Friday, August 02, 2002
My Dream
I walk into the room expecting to see you, but instead your entourage greets me. I couldn’t have been more wrong about you, and that grows more apparent to me by the minute. If only you would have wanted me to be yours. But, instead you want to be your own. Stuck on yourself, in love with yourself, only thinking of yourself, my life grows wearily boring as I listen to more about you. Maybe you could have loved me, maybe. I tend not to think so though, as you were the only one that looked at you. The mirror, your effervescent personality bubbling over at your very thought of how great you are. I would tend to disagree, but that’s just me. I follow you around the room and wonder what it is that people see in you. Person after person ogles you, anticipating any attention that they can get out of you. Sadly, you walk past, the anguish in their eyes shining brighter than their obvious love for you. The using of people leads to hurt feelings, and hurt feelings lead to plotting and planning, revenge is sweet they say. You didn’t give me my fifteen minutes. All you had to do was have a photo taken with me, but you refused, instead, involving yourself narcissistically in everything you do. Yet you are blind to the outcome festering within those who you have hurt. What is given shall soon be taken.
Curtains
Blackened clouds
Fields of decaying remains
Clouded foresight
Spaces filled with barrenness
Caricatures engulfing
The last of the collection
I’ve let myself fall
The prowess of deception
Fields of decaying remains
Clouded foresight
Spaces filled with barrenness
Caricatures engulfing
The last of the collection
I’ve let myself fall
The prowess of deception
Thursday, August 01, 2002
At Odds
Bobby and Joe had lived side by side for as long as either of them could remember. They were both typical kids in the beginning, mischievous little critters who loved their friends, their family, and their country. They went to school every day, feigned interest in the subjects that bored even the most astute student, and did what was necessary to get by. The only time when either child shone was when they played, for play they did, fast and hard. Every day there was a squabble of one sort or another between the two; the other kids expected it and stayed out of the way. In fact, most of the other kids had stopped hanging out with Bobby and Joe, their rough-play enough as to eventually hurt someone. And so it became that the other kids stayed in their own houses and played, never venturing out of their yards, although occasionally Bill, the boldest of the bunch, sometimes considered too brazen by his peers, and frankly, the youngest, would find his way to the playground to referee the present contest which Bobby and Joe had gotten into. Obviously, either Bobby or Joe would then turn their congenital competitiveness on poor Bill, leaving the modest youngster to fend for himself.
Bobby came from a strong family. From generation to generation, his family had been prominent in the community, which is why Bobby’s pride was almost unbearable and he could not be one to lose. He did not mind the consequences of his actions as long as the results of his conduct resulted in him winning. On the occasion that Joe beat him, Bobby could not face anyone for days, only hiding in his room as to avoid the humiliation of is failure. Bobby’s family understood and even encouraged this behaviour, as they had lived the same way throughout their own lives and knew the same shame. A sad and pathetic trait to lay on a child, but it was one that had been passed on since time on end. What is more, it was not only Bobby’s family that had felt this, but all who came from the same line was prone to the gene and this flaw left a mark on the lineage of Bobby’s genealogy. Were it not for the simple fact that old traditions were passing and new ones entering, Bobby might have been more violent than he was. And so, Bobby continued to try to humiliate his playmate every day, in hope of sparing himself from the same. The banter between the two was never mean, never condescending, never hateful, at least not on the surface.
Joe’s family was almost precisely and truthfully the exact opposite from Bobby’s. His whole existence was based on the morals that his family thrust upon him ever since he was able to understand. These morals, while not flawless, were the foundation of his family’s strength, something that was lacking in most families in these times. The implication is not that Bobby’s family’s morals were less in any way, or that they were not the basis for his own family’s beliefs, yet Joe’s family’s line was considered deeper and stronger. And so the competition, which unbeknownst to the two boys had been going on for generations, raged on. The struggle within the bond left both boys feeling elated at times and despondent at others. A sure sign that there was no winner in the pointless game each was sure they could win.
Bobby came from a strong family. From generation to generation, his family had been prominent in the community, which is why Bobby’s pride was almost unbearable and he could not be one to lose. He did not mind the consequences of his actions as long as the results of his conduct resulted in him winning. On the occasion that Joe beat him, Bobby could not face anyone for days, only hiding in his room as to avoid the humiliation of is failure. Bobby’s family understood and even encouraged this behaviour, as they had lived the same way throughout their own lives and knew the same shame. A sad and pathetic trait to lay on a child, but it was one that had been passed on since time on end. What is more, it was not only Bobby’s family that had felt this, but all who came from the same line was prone to the gene and this flaw left a mark on the lineage of Bobby’s genealogy. Were it not for the simple fact that old traditions were passing and new ones entering, Bobby might have been more violent than he was. And so, Bobby continued to try to humiliate his playmate every day, in hope of sparing himself from the same. The banter between the two was never mean, never condescending, never hateful, at least not on the surface.
