Saturday, May 19, 2007

I was born on a Saturday

it's been a while.

It's been a while since I sat down with a bottle and just let loose on the page. I've been writing. Not much stops me from that. But it's been so neat, so ordered, so predictable, so dull. I tried to be clever and I tried to be interesting. You know, say something that matters. As if I have anything to say that matters. Peace Love Decadence. And so, on a regular Friday evening in (I have a to be up early tomorrow and no one was answering their phones anyway) I have returned to the blank slate to pour forth my soul, my anger, my rage and frustration, my bilious screed calling for and predicting the downfall of humanity. The new Modest Mouse album is on the box, the fan is dying in the corner threatening to leave me sweating away in a lovely Las Vegas spring evening, and I have two glasses of rye sitting in front of me. Seagram's VO. It was cheap and I was low on funds and unwilling to pay 19 bucks for fucking Wild Turkey. The bottle promises that this is Canada's finest and it the label tells it true then I have another reason to hate our brothers to the north. As if the Sundowner incident wasn't enough. It was. Whatever. I figure it will serve. Though the Turkey would have done it better. It just sets that perfect mother fucking mood. Eh.

I don't know where I am going from here. Not having much to say and the mailbox letting me down again this afternoon, I am somewhat at a loss for deep thoughts and meaningful conversation. Lapsing into a convenient fiction...

I am a lost and lonely mother fucker. I am full of dislocated fear. I wander around the city streets at night waiting for trouble to find me. Hoping to find something anything that will show me the way undercut my sensibilities or force my hand. I never had to knock on wood, I have never been in a fight, and my mettle has never been tested. There has been no crucible in my life and I cannot say that I am worthy of anything/I do not know the measure of myself and measure is unceasing. Mayhaps I am as useless as I fear. Mayhaps I am a awesome as I dream and imagine. Yes, I did say 'mayhaps'. I will now cross the bridge always looking down, always wondering what would happen if i jumped. I have seen to many movies. I have to wild an imagination. I want my life to be cinematic, I want it to mean something and draw to the logical conclusion at the end of the twenty second minute. Thus far I have been continually disappointed. Shit didn't turn out like it was supposed to and the pilot failed miserably. Even in Japan. I guess I'll never get that chance to fly to Paris in a jet nowhere near as sumptious as what Ted Danson would merit. Life has gotten beyond me.

I would tell you I love you if I knew what that meant. So long have I been shuffling along this mortal coil, unseeing, unfeeling, alone. Unlove-ed? If I ever knew how to feel, and feel deeply, to draw from the wells of human emotion, to let myself feel and fail and be - if I ever could do any of that and tap into my innate sentimentality, well, I sure as fuck don't remember how to do it now. I think I could love. I think. I mean, I read about love and seen it on tv. I could be a great Chandler to your Monica (Sawyer to your Kate). If you gave me a chance. Maybe. I might just be saying that because I want to belive it, I want to lie to myself. Because if it isn't true then I have nothing to offer the world at all. I keep walking because even if the streetlights don't drown out the white noise and the lampposts refuse to tell me what they are doing, at least it gets me somewhere. Closer to you or farther away. Because it has to be one or the other. I hate it here in limbo, waiting, watching, taking that long walk to the mailbox in the quest for truth and my future. No one knows what Fate has in store for us, no one what knows how long the thread will be or if Destiny is bluffing the pot on a 4-7 off suit. But at least I would be comforted it I had a slight incling of where I might be sleeping in three months. It doesn't seem like too much to ask. But fuck do I know? I see through the glass but darkly. I miss you though. I miss myself too. I think I used to be better than this. I think I used to be more. I can't remember when that was though. And it isn't even because I drank the memory away.

I'm no good on my own. I realize that being a misanthrope precludes me from the majority of interpersonal relationships, and I accept that. I don't want anything to do with those. And I am not a sidekick or a follower in need of a Batman to gently direct me to which nook of the Batcave I am to hang my shiny green tights. I do like to think of myself as an x factor though. That one spice that if it wasn't there you probably wouldn't miss it, but when it's around goddamn but does it ever make the meal amazing. I've always needed an audience. The voices in my head are too easily impressed and too busy arguing with each other to notice much of what I'm doing. With a crowd I have a chance to shine. To impress, to amuse, to offend, to intrigue, and perhaps, if the stars are correctly aligned, to woo.

I hate money. Nearly as much as I hate not having any. I hate my job. This should come as no surprise to anyone who really knows me. But it's not so much anything about my job specifically that I hate. Ok, so there are quite a few things that I easily could do without. But I am quite certain I would find those in any job. Which brings me to my point: I hate working. Or rather, all the things that have come to be associated with working and having a job: a routine, the need to wake up at specific times in order to "go to work" and "be on time," the need to know what day/month/year/hour it is, the people that I am forced to deal with and the pleasant way I am forced to deal with them, dress codes and the other small indignities that threated to break my rebel soul (feel free to laugh at the absurdity/I don't really believe it anymore either). If only I could be paid to write as I would (full on explitive and innuendo/grammar be damned) and the rest of life simply allowed to fall into place. If it wasn't completly impossible and utterly unworkable as a job in the 'real world' I suppose this is what you could call my dream. The only other one I have is not being alone forever and you know, having kids, so that whatever other legacy I leave behind at least I could, with hope, have at least some positive impact. And to think, I'm normally a glass half empty kind a fellow.

It was 11:56 pm. Nearly the 13th. Nearly Sunday. So much of my life is defined by those four minutes. I've been nearly a lot of things. But I was born into the chaos of Saturday night. And there is just no escaping that. I hope you can love me despite my shortcomings.

5 comments:

Billy Prophet said...

leave me comments, damn it. i need feedback and i need to feel less alone. would it help if i said 'please'?

please.

Kathryn said...

Work sucks.
I wonder if I could make money brewing beer...
Thanks for you comment. It was lovely. I heart chaos.

Shawn said...

When you were at Dartmouth, I used to have this massive crush on you. Well, I suppose it's still there, just inactive. My crush wasn't based in anything real-- like some kind of moment when you made me realize my own personal value or whatever-- but I always thought you were a very sweet guy. I had no idea you were so introspective. A lot of what you wrote here sounds like something I would probably write myself.

Oh, hi, by the way.

Billy Prophet said...

1. awesome. always good to hear.
2. i suppose it might have been hard to see the introspection given that i spent most of my time being an exquisite drunk
3. who exactly are you? (your display name is perhaps not the most descriptive)
4. hi

Shawn said...

I worked with you, Daemie, and Tim Hall at Collis for a few terms. My nickname is Lucky, and I was an '06 from Seattle. I don't know if you remember when we met, that time that I went to church at night with Jess Vyrostko? Then we randomly ran into one another working at Collis.

I Facebooked you last night and figured I would drop by.