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Daniel G.

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4AM: Cassanova's Curse "When The Abyss Looks Into You First" [Sep. 14th, 2009|08:08 pm]
Daniel G.
His eyes are wet.

He looks at his brother with stern rage. It's the first time he's been able to in his life. His chest heaves at an incredible rate and his heart pounds in his chest like it's trying to escape. He wants to kill him. He wants to end his own history, but even then he's held back by two frail women and he realizes that at the heart of it he's still afraid. So he screams instead.

Just a child, just a story picked out of Midwest lore like all the other stereotypes we hate so much but inside acknowledge so begrudginly. Sixteen year old mother, Eighteen year old petty-drug-dealer dad, overwhelmed underprepared and just flat out underneathe doing their best to find the closest thing Kansas has to a getto so they can trade their way to a life. It didn't work, not even for a short time. I remember getting shit-canned with my biological mother a few years ago when in a moment of less than lucidity (a trait I would later inherit) she admitted if it wasn't for my adopted parents I'd only be an abortion.

My bloodline does not do warm and fuzzy well.

But the child, me, was adopted. And though his new parents were old enough to be his grandparents what they lacked in youthful energy they made up for in how much they loved me. Yet all families are poisioned, everyone has their story and mine was not so different. It was circumstance that changed everything. It was a moment when the axis of my planet turned and who I am split from the distant figure I see today.

What those loving parents of choice failed to realize was a germ growing in the blood of their daughter. In her mind there was a need that would never be filled, and today I spend each day waiting for the call that she took it too far, drank too much, took to many pills and the only person in my family that understands me that well will be gone and I'll be finally and forever among strangers. My adopted brother was another story. He watched my Father and I with poisioned eyes. He coveted every thing I was ever given, he hated every kind word my father spent on me because he believed it was taken from him. Silently, he waited for his chance for revenge, to strip all gifts and all smiles. Eventually he would get his chance. I was the interloper, and he would root me out the second I wasn't protected.

His chance would come. My father, who en route with me the first day was heard remarking "I will spoil this child until no one else wants him" heard his heart break knocking down a cinder block wall with a sledgehammer while I was five hundred miles away. I have repeatedly been told that it wouldn't have mattered if he'd gone to the hospital at that very second, but the fact is and should be noted-

He finished knocking down that goddamn wall before he went inside for help. I was eight years old.

He looks at his brother with wide eyed fear. There's a pistol leveled at his eyes and he just doesn't know what to think. Moments before he was playing with his cousin in the garage, doing what adolescent boys do. Hitting things that can't hit back and proclaiming themselves king of the world. And damn it we were kings of the world. A brotherhood of bad-smelling sweat and strange hairs, we were coming to our own. And at the moment our own was a single tone of panic leveled at the place between his eyes, his brothers fat face staring at him.

What is it going to do for you? He said, and I only trembled. But in the years that followed and my limbs grew and I became strong I never forgot it. For better or for worse.

Then, I did the smart thing. I bowed my head and I just said yes to everything that came out of his mouth.

The funeral was the first time I ever looked at my Mother as old. It was the first time I saw it. I remember standing there and looking at her lay a shaking hand on my Fathers casket. I noticed the way it shook, and how the lines were so much more deeply engraved on her hands than mine. I looked up to her face and it was like her entire head moved itself forward, a full body sob. I saw the disconnection of a silver strand that I still don't understand until this day. I didn't know it then, but I was watching someone break. In that moment the first mistake of my life that I can remember was made. I would be the Man now. I would protect and be strong. During my Fathers funeral I did not cry, something my Mother would scream at me for years later. I sat stoic and determined to take my fathers place and protect, as all young boys are programmed to do by loving fathers misplaced and premature or not.

The problem was. I wasn't the only one who wanted to be the man.

I am 22. I'm no longer small, no longer weak. My scars speak to the battles I've been in, won and lost, but faught nonetheless. I'm heaving my chest up and down and trying not to splinter the table between us. He says he'll have me arrested. I tell him I'll put him in a hospital first.

They call my brother the Craigslist Rapist. You can actually google him. He hung himself in jail after they gave him 30 years for what he did. Such a waste of rage, so much anger that has nowhere to go. This story is ultamitely about the first time I ever faced him down, made him retreat under his rock or wherever such people go.

