(no subject)
"take care"
then I walked away, reaching for the garage door opener in my slippers and feeling suddenly small and old. Should I stop and wave goodbye? I should've. But I don't know, is it really necessary? Instead, I returned to the jelly jar of red wine on the table, my sweater suddenly too warm for me, and then here, and here I am.
Take care, my friend, take care. I know where you are and if I had any wisdom, I'd offer it. The problem is that we are good men in a bad world. The miracle is that we can somehow find happiness in the sharp sting of a piano's note or the straight-line of a hawk's wings, despite it all, the fact that we're fucked every day simply because we consider the feelings of others before acting. The truth of the matter is, there's much more in this world to be unhappy about than there is to be happy. It takes a special person to manage it. We are those people. The prayer is that somehow, somewhere, someone will listen.
So here I am. Sadly, like an easy ex-girlfriend, LJ, you've become the place in which I turn when I've had too much to drink and aren't quite ready to go to bed. I should write more, I know... it's not that I've stopped thinking as much as I've stopped putting time aside to put these thoughts down. And, no, I don't delude myself into thinking my thoughts are of any importance to anyone save myself...
I remember reading a Beckett play back in my UCLA days... Krapp's Last Tape. And one line that's stuck with me is Krapp saying, "I've been listening to the idiot I was 10 years ago" or something along those lines. I read some of the things I've written in the past and have to laugh at how stupid and naive I was. But at the same time, I read it and think, "jesus, that's kind of brilliant in an unrefined way. What happened? Why am I not brilliant like that anymore?" Then I write something. Then, a few weeks later, I read it, and think the same thing.
No, I'm not saying I'm brilliant. Not in a universal sense at all. To myself, yes... but to anyone else, no. disturbed, deluded, sentimental, yes, I'm sure that's how you see me... with perhaps an occasional indulgent metaphor or clever twist of words. To myself, though, the second something I write slips into the past, I re-read it and think, "jesus, I was brilliant. what happened?"
So this is life now. If I blink, I can transport myself back to that apartment in the valley. It was only five years. Every night, I'd sit in my room alone with music on and drink until I could sleep, and sleep on the floor, draped in an unzipped sleeping bag in front of the window so the first sunlight could drag me into wakefullness. Now, the stone floors echo with the step of my woolen slippers. We have two couches. A yard in which I sit after work and watch hawks, while whistling to the house finches and sparrows in the trees (they whistle back) and reading. My books are on shelves, my clothes on hangars. I'm getting married. Sometimes I feel so old. Don't misinterpret this - I know I'm on the right path. But where did it all go
I was so unhappy in that apartment in the valley on Roscoe and Balboa, where it was 115 in the summer and we never bothered to turn on the small swamp cooler ac unit because we knew it would never work anyways. When I hated both of you and you both hated me for your reasons. When all that was left was the bottle on the mantle and the shot glasses we never bothered to clean anyways. All that time, I wanted this, what I have right now. No roommates. A beautiful, brilliant, wonderful girl sleeping right now in my bed, waiting for me (christ, what am I doing here? why am I not there beside her?). Shelves for my books. A yard, with grass, lizards, snakes, fucking tarantulas, and all the things I needed for so long.
Theres more to say, but I've convinced myself. There's a warm bed waiting. And she.
Tomorrow morning, there will be hawks in the tree above my head, and the lizards will scurry from the walk as I head to the gate to let friends in. And she will be there. My wife (soon). One can't ask for anything more. I wanted to say something about the comfort of unhappiness... the warmth of depression. It's an old friend (i'm trying hard not to quote Simon & Garfunkel here)... it's familiar and easy to fall upon. But it's unnecessary.
But. at the same time. whatever your situation is, you can never ask for more. And you can always find happiness.
I know what she'll say as I stumble to bed, bumping into walls as I take my slippers off. It's the refrain to a song that hasn't gotten old yet - a refrain I'll repeat as sincere as the first time I sung it. If we were kept silent, it would still shout from our eyes and hands. "I love you."
