Blunt trauma

I've been through lock down therapy, forced institutalization, interventions, escaspes, fights for my very life, hitchhiking for kicks, hitchhiking to vanish, hot wiring, multiple firings, aborted sirings, public displays of nudity and affection, almost bleeding to death, awaking with broken bones, 7 concussions, one seizure, a dislocated kneecap, 2 dislocated shoulders, God knows how many stitches, and on crutches for weeks at a time. For starters. That's just the physical stuff. The mental stuff if far more traumatic. Wait till I get started on that.

p****@comcast.net

If you make a move and progress forward, there will no repercussions in the old neighborhood. Trust me. I've beeen through hell and high water as far as the perceptions of other's are concerned and I've held my head high and come through walking upon the upreached hands of others on the sheer strength of fortitude. Name a scandal. I've been there. I always come out as the heralded one.

Burning rubber

I'ts time to start all over again. It's time to cash in my chips, take what I have and make a go of it someplace else. CG is too parlyized to budge. Ann is too frustrated to tolerate my bi-polarity. Parents, family, friends don't factor in any more. Work is my key to mega-cash. I'm the best at what I do - probably among the top 20 in the country. I've always held back in favor of convenience and proximity to loved ones and the edge of the continent. Fuck that. If I can't have love, I'm going for the brass ring, the obscene paychecks, the authority that comes with off-the-chart talent and IQ. I did it once before and made $xx grand one summer predicting foreign policy. If I can do that, I can do anything. I did forensics for the gov't and made half that and it still equalled a pretty penny in goods and services. I always land on my feet and I just don't give a damn any more. This time I want a luxury condo overlooking Central Park, preferably above the 40th floor.  I don't give a shit what it takes for me to get it. I got connections and I got experience and I got the sky-high reputation to get it done. I can define Monmouth County as a population of pretend blue blood wearing cement shoes, living in fear of leaving their front yard lest they become the gossip of a neighborhood left far behind. They live twelve months in the past, hense have traded a year of their lives just to be reguarded as uncontroversial a year forward. Life in retrograde, for fear of the whispers of a neighboor left far behind. Inexplicable.

Tantilizin' Turkey

 

Now THIS is turkey. No need to baste, for the can holds the taste. Happy Thanksgiving to all, especially CG and her kids and parents; and Ann and her kids and CJ. (That's my kitchen countertop in the background. How cool am I? A coffee cup that says "P"ee on it, a disguarded 6-pack holder and a George Foreman Grill. I rock.)

Love,

Patrick 

Repair

When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
and ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

High up above or down below
when you're too in love to let it go
but If you never try you'll never know
Just what your worth

Lights will guide you home
and ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

Tears streaming down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears streaming down your face and I

Tears streaming down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down your face and I

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

Concept(ion)

We see the rim of the universe in our apocalyptic prayers. We sense the edge of familiar reality, however horrid it may be to us at a given second, taken from eons of time. We fear the cut of the umbilical for its connection to conception. The correction to conceptual connection is traction, as in gaining the momentum to move foward with authority, direction, conviction and determination. If you have the impulse to toe my balls, perhaps the impulse to reconceive life as it may be is not the stretch you think. If I have the independent impulse to guess the same Christmas gift for your oldest that you did, perhaps reconception of the idea of an added guardian of your beloved is not such a stretch either. My point is this: I know you are afraid of the unknown. So am I. But I also know that we love one another to the point of fury, tears, affection and extended orgasms. Not to mention sincere appreciation for the talents, goals and dreams of each other. And my dying curiosity to taste your sauce. (You promised to cook some for me.) And despite my comments to the contrary, I would love to dis football and dine on you all day as a Thanksgiving feast.

 

(Many of these words come courtesy of Anne Dillard and her book The Writing Life. Sometimes I find it appropos to borrow nouns for my own purpose. My apologies to Ms. Dillard. I recommend her book to all who write.)

Pie Day

The specter of spending the holidays alone seems to bug way more people than it does me. I dig it. No annoying relatives. I eat whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want. Better yet, I'm not pressured to eat some guest's crap dish of pearled onions or those friggin candied yams with marshmallows. Who's fucking idea was that concoction, anyway? No pressure to pass the potatoes. No one keeping a mental note of how much gravy I'm drinking. I can watch all the damn football I want and I don't have to clean a fucking dish. No one asking me stupid questions about my job. No feigned, forced or faked interest by me on whatever the fuck other people are doing with their stupid lives. It's flat out awesome. It's the ultimate day off. For me, anyway. If I had it my way, everyone would eat pie all day and no one would be allowed to talk unless it would be to say, "I want mine ala mode."

