a balance of opposites

to be shared on the day of your lord, 

dec 31.2014


its been said by someone greater than i, that a happy writer is a shit writer. i've read and have listened to records by the greats and its just a scientific fact that its when an artist is grasping at straws and trying his damnedest not to off himself is when the best work shines through. it's when you have nothing left and youre in the death throes of losing even that last bit of your mind that you are free to create the most beautiful pictures. the grandness in the flailing.
so then, it is the heavy hand of death that makes one seek to live vividly. death is the greatest artist of us all. or the muse-iest siren ever to sing her hymns to those frail enough to admire her voice.

i, by no means, consider myself a great writer. i recently forgot how to use commas. i am an idiot in sheeps clothing. but i do gett off on the creation of something from nothingness. the blank page, suddenly alive in blood, sweat, tears or other fluid. catharsis. a mark on the world to even when deleted or torn from the bind of the old empty journal... a mark nonetheless. that is coolness to me. that is where i feel, when so much of the time i can't feel anything. that's why i will always return to her broken brownstone arches on the wrong side of the tracks to get another taste... just another hit... just one fix more...

so this murderous ravaging mass of finality and cause screams, and some of us go tractorbeam forth blinded by the light, bugs blindly flying to that glowing flicker flame.

but when happiness is apparent. when the world has finally shone such a light on your total mediocrity, returning to those broken places where you keep your cigarbox of doubt and self-deprecation and dashed hopes and dreams, is the last place you wanna be found. the last place you want to have your light find you.

sadness breeds art. how good that art is based on how true the artist can be with himself. how limitless he can stand amongst the ruins with all of the walls down to show you where mommy and daddy failed and where all the girls with their hidden agendas got in and rearranged things. where all the atrocities of time and history and the world all fucked him over deeply without him even knowing it was all hurting. where the smell from all the burnt bridges singes the nose, settles smokey into your hair and skin.

happiness is the enemy of art. this is true. i have come to this platform several times over this last year with a voice in my head wanting out... things i've thought i wanted to say. eulogies to spill over. stories to share.

KEEP IT SIMPLE STUPID. id tell myself in someone elses voice, not my own.



the fact is... im happy and i know my art is suffering because of it.

ive been on a slow sad train for the better part of my life and as that train rolled into another sad station in april this year, my life would be changed by the magick that i am still experiencing. and she is robbing you ALL of my art. but i seriously could never trade her for anything else. love is such a strange division of death. the feels are kinda the same but totally opposite. because i met this woman... and i want to sing all the songs from the mountaintops. and i want to write sonnets with the vibrations that she sends through me like electrical currents. and i want to write her name on all the cathedrals because they will be the only thing left standing when we are all dead and gone... but i come here. and i am too happy to feel like i have written anything worth a damn, and i feel like i have cheated you.



thats just gonna have to be how it goes dummies! if there's one thing ive learned in life, it's you gotta get used to feeling cheated.

xistence

you cre8 a tiny little universe.

spin a world round this burning nuclear core

decide the light source, the wind, the seasons

you populate your worldview with those things you love in your good image, and make them so.

you invite those sleeping visages in, naming each one something clever. (you're so clever)

you stand tall and prideful in your little planet, nurturing its delicate sensibilities.

temperance. grace.

its Quiet meanders.

its all points south.

its colors and colours.

every. slight. variation.

different. plains. of. existence.

(difrnt planes of xtc)

you paint yourself into corners with the right people at the wrong times and the wrong people at the wrong times you believed were right times.

alcohol. meditations. mediations. medications. televised radio film. to numb your imperfections and set yourself to measuring holograms of greatness against all of your fears.

you give yourself a heaven to deny, fearing the hell you gave yourself may be all too real.

you make up ions of past thought to confuse the simple thoughts you once had into belief that you were always so advanced. 

you've heard all the bands. you've seen all the films. you've read all the books. 

you love. so very much. so many things. so very deeply. 

you created love. hid it away. look for where you hid it. daily.

constantly aching. desperately wanting.

you know the saying about the 90% of your mind you don't use isn't scientifically true, but dimensionally, that vast percentage is universally working on the next scene change.

the next dress rehearsal.

for someone, like you. 

that's not you.

while you sit alone in fear. in a painted corner. clinging to everything you've ever lost. every band you've heard. every film you've ever seen. every word you've ever read. every love... gone.

they have found the reason for our begins. they have found the bend in space in our life neath the magnet of giants. the birth of our self importance. the anti-matter of our destruction.

time as a flat circle.

blaming it on the black stars.

the balance of opposites.

and you never learned how to be happy.

