in the dreams where jackals hide

Cut loose your
       noose and don
  my leash.  You can cuff me,
     if you swallow
             the key.  We'll make it
a fun parlor trick; bound, you can
   whip me, until I escape.
Bite marks and scratches, just
         try and stop me.  Honest,
  I didn't mean to bruise your
           gentle neck; your
      inner submissive bleeds
   through our feigned
                          rolls reversed.
          Pealed masks, disrobed
       and naked pale skin.
Rope tied to bedposts,
              slipknots around your ankles and wrists—
         such an innocent face,
                such a dirty mind,
      such a pretty little pervert.
  Pinch me, I'll slap your ass;
           leather clad dreams
         of stormy moonless nights,
     no headlights,
      high speed and misty
    steamed windows; of basements
          and chains; flamable silk
       and candle wax…
when pressed, still so clever:
   you can't whisper "I love you,"
           through the red ball;
      there's no safety in words, after all
               is done and said.
    Dangerous lands lie beyond the borderline—
Show me. 
               Cut me again,
         carve your name in my chest;
                             we belong together.

untitled

The Bombmaker, Minesweeper,
         and Drunk dance
     around a circle
           side by side by side.
  Pressing their luck,
        tempting claymore fates,
     they want to see if
            proof really is in dismemberment.
Meanwhile, the Butcher, Baker,
           and Insurance Salesman
   mourn the plain lesson:
a thousand ways to leave your lover;
           and not one to bring them
                          back, again.
But, such is life
          for Ghosts and Bedbugs
  that lurk in shadows,
revealed only in sideways glances of
   razor scars and lovebites,
bloodstained memories of what's
         gone...
    what exists only as pain
                  in abstentia.
   Dream homes and cloud castles
        left dark and decaying,
   over-grown and in disrepair...

What is lost,
         if it was only imaginary?

Dear Daemon,

The letters I sent you this summer were all returned, unopened.  They were marked as "undeliverable as addressed; unable to forward."  Maybe you forgot to leave a forwarding address; you can be forgetful, at times.  It still kind of stung at the time.  I still have them.  I also still have that pine cone, that name tag, and that candy cigarette box, among other maudlin trinkets.  Sometimes, I wish I was less sentimental; it would make for less clutter, for sure.

I'll confess, you've been haunting my dreams, lately.  I'm trying to let go; it's one of my unwritten resolutions for the year.  I'm trying to keep my distance.  It seems as though that's what you want (you certainly haven't indicated otherwise); and to be honest, I've got my own laundry list of shit to take care of, so it's probably best for me to focus on that—and by "that" I mean "myself;" a new way of thinking I'm still getting used to.  But if my dreams are any indication of how I really feel at my core, I am still fiercely loyal to you, in spite of everything, or anything else. Things change, things stay the same.  Before going on, though, I'd like to take a detour, briefly.

Is it just me, or does the phrase "let go" make you think of Val Kilmer?  I honestly feel bad for the guy; honest, I do.  He had a period of time when he was an A-lister.  He was a Hollywood golden boy; with just cause, since he had actual talent.  You can't teach comedic timing.  People either have the gift naturally, or they don't; just watch "Real Genius," Kilmer has it.  But, holy god! It's like everything he does, now, has the crust of B all over it.  Even "Felon," in which he did a damn fine job, just wasn't quite up to Box Office standards (what ever the fuck that counts for now-a-days...).  I mean, he was fucking Jim Morrison!  I don't know the guy, so this is just conjecture, but now he's got the bloat of a drunk.  It's sad, really.  I used to wish that I had the blond hair and chiseled jaw that made him famous (and I'm sure got him laid, plenty); but now, I think, "fuck, I should start taking better care of myself, 'cause 27 ain't too far from 30, and I'm over half-way to 50."

In case you need a visual:

 from "Top Secret," circa '84

from "The Steam Experiment," circa '09

One last side note, "The Steam[ing pile] Experiment" is an awesomely bad movie, also starring Eric Roberts and Armand Assante.  It's worth watching.  Look at that cast!  Don't pay to see it; but don't get caught not paying.

