Take Another Look











{April 30, 2010}   promise

he wore a coat and a t-shirt. i had just unlocked the door for his vagrant friend out there, whom i had given no notice except to wonder about the timing of the lock. will i get to the door before or after his friend inside the building gets there. it was me, and i saw how his eyes made sure not to make any extra movements, they took me in and noticed i wasnt his friend, then they moved onto the next object, his friend. how those eyes saw me, i dont know if i want to know.  you know those things you aren’t sure you want to know about?his package of smokes hung out of his coat and his friend mentioned needing the fresh air, and his friend said one of those things that makes sense but that you don’t remember later?

two junkies eyes meeting for a moment alone, all the promises they can make to each other they’ve already made, already they know their kids homecoming, they’ve killed off their enemies, they’ve survived off that chocolate frosted stuff, they know forgiveness, and justice, and ugliness, and all that throwing up, and the blissful parts which dont have a name, and the parts that come after wards that they wish didn’t have so many names- all that withdrawal, and that clamp cloying sweat that fawns to the body and stretches everywhere, like a summer day spreading its seeds, you look for a place to put your hand but everywhere on your neck it’s damp but for the moment the promise of the look is enough to stop the flow of confusion, the lovely tilt of his voice, the lean sprite control in his movements.



{April 29, 2010}   etc.

I have been writing here but not publishing… feeling like everything that has been written before was written in a sort of fury… as if i could beat time… as if i was in a water tornado… and when i did try to write, I’d get short closed descriptions that don’t go anywhere… I need to find my sense of time and feel comfortable in it again… instead of trying to be behind it or ahead of it all the time. Obviously it’s a problem we all face.. some in different directions than others.. but I have been writing.. just, well life has been different..

and i dont care about giving a handful of excuses

it’s not that



{April 29, 2010}   undercover

“Sam’s shoulders shifted. He thought Frank was just being smart-arsed. but Sam’s never done undercover, he had no way of knowing: undercovers are different: there’s nothing they won’t do, to themselves or anyone else, to take their guy down.There was no point arguing on this one because he meant what he said: if his kid were killed, he would take it without a murmur. It’s one of the most powerful lures of undercover, the ruthlessness, no borderlines: strong stuff, strong enough to take your breath away.It’s one of the reasons I left.”-Tana French
This is from the book The Likeness (p 27) which is more complex than this passage, and also less concrete in some ways although the book is about an ongoing criminal investigation.

I don’t agree with all or most of it but the the part I liked most was about the lure being the ruthlessness, and no borderlines. but I think the mistake in this passage is the black and white mindset: thinking people go undercover because they have such an “unambiguous” mindset- some people find their own borderlines there, and that is what they like about it.. they can finally draw the “correct” moral conclusion” instead of feeling like the law took it away from them or life robbed it from them, someone higher up on the social hierarchy picked it up, etc.



{April 22, 2010}   which flash? which time?

“Muzak-haters, on the other hand, are terrorized by the stuff, because it turns everything uniqe about every era into the same homogenized mush, and moreover does so with ease, thus reinforcing their suspicions that there’s essentially nothing unique about their era or themselves; that their cherished individuality is nothing but a merchandised illusion begrudgingly maintained for them by marketers; that when you get right down to it, it’s all the same crapola…

Look around you. How many people can ever experience a great passion, a great love, a great cause? A product can stand in for those experiences. A surface can stand in for the depths most people will never know. That’s what it all comes down to: surfaces.” -alex shakar, the savage girl

This is where I must start if I am ever going to try and talk about how it was that E. Downing took my heart and snapped it like a birds neck. Surfaces. How one maintains the manipulation…how from the one experiencing the passion, the fall is long, beautiful, making cliff-diving seem like safety. But to the other person, the one being loved for more than they could ever understand, you become nothing more than a toy, if only because the depths of beauty threaten the security of existence. His kids never thought of me as a shiny toy, as he told me.

He did.



{April 16, 2010}   without

The way it affects you is so hard to explain. Withdrawal is like pins and needles are planted in every thought, exchange, and feeling. For example, the poor people who get on the methadone train have no idea how “subtle” and “pain” can fit in the same world so smoothly. Trying to pick up a book is an effort. Trying to try is another effort, and effort is filled with an unaccountable number of pins and needles. It’s not like a bomb on a bus but the absence of a bus at the bus stop. An absence of a clock when you look at the wristwatch that is supposed to be there. And nobody can imagine how it feels like until they feel it. Even after they’ve felt it, that shock that the world did not contain what it’s supposed to contain hardly translates into words. All you know is you don’t know how far you can go to prevent experiencing that again..



