Front Street

Aug 20 2014

Anonymous said: How do you have such self control? I am glad your buddy was there for you.

I am glad he was there for me, too.

I don’t know how to even define self-control, or if I even had any in the situation—and I have been thinking about what happened almost obsessively since it happened. All I know is that the anger/violence that was inside of me and starting to come out was dangerous and reckless and even though I felt[and continue to feel] that my indignation was somewhat justified, there wasn’t anything good that would have come from the violence bubbling up and out of me.  

One thing I was very aware of and is part of what I have been playing over and over again in my head is this –- Mellow Pages Library is a very important space for me and countless others. Someone like me—a person who spends his time there, volunteering, helping out, trying to help the community grow—snapping and loosing the violence inside of me would have tainted the space. It would have ruined everything. Who would want to come hang out in a space where a veteran lost his shit and hurt someone? Of course the person was out of line or pushing an agenda, but that’s on them and their system of beliefs. My system of beliefs is different. Violence doesn’t teach. Violence doesn’t serve anyone. Violence is just what it is—an acting out meant to inflict pain AND control over a situation.

I should have walked away or asked the person to leave. Period. I violated that person’s space by getting bigger and louder and trying to drown out his hatespeech with the threat of my violence. That serves no purpose.

One thing I forgot and it makes me sad that I did is this—

A faultless person is one who withdraws from affairs. This must be done with strength.

—which is from The Hagakure, and something I need to remind myself of every day.

(3 notes)

Aug 18 2014

Aug 17 2014
Last night I had a problem.
Woke up today and the problem is still here, simmering and wounding.
We have to talk, me and myself. We have to talk long and hard about this problem and we have talked about it many times over and yet, here we are again. Problem, still around. Problem, still a bruise. Problem, still a wall to scale to get to a different place.
******
Dear White Male Poets,
Just because you write the words you write doesn’t mean everyone in a room wants to hear them. Please understand—and I am not trying to speak for anyone else here, this is just an observation, I assure you—that when you start to riff on titty-fucking and cumslop and cornholing and the women in the room all visibly cringe and shift their weight where they stand and sit, well, you may want to rethink what you are saying in front of a room full of people who came to hear poetry. Saying “I curse a lot” is not fair enough warning. Saying “I curse a lot” doesn’t give you a hall pass to rattle out your laundry list of jerk-off fantasies. Saying “I curse a lot” when you are obviously in your thirties and then going on and on and on about titty-fucking and cumslop and cornholing shows a room full of uncomfortable people that you do not care about them or their experience or their mental state.
You can do better.
You know you can.
And if you can’t?
Hand in your keys and gather your things.
******
Freedom of speech is a motherfucker.
Some people live in tiny worlds and don’t interact at all with a larger world and then things get all kinds of jumbled and regular social cues make zero sense to them and do not register and if you add alcohol and bravado and a lack of self-preservation to the mix, well, then shit can get real ugly real quick-like. It’s always painful to be a witness to something of this nature but it sucks even more when it happens and you’re the target and you’re the one who tries over and over again to be polite and ask someone to stop speaking about something and they disavow your humanity and keep going and keep pushing and keep smirking and keep putting their drunk hand in your face even after you’ve made it clear that you are done with their “conversation” and their “freedom of speech” and then it escalates and then you find yourself nanoseconds away from prison because your hand wants to do nothing other than stop their talking forever by pulling out their voice box and shaking it in their face and saying “Where is your freedom of speech now?” and “I asked you repeatedly to stop, this is what happens when you disrespect a person asking you to be a person.”
******
Last night, for the safety and sanity of myself and others, I had to be forcibly removed from a place that means a lot to me. The person who removed me is someone I love with all of my heart and I am thankful for him in my life and thankful that he witnessed what happened and thankful for his friendship and brotherhood and kindness. I had to be forcibly removed because an individual who was intoxicated and swollen with ignorance was spewing racism and hatred and doing everything he could to flex his ideas into myself and my friend and he pushed and pushed even after I asked him to stop, asked him to be careful, told him he was out of line, asked him to stop again and again and then I lost control and stepped to him and he put his hands on me and “thanked” me for my service while continuing to belittle me and belittle my dead and abuse his freedom of speech and thank all the gods that my friend stopped me and put his loving hands on me and pushed me all the way out into the street so I could walk and walk and get home and not go to jail.
I should have walked away. I should have walked away, but that space is my home and I wanted to defend it. I should have walked away but after hearing the two while male poets “read” their hateful and disdainful poems about women and their lack of understanding about women and their total ignorance about how to read a room and know when you are going too far and actually making people uncomfortable in a way that makes them want to leave, I just couldn’t let it go. I should have walked away but my heart is so tired of people who think they can use words to bully and yet there I was, letting this person bully me with his jive and ignorance, a dude who referred to black people as “they” and “them,” a dude who said he’d never move to a neighborhood full of Jews, a dude who admittedly said he never leaves his home and yet there he was, in my face, mocking my service to my country, mocking sacrifice, ignoring a plea from another human to stop and all I could do was snap into a place inside of myself that I do not like and then I am the one who had to leave.
Me.
I had to leave.
******
I am embarrassed that I lost my shit and embarrassed that I let someone get to me this way and embarrassed that I did this in a place that matters so much to me. I am sad that it happened and sad that I have these feelings and sad that I keep on seeing white male poets who have no regard for anything other than their childish and ignorant desires and sad that they are everywhere and sad that I don’t speak out enough about it and sad that I didn’t leave the space that matters to me on my good foot, my loving foot.

