Afternoons, will be measured out, measured with, coffee spoons...And T.S. Eliot...

So I’ve moved up in the world, using an actual copy of Word now instead of some MS knockoff, packaged version. Such a badass rock and roll lifestyle I’m living now. I know I’ve been slacking, dear readers, but I’m trying at least.

It’s difficult to find time in the day anymore, time to sit and breath. Now, don’t take that as a complaint. I’ve got a full time job with decent pay to get me stocked up on cash, I’ve got a part-time job that makes me feel like I’m actually doing something for my fellow human beings, I’m seeing a beautiful girl who is a complete and total smart-ass. I think I’ve got a good thing going on.

Just need a place with a fence and my wingus, dingus, wiggle-butt dog.

And DSL, but a paycheck is coming in soon. My first for this job. As long as the taxes don’t continue to ream me into utter and complete poverty I think we can make this work. Good luck on hoping though, eh’?

Anyways, had a thought last night hit me, a rush. You know, those pure moments of feeling that just feel so god damn right, that kinda cut through the almost non-existant depression and shine a surreal little light on your ass and show you the words. Pity I couldn’t write it down then and there, but hey, once again, not complaining about my busy little self. At least I know I’m not a complete lazy ass anymore.

Busy man, with shit to do.

But I’ve got my sneakers on my feet, a good sturdy pair of pants, loose enough to fit the mood, my laptop bag strapped to my back and one nappy ass hat fitting my head oh so nicely. I step out of the house, with a goodbye thrown to all in the area and hear the screen door flop shut behind me. I didn’t even shut the solid door. Didn’t need to.

And the moment hits.

Here I am, lookin good (HAHAHAHAHA) and feelin fine, a place to go, some things to do, the air outside is almost tolerable, if not a bit bland, and everything hits that surreal mark.

Don’t have to lock the door.

People…no…families are outside, sitting on their porches sipping their after dinner drinks, chatting away like good folk. There’s the vibrant sound of a lawn-mower running it’s way across an already neatly trimmed yard a street over. Probably some guy getting the chores in after a nice day of work, with his kid in the already mowed back yard playing as a kid should, and embedding in her mind the memories she will never forget.

The smell of fresh cut grass, something she will always love and remember, even when she moves to the city to make it big.

The smell of her mother’s cooking drifting from the kitchen window, and the casual but careful face of her mother peeking out now and then to make sure she’s not digging up buried treasure.

The taste of dirt.

The smell of grease and sweat as her father picks her up and slings her over his shoulder as they both laugh and trot inside to sit down at their respective places.

I can almost drive the whole day with the windows down now. Still way too cold at night, and I’m still using the heater on the trip to work in the mornings. That won’t change. As I coast down the residential streets I find it’s all…perfect, in a way.

Things I never really got to see or experience as a child. Maybe that’s why they strike me as surreal. Fake. Straight from the big screen.

I hope I don’t grow accustomed.

So I sit here and read Transmetropolitan, which I recommend to any cynical and sarcastic bastard out there, and figure I’ve written enough for today.

Yeah.

The noise is so damn loud, but everything else is just dust and sound!...

So I've been to a rave. A long fucking drive and a chest vibrating with bass and beeps. Tons of people, individual twitches of the body in a mass of serperation.

There is a God in the car.

Everyone doing their own thing, the emo goth kids in the corner all depressed and glaring, the kids with their blacklight plastics, the punks spazzing in the drum'n'bass room, lightsticks cracked and creeping along in swirls and circles, the X addicts damn near blasting off in the side booths, the feel of individuality in a mass. Strange. Nice, but not my scene. I miss the ebb and flow of the pit, the synchronization, the collective...ferocity? I need something more animalistic for my feet to move.

An experience, but not my type of pow-wow.
And I swear to god, the next person that blows a whistle in my ear is going to get punched in the face.

To each their own.

