...But is that not something we inherently and automatically do? Is that not our duty and obligation as humans, to share what little we have with our brothers so that we can improve ourselves and grow together both individually and collectively in the process? Aren’t we all in this together? Aren’t we all essentially doing the same things? Trying to make sense of our situations, spinning straw into gold, twisting wool into a unified thread and trying to weave these strands into a cohesive fabric of understanding? It seems selfish to assume that an artist would create a piece of art with intentions to not share it with the world, because in creating that work, the artist is putting forth his personal investigations, analyses and conclusions. I do not see how withholding or altering this information would be productive or progressive. Doctors share their findings so that we can cure our ill; grandparents pass down their wisdom, anecdotes and personal histories so that we can learn from their pasts; mothers, fathers and teachers pass down their knowledge of the world so that we are better equipped to survive this lifetime. Whether or not we realize it, we all do this: we all compare notes with our friends and ask our designated confidants for advice and opinions for guidance. Art is just another form of that conversation.
Art is about communication. Talking, discussing, dialoguing, discoursing, debating, conversing: these are the conduits through which we exchange ideas, express thoughts, feelings, opinions, emotions, hopes and fears. Sharing the details of our lives is how we connect to other human beings. As artists, we choose to communicate visually, and without this capacity, this ability to make a truly intimate and meaningful connection with another living being, art is not worth making.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
baking cakes part two: back in the kitchen (blessings of an ex lover)
So.
It’s been about a year since the great cake fiasco, and for some reason, you find yourself reminiscing. Perhaps it is the familiar fragrances of fall: burning wood, lighter fluid, chimney smoke trailing through the brisk night air, infused with cheap booze and cigarettes; the aromas of autumn, cinnamon, tart apple cider and whiskey, all soaking in the spices of the wet leaves and the melting pumpkins. Perhaps it is the familiar feeling of sleeping under piles of quilts and blankets, wrapped in a mass of fleece that is your oversized sweater, and you’re quite sure you can see your breath when you exhale even though you’re inside. Or perhaps listening to Regina Spektor just makes you nostalgic. Regardless, you’re remembering. And you’re doing what you do best, examining the evidence, checking the facts, spinning wool into thread and drawing conclusions; analyzing, and reporting.
You remember. You remember the stranger, who became the friend, who became the lover and then the estranged. You remember the guitars, the serenades, the poetry, the magic. You remember the intoxicated banter, the lustful affairs, wasting the day away with someone you thought truly cared about you, who you didn’t have to censor yourself around out of fear of being misconstrued or deconstructed. You remember the jesting, the hooting, the folly and the fun. You remember the booze, the lust, the sex, the bedroom ceiling. You remember the strength of his hands, the landscape of his body, the cruxes of his arms, his warm breath on your neck. You remember the couch and the kiss. You remember the workshop and the ottomans. You remember the doubt and the self-consciousness. You remember the alienation and the self-medication.
You remember the kitchen and the cake.
You remember baking that cake, putting your heart into it. You remember being so excited to give it to him.
And you remember the moment you did give it to him:
“…I made something for you, you tell him, as you pull your cake out of the refrigerator.
He looks at the cake, and then he looks at you. His smile fades. And your heart sinks.
Shit
Fuck.
Shit.
you think to yourself: I’ve made a terrible mistake.
you realize that your friends were right, and that you're fucking stupid
What do you think?, you ask, wanting to crawl in a hole and die
I don’t know, he replies,
I don’t know how I feel about this kind of stuff
And you know he doesn’t want your cake.
it's okay, you say,
but it's not.
it was nothing, you say,
but it was definitely something.”
(baking cakes: a parable
November 30th, 2008)
You remember loving him.
You remember your heart breaking when he didn’t love you back, when he didn’t want your cake.
You remember wanting to die.
You remember hating him.
You remember hating yourself.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming him.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming yourself.
You remember dwelling.
You remember deconstructing yourself.
You remember thinking you weren’t good enough.
You remember playing out impossible and unrealistic scenarios of what could’ve been, if only you were a little older—if only you were that fine wine, opened at the right age—if only you were a little wiser, if only you were more clever, and witty, and charming, and suave. If only you were everything that you just weren’t.
You remember being unhealthy.
You remember smoking too many cigarettes, and drinking way too much, and not sleeping.
You remember being jealous.
You remember hoping he felt guilty.
You remember being indifferent.
You remember pretending you were over it.
You remember realizing that you weren’t.
You remember worrying that others wouldn’t care for him the way you did.
You remember knowing there were other things you should’ve been worrying about.
You remember the months to follow.
