Damn.

Remember that guy from last week's post? The goofy guy who's getting married? Well, new information has surfaced that his marriage may have been arranged. Do you know what that means?


I am an asshole.


In other news, I read this book called "Love is a mixtape" by Rob Sheffield. It's totally badass if you're into music, or love. And if you're not into music or love:
GET THE FUCK OFF OF MY BLOG.

Anyway, he mentioned how this girl once told him that all boys are either Beatles boys or Stones boys. You can love them both, but only one of them is yours forever. It was appropriate for the era. For the record, between the two of these, I'm a Stones boy, but I'm not a huge fan of either, to be honest.

I just love it when people are so into music for such a long time that they get this "big picture" kind of unique viewpoint about certain things. One that I've observed is the following, I just haven't figured out a romantic way to say it like she did above. 


There are three bands. One of these bands you love. One of these bands you like. One of these bands you could do without. These bands are Stone Temple Pilots, Soundgarden and Pearl Jam. For me, they correspond to the categories in the order I put them, but it's different for everyone. I work with another guy who freaking loves Pearl Jam, but doesn't care for STP. 


I plan on sharing these various musical "Big Picture" ideas with you from time to time.

Poem time:
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Damn.


The damned mill around in slow
sad
circles
blowing smoke rings


here the brass plays constantly


you can walk by
their pit
and smell the gunsmoke
from pistols that
have long since
rusted away


The spurs don't jingle anymore
and there's no
barley and oak
to taste


The frontier is settled
and so they mill
carving circles in the ground
with their restlessness
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There you have it, post number six. (approach with trepidation) 

Character

There's this guy at work. He's a character. He's not native to this country, and that makes his behavior unpredictable and somewhat amusing. Mostly, he's annoying, but in a likable kind of way. Not exactly the most eligible bachelor in the office.


(that was weird, what are you getting at?)


Well, I run into people like that from time to time. People who I don't know very well, but are probably perfectly lovely human beings in their own right. Their public face is fairly uncharismatic, and you imagine that they're lonely. It's not a stretch. Then you find out that they're married.

(oh, I get it...)


This coworker of mine announced his engagement, and while I clapped and hollered like every one else there, there was a part of me that was thinking "What the hell?" I suppose its just cognitive dissonance speaking.


(Look it up: Ctrl +T, Wikipedia)


Generally, I believe that I'm a decent, lovable person who is capable of finding love and, in theory, getting married. Yet, it hasn't happened. So, of course, I start to wonder if there's something wrong with me. If this oblivious, obnoxious coworker of mine worked it out, then maybe I'm looking at things all skewed. Maybe I'm the oblivious, obnoxious one. I should just be able to be happy for this guy getting married, but instead I'm worrying about myself. 


You know what that makes me?


(misdirected? An overthinker? Insecure, perhaps?)


An asshole.




Here's an unrelated poem.
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Stone


Please God, make me a stone
Where I fall, let me lie
Untouched and alone
Wet my face under the rain
It carves its words in me
But I don't feel the pain
Hear no music in my ears
Leave me a shell
Without any fears
Build my body up into a wall
From my hiding place
I'll watch empires fall
Pound me down into sand
So I'll be a castle
Made by innocent hands
Winds take me wherever they please
And I'll live forever
Aloft on the breeze
Press me into a pane of glass
Through me to watch
Their lives as they pass
Melt me down under a flame
So I can meld with another
And find love again
Or, if you will, just make me a stone
Let me fall where I may
Untouched and alone
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There you have it, post number five. (approach with trepidation)

The Attic

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The Attic


My mind went wandering
while I slept one night,
and opened up a room
I had shut,
and shut for a reason.
Rummaged around in the things there.


I woke shaking, quite upset.
My dreams betraying the trespass
by my subconscious,
over which I have no hold,
but disturbing just the same.


So I went to that room,
set in my mind
to stop this from happening again.


The room smelled of her
and it set me shaking.
Boxes upset, spilling out
her poetry and photographs,
pictures and films of her.
Art meant for me, the sincerest of gifts.
And some not meant for me,
which I kept anyway, in my greed.


The place was every atom her,
as if some shrine carved from her bones.
But all too painful to behold now;
relics of a time gone by,
a person gone by, and gone.
And for all the good they'd done me
I wanted her gone.


So I set about destroying.
Burning the papers and photos,
bits of video tape, radio stations.
It took such will I didn't know I had
to save not one scrap.
To not lose myself in a lingering picture or word,
that by itself means nothing,
but because of her, meant the world.


So much time and tedious effort,
bleaching and painting,
scrubbing even her fingerprints from the stones.
And the last place her feet rested
before pulling them into bed,
and the place they landed again
in the morning.


At last I was satisfied,
the room sterile, white and serene.
So I left it unlocked
and thought to gather some new things
to place within.


When I had collected some
I returned
to put them away for later,
but the room still smelled of her,
and always will,
and it set me shaking.


So I'll never be rid of her.
No matter how I try to lock or bar
that wretched door,
no sooner have I begun to forget
then my mind will wander back there 
and leave me dreaming
of things better left behind.
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There you have it, post number four. (approach with trepidation)