Another Evening,
Cherishable,
Chocolate ,
Every Fall,
Clothes,
Struggle
Nights
Another evening, blurry vision, injected with alcohol, wondering about the meaning of it all. Such massive, all-encompassing questions, yet available on most nights, right before I go to sleep-dreaming of all the things I can't have, don't want, but am presented with anyway.
One o'clock in the morning. I used to be on drugs now, caught up in some alternate world, one where concerns were limited to how advertising related to the meaning of the universe. Now I'm more concerned with expiring peacefully, wondering if all of my theories have any value when it comes time to test them. My ears are ringing from sound that was too loud, aimed at my head, amplified with the blood and guts of foreign investors and the slave wages they pay to citizen-soldiers eeking out an existence devoid of what I might call fun. But, no pity party from me to myself.
It's depressing sometimes, the search for the unfindable, the undiscoverable. But every morning I put on approximately the same clothes as I wore yesterday, covered with a little more dirt, layered over with a little more sweat and tears, and try on the same face I wore yesterday to accomplish the same bit of nothing. If I multiplied my sighs, I'd cheer up exponentially at the rather loud noise they make in the neitherworld, be it heaven or hell. But in that god has yet to speak to me, his silence tells me I've yet to learn something, or perhaps I should just follow Nature's path and be content as things are. Learn to hug my neighbor; learn to live in a genderless, raceless society; one in which "terror" is simply the absence of the divine, nothing more, nothing less.
"Cherishable" moments? Sort of like "perishable," but the other way around. Sometimes you can catch people when constructed boundaries disappear. Sometimes, without words, two separates become part of a greater whole. In the dirt, when feelings are at their lowest, there's an inherent truth to the simple act of breathing. Same for in the cold, freezing; or in the hot, sweating.
For one crush, there is something. It is what happens when a wave is above you, and then suddenly through you and below you. For another crush, it's unreal; it's fantasy - a high-priority side-note. But then again, it still feels as real as the wave.
Sometimes there are people who are more observer than actor. They can see themselves from the other side of the room, and the disembodiment allows for no jealousy. Incredulous eyes can wander and wonder, thoroughly explore the inner meaning of "roommate," and then return to zero.
Sometimes, at the low points, there's nothing more beautiful than just being. It's like having only one set of clothes - there are no choices to disturb the meaning of warmth. It's like being given food underneath a prison door - there are no choices to disturb the meaning of taste.
There is an undercurrent to the desire for altered states of mind - in some people. It has something to do with irony; a little to do with thirst. For as far back as I can remember, I have never imagined I would live a long life. So drinks come freely when the hunger hits. So the actions speak openly of distance from physicality. Rumors of rumors, dreams of dreams. And not enough time for worry. Sometimes, at the low points, there's nothing more beautiful than just being.
And underneath heavy eyelids, behind closed eyes, suddenly the mundane becomes exactly what it is. Suddenly days roll into a series of events that mock each other. And the freedom within that mockery is priceless to those who keep it close to them. Like a single set of clothes, or prison food; rumors, or dreams.
And for some people, the heart of the matter lies in repetition - the heartbeat, the rhythm of the drums, the blinking of eyes, the tapping of fingers. Maybe even dancing, soundless, the repetition of silent movement, stretching and tensing muscles, ligaments and figments of imagination. Waves of expression, waiting for the crush.
And the undercurrent? The search for the universal denominator, the collective consciousness? Within each life, long or short, that determines itself, either from rumors or dreams.
Chocolate, beer, and clutter. Times like these I wish I smoked. I could open the door to the balcony, slide that glass right on over to the left, slide myself right into another state, some other state, other than me; something like genderless, faceless, borderless, absent, detached. Not so worried about my lungs here. No such love through. If I go outside, I'm still the same as I was inside. It's a little colder out there. The air is fresher. I'm hovering over a parking lot. Genderless, faceless, borderless, absent, detached parking lot.
Chocolate, beer, and clutter. I've been systematically eating the rest of the food in the house; personal challenge, yea. Open old cans of fruit, cook the last of the leftovers. If I'm lucky, I might find some beer in the "crisper" drawer in the fridge, maybe a chocolate bar hiding underneath the spatulas in the top drawer to the left of the stove. Bonus.
Clutter. When I keep busy, when I jump from one thing to the next, trying to keep the internal dialogue from echoing in my head, when I wander between rooms, playing with whatever I can that makes noise, when I kick stuff around the floor to hear what it sounds like, when I prop things on other things to watch which way the shadows go, messes suddenly appear. But at least it's very consistent. In any square foot of space, approximately the same amount of stuff is involved. Homogenous entropy. Why not?