You remember trying to distract yourself.
You remember that not working.
You remember wanting to just give the fuck up.
And then, something happened.
Something that you don’t remember.
Something that you didn't expect.
Somehow, you got over it.
And, what’s more strange, somehow, you became happy for him.
And then, SOMEHOW, you became happy with yourself.
AND THEN, SOMEHOW, despite everything, you find yourself back in the kitchen, baking cakes and taking on the world.
And you wonder how you got here, and then you remember:
“This is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
You walk in arm and arm
And hope it don’t get harmed
And even if it does
You just do it all again.” –Regina Spektor “On the Radio”
And you know everything is going to work out just fine.
It’s been about a year since the great cake fiasco, and for some reason, you find yourself reminiscing. Perhaps it is the familiar fragrances of fall: burning wood, lighter fluid, chimney smoke trailing through the brisk night air, infused with cheap booze and cigarettes; the aromas of autumn, cinnamon, tart apple cider and whiskey, all soaking in the spices of the wet leaves and the melting pumpkins. Perhaps it is the familiar feeling of sleeping under piles of quilts and blankets, wrapped in a mass of fleece that is your oversized sweater, and you’re quite sure you can see your breath when you exhale even though you’re inside. Or perhaps listening to Regina Spektor just makes you nostalgic. Regardless, you’re remembering. And you’re doing what you do best, examining the evidence, checking the facts, spinning wool into thread and drawing conclusions; analyzing, and reporting.
You remember. You remember the stranger, who became the friend, who became the lover and then the estranged. You remember the guitars, the serenades, the poetry, the magic. You remember the intoxicated banter, the lustful affairs, wasting the day away with someone you thought truly cared about you, who you didn’t have to censor yourself around out of fear of being misconstrued or deconstructed. You remember the jesting, the hooting, the folly and the fun. You remember the booze, the lust, the sex, the bedroom ceiling. You remember the strength of his hands, the landscape of his body, the cruxes of his arms, his warm breath on your neck. You remember the couch and the kiss. You remember the workshop and the ottomans. You remember the doubt and the self-consciousness. You remember the alienation and the self-medication.
You remember the kitchen and the cake.
You remember baking that cake, putting your heart into it. You remember being so excited to give it to him.
And you remember the moment you did give it to him:
“…I made something for you, you tell him, as you pull your cake out of the refrigerator.
He looks at the cake, and then he looks at you. His smile fades. And your heart sinks.
Shit
Fuck.
Shit.
you think to yourself: I’ve made a terrible mistake.
you realize that your friends were right, and that you're fucking stupid
What do you think?, you ask, wanting to crawl in a hole and die
I don’t know, he replies,
I don’t know how I feel about this kind of stuff
And you know he doesn’t want your cake.
it's okay, you say,
but it's not.
it was nothing, you say,
but it was definitely something.”
(baking cakes: a parable
November 30th, 2008)
You remember loving him.
You remember your heart breaking when he didn’t love you back, when he didn’t want your cake.
You remember wanting to die.
You remember hating him.
You remember hating yourself.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming him.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming yourself.
You remember dwelling.
You remember deconstructing yourself.
You remember thinking you weren’t good enough.
You remember playing out impossible and unrealistic scenarios of what could’ve been, if only you were a little older—if only you were that fine wine, opened at the right age—if only you were a little wiser, if only you were more clever, and witty, and charming, and suave. If only you were everything that you just weren’t.
You remember being unhealthy.
You remember smoking too many cigarettes, and drinking way too much, and not sleeping.
You remember being jealous.
You remember hoping he felt guilty.
You remember being indifferent.
You remember pretending you were over it.
You remember realizing that you weren’t.
You remember worrying that others wouldn’t care for him the way you did.
You remember knowing there were other things you should’ve been worrying about.
You remember the months to follow.
You remember trying to distract yourself.
You remember that not working.
You remember wanting to just give the fuck up.
And then, something happened.
Something that you don’t remember.
Something that you didn't expect.
Somehow, you got over it.
And, what’s more strange, somehow, you became happy for him.
And then, SOMEHOW, you became happy with yourself.
AND THEN, SOMEHOW, despite everything, you find yourself back in the kitchen, baking cakes and taking on the world.
And you wonder how you got here, and then you remember:
“This is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
You walk in arm and arm
And hope it don’t get harmed
And even if it does
You just do it all again.” –Regina Spektor “On the Radio”
And you know everything is going to work out just fine.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
better than bad.
There is a certain stillness to the morning,
The kind of ineffable hush that can only be compared
To the sound of falling snow.
