I Can Do a Blog Too!

This took up over 800 characters on my phone. I wrote this after seeing Beginners, a fantastic movie by the way. I channeled Ewan McGregor's character from the movie sort of. I asked myself, "What would his character write about his character, if his character had to write about his character, then Ewan McGregor had to write that". I ended up with someone with a sorrowful heart, who does not want to be full of grief and sadness, but just wants to be happy. But, in the end knows that all it will ever be is full of sorrow, with the hope that one day it will change.

And I made the end rhyme by accident, I swear.

I am a poet it and did not even not it.

So without out further adieu, I give you memos 22-26 on my phone:
Also known as:
My Sorrowful Heart.
But also known as:
I think my first prose poem.
But mostly just known as:
My Sorrowful Heart.

My Sorrowful Heart.
A sorrowful heart bleeds black and blue, when it just wants to bleed red like the others. It chooses the wrong words and moments, when it just wants to do its best to help. It can make a moment full of life seize to exist, without even the slightest of skill. It can make the highest of highs crash to its lowest point in a fire filled glory. A sorrowful heart knows love. A sorrowful knows not of love. It tries on emotions like hats. Content, then lively, then back to where it feels best. Pumping black and blue, while all it wants is to pump red. A sorrowful heart wears a smile as a mask, and a mask as a smile. Behind it, it pumps all the colors of the spectrum. It pumps the greenest of greens and the maroonest of maroons. It can be strong, it could be weak. It can be it. A sorrowful heart longs for its own. Though it can never find it. For, the mask it wears, has no room for it's eyes. A sorrowful heart mends every heart but it's own, because it never tries. It just continues to pump black and blue till the day it dies.

Light My Fire

The sun was sinking into the ocean in front of him. He gazed out onto the sea, absorbing its beauty and its simplicity. He began to notice things he never had before. He saw how the seagulls scoured the grainy sand, searching for the smallest particles of food left behind by beach-goers, like a bum rummages through trash searching for a remotely edible object to sooth their hungry stomach’s. He noticed how the waves chased after each other, like little school children during recess. He then thought to himself, “What’s the point, they are all just going to crash and die when they hit the beach shore.”

He continued to fall deeper into hypnosis as he stared out onto the cascading white caps. Noticing and judging the most insignificant things that his eyes wandered over to. He subconsciously knew what he was doing though. He knew that he was only doing this so he did not have to look down at the disappointment in front of him on his computer screen.

Then he began forcing it, he began to fixate his mind on anything he could. He stared at the dirty dishes in the sink, the old greasy pizza boxes that littered the living room floor, the papers and magazines that were stacked on top of each other, doing their best imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Then he looked at the barren shelves that those same magazines where leaning against. He began wondering why he never got around to organizing them. It was at that point he realized the reason why he never got around to filing all those things, was the same reason why his clothes had been stockpiling in his bedroom, and it was the same reason why he never threw away that picture of her, that was taped to the cork board next to his desk.

It was his favorite picture of her, because it was silent. In that black and white Polaroid all he was reminded of was her simplistic beauty, and how she resembled an innocent and naive actress from the 1930’s. He noticed every little crevasse of her beauty. But the more he examined it, the more emotion it got. He began to hear her voice speaking to him, ridiculing him. He heard her vindictive voice calling him unintelligent, and un-talented. He was reminded of all her critiques and “constructive criticism” which was just her excuse of belittling his work.

Then as all his negative memories were rushing in, he looked into her eyes. Those radiant eyes that made him fall in love with her the instant he saw her. And then the picture became silent again. And once again she was beautiful.

Before he let the pain of that night re-enter his mind, he finally decided to look at the computer screen in front of him. He hoped that through some act of divine intervention there would a magnificent story in front of him. He hoped it was the magnum opus he had always searched to create.

He closed his eyes and lowered his head toward the screen. He could not bear the suspense. He found himself slowly opening one eye, like a child does when they are getting a surprise. Then finally he opened both of his eyes as wide as he could.