(get over yourself, please.)

L O V e

this isn’t so much about the skull of st. valentine in a lonely basilica with a label bearing the name "st. valentine"on it. nor do i feel the need to discuss the 60 percent markup on anything red or pink or flower that may be considered arbitrarily, beautiful sold to masses of lazy lovers. and this isn’t a heart wrench or a cry that you hear at night. this isn't all the bitemarks. the scratches. the ripping or the tearing. this is love. it's truest essence, and what it means to me. 

oh sing muse!

 

love is so fucking real, right!? like just this eruption in spirit and tone. it is the one thing in this world that nature cannot replicate in any other species or in itself. no other form, other than this imperfection can create this attachment to LOVE…holy. pure. just all bones and teeth and insecurities. and try as they may, it finds no home in all of the clever marketing for a day sprung only from a cash grab of obligations and forced marriage proposals based on peoples NEED to feel and show love. be that for love or lust or behind the backs of love not felt any longer.

i’ve personally never understood valentines day. and this isn’t from the dead black space where at least one faint chamber still pulsed a beat on that damn dull dumb drum. maybe it's where i contain any optimism... maybe the foolish optimist, who feels he gets this one seemingly universal understanding. perhaps, it's the hopeless romantic in my bones that poetically draws on this intrinsic desire, giving it such a holy voice… or maybe it's total naïveté … but i always felt that LOVE was meant to be felt all the fucking time. not just on the day they tell you to feel. but from sunrise to sunset... back in baby's arms. wrapped inside of each other.

all the religions. the arts. the songs. all of war… all stemming from this one desire, to love and be loved.

 to understand. to be understood. 

to share... even within misery. believing that the sharing gets you through the cruelty of a planet of thieves and falsehoods.

 

of course, as everything else, we have perverted the ethos behind the emotion. attributed it's embrace to characters not able to return love. mixed the truth in it with our sex. hobbled love's stupid legs with outrageous wounds of limitations. perhaps love has been set love atop such vicious pedestals that those honeyed gains, never to be acquired… a mountaintop only for the gods we could never make of ourselves.

but the very essence of truth in love still reverberates through our hollow ribcages… we want to express ourselves through someone else. we want to scream in those canyons that another person helps us create and hear that echo come screaming right back at us! 

we want/need to feel

that dull beating drone.

ravage us.

pound inside of us.

leave us shuddering.

begging for more.

 

poetically, it has been said, and repeated ad nauseum, that “tis better to have loved and lost, than never have loved at all.” to which i spit in said general direction. for to me, to lose, even for an instant the constant in this base emotion, is a separation greater than soul from body. LOVE is ALL. it is breath. it is light...  do you fucking hear me!? LOVE IS FUCKING ALL.

pure.

holy.

 

from my solitary personal standpoint… me on the lip of this bridge, gazing into the abyss and feeling her taught glare right back into my own… i have waved my white flag years ago simply because i can't deal with this new take on modern love/ modern romance and i have very cleverly destroyed myself ever since i last  bridged the gap between loneliness and possession of lioness. to lose that reverberating echo come back my way one last time... utter fucking destruction.

though ive felt brushes with the emotion several times since then... once a very close call to the edge again... something though was absent... because i have felt love tiee to railroad tracks and send a bullet train over me. i have stood in the ring with love, and had it take my stupid block off. i fucking know, when it's a motherfucker... and i beg for the entire careening effect to smash into me again and make me fucking hurt so that i know i am alive again. 

