11.20.03 -- source of life
And so it comes around again...
Why are people so predictably disappointing? Why do I allow myself to even care? Sometimes I wish I could be cold, unfeeling, shut-off.
I feel too much.
Why am I so unhappy?
What is it that I'm waiting for?
Where is b?
I'm exhausted from so many things. Mentally tired, spiritually lackluster... I just want to cry -- as much as I hate admitting it, as weak as it makes me feel, I do. If it would stay night forever; if I could just sit by this window and watch the city lights twinkle through the leafless trees; if I were able to curl up in your lap and forget about everything, not say a word, not feel or think or sleep -- just be, just breathe, just see.
And sometimes the silence is more warm than cold. It envelopes with a false sense of nurturing, transforming all of the small darknesses into light.
I don't want to exist out there. I just want to stay here, in the dark, in the chill, in the quiet. Alone. With the memories of... Where I can pretend that everything is as it should be; that I'm alright and sane and creating; that I don't have to feel this waiting anymore; that I don't need to ache for reasons unknown; that I can rise above the gray when it digs into me like this, tears into me like this, tries to drag me down as it sells me blackness and peace and an end to suffering.
Some days I want it all to be over...from my end. Shut down. No reboot. A shutting of the eyes, closing of the mind, a life sealed away. Because time just keeps moving on and on...and nothing changes...I never grow...it's a life filled with meaningless repetition year in and year out.
What's the point? Why bother?
I'm so tired of people, of trying for acceptance. And why do I try? No one will ever understand me as I do, so who else do I need? One trust is enough... I haven't the energy for more.
What I want, what I really want, is Night incarnate. That perfect love that needs no words or deeds -- just an envelopement of my being. To me, perfect love is holding me close as I breathe. No more, no less. I could remain in that state infintely. Ever ever. Don't make me think or do...just b.
Like being nestled within a dark womb.
It's time to end.
10.12.03 -- today is...
...a day for Siamese Dream. Nothing brings back bodhi-memories so vividly as hearing "Cherub Rock." It's like recalling the taste of your favorite ice cream then being able to feel it on your tongue. This entire album is flavored by my Summer of Hell, predominantly the good parts:
It is being 16
it is finding summer love
it is volleyball in the backyard
it is listening to music outside in the shade
it is sweating from the dry Texas heat
it is reading The Stand in the park
it is getting my first job
it is loosing my virginity in a red Hyundai...
But it is also being rebellious
it is also being naive
it is being suicidal
it is writing the most hurt-filled poetry I've ever written
it is being betrayed
it is betraying...
I swore against love to this CD. And against family and men. The music was a backdrop to my promise, the music was my only witness: that I would be devoted to myself above all others; that I would find a direction for my life and sacrifice myself to it; that I would be the one to consume myself. No one else would touch me.
"The killer in me..."
The world is full of pain; physical and mental anguish. There are times when I like to pull it from the tomb within my chest, clutch it in my fist like some slimy limp rag-doll worm, and poke at it, taunt it, leer and shake it, saying: Look at you now! Look! You're not infecting me anymore! You can't kill me anymore! I'm not diseased! You are mine; I own you!!
But that never lasts long; it is a fluttering in the mind. For as soon as I taste the spite, I soften and cradle the pain. Looking at its face I see the truth: You built me. I exist because of you. You are my parent, my lover, my child. Together we are Shiva and Shakti; together we are yin and yang. Because of you I know. Because of you I feel. Because of you I am. Suckle me as I suckle you...
"No more problems, no more sorrow..."
I am thankful for the hurt, my aches. They have made me beautiful, I think: dark and light at once. And I am thankful for my strength, my courage. Where was it hiding for my first 15 years? I never knew it was there. Was it laying in wait for just such a time? For that summer? I should have been broken. I should have been lost. Swept beneath the rug. I should have followed through...
...and what if I had died?
"Sweet little agony..."
