Take Another Look




















{March 16, 2010}   thrashing

i want to write a lullaby that is also a requiem… something sweet has to come out of all this thrashing.Something of music to myself, like Neil Cassady in White Collar finding the music box. But does he go all haywire when he finds out Kate was just conning him? We haven’t finished the storyline, and we don’t know for sure, and being a romantic, I still say Fowler might have her, but being the character and hero he is he finds violence banal and mundane. The cons who have known him taunt him, saying he never could get his hands dirty.

Back to the upsets. The thrashing has mostly been tonight. It calmed me down,all that thrashing, that it did, but my anger had no direction. Well, maybe one direction, one target, one I keep being angry at because of the things they don’t do, the precautions they don’t take, the truths they don’t tell themselves at night.. I’m not usually angry like that, and it was easy to blame it on the fever that took over my life, made me delirious, but mostly it seemed to overshadow everything inside my head and all of a sudden I found every good memory burned to a crisp. And so I no longer cared. I no longer cared at all and something in me wanted blood. I felt untied from any attraction I had ever had to this person. I used to care so much that I would imagine a shield protecting them, a soft shield enveloping them, and I would be next to them… or want to me. For a few hours I only could  feel  the bright whoosh that comes when you’re knocked out. The tumble of the sound of whooshing in my ears,  the sight of stars, and most of all the pressure.  A wounded animal is the most dangerous kind of animal is what they say.  The target of my anger only responded in a way that created more pain, and I just felt shame, the dangerous kind that tests your limits. Then I receive a nice reply from a friend, a friend that never had to try so hard to be a friend. Maybe we’ve had our upsets and our downs, and we don’t keep in touch as much as we should, but there is something different about my target that I feel that the friendship deserves a lot of time. Certain people, you can pick up wherever you left off. Other people, they belong in your life every day, and without that, you hate them for their absence. It might not be fair, it might not be just, but you know they aren’t even giving one percent, and how can you look past that, when you gave so much more, and would give so much more. And they can never look at the whole picture, think about how much they let me down, and how little anger I have expressed, and think for maybe one minute this isn’t about them, it’s about me needing to express my anger at them. I don’t care how they find it, and if the timing is inopportune then it’s their fault for not ever being available and ignoring every humane chance there is.  I think maybe there comes a time where I should walk away, but right now I am so blinded by the stars and the rage and the fall that I don’t know. I need a reason to care again, for it’s been taken away from me. And in its place is a beating drum, a knife, bullets, guns,  a kind of violence I find barbaric.
At least I am back at that stage in my life where I don’t care if the rest of my life is alone again.

I have blocked out the shrieking noises….And I have blocked out the idea that they care.. or ever did care and are nothing more than a loser.. Okay it is hard for me to believe they are a loser but I somehow lost something of heart when I burned passed normal temperatures… Or so I think… and the only imprint of the steps  taken are being washed away by the ocean.

{February 17, 2010}   last time waking up

“These were surfaces that had encountered the booted steps of Confederate generals and even Jefferson Davis himself on a brief stopover on a losing effort. He knew the history well, but had never reveled in it. [For] you didn’t pick your family or your family history.”

“Unlike some of his ancestors who had been a bit freewheeling in their oversight, he undertook this responsibility seriously.”

“He was a man who always allowed the time to think things through. Almost nobody did that anymore, from the presidents of the US to Wall Street barons to the man or woman on the street. Speed…because of that impatience the answer they got usually turned out to be wrong.” -first family

Don’t revel in your family history, he says. I guess that means if they were all rich losers don’t say it’s in the cards.Famous geniuses? Not a guarantee. Drunk nomads? Not an excuse to be a nomad or to be drunk. But now we don’t just have ourselves to blame things on; there are genes and, of course, what was. Cling to it if you like. Still, in case you didn’t know, what constitutes an excuse these days has gotten rice paper thin.

