Tuesday, June 04, 2013


I will never be able to watch Blue Velvet again without thinking of a vivid life — something lovely and textured, something that evoked emotion. Something real. But that was long ago, and the world has moved on.

Nothing is real anymore. In the life outside of the written word I am stone, and I have stopped letting people peek inside me. Because when you let people know you, you let people touch you. And when they touch you, they mark you. And when they mark you, they can scar you.

But you are letting people peek inside you, the voice says. You're writing about emotions, about feelings.

But that's an illusion. I am writing about the lack of emotions, the dry well that once tapped into an underground aquifer of real feelings. I am still a suave fucker on the surface, a guy who speaks fluent girl, a man who can converse with anyone about anything. That superficial rogue is notorious for knowing how to have a good time. LL Ron D: Ladies Love Ron D, especially when he supplies the party goods.

Under that smooth surface, ropes of knotted scars, marks of past encounters with people who touched me. The scars extend to my neck and clog my throat. This is a good thing. I no longer speak aloud of the things that once reached my heart. I thank the people who marked me and made the scars; they finally got me to shut up. That bastard rondavis yammers on (and on and on and on), and he says fuck that shit Heineken, it's Pabst Blue Ribbon. He's got the mask on and he's taking deep breaths of whatever is in the tank. He controls the horizontal and vertical now, and he shoots when he sees the whites of the eyes. He tells Ron's friends that he is fine, and he is fine, and then he asks: how are you? Tell me what's going on in your life. The truth is deflected. More time, more distance, more cement accumulate to turn the lie into reality. And life goes on.

Anyone looking for Ron is out of luck. He's nothing but a reflection. All you see now is yourself.

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