C.E.L.

The queen. The moon. And then me.

That’s how you reach nirvana.

I was a rock star in a past life. Sometimes it resurfaces. I walk up the slightly hilly driveway, seems like miles. The pressure builds from my groin through my fingers and toes. The stainless steel door stares at me. I’m nervous but I wipe it away because I remember that I am a rock king. Inside awaits my rock queen.

Bullshit.

The door opens and I can smell her beauty seeping out of her skin. She smiles and for a brief moment, she is mine again. Reality is virtual and my imagination sprints. Exhaustion, nay, reality kicks in and thus the struggle.

“It’s been a long time. How much more of this can I take,” I wonder silently.

Beyond her I can see the musician who loves his jazz so much he takes it everywhere he goes.

A sudden thought bounces into my skull.

“Doesn’t anyone else ever just want to instantly die?”

For lack of a better word or words, my soul leaves my body and I can watch and analyze my life for brief moments at a time. I can see how ridiculous and childish I am and how absurd it all really is.

He goes to her in the doorway and embraces her, inhaling her pale brown skin like it is the only oxygen in the world. And she shudders for an instant of pleasure and weakness that he can faintly hope is real before she remembers herself and that she is in control of everything.

He can’t really see it, blinded by the absolute beauty of her insane eyes and delicious bosom. But he is most drawn to her control … like she is drawn to his lack of it. He is an impulsive and fiery angel of chaos with nothing to give but every single bit of life. It is sputtering and troubling and damn right fucking beautiful but he cannot see any of it. He feels it in stages and it is draining and loveless and then there is this darling and crazed woman who has the ability to consume his unquenchable light with the darkness and madness of her control. And they can’t even touch either, not really, anymore for fear of something supernatural and inexplicable.

But he doesn’t know any of this shit. All he sees is that he wants her and that he needs her and that he loves her. It’s so simple in his head and he doesn’t understand her recoil from his touch. All he feels is the control as judgment.

That’s how you reach nirvana.

I’m nervous. I am the sun. Everyone sees me shinning fire from everywhere they are and yet my only hope is to get by inconspicuously conspicuous. Until I spot the moon. She is blue with peace because she understands the world needs her to drive mad the tides and fuck with beastly werewolves and give cover to the freaks. She is a divine beacon of absolute anarchy.

And so it is freedom to me to see her and all the nervous angst dies like I so often wish I would. We hug and eclipse one another so that no one can see the fragility of which both of us are built.

Men and women pour into the moon and sun their hope and dreams and schemes and project their better and worse selves unto them. It is no different for me as I seek all wisdom and answers about my internal chaos from her. Luckily, she is filled with wisdom and insight and love. She knows exactly what I am and takes it with ease.

It’s a freedom I cannot entirely fathom but can truly accept. And so I embrace the beast in me. She pours and we adore whiskey like it’s champagne. And we drink champagne like there is no more whiskey. Thankfully we are blessed with the ability to love all extremes and every single goddamn thing on earth. No topic is off limits and none feels awkward or torturous to discuss or live.

Once again, soul leaves body and I can understand that he will never see that there is no beast in him.

He is the beast, who wishes he could control the human inside of him. More importantly, he is the quintessential duality of man. Everything all at once. He is the fiery sun and cool king of rock. He is impulse and control and death and life and happiness and strife and rhyme and dissonance. He is equal parts the super indulgent slave of the darkness and the light.

It’s a war, not a battle. He cannot win. He is all the good and all the bad that fucks things and fixes them and takes care of her and burns bright with her because it’s all happening all at once. He needs to be free. He needs to be tethered.

The queen. The moon. That’s how you reach nirvana.

A million

I think I am a million miles away from you, in a parallel universe.
It may be that I am LITERALLY a million miles away from you.
The earth is a spec in my mission.
The Milky Way slides away through my peripheral vision.
There are storms and asteroids and all kinds of gnarly shit.
I’m serious. I think I am a million miles away from you.
And even from here, from this dastardly place where time and space are swallowed up by dark matter, I can see how devastatingly beautiful you are.
I don’t know how it’s possible but you shine through an otherwise dull existence.
You are brighter and more spectacular than all the stars in all the galaxies and I just want to revolve around you over and over and over until I am too dizzy to see through multimillion light years of distance all the beauty that I am missing.
You are more radiant than super nova and more powerful and overwhelming than a worm hole and all I want to do is get into your black hole and be obliterated.
I think or rather it feels like I am a million miles away from you.
Even as you lay there wrapped in lucky sheets, luckier clothing and even luckier arms. Right. In. The. Other. Room.
With a wall or a sheet or an inch of figurative barriers defined by rules that say that I am not to touch or taste or be, well I might as well be undefinable light years away from it but I cling to the light of your bosom from distances unbeknownst to man and call myself a lucky bastard.

Livelihood

My desk is full of papers.

My head is full of noise.

My eyes are filled with toys.

See what I did there?

These fucking papers though. Man. Fucking bills. Or notices. Or other such like things that just equal responsibility. Oh all this responsibility! Why? Like when did I sign up?

See that’s bullshit! Why does it end? It comes and it just goes.

With great power comes great responsibility, so they say. But sometimes all there is is great responsibility and no fucking power.

Similarly on my desk, there is a bunch of papers bound together into individual bundles that tell pretty wild stories about men and women.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying here. I’m just pushing keys with fingers. But my fingers have been instructed to make sure that the pressed keys represent the established representations of the words necessary to describe what it is that my fingers are doing.

