The curse of the OverKnow… And where have i been?
I was supposed to be in bed an hour ago… Ironic that its a Saturday night and i will chastise myself for being awake past 10:30… But tomorrow is a nice bike ride around Onieda Lake for the American Diabetes Association. (That was the bike set up for last year… when i got lost, whoops!) Its also ironic that i am both- too busy to write about whats on my mind, but too bored to be able to let it go, as well.
Im suffering from what i call OverKnow, and its because of these godforsaken computers. Ill tell you, its always ASSumed that im the technology proponent, advocate, and evangelist… Largely because that *IS* my job all week. Im the Holy-Roller-of-Tech in the office, and with wild eyes and bewildering enthusiasm, i try to move people in to the future. And yet… All things equal and constant, i would return my profression to the days of hand drawing and phone calls, and would abandon the hypertechnology all tomorrow. But i digress: I like communication. Im starved for it, and i miss having people close to me that i can and want to talk to alot. But, it comes with a price: Suddenly you get to know everything about the people you DONT want to know anything about. Thats not all bad, but its gotten me thinking about all the people in my life that have come and gone. The 9 months i was on Long island were a dark part of my life… But ill tell you, they were a QUIET part too. No cell phone, no internet, no FaceBook, no IM.
Throughout the years ive struggled with faith, and fate, and random chance, and predestination. Ultimately ive comforted myself with the knowledge that there is no knowledge, and that it doesnt matter if or what i believe, as hard as that is. Having said that, there is ONE chapter in my life, we all agree i need to leave behind. It left me behind long ago, but a recent discussion i had with Mike startled me: Following my recent rude awakening, he told me he hoped this was the wake up call ive needed since 2004, because hes just watched me spiral more and more since that time. This was ironic for two reasons: When the car was destroyed, i went to get my belongings. 
There was a CD from 2004 sitting on the floor, and i picked it up. Then i realized what Mike said, and decided to leave it in the car. I should bury the past there. Well folks… I shit you not: The Salvage Yard mailed it back to me. “Thanks, we’ll keep your car… And mail back the ghosts from your closet…” Predestination aside, what the hell do i do with THAT? I laughed about it, and put it back in the CD player. Then today, came more information OverKnow: someone actually sent me recent pictures of someone from the past, and i was mindblown. Truth be told im not upset, i wanted to see them. But man, it makes you stop and wonder all over again… What the fuck keeps going wrong in my life?
Ive been able to take my old walks again, which gives me at least 30 minutes of respite to think every day. I walk under these overpasses and i absolutely love them. So many things about them are great, as ugly as they are. I love them even more when its pouring out. But anyway… Ive had time to think. I have to say, all perception aside, i just dont believe im that difficult to be around. I think im obnoxious, and i think i can be a handful, but im honestly coming to terms with the fact that i only do it as some people expect it. The people ive been happiest around, ive been the least… Crazy, too. But, it gets me to thinking about my disposition. Ive done my time self evaluating, and i know where the problems are with me, and i know where they are with you (lol). But starved-for-attention be damned, im too stupid to stop from getting wrapped up when i shouldnt. And then, im reminded of why that bothers me. Its nowhere near a favorite (i hate it), but its fitting… And i dont have time to write these days. :( Circa March, 2008.
“Three Dropped Passes”
Tell me that you do not mind, when the monologue is short,
And tell me when I say it wrong, that you wont discount rapport
Promise me, when grace aside, and you I accidentally slight
That you wont run, you wont succumb, that we wont have to have a fight
For I’m not always elegant, my mouth sometimes an open gate,
And sometimes though I stop myself, I stop myself a second late
And then I found I’ve hurt someone, my lovers and of course my friends
And though I fight like hell for that, I just cant seem to make amends
And though there’s beauty in the raging, passion in the wildfires,
Those that praise the fire starters, rarely stay for what transpires
Through the heat and in the smoke, and with the blinding orange sear
Though they light it, then they leave it (so im left, alone in here)
The hardest part of hurting many, is the way it’s never dealt,
On purpose, as I write this, there is hurting, that alone I felt
As I sent the words mistaken, never meaning to deliver
Such a blow that knots in stomachs, such a fate to make lips quiver
Catalyzing tears such plenty, reigning down on all emotion,
Lost control, naïve in knowing, history will bring commotion
With a heart that feels too much, a mind learned always to defend it,
(Am I to engage your lives, and kill us, so we cannot mend it?)
