I'm presently thinking about that moment.
That moment where I want to be a second skin to you.
To touch every part of you at once and in waves.
Your mouth opens and I want to breathe you into my lungs.
I feel you permeating me. My heart. My soul. We are one.
I do not care about the world and the wrongs. I see only you. And my only concern is to make you feel the way you make me feel.
I am so in love with you.
I've been thinking about that a lot today. I think it's the reason I feel so empty without you. It's because I know what it is to be complete.
I miss you with more than just a longing. I miss you with necessity. I need to breathe and you are my oxygen.
When I put myself with you, in those memories, I feel less like a shell.
I am merely skin and you are my soul.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Green Light
I stopped at a red light earlier today. (It seemed logical.)
I was listening to an audiobook at the time, wherein one of the characters promised he would write to another character constantly. I had to tell myself that he meant email, because my first thought was that he meant handwritten letters. But the other character would not have a permanent address, because she was going to spend some time traveling the world. Email is the only thing that makes sense.
And because I absorbed my twin brother's brain while in the womb, I spent the next 20 milliseconds pondering the profound implications of this...
A letter requires an address. It requires that the recipient is static. But an email lives in some ethereal cloud and can be summoned at any computer with an internet connection, or from a phone. The latter character in the story could have received and replied to any communication from the former character with ease. Instantaneously. Anywhere on earth.
Crazy stuff.
Juxtaposed upon this is an unsubstantiated fact that most people live their entire lives within an hour of the place they were born.
Perspective: If you took the minute it takes to let that sink in and spent it driving towards the hospital where you spent your zeroth birthday, the odds are that you would only need to travel 59 nostalgic miles more before you got there to reminisce.
On the subject of reminiscence, a few years ago, I remember distinctly thinking about how I resented my loved ones, because the thought of losing them was keeping me locked in a dead-end existence. I would die there, a whopping 40 miles from my birthplace. Of course, I had obviously misplaced my resentment, because it was not my loved ones keeping me there; It was my fear of losing them. Of being far away. I was too afraid to leave them all behind.
It had taken a 5-hour trip to convince me that my fears were ill-founded and to create and nurture the thought that I don't have to stay here anymore.
In an age where I can talk to friends on the other side of the world in realtime, where any locale on earth is a webcam away from my present location, what is trapping me in a backwoods retirement community for the rest of my life? What held me down and convinced me that this place would be my home?
My home can be ephemeral! I can go anywhere on earth and live there. What a sublime concept! If you have the power to transport yourself to any location on earth, why would you limit yourself to a circle with a one-hour radius?
It is amusing to think that you can begin to realize that something is possible after you have already prepared to do it.
My reality is in transit.
...And then the light turned green and I pressed down the accelerator.
I was listening to an audiobook at the time, wherein one of the characters promised he would write to another character constantly. I had to tell myself that he meant email, because my first thought was that he meant handwritten letters. But the other character would not have a permanent address, because she was going to spend some time traveling the world. Email is the only thing that makes sense.
And because I absorbed my twin brother's brain while in the womb, I spent the next 20 milliseconds pondering the profound implications of this...
A letter requires an address. It requires that the recipient is static. But an email lives in some ethereal cloud and can be summoned at any computer with an internet connection, or from a phone. The latter character in the story could have received and replied to any communication from the former character with ease. Instantaneously. Anywhere on earth.
Crazy stuff.
Juxtaposed upon this is an unsubstantiated fact that most people live their entire lives within an hour of the place they were born.
Perspective: If you took the minute it takes to let that sink in and spent it driving towards the hospital where you spent your zeroth birthday, the odds are that you would only need to travel 59 nostalgic miles more before you got there to reminisce.
On the subject of reminiscence, a few years ago, I remember distinctly thinking about how I resented my loved ones, because the thought of losing them was keeping me locked in a dead-end existence. I would die there, a whopping 40 miles from my birthplace. Of course, I had obviously misplaced my resentment, because it was not my loved ones keeping me there; It was my fear of losing them. Of being far away. I was too afraid to leave them all behind.