Those who have really listened—
And can tune in to this frequency—know this score:
The hum of the heater overhead,
The drone of the speeding cars,
The dull roar of the distant highway;
All of these subtle sonances
Harmoniously merging into white noise.
Then, a familiar numb seizes
Enveloping its captive
In a comatose bliss.
Padded walls; a cozy straitjacket,
Drifting off into the silent lull
Of the falling snow.
It is this absence of sound,
As the crystalline doilies kiss the ground,
That resonates the loudest.
And there are no shadows on the walls,
Only moments of light—pale and fair.
Blues and lilacs melting into the backdrop;
This kind of hazy overcast emerges,
And everything is muted, soft and still.
Halloween was magical:
Thursday, I went to the hood for a little bit to see some friends,
And the dichotomy of the neighborhood children
Playing in the leaves with a crackhead
Was both beautiful and bewildering.
That evening, I sat on the patio,
Enjoying rare and unexpected remnants of summer’s warmth,
Shooting shit and chasing doses of vitamin c
And Tylenol cold and sinus
With Crown Royal.
Later, in the burbs, we went on a night reconnaissance,
Traipsing through backyards à la the blair witch project.
The night air was warm, the sky was eerie,
Painted in glowing oranges, greens, purples and grays.
The moon was full; it looked apocalyptic.
The ground was carpeted in leaves,
The evening smelled like incense.
It was beautiful.
At one point, it started to rain.
So we danced, because if you’re going to get wet
You might as well dance.
The following night, on Halloween, we painted our faces
And stayed in, because there was nothing out there for us,
We visited friends, trading tales over the candles,
Catching each other up on the gossip, reading our fortunes
And cackling like witches.
(Old friends made contact:
It seems as though everyone get nostalgic
Around the holidays.
It’s a strange phenomenon, remembering the past.
What were you doing this time last year?
Who were you sleeping with?)
I’m in love with life.
I love how I can still get together
With my friends, despite being dispersed
About the nation, away from each other
For weeks or even months at a time—
And we can still come together,
Collecting on the back patio with drinks in hand,
And pick up where we left off,
And it’s like summer never ended.
I love my nose,
I used to hate it, but after deciding
It resembled George Washington’s—
Dignified and impressive—
It started to grow on me.
I love overhearing anecdotes:
“…my grandpa used to tell me he loved
When I came in from the cold in the winter
Because my cheeks were rosy…”
I love how receptive my friends were
To my coming out.
I love the irony
Of my rant about my distain for the flamboyant gays
With their sparkles and boas and high heals,
When I was wearing face paint and make up at the time.
I love what’s happening.
I slept with someone recently.
I don’t mind one night stands:
Two humans being human
Following the directions
And going through the motions
That every human inherently knows.
It’s beautiful. It’s reviving.
It made me feel human again.
Even if nothing comes of it,
And even if it was just for one night.
It was nice while it lasted.
It was nice falling asleep with someone.
And it was nice waking up to someone.
I’ve been living my life with no expectations,
Because no expectations means no disappointments,
Only surprises.
What I’ve learned is, it’s better
To make the best of a situation
Even if it’s not going to go anywhere in the future,
Just to enjoy and appreciate it for what it is,
And to have something for the time being.
Because that’s better than dwelling.
And it’s certainly better than nothing.
The kind of ineffable hush that can only be compared
To the sound of falling snow.
Those who have really listened—
And can tune in to this frequency—know this score:
The hum of the heater overhead,
The drone of the speeding cars,
The dull roar of the distant highway;
All of these subtle sonances
Harmoniously merging into white noise.
Then, a familiar numb seizes
Enveloping its captive
In a comatose bliss.
Padded walls; a cozy straitjacket,
Drifting off into the silent lull
Of the falling snow.
It is this absence of sound,
As the crystalline doilies kiss the ground,
That resonates the loudest.
And there are no shadows on the walls,
Only moments of light—pale and fair.
Blues and lilacs melting into the backdrop;
This kind of hazy overcast emerges,
And everything is muted, soft and still.
Halloween was magical:
Thursday, I went to the hood for a little bit to see some friends,
And the dichotomy of the neighborhood children
Playing in the leaves with a crackhead
Was both beautiful and bewildering.
That evening, I sat on the patio,
Enjoying rare and unexpected remnants of summer’s warmth,
Shooting shit and chasing doses of vitamin c
And Tylenol cold and sinus
With Crown Royal.
Later, in the burbs, we went on a night reconnaissance,
Traipsing through backyards à la the blair witch project.
The night air was warm, the sky was eerie,
Painted in glowing oranges, greens, purples and grays.
