“I cannot coddle you here. I cannot, must not, hold your hand and give you answers. I will not give you answers you already have. I refuse to dance this dance with you, though I may long to – if only to have you in my arms a while.”
In life, we always have choices. We always have choices, whether we acknowledge them or not, whether we handle them aggressively or passively, trying to shun responsibility. We can choose not to confront things, we can eschew responsibility, but in doing so we never cease to be responsible for just that choice.
I could say that the important thing is always to acknowledge every choice you make; but that is just another choice.
“You can run from this. You can choose to simply not deal with it, as you seem to be doing. That is a choice, a choice. That is your choice to make, and a choice I freely grant you, one I will not challenge, for I refuse to force you to confront me. I have not done so until now. I have always given you full responsibility for your choices. I have not treated you as a child. I have always given you full responsibility for your choices – too much responsibility, perhaps – responsibility you have shirked, denied, and refused – responsibility with which you have not followed through. You can choose to run from this, eschew responsibility, deny concern, and refuse to confront it. It would be consistent.”
Some might say consistency is necessary, preferred. Today, I lean fully toward Emerson’s assertion that, “a foolish consistency is the hobbgobblin of little minds.”
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Rendered
It’s 4:00 a.m., and I’ve just called; but you did not respond. What have I done? What should I have? You could have made me beg you to stay. It isn’t hard. It isn’t hard to just not go. Is this not what you want? Of course it's so. Assess.
And so another day goes by. I have not cried my love. We have not talked. I do not know the tide. And perhaps, perhaps neither do you. Perhaps you do. And yet I want you touching me.
This isn’t me.
This is not the way I do things. This is not the way I act. I spend a lot of my time wondering whether I’m simply asking for too much, but I refuse to believe it. I just refuse to believe it. I have to. You’re simply not ready for me. That’s the bottom line.
And perhaps you never will be – not for me. But perhaps you will.
And if you ever fully understand what I am speaking of, if my words ever simply falls into place, allowing a mere trace of me to shed its light, then you will... and you will find me. This, of course, only reveals its weight if you already understand. Catch 23. Yes, 23. 24.
This is the time to be mature, to give a little in the way of …
... I’m creating a situation whereby I am automatically thinning out the experience, diluting it in a practical sense in order to concentrate the literal effect. Allow me to explain. I am slitting everything in two: reality and fiction, (Non-fiction and creative non-fiction? Not quite, perhaps.), what I live and what I write, the real and the imagined, what I live and what I live through my writing. I write it. I write it first, because I have the time to write it first, because the time necessitates the writing, because I must live you somehow, I must live you anyhow. I write it. I write it and I imagine it and I create it and I live it. I have lived it. I no longer need to. I am silent. I am no longer affected.
It has passed.
So Every time I stumble upon something provocative, I have tired of it by the time it demands a response. You kill everything by trying to explain it, by trying to distinguish right from wrong.
Conversation. I question why this reinforces, when in reality I expect it to highlight the lack of contribution and understanding, when in reality I expect the focus to shift to him.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Let me be the fool
Mother fucking cock-sucker, what can I say? Thank you?
Yes, you have once again exceeded expectations. I AM surprised. I AM hurt. I AM disappointed (though I shouldn’t be. I should not be surprised. It is consistent. When all else fails… in all you fail… at least you are consistent. “A foolish consistency is the hobbgobblin of little minds.”)
“The Fool” story…
You are not the fool. I am the fool. I will always play the fool, now and always. The fool never dies. He is never the main character, only a vehicle, but he does not die at the end. He is but a mere vehicle to carry others, a necessary vehicle without which the real “personages” cannot act, are stagnant, paralyzed. This is my spiritual existence.
Q’s grandmother, a very spiritual woman, once complained that she couldn’t read me at all. While she never quite trusted me, she fell into the trap of assuming my ambiguity stemmed from spiritual strength. In truth, I am nothing to read. Mediums need energy, souls. I am no soul; I carry them. What does it mean to be soulless, to be a vehicle rather than an acting being? I have erased myself. I am a mere vehicle, a tool at others’ disposal, empty if not full of someone else, if not carrying someone else. Empty. Everyone wants a ride, but no one knows his destination. I am only a guide, not even a guide, a vehicle. I am not even instructive, a mere tool.
I told you not to be concerned with “appeasing” me, with doing “the right thing,” with doing anything you don’t want to do, just to “quedar bien.” So there. Fuck me, eh? My bad. I can say nothing now. I just never imagined this is how you would want to leave things. On the other hand, you do tend to push things to their limit. I gave you this one. And now you take it. Fuck me!
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch, mother-fucker. You must never know how you hurt me. You would never comprehend its insignificance.
I am numb. I don’t know what to think. That’s all.
One of the most important things to know is how to say goodbye. We may not always know when to say it, but we must know how to say it. Don’t you know how to say goodbye? Clearly you do not. You have made this clear – before now. You could never say goodbye. But this? This I did not predict. This I do not understand. I feel I must have done something, something awful, to offend you. Perhaps I simply loved you, and this is its own offense. If only you would speak to me, though. If only you would tell me with your words. Perhaps you fear your words; they cannot withstand my own.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
I need some time alone
I like to spend time alone. I used to need it a lot more than now.
But why is it that lover's always bring up the whole "time alone" thing at the most inoppertune moments?
As soon as they have a bad day — no matter why or what the cause... "I need to spend some time alone."
Gotcha.
When your lover is unhappy, it's disconcerting. No matter how confident you are about the relationship, it's disconcerting. People make big changes when they're unhappy. People misdirect their unhappiness? People get confused about what's making them unhappy.
Is that selfish? Is it selfish to think about yourself when your lover is unhappy? Is it only natural?
It's not that you're not genuinely concerned about their happiness. But it's a passing thought.
Am I the cause?
Am I somehow the cause?
Is this somehow related to me?
Will this hurt me, us?
"I need some time alone."
Not a great time to hear it, is it? Not a great time to say it. Thanks a lot, my love.
But we're not allowed to complain. No. No. Of course not. That would be selfish.
So... we swallow it. We keep it in. We hurt silently until it passes. And then we nurse the sore.
"What do you do when you need time alone?"
Sometimes I just keep needing it. Sometimes I find it in my head.
Beat me, bitch!
No matter how sound a relationship you have, you always end up feeling beat down.
I used to scoff when people complained about being taken for granted. Hell, isn't that what a relationship is all about — being able to take things for granted? You take it for granted that you're loved. You take it for granted that someone will be there for you when you need them, that you'll have a warm body next to you at night, that someone will be loyal to you, that someone will be kind to you. Isn't that what it's all about?
But it's about a hell of a lot more than just taking things for granted. It's about straight out, genuine, grade-a abuse. Yup. That's right. You'll think I'm wrong — twisted perhaps — and that I have no clear perspective about what a relationship should be. Well, honey, I'm not talking about what a relationship should be. I'm talking about what it is. That's right.
A short while after my sister got married she told me that no matter what... no matter how fair and glorious a relationship you have... no matter how feminist or just your husband may be... you will always end up doing twice the work... you will always end up overextended and abused. Yup. That's right. It's not the way it should be. It's just the way it is.
That's the kind of thing I'm talking about. I'm talking about truth. I'm not talking about ideals or illusions — as I so often do. I'm not dressing things up in pretty metaphors or quaint little literary illusions.
I'm talking about general, mutual, ritual abuse. Yup. In the end — as crass as this may be — a relationship is about tolerating each other, tolerating each other's abuse. It's about not having to watch yourself, check yourself. It's about not just having someone in front of whom you can fart, but about having someone you can treat with whatever kindness or grossness oozes, seeps, or bursts out of you on that particular day, at that particular moment. It's about being able to act however you want. And resenting the fact that you can't, of course.
I know it sounds horrible. I know that there's some beautiful ideal to which we cling that doesn't look like this. But that's all crap. We hold it for a day... or two. We hold it for a while. But it, too, is an illusion. No one loves without hatred. No one loves without resentment. And when you face the resentment... day after day... you're bound to express it. It's bound to seep out of your eyes.
I'm tired. I'm tired of flailing and screaming. I'm tired of feeling like a punching bag. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of the things I was taught would hold me up actually beating me down. I'm tired of feeling like the world, my world, should be different somehow. I'm tired of determining value by its weight in gold. I'm tired of trying to unlearn the things I've learned, while trying to retain the experience. I'm tired of expectations and shoulds and ought tos. I'm tired of resistence, and, argument, and slaps.
Beat me. Hurt me. Love me.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Cry your pain
But now you turn to me. Now you cry your pain. You cry pain that is mine, and yet you brought it on yourself. That’s why you cry. Perhaps. That’s why you cry. You cry because you do not know how to walk the wicked world. You cry because you don’t yet know how to live with all your choices. Because you do not know your choices. You refuse to claim your choices. Oh, how the world rolls over me. Oh, the pain I feel. Oh, I disjoint the world. Alas, poor lass, you’re just a child. Don’t blame the world for existing when it’s you who walks the world.
“I’ve been really depressed.” – [[Me too.]] Have you?
“I’ve been thinking mostly of you.” – [[Bullshit. I didn’t get the call.]] Why?
“I don’t know what’s going on.” – [[If not, then who?]] “Going on?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” – [[Neither do I. You aren’t in my arms.]] “You’re blue.”
“I’ve been here before.” – [[Well, then, fuck you.]] “Then it’s just another time.”
“I need you.” – [[And I need you too.]] “I’ll be there in just a while.”
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Back it with action
http://www.wolverlei.com/USA2000/ppages/ppage8.htmlHe backs nothing with action. Action is void of all philosophy. He is the quintessential existentialist “floater,” the nauseated being, devoid of values, unwittingly, desperately, futilely espousing empty, baseless values… “like a record, baby, round, round.”
At least this much is true. He inadvertently supports his claim to existentialism, despite his lack of intent.
The problem with the most plebeian existentialist elucidation is that it fails to take up the significance, the suggestion, the prescribed course of action. What is it, fundamentally, most simply? Mostly simply put, it is the urgent need for us to take full responsibility for our actions, despite the difficulty, perhaps impossibility, of really doing so.
Of course it’s difficult. OK. In the end, this in itself is trite. We know this. This does not merit philosophical text upon philosophical text. It demands more. It demands a suggestion, a deduction, a murmur of hope. And even existentialism has this, perhaps especially so.
Action.
Action.
Action.
Follow through.
Commitment.
Responsibility.
Trueness.
You-ness.
“Fuck you, mother fucker.”
If he were to have called, I wouldn’t have answered anyhow, but I would have slept better. I might have slept at all.
I would have said all these things to him. I would have, but it didn’t make any sense somehow. They were already too familiar.
At least this much is true. He inadvertently supports his claim to existentialism, despite his lack of intent.
The problem with the most plebeian existentialist elucidation is that it fails to take up the significance, the suggestion, the prescribed course of action. What is it, fundamentally, most simply? Mostly simply put, it is the urgent need for us to take full responsibility for our actions, despite the difficulty, perhaps impossibility, of really doing so.
Of course it’s difficult. OK. In the end, this in itself is trite. We know this. This does not merit philosophical text upon philosophical text. It demands more. It demands a suggestion, a deduction, a murmur of hope. And even existentialism has this, perhaps especially so.
Action.
Action.
Action.
Follow through.
Commitment.
Responsibility.
Trueness.
You-ness.
“Fuck you, mother fucker.”
If he were to have called, I wouldn’t have answered anyhow, but I would have slept better. I might have slept at all.
I would have said all these things to him. I would have, but it didn’t make any sense somehow. They were already too familiar.
Are women just evil?
http://www.androidblues.com/JealousyStepbystep/jealousystep.htmlI'm not really into the whole "women are evil / men are just dogs" schtick, but... sometimes it's difficult not to fall into this trap.
I am in a relationship now — if you can call it that. And never in my life have I encountered such adversity. Never in my life have I encountered such evil manipulations, such hostile undertakings, such vile and underhanded jabs.
I am a woman. Yes. But I do not understand women at all. (Not that I understand men either, but... that's for a later rant.)
I have had many lovers, many friends, many acquaintances. I have wished evil on none. I have resented no one's happiness. And I have undertaken no underhanded tactics to destroy anyone's life — or even a piece of it.
In the past 5-7 years, however, I have experienced every kind of underhanded jab imaginable from countless of supposedly loyal women — friends of Q. Friends. Yes, friends. Friends?
So I am told. Though, try as I might, I simply cannot grasp this truth. Friends? How can it be so? Does a friend try to hurt you? I don't know these friends.
Hell, I have friends that tell it like it is. I have friends that occassionally rub salt in my wounds and say I told you so. But... it's not meant to hurt me. Not really. It's meant to make me see. Even when they're wrong, they are not malevolent.
Friends.
Just what the hell does this mean to those freaky-assed women out there?
Friends? Really?
[[And while this may not seem to qualify as a feminist rant, I beg to differ, my friends. I am only trying to protect my own feminist ideal. We are better than this, girls. We are better.]]