Beer. How funny, I think. But I don't think so much. That produces trouble.
So lately I've been thinking of the beginning. The beginning of something that does something else. There's a lot of pressure around to do something, be someone that does something, be part of something, be part of someone who does something, or at least asks other people to do something or be part of something that gets done. But they all default on the word "hopeless" and the word "helpless." And then someone asks, "So what are you going to do?" And everybody says, "Well, nothing."
Chocolate. So it has something to do with sex, right around that whole idea of the green, female M&M. Homogenous enthalpy, right? Culturally sensitive, politically correct - maybe heterogeneous enthalpy. Caffeine, nicotine, and marijuana. Is it hot in here-I'm sweating underneath my eyes.
So-in the beginning. Pretend there was an essay, say, about how you could spend your day. When you woke up, what you thought about, what you wore, what you ate, where you worked, why you worked, who you met, what you bought, what you thought about, who you talked to, why you talked with who you talked to ... And now, say that this essay had no owner-totally communal in fact; no author, no way to determine truth or falsity. Now, the entire point of this essay is to make you think. The information contained therein might be true or false, could be persuasive, informative, or even satanic. But the point is that is belongs to no one and everyone simultaneously. It's a one-sided discussion, with only the ghost author and you, the reader.
So, say this essay says that clothes are only temperature controllers. Suddenly, people start walking around naked; old, fat men with hair on their backs, middle-aged, wrinkly women with orange skin straight from the tanning booths. What then? Suddenly, rules are being broken. That might be doing something, huh? Writing an authorless essay-seeing what happens. Consider the possibilities ...
Cigarettes. There must be something about that renegade procedure that makes me feel like less a man. Excuse me, less gendered. Wait one-maybe the fact I think I can optionally keep my health makes me selfish. Whatever. Slide that glass right the fuck on over. Bring on the fresh air. And throw some candy wrappers on the floor.
Every fall makes it worth it. At least, that's what I say afterward-rubbing sore muscles, eyeing bruises, stretching wrought-iron ligaments. This is what I say is good for me, right? The pain, the possibility of injury, an amused death ...
I wonder why I can't remember the moments of flight though. I remember the feeling of imbalance, I remember the tension of the error, I remember the stutter of a moment when I lose myself to the forces of nature and gravity ... but there are no visuals I can recollect. What does the snow look like when I'm upside down and backwards, feet flailing; arms, elbows, and wrists hitting the packed ground, making ugly snapping/thumping noises against god's winter wonderland? I only know the feeling of blackness, and the struggle to find myself up again, and the feeling of cold shooting up my back from underneath my coat, even hitting as far as my neck. What madman has become of me!?
I received a phone call today. It was from a friend who didn't have to call. She chose to-I'm not entirely sure why. She asked if everything was okay. I didn't know what to say ... I hurried and changed the conversation-How was everything, did her friend have a good time visiting her, has her boyfriend stopped smoking, when is she headed out of state for vacation ...
But still, I was touched. And I didn't know how to respond to her without sounding flustered. She cared enough to make an effort, just a simple one, not expected, not required, to see how I was. She remembered a comment I'd made earlier in the week, and she wanted to see how I was, ask how I was. I wanted to hug her through the phone line, thank her without words for thinking of me. Of all the things to receive, sometimes well-placed attention is the greatest gift.
I saw clothes drop, barriers drop, for the first time last night. A white piece of fabric, dropped from the shoulders in smooth motion, and she was naked. It's the hips that drew my attention today, maybe yesterday, too. So much revolves around the hips.
My eyes are a strange lens; she is taller than me; my attention focuses to her hips. Last night, perhaps for the first time since I met her, in my mind I truly saw her body. The red hair. Too far away to see the hazel eyes.
With it came a sorrow, though. The sorrow of art, maybe; the sadness of a painting, hung motionless on a wall, hips at eye level.
Weight heavily on one foot, shoulders pulled forward, not shy, just honest.
I saw the overexposure hitting the curves of her, giving way to the shadows. My eyes were open too widely, too wildly; details were lost in the brightness.
Every girl is an angel; every woman is an angel - and they visit, present themselves as real, crawl beside you into your dreams, appear as shining truths - naked from the deadness which can be waking hours, and they rotate slowly, with curving hips.
There's danger in dreams, sometimes. Things you want, but cannot have; things you see, but cannot touch. By choice! but remember! always by choice! The choice to live, the choice to die; the choice to accept circumstance; the choice to love without judgment, to love a dream as one might love God.
