The Coldest of Armchairs

Who knew this would be it? Reliving a similar and universal experience with the wrong crew on the daily? Everyone is walking on the top but not getting down or proceeding north, just a sad twirl that everyone is witnessing. It's a deep heart ache that makes your insides turn and questions every motive. How to make a sharp right turn, how to organize the damage and deal accordingly. This isn't what I wanted. This isn't it. This is something else. You seem ok, steady, even; and I am disappearing. I've seen the untouchables wade through catastrophe like water through open space but you're not that either. No, you're something else entirely. It doesn't encompass you the way it does me; I don't think you see any better than me though. Not through those sad eyes Not through this plain picture Not through these impermeable measures. I tire of walking the same " ." It seems endless and predictable resolve seems far. When has it ever not? Closed off, legless reindeer, door slamming silent agendas and top notch avoidance quotas are being met everyday with more fervor than the previous time. Tough to take, tough to keep up with, tough to choose The slap that never comes, a harsh "come to" a call to subconscious arms that commits only psychic warfare and wins without waking you, while I m not fading half as fast as I would like. This time tomorrow will be more of the same Same answer will be hanging in the air like a broken wind chime you can't bring yourself to discard and you will be too, slowly doling out fictitious spoonfuls of "contentment" while we both lye waiting. Waiting for the........

Going on 5.

I can't breathe. Every breath is a miracle that it comes to fruition. I can't see in front of me but I know there's a drop It's every bone being carved into unsedated every movement unpredictable and spinal tap after spinal tap all gathered under a starless sky once there were so many vacancies, now there are none. Now, you are decisive Now, you have a voice Now, you stand up Resilience has become my character defect and the thing resentments are clothed in. I have been here the whole time I have been here the whole time I have been here the whole time Loving a phantom Loving you in spite of Loving you anyway There are few safe moments for me with you but I love you anyway. There are words that I would have exchanged for a fractured jaw in 6 places in their place than hear them from you I love you anyway. There are actions not taken that I would have traded for a year of silence I love you anyway. There are faults left unclaimed that I would have gladly taken to watch peace take place in your eyes You handed me a razor. I've taken number after number for the other side and this is the grand moment in a stairwell alone that I would welcome another chance. Opportunist at best. I see you I see you caught I see me drowning in an endless blanket of past possibilities and too much experience. I see you drowning in the same blanket; different accompaniments; less experience, too much self inflicted notions of exactness and only drops of love. I understand. I can't breathe I can't see My chest has scooped itself back in it's cavity, for now. I promise, by the next frost, I'll do better by an untouchable spirit that wants to let go. A quaking Aspen will guide my way back to the place with one light Back to the place where she is Back to the place you fear so much. I'll be the one covered in snow you'll see the one with a broken finger, only on the right and a cedar heart. I m waiting waiting here at the mouth I'll always be waiting until you tell me not to.

The Process of Dying.

It's a slow long lethargic good bye that makes the hair on your arm stand up. A coming together of everything in the world you've ever feared. You must take the stairs now, no other option. Elevators are a lofty after thought. The wringing in and out of your intestines that shows up on your face in the ever present "How are you?" Feeling like the bottom is dropping from every moment, not knowing how difficult the next breath will be, a seething darkness that abides so close that there is no chance of shaking it. Maybe. Maybe you would have been better off going comatose. Maybe the hollow point should have bore out more than just your vein, maybe......just maybe. Making the silence numb is not a possibility. It clamors about in self defeating cyclone of what if's, what about's and every scream, every yell that has been not heard for what it was, the fear of you not being loved. On a cellular level, it all combusts on a nuclear level, Area 666 kind of shit. I meant it, I meant that I committed to long haul, I meant it every step of the way. Perhaps you don't. You don't. You haven't. A mirror un-adhered to, is an excruciating thing to have to walk by everyday, so I understand but it does not negate the fact that I drown every minute of every day with an ache that only a Christian could pray away, and I am not so hope evades me, as it should be. What if one day I wake up one day and it's ok? What a tragedy. Stage 4 feels immanent. This is a drowning with an audience and an empty grave that is being filled with all of the unsaid and disabled actions that could have made this paragraph non existent. Slowly being dismembered by an unseen force but seeing it all the time makes for dog days amplified. Hard times baby, hard times.

FUCK OFF "TAT" INQUIRERS.

