Isn’t this the chair you sat in every time I came to visit?

I see it here now, pushed back from the table and turned to one side. What were you thinking the last time you left it this way?

Where did you go?

And this. Is this the glass you sipped from on those long afternoons you spent trying to sustain us? It’s nice, this glass. Warm to my touch. But when was the last time you held it in your hand?

The room’s as cluttered as I remember it, but somebody is missing. I should straighten one of those picture frames on the wall, but I’m so clumsy, I’d knock them all down.

Where’s the light? It gets dim here at this time of day. I guess I didn’t realize how shadowy the room could become without one of us to liven it up. How many days did you sit in this chair by yourself, waiting for me to show up?

The rest of the world is so much bigger than this room, and so is your heart. I know you’re out there somewhere and I hope every day finds you less lonely than the last. I guess I’m not really going anywhere for a while. So I’ll stay here and keep these dreary walls awake until you return.

You won’t know it. But I was here. Are you sure that glass is in the exact same place you left it?

He’s missed and missing and misses you, but he’s a million miles away. So smile,

laugh,

cry,

run,

and live, you wild little heart.

Forgive me — for being gone.

HI. This is Brian.

I’m about to begin blogging again. Some old, some new, all of it meaningless, yet strangely entertaining.

I’m biding my time. Really.

I’m not looking for my first opening, but the best one, you see? The magic movie moment! I watch her eyes when she smiles, I catch that twinkle there, I almost lean in.

But no ~

Wait.

She smiles, fidgets her fingers. I stammer, smile and blush. She changes the subject, and soon we’re relaxing again. My heart is a drum. My mind, a race car barely staying on the track. One more awkward pause. Just once more. The slightest hint or opening. It’s all I need.

I watch her mouth. I nearly tremble as she brushes her tongue across her lips after another smile, then tosses back her hair with a savvy flick of one slender hand. God help me. I lean back, feigning masculine detachment. But I’m all frogs and grasshoppers inside.

Go for it! Now! I think to myself. But no. It can’t be now. Now is wrong.

Relax ~

She stops talking, clears her throat, uncrosses her legs and reaches for her ice water. I make a quick joke and she laughs, leaning toward me and into me, until her hair nearly touches my knee. Her touch, her scent, her … Oh, heaven guide me, it’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself!

But of course, I do. And she sighs.

Now we’re all quiet again. Somewhere behind me, a clock ticks away, louder now than it was when she got here. Really, I’m holding on for that perfect moment. She would want it to be special. I know what I’m doing, ok?

Across the room, a window view, and the city lights spreading out below it. Ten stories, in fact. I should throw myself out. Yeah. I should stand up, shake her hand, and then run away, and leap right out the freaking window. What a daring move I’d make then: the explosion of glass, the cool evening air and then a crowd of faces and police sirens marking the spot of impact!

“You’re so sweet,” she tells me now, but I hear a distance in those words. Leaning away, she looks straight into me and directs the full force of her beauty at the man she thought I was. That hair, a shining silken waterfall. It drowned me. Those eyes, glimmering, fiery dark jewels. They broke me. Her voice, her scent – ghosts that will stay to haunt me.

Oh — she’s leaving.

Swooning down into a low she’ll never know, I manage a weak smile and watch her drift towards the door. She’s just remembered another friend she was supposed to meet, so she’s gotta hurry, and sure I understand, even though it’s 11 p.m. and I’m dying inside. But but but but ….

I’m waiting for the perfect moment, you see.

The door closes behind her and instantly, the room feels darker. I lean back, feigning aloof sophistication, fooling nobody. I’m funny. I’m sweet. I’m alone.

Now I think I’ll close my eyes, listen to that clock behind me, and suck on my own lips for a while.

