Monday, March 9, 2015

My emotions



Reciting prayers out loud.

Right now, in this moment, everything is so still. Just the tapping of the clock, its second hand which keeps time in rhythym as if reminding me to breath. It's after 1 a.m. And I weep.

My emotions-- which were once so elusive to me.... I see how they overpower. Only I don't see this as any sort of distortion. I really don't. I really think that emotions are the true indicator. The true gauge, if you will.... and tonight I cry as I talk to John. I find that my true center comes into some kind of magnified precision. Sometimes I have found.... you know, it's only lately.... really. Truly. I think he is my diary. He has followed my pages. He knows the marks. The points of reference. And I don't really think it's because we have that history between us. I think that history between us happened because of this ability to step in and out of each other's state of consciousness and be both objective and subjective to each other. And it could be why it was so fucking intense when we were living together in our twenties. We were such novices. We had no idea what we were doing. If you say, oh, someone is my twin, you think sometimes of your perfect equal. But then I have my Agamemnon who was another kind, more the esoteric, and less the total twin; the poignant cruel teacher.

That is your soul's lesson....

it could be that I have more than doubles. More than twins. Quadruplets. Maybe one other half. And each one is necessary to the whole. The balance and the yin and yang. Only, I think, there is only one true North. Only one true circuit that completes; where the puzzle that is perfectly fit into some clear picture can only be understood by this fit because the energy is like a live wire that it is impossible to shrug off as ordinary.

They say that only when you surrender can you let in true knowledge. I think I have let myself be stretched across the highway, fearless of the semis. It is not a leap, but a surrender. And I.... give up.

And so I cried. As I spoke because I knew it was the truth. He asked me what was buried. What was my secret. What was it that my soul really and truly craved. And it's only to him that I could confess this. And I told him that is was …. it is.... not a want but a need. An absolute need. An imperative that always forces me to not be able to go on in falseness. To choose my solitude over a kind of settling because.... you see.... because.... I would rather be deplete than live in dull numbness that hides a lying substitute for that promise of my truest reflection. So it's not a choice. Because, even if I choose, you know, I've tried to.... To be willing to take what is only possible to grasp in my life as the only possibility; as they say, "to settle...." But it's not possible ....to really walk that path without being faced with the knowledge that to continue down that way, down that road.... is only to choose to relinquish the finest and most precise meaning the soul is reaching for. It's such a waste of time. It is better to suffer the empty road; be alone. So John said to me, he said: “I know what you really want....” and …. he got me right on.... And I swear I got chills. You see, because.... he was paying attention all those years ago, those hours we spent talking. I guess he was always really listening. I guess I didn't know he was..... He heard me. Because he said, “you want 'Henry and June'....”

Fuck. Fuck. And he didn't mean the melo drama. He didn't mean that. Because I said as I was crying “but they didn't end up together.” and he said something like, 'in your version they do.' And I cried even more-- for being this pathetic idiot; doomed romantic-- who couldn't help it. Because he is right. He gets it. He gets me. When no one else ever bothered to pay attention.  But he is also saying that he is not my Henry. He is not my Henry. He is telling me, he is not my Henry. And I think that I have met my Henry. So what is a person to do when they realize …. when they realize that the beauty of the bittersweet is not as beautiful as you once dreamed it was because it is not beautiful to feel so empty. To come so near. Like trying to thread a needle in a fog. To almost get it. "So glad we almost made it...." The perfect golden tapestry. Elusive, it evaporates by daylight when you wake from the dream. And this dream...? how is it that it can hurt so much if it wasn't ever real? The only answer is that I am absolutely out of my mind. And very stupid. So that is it. The truth is that what is real to me is ….just a kind of misty dream; a beautiful lie; an adeptly stitched silken masterpiece, shrunk fit to cling to my heart and soul. It was. It is. It was. Entwined. Choking the Rose de Mai.

