(Originally Written March 22, 2009 in the Journal)
I feel the compulsive necessity to write at this point. You'll never read this (even if we are to be). This is too private for anyone else. Only you my dearest Ashley can know my secrets.
Emotions stir in me I thought were too damaged to ever thrive again. I can't say I love you. I can't say anything so strong. My mind is weak but my heart is palpable. Who shall be its molder? I can be the clay yet I search for the artist. Ever searching, ever on.
I don't know why I write. I have no reason to, yet no reason not to. I move too quickly for my own good. She has no interest in me and I am unsure if I even have interest in her. She simply is - simply is beautiful.
Infatuation? Love? Interest? Love? Desire? LOVE? Lust? LOVE? Passion? LOVE?
Where are these words coming from?
You stir something in me. I wish you didn't but I long for you to stir deeper still. I have been asleep for months. You have awoken me, or have you? Is this just another delicious dream? A mere phantasm or fantasy? The world exists but reality only exists in my head. My reality hinges on my ability to discern real reality (that is existence in my head) and REALITY (that is existence outside of there). Which is more real? To me my dreams seem more real, but that also seems to be the problem. My narcissism rages and my pride fills up my chest. Humility has taught me some great wisdom at great cost, but I'm weak in the presence of kind eyes and a warm smile. I'm weak in your presence.
Infatuation? Love? Interest? Love? Desire? LOVE? Lust? LOVE? Passion? LOVE?
I write these words, do I know their meaning?
I write infatuation. The start of all relationships. Your eyes meet mine. Eye to eye and nose to nose. You turn left while I turn right? Lip to lip? Yes my joy, yes, a kiss. Love?
Interest, I scrawl on my wrist though it can be read in every line and wrinkle of my body. When infatuation can survive its infancy, though a treacherous time, it grows stronger and less awkward. A baby flails its limbs in wayward circles as it waddles across the room. So it is as infatuation swings left to right yet forward towards interest. Love?
Desire my love, my Ashley. Your pages are filled with this - you know it well! You see my hopes, my fears, my joys and my pains, understanding them better than I. Desire grows from interest - that state of heart that flutters at your beckoning. You see it in my eyes. At times I think I see it in yours, but always accompanied by uncertainty (a feeling that plagues me deeper than God himself can fathom). Yet desire stands as a deep-rooted tree in an open field - exposed to changing winds. Will it stand strong? Love only knows. Love is omniscient right? Love?
Lust, the sex of life, you know that act so forbidden, so bemoaned, so wrong, so lovely. This, one branch of that tree so easily can be swayed by the changing winds. If I had any control of my self I would cut this son of a bitch off. I'd prune it down, so many problems arise from this branch. I have thee yet I need you. Lust, a single branch that dominates the whole damn tree if you let it. At times I forget I am said tree, losing myself as only a branch. If I let it, as I have before this tree will die. I will die. Love will die. Lust will conquer, but love conquers all? Love never fails? Could this be love?
If lust is not checked love is choked.
If lust is not checked love is choked.
How many times can I write this? It matters not - I know it. My experience teaches my mind. I know this stage - I married it. She had infatuation, interest, desire and lust. No love. I was dropped for her lust of another (and four more that she told me about). My branch cut right out from her tree. I died until I realized I was a tree myself.
The lust has subsided has it not? You and I still exist. Are we for real? Am I for real? Is this reality or is it in my mind? Is it my mind or is it existence?
Love - love can't be written. It can only be experienced. It can only be lived. It must be reality & REALITY. It must be truth and TRUTH. Do I? Do I not? Am I experiencing this or not?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
On Being Happy
(Originally Written March 21, 2009 in the Journal)
On Being Happy
The Ocean is enormous. Its vastness is actually quite terrifying. The islands I see dotted give me comfort. So does the almost fluorescent blue of the more shallow parts. It is as if someone spilled giant paint cans on a deep blue canvas. The light blue is less horrific than the deep blue.
