27.Nov.2001
to myself lean down
--
for you, this shame means nothing
Youth is intoxicating. Change is sticky. Three months ago I wouldn't have envisioned myself in this atmosphere, which leads me to believe that when this breaks itself in half, the possibilities of re-direction are endless.
I adore someone who rules on the unknown. He is passionate but for all the wrong reasons. There's an aire of simplistic despondency subdued in the chest of his black tee-shirts. My eyes are bleared with the somnolence of infatuation, and the brink toward which he pushes himself is palatially destructive.
I realised I didn't want to be anywhere else when I watched him wax poetic on a mirror, his hands forming shapes in the space.
That was kept in mind when he briefly showed up Sunday evening, and a two-hour conversation that began on the driveway ended in the backyard, his lithe frame stretched over the air-conditioner in the dark. I found myself transfixed on the neighbours' porch-light.
I said, "I want this buried."
Jay made a sweeping motion with his hands and replied, "It's buried."
Last night I found myself across the street from my old school, and I stepped out of the car and walked toward the fences. Unhooking the latch, I stepped carefully into the court-yard and blew kisses at the camera. There is a dirt track winding around the soccer field, and a used car lot directly across from it. The lights illuminated the field and the clouds shifted, briefly exposing a gaze of stars. My breath drew smoke, and despite not having The Downward Spiral with me, I said outloud, "This is for you, Jason."
Across the street from the school is a cemetary, and I said to Giz, "Let's go."
"Do you really want to do this?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, and pointed toward the school, "that is the past, this is now."
What is so unforgiving about the past, and why is it so difficult to let go.
It probably has to do with the fact I'm stubborn.
Really, really stubborn.