ttyl driving

popping ichor laced lashes open,
salted tears stinging their freedom through
swollen vision.

sterile white, burning breaths,
in, out
in,
searing reds rip through my fingers,
nails-..
screws. Finger screws.
Trapped in this broken body.
Tubes as though my doctor is Frankenstein.
If humor is not dead, neither am I.

4 sleeps from now, I’m entreated to see
the slivers I look through in a mirror.
The only bits exposed through the plaster cocoon.

10 sleeps later, I am cut loose.
my limbs are still jelly.
I am not a butterfly.

I won’t ever walk again.

anti.social.nature

My slow scraping shoes…

marking time like the drummer boy
of an army awaiting the inevitable,
but soldiering on anyhow.

Those shoes

they’re mellifluous white noise,
juxtaposed with the honking and
and the coughing and the shouting
and the gray
and the smothering cold and blinding gold
of the breaking of the day
which seems it will never end as it bleeds into
the hundreds that made up yesteryear.

skrsch, skrsch, skrsch.

skrsch- they drag,
skrsch- they slow,
skrsch- they stop.

Everyday staring at my shoes,
satisfied by every passing pair,
because they were carrying by eyes that would never catch mine.

Until today.

Before me, a pair of sensible black leather shoes,
stopped equidistant from what was between the tips of my brown leather brogues and hers

-cracked ground-

ruptured like a cinderblock by the hand of a practiced artist from one of those movies I watched as a kid.

“Sclerenchyma – strengthening tissue in a plant, formed from cells with thickened, typically lignified, walls.”

…
…

I-…
…

“Sclerenchyma, it’s how plants, break through the concrete. They’re little, but they’re a lot stronger than they look. Tiny, little guys can break through damn near anything.”

…
I-…
…

“Hi!”

I was never struck so dumb as the moment I slowly scanned my way from her sensible shoes-.. Oxfords
if you were wondering,
to her too tight, blue jeans, gripping her thighs
like my virginal little fingers couldn’t have even known they wanted to at the time,

sticking
for a moment to her black leather belt and golden cherry tree buckle,
my stomach bluttering like a million flutterbys as I passed hers,
my heart stopping as I realized I’d reached the bit of crop top skimming her still breasts, unlike mine, which were heaving because I finally realized that the desert in my throat was from hyperventilation and like a fool I’d stood stunned for-…

Hi.

“Are you alright?”

I was just admiring the little flowers growing out of the pavement

“Yeah. Sorry, about earlier, sometimes when I don’t know what to say, I just start spouting facts hoping I say something interesting. But somehow I felt I had to say something.”

Yeah,
I get that.
I never know what to say
either
So
usually I just say
what I’m thinking and
people leave if they
don’t like it

“Oh? Well what are you thinking?”

flecks of green
shattering ubiquitous gray,
gave me hope for a future
where each day we are not the pall-bearers
in a corporate sponsored march
to the industrial dirge, playing
at the wake of freedom,
as the other virtues mourn her loss.

“Oh.”

Yeah, I’m sorry-..

“You’re beautiful.”

When I Tried Courage.

One time, I told my friends not to egg a house,

And so they didn’t, but mischief on their minds and in their hearts and hands,
they egged me instead.Mother said, “Better no company than bad.”

There was this other time, I stood up to the girls giving Sarah a wedgie,
And they stopped.
Unfortunately, their will to wedgie did not cease with their actions.

Beating like my heart, my feet hit the pavement thud after thud. I felt my blood pulsing through my toes, and all my air passages were raw with the erosion of the wind I greedily scraped into them to fuel my escape. Speed or tears blurred my vision, I couldn’t tell.

Three blocks I ran.
Three blocks they chased. I faltered, and there was no mercy.

I’ve decided that being the hero is hard, and that maybe I will only do it on occasion.
Apparently a lot of the work is pro-bono.

At the end of the ordeal, my face covered in tears, snot, and my granny panties which I now wore as both hat and harness, I looked proudly at my reflection in the puddle I had cried for myself.

Mother reminded, “Being a hero is it’s own reward.”

I Don’t Hate You

I have a friend who liked to debate difficult subjects on facebook. Often it led to fiery disputes among his friends in the forum that was his facebook comments.

It is now with mild chagrin that I inform you, that he feels silenced by hate.

