babe, this is addressed to you

Sit down, I want to talk to you.  I Hit a wall, again...yea, but I had you in my thoughts, you can bet—but that's neither here nor there.  It's everything all at once, sure, but that's just to round out the playing fieild.  I'm not sure what that means, either, but that's so you get the idea.  It'll be vintage, drawn out, and once we're through with it—spontaneous, and fueled by a desperate unknowingness and purpose, like a big chunk of space filled with atoms, molecules, and what else?  Stuff.  Yea, and with other stuff.  These posts occurr seldom now, and as such are unfortunate, the circumstances they carry; yet in between, there's a genuine spirit in these spaces that will remind me...you get what I'm saying right?  They remind me of good things.  But I'm sure you noticed, the walls are cleaner now that I don't get drunk and cuss you out.   But nevermind that, we're not here to speak of progress.  In fact, when I asked if we could speak, I knew I was going to ramble, and with it would be the strung-out insight, and in it this way it would come—the syntax, I expect to be a heavier holder to handle.  I thought I'd speak of my general craziness for you; and I put it manner of factly, to present some of its edges with some clarity.  Again, I suspect, or can only hope the language I toss you can hold on to; just put some water on the insanity and point out some occupying irregularities, imbedded in there, almost as so timeless, quiet, and heavy.  Again, my best efforts may only be reaching tonight, but I tried to convey the atmosphere of it dwelling in there, for some time, in there some where, my craziness for you, yadda yadda yadda.  At this point, I'd like to take a moment and acknowledge that we are at this point in the language, where we will continue with our path.  We have the water hose, it's bent in the syntax, but we have a grasp on the mess, an understanding as to how to contain it.  I guess this is where I speak...right?  The hose, it shouldn't cause much in the way of exerted effort—I mean, we took it out for a purpose right, to water those plants, and now we can manage it—

