Just Try to Understand

What have I chosen for myself?
These thoughts are real!
A life so lonely it sickens
These feelings are real!
Every pebble pregnant with purpose
I can think nothing else!
Every life a beautiful waste
And I can feel nothing else!
Forever, In Search Of
Just know I am true
Forever lost, though aimless
Just try to understand

Curse

Cursed with a complexity I can only hope to understand
Such intimate words confound and impress themselves upon me
I want to feel nothing, anymore
To subtract the weight I’ve attached to everything
I wanted an anchor in the sea of my life
To drown me or to keep me from drowning myself
You know I could never swim
But now I’m in too deep to save myself

Loneliness, He Comes Upon Me

The stillness of the air
Is stung by the restlessness of my single bed
As Loneliness, he comes upon me in the night.
The only lover I’ve ever known
Who always comes home, should he ever leave
His touch, his breath, his aura consumes me
He knows me, and I him, yet we are strangers,
Drawn together for we both seek companionship
Be it miserable, reluctant or compulsive.
It is needed--this companionship, this validation
Thus when I feel the pressure of his body against mine,
When I feel his strong hands clutching at my throat,
Making my breath short and the vision of my life bleak--
When I feel his presence fill and silence my restless bed
Making the still air somehow electric--
I surrender myself completely
Simply because
We all need someone else to keep us warm and safe
From Night’s cold indifference.

Chapter 2

The image of the fleeing woman seemed emblazoned in her mind. She woke the following morning with the image of her painted on the inside of her eyelids. The same woman she had seen so often before, coming in at late hours, after working God knows how many hours to find a different friend tending her arrogant child. Sometimes he was alone, which was how Janice wished to see all children. Abandoned and alone, as she saw herself at so tender an age. In truth, her childhood had not been very difficult. She had had parents who loved her and, though they were by no means wealthy, she never went a day without food in her wide mouth, or clothes on her broad back, or a roof above her square head. Nevertheless, in her mind, her childhood was of the Dickensian variety. She saw little Janice, eyes wide as the English Channel, her naturally auburn hair somehow blonded by youth, and cheeks rosied by some anonymous winter in Florida, her birthplace and home til the age of eighteen. She saw herself hungry and on the verge of tears, homeless save for a cardboard box, a far cry from the one floor bungalow she shared with her parents til the day she decided to take to the wild streets of New York for college, and what she had hoped, the promise of booze and jazz. Instead she found artists with little credibility and even less talent and men too eager to offer their hearts at the expense of one night.

It was perhaps this blandness of youth that encouraged Janice to invent a suitable past with which to comfort herself. Had the years grown so long that she began to believe her lies?

The baby is never going to cry, she thought, suddenly, standing at her window, observing the apartment across the street. Why had she gone to sleep? she then wondered. Where are the police? Shouldn’t the area be buzzing with burly men in tight-fitting uniforms? Shouldn’t at least a fat man in a tight-fitting uniform be around, asking questions of the people in the young woman’s apartment. What if they ask her? What would she say? Honestly, the image was so fast, the light flickering on and off so quickly, that the shadowy figure chasing the young woman could have been anything, Like, what, officer? She played out the scenario in her head. Should he be young and virile, she would have no problem working her womanly wiles on him. A slight throw of the head to one side, letting her curly hair slide ever so gently into her still attractive, albeit slightly worn face? Biting her lip with all the blithe assurance of a skilled ingénue, of not necessarily the youth. What if he were fat and his potbelly had already burst one or two buttons off a uniform he had been wearing since, if, he was young and virile. No matter. She could still seduce him, rubbing his belly, kissing his ear, God hoping there was no hair or wax or a deadly combination of both lurking there for her tongue to find. She’d cozy up to the officer or detective and coo that she was not even awake at the time the crime happened, which for all sakes and purposes, could well be true. Maybe she wasn’t awake. Maybe it had all been a dream after all. That would explain the lack of the proper authorities.

Still, the image of the woman strayed with her. She sipped her morning coffee, trying to squint into the woman’s darkened apartment.