She's there now. Good night.
then I walked away, reaching for the garage door opener in my slippers and feeling suddenly small and old. Should I stop and wave goodbye? I should've. But I don't know, is it really necessary? Instead, I returned to the jelly jar of red wine on the table, my sweater suddenly too warm for me, and then here, and here I am.
Take care, my friend, take care. I know where you are and if I had any wisdom, I'd offer it. The problem is that we are good men in a bad world. The miracle is that we can somehow find happiness in the sharp sting of a piano's note or the straight-line of a hawk's wings, despite it all, the fact that we're fucked every day simply because we consider the feelings of others before acting. The truth of the matter is, there's much more in this world to be unhappy about than there is to be happy. It takes a special person to manage it. We are those people. The prayer is that somehow, somewhere, someone will listen.
So here I am. Sadly, like an easy ex-girlfriend, LJ, you've become the place in which I turn when I've had too much to drink and aren't quite ready to go to bed. I should write more, I know... it's not that I've stopped thinking as much as I've stopped putting time aside to put these thoughts down. And, no, I don't delude myself into thinking my thoughts are of any importance to anyone save myself...
I remember reading a Beckett play back in my UCLA days... Krapp's Last Tape. And one line that's stuck with me is Krapp saying, "I've been listening to the idiot I was 10 years ago" or something along those lines. I read some of the things I've written in the past and have to laugh at how stupid and naive I was. But at the same time, I read it and think, "jesus, that's kind of brilliant in an unrefined way. What happened? Why am I not brilliant like that anymore?" Then I write something. Then, a few weeks later, I read it, and think the same thing.
No, I'm not saying I'm brilliant. Not in a universal sense at all. To myself, yes... but to anyone else, no. disturbed, deluded, sentimental, yes, I'm sure that's how you see me... with perhaps an occasional indulgent metaphor or clever twist of words. To myself, though, the second something I write slips into the past, I re-read it and think, "jesus, I was brilliant. what happened?"
So this is life now. If I blink, I can transport myself back to that apartment in the valley. It was only five years. Every night, I'd sit in my room alone with music on and drink until I could sleep, and sleep on the floor, draped in an unzipped sleeping bag in front of the window so the first sunlight could drag me into wakefullness. Now, the stone floors echo with the step of my woolen slippers. We have two couches. A yard in which I sit after work and watch hawks, while whistling to the house finches and sparrows in the trees (they whistle back) and reading. My books are on shelves, my clothes on hangars. I'm getting married. Sometimes I feel so old. Don't misinterpret this - I know I'm on the right path. But where did it all go
I was so unhappy in that apartment in the valley on Roscoe and Balboa, where it was 115 in the summer and we never bothered to turn on the small swamp cooler ac unit because we knew it would never work anyways. When I hated both of you and you both hated me for your reasons. When all that was left was the bottle on the mantle and the shot glasses we never bothered to clean anyways. All that time, I wanted this, what I have right now. No roommates. A beautiful, brilliant, wonderful girl sleeping right now in my bed, waiting for me (christ, what am I doing here? why am I not there beside her?). Shelves for my books. A yard, with grass, lizards, snakes, fucking tarantulas, and all the things I needed for so long.
Theres more to say, but I've convinced myself. There's a warm bed waiting. And she.
Tomorrow morning, there will be hawks in the tree above my head, and the lizards will scurry from the walk as I head to the gate to let friends in. And she will be there. My wife (soon). One can't ask for anything more. I wanted to say something about the comfort of unhappiness... the warmth of depression. It's an old friend (i'm trying hard not to quote Simon & Garfunkel here)... it's familiar and easy to fall upon. But it's unnecessary.
But. at the same time. whatever your situation is, you can never ask for more. And you can always find happiness.
I know what she'll say as I stumble to bed, bumping into walls as I take my slippers off. It's the refrain to a song that hasn't gotten old yet - a refrain I'll repeat as sincere as the first time I sung it. If we were kept silent, it would still shout from our eyes and hands. "I love you."
She's there now. Good night.