It had taken a 5-hour trip to convince me that my fears were ill-founded and to create and nurture the thought that I don't have to stay here anymore.
In an age where I can talk to friends on the other side of the world in realtime, where any locale on earth is a webcam away from my present location, what is trapping me in a backwoods retirement community for the rest of my life? What held me down and convinced me that this place would be my home?
My home can be ephemeral! I can go anywhere on earth and live there. What a sublime concept! If you have the power to transport yourself to any location on earth, why would you limit yourself to a circle with a one-hour radius?
It is amusing to think that you can begin to realize that something is possible after you have already prepared to do it.
My reality is in transit.
...And then the light turned green and I pressed down the accelerator.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Does She Know?
She tells me she loves me, in her own way. Does my smile convey what is so clearly echoing in my heart?
Does she know what it means to me?
I sit and worry, worry about getting older, about being less to her, that this present edition of me will be the best that I can ever be for her. That she will find my hidden flaws, or begin to notice my not-so-hidden flaws. That I will do something to ruin it.
Never once do I begin to imagine that she is thinking the same thing, because all these things do not make sense where she is concerned. She will never stop being beautiful to me, and my love for her can only grow. No flaw can appear that would threaten that; and I know her in my heart, more than anyone could. She is there even now, living and breathing. I know her like she knows me, because we are the same. We exist as one being in two bodies, longing to reunite. She could never ruin this, nor stop me loving her, because it is impossible to change the nature of our existence. We exist to be together.
In a moment, I can realize that she feels the same. That she is worrying the same worries. How bizarre that she could begin to suspect anything could quench the fire of my love, the immense conflagration that threatens to overtake me entirely.
I feel that I should begin to see myself like she sees me. The same way I see her. The way I can look into her eyes for hours and continually be amazed that she is looking back at me. The euphoria that her existence affords me. The feeling that permeates every cell in my body, as if every star in the universe is converging on one spot in my heart, radiating a warmth that I've only heretofore felt in the small amount to which a sunbather can attest. That she might love me as much as I love her.
Does she know what it means to me?
I can write every thing in my heart to put a fixed meaning on the love I have for her, but it is still. Not. Enough.
It's as if the words of every language are sentient enough to know better than to be so absolute. That a fixed meaning would not do justice to the all-encompassing passion that compels me to continue existing. What made me live before this? What fueled me? What drove me?
How is it possible that the one who has led me to a deeper understanding of who I am, of what my life is capable of being, of what love is, has lived for almost as long as I have and not made me aware of her being until now? How have I walked down this dark plane for years without seeing the effusive torch she wields and embodies?
Does she know what it means to me?
Her smile simultaneously quiets my mind and lights up a million synapses, bursting with new information, sending sparks of knowledge through every nerve, a more profound version of the feeling racing to every extremity, sending a light I can almost convince myself that I can see from the tips of my fingers, illuminating the room. I am awash in love aglow, listening to her voice singing in my memory. The air thickens with a sweet fragrance, the source of which I cannot identify. I can taste her on my lips.
Does she know what it means to me?
Does she know what it means to me?
I sit and worry, worry about getting older, about being less to her, that this present edition of me will be the best that I can ever be for her. That she will find my hidden flaws, or begin to notice my not-so-hidden flaws. That I will do something to ruin it.
Never once do I begin to imagine that she is thinking the same thing, because all these things do not make sense where she is concerned. She will never stop being beautiful to me, and my love for her can only grow. No flaw can appear that would threaten that; and I know her in my heart, more than anyone could. She is there even now, living and breathing. I know her like she knows me, because we are the same. We exist as one being in two bodies, longing to reunite. She could never ruin this, nor stop me loving her, because it is impossible to change the nature of our existence. We exist to be together.
In a moment, I can realize that she feels the same. That she is worrying the same worries. How bizarre that she could begin to suspect anything could quench the fire of my love, the immense conflagration that threatens to overtake me entirely.
