Sunday, November 25, 2007

Flowers fall from the sky

While I was crying about the moon, pre-post-prandial-menstrual dysphoric disorder, love, my fear of intimacy, my painful need for isolation which sabotages my absolute necessity for company, and missing missing missing my twin (complement/mate/match/bear/dog/fox/mouse) -- while this was happening and I was also lamenting the superfluous use of my time with pixelated screen-people constructed by actual writers (not mediocre try-hard-retrograde-teens like myself, at 25) -- I receive a halleluia "beep" from my phone inbox (almost full to capacity with old messages that record significant times that have long evaporated. Why do I keep them? I don't know. I don't find that much authenticity or pleasure in them now. But they are documents. They mark time.) A picture message! Who could this be? What could it be? Who is my redeemer at this critical moment of self-discovery, self-actualization through pain and longing?

CINGULAR: You recived a picture message your phone can't display. See it at the URL below-expires soon. Use code 5q342fn9 http://www.cingular.com/inbox.

It's so mysterious. It's so magical. It's from a (405) number. WHO? WHY?

It's a picture of a $20 bill. Andrew Jackson. What is this secret code? Why the note? What is this message? Realize: I am still hoping for some fortuitous message, some sign that I am loved, or that I matter, or that all my efforts are not just robotic attempts at validation and that really I can hawk off all my belongings and move to London as soon as my work here is done. Forget theory. Ditch grad school. That's for ambitious workaholics with no access to soul. I want soul. I'm gonna get me some soul with my $20 enigma.

I call the number.

Who the fuck is "Chip"?

it's all a pathology

"I am nostalgic for conversations I had yesterday. I am nostalgic for right now."

I can't stand it.
The feeling that tomorrow, You will disappear.
You will all disappear.

I can't stand it.
The feeling that all that has disappeared once was.

I can't stand it.
The feeling that these feelings that I could not once stand, are now understandable. 

I float, knowing that the deeper longing exists, that simplicity was actually the answer, and that letting go was the solution, not the defeat.

I can't stand it -- that there are spaces for can't-standing and there are other spaces for standing, and that I know where I am in those places, but that I can't stand not knowing where I am until it's left.  Maybe I chase and hurry along so that I can recognize .... something.  I want it all to be over so that I can remember.  Maybe Oliver Sacks has a phenomenon to name after me.

It's so odd, to feel the shadow like an impending doom and then to see the monster walk away.  When does failure really start?  Weren't you failing all along?  Always making the wrong choices?  These are not angst-filled regrets -- they are just a nod to the memory of dreams that were thankfully shattered, because the dreams were from Some Body else. Can I coin it "oppression by hope" without seeming a cynic?

Was it cheap? Was it the easy way out? Who is the overseer? Who is the standard of comparison?  These are all just nothing questions. 

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Letter to Sminz

Just some thoughts as they come to me standing on my balcony blowing smoke in salute to your graceful and oafish presence missed --
Who are the "others" that I presume will judge me for feeling so perfectly comfortable and appropriate wearing eclectic colors, a bright blue hoodie, and boots made for the Appalachia, searching for your hand? Perhaps they are chefs and hostesses at fancy vegan restaurants -- perhaps, more likely, they are my fears.
The manic life I lead--I need--I bleed for--this seems like an ass laughing in the face of my happiness with you ("ridi" + "culo", English to Italian transliteration = "ass laughs"). I loved dressing up and dressing down with you by my side. I am waiting still for one day in coat and tails and silk dresses (oh, but which one of us shall wear the high heels?)
I am waiting already for Lego-man and Lego-woman body suits (perhaps both sitting in lifesize, cardboard port-a-potty toilets). There are many costumes I wish so much to share with you still.
I am missing you like a deck of cards misses its box; like a chopstick misses its twin; like a pot of boiling water misses its lid. No boil. Slow steam -- evaporate. Sense -- maybe no. Free - thanks to you.

Tonight I returned to the free performance at the Judson Church and it was great. Full of performers I know and like and strong, sensory, idea-fueled pieces. The last was a happening, really -- 20 or more people piling up cardboard boxes in the space, along the sides of the space, blocking the entrance/exit. My friend Tin from Singapore was there and we went out after for a Nutella crepe and love stories.

I smoked two cigarettes (=kissing you). I ate a bagel, plantain chips, a salad, a slice of pizza, ginger ale, an apple, half a mocha chocolate chip vegan cookie.

I found 2 "new" pins on my shelf.
I wore my black hat with 2 pins on it, not 1.

HELLO MY NAME IS...

...under the watchful eyes
...enigma of the amygdala (AMGINE)
...SPUTNIK: The Invisible Face of Infinite Invitation: Magnificent Dream!
...Halibut Endofdays, vigorous upstream swimmer
...SPUTNIKERS: Flies both ways (also known as Man on Mars)
...PROFANE (it hurts your between the ears and armpits that I am true)
...EPIPHANY (the childish hide and seek with perfection which secludes itself in berry bushes)
...IMAGENA: Tetrapak Generation

****
P.S. the memo is that I've been drawing