drunk

after all of it, i am just drunk. i never told you that there was another. i ran from his arms into yours. i told you sweet little lies. i schemed drama and acted in tragedy. i never told you that i could not be with what the other offered. i never told you about the other's nobility.

i never told you.

i never told you about the origins of the story that i wrote. i told you fabulous little stories, fables. my imagination runs unbound, and my perversion cannot be grasped. you fell into all of it, and i almost fell with it all.

the primate

this primate is wondering. it is not god, or is it?

last night in a midnight fury i wrote it. i wrote that there is really not much more to say. i had been warned of this, and i have long looked for it. it happened today. finally i figured out that one piece of the puzzle that had me wondering. finally! it is good to feel freedom again.

how many years has it been? i forget, but it is something like twenty years that we have known each other. i do not remember that far back do i?

no. yes. maybe. i lied to you. i have regretted that decision that i made long ago. i also remember years later visiting you and your new found life, and then walking across a park in paris in tears. like i could not forget the sculptor's atelier, i could not forget those tears and what moved me then.

i have walked the strangest places in tears, and my tears turn to joy in me. tears are warm and moist. sadness was when i could not shed any tears and for years my eyes remained dry.

when i allow myself to feel all the emotion, then i feel the regret. all the emotion is just information, it is nothing much too important. emotion is information and it is energy. it is the kind of energy that i thrive on. i did not want to feel the regret, today i allowed myself to feel the regret.

intimacy is a precious gift, and is one that we have shared for many years. i have experienced it rather intensely. i do experience it with not just one person. the one special person has no place in my life. you know this well, and you have known it all along, for all those years. you have seen the comings and goings in my life, the valleys and the peaks, the glory and the defeat. i have cried on your shoulder, and you have cried on mine. we have laughed and gone to the comédie française, and somehow i have managed to skip the opera with you. you are mourning, and i mourn with you the loss of the sculptor who taught us about love.

some say that i can not love, and that i am made of stone. perhaps that is true, this is nothing that i would know. perhaps i am made of stone, and this stone can feel. was i just another piece of stone that the sculptor shaped?

intimacy and sex are not on the same page in my book. it is normal, although it is not everybody's preference, to have sex with people with whom one shares neither emotional nor spiritual intimacy. i just wanted to make it clear that it is intimacy, not sex, that i am talking about. it is in intimacy that we grow and develop. intimacy can give us the emotional information of our plasticity. being intimate partners does involve showing one's vulnerabilities, but it also involves respect and trust. it is a line that is not always easy to navigate.

a promise is an externalisation of something that one can not find in one' self. i never make promises. i know that promises are words, and i love words and live by words. but what am i to do with a promise? what am i going to do if a promise is demanded of me and that promise involves the breach of a loyalty bond elsewhere?

what am i going to do with one who promises me this and that? this and that are just band-aids for fears. neither is the wound healed with those band-aids, nor is the one free. why would i want one who is not free to share life with me?

perversion

pure. now. i woke up and my first thought turned to you. i must write, you are my fiction and without my fiction, i do not exist.

i like sunny days up in the mountains, walking on the snow, slipping on the ice underneath. feeling my body tense up and then reminding myself of the total futility of that reaction of tensing up. if there is one skill that i command, it is the one of slipping and falling. the primate imprinting is mine too, but somehow that is no consolation. this primate would rather be god, not human!

the storm

how is it that i am scared of tomorrow?

tomorrow does not exist,

it is not even a promise!

here i find myself today,

thinking of tomorrow,

finding fear.

it is a day that i thought would never arrive,

it could be that i never see its light.

today is not tomorrow. tomorrow...

how long have i waited for this day?

nights and days...

then there are taboos...

nights.

days.

taboos.

then there are the interstitials of god.

right now is all there is:

no god

no interstitial

no taboo

no day

no night

all, nothing.

maybe.

being with you

last night, miles apart, together.

i wished you here, i wished myself there, i wished nothing at all.

i have missed this place, really have.

i am miles apart from myself, how could i think that i am close to you?

have missed being here with me, really have.

i have noticed my attention fragment at the slightest whisper and i have noticed myself waiver and vacillate. i forget easily, i forget the struggle much too easily, i am so drunk with it all, i am. drunk and here, that i am.

i forget the hardship, i forget the pain. i forget it all so damn quickly, how can i forget so easily? will you tell me?

but why can i not forget you? each time that i meet you, i think that you will be different this time, and then i meet you again and again through time, through space, through fiction, and there you are, always here and always so far!

