One year ago - what I've learned, and where I need to go from here

Hey.

I remember one year ago today waking up to a wild, unsettling batch of turbulence.  The plane was shaking, passengers started screaming, and I was convinced we were going to crash.  I'd given up a lot of my old life, sold or thrown away so many long-held possessions, and pointed myself east. 

Why?  Why did I do that?

I was in a rut, basically.  Wasn't challenging myself or really applying myself towards serious artistic endeavors. I was shutting off, disappointed in my lack of growth. And, I don't think California's ever liked me. I've grown up strange all my life, and I knew , in the marrow of my bones that New York  held more life, more possibilities.  Heck, maybe even an absurd kind of love.

Back to the plane.  I hadn't slept for over 29 hours, and had already changed planes twice.  Sat down, and didn't even remember buckling my safety belt.  Awoke to the rancor and the panic of the crowd.  And the sick, buckling skips of the aircraft.   I was sure death was near.  And in an odd way, I was sort of glad.  I altered my breathing, deliberately induced a calmer heart rate, and waited patiently for the end.

But the plane was fine. And I arrived in New York City just a little after 10:30am on February 1st, 2011.

What a year.  Let's break it down into three parts:  What I've done, what I've learned, and what I need to do next year.

WHAT I'VE DONE

Performed in 5 different productions this year - a lot more than I've done consecutively in a while. It's a town where there's work to be had, and I've enjoyed the variety of each experience.

Lost 30 pounds - selling a car and walking everywhere will do that.  Also, I've been eating mildly better. I didn't even know I'd lost weight until a doctor's visit proved otherwise.  God help me if I still see pictures of myself from the back, though - sheesh.  It's like watching a sad elephant shuffle.

Wrote 7 new original songs this year - which really surprised me.  They're all on this site and are each varying levels of quality, but I can see myself using these new songs to cope, to grow, to narrate the changes I'm making. Once I shore up cash for a new guitar, you better believe I'll be taking these little ditties and some older songs of mine to the streets!  Probably won't sing the Vagina Song on the subway, though...

Getting paid on a regular basis to act and sing - it's not a lot of money, but it validates me.  It is the essential nature of being a professional in a field.  Beyond the dry aesthetics of theory and academic art.  Sure, in a perfect world the acting you're paid to do is just as skillful as the acting you do for free, but for now, just getting paid is a minor miracle.

Created a solid draft of my one man show: Ghost on a Stick.  Now, to edit further and work to get it workshopped and performed before this time next year.

WHAT I'VE LEARNED

NY actors and creative people are kinder - they just are. Something about dealing with such a harsh environment and coupling that with sharing transit with actors fosters kindness and respect.  Sure, there's a fair share of jerks and self-absorbed types, but  most are just as scared and hungry as you and want to reach out and help.

You can never really clean a hardwood floor.  You just can't.  You can sweep and mop and get on your hands and knees with a scouring pad and punish the ground, but it will never be clean.  That's okay.  A little dirt's part of life.

I will never be able to see every new play or eat at every new restaurant  - so it's okay to have gaps.

People sure love to see me nude or near nude in plays/musicals - whether it's pantless as the Porter in Macbeth or as Pete in the new play Home, or my ass crack sticking out for the cabaret, I've earned a following for taking off clothes for comic effect.

Working from home is wonderful and strange.

Don't read THE ROAD on the subway unless you want strangers to ask why you're sobbing openly.

There is a mayor of my neighborhood, and he is my brother's three legged poodle, Peter.

Despite all the slices I've had, I still go crazy for a Di Fara slice. Health code violations and all.

My brother is a complicated and charming guy, and moving here has really given me a chance to spend more time with him.  I love him to pieces, and I'm ever so proud of his heart and talents.

Even in this modern age, cash rules everything.  So few non-chain stores take plastic.  I end up loading up at the ATM and stockpiling it like an old-timey prospector, under the mattress.

I owe the comedian Paul F Tompkins so much for my creative sanity this year in NY.  At my darkest, he'd always have some podcast or album I'd listen to and become galvanized by the sheer multitudes of his playful, passionate creative output.


GOALS

1)Lose 30 more pounds - getting to 270 was a snap.  Now, it's time to drop to 240.  I'll sleep better, I'll have less aches and pains, and get a wider variety of roles that way.

2)Give myself more - I've always had a hard time doing things for just me. For example, it's really tough for me to see plays or try new restaurants by myself.  Just seems sad.  But screw that.  I deserve new experiences.

