Echo

If I really loved you, then I wouldn’t tell you.
Because if I really loved you, then I shouldn’t tell you.

Did I drive you away?
I know what you’ll say,
You say, “Oh, sing one we know.”
But I promise you this,
I’ll always look out for you,
That’s what I’ll do.
My heart is yours,
It’s you that I hold on to
That’s what I do
And I know [that I’m] wrong
But I won’t let you down,
(Oh yeah, oh yeah, yeah I will, yes I will)

Yeah, I saw sparks.

Hey Whit! Look what I found about my moon in Libra today…

While both sexes may be romantically amorous, they are notoriously fickle and wavering in romance. They are also easily thrown off balance emotionally, given to secretiveness in matters of the heart. They seldom take others into their confidence in their more personal concerns. They have an unusual attraction for people with the Sun or Moon in Pisces.

HAHAHAHA! I think we’ve just found the root of my Pisces fetish.

You know, I really don’t get mad that much. But the one thing that will really, really get me is when people are selfish and disrespectful, and take obvious advantage of a friend because this person happens to be very nice and easy-going.

These kind of things really remind me that I have ZERO tolerance for drama, and ZERO tolerance for those with a gross lack of consideration for others.

It’s the end of the night. Brian, as is his nightly custom, asked me if I could clean off the dining table for him, shower him and put him in bed. I was overanxiously overanalyzing things in my head, as is my nightly custom, so I absentmindedly said, “No because I’m freaking out here. But I will take off your pants.”

I quite possibly have more sex on the brain than even the average guy.

My Beloved Muskrat Is Abandoning Me For a Boy!!!!

From the Muskrat’s mouth:

I, myself, just got back from a mini vacation. My guy, Jef, and I went to New Mexico, and just in time! We couldn’t have planned it better. The hurricane called for mandatory evacuation on my little beach the day after we left. Though the aftermath of it all proved to be a war zone all is well with my little apartment and my family.

While chaos was going on at home, I found myself in the land of serenity. I roamed through the dry desert, climbed several mountains, and felt as if I had reached the peace of the earth. New Mexico is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. Though it was right under my nose at all times, I never thought such splendor could reside in my own country.

The smell of the desert is like new air that has never inhabited the lungs of human kind before. It is so fresh and clean to breath! My first encounter with the desert will forever be embedded in my mind. Upon the new morn Jef and I drove through a twisted road towards the peak of a great mountain that overlooked Santa Fe and, what seemed, the entirety of that vast wasteland of beauty.

Jef was all smiles that morning as we sat on that peak talking for hours about life and all that she encompasses. Finally, the conversation started to cease into a comfortable silence and then he asks me, ever so casually, “So, do you think we are ready for the next step.” “Sure,” I threw out with a flip of my carefree hand and a quirky side-smile. How was I to know that the next instance he would pull out the sparkliest ring that ever did reside!

I was breathless! Never did I have the plans of marriage in mind. I’ve always just been bumping around, but here before me was offered a soft place to land. Words escaped me….

The only thing I could think to say was, “Can I get back to you on that one?” He had informed me, with a smile, that he was already prepared for that answer and would wait for my reply. We continued our vacation. The thought of marriage upon my doorstep lingered on the back footsteps of my every thought with a ring from the doorbell every now and again from a humbled voice asking, “What do you think of that proposal now?” The man was brilliant in his patience. I have to give him that!

Two days rolled by as we made our way up to the Sandia Mountains. After a few hours of hiking we roamed around until we came to a clearing that overlooked the setting of the sun. My eyes filled with pink. Sandia means ‘watermelon.’ They called these mountains the ‘Watermelon Mountains’ because when the sun sets and reflects upon their brazen backs the mountains glow pink. Jef, being the ‘Mr. List-it’ that he is, suggested that I try and think of the good and bad of it all and write it down to help me along in my conquest while he went off to take pictures in his Ansel Adams way.

But, the thing is I had been trying to figure out the bad the whole day. True, I never saw myself as married, and true there are things about the man that I know will drive me insane, however I couldn’t count that as bad. I’ve always said that I wanted to live my life to the fullest, and though I’ve never really considered this route before I could not exclude it, fore what a wonderful adventure it all would be.

