My Box of Sunsets

 I watch the sun drip away behind the Hollywood Hills as I lie on the floor, alone again in my studio apartment. We are exposed. My apartment and I. The huge window bathes the tiny room, every inch in sunlight. The lights of houses twinkle through the foothills and as I contemplate the people who occupy those homes, I can't help but feel isolated. Starting over is bittersweet. The sky fades from blue to orange, my room darkens and my dog begins to snore. Safe inside my little box I watch the city play its rush hour dance through the glass of my window. Once again watching Hollywood through a box. But somehow the magic of television could never capture what I feel tonight. 

Like a tiny bird, I sit in an open cage. There was a time not so long ago when I believed the hardest part would be the breach of my little brass door, but now that it has flung wide with illustrious vigor, and my dreams lie so close that I see them in great detail, it is my awe that cripples me. And as the last bit of paint drains from my skyline, I wonder what colors I will bring to this place and if there is room for what I can offer. If somewhere in this city of rich and poor, young and old, business suits and dreaded locks, the artist and the homeless, one little bird can leave a stoke of color no one has ever seen before. 

Jumping is hard when you know you will fall and that no other option is probable. But it is not quite enough to avoid impending doom and be content with knowing I have the option to obtain the life I want. But in reality I am not at all sure about the life that I want. Not the details, not even the big picture. The unexpected moments that make me smile when I think of them years later. That's what I want. Great moments. Ones that manage to drastically change everything that I thought I knew about life. I don't want that to ever stop happening. 

Now the night washes over my view, live music and weekend voices come to me uninvited. The moon is full tonight and perhaps explains my mood. I think things that have been thought a million times by many people. I write words that have already been written, but tonight they are all my own. I am finding a big difference in knowing something and feeling it for the first time. I look forward to more firsts. And also more nights watching the sunset in this wonderful little box I call home

My Hero

 

                                                     If you don't know. You should.

Help sounds good at night time, Denial good for morn.

The words are hard to come by. 

What has happened is still so raw.

The abused abuse, I knew this.

But my charity glass was tall.

You sucked the good straight from me.

My veins left floppy and black.

You desperate, searching, loveless.

Good sense is all you lack.

When help is there and willing

You spat upon its face.

Angry seeping from your mouth,

Who let you out of your cage?

Your stories all make sense,

Though I guess they did before.

As soon as normalcy creeps in,

You shut your backwards door.

I had no pity to ring out,

Though you squeezed with all your might.

I offered love, and change and health.

Though you really had no right.

The worse part is you stole from him,

His generosity.

And flipped the tales all around,

Thanks for including me.

I had to give one breathless laugh,

Because I know its not our fault.

But how we tangled in your web,

Is locked up in my vault.

Sleep won't come. Hope your prepared,

You missed your baby's day.

Installing same ol' traditions,

You swore had gone away.

We knew before, they told me so.

I had to prove them right.

I felt I was out of the dark,

You saved it for one night.

But that's ok. I'll be just fine.

I'll write you off as past.

But you will continue on.

Until your left alone at last.

The Sweetest Thing.

The reason I love my day.

Guilty to title her work.

Dog Food.

I'm quiet today. In spirit. In mind. Only slightly lonely. Less than inspired. More than idle. Slowly stirring. Like clouds before a storm. Not angry, but full. Plump for a harvest of rain. 

So few know me. If any. The way I am when I am alone. Searching. Always. Thinking for hours of strangers and their lives. No reasoning. Just stories. How they pertain to me. And they always do. For I am the creator. No word is separate from me.

I wish for just one day to have the words of a stranger. To think in complete opposites. My repetitive vocabulary and familiar life philosophies. I feel like a dog. Same breakfast everyday. Someone throw me some left overs! To pick your brain would be delicious. 

I hate you and I love you.

Emotional puke. 

Come up already.

Stop boiling from inside out. 

Shaky veins.

We are not the same.

Though I've told you different.

Sleep won't call.

I can't stop the draw.

It's moving on with out me.

Back pedaling.

As you all race forward.

Quit, or I'm coming to get you.

Stale smoke. 

You plot to choke.

And I'm sleepy in the morn.

I know I have

What you all want.

Why don't you just come get it?

The trek to you

Is fucked and new.

I hate you and I love you.

"You on Coke? ", "Nope, I just had a good summer."

Forth of July.

From my Hollywood roof top we watched fireworks from Dodgers stadium, the Staple Center, and Santa Monica beach light of the sky around us. My closest friends and I dodged illegal fireworks being set off by small mexican children whose mother was somewhere else completely. 

Fear of being set on fire while on rooftop. Kind of fun. 

We gulped cheap beer and made toasts to being in the City of Angels. 

Completing the first set of goals, and letting out a brief sigh of release before we battle the next.

Refreshed.

Later in the car we blair the Counting Crows and know every word. We smoke varied brands of cigarettes as we drive down to Venice beach. 

We arrive just as all the crowd is leaving. That's the way we like it. We pretend we are a troup of charming assassins, or maybe just a cool band. We climb down steep rocks to a cove we spy. The waves creeping further up each lap. Girls in short skirts, only one hand void of cigarette, shimmy down the boulders and complain of having to pee. The boys stay slightly behind, perhaps for protection, probably for the view. 

We temp the unusually warm waves to hit us as we squat on jagged rocks with another drink. The boys aching to dive in. Girls thankful they didn't.  

Now in the mood for company we drive to a small Tiki dive bar in Silver Lake after we make a stop for more cigarettes and Red Bull. Upon arriving we find parking 5 yards from the door and are greeted with no cover and an invitation to smoke inside. We like this place already. The attractive, low key hipsters smiled briefly and then go back to their drinks and intellectual conversations.  The white haired bartender was tan and wore a Hawian shirt. He chanted, "BOBA, BOOBA, BAYBOO", and other random words he may or may not have known had a connection to the Tiki. Though now after thinking bout it, he he certainly knew. He had a heavy hand. We all sipped strong fruity drinks and admitted we were drunk, besides the DD, of course. 

 

We pile into my car and make the journy home, promising the boys they will swim tomorrow.