I’ll probably write a story about family next. Read at your own advanced warning. I tend to talk in my own language here A LOT. This story will actually fit the standards of writing (somewhat.) compared to the lack of formats in other entries. You have to go back to REALLY early entries to find a sense of story structure. Also, the stuff written on this page- I make no claims about its authenticity at this moment. Perhaps it’s all fabricated at an attempt at getting attention. Okay?? Good. Stay silent, page. I know somebody (more than one person) is reading. I have no idea whom. I hope it’s not the wrong person. Some people would be better off not knowing where I go with my outlets. It’s not their business. They could argue I make it their business because writing can be seen, but the unseen can also be seen. Inaction is just as harmful and unlike you I FOUND THAT OUT THE HARD WAY BECAUSE THEY HURT FROM MY ACTIONS, I HURT FROM THEIR INACTION’S. It’s just a theory, okay? Throw it away! I take a calculated risk by writing here. I can easily switch to something easier and less real but that would not be me.



{April 13, 2010}   No Go (for now)

It’s not guts. I have that. I just keep getting all these signs.. I got like thirty all in one day.. Omens? So don’t think I don’t have it in me. I will fight and do what is right. I just don’t think it’s that time yet… so many messages at once. Not a coincidence.



B is moving away. To a place near India and Pakistan with a name that sounds like a squid company. When he saw me I was upset because I assumed it was the last time I was going to see him because I knew I was going to kill myself before he ever saw me again. He immediately picked up on the scent that something wasn’t right.  I had the sketch vibe coming and going in flashes. “Are you okay,” came from a man who has seen me at so many different kinds of lows that he never asks anymore… because he doesn’t need to. “Fine,” I said, and he saw right past it, and ignored it, even though I felt like it was on my face, on my skin, everywhere, the letters “NOT OKAY NOT OKAY NOT OKAY.” But our friendship is so highly fortified, and since it became that way he has remained intrigued that somebody who can be more analytical than him, at times probably more intellectual, and possess a severely logical nature is capable of such raw, uncensored emotion. It’s probably the same way he is an atheist but there are mysteries he doesn’t know how to explain. When he touched me  I felt renewed, by the force of life itself. Tears trickled down my face as he used a vibrator but the pain turned to joy. I hoped he didnt see the pain because we were not using words to communicate. I wanted to use words but I didn’t know how.I used to be a lot more confident. In eight years I have said “I love you” to him without any fear at least twice. But I said other things too. Sometimes I get so talkative. But he knows how moody I am. He knows how I can retreat into silence. Now… I chose to say nothing because nothing is more protective.

After (i was so tight that he came immediately, probably because I havent touched myself or been with anybody that way…. I have been asexual, something I can slip into.) I didn’t talk straight about “the plans” of course because i am not an idiot and because he was there, mentally holding my hand, mentally keeping the cognitive dissonance at at a low, but I provided the highlights, art, losing perseverance, disappointments, which was better than not talking. He gave me a good talk.  If I had an important post he would be my chief of staff or something like that. He has always been the one who can go inside and salvage the parts of me that are dying. He talked about having to make your own purpose and your own happiness. I don’t know if he knows how deep the well inside me goes because he believes that there is no meaning, that we create meaning. But I see meaning everywhere I go in everything. It goes so deep you (not me) can’t see at all. You need to send out so many rescue teams with dogs and lights to find this kidnapped little girl that I don’t see any hope at all. But he unleashed some last web of hope. He told me to make more stable friends. I told him I didn’t have any. He said he was stable. I agree. But then he tells me he is moving to the middle east. He is the only stable loving friend I have. He is the most gentle person I know. He is the only person who can stop my legs from trembling. He told me I could control my reactions. I could control whether people hurt me or not and whether certain people had power over me. He is right.

I didn’t mention E. I feel like E both saw through the hole to the kidnapped girl and was also able to advise me. But then he left. And he was unpredictable, like me. But he is moderate, not like me. It is all something I cannot think about without internally clawing back into the dirt I have fought my entire life to get out of. But still, that moment of clarity at 3:30 AM. I left a message on his voice mail. What did I say?

It used to be I couldn’t let B see me down like THAT.  Ever. Now I am able to let him see me down. I wish I could at least pull it together enough so that I had enough self-esteem not to let him see me this way.

The way I kissed him… I can still feel the emotions pouring from me into him. I kissed him like there was no tomorrow because I didn’t think there was. And then the news, afterward. The unmistakable touch of a death angel, trying to trick me into living, showing me more purpose and meaning when what brought me to want to die was so that my life would not be lived in vain. Oh B, I wish I could follow your logic. I wish it was so simple. But i still don’t know how I will react. It is not like I can just decide to react a certain way to somebody and stick to it. “Why not?” You would ask, so simply, if you were here. And it would seem possible, if you were in the room, if only for a moment. I would feel like I was entertaining the thought for the very first time… Because, as you said yourself, you cannot see the future…  Oh, these people in my life and their contradictions.

I know you think I give them- these people- too much importance. I am that wild black horse from the dream that was untamed… but like in the dream,  everything was given up so I could remain unbroken.

