Fuck off

The longer you live, the more you realize that the only person your feelings and emotions inconvenience is yourself. Only you bear the burdens, and shoulder the yoke of your own problems. No one else has to feel the gravity of your decisions, or feel like shit when they come crashing down. 

It would be a lot easier if others stopped pretending to care, or jump in and intercede on your behalf. They don't give a shit, never have and never will. 

But they won't, it wouldn't be good form, or let them off the hook for feeling responsible, or at least culpable for the mess running down the floor, and into the storm drain.

At the end of the day it really is best to leave things to ourselves, and leave the outside world out of our personal affairs. They cant, won't, and don't give a shit, and to be fair it's not their job to do so.

So fuck off outside world, don't want and don't need you, not that you'd do shit about anything anyway. I'll go forth and figure it out myself, and be better off for the experience

3-15-14 Hamilton, On

I'll struggle to remember the taste of your lips, the crimson candywine of breath across that grin. I'd forget all the crazy you brought me, if just for a minute you'd look at me like that again.
I'll hang my head for all of the hurt I gave you, and just pretend those silky locks still blew past my cheeks like they used to.
Did I let you down like we feel like I did? Was that your idea, or maybe mine?
Did I take your innocence from you? Or were you out for a safe place to stash it? Folded gently amidst my insecurity and confusion, was it safer there than where you thought you'd like to go?
The life living in my rear view is so crisp and warm, the view of the back seat flashes smiles like you used to. The passenger seat is empty though, and the mirror unsurprisingly cold to the touch.
What I'd give for you to look at me like you used to...
I've raced around the globe, somber highways and hidden byways pressing through mist  and mud. I've put miles between me and your ghost, and yet when I close my eyes you've caught up. Through crumbling ruins and slate blue skyscrapers your hellhound has dogged me, never am I far from the heat of its breath or the snarl of its curse.
At times I give in and let you overtake me, hedging my bets for a merciful death. Yet hobbled and rended you bid me press on.
If wishes were dreams, and life were like song, I'd meet you right back at that place we belong. But the best of intentions seldom ring true, so I'll stuff all those dreams, and stay thinking of you.

3-3-14 Ft. Wayne, In

Late afternoon walk through the tundra. Sidewalks a smothered memory of the fall, frosted over with icy layers of winter, it's a choose your own adventure of snow drifts. Just passing through, a sore thumb in shorts shuffling through the powder and brown slush. Thrift store, old music shop piled high with cables and relics of gear curled my lips to a smile. Sifting through preamps and dusty jewel cases, book stores and Asian grocery. The exotic odors carried my senses back to far off lands and other times.
The China buffet, long a hobby of mine seemed warm enough. Inside veneered in faux marble, granite, and a whole quarry of thinly simulated textures. Red, white, and blue lights scream a patriotism only an immigrant could really appreciate. Lost in thought, I pondered the crab on the steam table, the pink/grey tuna under industrious led lighting. People of commerce and science study marine life like the buffet diner studies the orderly rows of greasy bounty. Think they know the dwindling catch is ending up as a red tong fly-by in a Midwest feed trough? Is it wrong to have cheap fish? Should cheap sushi even be a thing? Nevermind that it doesn't even remind me of the real thing... Is it any worse than the overweight girls in the next booth beating out the pop tune playing in the restaurant?
The lights dangle down on long leads from the ceiling, overhead fixtures casting their shadows on the white walls like disembodied scrotum. Red booths, blue collar. I shrugged and dove back to the trough. Does it matter that those shrimp scuttled their way off the mortal coil to dive from freezer to wok and star in a salty, saucy steamtable revue? I shake it off and head back to the table. Empty lemonade and a strange crisp new napkin, scrawled on it a girl's name and number, and "nice tatts." The girls in the next booth conspicuous now more for absence than musical taste, replaced by a family of four. Feeling like a sore thumb again.

10-15-13 North Charleston, SC

Another night alone with my thoughts in another hotel room. Seems to be something of a recurring theme for me, tough to shake those blues when you've only got yourself to confer with. The whirring metallic hum of the air conditioner box below the window is a droning reassurance that some things stay the same. There's something different about the ones in hotels, I grow to miss them when I'm home for too long. Not the way one longs for a friend or favored possession, just a nagging dearth of a thing you just can't put your finger on. People back home think I'm crazy for that kind of shit; they think the stories are cute, and chuckle at the odd parts, but ultimately think I'm nuts. Maybe they're right.
Lately I'm public enemy number one, bearer of all ill will, source of and reason for everyone's problems. Some people are so sure that even I catch myself looking around for remnants of the black cloud I rode in on. Just a fleeting wisp might be enough, just to see it. No such luck however. Guess I'll just have to settle for being a somewhat less than iconic harbinger of strife and unrest. Never did care much for them anyway. Sometimes you want a situation to work out so badly, with every fiber and sinew of your being, that you haul that pick handle so long and crank it so hard, until it shreds apart in your hands,sending a rain of splinters and dust all about you. They lodge themselves in your palms, and find their way stuck into your soul. People must love the sight, they never seem to tire of watching a man trying to pick them loose, nor do they stifle their enjoyment in musing at his predicament. It must be a sweet sight looking out at a man in conflict with himself, holding that cell door shut on themselves as he struggles and spits and grunts and groans to pry them loose in spite of themselves. You can't drag someone out of the mud if they think they're floating on sunshine.