The baby is never going to cry again. Was that a bad thing? No, she banished such selfish thoughts out of her head. When the little creature was born, about over a year ago, she immediately disliked it. At night it would keep the entire neighborhood up with its inhuman wail. During the summer she had been forced to get an air conditioner as to keep the windows closed and drown out the unhappy child’s incessant screams. Never had she seen such an insolent creature, but the thought of it being gone forever from the world, it saddened her greatly. Again, she pushed thoughts out of her head but these were thoughts, maternal thoughts she had long hoped dormant.

She finished her coffee and disrobed in front of the window in preparation for her shower. She liked giving the old pervert with the binoculars a good show. Oh, there he was, still kicking and pounding, one hand on the binoculars and the other god knows where. He was only two apartments over from the young woman, surely he would have heard something. Would have done something, if only call the police or see what was was going on with all that racket. For surely, there must have been some racket. Or the furious older woman, all dressed up with no where to go, she must have heard something, though she might be well into deafness and senility by now. But what of the transvestite. The young woman’s apartment is between his and the old broad. They would done something, Janice tried to assure herself. She turned on the shower.

The hot water ran over her tight-for-forty-something body, all she could hear was the lonely echo of the faucet and it occurred to her that if she died, none of her neighbors would know or, for that matter, care. She had lived in that apartment for thirteen years and had barely spoken to anyone in that building. But with rising rent and declining space, neighbors came and went so it was best not to get too attached. And the new resident were usually spoiled, trust fund babies who trashed the apartment and went on to another one, all without a care in the world. So she kept to herself. Maybe the young woman was the same way. Maybe no one knows she’s dead. She toweled her hair and slipped into her bath robe.

Janice tried her best to think of what the day had in store before her, but the young woman’s image became clearer and clearer by the minute. Her face, never pretty from what she could see, and Janice could spot ugly from three hundred meters, was contorted in a mix of anguish and fear, right before the light switched off. Just as quickly as it had come on. And what of that poor, insolent child? What had the shadowy figure done to it? To the young woman? And what if he had seen Janice watching? No, impossible. The buildings, although close enough to see into a corresponding apartment, are too far apart to see a youngish woman of late thirty-something, eyes half-closed, witnessing a murder in a flash of light. At least she hoped. She continued to dress in silence.

After checking to make sure the curling iron, the stove, the coffee maker and her vibrator were off, Janice prepared to go out. She had decided to go on with the rest of her day and not worry about an incident she could barely recall had even occurred. Janice grabbed her keys and opened her door to a familiar crying. A baby sat outside of her door, throwing an unholy tantrum.

