Reserving juice for the the next few hours. We're gonna write a new world now, tucked in the sidelines and dark as hell, but you would recognize it if you saw it in a crowd of train passengers.
Perhaps this is all I am and that's okay. I spent the entire massage session yesterday wide awake, thinking about my life, and somewhere in the middle of it grew tired, spontaneously, like my life was not something of monumental importance.
That's one clue.
The truth is you can't give anything to the world that you're not generating inside yourself. And so perhaps our real work is finding in ourselves that which will make us happy. And then we have the slightest chance.
Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Take the Power Back
Here we are now. I turned thirty. I'm losing my powers. One of my office mates noticed. It's been bothering me.
Yes, I really do mean powers. When I was still quite happy and self-confident, I could often command both the weather and the convenient arrival of taxi cabs to wherever I happened to be standing. Soon after certain realities dawned, all I had was the flimsy ability to zap people with static at the office. And I don't even attribute that to my charming, guileless mess of a person but to my long, unmanaged but manageable hair.
It reflected much.
But yesterday, something snapped. The rains, which only reminded me too well of tragedies that were not really tragedies but spirit-toughening exercises, grew too strong for comfort yesterday. Going home in the cab, in paths that were once alien and hostile during those days of extreme grief, made me hate the fear that would well up inside me when I'd see the raging waters of the hometown river. There now, close to 18.
The thing is, I am a person of faith. Faith in something, that's for sure, faith in the collective desire of people to assert their sovereignty over all forces in the known universe in the face of growing terror. In the end, it is the misplaced arrogance of being the only thinking entities on this planet. But what the hell, I am human. I like being alive.
So when I think back at it now, here's what I recall. I pass by the river, too close for safety, as four wide lanes are now a single passable road, overpowered by the river spilling over onto the concrete. People with umbrellas are actually watching the water rise. Watching for the water level to reach 18 meters, which tells them all hell is about to break loose. Only hell in the form of water, and we all know what that means.
It is 6PM, the water had just hit 17 meters. In the AM radios they say the other dams have started giving out.
When I reach home everything is up at shelves my father made for precisely this purpose. My mother is slicing a hand across her chest, indicating that's how far it went up before, and so we should try and salvage what we could. Ironically, the double deck, my tiny personal space, would probably be the safest place to put important stuff. I try to make light of things. Surely a storm that strong would not happen again in the next ten, twenty years.
Time passes by slowly and quickly, we don't know anymore. We were waiting for we don't know what, really. We analyzed how things felt like the first time, and what should be our signal to evacuate. The rains get stronger. The sound is louder because my father had removed some patches of ceiling for a re-roofing project. There is water inside the house but because of leaks. I wish I could move us to a better-feeling place.
Forced to a standstill, my brother invents good vibes by ordering crispy pata. They would not deliver. I volunteer to get the food with him. We go out to fetch the food and try to ease myself by thinking hey the roads aren't flooded, there's nothing to worry about. But then I remember what flash floods mean and grow somber throughout the trip to the restaurant.
People were singing inside. Some ballad, I don't remember anymore. I happily shell out money the equivalent of three modest meals for a family of five. We return and eat and my brother and I have a laugh about this being very much like our last supper. In any case, we ravaged the poor things.
By 9PM the water was a little past 17.5m. I did a rough calculation and thought, at the rate the water was climbing, it would be at 18m by midnight. And I was growing sleepy. I could not be too sleepy for my impending demise. I struggle to stay awake. The rain grows stronger.
And then there it was, an invitation to pray.
Remember I was no longer doing the things that felt so natural to me a decade ago. I still had the books but more to remind myself that I could go back to it whenever I wanted to. But that they were vestiges of the past, too, and that none of these beliefs had been sturdy enough to sustain me. But I did, mostly because I believed my mother had a secret passcode to the heart of the universe whenever it was crunch time.
And so there, at what could only be at this point a little less than half a metre towards the 18 meter mark, the rain stopped.
Not completely, no, it was still raining intermittently this morning. But it was enough to buy us some reassurance that while we were all going to die some day, it was not going to be this night.
I slept on the sofa just in case.
In the morning, I thought about a lot of things but of one thing in particular. That we do belittle the power we have over this universe. And it is certainly appalling. I finished reading the book I read yesterday and made plans for the future. Stupid plans, really, but goals are at the core of getting anywhere in this world.
