“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.
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