The grin in my eyes muted by the cold and white.
The hue dressed and draped everything in its milky ways.
No bright colors now.
Carefully clomping through the snow and snarling like a wolf.
Struggling to stay mane-tamed until I arrive
And I can blow my mind in a mess all over the pillow.
Blowback when she held my hands.
I just wanted my music. Set the mood, you know? But this is all she knew how to do.
Inspiration. Like really, inspiration.
Breathed into me, so I could see through my own eyes.
And speaking of my eyes, they smiled.
What she did-- the way she kissed-- was loving. She gave me what I needed, even though I didn't know I needed it.
I didn't know because I expected her to put me away.
Fold me up, into her music box. Slip the headphones over my ears, and let me work. Shut the door, and maybe check on me. Make sure I'm well fed and watered.
Nah...
She held me to help me. Inaudible nothings into my neck. Half spoken, half affections.
And my eyes again. Veiled with her sheer shawl,
lets me look through Her-coloured glasses.
Me? I'm in another place. Letting one of my selves love where I am
Silently, and unfortunately stoically (I wish I could share that affection).
While all that moves are my mind and fingers, and barely even those.
Leaning into me, her wrist and arms draped around my forearms,
her fingers lifting/pressing my own.
It's all I can do. Kiss her with the follow-through. Don't stop what I'm doing.
Let me be powered by her lips.
Use my hands for the words.
Her caresses are enough for the action.
Convey and express everything I hear from the mouth and wet pressed to my ear.
I asked her just for music, but instead of putting it on my ears and leaving me on my own,
she wraps me up and blows me mermaid kisses
and dips me
and dobs me on her tongue
and tunes me
and plays music through me.
- Mood:
I don't know who this is about
Since I graduated, I think I want to skip this time of year.
Let it be valentines. Let it be spring. Let it be slush and dirt on the streets. Let it be the first frosted buds of summer.
Living isn't enough. For years I've wanted to fake my death. Disappear, and come back whenever I'm rejuvenated. Let it be weeks, months, or years. Find a warm place, and live away.
I can't deny that I'm too tied to people to do it, though. Not missing anyone much means that I'm a child when it comes to actually doing it. Means that I'm inclined to miss [anyone] much when it comes down to it. But maybe that's the point. Shut off all communication, and reappear later. Some time later. Come back to the life that my people no longer remember. Forgotten and moved on, so it'll be my turn to forget and move on.
Really, I need an oasis. My room mate is too extroverted to ever let me alone if the both of us are home. Not hours, or even minutes. I haven't made my space-- the spaces-- quite comfortable enough. It's hard to do a whole lot of nothing here, and when noting comes up, it gets to you quickly.
Really, I need to sleep.
The ego is a dick, and encourages me to act erratically.
Make him sit down, give him a sedative, give him a smoke, and be on about my business.
Whispers in my ears and tells me things that are almost certainly untrue. Most definitely wrong. But easier to believe.
There is no challenge in a lie.
"I'm going to sleep,
You can stay up and think about what you've said.
Be fucking happy I haven't acted on any of it.
Neither of us want that fight. If one of us wins, then neither of us win, and I'm not sure whose interest you have in mind.
Smoke if you need to. Your haze may do me some good."
I am not a poet. I don't do this coffee shop reading bullshit [to get laid]. I'm not writing for "each and everyone of you" or some such dribble. I don't have any command over rhyme or meter. I know my writing cannot and will not save the world. And yours won't either. I don't find inspiration from the moons and stars, or angels, or beauty. My only love was young, and I can't very well liken it to anything. There is no depth in my perception.
When I write about a girl, I do mean to say that there is a certain girl in mind. I could name her in every instance. When I so sophomorically write about love, I am not reaching out to anyone else's experience. I make no connections to the rest of the world. I know nothing of the "human condition." I am a voice for myself, and even still, I'm too insecure to be confessional. The reach of my imagination goes no further than myself.
I am not a poet. By name, by profession, by skill, by word, work, inclination, night, or heart. And if you thought about it, deep down inside, neither are you.