The possibility of a job, proof-reading, maybe. It's amazing how a haircut will make you feel. Fresh, presentable, ready to get back to work, to make a living.

Hah, the staggered breaths, the hestitation, the glances at each other. Check back in a few....Come see me in a few....Check back next...God damnit ladies, do not treat me like a fucking idiot! Yes, I'm from Arkansas, yes I've done shit tons of general labor, no I have not completed college yet, but do not for one, single, miniscule, fleeting fucking moment, think I have not dealt with people, I can read you pretty easily. Just say 'Maybe we should look in a different direction.'

Damnit I don't want to go backto breaking my knuckles. I have the skills, just not the experience.

The references.

The education.

The societal means of advancing one self.

3rd class education with an emphasis on how shitty people can be will actually get you a bit farther than one might think. I just wish it would get me a god damn decent job. But who the fuck is gonna suck it up and take a chance on a seemingly redneck dumbass from the middle of nowhere with no real world experience or people skills or shit.

Redundant.
Redundant.

Grasp that.

I'm feeling way too frustrated and aggresive lately. No outlets. I want to lay some paint on someones face and let him know who did it. I want to roll that linebacker up in a little ball and talk to him on the way down. I want ...

To have something.


Fuck it, I'm going to bed.

Snowballs chance in hell of anything working out is what it feels like. C'mon ladies, next time I'm in, don't bullshit me.

I belong to only me, silence for my revelry...

I miss the fighting.

Six ounce gloves, after a while the light, aerodynamic pieces of foam rubber start to weigh on your arms and shoulders like a load you have carried all day. The sweat rolling down your forearms, causing the fingers grooves to become nice and slippery, having to be readjusted every now and then. Velcro and elastic straps having to be retightened, refastened.

The feel of carpet under callused feet, the certain grip it gives after it has worn the blisters deep. The feel of it against your face if you do not mind your step, or don’t mind the leg coming for that nerve in your thigh. Canvas pants, heavy and sturdy, sliding up and down your legs with each bounce, stutter, extensions, and pulls.

The hair getting in your eyes, the patient rise and fall of your chest.

I miss the feel of my heart when I let my head down, when I came around to find Ricks rock sized fist bearing down on my head. Those shitty Velcro straps of his tearing up my forearms with each block. The look of anger in his eyes when I slipped a punch to his nose, even if I didn’t connect it. He knows I pulled it. Left to the head, feet already moving to step to the right, and a right to the kidney, step back, foot behind the knee, right to the head, left to the kidney, fall back.

Amazing the cycles you get used to.

All the smug faces on the first day of class. I’m just a long haired japanophile. Too bad this is a Korean based art. The look on the first day of sparring. Always Rick and myself as the examples. Rick’s a dangerous one, very little control, but a lot of knowledge and skill, even for an old guy.

Brick shithouse.

The smile I used to have when I got to help train the white belts. The apprehension on their faces. I like a little bit of fear. They just got to see me go basically no holds barred with Rick, and we always go strong. Nobody else will spar him, that’s how bad it is. The surprise at the first punch, the feel of their breath rushing out on my fingers, so close to their faces, the pupils dilating, the flinch, the pain that never comes.

I only wish I hadn’t had my accident.

Smug faced instructor the beginning of my last year, usual MMA build. Muay Thai, Boxing, and some jujitsu. I could feel him eyeing me up. Weighing in. Looking down. I never got to spar him. Probably never will, and most likely for the best.

I miss coming in to teach Thursday classes, and nobody but Rick being there. 3 hours of constant fighting, using the entire floor, swear pouring off of the both of us, damn near breaking each other so many times.

I miss the rush. The feeling of accomplishment. The gratification knowing that I can take care of myself.

The usual testosterone rush knowing that I can beat the living shit out of whoever.

Except one guy. I’ve been more than glad to spar anyone. Rick, insanely powerful, strong as shit, uncontrollable. Jeff. Tall, powerful, insane reach, very skilled. (I still feel horrible about busting his eye). Captain Washington. Short, stocky, quick as holy shit. Everyone else.

