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Almost Forgot / Started to Say [18 Nov 2015|04:17pm]
[ mood | nervous ]

'Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do—the actual act of writing—turns out to be the best part. It's like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony... My writing is like a person to me—the person who, after all these years, still makes sense to me.' —Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

So here I am again. Forcing myself to do the actual act. Because this is the only way I make sense to me.

Professor William James of Harvard: 'Compared to what we ought to be, we are only half awake. We are making use of only a small part of our physical and mental resources. Stating the thing broadly, the human individual thus lives far within his limits. He possesses powers of various sorts which he habitually fails to use.'

I've been asleep for too long; I'm ready for something to shock me awake, and all this waiting has made me realize that, this time, that something has to be me. In the condemning words of my once-Samson, 'You have to build the boat because no one else will unless they want a slave.'

Except I sit here in the stacks on the library floor, with tens of places to start, and not one inkling where I should, exhausted at every prospect, the arduous and weighted task of explaining away all the details I've neglected to scribble down. It was once so easy, so imperative, so necessary, my life-blood, the inking of my thoughts.

I think then to tell you of the science tattoo I'll travel to LA for in five months. Or the way the bar went silent in those first few notes. Of the cogs in the machinery of my brain stuck, attempting to turn on themselves over and over as I gawked in literal disbelief at the stage. Of my window. Of Samson. Of the man I've fallen in something-like-love with. Of the bikers and Monroe and my melted shoes the name they've given me. Of New Orleans and Sunday and the way he said, 'I love you' to her.

I think to tell you of the medication. Of the bed I rarely sleep in. The literal waste of my life piling in heaps so large I hide. Of the pink and the quarter life crisis. Of the colors and inkings and the E.E. Cummings poem I want tattooed across my spine.

I will tell you. I hope to god I will.

have no fear of death

Keep Falling All Around Her Fairy Tale [24 Jun 2015|01:18pm]
[ mood | contemplative ]

The last time I fell in love I stopped writing. This time I've started again.

Not to say I'm in love-love. It's only summer love. We agreed on it, one morning as the soft white of an early sun attempted to make its presence known through thick blinds, my head on his chest, no heart beat. His hands were in my hair; they're forever in my hair. He caught me as I scrunched my face in a funny tangle. 'What?' His forever-smooth, forever-calm voice. (He doesn't speak so much as he exhales tone.) His understated smile, his dimples. I cleared my throat, swallowed breath, spun my finger in circles on his chest around his heart. 'What if,' my voice didn't sound like my own, thin and unveiled. My lips moved without sound, not knowing how to say. 'What if we had one of those great summer romances, like... when you're a kid and you go away to camp... become wholly... entangled... in a person...' He rescued me, 'Give yourself away with reckless abandon.' 'Yes. Yes, that. And then the summer ends, and you go back to your respective real lives, and they're gone. What if we did that? What if we lost ourselves in one another with the mutual understanding that it will end with ripping each other's hearts out?' And in that forever-smooth, forever-calm voice he exhaled, 'Yes.'


I tried not to play with my hands, forgot to sit up straight. He didn't shake my hand, and I wondered if this was just something doctors never did anymore. 'It seems you've been... quite shuffled around,' he almost-smiled, almost-raised his eyebrows, scanning my file. I resisted my urge to tell him how awful the last doctor had been, that I had only seen her once before insisting on being transferred; I blamed it instead on location. 'Did you move?' he asked, alluding to the year-plus I had driven two hours to see my former psychiatrist, before he moved to Georgia. I shook my head, resisted my urge to tell him how moving my former psychiatrist had been, how I was forever changed in a real, meaningful way I didn't know existed.

He asked for an overview of sorts, a brief explaining of why I was there. I fumbled for words, came up empty. Ten years of the mental health system rushed too quickly in front of my eyes for me to catch an appropriate piece to hold up for him to see. I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder? I have nightmares? I'm a closet slut with an affinity toward having my hair pulled and shame? I started my mornings crying on the bathroom floor for weeks until Patrick found me a therapist? I attempted to live a fairy tale and no one could stop it until both slowly and suddenly I pulled back the veil and realized everything had been a lie? 'I... I'm really unsure of where to start, how I'd even answer that question.' I apologized, then hated myself for it, having worked so hard to eliminate unnecessary acts of guilt and penance from my life.

His voice was kind, and I relaxed into my breath a bit more. 'I've reviewed your file. Do you agree with your diagnoses of PTSD?' he asked. I didn't realize at the time what he was testing with that question. 'After I had started seeing a therapist here I decided I no longer cared about the label, the diagnosis. I just wanted to find what it was, this thing, whatever you'd call it, and work through it. I decided I would try to listen, try to do the things I hadn't done...' I could feel myself becoming vague the more the specifics hurt. It had been so long since I had done this. I has forgotten how onerous, how taxing it could be. How disquieting.

He asked if I was familiar with what PTSD meant, the symptoms. I told him I had been hospitalized as a teen, that they had suggested the same diagnoses, then threw it out because there was no event, no trigger or episode to explain away my symptoms. His face went crooked, the first touch of surprise I had once taken pride in pulling out of doctors that now made my cheeks go a light brushing of pink. Being an abnormality lost its luster.

(They never write movies about this stage, about the awkward place before figuring it all out, with no clear timeline, no clear thoughts, no faction of clarity. The concentrate on the downward spiral, the lacuna coil as the Italians might say.)

'What symptoms have you experienced that might point to that diagnoses?' he asked. 'I don't sleep. Dr. Seabolt helped me realize that I was getting ridiculously stoned every night so I wouldn't remember I had bad dreams in the morning. I didn't remember waking up, my heart pounding. I didn't even realize I was having nightmares.' I could see the question in his eyes before he asked. 'There's no reoccurring characters or themes, except for violence. They're all extremely violent. Graphic...' My voice trailed off. I had started to tell him when it started, that I remembered the first night I stared at my parents' bedroom door and was confused when my mother came from the other side, turned on the hall light, time to get up. It didn't seem possible, it didn't seem real, I remember thinking in a catatonic disbelief.

I didn't tell him about the angel. Or that my mother laughed when I asked her if someone had been in the house one night.

How dismissed I felt. Like the time I asked her if I was sick, if I had a disease that made me prone to bumps and bruises, as I was concerned by the amount of playground scrapes about my young skin.

I didn't tell him about the inappropriate ways my childhood friends would play with me.

'But I could never pinpoint exactly where this supposed trauma came from,' I held back the burst of a sigh, 'except my father worked a lot, things were a little tense I suppose, my mother has a miscarriage when I was young but I didn't know about it until years and years later.'

I didn't tell him I didn't know my mother's age until I was in my mid-twenties because she didn't want me to know she had gotten pregnant with my brother at seventeen, or that the only time I met her family was this past year at her mother's funeral, or that we never really talked about her dad until he died and even then she had been vague. I didn't tell him about her brother, Michael, who did or did not commit suicide depending on who you ask.

