A Manifestation of Stomping-Ground Syndrome #2

It's perverse the way I look at you sometimes.
The devil, the angel, both mixed and intertwined
When I look into your island of eyes.
I am purged.
Dress me down beyond your plays
On fair innocence fortunate wrath
To spare the child-like soul still left in me.
Well, we were won. Guarded by a tree
Beneath the naked, wounded sun.
In my twists and turns of a heart and a mind,
Somewhere in the valves that are exempt from time
I carry forth the driven love
With every drive of life and blood;
How all your presence there defines my every thought
Of what it means to find a home.
The devil-driven angel in you sheds a tear
For the beauty not imposed by any distance
We may tear between us.
Burned inside a gilded cage, left unwanted
By the most,
A vagrant heart like yours, so full of life,
Can spare no disregard.

Sired From The Latest Night In A Long Time

I drove late tonight on the midnight streets of this sad, sad world. Then the world got a little smaller, and my view began to change, and my world became the little one in front of me in the form of my hometown, my place of most-sadness, most-nothingness, and so on and so forth. I lose myself on a street corner, I find myself in old notes in a box in my closet. I lose and find myself much, and I have been lost, but here now I found myself again. This is me. Not away. Unbridled, insufferable, incorrigible, indestructible, in that somber state that sovereigned my sufferings for so many years. It's fine, really it is. I am at best in this state. I think it is the wearing down of my body from the automatonic natures, beating it back to my dismissal if ever I should please it to. Now I am purified. In this boggy, saturated atmosphere that it is outside I feel pure as a mountain-fed spring flowing from those mountains in my heart and out through my fingers as they do so with their ripples in these instances.

Perhaps the me that finds itself before these words seems odd. Perhaps the me would say how I don't care if you may think I am odd. It is not my place to be putting myself in your minds in such an awkward way. I like that I am alone in these measurements of myself. But lonliness is a cold friend to beseige me on this day and leave me meddling in my own silly tidings, almost always amounting to nothing but distractions and contradictions, so much like the human struggle, struggling to fight its way out of that imprisonment the world puts on it, just to be close to what it knows is best for it, some peace of mind.

I am not an intimate man. I find myself, even to my surprise at times, to be locked away from the world for one reason or another having to do with trust and compassion for the expression not contrived, but real. The problem I must continually face is that there are some around me that ought not bear such a tedious burden just to be close to me like I know I would have them be if I weren't always in my way. So whats a growing lad to do to alleviate these pressing gestures of ill-spirited salubriousness? Forego the boughs and give way to the currents I suppose, letting it ride itself out until the damage can be assessed until my mind feels apt to reconstruct the damages of my heart in the form of humanistic alms.

Everywhere the poor soul suffers for freeing from the mind that always needs some sort of explanation for the beauties and terrifying movements of this life. However so much worthier it would be to be that man, born sometime in the early nineteenth century, and who lived to see, or almost see the twentieth come about. The change, the constant, pulsing, manipulative changes the world has endured since the beginnings of those days are some of the most tumultuous, wonderful, terrifying, blessing and unforgiving changes in the history of history itself. But history dilutes our focus of the core energies of what is right. Everywhere in history there seems to be admired all these old men who conquered one thing or another, who shed blood in the name of god or country or freedom or exploration. What atrocities find themselves fueled for ages to come when our chief role models of the ages are war wagers and criminals and murderers and thieves. This, of course, is the point at which you may sever my argument with simple rhetoric, siting the specifics of importance that these "great men" and their actions have accomplished for the worlds own furthering benefit. Save your breath; I do not care what you have to offer me. Form your own thoughts about something. Unoriginality is a treacherous quality to encompass.

So, even though I have digressed a thousand times in as many lines with this entry, I will further fire at you my abstract nonsense, since that is what I naturally am, abstract and odd. Its not for me to say whether or not its right or needs to make any sense. You'll take what you want, learn what you want, and hate what you want from these words I have written for your viewing pleasure.

-C

Dude, High School.

Yesterday was an all around strange one. I started doing legitimate work for the pops and Hometown Siding Co. Inc. Let me tell you now, I'm still trying to calm myself down from the excitement. Then, later that evening was a little shindig that a good friend of mine and I like to call "Old School Party." It pretty much consisted of cheap beer, good friends, and the reenactment of our high school days. It was not long after beginning our descendance into reminiscent times that we quickly realized how not cool being in high school was for us in the ways of entertainment and drinking. None the less, we got a few Keystone Lights in our system and the ball began to roll. A little ping-pong, a little trampouline, and a little music from days of old to bring it right back where it started from. In other words, I got no sleep and had to wake up early for work the next day, drive all the way to Pittsburg to measure windows, and settle my brain the in the stupor and daze that it was the entire day. I was luckier than some, whose misfortunes included driving an hour home only to turn around and drive two and a half back up north to work in strange places for the weekend. My hats off to you, fair lady. Well, I finished off the day with a little racketball. I really felt like sleeping, but Uncle T. talked me into some vigorous running around in a tiny white box where blue and green rubber balls fly at your face, (and you balls, for that matter) while you go running after it in the hopes of stiking it with a silly paddle like object with holes through it. Good times. The final score was T:3 C:2. Next time, mon frerer. Now I am just doing as you see before you. No big plans this evening, except a little R&R. My feet are blistered all to hell, and I'm tired. Uh oh, now I'm starting to piss and moan, so I guess its adios for now, my good people.

-C

A Little Scoot, Not Alot of Boogie

Alas my friends, another fabulous rendition in the life and times of living in Joplin motherfuckin' Missouri.

Lets see, the day started off early; oh say, 12:30 or so, (pm, folks.) I aroused from my long and lustrious slumber to no milk in the fridge and cold coffee. From there I sort of lazed around the house until company was due and I was forced to shower. It's just something about living at home, and in your hometown, that causes one to become the biggest lazy ass to ever walk the planet.

