assumedly, I tell the world

i miss you.

Sunday, the sun setting today was beyond comparison to anything, I wanted to share it with you.  I wanted to hold your hand. 

Saturday, I put on a brave face and head out at night to engage in social stuff, I bump into your housemate.  After subtly telling him to wipe from his nose the remains of the coke he just snorted, we begin to talk about you, you and I, but mostly just of you.  He tells me of your great heart.  He tells me I should just rock up at your house and hold your hand.  He tells me to lead you to the right side of life.  He tells me this while all I'm thinking is that he has no idea.  My side, his side, your side. There are no sides in this life.  He has no idea that this is what I know.  He tells me to not be a slut. He says that most girls go out and rebel and become slutty.  I check his nose for more coke, there's none, it's all in his bloodstream now. What I don't know is whether it's the coke that's telling me not to be a slut or he utterly has no idea who I am and what I would or wouldn't do.  

That made me feel null and void. That made me realise that it's all just a fallacy.  It doesn't matter. What people assume they know, assume what they can say and assume what a great heart is.  He tells me of your great heart but he has no idea.  When someone you think you may know is someone so far from knowing who you are, this is sadness in our modern age.  Time spent with people means nothing if it's done so blindly. Escapism through moments fabricated.  This is what he knows but is choosing to forget.  My hand to hold is there for you but its purpose is not a reminder of all that is wrong.  It won't lead, pull or direct you to the right side of life. Simply, it's there to touch you, beyond the literal sense. I held your hand before, it didn't touch you.  Your hand in mine was brutally cold, my hand in yours often let go for escapism glassed.  

He tells me to help you but I don't think I can.  In this moment I am guarded, aware and regretfully too sensitive.  He doesn't know this, he thinks I could be reckless and slutty. He assumes these things, yet I have no drink in my hand, I have minimal skin showing and I was on my way to pee in the bathroom because that's what bathrooms are actually for. He tells me that he admired our relationship and that when he first met you he was excited to move in with you as it all seemed so solid and great. He tells me he's not sure if that was my doing because when I left it all went to shit.  He then corrects himself and says it actually deteriorated at a pace and that he saw this happening even when you and I were together.  

He tells me what I already know, once again.  
I too was intrigued and welcomed into solidarity and greatness only to see it deteriorate in front of me, leaving him without the same housemate, leaving me without my soulmate. While he was spending more time away from home to avoid the fast and frivolous downward spiral, I was withdrawing my hand from yours. He tells me that you are trying.  
I know this. 
He tells me that you're meditating.  He tells me that you were even meditating this past Thursday evening.  How greatly he wants you to be in the right space and to make me aware that you're trying. I smile endearingly as I too want this.  Yet, knowing on Thursday your hands were not palm up, they were holding fermented grapes of rebelliousness.  This is then brought to light by my friend who walks past and I see the shock and disappointment on his face as her spoken testimonial shatters his perception.  My friend walks on, she has no time for this.  He then tells me that he and his girlfriend are fighting as she feels his potential new house could be unsafe to visit. He tells me that they are too hard on each other.  

I listen but I don't understand.  
People are too controlling, based on our idealistic and yearned idyllic fabrications of what we want other people to be, what we want other people to mean to us.  We want the world to emulate our ideals and when it doesn't we fight.  We fight to keep ourselves happy. 
I won't just rock up at your house and forcefully fight to hold a fabricated hand. She's fighting for safety yet it's more than that.  She's fighting for where she wants him to live. Where she wants him to be and what she wants him to be. He tells me she's not ready to move in with him. He says, if she did, he could afford a safer home. 
If, another assumption.  
I find it odd.       
At this time I go pee. The bathroom is slutty. 


When you hold someones hand, just hold it.  No forceful direction, just two hands, interlocked, on-par, side by side, together.  That is what I mean when I say I will hold your hand but I won't fight your battles.  Not this battle, mostly.  If your hands were free, free from continuous glasses, bottles, spliffs, more glasses then one would be holding a valiant sword. With your other hand in mine, I would be your princess and we'd live happily ever after.  