Ultimately that is what broke me…seeing everybody give everything up, put all their stakes on something that could not be tamed. I don’t know. I have to go.

I will try.



{April 12, 2010}  

I begged him to help me kill myself. I begged and begged and begged.

Every  night at 3:30 am there is a sanity or insanity that takes place.

He talked me off my emotional cliff. For now.

But it remains a viable option. I tell no one. You, the blank page, are no one. Even if somebody reads this. They don’t care.



{April 10, 2010}   Lights On

Yeah. Ignore the last thing I posted. See how bipolar I get? Exhibit A. I think I had a b12 deficiency. I’m over it now. Anyone or anything that was bothering me, la, la, la. However, I refuse to delete those really embarrassing passages (Exhibit B) where I make an idiot over myself. Why, I don’t know. I am anti-deleting any moment. I must hold onto them all, even if I drop certain memories in the grocery aisles. Do I write that stuff to embarrass myself, or to let somebody know how much I care, or simply to get the emotion out of me because I don’t know how to contain emotion?

I know that I woke up with a gasp, and that I’d written in the middle of the night.  That pain. I would say, that pain again, but each pain is slightly different. I tried to escape by watching the the last 8 episodes of season 7, 24, but it felt ruined because I know how it ends because I remembered that I saw the ending with the person who I mentioned  (exhibit B) in conjunction with the hole in my chest.

(Oh how original- roll of eyes, that must have come from reading  new moon which I related to too much.) Part of the pain is my determination to never give up on the idea that a one true love was real. So, in order for it to be real, I can’t just “get over it.”

Then, there are the actual emotional components, which I do not think can be faked. I called M. Parker up and was grrly and sniffy. As I silently cried for an hour, Parker was nice for Parker, as I was especially careful not to incite any of his antigens, since he turns to cancer, eating you up inside if you do anything that he considers brusque. He did snidely repeat a few times that he didn’t work for me. (I have noticed that when people are cruel, they say it is for your own good. They always have to have a cause, even if their life is empty.)

I read the first duino elegy by Rilke. Shame on Parker for not owning this, I thought, for not loving this, and for not having this particular translator, either- (go with everything when you put somebody on murder charges).

“Dennis would have it, and he loved to read, and he always read to me; in fact, he liked reading more than he liked it when I read,” I told Parker. I left out my fuck yous, churned my anger into confusion, and was matter of fact with Parker. I concentrated on the connection I have with Parker instead of grieving for outside connections I miss. He didn’t like the elegy. I asked how he could not like it. He had no answer. Still, Rilke’s elegies are prayer to me, so I think they calmed me down a bit, but not all the way, because I was still angry at myself became I compared how romantic and mysterious I found the words when I read this elegy in the past. I could re-discover it no matter how many times I saw the words; I got ten more things out of the poem and the references; those subtle shimmering connections. Now I was way too concrete, I told Parker. Now I probably don’t see anything when I read. Now I read the thing itself and I do not see a billion associations illuminating my path like a lantern. That is how I saw the words in high school.

“I need to see things the way I saw them in high school,” I told Parker. Parker told me that making connections was the key to meaning. He used a word that wasn’t meaning, but I didn’t like the word he used. His word was vague and bland. So here, I use the word meaning, even though he used a word like interpretation, even though I prefer to quote people verbatim.

Part of our discussion was that people on certain chemicals don’t get real R.E.M. sleep. They get the other kind, which I call “twilight state” which has a function to it, but new studies indicate that we need two kinds of sleep. My hypothesis, formed over time from experience, science articles, observation, and questioning, is that people on certain pharmaceuticals miss the most important kind of sleep- psychotically vivid dreams, accompanied by the thrashing, eye-moving, kicking kind of sleep.

I eventually got off the phone and (a miracle due to vitamin b12) I fell asleep. In the morning I felt okay again. I called Parker at 8:30 in the morning.

“hello,” he said in a whisper of a voice, the voice of a robot combined with a six year old boy.

“Thanks.”

“For what.”

He had to know, even though I had probably woken him up for the 10th time that week. He never complains or mentions if I wake him up. It is considered a normal way of communication.

“Thanks for making me feel better,”I said,

(he was thinking “people dont work for you” just because he likes to repeat things without explaining them to make a point but he didn’t say it)

I didn’t elaborate. Hung up phone. Mercury came over, I went back to sleep. A f-cking miracle due to taking 15,000 times the daily dose, then again, my mom should have told me about the b12 connection sooner, I was showing all the signs of a b12 deficiency, but she didn’t know the details.

Okay, I feel sane, I will go have goals again and want to live again.

The only time I successfully got my feelings down about him was down here…(link) and there are plenty of typos. Whatever. This isn’t like my old blog where i corrected things and tried to make it about good writing. This is just therapy. Or maybe water-boarding


https://velvetdewdrop.wordpress.com/2010/01/29/letter/



et cetera