What Is and Should Not Be

I'm pretty sure, fairly certain, that what I am is asexual.  Ambivalent to any and all ranges of sexual encounters.  Does that make me some kind of freak animal?  No.  Does that make me open to any and all sorts of encounters?  Yes.  Does that make me bored with sex?  Also yes.

It also makes me very disappointed and disinterested in every and all things involving sexual parts.  Interest peaked?  Sure.  Able to love, again, sure.  Able to participate?  Also, again yes.  With enthusiasm?  Of course.

I understand the artistry of it.  The mechanics of it.  The connection as well.  What I am attempting to define is the isness of sex.  I can no longer participate in the action and experience the subtexts of it in a meaningful way.  Meaningful being defined as a further connection or a connection that helps define a further relationship.  For better or for worse I do believe I am evolving into an asexual state.

Monotone perhaps.  Evolution not necessarily meaning some sort of higher or greater sense, but simply a thing not defining the current state.  Every attraction being a curio and nothing more, but being something and meaning something more than the cellar dweller slut.

Maybe meaning something more like "yes this or that feels good, but if an inanimate object could give me that on occasion I would actually marry it and talk to it and have tea with it and sit and watch television with it and adopt a child with it and help he/she learn how to play baseball with it and introduce it one day and explain the birds and the bees and the birds and the wind to it and disclaim immaculate conception to him/her while it sat on a chair beside us" kind of way.

A relentless pursuit of violence through love.  Where that one is divides the ground by gashes and swathes of earth scorched and the question persists: "can you live on this, because I can go lower?"  The question persists: "I have seen the floor and seen yours, are you ready to hold hands and see how deep that rabbit hole goes?"

It is difficult to rake the years and every time we hang out I cannot understand why you did not let go too.  I wonder for seconds if I did something wrong.  I want some times to attack the people you call home because they know nothing and I read them right and, if not, can at least scream to you that they read me wrong and the only thing protecting them from me is you and the respect therein and the laws they built their bullshit on and the same laws keeping me from spilling guts and skating toward the door on intestine.

No one is as intense in person as they are on paper.  That's simple fact.  Give me one day of freedom.  True freedom.  And everything done on that day will remain inside those 24 hours.  I will make tracks and make tracks, and close loose ends, and if you need more than 24 hours to catch me, tough luck because the statute of limitations says so.

I am plushy.  Everyone needs.  Everyone wants.  Each and everyone has something to forget.  Sometimes it is easier to erase everything else than make edits.




///Fergie - (Clumsy)       "...some day, we'll have a two car garage, a tea nook, and a butcher locker..."

Proliferation Theory

If you do enough, something is bound to stick favorably.  For a time I approached writing with an arrogance.  I thought, because it was the only thing I got decent marks in, I must be good at it.  And then I got bad grades.  Still got good grades from time to time, but bad grades just as often, usually related to the technical composition and not the ideas.  And then I got good technical marks and bad ones on the formation of ideas.  Sometimes I did well with both.

It was a strange time.  I transitioned from writing on my own time and going to class and writing instead of doing homework to higher grades where writing was my only homework and all I did in classes.  The arrogance of perceived innate talent faded quite a bit with one failed attempt to win awards after another and I blamed closed communities and the like, the department was exceptionally cliquey.  I believed the profs liked what they liked and you liked what you liked and it was your job to jump the gap, not theirs.

I don't know what my problem is exactly, but I do believe it is that the people that I idolize make it look so effortless and what they make feels like hit after hit after God damn hit.  Maybe proliferation theory is failing me.  It's difficult to say either way.  Maybe I am genuinely no good.  It's tough to digest.  Without some kind of schedule.  I rolled up a dollar bill.  It's just strange, I guess.  Proliferation theory.  Asking when is good enough for me good enough for someone else.

The theory begs a lower standard, but how much is compromised in terms of value and personal expansion? Is the cost appropriate to the value of the product, the life time stamp I put my name to?  I don't know.  I do it predominantly for myself, at least that's what I've convinced myself of.  I don't know.  Would I kill to go back to school?  How many people?  Could I plea bargain my way out of life sentences and would the offer still be good when I got out?  I'd have to think about it.  Hypotheticals.

Yeah, it drives me crazy.  A little bit.  I try to think about what else I would be doing, could be doing.  None of it appeals to me the same way.  Everyone, including myself, well maybe not everyone, many people talk about being their harshest critic.  I may be my most passionate lover.  Delusions of grandeur coming with the territory, but I don't always see it so clearly.  The Fantha.  Losing focus on the mission.  I just want to die knowing I was good as I could possibly be, not knowing I was good as I was going to be.  Who wants that?

I think believing that I'm great keeps my engine running.  Keeps the clutch down and a hand on the shift knob for when I come running.  Beyond that, I don't know how much credence I give it.  I butcher language and muddle image on a weekly basis.  I talk like broke nosed sailor all too often and argue like a fifteen time concussed politico's son.  Pretty sure my mental dictionary has "turn to page 345"s on it and on page 345 there is a crayon hand drawn hairy dick in the corner.

