My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

I formulate infinity stored deep inside of me…

Post #667

June 22nd, 2011 | Category: Life

So, this is post #667, nothing evil about that. I’ve been writing here since… mid-2007, so the stretches that I haven’t written show in the numbers. Still, 667 posts isn’t an awful number. I’ve tried to not post garbage, which is why sometimes I write nothing at all. I don’t know where this post is going, I don’t know where this blog is going, I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know. Who knows?

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Post #666

June 22nd, 2011 | Category: Life

So, this is post #666, aka Satan’s Post. I feel like rather than make it some regular post that’ll just get turned and twisted into some nightmare, I’ll just acknowledge that this is, in fact, Satan’s Post, post it, and move on.

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And this is

June 20th, 2011 | Category: Life

And this is the part of the story where Michael completely loses his head.

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A Thing to Do, done: The shooting experience

June 15th, 2011 | Category: Life,Opinions

Me, my shiny shirt, and a gun

So, as I mentioned earlier in the week I have this Things to Do list, just things I want to experience before my lights go out. The list has kind of been on pause for awhile, a long awhile, but today I crossed something off. A small something, but something just the same. A fun something, at least. I went to experience a shooting range. My assistant, Lauren, it turns out her fellow is military, so after she mentioned that I wanted to visit a shooting range, the rest just fell into place. He recommended the range at Knight Shooting Sports, came with us, and brought a gorgeous little 9mm semi-automatic pistol. It was fun, I got to dress all in black, touch a gun for the very first time.

Now some pictures…

Me at the range

Lauren and her fellow

I think movies and tv capture guns pretty well, pretty much perfectly from an aesthetic perspective. We see all sorts of guns, handguns, giant cannon-esque shotguns, rifles that fire hundreds of rounds in just a few seconds. We see how to hold these guns, reload these guns, we hear all the little clicks these guns make when they’re taken apart and put back together. We know all these things without ever actually physically being anywhere near a gun. There is, however, one aspect of guns that I now realize movies and tv cannot capture, guns are LOUD, not 5.1 movie theater surround sound loud, or crank your tv to 99 loud, it’s an entirely different kind of loud. That tiny-looking 9mm pistol, I’ve never experienced anything like it. It really became clear when Lauren went all Reservoir Dogs, pulled the trigger bangbangbangbangbang, fuck aiming, let’s do this, motherfucker. Every time she puffed that trigger, my cheek bones vibrated, even hurt a little. It was intense and unnerving and completely exhilarating, all at once, and I was several feet back from all that power. I mean, I was at a shooting range with a 9mm pistol, with my ears protected, and it felt that palpable. War, for example, is like what I experienced, times ten thousand. The thought is mind-blowing.

So, that was my today. Something I’ve really wanted to do, done. If I kept writing, kept this sentence going, things would turn really melancholy. I’ll, just, not.


Tattoo #51

June 15th, 2011 | Category: Life,Opinions,Tattoos

Tattoo by Fish, Doc Dog's Las Vegas Tattoo, Ybor City

So, this tattoo, #51, is from an Alanis Morissette song, These R the Thoughts, which is off her MTV Unplugged record. MTV Unplugged is tied with Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie (SFIJ) as my favorite Alanis record. MTV Unplugged is so great because Alanis’ voice is gorgeous and being outside the typical studio setting you really get to hear that voice. I’ve seen her in concert too, she just has a spectacular, raw, beautiful voice. MTV Unplugged shows her voice, and it has a few of my favorite songs off of SFIJ, which is why I love it so much. These R the Thoughts is only on MTV Unplugged and no other studio record. The song’s basically a series of worries, questions she asks herself throughout a day. The song doesn’t have any hooky chorus, it’s just a series of questions… Why do I feel cellularly alone? Am I supposed to live in this crazy city? Can blindly continued fear-induced regurgitated life-denying tradition be overcome? It’s so not a hooky pop song, or rock song, it’s a journal set to great music. My favorite section, part of which is etched into my arm, Why do I fear that the quieter I am, the less you will listen? Why do I care whether you like me or not? Why is it so hard for me to be angry? Why is it such work to stay conscious and so easy to get stuck and not the other way around? Both of those sections, the latter, obviously, sound so much like the questions I ask myself, the worries in my head.

