tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19084447418758097272024-03-13T04:32:32.762-07:00Faltering TwentiesJust an account of life. Nothing more, nothing less.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-89803971546620806212014-03-17T04:58:00.001-07:002014-03-17T04:58:50.169-07:003/17<div>There's a man. He's shouting at me. I think he's shouting at me. From up ahead. Should I change my route? Cut down the next street? Cross the road?</div><div><br></div><div>It's so damn grey out.</div><div><br></div><div>I squint at him through the mist and convince myself he must be crazy. That he's throwing his hands above his head in madness. In sheer insanity. Pacing and turning in obsessive urgencies.</div><div><br></div><div>I turn my head to the park. The scattered trees. The swing set. The monument of someone on a horse. The cold morning dew perched on each blade of grass.</div><div><br></div><div>Then he's yelling again. Spit sprays from his mouth in the orange light of the street lamp. His beard is wild. Like tangled vines.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm a block away now. My breath has quickened. Maybe my pace. Why haven't I turned? I'm being pulled in. A whirlwind. A vortex.</div><div><br></div><div>His words are garbled. Confused. Rampant. They barge out before he can put order to them. Arrange them at all.</div><div><br></div><div>I step over the manhole cover in the center of the road, then onto the sidewalk he dominates. His back is to me and I try to time it so I can slip by without him ever knowing my presence, but he turns.</div><div><br></div><div>He turns so swift and suddenly half his beard trails over his shoulder.</div><div><br></div><div>Then there are screams. From him. From me. A panicked fumbling.</div><div><br></div><div>And I catch glimpses of my misfortune. I catch glimpses of my body being found hours later on the curb. Bludgeoned to unconsciousness. Maybe death. Robbed. Crippled. A mess.</div><div><br></div><div>But as I bolt down Cedar Drive I hear something. Something familiar. Something my brain recognizes.</div><div><br></div><div>I hear words. And they're saying: boy, slow down! Boy, slow down! You're crazy moving that fast this early!</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-66461178224174483422014-03-16T12:25:00.001-07:002014-03-16T12:25:49.414-07:003/16<div>He can see someone approaching out of the corner of his eye. As he cradles the can of colas intended for the vending machine, he sees someone approaching.</div><div><br></div><div>And he doesn't turn until she's there. Leaning close to him as she speaks. Her dark brown eyes grow bigger before him. Her smooth skin toys with the soft lighting of the cloudy day. Her straight black hair blankets her chest.</div><div><br></div><div>Excuse me, she's saying with a slight bow, can you please assist me?</div><div><br></div><div>And he takes a moment to glance at the Hello Kitty iPhone case in her right hand. The sleek black purse over her left shoulder. Her tiny ankle boots lined with animal fur.</div><div><br></div><div>He blinks at her. Nods.</div><div><br></div><div>I need to find Forman Hall, she says, leaning closer, pressing into him with her curious gaze. Do you know where it is? She asks, tilting her head to the left. </div><div><br></div><div>But now his attention has traveled to her jawline. How defined. Her neck. How inviting. Her tight lips. </div><div><br></div><div>She straightens up. Do you know? She repeats. Eyebrows raised. Quizzical. Eager.</div><div><br></div><div>He blinks a few times. Reorients himself. Places the first cola can into the slot labeled A1.</div><div><br></div><div>Forman Hall? He asks, coughing on his words.</div><div><br></div><div>Mm, she says, nodding her head. A patient smile.</div><div><br></div><div>He looks behind them at the courtyard. The red bricks of Friar Library. The vending machine before the Hanley Building at the other end. The circle of students smoking cigarettes by the big oak tree.</div><div><br></div><div>No, he says, no, I don't.</div><div><br></div>Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-59817273988478220822014-03-15T11:19:00.001-07:002014-03-15T11:19:40.680-07:003/15<div>There's mold in the shower. He pushes it with his forefinger. </div><div>It's slimy. Like snot.</div><div>He rolls it between his forefinger and thumb. Makes a mold noodle. Then drops it. Watches it ride the rush of water down the drain.