Fucking hell, dammit Jason.
Here I am, 9.5 hours and a time zone away and he is picking through my brain again/still, looking for what I need to hear before I know I need to hear it.
He’s good like that. And it’s this weird juxtaposition between comforting and maddening.
At least he wipes his feet and cleans up in there a little when he comes.
When we split (correction I did this) when I said ‘I can’t’ he said, ‘I know’. He fucking Solo’ed me.
I wrote twice during our brief time together about other men.
More if you count my notes scribbled on the back of pizza flyers in a cab on my way to work, the bones of a post called “Plastic Pussy” that will probably end up in the pay-per-view section.
I discussed it with him first. Said “Baby I gotta get this out.”
Writer’s write, that’s what we do. Write what you know, okay got that down, a little too well.
And if a writer falls in love with you, you just don’t die.
Mine ghost, but death never comes.
It was supposed to be past tense, passive. It wasn’t.
My ghosts haunt. Active, present tense.
Herein is the problem. It’s okay to have ghosts, skeletons in the closet (mine boogie out and down on the regular) and monsters under the bed.
I invite mine into my head, bed, laptop and life always.
I can still feel you there, are we tangled in time somewhere? Armistice.
(We will get back to that, I think I have an explanation)
No, I can’t help but to hear an exchanging of words:
“What a beautiful wedding! What a beautiful wedding!” says a bridesmaid to a waiter,
“And, yes, but what a shame, what a shame the poor groom’s bride is a whore.”
I chime in with a
“Haven’t you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?!”
No, it’s much better to face these kinds of things
with a sense of poise and rationality.
Panic at the Disco. I write Sins not Tragedies.
I write both.
I am by all rights, a whore. And I have never heard of closing a god damned door. Poise and rationality? Short supply around here, unless I am dealing with someone else’s dilemma.
I don’t get a beautiful wedding.
And I really have no shame.
I might very well be exhibiting the same behavior I condemn him for. Holding onto a ghost I know. Making something out of nothing, or looking for reasons why things won’t work (with everyone BUT him, instead of the other way around). Difference being, I candy coat my ghosts, spin them into sugar. And they are about as substantial as cotton candy.
My fingers are sticky with it.
My favorite bit of magnetic poetry I ever wrote was “as always she is a prisoner of her ghosts”. Mama needs a new mantra. And a new set of magnetic poetry, I forgot how much I love that shit. Random words are my favorite.
Pairs nicely with “of course I brought my ghosts with me when I moved, I had to, they are married to my muses.” Add a few shots of whiskey and it’s a haunted house party.
So I write stories about sex, love and men, it’s kinda my shtick.
Jason is a writer who has loved and lost. So what is the problem exactly?
Well dear readers.
I have been told that when I write, I bring people into the story with me. Which is a wonderful thing, a huge compliment and damn, exactly what I should be doing.
There is a reason for it however.
All y’all end up in it, because I am in it too.
My memory is a many-splendored thing. Touch, taste sight, sound and smell. It’s all right here.
I got my heart right here, I got my scars right here. The Weeknd, Wicked Games
See also, what a wicked game you play to make me feel this way. Chris Isaak.
Like I never left, or more truthfully like they never left me.
I lived 26 years without being in possession of my whole heart, it was all I knew. Got her back 12.13.14 and she flew off to California 6 months later, less a day. She comes back to visit, left bits of her in some Tupperware over on Cedar Avenue when I was playing April’s fool.
Tangled in time somewhere. I feel like the Gunslinger and Jake is screaming out “go now, there are other worlds than this.” Entangled particles.
There was a boy, there was no boy, there was a boy…Roland, you have my empathy and pity and we will get to this another day.
Jason was right, I am not broken. But I am fucking scattered and pulled and the atoms in me that were created in those spontaneous events, with others still react symbiotically and in unison. To deny that is to be pulled and rendered, then I feel not broken, but torn and I almost crash the car.
I call all my power back to me from time to time and it works. I feel it flood back into me.
I should call my heart home.
But my heart, my darling heart doesn’t listen to logic or reason.