I’m driving down ninety-five, somewhere in Virginia.
My ring finger still covered in chipped pink nail polish,
and my cigarette filter is splotched with dried blood.
That Marlboro went out long ago, like a marriage run

it’s course. She’s sleeping off some two day apparition
in the passenger seat, blurring at the edges; so I fade
the radio to my side and zone out to a human voice
buried beneath the scratching static. Call it electronic

voice phenomenon. I see a vision of white limos and
violet flower petals, angels in the sand. I see neon
running shoes and more Empire tattoos. I see a rest
stop, and I pull over, lock the doors, relight my smoke

on a solitary wooden bench. I watch her as she sleeps,
wave the smoke from my face; then, I recognize the
place. Seems the ghosts are hunting me. I’ll never
drive this route again, my things piled high in the

backseat. I pull out my phone and search for local
Tom’s retailers with no luck. Back in the car, I kiss
her forehead, and she curls into a tight little ball.
If I ever knew love, it was because of her, and the

whole world knew it. Where I once threw tantrums
and notebooks, I now write sonnets and pray. She’s
got me when she wants me, where I want me. And I
thank God that she only saw that ugly anger once.

There was once terrible self-loathing buried in my
chest, but now I know my worth. I know my value.
I’m not selling myself short again, so I clasp her
hand before I put the car in gear. I merge onto the

highway, five hours left to drive. Five hours to home.
Last time I made this drive, I was ghost hunting on
the eastern coast; now, they’re after me, but I have
just the answer. The sun shines down, and I slide on

her gold Ray-Bans. These aren’t fake. These aren’t stolen–
I bought them with my hard earned cash, a gift. And she
sleeps ’til Charlotte, and I miss my exit. She laughs, rubs
my beard. Now, I’m driving down eighty-five, and I’m

somewhere in the Carolinas, heading toward exit ninety
and a cup of hot coffee. I was born to be a writer in a
backwoods cabin, but this old house will have to
do for now. Yeah this house will have to do for me.

Well, we all have gifts, do we not?

And so, today, I feed you no bullshit. I’m not going to blog about how hard it is to “learn” to be an “adult.” (Cause we all pay our bills and love toast, yo.) I got no love poem for you today. (Cause I got George for that, and she’s just in the other room at the piano, anyway.) This is not another page of lament or Puma lust. (Though, have you seen the Bunyips? OMG, yo.) This is, I guess, real talk.

When I think of “unfair,” I remember being six years old: Matt Cunningham had a sweet ass Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle van or something? (Probably called the Turtlemobile. Or Pizza Hut.) Anyway, it had some pretty decent pizza cannons on top, and it was just all around awesome. And guess what? I did not have one. To a six year old boy, that shit was unfair. Period. I whined for days, but never got a Pizza Van, or whatever it was. (Well, okay, not until much later. Mostly because I was not a spoiled brat, just a brat.) At this point in my life, I would not call such a thing “unfair;” no, I would man up and call it what it is–jealousy, covetousness. (Though, don’t let that word make you think I believe God was talking about action figures when he issued warnings.)

Nah, guys, what I am addressing here is much deeper and actually unfair. It has to do with men and “men” and boys and girls and women and depression and abusive behavior. It has to do with love. It has to do with hate. It has to do with life. It has to do with growing up and “growing up.” I am not sure how to ease into this issue, so I’ll come out and say it (call it my “thesis”)–guys, it is time to step up. It is time to stop being “men” and start being men. It has nothing to do with notches on your bedpost or inches on your truck lift. It has nothing to do with beards or bacon or baseball. It has nothing to do with puppy dog tails, spitting, or swearing. Your machismo does not fool me. It has to do with respect, love, faith. You know…real manliness? Or maybe you’re not familiar?

Okay, to take a few steps back, let’s all accept something right now. Let’s all accept this fact–life is not always “fair.” We don’t always get our way, our wants, our desires. But let me push a little something on you, and it’s something I believe, so take it or leave it, but know it’s truth to me. It’s not about our way, our wants, our desires. If you plan on living life for yourself and never swerving, bury yourself now–your tombstone will read the same two days or eighty years from now.

There is something at work here–something that calls us to greatness, to such a level that we could never reach alone. I call this something “God,” and I’m not here to debate that. I’ve been around the philosophical world and back again, and this is the only one thing I’ve found. The end.

