A Night Alone, Marinating With Words
Everything inside of myself is telling me to come out, when I’d rather just let it sit there. It comes out anyway, in other ways. I am thinking now of the old days (3 or 4 years ago) when I could just write and the words glistened into the computer screen and I flew faster than what life would allow. When the writing was disparate from my life, I was nearly insane. And it’s reminding me now of the first time I’d touched paint to a canvas — some cheap thing I’d purchased at an arts and crafts store. Or, more than likely, somebody had purchased it for me.
I was perpetually confused. Women gave me trouble. Especially the ones who acted like they had demanded something of me, more than what I could possibly offer. I didn’t really think they could offer me much, either. Otherwise I’d still be with them. Or so I’d like to think. Along the way life has taught me something. So has writing. Most of my life I’ve been a sort of quiet chap. Really I was a geyser waiting to be unleashed.
Being stubbornly obtuse didn’t allow for a lot of meaning within life experiences to seep into my life. I was more of a reclusive — being? And so, it was for that reason that the release was like all the tears that had welled up inside of me. When I finally could cry, though about what I didn’t know. This sounds utterly pathetic and drab. However, it’s the truth. Maybe I was morose, and grim like a three-day hangover. But when the words finally flowed, when I finally let loose everything inside of me that I wouldn’t let come, it was like a tundra breaking within my bones. The shell of the Cancer had been shifted like the sand in which I swaddled, looking for a drink or a breath of fresh air.
That air, I’d come to learn, was expressing myself. That doesn’t mean, of course, all of the precious pretentiousness that typically spews from the mouth, or mouths, of the artistically inclined persona. In fact, I think that because of the nature of what an artist is or who they are meant to be in our modern society, sometimes those individuals put too much pressure on themselves, or it is felt from other individuals, and sometimes it is an admixture of both. Plus a little madness, and a side-plate of alcoholic vice, and you’ve got yourself a wildebeest which mutates into a pressing stallion which then becomes a flying mantis with insatiable thirst, a strong necessity for love and compassion, and one hell of a pain in the ass — so long as that person (thing) is away from their keyboard, easel, sketchpad, blah-dy blah blah.
Before I can formalize a point I’d like to say that I’ve been on the wagon and going in the opposite direction. I never really had direction before, until I got my own place, in which I have ultimately become surrounded by my own insanity, my own madness. When I really let go, it is glorious. However, keeping it to myself has been essential for my own jurisprudence (?) otherwise I would have been splattered paint on the sideboard of your bed-stand, hidden away with the used condom wrappers, dildos, bottle-caps and cell phone chargers.
What I mean is that I had to preserve myself for the meaning and the will and the writing of the word. Often I will marinate, but it usually doesn’t take too long before the deluge will upend everything I know, steering me off-course and forcing me to some new territory in order to escape the pain of death which is somehow turned and tilted info life, the workaday world which entraps and enraptures all of us into its jowls of being. This is the blood in my veins into which I’ve poured whiskey, beer, cocaine, pills, long nights sleeping on floors, tracts of my life spent living on couches, and distant travels in which I’d desperately fled myself, only to become more encumbered by what I was constantly holding in, and onto. In short, whenever I knew and felt that I was becoming like that which I loathed and detested, I ran away from it. I would have much rather leaped into the waters of the Delaware River than have to face life, at face value.
And it is only in this way that I have degraded myself and those around me. Hence my reclusive nature to the tune of other previous writers, a few of which have kept me at it. They kept me typing these words, along with a few other people who have offered me solace and sensibility. Because god knows I couldn’t find it in my own brain and brethren. I had to go elsewhere to find it. Or so I thought.
Instead it was inside of me all along, just waiting to seep out. Seep? No, it poured out of me like blood. Like a good morning piss after a long night of drinking. Like sex in the night time while listening to your favorite music, holding your favorite person, dying a million times just to live. Being dramatic with words, rather than with my actions — that’s always been a better choice. Still, I didn’t know how to live both simultaneously.
Yet here I am. Listening now to NPR radio tell me about politics, the internet signal going in and out because my modem which is less than a year old no longer permits the usage of WiFi, for no good reason other than it no longer works. I’ve been drinking beer for hours, after the Old Granddad and the long walk to the grocery store. I’ve cooked a few meals, getting my stomach back into its normal shape. Whatever that means.
I think I’ll roll a cigarette and duck out.