If you come to find me affable
And build a replica for me
Would the idea to you be laughable
Of a pale facsimile
I don't want a replica. And, I surely don't want an effigy. If you come to find me affable, I am not even sure it's memories I am after. No, if you come to find me affable, then let's not think about it. Let's not reflect about what it means or why you do so. If we come to find ourselves mutually affable, well, let's let it be--let's let the affability carry on unnoticed and untheorized. What do you say? If you find me affable, don't think about it, just stay in it with me and don't worry about the rest.
So when you come to burn an effigy
It should keep the flies away
When you learn to burn this effigy
It should be
For the hours that slip away
I'm serious. No effigies and no hours. Let the flies gather, and don't even think twice. I am sure the memories will be good, and the pictures will make you cry from time to time, and there will be days where you remember. But, please no effigies. The flies are your last worry. I want to love you in a way that means you'll never have to worry about keeping flies away from me. I want to love you in a way that you are able to care about other things. Okay?
It could be you, it could be me
Working the door, drinking for free
Carrying on with your conspiracies
Filling the room with a sense of unease
Fake conversations on a nonexistent telephone
Like the words of a man who's spent a little too much time alone
When one has spent too much time alone...
I know, it could be either of us. I know it could be either of us. But, I'm telling you, the last thing I want is an effigy, and that includes a non-existent telephone that reaches nowhere. Don't spend the time caring for someone who isn't at the end of a receiver that doesn't exist. Unease is one thing--one good thing--but not when it is about longing and wishing. Unease is the good thing when it is about actively surrendering to the onslaught of moments that wound, but never exist.
I'm going to love you in a way that there is no effigy, understand? I'm going to love you in a way that there is no way you can be represented now or ever, okay? I am going to accept that it isn't possible, and isn't worthwhile. I'm going to love you in a way that means I don't know you, and don't want to.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Monday, March 22, 2010
Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Sacred Stakes
I think what scared me the most was being dead. I mean, dying while still breathing, maybe like being buried alive or something. I was so scared of making a decision that would last forever—one that would mean that I can never, ever change.
I was so scared that nothing more would be at stake. I mean, I complain a lot about us not having the same stakes—the same things at stake, but if I am honest, it was more than that. It felt like that if she was the One—if I chose One again—made another one the One—began to believe and hope and believe in a One—well, nothing at all would be at stake. I mean what is at stake when the decision has been made? What is at stake when everything is settled—when the most important, intimate things have been paid up? What can possibly still be at stake when the question of who I am and how I will be and if I am loved and if I loved is decided? It feels like death. It feels like dying.
I couldn't handle the idea that I would never arrive again, at least not for a new person. I know that I would, could arrive for her a million different times. I know that she would see me show up—see me arrive—be born on top of her again and again—and then disappear, again and again. I know each time, or most times, or some times, it would reaffirm our oath to one another; it would revitalize our connection; it would re-sign our contract.
But, that was the problem. How do you re-sign time and time again without resigning? How do you re-sign without resigning?
I want to resign—want to be able to commit time and time—to give myself—lose myself—over and over. I want to sign that signature and then keeping signing it in every moment, every hour, every day.
However, I don't know how to do that without resigning myself to death. I don't know how that works without resigning myself to being a dead person—a person for whom nothing more is at stake.I feel like re-signing the oath over and over . . . even in the ecstatic moments of the little death . . . at the height of frenzy . . . it feels like resigning myself to pounding my stakes into something—into a surface and a ground—a foundation and a place—that is permanently fixed.
When your stakes are forever—when they aren't at risk—when they don't move—when they are decided; when your stakes are buried and covered over—when they don't get looked at or thought of—when you don't have to think about moving them, mulling, pulling, pounding, sounding, or resounding them—they aren't stakes anymore. They are boards—floor boards—foundation boards—building boards. When you bore something—when you participate in the act of boring—twisting, turning, and fixing in order to harness for good—well you are on the road to boredom. I didn't want to die. I didn't want to die by having my stakes—her stakes--bored through me so that I was so bored I was dead. I didn't want to die while still living.
I mean, you realize that about love, don't you? It is supposed to be forever.
That is a huge difference between anything else we do. We all have something at stake. All day every day we are involved, committed, thrown, into situations, and circumstances, and places where we have something at stake. We don't get to choose to have something at stake—every time you take a fucking breath something is already at stake—you just have to deal with that fact, sorry.
And, so, we have to figure out what is worth it—who, or what, or how, is worth pounding your stake into something in order to erect at tent—a temporary dwelling where you make life, make love, make people happy, or make the world better. Some people use tents to hide from other people; some use tents to hide from themselves; some make tents—pound their stakes over and over and over—in hopes that just once someone else might notice and join them in the tent. But, when we pound stakes it is always temporary—even the stakes we pound for survival's sake are temporary—they aren't meant to last forever; they are meant to last long enough for one or more than one to survive the night or the winter or the storm.
You see, the only stakes meant to built permanent dwellings—ones that last forever—ones that last beyond the personal forever into eternity—into the Infinite—are Holy Places: churches, temples, pyramids, mosques, and so on. The only stakes used forever are the ones that build places of worship.
What about one's home? What about the need to create shelter for a family or a pack or a tribe being thrown about by nature's cruel, fickle feelings? I tell you what, creating a hut or a teepee or a fucking track home with a view of a golf course is never about forever—at its most rudimentary and bare levels, it is about survival.
Homes are for living; churches are for dealing with both death and the dead.
Love has never, ever been about survival—not one time.
Love has always—from forever—for forever—been about death. It is a matter of a very human need to somehow die while remaining alive. What do we say about love? “She takes my breath away . . . With her, I am lost . . . I am blind in love . . . I was lost in love . . . I couldn't see—I was blind—for love's power . . . I didn't know what I was doing because of love . . .”
Don't talk to me about surviving with love. Don't talk to me about needing love to go on—we all can get up in the morning and find some food in the forest, in the desert, or the cupboard. Survival never depended on love.