“Well I admit defeat. I have tried hard to open debate and discussion about various topics. Granted Facebook might not have been the best platform for it but I found it was a platform in which people would actually respond with their view. I have been utterly overwhelmed with the responses I have received. Some of you have been great and offered different opinions that I could use to enhance my own and I appreciate it greatly. However I am too weak a person to deal with all the daily hate I receive for expressing opinions contrary to current popular belief. Iv’e always loved Socrates and his search for knowledge and truth and I always tried to channel him but I am not as strong a man as he was. I cannot deal with all the social shaming I receive. It makes me go to a place I do not like to go. So anyway I will not be posting anymore opinions on topics. I’ve accepted that as the minority opinion I have to just keep my mouth shut. Ultimately I value friends and social standing over my search for truth and knowledge. I’ve let you down Socky old buddy. Please forgive me.”

Here is my response:

” I’m not trying to start an argument here, but your opinions are popular with plenty of people, just not necessarily the people you are Facebook friends with.

Another thing to consider is that certain arguments that you have made have suggested that you‘re on the side of those who your Facebook friends consider “systematic oppressors.” Even if your statements where intended as, “let us debate the merit of this position!” They were often understood to be your personal opinions. Appearing to be an opinionated, white, cisgendered male, complaining about your right to free speech or (intentionally or unintentionally) marginalizing/undermining the struggles of those that are not your demographic… Has implications. To a person of color or a feminist or a socialist living in a left-leaning liberal part of the country, you can appear to represent the members of the current establishment who do not understand their positions or care to. This can lead to a feeling that you as an individual could be without sympathy or even empathy for someone whom you refer to as a Facebook friend, or people like them that you don’t know.

“This person is sitting here comparing what I view to be two unequal injustices as though they are equivalent– does that mean they believe that just because everyone struggles, inequities in those struggles are irrelevant/invalid?”

In short. I think what you interpret to be hate is actually just resentment of what people fear you represent.

I’ll leave you with this. Next time someone attacks what you believe, ask yourself if logic is defending your idea or if you are defending the logic of your idea.

Example:
“Feminists are oppressive.”
This is a decades old “dogma”, that truly needs to be supported with facts in order to have any merit. Arguments over what oppression is, what feminism is… Are those perceived as not being empowered capable of oppression? Is oppression a state that exists because of a feeling it evokes or can it be defined independently-… Et al.
The speaker presents potentially as opposition to feminism and provides nothing of intentional value to the “feminists.”

However,

Example:
“If self-proclaimed feminists allow themselves to present a misandrous agenda, and care only about dismantling the oppression of women, then this is not only hypocrisy but they’ve failed to provide a mutually beneficial replacement to the system in place.”

This statement points out an understanding that feminism is about changing the status quo… but the speaker cares about what it will cost the other parties. Whether the change will be a true improvement or simply an endless power struggle.
The speaker presents potentially as ally to the “feminists” and provides constructive criticism.

Sometimes people care so much about things, they forget to show they care about each other.”

It’s nice to hear what those who disagree with you think about your views. And whether or not your views can stand the crucible of criticism.

It is not, however, nice to have your character attacked because of what you believe. And so I want to make sure that is never the way in which I engage another human being.

Ice Bucket Challenge

In light of all the ALS Ice Bucket challenge backlash, I thought I would throw out some quick numbers to the people of America.

If all the people in America did the Ice Bucket Challenge… It would equate to roughly 941 MILLION gallons of water being used(not wasted) to raise awareness for ALS and give us all a brief moment to understand what the early stages of ALS feel like… Numbness. Slowly losing the ability to move on your own sounds bad enough… But not to be able to touch, feel or taste… Eventually losing the ability to care for yourself in any capacity… To breathe on your own. I shudder at the thought.

I’d like to take a moment now to point out that if every one in the US decided to skip just one shower for one day, we would have saved 47 BILLION gallons of water. That means that if we did 1/50th

Think of all the water we use to clean our dishes and our cars and our laundry… How often do we really stop to be water conscious? I have to admit that I personally don’t do it that often. But I’m tired of listening to people berate others for a small moment of activism without considering that there’s always something they can do personally to be proactive.

Which I why I propose two things:

1. Since the water they’re using will never make it to the people around the world who don’t have clean water, here’s a link to a website where you can donate to give people access to clean water:

http://thewaterproject.org/

You can also just read about water scarcity and what you can do to prevent it or alleviate the issue.

2. I’ve created a facebook event that you and anyone you know can participate in. The purpose of this is to see how many people I can convince to skip a shower one time in hopes of raising awareness about water conservation. Remember, If 1/50th of the US population skipped just one shower… It would save more water the the Ice Bucket Challenge ever used and possibly raise awareness about water conservation. So here’s a link to that below.

I’m calling it Stay Dirty(For Clean Water)

it’s on November 24th to give it time to be spread.