Then there’s Josh.
Control.
Theory.
Application.
I’m not sure that we’ve properly sparred, legs and all. 16 oz. boxing gloves sure. But that takes the speed away, limit’s the legs, and it was at night at a party in car headlights. Just messing around it’s kind of scary how effective he is. I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes weigh me like his do. It’s a bit invigorating, standing toe to toe with him, even half speed, just for locks and practice. I’ve got to properly fight him at least once. The only person I would ever really be truly…not scared…but rather…wary about.

We’ll see.

I miss fighting. And I miss my friends.

Kinda funny how that goes eh’?

When you start your journey, you go and meet your driver...

From Colorado to Nebraska to Des Moines to Troy.
Not a lot happened, visited the grand parents, let my baby enjoy the snow, and just drove.

Then Florida.
Oh boy.
Then Troy.

That’s about all I’m going to say for that.

So I guess this is the end of the ‘trip’ portion of this blog. 12,600 miles. 2,600 short of my original estimate, but when one does not want to be buried alive in horrific snow storms, one tends to cut some edges here and there. All in all, fucking amazing. I got to see the grand canyon, legoland, palmers, Seattle, the rockies, the sawtooths, Stanley, amazing places. And I had my epiphany. Ya know, the original goal, the one thing that would make me come out of this trip screaming and smiling all at the same time?

Screaming at least.

But that chapter is finished. It’s written down, and closed. Sure, I might elude to unknown events which transpired at that time, but it’s done with. Finished.

And now we start the final post.



My name is Brian Page. I was born and raised in Arkansas, and have met some of the best and worst people of my life there. I’ve spent my summers north of the yankee line, and have quite fond memories of it. Nothing like breaking up the monotony of rednecks with the laughable idiocy of high class ass. About nine months ago or so, I got fed up, and finally decided it was best for me to get out of Arkansas. I’m about a year away from finishing my college degree, maybe a year and a half, but I got burnt out, went through a bad relationship which I knew I shouldn’t have even been in in the first place, and all in all, needed to see a few things for myself.

I am currently staying at my fathers place in Ohio until I can find an apartment for myself and a full time job which will actually allow me to obtain and sustain said environment.



This is my darling. Mein leibs. What a stalwart and stoic puppy, putting up with my ass in a car for such a long time. I never thought I would ever get closer to a dog I’ve spent every single day with. Boy howdy was I wrong. The first night we camped out and she basically stood watch over me I knew this was going to be a hell of a trip.

And really, I’m not sure I could make this trip with anyone else. A wonderful companion, she’s seen more sights than most adults, and probably has more sense.

In fact, I’m pretty damn sure she has more sense.

But guess what? I’ve lost her too. Incapable of providing for the one thing that truly has relied on me, has looked to me for care and comfort and entertainment. And I’ve let her down. I can’t even keep my own fucking dog happy.

What kind of parent is that going to make me?

I like to laugh at the thought, which I first had about nine months ago. “This dog is the only bitch I need.” At least I found it amusing. Sigh.

And I can’t have her back until I have a job where I can afford a house with a yard and a fence. At least she’s a bit happier right now back in Arkansas, yapping her damn head off at the horses, ragging around with Cossette, mooching cheetos off my mother.

Evidently she mopes around by the door a little each day, waiting for me to come home.

And I’m letting her down again by not.

Heh, it’s like something instantaneous, the tears are automatically there.

Loss after loss after loss after loss. Nothing really ever gained except problems, complications, and responsibilities. Same old shit, just a different day.

Loss.















I’ve always told Einschlafen before I’ve left to go somewhere that I’ll be back. That I’ll come back for her. And I always have, without fail. Maybe Eins isn’t the one who needs me, maybe I’m the one who needs her, but either way, I love that little shit, and I suppose in a way, it’s comforting to know that out of all the shit that I’ve lost, I know that I can always go back for her, and she’ll still be the same, honest, loving wiggle butt I raised.

