Past

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17
Nov 10

The angels are calling for us again.

Last call for alcohol again.

 

The reality of my fragile sanity is becoming moot and more apparent each day. I could have had a piece of perfection, but I couldn’t handle it. Now I sit in dive bars wallowing in self pity as I ignore synapse flashes of a miserable future alone; devoid of soul, joy and happiness.

 

I hate this environment.

 

Each breath and glance left or right reminds me of the failures of my life story. The failures that plague me every fucking moment of my life. When you realize that you’re nothing and have lost everything that was something, you are then, at that vulnerable moment of time, are at your best.

 

So many memories. Each memory, in reflection defined a piece of my being; a piece of my soul. Now all that I have are those faint reminders of a life I could have had, but didn’t want. Eyes like razorblades, and the lingering scent of power and destruction were now gone. The fear I once felt for my life had now faded; faded into absolute insanity, leaving me a chuckling mess of myself. There was nothing I could do though, I was now more lost than I ever was. I realized I was very vulnerable and misguided.

 

 

Tim was right.

 

It was only a matter of time before it would all begin to crumble… My mind, my heart, and my soul. Everything has it’s beginning and end; this unraveling was the first step in the journey that would lead to an unforgiving finale.

 

You can never escape space, it only escapes your grasp, and dilutes any concept of whatever you feel is real. I am now lost here, pending to be completely forgotten. A fitting finish; one I predicted so many stars ago.

Future Perfect / Past / Present — No Comments
31
Mar 10

This is for the moon men on mars.

Dear Journal,

It’s been forever and a day since I last sat down and let this machine transform my random synapses, blackouts, premonitions and paranoia into sterile binary data for the moon men of the future to enjoy when I’m dead. 

I took some time off from the LA Times; more like a sabbatical with a one of half months of unpaid time to go hunting for my soul.  I got in my car and drove. Drove and drove and drove to what was possibly nowhere.  For the most part it was a good purge; stupidly I put my relationship on cryostasis, hoping it would defrost and dissolve for me.  She’s still here, right where I left her, waiting for me.  What can I say, I’m just a magnet for nonsense, piddly-winks and unfulfilled desires. 

On my Gulliver’s travels I stopped in a half past decent pub with the usual mediocre food and marooned, shipwrecked personnel abiding to my every beckoning call.  The poison was tasty and generous though, I’ll give them that.  None-the-less, there was a song the half-past hip DJ in the corner spun, whose lyrics caught the eye of my ear.

“It was yesterday I flew away, and capsized these bitter thoughts of you”

I love that fucking line. 

I caught myself saying “Fuck yeah!” in my head as I took a sip of my drink.  Totally and utterly relating those words to my meager interpretation of my life.  The sadness in his voice sounded like the genius of my tweaked out hero from history, Cobain, when he sung an acoustic version of Pennyroyal Tea. 

Rest in peace you loon.

My dreams are still vivid, painted in blown out high contrast pastel colors, where the ambient sound is playing in fast forward on a shitty boom-box.  Like when I’m awake, I’m never in my dreams; I’m just watching, and running like an olympic sprinter to the next destination, all day and all night.  When it’s time to catch my breath, I know it’s time to wake up.  I think though, the answers are starting to come to me.  Everything I do is a random puzzle that I should be re-orienting to finally get my golden ticket home.  The notes in my handwriting that I don’t remember, my stalker, Ivy’s poison and encounters with those who are just like me are all becoming clear.

I just need more time.  I just need to be patient, and learn to breathe; so I can navigate these Stygian waters once again.

Past / Present — No Comments
20
Oct 09

Un “be” y dos “ce” spells Rebecca.

It’s cold today, and this bowl of four and half day old leftover chili is making me sick.  Fuck it.  Despite the watery preamble of nausea, I don’t feel like running down the block to Wok and Roll for more takeout.  Hot sauce and beer is the ultimate cure anyways, for days like this.

Today, while sitting at my desk and watching more paperwork come in than go out, I had a memory from what would be my past.  It was the ridiculous bright smile of this woman who was a co-worker of mine during my college days.  She seriously had one of the best smiles and brightest eyes that I’ve ever come across to date.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

Those words she said echoed in my mind like it was yesterday.  I kept looking into her eyes, and that goofy smile that made my headache fade into nothing.  You’re a bold bitch were one of the many thoughts that scattered across my mind.

I ask her what she meant by “one of them” knowing very well  I knew she too was “one of them” as well.

“You know, one of them. You see and feel things that are from a different time, and it scares the shit out of you.”

I stared at her, and she stared right back at me with those fucking bright eyes and now a sheepish grin.  I pulled her aside, and asked her how the hell she knew what she thought she knew.

“It’s your aura; I knew it from when you came into this training room.  I’m Rebecca by the way, RJ.  That’s un ‘be’ y dos ‘ce’”. 

Her slender finger poking my peeling name tag, brought me some comfort.  She was the first person other than my mother that knew about the weird shit that torments each day.  We became close friends after that day, and established a kindred bond that even today, miles and miles apart, still lingers.

The air started to taste stale as it usually does when I lose sync with whatever time I’m gravitating in.  I wish I could lose sync and go back to the still framed memories of then.  Far less paper work, but the food was still aged and sterlized with Bud Light and Tabasco.

Regardless, I think I’m actually going to be sick.  I’ll take this as a sign that I need to get my shit together, and find my glide path.  That aura that sweet Rebecca saw hidden on my person has only been fading since I’ve been lost here.  My trip to the past to see her eyes and spirit was for a reason.  It was another breadcrumb and piece to this jigsaw puzzle that I need to start solving, fast.

