Second Birthday, 3:50am With All The Lights Still On

Sometimes, when I’m hanging on the brink of a dream, I see her standing in the sliding glass doorway, her hand propped awkwardly against its frame and her small eyes digging into my soft belly, disentangling the seams of my flesh and spilling my innards out across my toes. She stands like she did before; one foot on the carpet, one foot outside of the house, as though she’s preparing to break into a sprint. I would ask her not to leave me alone, naked and cold in a massive house, but all of my teeth have fallen out. I am pitiful to look upon, embarrassing to touch. She says “I’ll be back tonight,” and she leaves. Of course, we both know that she’s lying.

However, last night, I did not hang on the edge of a dream. Last night, I fell in.

The dawn of February’s second day broke and I found myself awaking in a pool of lukewarm sweat, my feet wet and clammy, the blankets stuck to my greasy, hairless chest. In spite of myself, I cried, curling deeply into the armchair upon which I slept. I tried to recollect what had brought me to feel this way. I dug into my subconscious and I remembered.

In this reverie, my friends taunted me, laughed at me while I pulled at my collar and scratched at my throat. They told me, “She’ll be here soon.” Had it really been a whole year already? I didn’t want to see her ever again, to lock eyes with the girl who dragged me from the rushing puddles of blood and blaring music atop the dining room table. I didn’t want to thank her for anything. My jaw locked and I tried to smile, to pretend that I was a good person who worked hard with a successful career and overflowing charisma.  I pulled a digital camera from the ether, attempting to steal pictures with the people around me, to look friendly and smart and kind and social and popular. I wondered, “Does she look at pictures of me? Does she find pictures of me online and stare at them and wonder what I’ve become, how I’m doing inside? Does she read my writing?” I still want to impress her, or maybe frighten her, maybe push the love out of her like a blackened stalk of guilt that wraps around me and crushes the air from my lungs. I want to feel her soft hands wrapping my father’s favorite dish towels around my wrists and I want to tell her “these are my father’s favorite dish towels,” and I want her to look at me with that stunning expression of utter fucking disgust and confusion. I can see it now; her eyelids drawn back so far that her dilating pupils bore right into my skull, and all I want to do is scream until my chest tears open. My blood seeping through the cloth, trickling out over her tiny, white fingers.

Today (the third day of February, 2015) marks the one-year anniversary of my attempting to kill myself. I thought that it wasn’t going to bother me, but here I am, venting to strangers and struggling not to be crushed under my own fear of failure, of over-sensitivity and shamefulness. The scars are mostly white, now. I think often of how strange it is to still be alive, how incredible it was to be alive in the first place. Like a tired echo, perhaps a ghost, reverberating endlessly through the events that would have comprised the rest of my life.

At midnight, I received an email from my oldest friend. Throughout a lengthy letter, she wrote many wonderful and insightful things. At the end, she wrote, “I’m stuck feeling like you died that day. Like my head won’t accept that you’re still alive, or at least that you’ll stay that way. It’s a terrifying sensation and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to commit myself to the notion that you’re sticking around.”

 

And then she wrote, “Happy Birthday.”

 

I am truly blessed, to fear such a beautiful world.

 

 

This is the final time that I will ever write of my suicidal experiences or urges. I apologize for bogging down many of my posts with such tiresome material, but it’s been an incredibly difficult year for me. Thank you, all who have read my entries, for bearing with me on my journey of self-pitying bullshit. You’re the best.

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The Fragile Art Of Speaking Too Soon

When I first began writing this, the intention was to cover the second half of my meth-dealing journey into the Pacific Northwest. However, I’ve just experienced a momentary change of heart (you can thank my recently – and finally – diagnosed Bipolar disorder for this) and will be getting the narcotics-laced adventure to you on a later date.

See, a newfound surge of emotion has been approaching me over the past couple of weeks, no doubt in correlation with the imminent “New Year.” Now, this is odd because I usually write these things off as unimportant; it’s not that I don’t appreciate the holidays, but annually updated numbers usually do little more to stir me than the sorry sight of my own flaccid genitalia.

Of course, in these moments of anxiety, my mind begins to scatter in search of answers. Maybe it’s that I’ll be twenty-one, soon? Or perhaps something related to my current (and potentially permanent) withdrawal from college? No, neither of these seem right. And what about my insecurities regarding romance? Dying alone? Seeing old faces over the holidays that I’d rather not encounter? The sheer amount of booze that these holidays bring, and the social and mental pressure that my tiny Irish brain will confront in its wake? Eh, not really. At least not any more than usual.