The moon was full; it looked apocalyptic.
The ground was carpeted in leaves,
The evening smelled like incense.
It was beautiful.
At one point, it started to rain.
So we danced, because if you’re going to get wet
You might as well dance.
The following night, on Halloween, we painted our faces
And stayed in, because there was nothing out there for us,
We visited friends, trading tales over the candles,
Catching each other up on the gossip, reading our fortunes
And cackling like witches.
(Old friends made contact:
It seems as though everyone get nostalgic
Around the holidays.
It’s a strange phenomenon, remembering the past.
What were you doing this time last year?
Who were you sleeping with?)
I’m in love with life.
I love how I can still get together
With my friends, despite being dispersed
About the nation, away from each other
For weeks or even months at a time—
And we can still come together,
Collecting on the back patio with drinks in hand,
And pick up where we left off,
And it’s like summer never ended.
I love my nose,
I used to hate it, but after deciding
It resembled George Washington’s—
Dignified and impressive—
It started to grow on me.
I love overhearing anecdotes:
“…my grandpa used to tell me he loved
When I came in from the cold in the winter
Because my cheeks were rosy…”
I love how receptive my friends were
To my coming out.
I love the irony
Of my rant about my distain for the flamboyant gays
With their sparkles and boas and high heals,
When I was wearing face paint and make up at the time.
I love what’s happening.
I slept with someone recently.
I don’t mind one night stands:
Two humans being human
Following the directions
And going through the motions
That every human inherently knows.
It’s beautiful. It’s reviving.
It made me feel human again.
Even if nothing comes of it,
And even if it was just for one night.
It was nice while it lasted.
It was nice falling asleep with someone.
And it was nice waking up to someone.
I’ve been living my life with no expectations,
Because no expectations means no disappointments,
Only surprises.
What I’ve learned is, it’s better
To make the best of a situation
Even if it’s not going to go anywhere in the future,
Just to enjoy and appreciate it for what it is,
And to have something for the time being.
Because that’s better than dwelling.
And it’s certainly better than nothing.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
charts.
sometimes, when it's late at night and I can't sleep, I make charts:
(I feel like these might come in handy later, maybe)
sometimes I take up origami.
and before I know it,
my room is carpeted in paper flowers.
I need to stop being a night owl.
I'm always the last one up.
I always lock the doors,
and blow out the candles.
I need ambien.
(I feel like these might come in handy later, maybe)
sometimes I take up origami.
and before I know it,
my room is carpeted in paper flowers.
I need to stop being a night owl.
I'm always the last one up.
I always lock the doors,
and blow out the candles.
I need ambien.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
on coming out, despite not wanting to, and being human.
I wrote this last year.
I made a friend read it at the open podium because I was too scared.
In lieu of national coming out day, I think this is appropriate, and pertinent,
And definitely worth sharing:
……..
I am not an activist.
You won’t see me marching, or boldly and proudly bearing the beautiful colors of the rainbow.
I am not that brave.
The truth is, I’m scared.
I’m scared to death about how you will react when you find out.
I’m scared of the deafening silence that will surely follow. Your shock, your expression—frozen, like a living statue, cold as ice, the color draining from your face as your heart suddenly stops, breaks, and plummets to the pit of your stomach. I don’t want to hear the sound of your vomit splashing against the drain of the kitchen sink. I’m scared to watch as you age, instantly, right before my eyes: your hair graying, your skin wrinkling, your organs failing. I don’t want to be the source of your anger; strings snapping, glass breaking, the walls shaking as your blood boils. I’m scared of bursting capillaries, bulging veins, staccatoed breaths, bitter tears, your white knuckles, your rage, your disgust—your obvious pain.
I’m scared of your rejection; I’m scared of being abandoned.
I’m scared of disappointing you.
I’m scared of losing you.
Unfortunately, there’s no testing the waters in this situation. It’s black and white.
There are no shades of gray.
You’re either in, or you’re out.
So here I am: locked in the car, bound in the backseat, trying to sort out, digest and make sense of this impossible jig-saw puzzle, with only a handful of pieces—none of which fit together—and no hints, clues, tips or phone calls, magic lamps, bread crumb trails or wishing wells to guide me, to let me know if the coast is clear, to let me know if it’s okay to make my move. Here I am, feasting on the scraps of a limited supply of hope, running on empty and praying for the apocalypse.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tired of walking on eggshells, of constantly tiptoeing on pins and needles. I’m sick of keeping secrets, of self-medicating, of temporary mends. Of after hours meltdowns and sleepless nights, of slick blades and seeping wounds, of the masochism, the self-destruction, the self-deprecation. Of substitutions, of rerouting, burying and hiding pain.