The manager who wakes me up at 3 am claiming I’m a source of noise is working on the apartment downstairs now and I can hear exactly what words are coming out of the newscasters mouth because he won’t shut his door.

I believe Burdough is angry at me but I don’t know what he is angry about. I told him I’d assume things were peachy keen- do you really think I’m the type that would use that language? I told him I would assume things were ok between us.Better than the opposition: I’d rather not believe he’s angry and I can’t find out why.It is bad timing since I need to know he is worthy of the recognition he will receive if the deal goes through. But he is acting strange and unpredictable- just when he was the one person who had seen and accepted the worst of me, some detail sent him into a tailspin? Dammit, that friendship was important and somehow unique and he should know better by now. He’s always let me do whatever I want in terms of communicating, and that’s always been a saving grace, a place I can go if I feel I’ve been roughed up internally. The bruises are worn by how nonchalant-sounding I am. Like when I saw him after Downey and I were broken, and he tried to help with my mac, and something felt odd- maybe it was the fact that this time he didn’t notice. Maybe it was the fact that I didn’t say anything. Maybe he was upset about something and I didn’t ask. But it takes a lot to get him angry, or it takes hardly anything at all.

From friendship to what refuses to be friendship-(if he wants friendship we’d talk on the phone, wasn’t that where the heart of our friendship was? And that is a link that can never be over strengthened.)

Texting. A goodbye now. Downey wrote xoxo and maybe it was something that sounded more private than that but I’m not going to tell you- all I can say is I froze turning beet red that stillness and silence coming over me, that sudden alertness and I hid my head underneath my pillow trying not to think. I’m trying to be your friend really but you are the only one I want if I want and I can go for long periods not wanting not being with anybody just not when you are nice. After hiding I type back something of reciprocation while a voice in my head yells at me for not being hard to get.I guess these things go in cycles and if he didn’t have a steady job or life he might find himself on my side and if I was working so much I didn’t have time to think- well could that happen me not thinking no but I know when I was working full time and going to college full time things got ragged around the edges..got to write the french angel back! Why has it always got to be all or nothing? Last night it was officially ‘Downey’s fault’ if I fell asleep imagining him lying next to me. If he wants to be my friend he can just pick up the phone but I understand the apprehension, oh, what will we talk about? Better to just lay low for a while I guess. But I can remember how perfect it could have would have but it is the reality that will stay with me through thick and thin I just need some distance and to focus solely on my work; I can and will do that.

{January 6, 2010}   No word for No, ever…

I looked around the place where he no longer lived. It was strange to see the things he had touched. Why was it so hard to remember his smell? Memories did not come when I chose them to come to me. They came randomly or listlessly. I often thought that I had brought them to me, that there was a kind of sense being played out. I tried to make sense of what could not make sense. There were messages where he said he hoped his mindset was not destroying our relationship. Was his self-awareness extended enough to later remember saying that? I’d never known somebody so intimately. Simultaneously I yet felt so lost. Every time I used to dial his digits, I didn’t know what kind of mood calling him would inspire. Before he got on the phone, I could be in one of a hundred of different moods. And there were so many shades of beauty he missed out on when he didn’t answer. Sometimes it seemed like he answered only when I was not in the right mood to talk. But I persisted to call even when the mood was bad, if only to connect. And still, I didn’t know what disconnection meant. All those things I did not know but could see and hear and feel pounded on my door and chased at my nights. It held me captive, the thing I could not know. The space that we did not share was where I kept trying to break in. I wasted time trying to pound that place open. I think he saw me there and pretended not to. I think he saw me and it’s what made him want me to go away. But he wanted me to stay, too.