And so, as he came out of the murky forest I asked him to come sit beside me. I took the ring off and gave it back. He was not pleased and for a moment refused to take it. I finally forced it in his hands and asked him to ask again. He got down on one knee and said the words as if he had said them for the first time.

The windy air breezed between my lips as the desert stirred about in her silence. Moments lingered for hours there. Finally, I exerted the word ‘Yes’ and the next moment breathed in that peace that only the desert could provide. New Mexico is truly the land of enchantment!

I love you, Muskrat. You are gonna have a blessed life with Jef. :) Please name your first born Julia. Regardless if the baby is male or female.

So the Goobernator can grab boobies and be elected governor, but I can’t have sex with dead people?!?!?

http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&cid=573&ncid=573&e=3&u=/nm/20040913/od_nm/crime_necrophilia_dc

Damn you msn/hotmail!! My email is down. Anyone who is sending me emails…all hundreds of you…er, two of you, please know that I can’t get emails. I have a communication addiction. It’s worse than heroine. Not having email or my cellphone on me today is like my own personal hell. I’m ready to jump off a ledge. A low ledge, albeit, but still, a ledge.

don’t try to intellectualize love, kiddo.
that’s how it kills you.

While the Cat Was Away…

While Brian was away, I:

-spent the entire weekend walking around in my bra, basking in air conditioning.

-watched documentaries about child molestors

-stared at my reflection in the oven for an hour

-sang 80s songs loud enough for Bitch Downstairs Anna to hear.

-played guitar for hours on end.

-wrote a song. Called my mom to play it for her and she said, “That’s nice. Now back to me…”

-worried about being stalked

-gave Peyote a lesson in sex ed. I used a textbook about humans though, because I don’t know what turtle sex is supposed to be like.

-wanted to go to 7-11 but thought that was too far of a drive.

-Thought about making a booty call to a male friend who’s into Jesus. Thought that was too sick of a sick joke.

-Thought about booty calling Reggie, a very cute actor. But he’s probably mad at me because I never call him back.

-Thought about how silly it is that I’m thinking about making booty calls when I obviously don’t have the guts.

-Went to the Tar Pits. Walked through the museum. There are these pump things that simulate what it’s like to be stuck in tar. I thought, this would be a great workout for your arms. Rolled down the grassy knoll outside. Listened to the folk musician standing outside. Some song about a “cigarette pie.”

-Went to a bbq at Whitney’s. Made a lot of sausage jokes.

-basically, BEHAVED myself.

(thank you)

A friendly warning…

Kids. Stay away from Geminis. They’re all bad news. They’re huge flirts with zero accountability. They can mess with your head like no one else.

Holy. Crap.

http://alabangers.blogspot.com/

Scroll down to the stain-glassed window picture.

A Saturday Night In!!!

I don’t care if people think I’m a nerd. I love staying in sometimes and just having things be quiet….

But when you’re in the city, it’s never really quiet. If you’ve ever been out camping, then you know how noisy a city is. Being in the city is like going camping with that kid who doesn’t shut up. You end up blocking him out so you don’t notice him anymore, but he’s still talking. In the city, even at its quietest, there’s always something buzzing in the background at a low frequency. I wonder if that’s really bad for us–that kind of noise pollution. [Mental note: search web for research on that]

Anyway, this is what I’m doing in this post. I’m sitting here writing my script. And I’m home alone so I’m scared. But I have to be alone to write. So I’m leaving this open to keep me company. It’s kind of weird, isn’t it? But frankly, it helps. So this is gonna be a total stream of consciousness post because I’m going to be jumping back and forth between the script and this, and I get a lil’ crazy when I’m writing at night.

Writing this supernatural script is freaking me out. I have to be honest with you guys. A writer’s journey is scary. I’ve never tried acid, but from what I hear about it, it sounds like what the writer’s process feels like. You’ve got to go deep in there, find a world that you created and make it so convincing to yourself, that you might truly believe it exists. But you always think you’ve got a safety line pulling you back into the real world before the other one drowns you. I believe that for writers, it’s very important for them to be in a safe environment with people they trust. Just to have access to a trusted network for reality checks. Like Stephen King having his wife who obviously looks out for him. I think he would have gone insane within the writing process if he had delved into the process as intensely as he did, but didn’t have that kind of support.

