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for each ecstatic instant
we must an an anguish pay
in keen and quivering ratio
to the ecstasy.

for each beloved hour
sharp pittances of years,
bitter contested farthings
and coffers heaped with tears.
- emily dickinson -

there was an ever-growing void she filled with the hearts of men, but this creature has grown weary of the strangers scavenging her carcass. she has spent her life poaching these organs, prodding and dissecting to learn, to understand and to live ecstatically on the blissful cloud of rapture.

o eros, thou hast struck me with thy needled arrow!

as a little blood trickles out, the plunger catches, and thrusts euphoria in. her veins drink this poison deeply. "it's bliss," her cracked lips whisper, "the only way to live," she sighs. her heart is a factory stamping, pushing, pumping through her sternum, and her pupils are black holes, squealing back like car tires, screaming into her skull. she lays back and spreads her legs wide for death to spill out.

only way to live.

she smiles and greets each new guest to le boudoir de la petite mort with red lips and a hungry smile. she claws their backs, scratching for the precious gems caged within their ribs. she aches for their rhythm. she sings for liquid gold. and when she kicks them out, she burns a little corner of her beating heart with a long, steel brander, to cauterize the wound that re-opens with each affair.

and with this small pile of ashes, she learns to fill the void by eating the dust, tongue choking on the taste of what has become. with each bitter, sober swallow, she relives each rendezvous, each selfishly stolen heart, and bids her monster, this beautiful addiction, adieu.

"when i look down into this fucked-out cunt of a whore i feel the whole world beneath me, a world tottering and crumbling, a world used up and polished like a leper's skull. if there were a man who dared to say all that he thought of this world there would not be left him a square foot of ground to stand on... if now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world... if any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, i think then the world would to smash, that it would be blown to smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the pieces, the atoms, the indestructible elements that have gone to make up the world.

in the four hundred years since the last devouring soul appeared, the last man to know the meaning of ecstasy, there has been a constant and steady decline of man in art, in thought, in action. the world is pooped out: there isn't a dry fart left. ...if anyone knew what it meant to read the riddle of that thing which today is called a "crack" or a "hole," if anyone had the least feeling of mystery about the phenomena which are labeled "obscene," this world would crack asunder. it is the obscene horror, the dry, fucked-out-aspect of things which makes this crazy civilization look like a crater. it is this great yawning gulf of nothingness which the creative spirits and mothers of the race carry between their legs. when a hungry, desperate spirit appears and makes the guinea pigs squeal it is because he knows where to put the live wire of sex, because he knows that beneath the hard carapace of indifference there is concealed the ugly gash, the wound that never heals. and he puts the live wire right between the legs; he hits below the belt, scorches the very gizzards. it is no use putting on rubber gloves; all that can be coolly and intellectually handled belongs to the carapace and a man who is intent on creation always dives beneath, to the open wound, to the festering obscene horror. he hitches his dynamo to the tenderest parts; if only blood and pus gush forth, it is something. the dry, fucked-out crater is obscene. more obscene than anything is inertia. if there is only a gaping wound left then it must gush forth though it produce nothing but toads and bats and homunculi."

- henry miller / tropic of cancer -

it kills me a little, each time a tear sheds its way loose for you, and i realize that i am a walking wound, waiting for my limbs to find me again. it was so long ago, and i worked good and hard to bury the thought of you, the scent of you, the mere idea of you. but you were always here, in me, reflecting back at me, testing me, teasing me. my muse, my heart, my passion.

what am i supposed to do now, with this rotten heart? where do i go now?

i'm on my knees, begging for this endless black hole to swallow me up or let me go. the indecision is wearing me down. please, please, please... just give me peace.

the tribe gathered around the conflagration that had suddenly ignited at the center of their camp. there, floating above the burning coals, was a gloriously immolating woman. her fingers wrapped gently around a staff of snakes, and her orange hair billowed in the roaring wind of flames. they had to shield their eyes from the star of fire, blazing in their midst, but slowly, each walked up to the woman, and, upon their weary little heads, she blessed them with tongues of fire.
they knelt before her, in the parched, cracked earth, their hands together in a ceremonious prayer, sweat gathering at their brow. she stepped down from her homemade pedestal, and opened each one by one, with the crack of lightning. the serpents uncoiled from her staff, and recoiled within each body, which now, lay spread flat upon the hot ground, relinquishing control to the state of being.

she looked up to the night sky, into the heaven full of stars, and called each one by name. and they, beckoning to her request, bowed their heads, and joined the holy fire, dancing within each new serpent'd being.

the tribes people, now rubbing sand from their eyes, slowly see the weight they've each been shouldering. they join body upon body and coil into one, sticky, breathing organism, orgasming and dampening the crusted soil below. hips meet tongue, meet tooth, meet blood and spirit, dripping into the porous, awakening land. they give home life, as they lose themselves inside the light.

near dawn, one by one, the bodies start to uncoil from the singular being, and they breathe heavily as the snakes within, unravel and leave their temples. they rejoin their master upon the long and unforgiving staff as she steps through the fire and beyond, leaving the tribes people weightlessly free from the burdens of becoming... leaving them with the freedom of being.

i tangle with my shadow, wrapped inside his skin, smoking sinful secrets into the ear of that voyeuristic eavesdropper. his eyes dance across my skin, and like fire, they trail blaze across my back, my arms, my legs, my hips, leaving scorch marks, showing where they've been. what have you seen here, lover? what have you conquered today? this secret keeper wants to ashen that burned map you twirl with your fingertips.

he breathes heavily and frenetically when he explores; he moves feverishly fast as if, at any moment he might be caught. my shadow engulfs me like a yawning predator upon its prey: he comes with full intention to hunt and devour. he covets a place inside me that he cannot reach with the foolish tools he's brought, but his persistence is naught for trying. wide and black-eyed, my shadow stretches angrily over me, all around and inside me, and penetrates me with a darkness that i already am. he grips me and together, we writhe away from light, and drown in a black ocean of disdained devotion to this singular, echoing moment.

i wrote this five years ago, in an email to my best friend. the writing's choppy, but it's nice to remember the reasoning behind my past actions. it's nice to remember my past actions. humiliating and humbling, i'm immortalizing it here so i won't ever forget:

Pride

I could never admit that I was wrong- ever. I had an ex-boyfriend, the last really major one. He would let me win all of our arguments- even if I was wrong. Neither of us would speak about it. It was a two year relationships and it’s still half-way running. Half-way only because we are still best friends, we live together, and we act like a married couple except that there is no sex. I am possibly the most stubborn, incredibly pigheaded person on the face of the planet. His acquiescence only fed my spoiled, selfish, self-involved illusions. I would be allowed all of these faults and he would let me have them. Now, I’m not saying that he’s a terrible person for letting this happen; I didn’t even realize that all of this was happening either. When it comes to relationships, I am an incredibly manipulative person. I’ve always been spoiled as a child, and even now, I’m spoiled as an adult. When I was younger I thought I had magical powers that brought me all of this good karma, now that I’m an adult, sometimes I think my good karma was just inherited by my parents’ goodness. Most people just tell me that I’m so incredibly lucky- I know that I am. I’ve obtained way more than I’ve worked for. I am one of those people. I sit back and things come to me. Either way, that’s not entirely the point. I am incredibly manipulative, and when I hold someone by their emotions, I tend to twist and turn them so I can get what I want. I do this subconsciously, but as I’ve grown older, I can see myself do it more and more. So it wasn’t his fault that I won every argument. It wasn’t his fault that I turned him into a pushover for sex. It wasn’t his fault at all. I used to view my love life, my relationships with boys, as giant games of human chess. Work it by thinking several steps ahead in order to trap the boy, in order to get what I want. He didn’t know this, but he does now. I never was the first to call a truce. He was. He always came to me, while I sulked and bit my lip. I knew; I always knew that he would come to me. It wasn’t his fault. I was his first serious relationship, and I regret spoiling him for his future girlfriends.

There are times, even, that I believe I’m so much fucking better than everyone else. I’ll tell myself, “I’m gorgeous, sexy, genius, well-rounded, cultured, witty, and incredibly sharp. Nothing can touch me. Nothing.” I will look at myself in the mirror and think, “Nothing can top this.” This leads me to believe many strange things, one which has affected my relationship with people greatly- I can never find anyone good enough for me, and possibly I’ll just end up alone forever. I cannot handle loneliness.

Everything I know and enjoy is the best. I am still under this impression. The Chinese restaurants I know of are the best. I even know where the best Persian food is, but I’ve only eaten Persian food once. Where I live is the best. Anything that is contrary to this or any of my beliefs is somehow below me. Ironically enough, I hate people like this, but perhaps I hate people that share my faults because honestly, I hate myself a lot of the time.

I take a lot of photographs of myself and post them up on the internet. I have my ex-boyfriend/faux husband take photographs of me as well. I say I’m being an artist, or a model. Honestly, sometimes I just like looking at myself. I’m not even sure if I think I’m beautiful half the time. My face seems to change in every photograph, and I seem so unfamiliar. It’s not like looking into a mirror. It’s like looking into someone else’s soul completely. I study these pictures too, in my room, by myself. I don’t tell people that I am looking at myself out of fear of judgment. I’m under the belief most people are utterly fascinated with themselves. It’s a strange concept to think that this body is mine. This entire being is mine. Sometimes I think of myself as essence, rather than any sort of physical, tangible, form. I can’t stand anyone saying anything bad about these photos. Not because I’m really all that sensitive about my artwork. If I really truly love my work, nothing can shake the way I feel about it. I can’t stand a naysayer for the simple fact that I doubt myself a lot. If they see my flaws, possibly they’re more visible than I care for. Photoshop, good lighting, and tricky angles are the key to making anyone look good. Everyone is beautiful on the internet. I get a lot of validation from these people, and somehow I still feel empty. These people and their opinions ultimately mean shit to me and sometimes I stop and I breathe and I wonder why I do this. Am I simply exploiting myself or is my work actually genuinely from my soul? I can’t even figure out what I’m vainer over- my face or my work.  

Lust

I slept with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend. This was a mistake obviously, but not a drunken one night stand mistake. Oh no, this was much more complex and twisted. I had this friend. She was my only girl friend in college, and a friend from high school in Los Angeles. We went to an all-girls Catholic high school. Getting through that wasn’t entirely easy, but our friendship started there in Pre-Calculus class junior year. Our math department was a joke, and held class in the art rooms on the 3 ½ floor (it wasn’t a complete floor up from the third floor). We would go to class and do all of the following: cut hair, snort substances, build paper airplanes, sculpt clay figurines, draw comics, talk, play with toy cars, go to the bathroom for the period, play miniature golf, and race the swivel chairs down the hallway. We sat in the front row too. We had fun and went on to be in the same Calculus class senior year. We rarely saw each other outside of class, but enjoyed each others’ company enough to become closer friends in college.

I don’t make friends easily, only because I find most everyone I meet to be completely moronic. So this girl was something special to have held my attention for this long. We would sit around and talk about people behind their backs. We would make fun of them. Slowly I realized that I was a terrible person around her. I became this monster. I became incredibly fake. I became everything that I loathed. She made me feel terrible and insecure. She would hit on my boyfriends and insult me because she could. We tore each others’ self-esteem apart. After awhile of this, I decided that I shouldn’t be her friend anymore, as she was a poor influence on my life. As I was transitioning into the famous “stop talking to her” routine that I had grown so accustomed to, I started talking with an ex-boyfriend of hers, who was an acquaintance of mine (but through her). We had spoken a few times on the internet but never delved into any deep conversation. I’m still not even sure how it happened, but something clicked and we became better friends. He had invited himself to one of my guy friend’s birthday parties. Ironically, I was also trying to hook myself up with the birthday boy; however the birthday boy was far too inebriated to be of any use to me that night. My friendship with my friend’s ex had strengthened a bit and we realized that we had a connection.

Doing the adult thing, we confronted her- asked her if it was ok with her if we could take our relationship to “the next level,” which meant that neither of us felt justified in sleeping with each other until we had her blessing. Of course, we pinned her in a bad spot because she didn’t want to be the bad guy, but at the same time she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the thought of us pretending to make babies.

As a side note, her relationship with him was entirely warped. They dated for close to a year, and he was possibly her first love, but that idea is still up for grabs. She almost lost her virginity to him, but too much pain and not enough alcohol stopped them. They ended on bad terms when she got tired of him and cheated on him with her friend and her friend’s boyfriend. After they had split, she stopped talking to him altogether and fooled around with his best friend.