I drove to Goldsboro, recently.  It was an interesting drive.  The sun was out and bright, but snow was blowing—very odd.  "Yield" covered the first half of the trip.  This is definitely one of my favorite road trip albums.  It's possibly my favorite Pearl Jam album; though ask me on any given day and that could range from "Ten" to "Backspacer."  What can I say?  I dig 'em.  About the time I got to Selma on hwy 70, I put on "The Shepherd's Dog."  It fit how I was feeling, driving back east for the first time in some five years.  Something about the uneasy, or reluctant but unavoidable, relationship with Christianity, the very Carolina (in spite of Beam being from South Carolina) material, the wolf/sheepdog metaphor, and the overall tone that strikes a chord with me—did you see what I just did there?  Thanks for hipping me to it.

I was driving to Goldsboro for my grandmother's birthday, but reached Princeton with plenty of time for a detour.  Once I reached Goldsboro, almost from instinct, I took hwy 117 toward my childhood home on the 500 year flood line—the waters stopped yards from our front door.  I know I've told you that before.  My family and I were lucky, incredibly lucky.  Floyd's flood did a number on the area.

View Larger Map

I grew up on Croom Dr, the turd colored curve at the upper right corner is the 

Neuse River.

Hurricane Dennis (not the one that hit the Gulf a month before your storm) had sat off the coast two weeks earlier, dumping rain for a couple of days.  Having dealt with Fran, this was a boring storm—since school was canceled, my younger brother and I flew kites until they were more duct tape than plastic.  Then came Floyd; which for being a cat 4 was pretty tame, but dumped over a foot of rain.  This rain caused the usual day after flooding, but then subsided; until the folks in Raleigh to let out water from Falls Lake, which flowed east and added to the already saturated land.  Hurricane Irene, shortly after, definitely did not help.  That was in 1999, we left in 2001.  At that time, even two years later, pretty much everything from Summerlin Dr to the river, that wasn't a trailer, was condemned by FEMA and left dilapidated and abandoned (they were mismanaging assholes back then, too...does that count for irony? calling oneself "emergency management" and sucking at that when emergencies happen?).  That meant plenty of practice houses for Mar Mac Volunteer Fire Department.

My parents live in Rocky Mount, which is on the Tar River, also hit hard by the flooding from Floyd.  Areas along that river were more densely populated, so the damage was more extensive; but these many years later, Rocky Mount, Greenville, and other areas show only a few waterlogged scars.  What was neighborhoods of modular homes, in my childhood, remains barren.  I'm not comparing; just sharing.

This is the house I grew up in, '89-'01.  

There used to be another tree to the left of the house, Fran took it.  

A hedge used to run the perimeter of the front yard.

We beached the jon boat past this tree, closer to the house.

In the background is Dad's old garage.

It is literally more square footage than the house.

This is along Old Grantham Rd.

There used to be houses here.

 The last little brick house, abandoned, but still standing.

Beyond those trees is the Neuse River.

To the right, off camera, is hwy 117.

I guess I've become accustomed to the rolling topography of Chapel Hill, because the absolute flat blankness of the land took me somewhat by surprise.  The grey day didn't help to elevate the mood, either.  It was sad to see what was a neighborhood reduced to the bare bones of streets leading to vacant plots.  My little sister and Dad did this same tour a few days earlier, they had business on base (Seymour Johnson AFB) and so were in the area.  She agreed, it was ugly and depressing.

With this sort of mood and enough time left in the sliding ETA I had given to do some more site seeing, I drove back up hwy 117, past Teasers—the strip-club I always dreamt of burning down, past the cemetery where the coffins floated out of their graves like in some soggy Rapture, past hwy 70, and kept driving.

