness asking “What is—is???”
Tonight I’m drinking with Fitzgerald, Bukowski and Kerouac, those fuckers sure could spin a tale and drink like a school of drowning fish. I invited Hemingway to drop by, but he was busy playing nursemaid to a typewriter and polishing his guns. It’s just as well he couldn’t make it, as guns and alcohol make dangerous bedfellows. Although, spilling ink can be equally as painful as spilling blood.
These fellas had so many foibles and bad habits that it would be hypocritical for them to say a bad word about anybody else, that’s why I hangout with them, cause they don’t come at me sideways with their God-speak, patriotic-mumbo jumbo or self-righteous, sanctimonious finger wagging. The whole lot of them are serial liars and dexterous sinners. Ya see, writers don’t really lie, they just kind of bend the truth a bit—-and as for being sinners, a life without sin possesses no sustaining storyline. If ya don’t believe me, just ask God about his favorite protagonist—the devil. We all need our devils and our Gods to test our balance as we wobble across life’s tightrope. One misstep and you could end up in jail, or worse yet, a Mormon or a new-age vegan.
In the corner of the dark dank bar Waits meanders about the piano keys playing a melancholy jazz riff on an old battered upright piano. His whisker stubbled face is silhouetted in a smokey blue light, the derby on his head cocked forward and a cigarette dangles from his perturbing lips. A cat named Bird stares blankly into space as he lifts a shiny alto to his mouth. His improvisations are a soured marriage between black blues and leftover notes that fumble their way into dissonance—more or less a drunken lullaby. Vincent sits at a table near the musicians. He makes his childlike sketches and occasionally looks up at the band to lend them his ear (so to speak). The duo plays forlorn melodies that we slowly get sauced to, as we indulge our miseries, such is the sad yet beautiful futility of recounting a long-lost love-affair or friendships now withered and gone by the wayside. Most love affairs are doomed from the get-go, but friendships are all we really have to sustain us, someone to catch us should we fall. I miss my friends.
I only see my old pals now at weddings or funerals. I once unsuccessfully attempted to organize a Mens Retreat. I called a few of the old gang and emailed a couple of others. Most of them never got back to me and those that did offered up some slipshod excuses about how they were predisposed. They awkwardly mumbled on about work responsibilities, family responsibilities, money responsibilities and other middle-age obligations. This may sound crazy, but I miss my once young irresponsible friends—what they lacked in maturity they more than made up for in temerity.
To much time alone can cause a man to substitute regret for nostalgia. What is, “is”—- what ain’t—- “ain’t”—-and what never-was— “ain’t never gonna be”. Everybody changes, some for the better, others for the worse. Shockingly, some of my old buddies have even thrown their lot in with the right-wing conservatives—-go figure? I do my best to remember the good-times—And I’m fortunate to have absorbed so many fond memories.
I’m reminded of one of my old favorite tunes by Simon and Garfunkel, “Bookends”.
Time it was and what a time it was it was,
A time of innocence a time of confidences.
Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you
Unexpectedly, Twain, Steinbeck, Armstrong and Columbus drop by. They’re all excited about heading out west to explore some uncharted territories. They claim to have some rough draft maps and charts they got from a couple of fellas named Lewis and Clark. They came by to ask if we might like to throw in with them. We all looked at one another with that singular writers eye. Most stories don’t come to you, on the contrary, you have to seek them out. Ah yes, only through adventure do we discover new worlds and in the process come to better know what we’re made of. The decision is unanimous, we’ll all head out west come first dawn.
To often adventure is perceived as a young man’s game. But I say, attitude will always trump age. Adventure demands an odd mixture of risk, courage, stamina and as some might see it—-a shit load of irresponsibility. George Mallory expressed it so concisely when asked, “Why climb Everest?” George responded, “Because it’s there.” Now isn’t that a Goddamn foolish and irresponsible reason for doing anything—-”Because it’s there?” But as for me, those three words sparkle with a stark and eloquent truth, to evolve and grow the heart must be pierced with a curiosity to see what’s over that next horizon.
What I love about adventurers, artists and writers is how they peer at the world through the eyes of a child. They never seem to lose that youthful sense of wonder and imagination. They may come off as brash, irresponsible and even a bit mad, but perhaps that’s why they aren’t afraid to perform without a net—–. So Adios mi amigos, I’m off to see what lies out west. Hey, why don’t you saddle up and come on along as well.
This piece is dedicated to my life long brothers—Steve, Django, Mike, Chris, Pat, Danny and Norm.
A good friend of mine recently went to prison. I hate to say it, but this news came as no huge surprise. You see, he had always lived his life behind one wall or another—–a wall of alcohol and drugs (until he got help and quit) a wall of pretension and success (until he lost his business and money) a wall of arrogance and deceit (until his fraud was exposed) a wall of emotional insulation (until he was filleted and spiritually gutted). In jail there are no walls between you and yourself, the only walls there are the ones keeping the rest of the world out. The prisoner and his keeper are forced to coexist—-hope—like pardons, float just out of reach.
Sometimes when I consider this life, I see each of its participants living out their existence where “they need to be”—-please don’t misinterpret this as meaning “where they may want themselves to be”. Perhaps its arrogant of me to say such a thing, who am I to know what another may or may not want or need? I am arrogant. Arrogance comes with the territory of being a writer. A writer is the last unwitting peddler of authenticity for all crumbling cultures. To be a good writer, you need to have something to offer, something new and interesting to say, a revelation to shine a light upon. As for me and my writings, I intend to confound the smart asses, frustrate the conventionalist and piss off the righteous. Cause, if I mix the colors just right, I might create a picture that becomes a window for another to peer through. I always wonder the same thing about others, “Tell me what you see—what you feel?”
I loved a girl once. And maybe she loved me back, these things are illusive and subjective—or more than likely, I’m just plain hard to love. Love melts in your mouth not your hands, and it’s very difficult to see whats going on inside another’s mouth, let alone within their heart. M&Ms lie, they all look different, but they all taste the same. She took me to her home, a place where she kept her clothes, slept, stocked her cupboards and fridge, where she dreamt her dreams, hid her tears, bathed, put on her make up and stored her smiles. I tried once to live with her, but my stuff cluttered up her neat organizational scheme of things. I left before the walls she was constructing became to high for me to scale.
There’s a place in the High Sierra’s known as Desolation Wilderness, what a mystic and daunting land. A place of stark granite walls, gnarled pines and hidden alpine lakes, a place where one can either lose themselves or become re-aquatinted with what was meant to be. It is here that I sort out my devils from my angels and decide who is the lion and whom is the lion tamer. The lion cage is where I go to discover what comprises the alchemy of my soul. And I will tell you this, it takes a lot of courage to put my head inside that lions mouth.
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