"Just in case you never knew
I miss you slim, I love you too
See my heart it's black and blue
When I die I will find you"
From My Lovely Man- RHCP
RIP Jigga McSweet aka TG the Llama Boy
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Friday, December 16, 2011
Phases
Life is a serious of phases; kicks that we all get on that we follow for a while until they become dull then we move on to something new and exciting. Sometimes those kicks stick with us longer than others and sometimes they turn into genuine parts of our lives forever.
Think about the type of music that people listen to. It has changed drastically over time, at least for me. As a kid born in the 80’s I of course went on a Metallica kick. For about two years I wanted to be in a death metal band. Then all the sudden I discovered Alternative music and stuck with that for a while. In college I went through a folk music kick. Then I had a classic rock kick and a hip hop/rap kick. Now I listen to a combination of all those things because they represent different parts of my life, different memories that I have had. Specific songs from those different kicks stuck to me and shaped my musical taste into what I like to think is a very eclectic mess and at the same time they have shaped a part of me.
These kicks occurred in the types of girls that I was attracted to, the types of books that I read, the career I wanted to have, the movies I watched and the people I associated myself with. They are how I became me.
By 25 I was sure I knew myself. I had been through the kicks and settled on the things I knew I liked and the things I knew I didn’t like. I was an adult living on my own. I was ready to live my life. The training was over.
The thing is, all those kicks cannot prepare you for experiences that you have never been exposed to like love or death.
I thought for sure that I knew what love was through my experience with shallow one night stands, casual relationships and semi-serious ones. I didn’t know shit though.
I had experienced death through the loss of a grandparent or distant aunt, but I never experienced real true loss in my life.
We are all experts in life, until it finds a way to punch us right in the mouth.
Think about the type of music that people listen to. It has changed drastically over time, at least for me. As a kid born in the 80’s I of course went on a Metallica kick. For about two years I wanted to be in a death metal band. Then all the sudden I discovered Alternative music and stuck with that for a while. In college I went through a folk music kick. Then I had a classic rock kick and a hip hop/rap kick. Now I listen to a combination of all those things because they represent different parts of my life, different memories that I have had. Specific songs from those different kicks stuck to me and shaped my musical taste into what I like to think is a very eclectic mess and at the same time they have shaped a part of me.
These kicks occurred in the types of girls that I was attracted to, the types of books that I read, the career I wanted to have, the movies I watched and the people I associated myself with. They are how I became me.
By 25 I was sure I knew myself. I had been through the kicks and settled on the things I knew I liked and the things I knew I didn’t like. I was an adult living on my own. I was ready to live my life. The training was over.
The thing is, all those kicks cannot prepare you for experiences that you have never been exposed to like love or death.
I thought for sure that I knew what love was through my experience with shallow one night stands, casual relationships and semi-serious ones. I didn’t know shit though.
I had experienced death through the loss of a grandparent or distant aunt, but I never experienced real true loss in my life.
We are all experts in life, until it finds a way to punch us right in the mouth.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
The Vagabond (a short story by me)
A man walks the crowded streets of a nameless city. No one knows his name, feels sorry for him, or longs for his presence.
People passing by don’t make eye contact with him, smile at him, or even say a polite hello. To them he is the scum of the earth, the homeless and unemployed bum; a drain on society, an eyesore and the poster child for the cause of urban flight.
He walks slowly as others hustle through their lives often bumping into him. Instead of apologies he receives dirty looks, middle fingers and sometimes an “OUTTA MY WAY!” or “GET A JOB.”
His hair is long, grey and tangled in knots. His skin is dry and cracked as sores are scattered about his body. His clothes are old, tattered, dirty and soiled. An odor follows him everywhere.
He is burnt and blistered from the hot summer sun in which he spends his days begging for spare change as the people scurry past without a glance. Shadows serve as his oasis, but still he can’t quite escape the rising mercury.
In the winter he is forced to barricade himself in makeshift shelters of newspaper and cardboard, but it can’t keep him safe from the arctic air which steals his breath and freezes his skin.
The dark alleys of the city are where he sleeps, endlessly tossing and turning on the pavement while fighting off the terrors of the night.
Light bulbs flicker and strange creatures lurk in the shadows scavenging for food to steal away to their burrows. Not even they call the man “friend” as they nip at his clothes and his bare calloused skin as he sleeps.
Like the creatures, the man lives off the scraps of food discarded in the trash. He drinks and bathes in rain puddles and fountains.
He is always in mental and physical anguish, but can’t get the help or medicine he needs because no one will lend a helping hand.
He doesn’t know the time, the day of the week, the month, or even the year. He no longer cares to know any of them because to him it doesn’t make a difference. He only knows that every day is the worst day of his life and is spent hungry, alone and without a home.
He would end it all, but he is too weak, too sick, and knows that it wouldn’t make a difference to anyone if he did.
His life used to be different. He once had a family and friends but along the way they disappeared. Not even he knows when or why anymore.
***
One night the man drifts to sleep never to wake again. The cancer that unknowingly riddled his body kills him painfully in the night.
Three days pass before he is found. When he is, the body is treated with no respect, no reverence, as if it is just another piece of trash to be swept from the streets.
No one comes to claim him. No one will visit his grave or shed a tear for him. No one will know he ever existed. And so in death he will remain a vagabond.
People passing by don’t make eye contact with him, smile at him, or even say a polite hello. To them he is the scum of the earth, the homeless and unemployed bum; a drain on society, an eyesore and the poster child for the cause of urban flight.
He walks slowly as others hustle through their lives often bumping into him. Instead of apologies he receives dirty looks, middle fingers and sometimes an “OUTTA MY WAY!” or “GET A JOB.”
His hair is long, grey and tangled in knots. His skin is dry and cracked as sores are scattered about his body. His clothes are old, tattered, dirty and soiled. An odor follows him everywhere.
He is burnt and blistered from the hot summer sun in which he spends his days begging for spare change as the people scurry past without a glance. Shadows serve as his oasis, but still he can’t quite escape the rising mercury.
In the winter he is forced to barricade himself in makeshift shelters of newspaper and cardboard, but it can’t keep him safe from the arctic air which steals his breath and freezes his skin.
The dark alleys of the city are where he sleeps, endlessly tossing and turning on the pavement while fighting off the terrors of the night.
Light bulbs flicker and strange creatures lurk in the shadows scavenging for food to steal away to their burrows. Not even they call the man “friend” as they nip at his clothes and his bare calloused skin as he sleeps.
Like the creatures, the man lives off the scraps of food discarded in the trash. He drinks and bathes in rain puddles and fountains.
He is always in mental and physical anguish, but can’t get the help or medicine he needs because no one will lend a helping hand.
He doesn’t know the time, the day of the week, the month, or even the year. He no longer cares to know any of them because to him it doesn’t make a difference. He only knows that every day is the worst day of his life and is spent hungry, alone and without a home.
He would end it all, but he is too weak, too sick, and knows that it wouldn’t make a difference to anyone if he did.
His life used to be different. He once had a family and friends but along the way they disappeared. Not even he knows when or why anymore.
***
One night the man drifts to sleep never to wake again. The cancer that unknowingly riddled his body kills him painfully in the night.
Three days pass before he is found. When he is, the body is treated with no respect, no reverence, as if it is just another piece of trash to be swept from the streets.
No one comes to claim him. No one will visit his grave or shed a tear for him. No one will know he ever existed. And so in death he will remain a vagabond.
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