The Intro About Nothing

To be discrete, today was boring. I am no stranger to the days in which you only watch the various divorce court shows because you're too lazy and the remotes too far away, or, in my particular case, the 24 hour news cycle. To those who are unfamiliar with programs such as these it's probably because you have cable. But I never had cable when I was younger, I didn't need it, nor do I yearn to have it. To me, basic television equates for a basic, simple life. And on a really good day, the monotony of the limited channel paradox will drive me to get off the couch, and do something productive. I am not proud to say today was not one of those days. No, I got up from my khaki colored couch only when I needed to use the restroom..I suppressed all other sensations.

What people don't realize about the 24 hour news cycle is that the staff just do not care about what happens, because nobody is watching. If you've ever seen the 2nd Anchorman movie or any episode of How I Met Your Mother centered around Robin, then you know what I'm talking about. Just today, an Asian reporter by the name of Kevin Young at around 2 pm did his entire segment in a foreign language. It really makes for good entertainment. If you call that entertainment at all.

Productivity at an all time high, for my tv. And I couldn't be happier. It makes me think about Seinfeld: the show that was openly about nothing. But it was good, really good. Sometimes you have to talk about nothing. Lord knows I have more than one song that is testament to that. Likewise, we need days like that. The Day About Nothing...not quite as good of a title, but a good synopsis of today. Just because there is not structure doesnt mean it wont be good.

Tears For ODB, drug-induced poetry. Whats the use? Strung out from the drug abuse. Woe is me.

Today was especially...eventful.
Where should I begin? Today I killed a man. Not with my bare hands mind you, but with my words. I used to be an avid believer in the phrase actions speak louder than words but that cannot be true.
Two days ago a letter was delivered to my flat saying nothing but three words signed by Robert Smith and a blue fingerprint. I thought it was strange, I no longer receive fan mail, not personally anyway, and if is sent then it isn't sent to this address. The letter reads "You Did This". I should have thrown the letter away and though nothing of it, but I couldn't.

You Did This is a song I wrote before people knew my name, before people listened to what I had to say. I wrote it in pure spite. I wrote it to the person I thought would be the person I wold spend the rest of my life with. I was too young I admit but that isn't why she quit being my bride to be. She miscarried and we blamed each other. Me for my unhealthy habits and unsafe environment and her for being the conduit for our unborn baby's demise. You Did This was me blaming her, and if I'm being honest, I never apologized and told her its not wasn't her fault.

But I have never heard the name Robert Smith. I was taken by storm when I turned on the television and saw a man with the same name painted in all blue looking down at his death. Looking down like he was searching for forgiveness. That's why I went into the city, without my glasses, without any disguise. I wanted this man to see him, I wanted to know who he was, and I wanted him to see me..I knew people saw me, some people followed me, one persistent gentleman in particular. But I didn't look back, at him, I didn't look at anyone because I was only interested in seeing his face. But alas, I was too late. All I could hear when I arrived was 'he jumped, he jumped!' Eventful is the only way I could describe today. Corrupt.

Spinning in circles, live my life without rehearsal.

I will be short. I will be frank. Nothing good can come of walking at night. Nothing. The people of Dreamwood failed to inform me that there is a big ass hole that apparently anyone can fall into. I'm sure you can tell I'm just a little perturbed. That's because all I have to show for this week are two sprained ankles. One thing that I've begun to realize about Dreamwood is that you are, well off or not, on your own. You are alone here. I realized that when just the nicest fellow walked by my untimely grave to insult me. In hindsight, he was making conversation but I wasn't in the mood for conversing. This man who, to me, could very easily be a meth user had the most bullshit accent I've heard in my lifetime. It was like he was trying to convince himself that we was something other than the person he knows himself to be. I cannot tell you why we would do that, perhaps because with two identities you are less alone. If that were true, I wouldn't feel so alone. Even now that I'm out of frying pan..which I've just decided to call if from now on, in part because of its temperature but more to the allusion to the expression "out of the fire into the frying pan".. sitting here writing this, I am strangely alone. I'm afraid I'll get used to it. I don't want the loneliness to define me as it has the other tenants of Dreamwood. In comparison, I am just a visitor.

Perhaps I will add more, depending on how much time I have to spend in the hospital. But the morphine I forced the nurses to give me are making me just the slightest bit tired, and I'm tired of being conscious.

I get paid to share my life on the stage in front of strangers. And these people know me far too well, and that's the danger. ~318 Dreamville Lane

Today was a particular interesting day in Dreamwood. Snow is something I'm quite fond of actually, coming from the north you adopt the snow much like a musician adopts a microphone. I haven't decided if it was too much or too little, instead I decided I would put off saving my driveway from the snow for another day. Today, I would take a risk, the same risk I do every time I step outside of my flat. Does being this paranoid make me conceded? Today, I would let fate decide that, and as it turns out, it did.

When I left home, I didn't have much of a plan. I live just outside of Dreamwood..walking distance, so I just walked. Walking allows me time to think. That's all I do anymore: think. This time I was pondering why it was that I was so frightened of being discovered. I cannot be sure, but I think it has something to do with my music. Even though the legacy of Forrest Whitman will die, and I will surly die, my music won't. It can't. I've put so much of myself into my music: the infrastructure of my mind, the contours of my emotions, all within the lyrics of a song. Its scary. Any person who understands my music well enough essentially understands me, some will know me better than I know myself, and that scares me.

