Friday, August 21, 2015
Fuck it all. I'm moving the family back to Oklahoma. I found a place on Zillow out in the middle of nowhere with a pool. It's a trailer but it's got a fuckin' pool! And a detached little shed type structure I could use for a studio. It's 20 miles from the nearest town which has a Dairy Queen, an Allsup's, and a tiny United Supermarket. I looked it all up on Google Earth. I don't need any of it anymore. I've eaten enough sushi, I've drunk enough good wine and beer. I've had plenty of interesting conversations. The hell with it all. Music, plays, museums, parties, art openings, I don't need any of that shit anymore. Just give me a Bud and that $5 Buck Lunch. Can I get the Crispy Chicken Sandwich with that? No matter where I go, no matter what I do, it's all just nonsense anymore. You can't escape that sickly brain up there, floating around in your skull. I've been all over this crumbling world. I've seen all sorts of shit. I've hung out with Michael Jackson, I almost got murdered once on the side of a road in Venezuela. And then there's the time I wandered into a room at a party in some mansion in Miami Beach and found myself among characters not even David Lynch could cast. They were standing in a circle with cocktails and wine in their hands, looking down at two enormous, muscle-bound, beautiful black men who were fucking each other, mercilessly. You see, I used to think experiences like this were beneficial. I thought they added layers to my story, to my scope of understanding. But now it all just gets in the way. There's just been too much. I had a meeting last night with a successful writer/producer/filmmaker. The meeting went well. It was just a preliminary, feeling each other out sort of thing. But as usual, most of my attention was focused on the pile of dead bugs at the bottom of the light fixture above us. It's one of the few things in life I've always found comforting. No matter where you go, there's always gonna be piles of dead bugs in light fixtures, upon window sills and panes. I would be in casting rooms or on sets, desperately not wanting to be there. But without fail, I could always look up towards the light and see that beautiful, dark mass of collected death, perhaps even some futile fluttering. It was something, something meaningful in my senseless world. GO BERNIE!
IN RESPONSE TO BEING TAGGED ABOUT PSYCHOLOGISTS RECOMMENDING COLORING AS THE BEST ALTERNATIVE TO MEDITATION
I'm not sure when life's poison became my medicine, my only savior. The side affect is that beauty often becomes nothing more than Evil's dangling fruit, the true path to sorrow. I've always longed to be murdered by my sweet old mother. Why not crush your soul completely? I want to make sure I'm fully pulverized before I go on to the next level. I want to dissolve into it easily, instantly, completely, so that there's absolutely nothing left.
Those are always the ones. The one's who get flipped around in the pan like a fucking flapjack. Me, you know, I was voted biggest "airhead" in high school. And I WAS. You wouldn't believe the amount of stupid shit I did just because I wasn't thinking. And sometimes you DO actually hurt people. I tried to please everyone, to make everyone happy. That was my ailment. There is simply no greater disaster in the waiting than that. I didn't posses the ability to think ahead, to realize people operated quite differently than I did. And I haven't gotten that much better at it; I've just learned to be more careful, to be extremely cautious when it comes to the consequences of dealing with people. My greatest desire in the past was to cultivate deep, lasting friendships. It meant everything to me. Not any more. I still love people just the same but I want very little to do with their lives and vice versa. I think this is why I love Facebook so much. I know it sounds crazy but it's true. It must be an entirely different experience for me than most people. I would much rather interact with people on here than in person, to have to look into each other's eyes, at their faces. I get stuck on their nose hairs, on their strings of spit, on their clogged pours like little strawberry seeds. It feels disrespectful, unholy. I find it no less repulsive than if we had to turn around, bend over, reach back, and spread our ass cheeks in order to communicate. And that goes for private messaging on here too. I DO NOT LIKE IT! Anyway, yes, those are the ones, the people I adore. The ones who've at least once, felt that big, flat spatula slip beneath them and flip them up in the air. Tragedy and loss, betrayal, these are the most important events in our lives. I know we're all different, of course, that it takes all kinds, but it's extremely difficult for me to comprehend the existence of anyone in their late 20s, 30s, or 40s who hasn't gone through horrendous bouts of suicidal depression. I had the strangest, most beautifully shaped piece of wood engraved in my first show. It was maybe 4 feet tall, rising up like a staff or a spear. It said, "Wisdom is the byproduct of adventure." It sat alongside a large rock I touched up to look like a kind, wise old Buddhistic looking man. I even gave him barely visible little hairs on his chin and on top of his head. I spent hours, maticulously gluing them on, one by one. I don't think anyone even noticed.
