Anyone who thinks there’s something romantic about being apart, about longing, is seriously fucked in the head.
Last night I had one of the most crazy-ass dreams I’ve ever had. It involved mainly a festival-stage with bands I’d never heard of and using HTML tags (I’ve been playing with hand-coded HTML lately) to queue the crowds in an orderly fashion.
- Orthogonally placed stages make for stack-crashes.
- Smurfs can be exploited for personal invisibility technology.
- Trips to Tucscon can be made almost instantly.
- Love is a Dangerous Angel. [Francesca Lia Block]
- I still have NO idea what a Temporal Drug might be used for.
- HTML sucks ass.
I guess that’ll teach me not to “guess” the dosage of NyQuil next time.
It’s so easy to say the wrong thing at a distance..and trample on the other person’s feelings unwittingly. Worse, it’s even easier to hear the wrong thing from a distance, where your insecurities cunningly offer a secret decoder ring which promises to unlock the great mystery called “Now, what did he mean by that, exactly?”
Why is it so easy to fall prey to insecurities? Is it because, even though they’re convincing you that the end is nigh, you’re being convinced of something, given solid ground to stand on instead of being carried at the dizzying heights of deep-down feelings? There’s a false sense of control, it seems, but many of us will seize whatever firmament handed to us because floating on strange seas is hard work.
Stranger still, you might think that absolutes would provide anchor. But the few absolutes I still accept…Love, Wishing, Hope, Trust…somehow seem to make things worse. Maybe because they when you need them most, they’re furthest away.
Maybe this is where Intuition and Faith are supposed to leap in and suss out your wrong turn. And I swear to God (of Biscuits) that I am a strongly intuitive man, like he said we both were. And I promise you that, while Faith does not come easily to me, when it does, it’s There. But both Intuition and Faith have failed me again. They were busy bickering when I really needed them to look at the map and help me navigate. I got lost, strayed from the direct path between Here and There.
Eventually, they got their act together, we’re back on the path. Though I wish to fuck I could remember where the wrong turn happened. You know, so I could actually learn something?
I woke up. You were there.
Knockin’ on the front door.
Cold gets in the things you wear.
So good it’s that time again.
Oh, and I wore rope.
At Real Bad.
FTP tied it on me. It was hot.
Rope burns are hot.
I had a great time yesterday. It was a hard day of drinking, but hey, someone has to do it. Ok, no one has to do it, but I did it. It started with Bloody Marys at the Pilsner at noon and ended up with Red Bulls and Voddy at Real Bad. And I’m not at all hung over, though I am a bit sunburnt.
I met James, at long last, if only briefly. We’ll have to do something about that. Later, there was Jason, who is one damn fine-looking man. That one could get a lot of people in trouble with that smile of his alone. Oh, and I ended the day making out on the dancefloor with a guy named Frank.
My only regret is not having assisted Mike in his Folsom costume on Saturday. I need to be more of a giver.
There are times when you just have to say no to a friend. Much as you might like to please said friend, sometimes the request requires you to give of your own essence, to toss off the fundamental building blocks of your own individuality.
And while this is clearly an option you’re willing to consider, and in fact do follow through on on a regular (or even daily) basis, when the act of giving involves more than your own immediate interests, one must clearly ponder the nobility of purpose in the act. Or at least consider the worthiness of the target.
Certainly friends sometimes overstep the bounds of good taste, even of tasting good. And of course at specific times fashion must be the first-order consideration. But there’s a vas deferens between doing for yourself and doing for others, and sometimes the self must come first, if at all.
This is not to say that in the right mood, with the right music playing (Urethra Franklin comes to mind), all of this is moot.
Thus spake “Mr. Pes”, the Haploid Seaman who, ironically, is a big fan of black tanktops.
So I take it back. The beginning is not the most delicate time. Oh, it’s up there, alright, but the incipient qualities of it, the novelty if you will, keeps reminding you that extra grace is required, special latitude given, that the deep breaths which allow apparent transgression to pass over you and through you must continue.