it's sick. it's damaged. but if it doesn't kill me... i can't tell if it's real.

same token. to be led to where i am, trollops in summer dresses, left bleeding alongside the road... that shit wasn't real either. and it totally wasn't worth it. and it was only angels with dirty faces. 

so, you know... toss up i guess! a real damned if you do sort of ordeal.

like everything else, it doesn't always make sense and sometimes regret either way are the same chains you forge. 

my wish for you, lovers... fucking feel it today and let it remind you how it should be all of the time. on the 15th... the 21st. may...July... september... keep it alit. 

visceral. 

breaking.

and try not to let it destroy you.

if youre friends with d.... well then you're friends with me... ifyou're down with d... well then you're the down with me

friends of me

hope the wintertime is treating you as well as possible. i know that fbook is a fast paced wasteland of stalkings and emptiness, so i don’t want to spend much of your time, so to summarize this message to determine if it is worth your read or time, it goes like this:

my 40^th birthday is this November and id like to cordially invite you to my party… 

yes yes… i fucking KNOW NOVEMBER is faraway, i get it. i mean, who thinks of themselves so highly that they go into birthday preparations 9 months away? grossly this Question prompted me to face the idea that 40 years ago around valentines day, i was conceived. it was a disgusting venture im sure, and up until this moment, i don’t think i had HAD to consider this reality. but alas, bobby and lisa got it together so so many moons ago that today, i come to you, humbly and ask for you to consider this following venture.

an awfully good friend... NAY GREAT friend of mine has decided, without any prior communication to me mind you, that he would go ahead and ask this really great woman who chooses to tolerate him to marry her. fine fine… bells and whistles… the crowd goes wild… uh,  WELL GOOD FOR FUCKING THEM!

dustin? you ask… what the hell does this have to do with anything? why the hell would it matter if your friend is getting married. she sounds lovely. they must be very happy… doesn’t everyone deserve happiness after all? just because you're miserable every.single.day. doesn't mean the world has to join in on your misery... jusssssst SHARE the link to the nuptials and allow us to LIKE it or comment an ongoing minutia of mind numbing prayers and congratulatory replies and well wishes.

well, if you know me… you know i can be slightly selfish. (whaaaaaaa?!) surprising, i know… BUT... THIS MFKR DECIDED… OUT OF THE FREAKING BLUE… that the best time to do this is on MY GODDAMN birthday weekend! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?!

normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. i don't take my birthday that seriously... im not a 14 year old girl... i dont own a goddamn tiara. and normally, with a friends wedding, they ride into the sunset, we all drink and carouse and have stories that we tell for a couple of years about the shenanigans from the bachelor party and the reception. the strippers… the phone synched messages to ipads back home…                            ;)

but this isn’t normal is it? i turn 40 this year! FCKNG40!!! that’s grave son! that's black balloons and when drinking recreationally turns into full blown alcoholism. that’s beyond midlife crisis! you know how many of these milestones i have left? ummm. this. FUCKING. ONE! that’s it! i don’t get a 50! im already choking on every gdamn thing i put in my mouth… (pause for jokes from the peanut gallery) 

[jerks]

my goddamn days are numbered my friends! they were numbered before… but they sure as hell are more numbered now… (less numbered?) and now i have to share MY GODDAMN weeknd with 2 people, who i hope are very happy, and will spend a lifetime in bliss, who could have chosen ANY.

                                                                      OTHER.

                                                                                     POSSIBLE.

FUCKING

                                                                                                        WEEKND!

soooooo… here’s where you, the patient reader. the friend. the foe. the acQuaintance comes in…

the wedding, and as it so CONVENIENTLY happens, MY FORTIETH birthday, will be held in 

las vegas Nevada the weeknd of November 15^th. and alllllllll i ask, is that

                                                                                                YOU

all come and help us all blow it to hell as we wish                                      cherry

  gary 

  jerr-bear

  world of Warcraft nerdboy

  jerry and Jaime a very happy whatever.

but more importantly… come out and join ME, and us, for a drink or so and help me ring in my, this last of hurrahs!