</div><div><br></div><div>Then it's back to cleaning himself.</div><div><br></div><div>He massages shampoo into his beard. It makes his chin tingle. Probably the peppermint, he thinks as the burn intensifies. </div><div><br></div><div>Saturday. This is Saturday.</div><div><br></div><div>He can hear his cat screaming from outside the bathroom door. </div><div>Complaints. Wails. His cat does not meow.</div><div><br></div><div>Shut up, he mumbles as water streams down the back of his neck. Pours over his face. His nostrils. His mouth. His eyes. </div><div><br></div><div>Please, shut up, he repeats.</div><div><br></div><div>Magow, the cat calls. Magow.</div><div><br></div><div>And the wind pushes so hard against the window he wishes it would break through and swoop him up. Spiral him into the air. Throw him about with such spontaneous speeds and velocity that his senses would pause. They would brake. </div><div><br></div><div>And when he'd land he'd be unknown. And the land would be unknown to him. And he would keep that relationship as long as he could.</div>Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-60442765906116956192013-08-13T12:46:00.001-07:002013-08-13T12:46:57.339-07:008/13There's this tree. <br />
<br />
There's this tree and it stands so tall and immense and it doesn't complain.<br />
<br />
Never complains.<br />
<br />
Most people don't even know it exists. Most folks just walk right past it. Never give it any mind. <br />
<br />
It'll out-live all those people. Every last one of them.<br />
<br />
Sometimes children will play on and around it. They'll climb the enormous, stooping branches. They'll run around the massive trunk. Sleep in its shade. Dream on its base. Then leave. Don't say bye or thank you.<br />
<br />
The tree will out-live them too.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, though, the tree just stands there. Alone. Jutting up into the sky - a backdrop of clouds and blue. Reaching and stretching outward. Roots sprawling underground. Digging. Growing. Being.<br />
<br />
There's this tree. <br />
<br />
And it's so tall.<br />
<br />
<br />
Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-57717361826640068962013-07-15T13:03:00.001-07:002013-07-15T13:03:15.306-07:007/15I'm on a mountain. I'm on a mountain and other mountains stand before me. They roll over each other in waves of green. Shadows from the clouds passing above creep atop the trees. Flowing onward and onward.<br />
<br />
There's a woman sitting on a rock below me. She places a hand on the back of my calf and exhales slowly. Contentedly. Peacefully. She exhales.<br />
<br />
And I look down at her for a moment, before a breeze brings me back to the view. To the wilderness sprawled out before me. I must take it in. I must remember this. <br />
<br />
This seems like something to remember. Something worth looking back on later. Something.<br />
<br />
So I open my nostrils and suck in the cool mountain air. Let the sun heat my skin. Feel the rocks under my boots.<br />
<br />
Yes, this is definitely worth something.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-15279027302044198232013-07-11T14:22:00.001-07:002013-07-11T14:24:22.052-07:007/11Daily, it seems to me now, I see glimpses of lives I could be leading. These doors open. Curtains pulled. Veils lifted. And just for a moment, I see something magnificent. I see possibilities. <br />
<br />
And, yes, maybe it is a fantasy or an enabling of some childlike dream. Maybe I'm giving way to grandiose temptations. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. <br />
<br />
But how attractive that other life! How pleasant and debonair my other self. How exciting and thrilling my other daily activities. How tantalizing and energizing the food. How suave my clothes. How accommodating and caring my lover. How composed my stature and secure my finances, but free my will and peaceful my spirit. How - <br />
<br />
Oh, yes. <br />
<br />
Right. <br />
<br />
Not giving in to such things.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-14558255214850487782012-10-15T19:32:00.001-07:002012-10-15T19:32:29.194-07:0010/15What happened to this thing?<br />
<br />
When did I decide to let it whither and die? Am I giving it life right now?<br />
<br />
As a couple sits to my left, possibly engaged in sexual interactions. Her hand, possibly on his member.<br />
<br />
Is that the life this thing needs?<br />
<br />
Or the gentlemen to my right debating how hard it actually is to quit smoking? To cease breathing smoke into one's lungs?<br />