The End of the Beginning, on the other hand, has no directionality. There aren’t even any walls you can use to prop yourself up or guide yourself along with. In these ways, the End of the Beginning too closely resembles the Beginning of the End. You’re not entirely sure which it is. You begin to believe that it could just go either way. You suppress a panic. Your hopes aren’t aligned with your aim and you can’t herd your wishes into a coherent constellation of thought. You have too much time on your hands to think about the one that all the feelings are about, and consumed by the absence while addicted to the presence.
Trust is called for, it’s the quality of trust that sets the stage for the future, for the time when it all hits its own stride, is able to renew its own momentum. Certain tints of trust breed neediness, just as certain textures of trust put a metaphorical roof over your head. And certain tones of trust play love and others play dirge.
So what shape-color-feel will it be when it gets its legs? Or will it end up still-born?
This morning, while tooling down to Cafe Commons on the Vespa, I was thinking about the American flag. I was thinking that the Dutch flag is also red, white and blue (and even in that order!), as is the British flag.
That led me to thinking that the Dutch influence on our then-inchoate country has been severely underrepresented. Probably our need to set up the Brits as the super-bad-guys.
Which in turn made me think about how inadequate my education was on how exactly the US flag came to be what it is, and who decided. For some reason I thought of Ben Franklin, in particular.
Then later, on BART, on my way to Emeryville (eMary-ville?) I continued in my reading of Foucault’s Pendulum, and on the very next page, was mention of how the flag of the US had been decided upon! It went on to mention the Masons, and how their participation might have led to pentagrams being used.
To quote the book, “But the fact is that it doesn’t take long for the experience of the Numinous to unhinge the mind.”
Can someone please tell me how nine shorts days can kill the comfort of a few years worth of living-alone habits?
I’m sure that work will distract me, but honestly? My house doesn’t fit like it used to. I don’t know where to put myself.
The title of this entry is the title of a song by a band called The Toll. They were heroes of mine in rather ineffable ways. Ironic, that, because it was their language and their music that showed me the way to my own neglected humanity in those awful years when I shut myself down rather than accept myself, my sexuality and suppose that the intangibility of friendships would support my weight.
I don’t remember the words to that Toll song, but I’ll forgive me that because the lyrics were rarely the same, even when performances were only 24 hours apart. I don’t even remember the chorus of it right now, for which my friend Lisa will not forgive me.
Nonetheless, the song title popped into my head, unbidden, as so many blog-promptings do. It’s just how my brain works. I don’t question it. I just use it, exploiting Essential Visitation for the purposes of Accidental Blathering.
Supposing the existence of something like Faith is a very strange exercise if you sit down and actually consider it. Stranger still, we do it all the time. Strangest of all, when left to the subconscious, such supposition is simply Natural.
It’s the implications of supposing that I’m interested in. The notion of supposing implies dependence, continuance, subsequence, consequence. A supposition is a request to join a different reality, if just for a moment: Suppose that East is West, Day is Night, for example, and that sunset turns into a sunrise. Suppose that Jesus (yes, that Jesus) actually had procreated with Mary Magdeline, and that turns the Catholics into a Conspiracy. Suppose that we hadn’t traded authentic righteous indignation into a vengeful and petty bitch-slap of Iraq, and that turns W. into a thoughtful leader instead of a graceless good ol’ boy.
Ahhhh..I just remembered at least part of the chorus of the song: “Faith, Faith! Faith, Faith!” A chant. Of all things. In the positivist world, no one would accept that by repeating a thing you can make it more true. But in the twilight lands of Supposition, anything is true if you agree, even temporarily, that it is true. So the chant evinces the truth. And truth is what we make it.
Home is an Essential. Self is another. Love finishes out the triad. Three is a magic number: three defines an area, a surface, the first glimpses of reality. Four defines space, or volume. And five? Five adds Time to the mix, defines the accidental and allows, for better or worse, Cause and Effect. Before and After.
The Almighty Five. Pentacles, pentagons, Venus, the Sacred Feminine. Phi.
Where have I gone? Suppose I have a reason. Suppose I believe there’s a continuity. Suppose that you understand. Suppose you see the continuity. Suppose you have faith in my reasoning.
Supposition of Faith. Five Steps. What have we done together?