I’ve never felt this way before.
The sky lies to me. Blue. Gray. Empty by night. Colors come to mind again. Colors have been defining a lot for me lately. White. The clouds are truth. Yellow. The sun is truth. With their help I can see the world is still moving. I’m not stuck. The blacks and blues, they’ll come and go, despite how permanent I imagine them to be. Because the clouds will move whichever way they please. The sun will shine and shift then hide. I’ll feel the rain in Minnesota, the burn beneath my eyes in Arizona. And I’ll know things are changing. No matter how deep the blue in the sky, or how endless the black of night. We’re moving.
I have these moments I feel trapped by brilliance. Not my own. I’m not so conceded, so confidant rather, that my own brilliance has ever locked my hands within their own cuffs. I feel trapped by the brilliance that surrounds me. The passion beside me when the sun breaks, the talent lying disheveled on the floor when it’s been risen for hours. I feel sub-par. That doesn’t sound right. Though. Thinking. Maybe it’s not supposed to.
This is a confession.
I took a step in the desert. Dry, desolate and hot, each wandered gaze indistinguishable from the last. I made a moment. I said aloud exactly what’s been causing the bipolar weather patterns in my mind. In the passenger seat, protected only by a loosened seat belt and my own side view reflection, I admitted my weakness in this very venture to a person who already knew it. Who knew it and was advertently using it against me every chance he had. My confession was this: I was irreversibly out of my element.
Before I left New York, I didn’t think I needed a scene. Or wanted a scene. What I wanted was to be part of every scene. For at least a day, a month for some, a whole year for the ones I admired most. But always, no matter what the scene, I’d leave before I felt confined.
I runaway. It’s sort of my thing.
A scene so fabulous they even call themselves “the scene” surrounds me. ERS. But I’m also surrounded by love. And thus, my discomfort only comes in pieces, in moments. And in those moments I feel like I’m stranded on the side of a road, naked, with my thumb out like some traveling oaf in Nebraska - far from the van, farther from my element. Not to say that I’m searching for my element and that tour is symbolic in all those elaborate schemes of highways and dead-ends. I’m just realizing more about the concept of an element. That I don’t really have one. That I’m out of the one I wish I had. That I’m surrounded by people who are drenched in their own. Yet I love them. And believe in them.
They see my weakness. They rip it apart. But they never hold it against me. There’s always a spot on the floor of row four with my name on it and a tattoo with the weight of their eyes rolling in its ink. I’m a temp as they say, as I knew coming in and will know going out. And though the term has been used against me on the surface, they couldn’t have done a worse job of making it feel true on the inside. They’re family. And I have a soul for them.
I believe in more than one soul. That nothing has to share a place. That we have a handful of hearts. And when we say little lines about giving our whole heart, we can mean it.
I read Erica’s blog. Two blogs. One of which exemplified the soul of a kid who in every which way was in her element. And another, which showed me the soul of a lover. A lover who had at least one person they could say they loved so passionately, so platonically, they could write a novel based merely on a resting jaw-line.
It dawns on me that I have neither soul.
I wonder. I fear? If I’ll ever be able to identify my scene so naturally, or love someone so blatantly. Maybe one day. For now, I’m still young. The word young isn’t so relative when preceded by the word ‘still’ is it? I’m young. Back to relativity. And sometimes I think I think so much that I’m growing older just by thinking. Then I realize how naïve thousands of my thoughts are and I feel how young I really am. I’m learning.
For now.
I ride above four wheels, beside my six friends, letting my thoughts take a rest. Letting banter fill the air. Hoping that the gas runs out. Hoping I can feel this forever. Knowing that I can’t. Knowing at the very least, I’ll wake up with them tomorrow.
For now I have tomorrow.
Dear me,
These letters to the hypothetical are apparently expired, but you should know this: You think a lot. You define too much. You write well. You have friends. If you want it, you’ll get your element. And a life compared means shit. You’ll write this. Read it again and again. But it will take you time to actually believe it. Even longer to live it. Black and white. This is truth. Don’t runaway.
Perfect is not relative. Perfect is not ideal. Perfect is nothing and nothing is perfect. And the illusion of perfection kills.
Love,
TimmyEPIC.
Word Citations:
Blatantly (as a positive adverb) – pTerica
Oaf (as a silly word) – Stevie Cream
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
That's What You Get...
Vegas. Vegas. Vegas. It’s the sort of place that warrants being repeated three times. As if each pronunciation allows the reality of what you did sink into your mind a bit more.
