nameless; the third

Last night, for the third time, I dreamed of nameless; Let everyone remember the certainty that death can bring; for my friend is dead. I saw him.

What was peculiar was not what was necessarily what was happening, but a short dialog between he and I. "But I've had to deal with this; I had to shut to this down," I said to him.

I have been dealing with this. Today was his birthday, and on this day I know he sleeps: a sleep in anticipation of the resurrection; a sleep that one day we all will drift into; only to wake to the judgement we all will face.

Hallelujah;

Alien Fraud

Alien Fraud is the nature of Deception,But Deception so deceiving is not set on revealing.

Suspicious, and more than just, more.

My sister dreamed that I had murdered a baby, and buried it on the side of my grandmother's house: the same side where I would sneak cigarettes among the angel trumpets.

Demons, New Age, & Charismatic Churches

This past weekend I went forward, and had prayer about the demons while at church on Sunday. While speaking with the Lord the pastor told him that he new it wasn't  necessary for someone to flop around on the floor or be stricken with any level of charisma in order for the Lord to deliver them from anything. Coming together on a belief like that was important for me. I have some wonderful friends from the charismatic side of the faith, and--like always--their belief is strictly invested in their church's teaching and doctrine, their ministry, and their gifts and talents. In no way am I attempting to speak any less of the presence of the Lord among that group of people, but I've always had a distaste for church that try to corral people like that. It should be presented, however, that my thoughts about it are often perceived in wonder: "What if that's just what the devil wants me to think?" "What if the answer to knowing Christ is only & exclusively in the charismatic church and all it's peculiarity. In the dawning of the New Age it must be questioned if the fundamental nature of  the charismatic side of the faith is not THE only side of the faith. It must be considered that our cultural understanding of church is more than just cultural.

Perhaps a Better Day

"Sun" Atlas: Space 1 - Sleeping At Last I woke up this morning with time to tend to my senses before I started my day. Whether or not it was in a proper moral correction is neither the question at point.

It's still hard for me to see a candy apple red F-150 without thinking it's nameless; however, I don't say that this morning with despair in my heart.

My mind has moved to a point where it's just wanting to move on--to leave nameless; in the back of my mind only to be reminded of him whenever someone talks about suicide, but the reality is that he's actually attached to many more strings than just that alone. So, I digress.

Plans are made in my mind, and I contemplate this new worldview that I feel like I'm willingly accepting. What is in changing your world view? Does that mean that ones faith is to be affected as well? The reality is that regardless of what one would call the actual physics of the universe, it all comes down to the question of are we alone here? and how close of quarters are we keeping with the intangible.

--lunch--

Heart thump... thump... thump...thump

All in all, it wasn't so bad of a day.

 

I Remember Red Stick

I can remember a time whenever I was living in Baton Rouge. My creativity was stunned for the first time as--what I now call--a click was upon me. I remember having to hide myself away into the dark night time hours, so I could express myself in the night blind eye and deaf ears of my lover at the time. It was in these times that I found myself smoking cigarettes from my third story window as to not encounter my broken relationship with my best friend and roommate. It was in the Fall that year--two-thousand & six--that I wrote "A New Autumn". Here, some seven years later, I find myself hidden away in the dark night hours trying to hide from blue eyes that didn't see past first shadow, and longing for the ears of the same man who was gone before he left.

If it were so I would write a new autumn. I would keep his blood warm with laudanum, And his mind drunk on brandy wine. I would break the water, and not think twice.

Creativity Bleeds

Every morning during work--as my mind turns over and over about nameless--I bring myself to this blank document so that I can lose the words in my head that are haunting me. There is probably nothing that I could say on this morning that I already haven't already said about this situation.

I feel like I still have so much to say about it, and I probably do. I can see a narrative building inside of my creative consciousness.

At the beginning of the year, I completed my work "Aquarian Floods" and "Campaign One". I told myself that because of the toxicity of nameless; and I's relationship that if I returned to my music, the Lord would meet me there like he always does. There was a strong urgency that I had in my heart about getting the work completed.

I was right in thinking that the Lord would meet me there. It was as though I had to finish the work before nameless; would commit suicide. I couldn't imagine going into the studio in the state of grief I'm in now.  And so, with both of the works being completed I found them definitive, and all encompassing of the message that I've been trying to communicate since 2006. It was complete and final.

Such a perfect time to start over creatively. To end with a bang. Or start with one. So it ends, so it begins.

What is the next for me artistically. It seems almost normal that I would write about nameless; in my next work; however, at the beginning of a work it's hard to know what the picture really looks like. The beginning is often cloudy with very minimal details.

Here I am, at the beginning of a new creation. Here I am, waiting for the words of my Lord to spring me forward in the work.

I've learned of the power of my craft, and yet I'm still unable to fathom it's ability.

nameless; something recurring

I spend Saturday evening chatting on the phone with nameless; ex-wife. We chatted for over an hour about our grief and disbelief. Outside of that, I spent the majority of my time not thinking about him. I'm in a different place of the grief process than before--not to say that I've reached a different place along the arbitrary stages of grief of the mainstream; everything is still the same, but the flavor has changed it seems.

