Your Pretty Face Is Going To Hell

On the brink of death, you have a lot of time to think. You’re no longer working on the abstract sense of time that waking, living humans are accustomed to; you begin working on dream-time. The time where a single minute can span hours, even decades, of your life.

The writing bug has bitten me; you can tell by the amount of Iggy Pop music I’ve been consuming. And while this blog is on my mind, it hasn’t been in the forefront. Not for a while, anyway. Not since I left my job at the public library. Not since COVID forced us all inside. While I am writing a post for it, I don’t foresee it being published any time soon. My mind is running with ideas for the future, for my creative outlet. And I think the post I’m working out might be the first in a new outlet.

An old voice also visited me, which would explain the Iggy Pop. The above quote is from the story I’m writing. And I’m taking it from a different angle. A more Tim O’Brien angle. Mixing the story-truth and the happening-truth in order weave the tales I created post high school and during my college years. And rather telling it from the point of view of the character as it happened, but I will now tell it in my present voice.

So in the meanwhile, this blog will be filled with song lyrics, poetry breaks, and book reviews.


“Think I could love you, but I’m not sure”

We reach an age, I’m sure, where we look back on our life and ponder the things we could have done differently. There’s probably an appropriate age to do this, but I’ve been doing this my whole life. It’s the curse of this anxiety ridden body. Wondering if missed opportunities may have paid out better in the long run than the comfortable path I chose. Course, there are things I wouldn’t change, because they led to something amazing in my life. (I’m talking about Shaun, of course.)

Of course, there are the paths that could have been taken and I opted not to. Not to the comfortable path, but because there was no positive payoff at the end of them. Of course, I came to realize these decisions as the focal point in what I called my Nietzsche stories. I mention these stories from time to time. And I visit that world quite often, while the stories haven’t grown since I last wrote “Gravediggers.” This morning, though, I woke up to the memory of a car speeding down Juniper Avenue as Iggy Pop played on the radio. In the backseat, a twenty-something version of me lay convulsing.

Of course it’s not me me. I’ve never once OD’d on anything. And I never hallucinated a conversation with Iggy Pop.

Revisiting Boroughs, Texas for the first time years, awoke some voices that I haven’t heard in a while. So I grabbed my copy of Ecce Homo and thumbed through the pages. In part because the Nietzsche stories derived from a character’s love for the philosopher. I sewed in paraphrases from Nietzsche’s work in the stories, often in the narrator’s voice. Because, I’m sure, had I not gone to college, I might have been a pretentious junkie of some sort.

A lot has changed since I penned the first eight or so stories, most of them being combined into one single story. And it’s strange how the Jeanna character morphed into a new beast all together as our relationship drifted and ended and rekindled into something less than but more.

I knew that the narrator and Amie never stayed together. Amie died by accident then by suicide. On stage and as an afterthought. But I wonder where the road would have taken them if they had tried a little harder. Wonder if he would, at some point, in his thirties, happen upon a cute, blonde librarian with an affinity for Star Wars, Doctor Who, and all things nerd.

And I wonder, if at any point, he’d read more than just Ecce Homo. Guess there’s only one way to find out.