We are never more complicated than when we are open to love

It is easy to say that love is a choice and not a feeling. Because we want things to be one thing or another. We want uncomplicated and simple solutions. But this leads us to believe that if we no longer feel love that we should just choose to be with the person because we are choosing love. And that is fucking dangerous.

Yes, love should be a conscious choice. Don’t allow your feelings to rule but when your feelings of love are gone, it should be a flag to examine why.

Because love is a choice but the kind of choice it is, is to see. To see all that a person is and choose to love them. In the best way, it is to allow one’s feelings to develop from seeing who they are and each day realizing why you love them.

Now. That shit is easy to say. And some days it will be all you can do not to be super fucking annoyed by everything that they do, but the feeling of love will pull you through. And on the obverse side, if all you have is the feeling of love without the reasons that you love them….observe that. Because if you feel love but there is no quality in them that makes clear why, or if what you once loved has worn away and has been replaced by fear, uncertainty, and doubt…well that’s dangerous…

Half heard sensation of a leaf falling in a rainstorm

I have things I want to say but they all feel like a remix rehash of conversations held before. Like being tired isn’t new and being alone isn’t new. Waking up and going to work. Being in love, the constant state of my being. Wondering about maybes and wondering about other shoes and planning actions and reading books and reading poetry and it’s all the same.

The constant drips of a life flowing away.
The minutes spent with a pet. The enforced perspective of now.

Not having anything to say except all the things I’ve said.
I’m sure there are stories I’ve not told and memories I’ve not shared. They just seem so far away. And very few want a dissertation on mannerisms and choices as informed by sociological pressures which become psychological norms by stint of being accepted practices.

Or to hear why a single brick of c4 would never create such a huge explosion no matter how many detonators you pushed into it(not withstanding the complete lack of electrical signal to said detonators)

I suppose this is the unfortunate circumstance where you want to talk but have no one whose as weird as you are or who loves you enough to listen to you being weird at four in the morning.

Life isn’t what we portray it as. Sometimes, the closest you can get to a person is to hear their oddball ideas and observations and bounce your own back and that’s enough.

And other times…you need to hold someone and tell them it will be ok. Not just for them but because we all need to hear that too.

Thoughts on the state of Symphonies and their place in classical music

I have a love/hate relationship with classical music. Or perhaps love/sleep with it. There are pieces of classical music that soar and take me in and hold me up to heights unrealized and other pieces that feel uninspired and tired.

And I wonder, is this just how the notes impact me or is it that these are pieces that were written without need beyond the need for a meal or a drink?

Are these the pieces written for patrons, for commission? For some Duke or Queen, to garner attention in the hopes that it will lead to a steady gig?

And, while I don’t begrudge an artist the means of making a living, should these pieces now be venerated merely because of provinance and age? Or should they be viewed with an eye which turns first inwards then with a heart looking for that precipice from which to leap and grow wings?

Playing it safe pleases donors. Pleases the modern patrons, but should this be the criteria?

Should we not be able to embrace the classical composer without also embracing the mediocre or culturally uninspired efforts that allowed them to put bread on the table?

Maybe that’s hard to do. Hard to see what is emotionally resonant when the pieces themselves are tied to names that echo with greatness. Hard to justify risk when the continued success of the players is dependent on donations.

Perhaps, instead of begging for donations the price of a ticket should reflect the cost of the performance. It’s an oft quoted figure that each performance is only half paid by ticket sales. Making up the rest with donations…makes art hostage to future generosity.

It’s probable that I don’t fully grasp the economics of it. But I’d rather hear a schedule that takes risks and plays with fire than one that is merely safe. Speaking as a lover of classical music, why must I choose to support staid selections to receive the hope of one or two truly moving pieces in a season.

Perhaps it’s too much to hope for. I’m not sure. But I do know that if you play music that makes my heart sing…when I am enraptured… Then you will have a patron for life.

We must all serve the beauty in our hearts.

Or maybe I just hate falling asleep at the Symphony.

If words were wings, I would fly

Every day, several times a day, I walk past my cat Sammy and I say, “I love you buddy, I love you Sammy.” And I mean it and I say it all the time.

But

Until I walk over and pet him. Until I spend time with him it’s not real to him.

I can’t help but feel like this is the same for the people I’ve met and fallen in love with long distance. That my words are nice but are ultimately ephemeral nothings despite how I feel. Despite the emotional impact I’ve been told that they have.

I feel like, until we meet and touch, that the reality of each other will always be at that distant remove of maybe but not real.
I wish I could say that I don’t feel that remove. But I do. As fear that actually meeting me will drive you away. It’s, perhaps irrational but fears are like that.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to say. Maybe just that somewhere distant, where our hearts and minds were captured, perhaps we each wait for the possible

Or maybe I’m just a hopeless dreamer

Why am I crying when I wake up at 2am,parsing dreams

The truth is, I’m not better. I always declare myself better before I actually am. Like saying it makes it true. Like living that lie, while parts of me weep and wallow, while some thoughts still wreck me and leave me weeping in public spaces is somehow the path out instead of in.

