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Ick R Us's blog: "Just South of Blue."

created on 06/24/2012  |  http://fubar.com/just-south-of-blue/b348855  |  6 followers

Yeesh, this spot gets abandoned from time to time.
Well, I'm at this moment 29, nearing 30, and for the last week the lower half of my back has been grinding and freezing up, and biting at me.

This morning I couldn't get out of bed for a few hours due to surging, branching pain in my spine and back. Every disk felt shot, and every muscle group was wringing itself out.

It wasn't the worst pain of my life. By a long shot.
But it hurt.

And it sent me down a spiral of self-loathing and depression and flashbacks.

When every step made me wince, my family suggested I use my obummercarez and see a doctor, get x-rays, and get into physical therapy.

From my experience, physical therapy hurts.
And doctors cost money.
I cost thousands times more than what I earn.

It's a frustrating thought.

I'm terrified they'll find something, like bones eroding bones. And a projection that involves
I dunno
not walking
or spinal surgery
and more not walking.

Or a life of painkillers or pain.

Every little reminder, every little shooting pain, every little thing that reminds me of the accident sends me to dark, angry, hopeless places.
I get a daily taunting memo from the stranger that took what lingering hope and joy I had in my life.
Where every affirming or possitive thing is ecclipsed by fear, pain or a traumatic memory.

I can't work on a model if it knots my entire back, neck and arm.
I can't read, write or play for any extended period of time without a spasm or a shock of nerve or bone pain.
I can't go for a walk, do a pushup, or bendover to pet my dog without a raw grinding pain somewhere in my body.
I can't stand at a bench to work. I can barely sit in a cubicle to work on some mindless soul sucking task in exchange for money.

















It's killing me.

Slowly
Painfully
Every god damn day.












Will I see the doctor?
I dunno, I've put it off this long, and all they'll do is reaffirm once more that shit's bad.

I loved you like a stranger putting on pants
dust and cigarette butts
winnowing away in a puff,
after the first creeping sunlight of dawn.
Graffitti in the stall, sequences and liquids swapped.
From the top of an invisible tower to spit on the rest of that rainbow-bliss night.
The evergrowing list  of numbers I never put together.
The chances I didn't take twice.
The flick of fingertips in passing, always passing.

Faces seemed more real with scars.
Like there was a story we could share.
A touch we could have.
More intimate than lips.
More there than it was.
The moment it was before.

What does she see when she's making the change?
Shuffling with the lingering glance, and the stiff turn aside.
What would she have me feel today?
Something stolen and secret, like glimpsing through a naked mirror.
Shame came with my curiosity, but moreso my pleading.
Just a game worth losing. Where no win, score, or error will ever be recorded again.

 

Was there ever more?

Lemme just dust off a bit here.











Where to start?

I'm not dead.











Well, not entirely.

I think I've lost all vision and aspiration, but hey
that's poorly managed alcoholism and depression for you.













I can't get past the very base necessities right now, and until I do, I'm not going to get much of anything done.



My brother moved back to town, and that's been a mixed bag of envy and glee.

Glee because we barely missed a beat.
Envy because that son of a crazy person is working within three days of coming back.

Granted the job
is
HORRIBLE.
And his arms might not hold out. And summer is coming.
Unairconditioned warehouse, 100* heat with swamplike humidity
you do the math.

I don't want him to work there.

It's a job I can't and won't do.
But ... things are actually getting worse here, and I don't know where else to send him for work.


I quit smoking (again), but I've doubled down on hooch and snarky remarks.
And some sort of mega chronic-fatigue.
I feel like I'm walking in mud, all day. Been this way for months.
Doesn't matter sleep, coffee, routine, exercise.

I can never get started.
The simplest things are exhausting and rage-inducing.

Could be PTSD rearing its ugly head.
But I don't wanna be that weak and encumbered.

After this respiratory infection, I'm gonna get back to exercise, and I'm just going to stab myself in the leg with a fork until I'm up, mobile, and crushing my enemies.

Oh



and I might be the victim of identity theft and insurance fraud.

Yippy
fucking
skippy.















Other than that, books, robots, and more books. TV, movies and games are continuing to circle the drain as means of diversion.






There is no work here.
Much less imagination.

Low.
Barricaded.
Buried.

A place where nothing grows.
Nothing changes.
No magick metamorphose
No flickering ember of hope clasped desperately to a naive hero's chest.
Whispering "please" rather than "no".

No miracles.
No gods.
No more.