Yes, so what? I go on. Like a harlot nun. Like some Elan or lady of Shalott and it really doesn't matter for  it won't matter.... because to survive and to continue is the choice of the hybridized species that won't accept defeat. Just--instead it's forced to just exist. A raft taking a vessel to some final rest. Because it is not by choice. Defeat...? no, because it takes courage to take the risk, to face the highest stakes.... Sadly, only to find that the challenger has forfeited.... It is not a choice to…. drift empty to the shore and accept the burn from rays of the sun as it scorches whatever is left within to be consumed into this blazing star. At least there is consolation in the honesty; to burn from a passion that was real and you played true to instead of cowarring down path, lost, without a moral compass.

It would be so easy. This kind of rage of destructive internal collapsing ....into nothingness. A choice to become vapid, and barter your soul. Completely. More than just a Sell-out. Abandon to the mercy of the unfeeling machine that erases the identities of any cause to any altruistic purpose and give up the ghost of hope.

Which is better? To lose your way through cowardice or to lose your way through becoming too world weary to really be able to continue to care? I don't know. But what I do know is.... I did really try. I played it all true. And even if everyone who knows is laughing at me.... I think I would rather be left to the vulture to pick out my eyes than to feel I sold my soul for a smoother ride. At least I was true to who I am. And I guess I am prepared to burn forever for my foolish naivete because I couldn't give up the foolish crusade in search of the metaphoric Holy Grail.


My emotions are like a torn open pulpy flesh. And where once I couldn't reach in and feel the center core of where I existed-- and grasp to feel; I hang from that platform of sacrificial judgment under that Illuminating torch of sadistic exposure which has chosen no mercy in its cruelty. I guess I prefer to writhe in the scorn of personal truth than to feel the mockery of poison from the poisoned lick of a serpent's pit of false acceptance. Maybe that crowd doesn't audibly laugh at you, but the silence would be too loud to bear knowing you have played yourself false and worse when you can't look in the eye that sees you from your mirror. No, I don't think I'm a coward because I can locate my emotions and feel. Isn't it a coward whose choice is to take the well-mapped path that was neatly outlined by the brave predecessors who decided to ignore the well cultivated and beaten path they were once offered?

Friday, March 6, 2015

Reflection; Electra

"Pausing before Methuselah... My foot rested on the stone sealing the small sepulcher at his root; and I recalled the passage of feeling therin buried... What was become of that curious one-sided friendship which was half marble and half life; only on one hand truth, and the other perhaps jest?
   "Was this feeling dead? I do not know, but it was buried. Sometimes I thought the tomb unquiet...." (Brontë)

I'll write more later.  Maybe. Right now stumbling across this passage and realizing I'm moving on ....to some inexplicable somewhere--- I am stilled thus to reflect and to give my respects to the broken little pieces of my heart that have so often been impetuously tossed aside by those i regarded too deeply who thought too little of me. 

Monday, March 2, 2015

Crashing down; Electra's dictionary




John plays on his guitar and sings to me today. He strums the Crystal Ship and his voice replicates the warm, deep timbre of Jim Morrison's baritone over the phone. He tells me how it was me who had introduced him to the poetic mind of Jim Morrison. He tells me it was on my guitar (which he still has) that he first learned to play. I guess I haven't thought about that in years. It seems a lifetime ago that we were stumbling through life together in our shabby, little apartments on Long Island, trying to figure out together how to be grown up. Today I wish that I could go back. Go back to our last place together and rewind the years. With all the comings and goings in my life, how strange that it is John who has been the most consistent all my life. We never seemed to ever be able to walk away from each other even as we are now several states apart, he on the east coast and me in the mid-west.

I find the walls have turned to quicksand, like the floor beneath me. All caves in. Light above is dimming as the walls fall down. I don't understand what is happening to me. And in my mind I hear Billy Corgan sing, “Crashing down, crashing dow-w-ow-own” and all fall down like London Bridge. It feels as if the sum of life; its purpose and its meaning.... have all come down to this moment now in my life. Only, the wind is so still. Adrift we go. The waves that slap are indifferent to the vessel it abuses.

