Devoid of Ideas

true barren destitution, suckling at the dusty remnants of a dried river bed, divining rod extended at the crotch...

arid desert breaths, emitting puffs of dust from cracked and flaking lips, smacking tongue, dry heaving drops of acrid bile up into the back of the throat and a little bit even onto the taste buds.

show me a glass of water. just show it to my face long enough only for my eyes to signal to my brain that it is water. "is this what you are looking for, sir?"

but. despite it being precisely what i need, i'll not be sure how to answer. and so i'll equivocate until you line me up against a wall and pulverize me with a fire hose.

Giraffes and Gazelles

So he put his hands down between his knees, shrugged his shoulders and smiled. The smile was a big one. An understanding one. It was unclear to him how it had happened to him. But it had.

His one boy was eating animal crackers two fistfuls at a time, reaching both hands into the bag and coming out with giraffes and gazelles between his fingers. The kid's personality and charisma were indescribable. He was untouchable.

His other boy had the smile and face of his father's. And a head full of mischief, despite his age. Acknowledging and then ignoring with a smile any correction (for safety or any other reason) that you offered. In his own way, he too was untouchable.  

Someone older and wiser had told him that the days go by slowly but the years rapidly. Someone else had told him that life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.

Good advice to remember he thought. And so he stopped making any plans. He leaned his head back, shut his eyes tight, held his breath and tried to make time stop. So he could feel now forever.

a dance

i was standing on my own two feet. you were dancing with me. i feel the dainty wrist draped over my shoulder. hand hanging down delicately, finger tips softly moving across my jacket. and things came to light that never have before.

this time tomorrow, all will be back to norm. chaotic, uncontrollable norm. but now, we sway silently. heads aglow, eyes not shut but unfocused, senses narrowed, breathing. not knowing tomorrow to exist. only knowing now. just. now.

Listen to this...

“Why do you think you like it so much? You’ve played it over half a dozen times in a row.”

“I don’t know, I love how she turns into a real person at the end there. See? Right there, that’s real. Real life, no acting, no makeup, no facade. Just real. I like seeing that for some reason. And holy god, the song is so good, doesn’t it just gas you a bit?”

“Yeah, I mean it’s good, but it doesn’t tear me up.”

“Oh, you’re listening to it the wrong way, then. Sit there. Stare straight ahead. Open your head and just let the vocal in. Notice the rhythm, etc. from the periphery, but really just let the vocal into your skull.”

“Okay, okay”

“No really, I mean, everyone in the world is depressed to some degree about something. If not, then you’re not feeling and that’s a whole other problem. And this song, this song here, puts words and emotion to it. It’s so simple with just the piano and the vocal, but so powerful. It doesn't get better than this. It really doesn’t. We as a society have been trying to perfect art for as long as time and the more we do, we always come up short, because it doesn’t need to be perfected in any way, true art, just is. It just exists. And this is as close as you’re ever going to get. So don’t just give me an ‘okay okay’ and then only half listen through the headphones. Really listen to this fucking song, I’ll leave the room, but really listen to it and let it happen to you, stop living for a second - just sit there and blink and breath - and don’t think. She chose all these notes and transitions and emphases with such care and reason. And look who gets his hands on it? Some dildo that is just going to say within the first 10 or 15 seconds whether the general Gestalt feel of the song sounds good or not.”

“But, it has to sound good. Why am I going to spend 4 minutes listening to something that isn’t pleasing to my ears? I’m not going to go digging for a particular transition in a piece of shit.”

“It does sound good, you asshole.”

“Ha ha, give me the headphones and get me a beer.”

when all the jesters in your head start barking. mocking, tickling and irksome. when the mirror's image edges closer to that of some older adult that you'd call 'sir' (or 'madam' even) than of you. when the inside of your head begs to be placed on the outside. so near bursting itself at the seams of your skull. when dishevelment is real and constant and encroaching on normalcy. pounding down on you like a deadline. and you can't just keep a straight face. like the cranial muscles have little fickle, arrogant minds of their own.

just tidy yourself up. pull your sagging jeans up above your waistline to at least shield the top 20% of your asscrack from public consumption. straighten your collar. smooth the wrinkles in your shirt. even better, change the shirt to something unstained. use water to part your hair hard to the left. a hard part that looks totally ridiculous, but do it anyway. just part the shit to the left and never mind the consequences. part it with a comb, but also follow the comb with the saliva-wet open palm of your right hand.  

then look back at that GD mirror and hum a simple tune. and laugh a stupid laugh. or just breathe one single breath. recognize a solitary physical sensation, that of the pressure of the floor on your foot. smooth down that fly-away on the back left of your head. and smile back at that old weathered fucker with the shitty hairdo and love him. love him just for a second or two. he got you here in the first place. and as shitty as here is right now, he is basically all you've got to get you some place else.