Sick and Tired of being Sick and Tired.

It has been a couple weeks since I’ve been able to keep food down.

It has been 2 bottles of Advil since my headaches got worse.

It has been 3 EKGs, 1 EchoCardiogram, 3 Blood Tests, 2 Gastrointestinal Specialists and 1 Chiropractor and I am still in the dark.

I am sick. And tired. Most of all, I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. I hate waking up feeling like I just laid down. I hate choosing my food based on how quickly it takes my stomach to reject it. I hate feeling like a 90 year old when I do my best to climb stairs. I hate it when lights are too bright, and driving at night feels like a frackin lobotomy. I hate the dizzy spells, the shakes, the cold sweats, the fatigue, the soreness, the shortness of breath, the coughing, the chest pains, and the fog. That dang, all encompassing, motivation burying fog.

I hate pretending I’m alright, because everyone else has a schedule to keep. 

It’s hard to have time for an actual answer to “how are you doing?”

Bah humbug. Something sarcastic. Witty insult. Blurp.

Today I started a 1 month cleanse. An actual, non-starvation cleanse. Not like a celery juice and you can smell chicken for a month cleanse. That’s called poverty. I mean a spend a lot of money on a specific list of organic fruits and veggies cleanse. I’ve been pretty much eating almost food for my entire life, with the exceptions of some meals cooked by health conscious others (you know who you are). So, 24 years later, my body has officially taken the stance of “THIS IS NOT FOOD”. Even with the fake produce at Wal Mart and the low-fat-but-turns-instantly-into-sugar whole grain bread from Savemart.

My body is a temple. A pretentious, vegan-esque, better then the industrial revolution temple.

Anyways, I’m starting to listen to it before it burns completely to the ground. Wish me luck, and if you have any advice, resources, or suggestions, I’ve been pretty voluntarily ignorant about food my whole life so, go for it. I’m ready to learn.

dont read too much into this, or at all actually

honesty means that there is a level of exhaustive preparation every morning that goes into making a me that looks like me

or at least the me I used to be, before I was the me that I came to be 

(the me I don’t let you see)

honesty means my eyes are less familiar with the backs of their lids then they are with the whites of the ceiling that looms down over the bed that I sleep in

this body that aches all day from chronic-whateverness demands a rest that lives only in the dreams that I stopped having during adolescence

honesty means that I am addicted to niceness because it fills my veins with the drug of you thinking I’m something better then the skin I’m in

it means when I finally break, you wont remember the long stares or cold glares or antisocial neurotic sociopathic anxious behavior because I helped you move in

see, I’m a good kid

honesty means I spend an alarming amount of energy trying to figure you out, and whether or not I can trust you or if I think you might kill me

I’ve spent too many nights by the window talking to myself because that guy at the starbucks left at the same time as me

honesty means that food tastes like ashes in my mouth, and since I’m already consistently dehydrated vomit is actually a welcome relief to the dryness

the thought of my stomach ruining garbage inside of me has been enough to make me dry heave in the middle of traffic

honesty means I probably like what the smoke will do to me a little more than I do the nicotine

although working in an office with two flights of stairs makes it hard to make it outside to kill myself slowly (mostly)

honesty means I snap like a jazz musician with no music when I am uncomfortable because it brings your attention to my hands and away from my eyes

or because it makes me invisible, still testing that theory.

honesty means the curtain closed because of who I thought I was, not because of what I thought I had done

A man covered in flames can set even the purist angel on fire if he doesn’t drown himself at once

right?

honesty means I hate being honest, I’d rather lie to both you and myself and keep staring at my hand until I’ve convinced myself it has stopped shaking.

how I wish it would stop shaking

Buzzing.

Preface: Yesterday I yelled at God because it was windy.

GOD. You are a holy, benevolent being of righteousness

I. Am a scoundrel with the potential to cease to exist with one fly-swatter hit

But still, even with the knowledge that you are the creator of all things seen and unseen, the Gospel, and the details in between, I spend most of my days screaming.

Which I’m sure while you’re on your throne in a heavenly realm surrounded by Angels who YOU made to tell you of your infinite glory... 

It probably just sounds like buzzing.

You built the house, and the kitchen I am in. 

You baked the food, that smell that brought me in.

I am the fly who’s defiling your house 

seeking the MADE more then the MAKER because tangible has more clout.

That bread your slicing becomes so enticing that my vision blurs and my focus turns 

to that lovely loaf with, what smells like, bananas baked into it? 

C’mon God, you know that’s my favorite.

With that smell in the air, I fly-   blind, and land on whats not mine.

I lose sight of who baked it. Who put it in the stove and made it.

The Holy Chef who’s hands created it.