Future Perfect / Past — No Comments
6
Oct 09

Better to be busy than dead.

It’s been awhile since I wrote to you, notepad in the sky.  The end of Summer yields tons of busy work here at the Times.  As my mentor would (will) say to me: “Better to be busy than dead“.

I had a realization in my “downtime” away from this place, that  I’m stuck here, and I’m never returning home.  Each breath I take is a bitter reminder that I’m breathing in the past as I exhale the future.  My distorted memory which only gets penciled back in by my random moments of despair is slowly meaning nothing to me.  Nothing at all.

I take solace in the smaller and finer things that this life brings to me.  The sound of silence lightly decorated with the hum of machines and ticking of old analogue clocks, brings me peace.  The visions I have the future show that nothing much has really changed for me.  It’s not the typical story of a marooned time traveler who wears a petticoat and dons a gold plated pocket watch; I’m a regular guy with above average misfortunes.

I’m a passionate creator though.  This is why I took a sought out a job at the LA Times.  It’s a departure of what I used to do originally; but it is rewarding.  The stress, the anexity, the raw freedom of print.  It’s at most times, all I really have to hold on to.

I do hate closing my eyes from time to time.  I tend to see visions of still framed memories that reflect key moments of my life that are beautiful, tranquil and inspiring, masked with a touch of heartbreak and heartache.  Some of these memories I don’t know where they originated from; others I vividly remember, especially when I can feel my heart turn to ice and ash.

This is how it’s going to be for the rest of my life.  I’ll be living as a seer without purpose, and with a miserable home life. Fighting the sandman as the hour grows later and later, becomes a losing battle each day I get older.  I live for the silence and the hum of sleeping machines; but my mind and body is unfortunately weary.

Maybe I’ll dream of stars, and the charm of southern women.  I just hope I find answers as to why I’m stuck here before I unravel.  It’s all I’m asking Santa for Christmas; answers.  Not my return, not a bobsled; I just want some fucking answers.

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11
Sep 09

Daylight.

It’s cramped in my little hole in the wall apartment.  When it rains, it is rather cozy though. 

I still don’t know what’s really going on.   Going on with my life, anything.  Each day just becomes a gaussian blur of the previous, and so on.  I’m Robert Saul Jack.  I’m a weapon. Now I’m a writer.

Some would say that I’m a little batty in the head, suffering from some sort of dementia.  They are probably correct.  When you’re designed like I am, you’re bound to have a flaw of having a screw or two loose.  It’s what makes things work.

The thing that works when I blackout; the thing that humors me when I come to, reading notes like fucking Memento scrawled in my journal.  Anyone can blackout with enough booze, drugs, sex and rock-n-roll, then scrawl thier prophesies in a book.  The problem is, mine come true.

The worse is when I do this in broad, bright walking, waking daylight. I don’t just predict I feel, adapt and become a part of whomever is my target.  Sometimes it’s intentional; but the majority is by reflex.  This is what makes me a weapon.  I blend, I befriend, and I leave.  I was trained to exploit my natural abilities.  Now all I see are pieces of time, rendered out of sequence, haunting me while eat, shit and breathe.

I’m so scared to rest.  I don’t want to see what happens next.

Future Perfect / Past / Present — No Comments
22
Aug 09

Breadcrumbs. More breadcrumbs.

I started shuffling through old napkins and journals today.  I’m a writer who should write less, but write on everything.  Sometimes I’m smart enough to date the material, to you know, give it some relevance.  Sometimes it’s just random like what I found today… The ink and paper looks fresh, but I have no memory of writing it.

Where is the smoke?  The darkness and fog which used to make these places a refuge and peek into hell is gone.  Missing memories of yesterday.  Missing the breath of a tainted holiday, I’m here now.

Lost and soon forgotten I live.  Replaying re-runs of Good Times, fooling memory into bliss.  Each day I live like this. These still framed memories.. They still remind me of what we were, and what we had; these fading memories.

These faces, etchings of what defines naturally obtainable.  Gorgeous, classy never.  Parts complete, senses destroyed.  Cannot comprehend, reflect sorrow and denial.  I’m going to blackout and evade the end; escape and return home.

Whiskey and wasted talents, wandering around until you’re dead.  Where is the prodigy?  Hidden and broken, in desperate need of glue. 

Ridiculous. Delivery is soon.  End of style and pizazz; so non-existent.  They give stares of incompatibility, and the air is turning blue.  I play with the cold and forget these memories.

Will you remember the styles?  The body, shapes which don’t forgive. So please die and cry for me. Wishing wanting never. Intrigued and insightful.  Reality = truth, and you are nothing.  The mannerisms are the same for each poison dealer.  Same for the deliverer.  The dealer dances and the deliverer scowls.  They must have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder  (ADHD), because they can’t stop moving!

I will turn gray, fade away and decay.  So I must live for now before it is too late, and this is why I must go. Why do I look?  It’s only human, Jack.  It does destroy you more though. I doesn’t matter, I just saw the future, and read that I’m already dead.

Wow, all these words and no recollection of the source.  It’s in my handwriting though, some matted with what could be tears or alcohol. Probably both.  I’ll come back to this when I have enough breadcrumbs to make a marble rye loaf.  That was just an mediocre, somewhat appetizing watercress finger sandwich.

My hands won’t stop shaking though, so whatever this is, must be related to why I’m marooned here. Fuck, I’m out of razors, and I’m in desperate need of a shave.