Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Unseen Wounds

I desperately want to see my wounds.

I want to lay in front of God, as gently as one leaf lays in a pile of a thousand leaves. I want to feel like God is sitting on my bed with me as we listen to Sigur Ros and he is looking at me with a crooked smile, because He is proud of me but also simultaneously pissed at me for being so naive. I want to see God as the orchestrator of my problems. He is the balancer of my sin and my purity, putting things in their rightful, named places.

I want to worship God as though something really bittersweet just happened, with a tear of joy rolling down my cheek. Such as, when you attend a funeral and find that most of the prayer is not sad but happy because everyone is in agreement that this person was taken from Earth to worship God in Heaven.

I want to worship God and thank Him, just as my grandfather, William Wemyss (my mom's dad who died a couple years ago), does as he sits in front of God, alongside Ronald Reagan and my dad's dad (Glenn Rucker) and 14 billion other worshippers, as they kneel on a golden road, throwing flowers at God's feet and chanting, "Holy is Your Name!"

Monday, August 25, 2008

Dusty Typewriter

I start to blow the dust off and I look up in the air to see the dust scurrying about the room like the purple dots that seem to line the inside of your eyelids when you close your eyes after looking at the sun for too long. There is a binding warm/cold feeling when I sit in front of my typewriter when I come home. It is like a boy who comes home from a long roadtrip and sits down to write, having to pick through his brain.

There is this documentary I watched once, called, "Thumbing for a Musical Trip", and it's about this teenager, John, who is discovered by one of the head-hanchos who works for Rolling Stone magazine. John tours with this band, called Belle Doctor, and becomes really good friends with the band members, but especially the lead guitarist, Billy Thallow. John's shown at the end of the movie, sitting in front of his typewriter, reflecting back on the trip, editing his writing that he had written on Post-It notes. The movie shows John holding this one polaroid of Billy in this retro pink vest, scandalously making out with one or more groupies. And the typewriter is shown, out of focus, behind John, but if you press Pause on your VCR, there's this split second where you can read what it says on the typewriter, and it says something like, "After one of the shows Belle Doctor played in Guatemala's Mazatenango, Thallow and I streaked butt-naked across the Guatemalan desert on a beer run. The next..." And you can't read the rest. It's blocked out by John's hand. But if I had to guess, John had probably written something like, "The next day, we found a group of girls on the side of the desert while driving in our tour bus back to San Pedro and we couldn't think of anything better to do than to play Spin the Bottle in the middle of the desert." It makes you think if Rolling Stone would actually think that's great shit and put it in their magazine. Who knows? I mean, John did become famous off that article. He toured with Bob Dylan and Pink Floyd - all because he wrote an article about how he streaked with this small band that no one cares about across this desert in a town no one has ever heard of.

When I sit in front of my typewriter, I feel something very similar to what John probably felt. John probably was in a very nostalgic position when he's shown sitting in front of his typewriter, reflecting back on all the good memories of streaking.

I like to leave my window open and let the fall breeze's old and classy smell come drifting into the room. This fall smell hovers over my typewriter as I pin up pictures on the wall right in front of my typewriter. I like to pin up vintage polaroids of my friends and clippings from magazines, showing some Asian muscle man summitting Everest. I light my incense that's called, Christmas Kiss, and the smoke scurries about the room and meshes with the typewriter's scurrying dust.

Home Is a Naked Person

Mom looks at me and says, "Jules, I got you your fave coffee from Coffee Smoffee."

"Well, Dr. Seuss, it wouldn't happen to be Dead Dice on rocks with a hint of cow poop?"

"Of course."

Mom and I like to mock certain customers at certain coffee shops. It seems like some of them woke up one morning and just decided to have a nickname for everything that caffeinates them.

Somehow, Dead Dice means frozen mocha. For some reason, you have to say "on rocks" even though the ice is what makes it a frozen mocha. Somehow, "cow poop" means caramel. Just remember, when you go to Coffee Smoffee, ask for the Cold Caramel Mocha. You'll save your breath.

Home seems so much more homely when you've been away from it for a while. Whatever dorky scientist figured out that "distance makes the heart grow fonder" is an epic genius.

My mom has gotten the drill down. She figures me out fast. I like to come home and get my warm hug with the Cold Caramel Mocha. I'll get my massage and calm her down, which I love doing, because I know very well that I genuinely am calming her down. I'm basically her sinus relieving headache medicine that actually works. I'm warm to her as she is to me.