3)Invest in a daily and diverse analysis of acting opportunities in NYC - more research.  Not just Playbill, or Actor's Access or Backstage. Really pore over the trades and get to know just how people get cast in theatre, film and tv in this city.  Who does what, and who do I know involved in new projects.



Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going on a date!

Thanks to the following people for helping me this year:
Jeric Jones and Stephanie Girard
Mom and Dad
Jelina Seibert
Jennifer Moraca
Jessica Larson
Josh Walters
Tess Suchoff
Bobby Lux
Joe Hogan
Winnie Lok
Shannon Fillion
Michael Irish
Garrett Blair
Bekki Doster
Mark Kinch
Dave Benger
Carole Taylor
Charlie Grosso
Mark Harborth
Zach Stasz
Ginger Reiter

Faking - updated draft of original song and a meditation on Delusion

Hey.

I did some more polish over the months on my original song "Faking", and you can check it out below.  I'll post lyrics, too. 

Here's the inspiration behind the song.

Playing this song today made me think about a topic I've been racking my brains about these past few weeks: delusion.  Mainly, how we humans cling to delusion and blanket ourselves in its downy, lush embrace in order to stay alive and sane. We delude ourselves into thinking we will never die, that we are indeed special and unique and glorious and that we have worth.  Delusion whispers to us, tells us that we will find that love, that career, those bold, striking moments which will make our future biographers wet with desire.

I'm an actor.  Poems and songs and writing is just other random fluff I do.  But it's all centered around acting. Constant, unflagging delusion which leads me to open up in front of people.

But why?

Who should care?

There are millions of people who have done it and do it and do it far better than I.

I guess it's because I really don't have anything left.  I'm not gonna be rich.  I'm not going to have kids.  I'm not skilled in any other field which can help out this broken, mottled world.   I will most likely not find love.

So, it's me and this delusion.  That writing words down, singing them, playing other people will produce some benefit for me , for whomever looks at them.

First Verse
When the money's run out
and the day grows still
sleep sickness masking your sorrow
got a jealous heart, it's a bitter pill
in search of strength you can borrow

Chorus
but hey, what am I   - a dreamer who's been faking
someday this world's gonna love me
gonna sing along to the song I've been making
til then I'll sing to the wall.

Second Verse
When the riots start
and the blood fills the ether
doesn't make much sense to give up
take a proper job, sell insurance
pretend that you never wanted anything other than this
because your pension's gone, love's commodity shattered
streets are filled with the dead who've been torn up and battered
there was anytime at all when the fight truly mattered
it was now
(please speak)

Chorus

First verse again, and chorus.

Syllables - first draft of new song

Hey.

Been cleaning house a lot lately, music-in-my-head-wise.

Songs I started to write decades ago, but was never confident enough to finish 'em.

This song's title was based on one of the first  plays I wrote in college:  Syllables.  Language has always fascinated me.  Its ability to cloud reason, trigger deep, primordial responses.   I'm a bit of a drunk walrus with words, and I like tweaking them around.  It's why I do what I do.

Lyrics:

To the untrained eye
you think that I'm broken, on my knees
lacking intuition
barely listening
Better hold on tight
you're never gonna know the blow
that knocks you down
fills your mouth with copper
that's what I'm talkin' bout.

Chorus
And all I've known
are syllables you press upon me
more sound than sense
those syllables you press upon me

2nd Verse
For a moment, weakness
your body looks good and ripe
I won't give in , though
damn your beauty
masking hate
I'm such a fool to know you
oh, release me from torment
what other wretch could love you
tell me truthfully

what other wretch could love you
tell me truthfully

Chorus

Bridge
And it's coming out of the woodwork
your admission all your words were noise, fickle poise
'Stead of  "sorry" , you laugh, such a rude quirk
Any one could see I loathe you, love you
Leave me

3rd Verse
This bitter game
this heart of mine
this bond's been broken
what have I done
an errant choice
this pain, awoken
and you don't stop the grieving if the grieving is hard
don't stop the grieving if the grieving is all that's true
stop the grieving if the grieving is all that's left of you
and you don't stop the grieving if the grieving is hard
don't stop the grieving if the grieving is all that's true
stop the grieving if the grieving is all that's left of you

Chorus

Cold Missouri Waters - cover of James Keelaghan song

Hey.

