Posts Tagged ‘marcus eder’

We All Died of Dysentery

February 5, 2017

rogue

So…I haven’t been here lately. And by lately, I mean it’s been more than a year. Truth be told, I forgot I even had a blog until today. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing.

For just under ten years, I’ve shared pretty much everything, unedited, unfiltered and sadly, in some cases, unfinished. I’ve enjoyed sharing the creative process with my writing, design and art, but somewhere along the line I decided it would be best to work quietly without a live studio audience.

I’ve been working on two books for a number of years, much of which I’ve shared along the way, but I recently put them aside to pursue a different story. I’ll return to them eventually, but right now I’m working on something new. It’s a work of fiction and a love letter to my generation. My recent exodus from social media has given me a new found focus, allowing me to dive head first into this piece, and I’m pretty electrified by what’s coming out. I don’t intend to share it until it’s finished, but since I’m here, I might as well at least leave something behind. This little snippet may not even make it into the final draft, but it was certainly the jumping off point for everything that’s come since. So here’s the prologue, and nothing else. I’d hate to spoil the story or any surprises that might come along the way.

Enjoy.

mtchmid

We All Died of Dysentery

Do you remember where you were when the Berlin Wall came down? What about 9/11? Are you old enough to remember, or did you grow up in its shadow? Where were you when you found out Kurt Cobain was dead? Do you even know who that is? Did you have an old black and white TV in your basement, growing up?

I did.

I grew up with a rotary dial phone tethered to a wall. I had a dial-up modem and before that, lived in a world where we could only connect four. (Pretty sneaky, sis.)

I lived through vinyl, cassettes and compact discs, and rented movies from an actual store on Friday nights. To quote the memes, streetlights were my curfew and trophies were earned.

I remember a time when, if you didn’t watch a show when it aired, you may never see it again, unless it found its way to syndication, a word that barely had relevance prior to cable TV.

I remember that, too. A time when the broadcast day ended. Snow was more than just a season’s mark, and there was a brief, dark moment when the world was completely quiet—when we could all collectively breathe.

Once upon a time, we could sleep without all the chatter, but now sleep is little more than a mode on our laptop. Our world—so immersed, so immediate, so apparent. Living, breathing, pulsating snapshots of a past we cannot ignore. Our present is so lost in posture and presentation while the future is merely the next unwritten meme. Moments of solace found in assumption, until our world comes back around again. We can try to hide—try to pull the covers up over our head, but we talk in our sleep; the chatter is always there, always on. Our world—so accessible, so obvious, so inadvertently tragic.

For as convenient as the world has become, life is anything but simple. Those days are behind us, and there’s too much momentum to stop. Our modern times have become accidental satire, and I’m too old too be anything more than annoyed by it all. Somewhere along the line, the rest of the world sped up and left me behind. Eventually, we’ll all become anachronisms if we’re lucky. Do I sound jaded? Just wait.

My name is Tucker Flynn, and I’m getting old.

And it really kind of sucks.

pen

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Fondly: Catch and Release

June 17, 2014

fndlygrphc

 

 

 

It was the same every summer.

From our first to our last.

It didn’t matter where we were. It didn’t matter who was watching or what lengths she had to go through to do it.

It wasn’t officially summer until she did it.

I remember one in particular. It wasn’t at the beginning, nor close to the end. It was nestled somewhere in the middle, when things could go either way.

Before they went this way.

We sat on the back porch of our home.

It wasn’t the first summer evening we sat out there, drinking good beer and scratching our dog.

Then she saw one.

And then another.

Suddenly our yard was an all-natural, eco-friendly dance club.

There were lightning bugs everywhere—some call them fireflies, but we never did.

I watched her jump out of her chair, and run down to the yard, barefoot and in her PJ’s. She lunged, and then paused. She waited and watched for them to show themselves for that split second.

And then she caught one.

I watched from the porch as she whispered something into her hands, occasionally illuminated through her fingers by the nervous blink of a captive audience.

And then she let it go, watched it fly away and came back to the porch.

As she sat down, she told me, “I named him Herbie. Summer can begin.”

She took a drink, and I looked at her.

This was the part of her I fell in love with.

