Archive for November, 2010

I’ve already told you.

He is essentially the only reason I haven’t done more than just tell you. Yes, the situation is that fucked up. He really is the main reason I haven’t left you, and my attachment to him is one of the main reasons I feel like I should.

It’s not about being happier with him. Whether that’s feasible or not is inapplicable. It has been from the beginning. I will not pursue a romantic future with him like this. I can’t do something like that to him…or to you…or to myself. I can’t act and it’s already bad enough that I’ve broken down to talking. I thought I had to do something. I felt myself tipping into psychosis. I needed help. You couldn’t help me. I asked him. “Why him?” is a very difficult question to address, and I’m sure by now he’d much rather it hadn’t been him. Where I am right now is something that I would understand and forgive of you if we were in each other’s shoes. If I do anything else, I can’t say that honestly anymore. I can’t fathom leaving you three months from your release, because you need me and I want to be here for you. It’s not a “favor”. Please don’t dismiss it as a “favor”. It’s not pity. It’s me caring, wanting, needing, loving. If you left me and you were all I had (which is exactly what happened) I would be devistated not to know you’d be there for me when I need you most (which is exactly what happened). It’s not your fault. Forget fault. There’s no blame. Things have just happened this way. I won’t put you through what I’ve put myself through by waiting. I won’t make you live without me when you say that you need me and want me and love me. I have that choice where you didn’t. It’s not a “favor”.

I love you. That’s not in question. It’s never been in question, but I can tell you that it’s in my mind to leave you anyway. I can tell you what kind of damage waiting has done. I can tell you that love just isn’t enough to protect us. I can tell you what you should expect from me when you’re with me again. I can tell you. It seems fair to tell you, and I have. I have told you…all of this. I feel like shit for doing it, but I would feel worse if I didn’t. You have to know how I feel and what I’m thinking if you have any place in my life. You have to know, even if it’s not consoling. It’s bad timing. I should be supportive. I AM supportive. There’s never a good time for this shit, but…it’s me.

Yes, I’m lonely. Yes, he is perfectly capable of making me happy. Yes, I care about him. Yes, I want to be happy. Yes, I’m attracted to him. I’ve told you all of this. Whether you’ve been taking it in seriously or not is something I can’t say. I don’t know. I’ve told him.

I know that I’m hurting him.

It’s not about being with him. I will never be with him. He’s stronger than me. He won’t let me.

I’m using that. I’m using his strength…and that’s not okay. It’s not okay. He’s an amazing guy, and simply put: I’d love to be what he needs instead of taking what I need from him…because I don’t believe in this anymore. I can’t believe in something that’s driven me to do what I’ve done to another person.

Maybe love is enough, but love is not worth this.
I can’t hurt people for the sake of my own happiness.

It’s not fear.
I’m not afraid.

It’s agony in knowing that my love hurts anyone caught up enough to love me in return.

He says he can’t return my sentiments.

the last files

Posted: November 30, 2010 in hidden admonishment

I was with you when I started to admit to myself for the very first time…that…I want to live.

It’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever experienced, and it’s been the hardest most rewarding struggle.

That’s not what I wanted before; not in the same sense. I met a different kind of living while pulling the strings to unravel. I wanted to live only in the sense that I wanted to stop waiting for life to happen. Stop. And I threw all regard for myself to the wind. I was searching for someone else to find a use for me, and that person could have been anyone and could have done anything. I would have not only let anyone in, but given everything I had.

I did.

I turned my back on everything I was or had. I was blind to everything I’d been taught to value. Anyone could have done anything to reshape me into whatever was wanted, and I would have cherished fulfilling the prescribed role. Just tell me who to be, how to be, what to say, how to do it. How do you want me to do it? I remember telling him that I couldn’t be what he wanted. I didn’t have…I didn’t know…

Break me. Rape me. Hit me. Fuck me harder. Fuck me harder!

Don’t kiss me. Don’t tell me you love me.

I miss you.
I’m not allowed in your life, and I apologize for this intrusion, but you helped me find a more beautiful way to try to live mine.
I wish I didn’t have to do it without you…

not because I can’t

She sat in a booth near a window, while she gracefully munched a fancy, cold sandwich of some sort.
I sat down.
I asked for a cup of hot water, and the waitress spat up flak.
“Listen, I’ll pay for tea. If you feel obligated to waste it, bring me the bag separate from the water, but I just want the water.”
She looked at me like I was crazy; disheveled from work in plain, ill-fitting clothes across from a well manicured, proper woman who eats modest lunches and orders syrupy, bubbly concoctions to wash them down.
When the waitress left to tell the others about the crackpot in the booth over here, the woman I was meeting during my lunch hour spoke.
“Do you remember that girl that I had you work with a few times?”
I stared blankly.
“That little bit of a thing,” she made a strange gesture with her hand in the air, “What was her name?”
I clawed through the recesses of my mind and came across a face.
“Amber…or Ashley? Amber maybe?” I thought about the girl who killed herself at my college. No one could remember her fucking name either, and it’s funny how those fragile, little anorexic girls really do acquire an astonishing level of invisibility in retrospect. I remember her elbows…
“Hmm…Amber, maybe.” She took a bite of her sandwich, and I waited. “How would you feel about a female client?”
I’ve never had a female client. “Indifferent,” was my answer and my attitude. What difference does it make? Her name was Kaitlyn…the girl that went to the same college I did. What difference does it make?
“Good,” and the woman wrapped a smile around the rim of her soda glass.
Or is it “pop” here?
The waitress came with a cup of hot water, set it down and asked if everything was all right with my companion’s meal.
“Erin,” I interrupted the niceties in front of me. Both of them looked at me then, and I stared into my cup of water in a saucer on the table. “Her name was Erin,” I muttered. The girl that I’d worked with a few times. Her name was Erin, although…what difference did that make?
“Amber or Ashley. Her name was Erin.”
“Oh…” Her response was flat and uninterested. The waitress set the bill down. I noticed that I was not charged for the water. Erin is a funny name. I always think of “Aaron” before “Erin” and get my genders confused. It’s not because I know any more of one than the other.
“I should be going,” I spat in apology for killing the business at hand with silly things like names attached to elbows. I placed a few bills under my untouched cup of hot water and stood.
“I’ll have something lined up for you by the weekend,” she told me without looking up from her purse. In a proper universe, I would have dashed the hot liquid into her penciled in face.