One day...I want to tell you about my summer love, and the way it molded me. It was a one-sided affair, and brief, but so fundamental. He'll never know how he drew forth the primitive traces of what would become Bodhi. He'll never know that he's become a permanent memory, that he exists (somewhere) within a bodhi and will therefore live forever. He would never care, and I would expect no less -- that is half of why he is so important. In fact, the Summer of Hell would never have been if not for him.
Ask me to tell you. Remind me to tell you. Because I want to... So very much.
"When I woke up from that sleep..."
09.02.03 -- in darkness
i read by the light of my monitor; legs stretched out with feet resting upon the comfortably warm computer tower. a line filters through my blues:
"From Tenedos, on the placid sea, twin snakes endlessly coiling, uncoiling, swam abreast to shore."
have you ever read Virgil's /Aeneid/? i've always loved this epic. my first exposure to it came from Latin class; must have been...12 or 13, I think. nothing compares to reading it in its original state. i can still hear the rhythm of Latin flowing in my ears, like a brook over jagged rocks... the art of language is strange and beautiful. beguiling. even, at times, sanctimonious. it is mental music; a composition of the soul; our only means of translating the diaphanous notions of the mind.
and to hear language spoken... how the tongue taps, strokes, and curls; how the vocal chords hum. the sensuous union of the lips; their harmony. and the body's response through gesture and movement. all of it together, so delightful to watch; this commonplace dance to mental music.
of course, my favorite thing to hear, be it construed as conceited or not, is my name. earlier, as i drifted into sleep, it echoed softly in my ears, again and again, like some ghost's whisper: Rebecca... i think it was the remnant of some long ago moment of intimacy that made a brief, silent passage across the stage of my fading consciousness.
find me in dreamscapes, my Love, and call me by my name...
08.26.03 -- through the bamboo forest
Roaches scare the bliss out of me. There's never been a time when the sight of a roach hasn't made me scream like a girl and backpedal as far as walls will allow. It's those tiny heads...
But this morning I saw a largish roach crawling around (the first i've witnessed here, so far) and was able to sit and watch it for a moment with nothing more than awareness. You see, something I read by Thich Nhat Hanh's been lingering in my brain the last few days, about arising emotions such as aversion, disgust, etc. I know I react in such ways to various things (events, objects, people), and whenever I do I immediately pause and ask myself, "Why?" And I feel so guilty... In that moment of negative response I forgot to be mindful. "I am only human" is not only a falsehood, but an excuse.
To take it even further, I read an article yesterday in Yoga Journal (hands-down the best Yoga mag; i highly recommend it for people of all levels of study) concerning the Buddhist concept of Right-Intention.
"...I like to refer to [Right-Intention] as the heart's intention. Life is so confusing and emotionally confounding that the rational mind is unable to provide an absolutely clear intention. What we have to rely on is our intuitive knowing, or 'felt wisdom.' In the Buddha's time, this was referred to as bodhichitta, 'the awakened mind-heart.' "
Right-Intention involves a mental training, of sorts. But once mastered, it becomes your initial reaction to whatever pervades your mind. It's very nearly a reflexive action/thought process.
"Literally, it is your intention that affects how you interpret what comes into your mind."
So, all of that long-windedness just to say that I was finally able to apply Right-Intention to a roach. I didn't even screech when the bug leapt as I passed by and proceeded to give chase. I did, in fact, smile.
Touching the Buddha within...
08.25.03 -- procession of gods
"The heart of the Buddha is in each of us. When we are mindful, the Buddha is there. I know a four-year-old boy who, whenever he is upset, stops what he is doing, breathes mindfully, and tells his mommy and daddy, 'I am touching the Buddha within.'" [from The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching, Thich Nhat Hanh]
I love this. I've always envisioned any bodhi-child responding to life in similar ways. Of course, I'd like to believe I'd refrain from teaching Buddhism specifically, and just pass along the concepts, instead -- preferably through example. I learn by observation and have no doubt any earth-child of mine would function the same way.
