I won't lie, I don't see the overall goal. I don't have one. But I know that isn't the point. The goal isn't the goal. I know.

You told me, long ago, and many times. You relayed the message. You said, 'Let's build. Let's try.' I think you received that message from somewhere else long before you relayed it. It is funny, because I know you didn't have someone like yourself, you didn't have someone like I do, to relay the message to you. I guess maybe that is why it resonates so deeply within me. I guess why that, despite the lack of goal, the message is so meaningful. It wasn't given to you by someone else. You are not just repeating it to me. You taught me. You showed me. In that way, it isn't a relay at all. But, that isn't important.

I don't see the goal. In fact, I know there isn't one. I know that isn't a message you have received--not one that concerns you, or registers within you. But, it does with me. I received that message about the time you relayed your message to me--I learned them about the same time. I received two messages--one that didn't have a goal, and one that told me there isn't one.

For a long time those conflicted. On certain days, they still do.

But, for whatever reason, I can't stop wanting to show you that I got your's--your message. I did. I promise. I want to show you that you relaying it to me wasn't in vain.

I want to build. I want to try. I want to show you that struggle, and work, and good nature--that these things made it possible for you to relay the message to me and for me to share it with others. In this way, you are somewhat of an evangelist--an evangelist for the message with no goal.

I'm trying. I'm working. I promise. I'll show, and soon. But, thank you. Thank you for the relay. And thank you for giving what no one else gave you--for giving what you received from a place you can't name. I'm thankful.

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop

At the same time we ought to understand also that it is impossible for human nature not to be always feeling the passion of love for something. Everyone who has reached the age that they call puberty loves something, either less rightly when he loves what he should not, or rightly and with profit when he loves what he should love. --Origen

As often as not, it seems to be assumed that man has his being independently of his passions. I affirm, on the other hand, that we must never imagine existence execept in terms of these passions. --Bataille




After a while, after I had filled some time at Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop, I became friendly with one of the semi-hippy people that worked there. And, yes, the person was a female. Smooth.

I would order a hot drink during the day, and ask her how she was doing. You know, I would talk to her about ‘green’ things, or why the president was what she called a douche bag, or even about text and smoke (kind of). She was shorter, a bit petite. She usually wore her hair in different ways—cute and variable (more signs of her semi-hippy status). Her clothes were second hand but still attractive. She was younger too. She was young—you know what I mean—young (not young enough to get me in trouble, stupid). Her smile was endearing and it always said something about her—something mostly pure, something consciously naïve, and something curious.
I sauntered to the Cofee Shop everyday with my words and texts. I'd sit and read. She was a pleasant distraction from all of that. At times I had to remind myself to read rather than to think about her, or to think of reasons to speak to her. The Old Man told me to grow some man muscles and ask her out. I told him to take his pills so that his man muscles might work again. This kind of talk happened almost every day.
Regardless, over time I got more brave. She’d give me my cup of hot liquid and I would wink and say something like, “Thank you beautiful.” Smooth.

She’d smile and pretend like it wasn’t a big deal. She'd walk away and flip her hair, or try not to look at me.
Then she began coming into the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop to talk to me even when she wasn’t required to serve drinks. She would come and bother me, talk to me about texts, or ‘things that matter’. She always had an opinon on a mix of things, from the best kind of coffee, or the conservative politics of the new Italian leader, or chickens.
“Have you seen how they treat the chickens?”
“What?” I would say, looking up from my text, over my glasses.
As she put her hot drink on the table, she would continue: “I saw this documentary last night about how they treat chickens. These poor animals are raised in cages with no freedom. It is completely inhumane what is done to them.”
“Huh,” I would say, stroking my chin stubble. “That is awful.”
“Did you know that it takes like 100 acres of land to provide food for a meat-eater, but only like 3 for a vegetarian?”
“Really? Goodness.”
“I am so glad I am a vegetarian. I couldn't live with myself if I knew I was contributing to such a thing. I am only going to eat free range eggs from now on too. You know, the kind where the chickens grow up in a free environment, not in cages.”
“You are right, that is horrible. I can see why you are upset. ”
“Oh, well. We are going to eat everything in this world and then it will be over.”
“Well, at that point we will be the winners—right? We win. That is why I still eat meat—I want to help contribute anyway I can. I won't hold it against you that you aren't contributing much.”
“Hilarious. You are so funny. Really.”
“Bye, gorgeous.”
With that, she would walk away with a frustrated look, but a bouncy step. Strange.