I wonder if this is why I’m always afraid of really committing to being a writer. You have to dip into insanity for grueling periods of time. And you’re relying on other people to be able to pull you back out. I guess it’s really about trust. Trusting that the people around you will be able to keep you connected to the real world while you’re writing. People who are determined to be around those who are writers must be saints. Or sadists. Ooh…watch out for the sadists…

Recurring nightmares. I personally never thought I had them, but then I would have one and then think, oh yeah. I’ve had this dream before. And then I’d forget again. They’re like obsessive thoughts in your dream self. Whatever they represent must really freak you out. I personally have recurring dreams of being chased and thrown down a well to drown. Persecuted. By bullies.

So I went to a psychiatrist who hypnotized me to talk about the dream. I told her that I was some fat guy wearing straw or something loose on the bottom and I wasn’t very smart, but I noticed things. And that no one took me seriously. That I had laughed at the King’s men’s shoes as they rode through the courtyard (their shoes were fancy and made out of some nice felt-like fabric or something and really red, which was so impractical because the moment they dismounted outside here, their shoes were going to be covered in mud.) And then someone must have told them that I laughed because they came and grabbed me when I was out minding my own business and I was caught off guard and scared, and they dragged me to the well and threw me in. And they looked down at me, being cruel, and I was so scared and I hated them so much because I knew that no one in this world was going to help me no matter how scared I got and I realized that I was going to die, and everything as I knew it was very soon, for sure going to END. And there was absolutely no way around it.

I just remembered all of this. This happened years ago.

Man, I’m totally stream of conscious-ing tonight. Having my brother around required so much attention, that now that he’s gone, I have so much bottled up creative energy that I need to get out. I wonder if sex gets it out. I wonder if I would be less creative if I were having a lot of sex. Like George Costanza when he becomes really smart when he abstains. I know that I get NO writing done when I’m in a relationship. I just don’t have the creativity in me. So I know that if I need to finish a project, I have to be very very careful of not being interested in anyone or falling into a relationship. Ironically, the most creative time is after not getting someone that I really wanted or losing something that I desired. Like post-break up or finding out the person I have a crush on doesn’t have the same level of interest. That’s the best time for creativity…the time between when the bad thing happens, and when it really sets in. It’s like surfing the creative wave. (I also have a lot of dreams about surfing). But it’s so masochistic. This process is so masochistic. It requires that you purposely fall for people you are pretty sure you can’t get, or get into a relationship where you know you’ll be unhappy or things will end up badly. You’re trying to ensure inner conflict. Work up frenzied need and desire that gets denied an outlet. The sparks that create the raging fire that can translate into creativity if you so choose to use it in that manner. Be wary of writers, people. This is my honest advice to you. We often subconsciously but intentionally fuck up our own lives to give us the fuel for creating our art.

Anyway, I’m going to go pour myself a glass of wine, get a nice fire going in the fireplace, put on some soft classical music and knit. Or go through Brian’s room to see if he has any porn. I’m not sure which yet.

Okay, I’m back. He didn’t have any.

I’m kidding, Brian. I didn’t really look.

But I did check in on your favorite lil’ man of the house, and I’m worried about Peyote. His shell is starting to get these weird, reflective plates. I don’t know if that’s just what happens when they get older, or if he’s sick or something. Or what if it’s cancer????? Do you take a turtle to the vet? Is that strange? What if he’s dying? I know; you’re rolling your eyes at me, saying, you know what we should do? We should just kill that fucking spastic bastard. But you know what? Maybe the things you say really hurt his feelings. Maybe he cries about it all the time in that tank but we just can’t tell. Maybe he’s depressed because he’s living in fear of you, knowing that you hate him and would kill him if anything were to ever happen to me. He’s tired of being degraded and berated by you. You’re making him sick, Brian. You’re making our baby sick. Why don’t you just put down the newspaper for just a few goddam minutes a day and talk with him. Find out how he is. Who his friends are. If the bigger turtles are offering him drugs at school. He’s YOUR responsibility too, you know. What? NO. Don’t walk away from me. DO NOT WALK AWAY FROM ME! Okay, fine. DO NOT GET IN YOUR CAR. DO NOT GET–NO YOU BETTER NOT START THAT ENGINE! I KNOW YOU’RE NOT GONNA START THAT ENGINE! DON’T YOU DARE DRIVE OUT–STOP!–IF YOU YOU BETTER BRING ME BACK SOME FUCKING TAMPONS FROM THE STORE YOU ASSHOLE!!!

