An Allusion to the Illusion of Seasonal Allergies…and some Hemingway for good measure

“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.” 
― Ernest HemingwayA Moveable Feast

36942884I’m not really sure what to make of Hemingway anymore. His work, at least what I’ve come to swallow, is very hit or miss. Take most everyone’s favorite book to burn, The Old Man and the Sea. I wanted to fucking suicide myself when my English teacher, Mrs. Beans (don’t even get me started on the caliber of torture we put her through on the basis of her name alone) handed each of us a copy of this book. Really; I’d heard enough horror stories about it that by the time I was told part of my grade depended on sifting through the proverbial hogwash of a writer with more self-entitled literary endowment than myself, I was ready to take the risk of actually failing the class just to satisfy my then somewhat pubescent rebellious lust. Much later in life, however, I was able to read it again and marveled at its simplicity, yet very true complex study of more than just what the title offers.

However, I’ve yet to really truly find a reason to respect Hemingway’s work; it’s just not my flavor, and personally I don’t see what the big deal is about him. This might sound self-defeating, as I myself am flirting with a glass full of Jameson as I write this very sentence. And as all us writers know, a liquid-enhanced ego is not always as tasteful as we presume it to be.

The aforementioned quote, albeit a bit wordy and round-about, stung me just the right way. And while I absolutely loathe everything there is that exists Springtime-related, mainly due to my biased hatred of my allergies, these musings throttled my loins especially:

“…if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits.”

This does not apply to just springtime alone, or whatever it was Hemingway had been thinking about at the time of spewing this passage. People seem to limit themselves like clockwork; whether it be out of a falsified sense of security or by habit or by curse…people will forever be tormented by the unavoidable mental flytrap of thinking they have to stick by limiting themselves if they are to survive. The saddest part being most of those people acknowledge the presence of their limits, but have never actually considered the alternative lifestyle that bases itself quite poetically on the philosophy of limiting those limits. Having such a narrow mindset, they might as well kill themselves now and get it over with. We all die in the end anyway, so if you aren’t going to take advantage of life’s testicles, then why not?


I hate springtime; the allergies, the bees, the hornets, the pansies, the weeding, the neighborhood brats that seem to have a serious lack of parenting about their asses; hell, even the sky takes on a shade of blue I’d rather not be acquainted with. Easter; the celebration of Zombie Jesus. Baseball. The Philadelphia Sillies and their worse-than-dirt “fans”. The HEAT….oh the HEAT. I’m an Autumn Man, full of Fall, I even bask in the occasional snowfall in nothing but m’panties…but spring…NO. Just NO.

The only thing I can say about spring, to sheepishly tie everything together into one massive knot of bullshit for this episode of Dave Matthes’ Brain on Whiskey and Love, and other Drugs, is that springtime always seems to bring about a sense of renewal. Those tragedies we may or may not have had to endure during the dead of winter, making us feel weighed down to the earth and thus limiting our strength to go on…springtime, even the smell of the very air, seems to remind me that everything is going to be okay…

…assuming I can get through spring of course.

Ernest, whatever your drug of choice was during the nights you shat out the literary feast that became A Moveable Feast, forget about the seasons…focus on the sinister super glue keeping our limits attached to our hearts; but then again…     

Write on, my literary lovelies, write on ❤

Love, hope, and quasi-meaningful death,
-Dave Matthes

Luck: The Most Fowl of Illusions

First off, I’m not actually a “published” or “signed” author or even as many would proclaim, even recognizable as a legit “author” by what most of society deems as being an actual author. So writing this little blurb(more or less a rant) based on our topic of the month at hand might seem a bit unnerving and silly.

I am however a writer; a self-published writer, but still a writer. Because what do writers do? They write. Sometimes until their genitals bleed. My “self-published” status is mostly due to the fact that I don’t actually intend on ever being “signed” or “published” by any of the big names or any names at all if I can help it. I don’t want a contract with deadlines controlling my every move, I don’t want someone telling me “what’s hot” or “this is what’s selling, so write about this”; in hindsight I would cease to be a writer, in turn surrendering over my material. I don’t want “what the public is currently into” to dictate what I have to write about in order to make a buck. And after a hundred demanded rewrites and re-edits, whatever words I’ve splooged would cease to actually be my material. Of course the aforementioned is not how the gun show plays out every time, but it’s just not the road I want to go down. It’s not the kind of risk I’m fond of taking when my words are on the line.