If I could drink peanut butter; if I could choke the chunky shit down without any sort of diluting, I think that would sum up how I feel about you right now. I want to hate you so much that it’s worse than if I really could just fucking hate you.

You’re not peanut butter.
I don’t hate you.

I don’t even really hate myself anymore.

You lied to me.

Posted: November 28, 2010 in transliteration
Tags: , ,

Papers are stacked to a height ending mid-thigh in piles that gently lean against each other to support the weight of their combined content. Not a single sheet has yet been deemed trash, although I cull and groom the mass regularly. The stacks line the walls and come out to visit me halfway across the room where structure dwindles and the pages spill haphazardly into my breathing space to remind me…

and I’ve lost my place.


Posted: November 26, 2010 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

I saw your picture in the paper that I wedged into the corner to catch shit and piss. It wasn’t your picture. No, but it was a picture you picked up somewhere. Now I know where. I picked up one of your words, and I studied it from odd angles. The bus stops right outside my door. No, it stops on the other side of four lanes of traffic that sit right outside my door. I watch it back up during rush hour, and I tell myself it’s okay to use your pretentious little word that’s quickly spread through the shit like wildfire…but only because I was talking about you.

I think I’ll go remove it now.

People think I’m an artist.

Posted: November 25, 2010 in hidden admonishment

I sit in my room surrounded by shit. I sleep on the floor amidst my own filth. I rarely bother to cook a meal or do my laundry, and I sit on my computer doing nothing all day. I don’t read the news. I don’t play games. I don’t pursue interests. I sit in my email accounts most of the time wishing that someone cared enough to talk to me. I think about you. There’s nothing stellar about you. You’re an asshole who writes crappy little digs and works at a shit job. Your work was never that great. You’re not all that attractive or insightful. You watch stupid little art films and read annoying books. You drop names to sound more informed, because you don’t want to take ownership of your thoughts if they’ve been thought by someone who someone else might find more credible and important. You can be both then by your own associations.

Yeah, I think about myself.

I haven’t done anything with my life. I haven’t done anything at all. I don’t even paint anymore. My writing is all shit. I work shit jobs. I live with shit people. I stay in my room that I don’t even bother to clean…and I worry.

What if I can’t get past this? What if I never paint anything again? What if I never find a reason to write anything beyond a few boring “I” statements about my shitty mood regarding my shitty life? What if I really am stupid and ugly and awkward and pathetic and there’s nothing else at all? I can’t seem to get my shit together. I can’t seem to see anything but shit with no sense of gathering it into concentrated shitty failure.

I crawled out of my room to go back to work for the second part of my shit split shift day, and I only go to my job to attempt to pay my bills; at least some of them. My housemate was out in the living room with the TV blaring and two men that always try to talk to me as much as she does. Her life is mine. She lives in the same shitty place and works the same sort of shitty job. Actually, her shitty job is too good for me. Her room is clean. She has dogs and cigarettes and men. Her life is much better than mine, because while it’s still rather shitty, she’s at home with her’s and lives it.

I have a stack of really old paintings in the hall that I’ve been meaning to take out to the shed to make room in my studio space for one project that I’m determined must get…started? The old paintings stack up in the hall, but it’s been raining and I’m depressed and have no ambition to clean the other room up and make it into a functional space. If I did, it would have happened months ago. My housemate’s guests commented on how good the paintings were, and I responded quite honestly that they weren’t. They’re crap. They’re complete and utter shit. They’re all turned to the wall so that no one has to look at them. They’re not even paintings. Their assignments and studies and aborted dreams. They’re loathsome things, but these people disagreed with me. Sigh…I wish I could see what they see, but I haven’t done anything in years. I didn’t even write a thesis paper to graduate. I put nothing but unfinished work in my gallery space, and I haven’t even done that much since my release. I haven’t had so much as a spark of genuine interest since before getting “sick” my first time through Sophomore year.

I wish I would just stop struggling if whatever I thought I had is already dead. Why do I stay here if I won’t even move in? Why did I come all this way? Why do I keep all this stuff I don’t even unpack? Why don’t I sell it? Why don’t I live somewhere cheaper if I really want to go back to school? What makes me think I want to go back? What difference will math make? What about Russia?

I can’t even find simple reasons to shower and eat…but it’s not apathy. It’s worse. It’s so much worse.