The day pressed on, and I met a couple friends for coffee in the evening hour. My boy Ray was sweet enough to lend me his Honda Metropolitan for the evening; a sweet little 49cc scooter that is both casual and sexy. So I scooted around town for a bit until I decided I had nowhere to go. I called Uncle T. and to Buffalo Wild Wings we went. What a hoot that was. High school reunion falvored beer with a side of idiot nuts. I know that wasn't very funny. I try and try, but I never seem to make you silly people laugh. Any suggestions? Didn't think so. You all seem to be the strong, silent types. Just my luck. Seriously, I love you.

Anyways, tomorrow is much more promising. After running around the four state area with the old man for awhile on business affairs I'll do a little golfing and then a little drinking with some of the finest people Joplin has to offer. High school, old school party. Cheap beer, cheap entertainment, rich laughter. I'm not drinking fucking Keystone Light though; did I ever? Nope. I always had my good buddy Jack by my side, and if he couldn't make it, is was Mr. Rum or Mr. Seagrams. Fine fellows they are.

Well, I'm boring and saturated, so I'll stop this silly banter for the eve. Toodles, you silly motherfuckers you.

-C

A Week Already Is A Week Too Long

Unlike my good buddy Uncle T. who arrived last afternoon, I have been here for oh, say, give or take 8 days. My, oh my, what a glorious 8 days. I remember on the drive home, when I eventually resigned myself to thinking about Joplin as a certain reality that was about to dawn on me, I remember only being happy about a couple things. Thing number one, cigarettes are cheeper. How ridiculous is that? Thing number two, rednecks. There is no better form of free and live entertainment than rednecks. Hell, if you really want to have a gas, just act like on of em' for a little bit in your favorite local run-down tramp-ridden bar. A complete hoot, (and I don't use that word very lightly.)

Well, I moved back into the folks house, so my morning, afternoon, and evening group counseling sessions have resumed with the satan and his respective parties. Really, in passing through the door, I realize its a fucking time machine. I go out, I'm 21, carefree, and a man. I go in, I'm 16, irresponsible, and worthless. Oh, come on, I am embellishing a bit, of course. I like to make you people laugh time and again,is that so wrong? Really its not that bad, but take my advice: DON'T EVER MOVE BACK HOME. Just visit.

Well, I really haven't seen too many friends since being here as of yet. I have spoken to a few, even jammed a bit with fellow musicians, but nothing really in the whole silly "catching-up" business. I don't think anyone really cares. It's not that people are jerks; my theory is that its this town. Since I've been here I have taken this non-chalant(sp?) atitude about everything. Plus, anymore when I drive around, all I ever see is new constructions, more shopping centers, more whining children and screaming parents and bad octagenarian drivers that piss me and everybody else off on the road. Mullets, michelob, and madness. Jesus Christ, am I becoming a bitter, cynical asshole? Probably.

Well there's always alcohol, I guess.

Come on, you know its true... It's so easy. Much cheaper than therapy. Sometimes more fun, too.

We'll see whats in store for today.

Stay classy, Joplin, Missouri,

Charlie

Insanity

I'm on the verge of it... I think. Please disregard the post before last; I just read it and it seems to be complete nonsense to me. I have keep myself busier while I'm down here or I will be full-blown insane.

end of transmission.

-C

Virtue In A Patch of Grass

Strange things can and do occur, from time to time when the change is right, or the mind of the individual. I walk to the pond, and on my way look down, for a fraction, just as anybody would. I saw a four leaf clover, so I picked it and went inside. Four-leaf clovers; a product of luck. Said to be lucky for the finder, to bring the finder luck in their life. I have found so many of these things. At one point I had a cd sleeve filled with eight or nine of them. I suppose I never really noticed whether or not they actually did bring me luck. I can tell you that every time I do find one, however, it has a sort of strange effect on me. You begin to think about life, but not necessarily in a conventional fashion. A window opens where you don't normally see windows, and through the filters of magic you see your life, thirsting for more of what is less. Magic, folks. Yes I know, I sound like some hippy zodiac sign obsessed feeler. Well, go fuck yourselves. That's your problem, I suppose. I guess its more compatible or accepted to replace the word magic with love then, eh? Love is just as absurd a concept, when you think about it objectively. Think about the world, before psychology, before popularized and organized science, hell, before language; where were we then? In the grander scheme of things words are inert. Communication is degraded by all these things. Feelings, instincts, intuition; these are still evident in daily life, but we never use them. When it comes down to it all I guess the question is, do you have faith? That is what fuels these concepts, almost solely. I don't mean just faith in, let's say, God, for instance. I mean, faith in the unknown. Here I am, defending the meaning of finding a four leaf clover, which by scientific assoctiation simply means a genetic mutation, but for the better, at least. It's a tricky subject, because believing tends to negate investigation and objectivity; rationalization and scientific method. How much less worthwhile would life be if you knew everything? More than once I have stated how I feel this blog writing business doesn't suit me. I spend more of my time with it defending myself then I do trying to get the point across. I have probably lost the entire point to this entry as well. I KNOW what I feel. I KNOW what I mean. In my sharing perhaps I seek those out that may identify with my perspecitve. This is not so, I am sure.

I surround myself with artists and musicians; the creators, big and small of the times, because I know that they know a little of what I speak of. They are not too far from the plane of thought for which I seed myself. Of course, it is always bits and pieces at best with them, they having just as lofty and personal agenda's as I in their dealings with the world. But the common man is only common because we call him so. There is too much labeling in the world these days. Too many easy outs for things that wouldn't be so hard in the first place if maybe people just had a little faith, a little instinct, a little gut reaction every once in awhile. Just look at history and those that have made the greatest of impacts in it. How much do you really know about them? A bunch of facts, but did you ever learn why they did the things they did, or what permitted their course(s) of action? Mathematics is a prime example. If we have learned anything of mathematics then we know how it is based on faith. Here is a selection from a mathematician and a scientist named Poincare:
"Mathematics isn't merely a question of applying rules, any more than science. It doesn't merely make the most combinations possible according to certain fixed laws. The combinations so obtained would be exceedingly numerous, useless, and cumbersome. The true work of the inventor consists in choosing among these combinations so as to elimintate the useless ones, or rather, to avoid the trouble of making them, and the rules that must guide the choice are extremely fine and delicate. It's almost impossible to state them precisely; they must be felt rather than formulated." What he is talking about is choosing facts. The more simple a fact, the more likely it is to return. If given an infinite amount of time in a laboratory, one might say, "look and notice well," but being that time is a factor, one must make a choice, and that choice is more than just scietifically backed, a product of faith. The faith to make a choice.

