My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

I formulate infinity stored deep inside of me…

Archive for December, 2009

These R the Thoughts

December 23rd, 2009 | Category: Life,Opinions

This is one of my favorite Alanis Morissette songs, it’s a beautiful, clean piece of writing. It’s questions, and doubts, and worries set to music. It’s very much the way I think on a daily basis. I worry about being lonely. I worry that I’m not a good person. I worry about someone loving me. I worry that I’m too much of a fuck up to be happy. I worry that my life is a waste. I worry that I’m going to end badly, so far from what I want. I worry that writing with complete honesty about myself only isolates me. These are my thoughts.

Since I quit talking, I spend a lot of time in my head. It’s not easy to distract myself from myself. It’s not easy to escape my thoughts.


Random thoughts before a trache change

December 21st, 2009 | Category: Life,Random Thought

Does she still love me?

I’m cold.

Is she thinking about me?

Why does John Doe say to Detective Somerset, “I know you…” while he’s being arrested?

I have absolutely no business out-living people like Heath Ledger and Brittany Murphy.

Will I get to see her again?

I miss her.

Why am I such a fuck up?

I love her.

Am I going to go out sad, and broken, and lost, like Kurt and Elliott?

I have to give Jimmy his birthday present.

I’m really lonely right now.

Am I going to die today?

If I don’t die, I really want to see her. I really want to hold her close and kiss her slow.

I really wish she was here right now.

I like WordPress 2.9.

Talking to Mary you know you don’t have to shout. She can hear what you’re thinking like you were saying it right out loud.

I’m scared.


Christmas in a park

December 20th, 2009 | Category: Creative Flash

It’s a cold day, winter. He’s walking through a park, walking and thinking. He’s thinking about a girl, and a fight, and a Christmas tree. It’s a small tree, covered in pretty colored lights, gleaming ornaments, candy canes, a star on top. It’s all bright, and cheer, and warm. Thinking about the tree makes him melancholy, it’s everything he’s not. He’s all dark, and insecure, and uneasy. He’s disconnected, lonely, and in love, all at once.

He’s walking, hands in his coat pockets, trying to keep the cold out. It’s not working. Walking past people, people all bundled up, a fellow with his arm around his lady. People are walking dogs. Some old lady’s walking a cat, black leather harness attached to a leash. A leash lined with little silver bells. It’s an odd scene, a strange little holiday tableau. He’s in this crowd of people, and dogs, and a Goddamn fuckin’ tabby cat on a fuckin’ jingle-bell leash, and he’s the one who feels out of place. He’s so close to a fight, and so far from a girl, and anything he wants. He’s so far from that Christmas tree, and the lights, and ornaments, and candy canes, and the star on top. He’s walking through this park, worn-out and worn-down.

He could go to some bar, some dim shit-hole of a place. He could go and play some Christmas carols on the jukebox, Lithium, Dumb, Between the Bars, Talking to Mary. Angry songs and sad songs, songs of isolation and loss, love turned to pain. The songs dancing around in his head, Christmas carols to him. One day she’ll go, I told you so… Lyrics he often hears when it’s quiet, the soundtrack to his dreary Christmas. He could down a bunch of vodka, but it’s a little early, and a lot pointless. A temporary fix for a broken life.

There’s a bench, wood slats painted blue, he takes a seat. Cold air’s stinging his eyes, but the sun is big and on fire, shining through green tree leaves. Nature’s all around, beautiful and so right there. The world looks peaceful from that bench, unlike the noise and the worry in him. He’s tired, he wants to sleep. He thinks about the blade in his pocket, a switch-blade all sharp and shiny. He thinks about running the blade down his wrists, two vertical slits in front of God, and nature, and everyone, making a whisper of himself. He thinks about falling asleep in a red pool of life, wonders if he’d wake up some place better. He doubts it.

He knows where better is, and he wonders if he can go back. He hopes he can go back, but for right now, he’ll just sit here awhile.


Open mic night 12/10/09

December 10th, 2009 | Category: Life

A pink bracelet

December 09th, 2009 | Category: Life

So, last December, right now, I was in the hospital wearing a pink bracelet that said, “elopement.” It’s a little piece of jewelry they give you that means you’re a little off, that you might hurt yourself or run away. I wasn’t going anywhere, but I got a little pink bracelet anyways. I went in and talked about my insomnia, loneliness, all my darkness and suicidal ideations.

I was in a bad way, and I didn’t see a way out. It was my first post-Sara December, we’d been together almost three years, and I just couldn’t cope. I mean, the December before was like a fuckin’ romantic Christmas dramedy, then a year later she was so gone. I was sitting in my room alone, listening to Aimee Mann singing Calling On Mary, sobbing, feeling like no one would love me ever again. I’d have gladly put two vertical slits down both wrists listening to that song. A year before, Sara had her arms around me while we saw Aimee singing it live in concert. A year later, my mom and brother were screaming at each other about putting up Christmas lights, while I was alone listening to sad Christmas music. The contrast was too sharp.

