Masthead

You...Always You.

If you're here, it's probably because you were looking for another site. Well, I hate to drop this on you all unexpected like, but nicolasix is dead.

If you knew her, you know it was what she wanted all along. I just didn't think I would be the one to do it. But really...when you think about it...who else?

Last night. Waiting for her in the heavy, black car at the end of the dead-end street. The broken window. The car-tool in my lap. She walked up to the passenger door. "Get in," I said.

"You," she said, leaning over. "Always you."

I hope you don't think less of me. I'm not a murderer. It's really not in my nature. But she asked so sweetly. "Please," she said, "It's all right to do it...It's all right." She was so cold. Cold in her crimson shoes.

Anyway, it's done.

Now, when things die, new things often arrive in their place. And so let me introduce you to notsolinear.

If you're subscribed to the old RSS feed, you will still receive updates when I post here. But it might be a while, yet, until I do. I'm working on a few offline things. A novel. Some short stories. Old-fashioned, I know. But it has to be done. And I've made a promise to my mistress. Sadly, I'm prone to severe bouts of writer's block. But hopefully, in the not-so-distant future, I will have a complete first draft of the longer piece. I've got a working title now, so it's beginning to seem more real.

Anyway, when the full draft happens, I will commence with the posts here. And I look forward to that. Because I'm getting itchy. I'm getting very, very itchy. The only exception to the no-post rule is if I have some writing-related news to share.

Until then, please stand by.

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Whatever. Here's what I know about music: I like being a little surprised by it. I like playing with people and feeling the pull of that thing you're doing take you where it wants you to go. And tapping into the energy, on stage and off. And just feeling a little awed by it. Letting the sounds rush over you. The sounds. Drowning out everything and forever. And feeling your heart race because you're not sure where this thing is taking you exactly, and it may drop off the next cliff, but it'll be one hell of a ride if it does. . . .

Aside from the way he looks, everything else I know about him is a product of my imagination: He's smart, but he doesn't talk unless he has something to say. His humor is understated, like his strength. He loves the people in his life to the point that it hurts. . . .

So this morning he came back. Mike, I mean. I considered not answering again, but figured that might get awkward. I opened the door in white pajamas, the top casually unbuttoned, revealing and covering, like a wish. I hadn't looked at my hair, but I knew it was pleasingly disheveled. Men have told me I look sexy in the morning. Like I don't know this? Like I don't know exactly what the fuck I look like in the morning? . . .

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It was how I referred to the vacation that was odd. Alluding to some project I intended to start, I had said to my friend at the dog park: "I'll work on it as soon as I get this vacation over with." She had laughed. "When you get it...over with?" I laughed too, because I understood on some instinctual level how ridiculous it sounded and I figured I should act like I was joking so as not to seem weird. Like I had spoken these words, you know, just to be funny. But the truth was I really didn't find much humor in it. It's honestly how I see most vacations: as something to get "over with." . . .

My friends are becoming avatars, smiling faces with one-liner quips next to their names, short expressions of happiness or sadness or love or hate. Or, oh my god, self-promotion. Propaganda. Marketing. We've become our own advertisements for...ourselves. Publicity agents for our own lives. Whoring ourselves to our friends. And I'm sure it's all genuinely felt. Oh, I'm sure it comes from deep within. But I know I start to get numb to it. And I just skim now and I don't really read. And I've "hidden" more than I show. And I think probably my friends deserve more than that. More, even, than my "Like" or "Become a Fan." An email, maybe. Or a phone call. Or simply our memory. Some of our friends just deserve our memory of them. That's it. We should all kill our Facebook. And I have a date to do just that. With a friend who isn't even in my Facebook. We'll do it over shots of whiskey. And we'll curse while we do it. And bang our fists on the bar. And celebrate our freedom. . . .