Ok...

so who purchased me some time back here? well, i'll update a bit later with all the happenings in my life as soon as possible, and thanks to whomever got me back up and running.

adam

I just got a new job in downtown Cleveland that I'm really excited about. I had to buy a new car just to make sure I could make it every day...heh. And I just wanted a new damn car.

I got one of these...




It's sexy I think.

These are such strange days for me.

For all of us.

Power on through it brothers and sisters! Keep ya heads UP!


Adam

Inspired by
avalonchase

Here's my meez

It's dark and smoky here, as things will be for a few months more before they lay down anti-smoking laws that aim to make us better, stronger, smarter, and more like the cleaner class of people.

My family? My family's never been all that clean. My father's parents come from the country, from the ground, from growing and holding and keeping things. Their hands got dirty and they ingested bacteria and smoke and meat that "they" will tell you can kill you, but that my family knows can only make you stronger. They've never met around marble tables to discuss how best to control populations or prisons or time itself. They just lived, and kept their noses out of other people's lives. They know that some day, all things end, but not today. Not today.

My mother's family comes from poverty that taste's of dirt in your mouth, from North Hill and the sand in your eye. Man-boys in schools wearing anger on their sleeves with all the attitude but none of the hope. We've been from the bottom to the top, to the end of polite things.

We've never been clean, and if we've any mission in life, it's how best to be dirty. My parents know how best to be dirty.

As I said, it's dark and dirty here, in this bar. My father's ordered food. Clams, pasta, and bits of chicken stripped down to best hide its origins. We're talking about life and truth, other things too. Mostly, we're talking about me. Mostly, this is how I'd like to spend the rest of my life. My father that will listen to me, hear me, and know me. My father that I can see as you do gods, who sees me as one.

I see the best of myself reflected off the solid lids of his eyeballs. His fragility is so carefully cornered and covered, all in his monumental effort to build for me the best life I could have lived. His life for us, his energy for us, his fears for us. He'd show no weakness if men in suits came to drag him to the floor, so long as he knew his family was safe and protected, cared for. I see all of this in my eyes when I look into mirrors, but still too hidden and weak to boldly thrust itself out into the world.

He tells me, like a whispered secret, that I was never meant for the normal things anyway. That the more I tried to fit in, have the family and the doors opened, I would find that the family chased away and the doors had closed. He suggests, kindly, that I was meant for something different...that I was to embrace that with my arms wrapped tight around my past but with my eyes set firmly on the future.

"Pick a direction and love it" he tells me, with other words. With his words.

"If you want a family, make money and be settled. But don't want a family just because you think you're supposed to" he suggest to me. He does his startled little pretend gasps of surprise that lends any and every moment the pilot-fire of hope and humor. His words are a million, his sounds are all different. His meanings are always the same.

"Everything will be ok my friend. Breath. Everything will be ok."

I believe him, every time he says it.

My father wraps his fingers around his glass, his arms pulled up over the table the way you'd imagine myths hold themselves over the mind's of men. To be this firm! To know this strength! What am I but the boy who chases the beauty of his father?

Penned up in codes and nuance, truth is just that thing you find when you're too tired to argue anymore. Choked behind the smoke in cloudy bars, men sit with their sons and offer advice and love. So we hope. So we wish.

Alas, not everyone is as lucky as me.

breath

Imagine a room made up of the dust left over on the top of people's dreams. Scattered there haphazardly by the demons of doubt that were built by the fear of tommorrow and the regret of yesterday.


Time passes there just as it does in all places. Dust piles up and over and shifts itself into little rudded hallows that sometimes resemble the faces of some once-famous Italian celebrity or a random package of corn curls. Chance is at play, as is all the forces of power behind talent, ability and faith. The dust of dreams mocks our training, for even the best trained soldier can fall on his sword in an accident...this Chance knows well enough to be bold.

There's a secret stash hidden under these layers and layers of piled-on dream dust. A hidden quiet thing that has nothing to trumpet it's existence, and is only suggested by the fact that without it nothing stirs. God lives in the details, but it is this secret hidden wonder that lives in the detail's detail. It can be both God's eyeballs and Her eyelid, with it She can see or She can be blinded. If you're ever in doubt what the secret is, ask only the crazed monster that stares back at you in well-cleaned windowpanes.

