Jake Nannery

30/06/2009: Hilltop Colony, Waiheke Island, New Zealand

2009-06-30T01:00:00.002+12:00

Although I've done the leaving, I feel left behind. Although it's Sad, It's understood. And I hope, and I have faith that we'll get to finish what we started someday. But I'm so far away. And no one to blame. this time it falls on me. But again it's Confusion, it's grief. And I should be Asleep, next to her in bed, but it's your velvet skin that I'm Pining for instead. And no one I can trust, no time to be honest with any one. I'm left Alone with my lust. or is it just fantasy and what I can't forget? Is it just moments of memory that get best just before you regret? Solved the mystery of youth by refusing to get old.

15/5/2009: Hilltop Colony, Waiheke Island, New Zealand

2009-05-15T14:21:00.003+12:00

Heavy rain means long showers.
even a light drizzle means
an extra five minutes soaking.
while i miss the sun
i can still be grateful.
they've told me this means
i'm a local now.

15/6/2008: Geodesic Dome, Fountain Valley, AZ

2009-04-03T02:31:00.001+13:00

asked to answer the question 'why are you the way you are' in 3 paragraphs, i replied:

The last several years of my life have been spent in a strange ebb and flow of excessive work and excessive adventurous vacation, with an approximate ratio of one year to five months, respectively. This comes from working (read: “Whoring”) as a contractor with major software development corporations both in Seattle and Los Angeles while simultaneously working as a studio and performing musician in both markets as well. The former pays the bills, the latter is non-negotiable. Prior to this lifestyle, I was dedicated to educating myself at a university near Los Angeles as well as the pursuit of a career in radio broadcasting. Before that I lived in a small suburb of Seattle called Auburn, where I was born, raised and almost didn’t graduate from High School.

It would almost feel like a cop-out to say ‘I am the way I am because I was born this way,’ but I feel there to be a large vein of truth in that statement. Being a subscriber to the Sartrian idea of Facticity (the belief that we can neither control to whom we are born, which gender or into what station) I believe that many of my talents, gifts and handicaps are beyond my control, and are the ‘lego blocks’ of what makes me ‘why I am the way I am.’

Legos do not assemble themselves, however (yet). For the assembly of the character you see before you, I would turn to my two Parents (Still married, still in the same house I was raised in). They relentlessly encouraged me in my strengths, and never allowed for any handicap (Half-deaf, no depth perception) to even be a consideration, let alone a problem. Their tutelage through my youth gave me the skill and confidence I needed to surround myself with friends, mentors, idols and other environmental elements which helped to further define the ‘why.’ This influence becomes eerily and abundantly clear to those that have the fortune to meet either my Mother or my Father.

04/02/2009: Nikau Ranch, Waiheke Is. New Zealand

2009-02-04T10:57:00.002+13:00

i find this difficult to explain,
but it hurts my feelings when you ask if i'm ever coming home.

or you ask the more simple 'when.'

i don't have an answer.

beyond that, i couldn't tell you where i'm going next,
or when i'm leaving here,
let alone what it is i'm looking for.

27/06/2008: The Outback, Pennfield Mountain, PA

2009-01-29T02:05:00.001+13:00

I’ve nowhere to go…
…and all day to get there.
Not a day goes by that I don’t ask myself what the hell I’m doing.
Or what the hell it is I’m doing it for.
Every mile I gain is one I have to give back.
But I keep adding more,
Going into a continental debt.

Don’t think for a minute that I’ve not looked back.
either over my shoulder,
or in the mirror.

when I fell
I was afraid that I’d let you down, too.
so I picked up. rode on.
when I thought of turning back
I thought of how far I hadn’t come
how much I hadn’t seen.
I knew you’d understand if I returned
but I’d never forgive myself
for seeing you again so soon.
when the well was dry
and the gas low
I pushed on
with no net.
North, and East.
the plan stuck to me.
I write in spite of myself.
I don’t write where I should
…
this isn’t going up.
not yet.
I’ve not even reached the half-way mark yet.
too many more miles to ride.
too much more to see.
before I can see you again.
before I can be safe to see you again.

