A six pack of Red Stripes could really be all it takes to stir just a bit... just a little bit of unemotional written dumpage. For whatever reason, the numb face, the nicholas cage narration, the light on my face, the unfamiliar room, it all stirs something on the inside that calls for release. An unknown desire to get every single word down on paper, on a screen. The eyes closing when they want to, the one liners that make me say "nice."
Which me really counts?
There's the beginning with the Quentin Tarantino movies, The Get Up Kids, Alexisonfire, Beloved, and Hopesfall that has absolutely no connection with Her. The part of me that was me that never got melded with her. The part of me that believed in a singluarity and a strength that would attract absolutely no one. The part of me that could die today free from a wish or a letdown or a night out at a restaurant. The me without the knowledge of horror movies.
Or is it the me that tells them about new music? The shows, the reviews, the photos, the new tracks from bands? The me the thinks that without me, it's just myspace.com and bulletins, and li_scene, and word of mouth. The me that thinks I have something to do with the unity and the turnaround of a long island scene. The me that never belives the hype. The me that still, really, thinks that only a baker's dozen people watch the site.
Or is it me that drives around with Her. That shows Her new songs. That laid with Her. That rented movies for Her that I thought would really make her smile as she made us dinner. The me that took Her to movies. The me that saw Kill Bill 2 with her, when she held my hand for the first time. The me that trusted her because she was too innocent, and too pure to become what she became. The me that saw Her for Her '04, not Her '06. The Her '06 that fucks a guy in a house without love. The Her that will be something in me, but will find brand new things in life. The Her with her own path. The Her that doesn't need the me. Any of the me.
The Her that I may or not message once this bottle is empty. Fuck.
Is it the me that thinks the world of X, that can't be without X, and that doesn't want to be without X. I see X and I know X can't be without Y. I get embarassed when I think about X, and it's because I never believe in me or what I will be. Words, and nervousness. Is it the me that looks at her the way I never should, is it me that wants to bring her everywhere. Is it me that can't make the distinction?
Is it me that never was?
Some messages I sent tonight:
"Yo man. Let me tell you something about Red Stripe. It's twice as enlightening as God and three times as stylish as Jamaica. Hope your weekend is awesome.'
"AND I NEVER HESITATE TO PUT A NIGGA ON HIS BACK!"
"Hope everything is perfect. Live it like you wrote it. Xo."
"Everything. Nothing. I smoked too much and felt you in the same state of consciousness. Live, feel, and be. Nothing will make me happier. Even if we never speak again. Please don't respond."
The Her that's too busy.
Breathe. Sigh. Lungs appreciate.
Asking Rahul a question about firearms. Then seeing Ethan Hawke.
Not believing that Mike didn't like Adaptation.
From now it's Richmond on a Thursday, and Boston on a Saturday.
A new life in Florida, North Carolina, and Richmond. Possibly Boston. Taking over cities a month or two at a time. Finding their hearts and beating with them. In sync, in time.
1/4 a bottle left. 3 oz. Then I pee it out. Ill keep the alcohol, and let it navigate and further filter out the life inside.
"Everything that comes from the Earth eventually returns." - Nicholas Cage reading a script.
"All I've done in my life is be pretty. All I've done is be born."
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