Chapter 1

The snow tapped lightly at the window. Perhaps it wanted in from the cold, Janice thought, the thread of sleep still tugging at her eyelids. She saw the frost building on the glass, heavier and heavier, fearing that the outside world might crash in on her and suddenly she grew incredibly thankful she didn’t have to be out there with the falling snow, hopelessly tapping to be in a warm room with a fireplace, under a thick blanket that, though it itched her skin, made her feel instantly secure beneath its wooly weight. The night slipped away into that dangerous but exciting limbo between consciousness and the sudden realization that a new day begins. Her mind went over what that day held for her once the warm embrace of the sun gently shook her from sleep. Surely, there were errands, appointments, something, anything to do, though she could not see them. Perhaps if she made a list, enumerating every task, but she could not bring herself to care. Rather, the rapidly building snow was the only thing of importance. But why? It had snowed before, had snowed harder, longer, hell, there has even been hail. Snow on steroids, as she had come to think of it. Once she was beamed in the head with a piece of hail the size of a marble. Look closely, and one could see the welt on her right shoulder where the hailstone pierced through the jacket of her Chanel pantsuit. So why was this snow such a surprise, a revelation? Why bother, she thought, trying to push the idea out of her head to finally put her thoughts at ease so that she might rest finally after a long day of sabotage and intrigue. After all, being the top Karry Fay distributor in all of upstate New York takes no small amount of bribery, coercing and obtrusive sexual favors. Yet her powerful position afforded her this chic little number in the heart of Midtown, amidst the crackling sound of life all around her. All that meant nothing, though, for that damned snow. The buildings beyond it seemed like they were in a different country all together. The large man with the laps of fat about his waist who wore women’s clothes after a grueling day at the office, to whom Janice had once sold a tube of Pucker Up Plum when she was just starting out, now lived in some remote area of Siberia, his window drawn closed. Janice wondered what he would be wearing tonight. Last night was a bit of a letdown, a man his size couldn’t pull off a wrap dress. He should have known that by now. She had hoped he would redeem himself with another vintage Balenciaga, but she had not seen him tonight. And next to him, the furious old woman with the extensive fur collection, whose apartment looked almost directly into hers. Where was she tonight, all dolled up with nowhere to go and no one to take her. Watching her made Janice feel the type of loneliness that seems familiar, if a bit of a ways down the line. She knew in 50 or 60 years she’d be that woman. And she too would be furious at having been left all alone to die in such a big, uncaring city. She must be, like, what, 90, Janice considered as she rolled her tired eyes over to the next apartment, the one with the tired single mother and the toddler who never seemed to grow or stop crying. But what’s that? He’s asleep, for once. And her window’s open, though the light is off in the kitchen. Then, like a flash of lightning, the kitchen is illuminated, for a short two or three seconds, and the young woman is running from one side of the room to the other. A large shadowy figure pursues her and the light goes out again. There is no scream, there is no baby crying, there is nothing at all in the heart of midtown. Not even a car horn, only the sound of the snow lightly tapping against the window. Thinking it was all just a dream, Janice’s eyes finally close and she enters limbo, unsure of what she saw, but ill at ease nonetheless.

Bubble

Of course
The bubble had to burst
And I had to return
To the earth, still
It was a beautiful respite;
Of course
The floor had to fall in
But at least I could learn
Just what it feels
To live and not merely exist

I Think I'm an Alcoholic

Productive
They walk by me
Do they see me?
Do they recognize me?
A fallen friend, classmate or colleague
Drinking
Alone
In the middle of the day
Again
What would they say?
Would I care to hear it?
Creative
I strive to recreate the world
As I see it
As I want it
Do they look at me strange?
Or with some sort of pleasure?
Morbid or otherwise
I finish my drink
The first
But certainly not last
Of the day
My world beginning to take shape
With each sip

Impotence

Perhaps what holds my pen
Steadfastly to the floor,
Beside its notebook, laid bare—
Its empty lines calling for their lover
To embrace and kiss them
With thoughts, questions, exclamations, declarations and prose—
Is perhaps not a lack of kisses
But a reason with which to deliver them
There is no love—there is no motivation
With idle time comes idle thoughts
Too many hours in the day
Or too many devoted to the wrong pursuits
The pen and notebook, the lovers
One is impotent, the other barren
Thus what was there before
All that passion, desire, drive
Has been lost to time
Too much, and yet not enough
There, sitting still, suspended for how long
His fire is extinguished

Chasm

He stands eight feet away from me
But in that eight feet
A chasm rises
Or sinks
Whatever chasms tend to do;
He seems so far away now
Beyond reach of my voice, or longing gaze
Yet, at the same time, I can feel the heat of
His eyes upon me, my heart starts to beat ever quicker
Should I crane my neck, would he be looking back?
If so, what would be the harm?
What would I say—
‘Say hi’
But then what?
‘Maybe comment on the weather?’
Come now, what else?
There is nothing else
I can only think how I want to tell him
How I love him and have been waiting for him
Though I’ve only now seen him…
People don’t say those things
No, not in real life
Not before at least saying ‘hi’
Dare I speak, but what if I should offend him?
‘No, not in real life…’
Best not risk it
As we are neighbors, despite this rising,
Or sinking chasm
But, then again
What if the heat I feel is not a tender gaze, but rather
A harsh stare
Or, even worse
It is
Nothing
At
All?
Should I turn my neck
And he would be paying me no mind at all…
I think it might be too devastating
And frustrating I should put so much
Weight on one or two words
Shouted across a rising,
Or sinking
Chasm
Instead, I turn my key, averting my eyes,
Rush into my apartment,
Throw myself on the bed
And listen
To hear him through the wall
Maybe thinking about me, or even listening
Just to hear me say
‘I wish we both weren’t a chasm away’

