Yeah. Since rubbing the inside of my brain has made me forget what it was I was going to write about, and my usual inspiration is silent while I wait for the music to start, I suppose I should come up with something clever and funny just to prove to myself I could summon some kind of expository talent at will. This in turn was an idea born of a strange look directed towards yours truly as I drove home from the slave labor camp, I mean office. (Speaking of which, am I the only one who plays harmonica while I drive? The day is crowded and practice time is hard to find. Besides, haven’t you ever seen anyone smoke a cigarette while playing harmonica and driving? Does it require you to illustrate your curiosity with a face that looks like your about to either scream or orgasm?)
So, needless to say, that really set the afternoon off to a fine mix of wonder and comportment, though I doubt the other driver felt that way. Still, no harm, no foul, besides, maybe he just had an infection in his dick-hole and I’d hate to get mad at a man angered over a dick-hole infection. Most likely, he’d be a vulgar man intent on sharing his misery. Maybe he would be the type to throw a brick through a window. Maybe he’d be the passive’aggressive type, smiling at my off-key harping while planning to stab me in the big toe with some souvenir letter opener he picked up in Nashville. Also, it’s possible he just had a shitty day, and saw something he didn’t understand. So, that being the case, I’ll take the look as a compliment.
This line of thinking led me into a reexamination of the last couple of years. Before moving back here in June of 2005, I had two years in Blacksburg getting a second undergrad degree. Plus, I wasn’t ready to stop partying after the first degree and couldn’t make the jump to grad school. (I’m told that I am not smart enough. Ironically, this may be more true than I first thought. Never-mind that.) For those that haven’t had the pleasure, Blacksburg is a pseudo-charming town that without the university would simply be a truck stop on I-81. That aside, the town is a fun place to visit, and if it had an economy, it would be a great place to live. Plus, living close to a college campus is definitely a plus from a cognitive standpoint, something largely missing from this oh-so-pleasing locale.
It was an awesome place to be. While there were a few emergencies here and there, mostly it was place where as strange as I could be, there would always be another oddball nutjob who was crazier and wilder than myself. This was of some comfort, because it’s nice to know where you stand on the sliding scale of mental health. At one point, I walked everywhere and enjoyed the finest in low budget pleasures available to the commoner in all of us. It was a slow paced existence where my insolence was tolerated, plus I worked in a store infested with low-life types such as myself, and some of the stories they told were just insane. I’m sure there were things I disliked about my life in the burg, but fuck me they’re long forgotten now.
Moving up here was like amputating my soul. With few exceptions, I have no use for this general area, and while I will use it to my own benefit until I’m able to get on to the next locale I doubt I could ever say much positive for suburbia in general, or NoVa in particular. (I haven’t lived anywhere for longer than two years since the mid 90’s. What can I say, I’m easily bored and have the attention span of a flea.) Still, there are perks to this area, and being centrally located between New England and Florida has made travelling easier. I think my chief problem with living in Northern Virginia is my stupid high school pledge to go anywhere to escape good old Don’t Go, VA. The only emotion this locale brings to mind is failure, and that does make a lot of sense. Still, it burns me to no end, though it’s not too late to get out, so I suppose summary judgement is premature.
WOW! EEEEeeeek! That’s good. The direct path has never really been something I put much faith in. I’ve been a late bloomer to every stage of my existence, so putting some sort of time constraint on judgements is kind of retarded. Still, wandering takes time, and after listening to my blond friend explain the finer points of inertia expressed in behavior and broken promises, I’m forced to assume that whatever the brand of realization she’s peddling (my guess is a breakdown of cognitive dissonance. It’s a dangerous thing to lose, because we base our concept of reality on it’s faulty footing. I’d offer examples, but let’s not name name’s or injure pride.) is something that was aroused somewhere between an early morning wake-up and hitting snooze on her biological clock. Nothing wrong with that of course, we’re all allowed to choose, at least theoretically.
(cigarette break, and time to ponder.)
But the symbolism of the path stays with me, continually occurring across mountains and rivers, a billion footsteps around a sphere with no logic or goal, just watching. It’s something of a mixed blessing, living in an analogy. In the most obvious of ways, it forces such constant comparisons that allegorical thinking becomes limiting rather than expansive. I’d break it down like this. There is a part of me that understands individuals to be cumulative expressions of billions of statistical probabilities. Another part argues diametrically, positive that individuals are unique spirits able to dream and suffer simultaneously, able to produce an Auschwitz or an artistic representation of the artist as a female (Mona Lisa) Of course, there are other ideas as well. Maybe individual homo sapiens are simply the physical representation of an ecological niche. Perhaps humans are only the end result of chemical process and gaseous exchange. It’s never been conclusively proven that homo sapiens isn’t simply a temporary step on the evolutionary ladder (though accepting evolution would imply that obvious conclusion.) The point isn’t that there are many possibilities, but that each can seem equally possible depending on the wider context.
