Sunday, December 21, 2008


This is what happens when you write on meds with the flu. Excuse the grammar and content.

Today is my birthday party and I am caccooned in a sea of blankets. Having fever dreams of 19, 21,23,24, and this, this 25. Having flicks of past ‘loves’ who have slept in this bed. Retracing the ups and downs,too muches too littles and shoulds and coulds and maybes all on a little too much sudafed. I am not a pretty sick. Pale yes, gaunt yes but not Victorian frail pretty. I am messy sick. Messy with insane hair. Pink swollen eye bag tummy hurt messy sick.

My party is happening in nine minutes. I broke. I edited, five.

Before I met men. Before I ever fell in love I kept a journal. I journaled religiously about the stupid the banal the mundane not beautifully, but I was learning, and then I wrote to them. And suddenly it had a recipient an action and didn’t seem so banal. Words sent through e-mails and letters and those never mailed kept on my desktop. I guess that’s the biggest thing now. Who now? Me? I can’t even see as I read. Is it into empty? God that’s melodramatic ‘into empty’. Well you always were. Don’t use the drugs as an excuse. Still are. Practically melodramatic. Most people get silly fevers with dreams of Brett Micheals playing bingo, you, you get fucking introspection. Sheesh. Who are the words for? Are they for you? Always were? I’d have my dress on now. (the silver one that makes me resemble a rapper’s girlfriend.) Glad I didn’t buy a new one.

‘Wouldn’t it be wild if they all showed up without you’. Had it without me. All of them there. Now. Everyone I had ever loved or thought I loved, there. Everyone I sort of thought I liked.. I wouldn’t be there so it wouldn’t be awkward. The two with the same name would look quizically as they both used their left hand to both buy a scotch. The tall tall ones would stare at the other tall tall ones and discuss their albums, Butch Cassidy, and methods of not returning phone calls. The ones that mattered would assume they didn’t and the ones that didn’t would assume they did. And the in betweens might wonder ‘what if’ while watching ‘Arrested development’ and ‘Twin Peaks’ on the bar tvs or discuss the finer points of radiohead, and my recycled literary catchphrases that I pass off as novelties. (Witty things that really aren’t so). The spiritual ones in one corner, the agnostics in another, slightly OCD most likely scorpios and sags. The ones w/ allergies who didn’t last long would bond over lactose intolerance. The actors over alcohol, the writers over… alcohol. The musicians would come after their gigs. The few that became my brothers would watch it all and laugh, feeding the others beers, while a few wouldn’t even catch on to why they were there at all. And there would be no who hurt who, they’d just be people, good people.

My friends would travel in the groups they know. Maybe be repelled by the people they remind me of. The ‘Oh you have to meet!s’ (I have them all cataloged in my mind). My 4 year old best friend would know no one, possibly my parents and maybe get hit on by my overeager co-worker. My oldest girlfriends would dance, dance in a way that I’m sometimes ashamed to but do anyway. Maybe Hannah Wang, who sent me my first letter, and taught me how to curse, would be there. There would be laughter tons of laughter, and the occasional awkwardness, two of my favorite things. No one would talk of the business: plays, films,books, ideas,stories, but not business. My little sister would be shocked to find herself in a bar. While my teachers might not remember my full name. My dad would talk a few people’s ear off, not realizing they may know the story behind him, commenting on the crown molding, making bad jokes. They’d agree he meant well, he does. My mom on the other side of the bar,avoiding him, would listen, white wine In hand and just listen. Listen with that intent knowing half smile, that’s always with you but always thinking. Occasionally she’d laugh, her cheekbones swallowing her eyes. My grandfather would whistle an aria in the corner, thinking it was all too loud obtrusive. My grandmother would no longer need her hearing aid and float around supplying just made brownies and baked ziti to the masses, decked in lapis jewelry, porcelain skin. My brother silently would watch it all and pray. Maybe sitting quietly with one of afore mentioned spiritually inclined boys, and they’d have a talk that was more silent than anything else.