Yes, I really do mean powers. When I was still quite happy and self-confident, I could often command both the weather and the convenient arrival of taxi cabs to wherever I happened to be standing. Soon after certain realities dawned, all I had was the flimsy ability to zap people with static at the office. And I don't even attribute that to my charming, guileless mess of a person but to my long, unmanaged but manageable hair.
It reflected much.
But yesterday, something snapped. The rains, which only reminded me too well of tragedies that were not really tragedies but spirit-toughening exercises, grew too strong for comfort yesterday. Going home in the cab, in paths that were once alien and hostile during those days of extreme grief, made me hate the fear that would well up inside me when I'd see the raging waters of the hometown river. There now, close to 18.
The thing is, I am a person of faith. Faith in something, that's for sure, faith in the collective desire of people to assert their sovereignty over all forces in the known universe in the face of growing terror. In the end, it is the misplaced arrogance of being the only thinking entities on this planet. But what the hell, I am human. I like being alive.
So when I think back at it now, here's what I recall. I pass by the river, too close for safety, as four wide lanes are now a single passable road, overpowered by the river spilling over onto the concrete. People with umbrellas are actually watching the water rise. Watching for the water level to reach 18 meters, which tells them all hell is about to break loose. Only hell in the form of water, and we all know what that means.
It is 6PM, the water had just hit 17 meters. In the AM radios they say the other dams have started giving out.
When I reach home everything is up at shelves my father made for precisely this purpose. My mother is slicing a hand across her chest, indicating that's how far it went up before, and so we should try and salvage what we could. Ironically, the double deck, my tiny personal space, would probably be the safest place to put important stuff. I try to make light of things. Surely a storm that strong would not happen again in the next ten, twenty years.
Time passes by slowly and quickly, we don't know anymore. We were waiting for we don't know what, really. We analyzed how things felt like the first time, and what should be our signal to evacuate. The rains get stronger. The sound is louder because my father had removed some patches of ceiling for a re-roofing project. There is water inside the house but because of leaks. I wish I could move us to a better-feeling place.
Forced to a standstill, my brother invents good vibes by ordering crispy pata. They would not deliver. I volunteer to get the food with him. We go out to fetch the food and try to ease myself by thinking hey the roads aren't flooded, there's nothing to worry about. But then I remember what flash floods mean and grow somber throughout the trip to the restaurant.
People were singing inside. Some ballad, I don't remember anymore. I happily shell out money the equivalent of three modest meals for a family of five. We return and eat and my brother and I have a laugh about this being very much like our last supper. In any case, we ravaged the poor things.
By 9PM the water was a little past 17.5m. I did a rough calculation and thought, at the rate the water was climbing, it would be at 18m by midnight. And I was growing sleepy. I could not be too sleepy for my impending demise. I struggle to stay awake. The rain grows stronger.
And then there it was, an invitation to pray.
Remember I was no longer doing the things that felt so natural to me a decade ago. I still had the books but more to remind myself that I could go back to it whenever I wanted to. But that they were vestiges of the past, too, and that none of these beliefs had been sturdy enough to sustain me. But I did, mostly because I believed my mother had a secret passcode to the heart of the universe whenever it was crunch time.
And so there, at what could only be at this point a little less than half a metre towards the 18 meter mark, the rain stopped.
Not completely, no, it was still raining intermittently this morning. But it was enough to buy us some reassurance that while we were all going to die some day, it was not going to be this night.
I slept on the sofa just in case.
In the morning, I thought about a lot of things but of one thing in particular. That we do belittle the power we have over this universe. And it is certainly appalling. I finished reading the book I read yesterday and made plans for the future. Stupid plans, really, but goals are at the core of getting anywhere in this world.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Adventures in Theoretical Physics
You would not believe the things that make me happy. Not the least of which is the brother telling me maybe you should start a blog. I am humbled. Truly blogs are the landmark of arrival.
King said something about size before that never really left my mind. Listening to Greene's Hidden Realities (and perhaps the inappropriate amount of time I spend watching and re-watching Fringe) sometimes brings tears to my eyes. I'm not sure why. There's something majestic about the laws of the universe when seen in the scope of human experience--and by that I don't mean the empirical.
For instance, I believe that pain and joy both summon energy, and therefore mass, not from nowhere, not really, but somewhere, and it doesn't matter where, only that they exist when we say they do. And by "say," I don't mean "say" inasmuch as I mean to "think up," or "give attention to," or "summon from the cosmos."
What of implications? I have them all somewhere inside me, but if forced, I might say that love does breathe life into everything, and that love is space, the space within space, the great animator. And that there is good in pain and in fear, because you know you are creator, you are not here simply to take up precious space. You can feel, you can inspire alternative realities, you can choose to be where you want to be.