I’m supposed to be my own cheerleader.
I’m supposed to interact with like minded imps that will cheer for me when I’m tired.
I’m supposed to gather some form of satisfaction from marketing my soul.
I’m supposed to believe I have one.

I’m supposed to gain acceptance.
I’m supposed to make it happen.
I’m supposed to play the games and find them fun.
I’m supposed to give a shit what you think.

I’m supposed to care if you give a shit what I think.
I’m supposed to appear humble but happy.
I’m supposed to spend time set aside specifically mandated for family.
I’m supposed to make a name for myself.

I’m supposed to be able to make up my damned mind.
I’m supposed to be able to set this shit aside.
I’m supposed to keep trying to be someone I’m not.
I’m supposed to fucking tell you what you want to hear.

Well, I fucking want you to fail, you smug little shit.
You’re the one that replaced me, so what I’m supposed to do

no longer applies.

I told myself, after several years harboring the nasty habit of picking up countless books with a complete inability to finish them, that I would correct the trend now by force.

I’ll force myself to finish what I start to read.

The assertion wasn’t even this simple. If it had been, maybe this wouldn’t have ended so detrimentally to my psyche. I not only burdened myself with these rationales to respect the authors by reading until they chose an ending rather than truncating their thoughts where I felt most fitting, I also took on the additional task of revisiting those authors’ works that I’d already mutilated out of some subconscious necessity.


I just finished reading James Baldwin’s, Nobody Knows My Name, and whatever reverence I previously held for the author (as this is not the only Baldwin work currently–and nowhere near previously–I have had in my possession) dwindled as the page numbers passed.

How many more authorial “friends” will I kill in my own head by adhering to this new conviction to finish where the author intends?

Perhaps, I should go back to reading unfinished works that were never intended to be published at all.

“I hate grown women that drink hot chocolate.”

“But I like chocolate,” I muttered to the steaming liquid as I stirred. Clinking the spoon lightly on the lip of my mug, I continued to try to defend my poorly formed life choices, “and I’m not that fond of tea.”

“Coffee.” He paused. “Whiskey.”

“I used to drink coffee.” I sipped my hot chocolate and peered up through shaggy bangs. I could see that he thought I drank some form of “coffee” that went by an elaborately complicated, sugar-coated name. “I drank black coffee,” I said in a meek objection to this harsh judgment hammering down against me. “I believe Aztecs drank cocoa,” and I peered into my cup a little sad, “although, they drank it bitter…much like coffee.”

I was rambling.

“Little kids drink hot chocolate that their mommy’s make them when they come inside from building snow forts.”

I sat down across from him. It’s not winter here, and I drank hot chocolate in the hottest summer days. “Listen, asshole. I didn’t invite you here to tell me how juvenile my desires are. I want this job. I’ll make it work. I’ve put myself through it before. I have reasons. I have goals. I didn’t fucking invite you here at all. I drink hot chocolate, because it’s the only form of chocolate I can currently afford, and yes goddamn it. Chocolate comforts me as if I were a little kid. I’m fucking tired of “working” as a “woman” for the fantasies of you pigs.”

I was rambling again…very unlike me.

His flat facial expression met my outburst without wavering. I stared at the dark waves of cocoa sediment kicked up to the surface by the tip of my cup and calmed down. I was needlessly defending my decision not to go out tonight. When I finished, at some length, and set the empty shell down, I was glad he’d come. When I looked up, I had only the wall to ask, “So…you hate me now?”

The argument unfolded in my head with childlike curiosity.
Don’t leave me out.
The caveat of the house residing at the end of the hall; “pretty much the perfect roommate.”
Stay out of my room.
A junkyard dog; pitbull’s womb.
Are you a woman yet, Brad?

Don’t leave me out.

Sometimes I would stay in a different house that had two dogs instead of one
and white carpet instead of sanity.
Sanitary rules replacing sanguine freedoms.
I am accustomed to filth.

I always hated getting dressed.
I hated showers but not baths.
I hated the smell of freshly cleansed skin; clothes.

I love the smell of the ground after a hard rain.

I stayed in a different house sometimes
with a man and a woman who didn’t have children.
I stayed in a small room at the end of the hall.

I stay in a small room at the end of the hall.

I did puzzles and played with the cat outside.
I stayed in this house with a man and a woman
that rarely spent time together in their house
their home
their marriage.

They communicated through post-it notes.

They expressed their love this way for years.
Years amounting to more than most of my life
but not quite.

Post-it notes.
Dinner is in the fridge.
This is what it will be tonight.
I love you.

I love you?

Love in post-it note form?

I would spend most of my time with my parents.
I lived in my parents’ home.
I lived in a room adjacent to theirs
in a house where all the doors were left open.
I could stay awake at night and listen to them worry about me.
I listened to their Saturday morning foreplay.

I grew up submerged in a much more pervasive sense of love
that I couldn’t always touch.

It was not set forth in post-it note form.

How can that relationship work, I’d wonder.
I’d struggle with this foreign expression in this white carpeted house
in a small room at the end of the hall
where everyone slept with their doors shut.

I asked my parents unconvinced.
How can post-it notes live?
How can a relationship breath for years on little more than post-its?

I read the note left on the counter
where one housemate leaves my mail.
The note was scrawled on a full sheet torn from an unseen notebook
and I came into the “confrontation”
two exchanges in.

