The Prizefighter

Ascending
with an extra spring in his step.
The Prizefighter heads upstairs
To bed
Alone.
But with a scent of victory on the lips
And sweat behind the ears.

Tonight’s victory was seized
By hands and feet that still
Ache with every battle
That came before it.
That ache, dulled now
Will return.
The Prizefighter knows this.

Now though
Now is the time to revel
In the afterglow
Of another night
When modesty is left for
The con-men
And hopeless romantics.

It is then and there
That he knows
He is invincible
He is untouchable
It is with this that he smiles
At that big empty bed.

Meaningless meanings

The folowing is an excerpt from my correspondence.

My fingernails have a length and grime about them that is in itself a testament to the last ten days spent on the road. There seems to be an extra amount of resilience imbedded in each nail, as if the culmination of experiences that were fashioned with or recorded by each tip, acted as some sort of ‘essential mineral’ that aids in strength. You know, like all the other essential minerals and vitamins that never seem to cause you any problems until you read about them while waiting in line at the grocery store. This may be true, but it could just be that I’m still fighting tooth and nail to avoid reality, and the weight of a Monday that lies just around the corner. In my fight to fend off reality on this motha-fuckin’ humid Sunday, I have armed myself with a combination of some of the finest tools the creature of man has in his arsenal. A box fan roars in one corner to fight off the heat, while a cold beer has my flank. My trusty pipe is within reach of my trigger finger at all times, and a reserve of left over pizza from the night before is warming in the toaster oven. Large headphones encompass my ears so that nothing but the abstracted recycled video game sounds of Crystal Castles, and my tormenting tinnitus, are allowed on that channel. I’m now just hunkering down to write you, and take my mind away from the thought traps that ensnare the idle in the calm before the storm, the storm of a big Monday battle back into reality. Coffee will be my weapon of choice for the offensive that will be necessary to make it to Tuesday. But that is tomorrow, and for the present I’m just going to sit behind this wall of defenses and write to you.

Voicemails need to be checked, emails erased, laundry to wash, but those will be tended to in time. Writing to you has bubbled up the priority ladder, but don’t feel too special, for I’ll probably use excerpts of this text in a posting about my feelings after this road trip. Of course I’ll also have to excerpt this very paragraph, just to show what a self aware prick I can be! Woo Hoo!!

I will not take the time to string out all the details of the trip. I will save those for the proper time and place when I can wave my hands about wildly and grapple your attention with the proper vocal inflections. Something I’m much better at while recalling a personal story off the cuff, but not so much when I’m trying to read a book out loud. Lovecraft, no less. Something I learned about myself on this trip, but I’m just trailing off on a tangent. Where was I? … Oh yes, the details will be saved for another time. I just wanted to express some thoughts and feelings that have molded themselves in the mind upon my return.

I find myself entertained by thoughts and ideas on the topic of “meaning”. Did this trip have a meaning, or better yet, what meaning will I eventually construct for it? That will only come with time, and I’m okay with that. It is not this very trip’s meaning that I’m interested in, but the idea of trying to fashion a meaning itself. How do I go about this? It seems like an automatic process, one which we rarely step back from to look at. We already have to step back from all the finite details of the trip itself in order see it as ‘one’ event with which we can try to attempt to adhere a meaning to. But I want to step back even further, and take note on just how I decide to organize and sort all the experiences and emotions from such a trip. How did the vague expectations prior to leaving mix with the then present reality of the trip, and how does that mixture settle and cool on the window sill of hindsight?

I am afraid I’m putting the cart before the horse, for I have yet to even decide upon a meaning, if any, with which to deconstruct from or reverse engineer if you will. I not even sure if I could construct a proper meaning, if all the while I’m always on my own heels in search of a reason behind the meaning, and the subsequent meaning of that reason. Two steps forward, and one step back. So goes the slow dance through life.

A Bad Seed

There comes a point when traveling through the garden of the mind, when one is taken aback at the discovery of a rogue. Something so bizarre, that one will quickly loose site of everything around him. His mind is no longer a garden, but one potted plant, sitting in the dark with only his conscious light illuminating.

