11.Dec.2003
go fly blind
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when insult fucks injury during a near-wintry night on the eastern side of oklahoma city. part e.
subtitled: i'm the king of run-on sentences
I would have been content lying on my back beneath the heat register in my bedroom, spending time with Jessica Bailiff and her ambient drones, counting the hours I wasn't sleeping.
Instead, I, the most emotionally intelligent black-bonnet to ever disgrace the plane of emotional stability, wound up answering my cell-phone when Tony called.
Few of you may remember Tony and his white-sharp incisors. Few of you may actually even care.
His son a month old and problems with his wife re-mending, I stepped into his car at twelve-thirty this morning, and we went back to his apartment.
Nothing scandalous commenced; nothing profane ensued. I talked with his wife for a spell while she placed Adam, their son, into my arms, where I held him for damn near close to an hour and transfixed myself on his puny, wizenedly cherubic mug.
I know what you're thinking behind your morning cup of coffee or your morning dose of angst, but rest assured I did not encounter the stereotypical gush of innate, female longing for a nurtured zygote of my own, nor did I contemplate the possibility of relational security and a hot-bright kitchen and unscathed white carpeting with a rocking chair placed strategically next to the entertainment center where my nonexistent family delights in Massive Attack, Gene, Echo and the Bunnymen, pre-1995 Depeche Mode, Midnight Syndicate and Joy Division, nor did I push through the influx of Christmas fantasies with warm, hard knuckles brushing the very ventricles where these visions are stored.
Instead, my blood-sugar crashed, and Adam generated so much heat against my breasts, I almost fell asleep with him, tangled and thrashed against the very same subconscious explosions elicited by the dull murmur of the television and jade incense burning across the room, and I guaran-damn-tee that if any of you knew me seven or eight years ago, what with me spilling with my atrium-secrets and chaste whims, you would have surely sported your jaunty beating-sticks and safely hunted my whimsical idiocy down.
Katt, Tony's wife, put Adam to bed and I rubbed his small, velutinous head in the darkness of his nursery. Adam's parents curled up together on their couch as I happily munched on food Katt threw together for me in five minutes.
You want to ask if I furrowed my way into secrecy and stole glances of Tony's edged profile.
You want to know how we looked dressed in black together next to his wife, infamous for cheating, donned in pastels.
You want to know if I changed subjects when Katt broached a topic as tender as my rampant desires.
You want to know if I've been single this entire time and it starts to scratch at my collar-bone when I'm wearing the same amount of silver rings he is.
You want to know if it were grimace-inducing when she inquired of me, "You still haven't found anyone, yet?"
You want to know if I'm human and have come to terms with admitting weakness.
You want to know if there's no end to this entry.
Of course.
Drain the hours and the minutely-entertaining television shows, and I'm huddled against the passenger side of Tony's car as he drove me the whole mile back home. He didn't exit my driveway until he was certain I had unlocked my three locks and sauntered inside, where I lit a single candle in my kitchen, sat on the floor, and repeated Annie Lennox's "Primitive" for half an hour before further jading myself on society by shamefully perusing a total stranger's Diaryland archives.
Jubal retired early, and I was left to hunt for Barry Adamson alone. I found him with Nick Cave and Brian Eno behind my Hamilton Beach blender, and struck chords between them with Gene and Joy Division.
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I have a textual/vocal crony I connect to directly even though it's a dangerous flesh-thought. However, he tells me seventy-five per cent of the time I make a mess of his font-life, "I love the way you write." and "I love the way you speak/write." and "I'm in love with the way you speak/write." It's so goddamned refreshing it's like mental affirmation bathed in spice and affection. I glimmer and take a small piece of that confidence with me when I come here.
It's all tucked into afflation. It's all in inspiration. It's just the thought. It may even be the phantasm.
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Pure introspection is when you force yourself to see the things inside yourself that you never truly wanted to see. I count my losses with my gains. I think more about consequence than I do the thrill of spontaneity, though I pine for safe passion on a secondly basis. Maybe even jazz. Creepy romance. Vanilla cappuccino and egg bagels.
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As I indite this electronically, the sun begins to stretch; my eyes are heavy and curious to futurity. I am so much dreading and so much loving the changes here with equal forces that sleeping would only serve to mar my intricate knot of pessimistic optimism.
I always said the boys I sought were like contrasts in and of themselves, completely overlooking that I am the most blatant one I know. Narcissism. Non-sequiturs. What a fucking wonderful band-name Joy Division truly is.
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To Angie, I wrote, "Ian Curtis is making a mess of my silence, and I love it. I would have loved to have shifted his paradigm had I been born decades before. Instead, I'll be complacent taking his phantom to bed with me."
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Closer.
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time & machine