September 29, 2010 (6:38am)

Who wants what I can’t

A careless touch;

A terrible lust

I stand in front of myself

This shelf to high to reach

            Pleaded

 Deceived

And tormented perfectly

“Am I him or am I me?”

Misspelled words

Absurd and relieved.

I’m obscure

Blurred

Retarded

Politically cool

I laugh

Without a helmet

I still drool

Two horns

And a wormy tail

I impale

Minds

It’s not mine

So I don’t care

Wandering eye fixed

It’s called a stare

But you shine

I’m not sorry for you

I’m OK with you

Only if I hate me

Sneakers and a shoe

That’s me and you  

Darkness and not cued

Am I am or are you?

September 24, 2010 (8:33am)

Focus, I must have focus, I must side with the direction that will inevitably thrust me forward, not carry me back. Through some good nudges and reflection I’m starting to get glimpses of that concept and I’m embracing them. Read something somewhere that said to have new you must get rid of old (make room, essentially) which I came across after I’d already started doing just that. Moving forward sounds good, it’ll prove something, perhaps disappointing, regardless the results can’t be as bad as repeating the guy that fell off the boat; Pete and Repeat were on a boat first, so hit rewind and represent, fuckers (do I need liner notes there to point out that I’m so goddamn clever that I just made a crazy awesome pop-culture reference? I agree: totally unnecessary.) I bought a printer to start printing off old files and then delete them. I’m full of discovery and creation; there’s no need to cradle my past when I’m currently just as…full of room to grow; groom to row? Gloom bestowed? Blow whose nose…who knows?

September 24, 2010 (7:14am)

“Wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frames, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!” This book is intoxicating; but instead stumbling after consuming from it, I’m left excited and in thirst of more knowledge, as in the way Doc Frank sought knowledge.

I put the middle entry above in crooked letter to accentuate an entry made between an actual entry. Between the quotes is the quote, outside is me...ha! Here’s to tomorrow may we only need today.

-xkp

Side note: I went looking through my library and picked up my Slang dictionary and started reading a few entries. I’ve surmised that: though not owning an Urban dictionary, my slang tome is about as culturally practical as an Amish Do It Your Self Electricity Guide (lots of candles).

Colter

My apologies for the time expired between correspondences. Holidays and such have taken my time in bulk. Do you think any less of me?

When class ended that day I went to Awol apprehensively and squeaked:

“Don’t you want that poem?” I almost turned away and ran, but he turned back unexpectedly.

“You’re quieter than you look.” He’d stopped moving and looked curiously at me. I hesitated, cleared my throat, and asked again:

“Don’t you want your poem? I mean I’m nobody, but it was really beyond anything and you just tossed it. Shouldn’t you get it so you can save it?” He smirked a bit, not at me, but because he was happy to respond.

“I have it memorized,” plainly put and without gloating.

 “Oh,” I turned my head. I felt stupid because I almost blushed.

“You shouldn’t pay so much attention.”

“Sorry.” I thought I had wronged him.

“For what; noticing me or being noticed?” He was quick. I wanted to respond better, but you always think better post moment.

“No it was just good. I couldn’t,” ever do what you did: Write what you did or have the cock to stand, being known as you are, and read in front of so many judgmental eyes.

“Calm down kid, its just life, it’s only the first step, and for your sake, please close your mouth. I’ve never seen someone in such flagrant awe when speaking to me. At most, I think you are trying to speak to me.” He hit me with an open palm on the side of my arm. The grin on him was amazingly scary. Was he that happy with the moment? I was nearly requiring a change of underwear. “What if you had six weeks to live Colter, would you be this scared to talk to me?” Fuck! At least I think that was what was going on in my head after he asked. I mean...Fuck! What a question. Awol wasn’t just anybody, but I didn’t know why, concretely, at the time.

“I don’t think I’d be at school, I guess.” I was trying too hard to answer him and not the question. I feel, often that being the case.

“I see you’re gonna need some time to answer. I hope it doesn’t take five weeks and six days,” he waited, I shivered. “OK Rodin, we’ll reconvene later then.” He hit me again on the other arm, turned, and walked away. I couldn’t even give him a: ‘I’m pretending to be cool’ goodbye.