I'm not a poet, just a fraud. A mouth with words spewing out of it. I vomit feelings and spit out thoughts sloppily thrown together. I wish I could paint or draw to express myself. There is little satisfaction in filling a page with characters in a futile yet endless aim of expelling the nonsense in my head.
What is in me anyway? Don't go there, it's not fun. Besides it's all a jumble of poignant pointlessness. This would be so much more meaningful as a black line on a white canvas rather than a mishmash of ink dots on lined paper. What am I worrying about though? Who will ever read this?
Why do I go to dark places when I'm happy? Why can't I be inspired by beauty? Why must tragedy always occur befor3e I choose to write? This is my existential crisis! I can't be happy about my happiness.
Fred was an average guy. He liked stuff. he was optimistic and cheery. When things would go awry he would roll them off as if nothing happened. Minor setbacks or major flaws, it mattered not. It wouldn't stick to him.
He questioned this trait often enough though. It was unsatisfactory. How can one be so happy in an unhappy time? It was selfishness he told himself. Or maybe he was just shallow. Maybe nothing was important enough to him.
Fred and Sara dated for three years before Sara left him. She had been threatening to do it for the last year of (in his mind) healthy, normal relationship. It was a dramatic break-up, dividing groups of friends and all of that. Fred gave up the apartment, all the stuff and most of the friends and the cat. Sara gave up Fred.
The day after Sara left him he felt relieved. There was nothing she could hang over him anymore and Fred felt relief from this. Amazingly enough what he had been dreading for a year had happened and instead of being miserable, he was ecstatic.
With time now in major abundance in his life and nothing to hold him back he moved from Washington DC (where he loved to live) to Los Angeles (where he hated to visit). But his buddy was in Los Angeles and in need of a roommate.
As a salesman, Fred was marketable pretty much anywhere. He took a job as a retail manager in a fashion mall. It wasn't a dream job or anything but it paid well and gave him the opportunity to network. One has to have a job in order to find one. His dad had preached this to him since he was fifteen and it was engrained in him like some Confucian mantra.
Months went by and he grew closer to his buddy like they were in high school again. His brother was doing what he loved (graphic design) and Fred realized that surprisingly still, he was miserable. But Fred was himself quite content with a stable, albeit unfulfilling job. The irony of the situation burned in his mind for weeks until it finally forced its way out of his lips.
"Drew, you know I love you man. Why are you so unhappy? I just don't understand it. You've got an awesome set up here. You're doing what you said you wanted to do when we were kids, you have a great girlfriend, a cool apartment, everything seems to be going well but I can just see in the way you carry yourself that something's not right. You're unhappy."
Drew looked him square in the eye and said, "life is shit. What can you do?"
"I don't understand. Everything seems to be going so well with you right now."
"Appearances, life is all appearances. Sure, there is some beauty in this world, but beneath that veneer of glamour the world is one ugly motherfucker". Drew sighed, laughed to himself and took a big sip of pretentiously expensive red wine. "That's why I do my design. Beauty is vision and vision is shallow. Shallow pays big money."
That night Fred realized how different he and Drew were in the way they saw the world. Drew saw the beauty, counted it as plastic, shallow, formulaic and somehow sinister. Drew knew that behind all that plastic was an ugliness so appalling that it ruined everything. On the other hand, Fred saw only the ugly. He felt the beauty though. To him, beauty wasn't perception - it wasn't vision. It was beyond that. It was the experience. Life is full of experience he thought to himself, and thus, life is full of beauty.
This thought made him happy. But when he realized he was happy he felt guilty that he felt so happy and Drew was not. "I'm such a shallow person" was the last thing he said before drifting off to sleep.
On Being Happy
The Ocean is enormous. Its vastness is actually quite terrifying. The islands I see dotted give me comfort. So does the almost fluorescent blue of the more shallow parts. It is as if someone spilled giant paint cans on a deep blue canvas. The light blue is less horrific than the deep blue.
I'm not a poet, just a fraud. A mouth with words spewing out of it. I vomit feelings and spit out thoughts sloppily thrown together. I wish I could paint or draw to express myself. There is little satisfaction in filling a page with characters in a futile yet endless aim of expelling the nonsense in my head.