I have to leave.

Last night I had a problem.

Woke up today and the problem is still here, simmering and wounding.

We have to talk, me and myself. We have to talk long and hard about this problem and we have talked about it many times over and yet, here we are again. Problem, still around. Problem, still a bruise. Problem, still a wall to scale to get to a different place.

******

Dear White Male Poets,

Just because you write the words you write doesn’t mean everyone in a room wants to hear them. Please understand—and I am not trying to speak for anyone else here, this is just an observation, I assure you—that when you start to riff on titty-fucking and cumslop and cornholing and the women in the room all visibly cringe and shift their weight where they stand and sit, well, you may want to rethink what you are saying in front of a room full of people who came to hear poetry. Saying “I curse a lot” is not fair enough warning. Saying “I curse a lot” doesn’t give you a hall pass to rattle out your laundry list of jerk-off fantasies. Saying “I curse a lot” when you are obviously in your thirties and then going on and on and on about titty-fucking and cumslop and cornholing shows a room full of uncomfortable people that you do not care about them or their experience or their mental state.

You can do better.

You know you can.

And if you can’t?

Hand in your keys and gather your things.

******

Freedom of speech is a motherfucker.

Some people live in tiny worlds and don’t interact at all with a larger world and then things get all kinds of jumbled and regular social cues make zero sense to them and do not register and if you add alcohol and bravado and a lack of self-preservation to the mix, well, then shit can get real ugly real quick-like. It’s always painful to be a witness to something of this nature but it sucks even more when it happens and you’re the target and you’re the one who tries over and over again to be polite and ask someone to stop speaking about something and they disavow your humanity and keep going and keep pushing and keep smirking and keep putting their drunk hand in your face even after you’ve made it clear that you are done with their “conversation” and their “freedom of speech” and then it escalates and then you find yourself nanoseconds away from prison because your hand wants to do nothing other than stop their talking forever by pulling out their voice box and shaking it in their face and saying “Where is your freedom of speech now?” and “I asked you repeatedly to stop, this is what happens when you disrespect a person asking you to be a person.”