I still think about what I did wrong, even if it’s the nothing you said. I think that I should have said, let me help you work it out. I guess the only explanation I have is that I felt like you had withdrawn consent. Which means, to me, full stop. Accept and move on.

Maybe I’m supposed to chase.
And while I tell myself I don’t, I do. But not when I perceive consent is withdrawn. In that case, I am a man on the shore, forever waiving to the ships that only dock seldom, and always, always leave.

Waking from a dream, realizing a truth

Have you ever remembered something that changed how you thought about your past?

I know that many of my readers have. Generally those memories rip you apart. They are wounds hidden by scars that the mind has hidden.

My dream this morning featured a man from my past I hadn’t thought about in a long time. We fell out of touch. Basically because I felt he was using my generosity too much. Something that was probably true but I never told him about it. I just let the friendship drift off.

But this man was someone who I was kind to for no ulterior motive. No profit was to be had from helping him out. And we used to hang out and talk and go to raves monthly. This was when I was much younger.

I’ve always thought that the man I was prior to Morgan was a monster. And, viewing things from a certain, even common, perspective that’s true. But there were also this man and a few others who I was generous with my time and availability.

My friend had a bad home life. He was homeless most of the time. I can remember, at the end of some nights where we had gone out, that me taking him home consisted of taking him to a particular dumpster behind a office building. Because that was where he was living.

I would buy him food. He would shower at my house when we would hang out there. For a couple of years there he was one of the few people in my life not tied to family or the job.

One day he told me that his uncle had died and left him a place in Hawai’i. I hope that was true and that he is living there off his uncle’s money, like he said. After he told me that, I never heard from him again.

I can picture everything about him. Where he lived, all the various places. His presence. His laugh. The sound of his voice. But I can’t remember his name.
That makes me sad. Like he’s lost somehow.

But he was in a dream tonight. And despite the content of that dream, which is complicated and I won’t get into. Despite that I woke remembering all the little things that I did to try and help him. And this was pre Morgan. So, the generous, kind man. The man I’ve thought for years was the product of my harrowing. Existed before her.

Maybe that’s who I am. I won’t say that I am not the other, the man of darkness and blood. But that it was, apparently always tempered by light.

I’ll never be a sunlight creature. My heart and thoughts churn too heavy and turgid. But neither am I a creature of absolute darkness, nor(apparently) was I ever. So here I am. A creature of the twilight.
The grey. Between one thing and another.

But knowing that if I fall, it won’t be into complete darkness. Instead, there will be a path out. Forged of the things that I am.

Knowing your experiences, your memories. Accepting them. Sometimes they burn away who you are and break your mind and world. Sometimes they remind you that the false image built on fear and despair is just that, false.

Prattling on about loss and life(belittling what I feel because talking about it makes me uncomfortable)

I want to talk a bit, briefly, about loss. Specifically the loss of a not only someone you love, but also someone who made you feel as if you were worthy of love. I think that’s what people miss when they hear that my Morgan was killed. They get that I loved her, but they don’t understand that prior to that, I had never felt completely accepted. I had not felt what I term as love. Not just a feeling but the seeing of who a person is, the accepting of who that person is, the knowing that they have your back. To me that is fealty, a bidirectional exchange of the thought and deed that this person, this person has my complete support. Maybe that’s a strange concept, or not something that most would conceptualize as love. Personally, I keep my word. And I am very careful at how I word things. Because, If I give my word, I am bound to it. Lie, my entire identity is bound up in it. So to break my word, would be to break this self-image I have of myself. And maybe, it’s an artificial construct, some framework I’ve built in the hopes of being this better man that I believe I was not. But that just makes it more frightening to me, because I know how I was pre-Morgan. If I were to somehow lose myself now, to the point where I become what I was then, I would literally be a different person. my whole personality and outlook would be different.

That is who she was to me. Not just the person I loved, not just the person who saw and loved me, but also the person who began to change who I was. Who allowed this man who sees his road as one of honor, maybe not honor in the chivalric sense, but honor nonetheless. Not through her direct actions, but by being someone who I wanted to change for, needed to change for.

And then she died. Was ripped from me. and I lost it. I literally have almost no recollection of the following years. Bit and pieces. Drips and drabs. But it was like a fugue state. I didn’t feel alive in it. Like a ghost in the world. An angry one. People who know me in that time, think of me now as cruel and mean. And rightly so.

