Thursday, July 16, 2009

4 Months Ago

Had anyone told me 4 months ago I would soon be homeless, jobless, girlfriendless, carless (driving a rented mini-van), making more money than I have ever made, facing every fear I have ever known, pursuing my deepest dreams, and changing my entire life fourteen hundred and forty degrees (that's eight 180's) all on my own, I would have punched them in the fucking face. This shit is bananas!

I am solid fucking gold you know that!

Wednesday, July 1, 2009


(last week sometime, or maybe it was tomorrow?)

It is far inside the small hours of the blind night, and Los Angeles owes me a fucking apology. I do nothing but love and defend and respect this ground, but tonight it could care less about the salt forming at my eyes. Nothing but a noisy cluster fuck of rejects and cars yelling through my window. I just want to sleep.

I've finally given into the fact that I'm not strong enough to wheel this planet off course, believe me, I've tried, with all my mind I have tried, but it's not easy to hurl this stupid lava filled dirt clod out of orbit and into oblivion. I suppose fortunately we still have another 38 billion years before something that dramatic happens.

My need to write after days like today is not always the best reflection of my good spirit, but if I don't get it out, my freedom dies. No freedom is an ugly place to be. This makes it difficult to overestimate the importance days like today play in my process of change. With that said, after a day like today, a day fondued in shit, well (you'll have to pretend this next part is written in the world's smallest font, you'll need a high powered magnifying glass just to read it, because it's not really my voice, not at all actually, you'll see, ok, ready?) today can eat a fucking fart for all I care.

Hahahah, my saga continues, isn't that funny?

Once (a long time ago) I experienced the emotion of hate, and soon thereafter I swore off it forever. It has found no room in me since. But I'll tell you now, so I can make this angry little crap pie a bit more tellable, I hate this blank fucking screen. Nothing but pure white failure before me. A barren tundra from horizon to horizon save for one copy of Merriam-Webster's slapped right dab in the middle, and you know what, it sucks. I now have 162 unpublished entries, notebooks full of blue ink, scattered mounds of orphan papers written upon with the stinging genius of trembling pain, and every single time it began the same; blank.

So here I am again, exhausted, alone, fearful, and still true of heart.

I want to claim myself a writer. I want to write with so much of my exploding heart I had to risk myself just to begin. A near-death exhaustion that still has me dazed. But I now know how to listen to the ground beneath my old shoes and the stillness around my glowing heart, and facing my fears has become a new way of life. It makes me wonder how many Steinbeck's or Hemingway's (Ruth's or Picaso's for that same matter) died clutching fear, their trapped bliss buried in dead caves long forgotten...

I am not a writer, let's get that straight right away. I am a beginner. A novice little boy with an epic in my gut. A story so impossibly amazing it twists my side to know it's mine. I still can't believe it's mine. To send it to my grave untold would lynch every inspiration I've ever known, and crush my true heart. But here's the catch; I don't know how to write it. I have a story to tell with no skills how to lay it down. I'm ready to build the God damn Taj Mahal but I'm holding a baby screw driver and a broken hammer. What the fuck. And I'm angry, Jesus fucking Christ, I'm mad. Why did I wait so long to do something I love so much? All that stalling, all those years, and that never-quit-knocking-even-though-I-refused-to-answer-hidden-dustbound-and-neglected-disregarded-and-weak-begging-to-be-let-out-sobbing-crying-wailing-eventually-losing-volume-foot-still-pat-pat-patting-at-my-chest-from-the-inside-like-a-distant-half-heard-"help!"-never-giving-up-no-matter-how-many-years-lost-in-a-cave-of-public-solitude-mapless-confused-scared-until-its-final-days-before-I-kicked-the-fucking-door-in-to-save-my-own-life-feeling of wanting to write, sometimes, it's just too much to bare. But maybe that's the beauty of my true tale? Maybe sitting has turned out to be standing? Treading possibly sailing? Grounded, soaring? Maybe all that time going backward has proved forward? Maybe backward proved forward more than forward proved forward? This could be so. This is definitely so.

And just like that, as luck wouldn't have it, my attempt at failure has already failed. This blank screen alive with freedom. My heart pounding good, good, goodness...

Good night.