pink streaks, tears in the fabrics of my flesh.
any moment it will break down the door and catch me flat-footed, rooted in fear as slow guitar matches a pounding drum. it's teeth a stained red from rending, it's eyes deep and awful. it is a terror that has haunted me, a violation of privacy, a monster at the entrance. i am nervous it will catch me naked mid-change, this monster in my head. reach out to me, more tears in my flesh and lose myself in the moment when it dies.
While descending into the Silicon Valley at night, at a certain distance, the cities light up like a printed circuit board.
Being in a room full of people, they're more like pieces of a whole. Designated functions, social roles filled to find worth or to match whatever best fills gaps or soothes the ego. I watch their gestures, actions and reactions, and I see an organism. I'm enthralled... Cities are the circuits, people transferring information, Memes - I text to someone later - "uhh... thinking is kind of DNA but in an aerosol form" and frequency is the negative space, it's the ocean that matter swims in. But I'm snapped out of all that when she asks me a question: "And what is it you do?"
I rarely get away clean. When I'm trying, in the moment, I can ask all the questions and it doesn't come back to me, but I'm out of practice. I don't talk head-on with people like I used to. And I'm caught flat-footed, it smacks me in the face like a dog catching a parked car on just how much I hate questions. I hate them because the other person doesn't care - they never do - they'll never treasure the minutiae of my life in the way I will theirs. It's not that it makes me better or them any less, I just love details and when someone acts like it matters at all... So I stumble and trip over myself, not outwardly but inwardly. Asking myself, what is it I do?
"Like a screen writer?" Is her next question. This is Southern California after all; it's a fair question, but it does have me wonder why I bothered to say that I'm "a writer". As if it's some indisputable fact, as if I simply am and, also, it means something of uhh... worth? I'm of value somehow because I have a function in the grid, an electrical transmission on the giant circuit board. Then it hits me, after I answer her, I have nothing else. I'm pathetic, it's all I have left and I cling to it, the ship has sunk and this is my life preserver. I said I was a writer because I have nothing else.
i often wonder if i should be done with this nonsense and bring back johnnybadhair
Back in '06 through '07, I didn't sleep much. About three to four nights a week I'd drink myself into bed because of the pain. My hip had gone and done something awful and wasn't quite working. No health insurance but needing to pay rent and all that... I did what most poor idiots do and hoped it would work itself out while I punched in, grinding out the daylight.
That's just how it was before, right? The time I was pushing 103 fever, all the ingrown toenails I've torn out, the weird pain in my side that feels like someone has slipped a knife between my ribs that comes around about once a year.
Where was I? Drinking myself to sleep, right. I didn't sleep well for years, wandered around in a pain induced haze, I guess. I'd stopped drinking myself to sleep after I moved to Portland - I did drink a lot though, and some due to the pain but mostly because it's just what I did. Slowly things got better, I could sleep again, years and years later the pain has worked itself out for the most part.
Where the fuck am I even going with this? I'm in that state of mind right now, I've hardly slept. As I get older I hear people joke about age catching up with them, you know "I'm balding" or "aches and pains, all that" but I'm feeling it everyday. My feet feel hot and cold but if you'd touch them I may not notice. They only react to pressure most times - neuropathic pain... A good jab can feel like the apocalypse, my feet desperately itch all over for no reason at odd times, I get pins and needles. A bizarre misunderstanding of the sense, like the sun has become an apple to my sight or laughter becomes the sound of breaking glass. It gets worse everyday, this isn't just a disease it's a continual exercise in patience and acceptance.
The last week has felt like the year between '06 and '07. My neuropathic pains have been on a rampage, the muscles in my calves constantly spasm (another side effect) and due to that I wake up with horrible cramps that feel like my muscles are tearing themselves free from my body. I wake up screaming - nothing new, I have an exaggerated startle response and night terrors due to abuse, but this all ebbs in and out depending how "well" I am at the moment. But I'm feeling this week, I feel it's worse. It's like that year between '06 and '07, as if all the high tides of pain are really premonitions of my life to come.
But I'm not giving up, no matter what I have to do, no matter how dirty I've to play. There's nothing to be sad about, the future is coming and I've accepted that. I've experienced it. One day these problems will drop by for a visit and never leave and I won't give. Though, in this sleepless fog I'm in, I wonder if I'll sleep right again, and maybe that the future is already here.
