Bigamy

Shouldn't the plural of 'spouse' be 'spice?' Wouldn't that be more appropriate in so many ways?

Entropy

Silence is crushing. Not the silence itself but the space that the silence fills, that used to be occupied by something else. My dad calls it entropy, the inevitable balance of energy within a system; one thing taking the place of another but always the space stays the same. But the Hindus had this down long before Rudolf Clausius blew away the scientific universe with his discovery. They called it 'karma.' It's funny how simplicity works sometimes.

As I sit here writing the silence disappears too, for the moment. Things come in, take the place of something else; simple. The noise in the silence is what's frightening. Before, just vacuous fluff. It reminds me of the Pink Panther insulation commercials I see on the local cable channels. Those giant rolls of pink cotton-candy that save you hundreds of dollars in energy costs. And it's always nice to know you can go down to the corner and buy yourself a 40 of that pink fluff, to insulate you for the night. But when it's gone, there's nothing to insulate you from the cold you wanted to keep out in the first place; the wind howls a lot closer. Even whispers in an empty hallway echo louder than it feels they should.

Silence is ugly. It's worse than nothing. Fluff is nothing, that's purgatory, that I can deal with. But when so much is displaced at one time and you have to replace it all, there's just not enough beauty in this world. Barry Hannah said it's all about not averting your eyes - art is staring to the point of rudeness. But when the whole thing is so ugly, when you stare long enough to realize this, it's no wonder the world loves a freak-show. It's us but it's not us. We can forgo the silence and still consume ourselves with that pink, cotton-candy mush.

In Genesis, Abraham was promised that the twin cities (one being anal intercourse's namesake) would be spared if ten righteous men could be found in them. But is that enough? If we apply this allegory to ourselves, is there enough beauty in ourselves to sustain such a challenge? Or is it all just fluff? And how much of that wonderful ambrosia is enough to drown out Iago's repulsive hissing in his giant, silent ballroom? Ask Hemingway, or Hunter Thompson. What would they say?

Say Hello

So I stopped drinking recently. You might have noticed from the strange new coherency this blog has taken on. And it's not because I got sick one night and swore that I'd never drink again; and then didn't, for like a week. This is different. I don't feel as though I'll never drink again, but I won't do it anytime soon. I have my reasons. And for the first time in my life, a decision like this has nothing to do with a woman. I mean, yeah it does in a certain sense - pretty much everything I do is in one way or another associated with some woman - but this is a decision I've come to separate and apart from that.

The first few days were tough; not extremely so but a little bit uncomfortable. Though the long-run should prove the hardest. Between the daily degradations, the constant stupidity you have to encounter from other people, the sudden pangs that need an urgent fix, a quick dulling; not to mention the social discomfit of bars and clubs. I guess I'll need another outlet and we'll see what form that takes.

I remember those first few days, with that squirming feeling and the sweating. I just remember these lines repeating themselves in my head over and over to the point of exhaustion:

don't be safe, most of all don't be safe,
don't be self-conscious...

It's a nice little thing to chatter to yourself when your leg is shaking to the point where it feels like it just might fly off on its own. But the point is to get over yourself and all the bullshit around you. "Leave it all out there" as they say. At the end of the day it's yourself you take to bed and if you're lucky, maybe someone else too. But really, you have to ask yourself who you want to be in bed with; yourself, or that person they want you to be, or think you are.

So sit still for a moment. Turn off the chatterbox. Turn off the other voices that are telling you anything. And just listen. Now say hello.

And All of That Jivin' Around

I noticed, recently, a recurring theme with some of the women in my life. I'm not sure if I can name it properly, let along adequately describe it; to the point where I'm not even certain it exists at all. But this quality, this thing that ties them together was always so present - like the way you can tell someone's touch on your shoulder without ever seeing them - that I have to contribute my only realizing it now to an amazing obliviousness on my part.

This thing, this je ne se qua is why I'm attracted to these women more than anything their sex or their bodies have to offer. It's the reason one of these women has been haunting my thoughts even though it's been months since we last spoke (and not because of how things ended. I've had easier times forgetting more elusive women). But it's just dawned on me that the same trait is present in another, not so much a friend but a strong acquaintance let's call her. What I feel for this woman is only vaguely sexual; there are many women who I find physically more attractive. And, given a chance, there are many more women I would rather sleep with. Not to say though that she's not attractive - she is a beautiful woman - but rather it's a different kind of fantasy that she haunts.

This woman that staggers me, that makes me linger for hours on each word, each syllable, would sacrifice herself, her own happiness just to let you know that she doesn't need you. She makes it evident in her every action, in every word she says that despite the fact that she knows you can bring her real joy, she can forget you (or rather, discard you) at the slightest sign of her dependence on you.

and she runs through her days, with a smile on her face
and she runs, and she waits...

And it seems to me that it's her patience that most astounds me. Like she will wait forever, if she has to. And if you call, she will come to you and you'll both be happy. But if you don't, she'll keep running, running forever, smiling all the way.

Genius

To be great is to be misunderstood. Sometimes, though, it just means you're crazy.

Untitled

When I write a book it's going to be called, "B+: The Story of My Life"

Loneliness

When I fall in love, it will be forever
Or I'll never...

be sober again.

When it falls

Drinking Johnnie Black. The tiny remote from my Jetson-like Ipod speaker system is clipped onto my ear, hanging off like a dangling, urban accessory. "I met a boy, wearing Vans, 501's, and a dope Beastie-T..."

Don't get me wrong, shit is nice. Shit is what it's all about. But it's true what they say: It does start to own you. But more than that, it ties you down; to a place, yes, but more so to a metaphysical place that's very difficult to crawl out of. And that ugly type of crawling, as from a grave, in nail-shredding agony.

I have a sense that there are the happy ones out there who find their small plots and build on them. But for the most part, for the most of us it's just collecting shit until you're up to your neck in clutter. And it's at that point - where you know that you've moved from a few, indispensable possessions to that choking feeling of clutter - that you take five things with you and move on. Burn the rest.

There must be nomads out there who are happy. It's the motion that completes them. Then there are the ones who wander forever, just looking for that perfect plot. And it seems that the difference between the two is nothing more than being born with the right set of chemicals on the brain. Pure, simple chance. Like the men of the Brittania, stranded in a lifeboat for 23 days in 1941 off the Brazilian coast. I'm sure for some the experience altered them somehow to the point of greatness, a lesson that pushed them to the brink of their potential. And at the same time, there are the ones in this world who don't have to eat their friends to stave starvation, who accomplish theirs without ever breaking the smooth rhythm that was vested naturally in their souls.

Here's to the 44 Brittania lifeboaters who kept the rest of their friends alive. L'Chaim!