Tag: observational writing

Centralist by Spacedog

I am not a fuckin’ savior. I peel away at people like onions. We all do. Some of us are the peeled and we cry. Some of us are the instruments that scalp. Away. Away. Away.

 

We peel away the layers.

We peel away the sunshine.

We prefer it this way. Peeling away until there is nothing but barren terrain. Nakedness of the soul.

I see that barren flesh. I run. I hide. I capture but I do not seize. I growl at myself. I cannot kill the already dead. I cannot usurp what is already fallen at my feet. I plot. I ponder. I smile, I beckon them forth.

 

Centralist

I have always stood in between time and reality. I have always liked my part in this pathway towards truth, towards honesty, towards good.

I have always hated my lack of proofreading, my lack of utter care over things that most writers would throw hissy-fits about. Is this proper grammar? Am I spelled this write? Yes I know right.

I play dumb for the prey to think I am as such. It is not a very nice thing to do, but do it I shall. It was how the wolves conditioned me. Maybe I’m still just a wolf.

Most likely though, I fall in between. I am a centralist or centrist. I care not to look up spellings in dictionary.com. Usually words flow in my head that don’t make sense. Nine out of ten times, they are real words and I do a little spellcheck and poof they become what they were intended to be. Microcosisms of my head spewed out to the masses herky-jerkedly like a disenfranchised orgasm at a self-righteous porno store.

Yes. yes. YES. !!! I would think if I had a bigger ego, that yes I am the fuckin’ Dr. Phil of the next generation. I have been in the middle of many things. I somehow italicized my shit and have no clue how. I havent been in the middle of any bi relationships but if I could have would have just so I could enlighten you all further. But that is not the point of this blog. The point is this………………………………………

there comes a time…….. when we as people need something more. I need more. I hear my friends call me after many a beer and I hear my friends after many a sober evening. I do not hear stability call. I hear everything but.

I write and write and write some more. There is no sense to the melody. There is no reason to the rhyme. Perhpas if I could hear the music. I could tell the tale better. But I have equal melodies of those captured by the waves of the substances and I hear equal melodies of those not captured by such.

What road should I travel? What road will hurt me less? I care not. I care to live.

Sexual Ambiguity By Spacedog

Subject Contradictions:
He takes his coat off as he slowly enters the room. A swift, precise glance of the inhabitants reveals copious laughter but their smiles are nylon. This is unamusing to him so he creeps out the back door.

He sees a child drop an ice cream cone and begin to cry.

He sees a parapelegic ringing her little bell and sitting on the sidewalk. He wonders where her wheelchair went?

He hears a train whistle but sees no tracks.

He steps in a big wad of horse shit and walks with a more pronounced anger.

Walking further down the narrow roadway, he spots a man and woman arm in arm. Every four steps or so the woman takes she gazes a loving glance at this man. The man gazes back at her but in the exact moment she looks away, he lustfully gazes at the ass of the man in front of them.

He walks down the street and wonders when his chance will be. When he will be the ass that they gaze upon. He’s a virgin though and waiting for marriage. Then he remembers that he is gay.

Wait! We can’t marry!

So he decides to take matters into his own hands. He turns around abruptly. He takes off his shirt. He is cold and his nipples harden, among other things. He walks back into the room.

I need something acceptable, he thinks. He turns his nose to the air. He smells alcohol, roses, and faint scents of sex. He walks towards those of course. He realizes it is darker in the corner of the room. Someone motions him into a doorway.

He enters the room.

Twenty minutes later…….

He’s no longer a virgin. He goes home.

Believe it or not there is a point to the story. It really has nothing to do with sex but sex gets people’s attention for the most part. All the things which are “forbidden” to us when we are children do. Sex, drugs, alcohol, crime, purposefully hurting others.

I have dabbled into all of the above. A lot of them quite often. Never all of them at the same time. You grow out of one bad habit and there is always another. We all have them. If we are defined by them and ruled by them therein lies the problem.

So I don’t care what people do in their own time. Each of the things I mentioned above have their risks and their rewards. As adults we know what they are. We still do them though. We have sex until we get the HIV or anally seep or walk a little funny. We do drugs until we have no more veins or no more teeth. We drink alcohol til we need a liver transplant and then we get a new liver and drink some more. We evade taxes, invade minors, and jaywalk. We hurt others and then we are hurt and then they are hurt and it goes around in one big limitless circle like Simba and his fuckin pathetic Circle of Life.

Then we go to church and we pray and put on our Easter bonnets and some of go home and celebrate Jesus and some the Cadburry bunny, while others still just go off and celebrate their birthday suits together. One big happy family.

Then we go feed the homeless. Then we hop a train to the city in the clothing we just bought at the Salvation Army and go panhandle.

After that we pick up our grandmother to go to bingo. She sits there contently. Dabber in one arm, flask in the other, bible in her purse. She sees another 70 year old man there, one with all his teeth, and promptly leaves you to dab balls by yourself. Apparently grandma knows a lot more about balls then you thought.

It never ends. It is eternal, it is disturbing but it’s not. We all do it. Extreme or miniscule. It exists.

“This is the biggest mistake I could think would save me. I wanted to give up the idea I had any control. Shake things up. To be saved by chaos. To see if I could cope, I wanted to force myself to grow again. To explode my comfort zone.” -Chuck Palahniuk

I have so been there. Ripping myself apart just so I could see myself bleed and try to fix things. That’s human.

And that’s why even though people are flawed to a repulsive extent, they deserve a chance in my book. Otherwise we would all be sitting alone by ourselves in caves, fleshlight in one hand (ummmm i guess dildos for all the bottoms and women out there) and a bottle of whiskey in the other. 🙂