I fuckin' see you there. Charming. Maybe dimples. Maybe cadence. Maybe even a guitar. (Probably a fuckin' guitar). Oh the ladies love it, like it's name was Cool James. Talk to him now, and even Todd Smith will tell you that it's all shit. You heard Keats and thought about how you were the same age. You can do it too. And that thought is what kept you from it. Your hubris. Like you never even listened to Wordsworth. Your very vocabulary. The reason you write poetry.
"Oh, she'll like this," or
"This is how I feel," or
"I have to put it all out/down/whatever the word is you kids are using now," or the worst:
"This is what's real."
Your coffee shop reading bullshit is bullshit, and you know it.
Next time come with a clever turn of phrase. Come catchy. Come uncomfortable. Come unprepared. Come with something you genuinely like, can write, but can't necessarily read aloud. And come knowing that it's a pretentious piece of performance art, playing at being something that actually hurts, but know and admit that you wouldn't be up here at all unless somewhere you hoped they'd cream their draws at the sound of your voice and word.
- Mood:
drunk
I met her, and was decent, as I'd been told. I drank my drink, made calm and sane conversation, and somewhere in the back of my mind was "she's pretty" in that drunken way I say it. It was a party, and I was happily drinking and disengaged. Later I mentioned Alice (in the style of American Mcgee) and she perked up, hopped across the room, and looked up at me as if I'd revealed that I was on some sort of parallel life journey to the one she was on. I smiled my amusement into my glass, and took a drink. One hand in my pocket, and interested and deflective words, and then I strolled off like I thought I was Frank-fucking-Sinatra.
See, she was off limits, as far as I knew. Adam looked like he showed an interest in her, and she was invited to the party to be plattered up to the recently single Jeremiah. After everyone drove off, and it was just me and the people who lived there, I asked.
Jeremiah: "Fuck! You know... just..."
Eddy: "Seriously. If you're trying to get at ol'girl, then shit. I mean, you are trying, right?"
Jeremiah: "Yeah... I know. I KNOW! Just..."
Adam from the next room: "Seriously, man. Cause if you don't, then I fuckin' will."
So Mikaela's introduction to me was that girl that my friends wanted. Trivially, carnally, as a monument to their end of monogamy, however, wanted. I wasn't interested.
The next time I saw her was the second time I shroomed. Before we got high we back and forthed music. Batted between us like a game of tennis, trading off serves and returns, not trying to win, but just enjoying the game. Later, Adam would go on a trip, and return with matted photographs for Mikaela and I. Just a brick wall, with the words "Without music life would not be fair" written in chalk. One for each of us. I wasn't there yet, but I thought, for just a second, about this girl.
June had this on my Facebook:
Dumb things I'm attracted to:
Women in headphones.
Women who push Jettas.
Women who talk a little bit of shit.
Women with a working knowledge of comic book characters.
Women with degrees. (This one feels like it doesn't belong.)
The bolded line piqued her interest, as it implied that she was my interest.
Later I saw her vulnerable, and shaken over what she was shaken over. I talked to her about what she already believed in and knew, and I was able to appreciate her as a person with some depth. I knew of her as someone who was more than just her interests. But she was young.
By my birthday I'd implied plans of SSX with her. Coyly, as she was young.
By the end of July I was writing to her about Fiona Apple, and going on drives, and walks, and sharing bottles of red wine and several of my friends were telling me about a crush I had. I didn't believe them. She was young.
And in early August, one month after my birthday, I was invited to a barbecue at her mom's house. Jeremiah called, distressed about the poor taste in beer the attendees had, as well as the general lack of it. And there I was to the rescue. Particularly drunk, and particularly asinine, Jeremiah left with John. And then Shae. And then Kayla, and the rest of everyone at the party. I didn't want to say it, but I was too drunk to entertain the idea of the short drive home. But whatever. I liked Mikaela, and I didn't think that she minded me hanging out for a few hours while I sobered up. I mean, I liked her, but I didn't like like her. She was young.