So of course I felt that it was ok to pigeonhole her. I felt that this was karmic retribution, and the worst part was, I thought that I was in a place to wield that sort of power. She reluctantly gave us her blessing and we were off and no one heard from either of us for awhile.

I had wanted him badly enough to throw away any sort of semblance of reality and any sort of form of logic. I had also, in turn, thrown away my relationship with my faux husband as we were barely separated at the time. What could be blamed for this? Only me and my impulsiveness; I was unhappy in my current relationship and I wanted some cock. I wanted to feel some passion. I wanted that desperation to go away:

Reasoning # 578:  
there is a void where my fantasies once lay...the loneliness is deafening...like the very last breath before death. I want to be wrapped in that warm drug again, keep my mind cluttered with thoughts of infatuation. To relive lust and disgust over and over...to give me a reason to not know myself. Give me a reason to forget I exist. I just want to release my obsessions, have them released on me...I want to be lost, loved; I’m already completely oblivious to the outside world. I can't imagine having my mind, my heart, all to myself. Maybe that's why no one wants me. No one wants something they don’t earn. So ill make them earn it next time. I won't give my heart away for free.

A week or so after this, my friend starts having mad fits and she is angry with me. At first I cared and I took on the self-righteous role and grieved with her over this betrayal of her friend. I was Judas, most definitely, but I wanted to be such a Peter. Eventually, I got over it and realized that I had hated her with such passion. I didn’t mean to, it just happened. I did all of this because I wanted to. I didn’t really care if she learned a lesson or if I happened to be her karmic retribution or not. My friendship with her was dead, and I could care less. After her fits with me, she would go to him and she started admitting how she still was in love with him and was trying to get her grasp back on him, even though she had a boyfriend. This made me hate her even more, and eventually my relationship with him dissipated.  
 

Gluttony

I enjoy food. Scratch that, I really enjoy food. I enjoy food to the point that it is an obsession. No conversation I have ever goes without the mention of some sort of item I would like to consume. I like not only quantity, but quality and variety. As a consequence, I tend to order a lot of different types of food, or buy lots of different kinds of food at the grocery store. I have a penchant for fruit, juices, and snacks. However, I never ever finish these things. I hoard all of these things like a squirrel going into winter. When I’m ready, I’ll open these little packages of food or drink and I’ll eat little parts of it, leaving the rest to waste. It’s not that I purposely want to waste; I am just forgetful and for some odd reason, have an irrational fear of food spoiling and getting food poisoning. So if three-quarters of a cup of white cranberry juice is sitting on my desk for more than a few hours unattended, I will dump it out and wash the cup and refill it only to leave it on my desk and repeat the cycle again. The juice is eventually finished- half of it going down the drain if I’m good and actually manage to finish more than a full cup. The same goes with fruit. I will buy lots of fruit I find beautiful and bright. I have these massive anxiety attacks at the supermarket thinking that I am incredibly unhealthy. To remedy this, to pacify myself and to feel better about eating that Filet-o-Fish sandwich from McDonald’s, I will buy a bunch of bananas for potassium, blueberries for the antioxidants and an apple a day. It sits in the fridge and molds; this says a lot as it takes awhile for apples to actually go bad, especially in the fridge. As for the snacks, I like to go to Asian markets and stock up on candies and cookies. I really enjoy getting White Rabbit candies for my faux husband and other bright colorful things that attract me. I also find myself buying a lot of Hello Panda (chocolate filled cookies in a bear shape with a panda stamped on it), and Pocky (bread sticks dipped in a variety of flavored creams). Now, it is my belief that I tend to buy these things because 1) it reminds me of my childhood and I try so desperately to maintain that feeling, 2) apparently they have an excellent marketing team because I am so attracted to the bright colored packaging with the cute little cartoons on them, and 3) I have a shopping problem- I get anxious going into a store and leaving empty handed. I never actually really eat any of these things. I end up giving most of it away to my roommates if they’ll eat it. Our cabinets are stocked with all sorts of candies and cookies that I’ve barely touched. I keep telling myself that one day I will drive around town and hand these things out to the hungry homeless people, but in reality I will probably be too absorbed in my own life to remember- then I will have to move out and I will dump all this food into a big trash bin and it will never be heard from again.

At restaurants I have started ordering three course meals, or large meals I know I cannot finish. I won’t finish them on purpose for fear I will gain weight, but I really enjoy having a variety of foods. I will justify the amount I order by saying that I will eat the leftovers for a week. This rarely happens. I usually end up leaving the leftovers in the fridge for a day or two, or weeks if I get lazy, then I throw them out thinking that they are spoiled. I have a big problem with eating a lot of the same thing. I get sick of the flavor and I cannot bear to eat it anymore. So if I have a large meal, I most likely will not want to eat it again the next day, but if I leave it for the day after I run the risk of the food not being good anymore.

I realize that these rationalizations and my issues with food are completely neurotic. I’m really not sure how to stop this from happening.

Sloth

I am talented. This is what people tell me. I have potential. They’ve said this since I was very young. Some people tell me I’m a goddamn genius. Of course, I think they’re bonkers, but who am I to convince them otherwise? I do understand my capabilities, however. I have the capacity to do anything (besides contact paper shelves and ice skate/rollerblade, but that’s a different story). I’ve tested my theory several times. There is nothing I cannot learn to do as long as I put some effort into it. Up until now, school has pretty much been very easy. I find myself working a bit harder as it’s my last year of college and I should be putting some effort into my classes. I know, I have the ability to do very well, but I just don’t. Why?

Well, there is television. The television is the bane of my existence. I’m not going to go on a tirade about how evil television is and how it’s a tool to propagate the media’s “evil corporate views.” In fact, if I believed this, I wouldn’t be so addicted. I love television. I love studying pop culture from a bystander’s point of view. I watch the incredibly bad reality television shows in order to tap into the American psyche… then laugh at it. I enjoy being completely mindless and numb. I enjoy the emotions it feeds me when I don’t feel like conjuring up my own. I am constantly over stimulated, I am often incredibly bored.

