Maybe I Didn’t Know Him At All

Nine years ago, when Jeff Buckley met his death in a river in Memphis, I was still a child. Years later I was in Paris and bought Live at L’Olympia, for a friend. When I gave it to her I listened and smiled and nodded my head, but walked away unaffected. In my defense, at the time I was somewhat a fool. Not quite as smart as my friend, it took me a while to develop discerning taste. I did however eventually, one could say inevitably, fall in love with that heart wrenching expressive crazy-ass voice. And just like Bowie’s immortalized Ziggy… ‘boy could he play guitar’. And while Hallelujah is good and well, it’s songs like Lover You Should Have Come Over that really tear me to pieces.

So I post this, in tribute, in memorandum, for love, of the beautiful Jeff. I shed a tear for all of the fucking potential lost in that river. Whether by accident or his own design, the entertainment industry is missing something I believe could have been truly worthwhile. My heart truly aches as I bid him a sincere if not last goodbye.

By the way, I’d like to upload a few mp3s for anyone who’s interested, but I’m not going to go through the hassle and then have it be for naught. If I see any expression of interest I will, otherwise, there isn’t a point.

To match the melancholy, I give you this.

Beloved temptress
Your sweet seductions
Give rise to my bile
You are my breath
And the blade by which I die
My devotion to you
Is equaled only
By my revulsion
Love and loathing live
In a land with no lines

Not Even a Wit

I don’t care. My insides hurt. Despite my love for academia I want to see my career go down in flames. I can’t live up to peoples expectations. Why is everyone so helpful and concerned? My internal void eternally exists simultaneously with the black sludge weighing me down. Hollow and filled with suffocation. I’m dizzy with it. My destiny is to fail with flair. This I know. This is no plea for assistance. I hate that I am some emo fucking teenage child in my psyche, despite being a supposed adult. This has set with no warning. A few minutes ago I was feeling no pain. There were no whispers of coming, no scouts or heralds or two weeks notice. My misery coalesces in my gut and solidifies into a malignant mass. I will not claw, I will not tear, I will curl up and resign by self to be buffeted by the gale. Shut myself off from reality; cocoon my self in the fabric of make-believe until it passes. It always does. If the occasional whimper escapes me, it does not matter; I close my eyes so the world cannot see me. My nails bitten down and the consolation to the hard work of resistance is that this is safer. End of the year blues? I ache, I ache, in my wrists and ankles, finger joints, where thigh meets pelvis, the small of my back, the span of my shoulders, the curve of my neck, check, temple, bridge of my nose. I’m taking shelter in the arms of the sandman’s sweet oblivion. Tomorrow is another day, and after all the sun will be shining, and come that rising I will not be looking at the prospect with distaste.

Men of Wealth and Taste

So have you guessed the nature of their game? Nice to meet you Messieurs Major Players, but I have no sympathy for your plight. The power given to you by the people’s apathy and reluctance to speak has absolutely corrupted you. No more. No more will we stand idly by as you steamroll the voices of dissent in your race to milk the moment for all it has. That moment’s overlong life has ended.

Of course right now, the whole thing is less a movement and more of a stirring, but the peoples slumber has been disturbed. Let us hope that this is the herald of an awakening, and not again the dragon turning over before it goes back to sleep. To be sure, we don’t want the bag of tricks that’s been recently entertaining European parlors, more show than substance.

We have no desire for overturnings and new slates. We’re not gunning for a second verse because that usually winds up sounding same as the first. Our needs are very simple, though many will protest difficult to achieve. That’s fine, as we prefer long hauls to quick rides anyway. After all, government is a process and we understand that. But through said process, the Powers That Be should operate with transparency, accountability, and efficiency to name a few. Really, is that too much to ask?

So let these gentlemen obfuscate and drag their feet. They can hem and haw and paint big pictures with grandiose words. They just shouldn’t expect us to grin and bear it any more. I hope.

Note: Three guesses as to the inspiration behind the lead in, and the first two don’t count.

And completely unrelated, I give you this.

You brush your hand against my shoulder
Guiding me as you point my way
Of the touch I sure you’re unaware
Yet it lingers there for days
Ghosts of fingers haunt my mind
Every time I meet your gaze
In your eyes I see bemusement
Over my blush and stumbling words
Weren’t we friends just yesterday?
I want to tell but do not dare
The truth burns a hole in me
As does the skin right there

We Sang Dirges in the Dark

Aren’t we all glad music isn’t dead? There is nothing quite like rock music for digging at your soul and burying itself inside you. Haunting guitar riffs that wrap themselves around you and lyrics that tease out every bit of pain you have until all you know is melancholy. Show me a person who listens to music, especially rock, and I’ll show you a person who caries with them at least half a dozen phrases and melodies at any given moment. You know what I’m talking about, as you’re reading this how many words, how much music has floated to the surface of your consciousness? So what’s playing on your internal mp3 player right this instant?