So in the basement of the house that she'd been a little girl in, in the room that she'd been a young teenager in, Mikaela pranced and raced, and showed me the things from her childhood. On her old bed, she showed me first grade craft projects. She showed me pictures of herself as a little girl. She showed me her Jr. High artistic ventures. Wearing shorts, a tank top, and a terry cloth robe, she showed me her childhood and adolescence. She showed me until the lights dimmed, and she was too tired to prance. She showed me until we were laying back talking. She showed me until we were under the covers-- innocently-- and I was drifting in and out of sleep. And as if released by my own ego, or just shown the way by her, I slid half into consciousness, turned over and kissed her. Kissed her in a light so dim that I could barely make out her pretty, puffed lips, and her gliding eyelids. Barely see the robe that outlined her form. Guided by instinct and that first voice that said "she's pretty" I kissed her, not fully knowing what I was doing, and she kissed back. Too engrossed to be shocked at my own actions, I kept going. And she, fully tuliped and opened, played and pushed back. Tongues, and necks, and her wet, hands intertwined, soft breasts, hard nipples, imperceptibly smooth skin, and her taste. Her silky depths, almost over saturated with wet, tasted light, and sweet. Not the harsh lemon-grapefruit I was used to, and already loved. New to me. An orange blossom white tea, with just a bit of sugar, to take away the bitter, and bring out the orange. Something I wanted more of, and reveled in as a reward.
We spent the next 12 hours lounging, and sleeping, and holding, and tonguing, and sucking, and playing as if nothing else existed. It was made of magic. A spell that I knew, and hadn't seen in a long long time.
Mikaela's spell was strong, and I loved it. I sucked it from her mouth, from her tongue, from between her lips, to sustain me. I took it, and drifted, and swung and swayed, and spun until with it, I saw. I saw exactly the me that I one day want to be. I burst, and fireworked, and feather-drifted back down to a reality with her on top of me, still captivated by her magic. Playing and purring like kittens, pulling on the same string, she took my energy-- took me until I was drained and limp-- and invigorated herself with it. Then I took it back-- took her so I was virile and grinning-- to leave her laying in her own puddle, tired and satisfied on my bed.
My hands on the back of her thighs, her hamstrings tight and smooth, still until she burst into collapse. But this wasn't it. It was the kissing cuddle sometimes before, sometimes after, sometimes completely unrelated. It was the showing of vulnerability. It was when she was comfortable enough to express her flaws by example. It was when she showed me how she was naked, and let me touch her insecurities and leave my hand there without a hint of squirm. Let me kiss them, and curl up into my lap. When she came back to me, tender and sweet, and apologized at her quiet anger at my offense. When she apologized straight out for her own. When we held, and talked in a way that wasn't magic-- but maybe, one day later, will be seen for the magic it was-- and kissed again.
That's when it was.
That's when I met Mikaela.
-to my Ego
----------------------------
Since I was a freshman in college and I had my first "great" idea, I've been too afraid to execute any of my "great" ideas. So as things are now, all of them are still just ideas. I point this out now, because I've noticed that I've created a sort of "storage area" for my ideas. I have a pile of them, all amazing and flawless in their formless state.
No wonder Alice can be prone to silence. She seems to be most effective when she sneaks up on me, and breathes into me when I don't expect. Some of her best ideas are still her best ideas.
I need to write them.
I met her... well, I don't really know where it is I met her the first time, but I know I met her the first time because I knew that I'd met her before when I met her the second time.
Jeremiah's house, when he and Maggie were still together, and to me it was Jeremiah's house because I never really went there to see Maggie. We were playing some board game. Munchkin or Catan or something. Some friends from out of town were there visiting. Josh, sometimes called The Professor (apparently he has a huge dick and they call him "The Professor" because of it. I don't get it either), and his girlfriend Corinne. They're a funny couple. Josh is immensely smart. At Berkeley from some shit or another. His girlfriend, Corinne, went down with him and waitresses at iHop, goes to a community college. I can't tell how smart she is or isn't. Her age implies that she didn't get into Berkeley just out of high school, or possibly after her first year in college up here. That isn't really saying much. The girl doesn't seem dumb, but I feel that I may have drawn her that way in my description, by comparison. Not the point. What she is, I thought, was cute. Unbearably, button cute. But not cute in a childish way, or a way that makes you want to patronize her. She's adult cute. Attractive from it, even. This is notable because I don't often find women attractive because they're cute. Cute because they're attractive, maybe, but not often attractive because they're cute. She is an exception.