29/09/2005: 808 house, Seattle, WA

2009-01-29T01:05:00.002+13:00

i feel my feet movin'
but can't hit the ground
it's a catalogue that's spinnin'
in this old home-town
while you are lookin' elsewhere
and i'm too down low to say no
we've collided in these covers
used ourselves to hurt us both

this ain't all it looks like
i ain't sure what it does
but it's empty
and it's pointless
and it's bad for us both
once is twice too many
and twice is the same
and if it happens a third time
hey, i just might ask you to stay

this sure ain't what it looks like
not too sure why it is
but it's painful
and it's hurtful
and it's a bad, bad idea.
this last time is too many
like those other two times before
when it happens another,
i just might show you the door

this ain't what it looks like
still not sure what it does.
now i've gone and comitted self destruction
right about when i was ready to cash out
once it too many
twice is more of the same
but now i've gone and lost count
i'm so sick of this game

i feel my feet movin'
but i can't quite hit the ground
it's like i'm on a god damn merry-go-round spinning
in my own home-town
while you are busy lookin' elsewhere for love
and i'm just too god damned low to say 'no.'
we've collided in these covers
and used ourselves to hurt us both

25/01/2009: Nikau Ranch, Waiheke Is. New Zealand

2009-01-25T20:02:00.004+13:00

no one is perfect
if we were this life would be a lot less exciting.
If it wasn't difficult, how would we impress each other?

Ok, my dear, sweet, lovely, imperfectly perfect Dove
I'm going to go ride my broken scooter to my underpaying job and overwork for the day.
But i'll think of you.
and that much i can do without a single flaw.
'cause i've done it so often
that i have it down by heart.

22/07/2008: Ogden House, Clearfield, PA

2009-01-16T14:18:00.000+13:00

Seattle,

Hey.
in case you were wondering
you’re on my mind a lot.
Most of my life I’ve run from you
Or I’ve tried to win you back
show myself it could work…
even made a convincing attempt once.
in all the people I’ve met, and cities I’ve seen
I’ve fallen in love a million times.
there are none like you.
you are a simple beauty
a lasting one.
comfortable, safe
exciting and promising
always there
in the top left corner of my mind
no matter how long I’m gone
or how far I stray
I still turn back to you
if only in my heart.

amor fati,

-j-

18/07/2007: Evening Commute, SR-520, Seattle, WA

2009-01-14T20:25:00.000+13:00

re-inspired and reignited.
the flame never extinguished,
took sleepless morning dawn to
find the coals buried deep
beneath layers of muck-thick
booze and jobs and loss and
drugs and pain-laughed-off
dismissive. looking to feel
loved, overlooking the ones
who love most. self. tuning
the string between a flat
self worth and a sharp ego
keeping the pitch below fever
and above the knees.

i want to dance with her again.
i want to see her sunshine bounce through the crowd for the first time.
i want to lay her naked beneath the pool-table and make clumsy and awkward love
i want to swim naked in the glowing ocean flirting with her and life-devastating choices
i want to have been stronger when she comforted me, and to have offered comfort in return
i want to be bed-deep in passion, not remembering her name, only knowing her as alice.
i want to break a futon, laugh, and carry on.
i want to hear legions of neighbors and transients yell at the park's pre-dawn reflection in a third-story window
i want to hold her shivering behind the gym and kiss her under the autumn moon
i want to stand in the center aisle looking up at her in the choir-loft as she sings
i want to loathe her unforgiving boyfriend as she hides scarred arms, and love her silently despite him
i want to hate how i treated her, and still years later, find myself hating and still forgiven.
i want to sit with my arms around her as she confesses her plight, begging me to love her instead.
i want to strum clumsily for her again in the practice room, singing lyrics i still don't have
i want to ask her to dance in that polka-dot dress as the gym-lights become un-dim
i want to be by the fire, feeling her behind me as she hums beneath an E7, hoping not to be heard.
i want to ask her "why him?" then years later understand.
i want to place a valentine sticker on a pick and dedicate that song to her forever
i want to hold her hand on the tour bus, hiding it beneath the pillow as her boyfriend stands on the platform with flowers.
i want to get caught in the noose of a bowling ball, compatriots pulling on my legs to tighten the knot.
i want to stroke her curly blonde hair in a california night, tears soaking an old grey shirt.
i want to sing suckerpunch top-volume as state-lines are crossed
i want to go down to the van for a coffee and a chat.
i want to sit cross legged on the floor of an empty living room, and lose at rummy.
i want to hold hands in the prince edward theater, descending from the balcony
i want to feel her to lean in, press closer as her velvet purple gown brushes my hand, and whisper "yes."
i want

