Strictly Sexual

Except not. Except not. How many times need I go over the same same same fucking lesson, flirt with the fringes and the edges only just, only just to… to what? To then tell the guy, “sorry, I don’t move this fast.” Only to then tell the guy, “This ain’t my thing.”

It ain’t a fuck that I want. It ain’t the physical. It is for some women–but it can’t be my sport. Too much trust given to the other person. Too much… what? Too much of my own inability to let myself go– to fuck worrying over what the other person is feeling or thinking and just concerned toward pleasing myself. That–no. There needs to be some pain and pleasure in duet for sensation. Like lifting weights. Like running. Feet pounding ground. The lungs tight, muscles taunt. Heavy breath. Heavy crowds. And regardless, just pound pound pound through it all.

I got to know him, from that first night, from that second. And god how I don’t understand, why I had let go that fast. Why that fast? Perhaps it was the honesty of the act. Perhaps it was the cleared territory: it wasn’t a fucking bar or pool hall. It was two people in mind ready sex and maybe–just maybe relationship. And, it felt safe. He made me feel safe. Those simple things. Taking the effort to care. To remember random dates, and to shed an emotional thought. To call me and come over when night had long since passed. To try so hard to care and be successful to a certain extent. No– not that romantic, I understand. But– what? What is it that I can’t let go. It was nice to feel wanted and worthwhile. It was nice to feel and see someone work “to earn” me. I was won and discarded–and how it hurt to feel like that fancy toy that’s grown cliched over what felt like so little time.

Toy Story–great movie.

I don’t want you to read this. So stop. Stop. I write for reason and sense and emotional intelligence–Stop as I tell myself not to text him, not to email him. Stop as I tell myself to just forget him and erase him–and fuck it, I will do it, I will let go–and am only waiting till I am able to… and can’t fucking wait.

Finding my next story.

Over and Upward Too

Visceral language has eaten its way past me, and music–music which I’ve heard not for what feels like so long–it plays on repeat on iTunes. Again and again. Again and again. A technologically based sound of acoustic heart, mind, instrument–no strings, attached.

Mother remember being so stern with that girl who was with me? Mother, remember the blink of an eye when I breathe through your body? So may the sun rise bring hope where it once was forgotten. Sons are like birds flying upward over the mountain.

I remember this song those days I lay the whole day in bed–waves of tears and sleep and exhaustion and memories. Waves of melodies and could’ve-been-fantasies. Those moments of drowning, “I’m not waving.”

And my ex’s words, “I don’t love you anymore. I know that I don’t love you anymore.” That was, how many months ago? That I could be dead, I am realizing and I am beginning to understand. What it would mean to have a knife slice upon my uterus and abort a baby. What it would mean to feel another life inside of me, another life that mingles both him and me. I was being true when I told her, my therapist, that my generation lightens the burden to manage the fear. My generation denies the severity in order to step out the door. Just as we ignore the percentage of deaths due to car accidents a day–yet we still drive, just as we ignore the percentage of deaths from high cholesterol, yet we still eat. Just as we ignore the percentage of deaths of smoking–but no, how media infiltrated science at this point, just as it does obesity at this point. Fuck–how my head shakes at the digression of obesity. Obesity a problem? Mrs. Obama fighting obesity? Since when did the Obama administration associate itself only with the results of poverty instead of the causes?

Words words words and these thoughts that do concern me. I do find interest in them, I do want to believe in something and make some sort of change. Yes yes yes, don’t discourage me. Don’t attempt to tempt me. I hold onto a taunt wire right now, and you stand at point distance. I wave to you, and I don’t drown. I see you when I see you, I don’t turn to you. I turn to those who’ve yet to hurt me: yes, I’ll trust. If only because I can. And if only because that is just what we do to live on.

Mother, forgive me, I sold your car for the shoes that I gave you… take them broken up to the mountain

Underground Man: …

Strip them all away–the disgust and that reward. Forever riddled down and further down into some sort of shape–no concision. Nonsense, embrace. And then think if anything was communicated from the feeling of thought not limited by consciousness–by 5-25%–of the brain. Yes. I read Wired News. I read about the research on the brain and how much of what we receive we are conscious of. I think, turn over the page. Paper cut. And drop of blood. I think that I want to embrace what I have to be thankful. Yes–surround myself by people I respect and who, reciprocally–healthily–respect me in turn. I have an understanding with her. For now to be forced to be merely adequate with her. I have an understanding with him–or somewhat projected (I admit) understanding with him. For now to not reach out or give an opportunity to fill a need. He shall not answer, she shall not answer, because they won’t and because sometimes–more often than not times–they can’t.