Times too many, times not talking, times not worth the searing pain,
And though I know the fault lies in me, in me lays the same refrain,
Wondering, so accidental, what skill is born of words and phrases,
Who would grant such weaponry? (to me of all, the thought amazes)
Then I wonder who will listen, when I preach my sorries ’round,
Who can listen time again, when time sees me again unbound
As the hurting look in anger, some in fear, all in regret?
When their not hurt by what was said, but by the fact… That we had met.
Through the Nights….
Through the weather with the Windows down. And so it was written, in the summer of 2003. Ive been largely unable to write lately, or unwilling, as the case may be. In a very unMalleristic fashion, ive been able to shelve most of whats in my head, and throw myself in to work. I spent this afternoon digging up “Boys,” reflecting on the way we all lean on each other. Primarily, because i feel responsible for everyone around me. Ironically, i was going to post it here, but i friggin hate it. Oddly enough, i dont tend to enjoy anything Written before 06. A lot changed that year, and arguably ive been a much bigger mess SINCE then, but more its about the rhythm and enjambment for me. Mr writing was much simpler pre 06 and i dont like it, not that i love my new stuff. Maybe its just that i cant connect to it anymore? Maybe while my Mental state has waxed and waned, so has my penchant for specific styles. Who knows, certainly not me. Which brought me to Pushed to Shove.
Pushed to shove when options lacked, i was faced with honest living:
Talkers mute, as trains were tracked, as no words were ever giving
Methods to a life survived, means to ends- for talk is sparing
Words despondent, not revived, as spoken rarely meant in caring-
So the road, driven before, angst- in pain, as new- when younger
And how we tried to close that door, food for better, driven hunger.
That we sang, as hearts would bleed, disregard for any diction-
through the weather, through our need, yearning to believe conviction
Passed the three, as times evolved, the way the circle then expanded
Every time when i resolved: no falter, then how i demanded:
As acts-out were escalating, towing lines i disrespected,
More of you, left in berating me, to stop as you directed
Follow through, on my own word as i promised new discourse
And the way white lie was heard: i spoke it, but i had remorse
That i meant, perchance to try, spoke in honest want, desire
Still with that, extent to lie: i couldnt have put out the fire
That stop i could (can): if desired, as im since- out of control
But know i wont (cant), fired Conscience, (circumstances toll)
And frustration, heads are shaking, all my closest, then resigned
To miss the fallout, me mistaking: that for leaving me behind.
So commendable, you all, some to stop, to stand beside:
One who wanted a phone call, to reign on me, when i would ride
Many telling, lose the child, be in age as i should, growing
As they watched as i went wild, all-together were all knowing:
I wont stop, but better choices, i would make if i believed-
That the words i hear in voices, didnt devastate, conceived:
In dismissal, in indifference… seeking worth, but not preserving-
Health, for when i need persistence, not believing in deserving
So reflecting, on a Writing, where we stood as we moved on,
Im deflecting, as im fighting, knowing that the power’s gone
That then i wrote my “lets tonight,” that you replied “lets go,”
But you know i gave up that fight, that you have to say no.
So i stand with Roads and Words, the solace in the gap between:
That no ones near, for these “be heards,” in safety, so i will not lean:
On them, instead, upon my antics, as they play upon repeat-
And wonder as the second hand ticks, how long until they defeat?
Instincts bred upon survival, willing me to cross the lines-
Emotion craving, here revival, knowing that this mess defines
Disaster then- as ive been named, (that its not true, i do insist)
But believe (if its as youve claimed), that over distance, youre all missed.
Yet here as i am pushed to shove, know that i never turned on you-
Not on one, for all i love- and this is just the follow through-
That breaks my heart as i survive, but i meant every word declared-
To all of you, to not contrive, i hope you know, i really cared.
