It isn’t really her fault. She doesn’t have to be a model mother or so supportive like those tv moms. There’s love but as I think about our relationship and my sisters I feel like she never really accepted us. I might be wrong, she did grow and became more comfortable with our choices, but the way it is is one of molding and criticism, negativism towards an intended goal. We were supposed to end up a proscribed way. That could be the way of all mothers, all families, wanting the best and pushing us out of the nest to fly. But I wouldn’t have done it the same way. When I entertain the idea of having kids I see myself being different, finding my own balance of nature vs. nurture. There are plenty of good things to say about her, we had fun, she laughed and cried, a lot, so I owe thanks for not being too damaged or misogynistic. But would I want some Brady Bunch mom? I don’t even understand my own expectations. I was so angry at the family from anger at myself, anger for being born this way and anger for being lost and feeling alone the more people liked me. I hated myself so I projected hate onto them and thought they were the problem. Dysfunction was the key to my undoing. How could I be whole coming from pieces? Taking stock in yourself means being honest. Column A and column B need to merge and my picture sees me as a passive agent and an active one. Things done to me things I did to myself and others; Katamari ball laying wreckage. I am not whole, not empty, not happy, not sinking. I am on the escalator of being in the moment fidgeting and trying to pace my arrival. There are no faults only people and the human stain.
Everyone is conditioned to their problems, they learn to adapt and handle their bidness. Whether we receive what we can handle or strain under the weight to slowly cross some unsighted finish line is a matter for spiritualists, I don’t particularly take to destiny and fate and that sort of thing. I think anyone that has a smidgen of giving a shit takes steps to circumvent their horrorshows and tip toe around the emotional and mental baggage that accumulates on us like plaque to a sugar addict. I’ve got my plaque, been with me many a years now, some four score ought seven I’d say.
It takes some getting used to, it needs breathing space and discipline of a sort I fumbled with for a decade or so, jittery keys in hand searching for the ignition as if I was in a horror movie of low budget means. Things come in different cycles, waves and particles choose their time, I deal with the Tourette’s then the moonfaced hulk of OCD comes trotting down and grips the mind, spending days lost in compulsions and crazed fear. It happened, happens, the self deals and grows callouses to fight the kill me motions. Sure there was plenty of coping mechanisms and so many addictions and hiding in softness, curled up kid clutching blankets and courting eating disorders. Stuck with this enveloping need to touch touch everything over and over, click click twitch attention split. Can’t focus, read, pay attention, can’t think, too much think, blink blink. Fuck.
You often hear there are people worse off, as if this should make you feel better or grateful. Though it is true nothing gets taken away or alleviated, I didn’t get solace from the thought of other poor unfortunates but I felt there was kinship out there. I grew up in a time when more was known about mental health and even if the medication and application was a bit wanting I was in a better position to get help. Many people took time to help me and listen to my shit, work in programs to manage our follies and struggles, professionals doing what they can to ease us into compliance with the wider world. But we’re not configured that way really. We exist different from whatever is regular, whatever can be said to be the status quo, perceptions and feelings interplay in an other kind of way, a nonessentialism way. Most things seem like there is no purpose, doing weird things with no end in mind, just desire and compulsion, forces acting upon you with no visibility or understanding. Plenty of what I do and think makes no sense yet I cannot stop, won’t stop, bundled with a mixed bag always on my shoulder. There’s no use complaining anymore just keep riding and moving forward.
What is truth man? Why can’t I say what I want to say to others? Why do I have all these thoughts in my head that I don’t let out? I’m afraid to let out. Afraid what people will think of me, afraid of the wrong thing coming out, afraid that my secrets that I think are so important and horrible will come out and people won’t understand. I’m afraid of truth. I live in anxiety of honest conversations, of those close to me not accepting me. I hate to be different, hate to be alone. What if the truth makes me alone, what if they don’t accept wbo I am? What if I’m unlovable and alone because I need to tell the truth? What is my truth? I’m too afraid to ask.
I craved warm shoulders. I wanted to dig deep and root myself in her body; the touch, kindness, arms open and receptive to my melancholy dog days. I brushed with seriousness and sappiness, stroked pent up anger and whiny bitch extensions braided deep within my head. Guffaw and laughter scented my arrival but I hid deep the bruises of life, shame, discontent, contempt, attempting normal. I lost myself in Joker reveries with the killing joke as my epitaph on a lonely desolate gravestone wet and mossy for the finishing touch. All about appearances.
I like to think of myself as so deep and abundant in wisdom and clarity but the image-heavy imagination breaks those delusions. I am partial to the pretty. Superficial layer on top of the kind soul slowly scrubbing its edges, this constant battle to be greater than, more open-minded and less shallow. I swim here and there leapfrogging over tadpole growth deliberately debating the merits of being image-conscious and curtailing the aesthetically pleasing angle. Just a scalene looking for the right.