I am in a relationship now — if you can call it that. And never in my life have I encountered such adversity. Never in my life have I encountered such evil manipulations, such hostile undertakings, such vile and underhanded jabs.
I am a woman. Yes. But I do not understand women at all. (Not that I understand men either, but... that's for a later rant.)
I have had many lovers, many friends, many acquaintances. I have wished evil on none. I have resented no one's happiness. And I have undertaken no underhanded tactics to destroy anyone's life — or even a piece of it.
In the past 5-7 years, however, I have experienced every kind of underhanded jab imaginable from countless of supposedly loyal women — friends of Q. Friends. Yes, friends. Friends?
So I am told. Though, try as I might, I simply cannot grasp this truth. Friends? How can it be so? Does a friend try to hurt you? I don't know these friends.
Hell, I have friends that tell it like it is. I have friends that occassionally rub salt in my wounds and say I told you so. But... it's not meant to hurt me. Not really. It's meant to make me see. Even when they're wrong, they are not malevolent.
Friends.
Just what the hell does this mean to those freaky-assed women out there?
Friends? Really?
[[And while this may not seem to qualify as a feminist rant, I beg to differ, my friends. I am only trying to protect my own feminist ideal. We are better than this, girls. We are better.]]
I am not impressed
I was sitting at a local coffee shop a couple days ago, waiting for a friend. The coffee shop closed, and I was asked to leave, so I did. I went outside to finish my coffee on a nearby bench by an art school. As I'm sitting there, still waiting, a handsome young man (whom I had seen inside the coffee shop earlier) comes over to my bench."I was drawing you inside, and I haven't quite finished. Do you mind if I sit down?"
Yes, I minded.
"No, of course not. Knock yourself out."
"Hasn't anyone ever sketched you before?"
"I don't know." Of course, I know. Yes. So what?
"I don't see a lot of people around here that inspire me"
Yeah, me neither.
"I haven't been inspired by many people since I got back from Spain last year."
Oh, god. Here we go again.
"I was sitting there, drawing you, and I suddenly felt like I was back in Paris."
Does he think Paris is in Spain?
Soon, enough, my friend showed up and wisked me away. Of course, he invited the handsome stranger to join us — assuming he was of friend — but the poor guy was already retreating, intimidated by another handsome man... or perhaps my lack of enthusiasm for his oh-so-European ways.
Ok, I admit, I tend to have a thing for artists — writers, painters, musicians, sculptors. It just works out that way. But... I hate the shtick. I don't have a thing for "artists" at all.. it just works out that way.
What? Am I supposed to jump on the guy because he has an artistic sensibility? I wonder if he can even draw? Or am I just supposed to jump him because he thinks I'm worth sketching? No. no. I think it's his European ways. Yes, that's it. Just mention any place in Europe and the girls cream their pants. Oy!
I'm not impressed.
Friday, December 01, 2006
stupid girly shit
http://net.art-generator.com/src/imgs.htmlThis might be the beginning of a series of gender-based rants. [[Yes, that's my way of avoiding the word "feminist."]]
Despite my daily inclinations to post about the injustices of being a woman (ha!), I have done everything in my power to avoid the topic head-on.
But.. I'm through with that.
I AM a woman. [[Sorry, is that news to you?]] And as much as I may try to avoid it, this blog is clearly representative of that. Hell, your comments are representative of that. And I am contantly confronted with what this means — what it means to be a woman. And maybe what it means to be me.
This is all quite ironic actually.
You see... I don't understand women. I really don't understand woman... or at least often. I seem to be made of something else — other than the vile sugar and spice that doesn't seem to have anything to do with being nice.
So.. I am going to bitch about stereotypes [[as much as we may trust them]]. I am going to say that they're not fair. And I am going to re-enforce them simultaneously. Ouch!
Please tell me this.
Why is that no matter what horrible terrible things a man does, as soon as a woman opens her mouth to complain about it, she's the nagging bitch? Why is that?
Why is it that women aren't funny? No really. They're not. Well, ok. I know that's not exactly true. Of course, I know that. But... women aren't funny. No really.
There are funny women. Yes. Some. A few. And women can make you laugh. They can even do it often. But.. they're not funny. Come on.. you know exactly what I mean. Why is that?
I'm from Puerto Rico. When we talk about Puerto Rico (we being anyone at all, really), we often talk about machismo. Hmmm.. Fine. Whatever.
But, people, I gotta tell you... I have NEVER experienced the blatant sexism I'm experiencing here in Minnesota lately. Ouch. Never. And the sad part is how absolutely engrained it all is. People don't even see it. They don't even care. Ouch. Whatever. I'm just a whiny bitch.
Why is it that we assume men will use any excuse to escape their "bitches," while the bitches just latch on? Why is that? Why? And why do the bitches just latch on?
Shit, man, let them fly. Here, let me show you the door.
Don't trip over your ego on the way out.
illusions of hesitation
http://albedo.prakope.com/archives/2005/08/glass_onion.htmlPerhaps what keeps it interesting is merely my hesitation. Maybe this is what makes it okay, or better still, exciting, brisk. When the hesitation fails, all else is lost. Ahhhh…reality impact. I know about that.
Perhaps my very illusion shatters the glass – construed as reality impact. After all, it’s all about perception. Glass is built on perception, never on solid ground. What is illusion to one is truth to another.
[[If you ask me, there's no difference. Illusions are just as real as anything.]]
If only you would hear me out. If only you would heed my words. Heed me not. I am dangerous. There are things that yet you should not know. In attempting to protect, I do you harm. I want that you act your age, yet not grow up at all.
Perhaps my very illusion shatters the glass – construed as reality impact. After all, it’s all about perception. Glass is built on perception, never on solid ground. What is illusion to one is truth to another.
[[If you ask me, there's no difference. Illusions are just as real as anything.]]
If only you would hear me out. If only you would heed my words. Heed me not. I am dangerous. There are things that yet you should not know. In attempting to protect, I do you harm. I want that you act your age, yet not grow up at all.
examine your scenario
I’m an adult. I’m not a kid. You won’t get penalized for one mistake, one misunderstanding, one act that lacks consideration. But you’ll be called on in the muck. Acts accumulate. Slaps add up. And ceaseless jabs demand attention.
Examine your scenario.
I'll examine mine.
You make plans. You fail to mention plans. You mention plans at a distant moment, cleverly or unknowingly phrasing the question as a negative – you’re not coming are you? You adopt reason – which is not your forte – and an understanding air. “I’ll understand if you don’t come.” You spend the night attending to old woes and beating on your phone. You claim incomprehension, say you cannot think, and take the offered out when it is offered. [[And it is always offered.]] But first you establish the break in plans. [[I take the bait and bail.]] You give more reasons. I cringe at the excuses, always seeing options you ignore. “Have fun.” “I’ll call you tomorrow.” ‘Goodbye.”
Monday, November 27, 2006
I have trust issues. So I've been told. So I know.What am I to trust? Let's be serious here.
I trust some things.
I trust that people lie.
I trust that people act in their own self-interest.
I trust that people hurt one another — be it purposely or not.
I trust that people are not to be counted on.
I trust that people protect themselves and others at the cost of further others.
I trust that not all things are fair — in fact most things are not.
I trust that evil ways often pay — though I choose to remain unpaid, hence good.
I trust that people cheat, steal, and cause injury to others.
I trust that people are not inherently good — at least in practice, which matters most.
I trust a lot of things. You see.
So, what more should I trust? And how far should I take that trust?
So.. you love someone. So what? Does love equal trust? Why should it?
True, it may be necessary. But it's still quite dumb. I mean, hell, if we didn't trust, we might not be disappointed in the end. Isn't the demise of most relationships a matter of trust? Or the lack thereof? And injured trust. A trust betrayed. Well.. let me tell you something — you can't betray a nonexistant trust.
Who do you trust with your life? Why? Really? I mean, come on... really? With your life? Fuck that!
Thursday, November 23, 2006
I miss better days.
Is that bad? It all seemed easy then... easier, anyhow.
From the inside of a bottle everything seems easy. From behind the lines. From the end of a philly.
Everything seemed easy then.
But it wasn't.
My chiropractor says I have problems letting go of the past. And I'm scared of the future. Apparently, she can tell all this from the way I shit. Yes, apparently, she's a shit analyst, too. Ok, she didn't see my shit. And she didn't see me shitting. She only asked.
I suffer from slight constipation only occasionally. Diarrhea, however, is a daily event. If I had to take a guess, I'd have to say my fear of the future is definitely out-weighing my attachment to the past.
Who the hell doesn't fear the future? The clincher is this — it's success I'm afraid of, she says (my chiropractor) — not failure. Hmm... oh, yes... definitely. Failure I can live with... I often have — at least in my own eyes. I'm used to it. Nobody is harder on me than myself. But success, what would I ever do with that?
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Ok, so maybe Steve isn't so psycho.
Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak were building blue boxes in the early 70s, when Steve (psycho-Steve) was conceived. (Damn, what's with all the Steves?) They learned about this from John Draper, known as Captain Crunch. Captain Crunch learned from The Whistler, otherwise known as Joe Engressia, now known as Joybubbles. (What a mess of crazy names.) Well... the point being... Joybubbles lives in Minnesota. Hmmm.... Could there be a connection?
I also discovered that Steve Jobs was adopted. Sometime during his young adult years, however, he discovered he has a biological sister, Mona (a writer, in fact), who lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Well... at least we know he has plenty of reason to be around the midwest. It's not like he's glued to Silicon Valley.
Maybe Steve isn't so psycho after all.
Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak were building blue boxes in the early 70s, when Steve (psycho-Steve) was conceived. (Damn, what's with all the Steves?) They learned about this from John Draper, known as Captain Crunch. Captain Crunch learned from The Whistler, otherwise known as Joe Engressia, now known as Joybubbles. (What a mess of crazy names.) Well... the point being... Joybubbles lives in Minnesota. Hmmm.... Could there be a connection?
I also discovered that Steve Jobs was adopted. Sometime during his young adult years, however, he discovered he has a biological sister, Mona (a writer, in fact), who lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Well... at least we know he has plenty of reason to be around the midwest. It's not like he's glued to Silicon Valley.
Maybe Steve isn't so psycho after all.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
D.W.
You don’t snore,
And the halls are silent at this time.
Neon eyeballs stare back out of the televisions.
The man still sleeps in there…
And we sleep.
And we wake,
To some man yelling orders of plastic faces,
Walking around stuck to pedestals,
Wearing gold lame or nothing at all,
Whichever you prefer.
You spit and see the sparkling ceiling
And hear the men walking in the hall,
And tears fall from your eyes.
You think too much.
Nothing grows there.
Where I eat
The man slaps his customers
In a gentle sort of way.
What is it?
What is it
That makes people not want to look?
What is it?
What is it
That makes people want to?
Together we see nothing.
You want to go home.
The swelling is down,
And you kiss me goodbye.
Thank you.
Now I travel back to my white room,
Where a man wrapped in a blanket
Cries his jealousy.
And I leave the scene
And think of you in the hall with the men.
I open my door and see you smiling.
And your mouth is green dye.
And your fists are again bloody.
And your mind is again senseless.
Enter my red room.
You lay on my carpet,
Swollen again.
The TV man says it’s cold outside.
It’s good to keep the acquaintance,
You said.
One night I was bored, and the phone rang,
And we spent ourselves by the river
On the dead leaves, sipping lemonade
And biting flesh.
Moons never told our secrets.
And crooks in trees held those unfortunates.
Night pushes in our heads,
And mine hurts from car doors,
And numerous brushes on my self
Are examined by your fists.
I am fading out. Into a hallow void. I am drifting away. Into nothingness.Ok. It's not so bad. (I've seen too many people grow alarmed by people's blogging. This is not a cry, just a whimper.)
I often say people here in the midwest are like an unfinished painting. Perhaps the whole midwest is like an unfinished painting. Too soft. A mere outline.
That is I.
Perhaps I have been here too long. Perhaps here is in my head.
I have been here too long — in this comfortable oblivion. And I'm not sure I know the way out.
I like my delusions. My delusions are pretty. Most things are not.
I like my delusions. But my illusions can't hold up.
I'm not sure where to go from here. I'm not sure what to become. But I long to become. I long to become.
It has been a while since I became. I am nothing.
I will be, though. I will be.
Watch me.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Monologue
How did I get here, weaving in and out of reality – past, present, future, interwoven? I doubt this is what Heidegger meant by actualization. No, I’m a drone. But the first step is to recognize the problem. That’s clear. Whatever happened to “ignorance is bliss”?
This has been my main problem. Too much thinking. Not enough thought. Self-destruction by analysis. An analyzed destruction. Analyzing self-destruction is quite the hobby. This is why I often wonder if I have masochistic tendencies. I always wind up with the same answer: No.
Always. Except now. And maybe some other time. Always. No.
I haven’t always been this way; but I’ve always done this.
It’s enough to drive myself crazy. I’m not crazy really. At least I don’t think so. But then the first step is recognizing the problem. Every knows that.
