what is this

Where am I now?

The city makes me confused.

The country makes me sad.

I can’t seem to find a comfortable medium.

I don’t long for an unfindable soulmate anymore…

Because part of me is convinced they aren’t out there…

Time to work my time and life away…

In a drunken stupor, a mindless bliss…

I wish I knew what I was meant for.

I wish I knew what was right.

I wish I could find the bottom of the bottle… but it keeps going and going.

I’m more switched off and disconnected than I’ve ever been before.

But I feel I’m at my most content now…

Maybe I need to not care?

Maybe I need to not worry?

I wish I knew what I needed…     

My stomach is weak now…

More than it’s ever been…

But another glass of bourbon will wash that away.

Or at least put me to sleep… for now

Lucky

The bar was crowded.

But the chatter and general din didn’t distract him from her.

She was telling him about a trip to Europe she planned to take in the not too distant future.

“You should come with me,” she told him.

“Europe?! They eat people like me alive over there.”

“Oh bullshit…” she answered back.

The walk home wasn’t too drunk, more of a slow amble than a stumble, playing with any random thing they could find along the way.

She found a scrap of wood on the ground and told him, “here this is for you.”

He looked at it under the light of a nearby streetlamp, examining the brown swirls and small knots in the 1x3 chunk of wood.

He put it in the left pocket of his green woolen shirt and said “groovy.”

They were sitting in her living room, he had weaseled his way inside somehow using some horseshit excuse such as he needed to use the bathroom or wanted a glass of water, but there was no ill intent behind it.

He had found himself on her couch gazing at her records, thumbing through things like Simon and Garfunkel, Pink Floyd and other oldies.

“You have some really good ones here,” he told her.

She was sitting next to him on the couch and looked at him with a little smirk and said, “I know. Why don’t you pick something to put on?”

He had seen a Led Zeppelin record earlier and found it again.

He pulled it from its sleeve and put it on the platter.

He moved the arm over the record and when nothing happened she said, “hold on, it’s touchy.”

She moved from the couch towards the record player and stumbled a bit, but he managed to get a hand out for her to grab before she could fall.

He hid the smile that came to his face because he didn’t want her to be embarrassed, and let her continue.

She put the album on, and while it was still hissing and popping she flicked the lights off.

A very soft, romantic glow filled the room, its source being a single strand of white lights strung up above the couch.

They talked more and got comfortable.

Both slumped a little on the couch, sitting close to one another.

They talked more about what was going on in their lives and eventually she put her head on his shoulder.

A twinge of anxious excitement shot through him, but he managed to keep it all contained within himself, his demeanor still calm.

The music still played in the background and he finally got the gumption to reach for her hand.

Their fingers locked and they both smiled a little bit.

He leaned towards her to give her a kiss and she nervously buried her face into his shoulder and giggled.

He wasn’t upset by this and instead turned his attention to her hand that he was holding. He brought it close to his eyes and began to examine the wrinkles in her knuckles, the cuticles where her nails met her fingers, the lines in her palms.

He grabbed the other and proceeded to do the same.

Running his fingers through any line or ridge he could find on them.

Her hands were the absolute most beautiful things he could think of at that point in time.

He then turned his head so that he could look into her eyes, as she had finally brought her head up from his shoulder.

“You’re sweet,” she told him.

“No,” he answered, “your hands are just really lovely. More like artwork, really.”

She smiled again and he tried to kiss her once more, moving his lips to hers.

Another shot of electricity ran through him when they touched.

Soft kisses at first, but they grew stronger as they began to wrap their arms around each other.

Eventually the album was over and he had begun to doze off with his head now on her shoulder.

“I think it’s time to go to bed,” she told him.

“Oh I’ll get going then,” he said back.

“You don’t have to go.”

“Okay, well I can crash out here on the couch, the little lights out here are so nice and all.”

She smiled at him and laughed and pointed towards a doorway, “You’re fine, come sleep in there with me.”

He sat on the edge of the bed taking off his shoes, hoping she wouldn’t smell his feet.

Both of them were too tired and drunk to really take off their clothes so they lay spooning fully clothed.

He lightly walked his fingers up and down her shoulders.

He would take deep breathes because the smell of her hair was just a little intoxicating. 

Sweet and rich.

Finally he wrapped his arms around her and just let sleep come.

Before he even left her doorstep he considered why he didn’t get her number or something.

He had simply said,

“I have no idea when I’ll see you again…but if you’re ever my way, get in touch with me.”

How fucking stupid did you sound? he thought to himself.

But his defense was that he didn’t want to ruin one of the best moments he’d had in a long while; even if it meant possibly creating something new with her.

Hugging her goodbye had been the icing on the cake for him. And he wondered about how he could have had such an incredible evening, however short it had been, with someone as beautiful and sweet as her, but was still willing to let it fizzle before it could start.

With a walk ahead of him and the sun already toasting his shoulders he considered his options.

It was just a few hours spent laying in a bed with someone right?

He was just going to let the moment fade.

And not to let it haunt him too much the next few days.

random pictures from last summer.

The Theatre (allegedly)

I had asked Alex to meet me out front of the old building.

Such a badass, old place.

Some weird old office/theatre space, about three stories high.

On several occasions (allegedly), my friends and I would sneak in and have a look around. Usually blasted out of our minds, which in turn gave us the courage and strength to climb drainage pipes, up a story and a half, onto old rusted fire escapes which would take us onto a decrepit roof, where pigeons would make sudden moves and scare the shit out of us in the pitch dark night.

