"She’s got a nice way about her,"
or how it always starts,
or so it always goes,
but not in ways you think it will
just in ways you know you don’t want it to,
I’ve got shelves of books with unwrapped backings of spines with no names and pages with no words, just the same color paint thrown up on each and every thread, and the tips curl for certain parts, parts where subtle changes occur. Still, variations on the same thing. Really?
I got that same belt still, that one that hung low on a cold morning when you woke up, spun about and all the worst parts of you were boiled over and your edges frayed. You remember. And you remember sitting on the steps outside the apartment telling this story to her like it was some noble thing, like you thought that honesty really still held any kind of weight in a day like this, in a life like this. Honest, too much. Honest and stupid and funny-faced. Always the way.
But you’re still good, right?
Yeah, I’m good. I’m fine. I’m getting by.
It is, man. It really is. It’s nice.
So, what’ve you been up to?
Nothing. Nothing really. Haven’t talked much to anyone.
Yeah. I mean, you and Matt, yeah, but you know all that. And everyone else, they’re all, they’re there, but they’re…they’re hers man.
But really. It’s lame. Let’s drop it.
I’m good, man. It’s good seeing you.
You too, brother.
You get older. You get by, and you get older and everyone else is getting older at the same time. Everyone is getting older at the same time. You can’t stop that.
It is the end of August and I am 28 now and in 7 months I will be 29 and I don’t think those matters really matter but I just saw that this post will be my 700th post so maybe numbers do matter because I wanted to do something different. Make that number count. Or some shit. But also maybe it does matter when your friends are all the same and are successful and family-lived and you are just ambling about and smashing into things like, what the Hell am I even doing anymore? when all you secretly want is that stability and goodness and love, but do you. Really? Really, do you? Sabotaging things left and right like not doing it before the best-by date’s gonna fuck your shit up, for real? Expiring coupons, what a fucker. Eh, the fuck’s it matter anyhow? Everyone’s got their own shit. We all got our own shit. Own it and be well and we’re all here to help the other, right? Right.
Jack lay low under a rising tree, in the dark of cold night, light of a full moon bleeding into the settling fog. The grass is crisp and fresh in the way Jack remembers grass being fresh after an early morning cut when Pops made him and his brother trim it down, once a week, along with the neighbors who were Jack’s great grandparents. Old and young in the same blood, in the same cul-de-sac. Family trees fell dead leaves that Jack corralled and bagged, threw spent lines of lived lives into plastic bags for the mornings. Hated it. Bagged the same things, years later, court ordered, with a man named Paul in brown boots and powdered Gatorade, two weekends in a row. Cut the fat of the KFC in the small breaks, like it was something he was doing forever, wearing brown boots and scraping lakes. Life, for Paul, tragedy, for Jack. That fresh, new regret.
So, that’s it?
You’re really going?
Yeah. I think I’ve got to. It’s something I’ve got to do.
Because, man. Because I can’t do it here anymore.
Seems like a cop-out.
It’s a start over. A reset. I mean, c’mon, you don’t get it.
No. I get it. I do. I just, I don’t think you should cut out because of one thing.
It’s not just one thing, though. It’s a bleed, man. It’s all things now.
Everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows me, even when they don’t know. They know me, and I know them and I don’t want to fucking know them.
I can’t, I don’t want to do it anymore. It’s fucking lame, but, I mean c’mon.
I know, brah.
I just need a fresh, good start.
I can respect that.
700 posts. Started in 2007. 7 months. Something, something 7. Seems like a good place for a fresh start.
You turn everything off, and everything gets real quiet and stops, and you’re not so much laughing anymore and you’re not really doing anything at all. It’s just quiet again, and you can hear the dog across the street and the slight drip-drip-drip of the faucet, but everything else is just still, still and quiet and low again, like fog in the night.
Dirty Projectors - About to Die
It is cold outside, cold and quiet and the rain is just now starting to come down in soft hellos. Quiet, still – only the sounds of passing cars and cat cries in the distance. It is night, a chill night, a lonely night. And so you sit on the sidewalk thinking – always thinking – waiting for the hard of a rain to show itself, or just waiting. And maybe it’s because you’re waiting that you’re sitting there alone, or maybe it’s because you’re waiting that you’re wondering if there’s anything worth waiting for at all. The streetlight flickers. The bushes twitch. And an expecting breeze crosses your face, shakes you from your nonsense.
I remember a time where I would write letters to no one in particular. Letters of hope, letters of longing. Letters written only to mask an inherent desire to be worthwhile, if only someone would be there to read them. They would be written and hidden and covered in this and that, with words only a few would recognize and only a few could conjure any real sense of meaning. There was something about a pen on paper, something about that, that seemed distant yet familiar…hopeful even. Some kind of meaning that would be lost into the nothingness.
And so recall your father and the hands that made beauty from death. A wilted tree fashioned into a smooth heart, a threadbare sweater made new with a needle and love to keep your mother warm on cold nights. On nights like tonight. Some kind of man, he was, always making the best of things when you thought the best of things couldn’t be.
But the rain still lingers and the cement is cold, still, underneath you and the Earth and the dirt and the things that will always be there. Small lines of water finding their ways to other places. A vague sheen across the neighbors yard. Things coming into being, things fading into the night. The rain stalls and so do you. Still waiting for that wash, that something that will turn your death into beauty.
I was talking to myself as people crossed and I walk on the avenue.
As the lights would pass my eyes I though of time and all the things we’d never knew.
The sun came up along the shore, the love of life was shared and my eyes found you.
And we would go into the sun,
And we would share all of the things that made us one.
The woods and the stars collide.
But know the that ill be by your side.
Into the wild, into the fear, into the night.