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Chilled energy fixes me incomplete; writhing without sleep, I live an unfinished lie.
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Chilled energy fixes me incomplete; writhing without sleep, I live an unfinished lie. Here my thoughts and holes. Fill them in, please. I can't finish on my own. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| How much is left unsaid, said next to one another, in a family. Down the hall, on the couch under a spotted blanket, is my Mother; my mother who may never see a real smile from me again. I can't control the coldness. It rains across my face as I anticipate the words, all true, to tell. I speak in icy monotone, never superior, just aloof. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be a part of this as it is. I don't want to change it, I think. I want to leave. Then I come back, as I just did. I show myself anew, freshly askew with worldly, maddeningly humbled, perspective. I've been meeting others, Mother. I've been talking to them, I think. And, their voices don't always agree. Mother, my mother, is often wrong. Mother, my mother, is pushing long odds with my family at stake - the one topic I can not touch, the sink for all my warmth. I don't want to feel so powerless. I don't want to awaken that masculine drive here, though. I won't assert mine and their truth to Mother, my mother. And, so, a mask is born - the filter to protect those cherry words. That much is left unsaid at least. Here I sit, quiet and typing, while down the hall, on the couch, under a spotted blanket, is Mother; my mother who will no longer know me. So sad. |
| I need a project. |
| I wouldn't call it Love - love with a capital 'L'; puppy love, maybe. But, there's no place better to get lost in its embrace than New York. I think I fell in love there, a kind of crazy runaway fantastical love that doesn't exist in the real world. In the real world, you can't have sex on top of the mini bar. Neither of us were natives to the city. Still, together we were at home in Time Square, alight apart from the 'general' tourist. We were long-term visitors, given a green card to feel superior whenever we held hands. We transformed in traffic, from lost to together at every part and embrace. We stared alone into each others eyes and dared the world to break us. New York was our board, and our game was new, exciting, fresh, and expensive - expensive like only budding Romance can be, otherwise a budget might have come up. While 'Sex and the City' tourists traipsed through Treasure Palace to stare at Samantha's tool chest, I was in a busy sort of conversation about mint flavored lube and a vibrator I had to use that very night, with a thought to pick up budding tulips to lay across the bed. At the corner store, locals needed food and cringed at the prices. I needed condoms and batteries and had to hide a smile, remember to take my change. While regulars enjoyed their breakfast in bed, we skipped it, every day, for a week, and got thinner, sexier, more distraught as time went on, locked in love's tailspin. While some sought reviews for lunch, we caught the concierge and tipped heavily. We were garish like that and god help you if you were my neighbor. I forgot to take notes. I forgot to write. I checked my e-mail with aching fingers and sleepless eyes. But, I responded in true cheer. I neglected in great delight. I can't imagine a trip turning more perfect. (In case you're into Broadway - Gershiwin Theatre, EE 107,108, too close to see the clockwork dragon, close enough to tremble under Terry Wick's fabulous voice). Girl in the City. That's why I go now. |
| I learned something today. I learned the hard way why to haggle; still working on the how. I arrived in Manhattan, paying way too much for a purple-panced ninny in a broke down Lincoln. Down a quarter of my cash I stepped out and secretly flicked the flop off. I stepped up my cousins place, black awning, glass door, and met the nicest black man with gold teeth in a pressed red suit I could ever hope to meet. The nice man let me know he had no idea who I was. My cousin not only had forgot to leave an extra key, or tell her husband to answer his phone, she flew to DC hours before without so much as an e-mail. I love my family. But, that was the wrong New York. She doesn't get a Christmas card. I will write. I will exercise, flirt, and f*** my way to a happy state of mind in this sinfully beatific city. I will get something going before I leave. I have to. It's too expensive to NOT be inspired while I'm here. F'ing cheers. Glad to be back in America. |
| I'm noticing a very odd dichotomy in my writing. If I write during the day, I get a formal, dry tone. Syntactically better and more stringently edited for easy mistakes, my daytime writing almost always does its job. It's also almost always fiction or essays. But, when I write at night, especially past midnight, I pull my memories into my work more freely. My style collapses into lusty imagery and quick, primitive dialogues. It's almost always non fiction. Unfortunately, I almost never edit thoroughly enough after I've laid the work out and read through a few times to make sure the message is there. I wonder why, and if this happens to anyone else. |
| I feel awful for having failed to be the free thinking American my education promised to produce. Luckily, after venting, my mind returned to its normal priority: sex. Please, allow me to be that shallow, because I am. I have no qualms of foregoing my eugenic preferences for a proper good time. I got to thinking how much I'd give for that penultimate promise of a certain climactic ejaculation - that one that knocks your socks off; that one that leaves you shaking, weak, and puts you to sleep on the spot. Not much, I figure. It's sad really, but I like my money. So, no Casanova for the one-night-stand. Still. I have seen men straddle idiocy and promise without grace or care. I've seen them bow under an eyelash. I've seen them submit to spanks. I've even seen them switch sides for the hope of turning the tide (women don't have the monopoly on false homo-eroticism, I fear.). But what of women? Girls. Girls. Really. We men termed "panty dropper" for a reason. I've never understood the lengths a woman will go through for any man that can, at best, sporadically perform some modicum of love making - whose hearts would never last past a good f***, whose romantic inclinations weighed beer and cuddles, whose grievances often rebound from target to you poor things. Why in any sane sense do you do what you do for sex? I really want to know. Is the moment(s) that special? I wrote this for you, ladies, with all the best intentions: She lay, Beaten and Bare, Stuck her Butt in the Air, And Cried, "Take Me - Again." "Again, Again." Once more, I feel like less human and more machine. Now I'm a racist and a sexist in the same day. Screw the news. |