I am sick of feeling invisible.
I know it’s no way to live, but I don’t know what else to do. We march. We carry on. We persist. We drive. We have to. Stopping isn’t an option. We do what we have to just to survive. And as much as I’d like to prick my finger on a spinning wheel and sleep through this lifetime, I can’t. It’s impossible.
It’s impossible because, for some fucked up reason, this universal notion exists reasoning that because I’m gay, I must be abnormal, an alien, a leper; somehow, because I’m gay, that makes me less of a person.
And you wonder why I refuse to come out?
What you fail to realize is this:
I have the same fears as you do,
I have as much pain as you do,
I’ve lived as much hell as you have,
I’m just as human as you are,
We all have the same parts,
We all have beating hearts,
We’re all wired the same way
We’re all on the same journey, swimming for dear life, trying not to drown in the same torrent, surging through the same vein.
We all want to accomplish all these seemingly impossible things:
We all want experience love, to fill our voids with something beautiful, something substantial and something permanent.
We all want to feel valued,
We all want to be accepted
We all want to be loved
And we all want to be respected.
This isn’t a phase. It’s not a disease or an infection.
I’m not contagious. You can’t catch it.
This wasn’t a choice. I wasn’t converted.
I was born this way.
All I am asking for is respect.
Until you can do that, I’ll be waiting, impatiently, from inside the closet.
........
I realize, by sharing this, I’m essentially outing myself.
And I’m motivated to share this, not so much by a sense of obligation via membership
Than I am by a personal sense of duty.
Because this is more important than just me.
Whether I like it or not, I’m a part of this movement.
And there aren’t many people out there singing for our side.
I’m usually never one to let others speak for me
And for a while, this was one instance where I kept my lips locked.
But I’m starting to realize
If I’m not going to stand up for myself, who will?
This is real ya’ll.
This is really happening.
So here it is—
Without the sequins
And the feathers and the glitter
And the rainbows.
And all that other stupid bullshit.
I’m gay as fuck.
But, I’m also more than that:
I’m human.
Just like you.
I made a friend read it at the open podium because I was too scared.
In lieu of national coming out day, I think this is appropriate, and pertinent,
And definitely worth sharing:
……..
I am not an activist.
You won’t see me marching, or boldly and proudly bearing the beautiful colors of the rainbow.
I am not that brave.
The truth is, I’m scared.
I’m scared to death about how you will react when you find out.
I’m scared of the deafening silence that will surely follow. Your shock, your expression—frozen, like a living statue, cold as ice, the color draining from your face as your heart suddenly stops, breaks, and plummets to the pit of your stomach. I don’t want to hear the sound of your vomit splashing against the drain of the kitchen sink. I’m scared to watch as you age, instantly, right before my eyes: your hair graying, your skin wrinkling, your organs failing. I don’t want to be the source of your anger; strings snapping, glass breaking, the walls shaking as your blood boils. I’m scared of bursting capillaries, bulging veins, staccatoed breaths, bitter tears, your white knuckles, your rage, your disgust—your obvious pain.
I’m scared of your rejection; I’m scared of being abandoned.
I’m scared of disappointing you.
I’m scared of losing you.
Unfortunately, there’s no testing the waters in this situation. It’s black and white.
There are no shades of gray.
You’re either in, or you’re out.
So here I am: locked in the car, bound in the backseat, trying to sort out, digest and make sense of this impossible jig-saw puzzle, with only a handful of pieces—none of which fit together—and no hints, clues, tips or phone calls, magic lamps, bread crumb trails or wishing wells to guide me, to let me know if the coast is clear, to let me know if it’s okay to make my move. Here I am, feasting on the scraps of a limited supply of hope, running on empty and praying for the apocalypse.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tired of walking on eggshells, of constantly tiptoeing on pins and needles. I’m sick of keeping secrets, of self-medicating, of temporary mends. Of after hours meltdowns and sleepless nights, of slick blades and seeping wounds, of the masochism, the self-destruction, the self-deprecation. Of substitutions, of rerouting, burying and hiding pain.
I am sick of feeling invisible.
I know it’s no way to live, but I don’t know what else to do. We march. We carry on. We persist. We drive. We have to. Stopping isn’t an option. We do what we have to just to survive. And as much as I’d like to prick my finger on a spinning wheel and sleep through this lifetime, I can’t. It’s impossible.
It’s impossible because, for some fucked up reason, this universal notion exists reasoning that because I’m gay, I must be abnormal, an alien, a leper; somehow, because I’m gay, that makes me less of a person.