******

Last night, for the safety and sanity of myself and others, I had to be forcibly removed from a place that means a lot to me. The person who removed me is someone I love with all of my heart and I am thankful for him in my life and thankful that he witnessed what happened and thankful for his friendship and brotherhood and kindness. I had to be forcibly removed because an individual who was intoxicated and swollen with ignorance was spewing racism and hatred and doing everything he could to flex his ideas into myself and my friend and he pushed and pushed even after I asked him to stop, asked him to be careful, told him he was out of line, asked him to stop again and again and then I lost control and stepped to him and he put his hands on me and “thanked” me for my service while continuing to belittle me and belittle my dead and abuse his freedom of speech and thank all the gods that my friend stopped me and put his loving hands on me and pushed me all the way out into the street so I could walk and walk and get home and not go to jail.

I should have walked away. I should have walked away, but that space is my home and I wanted to defend it. I should have walked away but after hearing the two while male poets “read” their hateful and disdainful poems about women and their lack of understanding about women and their total ignorance about how to read a room and know when you are going too far and actually making people uncomfortable in a way that makes them want to leave, I just couldn’t let it go. I should have walked away but my heart is so tired of people who think they can use words to bully and yet there I was, letting this person bully me with his jive and ignorance, a dude who referred to black people as “they” and “them,” a dude who said he’d never move to a neighborhood full of Jews, a dude who admittedly said he never leaves his home and yet there he was, in my face, mocking my service to my country, mocking sacrifice, ignoring a plea from another human to stop and all I could do was snap into a place inside of myself that I do not like and then I am the one who had to leave.

Me.

I had to leave.

******

I am embarrassed that I lost my shit and embarrassed that I let someone get to me this way and embarrassed that I did this in a place that matters so much to me. I am sad that it happened and sad that I have these feelings and sad that I keep on seeing white male poets who have no regard for anything other than their childish and ignorant desires and sad that they are everywhere and sad that I don’t speak out enough about it and sad that I didn’t leave the space that matters to me on my good foot, my loving foot.

I have to leave.

(25 notes)