It ate away my lunch hour.

I held my breath.

I know that the newest housemate is not working out
according to the overheard conversations of the others.

“You’re the first person I’ve met outside my family that knows that song.”

I’m quiet
not deaf.

I don’t write to avoid, dim, or sidestep.
Writing has been my primary voice for a long time.


Now, I find it important to learn how to speak.
More important than I ever have before.
Sammy, the bird, is teaching me how to use my voice.
I have been so quiet.
We do not speak to each other as human beings anymore.
I’m not sure if we ever did.
The post-it note love ended in divorce when the economy fell
and the man and woman
had quality time to spend

with one another.

My housemates do not get along.
I retire to the cluttered chaos of the small room at the end of the hall
and shut the door behind me.

My illness is very much…me. It took me a long time to earmark it an illness at all…maybe because there’s been something identified and treated as wrong for nearly as long as I’ve been aware that I’m a person.

When I take medication, my mind changes. The way I think changes. Who I am…doesn’t change, but access to a full sense of awareness dulls significantly. That numbness bothers me a lot more than the negative thoughts that periodically overwhelm me.


I’ve always seen things, heard things, felt things…that I know can’t be real. They can be real, but they don’t follow logic. When little, it was excused as an overactive imagination. I know now not to talk about it with most people…even people I think I can trust. You turned the most intimate of my confessions against me in…fiction for a stranger…and you invited me to watch. You pushed me into a little box where everything had to be my fault.
I couldn’t love you. I didn’t know who you were. I held some fantasy. I was delusional. I needed to stop.

You were wrong.

You were wrong, and what you did was mean. It did not take into account that I am a real person with real feelings, and it is not some innocuous coincidence to me that the harder I pushed to get to know you…the harder you pushed back, pushed me back, kept me out of your real thoughts and your real life and your very frightened and aching heart. You would not let me in…but I still think you wanted to.

It doesn’t matter much now if that’s a delusion or not.

I’m not that sick. I don’t think the things that are wrong with me…are wrong. It’s when I try to deny them and push them back and shut them out; the feelings, the thoughts, even the hallucinations; it’s when I confine myself to the narrow realm everyone else says is normal and safe and healthy…that I take it out on myself.

That’s when I don’t feel well. That’s when I shake and cry and tear apart everything inside. Someone I care about tells me I’m sick, I’m wrong, I’m lost, I have to stop.

I think…I can separate that now. I don’t like the way I respond to that incongruity between the way I understand myself and the way other people define me. To me, that’s the illness. That’s the torment. That’s what I allow to fester and claw away at my sense of self. That’s when I want to drink and seek medication and numb, dumb, and dull who I really am…when I take an outside view a little too personally…because I so desperately want someone else to understand. I want a connection. I want someone to love me; love me back the way that I am, because…I want to be this way; the way I struggle to be every fucking day. I’m not stagnant. I do change. I do think I’m moving in a direction I want to go, but I feel lost in isolation. I feel so apart; so alone. I feel…empty and betrayed when I try to turn inward out. How am I supposed to just close that off for the sake of my wellness? Even the sickest people want a connection with others, don’t they? So…that’s the hard part for me…staying open; letting people hurt me; hoping.

I think I can separate that from myself now…as a process, as something I want to subject myself to without feeling like I have to take it all in to the deepest depths to restructure myself in a desperate attempt to fit.

487 winks 496…7…8…

Posted: November 22, 2010 in hidden admonishment

I watch the cursor blink with my pulse in each pause. It’s not an answer anymore. It’s not an option. I count the blinks to feel better about them.

You used to send me to the grocery store about a mile away from your house. You’d send me just before they closed for the night, and I always hated walking in to shop for you…a fucking grown man fully capable of shopping for yourself. You blamed me for your weight gain towards the end…as if I forced you to eat the entire carton of ice cream in one sitting each time. I thought food was more important then. I thought…if you didn’t waste your money on video games…

Video games that you didn’t even pause in playing while sending me out.

To think that I went. To think of who I was back then. Yes, I went. I went out in the dark, alone, along the streets.


I counted my steps with the same regularity with which I count the blinks of the cursor when I pause…because I want to interact with the man who showed me that I could be so much more than who I was.

I am so much more than that now…but I’m not allowed to contact the man who helped me anymore.
You see…


He’s so much more without me.


Posted: November 21, 2010 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

Adam, who?
When I met you, you were out of work, didn’t have a car, were on the verge of losing your residence, and all you wanted to do was “people watch” as if you were better than everyone else.
Yet you somehow managed to keep that smart phone service.
You’d occasionally glance up.
Now you’re managing a T-Mobile hub, huh? That seems fitting, since that’s clearly who you owe your “life” to.
Isn’t that just the height of success?
How the fuck did we meet again, and why do we still correspond at all?
I don’t text.


You had to call.
Fuck, you make me sick.
Excuse me.
I have other things to do that are more interesting than talking to you…
like staring at the wall
thinking about pocket lint
watching water boil and waiting for quinoa to cook.

Anything, really.

Andrei Tarkovsky

Posted: November 21, 2010 in proselytizaytion

I finally got the right timing when watching something you mentioned seeing back when it was avant garde and you hated watching it.

I was probably supposed to feel uncomfortable, too, but honestly, it was the first time I felt a sense of home in a long time.