Joe’s family was almost precisely and truthfully the exact opposite from Bobby’s. His whole existence was based on the morals that his family thrust upon him ever since he was able to understand. These morals, while not flawless, were the foundation of his family’s strength, something that was lacking in most families in these times. The implication is not that Bobby’s family’s morals were less in any way, or that they were not the basis for his own family’s beliefs, yet Joe’s family’s line was considered deeper and stronger. And so the competition, which unbeknownst to the two boys had been going on for generations, raged on. The struggle within the bond left both boys feeling elated at times and despondent at others. A sure sign that there was no winner in the pointless game each was sure they could win.
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
A Beginning to an End
I couldn’t say when this feeling had barged into my life. One week, two weeks, a month, I did not know. I was the quintessence of someone with demented ideas and how they could be brought forth in the worst of times. My mind worked in mysterious ways, sort of like God. Well, not really like God and not any more mysterious than anyone else’s, I’m sure, but enough to cause me to go over the edge. I didn’t like the person I was, my mind playing constant tricks, turning me this way and that, using my body like a toy. I couldn’t help myself either, and that is what scared me the most.
I should say that I liked a large number of things, only I made sure that it was not obvious to any. That was the key. If no one knew me, knew my anguish, knew my pain, then they would not be able to use it against me, driving further down into the rut of my life. And that’s just what it was, a rut. As sad as that may seem, the rut seemed good at times, almost as if it were nothing more than a scratch in the surface, but like it or not, it was still a rut. I hadn’t had a time when I was truly happy and that may have been the problem. Thinking back hard, as my memory is mostly shambles of fragmented jelly, I can call to mind instances where I appeared happy, but those times only lasted for a day; my wedding day; my son’s birth. The disallowed any long term, over-a-day-long pleasure, where I could enjoy life and take it for what it was, an exhilarating joyride of an experience.
And so the war raged on. And with that, I lived through the days, attempting to be something that I wasn’t, my psyche barely holding on to what was left of my original personality. The wares of chemicals raged as I attempted to be the kind of person that had left my mother’s womb, the person that loved and was loved, lived through the short-term slumps meant only to occur so that transition could take place in my life and to move forward and revel in the good times. All of this was fruitless for an individual such as myself which made my situation, and current dilemma, that much more scary.
I had lived with my wife for thirteen years, producing two beautiful kids and a beautiful bond of loathing and hatred. We attempted to live as civilized humans should, playing out the game, attending parties, furthering our careers as to enjoy a fruitful life filled with the luxuries so often lusted after by people. We did what was necessary to live a good life, one in which we were able to support our children in a way that would make any mammal proud. We, of course, did not push the limits of society; we lived within the bounds, her fully, me to the extent that my rut would allow. I can remember times when I loathed her for all that she was, socialite, cosmopolitan, and all the things I would not and could not be. The tough times for all of us, which coincidentally came when my rut was the deepest, led to a stronger bond. The bond between her and me, naturally, was never stronger, ever weaker, ever decaying, like the glue that weakly held it together. That wasn’t to say that there were no times when we didn’t get along, certainly we did, but her stubbornness and my rut forbade us to continue in the fashion in which we lived a s a family unit. And so on that cold September, when the sun was low in the sky, the leaves turning rusty, and the wind whisking through the body, leaving a chill deep within our bones, our marriage of thirteen years came to a short and brutal conclusion. Again, the chemicals in my body raged, filling my brain with anguish and anger to no end, which left me in a state of both denial and distress.
I should say that I liked a large number of things, only I made sure that it was not obvious to any. That was the key. If no one knew me, knew my anguish, knew my pain, then they would not be able to use it against me, driving further down into the rut of my life. And that’s just what it was, a rut. As sad as that may seem, the rut seemed good at times, almost as if it were nothing more than a scratch in the surface, but like it or not, it was still a rut. I hadn’t had a time when I was truly happy and that may have been the problem. Thinking back hard, as my memory is mostly shambles of fragmented jelly, I can call to mind instances where I appeared happy, but those times only lasted for a day; my wedding day; my son’s birth. The disallowed any long term, over-a-day-long pleasure, where I could enjoy life and take it for what it was, an exhilarating joyride of an experience.
And so the war raged on. And with that, I lived through the days, attempting to be something that I wasn’t, my psyche barely holding on to what was left of my original personality. The wares of chemicals raged as I attempted to be the kind of person that had left my mother’s womb, the person that loved and was loved, lived through the short-term slumps meant only to occur so that transition could take place in my life and to move forward and revel in the good times. All of this was fruitless for an individual such as myself which made my situation, and current dilemma, that much more scary.
