little light, shining

step.

What's wrong with you, girl? Your legs work, use them.

come now, it's ok. come over here, it's all going to be ok.

the voices come through a veil of water. i never see them; they never see me. i see something, a representation, but i can't be sure what it means. they look human. but they say things i can't understand, things that almost make sense, that would make sense if i were like them.

we all are alone. sometimes a lucky couple come through the mist and find each other, but it is more rare than they believe. many imagine they've found each other; so much wishful thinking in this world. they did love their fairy tales when they were young. they still do.

you can hear me.

i have this moment i've wanted, and my mouth hangs open. thoughts fly through my brain but they won't stop. this is how it is. so close. the truth is, i've stopped wanting it. no, it's mixed. part of me still wants the fairy tale. and now i've lost you. but you know, don't you, how hard it is to say? to say anything, to get out that one real thing, get it out whole, so that it still makes sense when it is outside of you. translate it into language, an imperfect medium, and so difficult to master. if only i could speak in music, in shapes, but i cannot. i long to be a master. maybe one day i will put it down, and it will sing.

Dear Kate Bush

the soundtrack: And Dream of Sheep
Under Ice




Heavy with seed, you take me.



here they go again. another lunatic fan. yes and no. but i will be relegated to where i don't belong, of course, of course. trying so hard to say something that will be heard, and to just be, to put words together in a manner that will scream my own name, and take a shape that looks something like me.

i know what you are, you and the others, my imaginary friends. and that's ok. i need imaginary friends, when real ones are beyond my reach. i know you speak to me, i know what it means, when you speak in tongues, and i translate you into my own language, and it becomes mine. it always becomes mine. this is why i cannot speak to the others, though they claim they love the songs as deeply as i do. they love different songs.

it is a magic thing, to give something that can be heard, that i can take for my own. that makes me feel, for two minutes, not alone. though at the same time more alone than i felt before, teasing me with a taste of what it might be like to not feel alone.


It's wonderful. Everywhere, so white...

you are all full of shit

i'm not saying i'm not, but i don't pretend the same things you do. you walk around thinking you're you, that you are something more than a facade, a facade running around powered by the approval of other facades. you will look down on those that are not facades, those who don't have the approval of your spurious peers. most of them warrant looking down on, but not for the reasons you do. most of them simply lack enough intelligence to manufacture that oh so lucrative facade. in short, this dissertation ends the way they always do, lamenting the varying levels of unpalatability of nearly all of humanity.

elevation

I can't say. Life if so many things, all at once. Step back and look. Way back, away from your tiny portion. Imagine. Not pity, that's just another way to not see. Let your tiny life go, step into another. See all of it at once, bustling, struggling. All the life, all of it. Struggling for a toehold, competing. Germs, plants, all of it. The plants are curious, fighting as we do. Against each other, against us, bribing us, all presumably without consciousness. This is indeed strange, but of course in no way indicates a creator, it only indicates a strangeness we do not yet understand. That is all. There is no chariot pulling the sun across the sky. Grow up and realize wanting a thing to be true is a poor excuse for believing. The way you like to pretend humanity is something it is not, something elevated.

message in the ether

it is the idea
it is understanding
it is seeing the horror
and finding a way to go on

i struggle
i reject those who live as if they know
who think their beliefs are paramount
beliefs based only on the desire for them to be true

talk to me
tell me something real

nonsuch

this is what i do. always thinking. always escaping from thoughts. thoughts trying to get free, and then bring me along. to say; such a delicate operation. just the right edge, not too wide, not too narrow. it’s quite a trick. not to confuse, or over saturate. that fine edge we skate along, and we are free then, unbound. a most elegant trick, a supple confusion, filled with just a hint of something beyond our ken, but oh what a something!

i could've been wonderful

But I'm just fucked up. Maybe permanently. How many people does this happen to? Damaged as children, innumerable tragedies. I should have died before, when it would have hurt none but those who richly deserved any pain they might have felt. But I was weak. I've always been weak, not by nature, but weakened. Now I'm stuck here, to make the best of it I can. Gaining strength so slowly, geologically. So by the time I die, maybe, just maybe, I will have a moment in which I will see infinity; then my light will wink out, forever.

anathema

long stretches of nothing

i try to say 

the answer 

but the question 

what was it 

brightly dark 

relentlessly intricate 

half formed 

push ahead 

as if 

it had weight 

and lightness 

an end

pieces

scraps.

these pieces burn. these make me smile. they whirl, they dance. a maelstrom. i try to make sense of it. a blizzard, haphazard. i have been more and less confused for as long as i know.

except those few times. dreamy times. alone. a deer walks by; her eyes contain the peace and sadness and inevitability in life. i want to be away, dreaming, alone, leaving no one. i think of them, these phantoms, not real to me now. they could be all around me real, if i step this way, if i swirl this thought just so. i could help them build their homes, and in doing so, build my own.

fuck jesus

i was beaten down, damaged, crushed to the point that it was all i could do to draw breath. for so long i wanted to stop even that, but i guess there was always the tiniest, most fragile hope that things would get better, and the thought that i could always do it tomorrow. i thought something would happen. some savior would come and change it all. i waited for that. i was conditioned to believe that. jesus. fuck jesus and all the assholes who tell that lie to defenseless children. this lie can allow you accept terrible things, thinking if nothing else, god will make up for it when you die. a decent god would not let me suffer like this indefinitely, leave me in a situation where i am powerless to save myself. he'll be along any day now.