<br />
Is that the life required to keep a blog alive? <br />
<br />
To keep my fingers moving on these keys?<br />
<br />
I'm not sure.<br />
<br />
But I've been a victim to a toxic relationship that has fallen apart and I've been sticking my days out with hope for better days in the future and I've been here. <br />
<br />
I've been here.<br />
<br />
I've been here.<br />
<br />
Is that enough?Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-13477450938802380802012-09-11T17:24:00.001-07:002012-09-11T17:24:47.562-07:00Stark contrast. Complete opposition.<br />
<br />
Beauty, right.<br />
<br />
So, what's beautiful about tonight? <br />
<br />
What's beautiful about not being able to go home? About not feeling ok at home? Not feeling alright with a loved one?<br />
<br />
What's beautiful about finding comfort alone, leaning on a bar, with a beer in hand? Sitting next to strangers. Staring at the television but not registering what all the pictures mean. What everyone else is talking about.<br />
<br />
What's so beautiful when the people in close quarters are laughing and singing and it does nothing but cause irritation? Agitation. When the music playing overhead just fills the silence. Provides no emotional response.<br />
<br />
When finding joy seems more troublesome than anything else.<br />
<br />
When hope seems like a waste of time.<br />
<br />
Where is the beauty?<br />
<br />
What is so beautiful about all of that?Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-19663771467010018752012-09-09T15:47:00.001-07:002012-09-09T15:50:43.251-07:00And there is the beauty I yearn for. It catches me. It finds me.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I'm on my way to the gym on a Thursday evening, after working for twelve hours. After schlepping from one job to the other. From brewing coffee and serving espresso drinks to brewing coffee and serving espresso drinks somewhere else.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After all that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It finds me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Somewhere before North Avenue. Outside a church on St Paul. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It finds me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Five people. Three sit. Two stand. Three violins. One banjo. One acoustic guitar. They're playing folk music. The kind that makes you want to strip off your shoes and go dance in the grass with a friend. They're playing it and I can feel nothing but happiness.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
With each step of my feet I feel buoyant. A rhythmical bliss. A sense of belonging. As if these five people gathered on the steps of this church to play music for me. To wait and wait until I decided I'd like to walk to the gym on this Thursday evening. To select the songs according to my mood and my spirits and play them as I pass by.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes. There is that beauty. Even if I've fooled myself into feeling it.</div>
Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-38453704088581551102012-08-16T18:48:00.001-07:002012-08-16T18:48:50.823-07:00So what's wrong with enjoying a bit of sadness? A little melancholy? Depression?<br />
<br />
What's wrong with it?<br />
<br />
This crisp white wine, as the box tells me it is. This hot shower. These defeating lullabies. <br />
<br />
What's wrong with it all?<br />
<br />
Why can't I like it? Why can't I look forward to it? Why can't I yearn for the few hours of night I have to just lay around my apartment drinking shitty white wine and listening to disheartening acoustic tunes? <br />
<br />
Why can't I just have that?<br />
<br />
Why is there so much guilt associated with it? Why is there so much shame and revulsion?<br />
<br />
Why do I type these words behind the large white door of the bathroom?<br />
<br />
I don't know. I don't know at all.<br />
<br />
But damn if anyone is gonna stop me from this delicious crisp white and some tub time. Damn it all.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-54472536878889212052012-07-15T10:22:00.001-07:002012-09-09T15:55:54.004-07:00So I get sick of my own voice. I get sick of reading my own words and thoughts and typing them daily. I get sick of submerging in myself. <br />
<br />
Get in. Get out.<br />
<br />
But I can't. I can't escape. <br />
<br />
Everywhere you go, there you are.<br />
