down in me

I was feeling lonely and worthless and so I remembered to return to my oft neglected BLOG (because that is after all what this is, is it not?) and plaintively plead for, if not your undying love and slavish devotion, then at least your half-hearted acknowledgement of my insipid existence.

But hello. Hi. I want confirm right here and now that I am in love. Foolishly, this is not a further attempt to gain your pert and perky attentions. This, I cross my black heart, is quite straightforwardly a statement of unequivocal FACT. I am in love and I am sure you are wondering with whom. Well wonder no more, for I shall tell you with whom.

The most fortunate object of my undiluted affections is YOU. That’s right, you, my darling. You, you and none but you.

Yes, this fortuitous turn came to light - a flash! - while I was lounging on the loo, as one does, with one’s panties around one’s ankles and one’s elbows resting on one’s knees, contemplating utter meaninglessness when it struck me smack dab in the middle of my [sexily] furrowed brow: love.

Love love love love, love from which no man would shy, for in the face of adversity one need only look in the texts of history and there one finds love nothing but love, irrevocably etched into the annals of yesteryear. The revered loved one for whom nothing is denied, for whom angels shiver in song, for whom stars - the very supernovae! - live and die, etc, etc. For when one is loved, one has need of nothing else.

And so my sweet, sweet and no doubt slightly skeptical darling, let it be recorded here for all posterity. My bounty is, in the words of the ubiquitous William Shakespeare, boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.

The salt’s gone hard, in the cellar
Salt for one, too much salt for one
Once salt was expensive
And hard to come by
Wasn’t it? Salt?
Like spices
Like thick milk in glass bottles
But I don’t remember that
Myself
I’m dipping into
The saline consciousness
Of humanity

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Who are you?”

“A person.”

“What can you do for me?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing?”

“Oh.”

“Where are you going?”

“Over there.”

Check it: xTx (aka Mega Hotness) felt sorry for me and included me in her fun-as-a-finger-fuck Elephant Summer. I do not think exclamations of yay! are out of place at this delightful news.

This boy is one of those people who have no chin, who take everything as a personal affront to their crooked nose. This boy’s face makes him look unintelligent so he hides it. This boy, he is lonely. His face produces facts his body cannot fathom. This boy’s only companionship is the joke. This boy, he chases the everyone dream, he lives in spirit, his face begets sadness. His face a face so big, he can’t see beyond his sallow cheekbones. Yet this boy you can see coming. This boy goes to the game to climb the cheerleaders. He doesn’t play, but this boy’s not on the bench. This is the kind of boy who ages bitterly, accumulating only products. This boy’s mouthwash is meaningless. For a heart, this boy has a feather pillow. For a thought, this boy thinks about your sleepovers. This boy feels rejected by rocks.

by Patty Chang (via Beautiful Decay)

Hi,

I have been going through a thing. But my god I miss you. I think about everything we don’t share and I feel crazy happy. Or neutral. I am remiss. It is easy to back and forth all day with nothing to show for it at night. I wanted to tell you that True Blood made me homesick. I recall my hatred and it feels like love of a sort. Always was an escape artist.

I meant to do these things more: travel, write, write, travel, blow bubbles. I did the last one again yesterday (thank-you Jereme). I go through cycles where I forget to play, to be a kid, to masturbate with a strange hand; skip to my own lou. I don’t know what a lou is, but I think I need one. A man sat to my right and sang a song. I loved him more in fifteen seconds than I’ve loved myself in twenty-nine years. I’m thirty-one.

Thing is, I don’t remember which arc of the circle I’m on, I just continue, round and round. I fear the judgement often gets to me and gets me to stop what I want. Even where I felt most free. I now feel like wasting time, like losing fights, but not hopeless. After all that looking over my shoulder and freaking out I’m just calm or numb, something uninspiring. Like the quiet after a hurricane: fresh and battered. Ramshackle torn. Salty. Immobile. This isn’t justification, though. Just a thing to go through. Like everything.

I must wrap up for now. I must tend to more mundanity.

Love,
 Ani

Rounding the bend in his fast blue car she didn’t feel fearless. She never felt fearless in the passenger’s seat. The passenger is out of control. He asked whether she was nervous and quietly she smiled, tightly gripping leather. She had wanted to appear fearless, seating arrangement notwithstanding.

Had she had a premonition? It is quite possible. In hindsight, anything can be translated in terms of foreboding. In hindsight, their love was plastic, flat. But who’s to say what the properties of love should be?

He took the curve too tightly, too steeply, too suddenly. An oncoming car. A tree. Your usual. Blue like crushed paper hugging thick, ragged tree trunk. Girl pinned to the seat by large stabbing branch through her flimsy chest. Glass. Cuts. Contusions. Etc.

He shook. He cried. He did all the expected things: sat blankly, screamed a little, asked for God, begged for forgiveness, cursed. She only stared. Every so often she’d lower her eyelashes like intricate Spanish fans casting long dark shadows on her cheekbones. Gingerly she’d finger the blood spurts, looking more confused than in pain. Dribbling streams from the corners of her pale mouth. Her brows bushy caterpillars, crawling toward each other in shock.

His love-plastic melted, running rivers in tandem with her insides. I’m sorry, oh, God. I’m so sorry. Her eyes said, it can’t be helped, Jack. It can’t be helped.