Thursday, January 31, 2002
Colourless and Crass
~
Synonymless
Well, it's not three a.m., and the bar's long gone, but I'm back,alive and swaying nicely, like a happy flower, in a hurricane, my petals and colours dropping one by one. When I close my eyes it all comes back. Being drunk is simple, it's too easy. Anything that easy must be either bad for me or come at too high a price. But prices come in many shapes and forms, all with open-faced palms. Physical exhaustion, looking like shit, stumbling, fumbling through hallways, past ugly faces and blind stares. I saw a newspaper this morning where a title read: "Colourful and Crass." How appropriate -- that's how I feel today. My insides want to scream and laugh and roll down a green, green hill. When I was a boy, in elementary school, there was a field -- behind some buildings, past a fence -- an overgrown field that smelled like earth and laughter and sunshine. We would hide in the tall, tall grass, long after the bell rang and tell each other lies and truths and so many stories in between, wearing tight jeans and corduroy pants, spending time to run my fingers through the grooves along the back on my thighs. The next day is always the best. Jesus. The more the hours tick away, the more the mind plays tricks. My head is filled with flips and toys and little funny stories running wild, loose and free, but mine, mine to keep, mine to smile outwardly, from the heart and the eyes and every part inside.
S*
2002.02.01
Notes of a Dirty Young Man
Synonymless
Well, it's not three a.m., and the bar's long gone, but I'm back,alive and swaying nicely, like a happy flower, in a hurricane, my petals and colours dropping one by one. When I close my eyes it all comes back. Being drunk is simple, it's too easy. Anything that easy must be either bad for me or come at too high a price. But prices come in many shapes and forms, all with open-faced palms. Physical exhaustion, looking like shit, stumbling, fumbling through hallways, past ugly faces and blind stares. I saw a newspaper this morning where a title read: "Colourful and Crass." How appropriate -- that's how I feel today. My insides want to scream and laugh and roll down a green, green hill. When I was a boy, in elementary school, there was a field -- behind some buildings, past a fence -- an overgrown field that smelled like earth and laughter and sunshine. We would hide in the tall, tall grass, long after the bell rang and tell each other lies and truths and so many stories in between, wearing tight jeans and corduroy pants, spending time to run my fingers through the grooves along the back on my thighs. The next day is always the best. Jesus. The more the hours tick away, the more the mind plays tricks. My head is filled with flips and toys and little funny stories running wild, loose and free, but mine, mine to keep, mine to smile outwardly, from the heart and the eyes and every part inside.
S*
2002.02.01
Notes of a Dirty Young Man
