Slightly unique

Never rushing to the stage to turn themselves inside out
Most keep their secrets to themselves
Hoarding their uniqueness
Priding themselves on things that separate

Ask the kid why he smokes
He'll spin yarns about his Father, the coolest cat he ever knew
He leans on the bar and orders a drink
Like how he saw some guy do it in a movie

Ask the kid his favorite color
He'll tell you of a girl, love unrequited
She'd never remember his name
Or spot him in a crowd

But she remembers, just like she remembers her Aunt
Would wear her hair a certain way
When she misses her most, she combs her hair the same
A faded memory her only model

Because the pictures, unbearable to look at
Are tucked away in a box along with the love letters
The old words always fresh
To eyes that never stop changing

People rush to the stage to find that they're other people
There are always other people on the stage
All clamoring with one voice
Saying the same thing to each other

Saying the things people have always said to each other
Seeking individual rewards
For the uniqueness that we all possess

Inspiration

It's a bad feeling to wish it were Friday before leaving the house on a Monday but anything that you're getting paid to do shouldn't be fun all of the time. That's why it's called work.

But I'm tired, like seriously burned out, curl up in the fetal position, toss a blanket over me and turn the light out tired. We're wrapping up a big project and the way these things go, the difficulty level increases the closer you get to the finish line. This has the effect of eating up the motivation and draining the will to complete the various tasks required to push the thing out the door.

I don't want to see it again but it will be waiting for me tomorrow, hungry for a fresh coat of paint.

Weeks (as in the plural) like these present a secondary issue. Coming home, my brain is pile of gelatinous mush that proves resistant to forming complete sentences. So the ideas that I come up with can't be put to the page until my mind is in a better spot.

I'm a morning person and I can usually crank a few words down before I head out for work. Only a few. I spend way too much time clicking on INTERNET SHINEYNESS to be effective. Gotta read my blogs, network socially and news, news, news! This means I do most of my writing on the weekend in a small window of time before my wife wakes up.

Luckily, there's no shortage of ideas for me. It's somewhat problematic because I'm really trying to stop myself from writing short stories and focus on the bigger deal but sometimes an idea gnaws at your insides so hard that it's impossible to let go of. I suppose this is better than being completely dried up.

All the books I've read on novel writing say that it's important to complete The One and focus on only The One until it's complete. On my fifth try (actually started another one in Chicago but that doesn't count!) I'd like to finally get The One finshed whether anyone reads it or not. At least I'll be able to say I've done it. Maybe it'll make the next one easier too.

Inspiration is in everything. I overhear conversations, friends say stupid things, news stories, a line of prose from the book I'm reading. It's impossible to hide from. What I'd like to do is figure out a way to incorporate these things into whatever I'm working on rather than spinning them off into their own little islands. If I can weave them into the theme of my current story I suspect that I may have found the secret, or at least the method that will work for me.

Then there's this thing. It fills me with guilt every time I post in it because I'm always thinking of how these words could have been used to pad the other thing. The other more meaningful thing.

I'm not even sure what this blog is most of the time other than a random collection of jumbled mishmash held together by a common thread of directionless shoe gaze.

It's fun though.

Nosy

Forever girls, whether four or forty
One wakes me from the afternoon commute
From lethargic zombie, to eagle eyed seeker
She never fails to have that phone
Pressed against her ear

My imagination needs a ten foot pole
Before it could make assumptions
Why a girl at the bus stop (in business casual)
Who a girl at the bus stop could be talking to
(Sometimes she stands, mostly she sits)

Sometimes our eyes meet, her lips always moving
Making words I can't begin to guess
Words that make sense to the person(s)
She's been holding this dialogue with
For at least a year

Sometimes I think the beginnings of a good story
Involve me stopping the car and walking over
And saying in my most polite voice
Something that I think is witty
Something that will only get me slapped

It's not like that, I just want to know for knowing
She's a reasonably attractive brunette
(I prefer the old hair style to the new one)
A cacophony of phony curls that remind me of
My old unfriendly poodle

But it's not that at all.
Imagine: The same person everyday
The same person rain or shine
The same phone in same person's ear (except for once!)
And wouldn't you want to know?

Or am I just nosy?

Art as Artifice

A long time ago, thousands of years possibly, I took a class called Individual Reading in High School. The class had a simple structure; student reads a book, student logs the amount of time spent reading the book, student discusses the book with the teacher then moves on to the next book.