The part that trips me up the most is resolving the resultant effect on life in a day-to-day sense. Regardless of what any armchair psychologist tells you (and I should know, I’m a damn good armchair psychologist.) action is always motivated by belief. If you watch people long enough, you’ll start to notice the people who believe something that exerts an overtly positive effect on their life. As a behaviour/belief it is more commonly called “self-confidence” and is often lauded as a step on the road towards good mental health. However, self-confidence is more appropriately understood as the mental and physical manifestation of belief in one’s own abilities/skills/talents/etc. The reason that psychiatrists try to steer a patient towards this belief is because it becomes a powerful method of controlling action. (This of course relies on a more streamlined concept of group thinking where it is accepted that actions are judged either “good” or “bad” by the overall effect of the behavior on the group and it’s reproductive power. Not desiring another tangent, feel free to email me if you care to argue.)
So if we establish that the innate belief in the abilities of the self is a force for actions that result in a positive societal judgement, does it follow that the self-doubt is an equal motivator for negative or harmful actions? Aside from the obvious fault of dualism implied by the theory, there is a reason to think that self-doubt can boast differing resultant effects due to the wide variety and firmness of doubt. The very existence of psychic doubt can be extremely localized, or all encompassing. I would assume doubt offers a chance for the mind to catch up to the unconscious and utilize a higher degree of rationality, although that would in turn be dependent upon individual acceptance of mental accuities. Still, in the right context, I would submit that doubt can be as much a motivator for positive action as confidence. That would make a good essay question, if only for the unintentional humor of reading deep seated psychological ramblings by people with no idea of what it is they reveal with an answer to that type of question. (Tee Hee Hee. Is that funny to anyone but me?)
Despite wandering from my overall point, this the type of mental masturbation that interferes with any sense of normality to life. I hope anyone reading this understands that statement is not a complaint, but an explanation. When my head is in the clouds, or I fade out during a conversation, or just stare (which I am prone to do, it’s the voyeur in me) it’s usually because someone said something that hadn’t occurred to me, or that I simply hadn’t thought about. Since it would be impossible to sit and explain what I’m actually thinking about without boring someone half to death with strange curiosities and the irrelevance of random connections, I usually try to lie and give a smart ass answer, but I’m a lousy liar, so, I get the feeling a lot of people think I’m a rather fake person. (Though certainly, at times, that is true, but aren’t we all? This is where I can still hear a voice from the past asking me why I was born without tact.) At any rate, I try to remember it doesn’t matter what someone thinks of me, but I’d much rather be disliked for who I actualy am and not the person I pretend to be. It’s the romantic in me.
This ramble is getting long, and I’m all ready for another cigarette. Oh well, there’s always more to write later and by now, if you’re still reading this random and meandering exploration of terra drewwa, well hat’s off. I should stress that anything written here is likely only a temporary conclusion. Well, that should be obvious, but just in case it isn’t, can’t hurt to state clearly. Someone once called me flighty (honestly not sure who it was, long time ago, etc., etc.) and that was the general point of these rambles. Truth be told, I spend most of my time so confused that I barely even know how to react sometimes. Hard to keep much constancy, but life is still preferable to the alternative, and what the hell, does anybody really know anything? Well, I know The Simpsons are on, and I want a cigarette. That will have to do for now.
Filed under: Philosophy
So, the choice was freedom. I suppose I should break my rule and give some hint as to why, but truthfully, there’s only a certain amount of myself that I’m willing to expend before simply cutting myself out of a given situation, and I think I reached my limit the night before thanksgiving. This would have been easier had the word been given three months ago, but since you can’ really count on anyone simply admitting what they might be thinking on any given day, I won’t waste the time or breath on the things I wish I could say. So, no more chasing windmills, especially the expensive ones, because when you get right down to brass tacks, I may as well get something other than shitty vibes before extending a hand to help someone. Yeah. I feel really good about this, and this time, it will work out without anything more than casual indifference to to those that probobly couldn’t care less. Fuck all that shit, the truth is I’m too good for all of this. Oh, it is motherfucking good to be free.