Really, now really. I’m a busy man. I got lots on my plate, metaphorically speaking. Mountains of mashed potatoes and gravy and green beans and jelly rolls. I got people in my life, just like you do. I got issues and dreams, and paranoia about where my life is heading, if it’s indeed heading anywhere. Why did I start this blog? Because I’m a tease, baby. I got the goods. I got the skills. What I ain’t got, quite truthfully, is the motivation. Now and then, I’ll come around just long enough to turn you on. Blindfold you and tease your hungry lips. With a strawberry. With a strawberry Starbust — all waxy and hard on the surface, but juicy and chewy on the inside. Then I’ll leave you craving.

It has never been about showing you how much I have. It’s all about showing you how much I’m wasting. If you get right down to it.

Here’s the REAL deal: I don’t know what this particular blog is supposed to be. All the best blogs are about something. Or about somebody. All I’m doing here, it seems, is messing around. It’s all I’ve ever done, and I used to think of it as giving myself a certain freedom. But at some point, you have to call it what it is: aimless. As aimless as my own life, honestly. And the only person I’m teasing is myself. I should have more passion for this. I should have more to show for it. How come I don’t?

I’ve nearly hit upon a solution, maybe. In case you haven’t discovered yet, I’ve got another blog going on here. It’s called Bluebird Street. Gently guide your cursor over to the right, and you’ll find it. It’s a so-called “music” blog. My herky-jerky attempt at one, anyway. But that’s only what it is on the surface. I do love music and I thought I might enjoy writing about it, sharing my thoughts and ideas on it with folks on the interweb. But …

Let’s be real here. On this side, you’ve got MUSIC. On the other side, you’ve got little old aimless me, delivering a new entry about as often as an unemployed automobile worker delivers mortgage payments. I’m never going to put together a true music blog, at least not anytime soon. What I’ve learned, is that I’m sort of writing my own biography over there — but using the guise of a music blog to do it. That’s cool with me, really. It gives my other blog something to be about, and some sort of resolution to work for. And I’m finding ways to confront and reconcile my past with who I am now. It’s mildly therapeutic, actually.

Most importantly, it gives me something to write about while I continue to grasp for the meaning of THIS blog. I get a lot more hits here than I do at Bluebird Street, but the other blog deserves the readers much more. This particular site (“where insomnia and inspiration intersect”) has had about 200 hits since my last entry, over a month ago. Sure, those aren’t Perez Hilton numbers, but it’s enough to make me wince at how undeserving I’ve been, and at opportunities I’ve allowed to slip by.

Every now and then, here, I’ll drop in an old entry, just to keep things moving along. This might bum out three or four readers who’ve followed me for a while. I understand that. So I’ll try to present the older writings in a fresh way, and I’ll and I’ll even include the actual (approximate) date of when I originally wrote the entry. Heck. If you scroll down a bit, you’ll find an entry entitled, “Walk With Me.” I posted it a few months ago to give this new blog a little bump. I actually wrote it two years earlier, in October of 2005.

None of this will make “Mr. Last Light” any less aimless than it’s been so far, but if you’re one of those new readers whose been coming by here lately, and wishing I’d write more, it’ll more than tide you over in the spaces between shiny new entries. Like this one.

I hope I’ve covered enough ground for today. Until next time ….

If only you could love me as much as I love myself.

7:02 p.m.

Friday. January 25. 2008.

A moment in a day of the life of just another nobody striving to become somebody. Fingers, cold. Gut, hungry. Mouth, dry. In a hurry. Rushed, but yawning. Feeling trapped, but inspired (or is it inspired, but trapped?). Why does the caged bird sing? How do you know it’s singing? Maybe it’s just making noise. Just like me, now. Type-type-type, click-click-click. Words on a screen, just making noise. Polluting digital real estate on a free account. I call this blogging? I don’t know what to call it. Hon-est-ly. I wanted to get an entry in, that’s all.