I don’t know what’s real anymore. Did I ever? Is this even something I should question? Santino doesn't think so. Why question reality? Why question what is real? What the hell are you supposed to do with it afterward? Just discard it? He is right, of course.
How should I respond? Because it’s important to question everything? Because it will lead you to enlightenment through a very painful process of self-awareness? Because you must suffer? You must experience frustration, desolation, angst, complete and utter helplessness – smallness? Frederick Douglass never regretted learning to read, even though it only served to illustrate and heighten his bondage. Donne believed suffering brings us closer to God. Neitzche believed that we must all suffer to become fully realized.
Fuck Neitzche!
Who the hell wants to suffer? It seems I am surrounded by people who do. It seems, sometimes, I even do. But I do not. This I have already established.
I used to love logic. I still do. But my uncle’s friends no longer send me logic problems through the mail. Neither do they caress me and tousle my hair.
Q has moved back into my life (as if he ever left). Everything is so much easier in retrospect. If only we were dead and simply died to life.
You’d never guess I was once good at logic.
Already I’m confused and insecure. What is it that establishes a connection between furniture and love? Too much shared furniture, too little love. Isn’t that the fear? Furniture is good for fucking on as long as it belongs only to one person. No. As long as one party has no ownership. It can be both, but it must at least be one. I don’t know. A couple’s newly purchased bed is sacred, if only for a while. Maybe that’s it. You just have to purchase a new mattress on a regular basis – box spring and all.
I guess the idea is to focus on what I’m getting and not on what I’m not getting. Things need to exist independent of others. People need to exist independent of others. Actions need to exist independent of others. If you look for a hole, you will always find one. If you look for substance, it is always there. I have been trained to look for the hole. That’s what we learn in school, no? Look for the hole. But in life, we need to seek out substance and ignore the holes, until we fall right into one. Otherwise, we stand inert, cannot move, are frozen with fear, hole-anxiety, hole-o-phobia.
I should never have studied philosophy. And yet now I’m a stunted, stagnant fool. For I know nothing, but that which stops me. It’s as if I suffer detail amnesia and wholistic over-knowledge. Wholistic? No. Holistic.
I used to know things. I have learned things. Now I know nothing. But enough has remained for me to understand the holes, to be blatantly aware of the holes, and to nurture the over-whelming need to fill them, to find them and to fill them, to expose them.
How do you expose a hole. How do you expose nothing, nothingness. What an idle effort! My life is ridiculous. My efforts are ridiculous. My drives and needs are ridiculous. But they are mine.
You would think that I would be on an eternal knowledge-seeking rampage, but I keep falling into the holes. I’m stuck inside holes, staring at the emptiness, bleak, nothingness, waiting for knowledge to fall over me and bury me alive, waiting in fear, anxious, horror.
Knowledge has destroyed me, and I yearn for my destruction. If knowledge has destroyed me, only knowledge can save me. A little can be dangerous, a lot can be mortal, or a lot can save me. I would say we shall see. I should say we shall see. But we shall never know.
Little do we know.
How did I get here, weaving in and out of reality – past, present, future, interwoven? I doubt this is what Heidegger meant by actualization. No, I’m a drone. But the first step is to recognize the problem. That’s clear. Whatever happened to “ignorance is bliss”?
This has been my main problem. Too much thinking. Not enough thought. Self-destruction by analysis. An analyzed destruction. Analyzing self-destruction is quite the hobby. This is why I often wonder if I have masochistic tendencies. I always wind up with the same answer: No.
Always. Except now. And maybe some other time. Always. No.
I haven’t always been this way; but I’ve always done this.
It’s enough to drive myself crazy. I’m not crazy really. At least I don’t think so. But then the first step is recognizing the problem. Every knows that.
I don’t know what’s real anymore. Did I ever? Is this even something I should question? Santino doesn't think so. Why question reality? Why question what is real? What the hell are you supposed to do with it afterward? Just discard it? He is right, of course.
How should I respond? Because it’s important to question everything? Because it will lead you to enlightenment through a very painful process of self-awareness? Because you must suffer? You must experience frustration, desolation, angst, complete and utter helplessness – smallness? Frederick Douglass never regretted learning to read, even though it only served to illustrate and heighten his bondage. Donne believed suffering brings us closer to God. Neitzche believed that we must all suffer to become fully realized.
Fuck Neitzche!
Who the hell wants to suffer? It seems I am surrounded by people who do. It seems, sometimes, I even do. But I do not. This I have already established.
I used to love logic. I still do. But my uncle’s friends no longer send me logic problems through the mail. Neither do they caress me and tousle my hair.
Q has moved back into my life (as if he ever left). Everything is so much easier in retrospect. If only we were dead and simply died to life.
You’d never guess I was once good at logic.
Already I’m confused and insecure. What is it that establishes a connection between furniture and love? Too much shared furniture, too little love. Isn’t that the fear? Furniture is good for fucking on as long as it belongs only to one person. No. As long as one party has no ownership. It can be both, but it must at least be one. I don’t know. A couple’s newly purchased bed is sacred, if only for a while. Maybe that’s it. You just have to purchase a new mattress on a regular basis – box spring and all.
I guess the idea is to focus on what I’m getting and not on what I’m not getting. Things need to exist independent of others. People need to exist independent of others. Actions need to exist independent of others. If you look for a hole, you will always find one. If you look for substance, it is always there. I have been trained to look for the hole. That’s what we learn in school, no? Look for the hole. But in life, we need to seek out substance and ignore the holes, until we fall right into one. Otherwise, we stand inert, cannot move, are frozen with fear, hole-anxiety, hole-o-phobia.
I should never have studied philosophy. And yet now I’m a stunted, stagnant fool. For I know nothing, but that which stops me. It’s as if I suffer detail amnesia and wholistic over-knowledge. Wholistic? No. Holistic.
I used to know things. I have learned things. Now I know nothing. But enough has remained for me to understand the holes, to be blatantly aware of the holes, and to nurture the over-whelming need to fill them, to find them and to fill them, to expose them.
How do you expose a hole. How do you expose nothing, nothingness. What an idle effort! My life is ridiculous. My efforts are ridiculous. My drives and needs are ridiculous. But they are mine.
You would think that I would be on an eternal knowledge-seeking rampage, but I keep falling into the holes. I’m stuck inside holes, staring at the emptiness, bleak, nothingness, waiting for knowledge to fall over me and bury me alive, waiting in fear, anxious, horror.
Knowledge has destroyed me, and I yearn for my destruction. If knowledge has destroyed me, only knowledge can save me. A little can be dangerous, a lot can be mortal, or a lot can save me. I would say we shall see. I should say we shall see. But we shall never know.
Little do we know.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
It really ain't that tough...
If you want to make love to a woman, you must make her smile.
If you want to make love to a woman, you must make her feel like she overwhelms you.
If you want to make love to a woman, you must at least seem to try to see her soul.
“If … woman,” you must create an illusion, hold the illusion, feed the illusion, maintain it.
“If … woman,” you must hold her with your eyes.
“If … woman,” you must claw at her in quiet desperation.
“If … woman,” you must have a smell, a taste, a sound.
(Yes, you must have a sound, my dear.)
“If … woman,” you must fucking enjoy it! You must dwell on every pleasure.
“If … woman,” you must make her pleasure yours, yours hers.
“If … woman,” each moan should only make you harder, each scream should make you come.
“If … woman,” you should be content with sheer desire.
[Refer to desencarnación, if you like.]
“If … woman,” you should always fuck her.
If you want to make love to a woman, you must make her smile.
If you want to make love to a woman, you must make her feel like she overwhelms you.
If you want to make love to a woman, you must at least seem to try to see her soul.
“If … woman,” you must create an illusion, hold the illusion, feed the illusion, maintain it.
“If … woman,” you must hold her with your eyes.
“If … woman,” you must claw at her in quiet desperation.
“If … woman,” you must have a smell, a taste, a sound.
(Yes, you must have a sound, my dear.)
“If … woman,” you must fucking enjoy it! You must dwell on every pleasure.
“If … woman,” you must make her pleasure yours, yours hers.
“If … woman,” each moan should only make you harder, each scream should make you come.
“If … woman,” you should be content with sheer desire.
[Refer to desencarnación, if you like.]
“If … woman,” you should always fuck her.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Ok. So, I'm not naive. Apparently, I'm simply incompetent. Ok. I'll accept that.
But not without an argument.
I used to walk away from relationships as soon as things got tough. It was difficult maybe, but I did it without hesitation. I wasn't about to take any shit from anyone, or endure an unsatisfying relationship. No. Not I. Not even for a moment.
Then I grew up... or so I thought.
People grow up in different ways. People learn and interpret in different ways. People deduce different thing from their experiences. It's no surprise.
So... when I stopped for a minute... when I finally realized that good things are worth fighting for... I took it as a sign of maturity.
Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I still am.
It's not that I believe that I can pull off an eternally casual relationship with an ex. Of course not. I'm not a fucking idiot!
It's just that I know we can't build something from the rubble that's left... at least not quickly. We can't just continue in the rut we were, hoping that some miracle will pull us out. No! Things don't work that way.
But maybe all is not lost. Hell, all is never lost until you think it is. Isn't that so? Maybe we can plant our feet on the ground again. Maybe we can learn to walk. Maybe we can build something different then, knowing now what we have to gain.
Look — I always thought that separations were just a way of gaining distance in order to facilitate a more permanent break-up, a way of easing the process, so to speak. Sure.
But there are also times in which distance is necessary. In which you need to count your losses and accept that as things stand, there is no solution, but perhaps from a different angle, there might be. I don't know.
I do, however, know this.
If I lose Q completely, I will lose be broken. I will move on. I will live. Yes. It won't be the end of the world, or even mine. But I will be broken. I will have lost something irreparable. I will have lost hope. Don't get me wrong. I don't want to be overly dramatic. But... that's just the way it is.
Look — I know I can love someone else. I'm no delusional fool, believe it or not. I will love and even be loved. But... I will not find a more kindred spirit.
I simply will not.
I will not find someone I understand so well.. despite our disagreements. I will not find someone who understands my own indiosyncrasies as well... despite his resentment. (I like to call them idiosyncrasies because it makes me feel less crazy.) I will not find someone whose craziness concurs with mine.
This I know.
And it would be so sad.
And even more sad would be the constant disappointment any new love would see marked across my face.
So, I ask all of you out there judging me one simple question: Should I sit by and simply watch it slip away? Is that what you're suggesting? (Ok. That's two questions. I know.)
I make a rule of refraining from judging people and telling them what to do in a relationship. Perhaps I get this from my father, who always provoked my frustration with his refusal to opine on my life. I don't know. But I'll tell you this. I don't think that anybody has the right to do so. I don't think that we EVER have a clear picture of someone else's losses, of someone else's gains. I don't think we EVER know where the center of balance lies. No. How dare we judge right from wrong? People MUST do what they deem to be right.
I hate sappy shit. But in the end.. all we can do is follow our hearts.
But not without an argument.
I used to walk away from relationships as soon as things got tough. It was difficult maybe, but I did it without hesitation. I wasn't about to take any shit from anyone, or endure an unsatisfying relationship. No. Not I. Not even for a moment.
Then I grew up... or so I thought.
People grow up in different ways. People learn and interpret in different ways. People deduce different thing from their experiences. It's no surprise.
So... when I stopped for a minute... when I finally realized that good things are worth fighting for... I took it as a sign of maturity.
Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I still am.
It's not that I believe that I can pull off an eternally casual relationship with an ex. Of course not. I'm not a fucking idiot!
It's just that I know we can't build something from the rubble that's left... at least not quickly. We can't just continue in the rut we were, hoping that some miracle will pull us out. No! Things don't work that way.
But maybe all is not lost. Hell, all is never lost until you think it is. Isn't that so? Maybe we can plant our feet on the ground again. Maybe we can learn to walk. Maybe we can build something different then, knowing now what we have to gain.
Look — I always thought that separations were just a way of gaining distance in order to facilitate a more permanent break-up, a way of easing the process, so to speak. Sure.
But there are also times in which distance is necessary. In which you need to count your losses and accept that as things stand, there is no solution, but perhaps from a different angle, there might be. I don't know.
I do, however, know this.
If I lose Q completely, I will lose be broken. I will move on. I will live. Yes. It won't be the end of the world, or even mine. But I will be broken. I will have lost something irreparable. I will have lost hope. Don't get me wrong. I don't want to be overly dramatic. But... that's just the way it is.
Look — I know I can love someone else. I'm no delusional fool, believe it or not. I will love and even be loved. But... I will not find a more kindred spirit.
I simply will not.
I will not find someone I understand so well.. despite our disagreements. I will not find someone who understands my own indiosyncrasies as well... despite his resentment. (I like to call them idiosyncrasies because it makes me feel less crazy.) I will not find someone whose craziness concurs with mine.
This I know.
And it would be so sad.
And even more sad would be the constant disappointment any new love would see marked across my face.
So, I ask all of you out there judging me one simple question: Should I sit by and simply watch it slip away? Is that what you're suggesting? (Ok. That's two questions. I know.)