So, with business looking like it will take off, and my minted resume ready to spread across the land, it is off to the next clusterfuck, this one isn’t any fun anymore. Fun is the only thing I will insist on, and the only standard I’ll hold myself and others too.
Filed under: Uncategorized
On this most thankful of holidays, it seems apropriate to come up with a list of things that pleased me over the last year. Obviously, I am not going to give thanks to the minor incidients sof displeasure that occur from time to time, but pleasure is both appreciated and rewarded, though I’m not sure that my giving of thanks is worth much monetarily. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s not worth shit in a money sense, but that’s why we give thanks, it’s free. If it cost money, it would be Christmas or Chanukah. Thank god I’m an atheist.
At any rate, I should mention that being an atheist, I’m not exactly sure who it is I’m thanking, so this offer of thanks is only applicable to the people who shared the responsibility for the pleasure I encountered. I don’t want these tidings of gratitude intercepted by the invisible man crowd.
All these various explanations aside, it would seem we can begin. I was going to listy all the music, movies, books, and other items that brought me inspiration and to whom I owe a debt of grattitude for sharing new ideas and perspectives, but I can’t imagine anyone is that interested in reading it, and I don’t remember half of it at any given time, so let me simply say I enjoyed many different songs, books, movies, etc. If for nothing else, it is always nice to be able to escape into someone else’s mind when mine gets too cluttered. I apprecaite that.
I’m really not into expressing those wide sentiments of congeniality that people occasionally send out en masse. For the most part, it seems crass, not to mention a little insincere, since at any given time, we mean what we say to somewhat select audiences, and besides, I think I shat out most of my interest in emotional disreality years ago. So, to those that have been good friends, I appreciate it, you are indeed the bees knees/cat’s pajama. To those that don’t like me, kiss my ass. To those that are neutral in any assessment/acceptance of me, I appreciate that too, since by choosing to forego causing me any problems or agita of any kind you don’t make my life any more fucked up, which is more than I can say to the people that actively fuck me over. Not so you. You neutral people are the goods. Here’s to you.
Well, that covers people and things, all that’s left is the pleasures of existence. There are so many palaces and scenes that make things interesting, and keep me not only thoughtful and entertained but also ever more convinced that accidental existence does noeed a cause. For me, freedom will always come from the knowledge that life and and existence is not constricted. To wit: Everything that is, is. Simply arousing a positive or negative reaction lets anyone know that somehow, existence touches us all. With any luck at all, I figure I’m about a third of the way through life (assuming a little luck and of course the law of averages.) Mostly, I’[m thankful I’m such a lucky bastard, and that more often than not, things work out pretty well. There’s some shit, and I probobly bitch and moan way over what I’m entitled to, but realistically, we American’s are a rather whiny breed of human. Fuck it dude, it’s thanksgiving, and I am a lucky bastard.
Filed under: Poetry
when you want
of course i’d have to ask your wants,
your wants i’d want to know,
all the things that you ain’t got
your wants first fast then slow
all the buried treasure wants,
there is your mouth to feed,
the things you say you need to want
the needs you want to need
maybe i could dream your wants
these lives you want to live,
stillness wants desire wants
for the wants you want to give
for each small want a larger want
grows behind it in a line
but when you want the larger want
it seems you need more time
asiago flavored colored wants
that taste and dream and want
and triangles want oblong shapes
the wants stretched oh so taunt
truthfully there’s little to give
to sate the wants you tell
so just want me the way you want
to ring out your wanting bell
i’d gladly mix your wants with mine
my silence wants your voice
tied up and convergent wants
forever wants your choice
one single want i have wants you
is all i want to keep
the rest is yours to want or need
or want in dreams you sleep
most poetry ain’t worth a want
who wants confusing words
placated calm wants straightend wants
simple wants soft curves
for now my want’s just patience
though i want to need your light
all these wants i subtley want
you want the timing right
though i never want to leave your wants
for it is your wants i need
almost perfect wanting you
to watch your wants be freed
From the Journal of Sir Marshmellow Trowell
A late night brings on strange thoughts. Looking around at the people that make up the world that presents itself to me upon waking each morning, the similarities are at first hidden, only slowly revealing themselves after years spent patiently watching and listening to the words, gestures, and actions of those around me. As the similarities between homo sapiens became more defined and my own understanding of motivations and rationale’s grew deeper, it began to seem that rather than each person being truly a unique blend of characteristics, it would be equally true to say there are as many similarities between humans as there are differences.
