So last night I went to my first big, college drinking party, had 3 juicy, lipstick-red jello shots, had some drunk chick almost puke on me, and watched as she enetertained several penised bodies with her feminine “charms.” All in all a rather enjoyable evening, but not one I’ll repeat anytime soon. I seriously do not have the cash.

A beautiful insect I keep in a glass jar, another brittle moment I hold:

Here is an update on my current state of mind: I feel relieved. I may have been extremely effected by my recent slicing off of external layers, but in the end, in the present, I am relieved. I believe that my consciousness was being seriously fucked with for a long time and now it is free from past baggage. I just needed to do it and go through it, I suppose. In truth having this extra weight of someone else on me was much more of a numbing factor than anything else. I cannot think in that state, in that sort of relation. After hearing Wesley make such disheartening conversation on the state of our relation, it made me realize a lot of what I’ve been wondering and what’s been killing me for a long time. I needed to hear it from him, I suppose. I am free from it finally.

Thank you for telling me the truth, Wesley.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so emotionally, physically, or mentally destroyed in years, since I was 13. I feel like my dignity has been ripped away, my passion slowly decapitated, and everything that I really thought that mattered stomped on several times and left to rot in the dirt. I’ve never felt so worthless, like my state of mind and my entire being could be so raped by someone I trusted so deeply. How could I be so blind and foolish? Deny myself for so long because I believed in someone and something so intensely, was led to think it was a mutual attachment. Why I am here? Why did I do this to myself? And still continue to?

Of course, this is about Wes. I look through my journal and my things and I think what isn’t? How can someone hurt someone so much and not care, not wake up in the middle of the night balling? How can someone be so cold? I remember shouting and pleading to him months ago to just let me go, let me go. And he wouldn’t, he stayed, and I let him for my own blind hope. I remember him telling me he wanted to help me save whatever thing I had left in me, however small it was by then. Yet, in the end it was he who made the final cut, delivered the final blow. I seem to have no passion anymore, no matter how hard I try to feel something again. I can’t, I’m numb. I don’t even have any kind of sex drive anymore. It’s like of lost most of my desire and confidence in life in general. I’m lost here. I’ve become so disillusioned, changed and remolded with so much scar tissue, I don’t know if there’s anything left of me anymore. I just feel this bloody crust on my body, so even as I’m finally in the place I’ve waited so long to be, worked so hard for, given the possibility I’ve wanted for so long, I have no desire for it anymore. I don’t care about anything. I’m cold, hard. I can’t write. I can’t pay attention, I have no interest or orginal ideas anymore. But in the words of Wes—the few but lingering daggers—I may be just “delusional.” I can’t believe it come to this.

I’d like to note for the record that my ex-boyfriend and new found friend has called me several times “just to chat” since I’ve been here, but of all the attempts I’ve made to have a more than 10 minute conversation (where both people on the phone are talking) with dear whatever-he-wants-to-call-it Wes not one has been successful. In fact, I believe he is now in the mode of ignoring my once a week phone calls, labelling them a nuisance. In other words he thinks I’m bugging him more than anything. Hmph, asshole picking I am. Ho!

I hate being connected by something that isn’t even there anymore. Are we, for lack of better wording, “together?” Since he believes my attempts at contacting him are a hinderance, I find it quite fitting that I should think of him as a “hinderance” as well. Because, man, my eyes have definitely not been faithful around here. The question is becoming these days: faithful to what? And in the frequent words of dear Wesley: “I don’t know.”

I’ve picked my nose and a few assholes and now me ready for bed. FFFbbb!

Walking slowly through these streets and old buildings I do feel a sense of home. Even as these city people pass by quickly, their chatter busy and distracted, glancing at me briefly, I know that I’ll still have trouble relating or connecting with anyone here as I usually do. These are small matters, though. My memory centers around what I see and experience here. I glance at the buildings and scenery around me rather than worry about the people who fly on by without a care to where they are. I love the architecture here, the feeling of history all around, the stories these easily missed markings tell me, the feel of crumbling cement. I like to stand on the bridges here and watch everything move around me, the water below swirl and change color as the sun gives it fresh vitality.

A few days ago I watched the sun rise for the first time in 2 months.

an inspiration from our recent conjoined and deflecting thoughts, flying ever more closer to a paradox neither will ever know, but only sense in a vague articulation and intuition: who could explain a sunset? it could only be experienced.

An observation of fear—
It’s like spouting flies
And saliva
Like revelations
Like yesterday
Reckoned with too late
No more than words
Are self-projection
A devotion to paper causes
And actualization
More than pieces
Is like peace of mind
Uneaten pieces of cake
Ant-filled coffee cakes
Held breath
Overflowing, toilet sounds
And no more like promises
Is it not
Better to be
Needle-pinned, butterfly wings
Than pluckered, protein flies
Of wine jars
Pride fermenting in a beautiful lie
Ripe, ready to be
Amber stupidity over flat decay
Correct lighting to make up for emotion
—Nowadays
It’s always safely substituted and afraid

