37 (We're in the swim, sinking in time, until finally we drown and go)

Here I sit. smoke pressed between my lips. in louisiana. ive just finished The Dying Animal, by Philip Roth. The writing is exquisite. The story is perverse and tender. And now I wonder..


Must everything I write be composed to the point of perfection? Must I write solely to articulate every poignant thought in my mind, and everything be my masterpiece? For if the answer is no, and the art of expression merely something to indulge in, rather than pursue relentlessly, I think that I may perish at the thought of it. Perhaps then, regardless of the answer at large, the answer for me must remain Yes. How good it feels to say Yes. When the answer is Yes, I have been given the go-ahead. When the answer is no...there is rejection in it. Not always a bad rejection, but the pregnancy of the moment is aborted with a No. New directions to turn in, sure. But the pursuit, it has ended.

Which brings me to a new question. Not new, renewed. When does the beginning start? Is there a beginning before the beginning? And if there is no identifiable "Beginning" to any one thing, or anything at all, is there such a thing as an end? I think, No. No. I have rejected the concept of an End. There is no end. To anything. Only redirection, evasion, but it persists. What persists? IT. Whatever IT is.

And with that then, I must ponder, in the realm of relationships between people, me, you, you or you, any of you, can they end? And even if you say sure, they can end, people part ways, etc, etc. Does anyone ever fully put them to rest, "get over them," get over a person? I think again, I will reject the notion. After a bad breakup, or even a mutual one, the injection of that person into your life can never be erased, only come to peace with. But even after that has been "achieved," if it can be at all, and one could possible be satisfied, it's not over.

An excerpt- from this book:

"You tasted it. Isn't that enough? Of what do you ever get more than a taste? That's all we're given in life, that's all we're given of life. A Taste. There is no more."


Sad. I think, if true, quite sad. When does one feel most removed from life? When does one feel most themselves, or at least, in themselves? When there is something to pine for. When there is the desire ignited within you to pursue... and why, why should one be thankful to have wet the palate and then be denied satisfaction?

We deserve more. I want more. I intend to have more.

36 ( I think I'll even wonder, if you meant it at the time)

an undulating curve

i wish the softness of feeling could be conveyed through language.

but all the tender things that might be in my heart

never translate in the mind, let alone

make it out

the mouth.

and for fear of rejection

all the sweet nothings, that are true, remain nothings

and so i creep to the towers

and become a ghost

high, beyond reason

unattainable

incommunicative

unresponsive

more than that,

a perfectly composed pile of shit

look from afar and see a statue

bring with you binoculars

and see a figure

drowning in the contents

of themselves

ask why or how or what

and the lips will open

but all that will come out

astringent and strings of honey

thick with blood

enthusiastically

without tone

ask why or how or what

and the arms will reach out

the hands grabbing at yours

to engage you in a dance

twirling like dervishes

waltz, swing, flamenco

until you can't stand

and the statue

will harden again

bouncing back and forth

between mirage

and the ground you've tread on

i am stressed out a lot. im drawn and quartered between the best and the worst and the nothing and the everything. where's my center?