Purpose is a fine commodity.  Take a digger.  Fire off the magazine, discharge, and throw it as far as you can.  Sometimes panic can be beautiful.  Never outwardly.  Did I tell you that I was you?  Don't be silly.  Don't be silly little king with your crown.  Let me polish that for you; you dropped it skipping puddles in gutters without your galoshes.  You know the ones with He-Man and Skeletor printed all over?  I'll remember for you.

Just behave, okay?

The project was, the final project was, to make a visual that encompassed everything you believed poetry to be.  Everything you believed poetry to be and the purpose it served.  They came in with their power points and dream catchers and God's eyes and a diorama of a village and someone made a painting and someone made a collage from printed magazines and there were a handful of abstract sculptures and even a figurine, but you made a life sized naval mine with trigger switches and detonators and wires out of empty wine bottles and paint brush handles and spray painted it black.  That was a fun walk across campus with that hugged to your chest.  Cutting across the grass, because the people on the sidewalk could go f--- themselves that early in the morning.  You worked on it all night after thinking about it for a week.  Everyone talked about their things and you talked about yours.  And that's where it ended.

Officially.  I suppose, the project is ongoing.  I hate myself.  I love myself.  I hate myself.  I'm sorry to drag you into it.  I don't know how else anything changes.  Contemplating the validity of ProT.


///Starkey - "Spacewalk" infolatice diver with a bad respirator.  the city is so vast and so uninhabitable so far beneath the waves

from a similar born year and different circumstance, but very little I haven't enjoyed while there: alicja-w-krainie-czarow

Musicality

I'm trying to find the music in common sense.  Not just that, but I'm trying to find the fun.  I believe one of my greatest fears is writing ending being an occupation.   Do what you love and everything else will come is largely a lie.  Taking bobby pins out of my hair.

I don't know what I want to be, but I know I can't be an astronaut or a race car driver or a stuntman.  Well maybe stuntman.  Childhood dreams still haunt me, but at least I know (my third pick) I can be a writer given the right circumstances.  I can be a bass junkie.  That works too.

I know we had a lot of conversations about this

so I will stop there.

All we ever wanted to be was loved.   That's a lie.  Trying to find a good way to coda this.  And I can't find one.  The scrap yard has been busy today.  Train noises.  Bright lights.  I feel I am aging inside beyond my years and I don't like it.  Precipitation begging the clouds, but sometimes you have to look up

My condition is getting worse.  Ghosts in the back room.  And all I have to look forward to is the worsening of my schizophrenia.   Fuck.  I don't know.  I don't know.  I don't know.  It hurts.  I just want others around me to be happy and to kill them at the same time.   I suppose in another life things worked out slightly differently because at this point it is a game of edges.  I cannot imagine how things would have worked out otherwise.  If I got the help I needed when I needed it instead of, no offense, Jesus.

the highs keep getting higher and the lows lower.  There's only so much equipment a frame can carry.  But all in all you just try to stay on the human side of things.

Double tracks pending.


///DJ? Acucrack - "In Yer Mind"  all the pills

e is for ass hats

Subject : e is for ass hats!

Posted Date: : Oct 13, 2005 1:03 PM

so i have recently found myself crawling through myspace only to stumble upon the emo pinings of some sad dreg of emo space. i suspect he sucked his way across the sub ether of webspace and found an audience on myspace. why this happens is amazing to me. well not amazing but more like befuddling.

what the fuck is so attractive about some poor gent who is convinced all he wants is to be alone AND wanted!!! what the hell does that mean! i defy you to tell me what it means when someone says they want to be a shadow and at the same time keep whining that no one cares about who they really are. fuck them. who they really are obviously must suck since they don't even want to be who they are. it makes no sense.

and on top of all of this is the poetry. as a poet i have written and cried over my own weepy pathetic work through high school but god damn it you emo slut face ASS HATS... why don't you evolve. move on. alright dont want to evolve becasue bitching is what you're good at? fine. dont move on. but at least GET BETTER AT WHAT IT IS YOU FEEL DRIVEN TO DO. which is spilling your little guts at the drop of a hat to all the wet shouldered women who find it attractive. you sorry man slut. I am shamed (or at least the poet in me) every time you put fingers to keyboard because all you write is the same garbage over and over and over... and if not that then you are stealing some reputable artists work and construing it to fit the molds of your DRIVEL.

i hate most of you because you have no style. i hate some of you because you can't fucking write to save your "worhtless, misunderstood" lives. and the rest of the ones i hate because people actually buy your crap day after day after "pathetic-suicide-contemplating-quivering-beneath-the-cold-blanket-of-death-taking-your-never-ending-last-breath-but-refusing-to-die-for-the-benefit-of-the-rest-of-the-world-because-its-how-you-fight-the-quote-unquote-unbearable-lightness-of-being-(a-douchebag)"day.

for the love of god SHUT THE FUCK UP for once... or are you afraid you'll lose your little fan club of sympathetic robots who think they understand but never really can (which makes you better than them right?). argh.