Water, Water, Everywhere, But Not a Drop to Drink

I think I realize now why I always have such pie-in-the-sky ideas. It's not because I am a whimsical daydreamer, like I would have everyone believe, myself included. It's because when one sets practical-sounding, yet unrealistic goals for oneself, you get to seem like a normal, functioning member of society, but you never actually have to work towards the dream, because it's always just out of reach. You never can really get disappointed or hurt, because you never even make an attempt. But then, by some off-chance, you actually do come upon (usually by happenstance, not effort) a high-priority goal and attain it, what's left over? Where do you go from there? It's never as exhilarating as you think it's going to be. It's a rather empty feeling, honestly. There are no parades, no ticker-tape, no rounds of applause. It passes by much like everything; with little fanfare. The thrill of the hunt is over, and there's just a bloody, picked-over carcass lying in rot in the grass to show for it.

I've been searching all summer for "that feeling." That "realness" I so often speak of, but can never quite touch. I thought I finally found it. That's bullshit. I am being disingenuous. I am using cognitive dissonance to lessen the blow, after the fact. I did find it, at the time it felt so incredibly real, so powerful, so dynamic, though it was but for a fleeting moment. But in that moment, I was happy, truly happy, for the first time really since this whole process began, maybe in years. It was like I could breathe again. No more was my breath caught in my throat, no more shallow, tensed respirations. Lying there in that bed, the walls awash with flickering ochre, the scent of lilac and whatever wonderfully addicting additive they put in men's deodorant that makes me weak, pressed on top of him, never wanting to move. I bury my face in that little alcove between his shoulder and neck. I inhale deeply, drinking it all in, letting myself acknowledge the contentment for just a second. I don't want to forget this moment. It's the best I've had in recent memory. It even tops what I thought to be unbeatable, with that dark, almond-eyed devil who captivated me so. It's so much more honest and I am actually present, not off in my head somewhere. I am truly experiencing it. I'm not playing a part, like usual. I am totally myself, no pandering, no shtick, no deflection. I actually let go. For the first time, in a long time, I feel alive.

I haven't let go with someone like that in over 6 years, and it was no where near this intensity level. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure if I've ever let go this fully, not since I was 16 and had nothing to lose. There were no jaded distortions or gut-wrenching memories then. I had to look forward in those days. Being that honest with your emotions has its price. You expose your jugular vein, complete vulnerability. But that's the gamble with matters of love. You have to bet high to win big. God, I find myself paused from writing for a moment, absently rubbing my arm. Smoothing down from the elbow to the wrist and back again. I only do that in times of intense mental anguish. That's the ol' cuttin' arm; a holdover from a time not so long ago. Bright crimson on slashed porcelain. What is this purgatory I always seem to be banished to? I could handle it (just barely at times) with the others, because I never fully relinquished control. I had my little eye-for-an-eye ways of coping with the positions I let men put me in. But in this particular situation, no of those old tricks will work. My powers are useless against the real thing.

Feeding the Monster:Art and Bullshit for the Morose and Sullen

On the Threshold of Eternity, Vincent Van Gogh, 1890

Fun fact: this painting was done in the year he killed himself.

"I am trying myself also to do as well as I can, but I will not conceal from you that I hardly dare to count on always having the necessary sanity. And if my malady returns you would forgive me. I still love art and life very much...I declare I know nothing, absolutely nothing as to what turn this may still take.
"Oh if I could have worked without this accursed malady, what things I should have done, isolated from others, following what the country said to me. But there, it's all over for this journey." - Van Gogh, written a few months before his suicide.

And here are some uplifting Tennessee Williams quotes ripe for the picking...

"I think no more than a week after I started writing I ran into the first block. It's hard to describe it in a way that will be understandable to anyone who is not a neurotic. I will try. All my life I have been haunted by the obsession that to desire a thing or to love a thing intensely is to place yourself in a vulnerable position, to be a possible, if not a probable, loser of what you most want. Let's leave it like that. That block has always been there and always will be, and my chance of getting, or achieving, anything that I long for will always be gravely reduced by the interminable existence of that block."

"There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors."

"In memory, everything seems to happen to music."

"But there are things that happen between a man and a woman in the dark -- that sort of make everything else seem -- unimportant."

Here's a few saturnine Townes Van Zandt tunes...

Waitin' Around to Die


Dead Flowers


Tecumseh Valley


If I Needed You



All I have is this cheap, used-up, battered body. I am worth nothing but a quick and irrelevant gratification, to be forgotten in the next moment. All I am is what I was told I was at 16. Nothing has changed, no lessons learned. Tears are a sign of the weak and hopeful. My eyes are bone dry. Why fight being a good-time girl?

