NYC - MoMA: Fernand Léger's Woman with a Book (Photo credit: wallyg)

dear diary ~

(I should at least say that what pours forth onto this ice white digital page is completely free, stream of conscious, not much in way of edit. No, I’ve gleamed the cube beyond reasoning; one track gets laid tonight and that is all we’ll play.)

Tracks. I needed a bit of a mood leveler for this writing spree. Spotify winked green in the right hand corner. We tried Thomas Dybdahl; Nick Drake; I thought Civil Wars, but instead typed “sad” in the Search. Sade came up, but I thought, not sexy sad, just sad. Believe it, a channel came up, which plays right now (actually, a stupid commercial plays right now- such a break in thought patterns). The channel is called “Slow Fucking Sad Music”. Perfect.

This isn’t a self-pity party per se. Nope, a realist who followed the star’s tail home tonight (not really sure what I was seeing, but two were bright and trailing) with thoughts in the clouds wondering about life of dreams. We’ve float these dreams down streams that pool into tributaries where little paper boats either swirl or sink. Sinking; the Titanic sunk so many dreams as it broke apart into the abyss. Yet, that same tragedy has permeated our culture into something we celebrate.

Eddie Vedder is singing the words “society, crazy indeed” from the motion picture “Into The Wild”. I find this rather serendipitous as my thoughts have swirled around that young man several times this week. His pursuit to throw it all away, society’s rules, to test is own being. Yes! He was always on the precipice.

I always thought he had nine lives. Those damn berries. He knew better. He was so close. He was playing at fate’s door. God had let him win so many times before; why the hell did he have to lose to hunger? I’d never cried so hard (thankfully alone), on my living area floor for everything that he had within him, and everything that had to be taken away. He reminds us that living is when you do what others think cannot be done.

Digress. What is the point of this blathering. A need to spill out; to split open my brain and let every grey item pour out until there is a smooth porcelain container in which I can release three primary colours and paint a brand new universe.

What if that paycheck ceases? The bullseye is getting heavy on my back. The albatross doesn’t even slide down my arm anymore. She just anchors over my bent form, white neck lolling from that last fall that snapped its finality. Sadly, that is me. The neck may have just snapped in half today when I spied my job description on the copier. No one said anything until I mentioned it hours later. The eyes; the pity. Everyone knows the game has been playing; a question ticks, how. much. more.

How. Much. More. Ten long years. I’ve perfected the madness. I’ve erected sandcastle food; the tide always eats it whole.

So, dear diary, them are the brakes of this out-of-control convo. We both know I’ve wished to start over for ever; it’s just that I’d rather keep my dignity.

This posts seems base; self-serving, after reading of the innocent Afghan children who lost thier life to a radical solider suffering from his own demonic morality.

Or the Syrians, who are under siege, huddled in darkness of each other, wondering when life will allow breath.

Or the fact that e__ will be gone two years on the 16th.

Or that C__has been gone for eight years.

Cleaning up my desk tonight, searching for important things that accumulate after so much time. I found C___ mother’s pictures. I stared for just a moment; those tears came hot, quick. I found inside something I’d forgotten. After my foolish running away, and death; yet, he still wrote this:

Dear Friend,
The painting reminded me of the strength, tranquility, and wisdom you have brought to me in the past couple of months. Thank you A___ for being the person who you are.

I stare at the postcard size copy of “Women with a Book.”

C__ thought more of me than I shall ever think of myself. I guess somewhere there is a bright star that would let me just sit to watch the expansiveness space out in ebony quarks.

We walk a million miles with another’s shoes. I’m still hoping to walk one mile with another’s eyes.

~ a

*ps…this type of stream of thought was inspired after reading my daily email from Stephen Elliot at The Rumpus. His emails are far better composed, but are truly a slice of daily life. The Rumpus is amazing; check out Letters in the Mail. I’m going to help the cause and subscribe tomorrow. I know, why pays for a letter. Meh. No one else writes letters anymore…

** I hit “publish” as Jeff Buckley sings, Hallelujah. Amen.