Desert Dive Bar

It's 2 am, and I'm at a 24-hour cocktail lounge in a town I've never heard of. I found this dive after driving an hour or so outside LA towards the desert. The bar is stocked with the cliches of a small town, with young people who planned to party this Friday night and eventually found themselves here.

The guy trippin' on pharma-candy instantly becomes my friend, greeting me warmly as if we've known each other since gradeschool. I send him out on a scavenger hunt for chronic, and he obeys with boyscout-like diligence. Alone, at last, at peace in my booth, I write.

Whispers in small groups ensue. Knitting circles magically appear. I'm the fucking new guy. And I've disturbed their play.

Who am I?
Why am I?

They throw back glances like a jury with a verdict. And I secretly savor the celebrity. The bartender offers up a conversation. We chat, going through the motions, strictly following the script.

I'm out here for fresh perspectives. To be somewhere new. To swim at the dark, deep end of the pond. To journey towards insights and maybe stumble upon inspiration. And maybe find someone with the same ticket.

If history is anything to go by, I'll leave here with nothing more than I came with. But the chance is enough to keep me here for a few hours.

Raw Post to J

I opened the window wide tonight and stood looking down the street. i haven't eaten in days. i shaved my hair. i made my bed. trying to shed this. detox from this. the more i run away from it, the deeper i sink. mirrors cut.

i want the cold to drench me, now. every fucking cell and molecule. find me in the morning with arms wide open, a smile on my face, and constellations burned into my retina.

they know... they're coming with dismantlers to leave nothing but scraps and worldly appeasements. FUCK THAT! i rage on! -- armed only with visions from a long drive after Katrina. let's burn their castles and till the soil to feed the masses.

Velcro Thorns...

I don't know when or if you'll ever find this. A part of me wants you to read every word, see every image. A part of me just doesn't give a fuck. Either way, I'll never know. The point is... I started this whole thing because I didn't want to go to therapy. That's for people with real problems. I hoped that expressing my thoughts and feelings here would untangle every last velcro hook that keeps me fucking pondering the what ifs. I'm convinced my typing here will exorcise my curly-haired demons.

I refuse to google you, less I find that you're doing well. I'm such a jerk. I should be more evolved. But Rule #1 of the Mutant Bunny Project: Brutal Fucking Honesty. It kills me to know that I was the catalyst to your transformation, that you're doing so fucking well now because we're no longer together. I'll forever be "that guy" you talk about who took you down to the lowest point of your life before you finally saw the light. I warned you from the beginning...

That journey was quite some ride -- You have to admit. Sometimes that ride was reckless driving in the rain that almost flipped the car over. Sometimes that ride was sex in the car at a bank's parking lot after breaking up, again. Sometimes, that ride was laying side by side, me watching you sleep, softly kissing your forehead, brushing hair from your face. Even then, I knew this was coming...

I write here because there are still thorns my body hasn't absorbed, shards that persist. And the thing about sharp objects is that it only takes a small one to cause a world of pain.