Day: July 7, 2012

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keep busy
wake early
some amazing dreams
easily forgotten
the world asked me three times
so I had to stay awake
and just
spent the whole day reading about garbage

Topper
oh Really?
The Last Of Sheila
?
Oh Yeah?
Sondheim was a screen writer for a little bit?
for a little while. . .
yeah

I took my time
caught up in words

gotta know about the new Mac book pros
gotta know about iOS 6
gotta. . .
be late

walked across 72nd street for the first time in years

when I arrived for the send-off
I got a nice hug from a chubby fellow I forget is straight every time I meet him
. . . there are still some straights that flit into my life from time to time

they smoked their e-cigs
we went for lunch

the sun is bright
I used to know that
this year it shocks me
I am shocked and appalled!
but I live inside now
in simply lit rooms
tapping on screens
the sun is so bright
every time I go outside
I squint
it hurts

this is why the city people wear glasses

we eat at a French place
I get a torte
and must scarf the second half to make my appointment across the UWS
near West End

I’m On Time
which is to say, five minutes early
I wait outside the door to ring at 1
the man has the prettiest eyes ever
it’s a little scary

through the session he used some adjective to emphasize how sincere I am

I’m all bashful for some reason

I like myself as a masseur
I’m simple
I know who I am
and what to do
simple
in my place

like most "simple" and "pleasurable" things in life
I don’t imagine it’s sustainable
or I’m just itching to transform into someone I find more interesting

yes
that’s where this goe

I stop off at the workroom
we have a quarter of an hour of friendly love

simple
pleasurable

why not?

I rush to my next appointment
and there I am
On Time
which is to say
3 minutes late

he always makes me wait anyway
I can tell its calculated
slow

he talks slow
he takes time to choose his words
I imagine it’s in direct contrast to how agitated I get when I’m chattering

everything is deconstruction
I keep trying to retell my story
it’s boring me to death

obviously

he says something something
I forget it instantly
but the line is
"you should work to actually Experience your life"

I always leave feeling gutted

a mess of personality collage
"a cloned clever clone am I"
"the identity I composed out of terror has become Oppressive Now. I Am So OVER IT Now."

Actually Exoerience My Life

something like that
I forget it with every step I take
I try and write about it on the train
but I’m so sick and tired of my story

I really believed it was fascinating
. . . a few years ago

I meditate on it
and am horrified by an old conclusion
the understanding of my shame
my inherited family role
Woman
Whore
goddamnit.

how can there be Love when both of us are trying to scam each other?

I forgot for a while. . .

but I’m chipper

I get home
strip
in this city heat
I want to sleep
but a person comes over
talks to me
I yawn
and lay down
and sleep

he sleeps with me
we wake
go through with
something simple
obligatory

order food
stories
astrology

when did I break my hand?
(no, metaphorical)

he leaves
and I read about Scientology and the Cruise thing for a few hours
damn theatens

not to mention the Mormons
and that 12 year old talking to his 32 year old self
and Radiohead’s collapsing stage
and two decades of photos
and google’s glasses

is this different than hours wasted on porn?
it’s 3am now
and I’m just as befuddled as ever
tomorrow is the last day of this public embarrassment
I used to be so comfortable with it. . .

ah
growing pains.

today is an echo of my 33
let me wake with a day of grace and gratitude
and anyone who reads this
yes
and anyone who wishes it
yes
and all sentient beings
let us just be grateful for all that is
al least upon waking. . .

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I move slow
I’m aware
I have become more cryptic

when I go to see my friend
there are storm clouds around me
of all the things I don’t want to talk about
he doesn’t want to hear it
and doesn’t ask
he keeps his windows open
but does not make direct eye contact

there is rippling water between us

we walk quietly
holding our breath

I try
I make a loose effort
the best I can
wanting only to run away
knowing there is no Away
so trying to stay

stay in distance

in my attempts
I scream to myself
smack my face against my hands
and stomp my feet on the floor

while making measurements
proof of past psychic bonds make themselves evident
as I knew they always were
always are

there is no separation

I give up
realizing my attempt was faulty
he agrees
and sets about to make something better
prettier
simpler

I am aware:
Night vs Day
Talking vs Doing

aliens

opposites attract
squares lock together

he says I did it
though I only watched
making a stupid task difficult
keeping it interesting

is that my skill?

we walk
with fury
through the masses

get some food
he says
I should take that vacation anyway
(image of Richard’s dying lover with oxygen tubes up his nose)
Take That Vacation Anyway

I’m filled with hate and frustration
it’s novel for me
-feeling so offended-
I cradle it there
I don’t want him involved

I think about friends who challenge
and am in agreement in concept
but challenge is different than
projecting shit all over you

I don’t understand
and am unwilling to believe I’m as faulty as I’ve been described

I dismiss my friend
let myself indulge in rage for a moment

then distraction

I imagine
is that all addiction is?
indulging in distraction?
choosing, repeatedly, not to be present?
does it matter if it’s sex or drugs or blogs or games?

another friend arrives
he’s on another plane
we go to sit through a farce
and laugh our asses off

oh, life
thank you for the well modeled distraction

ridiculous!

the night offers tongue
and beer
we talk
walk through the night

I outline it all:
what damages me most is graceless loving
I want to love without forgetting who we are
(or "please destroy me". . . which is it?)
it is in expecting the lover to do or be other than they are that makes my weak heart snap shut
cutting out all light and consciousness for days. . . weeks. . . months. . .

any of us would die in the dark

here’s a mystery:
what saves me?

how do I stay alive. . .
Tom, How do I Keep My Heart Open In Hell?