29 June 2009
Scott Dots
I am misread. I seem motivated. I seem to have a future. Hard working. But that's only because it's the only way I know how.
28 June 2009
Road Diary
Road travels -
so much is gained in transit.
We were reaching for colors.
Even from across the street, L could sense J's willingness to like her handsome companion. The blond Virginian wake boarder lead them to his SUV four-runner, turning on his XM and GPS system, as well as other luxury-typed items J doesn't usually see in vehicles belonging to people his age. Later learning that the blond's name is S, J discovered that the East Coaster had a likable personality, who excitedly and eloquently described his two-week, five-thousand-mile cross-country road trip to completely transplant his life in San Francisco. A strong feat that J admitted openly of being jealous. Even with the exception of S's poor music tastes, J knew that the Virginian was a good person, and responded accordingly.
Little else could be said, except throughout the day, J noticed - or searched - subtle accounts in whether S and L had an interest in one another. It was easy to tell with her. She flirted, and physically responded with a grip on the forearm or a punch on the chest - signs of semi-violent affection. A quirk she had sometimes practiced on J. As S and her looked over S's infant niece's pictures, she sat close behind his back on the arm of his armchair, carefully keeping her face close to his as they peered down the screen. She said snide and rude and playfully snark remarks at S's appearance, actions, and response to topics that arise. They sat thigh-to-thigh on the Metro, leaving J standing upright, gripping the overhead railing as they jostled through the tunnels under the city. S's muscular long limbs contrasted next to her petite body. Later standing in line for ice cream, she brushed her fingertips against S's lower backside, suggestively touching him under the guise of fixing his pockets; they playfully swatted each other bashfully. That might have been too far: after this exchange, J grabbed her and pulled her back sharply up against his chest - but quickly let go. She noticed, but didn't want to misread. J saw L studying S as he curiously asked vendors if they had licenses. Despite his pretty features and handsome physique, S had a clear understanding of goals and business. And he possessed a very clean attitude.
And so, the tension loosened when S departed from their party. He wanted to "head downtown" and casually strode off, leaving her and J alone. Whittled down to company of two, the dual walked around Dolores Park with their beer, dodging exposed bodies, and the messy masses of human celebration tightly squeezed in the tiny city block playing music and dancing provocative acts and showcasing various public insights of LGBT culture. L noticed that the first thing J wanted to point out as soon as S was out of earshot was that he was surprised that she had any "Bro" friends. Annoyed, she commented half-heartedly. As they wound around near the playground, she demanded that they halted because she complained of the heat, and in public, though it was hardly strange in the background of naked human figures, stripped bits of her clothing and settled in the grass. J, on the second or third thought, pulled off his shirt, risking a possible burn from the vivid sunlight of the June afternoon. The woman sitting besides them had a unique universe, and when she directed her attentions to them, it was like being trapped in the transporting beam of a spaceship; the aliens have you in their sight-lines. She talked with great frequency about her fascination with the Asian culture, in regards to L's ethnicity. They were mildly intrigued by her character, and respectfully listened and responded. At one point, she referred to them as a couple, exclaiming how they blended with each other well, being that L was so intelligent and charming. L blushed, and J didn't react with anything but his default smile. The woman eventually left, and after minutes of lying in the cool grass observing the celebrations around them, they got up to catch the Metro.
It was at this point that their conversation began to flow freely. At Dolores, they had fallen into silence for the sake of observation and a habitual awkwardness. In transit, they laughed and joked. Tiredly, she ran up to her flat to change. Because of their past comfort with the issue, she quickly changed in front of him, and when she turned towards the closet, she felt his hands clasp on her breasts. They began passionately kissing and L felt J on her, but she eventually gained control, and they soon left the apartment.
The ride there was extremely conversational. They were able to stay on topics for long periods of time without noticing the passage of time or the lack in thought for what they had to say. They reached Sacramento in seemingly little time, and spent the warm evening eating dinner outdoors at Pyramid Alehouse. By the time they settled themselves to see Hedwig and the Angry Inch, they had relaxed in each other's presence to the point of no longer noticing it. In their seats, she made honest observations about his habits, and curious about the honesty, J made inquiries regarding those observations.
