I'm the cure

New Year, New Resolutions.
I'm not sure I updated this blog at all in 2009.
It was a weird year. My relationship with Claire grew and evolved and is currently as strong as tungsten; my folks moved to NJ so they could be closer to Bob and I and on the whole things should have been great. That said... 2009 was a ballbreaker on every other front and I'm glad it's over.

My resolution this year was to dive into charcuterie. Three days into 2010 and I've already started. Claire and I are curing a duck breast, prosciutto style.

We'll see how it goes.

"the Alpha and the Omega of Whom alone the end becomes beginning, and ends again at the original beginning without any break"

I don't want to get tattooed anymore. 

I just want to BE tattooed now. Finished. The whole kit-and-kaboodle done.  I've been getting tattooed for 19 years. I spent the first few years just getting little things here and there; foolishly taking up valuable real estate with dumb little trinkets that have since been removed and covered up instead of planning out larger pieces. No regrets of course- but man I wish I would have just knuckled down when I was younger and took care of the big spots- ribs, inner thighs- that now need to be filled in.

Despite the culture of LA/Miami Inked- where every tattoo has a story and they never hurt... this stuff kills. Seriously. Not just the tattooing, but the healing.

Note to self- put it in your will that if you get in a coma you want Bruehl to come in and finish everything up.

Where the barkers call the moon down....

I've got a sadness in me today that I'm doing my best to shake. It's likely the weather; cold and gray and rainy as it is outside of my window. Could be seasonal or it could just be a sad sort of day. I find myself trying to wait for some sort of personal revelation ("All revelations are personal- that's why they're suspect") to come while watching movies and packing for my road trip, and instead I find nothing but a familiar melancholy.

That's not a complaint, really. More like a resignation of the reality of my actual day to day life. Little pockets of whimsy surrounded by way too much thinking and planning and reasoning.  I came to the conclusion the other day that my life is a good life.  An interesting life, one that were it not my life would be a life worth coveting. To some degree it seems that the melancholy is an offering to appease the whimsy without which I'd probably totally withdraw. So as with all sacrifices of any worth, I have to go willingly with it. 

Hail Satan!

"Besides heroin and sex, chess and the cinema appeared to be the greatest pleasures left to him"- George Pendle on Aleister Crowley from Pendle's  'Strange Angel: The otherworldly life of Rocket Scientist John Whiteside Parsons'.

There was a time when being an Occultist was a romanticized pursuit; when it was the past-time of the affluent bright young things who traveled the globe looking for new adventures and new experiences.  Secret Societies, "Orders" of this and that mixed with the new occult- science- to create hybrids that would be unthinkable today. People who shared a passion for exploring everything; the same people working to split the atom having clandestine sexual rituals in the dark attics of mansions in well to do neighborhoods, pushing Crowley's Thelema, Blavatsky's Theosophy and more seances than you could shake a ouija board at.

These days we have daytime talk shows and reality tv instead of anything of substance, any mystery.

Meh.

Cause I speak of the pompitus of love.

Today I went to see a matinee of  'Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist'. It was a cute movie; perhaps written for a slightly younger crowd than me but it still managed to set in motion thought processes that it would seem I need to exorcise in blog-form tonight.

I've been thinking a lot about my love for the RITUALS of love. The processes and the patterns. The consolidation of all of those abstracts into a whole entity that I call "love" suits my emotional disadvantages. My emotions at best are muted. It takes strong love or strong hate to make me really feel on a consistent basis, so I rely on the little things that make up a 'relationship' to fulfill me.

That doesn't demean those gestures- those flowers and doodles and notes. Not a bit. If anything they're proof that I do care about the process, lest I just let it dissolve and watch it turn into just another forgettable amount of time spent, no matter how small, with another person.

That pretty much holds true with most of the relationships I've had. And as I watched the movie I started thinking about past loves lost. One I hold in contempt. One in indifference. One amuses me. One I have nothing but fond feelings for (though I wish she'd sign the divorce papers) and one... well.. one is Diana.