I am scraping at the door jamb. Two women are holding onto me and I know that I can break throught them like they aren't even there. And he stares at me with those evil eyes and my teeth grate but I still can't move forward. In this moment I still lack the courage to make the first move.

I don't remember the first time David ever put his hands on me. Considering what he did later I'm almost glad of it. He ruined my Sister evidentally, raping her repeatedly. It was practice I suppose for what he would do to so many random women later, I'm pretty sure the real number will never be known.

What I do remember, one of my first memories in fact is my Mother looking on in horror as he repeated to me over and over that I was destined to be nothing. That all I existed to do was sap what little energy and resources my Mother had until I could get the hell out. To his credit, what little I can give he may have been right. I became a hellion in the battle for dominance. Too frail to challenge David directly I set myself to little rebellions, doing the things that he used as talking points as to why I was unsavable, extra, un-needed. I played the part hoping to hold what little control I had over anything, and my Mother bless her was victim to that first of motherly attributes, believe your children are perfect. So all that she could do is watch as I was being torn down. We've forgiven each other for this, many times. In return at that time I released my ire on her too, unloading in the only weapon a coming adolescent can weild, rebellion.

Now, I think of him, and I don't mind saying that I miss him. It was nice in it's own way to be able to center my rage on such an obvious form of evil. I still wake up in sweats, I still wish he was supple and I could finally say the things I was too cowardly to when I was young.

He runs back to his car, and for the first time I feel justified. I was only nine when he held a gun to my head, and at least this time I wouldn't let the gravel push me back any further. I make a promise to myself, the 100th, that no one will see this part of me. I'll be Angel, DJ, no one ever asks where the music comes from, they just love that the music comes at all. I span eight states living up to that while my brother works his way up to his shoe-laces, straps them around his neck and that's all she wrote folks.

When I was thirteen I bolted. I was gone for three days. I'd driven across two states and ended up in situations that I'm honestly amazed I lived through. Maybe it's because I took two friends along for the ride. When they chickened out and I begrudgingly returned home David was there waiting. By then, he'd learned the methods to shake me down to my very core. I was a shaking leaf then, finally carved down to the bone but with a spark inside that would seed and grow until...

He is the boy, I am the man. We move ever forward, but there are times by myself that I still remember the steps I never took, where all I could take comfort in was the fact that I looked him in the eye.

But I did, look him in the eye.

The candle burns down, and I'm reminded of things that are so much more important and so much more current than I and my brother. But through history it's been such a difining moment that I thought I would tell you.

Fiction or fact. Did my brows narrow, did I scream?

And what if I told you that my biological mother and the sister of whom I mention so dearly were one in the same? What if it really WAS my grandparents that had adopted me and the reason my sister and I are so close is that she was that sixteen year old girl, raped repeatedly by her brother until she ran away the only way a midwest girl knows how, and was beaten down by the act? What if in the end she gave me over to the only people she felt could protect me?

And what, if for whatever reason, they failed?

Fact or fiction reader. Your call. Have I become too fantastical for you yet? Are you bleeding into the belief that this is a lonely hearted fiction written by someone you will never meet?

Or did the words ring true, and if they ring true then riddle me this.

What if the abyss never gave you the chance to look first?

Your move reader. This is just the beginning, and I haven't told you anything yet.
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4AM: Casanova's Curse [Aug. 23rd, 2009|11:38 am]
Daniel G.
I want to tell you my story. God knows I've taken enough stabs at it over the years. There were times where I would blink and three hours had gone by while I poured my heart out, begging anyone, everyone to come take a look. In the end I wonder if I did it mainly for critique. In the end I always threw up my arms in dismay, disgusted at how self-effacing it sounded, or self-glorifying. If I were to tell it in a linear way, you would spend half the story wanting to pick me up and dust me off and the other half wanting to believe that no one like me would ever really exist.

I've learned to doubt the permanence of things, is that the wisdom I've amassed over all of these strange ventures? I've learned to doubt forever, if not for everyone for me.


Before you say that I'm morbid I have also learned to love everything about impermanence. I've learned that just as things don't stay forever very rarely are they gone forever. I've seen dead suns rekindled. I've seen the world take away for good what it offered up willingly in only a few heartbeats. For so many people impermanence means absence,

-but it also means the absence of absence.

It's just so many stories, do you understand? Maybe I'll be able to get them all out; maybe every single one will be true.

Then again maybe I'll lie about the whole thing just to entertain you.