He gave a micro dissertation on maturity of thoughts. I tried to pay attention. He asked how my mood had been and I resisted my urge to tell him I was falling in love with a man I knew I couldn't keep, so I decided to offer up my heart on a stake instead and enjoy the ride as long as I possibly could. I mentioned my father, that we didn't see eye to eye.

I professed that I had been absolutely against being on medication, having been fucked up by a doctor several years ago in a way that left me paralyzed inside my own life. 'Do you think...' I was surgical with my tone, with the way I wrapped my tongue around and released my words, knowing I'd need to get this next part perfect, 'that, assuming you have patients like me, it's possible for someone like me to eventually not need the medication?' His smirk. Jackpot. He answered in just the ways knew he would; I cocked my head to the side in mock-thoughtfulness. 'I hope to work myself out of a job,' he finished, smiling. That question—part litmus test, part manipulation.

He never mentioned the part of my file that read 'borderline personality disorder.'

1 people living deeply / have no fear of death

Supposed to Be In Love By Now / It's Been So Long for Me, I Don't Know How [11 Jun 2015|05:20pm]
[ mood | listless ]

The click-ticking of my new watch is prominent.

Everything I type I delete because none of it grips. June bakes me into a sweat that immerses even my brain until it's slippery, now too loose in its jar.

'Shh...' his gentle whisper, 'you have to be quiet in a library.' His voice makes me want to sleep. Every stranger a world. Every disfamiliar face a possibility to shatter my own.

I wonder when all the wives and new mothers started looking my age. They all stare at me from peripherals. They could be me. They are not sure whether to be scared or sad or who to be scared or sad for. For the first time in my life, having no real prospects of someone with whom I could build a life I'd want, I have had to come to terms with the thought of growing through this life alone. I've called off the search.

When I said this to John his eyes wallowed. 'Sweetheart,' he said, as he always says in that famous John-accented way of saying that word, and wrapped my pathetic hand in the world of his own, 'if you were twenty years older, and I was twenty years younger...' If.

I've come to despise the superlative. I've filled my days with nothing but.

I think of the men who love me. The men who would have me. If.


Summer has me longing for money and wine and shallow social contact. I can't keep running from myself without the proper resources.

have no fear of death

To Lose All My Senses / That Is Just So Typically Me [09 Jun 2015|08:38am]
[ mood | awake ]

The difference between the manic episode of someone with bipolar disorder and the 'high' often equated with that of someone diagnosed with a borderline personality, finally explained to me fairly recently, is that the manic episode lasts in much shorter bursts, whereas the borderline rapture will continue bursting on into days, weeks, perhaps months.

The most natural intoxication. Like a singular buzz, a sine wave vibrating-ping-ponging against the walls of your brain, that high pitch you never noticed before, until you do, and then the rhapsody refuses to die, obeying the eternal repeat sign at the never-end of the score.

At 2:14am I sent Court an impressive but likely alarming amount of text regarding this man, all of it resembling the ranting lovechild of a psycho-obsessed teenager in lust for the first time and a junkie after her first shot of Zion.

2:15am, 'I FEEL INSANE,' I wrote. 'I want it to go the fuck away. But I know me. So I know I will likely run into the building that is clearly on fire.' Moments later, 'Sometimes it just feels too good to burn.' Then a list of all the things I hated about him, including his wingtip shoes, his quiet intensity and the soothing calm of his voice, likely from years of working too intimately with the recently deceased. And the unfair way he kissed me. And among the brume and vapor monographs of that evening I can hardly touch, the way he looked at me in that moment, burned crystal into my memory so real I can close my eyes at any moment and see his own with such clarity it hurts. Because I suspect, almost know, that his look, like his kiss, meant nothing to him at all.

But it made me feel.

(I feel a stomping of my little foot at this.)

So much.

At 2:27am I sought the admonishment of my vibrator.

6:57am, I had a dance party to Chubby Checker's The Twist.

7:00am, I noticed the sun was attempting to peel through my window. I closed my eyes and listened. No planes overhead yet.

7:02am, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was relieved to see I was beautiful again for the first time in months, knowing it wouldn't last the morning.

I threw on a skirt that was too short and too large around the waist, walked past Mike's bedroom in the still-dark of the inside. 'Hello?' he calls, the high-rise of his register giving away his alarm. 'It's only me,' I tell him. I hear him sit up in his bed, 'What are you doing up so early?' I tell him the truth, 'I can't sleep,' then walk out the door.

In the car I turned up the music, waved my head and shoulders around in a fashion that could not have resembled dancing, and drove into the sun until I was tired of singing at the top of my lungs. In the middle of a Britney song, I heard my strange voice say out loud so plainly, 'Oh. I'm having a break down.' And a strange, plain laugh fell out of my mouth.

Suddenly, all these months of not being able to get out of bed, of hardly making it to work for the few hours before flying home to drown again, of that thick, smothering fog that gets in your lungs until you're so used to it that you start to crave it like all the tarred out junk of your yesterdays—suddenly, the night breaks, and this is the morning, and you're fucking feeling again.

8:37am, there are planes roaming the taxiways. I might fall asleep now.

8:45am, I hear one toward the south end of the runway, just west of my bedroom window. I am suddenly war-weary, and my eyes feel liquid with close.

have no fear of death

Don't Cover Yourself with Thistle and Weeds / Rain Down, Rain Down On Me [05 Feb 2015|03:51pm]
[ mood | drunk ]

I coerced myself into waking before noon, dressed and drug myself to the store for dry shampoo as my shower is still out of order; I believe we're on month five (I'm being kind, really, as it is likely six or seven) of Mike insisting he's having a plumber out to repair it soon; I'm exhausted in a semi-spoiled sort of way of having to bathe in the hangar's office shower, which is fairly nice but doesn't feel like mine as Mike tokes up there on a nearly nightly basis.

I drove toward Wonderlich Farms for my meeting with Steven. Everything was grey, the sky a sheet of milk, the wind coarse and discordant against my legs. He hollers at me from the distance of a clayed gravel road. His voice lost on the wind, I do not hear him. As I approach clutching my coffee as refuge I ask if he's Steven. 'Yes,' he says, and before I even meet him he begins to walk away toward the adjacent middle school. At first I think it strange he fails to wait to shake my hand (I have a practiced, stern handshake I've rehearsed since the age of 14 when someone too famous for my 14 year old self to appreciate taught me the importance) but realize once we're in his office that his rush was in response to the elements and not toward me. He's wearing worn jeans, Peruvian brown cowboy boots, once-tan-now-greyed gloves, brown stitched leather jacket, and a straw cowboy hat. The fuzz of hair on his head melts to a red and grey beard.

His office in the back corner of the library is scented with histories, original bookshelves and delicate doilies among photos of his wife and a rather impressive framed inking of Superman signed by a former student. He rambles on mostly about plowing and pulling weeds with occasional stops in explanations toward tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, and Brussels sprouts. He mentions Allison and Neal, who donate a good deal of the crops, and we set a date for February 18th when we'll plant the Spring crops. He asks why I'm there and I sigh small, tell him too honestly as an exhale, 'I'm searching, man.' And for the first time, he smiles.