I have strayed a bit too far from what I was trying to say earlier, but if you have read this far you have to have some idea of what I'm talking about. I like deliberation; I like being questioned, and having discussion. There are quite a few of you whom I know read this that say nothing. Why do you read it, then? Is it to see if you will be the next subject matter for my material? It is possible, you know. I know who reads this. How about bringing something to the table? I feel that sooner than later I will stop this nonsense because anything I have wanted to gain from it has been left unsatisfied.

I hve no more time to waste on this fruitless endevour for this evening.

-C

Sipping On Truth Syrum Tonight...

I come to find faults; many, many faults in my existence.

Sure, who doesn't, now and again? But its me versus me and so its personal. It's late; I'm restless, lost and struggling for some sort of grasp on what it is I actually do, for the world or for myself. Hell, it was bound to happen sooner or later I suppose. I look at at my past and my future and the things I do; studying, questioning, wondering how it might shed light on why I can never really ascertain my own peace of mind.

Chapter One: BEING UNORIGINAL
It seems to me that as of late I have been thinking of my choices... regarding my future and other bits and pieces I suppose. I never do anything that is purely my idea. Take a look at where I began from high school. I graduated, (barely) and dismissed college immediately for the band, for music. Now, I know I wasn't at the time above thinking that it might not work out in the long run, and yet I had no other obligations, ideas, or even aspirations. Whats even funnier is that music wasn't even my greatest aspiration either. I knew it would be sad for my music to be absent, but I think I used it more for a crutch rather than a real live choice I should make, in my own confindence, of course. Now that dilemma has carried me all the way up until present. Now I am here, abandoning music for the first time in my life since its beginning with me, and simply to move right on to the next unoriginal scheme in my midst, working for my father. It's so simple, really. All I had to do was come home and I was in. No questions asked, no firey hoops to jump through; just a simple yes. I already know a bit about what it is he does, and so even less of a problem for me to entertain myself with. Ah, but you'll say, "what about why you're working for him..." and it will be to fund yet another unoriginal idea. Getting a motorcycle and heading to the desert on a whim is not something that stemmed from my brain, I'll have you know. I could never think of a reason why that idea would even occur to me, nor actually think it were possible to carry it out. Yet here I am, already have the permit in my pocket; checking on classes so I can learn how to ride a goddamn bike before I take this trip. I am forever following the beat of someone else's drum, and for me, being a drummer, that is irony at its best.

Chapter Two: DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT TWO-HUNDRED DOLLARS.
You get to thinking about what you're doing, and you get to thinking about what you're made of. A boy grows up, and goes through life until he gets to a point when he realizes the fish bowl in which he is living. The same scenery everyday. The same bottom and top and slanted sides to his small, crucial world. Suddenly this world becomes less and less crucial. If you were a fish and you were told you couldn't jump out of the water, wouldn't you still try it, to spite the tellers and see what else is going on? Of course you would. Well, I suppose if you were a fish you wouldn't even remember being told, since your memory is a few seconds long anyhow. Anyways... We get to that point, and see the triviality in which we surround ourselves, then we decide its time for a change. Many people go to college. Many people take a full time job, or get married, or have children, or join the army or the peace corps or something like that. Even as simple as moving away, and thats what I did. But like all first experiences I almost entirely missed the point. The point before I began was just to do it. Just to go out there and see, see what I'm made of, see what else there is to know. Well, I got up there and got busy quick, or at least that is how it seemed to me anyway. I met tons of people, saw new and different places, went through experience after experience, job after job, but it never really satisfied the craving. Six months in I KNOW I was bitching about the weather and how Missouri is so much better and how I wish I was home, blah, blah, blah, until my ears began to bleed from the constant bitching. Go figure. SO what is it I was suppose to learn? Independence from the world for myself.

Chapter Three: A LIAR STARTS IN A MIRROR
I have this thing about me. I try to make those around me be as comfortable with me as possible, pending certain circumstances, of course. So I will be remembered I guess, as someone who was a good fellow, a nice guy, a caring individual, and what have you. I know to a certain extent everyone does it, but I so much wonder what's behind this masqerade I have convinced myself I'm putting on? Now, this is not to say that everything I have with those around me is a farce, or that my actions and thoughts and feelings are untrue. After all, none of this is exactly new to dawn on me. What, like I had some big, almighty realization or something? I think not. I just think that whatever flaws I have been throwing out onto the fire I have first been throwing at myself, with much more dedication, (as would be the case) and it has taken steps found through peripheries into my life with those around me. I would like to take two people of the same calibur relating to me, one from the north and one from here, and have them see if I sound the same to them through their opinions of me in each others' eyes. Just for kicks.

Chapter Four: WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT ALL
Christ, I don't know. I can't run back north. If I did that it would be reversing my forward motion. I will have to do what I haven't always done in my life: follow through. So I suppose I will stay here, save money, and get that damned bike. Even if the trip may do me no good, I have to find out for sure. Plus I am a man of my word. If there is nothing else I have that I can say of myself, I can say that. After that, well dammit if I know. I will hope to find a solution in this process of shedding the skin of which I'm in at this time. I'm sure something will come up. I tell you what, I'll make sure you're all the first to know. All two or three of you, aside from the accidental visitors I get from time to time in far away lands.