Natalie, my sister, was away at college so it was Mom, Dad, and I at the house. Contended with spending my nights in my room listening to music or reading I found nothing fancy about me back then, just liked it simple. That night I was molded most. Around 8:30pm, Mom came and knocked on my bedroom door. She told me that someone came to see me. Rarely getting visitors, if any at all, I eased myself off my bed and went to the front of the house. I couldn’t believe who I saw:

“There’s that look of awe again. You should be more emotionally versatile, truly. You’ve a lovely home Mrs. Colter, kept well and warm, just the way home should feel.” I couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or just sucking up. Either way, Mom seemed to be very delighted with his remarks.

“Well, aren’t you kind? Just let me close the door and get out of your guys’ way.” She was blushing faintly, I could barely believe it.

“Thanks Ma.” I closed the distance between Awol and I. Curiosity was drooling from my mind.

“Alright before you implode and make a mess, let me soothe you the best I can,” we sat down.

“I was flattered that you took concern about my poem and its survival. Don’t get a big head about it,” I smiled inside, “it just intrigued me. Naturally, I couldn’t let it go unnoticed. I Google mapped your ass and well, here I am. We’re gonna go get something to eat. More broadly, we’ll go somewhere that eating is an available option. Other loose choices can be plucked at will, but most importantly we are going.” No questions, no demands, and no resistance; just smooth execution of our next course of action.

For a lack of cruelty (toward you in regards to the length of this letter), I am going to have to leave a lot of dialogue out. My point for this side step will be, by my opinion, well illustrated.

Awol drove us to a Waffle House. He talked from the time we left my house ‘til we exited Waffle House. I just smiled and nodded, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do, except at one point: Our waitress came up to us, stopping mid stream, he turned to her and asked what she thought about his predicament. When she asked what it was, he calmly told her that he was given six weeks to live. Very kindly, in a shocked response, she put her hand on his shoulder and said how terrible that was. She was cute, probably a college student. She was too pretty and candid to be working there any longer than the formalities of her education took to finish. He told her not to act any differently and please not to ask any questions. Her name was Mindy; Awol went out of his way to address her by name the entire time we were there, suggesting it meant more than addressing her as miss or ma’am; Mindy was certainly no ma’am. She asked why? He guffawed, I giggled, and she blushed.

“Is that true?” I asked after Mindy left the table to attend to other guests.

“Normally I’d defensively ask you back if it should matter, but you’re different. Out of respect I’ll explain myself, which keep in mind, I never do. I came up with this idea that I’ll tell people I have six weeks to live. More importantly, I have to believe it myself. This way I’m not cheating anyone out of the perception of the so called deception. I don’t tell everyone, because it’s actually benefiting me more than its hurting anyone else. For once, I’m not afraid.”

“I would be.”

“What did you say?”

“I would be scared if I was dying in six weeks, but I do understand how freeing it could be, mostly.” He looked surprised that I had something to say. “I commend your sticking with it, that’s good character.”

“You don’t think me an idiot or just a fraudulent attention seeker?”

“Why? Cause you’re not really dying. I don’t care; I wouldn’t have the self discipline to convince myself I was. There’s where the integrity steps in; mind over matter. I’m too chicken, but you’re admirable.” Awol seemed so surprised. He called Mindy over for the check. Before we left she gave him a hug and her telephone number. While were driving away he threw it out the window. We parked a block away from my house. Awol pulled a pint of booze from his glove box, offering me some but I turned it down. He commented that I’m not as chicken as I think.

“Considering the situation, most people in your position wouldn’t have turned my offer down.” I might have blushed, not sure that I can remember or even want to.

He drank and talked a lot more about what made him sick about the world…and his life. He talked vaguely about his home life. More agreeing and nodding was done by me. He was all over the place, his thought process was unlinear and with some points I was sure he didn’t even need me to be there. That was why people called him Awol. Suddenly, he asks me to punch him in the face.

“Come on Colter Cunt, show some strength.” I laughed uncomfortably presuming he was kidding. Then I saw the look on his face, it would have made death dart for cover and beg forgiveness.

“What? Why?” I started getting really nauseous and shaking. “I have no reason to hit you, there’s no...I’ve never hit...come on...I should go.” I tried to leave and he grabbed my arm.