All things are culminating together. Every imperative. But the wind has died, I have no voice, not even an echo and my throat is parched, even as there is water everywhere, it is filled with salt. I am drifting and looking up at the sky. I watch it go from daylight to dusk, I watch the stars and try to reach the moon for wisdom. But everything is far away. It is strange, because, you see, I have faced the demons. I found courage to be brave.... only.... it is an empty victory. To take it all on and not back down, to be a warrior instead of being someone who walks away from the pivotal challenges.... yes, it is an empty victory. I don't know what it was all for, I don't understand the point to why. To win the battle only to be left drained and world weary. It must be that I must repent for something from some other life time. Some mistake I made that one day I will understand.

A year ago I had no idea where I had gone. Had no idea who was behind the reflection that stared back at me from the mirror. I had lost myself in Dean. I had lost my inner dialogue. It felt like I was always “pushing an elephant up the stairs.” And now he has no recollection of what I did for him. They say being a mother is a thankless job, and that really became my role with him. Because I needed to be nurtured by someone and instead I substituted that need by giving this to someone else. It distracted me from identifying what it was I grieved for.

I know this is the poison that is oozing out of me. Now that he is not around me making his demands, I have time to reflect. And it has been years without it. I tried to, I knew I had to but there was always some crisis going on for him, there was always something urgent that pressed me to drop everything and scramble to his aid. And now that I have finally guided him to getting the help he needs for his mental health he has a selective memory over things and instead pretends he has been doing me a favor by standing by me!


I think the poison I speak of has become encoded into my metaphoric DNA. Like acid, it ran its course through veins and organs, down to finger tips and toes and burnt out every nerve in its path. There is no end to this blood-let, the poison has become all-consuming. And so I lie there on the deck looking up at the sky.... and hope for apathy to replace the burning acid.

Friday, February 27, 2015

My tomb; Electra's dictionary

John William Waterhouse 1888 'The Lady of Shalott' inspired by Tennyson's poem from 1832 of the same title


I have forced everyone and everything away. I have chosen to do this. To shut down. Bolt all the doors and bury myself within. This tomb. I hope my instinct to follow this deep down into my rabbit hole is right. I fear otherwise, like there will be no coming back from inside here. And I fear other things where this could take me. But I need this so much. I feel so battered. So beaten by everyone. And those hurtful words of one, I think that is the worst. It is one thing to be rejected by someone but very different to be actually stabbed in the gut by someone who uses the vulnerable secrets you shared as part on the rejection. I don't want to ever let anyone in again. I think I finally learned this. I think I would rather be that odd, little hermit than keep having to feel so wounded each time I let open the door of trusting chance.

This insult on top of injury. Working to get strong after Dean only to have the false security not only abandon you but betray you too by telling you that he can't live with your drama (some of which he created) or your issues (which he liked and enjoyed at first) or accusing you of misconstruing what I know was plainly expressed in his own words. I am left with the conclusion that he is the cruelest person I have ever known. The coldest and the most ruthless. To shrug me off like a momentary interest makes me wonder if he has the attention span of a flea and the sincerity of a demon.

I want to exorcise him out of me. Do a metaphoric medieval bleeding. The illusions were the poison.

I don't want to even step out. I want to stay in my tomb. To find something. It's something I lost.... where did I lose it? How long ago? I knew how to do this when I was younger. Much, much younger. I knew how to keep the world far, far away and not ever let anyone in. It is so obvious to me that I should never have decided to learn how to trust, to be a member of society, really, because I am really not like society at all. My childhood made me different. So the same techniques don't work on me. I'm not equipped with the same structures of instincts based on the typical experiences of the social norm. They don't apply with me. I cannot blend.