And I wouldn’t be a topic at all. And I’d like to be there for all of it, because that room would be more me than anything.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

a million little leaps

The following is from 'After'. This past year has taught me about what I built my life on, and I'm still learning about what that foundation should be. All it takes is one moment, and that foundation cracks.

There are certain things you trust You trust that when you get out of your bed in the morning the ground will hold you up. You trust this. It’s always happened before. You trust that your limbs will move you one step after the other. That without thinking you’ll just walk. You trust that your shower head won’t shoot off, crash into your skull and you’ll bleed to death due to water pressure. You trust that the subway will get you to work on time safely. That at 9:30 they’ll have coffee at your local deli. That the elevators will work. That your key will fit. That when you come home your home will be there, just as you left it-that your socks will still be on the floor. That someday maybe you’ll have a family, a dog, some grass, a future. You trust that you’ll outlive your parents, that you can laugh if you want, cry if you want. Have enough time to watch the films that you lie about seeing. That your friends will call, that your brain will match your thoughts with words, that others will hear these words, and understand them.
A million little leaps of faith. A million little things we take for granted that we trust will just be there everyday. Why shouldn’t we? We trust that we have control of our bodies, and our minds, and our hearts, and our lives, and that others won’t harm these things..

But we don’t. We think we control these things but we don’t.
We just have to think we do, because it would be too hard to exist if we didn’t.
And in a second you realize you don’t. And everything you ever thought you were doesn’t matter anymore.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Increasing the Odds

The following was the impetus of a piece called 'Number 12'. Sometimes I write things before getting what I always knew. (I hope someday to write a play without love, but fear it's impossible). This one was for Matt, and for me, I just needed to catch up.

JOHN (28, Statistician, sidewalk outside of a speed-dating session)
I don’t know that I believe in love anymore. No no no don’t feel sorry for me. Not in an ‘I’ve given up on love kind of way’. I just think maybe its different than I thought. Like this idea. This idea that we are all destined for one person. I used to buy into that, and maybe I’m jaded or something but I’m not so sure about it. Maybe it’s a series of different people. If you really worked at it, really worked at it you could be compatible with just about anyone right? Yeah so what so you both really like Woody Allen , Thai food and the Mets …that’s just conditional. I mean if one of you grew up in New Guinea and you didn’t speak the same language you’d have no mutual frame of reference right? The physical stuff that’s inexplicable, and it comes and goes, attraction comes and goes. I mean that’s like marriage counseling in a nutshell right? But love. I think if you looked really hard you could find things in anyone that you could love.

Love, love is like the basis for all good storytelling. It’s like this beautiful lie we’ve built everything around, our whole societal purpose, everything we do boils down to the need for it. Show me a story that’s not about love. I took this acting class in college. Liberal arts. And I had this teacher, and she was southern, very ‘grand’. Everything you’d imagine. And we’d get up do these scenes. And she’d say ‘Wait wait What are you fightin for?” I’m not an actor so I don’t do it very well. “what are you fightin for?” and we’d stand there and give these long winded answers that we want this or that, and she’d just look at us and say “You’re fightin for love. What are you fightin for? You’re fightin for love”. Every scene this happened. ‘What are you fightin for?” “well I think I’m fighting for my job and my..” “No No You’re fightin for love”. So finally last class she asks this kid what he’s fighting for, and he says “Uhmm I’m fighting for love?” “No” She says “This is the one scene I gave you where you aren’t fighting for love.” But it’s all just the same. And it is. I mean psychologically don’t they say that all of our actions are built around, motivated by the need for approval, security, and control. And that’s just love. Right? The want for it, ingrained need for it. Like to feel that you aren’t alone in this world to feel that another human being chooses you. To be someone’s somebody. But why is that? Why is it this value on their choosing you over everyone else? The one. Why can’t we choose everyone. I’m not a swinger or anything like that… I have just been a lot of different people in my life, Tomorrow I’ll be someone else, my core will be the same but my experiences will be different. and this concept this myth that there is only one person out their for each of us negates everyone I’ve been and am going to be. And I guess some would say it’s cynical but if anything I think it’s opening up the possibility for romance, For constant possibility. I’m a numbers guy. I’m just increasing the odds.