Studying the American psyche and laughing at it, really takes up some time. I spend hours at a time watching television and totally ignoring all other pressing issues like homework, midterms, work, and relationships. I don’t work on my artwork, I don’t read nearly as much as I would like, I don’t go outside because of this machine. I can’t blame it solely on my addiction to television. Like everyone else under thirty, I am incredibly scatterbrained and most people would diagnose me ADHD. So I need to occupy myself with about fifteen things while I evaluate the American psyche. What else could occupy my time so efficiently?

The internet is a beautiful thing. I can do about forty things at once and still keep my mind buzzing for more. I can read the news (not often enough), update my journals (too often), talk to people (too many) all while sitting on my fat ass and dunking my hand into a tube of Pringles potato chips, pizza flavor. I’m not sure if I could justify my internet abuse as “socializing,” as it has really replace my need to leave the house while I’m in Santa Cruz. As I’ve mentioned, I do not have many friends here. Perhaps it’s not them, but me; I’m a bit of a wanker with all this pride. Either way, I don’t leave my house much unless I’m going somewhere I’ve deemed “cool” enough to go, like San Francisco.

There have been countless nights where I could have been productive, but rather, I chose to sit in front of the television and just be on the internet. Now, I understand most people do this on their weekends, or in the afternoons to unwind. In my case, every hour of everyday is an afternoon or weekend. There really is nothing more that I would rather do than be mindless and not have to deal with real world situations. Why deal with responsibility when you can get the privileges without lifting a finger?

I see how I am lazy. I understand that the futon couch is a black hole for motivation. Once I sit down, I know the next twelve hours will be dedicated to making an ass groove in the couch. I’m working hard at just shutting it off and putting my computer down to do something. The problem is I never know what to do. The mindless entertainment is a security blanket- a comfort object to shield me from the blandness of reality. Reality is overrated most of the time. Sometimes though, introspective moments like these make me think otherwise.

Greed

I have a problem with shoes and purses. I am obsessed with Christian Dior and I am a fashion whore. Not just a few hours ago, I purchased a ten dollar magazine imported from Taiwan in order to stare at the haute couture from Tokyo, Paris, and Seoul for Spring/Summer 2005. Being a college student majoring in art, I have very little hope of ever really owning anything close to haute. I’ve come to realize that most people don’t get to enjoy the luxuries of haute couture, and that I shouldn’t be bitter that I am going to be one of those people as well. I can look, hell I can even go into the stores and touch these magnificent objects of my desire, but no buying.

One summer I got so desperate for this pair of Christian Dior D’Trick heels. In short, they are patent black and white saddle shoes with heels. I fell in love with the shoes. I was (and still am) going through my Lolita phase where I really enjoy dressing like a twelve year old sex pot. I felt that Christian Dior read my mind; these shoes were made for me. I stared at a picture of the on the internet for hours while I was stuffed in my cubicle at work.

At this time, I had started online chatting with a very wealthy, very brilliant young man. I have a computer programmer fetish, and he was one and I found this incredibly appealing. Unfortunately, he had (probably still has) a girlfriend. His girlfriend happened to be my faux husband’s ex girlfriend who, once upon a time, attended UCSC. Now, I would always get fairly flattered when he complimented me on my photos or my looks. When he found out that my faux husband and I were no longer together he started really taking an interest in me. I would humor him, talk to him, and we became friends. I knew he found me attractive; there was no doubt in that. Some of the things he said to me were so obscene I thought surely they were banned in several states. He would often invite me to Las Vegas when he had a conference. He would always invite me as a “friend,” and his girlfriend and my ex were still very good friends and he thought it would be a good idea to meet up and have a good time on him. Of course I didn’t really want to meet up with them; it was intimidating enough having this image of myself built in their minds, let alone being afraid that I could possibly get raped or something by this strange guy I don’t really know. It’s all those shows, like Dateline and 20/20, that implant those thoughts into your head.

After awhile of very friendly chit chat, he decided to proposition me. Meet him in Vegas for a weekend of sex, and he would take me on a shopping spree in the Dior store. Most people would think, “Sleezeball,” “disgusting,” “despicable.” What did I think? I thought. I thought about it, a lot. Of course the main standing issue would be his girlfriend. I wouldn’t like to go through that drama. He assured me that it was fine, that she slept with other people that they were in an open relationship. He asked if I wanted a written note of permission from her. So the female betrayal aspect was gone, leaving the choice entirely up to my morals. What standard of morals was I supposed to judge this situation on? I was never raised any religion so that was out of the question. All I knew was that according to the law, this would be prostitution, and prostitution is bad.

It went through my head for the next few weeks. I asked for advice from my friends. I thought, “I find him attractive enough, hell, sometimes he really turns me on with his perversions, how is it bad that I end up getting an entire wardrobe from Dior for it as well?” A friend of mine, who is always looking out for the well-being of my libido tried to convince me that it was a win-win situation. He got to have sex with me, which he wanted, and I got to get laid, which I needed, and I got all the Dior merchandise I could lay my hands on, which I really wanted.

Ultimately, the idea that it took me that long to say no, disgusts me. What disgusts me more, is that I still wonder how I would be if I had gone through with it. Would I be happier with all of my pretty shoes and belts and purses? Is the stigma of prostitution completely society based? Was my greed so overpowering that I was willing to compromise myself in order to obtain what I wanted? Or do I truly believe that there could be nothing wrong with that situation? If this proposition had been in a metaphorical vacuum, would the outcome be different? I think I would have done it, if all of the outside forces, the judgments and stigmas attached to prostitution weren’t present. Do I really care that much how other people see me? And who’s to say that they would even know? 

Wrath

I had a boyfriend once; he was before my faux husband. He is the megalomaniac. I was a senior in high school. He had gotten his GED at sixteen. He was brilliant. He created himself into exactly what I wanted: an older businessman type with a lot of money, a fast car, who lived in the real world, spoke to stockbrokers, kept up with the news, and acted like a successful adult. I use the term “successful,” loosely only because I thought all of these things were associated with success at this time. I don’t as much anymore, and most people don’t at all. He swept me off my feet with his large house and hot Jacuzzi; so much so that I had left my bass player boyfriend at the time for him. As the stereotype goes, the straight-laced businessman was kinky as hell. Of course, at this time, I was a little industrial kid who was (still is) really into BDSM and the like. Being just a young child in an adult world, he still hadn’t grasped the concept of consideration.

