It started off alright. But then…
I would like the last 8 hours back, please. Hello? Last 8 hours? Can I… Can I get those please? I know I invested them in something that I thought would generate products of happiness and enjoyment. But I can see that backfired and I’m left a little emotionally empty.

So, can I have them back? I suppose I can just go to the White House and ask for an emotional bailout for the bad entertainment choices I made. They’ll buy that, right? What if I tell them my ego is too big to fail?

My new ones mark the next evolution in custom glass wear. And they have a bronze look to them. I’m really excited. Will post pictures in a week (when they arrive).

But… for pictures today…
Don’t I have the most beautiful blue eyes?

Left Eye

Right Eye

That yellow spot off center is where my optical nerve / stem meets my retina.

However… that means that I’ve been working on a new song. So I thought I would upload it before I go to work. Which is right now.

Title: Crimes

It’s a studio. It’s small. It’s not too expensive. And it’s downtown. Walking to work will keep me in shape. But then again, so will the YMCA that is two blocks away from work.

After living a life that wasn’t really mine for so long, I finally feel like I’m back on track. After almost a decade of self destruction and a year of recovery… I’m starting over.

It feels really weird to be 30 and have almost nothing to show for it. At times I feel like an absolute failure. At others, I look around at the faceless people who hate and fall and surround me and realize that I am still and more alive than ever before.

It’s rough. I feel alone a lot. I have my core. My triforce of power. And they each support me in their own way. With love, adoration, creative release…

I feel low. I’m at least a third of the way through my life… and it feels like I’m just getting started. I’ve never done this before. Only the one life. And I have nothing to compare it to. So I have no idea if I’m better off or worse than anyone else. And I won’t ever know.

But restarting at 30… it’s scary. How much of my life did I really lose? How much can I get back?

I could hear here snoring from around the corner. I thought a guest might have left their room door open. I was chuckling quietly to myself as I round the back hall of the 7th floor.

I could smell the bar before I saw her. In that instant before sight, all I could think was some fat, smelly, drunk, homeless guy was asleep in the corner. My hand slipped into my pocket to grasp my radio…. but I seemed to have forgotten it.

I wouldn’t need it, though. Beside her bare feet were a pair of Nike running shoes. She’d obviously used them for running. They weren’t recovered. They had a worn look, but not a discarded one. Her blue jeans had no signs of wear. No holes. No faded white spots. My jeans have been dirtier. Not much… Her jacket had only seen a couple winters…

“Ma’am?”

Again there were no holes. Only slightly faded. Only slightly worn.

“Ma’am, wake up.”

Her vibrant purple scarf was being used as the world’s most ineffective pillow. Like how a paper plate would cushion a Honda.

“Ma’am, are you a guest at the hotel?”

“No” She looked at me, then at her surroundings. Her eyes were starting to focus. The haziness behind them dissipating like mid day on the morning fog. “I’ve only been homeless a month”

I started to feel sick. She looked like she could have been my grandmother. Short, stylish white hair. Thick glasses. It wasn’t designer, but her hand bag didn’t look cheap. She closed it and pulled it close to her, embarrassed. She looked as though she were about to cry. I really hoped she wouldn’t. My throat closed and my stomach knotted. Even if I wanted to throw up, it wouldn’t have gone anywhere.

“I’m not on drugs.”

I know. Did I say it? I couldn’t tell. I knew if I opened my mouth she would see the pain in my face.

“I didn’t steal anything, you know? That’s not why I’m here.” Her voice was beginning to crack.

“I don’t think that you did” It was all I could say. I wanted to say more. But what? “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the hotel”. My eyes unfocused. It was all I could do from letting my emotions tear me down. But she was already putting on her shoes. I didn’t have to say it.

“I have a bad shoulder” She could have been my aunt. She wasn’t out of shape. She was barely dirty. She really looked as though she had been on the street for only a couple weeks. The knot in my stomach tightened. She was putting on her shoes with only one hand, and then trying to tighten them. Should I help her? Would that be mean? Tying this 50 year old woman’s shoes for her.

I escorted her to the elevator. Out the lobby. SAY SOMETHING! Help Her, Moron. I became distracted by the news man in the lobby. She was in front of me now. I pushed the button for the door, it opened for her. She used her opposite arm to brace the door so that it wouldn’t close on her shoulder.

My stomach turned. I looked down. When I glanced back up she was gone.

That is the face of the homeless today.

-E-

Yesterday is washed away from us with the comfort of a job well done and the stains of hard play and the tears from laughter

As the moon rises on this night of our present day

We await the sun and blue skies with the memories we can only make in tomorrow’s time

-E-

She’s been throwing up all day. And when she wasn’t, she would just sit in her chair, mouth open, trying to breathe, with fluids just spilling out of her mouth. She could barely breath. She could barely walk.

As soon as Dad got home, we both started crying. We took her to the vet immediately. She was 17 years old. Mom thinks she had cancer. I didn’t think she would make it through the year. She has been very sick and in a lot of pain. No more pain.

Check them out at The Bit Rationale Myspace Page
or at Bit Rationale Audio

Thanks for listening.

Erik

For the last six months there has been this arrow in my chest. I feel the pain. I see the shaft as it moves with my breathing. But the arrow head is buried.

It hurts. Oh god the pain I’ve felt for the last half year. I just want the arrow gone.

But all the doctors have been unsure of what to do. Dragging their feet. Not wanting to perform surgery. Just dragging out the treatment so they could milk me for cash.

I thought I had found someone competant. Someone who can rip this arrow from the heart of my life. Someone who can stop the hemoraging. My golden surgeon.

Now I’m not so sure. The house still stands.

The bleeding continues

And with every crimson drop, I grow a little more weary of this life. My breathing sends a constant reminder as the protruding shaft swings like a metronome ticking away the days that it has made my life just that much more painful