Category: Wrighter - A Place of Stuff

Wrighter XVIII

11/25/2017

I sit simultaneously at the edge of the universe, and trapped in a small dingy room I am saddened to see I've left my mark on. The vast nothingness of the stars and ether close enough for my fingertips to graze, in a room I'm too afraid to leave. Knowing my meaninglessness is merely reality is calming in an overwhelming sort of way. Accepting the depths of space and time running in a current around me even as I lie motionless on a stale futon. Is this, perspective? Or an excuse?

Some accumulation of hangovers so potent in their exponentially charged fold they can alter reality? If alcohol changes our brain chemistry, maybe a hangover can change our immediate surroundings. Perhaps the answer is everyone needs to get properly shitfaced all at once, and the next morning our shakes and spins will reorder the particles of the world for... peace? harmony? No, we would squander it all on some toast with butter and strong coffee.

Wrighter XVII

11/25/2017

Nights. Cold under stars shivering while reveling in the pure winter air. Warm a blanket pressing down on every inch of your skin, seeping in and filling to the tiniest nook with an oppressive comfort. Driving until ready to pass out an off ramp motel, bed of seat in car stopping and restlessness during sleep. Fog rolling in up the coast enveloping every couple into their own nebulous world, lonely travelers walking parting the mists to find a destination which doesn't exist until they're a few inches away. Warmth of gin and wine dancing to a song which played a long long time ago. Every repose and repast another step on a journey you're too afraid to end. Strangers sipping lattes as newspaper blows down another cookie cutter unique town, ubiquitous in its ambivalence towards true art and tortured souls. Homeless signs hanging on old fences brush up against $400 poorly painted cats gracefully akimbo in a cafe restroom. Everything new but nothing different. Like the billions of tiny rocks who dare to call themselves asphalt.

Wrighter XVI

11/25/2017

There is something beautiful about whiskey with an ice cube. Swirling it in your hand and seeing the ice dance with your soon to be inebriation. The cold of glass tempered by warmth of rye sliding through you after a quick kick to the throat. Life blurring to an acceptable level of impressionist, water washing over the harsh edges of assholery constantly surrounding us. Colors personalities body and fuck if I have one but soul rising above room temperature, finally knowing the meaning of comfortable. Lies and half truths and almost reality making no more impact than they should, light drops in the pond of consciousness. Becoming the koi in a winter fountain, accepting of the cold, surviving and enjoying the nibbles of food and occasional contact in a life of constant motion.
It's been a while since I could afford even the most plastic flavored of whiskey. The smell of turpentine and gasoline has a similar effect. Only now I know there's no soul to be warmed. Just a place holder, some swirl of disparate thoughts I contemplate to be more than my physical self, and more words constantly filling my head. With no release, only a stay as long as my consciousness allows. I should really find some whiskey. It's a worth a few days of expired cat food to get me by, it really is a wonderful feeling. And where to get ice?

Wrighter XV

9/6/2014

What is it about the lens of fantasy that makes reality so much more palatable? Talking to someone about racism is bound to lead to reinforced misconceptions about the boundaries of perception and reaction to what we feel is different, or a black eye. But throw in a wizard and some orcs and suddenly people can read and talk about ideas without a lynch mob forming. There’s something in the ability of fiction to remove us from ourselves. The further away a concept is from our own reality the easier we can deal with it. And though knee jerk reactions are great for reality TV and cable “news”, they make for horrible thoughtful conversation.

I spent a few years only reading comics. I’m not sure if it was because they were easy to find in newspaper strewn streets or if they had some special draw. I suppose I mean because there were newspapers in the street and I was too drunk and angry to read the articles. Even the poorest drawn and weakest wit of comics holds some allure. So far from our own reality perhaps they hold the key to true human insight. … …

Nope, just easy to read and I don’t have to remember more than a couple panels at a time. Squiggles with some loose ties to conversation. Comics are their own form of poorly managed language, changing with the years and soaked in rainwater. It’s raining.

Wrighter XIV

9/6/2014

There is a symphony slowly building in my head, dark and foreboding, increasingly dissonant until it is pure hellfire cacophony. French horns squeel ungodly tinny reveries and the cello becomes my irregular heartbeats. The sheer joy of waking to another day is not so subtly shattered by my brain trying to process the river of gin which lulled me to sleep. Like a violin made of gold carefully rosined then used to bash the back of my skull.
Maybe hangovers are truly why we drink. The reminder that something about our life choices made us think that much alcohol was anything but an unaware cry for help.
... Nope, it's getting drunk.