He would get me quite intoxicated and take photographs of me while I was unable to do anything about it, not that I had any idea until later when I was told about them from one of my friends who was dating his friend. Of course, things like this were not uncommon. The word “stop” turned him on. The word “no” turned him on more, and so I succumbed to his every whim, usually too intoxicated to do anything but let him take me. I don’t remember very much about our sexual relationship except that it happened and I was often fairly inebriated because he would feed me wine with dinner. Later he would take me to his room and things get fuzzy. I believe a bit of it is just repressed. My silence would be greeted with slaps to make sure I was still awake. His worst actions weren’t to me, but to my friends. Aside from being completely cruel to them, he took advantage of one while I was there. I will never forgive him for that, and I will never live that memory down because I couldn’t prevent it all from happening.

In the midst of this entirely awful relationship, I would say and do things to press his buttons. He’s a complete emotional masochist. He enjoyed when I pressed his buttons because it would, in his mind, justify why he was beating me with a belt or leaving claw marks all over my body. And these little things I would leave with him. I would never yield to him either. I stayed reserved and constantly calm and apathetic. The less I cared, the more enraged he would become. He would want to get a reaction out of me, and he couldn’t. We eventually parted ways after five or so months when I found out he had about six other girlfriends. I knew about one of them.

He would constantly harass me online, try to get me to go out with him, ask me out on dates, ask me into his bed, and tell me he had my things, anything to see me again. I always declined his requests in fear that I would get physically hurt. At this point I hadn’t admitted that he had ever emotionally damaged me. It would mean that he won our mind games.

Over the summer I spoke with him again. He contacted me and I had a lot of repressed anger towards him because he had completely messed up my relationships with men and caused me to be completely paranoid. I let loose and admitted to him, and myself, that he completely messed with my head. He yielded as well, admitting that he ended up loving me, as twisted as it was, and tried to push me away because of his prior commitments to a girl he had impregnated. On her father’s deathbed, the megalomaniac promised to take care of her, and stayed true to that promise. I knew none of this.

After a few hours of discussing what exactly happened in our relationship, having him fill in a lot of the blanks, I agreed to meet with him in a very public forum in the middle of the day in order to discuss it further and to actually see him apologize to me. I wanted that closure.

He kept pushing the hours back and back and back until it was nearly night. He tried to get me into his house and I, always being one step ahead of him, declined and told him that I never wanted to speak with him again. His obsession and his so-called love for me pretty much ate his sanity, and in the end, in the end of it all I won.

Envy

I envy, not what I can’t have, but what I know I am capable of. I’m rarely envious of people for their material possessions. Sure, I have the fleeting moment of, “Geez I wish I had those shoes,” but they’re just that- fleeting. The thing that really messes with me the most is- I have this belief that everyone thinks just like me. I believe people have the same morality and possibly the same train of thoughts, possibly because I just don’t see myself as anything special. The problem with this is that my projection of myself and all my serious neuroses onto other people makes me incredibly cynical, pessimistic, and jealous.

There is the newest boy, and I cannot trust him for the life of me. He is a soldier. There are enough bad rumors spread about horny soldiers, especially when they are far, far away where prostitutes are abundant and cheap. Sex deprived males camping together; this is never a good thing. I think sarcastically, “At least they get to let out their aggression by shooting people.” Not only is he a soldier, but he is a soldier on the internet. We all know what kind of reputation internet guys have. It always makes me wonder what kind of reputation internet girls have, and if so, am I one of those girls? And to top it all of, he is a soldier on the internet with an incredibly sordid past, of which I found out a lot about while I was chatting with him at work. There really was no one else to talk with at six in the morning. Just him- it would be five in the afternoon in Baghdad. He was honest with me, and so completely uninhibited. He is the only person who can make me empathetic. He is the only person who has made me feel so human and alive.

So the soldier made it back safely into the United States, and I am happy. Every eyelash I blew off my finger and every tunnel I held my breath under, was a wish for his safe return. I sustained a half online relationship with this boy while he was in Iraq and now he is home, far away from me, but closer than he was before. We had grown close while he was overseas, and I enjoyed his honesty, his humor, his everything. I was falling for a personality that could quite possibly, very probably, be completely fictitious. My low self-esteem always kicks in at this point and I question him, I become paranoid. How could he possibly like me at all? I am a non-tangible being on the other end of the screen. My fears only grow when he gets back home.

There are parties he needs to attend, family he needs to see, and friends he needs to visit. We talk less and less and I figure he’s probably found someone new even though he’d more or less committed himself to me. I had not agreed to do the same; I have a fear of commitment. Sometimes I think my fear of loneliness is greater than my fear of commitment, and this is how I land myself in two year relationships that never pan out.

I decide to branch out on who I talk to on the internet with my spare time. I started talking with an artist boy in Illinois. He struck my fancy quite easily- same kind of humor, and I was very interested in his obsession with Star Wars and Star Trek. He made me laugh, and at that time, it filled the void when the soldier would make me cry with his absence.

Soon I found myself really getting emotionally slaughtered by trying to juggle these two guys. I told them about each other, but apparently didn’t make it clear enough what my relationship to each of them was.

I would falsely accuse the soldier for “cheating” on me because I was half cheating on him. My own insecurities, my own inability to commit, my own tawdry morals were projected upon him. I figured if I have the capability to juggle two people, why wouldn’t he? I feel that whatever I think, whatever I feel, other people must be doing the same. So what stopped him from having an extra girl or two when I had an extra guy?

I couldn’t figure out if what I was doing was wrong or not. How could I? I was enjoying myself far too much, I couldn’t make a decision- they were both incredibly perfect for me in different ways. The attention was nice, and I liked the fact that I could have them both; it was like having your cake and eating it too. I could have the best of both worlds. This decomposed rather quickly. Each relationship started getting weightier, and I ended up just putting out fires and fixing problems in both relationships. The drama was constant and consecutive. If something was wrong with the soldier, we’d fix it, then things would be good, but I would talk to the artist and things would be bad with him and I’d have to try to help fix that. Emotionally I was drained. I felt old and tired.