I felt the need to grow, develop, deliver no quitter lily liver critter with a bitter pill swallower. Jagged edges. Chips on my shoulder can’t have just one. Eric Estrada the line between here and hereafter, sane and insane, life’s a joke and a riddle, Crumplestilskin. I gain heavy nd bog down in the mire of self-abuse and loathing. Ungulating, beating, throbbing membrane lush with the devil’s influence. Down down a black hole fearing the bottom but crashing towards it all the same. I relish that beef, that humiliation hunger game tossed around with minced and mottled meat. Sh sh shame spirals agony replete, addictions to tension and low levels; I look upon my wearied form down on knees and lost, lost to a warm world I spit at and turn away from. But that is past is it not? Past self, past reprisals, past the post electing for some positive. Change self, quit the self-destruction for some grassroots blooming. This onion has layers like ogres with their asses. Parfait perfect person.
And I longed for the kiss, sweet lips, winced at the touch, the crowd around me suffocating me, drowning in people sea. See see sissy, spacek space case, martian child thingling.
Thing one without a thing two. Judgy fish myself til the fun dies down, the fucked up party down, good thing I didn’t get the coca. Runaway train on deserted perverted rails sketchy and off kilter tracks trackmarks me. And I try and steel myself for the final key. Notes from underground left after me.
Cracked up basket case fooling for a picnic. End it all accomplice embellish. Stand in tracks awaiting the bend, putting misery to an end. Knife in gut, blade in the shade, darkly Dexter chump fillet. Chemicals down the gullet, poisons down the spirit. Alcoholic sputters with pain pills shoved down a doused soused throat, screaming in my head and silence on my lips. Eyes scanning, run run death wish. Wake in a bright hospital hospitable, watched over by scrubs and baby docs locked in purgatory my usual story. Mingling with the crazies, life blurb hazy maybe I’m dumb and lazy and I need a sound playbook. Silver linings came to me, break the old habits, spending money money hungry for the honeys so sunny playboy bunnies say they love me suddenly. Can’t get enough of me, sick of me literally, narcissism pessimism altruism on the spectrum. Ill and fated, scared and hated, nice guy to jerk conversion. Curses and mockery on the ready repeat.
Vinyl vile vitriol verily.
Stuck in a rut sinking in quicksand, body enwrapped from the waistband. Screaming in my head, silence on my lips. Mad bad cad auto breakdown mentally; fair-weather friends talk me awkwardly, stop calling me, avoid the real me. Or really? Is it me or the sad sack of eternity? Which is the scarcity that pops it head from under. Chickenshit chicken hawk ostrich emu fly don’t walk. Looney Toons after effect animating my biography through dark worded poetry. E-read my disaster capitalism moody magazine.
I kept thinking I was “supposed to” all the time. Flirt, fuck, get all the milestones in order, beat out the loops and bounds. Sex was the big one, always is. Sexuality is another of the same vein. I couldn’t accept these thoughts of men and penile fantasies, I was conditioned for hetero world, set on the common path endemic of the normals. But I’ve had to go through the motions and reject it all, shy up to new events and sexual meanderings, cast off sex all together amd find myself and my comfort zone, nestled in the lovable curmudgeon full of neutrality.
It isn’t something people usually understand. A lack of desire, urges withered up and out of sight, temptations doing nothing for the limp libido. There are some physical leanings left, I check out people in a certain way though it’s not with much zeal. You just accept what your lot is. My die has cast and I’m taken the role of asexual elf (elves always seemed asexual to me). I walk with quivers and bows keeping my distance from the fray, I feel there is not so much there for me, I’d rather have tea and read thank you. It’s more disappointing when you have a girl in your lap and physically it’s nice but your body does not take it to next level, your mind has said good day sir. Or you think you need to suck a dick but then you do and there’s relief because of the built up tension and denial but not what you expected. There’s a real lack of satisfaction in these escapades. I tried, thats enough methinks. You keep your sex bombs and kinky boots, your throbbing biological urges, erhmagawd iz cumming refrains. I’m trying to get Buddha peace, I want etheral highs, I want to be able to finally relax, let my shoulders down for once. My demons work on the Sabbath.