fresh imagery of summer ghosts:
PHOTOGRAPHY

What can I say? Here I am as I always am, wondering why this all is the way it is. It’s not as if I am necessarily discontent with the every day flow of life. In fact, for the first time in awhile I am doing mostly what I’ve always wanted to do; I am not under constant authoritative pressure, just the opposite. I like what I am doing. And recently I have found a wonderful spot on a bridge close to my school. It is a cement roof of a maintenance house that sits right in the middle of the bridge. One would not even notice it if they did not have the habit of hanging over reilings and staring straight into the water below. All one would have to do is hop the “protective” barriers of steel and settle down. The view is of the water way into Milwaukee, and the overpass of the highway, impressively massive; I am always in awe of the winding streets that reach high into the sky. The buildings are beautifully watermarked and cracked, old warehouses with ghosts of the years melting down in rust and graffiti; time has given nature a bit of leeway, vines and other plants grow through the cement. It is my new favorite drawing spot. Tranquil, slightly isolated, so as to observe the city without much disturbance; it allows me to step back to appreciate where I am, and not forget where I’ve been. Hmmm, so, yes, I am finally having my cake so to speak.

Yet still, I am held back. Still I have bouts of regret and wonder if this is really where I should go. I am not used to things happening at their own paces, of not worrying if personal relations will get in the way of what I’ve been fighting to do. It is like I have been climbing a cliff for so long, my fingernails breaking off and my muscles aching, pain a constant linger, frequent headaches and an underlying anxiety so close; I finally glimpse the top and I don’t know if this is a mirage or the real thing. I know it will all work itself out in due time, i suppose I still in the middle of a transition.

Of course, there is always the constant wondering of Wesley, whom I once thought of as my other half. I suppose I still do and this is where I am still held back, still glancing behind my shoulder. Trying I suppose to grab his hand and pull him up with me as he keeps slipping further and further behind. It seems he does not glimpse the top as I do, believes it is some place else, believes he must trail the entire mountain before he can accept that this is in fact the top, might even decide to jump off and climb an entirely different one, just to see if that one is better.

And I know that the only result, the only action looked at from any angle is that I should let him go, let him fall away from me. But it is like flesh tearing, like something deep within me, some vital part of me, will be lost forever. I am utterly baffled by my actions with him. I freak out, I lose all etiquette, all practical reasoning to just let things happen as they may. I am desperate because I can’t believe, can’t accept that this is the beginning of the end for us. I can’t stand to think of us settling into distant, passing thoughts, to become the whispers of my past like Kelly, Chuck, Jackie, Angie, Mike, Joe, Monica . . . To be calm, not minding to see them once and a while, but not really caring too much if I never see them again. I want him here in the present, in my waking consciousness, in my eyes, my mind. After all these years of anxiety and searching, I felt like I had finally found at least part of SOMETHING.

I remember that. I remember a cold, harshly-lit room, sounds of water pumps, bare floors, sleepless nights, constant random conflicts, screaming voice in my head; it didn’t matter though, none of it mattered. I had something that was meaningful to me for once, that was worth it for no reason whatsoever than it just simply WAS. The most certain thing I have ever felt in my entire being, my entire life. It wasn’t perfect, not reasonable, not any sort of definable human relation. In fact, it was better not to define it, not to say “you are my soulmate, you are my boyfriend, I love you, etc.” None of these words were adequate; their connotations and cliched backgrounds were too broad, too specific.
It just WAS and it was beautiful, worth living for, worth dying for. And it wasn’t just because we now had someone else; it was as if we were freed from all of it, it didn’t matter where in the world we were, we were free—still confused, still wondering, still bothered and searching, but now there was at least something else. The world didn’t seem so empty, so stripped of a real feeling for once.

I don’t really know where I am going with this. I suppose I want to make it concrete, to show that we did have that because it seems so far away, like it never happened. I want to remember why I could possibly be so attached to this person, even as now it seems we hardly even know each other. I want to keep saying it because it seems he doesn’t know, he forgot, but it is becoming more and more apparent he just doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to remember and the most painful realization I have come to in these past couple weeks is he doesn’t believe that it was worth it, has lost faith in everything we were or are. I suppose that is rather easy; I believe something like this is one of those intangible precious treasures in life that are so commonly taken for granted. In essence, he has lost all faith in me, so I am at a constant pressure to redeem myself. There are no words for this feeling, I will probably never forget it. How could any breathing human forget a line like, “I don’t love you anymore,” or “I have no faith in you anymore.” This is not something I just need time to forget or “get over.” I let this boy into my very soul, I trusted him above all else, even myself. I made the mistake of believing in something, and it’s not as if he just disappointed me. He basically informed me I wasn’t worthy of receiving or keeping such a precious thing; I couldn’t handle it without crushing it. I wasn’t what he had thought I was, so in essence I am some kind of facade. And I myself have done too much damage in the everyday banality and oblivion of our lives to ever be forgiven and in turn for him to ever be able to trust me again.

My hopelessness has undone me. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself. I suppose now I will only sit alone watching the murky waters of the Milwaukee river and its inhabitants pass me by. Truly I am afraid to touch or live in it. I used to believe I could make a difference here, to make even the smallest things better or mean something, give people hope or dignity, even if the ever the slightest, but now I realize I am just as vulnerable and more likely to be the destroyer rather than the healer.