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.

No, Nothing...

They say there are signs everywhere, if you're open to them. Well, I guess I was receptive that day because I was hit by back-to-back blaring neon reminders. I hadn't thought about her in years. Then, out of the blue, there were two separate memories triggered by two unrelated "signs". I had to write to her, if for no other reason than to reconnect with a friend.

We separated in good terms. It was about 6 years, ago, when we last saw each other. Since then, there were sporadic emails with years between each. We lived hundreds of miles apart. And I hesitated calling because she was in a serious, long-term relationship. I think I may have called once or twice a few years back; I was drunk, and I awoke and annoyed her with stupid angst-ridden ramblings.

I don't know exactly what happened between us to bring us together in the first place. It was just gravity. Two people colliding on their way to someplace else. But I've never forgotten. And, sometimes, I miss whatever it was, whatever it wasn't. We had feelings that kept us restless until we were finally together and canceled everything else out.

A fling? Maybe. Love? Who the fuck knows? All I know is, I knew nothing. It was enough just being there together. And I was happy.

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.