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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  |  8 followers

Things are slowly grinding to a state of reduced panic.
Not to jynx anything, but I'm nearly out of the hole for the year.

We could call this phase 2, but that'd be jumping the gun, it's more of a phase 1.3. When I hit $0, I can start building. Until that moment, we're doing some recreational research on food preservation/prep/handling.
Next month will likely be water capture and purification.

Back permitting, stone structures would like to be introduced on the agenda.

I think I have a year one crop picked out. Hopefully it's robust and not too monotonous after 365 days. I think I need to pick a grain, but have you seen all the trouble people go to harvesting and threshing that shit?

*stopped to read an article about landmass required to feed one person*
Holy shit this is more possible than I originally thought...


*stops to read more*
I'm sorry this is intriguing.

In less than a week I will be 30.
We tend to look back on years ending in 0 as the big ones. We tend to count scars, and tell tales, and tally our achievements to date.

2014 will not be the year I look back fondly on, and say "there, that's when everything -started- to get right". It came close. At the end there was a slightly diminished threat against my life after delaying a massacre in 2013, I was in a promising and positive relationship with a woman that loved me, and I had a full time job for the first time in years. My mother, father, and girlfriend were proud of me.
And my brother and his wife had moved in with us.

With that came conflict, chaos, and hurled decade-old resentment spewing like black tendrils of vitriol and hate.
On a nearly bi-weekly basis.

I've been asked to disregard it on those (and many other) occasions. Chalking it up to "stress".

But this post was about me. It's all about me, isn't it?
If I were to cease to exist, what could possibly remain of all this?

2014 is when the most promising romantic relationship of my lifetime (up to this point)
ended. Abruptly, and unnegotiably.
2014 is when I was mostly financially cut off despite needing a new car, and several thousand dollars of out of pocket medical expenses from an injury sustained due to someone else's drunk driving. The service provided was of no help, only expense, and suggested by my loved ones that refused to foot the bill.
2014 is when I got said job, and immediately set stacks of my hard earned labor on fire
paying endlessly for what was stolen from me.

And 2015 promises to be "the year of the move". Wherein my brother and his wife will vacate this place, move four blocks south, and start a business.
On my birthday.
On my 30th birthday.

I will acknowledge that there have been absurd, ridiculous challenges to their acquiring a house, loan, price, settlement, inspection, closing, license.
Etc. Et Al.

But in our lives we move many
many times.

How many times do we turn 30?

How many times do we get off probation and taste the free air of another far-off country?
How many times do we graduate college, the youngest in our family's history?

I feel as though my life is one parade cancelled after another.
And I have watched my life
burn
at the hands of thieves, tormentors and idiots

and I grow so tired of losing it.

2014 was going to be the year I took, but my heart softened, and my hate was shunned, abolished, and misunderstood by the people closest to me.

2015 holds no promises, no title, no tagline.
2015 will likely close as it opened. Timid, and spent in mindless toil at the whim of cruel, oblivious, grinding fate.

My year plan had to become a two year plan.
My year 30, with all its pomp and ceremony will be canceled due to more enticing festivities down the road.

After all? What have I accomplished?
We can say we are our own masters, that life is what we make of it, that we choose how to react.
That's not the truth. That's what the untested say to valorize themselves against people that no longer can control their situation and fall to it.

Some people are victims, and I don't even count myself in that category after abuse physical, experimentation sexual, parents absent, and peers malicious. Brain chemistry depressing, intellect superior, facaulties impeded, judgment impaired, addiction immenent, criminals and fiends everywhere.

I am not a victim. More was taken from me than I had, I couldn't process that.

I am simply defeated. I have not yet reassembled from that fact
despite my efforts.

But I am trying.

So ask not, on this holy day of zeros, what I've accomplished.
Ask not what I plan, what I hope, what I can.

Ask me if there's anything left; and I will strangle you with the bloody stumps I clawed my way out of hell with.

I will have my house, I will have my peace, and I will quit this world as I've intended. Just not right now.

That won't even be 2015. That won't even be 30.
But there's something... frighteningly heartbreaking about not having your thirtieth birthday.
Something I thought I was above, beyond, and over, but the truth is it hurts.

I'm a walking raw, exposed nerve rebuilding scabs, and spikes around that wound, and I manage to feel -that- of all things.

That's what I manage to feel?
Like some sniveling second child on his sibling's birthday?
Only... it's my birthday.
And it's all about me.
Where would you even be, without me?
















