Disintegration

“I have been the worst of kind
A sorrowed heart and a cluttered mind
And I’m thinking that I could change this
That I could change this, but I can’t change this”

– Matthew Ryan –

As of late many of these entries have been kind of bitter sounding and probably more than a little fucked up. Maybe that’s just me. Maybe I was trying to say something, maybe I was just being an asshole looking for a reaction…Who knows anymore?

Truth. I mean real truth…I am at my end. Now as I write this I have spent the past couple days ill. And being who I am and living as I have, being sick makes me feel really vulnerable. So keep this in mind.

But this has been settling in on me much lately. I have tried to find an answer for this craziness. For this loneliness. For this brokenness. I tried your medications, doctors and therapists only to see myself crippled by your labels. I have tried your faiths, your Gods and your holy men, only to feel desperate and reaching for something I cannot and do not want to attain. I tried addiction, sex and violence, only to see myself as the walking dead.

Now I feel I have done it all. Like Dylan sings in a weary voice “I’ve seen newborn babies, wailin’ like a mourning dove, An’ old men with broken teeth stranded without love.” And I am left to wonder what else could I do? I don’t have the drive or energy to continue to be strangled by the mechanisms of lies and the roles we play for each other.

I have seen such terrible things and seen some pretty great things too. And it all just sort of balances. And my balance seems to never come out of the red. I just feel…Weary. Yeah weary. And in that weariness I figure I have earned the right to my own answers. I won’t begrudge anyone their resolution so I sort of expect it from others. Though there is always someone trying to sell a faith or a pill that’ll make it all better, at least according to the commercial on television they saw shot with a blurry lens and sweet music.

But what if i tell you it don’t get better. Not for some. Not for me. I have had brief reprieves. Like a fighter between rounds. I sit on a hard stool in the corner and try to remember ‘Is this the fourth or thirteenth round?’ and then the bell rings I am up against it once more “In the clearing stands a boxer, And a fighter by his trade, And he carries the reminders  Of ev’ry glove that laid him down,  Or cut him till he cried out, In his anger and his shame “I am leaving, I am leaving”, But the fighter still remains” Simon and Garfunkel sang that in the Boxer. A song I have had a great empathy for, for many years…Because I know exactly what the boxer feels. To leave but remain. I even know what it is to be so lost and lonely. Hell I was 15 when I left home, just a baby really. I had no idea what living meant. I certainly wasn’t prepared for the things ahead of me. Sleeping sometimes under bridges or in tragic rooms where the cost to stay was more than I could afford. The whole time I naively believed that somehow, someday it would be okay. That there was a better future. I was meant for something more. I sat in your filthy jail cells and walked the streets where you’d spend more on some flight of fancy than to fill the emptiness in the stomach of young men like me. I would claw back from illness and woundings that would kill most of you but wouldn’t me, like somehow I was cursed with life. In time I would even attempt to retry to become a “citizen”. I wed, I divorced, I got credit cards and I owned cars….I got divorced, bankrupt, I crash cars. I drank myself blind and called it having fun. I fucked and fought and laughed at you as you played the hard and tough Friday night ramblers. Because I’d been there, the real thing, I have lived with them that have no tomorrows, just a dwindling life, like a bleeding down the drain. I would tumble down again, into handfuls of pills, bottles of rusty water and powders and potions.

And that kid that raced out a door one Friday night after he’d had enough…enough… enough…Well he slowly went crazy, he went slightly jaded and mostly he just became something that doesn’t quite connect. And probably most of the blame lays at his feet. He has tried, holy Christ has he tried. He goes to work and resists the urge to scream at the egotistical stupids that whatever they feel they have a right to and whatever is so damn important is really insignificant. The fucking world is dying and I am dying too. The kid has tried so hard to hide the fact that many years ago he gave up on ever being part of a world he didn’t understand. Maybe somewhere between trying to decide if tonight he’d sleep in a stairwell again or rob someone so he could crash in some dirt-bag motel. Real people never make these choices or decisions. Real people don’t ever find themselves in these places. Real people don’t really understand anyhow.

But he tried, I tried…

I was given teasers. A woman here or there who would swear love and commitment to me. Like some Hollywood dream it was supposed to have a happy ending. Until they realize that there was something really wrong with me, some need that can’t be filled and some ghost that can’t be chased away by a walk on the beach and some pivotal conversation. I am broken in a very real way.

Now I have to bear the consequences and scars of a life lived so fucking badly that it fills me with awe that I have survived. And in that survival, I feel that it is a punishment. I feel every good thing is just something that can be used later to take away, to remind me “You’re fucked and don’t deserved anything” and every blessing really is a curse. Even the greatest ones come with a  jagged tearing side.

Woe is me huh? Yeah I guess…I’m sorry.

When I started this blog my goal was to have something solid, something real that could be read later…For later. Something that maybe explained a few things. That wouldn’t disappear. I am not good at staying in one place for too long and when I go I leave much behind. And I wanted to say my piece, to have some tactile thing to show.

An ongoing apology I guess…

Be well

Advertisements

3 responses

  1. Roads is rough, babydoll. You are riddled with a lepered brilliance, and you are crippled with it.

    The happy artist has an empty canvas.

    June 10, 2010 at 12:19 pm

    • Man don’t you know it. It’s all about falling…It’s like flying till you hit ground.

      You disappeared kid. Hope you’re okay.

      June 10, 2010 at 7:34 pm

      • Can’t complain! Trashing my facebook is probably the best thing I’ve done for my creative self in awhile, but I do get a craving for some Romanovitticisms here and there. :/

        If only you had a blog of some type…

        June 13, 2010 at 10:16 pm

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s