Like

I am bruised with longing
While cursed with a tongue
And a disposition
Prone towards coy discretion;
What I’m stumbling to say
What that has possessed me
To attempt to gush with such flowery abandon
So very far above my head
Is terribly simple:
I like you
Like like you, like you;
Pretensions be damned,
I wish to say as eloquently
And precisely as possible
That I completely, devotedly
To the point of obsessively
Like you like you;
It’s so simple but makes me feel
So complicated
I have beaten myself up over this
So that I am now
Bruised with longing
It hurts so I wish I could
Just like you
Instead

Ramble: Meaning

I know everyone thinks I’m full of shit when I start talking about my art and being an “artist”. Maybe they think I’m just some weird as shit motherfucker who refuses to accept reality. But they don’t understand. And all one can hope for is to be understood. It is the crowning achievement of an artist’s career when someone, anyone fully understands what went into creating a work of art and what you as the artist was trying to say. Yesterday I had a moment of clarity that took my breath away. It was as if I was looking directly at my life’s path set in front of me, all disjointed and broken, then suddenly, magically, it all lined up and made perfect sense. I know what I want to do and I have a vague notion of how to do it. I have to be clear. I want to translate life. We all feel emotions and go through experiences, but it is how we describe them that makes for great writing. It’s fine to be happy, but what kind of happiness is it? Where could it have come from? Was there a moment in childhood that reminds you of this happiness now and does it scare you, excite you, make you nervous to feel that unguarded again? Is the joy real or is it an attempt to cover the layers of sadness and withered hope you held onto for so long before burying it along with that old childhood self? What does it feel like in the moment and does it matter if it will last forever or for the next few seconds? Or if a character is feeling sad, is it that hopeless sadness that feels like it might never end lest you end it yourself, physically, dramatically, permanently? Does it overtake you so that even the slightest provocation leads to tears, and even the funniest joke can bring to life the laugh that is so familiar to your own ears? Are you someone else completely when you’re depressed, or is it just a natural state? I want to write to open people’s eyes to who I am, and by extension, who they are. I want to be able to touch someone’s heart and send that feeling of unknown energy, fuzzy and electric that seems to shift the way you see for a split second, making everything brighter and richer, to make the heart race with excitement. I want to articulate everything I feel to the best of my abilities. To write with passion and urgency, as if there was nothing else in the world at that moment but me and these words flowing from my heart and mind into my fingers darting quickly over the keyboard and onto a white piece of electronic paper. Here it can become something more than just what I’m feeling, some private suffering. Out in the world, on this white sheet, it becomes real, not just for me, but for whomever chooses to read it. and when they read it, maybe they’ll find some connection with those words and they will retreat into their heads to become something private for them. That’s as close to love as we can ever hope to come.

Liberation

I handed in my resignation last night before I left. I expected a wave of dissatisfaction, perhaps anger, definitely disappointment from those who I felt I was abandoning: the group of people I had grown to see as a family. They took me in my time of need and saw me through the hardest period of my life and here I was essentially turning my back on them. I expected a backlash. However, what I received was warmth and understanding. Instead of wondering what would come of the projects I was handling, what would happen to their work, what would happen with them, they worried about what would happen to me. How beautiful it is to come to the realization that people are human after all, not simply workers in an office, but human beings who can empathize and who can love. How beautiful it is to feel loved.

I handed in my resignation last night before I left because I had no other choice. Yes I would be giving up stability but stability isn’t happiness. One must make a decision how they will live their life. Can the pursuit and accumulation of money be the sole purpose of one’s existence? Is that what living is, going into a job you hate because you have bills, obligations, material things in need of upkeep? It’s a trap. It’s a lie. So I decided that I’d rather die physically than spiritually. I’d rather be broke and homeless if I can at least feel fulfilled. I don’t know what I’m living for, but I want to live for something. To hell with stability. To hell with the daily grind. I want to live romantically; to be in love with the life I lead, rather than dreading it. It sounds crazy, perhaps, but who am I or you or anyone to say what crazy is. There’s so much to see and feel and learn but will never know. What is crazy but an abstract idea of what normal people aren’t? I had no choice, you see. It was a matter of life and death.

