Scar

You are a good man, an excellent one to be honest. Warm, generous, doffing your hat. But you made a ginormous mistake. You took her in. You took her in and she warmed your gentle heart.
She didn't mean to change you, or hurt you, or twist things around, or make babies with you. She was still licking her wounds. She didn't know what she wanted. The world was frightening and a big mess. She was petrified, but she made you her own. She gave you a name, she smiled for you. You made her smile. You made her happy.
Then one day, she turned around and bit your cheek. Bit your cheek so hard, it started bleeding. She fed you a bit of her acrid self. And then she built a big wall around herself, so that nothing could ever touch her warm skin again.
She didn't want to believe in the voices, but she looked around and saw shadows on your walls. It scared her even more. But she let you in, she wanted to heal for you, wanted to break down the wall.
And you almost succeeded. You almost made her special. And then you stopped, because she had scarred your cheek and it still hurt.

Hatter wore a hat and turned completely insane. In the middle of nowhere, swaggering like the evil rat in the alley,  he aimed to conquer. Turned around, lit a doobie. Saw the trees in the distance, outlined against the sky, still and rooted. Turtle came over, put her hands on her hips and stood behind him, observing the same, thinking about other things: yesterday's game, hysteria and kitchen antics. She sat down in a huff, mouthing abuses. The night gave them both fever. They knew that. They illuminated their room with a thousand lamps.
This was different, however.
Their eyes lit up the wilderness.
Hatter sat down next to her, and smiled wanly.
"What do you reckon?"
"They won't get us this time."
"You sure?"
"When you think egg I think of a poach, perfect, yolk in the middle, just the right amount of wobbly."
"Wow."
"So you won't fuck me over?"
"How can I?"

This, crazy desire to measure night and day

With, your smiling face not far away

Why, I may ask you

Can, that be true?

You, with a frog-like leap

Me, crumpled in a heap

Fill jam jars with memories.

I remember scribbling in class, sleepily, furiously. Stringing words together, discarding them, turning them into doodles. Now it's morning, everyone's fast asleep, mouths slightly open, mouths tightly closed. I can only sink a little further inside this protective cling wrap of music. Curious, like a perfectly broken egg shell, but opaque inside. If I could put my brain up in sunlight, or on paper, I would, for close examination, for some sort of comprehension.
I sometimes wonder about human behaviour and nature, and it completely destroys me.

New songs will be sung I suppose.
Self has to be extricated and re-defined. Determination has to be achieved. Memories have to be erased.
Wish I could have some of that special comforting baked chicken and recreate new visions.

Wish I could splurge futilely, wear a red beret in the rain, write eccentric, run away somewhere, alone.

I don't deserve goodness, maybe I am utterly incapable of understanding these things, they are intangible.

I am 23. I could choose bland, I can have bland. Or I could mix up everything, create more brain clutter, behave like a child, do crazy impulsive things like I do and end up unhappy. Well, happiness is illusory anyway, like everything else. I feel euphoric one moment and furious the next. And unfortunately, I cannot even blame the hormones.

Say what, shabby yet flamboyant, reciting Aiken, travelling, creating useless and pretty lampshades?

Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
And when bringing her name up
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
He’s sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall while I’m in the hall
How can I explain?
Oh, it’s so hard to get on
And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn 


Bob Dylan, Blonde on Blonde

Because Jack White and Meg White should have never broken up

I'm bringing back ghosts 
That are no longer there
I'm gettin' hard on myself
Sittin' in my easy chair
Well, there's three people in the mirror
And I'm wonderin' which one of them I should choose
Well, I can't keep from laughin'
Spittin' out these 300 mile per hour outpour blues

I'm breakin' my teeth off
Tryin' to bite my lip
There's all kinds of red-headed women
That I ain't supposed to kiss
And it's that color that never fails
To turn me blue
So I just swallow it and hold on to it
And use it to scare the hell out of you

I have a woman 
'Says come and watch me bleed
And I'm wonderin' just how I can do that
And still give her everything that she needs
Well, there's three people in my head that have the answer
And one of them's got to be you
But you're holding tight to it -- the answer 
Singin' these three hundred mile per hour outpour blues

Put on gloves, a tied scarf and wrap up warm
On this winter night
Everytime you get defensive
You're just looking for a fight
It's safe to sing somebody out there's got a problem
With almost anything you'll do
Well, next time they stab you don't fight back just play the victim
Instead of playin' the fool
And the roads are covered with a million 
Little molecules
Of cigarette ashes and the school floors are covered
With pieces of pencil eraser too
Well sooner or later the ground's gonna be holdin' all
Of my ashes too
But I can't help but wonder if after I'm gone will I still have these three hundred mile per
hour, finger breaking, no answers makin', battered dirty hands, bee stung and busted up, empty
cup torrential outpour blues

