fuck people .. i am so sick of being swiped away after being smashed on the windshield of everyone else’s problems when I have my own major ones to deal with … speaking of which, some financially poor, desperate fuck decided to screw some other financially poor, desperate fuck like me and smash my car window and steal my fucking stereo, the only thing worth anything in my crappy junk of a car … i just wanted to listen to music, that’s all, just some music to calm my razor-edged nerves …

i want to self deconstruct to the point where i fall and cry until there is no sense of weight, no moisture of emotion and pride left, i know now the meaning of self-destruction and the confusion of why it was happening when i was so young … denial was my tool to betray myself and kill everything i knew because i had been betrayed by everything i knew, it was only justification, a process i NEEDED, i needed to kill it all because it was a construct i never created, it was all pressure and i wanted FREEEDOM, and I wanted to FALL … and I wanted that freedom and falling of not being grounded in ANYTHING, to doubt and deny EVERYTHING, so that one day i could rebuild to what i truly was because i feel and appreciate it all, i love it all SO MUCH it hurts, it is so painful, and i suffer gloriously day to day, i am in this wonderful agonizing pain of realizing who i am, how fascinating the world can be, how i can be a part of it and still be an individual, i must have truth and the vulnerability that goes with it and i must learn and be destroyed and be afraid and be ALIVE every fucking day until it kills me

one day it will, i know i cannot take this self-induced rawness of perception forever … and i want to get fucked so openly on a stage in front of everyone, i want to run in the streets naked and laugh when people point and stare at my quivering flesh, i want to be OPEN, TORN FUCKING OPEN, i want the stranger on the bus to touch my flesh, reach inside my shirt and thumb my breasts and waist and stomach that has rounded into those beautiful curves and the slightly protruding pouch of a WOMAN and his/her stare to match my own until we cannot take the TENSION anymore … and i can be a part of everyone and averything but still retain this eccentric grin and groan of individuality …

because it’s not about rebellion anymore—this discovery—it is absorbing and being absorbed and finding out who the fuck i am and what i can do … all that i can impossibly do … it is freedom …

it has occured to me over the past month or so that i need to lighten the fuck up … ohh, yeah, and get laid, really fucked out of my head … heh … mmmmm

it seems realizations always come with a double edged sword, ready to slice off fingertips clutching it, only meant to hold it together …

on the bus today, there was a girl, glancing hesitantly at me as I passed and pulled out my Dostoyevsky novel for the long ride to the Times Cinema to see “cremaster Cycle.” She then began to vomit white and yellow chunks, sunny side-up eggs uncooked, coughing and breathing heavily. She eyed me again wearily, her head thrown back in that defeated posture and how I wanted to speak to her, but could not bring myself to bridge the gap of silence. She covered her tracks with newspaper and left as unobtrusively as she has entered my waking interest, stepped away from me, removed from me and left unattended, strewn about, as many things seem to be nowadays.

STATIC
The computer screen was only a temporary insertion of stimulation. I was jealous of its influence, of its never-ending ability to distract and hold the eye. I would wave my hand in front of it, feeling the fuzz of static and machine. Yet, you still seemed placated, content that at least the emptiness of time could be filled with some goal.
“I think of us as a ‘was,’” I would shoot at you, testing the waters of your convictions, always wondering beyond any past assurance if they were still a foundation I could fall on.
You blink and slightly jerk like the backlash of a disconnected plug. There was an explosion of silence, and I felt slightly guilty in my experiment.
You would speak in a hush, like a lost child, “I still like you.”
“We’re not going anywhere.”
“Where do we have to go?” you would ask in blank innocence.
My eyes burned at the rhetoric. The rims grown hollow, even after all this. You used to look so young to me, so stripped of intention. There were nights in my room where we would hide beneath my bunk bed, and quietly speak of dreams and realities known only to us. Where trailing words were enough to connect and I always knew you were what I had lost, what I was forever losing.
“You know what I mean. I can’t talk to you anymore.”
“Talk.” Your neck was still rigid in concentrating on the screen, the counterfeit world behind its glass.
Frustration swelled in me. Was there no end to this? How could I make you see there was still something calling behind my eyes. That there were still things you didn‘t know about me, and creations I could only give you a mention of. The long strips of earth where there is only limitless space and sky, perpetual red horizons, and the splintered moon. I am alike this only and alone face in the sky, reflecting off something more than myself, something I will never know and only touch lightly with tears and fingertips. Floating pieces of this puzzle gather as bodies strewn on the road of a fresh accident and like people driving by, wanting a connection, a glimpse of a different reality—harsh as it may be—I must see. I must know. For I would rather have a truth with the potential for offense than no truth at all.
But you were chain-linked to a profound oblivion, and I was pounding on brick walls filled with the winding signatures of graffiti—of this past I was still climbing up to. For some reason, I could never be in the present with you. I would wind this predicament around my finger, keep it in my pocket for days, petting it and clinging to it, wondering what it all meant, should mean, would mean. And if I was placating myself for you, or if you were a truth. Maybe akin to me and my children of abstractions and art, your delicacies and intricacies were something you could only truly know. I was again left here in raining silences, drenched in helplessness and the agonizing euphoria of dreams and insignificance. For the one thing I had always wanted was to be inside of you, instead of you always poking at the holes inside of me.
There were only a few sounds of inadequate communication to sum it all up: “I love you.”
And the screen would go blank and static free.

hmmm …. i believe you are hidden from me …. you always did have a good poker face …orange peels curling off my eyes with a knife hauntingly familiar … i did talk to alexis. I think i know where she is coming from in a purely female sense. i know her …. i see why …. self-destruction seems to plague the best of us and you are no saint, now more than ever. Although i am a little disquieted about my turn towards ignorance, i am not going to hold it against you or myself It is not my conflict. You gave me only one choice …. the illusion of free will, huh? I’m not as young as i look … “I am not prey, not as much as i used to be”

nature in itself is aesthetic, functional, scientific, balanced, philosophical … all of these combined and related to myself

I am nature

So then

is my (specifically human) pursuit to create art an attempt, a secret, a subconscious desire to imitate nature or even overcome it? To copy the ultimate master of creation?
_something higher than myself, involving the individual and the community
_all these nature by its very nature, embodies wholely without doubt or error or excuse,
a self-realized entity
_I am just another piece to the puzzle trying to make myself whole

is art then the ultimate illusion/delusion/allusion? always a metaphor for something, it cannot exist without humanity behind it …. it is OUR nature

what is a message in a bottle?
—to ocean silence in a seashell mouth
hollowing, farrowing, spiralling down
to the universal blackhole bottom
opening and opening