Part of the problem is knowing where to start. Even my birth was strange, but what brought me here, to this I am who is just a voice, just some disembodied group of words trying to reach out in accordance with his craft and say "here is where I've planted the flag, here's danger, here's Eden."

I can tell you stories of bleeding half to death. I can also tell you stories of bouncing a strobe-light ball around for two hours laughing uncontrollably with half a dozen complete strangers. Which would you rather hear first? Which would you be more sure was real?

And if I told you that one night I saved a dozen people from freezing to death, will it cushion the blow when I tell you I got caught by my wife having a threesome on our anniversary? Which story would you remember, which one would you tell about me. Who would you see if I really showed you?

There are questions now, about my heart and if I have one. I think I've analyzed what it means to have a heart until I made it disappear. But I know that I still love, and well all know the heart is not located where you think it is anyway.

A good pretext to all of this would be for you to know that I am excellent liar. If you don't want to be lied to you should leave right now. But everyone is lied to in stories, and why are you still reading if you didn't want to hear the story?

So should I tell you a story that will make you interested? Make you curious enough to put me on your bookmark?

I'm so very glad they still call them bookmarks.

I was bleeding to death. I know you're immediately curious about why I was bleeding to death, but if I tell you I was stabbed wouldn't that just make it worse? It did, didn't it? The details I'll tell you later but I was bleeding to death. We are in a small car hurtling toward the hospital as fast as its little heart would carry it. Surprisingly that ended up being almost a hundred miles an hour. Lucky me.

I was trying to stay awake, but eventually I couldn't and here is what I saw.

The car jerked to a halt in front of the emergency room. I tried to open the door but by then it took every bit of concentration to stay awake. I knew this wouldn't be just another bit of unconsciousness. When you become unconscious the world goes black, and mine was definitely trying to go white. I see nurses and doctors and actually hear one say to me "If you live."

There's a moment of complete... sorry to sound like a broken record here but, whiteness, around me. No loved ones, no relatives, but a sense of certainty that was overwhelming. It was an idea that all was as it should be whatever it should be. I awake with a scream as they dig around in my insides to assess the damage.

I tell my girlfriend I'm sorry that we argued, to tell my family I was sorry too. The doctor told me to count backward.

When I wake up, nine piercings had been replaced by one hundred and nineteen staples down the center of my stomach. That month in the hospital I can only remember two things. Gosh, the Morphine was just tops, and somewhere there were people plotting to put my friend in jail forever, or at least as close to forever as children barely twenty could conceive.

My first stop was the District Attorneys, where I told them I'd be happy to testify at an assault trial, but I'd find myself unavailable to recall the events in an attempted murder trial. I explain that speed stabbed me, and I'd be happy to testify also at an attempted murder trial for that.

The last I heard he was working at a greenhouse and nursery.

Is that too flowery for you? Would you still be reading if I told you how it happened in the first place? And if I told you this story was true to the last word would you believe it? Which do you want to hear more?

How I lived, or why I deserved it?

Impermanence, of perception and ideas of who are heroes and who are villains is what I've learned. I've learned that apathy is the only negator. My best friends have been my enemies. My enemies are my best friends.

Here we go friends. I'm going to tell the whole story from beginning to end. Paulina to Bebe. Deep throat parties to nights spent homeless mid-winter. Abandoned daughters and betrayal and who knows what else. And if while I do it you find yourself hating me, then let me be your villain and enjoy the victory of those victimized. If I fall on the other side of the balance then enjoy the times I've landed on my feet, because in this world we all deserve to be happy, though we are never entitled to an easy path to it.

My name is Angel. It's occurred to me to let people know I haven't died, simply because everyone seems to see it as such a constant possibility. I used to write once, describe what these things feel like in our mind, that classic tragic literary jazz about the highs in the light and the lows in the dark. And I think perhaps it's time to come back. I think if I took another stab at it I'd have something to teach you this time. After all for the first time there's no reason to lie.

-unless I want to.