No. Love is about pounding stakes that turn into relics. Love is about pounding stakes somewhere where once they are in the ground they are sacred—they are sanctificed—holy--and thus, not to be touched. Love is about pounding stakes that become altars, idols, minorets, and minorahs. Love is about killing its builders so the spirits can live. We pound stakes all day everyday because we have to. But the only time we pound stakes that kill us are when love is involved.
I didn't want to die. I didn't want to sanctify the building of another One—I hadn't believe in Ones for a long time, and honestly, the thought of it scared me to death.
I was so scared that nothing more would be at stake. I mean, I complain a lot about us not having the same stakes—the same things at stake, but if I am honest, it was more than that. It felt like that if she was the One—if I chose One again—made another one the One—began to believe and hope and believe in a One—well, nothing at all would be at stake. I mean what is at stake when the decision has been made? What is at stake when everything is settled—when the most important, intimate things have been paid up? What can possibly still be at stake when the question of who I am and how I will be and if I am loved and if I loved is decided? It feels like death. It feels like dying.
I couldn't handle the idea that I would never arrive again, at least not for a new person. I know that I would, could arrive for her a million different times. I know that she would see me show up—see me arrive—be born on top of her again and again—and then disappear, again and again. I know each time, or most times, or some times, it would reaffirm our oath to one another; it would revitalize our connection; it would re-sign our contract.
But, that was the problem. How do you re-sign time and time again without resigning? How do you re-sign without resigning?
I want to resign—want to be able to commit time and time—to give myself—lose myself—over and over. I want to sign that signature and then keeping signing it in every moment, every hour, every day.
However, I don't know how to do that without resigning myself to death. I don't know how that works without resigning myself to being a dead person—a person for whom nothing more is at stake.I feel like re-signing the oath over and over . . . even in the ecstatic moments of the little death . . . at the height of frenzy . . . it feels like resigning myself to pounding my stakes into something—into a surface and a ground—a foundation and a place—that is permanently fixed.
When your stakes are forever—when they aren't at risk—when they don't move—when they are decided; when your stakes are buried and covered over—when they don't get looked at or thought of—when you don't have to think about moving them, mulling, pulling, pounding, sounding, or resounding them—they aren't stakes anymore. They are boards—floor boards—foundation boards—building boards. When you bore something—when you participate in the act of boring—twisting, turning, and fixing in order to harness for good—well you are on the road to boredom. I didn't want to die. I didn't want to die by having my stakes—her stakes--bored through me so that I was so bored I was dead. I didn't want to die while still living.
I mean, you realize that about love, don't you? It is supposed to be forever.
That is a huge difference between anything else we do. We all have something at stake. All day every day we are involved, committed, thrown, into situations, and circumstances, and places where we have something at stake. We don't get to choose to have something at stake—every time you take a fucking breath something is already at stake—you just have to deal with that fact, sorry.
And, so, we have to figure out what is worth it—who, or what, or how, is worth pounding your stake into something in order to erect at tent—a temporary dwelling where you make life, make love, make people happy, or make the world better. Some people use tents to hide from other people; some use tents to hide from themselves; some make tents—pound their stakes over and over and over—in hopes that just once someone else might notice and join them in the tent. But, when we pound stakes it is always temporary—even the stakes we pound for survival's sake are temporary—they aren't meant to last forever; they are meant to last long enough for one or more than one to survive the night or the winter or the storm.
You see, the only stakes meant to built permanent dwellings—ones that last forever—ones that last beyond the personal forever into eternity—into the Infinite—are Holy Places: churches, temples, pyramids, mosques, and so on. The only stakes used forever are the ones that build places of worship.
What about one's home? What about the need to create shelter for a family or a pack or a tribe being thrown about by nature's cruel, fickle feelings? I tell you what, creating a hut or a teepee or a fucking track home with a view of a golf course is never about forever—at its most rudimentary and bare levels, it is about survival.
Homes are for living; churches are for dealing with both death and the dead.
Love has never, ever been about survival—not one time.
Love has always—from forever—for forever—been about death. It is a matter of a very human need to somehow die while remaining alive. What do we say about love? “She takes my breath away . . . With her, I am lost . . . I am blind in love . . . I was lost in love . . . I couldn't see—I was blind—for love's power . . . I didn't know what I was doing because of love . . .”
Don't talk to me about surviving with love. Don't talk to me about needing love to go on—we all can get up in the morning and find some food in the forest, in the desert, or the cupboard. Survival never depended on love.
No. Love is about pounding stakes that turn into relics. Love is about pounding stakes somewhere where once they are in the ground they are sacred—they are sanctificed—holy--and thus, not to be touched. Love is about pounding stakes that become altars, idols, minorets, and minorahs. Love is about killing its builders so the spirits can live. We pound stakes all day everyday because we have to. But the only time we pound stakes that kill us are when love is involved.
I didn't want to die. I didn't want to sanctify the building of another One—I hadn't believe in Ones for a long time, and honestly, the thought of it scared me to death.
Encounters (redux)
At the bottom of all our hopes lies a yearning for encounter. -Ivan Klima
What depressed me were certainly not doubts about the rightness of my choice, but the knowledge that I'd made a decision once and for all. I suspected that for me the most blissful prospect was not so much having the person I loved permanently by my side as a need, from time to time, to reach out to emptiness, to let longing intensify within me to the point of agony, to alternate the pain of separation with the relief of renewed coming together, the chance of escape and return, of glimpsing before me a will-o'-the-wisp, the hope that the real encounter was still awaiting me. -Ivan Klima
At the bottom of all hope--that endless circle, the one like all circles--without beginning and without end--is the desire for an encounter. It is the desire to know an-Other, and more importantly, to be known by an-Other. What is strange about this desire is its whence--its originless origin. We fight, scratch, claw, paradoxically, even to the death, to be recognized as an irreplaceable, singular one. Without one's irreplaceability, they are as good as dead--a subhuman entity incapable of true living. Without one's singluarity we are just a machine carrying out meaningless functions within a mechanical world. "NO!" Even the non-believing souls cry this--bellow it from a hidden place--"I am more."
