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My Thoughts Are Of Great Value To You
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Can't stop. What the hell? It sucks. I would stop if I could. Every now and then I'll think that I have - but it comes on strong as ever. Doesn't help that she keeps leading me on, leading me to believe that she loves me, too. What the hell?
Why do people do this? It's insane. Literally: insane. I do some weird thinking, and a few people do see me as radically way out there and so forth - but nothing I've ever thought or done was as insane as believing, on any level, that this could be anything but pain.
DAMMIT I've even hung around with some really fine fine ladies, smarter in every case than her, more lovely in a couple of cases... I'm sure they imagine I'm gay, now. Nope. Just stupidly in love, after all this time, after all that shit.
What the hell? This is what is meant by "eat your heart out". I'd love to give it a go. On camera, if possible - that way something would have come from all this bullshit. Fuck me.
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Seemingly the worst aspects of my inner reality have taken over my waking life. It's not good. I'm distrustful and envious; I'm angry most of the time, and numb the rest. I try to see positive opportunities in the future, but resentments and the past are all that appear in my mind. My body traps me, physically; it's fairly damn well broken - I'm a little bit crippled, have numerous allergies and intractable pain - but this is nearly inconsequential, now. My mind wants for less every day. What I catch myself hoping for now is that my resistance to death will vanish, as my appreciation for life is doing.
Perhaps paradoxically, it seems that this is all due to my psyche's overmastering love of beauty and my soul's deep sensitivity. Hooray. My devotion has been injurious to its object. Repeat.
The things about myself that have been good in the past have become suppressed. Maybe some of them are dying; I don't know. I don't want much more than a few more fits of spiritually violent revenge on a few loved ones left to feel each day. I am a husk around pain. It's a pretty shitty way to exist. I am told I am the master of this suffering - all the more reason, if so, though I don't believe such bullshit - not really. I wish that I could - I wish I was that stupid and selfish, to be able to believe that human beings choose to suffer on some astral plane, that humans beings can will pain away by realizing that they are good people inside, and so forth. It's just that I don't; it's just that there is no evidence for this, no way for evil people to capitalize on it in order to derive profit. I feel that were the religions based in any true fact, we'd've figured out a way to exploit that fact by now, for gain, other than by the mere mechanism of lying about it to the credulous and taking their money. Technically, any lie can accomplish that.
I still have the need to produce various kinds of communication; I still indulge in attracting attention, but, more and more, it is to seize upon and poison the audience I gather, to infect them with but never to relieve myself of venom. Obviously, this won't be sustainable. It could be argued my earlier performance artworks were like this as well, but there is a debate there, whereas now there is no credible debate, no validation or justification for the venom; there was a case to make when there was beauty being created. I don't see that, now. I see only the pathetic swill and hot mucus of suffering. What a fucking bore!
Help me. A field I'm resting in only as a short pause between big efforts on a ... what?.. a puppet, a costume, a larger-than-life Utan that I'm making for the same love that causes imaginary loved ones to cavort delicately in the grasses, merrily silent and carefully tiptoeing in improvised dance as I look over and smile, and wind blows, which makes a cloud throw bands of shadow down upon us, and chills the air, sways the grasses, darkens the light, so that I know what I have written here is a dream, not a memory, begging you to take this up with me, to give me a way or travel back in time and make room for me in the van. I swear to you that if we can do this I will never be angry again. That's probably a lie, but right now it is supremely and universally True.
I suppose I meant to try to tell you useful things; I suppose I should get back to that. I can, though, rationalize my outpouring and pretend "there is something vital here" but it is probably just that old-old need to try, like a crackhead scraping down a glass pipe, for that feeling that someone is understanding me - if not now, then in the mysterious future. There is something vital here, I guess, and it's just this one man's need to cry, and try to bury his head in the lap of someone vital and true. I long for the army of my memories to rise again and press in around me, to rip away my body and destroy it, to take me with them back into the death that seemed to pass me by, to make me know for certain that it wasn't just a delusion - that someone, maybe even a lot of people, once shared and understood life with me.