Sadly, it was just one of many pieces, and we had become very different puzzles.

I still catch a lightning bug every year, whisper a name and let it go.

Sometimes, that’s all you can do with something so wonderful.

 

newestrings

Fondly: It Must Be Love

May 4, 2014

fndlygrphc

 

Madness. It had all fallen into complete madness. A freefall.

 

I had jumped. I needed to for the both of us.

 

It wasn’t always so bad—our life together didn’t begin with such bitter resignation.

 

We used to enjoy one another’s company.

newestrings

We spent our honeymoon in London, or more to wit, inside various pubs of London. Drinking was one thing we still had in common, if little else.

 

It was our last night before returning to reality. We spent it in our favorite local, just down the road from our hotel. We had gotten to know the regulars and bartenders, by face, if not name, through repetition and an open invitation to converse with anyone willing to talk.

hrvys

I bet the wife I could get the bar to serenade her, without asking. The prize, one pound coin.

 

And eternal respect for my charm.

 

I finished my pint, walked to the jukebox and selected the proper song, before making my way  to the bar for a refill.

 

I selected It Must Be Love by Madness. I’m fairly certain everyone in England knows this song.

 

As the song began, I noticed the regulars tapping their fingers, and bobbing their heads, gently to the intro. I began to sing along quietly, just loud enough for the people next to me to hear.

 

When the chorus came around, a burly, bearded old Brit with a cane and a can of snuff stood up and wailed out the chorus with everything he had. His eyes were closed, his face red, his pint was swinging along, spilling onto his had and the floor. That was enough to bring the rest of the bar in for the next chorus.

 

I walked over to the wife and took her hand. She smiled and blushed, a growing rarity as the calendars turned. I lead her to the center of the bar with the drunk, singing patrons all around her. I winked, and rejoined the chorus.

 

I still have that pound coin.

 

What I felt once upon a time; It must be love.

 

Madness.

newestrings2

Fondly: When I Was Your Age…

April 1, 2014

fndlygrphc

 

“When I was your age…”

 

When you’re dating someone 13 years younger, this is the moment your relationship changes.

 

It strikes a nerve—in both of you.

 

Suddenly, one of you feels young, while the other, extremely old.

 

It reminds you both that your love isn’t wildly accepted by the outside world, and maybe, the inside one as well.

 

It doesn’t change how you feel about her, merely the situation.

 

newestrings

Why couldn’t we have both been born in the same generation? Why did Grunge happen when she was four, while I was rebelling in college?

 

Why didn’t our nostalgia match?

 

Our passions were the same, and every bit as intense.

 

But she was still searching for something I had found.

 

When I was her age…sigh…I was every bit as passionate as I am now…and every bit as lost.

newestrings2

 

Fondly: Closer than Cheek-to-Cheek, and Slower than a Grind

March 9, 2014

fndlygrphc

The kitchen was dark, save for the fluorescent bulb, flickering above the sink.

I don’t know why we were even in the kitchen, and I couldn’t tell you if there was any music playing.

 pollbk

I can’t dance.

I’ve never been any good at any variation of it. My sister tried to teach me, during my awkward junior high years, and that was enough to know I was born to be a wallflower.

But we danced, regardless.

Close.

Closer than cheek-to-cheek, and slower than a grind.

Her warm breath hit my ear, my neck. I could do nothing but close my eyes and breathe her in.

I had never been more in love, nor as afraid in all my life.

And I sure as hell wasn’t ready for the song to end, whether it was ever playing or not.

 newestrings

Fondly: Fumbling in the Dark

November 7, 2013

fndlygrphc

It was dark before he even got home.

 

He, of course, forgot to leave a light on. This meant fumbling in the dark, something he should be used to by now in every sense of the phrase.

 

He didn’t do anything for the first thirty seconds through the doorway. He just stood quietly; his dog jumping in place in the mixed euphoria of his best friend’s return and dinner.

 

He took a deep breath, placed a calm hand on the dog’s head, and sighed before heading to the kitchen.

 newestrings

As the dog inhaled his dinner, he mixed a drink. Carefully—deliberately.

 

Solemnly.

 

The kitchen window had already transformed into a mirror, giving him a darkened, slightly obscured reflection.

