19 06 2011

I pick a scab as I stare off into the screen an entertaining abyss of droll. My hairline has intermingled with the wound, making it difficult to remove the flesh bandage from my temple.

pick. pick. pick.

I scratch my face, the blemishes and think of why I stare off into this nonsense of procedural crimes still. SVU is a joke, overreactions meet overacting and unreal situations. Why do I love it so much?

I think of my counselor and how she encouraged me to start filling up my new moleskin. I had finished the old one for weeks now, three years of my life in the most consistent recording I’ve ever kept of my life.

pick. pick. pick

I think of how my old hippy future Boston roommate told me to leave all my old stuff and come with a clean slate. Just my favorite supplies, he says, don’t worry about all the tiny details.

Clean slate. Blank page.
Those are the most terrifying things in life and writing.

But not with art. On the virginal surface all I see is possibility. I’m so close to seeing life that way, but to me its still that plank page. That three years in a small 5″x7″ notebook that weighs 1,000 pounds.

But even then a clean slate with my art? To me that’s almost like erasing whats taking me to Boston in the first place. I mean I may not depict memories or illustrate them clearly, for others, but my subconscious knows that they are there.

I could reinvent myself. But I want to add to myself. Transform. Metamorphose. Moving is so hard for me. It excites me yes.

But packing. I hate packing. Because I’m the opposite of Gorge Clooney from Up in the Air. I don’t just have an empty backpack. I have a pack mule, that I named George and can’t stop feeding, and adding more things.

pick. pick. pick.

I dig deeper and feel the blood run down my cheek.

For some reason I think of the boy I fucked at a house party in the back of my car. Magazines and even a 100lb bag of plaster were there, but I didn’t care all I saw was sweet blonde pubes and a comfortable cock. It was quick and he was the first to ask to see my “titties”. “Titties” that word just kept playing over and over in my head, and I saw him old with a cane blocking some sweet young thing with a nice rack and him asking to see her titties.

Tits, Boobs, Breasts, Rack, I’ve heard all of those, but there in the back of my car on top of all that junk I heard titties for the first time.

I thought of the story my Papa told me, the first time he met my second cousin, when she was only 16. She asked him if he liked her titties. He told me how his eyes got wide and confused, shocked that this teenager had asked him, an old man such a forward and vulgar question. My cousin took off her sandal and showed him. Her Titties, were shoes.

pick. pick. And finally the scab is loose and I slide it down through my hair, I go and look in the mirror to asses the damage.




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