Jesus Fucking Christ. I understand that summers' a here, practically anyhow and that I have made certain decsions in life, mainly to become heavilty tattooed and I am well prepared to deal with a fair amount of horse shit regarding that, be that as it may, I am not up for grabs to be touched in Home Depots, nor am I down for seeing your small and sad little diddy your bestie help you string together. My advice would be to piss off, far far away. I am upon the ve of a very long class at said moment and will be dashing shortly, like the next 35 seconds and just wanted to throw up a bit before I have to sit here for 4 hours. XOXO

Saving Simon.

Fundraising Ideas

This is Simon and he is a rescue that will have a forever home here in NJ if transport can be arranged. Please donate to help this happen for Simon. One of the best feelings that I have had the pleasure of knowing are that of the joy of saving an animal that otherwise would have had no chance at a happy, healthy or stress free existence. Too often people acquire animals for the wrong reasons and end up abandoning them once they have not met their unrealistic expectations or aren't working on their time. This does not have to be the case for this little guy. Please help Simon to reach his forever home so he never needs to know anything other than that throughout his life. Thanks you.

Puppy Mills Torture Thousands of Dogs Every Year! by Andrew A. December 21, 2009 11:54 pm Every year, thousands of dogs are the product of large-scale breeding operations known as puppy mills. The operations run across the country and dogs are locked in small wire cages with minimal human contact or veterinary care. As Christmas approaches, there is always a temptation to give the most lovable gift of all, a puppy. We’ve all seen the image of a Christmas puppy popping its head out of a stocking in television commercials. Now I don’t want to get into the logistics of whether or not a puppy makes a good Christmas gift — I trust you all to make that decision on your own. What I do want to talk about is where that new puppy is coming from. Buying a puppy is a big purchase and most people have a few options: pet stores/puppy mills or animal rescue shelters. While it may be easy to swing by the pet store on your way home from work, your purchase could be supporting puppy mills — an industry that tortures thousands of dogs annually. Buyer beware: even licensed puppy mills can operate with minimal standards. In fact, by law, puppy mills can own more than 1,000 dogs, keep them in small wire changes for life and breed them as often as possible. Not much of a life for man’s best friend! The truth of the matter is that the vast majority of the puppies bred at mills go straight to the pet stores, and year after year, puppies suffer for the sole purpose of turning a profit for the puppy mill and pet store owners. Puppies are not products and it is important to make sure you know where your puppy is coming from before you buy. The only way to free these animals from the misery of the horrid puppy mills is to eliminate the demand. With the highest percentage of puppies purchased during the holidays, it is important to take action to fight puppy mills by pledging to adopt from a shelter or rescue group instead of buying a puppy from a pet store. Together we can work to create a day where there are no more homeless pets — adopt, don’t shop.

MOMA NYC James Rosenquist: F-111 January 25–July 30, 2012 Fourth floor

It comes in the dark in the form of a winter tree leaning too far maybe to the right.. but since it's not hovering over your house, you make like it's ok, just another night where the moon in massive and your worries are rested.. it isn't my problem

it's been so long, who knows how people react in these narrow sad situations.. maybe in the form of a sacrificial emotion letting that knows no boundaries and we will both be stuck between your fate and a doorway leading to another conclusion that you made up years ago. but I do adore you and the way you wear that hat

I remember the last time you tipped more than that onto a cargo ship of responsibility hoping it would receive the correct play but as I recall, it came in the form of a summons. I know you can scream louder, but it doesn't make your remarks any more tolerable or tangible. Maybe you'll float, maybe you'll freeze, maybe you'll stay in the cabin that that winter tree is leaning on hard and maybe I'll remember you fondly

but probably not.

Put the Needle Down.

I woke up and realized that I had never really been; that all of that rhetoric in my dreams possibly warranted a bit more consideration than the re telling of said dream/s over a cup of black tea and a still sleepy unresponsive but trying very hard to appear other wise spouse, (poor Matt.) To get on with it... I am in a black ocean in a desolate room, from the waist up, I have nothing on and cannot feel or see anything from the waist down that is in the water, of myself anyhow; what I do see are hundreds of levels of water, various light and depths that would not correlate with nature but house millions of "ghosts/things/creatures". When I say this, I mean everything from the 2 aborted children I may have had to odd marine life, to things I refused to eat as a child, to faint apparitions of my Mother. (No wait, mother, she doesn't get capitalized, EVER.)

