parkerish: it's kind of like boot camp our strong will has to be broken before we can heal ourselves
I lost the paper journal that I’ve kept for years. I don't know where I left it. I know it's one of the things that I meant to pack when I left the new apartment that I share with one Michael. I took a taxi to another Michael's place in the village, a space where I might heal, might put the pieces of me back together with glue and silence. I don't know where the book is and on the first night that I discovered it missing I mourned the loss of it because it seemed more tangible then tending to a shattered heart.
Through my eyes the village is magical, the most alive place I have ever seen. I sit drinking coffee, reading On The Road, watching young would be Kerouac's entertain each other in the streets. The world is full of color and sound and I blend into it as best I can. during the daylight hours I feel safe and hidden here. Just another almost familiar face, people pause for a moment and wonder if they should know who I am but nobody stops long enough to ask, life is too busy. At night though the curious come out and the questions start. Who are you? What are you doing? How much do you want? Why do you look familiar? Where have I seen you before? Who are you? Isn’t that why I write here to answer that question not only for anyone that might be reading this but for me?
If only it were that easy. I used to think I could sum myself up neatly in a handful of words. Now, I don't know. I am as masked as the mime who practices his art on the corner for the spare change of the passerby. I am almost as silent going through my day which seems simple but is in truth an elaborate scheme to convince me that I am capable of salvation. I mean Jesus saves doesn't he? The man who mumbles to himself as I pass him on my way to buy a new leather bound book of blank pages seems so sure of it.
The new book is still is laying unopened beside me its spine unbroken. Its pages blank. I don't know that I will ever fill it with scribbles but I will continue here typing black letters on white and asking myself who I am while trying to know some of you better. I hope if you read this you will tell me something about you that I don't know. Do you keep a paper journal? Do you like coffee? Read books by dead poets, believe in Jesus?
Through my eyes the village is magical, the most alive place I have ever seen. I sit drinking coffee, reading On The Road, watching young would be Kerouac's entertain each other in the streets. The world is full of color and sound and I blend into it as best I can. during the daylight hours I feel safe and hidden here. Just another almost familiar face, people pause for a moment and wonder if they should know who I am but nobody stops long enough to ask, life is too busy. At night though the curious come out and the questions start. Who are you? What are you doing? How much do you want? Why do you look familiar? Where have I seen you before? Who are you? Isn’t that why I write here to answer that question not only for anyone that might be reading this but for me?
If only it were that easy. I used to think I could sum myself up neatly in a handful of words. Now, I don't know. I am as masked as the mime who practices his art on the corner for the spare change of the passerby. I am almost as silent going through my day which seems simple but is in truth an elaborate scheme to convince me that I am capable of salvation. I mean Jesus saves doesn't he? The man who mumbles to himself as I pass him on my way to buy a new leather bound book of blank pages seems so sure of it.
The new book is still is laying unopened beside me its spine unbroken. Its pages blank. I don't know that I will ever fill it with scribbles but I will continue here typing black letters on white and asking myself who I am while trying to know some of you better. I hope if you read this you will tell me something about you that I don't know. Do you keep a paper journal? Do you like coffee? Read books by dead poets, believe in Jesus?