Oh yeah. Tumblr. Hi!

I’m a cynic tonight. Concerning most everything.

cyn⋅ic

/ˈsɪnɪk/
–noun

1. a person who believes that only selfishness motivates human actions and who disbelieves in or minimizes selfless acts or disinterested points of view.

The boy has urged for an update. “My subscribers are getting pissed,” he said. I’m straight forward when it comes to answering questions. Regurgitating every thought in the blogosphere, however…. not so much. Moreover I find that I dislike doing so immensely. It places a certain kink in my nicely ironed denial shirt.

Thursday, December 11, 2008. Would have been Margo’s 50th birthday. I change songs on my ipod that remind me while driving. I have a certain aversion for the church where I saw her last. Her home is a place I intend to not visit for a long time. Yet another reason I can’t stand the sight of the Betty Boop character. I felt a certain alienation on Thanksgiving and Christmas in years passed until at some point during the night she’d show up, Daryl(sp?) and Harley in tow.
Stella Adler said that at the end of his life, an actor did not look like a banker, -and here you’ll need to consider the deeply contrasting aspects of their lives- rather, an actor comes with a built-in broken heart, which helps him to understand, but does not help him to win. In passing moments in high school, say, or the early years of college, a certain fucked-up mind sometimes dreamed up some horrible happening that would provide justification for particular feelings that had little to no warrant for existing. Even that fucked mind couldn’t dream up something as painful as losing her. It’s a vague certainty. With Monroe something of a background reality, I often picture her on the couch, undoubtedly with the phone receiver in her hand, watching some melodramatic soap opera. It’s the strangest feeling trying to pull this image from my “this is my world and the people in it” bank. I haven’t accepted that she’s gone away yet. I stayed at her visitation. I attended her funeral. I took a dozen pink roses to her grave on her birthday -living, not fake, for the notion I had that she’d kick my ass for not buying her real flowers. Ideas like that that very clearly believe she’s still around. Like when Hal sat next to me at her funeral, a place she typically occupied at funerals, and all I could think was how hard she would laugh (snort) at me. I’ve cried every night since she’s been gone. I think I’ll continue to do so for some time. It’s not only her loss, but what her loss stands for. The first break in the family that I have been old enough to process. The first sign that everyone I know is quite fucked and it’s only a matter of time.

I’m feeling dull. Get up, go to work, go home, go to work, visit Shane, nap, go home, get up, go to work, run home, go to work, visit Shane, nap, go home, get up, etc. There are books on my shelves I’ve wanted to read, theatre notes that I’ve written and meant to type for years now. Two bass guitars I failed to really learn to play -electric and acoustic. A broken violin that belonged to my papaw still sits in the case I placed it in, also years ago… always meant to be fixed. A violin from 1946 and a viola from the 2000’s that haven’t been played in so long it’s pathetic. I’d like to think that it’s a busy schedule that keeps me from them, but more often than not I feel like a lazy unmotivated shit looking for something to blame for this gnawing feeling of being terribly unfulfilled.

To be continued… he wants an update and yet says, “Hurry up and come over.”

The voices at Roselawn were calling your name and all the while we spoke, hushed, the very same. I did not know you were unable to stay and unwilling. I could not see that thief who creaked in and out of your bones. We’ve always known the stories of ghosts in our sleepless nights and you knew where they’d take you. And I will come and see you in your new home.