9.17.2006

A response; in repose.

Was thinking today about what scares me and what does not.

What does not scare me? Well, I always thought loving someone/thing (to hunts' delight, I just said the word slash in my head), whether it be requited or no, did not scare me. Whatever the means. Whatever the ends.

Now, something I love may be something I just do because it is beyond my control.

It clears up alot.

At 17.9.06, Milkshake said...
This is scaring the crap out of me.
And maybe I'm over exaggerating mid-that-time-of-the-month type hormonal fluxes, but maybe I'm correct in thinking that drawing metaphore and correlations between events is scary enough without being confronted with the fact that it's a physicality. A PHYSICALITY. Meaning to remove this tendancy, one needs not therapy, but surgery. A surgery that doesn't yet exist.
What I mean is that I do this to a fault, and in my naivety thought I could flush it all out by writing it down. Like every quarter I've tossed into a tollbooth, a blond lock of hair pushed across a forehead, A note written on a mirror and every last sugary sweet and thick rich slice of cake in this world that I have been lucky enough to taste--and all of these things in thier poignancy wont leave me, and now I know they never will.
It's all one in the same.
Damnit.
Delete this at your leisure [or don't], because upon a re-read, my vagina seems too loud.
--M


And what, you think I don't do this? In what world does a story have four story lines taking place in three different cities on two coasts with only me and my messed up head as the defining thread? More importantly, when does it stop?

You guys, I'm super seri[al][ous].

I hate it. I hate it because there are those times when it becomes like combat--right there, in the moment, when you are quite sure there is a story happening. You can feel it because you can remember this one time in Olympia when the sheets are off the bed and we are so desperatly trying to make a life. You can feel it because you've said goodbye so many times before, but this one will be on your terms because you will be the one not calling: because you are the one who crept down the hall and out the front door while he and his roomates slept. And all of those times when you are on the kitchen linoleum crying about some boy or some bitch or some twins or some story that didn't go as you had planned, most of all of those tears are for what that story could have been. How it could have sounded. How that Cake could have tasted. How many quarters I could have had.

And when all of those neurons start firing when I'm right there, right in there, and common sense would tell me as it would, the devil on my shoulder will always be that elusive story and he will whisper so cutely to me.

"Do you love him?"
"Does it matter?"
"No. I suppose it does not, because if you don't turn on your heels right now, you'll no doubt ruin this story."
"Are you sure?"
"Which band was better: Pearl Jam or Nirvana?"
"Yeah, I get your point."
"You will leave and you will cry. And do you know who will be there? Right there in your bed?"

It's funny because we are in bed together right now. My greatest love, and she is perfect.
And forever we will create my iStories together.

But are you getting it?
I have quite possibly sacrificed my life for stories. And it's true, those stories are not always in the past for sometimes you actively realize that you're making them; somewhere on I-5 or on a barstool or in your ex's arms in your best friend's bed or everytime you make a sandwich and you can't help but think of Bike Josh and beg of him to get away from Road Cone Man. Or whatever.

And mostly, yeah. Yeah, okay you're right. Mostly this is about that ex and all of those times and quarters and airplanes and more exes. And this is only about that ex because of all of those times and quarters and airplanes and CAKE and goddamn it why does he look so fucking much like cake right now--and why is it all so simple for me to revisit and so hard to leave behind, and why is Seattle so far sometimes and why have I edited this post four times now?

And then Jen was in town the other night and she's all like:
"Wifey, yeah. That's cute and all, but he will always be the boy who pulled you over backwards over a chair at the Monkey Pub."
Yeah. I guess she's right.
But then again, you know what they say about stories.

Whatever. Stick a candle in it 'cause it's fucking done.






Wait.
I'm not done. I'm editing this again.

I just mean that I'm unsure why this is such a big fucking issue--because it shouldn't be. All of this. It shouldn't be a big deal that I made a decision a year and a half ago that gave me an ending to a beautiful essay. That's fine, right? Well if it's fine, then why am I trying to rewrite it in my head right now, to have some sort of explanation should I ever be asked for it that sounds better than it actually was?
I'm scared sometimes by what my head creates.
You can return to what you were doing now.
--M

3 comments:

~PhoenixRising said...

:)
You, my friend, are a character, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Chasing after stories, yo. Chasing after stories.

[back to work]

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