Saturday, June 26, 2010

something marginally poetic

A long time ago (quite some years, now) a professor asked me into his office and told me to, "write what you want, and love as if your heart will never stop."

This evening, an ex sent me a message regarding this particular conversation. The message read, "...don't fear love," and went on to say that that professor is dead now: cardiac arrest. No joke.

Wait, here's the punchline: So it goes.

Monday, June 14, 2010

i have real problems that i don't talk about and probably should

I thought for a minute about telling him that I don't love him, even though I do.
It's purely psychological, this tension between my shoulders. I can't turn my head because of what's going on inside.
I want to ask for a backrub, but it seems inappropriate. I say I don't know why I am so tense, and he lists off reasons. My real problem is that I'm always thinking of everything I'm not doing that still needs to be done.
I get less tense when my apartment is clean, so I clean my apartment.
I get very tense when my finances are out of order, which they are right now, but that's just a matter of trasferring money. It used to be so much worse. Still, I fret because I know how bad it was.
I don't have any real problems. People are dying, but no one is dead. Relationships are ending, but they're not over yet. Money is being made. Bills are being paid. Friendships fall by the wayside, as they do, as they do.
I get less tense when I write, so I write.
I get very tense when I talk, so I don't say anything at all.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

what's mine is mine

Taste is the most selfish of all the senses. When I see something, I don't diminish the object by viewing it. When I smell something, I don't take the aroma away with me. When I touch something, I usually leave a bit of myself behind. My hearing something doesn't trap the sound waves or in any way inhibit your ability to hear it.

But taste: you can't taste what I taste. It's gone, forever adulterated by enzymes and teeth, and even if you could, somehow, eat the very same John Wayne Omelette, just as we could see the very same sunset, smell the very same jasmine, caress the very same skin, listen to the exact same Sonics album, you might not like it as well as I did.

And even if we do share the same experiences, there's no accounting as to how we actually experience them. Just because we both recognize red doesn't mean my red is your red.

It's a lonely life sometimes, but it is my lonely life.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

"it takes a lot of woman, yeah, to satisfy my soul"

We were discussing the grandfather clock when I asked what time it was.

This struck Bartender as odd, as we were standing in front of a functioning clock, keeping time perfectly purely by weight.

I saw the arrows. I saw them point. I saw them move. They meant nothing to me.

"It's not time," I tried to explain. "It's a symbol of time."

I can't decide if my brain experiences life too literally or too symbolically to interpret the meaning instantly.

Don't ask me how I've been able to bullshit a thesis on the displaced patriotism within Vonnegut's nihilist motif but can't read an analog clock.