As I swallow my cow dung, I can see through the window - my mom's volkswagen parked under our Sallow tree. It's probably the only thing she does that doesn't make any sense. Sallow trees have this very abundant, watery sap that just drips everywhere and gets all over her car. My mom tells me stories about how she used to take me up into the tree when I was little. She would sit me in her lap and pet my head and sing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" to me. After a few weeks of her singing that song to me, I mimicked the lyrics and somehow said my first words as something like,

"If you get to heaven before I do,
Comin' for to carry me home.
Tell all my friends I'm comin' there too,
Comin' for to carry me home."

Of course, it probably sounded more like, "Ith doo det doo deven duhdoor dah doo..." I apparently was a huge baby talker until I was like 5. I had fat cheeks. I was a fat 8 pound baby.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

I Can't Sleep

I used to just lay there in bed for hours and not be able to fall asleep because I'm thinking too deeply about something.

Now I'll get in bed and realize immediately that it's just not in the cards for me to get much sleep that night. I'll go out and smoke a cigarette because that usually tires me and makes me feel sorta drowsy anytime past 1 in the morning. There is the undying hope that's been filling up my time as of late. A lot of my nostalgic late nights have changed. There will already be a changing of leaves starting at the end of fall when the leaves have already changed from green to red; the leaves are always changing to me. I have a very cold, eery feeling and the leaves seem to always be falling, because I want them to. I'll drive to class in the morning and "The Gravel Road" by James Newton Howard from The Village OST is a skipping record in my mind as I drive under the Island Home bridge and see our side of town's culture fishing like they should be. I'll see downtown's side of culture, dolled up with ties for work, planned faces and games, an attitude, prestigiously. After class, I'll go thrifting and fail every time trying to find a retro pair of jeans, because South Knoxvillians beat me to it.

"Never go through a Wendy's drive-thru," I tell myself. They will always forget one of your burgers. A lot of girls storm my mind, so my forgotten burgers aren't that big of a deal, because basically it probably went out to that girl I have a fat crush on. Classes used to suck butt, but it's no big deal when you want your knowledge to make girls dig your groove. That sounded so prideful, but I can also say I don't have that kind of knowledge.

I can sometimes take pride in my insomnia, because I am learning cool things when everyone else is asleep and I'll sleep when you're at church this morning. Did you know that this Olympic season, they had the largest fireworks show ever? Well, that's what this article says that I just read. But really, how do they know? Does any firework shooter actually count all the fireworks they shoot? Or were these people judging the largeness of the show off of how large the explosions were?

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Coffee Smoffee / Red Carpet Martinis

There's this gas station I always get coffee at. It's called Coffee Smoffee. Dumbest name on earth. Best coffee in the galaxy. I always think it's hilarious when a gas station advertises their coffee over their gas, as if coffee takes priority or something. I feel like they prefer all of their customers to get their coffee before pumping gas. Maybe a truck driver is too tired to pump gas, like he might accidentally fall asleep at the pump and spray all of the other cars with gas. Then all the other customers will drive off and light a cigarette and explode. Of course, all these customers that shop at Coffee Smoffee will have to caffeinate themselves so they don't get put in jail for Unleaded Gas Spraying Homicide. I can see this being on a Mastercard commercial:

"A gallon of gas = $2.43.

A vehicular homicide at the pump = priceless".

Every time I go into get coffee and am waiting in line at the counter, I'll look at the magazines with all the celebrities blushed up with makeup on the covers. I'll see that some desperate housewife who likes to make her rounds on Oprah is cheating on her husband with Tom Cruise. The reason she was probably on Oprah in the first place is because she somehow got herself in bed with Tom. Oprah just wants Tom's body and so she has this desperate housewife on her show, basically just so she can hear all the dirty details.

I've always wondered how celebrities become such good friends. Do they just meet each other on the red carpet with Martini's in their hands and say "Toast"? Jimmie Stewart and Donna Reed are probably standing there on the red carpet and see that the host of that year's 1945 oscars, Jack Benny, is walking towards them and so they start talking to each other in order to escape an awkward interview. And so then they strike up this conversation and realize all that they have in common. They both like Martini's. What could go wrong? Or I bet some actress heard some musician's No. 1 hit on the radio and just dug his groove. And so maybe she called him up and asked him to meet her for coffee. Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe probably got caffeinated a lot together when 5 & diners were the shit.

