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A breath from the breathing

Memories like bullets they fire at me from a gun

11/19/12 12:12 am - [sticky post]

11 never looks back once he crashes. He has to keep moving forward to avoid the questions, the one he is running from, and the others he lives with every day. He's not sure if he'll see any of his old companions again but also thinks he may find himself helping Tyler with her homework in some future.

tom baker, peter davison, william hartnell, paul mcgann, christopher eccleston, colin baker, prisoner who almost got the human residence incinerated.

paper or plastic

8/5/15 11:34 pm - MCMXCVI

It was a summer of intrigue for my young self, a summer where I was enabled to spend time with a girl I'd become enamoured with and another girl I'd grow to be more enamoured with. I went over the first girl's townhome, we were all middle school age. Girl two was there, both were younger than me, I was going off to high school and they were going into 8th and seventh, respectively. I thought I was so cool, hanging out with them as they did their hair and other girl-hang out things that I thought were so secret I was in the fold to be able to have seen them. I didn't realize at the time, but I had been folded, quickly and undiscreetly into a heavy friendzone crepe.

I carried an Olympic size torch for girl one for years, yet it was girl two who remained embedded in my psyche through highschool and a bit after.

Hard to shake those youthful crushes.

7/28/15 12:35 am - Rule #1

I wear a Stetson now. Stetsons are cool.

Also some cowboy boots and maybe a kicky beret.


I was journeying with some ghost hunters. They were hunting specific spirits, and endeavoured to contact those spirits by befriending them the same way you would an alive person.
The spirit we were after was a deceased star in the vein of a 1980s Ozzy Osborne. He died at his peak of partying, and the assumption was that his spirit would be similarly disposed. He'd passed some twenty years ago at a flophouse, now abandoned, in a neighborhood even gangbangers were afraid of entering.

It was quintessential horror cliche. Dark corridors with hanging doors leading off to rooms covered in graffiti and what may have once been mattresses and cheap chairs. I ventured off alone, imbibing my way through a fifth and a half of the finest cheap whiskey available. I did this to innure me as I'm kind of a fraidycat. Years of Resident Evil and creepy YouTube videos couldn't give me the fortitude for this, so I borrowed some grain courage.

I was far away from the others, stumbling happily, waving my mostly empty bottle around and laughing at the obscene and grammatically incorrect graffiti. I called out to him. I tried to sound British, and I called him a sorry Cunt for kicking off the way he did. Something appeared in front of me then, shimmering in the non-light, and I could feel attitude. I said I was sorry, addressing the air and the shimmering simultaneously, and continued on by saying we all just missed him and he was brilliant and I only called him a cunt because he left too soon. The shimmering seemed sorrowful, then brightened again, and as I straightened up it seemed a part of it was held aloft. I high-fived it.

I woke up in a less dark hallway, a flashlight in my face.

7/19/15 11:22 pm - private clippings 1

Writing by the glow of an overhead light in a new apartment in a classy (read: expensive) neighborhood. This is more than he'd like to pay for a rented, somewhat small domicile. But the kitchen is copious and the bathroom is basically a small bedroom should he desire to sleep on the floor some night, maybe tonight, he thinks as the drink settles in. With wall to wall carpet, the tile of the bathroom floor may be a welcome coolness, and he keeps this apartment clean, because of her. He'd like to think that he would keep something clean on his own, and maybe now he would, but only because of her tutelage.

He realizes now it is easier to maintain than to pull something back from the brink. To keep something relatively tidy, then polish it, rather than just trying to make a disaster look presentable.

He doesn't know if there is a place for ghosts here. He lives in a new building, probably less than 5 years old. Though it is an old neighborhood it may have previously been undeveloped, rather than paved over.

Ghosts cling to you though, and he feels the specter of the pale-eyed one as he goes about his day. Always watching, sometimes smiling that awkward, watery smile. She lingers digitally in music he dumped unknowingly into his phone, and almost tangibly in the neighborhood she introduced him to. The other ghosts are mere shades, he does not see their markers everyday, but this ghost is present. Though she has no attachment or effect, he knows she is there, and remembers, and he wonders if that would even matter to her. Detached as she was, he hopes it would.

1/20/11 09:43 am - Dystopian dreams and apathetic days

I wish the world was perfect and everything was taken care of. Sitting on this couch I could accomplish so much if the world revolved around me. The outside can't encroach upon me if I don't let it. It's links to me are tenuous, and enter only at my choosing. Should I open the door, should I answer the phone, should I look up anything of relevance online? I'll stick to random YouTube videos and old hints about retro video games, games which belong to systems I own but that don't work anymore. The sun shines through the dual windows at the top of my front door. I can feel it on my face but the day holds no pull for me just yet. It's still early, and though I have much I could accomplish, just being home and writing these words is enough for me right now. The cat sits beside me on this leather couch that remains cold. His eyes are open and he looks around but doesn't move. He looks at me, his fut coat bunching around his neck, and pleads for me to turn off the music. I will in awhile, cat, I need to write this first. Without the music I'm trapped by the tv and the silence and the words I haven't yet read. With the music I'm distracted just enough to express whatever's in my head, even if it is only this.

I wish the world functioned for me. I wish I could wish and make it happen. Make my bank account come back into the black. Make my rent not be due, make my phone stay on without payment, make the credit card companies lose my record. That would be the superpower I'd want. The ability to alter records at will. It would make me superhuman in a modern, connected world. Teleportation or invisibility would still require too much effort. Flying is too flashy. Super strength or speed would be nice and incredibly useful, but I think this is more more practical. There would be too much pressure to DO something with a physical superpower. I'll keep my intrigue to myself. And if anyone ever found out, I'd wipe the records. I could make them effectively not exist. Maybe that, in itself, would be freeing. To not be able to operate in the world at all. To be outside of everything connected.

