writing is like trying to balance your self on the Razor's edge. one slip and you could land on the edge spread eagled and then there you are sliced and diced. why am i telling you this because recently i haven't been writing at all, about anything going on in my life and so i wanted to start with some representation of what my inner self feels when i sit down and look at the empty notepad window, just waiting to be populated with crazy black words, blocks of sentences, waiting to be given life by my typing fingers and the grey mass that is my brain.
i could say i havent been writing because my life is in a sort of turmoil right now, but then once again when isn't life in turmoil. i could compare myself to the little cell in south africa where the bastard white aparthaid shitheads held nelson mandela for ?30 years. how the man didn't end up hanging himself is beyond me. shit like that freaks me out, if i ever joined a revolutionary movement, you can be mother fucking sure only my dead body will ever be captured. but i digress, my life is not that bad, it's only bad relative to my subjective self. meaning.... my mom and sister are living with me right now. the bad thing about this situation is mainly a total lack of privacy and time to myself to think, stone, drink, masturbate and ruminate.
the other is that i am living way out in frigging rosslyn, arlington, where there literally is nothing to do. there are bars around here but to go from the anarchy that is dupont circle/adams morgan to rosslyn, is to go from being on the verge of getting a blow job from kate winslet to having tea with a mini skirt clad elizabeth dole. so should i want to escape the sis or the mom, there's really no place to go. i wouldn't even mind if the bars around here were cheap, i don't mind drinking by myself, but the lack of even dives is what makes this whole area so depressing. now every time i go to my old hangouts it's such a huge fucking hassle, metro or car, and then if i drink too much the inevitable cab ride home.
one night i got really drunk and since i had biked down there on my junk yard rescued red puegot bike, i decided to bike back home. ofcourse my bike never followed a straight path meandering all over the road, but miraculeously i wasn't hit by any cars and was crossing key bridge, when finally my luck ran out and i smashed into the iron guard railing of the bridge, smashing down to the ground in total drunken splendor. too drunk to feel much pain, i just picked up the bike and rode/walked it back home. next day i examined the huge black/blue bruise centimeters close to my main man on the upper thigh, caused by me falling on the bike's curving metal handle. my knee's were fucked up too, but i kinda liked it, it had been some time since i had been hurt and the pain felt good. i was still alive. ofcourse the bike was wrecked, the brake handles had twisted making my already lousy brakes totally inoperable. i tried riding it again, but there was no way to stop and the front wheel was actually bent. it was all too ludicrous, the death knell had come for my champion red peugout bike. two weeks later i finally left it by my apartment complex's trash dumpster. RIP, red.
so there i was living in an apartment close to nothing and no time to order the chaos that is my head, feeling increasingly more frustrated that life had even denied me my paltry wish to be by myself. and this is the dilemma that i have been faced with for the past three months. my mom will be leaving by december, she's only been here for one month actually. my sister is a longer term guest, leaving around august of next month. the story of our life together is another tale itself. but suffice it for you to know that the hero of these tales, is currently in wait mode, till life can resume itself again and his desire to communicate his craziness to you does not bring up feelings of walking on a very sharp samurai sword, one slip and i won't fall to the sides, it'll be straight down the middle and who wants any stories by a man sliced down the middle.