What is in me anyway? Don't go there, it's not fun. Besides it's all a jumble of poignant pointlessness. This would be so much more meaningful as a black line on a white canvas rather than a mishmash of ink dots on lined paper. What am I worrying about though? Who will ever read this?
Why do I go to dark places when I'm happy? Why can't I be inspired by beauty? Why must tragedy always occur befor3e I choose to write? This is my existential crisis! I can't be happy about my happiness.
Fred was an average guy. He liked stuff. he was optimistic and cheery. When things would go awry he would roll them off as if nothing happened. Minor setbacks or major flaws, it mattered not. It wouldn't stick to him.
He questioned this trait often enough though. It was unsatisfactory. How can one be so happy in an unhappy time? It was selfishness he told himself. Or maybe he was just shallow. Maybe nothing was important enough to him.
Fred and Sara dated for three years before Sara left him. She had been threatening to do it for the last year of (in his mind) healthy, normal relationship. It was a dramatic break-up, dividing groups of friends and all of that. Fred gave up the apartment, all the stuff and most of the friends and the cat. Sara gave up Fred.
The day after Sara left him he felt relieved. There was nothing she could hang over him anymore and Fred felt relief from this. Amazingly enough what he had been dreading for a year had happened and instead of being miserable, he was ecstatic.
With time now in major abundance in his life and nothing to hold him back he moved from Washington DC (where he loved to live) to Los Angeles (where he hated to visit). But his buddy was in Los Angeles and in need of a roommate.
As a salesman, Fred was marketable pretty much anywhere. He took a job as a retail manager in a fashion mall. It wasn't a dream job or anything but it paid well and gave him the opportunity to network. One has to have a job in order to find one. His dad had preached this to him since he was fifteen and it was engrained in him like some Confucian mantra.
Months went by and he grew closer to his buddy like they were in high school again. His brother was doing what he loved (graphic design) and Fred realized that surprisingly still, he was miserable. But Fred was himself quite content with a stable, albeit unfulfilling job. The irony of the situation burned in his mind for weeks until it finally forced its way out of his lips.
"Drew, you know I love you man. Why are you so unhappy? I just don't understand it. You've got an awesome set up here. You're doing what you said you wanted to do when we were kids, you have a great girlfriend, a cool apartment, everything seems to be going well but I can just see in the way you carry yourself that something's not right. You're unhappy."
Drew looked him square in the eye and said, "life is shit. What can you do?"
"I don't understand. Everything seems to be going so well with you right now."
"Appearances, life is all appearances. Sure, there is some beauty in this world, but beneath that veneer of glamour the world is one ugly motherfucker". Drew sighed, laughed to himself and took a big sip of pretentiously expensive red wine. "That's why I do my design. Beauty is vision and vision is shallow. Shallow pays big money."
That night Fred realized how different he and Drew were in the way they saw the world. Drew saw the beauty, counted it as plastic, shallow, formulaic and somehow sinister. Drew knew that behind all that plastic was an ugliness so appalling that it ruined everything. On the other hand, Fred saw only the ugly. He felt the beauty though. To him, beauty wasn't perception - it wasn't vision. It was beyond that. It was the experience. Life is full of experience he thought to himself, and thus, life is full of beauty.
This thought made him happy. But when he realized he was happy he felt guilty that he felt so happy and Drew was not. "I'm such a shallow person" was the last thing he said before drifting off to sleep.
Friday, March 20, 2009
A Little Memory To Pick Up The Pieces
(Originally written March 20, 2009 in the Journal)
To her:
A date? Was it? We had fun - there was definitely flirting. At the movies your arms were crossed most of the time, guarding your had from mine. But when you opened we got close. I told you my flirting techniques which is actually my best one. See the charm in this approach is you know what I'm doing and why, but it's safe. You can explore your feelings: search if there is anything there. Slowly, I'll grow on you; slowly, but steadily I'll win your heart. When it comes you'll neither know how it happened nor why it took so long to realize that these feelings you have for me are so encompassing. How could I have missed that? Ask yourself however many times you like, you'll never answer it.
