Archive for August, 2011

forget me

I found this on my hard drive, I remember writing it, but the emotions attached to it had flown. It comes back as I mouth the words, the cadences rolling through my mind; pause, line, break: feel.

I’ve always enjoyed the fact that once I’ve written something down, something that made me feel or was the result of something I had felt that it comes back the moment I re-read it.

It’s a time capusle, a glimpse at who you were and what you felt at some past moment in your life.

What a gift. Language, I mean; the ability to capture the abstract and ephemeral and set it down forever.

forget me

familiar paths and hallways,
flow by me.
forget me.

i can’t sleep anymore,
you’ll never feel the cold,
because you’re not for me (i’m not for you).
forget me.

seasons grow brittle,
i’d like to escape.
forget me.

i’m freezing in this endless summer,
i’d build a world for you,
but i’m no longer that kind of joy.
forget me.

I may have posted this before, or maybe I had read it recently, It just feels familiar. I wrote it five years ago and it still resonates. My life runs in concentric circles. Growing ever outward, encompassing more and more time and space, and yet somehow still drawn to the same spaces that my mind inhabits, in perpetuity? Perhaps, but for now, yes.


I’ve survived many things that by all rights should have ended my career here on earth.

I have pondered that many times over the course of my life. I’ve wondered if it were a question of purpose- perhaps I am not finished with whatever it is I was placed here to do.

I’ve thought maybe I am just incredibly lucky in such instances, that somehow just the right combination of factors has allowed me to come through such episodes.

I wonder if perhaps He is always watching over me, keeping me (relatively) safe and sane. That thought, though tied to purpose, is comforting.

Be that as it may, I think that concept of free will forces more exploration, incites theories and gives me an answer that is one part ego, one part hope and several parts speculation:

I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the the fires that burned around me.

So what happens if that fire goes out or runs low on fuel, begins to flicker and die…what happens if I let it be blown out?

Is that something that can be relit?

As always, questions spawn questions, create questions, form more questions.

With a fire

“…and you say ‘sorry’ like the angel heaven let me think was you, but I’m afraid: it’s too late to apologize, it’s too late…”

Ever hear a song that reminds you of someone you wish you could forget?

I’m sure you have.

It happens to me constantly, but the song I snatched some lyrics from is one that reminds me of too many people at once. I’ve got three different versions of it on my iPhone. I was listening to some music and editing my novel and with some insane roll of the dice my shuffle played all three in a row.

I don’t know what the odds are on that one but I’m sure it’s a statistical nightmare.

I can barely fathom the feeling. It seems like every shed tear hit me at once, as though my heart broke and re-broke several times over with nothing to break the fall. Just a series of near-fatal crashes; one atop the next.

Images, scenes and still-frames fly by me, happiness turns to tears, love becomes hatred and rounds back again. The cycle flows through faces, places and names.

I re-lived half a lifetime in what was surely only minutes.

I find the happiness so fleeting but somehow the sadness sticks. It holds you, like hands made of razor blades; each caress draws blood, and I am furious at myself for believing.

And then, almost as soon as it began, it was over, spent like a cloudburst. I found my center, heart beating wildly, breathing ragged and uneven.

It felt exactly like that moment your head breaks the surface after staying underwater too long.

It was surely one of the oddest things I’ve ever experienced.

I absolutely hate it when my powers of description desert me.


I was going through the last few months of posts while I silently debated the direction of my novel.

Dear add meds, thanks for the focus necessary for the aforementioned multitasking.

It’s funny, I’d never been able to focus on my studies, in high school they assumed I was bored with the curriculum and I was, just not in the manner they supposed.

I was talking to my dad about the fact that I was never diagnosed with it until college because my ‘rents don’t believe that add exists. He said, “sucks to have hippie parents doesn’t it boy?” and recommended a heavy metal detox to improve my concentration.

God love ya dad.

In any case, my grades are always good, although I sincerely have no idea how to study. Luckily for me I can skate by with my (very nearly) perfect memory for anything I see, hear or read.

I often wonder where I’d be today if my ability to concentrate were a match for my memory.

C’est la vie, nothing is truly gained by such exercises. I am where I am meant to be. Although I’d imagine that I’d at least have taken over this hemisphere by now if I weren’t so easily distracted by shiny things.

“I have known no man of genius who had not to pay, in some affliction or defect, either physical or spiritual, for what the gods had given him.”

