Monday, June 29, 2015
Ode to the Beautiful / Hartford, Ct / March 2015
Some people are just so damn good at being photographed. Like... really? How do you fucking do that? I'll never know the art of getting my picture taken.
Long nights and early mornings were among the moments I sat down, had a pen on hand, and wrote on a journal that I bought for $6.45 at an art supply shop downtown. Long nights and early mornings I'd write. And write. And write. Scribbles. Numbers. Grocery lists. A drawing of a sandwich. Or maybe even a number from a girl I friended at a coffee shop.
But it's those moments I really cared so much about. I would write stories of what had happened at a party when I had photographed a friend throwing a cup full of beer at someones face. Or the time I saw a guy pick his nose and flick it out the window while heading to work. One night stands. Throwing balloons at cars full of paint.
At one point I had a feeling that someone would grab the book and read it for themselves or for other people. Exposing my thoughts and feelings about how little my penis was or how little people were or how little my ass was. Written things that said "fuck I'm stoned and I really want some taco bell right now" or even ask stupid questions such as "why didn't that girl at the liquor store by a carton of eggs when she could've bought it cheaper at the Save Mart store down the street $2 less?"
These written things would be used against me if I were to run for governor. Headlines like ARTHUR THE STONER or ARTHUR LIKES PARTIES, POT, AND TACO BELL. A reminder of how I failed to keep my memories secret. It would kill my chance as a politician.
But it didn't matter. And I never cared if anyone read it. Those are the experiences I felt. Those are the things that made me the way I am. Those doodles, grocery lists, and phone numbers of people I'll never call... they are assets to what I do as a human being.
So, the moment I head in a room filled with unwashed clothes and printed photographs thrown on my bed I take a seat, adjust myself to the desk, have a pen on hand, and write on a journal I bought for $6.45 at an art supply shop downtown.
29 sort of equals 30 which makes 24 prepare for 26 and lets 18 feel like it's 21. These age variations make such drastic changes from the start of 5. And yet I still feel stuck between 23 & 25. I'm as mature as an apricot losing its limbs and as graceful as a piece burnt toast. I'm buttered up for taste and I'm cut up for thirst. Digested in 3rds and thrown up 7 times at first.
I'm 29 waiting on the moment of 30. Waiting for gray hairs to spread. Waiting for phone calls about friends who are dead. But I'm the dead one always keeping secrets of stories I shouldn't hear. How I could ruin people's lives whispering gossip ears.
30 is on its way. I'm decked out with a pair shoes, argyle sweater, a button shirt, a tie, and a face that says "you're so fucked" and "you look like you need more sleep." Clock is ticking. Make sure you return all required items at your desk.