Anyway, I talked to people, I board gamed, I drank, I may have even harmlessly chatted up a bit. At first there was a genuine wonder about this girl. It went something like: "Where the fuck do I know her from?" So instead of trying to figure it out in my head and giving some guy's girlfriend awkward looks all damn night, I just asked her "where the fuck do I know you from!?" She perked up, we went over where we may have met, the people we know, and landed on nothing. Possibly anime something or other, but considering my involvement with the anime community up here, we decided that probably wasn't it. We talked. She was cute. The night went.
Dating it around the events this was probably just about a year ago. The very few times I've seen or interacted with Corinne have been light. Chill. Platonically friendly. Still attractive because she's cute, but if there was a crush, subsequent interaction proved that it was officially a day crush. The way it should be.
Fast forward to last night. I fucked her. I mean, not really. It was a sex dream. (Note this was not a wet dream because I didn't cum. Either in the dream or in my sheets. It was very dry.) Most of the details don't matter at all. Except at the end of the dream she invited me to her bed. Throughout it we were in mine. My bed currently, but in the room I slept in at my mom's house when I was 12. Damn, I loved that room. Anyway, she invited me to her room. Corinne, I mean. I was a little apprehensive because her boyfriend, Josh was still there. Ready, awake, and... well, I don't quite know the "and" he was, but he certainly was "and" as well. Not really interested in the "not cool" kind of threesome, I decided to suck it up and go anyway. I mean, I spent most of this dream inside of this girl, and I still hadn't gotten off. In bed, Corinne was in the middle with Josh and I on either side of her. And we talked. Just talked. I don't remember what about, but that's all we did. At first Corinne and I. Then Josh and I. Then Corinne and Josh, and then very briefly, it was quiet, and then it was Josh and I again, and finally Corinne and I. Then, as I'd been waiting for the start of something, Corinne came over and kissed me. Full, and wide. And as she kissed me, she transferred something into my mouth. I played with it with my tongue just a little bit. Clumpy, and soft, and kind of liquidy-- and HOLY SHIT, SHE SNOWBALLED ME!
This is where I woke up, still with Josh's dream-spunk uncomfortably in my mouth, trying to dribble and spit it out of it. Realizing that I'd been dreaming, and that I hadn't been snowballed by Corinne with her boyfriend's spunk, I laughed. I thought, "damn this girl is talented to be able to speak without me having any clue that she had a mouth full of cum." Not really my most intelligent thought of the day, but I did wake up spitting and then laughing. And in most of that dream, I was having sex.
I will say, though, that even though it was all just a dream, I still find Corinne cute, but because of the end of that dream, I don't really find her attractive anymore.
- Mood:
amused - Music:The Naked and Famous
I've heard it said-- I've even had to argue against it in a paper in defense of the act-- that suicide is selfish.
I've been told that a trait I have, and seldom tell people of, is the same kind of selfishness.
I'm sometimes inclined to be reckless with my well-being. I don't think I've been horribly so, but more so than is generally approved of.
I make it no secret that when it comes to safety, I look out for the safety of others placed in my care before I look out for my own. Stupidly, I say this with pride. In actuality, I think more people do this than they realize. Not all to the same extent, but I think it's a common enough trait.
My safety, though? My stance is that it's mine to do with what I please. I am allowed to take risks-- stupid or not-- that could be potentially life threatening. I have no tolerance for those who recklessly put others in danger. And as long as we are of sound judgement and sober mind, and nobody else is threatened, we should be able to do as we please. And despite the aforementioned paper, I am not an advocate of suicide. Hell, I think it's a potentially dangerous and irresponsible topic to bring up in mixed company. But I do believe that it's a personal choice.
My conflict is that I just can't agree that self-recklessness, or even suicide, is selfish, but I agree that they are things often done without the consideration of others in mind. Hell! I feel like shit for upsetting someone I care about with the topic. Knowing vaguely how much it would hurt those around me would be enough to keep me from [purposely] killing myself.
The idea is that there is permanent ownership on very few things. One of those things is one's life. If someone chooses, for any reason, to live recklessly with their own life, then let them. As long as it's nobody else's business (e.g. parents, and those keenly responsible for others), it's nobody else's business.