Anyone who knows me knows I'm a huge sucker for folk music. 
One, because I'm an incredibly mediocre guitarist, and quite a few folk songs are grounded in pretty simple chords.
Two, because they're wonderful ways to immortalize a story, a person.  And my voice has always been best suited for a quiet, somber song.

When I first heard this song, it unraveled to me to its core.  Such a perfect depiction of loss, survivor's regret. And, it's based on a true event: 

The Mann Gulch Fire

I made Jenn play it over and over again for an hour and a half, and each time, I kept weeping.  Sure, I was a bit of a wreck at the time, but there was just something so remarkable about how the song was constructed.  I wanted to get into my blood, find a way to make something half as creative and raw as this. 

The narrator of the song is Wagner Dodge.  He died five years after the fire from Hodgkin's  Disease. 

Ride the Ferry - new song

It's been over a half an hour since I recorded this, and my hands are still shaking.

This is good, guys.  I think it's the best thing I've ever done.  Special thanks to Carole for spurring the conversation which led me to joking about riding the ferry to find that special someone.

It's full of glorious stereotypes, but it's also full of that Jara sass and love.  I know I normally self-promote these brazenly with no sense of shame or purpose, but do me a favor.  Forward this like crazy.  I really like it, and I think other people will, too.  Post comments, shout it to the winds!

Here are the lyrics:

Chorus
I'm gonna ride the ferry to find my love
I'm certain this'll be the time she'll find me
I know I'm strange wearing fate like a worn-out glove
But nothing else will ever bring me liberty
This moment, wind whipping waves along the ferry
May bring my love, the one, the one I'll marry

First Verse
Oh, Manhattan women never want to talk to me
Cuz my clothes aren't pressed, I don't invest in the ticker-tape game
I'm just a fool in jest
Oh, and women down in Brooklyn think I'm rigid and lame
I still eat meat, not a tattoo to my name
 - don't smoke cloves -
Never liked the taste

Chorus

Second Verse
Oh, Bronx ladies, you've got it going on
But with a heavy heart, not smart enough to ease your pain
You need a stronger man
Oh, and women from Queens, there's something in your genes
You're always running from work to play - next Saturday for coffee -
Come what may?
You've got a tightrope class!

Chorus

Bridge
And I've tried my luck
With girls from New Jersey
But getting them to Old New York's
Like moving to Tumbucku
And I've pined for girls
Down in Boston, California.
(what good is pining, see?
Just play the lottery
You'll win more)

Third Verse
I know I'm not a treasure, not a Mr. Right
My qualities are slight
I might have lost the human race
But I still run, I still have fun
And if Staten Island doesn't bring romance
And if my heart never wins this game of chance
I'll take a breath
Until my death
I'll grin
And then I'll do it again

Chorus

Succulent - original song

suc·cu·lent  

adj.

1. Full of juice or sap; juicy.

2. Botany Having thick, fleshy, water-storing leaves or stems.

3. Highly interesting or enjoyable; delectable: a succulent bit of gossip.

n. Botany

A succulent plant, such as a sedum or cactus.

---

 Hey.


Thanks to Michael Irish for playing the jazz chord featured in this song.  I've been living with this song and no way to make it sound like a brooding dirge until I heard him play an E maj7 one day during rehearsal.  Just goofing around.  And it all clicked.  There was such a primal beauty and savage overtone there which made all the lyrics I've been storing around for years finally come to life.


The song started swimming around my skull in 2008, which was a strange year.  There was a least a dozen or so of my friends either cheating on or being cheated on by their spouses or boyfriend/girlfriends. 

And I didn't understand it.  I've never been tempted to cheat.  Hell, let's face it.  I'm not a pretty face.  Nothing to look at.  Any good, panty-dropping qualities I may possess are buried deep, deep down under a host of other flaws.  Hence, temptation has never found its way to me.

But I've always wondered what it's like to be that person.  To have temptation in front of you.  To be found desirable and to forsake what you currently have in order to chase that pleasure. 

So, this song's told from the point of view of someone making that choice.  In order to cope with a world they don't understand or enjoy.

Here are the lyrics:

Another morning, by your side
As long as you are still and sleeping
there's a chance for peace we're keeping
-shower, leave -
Another grim parade.
Cars pressed together, headed -
Quotidian rituals we've dreaded
But we muster on
We never try to dream

Don't I deserve just a little bit of fun
I'm nowhere close to living
the way I wanted to
This world is breathing its last breath
and pleasure's the only currency that's as good as gold
(truth be told)
But I love you madly
I'll make you feel so right
Someday
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie
This succulent lie

Another message
I've sent to voice mail
The only crime that you've committed
is the fact that you've admitted
that you know me too well
Another mouth to feed
Leaving work for my appointment
Futility masking disappointment
Smile til it hurts...
I'm gonna have a son.