I make a rule of refraining from judging people and telling them what to do in a relationship. Perhaps I get this from my father, who always provoked my frustration with his refusal to opine on my life. I don't know. But I'll tell you this. I don't think that anybody has the right to do so. I don't think that we EVER have a clear picture of someone else's losses, of someone else's gains. I don't think we EVER know where the center of balance lies. No. How dare we judge right from wrong? People MUST do what they deem to be right.
I hate sappy shit. But in the end.. all we can do is follow our hearts.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Ahh.. bliss... ok, perhaps perfection is far away, but it's good to get well laid.
The only real problem I see with having a casual relationship with an ex — so far — is the ridiculously heightened concern over not falling into the same traps. I mean, jesú, how are you even supposed to relax enough to simply enjoy it? Everything you do is so imbued with meaning and history. Can't it just be?
I don't want to worry about how I'm doing things. I don't want to worry about when to leave. I don't want to worry. I just want to enjoy.
I know.. i know... naive.
The only real problem I see with having a casual relationship with an ex — so far — is the ridiculously heightened concern over not falling into the same traps. I mean, jesú, how are you even supposed to relax enough to simply enjoy it? Everything you do is so imbued with meaning and history. Can't it just be?
I don't want to worry about how I'm doing things. I don't want to worry about when to leave. I don't want to worry. I just want to enjoy.
I know.. i know... naive.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Can you do the casual thang with an ex? I don't know. But it sure seems like you should be able to. I mean, hell.. you know all there is to know at this point.. if nothing else it's bound to be a good source of sex and fun. No?
Unfortunately, relationships are best without the expectations. I've always done a pretty good job at limiting my expectations anyhow. The most I expect is a little bit of commitment to the time at hand... in other words, engagement... authenticity. I mean if you're not going to be there, why be there? That's all.
I am a riot when I'm just having fun. Really I am. But as soon as I'm pigeonholed into some kind of fucked up role play, that's it. The fun is over. Nobody can role play like me, baby. You turn me into the naggy wife, hell.. I'll play it out better than your mother. But please don't pigeonhole me. I hate to be forced into a role. I depise it like nothing else.
So.. now... I'm just me. Role playing into an endless male fantasy. No, not the blonde kind with the big titties and fuck-me red lipstick that never smears. The too cool to care kind. Yes, that's the kind you like. Isn't it? Now.. I just have fun. I'm "light" girl. Yeah. Nothing can shake me. I don't care what you're thinking. I don't want to hear about your exes, your girlfriends, your mom. I don't need for you to tell me how you feel. I don't want to have anything defined, except my figure, baby. And I want some time to miss you, so please go away. You don't have to spend the night. Hell, I don't want you to hold me. Not unless you need to, baby. Not unless you need someone to hold. And then I'll go away again. When you are done.
Don't send me flowers. Forget about the little things. They don't matter anyway. It's not the details, or even the big things. It's the now. That's all I care about. Touch me. Touch me if you want to. Bend me over. Push me down. I push back. If you want. Only if you want.
I don't want you to come to my Christmas party. I don't need any company to my sister's wedding. And I always do my grocery chopping alone.
Don't take out my garbage. Don't rub my shoulders when they hurt. I don't care about those things. Just let me be.
I am easy girl. Fly, be free.
Unfortunately, relationships are best without the expectations. I've always done a pretty good job at limiting my expectations anyhow. The most I expect is a little bit of commitment to the time at hand... in other words, engagement... authenticity. I mean if you're not going to be there, why be there? That's all.
I am a riot when I'm just having fun. Really I am. But as soon as I'm pigeonholed into some kind of fucked up role play, that's it. The fun is over. Nobody can role play like me, baby. You turn me into the naggy wife, hell.. I'll play it out better than your mother. But please don't pigeonhole me. I hate to be forced into a role. I depise it like nothing else.
So.. now... I'm just me. Role playing into an endless male fantasy. No, not the blonde kind with the big titties and fuck-me red lipstick that never smears. The too cool to care kind. Yes, that's the kind you like. Isn't it? Now.. I just have fun. I'm "light" girl. Yeah. Nothing can shake me. I don't care what you're thinking. I don't want to hear about your exes, your girlfriends, your mom. I don't need for you to tell me how you feel. I don't want to have anything defined, except my figure, baby. And I want some time to miss you, so please go away. You don't have to spend the night. Hell, I don't want you to hold me. Not unless you need to, baby. Not unless you need someone to hold. And then I'll go away again. When you are done.
Don't send me flowers. Forget about the little things. They don't matter anyway. It's not the details, or even the big things. It's the now. That's all I care about. Touch me. Touch me if you want to. Bend me over. Push me down. I push back. If you want. Only if you want.
I don't want you to come to my Christmas party. I don't need any company to my sister's wedding. And I always do my grocery chopping alone.
Don't take out my garbage. Don't rub my shoulders when they hurt. I don't care about those things. Just let me be.
I am easy girl. Fly, be free.
See... I'm not the only one freaking out on dates. See Jen's story.
And I'm not the only one having a hard time of it. See La Espia's story.
Oy!
And I'm not the only one having a hard time of it. See La Espia's story.
Oy!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
prislander13 offered to translate a previous post of mine, a poem, and he did. So.. for any Spanish-challenged readers out there, here is one man's interpretation of "desencarnación." (Not just any man, though — prislander!) Thanks, prislander.
I have translated many a poem and I have to say — translating poetry sucks! Poetry, for the most part, doesn't translate well. Granted, Pablo Neruda, translated into ANY language, is still brilliant, be even he loses something in translation. And believe me — I am NO Neruda... nothing even close... and bad poetry is bad poetry in ANY language. So, don't blame the translator, but do consider the translation.
Take the title, for example — desencarnación. What is the proper translation? We will have to leave it title-less for now. Desencarnación is the noun form of the verb desencarnar — the act of desencarnando — which, literally, means two things. First, it means the act of stripping something of its meat — as you would a turkey on thanksgiving day, or as a vulture would do to a cow carcass. However you like. But... that's not all. It also means to grow tired of something. A lovely word indeed. What is the English equivalent? I do not know.
And then there is the simple verb "gustar," which is repeated throughout the poem. The translator was uncertain as to which approach to take with the word. Is it to like? To love? To fancy? He went with fancy until the end. And interesting approach. Thus I left it as is. Though, I must say, I'm not sure I would have used the word fancy had I actually written it in English. On the other hand, I'm quite sure that I would not have ever written it in English, so I suppose the word fancy is as good as any other.
So.. without any further delay... desencarnación...
I fancy your absence
For during it you are nearest,
Flooding all beyond my eyelids
And evoking a hazy paroxysm.
I fancy not touching you
For I can then keep the secret
Of those kisses you never gave me,
And the lust endures and doesn’t fade.
I fancy your quietness
For I cannot then grow tired of your voice,
And I do not cede to the temptation
Of repeating all those sweet but tired words.
I fancy it that you are not mine
Because I could never hold you like this, dearest,
Never as real as in my dreams
...and dreams will never undermine poetry.
I like dreaming of you
For I can avoid the disenchantment,
The disillusion, and all those other dises
While failing to catch my breath.
I love waiting for you
For I can feel my heart implode,
And the mere mockery exposes me
To the eternal beauty of this grand illusion.
I have translated many a poem and I have to say — translating poetry sucks! Poetry, for the most part, doesn't translate well. Granted, Pablo Neruda, translated into ANY language, is still brilliant, be even he loses something in translation. And believe me — I am NO Neruda... nothing even close... and bad poetry is bad poetry in ANY language. So, don't blame the translator, but do consider the translation.
Take the title, for example — desencarnación. What is the proper translation? We will have to leave it title-less for now. Desencarnación is the noun form of the verb desencarnar — the act of desencarnando — which, literally, means two things. First, it means the act of stripping something of its meat — as you would a turkey on thanksgiving day, or as a vulture would do to a cow carcass. However you like. But... that's not all. It also means to grow tired of something. A lovely word indeed. What is the English equivalent? I do not know.
And then there is the simple verb "gustar," which is repeated throughout the poem. The translator was uncertain as to which approach to take with the word. Is it to like? To love? To fancy? He went with fancy until the end. And interesting approach. Thus I left it as is. Though, I must say, I'm not sure I would have used the word fancy had I actually written it in English. On the other hand, I'm quite sure that I would not have ever written it in English, so I suppose the word fancy is as good as any other.
So.. without any further delay... desencarnación...
I fancy your absence
For during it you are nearest,
Flooding all beyond my eyelids
And evoking a hazy paroxysm.
I fancy not touching you
For I can then keep the secret
Of those kisses you never gave me,
And the lust endures and doesn’t fade.
I fancy your quietness
For I cannot then grow tired of your voice,
And I do not cede to the temptation
Of repeating all those sweet but tired words.
I fancy it that you are not mine
Because I could never hold you like this, dearest,
Never as real as in my dreams
...and dreams will never undermine poetry.
I like dreaming of you
For I can avoid the disenchantment,
The disillusion, and all those other dises
While failing to catch my breath.
I love waiting for you
For I can feel my heart implode,
And the mere mockery exposes me
To the eternal beauty of this grand illusion.
How do eyes embrace? To approach truth one must get as far from it as possible. To touch “the real” one must create the illusion. One must commit to the illusion. One must maintain the illusion.
You grab a woman, when you grab a woman, by the eyes, with the eyes. You hold her. Practice it overtly. There’s a certain charm in that, in the lack of subtly, the lack of expertise... as if you're naively playing or trying out a newly acquired talent or trying to impress a potential love interest with the party trick your bartender used on you last night – throwing out the hook unguardedly, disarmingly, and then, head bowed, peering up for the response, any response, any response.
That’s all we really want in the end — people to respond to us.
If you want to fuck a woman you must learn to respond to all of her. You must let your actions mutually come as responses to each other. You must always be responding, and treasure that response. Breathe by it.
If you want people to hear your screams, you must learn to respond to others, especially as they respond to you. You must always be aware that your screams are not simply sucked into a vacuum.
Bow your head a lot. Allow people to think of you, peering up from a bowed head, peering up to hold their eyes, searchingly, pleadingly, so beautific. How could anyone not want to embrace that?
Know the tricks. Know them well from unpolished experience. Explore their depths, their full potential. That requires follow through.
How far can you take it? You can hold a woman’s eyes so that you can simply fuck her. You can make her believe. That’s a skill. Step One.
Step Two: You must believe it as well.
Step Three: Hold it.
Continue. Always continue step three. If it falls through, return to step one, and follow through. Nothing is eternal. Engage, and when it's time, engage no longer. Back to step one.
[[Follow through – it’s all follow through.]]
You grab a woman, when you grab a woman, by the eyes, with the eyes. You hold her. Practice it overtly. There’s a certain charm in that, in the lack of subtly, the lack of expertise... as if you're naively playing or trying out a newly acquired talent or trying to impress a potential love interest with the party trick your bartender used on you last night – throwing out the hook unguardedly, disarmingly, and then, head bowed, peering up for the response, any response, any response.
That’s all we really want in the end — people to respond to us.
If you want to fuck a woman you must learn to respond to all of her. You must let your actions mutually come as responses to each other. You must always be responding, and treasure that response. Breathe by it.
If you want people to hear your screams, you must learn to respond to others, especially as they respond to you. You must always be aware that your screams are not simply sucked into a vacuum.
Bow your head a lot. Allow people to think of you, peering up from a bowed head, peering up to hold their eyes, searchingly, pleadingly, so beautific. How could anyone not want to embrace that?
Know the tricks. Know them well from unpolished experience. Explore their depths, their full potential. That requires follow through.
How far can you take it? You can hold a woman’s eyes so that you can simply fuck her. You can make her believe. That’s a skill. Step One.
Step Two: You must believe it as well.
Step Three: Hold it.
Continue. Always continue step three. If it falls through, return to step one, and follow through. Nothing is eternal. Engage, and when it's time, engage no longer. Back to step one.
[[Follow through – it’s all follow through.]]
Come, love, let me walk you through this.
People talk about making love, having sex, screwing, fucking, consummating, fornicating, and the lot. People talk about these things and seem to be confused.
Let’s make love, not have wounded-dove sex.
Making love is not about being tender. Making love is not the opposite extreme of fucking, where sex falls in the center. Sex is the empty act, the act of emptying yourself into another. It is one extreme, the no-frills product, bare bones. Making love, fucking – both clothe sex in an illusion. Both are acts of desperation, desire – not skill, darling. Not skill. In the end, if you’re sitting back to examine your work, determine your efficiency, you are not responding honestly; you are corrupting the moment, hence the act. Your effort is sweet, your concern, but misguided, counterproductive, cumbersome
FUCKING
The personal connection is only fundamental as it serves a greater purpose by nurturing trust, interest, comfort, ownership, and ultimately, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual development, simultaneously.
Fucking
People talk about making love, having sex, screwing, fucking, consummating, fornicating, and the lot. People talk about these things and seem to be confused.
Let’s make love, not have wounded-dove sex.
