(no subject)
I had to write somewhere tonight. I don't know what the hell brought it on, but all of a sudden I began to think of my grandfather and how distant from everything I've been all my life. Like him, I've always tried hard to distance myself from emotion or attatchment. That was his code. When he finally let himself love, and to be loved, he died. And I kept imagining him there in the gravel in Lafayette, his chest surging as his heart siezed and stopped.
I went back. I could see his home- the towering pecan tree. I could hear the cardinals in its branches. I could hear the booming heartbeat of the grandfather clock in that dusty wooden house. I could see the living room with its sickly green drapes. I could remember crawling those shaggy, worn stairs, playing with the toys that my mother and uncle had played with decades before, in the very same room.
And then everything stops. And I imagine that being in his shoes, I could not have found peace with my life. With everything so unfinished. It makes me feel sick inside how amazingly similar we are. And all of a sudden I just want to put the needle in my arm and dream of it. Go back to that childhood innocence and simplicity. Because thats what it feels like- being wrapped in a warm blanket and hugged. And then even that makes me a little sad. But then again being the black sheep of a family is a unique appointment that I take silly pride in. I think im rapidly growing out of these stages.
Anyway...this was notebooked. I just thought I'd get it down somewhere. I'd say its dated a month or so ago:
Nights like this I feel completely suffocated. Here, enclosed in these four painted-corkboard walls, with only a few hours untiol Monday's daybreak, I should be anywhere but here. The feeling creeps up through my legs and spreads like a virus. Jittery. Restless. I should be in a rusty vintage gas-guzzler, moving speedily through the cool breezes of a night-kissed, coastal highway. Underneath an open sky and far-spread stars. A universe of open possibility. It pains me. I want to see the morning through a different window, from some distant rooftop. To be free like there were still so many possibilities. I remember a morning like it, chilly without my jacket, smoking a cigarette on a rooftop and watching the sun rise on the Golden Gate Bridge. I remember. And I want it back. Something so quick to bring a smile to my face also somehoiw brings a heaviness to my heart. I pray Cavafy is lying, the cynical old fag. So I sigh deep, dispelling the shining buildings and golden crests from my mind. I turn off the music. I swallow my pills and switch the light off. No time for reminiscence. Not enough time for escape. 3 hours till Monday. Good night, San Francisco.
I went back. I could see his home- the towering pecan tree. I could hear the cardinals in its branches. I could hear the booming heartbeat of the grandfather clock in that dusty wooden house. I could see the living room with its sickly green drapes. I could remember crawling those shaggy, worn stairs, playing with the toys that my mother and uncle had played with decades before, in the very same room.
And then everything stops. And I imagine that being in his shoes, I could not have found peace with my life. With everything so unfinished. It makes me feel sick inside how amazingly similar we are. And all of a sudden I just want to put the needle in my arm and dream of it. Go back to that childhood innocence and simplicity. Because thats what it feels like- being wrapped in a warm blanket and hugged. And then even that makes me a little sad. But then again being the black sheep of a family is a unique appointment that I take silly pride in. I think im rapidly growing out of these stages.
Anyway...this was notebooked. I just thought I'd get it down somewhere. I'd say its dated a month or so ago:
Nights like this I feel completely suffocated. Here, enclosed in these four painted-corkboard walls, with only a few hours untiol Monday's daybreak, I should be anywhere but here. The feeling creeps up through my legs and spreads like a virus. Jittery. Restless. I should be in a rusty vintage gas-guzzler, moving speedily through the cool breezes of a night-kissed, coastal highway. Underneath an open sky and far-spread stars. A universe of open possibility. It pains me. I want to see the morning through a different window, from some distant rooftop. To be free like there were still so many possibilities. I remember a morning like it, chilly without my jacket, smoking a cigarette on a rooftop and watching the sun rise on the Golden Gate Bridge. I remember. And I want it back. Something so quick to bring a smile to my face also somehoiw brings a heaviness to my heart. I pray Cavafy is lying, the cynical old fag. So I sigh deep, dispelling the shining buildings and golden crests from my mind. I turn off the music. I swallow my pills and switch the light off. No time for reminiscence. Not enough time for escape. 3 hours till Monday. Good night, San Francisco.