story of a

i got stuck in this space between the ex rays and the high beams, plan lines plot lines
but i can't stop coughing it up..choking it down,
and i've nothing but photographs to mention worth or less than more than sms pole dancing at night..
it is strange to see your head, metal pinned L above the left socket, and to listen to confirmations of cough choke sputter three weeks isn't a long time to take double dosing at twelve hours,
...it is here that i think, i miss my kitchen....i miss my view... i miss my walls... i miss... the shutterclick.
.. speaking in tongues with my mum, she stood in a doorway accusatory style, because she hasn't seen photographs of the places i've been, because she hasn't heard the hushed undertones in the stories i've told, because she thinks that i spent all my times locked up and away in those attics...no proof of life...
if it's not in frame it doesn't exsist
a lazy eye once told me i place too much of a place in people, that i allow them to make the scenes i see... i started thinking, over again, one too many times really, that i've no fault in that connection, places are places with energies, laylines, geographic curses and crutches, language barriers and what makes me miss prague so? the connections i had whilst there, the ones that have gone since i've been back here... the fingerless security gaurd in the smoky pub, the students in the globe, the woman behind the paint counter, the waves of strangers shuffling muddied and broken through the basement of tesco, the strange turkish man with a matching cat and a saved toothbrush, the oh so far away conversations with that secretive lazy eyed stranger, expansion sets of youses, the shop keeps that yelled for me to go home... a list, could go on more... but i've realized i have little interest in physical slopes and status and the odes to commerce, and it is not entirely a bad thing.. too much in people, too much in creating spaces, making my own... tickling that underbelly that no one will mark up in a scrap book of travels...once again-i was right, and refused to trust my own judgement.
..
i started the application process, twenty seven months, in twelve months. peace corps. nerves are slicing themselves against my dented cranium.. i worry that they'll look too deep into my fuckupdoutmistakes and i never gave enough or did enough or just surviving at times could never be enough because i lack commitment..
a known .. a given.. my pops stood in my door way and smiled as i inhaled vapoured air,
we were trying to find my path..
we were trying to find what i'll do best at....you can do everything, you're good at everything you do, but you lack commitment...
what did you want to do when you were 10? be a doctor. why? i wanted to help people, and not have anyone question my intellect. they would KNOW i was a thinker. for status then....what about when you were 5? a doctor. and the president of the united states. when you were 13? a writer. when you were 17? i just wanted to make it through the year...but i thought i ought to be a doctor...when you were 21? i just wanted to make it through the days, i still wanted to be a doc but knew i had screwed up too many times..when you were 17? a doctor. when you were 21? a doctor.
i know he was making a point, but i am fairly sure i am too late...
so here i go.
application.
...
filler bunny: i'm joining the roller derby.
not because of that show. but because i am finally well enough to skate.
health.
it scares me.
.