Making love is not about being tender. Making love is not the opposite extreme of fucking, where sex falls in the center. Sex is the empty act, the act of emptying yourself into another. It is one extreme, the no-frills product, bare bones. Making love, fucking – both clothe sex in an illusion. Both are acts of desperation, desire – not skill, darling. Not skill. In the end, if you’re sitting back to examine your work, determine your efficiency, you are not responding honestly; you are corrupting the moment, hence the act. Your effort is sweet, your concern, but misguided, counterproductive, cumbersome
FUCKING
The personal connection is only fundamental as it serves a greater purpose by nurturing trust, interest, comfort, ownership, and ultimately, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual development, simultaneously.
Fucking
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
While I haven't exactly been getting propositioned daily, I have determined that it is indeed time to take a vow of celibacy. Ok. Maybe not a vow. Now a vow at all. Just a quiet agreement with myself. Just a silent acknowledgement. I am not ready. I am most certainly not ready.
I had a panic attack on my first date back in the field. I had a fucking panic attack! What kind of pathetic shit is that? Clearly, I am not ready. And as pathetic as I might find this, I have no other option than to accept it. What am I to do? Force the issue? Yes, perhaps I can arrange it so that I do actually end up needing those irresponsibly prescribed anti-anxiety meds. How sad is that?
I will no longer endure the embarrassment. I must focus on me. I must not toss strange men from my apartment. (Of course, that's a whole other story altogether.) I must not have strange men anywhere near my bed — not even in the vicinity. I must... to bed... alone.
True. Like I said, I haven't exactly been drowning in propositions, but... alas... a girl can always get laid. Really. It's true. A girl can always get laid.
I'm locking up the merchandise and throwing away the key, people. Maria, I know you'll be disappointed, but what am I to do? Your little quest for suitors simply didn't bear results.
So.. I guess I'll join Amber for a while.. on her little man ban (and big men, too). Hell, maybe there is indeed strength in numbers. And if not, maybe we can at least satisfy ourselves with a bit of cock-teasing for a while. I have to say, I've never been much of a cock tease. I've always been much to directed for that. I like to stay on message, get to the point, see things through, so to speak. Free delivery, baby. But our delivery service has been called to a halt. Hell, we don't even have take out now. Restaurant closed for restoration. Closed until further notice.
[[Ok. I have to be honest. I'm not throwing away the key. I'm just hiding it for a while. If you're really interested, it'll be in my left shoe. I'm not encouraging anything here.. just wanted you to know.]]
Sunday, October 29, 2006
What the hell is up with people, man?
Halloween? Hallow-fuckin-ween? Really? You want to do that shit? Fine. Let's have it. Show me what you've got. Let's go out for the full-on battle of creavity — only to be defeated by ourselves before we even get a chance to flaunt our complete and utter assishness in front of the world. Yes! Sounds fuckin' great to me. Let's go.
I haven't done the whole halloween thing in at least.. let's see.. I can't even fucking remember. The last time I remember I dressed up as a bat in high school when I was a punk-ass mother fucker (with straight A's) trying to take flight against the world. No, if I recall correctly, I fell prey again once after. It must have been my first year of college... no.. perhaps last year of high school (I thought I was pretty fucking old. It's hard to tell the difference.) when, in a last-moment bout of desperation, I ever-so-ironically went as my boyfriend's shadow. [Am I still playing that part today? Perhaps I found it comforting. Oh, wait. I no longer have a boyfriend. Whose shadow am I now?]
Anyhow.. it's been a long time. (Longer than I care to admit even.)
So.. I took it on. How long can you sit around being bitter and cynical about everything, mocking it from afar? In the end, you begin to feel that maybe people are right when they assume you're too pathetic to partake, so you just sit around and bitch about it. Ok. So, I partook.
And you know what? I hated it!
Sorry, man. I know it sucks. I suck. I'm an asshole. A bitch. A cunt. A whore.
...whatever...
It's how I feel. [So, if you've ever dated me, shut off right now... just shut off. Don't listen. No matter what you do, don't listen. I'm telling you how I feel, damn it!]
What the fuck is wrong with the world? That's all I can say. That's all I can ask. What the fuck is wrong with the world?
I wonder — sometimes — what the fuck is wrong with ME. I wonder. I wonder about that. What the fuck is wrong with ME? But.. not tonight. Not tonight.
Tonight I am secure.. secure in my beliefs... secure in my sense of self... secure in my sense of the world.. secure that I am right to question — all the time — what the fuck is wrong with the world. Secure that it is not me.
I love my friends. They are beautiful. They are lovely. They are sweet. They are many wonderful things. I do not care to bash them. I do not. Really!
But I do not understand. I do not understand the whores, the hookers, the french maids, the school girls, the cheerleaders, the sluts, the sexy devils, the scantily-clad, blood-sucking (and so much more) vampires, the dominatrices, the harem girls, the belly dancers, the harlots. I do not understand.
One girl dressed as a baby. I thought she should win the prize (if there really were a prize to be won). Not because she managed to squeeze about a third of her ass into a real pair of diapers and actually make them look like a thong. Not because she managed to squeeze the top third of her torso into a real baby's undie, with her tits popping out from beneath. Not even because she sucked so well on a bottle full of vodka all night long. No. None of those things. It was because she managed to drink herself into such a stupor that she certainly could not walk. Yes, people had to carry her. The jibberish spewing out of her mouth was much like that of a two year old. And by the end of the night, I'm pretty sure she was spitting up on everyone. Hell, I'm pretty sure the guy whom I saw carrying her off was about to change her diapers.
I went as mercury. I covered myself in tinfoil and went as mercury. I lay down in a pool on the ground and caused brain damage. At least I had that excuse. At least. [Come to think of it... my powers were strong. They were certainly acting like they were incurring some serious brain damage. Hmmm...]
People think I'm weird. They snicker when I walk by, like they're stuck in high school. I do not understand.
At least I did it, right? Fuck! At least I did it. What did you do? Oh, yeah... you got laid, right. You got laid.
I'm home alone now... blogging. You got laid.
Good night, little world. Good night. I love you. Now go get laid.
Halloween? Hallow-fuckin-ween? Really? You want to do that shit? Fine. Let's have it. Show me what you've got. Let's go out for the full-on battle of creavity — only to be defeated by ourselves before we even get a chance to flaunt our complete and utter assishness in front of the world. Yes! Sounds fuckin' great to me. Let's go.
I haven't done the whole halloween thing in at least.. let's see.. I can't even fucking remember. The last time I remember I dressed up as a bat in high school when I was a punk-ass mother fucker (with straight A's) trying to take flight against the world. No, if I recall correctly, I fell prey again once after. It must have been my first year of college... no.. perhaps last year of high school (I thought I was pretty fucking old. It's hard to tell the difference.) when, in a last-moment bout of desperation, I ever-so-ironically went as my boyfriend's shadow. [Am I still playing that part today? Perhaps I found it comforting. Oh, wait. I no longer have a boyfriend. Whose shadow am I now?]
Anyhow.. it's been a long time. (Longer than I care to admit even.)
So.. I took it on. How long can you sit around being bitter and cynical about everything, mocking it from afar? In the end, you begin to feel that maybe people are right when they assume you're too pathetic to partake, so you just sit around and bitch about it. Ok. So, I partook.
And you know what? I hated it!
Sorry, man. I know it sucks. I suck. I'm an asshole. A bitch. A cunt. A whore.
...whatever...
It's how I feel. [So, if you've ever dated me, shut off right now... just shut off. Don't listen. No matter what you do, don't listen. I'm telling you how I feel, damn it!]
What the fuck is wrong with the world? That's all I can say. That's all I can ask. What the fuck is wrong with the world?
I wonder — sometimes — what the fuck is wrong with ME. I wonder. I wonder about that. What the fuck is wrong with ME? But.. not tonight. Not tonight.
Tonight I am secure.. secure in my beliefs... secure in my sense of self... secure in my sense of the world.. secure that I am right to question — all the time — what the fuck is wrong with the world. Secure that it is not me.
I love my friends. They are beautiful. They are lovely. They are sweet. They are many wonderful things. I do not care to bash them. I do not. Really!
But I do not understand. I do not understand the whores, the hookers, the french maids, the school girls, the cheerleaders, the sluts, the sexy devils, the scantily-clad, blood-sucking (and so much more) vampires, the dominatrices, the harem girls, the belly dancers, the harlots. I do not understand.
One girl dressed as a baby. I thought she should win the prize (if there really were a prize to be won). Not because she managed to squeeze about a third of her ass into a real pair of diapers and actually make them look like a thong. Not because she managed to squeeze the top third of her torso into a real baby's undie, with her tits popping out from beneath. Not even because she sucked so well on a bottle full of vodka all night long. No. None of those things. It was because she managed to drink herself into such a stupor that she certainly could not walk. Yes, people had to carry her. The jibberish spewing out of her mouth was much like that of a two year old. And by the end of the night, I'm pretty sure she was spitting up on everyone. Hell, I'm pretty sure the guy whom I saw carrying her off was about to change her diapers.
I went as mercury. I covered myself in tinfoil and went as mercury. I lay down in a pool on the ground and caused brain damage. At least I had that excuse. At least. [Come to think of it... my powers were strong. They were certainly acting like they were incurring some serious brain damage. Hmmm...]
People think I'm weird. They snicker when I walk by, like they're stuck in high school. I do not understand.
At least I did it, right? Fuck! At least I did it. What did you do? Oh, yeah... you got laid, right. You got laid.
I'm home alone now... blogging. You got laid.
Good night, little world. Good night. I love you. Now go get laid.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Ok, Jen, you win. (I bet you think this song is about you.)
Isn't she fabulous?
Zoom on on the eyebrows if you can; they are indeed perfectly glamourous.
And for gods' sake say yes, people. Don't earn me a retaliation.
I have a feeling this woman bites in times of danger.
Isn't she fabulous?Zoom on on the eyebrows if you can; they are indeed perfectly glamourous.
And for gods' sake say yes, people. Don't earn me a retaliation.
I have a feeling this woman bites in times of danger.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Date time. Yes. It's time to give the world a go. Time to jump back into life and try to suck of its marrow. Or at least its armpit. Or even a cock. What's a girl to do. Crazy or not, here I come.
Actually, I dig the guy. Don't know what it is... perhaps his simple wackiness, his off-kilter appeal, his lack of tact. I need some tactless tactile function, baby. I need a hole in the head.
I think his madness reminds me of another.
Actually, I dig the guy. Don't know what it is... perhaps his simple wackiness, his off-kilter appeal, his lack of tact. I need some tactless tactile function, baby. I need a hole in the head.
I think his madness reminds me of another.
I was going to write a silly post to tease and taunt my esthetician, but something happened. Now it will be a double-whammy.
But first things first.
My esthetician, Jen, left a comment on my blog saying how much she likes compliments... and the word fablous. So.. JEN.. YOU ARE FABLOUS. Isn't she fabulous, people? And you look so sexy when you get all sadist with my brows.
Jen has a pretty interesting profession. I mean... waxing can make for some interesting stories when it's more than just brows. Think about folks. Don't you want to hear her stories? Don't you want a nice Brazilian cooch job? How about waxing those balls?
Ok. I'm digressing here.
The thing is... THIS...
When I went into photoshop to try to enhance what was a very dark photo of Jen, I found someone else in the photo. Or so I thought. Look to to right. That's right, folk I actually freaked out because I thought there was someone else there. See, I just took this photo the other night (when I ran into Jen at a mutual friend's gathering), and I remember distinctly taking the photo. There was nobody else out there.
Of course... there WAS nobody else out there, and I seem to be losing my mind. Urgh!
But first things first.
My esthetician, Jen, left a comment on my blog saying how much she likes compliments... and the word fablous. So.. JEN.. YOU ARE FABLOUS. Isn't she fabulous, people? And you look so sexy when you get all sadist with my brows.Jen has a pretty interesting profession. I mean... waxing can make for some interesting stories when it's more than just brows. Think about folks. Don't you want to hear her stories? Don't you want a nice Brazilian cooch job? How about waxing those balls?
Ok. I'm digressing here.
The thing is... THIS...
When I went into photoshop to try to enhance what was a very dark photo of Jen, I found someone else in the photo. Or so I thought. Look to to right. That's right, folk I actually freaked out because I thought there was someone else there. See, I just took this photo the other night (when I ran into Jen at a mutual friend's gathering), and I remember distinctly taking the photo. There was nobody else out there.
Of course... there WAS nobody else out there, and I seem to be losing my mind. Urgh!
How do people touch one another? What are the acceptable levels of intimacy, and the path to each. We get used to certain paths and resort to them, but they are ultimately a farce, a vehicle, one that we often have a difficult time accepting as thus.
Hold me. So many people have this desperate need to be loved. It is not passion. It is the very essence of passion. Desperation. Need. Love. A subject for an outpouring. You have to outpour. You have to unload. Or you boil over. You boil over. That’s the goal, the lack of control. The desperation.
This is beyond me. It moves me. It is bigger than I. Maybe we simply need to feel the presence of something bigger than us. It can’t be so clean, so practical, tidy, predictable, and control-able. No, it cannot. It cannot. It cannot. So… we need something bigger, whatever that is. Call it faith… in whatever. In God, in love, in significance, in toenail polish and Velcro, or in thought. Something, bigger, passion. It moves us.
