existentme

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 05:17:32 GMT

And there's a book that Richard Bach wrote, I read it years ago, and I think it was called Bridge Across Forever. I can't remember how it went except that he met some girl in a dream, and kept going back there to meet her, and she him - and I dunno (I'd have to re-read, which I am not inclined to do), but I think somehow they made it to real life.

It was a nice book. Part of a series of unrelated books on bridges I put together and read for my own amusement - the other two of the trilogy being the one about the bridge over the San Luis Rei and the one about the bridge over the River Kwai.

It is weird to think about, these constructs of the mind - how does the mind, indeed, put together a face and personality, neither of which you've ever seen before, and the jeans and all the rest for the mere purposes of a dream? Does that person exist somewhere, the visage just pulled out of some universal dream library - no worries, no fines, we'll have this one back in the morning, none the worse for the wear?

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:28:06 GMT

Goodness, this is a placeholder and reminder for me to come back and write up the two dreams I had - the one about the hot girl with the auburn hair and the too bright eyes, that had invisibly drawn carts and the jaw holding kissing and and the hands squeezing and cupping a too tight jeans-clad bottom and the dry-humping to near orgasm and the "except for the way you bite your bottom lip when you drive [wtf]," and the "you'll have that and a million other things, too."

Then, the other one, too, though that one might have to stay private, or severely screened, with the girl on the bus, participatory though she was, and oh so soft, and melting me all the way with her eyes, and wanting to cum down her throat, across her pretty face.

Either of these girls, yes, I would gladly meet again in any dream anytime, anywhere.

[I wondered from whence these two had sprung, and thought back to the things I was thinking and doing just prior to going to sleep. I think a fairly large factor might have been that just before I fell asleep, contemplating a fuck at this point, I remarked to myself, in my head, "I wonder what two and half years of cum would be like."]

Conversation With a Virgin

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 06:56:39 GMT

I think of you in motion and just how close you are getting, and how every little thing anticipates you.

That line is not related to any of the rest of these lines.

So, yes, how far do you think I should travel to help a virgin out?

I love when I just type out the words and the thing ends up at 15 words. I take this as a sign.

The (dare I say?) thrust of this entry, however, is of course more important than the simplicity implied for articulate.

For the fuck of it, we'll call it an exercise in honesty - a thing I occasionally do for practice. People, you know, they listen with a sharper ear when they think or are led to believe they are hearing the truth. Why else would film makers endeavor, whenever possible, to add those ticket-selling words, "based [no matter how loosely] on a true story," to their covers and posters and trailers?

Of course, they really don't care if you believe that bit; they only know that it helps to sell the thing. I am similar to these with regard to similar things: I don't really care if you believe any particular bit, but I only don't care because I'm not trying to sell anything.

Anyway, I digress. The 15 at the top is indeed based upon an ostensibly true story in the making - or not. I mean, a true story, yes, but it's either in the making or it is not. As one may or may not know, one of the communities on my list is ljsecret, where people submit graphics-based secrets and other people comment upon these. I've been a member for a couple years or so. Every so often, which means, in this case, almost every other or third post or so, there is some secret lamenting someone's still-held virginity, usually with some expressed desire to be rid of this thing. I don't mean to sound like a typical guy, or even a typical me, but almost every time I've seen one of these, I've thought, "oh, I would probably be willing to help you with that - you know, so that you could move on, etc., and stop being so concerned about that bit."

At first glance, yes, I am positive that looks a certain way. This is probably why I've never made that response, or anything similar to that response. Indeed, I don't think ever responded at all to these kinds of secrets: I just leave them alone, because I could never tell what might come out of my mouth, much worse, what it might, what it would sound like, both to the OP and anyone else within earshot. In my head, though, in my head I have always thought, oh what a shame this really is. Before one leaps to an interpretation of that thought, however, allow me to say, first, what that's been based upon.

This next bit is not meant to sound pretentious. Simply, it's not pretentious, it just is. Laughing: yes, it's based upon a true story, and it is this: I love women, girls, female humans - even those who dislike me, I love them, too. For even their dislike of me, when that is present, and no matter it's intensity, is part of them, part of their prerogative. It's not that I have some desire or need to be stomped upon or anything like that at all; it's just part of my respect, even adoration, for female humans.

[Lol, damn, some exercises are harder than others.]

So (to keep things short), when I have thought, "oh what a shame," it's been based on a number of things, but always with that background, that foundation, firmly in place. That thought doesn't arise from the pedestrian simplicity of "yes, of course, I'd be willing to fuck a virgin, who would not?" Rather, it arises from (and here's where the appearance of pretentiousness will enter in) a knowledge that I could dispense as harmlessly as possible that which is required. I could (to switch from verb to verb phrase) dispense with, with as much detachment or engagement desired, any virgin's virginity. Yes, I know, who could not - right, got that.

Ah, okay, anyway, enough about that and to the point of that paragraph, but the entry. The reason I think this way, is because of that love, confessed a few paragraphs, before. So, it is from a Leonard Cohen's "I'm Your Man" kind of view that I say such an audacious thing.

I'm Your Man - Leonard Cohen

But, now back to the regularly scheduled point of this post, which is that in response to one of these virginity secrets, I recently actually opened my mouth. I can't really say for sure what inspired me to do that, but I did. A conversation has ensued. I don't know where the conversation leads, or not, but I do know there are more destinations, no matter how far or close, than those reached by cars or trains or planes.

Writer's Block: New lease on life

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 04:09:28 GMT

Was there a significant event in your life that helped define who you and caused you to re-evaluate your priorities?

