Saturday, May 21, 2005

I noticed something strange today.

My fingernail. The blood in my fingernail. It was gone.

At some point during this mindless charade in Fresno, my fingernail accumulated blood under the surface. Deep, near the back of the nail. A large spot, probably accomplished through that silly game of football that I played. But it had been there for the longest time, inching it's way up the nail as it grew out and I cut it. But it had always been there, while I had always been here.

I cut my nails yesterday, and finally, the blood was gone. I cut the blood out of my life.

I cut Fresno out of my life.

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

I'm back. And I'm gone.

I haven't blogged in a long, long time. I can't say for sure if I ever will consistently again. But for this moment, for this long, lasting, terrible yet trenchant moment, I have to write. I have to say what needs to be said so it isn't lost along with all the other memories that have been lost, the names that have been forgotten and the streets I will forget. I have to write to remember. To make this memory last.


I've been here for two years of my life, two years that have flashed by like an hour in the theatre but without the popcorn or million dollar budget. Two years.

What has happened? What hasn't happened. Am I glad I came?

Yes. My god yes.

Freedom is self discovery. Lose everything and you will eventually gain everything. I am glad to be here. I have grown, and yet (truthfully) I have regressed. My social life has suffered, while still existent. I was by no means a social god in high school, but I knew everyone, and them me. I was funny, I was witty, I was liked. Every Friday or Saturday there was this or that or the other thing.

Not as much here, and it has all to do with me.

I still have the friends, yet they feel hollow. All of which happen to be D1A football players. Smiles shared, laughs shared. But no connections. Just faces and the friendship molded from the sweat of 100 degree days in the sun, melting like butter and tanning quicker than bronzer. That kind of friendship. The brotherhood kind of friendship, the friendship you feel because you both bled and lost and cried for the same cause, like war without the death. That kind of friendship.

Not the friendship you get from liking the same song. Or the same girl. Or the same place.

They all smile and wave and handshake and talk and bicker and bond and flicker, but they aren't. They aren't me. They are stupid and ignorant, tall and different, kind and giant. Few of these friendships born on sweat shed on the grass field will last. I only see myself ever calling or perhaps visiting two of the men met here. I will enjoy said visits, but I cannot see myself ever being best friends with these people. For all we are the same, we are much, much different.

But we both bled on the field and laughed on the road and felt in the moment, and that is why I will always remember. And call. And keep that from these two years.

There are certain things that persist after these two years, things that especially stand out amongst two years of repetition and longing, desire and disappointment, success and failure. These are the moments, inconsequential or not, that are bolded somewhere beneath the decaying core of my membrane.

- Somebody and the awkward hello and goodbye. Honestly, his name I have already forgotten. But I always see him, and we always say what's up to one another. Because we bled on the field. But not because we care, but only because it is necessary. For two years we have been neighbors, and for all of those two years this exchange of pleasantries has been akward, like fingernails on chalkboard, like sexing up your best friend's girlfriend, like caring about someone who broke your jaw.

- Rapid weight gain and loss. Quitting and not. Leaving football, accepting a surely extremely unhealthy diet and thriving on it, then losing weight in droves. Then being asked back. Nothing is more enticing then being wanted. Saying yes. Gaining the weight back in droves "for the job". For the pursuit of a sport I was already burnt out on. A terrible transition. And now here I am again, back in the rapid weight loss stage, trying to become what I was even though I know it'll never be possible. Hope.

How fruitless.

- The in and outs of addiction. No, not drugs. But other things. In waves, crashing like wildfire. Everything and anything had a phase of life. A movie, a game, a book, a meal, a drink, a location. All in phases, weeks or two at a time, eventually drying out, losing flavor, dying. It's amazing how things so amazing seem so fruitless when used to exhaustion. And how I would use it. Until it lost it's feeling. Everything loses it's feeling.

- Pursuit of emotion. One of the worst parts of this one room apartment seclusion is the lack of emotion. The lack of something pertinent and moving, and so I have actively pursued it. Movies have filled that void. Even if I do not know this character, and he will not know me, I am moved, often to the point of tears. This feeling moves me, drives me, makes me want to write, to think, to create, to do. Emotion is why we live, not for the monotony of living every day the same way. Without emotion the world is boring.

This is exciting. Feeling the words on my fingertips. Knowing I'm gone but I'm sad but I'm excited but I'm mad but I'm angry but I'm fulfilled. This is exciting. This is pertinent. This is emotion.

My fingers are drying out. My mind is bleeding. This all seems so lame but yet so exciting, to write, to tell, to know. Just for me. Just for the brain. Just so I can remember.