I don't care anymore. And I used to. I really did try to be normal. But it's not worth it. It isn't worth how bad this feels or how much time I end up spending being tortured and sad, regretting whatever I exposed and left feeling like a freak and an idiot. It doesn't matter to me. I don't care anymore about the opinions of society. I don't care about impressing people. And I think I am also even willing to admit that I never really approved of the morals or conscience of the accepted ideas of society. I think people are mostly fake in that world. Their values disgust me. Their judgments. I don't want to be one of them. I never fit in there and finally I can see that I am really glad I never did. I like being who I am better than trying to be accepted by the majority that repels me anyway.

I am reminding myself of this me. That me who chose not to be friends with the popular crowd when I was a new kid at the American school. I remember being blown away that the person who asked me to be a member of the popular crowd could actually admit that it was an intentional group that excluded the “uncool” kids. I was thirteen and so disgusted. I knew then that I would never want to be the type of person who lived by superficial values and making impressions that were not even original. I never wanted to conform. Conform as in to consciously tailor oneself in order to be liked! --and approved by everyone.

If that is the world “Ash” worships and cares so much to be accepted as a member of, than maybe the person he really is is actually not the person he showed himself to be to me. And I am starting to realize this and realize that he would only have made me miserable. To be hurt by him on a regular basis; to have my most personal confidences first accepted and then later ridiculed.... which side is the real side? And he is the one who said “you think you know somebody and one day you find out....”. I have begun to wonder over the accuracies of what he said happened in his life. Maybe it was all brought on by him. Like his distorted interpretation of me, in the end. His sudden complete 180 spin that was a completely different person. And maybe he had just worked really hard to pretend those insightful conversations gauged by practiced calculation of what he knew would work on trying to impress me. That is the only explanation for how fast he turned so cold. The flick of the switch. That explains how he evidently does not care about me at all and coldly used me as my daughter said he did. This is the only explanation that makes any sense. In this case, he represents and embodies all things that I feel to be vile. I think then.... I must truly hate him.

I am the better person. He is a fraud.

Where do people go like me? I guess they live on pages left behind from their own tombs. Maybe this is why I found my own version of acceptance in the words of long dead mentors. Bronte and Nin, Tennyson, Keats and Wilde. Where something necessary inside themselves required them to communicate to be immortally, eternally left behind for kindred spirits that come and go on this planet. I mean, what else is any better proof to me that I am not the only soul who ever walked this earth and felt these things and felt so alone but steadfast in knowing this is the only way I can be. And if the masses won't ever get it, so be it. Take it or leave it, this is me, who I am and if Socrates had no choice but to have society take his life for being true to his moralities, than, on principle, I should be willing to suffer the consequences of going it alone and swimming against the stream. What other choice do I really have at this point in my life? All other ways I have tried turned out to fail me and prove dissatisfying.

When, eventually, if ever I (because I'm not sure if I want to or ever need to) venture out again, step outside my tomb.... I'm keeping on the shields. Will never take them off again; won't betray myself again. I have learned this, finally. And my moments of weakness when the hollowness of my tomb echoes of silence, I will have to remember to remind myself of my immortal friends, select some passage and read out loud until I can feel them with me in my tomb. And draw comfort that way. My spell against the temptation if ever I am again moved to think to want to believe or think I need to believe there can exist anyone I would ever dare risk to trust again. Wear my protection faithfully like a metaphoric and literal condom. No one may trespass again. No one gets through these walls again.


I like my tomb. I like the silence, mostly. I can do whatever I want. I can do nothing at all all day. I can be selfish, behave decadently if I choose to. I owe no one any explanation. And when I want a body, I know where to go and I will if I feel like it and when I feel like it and have as much or as many as my whim will take me. But not beyond the flesh. And I think I would rather those times be short and done with, quickly, because most people bore me anyway and I value my time alone and like being alone more than not. But right now, I am only padding my tomb. Cementing the doors shut. I can wrap packing tape around my body if I feel like I need to be held. Held together. Because arms that hold you and make you feel safe are illusions that can and will abandon you as soon as you depend on them. 