This desire--the one for an encounter--is born out of this fierce defense of singularity and irreplaceability. It is that singular, non-replaceable infinity that longs to be found. It is like an egg waiting to be pierced by that one--one in a million--one of trillions--swimming head--to be punctured so as to give birth to life. We believe--in a place so secret not even we have access to it, from a past we were not privileged with experiencing, in a present we did not choose, in a future we will never see--that if we can have one encounter--if even one eternal moment --that life will be born; life will be experienced; we will become what we supposed to be all along.
But, what is paradoxical, excruciatingly paradoxical, about this desire--this circle--is that it is its spinning that makes life possible. If the circle doesn't spin there is no desire for encounter simply because there is no "is". If the circle stops moving the conditions for any encounter are vanquished. Yet, as long as the circle spins--as long as that desire burns within one's soul--searing scabs and scars along the outer membrane of the secret space--the place where an encounter might take place--it will long to be understood, to express, to try to explain the secret that has no words.
Escape and return. Longing and fulfillment. Yearning and rest. This is the circle. This is the pendulum in which desire swings.
To choose once and for all? To claim I've had an encounter? What kind of fool would I be to make such a claim?
A greater fool for never trying? A greater loss for never trying to somehow lead another down the winding, impossibly hidden, spaceless space of the infinity in which I reside?
I can't answer that. Can you?
Thus, it is no coincidence that eros and revelation are two sides of the same coin. Revelation--the Word being communicated. Eros--communicating something so secret--so precious--so vulnerably personal--without words. Both involve the uncovering of the Infinite. Both claim to lead to an encounter--to a meeting that couldn't, wouldn't otherwise be possible. Revealing the Word with special words, and revealing one's self with no words. Revealing--physically and not. All of it is in hope for an encounter. And, both spawn words--writing. Which is itself the only way to life--the immortal kind, that is.
When I can't write anymore I'll die. But I'll die loving. -Ivan Klima
What depressed me were certainly not doubts about the rightness of my choice, but the knowledge that I'd made a decision once and for all. I suspected that for me the most blissful prospect was not so much having the person I loved permanently by my side as a need, from time to time, to reach out to emptiness, to let longing intensify within me to the point of agony, to alternate the pain of separation with the relief of renewed coming together, the chance of escape and return, of glimpsing before me a will-o'-the-wisp, the hope that the real encounter was still awaiting me. -Ivan Klima
At the bottom of all hope--that endless circle, the one like all circles--without beginning and without end--is the desire for an encounter. It is the desire to know an-Other, and more importantly, to be known by an-Other. What is strange about this desire is its whence--its originless origin. We fight, scratch, claw, paradoxically, even to the death, to be recognized as an irreplaceable, singular one. Without one's irreplaceability, they are as good as dead--a subhuman entity incapable of true living. Without one's singluarity we are just a machine carrying out meaningless functions within a mechanical world. "NO!" Even the non-believing souls cry this--bellow it from a hidden place--"I am more."
This desire--the one for an encounter--is born out of this fierce defense of singularity and irreplaceability. It is that singular, non-replaceable infinity that longs to be found. It is like an egg waiting to be pierced by that one--one in a million--one of trillions--swimming head--to be punctured so as to give birth to life. We believe--in a place so secret not even we have access to it, from a past we were not privileged with experiencing, in a present we did not choose, in a future we will never see--that if we can have one encounter--if even one eternal moment --that life will be born; life will be experienced; we will become what we supposed to be all along.
But, what is paradoxical, excruciatingly paradoxical, about this desire--this circle--is that it is its spinning that makes life possible. If the circle doesn't spin there is no desire for encounter simply because there is no "is". If the circle stops moving the conditions for any encounter are vanquished. Yet, as long as the circle spins--as long as that desire burns within one's soul--searing scabs and scars along the outer membrane of the secret space--the place where an encounter might take place--it will long to be understood, to express, to try to explain the secret that has no words.
Escape and return. Longing and fulfillment. Yearning and rest. This is the circle. This is the pendulum in which desire swings.
To choose once and for all? To claim I've had an encounter? What kind of fool would I be to make such a claim?
A greater fool for never trying? A greater loss for never trying to somehow lead another down the winding, impossibly hidden, spaceless space of the infinity in which I reside?
I can't answer that. Can you?
Thus, it is no coincidence that eros and revelation are two sides of the same coin. Revelation--the Word being communicated. Eros--communicating something so secret--so precious--so vulnerably personal--without words. Both involve the uncovering of the Infinite. Both claim to lead to an encounter--to a meeting that couldn't, wouldn't otherwise be possible. Revealing the Word with special words, and revealing one's self with no words. Revealing--physically and not. All of it is in hope for an encounter. And, both spawn words--writing. Which is itself the only way to life--the immortal kind, that is.
When I can't write anymore I'll die. But I'll die loving. -Ivan Klima
Lately
Lately, i don’t think you of you at all
Or wonder what you’re up to or how you’re getting on
I never think of calling you or how things could have been
Or wonder where you sleep at night or whose arms you wake in
I mean, this is pretty true. I don't. I haven't, not for a while now. I mean, I don't really care. I am sure you are fine, sure you are more than fine. But, yes, if I am honest, it isn't all true. You probably knew that; others probably knew that, too. I'd say it was mostly true, and kind of not true.
I’m living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Lately,
I mean, this isn't really true. I don't feel like I am living alone. There is plenty of love, of all sorts, in my life. There are plenty of people, of all sorts, in my world. I don't need you; I never needed you. That is all true--all true.