I’ve learned that I need to change myself in order to be able to trust others. I have to become a person that I can trust, so others, in my eyes, will be trustworthy as well. I have to separate myself from others. My own flaws and faults shouldn’t be any basis for judgment on others. Just because I think in this twisted manipulative way, doesn’t mean everyone else thinks like this as well. This realization is a relief; I can breathe easily knowing that not everyone is out there to hurt me. It’s easy to just say these things; I’ve been saying them for so long. It wasn’t until today that I finally believed them. It wasn’t until today that I recognized the need for a deep change in myself, my beliefs, and my morals.  

My life is a series of mistakes, mishaps, finding and fixing my flaws. My life revolves around my relationships with people. These interactions make me more human than I’m comfortable with. I am barely willing to admit that I am human.

These are my confessions. I’ve never seen them fully written, staring so contemptuously back at me. I’m validating them, making them real by writing them down and acknowledging that I need to change in order for myself to grow. My life is a series of mistakes, from which I learn. These growth spurts are long and drawn out. They take years of work, thought, creation and destruction. They cause heartache for others as well as myself. They’ve lost me some great friends and gained me the wrong ones. They’ve provided me with insight into my own soul as well as others. They’ve opened my eyes to the possibility of being completely uninhibited, and honest with myself. They’ve helped me understand love a little at a time; they help me to love myself. They help me live, die, and be reborn. They are the reason why I think my entire life is a continuing spiritual experience.

...
Feed my will to feel this moment urging me to cross the line.
Reaching out to embrace the random.
Reaching out to embrace whatever may come.

I embrace my desire to
feel the rhythm, to feel connected
enough to step aside and weep like a widow
to feel inspired, to fathom the power,
to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain,
to swing on the spiral
of our divinity and still be a human.

With my feet upon the ground I lose myself
between the sounds and open wide to suck it in,
I feel it move across my skin.
I'm reaching up and reaching out,
I'm reaching for the random or what ever will bewilder me.
And following our will and wind we may just go where no one's been.
We'll ride the spiral to the end and may just go where no one's been.

Spiral out. Keep going...

"like two mutes they moved through the dark forest, sometimes on soft moss upholstery, sometimes on hard root ribs. sometimes the sky shone like through sparse high treetops; at other times the darkness was complete. branches slapped his face; brambles held him back. everywhere she knew her way and found a passage; she seldom stopped, seldom hesitated. after a long time they arrived in a clearing of solitary pines that stood far apart. the pale night sky opened wide before them. the forest had come to an end; a meadow valley welcomed them with a sweet smell of hay. they waded through a small, soundless creek. out here in the open the silence was still greater than in the forest: no rustling bushes, no startled night beast, no crackling twigs.

lise stopped in front of a big haystack.

"we'll stay here," she said.

they sat down in the hay, taking deep breaths at first and enjoying the rest; they were both a little tired. they lay back, listening to the silence, feeling their foreheads dry and their faces gradually cool off. goldmund crouched, pleasantly tired. playfully he bent his knees and stretched them straight again, took deep breaths of the night air and the smell of hay, and thought neither backward nor forward. slowly he let himself be drawn and enticed by the scent and warmth of the woman beside him, replied here and there to her caressing hands and felt joy when she began to burn and pushed herself closer and closer to him. no, here neither words nor thoughts were needed. clearly he felt all that was important and beautiful, the youthful strength, the simple, healthy beauty of the female body, felt it grow warm, felt its desire; he also felt clearly that, this time, she wished to be loved differently from the first time, that she did not want to guide and teach him this time, but wanted to wait for his attack, for his greed. quietly he let the streams flow through him; happily he felt the boundless fire grow, felt it alive in both of them, turning their little lair into the vital, breathing center of all the quiet night.

he bent over lise's face and began to kiss her lips in the darkness. suddenly he saw her eyes and forehead shine with a gentle light. he looked in surprise, watched the glow grow brighter, more intense. then he knew and turned his head: the moon was rising over the edge of the long black stretch of forest. he watched the white gentle light miraculously inundate her forehead, her cheeks, slide over her round, limpid throat. softly, delighted, he said: "how beautiful you are!"

she smiled as though a present had been made her. he sat up; gently he pulled the gown off her shoulders, helped her out of it, peeled her until shoulders and breasts shone in the cool light of the moon. completely enraptured, he followed the delicate shadows with eyes and lips, looking and kissing; she held still as though under a spell, with eyes cast down and a solemn expression as though, even to her, her beauty was being discovered and revealed for the first time."

-narcissus and goldmund / hermann hesse
 

can we stay here forever? in this bed, i only have my words, and i kiss these gifts to you. this is my bread, and i will to nourish your heart as you nourish my soul. here, i could forever study the map of your skin, and find insight in the tides of your eyes. this toe tangoed foreplay only leads us to chant wisdom to the gratefully dying universe.

daylight trickles in through slotted curtains, and still we lay on our altar to worship the corporeal. what are these fingers, but my only mortal way to find you? and this mouth, my only mortal way to whisper these idlings to your dreamy ear?

we stay steadfast in our duvetted refugee, as kindred spirits soaring over a world of reveries. if i jump into the sea below, will you follow me? we can swim through the smiling cherry blossoms and winking stars. i promise to hold your hand, so you will always find me beside you, amidst the soft, pelting petals.

i am fated to the pull of this unspiraling divinity, let gravity take witness to my fall into ascension. body around body, we are exploding billion year old twin stars being reborn to the night sky.

here we lay, your head in my lap, atop this soporific transportation to god, blinking the wake into our misty eyes. i stroke your temples and draw out the blossoms entangled in your locks. i ask, can we stay here forever? and you respond with a quartet of cherry blossom kisses upon my humbled, parted lips.

rolling eyes and creaking jawbones. sinking teeth and foaming spit. i hunger for the corner where your mind meets the ground. i want to hide in this space and taste a little flesh, drink a little blood. oil me up, i'm ready to ride this silvered wolf through the moonlit blanketed forest.

hips tilt back, then forward, cracking like a whip in thunder clouds. bright, so bright, flashing through trees and snapping branches underfoot. i finger and claw this armored back as we ignite into the night. i want to go deaf to the sound of the wind screaming by. my breath sticks to the back of my throat,  and it coats in ecstasy.

