Waking up before the sun peaks into same window. Earl Grey and dogs changing positions, watching the silence of early Fall, trying to remember. The end is the only thing that matters now, the evolving, the crushing weight of change, being contorted and twisted like the vintage trees, ring of lives past. Nothing up to this point really matters. The burden made proof of worth; the end result greater than the tragedy—a strange world.
A life tattered and transformed by destiny—or a seemingly random sample of events that left me buried in bathtub, risen with shield of words, powerful symbols of magic and life. I will not be vanquished; there are cherubs playing my melody, singing a beautiful song, baffling gods and dark nymphs. I find my new place disconnected from the hive, separated from form, existing in truth etched in marble stele, consisting of heart and blood. I dine on truth. Existing. Baptized by the whimsy of dreamers. Emancipated!
I stroll through days, decoding smiles, passive-aggressive shrugs and look for the miracles in everything, meaning pulled out of nothingness. It makes sense now, it really does! No one is going to save me, no salvation in feminine wiles; salvation is beaten out of earth, shaken out of the sky, found in the ephemeral beautify of perseverance and experience. I woke up in a strange life. I make it my home, hang pictures in awkward corners. I own this place. This is my world.
Jasper Kerkau (10/8/16)
I am a writer!
I sit on the left-hand of the gods and have a special dispensation to decode the secret, universal rhythms, find patterns in the whispers that are inaudible to profane ears. My role is that of an observer; a quiet, meditative force who has a holy charge to record the divine misery, the blind mysteries, the eek-and-turn everyday struggle of life, seen through the eyes of one who has divested himself of all worldly goods.
Who are you?
I am a fucking writer! I am convicted, given over to the great purpose of wresting the truth away from the earth, buried under layers of silt and sediment, caught up in the swirl of the waters that lean to the great gravitational forces as the world mercilessly spins into the great unknown. The curse is the burden, the pulling back the veil, looking into the languid eyes affixed on the gloss and glitter of shards of glass and bits of triviality, finding the gift in otherness, turning away from the doomed, and, alas, finding a tribe of others who beckon the same call.
What do you do?
I am a writer! Though during the day, I am an undercover laborer, engaged in the task of finding means to an end. Looking out of windows, staring at watches, waiting…waiting for life to begin. The toiling is for naught; it doesn’t define me. I work for a living, but when I put my head on pillow, or look in the mirror, I know exactly what I am. Touched by the hand of god, beholden to vision and in collaboration with a silent minority, hiding out, going through motions, learning, and watching. I am anointed by almighty forces, who plucked me out and spit me into the world with love in my heart, to stand in the shadows and pay the price for all of the beauty and all the unhappiness in the world.
Jasper Kerkau 9/15/16
I thought that writing would save me. This peculiar predicament. Awash. Catatonic drive home. The horror of entering my home, oh the deafening silence. Voiding my soul. Buried in failure. My salvation—the pen? I believe in the magic of words. The youthful passion only takes me so far. The hole is much too deep. In a dizzying display of personal failure and grief, I peel back the layers looking for some form of redemption. And yet, I end up with religious disappointment. I write and I still can’t find my way. I write and there is still a hole inside me. I write and I am still in the same fucking place, beset by a future that is obscured, desolate. For some reason, in my forties, I believed that writing would save me the same way it did at seventeen. There is too much water under the bridge. It is too late for me. Love may be the only redemption, the only hope. But, my inner struggle is an illness—a disease. Keeps me at arm’s length. I am on a horrible journey that may someday end. I just don’t know what I will have left at that point. Writing isn’t going to save me.
Jasper Kerkau (9/14/16)
With her side-ways glance,
She sees the patina of my fear.
Smirking, placid expression.
I hear her inaudible laugh,
her nuanced condescension.
A lacerating look,
My heart leaps.
Her oblique manner digs into me.
A dizzy roar of dysfunctional,
ephemeral bliss washes over me.
Soon the hangover.
Why do I do this to myself?
Jasper Kerkau (9/9/16)
Tonight I have nothing but disappointment. It washes over me in tempestuous waves. One wave begats another. At the core of my being I am paralyzed with the stench of my own failure. The words don’t come. My voice is drowned out in the chorus of negativity that rains on me constantly. Each drop stings my flesh, leaving me to take refuge in garbage situational comedies and political gossip; the meditative, vapid humor calms my damaged nerves. The nothingness is a salve to my wounded soul. I crawl in a ball in the middle of the bed and gaze vacantly at the prisms of stupidity displayed in Ultra 4k. It is so much easier than finding 200 errant words to express this gaping hole in my thinking. It is much easier to find mechanisms of leisure to placate the darkness that dwells in me. I need internet porn and cotton candy. I need a marathon of Lockup and meaningless text messages. It would make it all so much easier. I could wrap all my hopes and dreams into the local professional sports team and ignore the trench warfare being waged in my heart. It is all so disappointing, and yet somehow I found two hundred words.
Jasper Kerkau 9/11/16
I was touched by the light of the universe. The soft embrace of love, driving back the demons of self-doubt, bringing forth the beauty and laughter that alluded me. It starts with belief, hope and transcendent possibility. I never knew it could be like this, always arm length away from the essence. But, now I touch the soft pedals of life–feel the warm sun on my face; the icy landscapes transform into tranquil gardens of abundant life.
It was always inside me, obscured by the faceless horror and bad conversations giving way to transgressive motivations. I touch her face in my dreams, feel her embrace, the warm energy of a selfless connection. I lost so much time. I lost so much time. The horror show is over; the war has ended. The stinging sensation of dull, throbbing failure no longer matters. I shrug off the dragons and dark angels lurking in the shadows-I live in light, beholden to the universal forces of good, forged in the promise of goodly things. My calloused soul has been healed by the salve of the promise of a future that I never knew existed. The light of the universe touched me with her soft hand, her soothing voice driving back all of my secret turmoils, my private misery.
Jasper Kerkau (9/26/16)
I’m not depressed, just bored. I really want to go to Vegas. Maybe I can get one of those packages, airfare and three nights with free buffets and a complimentary show. I will eat steak and lobster and get followed around high-end shops by menacing looking security guards with thin mustaches. Sit on the blackjack table hitting seventeen every time, much to the chagrin of everyone at the table, which leads to me getting into an argument with the pit boss over my table etiquette and the nature of reality. Eventually, hiding in restroom from undercover satanists masquerading as cocktail waitresses. I will try to sneak to my room and somebody will slip microfilm with classified information in my pocket leaving me to be pursued by Russian spies with thick necks. I will have to hot-wire a car and drive to Los Angeles and deliver the sensitive document to a beautiful Norwegian who is obsessed with bossa nova and Isabel Allende. Without fail, I fall in love and sneak out the bathroom door after an argument over the television remote. Ending up working in a bookstore in Encino before I am informed Interpol wants to talk to me about a situation at the French embassy in Morocco. I will start wearing a disguise, become a Scientologist, take up the trumpet and start an improvisational jazz quartet. Until, of course, I discover the Great Secret and yearn for the quietude of dogs sleeping and laundry, watching the big game before taking a nap and dreaming of something more. So for now, I will fight this traffic and resign myself to monotonous labor and my simple life, but I really want to go to Vegas.
Jasper Kerkau (9/21/16)