So pull of the blister’s dead skin. Pull, yank, tug until you become a piece of you, and you balance it and weigh it on fingertip and observe its human scales and hue, and let it drop and fade away.

So my eyes droop from the exhaustion of recent living. So I shrug my shoulders and acknowledge the good people in my life. It is time to appreciate the tale that I am already in. I’d rather not miss it than miss it by wishing for something that I don’t currently have. Let me embrace that dear friend of mine as I did tonight. To make the effort to discuss ideas and thoughts and contemplations. To make the effort to maintain thoughtfulness and care. And let the others that need to run run. Let them stretch their limbs. Let them go, don’t make them drag you along. And who am I talking to? Now, now as this lying-on-bed-woman. Now as this sift and goblet and weight. Weighed down. Heft. Slate.

I am tired so I go on.

There need be no meaning, only experience.

Tightness tonight. A grip and a pull and a taunt muscle flexed, now pulled. So I settle down into my bed, skin intimate with bed cloth. Face smushed in pillow, air drawn between tight spaces. I think of the brown paper bags taped up on my walls. I think of smearing black paint. Black cool puddles held in my bare naked hands, and hands wiping brown walls–those crinkly, ephemerally, recycleably brown walls. I think of my body’s curved lines. I think of my breasts. I think of the chalk on dry black paint outlining silhouettes of shape. I imagine hand holding soft pastel. The fine grains–no, more dust fell. I think of the itch on my nose–the rub–and the smoky smudge now on the face. A trace of sensation, tactile embrace.

This all after pushing the others away. No–no running to you my dear, or you my dear. No running away. Plunged today’s night in disappointment and wallowed self-pity. Disgusting tastes in my mind and memory and scarred teeth. Bile and food chunks–some on my mouth, some on the ground, most in the cardboard, make-shift wastebasket. Tomorrow’s dump truck. Tonight’s midnight scavenger findings.

I am ashamed.

So I turn my thoughts back to those lines. To fingers brushing the dry paint, the wet paint. To fingers mingling material dust with material–glop is it? Wet glop? Big drops? –that is, I mean to say, paint. Thick, unwatered paint.

No more faces can I paint. They riddle not with confusions and thorough-sakeness. I see her faces and want to rip them up. I hate her right now. I hate that I love her. I hate the inescapeable hold–I strap myself within her embrace. I am mine own enemy and worse friend–the sadist of mine own self. The masochist of mine own Self. I hold off on who I am and what and where and pull away just to say, “I won’t scare you any more. I promise I’ll hide from your eyes anything that makes you tremble. I’ll hide my passion made confessions. I’ll hide my wonder and need to release. My attempts and my self-creation. I’ll hide to not scare you. I sacrifice and I hate. I hate to hide, oh–where is the freedom to not? Is it not the consistency–oh the flux and interruption. I hate.

Epiphanized thoughts:
the words cease to be enough. The mentality has faded and so the aura of language as well. It is a conduit after all and no substance to otherwise self-generate. So I’ll return once again: meaning in the act, the stroke of the hand, the sensation of stickiness and dryness. The lines forming shapes. Again–my breasts, my arms, my thighs, my chest. The thighs that touch each other. The curves of hips. The flab of arm that hangs in relaxed pose. This. This being the experience of creation–no meaning–no need for the mind to think beyond the tactile of hand–touch–brown–paper–wall–dust–

“I’m the One that I Want”

Stereotypes. Fucking for or against. For or against. There is a pit of nonsense surrounded by anything dictated by the generalizations of this world that Carroll of all people knew from the bat. Can there be such things as generalizations? Of course. It is what the imagination gives us access to. It is what the imagination allows ourselves to create a world for that does not actually need to exist because our belief in it is already so firmly rooted in who we are as a history, as an ideal, as a sense of belonging. Break it down, though, and we find nothing but imaginary lines and structures to set this otherwise chaotic world into some momentary illusion of sense and order. Into some momentary illusion of — we can do this. We can know what we’re doing in our lives, we can live in a way that has sense and senses and senses of power.