Funny, I've been listening to the Killing Joke songs all night:
All my life I've been waiting for this moment to come
Taste the salt of my tears
Take the wealth of my years
Singing in the millennium with you
Resolutions for show
Old ways don't seem to know
Singing in the millennium with you
Fire burn all our uncertainties
Water wash away impurities
Contradictions and predictions abound
Yes, I believe that we can turn it around
i'm pails and pails of human waste. i'm tired of being told and told and told so indirectly. it's alright, maybe it's true and i've gone full blown super villain, a Lex Luthor in a world of people who dream that they're somehow Superman.
how dare they have ideals, how dare they have standards, how dare they live in their dreams. it's the real world out here, who are they to judge me while people die and i toss and turn every night at the hard decisions i make to stay on my two feet. i pick and choose my battles these days - i try and play it smart, the long game, when before all i cared about was now, now, now. life on earth could end any minute and so could i...
the pills are kicking in and i think it's time i turned my tv on before i realize what a monster i am and walk into the bathroom and not walk out.
A few Thanksgivings ago I had traveled out to see my Mother in Northern California. On the night before Thanksgiving, maybe after... I don't know, it was sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, a couple of my friends had been up from Southern California to visit friends or family or something and we met up at an of the way place. We're all Mexican - half, on my part, at least, a bastard always - so it was a tequila and beer night until the bar got tired of serving us and hit the light switch.
We sat at the bar, and my trip out to California, the day before, I had a fight with a woman I was seeing. It can be called a fight in the loosest sense, I didn't do any fighting I mostly sat there being yelled at. That week I had decided to move apartments: Tom and I were moving, but it was in the same complex so moving was practically a technicality, it was so close right?
Three doors down and it gave birth to a fucking fury in this woman I loved. And why? I can't say, it's not something I was in a position to understand or speak out against; I was dumbstruck. I'd had screaming matches before, I've been having them my whole life. I've had to fight with everyone I love and it's terrible because most times I'm not sure if I'm doing it for the right reasons but there's usually no turning back once your lungs are committed. But I sat there this time...
So there it was, I was confused but mostly left with a sharp pain in a place that wouldn't be pinpointed. What do you do when something you love hurts you? My love for this woman was hurting me.
And there I was after, in Southern California, hangdog and 5 o'clock shadow, maybe 6 or 7 shots in when someone thinks to ask me how I'm doing (why can't it be before I raise a glass? who knows...). And I tell them that there is this absolutely beautiful woman... beautiful and terrifying woman that I'm in love with. She is frightening and incredible, but... "I love her so much. It's always yelling though, and I feel tired and heavy. I love her but it makes my heart so... heavy."
"Love shouldn't make you feel that way," one of my friends said.
She texted me on my way to the airport, the day of my flight out, this woman I was seeing texted, "I love you." No apology, although to be fair to her she did apologize for it later but not then, then it only said, "I love you" I suppose it was a form of apology.
"Love shouldn't make you feel that way", it's what everyone thinks about anything... I didn't reply to the text. When I got back to Portland I told her I was done, no hard feelings, here's your keys. It's not going to work it just shouldn't feel this way, love should be easy etc.
Don't mistake this for a confession of regret. I stand by my decision, but perhaps my reasons were wrong, because this feeling I have has never gone away and it's always been there. Not my feelings for her, but my feelings of passion and the things that I love. It sounds so fucking antithetical to what's been crammed down my throat my whole life, exactly what my friend said: Love should feel good. Yet all I can FEEL right now...
Marjorie Liu says, "But just because you love something, doesn’t mean it’s easy on you." Everything and everyone that I've LOVED has taken my soul to task. I've been wracked for my confessions, my sins are strictly of the heart. I'm guilty of being THAT asshole and admitting everything I love HURTS me and I just don't know that anything else is really love.
How fucked up is that? How stupid it is that I can't seem to make things easy on myself. You're right to turn your back on me.
my soul is just fucking tired.
memetic viral infections
my head taking on thoughts like water but i couldn't bail out if i tried. together, we're up against the wall, drowned flat as flower.
"it smells beautiful." misty airs produced, a polite ocean spray for the olfactory.
"no," i dismiss. "it's whale vomit."
it's not the first time i've been slapped with so much force my heart spins. a complaint, she issues: her shoulder hurts from throwing many punches at the empty air, and an image of a regular Mike Tyson captures between wrinkles in my brain. cooked with electricity cuz we're all out of gas.
all out of gas but it screams still. magniloquent, inviting those to open the eyes nearby before myself, like any true gentleman. bow tall, as is custom, but twelve feet shy of gripping the ceiling... cat in the cartoons, bristle-backed and dug in til doomsday. cold-eyed, no top hat, mouth gaped as a fish swallowing air. laugh for me or cry but, Sir, a favor please.
ask the man with my eyes and nose, cheeks and ears... ask him to stop screaming at me while i sleep.
the narcissism of small differences