Golden Gate Dream

I can feel the coldness of the orange steel radiate from my fingertips to the rest of my body. The gritty dust and the rounded rivets somehow feel familiar. The frigid, salty breeze stings my eyes, the tears soften the midnight blue of the sea below. I clear a torn, black tarp to get a better grip. Then, I lower myself and hang.

I can feel the gravity inside me pulling. I can feel the tension in my arms and grip. I look down and remember factual details: At this height, I'll hit the water as if it was concrete; The Golden Gate Bridge is a popular tourist and suicide destination.

Then, I just let go. I release the bridge. The wind, in a deafening rush, tries to save me. I get the sense of freefall and take the longest, deepest breath of my life. I don't flail. I'm completely in the moment. This is it.

To Be Continued...

The Red Leather Corner

The Red Leather Corner

The Man in the Mirror

Blue Carousel Ride

It's Wednesday as I slip into the back 9 of this midnite high. I feel the last breaths of summer licking my face. Head in hands, gloved in dried blood and ashes, and the taste of fuck-it! shots still thick in my mouth. I want to rest now, but the moon is merciless. And this brokedown merry go-round won't let up for a fucking minute.

I'm bombarded by random details, pounding themselves in my brain. The light captured by that empty beer bottle on the sill, bristling with peeling pastel paint. The distinct shriek of a swinging screen door softened by darkness. The dead sunflowers on the unfinished wooden table. The rusted coffee can ash tray ... The smell of futile moments mixes with the scent of summer grass. And a stupid memory, blurred like butter on glass, visits me. Focus, damn it. Focus.

I'm heading, barreling, burning all 8, pedal to the metal, full blown, get-out-of-my-way-‘cause-I-don’t-give-a-fuck straight into a wall. I watch myself in this movie, frame by frame, and wonder -- in a moment of tainted clarity -- what the whole point is. A slide show plays in my mind of cleaner times, of a long ago version of myself when I was still holding the steering wheel and directions weren't speculations on the back of a cocktail napkin. Windows wide open. Still fast. And fast still. I turn to tell her to hold on, but nothing comes out. I at once feel nothing and everything. What's the fucking seat belt for?

She's bathed in dusk light, cooking some eggs with butter. And I’m sipping coffee while watching TV. I turn and watch her in the kitchen. And I’m hit. I fall all over, again. It’s like seeing her for the first time, and my hands begin to shake.

I close my eyes for a minute. Breathe. How could this happen? This possibility I so avoided and thought surely would remain filed under “There’s No FUCKING Way.”

The brake disintegrated into the same oblivion sucking me like a black hole. The bottle of gin, next to the cartons of Parliament, slides on the passenger-side floor. Ashes fly, guitar blares, and my world shrinks into this inescapable singularity. I fucked it all up. And this spiraling depravity has no kill switch. Hurling ourselves into this finale, we watch in perfect nonchalant, the electronic parade of disjointed images, deliciously overexposed. We're numb to the blatant truth we all run from but can't escape. Whatever will be will be...

The ride goes on. The wall gets bigger. If I somehow make it through, then what else can I ask for? More eggs, more coffee. And some time to watch her swaying in the kitchen...

But before that, pour me another. One more ride on the merry go round, Slick. I’ll pay you Tuesday.

Finished the Cab

I've left offline messages to Messenger friends I haven't chatted with in months. Wine-tainted, random ramblings will greet them next time they log on. It's kinda fun to drunk message. It's very Forrest Gump -- You never know what you're gonna get. Admit it; You do it. Everyone does it. It's a sign that we're too bored or lonely; either way, it's pathetic. And potentially damaging to relationships. That's why google designed a way to test your sobriety before you send an email. I would post the link to the article containing said info, but I'm too drunk right now.

It's fun getting replies from people, then searching your sent message archive to find out what fucked up message you left. "I never told you this before, but..." messages are great. And anything with the words "love", "miss", "mistake", "bitch" are interesting. And those with phrases like "never again", "that was crazy", and "live and learn" are pretty standard.

Good times. Good thing google, yahoo and microsoft haven't deployed an anti-drunk-messaging feature...yet.

A Historic Day

I visited the 'rents for my birthday, arriving the day before. They're not even home. From what's left behind, I gather they were busy getting ready to go out for a party. What else is new? I make myself at home, put on pajamas and played with the dogs. These dogs go crazy when I go home. I can tell they actually miss me.

Around 2 am, they come home. I lower the volume on the television, wondering if there's going to be another drunken shouting match in the driveway. Thankfully, there isn't. They walked in loudly and straight to the kitchen like drunk people do. Dad smells of liquor. And Mom runs around trying to please everyone. I wonder if things have always been like this while I was growing up... And I suddenly realize, the 'rents and I have always been barely friends. We don't even know how to be in the same room. We walk past each other at the kitchen crossroads and display the usual niceties you'd expect of other hotel guests at the ice machine.

It doesn't matter. I don't blame them for anything. They're people and just as fucked up as I am. I just hope they grow up for their own sake.

I wake up in "my room", on a bed I bought but rarely slept in, in a room kept for guests. I wonder what's different now that I'm a year older. I lay in bed wondering what I want to do. I want to have breakfast in bed, watch Dharma and Greg, Spin City, and maybe some soft porn (Food Network). The text messages greeting me begin to arrive. The second is from Mom but signed Mom and Dad; a brief greeting with love spelled "luv" -- When did Mom learn texting?!

So, it's my birthday. And I've decided that I will remember this day by shaving my hair. Why not?! Clean, fresh beginning. Maybe all I needed was a brand new haircut? I'll start eating right. Running regularly. Lifting weights. And start thinking happy, constructive thoughts. I'll stop craving liquor at 10am. Yea, that's it! A birthday buzz.

Speaking of buzz, I'm half way through a bottle of Cab. I raided their wine and selected the best in the lot to mark this special occasion. And today is momentous for other reasons. On this day in history, The Guggenheim went up, J Paul Getty III's ear was cut off, and Jack Kerouac died. And, of course, I was born...

Self Diagnosis: Tri-Polar

I was doing good for a while there. A month of regular running. I drank only occasionally as it got in the way of my running. I was going out with friends, keeping in touch. And now this...

It's been a week since I posted a run. I just can't get myself to do it. I have all these reasons why I should. It feels great. I'm getting faster and faster. It's healthy. Is this running withdrawal?! I love running. I hate running.

My birthday is coming up. I planned a marathon run as my present to myself. Run! Run! All I want to do is get away from this. I want to drive down the coast and spend a few days on the beach. Detox from everyone and everything. Find something, anything I don't know what yet. Reasons? Motivation? Purpose?

FUCK! I'm so tired of this shit. These slides and swings. Is it possible to be tri-polar? Cause I'm aware and numb and get stuck there, watching myself descend to the lows and soar to the highs.

It's annoying how elusive being centered and balanced is. I crave the desert. The profound emptiness on which to bounce my own. I fantasize about dropping out and living in Tibet a few years. Chant my way to enlightenment.

I'll start with a run tomorrow morning... and go from there.