I say this, partly because when I take personal risks, I don't think of anyone but myself. The idea that others care about my well being, while something I know of, is not something I consider when taking any sort of action. This is me being defensive, and quite possibly prideful. "Yes, I can do this. Yes, I'm good enough. No, it isn't any concern of yours."
I also say this because thrill-seekers, drug-users, adrenaline junkies, risk-takers, and people who just don't want to wear their seat-belts should have the right to do the things they please, as long as the only danger they incur is their own. At the end of the day, their life and safety is their own. They should have the choice to enhance it or trash it however they please. And I know it's dickish to say that other people will get over whatever it is that people do to themselves, and that the assholery in that argument damn near invalidates the argument in itself, so I won't make it. I'll just say that if everything else they do to and for themselves is their responsibility and concern, then this should be as well.
[Possible slogan for this campaign is "Said the man with no children."]
(... damn I feel like shit. I feel like I should apologize. And I know I'm missing the point when I say something like "feeling like shit is exactly why to not apologize. Apologizing when you feel like shit is just apologizing to make yourself feel better," but...
Man, I should go apologize."
- Mood:
I get the irony in the title - Music:Idle Warship
It started with reading, Zelda, and unexpected French Toast. Deterioration into reading on a bed, and then this is what sealed it off into a good afternoon.
I'm sitting here, Chicane in my newest headphones, thinking that I'll need meat later on today. I'm nut quite hungry yet, but there are the seeds of a want for steak, chicken, fish, or pork with gristle.
I really wish I could remember who first told me to read Allende. This book, specifically. I recall fiery and tiny Sarah reading the book before a meeting, asking if I'd read it before. I said no, but mentioned then that I owned a copy. I can't think of anything other than a class that would have prompted me to buy the book, but even then, I never read the damn thing. Odd because I never completely neglected a book that was assigned reading, and not a single word of her prose is familiar. Stranger, is that I can't seem to find my copy. Mikaela's been telling me for months that I have to read it, and refused to take her copy back until I finish it.
So I'm reading that now. She noted my habit of reading books about "ethnic" people. Generally I do hate that word, but she did use it to mean non-white, so there was nothing to really be said about its use. I responded by telling her that she read mostly Spanish books, and she was getting a very small, and not wholly representative cross section of my literature. She agreed to the first point, and disagreed with the second. More to be disagreeable than anything else. I laughed and argued an argument that I knew I couldn't win no matter what I did. I lost, predictably. She also pointed out that many of my books are depressing/rapey/emotionally difficult. Thinking about it, she's damn right. I couldn't think of any reason other than that's what's most often studied in English courses, and no matter what I read before, my lit degree has a huge impact on the books I own.
All made me think, though, why the hell is there such an emphasis on unhappy literature. I mean, even the young one starting to get into good/more artistic films quickly shuns happy endings. All of a sudden they're bad. Our giving over of respect to tragedy and calling it realistic (not realism) is kind of a downer. We love to see the heroes die. We love to see struggle with a tragic ending. We call it deep when the shit slowly unfolds into unavoidable anguish. Happy endings are for the uninitiated, uneducated, and uninformed. We want the budding artist to express their pain. Draw from their failures. Convey their heartbreaks. And not that these things should be shunned, ignored, or avoided, but we put so much emphasis on them that the good bits take a back seat and are often forgotten. And unless it's masterfully done-- especially in story telling-- happy things are immediately worth less than that which isn't.
A professor described literature (as opposed escapist fiction) as that which expresses the human condition. At the time I thought, "Yeah, I can go for that." And accepting that statement still, I wonder why fucking decided that the human condition is completely made up of sordid tribulations? Why is waking up to good kisses, seeing a movie on a Sunday afternoon, or gleefully traipsing though urban sprawls in inattentive headphoned bliss any less the human condition than using your last three bullets to kill your family so that you don't have to watch them starve to death?
This is all to say that I'm going to do my damnedest to make the next story that I write [live] a happy one.
I'm sure I've said this before.
- Mood:
relaxed and reflective - Music:Chicane-Behind The Sun
Seriously, though. What the fuck kind of cat opens doors!? Things are now forever changed. If you're a cat, and you can't open doors, you need to step your game up. There are felines out there, opening doors and watching people pee. And what are you doing? That's what I thought.