Graciously, the show was fantastic. The lead who played the title role captivated the audience and completely engulfed the character with his talents. L was completely fascinated with the actor. They left in good spirits, and L drove the returning leg home, per agreement. On the road, she attempted to place life into art. As a driver or passenger, the cars driving around them are in streams, and the vehicles are in relation to one another and their matching speeds. If filmed, the patterns of the cars would look more uniform, and one would observe the effects of the road on the cars as opposed to the cars to one another. They smoked, and listened to music spanning from David Bowie to Modest Mouse to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers to the Jackson 5 and other Motown artists to old soul music to Tenacious D to Reefer Madness. J would light the pipe and pass it burning, "cherry," to L. She felt like he was breathing into her lungs, and was conscious of the odd symbolism. They became slightly fucked up during the drive: they sang at the top of their lungs, and bantered about nonsense. It was like a pretty fantasy, and even as L parked on her street, they sat for two more songs, though it was late and they had spent hours in the car. They tried to depart, and because it was only "try," she found herself on his lap feeling his bearded cheeks rub hers. In the dark, he made her wet his fingers twice, and he asked for no returns. In the street, she lingered on his breath and they slowly and gradually parted.
They disappeared into the warm fog.
so much is gained in transit.
We were reaching for colors.
Even from across the street, L could sense J's willingness to like her handsome companion. The blond Virginian wake boarder lead them to his SUV four-runner, turning on his XM and GPS system, as well as other luxury-typed items J doesn't usually see in vehicles belonging to people his age. Later learning that the blond's name is S, J discovered that the East Coaster had a likable personality, who excitedly and eloquently described his two-week, five-thousand-mile cross-country road trip to completely transplant his life in San Francisco. A strong feat that J admitted openly of being jealous. Even with the exception of S's poor music tastes, J knew that the Virginian was a good person, and responded accordingly.
Little else could be said, except throughout the day, J noticed - or searched - subtle accounts in whether S and L had an interest in one another. It was easy to tell with her. She flirted, and physically responded with a grip on the forearm or a punch on the chest - signs of semi-violent affection. A quirk she had sometimes practiced on J. As S and her looked over S's infant niece's pictures, she sat close behind his back on the arm of his armchair, carefully keeping her face close to his as they peered down the screen. She said snide and rude and playfully snark remarks at S's appearance, actions, and response to topics that arise. They sat thigh-to-thigh on the Metro, leaving J standing upright, gripping the overhead railing as they jostled through the tunnels under the city. S's muscular long limbs contrasted next to her petite body. Later standing in line for ice cream, she brushed her fingertips against S's lower backside, suggestively touching him under the guise of fixing his pockets; they playfully swatted each other bashfully. That might have been too far: after this exchange, J grabbed her and pulled her back sharply up against his chest - but quickly let go. She noticed, but didn't want to misread. J saw L studying S as he curiously asked vendors if they had licenses. Despite his pretty features and handsome physique, S had a clear understanding of goals and business. And he possessed a very clean attitude.
And so, the tension loosened when S departed from their party. He wanted to "head downtown" and casually strode off, leaving her and J alone. Whittled down to company of two, the dual walked around Dolores Park with their beer, dodging exposed bodies, and the messy masses of human celebration tightly squeezed in the tiny city block playing music and dancing provocative acts and showcasing various public insights of LGBT culture. L noticed that the first thing J wanted to point out as soon as S was out of earshot was that he was surprised that she had any "Bro" friends. Annoyed, she commented half-heartedly. As they wound around near the playground, she demanded that they halted because she complained of the heat, and in public, though it was hardly strange in the background of naked human figures, stripped bits of her clothing and settled in the grass. J, on the second or third thought, pulled off his shirt, risking a possible burn from the vivid sunlight of the June afternoon. The woman sitting besides them had a unique universe, and when she directed her attentions to them, it was like being trapped in the transporting beam of a spaceship; the aliens have you in their sight-lines. She talked with great frequency about her fascination with the Asian culture, in regards to L's ethnicity. They were mildly intrigued by her character, and respectfully listened and responded. At one point, she referred to them as a couple, exclaiming how they blended with each other well, being that L was so intelligent and charming. L blushed, and J didn't react with anything but his default smile. The woman eventually left, and after minutes of lying in the cool grass observing the celebrations around them, they got up to catch the Metro.