No, this is something different (potentially new) that entering “adulthood” has awoken within me. And even as I pitifully shit these sentences into a pirated word-processor, I cannot grasp an adequate way to communicate them to you.

You see, whenever I attempt to convey these emotions to others, the situation ultimately devolves into one of two scenarios: me jerking off all over myself in attempts to appear sympathetic (And deep! Don’t forget about seeming deep!), or me clamming up and remaining awkwardly quiet for the remainder of the day (this can really kill a party). Either way, one singular conclusion is always reached – a grand finale of silence and proverbial shrugging – and I spite both myself and the uncomfortable companion for never reacting with enough extremity. There are no explosive tears, screams of love and/or terror, theatrics that make me feel more important than I truly am.

In my greatest  fantasies, I weep harder than Christ at a late funeral, my compatriot hurling their shaking frame to my feet in a fit of weeping, dragging me down to the floor and running quivering fingers through my greasy mess of hair (fuck it, maybe they give me a hand-job as well). My nasty little heart is massaged and the weird issues that I have with affection are soothed and mitigated (see: adoption).

But this obviously never happens and so I continue to flop around uselessly, coldly and unpleasantly wading in the fecal waters of self-directed remorse, soaking up every minute of life that passes un-seized and un-utilized.

Stress headaches leads to the couch – the couch leads to rest – rest leads to sleeping – sleeping leads to five o’clock in the afternoon (and but a single hour of consciousness spent in the earth’s natural daylight). And, at the end of this disgraceful chain of first-world misery and hopeless bitching, we arrive at the end of another day, another month, another year (in this case, 2015). One’s feelings swell up like an elderly prostate and the proverbial urethra of their mind closes up, the figurative piss-stream of their once rushing thoughts and passion stagnating inside the urethral canal of their right hemisphere (or left, if you’re a technical sort of fellow).

It’s sort of like making a mix-tape (mix-CD?) for a friend whom you haven’t encountered for a very long time, where every song ends up sounding like the end-credits track of a really terrible indie film. You can’t order them right, because they all sound like you’re about to walk off-stage, draw the curtain, announce it’s “the end.” But everything is happening always, and the show is never “over,” even if you kick the bucket. You get all whiny and confused and fucked-up and existential and write blog posts that span over a thousand words, filling them up with your uncomfortably personal bullshit that nobody else really wants to read.

Oftentimes, I blame my parents’ chaotic divorce for my inability to properly connect with other human beings (and while I’m at it, the rest of my life’s problems, as well). There was yelling, thing-breaking, and even a bit of law-enforcement intervention. But of course this is really just a scapegoat (and a crumby one, at that), whipped up so that I don’t have to address my own shortcomings as a human being.

And mostly, it works.

I get to be the trouble-child, the victim, the “poor baby.” I get to sleep on the sofa until mid-to-late afternoon, mentally wading through a delicate fog of memories and inventions as my brain composes and compartmentalizes, tenderly cradling and carrying me into the following year, before I even have the chance to scream.

Happy New Year.

Barrel Roll

I want to step down into forward momentum, careening myself backwards as if trying to grab onto my ankles. I’ll swing over and over this way, revolving at ever-faster speeds; spinning with more revolutions exponentially every second. I focused my vision and thought that I caught a glimpse of my foot, but it was immediately lost in the blur of motion. My shoes have fallen off. My entire being is starting to slide out of its own structural constitution; wide arcs of color, light, gravity, energy, and anything else that composed what I knew to be my physical form is expanding outward faster than I can try to grab it all and put my pieces back together. Somehow, I see this happening, although I can not describe the imagery currently appearing in my mind. I am sure that my eyes no longer work or possibly no longer even are, or at least do not closely resemble what they used to be. The concept of close resemblance is beginning to lose its meaning.

I have found a new sensation: something in-between hearing and smelling. Like how dog’s noses can detect smells well enough to follow it in the same way you might trace the sound of music to your neighbor’s house across the street, or discern something the same way a bat can imagine a sonar array by listening to their own clicks.

The cosmic glue that holds all things has weathered and peeled. It’s slipped off and flown away, never to be seen again, blown into the nether. It’s gone out there, some where I’m sure I will not return. I’m not sure that it is still in the same plane as me, or the same world, or… the same universe?

I’ve imagined me up a nice replacement body, and I’ve got a cup of coffee to pretend to drink. I suppose there’s nothing left but to be (or not be) and see what happens.

