1-14-10

I want people, mounds of them, loads of them, myriad of laughers, cacophony of laughter, drunken on the stoops and the curbs, curving my hands around voluptuous curves, suffusion of nerves, a tangled mess of truth, on the street and in quiet rooms, everything flowing into me, and only love effusive. I want your desperation, action, loco locomotion, creation, trepidation, isolation, masturbation, cynicism, insecurities, apathy, elation, consternation, circumlocution, delusion, disillusion, all the dastards, flagellators, and brutes, all devotees to the despondent search, ambling, wandering, piecing together the picturesque that seethes or gleams, every day the question: Will I return to love? Will I return to love?

I saw a woman in a hurry, betraying her bent back, a skeleton showed through her thin skin, hair as threads of sliver under a knit skullcap, walking along the icy sidewalk, carrying a bag full of something, and I passed her in my awful jalopy, put me in a pensive mood. What was in the bag? Where did she long to be? Was her betrothed dead, estranged, or watching the clock that hangs over his desk, counting the minutes before he can see the only salvation he knows? I saw her for only seconds, and has she ever considered how the most trivial of events, just her presence, could have an effect on someone?

Bands, bands, bands, everyone seemingly is in a fucking band, including me, but I harbor no shame, though sometimes I wish I really could do something unique, maybe suppressing how I’ve conditioned myself to want to play music would be a noble and noteworthy action. Anyways, I thought of bands because my roommate just returned home from his serving job, and we are mired in strangeness, awkwardness, lots of closed doors, snippets of conversation consisting of the most basic of content, though I did attempt to breach this cloying cloud that breeds nervousness and anxiety within the walls of this apartment surrounded by a world now stifled by intense cold. I kicked him out of my band, and with the drummer we were playing with I am starting another. So tired of the clashing aesthetics, my lackadaisical, content with my heart’s outburst manner and his fastidious, put it all under the microscope, attention to detail, which I eventually viewed as a barrier to the progress and a harbinger of impotency. I want to be on fire. He wants routine, security, and systems. I want entropy and movement. He wants calm, and so do I, but not all the time, join me in this conflagration, like them thar forest fires, we’ll burgeon in the ash. It’s the only way I can do things, as a controlled mess, a discursion stupidly, bafflingly portraying a vestige of my own moldy, festering truth, and it’s not beautiful or ugly just like everything out there floating through whatever ether’s the most comfortable. Here I am, you are, he is, and it is. Live with it or sever it, but I will not atrophy, become gangrene, I asked him just last week if he could practice on Sunday, and texted me,” dysfunctional band, dysfunctional apartment living, just don’t feel like it,” and thus I turned away, and now I am more excited about music than I have been in a long while. I want to be happy, and I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do.

I would trade all the art in the world, especially mine for an ultimate palliative for pain. Art's not worth the torment, but somehow I learn to live with it anyways, and I cope through art. I also cope through people, but oftentimes they bestow pain, minds banging and egos clashing, the always present enthrallment with all the other options, that enlightening, gratifying, sensual and sensuous experience, and in a moment of focus I can breathe without fetters, without the attraction to other bodies except the heavenly ones, and I can feel my mind as a sun in some solar system hidden from the lenses of all the telescopes. I can feel my mind as a single cell hidden from the lenses of all the microscopes. Cell and sun fuse creating this sensation called my reality.

Pain’s not good, weighty words, but I wasn’t born to suffer, and every day is an adventure in which I flee from pain. I say this because like most humans I’ve felt it immensely, and am amazed sometimes that I do not give up the ghost, but ultimately, how can I know that that ultimate act is an escape? Grandma hasn’t come back and told me. So I while away my time consumed by my penultimate acts, writing, painting, fucking, reading, drinking, listening, philosophizing, necking, eating, seething, jamming, skating, serving, reminiscing, pissing, glistening, revering, drugging, romancing, walking, gleaning, stewing, biking, discussing, hoping, willing, I’m downright dillydallying away this life, and I’m loving it. Sometimes I think that bi-polar tendencies are just the normal flux of life. Last week I scrawled a suicide note. This week I’ve been a bouncing bundle of positivity, leaving enervation in bed where it can mingle with my forgotten dreams, greeting the morning before the sun arises, screaming,” you see this sun, I beat you! Now raise me too, exalt me so I can exist in this world.”

I’ a-gonna get drunk tonight, a little exuberance histrionic, possibly a tad too garrulous, but fuck it, deal with my inebriated, effulgent logorrhea and I’ll languish through yours. My ear is everyone’s.