I Can't Keep Going

I can't keep going if you keep hurting me. It seems the only time it feels OK is when I've stopped, and even then it's not real. Like a body that's gotten used to a blade inside, everything is fine until the blade is moved. And so I try to keep going. But when I do you're there to remind me, to bleed me, to slow me down.

Honestly with these new shoes, am I right?!?

This message was brought to you by most terrible solo performances.

Silver Lake

I tell her I'm visiting and I don't hear anything back. I want to start in a foundation of honesty, I tell her. I never come across that well unspoken, my words are meant to be heard. Maybe I'm like Shakespeare in that way.

And he never heard from her again, I write after a half hour or so. She sends me a picture, some evil blonde queen giving a grin that is either sexy or, well, evil. Maybe both. What does that mean, I ask. What does what mean, she says. I have time for this game but that doesn't mean I want to play.

Four hours later and I'm asleep and my phone vibrates. Hmm what, my friend says, it wakes him up. Nothing, I say. I check and it's her and it's the same picture. Just some girl I was talking to.

Go, he says.

But—

Go now. So I put on my jeans and a clean T-shirt and I walk out to the curb.

Where are you, I ask. Five, ten, twenty minute go by. I start walking. I'm in Silver Lake and it says you're a mile away, that true? Five, ten, twenty. I want to stop for a drink but no place is open. People have jobs and schedules and lives, they don't have time to walk around waiting for a stranger to talk to them. I do. Doesn't mean I want to, but I do it all the same.

Big Sweater, Little Button

She wore large sweaters because they reminded her of her grandpa. In wrapping herself in the stale wool of a cardigan she felt his arms closing around her. Bringing her in, bringing her close, saying that she was his little button. It didn't matter how hot it was, she'd wear one and sweat and feel closer to him, she heard his voice again. And one day maybe someone would do something like that and think if her. That was nice.

8 AM

One of the long days, the ones where the sun rises twice. You know it's separate days, the second 8 AM, but it's still just one day, an extension, a marathon. You pace yourself with injections of coffee, a regular hophead, you've told yourself you'll cut back but you can never seem to find the time. It's just coffee, you say, and it's just sleep.

It's a day where the edges of your eyelids start to make themselves known, a sourness and a sting. You feel the presence of each eyelash, whatever minuscule follicle burrows its way into you. Things that are soft are softer and things that are hard hurt. But it's a day where, really, to sit anywhere, on anything, is to feel a comfort you've forgotten.

Where even the night is day. And you realize it's just a matter of one man's dictionary. And on the other side of you is someone saying hello to what you've just told goodbye. One man's dictionary is another man's thesaurus. The only reason words have meanings is because we say they do. Same with the day, the night, the coffee, and all the little things in between. Seems foolish to give anything up.

Connect the Dots

She asked, What's on your mind?

Mine's really not a mind on which I rest things. It's a sieve, it's an inlet, things fall through or they get swept up in the current. I stand at the edge and reach for thoughts, I grasp.

Wait, I think, that's what I can say. That's exactly what she wants to know.

It's a sieve, I say, an inlet. Things fall through, they get swept up in the current, they don't rest long enough to be in any one place for very long. I connect the dots too quickly. It's A and then it's Z before I know it.

We locked eyes and we stopped breathing. How often do you think that, she said. How often do you think about your thoughts.

That rested. She curled up next to me. Probably too much.

Stall

I wake up and hear you in the hall and hold my bladder. I'm listening to your routine, I can picture you there by the chair, and I know if I go to the bathroom everything will start up again. Comforter on the floor, sheet half-covering my half-naked body. Stale water, filled with bubbles, waiting to be thrown out. I can't look at the water, it's getting too hard to hold in, I hear you go to the bathroom and it's even worse. You come out and pace; footsteps, pause, footsteps, pause. You're stalling. You're hoping I come out, that we do start up again, that we finish it, that we don't go through another day rotting in our self-imposed righteousness. But we're both too stubborn for our own good, and I'd rather wet the bed than say you're right right now. If I take enough deep breaths maybe my body will forget what it wants to do. If I take enough deep breaths maybe I'll fall back asleep and dream about a better version of us. One of those dreams that you could swear was real. And by the time you get home it won't have mattered who said what.

Tunnels and Trails

She was smart but she was stubborn and I've never known a woman who was anything else. I wanted her to go away with me and she said no. That was her exercising both parts of herself. I'm not a fool and I'm not a joke, I'm not aggressive or abusive. I'm what previous generations of entitled men would call a "good guy." But it doesn't matter how good you think you are, you're wrong. Hold your breath and shut your mouth. You, my friend, are wrong. And it's OK to be wrong. As long as you try to be better.

I told her to pick any place in the world, any country, any city and we'll go there. It was crazy cause she said, she wouldn't do it. We'll pack light, we'll book one way tickets and wear hats and drink wine and befriend locals and make our way through tunnels and trails and maybe we'll even stay there forever. Wherever there is. Because wherever there is, I'm thinking it's got a lot going for it. More than here anyway.

But that's her stubbornness. She knew there was a lot going for it. Maybe a little too much. Maybe too much to go there and realize she might not ever want to come back. That maybe she was wasting her time with fools and jokes. And maybe it was a little too much to realize right now. The seas would always be there, they would grow if anything. The land on either side, though shrinking, would be there for a very long time. She could go there later. She didn't need me. And I guess I didn't need her. But as a good guy it doesn't really matter.