So, if life is not always about our way, our wants, our desires, it’s not truly unfair. What is unfair is the means society utilizes to proclaim one a “man” and how these “men” act, especially towards girls and women.

I won’t tiptoe around this right now, I am very close friends with a beautiful woman. She is beautiful in every way that can be imagined. She has a beautiful soul and eyes that twinkle with the spark of thoughts that are spoken only infrequently. She has so much to give. I won’t lie, I am very taken by this woman, very attracted to her. Some may say that I hope to pursue her. Call it whatever you will, it’s our business. For now, just know that she’s awesome.

There are other pieces to this puzzle–the unfair pieces. We have both dated in the past–names are not important, and the specifics are none of your damn business, but rest assured, we’ve both had our share of “dating” relationships. Where does the unfairness come in? She has been treated very unfairly in some of her past relationships. She’ll tell you herself that she hasn’t been a perfect little angel every moment of every day, but see how it feels with your spine against the wall and get back to me. Fight or flight is survival at that point.

To be honest, I haven’t been a perfect little angel myself. I have wronged various girls (and a woman) in different ways throughout my life. (But remember your relation to that business? See: none of your damn.) On that matter, I’ll come right out and say it–I was a boy until January of this year. I was a little boy at twenty-four years of age. And you know, I’m nowhere near the man I could be at this point, but I’m growing every day.

Back to the point–when boys try to act like men, amazing women can get hurt. And, I believe in most cases, it is genuinely unfair to these women. I know these boys. I know these games. I once was one. I once played those games. I think I’m actually going to cut this short (whew, huh?), but I will say this–guys, search yourself before you date, before you pursue. Make sure you are a man and not a boy. Consult a respected elder if that helps, but one thing that has to happen–you have to be honest with yourself, with others.

I know your games. I played them. Don’t hurt these women, these girls. They are souls, people–AMAZINGLY (apparently) just like you. Don’t play your charm cards, your machismo, your various talents to draw them in. That shit is thin. It will never hold. You can’t protect a woman with charm. You can’t provide for a lady with your machismo. You can’t lead with your talents.

You boys have it all backwards. It’s not about getting a girl. It’s not about sex. It’s not about eradicating loneliness. Love isn’t a good feeling that you deserve. It’s not going to bring you eternal happiness. Love is action. Love is doing. Love is a verb. Your charming words could never hold up. And that’s why it all falls away when it’s time for you to put your money down.

Guys, men, boys, whatever–it is time to stop being so irresponsible with our feelings and thoughts. If you search yourself and find you’re still a boy, don’t pursue. Don’t even bother. Work on yourself. You’ll be ready someday. Take my word for it. There are enough wounded women walking around. Just stop the bullshit. Be a man. Step up. Take responsibility for your actions. No more bull. My cards are on the table, true, but I’m not perfect. I only realized I was truly becoming a man THIS YEAR. I’m not perfect, but I am here. I am willing to speak up.

Anyone needs suggestions or thoughts or just to talk about what it means to truly be a man, feel free to hit me up. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. And who knows, maybe you have too. Maybe we could learn together.

Hey guys. I have eight more hours of work before my vacation starts, but I’m starting early. So, I’m taking a vacation from social media too, except in my closest circles. Starting now. Well after some unnecessary shout outs.

Shouts out toooo (let me get a break beat over here):

