Emile

Every man needs a habit. Some men have habits they burn, others have habits they guzzle, some men have habits delivered on their porch by boys early in the morning. Every man needs a habit, so I wander.
I don't wander as far as when I was young, old heels hurt faster and I can't much bring myself to leave this place. I don't particularly love it here, more than say any other coast I've seen; I'd honestly like to go back Home, but I’m sure it's been burned down or wrecked down since those young years. My house here is all right I suppose, but it's not all right enough to glue me to the porch and watch the traffic.
So I wander.
Evening is best, it's much too hot in any time before then, and the dark night scares me because a man can get to the point where he says to hell with being brave and just accepts being afraid of things that scare him.
I grew in the years before you wore whatever was in the dresser drawer that morning and called it fine, and I like to keep a hold of what past I can, because I honestly don't know when it'll all slip out my ears and onto my pillow or shoulders; so I stick to my dark slacks and white shirt, plus I've always never enjoyed being under dressed for an occasion and who ever knows when an occasion will happen? Though nearly all the white shirts I had have been ruined while I learned to press and wash them here in the past few months. I used to have 3, and well...now at least I have the washing part understood.
My father was a barber, owned his own shop with the candy cane pole in a town outside of Boston. When I was just a small boy I remember getting a hold of his razor and sharpening leather and trying to run it up and down that leather just like him and ran it up but not down on my arm instead. I've still got that scar, got six damn stitches even. Years later my father taught me how to do it proper, how to make up the lather and run a strait blade across my whiskers. In all the years that I've shaved I've only nicked myself one time, but I swear that old blade made up for lost time and nearly made me late the day we put Maddy on down.
I wipe the excess lather off my face and look in the mirror. In my head I'm looking at a picture, I haven't felt like I was looking at myself in what some people call a short life time. I don't remember my vision ever being wider than it is now, but my eyes sag at the corners, and I used to have to raise my eyebrows or smile to draw these lines on my face. Now I just stare and they're everywhere and they get deeper when I show anything with my face; it's like I'm a hound without a snout or the floppy ears.
I have to sit down to put on my pants now like a damn old man, though I suppose I am a damn old man. Came about a few years ago. I've never shaved with a shirt or pants on, felt awkward to me when I started, feels awkward to me now, probably feel awkward to me when I'm dead too. I pull my shirt off the pressing table beside the bed without getting up and slide it on then get up to tuck it in, then walk on over to my belt draped over the back of the chair in the bedroom. I never understood the point of a chair in the bedroom, but Maddy liked having one so I have one. It's a new belt, the old one's buckle pulled out a couple days ago nearly exactly. As I'm pushing the prong through the new leather my eyes glance a little up and to the left; over the half curtain and out to the outside. It's nearly evening now but not quite my evening; the light just isn't quite orange enough. If there's one thing that I can say I love about Florida, it's that orange in the evening sky. They certainly got that Sunshine State bit right.
I sit on the bed again and slide on my shoes then go back to the bathroom towards the sink. I turn both the knobs on the sink and wait a few seconds then stick a couple fingers under the pour and turn the H knob a bit. I open the mirror when it's right and pull out my comb and run it under the warm water then through my hair, all back. It was all back the day I met Maddy, It was all back the day I married Maddy and it'll be all back in my coffin. Like I said, every man needs habits.
My hair fixed, I turn around and slowly amble out of the bathroom and head for the front door; should be my time of evening about now. I step out my door and walk down my house’s little walkway onto the sidewalk and go right. As my wandering begins I hold my hands behind my back, I’ve always found it funny how people swing their arms and just feel damned dopey doing it myself is a reason; but the main reason is I have trouble wandering without holding someone’s hand and since Maddy’s skinny fingers can’t twine up with mine I’ll tether mine onto mine.
I try to look ahead and without too much to the side when I wander, but I’ve lately noticed that I’ve noticed my shoes a great deal more. I sure hope I’m not turning into one of those old hunchbacks, I don’t think I am, I just think sad eyes are harder to hold up.
I hold them up and I see some young thing on a bike. It’s a pretty thing and it looks like it’s from my young years which sure knocks me for a loop. Dark hair all curled about her face wearing a snug skirt that could have been Maddy’s when we met. The young thing is riding down the street on some bike that looks old enough to be my brother. I deepen my wrinkles before opening my mouth.
"Lovely Evening”
Pretty little thing of retro wonder smiles and rides by and turns her head to inspect me. My heart would have stopped fifty years ago, and fourth months ago Maddy would have laughed and told me I wasn’t as young as I used to be and I would contend I was just being friendly.
I keep wandering further on down the street; I’m nearly to the end of where my address is when I stop. I stare at the streetlight and I think of all my wandering, not this street I walked tonight but just all the wandering. Purposeful wandering, lackadaisical wandering, scared wandering, wandering to get away and the wandering I did when I didn’t even know I was wandering. I suppose I’ve been wandering near my whole life, and I can near say my whole life with it being true. Sure some wouldn’t call it a wander all the time, most people don’t wander to and from a job or to and from a love. But I do and I did. Most people don’t wander much at all really, especially today with all the directness. I’d say I never jetted, I never ran and I never trotted; I wandered. To Maddy’s arms, to the kitchen in our old house, wandered to not enough parts of the world, out the door and away from Home, wandered my father’s blade into my arm and wandered my eyes out the window this past evening. Sure I would think of where my very next footfall was going to land, but could I say I’ll be on that sidewalk square three squares up? No. I could test my soles in the grass or cross the street. Hell, I could drop dead staring at this street light thinking about how if I were a book people could easily flip the page and maybe read the end, and how I notice my shoes more now that Maddy’s on down on the other side of town.
So I wander foreword.