Capital D at all times.  The one that got away. The one that I can't forget. If this were a romantic comedy she'd be the one all of my friends didn't mention for fear of me off and jumping on a plane heart in hand to Chicago. If she's even still in Chicago. If she even still thinks of me.

It's an odd feeling, feeling.  Not just intangible blips from time to time. But a persistent reminder- flowers, knitting, a smile- that you were actually happy once and that happiness, while amazing and subtle, came with a price too great.  

Emotion isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Consider the Source.

Today is day one of my new project:

I'm giving up swearing.

Not forever and in every context, I'm sure. But as I walk through South Philly and hear the negativity espoused by pretty much every person I pass- I find myself growing progressively more annoyed with it.

Does 'fucking' REALLY have to be every second word when someone talks? Are there seriously no other words that can convey your thought?
I've defended profanity for years arguing that no word itself is "dirty" or profane. That on a contextual basis the word pedophile should be much more taboo than the word fuck, since the word represents an adult having sex or sexual thoughts about a child. Words are symbols, sure. Sigils charged with meaning. It's not the meaning itself that I'm having a problem with, but the negativity that surrounds the use of it. The girl sitting on the steps- barely 15 who uses (and yes, I counted. Forgive me my OCDs) 10 culturally "dirty" words in the time it takes me to walk past her has a cloud of anger surrounding her that you can almost see. Seriously. How can a 14-15 year old be THAT angry, barking profanity/threats into her cellphone. A roof over her head. Judging from her appearance there's PLENTY of food on her table. And here she is spitting toxic-thought into the air with impunity.

I don't know if I can break my own conditioning. I'm going to use a punishment/reward system at first. Yes. A "swear jar" will be in place for every time I backslide. No, I won't feel 'morally' better for cleaning up my sailor's mouth. But my hope is that I feel happier without a cloud of negativity around me.

We'll see.

And yes. I know that I'm getting "kookier" in my old age. You don't need to tell me.

the Astronaut's Prayer

I'm very pensive today. Fussing over little loose ends so I have something to fixate on. Cleaning up the desk so my hands are busy. Today is a very succinct example of my recently reoccurring desire for some revelation, some emotional rosetta stone,  that will miraculously herd together all of my thoughts so that they'll make some sort of tangible sense. 

Instead I have anchovy stuffed olives and diet coke with a side of baked ritz crackers. 

As far as epiphanies today, the most I can offer is: Hot Sauce doesn't go with olives.

Change this.

"Moreover the term 'evil' is merely a rather cliched insult directed by the weak against the strong."

Friday night while waiting for my date outside of Chick's on 7th street, I was accosted by some well meaning but intellectually inferior followers of the risen Christ. I'm always game to debate with folks who follow ideologically different paths than I do as long as they can keep up and argue based on fact versus passion.

They did. 

Despite me calling them dopes for blindly following an improbably construct of belief systems cobbled together to form a dogmatic cult we got along famously. Once Amanda showed up I bid the lads farewell but was glad for the sport.

Fast forward to today at Tattooed Moms. 

This time it was politics and not religion that provided the grounds for a good debate. My opponent was Robin's date for the evening. While her arguments were naive and a bit silly she did seem to at least understand that not everyone agrees with her train of thought.

Robin's opponent on the other hand was obnoxiously repeating leftist drivel, progressively talking over her and getting more and more frustrated.  It reminded me that people who think with their hearts often don't think with their heads.

Here's a revelation: I'm voting for McCain. Deal with it. Of the two candidates he most exemplifies my politics. If Obama's CHANGE campaign is your cup of tea, I encourage you to go out there and rally the troops and get your man in office.

I would never think less of you for not thinking like I think... so why is it that the leftists (or as I call them.. the bumper sticker people- people who's politics are easily read from the torrent of stickers littering the back of their hybrid or VW) who think themselves the protectors of free thought FREAK THE FUCK OUT when you think differently than them?

I hear them say things like "I could NEVER be friends with someone who (fill in the blank)!". 