I handed in my resignation last night before I left and it was the best decision I’ve made in a very long time. Things won’t improve immediately. If anything, they’ll probably get worse. But it’ll be my own doing. I have control now and I decide where I go, what I do and who I become. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s my own. This gorgeous mess of a life is my own and I’ve messed it up but I’ll clean it up. It might not look the way it did before, but it will feel the same. I need the mess. I need the chaos. It’s terrifying it’s exhilarating. It’s my very own. I handed in my resignation last night before I left…and that’s all there is. Ain’t it grand?

Withdrawal

I'm far too idealistic sometimes. I put so much hope and trust into one thing, only to be desparingly let down. True, I'm a cynic to the bone, disproportionatley bitter for my age, but oh, I love life. It's People I can do without. But life is extraordinary sometimes. Unfortunately, those sometimes come few and far between, leaving only the desperation and hopelessness. Yet for all the gloom hanging over us, there are those moments when you're in love with life. I just wish I could feel that way forever, to forever be in love.

I'm content. Right now, I am content. I've spent a lazy Sunday, watching movies from Netflix, high as a kite and twice as pretty, just trying to get out and over the night before. It was yet another disappointment, in one has become a running joke in my life. A party seems like such a simple thing. invite some friends over, drink, have fun and try not to say anything they might remember and hold against you in the future. Human relations are not simple, though. They cannot be because human emotions are too intense and consuming and only enhanced with the use of drugs and alcohol. But who can resist a room of their favorite people, loud music and conversations that at the time seem wonderfully meaningful?

The party was a bit of a failure, one that I took, like everything else, very personally. I like to think every emotion I feel has some greater resonance, some reason why. And I hate my job. It makes me want to die. Literally. It feels as if my life is not my own whenever I'm there, that my soul is no longer of use. I need to be in a creative atmosphere yet all I can do right now is work in an office. I am trapped by all these material things and I am utterly miserable. So why not throw a party?! A good olde housewarming party. My week was horrible, wrapped in depression and a growing sense of 'what the hell is it all for?' This party was to be my salvation, I thought. It wasn't. And I went to bed at 1 convinced I'd be unshakably withdrawn for the rest of the week.

And I might still. I like to run away from people and into myself when living becomes too much. I'm sure everyone does. Or maybe they do the opposite. Depends on who you are, I suppose. But as I lay on my bed this Sunday afternoon/evening, I don't care as I much as I thought I would. Yes, the party, and everything I had attached to it, delfated. That's life. A series of disappointments. I loathe the idea of going back to work tomorrow, though. I don't think I can handle it anymore. It's time to move on. The question is, will I be able to find the strength to move again. Have I gotten too comfortable, too lazy, too complacent to move? No, I cannot stay there. I cannot subject myself to such feelings daily. I must get out or I'll never get anywhere again.

But I'm ok. I watched my Netflix'd "The Hours" today. I had a very Mrs. Dalloway day yesterday. An ordinary day of errands for an inevitably frustrating party. It was wonderful. The movie, not the day. That something so tender, sensitive and revelatory can exist, gives me the reason in life I'm seeking. Art. To act, to write, to direct, to CREATE. I have to live in the hours of my life, no matter how hard they may seem. Or how pointless. After all, there is something waiting between them. Perhaps a great party. Or a great book. A great film. And the people I've been foolish/lucky enough to love.