“Come on hit me! A dying man’s wish.” His eyes begged me to hold on to his words as tightly as I could.

“Your wish would be for me to hit you?”

“No, to see you step outside the safe zone called Colter. Hit me, you- tree in the wind- bitch! What’s the matter, huh? Wanna cry or something, huh, bitch? Hit me or I’ll fuck your sister in her ass and make her suck my dick afterward.” He was bleeding disdain delightfully it seemed.

“I don’t care that mmuch for mmmmy sis..sis..sister.”

“Figures you don’t, but I figured if your mom liked it so much she would too.”

WAPP!! With no warning I hit him square in the nose once and tried again. With one hand he stopped and grabbed the second attempt. He applied so much pressure, but I know he wasn’t mad at me, but angry at something in his life. He let my hand go when his nose started to bleed. I started gagging (not from the blood) and spilled from his car landing on my hands and knees. I threw up in the grass. After about three minutes I caught my breath and let the anger subside. Still on my hands and knees I looked back at him; he looked simultaneously pleased with me and disappointed with himself. He nodded his head slightly and started the car. From my knees I closed the door and he pulled away.

Sometimes I wish I had a personal mind reading stenographer in my employment, especially for that nights’ walk home. I didn’t sleep all that well for the next couple of years.

In the early morning of that day Awol killed himself. Not because I punched him, but because it was the last day of his sixth week.

At his funeral I met his mother. Apparently he left a sealed letter for me on his night stand. She said he was very adamant in me receiving it.

I have never eaten at Waffle House since.

Everything you’re wondering about is probably answered in the letter he left for me; or maybe you’ll be like me and have a new list of infinite questions, none of which will ever be answered. Life isn’t always unicorn farts and paper snowflakes I’ve noticed, as I’m sure you can attest to as well.

My Time is yours,

Colter

P.S. My apologies for using a computer to write this letter. I was temporarily lazy. My next letter will be in my usual handwritten format.

September 20, 2010 (8:48pm)

Just finished reading some of my journal entries from 2003, I don’t think it was such a good idea to do that. Granted I did get some goose bumps (which is supposed to be an indication that what you’re experiencing is for you), but I more received thoughts of disgust and disappointment. How have I not changed at all since then? Am I supposed to? Will I ever? Insanity…I haven’t changed much and should I truly expect different results? Crap crap Crap and more, you guessed it…crap! I still want to quit again, already and I just started, double Fuck! Violent Femmes' "Blister in the Sun" is playing in the background and it's one of the few times i didn't mind listening to the song. OK, enough of this dross, let's insert some fiction:

Who’s the new neighbor?

Is that the new boss?

Is that my engagement ring?

How much did it cost?

I need my eyebrows waxed.

I bought a new blouse.

I will tell people you know me,

If you buy me a house.

I can’t find a perfect husband.

Does he really exist?

Why do I first find prince charming,

Then he turns into the exorcist?

I deserve my own island.

I could fit all my shoes in a moving truck.

Screw those ugly whales,

I want to save the ducks.

I’m not a player

I perfected the game

You left your wife for me,

But I forget your name.

Stop staring

You can’t afford me.

I don’t mean mental worth,

I’m talking about money

I hope you’re a robot

Cause my mind tends to change.

At first I thought you were interesting.

Now I think you’re strange.

I need my own condo,

With astro-turf not grass.

Keep looking loser

Cause you’ll never touch this ass.

-xkp

Untitled

I’m saying a cutaneous touch

Sort of spontaneous and such

With nerves resurrected- interjecting breath-

Enamored of you to say the least.

Married to life, I and my wife- life.

You are my paramour

The one I’d live two lives for;

For lives to live.

Small details of course:

Some peoples’ beauty pales in comparison to your neck turn.

Exposing your sternocleidomastoid-

Turning over this mass void.

Blindness felt- making the touch sightless- not fright less

But it reminds us of it.

You remind me of anomalies:

Your occurrence is rare.

A vacant stare left after you’re gone- you’ve left, my eyes

Not this mind!

Confined to secrecy when engaging with me

So I can moan at your eyes

The sepia tone roots me; Eight weeks motionless frees me.