Angel Wylde 8/22/09
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On The Third Day [Aug. 8th, 2009|09:49 am]
Daniel G.
He takes the pills one by one. It's your average classic tragic scene. He's long since stopped thinking about what he's doing. He's just trying to kill those little heart attacks. Maybe it's because he's completely crazy, or maybe they lie to you about what it feels to seperate two lives. The fact is it doesn't feel like shattering pain that fades like an echo. It's small twinges in the chest that sneak up on you while you're smoking a cigarette or dancing in a bar, or sleeping in the middle of the night. Small warm flashes, pictures of smiles and movement. Moments. The wind rushes out of him, his chest cracks open and seals itself shut before anyone notices. His head shakes, involuntarily and he can't find his bearings for a moment. In instants everything goes sideways and what was real is overwhelmed by the tide of everything that wasn't real.

But the pills he takes are heady stuff, made for some poor hapless man with chronic back-pain, or someone with the kind of headaches that only opiate medicine can attend to. But whoever they were, they're need for money overwhelmed their need for relief, and untold links in the chain later they'd come to him. But his tolerance is high, and mixed with the right amount of 40 oz, wine, and whatever else he can get his hands on and he's lifted above all that. The world slows down and retracts in a hug that lifts him up and out. He's above, for the moment and the moment is good enough.

Two days ago he was so enraged he screamed at nothing... no one. The affront had been typed on some keyboard somewhere and zapped into his eyes before he could look away. Those moments happen in seconds too but bear a longer draw against his skin, but in the absence of the combination of chemicals mentioned before those bruises last much longer. They draw in until everyone around him sweats. He breathes heavy and the fright is covered over by so much red rage that all he can do is grin and plot until the frivolity of it hits him again and he crumples into a puddle and falls asleep.

What could he have done different, and who's heart then would he be breaking if he had? After four little white tablets he stops asking questions. After the seventh he's having trouble remembering he ever had them.

The liquor reserves shrink, the pillbox gets more empty but he's watching the screen still. He's waiting for something, a sign. He's already learned it isn't coming but he waits for it anyway. And he wonders how far, how long until he can stop doing that.

8th pill, third bottle. It's a strange formula. He wished he was better at math. The lifted feeling turns into something else. His eyes dart around the room sometimes, trying to gain bearings of another kind. But he's distracted and seeking deluded and there's one pill and one bottle left.

That kind of math he can manage.

By the time he stumbles to the futon hes not waiting for signs anymore, or understanding. He's not seeking forgiveness or revenge. He's not terrified of his life or even if what he's just done to himself will kill him. It's not that he wants to die.

He just wants to see what happens.

The lifted feeling has given way to a large cotton ball taking the place of his brain. Even sounds coming in sound muffled and confusing. The room isn't spinning, it's tipping side to side. He considers turning the TV on but he misses the remote as he free falls onto the futon and then there's nothing.



I open my eyes. And B is stitting above me. I haven't come back to myself enough yet to hazard an explanation, so all that I say is that I feel sick, which is not entirely the truth. The fuzzy pounding feeling has ebbed away and now I'm simply high as a kite, and all is right with the world save the fact that my stomach feels like it's trying to escape the hard way. We talk awhile, she feeds me noodles. My eyes close again.

I'm not the least bit worried this time.

When I wake up again, I leave something where I slept. I wake up and my first memory is the way I was before, and how fearlessness didn't always come so darkly bought. I feel sad, but not about the things I felt sad about before. I regret that I couldn't maintain that light, but I regret with hope because I can remember the light clearly again.

For the first time I stop glancing forward and look, saving the glances for backward. I can concentrate. The path in front of me is cloudier, but it's a path. What's behind me was a sprawling instruction in the fact that fighting with your soul is futile and as destructive as fighting with someone elses.

Things I've lost tick off against the things I've gained. The smile comes before I even realize I'm doing it.

There are some that tell me that I have no heart, and I'm willing to entertain the idea that may be true. But heart or not I still fall in love. The only time I feel my heart is when it's breaking, so if that is all that it's good for I think I'm better off without it.

I look back at the place I slept and there he lays. The he that tried so hard and failed so miserably. The he that didn't speak the language and tried to fake his way through it. He, who is full of regret, and rage, and preferred the word sorrow to sadness.

I think that it's better to be sad.

I'm through the shower, we're invited to San Diego. My shirt is crisped out and I'm shaved in the first time in three days. I have no idea what's coming, but I can't wait to see. I'm in an environment where every move is a new learning experience. A new crowd, where the rules are different, the stakes are higher, and the rewards are far greater.

