Monday morning sunshine on pale skin...
I woke up with more energy than I should have had, for the paltry amount of sleep that I got. The day ran frustrating, all the tired caught up with me around 1 or 2 and I called it quits at 4; just a little bit early, but it's not like anybody notices.
The weather was gorgeous when I got out; the Boston Marathon jazzed-up the 66 route from Brookline Village to Coolidge Corner, so I hoofed it all the way home. I thought I could make the walk in less than an hour and I was right:
50 minutes.
Walkin' tall, the straight-backed posture felt natural for once, not forced. Three solid days of ab crunches and I'm no longer stooping like a weathered old man. My body is in transition. I feel the power building when I drop for the push-ups; I feel the energy inherent when I kick across the floor screaming that I'm rolling down the stairs TOO DRUNK TOO FUCK!
Not like I ever have been though. But, still, it's easy to relate to Jello. My theme song would be "WORKED TOO MUCH TOO FUCK" and the singer wouldn't have the energy to sing it, cuz he'd be passed out in one project or another with a wet brush in his hand and a thin, yet distinguishable strand of drool running from his bottom lip to the bicep of his left arm. But we're getting off-course now, we were talking about a rebirth of languished limbs; a renaissance of physical expression...
I just want to kick and fight until I go down. I don't want an easy victory. I won't go down for an easy lay. I'm in training to be a professional at being alive. Amateurs can't keep pace with me, they never could. I thought the other day, on my walk home, as I crossed the path of the Marathon; that I want to die punk. Whenever I go out, I want people who knew me to read my obituary and say, half in jest, half in tribute: "now that guy was fucking difficult."
This world so big, so much wider than a little town in Pennsylvania, so much wider than a little city where everyone seems to know everyone else and I want to launch like a bottle rocket and meet all of the crazy, fun, fucked-up and interesting people who I can come into contact with. I want to leave a mark like Jim Henson and Mr. Rogers and Joey Ramone.
Only twenty-four and I'm stacking up the stories; one after another, bits of crazy and bits of sentiment: idiosyncratic conversations with the pen and ink that ask for you to step aside from the media parade and communicate one on one even though it's so hard. Every day I build a vision of perfection. Every day I force-feed the discipline. Make the body strong. Make the mind strong. Let the spirit be rich. Let the manic passion and battle-lust be tempered by the wisdom and maturity. Imagine a world of punks who thought before they acted? Be the boy who can roll with the suits and ties or spit with the punks and mohawks and never once betray himself.
Close your eyes to the drone, open your heart to the voices of the independent. Know where your world begins and ends, when to widen the boundaries and when to pull the drawbridge. One more year left in the grind, let the body be shaped, the spirit forged and the mind be sharpened. Don't wanna be like those revolutionaries who work for tips. One more year left; twenty-five years to prepare, maybe three times as many to fight.
And, it'll be a fight; with down-time here and there to heal the wounds and rest the body. It's no act of magic, it's an act of will; the struggle takes it's toll. You gotta balance the time you spend fighting with the time you spend living. You gotta cherish those moments where you realize that you are really and truly alive. The simplest moments, but the moments that make the rest more worthwhile; self-realization on a spring day; dancing into fatigue but still pushing further and waking up to watch...
Monday morning sunshine on pale skin.
I woke up with more energy than I should have had, for the paltry amount of sleep that I got. The day ran frustrating, all the tired caught up with me around 1 or 2 and I called it quits at 4; just a little bit early, but it's not like anybody notices.
The weather was gorgeous when I got out; the Boston Marathon jazzed-up the 66 route from Brookline Village to Coolidge Corner, so I hoofed it all the way home. I thought I could make the walk in less than an hour and I was right:
50 minutes.
Walkin' tall, the straight-backed posture felt natural for once, not forced. Three solid days of ab crunches and I'm no longer stooping like a weathered old man. My body is in transition. I feel the power building when I drop for the push-ups; I feel the energy inherent when I kick across the floor screaming that I'm rolling down the stairs TOO DRUNK TOO FUCK!
Not like I ever have been though. But, still, it's easy to relate to Jello. My theme song would be "WORKED TOO MUCH TOO FUCK" and the singer wouldn't have the energy to sing it, cuz he'd be passed out in one project or another with a wet brush in his hand and a thin, yet distinguishable strand of drool running from his bottom lip to the bicep of his left arm. But we're getting off-course now, we were talking about a rebirth of languished limbs; a renaissance of physical expression...
I just want to kick and fight until I go down. I don't want an easy victory. I won't go down for an easy lay. I'm in training to be a professional at being alive. Amateurs can't keep pace with me, they never could. I thought the other day, on my walk home, as I crossed the path of the Marathon; that I want to die punk. Whenever I go out, I want people who knew me to read my obituary and say, half in jest, half in tribute: "now that guy was fucking difficult."
This world so big, so much wider than a little town in Pennsylvania, so much wider than a little city where everyone seems to know everyone else and I want to launch like a bottle rocket and meet all of the crazy, fun, fucked-up and interesting people who I can come into contact with. I want to leave a mark like Jim Henson and Mr. Rogers and Joey Ramone.
Only twenty-four and I'm stacking up the stories; one after another, bits of crazy and bits of sentiment: idiosyncratic conversations with the pen and ink that ask for you to step aside from the media parade and communicate one on one even though it's so hard. Every day I build a vision of perfection. Every day I force-feed the discipline. Make the body strong. Make the mind strong. Let the spirit be rich. Let the manic passion and battle-lust be tempered by the wisdom and maturity. Imagine a world of punks who thought before they acted? Be the boy who can roll with the suits and ties or spit with the punks and mohawks and never once betray himself.
Close your eyes to the drone, open your heart to the voices of the independent. Know where your world begins and ends, when to widen the boundaries and when to pull the drawbridge. One more year left in the grind, let the body be shaped, the spirit forged and the mind be sharpened. Don't wanna be like those revolutionaries who work for tips. One more year left; twenty-five years to prepare, maybe three times as many to fight.
And, it'll be a fight; with down-time here and there to heal the wounds and rest the body. It's no act of magic, it's an act of will; the struggle takes it's toll. You gotta balance the time you spend fighting with the time you spend living. You gotta cherish those moments where you realize that you are really and truly alive. The simplest moments, but the moments that make the rest more worthwhile; self-realization on a spring day; dancing into fatigue but still pushing further and waking up to watch...
Monday morning sunshine on pale skin.
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
i
i miss you. i do. and i remember last summer really fondly, and a lot of that is because of you. (remember how neither of us ever got hit on while we were together because everybody thought we were dating? well, i still never get hit on...but you do
love,
bree