Things change.  117 turns into I-795; this was news to me.  I drove past Pikeville, past Fremont, but not quite to Wilson.  Getting closer to the late arrival time, I got off of the highway and headed back south, toward Goldsboro.  All the while the weather varied from bright sunshine to blowing flurries. The Paper Chase better suited my mood, so "Now You Are One of Us" played as the chain of cigarettes burned.  Good times.

One of the things I've always loved about small town eastern North Carolina is that every town is the same.  It's impossible to get lost; even if you try.  Every town is the same.  There's two highways that pass through each and every town (one north-south, the other east-west) and generally one main rail line.  Whichever highway runs parallel with the train track, generally becomes that town's main street—generally, creatively called "Main Street."  You know that you're getting close to town when you pass a flashing yellow intersection and the row houses run on the other side of the tracks.  Did you ever read Maniac Magee?  For all I cared about the northern setting, it could've been set in Goldsboro; racism and all.  Maybe that's just every small town, anywhere, USA (Mellencamp, eat your bleeding heart out).  I digress.

I was driving through Fremont, which happens to be the birthplace of Charles B Aycock, North Carolina's "Education Governor," also a bigot (putting it lightly), when my little sister called.  The conversation was brief and I told her I'd be arriving soon; which I would be, but mainly I didn't want the Yankee in me to come out while on the phone with her.  There was a line of brake lights in front of me, which I fucking hate, since that strange white stuff falling from the sky turns the fuckers around here into Chicken Little's, seizing their brains with dumb fear, blanking out the knowledge of how to drive—it snows at least once a year, mother fuckers, every fucking year; fucking christ, get your fucking heads out of your asses and fucking drive!  (I know snow's a neat thing for you, I'm partial to it myself; but my uncle left to come down for my grandmother's birthday, literally, just before a blizzard blew through the area Mom and Dad's families lived; which Dad's family, except for my uncle and his family, left.  Flurries and flakes ain't a big deal when your cousins are being buried by two feet or more—better them, than me.)  Eventually, I got around the traffic and made it to my destination.

Sadly, neither of my brothers could make it; but it was a full house, none-the-less: my grandmother's cousin and his wife came down from Maryland (or Delaware? same fucking difference); a childhood friend of my aunt, from Philly, flew in; as previously mentioned, my uncle was there; and then the rest of us living here.  After all of the initial greetings and such, my sister and I chatted.  Out of nowhere, she brought up how that bitch Cunty Love killed Kurt, then how envious she is of my hair, then the fact of me turning 27 came up—to which I reassured her that I had to be famous before I could join that club.  She's taking some absurd three or four studio classes; little masochist!  I still think you would really like her, she's a pretty awesome young lady.

It was a good time—good company, good food, good conversations, what more could you want?  The dinner conversation between Mom, my sister, the cousin's wife, and I was interesting.  She's a pretty neat lady, you would like her.  She gave my little sister pointers on being a professional artist, and the general conversation we had ranged from her experiences (like what it was like to do digital graphic design when computers were just starting to be used) to intellectual property to anthropology to linguistics to metaphysics to theology and gardening.

After dinner and cake and such, we took lots and lots and lots and (jesus, are we done, yet?) lots and lots of pictures; then they sang "Happy Birthday" to me; then we called my cousin in New Jersey to sing "Happy Birthday" to her, since it was her actual birthday; and then after long lingering goodbye's, we all parted ways.

More went on, but I've rambled enough.  The drive back was pretty exhausting.  The snow was done, but the wind blew my S10 all over the damn interstate; NPR was entertaining, though, minus the "Jared Lee Loughner" every fifteen minutes, or so.  When I got back, as with many times during the day, I wanted to share all of this with you—things stay the same; but, like I said, New Year's resolutions and what not.

I do hope this new year has been kind to you, thus far.  I hope the kids are doing well.

                                                                                                                                     Take care,
                                                                                                                                      Mailer

new favorite website

i'm almost embarrassed that i'm just now finding this

i'm a juvenile

I recognize that I make mistakes.