Stay classy dear readers,
Charlie

Sam Cooke Say's It All...

"Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody..."

I realize its only Friday, but damned if it won't be just like this tomorrow. I'm just good and miserable. "Here it is another weekend, and I ain't got nobody, man if I was back home I'd be swingin two chicks on my arms." I have been here, what, five days? Yup. Nothing to do. I hang out with my parents, and don't tell me that isn't just a little depressing...

So the big dilemma really is my dissatisfaction with my surroundings, or perhaps my lack of wise time usage. Well, I am working just as much as I can, since my old man is my boss now, and when he says do something I do it. This week, so far, the only work I've had to do is on the pond in our yard. You can imagine my excitement. All the rest of the time I have been unpacking my stuff, which is infinitely less exciting than packing it up to be moved. There's something nice about seeing all that useless shit you own being condensed into uniform shapes of brown boxes sitting on the floor. Actually, all this moving has made me realize how much useless crap I own in the first place, and what NOT to take next time around.

So, lest to say, I am B O R E D. I am sitting here, Friday night, writing in my online blog, a thing generally used for the purpose of telling stories of experiences, not necessarily documenting the absence of experience. The only thing I can look forward to tonight: smoking cigarettes outside in the warm spring evening, talking to myself; trying to talk myself into sticking around, because if in only five days I feel this bored already I am weary of the next six to eight months. My foresight reads into it being some sort of self-inflicted prison sentence where after my eight months at Joplin Correctional Facility, in the work program, I come out with a few grand and a new motorcycle. I suppose it wouldn't be a bad prison time served if everybody came out that way.

Shit ya'll, I have nothing more, fucking help a fella out, would ya.

-C

Moments, Or Make of Me What You Will

Big empty rainless, stainless skies in my eyes. As I sit in the lonely room upstairs the thoughts multiply. So what is this resistance to the present that I seem to beget? Well, whatever it is or whatever it be, I'll be facing west or east or full or free.

I came late, and no one cared. They all just sat back, listened and stared. "Why are you here?" They would sit and say to me, and "why did you come back?" They just won't let me be...

*Just fucking around with things stuck inside my head, bear with me, folks.

When I got sick, and you gave me soup, I felt better, even though I hated soup and I gave it right back to you.

We drove to the hill that night, and sat and watched the whole damn world go by all slow and quiet, and you knew, and I knew, and nobody else knew, and that made us happy to know.

Then I took myself away and found a corner of space next to the oldest building in the town. I walked around in my brown jacket and thought about taking photographs of the towers and windows; the ones we always looked at, never knowing whats behind.

One night on a walk you called me and you told me you were moving to your new place, and I laughed because you were up so late packing your things in boxes while I felt the cool crisp autumn air on the back of my neck.

We drove down a back road behind your house. I told you to stop the car and it began to rain. I told you that nothing felt right anymore, that we were distant, even if you were right there next to me. I did not know you, I did not feel you like two people can and do when they've been achieving grace in the space between them. It rained, and you cried. I said it was over, then I said, "say something... anything." You said you respected my decision but you disagreed with me.

It was only six months in, but you thought I'd have known the whole damn town by then. So you took me to the overpass near your parents house, and we smiled comfortably as the cars went rushing by. It was warm and loud and we shook the bridge a little when we jumped, so we jumped a little more, until our feet hurt and we were tired.

I didn't see you for a while, so one night I called you on the phone and you said you were not sleepy. So I stopped by to watch a movie, thinking it would make you tired, but three quarters in I was passed out on your lap and you laughed at me because I was the one who always stays awake and you had to work so early the next day.

I called into work and I was a little scared. It was your birthday and you were no longer you. I stared into your face and wondered if you would come back. They were all worried and crying and thought it pitied you and tried to make you feel weak, but I knew that wasn't right, so I gave you shit and told you we should go golfing instead. The sun was hot and we both played terribly, but you felt better and more normal and I tried not to say anything unless you said it first. I'm sorry it happened and I'm sorry you felt bad but I'm glad you're better now. I wouldn't be the same at all if I lost you.

It was the coldest night in the strangest city. We were running back to the car four blocks away in the top of the parking lot after the show. Our native company was complaining more than we were, it was so funny. We kept stopping to find a warm spot, and the bums even looked at us like we were crazy. I had to be crazy to be in the little jacket on such a goddamned cold night.

New Years Eve and we were happy and alive. It was cold, but we felt so good. It was the late show and nobody knew us. So we played and the people began to move ahead to get closer. The look of confusion was worth more than a thousand thankyous. I shook hands and bought drinks and hustled the lookers for some merchandise for us and them next to us. And that God Damned Doo Wop Band...

It was raining like a sonofabitch outside, but we didn't care. It flooded in front of the drive and we all felt like canouing, so we dragged it to the edge and grabbed the paddles. The water moved so fast, our neighbors must have thought they were drugged. Three boys floating down their street in a canou at eleven o'clock at night and we knocked over the mailbox.

I was really no one and I knew a few who were standing around outside the unknown and very small, but loud skate park. You came up to me and said my name, then asked for a cigarette, then asked me to play. You were always asking for my goddamned cigarettes.

*I didn't go crazy just now, these little excerpts are moments from my life, with different people at different times, in no particular order, or arrangement, brought upon purely by recollection. Take of it what you will, I almost never provide you with sufficient information anyways, regarding anything, because I am a useless, tobacco loving, alcoholic drummer without a band and in poor shape, who will soon be forced to jog, thought I'd rather play golf, since I think I fixed my slice just two weeks ago. Yikes, that was a long sentence. By the way, if I don't know you formally, and you've stopped by and are stopping by again, please feel free to let me know via comment, it would just be the cats meow.

-C

Through The Heart And Burned Away By Roads And Gasoline

Apparently my audience of one has demanded I give an update on the events of my secluded, clostrophobic life; well fine then, here you are, sir.

