The Last Post
"Please take these words and do with them what you would like. It's a dream I had, it drove me mad. It's just your time, it's just my fucking life."
Before we begin...either those kids got assaulted or they got dragged through a media circus to make some more cash for the whores posing as their parents. Either way they got raped and they're forever damaged. The only innocence that meant anything in this whole sorry spectacle is long since lost, and any voyeurs are indicted by implication. That means you, me, and everyone else that has an opinion on the subject. So spare me. We're all sitting in the same boat, it's just that some of us can admit we're hypocrites while the others still believe they're somehow above it all. Newsflash: Your shit stinks, too, and never more so than right now.
Which scandalous, egocentric rambling brings us right back home to the decidedly scandal-free, ego-driven scribbler who turned twenty-six today. It's an odd situation for the destructive romantic in me. A year ago, I'd have thought being stopped mid-masterpiece by the fates, the conspiracies, or the combined might of Mr. Jack and Mr. Marlboro a fitting way to end this project. After all, I wasn't looking for much in the way of a happy ending, and I certainly wasn't looking for what I found. No, this little collection of thoughts and feelings got turned around on me. One day I was staring at the bottom of a bottle, the next I was staring at the sky.
Seriously, I thought this journey would end with my coming to terms with my demons through words. I thought I'd take all the frustration I was easing with bottle and cigarette and make it into something that could make people understand the way I feel. It was and is an ego-trip. Never let any writer tell you any different. This was all about me, and about the issues I had with you. I wanted you to know me well enough that when I commented on something meaningful, you'd take it personally. I wanted you to empathise, though not necessarily sympathise. I wanted...I wanted you to get it, you know? I wanted to build you up with my story and then tear you down with what it gave me. I wanted you to see the world I see, and then the worlds I build to escape it. Notes From A Darkened Room was a series of postcards sent to random addresses in the vain hope that someone somewhere would write back, even if only to say 'fuck you'. I'd gotten trapped between these four walls, and I needed to know that the thoughts in my head could still fly beyond them. A stupid and arrogant idea, yes, but an honest one. And if anything struck a chord, I think it was that confessional aspect. I was unable to avoid sharing my finest moments, and I couldn't resist the chance to fictionalise some of the more mundane. At the same time, though, I think I managed to reveal and then face down at least some of my worst fears and humiliations. If nothing else, it's certainly been a therapeutic experience.
Yes, that title is literal. Yes, I am talking about the Notes in the past tense. Yes, this is the end. There was a point when it was all evolution, when it all still came under this header, when it was just the one story. That point has passed. I'm not the same guy that wrote a little piece entitled Mr. Whippy's Lament a year ago, and to pretend otherwise is to watch its original meaning become increasingly diluted by time and circumstance. I am both closer to and more distant from those words, and they no longer mean what they used to. Sometimes a year passes in the blink of an eye, and sometimes you look back and can't believe you were that person in that place. That's life, They say, and - every once in a while - They're right.
So it's time I stopped looking over my shoulder at the ghosts of my father and the boy I was, stopped trying to define emotions I can neither relive nor ever really understand, and way past time I stopped seeing the world as this room and then everything else. I'm no longer the child stood terrified in front of a world that seemed to be all about compromise, about giving up my dreams and settling for second best. I've found a way to walk without staring at my feet.
So I'm giving the demons one last night to dance. It is, after all, my birthday. I've killed the lights and I'm letting this screen throw its luminescent ghosts to the breeze that slips in through the open window, bringing with it the faint scent of another summer night in suburban nowhere. In the distance, raised voices struggle to make themselves heard over the bland and endlessly repeating moans of the cars that pass through this small town, forever on the way to somewhere better. A kiss would taste of bourbon and cigarettes, my poisons since I was old enough to know better. A touch from the right hands would find replies I thought myself incapable of. And a three-letter question could only ever have one answer...
Because I hurled myself at the ground...and I missed.
Before we begin...either those kids got assaulted or they got dragged through a media circus to make some more cash for the whores posing as their parents. Either way they got raped and they're forever damaged. The only innocence that meant anything in this whole sorry spectacle is long since lost, and any voyeurs are indicted by implication. That means you, me, and everyone else that has an opinion on the subject. So spare me. We're all sitting in the same boat, it's just that some of us can admit we're hypocrites while the others still believe they're somehow above it all. Newsflash: Your shit stinks, too, and never more so than right now.
Which scandalous, egocentric rambling brings us right back home to the decidedly scandal-free, ego-driven scribbler who turned twenty-six today. It's an odd situation for the destructive romantic in me. A year ago, I'd have thought being stopped mid-masterpiece by the fates, the conspiracies, or the combined might of Mr. Jack and Mr. Marlboro a fitting way to end this project. After all, I wasn't looking for much in the way of a happy ending, and I certainly wasn't looking for what I found. No, this little collection of thoughts and feelings got turned around on me. One day I was staring at the bottom of a bottle, the next I was staring at the sky.
Seriously, I thought this journey would end with my coming to terms with my demons through words. I thought I'd take all the frustration I was easing with bottle and cigarette and make it into something that could make people understand the way I feel. It was and is an ego-trip. Never let any writer tell you any different. This was all about me, and about the issues I had with you. I wanted you to know me well enough that when I commented on something meaningful, you'd take it personally. I wanted you to empathise, though not necessarily sympathise. I wanted...I wanted you to get it, you know? I wanted to build you up with my story and then tear you down with what it gave me. I wanted you to see the world I see, and then the worlds I build to escape it. Notes From A Darkened Room was a series of postcards sent to random addresses in the vain hope that someone somewhere would write back, even if only to say 'fuck you'. I'd gotten trapped between these four walls, and I needed to know that the thoughts in my head could still fly beyond them. A stupid and arrogant idea, yes, but an honest one. And if anything struck a chord, I think it was that confessional aspect. I was unable to avoid sharing my finest moments, and I couldn't resist the chance to fictionalise some of the more mundane. At the same time, though, I think I managed to reveal and then face down at least some of my worst fears and humiliations. If nothing else, it's certainly been a therapeutic experience.
Yes, that title is literal. Yes, I am talking about the Notes in the past tense. Yes, this is the end. There was a point when it was all evolution, when it all still came under this header, when it was just the one story. That point has passed. I'm not the same guy that wrote a little piece entitled Mr. Whippy's Lament a year ago, and to pretend otherwise is to watch its original meaning become increasingly diluted by time and circumstance. I am both closer to and more distant from those words, and they no longer mean what they used to. Sometimes a year passes in the blink of an eye, and sometimes you look back and can't believe you were that person in that place. That's life, They say, and - every once in a while - They're right.
So it's time I stopped looking over my shoulder at the ghosts of my father and the boy I was, stopped trying to define emotions I can neither relive nor ever really understand, and way past time I stopped seeing the world as this room and then everything else. I'm no longer the child stood terrified in front of a world that seemed to be all about compromise, about giving up my dreams and settling for second best. I've found a way to walk without staring at my feet.
So I'm giving the demons one last night to dance. It is, after all, my birthday. I've killed the lights and I'm letting this screen throw its luminescent ghosts to the breeze that slips in through the open window, bringing with it the faint scent of another summer night in suburban nowhere. In the distance, raised voices struggle to make themselves heard over the bland and endlessly repeating moans of the cars that pass through this small town, forever on the way to somewhere better. A kiss would taste of bourbon and cigarettes, my poisons since I was old enough to know better. A touch from the right hands would find replies I thought myself incapable of. And a three-letter question could only ever have one answer...
Because I hurled myself at the ground...and I missed.
posted by Michael at 2:42 PM
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