Wednesday, August 15, 2012


KYLE, 33
'Shake it off'.  My dad used to say that.  I hated it, it was so condescending. I was in little league, a catcher and I sucked. I did. I sucked. And these guys would just ram into me. Into home. Full force and I would just get the wind knocked out of me. And he'd call from the stand. 'Shake if off'.  'Shake it off Kyle'. 'Let it go'. I mean that's what people say, and you don't really think about it, it's just what people say. Well not everyone, like when you get into a car accident you're supposed to stay put. Survivors have been known to have huge adrenaline rushes, and just run for miles in a minute, just run into a field or something, and just shake. Right after an accident. Because that shock, that feeling needs to go somewhere. Physiologically animals do it, they're scared they shake, they show it.  They release it. But not us ' we stand up straight, we breathe, we toughen up'.  But instead modern medicine, they tell us to stay still, don't move.  Sit tight. So it just sits there in us. The trauma or feeling or whatever you want to call it.

And I was just sitting there at my desk, at work. About 4:30 at work, and finally I was still, really still, feet  flat on the ground.  And my hands and my feet just went numb, and my arms twitched, vibrated. Because they wanted to move, needed to move.  And at first I wanted it to stop. I tried so hard to make it stop. The feeling. So much so that I couldn't breathe. 25 minutes. And it wouldn't, they just kept moving. Cause God, it's been months. I've been trying to shake this thing, ignore this thing for months. deal with it, And at first I resisted, the pulsing, the bubbling, because I've talked about it, you know. Talked about him you know? Thought I made whatever peace I needed to make, for now at least, whatever peace I could. Because how do you, I mean that takes time.  But there I was just moving. Twitching under my desk, as people walked down the hall. Shaking under my desk.  And I just decided to sit in it, sit in the shakiness, sit in the discomfort, and let it pass through me. Be free in it. Almost enjoy it.  Let bits of it go. And I don't know what it was. I don't know if it's stress or tension, or thoughts, or regrets, or not forgiving stuff, or him or I don't know.  I just know that when it was done, I slept in for the first time in months I was so exhausted I slept right through my alarm. Annie had to wake me up. And I could hear him. "Shake it off Kyle. Take your time, and shake it off, It's your game". I should have been a better catcher.

Sunday, August 5, 2012


For guys, at parties in LA, whose potential I see while staring at their shoes and eyes.

'That's interesting... Really. The things is'... The thing is I don't care. I don't care about your band, or your comedy show, or your unironic/ironic cover of 90's, or that you play 6 instruments including the key tar. Or that your gig last week was great, that you say it was great. I'm sure it was great. Or that Portland sucks, or that San Fran was cool, and that you're just happy to be back. 'So you can focus, you know? on other things? Other projects'. Or that you're instagraming this as we speak. The thing is; I would care, I could care, if you cared to ask anything about me. I look at you and know that I could care.  That I could severely utterly care about these stupid, benal, idiotic things that you share while holding a beer, if you cared about my stupid idiotic benal things.  Asked about them; my stupid idiotic benal things. Because we all have stupid things. And that's just what you talk about, you ask about, until you break through. Until you choose to care. And that's why I ask questions,  every question I ask you, I hope that the response is that thing, is that one thing that will break you through out of the stupid and idiotic and into the real. And I  don't want to know this shit; I want to know who you think you are, and you who you think I am, and who you want to be when you wake up in the morning, and who you end up being by the days end. I want to know what you're afraid in others, in yourself. I want to know if you sleep with the light on, and why. I want to know what your real laugh sounds like. Not the polite one you do in groups out of courtesy, the real one.  I want to know what flits past your eyes when you close them, what you see ahead when they open. I want to know that song you love, that movie you love, that line that makes you think, that word, that phrase, that cadence, that makes you laugh, makes you you. I want to converse in a way that makes the youness of you and the me-ness of me just float, be, meet, dance. . But instead I  just say 'that's... that's really interesting' and quietly sip my wine and wait for you to care, as you look around the room.