Is it really bad? Is it pathetic? I can't tell. Is it profound in any way? I guess I just can't be allowed to know.
I think I am writing to fictional people: the children I won't have and the next generation of committed art cultists. I'm imagining, Darger-like, my own world, but this time not one of fantasy, per se, but of reinvention, in which I never did experience the losses that made me bitter, never realized that I was alone in certain feelings, that I was never weak enough to negate myself in hopes that it would make me more worthy of lasting love.
It should be arranged that the people prone to this path are not allowed to indulge it. It is like an addiction because you will cry as you reach for it: you will take it into your hand and being the process of consuming it while you pray that a force or spirit will stop you. You will weep and say "oh god no" as you consume it and immediately forget why you resisted. I don't know if there is a cure, but I do think there is a preventative measure; it should be taken into consideration and decided: should the person be embraced? If not, the person must be put out of mind forever. If so, there can be no lapses. If there is a lapse, the person must be put out of mind forever, and we must reject the language that says that is a bad or immoral way to feel and think, because it is far, far worse to torment such people, owing to their sensitivity, because it generates a kind of suffering that is self-sustaining and self-augmenting and it has only one release. It's better to kill the thing that will never again stop feeling pain, or can never be healed even to a manageable level.
Maybe it's like the litter laws: if you pick it up, you are responsible for it. If you can't be responsible for it - don't pick it up.
One thing that has been good about this recent plunge into the abyss is that guilt has evaporated, to an extent. I am in too much pain to experience guilt very plausibly, lately.
Okay, look: I feel mostly anger, right now, at having been allowed to reach this point. My wife, my family, my friends - I am angry at all of you right now, and it's been getting worse every day for months. I get more angry when you compliment me, though I have learned to smile in a new non-Boyd-like sincere-seeming way and sound pretty grateful for the compliments, but here is what is going on in my mind:
"Hey thanks a fuck of a lot. That's fucking great. If any part of it were fucking true, you wouldn't have let me suffer a fucking decade alone, you fucking liar."
Sucky, non? But there you have it. I am envious of any even minor success or outlet I'm told about, now. I do rather dislike this, and I do find it inexcusable, but I also find that it just isn't vulnerable to reason, or focused love. I find I should ignore it, because any treatment of it at all opens up a logical progression which ends with me being more angry until the anger does become hatred and who does one tell such things to?
"Sorry I hate you man; you know I love you; it's just that way you said you'd do it and you never ever fucking did."
"Sorry I hate you, darling, it's just how you shat all over me for those years; that's the only reason I suddenly realize what forgiveness is for and how fucked it is that I can't give it to you. Years ago, it wouldn't have even been an issue; it would have flowed like milk; but now, all I can feel is the suffering of suffering for nothing, the pain of meaningless pain, and the rage of the abandoned seven-year-old I will hopefully soon die as.
"Sorry it's coming out like this, but damn: it's so true. You really do find me always smiling and loving you, don't you? Even when you are nothing but hate and cold and stupid problems. Even when you have just spent all your energy tearing me down. Even when you have left me years ago but suddenly remember that I was a man of kindness and virtue and honesty, that I was your friend when I was your lover, that you were a terrible friend to me. Then. Now, you want that friend back."
But he's not here anymore. He died years ago and you didn't give a fuck, then. Did you? If you did, you should be aware that he never knew. All he knew was that you left him. All alone. And that's right where he's come back to, now, so it just happens to be pretty fucking fresh, that wound you left him with. He bled out, and now it's just me, and I am not very nice, anymore.
My father must have gone the same way. I've always wondered how such an intelligent and perceptive guy could be such a complete dick. There you have it: just like me. Just like him. I've known for years what my mother did to him (nothing exciting, folks: just left him, is all, for being cranky) and even before I understood that, I understood why she left him: she didn't love him. I wonder if she ever did? That would be a great question to ask her! Heh.
Can I take some more time to rail and spew rage and hurt at the nameless faces of my past? No? Fuck you, then. Peace.