These kinds of interactions continued for a while. I was good at being and playing interested. I was good at caring, you could say. She thought so too. Smooth.

I watched her interact with people. She didn't go out of her way to be friendly—she didn't try too hard. But, nonetheless people were drawn to her. People seemed disarmed almost instantly by her humble smile and open way. It was like they knew she was thankful for their existence without having to say so. I liked how kind she was without being annoying . . .
A couple of times a week, I would watch her talk with the Old Man.
“Hey, darling. Fill'er up.”
“No problem, honey, how are you today?”
“Oh, you know—old, gray, but still kickin.”
“Still handsome too,” she'd urge him on with a sly smile.
“Well, thank you. Makes my day when you say things like that.”
“Because you like having cute, young women admire you?”
“No. Makes me feel good knowing young people still have some sense of taste—you can still spot a handsome devil like me. All is not lost.”
“Whatever, old man.” She'd say with a smile as he turned to find a seat.
Somehow, he didn't seem creepy or lecherous to her. He had grandfatherly qualities coupled with charm and confidence.
And, for some reason, I enjoyed watching her give time to him and to others.

One More (Redux)

Neon shines through smoky eyes tonight,
It's 2 AM, I'm drunk again,
It's heavy on my mind, it's heavy on my mind.

How come neon always goes with heaviness? It seems neon is hung outside places like this one in order to beckon the heavy-laden to come rest. It's late; or early. Regardless . . .

I could never love again,
So much as I love you.
Where you end, where I begin,
Is like a river going through.

Okay, okay, you are right. Maybe I am being a bit dramatic. Or, maybe not. I could never love so much? Yes. No. Maybe. I'm not sure. Well, maybe the words are wrong. Maybe I mean I could never love as . . . I'm not sure. I do know that there was a point, at times, a point in time, a point in time at times, when I didn't know where you stopped and I started--or where you began and I ended. Maybe that is what I am really trying to get at--what I really miss.


Excuse me please, one more drink
Could you make it strong? Cuz I don't need to think.
She broke my heart, my grace is gone
One more drink and I'll be gone

Excuse me, not to interrupt--but one more. Yes, one more will do it--I'm already dizzy and this one will take me to the edge. What edge? The one where thought stops. I'll go over the edge where my body will finally force my thinking--my concepts--my brooding--my analyzing--into submission. Excuse me, just one more, that is all I need.

Why? Well, my heart is broken. Wait. That is too strong. Or, maybe it is too cliche. Why? Maybe because my salvation--the means of grace--has left? I don't know if that is it either. Why? I think it is this: knowing the hope of that salvation was doomed to fail from the beginning; knowing there is no grace for the temporal space which my heart--my-non-self--occupies. I guess I know that my longing for grace was equivalent to my longing for pardon from my condition--the temporal one. I wanted to be pardoned from it--cured of its disease--made whole through unity with another. Is that why it involves my heart? Yes, sir, it is. Thank you for asking. I thought maybe that was the means by which I could be pardoned. I thought maybe her and I could confer upon one another the grace of salvation through moments of incision, confusion, and, yes, the disappearance of thinking. When thinking stops, time has no hold. Yes, I know. When thinking stops you are dead. They are similar. But, I think I thought that salvation could--would--bring time to a stop without killing me.

So, one more drink. One more is all I need to beat down the circle and fall asleep. One more and I'll be okay until the sun rises tomorrow. One more, and I'll be gone. One more and I'll move, but I can't promise I will move on.