It does make me cringe, sometimes. Emotions have no place in the sciences, but I'm the kind of girl who doesn't believe in walls, and separation and division and in not using the principles of one to apply to another.
I can't help writing about myself. I made a deal before I slept last night, to take away someone's pain in exchange for my life. I don't know what it means that I'm alive today, that we're both alive. The truth is you can say both there is no God and that there is a merciful God. And both apply, really and truly, and this makes being here all the more fascinating.
Today I will do secular, domestic things, but that doesn't mean my head's not in the clouds.
King said something about size before that never really left my mind. Listening to Greene's Hidden Realities (and perhaps the inappropriate amount of time I spend watching and re-watching Fringe) sometimes brings tears to my eyes. I'm not sure why. There's something majestic about the laws of the universe when seen in the scope of human experience--and by that I don't mean the empirical.
For instance, I believe that pain and joy both summon energy, and therefore mass, not from nowhere, not really, but somewhere, and it doesn't matter where, only that they exist when we say they do. And by "say," I don't mean "say" inasmuch as I mean to "think up," or "give attention to," or "summon from the cosmos."
What of implications? I have them all somewhere inside me, but if forced, I might say that love does breathe life into everything, and that love is space, the space within space, the great animator. And that there is good in pain and in fear, because you know you are creator, you are not here simply to take up precious space. You can feel, you can inspire alternative realities, you can choose to be where you want to be.
It does make me cringe, sometimes. Emotions have no place in the sciences, but I'm the kind of girl who doesn't believe in walls, and separation and division and in not using the principles of one to apply to another.
I can't help writing about myself. I made a deal before I slept last night, to take away someone's pain in exchange for my life. I don't know what it means that I'm alive today, that we're both alive. The truth is you can say both there is no God and that there is a merciful God. And both apply, really and truly, and this makes being here all the more fascinating.
Today I will do secular, domestic things, but that doesn't mean my head's not in the clouds.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
I Swear This Is Positive
I just got off of a long, debilitating train ride, the kind that sucks people in. In this tiny train, life was slow, but it never stood still, and the piped-in music from the other cars were jarring and overly loquacious, a hundred different angry people speaking at the same time. In this tiny train, you ever really only have one thought. No one loves you, even if they say they do.
They make you wear shades in there, so that everything you can see outside radiates with a blood-red sheen, so that everything's depressing and unfair. The air is dry inside, and you feel eternally dirty, and there are books scattered all over the place, but they are books without endings, page sixty-fours through page one-eightys.
But this post is really about the trip back. If the slow train brought you to a wrong place, the sad truth is you can't just get off and then get on the fast one. Things happen to you, and the things that happen to you don't really go away. The shades for instance. Trade that in too fast for a new one and your eyes will bleed. Understand your eyes, they haven't been seeing the light for some time.
But that's okay. The point is you are making that trip. The point is there are hundreds of you. The point is there are thousands now, who are already there.
So relax. You'll get there. We can run. Let me join you.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Six-Month Countdown Begins
You have no idea how hard I'm trying. I take pills to keep me happy, I jog, I run like crazy, I blast my ears with upbeat songs. But really all it takes is a blank and we're back where we started. I tried running away from it while jogging, pretending it were a monster chasing me to get me back to hell, but there it was just the same.
I really do want to be happy now. But not here. Not like this. Being boss-less is a sacred family tradition I'm all too willing to uphold. And I've invested so much, too much, to still be fucking sad at the end of the day.
And fuck you all hypocritical people who know too much, who say everything you feel is your own fault. I know it's my fault, stupid, I'm the one doing the feeling! But I hope to God you get ten times what it feels like to be sad. Because when someone is sad, you don't tell that person to shut it. You sit beside her and tell her everything's going to be okay.
Because we all know it is. And frankly it's just nice to be kind to each other along the way.
I really do want to be happy now. But not here. Not like this. Being boss-less is a sacred family tradition I'm all too willing to uphold. And I've invested so much, too much, to still be fucking sad at the end of the day.
And fuck you all hypocritical people who know too much, who say everything you feel is your own fault. I know it's my fault, stupid, I'm the one doing the feeling! But I hope to God you get ten times what it feels like to be sad. Because when someone is sad, you don't tell that person to shut it. You sit beside her and tell her everything's going to be okay.
