The hard part in writing a narrative of someone’s life is choosing from the abundance of details and microevents, all of them equally significant, or equally insignificant. If one elects to include only the important events: the births, the deaths, the loves, the humiliations, the uprisings, the ends and the beginnings, one denies the real substance of life: the ephemera, the nethermoments, much too small to be recorded (the train pulling into the station where there is nobody; a spider sliding down an invisible rope and landing on the floor just in time to be stepped on; a pigeon looking straight into your eyes; a tender hiccup of the person standing in front of you in line for bread; an unintelligible word muttered by a one-night stand, sleeping naked and nameless next to you). But you cannot simply list all the moments when the world tickles your senses, only to seep away between your fingers and eyelashes, leaving you alone to tell the story of your life to an audience interested only in the fireworks of universal experiences, the roller coaster rides of sympathy and judgment.

Aleksandar Hemon, Nowhere Man

All dressed up with nowhere to go?

I don't have much of a life to speak of.
I can't regale you with exciting stories of my social life,
of 'this scene' and this malaise I have somehow directed towards some semblance of it.

All I have are words.

Strung up, strung-together, pretty little words - with nothing to adorn it on
A useless robe strewn lackadaisical upon feet.

Winning

my baby has a face

So I finally quit.
Which leads me to - unemployment, malaise and mounting doubts/debts.

I do however, have a new macbookpro
which leads me to - a higher sense of purpose (it's true), increased levels of productivity
and
more non-money-generating i.e. 'artistic' nonsense.

It's okay,
the manic, obnoxious side constantly tells me I'm lying wait for something awesome,
And being a freaking rockstar from Mars and all, I guess it's true -
the universe conspires with you and all that cal,
well the universe is wrapped around my finger
and quantum physics is me deciding what falls where and for who;
and that job, those killer briefs, them awards
are just raring to reach me

quiver, quaver and quake babies,
momma's coming!


but maybe it's just Charlie Sheen talking.

Ode to a bicycle:

O velocipede of dreams, with you in between my legs, we will fly over to Atlantis, with Never never land never far behind in the itinerary. We will journey to the end of the world, upon gilded rubber wings crisp and leathery and you will make me feel safe. We will ride upon lightning, upon light, scale Neptune's trident and sail across a thousand seas from which no god nor monolithe would be so blithe. We will
cycle to a vast and isolate meadow, upon which we will lay, counting blooms and
drawing clouds with our fingers encircling blue on blue skies with the cinnamon
sharpness of my tobacco smoke against the burning gears of your soma. We will write upon each other, I, careful not to mar your strong thin body with words without rhyme nor meaning, you with the gentle cadence of wheels upon gravel, my hands gripped strong-enough-to-know-I'm-there around your handlebar. Grip me
harder. And when speed and friendship and journeys toiled bring us further than
ever, deeper into the never, I will let go

And
you and I will fly eternal.

I am nothing but a cliche. I'm a writer. I've big glasses and mad hair, cats follow me
around everywhere I go, I chain-smoke and run on caffeine and pows (mostly),
I'm kind of sardonic and nasty but mostly I am forlorn and insane, I read a lot, I'm in love with concepts and storybook antagonists, I try to play bass and 'spit rhymes' on occasion, I'm still waiting on my record deal, I'd like to think I'm a female Woody Allen except cute, but mostly I think I am a gay boy with tits, I am born and bred here but my heart belongs in New York, I stayed in East Village 3 years ago and I can't stop thinking about it, I dream of a brooding Paul Atreides type with slick hair and half-rimmed glasses to sweep me over the Atlantic but I'm afraid that the distance within myself will be too faraway for him, I wear red on lips when I'm feeling manic, I wear red on lips a whole lot, I want to master complex mathematics and computer programming so that I'll always have the answer to everything, I name
almost everything, one of my friends tells me that I should socialize more but I tell him people are stupid and they don't get it, he thinks I'm insecure but I'm just lazy, I'm too old for new friends but find myself sometimes despising some of the ones I still have, I like dancing with a cigarette in hand but people tell me 'that's not dancing!', I am most often sad, I believe that tragedy fuels creativity so that makes me quite productive, I'm a perfectionist and a 'control freak', but only because I think people are stupid, I used to sleepwalk, I still talk in my sleep, my favourite two phrases in the universe are 'poetry has no place for a heart that's a whore' and 'daylight licked me into shape, I must have been asleep for days and moving lips to breathe her name, I opened up my eyes and found myself alone alone alone above a raging sea that stole the only girl i loved and drowned her deep inside of me', I don't
like people but they seem to like me, this irritates me greatly because nobody likes a great dictator and how am I gonna ever be one if everyone endears to me?

I have the sads but I am channeling lioness and this too will one day bore me.