Aug 15 2014
Honesty is some kind of motherfucker, ain’t it?
What I mean is, what I am trying to say, what I’m about to riff on, the things you will read if you keep reading beyond this part—well, this shit is straight, no chaser—is gonna probably hurt a little.
Breathe.
******
I don’t know oppression. I know what it looks like and I know what I have seen it do to people I care about and people I didn’t even know I cared about until I saw that shit fucking up their lives. I don’t know what it’s like to get profiled. I don’t know what it’s like to get stopped by the police for no good reason and have them go through my shit with glee in front of anyone and everyone. I don’t know what it’s really like to get cat-called and hollered at just trying to buy a goddamn bottle of water. I don’t know what it’s like to get followed around a store. I don’t know what it’s like to be making my way through a crosswalk and then hearing the automatic locks on a car snap-clack. I don’t know what it’s like to get called crazy every time my emotions are out in the open in a room. I don’t know what it’s like to have to think about getting someone to walk me home at night after a few drinks in the bar. I don’t know what it’s like to be ogled and leered at. I don’t know what it’s like to have my work disavowed because I am an other, another. I don’t know any of these things.
I know this.
******
I know addiction. I know depression. I know both of these things are forever. I know the only end to these things is the end, everything else is managing and caring and learning and growing. I know illness. I know sorrow. I know waking up in the morning and wondering if that morning is the last morning and I know making it to the afternoon is better than any other feeling one can have on a day like that. I know human touch is a dream. I know being able to put my hand in someone else’s hand or put my head next to someone else’s head when the shit goes dark is all I can do, words aren’t words at that point and are just mouth-moves and clustered ideas and shattered desires. I know blood. I know how blood works. I know why blood works. I know where blood works. I know my blood is my blood and my blood is clean blood and clean blood means I am doing something right and well and I might live longer than anyone ever thought. I know dog saliva is like the best shot of dopamine and better than any SSRI on the market. I know push-ups and sweat and mountain climbers and cramps and burpees and gasping for air and running until the heart wants to burst all turn into a better day and a better life and a better way to stay alive.
******
It’s not that I don’t have opinions or fears or thoughts about the world and where the world is going and the people being murdered left and right and the people getting tear-gassed and the kids seeing police in invasion gear and the women seeing their men with bloodied mouths and battered eyes and I just freeze in this spot. I freeze. Not because I don’t have anything to say. Not because I don’t think about this world. Not because of anything other than my own fight or flight response is different, and I know it is different, and I know it isn’t from a place of oppression or a place of looming prison time just for being myself or living in a place or being with some people.
Some folks think silence is some kind of nod that the one being silent is okay with what the fuck is happening. Some folks think silence is based in fear or uncaring. Some folks think silence is guilt.
I am not okay with shit. I care. My fear is my fear. I own it.
I am guilty, though.
******
Heard a tale about a thing that happened where my name was mentioned and someone else mentioned some shit and then it all went sour because someone seems to think their beef with me is worth something and maybe even worth something to me and all I could do was laugh. I keep my business my business and I don’t need someone’s publicist—please, please, you need a publicist?—rat-tatting my name out in emails mentioning how the possibility of violence is high if I am in the room with their client. Nothing sadder than that kind of middle school bullshit when I’m out here trying to do work and doing work and trying to build a thing. Nothing sadder than a kid who looks to be twelve mumbling about me in the dark and crying to a publicist to try and do a thing in a space that has my DNA all over it. Nothing sadder than said publicist emailing a brother from another of mine about the whole thing and practically begging him to make sure I am nowhere around her client.
Don’t you go worrying about me, young buck. You just write your books and do your thing and keep wearing that mask. Trust. I’m not the bear to poke around with—especially this kind of childish and boring shit—you just do you and worry about you and the things you do. We all have to do work. Do yours. Be a good human being.
I mean that.
I’m being a good human, too. Remember.
******
I’ve been drinking so much apple cider vinegar to try and dissolve this massive kidney stone inside of me and all I keep on thinking about is how this pressure inside of my body is like the pressure I feel inside of my heart when I am trying to write something I think is meaningful or when I am working on a thing with a guitar and the hair on my arms all stands up and my feet start to rock around. I can’t lie and say the pain isn’t welcomed or grounding, because it is. I can’t lie and say I would wish the pain away, because I like it and I know liking pain sounds insane to a lot of people but pain reminds me I am in this body and this body has an expiration date and is not indestructible like I once believed it was.
******
Stay alive.
******

 

 

Honesty is some kind of motherfucker, ain’t it?

What I mean is, what I am trying to say, what I’m about to riff on, the things you will read if you keep reading beyond this part—well, this shit is straight, no chaser—is gonna probably hurt a little.

Breathe.

******

I don’t know oppression. I know what it looks like and I know what I have seen it do to people I care about and people I didn’t even know I cared about until I saw that shit fucking up their lives. I don’t know what it’s like to get profiled. I don’t know what it’s like to get stopped by the police for no good reason and have them go through my shit with glee in front of anyone and everyone. I don’t know what it’s really like to get cat-called and hollered at just trying to buy a goddamn bottle of water. I don’t know what it’s like to get followed around a store. I don’t know what it’s like to be making my way through a crosswalk and then hearing the automatic locks on a car snap-clack. I don’t know what it’s like to get called crazy every time my emotions are out in the open in a room. I don’t know what it’s like to have to think about getting someone to walk me home at night after a few drinks in the bar. I don’t know what it’s like to be ogled and leered at. I don’t know what it’s like to have my work disavowed because I am an other, another. I don’t know any of these things.

I know this.

******

I know addiction. I know depression. I know both of these things are forever. I know the only end to these things is the end, everything else is managing and caring and learning and growing. I know illness. I know sorrow. I know waking up in the morning and wondering if that morning is the last morning and I know making it to the afternoon is better than any other feeling one can have on a day like that. I know human touch is a dream. I know being able to put my hand in someone else’s hand or put my head next to someone else’s head when the shit goes dark is all I can do, words aren’t words at that point and are just mouth-moves and clustered ideas and shattered desires. I know blood. I know how blood works. I know why blood works. I know where blood works. I know my blood is my blood and my blood is clean blood and clean blood means I am doing something right and well and I might live longer than anyone ever thought. I know dog saliva is like the best shot of dopamine and better than any SSRI on the market. I know push-ups and sweat and mountain climbers and cramps and burpees and gasping for air and running until the heart wants to burst all turn into a better day and a better life and a better way to stay alive.

