this years mantre

“Feeling is a lot worse than knowing, but sometimes it’s all you’ve got.” -Lee Child

The End and the Beginning! <—- cliche

I should start a new journal because I feel like I have nothing more to say. I have written carelessly. In this journal there are emotions splattered on the page. There are a few short descriptions that contain more than emotion.

But it’s over. It’s all over! This part of my life. These feelings that controlled me as an earthquake controls the ground. I say goodbye to you…

im so filled with anger

and sadness and anger

and music inside me music that is raging and raging so bad

i just need to get on a stage and blow

i’ll blow myself to pieces in front of an audience

over and over

so they understand what this place is doing to them.

nobody gets it

i cant stand this alienation

i hate it so much

i hate the fight against it

i feel like crumbling at every moment

nobody gets it

i am torn apart im not a soldier im in too much pain to fucking fight this war

but im going on forward

maybe that is something

just so sick of everything

and the shrapnel in my heart all twisted around all those faces

that embrace, completely lost to me now… no memory of it

because it would hurt to remember

it hurts to not remember! so on the days when a flicker comes in

i imagine B’s arms around me enfolding me in a gentle paternal love and i dont feel the threat inside me about to explode

because really, fuck E… he was trash.he goes out in the trash. the only worthwhile thing about him was what i saw inside him that he chose to neglect.

i cant hate somebody for living how they do, can i?

is it FAIR?

is it REASONABLE?

am i a REASONABLE PERSON?

i need to get on a stage.soon. and it needs to be recorded this time or i will get homicidal.

Another Goodbye and the day of 30 omens

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.

It gets bad. The only thing that makes it better is hanging out with B. He makes the hole feel like it is not there. But it’s there. It is as if he never existed. So I try to do things that will hurt myself and then I feel like I can finally hear him. No, don’t do those things, it is stupid. I have no purpose, I never did. B is not available though. M is and so I can always call him. He is bad for me but I don’t care. He is there. He is there. He is there. He always picks up the phone. Always. I no longer mention him from my past. Because M gets mad at me and starts screaming about how he doesn’t understand how I fell for him. But it just hurts to hear people say mean things about him. I wish he would come back into my life and kill me so I could  be killed by somebody I loved. These words scare him. I thought he wasn’t scared easily. I want to go into the marines. I am thinking of running forever somewhere but I looked into it and I have to be off the stuff from the clinic in order to get a gun and join to serve my country. I don’t want to make music for I have nothing to write about. There is no point. I am tired of requiems that say goodbye that probably just inflict damage on the people who listen to them. I don’t want people to feel what I feel. I am bad for everybody. Otherwise he would call me. He did this because I am bad and because everybody around him thought so. I deserve to suffer for it.

Images

He turns, he is tired, he no longer likes it, he say. It’s too easy for Parker’s voice to turn from understanding to snobbery, as if it’s his right to take something when he is incapable of appraising its true value. He’s too lost in the latest formation of how pot grows to fathom what the books he reads mean anymore. He won’t turn on the Fox channel to watch the best show of the season because he says Fox is evil. If I ask him how he will contribute to the evil by turning on its channel, he doesn’t answer because there is no answer to such a stupid question. When I show him the beauty of the girls vision within a story of subjugation, love, and strength, he doesn’t seem to understand how a person can make mistakes and be intelligent. “They must be two different people” he loiters on demanding. “Her inner monologue was intelligent, but her life was stupid.” Doesn’t he look at his own life? “You still live with your parents at the age of forty, surely your monologue is more intelligent than your life.” “My father threw me through a window once.”

Read me your writing, I ask.

“I’ve departed from imagistic school. But there was one image that used to preoccupy me yet.”

“There was this big white globular colony of maggots in a hayloft of a farm. When I was six or seven I remember the day it climbed up. I remember the sunlight coming through and I saw the blob, the halo of maggots, and I started thinking about how it was alive; it put a chill through me insomuch as I don’t know how it weaseled it’s way onto the farm. The thing that sort of brought me back to life was how I could see the beating of a man’s heart in his chest.”

Read me another, I say. I want images. Give me images. What haunts you?

“Ideas running into the framework of a conversation. I thought I told you how preoccupied I was with heaven emptying, and images of rivers spanning the world, cats eyes, things inside of things, but I am much more concerned with trying to communicate simple ideas with fidelity.”

Images, I ask.

“Diamond cut diamond; heaviness of snow and rain set out over the land
heart aches over people losing land for the first time. Fiction has you. ”

“I kill a rat: I find its leavings in the bedroom: its wet circle of urine on the blue counter pane. I kill it with a pool cube with all my weight grinding against the floor and it makes little cries for a long time. Years ago Mark and I hunted a mouse in the same room.”

A marked room, I think. Why do English majors insist on this dangerous separation as they try to take imagery from language? Even this imagery is stilted, like somebody afraid to write. Each word barely written for fear that it is not good enough. As if emotion cannot be felt through writing, as if it can be hidden if you make the depths cryptic enough. No, Parker, I can feel the the beady eyes of somebody peering out only looking at the beads of sweat forming underneath his brow. You said you saved shards of glass from the window because your father, your mother, and your brother would deny that it ever happened. You sound so sure of their denouncement, and yet you say you are pleased by your life now. Pleased is not the word you used, but I feel I know you well enough to put words in your mouth. After all, most words aren’t good enough, so perhaps you would be pleased that I took the time to decide for you.