| I don't like the way I'm pressed by the constant links between terror and Islam. I hate the fact that slowly, surely, I am beginning to view a religious nation as one so corruptible that it calls for correction. When I heard that the people of New York couldn't be seen grieving, I got angry. I thought how a group could dare impose anything on a community, especially one obviously suffering. This isn't infrastructure. They aren't building a new center for higher learning, a computer club, a nature center. They are building a mosque, called a community center, next to the victims of Muslim attack, be it originated from a major minority. I didn't like that the people of New York wouldn't be given more time. Why couldn't the religious community just wait? Why do they have to even bother them? It's not a fight for religious freedom; this is a fight to push religion onto a community that asks God every day, "why?" Is there some economic timeline that is pressuring these activists to move so quickly? If their religion is eternal, the want for a place of worship won't go away. If the community decides they want a prayer center in a decade or a century, the site will still be there. But now, amidst the greatest wars of my generation, I see a community being trampled upon by the niceties of American law. If the people don't want it, don't need it; don't force it on them. I'm venting. I'll be less racist tomorrow.
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| I had a premise. A long winded romance suffused with the smell of food and ending with love won over a man's stomach. I'm a sucker for food stories. The problem: trying to craft this tale in a setting I couldn't relate to, with characters I didn't understand. I have decided writing fantasy realistically is very, very, hard, and not entirely for me. Why should I draw decades of notes to craft a single line about how a griffin nudges a ball out of a pouch onto the table? Well, I couldn't figure out how to pet a griffin. It's a dog-sized bird-serpent with fur. The last time I tried to pet a bird the size of my palm, it lovingly ripped a half-inch grip of skin from my finger. So, I assumed the griffin had the heart of a dog. Dogs nudge. Birds do too sometimes, before they start gnawing at your hair. There I was, the beak was officially out of the way - safe for my character to pet the head and neck...or so I thought. Here come the pictures (another half-hour of research). Some griffins apparently have a lions' mane - so that would mean what: "She tussled with the griffin's mane, the beast subdued in the folds of her dress?" Other griffins have feathers, so that would be like: "She slipped her fingers under its leopard feathers" or "She flattened the satin patterns across its nape. It purred and pushed into her caress." (the latter bringing back the cat-ness of the thing). OK. Assuming I could pick and re-write one of those, now I have this stupid magical orb that needs to roll out and catch my main character's reflection. I looked at snow globes, pictures of pearls, and broke a freaking thermometer to stare at mercury before I gave up and called it a "sphere." So, here I am with a purring, feathered, dog-bird and a quicksilver sphere, and I get back to connecting the story only to find out that I'm bored with the premise. Three days of griffin research imagining 'parapets on the lawn', and I am bored with the idea of some long-lost cook serving up a dose of love in the Elven Tea Garden. I want someone to die. I need a climax, or at least more conflicted characters. So, I go back. My man now has to fast, wonder, and wear princely uniforms to no avail, impressing not but the air; color drained from his face for lack of love, so consumed with want. All this horrible melodrama, so he can sit in a chair and admire "rose vapors rising in seductive swirls from his tea...to breathe them in as if they were her...to stare at freaking dilapidated tea leaves and see his "Age" which I had already defined in the mid-twenties (when else could someone be so ridiculous). And then, an hour ago, I abandoned the story, because I hate the premise. Screw griffins. |
| Last I wrote of adventure, I gave a flash. A memory so distilled, it remained practically incomprehensible to me, less anyone anyone else. With help it was crafted well enough, but inevitably without plot. I wrote a biased vision, changed when remembered by the person I've become. There was no story, only details. I'm traveling soon. And I want to write again. How many tales are falsely told, growth in hindsight bold. But, is it true? Do I have to have a quest to accomplish anything? Will it come through in my writing that I was only there for the details, for the stimulus? Or, can I manifest a purposed journey? Isn't that what they do on TV? I think it's a little presumptuous to acknowledge your own change. I believe I am as I always was, and will be, just more accomplished. My tone, mannerisms, and style, are tools, not me. So, what growth is there to be had in a lustful journey and not some unforeseen event? I wonder if I have ever been changed or simply revealed to myself? That's existential question, but one I think I need to answer before I answer this: Do I write throughout the trip or after it? Maybe I should just take notes. |
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