Head Shaped Hull and I'm Rambling Again

I'm a drive from anything worth a shit, the shortest at five minutes and the longest at a while; but everything is too few things if I'm asked.
I need a kiss from concrete with a jackhammer in my pocket, plugged in and bit to bite.
Am I an eater? Am I eaten? Am I a chain?
I don't think I could care much less for these hundreds of people, at this point it's not so much a think so much as a know. Whittle that on down to fingers and toes, teeth if they're lucky.
Everyone is leaving for beaches or has went to beaches and all I have is a southern state that won't be as fun anymore; if lips and hips are an idea of fun that is.
Endorsed insanity is an oxymoron, just like pretty girls in over sized glasses.
Shoo fly, go away, come again some other day. When it's cloudy and you're single.

I drink chocolate milk from a Disney World cup and don't think about being a kid.

Which hurts more, pictures or words? Or the lack of words? Are pictures the same as words since they're worth a thousand, and is that vice versa? What's the exchange rate in pictures to words? One picture per thousand words we know, it's established; but how many pictures are worth a word? Still that thousand? I'm repeating I know, just think about it is all really. I know that one picture can make me cry, but i sincerely think it would take more words than that to cause the same.

I can pull teeth faster than this and I have to get up early next morning.

Go and wait in trepidation. I will become a well versed bird repeating history over and south, vomiting everything I've ever read with a keyboard and a billion dots. It's different and they sense it, this is forward progress. Just give me an aspirin and a cigarette. And a light. And a drink. And some wings, please.
She's pretty but mostly silent with September, now.
Killin' 'em all since '89 and she's laying on the bed, knees and shoulders. Head, shoulders, knees and curled toes, and curled toes.
I promise to make better mistakes at later dates.

"up all night, got demons to fight"

I'm sure that there is a reason for things, there's reasons for everything I do, I just don't know them all the time, and I'm not entirely sure the reasons know they're reasons; I doubt they're even self-aware. They just get pushed there and here and there as needed; really I guess I'm trying to say that reasons are a lot like everything that's dead in the sea.
It's more of a countdown than a consideration

Excerpt: "Two Decembers and Some Months"

The moon is a constant. The stars get all the attention like stars do, but stars move and stars die. The moon is the meticulous bastard of the night sky. Sure, it moves, but it's always along the same avenues, always to the same places and shops and late night eateries of tiny hours; it is always booked in advance. Sure, it weens and wanes, but it lets us know it's schedule; it always tells us how much of it will be in attendance. And it's always there, our eyes just aren't always good enough to see it. I love it most, like most people, when it's big and white. It takes me places when it's in that jolly large mood. I focus my eyes on it and let the peripherals of my eyes fill in whats around me.