I am feeling nothing and everything. A wolf swims out to me, my wolf; my white wolf that has replaced my white rabbit in reoccurring dreams I had in the past for years. He has made an appearance in the last hand full of dreams I have had in the past few months and I almost determine that I am in one from his presence alone. He is effortless; he slides underneath my arm and begins to lead me away from the middle of this room ocean to a long hall way, what must be my foot grazes a tiger shark as the wolf pulls me away. Down the hallway we float, with endless door options, my wolf looks at me and I open the door we are in front of. My Dad is in the room holding a glowing blue sphere. He looks illuminated from the inside. My Dad looks up and smiles, and places the sphere in my hands and disappears. I am now clothed in this blue glow, the sphere turns to hypodermic needles, I drop it, and they float to a corner of the room that is darkened. There is a form, but I cannot make it out. The needles seem to be hovering and waiting their turn. I hear a slight exhale; I look at my wolf and his eyes are filled with Aslam like knowing and I move forward a bit. It's my Mom, the real one. She is becoming smaller every time a needle goes in to her skin. She looks like a deflated moss covered kick ball with thousands of needles protruding from every where. The needles from the sphere wait in turn to puncture her, but instead of her usual MO with needles, these are delivering nothing but taking away. She won't look at me. She seems to be in an inhumanely amount of pain and is bleeding profusely, silently crying and appears to have been this way for a long time. She endures this as if she was meant to, and rightfully so. She seems to embrace every biblical female horror with an Argento twist. I feel nothing. At least that's what I want to exude, but to no avail, I m silently crying. I am feeling something other than what I have had on reserve for her and I feel as though I am betraying myself. My wolf nudges me to her, looks up at me and without thinking, I put my hand out as to receive change at a store and the sphere of needles hover above my hand and then dissipate. Debra, stigmata, broken Type we'll never know is healing. All of her wounds, past and recently inflicted are healing, she never looks up but I know she wants too, or maybe I just hope that she does.Her blood is seeping back into her body, the bruises are going away, she is being invisibly stitched up, she is changing. I am filled with the notion that she never wanted to be what she was but drowned in the easiness of it and would have been what she was suppose to have been to be if she were capable. Before I can touch her, my wolf pushes against my legs and we head toward the door. There is a static wind at the doorway and as I disappear into it, my wolf bites the doorknob to my mom's room and pulls it shut. I know what this is and cannot believe that it is here. I never thought it would arrive. Ever. I can breathe in a way I never thought possible. However fleeting it may be, it was here for a moment and that will always equate to better than never for me.

Stop Clocking my LeftOvers.

So Matt & I are injecting a fair amount of R&R into out evening with a friend of ours & I was informed of a online debate turned debacle over whether or not it is classy/appropriate/yes, I am still holding on to it to take your left overs from a restaurant with you when you leave said eatery. What the fuck is happening here? A. Are we really so consumed with how others will view us as being successful in this life if we take left overs with us? B. Maybe your fucking hungry and thoroughly enjoyed your nosh and will to continue the affair at home. C, You are broke as balls and "yes, Hugo, I would love for you to bag this morsel up." D. You are so enthralled with how important you are, because everyone MUST be taking a gander at you to see if you are a trashy piece of shit that wants to eat the food they paid for in the first place. Are these really issues we need to take this in depth a look at? There was a blog, comment, discussion war going on about this very topic. Fuck Rwandan genital mutilation, fuck starving people in Somalia, are people judging me because I am taking food I enjoyed home with me? This desperately feels like the white trash you see waiting for the bus with a knock off Louis Vuitton bag. Why feature a knock off if you know the rest of the package is lacking and completely fictional? Perhaps in lieu of your recent move to Manhattan and daily appearance at Maxfish for the past 6 months you've all of a sudden formed what I like to call the "valley within the city syndrome." This occurs when throngs of young hopefuls, looking to wear all black, be consumed by technology and chance happenings and develop valley esque accents in record speed, all flock to the city, manage a few one night stands without crying and somehow think they have mastered "city life." These may be the very douche nozzles responsible for this behavior. Wake up loves, that 's not a toppled over cappuccino staining your sheets, feel me? Keep your eyes on that photographer's junk you want to bang to advance you at work and off my plate of vittles and the their fate at our shared trough. Gracias-XO

I had the Weirdest Dream..........