Rest assured I do not intend to explore every last difference and similarity between our shared species. Instead, returning to a subject that is old hat to those kindly souls who read this humble journal, the above paragraph is meant as an introduction to an idea. Kicking around the outer reaches of my imagination is an image of a person looking backwards. To the front of the person is darkness, and behind this person is light. With eyes fixed squarely over a shoulder the person stares into the light, trying to organize it, identify it, parse it into ever smaller chunks to facilitate knowledge, and some foolish idea we call truth. This person could be male or female, of any characteristic or background. In short, the person could be anybody. But before we examine the image further, lets start with a more thorough examination of our shared existence.
One of the drawbacks to being human is a natural reliance on the past to set our expectations for the future. It is the cause of much of the suffering and stupidity that infects the world, and does little to help us in our quest for theoretical happiness. The problem isn’t that memory and experience are inadequate indicators of the what, when, how, and why of life, but that after enough experience/memory is established, it begins to warp our perceptions by defining what we think of as limits to our own abilities and possibilities. It sounds almost counter-intuitive, but many of the limits (and by extension our hopes, dreams, and expectations) are simply a psychological response to our ever changing surroundings. As children, we have nothing to rely on to guide our mental, physical, and emotional connections to the world around us. As we grow and experience love, hate, fear, bravado, and the rest of the myriad emotions that characterize our ability to feel, and from this the ability to think. we become overly reliant on what happened yesterday, or last year, or even decades in the past. While it does serve a survival purpose (i.e. we know how to obtain food or relieve pain because we can emulate the actions taken in the past to satisfy direct material needs) it also imposes a distinct border between what is known (i.e. experienced) and what we think of as “possibility.” One of the most distinct examples of these limits are an individual’s connection to other people. (We’ll leave social classification and familial ties for another day.) It seems unnecasary to belabor the point that each of us has been shaped by the reactions we have encountered throughout all the various interpersonal relationships during our lives and the feelings we have experienced regarding those feelings. Why is it so obvious that some people have such issues with trust, intimacy, love, and billions of other possible emotional results of actions and beliefs? The answer should be obvious. While discounting genetic predisposition (We won’t be rehashing the nature/nurture argument at this time) there is still the end result of millions of interactions between ourselves and others. Obviously, this continuously changing identity that makes each of who we are will not be the same tomorrow as today, or next year, etc. However, by defining our expectations based solely on what we have firsthand experience with, each of us humans does a wonderful job drawing ever closer to the self-imposed borders of what we think is possible.
OK, back to the image of a person looking backwards into the light. Dropping my inherent use of symbolism for a moment, the image is the end result of what I’ve learned about my species based on my own interactions and experiences over the past 26 years, 10 months, and 18 days. Every human (myself included) gets so caught up in developing an understanding of whats already happened in life (our theoretical past) that the very idea we may have no method of preparation or readiness for what comes next becomes something impossible to relate to or acknowledge, because it requires us to disregard what we know in favor of what we can’t yet see. Add to that the rest of our shared existence that, from a biological and psychological perspective, not only urges, but forces us to use our limited knowledge to engage the process of learning and you have a fairly strait-laced system that is almost impossible to think outside of. After a certain amount of life, everything outside certain self-identified and defined possibilities is either ignored or assumed to be dangerous changes to our immediate safety and well being. This may ensure survival, but not love, joy or happiness.
Finally, my point to all of these rather odd observations. Most people, when asked, admit that the existence of the notion of “love at first sight” as if this was some powerful all consuming experience that we become aware of only after seeing another human and discovering we share beliefs, ideas, or a physical appreciation, etc. Let me dispute the very basis for this experience with another theory. (Relax, I believe in love, and in every other emotion we humans are capable of experiencing. I just disagree with sight or physical proximity being the catalyst for the mutual experience.) So, if we accept that we are the end result (even if it is a temporary and ever lengthening end) of our mental, spiritual, intellectual, physical, etc., experiences, and that these form our limitations as well as our conceptions of the possibilities in life, then what if the experience of love at first sight is something that exists to cover the more likely explanation (in the mind of Sir Trowell) that we are already in love with our future partner, we simply don’t know it. At least, not on a conscious level. In fact, before an experience of proximity or simply crossing paths with someone, we may not know what our reaction will be, or the reasons why. However, what we do know is the old joke about existence being constant preparation for the unknown still to come in the future may be more realistic than our actions would indicate. It may not be love at first sight, but if that is the situation you seek, no matter what your own appraisal of your readiness or possibility is, it seems far easier to believe that the foundation of the emotional reaction, even to a completely unknown person, is already begun. To my own understanding, the process doesn’t require sight, or any other sensation. It only requires your own continued existence. Other than that, the whole process is automatic, a simple combination of enough people, enough life experience, and enough time to build the unconscious reaction that is brought to the surface when our own actions and reactions go from subconscious to conscious.