Submitted By itsnewyearseve

View 635 Answers

Yep. There was that one time I submitted a question for this thing on LJ called Writer's Block, and like, damn, I totally didn't proofread it before I submitted it, leaving out a word. After that, I always proofread my things, yes I do.

j/k

This entry is a marker, in case I want to return and answer this the real way at some later date, because, for sure, for sure, there is one of those events, and it completely changed everything for me. Funny, actually, that the word "are" is the one left out of the question, because after that event, that became the question entire: who are you?

Oh my, on my proof read (I mentioned I always do that, now, yes?) I see that this is entitled "New Lease on Life" or something like that. This makes it funnier for me, since in recent weeks I have pondered over and over the question of second chances and do overs, and other various words and phrases for new leases on life, finally concluding that, except for the terminally ill, saved my medicine or miracle, there is no such thing: no second chances, no new starts, no leases. You get what you get, and what you wreck, and whatever you manage to salvage from the wreckage, and whatever you manage to construct from whatever there is left of yourself and everyone around you and anything else you find or are given.

These reconstructions, though, are not second chances, new starts, or new leases. They are ongoing constructions and reconstructions of the first chance, the only chance anyone ever gets. I don't think anyone, for example, no matter how shiny and exciting the new replacement buildings at One World Trade Center in NYC are, or become, will ever see these as some second chance, for underneath and behind these, like all so-called second chances and new starts, is the wreckage and scraps of foundation and carnage and lives of all the real people who made up all the first starts with you. Underneath it all, always, are the old photographs, the dreams of the things you would build, the memories of the things you did build, the lives of the ones who were with you in that first chance, who are still with you in your so-called second chance.

This doesn't mean such so-called second chances can't be shiny and beautiful, though, not at all, because they can. They're just not second chances is all, but rather, just more of your first chance, your best chance, your only one.

Okay, that got longer than I thought it would.

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 18:47:48 GMT

I'm slowly but surely catching up to, or at least considering the catching up to of, the things (here) which have fallen by the wayside over the past week or ten days. Meantime, because I am distracted out of my mind by who knows what, coming from who knows where, a few, or at least I think a few, random lines.

As amazed as I am by how quickly, how thoroughly, and for how long I shut all the way down, I am just as equally amazed by how close to the surface of that apparent burial ground everything still lies, arms folded over it's chest, pensive, waiting for the slightest disturbance of the weight of the earth above, as if only a shovelful or grain removed from that mound would be enough to breathe every bit of life and vigor back into this, what now appears as a still and lifeless form.

I can hear you, out there, through the dirt, little scraps of sound. I can see all the way through the spaces in the dirt, little bits and pieces of light and color. I can breathe through the dirt, too, little gasps at a time, and in that scent, on that wind, taste, taste you like chocolate, like cherry candy, like brandy, taste you on my tongue, the complete inside of my mouth, to the back of my throat and all the way into my veins, and feel you to every extremity, moving me.

That's a few.

***

And I always stop. I always stop so fucking short. I shut the fuck up, before I am even out of the gate. I know why, too. The moon's not yet full enough to burn off the clouds and stop the rain that weightens the dirt and pushes me back down, still again.

But the universe and the moon, the ocean and the tide, they never stop moving.

If this was good enough for the ancients, it's more than good enough for me.

***

Oh, I almost forgot to add a note as to what inspired this bit, these few lines - three little words used by someone else, somewhere else, about, I think, her girlfriend: "perfect little butt."

[But, on this, I better make a note, lest someone leap: little isn't critical (it almost rhymes), and perfect is some wide range, indeed.]

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 15:31:22 GMT

Last night, for the first time, ever, I dreamt I was involved in a killing - but, for some reason ('cause I'm all into conjecture, this way) I am thinking that the killing part was just to make sure I woke up, made a note of another, perhaps more significant, section of the dream, so that I would remember it, record it, account for it, and act accordingly, later on down the road.

[Full disclosure as to the "ever" in that first sentence: I did have one dream, once before, where apparently there was the body of a girl in a suitcase in my garage, and The Man was looking through the window and I knew I was had. I only knew she was there, and not how she got there, however.]

Gonna keep this short. In the dream of last night, the killing scene consisted of me being some (modern era) gangster type's sidekick (yeh, 'cept I don't do sidekick, really), and we'd found ourselves on the floor of this stereotypical warehouse place where all and only bad things happen. This guy, enemy type, was injured but somehow still held the gangster type at some sort of bay, so, upon instruction, I grabbed the handgun from the floor and slid it over to gangster type, at which point, he executed the other guy. Then we fled down this alley, and I (had the gun again - you know how these fucks always treat the sidekick) ditched the gun ON TOP of the lid of a dumpster. Yeah, like that's gonna work.

That part was over. Then I was on a bus with several people. I don't even know if this was part of the same dream, but I had not woken up, yet, so there was still some attachment - perhaps this was part of the getaway. On the bus was a girl, twenties, as per usual, brunette, cute. (I always like when these show up in my dreams.) She and I were holding hands with one another - but not that way. Both of my hands were holding both of her hands, and we were spinning, like people might do if they were skydiving with one another, both of our bodies stretched out horizontal. Obviously, for the logistics of this, the bus was very wide, indeed. Shortly, it became apparent that the bus, also, was spinning, with us, at the same rotational speed, and well off the ground, too, for I could see through the windows to the streets at least five or six stories down. This was also a directional component, though fairly slow-moving, to the motion.

Suddenly, the bus was back on the ground, but not with any hard landing, and still. All the people on the bus were angry, wtf-style, with the girl and I. Perplexed, I asked what happened.