I’ve had worse nights. And when I say worse, I say it in the context of inebriation. I’ve been drunker. Been caught in more embarrassment. Crossed more lines. Etc. But Vegas has a way of making everything you do or say seem even more outrageous. If you drink 20 beers, steal a street sign and pass out with your underwear in your mouth like you’ve been gagged on top of your grandmother's ’77 Cadillac, it still won’t be as shocking as the time you took shots of whiskey with Elvis Presley under the Eiffel Tower right before being kicked out of Caesar’s Palace and eventually woke up with your best friends pants on, holding a commemorative picture of yourself and Cher in front of the Statue of Liberty. In the end, Vegas supplies all the amenities to build yourself an unpredictable night, specific in neither geographical destination nor historical time-frame.
Rather than typing out my experience to you, I think I’ll stick by the old adage, ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’ But I will say this: The sun does inevitably rise in Vegas. Flava Flav is true to legend. Bars are not bedrooms. And I’m very grateful to have friends so dedicated to my search & rescue.
Vegas. It happens.
I’ve had worse nights. And when I say worse, I say it in the context of inebriation. I’ve been drunker. Been caught in more embarrassment. Crossed more lines. Etc. But Vegas has a way of making everything you do or say seem even more outrageous. If you drink 20 beers, steal a street sign and pass out with your underwear in your mouth like you’ve been gagged on top of your grandmother's ’77 Cadillac, it still won’t be as shocking as the time you took shots of whiskey with Elvis Presley under the Eiffel Tower right before being kicked out of Caesar’s Palace and eventually woke up with your best friends pants on, holding a commemorative picture of yourself and Cher in front of the Statue of Liberty. In the end, Vegas supplies all the amenities to build yourself an unpredictable night, specific in neither geographical destination nor historical time-frame.
Rather than typing out my experience to you, I think I’ll stick by the old adage, ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’ But I will say this: The sun does inevitably rise in Vegas. Flava Flav is true to legend. Bars are not bedrooms. And I’m very grateful to have friends so dedicated to my search & rescue.
Vegas. It happens.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Simple America
That's what I call it. Because for me, that's all I can honestly attribute to these repetitive corn fields, out-of-date automobiles and satisfied locals.
I wake up in the same peculiar position as usual: stuffed like a burrito between rows 3 and 4 of Ezra the red van, usually sweating, always amused. I have a selective yet telling view of the outside world, and as I filter-out the tinted effects, I make a warm prediction of the day's forecast. Without question, there's a Walmart within a few hundred yards, and before I lift my elbows against the floor, I take a wild guess at today's color. I used to think all Walmarts were blue. Such is not the case. I've come to learn that there is no true pattern to the color of a Walmart sign. Green, blue, yellow, beige. And who knows what I've yet to see. Maybe a hot pink Walmart is exactly what Roswell needs in order to attract more extraterrestrials. Anyway, in the confines of a van there's not much else to do before rows 3 and 4 decide they're ready to wake up. If I can't bust out a crossword puzzle or conquer a Japanese number game, I might as well challenge myself as far as Walmart color schemes are concerned.
…
Nate warms up his vocal chords and begins the day with a song. A rooster, if you will. Except instead of a simple do-re-mi, it's more of a 'good morning, good morning, wake the **** up' kind of song. Anthony's feet typically frighten Ricky when they collapse from the loft like a dismembered corpse. Stevie says something; anything. And Mike stays curled in his own bed, tightly squeezed between rows 2 and 3, his feet somewhere near Wisconsin.
I climb over whatever limbs I need to, sort of like hiking through a forest after a bad thunderstorm, and take one final leap onto pavement. In a stark comparison to the Midwest air, I’m reminded of the van’s unfavorable smell. Ignore it, I tell myself. Breakfast.
I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and head for the wide silver doors, automatic with a sometimes-more-than-slight delay. Betty welcomes me inside like a grandmother I never knew I had displaced in the middle of Kansas, yet no more surprised to see me than the next customer. I head for the fresh [free] produce section, grab the greenest apple I can find and successfully maintain that tour can be ‘healthy’.
…
I stare at morning’s damage in the bathroom mirror. It’s just a mirror, yet in this strange situation, there’s something far less personal about my reflection. As if the million faces before me left a smudge over my forehead or an exhaled breath below this mouth. I brush my teeth and shake my wrists until the motion sensor reacts more readily to my parched hands. I left New York with naked wrists and roundabout speculations. But now, as I scrub away the filth in my palms, I can’t help staring at the messages I have tied around my skin. Warped Tour Guest Pass, “EPIC” in a string of beads, and “WISCONSIN” on what looks like a worn-down lemon peal. Although I’m never proud of the dirt caught beneath my fingernails, I’m oddly content with this life of bare necessity.