Don't I deserve just a little bit of fun
I'm nowhere close to living
the way I wanted to
This world is breathing its last breath
and pleasure's the only currency that's as good as gold
(truth be told)
But I love you madly
I'll make you feel so right
Someday
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie
This succulent lie

Another lobby
Another hotel key
Another pseudonym, cuz I'm hiding
Oh, yes, another woman in the bed I'm riding -
- shower, leave -
Another promise, that I won't keep
Someday, we'll run away and we'll be married
(the truth is like a secret long ago I've buried
which I can't speak...
I really don't know how)

Don't I deserve just a little bit of fun
I'm nowhere close to living
the way I wanted to
This world is breathing its last breath
and pleasure's the only currency that's as good as gold
(truth be told)
But I love you madly
I'll make you feel so cheap
Someday
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie
This succulent lie

Greg's Story - original song

Today is Greg Cohen's birthday.  I owe a lot of my artistic spirit and cultivation to him.  Without him, my twenties would have collapsed into a self-pitying mess.

Greg and I met while working together at the Queen Mary in 2001.  He cast me in a production at the Long Beach Playhouse, and 10 plays and 10 years together, we've become fast friends.

Greg's still one of the few people I know whom I aspire to be when I grow up.  He's managed to pull off the impossible trick of being grounded as a adult while remaining eccentric, creative, and kind. 

Claustrophobic - first draft

Well, in case the hurricane claims me (or shuts down power for a while), here's one more song.

Inspired by a late night on the F train, where it felt like a bullet train.

Song - cover of the Fleetwoods "Mr. Blue"

Hey.

I turn 33 this August 31st.  Nothing really special about that year or my birthday nowadays. 
But when I was younger, I was a die-hard romantic (I still am, I just hide it better).  From the age of six, I harbored this seven year crush on Lori Walker.  Short, dark brown curls and two distinctive dimples framed her cheeks.  Brown, luscious eyes which rendered me helpless.

And every birthday, there was a part of me that wanted that one ineffable gift: to be loved.  To find that girl who saw past all my flaws who would share their company with me.

And when I was nine, I remember hearing this song on a collection of 50's music tapes my parents stuck in the car when we traveled on vacations to Idaho or Oregon.  From the moment I heard it, I don't know why, but I really, really became enamored with it.  It's such a clean, gentle, sad, wistful song.  Self-pitying and pathetic and yet, the chords make it ear candy.

For years, my mom would play the song on tape for me on my birthday.  And I'd just feel oddly hopeful.  Maybe this birthday would bring me love.  And if not, may it give me the attention and spirit and talent to write what I feel so it's half as good as this song.

Here's a cover of me singing it.  I'm playing a homeless busker for a show, and none of the stuff on these pages is period enough.  Enjoy!

Anthem Part Two - updated version of song

Hi.

Here's the newest version of my my new york city anthem.

The longer I'm here, the more I've become aware how I've been scraping by for so damn long. 

Living on limited means, limited self-care, limited affection.  I'm tired and lonely and I don't know how to break through towards vitality in anything.  Healthier emotional life.  New and deeper relationships. An artistic career in something, anything.

So I sing to myself.  I write little songs in an effort to keep this will alive.  I'm working on a production of MACBETH which opens the 21st of July, and it's gonna be a wonderful show.  It's really kicking my ass.
I don't know if I'll ever be meant for human consumption again, relationship-wise.  But that's ok.  There's plenty of work to be done...

The Pirate Song

So, every so often you come across a larger-than-life individual.  Someone you admire for their unflagging enthusiasm and spirit. Someone who's had their share of scrapes and obstacles in their time, but who always summons the courage for one more joke, one more smile.

And that's Christopher Kueberth.  My friend.

I wrote this song when we were roommates.  I had begged and begged him to audition for a production of Twelfth Night.  Because he's a fabulous fucking actor who never does any theatre anymore.  Finally, he relented, and went on to do some pretty amazing work.  

I discovered they were looking for musicians who could sing, and wanted them to come in playing something, Chris already had a song I had written about him, but it's a very gloomy one, dealing with his love life and such drama.   "Damn it, Jones", he said, "write me another song".

