my best friend I have known for years, who for whatever chance of nature has a penis, and I, for whatever extra push the determined little spermie that was me had an X chromosome, can no longer speak to each other, EVER, because his girlfriend is threatened of me, because she is a nasty, horrible person … and he is in love with her … i am helpless and understanding as always … i cannot hate him for some reason, our friendship was always so honest and clear, i cannot be mad at him because i understand him and care for him. when i care for someone that much I am ultimately willing to let him go, so he can do what he feels he must … I cannot impose myself on someone I care so honestly for … i only hope he is happy now … i hope he can be happy in such a relationship … but there is an awful dread this is only the beginning for him … all i can do is hold my head in my hands, let the tears run, and watch it all wash away from me … she can’t take my memory of him, goddamnit …

who are these people that call themselves my immediate family? i haven’t known them for years, yet I am somehow expected to care about them and talk to them of meaningful family ties once a year or less, mostly less / is this pity, is this obligation? it all feels so empty to me … how can they love someone they don’t even know, nor took the time to ever truly see?

well, fuck it and you … i am going to do something that does truly mean something … i’m going to go paint a pretty fuckin’ picture … cuz it’s worth more than you now … even in my deepest sympathy …

kevin, i am reading the bell jar, completely and thoroughly this time … i know you will see the significance in this …

again, surrounded in this ghost existence of past … still attempting to live in a place that is and should be a memory for me … as if I were two people … fighting with two realities, and I cannot accept either, nor do I know which one I want …

being specifically interested frightens me as if I were always running away, and if no one can pin my wings with accuracy then it is just one more way i can fly away from the definition or human connection that has failed me for so many years … actually this is a lie … reverse … i do not want to begin to care about someone i know will not care as much as i do, i fear it more now than i ever did before because I have a memory of it … how much it has the power to destroy me …

I touch the rows and rows of paperbacks and hard bound experiences, the world of my half-read and half-forgotten books … my mother says if she ever could she would buy me a home in a library and i could live there alone, running and breathing in all I will never know or experience personally … because truthfully i have forgotten how to converse normally with people … i find it such a useless effort, i simply do not want to respond, and the obligations to do so cement my lips more still than death …

and to adam:
you remind me of all the things I am forever losing and then finding renewed in other people, and too much like wes used to be or at least what I thought he used to be … “this was years ago” I know this more than any of us … I know when we speak it has more to do with past attachments than present interest, and I wish I could give you what you were looking for when you rushed to meet my silence, when you slipped your hand through the crook of my arm to complete the loop between us we both know was never there … sometimes I do have doubts my past decision, the dividing line between you and wesley I remember, was ill concieved, but you were always too innocent and frail for me, and I am afraid of touching such things … i thought you needed some life before i could tell you everything and now that you have, i am at a loss again … and still fearful of touching you, or more likely, of you touching me … you know I can’t exist here, yet you are still persistant in showing me the benefits to come back, how it could be for both of us if this life wasn’t as it is … I remember valuing goodwill and humanity as much as you do and it does make me smile, you do incite me to argue with you, something most do not appreciate, a good debate …
you will never know how much i did want to fall into your testing will and thin shoulders as we listened to all the things you’ve collected over the years i never took the time to realize in you … i do regret … but i am and should be treated as a ghost of the past, a temporality, and I cannot bring myself to be anything more than this to you … however much i might in this moment want to …