"You stopped believing, you idiot," was the more or less unanimous reply. She did not appear to share in any of this blame. Then, I woke up and made a note to remember this in the morning. I might have still forgotten, however, (as such things are wont to do), the first entry on my friends list, this morning, was about someone else's bad dream.

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 02:49:25 GMT

For what it is worth, I do know, and hate as well, how insufferable I can be in various places.

[Heh, I should move this out front to my user info.]

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 06:37:24 GMT

Ah, another post and yet more postponements of the things that say "I'm wanting done," of the things that cry out, "I'm needing done." But no, not yet, and, no postponement of the thing that softly whispers, "I must be done." There will be time, I think and say, there will be time, and then, because I haven't the voice of Mr. Eliot, the authority and sureness that comes to those who Mr. Wilde said dare not live, add at the end, "right?"

How could this matter, and not that? Or, I mean, how could it seem to matter more? Who knows. Maybe in my universe, or the one that I disturb, silliness trumps seriousness. Or, maybe procrastination is simply my thing.

Speaking of poets and playwrights (and adding here for who knows what reason), I wonder if my thing for dates stemmed from an incident which celebrated its (let me count the years) 38th or 39th anniversary, today. I only just can't remember if I was in 4th or 5th grade when I got the only part I'd ever gotten in a play, and then only by default, when the other guy, Mark O., got sick.

It's was the most bittest part if ever there was one, a single line, where I said, "and presents, too, George," and hung this wreath on a stage prop lamp post in Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Time was drawing nigh to get out the door and over to the school, but still, Mom kept at the stack of checks on her brown bedroom floor. I kept wishing and wishing that the adding and adding would finally add up to her walking out that door with me. But, time wore on, 6:20, then in a flash, 6:40. Certainly, I nagged her enough about it, for eventually, her voice rose up with a finality of sorts, "I have to get this done, I'll send Dougy, Dougy will come."

Well that's someone, I thought. Now, I know I must've been in fifth, because Doug was two years behind me, and I don't think she'da let him walk the mile over there in the December dark if he was only in second grade. I know he came on his own, because I had to be there earlier, and I know he didn't walk with me, because, having delayed the departure for so long, I took my older brother's bike so I could try to make it on time.

I have no idea why this was such a silly big deal. But I remember all of it, so clearly. I remember retrieving my brother's solid tired bike from the narrow alley between the houses, riding over there in a very light spitting snow rain combination, and pulling up beside the concrete stairs in the dark rear schoolyard, going up those and into the building. By this point, I was really hoping Mark O. would show up, after all, to save the day. He did not. The teacher was perturbed at my slight lateness, or maybe she was also disappointed that Mark O. had not shown up to save the day.

"And presents, too, George," and I hung the wreath on the lamp post, and found my little brother's face in the crowd, third or fourth row, center right, smiling for all it was worth. Only today, only at this moment, am I finally giving credit for that giant and genuine smile.

After the play, we came out of the building and the solid-tired bike had been stolen.

I am glad, now, looking back, that he had someone to walk home with.

***

Anyway, the silliness of which I spoke at the top, is...I don't know...silly, I guess, but I'm going to record it, anyway.

Part of yesterday's excellence included a conversation with her, the baby one. It was nice, and...just nice. I explained how I could never write her while she was seeing another, that when I wrote it was like climbing inside her, and that it was too hard for me to see that as something right. She did not see how it could be wrong. We both spoke of our amazement at the failure of memories, created in the sum of less than 150 hours together, to fade away, or to at least grow more dim after more than two years. I laughed, and said, and knew how true it was when I said it, "I have to take you in small doses, darling." She replied, and I think she probably was laughing in some way, too, that she knew what I meant. I told her I'm coming to visit her, and only she could stop me, and she could do that by only just saying, "no don't."

She said she'd never say that.

Then, though, my college room mate, who lives local, and whom I haven't seen in 2-1/2 years, stopped by, and stayed for a couple hours. He reminded me of one of my four lovers, my only one-night stand, though I don't see it that way, still, and I thought fondly of her.

When I returned, there was mail in my box from the baby one, a picture of herself she'd taken when she first arose, yesterday, but closed her eyes in the picture as if she were still asleep.

"...here is what i Imagine I look like when I dream about you."

As soon as I saw it, I instantly pictured myself behind her in the bed, holding her tight, breathing her in, kissing her shoulders and the back of her neck, feeling her hair against my face, back against my stomach, bottom against my crotch, calves against my shins.

So, tonight, earlier, when I lay down for a short nap to clear my head, I was lying on my side, and of course, some of that imagery from yesterday afternoon was flowing in, but (omg, I promised silliness at the top), there was something weird going on with my fingers - yes, it felt as if she (for who else could it be, right) were there, holding onto my fingertips in some tenuous grip.

It was so very distinct, that it rather startled me when I first noticed it. My eyes were still open, so I didn't need to open them to look at my fingers, to consciously feel them, and this grip, even as I stared straight at them. I moved them, just a bit, and yet it remained.

"Well, isn't that amazing," I thought, then got back to the business of falling into a nap.

***

In the nap, omg, I dreamt of yet another articulate member, one I hardly "know." It was not a sex dream at all, though, at least. We were both reading some book, the same book, in different areas of a huge university gymnasium/cafeteria combination. Somehow, she was communicating with me, as we discussed this book. At some point, she threatened to play spoiler, saying she'd figured something out from some foreshadowing bit, which, if I recall correctly, had something to do with rosebuds in the snow. I insisted, "no, don't tell me," and she relented. There was also a cardinal in the book. So yeah, red and white, apparently, playing some role, there.