Sometimes I can close my eyes and see it... A lil' b with blue eyes and long, blonde hair I could comb. She'd smell of flowers and sunshine and laughter. I can see the giggles and the hugs; playing on the rug in a patch of sunny window; baths, couch-naps, and yoga. And there's the two of us dancing, me twirling her around and around... Us curled up on the sofa in the dark watching films, telling ghost stories, or reading by candlelight. Eskimo kisses and butterfly tickles...
So many images; too many to relate... And still the desire for motherhood is weak.
07.28.03 -- mea culpa
i am afraid:
not of death (time and age)
not of solitude (physically)
not of pain (sickness and hurt)
not of uselessness (to existence)
but of being forgotten by those whom i want to remember me (there are only two, but even one would be too many). There is a gnawing hunger for reassurance of desire, of -- and i despise using this word -- love. Surprisingly not "need", for i don't feel an urgency to be strongly needed by someone; "need" seems like such a poison. i don't wish to be owned or to own; never want to say, think, or feel "this person is mine."
i want to be desired, despite myself. Despite my enemy mind that is never in a state of rest as opposed to my heart which is ever calm. And it is this brain of mine -- non-stop weaving, altering -- that makes me feverish, calling: "i've changed today, do you still love me?"
It is my heart that keeps me in check (isn't it typically the other way around?), for within me i know how foolish my doubts are, how trivial and unnecessary. i can look at them curiously, sadly, with aloof, but i cannot kill or bury them. if my mind could find peace, could find rest...but it continues to run.
And i no longer believe that i must love. There's been too much and too little, from all around me. Even so, it burns within, though i'm afraid of the bellows and my consequent consumption by the flame. i wanted, once, to allow myself to love more than i do, before i realized my current state of satisfaction. Now scared to play the moth for above all else i want to be me. And yet...i want to carry, to be a savior and enveloping shroud, a patron saint and sanctuary. But a venom i do not wish to be. Just merely desired, merely loved. Despite myself. Never owned, but ever near.
To know those things...
But now i'm changing, the fear is returning to the deep. i've watched myself fade and it's frightening; it makes me paranoid. Yet that's all it is: a paranoia. We're here, after all, aren't we? That's all the confirmation i need; the rest is detail, specifics, inner-workings of the machine. They don't have to be known in order for things to carry-on. The Infinite just "is" and it can't be blue-printed or translated.
But sometimes...a girl just has to know. Sometimes she has to be cradled. A girl can't be hardcore all of the time.
07.22.03 -- cry freedom, cry
Sometimes I feel like I'm going nowhere...just floating, being. And I think on occasion that a child might be nice, that it would give me a greater sense of purpose. And though I think that's true, it's a selfish reason. One day I'll know where I'm heading, I hope. Or maybe that's an illusion, too. Maybe I'm already there and I don't even realize it. Who knows. Just be happy in this moment, right? Here and now? I guess that's all one can do. And when you think of it like that, how can we need anything more?
Of course, over the past several months I've been gradually regaining that urge for independence I had when I first started college. Hearing "Drive In Drive Out" reminded me of that inner murmur to be alone again, on my own, doing my own thing all myself. And I have these mini-plans tucked away inside the coat pocket of my mind: of breaking away, going off alone to some bigger city like Chicago or Seattle, returning to school, getting my English degree, finding a job with a publishing house...
It makes me smile to myself and feel sunny just to imagine it! To no longer need this crutch. To be my own b. To truly be alone... How would that be? I've never been alone before. Never stood on my own. And the thought is so sweet, like "candy to my soul", and I want it so much... But do I dare? If no, then why? What do I have to be afraid of? What obligations could I possibly have to fulfill...other than the one to my own self?
