Tag Archives: running

People are Strange

“People are strange, when you’re a stranger”, that particular Doors line, hitting me over the head repeatedly. Him and her. They are looking in the mirror. Seems fitting, as their relationship is a reflection of their identity confusion, and you know? That’s normal. Whom I to judge what is a mature, loving relationship of souls and what’s just two confused, fucked up individuals looking for some validation. I suppose the latter is the norm, and I’m no found creature, so my judgements are in vain.

Resentment. I want to quit my job. I fear confrontation. And I’m just aching. I can’t bare to think too deeply about my situation because I feel like I’m terribly attached and it’s crippling every other aspect of my life. And I am constantly thinking, “well thank god that’s over at least” and “really dont want anything to do with them…those people from my past” How many of them did I really like anyway? Even the ones I do, sincerely, really like, I have nothing for you. I’m a twig about to break unless I grab onto a tree, and just sit there holding on, tightly.
I’m hopeful in little things. They are all I can manage to think about.
I did go to Powell;s and happen upon a reading from The Butcher and the Vegetarian, read by the author on tour. Tara Austen something. It is funny. It’s about a woman who grows up vegetarian and then due to health reasons is persuaded to begin eating meat, but searching for sustainable meats. This is me entirely. I was vegetarian til I was 23 and my ex, um, Adam, pushed sushi and a double dare in my face. And I loved him and all of his radical ideas. I adopted them and the new diet…with dubious defenses.
So hearing her speak was like reading David Sedaris for the first time, actually read over the phone to me by a lover, because he was telling a story about a childhood speech impediment and mine is still audible sometimes, especially when I’m nervous or overwhelmed or tired. So funny, as with Sedaris, Tara’s book reading gave me chills as I felt my own experiences were being read to me and I kind of wanted to stand up and shout like a first grader finding first best friends, “Me too!” I have these problems too! Like a coffee-clutching addict in AA, “Me too! pick me! I have something in common with you and you’re cool…you’re famous and funny. I like you”. But with Sedaris I curled up in bed. And with this author, I left quietly just as she ended her question, and answer portion of the talk, and I returned her book to the shelf, and bought Wallace Stevens and a steamer instead.

I like the connections though. The feeling of not being a completely solitary nitwit. I like feeling the specialness in my being special. The realization that these voices, this madness, this occasional distortion of reality is really a gateway to bravery.

I am so solitary lately, but no mom I’m not running from life, I’m running from you maybe and from consumerism and from the things that make me feel weak and dependent. I’m running from him and them, from the things that don’t feel right, like selling Mac computers and ipods and the ipad…tired.

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Death heals fumbling accessories…

Limp and Pasty

Her tongue hung limp and pasty, like a tube of dried paint.
Bed bugs and wooden nickels,
Like a rabbit with hemorrhoids,
Let’s cross fingers,
Runway blasé surface change
Our separate ways,
Faces the same,
Ghost worlds linger,
Split our separate ways into
Nothing stays and actions
Guess my cherry-on-cake dream
to treat the men you could be an exit ground over juicy romantic ideals,
Dense stars,
death heals fumbling accessories.
Mind-control,
What I am paying for?
Loans too large,
Infatuations too abstract and dull,
Addicted to splinters,
polarity, my eyes,
Missing pieces, working on you, weaving into fear and laziness,
and out through life,
Walking in an objective, rational sleep,
Into your eyes,
A heavenly essence of life’s illusions,
Floating time.
Where does it lead?
Meaningless, eat some chocolate.
Bitch-slap loneliness, bratty conceit, fuck me dreamer-weaving excitement
Colored rose lenses absolutely brimming over too much.
I am consumed.
Passion drive me filled to move,
And his smell,
And I feel like slate against slate.
I need to feel love in nature or die,
I need compassion,
To live, feel hope.
I know nothing beautiful and little,
Fighting myself, lonely, projecting,
Running away,
I know better.
I took his pain inside me
when he rejected my love,
I wanted to feel weakness.
I fall back on strength.
As good as love gets, it gets strong with faith.
Inside all associations, all stories,
there is me and love,
and fighting, and then being back in life,
and the sun of mornings.
Movement, new, change,
and acceptance.
Go forward into hell and head spin,
and music and wind and original sin,
And internal worlds and if only this could last forever or die and come down and die, eventually, to change and come inside yourself.
Explode love into a million times a million dreams,
Of happiness tasteless starch,
and creamed envy,
Melted and moved
Into the world market,
Everything looks distorted,
Unhappy beings,
Wanting perfection, feeling used.
I’ve let my guard down, now I am strong,
My shield blinded love.
Blind love is fear and dependence and death,
My friend deceived and a lost human being. He shaped my world
Into a thousand pieces.
I saw love grieved and even music lost an answer.
Anthills they had climbed, and bites
we received happy to feel.
I want that reflection.
The truth to cry again,
Beauty returned to love after I screamed
And revolted with hate and sedatives
And Paxil and romance.
Yesterday was an anthill worth
my while.
I dreamt on a world of sadness
and color sprouted
and a flower of yesterday’s divine kiss
made new love from me the world outside flowered my heart burst into,
Into more dreams,
Thirsting for more, I spilled my drink and dried up and sprouted water
From beneath my feet,
From roots of pain,
I hurt the past,
I crushed my past and my dreams and loved to live for less to lose.
Water sprinkles in my secret garden.
The rest of my pain.
I am shaking and happy,
in misery I feel alive.

Like architecture is poetry, it can continually be redesigned inside, but the overlaying structure remains the same, so without edit, I expose some of my nakedness to you, um, reader.

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