Waiting turns seconds into forever

Where the Wild things are
Somewhere between here and far
Words Untamed
Names Unacclaimed
Wicked Masks broadcast Shame
Rampant Flasks unsurpassed, Same.

I am waiting. With hands in my pocket. I am waiting.  Wrapped head and heart in a blanket.  Woven yet aching. Wating. Which in turn becomes hope, despaired but promise nonetheless.

If you could read this, I'd hope you would understand.  I'd hope that it would resonate.
Under the same sun, apart.  Under the same stars, rechart.
The night is darker than you ever were, it's when the stars emit the death of something that was once so bright and beautiful, I sing of when you and I were forever wild, the crazy days, city lights, the way you'd play with me like a child, will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?

Waiting turns seconds into forever.

Where the Wild things are
When you're the star
I'm the cage
You've chosen to disengage.

I wish you wouldn't, hadn't and shouldn't. But shooting stars are not our thing and wishes are foolish. So I'll wait a fool in the dark while you sip poison into my little blue veins.

ingress, you have to

hello my rosy self again

While I don't forget you for a second, I don't remind myself every moment either. And much like We Are Augustines; tear up the photograph 'cause it's a bright blue sky!

Sometimes all it takes is to hear the right song at the right time; melodies to make you realise, lyrics to make you. What's broken can't always be fixed, what's shakin can't always be steadied. There's something so surreptitious in the way the head and the heart figure it out well enough to survive the walk down the aisle. What's in an aisle; a journey, a destination, a defeat, a retreat, copious amounts of choices, a knight in shining armour, a departed hero.  And we're all just walking here, moving, revolving, crippling or sprinting, we're all walking. Single file, hand-in-hand, or in one of those obnoxious groups that spread themselves over the entire width of the walkway (you know the one's, when you're doing your once-a-year promenade run and five people are spread out blocking any through-gap), either way, walking to move. Forward, and around, backward - as long as you're moving.  Keeping busy, keeping your soul busy, otherwise it rots and the aisle narrows itself to a maze of depths and darkness.  Tear up the photographs - the stillness that was once.  It's a bright blue sky - so ready for us, ingress.

You can't imagine how I hate this, Just come and find me

Graceless

Is there a powder to erase this?

Is it dissolvable and tasteless?

You can't imagine how I hate this

Graceless

I'm trying, but I'm graceless

Don't have the sunny side to face this

I am invisible and weightless

You can't imagine how I hate this

Graceless

I'm trying, but I'm gone

Through the glass again

Just come and find me

God loves everybody, don't remind me

I took the medicine and I went missing

Just let me hear your voice, just let me listen

Graceless

I figured out how to be faithless

But it will be a shame to waste this

You can't imagine how I hate this

Graceless

I'm trying, but I'm gone

Through the glass again

Just come and find me

God loves everybody, don't remind me

I took the medicine and I went missing

Just let me hear your voice, just let me listen

All of my thoughts of you

Bullets through rotten fruit

Come apart at the seams

Now I know what dying means

I am not my rosy self

Left my roses on my shelf

Take the white ones, they're my favorites

It's the side effects that save us

Grace

Put the flowers you find in a vase

If you're dead in the mind it will brighten the place

Don't let them die on the vine, it's a waste

Grace

There's a science to walking through windows

There's a science to walking through windows

There's a science to walking through windows

There's a science to walking through windows without you

All of my thoughts of you

Bullets through rotten fruit

Come apart at the seams

Now I know what dying means

I am not my rosy self

Left my roses on my shelf

Take the white ones, they're my favorites

It's the side effects that save us

Grace

spaces between the happiness and the hardness

"so would you call... 
my name
if i try... try, my best, 
my best
would you remember... remember my face
if i try... try... my best, my best"  Lilly Wood & The Prick, My Best.

i got many things in my head.


what the hell am i doing. 
maintain, train
hands clean, red lipstick on

take off on the monday
wind whistling, turn up
make it to friday
self-made


I love driving, today I hated it. I used to love that salt breeze, no signal, over the bridge pass the casino, onto surrealism. Today I hated it. My windscreen crusted with salt, my personality just as useless. To the airport to drop a Swiss friend off - onto the world he goes, onto the return I go.  I hated it. Off ramp, meretricious indicator noise, the loudness of my life longed to live but not happening. Looming, approaching, another bridge. I hated that my instincts were opposing my intended direction.  Turn left, the sooner option? Coastal infatuation. The wrong direction. Keep driving, hating it, keep going, turn right. Yes right but southbound, this is the space between happiness and the hardness. Little moment that rendered me gasping, verged on what I assume is a hypochondriac's anxiety attack. Verged on the appeal of a handbrake turn and a race back bolting north. But that's what it will be. A handbrake, turn in the wrong direction. 
Keep going south, keep driving.  