Don't want to be a refugee

 

 

Wolf on the Lamb

I've been on the run from the law for seven straight days as of now. I'm starting to feel like a man in a Johnny Cash song.

I've been shuttling from safe house to safe house, staying three steps ahead of the cops and two meals behind the norm. Do breakfast when they're doing dinner. Do lunch while the late shift is shooting the shit, waiting for drunks in to pour out of the bars. Do breakfast when the cook knows you're the only one there to do breakfast.  It wins you that sly grin, that eye wink from the waitress, that extra helping of overdone bacon.

 

It's a formula that works if you keep an eye on society and the way predators and prey dance. It's the way the fringe of society knows you need a break, and they're always willing to grant it. Helps them stay sane, too, I guess. Either way, the cops still think I'm pretending like I'm still in the town like I'm supposed to be. Mainly because I dance in and out of city limits just enough for them to think they have me cornered. Making people of artificial authority think what you want them to think is pathetically easy.

 

I got a dozen houses, a few of your cooler, wiser, older cops and a couple of cab drivers on my side. It's the modern Underground Railroad for people on the run from the law. The law calls it a felony, we call it justice thou art be. It ain't much and it's tiring. But it's there, it's real and I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't getting yet another thrill from it all.

I get 45 minute cab rides for 15 bucks and a pack of smokes. I get free smokes at the 7-11. The Hispanic women at Dunkin Donuts feed me as if I were one of their own. They read the tired in my eyes and a maternal instinct kicks in, I guess. They sit me down in the back, pour coffee and bring me donuts and backrubs. I go to the Hess station and get tips on where the cops are hiding, not to mention full tanks on credit. Plus a pack of smokes or two and all the coffee one can drink. Underground Railroad is aided evasion with benefits.

*

 

I got into this situation because I'm a genius compared to most zombies wandering through the mechanisms of life. I see a certain set of data points accumulating, say, potential dishonesty, disrespect, disregard and I read them. I put them together to make a coherent and persuasive argument out of them. I'm always right. I get paid for it professionally by analyzing data and spinning it into persuasion. I make something of it personally because it is my nature. I see facts aligning. I see intent gaining steam and I react. Pisses the hell out of people because they know I read their minds. I'm not reading their minds. I just soak up more signals, perspective and transmitted guilt than the average person. I connect data points correctly. 'Tis a curse and a blessing.

 
*

 

Y'all might now be wondering what got me into such a pickle that I'd be running for a week now. I'll tell you what I did as long as you promise not to tell. Everyone else promised so far and I haven't been caught up with yet. Would hate you to be the one who got me nabbed? Trust me, you would. The Underground Railroad will spit in your food for ever and ever. Not a threat, that's just the way it is. That's why cops don't go to McDonalds. That's why they shouldn't go to Dunkin Donuts. Ha ha.

 

Truth is, I'm in love with a cop's wife. I made the stupid move of telling him she fucks my brains out, too. I asked him to take his watch and look at it for five minutes. Then look at it for the next three hours and 55 minutes. That's the difference between his boner and mine, I said. Suffice to say, he wasn't too happy about that. The Underground Railroad is probably still laughing, though I was discrete enough not to give the cop's name. So much for small favors.  Doesn't matter, I guess. If he's driving a squad car with cherry lights on top, he's already consumed his bellyfuls of fine ground Hispanic urine coffee.

 

Why did I tell him? All was going well enough; we were having a magnificent affair. But things kind of stagnated and we forgot we were having a secret affair. It was transforming into an open secret. The openness took over the secret part and all hell broke loose. She told my boss. I told her husband. Total soap opera nonsense. I jumped on the grenade while she was whisked off to Vermont by him to escape the situation. They went to his parent's house and fucked. The worst five minutes of her life, she later reported. I can't blame her for at least making a go for it, but I sincerely hope he wore a rubber. I hate sloppy seconds.

