All relationships are hard. They require a personal commitment to another person to be available to that person. To talk, not just when it’s convenient. To think of others who are important to you even if circumstances change and you aren’t able to be by their side.
And that’s difficult. It requires making the conscious choice to take time out and use it to maintain your relationship. I’m not always great about that. I’m aware of it and I try to work against my impulse to isolate and hurt instead of addressing the problem.
And in these times where isolation is literal life and death, it behooves us to use the technology we have to reach out and maintain those relationships. What are we fighting for if not each other?
I am recording my day and narrating it as I work from home during this epidemic. I am thinking of posting the raw file which will include periods of silence or just typing
I can edit that stuff out. Please say your preference in the comments section. I know this probably doesn’t appeal to everyone, but I’ve been told that my voice has a soporific effect so merely for the companionship or ASMR value it might be good.
Living in a tragedy gets old. Dystopian elections of battered hopes where men fall prey to honest ignorance and are pulled to pieces drowning out the message. Each rally set outside of an election year calls to mind another authoritarian in black and white; a dead mans message of terror spread out to the stars propagating at light speed. Years pass and life continues with battles and fights to hold on. With love and a renewed hopefulness and the crush of long distances. To hear her voice, to watch her dance in joy. Then a waking from a dream and a virus wreaks havoc, exposing the flaws in logic more boldly than a hundred hours of documentary and late night talk shows. But still conspiracy conspiracy conspiracy they whisper and while I speak only in shadows and darkness still my heart remains because of she’s there. Hair wet symphonies and silence. Driving to work for a company who has tenuous grasp on reality but the commute is short. Trying to convince aging parents to take this seriously but hearing Fox news reach up their spine and spout false talking points. Despair but with rapid eye twitches from lack of sleep. Still…I’m not dead yet. Time enough for love and joy. Death is coming and that’s no lie. But he is my brother. I know him well. And I am not afraid.
Pain is a harmonic language. It’s not enough to master its phrasing and grammar. One must also hear its call, must dive in and feel its terror in the small heartbeat pulsing against your tongue. How else to learn? How else to walk shaded pathways with few travelers?
Love is a deliberate song. First begun in synapse and hormonal euphoria. Easy to discard without attachment. But love beyond simple physical reaction is the choice of the moment and day. The choice to listen with fresh ears. To see with fresh eyes. To fall in love again and again. To see a movement they’ve made a hundred thousand times and smile. And fall in love again.
These two things seem like different pieces of the puzzle which is BDSM. But they are bound together. Can you love someone so deeply that you are willing to give them their desire to feel the heights of pleasure so insidious that the longer it lasts the more it feels like pain? Can you inflict pain and control and lead with both glee and icey calm? Can you allow yourself to trust so completely in another that you give away your freedom? Can you safeword despite not wanting to disappoint? Can you know when they won’t safeword and do it for them?
It is only with the binding of knowledge and love that these things can be accomplished.
All else is just fuck boy greed. The desire to take without being worthy of it. The blind ambition to act on those desires. And the complete lack of either emotional intelligence or compassion.
When given social permissions to be myself I don’t do constraint or what is termed normal. I’m poetry and flowers and that tea you mentioned in passing that one time. I’m kisses and touches and tears. I’m telling friends that I love them and music, and songs made up and sung right there.
I’m either locked down or free and I don’t know how to be else. And I don’t know that I want to be.
So if you see me smiling for no reason or catch me with tears in my eyes or, on extremely rare occasion, complimenting some random stranger then walking away. Be happy. You’ve caught a rare glimpse past my shell. Something few ever see.
In joy and in pain I, like most of us, am hidden. A false front. A city of doors. A maze without end.
And sometimes…often…I feel so lost
I’ve talked about big things
I’ve talked about social things
I’ve talked about the inner workings of my soul
I’ve written erotica
One off spy stories
I’ve turned a one off erotica story into a fool blown series with characters and plot
I’ve written, performed, recorded, and edited a serial novelization told in 3 voices and perspectives which span numerous hours and which took an hour of editing per 5 minutes of audio.