Freedom: a paradox of elation and dread. But, "if you're a good person with a good attitude"...how can I be anything less than successful? Satan, I want it so much I could bounce! And I think I will...!
07.18.03 -- scar tissue
In my every relationship, I've always been the aggressive one. If I want it I take it. And maybe, because I'm so often like that, no one tries to take from me. So I fantasize about those moments when I'm not the one with the upper-hand. Those moments where I actually don't want it...but am forced to take it...and that makes me want it. To be overpowered...not loved but purely lusted... To be groped and mistreated and hurt... A cunt, a body, a thing...just a toy. And I want to bleed... And I want to ache... And I want to scream and have no one care and no one hear and no one heal... I want to be completely used, all of me, until there is no more, there's no b left, just a wasted puddle of flesh...
But then I want to be reborn, refilled. In control, demanding, on top. Taking everything...and returning it all. Using up and laying waste...or even something kinder. Tenderness... Equal reception... To be loved in such times, above lusted. For penetration of me to be a moment of worship... That my body is gift not given lightly but with weighty consideration...
And I come full circle again. Ever wishing to be hunted. Ever needing to be abused. What is it that I want so much to hurt for?
07.08.03 -- she who waits
I love riding (in cars with boys, heh). Especially on the interstate at night with great music. When I try to think of a favorite moment of bliss, escape, wholeness, I always see myself in the backseat of the car, my sister curled up asleep beside me, blue/green light from the dash shining, and whatever music coming through at some eerie, mediocre level. My head rests against the cool glass of the window, eyes straining to watch the stars...so gorgeous and still and eternal, I could loose myself. The trees and mountains are deep with shadow, and I see ogres, sleeping giants, and lounging goddesses form as we pass. The chill, the dark, the profound stillness and alone-ness, the faint light and softer rhythms...and the night. All holding me captive in a seductive web that can only be so deeply worshipped by... I wonder if that's what dying is like. I wonder if that's what it's like to live.
Earlier, I threw on "The Nothing Song". I was sitting on my knees at the time, so I just laid back, arched my spine, and propped myself on my head, looking out the window. Knees hurt at first, being bent so, but it passed. Nothing to do with my hands, so I lifted my shirt to feel my torso -- all softness and valleys and ridges. It was peaceful, listening to Sigur Ros, trailing my skin, and watching the wasps and patterns of sunlight on the roof of my deck. I thought about the meaning of regret, of where I could be now if I'd finished school, of what I could still do if I had the courage. None of that struck me as important, though. None of it touches the heart of me, at all. They are notions that just "are". So I let them go to try to find what I was really thinking about. But still it eludes me. Is it something that I've lost, or buried just out of reach? This music always made me sad in the past, so I thought it would wash away "its" evasive cover...but there's no sadness, there's only nothing -- just openness. Perhaps I'm only feeling the shudders of that mental shadow as it tries to survive. Perhaps it's the remnant of something I've let go, and something else within me is refusing to give that remaining fragment up. I want to recognize this thing, to speak it's name... Maybe I'm listening too hard.
07.08.03 -- other side of midnight
Humans, what can you do... Just because a woman's playing at a new playground doesn't mean there is no love. Women are needy, highly sensitive, and observant creatures. They also have a tendancy to form misguided assumptions (haven't told her you love her like you do every morning before work? she's going to speculate on that. didn't give a smile she finds worthy? she'll speculate on that, too.). Feeling completely loved, secure, attractive n' physcially appealing, not to mention thought of (can we say "the little things" -- and women /notice/ the little things, so tiny you wouldn't believe...). Perhaps she's found something lacking, perhaps she just wants to experience something new -- especially if one or the other in the relationship has a hard time reinventing themself periodically. A lifetime of familiarity seems very gray. Remember what I told you about "stale love"? It's exciting to have that newness, to see yourself in a fresh light through someone else's eyes, to still feel that you have that sexual charisma/control... Woman is water. Woman is emotion. Woman can be a maelstrom. You simply cannot blame her for being human, for making judgements whether you conceive them as good or bad because of your own views. And I'm not defending her or trying to belittle her man's pain. But we all do have just this one life and we have to navigate through it not merely with "sound" judgement, but with happiness and desire in mind, as well. If not, then what are we living for? And if she didn't love her man, she wouldn't be hiding her happiness. If she were not scared of loosing him, she would make herself free (though she could be afraid of the sacrifice, of making herself happy at the risk of his).