Because we all know it is. And frankly it's just nice to be kind to each other along the way.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Hyperreality
I've seen it done, so. But someone asked whether there was some other reason I didn't say yes to a viable option. I've always thought I knew the answer to that. But when it was asked I found myself speechless.
The truth is, and you know this, I am tired of being sad. I can tell you I know all about fate and destiny and how sometimes people are meant to be melancholy, that sometimes people enjoy being despondent. But I'll be the first to tell you that it's not a nice place to be in.
Which is why, despite full knowledge of tendencies to keep running into walls and jumping unprotected into bottomless gorges, I will keep trying. And the past may remain hanging in the background, and I might not be able to completely eliminate the effects of whatever happened in the past and what it did to who and what I've become, but I've found it pays to stop the addicting, debilitating kind of rumination I sometimes think my cortexes were made for.
I'm going to run my answers down until I can punch them in the face and call them all manner of bad things. Especially for keeping me waiting.
The truth is, and you know this, I am tired of being sad. I can tell you I know all about fate and destiny and how sometimes people are meant to be melancholy, that sometimes people enjoy being despondent. But I'll be the first to tell you that it's not a nice place to be in.
Which is why, despite full knowledge of tendencies to keep running into walls and jumping unprotected into bottomless gorges, I will keep trying. And the past may remain hanging in the background, and I might not be able to completely eliminate the effects of whatever happened in the past and what it did to who and what I've become, but I've found it pays to stop the addicting, debilitating kind of rumination I sometimes think my cortexes were made for.
I'm going to run my answers down until I can punch them in the face and call them all manner of bad things. Especially for keeping me waiting.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Before Step One
My third night in a row thinks it should never really have happened but is thankful it did. Everything feels wrong and right and deadly.
What makes sense now? I don't know what to expect from work, from the family, from dreams sketched hastily at the back of unlined notebooks. And yet none of that matters. There is only asphalt and feet and a simple decision that should do wonders for a soul that had lost faith in itself and in the world.
Pure and full and black and white. Here in this world there is no try, there is do and not do. A curse, a blessing, that thin line that is actually a universe—three universes, even!—apart, the porous, scalable, absolute-ness of actually doing something versus just thinking about it.
How close we are to utter destruction every time we fail to try.
What makes sense now? I don't know what to expect from work, from the family, from dreams sketched hastily at the back of unlined notebooks. And yet none of that matters. There is only asphalt and feet and a simple decision that should do wonders for a soul that had lost faith in itself and in the world.
Pure and full and black and white. Here in this world there is no try, there is do and not do. A curse, a blessing, that thin line that is actually a universe—three universes, even!—apart, the porous, scalable, absolute-ness of actually doing something versus just thinking about it.
How close we are to utter destruction every time we fail to try.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
So It Goes, Also, To Be Made Stupid for Your Own Good
Things happen. Nights happen. Conversations happen.
The most unlikely things: someone eventually bashed my dearest beliefs about the world. There was nothing to it, really, because it was I who was sad. It was I who could not let go.
I won't idealize that moment anymore than it needs to be idealized. The long and short is that happiness is a thing you have to learn to generate inside of yourself, because any other kind is fleeting, illusory, and sometimes insane.
The realization could not have come at a better time, i.e., just when I've skidded over a metaphorical existential rock-bottom. The past few weeks, you still see me walking around but I'm really just the shadow of my former care-free self.
It is a sad thing to be dead before you're really dead. It's even sadder when it's your own beliefs that are killing you. Whether or not these beliefs are idealistic balls of magma that have become your very core. It is very sobering to see that you do have to live outside of your head to get that sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter, often intoxicating taste of the real world.
And so I must, again, go out and do stuff. See you around.
The most unlikely things: someone eventually bashed my dearest beliefs about the world. There was nothing to it, really, because it was I who was sad. It was I who could not let go.
I won't idealize that moment anymore than it needs to be idealized. The long and short is that happiness is a thing you have to learn to generate inside of yourself, because any other kind is fleeting, illusory, and sometimes insane.
The realization could not have come at a better time, i.e., just when I've skidded over a metaphorical existential rock-bottom. The past few weeks, you still see me walking around but I'm really just the shadow of my former care-free self.
It is a sad thing to be dead before you're really dead. It's even sadder when it's your own beliefs that are killing you. Whether or not these beliefs are idealistic balls of magma that have become your very core. It is very sobering to see that you do have to live outside of your head to get that sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter, often intoxicating taste of the real world.