7:09 p.m. That went fast. I’m running out of time. Got a work assignment in 10 minutes? 15 minutes? I’m always late anyway. My heart is racing, but I’m already over the finish line. Tape broken. Heart. Open and oozing simmering toxic chemical emotions. Meltdown. The glass is half full — but leaking. I’m reaching out but you can’t feel me. Nowhere near me you won’t hear me so when you do get back I’m all collapsed ashamed and pleading for your kiss.

Now it has come to this. My confession. Locked in my throat. Choking me. I can barely breathe. Oxygen. I reach for the glass, half-empty and cracked and sticky. Here’s the truth to set you free. You never knew me. You never knew me. Meet the new me. Soon I’m gone.

On to my assignment now. Too many piranha in this stream of consciousness.

You’re gonna lose control before this night is over.

She doesn’t know it, but you feel it under your skin. Again. She’s gazing out the window, watching the city lights fly by, and all you’re thinking about, is him.

She’s wearing her best perfume. She’s lost in a smile. She’s got no idea, it’s gonna be one of those nights. She’s making her chit chat, she’s teasing you tapping your leg, so play along. Try. Hold it in as long as you can.

Red light, you sit. And suddenly, everything’s quiet. For one split second, it’s not your car, but his. She turns her long dark hair and sighs as if the whole world is at peace. Green light, you go, you’re gripping the wheel too tight.

You forgave her, you said, so if it’s still a problem, it’s yours. You’ve forgiven her, so if it still hurts, that’s too bad. If the way she looks tonight makes you wonder, then stop it now. You promised her, you won’t bring it up anymore.

You’d hold her if you could, to protect her from what’s coming. But she’s so beautiful tonight, it makes you want to break something. The whole world’s got a hole in it, bleeding, but she can’t see it. She asks if something’s wrong and, of course, you say “nothing.”

You forgave her.

Now the traffic thins away, the city lights they spill out behind you. All you see ahead is black, and this gorgeous victim beside you. Stay cool, you’re a killer, smile while you’re gripping her hand too tight. You’re not the jealous type. You’re not the jealous type. You’re not the jealous type at all.

You’re gonna lose control.

Greetings, from the frozen American Midwest.

Oh, well. Gotta get back home and, oh … maybe finish reading another book.
~ B.

“All my lies are always wishes. I know I would die, if I could come back new.” — Wilco, “Ashes of American Flags.”

A friend of mine asked, in a thoughtful comment on a previous entry, “How can you feel old and lonely, when you can write?”

From where I sit, the question struck me as absurd. But the man who put the question to me has a pretty sharp mind, so I had to think on it a bit. Surely, he knows as well as anyone that how one can feel has nothing to do with what a person can do. Then, why this question? “How can you feel old and lonely, when you can write?”

I can say, “Because I just do. I have good days and bad days.” —— It’s an answer. It works. And yet it would satisfy no one, for it steps gingerly away from the true meaning of the question.

Why are you CHOOSING to feel this way?

We are all empowered beings. As long as there is warm blood in our veins and breath in our lungs, we should — and do — possess more power than we know. The thought patterns that hold us down are evidence of the power we have within us. Many of us use our own minds against ourselves, subconciously, instead of turning the energy around to direct us forward, and upward. We probably don’t mean to, but I suppose the process is so insidious, so subtle and so constant, we don’t even know we’re doing it. We learn rapidly to blame others, or to point forlornly at outside forces, as we shuffle quietly off to our graves.

Or, if we can write, we discover breathtaking, and equally insidious ways to project our melancholy out onto the world. We seek and are granted communion with those who are touched by the way we string words and ideas together, even if nobody gains anything from the exchange, but an even better understanding of the sad feeling they already knew too well.

I wish I could rewrite myself.

I wish that I can push one hand through one ear and rip out the brains I’m functioning with. Rip them out and throw them away, then start over with something cleaner, something more efficient, something less vulnerable to pessimism and instant gratification. But I can’t.

Instead, I must become diligent enough to use this rotten brain to fix itself. It should be impossible, but it’s not. Many others have done it, by rigorously interrupting unhelpful thoughts and redirecting them to brighter conclusions — until such patterns became habitual and rewarding. I can imagine many more others tried this and failed, or got on medications that screwed them up even worse in the long run.