i did not want a love affair, i didn't. i told you so, didn't i? perhaps i forgot, i always do forget. i even forget the love affairs. i forget all. i forget all of you. all of you.

last night, right here, miles apart, together.

i really do not know.

sleeping with demons

my mind is too cluttered for poetry. i have been sleeping with my demons, going to bed with the devil, and copulating with insecurity. thus my prose... riddled in muddle, ambiguity, and utter incredulity.

that is about the shape of things in the place that i find myself right now. i love it. it is like standing on the edge of the grand canyon and loosing all sight of perspective and distance. how far are those ridges, how far are those abysses? near of close?

yesterday i cried of sadness, and i was happy. i can still see in my minds eye how it felt to sit there curled in that designer chair near the university, and just feeling the warmth that sadness embraced brings, i called it happiness. it was awfully delightful, and it made me think of nothing in particular, i just felt surrender.

it is morning

i want to tell you that i miss the sound of your voice

i want you to know...

i want

i want you to know

that happy i am

and that i do not know much at all

i woke up thinking of you

thinking of the warmth

wishing that i knew

knowing that i do not know

trembling...

dreaming...

wishing.

it is morning again...

you are here.

the muses

all of you!

is it delightful? is it ecstatic? what is it like to have a muse here and muse there, and a muse everywhere?

pleasure, insatiable longing, infinite desire and my muses. to feel the need and seduction of a muse, to go beyond one's skin and mind, to look at you and know that there is absolutely nothing of importance in the world other than this very moment!

i am in a frenzy, there is a flurry of emotions that i do not want. i think of the angels and all the muses, all the divine presences in this divine goddess' existence and i know that death is nothing but life itself.

yesterday i write to one who to me is too mortal and too human to be an ethereal muse of mine and i do tell him how very impossible it is for me to keep out of trouble. what were my exact words?

trouble and i have formed a loyalty pact long ago, i wrote.

i have seen my reason torn apart by loyalty conflicts and my self-respect discarded like an useless appendage, all the recourse was to make that pact with trouble. was that all the choice that i had?

i feel drunk with emotion, and i want none of this dizziness. i want my freedom, i want my peace, and i want the kisses of my muses. i want those ethereal, surreal, and cognitive kisses that only muses are capable of! i have all of those kisses, and then they overwhelm me.

i want excuses for my lack of insight, i want excuses for my shortsightedness, i wand excuses to not have to worry about anything. i am tired of existential struggles. i am tired of concepts, and i am tired of expectations.

deep down, in a place to which i have no access, i know that all works out. apples fall to the ground subject to gravity, and i will die expressed subject to my muses.

subjugation, surrender and total entanglement do not sound like what i wanted. but then what i wanted yesterday is never what i get today, it is always infinitely better

existentialism is doctrine that concentrates on the existence of the individual, who, being free and responsible, is held to be what he makes himself by the self-development of his essence through acts of the will (which, in the christian form of the theory, leads to god) <cited from the OED >. it takes a dictionary to tell me that existentialism is a doctrine and then it takes me to realize that a doctrine is a teaching based on some concepts that may or may not have any essential or universal truths in them!

i am not sure that i like where i lead myself on monday. i thought that i wanted to break through this barrier that almost paralyzes me, and i know my muses have been there guiding me in the confrontations and comforting of my being. i am a bit overwhelmed with all this insight and i am tired of being on the edge of what i want to do and to just dabble on it without plunging head first into it. i need help, i need support, i need encouragement, i need nurturance.

i needed a mother all my life, i looked for her all my life. i found mothers in all the unlikely places. i divorced myself from gender and i did not care who was mothering me as long as my needs were met. do we ever care? do i ever care? what is it to care?

what is it to be loyal? loyal to my troubles and on the path of serenity would describe the state of affairs right now. the affairs, the muses, the loves. yesterday is gone. monday was one day to carry forward, a frightening day when i dared ask the one question that has burdened me for almost as long as i can remember.

when i look at the strength of my muses, it is no wonder that i fall in awe with their sheer power. it is in a smile and a reticence, it is in an accepting glance, it is a firm grip and three words in between a whole lot of silence, it is in the silence, in all of that i see your strength. it is a collusion of sorts that makes me ill at ease. if that is also my strength, that strength that we draw from our weaknesses. is that is so, we have pierced that barrier that is unmentionable, unnamed and unimaginable...

to be a muse, to be my muse is not a matter of choice. it was not my choice, and it was not your choice. what is manifests itself. you can resist, you can fight it, and you can do anything you want. nothing will help, not even the resistance, not even the struggle, especially not the fights, and certainly not the pain; what is, is.