And so I must, again, go out and do stuff. See you around.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Neurotic Alt+Tabbing
It's a sad thing when being in the world around supposedly the worldly wise actually roughs up the idealist in you to a point where you become convinced they're right, that the world is all about who can be useful for you, that the world will take advantage of you and suck you dry if you don't build defenses around yourself, that the universe is a wild and random thing you need to invent principles for so you won't go insane.
I'VE BECOME A VERY SAD PERSON, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?
It was prettier before I met you, people of the world. Everyday I regret ever having opened my heart and mind to you. I had a way easier time believing the world loved me when I had the guts to just keep on offering myself like a fucking doormat. But why is it that that had to be a bad thing? Giving is good. Giving is supreme. But now I will forever carry with me the stigma of knowing. You become old and sad after that. None of it is your fault, people of the world. I just wish I'd been warned. So at least the sting would not have been as acidic.
The risk is pain. Mind-whirling, gut-wrenching, life-destroying pain. But what else is out there in that void of utter suffering? That blank between moments of weakness and moments of actual living it out in the world. Sometimes that's all I live for now. Alt (breathe) Tab. Alt (huff) Tab. Alt ( --- ) Tab. Switching madly from work to family to why the fuck need I be in this universe to love and hopeless hoping and falling in love with an ideal to why did I not shampoo my hair today to wow no more mannequins in the front lobby to dear Lord, take me now, I did not come here to feel such torment.
I'VE BECOME A VERY SAD PERSON, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?
It was prettier before I met you, people of the world. Everyday I regret ever having opened my heart and mind to you. I had a way easier time believing the world loved me when I had the guts to just keep on offering myself like a fucking doormat. But why is it that that had to be a bad thing? Giving is good. Giving is supreme. But now I will forever carry with me the stigma of knowing. You become old and sad after that. None of it is your fault, people of the world. I just wish I'd been warned. So at least the sting would not have been as acidic.
The risk is pain. Mind-whirling, gut-wrenching, life-destroying pain. But what else is out there in that void of utter suffering? That blank between moments of weakness and moments of actual living it out in the world. Sometimes that's all I live for now. Alt (breathe) Tab. Alt (huff) Tab. Alt ( --- ) Tab. Switching madly from work to family to why the fuck need I be in this universe to love and hopeless hoping and falling in love with an ideal to why did I not shampoo my hair today to wow no more mannequins in the front lobby to dear Lord, take me now, I did not come here to feel such torment.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Enter Revenge
Some notes on revenge: I'm not a big fan, but I prefer anger to soul-shaking depression, so while it's here, I'll let it drive me.
The final friends said it best: get yourself out of there, and do that one thing you know will save you from utter destruction. Write, damn it.
But first, work.
I already told my mother about it, and she says, should I feel so inclined, it might be time to move on. Where will I find myself next? Will I settle again? Will I savor new-found freedom only to have to go back to the comfort of a steady job again?
A steady job is so tempting. So bloody necessary, so unnaturally liberating I can only guess I probably have no idea what I'm talking about while money and purchasing power fly in my face in sweeping, flowing pas de chats.
Anger, anger, why must you be a better ally than apathy? I was never a belligerent person, and I don't suppose I will begin snapping at random people, only that I will start respecting myself a little more.
We know this shameless self-centeredness should end soon, but let me live it out here, it's fine. I'm old but I'm stupid and I don't really care what you think.
The final friends said it best: get yourself out of there, and do that one thing you know will save you from utter destruction. Write, damn it.
But first, work.
I already told my mother about it, and she says, should I feel so inclined, it might be time to move on. Where will I find myself next? Will I settle again? Will I savor new-found freedom only to have to go back to the comfort of a steady job again?
A steady job is so tempting. So bloody necessary, so unnaturally liberating I can only guess I probably have no idea what I'm talking about while money and purchasing power fly in my face in sweeping, flowing pas de chats.
Anger, anger, why must you be a better ally than apathy? I was never a belligerent person, and I don't suppose I will begin snapping at random people, only that I will start respecting myself a little more.
We know this shameless self-centeredness should end soon, but let me live it out here, it's fine. I'm old but I'm stupid and I don't really care what you think.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Write Something Happy
I'm your fucking rock star.
I'm fucking your rock, star.
I'm fucking rock, your star.
I'm your rock-fucking star.
I'm your star rock-fucking.
I'm fucking your rock, star.
I'm fucking rock, your star.
I'm your rock-fucking star.
I'm your star rock-fucking.