I lose sight, until that bread crumbles when the Creators blade hits 

An earthquake the size of a loaf of bread feels cataclysmic

And it sends me into the air, buzzing with resistance

But you, oh Master and Provider, gently swat me away- causing me to fly higher.

And from this new height, closer to your eyes

I can look down and see that the bread wasn’t mine.

I was fooled by my senses, controlled by what my flesh said.

I smelt the desire of what could be mine and it caused me to fly lower to just get a slice.

I flew so close to your blade that I felt the ground shake- 

but I wasn’t supposed to be there eating that bread anyways.

It was your hand that came so close and stirred the wind around me

Causing me to fly closer to you, higher, where I could see

Now, l realize that you’re slicing the ground where I was just standing.

Oh my God. You saved me.

Now maybe I’ll stop buzzing.

R&R

There was

There was

There was

A Moment Split. A Moment Fractured.

The Halves Of That Moment Run In Separate Directions

One Half Runs Right, Solidified In Its Correctness

One Half Runs Left, Wrong, In Its Brokenness.

The variant degrees of separation are extreme

The body, made of flesh, leans.

Leans. 

(to be read: screams)

Wrong becomes left 

becomes straight 

becomes forward

becomes behind 

becomes past

becomes us

We have become that moment we have left.

Right?

there is

there is

there is

an annoying sensation of numbness in my right leg

these swimming lessons are becoming monotonous

and i have the distinct feeling that i’m not floating

i’m drowning

it’s becoming easier and easier to fall asleep in this pool

in this house shaped, me shaped, life shaped pool

there Will be

there Will be

there Will be

a.forced.smile

an.awkward.glance

a.knowing.deflection

will.power

try.to.remember

try.to.remember

try.to.remember

a.decisive.joy

an.indefinite.silence

an.insoluble.ache

a.decision

a.decision

a.decision

Happiness, shaped like something unfamiliar.

Safety, in a strangers embrace.

Touch, from skin of a different temperature.

And the ability to be okay with not knowing

(while, in fact, knowing what there is to not know)

  There was, there is, there Will be:

Rivers. And Roads.

Oh, and swimming. A lot of swimming.

A Letter to Thomas.

*NOTE: The writing below may lead people to believe that I am sad, haha. I want to make clear that I am not, and instead of writing this out of a very bad place know that it is the good place I am in that allows light to shed onto the misfortunate relational practices of humanity, myself included. It should be read more as a frustrated expression of a whole, and not as the secret depression of an individual. Wow, I hope that makes sense. 

Anyways. A letter to Thomas, enjoy.*

*DOUBLE NOTE: I don't know a Thomas. Kind of the point, poetically speaking.*

*TRIPLE NOTE: Sorry about all the notes.*

Dear Thomas,

We hope this letter finds you well,

and we hope it is wellness that it leaves you with,

although we highly doubt it, considering the focus.

We have a dead tree outside.

We've never seen it, but we're told about its visual torment.

Today, however, we were hoping to speak with you about movement.

(We'll get back to the tree in a moment.)

There is a certain satisfaction

in choosing the rate at which we have and/or maintain movement.

(If you choose to have it at all. Actually.)

It must be a choice.

A choice we take pride in regardless of what we believe in

because the choice of standing still is intoxicating.

[It's better to feel in control of nothing then out of control of anything.

Not everything, mind you.

Any. One. Thing.]

We say goodbye to planting lilies,

to black coffee and underground symphonies

because those things grow, and growth is uncontrollable.

Growth in and of itself is both terrifyingly independent

while maintaining a fascinatingly fragile existence based on

the precise measurements surrounding it.

It's magic. 

Black, most likely. 

And we will have none of it.

Instead, we decide it is better to stay the same and not change 

rather than change what has stayed the same

and have that same change stay.

Thought becomes riddle that turns into apathy,

which forms into regret and regret into an apple seed

that we plant but we don't have time to watch it change into an apple tree.

With fruit.

Whether or not we watch those trees bloom

from a seed to produce fruit

directly affects the seeds ability to grow and plant roots.

It will not do it if we do not see it.

Our attention is its sunlight.

And most trees whither in the darkness of our inner eyelids.

We do not watch. 

The seed does not grow.

We stand, not moving, and take pride in our control.

We take pride from our souls hospital bed

and, having never tasted the bittersweet citrus of fruit, we die.

Alone, but satisfied.

Say hello to the wife for us, Thomas.

Best Wishes-

The Movement.

Happenstance [unfinished]

My habits sometimes outweigh my judgments.

Like an orange thrown onto the concrete

they bleed out into the gutter of my subconscious

and mix into the sewers of my existence.