I'd circumnavigate the world if I could get back to you. 

so you want a great love story?

It's a Friday night at home and I can hear the hustle and bustle of the George (local pub) through the pernicious wind that assumedly is trying to intrigue me yet it is only steering me away. This wind is somewhat suggestive to the fickleness of dressing up, make-up on, talking crap and being forgone. 


My mind is en-route in the other direction. Don't get me wrong, a night out can be fun and sporadically fulfilling but it's not the highlight of my week. I am no social butterfly, hell, I don't even like butterflies.  An anomaly in its essence.  Girls are supposed to like butterflies and make-up and dressing up and going to the George on Friday nights.  But the woman in me would much prefer introverted nights of blogging, sipping chai by the fireplace and listening to Kreayshawn, Iggy and my girl Chanel West Coast. And that's me being single and putting my hands up.  I came across a friend of a friends blog, a pastor, husband and really, just an insightful human. He posted tips to single girls wanting to live a great love story.  It resonated with me, not only are his tips relevant to where I am and what I'm doing with my life anyway without having being told to - they acted as a reminder that it's okay. 


http://tombasson.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/all-the-single-ladies-put-your-hands-up/
He wrote:

All the Single Ladies Put Your Hands Up!

A little while ago a good girl friend of mine got engaged at the age of 38.

She is probably one of the strongest, smartest and most beautiful people I know, who for years has been praying and asking God for a husband. And although she has now found her true love, I know it wasn’t an easy journey. There were times where she felt desperately lonely, times when she was tempted to give up and to compromise, times when she almost settled for someone or something less than the best for her.

Unfortunately I also know and have spoken to too many other single girls who have settled. Girls who honestly believe they are “past their sell-by-date” and have compromised their morals, values and identities simply to avoid the pain of being alone.

Donald Miller, in his post How to Live a Great Love Story, says that “living a great love story doesn’t look like winning the lottery, it looks like training for a marathon. It’s hard work and you have to do the work long before you ever meet Mr. Right, otherwise you’ll be the girl who shows up for the marathon having eaten a gallon of ice cream every night, listening to Taylor Swift songs and watching love stories about vampires. No good man can run with that girl, not for much longer than a mile.“

Here are 5 tips taken straight out of Donald’s blog on how to live a great love story. I found them to be challenging and controversial, but also very true! As I read them I realised how much I have messed this up and have had to pay the price. Hopefully those reading this won’t make the same mistakes I did.

1. Don’t hook up

Girls shouldn’t make it too easy on the guy. Don’t hook up, in other words. A recent article in Scientific American revealed when a girl hooks up with a guy, she esteems him very highly. She may think of him as powerful or famous, somebody who is strong. But the opposite is actually true from the guys perspective. Guys hook up with girls they find less attractive and sexually easy. All they want is sex, and so if they perceive she will give them sex and then get out of their lives, they are going to jump at the chance. The girl may feel very wanted and beautiful but the truth is he’s insulting her. If he thought of her with respect, he’d sit and ask questions about her life and her family. He’d try to get to know her because he wants to develop a friendship and perhaps a romantic relationship. In other words, guys don’t hook up with girls they would marry. They marry the girls they get nervous around and are made to pursue. So, if you become a “hook up” girl you get labeled, in the minds of guys as a girl you really don’t have to fight for.

2. Make him work for it:

When a guy is made to fight for a girl, he esteems her much more highly. She becomes more attractive in his eyes, and for that matter she becomes more attractive to other men, too. That said, most of the time this will backfire because lots of guys are just looking for cheap and slutty sex and for her to get lost afterward. Still, it’s your chance to weed them out. And believe me, girls, there are a lot of weeds.