Sara was gone, she wasn’t coming back. I knew she wasn’t coming back, I wasn’t hoping she would. I knew our future was done, I was just terrified that I’d never feel that connection to anyone else again. Six months later, I was still really into blaming myself entirely for the break-up. Yet, I did meet someone just after Sara took a walk, we met absolutely by accident. She saw me on the TAL episode, found my blog, decided to IM me. We talked for two hours that first night, then the next night. We started talking every-day. She turned out to live near me, we started hanging out. We were just supposed to be friends, but we had this connection, like we’d known each other for years. Out of nowhere, I was falling for her. The longer I knew her, the harder I fell. I’d catch certain glances, certain looks from her, but despite the way it felt every single time our eyes met, I couldn’t imagine her falling for me. I had this amazing woman in my life for half a year, and I couldn’t see why she even liked me. We’d hang out talking in my room for hours, she’d leave, and I’d promptly talk myself out of the idea that she could ever have any feelings toward me.

So, by the time December rolled around, all I could do was think about the ghost of Sara, hate myself, and want to die. Which is why I found myself wearing a pink bracelet, hoping a few days of psyche care, care away from everything, would help me sleep again. I told them everything, every dark thought. I showed them all my poems about suicide and death. I built a solid case against my sanity, I really wanted to stay. One of the doctors asked, “Have you ever asked anyone to help you die?” To which I replied, “Of course not. I’m not crazy.” The doctors conferred for a bit and decided I should stay for seventy-two hours of “aggressive treatment.” Now, in this situation you can’t sign up, then change your mind and go home. Once you’re in, you’re in. I wanted it though, I was dumb enough to think checking myself in was a spectacular idea.

I pictured three days of warm blankets, talking to therapists about everything that was dragging me under, lots of rest. The first few hours were really great, I felt almost optimistic. I was listening to Kurt Cobain and Elliot Smith, live blogging and tweeting about the irony of listening to Lithium in a psyche ward. It was great, until it wasn’t. Until I got to experience the aggressive treatment. They pumped me full of anti-psychotic drugs until I couldn’t see straight, let alone type. I didn’t feel real. It felt like I was dead, but conscious. No therapists came to listen to my troubles. I just kept thinking, “Way to go, Michael. You’ve fucked yourself nicely.” I felt stunningly alone, completely isolated. Though, I didn’t want to die anymore, not in some psyche room, not anywhere. I wanted out. I wanted to see that woman again, the one who found me totally by accident. I wanted to talk with her for hours, and tell her things I’d wanted to tell her, but didn’t know how to say.

When a psychologist came to visit on the third day, I told her I was fine, I felt so much better. Sure, I still had problems, but they were outpatient problems. I’d have told her the sky was fucking purple if that’s what she needed to hear. Anything to get out of that place. Anything to get back to my life, my odd, dark, amazing, fucked up life. A life that’s up and down, and still in progress.


Off my game

December 08th, 2009 | Category: Life

So, I’ve clearly been off my game lately, but I’m going to pick up again. December isn’t historically great for me, but fuck it, the writing cannot stop.


Not pure

December 07th, 2009 | Category: Attempted Poetry,Creative Flash

You are not perfect, you are not pure.

You are full of cracks, cracks too deep to fill with all the liquor, all the morphine in the world.

You are damaged, and fucked up, and worn down.

You’re just pretending to be alive, pretending until you can stop.


Tattoo #31

December 06th, 2009 | Category: Life,Opinions,Tattoos

So, on the outside of my left hand I have this tattoo, Silence. I’m pretty sure one’s immediate reaction to the tattoo is, “Oh, he can’t talk, that’s sad.” I’m not that simple though, it has nothing to do with me not talking.

Really, it’s the title of my favorite PJ Harvey song. To me, it’s a song about the silence one experiences in loneliness, the silence one experiences in longing for affection that is not returned. It’s such an absolutely perfect piece of writing. It captures so many feelings, loneliness, longing, pain, frustration, unrequited love, regret, in just a few words. As a writer, the song always amazes me. The song also reminds me very much of things I’ve felt in the last few years. So…

Tattoo by Colt, hardcore fuckin' badass at Doc Dog's Las Vegas Tattoo, Ybor City

Tattoo by Colt, hardcore fuckin' badass at Doc Dog's Las Vegas Tattoo, Ybor City

Comments are off for this post

Driving in the dark

December 04th, 2009 | Category: Creative Flash

So, just after the saying of Grace, with people sitting around a table of lit candles, poured wine glasses, a turkey bigger than any infant child, and all the foods that would accompany such a turkey, he left the table. It seemed a little odd, perhaps, to leave just after the prayer, and just before the meal, to leave without a word, but stranger things have happened. He’s a writer, he’s eccentric. Besides, he’d be back, right? Where could he possibly go? Then, they heard the front door, the open and the close. The starting of a car, headlights dancing around the living-room, tires screeching down the driveway, he was gone. He was so absolutely fucking gone.