It was at this point that their conversation began to flow freely. At Dolores, they had fallen into silence for the sake of observation and a habitual awkwardness. In transit, they laughed and joked. Tiredly, she ran up to her flat to change. Because of their past comfort with the issue, she quickly changed in front of him, and when she turned towards the closet, she felt his hands clasp on her breasts. They began passionately kissing and L felt J on her, but she eventually gained control, and they soon left the apartment.
The ride there was extremely conversational. They were able to stay on topics for long periods of time without noticing the passage of time or the lack in thought for what they had to say. They reached Sacramento in seemingly little time, and spent the warm evening eating dinner outdoors at Pyramid Alehouse. By the time they settled themselves to see Hedwig and the Angry Inch, they had relaxed in each other's presence to the point of no longer noticing it. In their seats, she made honest observations about his habits, and curious about the honesty, J made inquiries regarding those observations.
Graciously, the show was fantastic. The lead who played the title role captivated the audience and completely engulfed the character with his talents. L was completely fascinated with the actor. They left in good spirits, and L drove the returning leg home, per agreement. On the road, she attempted to place life into art. As a driver or passenger, the cars driving around them are in streams, and the vehicles are in relation to one another and their matching speeds. If filmed, the patterns of the cars would look more uniform, and one would observe the effects of the road on the cars as opposed to the cars to one another. They smoked, and listened to music spanning from David Bowie to Modest Mouse to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers to the Jackson 5 and other Motown artists to old soul music to Tenacious D to Reefer Madness. J would light the pipe and pass it burning, "cherry," to L. She felt like he was breathing into her lungs, and was conscious of the odd symbolism. They became slightly fucked up during the drive: they sang at the top of their lungs, and bantered about nonsense. It was like a pretty fantasy, and even as L parked on her street, they sat for two more songs, though it was late and they had spent hours in the car. They tried to depart, and because it was only "try," she found herself on his lap feeling his bearded cheeks rub hers. In the dark, he made her wet his fingers twice, and he asked for no returns. In the street, she lingered on his breath and they slowly and gradually parted.
They disappeared into the warm fog.
23 June 2009
1/2 Ambien
Pop the pill the lines are moving heaving breathing
Driving in the dark. No car behind. No car before me.
Smoking my brain numb, then sick k k and sicker
Migraines hold on tight oh blood covers my left eye
Blind and singing with a tightened steering wheel
Remember to stay in this lane, don't leave it.
Cigarettes smeared on the highway road.
Ga-gah I heave this is foul, I'm sick sick sick.
Take this pill.
When it cushions you to sleep, at least you are happy.
The arrangements of letters on the screen are a circus: refusing to stand still they are hardly organized in what you may call a line.
Man behind me, he doesn't exist except when you're sickened by traveling blues and you look up at your rearview mirror, and there, he's looking back, sitting comfortably in your backseat. He's my constant passenger. I am wrenched from my naval to my heart to the thin part of my skin under the chin and I feel shredded. Music-less ride, pleasant until my heart started collapsing, and I gripped for the wheel. It was wonderful, but now I'm coming down, and I'm in pain. I need to drink. Pale drinks, carbonated drinks, teas. I'm officially drunk and now I can see that because my life is shortened, I understand better why people live their lives. It's because I can see my endgame. It's a goal. Self-fulfillment. Making you the way you want to be, see all, feel all, nourish nourish thanks Joni Mitchell for writing my soul's thoughts.
Driving in the dark. No car behind. No car before me.
Smoking my brain numb, then sick k k and sicker
Migraines hold on tight oh blood covers my left eye
Blind and singing with a tightened steering wheel
Remember to stay in this lane, don't leave it.
Cigarettes smeared on the highway road.
Ga-gah I heave this is foul, I'm sick sick sick.
Take this pill.
When it cushions you to sleep, at least you are happy.
The arrangements of letters on the screen are a circus: refusing to stand still they are hardly organized in what you may call a line.