Life is about to be far less exciting, but only for a spell. I'll be fermenting down here now until I get some wheels beneath me and the nerve to start the journey, that and money of course.

I am home.

No more strip club. No more coffee shop. No more cold and sleepless nights of torturous lonliness that haunts me every waking minute. No more ridiculous wads of one dollar bills to use for everything from car repairs to paying my rent. It's all good and over now. Something like a dream to me, it seems. It wasn't a good dream, but not a bad one either. The strangest part is that some things in that dream were absolutely wonderful, and others absolutely terrible. I can't recap on it all now, being far too scattered as it is, but I will do my best to give you something sufficient for the time being.

I pulled into the drive at about 4pm today. It was cool and sunny and the same as always. I drove to the gas station in my old truck; the one I have loved and wrecked and loved wrecking since I've had the damn thing. Earlier I stepped outside and smelled the air; it was inviting and crisp and I could almost taste it, that is before I lit my cigarette, and then it tasted like shit. The tree's are all green and full, the bugs are chirping in the tops and tangles, and spring is in full bloom for my arrival. This is something I very much need right now. I am coping with as much change as I have ever had to cope with. The harder task is not moving 700 miles away, but coming back with a purpose, and sustaining that purpose though you could just as easily resume the old life. I am going to be careful that that doesn't happen.

Enough of that nonsense, too. I think I am dodging the real subject on my mind at this point...

I mentioned some posts ago of someone whom I was going to have some trouble saying goodbye to with my leaving Minnesota. Our goodbye is still as fresh in my mind as if it were five minutes ago, like I have been living those five minutes now since they happened three days past. We exchanged mixes. I will say this much: nothing has caused more of an ache in the way of music than the composition of these songs, meant for me. I am listening to it as we speak, though it is hard to listen to. Mine was probably just as bad, but I can't exactly ask that, now can I?

It is an age old tale. Two people find each other, and know of the find they have found.

It didn't take me long to be enamored by this girl. We met last summer, not long after my arrival. I am not going to go into detail, but it was unordinary. I remember feeling that there was no place I would rather be than in her presence. We did so much together. Technically speaking, we had dated for what must have been nearly three months, and not once in that entire time even kissed. It was strange, yes, but honestly it didn't really matter to me. There is a thing that I have with girls. I have alot of trouble falling asleep next to a girl, unless I am extremely drunk or extremely comfortable. I have never been the latter, until this girl. I had, before I moved north, just broken up with my ex after a year and a half, and the entire time we dated barely slept together, each time I never feeling comfortable about it. But it was so easy with B. That is forever how she will be known. There was a time when I stayed at her place for three days in a row. I never felt so comfortable as in her arms. Then things fell out. There was a strange period after a series of talks where we didn't speak to one another for nearly three months. That winter became lonely and cold. I figured that it was not to be so, and what was I to do? Well, if you can see where this is going, you know the dilemma. Not long ago, we began to talk again. I just figured, "what the hell?" We became just as good of friends as we were in the beginning, even though we knew the other had changed a little with the winter alone. Then came the time that I decided I must go. It had been stewing since the end of Ray, and since I devised my new plan to get away from life and towards myself. I knew the goodbyes would be hard; I had made so many wonderful friends while I lived there. But there was something special about B. I have always felt it stuck somewhere inside me. It grew, with words and songs and sunshine. But I left. I never knew how she really felt, and I had to go, just as I've done. Well, she felt the same as I have felt, and did and do, but it is too late, it seems. I have her picture, I have her songs she meant for me, but no hands nor arms nor lips nor voice. Nothing warm and tangible. It is ever the much more complicated, and it is a situation where there is no clear solution. Neither of us knows what to do. So I listen to these songs and the crickets outside and think the best thoughts and memories I can since that's all I can do. It hurts, my friends, and you know it does, and you've known this hurt before. We all have, and if not, you need to. It is a necessary pain that your soul must endure.

I don't feel I should share anymore. That is the stuff of which I would rather not be sharing so much of; I like to hoard it for myself.

I don't know what else to write... I feel drained right now. Perhaps more tomorrow. Stay tuned, dear reader(s).

-C

4:49am, What Were You Dreaming About?

As for me, I was wide awake at this moment, obviously.

On these late nights I like to come into this dinky little coffee shop and read what I've written. Studying myself, if you will. I guess I have noticed that more recently I have been taking the easy way out in writing more poetry and not enough good hearty wordmeal for you to gobble up. We'll see if I can't bring on back home for ya this time...

So it's officially Friday; the day before I leave this place for good. Had my last night at the strip club tonight. Not a bad night, but not a grand out either. The usual band of miscrients; twelve girls and two songs for the bottom half of the eve, then a little late, late dinner with the finest lady in St. Cloud; the manager of the club. We talked about the usual stuff. People who've been arrested at the club for being idiots, places we've been and jobs we've done, youth, funny names like Reuben and Chivas, (yes, there was actually some poor motherfucker she knew who's parents named him Chivas) and the likes. I thoroughly enjoy our conversations.

But enough of that banter; lets get on to more of my usual flavor of ridiculous word spasms...

