Archive | July, 2012

Memory of Living

24 Jul

This is a memory:

The audience was quiet, waiting for me to start. They were a collective group of senior high school students. Some of them my friends, some of them I barely knew. But we had all grown up together, and there’s no changing that. No matter who was weird, cool, or crazy.

The classroom was a small square room on the second level. The desks were pulled into a circular fashion.

I grabbed a chair, placed it in the center of that circle, so I could see every eye, make sure they could all see me.

This was a moment I had been waiting for a moment to show I was good at something.

Our final year, our final class presentation, and I had decided it was fitting, for my persona as so I portrayed, to present a monologue; which for years, had consumed me in its bitter regret, and beautiful words.

I explained the situation : A man in jail, being asked :  have you been rehabilitated? What a question.

I sat down, looked at the audience and began. What I felt was the moment, not only the words I spoke but the deep regret I felt in my own life sure I wasn’t a man in jail, but there were many things I felt at the time needed to be redeemed within me, many things I had done wrong.

When I spoke the words, they came from a place of truth, they came from that place deep inside of me which I cannot say is from the heart or the brain but something else, something utterly human.

Everyone in that room was silent listening, watching, but I didn’t notice them not really, because I was in the moment, in that scene, I was the character and for the first time in my life I didn’t care about what people thought of me if they thought I was hot or ugly, or crazy or fun, dramatic, all the old connotations dropped when I became the character.

The last line,

I look up at every person make sure my eyes reach as many as possible

make sure they see the regret written in every part of my face.

When I  finish there is a silence for a minute,

and then everyone starts to clap.

It’s been many years,

but if I go back into that memory

I can remember what it means to be alive.

If There’s no Brain, Theres no Power…

20 Jul

I’m not sure how to say how this subject came up but it did.

I was thinking about people who need alcohol, who need a joint, who need to smoke who need to gamble, but those are just a few addictions, out of the thousands that our society has developed or… made up.

It doesn’t have a brain does it? The glass of wine, or the cigarette in your hand? It does not have a brain . And yet for many, they use them, and thoughts come about which make us act differently, maybe to some, it makes them act better or so they think.

If something doesn’t have a brain, then it cannot be trusted,

Because maybe, its not the drug, that makes you feel good

maybe its the thoughts caused by it

the thoughts caused….

In theory if one can control their thoughts one can control their emotions

so one thinks using and abusing the thing without a brain is a way of controlling their thoughts

but it isn’t.

Makes you feel good?

But the consequences are thick with regret,

and so maybe we need to forget our cheap methods of forgetting of deluding our lives with the senseless objects of life which are just that objects with no mind with no intent.

The only intent is within ourselves. Control that, and I believe you got a hold of the future.

Ugly Concealed

15 Jul

It’s only in my writing now that I feel any peace,

Its only in my writing that I don’t feel so alone,

Because for the first time—

Like a stupid teenager in some kind of melodrama

I am feeling the reality of life

The disgusting truth

That when you see the ugly side of someone especially

especially someone so close to you

That’s when you can never see them the same way

You mark it in your memory

Make sure never to forget what they’ve done

Suddenly all trust is lost

It dissolved with the actions not taken

And the words spoken

The ugliness of a person

Is never physical not to me

It’s inside a human

Inside their incapacity to do what must be done

In their constant laziness

In their preposterous ways of neglecting their duty

In their horrible way of blaming anyone but themselves.

 

So now I am left with knowing we are alone

My only therapy is the pen

Only their can I have friends

My characters are all me

  the parts good and bad

Because no one is perfect

 No one is completely evil

Not in the way that we think

The super villains and the heroes.

Normal people have all kinds of sides

We all got the noble hero

And the villain, waiting to make an appearance

But those who hold back are those who win

Those who show courage under the worst of circumstances

Those are my hero’s.

 

I am still learning right from wrong

I’m no kid

So why did it take me so long?

 

Maybe some people are meant to be kids forever

Maybe I’m too dumb to realize that some dreams are force-fed.

 

Who am I now?

But a ghost,

a wandering idiot

looking around for consolation

HAH

Betrayal is a dirty thing

I’ve learned the hard way

that when you want something done

you do it yourself

never rely on anyone

ANYONE—except yourself.