It's Thursday right now, but the sides of my eyes tell me it's 753 days ago and we are on my back porch sharing a cigarette in happy silence.

It's today Thursday but the sides of my eyes tell me it's 3 Augusts ago and we are on a rented balcony and we can hear waves as we watch the rain.

It's nearly Friday but the sides of my eyes tell me it's a month plus some days ago and I'm pulling Nicole's cigaretted hand towards my mouth.

Two minutes to Friday and the sides of my eyes tell me I'm laying on a blanket over sand holding Marie a couple of Marchs past.
I don't know how I keep losing days but get stuck in weeks; the twelves and the rotation just don't suit me very well. My peripherals always just show me what's done; regret is the best television.

I rarely miss my bed. Whenever I curl up alone in my comforter it's just been a bust of a night; no spirits and smoke. I prefer couches and floors with make shift blankets of coats and second shirts, they always let me know what memories I should have. I am no meticulous bastard of anything except the wave and tide ebb and flow; the dead jellyfish or lacadaisical crustaceon.

Reboot.

My old blog was shit and boring, this will probably just be more of the same and I'll get tired of it after a month or next week or something. I'm going to try this time to not just fill it will boring work related things and basic things about what's going on with me because as I said in my last sentence, it was shit and boring.

That's not to say I'm only going to post some cerebral stuff that makes you question everything or even think really, this is still going to be just about myself after all, but I'm going to try and put pictures up more. I'm also going to post some of the things I write fiction wise, it's mostly rubbish but I enjoy doing it.

There it is, more pictures, less monotony, and the probable inclusion of fiction.

I'll give it 5 posts. Including what's already on here.

I Know

Sometimes, I just don't know things.
I see things I want to see, pretty people and situations and hats that I can't pull off and it's all just gone, really.
It's gone because it's happened and happened is gone, and no matter how distressed your jeans are and how grainy your film is it won't ever be happening.
Sometimes when I just don't know things I feel like the big thick tubes going out from my heart just get all tangled up like yarn or string or a shoe lace, something or another.
I read things that hit me harder than life and I wonder why I'm here and wish my here was there, just without the T.
The same day dreams have sailed around my head for years and as that S on the end of year shows something longer the less it seems like they'll be anything but.
Most times, I just don't know things.
Ill fitting and worse prepared for most of it; I get nervous if my belt clashes and I'm a long way from anything worth. My sentences are too not simple and I dislike it most the time, but i can't slim them and trim them; I breed American sentences.
Most times I find my own ideas out there without even looking that hard and it makes me want to cry from happy and sadness; it's nice to not be alone in your process, it's nice to know you're an explorer.
I want to scream pop-art and my words flash pink to yellow, then carve a book into a sculpture and post pictures on the internet to be stumbled upon late at night and late in the afternoon or morning, or even evening.
Is everything pre-posed? Or am I just that bad at the effortlessness of everything?
Are the greatest thoughts thought? Or we are just typical. Everyone wants more and I don't much believe in destiny; just in stating the obvious.
I wished I'd climbed more trees as a child and maybe broken my arm; if there's something I wanted move than anything as a child it was a broken arm. I went to the hospital and all I got is this crooked nose.
I would enjoy a stark room but am too messy to accommodate; I would enjoy a bath with feet but only have a shower.
There is no prowess for a paintbrush in my fingers, no dexterity for music, but I do have tiny mouths at the end of each tip.
My beard isn't full and I believe I'm ready to be in love again.
Where will the kids find the wonder in our generation? We paint no ladies on our planes and we know the dangers of cigarettes. Was the Jazz Age called the Jazz Age during the Jazz Age? Was that timeless 40's look timeless in the 40's? How much of what happened is just clever marketing and how much of your own memory is just of the pictures in your grandma's photo album?
I miss everything I never and ever met and have only heard a song or two of every band you've ever heard, but not enough to form an opinion.
Time is just clocks and that ow in nostalgia.
This is all i know.