She had a boyfriend, and he was with her. They were eating pizza. Well, I mean, I guess they both were, but he definitely was, because when, as I stepped gingerly across the backs of the booths, I stooped down and accidentally took a slice of his pizza, thinking it was mine, he gave me the "what are you doing taking a slice of my pie" look.

She, though, I don't know if she was having any pizza, because the only time I saw her in the dream, she was way up in the open metal-trussed rafters of the place, standing up there on the bottom chord of one, holding onto its diagonal webbing, as if this was simply something people did when in such a building. I'd come out from wherever I'd been when she was sending me (telepathically, it would appear) the communications, and looked up to where she was, standing up there, looking down, grinning - Irish heritage, it seemed - and asked, "don't you sometimes think you (meaning we) could write at least as good as these people?"

Lol, she did not answer, only grinned.

Then the unfortunate pizza gaffe happened, then I woke up.

***

Crap, 1:21 already.

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 13:18:18 GMT

Whoa, or wow, or oh my, but no real woe, though, just those. Yes, a bit of morning after, or day after thing, there.

I really only do look as transparent, as shallow, as apparent as I look, the way you can see the sandy texture of the sidewalk through a puddle, even while seeing in sharp relief and colored reflection all the edges and curves of the clouds, miles above, or below, or inside, depending upon how one looks at things.

~~I think Miki goes to Japan tomorrow. The middle of the sentence reminds me of some children's book title.~~[Actually, it's the job fair thing - she doesn't go to Japan, I think until either the 23rd, 24th, or at the end of the month.]

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 05:22:36 GMT

Today (the 15th) was the nicest kind of day. I now have two entries started and unfinished to be finished and integrated with one another on the morrow.

Yes, sure, I will write you a letter. I almost asked, in light of the entry at which that request was made, "will you have that straight up, darling, or would you like it on a slab," but decided myself that if I was going to give you something, though I know not yet what I will write, that I would much rather give it to you straight up than any other way.

Now, because I can make fun of myself and know that I'm really not as old as the story will make me look, here is a very short story for anyone who wants to read it.

So, I occasionally stop by the thrift store when I have some extra cash. I look for quality, there, without the high price found in some other places. This last trip through, there was a very nice, what appeared to have never been worn, Land's End windbreaker kind of jacket. Cool, four bucks, I'm all in. The London Fog one I bought years ago the same way at the same kind of place, is, after all, getting pretty worn. I bought it, then brought it to and left it at the kids' place.

Today, I found myself in need of some sugar - yeah, for my ladies coffee. I thought I might run to the store, then decided it was just as quick to run to my apartment down the block. My heavier coat was downstairs in the office, so I just grabbed the jacket since it was right there. I ran down yo my place and got some sugar, but as I was getting back into my car, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. "Oh god, I'm glad I didn't decide to go to the store!"

The big handwritten (in crayon, of course) $4 thrift store tag was still stapled (two staples) to the collar of the thing.

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 15:54:20 GMT

Letter (of sorts) to her, last night:

Subject: You

Writing to you is the most sublime thing. Whether that's something I create in my head (it is, isn't it, isn't everything a creation of one's head) or some other thing, it's undeniably sublime to me. So, when I write, everything I say is colored by either sublimity (sublimeness, whatev) or the denial of the same. I drown and wallow in you, or fly, free in you, one of those or some similar thing, OR, I lie flat, baby, as if on an undertaker's slab. That's all.

I'll write again, soon.

Love,

Mark

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 01:13:29 GMT

I am sorry: I have to be careful, if I want to write anything at all, if I want to keep a journal, I have to be careful to think to myself, nothing against you, mind you, but I have to be careful to think to myself, "oh, no, you have to say, always, 'fuck you' to the friends list," otherwise, the true things you say will be far too few and far between.

If you want to keep a journal, you cannot give a solitary fuck about anything, except the idea of keeping a journal. Sure, there are things I don't say, and I could say these, probably should say them, in private entries at least - but so far as public entries, there are things I don't say for the singular reason, not of losing any so called "friends," but of losing the journal, itself, of losing my voice. Whether the voice is from mountaintop (oh my god, do you know what I know?), rooftop (oh my god, if you knew who I knew) soapbox (oh my god, you need to know this stuff) or deep stone-walled well (oh holy fuck, what I have done), the importance of having a voice, of having the words fall on some hypothetical ears or other, even if I never see the ears, I cannot understate the importance of.

If you are going to keep a journal, a record of your life, your thoughts, your emotions, your fucking joys, your fucking pain, then you are sure as fuck going to have redundancy. Over and over again, you're going to have redundancies.

All those paragraphs are just warnings, I guess, as I felt the need to write yet another redundant entry, to make yet another record of events.

It was, again, harder than I thought it would be. The light was green when I arrived. "I'll try this differently," I thought, and turned my from gray to green, too. This will be good, easy, I quickly concluded. I won't be intruding on anything or anyone, this way, I'll just be here. If there is something to be said, I'll just be here. Though I doubt I'll ever be forgotten, at least this way I won't be an unwanted intrusion.

For years, I have used gmail. For most of that time, she has been on that list. In all of the times I have ever signed onto that name, and that's at least once, sometimes several times a day, her light has never been green, never been green until that first time, sometime earlier this week.

"Why," I've wondered to myself since that first moment, when I rushed blindly into that intersection, "why now, do I suddenly see you? Why now, when it's never been more clear that we'll never amount to anything more than memories, must you present your existence and mocking availability this way? Never less available in one way, never more available in another? Why?"