I think the idea is to never achieve that-- to never become exactly who you want to be. Once you're there, you've stopped trying. Oh, it's good to be happy with oneself, but keep reaching. Keep trying. Keep becoming.
----------------------------------------
I'm sitting on a red, suede couch. Next to a fire, with the Chinese remnants from last night on the table, and a little black and white cat hunting and hiding somewhere. It's a good morning, in this ultra-modern condo. I spend it reading the first two or three months of this journal. That's why the shit about being smarter, older, and closer to who one wants to be at the beginning. Makes me think I should be careful with reading too much of that stuff at once. I habitually take on a little bit of the voice of whatever I most recently read, and that old stuff makes me cringe a bit. It'll get better in a few years, if I recall correctly. Maybe some stuff from the ambiguously stated "in a few years" will do me some good. Not that I feel regression is progress, but it may be good to visit the place I was. See how I got there, see how I got to where I am, and maybe get some insight on where I'm going. I know that this essentially contradicts what I just said about "cringe-worthy" and taking on a voice....
Ugh. I need a piss, and to iron out my wrinkled thoughts. Sun looks good though, pouring in through all of these windows. I'll take that as my morning, and be happy with it. Come back here later.
- Music:DJ Shadow- Midnight in a Perfect World
My friend and roommate's advice upon walking in my room to see me looking at watches.
I pointed at one for $650. "I think I may buy this as a step to the one I really want. I couldn't wear that one all the time, everywhere, or anything. It's a $2000 watch, and it's too nice to use as an everyday thing. This one is more..." I paused because I couldn't think of an appropriate word that didn't sound asinine. He mistook that for being dramatic.
"Whatever. I don't mean you need to find a different job. You'll find one better than what you have now. No doubt. But I see the kind of shit you want, and the kind of shit you buy. You need an entirely different field. I mean, you're content, but you like expensive shit. Don't take this the wrong way, but you're the most content person I've ever known."
"The wrong way?"
"Yeah. You know. You like... you don't want for shit. I mean, you want shit, but you're cool, you know?"
"What's wrong with that."
"You don't do anything. I mean-- not that you don't do anything, but when you're content, you don't do anything. You in the general sense."
"And I'm that content."
"Sometimes. More than anyone else I know. Look. All I'm saying is you need to think of a different field--"
"Nah, fuck that. I know I got a love degree. What about me being content? Do I really not do anything?"
"Not really. Not until you want to. It's not even that you're lazy. You work. I've seen you work. You want to do something, and you do it. You're just content. Listen. It's not all bad. You're not greedy like other people I know. You're happy because of it. You don't beat yourself up over everything you don't have. And when you want something, you get it. You're just not bothered until you really do. Know what I mean?"
"Wow. That's... damn."
"No. It's not like that. It's like these watches. You don't even have a watch."
"I have a watch."
"You don't wear a watch."
"I have one. It broke."
"Can I see it? What's wrong with it."
"The band broke. Not the point."
"Right. Even better. You have a watch. The band is broken. Can you fix it?"
"I mean, I can't, but I can take it in."
"See. That's it, though. You have a watch with a broken band. It probably wouldn't be anything to fix. But it's like, you don't care. You can't be bothered to take it in and fix it. But these other watches. All of a sudden you want them. And I fucking believe you'll get them to. Because you do that. You're content until you find something you want, and then you take it. Until then, you can't be bothered. Lazy is someone who won't do it, even if they want it. Oh, you'll do it, but until you want it, you just don't care. And to everybody else, it looks the same. Somebody who doesn't know you might call you lazy, but that's not it. You really don't want for anything until you want something. Know what I mean?"
"Uh huh."
"And see, that's the thing. I know you. Probably better than most people who aren't, like... in your family. When you want something, you get it. I mean, you'll fucking take it if you have to. Like, you don't give a fuck. But you're fine without it until you do."
"What does this have to do with watches?"