Let me switch gears. For the last four hours I’ve listened to Margaret Cho. I watched “Assassin,” and “Notorious C.H.O,” and “I’m the One that I Want.” I listen to her stories and jokes about her career, her family, her self-identity and hear the layers of hurt under the laughs and the light-hearted jokes. It is the same strategy that I use. It is the same language, and does not hide the pain–it holds the pain. It is our meager attempt to find value from the pain–let the current confusion at least be mitigated by some ephemeral sense of laughter and hubris. I hit recognition: in comedy, the authentic-being-at-face-value does not matter. It demands the level of insight as that of sarcasm and that of lying. It is that which forcefully looks at the grim and most importantly, lets go of the need to fix the grim. Shall we all just watch ourselves get hurt and hurt again and instead of getting rid of it, find fuel in it? I take that idea–that concept which I truly believe drives all great art–and take it into my own distortions. I take them in and proudly hold them up: I am not accepted, just as few are accepted. I do not fit just as most do not fit. Those lost and forgotten jigsaw pieces are the essential illusion-stereotype-structure that I want to believe in and live by. Let me fall away. Let me forget others. Let me co-exist and have simple senses that merely take in the horrible and find the awe in awful.

Yes–I watch her, and learn from her. A little too hardened with time. But as a mere 2000 girl–there was a layer of vulnerability that… was rich. That did flow. Let me fall into that same flow. Be as light as my writing is not. Let me be who I am. “B– made you feel all these things?… Why did you want to be with him again?” B made me feel ashamed. Made me doubt. Made me fear. B made me feel imperfect and unwanted and un-whole. B was that obstacle for me to get through. B was that accepting idealized family that knew how to include me. B was that secret to belonging and succeeding. That was B. Not B the man. Not B the person. Not B the fellow friend to acquaint myself with and get to know. I do want to spend this time alone and journey through modes of self-discovery. Let me be as I am, and let me stop looking for another hand to mold what mine own have been (for a while) capable of molding on their own.

Now with another bow–ribbons, around the cherry tree and all–I take another breath and feel my stomach’s expanse. Cho’s anorexia, her bulimia. Cho’s self-hatred and alcoholism. Cho’s depression and insecurities. Mine own. The girl next door’s own. Even one of Amy Tan’s character’s own. All our own, and all the same to be lived through. And the goal? Not to be original. Not to be alone. To be? Be?

My eyelids droop lower. The beat of the music sinks in and I– I– I want to fall asleep and start again. Half desirous to still be somehow extreme. To somehow push myself to the point of no return where I’ll want to live life when I’m threatened with losing it all. I want to appreciate, but can’t force what isn’t there. So I’ll try and lose everything in order to realize what I have. But that’s been done before. So many times before, and I still return to it. I still return to what I know–to my habits–to my talent–to my home.

Desertion F. It is scary–especially when it’s all at the same time thrown at you.

Have a Slice of Life

For some reason she is upset. Cooped up in her room more than normal? Or is it that I’ve been cooped up in mine more than normal? Is it that I’ve finally paused a second to get outside my head, outside my own narrow view and perception that now, finally now, things come back to hit me for what they also–in addition–are and have been? Why–I haven’t even been able to set a step outdoors to proclaim to this and to the world that things are as they should be and that life–life still is even as possibilities right now exit and enter into the door.

F. asked me if I wrote–I write now. Not yet in drunken stupor, but with, nevertheless and all the more, altered expectation. Hitting that core, achieving that sensation that I have done before, I no longer expect. This is educated writing. This is concise and fully enveloped writing. This is not writing that I admire or love to produce or create. This is not writing that I hold deeply onto or desire more fully to get to know. But it is mine nonetheless–mine from my own hands and mind and out into intelligible, quasi-meaning full strokes of black on white. That is writing. This is writing–and though the words may not resonate in my soul, who knows what is read into them? Who knows what can be extracted from them? I do not control it. I do not get to dictate it or command it. It is done. Whatever this is or could be called–it is done.

And back to the “she” in here. The she that lives next door–she is still that enigma that won’t let herself be vulnerable–that won’t share herself with me. It is at this moment when I realize–think I realize–what it is that I want from her that reminds me of what I had with Yt’s, and what it is that I want once again. Her companionship. Her presence. Her being and her self just as she is and just so. I am not mad at Yt’s–if truthful to myself I do not feel abandoned by her. She was just an accompanying soul journeying by my side–and me by hers. Just as she wandered and questioned and challenged, so did and so do I. We needn’t be anything more or less than what we are. We scrounge around. We sift and shift. We shit and split and run run run only to hit bottom and question ourselves once more. She kept to herself–yet she was as I. And it was a comfort. It was meaningful enough. It was enough. Maybe only for that slice in life, though. Perhaps, just for that slice in life.

Thinking of you tonight, Yt’s. Hope you are doing well.