For me it’s Nirvana’s cover of Bowie’s Man Who Sold the World. The riff in the beginning just about slays me, and then the lyrics are just… sigh.

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn’t there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago

Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

And now I’m in the mood to live Bowie’s glam rock era, which is odd since that isn’t about that in my mind. I don’t know why but for me Bowie will always be about Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane. So much for his whole musical chameleon thing.

The Future is Bright

Bright and shiny, plastic and bland, it seems to me the older these books of the future are, the more accurate they seem. Heralds of dead men's fears coming true. As humanity turns away from spirituality into materialism what will become of us? Less people do any real thinking, and more regurgitate the facts they've been spoon-fed. In our lecture halls discussion is giving away to repetition. Mindlessly we look to others for behavioral cues, until we become lemmings. Books gather dust on shelves as imaginations are stunted my bright sounds and loud colors. My friends, we as a people stand as at a crossroad. These are the days that will set our course as a nation. We have three paths ahead of us, one (the less likely of the three I'm afraid) is of a revolutionary type, where a flawed system will be uprooted and one of fairness is implemented, the second is less steep, it is of dialogue and compromise, where we sit at tables with those we disagree with and come to middle grounds and transitional solutions, the third is slippery slope into an abyss of totalitarianism and suppression of the people's will. So let your voice be heard. Believe in something. Care. Be an active member of this society. Know this, you are a citizen, and your rights are also responsibilities. Love this country.

And away from the current situation, make a human connection today; find out something new about your coworker. Look at something from a different point of view; give a chance to the other opinion. Touch someone's life with kindness, allow nature to touch you. Embrace diversity. Step away from the faceless masses, and make some waves; your boat might be better for rocking. I want to do something that scares me, on a personal level. I want to make a new friend. I want to get someone to read a book. I want, I want, I want so many things. I want my being in this world to make a difference, if only to one person. I don't mean that I think I don't matter, I mean I want to help someone grow. Just a thought. Done being preachy. Here's a little something. Somewhat off topic, but still... future.

I look within its murky depths
The scrying glass is broke I think
I will not give credence to the thought
Of a future full of shadow and smoke
I do not plan for a career in the law
I have no interest in politics
I will not give the news reports
No thoughts of being a businessman
I pause and give it a second thought
Maybe the soothsayer does not lie
I know I do all the time

Summer Lovin' Had me a Blast

As a child, I cherished the beginning of summer. Those were the days that saw school going out with a bang of trips to water parks and end of the year parties, playing heads up seven up despite our faces being feverish with sunburn. Looking forward to months of freedom stretched out before us until they appear seemingly endless. Our eyes bright with excitement and our faces already tan from numerous weekends at the beach, nothing was more beautiful. This is a little something for those lost days.

Rosy cheeks and sticky fingers
Squinting under the afternoon sun
Relief bought from the bicycle man
As my rescue arrives, not on time
Burning fingertips on the window glass
Fighting over gold-wrapped vanilla
And flavored water like a traffic light
In this cone lives my childhood

But gone are those days of joyful innocence. Instead I fall to pieces as I watch the house of cards I’ve been carelessly building all semester tremble under the heralding breeze of due dates. With nothing to look forward to but the paltry days before summer term begins, I have no patience for the oppressive weather.

The heat is a clumsy seductress
Unwanted, she clings to my body
Pours herself into every crack
Saturating my pores
Suffocating my breath
Her affections trickle
Down the length of my back
Then pool
At the base of my spine
Vestiges of her cling to me still
As I am embraced by the cool indoors

I for Irony

In an attempt to push from my mind the current state of affairs in Kuwait, namely the constant murmurs of discontent, a government time and again turning deaf ears to its people’s calls for change, and the oppressive atmosphere of frustrating decisions made under the guise of Religion I… go see a movie about a man trying to bring down a totalitarian government operating in the name of Religion and robbing its apathetic people of their liberty. I wonder how long it takes the censors to figure out the (and I use the term loosely) subtleties and yank the movie out of theatres a la Memoirs of a Geisha. So what’s my take on the Wachowski Brothers’ V for Vendetta? I’m glad you asked faceless void. The movie itself was good enough, and I found myself very engaged. Natalie ‘Disturbingly Hot Chrome Dome’ Portman gave a performance that ranged from passable to brilliant. I especially like her after the head shaving. Truth be told I expected a graphic novel adaptation to be darker, grittier and more morally ambiguous, but I suppose I’ve been spoiled by Sin City. I truly loved that movie despite the occasional obvious misogyny. I’m considering getting V for Vendetta the graphic novel, as it promises to be more satisfying fare. The movie however, was definitely worth watching.