Thanks for reading, looking, etc.

http://www.tinyurl.com/StayDirty

An honest look

With a whole slew of my friends getting married or getting their dream jobs or simply getting knocked up… I feel obligated to freak out just a little bit. I don’t know what I thought I would be doing in my early twenties… But I figured life would specifically be heading somewhere.

But while trippin quietly to myself while giving everyone props, I stopped to consider why that is… And the reasons after a bit of introspection were a little shocking.
I am daunted by the concept of living life. It’s not that it scares me to be alive… It’s more that I am overwhelmed by the innumerable options I have with ways I could spend my time.

1. I feel embarrassed about investing my time in things that may be unsuccessful in the future.

The concept of investing my time in starting a business only to have it fail, to pursue a career in music only to be met with shitty reviews and no gigs, to write my novel only for it to be trite nonsense when read back to me… I’m afraid to fail. I don’t want to find out I’m not as awesome as I think I am.

2. I’m depressive.

It’s not that I’m living in a cozy blanket of misery.. It’s that it takes an extra push for me to find something that truly gets me out of bed and excited. I need to actually go out of my way to take an interest in life and that’s because…

3. I’m not actually following my passions

Instead of using the time that I have to myself to home a skill that I value so that I’m prepared for my next big opportunity, I futz about paralyzed by musings. Instead of writing exercises or reading monologues or practicing vocal technique… I nope about not have a show or a due date and sulk. It’s not just being lazy… I’m also exhausted because finally…

4. I don’t take care of myself

I used to work out to strengthen my body. Study to strengthen my mind. Meditate to temper my spirit. Now I sort of think about doing those things… But that’s all I do.

Because I’ve forgotten how to live for myself. I don’t do the things that are important to me. And it’s taking a toll. It makes my life feel less worth living. That’s no ones fault but my own.

It’s not that I’m a total slob who lives in his PJs and stained sweats… It’s that I’m not aspiring to accomplish all those things that feed my spirit. I’m not feeding my spirit.

If you don’t feed things… They start to die

Stiff Upper Lip

Dear Mallory,

Today, I thought I saw you. My heart skipped a beat. It felt like I was about to crash my car into your existence and at that moment I wanted to call out “hello” in my excitement and horror. Then I wanted to hide from you and the fact that I had messed up. And even though all the while I knew it wasn’t you, for all the anxiety and misery and fear it caused to think I could have bumped into you and made bad get worse… I wanted nothing more than for it to be the case. Because I never knew that the last time could or would be the last time.

And I didn’t mean to care.

I didn’t mean to love your laugh. I didn’t plan on being fascinated by your tattoos and loving the way your glasses fit your face. I didn’t mean to be warmed by the sound of your voice… Or charmed by your love of hockey.

And now I wish for silly things. Things like remembering what your favorite NPR show was. And what exactly your tattoo said because I remember thinking someone who wore that philosophy was probably awesome company… And it was true, for the time. I want to hear your laugh again. And get frozen yogurt. I want to converse about social justice and see what you think about things. I wish I didn’t for the first time regret having sex with someone… Because it was fantastic. I didn’t mean to have sex with you. I didn’t mean to like it so much. And I didn’t mean to trade it for the chance of getting to know you. Because getting to know you was one of the few experiences I was having that the prospect of simply made me happy.

I have fantastic half memories.

But I suppose to you I’m the guy that all in 2 days: banged your head into a wall with his pants down, poured salsa in your tequila shot, dragged you on an errand for his mother to the ghetto grocery store, and then proceeded to drunkenly, amorously hop in your bed one night.

I wish you’d have told me how you felt at the time.

I wish that when I asked you to breakfast you’d said yes. Cause it was meant to be an apology and I just wanted to clear the air. I wish you’d given me the chance to fuck up in person, instead of assuming that I would. I wish I seemed to you like I was worth getting to know better. For some reason, I can’t quite explain the only thing I knew about you was that you just seemed like you were worth getting to know better.

Sincerely,
Me

PS I really mean it when I say I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did to give you the impression I didn’t respect you and it deeply troubles me that I did somehow.

PPS If it means anything to you, I’m demisexual.

The Ceiling

-My craft is the death of me.-

Sandra lay in her bed staring intently into the darkness. She wanted to call him. The freckled boy from down the road…

When she first caught the wicked glint in his eye, she didn’t think much of it. Maybe it was just the way he looked at things. He seemed the type to always be scheming. And while that ordinarily would be off-putting and maybe even a little scary… She found it an incredibly charming shade on him and wouldn’t rather see him in any other color.