All You Have to Do is Dreeeeaaam, Baby,We'll Be There... *And TWIRL*

So apparently I was the last gay in the world to see Dreamgirls, providing further evidence to have my 'mo card unceremoniously snatched from my immaculately manicured fingers. Ever since I heard about this movie, like around summer, I was a bit excited. And yes, that is an understatement. I was f-ing psyched. Especially when I started hearing the buzz. Standing O at Cannes! Oscar for Jennifer Hudson! Beyonce doesn't suck! What-what-what? Soon the anticipation became crippling. Living in NYC, I looked forward to seeing it before everyone else on Dec. 15th and then rubbing it in the rest of the gay nation's faggy face. Unfortunately, tickets were sold out until its wide release on Christmas Day. Thus I made it my mission to see the Dreams while in Poughkeepsie during the holiday. That, however didn't pan out, either on Christmas or the following weekend of New Years, as a bitch was too stoned and lazy to function. And I will not take your judgmental stares, either, mother fuckers. I'll tell you what, last person who looked at me like that got their left eye dug out with a plastic spork. Thus the new year dawned, miserably, by the way, and my manifest destiny's child was still out of my grasp. To make matters worse, I went to a friends' birthday party, steam packed with gays. Inevitably, the conversations turned towards Dreamgirls and I felt the cold Antarctic wind of the pariah, an outsider among outsiders. What kind of queen was I?! So, to comfort myself in the cold, Dream-less nights, I downloaded not only the regular soundtrack, but also the Deluxe Edition. 36 songs, y'all! Yet the shiny, bubbly 60s/70s Motown soul by way of Broadway with a quick detour in Vegas, only made me crave the accompanying visuals more. Finally, I saw it last weekend.

I liked it. Ok, really liked it. Didn't love it. It was really good. Not GREAT. As a movie, it's all right. The pacing's a bit off, and some of the characters and their relationships aren't developed that well. Actually most of the characters. You know who they are and what they're like, but not necessarily what drives them and why. That's really because there's very little in the way of dialogue in the movie. But it's a fucking musical. People's thoughts and feelings are expressed in elaborately staged numbers, much like how my thoughts and feelings are expressed on a daily basis. 5,6,7,8 I'm high! *And TWIRL!* The movie's lack of depth, though, is counterbalanced by the often thrilling performances and those damn, fabulous costumes. Eddie Murphy is surprisingly good. Lively, energetic and actually pretty sexy, while still human and tragic. Almost makes you forget that he made his last, like, 15 movies. Almost. Beyonce is actually rather capable as Deena Jones, except when given too much dramatic weight to carry on her dainty little shoulders. But Foxxy Cleopatra she is not. And her Diana Ross interpolation is awesome. Bitch remains a charismatic performer, if not a charismatic actress. And when she does that twirl during the "Dreamgirls" number, you realize that the girl probably killed Diana Ross and stole her essence because there's a new diva in town. Quick note: B apparently lost 20 lbs to play Deena Jones...I mean did she gain 40 lbs before losing it, or...just wondering. Gorgeous though. And Jenny Huds. Hi. Though her role didn't require that much acting, it did require a hell of a lot of emoting. You feel for Effie White, even when she's sassing the world with her big hips and even bigger voice. And what a voice. My face melted off during "And I'm Telling You (I'm Not Going)." How a relatively boring Jamie Foxx managed to walk out on that, is beyond me. Will it translate to an Oscar? I wouldn't be surprised, though the Academy might favor something less showy and with more acting. But any performance that can bring god in the room for 4:45 deserves attention. Oh, and how I do love when a star is born. In short, Dreamgirls, though not really worth all the hype, is still entertaining as balls. Big sequiny balls with some shimmery fringe and a beehive wig. It's full of magic so it's very easy to look past the weak-ish storyline and occasionally boring direction. I'm totally getting it when it comes out on DVD. And not from that little Asian woman in the subway, either.

Nothing Says Happy Holidays Like Grace Jones Singing 'Little Drummer Boy'

I just hoped there would be a dance break in the middle, where a dozen Grace Jones would march out and rip Pee Wee limb from limb, but I guess it was a family show. For the record, though, Pee Wee's guests included: Little Richard, k.d. lang, Zsa Zsa, Joan Rivers, Cher and I'm sure a tranny somewhere in there. A little flesh-tearing would have fit in just fine, thank you.

