funny thing fear signifies that one has something worth losing but distracts from the enjoyment the appreciation immersion
do words help pacify the worries? never enough no full solution no cure perhaps only band-aids massages kisses to the boo-boo
there’s a photo (one of the first, I think) of our hands focused on the painted nails a symbol of our shared identity assertion of us as the rockstar creatives we are but it’s more symbolic to me of my hand being there for you of your hand being there for me of our being there for each other I look at it often and find solace in the thought comfort in your presence
(I get scared, too, so you know)
frustrating as it is to me I know that I can’t cure the ills of your world I can’t fix everything (anything, really) but there’s a part of me that will always keep trying no longer to be the hero of the story but instead, now to put your dynamic heart at ease to leave more room in your world for your beautiful smile
I will spend forever echoing my words with actions to enhance your world to multiply your joy to share your sense of discovery and laughter and wanderlust and wonder
I will silence my words replacing them entirely with deeds gestures endeavors if you ask (though my words are sometimes my greatest gift)
I will spend my dying breath aiding you with whatever burdens I can soothing your anxieties reminding you that I am here always for you for whatever you need or want from me
unimportant to me: rings papers status in the eyes of the law or the gods the opinions of others these are all just words
important to me: your happiness your comfort and health you
I hope I never fail to show you all of this no matter how much I might tell
I will burn us to life Until my only flame is a burning fuse
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about similarities and differences (among all the other thoughts that skitter through my headmeat like a monstrous pack of rabid and probably insane baby opossums through the course of days). What makes a good combination of personalities? Is there a perfect (or perhaps ideal is the better word) mix? Clearly you need similarities, or there’s no touchpoint for connection; on the other hand, too much commonality would seem to rather quickly build some sort of contempt (you ever spend enough time hanging out with your honest self, you’ll see this really fucking quickly).
My relationships — as much as I despise forced-binary groupings, here I go — can be divided into two camps: long-term, where that mix of personalities was reasonably close, and short-term (like, a couple of weeks, if they were really unlucky), where I immediately found and fixated on — well, if not flaws, the differences that I saw that I didn’t like.
Ah, fuck it — let’s call a spade a hoe: they were flaws.
In my head, at least, my current situation falls into the former of the two categories, only moreso. As I was telling someone the other day, for maybe the first time in my life, I’m not finding the differences irritating or hard to cope with, but beautiful pieces of the bigger whole, necessary parts of her that make her the person that I love so much.
I think to some degree those differences are necessary, to create a sort of tension. Not the kind that creates wedges and arguments and fights, but rather the tension (I was about to write “if I may”, but fuck you, it’s my page and I’ll write what I waaaaaaahnt) of the literary variety, required to propel the storyline forward, to instill growth in the protagonists, to make the goddamn thing readable.
There’s nothing sadder than a talented writer with no tension. Oh, wait — aren’t those poets?
But I digress…
Take the relationship between yin and yang. Stealing from Wikipedia (which is likely stolen from elsewhere, so it’s okay, citation nazis):
In Ancient Chinese philosophy, yin and yang (/jɪn/ and /jɑːŋ, jæŋ/; Chinese: 陰陽yīnyáng pronounced[ín jǎŋ], lit. “dark-light”, “negative-positive”) is a Chinese philosophical concept that describes how obviously opposite or contrary forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, and interdependent in the natural world, and how they may give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another.
Is this one of my 31 tattoos? Yes, Karen. Yes it is.
One the one hand, they are opposites — in meaning and visually. Twilight zone images, dualities in motion. On the other, though, they have so many similarities — same color schemes, same shapes, both moving in the same inferred direction. And they complement and connect to each other seamlessly. The two don’t cancel each other out as much as they drive the other forward, spotlighting the beauty and individuality of the other.
So what’s the perfect or ideal mix of personalities to create the laboratory-perfect conditions from which a lasting relationship can grow and flourish? Jesus, Karen — if I knew that, you think I’d publish it here, for free? Get the fuck outta here. I’d be on the road making fucking bank with that knowledge. Go watch another Brené Brown video.
But combined with my experience of the past — and all the things my idiot self better have picked up and embedded in my half-chewed brain — I really think that I might have stumbled across it.
Now, we just have to have a conversation about which of us is which universal force… Look for that soon on a pay-per-view near you.
‘talking about love is like dancing about architecture‘ a line in a script although flawed i wish i had written
one can dissect the end result (foundation, walls, layout) without ever fully understanding the true beauty
all is rarely as it appears
sometimes rules are meant to be broken stepping outside the sandbox of physical laws bending time stretching space redefining the notion of expectations
columns supporting columns that hold up columns mutable walls letting or denying passage windows appearing contextually depending on the viewer and how they choose to view
the word is my medium i can’t dance don’t dance and usually don’t stand too near anyone who does but in her case i would make every exception publicly spotlighted gladly
there are exceptions to every rule (including this one)
but i would return to university immerse myself in the world of space design eero saarinen i m pei frank lloyd wright bathing in words and concepts until i dreamt every night every day of buildings and spaces and their endless forms
and i would watch the films the ballerinas the tap dancers the performance artists the gymnasts
and i would hire coaches trainers choreographers
and i would spend my remaining days composing practicing recording perfecting the agar on which to grow my experiment
because if i could one day dance about architecture then maybe one day i can also talk clearly about how much she means to me
‘I need miracles and improbabilities, maps that haven’t been drawn and instruction manuals that haven’t been outlined. I’ve got a charred and tattered soul to trade for a better world for everyone.’