I’m not around you- I surround

My involvement enrolled hopelessly

Three days without your presence presents itself to me, superfluously

Where are you?

Sad spoken sorrow/ maybe tomorrow you’ll be here

So I can gaze through your fine hair

And rear my purpose for being here.

With life as my wife, married to life, and loving you;

My compromise.

-xkp

Everything I write is about me; its all me: fiction; nonfiction; man; woman; blade of grass; chair, all me. I’ll be sat upon; I will grow and fail, mostly sat upon. The uncomfortable rape scene in the middle of the third story; down to the last scream and emotion, that was all me, entirely.

I have a certain way of getting ready to watch porn, as many of you do I’m sure. I get excited, to get excited. My girlfriend is at work, I have the day off, I was thinking of it as I watched her get ready for work with one gleeful eye opened. Inside I was planning it all…going over some of the go to fantasies even though I knew I’d be entertaining my myself with a more active visual source of the stimuli, thank you free porn websites.You might be thinking that this is a get caught “true story”, its not. I have one of those too, but no, I’ll keep it clean.

The girlfriend kisses me on my cheek, says 143, I say it back (it’s the proper thing to do), my excitement nearly making me cry from anticipation. Now, because there is a “got caught” story I know better than to leap up as soon as the door closes, NO (finger wagging), you must wait, tell me you’ll wait, PLEASE ensure me that you WILL wait!!?? (a hard uncomfortable stare). So this is where I start stretching, mentally committing to the selfishly divine activity soon to arrive. So I roll out of bed, stretch again, add slippers and stir my way toward the computer desk. It was only sleeping so I was in luck…it would boot up quickly, lag a smidge, understandable considering I was the one jolting the computer asking it to stay awake ‘til I was finished with her ( I say her because you’re always sticking shit into it soooo {shrug of shoulders, “what ya gonna do, facial contortions?”} it’s…a…lady)  only to sharply place it back to sleep.

 A little obsessive or over the top you say…well a good clean jerk is hard…to obtain when you’re with someone. It’s not like sex, spoiler alert.

September 20, 2010 (9:19pm)

Fuck it all to hell, that above entry is a great example of not finishing what I start or quitting in the middle of it. I can only barley remember writing that and the punch line of the story is completely lost. I think it had something to do with a bell or something that would invoke a hard-on Pavlovian response that the character was unaware of was happening, then at some point while his girlfriends mother was around when the sound or noise that produced the unwanted erection occurred...who fucking knows? I most certainly do not. There were and still are my anger ridden moments where a scrap of some prior project or idea i was excited to have will pop into my head, but i don't know where it was going. Then i just start hating that the years behind are outweighing the potential of tomorrow and then i start losing the fight against myself. That's a pretty good thought to have as an ending. You losing vs you winning, by successfully losing against yourself. Funny.

September 18, 2010 (7:29am)

FML!? I have a strong desire to rape people and then wipe my bloody dick across their face who use this phrase; especially because they’re doing it via a technologically unavailable networking site while probably living through such means that their coffee maker could pay for a village of third world country children to be educated beyond the ignorance that it takes to make such a statement. If you know me, doubtful that you do, you’d know I’m no humanitarian, but stating such an obvious proofing of how deep into the horses mouth you look makes me so disturbingly red I can barley stand too look at myself in a mirror; “gateway into the soul” my left nut. More like a speedy look into the waste that you are. Needs some polishing, but that should work. Smart, but still can’t pick up what is laying there for my eye to grasp, sad.

September 15, 2010 (12:48am)

This is me screaming, this is me yelling: AHHHHHHHHHHHH! How many different ways can escape you? A paradox or conundrum…this puzzle can’t be solved; there only ever seems the problem. The blog is titled: “I almost quit again already” because I start and don’t finish. Don’t know if you gathered as much but I figured I’d let you know. I have too many spaces in my life that let thoughts in: the drive to work; picking on a Tuesday, the drive home; the drive to work the drive home the drive to work the drive home, cigarettes at home; after reading just a few pages of a book or viewing comedic performance; a movie (a good movie) I had a shit ton of things to talk about, I always do, but I type slower than I think…hell I live slower than I think. Ten minutes ago I was in my past, four minutes ahead I was twenty years ahead. I had some notes set aside for this:

