Saturday, March 21, 2009

Icy Lake Michigan

Amy,
This city is as windy as the rumors say and just as beautiful. We took the train into town today. It probably took around twenty minutes for us to make it; I imagine it’s nice to always have people with you when going from place to place. It felt nice today anyway. A young boy sat in an aisle seat a couple of rows down and caught eyes with me a time or two. I waved and smiled at him, and he returned the favor. Instead of moving a few seats closer to him to talk, like I wanted to, I worried about his family that rode with him. It seemed like a quick way to start trouble; I imagine this place is full of creeps.
It was a stupid way to think; they wouldn’t have cared, and we would’ve had a nice time.

We wandered the streets all day eating giant pizza, smoking cigarettes, and stopping in bars for beers. I came to this city with my oldest friends, but most of the time I kept my headphones on. The buildings cast the biggest shadows here Amy; it would so easy to disappear. I remembered how you told me you couldn’t wait to move to a big city, this big city. You told me this the first time I asked you to get something to eat.

We walked to the park and saw the icy Lake Michigan where everyone dared me to test the thickness. We all laughed about the idea, but to tell you the truth, I guess I mulled the thought over pretty good. I figured I’d dive in, lose my clothes once I was a bit further out, and let my legs carry me until my friends were gone. No, I wasn’t scared I would freeze to death; I knew the water wouldn’t phase me. Once the coast was clear, I’d get out and go try and find the boy from the train. He’d be walking down the street or something with his sisters and mom, and I’d say, “Hey, didn’t I see you on the train this morning?” He’d smile and tell me I did, and I’d ask his name and tell him mine. I’d ask him if he liked riding the train into the city. I’d give him a high-five goodbye and tell him to take good care of his family. It sounds stupid now that I’ve written it down. I just really wanted him to know how cool I thought he was. My friends had to stop me from jumping in.

We wandered until the moon came around, and when the street lights came on, they left the city in an orange hue. They told me of ghosts; I couldn’t tell if they comforted me or would bring nightmares. Were they local or did they follow me from Memphis? David knew of a party that a friend of his was attending, so when our legs were tired, we gave her a call and headed that way. The night-time buildings brought you to mind. I thought of the architects that dug this place into the dirt. I thought of Roark and Dominique.

Along the way, everyone stopped into a Seven-Eleven for a snack and bathroom break. I bought a donut and waited outside where I watched an old man sitting on some steps. Periodically, he fell into the strangest fits; he’d start mumbling and turning his head back and fourth (like he was saying “no”, but he did it much too quickly for that to be all he meant); his eyes closed, he shook his hands which he held in loose fists. Sometimes he would just shake his head and mumble or only shake his head, but his eyes were never open. I couldn’t tell if it looked more like a song or a ghost in his head. Five or so minutes before the first of my friends came out, he leaned his head on a step and rested. For how long these calm moments last I’m sure is unknowable, but I am glad his waves are not always so rough.

The party sat mid way up a tall building in dark apartment with air thick of smoke and the music loud. Around fifteen people mingled with cheap beer in hand trying to find the beat or a friend. The familiarity almost made me puke. There was no dancing, only sitting and standing; one slept on the couch amongst the commotion. I mostly sat in a semi-centrally located chair and looked out the huge window that graced the apartment’s beaten present. A person or two started conversation with me; one in particular talked to me about my shoes. We had the same brand but different colors. He seemed like a nice guy, but I don’t know anything about that. Time passed, and I found myself standing at the window buried in some thought. The music was so loud Amy. Do people really like yelling at each other? You have to get so close to them to be heard or to hear; those smiles scream phony and their breath of beer. Skin never looked so wrong. What are these people looking for? How many times have I sat with these exact same people saying the exact same things, looking just like I thought they would? The only difference is place. I’m wasting everything. When my head grew too heavy, I decided I’d leave and walk around the city and look for the boy from the train and the old man. I mean I knew I didn’t have a phone number or anything, but my head told me things would figure themselves out. I’d find one then the other, and they’d take me to a safe quiet corner that they knew, and we’d talk with out yelling and the old man would sing us the song in his head. I’d cry as soon as the song started, I knew it. I’d tell them I was sorry for being scared before, and when it was time to go, when the sun was on his way back up and my phone full of worried missed calls, I’d give my new friends all my clothes and all my money. I’d shake their hands and kiss their cheeks before running naked through the streets and swimming Lake Michigan until I could feel the water.

I left silent through the crowd to the door, into the elevator, and into the street. The ghosts were waiting for me there, and I had to walk with my head down to keep my moral up. It didn’t last long, and the buildings looked taller than ever. I stared and watched them being built in reverse until nothing but dirt and materials remained. Time moved forward again, and I imagined the men constructing a building that I’d designed. One I designed for you. I’d say that I hoped you wouldn’t get lonely here and that if you did, you could always come home to Memphis, and I’d always welcome you in. We could kiss the way were supposed to, and when you felt better I’d take you home to the city. You’d ask me to stay; I’d tell you I had to leave, but I would stay anyway.
Your friend,
Frank

Thursday, March 12, 2009

overton park

(I decided that this blog didnt make me mad, so i'm re-posting it.)


