For once, this is not about fucking. The furthest possible thing on my mind right now is fucking. There is no time for fucking when one is occupied with making love. I am never sure what it is that happens when I let myself go, but somehow I know that the feeling is more than okay, and what is happening is more than secondary to what is happening in my mind.
So many things are happening in my mind these days that I have been struggling to make sense of them all. I think that after a while, one simply faces one\’s self, or they will simply walk away. I am sucking on my water bottle, feeling the liquid soothe my poor throat, and remembering all the times I have sucked the life out of other people as easily as I am taking water out of this bottle. Taking away their sanity only made me feel worse, not better as I had thought that it would. Turning around and seeing the walking wounded where I had plowed my way through brought me to the realization that I was a walking machine of emotional decimation, feeding off those that were blind enough to let me in.
You get fucked with enough, you will turn off. You fuck with others enough, and hopefully you will do the same. At least for a while. Only for a while. In that time, you might learn to pace yourself. You might teach yourself other ways to combat the fears inside of you — ways that do not involve using other people to fuel your drive to live.
Scampering up a tree like a little monkey in an organ grinder suit with my tail between my legs, retreating from the world, at least emotionally. No one\’s going to turn my organ any more, I would think to myself. It\’s far too dangerous. Don\’t even think of giving me a peanut, because I am not going to dance for you.
After a while, though, the little monkey felt the need to hang upside down by her tail in the tree and clap her hands to welcome the morning. Falling to the ground but landing on her feet, she did a little dance on her own. No peanuts were offered as a reward for this.
I am feverish yet freezing, and making no sense at all as I attempt to make sense of something that can never be understood. Why is the eternal question and how is the means by which why is answered. Every where you listen, all that can be heard is jazz, if you cock your head the right way and listen to the undercurrents. Ed Flis is jazz. Retrigger is jazz. Girl Talk is jazz. Jazz ain\’t nuthin\’ but soul.
If I were to follow each beep with my body, I would fall before the refrain was over. If I twirl to the melody, I would grow dizzy and disoriented. The beats, the beats, the breaks. You can do The Jerk and not look like Calvin. You can feel the groove and be sexier than Jon Spencer. All hail the disco king, for we are in wonder of his skanking abilities. When the time comes, promise me you will never stop listening, and never stop dancing.
Looking at the line crossed in the sand that I crossed long ago, I am wondering how I got here. I am wondering how many missed opportunities I have had over the years to get to this point. I keep getting better, far better. Now when I say that I am sick, I usually mean contagious. If fucking up is an art, maybe you should find another means of expressing yourself.
There is a phone call that could come today from the lab that has the potential to change my life still further from the changes that have been made in the past year. Most of the changes have been mental. I have been struggling with myself to enact physical changes, but for some reason that seems to be the most difficult challenge. Starting over. How many times in their lives do most people get the chance to start over? The slate is never wiped entirely clean, but you can remove the surface detritus, scrub away at what lies below, and draw again. What am I going to draw this time around? Something with color, something with coherency, something with the ability to portray my smile.
I miss Parker. I wonder what happened to her. I hope she is okay. Safe, happy, keeping her nose clean. I have let too much and too many slip through my fingers in the past year, so unable to maintain anything but my mental self-mockery. I think that perhaps my ability to step outside and laugh has been what has saved me.
Last night I was told that I have an inherent problem: I will always be too old for my age, and one day, I will be too young. I will never be an adult, and strange things will make me happy. I am of a different breed. I looked into the eyes of the person who was telling me this, lying on the bed with our fingers in each other\’s hair the way we always do, and I wondered if what he was trying to say is that I will never be happy. Too late.
Was that your phone or mine in the distance? I can teach and be taught, too. I am not so hard as I look. I am not so pigheaded as to be ruffled every time I am put in my place. I like being put in my place. I have purple string lighting here, and the music is fantastic. I like your place, too, where everything is stark, the music is haunting, and I feel comfortable, safe, and loved.
If forced to choose, I will always choose my place, but all are invited.
I promised I would not talk about fucking. I apologize if I did a piss poor job; the only thing I can speak of with any eloquence and coherence is that of the most base and basic.
