Just the tip, pro

“Pro tip” followed by De rigueur colon sounds so smug and condescending to me, like the bitter Madame schooling the tigresse De jour in ways to wake up the beast. My point being: there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Ever wonder who came up widdat?
Not Mark Twain or Stevie Smith. But someone just as literarily significant to my choice of voice in narratives of years past. Not to be outdone. She waits, pounces, considers how the Wolf varies from the lion cub. That is all.

  Dear Diary,
In retrospect, I think we oughta do a retrospective of your brain.

I can’t believe confessional

i vowed to tell the truth 

And if you could get through enough of the glorified obfuscation (what do you expect it’s a little thing called dissociative order which I was able to channel into verbal transgressions of the transitive type) but I’d always prefer you not know me because it generally ends up painful in some way I did not want or suspect or expect and don’t want heart ache despite being way too good at it

Art form confessional sharpening knife in same room my life is surreal. I told you you could find the truth here and now it scares me how honest I am.
Please don’t kiss me

I can’t take it

Where They Never Thought They’d Be

It had that metallic taste she’d come to appreciate, it reminded her of the real taste of life, not quite sugar coated, not the perfect blend of dream and fantasy all rolled up into good little girl checklisting through life until one day, or maybe it’s one moment like the movies say, I prefer the thought of a gradually spinning out of control top montage of life unravelling. She could do nothing but recover. But the problem with that was she didn’t know it yet, so she fought, and she floundered, and now had arrived to the point where to get anything done, any shred of normalcy falsely created or created on falsity, she didn’t want to think of why now, to get anything done resembling what was supposed to be done to live a ‘normal’ life required first the taste of metallic.

the week before

This is the week before, to the day, we celebrate my father’s life. My brother, after reading my first pass at the obituary which quickly cut to the chase of his unique qualities and eccentric character traits he would want included as those are the details of a good ‘yarn,’ and if nothing else, my father Barry Q. Walker was a fabulous teller of tales and spinner of fables, a lover of the hairy dog joke format (and a pechant for recalling the details with medical school board oral exam style) and appreciator of storytelling of all kinds and from all cultures. This I must have learned from him, the doctor, zoologist, feather painting virtuoso, animal whisperer, had to euthanize all the Hawks at the end when he and my mother parted ways, not so amicably but what is a life if not lessons learned and a making the best of the messes you find yourself in and turning those you create into, well, a wild life. In the sense of in the wilds where you can still hear quiet you can chase a butterfly and grab a knowledge of the world that NO ONE else will ever have. 

   
       You were one of a kind, Dad. I can’t tell the world how much I appreciate and value your esprit du corps I think that’s what I mean to say when I try to explain how fully inside life you were. No wasted moments. You taught us all so much to pay attention to. That’s it, isn’t it? Pay attention. Notice. Do the thing most right by human inkling and that involves passing down truths and knowledge and values and how we treat one another is what continues on.

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The Graph: The Math of Story, pt. 2

“No bones. Not even a knee cap.”

As if knee caps are a different currency altogether, and, if that were the case, I should have a buried treasure full of gold somewhere, risk-free, in the desert.

I’ve been watching Breaking Bad in consecutive order, an anomoly for me other than “Lost,” “Deadwood” and I’m sure some other series, I watch what I get to watch when I have had access to cable which meant, I watched “Mad Men” out of order and then was able to gorge on one season a while back; I saw a middle episode of Breaking Bad (the one in season 3 where the twins are buying body armor from a semi-fucktard redneck in the back of a semi-trailer, but I knew everything (pretty much) that I needed to know. I think I watched that in a motel in the midwest or was is South somewhere on location and half asleep, and I can’t remember when that was exactly, but now I have made it to the gun pulled on protege and sensei, student and teacher, grasshopper and master, season 4 episode 12 or 11 or something, but either way, it’s been a bad season for Walt.

I don’t feel as obsessed as I did when I dreamt I was in Deadwood (because I woke up bleeding and a bar fight was the only way to explain that one with any amount of respect, when in fact, I had fallen out of a vodka bar—there are too many injuries following vodka, that has been duly noted and stopped for a while now so the idea is to keep it at bay, I suppose and not be a hypocrite.

Then, there’s Mad Men, which I watched on Netflix from the beginning and that show holds up but can be watched as a one-off, and you get the story of the man, in a Greek tragedy kind of way. Breaking Bad kind of unfolds. More disturbingly, Breaking Bad kind of unfolds in a strange parallel universe I like to call the entertainment industry which is in fact owned by the German Multinational that, on paper, owns the Laundry/Meth Lab and Chicken/Chile HQ, based on conference calls privy to, dimensions of difficulty it takes to function in the ‘real’ world, whatever that is, I still am not sure and all the signs are telling me I should be.

Yet, this I know, I know how to tell a story. The math of story is a graph that must move downward spiral to be ripped usunder to go where no man has thought to plunder to be redeemed and taken to the place unimagined, beyond and beholden, all the nipping at the heels of and chasing with shadows has stopped, but the signs point nowhere, are quite deceptively evoking payment of some kind and this should be no bones, not even knee caps, but something else entirely.