Max Patch: Part 3 - The Chocolate Bundy

The gravel road that leads up to Max Patch has this information center at the end of it, this little dilapidated shack with spider webs in the windows. There's always this old man, maybe 60 years-old, sitting on the porch, smoking and reading. My friend, Mo, and I call him Jabba the Hut, just because he never seems to move. He's not fat, he just never moves. I'm sure Jabba runs the place, ya know? He probably made all of the brochures and maps in the little shack. He's got to know every trail around the place like the back of his hand. He doesn't do anything creepy, I mean, he's nice and waves at you while you pass by. It's just kinda strange to me that he's always doing the same thing every time I pass by.

Have you ever read "The Chocolate Touch"? It's this book about this kid named John Midas that loves chocolate so much and eats it so much that he acquires a magical gift that turns everything his lips touch into chocolate.

I feel like someone that loved chocolate a little bit too much kissed Jabba one time and it turned him into a brick of chocolate. And that's why he never moves. Because he can't. He's got to sit there and hope that someone who doesn't like chocolate might drive down the gravel road and if they kiss him or something, then the magic will be reversed.

Mo actually doesn't like chocolate. We always joke around about how Mo should kiss him.

"Hey Mo, kiss him."

Mo says, "Sure enough, he was out there. He's too far back now, though. Maybe next time, ha. I don't know though. That guy's always kinda creeped me out. He seems all jolly and all, but I always see someone like that being on TV for some committed murder, kinda like Ted Bundy or something. I'd never kiss Bundy."

Ted Bundy is this American serial killer legend. He apparently killed like 30 people in 4 years. Sometime in the 70's. His methods were just plain creepy. One of his first murder waves, he killed this girl that went to Washington State. He clobbered this girl with a metal rod from her bed frame while she slept. He seemed to always murder sleepers. It's kinda strange how much I know about serial killers. My friend, Drew, and I are really into telling scary stories and so we sometimes do research on serial killers and stuff so that we can always have the creepiest stories to tell. Yea, we blow people away.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Max Patch: Part 2 - Kissing Is for the Birds / Moon's Romance

We couldn't quite find a spot bare of dead skin, so my ass is probably gonna be sore.

Mo keeps yapping about how he wishes I were a girl. I can't help but wish the same of him. There are some timely moments for wishing there was a girl by your side. Especially when there's dead skin all around you and your ass is sore as hell.

Mo starts talking about the same girl every time. "She used to enjoy kissing me when my beard got long."

I can almost complete his sentences... "Once you grow your 49th beard, she starts getting irritated with it."

Mo always adds some intense, graphic detail in there to try and make you think he's more of a man than you are, or really just that he's a better kisser than you will ever be. Of course, he'll say it like he's reading it out of a Faulkner novel or something, just to show that he's also more pensive than you. He'll say, "I red her lips with scratchy loose furs and her lips bleed from my biting."

Does he think I'm gonna say "Cool" to that?

I think to myself, surely the moon-rise says "Goodbye" or "Goodnight" to the sun as it's setting. Surely, the two have some sort of relationship, but I don't know if the moon would make the sun's lips bleed. I think Moon just takes Sun out on dates sometimes. They probably go to some quaint and fancy restaurant and sit in the back underneath the television that all the other eaters are looking at, yelling, "Gooooaaaaaallll!!!" Moon probably pours Sun some Brandy or Scotch or some sophisticated drink as they laugh about the silliest of stars.

Max Patch: Part 1 - Dead Skin

"The moon-rise is maybe my favorite thing in the world."

Mo says, "Same and my second favorite thing is Max Patch."

The moon-rise is humble but it's a king. It's even more of a king when risen over Max Patch, this colossal field a dozen miles above the border of Tennessee as you begin to rome into North Carolina. It's naked and treeless, just tall blades of grass during the summer when it doesn't get mowed as much as it does in the winter. My best of friends, Mo, and I are up here tonight on a surprisingly chilly, June night.

Mo, in his usual cheesy slang, says, "Wash your paws, fella, this is a night you don't wanna dirty up."

We aren't really experiencing a ball dropping in Time Square tonight. We aren't exactly robbing a bank or doing anything adrenaline-rushing for that matter. Mo always says, "This is a night you don't wanna dirty up."

"Didn't the weather man say there'd be low wind chill anywhere near Asheville?"

Mo says, "Even with wind as dead as this, there will be debris."

What he means is, every 13 years or so, a number of cicadas just decide to flood the nation. Sometimes, with high wind, the skin of cicadas will fall like leaves or feathers and might land on you.

Mo points out how the consistent cicada noise is droning out the wind-howl.

We really had too look for a spot that wasn't covered in dry shells that these suckers left behind.