We make our rounds about the chickens, the herb garden, the vegetable garden, the barns and houses. 'That's the ordinal house from the 1800's. That was a chicken coop before we built the larger one; it was originally slave quarters.' I feel an unwelcome chill at the tiny shed, small as my bathroom.

have no fear of death

A Witness of the Deep / The Swimmer Can Swim [04 Feb 2015|11:50pm]
[ mood | contemplative ]

It's entirely too quiet, all the planes at rest, all the drunks at play beyond the gates of the airport. Only the tinkling of water and muffled grating of the motor from the fish tank, where no fish live, sounds.

I wonder when the silence, when the emptiness, when the nothingness stopped feeling like home. I've been running from this moment for too long. The only way out is in; the only way through Hell is wandering its total blackness long enough to stumble upon a pin of light toward which to run.

Today I met Brent at Black Walnut for the first time since his fiancé died four days ago. He looked dapper in a slick, grey suit, classic houndstooth fedora, French rose socks, patent leather black shoes. 'You look shabby,' the tiny bartender with the ponytail crooned in all her vocal fry and I giggled behind my coffee mug as the manager shook his head abashed. The bartender's ears perked and pinked. 'Is that not a compliment?' 'The saying is "not too shabby,"' the manager laughed.

I hugged Brent for a long while; he wasn't expecting it. He was on, locked solid into one-liner banter that reflected and rebounded every articulation, witticism, and dictum heard about the bar. My Adderall hadn't kicked in, and I failed to match his energy. I looked at him in wonder. If it was Patrick, I'd still be in bed four days later, I thought, feeling my chest tighten. I stared into my mug, the shiny reflection of particles, remembering his fingers circling inside me that morning, feeling like a hypocrite for loving so intensely a man I will cut loose.

'What do I call her?' Brent asked slicing through my thoughts, all the innocence of a little boy embarrassed with unaccustomed etiquette. 'She's not my ex. But we didn't have long enough to marry, so she's not my widower.' I remembered the first time I met Brent, sitting several barstools to the right of me, an issue of Cosmo laid before him, a martini glass pregnant with something amaranth and a matching pink-sugared rim. He was wearing aviators and his hair, though grey, shone almost-blonde. He's Twitter famous, he said. He had a short-lived pro baseball career, he said. He's writing a book about cheerleading, he said. He's a high school and college sports announcer, he said. His girl friend is a former Elite model, he said. You really should order that grapefruit mimosa before going into work, he said. You really should have another, he said. He was everything I hated in one word from a list of hundreds. Almost instantly, I saw through to him. Almost instantly, I was in love.

Later the same evening he met me for a drink in the back room at Brewski's where a discussion with Chris regarding my future as a pilot had turned into a discourse of his taboo sexual tendencies. Brent sashayed into a barstool beside me, ordered Irish car bombs for us both, then chattered on about his butt before performing a sequence of hurkies, hurdlers, and jump combinations that sent Chris blushing and baffled out the door. The rest was a blur of buzz-jive communion, slivers and shards of memoired confession: his cancerous twenty-two year old girl friend with the blazing Venetian curls and heroin laced voice belting betrayed blues, my affliction with the only man I've ever loved asphyxiating to be set aflame, his social media addiction braided in Modafinil and Xanax and nights when he feels lonely knowing she will die.

Tonight I sent him a text admitting I was once a writer, and that I'd be happy to be editor to the first draft of the book he's writing in lament of his dead fiancé and their short time together. 'I knew you were a writer,' he responded, 'You're too real not to be.'


Last night, re-watching House of Cards in preparation for the release of the third season, I sat next to Patrick on the couch, watching Zoe Barnes touching herself in her bed for Frank Underwood, and tried to control my breath because for the first time in nearly two years, for the first time since I sat across from Dr. Seabolt and knew he was the doctor who would show me how to finally heal, for the first time since I decided to walk into Hell with the intention of making it through to the other side this time, for the first time since I resolved to sink or swim and no longer tread 'til tomb, I looked at something and knew I didn't want to be that.

For the first time in all this darkness, I found a solid piece of who I am.

have no fear of death

Burn All the Evidence of Fabricated Disbelief [14 Dec 2014|01:11pm]
Let's not talk about how long it has been.

I did not cry, but I must have looked as something needing sympathy because he did not charge me for the coffee and brought me an extra kolache straight from the oven. I sit in the corner and grapple with the tears; I win, they do not fall; and listen to the click of the faux typewriter Mr. Hanks has so charmingly provided, but miss the whir. You know the whir. The hum. The purr, the croon, the gentle, throbbing whisper when a typewriter lays at rest. Yes, Mr. Hanks, I am inclined to tell you that your application fails only in this way: to sing some lullaby so soft my ears believe they've heard a lie.

I visit the restroom, glare at the toilet, its stupid cousin the whole of the reason I'm here. (Waking up to a bizarre sopping and splashing, his climate radiating like a heat beneath the door and into his room, where I am sleeping. I can feel the incline before it even begins. By the time he has shattered porcelain and fought doors off their hinges, I am out the door, walking away like that part in movies where everything explodes in flame behind and no one ever looks back. Lot's wife deserves a name.) I steal two pairs of latex gloves not knowing why, but hoping perhaps I will stumble upon someone in the road who needs me to pull something deep from their abdomen in order to save their wretched, inconsequential life.

I pause for a moment, think what sort of person would wish for a thing. I feel like a future doctor for the first time.
have no fear of death

For Your Own Protection, Over Their Affection [16 Aug 2013|07:00pm]
[ mood | tir ]

Blue Bell Creameries. We wore paper ice cream hats. He held my hand on the way home and it felt like him again. I told him I had found love notes he had written me last year, how he had said our souls were now connected, could never part. Proof that he did love me so intensely, once. I miss the way he kissed me then, as if he was afraid it would always be the last.

We were supposed to have a date night, but his dad decided to come into town for the fourth weekend in a row, and will be back next weekend for his sister's birthday. If I had anywhere else to go, I would have packed my things quietly months ago, slipped out as he hung around work for too many hours; he'd open the door, pause at the empty spaces only briefly.

It's all I can do. I've decided to become out of reach.

have no fear of death

You Don't Know How Lovely You Are [14 Aug 2013|08:26pm]
[ mood | shocked ]

Barely made it in time for lunch with Mom at El Tiempo Cantina. The spiral staircase led my eyes up, up across hand- crafted lit stars hung from the ceilings, their glow reflecting against painted family portraits. Over-sized, yellowed black and whites of cowboys and Spanish brides, their round faces, long lashes emphasizing eyes so deep I wanted to fall into them, discover what's behind.

We spoke of my sister almost entirely, the kids, the divorce, the struggle. She took the papers back, told him she needed his full signature, not just his initials. He refused to sign, refused to let go.