Friday, August 7, 2015
THE NIGHT I WENT OVER TO THE GREAT ARTIST'S HOUSE WITH THE OTHER GREAT ARTIST TO WATCH THE REPUBLICAN DEBATES
Well, what happened was, I went over to the great artist's house to watch the Republican debates. I went over there with the other great artist. There was a ton of people there which I didn't expect. You should've seen this place! He truly is a great artist. His art is brutal and impeccable, it faces death and futility head on just like I like, and he has built the most beautiful life and home around it with a calm confidence I know I will never achieve. My favorite piece was this headless little pig on its side by the door. You couldn't figure out which end was what. I laughed out loud when I saw it. I hadn't had much to drink. I ate a little. Then we watched the debates which were hilarious. But then I felt myself getting sick. I tried hard to keep it down, to ignore it. Beads of sweat kept running down my face and back. Finally, I slipped out and walked down the hill and climbed the tall fence guarding the unfinished bridge and I carefully walked across the roaring creek along a steel beam, hoping not to slip and fall and die, bleeding upon the rocks. I made it and began my long walk home through the darkness from the edge of town. I fought it off for a little while but then I surrendered. The puke shot out of me, splattering at my feet. I started walking again, but it kept coming. I puked maybe a dozen or so times. I think what had happened was that I realized nothing would ever save me from my self. The great artist possessed nothing useful for my debilitating condition. His art, his life, as amazing as it was, would be completely wasted on me. It was a terrible truth to swallow, to keep down. What the fuck have I done? I've turned my back on everything to follow this ghost, this hunch. I've put my kid's well being at risk. And now I knew even if I were to accomplish the things I wanted to accomplish, it would do me no good. There was no cure to be had. I would still wake up every morning just as I have now, frightened, weak, dumbfounded, exhausted, plagued with a brain so sickened with sadness that I doubt even the rats nor the worms would dare take a bite. GO BERNIE!
Thursday, August 6, 2015
I sort of got briefly interviewed yesterday at work by a lady who remembered me from my modeling days, who used to hire me for some of my best, easiest fit work, and who's now the editor of one of those worthless parenting magazines nobody reads: "So you were living in the city, and then you and your wife moved up here when you got pregnant with your first child." "Yeah. But Sarah Bram had a broken leg too. She got run over by a car just before our wedding." "God. That's terrible! Poor thing." "Oh, it was fine. It made the wedding, her hobbling down the isle on crutches. We lived in a 5th floor apartment with stairs inside. There was just no way to do it. I kept getting flashes in my mind of her burning up in flames because she couldn't get out, my little unborn child boiling to death in her belly." "JESUS!… Um, okay, so you used to commute into the city but now you just work here. How do you like it? I mean, do you miss the city, the traveling?" "I don't know. I don't care what I do anymore or where I live as long as I'm able to write and make art." "So you're able to do all of that now from here?" "Fuck no, not at all. I can't do anything. I'm completely fucked. I have a new studio over in Newburgh and I've only been there twice in the past couple of months. I have commissions that I haven't been able to pull off. All I've got time to do is go on Facebook and make a total ass of myself and get in trouble. It's like death by a thousand cuts." "What's that?" "That's how the Chinese used to torture and kill people. They would tie you up to a stake and slice off little pieces of you over time." "Ewe… So your wife and kids are up in Canada right now. You must miss 'em." "Of course I do." "You think you guys will have any more?" "Absolutely not! No one should be bringing children into this world anymore. I will never forgive myself for having my two boys. What a terrible thing to do to somebody." "You really believe that?" "Absolutely. It's a pathetic, selfish act, having kids. But, you know, then I guess, what the hell else are you going to do? I just don't know how anyone does anything anymore. Like you work for this magazine about parenting… I mean, what's the point? I know everyone needs to make a living but… I don't know. I love my kids dearly, I love them TOO much! It's crippling. And that's what I mean. They're too good for this world, for what we've done to this world. All children are. And then what happens to them? They just become us, these flickering souls, staggering around through the fog of this horrible, horrible world we've created. It's atrocious… Hey, do you want another glass of wine? It's on me?"
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Friday, July 17, 2015
Frank awoke at 3:00 A.M.. He only looked at the clock to verify what he already knew. It was always 3:00 A.M., exactly 3:00 A.M.. He reached down and felt his cock. He thought about masturbating but didn't. The light coming in through the window allowed him to see a few things: the dresser, the door which was slightly ajar, his towel hanging from the top, the heap of the blanket which had wound up at his feet. He thought about his two little girls, 9 and 6, who were sleeping at their mother's, the filthy fucking whore. He smiled, thinking about their sweet little eyes, closed, sleeping, dreaming. What were they dreaming about? He hoped it was something good. He hated them having to exist in this ever worsening world. Maybe he would one day get rich on his writing and be able to protect them somehow? Does that even happen anymore? No, it doesn't. And even if it did, it wouldn't be enough. Nothing would be, not anymore. He heard a car drive down the street. He thought about masturbating again. He reached down and felt his cock. It was sad and limp, cold and clammy. He played with it a bit and gave up. He then felt his balls. They were uncomfortably tight. It's so true, he thought, the state of a man's cock and balls is always in direct correlation with his mind, with his spirit. Just then, an image flashed through his mind: An elephant tumbling down a cliff. It was the saddest, most grotesque thing he had ever seen in his life. The elephant kept falling, contorting through the air. Frank winced as he fell back to sleep.