Or, I could stop licking my turtle.

Let’s Take a Little Station Break for a Friendly Disclaimer

Friends, loved ones, strangers. Even ex-boyfriends who secretly check out my site on a daily basis but don’t think I know. I’ve realized that when I started this blog, it was just for me. No one knew about it; it was like open mic at the poetry showcase every time I posted, with me opening up about really private, naked things for an audience full of strangers. Yes, I’ll always continue to post very private things, because I’m just embarrassing like that. But now it’s gotten so big, and I don’t know who’s on here reading. It’s like spending a whole rainy day afternoon talking to yourself in the basement, having entire wonderful and funny and tragic conversations with yourself, and then turning around and suddenly finding that you have an audience. It’s a really weird feeling.

But I wanted to say that I don’t want anyone who knows me in real life and reads this blog to be offended. I tell mostly anecdotes because they’re funny as hell, but out of respect.

I also just want to let the people who interact with me in every day life, who have come to know me through day-to-day living rather than putting together who I am from the clues of this site, to know that I don’t post about you not because I don’t care about you, but because I actually care a lot. I think the things a person really cherishes should be kept private. Wouldn’t you agree?

And please understand that I live in my head a lot so most things on here are what my simple robot brain deems intellectually stimulating, funny or confusing (I don’t understand emotions). I’m not calling anyone out or communicating to anyone through cryptic messages. Anymore. Not for a while. Okay, not true. But what I mean is, please don’t take what I write too personally. I honestly don’t think that much when I’m writing these things.

In other news, some people ask me what it’s like living with a male roommate. And I say, “Brian and I are like brother and sister. Except I’m the brother and he’s the sister.”

Labels

I’ve been having an interesting conversation with an interesting person over the last few days, and one subject that jived exactly with a subject that’s been obsessively running through my head is that of labels. It’s funny how synchronized the universe is…it was the exact conversation I needed at this time.

I have long been saying that collective perspective makes up reality, and because reality is made up of collective perspectives, it can not, by nature, be objective. It’s the asymptote. It can get really really infinitely close to objectivity, but by nature, it will never be 100% objective.

Same thing with people. There are infinite numbers of depths, planes, frequencies and facets of people, that it is really hard to come up with an exact detailed inventory of who a person is.

Take a pen for instance. Uncap it and put the cap at the end. You look at it from one angle, the cap, and it looks like a 2-dimensional circle. You look at it from the opposite angle, and it looks like a cone ending in a point. You look at it from the side view, and it is a long cylinder. Because we have the luxury of distance to view the whole and observe the boundaries of the object (where “All that Is the Pen” ends and “All that Is Not the Pen” begins), we are able to see what the object is despite its different appearances from different angles.

With people, we can’t see the boundaries of the person. We have done a great job measuring the physical characteristics of people, but what about all that can not be measured–the psychological elements, the emotional elements, the psychic elements and the projected elements? And what about the fact that these elements are constantly shifting and morphing? Thus, in order to perceive a holistic person, we have to fill in a lot of the blanks.

I’ve always said that we don’t really know anyone. Think about it. The person you will know best in your entire life is yourself. And how well would you say you know yourself? Let’s say you know yourself pretty well, in this moment. How well will you know yourself in an hour? In a month? In 25 years? We’re always changing. Nothing in the universe is static. Thus, we take those facts that we believe to be true, and based on the sum of these facts, fill in all the necessary assumptions to create the whole.