Leaving: it's a hard thing to do. Here I am, all sentimental, when I thought I'd be good and dry of that sort of stuff. When you attach yourself to a new environment, completely fresh and unknown, you tend to draw your respective energies towards more worthy causes, thus extracting from life the exact stuff that should always be extracted. It is either that or you find yourself hiding behind falsified contrived experiences in order to preserve safety and prevent change. Now, I'm not a very brave boy, but I am always and forever drawn to the unknown and the risky and the harder, lesser traveled paths. Call it what you will, but it has done nothing but good for my growth as an individual and a human being since I began such the trend. Lesson One: Do Not Suffer By Comparison. If you sit there and think you are doing something that feels out of the ordinary and risky to you then you are thinking correctly, but if you in turn think of someone with a similar experience who is further ahead than you, alls you are doing is talking down your experience and thus ruining it. Perhaps that could have been stated more clearly, but in light of the day from which I have just come, I need a break. I guess for me, the evidence is in the way I think, which is something that you really cannot comprehend to the best that you would need. I mean, how could I EVER comprehend the way YOU think? It is impossible. You might pick out patterns. You might pick out habits and likes and dislikes, but nothing of the real connection. I don't know how it is for others but it feels like my mind is working far too fast for me sometimes. I'm left with only fractions and bits and pieces and I put them all together mut it never comes out right. That's why I'm such a preacher of feelings. A feeling is so goddamn hard to put into words enough to justify it, but you KNOW what you are feeling, and know exactly how to react, and almost entirely what it means. Isn't that funny? Dammit, sometimes this all feels ill-worth my time and in vain when I know exactly what it is I want to say and cannot say it. I once had an hour and a half rhetorical conversation with a friend about thinkers and doers. Who came first, who was more important/necessary, who moreso aids the other, etc. A balance is the most permeable solution, which is what we concluded. I want to say I have somewhat have that balance but yet I am unsure. I, by comparison to my peers have done a great many things that are contrary to normal experience for my age and upbringing. Yet, I have many a time hesitated from still greater or more foreign opportunities presented to me because my brain gets in the way of just DOING. Still, here I am, 700 miles away, first time away from home, not hiding behind a school or a group or in the name of my country with M16 in hand and blood on my shoulders. It was by my own means, with no promise of solidarity or success, and though the initial cause has been defeated, it was one of my greatest successes yet. Now that, my friends, is something of an example. Life itself is not hard. What is so hard for people, I think, is accepting life itself and that they are actively apart in it. I mean, really, here you are born, and raised and educated to function on a basic level with all your other earthly dwellers, and then you're free to roam wherever you want to. Most people still choose to just weigh themselves down with all the fucking commitments and debt, negating their own freedom and calling it the very thing of which they are losing in doing so. I don't mean to pass judgement on choices or anything. I mean if you a REALLY happy being a fucking accountant than far be it for me to intrude upon your happiness. For me thats just not very appealing. I would rather go through life kicking my values and opinions in everyones faces and turn upside down every establishment in my way in the name of real objectivity and questioning. Or I guess I could just go to a meager job everyday, put in my eight hours, then sit on the fucking couch and watch television until my eyes were sore from artificial light, telling me its time to go to bed on my craft-o-matic adjustible mattress that I ordered on the home shopping network. I will be stearn about one thing and one thing only regarding television and people, since I myself from time to time indulge in the depressive stimulation of television; fuck all you people who watch reality tv. It is the most horrific display of americana since fucking sit-coms. After releasing myself from the binds of television I will never go back. I'm sorry if I offended you in making that judgement but I really don't care. Go watch your reality tv if you want, but why don't you actually TRY reality sometime.

Christ, its getting light outside. I am contemplating sleep, however it can only really be no more than six hours, since my parents will be in town around that time, and I still have much to do in the ways of packing. Perhaps I won't sleep. I guess I'll figure it out when I actually go home and stop mumbling all this cosmic debris.

Until the next time,

-C

You're going to have to deal with the fact...

That I am an alcoholic and a sonofabitch. I have had six long islands, one shot if tequila, and one sex on the beach (Brookes pick) tonight. Instead of cabbing it home, I decided to sober up with some water and some cigarettes here at the joint before I go home to finish the week, It'll be a bang, folks, lemme tell you. I am going to sleep until my hangover is gone, or until 2pm, whichever comes first. Then I am going to dress in the sexy clothes I wear for the club and the strippers. I am wearing black on black, pants an shirt, with a red silk tie that was ordered special for me by my boss lady/coolest woman ever who is manager of the club for tomorrow night. It will be a gas. I am even going to style my fucking hair for the occasion. You betcha. I'm the king of rock, ain't none higha; sucka mc's betta call me sigha! Alright, here's my challenge:(Yeah, yeah, I know "alright isn't a real fucking word, fuck off you grammar nazi's.) The challenge is, if you can tell me why John Fahey is such a fucking genious on the guitar, I will either marry you or give you a hundred bucks, depending upon the sex. I'll let you guess which one determines the benefits previously stated... I am really pulling for certain parties here, but I am open for suggestion. I realize this doesn't really ring true to what I am usually all about, but you have to realize that I am drunk and drawn towards this incosequential bullshit, and so a real reader as you are, I assume, would participate in such endeavors. Don't puss out on me, I dare you to reply!

-C

The Last Time I Went Home (A Poem of Drunken Debauchery Between A Girl and A Boy)

You appeared, but I didn't ask you to.

You wanted me and I wanted you.

I took a drink and you took my arm.

We found us a table at the back of the bar.

Two drinks in, but I couldn't say a thing...

So we stared at the band,

But the singer couldn't sing

And my ears bagan to ring.

So I doubled up the drinks

And the words began to form,

Then I saw your smiling face

And I knew I wanted more

But the words went out the door;

I sat silent, as before.

Soon we were both tanked,

Laughing and shouting over the band.

By the time we left the bar

I kissed you and you took my hand.

All the way home, we laughed and we laughed

Then I fell on the ground as 1:30 had passed.

I guess eyes and some booze are all I'm getting tonight,

But that's alright, by morning we'll be different.

Morning came, we were a mess.

With spinning heads and alcoholic morning breath.

I saw you peeking at me peeking at you

And then you hit me and you said to me, "hey you."

There went the morning, quiet and awkward.

So I rose from the bed and rubbed my eyes good.

We went downstairs to drink some water;

Three cups later I felt a little better.

Then we sat still and quiet,

All the alcohol had left us.

But somewhere in that midnight hour

I knew that you left me breathless.

So I sat and thought real hard

On the night that had just passed

I remembered Sam and Seu,

And how we laughed and kissed and danced.

Then I smiled and looked at you

While you were laying on the couch.

