Wednesday, February 04, 2009


I have lost the appreciation for life and living. No particular distaste for it. I'm glad I exist, though that's all I've been making my days up of. The kind of thing we grow old to the sound of:

You know, same old.
Work, home, eat, sleep, repeat.

Since when?

I blame it almost entirely on the lack of music and alcohol, though alcohol plays much less of a role. It's the enhancement of different memories and the recall thereof that it really affects. Some writing, little finger singing.

[sweet, the driver lights her cigarette first with the console flame]

I'm not being stopped or held back by anything. Even by credit debt, or a lack of cash, or anything financial. I think it's that I have no idea where to go from here. Is it that I have no oath now? Just going to grow static on this gamestop paycheck? Really get invested in it? Dug in? No more Arizona, no more sunsets against clay? No more filling in the check boxes? I did lose that list, and I've forgotten most of it.

I think of downing bags of pills, each white and smooth like plastic furniture. They highlight all the senses and stimulate a new mechanical organ inside, puffing out the dust of atrophy. Breathing in a blue gray smoke elevating from some burning stick to mute out the entropy. Shoved syringes to the hilt full of the brown and the clear to rearrange the eyereception earreception. There would be no terror no loss of control no bending or electron pivot shaking. Just a lusting for vocabulary and words, a refresher for what's not to come and what's to be dead and what's to be born. Some calling no longer distant to what's been put to rest for years. Going everywhere again. Starting where it doesn't count, ending where no one cares.

I hate to say that I am a weird kid, an odd person or that sort of thing. But I do trace back a great deal of the lack of former luminescence to working with an all male staff, male to the degree of being vacant of any vibrancy or color outside of drinking stories the color of green glass, or bright red stories of women, lust, and the positions beyond positions and positing they find themselves in. Then, as always, the video games and the time they've spent with them. There is no one thirsty, hungry or pained like me. There is no one seeking, searching, or wandering like me. There are young men patient and comfortable. Existing with no need for improvement.


Facing the snow in manhattan, just for forty five seconds or so. Felt the need for it. Some odd craving to live. Reminded me of where she is where she could be and less importantly where she has been. I don't guess, or assume. I'm not sure if it's better or worse that I know she's out there.

Send me letters, impartial or complete.
Page, line, or word.


laughing hysterically, hard and genuine, I say, "yeah man, I'm really hitting bottom."

Jeff tells me to listen to Colors.

1 comment:

B. Martinez said...

It's funny that while you're regretting a workplace of all men, I'm missing it. For the past three months it's been nothing but women, griping about men and pretending to be on diets and back-stabbing each other, starting fights about things that mean nothing at all.

Today they had a guy teller from another branch fill in, and I probably talked more to him in an hour than I've talked all month. It turned out he was into anime and eighties movies and he actually referenced Old Boy and Devil's Rejects in a five minute span. If you could have seen my face, you'd know what a man coming out of the desert looks like looking at a jug of water.

On the other hand, I remember hating Eric Kuster's endless parade of "she-wanted-my-shit-so-i-punched-him" stories.