i just finished reading henry rollins' roomanitarian. it was enjoyable, but i think only if you know what rollins is about. it's not really written with any great style or skill, though it drives home what i know about the man, and his full-on hatred for republicans, yuppie white culture, drugs and abuse, and mostly himself, as a huge theme of his writing tends to reinforce complete and total isolation. here are some things:
"i have been dragging my past with me like it's a dying comrade and we're trying to make it back to the beach after a mission gone terribly wrong."
"when we fuck by the pool we bleed out of our mouths and can't finish. we are too toxic."
"came home and shot his wife and two small children. sat on the back porch with a beer. heard the sirens and put one through the roof of his mouth. what he couldn't control, he killed."
"i will admit this to you as long as you promise not to tell anyone. i do admit a sadness."
"he terrified them and they seemed dedicated to this fear."
"sad, mean brutal cycle. after awhile, if you want it bad enough, if you really need it -- anything will feel like love."
"feat of feast: don't drink the good stuff if you know you're gonna hurl. fear of famine: one more breath."
"i have felt it in the past. attraction to a woman. it always came with a certain measure of self-disgust. it happened recently. there i was with this woman. not letting anything show. not allowing one crippled display of vulnerability to register. years ago, fear of rejection and eventual, long burning humiliation kept my feelings in check. now it's different factors that keep my emotions stillborn. i have arrived at myself. i am beyond humiliation. failure falls off me. rejection is a given. the main thing that keeps me to myself is just knowing there's no way. there is just no way. at this point, what could my line possibly be? "hi, i'm dead. want to watch me sit silently in a small room? i can show you the parts of the ceiling my brains will most likely stick to." it is sad. to not need anyone."
"i know i am rusted metal scraping against sidewalks of forgotten cities, an unheard groan of a freezing pipe in a condemned building. i know, i know. believe me, i know. i know my words vaporize and lose all meaning as they evacuate my mouth. i know that all the years spent, all the miles traveled, all the sleep lost -- just time wasted. time wasted! like leaving a lamp burning in an unoccupied room. a waste! what a horrible thing, time wasted. the ravages of futility. inspiration's annihilating backhand. at the end of the trail, to find the pockets heavy with fool's gold, the ribs cracked from the last cheap shot and the heart helplessly empty... what a waste. and even though this is the cheaply woven fabric of my life, even though i am the hand that knocks unwelcome and uninvited on doors of empty houses, the cultivator of insufferable misery on hot endless nights of paranoia. ceaselessly unendurable and obsessive repetition. a life nailed to the ground by dulled cowardice and uninventive thought. in spite of all that, there was a time when i... when i thought something more than all this was in my grasp. there was a time when i could feel the ground underneath my feet and i walked forward into time isntead of standing still, stranded in semi-darkness with skewed memories of the past to keep me. i don't remember when i pulled back. i don't remember when i called it a day. i don't remember when i slipped underneath the surface of life and ended up here. i don't remember. i don't know."
"nothing can be recaptured. it can only be approximated and stood next to. it can only be lied into legend."
"still having the murder dreams?"
"their conversations rain down like hammers from a high place. their words jostle and crowd my brain. perhaps it's their thoughts i am thinking now. language is slavery. ...their sound all around me, this generic drone of collapse."
"it will never be love.... and it's not like your eyes aren't open arms. i am a ghost town with a ribcage, every abandoned car. i heard every word you said."
"after you were killed last june i quietly dismantled and disposed of my heart, parts of my nervous system and many of my thoughts."
"no one shoots the moon in the face."
"i used to be strong, but couldn't hold on to it. i hemorrhaged and bled out. now i'm just tough and weak, self=propelled into small rooms to endure time."
"casa to cairo. bangkok to paris. i got close to her in prague. but lost her for good. and found me for bad. and now i am a setting sun and closed road null."
"destruction will keep me alive for a few seasons yet."
"there is no shore. if i knew a name to call out, i would."
"when i talk to you, i turn to wood."
"walked past them all again. waited to sink with them. nothing happened. that's the fucked up thing. nothing happens until a nightmare erupts."
"i get used to throwing parts of myself away."
"we'll braid our secrets."