technoir: (Default)
( Nov. 5th, 2002 06:55 am)
Home is where the heart is or so they say. In truth home is where the hole is. I go home, climb in the hole and pull the lid closed. I am safe and naked there.

When I go out it is time for the armor. Layers of protection to keep me safe from slings and arrows. I have taken arms but never defeat them.

A hermit in a crowd, I stand in my cave watching the world pass me by. Comprehending it all like the reclusive holy man, but never can I really join the show. Vows to keep and all that jazz.

But let not this hermit not entertain. Let my shadow puppets dance and play for your delight. See how I tumble and twirl. Laugh along if for no other reason than the illussion that I am really here.

enough ramblings for this. I will no doubt let my pity be a deluge later by enough now. Back to the show.

Pass The popcorn.

Slaying my own unicorns
I feel like slightly out of focus. Like a bad image of the real me. As if there were such a thing. I am tired and depressed. My heart is not in it.

A depressing song playing the back ground as I look out my window. The view, in the real, is of the police station in Cobb county. I can see of the back of the place with it's single door. I like to imagine a desperate escape. A prisoners mad dash ending there in a spectacle of violence as the flag flaps in the breeze.

Of course it is not dark out. the sky is black, but the lights are bright. Street lights. Neon lights of the restaurant across the street from the police station. The white spot of the police station turned inward, star of it's own boring show.

In the light, all detail is clear. I can see the mortar lines in the brick. I can see the worn metal trim and the cameras lining the roof. Every detail fascinating only because it is a detail. My adled head seeking imagery to play with.

I guess I am given to obscure distractions when depressed. Why I decided to share this stream of thought, I cannot say really. Least I didn't reveal any of the big secret. Only I am not myself this week. Maybe i can be someone else for a while.

Slaying my Own Unicorns
technoir: (Default)
( Mar. 8th, 2002 02:05 am)
Bus Stations

On my recent journey got to visit several bus Stations. I started in atlanta. My lack of forsight cost me making the bus I wanted. I show up 20 minutes early but there is a line and their computers are down. The net result of course is I miss my bus. My brother is expecting me at a time I will not be there. I have to catch the next bus a few hours later. Time to kill in the bus station. I pull out an R.A. Salvator novel I have been working through for a while. I actually like the writing. His story lacks focus or direction but he is a good wordsmith with an entertaining charicter or two to play with. Of course I am distracted by the Schrek playing on the cracked moniter suspended from the cealing. There is a surreal quality to that movie playing with the collection of riff raff at the bus station. The man with one ugly tooth smiles at me and waves. I pretend to be iritable to notice. The movie is of course funny and people laugh. A guarded laugh. It is like no one wants to be noticed. Dont mind me. I am sitting here pretending to be part of the fiberglass seat. Atlanta is a sad place of a bus station

The birming ham station we hit in the early morning. It is a cleaner place. It seems more inviting though it has a touch of the please dont notice me dispair that pervaded the Atlanta station. All and all a nice hour spent as I finished my book.

4 Waylay is the first indication I had that an old larp buddy was there. He was coming from Ohio to Atlanta and I was on my way to my brothers. Simple timing managed to improve my mood. He and I spoke breifly then went to our respective transports. I sat on my bus watching minonites(sp?) we had picked up at an earlier stop shooting the breeze with a you black man as he smoked. His T-shirt was an image of Tu Pac Shakur. I wonder what he and these deliberate rustics had in common. What point of reference did they share?

waverly junction
My brother is waiting. His voice comes in staccato bursts as he talks about work and ask's me how life is going. It is nice to be near family again. Dads death is almost a year gone now but is awkward to be in Waverly again. I almost expect to go to the funeral home and see him still lying peaceful in state. I am still angry I guess. The kids leave with my brothers first wife soon after I arrive. I wish I could have spent more time with them. I dont want to be a stranger to them.

Well I got to drive back and it is nice. I like dads old car. It runs well and there is something of him in it.

I arrive in Chattavegas and spend the next few days working on getting my car registered in my name and hanging with old friends. I needed it. I even talked Cam with folks. I hate the politics in the club, but I did miss the people

and back to work......



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