Man behind me, he doesn't exist except when you're sickened by traveling blues and you look up at your rearview mirror, and there, he's looking back, sitting comfortably in your backseat. He's my constant passenger. I am wrenched from my naval to my heart to the thin part of my skin under the chin and I feel shredded. Music-less ride, pleasant until my heart started collapsing, and I gripped for the wheel. It was wonderful, but now I'm coming down, and I'm in pain. I need to drink. Pale drinks, carbonated drinks, teas. I'm officially drunk and now I can see that because my life is shortened, I understand better why people live their lives. It's because I can see my endgame. It's a goal. Self-fulfillment. Making you the way you want to be, see all, feel all, nourish nourish thanks Joni Mitchell for writing my soul's thoughts.
22 June 2009
Uphill Powell
I stood next to a woman wearing a perfume that probably has a fancy French name. A Frenchie mixed with baby powder.
21 June 2009
Check-Ups for Sailors
I'm so disoriented. Mornings are the only time that makes sense to me, because I automatically wake at 7:30, every day. But throughout the rest of the day, this nausea and exhaustion and depression, my inconsistent naps that moves my day, the shifting of how I relate to people - I'm really spun around. Not only once, but over and over. Disorientation. Sleep greatly affects me; it seems that most of my day and all of my night are conquered by my sleeping. Vivid dreams, waking up often, going back to sleep almost as often, just sleep just sleep just sleep. My appetite is shallow but always present, possibly the most physically coherent quality that I possess at this time. And God, people. Even my family doesn't seem consistent to me. Today, my dad seems overbearing and my brothers are sympathetic. I think it's because they understand the seriousness of my conditions. Both are unusual. My mom, who is inconsistent the way that I am inconsistent, is a comfort in who she is. I am constantly in fear of losing her. I've succumbed to a distrust of my conditions, and thereby can hardly trust myself or in others. Lately I've approached this trust-situation fairly oddly - I've attacked some of my friends, reached paramount conclusions marinated in paranoia about how most of them feel about me, and instead of becoming detached, I've become much more intangible in my relations: provocative, completely different. I've become bolder, queer in the sense that I miraculously can make connections to every single one of them precociously and without effort, and even with the volume of new friends I have made and new bonds I have made with older friends, have little to no interest in any single one of them. A cocoon of preoccupation. I was given a precious time and situation to reinvent myself in these ways, I think, thanks to "graduation" and summer and making a great number of new friends. So I guess my physical incapacitation (just by being completely different) and mental layering and identifying has left me with no perception of time and almost a third person objective now that I'm trying to recognize my world. I had always readily accepted change and has exulted in it, but now I'm frightened by the world that I better understand, that there are a lot to be pained and wary about. My housewarming came at the worst time, the nadir of my physical distress and formidable mental cage that I've made from the world, which was easily made from battling exhaustion. Those who came, I had formed relations with or started to form new ones. I was overwhelmed and sickened. I wanted to be alone. At the party, I feared that a social capacity in me was failing, and that also sent me in a further despairing note. And here, two days later, I'm still trying to map it out, blog it out (a social extension to whoever do read me), and eventually understand enough to turn the currents. Not necessarily stop the change. I can't stop most of it. But at least know it well, so that I may no longer be afraid.
20 June 2009
ARM
it's like God wanted me to shoot up on another syringe of humanity
thanks, but I'm feeling enough
Fire Escaping
Explosions of anger.
Where does it exist? In your stomach, your back...?
Here. My chest.
I can feel it.
Good, I want everyone to feel it. Please don't be surprised that I feel victimized. I had specifically pointed at the signs...
It's been done.
But I can't stop feeling. This is no ordinary poison running in my blood - it's God's gift to me, the ability to feel intricately, the quickest step in human evolution: death by rebellious body. Tomorrow...
...The first day of summer.
Season of...
Heat.
Free time.
Vacationing.
The lack of mediocre structures that confine your time. You're left to...
Explore. Be children.
Fall into your own head. Consistent falling - there's no structure to catch...
Summer romance. Hope.
The chaos of idle time.
Where does it exist? In your stomach, your back...?
Here. My chest.
I can feel it.
Good, I want everyone to feel it. Please don't be surprised that I feel victimized. I had specifically pointed at the signs...
It's been done.
But I can't stop feeling. This is no ordinary poison running in my blood - it's God's gift to me, the ability to feel intricately, the quickest step in human evolution: death by rebellious body. Tomorrow...