Whiskey Bent: Lookin' for Answers at the Bottom of a Bottle

A playlist for the morose and disconsolate. There's enough songs here to play through the swilling of an entire bottle...

The Piano Has Been Drinking- Tom Waits


Whiskey Bottle (Acoustic)- Uncle Tupelo


What's Made Milwaukee Famous (Has Made a Loser Out of Me)- Jerry Lee Lewis


Whiskey River- Willie Nelson


Tennessee Whiskey- David Allen Coe


There's a Tear in my Beer- Hank Williams Sr.


Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down- The Flying Burrito Brothers


Whiskey, You're the Devil- The Clancy Brothers


Whiskey Makes Me Crazy- The Tossers


Let's Go Get Stoned- Joe Cocker


Whiskey Bent and Hellbound- Hank Williams Jr.


I Gotta Get Drunk- Willie Nelson


Whiskey in my Whiskey- The Felice Brothers


Kentucky Bourbon, As Long as There's Whiskey- Murder by Death


Cigarettes and Whiskey- The Low Anthem


Drinkin' Whiskey Tonight- Pokey LaFarge and the South City Three


Whiskey Heaven- Fats Domino


Whiskey- Big Bill Morganfield


Whiskey in the Jar- Thin Lizzy


Streams of Whiskey- The Pogues


Lace and Whiskey- Alice Cooper


Whiskey- Charlie Daniels Band


One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer- John Lee Hooker


Bad Liver and a Broken Heart- Tom Waits

Feelin' Cheap and Dirty: A Playlist for Those Leanin' Against the Lamppost Kinda Ladies that Keep this Ol' World Spinnin' a 'Round

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Sinners and Saints: A Metaphysical Playlist for the Macabre Mood

When you want to be simultaneously depressed, frightened and reminded of those things you usually try to shove out of your mind. It's like a morose cocktail for the sinner's soul.

Jesus Gonna Be Here Soon- Tom Waits


The Mercy Seat- Johnny Cash


The Great Atomic Power- The Louvin Brothers version and the Southern Culture on the Skids version




Sinner You Better Get Ready- Monroe Brothers


Way Down in the Hole- Tom Waits


Jesus Christ- Woody Guthrie


Satan, Your Kingdom Must Come Down- Uncle Tupelo


Me and the Devil Blues- Robert Johnson


Lake of Fire- Nirvana


The World's Largest Crucifix- Blanche


Down There By the Train- Tom Waits


Death Death (Devil, Devil, Evil, Evil Song)- Voltaire


Wealth Won't Save Your Soul- Hank Williams


Brimstone Rock- 16 Horsepower


Roll Me Through the Gates of Hell- Mischeif Brew


Friend of the Devil- Grateful Dead


Spiritual- Johnny Cash


The Devil in Miss Jones- Mike Ness


Highball with the Devil- Les Claypool


He Will Set Your Fields on Fire- Monroe Brothers


Golden and Green- The Builders and the Butchers


Kiss Me, Son of God- They Might Be Giants


The Devil's Paintbrush- The Wailin' Jennys


Take Care of All My Children- Tom Waits


You've Got to Walk that Lonesome Valley- Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie


The Silver-Tongued Devil and I- Kris Kristoffersen


Lucifer- Bob Seger System


The Devil's Been Busy- Travelin' Wilburys


God's Gonna Cut Down- Johnny Cash


Little Black Train- Woody Guthrie


Angel of Death- Hank Williams


Lord I've Been Changed- Tom Waits

Running

I found myself running, barefoot through the suburban maze, passing indiscernible ticky-tacky house after ticky-tacky house. The only sound, the soft thud of my feet against the pavement and my labored breaths as I pick up speed. The night air is stiff with humidity, my skin starting to bead with salt-laced sweat and tears. A bitter taste keeps filling my mouth, the source completely unknown. The smell of bonfires, marijuana and the fragrance of a night-blooming flower hang in the wind as I race past. My eyes darting and bouncing at each set of headlights I see coming my way. My heart is pounding louder now, but I don't feel tired. It seems as though I have the energy to run for days with the amount of endorphins coursing through me. My hardened soles barely touching the sidewalk as I sail over each perfectly-proportioned square. At some point, I lose my sense of direction, what little I had to begin with. My head should be swimming with thoughts, but its remarkably vacant. Running is my only focus. My long, tangled mane flying back wildly, conjuring an image of a savage Amazon chasing her prey. She wouldn't have any modesty or shame in running. I begin to panic, as I am lost in the generic labyrinth that is my life. I don't know which direction to turn, which street to take. I begin to meander a bit, slowing down slightly. I make a few sharp turns and end up close to where I started, to begin the journey all over again. This time, I run a little smarter, base my actions on some cornerstones of reality. I finally get my bearings, and make my way to the nearest hospitality. I should have just ran all the way to what is left of my home, but it was nearing midnight and the sprinting was catching up with me. My throat was parched and tight, and I had no money, no ID, no keys, no shoes, and no options. It took a lot to swallow my pride, especially with the dehydration overtaking my soft palette. I finally come upon the intended unremarkable house, not quite sure if its the one or not. I hesitate slightly before knocking on the door, but then my gnarled fist wraps decidedly, of its own volition. Quickly the door is thrown open and a startled, but familiar face sympathetically ushers me in. I completely break down, all the endorphins immediately drained away, allowing all the backed-up tears to flow out in a ridiculous, mortifying outburst.

I try so hard to be strong and stoic, like my only real-life role model, but sometimes, life just gets to you in a way you aren't equipped to deal with, even if you've been through the emotional gauntlet a thousand times before. I never ask people for help; I always feel like I am imposing far too much, but conversely I jump at the chance to help another when I'm asked. I haven't quite figured out what that's entirely about yet. I am sure it is some deep-seeded guilt from my childhood, rearing its over-compensatory head. Maybe because I never got any help when I needed it, I just learned to live without it, and eventually began to loathe it from extreme cognitive dissonance. I have a latent embitterment to any assistance from others, coupled with my do-it-yourself attitude stemming from my distrust of others and their lackluster performances. There haven't been a whole Hell of a lot of times where people have pleasantly surprised me with their genuine kindness, versus the frequently-encountered polite tolerance. There are only a few non-family members I hold in that high esteem; Bob. Jesus. Bob. There is someone who deserves every ounce of his success. I still think of him often, especially in times like this, but I'll never forget the look on his face when I showed him my arm I cut up with the spare key I used as a box cutter at work. The sincere look of concern and then subsequent anger endeared me to him forever. He looked at me the way he would look at his own daughter if she did something like that. "DON'T YOU EVER DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT AGAIN," he said through gritted teeth and I could tell he meant it. Jennifer, along the same vein, going above and beyond for my mental well-being. And my cousin Amber, who unknowingly brought me back from the brink with just a little card and stuffed dog and the sharing of a box of Golden Grahams that cold February afternoon, not so long ago. Sometimes my neuroticism gets the best of me, I have to humbly admit that, but I am stronger than I have ever realized. I am just starting to get that. The person who I felt was the strongest in the world, who I have leaned against for far too long, is turning out to be not too strong at all. It's more than jarring when your rock begins to crumble into the sea; it's difficult to watch. Maybe that's the hardest part, the shattering of such a deep-rooted illusion. The unthinkable happening right before my very eyes. Sometimes, in the dead of night, when I think no one is looking, I miss my little life, for a brief moment. But, I now know that it couldn't last. With a love so all-consuming, so omnipotent that it was bound to implode for good one of these days. That much energy in the wrong hands or manipulated the wrong way; it just can't be sustained. It's too unwieldy and unbridled. It can't be tamed for more than the blink of an eye. It goes nuclear, eventually, erupting in a mushroom cloud of full-spectrum emotion, leaving only a barren, stark landscape where the heart once lied; an apathetic wasteland. I know I'll never find love that compares to that engulfing tire fire, but maybe that's a good thing. Complacency is Hell, but so is a literal blaze of passion burning so hot, you have to jump out every so often just to keep from searing off your flesh. In the aftermath, it's hard to tell if their is room for friendship, or anything more than that dreaded polite tolerance. It's difficult to let go fully of the only person that ever really knew me, the real me, and wasn't scared off or disgusted by what he unearthed. No one really knows me because I won't let them. I never let them. I keep everyone at arms length for a reason; fear of revealing my vulnerability. Very few people know that side of me, I try to keep it hidden the best I can, until something, somehow seems to reveal it for me. I guess the one upside is, I don't have to worry about hiding it from him anymore. It's out there in the open now, to soak up or cast aside as one wishes. I was at least trying to hold this back for another month to continue my spinning-top summer, but the dam broke early; the whole "best laid plans" thing, I suppose. There was just the slightest indication of a wobble, but I didn't want to see it. The only thing to do is set the top a-twirlin' again.