Edumacation

On my way to work, riding the elevator to the sixth floor, a doctor told me that I’m going to go prematurely deaf. He had entered the same time as I, too preoccupied with whatever he was reading to even say ‘excuse me’ when he bumped into me, but when the opening notes of the Supremes “Come See About Me” came marching out from my headphones, he took notice. “If I can hear that…” he began and I removed one headphone, so as not to be disrespectful, but the rest of what he said kind of just melted away. “I’ve been crying—prematurely deaf—boo hoo.” It’s not like I didn’t appreciate his concern, but this wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. Just like it wasn’t the first time that I nodded politely as I walked away, assuring my attempted savior that I would take their advice into consideration. What they don’t seem to understand is that I listen to my music so loudly so I don’t have to listen to anything or anyone else. The more disconnected with the rest of the world I am, the better. And if I end up deaf, which I’m sure I will, well, then it’s my own fault. It’s merely a consequence for a mistake. But most importantly, it’s MY mistake.

I’m beginning to feel the consequences of what may have been a potential mistake. Far too often, the practical side of my personality wins out over my idealistic side. I consider and reconsider every decision in my life, no matter how trivial, because I’m afraid of making the wrong decision. I’ve deliberated for half an hour what to buy for lunch only to decide that I’m not that hungry anymore. But then comes the time when I’m so tired of being afraid that I just say ‘the hell with it’ and jump headfirst into disaster. That dive is almost always immediately followed by regret. However, that was the rationale behind my decision not to go back to school. I wanted to take a chance and pursue writing, music, film, things that made me happiest. It’s like, if I don’t do it now, when will I? The logical step after finishing high school is college. You finish college, then either go onto grad school or find a job. That job will most likely not be in your desired career path, but, hey, bills add up. Eventually, hopefully, you find a job that utilizes that precious degree and those hard-earned skills, or you wake up one day in the same job and wonder exactly what went wrong. The answer is never simple, but following a set path practically invites fucking up somewhere along the line. Truthfully, I never wanted to go to college in the first place. I just wanted to get out of Poughkeepsie and matriculation was the clearest and easiest way to that. Mission: accomplished. Now what?

I was on the “traditional” path until I couldn’t afford NYU anymore, so I had to forge my own path. There was something very exciting in that, not knowing where I was going--I still don’t. But I felt a sort of beauty in fucking up. Everything was falling apart round me, being out of school, ending up homeless and being too stoned and drunk to really care. Disaster. All the while, I was half-heartedly promising myself and my friends that I was going to go back to school because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do and what I thought my friends wanted me to do. After all, what prospects are there for a college dropout? Then I realized that I didn’t want to go back to school. I didn’t want anymore debt, I didn’t want anymore useless classes and I sure as hell didn’t want to start over from scratch. NYU wasn’t about to release my transcript with the thousands of dollars I still owed them. So here I am. I managed to skip the whole finishing school thing and have gone onto the job for a job’s sake. I can’t help feeling twinges of regret, though. Sure I have a job now, but what about a year from now? The initial excitement I felt has decomposed into anxiety and, yes, fear.

On my daily commute to and from work, I notice ads for continuing education. Everyday people smile out at me, happy with their decision to go back to school and urging me to do the same. “Thanks to Interboro, I was able to make a better life for my kids.” Isn’t that sweet? Every time I see one of those ads, that regretting twinge rears its ugly head. How will I ever make a better life for my kids? How will I ever learn English so I can be more viable in the job market? How the hell will I ever start my own eye care business? I could always go back to NYU. I’m pretty sure they have eye care business as a major. I don’t believe it’s for me though. Not just ophthalmology—ha, big word—but university. It all comes down to structure and organization. For some people, they need that structure in order to thrive and that’s fine. I find, however, I need a lack of structure since it allows me to find my own way. If I’m told what to do, either by some well-meaning doctor, or by some clueless professor, I’ll simply ignore it. The world is all noise to me and I need to sort through it I order to find the sound that appeals to me most. And if I should go deaf in the process, well, at least I won’t have to listen to anyone ever again. A win-win situation, if you ask me.