Really? I can be friends with people of all walks of life. Isn't intolerance something that they're against? Can you really not get along with someone who's not muttering "me too me too" when you espouse your beliefs? I think I'm a better person FOR listening to the arguments of people who think differently than me. Not people who're trying to change me or save me, but people who understand where I'm coming from and who want to drop their knowledge on me.

As Arnold and Willis Drummond taught me, it takes Diff'rnt Strokes to move the world. (yes it does) My disappointment with people continues to grow.

Acorns and Overalls

I've become, the simple souvenir of someone's guilt
Like the sea, I'm constantly changing from calm to ill
Madness fills my heart and soul
As if the great divide could swallow me whole
-City and Colour

Tonight is my first date with A.M.

I'd usually be a nervous wreck at this point; anxiety taking over and getting the best of me. Thankfully she's as clever as a clever and together we decided to have two "predate nondates" to allow for casual gettingtoknowyou time at a relaxed pace. So tonight is all about wearing a shirt that actually has a collar, making sure my hair is properly parted so I resemble a boy scout and trying to charm the pants off of my lovely date.

Not literally of course. 

This is a first date and with that comes a certain expectation of propriety that I'll follow to the letter.

Sure, I did get her drunk and coerce her to confide in me that her favourite flower is the gerber daisy the other night, but since it wasn't a date- totally acceptable.

Her only request of me so far has been "don't be a douche to me".

I think that'll be easy enough to comply with.

So that's that. First date in about three hours. 

Not nervous. Listening to Gordon Downie and trying on my new overalls. Deciding what shirt to wear and if I should trim my beard (no) and shape my eyebrows (yes).

Damn she's cute.

An Eldritch Enlightenment

Today at work I was greeted warmly by someone I can't stand. My feelings for him aren't ambiguous- I've pointed them out rather bluntly several times. As such, you can imagine my constant confusion when this putz tries to start conversations.

I've put a lot of thought into it;

If he's doing it just because he knows it throws a monkey in my wrench- bully for him. I'd be proud to know that he's working overtime just to get my goat.

If he's doing it because he's just that fucking oblivious... it's no wonder he was turned down by four separate MBA programs.

Seriously. Fuck off.

<3

Anything Bought/Sold

Last week a friend made me feel like a commodity. While I'll eventually get over it (and no doubt they'll get over me telling them so) it's sort of reinforced my need to find my place in reality.  I'm constantly disappointed in my friends anymore. A few close friends are always there for me and look out for me, but the reality of the situation is that I fear a lot of the people I know tend to be 'friends' with me because they want something from me. Regardless of how tangible it is it still makes me feel less than stellar.

The Zen Bullet

I'm sitting in the house I grew up in. In the state I grew up in. Everything is different. I'm different. The pace down here is so slow compared to what I'm used to. What I've learned to be used to. I owe the adult I've become to this place, but somehow I feel like an outsider here. There are obvious stares and comments based on my appearance, much more so than in Philadelphia; but that's not what I mean.

I feel very lost here. Lately I've been feeling very lost everywhere.

I'm thirty four years old. Married to a wife I haven't seen in three years but who won't divorce me. In love with a girl who chose to not be in love with me anymore; who chose heartbreak over happily ever after. Constantly making a scar on my face to help cover the scar on my heart. Constantly trying to convince the people who love me that sure, yeah, I'm alright.

I'm tired. I've logged a million miles and a million lives since I left this place. The life I have now is so much more than I ever thought it would be, sleeping in this house all those years back. I've lived adventures that I could have never dreamed of back then.

But here I am now, just like always, an island unto myself.

The Rebellion against all there is

I ducked out of work today to catch a showing of Larry Bishop's HELL RIDE- a tongue in cheek throwback to the biker exploitation flicks of the 60s and 70s..... Holy Shit it was worth the trouble!

Larry Bishop was one of the most memorable supporting characters in Tarantino's KILL BILL 2, playing the sleazy owner of the titty bar that Bud (Michael Madsen) worked at. For this film he took on triple duty as writer/director/star- playing Pistolero alongside Madsen's The Gent.