I don’t get lost in daydreams
I never lay awake at night staring in my bed
And i don’t think about your face or anything you’ve said
And i don’t think twice when someone says your name
I mean, I don't anymore. I did a while ago, about this time . . . on numerous occasions . . . well, yeah, I did. I did for various reasons, too. I would lay awake quite often, sometimes with you next to me, and most times with you not. But, lately, I don't--I don't lie, don't lie awake, don't think of your face, or even your name.
Or wonder when the day will break or when the tides will turn
And i don’t break down when someone says your name
Or twist my mind in circles wondering which of us to blame
I mean, the day broke a long time ago. And, then it broke again. The day keeps breaking, over and over. The day turns to night, and then to day again. You know? I don't love the dark as much as some people think.
I’m living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore.
Lately, i don’t think you of you at all.
Lately, lately, oh lately.
Lately . . . for the first time in a while, I have thought of you . . if I am honest. I thought of you and what it would be like to meet again, not for any reason or expectation beyond a meeting. But, I have wondered. I wondered enough to think old thoughts, ones I had fooled myself into thinking were no longer inside my head. I have thought long enough to even read old words--yes, word I truly thought were no longer there--ones I had erased, but not erased good enough. And, man oh man, . . . lately, oh lately . . . those words stung once again. I found words there I am not sure I even registered the first time I was supposed to have read them. "I'm his." Man, a night after . . . hours after . . . the pain . . . the hurt . . .
Now? Now, all the intrigue--the rosy feelings--the ideas of steadily meeting for an encounter--the vague, undeveloped, unacknowledged thoughts of friendship . . . well, I think the lately will now turn to . . . too late? Too late?
Now that is the question, right? If we are going to bring thoughts and wonders and cares . . .
Well, who was too late? It was always supposed to be me, but in reality . . . man, the revelations, the remembrances, the admissions, the guilt . . . all too late.
Man, oh man . . . lately, oh lately . . . I have stayed up wondering about if it is too late to even see--meet--shake--one more time, just for fun or to close or to leave it warmer than the last time--and now, oh now, it is too much.
Or wonder what you’re up to or how you’re getting on
I never think of calling you or how things could have been
Or wonder where you sleep at night or whose arms you wake in
I mean, this is pretty true. I don't. I haven't, not for a while now. I mean, I don't really care. I am sure you are fine, sure you are more than fine. But, yes, if I am honest, it isn't all true. You probably knew that; others probably knew that, too. I'd say it was mostly true, and kind of not true.
I’m living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Lately,
I mean, this isn't really true. I don't feel like I am living alone. There is plenty of love, of all sorts, in my life. There are plenty of people, of all sorts, in my world. I don't need you; I never needed you. That is all true--all true.
I don’t get lost in daydreams
I never lay awake at night staring in my bed
And i don’t think about your face or anything you’ve said
And i don’t think twice when someone says your name
I mean, I don't anymore. I did a while ago, about this time . . . on numerous occasions . . . well, yeah, I did. I did for various reasons, too. I would lay awake quite often, sometimes with you next to me, and most times with you not. But, lately, I don't--I don't lie, don't lie awake, don't think of your face, or even your name.
Or wonder when the day will break or when the tides will turn
And i don’t break down when someone says your name
Or twist my mind in circles wondering which of us to blame
I mean, the day broke a long time ago. And, then it broke again. The day keeps breaking, over and over. The day turns to night, and then to day again. You know? I don't love the dark as much as some people think.
I’m living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore
Living alone living alone i don’t need you anymore.
Lately, i don’t think you of you at all.
Lately, lately, oh lately.
Lately . . . for the first time in a while, I have thought of you . . if I am honest. I thought of you and what it would be like to meet again, not for any reason or expectation beyond a meeting. But, I have wondered. I wondered enough to think old thoughts, ones I had fooled myself into thinking were no longer inside my head. I have thought long enough to even read old words--yes, word I truly thought were no longer there--ones I had erased, but not erased good enough. And, man oh man, . . . lately, oh lately . . . those words stung once again. I found words there I am not sure I even registered the first time I was supposed to have read them. "I'm his." Man, a night after . . . hours after . . . the pain . . . the hurt . . .
Now? Now, all the intrigue--the rosy feelings--the ideas of steadily meeting for an encounter--the vague, undeveloped, unacknowledged thoughts of friendship . . . well, I think the lately will now turn to . . . too late? Too late?
Now that is the question, right? If we are going to bring thoughts and wonders and cares . . .
Well, who was too late? It was always supposed to be me, but in reality . . . man, the revelations, the remembrances, the admissions, the guilt . . . all too late.
Man, oh man . . . lately, oh lately . . . I have stayed up wondering about if it is too late to even see--meet--shake--one more time, just for fun or to close or to leave it warmer than the last time--and now, oh now, it is too much.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Rally
Hook up with me, meet at the rally
Follow the shouting, I am longing for you Hook up with me, meet at the rally I waited so long, I couldn't find a cause Tired or wasted I think you're decent I waited so long, there'll be no decency no
Meet? Shall we meet? Come on, tonight--let's meet. I waited--have waited--am waited--weighted--waiting. I waited for the decency to disappear--for the decency to evaporate so we could meet--encounter one another. Come on, tonight?
(don't you give me those)
Shifty eyes pay attention
Dirty talk talk talk quiet
Just as long as you're gone
It won't happen at all
No, not those. Don't look at me. Don't shift yourself back in forth in front of me. Come and meet me--let the dirty talk transpose us into a silence wherein neither of us speaks and neither of us listens. Let's go somewhere me and you don't exist, so we can meet. I know it won't happen . . . but, tonight? Come on, tonight?
Remember the time we talked about everlastings?
Don't you know we'll both fall to pieces too?
April 22nd at the Avalon, you teased me
Hook up with me, meet at the rally
Yes, always the talk about everlastings--about infinite and it all. Yes, after a couple of bottles and a nice long look at the stars or the ocean . . . talking about the everlasting . . . You want everlasting without falling to pieces? I don't know about any of that. I've tried it before, with an embarrassing amount of success. Come on, no more of this--of this everlasting business--just meet me. Come on, tonight? You and I into a we? Where? Shall we rally?