<br />
Someone says this to me as I hand him his skinny vanilla latte. And I've heard it before. I heard it in Sheppard Pratt. The social worker said it in that cool deep voice of his. <br />
<br />
And yeah, it's true. And yeah, it's a profound statement. And yeah, it sounds beautiful.<br />
<br />
But shut up. Just shut up.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-6337866164918004232012-07-08T10:59:00.001-07:002012-07-08T10:59:34.958-07:00I see friends. I drive to Bethesda to see them. They're standing around the bar in a corner of Union Jacks.<br />
<br />
I approach and smiles and greetings erupt. They explode with joviality.<br />
<br />
And I'm warmed. Enriched. Fulfilled.<br />
<br />
All that.<br />
<br />
It feels good. I haven't seen these folks enough lately. These folks that I've shared my life with. That I've joined in experiencing and learning what this world is all about. What we're all doing here. How to make it better. How to make ourselves better. I've journeyed through my days with them. Years. Lives.<br />
<br />
I've journeyed with them.<br />
<br />
As the night moves on I step outside to smoke a cigarette. They appear a few minutes after and announce how the party is moving. How they're relocating to a wilder establishment.<br />
<br />
And I have to decline.<br />
<br />
Sadly, I have to decline.<br />
<br />
But they understand. They're supportive and caring as usual.<br />
<br />
It depresses me when I'm left sitting on the curb as they drive off in drunken glee. But I'll see them again soon enough.<br />
<br />
God, I hope I see them again soon.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-87272285714469568142012-07-07T15:06:00.001-07:002012-07-07T15:06:09.502-07:00I get home at four in the morning.<br />
<br />
I'm sober. I'm with the Girl. I'm content.<br />
<br />
We've just returned from my first night at a drive-in movie theater. We sat in the cooling heat of summer and watched three movies on the largest screen in the US.<br />
<br />
We're hungry and I make us veggie burgers with lettuce and tomato. Pickles and onions. Broccoli sprouts on a whole wheat bun.<br />
<br />
On the bed we watch stand up comedy shows as we silently chew our food.<br />
<br />
We smoke a cigarette on the back porch as the sun comes up.<br />
<br />
My life has certainly changed.<br />
Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-58207130422568760732012-07-06T08:09:00.001-07:002012-07-06T08:09:43.027-07:00I get headaches.<br />
<br />
And I recall when my psychiatrist told me that the Effexor may send sensations of electric shock throughout my body. Waves of uncomfortable surges. Pulsations of pain.<br />
<br />
But maybe it's the lack of sleep too. Maybe it's the fact that I'm only unconscious for a few hours a night. Only resting for a brief period of time. Barely recuperating.<br />
<br />
Or could it be the stress? The constant strain of worrying about my future? My security? My happiness? My progression as a person?<br />
<br />
Or the caffeine? The fact that I now work at Starbucks? That I can consume an unlimited amount of coffee for free?<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because I think too much. Or some fault of my brain that is unable to handle a normal amount of activity. Maybe I killed too many cells by drinking too much alcohol. Maybe -<br />
<br />
Ok. Yeah. That's enough.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-49895531110641766772012-07-05T08:08:00.001-07:002012-07-05T08:08:41.042-07:00The fourth. It doesn't go so well. Things don't really pan out.<br />
<br />
Our trip to Lancaster. Our attempt to stop by a friend's. The bottle of champagne we buy.<br />
<br />
None of it pans out.<br />
<br />
So what do we do instead?<br />
<br />
We spend time on the back porch with the myriad odd bugs, smoking cigarettes and wiping years from our faces.<br />
<br />
Brilliant.<br />
<br />
At least the night ends well enough. With a box of cookies and a pint of ice cream. With Honest Teas and intertwined fingers. With both our bodies beneath the comforter.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-11931411454277797562012-07-04T04:45:00.001-07:002012-07-04T04:45:43.861-07:00What happens? What happens on these awfully quiet days? The days that resound so painfully with silence? With the speechless conversations that last far too long and permeate far too deep?<br />
<br />
With the tears that leave me depleted?<br />
<br />