******

It’s not that I don’t have opinions or fears or thoughts about the world and where the world is going and the people being murdered left and right and the people getting tear-gassed and the kids seeing police in invasion gear and the women seeing their men with bloodied mouths and battered eyes and I just freeze in this spot. I freeze. Not because I don’t have anything to say. Not because I don’t think about this world. Not because of anything other than my own fight or flight response is different, and I know it is different, and I know it isn’t from a place of oppression or a place of looming prison time just for being myself or living in a place or being with some people.

Some folks think silence is some kind of nod that the one being silent is okay with what the fuck is happening. Some folks think silence is based in fear or uncaring. Some folks think silence is guilt.

I am not okay with shit. I care. My fear is my fear. I own it.

I am guilty, though.

******

Heard a tale about a thing that happened where my name was mentioned and someone else mentioned some shit and then it all went sour because someone seems to think their beef with me is worth something and maybe even worth something to me and all I could do was laugh. I keep my business my business and I don’t need someone’s publicist—please, please, you need a publicist?—rat-tatting my name out in emails mentioning how the possibility of violence is high if I am in the room with their client. Nothing sadder than that kind of middle school bullshit when I’m out here trying to do work and doing work and trying to build a thing. Nothing sadder than a kid who looks to be twelve mumbling about me in the dark and crying to a publicist to try and do a thing in a space that has my DNA all over it. Nothing sadder than said publicist emailing a brother from another of mine about the whole thing and practically begging him to make sure I am nowhere around her client.

Don’t you go worrying about me, young buck. You just write your books and do your thing and keep wearing that mask. Trust. I’m not the bear to poke around with—especially this kind of childish and boring shit—you just do you and worry about you and the things you do. We all have to do work. Do yours. Be a good human being.

I mean that.

I’m being a good human, too. Remember.

******

I’ve been drinking so much apple cider vinegar to try and dissolve this massive kidney stone inside of me and all I keep on thinking about is how this pressure inside of my body is like the pressure I feel inside of my heart when I am trying to write something I think is meaningful or when I am working on a thing with a guitar and the hair on my arms all stands up and my feet start to rock around. I can’t lie and say the pain isn’t welcomed or grounding, because it is. I can’t lie and say I would wish the pain away, because I like it and I know liking pain sounds insane to a lot of people but pain reminds me I am in this body and this body has an expiration date and is not indestructible like I once believed it was.

******

Stay alive.

******

 

 

(8 notes)

Aug 13 2014
+

(Source: aliciadk)

(6 notes)

+
chelseahodson:

On Sunday, August 17, May-Lan Tan & I will be the Artists in Residence at Ace Hotel New York as part of Tumblr’s residency guest curation. May-Lan & I are collaborating on a durational performance in one of the hotel rooms. Documentation will be featured on the Marina Abramovic Institute’s Immaterial.

HELL YES.

chelseahodson:

On Sunday, August 17, May-Lan Tan & I will be the Artists in Residence at Ace Hotel New York as part of Tumblr’s residency guest curation. May-Lan & I are collaborating on a durational performance in one of the hotel rooms. Documentation will be featured on the Marina Abramovic Institute’s Immaterial.

HELL YES.

(51 notes)

+

Scenes from a life.