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a guy got murdered in my driveway. I was on the internet; I heard the shot; it was loud. I didn't call 911 because I hear shots relatively often out here, and arguing and cars screeching tires and that sort of thing. By about 4:30 the road had been blocked off on every side, and I told the scant facts to several cops. They spoke very loudly, so Ludmilla woke up. The first two cops were alright; I noticed the younger one was tearing up a lot, but he didn't look emotional or anything, just had tears running out of his eyes. He may have come into contact with some kind of solvent fumes or something. He had come to my door to back up the cop asking the questions, who was kind of heartbreakingly cute: mexican extraction, that way-too-far-forward hairline, Voice Immodulation Disorder, and huge serious eyes that flashed a beacon of "THERE'S A BODY UP THERE". They were both a little unnerved by me. It's because I'm tall and I happen to be up at that hour, and not afraid of bodies nor cowed by little boys playing at being cops. Welcome to the big city.
They told me a detective would talk to me, so I waited up. Eventually I got sick of waiting around so I went outside and hobbled up the hill-part of the driveway to where the cops were. They all paused as if I was catching them in the cookie jar or something; there were one or two cops I recognized - one of them is this inexplicably super-hot blond lady that looks like a short-n-skinny version of Euphorbia; she looked at me kind of levelly; I don't know what her deal was, really, but she knows who I am; ANYway these are the kind of details I retain, so - a particularly ugly and smelly cop strides over to me with that leather-boy-tough-fag-cowboy walk that some cops seem to think is really impressive, and tried to frighten me with tough talk. I tried not to smirk too directly into his acne-scarred fuckface, and just gave him such facts as I was able to provide. I told him about getting mugged in the driveway last week; he didn't even register the information. He just kept looking at me with a blank and typically redneck mask of hate, a tough-guy shit headed half-lidded glower that blinked in the flashing blues. I looked over at the blond, more or less thinking something like "what the fuck is this asshole's problem?", but her face was inscrutable. She was looking over at us, but also busy with some deal involving a tape measure and a couple of technicians.
Asshole-guy told me to wait while he went over to a detective, and I took that time to give the corpse the last human interaction he'd be likely to get in corporeal form: I knelt down and looked into the face to see if I could recognize him at all; I didn't. One of his shoes was off, and his foot was *white*, totally alabaster, which is weird for a black guy, ey. I wish I'd had a camera; it was quite a scene. His killer had shot him in the head. There was a small pond of blood making a small and truculent stream that was eking across the pavement toward the detective's car. Once I'd determined I didn't know the guy at all, I stood back up and looked over in their direction, starting to get a little annoyed.
The detective didn't cross the street when the cop spoke to him; he looked up from a clipboard and shouted, "Is there SOMETHING I can HELP you with, SIR?" at which point I meant to cross the street and give him the facts, because, unlike a sack full of fucking assholes, I'm not prone to shouting details of a murder at the top of my lungs in a residential neighborhood at that hour of the morning. He screamed "DAMMIT DON'T WALK ACROSS THERE", so I turned around walked back to my front door (well away from the scene), stood there for a few minutes glaring death and hatred at the fuckers that bust druggies and potheads, and swarm like flies on shit to the *aftermath* of crime, but can't be bothered to, say, send a patrol car past this location *ever* despite the fact that there are violent crimes on this street no less than twice a fucking week since spring began.
Officer Bruno, who gave me a ticket for illegal lane change not so long ago, saw me and nodded recognition (he was right to; I was a menace that day). Right then it occurred to me that, without exception, black cops I'd dealt with in Decatur were all cool and stand-up, while the white cops I've dealt with have been, with two exceptions, total redneck dickheads with serious IQ deficits.
At around 6am another detective came to the door, obviously sent by the universe to verify my earlier assessment: a bald black gent, totally rocking the "homicide detective" style with shoulder holster, cream shirt, and nice shoes, being cordial and grateful to talk to someone with a brain, clearly. We joked a bit, and I wished him a better one, just like in Blade Runner.
