It's Like the Military Without Honor
Sunday, July 15, 2007
This stuff tends to fall out of me on planes. I have ideas for things-books, stories, cut up fiction, sometimes a movie, though i doubt i have the stones for such a thing. The stuff i throw up here is like excercise. The next thing is something i just started fiddling with, sort of an idea that a woman marries a guy who isn't the most truthful, he appears to be callous and simple. Its only in his passing that she truly finds our who he was afraid to be. And I think thats something most of us can learn from. the fear. I mean, I sit in my 20 story five start hotel in Tokyo and I am afraid. i am lonely and confused, even though i can see the japanese eiffel tower. Yes, i know it makes little sense. What do you want from me? its been a country each day for a week. Anyhow, this is one of the excerpts from the thing, one of the things. forgive the punctuation as always. Pretend one of those well accessorized women with a house that has everything just so is reading this..
I will make more words. I think.
The idea that you one day will read this is making me tipsy. If you are indeed holding this piece of paper in your small, well looked after hands, then that means one or two things.
I am gone and not coming back, OR-
You are snooping in my stuff and should burn in a tiny little hell. Since this is in my safe deposit box, I seriously doubt that you found the key or bank (First National) and made it in the vault.
However, let me say that whatever time we have post me writing this I appreciated a million times more than the most gracious of all gestures. I truly shall, from when the ink dries, try to swallow you, your aura, your essence-wholly and constantly until my arms stop working.
We’ve been in and out of each other’s visual space for over five years. Most of the things wrong with us I have been able to Jedi mind trick you into thinking it was you, but it was really me.
I was scared. I hate talking about my feelings. And I did think that skirt made your ass look just fine. I never thought it was fat. Really.
Maybe during the chase for this paper you have somehow forgiven me for leaving, for expiring. It wasn’t my wish but the journey wore me out. (it hasn’t as I write this but its near, the end I mean.)
The constant uphill battles and the sheer magnitude of the effort I had to make to get through a day have just smoked me. I didn’t or rather I won’t give up, I just know that I am running nearly on fumes. But please reflect on the good, the sunny well soundtracked trajectory of our love, the noises, the tastes. Remember those trips? Remember the coming and going? We were dizzy with each other. That reminds me, when I see you next after finishing this, I am going to twirl you like Ricky twirled Lucy. And I will kiss and hug you for no reason. Yes, I shall. So when you rewind the time we shared, our last few months, remember this. Through all of the silly romantic, Notebook styled shenanigans I was aware of the end of the tunnel. I was trying to give you and myself a scrapbook, like one of those really attractive couples in one of those really attractive films that people like us go see and wish we could live in real life. Dear, I am not trying to rub your face in it. I want to make up for wasting time.
I just want some credit for being better than a C plus husband. I want you to know, you MOVED me. You made me go longer, harder. You compelled me to be a better man, cliché as it sounds. I was attempting to be Cary Grant or Mickey Rourke (before his boxing career) albeit not as sexy, rich or well groomed. But that, the effort, perceived or not, was because I felt as if you deserved better than just okay, or just a plain old two megapixel love. You deserve as many megapixels as a nerd can count.
So please, go on. Make it loud. Live in color. For me. Tell me things, just up above your shoulder to the air, like the ceiling will answer-maybe it will. I will watch. I will envy whomever scoops you up, whomever finds the treasure that you are.
So that’s it. Sorry to go. Forever isn’t long enough. I promise to not flush q tips anymore either. Really.
I will make more words. I think.
The idea that you one day will read this is making me tipsy. If you are indeed holding this piece of paper in your small, well looked after hands, then that means one or two things.
I am gone and not coming back, OR-
You are snooping in my stuff and should burn in a tiny little hell. Since this is in my safe deposit box, I seriously doubt that you found the key or bank (First National) and made it in the vault.
However, let me say that whatever time we have post me writing this I appreciated a million times more than the most gracious of all gestures. I truly shall, from when the ink dries, try to swallow you, your aura, your essence-wholly and constantly until my arms stop working.
We’ve been in and out of each other’s visual space for over five years. Most of the things wrong with us I have been able to Jedi mind trick you into thinking it was you, but it was really me.
I was scared. I hate talking about my feelings. And I did think that skirt made your ass look just fine. I never thought it was fat. Really.
Maybe during the chase for this paper you have somehow forgiven me for leaving, for expiring. It wasn’t my wish but the journey wore me out. (it hasn’t as I write this but its near, the end I mean.)
The constant uphill battles and the sheer magnitude of the effort I had to make to get through a day have just smoked me. I didn’t or rather I won’t give up, I just know that I am running nearly on fumes. But please reflect on the good, the sunny well soundtracked trajectory of our love, the noises, the tastes. Remember those trips? Remember the coming and going? We were dizzy with each other. That reminds me, when I see you next after finishing this, I am going to twirl you like Ricky twirled Lucy. And I will kiss and hug you for no reason. Yes, I shall. So when you rewind the time we shared, our last few months, remember this. Through all of the silly romantic, Notebook styled shenanigans I was aware of the end of the tunnel. I was trying to give you and myself a scrapbook, like one of those really attractive couples in one of those really attractive films that people like us go see and wish we could live in real life. Dear, I am not trying to rub your face in it. I want to make up for wasting time.
I just want some credit for being better than a C plus husband. I want you to know, you MOVED me. You made me go longer, harder. You compelled me to be a better man, cliché as it sounds. I was attempting to be Cary Grant or Mickey Rourke (before his boxing career) albeit not as sexy, rich or well groomed. But that, the effort, perceived or not, was because I felt as if you deserved better than just okay, or just a plain old two megapixel love. You deserve as many megapixels as a nerd can count.
So please, go on. Make it loud. Live in color. For me. Tell me things, just up above your shoulder to the air, like the ceiling will answer-maybe it will. I will watch. I will envy whomever scoops you up, whomever finds the treasure that you are.
So that’s it. Sorry to go. Forever isn’t long enough. I promise to not flush q tips anymore either. Really.
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