Don't go away we're so near
Look around, you see
There is nothing to say but the things I know I got nothing to say but the things I know
Look, there is nothing else? Nowhere else to be? Nowhere else to take you to the nowhere. There is nothing to say--I don't want to talk anymore, clarify anymore, ruminate anymore, try anymmore--I know there is nothing to say but nothing. All I can say is what I know and I know nothing.
Standing in line, I think you're pretty
Lying on your bed, I think you're pretty too Young girl curl your hair at night Hook up with me, meet at the rally
Standing in line . . . always standing in line . . . one of us is always in line . . . waiting . . . waiting for our turn . . . waiting for the time . . . waiting for the time to come when we meet . . . standing in line, still, you are so pretty--so majestically pretty--come on, tonight? Curl your hair, put on your shoes, and a grab a hat for the cold--let's rally--let's meet.
Follow the shouting, I am longing for you Hook up with me, meet at the rally I waited so long, I couldn't find a cause Tired or wasted I think you're decent I waited so long, there'll be no decency no
Meet? Shall we meet? Come on, tonight--let's meet. I waited--have waited--am waited--weighted--waiting. I waited for the decency to disappear--for the decency to evaporate so we could meet--encounter one another. Come on, tonight?
(don't you give me those)
Shifty eyes pay attention
Dirty talk talk talk quiet
Just as long as you're gone
It won't happen at all
No, not those. Don't look at me. Don't shift yourself back in forth in front of me. Come and meet me--let the dirty talk transpose us into a silence wherein neither of us speaks and neither of us listens. Let's go somewhere me and you don't exist, so we can meet. I know it won't happen . . . but, tonight? Come on, tonight?
Remember the time we talked about everlastings?
Don't you know we'll both fall to pieces too?
April 22nd at the Avalon, you teased me
Hook up with me, meet at the rally
Yes, always the talk about everlastings--about infinite and it all. Yes, after a couple of bottles and a nice long look at the stars or the ocean . . . talking about the everlasting . . . You want everlasting without falling to pieces? I don't know about any of that. I've tried it before, with an embarrassing amount of success. Come on, no more of this--of this everlasting business--just meet me. Come on, tonight? You and I into a we? Where? Shall we rally?
Don't go away we're so near
Look around, you see
There is nothing to say but the things I know I got nothing to say but the things I know
Look, there is nothing else? Nowhere else to be? Nowhere else to take you to the nowhere. There is nothing to say--I don't want to talk anymore, clarify anymore, ruminate anymore, try anymmore--I know there is nothing to say but nothing. All I can say is what I know and I know nothing.
Standing in line, I think you're pretty
Lying on your bed, I think you're pretty too Young girl curl your hair at night Hook up with me, meet at the rally
Standing in line . . . always standing in line . . . one of us is always in line . . . waiting . . . waiting for our turn . . . waiting for the time . . . waiting for the time to come when we meet . . . standing in line, still, you are so pretty--so majestically pretty--come on, tonight? Curl your hair, put on your shoes, and a grab a hat for the cold--let's rally--let's meet.
Moments; always moments; only moments
Stopping and listening to both of us breathe, I wish this moment wasn't a moment. I feel it—so do you—I know you do—that point where we are indistinguishable—where I am mixed with you and you with me—where neither of us knows where the other begins and where the “me” stops. There is no “me” here; there is only a both of us. Feeling that space where the indiscretion of us both equals an infinity unstrapped by the dimensions of time; where the infinite shatters the temporal inside our convulsing bodies--where the infinite melds somewhere into the nowhere. Stopping, feeling the moment pass—feeling the blanket of eros that hid us from the world evaporate into the ceiling above us—and sighing in the intimacy and loneliness of time.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Changing Inside
Through my window you can see a patch of green
In between the gaps in the blocks of flats
Sitting here thinking to myself
It’s funny what you notice when you start to relax
So many days I’ve been on the floor
Since the light of my life turned me from your door
Where all that happened was about as clever
As missing something that’s gone forever
Yes, I see a patch of green. I see green amidst the gray--the jagged concrete--the hard, hurtful floor. I see green in the laughter of friends, and the camaraderie of a dance circle, and the smile of an-other on the occasion of a good joke. I see green in the words, the sea, and the art. I see green in the beautiful, the mundane, the sacred, and the profane. It is funny what happens--when you relax into something new--something from the perspective of light shone all the way to the floor--where I was left.
Down the stairway on the floor below
Madame Valerie hits the bottle when things take a dive
Still it’s reassuring for me to know
She’s been living here for years and she’s still alive
I talk to her when lost in memory
Her story’s one of faded glory but she still has some clout
Woke up this morning with this melody
And the realization that we can all help each other out
Oh the Madame, or the Madame's. They are present, too, I suppose. The Madames beckon laughter, as well as screams. They are full of surprises--at least before they take a dive. I like talking to them, though. I like it when memories get intertwined into balls of forgetfulness late at night, amidst bottles and cold beverages, and open, bellowing laughter. The Madames--of course.
These days I’m walking the road alone
Returning once again to my only real home
Waking up early, staying up late
Reading a book I borrowed from my friend the heavy weight
Finding a new way to begin
Living without but living within
My eyes are opening to what might appear
As waking up to the simple fact that I’m here
It's good--the road. I like it. Staying up late--of course. The momentous only happens when you've stayed up later than is useful--when the expenditure exceeds the usefulness of day, and is wasted in the antics of the night. Waking up early--of course. I have to deal with the words before the sun steals them--before the sun makes me temporarily think it is isn't worth it--before the sun silences the words with its piercing rays and ubiquitous giving.