I didn't want to ramble anymore.  If you'll notice my sentences relaxed.  Just another day at the job—for them, it's all a matter of following along the lines.  Simple momentum and structure in the lines, and the words make the sentences.  Guess I'm still rambling.   I grasped this reality for a moment, of everything, of my conditions.  It got me dejected and angry, this wrinkle in time he can't give it no credit,  but mainly disconcerted—how can I be so hapless over irrational thoughts, when I I know they are irrational?  I agree with the logic of it—I have no rebuttals or any inclination to state towards the opposite—so why then am I prone to some quick underlying bitterness?  Surely it will point to a defect in me—you look, and I tell you you will find it—but why does the negative stuffthinkingness arise automatically?  You'd think getting to a root cause would bolster the mind to not feel like a victim and to take the rationale out of that ugly sensation—you know, so it's exposed as the chaotic element it is— but what it boils down to, I can't think about you for too long because I'll have to brush up—well, we'll definitely make eye contact, it's such an immediate space, no way we won't—i'll brush up on thinking of you living your life.  And we both know that's one of those intangible concepts to me, like space or our talks, it's always there, not necessarily brutal because it's weightless.  Look, you're there, and I'm here, right?  You're taking notes, you got your notepad, and we're examing what I have here.  So I can only speak from my end.  Jesus, how long is this thing?  This is an intangible concept thing, initself, so many words, but it's all weightless. They're not heavy, they're too preoccupied.  So what am I saying?  Okay, something concrete, so I can wish you happiness, but I won't really mean it, not because I don't want you to be happy, but because it's too risky.   I wouldn't know what to do; it's more natural to hold on to pieces of your life, nurture it as my body gets weak and skinny, then one day I can show it to you.  Look, I've kept it for you—I'm frail now, gaunt and yellow—like a madman would say to a girl he's courting, only I know it's mad, but it's dull, listless, and heavy.  I always wanted to apologize for calling you damaged goods,  I feel like I was the damaged goods.  I see it more clearly now, but I was so active in trying to break your spirit.  What's so damaged about you if you're a strong person?  I was always out there, the first in line, with shoes on, ready to clock in and break your spirit.  But still you're a strong woman, and I didn't like your choices because you got pleasure out of it and it drove me crazy, so I had to call you damaged.  I didn't like your free thinking one bit, cause that means you want to have sex!  My blog used to be pink, I had called it, "To one, Loved" and it was all the nasty poems and rants about you.  I was frequently hallucinating from too many ambien around that time, vodka and ambien, I don't know why, it was always unpleasant, and I remember I would be too fucked up to be sharp and hatefilled, so I would have characters that somehow permeated the page as I would make a post.  Mable was one of the three. Are you still there?  Good, it's better than asking you.  This is really long.  I was struggling with material latetly, just stagnant, and I guess I decided I rather not be angry and miserable just to stay sober.  I didn't even try to see my part in the anger, because even with logic and reasoning—I know you like that sort of stuff—the logic soundand reasoning?  heck yes there was, but people still sucked.  So that's where I'm at now.  And by my logic and threshold for emotional pain, things should start coming steadily again after I get rested.  I don't honestly buy any of my excuses though.  Try to figure out how to be more proactive, again; try to remind mysel I'm not special, and try to accept not being special, even with this kickass blog.  Try not to think about you—that's what I meant by damaged goods.  I've transgressed in my thoughts towards you, I messed up my brain.  I didn't know how to deal with it, until I realized I was a genius and just accepted it.  Of course, by that time, the patterns were embedded in my brain I think, and there wasn't much reason to seek out of it other than thinking it was a tactic my brain deployed against thoughts I couldn't handle.  It's not really a first date topic.  I don't know if you know, or figured it out, or what that makes me, in your eyes, or if everything is beyond repair.  But each time I get some sobriety together—I keep hitting a wall at a month, my...woman who lives in this same world as me—real feelings come back, fear, resentments, the results of my actions, and it's easier to revert to my self-deprecating mechanism, my brain can take pleasure from it and take everything from me and I won't really care;  I'm more equipped to accept that sickness and indulge it rather than to deal with any reality of your life.   I know, but I don't know; last thing I need is new material.  Besides, you know I wouldn't approve.  Then I wouldn't approve, but I would have more material for my magic box.  I've spent so many years thinking about you when you were young, I'm closer to a child towards you then as someone...well, I'll just say it—as a lover.  We were lovers, you see.  Are you blushing cause you're in front of others?  Do you think I sound like Hannibal Lector, too?  So all that time berating you—not my woman!  I'd say—and I turned into more of a kid.  But don't you think about that, because it makes me insecure to be less of a man—and this topic is bothering me because I start thinking of you as a woman...and that scares me, cause I'm so behind!   And there you must be, taking the morning train, and you have that whole exciting life, and here I am, jerking off.  So to top it off—I'm still not done drinking today, and the reason I bring that up, I figured I'd win like a nobel prize or a championship belt if I stayed sober and worked on my blog, but that didn't keep me sober, essentially I guess because I wanted to jerk off so I've been thinking if I was even staying sober for myself?  I thought maybe when I go up there, I could ask them to make a couple beltbuckle podiums around the stage, and before I make my speech, I could climb the ropes on both sides and raisse the belt.  I can bring my own, probably find it on ebay, I always wanted one of those foam wwf belts as a kid, there's not much you can do with it but wear it around, and then maybe they can make me a real one for the ceremony.  I should remember to be gracious during my speech and not take jabs at people who have ignored me.  But I'll wait the till end to decide who not to invite to the party; I could be in a good mood at the last minute, then I could walk out to the line and say okay you can come in.  I'll probably just manage the line all night, I mean, they're not paying me, but it's okay I don't need money to decide who I don't want coming in.  It might seem weird or crazy for me to still be on terms of endearment with you here—like babe, but how could I not? — but the real crazy stuff is the other thoughts. With the former, I can still remind my head there's a human being there that I can't see. 