So I’m skipping that life. The ride was supposed to be fun but I’m just mild about Harry, tepid with Maude. The life fantastic is skewed a ways and I’m growing into by it. A thorny trellis on the great wall of absence. If you prick us…
I used to put too much on women. Hopes and dreams, my redemption (oh the weak spirit doth whine for revival), the upbraiding of my life into a mature whole sprouted from weak-willed, sinful lethargy. I pined for someone special that could miraculously deliver me from evil and Hyde behaviour, bring me to that state of potential all those shitty teachers talked about. Filthy muckrakers smoking Kings and lecturing half-strung prisoner youth, dwindling their life away in Staple’s bought desks reminiscent of Dilbert cubicles. I was asking too much of all the women that may have entered into my life, prospects glowing like goldmine jackpots. I wasn’t even thinking about sex, well, impossible not to in North American society, sex is the Starbucks of human activity, everywhere you wanna be. But what I was yearning for was upheaval. I wanted to be ‘good,’ better than I believed myself to be, poor self-esteem rebooted and strengthened by a lovely lady. More dutiful than personable; I was wishing for a cane to help me balance, without religion I clung to other systems to keep me afloat, above the hell pit, hellmouth, Buffy save me.
I idolized their gender, almost wanting to be them, and there is some of that lingering within me. I thought they better of the sexes, less corruptible and averse to the faults and frailty of men. Beauties for our beasts. I admit the burden I placed was unfair and not at all realistic. I should not look for someone to flip my house, a gentleman’s gentleman, to cast aside good people as they do not live up to my standards I’ve been exalting over the years. Why do we men often look for companions closer to slave workers than amorous life partners? Why was I so gungho about a Molly Maid mate? Because I didn’t believe in myself enough, the ego was certainly there, I felt so important with my wit and people skills; a reticent leader with a comedian’s control of the audience. Though I was being shunted down and humbled by humiliation from the little hellions (oh those lower mortals spitting bile and vile attacks!) on the playground. I felt inadequate, from what I’ve read something like Tesla who thought he wasn’t good enough for any woman, but I felt I deserved a gear starter, the woman who takes the reins and makes a man better than he was, Super Rob of the concrete jungle.
And what did I get? many women just perfectly fine that I dashed away like Jack Torrance’s papers upon his bureau. I had that image in my head, this nagging perfectionist leaning I fell into. Always wanting, craving, begging for sweet chili relief in a five alarm world. I slept through it all though, passed by girls for lack of that spark. You know it when it comes, it did for Melanie, the yard stick I measure all women by, it is wrong I know but I can’t help missing that uncommon joy that latched onto me, never have I been so happy and alive. You know when you’re so alive and awake that your eyes blaze into a fully immersed stare at everything, the world seems fresher, existence means something, a tangible lollipop I would suckle on (mommy???) I do not begrudge my experiences, they make you who you are, tailor you into a being wholly different from all else that has something to share with the world. Maybe I’m doing that now. Maybe I feed people in a figurative way by my manners and good nature. May be I’m destined to not be an asshole and I didn’t need a perfect woman to set me right, or maybe all those hodgepodge of women did the trick. I assume the latter. I’m not an island, I’m the Philippines needing company.
I don’t need to be super, I need to accept whatever I am and someone else will too. It took many years to heed the advice to love yourself, still hard but getting better. I guess I did it my way and I’m… OK with what is. Growth doesn’t die you just see it from different angles.
I like to lie to myself
Tell myself I don’t care about the opinions
Harsh words and jokes don’t rip me Jack
Steely stares and judgy scrunched faces
Lotta Renee Zellwegers pointing
Lols pushed up like death-beseech-me daisies
I feel butthurt and sulk moderately maudlin in my mancave
Tissue and coconut oil littered round
I’ve lost the other highs
I soak in the rush
Sweet relief comes in pint-sized doses
Replete with homesick dosas
Food comforts in the still of the night
The still heart beating cavernous soloism
I go on with the loner act
Always popular but I crave to be alone
Curled up under covers safely
Block out world, live in dreamery
Alternate timelines swimming in my brain
I take a dip and forget my troubles
Take a sip and crash again
Afraid of the big world with the pain of life
I feel it all in multi window
Boxes of splinters overlapping each other
Pull the trigger mentally
Again again di di mau
The brain keeps talking
No silence here since conception
I wait for the kick of convoluted inception
Fractured reality fracking steamheads
Seams blown gaskets like stock trader gingerbread
Running rats scurry in a hurry
Sell sell soul
Chipped cogs rotating in rusted splendour
I answer with a jitter
Coffee addict spastic jumbling unsteady fingers
Moonpie melodies sing softly in reverie
Gone off the edge, about time for the jumpoff
Lil Kim blasting stereo warheads
Un’s card game either a president or jackass
Safety check belt firmly
Protection burst like a one night condom
STDs and TPPs
Jizzim jazz playing nymphetically
Brass section reverberating my astrological rhythms
Scales justify my thug liberal Libra
Temporary temper settle down walking rage
Flits of fancy imagining punches
Fists splattered on the avenue
Second and first