Archive for October, 2010

Autumn

Posted: October 28, 2010 in transliteration
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I am waiting for the mail.

“How often do yo do this?” I asked you, and you responded that you did this all the time. It was the first time for me, and I followed you down the pavement towards the water. We were alone in the woods; two strangers.

I met a man in Chicago once that told me that he liked to get high, dress up in girls’ clothing, semi-suffocate himself, while jacking off all at the same time. I responded quietly that, that seemed like it would take a lot of effort and coordination.

Totally worth it though, he’d assured me with his mind going somewhere else, riding the waves off into distant times. He looked me over, huddled in a blanket curled up in a chair and pondered aloud why he felt comfortable telling me such an intimate thing about himself. This was our first time meeting after all.

I thought about how people tell me this kind of shit all the time. I thought about how I hadn’t bothered to put any effort forth to get off in a long time, but I didn’t share. I just met his gaze with silence for a moment and then offered: “Maybe complete strangers are less intimidating to you, because you’re impartial to the judgments of those you’ve never met, don’t know and never have to meet again.”

“You’re not complete.”

Well…I’m not sure that was the point I was attempting to make at the time, but I couldn’t argue either. I thought about sitting with that guy while I followed you down toward the water. We weren’t complete either, walking together. Strangers. You kept texting and talking about inconsequential things. I stopped listening and stopped short to watch a knot of snakes unravel and slither away.

You had something to say about them, but I didn’t care. Your chatter had no substance, and my mind no matter. We stood silent staring off into the water for a few minutes when we reached the edge. I’m sorry. I’d become unresponsive by then.

Water.

I was listening to the water.

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But who the fuck are they?

I stare down into my mug and swish around the water before taking a sip.
I knew someone once that I thought had great taste.
Swish.
Swirl.
Lift to the lips.
Yeah, that person never did care much for me, which seems apt.
I still find myself rather distasteful as well.

Still. Yes…you know…I mean, you’re impervious to that sort of shit.

I don’t like you very much.
You and your impeccable taste.
It embitters everything, and this is just water.

Swish.
Swirl.

In the wrong kind of cup.
Yeah, I’m sure it is all my fault.
You’re so sweet and precious; fucking perfectly confident.
I gave up gin and tonic.
Perhaps now, upon reflection, I did so in bad taste.

shit

Posted: October 28, 2010 in proselytizaytion
Tags: , , ,

I woke with a start, the image of shit still smeared across my sub-existence. I forgot to update the fucking medications again.

Fuck it. Fuck the expression written across his face.

I’m not incompetent.

It doesn’t matter.

I pulled the tabs of paper from three books to send across the country with a new note: “I would eventually like these back, but if that never happens, you know that I probably won’t notice. I probably won’t remember.”

I remember every instance in which I lent a pencil that wasn’t returned. I lend them with no expectation to ever see the day they’re returned.

The storm brought in two harsh realizations:

Socks were important to the soldiers in Nam.
Sarcasm is allotted no greater context, and subtlety is unappreciated by those self-proclaimed with great pride as clever.
Pride. Clever never helped anyone, and I look to Uncle Remus to prove me wrong.
The ants also suddenly make sense.

There’s no turning back from epiphanies like that.

No
turning
back.

Since you first showed up in my daddy’s office in the mid nineties, I have had problems turning away. A hedgehog kept me company then, and a pedophile shook me to tears with the emptiness of suicide. I found friendship in dusty corners of unused minds, and my eyes have grown heavy, aching and unable to focus.

The expanse has ebbed and flowed over the years taking me in any direction I’ve fancied, and while a heavy hand and merciless stance has proven futile in dismissing what has become my only stable companion…it’s time to coax this unhealthy relationship to more productive ends.

Yes.

I miss you.
I hope you’re happy; happier again.
I miss you.
It feels strange to be back.

I sit with a bird for several hours each day. My housemates can hear me stutter and stumble as I read to her.

I always hated reading aloud. I have this speech…deficiency. I have an unnatural aversion to placing thoughts into words, and yet I write constantly. When I was younger, I had the idea that I lacked confidence with this everyday task, talking, because my vocabulary proved so limiting. If you’ve ever been in a conversation with an asshole that likes to throw in elaborations for no reason aside from haughtiness, you know the feeling of inadequacy I’m alluding to…but I have this feeling all of the time. Even now. And while I don’t flaunt it, my comprehension has vastly improved since those earlier days. No, that is no longer the problem.

Now I find language a burden for contradictory reasons. There are too many words, and I can only use a few…because others have told me that I have inflicted them with the same confused misery I once felt when I utilize a richer vocabulary, and I strongly assert that this is not language’s intended purpose. Economy, then, becomes stilted for the sake of clarity…but all of these words exist for the sake of a clarity that does not come.