Absent direct questions yet asked, I'm forced (no, rather, make that "elected") to conjecture on all of it: there's someone else you want to talk to, now, and this is the way it is done. You told me in that first encounter that only just the day before, you'd looked sadly at my gray unlit signal and thought I probably never come on here. I don't doubt that part is true, the looked sadly at part. But, there's some other piece to this story.

[Holy crap, a three-hour nap!]

The last paragraph makes it look, if it is true, as if it's something I begrudge. I don't. This is not my style, nor my thing. I do think it would be disingenuous, however, to attempt to aver that (were all that conjecture true) there is no jealousy, much less that there couldn't possibly be, for there is.

To clarify and give context to the kind of jealousy there is, one would have to know that in our first conversation at the beginning of the week was the bit she'd said about probably being single a long time, adding at the end, "unless you to move to [there]." So the jealousy, where it exists, is not the kind that covets any person, but rather the kind that would covet the circumstances of another hypothetical person, already in that city, able to give on a permanent basis all of the things I'll never be able to give.

The point of this redundant entry (or what would appear to be the point) is to make a notation that it was more difficult than I thought it would be to make myself available and not be taken up upon it. To turn my light green, and watch yours, several minutes later, go gray.

There are decisions that I have made in my head, or felt sure that I had made in my head, and unwritten entries upon those decisions, that should have made that a piece of cake, or at least much easier. But apparently, the little experiment shows, they have not. No cake at all, just some twisting bitterness. Chances are (or are not, I must admit) that she never even saw my visibility.

Last, this is what I get for playing some silly game, what I get for trying to turn with experiment into science what will never be rational. This was wrong. This was an error. But I will salvage something from its failure: my light will forthwith always be green. Also, I will write and ask directly my questions about intrusion or not. If nothing else, I wrote a real journal entry - not super clear, but real, and that's a start of some kind or another, again.

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 04:40:56 GMT

Missing someone in my past is now a longing to love someone in the future.

That one's mine, but also, here, a sentiment (paraphrased, 'cause I'm not going to look it up) from White Oleander, that said something like, "just because a poet says something doesn't make it true," or "pretty words aren't necessarily true," or something like that.

As fully evidenced in the last entry, for some reason I am finding it difficult to write.

There's a fullness in me, and also, as always, an immense sadness that wants to just pour out, but won't.

A girl at the convenience store, this evening, as always, far too young, (20's, the low ones) melted me completely - she's devastating me, still, hours later at my apartment. How can a simple flash of eyes do this. It's not her, though, it's everything else - her eyes just cracked the fragile veneer for a moment.

There's a reason those generations always said don't trust anyone over thirty: because after thirty they stop trusting. Eyes over thirty, they never look that way, they stop trusting, and begin to suspect and create every thought and intention that might or might not ever exist.

Do you know what I liked about being wrecked by her in less than a few seconds? She didn't suspect me, and rightly so, since I never saw a scrap of sex in that moment. I never do, not any more.

This is why, although I came so fucking close (in my mind, at least) to responding to one or two of those craigslist casual encounters ads earlier in the week, I didn't. Because it appears, at least in my head, that without the faggotry of love, sex doesn't happen.

I don't know. I wanted to write something.

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 00:43:09 GMT

4:20 PM

I've never read, I am sure, more than a paragraph, if even that, written by this Carl Jung guy, so I have no idea what exactly he's ever talked about. My knowledge of him and his philosophy is limited entirely to the only two words I can with any surety credit to him: collective unconscious.

I don't know that that's what this entry is about, nor do I know if Jung's philosophy is what I'm thinking about when I think about the connectedness of things, of people, the synchronicity of events. I don't.

What I do know is that these things exist.

If you've been reading along, you might remember I wrote, in the last entry, about an entry that was missing, an entry that could have or should have come before that last one, even before a few before that.

[And, if you are a particularly astute reader, you might also remember that I have yet to finish that two-part one where I mentioned the thing called ___ - that's a reminder for me of the things I have not finished. As to that one, at least, its inspiration has, apparently still pondering things, postponed writing more words asking for answers.]

But, back to this entry, and the one I talked about that's missing, which is this one.

[Oh damn, perhaps, I should eliminate that panel from the gmail account. Yeah, the light is green, but I believe its red is shining bright enough today for me to walk away. This entry's an important one, I think, and it's critical I get through this intersection sooner, rather than later, and admit what it is I've seen beyond its boundaries. Although the cocoon of this dream is sublime, so fucking sublime, it's still just a dream, and dreams don't come true - she knows this, knew it long ago - and, if I was a girl, I could now make some silly analogy about chrysali and patterned papery wings, but because everyone knows, even if it's not true, that all butterflies are female, I can't and won't. I'll have to be an eagle, or some other bird of prey, instead.]

10:03 PM

[Wow, that was harder both than I thought and than it should've been. I mean, it was easy, it was easy to do at the time - oh, there's so much in my head right now, I don't even know how to organize it all, much less write it all out. Lemme get this bracketed part out of the way, though, firstly. It was easy to do. It was easy enough to not turn on my green light, to stop at her green light that I think is better seen as red. It was a piece of cake. It was only the looking back, later, that complicated things, made the thing I did appear (or be) harder than it was at the time.]

Oh, fuck these brackets: all of this is connected, anyway - holy crap, even down to the synchronicitous appearance of her green light in the midst of the entry I came here to write. That's what made it harder, looking back: already knowing what I had planned to write, here, and then second-guessing that after the fact - saying to myself, no, I don't think so, you've fooled yourself, again, you fool.

What a fucking wreck this entry is, indeed.

I...I will try this, again, another time, when maybe less is going on in my head.

How can anyone not love classical music, I really do wonder.