~Max Beerbohm

At any rate, the new power cord for my laptop arrived yesterday and I am writing furiously, insensate to all else that flows by me. I had been literally lost, ideas running through my mind with no outlet, no place for them to go; folding back in among themselves, combining with other ideas: a confused welter of thoughts and feelings, melting into a stream of potential.

It’s always the visual. I can literally see a glowing flow of them running through my mind. Close my eyes and there they are, golden and gleaming, lit up like a city against the dark tapestry of my mind.

Waiting, rushing forth at my call, begging me to make them real.

Cold Summer

A definite – and by proxy definitive – coldness had (has) entered my life. Maybe the passion is gone, but the people I speak of had become important parts of my life. I do not feel passionately about my right hand, but I cannot imagine living my life without it.

I find that I tend to shut down emotionally when I’m hurt by someone, I become cold, unaware – to an extent, unfeeling. I try not to, I try earnestly to internalize the pain, to experience the heartache fully and then to let it go. My subconscious betrays me constantly in this, it will only let me go so far before it’s automatic safeties kick in. Failsafes my mind has designed to protect me. I despise my subconscious at times like those, I think that it gets in the way of healing, of closure.

I seem to talk about closure a lot. I have found that no relationship is free of problems, the issues are always one of scale; in the sense of scale of the issue personally and perspectively.

One person is always more hurt than the other, one person always thinks the issue more serious than the other and this creates a schism. A cataclysm. A break.

It’s hard to recover from such things as a unit, one person always gives up.

I’m not completely certain of whom I am speaking of at this juncture, only that the last couple of years have been hard on the heart and draining in my soul. I find a new cynicism vying with my natural optimism; fighting for equal footing in my thoughts.

My ideals battle my experience: in my mind, in my dreams, there are two Ryan’s; each with his own diametrically opposed views, speaking words that I can never hear and when I awake I never know which of them wears my face.

99 Problems

I had started a post a day or so ago, typically (of late anyway) it was somewhat whiny, slightly philosophical; a dubious contribution to literature.

Then I watched a documentary about Burma, shot in secret by a man who risked prison by taking video of daily life in his own country.

That’s what real problems look like.

Check it out if you’ve got hbo or can find it: Burma VJ: Reporting from a closed country

99 Problems

I had started a post a day or so ago, typically (of late anyway) it was somewhat whiny, slightly philosophical; a dubious contribution to literature.

Then I watched a documentary about Burma, shot in secret by a man who risked prison by taking video of daily life in his own country.

That’s what real problems look like.

Check it out if you’ve got hbo or can find it: Burma VJ: Reporting from a closed country


There is no such thing as someday. There will never be a later. Either you go after what it is that you want or watch it fade away forever.

I can live with the regrets I have, because I only regret things that I have not done, or waited too long to say.

I regret chances I didn’t take, risks I thought too much.

There is only now, yesterday is simply wasted time, tomorrow is a might have been and the ephemeral future; hazy and indistinct, beckons with a frenzy born of desperation. It screams and wails and rages against your plans, and your hopes and dreams fall away.

Only you have the power to create a destiny that you can live with, it seems that there is no “we” in this, the land of eternal “I’s”.

“And I wonder why, I never wonder why, the easiest things are so hard.”

When you look back what do you see?


Have you ever noticed how many pharmaceutical commercials there are these days? It’s a little weird. What I really want to know is why do so many of these drugs cause anal leakage? I feel like that is a rather unacceptable side effect.

Just sayin.

For once, I really don’t have much else to say. Odd, I know.

Maybe later.

Moi Aussi

Today I am looking back.

Not going back, but looking; a vista through the rearview mirror. Encased in a frame and seen peripherally as I continue to move away.

I see so many people, left behind, standing lonely or in pairs. Separated, cut off.

I wonder if sometimes I am too harsh when I cut people out of my life. I wonder if I believe in redemption or if it is a fairy tale like so many other concepts we are taught, then forget.

I find it harder and harder to forgive people’s trespasses, (this is a bad thing, in both of the traditions I am heir to) and I wonder if I’ve been forgiven.

I do not want to become cold, unfeeling. I remember that young man, he did not feel much pain, but neither did he feel much joy. I wonder if we really do define our lives in terms of levels of misery; if we have to feel tragedy to know miracles.

I always think that I think too much, and consequently sometimes I do not think enough.

I have made many mistakes, I’d like to think I’ve learned from them. I wish I had more trust in people, I find that I keep most at arms length, outside the wall, circling the moat like a band of hungry sharks.

Always my metaphor is dark.

I need a vacation.