...The first day of summer.
Season of...
Heat.
Free time.
Vacationing.
The lack of mediocre structures that confine your time. You're left to...
Explore. Be children.
Fall into your own head. Consistent falling - there's no structure to catch...
Summer romance. Hope.
The chaos of idle time.
18 June 2009
Ruthlessly Tragic
It is hapless to say that I give into habit more often that I can break out of them. I followed the L train home today instead of driving around it - I wanted to savor the cigarette that I bought after been given a $2 coupon for packs of Camel. Somehow, this justifies everything.
I also love flaw more than anything. My professor is a half-black Nigerian woman who is astoundingly more charm than anything I've encountered. She has a British accent, succumbs to letting us out early, ("I've run out of insightful things to say; now we can stay here for a few more moments to discuss my life, or we can simply just go home"), and is indispensably modest despite the fact that she's a published novelist and a great scholar of post-colonial literature from the African continent. She's undeniably scholarly, but little is said of her ability as a teacher, and the only tolerable qualities that is redeeming is her interestingly opinionated academic approach to this world of literature, and her very scattered-brain charm. Flaw.
The weather is brilliant. This is another wonderful justification to spend time enjoying it.
I also love flaw more than anything. My professor is a half-black Nigerian woman who is astoundingly more charm than anything I've encountered. She has a British accent, succumbs to letting us out early, ("I've run out of insightful things to say; now we can stay here for a few more moments to discuss my life, or we can simply just go home"), and is indispensably modest despite the fact that she's a published novelist and a great scholar of post-colonial literature from the African continent. She's undeniably scholarly, but little is said of her ability as a teacher, and the only tolerable qualities that is redeeming is her interestingly opinionated academic approach to this world of literature, and her very scattered-brain charm. Flaw.
The weather is brilliant. This is another wonderful justification to spend time enjoying it.
anarchy
This shift towards the growing dissent of our society and economical situation, coupled with the distancing of time and general feeling of the people's united front shortly after 9/11, and placing a hopeful political leader in chaos may lead to a development of Utopian literature not seen since the mid-1970s.
Challenging Feminism
She spent no time placing the foreign object inside me and clenching its cold steel to hold up my walls. By the time she peered inside, and was ready to reach into my warm place, she found that my legs were inclined to fold in together, and when she stood to peer at my face, my fear and uncomfortable expression froze her. She felt rough and pushed hard. I bled into her palm. Compassion wavered over her professionalism and she was close to holding me as a means of comfort.
The sky screams gorgeous blue this morning. We turned on the radio and laughed about embarrassing father-related stories. I could never call my lover "Daddy" in bed. Am I so scared of confrontations - I have little to say except for my discouragement and reflections of nervousness when I speak to most people. The periphery on my character must be lacking in that sense. I think that I'm ruled by fear.
This thin membrane of an eggshell is almost entirely enclosed. The doctor sympathetically lead me through the steps I need to take, and promised me we will meet again. I hope our next meeting won't be so painful.
The sky screams gorgeous blue this morning. We turned on the radio and laughed about embarrassing father-related stories. I could never call my lover "Daddy" in bed. Am I so scared of confrontations - I have little to say except for my discouragement and reflections of nervousness when I speak to most people. The periphery on my character must be lacking in that sense. I think that I'm ruled by fear.
This thin membrane of an eggshell is almost entirely enclosed. The doctor sympathetically lead me through the steps I need to take, and promised me we will meet again. I hope our next meeting won't be so painful.
14 June 2009
not a film star beauty
An octopus fell and splattered me in the eye.If you're sad, then at least you know that you are still capable of being sad - you are still alive.
God, what is the next step?