You were distant, somewhere lost,

I wondered what it was about.

I had to leave, you had to work.

The day was done, and the sunlight hurt.

Outside the door, through squnting eyes

I hugged you once and we said goodbye.

Came the time, as times come

And I drove home, to try and recollect

The way your lips felt with mine

While we stayed awake into the late night.

How awake my body feels when we are dancing.

A Poem Dictated Aloud While Driving Home Last Night

The car drove on its own and took me away into the night.
It was cold, it was lonely, it was nothing of a rushing flight.
The streets were empty; the wind barely blew.
The sun had long since settled, and waited for the sun anew.

Passing along the sullen quiet streets,
Begetting me and only me, I sat and wondered
How I came to find the loss of such happiness
In the gain of such misery.

And the lights of the streets, and the city, and the people
And the workers, on their break, breaking quickly, breaking simple.
And the shopping cart on the street, without the bum to retrieve
Was all I saw, and all I ever seem to see in such a bright and beautiful world before me.

And the duck crossed the street slowly,
He wouldn’t let me pass quickly.
And he was slow, and so was I,
And so was I.

The unions did not hail today,
The college did nothing.
Only one car behind me, and the car just keeps on coming.
And I stop and I go, and I stop and I go,
And it’s the same everyday.
And I wake up late and I sleep late.
And I rush and I hesitate.

And I lose and I lost.

And the price is my monthly rent, but its not the real cost.
The cost was loss of love, and love done left me good.
And the love may as well have
And the love may as well should.

And so I’ll turn my final turn
To the street where I dwell.
And I’ll brush my teeth
And I’ll find my bed,
And I’ll undress,
And I’ll lay down,
And I’ll cover up,
And I’ll look above and think of this city,
And softly think to myself how it can go to hell.

Into The Evening, And We Begin...

Inspired by a song in this late night hour, I sit and smoke just one more cigarette and think on thoughts that need not thought until the end of my existence in this place. It all started so damned strange... I took a look at a place on a map. I told my friends and family I'd be gone. I packed the car and headed north and landed here and fought and won and lost and losing. I battled the elderly via telemarketing imprisonment. I rummaged through old clothes, getting older, and bought and sold and worn and collected. I watched the snow fall and fall and fall and the cold crisp air that took mine away and clearly stretch the streets for further than I had seen before. I walked and ran and swam and drove and driving and landed somewhere; everywhere where there was grass and quiet and the fucking mosquitos were hounding me all the while, while I sat and spoke and heard and hearing now whatever it is that fuels the change that changed the mind, the mind in me. I shared myself, and kicked and fought, and it fell in the river, with a little bit of a soul, stuck on a hill overlooking the town that harbored my repressions for a year in the maker's and my eye. And Monday came, and Tuesday, and firstday and lastday will come. I planted roots in faces and places and the roots are uprooted. I talked so grandly of days and nights, past and present, and the talk is so cheap, and the words are so empty to me now. I took five years and I wrote it on a paper and then crumbled it up and threw it in the gutter. I visited my former self in my former life and my former home and I saw a ghost and a vagrant and an asshole, only it was only me the whole time away from myself again. I invested in the product of meaningfulness and I went bankrupt. I invested in you and here you are still here, only I'm not with you, and I'm not asking why. I slept so empty on the bed in the top room of the cold house of the winter place. But I guess its guess that gets me setting my sights on those lights that pull me by and away from anywhere i seem to stop like a firefly into the darkened night of the eternal darkness. It's 4:04 and here I sit all cold and exposed. Well whatever this means it means its still going, and going it will whether I sleep tonight or ever again. And sleep is just forgetting, or fractions of remembrance, or hesitance to seeing, or seeing but not believing, or believe and nothing resolved. I suppose its all become a habit of habits acquired by infamous hesitance. Well I don't need you to resolve it. If its not mine than its not yours to be resolving either. And fucking Spring is suppose to stop this winter thinking, and here we go again forever blinking twice when the flashes go by so goddamned fast it hurts our eyes. Oh well, oh well, what will we do? Some laughing maybe, or a walk or a sigh. Whatever we do, I do it and you do it and mistakes are mistakes without the regretting that's getting to be the awkward way of things.
I break the line and I break the words.
and they fall,
and fall,
fall,
F
A
L
L

away.


*Whatever all that means.

Did He Smile His Work To See? Did He Who Make The Lamb Make Thee?

*This is a previous post written elsewhere, but I felt the urge to post it here, where it seems more suitable.*

There is a long journey not far ahead of me. though most could say that life itself is a long journey I don't want to waste time on that cookie-cutter bullshit line of excuses. I speak of the reality in my future. Necessity on a non-basic level is the composition of acquired wisdom throughout one's life combined with the promptings of ones soul. If to believe in a soul means to believe in a higher power, then be it as it may, I do believe in one such a thing. But would not a soul be as one wishes it to be? A soul to me is something of my metaphysical compostion. Or, if there is another way I could put it, it would be the creative grain from which I harvest the means of my understanding and interpretation of life itself. Outward from the soul and inward to the mind. All of this entreats my journey to the extent that I feel from it I will enlight, idulge, and divulge the elements and properties gained from one such a journey. The means and destinations of travel are of no consequence and are trivial illusion at best. It is the transition within that does the real damage, if you will. I dedicate the following to my journey, and it is also my most recent literary atribute. Interpret as you must.

Child of the grain,
Sired, raised and slain
By the whisper of the word
From the maker, for his mirth.
On the soft and distant plain
Storms that form are seen afar
With flighty might do we disperse
We carry your misfortunate scar.
With doom incited by the cause
Its reformation takes avow
Returning to our wayward hearts
Some kind of change; we feel you now.
Maker of the child,
Dangerous, free and wild,
By what immortal hand
Do you justify command?
From the ocean spray abroad
Stretching sails make wayward rasps
Returning home from storms or squalls
One man aboard, he is the last.
From fear a vigilance is made
The message passed is not defeat
But when he heard the child slain
Into the deep did he retreat.
And when the parchment passes
When all is done and found resuming
The maker free, the woeful longing
The spirit of the soul exhuming
Is the spirit of the child;
Through waves or plains,
He moves forever free.