I just finished watching Lars von Trier’s, Antichrist, and I fucking loved it. Misogyny at its finest. Flawless. Gorgeous. Lifted my spirits immensely for the day.

No, not sarcasm.


Posted: November 21, 2010 in transliteration
Tags: , ,

I want to talk to you today, but I can’t allow myself to pretend you’d answer or care.
Care enough to answer?
You said you cared.
You put this idea into my head that it’s not even you that I want to talk to.

I guess I just want to talk to myself, so here I am.

I think about coming to see you sometimes
even though I can’t afford to make the trip.
I might have yet another job soon so that the option becomes real.


I’m even willing to manage and supervise to get there
just for you to reject me and ignore me and tell me I’m delusional again.
I’m still quite convinced that my thoughts
rather than the distortions as you always insisted upon classifying them
and me.

Granted, I’m very likely wrong, as I usually tend to be.


Posted: November 19, 2010 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

The numbers tell me things when I take the time to shut up and listen.
Tonight they told me about something that happened about a year ago.

No, I’m not over it.

I didn’t see it. I didn’t fucking want to see it.
I didn’t see it until April, and you wouldn’t want to see me now.
I’m just finally starting to grasp at something akin to understanding.

It’s still a long way off.

You can throw away a dream and call it life.
Yeah, you know…Bukowski was like that, too.
Good writer.
Not a bad person.
Shitty at living.

He still harbored that dream, didn’t he?
That he knew how to reject it so completely, he would have had to have kept it close at all times.

I’m not going to live my life like that.
I still don’t read Bukowski much.



Something else drives me, and denying that…I’ll fold down to A Nos Amours.
That is not living.

I can’t.

seeking clarification

Posted: November 17, 2010 in proselytizaytion
Tags: , , ,

This passage you sent me is very similar to nick’s discussion in The Great Gatsby. He says Gatsby loved the image of Daisy, and that image morphed into something that wasn’t real in her absence, so the Daisy he loves truly doesn’t exist and never did… Yup. That’s what I got out of it…

Oh. Well…thanks. I guess that makes sense then.

I just subscribed to get the Sunday paper delivered to my house, because a man with red, webby spider veins spread across his face talked to me for a few minutes at the Asian Superstore across town. He asked me if I was a school teacher by chance, because I have neat handwriting.

“No. Just literate.”

He smiled and gave me a free paper; today’s paper. It had yesterday’s news plastered on the front page. I recognized the Rangel story, but it also had local news that I rarely bother with. I like newspapers. Sometimes, I go into town at night and watch the big rolls of paper go…through the windows…The News.


Jay Gatsby was a hopeless character. Newspapers are a hopelessly lost medium. My world is falling apart, but that sounds too maudlin to be my own sentiment.


I’m an idiot.

I hate that you tout your opinions as facts and back up those “facts” with non-sequitur, quasi-scientific fluff “studies” that have no controls or proofs or substantial merit.

You and your subjective horseshit. You’re taught to fact check with Wikipedia and Twitter.

All I have are dumbfuck stories that no one bothers to listen to, because my point of view is boring…but, at least I don’t believe that I know enough to condescend. At least my little “egocentric” world isn’t based on faith and hope and a lame disclaimer based on little more than wanting to appear to buck a trend you rely on so fucking heavily. I don’t pump it up on hot air from jabberwocky minds that think just like me and pass it off like I know something; like I’m smarter, better, more adept and more in tune with what the fuck is going on.

Get your head out of your ass, please. Or…at the very least, don’t breathe on me before you brush your teeth.

I so rarely fall to this seething anger, but back the fuck off. Shut the fuck up. You are not that fucking clever, interesting, insightful or worthwhile. Who the fuck are you?


Yeah, me too.

That’s all then. I will not address you again.

success mentality

Posted: November 16, 2010 in hidden admonishment
Tags: ,

I’ve run though all of my lifelines.
I really don’t have many.
I called half a dozen people.
No one answered.
I so rarely call anyone.

I wanted someone to tell me
it’s okay to kill myself.
You tried your hardest, I envisioned someone saying.
It’s okay now. It’s not going to get better.
No one will hold it against you, and if anyone did
it wouldn’t matter.
You know you tried.

It’s time.

I had a very rough moment.
I seem to be getting over it
or just deflecting it.

My bird laughs when I cry.
I think she gets the short breaths confused…
or maybe, she’s consciously trying to lighten the mood.

I’d hate to have a bird that mimicked crying.

In the past half hour…my mind has closed up.
Something upset me.
I’m no longer entirely sure what pin pulled to set me off.
I cried rather hard for a little while
and now my mind has closed off.

It’s like the things I was thinking about are nasty little raisins that plunked into a putrid bowl of lemon flavored jello, and now it’s all set up in a tacky mold so that I can put it in the back of the fridge and forget it exists beyond an unpleasant quiver when I poke at surrounding thoughts.

My mind is shutting me out.
It says no, we decided not to think about these things like this anymore.
No, I told you to leave that alone, my mind scolds and takes the jello mold away.
You don’t want this. It’s icky. Here, have a cookie. Play with your bird. There are baby bunnies at work.

I reach for the jello.
I don’t even want the jello.
Who would want lemon jello with raisins suspended in it?
I know I don’t want it.
Leave it alone then.
Leave it alone.