09 June 2009
08 June 2009
a man destined to drown can never ever burn
It was dark and they waited and they expected me to be the focal point but what can I do Im not what they think I am but they know that already they know something that I dont know the hurt was insane and yet we kept plundering on as we smoked out of car windows and she drove me my cousin drives through the windy cliffs damn eagle stood so close he was as tall as a man and when he turned I saw the loneliness and was afraid I pointed out the wrapped eggs hanging from the trees because theyre new life and we can never deny life as much as the death like that blazing black-orange sunset in the canyon your mother still cares and that makes me hurt I walked into your cave because you abandoned it and touched your clothes and cleaned for you because your smell still lingered there I thought I was in the Saratoga hills driving windy roads but these canyons and caves belong to you and when I sat down they told me that we share new life like eggs children and I looked at my legs and saw that I bled heavy and I cried and cried because I lost new life with you on several occasions and still resent you for it to this day even though its my fault your fault I can't say ours why your sister was in my dreams I dont know but for the first time she talked truthfully with me and swimming in your scent I wanted to die because you were close but you had left and abandoned me and your cave and I wallowed but they told me you were coming coming back how can he leave you and I still can't understand why they would say that I no longer believe that you love me anymore and it wrangles me so roughly I spend a century of darkness mourning for that bond for me poor me but not you God you mighty spirit who has this power over me you selfish boy I want to tell you that youre nothing but a boy but not when you father my blood govern my very being why cant I admit that this is a horrible place to be in and youre not worth it why cant I just let go youre attacking me in my dreams for chrissakes and now when this thick warm life flows out of me freely from between my legs I can only wish keeping your physical imprint poor thing now flushed out into nothing space instead of growing growing with me and growing with you together like family oh I wish this would pass I wish I can grow up but what does wishing do goddammit a year ago we were taking road trips and making love by beaches and losing cars and schrooming and pardon me for being sentimental but a year ago I was carrying your baby and all of this time Regina sang to me and told me that however I want my fate will be determined by preference of dying a man destined to hang can never drown a man destined to drown can never burn a man destined to fry can never ever ever die in any other way lucky that I want to die by drowning you told me it is the worse way to die possible and I laughed and told you that I breathe water but you couldnt drown youre scared of the water and you think its a horrible way to die besides you drown everyday in your circumstance and choking on your bullshit making excuses for your way of life as a preference and thereby hindering yourself from anything everlasting and fulfilling but somehow you want it to be this way and I want to respect you for your drowning as much as I respect my choice of drowning so now we call it even.
06 June 2009
Would you still love me... if I blew you?
I miss you.
It crept up like a discreet fog that got itself tangled around my ankles. Before, the ache was dull, even familiar - it was the same pain that I've carried for the past year. And I know I've been distracted, subconsciously, or consciously so: finals, graduation, starting a new job, moving to a new home, financial and family problems, keeping friends and starting new friends, even another boy. Now as I'm letting myself wrap in my mind, the same screeching silence that attacks me when I climb into bed and force myself to sleep, the tongue-gnawing pounding in my chest when I stand in the shower and my heart and the water pouring on my head both knocking down my body, I've come to see Us the way we had refused to see. I'm forced out of my makeshift lie of a home, this pseudo-comfort, and I've fallen back into myself, a crumbled wad of paper, tethering neatly back into that goddamn abyss I don't need so close to my house.
The Love I have for you, indescribable-unreasonable-unknown in origins and nature, is a running blood that won't leave my veins. We were both aware of my Love, but I had refrained from expressing it, or at least I tried, because I was afraid. We were both afraid. I had thought distance would just slowly make it erode, disappear, but these "get over it" indicators are just merely distractions that I pile onto my strainer of emotions. A strainer that's clogged up by the fucking gooey substance of this one "emotion"-"feeling"-whatever that I cannot get rid of, no matter how hard I try.
I'm not self-destructing. You've asked me not to. I repressed it, and desensitized it, and now that I'm pulling it from the red bucket of morphine, the numbness is wearing away, and it's still there, uncured. How much longer do I need to keep it down before it'll actually go away?
We lied to ourselves. We did everything we weren't suppose to do. I censored myself. You never told me how you felt, especially in those moments of crisis when we needed to talk it out. You ran away when I tried to broach subjects of distress. Your fucking idealist notions of romanticism isn't practical, at all. There needed to be moments of strife, so we can work it out, talk it through, see our effort bond us and take us places. Everyone puts in that effort, everyone works, because it's natural and wonderful and manageable even if I wasn't too afraid to push you away with my wants and needs, and you just took it in, a cyclone to your inner eye, then you let it swelter and repel you away from the relationship. You just run. As much as I try to hide, you run. And the beautiful things about us, the things we seek in each other, mean nothing. Even love.