Breath here in this dusty room and you cough and cough and cough. The dream dust covers you. The secret hidden thing pulses a dull low thud once every two million trillion years, or every one of time's heartbeats. We but flicker and flash like hot oil on a pan. The universe is the kitchen and we are not even the seasoning. We carry the hidden thing in the dark room of dream dust in our pocket's, in our robes, and in the soft folded flesh of our dissapointments.

Let it out. Set it free. Let is roam up and over the walls of doubt and stir the dust up into heaven. If God will only sometimes see us, and is sometimes hidden from us, we must choke her out of her cave with the dream dust we fly out to Her. Let Her not be comfortable with dark caves and safe places. Make war with the designs of war. Wake up from the hallow places where the faces of celebrity inhabit.

Find someplace warm, wet, and home. Stake your soul on it, and plant as much seed as you will. Make war on the designs of war. Let us not be forsaken.

Let us breath.

November 21st and all is just as it is.

There's a man who has spent this day gathering together his divided life and throwing his meager possessions into some form of order. He's moving out of a friends house to get into an apartment with another friend, named Russ.

He want to tell you that moving in with Russ is giving him great waves of hope, but that would be a lie, and he's tired of lying. He's afraid that so much of what used to bless him as a person came from the truth he would speak about himself and the world that he touched. He's lost a great deal, perhaps all, of that grace.

His friends in this place are nothing less than amazing, and have nothing to do with his mood. Today he just feels like everything is over. As if everything he might have been is squashed flat like the remains of a chewed basketball.

He never thought that coming home would satisfy that certain something inside him that felt lost and lonely. He's never been delusional, or thoughtless. He knows that nothing outside himself can save him He knew that there was no place he could go that would solve the problems he faced. He knew that wherever he went, he would find himself there. What did he think then?

He did think that being at home would sorround him with effortless and comfortable love. That being at home, he would sorround himself with people that could not help but support him because of all the vital dependability they could offer. He found few people in Portland to love him completely, and those who did he shoved away as forcefully as he could, afraid that they might interupt his plans to someday move home to Ohio.

"I'll keep myself safe" he thought. "I'll have lots of fun and in the end nobody will touch me too much to hurt me."

What a fool time can make of us. Today he gathered the things he brought with him from Portland in that crappy car. For many of the items, he'd not touched them or moved them from the first night he arrived in Akron after that long drawn out, expensive car ride here.

He found amongst his things a graphic novel, parts and peices of some of the best X-Men story's ever told, or so it was advertized. His heart leaked out in pain when he remembered the hundreds of graphic novels that he'd given away to his friend Brett just before he'd left. The graphic novels seemed to represent what he was leaving behind. A childhood, or an innocence, or naivety. And movies...so many. Given away. Material possessions, obviously, but they represented more than just his youth, they also showed the culmination of effort and time spent to be in Portland.

He thinks about those gray wet streets today and his whole body aches with the passing of time, purpose, and meaning. He moves through his memory's like a stranger, picking up bits here and there of what things might have been. He ends up in the beginning.

A young man once stood in an airport with two suitcases and a carry-on..

His friend Kate comes to pick him up. Her and her girlfriend Chap gather together the peices of luggage and find places to store it in their hybrid car. There's a journey to an apartment which passes next to the tightly packed downtown area. The young man will spend teh first two months of his time here wandering around that downtown, meeting strange wonderful people and worrying about money. He'll spend the next two months looking for work, and finally finding it just before he thinks he'll have to move home. Time will enrich and ensnare him. He meets a strange man at a poetry reading, and wanders off with him for pints of bitter beer. They become fast close friends, building upon one another's strangeness to the city they both now live in. He'll meet a mowhawked lady with purple hair who runs an open-mic that he'll frequent from his third week in town. He'll read poetry there, and the crowd will sometimes be bored but sometimes be deathly starkly amazed. Many will come back again and again just to hear him read his words.

He'll fall in with various lovers, some short and a few he'll know for years. He'll never love one of them, afraid that they might demand more time and heart from him than he's ready to give. Someday, he might go home, he knows. Someday, this might all be a dream he's had.

He finds himself in the strangest places, the most intense of experiences, but through everything he'll find that people are attraced to his energy for the same reasons they will never truly know his love. His distance. His distance from them all will be what damns and saves him. He knows all the right moves and words, but cannot form the intent neceassary to let go. He'll be bottled up there, inside himself, and he'll never know how to tell them what that means.

The time will pass and the experiences become normalized. The differrences between that place and where he came from will be forgotten, until it seems that all places and time blend and whirl together in some vortex of happenings. He'll begin to convince himself that he's unhappy with where he is. The job has a lot to do with it. The job of serving the rich who steal from the poor.