To me:
A date? Overconfidence. Bafoonery. Your lies fool no one but yourself. There is no attraction, you are merely a safety net. See the time is coming, she will cry on your should, tell you how lonely she is, how what's his name has broken her heart- you know, that guy you warned her about for this very reason. But alas, you are no saint - you had ulterior motives. You wanted her for yourself.
Was it a date? At times it felt so, but others not so much. What is she thinking right now? Actually that doesn't matter because it's not about you. Do you think you've made the impression on her that lasts while you're not there? Nothing you've don would cause a lingering of you in her mind. My friend you are a mess. Set your sights lower.
I say to my soul, "be still my soul - be quiet my mind. Allow me to think!"
It answers back, "think not, simply be"
I am so many people in here. The divorce shattered me to pieces and now each fragment thinks for itself. Thousands of voices in my head vie for my undivided attention. How can I give it when I am so divided?
When she speaks to me the fragments speak not. They listen. When she touches my hand or arm or fixes my collar (which I leave messed up occasionally for her to fix - a confession) the pieces that constitute me form together. (A cliché - she completes me!)
No, that's not what I'm saying... How to put into words a felling I can't quite comprehend. The pieces offer their opinions: "love, excitement, lust, enticement, desire, ecstasy, enflaming, passion, teasing, agape, amore, mi amo! the sex! No, she's far too innocent!"
So I answer them back, "yes!"
They break into confusion, just noise.
Tell me about it. I am my parts. My parts are me. The one in the back you sit quietly. How can you be still at a time like this? All of us here are wrecked with a lack of understanding yet you sit stoic - unmoved, untouched.
I think this must be my reason, my logic. Hence, it is a small part of me. I call out to him, "logic, what say you?"
I am neither logic nor reason. I am simply a memory of a past era. I do not clamor about for I am neither confused nor frightened nor in need of panic", it retorts.
The room (that is, my mind) fell silent. All the fragments surrounded this tiny memory - pale, nearly see through but that somehow seemed to glow. Actually aside from fragments of me similar to this guy there were no other lights in the room. Everything had gone back when we spun into this chaotic state of mass confusion.
"You have a crush" the memory continued. "She excites you. Your heart races and your stomach flutters when she's near. It's that simple. Don't be so deep. This isn't philosophy".
Screams came from one side of the room while sighs of ease came from the other. The room became brighter in this instant as this simple memory seemed to collect a lot of pieces of me and fused them to his self. The pieces in the back of the room did not join this simple memory though. They were in fact fighting this unification. They were arguing with the simple memory and getting more frantic as it grew in size. They seemed more complex and I recognized their voices easier now. Countless warnings and alternative theories spewed from their lips. One of them suggested that they fuse together as a counter measure but they couldn't agree on anything except disagreeing with now large yet simple feeling.
I realized these voices were what kept me from sleeping at night. These were my doubts, my fears, my sense of inferiority, my pain, my shame, my skewed and slanted sense of logic. Their cries echoed in the room keeping me off balance. The glowing feeling then walked over to me. It smiled and whispered in my ear. "They will never be quiet, so go and live and enjoy.
The phone rings. Panic - it's her. The glowing feeling smiles while the scattered portion of me speak all at once. But me, as a near-whole for the first time in ages is calm, happy, free and really just myself again.
"Hello"
"Hi Fin, how are you?"
"I'm good and you?"
"Good. Hey I was wondering if you wanted to get some dinner tonight. They just opened a new Greek place around the corner and I have nobody to go with".
"Sure, I'd love to. When should I pick you up?"
"Seven will be good."
"Great see you at seven".
"Alright, it's a date"
(It's a date!)
I could feel the glowing feeling smiling. The echoes of doubt still clamored in my mind begging to be heard, but I ignored them. I smiled with feeling.