I will never understand.
I simply do not connect.

At one time, I sat in my favorite teacher’s classroom, and he called upon me to define various terms that my peers had not bothered to learn. I was treated as the class dictionary. He would throw out a term and then seek my definitions. I think it was quite evident that I knew what the words meant, but I struggled greatly to break them apart into other words. I did not memorize dictionary definitions or read straight from the text books to answer questions. This teacher either appreciated that I tried to use my gummed up brain, or merely found it entertaining to prod at my somewhat embarrassing idiosyncracies.

I spent so much time building these terms into their own meanings with unique nuances and connotations, until I truly felt like I understood them as their own words, that deconstructing them back down into their fundamentals was difficult…sometimes impossible. I have this same problem with foreign languages. I pick them up quickly, understand them relatively easily, but translating them to and from my native tongue? No. Defining them from one another? No. Defining anything at all?

I can’t.

When asked to explain anything I stumble and stutter and make odd hand motions that people often mimic derisively. I am an awkward human being, and I struggle where most do not, but inside…in here…in my head where I belong, things connect and make sense sometimes.

I wish you would have stayed with me…or let me stay with you. I wanted so much for there to be…a connection; any weak line through to the world outside of myself at all…but you just kept pushing me back
and back
and back
inside my head.

No, no, no. You angrily reaffirmed and shut me out. I had it all wrong. It’s all wrong. I’ve got it all wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Closed me in. So, here I sit again…by myself.

I’m not even allowed to know what love is.

I look around the reflexivity of this shell, and I think thoughts that aren’t assigned words, and I come here to put something down…

but the only reason to ever put it down was in an attempt to push it out into something else…somewhere else…as someone else, where I don’t belong.

I’m not trapped here.
No.
I look around.

I do know what love is.

A short story about your day:

The frail, effeminate creature sat hunched over a hot cup of coffee. Both curled together weakly fuming in the back of the windowless, modern cinder block classroom. Repulsed by the stale slurry, he failed to drink but instead felt consumed. Absently, he dipped his scraggly chin whiskers into the steaming brew while mulling over fanciful, swirling plans to end this entire miserable charade. “Right now!” His head throbbed. It ached and egged on, “Do it in front of them all!”

One of the sickly lemmings left under his guidance addressed him in that fragile moment of silence with complete disregard for the morose weight bearing down, pinning them all to the floor. With the whine of the incompetent little puke’s voice, the sulking mass in the corner jerked up, dripping and spraying a transparent, brown smattering on the wall. He met a room full of empty, dull eyes with a wide, mirthless grin. With a snap of his wrist, the coffee cup hurled into the plastic, pink wall shattering into a blinding field of rainbows.

“What else would you expect from that fucking flamer?” one of the mortified lemmings squeaked. Christ, what a joke.

Stay with me.

Posted: October 25, 2010 in hidden admonishment
Tags: , ,

“Your hair’s growing out.”

The blood shifts from red to brown under my fingernails.
There are pink, raised bite marks where his sneer met my skin.

This is business.
This is the night shift, and it’s over early.

An old song exploited in a new commercial that I’ve never seen, but sometimes here from the television downstairs reminded me of an old Disney animation.

The reminder prompted me to come to the realization that he wasn’t whisked away by some vile temptress in the dark of the night while I was sleeping. No, we’re not in direct conflict.

I was never wanted.

He found her and chose that while I was still…begging. I know now, and it alters my perspective. It’s going to hurt for a long time…not to be wanted. It’s such a familiar wall that logic should prevail in strengthening my own resolve…but it doesn’t.

Each time, I’m rendered crushingly vulnerable. I’m exposed so that strangers tell me they know everything about who I am. Rape me then. I’m no stranger to this shit. As much as it hurts, and as difficult as it is to accept the futility of idle wishing for something different, change doesn’t come.

I can’t hope for it.

I can’t hope for it, and yet I have to keep seeking the shift into a nonexistent bliss. Tell me I don’t deserve it.

I want to say I’ve never been needed, but when I am…when I was; when I found myself both wanted and loved…

Well, this is no longer up for debate. It’s going to happen again and again. Maybe it will get increasingly intense so as not to break the pattern but break me. Keep breaking me, because I’m going to keep reaching. There’s so much shit out there with the underdog vying for that fucking “American Dream” and getting it; getting there; getting through. I just don’t fucking get it. I don’t even want it; what I want more than anything in the fucking world:

I honestly hope I never even come close.

I sell emptiness and trite fantasy, and I do an unconvincing job. I’m not up for sale at all, but you can buy into the debt if the delusion of change makes you happy.

Happy.

Happy.

Happy.

Happy.

The Mad Hatter slaps me, because I’m not a rabbit. Where’s Alice to ask, please: “What does it feel like to be happy?”