Occasionally my heart would leap out of my throat as the phone kept ringing. This especially happened when I sent him emails I could not retract. My words were like bullets meeting their target, but I never thought I was a good marksman, and I always assumed I had not been heard, because nobody heard me in my youth. I thought I was wildly scattering fire because I needed an outlet, because he wouldn’t let me communicate in words anymore, and when I couldn’t communicate in words I tried touch, but he had long ago banished communication from entering any realm we inhabited. I loved him so much I could not breathe and I hated myself for a weakness that he seemed to hate. I let words be more decisive than I was but I did not know what words were doing. I could not see things the way he did. If he had changed, how much had I changed? I later was able to see things in a logical way, but unfortunately, I wanted to share that with him too. Was there ever going to be a time when I didn’t want to share things with him? All of my friends kept saying he didn’t give a shit about me, that he was not right, and they pointed at my checkered judgment to prove it. Their words either pushed me closer towards him or farther away. But I never knew where he was. The longing to know possessed me. It became more important than finding my way. The uncertainty came in waves. One week I was both irritated with myself for stirring up trouble and speaking what I thought was pure logic, but I was most irritated with him for not responding and causing more uncertainty, which in turn caused me to try to ignore what was going on too. I felt free, as if the bullets had freed me in some way. And yet there was only silence on his end. I tried to imagine a life without all the pain he’d caused, but that also meant a life without the pleasure. I cursed him in my mind for the parts of himself he hid from me over and over again, especially since it was getting worse. Or so it seemed. I tried trusting his judgment, but it cast me astray because I could not know the full picture. I tried trusting my judgment, but it was full of holes. I tried trusting the piercing howl of anguish that came over me like a shod of electric shocks. The shocks did not dissipate. And then they quietly left for a while, and I peeked around uneasily. Again, had I trusted my friends more than me?

I looked in the mirror and held my gaze firmly. I was attractive. He didn’t tell me that much. Was that something I liked about him? All those things I attacked, they’d also drawn me to him and now I was blaming then forgiving him for qualities that he had always had but that I kept discovering anew. One time he said I was blaming myself, but when the tears came I was restless that he couldn’t turn over and face me, wipe the tears off my face, kiss me and assure me. I thought that was all I needed but what did I know about need, after all was said and done? I needed so much for that one gesture to be in there somewhere but I felt like an unwanted occupant taking up space next to him, neither mattering nor not mattering. Why didn’t he wake up in the night and randomly whisper things to me? Why was he so effusive, so cold, so habitual in all of his tendencies? Was this a particular tactic to get me to leave or to stay? I could not accept that he could not take on my love except in his own form. I had to see it in my own way. And my own way was so stripped and naked he seemed secretly at a loss. I was at a loss, too. I didn’t know what I could stand to lose. It was strange to believe somebody when they only spoke their thoughts once, then never repeated them. The most important things were unswayable and I latched on to what could not be said like a tiger and her prey. I knew my capacity to love was too large. I had to hide it. It was too much. I was too much. But he was confusing me again. I didn’t belong anywhere.

Maybe he wasn’t really dead. Maybe he had created this house for me as a place to think he had left. But no that was just hope talking. Did I hope I could forget? I think I was scared that I hoped that I would never have to stop breathing in his fumes, his embrace. But I also wanted to be unfettered. I would never trade freedom for security. Except in small items, one by one, the hook sunk into me as into a fish. I could not rely on any one belief, nor could I rely on what the whole picture said. No wonder I was so filled with yearning for him to take me to some cold place and quietly disembark my contradictions with the soft taste of spring water. So he could fill my thirst with something that was cleansing. I did not expect to feel my face burn in a flash of indignation, nor for my hope to give way to a shy but fierce awkwardness. And if it did he had to be there to make it better, and when he wasn’t, I wondered if I didn’t know who he was, and this thought despaired me the most of all. I had to assume everything was a lie if I was to try to follow the trail backwards, to know how far I had come and from where.