As I was thinking and walking, doing both together, I came across an apartment building. I pass this building everyday on my way into the city and the only thing that was interesting about it was that all the tenants were essentially the entire population of Dreamwood. That's a little less impressive when you consider how small and feeble the city appears. Today the building was radiating just the loudest smell I had ever smelt in this town. I wasn't aware these people were capable of that. I strolled on inside and tried to follow where exactly the smell was coming from. I figured if I could find the smell, I could find the person I could buy from, from time to time. The stairs seemed like the best way to do that. When I got to the second floor I noticed a puddle caused by leaking from the ceiling above it. I'm not proud to admit I paused to catch my breath, I'm not exactly the man I used to be. In my moment of recovery a man... maybe a boy came tip toeing out of the elevator and right into the puddle. It was obvious that we was the cause of the smell which worked out well because I didn't want to climb another set of stairs.

I could tell he was the one because he was so very confused, confused about how the puddle he was standing in got there in a first place. I offered that bit of information, in hopes it would strike up a conversation that would lead me to the herb I went so far out of my way to obtain. I told him it was probably a broken pipe. It takes him a second to recognize where the sound is coming from. Lightweight. He looks up at me with the widest, dumbest grin and asks if he knows me. He was way to faded to realize who I was, today I left my glasses on my night stand, and he was still unable to notice me. I made a mental note of his face and decided I would talk to him when he wasn't talking to himself. It had to have been a conversation between him and his other self because he asked a question, and I think I interrupted before he could answer. I'll apologize when I see him again.

My high could wait. No glasses was not a bright idea. I suppose fate had decided an answer, but she neglected to tell me what it was. Besides, my driveway needed saving, I was feeling heroic having saved that boy from a very confusing afternoon standing in a puddle. I cannot decide if that was a good day. I will put it in the maybe pile for now.

I asked the reverend will I get to heaven, he said, 'hell if i know.'

People often ask me if I miss it. Do I miss the fame, the fans, and everything in between. It hasn't been that long since I retired, but I never really thought about it until tonight. Maybe because, as I type this, I'm watching the meteor shower. Something so supernatural, something so naturally beautiful, makes you want to stop and think. Its nice being able to enjoy complete solitude and to be able to find solace in it. I fear most of the people I've encountered in Dreamwood Terrace are tortured by the thought of being being alone with just their thoughts, but not me. It's rather soothing, laying on the roof of my flat just outside Dreamwood. Its funny, when I am trying to avoid everybody and everything, I am still drawn to the city. Even now, looking down on Dreamwood Terrace, there is a certain restlessness of the city that intrigues me.

But do I miss it? Would you? When you're at the zenith of your career you want it to last forever. Then you realize that it can't, it just can't.
"Another shot of Henny and I'm faded asking 'how long does this drug called fame last?' That's deep"
A particular lyric I am proud of. I find myself humming it often, maybe just for the nostalgic feeling, or maybe I'm trying to remind myself why I left it all in the first place. It is a hard question to answer. I thought coming up to the roof, watching the sky would give me an answer...it didn't, if you were wondering. Just more questions.

The meteor shower is almost too beautiful. Its splendor is patronizing my thoughts, heaven is mocking us. It makes me wonder, though. Am I on the right path? More questions. I know the difference between right and wrong, I'm sure of it. Was choosing music, my naive passion, right? Now that I'm retired I wonder. I think I noticed a person the other day from my past. I don't even think about it that much, but when I saw her I was sure she recognized me even with my glasses on. That glance in a moments passing wasn't enough for me to remember if she was important to me in my past. This meteor shower makes me wonder about my past. Do I miss it?

Window Booth

The good thing about retiring young is that you get to see the world in its entirety, and still have time to figure yourself out. Of course I haven't seen the whole world, just my entire world. I realized there is no future in music, unless you're one of the suit-wearers who pushes the papers, but for us, the one's that make the music, there is no future. The bad thing about retiring young is that you get to see the world in it's entirety, and everybody knows who you are. You never really get to be alone anymore, every person is a fan, and even if they aren't, they still want a picture or an autograph or some proof that they got to meet you. That's why I'm glad Dreamwood Terrace exist. With this city I am able to blend in to the mix and become human again. Although, there are some scares I do admit. The other day I was sitting by the window at Gavin's, like I usually do on the days the walls of my apartment are tired of being stared at, in the booth beneath the broken ceiling tile. I wear glasses to hide my face just in case someone does know the real me, but I took them off to wipe the sleep out of my eyes because the coffee didn't, and when I looked back up there was a women just staring at me. I stared back for a while, she was certainly attractive, in fact that's probably a understatement, she was more than just attractive. I panicked. After we exchanged that unsettling staring contest I immediately reached for my glasses and returned to being my other me...it can't be helped. I feel guilty though, she looked kind of confused, and my panic episode certainly didn't help. I'm sure that was a first for both of us. She looked away and continued her day and I went back to sitting at the booth beneath the broken ceiling tile. As I write this, I feel I want to smile. The good thing about retiring young is that, even though you get to see the world in its entirety, you still get to have firsts.