Edited

Have not been writing much, and, as a result, my syntax feels foreign, my words off. 

So, I’ll write this as one does a letter to an old friend.

For what more could one wish 

##

The above was published inadvertently – a draft from last night left open in the wordpress app. And, having opened wordpress tonight to perhaps write, it was published when I tried to save it without reverting its status to a draft. 

Nonetheless, I won’t psychoanalze it. 

For what more could one wish for than to write and be as truthful as one could in a letter to an old friend – provided I had a friend as old or as dear to me as the pen. 

This is what I do. I write. 

I sit on my balcony listening to Explosions in The Sky YHIM, and I watch as my girlfriend sleeps on the couch with our dog Sophie in her arms. To be at home and to feel safe. No other luxury compares. 

And yes, I ate too much. 

But of the luxury I behold now, I am grateful. 

It was not but two hours past we took the dogs for a walk and encountered a lurker across the street, somone clearly on drugs, sizing us up and apparently determining whether to rob us or perhaps even worse. 

Not really a story worth telling, but after I had walked us to the brightest corner and postured as assertively as I could, we returned home where we both sighed deeply in mutual relief. 

Reminded of the time I was sitting with a girlfriend near her dorm and three coyotes approached us in pitch dark. I too postured then, but unlike then I did not bask in the glory of overcoming a potential, albeit mild, form of predation. No, tonight I came in and held Sarah a bit dearer in my eyes. And I was glad we were safe. 

And yes, the temporary preservation of mortality aside, I have not been writing much. But books suffice where my own words cannot, sending the same water rushing through my veins; for to read Steinbeck or Victor Hugo is to read a letter from an old friend. 

I stave off death and loneliness best I can, well aware the latter is comparatively under my own accord. 

But I am now good with loneliness – it’s death that haunts. That unshakable feeling that it was all temporary. But I hope it meant something. It did to me. 

Still does. 

Still making my way back to the home I never had. Glad I have someone to enjoy this heaven with. Just hard to feel all else was some sort of way station. But it’s easy to feel forgotten in time. Not always easy to forget though, is it. 

So, I write. To kindle the warm fire that for now staves off the cold dark, to stem the tide of time. To say that I HAPPENED. And no, I did not forget. Life just goes on, though, doesn’t it.  

This all feels very melancholy, and perhaps it is; I mean, it doesn’t go on forever.  Thankfully, unlike published drafts, memories come already edited in time. And that’s okay with me. Just sad I can’t hold them so high anymore.  

I guess the past just isn’t what it used to be, sport. 

Now go on old boy, be here now. 

Advertisements

Draft #4

I’ve saved three drafts tonight, and dodged I don’t know how many personal bullets. 

I wonder how many writers let their unconscious script their writing, and thus their lives?

For me, by draft three I knew these were conversations – or, rather, drafts – to share with her. 

And I’m sure we will learn something and we will grow of it. 

Mostly, I’m terrified of being thirty and having someone to let down other than myself; for I have let down myself enough, which, in itself, is a terribly private confession – but I do not pretend perfection; I only claim to know myself – as any good writer ought. 

I think the most difficult and brave thing in a relationship is knowing how to not project your personal bullshit onto your lover – how to not displace the guilt and insecurities into blame, creating a drama you can use as an outlet for your own stress. 

I admit, my business is not where I want it to be. 

I admit, commitment becomes somehow more frightening with age. 

I admit, I get lonely too. 

I am human. 

But in my humanity, I am magnificent. For as a writer, I get to decide whether I will clear the collective unconscious, lessening the burden of guilt by confessing my sins, or whether I will saddle it with the debt of a drama I have never paid. 

So, I write about what it means to be human. To sip whiskey on your balcony at X:15 am and confess your petty sins, which others will always crucify you for later anyway. 

I wish everything would be perfect when I awake, but alas, the future takes time. 

And maybe on draft number five, I’ll finally feel alright. 

Only Yesterday

The sun will rise tomorrow,
As straight as the crow flies;

Daylight will come.

And it will be a good day for some,
And for others: one dark and tired

But I promise you this:

They’ve already decided –

For whether they know it or not:
Their day is upon them.

But –
Shall they meet us,
Perhaps then they will know what we do:

Which is that the human heart – if unafraid –
Shines right into the blind-spots of our souls,
That pulling darkness,
That invisible, secret shadow-side to each individual’s light

And should someone’s light throw shade on my shine
I am unafraid to use that yin,
And wear the black darkness about me like a cloak
So that I may once again slip in,
And explore the depths within this heart of mine –

Where I,
Brave and trusting,
Shall seek the light –
That yang-energy hiding behind the wound I have yet to find

And finding the sad thing
– As the seeker always does –
I will carefully remove the stitches,
Drenching the lonely sad plains in my soul with undiscovered parts of myself,
Where only yesterday,
I didn’t know I existed.

And when our wounds have been finally opened and examined,
We will be more whole –
Our wings once again dipped in gold,
We will have grown,
Not simply older,
But better, brighter, lovelier, and wiser –
Than we ever imagined,
Only yesterday

Sour, Sweet, Salty

What can I say: I’m good. 

I used to write with another muse in mind – I used to live that way: constantly hoping to live up to some arbitrary measure; always insufficient for my estimations of myself, and always short of her’s. 

Only, today, now, I dissappoint no one; for this is who I am, and I am loved for it – by myself and by the one I love in turn. 

But it was not love that saved me, it was me – my desire for my own [love], which I earned, and which in turn earned me another’s. 

But this is not a love song; this is my life. 

The cowboy poet, finding his way home, dreaming of horses and a tree lined drive where I will lay me down beside the one I dream with. 

This is our fairytale. 

And we have fun in our happiness.

You see, neither of us pretend nor try to be anything we are not. In fact, I’d venture to say we like ourselves pretty damn genuinely. 

We’ve been reading Ricketts’ and Steinbeck’s prosaic and philosophy laden Log From The Sea of Cortez together lately, and in it Ed Ricketts describes a donkey whom he discovers doesn’t directly dislike him so much as he [the donkey] suffers from “…a sour eye for the world”. And so it is, most opinions of us – including our own – stem from our sour eye for the world, and thus we are condemned by the very thing which might free us: our perception. 

I think for a long time I felt that projection was always something that was inside out, meaning my perception of myself as something that reflected outward, but I don’t think so anymore. The donkey with the sour eye for the world has begged the question for me of whether the view of the self or the view of the world is a greater influence on ones perception – and I argue the latter, for it was only when I saw through the veil of perception that I was able to form a healthy inner reality (Or disposition if you will), and a true liking of myself. 

Don’t get me wrong, I still want to burn the world down and sow these wild oats from time to time, but greener pastures call. 

And I’ve come a long way from sowing the seeds of my own destruction – from seeing through that sour eye I once thought normal. 

But today I know that it takes a long time to become the one. 

And I’m not trying to escape who I am any longer. 

Took me thirty years to accept myself. 

Wish that were a joke but I fear some never do: stuck behind sour eyes, few seem to see the sweetness of life. 

And it is sweet. 

So don’t be so sour. 

For it’s all over one day. 

And if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll see that someday isn’t what it used to be.

And then, and only then, the sour will fade into the past, and the salty will be seen for what it is, and the sweet – oh the sweet – what it may be and what it is: only the heart knows these things. 

Just remember that sour eyes, as the sweet do, have a way of meeting. And even the sweetest eyes can become sour in the eyes of the beholder. So look neither without nor within, but in your own heart. And perhaps it is then, that we may finally see into the heart of another.