3. Be willing to suffer:

What this means for you is that your love story needs to have a lot of lonely crying in it. Believe it or not, there will come a day when a man will fall madly in love with you and you will have the honor of sitting down with him one special night to explain that, while you weren’t perfect, you turned down plenty of guys and cried yourself to sleep hoping somebody would come around and treat you with respect. He will be honoured by this, and he will love you and feel humbled.

 4. Have some faith:

I’ve noticed that most women who complain that a good man won’t come along are actually interested in the wrong guys. They make lists of their perfect gentleman coming to rescue them meanwhile they’re hooking up with guys who have a track record of just having sex with random women. Really? Your husband won’t really care what you say, he will care what you do. We tell our love stories with our actions, not our words. Life isn’t a Taylor Swift song, with all the hardship left out. Stop falling for the romantic version of life, and start realizing that a romantic story is told with an enormous amount of pain, sacrifice, suffering and patience.

5. Work through your need to be validated by men:

You’re going to marry a man, not men. So cut the slutty dresses and Facebook photos. Start acting like a woman a man can partner with to build a family, not a woman who would make a great romp on a drunk and emotionally foggy Friday night. And stop using alcohol as an excuse. Nobody gets drunk and accidentally sleeps with a hamster. You know what you’re doing, drunk or not, so cut it out. In other words, become the woman who fits the character in the love story you want to live.

So, if you want a great love story, start training for it today. Start suffering, like somebody training for a marathon. Do the pain, suffer through the nights where you cry in your pillow, have some faith and stop cheapening your love story with scenes you’ll never be able to edit out.

Life is too short to forgive and relive. Life should be more about forget and reset. Especially to the women looking for love in the wrong places, on Friday nights.  Those nights you become "the field" and not the goal post. Boys will play you this way. I might be here alone, with my chai and my music but I'm doing what I love to do and that's to write and delve into new ways of thinking and understanding and it's a lot deeper than the watering hole down the road. 

If you're a guy and reading this, I suggest you take a look at the other perspective, click here:

http://tombasson.wordpress.com/2011/08/15/this-one-goes-out-to-all-the-manly-men/

I didn't want to wake you up, but I really want to show you something

Hardened not but softened to the floor, meek and submissively looking up, the way a child see's the world in the warm hazy glow of summer, simple. Innocence when raw, defaulted, making curiosity thirst for knowledge and soon crave acceptance. It's the latter that turns hazy to sharp, glow to shadow and summer to seasonal. I've written about default settings before and I'm elaborating and resetting.
Remembering, you grow into the heart you had when you were a child. At what age are you truest to yourself? Sagacious yet tainted, older yet restrained, the youth of today are living to retire in blindingly sharp shadows of thoughts for years withered.

Latency; the non compete for time or presence. You have all time in the world as a child, respectively no concept of it either. Without the contest and the fray, you're defaulted. Not in failure but rather having been pressed and compressively restored to originality. Without the noise you sit in silence and the weight of reticence urges your heart now unyielding to speak. Listen like a child and much like a diamond, raw life will be precious.

How limitless and indefinite life is when you have an average of seventy five years ahead to evolve and prevail. 

"We say we waste time, but that is impossible. We waste ourselves." - Alice Bloch.  

Either undiscovered and dormant or bought and heedless, both extremes, both lacking luster. Radically only guileless and clemency were the brightest diamonds in the crown you wore as child pretending to be king or queen. Don't waste your act as ruler on dormancy or heedlessness.

Max: Small is good. My powers are able to slip right through the cracks.

Judith: But what if the cracks are closed up?

Max: Then I have a re-cracker, which goes right through that.

Judith: But what if they have some sort of material that re-crackers can't get through?

Max: Then I have a double re-cracker, which can get through anything in this whole universe. And that's the end, and there's nothing more powerful after that, ever. Period.

Alexander: He has a double re-cracker.

Ira: He does sound powerful.

C'est le ton qui fait la chanson

Hey, when seas will cover lands

And when men will be no more

Don’t think you can forgive you

Yeah when there’ll just be silence

And when life will be over

Don’t think you will forgive you