I feel that I should begin to see myself like she sees me. The same way I see her. The way I can look into her eyes for hours and continually be amazed that she is looking back at me. The euphoria that her existence affords me. The feeling that permeates every cell in my body, as if every star in the universe is converging on one spot in my heart, radiating a warmth that I've only heretofore felt in the small amount to which a sunbather can attest. That she might love me as much as I love her.
Does she know what it means to me?
I can write every thing in my heart to put a fixed meaning on the love I have for her, but it is still. Not. Enough.
It's as if the words of every language are sentient enough to know better than to be so absolute. That a fixed meaning would not do justice to the all-encompassing passion that compels me to continue existing. What made me live before this? What fueled me? What drove me?
How is it possible that the one who has led me to a deeper understanding of who I am, of what my life is capable of being, of what love is, has lived for almost as long as I have and not made me aware of her being until now? How have I walked down this dark plane for years without seeing the effusive torch she wields and embodies?
Does she know what it means to me?
Her smile simultaneously quiets my mind and lights up a million synapses, bursting with new information, sending sparks of knowledge through every nerve, a more profound version of the feeling racing to every extremity, sending a light I can almost convince myself that I can see from the tips of my fingers, illuminating the room. I am awash in love aglow, listening to her voice singing in my memory. The air thickens with a sweet fragrance, the source of which I cannot identify. I can taste her on my lips.
Does she know what it means to me?
Thursday, July 19, 2012
The Red Book
I have a red book in my room. Small and nondescript, save for its redness. I bought the book five years ago, though the book itself was blank until some time after that. I honestly could not tell you with any degree of certainty, because I have not looked inside of it for years.
Time and I have a very curious relationship. As I sit and wade through all of my half-memories, struggling to sort them into something structured, time comes behind me and trips on its own line, knocking the past back into the past. Time whispers, "...As it should be."
My head is not a great place to store photographs.
I read the book of a Dead Woman five years ago, in a cold basement in Illinois. I read the last days of her life, beginning to know her in those pages. She wrote letters to her children, without the slightest hint of despair. There was love in her words.
And then her words stopped. Replaced by a final page of another person, who felt compelled to finish the story.
"The woman who kept this journal died in 1977. She is finally free."
The woman had died. She succumbed to a disease she had never mentioned, but from which she had been suffering since before I had begun reading. I knew that she had deliberately avoided the subject, because I knew that she did not want her children to remember her pain, because I knew her in those pages.
Wading. I am in a store. Borders? Barnes & Noble? A girl is with me, but I cannot decide who it was. I am looking for a red book and a red pen. I nearly give up, surprised that I cannot find the book for which I am looking. The girl directs my attention to a small display, holding random articles. The red book is there. I hold it, determining its sufficiency. It will do. I buy the book.
I am home. Kaufman? Kemp? Canton? The setting is gone, but the feeling remains. I stare at the book, a Now What feeling in my chest. The book lies dormant. There is nothing to write until Wednesday, January 2, 2008.
__________________________
Friday, January 4, 2008 - 5:37pm
"This book is safe. If you say something, it can be heard. No one reads this book, or sees me writing in it. My thoughts are safe."
__________________________
I was amazed that, although I had not written in the book in two years, two houses ago, I still knew exactly where to find it.
I've been looking at random dates and pages. So many gaps! I would write daily, then skip for months. I refer to things I have no memory of. The Heather Incident? Who was Heather? I wrote on the day I was supposed to die. My reaction? "Obviously, I didn't."
There was love in her words. There was hate in mine.
The REASON this book is on my mind is that I want to write it in again.
My life has become happy. A happiness that is orders of magnitudes greater than anything I can remember.
The REASON this book is on my mind is that I cannot remember my life.
My life was terribly depressing. I can feel the self-loathing dripping from my wry, sardonic words.
The REASON this book is on my mind is that I realize I have become just like the man who finished the Dead Woman's book.
I am another person, who feels compelled to finish the story.
I have so much for which to account. The responsibility of these memories belongs to me. They are, in a sense, my fault. I keep thinking that I want to tell... someone... what an adventure my life has become, but I can't see myself putting Now in the same volume as Then.