And you wonder why I refuse to come out?
What you fail to realize is this:
I have the same fears as you do,
I have as much pain as you do,
I’ve lived as much hell as you have,
I’m just as human as you are,
We all have the same parts,
We all have beating hearts,
We’re all wired the same way
We’re all on the same journey, swimming for dear life, trying not to drown in the same torrent, surging through the same vein.
We all want to accomplish all these seemingly impossible things:
We all want experience love, to fill our voids with something beautiful, something substantial and something permanent.
We all want to feel valued,
We all want to be accepted
We all want to be loved
And we all want to be respected.
This isn’t a phase. It’s not a disease or an infection.
I’m not contagious. You can’t catch it.
This wasn’t a choice. I wasn’t converted.
I was born this way.
All I am asking for is respect.
Until you can do that, I’ll be waiting, impatiently, from inside the closet.
........
I realize, by sharing this, I’m essentially outing myself.
And I’m motivated to share this, not so much by a sense of obligation via membership
Than I am by a personal sense of duty.
Because this is more important than just me.
Whether I like it or not, I’m a part of this movement.
And there aren’t many people out there singing for our side.
I’m usually never one to let others speak for me
And for a while, this was one instance where I kept my lips locked.
But I’m starting to realize
If I’m not going to stand up for myself, who will?
This is real ya’ll.
This is really happening.
So here it is—
Without the sequins
And the feathers and the glitter
And the rainbows.
And all that other stupid bullshit.
I’m gay as fuck.
But, I’m also more than that:
I’m human.
Just like you.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
bathwater.
I think
Falling out of love
Is like getting out of the bath:
It’s difficult to bring yourself to do it.
And at first, it’s a process and motion
You don’t even want to go through with.
It doesn’t matter that your fingers and toes resemble prunes,
Or that the water isn’t nearly as warm as it was initially,
And it’s frighteningly murky; you can’t see the bottom,
And you think you might be fermenting—
Because when you’re in the bath, nothing else matters.
You have no obligations, no duties or commitments.
You don’t have to uncomfortably mingle and make trifling conversation,
Or be cordial and eloquent and dazzling and exude proper etiquette,
Or keep resolutions or promises,
Or actively participate, or consciously involve yourself in anything.
You don’t have to make nice, or kill em’ with kindness,
You don’t have to smile when you’re thinking of killing yourself.
You don’t have to get over it if you don’t want to.
And, for a brief moment, you can just float in the foam—
Detached—and let life pass you by.
For you know all too well
That once you breach the soapy surface
It’ll just be you against the universe.
Only you, standing there naked and shivering and dripping and alone,
And you’re scared, and you can’t remember
What life outside the porcine tub is like,
And you don’t know if you even want to remember.
You’d rather drown than deal.
Sulk in the suds than cope.
And yet, there you are—sitting in the very filth
You wanted to wash yourself clean of.
It seems kind of silly, soaking in dirt and oil
And the rotting roses and spoiled wine; the broken heart stew,
Expecting to be cleansed by the brew.
The same way it seems kind of silly
Caring about someone who doesn’t care about you.
So you surface, and emerge,
Because you have to,
Because life isn’t pausing for you,
Because the world isn’t stopping for your grief,
As much as you wish it would.
You can’t breathe.
You feel like you’re dying.
So you bundle, and hold yourself.
And then, slowly, by degrees, you start to dry.
Slowly, you start to live again.
You appreciate the northern hemisphere and the seasons,
And cleanse bad blood,
And mend burnt bridges,
And have heated grammar debates on Saturday nights,
And embrace the crazy in you, because
"Some people never go crazy,
What terrible lives they must lead".
And you make jokes in the hospital,
And plot, assigning roles for the post-apocalyptic world,
And huddle on the couch with friends and gossip and scheme,
And appreciate your wacky village in the post-modern age,
As motley and sorry as it may be, because at least you have a village.
And you sing, despite what you’re hacking up,
And burn your hopes and dreams and toenails in a cauldron
Letting the ashes sail to the heavens
And hope that the universe answers your prayers.
And even if it doesn’t, it’s okay.
“Life will break you.
Nobody can protect you from that,
And living alone won’t either,
For solitude will also break you
With its yearnings.
You have to love.
You have to feel.
It is the reason you are here on earth.
You are here to risk your heart.
You are here to be swallowed up.
And when it happens that you are broken,
Or betrayed, or left, or hurt,
Or death brushes near,
Let yourself sit by an apple tree
And listen to the apples falling
All around you in heaps,
Wasting their sweetness.