"You don't fucking need a watch. Look at those things. You can't even tell time with one of those. You have no purpose for one, and I fucking bet that until you saw one of those, you didn't give a fuck about watches. Shit, you had one. Motherfucking spontaneously, you have the energy and resources for a watch. You were content not having one. And you'll be content again with your watch status as soon as you get that one. It's an expensive fucking watch, but it isn't even the most expensive watch around. You could get more, if you were just trying to be extravagant."
"There's a $56,000 watch with a flying panda on it."
"Right.... a fifty... six... fuck you. That's what I'm saying. You fucking love that watch, but as soon as you get the one you want, you won't care anymore. But that's good. You aren't going to be one of those assholes who's never satisfied. You'll get your watch, and you probably won't care for a long fucking time."
"Huh..."
"Whatever. All I'm saying is that you should probably consider a career field that affords you those kinds of luxuries. Or you know what? Maybe not. Because you don't always want those things. You'll get your watch, and be fine."
"Huh."
"Yeah... umm, nevermind then. This is awkward. You just keep looking at your... $2000... watches. Yeah. I'm gonna go over there now."
Who would'a thought?
Now that I recognize it, let me see what I can do about all that.
I watched too much Star Trek as a kid. My motto for advice is the prime directive. Not that I know what the wording of the prime directive is, but I know the gist of it. I put myself in a foolish spot. I say "go for it" when I really want "stop." My idea is to let people do what they do. Mistakes can be made and learned from, or they can be avoided because that lesson is already learned. My guidance is to say something cryptically insightful and let them whether the road. And this can work. It can be good. But only from a teaching position when I make it clear what I've found to be best, encourage whomever I'm teaching, and act as a safety net. Outside of that, especially where I've applied it, it's stupid. I specifically fail to answer the question that is asked of me, and ignore the very reason it was asked. But keeping this method, I can sit comfortably in my loft, sipping my whatever, and accept the outcome with the grace of someone who never tries/fails. I even have a little speech made up: "My favorite part of Christianity is the part that is most often forgotten. People are to go to God on their own. If they don't truly make it their own decision, then it's as if they never went in the first place, and they're better off not pantomiming their subscription to the faith at all." Clever, right? Well I think it is. This way I get to be God, and I get to avoid the responsibility of agency. "Let them come to me on their own." It really does have some merit. It's my turning it into a crutch/excuse that's wrong.
I can hear the questions, and uncertainty. I recognize the signs of affection-- possibly more clearly than the signaler [watch out kids, that's where it gets dangerous]-- but with routine and specificity, I deflect them so that I have no input, I am no guide, and I give no direction. Who the fuck taught me this, and am I smart enough to change the habit?
Damn it, I wish I had my phone. (You know you're dependent on the damn thing when you think "Oh, I need to call Mikaela to tell her that I left it in-- FUCK!)
It doesn't have to lead to anything. In fact, it shouldn't ever be to lead to anything. There's nothing wrong with drifting in and out of moving closer, and closer, and so close that you're gliding in between each other. The right magic calls for this. But if this is your goal, it's artificial. There's about as much magic as spontaneity in that.
But to drift slowly on a boat of blankets, and sheets, and pillows, and maybe a rubber duck, or stuffed tiger or bear... all of that on the sea of music-- any type you like-- if you haven't done it, you're missing out/you haven't lived/you've been doing something wrong with your life.
Do it, and give thanks to whatever it is you thank.
I've always hated it. But the elliptical put a lot of undue strain on my knees. I'm afraid of those going bad. I hear that it's supposed to be better for me than a treadmill, but that certainly isn't how it felt.
Hopefully I'll keep it up, as I need it. The car cost more money than I wanted to spend, so no more yoga until my next check. Sucks. I [think I] really liked going. I'll be back soon.
Cooking is good shit, though. Fish tonight. Peach mango salsa makes for good seasoning on rice. This is really what I need to do more of. Recipes will be found, and new foods will be explored.
Man, this feels like the kind of thing I would never write. Well, wrote it.
A mess of mixtapes, books, video games, neckties, blue jeans, headphones, speakers, toys chopsticks, and one certain tiger. That came with Christmas. Also, markers for ink pens, a new book to rip the pages out of, and a color changing rubber duck.