In Response to you Ben

I have to say that reading your blog Ben, has opened my eyes to what other people use writing for. I–must confess–think through my writing. I think through the vortexes of my emotions and feelings because that is what I am “studying” right now and dedicating myself to. But to think that there will be a time–maybe soon, maybe later–where I will want to discuss things of more reasonable, more rational value, gives me hope that my blog will not just feel like a diary–confessional case by case of mine. For now, though, I hold onto the Underground Man’s words: yes yes yes, “Reason is an excellent thing, there’s no disputing that, but reason is nothing but reason and satisfies only the rational side of man’s nature, while will is a manifestation of the whole life, that is, of the whole human life including reason and all the impulses… Here I, for instance, quite naturally want to live, in order to satisfy all my capacities for life, and not simply my capacity for reasoning, that is, not simply one twentieth of my capacity for life.”

Addressing the State

I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of one’s own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different [human]; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into.

I told him (and I told her) that I currently hate humanity. I hate people and individuals. I hate their voices and intellect and kind or unkind heartedness. I hate it all.

But would I presume that you would care in return? Can I presume that this entry sent into the abyss would be received as a, “literary work, ” as Dostoeyvsky’s, “Notes from the Underground,” nowadays are instead of as the ramblings of a conceited jerk whose lost any faith and hope in their own life at all. Anti-hero, Bahktin wrote. The underground man tries to be anti-heroic, and in his own desire to be so, exposes his dependence on the stereotypical ideal of, “the hero.”

So what am I getting at? I ramble without need to justify or explain for right now at least, right now, I write not so much for intellectual understanding… but for intellectual feeling. An emotional intelligence–could it be called–of this, my own frustration and outward apathy for humanity… it. Is. No more. Than my desperate. Attempt to. Love humanity. and Self. Once. More. This–yes this, my desperate attempt to rid myself of all emotion and lie in nothing else but my own exhaustion and feel its emptiness and feel its hollowness and know, know know, that I do not believe what I currently practice, but in not practicing that belief redefine, re-examine and re-acknowledge what it is that I believed in to begin (and end) with. “I believe in,” yes, you believe in? “I believe in a touch of forgiveness in myself that needn’t be met in others. I believe that more children run in fear guised as adults. And I believe that more often than not, it is not the child running from experience, but from the adult. The adult that says, “I’ve had enough pain! I’ve suffered enough!” The adult who says, “Look at my wrinkles! Look at my age! Look at what I’ve gone through–I’ve gone through enough!” “No more! No more! Let me just rest in peace. Let nothing that requires effort grace my doors anymore! Let nothing that is uncomfortable cross my path again.” No, no, no–the answer echoes throughout the place–off the walled walls–and into an empty space. And I’ve been in that space. I now walk through it’s door–now walk through it’s halls and trace my fingers along its dust-covered antiques. I now spend my time observing this place–this place that so many (though admittedly not all… at least, not all live do stay here in perpetuum mobile their whole life) visit and rest in and dwell in. I–I explore this… this negativity? This void? This… no–less descriptive–this style and option and possible choice. I explore and walk tenderly and grow weary as I write. Weary of this style. Weary of this kind of life. Weary of an existence that does not move with the fight, or stay against easier desires… no. Oh no, we are not of that race. No. Oh no, I am not of that race. Forget the politics associated with that word, “race.” Forget the ideas of color and flesh. Think only of the run–the sprint–the chase. Think only of a ribbon lined at a foreseen–or forebelieved–distance to be obtained. Think only of that breath–that inward receiver and outward blow. That breath that gives and takes. That lets go and grabs. That rhythm and that pulse– oh B. How I miss you. How I wanted to run with you. With you, un-alone. How this pain is different than the others. How it’s less grieved–holds its place at sad–it is sorry without regret. Sorry for being who and what I am, without regretting that “who,” and that “what,” for being what I am. I am as I am. I love and I respond. I follow the rhythm of breath, and blow in a dynamic that’s not as predictable as concepts but more like material. And I turn now to myself–inward less outward–and afford to only love myself.

I do hate you for your laziness.

I do hate you for my hurt. I do hate you for abandoning me to sit alone in my tears. And I forgive your future self–not that past self. I forgive what is to come, but can’t for what was.

— — —

On a different note: Obama’s Address to the Union speech today was pretty great. Good job Obama. Thanks for making me be proud of you–and I was. I am proud of you.

Decipher This Written

Forage through my friends. Pull apart the branches and leaves. Don’t let them hit the ones behind you. Or do you walk and travel alone? As a lone wolf does–whether proudly, distinctly or solipsistically. Oh, really. In whichever, in whatever case, the distance is still there to be traveled. The distance is still there to be tracked and followed and sought after.

I find myself reflective after my therapy session. Reflection of this–my own distance covered and that which remains. I reflect on the hurt of memories and past situations, of being left and chosen to not be chosen. How tempting to pity myself, and there are lately, too often moments where I find myself there. I want to be able to be angry, and I want to be able to hate. And how surprising–appropriate?–it is to have my therapist give me permission to do so. I can be angry at what happened. I can be rightly hurt and feel so.

