20.4.013 Shouting into the Void

The text (shouting into the Void): I'd like to see you so I can talk to you soon.  I've been doing fine, but today a lot of realizations went off in my head.  I know you barely have time to breathe, but the sooner I can see you the better.  You were the only man or boy I had been with who appreciated the way my brain worked, and it validated my feeling that there is in fact nothing wrong with me or my brain; you understood me.  When you said you didn't love me anymore, you took that away, and I think that's really what hurt so much.  It's like you took it all back.  This isn't me begging for us to get back together, but there's so much I need to tell you I just have to get it out of my head.  There's so much more.

The rest (whispering to myself, wishing the Void would respond): It's not that I don't think my brain works fine-- I do, and it just works in its own individual way.  I think that because of how my brain works, I notice things that other people might not.  So it's not my mind that's beautiful, it's the world that is beautiful, and I happen to notice different, less-noticed parts of it.  And I think you knew this about me-- and you appreciated me, and the odd way my brain worked, and not even my own mother can appreciate me in that way.  She thinks I need to fix my brain with drugs, and she thinks this because she has been taught to think she or her brain is defective/broken, and because she blames herself for everything and is so hard on herself, she thinks I am broken too and that I need to fix my abnormalities chemically-- instead of learning to love and embrace them.  I felt like you loved and embraced my abnormalities.   I thought you were so wonderful. And the thought that we can't teach these things to our children makes me cry-- and, in fact, I'm writing these things as I'm crying and because I'm crying-- because I need to get them out of my head and I can't talk to you.  I don't think love is a feeling or an emotion, Kevin.  And I don't believe there is such a thing as "true love" in the westernized, Walt Disney way we've been taught to believe in.  I believe love is something that just exists.  And if we are receptive enough, we can tap into love-- be it a force or a state of being.  Love is present in the inter-connectedness of everything.  I view love as another word for God, but not in that cheesy way some Protestant Pastor would ramble masturbatorily on about.  The human experience of love elicits feelings-- usually good feelings-- in individuals and couples.  I do not think your feelings changing was a totally valid reason for you abandoning me in our relationship.  And that's what you did; you abandoned me, you dumped me like I was garbage; you forgot that you told me I had a beautiful mind-- but I didn't.  And when I heard "my feelings changed," what I heard was "I don't love you anymore, I changed my mind and I don't think your mind works right, I never loved you or your mind to begin with."  I think you have confused love with emotion.  Love exists whether we tap into it or not, and I wanted to spend my life witnessing all the small miracles with you.  I wanted to hold hands as we witnessed the tiny miracles and the great tragedies and the small deaths and the yearly rebirth of Spring.  I wanted to have you by my side.  I wanted you to be my second set of eyes, my second heart.  I wanted us to help one another to feel and see and experience the things we couldn't feel or see or experience on our own.  And I wanted to get to know one another better in the process.

02.8.013 Shouting into the Void (from a casita in Taos, NM)

I hope you realize that I still want you in my life. I want to continue building something with you; I still want you to be my friend. I don't know what you want because your silence gives me no indication. We had something good, and I'd rather the nature of it change than it disappear completely. I may regret this in the morning and every day after-- if and when no reply comes-- but you're worth the effort it takes to put myself out there. Putting myself out there is never easy, and I'm usually disappointed, but my desire to form a connection with you has always won over-- and for a long time, I wasn't disappointed in the least. I'd fight to keep it ongoing, but not if I'm just shouting in the dark. I hope all is well with you. I miss you.

07.9.013 Rock-Show Solace (to Harlan)

There are rhythms
I cannot attune to.  There
are rhymes I cannot feel;
beings of suffrage I cannot hear.

There are levels of actualization
(of the greater Self,
a selfless idiosyncrasy which delves
between the Blood
and the Bone-- the sweetwater, and sourstone)

which I cannot ever achieve, unless
(with my whole-heart; with ev'ry particle of my plastic Being)

I believe.

Lilliputian Self (Little Things in the Hero's Journey) 23.08.013

it's the littlest things, like
hearing her call him "David"
instead of "Dave."

it's the tiny things, like
the house I'm living in
being sold, along with my childhood.

it's the big things--
like my mother's tears,
and the way I know she must shake
as she tries to cry away
the reality of forever-lonesomeness
(self-afflicted, yet no less
painful; no less stricken).

it's the normal things--
like laundry, and lawn-cutting, and
the inevitable first frost
to signal Winter's onset--

that cause me to pause
and consider all that this life has
brought before my eyes;

all that I am, have been,
will be;

it's the normal things
that sometimes take me away from me.

these things pull me inside--
though I've fought the hero's fight,
and journeyed through valleys
and over the tallest of peaks

(combating the sun, shining in His
Zenith Pointe: radiating
stabbing waves of
carcinogenic engery down upon
[and through] me)

(fending off the moon's
perpetual stare: right through me,
and into Bone-- laying it all
bare [on the table], on
the manic monolithic plinth
of my frail psyche)

in search of the land
of milk, and of honey;

though here I stand, breathing
and always bleeding--
on the inside, or externally--

it's the little things.
it's the little things that weaken me.

11.5.013

i get high in the shower before bed.

i hear my father vacuuming at 10 PM,
when he would usually be passed out
on the couch, in front of a glowing screen.

he texts me at 10:25 that his on-again
off-again
(currently-off)
ex-girlfriend whose dogs we are watching

is coming to pick them up.
he thinks she is drunk.

(she has a problem hoarding and fostering animals she can't take care of, is jobless, and that's why we take care of her dogs-- and NOW she's drunk and on her way here.)

(to my home.)

(TO SPEND THE NIGHT.)

he sure can pick 'em.

hope the dogs like the floor you cleaned for them.
hope the second
enabled, drunk-driving woman in your life
likes the floor you vacuumed for her drunk ass.

Burberry Blues

brandy and lemon drops
guiding my dysthymia
as I sit, mired in your essence
(but my skin and its oils are not as yours,
and the memories come in course:
hemorrhage, clot, and so-forth);

i, too, am not you.

i waited a whole night for your replacement.
the neuron cluster-fires, pinprick blisses
coming to a head (eruption, erotic
maledictions whispered,
swift quiescence coming after)
promised to me
did not come.

these hopes, fantasies
and affect-less memories
have all abated.

in jars, i keep them:
like the coveted clover, numbered of four leaves;
like the child's butterfly, now sullen in glass-house solace, and without food;
like the mad-man's slips of paper (frenetic notes, filled with warnings to a future-self
who would never be there, and never was):

they have withered,
and grown brittle from too much sunlight,
and crumpled under Newton's weight,
and crumbled into dust.

as the dusted drops rake the palate,
so too does the brandy soothe
every tiny, burning cut.

te echo de menos, amor del pasado