I was a’stride a pointed, solid black ocean liner. All decadent and awash with black tuxedos, and dresses of all different colours and ideas of attraction. Champaign drowsily snapped back in tall, thin and abundant goblets. The rowdy sea made little impact on-board. That ship was anchored at its core by a pristine hole in absolute misery. Offering up its small caches of desserts and portion-approved dinners for the visually declared. Even the saddest man there, could not escape the swank of rowing pianos, brassy trumpets and his own cleaned-up manner. He leans on the rail, black and ruled-back hair against the sultry, debonair evening on the water. Beneath the night, he exhaled, “Damn…"
And he downs the last little shimmering gold in the glass, to be part of a place like that.
I wish all the cute things on here made me happy. I wish the hipster sunsets with triangles made me happy, or the GIFs of little puppies, or all the attractive women. I wish the cars made me happy, or the celebrity photographs. I wish the amazing writers I follow did, too. I do enjoy your work, all of you, and I’m humbled by it as well - it’s so impressive and dumbfounding. But as a sprig of joy in my earthen body? Can’t say it does quite that. I think, even after the burgers for dinner - cheese and mayo and all that - I’m still starving for something transparent. Something I can hold in my hand and call mine, something — someone*, that I want even before wanting them. That beforeness - would be the transparency. That unquenched thirst, decidedly lasting for eons - but not parching in nature. I know you’re all looking, too, if you’re not already with another human being who inexplicably is able to toss all the guilt of being one of us to the wayside. I hope you do find them. And I hope you have it. I hope you have that elusive, all-penetrating, all fearless kind of love. I hope it sits in you like an oven, and burns brightly till it’s over. Until you’re put in the ground, or sprinkled across some favoured bit of majestic scenery. I’ll see you there.
"I found this old tobacco tin today, in my Nana’s house when we were moving some things. It belonged to my Nono, and I didn’t really know him, right — ‘cause he died when I was One. I think I was One— anyway I wanted to show you it - I thought you might like it, it’s such a neat little thing."
"See here where it says you need a coin to open it, look, there’s like a groove in the metal for a quarter to hinge it open. But it pops off pretty easily now, I think it’s great - it’s the kind of thing I’d keep my whole life, toss some cigarettes in once and a while… I’m so captured by it, I’ve never held such an authentic piece of nostalgia so close to home - like part of the family, kind of thing. Hhm."
"Even the colours feel old, they look almost sweet or kindly. Look - the baby blue cover’s all nicked up with the scraped edges and old resins from freshness badges. Didn’t even bother to paint the bottom, just left it a brushed tin. Says here it’s from England, haha. I wonder if he bought it here or in Malta. This thing makes me have so many questions for him, so many things I’d like to have seen about it - how he opened it, how he kept it - or how much tobacco he’d pull out at a time when he did. See him roll a cigarette, it would have been so fascinating.."
"Anyway, I just thought it’d be cool to show you this. Don’t you think it’s interesting…? Mmm.. Sometimes I forget. I guess when you want something to be part of your life so badly and you can’t have it, you sometimes forget that you don’t.. I would have wanted to show you this. I’ll hold onto it. Not for you, but, I know you’d think something of it if I ever did show you. It means a lot to me, having found a little piece of someone I didn’t get to know. Better than a photograph, sometimes."
I don’t understand why you don’t love me. In the verb sense, to love. I know you Love me. But why you don’t love me, it makes no sense. Daytime deaths are common in the stretching that exists between us. White civics are a glaring highway hauntings, now, for me.
I once heard there was such a hushed place, where white lilies sprawl on Canadian cliffs in the East. I heard their pearly creme contours fit into the wind like loose charms, stiffly dangling against the continental breeze. I hear their stems are greener than the rolling shimmer of a hillside. I walk to that place, a lot, in my mind, it would seem..
Hm. The coal in my belly is becoming of short supply, and my smoke stack head has been ransacked by thieving bandits - suspiciously bearing my own signatures in their knives. I don’t recall ever making a knife. But, then.. There is a lot I don’t remember. Steam whistles bring me back to life, every now and again.