So I do–I fill that void. Let what was suppressed be released, and now? Now–nothing. Now just sadness, no anger needed to hide behind anymore. Just understanding. Just… what is it? What is it. Just… acceptance and recognition. As your face is in the mirror. Unchangeable, unalterable, but liveable. Liveable.

The block that was no longer is. It is stripped away to unveil unknown desires to write something–something–but all truthfully words words words, endless rambling of words upon words. They fall out, and–dash it–need not be remembered or posted or read. With a sweep of my finger and click of a button, this evidence of my thought would be wiped away. And as trite and common as that thought is and has been, I still relish at its promise of power: I say only what I choose to say. I expose only what is willingly exposed. I give myself only because I allow it to be first lost and, perhaps, found. I choose that. Not what is received. Not what is taken. Not what is interpreted or what is understood. I choose merely to exist out there: to be seen if so desired. To be an opportunity–not forced, not willed–merely there.

::sigh::

And… and how many times have I listened to this song? This song of Regina’s, “Braille.” How many times have I written to this song and had it set the mood to myriad upon myriad writings in my lifetime. How its able to still hug and hold myself–be the basin, bowl, structure to hold my water, my rhythm, my motion. I am in love right now with the art of language and song. With the flux of meaning and content held in each one. Eyes and ears. How precise those two become. Words to induce thought. Music to induce emotion. Poetry to combine the two. Philosophy to interpret the two. Words words words. Song song song. Perhaps it’s a tragedy that the two aren’t and are combined. But I feel the digression in my thought. So I stop and return. Focus on Regina’s voice–the keys of the piano played–and the words, “moon,” “irony,” “fingers,” and “skin.”

Ah–dew.

Rain Falls on you Sleepers

They found a way. 3:53 am on this rainy Monday and glorious morning. The sounds of pitter-patter and the loss of human activity in the streets below. There is nothing but concrete and water. There is nothing but darkness and artificial lights glowing in circles below. I lie in my room, my body stretched out, my eyes droop low and I refuse to sleep. Let me say goodbye to the Sunday that was. That lost Sunday of just too much discomfort for me to hold onto. Forgive me for not being able to let go. Too much of myself–and too much echoes of that semester that seems so long ago. I confess: I’d rather not go back. That semester that I gloried in my memory for so many months, prided in my mind for so many days–all gone. Stripped and now seen as a decrepit and sad existence that held no laughter and no energetic glow. Stability was such a gem in those days–but stability without spontaneity. Stability without pulse and rhythm and flow. Too tight a strand and too tight a hold.

That was my existence then: this timid shell. I came to a point where I was proud of who I am and now–stripped of that–where did she go? I feel dis-shambled. Tired. My weary mind droops lower and only sheer exhaustion lets me find a moment of rest. I fear the energy to combat the day. I fear the ability to face and state and fight. I’d rather hide away for now–strip my need to defend and let me pass by and be unseen. How tired I have come–now, finally reaching this point–a point beyond what and where I was, for what? Empty hands glare back at me though for once, for once, they’re free to yet again hold and receive. What will come in? What will meet me half way? I wonder this night as my scheduled life races through my days: of classes and work and more classes and work. Of graduation and family and housemates parting and us going our separate ways. I wonder what surprises will come–who will stand up and search for me? Who will stand up and place their hand up for me? Yes, for me. I am a spirit that chases what she wants. I chased for dreams and reality and experience. I chased for knowledge and excitement and love. I chased for relationship and for intimacy. I chased, and I ran, and body now bent over, hands gripping knees, lungs grabbing mouthfuls of air, I stop for a breath. Chasing can only last so long. They run too fast, and I–I ask and need to be met halfway. To have that sister reach out her hand and say, “I love you D. I encourage you to spread your wings.” To have that lover hold me, say, “Darling, I’m sorry. You’re worth the work to stay.” To have that reassure and that sought after-ness. To have that warmth of home and acceptance.

I am tired tonight–this rainy still dark morning. I am strewn about with only a few tender strings maintaining a faint humming song, this my song, this my morning stretch and extension and release. I want to be able to feel whole and wanted–by others, yes–by myself, yes. Oh, let this new day reach out before me, leading me, letting me wander, but always meeting me–yes meeting me. That presence by my side. That constant reassurance that there is touch out there and guidance and willingness and forgiveness. That there would be something more than just a pitter-patter anonymous rainfall. There would be that step and offered umbrella and wet drop clinging to it all.