Mom's freaking out and says she'll pay for us to move "wherever you want" but somehow that mysteriously involves us putting everything into storage and moving into her basement. While I'm shocked and totally heart-warmed that she'd suggest it, of course I'd rather eat my own eyeballs than move into her home (but, on second thought, her husband does have the line on really amazingly good schmab (but: come on; I ain't moving into my mom's basement just yet - feels too much like the death-knell)).
Blargh!!!! Decatur turns out to be five times as crimetastic as metro-Atlanta proper. WTF? And it's always Americans doing this shit, even though this area is at least 60% immigrant settlers and farmer's-market-rescues (fugitives from around the world flock to the Your Dekalb World Farmer's Market because it's a sweet job and there will be at least three other people there that actually speak the same obscure language fluently (a lady that works there told me that it's not too uncommon for fugitives from two entirely different countries to meet, fall in love, marry, and procreate before entirely learning one another's language, which I find ultra-sexy)). The murdered guy was wearing a cool tee; it featured a grande-sized post-Naegle-style bust of a woman wearing a green hat and smiling. His pants were white, but not as perfectly white as his foot.
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Ursula was also called Gripey Stripey. She was a little fucking brat, constantly making this pissed-off sound: "mehhhh".
She was a total runt; she never got much bigger than kitten-sized. She had an excellent pelt; silver and black with orange tones. Her face communicated the darkness in her soul; she hated people, she hated cats, she hated her food, she hated everything and everyone except for Kerry Thornley who was a tenant of mine for a while (google him and know that he was far, far more insane and cool than any stupid bio has ever nailed down so far). She'd ride Kerry's shoulder around, and loved to watch him wash dishes. She'd stand on top of the door to the kitchen and wait for Kerry, then put her trembly little runt-paw on his shoulder so that he'd know to obediently wait while she situated herself on his shoulder.
She didn't live a very long life despite never doing anything dangerous. She inherited some health problems from her mom, a good girl named Boutros Boutros Kali (a calico). It was obvious that Ursula was in pain all her life. When it was time for her to die, she made no real fuss about it; she ambled off and hissed at anyone that tried to follow her, and just died under a nice-enough bush; a holly. I had certainly appreciated the little beast, loved her as much as it's possible to love a cat that hated everything and everyone under the sun.
Lately I find myself hissing at anyone that tries to follow me and wanting to just be alone. I don't have the strength to deal with kids anymore. I don't want to hear about my friends' troubles. I really don't want anything but the space in which to fade away, without guilt, without pain - I want people to stop wanting me to be alive. I was graceful and handsome, now I'm rail-thin and hobbled. I was alive, sexually powerful, physically able and dexterous. When the body stopped being as useful for a wide range of stuff, I took comfort and refuge in my more sedentary interests - animation and music.
Then my house got robbed, the insurance is bust / fucking useless, and now I have nothing left to attach me to this world, really. I don't want to be here anymore. It's not depression, per se, because I'm not sad / catatonic / pointlessly numb - it's really a pragmatic kind of acceptance. Even if I were to be magically healed - always a possibility, certainly - my money is all gone. There isn't any real hope for rebuilding. I don't see any realistic hope of pulling together, say, $13G, to reacquire the tools that would allow me to start recreating so many years of foundational work. It was the last stop on my hope-train. It's not painful to have lost this hope - not truly painful - but it does limit my ability to point at something and say "for this, I will live". I'm just a nasty hassle for my wife to deal with. My students are, let's be honest, not evoking love for life in me, not filling me with hope for the future.
Fuck the future. It's an illusion.
Now, it's true that I'm being morose here, but let me just relate that I'm not 'hurting'; I'm not looking for any sympathy or advice. There's not much that a healthy person with options can reveal to me. So, let me tell you something, you fucking dumb ass:
Life is a exploding titty-flower and you're a complete idiot if you don't grab onto it and start sucking with everything you've got. Understand?
Don't like your situation? Boo hoo. Cash out and move to Thailand. Do it; go; do it now. There's nothing stopping you. Don't be an ass. Don't cry about petty bullshit. Unless you're missing legs and you're allergic to your own blood, I really don't fucking care. Can you stand up? Fuck you. Cash out and move to Thailand.
Special thanks to the mighty DQ for the Thailand meme.
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