Good or bad. Had he been good or bad for me? Why was the house vacant? If he came home he might find me here, still standing and waiting for him to appear. Or he might find me tapping on the table, impatient and ready to coil with a wave of questions. Or still, I might be calm and still, simply wanting that lucidity I felt I deserved. I’d thrown too much and now could not wait. I was walking around in my own cage and feeling deserted all the time if only for my own issues with abandonment. But there was more to it than that, and it was what incensed me to not give up. I wanted to start from a blank slate, I had said, without realizing I was eroding the latest of floors that he had started working on. I kept breaking things and he kept trying to protect me until I was floored to discover that my hammer had a safety valve on it that I couldn’t undo. I used the safety valve as a hammer instead. All the while, my own sense of isolation drummed at me like a pulse. I knew I could live without him, but when he was there I felt like I could not live without him at all. I didn’t understand how things could be so different when he was there and when he was not. Was he the only one making an impact on things? It seemed nothing I did impacted him after a while. Which was why the house looked unaffected by my presence.

Damnit, I had desensitized him. With my words, I had made my moods too indistinguishable so that he was so used to a flourish of ten pages that it made no difference to him when I tried other tactics. I had already poured so many paint colors in there it made no difference when I used white-out. I feared nothing would make the difference. I would have called an “Inaction Hotline” to see if that would fix things but there wasn’t any Inaction Hotline for me to go to and I could not refrain from acting. Whether it was calling or forgetting or thinking or trying not to think, I had no finality. Even in asking for it, did I really expect to get it? I gave up on my ability to use words further. I was sending him two messages. I love you and I hate you or I don’t know, do you know, and I had sent it too many times. And we were tired, so tired. I was tired of doubt, and he, no doubt, was sick of reassurance. He had no more to offer me because in one click, I erased my own message but not the internet footprint it left behind.

I was furious when I found out that the messenger service was so flawed. Why couldn’t my love be greater than my hate? I suppose it was, but when the stain of blood entered the picture, the sense of timeline was lost. What did I know about endings anyway? There I was saying he was ending things all the while asking for a beginning or a new one anyway. The first one was good enough, but I wanted a repeat I guess. Please, I’d just wanted to make things better, that’s why this all started in the first place! I wanted it to be getting better and I was a self-improvement kit I felt he never used. He must have felt like everything he said went on deaf ears after the contradictions were sent out like nuclear warning strikes.

My heart felt like it was locked up inside, and my thoughts felt like they were crying against my skull to get out. I felt like if he could only hear me he would understand, he would understand. I had to believe that. Don’t you see why I had no choice but to believe that?

What the hell was that last post about? Something subliminal that’s for sure. I haven’t felt like I could write for a long time. It’s been inside me, outside me, skin flaking like lost times spent that were invested in nothing, I thought the more you invested the better your returns, if only I could read silences as well as psychics read read tarot cards. If only I could read my pain the way people read maps. Too many if onlys, I know. I know what it feels like to go away too. I know what it feels like to avoid the same phone call from the same person for days because you don’t want to deal, and yet you, who told me to tell my mother I loved her, don’t answer me. I did have a good talk with her. And I always think I have a good talk with you but then a day later I don’t know because the unsaids crawl up to me like alligators and I can’t escape their gaping teeth. I don’t know what it feels like to avoid a phone call because you do like them, so excuse me for reading the wrong thing into an interception- I mean blockage- I mean lack of communication. I think maybe it was a good idea, this break, this space, and I try enjoying the space. But the fact that everything is empty, that there isn’t even a small five word message in my inbox saying “I’m still here,” followed by something “NICE” is everything to me. Maybe those nothings shouldn’t mean anything at all but they are the world to me. So I’ve lost a world. I’ll find a new one. I just can’t deal with this uncertainty. So if I do something wrong I feel bad about later, and believe me, certain men have a way of making me feel like I SHOULD hate myself, even though I don’t, I love myself, but I know that I have a hard time saying no, and I like a challenge, and sometimes those things add up to something precarious. I think you know what substance I’m floundering in, so why won’t you tell me? I’ll understand no matter what, so obviously you aren’t looking for my understanding. What is it? You can tell me. You can tell me. I’m really good at holding people. Too bad nobody makes use of the things I’m good at. I guess this silence was good for getting away from the things that I thought mattered that maybe don’t. But it’s lasting too long and since I’m extremely moody- the girl next to me in line claims I’m bipolar “just like her” but it’s only another term I don’t believe in. I think it’s equivalent to stating that we are human. The most I can do is just continue to write things down. This could all be my fault, i think at the end of my day. It could all be because I don’t have the right job right now. This could all be because I lack self-restraint. But then I don’t think I really think that because I don’t live in a state where I blame myself, I just live in a place where I am ready to blame myself earnestly, and that leaves me wide open in conversations where I don’t say what is going on, and that was all I meant, but those scattered messages that you used to attempt to answer just stay there like wounds waiting to be touched, or healed, or merely noticed.