His son didn't remember who he was. He hasn't paid child support in over two months. He took to publishing her life across Facebook where her friends, people who stood beside her at her wedding, tore her apart. She stayed at home with the kids while he drifted from bed to bed, and they chastised her.

My stomach laid heavy in my seat, wondering if she would ever discover herself again, the light she keeps, the wonder, so pure, evanesced in so many after years of decay that she has held onto. I want to see the world through her eyes.

She called as the server was taking plates from the first course. She took the initialed papers to the lawyer who told her they would submit them anyway. The initials were accepted. They gave her a court date for next Friday. She doesn't have to tell him because the date was listed where he initialed. She'll have sole custody. She's so finally free.

1 people living deeply / have no fear of death

You Should See Him When He Shines / Because You Never Wanna Let the Feeling Go [14 Aug 2013|01:08pm]
[ mood | exhausted ]

The few dinners we share alone are choked in silence or end abruptly, cascading into the same fight we've been having since January. I have more to lose in this than you. My whole life, where I live, where I work... He won't understand. He won't come back.

I slept through noon, hot and sticky under layers of covers. I forgot lunch with Mom.

have no fear of death

I Remember When, I Remember / I Remember When I Lost My Mind [13 Aug 2013|09:25pm]
[ mood | exhausted ]

Legacy. Montrose. Therapy with Dee. I stood in line to pay. An addict caught the corner of my eye, his skin vibrating, the pouty puffs of purplish-red outlined in crusted black. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to take on his frequency.

Dee asked why I used such negative phrasing in regards to myself as a teenager. I confessed to the sweltering guilt, how destructive I had been, my parents' fear that I would die before I ever got better. She nodded in that way she does, calm, eyes turned downward, reviewing my words, selecting her with care. She asked if I thought borderline personality disorder was my fault. I twisted my lips around, searching. "My dad was watching Law & Order last time I saw him. Special Victims' Unit. A man was crying, hysterical, angry, insisting pedophilia was not his fault, that it was a disease. Whether it is a disease or not is not the point. The point is that he did something wrong, something life-shattering, to another human being. I did that. I did that over, and over, and over every way I could muster. I can't help but believe I chose. I chose to do those things. I chose to be that person." She nodded again, studying me, before parting her lips in an exhale. "Borderline personality disorder is not your fault; it's your responsibility."

I only heard bits of what came next, something about the conference she had attended recently, that she studied and worked with borderline personality disorder extensively. My head roared, parts of my brain pulling from others, rearranging, firing, burning at the ends.


Before the end of the session I mentioned that I wanted my patient files from when I was hospitalized, but that they might ask she sign off on them in order to let me have them.

This is possibly the first time I've had the house to myself since we moved in three weeks ago, and all I want to do is sleep alone.

have no fear of death

Cet oiseau-là chante avec moi / Toujours, toujours, encore vivante [09 Aug 2013|08:04pm]
[ mood | anxious ]

Poking through quotes and old black and white photos to hang in the new studio. Anais Nin, Edith Piaf, dear Edgard, Arthur Camus, and the like. I'll be teaching out of the house in several months, I hope. My future is fuzzy and unsure. I'd like to pretend I'm brave, but instead I feel small and frightened in a way I'm becoming too old to justify. The artist in me, ignored and stifled, turns to madness. I'm rarely happy, smile seldom.

I've mostly decided to go to medical school, at my father's suggestion. Oral surgeons make six figures. My counselor said my delusion in believing that money is the only way to ensure I never have to grow up completely, that I can buy my way to grand adventure and marvelous fantasy, is not quite a delusion at all. Dee said many people decide to focus their efforts toward monetary gain in order to wield the broader spectrum of choices created by wealth; she believes my quest for money is my final grasp at control over my life. We agreed this could be my greatest compromise, working in an adult world in order to seal my desire to never grow up.

Still, I sit in the front room organizing records, thumbing through their dusty titles and yearning for a life basted in the lyrical. How maddening, how unfair the ways in which I cheated myself. I wonder if I had learned, or rather never forgotten, to be alone how differently this might look. I wanted to be more than this.

I never write anymore because I'm never driven to as I once was. I never write because I fear: I will rant of the same blase, worn tedium I am likely responsible for yet refuse to change. I never write because I fear I've forgotten how.

He is visiting his aunt in the hospital. I want to sing while he's gone, but so afraid of the silence between the phrases that crescendoes my loneliness.

3 people living deeply / have no fear of death

[09 Dec 2011|10:24pm]
I'm contemplating Stephen Hawking and how many times in his life he's been asked to comment on some crackpot dooms day theory like 2012. Into the Universe makes me think of Patrick, and I tire of thinking of him so constantly when there are so few real answers. I want to sit in his lap with his chin on my head and feel the inhale of his chest, wilt forever inside the fragrance of his skin tanned with spliff and Irish soap.

Last night in the kitchen he wrapped his arms around me and held my face to his faded blue sweatshirt; for the first time I've known him I felt a person inside him, some real breath of life and awareness, as if when he held me he knew who I was and what it meant to touch someone in that way. Yes, he felt real for the very first time, and the hope that we might survive sprout just over the soil to greet the sun, the world, the air, the chaos.

We might survive the chaos. I don't know.

But if we don't... I think I'll return to it alone.
have no fear of death

Hanging Onto the Fringes of the Cogs in the System [22 Jun 2011|09:22pm]
[ mood | disappointed ]

The disasters of yesterday still hung fresh and sharp against the back of my eyelids when I awoke at seven this morning. The rain outside tap-tapped against the window, finally come after all these weeks of draught. I attempted to rise, pulling my Crystal Castles t-shirt from a hanger, some loved jeans, knocked into the door frame, sleep still clasping its fingers tightly around me. The clouds and the dark and the rain were too much comfort, pulled me back to bed, away from the cheap fluorescent lighting and beige accented walls of my eight o' clock government class.

The midterm was yesterday, and I spent six hours studying over twenty pages of notes the night before. I've made an eager effort this time around, assuring myself all those opinions people crowned as fact were true: I'm too smart, have too much potential not to do well. Thus I showed up each day, armed with a protein shake and a pen, nodding along to lectures, asking questions, participating, studying each evening so long that I had little to no time for writing, for Patrick, for even my music. There was a tinge of pride that began to grow slowly inside me, a tiny strength I had never captured from the likes of schooling, of graded academia.

Imagine my surprise, my downturned lip, the sigh of my eyes pointed, urging themselves not to cry when Griffey announced, "Time's up! Tests in." I had over thirty questions left. I felt my hands begin to vibrate, my throat struggling to hold itself upright as I asked him, "Can we go to the testing center, if we're not done?" Something of a cold irritation flickered behind his eyes before he told me no. And so I stood, defeated, and placed the blue test booklet against his desk, walked slowly from the room and never stopped.