And even as I try to hate you, I still fucking love you. I still see us in five, ten years, standing at the edge of the cliff, old enough, mature enough to touch each other without burning, embracing fully without our youth knocking us aside, like two wrong ends of a magnet. This is the phase that I want to end with my adolescence. I want to grow up, and I don't want to have to love you anymore.
I still miss you.
It crept up like a discreet fog that got itself tangled around my ankles. Before, the ache was dull, even familiar - it was the same pain that I've carried for the past year. And I know I've been distracted, subconsciously, or consciously so: finals, graduation, starting a new job, moving to a new home, financial and family problems, keeping friends and starting new friends, even another boy. Now as I'm letting myself wrap in my mind, the same screeching silence that attacks me when I climb into bed and force myself to sleep, the tongue-gnawing pounding in my chest when I stand in the shower and my heart and the water pouring on my head both knocking down my body, I've come to see Us the way we had refused to see. I'm forced out of my makeshift lie of a home, this pseudo-comfort, and I've fallen back into myself, a crumbled wad of paper, tethering neatly back into that goddamn abyss I don't need so close to my house.
The Love I have for you, indescribable-unreasonable-unknown in origins and nature, is a running blood that won't leave my veins. We were both aware of my Love, but I had refrained from expressing it, or at least I tried, because I was afraid. We were both afraid. I had thought distance would just slowly make it erode, disappear, but these "get over it" indicators are just merely distractions that I pile onto my strainer of emotions. A strainer that's clogged up by the fucking gooey substance of this one "emotion"-"feeling"-whatever that I cannot get rid of, no matter how hard I try.
I'm not self-destructing. You've asked me not to. I repressed it, and desensitized it, and now that I'm pulling it from the red bucket of morphine, the numbness is wearing away, and it's still there, uncured. How much longer do I need to keep it down before it'll actually go away?
We lied to ourselves. We did everything we weren't suppose to do. I censored myself. You never told me how you felt, especially in those moments of crisis when we needed to talk it out. You ran away when I tried to broach subjects of distress. Your fucking idealist notions of romanticism isn't practical, at all. There needed to be moments of strife, so we can work it out, talk it through, see our effort bond us and take us places. Everyone puts in that effort, everyone works, because it's natural and wonderful and manageable even if I wasn't too afraid to push you away with my wants and needs, and you just took it in, a cyclone to your inner eye, then you let it swelter and repel you away from the relationship. You just run. As much as I try to hide, you run. And the beautiful things about us, the things we seek in each other, mean nothing. Even love.
And even as I try to hate you, I still fucking love you. I still see us in five, ten years, standing at the edge of the cliff, old enough, mature enough to touch each other without burning, embracing fully without our youth knocking us aside, like two wrong ends of a magnet. This is the phase that I want to end with my adolescence. I want to grow up, and I don't want to have to love you anymore.
I still miss you.
Would you still love me
if I followed the fad
dressed real bad
and blew you?
05 June 2009
Cafe Au Lait
Constitution of a perfect day:
Last night, I went to bed after a glass of wine, donuts and milk, lung pollution, and Conan O'Brian.
Woke up at 5:30am.
Had breakfast at Denny's with some really cool people.
Fooled around in the cafe.
Lit up in the car as I pull out of the parking lot.
Pocketed a lot of money.
Reading by my window in a reading chair, smoking and drinking chai.
Amazing, it looks like a good day.
Last night, I went to bed after a glass of wine, donuts and milk, lung pollution, and Conan O'Brian.
Woke up at 5:30am.
Had breakfast at Denny's with some really cool people.
Fooled around in the cafe.
Lit up in the car as I pull out of the parking lot.
Pocketed a lot of money.
Reading by my window in a reading chair, smoking and drinking chai.
Amazing, it looks like a good day.
01 June 2009
Say Goodnight
As I unpack, I feel like I'm a character in a Stanley Kubrick film - my apartment is screaming at me, and unusual circumstances are repeating. I hope the woman who died before we moved in is real nice. That would explain the pounding in the walls in the middle of the night, strange music, lights turning out, my nightmares exasperated by stress - or just funky neighbors and a fix-needing apartment.
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