He glared at the computer screen; he did not see a work of art. He did not see a literary masterpiece that his editor could proclaim as genius. All he saw was a small black vertical line blinking on a white blank page. There it was appearing and vanishing, reminding him that he had yet to write a single word. That blinking line just stood there, solitary and alone just like him.

*****

As he sat at the bar, he realized that this was the change of scenery he needed. He no longer felt a slave shackled to his desk chair. He was no longer toppled by stress. He was finally able to breathe, something he felt he had not been able to do for hours.

He was no longer alone; he was surrounded by drunken baboons, and recluses just like him. They were all there to share each others misery. But the men used the ball game and the women used the hope of finding Mr. Right as excuses to cover up their insecurities and reasons why they were truly there.

A handful of women approached him throughout the night. But he dispelled and rejected their attempts of compassion. He judged them and he scanned them up and down with his eyes. None of them looked like her, none them could even hold a candle in comparison. He thought as he looked them over.

So he just sat there on a torn up pleather bar stool, entrenched in a conversation with his closest friend. Someone who took away his pain someone who helped him forget someone who made things better. In his mind his glass of Jack Daniels could do those things better than anyone at that bar. Hell, better than anyone in the world.

As he started filling his body with liquid courage, he glanced over to the far side of the bar. There sat a beautiful brunette, with skin smoother than marble counter tops, and eyes as piercing as the dagger that killed Juliet.

He was fascinated by her and he could not get enough of her. Her perfume seemed to travel through the bar and politely find its destination right under his nose. And in those moments that scent was more intoxicating than whatever concoction he had put in his body that night.

She reminded him of her.

He knew that scent was all too familiar, and that those eyes had inter-locked with his before. At that moment the heartbreak had reappeared in him. He felt the helplessness as she left him. He felt like a million broken pieces of a man he once knew. A man who people once called brilliant, a man a woman once loved.

He was no longer any of these in his mind. He felt as if he was the living personification of the main character in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. He was not suitable for such a woman. The distance between them in bar stools might as well have been eternities. He knew there was no chance that he would approach that woman at the bar, for he already knew how that tragedy would end, in his inadequate heart breaking once again.

So he just sat there now in a nervous sweat. Playing devils advocate with his emotions.

“Do I send her a drink?” He thought.

“Or do I approach her?” He contemplated further.

He had no mirror to look into to practice his faint attempt of a formal introduction. He only had a small notebook and pen, in the breast pocket of his sports coat. He fumbled for it, and pulled it out. He flipped through the already occupied pages. Some of which were poems, others ideas for his work that either he or his editor deemed “rubbish.” Finally, he found a blank page on which to write.

He scribbled down everything that came to mind, all the cliché pick-up lines, all the faint attempts at humor, all of the elaborate back stories he could think of to make her want him. After the brainstorming process subsided, he looked over his notes like a student cramming for a test. He noticed he had not written down anything helpful. All he managed to compose was a short poem that he felt captured him in that exact moment.

The anxiety builds when I see your face,

My heart races at the most uncontrollable pace.

My mind goes blank and my vision goes white,

Why must this happen when you are in my sight?

Is it the fear of rejection, or the inevitable hurt?

Either way, I just stay in the background kicking the dirt.

And when I finally find the most perfect words to say,

I choke and write it down and hope I have the courage for another day.

He looked it over and thought, “What good is this? This will not impress her.” He did not think that those words were good enough for her. He felt he needed something that would make her fall in love with him instantly, something to fill her eyes with passion and her heart with lust. He needed a series of words that would by-pass all of the useless banter between them, and place them intertwined with each other as they made love. To him those words would do no such thing.

But, those were the only words he had come up with, they were the only words he had. It was either send them over to her in hopes she might look them over and shoot him a glance from across the bar. Or even walk over and say that the poem was “cute”. But he did not want cute, he wanted a woman suitable enough to finally make him forget about her.