Once home I flickered past Patrick into the overwhelming darkness of our room, curtains pulled, stripped my clothes and fell between the sheets as a sigh, the howl and lament of my grievances silenced as a small flutter of my heart. I was but a breath, the forgotten exhale of mine efforts, my words mere wind. They had all lied; the product of my potential evanesced, vapor struck against a stove. I allowed myself to cry for a few moments, feeling pathetic in the sogginess of it all, became soft, the barbed edges of self-loathing threatening on all sides. I considered quitting, wondered if going back to school had been the right choice, if this was all a severe waste of time and talent. What did government have to do with being a musician, anyway?

My history professor's cartoon voice echoed through my head, the dissertation over big business, middle class, women of the nineteenth century. My mind had stretched during those speeches, venturing toward new topics of space I hadn't considered before. The college experience, originally, was not for monetary gain as now, but for the rounded experience, shaping minds toward intelligent thought, intelligent conquest, intelligent influence over all facets of life thereafter. College was for those who hungered, and so I had thought, well, I'm starving, so why not? The issue I'm facing is not a lack of understanding, a deprivation of memory, attitude of disinterest or anything in between. I'm so genuinely enthralled and inspired by the feeding of idea and fact and theory that I come home buzzing each day, stiffing back a "did you know" every few minutes, lest I be found exasperating. No, the trouble is the testing, the constant accounting of my learning. I read articles across BBC and Frontline and wonder how our government is getting away with these things so outlined and restricted across Enumerated Powers in Article I, negative powers in the Bill of Rights, the idea of state sovereignty and the Constitution being supreme perplexing as an oxymoron in my sleep. I get it, I do. I apply it. And yet, I fail.

I flipped through the mental pages of memory, seeing each lecture's title scribbled across sheets of notebook, reciting them back to myself. Nothing of the morning's blight made sense, and I felt so tired then, my body weakened by too many facets of my world moving me in directions I didn't understand, didn't feel fully in control of. I rose suddenly then, pattering in my underwear across the apartment floor, opening a bottle of Spanish wine, its deep crimson label and golden letters speaking to me in foreign phrases I couldn't understand, made me giggle as I poured a glass. Then another, between hits off O'Ryan. Lit a cigarette, closed my eyes, soared. Was left among the sky, vapour trail.


Patrick crept between the sheets as I finished off another glass, his smirk brushing across my face, charmed and amused. "You smell like Amy Winehouse," he grinned, moving in stealthily for my neck, his fingers pirouette and twirl gracefully across my thigh. "Let me in, Amy," he murmured against my ear in that deep, thick voice. I inhaled once more against my pipe, poured another glass, shut my eyes and felt his tongue.

What was it Samson once called me? Oh, yes. Queen of Vice.


It only got worse, awoken from sleep by Patrick's thin caterwaul. Half drunk, I stumbled into the doctor's office with him in the late afternoon. His ear they had lanced and drained earlier last week was twice the size again. They handed him more prescriptions, tentative plans for an operation, come back in three weeks. Attempting to fill scripts without insurance was of the most dejected experience I've been witness to, the prices of each pharmacy higher than the next. Worse than the price of the medication, a woman at Walgreens told us the pharmacy only fills prescriptions for their "established customers." Well, excuse me for not being a pill-popping drug addict. I apologize. I recalled then James Verone, arrested earlier this week after robbing a bank for one dollar following finding a growth on his chest; not having any prospect of insurance, Verone told the officers that going to jail was his only chance at treatment, at surgery, at life. How defeated the small of this country have become.

In the middle of all of this, I received a text message from my director, Roy, informing me that the hospital I had secured for filming on Saturday called and canceled. I tutored the CEO's daughter for about a year, so when I originally called him about using a room in the clinic he was quick to say yes, assuring me that whatever I'd need, he'd make happen. Not only did he cancel days before shooting, but never called to inform me, only left a pithy e-mail in Roy's inbox.

I crawled back into bed with my pipe and a glass as soon as we entered the apartment. I didn't want to see anymore, draped myself beneath the sheets, sunk into the jersey sheets and felt myself go warm. Patrick pulled me from the bed a while later, tossing my swimsuit over his shoulder at me. "Grab the tequila," he commanded, forcing me toward the pool, so I did. The sun had almost set and the sky was a smooth sapphire ceiling with not a break or cloud in sight. We lounged in woven henna recliners and listened to the slaps and bristled panting of the palm trees, ridiculously placed in Houston, and let the night fall over our bare skin. We both closed our eyes as the wind flew against us, so rich and overwhelmingly effluent I imagined it filled all the spaces of the earth, so nothing else was ever empty.

"To Wal Greens," we toasted, the bottle of Hornitos already nearly empty. "To my government midterm, and to Professor Griffey," I slurred slightly as we each poured another shot, "who said on our first day of class that it's perfectly okay to be loser, because you get to drink a lot more that way." I don't remember so much after that. Only the cold water and the shower, his skin, always warm, next to mine, like the comfort that comes from the echoes of the ethereal about a cathedral.

2 people living deeply / have no fear of death

With The Voice Of The Dead I'm Screaming [20 Jun 2011|01:21pm]
[ mood | anxious ]

Skipped my second class today, resolving to listen to the lecture online later. Worst food coma ever forcing me back to bed early. Better now, but sleepy, unconcentrated on putting together notes and studying for my government midterm tomorrow. They switched me to adderall, the concerta releasing in funny-strong bursts in my system. Doesn't seem as potent, and that surprises me. I find myself staring at walls, and I wonder if it's the drug's ineffectiveness or my own boredom for my new life taking over. What was new a few weeks ago is now stagnant, monotony.

Interning at the mega-church is my only people-oriented entertainment. Saturday night I sat at rehearsal editing the teleprompter, listening to Greg sing in that Bono-lust voice of his. Doc informed the teleprompter operator the next morning that he wanted me to run the system. "I don't trust you. I trust her," he half-joked to the woman, motioning to me, then beamed later as I took over. "You're good at this. You must like music." I thought of telling him a monkey could do this job efficiently, and that saying I "like" music was the worst insult, but I stayed silent, nodded, took his compliment and his arm around me, leading me around the church like an old friend.

Back stage I congregated with some of the video staff and volunteers, picked their brains about ninja cam. We were told in training that women aren't allowed to run it, and I scoffed from the back, spitting, "Well we're going to have to crusade against that, aren't we?" My reaction prompted a quick smirk across my director's face, as she's the only woman director on staff. Most of the ninja cam runners complained of sore quads, said I'd need a strong lower back. A sly smile from a corner asked how my cardio was, and was silenced stupid when I told him I run a mile and a half every day, lift twice a week, and attend 2-4 yoga and pilates classes a week. Roy laughed, called out loudly across the rooms, into the halls, "No more weekends off, people! 'Elle's after our jobs! She'll be doing teleprompter, deko, ninja cam... and then directing!" I blushed fiercely, not fully realizing how aggressive I've been since I joined them over a month ago. Still, it was my goal to slip my way in, learn every piece from the bottom up, until they'd let me put my fingers on their audio equipment.