She still catches herself smiling for no reason. He keeps her up late when she has to work early, and darts around the room like someone posessed. He makes her talk when she'd be quiet and say hello when she'd rather sit down. When she broods he attacks it and rips it open, then caresses what's inside until it floats away. A doting angry asian culture and the mind-tricks of her own particular round peg square hole routine learned her silence is golden. He was the one that told her it was only gold flake.

I glance in the mirror while she puts her arms around me and asks if I am ready. I breathe in, I breathe out. I'm ready, and we walk out the door.

...but not before I grab the last 40 out of the fridge and ask if I can drink it on the way.
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Blind Shepherd [Jul. 10th, 2009|07:43 pm]
Daniel G.

My head hits the desk, lightly and lovely.

I'm blaring Sisters of Mercy through the computer speakers.

I smell leather. I see back twelve years.
...and I like it.

Sometimes, if I reach that place, that perfect point of blown away by a combination of liquor and random chemicals. The way a black lace n' patent leather child of the night might have felt streched out over a dirty matress with a screwdriver in his hand. Nik Fiend in the eyelids and Johnny Depp in the eyes.

I smell leather, and I'm on my knees. And it is my perfect place because I am in total control, with no control. I am free. I can do anything I want and I choose to do this. I can hear the thunder of the speakers in the middle of the day and I sleep sore, ripped apart by the club that night, bathed in sweat. I am surrounded by shallow depth and the same desperate seeking for the spot you just can't reach that fires up into the night and makes people dance in the street, drink wine from the bottle and fuck a stranger.

I smell leather, and I see the road.

Hundreds of miles passing under tires. I see city after city after city. The East Coast and the West Coast war on the place to be. The west has Portland, San-Fran-Fucking-Cisco (to which I've never been) and the only real natural disaster you fear is "the big one" and if that happens, well...


Oh my beloved East Coast, where I spent most of my formative years. Ah the Big Easy. Now there I've been. Miami, a party in the heat, sunrise on the beach, black cuffs rolled up to my knees and a lace shirt on the first night a person ever asked me-

-if I was a boy or a girl.

I smell leather, I feel heat. I see the road.

I know that Lindsey will be angry that I took my backpack, my sleeping pad. Those things were fucking expensive. I'm pretty sure she meant to keep them.

And I think of a promise I made to myself a long time ago. That I would pack up, step outside, and walk north...

Just north, stopping where I can, going on retreat with the Monks and all that pathetic hipster bullshit.

Maybe to atone, maybe just to live. Perhaps I'm just dreaming.

But I'm your average corporate hack now, and I can pull down mad cash if I really really have to. It's the mild reward for the chains of the man after all.

In a month I could save over a thousand.

In two, perhaps enough to get by for months. A year.

All the ones I love hate me, and all the ones that love me I am afraid of breaking.

I want to know if I'm black as midnight or bright as the sun. I've been thoroughly convinced of both and each time proved wrong.

I don't know if I'm being born anymore or I'm dying.
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Breathe Deep, Hold It In [Jul. 8th, 2009|04:59 pm]
Daniel G.
[Current Mood |crushedcrushed]

Friday for the first time in a long time I'm going to go out with nothing but vodka and recklessness in mind.

I'm here on day three, and my body is slowly rebelling from a straight diet of Cuervo, Wine, a single piece of pizza and all the most self-damaging introspections of your nightmares. There has got to be some point of letting go. Fresh as it is the ringing in my mind must stop enough for me to function again. It's my theory, anyway.

I used to trip alot, ALOT. I always had the subtle wonder of thinking with the fifth hit, or when I was particularly brave the tenth in a row.

"Will this change the world forever, will my perception be altered, unalterably?"

That is this, on a cellular level.

I see no benefit in raging, in twisting. By now if nothing's snapped and nothing's healed I realize this is obviously not the way to achieve either end. Instead I make an appointment to view an apartment and try desperately to semi-amicably retrieve my things. If I look inside there is something staring back at me, and I recognise him, and I fear him. I have to look out, look up, look on, look anywhere.

It occurs to me that all of my friends were actually hers. Long blonde hair and a body like that I suppose I get it. If I can resist the urge to rip and tear at them long enough I realise I'm actually excited, all old faces stern and cold I turn my back to find a waiting world. It's an inkling of hope drifting like a ducks feather on a calm lake. It's fragile, but it is undeniable.

And all this madness swirls at the outer edge, reaching in, but blown back by sheer will. One more breath and then I can go mad. Just get through to the next breath and we'll worry about it then.