In finding myself staring at such a similar potted plant, I was no longer tending to all the prim and proper activities that had, up till then, been my routine of adult maintenance. No, for if what this new planted thought - one which was not intentionally planted myself - was implying were true, then there was no point in my other needs. It seemed to make no sense at all, but complete sense at once. A paradoxical weed that could be seen with such a clear lucidity that I recoiled in horror before its image could be captured with words. A debilitating thought trap that could only be escaped with an amputation; by the irreversible cut of psychosis. Out of self preservation, I reached for any infliction to jar the consciousness away. This works to a degree, but makes a mess of the reality around you. When those meat-hooks set in, you have snap out of it quickly, or else be torn apart by horses. The steed of social norms on one side, and that of personal health on the other. I needed help.

What could be explained or conveyed to my more traditionally educated friends, conjured up references to books and authors and ideas, who rang little familiarity. Names I had a phonetical history with, but nothing more. It was then that a good, and well read, friend of mine gave me a little book. He warned me just how thick this book was, despite its modest size. It would not be an easy read. But the similarities of that rogue thought, and those which could be found in this book, may be of some use he assured me.

It was then that a man by the name of Camus gave a name to this rogue; the Absurd. It was in fact not a rogue at all, but a rather common and eternal weed. Overlooked by most, but known for besieging even the most respected minds of their time. This provided only a marginal comfort to me at first. After what is now going on eight months of mental mending to the rest of the garden I left in disrepair, it seems all these books have become my new distraction. For you see, even Camus himself cannot remove this weed. It's always there, right around the corner of my eye. Just on the edge of my peripherals. Not daring to turn my back on it, but directly avoiding it like the high noon sun.

I've seen it once. I'm sure of it. Deep inside the realm of sleep. I have no recollection of anything that lead up to it. Just that split second dropping of the soul as one pulls their foot off a land mine. The only visual I have is that blinding full spectrum, akin to direct sunlight. Wrapping my mind fully around the Absurd, became it.

The adrenal gland, following orders from the natural processes, roused me back to reality. Back to keeping it in the corner of my eye.

This thing called Love

The following in an excerpt from my correspondence.


As for myself and dating, well I've been a bit on hiatus from such endeavors. Romance can addle ones goals, and leave them believing that it is the means to a greater end. Unlike novels and movies this "end" only exists in our fantasies, and its whole existence depends upon the efforts of two individuals. Two individuals who will always be individuals at the core, no matter how deluded one or both of their identities becomes from the sweet sip of romance. Then when the bleariness starts to clear, or if the rug is pulled out from under you, ZANG! Back to square one before you're really sure what that even means anymore.
I must stress that this is only my perception on such matters at this current time in my life. This perception, like all my others, will change and evolve with time and experience. Love can be just a game of short lived wins and losses to some, and more power to them for not giving it any more weight then that. I never seemed to be able to treat the word so lightly. Some people use Love as a philosophy, similar to searching for the meaning of life, whether they are aware of it or not. More than any witch doctor or high priest in our foul new millennium, Love conjures up an emotional power whose authenticity cannot be denied by most. This is something real. Something that cannot be replicated at will. Something that powerful must surely be worth pursuing, right?
It's not my goal here to discredit this thing called Love. I know it's real. It has been one of most real forces shaping who I presently am. I would be a fool to write it off. Such actions are taken, and usually only temporarily, by those who have been battered around and emotionally steam-rolled by Love. A sailor cannot doubt the existence of vitamin C and believe he need not worry about a fruitful diet, without suffering the effects of scurvy. So it goes with Love. One cannot proclaim they do not believe in this thing called Love, without experiencing some bitter side effects. True love, soul mates, till death do us part, Mr/Miss Right, these are the culprits whose authenticity should be questioned. Not Love. Love is an abstract power with many faces and facets whose perception from one soul to the next may bear entirely different results. It is through this frame of reference that I want to view Love, and from a safe distance for now.