Well, this is the end of this trip. We’ll see how the rest of it goes.

I am an exit...I am an exit...I am an exit... I'm tired of being an exit.

We’re going to skip around a little bit, hold strong, but it’s kind of pertinent and straight in my mind at the moment.

What this trip was all about. Life changing events.

Sounds kind of ominous doesn’t it? We connect the phrase with tragic moments, bad things, tears…

Well, things just don’t change, do they? As I’ve said many times. Nothing surprises me anymore.

Nobody surprises me.

My heart has always been the worst part of me. It loves, it hopes, and it dreams. No matter what. The television, the games, the books, they all warn you, yet push you on to follow it and not your mind. Being raised on at least games and books, I’ve always kind of thought it was my duty to live as the ideas I admire so much, and to go with my heart.

My mind screams at me half the time. I listen to it, and it tells me everything I need to know. Every little quip and quirk. I’ve dealt with too many people in my life, too many situations, to not fill in the blanks everyone leaves out. I could tell you exactly what you did, exactly what you think, but I don’t. My heart knows the truth as well, but it beats. Love. Hope. Dreams. And I follow its rhythm. It’s what I do.

And it all ends the same way.
Because nobody has the ability to be surprising.
But it still beats, even though it knows it’s going to hurt with every single throb.

I knew the situation even before I came to Florida. I knew the past events that were never told to me. I filled in the ideas, thoughts, the feelings, from the looks in peoples eyes. But my heart beats. It wants to trust. And I drove. I followed my hopes here, even though my mind was telling me the whole story.

The one nobody surprises you with.

I respect the people who tell it how it should be told. Without switching the words around to make it seem favorable. Without holding back. Coming clean. But nobody does that to me. Am I an easy person to lie to? No. It may seem like it, but that’s just my heart holding words back. Love. Am I an easy person to fool? No. My mind works quite well.

I grew up to early for that shit. My mind is cynical and hateful, but my heart, I let it lead me. My heart will always be the little boy running around in the same green shorts for months, digging into the dirt just for the feel of it, and being captivated by that one darling person.

I love my heart.
I love my mind.
But they never agree.
Life.

I became a man last night, strolling through the fog. My heart and head snapped. They can at least agree on that.

My head snapped and said “Toldja. Down to the last detail, I fucking TOLD YOU BRIAN! And now I’m hurt.”

My heart snapped and said “That’s it. I’ve hurt you too many times, and I can’t take it again. I’m not leading anymore. Loving. Hoping. Dreaming.”

My eyes snapped, saying nothing, opting to instead play their watery strings across my cheeks and down to the corners of my mouth.

I guess there’s nothing boyish about me anymore. My heart kind of folds in on itself, my mind shakes its head in despair.

“He was a fool, but he was entertaining. The memories I have, the love I’ve felt, the things we’ve seen.”

My mind actually weeps for my heart. Maybe that was the only thing keeping me innocent. Maybe it’s what made me happy on many occasions.

But now, through and through, I think I’ve grown up. My body still hurts, my heart huddled into the corner of my self, shut down. Some things are just too much for it to take still, I suppose. I almost feel sorry for it. But my heart has caused me so much pain. Following it to women, places, religions.

My innocence is dead. My memories of fun filled, exhausting, boyish times have all been had. I…

Well, I’m a man now.
Following my head.
Never my heart.

All the decisions I’ve made with my heart have turned to hell.

I doubt there’s much to expect from the ones I will make with my head.
But that’s what an adult does right? Heh…


A house on a hill, comfortably made, comfortably lived in. A spreading lawn in the front, a well built vanity fence surrounding the back. Red shingles on the roof, green gutters, white siding, green trim around the windows. A loving wife. Laughing kids. A loyal dog. A good life.

Yeah. Boyish dreams.

Those are gone now.

Comments are open to all. What do you see in my eyes?