Right now, in the car, stereo blasting angry songs, and sad songs, sung by sad, dead people, he’s driving. He’s driving nowhere in particular, he’s just driving. He’s driving to think, and not think, the cold night air hitting his face through open windows. The cold air feels so good, it burns his skin, wakes him up. He’s really not sure where he’s going, but he’s not going back there, back to his lifeless life. He’s not going to change his mind, slam on the brakes, turn the car around. He’d rather pull a gun and put a bullet in his mouth, it’d be better than what’s behind him. Back there’s another sort of death. People can die of boredom, and tedium, and frustration, and loneliness. They’re just as sure to kill as a bullet, but they’re slower, more quiet-like. They kill by inches and years, not with a click and a bang, and pieces of your face scattered around the room. Who needs that sort mess anyhow? He’d feel bad for the poor fuck who’d have to clean him off the ceiling. No, he’s not going back. He just doesn’t fit, never has. Back there, he’s alone in a crowd. He always feels like he ought to be somewhere else. He’s thinking about wheres just now, driving through the cold dark.

He thinks about God as he’s sitting at a red light across from some church. He could stop by, see if anyone’s home, see if God’s home. God probably wouldn’t answer the door though, God never answers anything. We’re all just solicitors trying to sell Him something, trying to get Him to buy our prayers. Keep me safe. Make me happy. I’ll be good, really, I promise. He’s heard it all before, He’s not interested. The light turns green, gas pedal hits the floor, the car doesn’t stop, not here.

He could go to some bar, get shit-faced with all the cash in his wallet, sleep it off back at the car, but he’s done that before. Liquor’s a Goddamn fucking blast, until it isn’t. Until you wake up enough mornings feeling like you got dragged under a truck, genuinely wishing that truck had finished you off. Bars are just somewheres that usually lead to nowheres. At least, that’s been his experience. He needs something different, something he’s never found in a shot glass, or a church, or behind the door he left before he got in his car and sped away.

He could leave it all, the whole fuckin’ city, the entire fuckin’ state. He could get on a bus, drive cross-country. He’s always thought about chucking it all, going somewhere quiet, somewhere where no one would think to find him. Maybe he’d write postcards a year or two later, “Hi, I’m not dead. I’m just in Casper, Wyoming.” He’d find a little house to rent, maybe a small apartment. He’d do odd jobs around town, shoveling snow, serving coffee in some diner, anything that pays anything. He’d read at night, listen to music as he falls asleep in a place that’s his own. He’d be alone, but not entirely lonely. He’d have a blank canvas, he could create a different reality. He’d have blank pages on which to write the story of him. He thinks about ditching his car at the bus station, a gesture that says, “Well, I’m out, it’s been real.” He looks up at the stars, wonders what those stars look like in Casper.

There’s a girl though, there’s a girl. At another red light, another stop, he thinks about her. He loves her, she’s always in his head somewhere. She’s really where he’s wanted to be all night, not driving around. He’s just afraid, afraid that it’s too much to hope for, being with her. Still, he could drive across town, he could go to her. He could tell her about the dinner, and the door closing behind him. He could tell her he loves her completely, how much she feels like home to him. He could hold her close, tell her she’s beautiful. She is beautiful, he can’t look up at the night sky and find a single star as beautiful as her. He could tell her he wants to fall asleep with her in his arms, that he wants to wake up in the morning and see her soft brown eyes smiling at him. He could kiss her in the moonlight, tell her he just wants to stay with her awhile, how ever long awhile might be. He could go to her and see what happens.

The light goes green, tires spin against pavement. He thinks to himself, “Well, fuck it, Casper isn’t going anywhere.”


The befores you don’t want

December 04th, 2009 | Category: Attempted Poetry,Creative Flash

You remember before her, before her warm brown eyes, her curly brown hair.

You remember before her touch, and before her kiss, before you ever held her close, told her you love her.

You remember the grey, and the empty, and the weight of lonely.

But when you’re with her, her hand in yours, her lips against yours, you forget the befores. The grey has color, the empty’s all filled up. The lonely isn’t heavy on your chest, doesn’t drag you down.

All those befores, they scare you though, they absolutely fucking scare you. They’re places you don’t miss, don’t care to go again. These places are like ghosts, they haunt you when it’s quiet. They stop by and say hi when you’re alone in the dark.

She keeps it all away, the places you don’t miss, the ghosts that haunt, so you want her to stay. She might not, and you know it. The might nots make you uneasy sometimes, they keep sleep away when you let them in, but they’re worth the risk of happening. Without that risk, all those befores would be so right now.

She could be gone tomorrow, or the next tomorrow, or the next, but maybe she won’t. You want to tell her things with a voice you can’t find. You want to kiss her slow, and be with her as long as tiny gears turning tiny hands allow.

She might go one day, but you don’t want it to be today, not today.