Ive been trying to carry a lot for the last few months. Ive reconnected with a lot of great people in my life, mostly through difficult circumstance though, and ive been doing what i can to try helping. I feel responsible for those around me, which i cannot really explain. Where i struggle is that im not always responsible for myself, and ive gotten very out of control. I dont like admitting that, especially in the light of the fact that i have zero intention of changing. It turns out i give great “pep talks,” even if im tempted to speak my mind in Subway’s. Turns out i give great coping advice too, i just dont follow it, LOL. No, i never “wrote my time down either”) But im handling my business as i should (and doing the best i ever have), but id be lying if i said i wasnt a hot dangerous mess the rest of the time. I wrote Boys about my friends who always stood beside, and how i love them for it. The circle has grown over the years… And i owe more of you much more than i have any right to owe. Ive shown some of you some pretty scary stuff. I couldnt, cant, and will never blame you for needing to be distant. No one wants to be in the blast radius when the fuse lights. Pushed isnt about my being alone, its about loving that you all were there, and i appreciate it.
That said, ive had to change my ways… So ive been avoiding a lot of people. In this regard, ive been called a liar, a bad friend, dishonest, and childish. I can change no perception as there will be no change; i suppose the difference is intent: Mine is none of anger, ill will, or distaste. Its the intent of wanting whats good for everyone, and me being around isnt whats good for everyone. For me, being an Adult hasnt been about getting my emotions under control: I know that may never happen. But im learning to know when to pull myself out of a toxic situation. I still love all the people ive lost over the years of my own volition (i just know they have to be clear of my bullshit too). I hope they at least understand that. I may never have been in control, but i too- was always honest.
Spring is here. And it looks like a summer of mayhem. 
Song of the moment: Steve Jablonsky- My Name is Lincoln (Thanks Rob!)
Motivationless (so immersed)
There is- perhaps- a fine line, between what i would call myself, and a workaholic. As i mentioned in Three Thirty, i love what i do for a living… But i love doing it to support the life i want to live, and not living for my job. Right now, it appears that option isnt present for my choosing, and so i fight and work heard for the life i want to ONE day lead, although its not here at the moment.
Thats hard for me. I liken it to cooking a 5 course meal, when no one is coming over for dinner. I could do it, sure… But why all that hassle just to feed myself? I can just as easily cook a quick entree, and call it on account of simplicity. Ive been working hard at home, getting things together for the (long term) outlook on my career. Filling out licensure paperwork (be proud, thats hard for me LOL), submitting timesheets, working on getting my pipe dream napkin sketch designs in to models, simply for showmanships sake… Still, like that five course meal, i find it amusing because im doing it all for the little dream and the simple life that only i seem to want to lead.
But its there- The neo-craftsman style house with the big garage sitting on the ranch property, the *getaway* cabin perched on some lake or some faraway land… With an old-about-to-be-retired cruiser for putting around the strange land when ive ran away to my getaway home. Sundays. Spent entirely working at home mowing grass, cooking brunch, to be eaten on the sleeper porch, and to spend the day with a family… Maybe one day. Today though, im fairly inspirationless. For thats not a dream that happens by ones self.
I cant write about work. Its just not emotional for me. I take my projects very personally, because i invest fully in everything i do. But even THAT passion isnt… Emotional. So i feel a bit emotionally deactivated. I wrote Motivationless on July 5, 2008. Seven weeks had passed since i had been able to write ANYTHING, and i felt void. I went to my favorite bar, and sat there wanting to write something… to feel something. It ended poorly, to say the least. This isnt even what i wrote, as after two verses i crumpled that one in to my pant pocket, and resolved to just enjoy the night out. This followed the morning after, on the subject of wanting to but not feeling anything worth writing about. Its not all bad, as im being productive during this time… I suppose im just waiting for something to come light that fire again.
Plastic keys, the hands that rapped them, as the words were always writing,
Stand full height, as hands stand idle, disconnect where mind is fighting;
Wanting words and craving rhythm, discontent in newfound silence,
Apathy, no captivation, towards the writing: sending violence.
Seven weeks and one day passed, since my hands and keys have spoken,
Since i payed my visit last, the road to writing, has been broken.
Many flights, where idle sat, staring at a screen in waiting;
Thinking then, and knowing that, what to write i was debating.
Lacking inspiration knowing, all the things that light my fires,
Smiles, laughter, racing, chasing, all the things in my desires.
Missing from, the metronome, that here ive found im stuck while beating;
Knowing as i sit at home, that i alone, the one defeating:
What is missing, whats dismissing, what i dont find here surrounding,
Is perplexing, as im hissing, that the problem, im compounding-
For i know, the dream tomorrow, and the detours i should drive,
As i dont, but sit in sorrow, (wonder why im not alive),
And so i left those keys behind, returning to a pen and bottle,
And pen did send some words (unkind), before i got out of the throttle,
Giving in, to folds and creases, discarding in to attire,
Folds (in folding), short term leases, wondering: did i retire?