In a larger sense, sure, I do worry that if I quit writing here, quit trying to get published in print, quit writing altogether, I’d just disappear. Nobody would care, or come looking for me, or even idly wonder, “Whatever happened to that guy, he wrote about zombies and sex, and loneliness and suicide and addiction and dark optimism and some girl? I think it was some girl. He had all those tattoos… What was his name? Michael something?” I think most writers, even the ones who get seriously paid, write because we love the craft and want to be remembered for what we did with it. We write to be known. I don’t think Jeff VanderMeer or K.J. Bishop or Michael Cisco would quit writing if the paychecks stopped. We have words in our blood and we cut ourselves so that all those words come pouring out, and we want people to watch. It’s a little bizarre, but we want people to watch. The words can’t just stay inside, the words flow thorough our veins and bounce around in our heads, we’re full up, so we have to get those words out and put them somewhere else. Yes, I do worry about getting quiet and fading into oblivion.

Really though, it’s much deeper than that, it’s less about a writer’s want and more about something personal. In the song, Alanis is talking about just one person. I only worry about one person not listening, not wanting to know me. The day we met we talked for three hours, I so wanted to know her, and I so wanted her to know me. I was scared that night, that first night, that there wouldn’t be a second. It’s something out of Shakespeare, something only story-tellers tell, but I loved her that night. It was just one long IM, but as ridiculous as it sounds, I loved her. She sent her picture and I only fell harder, I just left the picture open all night. I didn’t want her to be just a dream, it felt like a dream. No one’s eyes could be that beautiful, showing that much intelligence and warmth. We went to our first movie together, those eyes saw mine, I got lost in them. That was just about four years ago and I still get completely lost in her eyes, I just keep loving her more. Every-day I love her more. My words, they’re all hers, they’re all so that she can know everything that’s in my head. Lots of them are here, some of them ended up in print on There are pages upon pages that no one, save her, will ever see, they’re hers, written for her eyes and no one else’s. Most of the words etched into my skin are hers. It’s all just so she can know me, and be close to me. How can you really be close to someone if you don’t give them everything in your head, beautiful words, dark words, scared words, every word? I love her more than I can explain, but I try, I so try, in flash fiction, in e-mail that’s written after bad dreams, in romantic paper letters. She asked, “Why do you love me and not someone else? There are thousands of women, thousands of mes.”  I didn’t have an answer all in a pretty wrapped box with a teal silk bow on top, the question just scared me. I’ve written a mixed media novel in answer to that question, digitally, in print, on my skin. I didn’t say the right thing, I got frustrated, it just felt like something you say before you disappear. How could she ask that and not know my head, and my heart? I got upset, overly so. Though, the simple honest answer is that when I’m with her, I never want to be anywhere else, with anyone else. When I’m not with her, it’s like part of me is missing, so I’m never completely anywhere since we met.

I got the tattoo when she felt far away, I felt like nothing I said meant anything. So, I got quiet, and I got scared. Now I’m here and she’s somewhere else. I’m lost and drowning in words she doesn’t want anymore, not from me.

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A quick right now

June 14th, 2011 | Category: Life

So, right now I’m at this trendy coffee shop in Ybor City, The Bunker. Though, honestly, it’s not very bunker-esque. I mean, they’ve been playing Coldplay for what feels like four hours, but is really only thirty minutes, Yellow just isn’t “bunker music.” Granted, I don’t know what IS bunker music, but I know it’s not Yellow, or Fix You, and definitely not fuckin’ Clocks.

Anyways, I’m here with Lauren (my top-notchy assistant), my tiny MacBook Air, and a decaf soy almond latte, which is probably the least pretentious coffee I ever order. Usually, it’s something with vanilla, or raspberry, or white chocolate, something ridiculous, decadent. I feel on the opposite side of decadent right now. Melancholy, is probably the word, but that’s nothing new.

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New glasses

June 13th, 2011 | Category: Life

Me and my new glasses, and a black eye

I don’t have anything particularly interesting to write. I got new glasses, aside from my fucked up eye, I think the glasses are kind of fetching.