Blocks Up and Down

14 Jul

The blocks are too much of a blow

I try to hold on

keep my sanity in check

but theres this wedge of fear

that’s getting in the way

it creeps up the walls

hovers at the gates of my consciousness

and then I’m nothing but a lost cause

stuck in a thought

a pattern of destruction

If there’s any hope left

it’s only in prayers

and even those have come to be to few

not enough for recovery

If only the end could come

then I’d be alright

But that’s just silly,

nothing ever ends

not really,

It’s all a cycle

of winter and summer in my mind

and right now the blocks are covered in the thick

impenetrable snow

that sticks

and swallows me deeper

then I’ve ever been before.

State of Play

9 Jul

They were all acting in front of me,

the dumb clowns,

didn’t they know I could tell?

There was a difference between the barbies and myself…

I was ugly inside

and maybe on the outside as well,

for whatever wrinkles and tugs the inside

will come out.

And so they laughed, danced, drank.

Pathetic.

There was a need in me to stand up and shout.

To become hysterical,

to break the façade.

I imagined it again and again in my head

a lunatic carousel revolving faster and faster

until someone handed me a smile.

Throwing it back, didn’t mean it was sincere.

But hey you wake up,

you put on your costume,

whatever it may be,

the hair and makeup,

and then your ready to get on stage.

 

Day after day, revisit the play

A Concept Called Time

4 Jul

 

“The future is just a fucking concept that we use to avoid living today.”

 

What is time anyway? A measurement of change? Sure, we can get scientific, but to the human being time is something else entirely. We created this concept called the future, and most of the time we just use it so we can avoid the truth, living in the present. And as the great writers of Six Feet Under said it, “The future is just a fucking concept that we use to avoid living today.”

          Wow. First, these writers string these words together so delicately and perfectly, in such a way that I am left thinking: how did I not come up with that? Or at least, it is a truth that we know, yet we do not know how to out these truth’s into words.

          That is when I realized that this is what writers do; they use their words in order to tell the truth in a way that has never been said before. In a way that will astound us, shock us, make us see the world in a new way. To me, that my friend is the sign of a great writer.

          But back to the real subject, which is time. Our concepts of time. The past, present and future. In the waking state, I mostly ruminate over the past, fantasize about the future, and usually worry over it.

          It is the present that we live. Our dominion, our reality our path to success or destruction is all about what we do now. The more I accept this truth the more I utilize it. The more I stop worrying about what could have been what might be and instead concentrate on what is in front of me.

          It is not a sin to plan for the future; it is not bad to hope for the best, to dream of exciting events. What is destructive is whining over the possible fears that might become a reality.

          What is the point of wasting our precious present with the occupation of unhealthy thoughts? None. No point.     

          So here is my question—what do you spend every moment, every day thinking about—the past the present, the future? Does it matter at all—as long as it is positive? We cannot ignore the lessons the past teaches us as individuals, but we also cannot live in it forever. Or do we live in it already? Are the writers of Six Feet Under correct, or is this an extreme concept of time?

          Time is the spoon,

          Life is held in it,

          At some point,

            It will…spill.

Sour Deed

3 Jul

The kindest spirit can turn ugly

Very quickly,

When they dip their toes into the eternal muck.

Lie with ease,

And kill with no regret.

 

Temptation was my own undoing,

Slow and painful was my recourse

I tried to go back

I tried to find the way where there was something good  

But nothing has changed in this place,

Nothing ever changes

Unless something is done

Something vehemently good or bad

 

And who is the man who judges the worthy from the unworthy?

The scum from the warriors?

I thought that someone would save me…

I thought their was a purpose to every action,

And then I found out,

Rather horribly that the monster lives within…

The weakened soul.

 

So I left

With nothing in hand,

It tried to follow

My nasty sins

And the others with their petrified glances

Were happy to see me leave

And I myself was with joy

That I would never again have to see this place

The one place that never changes

The one place where hell exists.

 

Which later I found out,

Was not a place

Not in the physical

But sadly,

Only within….oneself,

But only if you choose

Only if you decide,

To live in it.

 

No matter which way you run

Which hidden passage you stay,

Hell can only exist if you let it.