 

He looked more disheveled than normal.

 

Usually, it was a part of his charm, but now he just look defeated.

 

Deflated and beaten down.

 

It wasn’t any one thing. It was every little thing. One thing after another, in every part of his life; raindrops collecting in a bucket that was just about full.

 pollbk

He didn’t bother taking off his coat, merely loosening his tie as he walked back to the living room, his dog trailing at his feet.

 

When he flipped the switch to turn on the lamp, he was met with a flash and a pop, followed by darkness. That was his last light bulb.

 

When it rains it pours.

 

He took a drink and sat down, as his dog curled up beside him, head in lap.

 

Left to fumble in the dark until sunrise.

mtchmid

Tangle of Lights: When Words Fail…Art pt. 2

September 26, 2013

len_art

Far too often, my work has ideas of its own; no matter how well I plan out a project or try to envision it as a finished piece, even before I begin, I know it will go where it must.

Me? I merely go with it.

It’s like steering a runaway horse that you know won’t stop until it wants to.

You hold on tight, and hope to god you don’t get lost.

It’s a very stark contrast to my creative process for advertising. That is a system all its own, with calculations in both strategy and risks. It has a budget, and far more accountability on a fairly immediate level.

But deadlines are for the mad.

This most recent one has taken me into a dead forest full of petrified skulls hiding in the mud, if you look close enough.
clsup1
Sometimes I vomit my emotions publicly through words, through music and performance.

Other times, I merely exorcise or, more to wit, recognize my demons.
newroot2
I’ve reached the stopping point for piece number two in my series, it’s ready to be ignored for a spell, so I can return to it with a little separation.

So it’s on to the next process, the next piece of the series, and in the most obvious of clichés, the next piece of the puzzle.

nxt

I haven’t any idea just how far deep this rabbit hole goes.

But.

I’m okay with such things.

Hell, I jump in head first, regardless of how I might land.

theroot2d

Tangle of Lights: When Words Fail…Art

September 24, 2013

len_art

I don’t always get to pick what I work on. Sometimes, I merely must.

Sometimes, I want more than anything to do just one thing.

But I do something else—entirely.

It’s not a misdirected obsession, merely an opportunity to follow my inner muse wherever it may lead.

Sure, today I wanted to work on an essay about the importance of writing by hand. The scientific background attached to a higher plain of thought resulting from a journal.

I’ve been researching it for months.

But my words are hard to come by these days, save for the occasional misread poem or random short chapter.

I wouldn’t call it writer’s block, so much as a motivational lull.

Words are so much easier to misread than art.

Art is open.

It was meant to be misunderstood, made personal in message, kept individual by the souls that witness it.

When words fail, the simplest truth is found in a more direct emotional response.

I started a new piece tonight, a new process to fall into and be swept away by. The second in a series focused on the roots of human emotion.

More specifically, mine own.

This has been the primary subject of my therapy recently, both in a licensed professional’s office, and in my own head and heart as I create songs, words and art.

But words have failed me as of late.

I am fortunate to have so many outlets—so many options to express myself.

Through eloquence, through a messy rage, through melancholy, I can look deeply into my own dark soul and search.

My mind is mine. My mind is mined.

My mind is always on public display, to help avoid confusion of character.

Why look to the words of others, when it’s already there, waiting for you to see?

So until I find the words, the process continues, as do I.

theroot2(click it to see it much larger)

But this is merely the beginning.

smoke

Tangle of Lights: the Process, Part 2

September 20, 2013

len_art

The process. There’s a process for nearly everything in life. From grieving to growing, everything is some sort of process.

But the process of creating, this is different.

For me, it’s deliberate. Like a long, slow fuck.

This is nowhere near completion, I like taking my time, devoted to every inch of the canvas. We’re about 50 hours into this one, now…

bloggrphc-Recovered-Recovered

I’m not one to finish too prematurely.

theroot

Tangle of Christmas Lights: The Process…

September 18, 2013

len_art

 

The process.

 

I love it.

 

It is, in essence the art, more so than the final product.

 

The process is what gives the masses their pretty picture; their art.

 

The process is what I treasure most as an artist.