Living without? That is an interesting one, isn't it? I like living without--living without why and without a thought. I like living on the outside--external--with laughter and charm--with libations and encounters. Living without? Of course--I don't need you--don't want you. Living without? Of course--it's nice to see the things I see when you aren't in my way.
Further down on the street below
I rise above my state of inner sorrow
The fishmonger’s wife she knows about life
Says if you can’t pay today you can pay tomorrow
Think I’d be alright if I could see you tonight
But I’m wondering if that’s really me that’s talking
Lovers or friends it all depends
Think I better let my feet just keep on walking
Further down on the street--the one below me--I walk. It is nice to make headway on this path--to progress somewhere. Seeing you tonight? The thought has crossed my mind, I won't fib. But, it isn't me talking. I know it isn't. Lovers or friends? How about neither? I'd rather be friends with the road--with my feet--with the without. You know? Lovers or friends? No thanks. I'd rather see the patch of green--see the things I see between the gray and the questions; the aches and the bellows. I will walk--continue to walk--and well . . .
Changing inside letting go of the past
Don’t worry
Sometimes we all have to see the light
Yep, the without has changed the withing. It is a good thing. Don't worry--not about me--I'm that one--the one among many ones--but one nonetheless whom it is hard to forget--hard to replace--hard to explain. I try to see the light--everyday, I do. But, not in the rays--no, in the green that absorbs them--in the green that turns them into something different.
In between the gaps in the blocks of flats
Sitting here thinking to myself
It’s funny what you notice when you start to relax
So many days I’ve been on the floor
Since the light of my life turned me from your door
Where all that happened was about as clever
As missing something that’s gone forever
Yes, I see a patch of green. I see green amidst the gray--the jagged concrete--the hard, hurtful floor. I see green in the laughter of friends, and the camaraderie of a dance circle, and the smile of an-other on the occasion of a good joke. I see green in the words, the sea, and the art. I see green in the beautiful, the mundane, the sacred, and the profane. It is funny what happens--when you relax into something new--something from the perspective of light shone all the way to the floor--where I was left.
Down the stairway on the floor below
Madame Valerie hits the bottle when things take a dive
Still it’s reassuring for me to know
She’s been living here for years and she’s still alive
I talk to her when lost in memory
Her story’s one of faded glory but she still has some clout
Woke up this morning with this melody
And the realization that we can all help each other out
Oh the Madame, or the Madame's. They are present, too, I suppose. The Madames beckon laughter, as well as screams. They are full of surprises--at least before they take a dive. I like talking to them, though. I like it when memories get intertwined into balls of forgetfulness late at night, amidst bottles and cold beverages, and open, bellowing laughter. The Madames--of course.
These days I’m walking the road alone
Returning once again to my only real home
Waking up early, staying up late
Reading a book I borrowed from my friend the heavy weight
Finding a new way to begin
Living without but living within
My eyes are opening to what might appear
As waking up to the simple fact that I’m here
It's good--the road. I like it. Staying up late--of course. The momentous only happens when you've stayed up later than is useful--when the expenditure exceeds the usefulness of day, and is wasted in the antics of the night. Waking up early--of course. I have to deal with the words before the sun steals them--before the sun makes me temporarily think it is isn't worth it--before the sun silences the words with its piercing rays and ubiquitous giving.
Living without? That is an interesting one, isn't it? I like living without--living without why and without a thought. I like living on the outside--external--with laughter and charm--with libations and encounters. Living without? Of course--I don't need you--don't want you. Living without? Of course--it's nice to see the things I see when you aren't in my way.
Further down on the street below
I rise above my state of inner sorrow
The fishmonger’s wife she knows about life
Says if you can’t pay today you can pay tomorrow
Think I’d be alright if I could see you tonight
But I’m wondering if that’s really me that’s talking
Lovers or friends it all depends
Think I better let my feet just keep on walking
Further down on the street--the one below me--I walk. It is nice to make headway on this path--to progress somewhere. Seeing you tonight? The thought has crossed my mind, I won't fib. But, it isn't me talking. I know it isn't. Lovers or friends? How about neither? I'd rather be friends with the road--with my feet--with the without. You know? Lovers or friends? No thanks. I'd rather see the patch of green--see the things I see between the gray and the questions; the aches and the bellows. I will walk--continue to walk--and well . . .
Changing inside letting go of the past
Don’t worry
Sometimes we all have to see the light
Yep, the without has changed the withing. It is a good thing. Don't worry--not about me--I'm that one--the one among many ones--but one nonetheless whom it is hard to forget--hard to replace--hard to explain. I try to see the light--everyday, I do. But, not in the rays--no, in the green that absorbs them--in the green that turns them into something different.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Crazy
When the crazy hits the page, it is cathartic. It feels like all the swirling--all the chaos--the muddled ooze of atoms and breached barriers--torn jetties--fragmented souls--all the fucked, fecal remains of sweat, adrenaline, and cum--all the battered levys and harried canals--are somehow organized into semi-coherent sentences, complete with colons, semi-colons, commas, and periods. It feels like the crazy is forced to confess itself in an organized manner--to testify to its existence--to tell the world that it exists--to witness to what I have been saying this whole time.
When the crazy hits the page, it is cathartic somehow. It doesn't make it worth it. I don't really know if that is possible. I don't think even God could do that--justify the breaching required for the crazy to tear up the little pink cepallic enter of my self--the virgin space criss-crossed by the lines--tears--violations--of breaching.
No, when the crazy hits the page it isn't about making it worth it. Making it worth it is a tired cause--it is a non-issue that doesn't even deserve a response at this point. It is never about making it worth it. No, when the crazy hits the pages the cathartic part is that I can see it--read it--and force it into grammatical servitude. At that point, the crazy is spewed forth--vomited--into categories, syntax, and grammar. At that point, it is real. It exists. It is an entity; a being.
It's real. That's the cathartic part. I don't have to persuade any longer--I don't have to cajole. No. When the crazy hits the page, I might be dead--but the swirling dervish of pain, trying, hope, idiocracy, and meaninglessness is immortal--it is its own at that point.