Sandpaper Sleeping Bags

My personal perception of the perfect joy would come in the form of a scent. It would be early Christmas morning (every morning) and a steaming mug of Mexican coffee would be planted in one of my two hairy fists. Cinnamon candles would sit aglow atop the fireplace mantle; upon the couch, my wife would rest with one majestic tit flopped out and the nine-month amalgam of my crudely-squeezed seed suckling from its tip. I would lean in and deeply inhale the wistful stench of musty fabric and breast milk, and I would say to myself, “Wonderful.” The audible utterance of this word would not faze my spouse, as nobody would question my feelings or motives in my world of blissful perfection.

These were my thoughts as I lay splayed in a heap of (at least) four adolescent bodies, our thoughts and feelings wafting silently into the air above us and pooling together in a cloud of private nostalgia, the notion of sleep closing in upon us. I smelled my left armpit and prayed that my bladder would hold overnight, briefly visualizing the image of my companions as they awoke in my piss, my many years of beds un-wetted suddenly dropping their streak of success. Moments later came the fear of sporting morning wood, accidentally spearing the young man beside me as we wakened in the winding sheets. Soon enough, the lines of my consciousness blurred and both worries became the same, piss-drenched boner hell leaking into my oncoming dreams.

“Where is the bathroom?” I broke the brief and peaceful silence.

“My roommate has the West Nile Virus,” the young host responded.

Crawling out through a nearby window, I stood on the asphalt shingles and scanned the cozy neighborhood. The sight of a neighboring house caught my eye, the home of a childhood friend. The emotions invoked cut deeply as I unzipped my pants; leaning off the side of the building, I produced my penis and unleashed a wave of urine across the homeowner’s recycling bins.

After returning inside, I shared my stories of Lebanese youth who have their limbs amputated and replaced with hooks. This is done so that the given consumer may effectively hang them (right-side-up or upside-down) from doorways, closet rods, shelf brackets, or whatever else they see fit. This is done for sexual pleasure. Stitching their mouths shut is an optional addition for the client, which I also believe is somehow related to sexual pleasure. They are sold over the darker corners of the internet.

I like to call these creatures “Hook Children,” because it communicates the point snappily whilst putting a minimal emphasis on the horrible reality of the situation.

That night, we fell asleep to the sound of crying. It was very soft crying and I almost got an erection.

Living in America is pretty okay, sometimes. Trying to kill myself was a weak-ass move.

My previous life as a superior guitar player. One day, this photograph will grow up to be a stock image. Just like it's father.

My previous life as a superior guitar player. One day, this photograph will grow up to be a stock image. Just like it’s father.

Floor-Sleepin’: Ep. 2 – The Perfect Pussy

It was Sunday, November 30. A friend of mine, Branson, had come to collect me so we could venture into downtown for some jolly co-operation. Initially, we had plans to go to a sword shop… because why else would Branson want to go downtown except for the chance to gawk at lethal, sharp metal sticks.

Branson’s initial intention was to show up early, to be my alarm clock, as we like to say, and force me awake so we could embark on our metropolitan escapade. I had already been up since an ungodly early hour (as is the nature of floor-sleepin’) and was the one telling him to get up.

We made our way to his house to kill time and wait for another friend, Kyle, to not show up. He wanted to go at the mention of “sword shop”, then proceeded to take a shower, after which, he informed us that he was going to sleep instead.

We headed into downtown, bundled up against the cold and incessant wind. Downtown Portland plays host to a thing referred to as The Saturday Market, where people peddle their wares and food trucks congregate. We parked, paid, then set out to find this sword shop. It was a bit smaller than expected and was stocked with an assortment of various weapons that I wouldn’t trust Branson with. There were actual swords, assorted knives, flails, and other such dangerously named items, along with replica Master Swords that pined for our wallets to empty themselves.

After perusing for a few minutes and deciding our money best be spent elsewhere, and definitely not on regret, we left to check out the rest of the hipster bazaar. We chatted and explored, hoping maybe we’d run into somebody we knew.

At one point, I remembered something I read online: Oregon is the most booziest state in the country. I mentioned this to Branson as we were walking at which point, apparently, the words “this place” were spoken, and one of our fellow pedestrians figured this would be a good opportunity to regale us with a tale that was smoldering a profane hole through their teeth. A Russian woman with short hair wearing a coat that looked a little too big for her and a scarf, who I shan’t name mostly do to the fact that I’m a bit scared of them finding this post, turned and asked us a question:

“Can you answer something for me?”