Taking Back Where It Ought To Be

I remember when I was younger... I would always go for these great big walks, right. I would find different little spots that I would sneak off to, for whatever reason. Christ, depending on the age, it could have been to throw rocks at something, explore, or just to smoke cigarettes. There are quite a few in my mind that I meet now and again. It's the rain, I think. It does that kind of thing to you; makes you draw back on some things you never really could ontherwise. I had this one spot by a little creek off a trail somewhere in the north side of town. I used to live around there, so when young and afoot, it was within my grasp. Anyways, I would go to this spot and just sit. The water would move, and I would sit by it. I might have dipped my feet in it, or I might have just walked back and forth across the rocks that stretched just above and about the surface. You know those rocks, that dip their heads above the water-- too big to swim. I was always kind of a dreamer as a child. Thinking of nothing really, just quietly off somewhere, somehow. I'm sure my grades are enough evidence to suffice this. I still do it though; still sit and dream of nothing. Forever lost in illusions of vaguery and imagery. It's so funny when I finally come to- sitting somewhere in public and a friend walks up and starts a conversation. I feel like I was just pulled right back from a million miles away, and I have to have them repeat to me twice whatever they said. In that way I have become a very good multitasker. Anyway, another thing I liked to do as a kid was to walk on the train tracks. Stupid, but not really, if you know when a train is coming. I mean, those big goddamn things don't move at light-speed or anything, so you have plenty of time to get out of the way. I remember one time I was with a friend doing this, and we put nickels on the tracks before the train came to flatten them out like you buy at those stupid machines in caves, only without the engravings. I still have mine somewhere... For three days now it has been raining. Normally it would be such a waste of the day, but lately I don't mind. It's nice to fall asleep to the rain; like those machines people buy to simulate the sound, only its actually the real deal. That's the only good thing about the shitty house I live in. It's old and has all those old sounds. If someone acutally fixed it up a little it would be an alright place to be in. Roommates and college housing have killed that hope though.

I do realize that none of this has a point really, and that is precisely my point. I don't know anything about pop-culture or sports or america's newest favorite reality television shows. I don't have a tv and I may never own one again, save out of entertainment of guests and such. I'm really no good at these things, blogs I mean. What am I suppose to say? The few that read it have got to be getting to be fewer and fewer, being that I don't have anything for them to comment on unless it is about them or something. I think I will just do whatever the hell I please with this blog and that will be that. So far, pretty much every entry has been an experiment to see how and what I should actually be doing with this, and thus far I still don't know how I'll go about it. It will forever remain random and scattered, the true dominick form.

All this has from the start been inspired by two things that I can actually think of: first and foremost, a song by John Fahey entitled "In a Persian Market" off the album "Old Fashioned Love", and the second contributor is a story by Jean Paul Sarte entitled "Intimacy." I have read it before, and have recently decided to read it again. It's a short story about a woman who lives with her husband, but one day decides to leave him for her lover. That very day she leaves her husband she seems him in the marketplace, and he attempts one last reconcilliation, to no avail, and she is swept off to go to her lover. The night she meets up with her lover, she realizes how he disgusts her, and then goes back to her husband. I'm sure I didn't really emphasize any point in telling you that, but most of the depth of the story deals with her thoughts and feelings on the whole dilemma, and if you get bored enough, it is highly recommended. The way it is written has somehow creeped its way in to how I am writing tonight. I was going to start this blog talking about how I have two weeks left here and then I'll be home and blah, blah, blah but since decided that none of that really matters until it happens. For the next two weeks I'll be doing what I have been doing the whole time up here; working and reading and thinking and talking and drinking and laughing and missing things and people. When I leave it will be the same, except somewhere else, with different things and different people. It's funny how that works; you're always missing. Missing things from the past, and from the present, for different reasons, and different circumstances.

What I really want to do when I get home is get to work creatively. I want to take guitar lessons, and piano lessons, and learn the harmonica and work on my portuguese and read alot more than I have had a chance to since being up here. When everything is new it seems so very hard to focus on something so old and timeless like a book, or at least the books I read. There are a good many riverside parks to walk, there are good shows, but mostly on the weeknights. I once saw this duo, one man playing the cello, the other playing an acoustic guitar at the bar I often frequent. The started to play crazy train, and honest to god I have never liked that song but that particular time it was wonderful. The cello has got to be one of the most human-resemblant instruments. And then, there are all these interesting people to converse with. I have met some strange ones at the coffee house, and some even more charismatic ones elsewhere. It has been a good time, and I think mostly due to the fact that I have been actually trying to gain from it what I can at all times. I know that in the long run of my life it may have been a setback coming here, for whatever reason, but I really don't know what I will be doing in the next ten years, so long as it suits me and I'm content. I could be a fry cook at Babes if it seemed like the thing to do in my book at the time. It doesn't seem likely, but most things don't if you think about it in a light of hindsight. To actually be able to look back and see yourself and say, "thats what I thought I would be doing in relation to where I am now," seems like such a fucking bore, doesn't it? It's that little erratic nature of life that's worth the effort, I think. You really must check out this John Fahey song, it is really pleasant to the ears, and the man was a genius on the guitar. He died farely recently, but there has been a tribute album released. It is called "I Am The Ressurrection: A Tribute To John Fahey." It has some very good artists including Calexico, Sufjan Stevens, Fruit Bats, and Howe Gelb on it. Definately worth the fifteen bucks.

I suppose now and at this point I have become nothing but long-winded, and so I'll slow the roll so ya'll can go. Sorry for putting you through another painstaking expression of mindless chatter via electronic printed nonsense. Of course, if you stuck it out this far, you were just asking for it, you whiners, you.

-C