He meets a man at a party and experesses his frustration, and the idea he has that he was meant to work with children. This man is simply a miracle, and gets the young man a job working with children before the next month is over. To the young man's surprise, he's as good at it as he'd pretended to be, and wanted to do it just as much as he postured. He moves up and on, to bigger jobs with more important consequences.

He finds himself in charge of too much. It's too real. It should be happening in Ohio, at home. It shouldn't happen here. This is not where he should find a career and a hopeful position. He destroys it then. He comes in late, hung-over, still drunk. He forgets things and destroys things and tries but fails to let his seemingly never-ending energy somehow save the day. He makes worse and worse choices, trying to destroy this thing that is too good for this place. This job might get in the way of going home someday. He finally quits.

Back to serving to the rich who steal from the poor now, he begins to corrupt and destroy his closest friendships. Anyone who might threaten to expose his deep well of constant regret will be annoyed into hating him or ignoring him. He pops the bubble of his closest friendships to stop them from killing him when he leaves. He begins to organize his affairs. He gives away his books, his movies, his bed. He gives away his dignity, his place, his hard-fought courage. He sells his kick-ass scooter and buys a crappy car. He drives home.

He gets here and places a chip on the table over and over again, only to have the cards beat him back, no matter how often he doubles his bets. The world begins to swallow him. He wants to fight back, but every struggle contains him more snuggly into the well.

What place is there here for him? What stand should he make? The ideas he has for what he wants to do go unsupported by those he loves here. He thinks he might go to school, only to have the people who count tell him that it's a bad idea. He thinks he might move back to Portland, but he'd only find the same sameness there as he sees here. He's the brick the sits alone in a field. He holds up nothing, he fits into nothing, and a building he does not make.

He does his best to breath.

I've been seeing a wonderful woman for a bit now. It's been a difficult experience in a number of ways, not the least of which is her remaining attachment to her ex-boyfriend. She left him because he didn't want the things in life that she wanted, but not because she'd stopped loving him.

She's coming to love me, as I am growing to love her, but my male ego has a lot to say about her left-over attraction to the guy. I want to posses and control, when I have a sneaking suspicion that I should just let go and relax into it. I care for her, and I happen to want the things she wants (children and a home). Time will tell if it'll work out.

I have a mad desire to rush off to Las Vegas with her and get married here...
at the star trek experience wedding chapel

There cheapest package is just $500....

What then? To live in fear and resentment? To regret things that I haven't even done yet? Or to move forward boldy and freely, and adapt as all people are made to adapt?

Love love love. I'm just enchanted by the idea that I can still love.

We'll see how it works out

Wet dark days filtering round the ankles and ears. Time is slipping with pre-winter force-fed into demonds and death. Neither of which care much for life past today. Something in this air has the backside of me perked up and out, that part that can't look behind me for all the looking forward.

Throne rooms must be such lonely places, with hollow sounds ringing out for all the shouting. It must feel like boys in deserts singing songs for women in mountains.

Today I put a bit more faith in a faithless temporary disaster that I can only call a vehicle. The familiar stink of it's decay comforts my sense of predictability.

Older men in fasionalbe eyeglasses oggle the ladies behind the counters while sipping warm latte's and pretending to be singular. They play themselves into plastic chairs that appear polished. The rain beats the sides of the windowpanes, and the single difference between this place and that is the age of the bullshit filtering down from the clouds.

Teen barristas are here for aged wizards, aged barrista's are there for teen wizards. A wise guess is that youth still means the opposite of death everywhere you are when you speak it.

The singpost on the road forcloses any deciet I may have for you. A company of strangers pass my feet. Program this as the day I arrive inside myself to spot you.

Uggghh

This is probably not kosher to complain about, and the last thing I want to do is sound like a whiny little punks...but damn.

I miss Portland. I miss the sexy little woman that would beg to do anything I wanted. I'm just so fucking horny here with no partners to speak of (first time in a long time without). I miss the great coffee shops with all the interested people who want to talk about things (anything-things at all). I miss the skyline, and the giant goddamn river in the middle of it all.

I miss the misty rain and the wonderful friends and the constant hope for a better me. I miss my city!

I've made a committment. I can't go back, at least not now. But lonliness and horniness and saddness are all ganging up to kick my ass today.

Wish I could brighten up my day a bit more. Gonna try by wandering around this city for a few hours. Maybe that will help.

Adam