But these are just dreams. I enjoy the world too much. I enjoy being connected too much.

9/14/10 07:29 pm - Random poem

I reach for deeper meaning and find only description
of the traffic facing looking glass
with burger posters screaming.
I indulge in my one of many vices
pouring fat into my veins instead of fermented octane.
The streets darken outside and the a/c is chilling and I don't want to go home just yet.
The sun no longer begs attention shining off to my left side
it has disappeared beneath horizon
I almost expect to see my breath outside
instead of the sweat I know I'll find

8/30/10 11:15 am - sitting

Life is trying when you’re not trying
Or when the trying comes in fits and starts
And you say you are and swear you want something more
But still can’t get up off the couch
And what motivation is there to suceed?
When handouts are so common and there’s so much to be seen on these city streets
And maybe I need saving, and maybe I need it to be me that saves me just this one time and then I can make a habit of it and wear the habit like a shield and bat away the apathy and restlessness that’s been plauging me


Life is trying when you’re not trying
and you still feel the ache
And suceeeding is often in your head
But you don’t know how to make it

8/20/10 11:42 am

I walked into the dirty first floor bathroom which was conveniently located just outside my World History class with Miss Palios. The class was right after second lunch, which I shared with my old friends Sean and Dave. These guys had been my friends since Third Grade. We were Sophmores at H.B. Plant Senior High School. The bathroom was what you’d expect a public school men’s room to look like. It was fairly large, the door opening up to the side walls of the end of the line of stalls. To the right were the sinks and mirrors along the wall opposite the stall entrances, urinals on the wall opposite the door. I entered, giving a brief hello to Mr. Psillis, the teacher who was guarding the door to the bathroom, as was customary during lunch periods. I figured then it was to prevent fights, and nothing I’ve encountered since then has changed that perception. Sean and Dave flanked me as soon as there was room to, and so we used the first three stalls in sequence, with myself in between two of them. I unzipped and proceeded to pee, and hear them begin to do the same, but the sound of it seemed wrong. Then I noticed the dual pools of piss creeping under the stall walls on either side, inching towards my feet as my friends continued their streams.

It’s twelve years later now. My feet are bare, and relatively clean as I sit here on this too-small couch and type this. That day in itself isn’t important, except as a memory, one of many that I shared with those two. Those two who were also one of many. One’s missing now, Sean. He died five years, two months, sixteen days and about three hours and fifty one minutes ago. Fifty two minutes ago, in the time it took me to figure that out. The date now isn’t important, any of you who knew him can figure it out. I think what’s important is what happened before he was taken from us and what’s happened since, to all who knew him.

8/12/10 01:41 pm - Bah

as much as I don't like closing, I do enjoy having the whole day to relax and being able to sleep in. I have no weekend this week. I work 12-11 Friday, Saturday, and Sunday I work 1130-830... But I don't close any night this week at all, I open monday and tuesday and I'm off the rest of the week. So I guess it's a trade off? As it is, I put in a schedule request to always be off by 530pm on Sundays so I can go to mass or go to Panera and watch the rain with Micaela.

Working all day like that really sucks, but it is kind of nice to have all my hours done in a couple of days. Mm. Eh.

8/10/10 01:32 pm - it's sitting by the overcoat

and I'm sitting at my mom's right now doing stuff for my teaching, trying to further my life into something respectable. I requested copies of my transcripts be sent to the Florida Dept of Education, the Bureau of Educator Certification. Their site said to use this electronic submission process called F.A.S.T.E.R, but I called the Usf Registrar's office and they of course don't pasrticipate in it. So I ordered a copy to be mailed to them.

I had an interview at Leto high school the other day for the adult education program. The guy I interviewed with seemed to like me, but the first thing he asked me about was if I had this certification letter from the state saying I could teach. I had no idea what he was talking about, as nobody at the Hillsborough county school board ever mentioned it to me. I guess they assumed I knew and i didn't know so i never thought to ask. I felt prettty dumb.. but he and i talked for awhile after, he gave me the information and I filled out the application and now that my transcripts are sent in I should be on my way.

I've been considering leaving town. I'm bored here. I've had this general sense of restlessness for the past few years, which I owed to circumstances in my life. Now that those circumstances are no longer present and I still feel that restlessness I'm thinking perhaps going somewhere else may hold appeal. Or maybe just doing something different. I'm honestly a bit worn out on bars and clubs and drinking. or maybe I'm just tired of being the blah me I've become over the past few years, the reserved one that keeps his passions in and tempers everything. Tempered Tony. I'm not a fan of him. I think of a LTJ song..

"I have this feeling inside that i wouldn't like me if i met me
It seems like a losing fight,
If you could see through my eyes then you'd believe me.
The truth is that i'm overrated, I can't think straight I'm formulaic, the truth is that it's sad to say it, but you can't help me......
I've always known a ghost like me, can disappear in a moment,
I'm my own worst casualty, everything I touch can get broken" (thanks AZlyrics for not forcing me to type those from memory..)

and I hate feeling like that. I hate getting left out when I'm in group conversations because I'm too quiet and don't like talking over people. I hate not being heard, and felt, and having people in my life I care about not feel it because I'm so damn reserved and mellow.

So yeah. A proactive me is a happier me, most definitely.
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