To her:
A date? Was it? We had fun - there was definitely flirting. At the movies your arms were crossed most of the time, guarding your had from mine. But when you opened we got close. I told you my flirting techniques which is actually my best one. See the charm in this approach is you know what I'm doing and why, but it's safe. You can explore your feelings: search if there is anything there. Slowly, I'll grow on you; slowly, but steadily I'll win your heart. When it comes you'll neither know how it happened nor why it took so long to realize that these feelings you have for me are so encompassing. How could I have missed that? Ask yourself however many times you like, you'll never answer it.
To me:
A date? Overconfidence. Bafoonery. Your lies fool no one but yourself. There is no attraction, you are merely a safety net. See the time is coming, she will cry on your should, tell you how lonely she is, how what's his name has broken her heart- you know, that guy you warned her about for this very reason. But alas, you are no saint - you had ulterior motives. You wanted her for yourself.
Was it a date? At times it felt so, but others not so much. What is she thinking right now? Actually that doesn't matter because it's not about you. Do you think you've made the impression on her that lasts while you're not there? Nothing you've don would cause a lingering of you in her mind. My friend you are a mess. Set your sights lower.
I say to my soul, "be still my soul - be quiet my mind. Allow me to think!"
It answers back, "think not, simply be"
I am so many people in here. The divorce shattered me to pieces and now each fragment thinks for itself. Thousands of voices in my head vie for my undivided attention. How can I give it when I am so divided?
When she speaks to me the fragments speak not. They listen. When she touches my hand or arm or fixes my collar (which I leave messed up occasionally for her to fix - a confession) the pieces that constitute me form together. (A cliché - she completes me!)
No, that's not what I'm saying... How to put into words a felling I can't quite comprehend. The pieces offer their opinions: "love, excitement, lust, enticement, desire, ecstasy, enflaming, passion, teasing, agape, amore, mi amo! the sex! No, she's far too innocent!"
So I answer them back, "yes!"
They break into confusion, just noise.
Tell me about it. I am my parts. My parts are me. The one in the back you sit quietly. How can you be still at a time like this? All of us here are wrecked with a lack of understanding yet you sit stoic - unmoved, untouched.
I think this must be my reason, my logic. Hence, it is a small part of me. I call out to him, "logic, what say you?"
I am neither logic nor reason. I am simply a memory of a past era. I do not clamor about for I am neither confused nor frightened nor in need of panic", it retorts.
The room (that is, my mind) fell silent. All the fragments surrounded this tiny memory - pale, nearly see through but that somehow seemed to glow. Actually aside from fragments of me similar to this guy there were no other lights in the room. Everything had gone back when we spun into this chaotic state of mass confusion.
"You have a crush" the memory continued. "She excites you. Your heart races and your stomach flutters when she's near. It's that simple. Don't be so deep. This isn't philosophy".
Screams came from one side of the room while sighs of ease came from the other. The room became brighter in this instant as this simple memory seemed to collect a lot of pieces of me and fused them to his self. The pieces in the back of the room did not join this simple memory though. They were in fact fighting this unification. They were arguing with the simple memory and getting more frantic as it grew in size. They seemed more complex and I recognized their voices easier now. Countless warnings and alternative theories spewed from their lips. One of them suggested that they fuse together as a counter measure but they couldn't agree on anything except disagreeing with now large yet simple feeling.
I realized these voices were what kept me from sleeping at night. These were my doubts, my fears, my sense of inferiority, my pain, my shame, my skewed and slanted sense of logic. Their cries echoed in the room keeping me off balance. The glowing feeling then walked over to me. It smiled and whispered in my ear. "They will never be quiet, so go and live and enjoy.
The phone rings. Panic - it's her. The glowing feeling smiles while the scattered portion of me speak all at once. But me, as a near-whole for the first time in ages is calm, happy, free and really just myself again.
"Hello"
"Hi Fin, how are you?"
"I'm good and you?"
"Good. Hey I was wondering if you wanted to get some dinner tonight. They just opened a new Greek place around the corner and I have nobody to go with".
"Sure, I'd love to. When should I pick you up?"
"Seven will be good."
"Great see you at seven".
"Alright, it's a date"
(It's a date!)
I could feel the glowing feeling smiling. The echoes of doubt still clamored in my mind begging to be heard, but I ignored them. I smiled with feeling.
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