The girl who runs the monitors, whose name has left me, graduated from the same college as I, inflating my hopes. Running monitors from the side stage board for musicians was my favorite part of Media Tech, so much that after only one experience I decided I was destined for live sound reinforcement. I stare at the girl each week with envy, watch her conservative heels and smoky eyeliner glide across the stage, placing mics, assigning ear pieces, listening to singers' orders during rehearsals. She seemed shy when I met her, shoulders always hunched slightly forward, her hair pulled back in a neat bun, still somehow hiding her face. Sunday morning I was excommunicated from the visual booth, made to sit with a headset and watch video monitors for my camera shadowing. "Out of range! Out of range!" kept poking my ears, red flashes of light, like I needed reminding of how alone I was. But this girl came and sat in the room with me, sifting through an iPhone half bored, as I've seen her do every Sunday. I began to wonder if she was as lonely as I back there, not a female presence under the age of thirty on the entire tech team.

I put into practice my greatest social discovery: aloofness, as I've proven to myself time and time again (especially over the past few weeks) that ignoring people drives them crazy enough to force their hand, ignite their lazy efforts. I did this entirely with the musicians and singers, and was surprised that Greg and Doc warmed up to me so quickly in a matter of weeks, when they don't know the names of people who have been there over the course of many months surpassing mine, some even years. Even the bassist, with watery deep eyes, walked into the control booth, asked my name in some silky voice that made me grab the desk I was standing beside, afraid I'd float away. The tactic worked on this girl as well, as I poked through my phone, asking her small, polite questions, seemingly uninterested. At the end of the first service she was asking for my help on an extremely minuscule job, and though it was literally the pressing of two buttons while she was on stage, it was still the first audio, rather than visual, job I had been given there yet. Later she began to make small cracks during the service, and we laughed together about radical statistics, something about the pastor not thinking before he speaks. It was small, but that initial step, for me, was so huge in too many ways. I was almost dizzy from the movement, accustomed to the deadness, the lull of paralysis.

She left for stage, and I was alone again, watching Martha and Roy cue cameras through giant windows, Janna on their screens, singing something lovely that fit in every pocket of her voice. I found myself humming along, singing almost silent harmonies into empty spaces of the darkened room. Violently, I was traumatized into silence by the resounding steps of someone through the hall. "That was close," I thought, "someone could have heard me." Just from humming aloud, I developed the shakes, most of it through my hands, my shoulders, grinding my teeth.

Since starting voice lessons again a few weeks back, I've been stuck in this feeling of not being able to seduce and sway the voice out of me, tried to yank it out, unavailing. I held my tongue and jaw and lips every direction, studying the noise that followed, sculpting it, confused by it. I remembered Jim's words to me a few years ago after a cut, when he shook his head and smiled across the sound board, saying, "I can't imagine what you sound like when you're unleashed." The problem is, I've never been. Two lessons ago Robin's red hair burned at me, her head bobbling around inside the thick waves. "You have this big, huge voice. But I want you to get outside your head. I've been trying to get you to do that since you were twelve. Don't be forty and realize you've never let yourself out. Because when you sing, 'Elle, when you get outside of yourself, it's the most glorious thing. Please, don't get stuck in there." It was the most honest thing she had ever said to me in those ten years, and I tried for the rest of the lesson to sing for myself, and not for some judge on the ceiling of my thoughts, perched upon the glass. Phrases immediately came smoother and sweeter from my mouth, breathed out from behind my teeth, floating past, filling the room so suddenly I thought it would burst. Too loud. Too big! And the voice flew back inside me, locked itself away again.

Strange, that after my lust and libido for noise that it's my own voice I'm afraid of.

have no fear of death

I Want To Make You Feel Free [19 Jun 2011|12:13am]
[ mood | exhausted ]

I'm not sure what to write about. Everything feels dishonest.

Thursday, I began to talk to the chick sitting next to me in my history class. Her skin burned bright blistering red across her nose and cheeks, had offered herself to the sun. She was polite, gentle, nice. It was the only pleasant conversation I'd had with anyone since I started school again two weeks ago that lasted more than thirty seconds. I beamed inside myself, having thought previously that I must be some sort of freak, some sort of butterfly fallen from social un-grace. It seems they all make friends so easily, groups of them, and all I want is just one. Yet this sun soaked blonde looked so soft, so protestant, I couldn't imagine sitting beside her as I've done with Courtney and Jacqui, spitting secrets about drugs and sex and the perils of living with someone way too old and wrong for me. No, this rotund, stout frame in chronic t-shirt and sloppy bun has eyes that twinkle too dull, blinking and surprised.

The thought stings me, though, that I am going about this all wrong. In all the companions of my life, I never sought the ones that fit me at all. I was never out to find a fit, but a weakness. I was out to fuck the virgin, watch the discovery on their shiny pale faces, behold the burning. After all, there is nothing more holy than the witness of the body of the mind set ablaze, finds its glow.

It's easy to corrupt idiots, and they run rampant through these halls. One of my classes couldn't tell the professor whether Bush Jr. ran as a republican or democrat. But the continuing problem in my life is that I can't find anyone intelligent enough to hold a decent conversation, a decent thought, even. I pine for warm bodies whose equally warm brains would pulse and buzz beside me at these art openings I've grown so accustomed to floating through lonely. I long, I long to chew and spit and drool such passions that build up behind my teeth, never anyone to whom I can confess, never anyone to hand me anything more than nod-smile, typically much less.

We spoke of the rise of the FDA between a lecture on progressivism, sparking my intense interest as a second burst of concerta piped hard into my brain. Bloodletting, leeching, patent medicine on shelves, mixtures of alcohol and morphine to cure all ill. Prohibition, addiction. German biochemistry. Sensationalism. Opiates given to veterans, the bullet still lodged, replaced by Freud's cocaine. No restrictions, no prescriptions. And the licensing, the FDA, whose strict regulations made damn sure the heroin given to pregnant women for labor pains was pure. And in the 1930's, pot is made illegal for the first time because they want to deport the Mexicans and give their jobs to the white man. A world of racism. A world of money-power-materialism prevailing over the hearts of men.

A shiny pale kid in smart glasses asks, "what's codeine?" and I think, "Aren't you a med student?"

I realized, maybe too late, that I had shown too much knowledge openly on the subject of heroin, citing that it was the company Bayer who originally sold it, and that they were responsible for something like tons being poured into the nation. My professor nodded, ever the teacher, always the wagging of the tale when someone contributes, when someone actually knows anything. How starved they must be, how tired. I wished instead they could be my circle of friends, smoking hookah and slurping dark beer down their throats as they tell me tales of our transgressional, forbidden history, repeating as one of them did before, "Congress must be on ecstasy." And Helen Keller was a socialist. The No Child Left Behind Act is unconstitutional. Many freed slaves didn't want to go back to Africa, as their life expectancy was significantly longer, and their perils physically meeker in America. Thomas Jefferson believed a revolution should occur every 20-30 years, completely stripping a government of its control and putting it back into the direct hands of the people. Instead of bristling on these subjects, I'm pointed to those who don't know who our vice president is, or that we're a nation of lobbyists pulling the strings behind a veil.