This is such a pleasant morning. This coffee. This cigarette. This curb.<br />
<br />
But where is She? Where is She?<br />
<br />
The streets bear no cars. The coffee shop holds no customers. <br />
<br />
So alone.<br />
<br />
And then it starts to rain. Then I get wet.<br />
<br />
Perfect.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-5874467247296830622012-07-03T07:06:00.001-07:002012-07-03T07:06:10.984-07:00The search continues.<br />
<br />
We approach a historic building in Mt Vernon. <br />
<br />
A man is to show us some apartments. <br />
<br />
He turns out to be a famished black man seated on the front steps of the building in a torn t-shirt and paint splattered pants. He's toothless and seems to have incredible trouble keeping his eyes open. He fumbles with a plastic bag full of keys that he drops as we walk around. As he trips going up steps and mumbles unintelligible words.<br />
<br />
He shows us units that look like holding facilities for the insane. One in the basement seems more like a maze. A collection of rooms linked together for some odd reason.<br />
<br />
Afterwards he takes us in the maintenance room a few doors down for an application, where the manager and owner sit around a cluttered table of miscellaneous junk in the heat.<br />
<br />
The owner is a plump tan skinned man with a European accent so thick that I base all of my responses off social cues. He has a hard, gritty handshake.<br />
<br />
We say we'll show ourselves out.<br />
<br />
We rush down the hall trying door after door trying to get back to the world.<br />
<br />
I throw the application in a trash can outside.<br />
Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-60966435646182868302012-07-02T07:19:00.001-07:002012-07-02T07:19:38.153-07:00I wait in my car, in a line of cars at the Halethorpe dump. I wait and I sweat. <br />
<br />
So much water lost.<br />
<br />
Today I view an apartment in Charles Village. See if it strikes my fancy. See if I'd like to live within its walls.<br />
<br />
That's the excitement. That's where it stems from.<br />
<br />
And I'd really just like all this to be over. I'd really just like to stop searching. For a house. For a profession. For a purpose. I'd like all these things to be established. Resolved. Finished.<br />
<br />
This heat is driving me mad.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-51888087337292517832012-07-01T07:10:00.001-07:002012-07-01T07:10:51.283-07:00I'm not sure what happens, but suddenly it's July. Suddenly it's July and it's hot and I have no money and I don't have a home and I'm tired constantly and I drink more coffee than water and my days go by with little nourishment.<br />
<br />
Suddenly these things happen.<br />
<br />
I spend yesterday sweeping and mopping and lifting and moving and carrying and setting and laying and thinking and sighing and smoking.<br />
<br />
That's a day. The last day of June. The last day I'll spend in that horrid townhouse. <br />
<br />
But where to now? Where to live now? Where to work and what to do now? How to fill my life now? How to be happy now?<br />
<br />
How can I wake feeling so defeated?<br />
<br />
My bed has betrayed me.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-40732755290050894092012-06-30T09:56:00.001-07:002012-06-30T09:56:24.046-07:00She says I don't know how to "sleep in." That when we attempt to do such things I always rise too early. I get up and move about much too soon.<br />
<br />
It's past noon now. Almost one o'clock. I imagine it's sweltering outside but I wouldn't know. I'm in a basement. Blinds closed. Shades drawn. Air conditioning flowing.<br />
<br />
The Girl still sleeps and I wonder if I've satisfied the notion of sleeping-in or whether I should lay back down and try to fall back under.<br />
<br />
And there's so much I need to do today too. So much to get done.<br />
<br />
Oh well.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-16297280178107633772012-06-29T15:06:00.001-07:002012-06-29T15:06:41.974-07:00The heat. All anyone can talk about is the heat. It boils us down. My clothes get drenched.<br />
<br />
I debate showering before work. I think about it.<br />
<br />
But I don't do it.<br />
<br />
Instead I stay in bed with Her. I call realty agencies. I smoke cigarettes on the back porch in my underwear. Nothing else.<br />
<br />
Too hot for anything else.<br />
<br />
Am I drinking enough water?<br />
<br />