Thursday, February 26, 2015

Janus, my Gemini (here's that blues song you asked for)

File:Janus-Vatican.JPG




everything you ever said to me was a lie
all those amazing things,
the hours we spent talking
and all those times that you did cry
Janus, my Gemini

you said I was your other half
you said you would always be around
but now, I guess to you, all I am is just a laugh

I know I should hate you
and I should have hated you from that day
all those songs of me and you
the ones you'd send to me,
all illusions of love you promised, all a dream
they were all just part of your scheme

Janus, my Gemini
you are Janus, my Gemini
the one who lied
the one who cried
the one with fear that hides
the one with two faces that denies
Janus, my Gemini


because that magic that you had turned to dust one day
I heard it in your voice
that day on the phone
that day you left me with no choice

I feel through me you've vented some revenge
some malicious feud you rage against my gender
for the bitterness you were left with from your divorce
and for what your mother did to you, of course
but I’m not your whipping boy
and I wasn't just your kinky play thing,
your little fuck doll toy

Janus, my Gemini
you are Janus, my Gemini
the one who lied
the one who cried
the one with fear that hides
the one with two faces that denies

Janus, my Gemini
you should look in the mirror sometime
and maybe you'll see that it was me
the one who came to you
when you called in the darkness
of that dream

but everything you ever said, turns out is such a lie
according to your alibi
it seems your friend “reason” you've been talking to these days
has turned you around and now Janus' other face
has turned your heart black to fully erase
those beautiful promises you made
and in my place---
---there is left not a trace

Janus, my Gemini
you are Janus, my Gemini
the one who lied
the one who cried
the one with fear that hides
the one with two faces that denies


Janus, my Gemini

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Unconscious conscience



I was scrubbing. It slipped from my hand leaving behind a deep gash. I had such a strange dream. This is what I was thinking about. It was a dream I must have had before because during the dream, my unconscious consciousness told me I knew what was going to happen because I had seen this before. And I did know.

It was one of my flying dreams, no, not one of those I've had where I could fly. So I watched the blood. A lot more came than I thought would. There was such strange fascination watching it but in a way that I felt no personal connection to it. Blood bothers me, usually, anyway, I can't even stand having to deal with it once a month without wanting to vomit. And this time as I look I see only the purity of the vibrant color and try to estimate how to re-create it with paint. The contrast against pale skin. And in this dream was Matt, someone I knew from high school at the international school. I see him on Facebook often. I don't know why he was in this dream.

There was some kind of evil empire taking over, and sometimes we all sat in a movie theater audience watching ourselves. And everybody from my life was there commenting. Even Matt who stood up and said, “this is such a stupid movie!” and someone behind me said she really liked it and told him to be quiet.

Like a waterfall of vibrant color. With everything far away. I think it is Venetian red. Sensations muted. Thoughts so dull. And what is stranger still, so weird, is that there was some kind of love triangle with Matt involving me, his wife and this split personality demon of her that possessed her. And she performed before us in a Vaudeville show. He was a kind of Indiana Jones in this, with long hair (this is how he wears it now, I see in pictures) and a beard, rippling muscles. He had an ability to walk on water, like some kind of Greek god.

And in between each spooky, chilling scene with violence and blood caused by the evil empire on the people while Matt seemed to be the local hero trying to save the village (it took place in a kind of market on a coastline), Matt would sometimes take up his old flirtation with me from high school. He would strut by me and smile and then he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me to fly up with him to the top of the market canopy and smile that kind of grin while the villagers would cheer. But then the split personality of his wife would get jealous and leap out of her and begin to kill people. So he was always torn between saving the people in the marketplace and sweeping me off my feet to fly off. Isn't it strange how you remember small things about people you once knew in dreams you thought you forgot? Like how it felt to kiss him, he was very good at it and the dream sometimes turned graphic. Sometimes I watched like a member of the audience but the times with him it triggered a response of memory so that I felt things and would rub myself against him, feel my nipples stimulated and go hard. So very, very weird. Not like the video game dream I had last month that I wasn't in at all. I just watched that one or played it, I guess. Each time the characters would die and I would try again learning where all the secrets were for the next time....