At the same time, I often wonder why the past is given such authority over the future. Part of it is simple conditioning I would guess, no different from Pavlov and his dog. Part of it is almost certainly a genetic predisposition to certain stimuli. But leaving cause aside, it seems it would be a valuable skill to be able to mentally/psychologically free ourselves as individuals from the limits of our experiences. Obviously, the natural question is how would one go about this sort of radical change in perspective. I’m sure it won’t surprise you that I have a theory on that as well. Simply accepting, (and here I
want to be as clear as possible, so bear with me as I repeat this) the idea that we are no more limited by the past than we are by the present. If you are under the impression that the present is some sort of similar prison to the past, look around at the rest of the people in your line of sight. How many are engaged in process based behavior with the understanding that while the present cannot be changed, the future can. (Process based behavior is any behavior that seeks to effect change by following a proscribed regiment of activities/behaviors. this includes dieting, working out, working extra hours to save extra money, etc.)
Again, the problem arises when the past and our memories/conceptions of it become confining rather than liberating. Again, I will point out the example of jealousy, old emotional aches and pains, and the recurrent inability of many of us to trust under specified conditions that remind of the time we were hurt by someone else. To wit: Many people tend to associate certain circumstances with a personal tragedy or success. This isn’t a problem until our ability to think and act is impaired by what we assume rather than an honest assessment of a new situation. Personally, I’ve always struggled to conquer the idea that sometime in the past, things were “better” or “simpler” or “easier” than my current situation. The only benefit that can come from this pathetic attempt to control the future is to seal myself off from new and different possibilities in the future. Lately, it does not seem worth it. However, I’m running far longer than I intended, and the hour is too late to simply ramble, so let me close with a few questions, some of which have no answer (yet…anything is possible. Haven’t you been reading?)
Is it fear, discomfort, or some other reason we cannot discard our stubborn habit of building a future by our considerations of the past? Isn’t life more interesting, more fun, and a higher expression of our shared humanity if we can find some method of shrugging off past heartbreak and hurt and approaching comes next with the ability to learn from our mistakes but not be a prisoner to them? Is the law of no second chances written in stone, or simple grey paper? Is it better to love half-hearted out of fear rather than using as much of our hearts as our brains when dealing with other people? The only
thing that is somewhat certain (remember, here, we don’t trust certainty because certainty is as much a mirage as the desert oasis.) is that we stand a far better chance of success in love, money, or any other aspect of our shared existence if we learn not to repeat our mistakes but also stop fearing the possibility that we may make them multiple times before we get life right. Success and satisfaction are ideas we can only define for ourselves, but it’ll be over my dead body if the fear of the unknown will ever determine my actions, thoughts, emotions, or beliefs. With all the petty hatreds, anger, jealousy, cynicism and inequity that can be so easily found with hardly a casual glance, there is no reason to ignore the beauty, kindness, love, and idealism that is equally spread throughout the world. Why worry about the unknown when anything could happen? The limitations are in our own minds, not a barrier existing outside of our psyche. There is no greater feeling than to love without the worry of possible pain, or to trust without the fear of disappointment, or to give without the fear of not receiving. I insist on beauty, but the power to define it, to recognize it, or to amplify it is mine, same as it is for you. That may be the most beautiful simplicity of all, yet the image of a person staring backwards into a lighted past while cowering from the darkness is still as strong and obvious as ever here in the valley. We are all human, we all share the same frailties and the same strengths. We are unique, but we aren’t alone. We can learn but also retain our ability to trust, love, and care beyond the temporary setbacks and heartbreaks that will invariably occur throughout our existence. For everyone who has already given up trying to dream of more than treading water and surviving, I would only ask, why reject the positive/good aspects of life by making assumptions that we’ve seen this movie before and the ending was too painful to watch again. The romantic ideal may be slowly disintegrating in the minds of dilettantes, but the kernel of possibility and scattered acceptance that this time be different should keep it alive as long as it is still needed. From my vantage point, it may be more important now than ever before. But then, I suppose that is also up to you.
