Harmony Smith Confesses

And then things got complicated.

“Is it true? What he said? That he’s going to kill every woman you love? He’s going to kill me? Well, tell me - where is my love? Where is my love?”

Terminus.

What we need is to feel needed. Without a sense of immediate necessity we become frantic and confused. We seek out anything to validate our useless education. Bewildered by media influence, desensitized by the overintellectualization of sex, bored by the decontextualized nature of writing, we ran out in the streets and begged our neighbors for any type of odd job. Interning. For free. It is in confinement we find freedom. Free-range, we flock towards similar ideas. The individual is found in the masses. The masses seek to be the individual. This is not a mutually exclusive, dualistic conclusion deserving of deep thought or long pondering. This is merely an observation made by a person seeking to be an individual, and in that seeking failing.

Rajneesh jests, “How do I practice surrender?” ‘You surrender.’ he replies. How do I become free?

Be free.

Faxing is still cool.

Anchor Bay is a thousand miles away. Port Crescent has descended into the sea of memories. The crest of grief is approaching the trough from which we stuff ourselves. Everything will be still and resting with the diligence of a dead engine.

Nothing in Michigan should be called “Heights”. It’s pretty much all at sea level.

I’m either unemployed or a CEO, and the only guy that can tell me which thinks a black man is flying an airplane above us in the sky, listening to everything we say.

Ah, Detroit. You smell like whisky and shame. Sorta like how the Oldsmobile smelled like when my dad drove me to school in the mornings.

My shit is no longer hostage by the sea. I have the lovely letters from Linda again, her twisted drawings of the sun baking unicorns. I forgot all about them.

“Go be the hero!” she wrote on a pamphlet for the Utah medical health system written in Spanish.

Oh, Linda, I’m trying, doll. Some days it gets really hard. Some days I still have to check myself into the Chelsea Hotel and try to pull my shit together. Some days fall into a few days sometimes and I have to remember that I am more than the culmination of my influences, that video games and television are poison, that I don’t read enough, that I’m not doing what I need to do to be where I want to go.

But I get to do it with my best friend.

And shoot guns. We do that a lot too.

Ah, Detroit.

I wish they’d have let you burnt.

Today is a sunny day. Happy birthday, Keira. I’m sorry that the cops will probably be raiding your house by the end of the night. Talk to the black dude in the plane about that.

I’m washing my hands of this fucking madness, going back to the 9 to 5, and awaiting the ocean’s brief release.

Oh. And writing. I’m also writing.

And I stopped sleeping with drunk girls, even if I’m drunk too.

Baby steps.

I’m tired of waking up, confused and thirsty, my whole room smelling like a fucking Irish pub.

I can do cartwheels on one hand.

Sometimes when I think of you I smile. Other times I try not to think of you at all. I miss you, miss. But this is no time to get all sentimental. It’s so cold where I stay. So I try to keep it sunny now. That’s become my job. Detachment. Disengaging from the disenfranchised. No more all-nighters. No sleeping in. No sleeping around. Focus. Breathing. Acknowledgment of my fears. Acknowledgment but not acceptance.

When I see you again I will bring you a present. I have not decided on the gift. But probably a stone of some kind. Not something store bought.

I want you to have a piece of my world.

It’s a sunny wednesday.

At night I listen to the Detroit police radio frequency. During the days I do cartwheels and play basketball and climb trees. In the mornings I watch a spider grow up and walk across my window back and forth, like he’s waiting for something.

What am I waiting for?

Today it’s sunny.

And I’m not bleeding from skateboarding wounds anymore.

I’m ready to turn the sun back on.

Stay tuned.

I’ve decided.

I’m going to stop pretending that I didn’t break your heart.

You’re getting old.

That moment you realize you’ve slept with your ex just to get your hat back, and you forgot to grab your hat.

“How can I be peaceful?

I’m coming from the bottom.

I watched my daddy scream ‘peace’ while the other man shot him.”

I’m only in it for the incineration.

Quote of the day - “If I can raise a child you better believe I can raise my fucking gun.”

In other news - letter coming soon.

In other news - Star Wars Episode I sucks. Still. But Jay’s kid is funny as hell playing with his purple rhino in his R2D2 shirt.

Profoundly confused.

I walked into the garage this morning. Jay was loading a Glock and smoking a Newport.

“Should I ask?” I asked.

 ”You should, um… have a cigarette.” He says. He throws me the pack. He continues to stare at the gun, inspecting in, cigarette dangling out of his mouth. ”I need you to go somewhere with me today.”  

“Okay.” I say. “Does this involve hurting people?” And I light my cigarette.

“You’re the fuckin’ poet. Doesn’t everything involve hurting someone?”

A brief description of extended insanity.

you broke up my heart so i went to the ocean

hooked up with a model and nearly got stabbed

got lost in the mountains, got fed by the strangers

took too many pills and too many cabs