07.Jan.2004
your lord, your christ
--
you never thought to question why
Though I sit on the very edges of radiating euphoria between the syntax of a musical language I only aspire to conjure, there's a breach in the repose.
How long will it take before you relinquish a guard that only serves to vanquish me, or, is this the ignorant pleasure you strive to elicit from a situation so grossly adumbrated by useless melodrama beneath its horizon? How many sentences can I butcher to form one?
--
Suture me to your fingers, danke.
--
Anna wanted to know if I was still the insecure, khaki-trousered dumpling that lived on 34th street, and, I have to tell you something. The street comes without miracles. Though ...
... that ... convergence ... ours ... this stranger just sitting at my doorstep ... an April evening before my twentieth birthday ... I thought it was a gift.
However, Anna wanted to know if I was still seated on the front porch. Certainly not. Has time not progressed? Am I not older, now? Don't I always just push for the re-attainment of unadulterated magic, however?
Oh, lo, I'm flogging dead equine creatures. Scratching at the same door. Immersed with the same lifeless familiarity. I must have something to prove to myself before I kiss Oklahoma roughly on the mouth and tell it, "Baby, I love you, but I just can't be with you no more."
--
I called him.
It felt like July of 2002.
I had originally made it a point through all of my seething stubbornness not to call him, but, I called him.
You may want to know why. You may even want to know whom. I am renown for sleeping with people and spending hours convincing myself not to look back, but, the bitch always returns to her master, despite the fact he keeps leaving the country and changing his name.
It was a dose of how ordinary life generally becomes. I would love to always be drunk from the endorphins I microwave in my underwear, but there's a realist somewhere beneath the folds of the dreamer. The realist knows that even though highs must decrease, it does not necessarily mean they won't be obtained at the same magnitude.
Of course, this is plenty of fodder for the pessimist. Been there. Done that. Done him. Left him. He has nothing to offer. Move away from the scene, baby, there is nothing here to offer you, anymore.
And, though my brain may be pulsing with logic (*snicker*), it doesn't stop the synapses from firing off seven tiny digits that ring straight into his ear-canals.
And it felt like July, like that moment where he came by on the fourth, licked my curves, merely to disappear for a quarter of a year, and he said, "I see you're still in town."
"I'm going to be for a while," I responded gingerly, so circumspect to hold my syllables as though they represented the very threads of my golden sanity.
The conversation was as bland as boiled milk on a Sunday evening in Dublin, Ireland, with the lights faded, the children fast asleep, and the papers folded on the kitchen table, it was just like that.
And if you weasel your way into the measure of his dialect, you can still hear the very same excuses that come with it, the same allusions to ambivalence, and, as I put it to Mein Soldier, the very same, "I will never have time for you, dear girl."
However, I'm smooth. I'm a martyr. I'm the mother to the easy-out. I cut the crusts from its peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches on honey-wheat breads. I'm so good to this bastard concept, it's Oedipal.
I said, "Well, get some rest, go to bed."
"What?" he asked.
"Go to bed," I reiterated.
"That sounds like a pretty good idea."
We paused, perchance awkwardly, perchance normally. I don't know. My perception is skewed. I simply know I was turning thoughts to a melody that goes, "I've seen you naked a handful of times, I've heard the exact way you sound when you pressed my body into your mattress, and I saw, there, in your bedroom, the entire history of our friendship flushed across every contour of your face."
I told him how I would like to think I consider consequences instead of just constantly acting on impulse. In return, he stated he just acted on impulse, sans thinking, which was the perfect way to send another blow directly into my stomach, but it's not as if I haven't accustomed myself to this behavior.
Even the most petulant of cynical oafs think this guy is redolent of assholism, though I with a wavering, masochistic nature sought to look beyond that and into the blood of him, the rush of him, the heart of him, this chain-smoking love-rebel, this pained and bathetic Industrialite.
He said, "So, give me a call ..." to which I interrupted him and murmured, "Eh, call me when you have some free time."
I'm very good at this. I'm very good at sublimating. I had the soon-squelched urge to call him back and say, "I'm taking a cab to your apartment so you may chain me to your headboard and fuck me into serious injury."
I have things to attend to; I have studios to look into. I have music to record. I can't do this when all of my sensualism is thrown at the feet of someone too pampered to bend down and retrieve it. I may be jumping to conclusions.
I may just have a sore throat, a headache, and an insane urge to bury my face into the plushy necks of those very same, very flogged, and very dead equine creatures.
--
Addendum:
Following the publishing of this entry, I threw myself very desperately to the eyes of Jubal and Jason, two of my very best friends.
Jubal with all of his patience listened to me and commented sagely, to a point where I was sufficiently calmed, unraveled, but not disheveled, despite the fact he had things to attend to.
Jason questioned my musical stance, how calmed I had been before I allowed the Industrialite back into various parts of me, and said, "You're in a tangent, you're in a tangent, just stop."
I do not feel as though I owe them anything, nor do I feel obligated to them, but one day, and I hope they're reading this now, I wish to give them so many marvelous experiences, it caresses away all the years of indifference which has unwittingly befallen them, Jubal especially.
I'm prepared to unhinge myself from how eerily predictable this situation is and set myself back up onto a piano bench. I'm convinced, however, that I throw myself into these encounters, these acts, so I may derive inspiration for more mercurial sessions, since everything has felt so dry and cracked without having driven myself directly into the bedroom of a boy who's not ready to handle my riding crop.
Say it with me, now:
"You're a moron!"
Thank you.
--
time & machine