So. I preach about “the zone.” I’m not big on Zen or karma, or anything as hip as that. Yes, I can slip into my ultimate energy theory, but that’s not even relevant. It’s about doing things whole-heartedly, committing to them in order to do them right, stepping into the zone with them, and then deciding whether or not you want that to be your life, or sustaining it for as long as you can or for as long as you desire.
Once you have given it the real effort, lived the true experience, committed to it, and taken it into the zone, you can reject or accept it. The best is to just live it until it just doesn’t suit you – fast or slow. That’s ultimately the way it goes.
Except, no, because we do things half-heartedly, don’t really give them a chance, refuse to commit or step into the zone, hence not getting fed from it and so rejecting it. Of course you reject it, you never let yourself go. How can that be good? How can you really milk it or get anything from it. It’s a fucking farce, a fraud, an absurd theater.
So you relate to people on all kinds of levels. Some are honest, and some are not. I try to remain honest now, but that’s all in the years. I still slip into immaturity from time to time. It’s cheap.
Where do you have to go to talk to people at their level? What are the tokens, and other acceptable terms, through which we establish trust? Does there have to be a betrayal of sorts, a reaction to some other wrong? Do the possibilities need to be addressed, discussed? Otherwise, how do you establish intention? What is intention? Intent? Everything ? What does intent matter if consequences prevail?
Love, love, maternal love, physical love, what love? Physical? What does that mean? Is that a “type” of love, or a consequence. If it’s a consequence, then it’s a general consequence of love, passion, desperation – clawing, grasping, breathing, imbuing, devouring. You can only monitor, censor, and mold through conditioning, on a purely emotional level. Your emotional response, combined with your self-defined moral codes, dictates your physical response. Desperation always entails a physical response of sorts, so you curtail desperation, redirect it, often absurdly.
Sex. An obvious outcome? Or a learned response, the projected outlet? There are more significant ways of establishing intimacy. More complicated, perhaps, but better. Yes, better somehow. Yet we stray from these. We try to bring it down to the most base level. We seek to express it physically and automatically fall into the most basic physical expression. Is there something fundamentally wrong or lacking in this. It seems we should seek something beyond this, better, more sophisticated, perhaps practical, realistic. No. Horrid words. Maybe though, but only despite the fact, only is so far as they aim for something better, more intense, more real somehow, maybe less tainted, more sincere. More pure, or perhaps less vulnerable. But is this ever real? Perhaps it can be, once forced; but initially you can only pretend the vulnerability is not there. It’s a farce nonetheless.
So, sex. If you simply claw and grasp, if you want to claw and grasp, if you allow yourself to go there and suddenly find yourself there, what can be less of a farce? What can be more real? That’s the reason, the rationalization, the motivation, the end.
It’s the moment. Live in the moment. In the end, that’s all we have, moments. Morsels.
So, if that’s what we have, do we just focus on their accumulation? If this were so, I think we would live our lives quite differently.
We feel compelled toward something else, toward permanence – which ultimately means fewer moments. Less variety leaves less room for moments, that’s just a given. Ok, if you find a moment, why not simply keep it, repeat it? Because it ceases to be a moment. Because in the end, the moment is a moment by its very definition, because it is only a moment. If it were “longer” the moment would cease to exist.
A woman relates to her friends, different friends in different scenarios – acquaintances, strangers, lovers, men, women, her friends’ lovers husbands and wives, her colleagues, her coworkers, her staff, her students. Her lover’s exes, threats, unknowns, assumed safeties. Would my lover really have an affair with a slightly overweight, unattractive woman? Oh, with a great personality. You choose to believe not. Perhaps that’s even why he conveys it, why he does so without fear, most of the time. Most of the time. This is important. It’s not all of the time. Too much of anything can seem suspicious; and why expose more than you have to, more than you have to and still feel “real,” more than you have to and still understand that , after all, you are doing nothing wrong. Is the fear, the concern, the safeguard, the omission, a betrayal? What are you protecting?
In the end, what are you protecting? Here we go back to intent, perhaps. It’s always intent. Is it? I intend. I stop. I don’t intend. I don’t stop. That’s not about intent. Actions? Actions or intent? Perhaps they are one in the same. Misrepresentation is the worst betrayal. Oh so. It is, and is what I fear most and for which I flagellate most when necessary, though I tend to avoid the need for long spurts at a time.
Love feels good. Someone excited about your love feels great. Someone satisfied with your love feels good. Someone excited about the satisfaction feels great. But none of these are terribly sustainable. They are moments. Only more moments. But they are it. So what do you do? You have someone accepting of your love, perhaps even satisfied in some way, but how satisfied can that person be without the excitement? Is that even satisfaction? Perhaps it’s a mere semblance of it, almost a reflection, based on the expectation of the moments, of the moments of excitement over it, somehow assuming that they will be greater than without – no, just assuming that the time between the moments will pass more interestingly. Yes.
What do you sacrifice to secure the time between the moments? Do you sacrifice moments? Should you? Do you want someone you love to sacrifice moments? Why do we consider lack of sacrifice a personal expense?
I know there must be some way to truly love and require no sacrifice nor take on an expense. I know there must be a way to simply place ourselves above it all. The problem is, why would we want to? Wouldn’t that impede full enjoyment? Wouldn’t that impede “the zone”? We have to commit. And we cannot commit indefinitely. One commitment impedes another. Nay? Stupid shit.
What do you do? Relate to everyone superficially or risk confusing people with open doors, windows, arms, and minds?
I want to embrace everyone I love; I don’t want to fuck them.
However, I do feel a need to be fucked, to fuck, to desire, need, hunger.
I do feel a need to feed.
I could feed on your blood, and somehow that would make more sense, be more meaningful somehow. I could let you feed on mine. But blood is dangerous these days, and there’s no latex for the like. A latex funnel, I believe. A filter, yellow, leaning toward orange, no fancy little patterns, just standard filth.
In my mind I have lost all sex. My body feels alive from time to time. My body moans and aches, seeks contact with matter, preferably in motion, but not much. Once the motion is obvious it points to something else, no longer content in its fulfillment.
My body cries out from time to time. I wonder if it’s heard, smelled, sensed, somehow. It must be. I notice more noticing. I sense brief glances reacting to the scent. A breeze, a whiff, a hint.
But I no longer fantasize. I create no scenarios to carry to promising fruition. I no longer imagine and wish and desire. I no longer consider possibilities or recreate moments. My mind exists so far from my body. The two simply do not come together now. For now. Hopefully, just for now. It’s unsatisfying. I no longer masturbate. That can’t be good. I don’t really concern myself with coming. I want to. I do, but… the concern over it is worth the sacrifice. I just as soon not try, I guess. Is that fucked up! Is it ever!
I want to fuck. I want to make love. I want to feel my mind and body come together, yes, literally even, literally especially.
I feel disappointed. Even when it’s good. Not always. But I feel general disappointment. That sounds terrible. I want more. I want to give more, take more, feel more. There commands a certain level of intensity, intensity that is now usually only simulated by the mere oddity of it, by its lack. In reality, the fear. It’s like getting off on overcoming the obstacle, rather than on honestly engaging in the act. It’s a farce, in the end. It’s another farce. There’s the problem in it.
Do I ask for something unusual? I don’t even know anymore. I don’t know if it’s obvious or totally obscured. Do I love with particular intensity? Perhaps I no longer do. Perhaps I have destroyed illusion with realism. Perhaps I have trampled it and continue to do so. Perhaps I only laud illusion in theory, but can no longer carry it out in practice. Fuck. I don’t even know. It scares the fuck out of me, really. The horror. The horror.
Can you teach someone to look at you again? Can you inspire it? Can you stop and take a real look and see illusion through the years of negligence? Is it possible to see again? To see through the flatulence, through acidity, acidatay? Is it possible to forget a misplaced hair, a wad of toilet paper left dangling from an ass? Where does memory end and illusion begin?
I don’t know. I love, though. I love, and somehow that should be enough. Somehow it has to be, and is. I just need to find the zone. The Zone.
Hold me. So many people have this desperate need to be loved. It is not passion. It is the very essence of passion. Desperation. Need. Love. A subject for an outpouring. You have to outpour. You have to unload. Or you boil over. You boil over. That’s the goal, the lack of control. The desperation.
This is beyond me. It moves me. It is bigger than I. Maybe we simply need to feel the presence of something bigger than us. It can’t be so clean, so practical, tidy, predictable, and control-able. No, it cannot. It cannot. It cannot. So… we need something bigger, whatever that is. Call it faith… in whatever. In God, in love, in significance, in toenail polish and Velcro, or in thought. Something, bigger, passion. It moves us.
So. I preach about “the zone.” I’m not big on Zen or karma, or anything as hip as that. Yes, I can slip into my ultimate energy theory, but that’s not even relevant. It’s about doing things whole-heartedly, committing to them in order to do them right, stepping into the zone with them, and then deciding whether or not you want that to be your life, or sustaining it for as long as you can or for as long as you desire.
Once you have given it the real effort, lived the true experience, committed to it, and taken it into the zone, you can reject or accept it. The best is to just live it until it just doesn’t suit you – fast or slow. That’s ultimately the way it goes.
Except, no, because we do things half-heartedly, don’t really give them a chance, refuse to commit or step into the zone, hence not getting fed from it and so rejecting it. Of course you reject it, you never let yourself go. How can that be good? How can you really milk it or get anything from it. It’s a fucking farce, a fraud, an absurd theater.
So you relate to people on all kinds of levels. Some are honest, and some are not. I try to remain honest now, but that’s all in the years. I still slip into immaturity from time to time. It’s cheap.
Where do you have to go to talk to people at their level? What are the tokens, and other acceptable terms, through which we establish trust? Does there have to be a betrayal of sorts, a reaction to some other wrong? Do the possibilities need to be addressed, discussed? Otherwise, how do you establish intention? What is intention? Intent? Everything ? What does intent matter if consequences prevail?
Love, love, maternal love, physical love, what love? Physical? What does that mean? Is that a “type” of love, or a consequence. If it’s a consequence, then it’s a general consequence of love, passion, desperation – clawing, grasping, breathing, imbuing, devouring. You can only monitor, censor, and mold through conditioning, on a purely emotional level. Your emotional response, combined with your self-defined moral codes, dictates your physical response. Desperation always entails a physical response of sorts, so you curtail desperation, redirect it, often absurdly.
Sex. An obvious outcome? Or a learned response, the projected outlet? There are more significant ways of establishing intimacy. More complicated, perhaps, but better. Yes, better somehow. Yet we stray from these. We try to bring it down to the most base level. We seek to express it physically and automatically fall into the most basic physical expression. Is there something fundamentally wrong or lacking in this. It seems we should seek something beyond this, better, more sophisticated, perhaps practical, realistic. No. Horrid words. Maybe though, but only despite the fact, only is so far as they aim for something better, more intense, more real somehow, maybe less tainted, more sincere. More pure, or perhaps less vulnerable. But is this ever real? Perhaps it can be, once forced; but initially you can only pretend the vulnerability is not there. It’s a farce nonetheless.
So, sex. If you simply claw and grasp, if you want to claw and grasp, if you allow yourself to go there and suddenly find yourself there, what can be less of a farce? What can be more real? That’s the reason, the rationalization, the motivation, the end.
It’s the moment. Live in the moment. In the end, that’s all we have, moments. Morsels.
So, if that’s what we have, do we just focus on their accumulation? If this were so, I think we would live our lives quite differently.
We feel compelled toward something else, toward permanence – which ultimately means fewer moments. Less variety leaves less room for moments, that’s just a given. Ok, if you find a moment, why not simply keep it, repeat it? Because it ceases to be a moment. Because in the end, the moment is a moment by its very definition, because it is only a moment. If it were “longer” the moment would cease to exist.
A woman relates to her friends, different friends in different scenarios – acquaintances, strangers, lovers, men, women, her friends’ lovers husbands and wives, her colleagues, her coworkers, her staff, her students. Her lover’s exes, threats, unknowns, assumed safeties. Would my lover really have an affair with a slightly overweight, unattractive woman? Oh, with a great personality. You choose to believe not. Perhaps that’s even why he conveys it, why he does so without fear, most of the time. Most of the time. This is important. It’s not all of the time. Too much of anything can seem suspicious; and why expose more than you have to, more than you have to and still feel “real,” more than you have to and still understand that , after all, you are doing nothing wrong. Is the fear, the concern, the safeguard, the omission, a betrayal? What are you protecting?
In the end, what are you protecting? Here we go back to intent, perhaps. It’s always intent. Is it? I intend. I stop. I don’t intend. I don’t stop. That’s not about intent. Actions? Actions or intent? Perhaps they are one in the same. Misrepresentation is the worst betrayal. Oh so. It is, and is what I fear most and for which I flagellate most when necessary, though I tend to avoid the need for long spurts at a time.