Or maybe she is just a "lying cunt." That still doesn't make me hate her.
06.23.03 -- my nothing song
Gifts given but not taken; promise melting away... Life is about fear and chances, courage and will. I've always wanted everything, to be and do it all, but it's faded in light of the bigger picture. I don't want to wake each morning with the knowledge that I could have had the greatest of all things, but was too afraid to try. What else can we be but afraid? There are no absolutes, only present, temporary comforts that whisper eternal promises. I've been handed an ideal life, but can it fulfill me if I ignore the deeper yearning? If I, as a person, am not complete is all of this going to fill the void? I don't think so. I don't owe anything to anyone, and I won't live as less of a person because of an imbedded sense of obligation. I am no less free now than I was as a child, as a youth. This life is mine, the decisions are mine, and there's too little time for me to waste it drifting on ill winds. I'm so ready to bail and gamble on better things.
The way of it all... All anyone can do is know what you want and have the strength to follow through. The only person anyone can ever be true to is theirself. And hurt is only an emotion; one of many that ebbs and flows, comes and goes. It is not eternal. It is not brought on by another person. Hurt is a self-inflicted wound, and it is the self that determines how long it lingers. When you feel guilt, it's because you have chosen to feel it, and you are the only person who can let it go. Without letting go, you force yourself to suffer needlessly. These are universal truths. Besides, nothing is forever.
...except the love of a Bodhi. There. That is the one absolute. The one thing that I know to hold total promise. It is my salvation amongst all this mess. In the end, when you uncover your own absolute truth, I hope it enriches you as much as mine has me. If I have to settle for being second best, it won't matter, won't change a thing. It would take more than a mountain to crush the heart of a bodhi; I am strong, I am steadfast, I am the mountain and forever. I've never believed in souls, but it's out there...what's been missing this whole time. Without it I am fallen, never knowing grace. I do want... To prostrate myself and offer it all up. I want to risk everything, start anew. And I am not afraid.
No matter the outcome...if I should be chosen or left behind...I will not be afraid.
06.23.03 -- silently falling
I've never spoken of this outloud, ever -- though I may have mentioned it in passing aeons ago, I don't know -- but I've always had this sense of waiting. Waiting for a time, a moment, a great thing to happen...I'm not sure. It has crouched within me since I began. As if there is this great potential which is me, and it has yet to born; it's not ready yet. I feel it when I write, when I meditate, when I listen...always. When I'm in that space between here and never; spacing out, concentrating... It bewilders me, makes me sad and afraid. What is this thing and why is it me? What if, when it comes, I don't want it? But then, I guess that's why it lurks...
My thought has been that's it's the writer in me waiting for that perfect moment when everything gels and I'm fully realized. But lately I wonder, what if that's not it? What if it's the missing fragment I need to fill the void, complete what I've become, the unfinished me? And when I find it, if my foundation should shake, what then? Can I go on pretending to be whole? I thought that love alone could do the trick, that it could mend me, but still I sit, still I wait. For me, there's only ever been me. Bodhi is all that bodhi needs... Isn't she? But I can't shake the shadow; I want to fill the gap. So tired of the doubt, weary from the silence... One shot at this life, the years falling away, why can't people have what they dream of? Society fills us with obligations, etiquette, rules...don't all of these things hinder? If allowed, I would remain one man's secret forever. Lead me to always, I have no where else to be...
