the parlor trick

Posted: June 12, 2012 in transliteration
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For over five years, the most superficial thoughts of creating a drawing or a painting not only caused me to mentally shut down, but also prompted me to actively fight off the desire to hurt myself. No one knows, because there’s no one to tell, and suicidal ideation still has a nasty, emo, drama-queen stigma. I am chemically imbalanced, blah, blah, blah.

Insincerity.

Fuck everyone that has ever conversed with me from the healthy bird’s-eye view of absolute bullshit pertaining to mental stability. There’s nothing to say, because there’s no one to tell, so…as with every lapse in my personal history, to the expressed amazement of multiple clinical health specialists whose expertise ranges far beyond my budget…I somehow manage to pull through.

Incongruous.

I’d still like to stab a compass needle in and tear from wrist to elbow on my left side. Maybe, I think, if I twist my arm just right, I can wedge the sturdy steel bar between ulna and radius.
It’s not about cutting
and it’s certainly not about suicide.
It’s not even simple self-destruction.
It’s really not much different from my desire to drink
or fuck strangers
or teach myself calculus from textbooks I find in the trash
books which are only salvageable because the Americanized Chinese buffet moved to the next strip mall down the block.

Eating from such dumpsters is dangerous.
Reading from them is…mostly harmless.

I turned down money.
I did this.
I fought with people who saw potential and wanted to help me establish myself.
I ignored
dodged
and sabotaged the prospects of a career based on my “talent.”

We’ve been over this
and over it
and I’m fucking over it.

I walked away from an education I loathed, and I still don’t know why I went back to it
aside from finding myself so far adrift that an outsider was able to distracted me from the lure of a bridge and
tell me what to do.

A bridge I was later detained in the back of a squad car for visiting
and a person who later asked me to abandon what was previously advised that I return to.

I met you during the interim, when I was just going through the motions.

Waiting.

I still turn down money.
I still fail to return inquisitive calls.
I still blacklist people who ask me to perform.
I make myself extremely hard to find
or even contact
and this is not an accident.

I still fucking miss you.

And it’s still hard for me to coax the rabbit from its hat
but I will.

I will make peace without subjugation.

Quiet in the dark watching the rabbits in the kitchen
and the rabbits in the snow
and the rabbits in the mountains
and the rabbits in their cages
commercials
children’s books.
Top hats for cats, but no rabbits in hats
and you think you know all the answers.
You think you’re so fucking smart.

Maybe.

Maybe you are.

I felt obligated, because you went to the trouble of sending me pink colored pencils through the mail.
That does not mean that I am now at your beck and call.

It’s much closer to meaning that the next package will rebound
unopened
“Return to Sender”

I’m busy.
Busy working on my math at 2:00 in the morning.
Busy ignoring the subterranean river of shit.

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