I’ve been through this theory already somewhere on this site, but I’ll run through it briefly again. Say you meet someone. He tells you he’s a kindergarten teacher, he reads to the elderly on weekends. He has a wife and three young kids. You spend some time with him and you observe that he has a very gentle, kind manner of speaking, is friendly, and appears to be sincere making you trust the information that he himself has provided.

In truth, this is what you know:
-he’s a kindergarten teacher
-he does charity work
-he is gentle and kind
-he appears trustworthy

That’s all you know. But in order to interact with this person, we will fill in the blanks and assume that this man in his entirity, is the archetype of a good person.

Let’s say, you run into him next week. His behavior and manner are the same, but this time, he confesses that he was in jail for 5 years doing time for rape.

His manner has not changed. His presentation remains consistent. But now you must assimilate this new data in with the old data, and reconstruct your idea of this person. Usually, if the new data is fairly consistent (which it usually is…the more data that is compiled, the more likely new data is consistent enough to be assimilated), the idea of the person is stable. If the data is inconsistent, this causes problems in trusting who this person is, because the old assumptions are contradicted by the new data. This is the phenomenon behind why we freak out and feel like we “don’t know someone anymore” when we find out new information about him or her that we can’t fit into the projected image that we felt had been accurate.

The only way we can function socially with others is by filling in the blanks to build our idea of the people we interact with based on the facts and observations we receive. But I believe there is great danger in putting too much weight onto projections and assumptions, and not being very aware that new data will come in and will need to be assimilated.

So in essence, I think it’s very important, when dealing with people, that you listen carefully and keep an open mind. Be careful of not running away and being dogmatic with YOUR IDEA of a person, but try to keep an open channel for learning about this person, so that your idea of who this person is is updated with all the new information you receive.

Which brings me to the idea of labels. Labels are necessary. They’re necessary for personal identification and for identification of others. It’s the wholesale process of the aforementioned assumption process. But to cling to labels is dangerous.

I’ll use myself as an example. I am female. To see me as female shows me classified as a gender, different from male, with all the personality, physical assumptions that come with the classification of being female. The me in my entirity, has been dissected to show the parts of me that fall into this classification. I am approximately 26 years old. That puts me in the 20s age range, coming with more personality, physical assumptions. Tomorrow I will be approximately 26 years old + 1 day. I am American. Again, different but more assumptions. Perhaps I will not be American at a later date. I am a Gemini (personality assumptions). I am kind-hearted. Perhaps I will not be kind-hearted tomorrow. I am heterosexual. Perhaps I will not be heterosexual tomorrow. I am generally benevolent. Perhaps I will not be generally benevolent tomorrow. Etc.

It is impossible to define a person based on characteristics, labels, etc. because not only can you not itemize all of them to determine the sum which would define the person, but because those characteristics are either constantly changing, or vulnerable to change.

(note: The sum of the parts of anything do not “equal” the whole. The sum of the parts, through logical coincidence, “correspond” to the whole–produce a parallel entity that happens to equal the whole. A whole is a facsmile of the sum of the parts, but it IS NOT the product-entity of sum of the parts.)

So all that semantical mumbo jumbo is me trying to say that labels will suffice to get us through the day, but it’s so so so important to always approach people (and yourself) with fresh senses as new information comes in constantly that require for you to adjust your idea of the person so that you are aware of and can stay (as close as humanly possible) in touch with who this person truly is.

Otherwise, you’re really just shadowboxing with imaginary friends that you created in your head.

Plug (No Brian, Not a Buttplug)

I’d like you all to put together a warm bloggers welcome to my good friend and frequent partner in hilarious crime, Urethra Doy . She finally put up a blog and this girl is about as neurotic as I am. But funnier. And won’t bore you with musings about the universe and mathematics.

But don’t be fooled. Her real name is not Urethra Doy. Nor Sareet. It is Lemonjello (pronounced LiMONgelo). And we have the same father. But different mothers. Her mom’s the slut. I hate dad.

So check her blog and check it often!