{September 20, 2009}   Rebellious Boy ends up with AIDS

“I have so much to tell you, the problem isn’t that I’m running out of time, I’m running out of room, this book is filling up, there couldn’t be enough pages, I looked around the apartment this morning for one last time and there was writing everywhere, filling the walls and mirrors, I’d rolled up the rugs so I could write on the floors, I’d written on the windows and around the bottles of wine we were given but never drank, I wear only short sleeves, even when it is cold, because my arms are books too. But there’s too much to express. I’m sorry.”

-Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

It’s kinda creepy waking up somewhere other than where you went to sleep. When I am out looking for a place to stay, I think about how far I’ve come, but the need to keep going never leaves, so when I get stuck staying someplace, the first thing I want to do in the morning is bolt. My hostesses tend to be busy sleeping in until the sun has indented their face with crisscrossing burns done by people passing the window, creating alternate shadows. The methheads that stay up all night create some trouble for me when they forget who I am or why I stay. They like to interrogate me in the mornings, which is when I am most ready to do anything to get out of there for no matter where I am I have to fight the urge to cut and run. It’s been ingrained in me. I’ve forgotten how to look back and I no longer know how to remember what my past was, except that it is a whiz of impressive images and people. Sometimes I stay awake wondering if the number of people who were cruel match the number of people I’ve met who meant well, but the worst thing about it is that the people who meant well really didn’t know the least bit about help. They take my departures personally, too, and I can’t have that. So if I have to pick, I’ll go with the cruel person just so that somebody else can get the good-intentioned one. I can handle it, and I might as well handle it, maybe I deserve it, because I have locks all over my body especially where my eyes are, they might as well just be slits that taunt those who try to steal my belongings in the night. So many different kinds of belongings just as there are so many shades to betrayal, and so many shades of betrayal, and so many kinds of gray I stopped counting, which is why I can barely function, why I have to keep running. But I promised my father I would never stop counting. He’s probably still standing at the loading dock, waving and waving since he doesn’t know I actually left. I don’t know what my dad looks like crying, I bet if I tried hard enough I’d remember. I bet I don’t want to remember. I was so confused I didn’t understand that leaving a place had to do with leaving people, too. Found my home life confusing so I may have villianised both parents just as a safeguard to prevent me from staying. But I think that explanation is cockney. While I can believe my subconscious was that smart when I was that young, I can’t believe my subconscious survived. Right when I left my dreams were about the young man i couldn’t get out of my head, and in one dream I was standing there with a gun in a tree, tears falling off my face, about to pull the trigger as the man’s mother spoke to me. Back in real life, not my night life, after the guy used and discarded me like a piece of meat (virginity is clinical, he told me later, I was doing you a favor, he told me later) I had dreams I was walking up a hill, leaves were falling, everybody was infected with AIDS, I shivered. I woke up, was the dream an attestation to what I’d been through, a prophecy, a warning, or just my mind working through the trauma of being used because I thought that it couldn’t happen to me because I’d thought I was invincible? Now I move around so recklessly or probably just so hampered that I can’t remember the gist of my dreams when I wake up. Maybe if I tried to remember, but that seems like effort, the one thing I find myself not exerting anymore. I can remember having those dreams, which is key, but that part of my mind that used to fight so hard to recall and restore is out of luck and needs repairs, just like machines we too need to be fixed sometimes, it could be something really simple like needing an upgrade, or it could be a problem nobody knows how to fix. The worst is feeling like a machine that just whips uselessly in the wind. It’s atrocious to talk about ones own mind that way but why not, we talk about everything else without regard for what we are talking about. We talk about computers and we sometimes attribute them with qualities they don’t have, just as we sometimes take perfectly complex people and reduce them to cogs in a machine that may or may not be fixed. We may become attached to a soda machine and think that it is gentle. I once knew a guy who became obsessed about a jukebox. It was his muse and he wrote amazing poetry until they took the jukebox away, and it was horrible to watch him losing the one thing that had inspired him. It drained him of all life, and now he is like a guitar that can only strum the same few notes. His communication mostly stays in the same place as he jumbles when he talks, because I imagine the words getting gummy in his mouth and not coming out right, since when he talks about what he believes, the conspiracies about the bugs planted by the CIA and how the water in the city is poisoned to make us stupid so we vote for the president, I nod solemnly, for anything is possible, and nobody should ever forget that, and yet we do, over and over again I have to remind people.