If Her Face is a Poem, Then Mine is...

Prose.

Introspect into Her. Make of it what you will faceless void.

She is neither nameless nor faceless. She likes those she has well enough. She’d be perfectly happy to throw them away. If there was ever a true thing about her, it is that there is never a constant truth where she is concerned. She is ever fluid, flowing to and from opposite states of being. Occasionally she can be at both points at once, a human contradiction. She wears many masks, layered and interchanged until her true face has become a mystery, even to herself. Too afraid to chip away at the façade, for what if she in her entirety is painted on. Out of her mouth drop many lies, some glitter prettily in the light, while some get murkier the longer you look, and others are as black as tar falling from her lips. From those lips wells a bubbly brook of truth and lies, merged so well not even she can separate them. She enjoys pain in many forms, her fingers lovingly search her skin for cuts and bruises, caressing each as if it were a treasured possession, her psyche is on a constant hunt for pieces of art that bring her silent tears, the words, images, and sounds jagged edges that cut at her insides. And yet, she is a hedonist, craving the pleasures life has to offer. The silken feel of high count sheets against her skin, the feel of smooth sand flowing between her fingers, the exquisite sensation, the taste of a piece of dark Belgian chocolate melting on her tongue, the euphoria that follows, the aroma of good coffee, a bath with all the works, softness, kindness, joy, laughter. She has the need to fill every moment with these extremes. She does not know moderation, nor does she want to, it fills her with fear. It is very important to fill the voids and nothingness. She is conceited and full of pride, ashamed and self loathing. She yearns for maturity and sophistication almost as much as she wants to remain a child. She is invincible, but will shatter at the lightest touch. She is bright and cheery to the utmost degree, brimming with enthusiasm and lust for life until ever she is unaware of the dark muck bubbling beneath the surface, all ugliness and whispers of discontent and her own demise. Her mind is bombarded with a myriad of images, some merely melancholy, others grotesque. In her minds eye she sometimes sees her insides, black and rotten. She is not a good person she knows. Her soul feels tattered and worn around the edges, like sheets that have been washed so many times the grime has become part of them. She gives the impression of ordered chaos when the truth is it is merely chaos. Alternately hesitant and compulsive, always at the wrong moment. There is very little she does not regret. She is happiest when the disjointed melee inside of her is kept down to a dull roar, so that she can drown it out with the sound of her own voice. Her confident smile is tremulous at best, hiding self-doubt oceans deep. Often the words ‘ghastly grin’ float to the surface of her mind. Don’t ask her to make decision, it might break her. She says she is a woman, but thinks of herself as a girl. She is nothing but a dull penny, as common as dirt. She is the truest lie you’ll ever hear.

Knock Knock Knocking on a Different Door

In the core of my being there is a longing, nay, a need, to be a writer. This desire is one of my psyche’s defining qualities. My attempts have been exclusively in prose since we shall never speak of my being sixteen and the emo doggerel through which I chose to share my ‘suffering’ with the world. Now even though these musings, stream of consciousness bits, and pieces of fiction are admittedly mediocre, I do have a lot of affection for them. So when a lost and annoyingly insistent poet's muse attached herself to me I was little thrown. Despite my initial resistance I soon gave in, and since it’s in my nature to overshare I’d though I’d let you sample a little of the result.

every time she opens her mouth
pretty baubles fall from her lips
people around her coo with delight
follow her and hoard the words
this is no indicator of value
some people collect snow globes

And on a slightly less obsessive note…

My eyes have had their fill of you
Sight on whole is unsatisfying fare
I would draw a map of you with my fingers
Paint your portrait, my tongue for a brush
My lips long for the insides of your wrists
The backs of your knees call to me
As does that dip between your shoulder blades
Do not deny me the curve of your jaw
Or the juxtaposition of neck and collarbone

Loving company

Share with me my spiral into madness. Together let us descend into the land of insanity. As I make headway into my twenties life gifts me with a lovely mood disorder. What more can one ask for, really? Life is never so lovely as when viewed through severe seesawing of emotions. Also, it's a great way to make friends. Don't like my view of reality? See me in a couple of days, hell stick around for a few hours. After all, you never know when the moods will swing. It's funny how people describe me, depending on what they're hit with. It's really amusing how some people describe me as bubbly, enthusiastic, and maybe a little too loud while others see me as negative and morose. So seriously, let's share a giggle before I curl up into a ball and cry. Cheers. Next time, poetry. Or possibly politics. Or maybe programming, television style. Oh well at least the Ps are constant.