Marginalized

It seems so orderly to sort people and things into lists, functions, and groups. Life makes more sense when you reduce it to a set of neat little integers. Everything has form and function, and action so precise and predictable that you could set your watch or calibrate your gps to it.
Life doesn't quite work like that however, the shades of grey throw an infinite paw-full of monkey wrenches into the works. People don't break down cleanly, as much as it might do for them to do so. The social weight, or lack thereof, tied to a number is too much for the human soul to bear. People fit very poorly into file folders, no matter how much they might enjoy their time spent inside of one.
People fool themselves into thinking they have freedom; only so far as one can dodge falling meteorites 

9-19-13 Sunrise, Fl

Early AM at the hotel, big day tomorrow, gotta make it happen. Walking into work today was tough, it's not easy stepping into your own size 10 1/2s when you feel like you can barely feel like stepping into a woman's 6. Everyone looks at the big guy for stability, like an anchor to a ship, or a lighthouse on a rugged outcropping. It's not easy being that guy every day, and today I didn't feel like it. Tomorrow doesn't look a whole lot better.
Pressure makes things easier though. You know where you stand when everyone else is cooking the same as you are. Nowhere else to go when you have your back against the wall.
Things seem more distant lately, reality keeps slipping on me. I keep seeing the things I want to see, only to find reality infinitely more depressing. Guess its best not to get one's hopes up, keep things level, even, neat.

6-19-11 On a flight to Phoenix

06:19 - flight to Phoenix, a stopover on the long march back to the road. Plane's full of little bastards fidgeting about, doing their part to make sure the tension level doesn't drop too low. Airport was strangely aggro, from pulling up to the curb, to the ever present security shuffling and bumbling. Usually SD is more mellow, noteworthy for its refreshingly calm demeanor in the world of airline tedium.
Didn't sleep much, couple hours at best, stayed up too late getting the bags to just the right weight. The look that dominated the face of the lady at the counter when lifting them seemed to indicate that I got it right. Stomach is a mess, feels like a hand grenade in a subduction zone; good thing this flight came through with the aisle seat. At least there are some new tunes on the ipod, managed to snag some Satyricon and checking out Cage the Elephant. Usually the shit they play on the radio is miserable, but I'm digging this one so far. I'm sure most of the Norwegian stuff will get the digital axe. What happened to that band? Their early stuff was good, but all the newer stuff they played live was total garbage. Don't know if I'm getting pickier, or bands are sucking more.
Kinda bummed to leave So Cal again, some really good friends there. This break was a lame fuckaround though, not very productive, mostly gave in to vices and personal demons. Reaffirmed my severe lack of tact and relationship skills. Crom there are some righteous girls back home, probably better that I have to leave. At some point in life you start to realize what you're good at. Every mile from home nods in approval, I don't belong there, as much fun as it seems to stay a while. I suck at domesticated life; the little things everyone seem to take for granted grow into lingering, daunting impossibilities. Like a soldier or an inmate, institutionalized lifestyle has taken hold. You can feel when it's got you in its grip. Sometimes you fight it, but most often just relax into its rocky palms, rest your head on its shifting pillows of granite, and keep rolling. I'm good at traveling, working, and not looking back for too long. You have to be in this business, those who aren't don't last too long. I'm good at being gone, much better at it than being there, wherever that may happen to be. If you practice these things long enough your skills start to grow at an alarming pace. It seems to come naturally, and isn't easily shaken off. Each trip back home is a doleful reminder of what I'm just not cut out for, things probably better left safely outside my grasp.
Looking forward to getting back to work, getting back to what I know, what I'm actually good at. You say your goodbyes, and tell people that you'll miss them, but their lives keep going. They aren't the sort of wax museum you might like them to be, remaining motionless and immaculate until your imminent return. Only your memories remain constant and unwavering in the face of certain reality, somehow bittersweet enough in that amber glow to pervade your thoughts, and blindly hope against hope that things will be as they were, or how you might have liked them to be. Sooner or later reality always takes over; the grass may be greener over there, but it is, in fact, over there, not here. Better to get to work on your own little patch than to ruminate and plan fantasy voyages to some other little plot on the horizon back the way you came.