“During the day I can’t start anywhere, and I don’t know where to begin,” November says to me. I stare at her for signs but I can’t find any that match what I understand about her. She is so much a mystery to me, and yet I should understand. In a way I am intimidated by her. But she is my past. I always feel like my past is better than me. That’s something November probably knows but wouldn’t admit to knowing right now.

She talks as if she is unaware that she is talking. The likelihood that she will remember me is very low. But if I could make an impression onto her, I sense that it would be forever burned into her irises.

“I have a story to find, but within the story, there are so many other stories that the mere magnitude encompasses me. Forget words. Forget grammar. Forget every great line ever heard. It’s a matter of stripping down to the bone. No, I can’t do that. I can’t do that because every time I do, I am never good enough. The person writing the story can’t figure out what time to write in, because there is too much going on. Sometimes a world just needs to slow down, but the people in it can’t tell if it’s the world or them that is moving so fast. Finally, the society forgets itself by collapsing. Someone, somewhere, is trying to find the words to explain. But these words have to be sufficient for everyone. They cannot just be words that make sense to one or two people. The whole world has to understand. And every once and a while you meet a person, for whom, no explanation will make sense. And that person can be a very dangerous person. Goodnight,” November says, and speedily blurs into the crowd as if the conversation between us had never happened.

I sign onto my yahoo account. Reality is stripping down. I don’t understand. I find an email from the past. At least, what I think is the past. I insisted on such high voltages of stimulation. Maybe it was like somebody attaching electrodes to my head. Didn’t I ever stop to wonder if too much stimulation could be a bad thing? That sometimes I needed to sit down and absorb the same piece of information ten times? I used to do that. All the time. Now it’s just facility and speed.

I see the AOL account I had when I was 14, but that lasted until I was 19, and still exists excepts remains unchecked. It’s an IM between me and my friend Brendon, who is still on my best friend list now.

moondancey: maybe im just a no sense person never going to be understood maybe i’ll amount to nothing which is fine i dont know who i am im lost to the vacant sky of today which is consuming me like a dark butterfly chasing me why today me?

Annoyme: it’s a good question

moondancey: instead i long to be captive to some other world where people dont hurt each other and i hear about it and cant react because what reaction is necessary when they are ready to do what they can to manipulate me but i dont know about it it’s all behind my back because i am already gone i can feel that how it must feel when im gone why cant they then they must feel nothing is all i can think about when the words amount to nothing anymore the way i wasnt before different now no more.