Tell yourself that you tasted
As many as you could.”
- Louise Erdrich, the painted drum, p. 247
Falling out of love
Is like getting out of the bath:
It’s difficult to bring yourself to do it.
And at first, it’s a process and motion
You don’t even want to go through with.
It doesn’t matter that your fingers and toes resemble prunes,
Or that the water isn’t nearly as warm as it was initially,
And it’s frighteningly murky; you can’t see the bottom,
And you think you might be fermenting—
Because when you’re in the bath, nothing else matters.
You have no obligations, no duties or commitments.
You don’t have to uncomfortably mingle and make trifling conversation,
Or be cordial and eloquent and dazzling and exude proper etiquette,
Or keep resolutions or promises,
Or actively participate, or consciously involve yourself in anything.
You don’t have to make nice, or kill em’ with kindness,
You don’t have to smile when you’re thinking of killing yourself.
You don’t have to get over it if you don’t want to.
And, for a brief moment, you can just float in the foam—
Detached—and let life pass you by.
For you know all too well
That once you breach the soapy surface
It’ll just be you against the universe.
Only you, standing there naked and shivering and dripping and alone,
And you’re scared, and you can’t remember
What life outside the porcine tub is like,
And you don’t know if you even want to remember.
You’d rather drown than deal.
Sulk in the suds than cope.
And yet, there you are—sitting in the very filth
You wanted to wash yourself clean of.
It seems kind of silly, soaking in dirt and oil
And the rotting roses and spoiled wine; the broken heart stew,
Expecting to be cleansed by the brew.
The same way it seems kind of silly
Caring about someone who doesn’t care about you.
So you surface, and emerge,
Because you have to,
Because life isn’t pausing for you,
Because the world isn’t stopping for your grief,
As much as you wish it would.
You can’t breathe.
You feel like you’re dying.
So you bundle, and hold yourself.
And then, slowly, by degrees, you start to dry.
Slowly, you start to live again.
You appreciate the northern hemisphere and the seasons,
And cleanse bad blood,
And mend burnt bridges,
And have heated grammar debates on Saturday nights,
And embrace the crazy in you, because
"Some people never go crazy,
What terrible lives they must lead".
And you make jokes in the hospital,
And plot, assigning roles for the post-apocalyptic world,
And huddle on the couch with friends and gossip and scheme,
And appreciate your wacky village in the post-modern age,
As motley and sorry as it may be, because at least you have a village.
And you sing, despite what you’re hacking up,
And burn your hopes and dreams and toenails in a cauldron
Letting the ashes sail to the heavens
And hope that the universe answers your prayers.
And even if it doesn’t, it’s okay.
“Life will break you.
Nobody can protect you from that,
And living alone won’t either,
For solitude will also break you
With its yearnings.
You have to love.
You have to feel.
It is the reason you are here on earth.
You are here to risk your heart.
You are here to be swallowed up.
And when it happens that you are broken,
Or betrayed, or left, or hurt,
Or death brushes near,
Let yourself sit by an apple tree
And listen to the apples falling
All around you in heaps,
Wasting their sweetness.
Tell yourself that you tasted
As many as you could.”
- Louise Erdrich, the painted drum, p. 247
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
bitter.
A more adequate title for this might be:
“On giving up”
So
I’ve been comparing notes with friends,
And it appears we’ve all, somehow,
Collectively and simultaneously
Come to the conclusion—without actually discussing
The matter until recently—that we’re done with this lifetime.
We can’t do much more with the cards we’ve been dealt
And it’s not that we want a new hand,
We just want the game to be over.
No, the realistic possibility of a suicide club
Is not what should be raising red flags,
Rather, the more salient item worth extracting
And underscoring is the fact that
We’re all just losing hope.
Perhaps our generation is just lazy and apathetic.
Or, something else is afoot.
Now, I might just sound like
A poor little rich boy, whining and being emotive
And inventing conspiracy theories
Because things aren’t going as planned,
(Because the days are already getting noticeably shorter
And it’s getting colder, and the dishes keep accumulating,
And my hair only looks good when I don’t wash it,
And keep forgetting about the plums I buy
Only to find them rotting away when I do remember them,
And I can’t actually paint or play the piano,
And painting and playing the piano
Aren’t actually productive or practical pursuits
Because there isn’t even a job market for artists,
And I can’t get to bed at reasonable hour,
And I definitely drink way too much,
And I’m not worried about my carbon footprint,
And it’s too taxing to keep track of the pain
Of the surrounding villages even though I wish I could,
And I’m single and more than aware and bitter,
And even if I wasn’t, it’s not like
I could legally marry the one I loved anyway.)