These things must sound so doomsday in your mind, as if said with an air of desperation and urgency. They are not. I think and type all of it peacefully, serenely, with the confidence of knowing. But isn't that how I always am? With my thoughts, can you empathize? Even sympathize? Do you become afraid? Pull away? Or come closer? Things are what they are. I'm ready for all of it or none. I can only do as I've ever done: wait. And the waiting is the hardest part...
What if, what if...
What if it's not a waiting at all, but merely a fear to be?
06.18.03 -- mended
Do I love too much...or not enough? Am I awake or just dreaming? Do I bury myself within others and then use them to free myself? The unwavering sexual appetite, the urgent need to be touched, enveloped, consumed...what is it all to me? Why, when I am alone, can I only think of being joined? There is too much space and not enough time...
Not nearly enough...
06.10.03 -- an innocent sidenote
I don't understand my preference of tragic endings over happy ones. Would I want... Actually, maybe the love you'll never fully own is the best kind of love...because there's no chance of it becoming aloof or ordinary. It remains something to yearn for, and it retains its youth; so full of possibility and mystery. Romeo and Juliet would not be the most reknown lovers if they had been able to grow old together. They were never owned, especially by each other, and that's what gave them purpose...and pureness. There's nothing enticing about stale love.
And while I'm here... I was reclining comfortably (more like contorted into some bizzare bodhi-position that looks impossible but feels soooo good), watching a new anime series I've been downloading, when I spied the freckle on the underside of my foot. That's what this story's about: my freckle. It's neither a huge freckle nor a tiny freckle; it is, in fact, just right -- about the size of...hmm... an "o" in 8 pt. Verdana. And it's a nice coffee color, too. The location is prime: if you were to place your finger on the very tippy-top of your big toe (right foot, por favor) and trail it down to just below that mound of flesh that forms the upper ridge of your foot (to where your instep begins, basically), then move a smidgen to the right...you've got it! Obviously, it wants to be seen, residing in a location like that. The groovy thing about this freckle is (as if its very existence wasn't enough, already!) it just popped-up out of the blue one day a few months ago. One day you're washing your foot, same as it ever was -- pale, smooth, and freckleless-- , and the next you've got a pigment pigmy taking up residence, demanding free baths and exercise. It didn't just gradually come-a-knockin' like a polite parasite would have done. Nope, it just hopped aboard the bodhi-express, and be damned if anyone would make it leave. Well, after I recovered from the initial shock and confirmed that this body was definitely my own, I flashed it a hesitant smile, made a remark about how we should have gotten to know each other first, and then gave it my blessing. I began to like the fella...then love him...but that started to fade (remember what I told you about stale love?), so I currently adore the hell out of him! He's my second hero. Haven't decided upon a name for him yet, and though I've always dug "Thaddeus", I think it's a bit heavy for such a little guy...
05.06.03 -- boy blue
the pursuit of innocence; the great erase. if only we had control over what we've been subjected to...or the fact that we're alive at all. do you ever wonder at the type of person you might be if you hadn't been you?
and do you ever tire of people worrying about you? needing you? demanding and desiring you? does it make you feel remote and controlled? give you the need to curl up like a babe and shove it all aside; let the subconscious display its phantasmagoria of times when innocence had not wandered so far astray?
can hope protect you by reminding you of what's benevolent and pure and worth living for? does hope give you purpose or gently remind you that there is none?
i can understand wanting to be the invisible man; not seen but not forgotten. there's no way to dispel the thread of loathing for the society i've been thrust into, but it's diminished at least. there's no angst or bitterness...only a muffled melancholy during times of calm and quiet. why is serenity so fleeting?
maybe it's no better than religion. is peace a security blanket for the weak? or a reward for the strong?
don't mourn your inability to ultimately shelter the ones you love. one day they'll also realize that they could never be solely responsible for their emotional and mental development. that the person they have become is a by-product of the rules they were forced to live through, the culture they were forced to abide, and the will of all humans to be an individual. at least those experiences that they were not, are not, and will not be able to dictate...those will all be a mere fragment of their greater whole. only, please always try to present them with options. a person can do no less than love one who gives them choices. and let's not forget: listens with an ear of compassion rather than talking with an air of wisdom.
but i don't need to tell you all of this. you know it as surely as i know it.