I want my day. I want it to be special, and I want to remember it fondly surrounded by friends and family. I want something that will briefly distract me from the gray purgatory of theft, pain, and delay my life has become.

I won't have it. That's the simple fact of the matter.

I guess that's my fault.
I mean, it has to be, right?

This week is going to be a strange cocktail of emboldened, stoic, bitter determination and basic hurt feelings.

Sometimes I ask what I am.
Who I am.

The answer was never all that clear.
I'm afraid.

So I build great, towering walls of spikes and stones.
I thought when I learned my name
the one my father's mother gave me
things would be more clear.
Be more compact, concise.

Right.

That never was the case.
I'm just an unwanted son of an unwanted son.

That's what I am.
A stone bear surrounded by mirror-mazes
and crude, sharp spires blistering in the afternoon sun.

But what would I make of my life?
What would I answer, to who?

The mirrors all face outward.
So you'll see a not-unkind smile.
And sad, weary eyes, assuming the worst.
Never who. Never me.

I drifted in naked oblivion.
Til I found my last clean pair of blue jeans.
A wadded roll of 20's coupons, 1's
Numbers I'll never dial, notes I won't write.
Jesus I need a cigarette. Or three.
Maybe I should call. It is her birthday.
She's probably out with someone better.
Some lockjaw'd, strongarm'd doucher with great hair
a fruity scent, secure, boring sameness
Good smile, and twice the car you'll never own.

Like she'd go for that, when once, maybe twice,
she fell for you. By some bargain or trick.
I doubt she thinks half as much about you.
Such harsh reality breeds moody prose.
The kind you quit cold turkey in high school,
fell off the wagon, and divorced again.
Couldn't be worse than that week you were goth.
Or the six other times you were in love.
Too bad, without her, this lost all meaning.
Can it be found in ten short syllables?

I haven't found it.

Before I simply was,
I resented it on some level,
but before there was something in myself
reassuring me that there was more.

Everything became a sum
calculated to the tenth of a cent in time, goods, effort, and return.
In ever diminishing return.
My bones continue to grind in thanotic anticipation
and as I peek one breath above, gasping,
I'm deluged in bullshit anew.

I remember feeling more. I remember words birthing,
and a bittersweet mosaic of colors and life.
Flavors and foulness.
Joy, and glib pacification of passion.

It was taken, some say lost, some say sold.
Vacant, absent, regardless.

It's like falling off a bike.
The same bike.
On the same pavement.
Skidded palms first. Skidded rest as we come to.
And the static acid of dirt laden scrapes and crumpled faces.
More asphalt than blood. More halt than stop.

Things got dusty while I was pretending to sleep.
Same dream of a warm, crowded bed.
The smell of pre-winter dawn,
and the promise of cigarettes laced with tomato juice.
A chance morning-breath kiss on dry lips,
askew to wopper-jawed straps.
Matted hair in your face.
And the baby-duck stumble of dead legs and limbs.
Waggling a wrinkled pair of cotton panties as you vault over me to get to the can first.

These are the things they'll take from me first.

I got a job.
It's not great, I've had worse, and it doesn't physically harm me.
I've got a nut job sniffing around to murder me when my guard is down.
I went to the doctor.
I got overbilled and fucked over a barrel.
More expenses pending.

Three months working, and I'm about wiped out instantly.
I'm in the process of contesting the amount to get a write-off.

The prices they're asking are for guys covered in gold-rimmed monocles.
I have no monocles.

I'm on the thinnest, narrowest margin of my finances, homelife, love life, professional life, all colliding and imploding at the same moment.

I haven't been this broke since I was drunk.
Drunk sounds pretty good about now.

Every time I pick up a strand, another three fall out of my hand.










Weird thing is I've been in much, much worse positions.

I'm becoming accutely numb, but harassed.

I just need something to make this all... more worth it than it is.

It was.
Before.
But that was a moment ago.
That moment is gone.
At the moment.

I imagine my dog will pass away before I get a new place.
This place will have to do for a bit.

I dunno what's after that.

Squirreling my nuts away for another thieving accident, whore, or house fire I suppose. Or literal thieves. I am down several thousand over that still.

I'm going to crush this under my heel,
and emerge a shade darker than blue.
But it's not like to be worth it without you.


Because when I have it.
Fort, vault, hoarde,
there won't be anything left.

That's a scary thought.

What's to want, after have?

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?

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