I enjoyed this class because I love to read and in those days I could probably put away 300 words without so much as a blink. I loved it until I fell into a trap.

I decided to read Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four which as a book I thought was fine but at that point in my life it was safe to say that "The Higher Meaning" in a piece of art was entirely lost on me.

The post-mortem discussions with the teacher had usually centered around plot, characters and whether or not I liked the book but this one went differently. She spent a lot of time hammering on Orwell's motivation for writing the book and The Message, picking apart my answers and suggesting that I'd taken a shallow approach to the book. Ultimately she decided that I hadn't read it and that I'd watched the movie instead. The interview ended with her striking the book from my record. All that time lost, like it had never even happened.

Obviously I was distraught but back then I wasn't equipped to formulate a counter argument to an imposing adult especially one overflowing with literary expertise. Nineteen Eighty-Four has some heady concepts. It's not as if I knew at 16 the differences between communism, fascism and socialism, all of which I feel would help me make my case then or now. She was probably right about my approach as well but I could assure you that in those days I took a shallow approach to most things. I still do, to be honest. I just hide it better.

But you know, if I'd read The Brothers Karamazov then instead of three years ago the odds are pretty good that it wouldn't have become one of my favorite books either. Art is temporal and ultimately personal. When these two points intersect into an individual the meaning is found there, not because someone puts shit in a bag and tells you that it's a masterpiece.

I'm hard pressed to take serious those that tell you the meaning that should be found in something. Nothing means anything to another unless they decide it to. It's not the business of others to suggest the way you should interpret something. This applies to the artist as well. If the artist has to explain "What they were going for" outside of the piece then clearly the art has failed. Any piece should be able to stand on its own without outside interpretation in order to be valid.

This is not a rail against criticism. I welcome all kinds of criticism from construction to creation and I think that artists do benefit from cataloging the observations of others. After all, how could one tell if the mark they were aiming for were true without feedback from the audience? But criticism is not the holy grail. It's another point of view that may or may not coalesce into your own.

What I'm against is Empiricism in art. You can't impose your will on someone to see what you want them to see. We all have different experiences and tastes which lead us to formulate our own opinions. Understanding that gets us closer to understanding other peoples points of view which is really what we should be striving for, at least from a humanistic standpoint. One man's take.

I am humbled if anyone finds any sort of meaning in anything I create whether it is intended or not... up to a certain point though. I'd be pretty horrified if something I created were used as justification for an atrocity of any kind. That's my only disclaimer.

If I create something that makes you feel, I am satisfied. If I create something that makes you think, I am satisfied. Striving for anything more than that is an arrogant approach that I want no part of and those that tell another to feel or think a certain way do nothing but contribute to a know-it-all elitism that has absolutely nothing to do with the enjoyment of art.

The Art of Balancing on a Ladder

Heavy objects, precariously pitched
Pipe wrenches, 180 degree water
Small screwdrivers, even smaller parts
All of this I'm up against
Still thinking of you and that summer dress
Holding hands on the way to the Lion King

Frozen by Madonna, stuck in my head
A never ending loop, can't get this thing apart
Without losing my balance
Can't go home until I get this thing apart
Put this thing back together again
Pray it doesn't leak

Folded into a pretzel between a strut hanger
A hot piece of metal, trying to reach around
Thinking of how I should have said that thing
How I should have just manned up and said
Wishing I had an extra arm, was taller
Wishing for a less wobbly ladder to stand on

Happy Valentine's Day! (Based on a true story)

This actually happened to someone I know!

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She told me that she wants "To Save the Planet." Her jaw set, determined wrinkle in her brow.

I came home from work and every light in the house was on. Almost every light except upstairs. She won't go upstairs on account of the ghost. That's become my responsibility. She says that the ghost and I have a special relationship. If not believing in a thing makes a relationship with it special then I suppose she's on to me.

Every light in the house. She wasn't even home. I called her name once, no response. Walked from room to room flipping light switches. Then I saw the boxes.

In the bedroom, neatly stacked and taped shut. Labeled with a magic marker. On the dresser, half the items that would normally be there. Her things were gone. I peeked into the drawers on her side. Empty. Took a cursory glance into the closet. I knew what to expect.