And the idea came from there.  In two days before auditions, I wrote what you hear below, and played it.  Got the part of Feste, and had a ball.

You'll notice some actual quality in the video. Somebody discovered Windows Movie Maker.....

Letter to Simon

Dear Simon,

This is going to sound creepy.  I used to write letters to you in my journal.  With no intention to send them.

Like this one.

But I also used to write letters to e.e. cummings the same way , too. To Leo Buscaglia and Leonardo Da Vinci.    A way to get stuff off my chest and lock it away.  Write someone whom you admire and ask them for help.

I've been sitting on this letter for about a month now.  Because I wish to hell my first thought when I heard the news wasn't this:

Not again.  Damn it.  Damn it to fucking hell.

I'm 32.  And I've known too many suicides, buried too many suicides or called the paramedics at the last fucking second too many times in order to save people from taking their life. Watched them helpless and fragile in the emergency room, hour after hour.  Watched them hold it together in the observation ward during a 72 hour stay.  Packed their bags.  Walked home and saw those goddamn plastic sensors left by the EMT all over the ground.  Cleaned the house.  Try to do normal people things, like eat at a restaurant.  But everything takes too long.  Four hours in a restaurant, sobbing and eating barbeque.

And I'm nowhere as strong as I thought those people were. As I thought you were.

And each time someone I know kills themselves, I ask myself:  When is it gonna be me.  When is the reality of my incompetence and weakness, my pursuit of a ideal nowhere in sight, my complete and utter isolation going to sink inside my heart.

Someday I feel the only I'm still alive because my debts.  I owe too much to kill myself.

 - credit cards
- student loans

There's no way I'm going to let anyone deal with those messes before I go.

And even beyond money, I owe my parents.  I owe them the hair on my head and the blood in my veins and the teeth in my mouth. I owe the music in my throat and the poetry in my bones.   My life isn't enough to make up how much I owe them for how much they've lost to have me.  And then, to have a defective, sickly child who gave them hell for years, who made them scared and frightened and convinced I was an autistic, unstable beast.

Look, I don't blame you for doing what you did, Simon.  I just miss you.  I never really knew you - you went  out of your way to create the ineffable persona that was Simon.  Your real name isn't even Simon.   You were a fantastic actor, and I loved working with you in Scotland.   I remember the flight home, the horrible timing of the break up between you and and the other actress in Edinburgh Airport.  We'd been up all night reveling at the Three Sisters bar, and between me patching up someone's glass-ridden leg, and just having worked our asses off two months for theatre , we were all pretty frayed.  But, even as your ex was screaming at you at the check-in counter, you put on your sunglasses, and you smiled.  This odd, distant smile that put you a million ways away.

I hope you're happier there, brother.  I hope you're at peace.

Song - I Don't Know What Love Is

This song, like your life, is a glorious mess.

Wrote the first half in December 2000.  Young, ignorant of love and responsibility.

Wrote the last part in December 2010.  One eye looking towards New York and the future.  A decade of experience with the small and unceasing lessons love gives.

You say you don't know what love is now because love, by its nature, is a mystery.  How it emerges from nothingness, how it is nurtured.  How one-sided and crouched and clandestine the darker parts of it can be.

One lesson that sticks:  Love is saying you love someone and for them to know just exactly what level of significance that word espouses. 

End of February - What Have You Learned?

Month 1's almost done.

And you're hungry.  You're impatient.  You've learned quite a bit, and still feel so ignorant, so bewildered.

What you've learned:

1) You have no real clue how to start the acting career you want -  Where are the places for non-union people to work in this city?  How does today's actor become union?   Everyone says one needs to hustle; but with whom and where? 

2)New Yorkers must love drinking sodas with straws -  because every place offers them to you when you eat.  And you don't like the sensation.  The carbonation hugs the thin membrane of the plastic straw and all you taste is the heat of your breath and this treacly outpouring of syrup.  Cavities be damned, you're not using the straws.

3)You have not been dealing with grief and isolation well - Humans are magnificently stupid beasts.  If you're required to focus on sacrifice and working long, arduous hours in order to raise cash to uproot your life, you can shelve how wretched you feel about losing so much over the past year and a half.  How lonely you've become. 
        You saw this happen before when you first moved back to LA.  Racking up thousands of dollars in debt with no job and a cockroach-laden studio apartment with gnarled, thick, brown shag carpeting.  Misery pressing your throat.  Sleeping erratic, desperate hours in an effort to hide from yourself.  Your unwanted self. 

