Thursday, September 28, 2006

No more cryptic & cross words

You're at your best when you're just honest, says Kelly, none of this cowboy shit.

And then backpedals, not that that isn't good! But...just be you, be honest, tell the story.

Everyone feels it, everyone knows what it's like. You don't have to hide from it.

And you say it well.


Tell the story huh. No more cowboys.


Man, I lost control.

I know.

Man, I just couldn't fucking be bothered being in pain anymore you know? I just looked back and it all seemed like some fucking never ending torture and I thought FUCK IT ALL.

Tell the story, I mean the now story, not the whole thing, you've already told the whole thing.

First, I wanna say the words.

Are you sure?

I think so, I think I'm at my best when I'm honest, so I'm going to say the words.

Good luck.



This entire blog was created and has been maintained for one express purpose.


Read it. It's a twisted love story, it's a tale of heartbreak, it's a fucking step by step account of my heart breaking then healing then breaking, time and time again. It's a story of my love for one woman, and the ridiculous amount of pain that existed between us. My fault, her fault, all that is gone. There just remains these words and these pages and this blog. It has never been about me, it has always been about it.


Some posts were written after I got stupidly drunk and fucked shit wide open. Some were written when she was confused by other men and I could not stand it. And for months there have been posts of differing emotion, as it fades behind us, and is sometimes coloured beautiful rose red and other times boiling heat and inferno crimson.


So this is my blog, and I name it Hell.



Is that the wrong thing to do? I don't know. But I have been asked to print out this whole thing and get it to a publisher and when I thought of that I had to think of what the Hell this blog really was, and that's the truth. And in that light, the cowboys did seem a little silly, though mostly I was writing with them to protect others, and still express myself.

But really, I have always written straight from the heart and that is what I should do. Without prejudice, without sadness or spite, just my own subjective truth.


After we broke up for the final time, I did all the things. I got drunk, I had a threesome, I gave a girl in a cafe flowers and asked her on a date. She said yes. A week later I was to be asked to never see her again. I was okay with that, it felt like I had jumped from a plane and landed on my feet. I felt tough, sad and a little defeated, but tough enough.

I found out the girl I loved had started to see someone. I don't know why it hurt so much, but it did. It hurt like every fingernail and every toenail and each eye and my genitals and my heart and my very soul were all fish hooked and gaffed and torn from their moorings in my body.

No shit, I'm not the only one to feel like this. I hope it doesn't come across that way.

So what exactly does a crazy boy do in a situation like this?

He decides to get married to a beautiful sad girl who also has a broken heart. We met, we talked, we cried, we believed. And we set a date and saw a future where no one could hurt us.

A little extreme perhaps. Some people have coined it insanity, others have hugged and said, you crazy kid we understand. But that's what we decided to do.

Of course, as the time passed (there are no metaphors in these truths, have you noticed?) the reality shone and the bubble burst and my feelings returned but it seemed morre extreme than before. And it was, because I had not dealt with them, merely hidden them behind new romance and alcohol and worse, and here I struggle, I hid Love behind a Fuck You mentality because if I did not, then I was stuck with a deep and never ending grief. And where to with grief?

Where to with grief.

I decided where to. I decided to try and face it alone. No friends, no romance, no alcohol. Nothing. I decided if I could sit in my room and face it, feel it, I would end up controlling it, and it would finally pass and I could move on and everything would be fine.

Hindsight is 20/20 vision, but perhaps I should have leant on my friends a little during this time.

Look on that chair. There sits a boy who would be man, he does not move save to light and ash his cigarettes. His brown mop covers his eyes and his dirty shoes stay flat on the ground to anchor his wheeling office chair to the polished floorboards below. But on the inside:

On the inside there is steel fire blood tears sweat remorse guilt sorrow pain revenge respite a cavern a cave an abyss THE TRUTH the fear the doubt the ache the weariness...

In the end, I faced my demons and I must admit, they won the battle.

It's a terrible sad ending, but an ending all the same.

But at least the end of the end is the beginning of the beginning.


Is that right? Is it right to say these things here?

Haven't I always tried to say these realities here?

There is only one person who can answer that and they will not.


If any of you saw me crazy, angry and drunk, I sincerely apologise. Sometimes the demons take hold, and though I can only hope to one day defeat them forever, I am still in the midst of battle. I am sorry.


In the past, there are only shadows and ghosts, haunting us if we let them.