What is it, though?
Why does it exist?
Why do I want it when I know that it’s terrible stuff?
Is it laced with crack?
What do I get from it each time I come back?

My mind is getting better at blocking my advances.
Is this normal?
Is this…

I feel like I’m going to be fine now.
The moment has passed.
The jello is insulating the torment.
I should stop poking at it, but sometimes…

I still wish things were different.


Posted: November 14, 2010 in hidden admonishment
Tags: , ,

I’m the failure of the family.
Me, the fuckup in every possible way.
I might just as well be a crackwhore with a crack baby
but at least I didn’t destroy them by being gay.
They were really fucking happy when they could tell the extended that I had a boyfriend back in the day.
It meant I was straight.


Yeah, about that…never mind.
I’ll just leave well enough alone.
Besides, I’m an “artist” so…
I get a free pass on all kinds of outlandish shit.

What’s your excuse?

I wish I was a crackwhore.
No baby, but just…the drive those women have.
It’s admirable.

Anything for the next hit, and then back to the shit.
Over and over and over again.
Even disease and pregnancy don’t slow them down.

I want my life to be like that.
Food?  Who needs it?
Family?  Invisible.
A job?  Don’t make me laugh.
Pleasure from sex?  What’s that?

Cheap satisfaction from a 30 second hit.
Check.  Double check.
Gimme that.  Next!

Those crackwhores, damn.
They got life all worked out.


Posted: November 13, 2010 in proselytizaytion
Tags: , , ,

Refresh my faulty memory; how did we get past that unfortunate visit that ended with you angry enough to show it…and how did that encounter end, because I thought about it today, and don’t remember anything but the art on the walls in the poorly lit eatery where I ordered water but don’t remember what I ate.

At some point, will I stop remembering?

I know it’s not safe to embrace the part of me that’s so commonly called an illness.  When I fight it, it makes me uncomfortable.  When I let it flow, I feel at home.  Can you tell me?  Do you know?  I don’t think I need an outside answer anymore.

How did we get through that glitch?  How is it that you still interact with me?  Did I apologize for upsetting you?  What happened, and why can’t I remember?  If I sit here and think about it, I’ll come up with what we both ate and what you wore and how I was significantly late coming through traffic on 94.  I’ll remember just where we sat and how and every little detail, except…I don’t know what happened.

I open the door in the middle of the night, sick and in need of the bathroom down the hall.  No one is home, but I hear voices.  I know that no one is home, but I hear them.  Denying it does no good.  I shut the door and wait for morning.  It’s safe in my room.  Safe?  Quiet.  Logic doesn’t help me with things that aren’t here, aren’t real, aren’t.  Aren’t.  I’ve used the word too frequently and it’s turned into a rutting pig grunt.

Aren’t, aren’t.

The urge to drink has resurfaced, and I wonder if all things run in these cycles.  Is it because I haven’t addressed anything?  I thought I had.  I thought I was trying.  Maybe I never.  Don’t know.  I just don’t know anymore if I ever did know anything at all.  So many absolutes.  Red flags.  Indicative of trigger phrases that spiral into unhealthy realms.  Sometimes then.  Sometimes, I’m not so sure…

That’s all.

pink haze

Posted: November 11, 2010 in hidden admonishment

In the mountains today, I tried to outrun the sun.
It easily won, since the world is clearly against me.

Half my face is sunburned.

I sat at the edge of the pavement listening to a distinguished character with salt and pepper features recount a hike down the precipice with a comfortable drawl. I stared out into his memories.

I thought I heard you walking across the closed road behind me, but I didn’t dare to turn around. I knew you wouldn’t be there. I know that whenever I turn around, there are only strangers.

I turned to meet a woman with a dog. The dog wore a plastic cone around his neck, and the woman’s age only showed through her hands. I didn’t look into her face. She was a stranger anyway.

Her dog had come to see me, because I was sitting at his level. I rubbed the bridge of his nose while muttering a polite hello to anyone who’d listen. I was glad the strange woman let her dog come see me.

Staring off into the distance, I didn’t hear anything anymore. The man had concluded his story and walked away with his loved ones. The woman first set out a dish of water for her dog, and then they both got in and drove away.

I sat and stared.

I felt dizzy. When I opened the door to darkness, I knew it should have been silence; not dead silence, but vacant noise. The hum of my computer. The chirp of frogs and insects muffled through the walls. No traffic. No one home. No one awake. No one driving past.

I hear it almost all of the time now. I shut the door, even knowing no one was there, I shut the door to shut them out; shut you out; shut you up the way you shut shut shut me in. I felt dizzy then.

I didn’t hear anything in the mountains but your footsteps.

“What’s the matter?” she asked me in a saccharine, caring voice I didn’t deserve.
“What’s his name?” I deflected with a sniffle and boxed his curly, spotted ears.

Her hands. Her hands were beautiful, but I couldn’t lift my eyes to her face. I would have burst into tears and washed away.

I feel a great many things that are entirely unsubstantiated.

It doesn’t matter.

Posted: November 11, 2010 in transliteration

I’m not feeling well today, so naturally, I find myself hoping that I’m dying. Of course, I know this is far from true, so it is not naturally hope. Clearly, if I actually wanted to die, I’d be a little more proactive on the topic, so I must just be stating all of this for attention now. Ironically, people don’t tend to pay much attention to idle threats of suicide, and let’s face it, we’ve all jumped to that conclusion about my current rambling and have hence zoned out. Yes, myself included. I don’t want to hear it either.