02.04.03 -- euphoria...
i've been out of the darkness for too long. the yoga and zen steered me toward brighter streets, which i drove merrily down, but i think i lost something of myself in the process (not "grew out of" but more like "misplaced"). all a part of growth, there's no doubt -- or regret. i just need to find balance.
so, tonight i heard from someone who's been out of contact with me for a while: the light to my shadow. it's euphoric to be in touch again, and i'm reminded of the "old days", those darker corners where i wrote about Payne, Zero, and Bliss. i'm eager to get back to more of that sinister fiction and, who knows, maybe i'll find balance -- or not.
either way, it's pleasing to re-discover that missing me, to know she was merely lurking and not lost along some side-street of Change.
02.04.02 -- neverland
i want a daughter...
with long flowing hair, the color of wheat -- like mine. we'll sit on my bed, feeling the lazy noon, made glorious by the sun through paned windows, and brush each other's tresses until they gleam. we'll share bubblebaths and five dollar matinees -- popcorn with extra butter, please.
i'll name her something elegant and Japanese, and call her Peace for short. her eyes will reflect dead winter skies, like mine, and all the world will be ours -- though we'll be too Zen to take it.
yoga everyday, in the aged light of late afternoon with giggles and rebellious Cokes afterwards. museums full of art to deliberate for hours at a time, novels that sound like poetry as they display the truth of the world, philosophy, foreign languages: German, Latin, Irish, French, Spanish (though I hate the last two; better a jack-of-all-trades than a master of some). all the things i can teach her about existence -- that nothing can ever be taught, but discovering self through observation is the most precious thing.
someone to feel my love for the scent of herbs and citrus and sandalwood. someone to share my ache for the unaware and the helpless. someone i can share the secret parts of me with -- the parts i've never shown anyone: bodhi the dancer, the singer, the girl who likes to read novels (anything) out loud and with perfect diction, bodhi who wants to heal the world.
it's selfish to want another set of my eyes, another writer -- lover of pencils and herbal tea, lover of melancholy and the scent of old books. one who loves falling hopelessly in love: a concept created to control the population.
yet, who wouldn't want to see themselves reflected in the eyes of another, seen as perfect and irreplaceable? who doesn't yearn for the chance to mold unconditional love of all that you are from something so close to yourself?
12.18.01 -- memory
my world is filled with blackness -- cold, empty spaces mimicking the void i fail to feel, yet know encompasses all. how can one be truly happy when everyone else tells you you're not? i've never been a social butterfly, why expect more from me now? am i dull? do i not excite? i exist for myself, within a limitless labyrinth that is ego -- so much to know, such a trial to be aware. should i change for you? buckle for you? if i denied myself everything that made me happy for the things that please you, would you still love me? i wouldn't be the woman you fell in love with so long ago.
the world is pushing down on me, a gauntleted hand that cannot understand. does it wish to know? i fear it does not care to try. alone in my solitude, watching you pass; time's a cruel mistress for one living too far ahead. sometimes it's overbearing and i want to weep for the futility of it all. i'll never be understood, and there's no means to escape. it's all one big trap and there's no aid or concern for gray wanderers like me.
alone and aching, nothing to reach. fingers touch blackness and it's all so familiar. solace in death, understandable now. life worth living: the biggest paradox of all.
why do i write these cryptic things and deny myself the right to cry?
11.11.01 -- and will you be?
