This is what I used to do.

Sitting here, it's somewhere near seven on a sunny lazy shaded sunshining saturday in Spring. And this is what I used to do. Write. To just sit down and let what may come, come. Sitting here and (eyes closed) remembering and rereading, and wishing I could still write like that, that I could still dredge the depths and get it all out. And I can still, but it's harder, feels like it, like I can only really say what I want to when stripped down to the bottom, to that barreest bottom, clinging, to the light shafts, barely visible through the muck, through the water so obviously over my head, and feeling completely shattered, but not quite enough to stop, to sit down and say 'uncle'. Though, I remember those times, and I am thankful for where now I find myself.

My book has died, lost to the bottom of the sea, hidden somehwhere inside a hopelessly shattered laptop. No hard copy longer than five pages or so. Years of tap tapping and wringing words out through dry fingers and sad thoughts, trying to create something for myself and my friends. And now, lost. 150 pages of something, lost. I honestly though that maybe it could be something one day that people would read, would want to read, would relish the pages, dancing and swaying from left to right, for them, for all of us. Oh well, the computer is safely insulated, sitting in a box, to be opened and prayed over in a few month's time, to recover what I fear is lost forever.

Hell, there is so much that I would have to rewrite, to change. The entire tone of the fucking thing may have to change. I started writing the damn thing when I was 22 or 23 and now am shortly (july) turning 26. I came to this place, this city, this area when I was what, 22, my god, how long was that ago. Living in Towson, thinking about what was next. Not in the most desperate of fever dreams would I ever imagine that I would be 25 and 1/2 sitting in this apartment with this life lead so far. Not ever could I have imagined that I would quite school, move to Frostburg, quit there, move back to Baltimore, nearly quit again, and then after all the fighting and convincing myself, be back and almost done my thesis.

Jason in Baltimore. (08.01 - 05.05). Thank god then end is in sight. And now soon, I will live in my birthplace. The place that I have wanted to live since I knew about things like that. A house, a porch, a washer & dryer, a HOME. Fuck, how far have I strayed. I guess it happens to everyone. Eventually, I guess, you just have to stop fighting, stop firghting the world, yourself, the things, that slow you down, and make you crazy, and close your eyes and just live.

I used to talk about that all the time, just living. But, I never really did, I talked about it, never did I ever actually accomplish it. I was forever trying to live without actually taking part, sitting on the periphery and just watching, and pretending that if I was that person, or in that situtation I would do it this way, or I would be like that. So many, wasted (?) minutes, and seconds, and hours. So many wasted chances. But, here I am, and an overwhelming sadness holds me with the memories of what I have and have not done come back. I am here, now, and that I cannot change, and I don't think I would if I could. But, my life could have been a hell of a lot easier up until now if I would have just admitted that I needed help every now and then, if I would have just asked for it. That takes a lot, that sucks, is the hardest thing.

But, now, I am going to sit, and write, until at least this evening, when Tony comes to drink my scotch and we will laugh and try to ignore the fact that I am leaving. I will begin a new chapter, literally, to the lost Spinning Plates.

Come back, I'll be here.