 

The fear of finishing, not because it isn’t done…

 

Because I’m not.

 

len

 

I’ve been working on a piece for a good 20-30 hours now…starting with individual pieces that will ultimately barely be noticed, if at all, save for the moments when a drug-addled college kid stumbles across my work and stares too hard…which is just hard enough for why I did it in the first place.

 

It has to start somewhere…

art1

 

and from there it went. I continued adding things, moments, faces, torments, stress, baggage of sorts…Symbols of a man’s mind when he can’t find the silence.

 

evolutionaryscream

(click the image to see a larger variation)

Where it goes from here, I do not know just yet. The process is far from over.

Just wait and see…

Fondly: From the mourning

August 22, 2013

fndlygrphc

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

 

She whispered it over and over again in my ear, neither of us letting go.

 

Neither of us able.

 

It was the dead of winter, the point that beats down the last of us standing, driving us inward—driving us down. It was overcast inside as much as out, as nothing but gray crept into the bungalow through the curtains. The cab idled out front, its lights on, the trunk already open.

 

She had spent her last night with me, not him.

 

That meant a lot. Or at least it meant something.

 

We held tighter, as she continued whispering the same phrase, over and over.

 

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

 

So many times I started to believe it.

 

So many times I wanted, more than anything, for her to stay.

 

But she had to go, and I was the one who convinced her as much.

 

So I closed my eyes and listened to her mantra, feeling her warm breath in my ear, each word a kiss, each word, mounting proof that ours’ was a tragic tale, more so than a divine comedy, unless it was one of errors.

 

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

 

newestrings

 

Suicide Jones: Only the Dying Fear Death

July 18, 2013

sj

1.

I remember shortly before my grandfather passed away, he began focusing on his own mortality. He knew his time left on earth was short.

Consequently, this limited time remaining amongst the living became his only focus in every conversation we had. Death was all he thought about.

Death was all he talked about. It was as if he were being chased, and even though he knew he couldn’t last much longer, he kept running.

He was a stubborn son of a bitch—and a real downer at holiday gatherings.

“I don’t have much time left in this world, Finnegan,” he’d always say to me, with tired defeat in his eyes.  “And let me tell you, dying is a pain in the ass.”

I hated hearing his doomsday soliloquies, and did my best to change the subject every time he brought it up. It was usually a futile effort that left me wishing I hadn’t quit smoking so many years ago.

I always felt like he was dwelling on the wrong things; that he should have been getting as much out of our time together as possible. All he could do, however, was point out the fact that this would probably be the last (insert any family oriented holiday rotating around ham or turkey here) we would spend together.

It was like breaking bread with the grim reaper.

But now, I guess I have to ask myself, am I afraid to die?

I did it once already.

pen

Fondly: Corners

April 22, 2013

fndlygrphc

All that was left was to pace the floor chasing old shadows, waiting to find her things in every nook. Her hair bands and bobby pins, pieces of fabric and sequin from her costumes ripped off and left in a pile on the floor, all waiting around every corner.

They used to make me smile and think of her fondly. Even though she was five hours away, these things used to make her feel close.

Now, they were the ghosts of Christmas past, left to haunt my soul for god knows how long. Every space she once inhabited still somehow held a piece of her.

I wanted to curse the heavens, and punch a wall.

Songs I could never listen to again, warm moments made cold.

All that was left was to pace and think, and hope. To hope she remembered the love. The love I gave. A love she would never feel again. Not from the next guy, the guy after that, or anyone else.

Not like that.

Even if it wasn’t enough, it was something.

I wasn’t ready to jump in front of a bus, but were a bus to jump out at me, well, I was indifferent to the idea.

So I paced.

Eventually, rather than fearing what was hiding around all those corners I was going to have to figure out how to turn one.

But not today.

mtchmid

Fondly: Stem

April 16, 2013

fndlygrphc

I felt like such a fool.

Wandering around, alone and helpless, desperately trying to save, or at the very least salvage what was, by this point, little more than a stem.

It was a rose when I bought it.

I was flustered, I was frustrated and I was hurt. But mostly, I was lost in a city that would never be mine, searching for a girl that was just the same.