I was on autopilot at this point. When she came home later, much later, I'd somehow ended up on the couch, sitting there in darkness. She wasn't alone.

"I didn't expect you to be here." Her face, a beautiful silhouette. My mind filled in the blanks and drew the wrinkle in her brow exactly where I knew it would be.

"I live here," Imagine a paper top made by an uncoordinated toddler, spun on the edge of a table. This is how my heart feels. The other fellow shifts. I smell patchouli.

She turns on the light. There she is, breaking my heart again. The guy with her looks like he was Saving the Whales last week. Birkenstocks, khaki cargo shorts with bulging pockets some kind of a weird dreadlocky thing growing off the top of his head. Some kind of a weird, blonde, twisted thing growing off the top of his head.

Looks like it should be held together with twigs, berries and copious amounts of magic. Not the good magic either. The Darth Vader kind.

"I didn't expect you to be here," she says again. "Thought you'd be at class." Then she notices the heart box and flowers on my lap. She fights the urge to smile ironically, glances at her new beau, then back at me. I'm waiting for the anti-corporate, anti-Catholic, anti-Valentine's Day rant but it never comes.

But I never bought into that Save the Planet jazz. I only asked that she turned the lights off, turn the heat down and use less water because it put money back in our pocket. Money we could use to do things. Money we could use to make our life better.

There is no we anymore.

She leaves me alone with the new guy. The new improved version. I suspect he has a gas mask in the back of that VW Bus that he rode in on. I suspect he has rubber bullet scars, a police record and a lifetime's worth of indignation and hostility built up towards The Man.

He probably carries a piece of blank cardboard and a sharpie, just in case a spontaneous protest breaks out. He's probably seen the sparkly end of a tazer. More than once.

I need to sit down. I am sitting. I stand up and walk around, follow her into the bedroom. It would probably be a good time to plead my case.

"I bought these for you," I hold out the bouquet of cheap carnations and the paper heart filled with chocolates. I've no use for them.

She's amused. She is beautiful. I've seen this look before. Is it polite to call a woman stubborn? Resolute. Jaw firmly set, brow a slight crease. It makes me sad realizing that this is how I will always remember her.

She takes the gift from me after an internal debate plays out on her face. "I need you to..." she gnaws her bottom lip.

I know where this is going but it's my turn to play games. I raise an eyebrow slightly. Try to look like she just didn't rip my heart out and put it in a waffle iron. I'm concerned.

She looks towards the stairs. Swallows. She mouths the words. A faint bead of moisture on her upper lip. Resolute. Scared of an imaginary ghost.

I nod. I can't pretend that I have the upper hand in something that doesn't exist anymore.

"You need me to go upstairs?" I say. Her winter coats reside there. In a closet next to the guest bed.

She is trembling. I want to hold her. A faint smell of patchouli reminds me that she's off limits now. Forever.

I climb the stairs, leaving the light down below. I know my way around. I don't need it. The climb takes longer than it used to. My knees are weak. I feel old and tired. I just want to sit down. It's cold. We never turn the heat on up here. Maybe the ghost likes it that way. Alone and cold. The ghost...

I'm upstairs with the lights off. There's a guest bed. Warm, inviting me to lay down. I decide to sit on the edge of it for just a moment. Just to get my bearings. Soon I'm under the covers. I'm not alone. I am not scared of being alone.

I fall asleep counting the ways I will miss her.


* * *

When I wake up, every light in the house is on except for upstairs. She never goes upstairs.

I go from room to room to turn the lights off. She is quick though, and turns them back on after me. We never occupy the same room anymore.

I'm beginning to forget what she looks like. Except for the crease in her brow. Sometimes I catch glimpses of it in the mirror. I can no longer see my own reflection.

I only stay downstairs for so long before the heat overcomes me. She figured out how to use the thermostat as a weapon.

I end my day staring at the boxes in the bedroom and the fine layer of dust now obscuring the magic marker labels. The box of chocolates scattered and mixed with the rotted carnations, my nostrils forever filled with the cloying scent of patchouli, hands, fingers twisted into vile instruments that I can't bear to look at.

She will never understand.

I end my day, trudging up the long staircase, back to where it is bearable. Where I can feel again. Allow the thoughts of mourning to wash over me. I can see the lights come on from here, at the top of the staircase.