Red light, Green light, White knit sweater, Teal green top

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 13:36:34 GMT

This probably would've been better written up last night, but I was busy with other things.

Do you have gmail? Do you know how their chat feature works? There is a little list of the people you do or do not care about, there, down and to the left. At the top of that is the little magic down arrow, which you can click to make yourself do magic, and be a ghost or not. All the chat programs now have that bit of magic which was once exclusive to Yahoo.

The list of people that you do or do not care about works a little different here than at the others, though, since they use a little red light or green light, and a grey one, too, rather than any lit up proprietary provider symbol to tell you if someone you do or do not care about is or is not available, is or is not a ghost at any particular time.

Yesterday morning, when I signed on to check that box, there was a grey light beside Her name, which made any decision-making unnecessary. But yesterday afternoon I was met with a different condition at the intersection. The light was green. Shiny and green, again, like it was the morning of the day before. Still, though, there was a lot of traffic from the left and from the right (the kind that can threaten to go on all night), and so I wondered if, perhaps, I should be color blind and read that green as red, instead.

They do not have a yellow, there, but sadly or not, I have learned to approach even the greenest of lights as if they were on their way to red. After all, think about all the intersections you have been through, all the traffic lights you have seen. Have you ever seen one of these that did not soon, or at some point, run through yellow to a dull dead red?

I am not that super sharp on rules, so I have run some red light in my time. It has been a way long time, however, since I've been ticketed or otherwise stopped for such offenses. Most times, having learned all the appropriate lessons, I just stop for the red ones that I can see, when I can see them soon enough.

This one, though, as I said, was green, not red. It only just looked red. It was kind of like looking through a green filter and knowing the color behind the filter is actually red. I blew through that fucker, anyway, and at a pretty good speed, too. Glanced left, then right, saw the traffic, but was pretty sure I'd make it - besides, from the look of things, the traffic was supposed to have the red light, not me.

In your drive to get somewhere, after all, you only get so many green lights, regardless they might look red. This was my reasoning, then: who knows when the next time this light might be green, or at least look that way.

"I could get used to this," I typed.

In fact, however, no, I could not get used to it. I could not ever get used to talking to her, that way, this way, about things that amount to nothings.

We talked for a shorter time than the day before. She was studying for a test, and talking to someone else, too. I don't think I hold her attention anymore, though, the way she can still hold mine, and possibly, the way the other unknown conversant may have been at the time holding hers. That's conjecture.

[There is a more interesting (I think) entry that might've been inserted before this one, or perhaps, before the one before this, but it will come soonly enough, in any case.]

After I asked, out of simple interest, about the breakup, and she answered, she then went silent, and the colors of the traffic signals no longer mattered, for there were none. There was no collision at the intersection, no noise, no wreckage, no nothing, just me, gliding now, silently through that, and frankly, I think, on down the road.

The scenery, however, is always, always, always pretty, gaining a vibrant kind of sharpness when one is not distracted by conversation and interaction with any passenger. This is especially true if the one with whom you'd driven a place or two before was the kind of passenger that occupied, without demand, even without sound, every scrap of your attention. You know the kind, don't you? Oh, I so hope you do, or that someday you do. These are rare passengers, and the very best of traveling companions, indeed.

Ah, where was I? Oh yes, on the other side of the intersection, now. After twenty minutes, though I had nowhere to go, I said I was going to get going, wished her good luck on her test, told her I loved her.

In another half an hour, the light still green, the intersection still dead silent, the time upon me for going, and for real this time, I typed to her, "and...ah..I hate leaving here when you are still here, or at least when your light is still green. And I wonder if that is how it would be if you were at my place - how I'd just never, ever want to leave, while you were there - and only wait till I could get back home again - ah baby."

Then I glanced up the road, looked over my shoulder, back there at the intersection, and softly intoned, perhaps only to myself, "goodbye for now, love," then, as if by magic, turned the light behind me red.

***

Last night, my place generally a mess, because I am not a very organized kind of guy, I decided, about 2:30 AM or so, to at least put the clothing and shelves in order. It's not that I have a bunch of this, I just never put it away after I wash it and bring it back.

I have three drawers, and that's enough for everything, except the stuff I hang, which is not much.

In the closet are shelves and also a rod. Upon the shelves are the blankets and the sheets and the towels. Also in the closet, hanging on a hanger, is the white sweater with the big brown buttons that she left when she visited me a few years ago. On the bottom shelf, as I reorganized the blankets and sheets there, I also found the little spaghetti strapped teal top with the little red print. "Ah, this," I smiled, "this."

It was through some coincidence that this was the same top she'd worn on my very first visit to meet her. I smelled it, just to check again, but no, it had gained no renewal of the scent I'd enjoyed in the early months after she'd left from that visit. Even murmuring, as I pressed it to my face, "mmmm, baby," did nothing to magically add back in the scent long ago escaped from it. I looked at it, again, hung from the ends of my fingers, and put her inside of it for a moment.

"Ah baby. Baby, baby, baby." (Yes, traffic, still going on.)

Then I took the white sweater off its hanger, hung the teal green top from the little hooks built into the hanger, and wrapped the sweater back around the thing, sweater embracing the top from the back, and hung the whole thing back in the back of the closet, pushed it against the little black jacket the one before had left.

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 05:19:06 GMT

I just had the weirdest possible sorta sex dream. Maybe I will write more about this. I don't think there's any message in it at all. A member of articulate (because, yes, that's my only real exposure to people outside of the random few I see during the course of my work days), she was missing a leg, which I only knew because she told me so, and in the course of the encounter aged from mid or late twenties to forty-something. She had the weirdest kissing fetish thing, which is where the dream ended. So when I say sex dream, I don't really mean sex dream.