If I could interject now: We’re wrong. I am not suicidal, nor am I in attendance at a particularly well established pity party. Apathy is not the affliction of choice, and, frankly, it’s hard to write if thoughts are going to drop off in that direction so mercilessly quickly.

Fuck that, and no, I’m not notably upset either. I just don’t feel very well today, and it is only my backhand way of saying I would like to feel better (without hoping for it in the least) that I bring up the emo topic of death. Death doesn’t interest me much beyond a respite from a life that’s not…well.

I woke up to a closed bathroom door, so I walked past it down the stairs where I found myself confronted by a stranger on the couch. He made sleepy eye contact for a second and then turned himself around to face the cushions in a caddywompus mess of legs and blankets.

“Who the fuck are you?” I wanted to ask, but of course, I said nothing and quietly walked past to uncover my bird. I was even polite enough to take my bird back upstairs with me so that she wouldn’t wake up the stranger on the couch.

I proceeded to wait half an hour for the bathroom door to open. While waiting, I cleaned up my living quarters a bit. In the process I found an uncashed paycheck from two weeks ago that I was vaguely aware of missing and an unmarked envelope partially folded, but mostly crumpled, that contained $100.

Now, I am not a person with means; money. No.

This internet connection is not even something I pay for. Even after leaving for several months and coming back to strangers, I am granted control of the access point and subsequent network, because I am the only one with any experience dealing with such unexciting things. Everyone else that drifts in and out of the house just magically expects the dishes to be done, the bathroom to be clean, and the internet connection to always be hot.

I consider myself accommodating, and I like to forget about any income and what I’ve done to attain it.

I will trade many mundane services in exchange for mention of money not to be made in my presence. Ah, yes. And here I am bringing it up. How hypocritical of me, but it’s not as if I’ve climbed up on my dusty old soap box to preach about the nation. No. There are enough righteous minds dedicated to that task, so the information received here is a more personal rendition. I am just talking about myself the way I always do.

I am very important.

I was merely trying to ascertain for myself whether I’m having a good day, a bad day, or some sort of common, brooding moment mired in what I’ve been told is passive suicidal ideation.

I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter.
I don’t matter.
Yes, that is what this aside was all about.

assigning pronouns

Posted: November 9, 2010 in proselytizaytion
Tags: , , , ,

You tucked your nice shirt into expensive shoes and dabbed some aftershave along your jawline. I thought about how I would no longer be able to run my tongue along that edge, because of the burning taste of synthetic smells. I stared at you getting ready in my bathroom mirror and said nothing.

People smiled at you as we walked, and you noted this to me as we went along. I said that people are more likely to respond in kind; if you smile at them, they’re more likely to smile back.

I was not smiling.

I trailed behind you slightly, hesitant and in a fog of confused thought. You picked up flowers in front of me and then took me through the liquor department for a…champagne. I stared at the shiny, dustless bottles, completely lost. I used to have a job that included dusting liquor bottles.

Women looked at you, and then looked at me with questions in their eyes. I looked at the floor most of the time thinking about status.

You knew I didn’t drink. You knew I didn’t like cut flowers. You knew what my idea of a good time was. We’d already been at it for hours. Who was this then? What were we doing?

I was wondering the same thing those girls wanted to know: What were we doing together? No. I wanted to know…who the fuck this was dragging me around in some false bravado parade. I felt sick. I felt like I’d made a mistake.

It was the only time I felt like I made a mistake letting you in.

I had nothing…but you were welcome to all I had. Now, there was this. This gimmick of romance, and I was supposed to…I wasn’t sure. Was I supposed to be happy? Grateful? Perhaps, I was supposed to feel privileged and proud.

I just felt sick, so you took me home. You drank alone for a while, and then you went out to the bars.

Do you remember?

I didn’t leave the building. I…left my room, because I didn’t want to see you. I didn’t want you to crawl into bed with me after that and think everything was okay.

I wasn’t okay.

When you left, I think I asked you not to bring any other girls back. If you wanted to stay out; if you wanted to go back to their places…I looked at you in your nice shirt and clean slacks. Sigh…I told you to find a better girl, but not to bring her back to my place.

I never saw you wear that shirt again.

It slips off my lips like an explicative fricative.
The hiss of mixed messages, so elegant
Sheepishly beseeching me with mimicry and lies.
Truths coddled by a titillating mastery of deception.
It snaps past.
It hits bone.
It crackles with a burn that threatens to shatter
vaporize the calm dark of the night sky
vehemently denying the honesty hidden
dripping and curling
melting and morphing
It’s too late to reevaluate the allegorical


“Self-destruct” is such a pretty button, all lit up and begging to be pressed. Can’t I? Please, please. Can’t I? Just once.

It’s no marshmallow experiment this time.

I decided.

Posted: November 8, 2010 in transliteration
Tags: , ,

I won’t know for sure until February when the last tie comes undone. Maybe then, I will be able to crawl along the inner lining of my thoughts and find something that makes sense. Then again, maybe not.

I have this wretched, elaborate plan with a resolution that has an opportunity to present itself come February. Why February? I don’t rightly know, but someday I might. It comes about on a Friday afternoon, which I find fitting, because it came about on a Friday afternoon.