As routinely as the parking lot, the Betty, the apple, or the mirror, I always meet one more person. Usually an older man, he asks the inevitable question: So you’re traveling cross-country, are ya? And like clockwork I say yes, waiting for their unique input on my situation. Thus far I’ve met a man who mountain-biked the route himself, and another who never understood why people like me exist (he smiled, nevertheless).
…
I see pastures, shades of green and gold that continue for miles on end. The ten year old in me sees tornados on a rampage that are worth being chased, while the twenty one year old I am can’t imagine being stuck here. I’m still moderately enthused when we pass a herd of cattle, and I have no fucking idea why except utter fascination (no pun intended). You see, everywhere we go we stand out. From the way we dress to the energy we possess in these less than exciting parts of the country, it’s clear we’re not locals. And although I stick out, I can’t help but see them as the attraction.
…
Oklahoma welcomes me.
Anthony just got excited over bathing cows and I feel like less of a loser.
I’m out here. Somewhere in Simple America.
I wake up in the same peculiar position as usual: stuffed like a burrito between rows 3 and 4 of Ezra the red van, usually sweating, always amused. I have a selective yet telling view of the outside world, and as I filter-out the tinted effects, I make a warm prediction of the day's forecast. Without question, there's a Walmart within a few hundred yards, and before I lift my elbows against the floor, I take a wild guess at today's color. I used to think all Walmarts were blue. Such is not the case. I've come to learn that there is no true pattern to the color of a Walmart sign. Green, blue, yellow, beige. And who knows what I've yet to see. Maybe a hot pink Walmart is exactly what Roswell needs in order to attract more extraterrestrials. Anyway, in the confines of a van there's not much else to do before rows 3 and 4 decide they're ready to wake up. If I can't bust out a crossword puzzle or conquer a Japanese number game, I might as well challenge myself as far as Walmart color schemes are concerned.
…
Nate warms up his vocal chords and begins the day with a song. A rooster, if you will. Except instead of a simple do-re-mi, it's more of a 'good morning, good morning, wake the **** up' kind of song. Anthony's feet typically frighten Ricky when they collapse from the loft like a dismembered corpse. Stevie says something; anything. And Mike stays curled in his own bed, tightly squeezed between rows 2 and 3, his feet somewhere near Wisconsin.
I climb over whatever limbs I need to, sort of like hiking through a forest after a bad thunderstorm, and take one final leap onto pavement. In a stark comparison to the Midwest air, I’m reminded of the van’s unfavorable smell. Ignore it, I tell myself. Breakfast.
I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and head for the wide silver doors, automatic with a sometimes-more-than-slight delay. Betty welcomes me inside like a grandmother I never knew I had displaced in the middle of Kansas, yet no more surprised to see me than the next customer. I head for the fresh [free] produce section, grab the greenest apple I can find and successfully maintain that tour can be ‘healthy’.
…
I stare at morning’s damage in the bathroom mirror. It’s just a mirror, yet in this strange situation, there’s something far less personal about my reflection. As if the million faces before me left a smudge over my forehead or an exhaled breath below this mouth. I brush my teeth and shake my wrists until the motion sensor reacts more readily to my parched hands. I left New York with naked wrists and roundabout speculations. But now, as I scrub away the filth in my palms, I can’t help staring at the messages I have tied around my skin. Warped Tour Guest Pass, “EPIC” in a string of beads, and “WISCONSIN” on what looks like a worn-down lemon peal. Although I’m never proud of the dirt caught beneath my fingernails, I’m oddly content with this life of bare necessity.
As routinely as the parking lot, the Betty, the apple, or the mirror, I always meet one more person. Usually an older man, he asks the inevitable question: So you’re traveling cross-country, are ya? And like clockwork I say yes, waiting for their unique input on my situation. Thus far I’ve met a man who mountain-biked the route himself, and another who never understood why people like me exist (he smiled, nevertheless).
…
I see pastures, shades of green and gold that continue for miles on end. The ten year old in me sees tornados on a rampage that are worth being chased, while the twenty one year old I am can’t imagine being stuck here. I’m still moderately enthused when we pass a herd of cattle, and I have no fucking idea why except utter fascination (no pun intended). You see, everywhere we go we stand out. From the way we dress to the energy we possess in these less than exciting parts of the country, it’s clear we’re not locals. And although I stick out, I can’t help but see them as the attraction.
…
Oklahoma welcomes me.
Anthony just got excited over bathing cows and I feel like less of a loser.
I’m out here. Somewhere in Simple America.
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