“See what I did there?” he said with a smile.

I want to write things and have people read things that I write. That much I know. Maybe it’s because it seems like a nice way to make a living, but also because I need to be noticed by the world on my terms. I think that’s a thing.

Maybe I write to try and hang on to spectacular moments of clarity or love or fantastic fun. Maybe it’s to try and find meaning if those fucked up moments. Or at least try and capture them to try and make them just slightly better. 

The power of now

How much darkness can you take, bottom line.

You hit the ground running like so many have before, but that’s what it all comes down to.

The darkness.

Romantic to some. Frightening to others. Sexy even.

But after so manny hours racing right along old 66, it starts to become the only thing that matters.

“If I can only make it to sunrise,” you think to yourself. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

Damn it. That’s right. The others.
Those poor and equally life-thirsty fools that hitch theirs to yours.

Can you make it another four hours? Is it worth the risk?

You cannot. Not really.

And it’s never quite worth the risk. I mean the reward isn’t. Not on it’s own. Not enough times. But the risk itself is a sort of prize. And that makes this dirty anguish for beating the darkness feel worth it.

It’s one hell of a life. I don’t have to tell you.

Love. Sex. Food. Drink. Sleep. Wake. Light. Day. Him. Her.

One hell of a life.

When you’re really in it - I mean really in it - this chase, this race feels like the deepness and sincerity you’ve always wanted from life. From him. Or her. Or them.

What’s at stake?

All of it, really.

Because, let’s be honest, it always really is.

The depravity drives us.

We want to feel so blown away by people, life, work anything we do.

Modern Legend

He used to like to sit around and watch her use her big white teeth to scrape her soft lips of dead skin. She thought is was weird that he would watch. He thought it was weird that she would eat her own flesh. I guess the weird was the glue that held it all together. At least until those days when it would all fall apart. Those days when she realized she wanted more and he wasn’t good enough. Or those days when he would realize she wanted more and he wasn’t good enough.

Her skin was brown but oddly pale. Her eyes, round and deeper then the ocean. He was white but spotted, with beady eyes and heavy breaths. Together they were a force. But the universe would not have it and she, being keen in universal things, easily gave in to universal pressures.

She moved, quickly spreading her beauty and magic. He fell sharply away. And perhaps it was his laziness and unwillingness to fight for her, and not her desire to feed the universe, that caused him to really lose her.

And so the greedy universe owned her for several moons. And her mood, even more than usual, swayed with each raging tide. For the universe, even with all it’s might and greedy greed, never quite loved her like she deserved.

He roamed and moaned and tried with invariable futility to move on or find her when that didn’t work. He struggled with the mighty universe which laughed and made the stars of her beauty just to mock him. To make matters worse, the universe regaled him with tawdry tales of it and her and her and it. The joy, the love, the sex- “ha”- the universe laughed in his face.

Everything was lost, until the day he woke up and said: “Goddamn you, universe, I demand her back! I demand her right now, you greedy fuck.” And so he grabbed his very own sword and launched on a mission to win her back. And the universe prepared to keep its favorite treasure. And she, well she sat, sexy as ever, and scrapped the dead skin off her soft lips with her big, beautiful white teeth.

The epic battle, as it was, raged on and on. And though the universe remains intact, no one ever heard from him again. Rumor has it that he died. But better rumors say he had to die in order to gain the godly powers that may imbue him with the ability to win the goddess back from all the goddamned universe. And so we wait and see, ever so pessimistically, if he will be a hero or if this is just another tale of the most beautiful woman in the universe and the universe winning out.

Seven Days

10/17

I walked out of Seven Psychopaths feeling ambivalent. Great because it was an awesome movie. Jesus, I sound like a 14-year-old schoolgirl. Really. Which brings me to my next point – I am not a writer. I mean I write, if this is writing. But my dreams of being a writer like Hemingway or even Woody Allen are unrealized.

It was weird being at the Archlight without her. I mean I’ve been there plenty of times before I even met her and plenty of times since and sans her. But it has never felt as lonely as today. Is that what it was, loneliness? I don’t know. I felt something … something leave me. I guess that’s what it was. I walked out of the movie and said something like “I guess now it’s our turn to wonder where the restrooms are.” It was a cryptic joke almost. I was referencing two separate but equally good-looking sets of women who walked out of the previous showing of Seven Psychopaths wondering where the restrooms were.

10/18

The rest of the world can just be whatever it is. I am no longer in a position to change anyone or anything. Shit, I can’t even …

10/19

I have no more interest in heartbreaking things. Except for this pillow: peace love and coke, from Atlanta, Louisiana or something.

10/20

She smells. Good though. And I cannot get it out of my head. At least that’s how it feels today. Some days I am numb enough to not have to deal with it. I guess I assume it is in my head because I have washed several pieces of clothing and it still has her smell. Maybe I shouldn’t complain. She smells great – did I mention that. I guess there are worst things than great smells to haunt you. I guess. I guess. I guess. I guess. There now there seven ‘I guess’ phrases – including this one – which is a prime number. I like prime numbers.

10/21

I work for a Network. I should keep that in mind. It’s lucky, I ‘spose. I can do this. I can keep it up. Can’t I.

11/17

Well, I had intended on keep a seven-day journal. But I obviously only made it through five. And this day a few weeks later, just so I can underscore my failure.