“I was in the spirit of the lords day walking in the likeness of a man as he instructed me of a fear. I must have you for a time you and me together: we’ll accomplish this errand: it’s a matter of will, of volition: only you and your decisiveness can finish the job. How am i supposed to get out of here, I asked? Don’t fret as machines will carry us through. The inhumanely difficult lies with you.”

“It crawls with fevers, brain toxins- the minds electric chair and the beggars in my skin. The beastly man I became in my place, this abomination. The feelings twisting in the most itchy antichrist epilogue for their attack upon government- 8 million children on Ritalin- nothing exists that is easily reckoned. Nothing fenced is the single engraved drive; that sensuality of nothing is the zodiac seen through gargoyles reigned; transpired. Sandpaper with demented eyes. Purgatory can be known through the known exited links of the demarcated. This insailed huddled sanctuary. The night is the ball; a slight octupus of light with herded capsules. The tongue of this land is painful to hear. The disclosure fruit of abortive gun-making, the failed suicide repeated. ”

“The sweat of the father of men is a badger laughing without count. There is a father of man and he is laughing, he is a random cog for his pressured laughing are games of combination of ironies and diagnols and veins. The new values are outside, the combination knowing all things in that perfect information- talent touched by his talent of revolution with palimpsests looked here for small irony. People dwelt here in their antiquity counting money passed by amid new styles that laminate his games, all worlds and times and men within his days. Dream time passages brought about that palindromes wearingly will expose.”

I wrote a really really long story and it just got deleted just like that some key i pressed made it go away

all my thoughts know are feelings and all my feelings know are thoughts

Dear Diary,

I am so sorry, what did I do wrong? I am so sorry. I know things haven’t been straight but I don’t know what straight is. All words have lost their function or their definition. I don’t dare use the word meaning for it means too much, YOU SEE WHAT I, AHEM,
“mean?” I criticized so much but what about my behavior? Ever since grad school it has been a giant fight and I feel like I am always losing always looking for somebody or something to hold on to, or some place to escape to, and I don’t know how else to characterize how I feel, and I listen to what everybody says, I’ve always listened too much, and I hear so many contradictions, people say I’m the strongest person they’ve met,and other people think I’m weak, and all the time I think I feel like a twig in the wind, precisely because I am so susceptible to whoever I am around. If I am around somebody who thinks badly about the person I love, I will start to wonder, too. When around Downey I felt like my heart and my head met each other for the first time, and they didn’t know what to do. It was too much confrontation all the time, and then there he was, standing there, this beautiful eyed being that I can’t stop loving. I try, I try so hard, and I hate myself for the mean things I’ve tried to think about him and have thought about him, but it was more about the search for what was the right thing, and I think the right thing doesn’t have to  be heard, and so it went every which way. I felt like maybe he helped me make progress personally and when i ended things I ended all the progress I made with him too, not that he was my therapist, just that he could be helpful, and I wanted not to be connected at all, so I tried to burn it all, i am so sorry, I wish I hadn’t done that, it’s not that I want it all back, it’s that all I feel is desire. Desire for him to go, desire for him to be there, desire for things to be done NOW NOW NOW NOW! I don’t have even a sliver of the patience he has. And so I cannot understand why he can’t read my emails when they are so important to me, when all I have left in this chaos is communication, but to him communication is not “EVERYTHING” the writing on the walls is not “EVERYTHING” he actually has these rules that he abides by, even though the world pays no attention to his rules, and they are as real as anybody else’s rules, and as right or wrong as anybody else’s rules, but I feel as though I was never careful, oh, I hesitated, I pondered, I wondered to death, but did I ever try to be careful? it was more that i didn’t understand how to be careful because if I started being careful with myself I wouldn’t know when  to begin or where to stop or where it all fell apart. I just want to fall apart and maybe somebody will pick up one piece at a time and carry a piece in their pocket, and I can exist in millions of peoples pockets, that would be okay, wouldn’t it? I was a hypocrite in this relationship, if he did bad things I am sure I did too. I just don’t know, I never know, and I want it all back, I want every chance I’ve ever had to be there always so I can get it back if I need it, and I feel this sudden sense of impending destiny and need that is so central like it is a central line going directly to a catheter directly to my spine or my heart or my brain, I am an instrument of everybody elses outputs, and it hasn’t all been pretty. He warned me not to take on all the burdens, he saw it all, but since he didn’t repeat himself I tried to convince myself he never saw it, because it’s not good enough for me to just see it once, I need to be reminded that you saw it more than once, and it seemed to get smaller and smaller and now I feel all those gestures piling up inside me but I feel like they aren’t piling up inside him, I assume I care and he doesn’t, isn’t that an arrogant assumption, or maybe it’s just the truth, that is the sad part, that I don’t know, but I am angry, because I feel certain that I DID KNOW, I DID KNOW HOW HE FELT, but I feel like he took it away. But maybe he didn’t? As usual  I don’t know anything- all my thoughts know are feelings and all my feelings know are thoughts.

I LOVE WITH SUCH PAIN I CANT BREATHE. SOMEBODY FUCKING GET ME ONE OF THOSE ASTHMA THINGS.