I know the dog days of the summer
Have you ten-to-one out-numbered
Seems like everybody up and left and they're not coming back
The shadow that you're standing on's still here sometimes that's all that you can ask
And your heart's still beating

Yes, these, as they say, are the dog days. I'm not sure if the summer part is coincidence or not. In my--our--case, I think it might be. Yes, they have me--er, us--outnumbered. The dog days seem to outweigh the others at this point--whatever those might be. At this point, they are only memories. But they used to be something else, I promise. The shadow? I don't know if I'm standing on it, but there is one here. It is elusive. It changes. But, it is here. And yes, my heart is beating--a blessing and the curse. A blessing in that I am here--experiencing--trying--hoping. A curse in that I am doing all of that within the limitations of the Impossible. IS that really a curse? I don't know, maybe it is the beer talking.

You're not the fastest draw in town now
How many times you been shot down now?
Seems like everybody else could see the things you never did
But if you could yourself you'd probably never have made it through the things you did
With your heart still beating

No, I am not the quickest draw in town. I am not the sharpest tool in the shed, either. The list goes on and on. I've been shoy down quite a few times--even left for dead a couple. It is no longer surprising; it is always hurtful. But, it passes. Yes, others see things I don't. If I saw them, I may or may not have made it, you are right. But, you know what? If I saw what they saw, I'd be miserable. Seeing what they don't means I see what they don't--and you know--that is why I continue to try even after being shot down. That is why I continue to beat--to pound within each second--to pump blood that goes in a vicious circle.

I know the dog days of the summer Have you ten-to-one out-numbered
It seems like everybody else saw trouble sneaking up behind
Left you half dead in the street but that just means you're half alive
And your heart's still beating

These dog days of summer, they are difficult, and confusing, and even awkward at times. These days . . . Everyone saw the trouble--well, sure. Everyone always sees everyone's trouble. Half dead? Now you are just talking oxymorons. We are all already dead--being half-dead means nothing. No, I'd rather listen to this dead, dying heart--than worry about anyone else's trouble, or not try at all. I'd rather live these dog days, as you call them, than skip the heat of summer altogether. I'd rather be a dog even--which I am and have been--than worry about trouble or people or anyone else.

I'm sorry for the dogs and the days--but I'm thankful that my heart beats, and that you made it beat faster for such a time as you did.

My heart is still beating, even though it knows the blood goes in a circle.

We all long for an encounter. The problem for most of us is not having one--or thinking we have had one--it is figuring out what to do once we have. Settle? Look for more? Of course I want another, it was the defining moment of my existence. Do you blame me?

We all long for an encounter. The problem is figuring out how to live here once we have. I love the desire--the rush--the passion of the during. But what about when it is over? What about the descent back into time and space? It hurts. It degrades. It humiliates.

We all long for an encounter--one that exceeds time and language. We all long for the Impossible. But, for most of us, it too much to deal with--it isn't hard to find, but it is hard to take home.

Looking

Don't look for me here, please. Don't look for yourself here, either. Neither is to be found at this cyber address, and no counsel is to be taken from the ramblings posted here. They are nothing more than cheap thoughts to be swallowed as thoughtlessly as the generic lager you drank for dinner. If this is a place to wonder, it isn't a place to find.

You and Me . . .

It is only you and me now. But, I can't help but worry. I worry because I never know when you will appear. I can't depend on you because you won't ever tell me when you are coming, what we will do, or how it will go. I can't depend because you aren't like that. I guess that is part of your charm. I guess that is part of why I a yours. But, it is hard. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I want to run to another. But, I'm here, waiting, and desperate. Why? Because when you do appear I am enthralled--enraptured--in deep. When you flow, move, overwhelm--well--that is all I want and all I can imagine.

It is only you and me now. I am here and hoping you will come soon. I'm hoping you'll make it hurt, and make it beautiful.

You and Me

It is only you and me now. You are always changing--always elusive. I never know what to expect and I never have control. You dominate. And, I guess I love it. It is not that I submit; it is if I want this at all, you will dominate. There is no choice in the matter. But, I'll chase. I'll surrender. I'll come. This is where I am--this is who I am. It is all wrapped up in you. I don't have me--but with you, at least I have an illusion. With you, I have something to chase--something to make me try; even if it means I am unsettled, unstable, or everywhere.

It is only me and you now. I'll try until I am dead. I'll try because the trying means I'm dead already. I'll try so that when I die, I will die loving.

When I can't write anymore, I'll die. But I'll die loving.
-Klima