bloodied tears and mud, streak, dry and flake on this war painted face. my pupils dilate wide full moon saucers, and i cry as we go deeper and deeper into the trees, ripping through the trail. nowhere to go but forth. noway to pace but in haste. we are aged by numbers, but wild at heart and we must keep galloping past the minutes, beating them toward the yawning, ever growing Shadow ahead. 

response.
'it's funny- it's taken me several months of meditation and thought to come to this image. i've been working on carving my body into what it is today, and though it's been a long, physically and emotionally painful road, i still find shame in my figure. so the image is really a struggle with my self-image and the stillness in the acceptance i've found through my journey.

about a month ago, i actually thought to myself- "what has my body ever done to me to deserve such hatred?" and it just clicked- peace/acceptance amidst the darkness.

i am starting to accept and relish myself, the way i am... and seeing myself in different lights. but as biggie says, "everyday is a struggle."'

i try to take time, every once in awhile, to wander through the halls of these infinite shelves. they're deep and bright and the sun seeks comfort within the nooks and crannies between and within the jars that sit on these shelves. theres is no visible ceiling, just light, just warmth. the glass glistens and sparkles, the rows and rows glow golden, and the shelves exudes warmth and comfort. i'll meander down the aisles, feeling the jars, letting my fingertips dig in the spaces between them. maybe one day i'll find something other than dust on the wood.

eventually a certain jar will attract me. i lift it, careful to cradle the bottom and secure the top. then, i sit down on the cool concrete floor, and gingerly put the jar down with a small clink. what's in store for today? 

the top screws off. this one smells moist inside. i close my eyes. i breathe in coconut and lime verbena. i can feel the bubbles prickling my skin as they pop under the weight of the pelting shower water. it's warm. summer. his hands graze my slick skin. fingers against my cheek, tracing my neck, over my shoulders, across my waist, and down, down, down. there's the heat of breath against my neck, and the sting of a wanton mouth. there is the sound of our storm drowning out melodies somewhere far, far away.

and i slip, slip, slip into the mist that fogs my eyes. 

this was the summer of nothing. the summer of no inhibitions. the summer of endless time that undulated like the wind across the ocean. i spent it cognizant of my senses and the impact of my existence. every moment, in hindsite, is painfully lucent. i am human, yet a mere spec of existence in the stratosphere of life.

i still ache for the moments in these jars that i've shelved unlabeled. sometimes a song or a scent will bring me back here to dig through the archives. maybe this time i can find something new from the days of laying and dazing, in and out of reveries and lovers. i miss the growing pains from the days of Lost. i miss wandering and discovering, or rediscovering parts of myself. 

i've grown into a contented state of being. a harmonious buzz, i tempt to fall to the wayside. there's always something new to learn, something new to feel, but some days, i just want to rest on these laurels and hug the jars close and relive the days when everything was virginous. 

same shit, different day
but when you look at the little picture, it really isn't.
tomorrow is the only tomorrow in my life. at this moment, i will be twenty six years, two months, six days, nineteen hours, four minutes and thirty two seconds, thirty three seconds, thirty four seconds... old. it took me thirty three seconds to write that; thirty three seconds i'll never be in again. that half of a minute is a unique half minute in the history of my life. every second that ticks by, is one second more i've experienced, one second less to see, one second passed into a memory i'll probably never bother to relive or acknowledge. we mostly forget the half minutes, the eight hours, and forty days that breeze through our twenty, thirty, eighty years. the older we get, the faster time runs by. the years seem shorter, because they are shorter relative to the numbers of years you've piled up and up and up. when you are five, a year is one fifth of your lifetime and seems like the most important time of your life because so much happens in such vivid veracity that your mind might as well melt at the thought of trying to recall it all. it's new and thrilling, and you share every exciting event in generous detail with whomever will listen. when you are twenty six, it is only one twenty sixth of your life and you file most of it all  under: unimportant. dinner is dinner and it doesn't matter who you saw or what you did because it didn't feel new and it probably wasn't. it really doesn't matter how the year went by as long as it went by without a hitch. memories are fuzzier, and more subjective, and your heart definitely doesn't palpitate at the idea of starting a new project unless you are going to be making some serious cash. the days run on into nights like a fragment of a sentence with no comma to breathe or think or be until you die and see that sweet period.

relief. a breath, finally.

but maybe, perhaps, perchance, you could... i could... live the little picture, bigger. tomorrow is the only tomorrow in my life. the meals i have, even if they're cooked in the same way with the same ingredients will be chemically different. i shall chew my food thoroughly and will remember to taste it before swallowing. my face will look different to me and to others because i will be twenty six years, two months, and seven days old. i will be grateful for the deepening lines in my cheeks that settle when i smile. i will have different thoughts and ways of thinking and will meditate on them. i will take my steps a little differently than i did today, than i did yesterday, than i did the day before that, and that, and that... tomorrow i resolve to see the same people differently and i will honor their presence in my life.

tomorrow, i resolve see my same self differently and be gracious for the years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds i have and have had and will have until i reach that

period.
 

"We fear death, we shudder at life's instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do."
narcissus and goldmund, hermann hesse

everyday i live and breathe and walk this earth, is another day i brace myself for the day it will end. it is beautiful, sometimes.

i knew a kid who got hit by a car last year. he was skateboarding down the street. his friends took him to the hospital because he was hurt. the kind and educated doctor took care of him, and they released him. they gave him various pills to take to make his broken head feel better. he took them and went to sleep a dreamless sleep
but woke midnight to unexplainable pains and corporal confusion so his parents took him back to the kind and educated weary and much mistaken doctors to explain the pain and to set the corpse straight.

he went into a dreamless sleep there, and never woke up.

i started to wonder last night, as i feigned my own little death, what he was thinking in the last moments before mr. grim appeared. it's not the suddenness of his passing that made me lament my own ungrateful mortality; it was the thoughts that must have passed through his crackled mind that shake me. how frightened he must have been, to lose control of his body. a panic, in a flurry like a feather caught in the wind, he was suddenly released, to fall and expire.

just like that, like a cough or a hiccup... a staccato-ed whimper.

what will i think when i die? will it be sudden? will i know? will i be ready to step into the unknown? is it just blackness or is there something beyond the now?

it ultimately doesn't matter how much you believe, in whatever you believe in after you die; i believe you'll always die with a mix of excitement and utter fright. your beliefs just help you deal with dying, now.