Yeah, I think the only significance was me telling her, after she laid her head in my lap, how much I missed "this," the this appearing to mean any kind of intimacy.

***

I saw Her on gmail chat this morning. We talked for maybe 45 minutes before I had to take the boy to school. It the first chat conversation we've had since February. I said I would write. I will write more about this sooner than I will write to her.

The conversation very sadly reminded me of a song, the title of which I will have to google...if I can remember more lines of it than mood of it..ah, "Same Old Lang Syne." Coincidentally enough, the forecast for the afternoon was snow turning to rain, but it just went straight to rain without stopping at snow, first.

Although it was not apparent during any of its moments, it was a very sad kind of conversation, looking back at it, all in all.

***

I am reading White Oleander at the moment. I'd heard this mentioned so many times and in so many places, and after suckyfucky listed it, I thought it was probably time to update my cultural knowledge. My first post-divorce gf, the live-in, upon learning I'd never seen any of the Star Wars movies, made me watch them all: it's part of your cultural knowledge, she'd said by matter of explanation. I do miss her, too, sometimes, but we've not exchanged a word in well over two years.

I also picked up something from Anna Quindlan, again because it's a name I'd heard enough times to wanna have some of her words pass me by.

Then, some other garbage kind of book, too.

***

I'm not getting LJ notifications, tonight - or for who knows how long.

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 19:50:42 GMT

Ah darling. You are just simply too large. How did you ever get so damn big, eh? Laughing: how can 100 pounds, give or take a couple, be so damn large all the time, I wonder? I love you for this, you know.

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 14:10:59 GMT

I went to the convenience store last night to buy money orders for rents at my apartment and the children's place. One of these for part of last month's rent at my apartment (yes, yes, yes, always behind, always late), the other for the kids' place - very way late since the memo will say August 2009, I think.

There was the cutest little girl of about 3 or 4 in there with her dad. They were behind me in line. Nevertheless, at least one of these was still in mind as I made my purchase, so I was aware of what was going on around me.

"Yes, A five-hundred dollar money order and a three hundred dollar money order, please."

"801.98"

"Okay, I think there's 800, here," I said, and handed them the 40 20-dollar bills.

"He's rich," I heard her little voice whisper to her dad.

I laughed and turned and said, "Ya think so, huh? Thanks for making my day - it's been a long time since I've been so rich!"

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 04:28:23 GMT

He wrote, Dear ..., and before he knew it, the sharp things had cut open his eyes.

There are no words to say. In the soft serenity following the last time he'd imaginarily looked into those eyes, fucking her forever, he'd fooled himself into thinking there was something to say to her, something to write to her that would say something, anything worthwhile at all.

But, since he couldn't really conceive of exactly what he might say to her, or how he might say it, he'd decided to follow his normal method of operation when he felt he should write, but knew not what about.

Just start, he'd thought. You texted her, remember, after the last time you fucked her, you texted her and said you would write.

So he did start, he just started in his head and got as far as "Dear," not even getting her name out, before the sharp things cut him off, and cut open his eyes.

He liked it. He liked its reliable consistency.

Cut me open, baby. Cut me open, forever. At least I know I am alive when you do.

{There's only one thing he could write that would mean anything at all: see me. And he was not in a postion to put those two words together and make them mean anything.]

Synchronicitous randomnity

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 14:19:07 GMT

[This entry is jacked up and ill-thought out, but as it's already been written, I'm going to leave it, since it's really just a note of something I noticed.]

This is a random note on synchronicity. (It's funny I should use the word "random" in describing such a thing.) Last night, I watched "The Reader." I don't think I've fully absorbed anything or something the film may have been trying to say, and this note is not about the film at all. (Although, lol, that's the second one (out of four in a group) recommended by vivid_child wherein there is a suicidal hanging....just sayin'.)

But okay, to the synchronicity:

There'd been at articulate this game of cat and mouse of which I wrote earlier, between me and someone else, wherein they were trying to ascertain which post they'd made that'd made me think, "awww, I love you." And this game, if one wants to call it that, had gone on in several different posts and through several different threads.

I don't want to make this too many words, or the meaning of the entry, which is at the synchronicity, will be lost. Even then, pointing out the synchronicity might tend to add more to something else than I intend to add. This entry is just about the synchronicity, and about that, only just saying. So, one more paragraph ought suffice for the set up.

In the threads, I'd given up the fact that there'd been an earlier entry which had served as a backdrop for the "aww, I love you" thought. I'm not sure whether she ever ascertained which entry had been the backdrop - and, it was all conjecture, anyway, mine, about what that entry may have been referencing. The point is, that entry pointed to a date, a year, 1995, in which something had happened, which had somehow colored her life fairly significantly. I'd obtusely asked about it at the entry, but she refused an answer.

Ah, it's all getting too long. There are no short paragraphs or short stories, I don't suppose.

Our threads and back and forths led us ultimately back to the question of "what I like," and not of the variety that would include cats and dogs and mountains and oceans, but the other things. I wasn't going to answer that question in any detail, not there and not then, probably ever. So I declined to answer, and said the same thing which she'd said when I asked about what had happened in 1995, with, in so many words, "no, no, no, sorry."

So, last night, as the film opened, I was turning that reply over in my head, thinking its words in a row in my head: "And now, now I am amused, perhaps, but not at all surprised, oh no, no, no, not one bit, that your final statement should arrive us all the way back where (for me, at least) it all began..." The film had already opened with the words "Berlin, Germany," but this screen was immediately followed, just as my thought words reached "where it all began," a white date on a black background: "1995." I was like, "well damn, how ya like that for synchronicity?" Then, as if to reinforce the idea of "where it all began," the first image to next appear on the screen was that of an egg.