Dennis Hopper, David Carradine and Vinnie Jones round out the cast along with knock-out beauty Laura Cayouette.

I'm fairly sure it was his first film as director; but he held his own. It's written in a fractured nonlinear style that unfolds as the film progresses. Tons of nudity, drug use and violence round it out. 

If it's playing near you try to catch a showing.

Jayson Kilroy. Rest in Peace

Several weeks ago, I sat in quiet contemplation thinking about the life and death of my friend Keith Alexander. Three years ago Keith was killed in a bicycle accident.  Every year on 11th July I try to deal with the ramifications of never being able to talk to my friend again. I deal with the legacy he left us, and the lessons he taught me. Death has been kind to me in my time; with few exceptions the people I care about have been safe and sound.

On Thursday morning, I woke up to a message from  Scotty in Colorado, notifying me that my friend Jayson Kilroy had been in a cycling accident and was pronounced dead on scene along with his friend Edgar Juarez.

Jayson and I weren't super-close, but he always had a kind word to say when I needed it; a snarky word when I wanted it and a sleazy word when it was warranted. He was far from perfect, but he was a friend. Of Edgar I knew nothing, but I'm told he was a very sweet guy who will, like Jayson, be greatly missed.

Whenever I hear the words "Get it" I'll remember a great kid who despite his flaws always put a smile on the faces of those he loved.

"Colorado Springs police tell 11 News one woman has been arrested for fatally hitting two cyclists with her truck Wednesday night on the west side of Colorado Springs.

It happened around 7:30 p.m. at the intersection of 26th Street and Westend Avenue.

Police say a group of about five cyclists were riding north on 26th Street when a truck heading southbound made a left hand turn and hit the two lead riders.

Two riders, 30-year-old Edgar Juarez, 30 and Jayson Kilroy, 28, both of Colorado Springs were pronounced dead on scene.

The driver of the truck, 63-year-old Barbara Thomas, has been arrested, accused of vehicular homicide, driving under the influence of drugs, and driving with a restricted license."

Love means you're afraid to be alone.

Saturday was my birthday. Thirty-four years old. I celebrated it by grabbing my best friend and dragging her along with me to NYC to get my face recut. It's an odd sort of bonding thing, I guess; but it was very much needed in my life right now and I'm glad she was able to share it with me. 

I'm far from "healed" right now as my last few entries seem to show.  Having my face recut was a step in that direction. 

when you have nothing to say, let a band say it for you.

Do I have nothing good left to say?
Do I need whiskey to start fueling my complaints?
People love to drink their troubles away.
Sometimes I feel that I'd be better off that way.

'Cause maybe then I could sleep at night.
I wouldn't lie awake until the morning light.
This is something that I'll never control.
My nerves will be the death of me, I know.
I know, I know.

So here's to living life miserable.
And here's to all the lonely stories that I've told.
Maybe drinking wine will validate my sorrow.
Every man needs a muse and mine could be the bottle.

Maybe then I could sleep at night.
I wouldn't lie awake until the morning light.
This is something that I'll never control.
My nerves will be the death of me, I know.

Finally, I could hope for a better day.
No longer holding on to all the things that cloud my mind.
Maybe then the weight of the world wouldn't seem so heavy.
But then again I'll probably always feel this way.

At least I know I'll never sleep at night. (Sleep at night)
I'll always lie awake until the morning light. (Til the morning light)
This is something that I'll never control.
My nerves will be the death of me.
My nerves will be the death of me.

My nerves will be the death of me, I know.

-City and Colour. Death of me.

I knew there was a reason, and my looks couldn't be it.

"According to New Scientist, two studies have confirmed that "bad boys get the most girls." "Evil" men possessing a so-called "dark triad" of personality traits, i.e. who are narcissistic, Machiavellian, and psychopathic, attract abnormally high numbers of women. Interestingly, the results hold true across cultures in 57 different countries, suggesting an evolutionary imperative for evil men to exist and reproduce."

I don't know if I'd go as far as using the word "evil"  about myself but... to be honest... that "dark triad" concept does make a lot of sense.