When the crazy hits the page I smile a wide smile--I grin from ear to ear--and laugh. When the crazy hits the page, I grab my belly and shrill from the inside out. When the crazy hits the page, I know it won't stop--but I at least know I know it is out--real--for everyone to see. When the crazy hits the page, I know that the criss-crossed lines of my pink center are born out--laid bare--and singular--no one has my lines--no one has my ridges--my canals--my marks--I might be dead, but my breaches--the breaches that make me possible--testify to the crazy that made me possible.
When the crazy hits the page, it is cathartic somehow. It doesn't make it worth it. I don't really know if that is possible. I don't think even God could do that--justify the breaching required for the crazy to tear up the little pink cepallic enter of my self--the virgin space criss-crossed by the lines--tears--violations--of breaching.
No, when the crazy hits the page it isn't about making it worth it. Making it worth it is a tired cause--it is a non-issue that doesn't even deserve a response at this point. It is never about making it worth it. No, when the crazy hits the pages the cathartic part is that I can see it--read it--and force it into grammatical servitude. At that point, the crazy is spewed forth--vomited--into categories, syntax, and grammar. At that point, it is real. It exists. It is an entity; a being.
It's real. That's the cathartic part. I don't have to persuade any longer--I don't have to cajole. No. When the crazy hits the page, I might be dead--but the swirling dervish of pain, trying, hope, idiocracy, and meaninglessness is immortal--it is its own at that point.
When the crazy hits the page I smile a wide smile--I grin from ear to ear--and laugh. When the crazy hits the page, I grab my belly and shrill from the inside out. When the crazy hits the page, I know it won't stop--but I at least know I know it is out--real--for everyone to see. When the crazy hits the page, I know that the criss-crossed lines of my pink center are born out--laid bare--and singular--no one has my lines--no one has my ridges--my canals--my marks--I might be dead, but my breaches--the breaches that make me possible--testify to the crazy that made me possible.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Remembering to Forget
Trying to forget is remembering, and that is the bastard of it. I guess I'll forget when I stop remembering, and I'll stop remembering when I forget. Until then, you'll be in my psyche--in places I like to think are evaporating--in places I don't really like to go. The pictures are gone, and the words too.
I guess you could be smug about it--smug that you are still there. I guess you could be hurt--hurt that I am trying to excise that set of rooms from my brain. I don't really care. At least I tell myself that anyway. I probably do--I probably care in the same places the memories are hidden--maybe the caring is what keeps them from evaporating.
It is funny how it all works out in the end. You told me a story the first time we talked and then repeated that story, and that is the thing we spoke of the last time we talked. Now we will never talk again. I know my stories--one of them, or many--got stuck in there too--in between--but, that one story--the pattern on that old shirt you wore the first time we kissed--well, it was the one, wasn't it? The one that stood at the beginning and the end. Oh well, I should have known better--about me, and about you. I should have trusted the doubts instead of the laughter. I should have remembered then--instead of consciously forgetting--the story--the story you told me at the beginning. If I had, maybe the end would have been different.
I guess you could be smug about it--smug that you are still there. I guess you could be hurt--hurt that I am trying to excise that set of rooms from my brain. I don't really care. At least I tell myself that anyway. I probably do--I probably care in the same places the memories are hidden--maybe the caring is what keeps them from evaporating.
It is funny how it all works out in the end. You told me a story the first time we talked and then repeated that story, and that is the thing we spoke of the last time we talked. Now we will never talk again. I know my stories--one of them, or many--got stuck in there too--in between--but, that one story--the pattern on that old shirt you wore the first time we kissed--well, it was the one, wasn't it? The one that stood at the beginning and the end. Oh well, I should have known better--about me, and about you. I should have trusted the doubts instead of the laughter. I should have remembered then--instead of consciously forgetting--the story--the story you told me at the beginning. If I had, maybe the end would have been different.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop
That encounter--that very embarrassing encounter--well, it made me realize something. It was the first time I wasn't in . . . I was just someone. It was the first time I was a one, and not the One. I guess that may not be strictly true. I guess that had probably happened before--I am sure there had been rejections and semi-rejections and what not. I don't know. But for some reason, that encounter stuck out.
It stuck to me--or maybe pierced me--like a stake. Yes, amidst all of the investing and divesting of stakes that were happening at that point--this was one was definitive somehow. Somehow it lit up a bubble in my brain. Somehow, it made sense of some of the stakes.
Life is about stakes. It is about piercing things--places--souls--in order to erect something--make something. God pierced the Bride in the Song of Songs thousands of years ago--God--the Bridegroom in this story--pierced her with his wounding, seducing arrow. God, the Divine Seducer, drew her into a movement--a dance of presence and absence--that included separate and simultaneous instances of anguish and ecstasy. God held that soul captive with the promise of fulfillment--of a penetration--that would fill so deeply, so unnervingly, so interior within her--that she herself would dissolve in a moment of ecstatic disappearance.
Life is about stakes. About digging under layers in order to make a home out of wounds--welcome wounds--risky wounds--desirable wounds.
Yes, we make tents all day everyday--professionally, politically, religiously, and erotically. In love, in living, we erect places to make temporary spaces in order to clear a temporary tent in the forest--the dark, but beautiful forest of breathing--of smoke--of tears--of hunger--mortality--and desire.
That event was a shattering stake--an illuminating stake.
That event showed me that my tent was based on stakes--a perpetually moving, shifting, contingent set of stakes. That event showed me that my tent was always moving in different directions and different ways in order to make space for everyone. I wanted to be able to pierce and be pierced--to be God and the Bride--the object and subject--the Seducer and the wounded, captive Lover--all at once. I wanted to convince that I could erect spaces.
