i have not been dreaming. reality is as the dream seems. language. you spoke of Napoli, i listened. i listened. i listened!
you make me think of laying in my death bed holding your hand. i want to die holding your hand. this is not a dream, but i forget. when i forget, i think it is a dream. not a dream.
the wind gives away its secrets. it tells me your secrets, and it tells me his secrets. the wind tells all secrets. the wind has no secrets, it gives them all away. it is the wind that whispers in my ears. it is the wind that tells me all. how was i to know about the wind?
it was not on a train, it was not under the shower, and it was not where i was looking for it. i often look in the wrong places to find the right things. it was not one, and it was not what i thought it might be: they are stories. it has been more than two years, and i feared the distraction and i denied the distraction. distraction became obsession: i fought. then, within a few days all the pieces of the puzzle fall together: this is the present. one piece of information adjunct to another, the veil falls, the obsession ceases. i am back feeling that fear that i had touched three summers ago.
i want to know how it can be that you love me so when i myself can not even start to believe that love exists?
in the midst of emotional thunder, i call to you. you arrive and carry me on silk and feathers, you turn my fiction into reality. i'll dare you! who has given you permission to love me so?
i did not want love to exist, and i did not want my illusion to shatter. to complain and suffer would be so much easier. to have it be impossible, would have been so much more reasonable! who has given you permission to accept me so?
freedom, you have given me freedom! i'll dare you!
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.
"alone?" was the question.
one word, and the reply:
thanks for the message!
if you got the word from reading "fluage" i can understand your concern. fluage is getting more and more abstract and fiction is starting to sneak in. the abstractions also have quite a synthetic approach, and i am using it both to vent out some of my own feelings, but also to experiment with what is more commonly known as poetic license.
i think that it is somewhat ironic that i would consider you a loyal friend, but that is somehow how you have shown up in my life. in that light i want to make sure that you know that your concern is very appreciated and it does mean something to me, and on the other side it is also important to fill in the context of some of the words that i put out into the public space.
all is well, i am just in a bit of an autistic phase, and each time that i do need to go out and be with people, it is like slipping into another skin. nothing has changed, it is just that i need to get myself concentrated on what i am doing, and sometimes it is not too easy, and as a matter of fact, it is damn difficult. i get easily distracted, and the last thing that i want is this other human to be the latest of my distractions. this other human is also as busy as they can get and slowly i have a feeling that here we have two workaholics who have found each other, so in a rather strange way it does work out. i for my side do need to be alone these days so that i can concentrate on my own writing. however nothing is more difficult to me than to attend to my own needs, but i am working on it.
when i wrote that with this other human i opened the door and unhinged the door, that door into my life, it is true. but then i also always leave the door open anyhow, i do not want to hold anybody against their will. how it will turn out is still rather open, good relationships do not get built overnight, and when both have their nose buried in their dreams and both are fond of calling that their work, then you know that we are dealing with rather healthy egoism on both sides. i for my part need my own healthy egoism. this bit of altruism and sacrificing my life for other's is not quite up my alley.
a lot in my life would be a lot easier if i did not have to worry about somehow making a living, but then it would be a different kind of life. the thing about being a writer, or an artist of any kind, is that, at least in my case i feel compelled to write, but there is no guarantee that i will ever be able to make a living out of it. i am also quite clear that i want to do this on my own. i wonder why it is that i seem to have so much difficulty getting my finances straightened out.
thanks to you i did give my own whore a good spin, so much so that i know what there is for me to sell is what i create between my ears. in my understanding of things, it is good to give one's own whore a good go sometime in one's life. but then it could be that what i call "my own whore" needs to be better defined. i tend to have my own language in a rather fascinating world that mine is. needless to say that there is quite a bit of irony in my use of these expressions.
as far as women go i may indeed be a very odd one, but that is no reason for me to want to change. i like who i am, and slowly i am learning to love all this oddness of mine. some of this is indeed the result of a much too high iq and a very high sensitivity. the universe could have been a little less generous with me, but my task in life is to accept what i got, and i did get quite a lot, not to blame the universe for its generosity or my parents for their own contribution to all of this. from good looks, to wit, intelligence and the ability to feel and sense, somehow i got it all. the orgasms are damn good too. the part that you may not have quite figured out is that my own orgasms were never very important to me. if, like me, one can feel the other so intensely... dealing with one's own body can sometimes be overwhelming. anyhow, years of tantra practice do leave a mark, and it is not what the popular press would have you believe.
life is good.
being just one