And these days pass easy enough. I'm concerned. Overly concerned about too many things. But it all passes. I wipe it all from my brow.<br />
<br />
I hate the summer.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-38214056977334236892012-06-28T07:08:00.001-07:002012-06-28T07:08:05.998-07:00There's this moment. Always these moments. But there's this one. And it strikes me while I'm driving towards Clarksville on 32. While I'm driving to Roots Organic Market because She said She wanted to go.<br />
<br />
Because we had nothing better to do, and the salty mood I relapsed into was making Her anxious.<br />
<br />
So, Roots, She said. Yes, let's go.<br />
<br />
So as I drive there. Thinking how depressed I am and how hopeless everything is and how dark and bleak and grim the future is and on and on and on, I stop.<br />
<br />
Something stops me. <br />
<br />
And it might be the cool evening summer breeze or the way the sunlight is making the clouds turn orange. It might be the hypnotic repetition of the white painted lines my car zips past.<br />
<br />
But I stop. I stop and I turn to Her.<br />
<br />
And the lighting is so mild but it still manages to radiate within Her hazel eyes. And the wind is whipping Her brown hair playfully about Her face. And Her skin looks so soft and She just looks at me with the most tranquil expression and I know I'm traveling sixty miles an hour on an open highway, but I can't look away. I can't look away.<br />
<br />
I just can't.<br />
Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-27073448675946072452012-06-27T13:48:00.001-07:002012-06-27T13:48:55.489-07:00I search Craigslist for most of the day. In between the hours I spend smiling at customers who could careless for my smile. For my attempts at friendliness. For my conviviality.<br />
<br />
They just want coffee. Just as I just want a place to call home. A place to settle down. Relax. Inhale. Exhale.<br />
<br />
Breathe.<br />
<br />
Why is it so hard to breathe?<br />
<br />
So I hound Craigslist for something of the sort. Till that vein that runs along my temple pulsates with such intensity that all of my attention is diverted towards it. Till I have to place an index finger there in fascination. In bewilderment that my body is capable of producing such an occurrence.<br />
<br />
Then I realize that the Girl is sitting across from me. Sitting across from me in a Starbucks in Canton asking if I want to leave. If I'd like to get something to eat. <br />
<br />
And I must not be fully forming words because She keeps leaning closer and closer and asking what? What?<br />
<br />
So I just hone back in to the waves of blood or fluid or wasted thoughts or whatever that are surging down my face.<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-13450770736618540502012-06-26T14:54:00.001-07:002012-06-26T16:29:00.278-07:00Right. Words. Must write words. Must write daily.<br />
<br />
I painted once. I did it while stoned or drunk or whatever. Mainly while I lived in Bethesda. When I was drinking and smoking regularly.<br />
<br />
But I painted this one piece. It was just streaks of colors. Carelessly lathered onto a canvass. With big black words over top.<br />
<br />
Always words.<br />
<br />
But they said: Did you write today?<br />
<br />
And this painting has hung on one of the walls that have made up my bedrooms for the past few years. Hanging there. Asking me. Daily. Questioning.<br />
<br />
Did you write today?<br />
<br />
Now it rests in a black plastic carrying bag in the corner of a basement as my place of residency teeters on the edge of a cliff.<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
Ok.<br />
<br />
This head ache is destroying me. It is definitely destroying me.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908444741875809727.post-62143109876108155042012-06-25T03:25:00.001-07:002012-06-25T13:31:02.520-07:00I wake this morning before the sun rises. Before life seemingly bustles to life. The house is quiet. Roads are vacant. Wind is still.<br />
<br />
I breathe smoke as I navigate my way to work.<br />
<br />
And I'm so exhausted. So very exhausted. The three hours of sleep did little for me. The nightmares. The disturbances. The nagging realization that my life is spinning out of control.<br />
<br />
Damn.<br />
<br />
The sun rise is gorgeous though. Something I haven't seen in quite a while. Something I've missed.<br />
<br />
Something to get up for.Justy Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05307663329522656531noreply@blogger.com0