• The Commons (Sculls, Chelsea, Kelly, Jerome, Chupacabra, Cheese, Amanda, Uncle Early, Port, Ashley, and Nakka)–Hold the line while I’m going. Takeover ’12. TWC. Gettin’ a deck when I get back.
• My favorite married couple in New England (Logan and Breanna)–Just caussse. Wake me up for the Woooo. I’m a lazy man.
• Highland (Obligatory).
• My brother–Just moved to Brooklyn. Stay saaafe.
• Popz, Momz, John, Hattie, and Paw Paw–See y’all soon.
• Josh, Wank, Price, Dor, and Mere–See y’all sooner.
• Nofrums–The only good thing I can think of in the Midwest. (Sorry, bro.)
• Wankensteen–It’s wedding time.
• The Doctor aka TBIEH aka My Newest Friend aka Muse aka ATLYCL aka The One From The Skimny Home aka 23 aka 5/5/5 aka Waka Flaka Flicker aka The German aka Jimmy The Greek aka The First aka Boots aka The One and Only–I’ll give you a nickname one day. Hah. Proud of you! You’ve grown so much since I met you. Chin up!
• James–Escapin’ the Carolinas to see Nate Dogg get resurrected in the desert this week.
• Boston–I’ll miss you. xoxoxoxo
• Homeboy–What up?
• My Friend Down in Charleston–Move to Worcester.
• Bebe–Daddy comin’ home girl.
• The Pub–Better get some new kegs innnnn.
• Flicker, The 40 Watt–Ready for !!! and Shabazz Palaces. TBs.
• Asheville, Empire–I need some fresh air and new tattoos, maybe you could be my gal.
• Bebe Zeva–I’m serious.
• Ford trucks.
• Apple pie.
• Bald eagles.
• Toilet paper.
• Cuticles.
• Sprite.
• Cuttlefish–You one weird dude, dude.

Hah. We have fun right? We have fun.  I’ll leave you with this, keep it in minddd, son:

Shorty said I look like a chubby Jake Gyllenhaal, I said “This ain’t ‘Brokeback,’”
And I’m a broke mack, Type so hard and now I’m typing on a broke Mac 

PEACE.

]]> http://www.charliewaddellforcomptrollergeneral.com/2012/04/17/im-a-unicorn/feed/ 0 http://www.charliewaddellforcomptrollergeneral.com/2012/04/16/1918/ http://www.charliewaddellforcomptrollergeneral.com/2012/04/16/1918/#comments Mon, 16 Apr 2012 12:41:27 +0000 Charlie Waddell http://www.charliewaddellforcomptrollergeneral.com/?p=1918 idk whats up and whats down right now
just pick me up from the airport and make
it all okay what even happened what was it

It’s dark and creepy but there are ramps and a heater.
And Justin says they’ll teach me how to skate, this while
he’s tagging a brick wall in an alley. Can you imagine that?
Me. Me!! Running around downtown with a deck and a
pair of chalked out Vans. I made some new friends last
night. We all sat around a fire pit on the back patio of
The Dive. Stories of Brazil and Seattle and childhoods in
Worcester. A dash of South Carolina, and you know I
went heavy on the accent, just to serve a purpose. And
one guy, he looked like he stepped right from a Pac Sun
ad. He looked like your quintessential skater type. Who
knows what grind he’s on in the days, but at night he’s
a skater. See, the rings I seem to have fallen into are
all Brazilian metal bands and New England skateboarders.
Hah! Can you imagine? Me? Standing with a plastic cup
in a dance hall somewhere listening to metal? I would
be reliving 18 all over again, complete with the broken
jaw Sheeba’s dad gave to him. But yet, I’m going to a show.
This Tuesday, before I leave for a breath of Carolina heat.
And while I’m in the Carolinas I’ll take in music a little more
suited to my taste (!!! and Say Anything) and get a new tattoo.
I’ll be in a wedding, and I’ll find pieces of myself I buried in
red clay long, long ago, when I ran away. I’m done running.
Not to, not from. Life is good, and I can do whatever I want.
After all, every movement needs a poet–the boy with the
sad eyes, lost in the puffs of his cigarettes and the whiskey
laughs from the next table over. He’ll get so lost in his own
thoughts that he’ll eventually catch his friends staring at
him, and he will have to study their expressions to know
what sort of response is required of him. (A nod to Kerouac.)
You see, the beat generation wasn’t just about writing,
and this movement isn’t just about skating. I can be
whatever I want, whenever I want. I’m not limiting
myself. Right now I want to be a writer. But if I wanted,
I could be a damn unicorn. And screw anyone who says
otherwise.

One year. One year’s a long time. I mean. Especially at our age.
I’m 24, you’re 23. And we spent a year of that apart. I missed
you turning your favorite number (and then there was some
other important event in December…). You want to know how
I was in that year apart? Study the character of Oliver Tate,
especially after he wrongs Jordana. He was heartbroken, not
only over the loss of his love, but also over the fact that he
hurt her so deeply. I’ve been there. I’ve stared at crashing
waves blankly for hours on end. But then, after it all, there
you were. Your back was to me. You were wearing that
green coat. I ran to you. Across the empty beach. You turned,
and in that moment I saw it really was you. And now I am
without you again, though it’s a different type of without.
I am only without you when you sleep, when I sleep. I
am only without you as much as we allow ourselves to
be without each other. When I open my eyes and close
the shades, I know you are there. Waiting for me to rise.
This is just a silly little verse to let you know that I’m
always thinking of you. I will always write about you.