Cold, confusing, and utterly charming…

…and probably, ultimately, unattainable.

Though the same could be said of me, most of the time.

hye

It wasn’t that she couldn’t wait, or couldn’t help me find my way…It was that she didn’t seem to care if I did or not.

I knew she was distracted. I knew how she got before performing. My rational side was quietly telling me not to read into anything. Not to look for a hidden meaning or sign.

But those blinking lights always screamed quite the opposite.

And hers were blinking, too, maybe even brighter.

So we fought. By way of overtly concise cell phone conversation(s) ending with us taking turns hanging up on one another, and increasingly sardonic texts. It wasn’t the first argument, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

At least I hoped not.

I hated it. I knew what was happening, and could only watch from the back of my head, as things spiraled further out of control. Every time one of us responded, it only escalated more. She was nervous, and I was scared. Our lights were blinking out of sync.

I knew this would affect her, her performance, her mood. It was affecting me, too, and I hated it.

Worst of all, it would have an affect on what little time we had together before I had to make my long, lonely, midnight drive back home, probably still unsure which one of us was the asshole.

The truth neither of us could see, is that we were both the asshole; we were both being selfish.

I just wished I could hit some magic reset button.

I felt so lost, so helpless, as I relied on the kindness of strangers, a rare trait in this city.

I started having a panic attack as I desperately made my way to her.

I was helpless to my location, my emotions, and situation at large.

You would think I’d be used to being so lost by now. That, is, after all, how I’ve spent the majority of my life.

mtchmid

I arrived just in time to see her for a moment, before she vanished backstage to wait for her turn to perform.

Our eyes met through the loud, crowded lobby as I stood there, holding nothing but a stem.

It was a rose when I bought it.

She looked down at the stem, then back into my eyes.

She smiled and squeezed my hand. Once. Twice. Three times. It was our secret, private way of saying, “I love you.”

Perhaps this is why I loved her so much—I didn’t feel lost when I was with her.

I felt like I knew where I was, and more importantly, why, if only for that brief moment we were together.

I handed her the stem and squeezed her hand.

One, two, three, four.

It was a rose when I bought it.

rings

Fondly: Brick

April 14, 2013

fndlygrphc

Lately he had been feeling like an outlaw on the run, though he was only fleeing from himself. Seeking refuge in the dark, wishing for the light, he carried on by struggle and force, a natural instinct that left him exhausted most of the time.

He didn’t feel like this because he wanted to, or had to, merely because it’s all he knew these days. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, just hard to understand…And lately it was a far more regular one. It was becoming the new normal, this season’s new black.

 

Sometimes he wished he could just shut down completely—hibernate like a bear and wake up when it was warm again.

He wasn’t a coward, he wasn’t afraid to try, effort is all he had most of his life, even when it fell unbearably short time and time again.

mtchmid

Every struggle was a brick.

 

Every time a friend told him to keep his chin up, another brick.

 

The closed doors, empty hallways—more bricks, building a wall so high his view of the sun was blocked. A wall so great he couldn’t see the top, and didn’t know which side he was even standing on.

If he could just make sense of it all perhaps he could break down the wall, but even he didn’t understand why he had to feel like this. He couldn’t Googlemap his soul. All he could do was wake up tired, disappointed by the fact he woke up at all, waiting for the night to return so he could attempt to sleep once more.

All he could do was force a smile for the world around him, so nobody gave him another brick.

newestrings

Fondly: Tracks

April 11, 2013

fndlygrphc

He saw it coming, like a train off in the distance, lumbering, rumbling, roaring toward him, smoke billowing, as moans and screams rose up like an echo.

But he dared not step off the tracks. He dared not look too long nor dwell upon the earth as it began to move ever so slightly beneath him. Instead, he turned around and stared off in the other direction, at the open tracks, the blue skies, the silver clouds hanging like half-dead helium balloons up ahead.

He stared miles off in the distance, and did his best to keep his balance, as he walked.

Looking back only reminded him of what was coming. Knowing he was about to be struck down would only make it hurt longer—hurt more.

And stepping off the tracks was out of the question, for without them, he knew not where he was headed.

He only hoped there wasn’t another train, just around the bend.

tw

Tangle of Lights: Perspective.