  I'd cliff dive,
    an apathetic and self-disregarding swan,
      held to a breathless, nailbiting
flawless entry, barely a ripple,

                      into a swimming pool of sorrow;
     but who am I to demand your attention?

    I'm a parody, myself...
still licking the sting from a relationship,
        barely the length of a fling.

I'll Consider Chanting Lojong on the Next Day I Try to Live

Reinterpreting experience,
    I take it with a sense of irony, that
  from the fantastic symphony of
            stardust
                  chaos
                          and nothingness,
and through the noise of everything else,
           on this planet, just big enough,
      our paths crossed in separate cars
                                  on the interstate,
and finally met in a rest stop from hells
              held tangential and private.
    It was simply Karma—
     a cosmic accident of probability.
Even with proximity,
         passion was in the periphery.
  Then things got fuzzy,
          as they tend to...
                            it's only entropy.

I suppose I lost my head,
  my tongue slipped, I
 got wrapped around your finger,
   got swept away...
 got caught making eye contact.
I stared too long and fell into recognitions
 of someplace nice,
    of land and tide...

So what if we're all just
      pushing pulling
   breaking like waves?
Who came up with Love?

A cynic's mirror questions
    a romantic's faith
 in pretty laced lies,
   St. Hallmark mockery,
 chocolate-coated fixed idea,
   wilted flower delusion,
white dressed utopic double-talk,
    trite metaphor courting ritual,
ceremonially aggrandized body functions;

Or is Love something more?
    More than gimmicks and games,
 more than power struggle and egos?

   Diplomacy is a tricky endeavor
 with razor bated breath,
   blades out for the slow dance
               at the knife party—
to be vulnerable is to show belly,
      offer your throat.
What ever the reward,
           the risk is body and soul;
   just ask Fitzgerald.

All life is just a progression toward,
then a regression from, one phrase—
                                  "I love you."

waves breaking waves breaking waves
    dissonant and harmonious.
 Perpetual in the peripheral eternal,
       fleeting in the moment.

With a boat's lulling rock drowsiness,
  time slowed when I ran my fingers through your hair.
       Was I just wasting your time?
I was head over heels
over zealous; I blinked and you slipped
   through my smothering hands.
interference pops cracks
  a misconnection of static
           breaking up
until at arms length blank eternity returns.

Still, through the black night, the
      frigid violent waters,
the Siren's song pierces
                       with entrancing brilliance,
"How do you lose what's never found?"

To be returned to...

the return of duck and cover? what the fuck?

untitled

Newborn infant?

   There’s an app for that.

  It’s a strange new world, Jack;

and it’s nowhere near

     the Arthur C Jetson

  post-war dream, once promised.

      1+1=5;

and in December of 2012, you’ll

      be two—and the world will end.

The earth and sky fell to the Capitalists

        who put write name here

    in the White House/Capital Building.

Most recently, on the home front,

   a Tranny from Alaska

 shows that “she’s” the biggest

        swinging dick, squatting

in Monticello, with a mob of

  blue collar picketing dipshits,

       denigrating the corpse of

a founding father, mocking him

  as the embodiment of his fear;

 teabagging the rest of us, jaws

        agape in disbelief.

Public discourse is dead;

        wanna go ride bikes?

  Plastic Glow-in-the-dark Christs,

American Flags (made in China)…

Not much is sacred, Sobrino.

       We bankrupted your education,

   your future, your freedom, your planet;

all for petty family grudges…

      my friend, Benny, died

          for their feud.

Nearly a decade of war; but

   as long as someone else pays

 the price…

  In this banana and apple republic we’re

    building [no war but class war],

  filtering bullshit will be

          the only full-time

   job you won’t be able to outsource;

and it will be low-paying, hard work.

Your great-grandparents were

      part of the Greatest Generation.

    They understood that there is

                    nothing

         without hard work and sacrifice.

 In such a short time,

      we’ve forgotten their lessons;

  but who’s got time for thermodynamics?

