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!

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?

Dancing too close to the fire? Perhaps.
But I've always liked fire.

I only smoke to consume it.









Wish me well, my ladies.
My men.

click to play slideshow

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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 saw this at gapingvoid.com and just had to post it. You figure out why.

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.]]

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