ALEX PRAGER

I m walking around with a fluffy white towel, the kind you steal or at best want to steal at posh hotels in an all white Forever 21 kind of store. They are all going about their business; the patrons, mostly young girls that fade to gray from the waist down. There is a massive bathtub in the middle of the store, and due to the nature of what I m wearing, I can only assume that I am looking to take a bath, but people keep attempting to sell me things so I retreat to the side of the store where the room shoplifters are usually taken to and begin to open the door, some puerto rican shop girl with too many teeth and a hippodrome sized mouth asks if I have heard of a designer that doesn't exist, I close the door quickly.
Inside is the same white large tub and as I bend down to turn the water on, the tub is filled with Christmas and Birthday presents, I begin to move them quickly from the tub and then I look over my shoulder and there is my real Mom; healthy, gorgeous, not addicted or infected; she is flanked to the right by 2 shorter people whom I don't & can't recognize. She begins to say something and I cut her off. She looks at me with my eyes and looks so surprised, as if playing into the perfect face I would expect her to have had she wanted to find me and have a conversation that never existed.
I turn and someone is inches from my face waking me up. Then I really wake up. Matt is making coffee and has picked Iggy up and placed him at the foot of the bed, I feel Kaya next to my back, snoring and humming and the sun permeates our room. I wonder if this visit is mine or hers. The last time she was in my dreams, she was lopping off swan heads nightly and plaguing me with visions only heroin could cure.
Iggy paws his way up to my face and yawns a landfill in my mouth, Kaya stretches and heads out of the covers as well; Matt asks if I want him to put some water on and I say yes. It's another morning, normal, working as usual in the way comfort can, and yet, it's something else....
Something else entirely.