(this Journal was inspired by the first 3 pages of Augusten Burroughs’ “Possible Side Effects”)
Sir Marshmellow Trowell
Filed under: love n' luck
The evening’s conversation brought back a gentle couple of days just before Thanksgiving, already many years ago. Drift back to a suite in Ocean City, affordable only because of the time of year and the relatively slack demand for lodging in the City, but perfect, fitted with every amenity and luxury, and a perfect view from the cold porch. We were overlooking the beach, gathering a few moments of peace before the onslaught of family and friends gathering for another forgettable holiday meal and the relaxed atmosphere of winter on the shore. The stores were all closed, as were most of restaurants, but we found a little hole in the wall sort of crab shack with paper on the tables and good food spilling from the kitchen. The kind of place with hot sauce already on the table when we sat down and mallets, picks and other implements close at hand for ripping the flesh out of crab and lobster shells. Fried clams, beer, and a long lost lover appearing as if by magic (it was actually by plane, but let’s not ruin the moment; there isn’t enough romance in this world as it is, and I’m not going to destroy any more of it with rationalism in the face of temptation and desire.)
The long ride from BWI to the beach passed quickly while Springsteen sang about glory days and falling in love at the drive-in. As the miles dripped away, that icy distance slowly melted, dissipating to leave a close and warm feeling of connectedness, hardly ever felt since that long day’s drive. After dinner, rushing back to the hotel to escape the brutal cold in our magnificently appointed suite, dancing to the music on the radio and promising all kinds of crazy promises that would be broken later, but kept for the duration of the moment, each far more important than some petty forever that doesn’t even really exist. The conversation is still ringing in my ears, almost the same as the longing for that first yes to the question every human asks (except for the ascetics, but fuck them, because they won’t do it themselves.) It isn’t important who said what,
“Should we go out? I don’t know; maybe walk on the boardwalk or something?”
“It’s cold as hell out. No. Fuck that, I have an idea. Come here and stop smiling.” (The smile was that devil-may-care look she could give at will, the look that says “You’ll be mine because I want you and there ain’t nothing you can do about it.” That look could break a heart or reassemble the shards and fragments into the six million dollar heart.)
“Why?” (‘Why’ is a question real lovers shouldn’t ask, but exceptions can be made at times. This was one of those times.)
“Because I want to see you. I want you to stand next to me so I can see you in the dark.”
She disrobed, leaving a pile of clothes sprayed in a small circle at her feet. Stepping fully in front of the large widow overlooking the
Atlantic, she twirled in the moonlight, lifting and twisting to show off her desire, clutching and grabbing at fabric, and under the fabric, at desire itself.
“Maybe I just want to stay home and fuck you until we collapse. Maybe I been thinking about this for months, and maybe all I want is you inside, and me around.” Her sensual voice dropped an octave, turning husky and sultry, the best that anyone could ever dream of in that turned on sort of way. My defenses were down, and I moved to join her in the light reflected off rock dust and water.
Trying to play it cool was no good, there wasn’t a drop of cool left in me; instead the heat, far from being oppressive or stultifying was sensual and slow, enveloping me in a fog like moment that seemed to stretch out before us, aching for preparation, almost foreplay without a touch, the mental kind of messing around that lifted every hair on the back of my neck with sweet desire for the form in front of me. She was all reds and pinks, all soft and wet, all desire and lust and love and back from far away. The rest of the night was all tongues, sweat, sensation, movement, climax, then repeat. The last thing I remember is the feel of her tongue wrapped around mine, showing without telling while laying like a cat pressed against me. We slept off the distance, letting it fall away.
Waking up in the sunlight streaming in from the unshaded window, pressed next to my bete blanc. I watched her sleep and was amazed. I wish I knew what she was dreaming, but for the moment, for one seemingly long moment, it didn’t matter. In the morning we made love in the light, slower, and without the idealism of the previous evening. Distance already shattered, the climax could have smashed glass windows and shattered eardrums. The dam burst, wet and sweet against pulling flesh and red lines down her back from fingernails trying to cling to the moment. It soon slipped away, but the memory was stuck, a hint of a taste on a tongue and the sound of a yes from lips. The background music was slight and low, but the words “Don’t worry baby” echoed out from small speakers, and for a few minutes, there was nothing to worry about.
soulful whispers in an empty cafe
the borders of your soul
stand unguarded in this
unhealthy light,
where the black poison
spreads as oil across
ground pocked with footsteps.
your hatred stands absolved,
living like some breathing
statue selfish,
detesting foolish efforts
to find the common threads
tying my hand to yours.
still, pathos can be amusing,
in that Satre stare into the barrel
of a gun sort of way,
but part of me knows
the trigger finger
would tighten as the volume shot upwards.