My blood and their juice become a concoction of happenstance.

I must be growing because now when they happen..

I can't stand it. 

[unfinished]

FacePalm PoemForm

I read this today on a torn piece of paper:

She put a bookmark in my heart

And then walked away

It was still August then

I don't know what it means or who its from, but it will haunt me forever. 

"1734"

Maybe it's the smoking.

Or, more likely, my past with divorcing.

Probably not so much the tattoos or my intolerable backseat driving.

(Even though my tone is mistaken as 'menacing'.)

And it's certainly not my over thinking or constant calculating.

Seriously, I calculate a billion times a day.

... Maybe its my exaggerating.

Or maybe my general lack of eating?

Or that when I do eat it's pretty unhealthy.

Could it be that I want daughters mostly

or my insistence on adopting?

I'm just having a hard time seeing

why you would stay with me?

Just give me a minute to explain when we meet

and you'll see. You'll see that I'm sorry.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll forgive me.

There was a moment today.

There was a moment today.

A moment where all I could hear was the wind,

and all I could see was the trees overhead.

Passing, and passing, and passing.

Today in the back of a pickup trucked named Nigel,

We were traveling 50 miles an hour, and I experienced euphoria.

There was a moment today.

A moment where all I could hear was laughter,

and I could not help but smile.

4 Girls, and one very excited little boy.

All under the age of skepticism. 

One called me a nitwit, and I experienced joy.

There was a moment today.

A moment where I was surrounded by books,

in every direction words peered at me through closed pages.

In front of me bishops, queens, and kings awaited my orders.

My best efforts were no match for the intellect of my opponent.

He said "Checkmate", and I experienced defeat.

There was a moment today.

A moment where baths were being drawn,

and as the bubbles grew schemes of attacks were being planned.

Beds had already been made and toys put away.

Memories of my past rushed though me like a warm wind.

The smell of freshly shampooed hair filled the house, and I experienced nostalgia. 

There was a moment today.

A moment where I was writing a blog,

and from my left came a small voice saying

"Can I please sit with you?"

With one arm around him, we talked about rats and swimming.

My arm very quickly fell asleep, and I experienced love.

There was a moment today.

A moment where familiar voices entered the room,

and smiles and greetings replaced the talking heads.

Conversation was akin to the compositions of the blue-jays.

Some quickly parted, but others became immersed in each others company.

Quickly I finished the blog to join the conversation, and I experienced family.

(Carl, my seat buddy.)

I have nothing to say, I just wanted to say hi.

You are my hello.
You are my sigh.
You are my impatience,
and my indulgence in goodbyes.
You are my sound.
You are my excuse.
You are my sense of smell
and my color hue.
You are my favorite tremor.
You are my tantrum.
You are my inspiration
on this out of tune piano.
You are my orchestra.
You are my playlist.
You are the band that
I thought I hated.

You were my "I have nothing to say."
You are my "I just wanted to say hi."

With that said, I've got work, and you've got to fly.

Nowhere.

"I'm closer to nowhere then I've ever been, and I've found out its more of a place then I've been too in a long time. " - Hank Green.

I am somewhere between nowhere and somewhere. 

Right on the brink of "ticket to anywhere"

(not to be confused with a "ticket to here or there")

For those of you who have never been to nowhere, I'll hold up a mirror.

Nowhere is always 72 degrees (unless its really cold outside)

Nowhere has a population of 3 (unless, of course, its 5)

Nowhere has almost comfortable furniture and no clouds in the sky

Nowhere never rains, although there is an excess of cats and dogs.

Nowhere has a coffee shop called "The Cough and Hop"

In Nowhere you park on parkways and drive on driveways.

In Nowhere every sleeve has a heart, and every heart is being worn.

In Nowhere the only thing that's thrown away is pride that's been torn.

Nowhere has a beard.

Nowhere is located somewhere between contemplative and Connecticut

(closer to contemplative)

Nowhere held a vote to change the name to Yeswhere, but only two people showed up.

When you reach the borders of Nowhere, you see a long road stretching out as far as the eye can see.

To your left, families are picking up loved ones at the airport.

And to your right? A first date, and a sky uninterrupted by buildings, airports, or trees.

Under your left foot is the softest grass that's just a little wet.

And under your right foot is fine sand...

There is a sign. A sign to let you know you're in Nowhere. 

The sign is in almost perfect condition, 

except for one very large noticeable crack down the center.

The crack runs through the lettering, almost making the sign unreadable.

Squinting, you see the modifications the crack has made and wonder if it was an accident 

or if it could have been made like this on purpose.

Standing on the border of nowhere, between airports and sky,

you see the sign to nowhere.

It reads "Now here."