A Short Story by H.H.S. "Ya'll listen till I m through...." Johnny Cash

Number 11
By Hollis Harper Skaling

As she extended her leg out long in front of her the wooden chair creaked and she resolved to allow the chair to support her, more so than they ever had. She feigned interest as the smoke swirled blue from her mouth, the window making shapes masking as revelations through the neon light flashing on and off; she had never felt this content. A quarter inch of ash formed on her filter less go to and she tapped the ash onto the growing dark pool on the floorboards next to her. Various reasons society would give for such an act ran through her mind and for the first time in a long time, she was sure that she didn’t care.
She thought back to the first time in the dank apartment that had housed the unspeakable; the haunted had taken their business elsewhere due to the malevolent force that was this inhuman taking the shape of human. It was a schizophrenic barbaric quality that one would be shocked to discover emanating from a woman. The tragic and frail fragments of the woman’s declining insanity were obvious and apparent to everyone but her; this fallacious symbol of atrophied compassion was not what she had bargained for in a Mother. She shifted in the chair thinking about the closets, the drugs, the fucking she was made to watch by this broken whore who had so freely given her chances at innocence away on countless occasions.
She crossed her legs to avoid the impending pool moving toward her right foot and took a deep inhale, the kind you take in the girl’s bathroom when you want to impress and wondered it odd that she had not a shed a tear since this began. They would say that it was premeditated, and they would be right, but not in the formal sense of the word. She had fantasized about this day her whole life and never really thought she would have the gumption to make good on that dream, but that’s all changed now. She dropped the cigarette into the pool of poison next to her and it paused in the thick red redemption as it resolved to finally topple over and go out, sizzling just a bit. As she fished in her jean’s pocket for another smoke out of the pack she thought about the john that had saved her life. A sallow, obese, wonky white trashcan of a hic named Hank. Who would’ve thought her Mother would even be able to ward off the eternal nod long enough to even pull a gun out on her? She recalled watching her Mother and Hank have sex; the nonexistent presence of her Mother that she would later utilize in her own distorted sexual encounters, the rough, pathetic groans of the white, slippery whale of what was passing for a man moving up and down at the pace of an unseasoned lover and praying, although he had never listened before, for her to possess the ability to simply disappear. This little girl just wanted to go away in whatever form that came in; death, magic, the law…..anything.
As Hank had plowed away on her Mother, her Mother had kept one eye out making sure she watched and that her eyes were not closed. In the space of seconds, her Mother had caught her not watching and unbeknownst to Hank, she reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a 9 millimeter and had taken aim. “You open your eyes, NOW” her Mother had said in a thick and dangerous southern accent. She had shook her head and squeezed them shut even tighter, but when she had heard the cocking of the gun, she opened them. Color had drained from her face and a warm steady stream had ran down her leg and onto the floor; she cried but made no sound. Hank had finally taken note of what was happening and in the calmest voice possible had said to her Mother, “Aw, honey you don’t wanna do that now, that’s just a baby. Set that down darlin’, atta girl, let’s get back to this here…” She had quietly snuck out of the room after that and went to the closet she lived in and cried as her pink elephant her Dad had bought her in England consoled her.
She took another deep inhale and blew a couple of smoke rings; she lifted her right foot and placed it on the head next to the creaky wooden chair. She rolled her foot on the head as to see the face clearly. As she gazed down at her Mother, she didn’t see anything; not even a vessel that had brought her into this world. Just an empty shell of used skin, genitals that had been abused in too many forms to name and a broken defective casket that had never served her in the most basis of needs. She would have this disease forever now because of her Mother, this cureless killer that would gradually attack her immune system and destroy the life that she had once prior thought to be mendable in the face of absence; absence from this rotting mound in front of her now. Her Mother had known that she had the virus and had main lined her with the needle anyway; she had just found out a week ago. One week was all that was left to accomplish what she should have years ago. It was quite possibly the only gift her Mother had given her; the gift of freedom. Within this one act, she now indulged every bad feeling, every numb section, and every rageful knife that had cut into the humanity of her shattered being.
She leaned back in the chair and surveyed the room for open spots where she had not applied sufficient plastic wrap and found none, pleased; she inhaled and let out every unspoken hurt with the smoke along with the holy grail of sentiments, relief. Though they would view her possibly no different than her Mother, she had taken careful steps not to affect anyone that would discover this gruesome scene, she was a monster. She stood up, stretched and walked over to the front door of the room, opened it and placed an envelope on the front before she closed it again. She walked over to her Mother and zipped up the plastic body bag and took a seat on the chair. She carefully put the cigarette out in a water bottle and pulled out a wax bag and a set of works. She had been in recovery for years, but felt a hair below giddy about the prospect of doing this thing now. As she proceeded with the steps one took to ascend into junk heaven, she was certain of the clarity of her decision and pushed the plunger in; releasing fireworks of strychnine and heroin. As she fell off the bridge, she knew that in this case, two lives were better than none.

Crybaby Sammies and their Good for Nothing Units.

Sharon Wauchob 2012

On a less ethereal note, allow me to educate, perhaps even warn you as to the dangers of having an absolute whimsical time within a structure upholding exquisite acoustics.......with "children" in it.
Warm weather equates to being outside as much as possible, more specifically, being on a bike is happy at it's zenith for me; so I have been doing as such. My usual route is to ride to the end of Asbury, puppies in tow via basket, let them fuck around at the dog beach and then head home. One of these days Matt accompanied me and we had a great time. If you know me even a little, you know I possess the bladder or a veteran that has lost their faculties due to some brave act, where as I have NO excuse or explanation for such frequent pissings; hence I pee ALOT. On one of these handicap stops, Matt watches the pups and my bike while I pee in Convention Hall. Now when I started to head towards the can, a double wide containing ugly, pudding like spawn began to just straight up scream. I saw no Mother in sight, Matt would tell me later that she was folding shit on a table near by ignoring the whole fiasco, or perhaps just allowing the Xanax to really take effect; but I did see a gumba, I love sports kind of douche of a Dad manning the stroller, which by the way these kids were way too big for.
I waited a bit in line, relieved and came out to theses fucktards STILL screaming their balls off, the Dad sort of trying to calm this shit down and looking around every 5 seconds like a crack head waiting. To my astonishment, the belt never came off, even this prick's own embarrassment was not enough to pull his pants up and regulate. Now this was made worse by the acoustics in Convention Hall, holy fuck, it was near apocalyptic, did I mention they were hideous to boot?
Moral? Do not allow illegitimate North Jersey fuckwads to upset your day due to the lack of "child" discipline; simply ride away from it ringing your bell, giving looks of disgust and talking massive amounts of shit about said family and thank your lucky stars that isn't your lot.
FUCK THIS.

Otis Redding at a Tea Party.

CHANEL 2012