I’ve had this plan for quite some time now, and it will probably not resolve itself. For a long time, I feared this enough to try to talk myself out of it and into healthier directions, but…It’s not healthy to deny that I want something, and it’s not healthy to give up on something I want…even if it’s so improbable that it borders on impossible and delves into delusional and psychotic and…I’ve been staring off into space for around a year now, trying to decide how to fit together my life with my mind.

Yesterday, staring at the ceiling and clicking at my bird to tell her I was sorry about the heat that we don’t have, I decided.

I decided.

It might not be a good plan. It might not turn out well. I’m going to follow through with it anyway, because it’s mine, and I set it in place…because I want something.

Maybe, come February, I’ll know what that something is regardless of the actual outcome of events.

I’m scared, so scared, that I would rather turn my back on the world and pretend that I’m okay; fake it; just fake the rest of it, pretend to fit, and waste the rest denying that it’s bullshit.

I’m so scared that it makes me physically ill; brings me close to tears; erodes any lingering shreds of confidence that I cling to. This is why there is a plan set in place; so that the plan pushes me when I can’t push anymore.

I have to trust the girl that put that plan into place without knowing why. She’s gone. Time does that. I trust a shadow of nothing; something; me. I know better than her. I’m older. I’ve been through more. I set plans for future me. There are already dozens in motion; in their infancy. Future me will question present me as I question the past, but in the end, the plans are set like tiger traps. Rigid and with reasons without knowing if I need to be predator or prey.

Who’s going to win today? Ah, wrong question. It’s never been a game.


Posted: November 6, 2010 in proselytizaytion

She’s callin’ you out.
Aren’t you gonna answer?

I have shit to do.

I don’t want to be considered sick, and not just sick, but sick for the rest of my life.
Treatable, but incurable.
Those terms can overwhelm a person like me.
People like me.
I don’t want to be sick.

It’s not that I’m in denial anymore.
Maybe I was at one time.

They weighed me a few times and took my blood pressure.
“Look,” they told me based on these simple gestures.
“Look, you’re getting sicker.”

Thank you.

I got tangled in some red tape.
I was deemed poor, but not quite poor enough.
This was all based on imaginary numbers
and sharp, invisible lines.
Well, now I’ve been expunged from the system again
and I’ll just accept it this time.

Spit out.

It’s okay. I don’t want to hear about how I’m irrevocably sick anyway.
Today, I hit a wall.

Maybe you can sense something’s wrong and go to a doctor
that will either readily, or even hesitantly, tell you
that your life matters.
You think about exploiting a system that may or may not listen to you.
Well, I can’t afford to have someone make eye contact
to tell me I’m human, too.

I’m incurably sick.

I knew what I was leaving when I stepped out of the puddle of blood on the floor.
I don’t remember when it was, but I remember a barrage of commercials about it.
I’m sorry that races are run to be won or lost, but he had a good jaunt. He did a lot.
You’ve become Red Red Red now, and I worry about you since I left.
These things have a way of running full circle, so keep your head down.

Take a deep breath.

I’m down here mired in the blues.
We don’t talk about these sorts of things. I don’t talk about them.
I’m working on becoming a lady, and ladies don’t talk about such things.
I woke up to news I knew I’d wake up to, and I carried on with my day.

Most people; you know, most people…

You with your confidence lain out in various bottles
and pages
and video clips
You don’t really know who the fuck you are at all
and that’s why you’re not worth hating, not worth defining, not even worth acknowledging.

You…pining for an “I voted.” sticker.

Yes, carry on.
You’re in good company.


I might be the Easter Bunny.

Red up and down the board. Red. Red. Red.

I’m in a really good mood for no reason whatsoever. I have nothing to be in a good mood about, yet here I’ve been smiling at the wall, baking apple crisp, laughing at the world.

I just realized that there’s a certain kind of person who will define himself or herself completely on the rejected definitions of others. You. People like you thrive on controversy. You want people to attack how you define yourself. You want the labels and the condemnation so that you have something to fight against…

because, you…You ferret out judgments and labels that people offer just to disagree. You do things only to prove other people wrong. You want to prove me wrong right now. You have no fucking idea who you really are, and yet you’re the most boisterous about being so wholly and completely genuine and openmindedly free that…it’s hilarious.

This is my generation. This is the mentality of the 20-something.

Here I am sitting, smiling over bad news about my country, because I don’t care about my country. I don’t care about Americans. I don’t care about my peers. Not so much in an apathetic, I-don’t-care-about-anything sort of way, but in a nothing-seems-to-matter-much-one-way-or-t’other kind of way. There is a difference.

I care quite a lot in my current disregard.

Are the 30 somethings better?
Will my surroundings change when I hit 40?

I’ve struggled and hated every fucking phase of life I’ve been through so far, and that’s not to say I’ve hated life. Everything after around nine years old has fucking sucked. People, I’ve decided (again); people are just fucking intolerably vapid creatures.

We, of course, are not exceptions, but…I find our miserable, bitter reflections on failure are at least marginally entertaining…and really, I sincerely doubt anything is going to feel as satisfying as smiling while I stare blankly at the wall.

I may have stumbled across nirvana tonight, but I’m sure I’ll topple and fall shortly back into the Red Sea of Shit we collectively refer to as Reality. Until then, however, tumteetumteehee!