december in a gray box

One day the December guy is going to seriously kill me. No, the December SKY. The fucking sky.
just going to SMOTHTER me.

The world is a bloodbath. I will say that living in one of the most violent and polluted cities in the US for two years has taken a toll on me and makes me even more incapable of dealing with the everyday reports of massacre that are heralded by death angels just by checking email.  Or is it making me stronger? Is it showing me something? i am being hard on myself? This a revelation. A damn revelation.

right now. in space and time.

I water my houseplants. I have accumulated quite a few and i just push other shit out on the street to make room. it is always gone in a few hours. i switched to decaf but i still shake and at my desk there is ripe orange that grew in my friends yard and riverwolves play in my ear and i type away clicking clicking clicking clicking covering the inescapable pounding and longing of my bizarre heart. It is an murmur. It has a murmur, the doctor said your heartbeat is irregular. My heartbeast. my beast heart.

there is not enough sunlight. we need more of it, its like soilent green in here. i water houseplants. that kid just went to war with everyone and killed every last one of them. He just murdered and murdered and murdered. and he did it last week. and the week before. and they'll do it again. In Detroit and in San Fransisco and on my street. But not like that. That kid hit the big time. He fucked us all up. He fucked up the president. I wonder what would happen if he knew. I wonder if he can feel sad. I wonder if he ever felt anything. I hate that i think about him. i do.. i see his fucking face when i close my eyes. Gaunt. gaunt. gaunt. death death death. America America America

we grew up and we got jobs or we didn't get jobs and moved out to the streets. we went to rehab and counseling and got divorced. no one was ever happy in the way a jack in the box can make you happy ever again.

sometimes nothing makes me prouder than being not pretty

Sometime nothing makes me prouder to be me than being "not pretty." These delicate lovely girls are trained in the trendy art of being trendy and denying it, "oh, this old thing?" and loosing weight to gain some ammunition in the girl war attention beast fist fest. I am lonely and I am often alone. I am most always alone but not always lonely. I am grateful for solitude and the absence of this mad female estrogen art girl competition flush race that seeps into my life via facebook and the occasional social outing.  Pretty is a commodity and they are taught to rebel against this idea of pretty but to also, by they way, look pretty doing this rebelling.

I was too sick and too sad and too rejected to take part in this bizzare girl-land in my teens and twenties. Now I usually feel like an old man. Brewing over paintings or chain smoking over my computer drinking coffee and watching birds. its better than watching women on facebook fall in love the newly projected image of themselves repeatedly and wondering how a digitally existence can affect your soul, if you have one. Which I doubt.

Being cool is being callous, being mean is irony and always fight for attention in the most happening outfit known to humanity. Or these are my observations from a bar stool. Except I am not on a barstool because I cant drink anymore. Not one drop. Not one sip. Another addition to list of reasons I feel like a senior citizen at 34.  Not that I ever actually felt any sort of connection with any of my peers anyway, but being sick every damn day adds to my fundamental disconnect. 

I have been sick for about 6 months of this year. A burning black hole of acid despair so deep in my stomach yet flourishes up to singe my esophagus. I can't eat. I eat anyway. I get sick. I can't drink. I drink anyway. I get sick. They do a gazillion tests and give me some medicine that doesn't work. And suggest that since i obviously have some issues  - my chart says i take antidepressants - possibly this pain is in my head or....something. I walk home from the doctor's office and toss the prescription....it already didnt work.

the pain leads to isolation which leads to depression usually but not so much this time. I am certainly not happy by any means, I just am not sure who I am. I know who I am NOT and who I do not want to be which is on of THEM. those. those frenemy attention women ...popular in this highschool of adulthood that comes with city lights and barstools and happy hours and men with jobs and hobbies and shit. Art, that is it. They all do art. "Oh, i am a photographer and i m working on this project".  I m sure you are. I miss the woods. I miss nature.  I need to shove my own face in dirt. Have a nice day.

I miss my old friends, who were all way older than me and didnt care about the coolest, no how.  Maybe the dissipation of vanity in relation to aging is what I am experiencing and my intolerance for the extended immature soul of our collective society is raging and waging.  Her death was like lilies pinned in your hair. The tragedy just high-lighting your natural beauty.  Meanwhile we don't hear clocks ticking anymore and if you can capture your image in enough self portraits with your phone camera then its like you don't exist and you don't have to feel reality and we can just post ourselves into oblivion. ill be here. alone. longing for a chunky old typewriter and 1976.