I have a lot of books and some smarts but my unread books out weigh the intelligence I might keep (I’ll eventually list my library). I started reading Frankenstein, but before I could get to the story my head was relentlessly firing thoughts killing any target, all targets (actual or imagined). There were so many pages before the story even started, but I guess that’s where the story started. As I read the portion of the book that Mary penned herself in explanation of her motivation for the book I was discouraged in my own current past and future accomplishments, solidifying, in a way, the fact that I believe, to a degree, that if you have some kind of gift it can be devalued by seeing how others do better with the same gift. Her explanation never really came clear until several pages of words that just made me feel as dumb as I believe I am. Anyway I got past all of the things that kept me un an unrealistic pedestal I’ve been placed on by others and never myself. There was a letter entry (which, because I haven’t read anymore of the book, may just be another friend conversing before the actual story even starts) said something that made me think of my sweet faults in the corporate world I’m trying to escape…it goes like this (note: I’ll date the times that I met thoughts of others or had on my own) September 9 2010 (7:15am); Frankenstein: “I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.” Pretty universal of a feeling, it could easily be applied to things like a relationship or hell even to yourself to yourself. Is that conflict at its most basic form? There were some other things tonight that made me retreat early and bring me here (looking to quit again, already): Halloween: I haven’t ever been to an adult Halloween party. How come everything I write is so dark, but when I interact in person I joke until others are questioning my intentions: Joke or sickness of head? I was getting a tattoo the other day while watching a Stand up comic and he was right on but that wasn’t what I was thinking of…I was thinking of the secretary saying: “ I may not agree with everything he says, but I love how he says anything that comes into his head” How do you deflect it all? Doug kept saying he writes his shit, but how do you write down what only comes into your head without provocation? So the whole drive behind this is reading all my books and then documenting, with all my mediocre attempts, to log the thoughts that manifest because of said learning. I have plenty of past material that I can repost, recycle, and or republish a reorganized version of what they were before, they are now nothing. They are all no thoughts or nothing until they are read, absorbed then repeated and/or documented via another’s intentional conveyance. I was told just recently that it seemed I onl got drunker and crazier when I slept then woke again. Well, dream like I do and wake like I do to live like I do and you’ll get it; I hope you don’t get it. I’ve said I’m funnier on paper but that’s not true. How about you? I might have to gather all my written documents then edit or not then publish then hide, because there will be such backlash I won’t be able to handle, can’t handle much. I keep opening up saved Word files and I hope I can at some point catch up to where I am now.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Minor notes: Getting out of bed early was a snap today, thoughts of certain events bent me all to hell (dreams were fucked all too shit as well). I was cleared to receive my license back, just had to pay some money and retake the written test. Testing happens everyday except Tuesdays, today is Tuesday. I don’t like being asked who I’m talking to. Doing the blog thing has me a little worried about having to relive my days over and over again. Not that I think they’re going to be as bad as they once were. It’s a nice fantasy to think that carrying around a little black book for notes will initiate romantic scenarios, but it just doesn’t happen that way. I do hate some things, I’m fucking starving.  Staying busy with the new hobby, have to stay busy; try music, playing, reading, and learning. Have to study for the written test, not looking forward to that. Probably the hardest part is going to be capturing the thoughts I have in the shower and while I’m smoking, but there’s ways around that. No excuse only solutions. It’s hard to explain to people that you’ve grown use to isolation and like being left alone from time to time; people think it’s sad and you just really want company, but can’t ask. These are usually the same people who think you’re very smart or at least they tell you that first, then contradict it by assuming there are simple decisions you’re incapable of doing. The assumption negates their confidence in your intelligence, is that what patronizing means? I have never been to clear with its definition. Words will be a big part, books as well. Still struggling with fantasies of how I see my life i.e. record producer; writer; music writer/performer, loner; reclusive social icon. Not to any damaging point do not these overstep my reality nor do I think they’re unobtainable…I’m just real fucking lazy. I’m also seriously considering a very cheap place to live, cheaper than I’d originally planned and a cheaper car. I need basics right now, not luxuries. Still thinking about what the boss said on Friday: “you’re better than that.” I think he’s right, but he doesn’t know why. I’m better than that job altogether.

-xkp