Also…

Jamie wrote a wonderful poem that really touched upon something that I have never been able to really find poetic words for–those people you meet in life with whom you just feel an INSTANT strong connection, who are just so comfortably familiar, that you feel like you’ve known them all your life even though you just met them. And whenever you’re near them, the entire universe seems to open up for you, infinite expanses of darkness filled with such depth and so rich with Truth, that it expands you beyond limits because this connection feels like undisputable proof that everything that exists really is built upon love, as an energy and vibration, that through birth and death, you never really left, and overall, there’s nothing in the long run or the big picture that isn’t okay.

The Old Souls Club . Great title. Love the eloquence and content of it, not just because I get a mention.

Everyone Loves a Dirty Sanchez…

Brian handed me his rent check a few days ago and said, “I went easy on you this month.”

I looked at the check and under “For,” he wrote, “September Rent and Dirty Sanchez.”

I laughed. “How is that going easy on me?”

Brian says, “They won’t know what it is. And if they do, they’re a dirty mutherfucker.”

**************
So usually I don’t care because I deposit his checks at the ATM. But I had to pay back my cash reserve this month so I had to see the teller. When I walked in, it was like deja vu (see Wed June 23rd Post ). So there’s the cute college boy teller that I always flirt with, and he’s smiling and shyly waving, and I’ve got a check in my hand that says it’s for a Dirty Sanchez. And I have a pretty good idea this kid will know what it is, and he looks like a good kid, too, a mama’s boy (my favorite type) who’s gonna think I’m a big, fat whore. So I’m sweating it out, contemplating waving the person behind me through if his window gets free first, but I don’t want him to think that I’m purposely avoiding him, and I’m so pissed at Brian and I wish I had anticipated this and deposited the check at the ATM and just come back some other time to pay back my reserve. Dammit. I was lucky enough to get the other teller while I chatted over the partition with college boy. But honestly, Brian. You’re killing me.

Oh I forgot about one detail. I was depositing a check for a Dirty Sanchez and $800 in cash (from Vegas). That’s why I thought this all looked really, really, really bad.

Women…It Is NOT Okay to Socialize in the Restroom!!!!!

There’s an Asian girl who works in the office across from mine. She’s in the same office as Hot English Guy Who’s At Least 10 Years Older Than Me (See 5th Post from Friday Jan 30th ) . So I’ve become wary of her because every time we see each other in the women’s room, she chats with me. I don’t mean a simple, “Hi. How are you?” as we go into the stalls. I mean, she’ll lean against the sink, and chat while you’re in the stall. Now I come from the school of thought that if I don’t know you, you should only be speaking to me in a public restroom if: a. You need toilet paper; b. You need a pad or tampon; or c. you’ve set your hair on fire and you need me to open the door so you can dunk your head in the toilet. You do not, however, stand outside my door and ask me things like, “So where are you from?” “How do you like working at your office?” “How do you think Kerry’s gonna do in the election?” GOOD GOD. LEAVE ME ALONE.

So I’ve taken to a defensive strategy. If I happen to glance out the window and see her heading to or from the bathroom, I go to the bathroom after she’s done. If I walk out the door and see her on her way to the bathroom, I hurry back into my office and hide until I see her walk back to her office. This has been a successful strategy for over 4 months. But today, I ran right into her coming out of the bathroom. Her face lights up and she says, “Oh! I haven’t seen you in here for a while! I thought maybe you’d quit your job or something!”

I’m embarrassed and scared because I’m worried that she’s gonna stick around and follow me in.

I tell her, “Oh…you know, it’s been SOOOOOOOOOO busy and I just don’t have time to go to the bathroom.”

She looks concerned.

So I continue: “Yeah…usually I just hold it all morning and go at lunchtime when I head over to the mall, or I just wait til I get home. Usually I just forget I have to go. You know…you try not to…think about it too much.”

She’s looking very concerned. “You have to be careful. That can’t be good for your body.”

I say: “Yeah but, you know, when you’re busy, you just forget to do things. In fact, I just remembered that I haven’t eaten all day!”

I’m starting to get creeped out because I worry that we’re heading towards a conversation about the health of my bladder, so I excuse myself as she’s in mid-response and luckily, she doesn’t follow me in. Yeah, I know. Maybe I’m being mean. Maybe she just likes me because I’m Asian too and she wants to be pee buddies. But please, woman. I don’t know you. Don’t talk to me in the bathroom. It’s creepy.