I find casual fragments that surprise me. Nonchalant but decisive fragments, like I am making a decision that I will stick to for the rest of my life. At some point in my life, I wasn’t as changeable as I am now.

i decided i cant ever kill myself too many people have done it

is wanting to live a shallow or deep desire? maybe all i feel is desire all i want people to feel in my playing is desire or something maybe i should give up music maybe i should work harder to be perfect a fucking machine or something maybe nothing is right maybe i should stop talking one might think i was drunk at this point to be writing this

i don’t know if i like this century, but what choice is there?

silly thought- i am silly

I remember when I didn’t question how much people loved me. I believed in my friends love like it was gravity. Except my parents. I only questioned my parents love.

I used to remember all the good things, and remembering the good things kept me safe, but now I don’t feel so secure, going from house to house to apartment to apartment, and when I can’t get a hold of him, I feel like I am losing myself, and I count how may ways life is keeping us apart, and I think it doesn’t matter, but it does, because I think I act out in strange ways that don’t help at all. But how do I know how to help, my whole life has just been to Go, Go, and Go, and I never learned how to pack or how to prepare myself for leaving. They taught me to fight, or to scamper away like a mouse. Forsaken, I feel useless not knowing anything but what I was programmed to do, which is get away from what is chasing me, which may be my attempt to rise above this and make something of my situation. But then I am misfiring any time I stumble around not making the best of my day, of my time, which is easy to do.

I feel so ashamed because he works all night at factory where they build airplanes. And he stopped going to work, and began to follow me at night, when I began to prowl. When I woke up in the mornings, I would find him peering over me. I would scream, and kick, and tell him to leave me alone, that I would call the police. Each time, he took the time to pick me up, even as methdealers surrounded him. I buried my face in his clothing, and I heard him tell me he would leave me behind if I kept kicking and screaming him, but he didn’t leave me behind, and I didn’t stop kicking or screaming him. He was saying “shhh.” He clasped me as if I was a dead bird that needed to be resurrected, and he kept whispering the same thing over and over again, which became comforting, even if I kept trying to bite him all the same.

He accompanied me from place to place, until I felt like each place was like every other.
Then he had to go back to his factory, or he would lose his home. So run, I asked of him. I didn’t understand, because to me a place is any other place. I think he expects more of me, which confuses me. There was a period where I spent every waking moment being as efficient as possible. I worked and I worked at the same place in the same mind frame. Now my mind is always someplace else, and to get it back, I might have to go back to all the places I left parts of myself at, like the meth dealers house, and I don’t know how to do that. Pieces of me are littered all over this city, and how will I know what is me and what is junk? All I know is that love was supposed to save me but I counted on it too much and now I must be betraying them by not being my best every day, by not trying harder, by not making more money, by not doing what I was ready to do when I was done with school. I had all this inertia from leaving work because they put all this pressure on you, and you think that the moment you have any time to yourself, you will become your own slave master, and work at what you want to work at, but weeks passed and the pressure became less and less until I uncovered the horrible allure of hanging in limbo, not going anywhere but not leaving. There isn’t really any allure to it, but I use that word because I see others drawn to it, too, and I feel like we are all disappointed in each other, but at least here we can look one another in the eyes and say, I am not doing my best, in fact, I am so far I have forgotten what my best could be. I’ve wondered for years now if my best left me behind a long time ago.

I’d like to say that knowing he is there keeps me sane. Maybe it does. But because I’ve never known this feeling before, and because I don’t know if he has or hasn’t experienced this before, it makes a difference to me. It’s as if he could have betrayed me before he met me, and how is that possible? You can’t even hold the present against somebody you care about much less the past. Instead of it keeping me sane, my need for him makes me feel like I am out of control, like I am the only one out of control, because he appears in control, doesn’t he, he does. Knowing he could stop feeling what he feels for me, which I don’t know, those things cannot be calibrated or counted or seen or understood, drives me to blame emotion itself, for it can change on a dime. Maybe there is a way to turn my emotions off and on. All I know is that it is overwhelming, what happens, because he makes me feel and think at the same time, and nobody else is allowed to do this.