April 9, 2013

rs

Perspective.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but not in the capacity gained through time and space—more a literal approach to the exploration.

This isn’t a dear diary, self-help post, after all.

This is art, dammit.

The idea of perspective has interested me for a fairly long while.

It’s been a consideration in both my visual art and my novel, Fondly.

 newestrings

I originally began writing Fondly in third-person, with a non-linear timeline. It became hard to follow and even more difficult to write.

It became hard to believe in.

So, after a lot of consideration I went back through what I had written, kept the timeline but switched to a first-person narrative. This is all fine and good, and the voice works well, even in a jumbled time frame.

Now I sit at another crossroads, as I consider the notion of putting both narratives in, but all from one singular voice. This is a design to better push the slow mental breaks within the main character, and I think it could create a very interesting way to tell a story.

My concern is the readability of it. The flow.

Though framed as small vignettes that elude to other periods of time and the propulsion of a plot, I don’t want to lose the reader by switching too much.

But.

If I do it correctly, there are a lot of ways I could take this style of narrative to push the story arc, and add to the symbolism and complexity underneath.

mtchmid

I’m also working on a fairly large-scale piece for an upcoming gallery show at the end of the summer. I don’t usually  have enough time to put a decent amount of thought into submitted work, or to actually work on it. There are enough deadlines in my life, both at work and at play.

But.

This time, I have time.

I have time to really think deeply about what I want to say, and just as important in the visual arts, how I want to say it.

Writing is an entirely different kind of execution with far more immediate results.

Think it.

Write it down.

Rinse and repeat.

It’s not quite the same thought process, or energy extolled as creating something visual.

Honestly, I love them both, and perhaps it’s the variety in my process that keeps me spinning in so many different directions most of the time.

But.

I digress.

 pen

This time around, I actually have time to think about the piece. Really think about it, from multiple directions.

Tonight, I’ve been working on the approach and execution, not the imagery itself.

I had a thought. Okay, it’s more a stolen idea.

But.

I stole it from myself, so I can sleep at night…or at least stay up with a clear conscience.

A few years back, or maybe just one, it’s hard to keep track, I conceived a campaign direction for a re-brand for a client that was having some mild identity issues.

Most people hadn’t heard of them, and those that had, hated them.

Once we convinced the client to make some large adjustments to some underlying problems, it was our challenge to get people to give them another try.

Of the ideas, I was most excited by one of mine called “Shift Your Perspective.”

It was designed to utilize a variety of media executions, all revolving around a “different perspective” illustrated through various optical illusions, negative space, building installments, anamorphous perspective and many, many other executions. I was inspired by all the great street art, which I often think is more appealing than just about any billboard I’ve ever seen…

This would not only help reinforce a change in the client and the consumer’s current opinion but would be an engaging, impactful approach, grabbing the consumer’s attention, forcing them to pause and spend more time with every billboard, print ad, television commercial, guerilla/environmental installation, etc.

If you can’t change someone’s mind, shift their perspective and let them change it on their own.

This could have been the type of campaign that would have made me known throughout my industry, if executed correctly, or…you know, if executed at all.

I spent a lot of time researching some interesting eye-benders and how they worked, and feared I would never get to use all this new information.

We presented a variety of directions. They went with the safe option. They always do. All of them. The client literally told me it was too intelligent of an approach for their demographic. I tried to explain that I was trying to get them a better demographic.

 madman

Short story long, I’m taking one of the outdoor print executions and using it for good, rather than the cruel mistress that is the fickle client.

I know what I want the basic idea of the image to be, and a fair idea of how to create it. The message is there and it’s just ambiguous enough to make you draw your own conclusions. I even have the general idea of how it should work, in theory.

But.

It’s the construction and ultimate final execution that must be figured out first.

Now I must rely on science or something.

My plan is to create a large-scale lenticular, to hopefully tell a full story, but only once you’ve seen it from both angles.

So I made a miniature mock-up. I’ve been known to do that from time to time.

I didn’t spend a lot of time on the images themselves, I just threw something together through the miracle of selfies and photoshop for example’s sake.