Not from writing, but from living, as i used to thrive for chasing;
Storytelling, in the giving, and the way im now misplacing;
Dreams for bitterness, im finding, as the former gave the latter,
Space to board, and to be binding, and the way it doesnt matter
As i look and find the reasons, once i found to give a story;
But in bitterness, these seasons, seem to sell a different story-
Foresight to an end, distracting, though ive never been before-
One to take hand back (retracting, before ive even, opened door)
Found one smile; one: ambitious; and another: taller than;
Made a goal, of broken horses; and with all that would think i can-
Find the way where once before, i would carry “not be stopped,”
Knowing that win, lose or rain, balls to throw would not be dropped.
But played in overtime as always, chasing after what life sold-
Still maybe as vision is haze, i wonder now, if im too old?
Not in age but in the bitter, maybe as we lose the youth?
We find where never once- a quitter, innocence, replaced by truth.
And what to make of times in pleading, where before, i wrote for you?
And now though inspiration needing,when its present, it wont do?
In jokes of time to go without, one in days and one in years-
Whats to say this ever ends? Inspirationless, in fears?
The Three Thirty Train
I would be lying if i said i wasnt a little dismayed at how i felt writing this. Normally, they come out quite quickly, once the ambition has set in. But a long time ago, someone pointed out theyre rarely about me, and more so about the objects of my attentive distraction. Perhaps that is one reason this one was tougher than i thought it would be.
It has a lot of conversations in that ive been privy to, this week. With Jennefer on the times we write, the notes we stow, the feelings we take steps forward and steps back on, and how we war with ourselves over getting on those trains. With Dave, for the life we live for, the lives we work for, the work we do for living, and when living becomes work… Or when work becomes our living. “What ARE we fighting for?”
Make myself that minute late, as i hear the voice thats calling:
“On track 2″, the declaration, time to halt procrastination
Wrap that uneasy sensation, up… The Unknown: Destination.
Its then we find, for we wont sleep, that though our minds no reasons found:
That we can gauge, as we lose time, both in minutes, then in hours,
Time we waste, rehearsing rhyme, instead of making chances ours.
With no baggage as we stalked, amongst our thoughts with no refrain
Nor reprise, towards the past, as were all standing, here alone
“One way please,” i spoke at last, resigned to ride to the unknown
“early morning,” a refute: complacent, as i stand, sedate
My mind, in disconnect, perception, theirs in laughter at my jest:
Mine, the smile: misconception, that they dont understand, is best:
But mine: a time that i would start, and time: remind, that in this game
Theres no retreat, for trains keep moving, theres no ticket back to sorrow
And the solace found, is soothing, that there is only Tomorrow:
Ride alone, i have conceded, that there is no correspondent,
Writing to, or juxtaposed, accepted: as its my prediction:
That i know, its here supposed, this train reigns by my conviction:
This Train seizes trepidation, then anoints it with destruction,
Through Eleven, then passed Twelve, lended life to face rejection
Half passed three now, as we delve, secure, its ONLY my projection
So i wrote the time, in feeling, i would seek my penchants, visions-
Discount what is in discourse beyond control, relied on others
Leave them standing, no remorse, no more ducking under covers-
And focus on what i believe, i can, and that will then beget
A life, perhaps: consolation, but all together it will borrow:
Strength, its bred determination, from three thirty, til tomorrow
Now is for what i will fend, and see what End to that is giving-
You that choose to stand beside, as i no longer, am the chasing
if these dreams to you confide, let me down, then im erasing.
And said goodbye (the life ive known), the way i let you breed my doubt,
The way its gone, no more in vein, the way MY life, now YOU can borrow:
I boarded that three thirty train, and it rides on until tomorrow.