    It’s such a dry subject, anyway.

Our call of duty is to buy buy buy

  (read: borrow borrow lose the house).

     We can blame this manifest pathology

   on past destinations—my obesity

  has everything to do with my genetics

  and nothing with the exercising of my

  freewill…

Forgive us, we are but helpless

      crippled victims.  You’ll have to

   solve the problems.

But you have to laugh, Baby James.

      You really do.  Find the humor:

  A naturalized Aussie pushes

        propaganda against immigration—

   a subject your mother may have a thought

      or two to share.

And then, there’s the women of the GOP…

       Irony is the foundation of most of Life’s

                punch lines; you’ll figure that out

            soon enough, I’m sure.

Beware, but don’t be afraid, Young One.

   They’ve had The Bomb for over

  half a century…

        Live, laugh, love,

     because life is an adventure

       of endless discovery,

   full of honeysuckles, bee stings,

        ocean waves, mustard seeds,

              and girls.

You’ll figure that out, in due time.

Dependability

It's good to know some things are dependable.  Jackass 3D was all I had hoped for: an hour and a half of juvenile high jinks, nut-shots, puke, poop, farts, fat asses, midgets, and Bam being a prissy bitch.  And it was in 3D; what more could you want?

It would be nice to get the same from life.  For better or worse, life loves the curve ball.  One minute, you're Dudley Do-Right; the next, your neck is sore from being cast as Snidely.  Sometimes, the change comes from out of nowhere; but more often than not, the signs were all there, you were just too wrapped up in what you wanted the world to be to notice that you just got left behind, bitch.  But, oh-bla-dee oh-bla-dah, so it goes...

Karma is heartless and mechanical; you get what you deserve, even if you don't think you deserve what you got.  Same as it ever was.

FORA.tv rocks!

check it

two poems, six years

1:58am sobriety:

What is this

           need to reject history;

  the need to self-animate,

 to self-sustain?

      white chip tokens of loneliness

               and porch swing longing…

    Once upon a time, I

          could love myself;

yet, as true as neurochemical changes

     yielding new identities,

  the past is no more real than—

        She is but an icon

    with a billion different names to learn

and I hate my face,

      photographs make this only too real.

    I just need someone to be there

                                     for me;

     but I’ve found no way to silence these

sledge hammer synapses pounding

   in echoed harmony

         with dopamine deficiency,

a ringing distraction in my hollowed out

                cranial cavity,

           like a gangrened ghost limb, still itching

to be cut off—

          I play.

      Love is just an organic compound;

               drink deep.

2:04am stumble:

Is this the last swig?  Just

      one last pull, another shot to the gut…

         a twinge of jealousy and

  I’m reeling. It’s just my way; or simply

      chemistry and biological drive.

   Tell me, when

                will I feel calm?

With time, head throbbing pound
      dulls to a hum, and
  red vision gives way to

      low light, eventual

  hindsight: I know I was wrong.

Apologies, broken wings,

   just two birds lost along their way home…

Cynicism tells me

     it’s just an evolutionary trick.

And yet, I yield.

    The icon has, now, only her face,

          only her tattoos…

Here’s my ten bleeding fingers

    cradling broken bottles, my

  bruised knuckle tokens of

     openness; yet, blood
  runs dry and scars, too, will fade

        like photographs kept

                 in shoe boxes,

     blacken to faint memory,

and she’ll shine in another sky.

Will I disappear?

As days go by,

 my mind clears, revealing me

        stunned

by my own reflection

      looking back

                    too clearly…

I swore I’d never go there, again;

   dragged myself down, friend,

    down, down, down,

                                  down.

Love is an organic compound;

       may our cups overflow.

Shouts and Echos

When all is tangentially related,
   pushing and pulling,
  shining
        reflecting—
   Self becomes a metaphor

Am I not
         what I am?

So, where is the meaning in "Tree?"

   I am shouts and echos.
        My reality defines
             and is defined—
                              by me?