My government teacher wrote in red and blue ink across a white board as he discussed political partying, posing the question: "Should we assassin our leaders, as other countries do? Perhaps they'd take us more seriously." Bills keep the country too busy for politics, the populists ensuring our eight hour work day, entertainment sucking us dry of civic duty, toys keeping public peace. Something like ten percent of internet traffic is porn. The Civil War attracted the lazy, telling their dear old Pa to shove it and reap the land himself as being shot at was less physically demanding. There was less time for mental illness then; you really had to work hard at it. Same lazy excuse as now: if you don't want to work, being insane is the perfect alibi.

It's no better in the church I'm interning at, even the smart bodies being more or less slightly dull. Or worse, artificial. Tonight as I stared blankly across the backroom monitors, the pastor urged sincerely, passionately even, that his congregation consider the merits and benediction of waiting until marriage to have sex. I wondered sadly what it must feel like to preach like that, as if the genuine nature of your words broke purely from your heart for these hundreds of nameless faces, a belief given away and pressed upon those who don't truly believe, only act as if. They don't follow, none of them virginal before the ring was threaded upon their finger. Not even my sister, who has only slept with her husband, was a virgin when she was married, and she admits to this day of the hurt that decision weighed upon her in yester' years.

I need someone. I need someone so badly to fill the spaces I'm running out of. I need a strength and a kindness I've never found in myself. I need to believe there's someone real, and beautiful, and true. That there's a genuine connection of flesh and spirit and soul for me to find, somewhere. I need to know there's someone out there like me, burning so fierce to actually feel something.

2 people living deeply / have no fear of death

So Far From Your Weapon / The Place You Were Born [15 Jun 2011|12:11pm]
I've been here, as I promised. You never saw me. I was in the background noise, mending manipulations, passing through old song. For almost weeks I sat nearly seven hours each day and read, read, read through old patterns and tambres of thought and life. I watched, as much as an outsider as I could be, the motifs slide past one another, the rash decisions, the reaction and inaction that finally left me here, where I am now.

I knew I hadn't written in a regular fashion in some time. Still, surprise laid against my chest when I found I hadn't written out Samson at all, hadn't made mention of our breaking, like a woven basket whose threads never truly tear at the beginning, until ripped completely apart. Even now, I wonder if we've spoken our last heated words, our final common phrases, silly questions sent in text just as an excuse to hear from the other. I read over the words I wrote of him and see how confused and torn I was then, how it seems just an offprinting of now. ...I wasn't supposed to speak of this now, resolved to save the piles of comments I had scrawled furiously across pages as I read over these old entries for later, when I had more time to write. Yet here they are, naturally pressed out from gestures among keys, my fingers and body wanting to push it out of me, finally revealed.

I'm afraid I haven't the time, and resolve to impress later the agonizing wonder of choice, if I made the right one, if there was really any at all, if there's any choice for me to even have in these strange truths I'm finding about myself... if they are true... if there is truth... is relative... Sherwood Anderson... No, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I suppose what I wanted to say here is that I am again moved to write, as I've never had more proof than this past year to assure me of what I already knew: I am not alive without the punctuation, do not urge myself to move and think, or live, without the litany of my life constantly laid out for examination, prodding and pok-ature shelling back the vellum. Someone beautiful once told me there is an anchor, silent and strong, invisibly tied about me to somewhere, something, keeping me from brushing past the edge and onto the angels. Reading over these confessions, this anthropology of self, I begin to wonder if this is what keeps me, if this commitment to uncover, discover, is the only weight I've ever known in love.
have no fear of death

I'll Be Back On My Feet Someday [05 Jun 2011|01:30am]
[ mood | sad ]

I've begun recording myself on Photo Booth on my Mac, listening, wondering why all those little girls doing covers of Katy Perry and Eastmountainsouth on Youtube are so glorified. Do I sound like that? Do I exude the wavers and falls and dropped pitch that attracts the strange textual applause? I toyed with the idea of posting something, couldn't find a song I liked enough, gave up for tonight. Still, it's almost as if I'm begging for someone somewhere to ask me to sing. For years people have pestered and pressed, and I've shooed them away with the flick of my wrist, nose up. Yet now I lay on top of the covers and stare at the ceiling, twirling locks of hair between fingers, wondering when the next time will be, and mentally preparing myself to do what I never do: sing.

I feel the blues blossoming inside me, attracted to its B7s and C5s, the low grumbling growl that festers and blossoms suddenly into high horn buttery notes that pierce your gut, make you remember some nostalgic night that mixes pleasure and pain. I listen to Nancy Wilson, typically jazz, wale on and on against that way low down sax and bass, the way you can see her close her eyes even from the vinyl sound. Yes, I feel the blues inside me, feel the music stirring, attempting to spew.

Nearly fell asleep last night to some sax, some eleven year old whose sister I was babysitting. He was really quite good. They passed out around midnight, and the saxist had armed the alarm, which I had no clue how to turn off. Thus I found myself in the back corner bathroom upstairs, standing on the counter in my bare feet, blowing smoke into a toilet paper roll stuffed to brink with twelve dryer sheets and a running air vent. The paranoia took over, and I cleaned the place like a crime scene before sitting stoned and cold in front of Ren & Stimpy as the whole house slept peaceful.

Court sent a text around 5 am, and I called her back this afternoon to hear of her revelation concerning the Man Slut she's been dating. It seems she calls every few days now to see how Patrick and I are doing, to watch the slow decline, to hear the crumble of the parts. Every time we talk I feel the decision to leave this place solidify in some girl-code concrete. I know in telling her what is actually going on around here from day to day, I can never look back on my promise to leave. I know I can never justify it, that I cannot let someone watch as I'm treated so. Perhaps finally coming clean to her was, in some way, forcing my hand.

Yet, still, I love him. I look around at the creamy walls and the flowers dried and hung from Valentine's Day, the mistletoe he didn't want to take down, my clothes hanging beside his. I don't want to leave. I don't want this to fall apart. But it has. Court and I decided to put down our swords, admit defeat and walk away. We spoke so openly about the pining, the burning from letting go. "It's strange," I told her, "the mix of heaviness and emptiness." The way the aching and the sadness create their strange marriage with the peace that washes over, when you finally release your grip, let go.

I'll never forget the way I screamed so hard my lungs scratched and hurt, my hand firm against his chest, hoping maybe if I stop him, maybe if I could plant him in one place, make him feel me, make it loud enough… Maybe he'd hear me when I screamed I didn't want to leave, didn't ever want to leave, but he was making me. I'll write about those nights here, some day, in pretty words and bruised phrases, about the nights I wouldn't tell my best friend about, too sickened to see her sympathy gaze. I've fought with the idea of making those hours immortal, pressing them to print, thought perhaps the world was too full of sad moments and mourning vibes, wondered how my words in another's head would fuck with my karma. But I'm sick of carrying the weight of all these men, of all their darkest moments pinned upon me. I won't keep their fucking secrets anymore.