of course i don't really mean fuck jesus, there is no jesus. i only say that to be inflammatory, to piss off the jesus freaks whom i despise.

the weaker i was, the more i was kicked, the more i was dismissed, the more i was taken advantage of. by christians. the "a few bad apples" argument holds no water. it's more like a few good apples mixed in with bad and mediocre apples. bad and mediocre apples masquerading as good apples, all too happy to endorse these fictions if it means their own is validated. this is a sad state of affairs that extends beyond christians, this mutual endorsement of fictitious merit.

the emptiness

I thought I could fill it up. I thought the bitterness would leave if I could do this one thing. But it seems to approach impossibility to be a good parent when you are broken. I have been a good parent, considering. I wait for it to play out, wondering what I could do now.  He has been loved, an accomplishment I do not discount. My greatest fear when I learned I was pregnant was that I would never be able to love anyone, that someone else would have to grow up knowing that pain, filled with this voracious void, a rabid animal all mouth and razor-sharp teeth, stopping only when exhausting itself from ripping at that center where something should be, where something tries to be again and again, futilely.

the folly of youth

They have the arrogant, proud ignorance that can be found in those who have never had to struggle to survive and have reached an age to begin to think, and are so enamored of those incipient thoughts that they tear off in high spirits and overindulge. I imagine they have been overindulged by the type of parents who are forever thinking well of their offspring (and patting themselves on the back for having produced such progeny) in spite of inconvenient facts.

shrinkage

Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. - Anais Nin

cormorant dream

a cake under glass

covered in sickly icing

with blue flowers


they said "oh, how delicious!"



more than anything

i want to decorate it

with this dead cormorant

soaked in black oil

and say

how delicious

imaginary christians

If only they really were as imaginary as their god. But they are here too. It seemed like such an intelligent site, something more than the interminable dross which inundates the internet. I can only hope it is a fluke, a lone lost soul straying from the abundantly available sites which nestle them in placating falsehoods. It seems people are waking up to the damage they inflict on the world; would that i could accelerate the rate.

neutrino love

if i could understand

i could change it all



neutrinos hear my thoughts

they stop their lives
and build me a home

made of waves

i was safe

for .03 seconds

lies

to get past all the lies, then to grapple with the bitterness of the truth along with the deception. once we were young; they could tell us anything. lying is the great american pastime. still they persist. those who prefer not to see are plentiful enough.

a beautiful tortured thing
provokes false empathy
i am beyond rage
this is humanity
after all

open

here it is. still. it won’t go away. the wound. it opens less now. I think it festers, always. sometimes it seems better. I rise above; it doesn’t hurt. I can see the future. it is bright and open. I just have to take it. but it won’t stay. it keeps opening.

triggers.

and it opens.

still there. old, very old. all the desperation, desperate moves to get away. then giving up. rat in a cage, being shocked. no escape. just settle down, let it hurt, no escape. and the desperation, you spit on it, you laugh, you sneer. you fucking, fucking assholes. worthless, so much more worthless than what you look down on. born under a wing, knowing nothing, fucking nothing of anything real. run about, buy trinkets, suck each others dicks.

you think you feel real things, so sure of it. sad face, happy face, just faces.

you can’t help not knowing, the wing never knew either, and you, under its shadow, can’t see out. don’t mistake it. but you can’t hear. you will anyway, think you can hear. you can’t hear me tell you that you can’t hear. I wish you could hear that much. so you could know, just a little.

irony

I have forever been fruitlessly agonizing over the meaning of this strange life. To understand where I fit in it; how to maneuver around these others that vaguely resemble me. I have wasted a lot of time, of life this way. I have made some headway, but not enough to balance what was put in.

The world around me is humming, while all around lay artifacts of my confusion. I stand ready to move, to clear the rubble and then, then I don’t know. I’ll step into something new.

the right life?

There is another side. The side that wants to find someone uncorrupted, someone who gives me hope that there is more than I have seen. To find that young person and help them, lift them up, help them to stay above the horde and soar. I know they are out there, but they are so hard to find. A needle in a stack of needles.

(N)ever

It was going badly. So it was only a matter of degree. Not only, as if only a difference of mere unhappiness or agony; only a difference of discomfort and misery. How badly it would have gone I could only guess. “If only” never matters. It was.

Still, I imagine the day before and the day after. Always, this old movie in my head, filled in with memories of memories. Always sad, the pain always stronger, more poignant than what happiness I’m sure there was, what must have been a milquetoast happiness, mild and unremarkable. And I try to trace a trajectory of where I would have gone. It could well have been worse. I never considered that before. But I remember vague plans I had to escape my unhappy circumstances that might possibly have been realized had I not been shocked into a two year long catatonic state. Probably not worse than what happened, but one never knows.

He could have done worse to me had he lived. The things he did do, the ones I shrugged off as inconsequential, though they weren’t, had he stayed, he could have improved upon. Any number of things, from actively damaging me further, to abandoning me, even though alive. Mon Frere.

There was a sister, a mother, a father, who ranged from useless to destructive.

Now, how can I, with all of this, imagine you? How could you, no matter how well I tell my tale, imagine me? How are we to weigh each other?