My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

Whenever I’m a little down, playing this song really loud always seems to make things a bit better. It’s so upbeat and positive, with a great sound. Oh, and I’m pretty sure it’s about a serial-killer.

I haven’t “spoken” since something like, last August. For the most part, except around certain people, I don’t particularly miss talking. At least, I don’t miss it strongly.

I’ve never walked, so I definitely don’t miss that, I don’t even imagine it. I’ve never had a dream in which I’m walking, my brain just doesn’t fathom it. Other physical losses, using my arms, sitting up, breathing, they all disappeared over years. It’s easy to adjust to gradual losses. Talking, however, is a different kind of loss. One evening, I choked on some pineapple juice, passed out and woke up two weeks later with a tube in my throat. Talking went away abruptly, I lost something so important in a blink. It’s not easy letting go, even after two years, but I’ve handled it well enough. There’s really no other choice.

Still, I haven’t completely let go of speaking. Whenever I’m listening to music, I still move my lips to the songs. Last night, I was listening to a mix of Tracy Shedd and Nirvana, really getting lost in the lyrics. Tracy sang, “and we’re taking the road, taking the road home…” Kurt ranted, “thank you dear God for putting me on this earth, I feel very privileged, in debt for my THIRST!” One song for my loneliness, the other for my frustration. I was singing along, like usual, but at these particular songs, these particular lines, I opened my mouth and honestly expected to hear my voice. For a few moments, I completely forgot about the little tube in my throat.

It’s funny how my mind can’t quit my voice.

I hate it when I can’t write, and I have to write about having nothing to write. Lately, the words just aren’t there. Though, I suppose that’s not entirely accurate. I always have thoughts in my head, there’s always something to write. It’s more accurate to say that I lack the desire to write my ideas, I lack focus.

It’s hard to find the will, whatever, nevermind. 

That’s how I feel lately. Tired, bored, frustrated, lonely, apathetic. These feelings aren’t anything new, they come and go, and come again.

So, I’d wanted a tattoo on my left hand for a long time, something to balance out the poppy on my right. I wanted an image that said something about me in a simple, yet elegant way. Well, last night, thanks to Colt, tattoo artist and all around fucking cool guy over at Doc Dog’s Las Vegas Tattoo Company, I have my sixteenth tattoo…

Nirvana Smiley

The Nirvana smiley pretty much describes me since, forever. I’m basically a happy, depressed sort of fellow. I’m both at once, I’m cheerful darkness. I think that’s the most honest way to characterize the me in my head.

The me in my head, I think, is the real me. Unfortunately, he can be astonishingly ineffective.

I’ve written about Atheism, liking the idea of Atheism, but I’m not an Atheist. I tend to believe in God, but not a happy God. I believe in Tori Amos’ God, a God Who doesn’t come through. I believe in Tyler Durden’s God, a God Who doesn’t want me, doesn’t like me, probably hates me. I believe in Elliott Smith’s God, a God Who makes problems just to see what I can stand before I do as the Devil pleases.

I tend to think that we’re God’s tv show. He probably doesn’t help us, He doesn’t hurt us, but I think He gives, or allows us obstacles to see how we’ll react, things to make the show more interesting. Mostly, He just watches as we find pleasure, or suffer. I don’t think God is actively out to fuck anybody over, but I definitely don’t count on Him to do me any favors. 

Ultimately, all we can do is solve our own problems, and help each other out. God would just as soon watch you struggle and die than do anything about it.

She’s beautiful, so smart, endlessly interesting. You tell her these things, because they’re entirely true, because whenever she’s around you’re entirely happy, but she just smiles and looks away. She doesn’t think she’s particularly amazing, but you know she is, and you want her to know it. Talking with her is the most natural thing in the world, you’re both so ridiculously alike in your odd contemplations. Your wants and worries are so the same.

You’re a restless sort, rarely content, often lonely, no matter who’s around. You always feel that you ought to be somewhere else, but that somewhere is elusive, never within reach. These feelings are usually so palpable, but not when you’re with her. Lying next to her, holding her hand, her head on your shoulder, loneliness doesn’t exist. You don’t want to be some place else, there is no place else. Being close to her is like walking through an opiate fog, but that feeling of peace, of contentment is real, not a drugged out illusion. You want to say these things, her lying so close, but you don’t. Her brown eyes are gorgeous and bright, warm and alluring, they make you forget your way with words.

So, the Super Bowl is in town, as is my entire family. They’re all massive Steelers fans, massive enough to spend an entire day at the Steelers’ hotel waiting for autographs, sometimes prostituting me for said autographs. They’re family, so I don’t mind whoring myself for a special occasion.

At any rate, we’re all there, an entire hotel packed with people wearing Steeler black and gold. I wore black and gold too, but mine was a little different, a black cap with the gold Nirvana frowny face logo. A sea of football fans, and me with my Nirvana cap, dark purple nail polish, fifteen tattoos, and my iPod.

She comes to me in a dream, so beautiful, so real. She’s lying next to me, holding me close, gorgeous eyes smiling. Her lips are warm and soft, kissing my neck. She tells me she misses me, she’s glad to be with me. I want her so badly, I miss her too, every-day. I’m happy to be with her, but it doesn’t last. I’m not there, she’s not there, it’s an illusion and I know it. I tell her it’s a dream, and she says it’s not. I tell her I have to wake up, and she says I don’t. I want to believe her, but I can’t. Reality is bleeding through, a reality I don’t want.

I wake up, wishing I hadn’t.

So, I missed a post, broke the streak. I’m not particularly upset about it, as I did come very close to my goal. I missed it because I ended up getting back late from a movie and dinner with my friend, Sarah, and my assistant, Sarah. Dinner at Cafe Bohemia was excellent. The movie, however, was the polar-opposite of excellent.

My Bloody Valentine 3D is one of the absolute worst pieces of garbage I’ve seen in awhile. It’s basically gore porn with a really boring story, I guessed the film’s brilliant “twist” quite early. We’ve seen it before, in better movies. Yes, it’s in 3D, but even a pair of Cobain-esque 3D glasses cannot fix a tedious and worthless story.