The contrast between light and dark on her body - we see it in three qualities; love, hate, and the time it takes to go from one to the other. Our eyes merely introduce our minds to the reflection. Perhaps, upon this reflection, though, we can see a fourth quality - desire.
And such uncommon sense it is to desire a dream to be true - to wish to see, and be sad yet satisfied, with the image of a body. To wish to feel, from a distance, the emanation of heat from her hips; to watch the white cloth, the barrier, drop and let shine the form of an angel, the form of a woman wrapped in shadows.
In a dream I saw red hair, knew hazel eyes, bright body. You were tall; but through the lens which was my eyes, through the dream which is my mind, I saw you.
It seems to be a struggle with time again; where Impatience gives the answer to a Problem, but serenity would probably lead us to a happier conclusion. I can look at a face and say - "this face is beauty." In the dark, under the lights, I can watch lips move as words emit from her dangerous body. It's in slow motion. But underneath the make-up, a skeleton just like mine leads a life just like mine, full of fears and hopes, inhibitions and desires. But just looking at the outline of a face does nothing. It is non-destructive. Thinking about that face does nothing. It is non-destructive. Even thinking about that dangerous body does nothing. It is non-destructive.
So I can hear the words and empathize; I can live in those shoes for a minute. I feel loss; some depression. Underneath my make-up, I feel time dragging on me, an iron cannonball on a golden chain, locked around my ankle like a snake biting his own tail.
I pull a shirt off and my bare skin catches the air in the bar, the same air drifting my cigarette smoke off toward the nearest Boys. Black lace shirt-not much without the two thin straps holding it up. Who am I dressing up for again? How have I managed to find my way here? I know I know someone here ...
Time divine has left me lonely
Dressed for love but looking for a friend
I'd like to talk about my broken heart
I'll tell a story to help it mend
Hold me together as tightly as I might
But please, do it without me knowing
Touch me but please don't dare to touch me
I can't stay to play; I must be going
Behind these eyes I tell you politely
I'd rather not know the news
The world as it is scares me half to death
And this is the path that I choose
To suffer myself to live a life of glamour
Dressed for love but looking for a friend
My dark eyes search a darker room
For a person to help my broken heart mend
Will you be the one to understand?
Please don't touch; just give me your hand ...
Nights, sometimes, leave me heavy-eyed and unsleeping; feeling unfinished. I muse over wasted hours, time spent compromising as part of some master plan that I have to teach myself how to live life as a compromise.
It makes me uncomfortable thinking about the next morning, knowing I'll wake up tired, feeling as though I left something unresolved from the day before. And I feel the stretch of previous evenings, feeling approximately the same way, in approximately the same manner, at approximately the same times. Not that time has much value lately anyhow. It's all merged together into some completely fictional weave of fabric-patchwork quilts and scarves, knitting needles and safety pins, glue and snaps, zippers and buttons.
I rest uneasy, intemperate, like an irritated baby, curling up and rubbing my feet together, laying on my side, laying on my stomach, making a triangle cushion around my neck with my right arm. Vision gets blurry, focus becomes untamed, I might feel slightly nauseated from a day's worth of poor eating habits. The oddest sense, the oddest senses; the odd sensibilities of a day.
It was a day of departure today. The last day of the congregation of friends and scholars, and I felt a sense of loss with the usual frustration. I remember many times, leaving alone from a group setting, heading back to some standard ground, some home base, leaving bonds undone and connections miswired, and feeling the absence that follows it, follows me like a shadow, like some faint strain of music-a lullaby from childhood. I took her hand, I shook her hand to say goodbye, and one more face is gone. I shook his hand, and the river Jordan roared one step closer, then faded in a mist of cigarette smoke.
Conversations with myself reached some new levels today. Courage, physical placement, recognition of mortality, the idea of communicating "thermometrically." All combine to help press my thin ribs closer together over my lungs. All together tense the muscles in my shoulders and upper back-do I walk with raised arms, stooping upward, stuck on myself that I can't will the electro-spinal impulses to refrain, for god's sake, at least temporarily!? Irreconcilably congruent? Whatever.
But the subjectivity continues to dance, as daily pirouettes of information shuffle through their steps. The tango is most divine for those with quick enough tongues to speak of lies as no more than "misunderstood truths." The relativity of the bad dancer comes only through the grace of the ballerina, and as she nurses her broken feet she looks back on her past with great ardor. Oh, to live with such purpose!