 I'm not going to proof read this.  This isn't like the last relapse piece.  That one was really something. And the post was cool too.

I keep the last few posts up because i was struggling, and people can see and say, "oh look, you can tell he was really struggling that one week.  He tried.  Look at all those people he doesn't like, and them, saying those displeasing things to him" 

- What, where?  Where is that you said?

- Oh, it's over here.

- He be talking about somebody bothering him?

- Yea, it comes across right off the page, in a way only words do.  He's a natural.

-  Oh, I didn't catch that when I checked—

- Hey.

- Visted—visted his blog this morning.  I was running late for work.

- Sounds like you could only check.

- Yea, but I'll do my regular evening follow through.  Make sure I didn't gloss over anything—I know he doesn't like people not listening.

- Yea, he's got that fiery dichotomy in him.  He'll talk, and you listen.  But you better not speak—

- Cause he's not listening—

- Unless it's about him.

- Exactly.  

- And that gives him his edge.  He's got such a fresh sound.

- Cause all he hears are the sounds.

- Right.  He's so vibrant, I think he's always working with what's around him, trying to pick up on the sounds that suit him.  

-  Yea, he's a natural at picking up compliments.

- He's got that X-factor, you know?  

- Oh yea.

- But he doesn't need a tight shirt and tie.  

- Oh, definitely, definitely.

- Why would he wear it if his body's got a conspiracy against him?

- He's not going to stand there looking like a chump, while some other chump got lucky and looks good in it.

- And you know what?  I bet it hurts his feelings.

- Oh you don't want to hurt his feelings.

- He's not afraid to tell the truth, he'll just call it as he sees it—just walking by—and it'll be an observation.  I don't know about you, but me, personally, I can't do it if I'm not sitting down.

- Oh, I need a table.  Yep, you're right—The man was bothering him.

- Yea, it's right there.

- This is beautiful, we're hovering over his page—

- Like it's some World War Two pamphlet we discovered in the cold.

- And he'll just tell you, "This shit sucks.  War is gay.  But your wife might have sex if you die."   I'm almost embarrassed to admit I missed it.

- Don't be; he complains a lot.  It's a challenge trying to keep up.

- Oh man, someone should do something.

- To him?  Like arrest him?

- No, not to him.  They should hoist him over their shoulders and carry him some distance, then put him down.

- Yea, not arrest him.

- No, not arrest him.  That other low life—he's a villain.  You can smell it off him.

- Yea, I think he said he smells.

- Hey, you really do your follow-up in the evenings?

- Follow through.

- Yea, it's hard to follow up.

- I say the evenings, but I usually find some time to skip out on work, and get to it by 4.

- Yea, I'm the same way.  I usually find a little hole in the corner, or make a hole in the wall and squeeze in there with my cell phone, it makes me feel like I'm watching porn.  

- Yea, get you some feverishness for the day.

- Yea, but the boss thinks I'm a rabbit. though.

- Oh, he's got to.  He sees all those holes in the wall—it's not like you're patching them up. 

- Why, it's not like I'm masturbating in there.

- Yea...yea, but he's wonderful, though.

- Him, not my boss.  He called me a rabbit.  And one time I'm sure he said—

- Yea, I'd love to meet him...and not shake his hand.

- Yea, I'd love to meet him and not shake his hand, too.

- I can't believe it's Thursday.  It was just Monday.

- Are you sure you weren't jacking off?

- That's a good one.

So basically I was painting a relapse, which is usually the case, but for authenticity it could be important in identifying trouble spots, responding stronger; but alas, I've failed to do more than identify them.  And the way I just threw that in there, alas, it was so natural I could say, "Seven.  What'cha know about Seven?" and it gives me the courage to incorporate the word into my verbal speak.  The first time is going to be special.  If I get my timing right, my eyes will light up.  So instead of fun creative pieces—to put up the good fight—we end at this avenue again.