I've got my shorts on again, and a girl on my mind. Sounds like trouble koming soon, but i hope its just a new coming moon. There's a little boy flying a big kite and his older brother is teaching him how to keep what he loves a float. Me and my old love, we used to come here to rest. I'd bring some old book, and she'd bring her camera; she'd tell me i was the sun king.

There's a man and his baby who hasn't been with us for too long, but he walks alright and his dad hugs and kisses him all the time. The boy wanders and watches the world that he sees. The dogs and the kite and the families playing frisbee. They stop him in his traks, everything catches his eye; everything is new: the girls on their bikes, the guy drinking his beer. He wants to meet everything. I hope it never changes.

There are so many planes in the sky, and so many sweethearts in the grass. They fly kites, they kiss, I imagine them remembering when they were young. When their kites crash, they do not remember piking up and going home; they don't think about their love running away. Their minds only wonder when their mouths will meet again, when they can feel warm. They imagine sliding rings onto each other's fingers and realizing they won't ever have to be alone. This love is more important to them than the crashing and burning of the world around them; it's more important than the passengers aboard all those planes looking for any way to get away, to find something new.

The kiss they've felt a million times, the body they know by heart, these are the only tastes they need. Everything else is a waste, everything else is a dandelion wish in the wind. These lovers are jazz songs. The same series of notes playing forever, but always mutating, always striving to play new melodies and new songs, new records. I hope they never feel otherwise.

The sky is still blue, but the moon is already in position. It watches us dance and sing and scream and cry. It watches the kites that crash and the moments when they soar; it watches as it itself changes, meandering down its orbit, putting on a new dress.

There are so many planes in the sky. There have been so many days lately that i've wished myself to be a passenger on any of them headed anywhere, but today and for the past few days, Memphis has felt like a home as good as any. My heart isn't quite at rest, but it is moving the right way. When i talk with my friends, when the snow came, when i played stupid songs with and in front of my favorite friends: the spaces started to disappear. There is a girl with hair like the sun and eyes like what they used to say of the color of the gods. She speaks in ways that smooth the wind through my hair. One day we will be barefoot here, and this blanket will have more than a couple of books and a beer and a boy skribbling away. Things will be easy.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

or so i remember

How old am i?
there is a difference between age and experience; you kan have one without the other. duh right? right.
right.

today the wind was wonderful and my friends were there as the paths in the woods kept bringing us to pavement. we pretended we were pirates and the world disappeared. i forgot that i had not lived with them in the wilderness my whole life, but then i thought "well, maybe i have" but i havent, but maybe.
last night, travis and i found the wind, sitting on his porch swing. he drank a 40 and i was nervous, though it had nothing to do with the beer. it was the first time in a long time that we'd traded stories. its been a nice change of pace seeing him more often again. i bet he wrote that song about me too, unfortunatley. travis keeps his hair short these days. he's so strange. always changing everything.
today, shawn kame over, and somehow we met with travis at the park. shawn and i had bbq sandwiches, mine was perfekt (i think shawn liked his too). i was still up tight, though it had nothing to do with the night before. he asked me what it means to be nothing without others. i loaned him a book. shawn and i see eye to eye a lot. unless it has to do with our favorite and least favorite songs on cds, bekause usually we are opposites; though, we agree on the spaces inbetween. which, if you know much about my head lately (which you almost certainly do not) then you know that the inbetweens are what i'm looking for.

anything above that you think says "gay" is not.
jerk

i kept thinking it is time for a new moon. in fact, i got to thinking about it so much, that i was sure of it. konvinsed. this is when i started throwing "hope" into my logik. this is not the way to go. the moon is still crescent, and it takes longer to make a pass than i remembered. but thats how it always goes, or so i remember.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

How Bout These Shits

so i have kreated a blog despite my extreme hesitation. i have a habit of being revealing when i do journal type things, and i have no desire to have other folks reading all the krazy ways i'm feeling, however, there are times when i do not feel this way, and i embarrass myself. So i have desided to have the primary fokus of this journal to be an out put for my stories or poems or whatnot. Things in that vein. i like to write a bunch, and i like for people to look at what i write and tell me if its good or bad or take something from it or hate it or whatever it is that people think. this way i can do both, and being that i will be assuming that my friends read this thing sometimes, i will be enkouraged to work a bit harder on them. i know that's not really the right mentality for an aspiring writer, but that's what i've got going on. my fiction class at school is very amateur, and i'm always lazy with assignments as a result. maybe this will tighten my belt. maybe.

this also means that there will be times in whikh my postings will resemble journal entries, and it will be important to keep in mind that the events will kontain or will entirely be fiktion. or don't keep it in mind. maybe i'm lying. maybe they'll be totally honest. maybe.

i believe the first story i'll be posting will be one that i just turned in for klass that i happened to dig. i will edit it first of course. i kan't remember what i desided to title it. oh yes, Rocket Rides. I dont really like that title anymore, so i'll khange it by its posting