I had lived with my wife for thirteen years, producing two beautiful kids and a beautiful bond of loathing and hatred. We attempted to live as civilized humans should, playing out the game, attending parties, furthering our careers as to enjoy a fruitful life filled with the luxuries so often lusted after by people. We did what was necessary to live a good life, one in which we were able to support our children in a way that would make any mammal proud. We, of course, did not push the limits of society; we lived within the bounds, her fully, me to the extent that my rut would allow. I can remember times when I loathed her for all that she was, socialite, cosmopolitan, and all the things I would not and could not be. The tough times for all of us, which coincidentally came when my rut was the deepest, led to a stronger bond. The bond between her and me, naturally, was never stronger, ever weaker, ever decaying, like the glue that weakly held it together. That wasn’t to say that there were no times when we didn’t get along, certainly we did, but her stubbornness and my rut forbade us to continue in the fashion in which we lived a s a family unit. And so on that cold September, when the sun was low in the sky, the leaves turning rusty, and the wind whisking through the body, leaving a chill deep within our bones, our marriage of thirteen years came to a short and brutal conclusion. Again, the chemicals in my body raged, filling my brain with anguish and anger to no end, which left me in a state of both denial and distress.
Sunday, July 28, 2002
Loneliness
Tell me your name. The icicles that form around your face remind me of building snow forts in the winters of my youth. The freckle next to your left eye is identical to one a girl had in high school. Don’t I know you from somewhere? Have we met? These are all pointless. Lines have never worked and they never will. The sad part is that the men in this place have used them all tonight, and will continue to use them for many nights to come. They will still be single in the end. They will not understand why. Yet, I am one of these men. I am here, searching, hoping, using, and lusting. I don’t believe I am the bottom of the barrel. I may not be the smartest person, or the best looking, but I am something of a prodigy. This is to say that I can do for you all the things that you need done, not just the things you need, but also the things you want. The desires I can satisfy are but limitless. The pain I bring, the baggage, are of normal amounts, but I’m almost sure you would expect that by now. I stand by this bar, hoping that you might come by and say hi, afraid to do so myself. You are the one for me, karma tells me so, fate has dealt its cards, my heart jumps and the butterflies attack. All of this I want to say to you, to let you know exactly how special you are, my lover, my partner. Everything will be peaches and cream if only you would come over and say hi to me. Everything will be happily ever after if only you would come over and say hi to me. Everything will be every fairy tale you have ever read, if only you would come over and say hi to me.
Then the darkness comes. The creeping over me intensifies all of my senses to the point of sensory euphoria. I smell you. You may be across the room but I can smell the pheromones you are willing my way. The conversation you are having with your friends, as mundane as it may seem to me, clearly elates you unequivocally. And I see your expression. Each sweet movement of every wrinkle of every line in your face stands out to me. Oh, the beauty, the grace, you move so smoothly, your silky hair swaying back and forth as you sway to the music. Music can move the soul they say, and, it seems, you can move mine. I defer my escape into the night where I would normally find myself at home watching those infomercials that sell all of those useless things that I can’t seem to get enough of. Instead, I continue to stand by the bar and watch you, smell you, and hear you. I want to taste you and touch you as to fulfill all of the senses, but that must wait. In the meantime I drink, watch, wait, and drink some more. I anticipate that you will enjoy all of these things about me as well. If you don’t, I cannot know what I will do with myself, to myself. I feel self-pity for a moment but quickly realize that this potential turn of events is of no consequence as destiny dictates that you will love me, become entangled in the preordained bind that guides us. And so I take my chances, for this is all I can do. The reward is more precious than I would have guessed. The sweet melody of your voice as you reject me makes me bones shiver. It’s all right though, this is how it should happen and you just don’t know it yet. Rejection is the first step in our relationship and soon you will realize the potential of fate and succumb to it.
We agree to meet after closing time because you want to spend the rest of the night with your friends before we start our intense relationship. This isn’t the way I had planned our first encounter, yet given tonight’s circumstances, it will have to do. I wait outside the club for an hour, planning the rest of the night, planning the rest of our relationship. The waiting feels like a year and kills me deep inside. Then the people are walking out, and I am happy; you are not there, and I am not happy. This isn’t how our future is supposed to be, a missed connection and a lack of communication. I run through the alley, along the side of the club, around the back, searching, waiting, and there you are heading to a car. I must have just missed you. I hear you mutter something under your breath as I approach and know that it is words of lust, just as the thoughts in my head are. I swear to you that you have agreed to have coffee, and I know that is when you will see the connection that our souls hold. You wave for your friends as we walk to the late night coffee shop down the street. Yet why wave so frantically? You mustn’t yell my dear, the streets are loud enough at closing time, and we don’t want to disturb the neighbors.