(3 notes)

Aug 12 2014
Aug 11 2014
 
Sometimes my violence shows up and I have to tamp it down and I end up in flux between Human Mode and Ape Mode. Friday night I went with some friends to see a band play their last ever show and I was already in a weird headspace because I took an ill-timed nap that lasted longer than I wanted it to and I had a twinge of depression gurgling and a friend noticed it, which unsettled me even more because I thought my face was a good mask. The crowd was a crowd and in crowds there are always drunk dudes playing around like alphas when they aren’t equipped to tear meat from bone and have never had to and those drunk dudes always manage to bump into me or invade my personal space and I can usually shrug it off, but this time there was something in me ready to uncoil and snap. During the first band a dude was clowning in front of me and I saw a clear vision of me grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling his head all the way back into my chest while I used my free hand to pull his Adam’s apple right the fuck on out of him. That vision passed quickly.
But I saw it. I felt it.
******
I try very hard to value the time and effort of others. I do this because one of the things that fucks me in the places where I ache is when my time gets wasted or my time is taken for granted. These things do happen, though, on both sides of the canyon. If I have ever wasted or taken your time for granted, I am very sorry.
******
Watching someone who is contained within a soft-spoken and intense persona turn into something else is an incredible thing. Seeing someone who may appear aloof to others strap on a guitar and turn into a vibrant and glowing thing bouncing from foot to foot flinging sweat and smiles into the air is like seeing a firefly for the first time. Witnessing things like this give me hope, give me pleasure, make my wonder turn to will. Witnessing the energy stored within come flooding out and through amplification and pushing air and moving bodies, well, that’s the shit you can’t buy. That’s the shit you just have to be there to see and the shit you need to smile about when you are alone.
******
The violence is not always feral, sometimes it is calculated. I wonder a lot if maybe this is my mind, reminding me of my base instincts or of the trauma of past actions or even as a way to file away these feelings into deep drawers to be locked away and never seen again.
The violence didn’t end with me wanting to rip out another man’s larynx. Another situation arose involving two drunk men who were very sad and incapable of seeing their immediate environmental impact on those in their direct vicinity. My friend went into Ape Mode after one of them basically put his ass in my friend’s wife’s face. I witnessed, calmly, an exchange between them, all while knowing with every molecule in my body that I could—if necessary—fight the entire bar and walk out unscathed. This is a thing inside of me, a thing hardened by my father and by bullies and by situations I put myself in and by the world and by the drugs and by the booze and by my poor choices. This is a thing inside of me that has never left me, this thing that scans a room to see which goon will be the goon to size me up and think he can maybe put some hurt onto me. This is a thing inside of me that knows nobody will ever be able to hurt me that way, a thing that has been hurt and turned to something else, something other, something unfeeling.    
When the exchange between my friend and the sad drunk ended, I looked at the sad drunk and his friend and they immediately knew I was there and nothing more would occur because if it did, it would be bad for them. My friend and his wife got closer, touching one another for the rest of the night and I felt like they were the most beautiful people in the world, their glow and their contact a meteor shower.
The sad drunk will not be much longer in this world. Eyes lever lie.
******
I am still working on being more compassionate.
******
I woke up at six this morning with immense pain and pressure in my lower back and abdomen. I felt like something was inside of me and was going to burst, going to blow me out and leave me septic and dying on the floor. I tried to breathe through it and got down on the floor and did my best to stretch and breathe and breathe and stretch. It subsided enough and I went to the park anyway, trying to destroy myself with exercise and sweat and rapid heartbeats and sweat and gasping for air. My pain receptors are something else. The throb and pressure and ache went away. Pushing on my lower back is painful. Pushing on my abdomen is painful. But I no longer feel the pain just by being, just from breathing.
It’s good to know that I am not the only person in the world punching myself in the face.
 ******

When I dream about you, the rest of the world is background noise, a hum like a far-off radio playing songs I know by heart. 

