Return to Patagonia

I don't know what I want to talk about today, but I do know that if I don't talk then I'll move closer bit by bit to having full blown running arguments with myself and when you do that people think you're crazy.

Something occured to me a long time ago that I never talked about. Not that long ago actually, but long enough to make calling it a long time ago feel appropriate. It occurred to me that maybe my Dad's goal all along was to make sure his kids didn't have kids. Would that mean that he wins if I don't have kids? But then I realized that first of all that is ridiculously complex of a double feint. Then I realized he is not smart enough to orchestrate anything requiring that much vision. Then I realized it didn't really matter anyway because if I do have a kid the lucky bastard will be adopted so he doesn't get my screwed up brain cells all up ins.

I guess I've been thinking about the continental divide a lot lately. I want to go back there. I want to go back to where the earth broke apart and I want to lay my face against the water and stand with my toes on the edges of sheer faces and think about how my heart would explode with bliss in midair if I were to fall and then bask in the glowing here after of a moment so full and heady left undone and swallowed in time.

It's just my day off, but my head is in another country. Not that it went there overnight, but it's been slipping and sneaking farther and farther away, but always coming back just early enough for me not to worry if it may have gotten lost.

I wonder if I'm lucky that I'm not dead. I had a dream about a fantastic geared machine. It was as tall as the side of a small house. Every gear had a photograph inside of it. Not a photograph as much as a photostatic image. Faces burned onto the faces of the gears and to protect them from the wear of the elements, because the entire machine was outdoors and built on the surface of a cathedral turned inside out, the gear faces were coated in slugs of brown glass that cracked under the strain of clinging for so many years. I don't know what it did. I didn't stay there long enough to figure it out, partially because the entire thing was making one hell of a creepy sound (the sound the joints of cockroach legs would make if one were stuck in your ear and flailing against the ear wax and hairs there), but also because the rust was gummy around chest level where someone clearly touched it and caught a sleeve and in all likelihood lost one or several fingers, but at least several centimeters of skin.

I'm not sure where I'm going. I need to see my old poetry professors. I don't think they need to see me though. In fact I'm almost certain they don't want to see me. It wouldn't help either of us to see each other. I feel like that's also true of a former best friend. It doesn't mean that I don't want some proof. I don't know what I would say to Jane. She'd say hello. I'd say hi. She'd ask how I was. I'd tell her how screwed up things have been. She'd apologize for lack of anything else to offer. I'd tell her don't sweat it and well.... fuck.

I'm not smoking. For now. Maybe that's the problem. I figure I'll save my money at the expense of further turning up the heat on my senses. I probably just need a hug and a couple shots. I don't know where my head's at, but it is having a fantastic time without me. It's like I woke up after drinking too much too early and everyone at the houseparty has pulled up sticks and gone off somewhere and no one told me where so ... empty nest? Maybe. More like I had a date with myself and I've somehow managed to stand myself up again and I don't get it. I thought we were in agreement.

=sigh= whatever. It's aggravating. I think I'm just gonna take my clothes off and ball myself up for a couple hours. Maybe get up later and write some more poetry. I had this great idea at work yesterday and I want to see it spin on its own and if it can't spin then I want to break it apart and see what's inside of it. Is it supposed to be so cold that your eyes well up?

I'm going back to new york this month. To get the last of my things. I'm not looking forward to it. But I miss my computer so God damn much, you have no idea. And my sex toys. But mostly my computer. It's hard to explain why I love. Through the years most everything else has been crushed, whipped, and burned out of my emotional spectrum. These days all I can do is love or hate. I sometimes wish there was something in the middle. But there isn't. I'm digital. Sad happy held digital boy whose head has gone back to Patagonia without him. Again. Now I give chase in dreams for want of touch.

///Hugo Maldoro - "I Know a Little Cuban"If Aguas De Marco had hips they would swing like this. If I wander around my mind long enough and find the clubhouse with the low fedoras and dim smoke parlors and enough palm fronds to set a tropic stage in a desert, maybe I'll see him playing dominoes at the usual booth with whiskey ice and cigarillos and a big watch with no batteries. Where did you go?