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Orange is the warmest (colour)
October 15, 2004
I feel as if the cocoon that I have built has turned into a sarcophagus suffocating me with delusion. I beg:
Am I true? Is anything that I say or do real? Have I ever actually felt or just acted out the motions? What am I I protecting myself from? Where am I trying to go- what am I attempting to achieve?
I rile others to be exposed, yet I am terrified of being so. The poet's heart but none of the grit. What does it mean, what does it unequivocally mean? So many ideas of life as we “know” it that I cannot even conceive. How am I going to be able to do this… Often, I feel as if I am in one of those dreams where you try to scream, but no sound resonates. When I am asleep and dreaming, I am stuck with such paralyzing terror and horror that I do not know what is worse: the dream I live in or the dreams in which I involuntarily conjure. I do not even have dreams about him yet, strangely.
I do not know if any of this means there is impending slumber suffocation or haunting or that my brain is attempting to let me know that it does not want to operate on the sole purpose of hurting me. I would rather have dreams of monsters chasing me than the unknown wilderness of crippling emotional entrapment each night. Where is the relief? I think it is that I do not deserve assistance. I am not concerned if that is cruel to myself. A part of me believes that the art of necessary punishment and ultimate damning for indiscretions is quite archaic. However, life is just one long bout of consequences, good and bad. If I choose to wallow, that will lead to no higher ground yet if I do not digest my actions vis-à-vis my emotions, where will I go? I mustn’t pillage anything else. I am terrified.
Being reminded of the lies I have told and tell is like being induced by the most painful barbiturate. I do not know that person. I want to run away just like the others before me. Plagued by an unsavory, malignant taste in my mouth.
I hope that I am a sort of unpolished silver; with the right amount of patience, attention, and determination I can be as I am supposed to be.
I am compulsive. My neurons fire from the recesses of my brain that otherwise should not exist. What a joy it would be to change the plasticity of those throbbing lobes. I must uncover and resuscitate that happiness. Quit the Jekyll and Hyde tug-o-war. I so desperately crave a kind of love and attention that must be earned not just given yet I keep expecting it. I have made myself aware that my compulsions in all of their respects must be laid to rest. Otherwise, I may never actually experience anything true in my life. Appearances are much different than actualities. A true reality must be created not projected. Lies get you nowhere even the white ones.
Disloyalty only brings shame. Most of us find it excruciating to be forthright yet only later will you look like an utter imbecile for initiating the aftermath. We protect nothing when we do that.
I wasn't born yesterday; I was born tomorrow. I know it all. I am privy to everything. I have a tattoo of a semicolon just to spite Kurt Vonnegut.
She told me I was beautiful like a Renaissance painting and that she would splatter her brains out like the dripping paint of a Jackson Pollock for me. She stopped saying that after her Uncle actually did.
She was Jane. I always wondered why such an intricate girl like her had such a simple name. Then again, it was fitting. She was a mystery. Nobody really knew she was; Not even me.
I remember you with a hoodie over your head. You looked good. I do not know why you just do. I like that it obscures you and at the turn of a glance I can see your tenderness as the creases of your eyes smirk in a way that is more beautiful than any smile that I have ever seen. I tell you, you look good- you laugh and agree. Whenever I laugh with you, I become hyper-aware. I think, better yet, wonder, if you are watching me smile and thinking thoughts similar to mine. You told me that you think about my almond shaped eyes and that you could never forget the way my hands looked. Pick them out of a lineup. My cheeks flushed for hours. To even be on your mind in such a way rings my heart. I feel swollen reaching toward that memory.
I want to know you and love you. I am aware we are distant lovers. When I remember all is not so simple, I do not want to look your way; I do not want to look into your eyes. You do it as well. This pattern has become bizarrely comforting and revealing of the glass box that confines us. At least there we are together.
My efforts to not be driven mad are frail. The reels just hit me. Flickers of images. The light. Even the light reminds me of you; those moments in the magic hour where we would just smile and our tongues would slip into words we step around so cautiously, those moments do not escape. Each moment encapsulates my entire being.
You grabbing me and lifting me up. Laying me down. Grabbing my hand and holding it tight. Me leaning into your chest, never looking up, only in. I am attached and hollow. It stings. To merely sit next to you is a divine pleasure, the sweetest of kinds. I never want to leave your orbit.