But everything is relative, right?
And this occurrence isn’t isolated.
I’m not the only one.
We’re all becoming less inspired
And rapidly losing hope… together.
Which is morbidly uplifting.
But also troublesome.
We’re all waiting for some sort of
Divine intervention:
To peel back our chocolate wrappers
And find that golden ticket,
Or for the law of attraction to finally kick in,
Or for the sky to fall,
And for the world to end.
Why does it seem like everything
Is out of our hands?
Why does it seem like
“Nobody is steering this ship.
We're all just looking nervously
At the approaching iceberg
& wondering if we can raid the bar”?
What is happening?
And why don’t we care?
If I had the time to figure it out
And report back to you, I totally would.
But right now, building a seed vault and erecting
A doomsday bunker seems like
A better use of energy.
“And if I had the patience and I had the money
And I had the humor and I had the offer
And the space and the time and the talent
And I had the power and I had the reason
And the virtue and I had the cunning
And I had the status and I had the wisdom
And I had the audience and the admission
And I had the method and I had the quiet
And I had the motive and the story
And I had the money and I had the time
(And you had the slightest clue what all the fuss was for
All of the times that I say that I’ll do it
It’s nine-hundred-nine that I secretly ruin
It’s good that I tell you this over and over
Over the rainbow and out through the back door)
Then I just might try
If only I could prove it
If only I weren’t stupid
If only I could torture
All the people who can do it
And if I had an offer to be better
I’d decline
And if that were more awful to consider
I’d be fine
And if it were all my fault
That I’m bitter…”
“On giving up”
So
I’ve been comparing notes with friends,
And it appears we’ve all, somehow,
Collectively and simultaneously
Come to the conclusion—without actually discussing
The matter until recently—that we’re done with this lifetime.
We can’t do much more with the cards we’ve been dealt
And it’s not that we want a new hand,
We just want the game to be over.
No, the realistic possibility of a suicide club
Is not what should be raising red flags,
Rather, the more salient item worth extracting
And underscoring is the fact that
We’re all just losing hope.
Perhaps our generation is just lazy and apathetic.
Or, something else is afoot.
Now, I might just sound like
A poor little rich boy, whining and being emotive
And inventing conspiracy theories
Because things aren’t going as planned,
(Because the days are already getting noticeably shorter
And it’s getting colder, and the dishes keep accumulating,
And my hair only looks good when I don’t wash it,
And keep forgetting about the plums I buy
Only to find them rotting away when I do remember them,
And I can’t actually paint or play the piano,
And painting and playing the piano
Aren’t actually productive or practical pursuits
Because there isn’t even a job market for artists,
And I can’t get to bed at reasonable hour,
And I definitely drink way too much,
And I’m not worried about my carbon footprint,
And it’s too taxing to keep track of the pain
Of the surrounding villages even though I wish I could,
And I’m single and more than aware and bitter,
And even if I wasn’t, it’s not like
I could legally marry the one I loved anyway.)
But everything is relative, right?
And this occurrence isn’t isolated.
I’m not the only one.
We’re all becoming less inspired
And rapidly losing hope… together.
Which is morbidly uplifting.
But also troublesome.
We’re all waiting for some sort of
Divine intervention:
To peel back our chocolate wrappers
And find that golden ticket,
Or for the law of attraction to finally kick in,
Or for the sky to fall,
And for the world to end.
Why does it seem like everything
Is out of our hands?
Why does it seem like
“Nobody is steering this ship.
We're all just looking nervously
At the approaching iceberg
& wondering if we can raid the bar”?
What is happening?
And why don’t we care?
If I had the time to figure it out
And report back to you, I totally would.
But right now, building a seed vault and erecting
A doomsday bunker seems like
A better use of energy.
“And if I had the patience and I had the money
And I had the humor and I had the offer
And the space and the time and the talent
And I had the power and I had the reason
And the virtue and I had the cunning
And I had the status and I had the wisdom
And I had the audience and the admission
And I had the method and I had the quiet
And I had the motive and the story
And I had the money and I had the time
(And you had the slightest clue what all the fuss was for
All of the times that I say that I’ll do it
It’s nine-hundred-nine that I secretly ruin
It’s good that I tell you this over and over
Over the rainbow and out through the back door)
Then I just might try
If only I could prove it
If only I weren’t stupid
If only I could torture
All the people who can do it
And if I had an offer to be better
I’d decline
And if that were more awful to consider
I’d be fine
And if it were all my fault
That I’m bitter…”
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