My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

So, last night I’m at The Boneyard, a bar where they don’t toss me out. It’s really one of my favorite places in this otherwise dead city. It’s dark, yet warm, friendly. People know me by name, it’s a comfortable place to relax and think about writing, or not think at all. The idea for my Weird Tales poem came to me in this bar.

Anyway, I’m there last night and I decide to throw my twelve favorite Elliott Smith songs onto the jukebox. A guy picking up his drink is talking about music with the bartender, he asks her, “who’s this playing now?” He says, “it’s depressing.” I smile and think to myself, “nice.” It’s interesting how music and writing can affect people in completely different ways. Elliott sings his last song, and I leave, not depressed for a little while.

Oh, and there’s something astonishingly satisfying about listening to Between the Bars, sitting in a bar.

So, lots of isolation, and the inability to type more than fifty words per hour equate to heretofore unseen levels of depression. Loneliness of this kind is really difficult. I never saw myself writing sad short-form poetry/prose, but here we are. I’m so tired of everything, and tired of not being able to fix it.

Alone on a Sunday, in a place you don’t belong, never belonged. Lonely and broken, a cracked mirror reflecting nothing but damage. You’re darkness that’s not understood, that no one thinks to brighten. You’re constant thought with nowhere to go, buried under unsaid words. You want to go home, but you can’t, so you’re alone on a Sunday.

I write with one rule for myself, whatever I write has to be honest when I write it. I can change my mind, evolve, but everything has to be true in the moment. So, when I wrote that I don’t want Sara back, it wasn’t honest, and I knew it wasn’t honest. I want my feelings toward her to be that simple, but they’re not, at all. I love her, and I’m angry with her, and she hurt me, and I failed her, and I miss her, and I don’t want to miss her, and I could love someone else, and I don’t want to be alone.

Now I feel honest.

It’s really beautiful when a writer can take abstract feelings, like addiction and depression, and turn them into words that perfectly describe such abstracts. Elliott Smith was one of those writers, just honest and eloquent. I especially love this song, it’s a gorgeous description of the empty peace found in alcohol, and the reasons one might seek it. I’ve had my share of drinks, drinks to make me okay.

I want to lose myself in blinding sex, or drugs that numb, vodka that burns going down, doors to anywhere but here. Here, my lifeless life, my endless lonely, where I drown in a stream of consciousness. Drowning without death, finding nothing but locked doors.

I don’t want Sara back (the ex-girlfriend), but I want that life back, a life bigger than my little room in Tampa. I want that connection to someone. Nothing feels as good as falling asleep holding a woman I love, everything else is just a fix. Then, of course, I want to publish spectacular writing. Things that people will remember. My craft is absolutely important to me, and it’s brutal to feel like I’m losing it.

If I can ever effectively type again, I don’t doubt that I can have these things, and more. It’s amazing what I can do with words, words create reality. I don’t regret being depressed over Sara, such experiences happen, whether we want them or not. I ultimately value even the darkest experiences, writers are kind of sadistic that way. I do, however, regret wasting so much time while I was depressed over her.

I looked at you under the stars and thought you were more beautiful than anything above. I’d rather be close to you than any star in the sky.

I may be depressed as all Hell, I may day-dream about bleeding out, but I do have some good news. I’m getting a piece of my flash fiction published in the poetry section of Weird Tales Magazine! It’s the first thing I’ve ever submitted to a magazine, so I’m pretty excited, and definitely surprised.

Happiness, loss, depression, anything can be good for writing if you let it.

So, the NeuroSwitch is delayed until Thursday the 16th. I am Jack’s total lack of surprise. Give me patience. Flash!