Every time I slam my hand up against something, I look at this gash because I don't even feel it. It's like watching it outside myself. Instead of feeling nauseated by the look of the deep cut I look at it like a scientist observing and with macabre fascination. Jamie says that I should not meet the person that I met in the twenty-four hour store who wants to give me his calculator. I know I would feel the same if I were her. I think I am feeling like a scientist; removed and uncaring. Maybe the impulse, like a kind of dare, tossing the dice off the edge. I thought he just wanted to give me a calculator but he called me “Beautiful” in his text to me. I told him I had the flu to stall for time because.... I don't bungee jump or parachute out of airplanes but I am sometimes so drawn to-- like when I went into Manhattan alone to meet the politician recently, a kind of tempting of fate. And then, ironically, got lost walking back to Vera's that night in a dangerous section of Stamford and my phone froze when I tried to use the map.


I recognize what is happening, only I can't stop it and I guess the center of the matter is apathy. I can reason from an intellectual perspective that this is like playing with fire. Like lying prone on a highway waiting for a semi. To discuss it with anyone would only make me pretend to agree with good advice because internally I know there is a driving reason I feel compelled this way. And I guess that is the real danger, and it's so familiar, like the way I felt each time I ran away in Holland and would walk into some hotel bar and let some man in a suit buy me drinks. But there wasn't really much danger there. I have learned that the U.S is far more populated with wackos, so it is not foolish idiocy at work here,it is impassiveness. The pattern gets more and more challenging with each experience too and I suspect part of it is this sense of breaking free from Dean who kept me locked up in his cage. One part of me wants to prove that I am not afraid of anything anymore but that is also an excuse that blurs the fact that I am sitting at the edge and looking down and just don't care anymore.    

Monday, February 23, 2015

darkness breaks the morning; electra's dictionary



A dark force possesses. I want to be OK, I have to be OK. For Jamie-- but I find myself sinking down. I once thought that it would be enough to be just her mother, that it would give me purpose to hold onto. I wish this could be enough. I wish there was a way to remove all emotions from myself and not be aware of the loss of it. The numbness that I felt while I was still living with Dean.... you know, sometimes I feel I would almost take it back because it did keep me so distracted from myself. I don't even know if it is better this way. That emptiness felt as if it were killing me. But now I have another kind. I don't know.

I have always struggled with this. Would it have been worse to have just given up long ago, before there ever was a Jamie? Because how could I imagine the kind of harm of this it would cause her? I couldn't be that cruel. But I feel like.... how do I say this? from within the center of this anomie.... there is a kind of existence that eats away, a kind of deterioration that feeds within and distorts the rational ability to find or to believe in any purpose. It seems to have a power. It presides darkly as it consumes.

And sometimes I think if I just dive into the eye of the storm and brave it or dare it.... I can overcome it by proving to myself that I am stronger than it. But I think that is always the mistake I make. Because I don't think I am stronger than it. Because that “it” is me. The darkest side of me. And I cannot outwit it because any argument I have can be battled off with the power of this darkness that overcomes everything.

The vices we cling to are the ropes we choose to hold onto as we try to not sink down, they are not the real poison that consumes, only the choice action that is resulted of the poison. This action that helps to distract the terror. The artificial means that only perpetuates a cycle. Without any vice we stand and tempt our balance over the edge. And if the choice, the only choice, that remains is to alternate our vices, substituting one for another.... even that won't fill the void, or heal the pain; won't let go its grip of shame or guilt; cannot possibly cure the heartbreak.

A dark force possesses. It takes over extinguishing all resolve. This time it is the phone that calls, some trite needed use of me....but I fear one day there will be no phone call, nothing to anchor the reason back.