Love feels good. Someone excited about your love feels great. Someone satisfied with your love feels good. Someone excited about the satisfaction feels great. But none of these are terribly sustainable. They are moments. Only more moments. But they are it. So what do you do? You have someone accepting of your love, perhaps even satisfied in some way, but how satisfied can that person be without the excitement? Is that even satisfaction? Perhaps it’s a mere semblance of it, almost a reflection, based on the expectation of the moments, of the moments of excitement over it, somehow assuming that they will be greater than without – no, just assuming that the time between the moments will pass more interestingly. Yes.
What do you sacrifice to secure the time between the moments? Do you sacrifice moments? Should you? Do you want someone you love to sacrifice moments? Why do we consider lack of sacrifice a personal expense?
I know there must be some way to truly love and require no sacrifice nor take on an expense. I know there must be a way to simply place ourselves above it all. The problem is, why would we want to? Wouldn’t that impede full enjoyment? Wouldn’t that impede “the zone”? We have to commit. And we cannot commit indefinitely. One commitment impedes another. Nay? Stupid shit.
What do you do? Relate to everyone superficially or risk confusing people with open doors, windows, arms, and minds?
I want to embrace everyone I love; I don’t want to fuck them.
However, I do feel a need to be fucked, to fuck, to desire, need, hunger.
I do feel a need to feed.
I could feed on your blood, and somehow that would make more sense, be more meaningful somehow. I could let you feed on mine. But blood is dangerous these days, and there’s no latex for the like. A latex funnel, I believe. A filter, yellow, leaning toward orange, no fancy little patterns, just standard filth.
In my mind I have lost all sex. My body feels alive from time to time. My body moans and aches, seeks contact with matter, preferably in motion, but not much. Once the motion is obvious it points to something else, no longer content in its fulfillment.
My body cries out from time to time. I wonder if it’s heard, smelled, sensed, somehow. It must be. I notice more noticing. I sense brief glances reacting to the scent. A breeze, a whiff, a hint.
But I no longer fantasize. I create no scenarios to carry to promising fruition. I no longer imagine and wish and desire. I no longer consider possibilities or recreate moments. My mind exists so far from my body. The two simply do not come together now. For now. Hopefully, just for now. It’s unsatisfying. I no longer masturbate. That can’t be good. I don’t really concern myself with coming. I want to. I do, but… the concern over it is worth the sacrifice. I just as soon not try, I guess. Is that fucked up! Is it ever!
I want to fuck. I want to make love. I want to feel my mind and body come together, yes, literally even, literally especially.
I feel disappointed. Even when it’s good. Not always. But I feel general disappointment. That sounds terrible. I want more. I want to give more, take more, feel more. There commands a certain level of intensity, intensity that is now usually only simulated by the mere oddity of it, by its lack. In reality, the fear. It’s like getting off on overcoming the obstacle, rather than on honestly engaging in the act. It’s a farce, in the end. It’s another farce. There’s the problem in it.
Do I ask for something unusual? I don’t even know anymore. I don’t know if it’s obvious or totally obscured. Do I love with particular intensity? Perhaps I no longer do. Perhaps I have destroyed illusion with realism. Perhaps I have trampled it and continue to do so. Perhaps I only laud illusion in theory, but can no longer carry it out in practice. Fuck. I don’t even know. It scares the fuck out of me, really. The horror. The horror.
Can you teach someone to look at you again? Can you inspire it? Can you stop and take a real look and see illusion through the years of negligence? Is it possible to see again? To see through the flatulence, through acidity, acidatay? Is it possible to forget a misplaced hair, a wad of toilet paper left dangling from an ass? Where does memory end and illusion begin?
I don’t know. I love, though. I love, and somehow that should be enough. Somehow it has to be, and is. I just need to find the zone. The Zone.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
I cancelled my date. I know it's stupid, but... What are you going to do? I left it open anyhow.. with much reassurance of a later date. I just can't go there yet. Not yet. Anyhow, I've been busy. I've been reading a lot lately — for those who care.
I just read Rushdie's Fury — great read indeed. A bit dark perhaps, but a great read — and somehow very appropriate right now. What shall I read next? I picked up Böll's The Clown, but I haven't quite allowed myself to delve into it yet. I don't think it's time. Any recommendations? I'm very picky about my books. Maybe I need a library date? Anybody up for it? I think I might be able to handle THAT.
Shit! I miss talking. Bullshit. And important things. I miss conversation. Not about men. Not about drinks. Not even about life, per se. Just talking. Where are all the good conversationalists? Where!?
My "waxing-woman" — whatever you call the woman who does your brows (who, by the way is one hot chick) — actually suggested I should start a book club. A bit odd, perhaps, but it might be time for something odd.
I have to say, though, I'm not big on clubs and shit — just never been a joiner by nature. And somehow, I can't imagine finding the right group of people out there to do this with, but.. again.. if anybody is up for it.. well.. let me know.. if it sounds interesting enough maybe it'll actually get off the ground.
Madness... just me putting myself out there in some crazy bloggish way. (Urgh.. next thing you know I'll be cyber-dating. Shoot me, please!)
I just read Rushdie's Fury — great read indeed. A bit dark perhaps, but a great read — and somehow very appropriate right now. What shall I read next? I picked up Böll's The Clown, but I haven't quite allowed myself to delve into it yet. I don't think it's time. Any recommendations? I'm very picky about my books. Maybe I need a library date? Anybody up for it? I think I might be able to handle THAT.
Shit! I miss talking. Bullshit. And important things. I miss conversation. Not about men. Not about drinks. Not even about life, per se. Just talking. Where are all the good conversationalists? Where!?
My "waxing-woman" — whatever you call the woman who does your brows (who, by the way is one hot chick) — actually suggested I should start a book club. A bit odd, perhaps, but it might be time for something odd.
I have to say, though, I'm not big on clubs and shit — just never been a joiner by nature. And somehow, I can't imagine finding the right group of people out there to do this with, but.. again.. if anybody is up for it.. well.. let me know.. if it sounds interesting enough maybe it'll actually get off the ground.
Madness... just me putting myself out there in some crazy bloggish way. (Urgh.. next thing you know I'll be cyber-dating. Shoot me, please!)
Monday, October 23, 2006
In relationships, smalls things take on a whole new meaning...
Laundry — or welcome to the danger zone
How fucked up do you actually feel getting worked up over some stupid receipt — to even notice it? Cause you should feel fucked up. It IS fucked up. It’s a fucking loss of dignity.
You’re just doing the laundry, you know. You don’t care. You never really minded doing the laundry. Maybe you even half like it sometimes. But it’s pretty domestic; you can’t argue with that.
Anyhow, You’re not really thinking about it. You’re just doing the laundry, after all. But then, well... the pockets have to be emptied. That’s just part of it; no big deal.
The problem comes once you stick your hand in a pocket and hit something... something… it doesn’t matter what. Suddenly, you’ve hit gold, fool’s gold, a hidden treasure, a secret... but not your secret. And no matter what your hand pulls out, you weren’t meant to see it.
Sometimes, your hand automatically recognizes and interprets what it meets… and the fear of the unknown diminishes. Sometimes… not, and then you have to address a whole new slew of dilemmas.
What gets left behind? What kind of treasure is it that I am finding? What secret am I exposing? Do I want to? Was this left behind for me? Am I supposed to find it? Or is it a slip, something that was supposed to remain a secret? Or is it a Freudian slip? What does it mean, this collection of receipts and business cards, stray dollar bills, coins, matches? Everything takes on significance, significance it wasn’t meant to have. Or was it?
Where are the matches from? Do you look? Do you care? You try not to. But it’s only natural to “see.” Of course, you’re looking… Of course you are. And no matter how much you manage to fool yourself… you still know. You’re not stupid. You looked, man. And you’re suddenly so completely aware of your own weakness, your fucking patheticness… or so it feels. But justified, nonetheless. Justified to question — which is why you ask — which is the most fucked up part of all.
You have no idea.
If someone else were writing this monologue they might stop me now and have me say that last night I dreamt my love was fucking Nancy Drew. That’s how they would expose my insecurities. I never dream about him fucking Nancy Drew… only some cheap fucking redhead whore. Yeah, she’s always a damned redhead… which only adds to my overwhelming feeling of living a cliché.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
In order to love, to fully experience love, you must experience desperation, humiliation, powerlessness. This is what it truly entails. This is the experience, the clawing, the learning, the passion. What is rational, what is controlled, what is restricted is not passion. Passion cannot be contained. Oh… yes it can.
I contained mine for you, my love. I censored mine, restricted mine, held it back. What’s the good of it if in the end I cannot yet experience it fully. It would not have been difficult, my love. It would not have been difficult to convince me, to entice me, to seduce me, to fool me. You could have had me, dear. I would not have been difficult. If you had simply reached out. If you had had half a cojon, if you had naively demanded atonement, acceptance, you could have shown a glimmer of a struggle, you might have exposed an ounce of need, of want, desire, desperation, you might have shown some desperation; and I might have succumbed. Surely, I would have succumbed. I am a sucker, you see, a sucker for passion, a sucker love, a sucker for life, for adventure, for strife. I am.
I contained mine for you, my love. I censored mine, restricted mine, held it back. What’s the good of it if in the end I cannot yet experience it fully. It would not have been difficult, my love. It would not have been difficult to convince me, to entice me, to seduce me, to fool me. You could have had me, dear. I would not have been difficult. If you had simply reached out. If you had had half a cojon, if you had naively demanded atonement, acceptance, you could have shown a glimmer of a struggle, you might have exposed an ounce of need, of want, desire, desperation, you might have shown some desperation; and I might have succumbed. Surely, I would have succumbed. I am a sucker, you see, a sucker for passion, a sucker love, a sucker for life, for adventure, for strife. I am.
A relationship is not a noun; it’s a verb. It has momentum. From the moment you meet someone you start getting closer to that person. With every conversation, every date, every kiss, you are both moving toward each other. That movement creates a momentum. You have sex. Eventually, you have a toothbrush in each other’s homes. Maybe you share a toothbrush. You get closer. You move in together. You see all the things you don’t usually show, because you cannot keep pretenses forever. You reveal yourselves. And you each accept this, or at least bare it. You get closer. And it goes on and on. It’s evolution… in motion. It’s always changing.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Desencarnación
Me gusta tu ausencia
porque en ella más presente estás
desbordando trás mis parpados,
Evocando un paroxismo indefinido.
Me gusta no tocarte
porque guardo el secreto de esos besos
que nunca me has dado,
Y el deseo empeña y no destiñe.
Me gusta que no me hables
porque no me canso de oirte,
Y no caigo en la tentación de repetirte
esas dulces palabras desgastadas.
Me gusta que no seas mío
porque jamás podría tenerte como ahora, corazón,
jamás en vida como en sueños,
. . . Y los sueños no despoetizan.
Me gusta soñarte
porque no sufro el desencanto,
la desilusión, y otros deses
Y no logro a recobrar los mil resuellos.
Me gusta esperarte
porque siento el corazón que se destroza,
Y la mera ridiculéz me expone
a la belleza eterna de esta grande ilusión.
Me gusta tu ausencia
porque en ella más presente estás
desbordando trás mis parpados,
Evocando un paroxismo indefinido.
Me gusta no tocarte
porque guardo el secreto de esos besos
que nunca me has dado,
Y el deseo empeña y no destiñe.
Me gusta que no me hables
porque no me canso de oirte,
Y no caigo en la tentación de repetirte
esas dulces palabras desgastadas.
Me gusta que no seas mío
porque jamás podría tenerte como ahora, corazón,
jamás en vida como en sueños,
. . . Y los sueños no despoetizan.
Me gusta soñarte
porque no sufro el desencanto,
la desilusión, y otros deses
Y no logro a recobrar los mil resuellos.
Me gusta esperarte
porque siento el corazón que se destroza,
Y la mera ridiculéz me expone
a la belleza eterna de esta grande ilusión.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
A night out with the girls can usually be great fun, but sitting on the sidelines is seldom so.
Me. I'm a sidelines girl. I guess I'm more comfortable there.. in my discomfort. No. I've just gotten used to it, I suppose. You sit on the sidelines so long, you just don't remember how to get in the center.. where the game is.
Amber says that now that she's on a man ban she has more time to focus on her friends. Instead of peering over her shoulder while they're talking, looking for the next handsome man to walk through the door, she actually listens. WoW! What a thought. Maybe I need to spend more time with Amber. I don't know.
On one hand, I need to get out there. I need to play! I need to to get off the sidelines and engage. But... I suck at it now... and it's not a whole lot of fun to sit around and watch your friends hook up, while you sit around listening to their inane banter. And believe you me, it IS inane.
It's hard to believe — the crapass lines we feed each other on a pick up. Does this shit really work? I mean, yes, but only because nobody is listening. The pact has been sealed long before the mouths begin their vomitous feat. Don't say anything intelligent, my friend. Just don't say anything wrong. All is well with the world.
Me. I'm a sidelines girl. I guess I'm more comfortable there.. in my discomfort. No. I've just gotten used to it, I suppose. You sit on the sidelines so long, you just don't remember how to get in the center.. where the game is.
