my own fingers betray me as i always worry my eyes will follow … yesterday i played in the shower a while to make myself feel in the present tense and it only reminded me of things i am trying so hard in the present to forget … putty finger flesh rambling on basic human/aminal rights i make a public display of but cannot calm or justify in my own bed … ahh, how really real that cold light of want can be ,,, and i wish i could be calm as patient spider webs weaving in the corners of my fore roomed high ceiling … i cannot touch this so it does not exist … sort of like air and moments passing, a translucence i will never be able to justify why i still can’t deal with it or even, what is housed and hidden inside my own head and body … so removed but the two points parallel but never touching is problematic … a simplicity that hides itself, i suppose …

i stare across the distance in my hushed preoccupation as the common excuses run across my forehead breaching emotion … wearing nothing but interest and a veiled attraction to every word that comes out of this boy’s too perfectly shaped mouth and the words that fail to fall deaf on my ears … and it is not just because i like him, it is because unfortunately i have not had this sensitivity to response since vancouver and also (in case one wanted further explanation) i am ovulating for the first time in 3 years because birth control is no longer needed since i moved southwest and 3 hours away from another forcibly forgotten past … so the excuses run this marathon i am too stimulated mentally and physically to breath in rhythmically … and that is normally … as my years of mental self-defensive training prescribes … and i am starving in this area for whatever reason … beyond the realm of telepathy or self-denial to know … and you say to me to my simultaneous pain and pleasure of such words, “People just walk away. They don’t usually pay attention to that, but you did. You do,” with that stare of sincere appreciation for my existance and that innocent intention which never fails to refute my usual cynicism of such comments. It is how you say it, not what you say… human connection through intangibles too rarely reaches out for me not to notice and yearn for this understanding without walls, this openness and discovery of humans without pretense … and for so many reasons I am beyond the realm of accepting inevitablilty … “but you KNEW I was gay, Annika …” the imagined potentiality of starved sex and intellectual hunger lets my supposedly idiot-proof logic rest awhile under the tree of knowledge so i can frolick in this garden of eden and possibility for just a minute …
Logic awakens only half an eyelid, and directs the chorus of ecstatic hormones to a somewhat reasonable argument, as soberly unconvincing as enlightenment on acid: everyone’s a little gay … how could one not be? some people are just so beautiful, how could you not want to open their orange and banana peeling emotions? How could you not make them react so violently with a fingertip or two? How could you not desire to share completely and utterly? i never did understand exclusivity of sexual experience and never did accept personal limitations …
“You going to hang out with me again soon?”
“You know we’re both too busy.”
I smile and nod to the reality … that this would all be just a discrepancy of space and time differences I only wish …

by my side there is a table, a table scratched with the lines of age … maybe more accurately remorse, forgetfulness, doubt, fatigue, distraction, complusive nervousness … consistent in its presence, metaphysical in its consistensy … these indents and fingernail gouges, these flicking-away, compressed-wood splinters, the veneer coating peel, all give way to the inner workings of how its form holds such history … such significance … concrete signs of all the states i’ve been through … the anguished haziness of a life that slips through grasping, red-knuckled fingers, so effortlessly, like the necessary scratchings on the surface, the texture of human imprints, the vestige of human will … how i could relate so vigorously to inanimate objects such as these is not unknown to me as everyday curiosities are to most human consciousness (always take everything for granted, do not appreciate anything, especially the deep grooves beneath their finger nerve endings, the ones they feel beneath thier skin subconscious everyday, the obvious scratches of pain, the words worn into the surface with physical depth and dimension, solidified in more than ink, they carry more weight, but are usually the first one would pass over … merely a giggle to its vague messages of love and irony) because i desire to know myself, i desire to lie in my own piss and shit because it is mine, and i created it, i indulged in the release, i indulged in its consumption, it is a part of me … it is who i am … i created these everyday scars with all my narcissistic insecurity, all its denied vanity, all its waking anxiety and preocuppation, all its reverse psychological bullshit, all its naive ramblings, all its percieved habits of cliche and personal loss … i created this wall surface, this table and chair that i sit in for comfort because i get so tired of standing, my mind flushes its oxygen blood to the toes, and my hands itch to be doing something with the potential and frustration inherent to their very nature:
spindled grasping, clutching, versatile evolutions of nature that they are, a natural machine that took milleniums of trial and error to be firmly stuck at the nubs of my arms, to be fully functional, to be rational and useful … i wonder then are these minds that inhabit these evolutioned bodies a side show experiment of nature still in process? are my personal struggles the repurcussions within the system, the vibrating strings to the larger instrument, the permeating mass of evolutionary struggle to build a machine that is perfectly adaptable because of its ability to change the meaning of perfection as perfection is challenged and created anew?

streams of consciousness i will not take for granted, it is the only true honesty i have with anything nowadays …

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”