I've dreamed of him again, a night after the last dream here mentioned.

The recurrence is that he's always running away from me: in anger, in fear.

 I keep waiting for something to give. The pain of grief is a slow churning of emotions that have lost their medium of travel. It's as if I've been waiting for it to be over with; or like I'm waiting for him to show up resurrected from the grave, so I can tell him what's been going on since he's left.

He meant so much to me, but it was a relationship that was horribly mistreated. The habitual part of me can't remember him past he and I's sexual behavior; I believe that this figure of he in my dreams running away from me is evidence of non-rendered repentance. As if I'm the one holding on to the fowl nature of our relationship. I'm the one still craving his body, and I'm the one who's still wanting him as he was.

I dislike who I've remained as a result of this. I'm angry about what I'm left without, but the reality is this: prior to his death we were both on a path that would lead to he and I's departure. I can't spend the rest of my life missing someone that--even not in death--would have inevitably had to end.

nameless; the second time since you left.

I dreamed of him last night. It's probably been the second dream--since his death--that I've actually seen him, or interacted with him in some way. The dream took place in a time after his suicide. His family and I were at their house, and seemed to be grieving for him. He walked in, and became really angry that I was there. It was as if he was dead, but he wasn't at the same time. A manifestation of him after his death, but before his resurrection.

Smell of Autumn

Every year--And I saw the Leaves fall off of the trees. I ate the heal of the bread last night With a spoonful of my pride

And the crows-- They fought at me all night.

O' this grand harvest season. This season of repentance and death finds me in the latter part of the year. Reminding me of chili-cheese hot dogs & the kick-off of football season at Patterson High School. Bracing for colder winds, out come sweaters and Letterman's.

Now, it's a season of Loss: known that at the apex of August's cruel summer is the forever loss of nameless;

Now, it's a time recouping, healing, and longing.

With no answers to my questions left, I move on into Winter.

It's a time of melancholy.

The Leaves Will Fall

A promise was given to me long ago: the leaves will fall. With the first cool days of Autumn upon me, I'm reminded of the longing of my heart. Not to be confused with the longing that I have for nameless; this is something that predates him, but is not completely separate from him. Last year around this time, I was dealing with having to live alone for the first time in my life. Nameless; became my fill in the void of my alone-ness.  He became my solidarity, and was my strength in my mildly-suicidal mind; he kept me warm through the cold December from which cold winds blow.

Now, I'm facing the same alone-ness & anxiety that I had experienced before, but this time there is a missing element: him.

However, the decree of latter year equinox offers the promise that the thing that grew in the heat of this past Summer will die, and the leaves will fall. There is a foreshadowing of a new hope to come in the Spring, but in the mean time I am braced for colder winds.

I went to sleep very early yesterday. On Tuesdays I meet with an old friend, and we have a bible study; I didn't make it to our meeting.  Today is one of those days where I wake up from haunted dreams. Nameless wasn't present at all through out the night of illuminated thought, but an essence of his was. I was traveling with a group of Christians, performing as a musician. There were plenty of Christians that I knew there. I can recall playing on the stage with some of my band mates from my current gathering. Most peculiarly, however, was that the Pentecostals from Patterson were there. One family in particular was there; I've had a major man crush on this brother since I was in high school.

We were traveling to this camp-ground-like-facility. It was probably two or three hours away from my home which I believe was in Louisiana. Whatever event that was the reason of our being there was over for the weekend.

I remember leaving a note on the mirror for this guy in the bathroom to meet me in my room for some kind of sexual activity. I awoke to him on top of me; however, nothing really happened.

nameless; so much...

I miss him so much. It seems like the force and energy that I had inside of me keeping my emotions for him locked down so tightly has be dissolved. I've probably had one of the worse weekends since all of this happened some seven weeks ago. nameless; and I had gone through all of the proper channels one should before breaking up with each other the day before he killed himself. It was done correctly, but like every other time that we broke up it was like a game of hide and seek: he was the one hiding this time. I'm left counting to sixty with my eyes hidden in my sleeve, pulling away to find that he has found the most secret of hiding places. All attempts to search for him are futile.

He kept me warm.

I was his secret.

I long for him, and my heart bleeds.

I miss him so much.

Would You Like My Money??

It's so absolutely ridiculous the way our banking system works. I could sit here, and explain all of the details of why the bank took 3 NSF fees from me today. Yesterday I went in a cashed my check--that I worked for all last week--and they absorbed it for themselves. I'm sure I could tell all the reasons why they took my money, how it's all my fault, how I'm living beyond my means, or how one mistake can absolutely FUCK yourself out of having any money all week. But why is that? I think that's the most appropriate question.

It's obvious that I'm a low end sack of shit that doesn't deserve the luxury of actually getting ahead in life; or is it that I've just been stung by an unfortunate string of events that constantly keep me from moving ahead, and continuously pull me backwards.