I will say that I've felt the best and worst pangs of desire, at times wishing for the solace of nothingness. To covet is to live; to live is to die; to die is to have been. The best part of being human, IMO, is loving -- whether the object of your obsession is animate or not; the worst part is never realizing this at all. Live, love, cherish the pain knowing that it is proof you are "alive". Pain through love is sublime; pain through regret is squander.
10.25.01 -- why do people...
......feel the need to speak/honk/wave at total strangers? I mean, just because I'm young and bodhi doesn't mean I want to acknowledge your existence. Can you hear me sighing? Let's not even go into catcalls and nut-grabbing.
You know what gets my attention in a good way? Saying my name. That's it; that's all it takes to make me putty. Honestly, how often do people refer to each other by name rather than some term of endearment? I'm guilty. Nearly everyone I know is baby, sexy, girl, or daddy-o. Can you hear me sighing, again? I just want to hear my name whispered from your lips like something sacred.
09.27.01 -- given to impromptu
love, anyplace devoid of your presence is unbearable. i've stared directly into the sun to try and burn your image from my mind -- but it only left me blind and less eager to forget. i would choke my heart to release this ache, drown in the shadows of forgotten temples, weep away my blood one tear at a time -- if only it would erase the memory of you.
my death lies in your love. can you hear the rustle of my paper-thin skin, yellowed with jaundice and ribboned with veins? the sigh of my hair grown listless and melancholy? lips that were once fleshy and red are now thin and arid -- longing for but one life-giving touch of your mouth.
if love were so innocent, it would not kill us so: feeding us only to leave us hungry; stealing us only to leave us empty.
unable to remember me, unable to forget you.
09.23.01 -- miscellaneous debris
Are we all missing the big picture? All of this talk about the preciousness of life, but do any of us truly live?
What is life? Is it our loved ones? Can we find it in our possessions, our labels, our vices? If we can't truly live until we kill the demons, then become free from the fetters of attachment. Let's close our eyes and breathe; taste the air and feel the void. Life can be found here -- when, in the absence of world, we recognize the spark that is "being alive." Living isn't in what we know, but in what we leave behind by retreating from the mind and observing with our eyes.
Some of us believe we're living with our eyes wide open, but are we? "Humanity" seems to be another ideology of the Utopia we never found and have forgotten to search for. Man has lost himself; he treads a path of godhood with cloven hooves. We are all beasts trapped in an endless cycle to survive, yet we have donned the masks of sages and cast down our "brothers in existence." Tell me -- are our lives any better because we're humans? Are our lives more free? Are we even living?
If we forget to be humble, then we are like the dragons of myth -- made strong on the fear of others, but never truly alive, at all.
09.04.01 -- of bystreets and novocaine
q: do i miss you?
a: in one-hundred thousand painful ways.
each day i wake up empty, tear strips of you away (those parts of me that you built with your words and ways and ghostly affections) to gorge myself with your memory. and though i'm full with you, i am left unsatisfied.
my dear, i am the quintessential 'survivor type.'
still, i manage to stumble around this malformed utopia, this experiment gone awry (begun by some divinity long-since forgotten, no doubt), and observe in disgust the useless humans that surround me.
devoid of compassion
yet oh so full of hedonism. see the selfish harlots strutting around, ever eager to fuck themselves. they're looking for that easy ride that lacks an element of sweat.
tell me, dear one, how can they conceive the pleasure if they won't receive the pain?
08.17.01 -- Re: art illusion
and isn't that the way of our minds? blending into the background; observing from a distance. when do we ever allow ourselves to be truly free? *sigh* "free" is such a generic term. we are only able to touch upon our sense of absolute through vulnerability. when else are our innermost gates thrown completely wide?
the virgin who awakes for the first time beside her lover
the priest lying prone before his god
the bodhi who offers you her secrets with her eyes
if you love something, will it show you how to live? if you covet something, will it teach you how to die?
remember, time doesn't love you. uncover yourself while you're able; choose what you covet and embrace it. being hidden does not make one aware, only harder to find.
discern existence in the absence.