I can see the lights, signaling the end of my day that never ends.

I will never hold her again. No one will hold her again.

The Story...

I must tell is about love. Love in all things makes the world turn. Love of self, love of another, love of material goods, love of altruism: love is the eternal question for which there is no answer.

How do you define love when people are so different that two of them could argue over a color or a taste? Is it blue or azure? Is love even tangible? Can it be all things to all people? Is love really just a catch-all for something greater than the human experience? No person experiences it the same way as another or do they? How could you tell without being someone else?

All forms of love are not equal. Even in the most committed relationship, there is certainly an imbalance when it comes to what one will or not do for love. I would do anything for love, however...

People love one another, people fall in love with each other, people love themselves and this self love is what keeps a person going from day to day. Is love really just a biological response in order to perpetuate our species?

Why do we love? Do we actually decide to love? Does a person sit down, weigh the alternatives and make a conscience decision to begin loving another? Is it just as easy to stop loving? When we love what do we get out of knowing that we love someone? What do they get? Security? Can we choose who we love? How we love?

Can someone really die from a broken heart?

Why do we try to change the ones that we love? Shouldn't love be unconditional? How does someone know what's better for someone else? Is that love or selfishness? Is it inherently selfish to love someone? Is love really just an attempt to possess another?

These are the themes I want to explore. Even a human incapable of loving another still must love their self if they are to continue to exist. Love is something we are all familiar with whether we understand it or not.

Love is universal, intangible, and unquantifiable yet it exists as surely as the sun rises in the east.

It's all about love and that is the story that I desire to tell.

Eventually.

Trapped in a Cliche

I was out last night sitting at that one place with a tall cup of something or other, taking a swig, staring at an unlit cigarette resting on the bar in front of me.

My phone rang. The number: Unavailable. I don't answer those. Figure if it's important enough guy'll leave a message right? Besides I'm an unpopular sort. Anyone calling me at that hour would be someone I owed money. Not likely to come down to the watering hole and fill my cup a time or two.

Really that's all I'm looking for, at least my eyes tried to say that to the gal at the other end of the bar: "Why don't you sidle on over here and fill my cup a time or two?"

I winked. Maybe I could fill hers.

She turned her back on me, slowly. I assumed she was going for dramatic. Ladies and gentleman we have a winner.

The condensate rolled from my glass now, starting to pool on the bar, spreading towards that unlit cigarette. Guy that gave it to me said it was organic, no chemicals. Think I was supposed to be impressed. Wanted to tell him that cancer was organic too. Figure I'd better shut my mouth since someone was being nice to me for once.

Stupid phone is going batshit now. Still "Unavailable." Bout to drop it in the pint for what it's worth, but that would ruin a perfectly good beer. Maybe ask the barkeep for a glass of water, "Half full, easy on the ice." Yeah that'd do trick.

Raised my finger but he's on me first, cordless phone in hand. "You got a call, chief."

Who the eff is calling me here? I grunt. He slaps the phone into my palm. "Shoot," I spit into the receiver.

"Hello." I know that voice: plaintive, yearning, unambiguously reeking of despair and need. Lots of need.

"You have got to be kidding me." Hackles are up now. Anyone in the bar in on this? Glance around, see a woman's back. Two dudes shooting pool. Bartender drying a glass, watching a baseball game. Uh oh.

"You did it to yourself," the voice says.

Why so snarky? Figure I better play it cool now but my hands are sweating so bad I'm leaving grimy prints on the bar and the man's phone. "Did what?" I ask. I rolled and came up with coy. Hey it's an angle.

"Don't be coy." So I rolled two sixes. Maybe two ones. Either way I'm screwed.

"Look, I'm..."

"Sorry? Do better."

I can't do better though. I'm zapped. Creativity gone. I got nothing, as the man says. I end the call. Pointless. Wave Charley over and hand him the phone back. Watch him wipe the sweat from it.

"Pour me a stiff one, ace." Gonna need something to wash that taste out. Nothing like realizing you're trapped in a cliche.

"Last call, bub. Happened while you were shooting your mouth off." Figures. I size him up. Wondering how he ended up with a thick Boston accent when we're on the other side of the map. Yep, this is bad.

"In that case, make it a glass of water, half full..."

"Easy on the ice?" He starts nodding.

Looks like this ain't his first rodeo.