Then I did that 2 more times
But now I’m having trouble finding words
But really it’s finding time
Time to sit and be without worry weighing me down
Without concern for finances which never consumed me before
I’ve been lucky enough to have a place to land
I’ve been lucky enough to have freedom enough to be able to write
Even though that’s not how I make money
I dislike having lost that
But I’ve traveled the road of preservation of past instead of future
And that is always filled with painful regrets
Paths cut before completion
It’s like there is a membrane where before was a open door
Writing still exists on the other side
Just now it’s an effort filled with stress and struggle to get there
Maybe it’s lack of sleep
Or maybe living unsettled like this is always a shatter away from failure
The thinner the margin the harder the fall
And at some point the fall seems inevitable
I woke up early this morning and found myself reading articles on Medium. As I often do. But today I came across things that led me down the self reflection route.
I haven’t found anything new. Not really. Though I do see a certain lack of certainty. An intellectual understanding of the positions of others which may have been a visceral understanding prior. I think I’m shielding my emotions more.
I feel distant and compartmentalized. Yet I still cry and feel and laugh. Joy and sorrow are a part of my heart and I feel them.
So it’s not like the wall I built before. The house of closed doors where nothing was felt. And it’s not like the tsunamic aftermath of that wall breaking. Nor is it the flayed sadness which permeated after.
This is new. And I’m not sure how I feel about it.
It makes the days and people easier to cope with. But it also makes the words and thoughtforms of art harder to feel. Its like a little magic has gone out of the world to foster stability.
I like everything about Vegas except that it’s Vegas.
I like the lights. That it never seems to sleep. That there are restaurants beyond Denny’s that are open 24/7. I like that the people are present but that they ignore you. I like the high desert and the distant mountains. It all adds up.
But, the frenetic entropic energy of cycled hope and despair which is the core of the city is a drain. The false veneer which residents acknowledge with a nod and a wink grates on me. It is like living in a eggshell. Cozy and brittle. A shorter than normal step from oblivion. And it’s a company town. Every aspect of it is run by the conglomerates which present a different face but reach with the same hands. The law and the power is wielded to enforce the tourist industry. And no statistics which show else is allowed. I know. I’ve looked.
I’ve read the “aw, shucks it’s just people” articles that attempt to justify it. They fall short of the mark.
It’s an interesting town to visit. But it’s not one I’d find myself in again and again. Plastic places pretending to be real.
Depression is insidious. For me, when its not overwhelming sadness, it’s self destruction. It’s eating too much. Spending too much. Pushing too hard. Overcorrecting until people are sick of it. Or staying up way too late even when I recognize that I’m tired. Even when I’m falling asleep in my chair.
And the thing is, things aren’t bad. I’m anxious for a trip I have to take for work. Basically because there will be a ton of people there and I won’t have any social cover or retreat. Other than that, I’m good.
But still I push past endurance. Still I do this. Self destruction. In service to nothing. And, while I’ve gotten better down the years, I’m still not well. I don’t even know what well looks like. And it baffles me that there are people out in the world who have no idea what this is. They never feel like this. And if they do, they shake it off. Like it’s nothing, like it’s easy.
To me, they are aliens. I can’t relate to that frame of reference. I don’t know what it is. So we are aliens to each other. Describing the indiscribable. And getting lost in the words we can’t share.
And I wonder, how many dichotomies are like this? How many fundamental schisms of perspective are there?
We share this world, but I don’t think we live in the same one. And that is the hardest thing to accept and convey. The reason we are so fundamentally divided is that we have codified our stances as fundamental parts of our being. And so, every deviation is a existential fight for identity with no person or group able to give ground. Lest we are forced to redefine our self as other.
I despair for humanity. Not because I think we are doomed but because I see the downward trend. And I don’t know if we’ll make it out. I hope there is some angle I’m not seeing. Some truth that lays fallow and unknown waiting to bring forth life.
But still its late, and even now I procrastinate.
I can still get a couple of hours of sleep, maybe.
I can control me. And maybe that’s all we could ever do. And maybe that will need to be enough.