It was a surprise to her when she asked a friend to find him for her after that first night. They’d barely spoken three words or paid the other any real attention… But their eyes met a few times and that seemed to be enough…

It was a surprise when she cast him a coy, “…drinks?” and he responded by inviting her over to create a new kind of cocktail for a joint party they ought to throw on the weekend.

She didn’t think much of it, but suddenly they had an excuse to spend time each day for three days. She didn’t quite know it yet, but she thrilled at the prospect…

And as drinks led to her rambling on about social justice the first night, surely embarrassing herself and he had a date to attend the second night with his latest prospect, whom he professed to be truly interested in… It definitely didn’t come as a complete shock when during a quiet moment in hosting she yanked him away into the coatroom, for a few seconds of slap and tickle… And scratching. And she could still feel his nails drawing across her skin. And there was some bristling excitement left as she considered what were some of the most exciting kisses she’d shared with anyone in recent memory. But they didn’t end the night in the same bed.

And so there she lay, in her own bed. Staring. Confused.

“Do I call him?” she wondered? What should she say? Was there a right or wrong move? And was there a safe line to toe in such a situation…

Why, oh why had she sleep with his roommate?

She’d wanted to. And this perplexed her further.

Sandra wondered aloud to herself if she was allowed to want this. Her brother said yes, which startled her because she didn’t realize that he’d been reading below her in his bed, nor that she was talking out her predicament in short disconnected, but intelligible ramblings.

“But Michael, are you sure I’m not a slut?”
“No.”
“Oh that’s really helpful.”
“I don’t know you’re life. Well I do, but-…”
“But nothing. Is it bad that I want both roommates? They literally are both keeping me up at night…”
“Why do you want them? Don’t you have a boyfriend already?”
“Well, it’s a long way from here to Spain… And I love him, I really do… But David is fun and Sam is really freakin cute. Am I allowed to tell you they’re good in bed-…”
“No.”
“Too late, Or well I think David would be but I know Sam is.”
“So if you’re already doing this, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know…”
“Then there isn’t a problem and I’m going to bed.” James rolled over in his bed and sighed.

“…The problem is that I did it but I want to keep doing it and don’t know how to do that! Also I didn’t tell Esteban the whole truth so now I’m keeping a secret… Which kind of makes me want to do it more, but makes me feel like a bad person even though it’s not against the rules unless I don’t tell him! So technically-…”
“You’re not a slut, you’re a floozy and I just want to sleep! Just tell Esteban and don’t worry about any of the room mates unless they try to sleep with you again? Ok? Ok. I’m going to bed Sandra.”
“But-..”
“BED!”
“…Hmph.”

Sandra lay in her bed staring intently into the darkness. She wanted to call him. The freckled boy from down the road…

Indirect Language.

George Carlin had a great moment where he talked about “shell shock” in World War 1. He was upset with America and their use of euphemistic language. He found that surrounding the issue of mental illness in soldiers in euphemism was a great deal of bullshit. Shell shock was to the point.

It was direct and it told you basically everything you needed to know about the issue at the time. Your nervous system was stretched to it’s limits and it was at a point where it had or was about to snap.

Then in WW2 it became “battle-fatigue.” It was more syllables, much less direct, and didn’t sound like such a terrible condition to be suffering from. Perhaps you needed more naps.

Heading into and out of the Vietnam War the term became “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” Not only did he find this incredibly long winded.. But it was a past tense sounding description of a present tense problem. While this may be more politically correct and applies to more people than soldiers, it still takes the urgency out of the issue. My friends have mild forms of PTSD from their childhoods.

There is a poetic and despicable irony in the way that our brains will associate these two groups of people and color our experiences of their suffering, in some cases trivializing or negating it.

The reason this even came up was because I was watching a brilliant Ted talk about “Leadership Training” over “Sensitivity Training.”

The speaker talked about a linguist who illustrated how the human mentality is naturally inclined towards victim blaming with 4 sentences.

1. John beat Mary.

2. Mary was beaten by John.

3. Mary was beaten.

4. Mary is a “battered woman.”

I like the first sentence. It’s direct, clear, and the perpetrator of the action Is the first thing you witnessed, followed by his actions, followed by his victim.

If you follow the order of nouns in the sentences and ask why this happened you may notice something interesting. In the first sentence. The question posed would look like this:

“Why did John beat Mary?”

In any of the subsequent cases, we start asking about the victim. Victims are not the ones who take the action that they are a victim of… So why do we shift the blame on to them. And why do we describe them in ways that divorce them from the actor’s will?

Melancholia

There was going to be an entire depressing post here about my insignificance and lack of purpose, but I deleted several drafts and decided to put this here instead.

You are valuable.
You can achieve something.
You can succeed at something.
And someone somewhere loves you.