(An excerpt from my mystery writing project. not to be confused with my supernatural mystery script. it’s just a project i’m not telling anyone the details about. 5 particular people, on one particular day)

i can see you through the wall. you are small and curved and fit well in the palm of my hand. but i would never try to trap you like that. i would only breathe in your scent and let you wander through your own mess that you’ve made, tantalized by your willingness to make the same mistakes. tonight i went through all the old clothes in my closet and tossed out anything that looked like something you might wear. because it was too much that i may be turning into you. but please, enough about me. what about you? where has life taken you in the time since you ceased to live with the dying? you think you’ve risen to a new place that erases all memory of a past? well, don’t think twice. because i’m coming for you. and by the time i get there, you will have forgotten what it was that you thought you had.

**************
seventeen days before the end. and i can’t stop drinking coffee. you would think i would be able to rest but this whole maelstrom of mental activity makes me want to vomit and piss at the same time, to get as much of my insides out onto flat surfaces for me to examine. don’t throw up on the carpet, she said. it’s a bitch to clean up. but i’ve done it already; she just hasn’t found it yet. saturday morning will have me on a bus back to newport but it’s still friday early morning so i have time yet to set right all that’s fallen through the cracks and rotted. yes, the morning depends on me getting past the night. today it’s a little gunshy and the blackness feels resilient. true true. but there’s enough for a person to do in the dark when he’s spent his lifetime digging a bottomless tunnel.

***************
I’ve never found a single thing to believe in and here I am, sitting in line, waiting for a visit into that back of the hall examination room and I think in one morning, this morning, my life will fall apart even though some shell of me will continue seamlessly. I have not left anything but it is all leaving me. Dying is just a tunnel. Falling. And when you realize there’s no bottom, that’s when it’s time to panic. The smell of morning usually refreshes me but today it makes me sick. Today something in me will die and today, I will be the one who killed it. But it should have known. It should never have tried to seek the support of someone who’s been dying since the moment she was born.

****************
Fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. fuck you fuck you fuck you and all your fucking friends who blow out snot in the bathroom showers and piss all over the rim. Fuck you for not looking me in the eye because you think I’m a motherfucking faggot when I know what you want and I know who you are and don’t try to hide it from me because I know it’s all there. you think you’re better than me but at least I admit to what I am and you walk around pretending that you’re something else when you know that you’re as black as me on the inside. I AM black. You’ll feel me one day and you’ll know you should have never fucked with me. FUCK. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

***************
I walk into the empty hallway and see that someone has already wiped up the mess that the cops left. An investigation is almost always messier than the crime, but I’m just elated that the crowd is gone. I never liked crowds. And the echo of silence has always carried me through the time it takes to get to the ending of a new beginning.

this is not an angry poem (seriously)

on the first
of october i will mail
you what’s left of me after you
walked out six years to the day some
hair a few teeth the ashes of pictures long since deceased
and a whole lot of grievances
that don’t come cheap that i’ve
collected for you into something
familiar like a sixty pound
(leadhearted)
rubber band ball

9/8 Recap

8:30am-5:30pm: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Came home, read an entire book. Night Train by Martin Amis. Hated it.

Whitney called. She always cheers me up. Not that I was down. I was just typing up a poem. I think when you answer the question of “Watcha doin’?” with “Working on a poem,” people automatically think you’re depressed. Which I am. I mean. Not. (No really, I’m not). Whitney made fun of me saying that she’s never met anyone who lived so much in her head. I asked her what she meant. She said, “You’re always thinking. Or you’re thinking about thinking. Or you’re worrying about thinking about thinking. Or you’re worrying about worrying about thinking about thinking.” Wow. She makes me sound fucked up.

I forgot to tell you guys a story from Vegas. When I was in the Shark Reef, there was this hispanic family with a little boy who was about 2 years old. They kept putting him up on a ledge in front of the glass to take a picture and the boy would get scared. So as soon as his mom would let go and move away, instead of jamming his thumb into his mouth like most kids that age, he would jam his finger up his right nostril, looking TERRIFIED. I shit you not. I saw him do this twice.

Today’s mood: having full conversations with people in my sleep