I started with two images.

len

Then I cut them up and rearranged them.

len1

After that, I printed it out and corrugated it.

Here’s a shaky, lo-fi example of my shaky, lo-fi mock-up…just imagine this being about 5-10 feet wide or so…for starters.

The real question is, where can I push it from here?

newestrings2

In both cases, I’m utilizing the literal idea of perspective to push the more metaphysical meaning of the word out to the viewing audience, but without screaming it at the top of my lungs. Nobody wants to be told what to do.

But.

If they’re not careful, they just might accidentally get a fresh perspective from my work.

ashtry

Fondly: Shift, settle, creak, pop and moan…

April 6, 2013

fndlygrphc

There was no avoiding it. I had to do it sooner or later.

Besides, it was a full day and I was tired.

I had slept alone plenty in my life, but I had never slept alone in my own place.

 

I had never had my own place period.

 

Laying down in what was to be my bedroom going forward felt like some sort of metaphorical final nail in the coffin housing my former self. My former life, now a strange montage of memory left waiting to become fond.

I was scared.

I missed my dog.

This was it. Here I was. Unfamiliar walls that would become common, just as my new life would become merely my life.

I crawled into bed and tried not to hear the strange creaks and ominous noises emanate from the darkened bungalow just outside my open door. These were all new phantom noises I could not yet explain. I knew every shift, settle, creak, pop and moan that came from the home I left. Time gave me that.

A bright beam of light from an alley street lamp cut through my back window, hitting my face. I could see the light, even with my eyes closed.

I rolled over and wondered if she was sleeping in the middle of the bed yet. I wasn’t. I didn’t know how.

The light was still attacking me, even with my back turned.

I wondered what side of the bed she slept on, or if it would ever even matter.

It didn’t matter where or how anybody else slept. This was my room, my bed, my home. I had to learn how to sleep for myself.

“Mental note,” I thought, “Buy some curtains.”

newestrings

Fondly: Rinse and repeat.

March 14, 2013

fndlygrphc

We sat on the top step of the back porch. Summer was putting its foot in the door and forcing its way in like a pushy bible salesman. I was only a day and a half into my binge, but had already settled comfortably into a semi-permanent numbness.

I don’t think it was the alcohol that had put me there.

We listened to one song…over and over, propelling us further down into our heads.
Deeper into our bottle.

We kept playing it. First on the porch, then in the kitchen, over to the living room and finally the bedroom.

The words fit all too well, and came at just the right time.

So did she.

Fondly: Strangers

March 12, 2013

fndlygrphc

All I could do was sit and think.

The problem is, I really couldn’t. I tried, but I was far too lost to come to any conclusions. I didn’t want her. I knew that. There was too much sitting behind us. Too many moments overshadowed anything else. Everything else.

So why did I do it? Why did I even care?

Who she is, who she’s with, how she lives…None if it pertained to me, and that was my decision. A decision I made years before this. And I was fine with it most of the time.

Except those other times.

I sat quietly, my dog at my side. Tired, comfortable.

Love has layers. Levels.

I was starting to fear that I however, did not.

I wondered if my pup even knew what state I was in.

Defeated. Deflated.

It was a punch in the gut to sit and realize that no woman I’ve ever been with would ever have me back.

I suppose in the end that was fair.

My words somehow fell short. They were sharp, and always seemed to stab someone whether that was my intention or not. My mind was barbed, my heart was bruised, my soul was broken.

I kept thinking in circles, unfinished thoughts digressing into unwarranted scenarios, spinning into a deep dark hole I had little energy to try and crawl out of. The fear of making the wrong choices in life. The fear of throwing away everything for an unknown future with no plan, no endgame, no strategy.

If my life was an ad campaign, nobody was buying, and the client would have fired me.

I saw her. Her choices. I saw her life in an instant. I saw him put his arm around her back in a comfortable, familiar way.

The way we never could.

I still went home and bent a nobody-in-particular over my dining room table, but I was thinking about her.

She, however, wasn’t thinking about me.

And that was what bothered me the most.

And that’s why I could do nothing but sit and think, while some stranger slept in my bed.

And I wasn’t talking about Miss nobody-in-particular.

I woke up with a more familiar stranger every morning.