“Um, sure.”

“Why would anyone in their right mind cut their dick off?”

Initial reaction to laugh stifled, I replied with a half-hearted “Ummm… I do not know.”

She went on to elaborate: She had seen, I think/hope to all hell, a video of a man getting his genitals cut off and reshaped into a vagina. This baffled, and assuredly, disturbed her. However, the end result was apparently a sight to behold. She called it… “the perfect pussy.” She described it in vivid detail as to the size and shape of it and its lack of hair. She couldn’t get over it. She had seen the perfect pussy. I thought maybe the subject of the video was getting a sex change/were transsexual. She asked if we knew what they called a person who would do such a thing, to which I replied “transsexual,” but she already had an answer:

“‘Fags.’ We call them ‘fags.'”

Russia must be really weird because that’s not how we use that word…. Which I guess makes The UK even weirder, I guess. Regardless…. This is where things get even more Portland. The woman tells us that she is a filmmaker and she has made music videos for bands like Guns N’ Roses (which I’m pretty fairly kinda certain that she hasn’t) and she was wondering if such a “spectacle” would be good to include in her next video. Heh, heh… NOPE. I suggested that the shock value would make it rather interesting to which she agreed. Branson pursued the music video angle a little further and asked her what sort of work she had done and asked where to find it, if she maybe had a business card. She gave us the name of a supposed YouTube account (I pulled my iPhone out to type it in, because “Oh, holy shit, if this was for real,” but Branson strongly suggested I put it the fuck away) which I later tried to find, but no cigar.

She eventually, thankfully, finished what she had to say, and bid us farewell. Deciding that we’d had enough of Portland for one day, weeks even, we headed back to his place to unwind and warm up, but not before stopping at Fire on the Mountain for some tater tots.

[Next: Ep. 3 – The 2nd Annual MacBook Pro Shitting of the Bed]

Of the Many Neglected Things, I Write About Pipe Organs

Pipe organs are musical instruments that produce sound by driving pressurized air through pipes controlled by a keyboard. Each pipe can only produce one note so pipe organs tend to be exceptionally large. The more pipes the more variety of sound, the larger the pipes the louder the sound. As such a well equipped organ that is intended to fill a large area with sound will be utterly immense by instrumental standards. Indeed the pipe organs are the largest musical instruments ever constructed. Pipe organs were invented by the ancient Greeks and were adapted for use in cathedrals and churches by later western cultures. The majority of remaining pipe organs are still found in cathedrals and churches. Pipe organs are special instruments. Each one is unique due to the difference in structure, materials and location between them. They can possess the aural qualities of multiple orchestras with different sections of pipes emulating instruments such as violins, trumpets, oboes, cellos, flutes and clarinets all from a single mighty instrument. The beauty and complexity of this sound cannot be truly matched by any other instrument. Electronic organs have served to replace the easily damaged and expensive genuine articles and as such have hugely contributed to the decline of pipe organs across the world. The distinction between an electronic organ and a true pipe organ is similar to the disparity found in film regarding the use of computer graphics over practical effects. Pipe organs are irreplaceable and precious things that can provide an unparalleled musical experience. But they are endangered. As it was said, the majority of pipe organs reside in cathedrals or churches and are reserved for religious use. There was a time in America when organs gained a wider popularity and were built for secular enjoyment, unfortunately many of these organs have been damaged, destroyed, sold for scrap or otherwise lost. The few that do remain receive little public attention and no significant assurance of protection. The largest pipe organ ever built was the Boardwalk Hall Auditorium Organ in Atlantic City, New Jersey. This inspiring musical engineering achievement was severely damaged by a construction worker during renovations to the hall it is located in and was not repaired. The cost of repairing and maintaining the organ was deemed to high and the organ remains abandoned. The largest functioning organ is the Wanamaker department store organ in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. This majestic instrument has survived due its peculiar location inside of a department store which is now owned by Macys. The organ is played twice daily and is the focus of several annual music festivals. These national treasures deserve respect and care as do all pipe organs across the world. It is my belief that pipe organs symbolize one of the greatest musical achievements of humanity. I hope that future generations have the privilege of experiencing the powerful and enchanting tones that only a real pipe organ can create. In this time of change and transformation it is important to embrace new ideas, but equally important to retain the success of the past. Let the noble pipe organ be recognized for its awesome ability and have it serve as an example of our species’ incredible power to create divine implements of expression.