I don’t know what affect I have on him, because I don’t know how to ask in the right way. And sometimes in my insecurity I mistake not knowing for being alone. Because if I care for him I have to learn to give things space, things I don’t want to give space to, because I need to run, and run, and run, whether it is towards something or away from something, but instead he tries to get me to sit on a boat, and paddle slowly, and in it’s moderation, I can’t help but ask him all these questions, like what if we drown, or what if there is a storm, or are we really going somewhere or are you just pretending we are going somewhere? Do you want to go somewhere? Maybe there are sharks in the water. I have so many questions I want to ask him that never get asked when I want to ask them. I store them away for a later date but then that freaks me out, because the future is near but not certain. I have so many conversations I want to have but there is no time, because I wasted it running. There is no right time now for the conversations. Moreover, there is not enough space for the type of conversations, and so I feel a sense of loss where I should be feeling a sense of excitement, because I need to have faith that in the future there will be time, but maybe not space, that these things are always shifting, that nothing about this will feel concrete, at least not all at once. But what if not everything is the way I want. Since I used to run, I used to be uncompromising, and I don’t know how to be here, except what I am, which I don’t really know about. Sometimes I feel like I am standing over a cliff yelling and I don’t hear my own echo, and that is what scares me, is that I feel like he didn’t answer me back. But I don’t give it much time before walking away from the cliff because I think everything is as immediate as echoes, so because I feel like I have no time, that time is nonessential anyway, I throw my words away. I wish we had a chance to talk about it, I wish we did, but we have said so many things without words, and sometimes it’s so funny, I actually want to take back certain words and put other ones in their place. Or maybe I would say less.

Do away with the words, and bring on the cure, but in this case it is worth caring but the reality is not easy because I find myself experiencing slight tremors as in an earthquake, and I wonder if what I saw, which was so incredible it was blinding, is still there. Since time takes away the chance to know, I have to rely largely on hope, which has let me down in the past, but I cannot put too much stock in that, for surely it will let me down again, but that is okay. I need to make it okay.

I need to make it okay this is the most important thing there is. But I want and I want and I wish they’d see what I want because it is so beautiful in there if they saw but they turn away at the last minute or maybe it was before the last minute so maybe the want is not what they want, maybe too much want is too much but it wasn’t before so maybe it won’t be later even if it was for while, I need to know what they want too, but I don’t know if they want this, what do they want, do we want the same thing, shouldn’t I know this. Maybe it is not so important, as long as I know they care and I care. If only I could know we care the same amount, but that is like saying people should care about each other in the same way, in the same method, and that is not possible. For example people have so many different ways of showing they care, how can I expect anything to be similar at all. What word I am looking for is reciprocation, which is a huge thing, which is what I keep mouthing silently, looking for clues that it is okay. It is okay. I think it is okay. It’s okay if I can never know how he knew how to do what he did because I thought nobody could know what I wanted except he somehow found it until I finally knew what real tranquility felt like, even if it was only for one moment, one moment is like a lifetime, and in that moment I did not feel tied to desire, or need, or hunger.

This time finding my sensibilities isn’t through chemicals but through work. If I concentrate for long enough than I will have made myself a better person and I will have lost myself in my work and then I will have something to show for myself. But I don’t always like it because sometimes I want it all to go away for a second, because sometimes two people can be in such different places in their life that the places can’t touch, but maybe if they stretch they can still have encrypted conversations with each other. I know that there have been ways that a simple squeeze on my arm said more than a month of all my words said, and before he did that I would have said it was impossible, so maybe I am learning no matter how much dust I kick up in the process, time is driving me forward no matter how much I try to hold myself back. Is it fear? I don’t think it is fear so much as a “I made so many mistakes that I must erase everything I’ve ever done in order to do this right” which doesn’t really sound right. I am probably destroying too much, and while I firmly believe destruction and creation go hand in hand, you can forget how to create if you keep researching your subject until you’ve forgotten what drew you away from your sick life, what made you want to capture it in a book or in a photograph.

et cetera