but why bother with the beliefs of "what if" when what we do know is: we all die, someday, and all days, "someday" for someone is today?

so i greet each day knowing that death is waiting to turn my life into a shadowed memory. it makes me smile more. it makes me grateful for the person i am, and want to become. it makes me appreciate the small things that most people forget:

i am aware of my toes and the taste of my saliva... i feel healthy and breathing feels good... everything looks beautiful, smells beautiful, and really IS beautiful because

everything is part of my life and part of this infinite cycle of life and death. it's all ephemeral. that fact used to depress me, but now i let it all wash over and through me, baptizing me in its radiance before diving into oblivion. i am spiritually and evolutionarily pliable. it's too easy to get stuck and angry and upset if you don't let the things that are, just be.

someday i will bid adieu to the world, but before that happens i want to make sure to bow to the deities of my life. i want to acknowledge them, and thank them for making my life exactly how it is- from every stone i've tread upon to every flower that has nourished my body... from each grain and wave in the salty sea to the dry cold breath of a windy sky... the beings i've warred with, the ones i've loved and those i've seen in between... the animals that've clothed me, the trees that've sheltered me... the lost, the found, the artists and the entertainers... i love them all... i am grateful... for even you.

i'm shaking all over in cold sweat. i would tell you what time it was, but we threw away our clocks when we crashed ashore. from what i can tell, time either 1: doesn't exist, 2: is irrelevant, and or 3: is at a complete and utter standstill.
the urge to piss is overwhelming, but the dust is eating away at my intestines and i cannot bring myself to get up.
if i sweat enough, i'll forgo pissing.
it's dark- maybe it's 3am, maybe its 4am, maybe its the end of the world, i couldn't tell, but i can tell you this- i'm laying in a cave feeling like the last living sane soul.
my visions blurred. i think i passed out for a few minutes? or hours? or days?
there's a cannibalistic thumpa thumpa outside my cave, but it's too far to reach, kinda like tantalus.
or kinda like plato. or maybe i'm in atlantis. i've lost all conception of spatial elements. i think i'm looking up. or maybe i'm facing down? there are stars above, but below also glows.
there's a thumpa thumpa in my head and i think i want to sleep. i need to sleep, i think, but all i have are these kaleidoscope vibrations in my skull and these psychotic bedtime stories throwing their sandy dissonance at me.
there's a storm brewing outside. i hear the crackling of thunder and see the gods blowing bowel quaking dust up like a bocce tournament.
i can hear them screaming in their maniac ways with their mouths open to catch the fairy dust and the wandering rain. vagabonds, skeletons and gypsies, all of them dancing the storm in.
where ARE they? a hundred feet, a mile, a light year away?
i couldn't tell, but i can tell you this- they're storming a dance this way.
it's overwhelming, all of this. i'm shaking in cold sweat and i can't stop.
they want me in their madness. i can feel it engulfing me like fire and i'm shaking with increased terror.
i can see their fingertips tickling me from a hundred miles away, a day away, a lifetime away. they're reaching through past lives and afterlives to finger me, to taste my sticky mind.
i'm pulling my hair out by its white bulbous roots and howard hughes-ing my urges... shaking my head and convulsing, biting my frothy tongue and praying for the sun to prey the vampires that prey after me.
they're at my cave door with burning torches and raised fists and a white rabbit bursts into my cave and grabs my arm.
it all turns red and gold and before i know it, i'm storming the dance this day. my feet stomp the ground like god's hands on a stretched leather drum, beating life into the earth... can you hear my prayers for madness? our madness. our madness is one madness. my right hand is holding a raccoon tail, and the left is around an octopus tentacle and we are welcoming the storm, circling a bonfire and screeching in flamed tongues.
there's a burning thumpa thumpa in my heart, and the pain is increasingly more beautiful, and the kalidescopes are intensely encompassing. my psychotic bedtime stories hug me quickly in their warm sand as i embrace the last known grain of sanity and kiss it goodbye.

last night, mid-vinyasa, debussy poured through the speakers and i thought, how appropriate...
to finally bid you adieu, quiet my mind... stretch my soul...
goodbye, goodbye.

mid-pranamasana, i could feel my heart beat against my hands... and oh, how i felt alive.

"when i behold upon the night's star'd face, huge cloudy symbols of high romance, and fear that i may never live to trace their shadows with the magic hand of chance..."

we used to live in the most beautiful world of words, an entrapment between a to z, a constant reverberation of dreams
dreams
dream.

i still see you peeking through the "k" and "e" in the word "keys," of the simple poetry i read, reminding me to never forget you and us and the romance we lived in without a mundane or mediocre distraction.

i want to throw my book against the wall in utter frustration. i cry at every turned page, and spit fire because i can never swallow words the way i used to; i cannot love these words without loving you and it just reopens old scars. i spill blood with every chapter because this is how much i love to read.

you and i were never meant for this world. at times, i wish i could cast this body aside to be engulfed by the sun again. to feel the flames lick my face and warm my body. the visceral passion. but o icarus, we never really had wings and were torn from the wind to drown in the tide.

in her, like every.body, lies an animal. dormant, sleeping, panting gently through dreams of waking life.

she rises at the gentle nudge of nostalgia.
    she rises at the memories of
      the touch of his fingertips over her hips like rivers on sleepy hills
      the sound of her violin sobbing into her ear and weeping through her eyes
      the vision of a sun rising in her amber pyre eyes and
        setting in the depths of her pelagic heart.

today and forever, she seals her fate to the feeling of that earth shaking burning, and keeps sleeping soundly through waking life. she turns her head to and fro to have the fog dance around her ears and play in the shadows of her long, dark hair. shes mummified her fingertips, stuffed cotton in her throat, and bid adieu to the dangers of the carnal.

but on solemn nights like these when strings beat through her veins and flames sear through her eyes, she waltzes on an open floor under the stars with her ghost partner. the wind sweeps her across the infinite, slick wooden floors. they creek and sing beneath the click of her heels. she spins and the tail of her dress billows around her ghost and she laughs.
    she laughs.
      she laughs.

“The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes. If you foolishly ignore beauty, you will soon find yourself without it. Your life will be impoverished. But if you invest in beauty, it will remain with you all the days of your life.”
f.l.wright