Laughing. Why? Because. Because nothing alive was ever going to come out of that egg in the film, since it had already been poached. I guess there is a synchronicity there, too.

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 22:41:43 GMT

I said "maybe" out there because I was not sure how or if I would do this. Whether I would cut to the raw informational chase, or try, somehow, to make something prettier of it all - or, even, whether I would just say, "nah, I better not."

I don't often say that, though, especially once I have opened this window, breathed a bit of this air, so I do not think this will be some exception to that general rule.

A background sentence would be that I received information via text the other day that She had broken up with the girl. I've not written, yet, to ask why or how. In any case it makes it easier, until, I suppose, the next time, to be in love with Her.

I don't have a real life lover, and haven't since her, the fourth in my lifetime. Therefore, all of my climaxes are of the self-produced kind. There's your warning: it's that kind of an entry.

I think this might be one of these cut to the chase and skip the effort at pretty words kinds of entries - conveyance and recordation of thoughts and events.

I like, sometimes, to watch films of girls getting themselves off. These are always, without exception, pretty to me. My more favorite of this, uh, genre, shall we say, are a few I have collected of girls (yes, women, but I always say girls - they're always and also girls to me) humping pillows to orgasm. Me being an ass man and all, this is like a two for one for me.

Since I do own some silky things expressly for these kinds of purposes - after all, my hands get kind of rough doing construction work and all - today, I constructed something of a girl (yes, yes, I promised pathetic at the cut) from these and some bedding.

And, fucked her.

And, fucked her so long and so slow.

'Till my digits, all of them, curled, and my eyes glazed, and I could see her pretty blue eyes, cheekbones in the blankness of the empty sheet beyond, and feel her tummy, her hips, her warm soft cunt in the pillows and silk beneath me.

Breathless, and this was my beauty.

Sometimes, until some window opens, somewhere, you don't realize how long you've held your breath.

Then I fell asleep, thinking we must visit with one another soon.

And I want her. I want her the way Nick Cave sang about him wanting her.

(Promised or threatened, and delivered)

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 00:54:29 GMT

A note, here, that I did indeed let the date pass without any action on my part, and so my other journal, at the other place, fallen into disuse, has now been deleted and purged, both.

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 03:53:19 GMT

My Internet is being stupid tonight. I hate when my Internet is stupid. Well, I lied, since it's not my Internet.

[12:25 AM; But so, okay, it is sleep time, now. Today was a day of loveliness.

Oh wait, 'cause this is fun and will only take a minute. Yes, the day was very very nice, but an unfortuante ending threatened that when I forgot at the the thanksgiving celebration place, a half an hour away, the key to my apartment.

I walked down to the apartment and cased the joint. The roof overhang stuck out too far for me to trust myself trying to hold on to the gutter and pull myself up to the roof that way. In other words, better sense prevailed. So I then returned to the boys' house, retrieved a ladder, and came back down. The front of the place was dark, and I had to set the ladder on the front stairs where it just reached the roof, resting on the edge of the gutter and almost straight up and down. I was up the ladder, across the roof, in my window, out my door, back down to the ladder in no more than 20 or 30 seconds. Someone was out front at the curb getting in or out of their car when I got down there. I don't think they could see the ladder, 30 feet away in the dark, so I walked by it, picked it up, continued around the opposite side of the building, put it in the car and made my getaway, and walked back down before my cat escaped out the window which I'd left open in my haste.

Unfortunate ending defeated by cat burglar-style defense.]

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 03:42:32 GMT

Your text today has sharpened things, and now they want to cut open my eyes.

This does not mean I was not happy to receive it. Nor does it mean I want to or need necessarily repel those things that want to cut open my eyes. My heart, kind of a castle keep door to my eyes, toys with these as if it has that option, alternately inviting them in and slashing them back.

It is pretty to watch. It is pretty to watch this war between my heart and the things that want to cut open my eyes.

The sharp things will climb up and through the chambers and to the top of my heart, then mount up through that thin air in my chest across my still lips, seduce my passages with the sweetness of their scent, until they reach the threshold of my wide open eyes.

And I will look at the prettiness and shininess of the sharp things, and admire the keeness of their edges, which haven't a single dull fraction on their entire length. So shiny. So bright. So, so very sharp they are.

Then I'll blink once.

And that's when the sharp things will cut open my eyes, so wide, and be washed back down through all the paths from whence they came and out the door and into the moat and beneath the water for a while. After all, the green and scaly alligators are only decorations: fixtures to make it look as if this place, with all those scary creatures down in the dungeons, is some formidable inpenetrable fortress, when it is not. Not when it comes to the sharp things.

The sharp things know this because they've been inside, looked in every room, fed feasts to the creatures in the dungeons, climbed the stairs through the heart of the place, and cut open my eyes.

Writer's Block: If we took a holiday ...

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 16:21:08 GMT

What is your favorite holiday and why?

Submitted By crazyprotein

View 1052 Answers

My favorite holiday is Ground Hog's Day!

I like this one the best because it celebrates not a single accomplishment (or the sad antithesis of such) of any man or woman or group of these, but rather it's a simple understated celebration of the cold, but brilliant and beautiful winter almost past, and the promise of the lovely spring soon to come. How could anyone love any other holiday more, I wonder?

Ground Hog's Day rocks.

Father's Day is my next favorite because my children make things, things that come from the heart - and at the end of any of these days, holidays and all the others, what matters more than that?