And here, in a month's time, you've witnessed those old habits creeping up.  The sleeping sickness.  The frantic checking and rechecking of Ok Cupid.  Crying over fucking Air Supply songs, for godsakes.  It's pathetic and the only remedy for it to pass is time. 

Thanks to Winnie, to Michael, to Carole for making this first month filled with adventures! 

Who the Hell are You?

What changes you?

Your education?  Your life experience?  Your own home-grown sadness?

And still, all that can be dashed away when you realize just how humble you are..

Spent Saturday in the East Village with some old friends from college, from old theatre companies.  Enjoying the vegan scene, catching up on their minor successes.  They're passionate and awkward and wonderful - just like you. 

And then you head over to the Bryant Park Hotel for a friend's birthday party.    As you're waiting, you grow increasingly aware how little you belong in this space.  Everyone looks so complete, so polished and fashionable and confident and sexually apt.

And then there's you.

Wearing a cardboard belt that's falling apart and a t-shirt hidden inside a cheap sport coat and trench.  Hair matted and slovenly.  Stocky and sporting jeans you've rolled up two inches on each leg because they decidedly don't make fat pants with a waist that starts at the crotch.

And it's times like this where you're not the glorious creative spirit. You're just a fat, poor, brown kid from Modesto, watching the rich people live.

So you leave.  Call to apologize.  And your excuse seems so flimsy,  But it's a raw , ineffable trigger. 

You have arrived ( Serial Killer Interior Decoration Tips)

Here you are.

2789 miles east.  Boxes unpacked.  Laundry washed.  And you know you're finally home because you cooked your first meal.  Haven't cooked in ages.

Sure, it's Kraft macaroni and hamburger, but that simple act of tossing food onto a hot surface and letting the scent waft over the kitchen opens a kindness within you, makes you smile for the first time in a long while.

You have arrived.  And you've got a lot of work to do.

Your brother took one look at your furnishings and remarked, " It looks like a serial killer lives here".  He has a point.

REASONS WHY YOUR APARTMENT MIGHT BE THE RESIDENCE OF A SERIAL KILLER

1)Cardboard littered on the floor (why? to cover up blood, of course)

2) Heaps of items on the floor (books, clothes, etc)

3) The attractive sight of garbage bags instead of curtains duct-taped to the windows.

 4) The ineffable sounds of banging (and possibly wailing?) coming from the heating vent.

5)The fact that the police knocked on your door this week to ask you questions (sure , it was about the previous tenant, but then, one doesn't know how the previous tenant "vanished")

6) One impossibly modern and sterile section of the room which sticks out like the Amish at a skin head rally:

7) Cardboard used as furniture (see above photo)

So, you need to take step to strip away this impromptu serial killer interior decoration. Curtains need to be purchased, bookshelves and sock drawers too.  There are pictures to hang up and essential oils to burn and a tv stand to purchase.  If anyone feels generous and wants to donate some scratch to this poor miserable sod, the paypal link's on the main page.

Again, lots of work to do....

The night before the MRI...

...and you're wasting time. Scads of it. Working late, then coming home. Flooding your eyeballs in safe situation comedy. Finally, you shut it off. Alone, on the bed, you realize that your head feels like a cold mess of cornstarch and water. You've been so divorced from open, clear emotion for what - a year now? It's not depression, and it's more than exhaustion. You lack sensation.
Please, you whisper to no one in particular, show me how to repair this man.

Regret

So you're on the phone for an hour today.
With 2004.
She's sweet and beautiful, just like before.
But she is unraveling. She wants 2004 to be everywhere. Wants the same joy she had, and refuses to loosen her panic grip.

Look at this photo. It's like staring at people from a foreign country. The past.
Where you were so pluckish and goofy, like a baby duckling. You and your pretentious literary
mag swag. Celluar phone clipped to the pants with pride.

The past. That uninvited guest. You open the door. You pour it a drink. You keep your voice
firm. You will give them no further hospitality. You grab their coat. You open and close the door behind them.

Glut

Too much fat pillowed inside your flesh.
Too many books hoarded past their orginal desire, lapping up dust.
Too many promises to care for yourself unfulfilled.
Too many trappings and not enough freedom.

Look at you. You're a potted plant. Mid thirties, close to three hundred pounds, and not a dream in your head.

No more. 143 days. This project starts now.