In the future, there is hope and light for every single one of us.

*presses play*

Hit it Ron...

I know it doesn't seem that way
But maybe it's the perfect day
Even though the bills are piling
Maybe Lady Luck ain't smiling

But if we only open our eyes
We'd see the blessings in disguise
That all the rain clouds are fountains
Though our troubles seem like mountains

There's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose heart
Give the day a chance to start

Every now and then life says:
Where do you think you're going so fast?
We're apt to think it's cruel, but sometimes
It's a case of cruel to be kind

And if we get up off our knees
Why then we'd see the forest for the trees
and we'd see the new sun rising
Over the hills and horizon

There's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose faith
Give the world a chance to say:

A word or two, my friend
There's no telling how the day might end
We'll never know until we see

That there's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose heart
Give the day a chance to start

There's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

If you can't stand the heat

They run me out of town.

or should I say, I run myself out of town, because years of madness is years too long.

And honestly?

The desert holds many treasures and many towns. I always knew that.

So in a town named Hell's Kitchen, three kindred souls convene a meeting of the Self Sabotage Club. And laugh sadly at the desperate nature of themselves.

I was called abusive because I damned someone to Hell by text, I say. I may have been quite pissed off.

My partners, though they try, cannot take away the pain because the pain is mine this pain inside, she says.

And I, the third says, well...I just know I belong here, but for now, my story remains untold.

We raise our glasses to the long road ahead.

We are the Self Sabotage Club. We fear no one but ourselves. From here on in we shall try to surround ourselves with light, not darkness, and position ourselves with the sun behind us, to blind those in front. Life is enough of a bitch already, without fuckers like us in it. But we will never surrender, and never stop trying to change.

And laughing, we cheers, though inside our stomachs stir a little.


Outside in the heat, a lilting voice calls me toward it.

A man sings with beauty, yet avoids its melancholic core.

I walk into the saloon and surrender my soul to him.

Ron Sexsmith, you're a fucking genius.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006


After three weeks in the desert I can take it no more. The sun, so glorious in its initial welcome, now killing me softly with its song. I remember the well. I remember the dark the shade of my shop my home my oasis.

I turn, and cry just a little so that I may have something to whet my pallette.

It takes longer to make it back, there is no music, and by the time I am on the edge of the square I am crawling gecko like and skeletal across the burning sands.

I notice:

In my absence, a tall, well built store. Built on my corner.

I notice:

The compassionless stares of the people as I slowly crawl toward the well.

Devoid of sympathy, devoid of anything.

I notice:

The irony, the deja vu, the karma.

But I keep my gaze fixed to that hole in the ground. Keep my mind strong with the thought of water, life giver.

My fingers dance, twitching stretching, dirt burning under the nails and blister boiling my skin.

And the well becomes a light, and the earth becomes a tunnel, and my dry throat cries out and my words are:

Fuck it all to Hell.

For from the North I hear the words.

[Hero. You are my hero.]

And drawing strength I stand, and no one moves, no one blinks.

So I walk to the edge of the well, take my cock out, and piss in it.

And laugh maniacally as the town stands agape.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Something in the air

I wait until the 4am still.
When the guard dogs themselves twitch and sniff and their paws run through fields of dreams.
When their masters and their apprentices sing nasal throaty tunes.
When the wives lie in sweat of a thousand guilty thoughts.

This ain't the town for me.

But I take one last look all the same. Then...

I flick the butt still burning into the puddle of fuel I have created by the door. And the dancing tongue orange yellow licks the roof and the walls and the floor and my pitstop burns ever so silently in a no-man desert town.

I start to walk toward the East and sing a song a troubadour once sang.

It's a restless hungry feeling
That don't mean no one no good,
When ev'rything I'm a-sayin'
You can say it just as good.
You're right from your side,
I'm right from mine.
We're both just one too many mornings
An' a thousand miles behind.

And here we go,

the only time I ever feel at home, is when I'm back on that never ending road.


A comprehensive list of the advice I have been given in the past two weeks:

I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.

and then this morning:

Just tell everyone to fuck themselves.

And on that ten cent piece of wisdom, my outlook does a U-Turn and I laugh a simple, uncomplicated laugh.


The wind is at my back, which helps. And the rising sun ahead is an easy reference point.

It says, warmth here boy, the real McCoy, triple distilled, just keep on walking. Come toward these outstretched arms, these rays, this life. And I will rise before you and show you the way.