Ernest Hemingway, one of the greatest writers ever, blew his own head off with a shotgun. See? This is how my mind works. The first example I thought of was the least helpful — to say the least.

At least Hemingway accomplished something before he did it. Me? I gotta do something about myself, or I’ll never be the man, or the writer, I could have been.

This is one of those days when it feels like it’s all nearly over and done. The wind on my window gets cooler by the hour. Darkness comes less reluctantly. And I pull on a heavy green jacket as I shamble out the door to begin another day, at 4 p.m.

Let’s walk.

I heard faraway laughter ….. then came a whoosh through the trees, and the whole world got busy again, spinning again.

There were hurricanes and floods ….. elsewhere. Here, everything kind of dried up. There were parades down my street, so the town could celebrate this drying, this autumn’s arrival. Of course, I slept through them.

While the trees undress themselves for the coming winter, I slip quietly away from all that used to be. Let the winter isolate and damn me to the consequences of my decisions. Let bitterness tighten its grip around me as I watch the first snowflakes swirl outside my window — all that’s done or left undone, blanketed in soft, white ice. Sealed, like my fate.

Did I let go of you — or did you let go of me? All those old, warm words of hope and longing, born at last as gray smoke into a white, November sky — out of the chimney and gone forever. You keep your memories and go that way, I’ll keep mine and go this way. Regret is gonna seize me, shake me and scold me, but I am stronger than that now. Regret needs the winter more than I need you.

These days, I often go out walking. I find it’s just about the only thing left for me to do. I’d write more, but the feeling itself holds back the words I need for describing it. So I walk — into vistas of autumnal oranges, browns, grays and reds. Dead leaves crackle underfoot and spiral overhead, and now and then, the wind whooshes and rattles everything in sight. The moon ascends, begins to glow and I swear, I can almost feel my soul finally shedding this skin.

Wrap me up in mystery — I don’t wear sincerity well. Under an ink-colored sky, I pull my jacket shut and zip it, squint into the sinking sun and quicken my pace into the cold. Yes, it sure feels like it’s all ending.

But I’m just getting started.

To the eerie opening strings and rolling fog of that Lee Hazelwood/Nancy Sinatra classic “Some Velvet Morning,” I begin writing again.

At the same time, I’m fielding messages at Yahoo Messenger. A woman I know is taking a trip to Singapore. A lot of people I know go to Singapore, which is strange since I live in rural Illinois. But a lot of people I know don’t live anywhere near rural Illinois. We all only half-exist to each other. This modern cure for loneliness is the new loneliness.

Also, at the same time, I’m sitting at my office, under dimming and blinking flourescent tubes. They’re burning out at nearly the same pace that I am. But what am I burning out on, exactly? My career? My lovelife? My clothes? My face? My general surroundings and current prospects?

All of it.

At age 38, I’ve reached a dead end in the maze. A summer of seeking health, wealth and self-actualization has given way to another cold, sighing autumn. I made far less progress than I hoped, but — I made a little. Now what? Now what? I feel like such a baby these days. But I also feel old. I feel same old, same old. And here I am complaining.

It must change. Not by itself, not by the grace of any higher being that might happen to notice, not by fire or flood or a sudden windfall of money. It must change by my own doing. By my own hard choices and new regrets.

My first entry back to blogging is the last one I hoped to write. My slow nervous breakdown has gone digital and it’s going public.

Welcome to the new loneliness.

** To hear “Some Velvet Morning” click on the link below and go to Mr. Last Light’s playlist. The first 15 songs, from “Some Velvet Morning” to “The Greatest” are my autumn list ~ a cozy swirl of autumnal melancholy, nocturnal reflection, bright orange heartache and pure pop bliss. Enjoy.

http://www.projectplaylist.com/user/15173642/view