I can't say I went anywhere. I returned to my domain from the next room. Avoiding my space. My unshared space. The memories are all of me, thus far. As new a place it is, I carry memories to it. People, places, and moments.
Playing "To Sheila" makes me think of Robin. It came to me on one of those mixtapes that told me I was in love.
A knife from Burd. Crazy as he is, it's the kind of thing that should come from him.
My blue Nike visor. A relic from the days of rave. Ecstasy, trance music, and my friend, Eli.
My little gold robot from Gail,
an unread chess openings book from Lawrence,
a paper star from Maggie,
the portable hard drive I'm borrowing from Chris,
Jeremiah's old copy of Scud,
the headphones I faithfully wore every time I walked to Joe's place last summer,
and the cherry-chili chocolate wrapper Mikaela gave me.
My Bad Robot robot, reminding me of watching Lost with my mom.
The Ninja Turtles from the old comic shop I've never even bothered to look at comics in.
The computer speakers it took me 5 years to finally buy.
So much shit in this room. Just about all of it is mine, but It all brings something or someone else with it.
It's rare that I miss people, or times, but I'm constantly reminded of them. Everything I own carries some added weight to it. Something I didn't apply. I don't know if it's why I don't long for others, or if it makes it that much harder to avoid that feeling.
Taunting us, and teasing us.
So much snow at first. It came wet and warm. The type of weather that let us cuddle by the fire. Hot cocoa and sweet kisses and New Super Mario Brothers. It came with a welcome overwhelming rhythm. Too much for the safety of the uninitiated drivers.
Mikaela wove in and out of traffic, happily frustrated and angry with everyone not keeping up her impossible pace. Aggressive behind that wheel as always. And I'd never tell her, but I love it. Maybe she could see it in my smile. Hear it in my silence. Remember when I told her that I love her driving. Maybe she didn't care, and just drove the way she drove.
Cooler than her, and without snow tires, I drive in slides and flow, slipping in and out of an invisible current. While she fights against traffic, I ride with it. Sometimes at a faster pace, but still on the same beat. High snow, low visibility, and amber street lights are my beauty for this evening. My peace and meditation. Okay. I'm ready for this winter. I can do six more months of this.
And hell again. The cold blew in like confetti in the sky. Little freezing strips of paper, pushing out the snow, and bringing in the dreaded ice and chills. I fucking hate this cold. It brings me to make concessions for my employees. They deserve it, but it makes my niceties apparent in a way that makes me feel vulnerable and slightly exposed. They'd never know it, so I wear it with stoicism [which I'm sure made me look awkwardly aloof]. Another reason to hate the cold.
I did not say that I could do six more months of this.
So now I'm waiting for the weather to change. Measuring time in work and women. Work is what it is, and women-- well woman-- is... funny.
There is more unsaid than said at this point. It's palpable between us. I'm intrigued by the game of silence, but I don't think she sees it as much of a game. No, probably not. She sees it as a means of self-preservation. And I can dance with that. What is said, and is true, is that we broke up. Shortest relationship I've ever head. However, after she broke up with me at my behest, she became comfortable with me again. Yeah, there was the week or few of the pain of an ended relationship, but now that time almost seems pantomimed. It was there because it had to be. The chemicals in our brains pumping, but just going through the motions so that we wouldn't seem to be going through the motions. And now we sit at a place with phone calls, late nights, invites and assumed plans.
"She's probably just one of those girls that gets freaked out by the label of the relationship. You two just need to keep doing what you're doing, but keep it a secret from each other that you're doing it." This advice is so nonsensical it seems like I gave it. But Laura is kind of right about all of this. Of course, by her prescription I can't admit that.
But here I am, the same fool that started (and this beginning was me saying "no I don't like this girl" while others said it was obvious I did), "not sure" as to whether or not she's into me. Possibly for my own preservation. I can say that I'll dance this dance until it doesn't feel good anymore, but right now it feels great. And though it feels great, and I'm comfortable with the common lack of convention, I can say that I'm still kind of waiting for the weather to change. I assume that things cannot stay like this, but I have trouble coming up with a reason why. I've seen other people happily do it for years.
I'll laugh at myself if I'm still doing it when there's no snow on the ground.
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masterseraphim- Seraph Jones
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