This one’s for you, #362

Home sick today with some sort of food-poisoning mumbo-jumbo....Scared to keep reading?

Quickly tired of everything TV, I began exploring the very depths of the internets... which led me far past Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, and all things YouTube until I stumbled onto my blog, Negative, Ghostwriter. My cold, lonely, neglected blog...

It has been 362 days since my last post. A sin, I’m sure, in the blogosphere. 

A few days ago, a friend mentioned that he followed my blog religiously for 3 months last year, until he finally gave up because I was "too damn lazy" and stopped writing. Hmm... lazy... not a word I like to associate with. Whether too lazy or too busy, the fact is I have neglected my blog and my dear friend, who hangs on my every word (smiles).

Even in my food-poisoned stupor, I can tell that this ghostwriter needs a writing outlet yet again. This is my comeback. A post in less than 362 days will be deemed a victory.

Chaos Spurt

My energy comes in these exaggerated spurts of chaos, where I run around crossing things off my to-do list like a crazed task monster.  Today I suffered from one such day-long, task monster spasm. 

You see, I keep a small red notebook with me at all times, should an attack happen without notice.  It's only slightly larger than a post-it note pad, and has a hard cover and clasp.  When a to-do list craze strikes, I spend painful minutes thinking of anything under the sun that may need to be done.  I could wash my car.  Or organize a brunch with friends.  I should really email my mom.  My eternal dialogue spills onto the page in the form of two or three word phrases until I am satisfied with the length of my list.  

More so than creating the lists, in these moods I become addicted to crossing things off my list.  At my low points (disregarding the entire scenario as a low point), I will write mundane tasks on my list, for the pure enjoyment of crossing them out, split seconds after it is written.  Empty spam fol--DONE.  An instant, undeniable rush. 

As any crazed task monster knows, one can't cross out their conquered tasks with a mere ballpoint pen.  It must be a permanent marker—the thick, black line sends a warning to those damned tasks left lining my little notebook.  Dare to cross me, and you TOO will be crossed-out...

As I stumble out of my chaos spasm and back to reality, I look at my mutilated to-do list—permanent marker scars etched in fits of passionate organization—with a touch of embarrassment.  Though beyond my flushed cheeks, I also feel the irrefutable sense of accomplishment that only my little notebook, Sharpie, and psychosis can lend.

Run fast for your mother.

Hot, So Hot

Seats fill, eyes on the TV

and the miniskirt across the room

barkeep gazes out a window, tapping

a finger with every smoky drag--

fascinating red air.

I pull long on my drink

neon bounces from the laminate counter

while knuckles crack and locals drone.

I rattle my glass and

watch around and around and

around the room.

The man at my left

stands snug to the counter

a white tank yellowed, arm holes

droop to his waist--red sauce

dripping between bristles of his

handled mustache.

He catches my stare

as his stubby tongue

clears liquid fire from two fat lips

my stomach churns

round and round and

round.

I sit up straight

as a woman

bestows a basket of

steaming flesh and bones.

Burning air lingers in my airways

mouth wet, salivating

without a single taste.

I grasp the first wing

snuggly between two trembling hands.

Fire sinks into my skin

as I hold it to my lips--

seduced as I gnaw deep

into the flesh.

Love Q And

In college, I would spend most of my time “studying” for classes like “science” and “math” by doodling in spiral notebooks.  Rather than pictures, I would doodle with words.  I would write whatever came to mind, often not conscious of the words I was putting on the page.  The connection was practiced and  smooth—a steady, reliable stream of consciousness.   

The product of one such self-guided exercise—save for my failing grade in “math”—was a page of love questions. 

No, really. 

Certainly sparked by a song lyric, I spouted all of the quesitons I had of love, innocently exploring what love meant to me.  I say innocently, because up until that point in my life, I hadn't given the idea of love much thought. 

I was a wildly unattached college student who scoffed at the dating game.  My philosophy: dating was a job interview for marriage.  If you weren’t ready to get married, then why bother with the job interview?  I saw dating as a way to get hurt.  All relationships, in theory, would end except for one… and that one was unlikely Mr. Frat-tard who kicked my chair in Anthropology class daily to tell me that he forgot his pen, would need to borrow mine, and would only give it back if I came over to his beer drenched frat-tard-cave to help him study. <cough><cough> <ASSWIPE> <cough>

I bring this up because today is Valentine’s Day.  A day for love, for lovers, for love haters, and for love needers.  I thought I’d share those questions I had about love, over a half a decade ago.  As I re-read my mental doodles, I realize I continue to have many of the same thoughts.  Without editing the orginal, or explaining what I was thinking at the time (because I can’t even be sure), here you go: 

Do you believe in love… the creation of an unceasing bond?  Do you believe you can care for someone deeply and completely, forever?  Can someone love you for just as long?  Will I recognize it when it happens--after a few empty words and shaped cynicism?  Are acts worth loving, or does the act only matter if it is acted by a person worth loving?  How long can a person go without love?  How far can a person travel with love under their wing?  How has love created me and shaped my world view?  Are there any aspects of my life that have gone untouched by love?  Where will love find me?  If I am too busy, will love wait for me to slow down?  Is love a destination, or a grand tour?  How many days can you love in a row?  Is love quantitative?  Is love qualitative?  Does love see through walls, or rather, around corners?  How many pieces of like do you need to make a love?  Is love constructed with Elmer’s glue and colored paper?  If love can heal, can it injure?  If it can cure, can it infect?  Who is telling me that all I need is love?  Should I listen?  Will love knock or ring the doorbell?  Or just come on in, like an old friend?  Is love an old friend?  Will I feel comfortable with love, like a girlfriend and a cup of coffee?  Does love inspire?  Or, does the absence or imperfections of love inspire?   Is God’s love like my love?  Am I able to love that flawlessly?  Can love be flawed?  Is it ever one person’s fault, or is flawed love dependent on all involved?  Why is there only one word for love?  With so many levels, divisions, varieties of love… how can we accurately explain how we feel with one, all-encompassing word?  Is love worth examining?  Has its charm been lost?  Have I analyzed too far, leaving nothing to wonder, no mystery?  Or is love’s mystery unceasing, by definition? 

Easy does it.

It's not that I dislike writing...

But I do dislike knowing that when you read this, you will judge me. You won’t judge me for my fashion sense, like when you saw me walking down the street in my, I'm not sure I'm an appropriate age to be wearing this, outfit. You won’t judge me for my taste in literature, like that time you glanced at my bookshelf at a dinner party, spotting Etiquette for Dummies resting against 3 desperate editions of Chicken Soup for the Soul. When you read what I write, you will judge the complete me—everything that falls between my wardrobe and my book collection. That is the stuff I give weight to—the important stuff.  Though, the more weight I give, the harder the judgment falls.

That is what I dislike about writing.

As I stand at the potential onset of a vague writing career (crossing fingers, holding breath, spinning in circles trying not to jinx myself), I realize that I will inevitably have to let go. People will judge. Screw them… simple enough, right? Not at all. In fact, I’m creating this blog to ease my way into the public eye, so eventually the screw them mentality will fall into place.  I’m not rushing it though; I don’t expect to become a weathered, calloused, unfeeling writer overnight.  Those things take time.     

Easy does it, ghostwriter.