Intention is subtle, discrete, hidden,
    when causality governs
  an ordered cosmos,
             as below and above...

Chaos is a product of
    sequential thought
        and perspective limitation;
  but all is meaningless
      without a reference point.

  I am a fractal, started circa 1984;
     yet, my bones are much
                        much older.

I was born on the cusp of Aquarius.
I enjoy high speed
               burns
           —stoned—
     to the beach to
               catch the sunrise
          to clear my thoughts.
Would you believe me if I told you I get told I have an old soul,
a lot?
and it only matters when I think of one
other human being on this planet of six
billion, plus, schmucks and assholes;
myself included—
infants, though, are exempt.
    you're probably not her;
   so, I don't fucking care for your
   fluff.

Tell me, Boddhisattva, if I shatter
        I and I, erase ego,
     mute myself
            do I exist to cease;
   become something else;
                   or...

University

You, standing on ivory towers,
 do you believe in your gut,
     in your answers,
   in your paper, brick, mortar...

Can you tell me the way to Enlightenment?

 Your theories are disjointed;
     that is from ego.
My thoughts are disjointed;
   and that is from ego.

An Academic, an Autodidact, and a Sophist
 are in a bar;
      who's the one serving drinks?

I want to shout my throat raw,
   inhale until my lungs burst,
  beat my chest until my cage collapses,
 explode

I want to sit
   until I dissolve.

If I am my own metaphor—

       What happens if I finish that as a statement?

So it goes...

It’s fitting or
  fucking funny;
        don’t you think?
You slipped that note to me,
    the one about touch,
as your hand
     cupped to shield the
         flame
   as I lit your cigarette—
 sparks leaping
across that slight unbearable
               gap
        between our skin.
And now, I’m the one
      who must remind
    my self
  to keep my hands
     to myself. I must
        remember
 not to run my fingers
    through your hair;
  not to touch the small
        of your back;
    to ignore the cut of
          your dress;
to overlook your raw
            thumbs—
and you stay just
          out of reach…
 Now, my breakfast of
     nicotine and caffeine
  is just an excuse to
 skip on brushing my teeth;
I fall asleep to self-indulgent tokes and
     trite poems about a girl;
  and my future's not so clear.

C’est la vie, no?

Petal and Chaff

       Late spring bloom wilted
   well before autumn, questioning
patience and faith in serendipity;
   begging questions of latency
 or laziness; since I stood
    there plucking—
  She loves me…
      she loves me not…
I am foolish.
  What sway could the destruction
     of this simple thing of beauty
          have over Fate?
None. I'm grasping at straws,
     not binding wheat for harvest.
  Soon, the leaves will turn
and fall from the trees,
     like the time that slips
             through
               my fingers…
But talent and aptitude only
      get you so far, boy. Ambition
   and hard work, they are
               the crucial elements…

Butterfly Screams and One-handed Claps

Well now, James Douglas,
     what have you?
  Prancing lion, slinking black leather,
      shedding snake skin
   for whiskey bloat—
the sun sets in the
                                 west.
Some might say; but really,
     is booze the muse?
    Not to mention,
  who wants to be
       another drunk cliché?
My scars mock like a
     clown's face paint.
Philosopher poet, self
        taken way too seriously,
               bottled ego boost, sped
   self-destruction.
I am no saint.
     I've fucked without
   emotion; and
I've had my heart set
     ablaze,
  snuffed and torn from my chest
    and stomped.
Learn to forget, and life
                         is beautiful.
     Just the same,
   I grow my beard to
             hide my face.

Stand, Crawl, Walk

Again, I'm left asking,
    Where do I stand?
 The repetition of this question
   makes an abstraction of
   firm ground for foundation...

The foolish man builds his house
          upon the sand;
An idiot dreamer sets castles
             in the clouds;
   Drunks and junkies hit rock bottom...

If the earth is in motion,
   where do the wise settle?