With that said, luck has absolutely nothing to do with my writing/publishing process…I simply get inspired by life, write my ish with whatever verbatim my literary libido prescribes, get a few opinions from close friends, edit the piss out of it once, twice, thrice…(maybe this is where luck comes into play, as in editing my own work it is impossible to catch every single little tid bitty of a lyrical error)…and finally upload my manuscript and cover designs to Lulu’s media platform and BAZINGA….out comes my spawn in the form of a paperback 🙂

Simple, methodic, religious, and a bit tedious at times…but it’s better than being just the flavor of the week. I prefer doing all the work myself. 100% control is my bitch….perhaps to a fault, perhaps not; I haven’t decided, maybe it’s best not to decide. Maybe it doesn’t matter at all and it’s completely and irrevocably irrelevant; I’ll leave it up to Black Jesus to decide.

Of course, my literary loves, this does not mean I respect you professionally-signed peeps any less or at all; I love you all because we all share a love for the written art. And while I don’t give “luck”  a second’s thought in regards to my writing or everyday life, I do believe that being optimistic plays a key role in our respective literary worlds. In the end, I like to hope that luck plays a very minor role in our respective positions…as we are all artists, and as artists we must create from life…not depend on luck.

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Psithurism Is Not a Sound, but a Relationship; Love In Not a Privilege, but an Inheritance…

The following disquisition is best read while listening to a playlist consisting of sensually thematic tunes, preferably with a hint of oriental eroticism…if you cannot find anything with those flavors, anything by Enya will do. Trust me, the right music can make even the most lackluster of stimulation seem like a self-guided tour of Elizabeth Taylor’s formative years. A bottle or two of wine can’t hurt either 😉

There are some things better left unsaid, some dreams unrealized, some people untouched and unkissed. And every “once upon a setting sun”, a question deserves to remain unanswered, as if the very mystery itself were a romantical panty-peeler. But in the sporadically-profound words of the quasi-overrated Ernest Hemingway:

“……the sun also rises.”

When was the last time you woke up on any given morning, opened your eyes and through the soaking sunrise realized you were simply a figment simpatico with that of some grand universal scheme set into motion by a nameless dreamer searching for the one true definition of “love”? Absolution may be a rite of passage, but there is no certainty if there’s simply an inkling of an attraction based on curiosity, lust, and the unknown…otherwise known as the ugly stepsister of “Love”; I’ve found that it’s not only essential to know the difference, but it is imperative to have dipped neck-deep into both with the threat of a drowning death draped across one’s shoulders.

A kiss, widely seen as little more than a momentary pact made between lovers, is sometimes further short-sighted by the more materially-bound individual. Because a kiss does not always have to connect two pairs of lips, quivering and fate-bound as they may seem. No, a kiss, as gentle as a snowflake touching down after a long, knuckle-cracking descent, is quite possibly the beginning of love. Of course, if one is to understand the concept of love, the wise wanderer would dare not ignite one’s self with the incinerating burden of limitations. In the same manner as children have no knowledge of time, love has no relationship with limitation.

I’ve kissed many a woman, felt the warmth of pursed-lips innumerable. I’ve looked into the eyes of both the innocent and the damned, of the tired and the damaged. I’ve cradled the hands of those who might for all I’ve been convinced to believe, have no need for something as deep and fathomless an abyss as “love” or even, dare I say, forgiveness. These hands…things fingers…these lips; they’re merely tools to conceptualize and massage and form and carve out the makings of a perfect night lost in the embrace of the opposite sex. From an inlooker’s point of view, there may be a considerable amount of judgment to be inflicted against my cause; however, even I know physical pleasures are scalded by limitations when “Love” is on the horizon. Love is a journey, my dear friend; love is tragic and romantic, enlightening and frantic…and it does not come without trial and error, the occasional travesty, and sacrifice. And from what I’ve discovered through my own personal hiraeth, is that the eyes may be the windows to her all-but derelict soul, but the lips are the stronghold imprisoning that which aspires to be her heart; a kiss may very well free even the deepest surrenderer from that asylum which they’ve given birth to themselves.

