2006-05-10

It's funny...the last time I Googled (tm) my name I only got a few results. This time, there's a bunch, most of which have nothing to do with me.
There's a race car driver in Canada with my name. As well as someone in, of all places, Castro Valley, CA (which is funny for reasons I won't go into), who is going by Matt "Magus" Mcgee
This is really fuckin' me up. There's also some fictional story about a "Matt Magus' resolutions", which is so Hellblazer it makes me giddy. If it weren't for the fact that I'm certain I've never met the person who wrote it I would almost think that it's a tribute. (Mostly because of the obvious Con-Job references, that and the first thing on the list is "try not to offend any more deities"). It seems that I'm beginning to really not exist objectively! (No one who reads this will get that last joke, since none of you have my phone number, but that's ok, I don't think anyone reads this anymore anyway). It's funny how the universe can take a silly joke you made once and turn into into something epic.
By the way, how could anyone ever describe Julia Roberts' breasts as "epic", just a side note there. I make more errors typing on this bloody laptop then I ever did on any other keyboard. Just too small for my hands, I guess.
I think they would be more of a novella, or short story really, not that this is necessarily a bad thing, just the fact of their existence. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you are probably better off, although it was a damn good movie.
All of this has been a waste of time while I try to decide what to write my next poem about. You would think that with as prolific as I've been for years that i would be fairly easy to just sit down and write something, but it's a struggle. Probably because I've been away for a while, and done such a good job of writing myself out of the old subjects. So much so, that for now, I have nothing more to say about them.
There's a coffee shop in OKC called the "Backdoor Coffeehouse", which the juvenile parts of me find amusing to no end, especially since the coffee here tastes like that's where it came from.

I still don't think I can write about Jack's death. I'm still unsure exactly what tone I would take with it. Everytime I start to go one way, I go on a little emotional tilt-a-whirl and end up getting scattered across my mental landscape.

On the one hand, there's a terrible sadness that feels like someone is trying to crack my skull open with a sardine fork, and on the other I realize that I have been unbelievably blessed to know this man. He was a divine gift to all of us that knew him, and I find myself constantly wishing that more people had the opportunity to meet him, to hear his words, which were not merely a fountain of wisdom, but rather a torrential flood of it. Even these words seem paltry. It's almost as if no description could be big enough to encompass it. Has he posthumously become mythic in my mind? Perhaps, but it seems like he already was.

----------------------------------

How many times must I awaken from this
It seems that every time
I think I've finaly come to
I find myself in another daze
Are these new levels
Of social sleep
Or do I keep slipping back down into
The old comfort of unawareness
I had always thought that motion
Was sustainable
But sometimes I wonder
After all
How many different ways can one
Come to
Before one reaches the end of the dream
The answer it seems
Is, "As many as it takes"
Either that or I keep falling asleep
Constantly stuck in a cycle
Of human and xombie
Is it like a tide
That pulls you back to sea
Everytime
You stop swimming
It may be
In which case
One should never stop

~M

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