So after a couple more glasses of Jack, he signaled over the bartender.

He brought him in close, and he exuded the copious amounts of whiskey he consumed throughout the night in every pore of his skin.

“I want you to give this to the lovely brunette at the end of the bar.” He said soberly to the bartender. The bartender seemed confused. He looked around quizzically as he was cleaning a tall beer glass.

“What woman?” the bartender asked.

“That woman over there!” He violently pointed with each word.

He could not understand why the bartender could not comprehend such a simple request or also be struck by her beauty.

The bartender then studied him over.

“What time do you think it is?” The bartender asked.

He was taken back by the bartender’s question. Not because of its profound nature, but because of its sheer stupidity.

“I’d say no later than one in the morning.” He replied.

Then the bartender braced both his arms on the bar and hung his head down. He had dealt with these types of people before. The ones who think a night of debauchery can solve all of life’s problems. And that knocking down hard whiskey was the best method of soothing ones soul.

“Six, it is six in the morning.” The bartender said pointing at the clock after every word.

That made no sense to him. He could not grasp how he had been there for so long. Then after that finally sunk in, he realized there was no such girl at the end of the bar. He became ill at the thought of his mind tricking him into believing there was even the slightest chance of someone actually being able to replace her.

So he pushed himself away from the bar and on to his feet. He staggered for a few steps as he slowly regained his composure.

He swung the bar door open and convinced himself that he could make the mile walk from the bar to his house.

As he was walking sluggishly on the side-walk, he reached back in his sports coat to grab his notebook again. This type he did not want to write a haphazard poem, he wanted to tear out ever single poem that he had written about her.

He soon realized that everything in it was about her. The love songs, poems, and letters, were all about her. All of which he never intended to give her. Though he always told himself he would.

Then he got to the last page where the poem he had written a few hours before was. He read it out loud to any passerby that could hear.

Then he realized that poem was not about just some women who caught his eye at the bar. It was about what he had been feeling for the past few months about her.

He then ripped out that last poem and crumpled it up and tossed it in the street.

And for the first time in three months he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

*****

As he walked up the steps of his front porch, the sun was rising. The same sun that he had seen step-by-step fade into the night hours before. He felt himself sobering up and capable of anything.

This was a far cry from the man he was just a day before.

He finally had the courage to do what had been on his mind for what seemed like months since she had left him.

He went through the house grabbing anything that reminded him of her, making sure that he snatched down that Polaroid on his cork board. But even as he ripped that photo down he got second thoughts. He saw those eyes, those perfect blue eyes that could even give a black and white photo color.

It was at that moment he realized she would never come back.

He ripped the photo down and put it in a garbage can only with all the other empty mementos he now had of her. He then lit a match dropped in the trash can and set fire to it all.

He then walked up to their bedroom. He could still never quite think of it as anything less. Even though there had been no one next to him on that bed for months. There was no one to wake up to, to kiss, or to admire.

He rummaged through his disorganized record collection and grabbed Days of Future Passed. He immediately put the needle right where Nights in White Satin started. Tears then began to stream down his face as he pulled up a chair. He then draped the rope over his neck and as the chorus began, he kicked out the chair and hung himself.

“…'Cos I love you, yes I love you, oh how I love you…”

His body faced the window by his desk that had helped him drift off before.

On that desk sat his computer with the document from the night before open, and the cursor flickering from white to black.

And as the flames overtook his body he had finally burned the last thing that reminded him of her.

I Can Do a Blog Too!

Saturday, July 2, 2011

I Wrote This In The Back Of Rachel's Car, While Everyone Was Talking About Weekend Plans

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Light My Fire (My First Fiction Story)

Monday, June 27, 2011

Toma Mi Mano

Fact: I Like Writing In Tents... and Vanilla Wafers.

I Wrote This In a Tent (This Has Nothing To Do With Tents)

Thursday, June 23, 2011

June

Friday, June 17, 2011

You Deserve The World