such a cowardly method of
the disposal of old ways,
old movements depreciating,
straight mean, the little ball of
anger made of venom and vinegar.
quick stillness on the tip of
razor blade justice,
disallowing misshapen forward progress
when you spit in my direction,
an affirmation of your frustration;
when you could tell me to leave
without reason.
the solace weight crimson letters
you send are revelations
the itinerary silent on
ramifications,
i’ll bet you think you’ve done better,
but i won’t bet the farm.
so the losers come and go
where your opaque heart
says nothing, but beats
onward, rejecting the wholesomeness,
the dirty angel wearing no clothes
and a bemused look;
contemplation of your particular gifts
is not my strength,
simple solutions abound,
the callous nature
of what you want
when you paint pictures of birds
leaving the nest,
maybe i’m one in love,
after your curiosity is sated
by your propensity to lick bloody tears
while looking better than ever…
who is to blame for miscommunication?
when i did all the talking
and made the promises,
spending time on the premise,
wanting to lick your soul,
tangle my arms,
feel you wet and shaking
tightly pressed above my frame
alas, a name, the simplest title,
your gaze across my eyes, seemingly frightened
and disgusted by the boy
with the silver streaks in his hair,
waiting with a pleasing smile,
for times to change
and you to see
the voices and hear
the words
of soulful distinction
From the Journal of Sir Marshmellow Trowell
New names for old faces, the continual reminder that change is the only constant, and illicit rumors of past glory still lighting up the night sky. Fatal reminders of old discussions and broken promises, something in the way she moves that says more than her words, so tired, but a new found anger with a hair trigger and the guts to match. These odd estrangements of publicity and mediocrity so fine tuned past the point of rescue, images unseen for years without end, and coffee talk that pretends to be some substitute for truth.
Still, having fallen into some sort of disrepute over the passing months is no reason to abandon the hopeful exhuberance that crowds logic and reason and leaves the field to aesthetics and appreciation. Certainly, there are times that call for the abandonment of past thrills in preperation for something or someone new, and while it would be foolish to put put any kind of real faith in signs or prophecies, the evidence points to a new idea, desperately seeking new acceptance. Amidst this controversy of past and present is the troubling theory advanced in response to the general malaise inspired by slow rhythms and loud homages to obscure beliefs.
Trying to balance the two (or, to be honest, four) competing desires for flesh and bones is the odd commodity where one member gets what he wants while several are denied what they need. This should bother me more than it does, save for the fact that the navy blockade seems to be getting tighter by the minute. Does that make this situation fair? I would submit that it does. Seeking clarification only brought on tyrrany, and lord knows we have enough of that to go around without more of scattered and driven around for kicks. Who is really important here anyway? If you can answer that sir, you’re a better man than I.
All told, the situation is brutal but beautiful, arresting from a physical sense and breath-taking from a more refined and civil approach. It isn’t a scheme of possestion or attempt to find equilibrium (that was given up a long time ago!), simply a method to find peace, and to gather that which is near and dear to my heart. The handcrafted phrase passed along yesterday helped to solidify the questions as more than mere stumbling blocks on the way to explanation, but upped the ante, delving into the matter of the question as the fundamental building block of exculpatory language, the laser sighted on the outskirts of the town, ready to divulge the harsh hearts plotting nature.
Without really letting go of the final accounts of endings, beginnings, and the like, a tacit admittance must be made that the vagueness and heavy eyelids are the fallback from another nights thoughts and dreams. Some were slow moving and ambiguous, while others were fast and light, able to drive home miniscule points with only the most glacial efforts. Still others were somewhere in between, lost amidst the full fledge attacks on the warm bright sun. Still, I take comfort in knowing these attacks cannot be successful, and the cowards hiding behind the tree line making sniper attacks is really at the very end of the strategic plans anyway. The bullets will stop, of that, I am sure.
Before withdrawing my forces from the field, there is pressure to let go of the adulation and admit the error of the tactics employed up to this point. She’s a marvelous prohpecy, but like the elementery focus on the mid-section of this sort of life, I’ll admit that she’s got me fenced in and restless for some kind of action, no matter how foolish or misanthropic it may be. There can be no summation, but more to the point, there can be no movement either, and I don’t build siege machines anymore. I hope she does…
Sir Marshmellow Trowell
Filed under: love n' luck
While it is true that not every question deserves an answer, most do. Sitting here in the semi-dark, light from far off bulbs sprinkled through the room fighting the darkness valiantly, it’s hard to even verbalize the empty sort of feeling that consumes my mood tonight. The cascade of words that would apply a history to the recently passed day would only fool someone into believing that there was some purpose or meaning to the events that unfolded, but even a complete recollection couldn’t impart more than a tangled rationale that could add significance to the many misunderstandings of the afternoon.