Broke; Friday the 13th

I've been awfully depressed over my financial situation here lately.  What had done happened was I've probably been in a grand worth of debt since last year; with that, having to pay for clerical errors at Beckwith's Car Care, missing about a weeks worth of work during my job transition, and with nameless; death & the my week off that followed, I've missed a lot of work. It's amazing how much two weeks over a two month time can completely throw off everything. What are people like me supposed to do in situations like these? All of my bills are behind, I've no resources, or saved money. The best part about it is that I called my family back home, and asked for help... Needless to say they didn't reply to my messages. My expectation were fulfilled.

I think it's important to remember that forgiveness doesn't always mean reconciliation.

So what is the big deal? Am I doomed to be the victim of a cast society? Will I always be an underachiever by the standards of the American Dream?

nameless; a ghost left behind.

It's one of those mornings where I've not much to do immediately, so I find myself floating around the internet whenever I shouldn't be. It's easiest for me to land here because while I'm typing at least I look like I'm doing some work.

The truth is that I haven't had much to say. My thoughts about nameless have been easy to deal with, but have to be dealt with none the less. I find myself moving into a place where I just want to isolate myself away from everyone. Whenever people offer their condolences, it's a very nice gesture, but after a while you just don't have much to say about it anymore. My mother had been visiting her brother's in Hawaii; she just returned last weekend. She, nameless, and I would often hang out together. We would laugh, smoke pot, make jokes, and ride the streets. Now that she's home, and we've had the opportunity to talk about him and cry about him; it's been very healing.

The reality of him being gone is probably the most strange of things. A month and a half ago he and I could be found wrapped up in each other's embrace, but he's gone now. All that remains is the fading echo of a life once lived. One finds themselves reaching and grasping for whatever articles or personal effects that have been left behind in order to preserve what has been.

The truth is that I'm past a lot of the physical. Now it's just the ghost that has been left behind.

nameless; Lusting for the Dead

Lusting for the dead is something foolish indeed. I find myself longing for his body. It's a separate attraction than what makes me miss his countenance. Seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state A tourist in the waking world, never quite awake No kiss, no gentle word could wake me from this slumber Until I realize that it was you who held me under

Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs

No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world

And I could hear the thunder and see the lightning crack All around the world was waking, I never could go back Cause all the walls of dreaming, they were torn wide open And finally it seemed that the spell was broken

And all my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open And all my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open

No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world

Snow White's stitching up your circuit-boards Someone's slipping through the hidden door Snow White's stitching up your circuit-board

No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world

Snow White's stitching up your circuit-boards Someone's slipping through the hidden door Snow White's stitching up your circuit-board Someone's slipping through the hidden door

 

"Blinding" by Florence & The Machine

nameless; Suicide One Month Later

It's been a month since he died. I spoke with The Lord last night; just in mere conversation with Him His greatness reveals the loose ended stings that lead to my grief and heartache. I'm learning that healing is going to come only from The Lord in this. This is starting to become, what I believe to be, a great understanding. There is an outcome behind all this that is starting to show itself in the most vague of visions.

It's time to begin again.

nameless; Dream

In two days, it will have been a whole month since he killed himself.

I dreamed about last night for the first time; we spoke to each other. It was two days before he killed himself, and he looked the same as whenever he was in high school. He knew he would kill himself--or perhaps be put to death by his parents--it wasn't exactly clear. I remember him hiding me in his room before his parents came home.

There were also dinosaurs and giant explosions.

I miss him, but at the same time I can't imagine him being here anymore. It's like he was a dream, and I woke up alone.

I wish I could see him, to tell him everything that's happened in the last month; all the music I've listened too; and how much I love him, but not just as a lover--as my brother.

This is a very sad way to wake up on Labor day weekend. A very sad way, indeed.

--

Later in my day, I'm reminded of his death. As this Labor Day weekend presses forward I'm reminded that I've no real plans for myself outside of pet sitting for my sister. Not that I should have something to do, but I find myself in these small moments of aloneness where the thought passes through my head: "I'm gonna call him..." or "I wonder what he's doing." From there I'm pushed to think of the terms of his Earthly body: cold, swollen, trapped away in a box made to harbor death void of the light.

How I miss him. How my heart aches in his absents.

Death comes to us all.

nameless; Bon Iver

The more time that passes, it's as if he never existed; it's as if he and I never went through what we did. We were friends for three years, and what an intimate three years they were. This morning I don't miss him like  I did yesterday.

If he was here I would tell him that I found this remix CD for Bon Iver's last record. I would imagine that he and I would enjoy hearing it together. It's right up his ally. He had a beautiful taste in music; however, his intake of new music was very slow, so he was also one of those people still rocking the hits from two summers ago.

I can remember a time from the summer of 2011 that he and I were riding around Kingwood in his little Toyota pick-up truck after softball practice (or were we just running laps together). We had been talking about Bon Iver; the record had just come out. We listened to the whole thing as we weaved through the wooded streets of the North Houston Suburb. It's times and memories like those that I'm most thankful for. It's times like these that I began to long for long before he killed himself, and after we started having sex.

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