I spit tabacco from between my lips.

It's a gesture of defiance, a fuck you to melodrama, my favourite drop.

And as times shifts from the then to the now, and the desert is a city and in my ears another tune, the load seems lighter and intensity two steps behind.

Come gather round people, wherever you roam...

Thursday, September 21, 2006


Covered in dust blown in from the East I arrived in town after three long weeks.

The town was built around a square, in the square there was a well, the town itself

its name was



I chose a corner and built my store, blankets and trinkets and glass and more.

In my corner I stayed, alone in the heat.

The passing of strangers, the sand on their feet.

The burning white orb,
it's Love was a sword.

The water.

The fire.

Was all we desired.


Weird huh.

It's only natural, when you feel pain to crave the need for relief.

In any form.

But now I'm just letting the pain come.

It's like tanning.

I can't explain.


One day a stranger crawled in from the desert. And we all watched as inch by inch he dragged his bloodied semi corpse across the dust and toward the well. And not one of us moved to help. All just sat on our porches in the town built as a square all facing the well as the skeleton struggled and slid, a semi dried gecko of a man, toward salvation. Propelled by his kness across frying pan heat as his arms flailed and spat forward, his fingers dancing their final dance, a self sacrificial ceremony as if they knew he would not make it.

Five yards from water, he jerked and performed his final wriggles.

I took a long, languid drag of smoke, and turned toward the dark inside.

And in Hell, no-one cried for the stranger;
moisture was scarce, and compassion rarer still.

But the winds took pity on us, and covered him in sand.

Tomorrow, it will be a memory.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Raised by Wolves

Soundtrack: You Am I / Purple Sneakers

I walk the streets of a Wild West town, find a trough filled with water and duck my whole head underneath the mirror image of myself.

It awakens the poet.


I was raised by wolves. Me, an infant lost in a Bavarian Forest. Who left me or where I came from I know not. All I know is that was the case and now I am here.

My first memory is of being bitten on the arm by my brother. My second is years later biting him back, tearing fur and blood savage and brute from his neck until whining and wheezing he crawled behind a tree and lay dead. And I, taller, leaner, bipod, holding my hands aloft and howling wolf like dripping blood from inside incisors.

We ran after that day. 12 wolves and I. Ran and ran, grey arrows from the bow, I the tip, growing stronger each day, the fletching of my pack trailing behind me, howling at their unlikely leader, a boy, a man, a human, different. The same. Oh how the fucking same, those wolves and I.

We ran until the trees grew thinner, the smell of blood before us, the temptation of a brave new world. Of easy pickings. And fresh fucking meat. Animal, claw and fang, grinning our grins, our very nature plain for all to see.

Until we emerged at the edge of an unknown land. A forest made of steel and glass, stretching to the heavens, cacaphonic with silver animals we had never seen.

My pack turned and fled.

I walked straight in.


Tales from the edge of insanity, some say. Proof of his madness, I hear. Pity and scorn and tut tut shaken heads far from my eyes as though I could not see or hear.

So I sat. That's all. Just sat. And first on the agenda was clearing the mind, the addled mind, eight months, 20 years. Waited for all that to go away, and as it slowly began to...

I listened.

Then I spoke.

And the reply came:


Intense indeed.

This is what has been hidden.

But here it all comes.


The arms and fingers and stares and pokes and flashes and lights and gasps and guffaws did not frighten me. I frightened them. I made them see what could happen if they left their cosy steel forest. I showed them the insanity, the rawness of life outside the world they had created. I showed them they were one step away from tasting the blood of their brother and they were afraid. Oh they hid it behind pity, they hid it in laughter, and in their own packs they felt safer, better about themselves...

But at night, when they were alone. They were afraid. Afraid of their own nature. In those first weeks, this made me strong, made me grin, made me evil in my self protective scorn.


Now I walk the streets of this man made wood and I remember the beauty I found running with my brothers and sisters, the wolves. The honesty in them. The intensity of them. The realness.

But I don't turn and run.

I hold it within, and use it to deal with you. With this. With what I must face and what I must achieve, but more importantly HOW I must do these things.

And the wolves howl, over the horizon, and I listen and laugh. For theirs is no maudlin cry nor mating ritual, it is a song.

Live the life of a song, they sing. You, our blood brother, alone in that world, live the life of a song.


Here in the Wild West town I am outcast.

And that suits me just fine.