And I wake. I don’t know where I am. Oh, I’m in my bed. But where are you? And of course I recall. You turned out to be like all the rest. All of these horrible bitches who couldn’t surrender their souls to the fateful love that exists between us. The ones who rejected me; nay, no one rejects me, you rejected the predestined connection. And so I deal with you as I have dealt with those before you. I lay in bed and weep, not for the lost soul; not for the lost life; only for the loneliness and the clothes you ruined with the devil’s liquid which kept you alive. I met you on that fortunate night and will not forget you anytime soon. At least not until my next soul mate.
Then the darkness comes. The creeping over me intensifies all of my senses to the point of sensory euphoria. I smell you. You may be across the room but I can smell the pheromones you are willing my way. The conversation you are having with your friends, as mundane as it may seem to me, clearly elates you unequivocally. And I see your expression. Each sweet movement of every wrinkle of every line in your face stands out to me. Oh, the beauty, the grace, you move so smoothly, your silky hair swaying back and forth as you sway to the music. Music can move the soul they say, and, it seems, you can move mine. I defer my escape into the night where I would normally find myself at home watching those infomercials that sell all of those useless things that I can’t seem to get enough of. Instead, I continue to stand by the bar and watch you, smell you, and hear you. I want to taste you and touch you as to fulfill all of the senses, but that must wait. In the meantime I drink, watch, wait, and drink some more. I anticipate that you will enjoy all of these things about me as well. If you don’t, I cannot know what I will do with myself, to myself. I feel self-pity for a moment but quickly realize that this potential turn of events is of no consequence as destiny dictates that you will love me, become entangled in the preordained bind that guides us. And so I take my chances, for this is all I can do. The reward is more precious than I would have guessed. The sweet melody of your voice as you reject me makes me bones shiver. It’s all right though, this is how it should happen and you just don’t know it yet. Rejection is the first step in our relationship and soon you will realize the potential of fate and succumb to it.
We agree to meet after closing time because you want to spend the rest of the night with your friends before we start our intense relationship. This isn’t the way I had planned our first encounter, yet given tonight’s circumstances, it will have to do. I wait outside the club for an hour, planning the rest of the night, planning the rest of our relationship. The waiting feels like a year and kills me deep inside. Then the people are walking out, and I am happy; you are not there, and I am not happy. This isn’t how our future is supposed to be, a missed connection and a lack of communication. I run through the alley, along the side of the club, around the back, searching, waiting, and there you are heading to a car. I must have just missed you. I hear you mutter something under your breath as I approach and know that it is words of lust, just as the thoughts in my head are. I swear to you that you have agreed to have coffee, and I know that is when you will see the connection that our souls hold. You wave for your friends as we walk to the late night coffee shop down the street. Yet why wave so frantically? You mustn’t yell my dear, the streets are loud enough at closing time, and we don’t want to disturb the neighbors.
And I wake. I don’t know where I am. Oh, I’m in my bed. But where are you? And of course I recall. You turned out to be like all the rest. All of these horrible bitches who couldn’t surrender their souls to the fateful love that exists between us. The ones who rejected me; nay, no one rejects me, you rejected the predestined connection. And so I deal with you as I have dealt with those before you. I lay in bed and weep, not for the lost soul; not for the lost life; only for the loneliness and the clothes you ruined with the devil’s liquid which kept you alive. I met you on that fortunate night and will not forget you anytime soon. At least not until my next soul mate.
Awaiting
I do not know the problem. I have not seen the meaning of the medium. Perhaps you have mistaken me for someone who knows a lot about nothing. I prefer to think I know a little about a lot instead. Does that mean you know a lot about nothing? Or maybe it is that you know nothing about a lot. That could be it. The complement should be there. Or course, rarely it is. You, on the one hand, like; I, on the other, do not. Relations are funny that way. Why is it that you are here? Were you invited? Was my world so important that you would have liked to come in and see for yourself that, in face, it was not? I am guessing the latter is the truth, as only I know that it is not the perfect place I make it to be. When will the world listen to reason? I have a feeling it will not happen. They will not know that I have been lost on them. They will not know that they have been displaced from the society that they so preciously consider their own. For this I know; that I am but one in a world that consists of nothing and to vanquish or conquer is inconsequential to the outcome. A world where those that surround me know little of me, where those who oppose me know more, and those who adore me know only what I will let them. They shall come and on that day we will see that it was not the end, but in fact a day that will release us all to be whom we were meant to be. Until that day, I sit excitedly waiting, as I know that my anguish will not be in vain.
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