Wrighter XIII

9/6/2014

So much more seems acceptable when you're drunk. Or maybe it is more acceptable. Sure, it looks bad if you pee in the middle of the street at 2pm, but draining out on a wall after closing hour is a regular part of life. And I have some decent perspective on this, as I've done them both sober and drunk. The drunk out numbers the sober in a way that makes me remember how bad I am with ratios. Also: a whole fucking lot. Once I peed on some guy in a business suit on his way home from work. I'm not sure if it makes it any better he paid me to do it. Not that I was advertising that I'm willing to wee on strangers for cash, he just saw something about me and asked. Which, I suppose, is the worst case scenario.

Wrighter XII

7/22/2014

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckitty fucking fucktastic fuckwads on a sea of fucking fucktasticness. Fucking flying through the fucking air on a fuckarama of fucklossal proportions. Fuck from the fucking beginfuck of timefuck to the existence of fuck past fucking everything and fucking nothing. F. U. C. K. Kcuf. Fuck.

Maybe I’m pushing the boundaries of what you’ll pay me to write. Needing some demarcation of the blurred lines between existence and existing.

Or perhaps I’m making a statement about the ability of profanity to have power over other words.

Or the use of repetition to dull impact.

Or I need to get laid.

Well…

Fuck off.

Wrighter XI

7/22/2014

I really like nature. I feel somehow more complete, more alive, more connected to the universe of everything beautiful and growing and teeming with such a tenuous but persistent life when I’m surrounded by flora. Which leaves me slightly unrequited, as my apartment has a single plant clinging to dear life. I say plant, because I’m not sure what it is. It’s never flowered, never grown, and gives little indication as to its genus. It seems to exist in a perpetual state of flora purgatory, with ever present brown chipping away at its edges, but never dying. I’m not sure if it shows the true tenacity of life, or the depressing fight for survival that is existence. Or maybe it’s just a fucking plant. I give it a bit of alcohol every week or so, just to make sure my plant is on a similar plane of existence as me. It would bum me out if I had a beautiful flowering behemoth which somehow grew more magnificent while I drank myself to a state I’m willing to eat clearly expired food. Relativity is a bitch. I remember one of those. I meant the plant, not the bitch. Carl was probably the bitchiest person alive. He baby sat my sister and I and would eat our Oreos because he wasn’t allowed to have them at home. My sister transcends the word, obliterating it. Like trying to describe a mass genocide as “unfortunate”. Wait. Plants. I went on a camping trip with some boy scouts. When I was a kid. We wandered through the forest a few feet from the road and pretended we were at once one with and conquering nature. Though the s’mores were good. And I remember lying on my back in a small grove of redwoods, wondering if there was more to existence than consciousness. Feeling at once alien to and bonded with the trees. And now I have a plant. My apartment hallways have fake plants strewn about, which is a damned more depressing than nothing at all. Like a mausoleum for the idea of escaping this shit hole. My plant’s name is sometimes Len. And sometimes Grace. Because why the fuck not?

Writer X

5/10/2014

My life seems very long, right up until I read something I had written. I read over some musings or ideas or complaints or triumphs of the human spirits imagined or real, and it could have been a week ago, a month at the most I scribed it. Until I look at the date and see years have passed. Passed along with relationships jobs apartments feuds bets and cares. Yet somehow my writing remains at most a month away. I look back and see how little I’ve written, how little of myself I’ve penned for later me or god forbid anyone but you to see. My memory can barely hold my bitch sister’s name and her slew of kids. Wait, one kid, Michael. He’s just so sweepingly flamboyant it seems like there’re eight of him when I’m drunk. And I’m usually drunk. Not that that’s a bad thing (the flamboyancy) he just has a certain ardent fluidity that looks like a time delay shot on a camera when he moves. His mom has finally admitted that he’s gay, but she calls it “cute” or “a little phase”. Same way she described by alcohol “problem” when I had my first full week blacked out. So we can pretty much discount that theory. No, he’ll be fine. Gay indeed! Maybe next time I’ll start drinking AFTER I start writing one of these. It’s just too damn depressing, babbling ink through a rusty typewriter for a fucking check. But, it’ll be a good goal. Almost forgot what it was like to have one of those. Because drinking isn’t a goal, it a tactic. Drunk just helps me achieve my goal of not thinking about my shitty life for a bit. God damn it I’m a depressing fuck. Maybe I’ll do some community service. Though I seem to remember me being someone’s community service, so maybe I’ll just try to stop being such a whiney shit. The cockroaches look happy, why shouldn’t I be as happy as them? Because they live rent free! Why is my typewriter rusty?

Wrighter IX

9/1/2013

There is no better way to disappear then to do the same shit you do everyday. Wake up, go do shitty work for shitty pay with shitty people, barely pay shitty bills. Get food from the same shitty restaurant and have the same shitty shit after. It's when you stop doing things that you're noticed. The world will keep rolling without a moments notice if you die, but the second bills are in late people notice. Not doing anything is really much more attention demanding than living your shitty life.

I need some more shitty vodka; then maybe I'll be ready to take the leap toward doing nothing.