Where I find myself…

Lately, where I find myself being myself is –

– cleaning the bong

– lighting coals for the hooka

– mixing the next Jager bomb

– rolling the next joint

– playing my guitar

– loosing myself with the headphones on

– looking at the palm trees during yoga

– reading the “Nothing makes up for talent like undetered will” poster behind the heavy bag at the boxing gym.

– thinking about how much I’m influenced by my sister, mother, and grandma ( the loves of my life and the best friends a guy could ask for)

– processing how the fact that my sister, mother, and grandma are my best friends and how fuck up that makes me as an “adjusted” human being

– thinking of different scenarios and sub-plots for that book….

– fleshing out concepts for that script…

– trying to understand my place in the world

– thinking about what my friends and family will say about me at my funeral

– just trying to understand how my shitty piece of the puzzle fits in the grand scheme

– questioning the grand scheme

– wishing I could convey my thoughts and feeling just 10% as well as Dylan and Waits can and do…

Christmas

I hate Christmas. Always have.

And every year I give it a chance ( more like I give myself a chance to shed my previous bias)

and every year I find more reasons to hate Christmas.

( but really though, do I find reasons or do I look for them?)

This year, I’m changing all of that.

I’m getting a portrait tattoo of my beloved grandma.

And every Christmas after this one, I’ll have that memory and that’s enough for me.

I love you grandma ( sorry i’m tattooing your face on my leg)

Belief…

The issue of trust is a bitch. A bitch with an angry, jealous pimp.

Lately, the voices in my head have been asking me a lot of questions. And it’s not that they don’t typically ask a lot to begin with, it’s just that recently most of their questions are related to trust and belief, and they sound similar to drivel like this:

“Do I believe _______?”

or

“Do I believe IN _______?”

And some variations of the same theme: believing someone versus believing IN someone.

Call me crazy, but I see a difference in both questions.  I had a discussion with some friends about this the other day and it comes down to factual understanding and hopeful faith.

I can believe you, but I don’t have to believe in you. I can understand what you are saying but I don’t believe in what you are saying. It comes down to –  I understand you but I don’t trust you.

Lately, I’ve been too trusting, even though I should have known better. Where has that gotten me?

No-fucking-where, other than exposed, vulnerable and remorseful.

It’s incredibly hard for me to let people in, and in some ways, see the real me. But when I do let someone in, they are in there for good. Unless they drag their muddy feet on the couch too many times, or take a dump on my nice rug, nah’mean?

It’s nearly impossible for me to open the door and leave it ajar. To leave it open and let people in sounds even crazier to me on paper than it did in my head. To let the door get slammed back in my face with no warning, no sign, no indication,  besides seeming bizarre,  felt like a Guy Ritchie script with Mel Brooks’ jokes and Tarantino’s penchant for gore. In other words, getting shat on never felt so cinematic.

and so I trust…

Still…

Because, ultimately,  I’ll always be a sentimental hopeless romantic douchenozzle who’s a gluton for new torturous ways of going through life thinking love, understanding and acceptance exist out there in some real and realistic form.

Is all of this shit overtly melodramatic? Sure, probably, why not?! Does it feel real and shitty? Absolutely.

Am I going to keep going? Yeah, I will, comes with the territory when you are a “bong is half full kinda guy”

Previous Post

who could call my name without regretting
who could see beyond this my darkness
and for once save their own prayers
who could mirror down just a little
of their sun

how could this go so very wrong
that I must depend on darkness
would anyone follow me further down
how could this go so very far
that I need someone to say
what is wrong
not with the world but me

who could call my name without regretting
who could promise to never destroy me
tonight my head is full of wishes
and everything I drink is full of her

The Truth Is…

Panglao, Bohol ( one of my favorite places on Earth)

Typically , I talk to myself.  A LOT.  And, typically we ( I ) have some interesting banter. I’d be lying if I told anyone I didn’t enjoy it. Because the truth is that I ( we) do. The Voices, if you will, understand me better than anyone and they have my (our) best interest at heart. But the truth is…

The truth is that I hate the expression.

The truth is I don’t know what the truth is. I know some facts. But the truth?

What truth?

My truth?

Your truth?

What in the hell does that even mean?

I would suppose there are some things that are part of a transcendent and fundamental reality for me that may not be based on any facts that are accepted as reality and fact for someone else. I don’t mean to imply a reactionary history that gets distorted based on the manner in which I would like the remember how things happened. But I believe there are certain events in an individual’s  life that are unique to that specific person regardless of similarities and associations to someone else’s unique memories.  For example, if you and I went to a concert together we would share the same experience, we would hear the same songs, we would end up just as tired, stinky, and sweaty ( i’m imagining a punk show, so bear with me). But if you spent your time trying to figure out what chords the guitar player was playing and I spent most of my time trying to flirt with hottie 3 rows over, our ‘truths’ for the same event would be different. And, in my eyes, that is what makes us unique – Our truths! but I digress…

So, truths…

My truths…

And the truth is that I don’t know what my truths are.

What do I stand for? Shit, most of the time I don’t even know why I’m standing.

The thing is there is one unequivocal truth I know,  at least at this moment, and there is no way to commit this to paper ( or whatever the hell medium this is) without coming across as a melo-dramatic emo douche, but here it goes – I have to save me from myself.

I’ve been stuck, treading the same shitty path for too fucking long, and i’m done. The issue is – How the fuck do I get out of this hole?

And the truth is I do not know.

Fuck the truth…

np – Mad Season – Wake Up

and so it goes…

Thoughts are a funny thing.

The common head is usually filled with them, and to this phenomenon, most of heads give no thought. There are some folks, however, who give a lot of thought to the thoughts populating the particular head in question, and this happens without rhyme or reason – INCESSANTLY!  This second phenomenon is called a fucking headache. Most people refer to the people in this group as “those paranoid little bitches”, and this is done in a kind and polite manner commonly known as trash talking people behind their backs . I happen to be a card carrying member of that peculiar second group. These thoughts typically have voices, and The Voices do a damn good job of ensuring thoughts are keeping things deliciously busy and soothingly paranoid. It’s great. But it’s not for everyone.

Recently, the journey of life has taken me to interesting places. In one of these places I came to accept certain realities. One of those realities, as the last ladyfriend put it, is that i have “too much fucking heartache”. To be sure, and to a certain and considerable extent, she is right. But, I would be doing my paranoia a disservice by giving her ( the ladyfriend, not the paranoia) too much credit for that kind thought. Ultimately, I am resigned to blame my own thoughts. I blame them,  all of those thoughts that remained in the dark. If this egotistical exercise is to eventually have any affect other than futility, and manages to summon a quasi honest response over time ( and believe me, whoever you are reading this shit, I hope that it does), let the first honest outburst be this:  I blame all of the words that never found a voice. I blame them for circulating and filling my head without filling the void.

This word vomiting is a purging of sorts, but i digress.

Next up – how i was baptized in the ocean and Neptune tried to keep me there.