In the face of all this, I do not mean to impose that a kiss itself is a symbol of love, but perhaps the scent of something more…the wind cascading between open mouths when coupled with two pairs of ocular chrysanthemums, a reminder that time does not govern the townships of the soul or for that matter, the loins; mayhaps that is a worthy representation of that crippling bridge. However, as aforementioned, love is a journey, more importantly a one-way journey; there will always be one more drop of blood to shed. With every morning I’ve been lucky enough to abhor, I can only hope for more to learn, even if the torrential winds responsible for Love be coexistent alongside currents of heartbreak; after all, there is a purpose for everything, and Time is merely a crutch.

And so, in the words of my most recent therapist, whose whereabouts remain unknown:

“…love is not a privilege, but an inheritance.”

On the Edge of a New Year; A Maelstrom of Resolutions Beckons…

In this house, we lived, and we died…the two of us, we traversed these halls with our feet, gracing the bookshelves with our fingertips; we serenaded the sun through each passing season. Together, you and I, a seamless attraction whirling around with no visible center. Why would this wall, this invisible piece of injustice dare divide us now…why now when all we’ve ever done is neglect time itself?

There couldn’t be a verb, an adjective, a noun, a pronoun profound enough to literarily liberate the emotion, the feeling, the thought and power felt below my feet as I turned onto that forested bypass, leaving the city and suburbs of my post-adolescence behind. It was freedom without a flag, pestilence without a cure; both likewise and subverted. And in lighting the spliff held gingerly between my aged, wrinkled and dilapidated lips, my destiny was prolonged only for the better. If the night were thicker, I might cast myself into an ocean of doubt. If my headlights were any dimmer I might exalt myself under the most rude of Kings. It seemed that the only obstacle on the start of my journey was merely the wind; backward and pressing it was, as the Autumn always presumed it to be. And I felt as though I might be a kite without a string, a hook without bait; yes, the only deceit at my fingertips being the dirt beneath their fingernails. This journey of mine, wherever it took me, would be my last…

As I hold this glass close to my heart, the condensation soaks through this mosaic-kissed tundra my fingerprints masquerade behind, just as your stare once delved its way deep into the void where my soul once subsisted. The setting sun, if it could be labeled as such, reminds me this is only one end and only one beginning; a sequence not unfamiliar to myself nor you and yet a flavor of a taste I’d soon rather forget. There won’t be a return to be had, a turn-around or a way back once I raise this glass; this one final toast I dedicate to the years you’ve been a friend to me, and a lover to the years and years in tow following soon after.

“As a counselor of the weather behind these eyes,
as an emotion-gambling tempest to elude,
you’ve given me naught but a star to wish upon,
naught but a train to chase,
naught but a whisper to ascend and eternally a fear to face…..”

Here’s to one final flight, one last ascension, a rebellious apotheosis;
for the one thing a new year never brings is the promise of a lie and the forgiveness of those not who have fallen, but have been taken. This is not as selfish as an oath made between the faithful, nor as colorless as a promise kept between friends; no…this is the only purpose I am suitable for, this is the only ultimatum these tears can touch. When we meet again, this terrible form I have become will be like that of glass, and you will see that I can do more than merely aspire to transcend above this mortal coil. Until then, may the dreams you exist within find their way swiftly into this kinesthetically-cursed desolation that I have subconsciously sewn in your absence.

In This House, We Lived, and We Died, is a story about a man, aged and lost, in mind, body, and spirit, whose last quest takes him into the deepest abysses, across the sharpest precipices, and through the darkest abscesses of his soul so that he may collect the shattered and sunken remains of his all-but vanquished memory. A sort of Spiritual Epic in the same way "What Dreams May Come" inspires to alter life dispositions, and in the same way "Fight Club" aspires to inspire with violent psychological psithurism, "In This House, We Lived, and We Died" aims to break all the rules of the literary journey and set a new tone for the world of imagination.Release Date: Late 2013

In This House, We Lived, and We Died, is a story about a man, aged and lost, in mind, body, and spirit, whose last quest takes him into the deepest abysses, across the sharpest precipices, and through the darkest abscesses of his soul so that he may collect the shattered and sunken remains of his all-but vanquished memory. A sort of Spiritual Epic in the same way “What Dreams May Come” inspires to alter life dispositions, and in the same way “Fight Club” aspires to inspire with violent psychological psithurism, “In This House, We Lived, and We Died” aims to break all the rules of the literary journey and set a new tone for the world of imagination.
Release Date: Late 2013