Music of the Minute: Yanni- One Mans Dream
So discussed (as so alone)
I got a phone call yesterday… And im trying not to get my hopes up about it too much. But the long and short of it, is that there is a dream ive had for quite some time, and its a rather simple one: Its just doing my job, but doing it the way ive always believed i could do it, without being held back, and not having to fight so hard for it. The phone call may turn out to be nothing, but heres what was funny about it:
I suppose our lives are like chapters in a book, and we catalogue them as such. People come in and go out, as do jobs, as do homes. Theyre like titles, changing as we turn the pages. So while that phone call came (and i AM excited about it…) this was a pipe dream that i had, when there were other people around, where now there are empty seats where they remained. They were never closely tied to my dream, but (for an instant) one was going to work on it with me, and the other just sat next to me while i dreamed and schemed and talked and hoped… And in my naivety, i thought we would stay seated there, and maybe theyd believe in me in case it actually happened. Anyway, when i got that phone call (its nothing serious, just an opportunity that MIGHT be coming!!!) there were four people i wanted to call. Two i did, two i didnt… That chapter is closed. While im okay, i realize it is just about discerning what we want and what is best for us: In the end, its about ME anyway. But i wish i couldve told them that it may have actually happened. Though i wrote this on November 4th 2008, its written about that EXACT feeling, realizing that it takes more than numbers in a phone book and a dialtone to be able to make that call again. Its a somber memory, acknowledging that sometimes a dead horse just ant be kicked anymore, and that you need to lock all the doors to the chapters behind.
If it’s true, that were alone, and maybe so, we’ve always been?
Is it real, that when at home, the veil of lies is paper thin?
That to trust, to give and take, to be as halves (complementary).
Is deceit, and such mistake, (maybe we aren’t meant to marry?)
Or to love, as lovers do, or with friends- to stand together.
Could there be no follow through, ties that are not meant to tether?
So discussed, and then dismissed, as we go on but don’t advance,
We cry, and count, and make a list, those who struck when given chance.
Those who broke the rules unsaid, the codes of friends, (and expectations)
Some who laughed, (as they misled), amidst the hurtful accusations.
Of the wild horse, the shooter, said an axe to grind and swing-
Of life’s treasures, as a looter, as a dissident to sing:
Against the choirs holy chanting, notes off key and sounds all bent-
Wondering, while running (panting), where is a song that for I’m sent?
Where are words that im not finding, where are smile im not seeing?
Why just sounds of chains im grinding against, but that, im not freeing
from, as tied, as lived, and died, of woken, spoken, and exhausted.
Thoughts, ive tried, ive fought and cried, protested, contested, alas, accosted
That as rhythm changes prose, lending confusion to verses,
Worlds so painful (no one knows), what lives in each others curses.
But to each, their own, (and more, if theyre wanton to keep giving
Others), as they are alone, and so they figure living-
Through those eyes that they can’t see, the ones who’s lives they tried to lead,
Turn blind but through the mystery, the pain is something that they need
To know that some will find that life, some will find the follow through,
That maybe some will find the strife, but happiness may still find you
So its dark, its disconcerting, as were aging, getting older
As our minds, are disengaging, and our Crazy’s getting bolder
Tired, of the tired, as were staring at admired, and were wondering, what more?
Perspired, and expired, locksmith ive hired, drop the hammer, lock the door.
Twice within, the rhythm completely falters. It irritates me every time i read it (and im always so tempted to alter it), although i did it because my head was just a friggin federal disaster area when i was putting this one together. That makes me wonder what can be said about someone who saw trouble coming from 60 paces, and still was dumb enough to walk forward.
Ive always contended that work was… The easy part. And i stand by that. Sure, these days work or the lack thereof has been one of my biggest anxiety inducers, but its nowhere i havent been before. I dont believe it bothers me by itself, i think its just… The rest of the house of cards, that fell. Ive always been great at the work fight… But it was always when it was FOR something. The 70 hour weeks never hurt, and i MERRILY got up at 4am after getting home at 1, and i dragged myself in every day for months straight… When i was doing it for a life, for a living, for an us. I remember Buffalo, 2 jobs, the summer heat, the 60 hour weeks, and getting in my car to FLY home. To go HOME. Fight for it all day, and make it happen… For home.
Its my dream, and it doesnt involve anyone else. I get that, i really do. Im not so rediculous so as to think it needs someone else to be a great dream… Thats just insane. But maybe its just that dreams are so much more endearing when someone else WANTS to be in your dream with you. Either way, if the NEXT phone call comes (and my fingers ARE crossed…) im going to set the world on fire in the best way i can, and im not going to stop until i have everything i want.
But, we cant fight hard enough to get everything we want… Now can we?