Amber says that now that she's on a man ban she has more time to focus on her friends. Instead of peering over her shoulder while they're talking, looking for the next handsome man to walk through the door, she actually listens. WoW! What a thought. Maybe I need to spend more time with Amber. I don't know.
On one hand, I need to get out there. I need to play! I need to to get off the sidelines and engage. But... I suck at it now... and it's not a whole lot of fun to sit around and watch your friends hook up, while you sit around listening to their inane banter. And believe you me, it IS inane.
It's hard to believe — the crapass lines we feed each other on a pick up. Does this shit really work? I mean, yes, but only because nobody is listening. The pact has been sealed long before the mouths begin their vomitous feat. Don't say anything intelligent, my friend. Just don't say anything wrong. All is well with the world.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Is She? Or Isn’t She?
I’m a farce, a fraud, a sham. My life has been built on lies and deception. I am nothing. Nothing that I appear to be. Nothing.
I am a farce, a fraud, a sham. People believe that I’m intelligent. I speak and they believe that I’m intelligent. I want them to think that I’m intelligent. I want them to think that I’m not trying to be intelligent. I’m not trying to be intelligent. I am not intelligent. I don’t know things. I don’t even remember things that I once knew. I just don’t know things. I am not intelligent. I am just someone who does not know.
I am a fraud, a farce, a sham. I pretend not to care about things. I pretend to be strong. I will not let things touch me. I will not let things matter. Little things. Little things that should not matter. But they matter. They matter. And it tears me up. I am a fraud.
I am a fraud, a sham. I say that things matter to me. I say they matter. I say they matter because they should matter. They should matter. They are important things. Important things. They should matter. But they don’t matter. Not really. They are not important. Not really.
I am a fraud. I claim to be a good person. I say that I’m a good person. I believe that I’m a good person. But I am not. I hurt people. I hurt people. I betray people. I am not good.
I am a fraud, a farce. I say that I am bad. I say that I am bad because I do bad things. But how can they be bad? How can they be bad when my intent is good? How can they be bad when I am good? I am a good person. I am a good person because I have a good heart. And I must be a good person. I must be.
I am a fraud. I say things about freedom. About freedom. What is freedom? How do we achieve it? I say that freedom is something internal. I say that people are confused about freedom. I say so. I am confused about freedom. I say that to be free you must bare yourself naked to the world. I say that two people loving each other in raw nakedness is the most liberating way to be. I say so. And then I’m scared of losing my freedom.
I am a fraud, a farce. I say I want to share my culture. My culture. I say that it is said that people cannot understand. I complain about intolerance and indifference. But I do not want to share my culture. MY culture, It is mine.
Strength is not an easy trait. It’s difficult to maintain the cold hard stare, the impenetrability. It was quite a stretch to let all the defenses down, to step out of the armor, lay down the masks. And with it came a sigh of relief and the highest fear. I exposed myself before the world. Lay myself out bare.
When you stand naked before the world, you have nothing left to fear.
I’m a farce, a fraud, a sham. My life has been built on lies and deception. I am nothing. Nothing that I appear to be. Nothing.
I am a farce, a fraud, a sham. People believe that I’m intelligent. I speak and they believe that I’m intelligent. I want them to think that I’m intelligent. I want them to think that I’m not trying to be intelligent. I’m not trying to be intelligent. I am not intelligent. I don’t know things. I don’t even remember things that I once knew. I just don’t know things. I am not intelligent. I am just someone who does not know.
I am a fraud, a farce, a sham. I pretend not to care about things. I pretend to be strong. I will not let things touch me. I will not let things matter. Little things. Little things that should not matter. But they matter. They matter. And it tears me up. I am a fraud.
I am a fraud, a sham. I say that things matter to me. I say they matter. I say they matter because they should matter. They should matter. They are important things. Important things. They should matter. But they don’t matter. Not really. They are not important. Not really.
I am a fraud. I claim to be a good person. I say that I’m a good person. I believe that I’m a good person. But I am not. I hurt people. I hurt people. I betray people. I am not good.
I am a fraud, a farce. I say that I am bad. I say that I am bad because I do bad things. But how can they be bad? How can they be bad when my intent is good? How can they be bad when I am good? I am a good person. I am a good person because I have a good heart. And I must be a good person. I must be.
I am a fraud. I say things about freedom. About freedom. What is freedom? How do we achieve it? I say that freedom is something internal. I say that people are confused about freedom. I say so. I am confused about freedom. I say that to be free you must bare yourself naked to the world. I say that two people loving each other in raw nakedness is the most liberating way to be. I say so. And then I’m scared of losing my freedom.
I am a fraud, a farce. I say I want to share my culture. My culture. I say that it is said that people cannot understand. I complain about intolerance and indifference. But I do not want to share my culture. MY culture, It is mine.
Strength is not an easy trait. It’s difficult to maintain the cold hard stare, the impenetrability. It was quite a stretch to let all the defenses down, to step out of the armor, lay down the masks. And with it came a sigh of relief and the highest fear. I exposed myself before the world. Lay myself out bare.
When you stand naked before the world, you have nothing left to fear.
Depression and alcohol problems often go together, but the evidence suggests that in men alcohol use preceded the depression, whereas in women the depression precedes the alcohol use.
{American Journal of Epidemiology, "Study Links Depression and Alcohol Problems," Washington Post Health, Dec. 16, 1997}
I shouldn't even post today. I should just remain quiet to spite myself. But that would only serve the purpose of easing my headache, and I definitely don't deserve THAT. I know. I know. I deserve every ounce of pain that I have called upon myself. And I will certainly add to that pain with some serious self-flagellation. But.. in the meantime.. what can I say?
I fucked up. I ran my mouth. I offended people. I offend myself!
Sorry.
I no longer have a space with cards on tables. I no longer have a space where anything goes. So. I lost my shit. I lost my shit. I offer no excuses. Forgive my addled mind.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
In the end, all we have are the details.
Nit-picking aside, relationships are one hell of a struggle. Never have I had one so difficult — or so rewarding. For a while I was even convinced that I was confusing chaos for passion, as so many of us do from time to time. I even wondered whether we were just getting off on the drama. I mean, we both claimed we didn't want drama, but we also bore so easily. So... were we creating drama out of mere boredom? Or were we using the drama to counteract the boredom? Or was the drama now even getting boring? Perhaps that's what did us in, in the end. Perhaps we got bored of the drama. Even chaos can strangle.
Passion. Drama. If I let go a bit, I don't care as much. That's what I said. That's what I know to be true. Do you want my passion, or my cool? I got both for you baby. I can be as laid back as you need me to. I always have been. But even that gets boring.
Do you want my passion? Ok. All yours. But then take it ALL, baby. Take it all. If you want me to unleash the beast, you must let it bite. You must feed it.
That's the trouble with people out there. Do they, or don't they? Do you? What's up with this half-assed bullshit? I dare you. Fuck, isn't that the point? I fucking dare you! Plunge in, mother fucker. Plunge in and fuck the hell out of me. But be prepared. I bite.
I don't want your half-assed bullshit, world. I want it ALL. Get it? I fucking want it all. And believe me, I don't ask for much.
There's the irony. I really don't ask for much. I just want it ALL. That's all, folks. This is no joke. I'm totally serious. I just want a full investment. If you're going to do it, mother fucker, then DO IT! Commit. Drive it home. Suck it!
Get it?
Suck the very marrow out of life, or don't bother living it. Get out from behind that fucking television set! Stop stopping. DO! You're not too old, or too young, or too tall, or too small, or too dark, or too white, or too queer, or too weird, or too fucking stupid. Ok, maybe you are too stupid. But only if you let that stop you. Live your fucking life. Invest yourself.
IN EVERYTHING. You do.
Why do anything half-hearted? That's what I don't understand?
You awoke the beast and you left it starving. This beast is dying... a sad and angry death.
Nit-picking aside, relationships are one hell of a struggle. Never have I had one so difficult — or so rewarding. For a while I was even convinced that I was confusing chaos for passion, as so many of us do from time to time. I even wondered whether we were just getting off on the drama. I mean, we both claimed we didn't want drama, but we also bore so easily. So... were we creating drama out of mere boredom? Or were we using the drama to counteract the boredom? Or was the drama now even getting boring? Perhaps that's what did us in, in the end. Perhaps we got bored of the drama. Even chaos can strangle.
Passion. Drama. If I let go a bit, I don't care as much. That's what I said. That's what I know to be true. Do you want my passion, or my cool? I got both for you baby. I can be as laid back as you need me to. I always have been. But even that gets boring.
Do you want my passion? Ok. All yours. But then take it ALL, baby. Take it all. If you want me to unleash the beast, you must let it bite. You must feed it.
That's the trouble with people out there. Do they, or don't they? Do you? What's up with this half-assed bullshit? I dare you. Fuck, isn't that the point? I fucking dare you! Plunge in, mother fucker. Plunge in and fuck the hell out of me. But be prepared. I bite.
I don't want your half-assed bullshit, world. I want it ALL. Get it? I fucking want it all. And believe me, I don't ask for much.
There's the irony. I really don't ask for much. I just want it ALL. That's all, folks. This is no joke. I'm totally serious. I just want a full investment. If you're going to do it, mother fucker, then DO IT! Commit. Drive it home. Suck it!
Get it?
Suck the very marrow out of life, or don't bother living it. Get out from behind that fucking television set! Stop stopping. DO! You're not too old, or too young, or too tall, or too small, or too dark, or too white, or too queer, or too weird, or too fucking stupid. Ok, maybe you are too stupid. But only if you let that stop you. Live your fucking life. Invest yourself.
IN EVERYTHING. You do.
Why do anything half-hearted? That's what I don't understand?
You awoke the beast and you left it starving. This beast is dying... a sad and angry death.
Selective memory? You wanna hear something about selective memory?
My lovely ex responded to my previous posts in his own blog, hence I will now do the same. But first, let me commend him for actually writing this time, rather than posting more cutesy little videos. Secrets and Lies, he called his post. Yes, my secrets, his lies.
He's right, too, about my taking cheap shots. I was upset by his blog and by his determination to air our drity laundry — as I have already stated. But let's not forget who started this.
Anyhow... too late... so let's continue.
Birthdays. Yes. Think hard, my friend. The camera was in fact a Christmas present. Yes, a Christmas present, because Christmas happens to occur in front of other people, and you don't want them all to know what a heartless ass you can be. Oh, look, everybody got each other presents (Yes, I agree it's commercial crap.), but not Q, nope. Not Q. Oh, look, D got him a fucking mega-computer. What did he get her? Nothing? Oh, no, look; he got her a camera. How nice!
And how badly did I want that camera? Think about it a little more, my friend. YOU wanted that camera. I would go along with you while you were working and take photos for you. Great. Now you can exploit me for free labor, too. Nice present! And you wonder why I don't use it?!
YOU DUMPED ME THREE TIMES! It's not about victimization. I'm not looking for pity here. But if you think for a minute that this doesn't affect someone's comfort level within a relationship, you are very confused, my little friend. Yes, little! You could never commit. This was clear. You could never commit.
And yet, somehow, I am to blame.
Fine. I accept once more. Blame me if you like. I DO take responsibility. I ALWAYS take responsibility. For years I have shouldered the responsibility for this relationship. I'm just tired of shouldering ALL of it. That's all. For once, I'd like you to share some of the burden... accept your part in this whole fiasco... even if you can't accept me!
Fuck!
My lovely ex responded to my previous posts in his own blog, hence I will now do the same. But first, let me commend him for actually writing this time, rather than posting more cutesy little videos. Secrets and Lies, he called his post. Yes, my secrets, his lies.
He's right, too, about my taking cheap shots. I was upset by his blog and by his determination to air our drity laundry — as I have already stated. But let's not forget who started this.
Anyhow... too late... so let's continue.
Birthdays. Yes. Think hard, my friend. The camera was in fact a Christmas present. Yes, a Christmas present, because Christmas happens to occur in front of other people, and you don't want them all to know what a heartless ass you can be. Oh, look, everybody got each other presents (Yes, I agree it's commercial crap.), but not Q, nope. Not Q. Oh, look, D got him a fucking mega-computer. What did he get her? Nothing? Oh, no, look; he got her a camera. How nice!
And how badly did I want that camera? Think about it a little more, my friend. YOU wanted that camera. I would go along with you while you were working and take photos for you. Great. Now you can exploit me for free labor, too. Nice present! And you wonder why I don't use it?!
YOU DUMPED ME THREE TIMES! It's not about victimization. I'm not looking for pity here. But if you think for a minute that this doesn't affect someone's comfort level within a relationship, you are very confused, my little friend. Yes, little! You could never commit. This was clear. You could never commit.
And yet, somehow, I am to blame.
Fine. I accept once more. Blame me if you like. I DO take responsibility. I ALWAYS take responsibility. For years I have shouldered the responsibility for this relationship. I'm just tired of shouldering ALL of it. That's all. For once, I'd like you to share some of the burden... accept your part in this whole fiasco... even if you can't accept me!
Fuck!
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