The degree to which perception feeds the monster is startling, if only because there simply isn’t any way to know with any certainty if the dreams are inspired by life or developed in spite of it. It could also be somewhere in between the two extremes. Nevermind your own perceptions that once an idea is established that it exists in situ, without any attention or usage by either party. For me, the question itself implies that whatever the reassurances sought, it is of no particular hassle to either party for one to say “Just come here, you’re needed.” I’d come when you called because I’ve waited long enough for that to be all I wanted to hear.
Located in this type of “recently awakened awe” and “foggy brained appreciation” is the crossroads of highways and heartbeats, the times when the night can speak without us being too afraid to listen. Something of a missive, indoctrination by starlight and playful moons and planets shine agaist hte dark background, and my own limited connection to you reflects the colored light wandering vagrantly through the evening. Words are misplaced, left on far away countertops, but the ones still available for use are within close proximity, and you could grab them as easily as I could. Arrange them to your pleasure, show me how your mind works, act out the motions and order me to provide the causes. I want to come when you call because without that, there’s just the smoothly elemental pictorial without the magic that you carry around in your back pockets.
Mirrors are weak glass, not the brave reflector panels they are given credit for being. What kind of bravery is so limited in scope that at best it can illustrate only what is shown to exist? That sounds like cowardice, not bravery. Bravery is calling without knowing the answer, living by implication. Everyone already knows I would come if you called for me. (No Don Henly references, I promise!) (Actually, now that I think about it, that’s a Leonard Cohen reference, the nice Canadian Jewish man who sounds black. His music is amazing though. But I digress.)
Now, time for to play, as the expression goes. Blue clear sky and all, just another Monday, to be followed by Tuesday, preceeded by Sunday. I’m in the middle of a sandwich. No, wait, I’m a broken mirror. No, that’s not it either. My analogies are pretty bad tonight, and I feel ugly. Songs and movies are repeating without end, and beauty, which can usually at least be a welcome distraction, is tonight expressed by the pictures on the inside of my eyelids. First and last thoughts, of course, but if you called, I’d know it was mutual. That’s all.
Filed under: Sir Marshmellow Trowell
From the Journal of Sir Marshmellow Trowell
Something in the way this one walked through the cool dark raindrops was alluring. Perfect footsteps pulled her across the parking lot with a smile trailing behind, something she throws at strangers with the force of a paper airplane and not much more accuracy. She’s baggy jeans and t-shirts with an outstretched hand transporting her graceful middle finger in the direction of the store manager. Her long hair was blowing in the wind, alternatively hiding her face and surrounding her eyes. But it was the middle finger smile that stopped my heart in its tracks.
The lights overhead reflected off of the wet pavement, pausing momentarily to gather strength and intensity before bouncing upward at great speeds. The girl saw me staring at her from the corner of her eye, and stopped mid-stride to return my glance. Her brown hair looked almost goldlen in the diffuse lighting, and before breaking eye contact, she lofted that smile at me, the one that answered every question with “because I can” I wondered to myself why she’d been toasting the manager with that finger, but there wasn’t any need to ruin the moment with meaningless vocalizations. Subtle eye movements and the beginnings of a licking tongue at the very corner of her mouth. Lipstick and long hair; wind and a hint of perfume or some other femiinie scent mixed with tobacco, all compressed enough to fit on the head of a pin.
Nothing was moving except the rain, and for the few brief seconds we stared at each other, the feeling was other-worldy. Poets and songwriters composed poems and songs, painters painted wild colors across white canvas’, and writers scrambled to find the right words to write. Bedlam across my eyes, locked as they were to the vixen. When she broke eye contact, her scent seemed to brush up against me in a rush before dispersing in the wind.
She drove off, and I stood in the cold rain. The bottoms of my pajama pants were soaked, and my feet were freezing because flip-flops are a notoriously poor choice of footwear on a rainy winter evening. I was clutching a DiGiorno pepperoni pizza, with hair leaking out of the sides of my hat. I had to smile, the incongruity was so heavy handed. A forty five second love affair while dressed in pajamas and standing in the cold rain. Not bad for an evening consisting mainly of napping and cartoons. And they say romance in the age of empire is dead…
Sir Marshmellow Trowell
