inreaction

i will post soon, this weekend, i promise.

but this is magic:

I’m feeling rough, I’m feeling raw, I’m in the prime of my life.
Let’s make some music, make some money, find some models for wives.
I’ll move to Paris, shoot some heroin, and fuck with the stars.
You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars.

This is our decision, to live fast and die young.
We’ve got the vision, now let’s have some fun.
Yeah, it’s overwhelming, but what else can we do.
Get jobs in offices, and wake up for the morning commute.

Forget about our mothers and our friends
We’re fated to pretend
To pretend
We’re fated to pretend
To pretend

I’ll miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms
I’ll miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world
I’ll miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog and my home
Yeah, I’ll miss the boredem and the freedom and the time spent alone.

There’s really nothing, nothing we can do
Love must be forgotten, life can always start up anew.
The models will have children, we’ll get a divorce
We’ll find some more models, everyting must run it’s course.

We’ll choke on our vomit and that will be the end
We were fated to pretend
To pretend
We’re fated to pretend
To pretend

Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah

“are  you trying to tell me…” the carpenter’s voice strained with the sort of newly emerging anger that burgeons out of unwelcomed realization. “…that my wife that i kept either under my eye or locked in a second floor master bedroom somehow magically made it out far enough to not only escape my attention, but waste time and fertility on some philandering millionaire?”

will flicked his third cigarette into the dirt road, disgusted. they had been talking for too long. will knew he was dragging this out longer than he needed.

“listen warren,” he rasped, “that gir–your wife–is not yours. she hasn’t for 42 months. she hasn’t been since she took herself into the city on the very coattails of your toils and found herself a sense of desire, she hasn’t been since she–”

the wire door from the house into the garage creaked open, revealing her terrified, emboldened face in the frame. she was in odd array, warren’s long, white linen shirt a sort of ethereal sheet melding her body into the light now pouring in from the house’s interior. she appeared to be an amalgamation of face, hair, and grease streaks. will paused and took in this apparition, seemingly made aware of the magnanimity of it all.

“since she what, will?”

he started, paused to recollect his calculated air of cocky indifference, and broke the silence and marriage: “since she came into the city and found me.”

the truth was now incarnate. she was outed, a harlot supposedly kept as close to her keeper as a hen’s egg, a woodworker’s wife turned woman; something dangerous, empowered yet belittled, dangerous and demenaed; she was as free as she had ever been, unburdened by marriage but now so white that she too blended with the light glowing around her. a look came over her, washed away her shapely form and washed out her previous resolve. she shook, and looked away when she felt warren’s gaze descending upon her.

“leave.”

will contemplated the command warren had dejectedly tossed his way, but she did not. the door slammed and she flew by them, still pale. she ran into the street, something dangerous, something wild. unburdened by marriage but still so white.

the “death car,” as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop. for a few seconds, neither did she. by the time the dust had settled the car was far gone–from one horizon of dust around a bend and through another–it must have passed the body fractions of a second after it flung her into the opposing lane. the dust settled on her now, adding color to the shirt, revealing her to the squinting, twitching eyes in the garage.

will and warren were momentarily rendered incapable of considering each other by the passing of a single car. they ran, arriving at the body the same time another car pulled to a stop just before it, a curious couple just stepping out.

the smog was the same, though wrinkles around their eyes belied that at least they had changed.

“man! remember that time we climbed that hill by the griffith and watched every fucking fireworks show in los angeles?”
“that was the same night we let in the cops that were searching for us, wasn’t it?”
“fuck me you’re right. they must have missed one of us, otherwise they would have known that you threw that damn chair from our roof to the one they were detaining those other screw-ups on.”

their beers were too warm to drink by the time they were done. they paid their tab and stepped back into the westwood breeze.

“aren’t you guys a little old for this town?”
“aren’t you a little fat for that skirt?”

they still had it in them.

let’s write.

this is odd. my fingers are dancing nervously, my hand wet with anticipation. it’s been quite some time where i’ve sat to write, as opposed to sitting to think. a friend had an amalgamation of young musicians entitled “music is the art of thinking,” but clearly that need not be true. literary pursuits are much more educational than aural ones (or oral ones even). writing in itself is a thoughtful process.

that’s not true. i remember when i first started writing. it wasn’t when i wrote a poem in first grade, or completed an anthology in third grade to the formal agreements of my teacher. it was when i thought i needed someone, picked up a speckled “composition” notebook and sat for three hours writing 20 upon 20’s of pages. eventually, i grew tired and slept, but that notebook never stayed far from me. it followed me to europe, where it met it’s tragic end with a bag of forgotten, fermented cherries in the bottom of my worldly backpack. it smelled of wine but alcohol had not wet my lips yet, so i rewrote the notebook, in a sterile, spiral version that now looks so foolish. but then again, what boy doesn’t look foolish when pursuing any sense of “art” these days?

i used to use quiet music to spark literary endeavors, but today this feels far too artificial. give me bass lines and irreverence, i don’t need to listen to poetry when i’m writing such brash, unstyled lines. style isn’t even present, my polish has worn out, grown toxic and been put away–it’s not time for metaphor because i’ve been here before, not time for simile because poetry just isn’t what i mean to be anymore. it’s just not me.

i can’t check my meter and cross out iambs and replace them with trochees, your knees are scarred but you’re not scared. your eyes are bright with light but they are evaded by any sense of sight–you can’t see what you want to be because you’re afraid of being me. when there’s nothing left in you what do you expect? everything is suspect when you’ve lost respect–for yourself. lyricism, litotes, understatement, make a statement–add movement so they stick with the words and don’t stray from the page so you can supplant your rage with big words so they can fancy you a sage–wage your words against their worlds, drop out of form once in awhile to catch one’s attention…right?

certainly this is funner than realer, probably more smiler than crier. but isn’t that always the case? listen to {read a book} not {no lies just love} because a smile goes down much easier than a tear–leaves no marks and requires the same level of face-scrunching.

tell me what you think. why don’t we hold hands by the rink while sipping on iced adios while skating away from our goodbye? why don’t we forget what it’s like to live and do you fancy a swyve? let’s buy some land, let’s raise our kids, let’s brush our goddamn death night after night because the dentist says it’s right, right? when’s the last time we drove around and took every left without worrying about what was right? when’s the last time the breeze was salty, when was the last time it made your father’s salt-and-pepper hair fly in patterns most unfitting an old man? fuck questions.

imperatives are far more engimatic. do work. smoke this. lighten up. fall down. get lost. find yourself. turn right. write now.
but why not be exclamatory. do work! smoke this! lighten up! get lost!

tell me where the bank is that can bring me back from where my talent has sanken. tell me where to test the best and compare them to the rest of them–don’t they all want to be on screen?

ever feel as though you’ve read a mass of words but amassed no knowledge? ever feel like your lips touched but you never kissed? me neither. but really, just because you read doesn’t mean you paid attention, doesn’t mean you couldn’t get lost in the circles and just come out at the end of it, find yourself cornered by the circular logic. where were we?

writer’s block: 0.
bullshit: 1.