My head’s somewhere else, I have like, five posts started and unfinished, one pushing a thousand words. I just can’t finish any of them. Can’t, won’t, don’t feel like it, something along one of those limes.

Maybe I’ll post my last three tattoos later. Maybe. Eventually. Of course.

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Bouncing around

June 11th, 2011 | Category: Life

I’m still pretty scattered, but I really am trying to post every-day and if I keep doing that, at some point, I’ll write something pretty. So, that’s the plan.

Yesterday, I started a big project, well, I made Lauren, my assistant, start it. A few years ago I got lazy and quit tagging my blog posts, really, my assistant, Sarah, used to tag them and when she retired, I didn’t keep it up. Part of it was, I just missed her, and doing the tags or making someone else do them, that just made me miss her more. So, the tagging stopped. Yes, an assistant’s just an employee, but the good ones, they do get really important. I miss them when they go, there’s a real sense of loss, another person who goes. Sarah was around when my thumb quit working and I could hardly type, hardly talk to anyone, before the NeuroSwitch. People weren’t really around anyway. Sarah was around though, so we’d go to lunch, at night we’d go to the bar, we’d alphabet conversations. She was good with the alphabet and smart to talk with, so she kept me sane when I really needed it. Sometimes, sitting at the bar, with a vodka tonic and ten dollars worth of Elliott Smith in the jukebox, I’d alphabet flash stories that she’d type up after. She was around for twenty-ish tattoos. She stopped me from dying once. She was around when I really needed someone to be around. A fix for a fix, but we were close and had fun. So, yeah, when she left, the tagging stopped.

Anyway, we’re tagging again, Lauren’s off to a spectacular start. Tonight, I go for another tattoo, and then and then and then…

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The last post

June 09th, 2011 | Category: Life,Opinions,Thoughts on Music

The last post, that weird italic paragraph, I found a new Nirvana song that brought that into existence. I was listening to this song, The Other Improv (Demo), off their With the Lights Out collection, and it just sort of took over the post. It’s a fun song, one of few I’ve never heard. Their playing, the music sounds done, but the lyrics, it sounds like Kurt’s just making most of them up as he goes. Lots of Nirvana songs seemingly don’t make sense, but the lyrics are written and set, and if you take them apart you see the parts with meaning. Kurt liked mixing sense with nonsense, the nonsense often being the hooky, pop sounding parts that rhyme.  With The Other Improv, you hear he has the general idea of the song in his head, but he’s making up most of the lyrics on the spot. It was fun just hearing him create a song rather than perform something that’s already created.

I’m thinking about Monica, so I just started writing flash without thinking about anything but the words stumbling out of my head and posting it unfiltered. I saw her, it didn’t go right, I got scared of what she was saying, I reacted wrong. I don’t want this, I love her so much, so fucking much. I can’t fuckin’ sleep. God, I just want to go home. It’s like half of me is always someplace else, my head is never completely anywhere, with anyone. It’s like I’m in this car, drinking down some dirt road, and no matter how far I drive, the road just keeps going and I can’t go home. I’m in this bad dream that doesn’t stop when wake up.

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Blood and Glass

June 09th, 2011 | Category: Life

I’ve never written about it here, but ever since I was fifteen, after reading The Catcher in the Rye, I’ve had this… recurring want to put my fist through glass windows. Whenever I get so lost, so frustrated, I imagine going through the house and putting my fist through every single window. We’ve never had a garage like Holden Caulfield. I imagine the glass cutting my skin, digging into my knuckles, tearing veins, arteries. That pain would drown out every thought in my head. My head’s such a disaster.

He just loves her. he loves her , when he looks at her, time stops. She goes and goes and goes, and time goes and goes and goes, until everything’s gone and gone and gone. He’s just rambling now, waiting for sleep and bad dreams.He’s just rambling so that he’s not thinking about her, but that’s wrong, he’s rambling about her, so he’s not not thinking about her. He’s never not thinking about her. She’s somewhere else, he just wants her close, maybe the rambling makes her close. It does it does, a little a little, not enough. Not enough. At night, not enough.


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