Of course, both these questions are not as simple as binary switches. And yet they also are. Schrödinger’s musings — dead and alive, neither dead nor alive, until you open the box.
I spent so long wandering alone that I had forgotten so many — too many things. Never really aimless, but lacking any sort of real focus. Never really directionless, but drifting wherever the current took me.
Why do I write, if not to be read? Because it acts as some sort of ventilation, a pressure release. Because it’s easier to put words on paper or a screen than for me to vocalize, often. Because things deserve to be related and remembered, if only by future versions of me.
Paraphrased, because my memory ain’t photographic (though way more photogenic than it’s owner): “I think I drink less with you. I’m not as depressed.”
And I poked at that statement, laughingly and lovingly. But at the same time, I get it.
I used to wonder how futile it was, the idea of two humans dealing with mental illness partnering up. But as I aged, I began to realize that not only are more people emotionally imbalanced than I thought (and way more than will even admit), but those of us that understand ourselves are better equipped to understand and empathize with each other. That’s the sort of thing that’s crucial to communication, which is in turn crucial to any kind of successful relationship.
And, like I responded, “at least we can be less depressed together.”
Reading her words was (and remains) incredibly touching to me — I’ve always dreamed of moving someone enough that they created something for or inspired by me. It was never a goal — any more than winning the lottery, or whatever else you can imagine that requires more luck than anything else. But it was, like winning the lottery, a hope, a desire — something I never gave up on, even though there was nothing I could do to improve the odds.
And also, beyond the realized hope — the words themselves. So incredibly powerful, even in such a compact telling. For future reference, I was moved to (sincere) tears by the thoughtfulness of the moment.
Why do I live, if not to love? Because I never give up on my dreams, even if there’s more luck involved than anything else. Because sometimes, the current takes you exactly where you are supposed to be. Because I never stop hoping for everything in it’s right place.
post-dusk sky reverberates a million lightning bugs flitting, blinking in and out and in printing a dazzling orchestral score against a cloudless sky and a wall of hilly meadows and trees
away from the city like this your head against my chest reclining on me left hands clenched loosely lovingly our own boko-maru
away from civilization the way of life i’ve always known surrounded by nature and silence and you your voice resounds with such clarity when you tell me those three words i’m at peace
and i swear that each time a firefly pops off then on then off again i can hear the notes being played strings, piano, gentle brass ephemeral ambient undertones never repeating yet clearly connected pieces of a greater whole
away from the city under these trees in the tall grass your soft murmuration vocals for the firefly symphony a different kind of aria a better kind of cantabile this is a hill i would happily die on
post-dusk sky reverberates a million lightning bugs flitting, blinking in and out and in printing a dazzling orchestral score illuminating your beautiful eyes two pieces of a much greater whole
“The mind that’s afraid to toy with the ridiculous will never create the brilliantly original…” -David Brin
My brain is all over the place today (for an oddity, I can’t quite explain the why of that — maybe the storm front blowing through, some sort of sleep disturbance… maybe it only matters to me because usually I can pinpoint the reason). And so, too, is going to be whatever I end up putting down here.
Been thinking a fair amount about time, in a general, conceptual way. As a dimension — just like height, and width and depth, observable, measurable and experiential. (I sometimes wish some of my writing came with a way to observe me in the process of writing — to wit, just now, watching myself debate and erase and readd and erase again a couple of Oxford commas. I wonder what look crosses my face at times like those?) Like the fact that if you take a single instance of the smallest unit of time — suddenly, you have nothing more than a photograph or a hologram, but one limited to a single point of perspective, a unique and non-redefinable vantage point.
The differences in perception of time from culture to culture. On one hand, that sort of thing is to be expected, but it’s still fascinating to me. Further evidence of evolution on a community scale.
All of this is leading to a near-future reread of Edwin Abbott’s Flatland. I can’t recall how I ended up getting a copy or what prompted my initial read, but I do distinctly remember my brain opening wide at the idea of the limitations of what we can perceive, and how especially our human egos have a tendency to think that we are the top of the food pyramid — but because of our perceptual limitations, odds are pretty decent that we’re closer to the middle (or perhaps even lower). I don’t understand nearly enough about physics to pretend to talk more than conceptually about dimensions beyond our (my) perceived four, but I have seen mentions of up to ten. (That’s a fun article if you need nightmare fuel — save it for the last thing you read after a particularly grueling day.)
Look, I warned you that my brain is firing on all cylinders, all at once, today.
If the Butterfly Effect is a real thing — and why wouldn’t it be? — then you have a fairly strong basis for rationalizing astrology, as well. Maybe not from the standpoint of telling the future (I don’t really go in for the pre-determinism that implies), but at least toward some level of explaining why people are who they are. Or why people under similar signs are likely (?) to have similar relationships.
On the flip side, this is using star groupings that were conceived and named by sailors and explorers to be able to travel at night in times before all kinds of science, which does seem like a random way to try to explain anything, much less predict shit.
(And I just spent twenty minutes reading about my sign on the internet, where all things are true, all the time. Which tells me it’s time to step away from this little black box and probably start drinking until I manage to forget I do shit like this too often.)
driving at night blacktop stretching in front and behind as far as perception carries trees and farmland and asphalt
headed somewhere nowhere in particular maybe just anywhere new your sleeping hand in mind speaking sotto voce to a dream
your thumb twitches against mine electric
i turn up the volume a bit smiling humming along
when we arrive wherever what will we find? what will we do? what experiences await?
the highway hums beneath the streetlamps fly past you continue to converse in hushed alien tongues as we draw closer and closer you and i to my next favorite adventure