One thing's for sure: in that graveyard
I'm gonna have the shiniest pair of shoes 


T

morning song

Dark room, no sharp slice of sun. I extricate my sleep laden face from your chest, a little irritated. Light a cigarette, relishing the quick rush of morning nicotine. I fold and refold a paper, analysing the newly formed crease. You sleep steadily, mouth slightly open. I admire your beautiful cheekbones. You stir, stretch out your hand, reaching for me. I nestle like a cat. You suddenly remember something grave from the previous night. Frowning, you start rolling a joint. I sulk, argue. You retort. We play this for thirty minutes and suddenly, stoned, I pun. Instant exchange of mirth and consequent displacement of anger.
We stretch, talk, watch some television. We eat. You, meticulously with your knife and spoon, I clumsily with my hands. I touch your funny hair. You stare at me, call me affectionately. An invader walks in. I yawn, move downstairs and read for a bit. My mind creates a gigantic web and starts weaving patterns on it. I turn grey. Occasionally, crimson.  I am grim. I can hear your laughter. Dusk sets in slowly, spreading its beautiful red face across the sky. We prepare for the night.

I know you are alone. Crazily getting sucked inside that vortex. It's almost the state when you wake up after a turbulent dream. You fight cobwebs or a giant tree, and the insistent alarm clock tells you something has gone awry. 
I know you are tempted sometimes, tempted to turn it around, sit inside the coupe of your stolen ship and not budge an inch. 

The box

There was a tiny boy. He had very white teeth and he liked grinning a lot. When he grinned, his eyes crinkled, and sparkled at the same time. It was quite marvellous.  He was kind of scrawny and had crazy hair which he continuously brushed away from his forehead. He liked playing with the craziest of toys. And he found buttons in strange shops and stored them in a very special box. He met a little girl, even tinier than him, playing in the meadow one day and decided to give her the box. The girl looked at him suspiciously with big brown eyes and refused with a firm tilt of her determined chin. The tiny boy was stubborn. He really really wanted the little girl to take his box and make it her own. He was quite a nice boy, you see. The box was beautiful, with little stars on it.
The boy then told the girl, "If you take this box from me, you'll be happy." The girl scoffed a little bit. She was happy all right. She had Garcon, the big frog, Strawberry, her pet bunny, and the meadow. She needed nothing else.
The boy was unhappy. He did not want his box anymore. When he went home, his mom saw that his mouth had drooped a little bit. She drew him to her arms and said, "What stole the smile, my precious?" The boy told his mom the story of the girl in the meadow. His mom made him some cocoa, and told him, "I think the box is meant to be yours for now. The box does not need a little girl, it needs you. Fill it up with joy..your toys, your wooden buttons, your drawings, badges, pebbles and anything else you treasure.When you think it's filled to the brim, keep it tucked away safely. Someday, you'll need it again." The boy gave his mom a big kiss and carried the box safely upstairs.
Years passed. The boy was all grown up. He had mentioned the box to no one ever.
He was heartbroken, this boy. He wanted someone to take his box from him, and explode with happiness.
He walked over to the meadow, sat under his favourite tree, and took out the box carefully from his coat pocket. The stars still merrily glinted. He missed his mother. He looked up at the sky and kept staring for the longest time.
"Hello." He looked back, startled. There was a girl standing behind him, with the prettiest brown eyes and a very familiar chin. "Hey, you scared me." The girl smiled. "Sorry. Can I sit? You kind of stole my favourite reading spot, so." They sat side by side, in comfortable silence, admiring the beauty of the meadow in spring.
The boy looked at her. He hesitated for a second, before picking up the box and handing it to her.
The girl twinkled at him and slowly opened it. 

Ageing is a difficult process and I didn't even know when it slowly crept up my neck and entered my brain cells.
This year has been crazy. I still can't believe it's over. I still can't believe things were so different last year.
Like a storm everything turned upside down, then there was calm, then I saw the light.
Little T is dead, he sailed away with the water. I know he's around, smoking one of his fat doobies. It's just an illusion that he went up in flames. I know you're around. I'm sorry I was rude the last time I met you, but you know.
I'm glad I still have people around me who matter. Then there are some who don't anymore.
I am glad that me and you are awesome friends. I'm glad we know each other inside out. I'm glad you have found someone to be insane with. You are one of the best people ever. And don't change too much.
And I found you, in this strange place, strangely, fit into you like I should have maybe. I promise to be your strength, as you are mine. I promise not to let the world come between us. It's our sky.
I feel closer to the parents than ever before. I think they are the best people on earth. It's not that I don't get annoyed, but still they are rock solid quirky people who brought me up. That must have been quite a lot of effort!
It's been a long trip. Let's see where it all goes from here.
Be good people, and make those resolutions, whether you keep them or not.