You have the kind of sweetness that makes me drunk with childlike desire and darkness that sucks me into oblivion. We share a beautiful and gregarious detachment with the rest of the world. We float in stillness when we are one. We are never void. I want to be where you are.
Your allure stretches beyond composition. Your vision, your art, your composure, your humor, all of its nuance; I am dizzy. I did not know that I was going to love you. Love has never existed like this to me. I have only known something much different. I jumped into your water.
I know that I need to be careful. Self-preservation one may say. I know the stakes, the risks, the circumstances. It is all a bit unsavory; Undeniably so. But if I get to catch the glimmer of your smile at any moment of time, here and now, far and distant, I will not look away. I will always turn back.
For now, independence of my feelings saddles me. We are set free to manage all of life and its expectations. Perhaps, in the end, we will walk down the street - you will not pull up your hood but grab my hand instead.
Did we ever say no?
The other day I went to go see a movie in an actual movie theatre. I should not even have to qualify that statement with "actual" because yes, movie theatres are a place LOTS of people still frequent all the time; I am going to take assumption that you can infer what I meant before I chose to qualify it unnecessarily. Those who still find themselves moseying on over to the ole theatre, are what I consider elite because we pay upwards $15 a pop to watch Amy Schumer's sexual follies. Anyways, the story here starts with me going to the movies like any old bloke, alright? Enough contradictory over-inflated philosophy & lexicon.
Listen to this, right off the bat, I did not even get carded to watch a R-Rated feature. The bumbling, apathetic booth attendant did me a real solid because the time it would have taken me to fish out my California and/or New York ID is about the same amount of time it would take me to go to the market next door for some theatre contraband. I cannot even remember a time ever when anyone in the army of bumbling, apathetic theatre employees ever checked mine (or anyone's) IDs in addition to their bags for outside snacks. Funny, because at this rate there must be more movie theatre shootings than Snickers and Shasta hoarding pre-teens...that is a discussion for another time. Anyhow, men, women and nightcrawlers alike schlep movie totes filled with anything from popcorn and candy to full blown lobster dinners because we may be elite enough to buy an inflated movie ticket but Jesus, we aren't the 1%. I am not in the business of buying $45 hot dogs and there is no way in hell Regal Cinemas would ever abide by the Poor Relief Act of 1601.
So yeah, now that I discovered I had some extra time, I went next door to Westside Market which is now on the East Side as well- who knows what that's all about? Immediately, I was doused in sensory overload. I felt as if Mensa had stocked the store as some sort of societal-consumership experiment. Sushi and Deli Meats were prepared behind the same counter, chips were hanging and cascading from the rafters and there was cheese everywhere I turned. It was as if I was riding the Tube and every single person was in fact wearing Burberry Khaki Trench Coats- a glitch in the Matrix. Amongst the chaos, I am making darty eye contact with my fellow vigilantes; We are all searching for the best snacks- crunchy but not too loud, sweet but not sickening, and cheap (at least cheaper than our original offerings). At this rate, I am already missing Jason Bateman trailer #1. God knows: I DO NOT WANT TO MISS ANY MORE JASON BATEMAN TRAILERS. I needed to make a swift decision. That is when it happened; I found through the Bristol rubble and noise my Prairie Home Companion: The most fucking British chips that have ever existed.
I did not even taste these chips to know, I just knew how fucking British these chips were going to be. I do not even have an affinity for British paraphernalia but I knew it would be an utter mistake if I did not partake in the most fucking British thing there ever was. I am not talking British things we all know like Scotch Eggs, Earl Grey tea, the abuse of "Keep Calm and Carry On", this is spiritual.
If the essence of Great Britain could be captured, if you could imagine how Great Britain tastes and feels, it is these chips and I am the only one who knows this. I do not want anyone else to catch wind of my discovery so I coyly grab a bag of $27 beef jerky and Lufftwaffe-free German Raspberries- just your average grocery store purchase. Nobody asserts suspicion. I am about to miss a Kevin Hart trailer so I head out without taking my change.
Garbage City: because NYC is garbage at this point- physically, existentially, complete and utter rubbish. It is a disgusting by-product of pro-tourist, consumer bullshit. It is as if it has sold itself to a lesser devil; one that revels in the destruction of spirit that this very city needs to survive. The gilded cloak has been removed and all this place is, is a glorified egocentric swamp. Welcome to Garbage City, go home please, there's nothing to see.