i am sorry this is all i can afford you … this cheap excuse for an entry before i go to bed … working the grave shift is draining me so much more than art school and i stare helplessly at these hands sinking in on themselves as the months go by and i’ve lost so much flesh and weight it seems … i have been wondering if my self-induced isolation with people is as much their fault as it is my own intensity and empathy … i am wondering if i do need what i despise, the human comfort i’ve tried so hard to shake myself of … i am wondering if i should not let the city suck me in and spit me out because i have nothing better to do really and it appears all worth while as most say, but as you know no one really knows or listens half past self-interest … what am i to you? more than who are you and what is this strange possiblity of human development more than anxious preoccupation and something to pass the hours … i want you to know i could see you in your words, you on a stage nervous at first but evermore feeling the breach and letting it pour out like the sun and the stars and the moon and the tides you always tell me of and i think i appreciate it more because of this … i want to tell you more and listen to you more, but i am afraid these desires are so beyond my grasp as i try to find how to live in a life and a society i must constantly remold for to be able to live in, to retain this exterior from caving in on itself, i am so different from it and i can no longer fake it anymore … i know of ghosts and this “haunt” more than i am willing to admit … i have them, i see them everyday … memories like so many forgotten and abused postitutes … you remember wesley? no one knows if he’s alive or dead right now because of his disappearance and heavy involvement in nasty drugs and habits … i don’t know why that bothers me so much, i sometimes think: is this a part of me, his path, didn’t i flirt with self-destruction like he but chose to run away instead? i don’t know … many things baffle me these days but I wanted you to know that in this sea of so many distractions and layers, I remember you and your words remind me not so much of hope but at least of why I am still doing this and why you still remain raw and honest to me, a friend and a muse that crosses more distances than those I see everyday …

(so it’s like this)
serendipity
moonlight
all these human constructs
i point to with index finger
mildly accusing
and always argumentative (it is desire)
for this
lack of substantiation (an acquired reading)
and
absence
confirmation of the afraid (like fucking in stark light)
unknown variance
you know, variety in diversity and liberation (extinct but evolving)
i
giggle around this cynical dystopia
the world as one exploding vagina and my soft head, so fragile, somehow caught inside

___________________________________________________________
note to reader: this has nothing to do with femininity or gender (the organ reference is mere existentualism in metaphorical/possible metaphysical relation, more like birth, sex, shitting, or death and the enclosures that one associates with these) although i do play on free association, i believe when speaking of a vagina one need not jump to gender role conclusions, it is too easy and cheap a resolution to something intended to be an opening …

cold sweat of failure …. i need to shroud myself in mythology … but it makes no sense to me to act normally in public nowadays … i do it moreso so no one will bother me as much as i bother myself …

last update of the night … added some friends, read some beautiful journals i haven’t taken the time to notice before now …
i am realizing how much i miss writing … this live, eat, sleep, breath art shit is flattening my creativity surprisingly … i never thought i would utter those words … but it is the process of sculpture that i love so dearly: sand, torch, drill, mold, mix, cut, template, polish, dust, dabble, stare, laugh, cry, wait to dry, cough, air, if i smoked i’d need a thousand cigarettes a day … they have a punching bag in the 3d lab that comes in mighty handy at midnight when you’ve been there since 8 in the morning and your project just chipped on you … heh, 2 weeks left …
pssst. professors at private art institutes that still conform to formatted writing and force their artist students into this, suck ass! this means you if you ever read this, you bastard …

mouth uncertain
with tiny trace examples
twitching why
it is better to be told these things
before you stumble
words before denial
a taste before freedom
this is all convex logic
anyway
all excuse
and acceptance
before

expressions fade, a whimsical sienna
iris flutter
escape
dilation
that dark, bottomless speck
you liked to say doesn’t exist in this era
rippening, hired, ready for bread
i gave you silently
this whistfully calm like city air
it sucks us in and whines us round
the geometry of a living breath
a simple complexity
a necessity
you always did ignore
liability’s success
my insured doubt of perfection
and i know
we spout our separate fountains
resonate the will
i understand all of this
necessity and separation
isolate the principle
alone, not loneliness
right?
this form follows
my curving intentions
maybe correction is in this moment, too
maybe enlightenment is a lie as well
maybe comfort is destruction and i can’t play this game as well as everyone hoped
maybe flight is a bird and we all want a ride on possibility
and for once
maybe i did, too