I hang my coat up in the first bar
Mica
not a good sign. Shall I switch over to ‘she sends kisses’ and get
these waterworks going for real? It’s been a long week.
Seven days on the road with one more to go. I recognize this is
nothing compared to the travel schedules of some (say, Bob), but it’s
hell by my standards. The sleep deprivation is the worst of it, and
truly I’ve not gotten more than five hours sleep a night since I left
home. All work and no play make Mica an insane fucking mess.
So why am I sitting here incessantly listening to a song that reminds
me of him whom I by choice no longer have but nevertheless mourn?
Sheer masochism? How can it feel this way when I don't really even
care? Perhaps I just dislike being reminded of how easily I’ve always
been replaced. It would be nice if just one of them would have gone
seriously to bat for me, just once. Alas, that is just not the sort
of behavior I have ever inspired. Ah, well. At least I'm good at my
job.
It’s after midnight here and me still being awake is beyond
ridiculous. But I’ve clearly hit the point of exhaustion that is
beyond sleep, so here I am. Letting the metaphorical record spin
around, mourning my men.
On the plus side, I’ve just discovered that the Wrens are playing the
Black Cat in early November. Can I take DC weather in November for my
favorite band? Can I justify the days off work and travel expense for
a singe night of joy? Do I deserve an early birthday present? Fuck I
hope so.
M
elephty
that even those we deliberately leave behind haunt our memories?
I am alone now, but I need company. To be able to glance over
my shoulder and see a familiar face with which I have had some
experiences. Then there is the romance and tragedy of strangers.
How did I end up in the same space as this person? Was I drunk?
It might have been the schrooms that on occasion turn everything
to delicious and smiles. What does it matter if it is only an illusion
when the illusion beats the hell out of my reality? Why are adults
forbidden to have that space for a few hours. It's as good as therapy
and costs next to nothing.
I saw a therapist about my relationships. She was raven haired, well-
groomed and pretty if one finds sharp angles pretty. She was so
entertained by my sex life that she asked me back to the couch for a
free session. There are only so many, "oh really(s), how fascinating,
and, "can you flesh that out better so I can understand its," that a
person can take before the observations lose their enchantment.
After all, the subject was me.
Have you ever been alone with someone you have been with
before and during a conversation suddenly discover that the person
you thought you liked, the one you laughed with, and at the best of
times dreamily walked on philosophical clouds with that turns into doubt
about not the transient friend, but the stranger with whom you were naked
and vulnerable?
What you once thought was a unique perspective changes into
immaturity. Where once there was the sense of togetherness strangely
becomes a contest of dominance and submission. Then the feeling of
trust is untrustworthy, because not only is the person a stranger,
but potentially harmful to whatever peace one learned until the scattered
nature of the "friend" changes from interesting to annoying.
One never feels more alone then when one is in the company of a
person one thought he knew. There in a candle lit room, quiet conver-
sation, and the joy of being oneself is mocked one's words as he hears
them break and sound like small slivers of ice hitting the tile floor since
neither the friend or the stranger understands what was said. Did she
just say something in a foreign tongue? Out of politeness one
grows to understand that the other person was only being nice, as
one might be to a stranger one accidentally bumps into and quickly
follows with an apology of doubtful sincerity.
It is possible to push through the uncomfortable moments of being
alone in the company of another, but by this time it should only be
thought of as parting pleasantries. One does not have to act the part
of an asshole just because he is one. True intimacy may exist only
in the discovery that the asshole one is with realizes that people can
never be free of assholes, because there will always be, at least,
one of them around. This is what alone feels like at times. But why
should one regret clarity in one's perceptions, when the new idea,
over time, will prove to be as weak as the old one that was replaced.
With the above in mind, it is not possible to love without loving at
least one asshole, and one should never mourn the loss of yet
another asshole. Don't worry about the fucking mess. As bright as
you are you will find the time to clean it up. As all cleaning chores
this one will not last forever, but why should it when nothing else does.
It is generally not a good thing when one forgets that he is dying.
"Mica" <mica...@gmail.com> wrote in message
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