I need to dance, Wyldly.

I need to walk, distantly.

I need to breathe, constantly.

All must lead me somewhere, and anywhere is better than here.
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When The Rain [Jul. 6th, 2009|05:50 pm]
Daniel G.
It's over now.

All the scheming, all the compartmentalising is finished. It was wiped away in a few seconds. I keep playing the scene over in my head, wondering what I was thinking, what made me that brazen in that moment. All I come back to is that they were so beautiful, just too amazing to pass up this time, at this moment.

I didn't even stop when I started noticing people I knew walking by. I dissapointed the hell out of my friends, good people, ones I loved dearly. There was only skin, eyes, teeth, lips, and me.

I will not deny who I am for one more second.

I love women. I love the sounds the make, and the way they move, and I want all of them all of the time. But someone I love never knew the level of it all and here I am now. I have blisters on my feet and my entire wardrobe is most likely somewhere between here and the 405. I keep moving from the bed to the table to the Tequila and then back to the bed. Everything about me feels disconnected, rather half-connected. No one to blame but me.

While I'm sitting here I'm forced to realize some things about myself, like I've never been *out* of a relationship. From sixteen until now I've been hopping from one place to another, always keeping a foot in one pool while trying to leap to the next. This is no way to do things, not any longer. It chips away at my spirit until I'm... well until I'm like I am now, unshaven unwashed and unable to move. I realize that there was something horribly wrong, too far back for me to see. I'm not sure what, but I have my theories. My brother hung himself in jail three weeks ago rather than serve a thirty year sentence for rape. There has got to be *something* back there.

Right now, I'm trying to pick up the pieces or at least to start considering picking something up in earnest. In the meantime I go from tire-tread numb to surface of the sun panic, it rolls over, it comes back. Within it I'm reminded that I've left a corpse by the highway, and it was a beautiful girl that just wanted to love me. It wasn't her fault she never knew who me, was.

For now these cigarettes keep burning down, one after the other. I breathe in, then I breathe out. I roll over in my mind if I am sick, or if I was just unable to express who I really was for so long that I don't know how to do anything else. If all this has a blessing it's that denial isn't one of the tools in my armory any longer. That should offer some solace, but all I feel is each person I've let down, every wasted thing I ever said.

It's over, maybe it's starting. Maybe it's a waste and maybe I'm better off dead. If my chest ceased rising I'd be just that pretty thing, unable to betray or lie or do anything other than just be.

I have to chuckle at the irony in that. In death to be able to do the thing I found so hard in life. Just be. At once all the profunditity of trying to understand myself and not hurt others rendered successful and final.

Mother Moon, Sister Storm, Father Sun help me.

For I am lost.
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It has come to my attention... [May. 14th, 2009|10:49 pm]
Daniel G.
It has come to my attention that I am now an amalgamation of virgin ideas. I type, and where before I was laid out in all my flaws my text now alerts me with red lines when I spell something wrong. A kindness for the drunk and the addled.

Poppy was arrested four months ago. My patron saint hog-tied, overweight and old. I sniffed, until I looked in the mirror.

It all comes down to what has happened, what was and what is. But the world doesn't notice, because Brianna is in trouble and Chris bowed out of the awards ceremony in shame. My friends have all fallen, died or changed. I think I may have changed too.

Still partly the man I always was I wonder if all of this is real or I've dreamed it. The memories all seem so distant and arbitrary. Trays of shots and lines of coke and rageloven'mercy all called up as images on a kodak gallery.

Would you all recognise me today? Would you see my dark skin and hard eyes and wonder where the eyeliner went? Would you dismiss it all, as the slow sullen art of growing up and growing old?

I wonder at the past, and I am in the future. I find myself for the first time in a long time wanting to speak again and say... something.

But for now the vodka overwhelms my powers of articulation, and I have one more day before the weekend comes to ground. Maybe then I'll talk with my head up, and my eyes bright. I'll give it one more try.

For one more day.
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Doncha Know I Cant Resist A Good Cause? [Aug. 7th, 2008|01:48 pm]
Daniel G.
Interviewed about the end of nudity at San Onofre Beach

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Post from the ether... [Aug. 6th, 2008|03:58 pm]
Daniel G.
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LJ going down in.... [Feb. 22nd, 2008|09:45 am]
Daniel G.

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