 

The ride up to all of this controversy was because of gossip hounds at work, at work. As in those who worked at the place of employment she and I shared. They played her, my love, out to be a player looking for a piece of meat to satiate a loveless marriage. They insinuated that our boss was out to embark upon a lesbian relationship with her. That baited my hook toward doom. Blame me for biting. But the truth is, to her, the following:

 

If anyone ever said to you that I regarded you as a piece of meat, they were sorely and retardedly mistaken. I may have had liked you from day one, but I watched you and let my opinion of you evolve over many months. When push came to shove, when we had our first dinner at La Pastoria that morphed into crush and from crush to kiss to hip grinding all within two hours time.  You are much more than a select cut from the butcher's case, my love. You are a human being I have connected with in the deepest and most passionate of ways. I never would have approached you as a mere lay. Too easy for me. The challenge was to engage you on a level beyond sex from the outset. Hence my no fucking policy on our first date. I knew you could be the special one I've been looking for all my life. I did not want to ruin that pursuit with wet sheets and an awkward morning. I wanted to extend the romance over months, not minutes.

 

This story is incomplete, but it is a reaction to all that I love about her. I still have a strongly networked underground railroad to whisk me in and out of corners.  And I still have her love, which means the most of all. It's midnight now, which means time for breakfast and a cab ride out of the county. Sweet dreams, my love.

 

What is crawling under my skin?

This is an arsenic dream, a whiplash death rattle.

This is the odor of 1,000 dead rats rotting, the spilled blood of man decaying inside.

This is laughter in doom, this is despair in bliss.

 

This is a pink sky glowing with the sharp scythe of the waxing crescent moon.

 

This is an accident waiting to happen. I have all the self-loathing of a wolf in sheep's in this carnival of carnivores, heaven help me, says Mr. Bragg.

 

He's right. But this is way too Alanis Morisette of me to
bloglish and not laugh.

3 new entries, starting with this! (Titled "Junk")

  http://www.sfgate.com/columnists/morford/

"You have way too much crap.

I'm just guessing. Guessing that right now, in your life, in your closets and in your garage and in your car trunk and in your brain and even in your desk drawer you have way, way too much stuff, far more than any one person or single family needs and, oh my God, have you even seen your closet lately? ....

They will tell you that one of the fastest way to hot-wire your divine Camaro and reconnect to that feeling of cosmic wholeness is to take stock of your life and take stock of your body and see how much you've really got, and then purge-purge-purge. Get rid. Clean out. Toss old looks, old ways, ties to the past. Empty your drawers. Dump the stuff you're hiding from, that you've been uselessly protecting, that you've been scared to let go because it makes you feel safe and connected and more clearly defined as a human when, in fact, it's doing the exact opposite.

I do not care how cheesy it sounds. I do not care if you scoff and whimper and cling to your pile of old newspapers like Paris Hilton clings to her perturbed little sneer. You gotta make space. For breath, for thought, for perspective, for health. It ups your vibration and frees your mind and helps you tread more lightly on the planet, all while thwarting the snide environmentally unconscious demons of gluttonous neoconservative ignorance. It is the easiest and cheapest therapy you will ever enjoy. Do it now."

Via www.SFGate.com

Peaceful Pre-occupation

Despite the past week of my life I feel oddly at peace right now. I had a fantastic conversation with Ann this evening. I was already feeling good before she called, but her words made outlook awesome. Unencumbered and free. Florida seems next on my itinerary.

 

Still can’t get cg out of my head, though. And I know she’s thinking of me. I can feel it. Every second of the day. She defined such a fairy tale future for her and I. I remember the night spoken of below this entry. I know she won’t ever, ever forget it.

Ouch. I loathe myself.

 

There is normally a process to these things.

 

Normally.

 

What is happening now is less a process than a phenomenon.

 It is organic and fluid, as one would expect a process to evolve.

Yet it defies the senses by uniting them.

It is a marvel, a singularity.

It is the awakening exponent of an explosion.

It is momentum.

It is as sudden as a miracle appointed in wonder and chemistry.

It is a blessed angel materializing from thin air.

It is terrifying.

It is mesmerizing.

It is slow motion in fast forward.

It is three hours of pretzel logic without the tick tock of time.

It is life and how to live it.

It is an instance of forever etched,

stretched out over a balmy breezy evening

on a boardwalk bench on the beach in Belmar.

Shhhhhh

I'll tell you a secret

I'll trade you a secret

for a song

Heart of Lothian/Publicity Shoot in Red Bank

And the man from the magazine wants another shot of me all curled up

cause I look like an actor in a movie shot

but I feel like a wino in a parking lot

How did I get in here any way?

The man in the mirror has sad eyes.