amor fati,

-j-

17/1/2008: Building 50, Redmond, WA

2009-01-10T03:12:00.000+13:00

'the district sleeps alone tonight.'
and thanks to the postal service i'm thinking of you.
you asked me not to allow this to remind me of us.
but now that you've asked, it always does.

i've never been so unstable.
or have i always had these moods?
i think you'd know better than anyone.
i kept myself from everyone but you.

and now the ones i'm closest to
count me as buttoned up.
close to the vest.
quiet.

i prefer to listen. it's hard to talk. i've nothing worth sharing with them.

though they always ask.
it's always a show.
it's always the words they'd rather hear.
it's usually true.
a true song and dance.

The greatest fiction is truth.
The greatest fiction is truthful misdirection.

even if i confess
they hear their own version
their own facts of fiction.

if i chase what i want
i'm left wanting.

if i accept what i've been given
i'm left hunting.

the pattern is becoming clear
and there's a comfort in it.
a solace
i know the result.
and am willing to accept
the price of loss
for the time in-between.

although, now buried in the muck
up to my ankles in it
while standing on my head,

i run from what's found for me
and want what's not sound for me.

Buddha on a bathroom wall.

new steps with old shoes.

2009-01-08T00:44:00.000+13:00

this'll be brief.
though i'm not very good at 'brief.'
i'm off to bed soon, to watch a film.
hopefully sleep.
just finished Kerouac and Burrough's "And the Hippos' Were Boiled in Their Tanks.'
It was great. Thanks, Tiff.
...I love the shirt, too.

I've successfully revived my old laptop.
it died in Fiji unexpectedly.
...that's a lie. I've been expecting this old horse
to give up the ghost ages ago.
much like the iPod which died a month ago,
after so many years and miles and scrapes, twists and falls.
but apparently, when rejoined with the old Toshiba, found a reason to play again.

...i'm glad for those things. Small touches of home.

I had a great few phone calls with old friends these last few days.

I think i'm always homesick.

new steps, old shoes.

g'night.

amor fati.

-j-

25/11/2008: QuickCat Ferry, Harukai Gulf, Auckland

2008-12-04T00:54:00.000+13:00

I've been down on both sides
and twice on the same
Now more than a far way from Home
still a long way to go.
Standing on the wrong side of the ball
writing with my fathers' pen.

Quickly across the Auckland Gulf
Away from the setting sun
Orion is upside-down
his sword unsheathed
but the stronger sun
behind the clouds
still sets in the East.

Quickly away from the silhouette
of a city I hardly know as home
the sun shines silver through the evening clouds:
platinum & chrome.

I'm not sure how to take all of this in.
It all feels so unreal.
So new, adapting has become old-hat.
I almost long for a place I won't fit in.
to feel the sting
of unwelcome
and unloved.
But mind what you wish for,
You might actually get it.
I live in Paradise.
Jade Seas
Sailboats,
Isolated on an island,
but minutes from a city.

I will never fully know this world.

The side-streets of Auckland are,
and i fear always will be,
Foreign to me.
Even sleepy Oneroa,
where my face is known to most,
will never be intimate
never naked
flaws and scars
never known by me.

Every City, every town,
Every friend and every lover
is a mystery.

Each with secrets they share,
puzzles to solve
and histories buried.
Stories left untold
Questions better left unasked.

amor fati,

-j-

04/01/2008: Montlake Bus Station, Seattle, WA

2008-12-04T00:07:00.000+13:00

"...Where do I start?"

I find I am constantly asking myself this same question.
Perhaps i should begin to ask myself 'How shall I continue?'
After all, this is not the first page i've penned. Not the first book i've written in. Each new beginning is a sequel to the story before it.
Especially in this form: the Journal.
Same World.
Same Hand.
Some new characters enter and old friends depart. When all is said and done, this book is less a "sequel" and more an 'Installment.' In-so-much as it's a brief glimpse into my life as i see fit to put it down. Not all of my secrets and truths lie here.

only the ones that i have courage enough to share.