Always.
No one could take your place.
No one.

She makes me feel like the protector of a precious treasure. Like I’m the happiest man on earth and my life’s an epic movie. When I walk down a broken sidewalk with her, I feel like I’m strolling a red carpet with my supermodel girlfriend. She makes me confident as the brashest rapper, tall as a Carolina pine, high as 1960′s San Fran, rich as…

It’s this girl…

She makes me feel invincible, but keeps me grounded in reality. I feel electricity in her kiss, giddy like a kid at Disney World, tipsy with aspiration, and filled with inspiration. (My true muse.) I’m valued, trusted, needed, cherished, and loved.

It’s this girl…

And she makes me feel like a leader, provider, and adult. She laughs at my jokes like I’m a skinny Louis C.K. with Clydes on. She makes me feel interesting, attractive, connected, and happy. I feel my heart soften with every text, call, look, touch, kiss. I’m fearless.

It’s this girl…

And she makes me feel like a man. There’s so much to learn, but if she’ll let me, I can lead on into the darkness. She lights up the darkest night and jokes about my quirks. She makes me feel…right.

It’s this girl, and I want her for mine, for all the lives. I don’t care about distance or the flaws we’ve both displayed in the past. I know her dark side and she knows mine and we both know the darkness has been conquered. I couldn’t care what her detractors say or what my enemies mumble; the truth has been spoken.

So I lie my head down and rest, knowing that when the day turns to next, I’ll awake from a text from the purest heart I’ve met. And when I go out on the weekend, I keep my eyes to myself. Cause you see…

It’s this girl.

you’re the kinda beautiful that makes married men
shoo you from the bar. shoo shoo. you’re the kinda
gorgeous that makes southern girls tell me ‘your
girlfriend is sooo pretty.’ i just laugh and nod my

noggin. what can i say? ‘thanks?’ i didn’t do that. ‘i
know?’ that’s cocky. or is it? so i just grin and nod,
arch my eyebrows, raise my drink. to beauty. to
beginnings. to maturity. to adding some black

and white to this grey, grey world. and while
you snoozed on the sixth floor, i was in that
glassed-in bathroom writing metaphors in a
steno pad. it’s a writer’s life for me. the words

have never left me. the word has never left me,
and so i live my life this way. this is good. this is
real. i always thought our honesty ‘kick’ was more
of a lifestyle. now i know it is. i am as transparent

as a…as an…a…okay…i didn’t get very far on those
metaphors, but my head is buried in writing novels
these days. that’s a different beast. it’s a different
animal, but these poems mean so much more to me.

one day, i’ll give you a private reading, and you’ll
hear them the way they’re meant to be. for now, just
know what they mean. this is my document of my life,
first for myself, and then for the world. it feels good

to be this open, this exposed. bad and good, i am
accepted. despite my past flaws and disasters, and
despite the same sun that sets over two separate
horizons, you still care. you still accept. and i

learned the meaning of forgiveness when i was
thirteen in a dusty old building on main street,
jonesville, south carolina. i’ve know forgiveness,
but you–you are a brilliant refresher course. it’s

not an easy path, but we both long to be refined;
we desire to trust, not in chariots, but in the name
of our creator. so if others hold grudges and do
battle with their chariots and steeds, we will take

shelter in our lord. i may be a writer, but i know
that words are only words. it’s the action that
holds the proof–the proof of love or hate. (and
yes, donnie, i know it’s not always that simple,

but right now it is.) actions hold proof. love is
sacrifice. hatred is a dark, slippery rock. we have
both been rescued. and now we have big things to
do. but we will approach them in baby steps. sets of

three.

Just enough dark to see, How you delight over me…

Just wanted to let you guys know (and yes I do know your IP Addresses and cities of origin!) that I re-posted a ton of my back catalog (my back pages, if you will). Some of my best writing is in there! So skip to like page 17 or 18 and stalk that ish out! And keep them hits coming!

Charlie

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