Save your Scissors

I think I'm coming to terms with being so melancholy lately. I think it's a healthy expression of human emotion which is convenient as we all know it's my dream to one day be a real boy. I appreciate the irony that it works out well for me that my life isn't necessarily working out well for me.  I think that's one of those revelations you only get when you listen to sappy music on repeat.

Every time my heart gets broken (which is less than you'd think) I have to shed another layer of my preconceived notions on 'forever' and what it really means to be happy with someone versus being content with not being alone. Sure, the Diana thing is taking me a lot longer than usual to process but regrettably I have to do just that. I'm working through second guessing the breakup and questioning if things would have been different if I would have been more confident. If I would have flown out there and talked to her and demanded answers instead of quietly accepting heartbreak on the phone. A thousand what ifs are constantly going through my head which, while necessary to process are never the less hurting me more than I readily admit. The politics of loneliness and what one will do to not feel alone is a matter thats close to heart right now.

So much so that I've become "that guy" despite my best intentions. This blog was never meant to be 'Shawns whiney emoblog" but thats what its become. I'm working on changing that, but this seems to be the only place I feel comfortable being this honest, at least in print. There's a certain freedom to be had in getting all of this out; sadly it comes off as me being a desperate loser who can't get over love lost.  Shawn Porter, this is your life. Nice and Smooth.

I promise I'll have something more pleasant and less whiney to post soon.

Forgive me my trespasses. 

Garlic Heart meets the immovable force.

As the weeks since my breakup speed past, I find myself in uncharted waters emotionally. Usually by this point I'm so far past "over" that my ex-of-the-moment is little more than a funny anecdote told with cruel flair over drinks with my fellows or a promised-deleted picture or two  that's  shared to the delight of my bawdier friends.

Instead, in my weaker moments I find myself admitting that I'm still in love with Diana.

This hardly seems uncommon, judging from the torches carried by friends of mine who've recently ended relationships. But for me, it's a psychoemotional bomb that goes off every time I let it get the best of me. 

After a while, you start understanding the melancholy and the longing in a Daniel Johnston song. How one person can so succinctly personify everything you want in another human and then just disappear makes you feel a gamut of emotion that, particularly when you're someone like me who feels emotions distantly to start with, can cripple you.

She was always the one that was different- so against my "type". From the day I met her I always knew she'd be a significant force in my life. Sure, I always thought it would be a force that I grew old with, but sadly the cards weren't in my favour this time. 

I'm strong enough emotionally to be able to 'move on' and not let the specter of her ruin future relationships. But if honesty is permitted here- on a blog that no one reads- I'll admit that there hasn't been a day that's past since she broke up with me that I haven't thought about her. Even for a second; a song, a scent; something that makes me think of her and smile.

I swear, one day I'll find a girl that loves me back.

-'Well I once caused your cells to shimmer

And you once caused my cells to shimmer
Now we go all the night without love
Without love…' 

-Elvis Perkins

yours,

sp

I am all things phallic.

There are things you take for granted, having a penis. The inalienable right to always know where you're going regardless of the GPS telling you otherwise, the knowledge by sight alone which pepper is the hottest, and how to do manly things like changing windshield wiper blades.

I usually can't play the role of Alpha-Male. Hell, I'm usually hustling to even fulfill the role of "male"- so when things like the aforementioned windshield wiper situation come up, I tend to freeze. You can imagine then, when driving home today in a rainstorm, how awesome it was when my driver's side wiper blade shit the bed.

As I rolled back into Philly, I had two revelations:
1. Grocery Stores don't carry wiper blades.
2. When shopping for wiper blades at Target, check the Bluray section. Gotham Knight may be on sale.

Once home, with a windshield wiper blade (which as it turns out isn't one size fits all) a bottle of anti-depressants and a blu ray copy of Gotham Knight, I set towards figuring out how the fuck these things work. After about three attempts (which coincided with the three different illustrations on the back of the package) to fix the thing I just went for broke and managed the replacement. I think. I've yet to test it in foul weather.

But it LOOKS fixed. Which in the end is the biggest hurdle.