This Mating Dance

Skin-tight T-shirts
They just love how you flirt
Butt-hugging jeans
You’re the star of the scene
2 drinks in hand, you storm the bar
To wake up next morning with no idea where you are
And your crotch has an itch you just can’t scratch
Yet you’re what some might call ‘quite a catch’
With gym-toned body and vacant stare
You left your glasses behind for a pair
Of contacts, now without a care
You go out each night, but find no one there

Take the lead in this mating dance
Just maybe you’ll put him in a trance
Then you can finally rest your feet
Finally feeling, that for once, you’re complete

Life’s filled with glee
When all your drugs are free
To keep things fun
You like not knowing what you’ve done
And with the beat in your ears
All anxiety melts and disappears
You think of old friends back home
While regretting that last drop of patron
Then push them out your mind
You just wanna have a good time
But in the mirror, behind that last line
‘The reflection staring back ain’t mine’

Take the lead in this mating dance
Just maybe you’ll put him in a trance
Then you can finally rest your feet
Finally feeling, that for once, you’re complete

Who are they all, crowded in together?
Young ones and old ones who should really know better
The stench of desperation fills the sweat-drenched air
As you sip one lonely drink by the bar in despair
It’s been too long, what does it hold for you?
But another hook up, another night to wash out your ‘do
Fat’s building up around your middle and the boys don’t look twice
Even the bartenders ignore a simple request for more ice
Defeated, you leave the old IT spot, unaware of the new
It’s been too long, what does it hold for you?

Take the lead in this mating dance
Just maybe you’ll put him in your trance
But maybe’s fickle, a 50-50 chance
Lean against the wall, sit out this tired mating dance

Celebrate Good Times, C'mon! FAWWWWNK!

Ooh, I just realized it's been (over) a year since I started my blog. An entire 11 months longer than I had expected my attention span to hold up. It's time to pop open some bubbly! Yeah, so what is' only noon, don't you dare fucking judge me.

It Looks Hopeless from Here but Admittedly I’m Near-Sighted

It looks hopeless from here but admittedly I’m near-sighted
I look to the sun, to see the bright side, you can’t say I didn’t try it
It only burned my eyes, the air filled with my cries, don’t sound too delighted
To see me fall, you know stars always fall the farthest and the world watches
Truth be told, I’m living in disappointment, been knocked down a few notches
But it hurts most to try, then fail, get back up and repeat the process
I can’t move forward because I’m always set back
I’d lift my head up, but I don’t know where my head’s at

Subsisting out of bags and on couches, I can’t shake it
I’m a burden to my friends, though you could debate it
‘Cause they’re all I have, in the pit of my stomach I hate it
Being a pariah, a motherless child if there was ever one created
She didn’t plan me, I supposed, being 42 and unwed
We ran to the states and I saw snow, the first time it fell
It was cold then and it never seemed to warm, oh well
If she ever loved me, I’ll never know, see we never discussed it
As I drop my head, moistened eyes, it’s like I’ve rehearsed it

I wish these days would halcyon up, let’s move the gloom along
Because I hate my life and my job but I know that it’s wrong
To look at the world, take a blind eye and sing your own sad song
Everything’s wrong, but everything’s wrong! Life is too long
Cruel little game we’re forced to play as if it’s our infinite duty
I hate the people who insist every day’s filled with infinite beauty
They’re too blind or simply they refuse to see the infinite cruelty
Wedged between those moments that make water fill your eyes
Expecting the worst leaves me open to be surprised

It looks hopeless from here but admittedly I’m near-sighted
I look to the sun, to see the bright side, you can’t say I didn’t try it
It only burned my eyes, the air filled with my cries, don’t sound too delighted
To see me fall, you know stars always fall the farthest and the world watches
Truth be told, I’m living in disappointment, been knocked down a few notches
But it hurts most to try, then fail get back up and repeat the process
I can’t move forward because I’m always set back
I’d lift my head up, but I don’t know where my head’s at

He Looks Like If Ryan Phillippe and John Stamos Had A Gay Baby

Hey Kids, remember this?
Well, I was trolling through youtube last night for something to wank off to when I found these gems: