Ireland is Dead

Pretenses and vagrants
I see the symbols run
I hold authenticity in my hand
Cracked stone and raging fire
I lay upon it waiting
Wounded ears
Conformed mutilation
There’s nothing here
Invaded by stereo
Micheal Collins would be suicidal
They tell me its okay
Worldly nothings
I leave different
I can’t come back
Ireland is dead to me
New to everyone else

SFTD on Twitter

Yeah, I broke down and decided to go on Twitter. I’ve got a few weeks of driving ahead of me and it would be prudent to have some form of communication if the internet isn’t available (go 3G!). If not for my vanity, then for my friends and family… and my vanity.

The Fearless Moment

The thoughts rushed through like cattle on the subway
Pick pick pick at me
They crack me open and spill the candy
Wasted time and wasted thoughts all a mess
I wash it down with brown bliss
I wash it down but it doesn’t work
Self-awareness is a bitch
I get up and walk into the light
Warm and cold and looking away
I watch the tic toc of the words
Despite myself I accomplish
Despite myself I step aside
Despite myself I am victorious

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 3

Part 1Part 2


The night before we flew back to Utah, I got loose. I found myself feeling better. Convincing myself that it was all a loaded dream. There were problems, of course, but not the end all be all. Tim was cooler, Mike less odd. Jokes and fun all around that last night. We said our goodbyes. Then, as before, as I was waiting, the disappeared again. I thought I heard I voices. I thought I heard a kiss. Like green skies over Kansas, I saw it. The storm came.

Driving back to the cabin on the mountain, the reason we came to Arkansas, I did everything I could to provoke her. I was angry, but I was chickenshit. I pissed her off and I liked it. I was hurt, real or imagined, and she wouldn’t budge. Fuck you, bitch. Fuck you. Back at the cabin, she slept and I tried to. I went to the couch instead and cried. The crying you do when you lose your parent to a horrible car crash. It had been a very long time since such emotion burst from me. It went on until the fire I built died. She woke me, concerned. Funny. We packed up, said goodbyes and went to the airport. Flight pushed back. Waiting. Waiting. Silences and breathing. Indecision. Waiting. Pictures uploaded to Facebook. Tags and smiles.

Days went. Days and days of fog and shit and hell. Fighting often. She was unhappy. I was confused. Over and over the same issues and she was a stubborn one. Stubborn beyond reason. Stubborn to the core of her being. The choice was made beforehand. I could see it and smell it and taste it. This, if not on the tip of her brain, was something made a long time ago. My paranoia and anxiety aside. This was something I had no control over. And that was a killer. Copulation was unknown. Touching, yes. Kissing. Sucking. Blowing. Backoor. But nothing that said, I miss you. Nothing that said, I’m still with you. At first, I wanted it to mean something. Second time, I just took the everything but pussy. Defeated and horny.

The first of the month of love, I lost it. I grasped at every straw. Felt every emotion. Pushed and pulled and stood up and gave in. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last, but it happened. Thrashing around like a wounded animal. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you and you and you and you. I wanted her to stay so badly. I wanted her to be with me. I was better. I was amazing, yet I was begging and crying and unable to control myself. I was on the mend and swinging from the noose made by my own hands. I had to get out of there. Concerned for me, she agreed. Concern for the heart she’s breaking. Indeed.

Called in to work. Flew out on to the road. South. Mind wanting Vegas or some far away spot. I only got as far as Draper and In N Out. Called my dad. Told him the news. He was shocked. Me too, Dad, me too. I reached out and found ears. I felt like it was 4 years previous, her previous strike at me. I felt like I was a teenager. I felt like they needed to pick me up and put me back to sleep. Shhh, son, it’ll be okay. But this wasn’t Glendale. This wasn’t my bed and drawers. The one taller than me that I climbed like a monkey. This wasn’t our old, but safe home. This wasn’t memory. This was today. This was now. This was my life choices staring back at me like hungry bats in the night. These were my failures. I went to see a movie, The Fighter. I like boxing movies. I like Marky Mark. I came out of it a little better. I saw my mom had texted, offering her support as well. I called and it all returned. I drove the streets, talking, sighing, making excuses and hiding the full force of it all.

Days went by. Still fighting. Still sucking. Still. I couldn’t break her like she was breaking me. I couldn’t make her stay. I couldn’t do anything, but lose my heart. So, I did. Piece by piece, hour by hour, game blog after game blog, I just shut down. It wasn’t a change, it was a suppression. It was taking emotions and hiding them, not destroying them. I could stand tall. I could say the words, but I still shook at times. I still felt my heart race and my mind go insane. I slept away from her. The couch, the futon, the recliner. Not the bed. Not that it mattered anymore. Game didn’t apply when it was all over. Now, it was just making it through until I made it home. I knew it, but I didn’t believe it. Still fighting. Still wishing. Still.

March. Her trip to see her friends. Wish I could do that. Fucking city work. Got you money up the ass. Yet we never had enough. No savings. Fuck, whatever. I would be on my own for the first time in a long time. For the first time in this marriage. Truly on my own. I came home sad. I got drunk. I waited for return. I started disassembling. I started what I thought was to be a long process. A week went by. I talked to a girl. I flirted. I gamed. I missed parties and tried to set things up. Things were looking good. Things had a purpose. Then, “If I didn’t come back, what would you do?”… sleep, bitch. I’d sleep. I need to sleep. Oh, you’re serious. Fine, stay. Fuck you. I’ll take the car. I need a road trip. I need to clear my head. I need to escape from my escape from what I thought was oppression. Turns out it was just reason warning me. I tried to sleep after that. I couldn’t. I took pills. I turned over and over in bed. Fuck! FUCK! FUCK! I called the family. I called my dad. The fixer. The man. I had doubted him previously. I made excuses of why I was based on him. I was 100% wrong. Dead wrong. He gave me advice. He got my shit together. A day of no sleep, drugged up and I did what I had to do after her impulse. He had the clear head. I defended her as she killed me. He told the truth. It didn’t sink in just yet, but it was breaking the wall put up by idealism and naïve, sex driven opinion. It was falling, one brick at a time.

Start With A Strong And Persistent Desire


It was his first full day with me in over a year. My dad sat across from me, grey in his hair and beard, but not a moment under young. Fifty-one, three kids all now of legal age, a long marriage and a job that calls him up even when he’s helping his son, he was still smiling. I wasn’t. I was tired. The day after he flew in to calm down the overwhelming mess the move and pack was becoming. The small bedroom room was full her shit. Everything strewn on the floor. It looked impossible. That’s why my father came down. “The hardest part is always starting,” he told me. By the end of that first night he was there, the day of my final shift, we had all of it packed and most of it stored. I had run on short naps and caffeine. That night I collapsed into sleep.

We were at IHOP. The good one south of where I lived. I got coffee, him just water. He had lost a about three toddlers in weight and kept it off for years. He wasn’t going to change just because we were going out to eat while he helped. Fresh eggs, no cheese, avocado, fruit. I had the full omelette with bacon, cheese and the works. I still ran on anything. I wouldn’t be able to do it for much longer.

Our waitress, Alexis, was a looker. Blonde, skinny, cute face. Very friendly. She woke me up a little before the coffee came. I could feel the urges begin. I wanted to game. I had comments and smiles and moves ready. I looked for rings on her fingers. None. I watched her as she walked away. Yes, this would be a good one to work with. Then, the genetic gift, the man I had doubted in previous manifestations of myself, came to the front. Years of being away. Years of indoctrination and bias and hurt and angst burned away like mist over Los Angeles in the morning sun. My dad spoke to her, naturally, in a way I’ve tried to do for years. Socially extroverted. Assertive, but so subtle the ticks in her brain were unnoticeable. I’d think of something to say when she came over and it was already out of his mouth with his smile bookending the neg or the compliment or the simple observation. My dad is happily married to the woman of his dreams. My dad isn’t doing this because he read it in a book or, like myself, trying to improve his pick-up. This is my father. This is who I can be.

During that breakfast of insight, he asked me about what I’ll do in television when I get back to Canada. Immediately out of my mouth is a lack of ambition. “I can just be a runner,” I say. He shakes his head with a stern “No.” As he’s about to speak, the man underneath years of middle ground pipes up and mentions writing. “I can write,” I say with a stronger voice. His nods says that’s a better answer. We talk more. He talks about the current show he’s working on and the wannabes who are screwing it up. He reminds me that I have a complex of hating my bosses, calling them all idiots. I acknowledge this. I tell him it was never my job to question or hate them. In the last day I’ve realized I don’t need to try to change anything. I just make the money. Do what I’m told and tell others. Things are changing fast, but they are changing correctly.

The next day, he’s dealing with problems with the crew while we drive around. He gets a call and his voice changes from father to boss in a split-second. I listen in. I used to listen for amusement. This time I listened for lessons. Subtle, unspoken lessons I ignored before because I rode the wave of mediocrity. As he chewed out a inept man, a man who’s nose is browner than the dirt, my brain caught fire. I could feel it burst with electricity as I took it all in. I sat quietly and listened. I heard tone. I heard words. I re-programmed myself with his movements of the air. Things get done his way because he does his job. Things get done because he sees the big picture. Things get done because he says so. He’s hired to make people money. These replaceable people are put in their place. This isn’t important work to the rights of man or the environment or politics. Its television. They get their perspective readjusted.

Beaten and broken for months by a woman, he’s rebuilt me in days. He put the focus in. He returned his legacy to the man he saw once in a while. I’m sorry I ever doubted him and his personality. I blamed everyone for what was happening to me, while in the end, it was me. My weakness and my biases and my outlook. Even while figuring out what needs paying off, and she left a lot to pay off, he tells me point blank that it isn’t fair. It isn’t right. She needs to pay off. I still try to explain it away. That she locks up and gets stubborn. He reminds me I have the code for the lock on the storage shed we rented. I smile, the manifestation of him in my soul laughing the loud chuckle of my father.

We’re allowed our weak moments. I’ve had my quota.

Thank you, Dad.