Tuesday, March 27, 2012


Put down this mask, take off this shirt, and breath (lifting the rock from your chest with the strength you never realized you had until now).

I want to stop all this cursing I've been doing lately.  I have been driven insane for small measurements of time and I feel wild and released.  I may have made myself into an animal, something that turns disgust in the minds of those who catch me during the trance.  And I apology if I turned your stomach sour, if there was anything that made you feel robbed of good, good feeling.  I had to get something off my chest, like a white shirt that collects the dirt of the world, I needed to clean myself but licking off the dirt like a cat, like a dog, and I sure did bark.

When I come here I am tired, I am burnt out, and it is only a feeling (or at least I keep telling myself).  And as I point my little finger my biggest finger towards you, yes, you, I know you are listening, I know I can speak, here, right now, so I'm going to speak if that's alright with you (you can always just stop here).

When tapes were tapes.  My hair was shorter than, my arms and legs skinnier and my clothes baggier.  I rolled on four, I had a stereo in my backpack and I was jamming Wu-Tang on the bus ride home.  The kids looked at me, I stuck out of the crowd easy, not just for my color of my skin but the bizarreness I carried so naturally.  I wasn't original I wasn't unique, I just had something that wasn't there, always missing and not necessarily mysterious just incomplete.  And as I looked out the window to a boring, beautiful, and majestic New Mexican landscape, filled with hills dotted with shrubs and carved by neighborhoods and parks I imagined the now.  Where I would be when I grew into the person I am today.  And did I have an inkling of an idea of what would come.  Perhaps that doesn't matter, about who I would be, if I become something "better", evolved, or understanding, to have this career to have this respect.  What mattered was the thought, the curiosity behind the question, that has remained.  What will be of me in years to come, will I be asking this exact question then?  What adventures, what loves, what broken bones and embarrassing and amazing stories will I have gained then?  More run-in with the cops, what drugs will I have discovered, what about the people, at the end of the day, the people, will I have encountered, experienced.  How strong will the connections be, with this person, with that person, and how will they turn my heart, my mind, my EVERYTHING, and change me, or discover something that has either been hidden or lost for oh-so-long.

I've been running with the idea of meeting people.  The topic, "New People", but this can also apply to people of my past as well.  For now let's run with this example, new people entering your life, by chance encounter or by shared mutuality, and talking to them excessively, sharing just about everything.  The idea of blindly, no no, faithfully trusting them without the word of "TRUST" in there, but just giving yourself to them, as they give you their whole life story.  And by "giving yourself" I mean to reveal your history, of who you are in stories and provoking a certain feeling.  For each and every "New Person" to provide you with something, to turn this gear out of many in your mind and for there to be a birth of something, either a feeling, a thought, or strengthen something previously made and left in a sustained state. And in return to give something back, for the gain to be mutual, and though I feel I have only the slightly notion of what someone has gained from talking to me, from being my friend, or by reading my words and seeing my images, what I gained from them is something profound, something that is the everything that I call my essence.

I like the concept of the blank slate, that if one were to put a newborn into a blank room and provide it with nutrition and waste-disposal would that being have a thought in its head?  Without influence, without the "outside" world, that external and out-of-this oneness of self, would we ever form our own thoughts?  And to continue with that idea, with the early humans, what was going on in their minds, what of the lone hunter/gather with only the landscape to communicate with, what was he or she thinking when looking out from their cave, wrapped in the lion cloth, and spear in hand.  Perhaps the world around us, whether filled with sentient beings or not is able to provide us with insight, with the drive that turned the gear within our minds and to gave birth to the thought and awareness of self, and most importantly, the world around us.

The bus rolls up, I can see my house, that place on the cusp of "Snob Hill", what is 1136, the number 11 continuing in so many of the houses I've lived in, and the 36 as in 36 Chambers, a title of album by Wu-Tang.  The broad driveway, the small island of bushes between the driveway and the road, how a car once crashed into it and drove off, saying, "We'll fix it", and how they still haven't, but there is still the possibility of that happening (one day in absurdity).  I remember the gap in the sideway between our property and the neighbors, and how many times I walked, ollied, and tripped, and fell as a result of that gap filled with stones.  I remember the day our neighbors kids, the three of them, one named, Carl, told us that our house was haunted.  Thank God we were moving from that place I remember thinking, not another year of living in that house, with that barking wall.  And the day we moved, when I said, "Smell ya later" in my head and how I didn't realize at the time that I was saying goodbye to my childhood, to the mystery and awe that surrounded it, and most importantly the feeling of being spooked.  Good bye spooky, good bye fried bread, and monumental sadness upon sadness, you were the sadness place of my existence and the most rememberable.  Goodbye mystery, with the magic bean van turned DYI RV and a UHaul truck with the shittiest radio and holding my pee for hours and hours, we have yet to see each other again (outside of dreams and distant memories).

We'll meet again (in a threatening voice and a roll of the fist and a smile on the face).

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