G&G Is Dead, World is Wilder

I started this blog to publish a series of radio play style podcasts two years ago. It turned into an EDC blog, almost prepper at times. It sat for a winter and nagged at my soul, nibbling pieces of my heart to return to writing. I came back to Denver and picked up posting short stories and poetry, until I realized this blog is like a junk drawer of my thoughts.

I like junk drawers, but I’m not 16 anymore. Nor am I 21. I am 30 (almost), which means nothing and everything. Thus, without further ado I am laying to rest my little Garden. Father Alabaster will have to poke his head out in another story. Until then, there is always my homepage and portfolio over there at my name River Wharton.

OR! You can follow my new creativity and adventure blog: World Is Wilder

Thanks for all the good times!

(Also, WiW will NOT be posting to Facebook. Thank you very much.)

Diary Entry January 12, 2014

Honestly stunned by summerlike weather mid-January. Supposed to write my thoughts down, supposed to spend however long a day writing, supposed to supposed to. All I can think about are summer bike rides through downtown. Pedaling the heat away. Falling asleep at Wash Park. Lying out on my rooftop. The slow days. Waking to a gaggle of geese surrounding my bench. The slow days…

Each one the same. Waking up with nothing to do, not much money, surviving on caffeine and nicotine. An awful balance, but it got me through some rough times. The shower was the hottest part of the house, between the steam and morning window. I would take cold shower. Run a brush over my teeth while I picked out what to wear. My closet still had my suitcase in it, filled with cut off button up t-shirts. Make my way to Crema. Ride along Walnut taking pictures of forgotten signs and inspired graffiti. Ride to Gorditas y Tacos, fill mine with tender pork and cactus. Grab a couple 24oz PBRs for $3 and ride home. I would sit on the floor, next to the window, to feel the breeze. Stevie Wonder crackling out of my broken cassette player and watch the clouds, naming them wonder and awe. Ride downtown to The Market, buy cheese and meat placing it between slices of the loaf I baked the day before. I gave the rest to a man struggling at a bench off 18^th and Blake.

The Call of the Wild

National Wild Life Refuge, Lake Mary Pathway

“The trouble with drug addiction is that it really isn’t about the drugs, no matter how much most people seem to believe that. Drug addiction is a means to an end. It begins usually as a way to try something new, to try and get high, to try and transport yourself somewhere else, to try and just feel better for a minute.

Most drug use is self medication for the things that people either can’t or won’t cope with in real life. The root of most of all that? Mental health conditions, the huge piece of this issue that we find ourselves ignoring all too often every time drugs are involved.” –DeBie Hive Blog

I am truly appalled when people insist on imposing their ideology on the lives of others, BUT…

In the spirit of quietness and self-reflection I have deleted most of the following blog post. I don’t obsess over, or even particularly like, Russell Brand as a comedian or an actor. Nevertheless, his piece in The Guardian, which I have linked below, brought me to tears. I think it is an adequate side note to the Philip Seymour Hoffman discussion, which has filled news feeds since his death.

“Because, even now, the condition persists. Drugs and alcohol are not my problem, reality is my problem, drugs and alcohol are my solution.

If this seems odd to you it is because you are not an alcoholic or a drug addict. You are likely one of the 90% of people who can drink and use drugs safely. I have friends who can smoke weed, swill gin, even do crack and then merrily get on with their lives. For me, this is not an option. I will relinquish all else to ride that buzz to oblivion. Even if it began as a timid glass of chardonnay on a ponce’s yacht, it would end with me necking the bottle, swimming to shore and sprinting to Bethnal Green in search of a crack house. I look to drugs and booze to fill up a hole in me; unchecked, the call of the wild is too strong. I still survey streets for signs of the subterranean escapes that used to provide my sanctuary. I still eye the shuffling subclass of junkies and dealers, invisibly gliding between doorways through the gutters. I see that dereliction can survive in opulence; the abundantly wealthy with destitution in their stare.”

-Russell Brand: My Life Without Drugs

Note: I know his article is a bit dated, but still seemed to fit.

River Cramer

River Cramer

I am very excited to announce my new personal website, which will effectively be my virtual portfolio. Go here if you want to read what I am writing for other people, buy what I am selling online, or see the pictures I am drawing. Sort of a little milestone. Thanks!

Poem

Sometimes it is just nice to have someone around

When all the snow turns to ash
And they are banging at your door
Calling for heads or sex or guilt or money
Just when them bangers are calling for hearts
It would be nice to have someone around
Someone to talk to
Someone to participate in the expansion
Of an all too quiet universe