 

Sometimes my violence shows up and I have to tamp it down and I end up in flux between Human Mode and Ape Mode. Friday night I went with some friends to see a band play their last ever show and I was already in a weird headspace because I took an ill-timed nap that lasted longer than I wanted it to and I had a twinge of depression gurgling and a friend noticed it, which unsettled me even more because I thought my face was a good mask. The crowd was a crowd and in crowds there are always drunk dudes playing around like alphas when they aren’t equipped to tear meat from bone and have never had to and those drunk dudes always manage to bump into me or invade my personal space and I can usually shrug it off, but this time there was something in me ready to uncoil and snap. During the first band a dude was clowning in front of me and I saw a clear vision of me grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling his head all the way back into my chest while I used my free hand to pull his Adam’s apple right the fuck on out of him. That vision passed quickly.

But I saw it. I felt it.

******

I try very hard to value the time and effort of others. I do this because one of the things that fucks me in the places where I ache is when my time gets wasted or my time is taken for granted. These things do happen, though, on both sides of the canyon. If I have ever wasted or taken your time for granted, I am very sorry.

******

Watching someone who is contained within a soft-spoken and intense persona turn into something else is an incredible thing. Seeing someone who may appear aloof to others strap on a guitar and turn into a vibrant and glowing thing bouncing from foot to foot flinging sweat and smiles into the air is like seeing a firefly for the first time. Witnessing things like this give me hope, give me pleasure, make my wonder turn to will. Witnessing the energy stored within come flooding out and through amplification and pushing air and moving bodies, well, that’s the shit you can’t buy. That’s the shit you just have to be there to see and the shit you need to smile about when you are alone.

******

The violence is not always feral, sometimes it is calculated. I wonder a lot if maybe this is my mind, reminding me of my base instincts or of the trauma of past actions or even as a way to file away these feelings into deep drawers to be locked away and never seen again.

The violence didn’t end with me wanting to rip out another man’s larynx. Another situation arose involving two drunk men who were very sad and incapable of seeing their immediate environmental impact on those in their direct vicinity. My friend went into Ape Mode after one of them basically put his ass in my friend’s wife’s face. I witnessed, calmly, an exchange between them, all while knowing with every molecule in my body that I could—if necessary—fight the entire bar and walk out unscathed. This is a thing inside of me, a thing hardened by my father and by bullies and by situations I put myself in and by the world and by the drugs and by the booze and by my poor choices. This is a thing inside of me that has never left me, this thing that scans a room to see which goon will be the goon to size me up and think he can maybe put some hurt onto me. This is a thing inside of me that knows nobody will ever be able to hurt me that way, a thing that has been hurt and turned to something else, something other, something unfeeling.    

When the exchange between my friend and the sad drunk ended, I looked at the sad drunk and his friend and they immediately knew I was there and nothing more would occur because if it did, it would be bad for them. My friend and his wife got closer, touching one another for the rest of the night and I felt like they were the most beautiful people in the world, their glow and their contact a meteor shower.

The sad drunk will not be much longer in this world. Eyes lever lie.

******

I am still working on being more compassionate.

******

I woke up at six this morning with immense pain and pressure in my lower back and abdomen. I felt like something was inside of me and was going to burst, going to blow me out and leave me septic and dying on the floor. I tried to breathe through it and got down on the floor and did my best to stretch and breathe and breathe and stretch. It subsided enough and I went to the park anyway, trying to destroy myself with exercise and sweat and rapid heartbeats and sweat and gasping for air. My pain receptors are something else. The throb and pressure and ache went away. Pushing on my lower back is painful. Pushing on my abdomen is painful. But I no longer feel the pain just by being, just from breathing.

It’s good to know that I am not the only person in the world punching myself in the face.

 ******

When I dream about you, the rest of the world is background noise, a hum like a far-off radio playing songs I know by heart. 

(8 notes)

Aug 07 2014

almostliveatmellowpages:

NO SOUL CAN RESIST ERIC’S INTERVIEW-FU.

(7 notes)

Aug 06 2014
+
All sweat is good sweat. Work until every muscle is a noodle.

All sweat is good sweat. Work until every muscle is a noodle.

(3 notes)

Aug 05 2014
+

Attempt at black metal-esque thing this morning. Sounds like someone on meth churning butter. Hence, Churnin’ Butter.

(2 notes)

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