So after that time, I came, not out of the state but realized I was in one. If that makes sense? So I tried to crack out of it. Like it was a stone egg around my heart. And I didn’t do anything healthy to do that. I wasn’t in a place where I could judge what was healthy and what wasn’t. I’m very surprised I lived through it.

No surprise, it took someone else who saw me, knew me, and took the care to break me out of the shell. I can’t say he loved me. Because to me, if you love someone, you are willing to sacrifice something for it. And he wasn’t. I’m not saying sacrifice of everything, that’s a pretty tall order, but something. Given his line of work, I don’t think that stopping taking solo work was too much of an ask, but it was to him.

So after him, I began to wake. I say it’s where my life began again.

But to touch on loss again. It’s a process. It took me literally years. Years to get to this point where I no longer cry because of a memory surfacing, now I cry because, as a plot point, they kill off the spouse or the love of someones life to set up a revenge tale. And years to get to the point where it no longer sits heavy on my chest, a weight dragging me back to fugue state.

Everyone is different. But I know that it took someone external to myself, seeing me for who I am, to beak the terrible cycle I was in. Because when you are that deep in despair, you can’t see it. It’s just how you are, what your life is.

Dream at williamette

I had a dream that I met a college professor at williamette College in the nw? We were talking philosophy and I was saying how I couldn’t stand college because I wanted to talk philosophy not learn about what others said about philosophy
Her name began with a h something? she was maybe an adjunct professor. (I’m crappy with names in general and in dreams I’m worse) She was with 2 of her grad students one of whom was talking about a local(school?) advert she did that featured a corset but her friend, bitchily commented that she brought it to the shoot. She blushed and said that it made her feel like a cat and that made her happy. I launched into explaining that sounded like she may be a kitten(BDSM/fetish play) and her professor was just smiling.

It was cold out and the professor commented that she was used to hotter climes and I said I was from the desert. She said her skin was cold as ice and I should, “here feel” like a competition to find who was colder and when I did she was delightfully warm. An excuse to touch is sometimes flirting but even in my dreams I’m an idiot about these things.

We said our goodbyes and I drove home.
I looked her up on some messaging app they’d mentioned when they said they used it for DnD(super nerds, right in my wheel house)
I found her and sent a request and she accepted the request and it was also a game thing and she sent me a bunch of in game items.

I was just about to say hi when I woke up.

Just thinking as fall dawns

Things in my life are, oddly, going right. And I’m kinda lost. Cause for the longest time I’ve been struggling to find some light and now that things have resolved into a picture of maybe and almost and yes and huh, I’m not sure how to deal. Like I’m a ninja warrior at depression and pain. That shit I have handled and can work through. And the unbearable happiness of the new relationship, I know that too because it feels like falling apart and that’s stopping. Love now feels like walking into a moon drenched night full of wonder and the possible. Like heat after being nearly frozen. No simple maybe someday but here and now.

So for the first time in a long time, I’m lost. And not lost in my pain or in some bleak landscape of never gonna be but lost in where things go without the dramatic pose of pain and open wounds.

Darkness and shadows still war in me and poetry is still flowing. But I’m not drowning. And that’s new.

I’d like to know why but equally don’t want to break the spell. And while I want more than I have, I can see a future where I may have all that I want, and how do I deal with that? Or is it that having all that one desires, it then becomes a struggle to hold on.

I suppose the inclination is to hold ground but I know that doesn’t work. I’ll keep evolving. Adding new pieces. New thoughts. Anything else seems to lead to the slow death. Growing is the only way to hold.

Hangs heavy the heart

This is the 13th anniversary of Morgan’s death.
I’m reliving those minutes. Those mistakes. In full acceptance. I failed her in a way that I won’t fail again. So I seem like I’m cautious. Making sure we are on the same page. Reiterating thoughts to garner agreement and clarification. A friend of mine said that’s just what a Sir does. Perhaps she’s right. But I think that I must admit that this more than anything is what shaped me. Not just her death. Her murder. But also her life. Her love.

Because of her, I have bedrock proof that love is real. I know that relationships are hard. That letting things go causes damage. That failing to fight for your desires is a mistake. I know that losing someone never goes away. That you don’t heal. Instead you grow around the pain. Grow beyond it. And so appear sound. But the wound is always there.

I thought when I came out of the depression. The bleakness. When I could again feel. I thought that I was healthy. But those were first steps. And really, I won’t ever be whole. No one is. Being whole is being stagnant. Unchanging.

It’s not that I’m hopeful. It’s that I don’t want to fail to live in the love that she showed me was real. How could I dishonor her by failing to see the people around me, See their beauty, Foster their light and darkness?

I take this time. This day. To remember her.
To lament all that was lost.
To realize all that I’ve become.
From this frozen moment, I’d erase if I could.
This bloody seed crystal of the man I am.
Of the person I become tomorrow