Dirty, dirty words all over the place and I do not give a brown-eyed hoot. These daaaays I love when they're gone.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Proper Introductions
Two ways to look at it, really:
[ONE\] I'm inside the back of a car, inside the trunk, and I've been struggling for seventy-odd years to get the hell out of these cable holders. My wrists are raw and my feet are bound with duct tape. I push and twist and pull and hurt myself over and over and over again. I bang my head, my feet, my body against every inch of the trunk, hoping against hope somebody from the outside can hear me. I do this over and over, until I'm so tired I have difficulty breathing.
Each breath becomes precious, as I realize my time is running out. But then I catch a singular shaft of sunlight streaming through a crack in the trunk. It must be daytime outside. That vibrant string occupies my entire consciousness, stamping out any stray thought, blocking out any stimuli that was less than impending, and I think, with the conviction of a fast-dissipating soul, "It is not going to get any better than this." And I am, for all intents and purposes, right.
or
[TWO\] I'd have difficulty describing this sea of infinite possibility in a way that can properly impress your visual armory. There are mythical creatures here: human beings with extra appendages erupting from their spines, human beings that hardly look like human beings, but part great big birds and great big cats and great big primal entities covered in beast fur, scales, or sugar-coated puff things.
There are time-fucked places over here: the multiplicity of living many lives, a profiler for the satanic brigade, a soldier with the eyes and nose of an unstoppable, unidentifiable serial killer, a stalker bent on remaining unknown but in his wake, a stream of inspired paintings and heart-rending installations about the object of affection. To live these lives in glorious, singing parallels, and to switch and jump between one and the other and to not know how and when and why.
The thing is, there are monsters, too. It killed a friend yesterday. Again.
[ONE\] I'm inside the back of a car, inside the trunk, and I've been struggling for seventy-odd years to get the hell out of these cable holders. My wrists are raw and my feet are bound with duct tape. I push and twist and pull and hurt myself over and over and over again. I bang my head, my feet, my body against every inch of the trunk, hoping against hope somebody from the outside can hear me. I do this over and over, until I'm so tired I have difficulty breathing.
Each breath becomes precious, as I realize my time is running out. But then I catch a singular shaft of sunlight streaming through a crack in the trunk. It must be daytime outside. That vibrant string occupies my entire consciousness, stamping out any stray thought, blocking out any stimuli that was less than impending, and I think, with the conviction of a fast-dissipating soul, "It is not going to get any better than this." And I am, for all intents and purposes, right.
or
[TWO\] I'd have difficulty describing this sea of infinite possibility in a way that can properly impress your visual armory. There are mythical creatures here: human beings with extra appendages erupting from their spines, human beings that hardly look like human beings, but part great big birds and great big cats and great big primal entities covered in beast fur, scales, or sugar-coated puff things.
There are time-fucked places over here: the multiplicity of living many lives, a profiler for the satanic brigade, a soldier with the eyes and nose of an unstoppable, unidentifiable serial killer, a stalker bent on remaining unknown but in his wake, a stream of inspired paintings and heart-rending installations about the object of affection. To live these lives in glorious, singing parallels, and to switch and jump between one and the other and to not know how and when and why.
The thing is, there are monsters, too. It killed a friend yesterday. Again.
Backhanded Profiling
Well. So there, if you think about it, everything's out here (vast blue silent empyrean, sea of cloudless, mightless, broken pianos and water-logged pink pillows caught against logs resembling the last few moments of the forlorn, hearts crushed by the pain of longing) floating, cerebral debris, artifacts of love and hormones and undignified/dignified lust, severed friendship bands, memorized conversations that bordered on a future so certain it would find you together on some porch, laughing at kids.
Your heat is so damn specific, molten mercury running through your veins must find should find goddamnit why can't you find your way to me?
And how all this can exist in someone else's universe, but not in yours, suggests the greatest profanity, but in the end it is also ultimately golden. We don't elevate the mundane to feed egos, but to make sure we are not alone.
Each word, after all, is a bottled message for the universe to read. That sometimes that's the best we can ever get out of it, the knowledge that it was never meant to be, and that we must move on.
And that, maybe, something better is on its way.
Your heat is so damn specific, molten mercury running through your veins must find should find goddamnit why can't you find your way to me?
And how all this can exist in someone else's universe, but not in yours, suggests the greatest profanity, but in the end it is also ultimately golden. We don't elevate the mundane to feed egos, but to make sure we are not alone.
Each word, after all, is a bottled message for the universe to read. That sometimes that's the best we can ever get out of it, the knowledge that it was never meant to be, and that we must move on.
And that, maybe, something better is on its way.
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