               ***
Teetering backwards,
     running in place—
   this place stinks of
                   stagnation.
Fall again,
        raw knee crawl,
   up again
            and shaking.
No, I suppose it doesn't
    take that much
       to shake us
  to pieces; not when
 she moves and earth
    trembles,
  the ground crumbles
     in tiny quakes
        beneath our feet.
When the dust storm settles,
   what will be left
                for me
                         here?
               ***
   Tell me,
 when is the time to
     walk away?
When should I light
   my way with
 bridges burning
      behind?
Am I free?
      26
   unmarried/single
     no kids
  If so,
where do I go?
  The limtless horizon
  is dizzying;
loyalty and tacit
     devotion
  hold heart strings
    like anchors—
The world won't stop
   without me,
     nor should it—
  So, again,
 when does the time
    come to
walk away?

I still can't think of
anywhere I'd rather be...

Paths

A major question I've been asking myself, as of late, is "where am I?"

It's not the most comfortable question to ask. Honestly, I don't like many of the answers...hardly any, in truth. But it is an important question--only by knowing where I stand can I hope to pick out my direction, my path. I could say that "here I sit, brokenhearted; tried to shit but only farted." It's somewhat true, right? Something's brewing in my guts...

I don't have the concentration, right now, to finish this post. I'll return to the ideas later.

a horoscope that reads like a long-winded fortune cookie written by my mom

"Take the direction you know is best for you, and leave all self-destructive paths behind. In fact, go ahead and erect barriers and 'No Trespassing' signs, if that helps remind you not to tread ways that ultimately proved to be unhealthy for you. Some might accuse you of being 'too good' for your old friends or old ways, and they're right--you're far too good to waste yourself on behaviors that wreck your potential. Your instincts are wiser than any outside influence."

Generally, I'm of Jim Morrison's opinion of horoscopes. I read them, they amuse me, especially reading multiples for the same day, from different sources--there's just one night sky, right? Overall, they're way off, or to quote, "bullshit;" the one (from the same source) for yesterday sure as fuck was. This was from my phone, my MEdia Net page, from astrology.com--funny enough, while trying to be lazy and copy and paste, I found that this wasn't the horoscope on the astrology.com web page; perhaps it's proof of quantum multiverses: check one reading and it's one universe, check another... I digress.

I've been very good at self-sabotage over the past decade, much to the chagrin of friends and family, and myself, when I step back and think about it. It is exhausting. I've long since been tired of it--eventually, running with both knees and both feet shot out by your own gun goes from "romantic" to "just plain fucking dumb." It's an easy pattern to fall into; perhaps, even so common as to be mundane. I'm not the first person to back down from pushing my potential as far as I can, for fear of failure, thus accepting safe and predictable self-prophesied and perpetuated failure. Admitting your problem is the "first step;" I'm really good at that one--think of me as a martyr for hire...

I don't seem to be much further along than I've been since somewhere around 2003. That's frustrating. I dig myself out of this hole just enough to have more dirt for burying; I get my head just enough out of the water to find some more weights to strap on. But, again, I'm good at admitting; and even better at the resulting self-flagellation (but how else does one get into heaven?).

So, where am I? What are the self-destructive behaviors I've come to think of as just facts of personality? What the fuck am I supposed to be doing with my life?

Those first two questions are pretty easy to answer, at least compared to the third. Given that it's now 7:30am, I'll give an answer to the second: staying up until 7:30am is a self-destructive behavior.

Well, here's some topics to return to; maybe I'll have some intelligent words to go with my ranting. Maybe, I'll write with some regularity.

For now, bed.

4 years later

Well, here it is four years later. I've finished that fucking epic, still haven't finished the degree, still in fucking Chapel Hill... working on it though. Bush is gone. Obama's a politico. A chunk of glacier the size of a small European country broke off of Antarctica. Rights to Arctic Ocean shipping lanes are being argued over. Justin's going to Afghanistan tomorrow. Things change, things stay the same.