...And even those are filtered and skewed most times.

my sense of self too great, my ego too proud to present itself any other way than as it sees itself.

How I am in the world is not how i let myself be seen in this world.

A long time ago I wrote 'From where is this pride?' putting the question fairly to myself.
Apparently not as new as i'd let on to Levert a few days ago, but certainly more present recently than it's ever been. Is it the new found money? the Trappings? Clothes?

Perhaps, but i fear those are more symptoms than causes. This pride existed years before the money, the bike, the clothes.

Can pride grow from a broken heart? Not the benevolent 'pride,' as a father of his son, but the sinful Pride. the Ego, the Stubborn, pig-headed brick-wall pride that drives people away and makes a man lonelier?

...perhaps. It would stand to reason, but I'll not hold her accountable for that. I've blamed her for more than her fair share of my own shortcomings.

And, as if Fate has a wicked sense of humor, the further i try to move on, move away, move forward, the more i miss those that i'm moving away from.

less like a line, where space is put between self and the ghosts behind you and more like a labyrinthine spiral, wall-less and never ceasing.

At times my back is to my past and I feel moved away, but at others i walk towards my past facing it full-on, staring it down. Other times my past exists beside me, a present reminder: not entirely unpleasant, but not always comforting.

I have always been an optimist because i have always felt like my vessel was an empty one. Instead of being bitter and angry over that, I somehow was given the gift to see the glass as empty of content, but full of promise.

Now, with glass more full than it's ever been i struggle with this now antiquated self-image.

I make decisions and choose paths that lead me back to it, never ending in happiness.

My vessel, now overflowing with value, as it's been overflowing in promise my entire life, has to be maintained and recognized, but gracefully, and with humility.

Still no better than any other man I am now no less than him either.

Though i may feel empty at times, I am simply feeling the value of promise reminding me that my cup is not yet full and i should strive to find the next accomplishment to fill it.

"It is often the quietest man in the room who has the most strength."

My goal is to practice living that.

I will make that my purpose. If I feel i have nothing brilliant to say, I will say nothing.
When I have something importatnt to say, I will speak.

Everything else should be put down to paper because often-times there are thoughts blurted by me that need simply to be refined in order to reflect their true and full meaning.

-j-

31/7/2008: Boston University Bookstore, Boston, MA

2008-12-03T23:53:00.001+13:00

Naomi from Indy asked 'how is the writing going?' in an email.

i didn't respond.

She assumed, and rightly, that this journey, this trip is full of experience, inspiration, and muse.
So much so that i'm overwhelmed by it. I'm not sure where to start, or how to translate.

i lack the language to share.
i lack the discretion to choose which story and how to begin.
i lack the energy to recount.

i've spent hundreds of pages re-telling, noting and sharing and still i feel that it's only just the surface:
a pencil sketch of the life i'm living.
my own words fail and pale next to my experience. I can't think of where to start.
Maybe it'll take months.
Or years.

I realized on the road that these stories will only be told when I tell them.
Sadly, I can only tell them one at a time.
I'm in Boston, waiting for a book store to open so i can purchase another few notebooks.
I wonder how many pages i'll fill before I'm done
I wonder how and when I'll decide to truly begin.
Lately it's taken so much energy just living that i've not had the desire to reflect on it.
It's all in 'stages' i suppose.
There's the 'Gathering', 'Reflection' and 'Performance' stage. my cycle.
I'd like to bring those three more closely together.
I do realize how silly it seems to be writing and saying 'I wish i was writing more.'

...especialy after filling a book and a half in four days.
What i mean to say is that I'm not writing what I want.
OR,
more exactly,
what i want to be writing doesn't seem to be coming out.

no lyrics.
no poems.
no witty rhyme or prose or poetic line.

I not only need a muse, I also need a location and space to entertain her.
(an aside: I'd written 'I think,' before that last line, but i've taken it back, because I know.)

...ok, the store is open.

...time to buy more books, send mail, and explore.

-j-