This most commonly occurred on evenings where the streetlights were blurry and seemed to be more drunk than we were.

As I walked towards where it was, I noticed that I could not spot the old awning that hung outside; the building’s beacon for those passing by on foot.

I remember (allegedly) one of our first trips into the musty old bitch. We walked right in the front door. Someone had broken in, or gone for the night but had left the front door wide open. Upon entering I remember coming upon an old hiking backpack, through which I immediately began to dig. Fishing a gloved hand, very slowly through the pack as not to cut or prick my finger on anything gross.

Which might as well serve me right for going through some random transient’s knapsack, honestly.

In it I found writings, done on the back of years old faxes, addressed to city politicians. Someone was proposing a plan to tear down the old awning outside, as it was a hazard due to its age and elements of weather such as falling water, ice and snow. They wanted to clean up the whole building, rework and repurpose it for good. The writer detested the amounts of syringes he found on his passings through the building. Decent arguments, all to be held accountable by the owner of these documents, as long as the city handed over the building to them.

I took the letter.

I took an empty notebook.

I took a piece of art done with broken glass and an old parking sign from the club that burned down next door.

I stole someone’s shit. (allegedly)

I think back on that sometimes and feel kind of bad about it.

I guess I wasn’t really thinking about it then, I just liked the things I found.

I was thinking they must have finally removed the old awning, probably a good idea really, before it fell and crushed some nice people coming back from the Rolex store at City Creek.

But then I noticed an orange porta-john.

Then some chain link fence, orange cones and what looked like the arm of a large excavator.

 The very last time I went it there, I was with three other friends. (allegedly)

And as we descended into the building on a service ladder we found on the roof and made our way down. We explored and took our time. Making our way down into the basement, I led the way with the light on my phone and my battery at 20%.

We followed red smears on the walls and floors for a while.

Honest to God we found someone sleeping in there. He was still warm, but too hammered, stoned, tweaking, whatever to even bother with 4 drunk assholes stomping around the place at 2am.

We consider moving in too. Why pay rent when it’s so damn easy to get in here anyway?

I remember after we left I checked my hip for my knife and found that it wasn’t in its sheath.

The Buck 103 my old man found 20 years ago working road maintenance in Vermont, tucked away in some grader. Covered in rust and grime, my dad had polished it up and worked the snags out of the blade and put it away in some box. Until about 26 years later when I mentioned I happened to be looking for that exact knife but couldn’t find a good price.

So of course, the musty bitch ate it up.

Suppose that might be karma for the things I took so many months before.

Truthfully, my heart sank.

The old building is no longer there.

I began walking the perimeter of the fence, looking at the piles of rubble.

I want to be mad at someone, but who can I blame for deciding that an old building needed to come down?

It was an old, nasty place. Flooded and boarded up long ago.

Forgotten and left alone while the city around it sprung up like cheat grass.

It was it’s time I suppose.

I burn one down in loving memory and flick my crutch into the twisted beams and brick.

And dammit, I really hope that my knife is in all that shit and not some bums backpack.

Belfast, Maine.

I haven’t written in a while, and I’m not going to apologize for my absence like I usually do because honestly, what does it matter?

Walking alone the dreary coast is humbling.

Dark and grey, much different from a bright, sandy western beach.

I ‘m looking at all the things that have washed up.

Drift wood. Nylon rope. Glass. Garbage.

Small things in a big pond.

I’m only a week into this family vacation and it has been very humbling.

I wonder where all this shit came from.

How long it was at sea.

How it ended up here.

I compare it to myself.

Driving across the country, through all these towns full of people.

People who are carrying on their lives with no knowledge of who I am or how I feel.

It’s humbling.

I realize that my problems aren’t as big as I think they are.

If I were to disappear off the face of the earth. If this sea were to swallow me up.

If the earth opened and I fell into it. They would keep on going on as if nothing had happened. Not to discount the people who actually know me, I know they would miss me and I would miss them because I love them and care for them as I know they love and care for me. But this world would continue without skipping a beat.

I get so caught up in my thoughts that I get lost.

Speaking with my father as we hurtled our way across America, I realize that he and I are not so different. He’s almost 70 years old now and he tells me that he still lies in bed at night thinking so much that he imagines driving himself mad with his own thoughts. That he has to somehow shut himself off from the inner workings of his mind.

It’s humbling, to know that I’m not the only one.

To know that I’m not the only one who thinks this country is going to shit and that change is a horrifying thing.

His comments on the change out East open my eyes up to what’s going on around me.

The small towns growing. The old restaurants and places we’ve visited so many times before that are gone and changing as the years roll on.

And all people can do is sit back and discuss stupid, superficial bullshit like “Deflategate” or thumb through Kim Kardashians selfie book.

What the fuck are we coming to?

I understand that this is the still the home of the free, as we are indeed free to involve ourselves in what we choose, but goddamn, this is definitely not the place of the brave anymore.

Hiding behind our online falsities and made up personalities.

I’m rambling now, but fuck you.

Remember when the Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island were on TV?

When the only drama portrayed was Marsha getting her nose smashed by a football or whether or not Professor was going to be able to build a robot out of coconuts?

Now every channel is littered, like this beach, with garbage.

False identities on reality television, who preach gossip and conflict.

And we worship it, we bow to it, we thrive on it.

The rocks poking through the soles of my boots and my hand rubbed raw from my walking stick are things I cherish. They’re real.

There’s a very big disconnect happening with the human race right now.

 And we’re too caught up in retweets to give a flying fuck.

But wait, you got 50 likes?

Good for you.