And you start to walk.

I just threw my circle away.

My background is a hodgepodge of things

that don't make sense or don't exist anymore

My discovery process is itchy glasses 

and a trash can that I can't make it into on the first throw

It doesn't make sense that everyone is afraid of each other

My infinite curiosity has another rock that it's turning over

I get the odd realization that I've never learned anything by sitting still

and wondering if maybe sometimes not knowing if a form of knowing in and of itself

So, lets build ourselves a pyramid of words to live in and be thing king and queen of.

We can live in it forever.

It'll be the first step to break the silence, surrounding ourselves with words.

 

Do you know what happens when you lock your knees? You die.

My last 24 hours consisted of:
jousting
watching a knights tale
midnight sword fighting
super smash brothers
speaking to a stranger on the phone about aaron being australian
moved 2 dumpsters
made 2 videos
attached an engine to a catapult
videotaped aaron buying a sweater
poured 25 bowls of soup
walked around shoeless at a strangers memorial
looked for someones tooth
played taps on the trumpet
read psalm 16... twice
saw a car accident
drove through a sand storm with 0 visibility
slept 4 hours
drank 4 gatorades
missed you.

Yah, it's been a day.

I heard your heart today. It sounded familiar.

Criminal Abuse of the Laws of Perspective

I don't expect it.
I'm actually not even sure I want it.
But here's the thing:
I usually don't answer the phone when it rings.
(and no, I don't always shamelessly rhyme with the letters I, N and G)
It's not that I'm depressed or addicted to loneliness
or I have some weird complex or anything.
I'm just... Not very good with sentences.
The formation and 'gramatics' and... hysterics.
It's all just too showboat-y for me.
Being your slave what should I do but tend,
Upon the hours, to your every desire?
A little too Shakespeare. Words and.. everything.
I'd rather sit and make eye contact accidentally.
What's weird is that you just called me and told me
We wouldn't be making eye contact anytime soon
cause you're not ready.
And words seem like a good idea suddenly...
The peace of transparency.
With you though... its harder then I'd like it to be.
I'd like to have a conversation with you that wasn't charged emotionally.
Negatively.
It seems like in 2 days we went from 'you and me' to enemies.
And now we stand.. hours away.. on the border of forgetting.

But you seem happy so...
Forget me.

Forget me, when you read these lines,
in which I tell you to forget me.

Maybe Shakespeare wasn't so bad.

Lets start this off with a bang.

Dear Creativity,
I've missed you. Coffee? Tomorrow? Lets reminisce.


-Jul. 30th, 2008

I am a creature of habit.

And I don't think you get that.
you see, I'm romantic.
My emotions are like a hand trick
that is practiced, and practiced.
And I'm not sure if you can handle it.
A rose is always two inches from my fingertips
and a smile just two seconds from my lips.
I am a lover and I cannot fight it
And I want you to want me to want you to want it
Not "it" like the thing teenagers do to get pregnant
But "it" like something soul crushingly heart wrenchingly
Mind blowingly important.

"IT" is my love. Ya know, that plant you water with silence?
The thing which thirsts for your kindness?
And in hind-sight I'd rather grow with sunlight
something I can depend on that runs on a time line
Instead I'm growing in a pot feasting on turpentine
Hoping for a melody to make my time fly.

"IT" is my heart. Ya know, that thing that beats oh-so steadily?
That disease for which you do not know the remedy
EVEN THOUGH I have given you the recipe
and again and again and again you show me that 20-20
is necessary when you stand so far away from me, emotionally.
But hey, maybe its me.
I mean, it's not so irrational baby
to think I am the one that made you crazy
Maybe? Yah. Maybe.

Maaaybe its my arms around you that make you so impatient,
Maaaybe its the fact that I call when I know I'm running late,
Maaaybe its how I listen when you talk or how I know your taste,
I guess, being realistic, it could be the way I open the door
or the way I put up with being ignored or the way I ask you if you want more
or the way I make sure everything is going to be okay If I spend the day away
or the way I try to show you I love you because you don't believe a word I say.

Or maaaybe, and this is just a hunch, you use drama as a crutch.
"what would we talk about if we didn't fight?"
I think we'd talk about tigers or the movie showing that night
"I would be to vulnerable if I was happy all the time"
I think letting me make you happy is not, if anything, a crime
"It would be too boring if we weren't screaming.."
Hunny, let me tell you something, if we keep screaming, I'm leaving.

Not because I don't love you and not because I lost interest
Well, thats not entirely being honest.
I lost interest in being your "end of the day" closet
Where everything you've gone through comes out at me
through glares and scoffs and words so deadly.

You have me blogging to no one, hell, maybe I am crazy.