But, it meant my stakes--my personal stakes--my attempt at congealing the chaos of my little world--of forming a coherent mass in my little psyche--the day by day, moment by moment job of running a motor rather than a firework in my head; of running good set of irrigation pipes throughout the flowing circuits in my pink, cephallic center--of letting the water of desire and voices keep within the banks of the canals I had dug--were heavily dependent upon the refracted pieces that were returned to me in the desire--the compliments--the appreciation of those--the others--the ones.
I realized the tents I was making were based on an empty center. I realized that I had been running on the basis of an absence--one that I would fill at a moment's notic in order to receive and dispense with piercing, convincing stakes--ones that would result in melting and liquified insides.
My center--the empty, absent center--the space that was only a space because nothing was there--was not only the site where those stakes were dispensed from, but also the place wherein a new tent could be erected in a matter of moments, days, encounters.
I could construct an open space out of the returned, refracted fragements returned to me from the other.
My tent was nothing. My tent was contingent.
My tent was dependent upon me knowing that I had pierced--that I had crossed--in ways that are and were liquifying.
Without the liquid, I would spill no liquid. Without the crossing, I wouldn't and couldn't be crossed.
I miss that Old Man. I miss his grumpiness. I miss his moods. I miss the questions he would ask me about his crossword puzzles and how he never thought I was right. I miss how he would try to flirt with Sage and the other semi-hippy women at the shop; how his swagger carried him through even the most awkward moments. But, mostly I missed his otherness. I missed him sitting across from me--outside of me--without a care in the world as to my stakes and what I was trying to accomplish. He didn't care about being pierced. He didn't care about melting. He just sat there--and let the tent build itself. He just sat there and let the tent between us--between he and whomever he encountered--built itself each time they met. He was always happy to see you--any you--and you always knew it. How did he do that?
I still talk to him most days. I still talk to him when I walk in the Shop, or go for a walk on the boardwalk. I tell him about my day, or the girl I am seeing, or what I am reading about. I don't know where he is--I don't know how he exists in my psyche still--within the circuits that are always threatening to become jumbled and the overflowing canals--but he is. He is there. And he is still other--still foreign. It somehow reminds me--or gives me hope at least--that someday I will figure out how to not let my tent be so contingent; so wrapped up in other peoples returns.
It stuck to me--or maybe pierced me--like a stake. Yes, amidst all of the investing and divesting of stakes that were happening at that point--this was one was definitive somehow. Somehow it lit up a bubble in my brain. Somehow, it made sense of some of the stakes.
Life is about stakes. It is about piercing things--places--souls--in order to erect something--make something. God pierced the Bride in the Song of Songs thousands of years ago--God--the Bridegroom in this story--pierced her with his wounding, seducing arrow. God, the Divine Seducer, drew her into a movement--a dance of presence and absence--that included separate and simultaneous instances of anguish and ecstasy. God held that soul captive with the promise of fulfillment--of a penetration--that would fill so deeply, so unnervingly, so interior within her--that she herself would dissolve in a moment of ecstatic disappearance.
Life is about stakes. About digging under layers in order to make a home out of wounds--welcome wounds--risky wounds--desirable wounds.
Yes, we make tents all day everyday--professionally, politically, religiously, and erotically. In love, in living, we erect places to make temporary spaces in order to clear a temporary tent in the forest--the dark, but beautiful forest of breathing--of smoke--of tears--of hunger--mortality--and desire.
That event was a shattering stake--an illuminating stake.
That event showed me that my tent was based on stakes--a perpetually moving, shifting, contingent set of stakes. That event showed me that my tent was always moving in different directions and different ways in order to make space for everyone. I wanted to be able to pierce and be pierced--to be God and the Bride--the object and subject--the Seducer and the wounded, captive Lover--all at once. I wanted to convince that I could erect spaces.
But, it meant my stakes--my personal stakes--my attempt at congealing the chaos of my little world--of forming a coherent mass in my little psyche--the day by day, moment by moment job of running a motor rather than a firework in my head; of running good set of irrigation pipes throughout the flowing circuits in my pink, cephallic center--of letting the water of desire and voices keep within the banks of the canals I had dug--were heavily dependent upon the refracted pieces that were returned to me in the desire--the compliments--the appreciation of those--the others--the ones.
I realized the tents I was making were based on an empty center. I realized that I had been running on the basis of an absence--one that I would fill at a moment's notic in order to receive and dispense with piercing, convincing stakes--ones that would result in melting and liquified insides.
My center--the empty, absent center--the space that was only a space because nothing was there--was not only the site where those stakes were dispensed from, but also the place wherein a new tent could be erected in a matter of moments, days, encounters.
I could construct an open space out of the returned, refracted fragements returned to me from the other.
My tent was nothing. My tent was contingent.
My tent was dependent upon me knowing that I had pierced--that I had crossed--in ways that are and were liquifying.
Without the liquid, I would spill no liquid. Without the crossing, I wouldn't and couldn't be crossed.
I miss that Old Man. I miss his grumpiness. I miss his moods. I miss the questions he would ask me about his crossword puzzles and how he never thought I was right. I miss how he would try to flirt with Sage and the other semi-hippy women at the shop; how his swagger carried him through even the most awkward moments. But, mostly I missed his otherness. I missed him sitting across from me--outside of me--without a care in the world as to my stakes and what I was trying to accomplish. He didn't care about being pierced. He didn't care about melting. He just sat there--and let the tent build itself. He just sat there and let the tent between us--between he and whomever he encountered--built itself each time they met. He was always happy to see you--any you--and you always knew it. How did he do that?
I still talk to him most days. I still talk to him when I walk in the Shop, or go for a walk on the boardwalk. I tell him about my day, or the girl I am seeing, or what I am reading about. I don't know where he is--I don't know how he exists in my psyche still--within the circuits that are always threatening to become jumbled and the overflowing canals--but he is. He is there. And he is still other--still foreign. It somehow reminds me--or gives me hope at least--that someday I will figure out how to not let my tent be so contingent; so wrapped up in other peoples returns.
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