I have to account for my self-hate. I have to account for my misspent love. I have to read through this and remember who I was and what I did before I can continue. No one in the book has remained as they were when it was written. I certainly haven't. I'm very nearly ashamed of who I had been.
But... You know, the contrast is hopeful. I can very truthfully see myself as an entirely new and different person in opposition to that guy.
I feel happy. Something that guy never would have said. But he isn't here anymore. So I will start my newest entry:
Thursday, July 19, 2012
"The man who kept this journal died in 2010. He is finally free."
Time and I have a very curious relationship. As I sit and wade through all of my half-memories, struggling to sort them into something structured, time comes behind me and trips on its own line, knocking the past back into the past. Time whispers, "...As it should be."
My head is not a great place to store photographs.
I read the book of a Dead Woman five years ago, in a cold basement in Illinois. I read the last days of her life, beginning to know her in those pages. She wrote letters to her children, without the slightest hint of despair. There was love in her words.
And then her words stopped. Replaced by a final page of another person, who felt compelled to finish the story.
"The woman who kept this journal died in 1977. She is finally free."
The woman had died. She succumbed to a disease she had never mentioned, but from which she had been suffering since before I had begun reading. I knew that she had deliberately avoided the subject, because I knew that she did not want her children to remember her pain, because I knew her in those pages.
Wading. I am in a store. Borders? Barnes & Noble? A girl is with me, but I cannot decide who it was. I am looking for a red book and a red pen. I nearly give up, surprised that I cannot find the book for which I am looking. The girl directs my attention to a small display, holding random articles. The red book is there. I hold it, determining its sufficiency. It will do. I buy the book.
I am home. Kaufman? Kemp? Canton? The setting is gone, but the feeling remains. I stare at the book, a Now What feeling in my chest. The book lies dormant. There is nothing to write until Wednesday, January 2, 2008.
__________________________
Friday, January 4, 2008 - 5:37pm
"This book is safe. If you say something, it can be heard. No one reads this book, or sees me writing in it. My thoughts are safe."
__________________________
I was amazed that, although I had not written in the book in two years, two houses ago, I still knew exactly where to find it.
I've been looking at random dates and pages. So many gaps! I would write daily, then skip for months. I refer to things I have no memory of. The Heather Incident? Who was Heather? I wrote on the day I was supposed to die. My reaction? "Obviously, I didn't."
There was love in her words. There was hate in mine.
The REASON this book is on my mind is that I want to write it in again.
My life has become happy. A happiness that is orders of magnitudes greater than anything I can remember.
The REASON this book is on my mind is that I cannot remember my life.
My life was terribly depressing. I can feel the self-loathing dripping from my wry, sardonic words.
The REASON this book is on my mind is that I realize I have become just like the man who finished the Dead Woman's book.
I am another person, who feels compelled to finish the story.
I have so much for which to account. The responsibility of these memories belongs to me. They are, in a sense, my fault. I keep thinking that I want to tell... someone... what an adventure my life has become, but I can't see myself putting Now in the same volume as Then.
I have to account for my self-hate. I have to account for my misspent love. I have to read through this and remember who I was and what I did before I can continue. No one in the book has remained as they were when it was written. I certainly haven't. I'm very nearly ashamed of who I had been.
But... You know, the contrast is hopeful. I can very truthfully see myself as an entirely new and different person in opposition to that guy.
I feel happy. Something that guy never would have said. But he isn't here anymore. So I will start my newest entry:
Thursday, July 19, 2012
"The man who kept this journal died in 2010. He is finally free."
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Stupid Music Industry
MAN: Calm him down!!! What's his favorite song?
GUY: Jump - Van Halen.
MAN: Second fav?
GUY: Don't Fear The Reaper.
MAN: Third?
GUY: Dust In The Wind.
MAN: Fourth?
GUY: I Believe I Can Fly.
MAN: Fifth?
GUY: Doesn't matter. He just jumped.
MAN: Stupid music industry.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Greg The Plumber
Greg The Plumber had a client with a large balloon
Greg would fix the plumbing while his client sang a tune
"If my client doesn't quit his awful singing soon,
I will flood his building and escape in his balloon."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)