Until then, until I'm gone from the walls and the flowers and our pi's hung snug beside each other, I'll try to write of the beauty, small and growing ever rare, that brushed over me here, immortalize the savory moments of passion beneath changing lights and the way he holds me while we sleep as if he's afraid of letting go, afraid he'll wake up and i'll be gone. I'll try.

have no fear of death

To Those Who've Ever Moved Me: [03 Jun 2011|03:34pm]
"And it'd feel too artsy to the outside world, like that scene in American Beauty where the guy films a plastic bag being blown around by the breeze for 4 fucking hours. But to us, what we'd say would make perfect sense and be moving. NEVER forced. And maybe I'd say something so wacky, so ridiculous, and you'd try to take it deeply but it's just so wacky that you can't and we'd start laughing and rolling around saying, "What does that even MEAN?!" And then I'd start drawing a mouth in laughter and it wouldn't look right, it wouldn't look like I had any talent because I don't and in no way do I want to be an artist in that way, but you could feel the emotion put into it. Like it wouldn't be realistic, but it'd be a mouth that's just far enough apart to know that it's REALLY laughing, it's written in inspiration of something that's funny.

And that night would be immortalized in that way, in sentences and images and cigarette ash that fell on the page and I tried to brush it off the paper and it smeared in a dark streak that completely ruins the pristine white of the picture's edges. But it's from the actual cigarette I was smoking that night. And maybe there'd be a ring from the condensation of glass or a can or a bottle and that'd be from the actual drinks we were drinking that night. And it'd be real." -Molly, traumagirl

To think, that not so long ago I had nights like those, people like those, like her. They felt the burning.

I've forgotten my place, and have forgotten the people who physically moved me so well. I can't forget again.

Expect of me. I'll be here.
1 people living deeply / have no fear of death

It's Not the Wind that Cracked Your Shoulder / And Threw You to the Ground [31 May 2011|08:57pm]
[ mood | nervous ]

The apartment's a mess, and I can no longer clean it, and so I hide uncomfortably beneath sheets anointed in the celestial, the cosmos, the heaven-void. The way the bed can be the most comfortable, most uncomfortable place in your world. Letting Sarah's sonar poem swim in the background noise of my brain. Not so background, I think of singing her songs for Jeff because he loved her, and the way he told me I sounded better than my idols as if it wasn't a lie; It was then I knew I couldn't trust him, but did anyway, because the way he coated the world was more beautiful than any lie I'd ever been told.

It's the pretty lies that get me every time, the promises the sworn believe, the timeless fables whose verses resound in carefully crafted time based FX, by the liars, the lies-eaters. The lies we tell ourselves. I was getting so good at never, ever doing that, for so long. You bend, you fall. Everyone falls, we don't all get up. Licking the blood of my wounds, I had forgotten the taste, the sound, felt the sonar echo back against me; blood, semen, hypodermic needles. The things we share, the lies we tell each other.

A boy I know whose name hurts too much to spell each letter phonetically, as his face and mouth and hands feel more real than his title, the way he'd tell me he hated names as I did… I pause to remember my loss of him. (The word 'loss' is a lie. Or is it?) Am I comforted in the words of a girl who told me over a phone line that I only miss him when things are awry, and that he never truly made me happy at all? I forget my original point in him, and remember instead that day in the fall as I ground my teeth and walked through the wind beside him, the way he moved behind me against the rail, the calm of silence between us as we watched the same nothing in the school yard, cigarette from lips to lips, our brains having just traveled hours into the same starry spaces of fear and creation, the little capsules, the sweat that made us dirty and empty and alive.

How many times have I fallen in drugs and thought it was love? How many times have I fallen in love and denied it? A hundred? Zero? How many times have I wondered if love was a lie, like truth, a human conception that has no basis of fact but placebo and the broken obsession of a brain's click-track run rampant?

Today I did a jolted, erratic wandering study of the Beautiful people in my life whose leaky brains have spilt and splashed upon me, staining me in the instances when I allowed myself to stay unclean in their spots. i rubbed my face in the light of the memories, feeling the warmth and the goosebumps and the strange tingling of my spine that physically moved me in my bed. I thanked Arcadia, Elysium, azure, ecstasy and beyond the nirvana and into the next world where the BLUE (!!!), the everlasting lie. I soaked in the memories you have given me, the words my soul drank in excess until I was drunk on the shots of them, the prickling, the fucking hallelujah when everything beside everything is unoffensive and is harmony, turns Beautiful.

Thank you for making me feel something.

I want to text the boy this, pick up my phone, even. I want to know he still knows everything I mean when I say something small. But I'm afraid of the nothing-response, or the cold pining I feel in his carefully chainsawed icecube-words. I want him to know I understood when he said he wanted to start a movement of artists, a movement of idealists who scratch their heads and let the blood flow out, all over. I want to tell him of the pretty girl with my favorite name who moved me to think of all this when I woke. I want to tell him I've given us a name, of names he hates, that I'm calling us the Castaways, like Gilligan's Island, like Dawn Wilson's patrons at Brick House, the angels of Saint Jude. 'We shared a common emotion; we felt the burning… (The brilliance of my madness that I would dot the sky like the hundreds of stars we didn't even dare count.)' I want to induct us, knight us, commit, inaugurate, baptize and endow, adorn our skirts in tradition, an order, sacrament and rite, the ceremonial communion when we drink the blood and the wounds and taste the sonar and the body and the lies of another.

I want to tell him I stopped fighting the idea that maybe I'm not borderline, but bipolar, like several doctors of late suggested, and how fucking dirty that makes me feel. I want to tell him because I know he'll examine it carefully, argue that it's true so long before sighing and explaining why he knows it's just not true at all; I'll hear the words of her voice on the other line telling me manic episodes are closely related to and look like borderline rage, impulsive behavior, and intense feelings I've been drowning in and bottling my entire life; I'll hear her tell me that my therapist probably suggests this because I rarely tell her the whole truth anymore; I'll ask myself why my therapist's entire reasoning lies in that "borderlines don't have insight, and you hold more than you know what to do with" if I've read otherwise.

I wonder how long I'll rant here, pulling spliff and ashing into a 3oz Bordeaux tasting glass, about how I wonder the frequency of color and how it applies to the heavens, about how my gauge to 'having finally made it' includes having enough money to drive however the fuck I want and load my cigarette case full with hand rolled joints, until I get back to telling the truth, until I split the lark, find the music.

Until I admit that I'm moving out of this messy apartment and going home to mama.

That the darkened, pretty details behind that decision are what I've been hiding.

I haven't told Patrick yet. His daughter's gone for three weeks as of Sunday, and I want those three weeks. I want just a little bit of that paradise, a little bit more of that lie before I give it up. Before I look into his worried expression and tell him of course we can still be together, and know it's all a lie.

3 people living deeply / have no fear of death

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