Dust dancing in the meek shafts of light.
A dry damp.
A linger of chores, and once beloved pet projects.

The crumbling walls.
The mildewy rafters.
The age.
The crumble.
The golden clarity of ignorance.

From which I could emerge
from the same old thresholds anew.
Unafraid.
Whole.




































I won't.

If I could write you a song about the green vales
dotted faintly with columbine and dandelion
with warm fingertips of sun brushing against the grass-

My soul would sing you an anthem
Chorus a hymn
March to a rally
Harmonize in rapture
Instead I belch a hollow dirge

Mourning the rags that wrap the cankers and bile
Clinging to the bones
grinding on bones.
With an unctuous rotten pump for a heart,
writhing only in defiance
hopelorne and full of a chill, bitter vitriol
beyond the grip of reason, power, and purpose.

I couldn't sleep but I had nothing else to do.

Well, that's a lie. I could read any of 9 books, or watch hundreds of hours of stolen footage up here, but it's just not in me right now.

I could be free clear, and done with a $10/hr full time job and a small loan.

House, land.

It doesn't escape me, but I've been stuck spinning my wheels since my brother came back for xmas.
Just haven't been able to get started.

Haven't felt a surge of confidence, or a particularly driving force.

Sure the threat of violence and crazy lingers from before.
It's ever present, and magnified when I'm alone.

I don't think I really left the day of the accident.
A part of me stopped there and stayed.
And nothing else feels real.

I'm horrified by those words, but there they are.

My brother says you can't live in the past.
Me.
Specifically.

He's been through -some- shit.

It was infuriating and brazen for him to say that to me.
Almost ignorant.
In a weirdly true way.

I have to move forward. I have to survive.
No one has made it clear to me why, but I've accepted that fact with a skeptical fanaticism.







The hope is I survive, and I get
away.

I'm safe, I'm private, and I'm away from the explosive rage of the strangers in my house, or the murmoring envy of unacquainted family.

Would a letter once a year suffice
of just the following words:
"I am well".

It'd be interesting to find out.

Descending a one-way street in the most bitter dark, and darkest cold.
Wondering if I'd rather go out on the hood of a drunk's car pretending to be Need For Faster, or 8 Furious; Electric Bugaloo.
Becoming increasingly confident that won't be a problem between the loss of feeling in my feet, and the encroaching plops, rustles, and stomps from the nearby night.

I'd be lying if I said this was all for you.
In the middle of an empty street at that.

One can only bear the casual bitchy glares
and all-too comfortable contempt
for so many days
without breaking one's nails off in the door frame,
or swallowing a small piece of tongue.

The cabin isn't too far off, no doubt overflowing with khaki wearing hipsters, and coats too thin,
and malted fruity drinks packaged with a lead balloon daydream
for hipsters trying to be ironic
or at least expressively sardonic
and wet, green kids with uncut drinking teeth.

Oh how I longed for a carnival of my own genre
a flicker-glimpse of a generation lost.
Perhaps a thinning scalp, and a hardened harumph.
I made due for briefly holding the narrow hips of diary-sworn crushes
a mere lifetime ago. Once confessed. And never returned.

Then came the noise.
Then the gratuitous sway and beat.
And a parting slap on the back after a blur of cigarette breaks and yeah-dudes.

I turned to leave the last one I knew.
Thinking sadly,
perhaps
never again.

Uphill, doubly chill, and mostly anonymous.



I never expected life to be so crystalline blue.
So distant, and pleading.
A delicate flicker against the dark infinite gale.







Enraged silence choked the spree of chaos in my mind
like the moments before being forcefully slid into the welcome depths of sleep
now oblivion.













I resigned to the cold.
It was too loud, too great
and everywhere,
and I was just the me.
In the one place.
The one  time.

Singing in a tube.
The smell of wet pavement and dirty water
strolled through my nose
and loitered in my lungs.
Power was still on.
Third and final notice.
The radio refused to yield.

Can't find my shoes.
Shirts are all matted with footprints
outlined in dog hair and dust.

I'd smoke outside if it was coming down just a little lighter.
Steps make a skidding of refuse and remnants.
There might've been a note in all that.
Only we never said goodbye.

Is it true that I have to?
What gets out when I do?
What remains?

An experience and softness for someone a little less withered.
A lot less hollow.
The kind of caricatures of happy people you see smiling
and haunting the places we think they should be.
A painted-on toothy grin and a glassy stare.
As loud as any whimper for help.

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