Life, in all its blaring, rude and abrupt iridescence. It can be so shocking sometimes. But you know, it’s funny… In the buckling jolt of a slap, sometimes I can faintly smell.. the sea.
Our kitchen was oaken, golden honey-brown and it glistened. Sun clung and sprang off the clean shines of aluminum appliances, like dew. The windows have split cross panes, they’re rectangular, and built in knotted wooden frames. They open at full arm’s breadth, and the gleam is soft off the floorboards. It’s that floor for Prince sons and Queen daughters to run around on. A richness of shimmering green blades on the hillsides give off brisk shivers of flashing light. The twinkling white-capped sea below writhes in tumultuous aggression. A living cobalt thrive, next to burnt native shores.
I sighed my eyes as it steeped me. Like old Maritime psychic remedies, and a slow piano tapered off, somewhere.
And you. The proud heat of a brilliant woman, an Heiress of some kind. I see the millimetres in your soft dark cheek against the light, and I think, “home”. My lips are always on you, in our days together. And I lean back against the fridge, looking cool I guess. I take you in…
Her eyes ran with the children, and I was a crinkled wrapper in her hand. In her rich laughter, like sweetest molten gold. I don’t have a choice. Not in loving her, and it brings me so, so much peace - that I am powerless, to it.
Of those who’ve taught me, successfully, your lesson was quicker, sharper, and fashioned from finer materials - than any parent, professor, or friend figure I’ve known yet. I explained to you that I was learning to believe and operate from the premise that people may and do function on fundamentally differing dimensions. It sounds simple, but what it Really is - is hugely large in its dynamic.
The discussion was about appreciations, how they’re formed, where they originate. I asked which came first - the Want or the Need? The chicken or the egg. I learned that, where love was concerned for Mike and his girlfriend, his wants were based on perceived needs. My needs have usually been based on wants, for the most part of my life. (That’s changing now, slowly.) And while it may seem obvious that Wanting(a) being based on perceived Needing(b) is just another way of saying Want(a) based on Want(c) - Mike’s Needing(b) is positioned at level 1, and the Want(c) is at -1. I guess what that just means is that the -1 Wanting(c) no longer sways influence. Wanting becomes needing when it’s bad enough. Once it’s bad enough and feels like a need, and I suppose if a learned progression in life does nothing to dissuade the belief in the need, it becomes the first level and replaces itself as a need.
We discussed having compatibility and risking lessened passion — but then, back to appreciations and loving. Adhering to the premise of others holding fundamentally differing dimensions (and having all else emanate from that central idea), then it stands that it may stand that origins of appreciations will differ respectively. The toggling flip-clock integers of 1 and -1 will hold both similar quality and differing adjectives. (Irrelevant, after realizing the simplicity of our systems.)
Anyway, the end goal was determining happiness. Mike doesn’t know where Love, the idea of Love, fits into his life. His life exists in a whole ton of dimensions and overlapping categories, as do all of ours - and one dimensional category could be called Society. Let’s pair with that category, Society, words like Disney and Romance and Media. So, here presents the road to the gates to the door to the knot in this following of thoughts. Suspicion plays a part in today’s world. False advertisements, trick links to junk mail, shrewd comedy and undermining the evil amusements of good friends — are all examples in which some level of modern suspicion may prove useful. Anything once proved useful at any capacity will forever remain in the backs of minds, if not on the tips of tongues. So, if suspicion may be useful, then, following Mike’s psychological environment, Let it be useful here. Here, deliberating over the value of appreciations, and the quality of those values, and whether origins of values determine their qualities. Disney, Romance, Media — Society — tells us about one idea about Love, primarily. At the forefront of their practices, at any rate. It’s one shaped by the vague incongruence of things. That Love should sprout from nowhere and without reasoning, overtake you, and wield your soul from a Needing at level 1, replacing Wanting and omnipotently putting it at -1. Well, it follows that there can exist no predictions, no measurable tact or tail premonitions to indicate the coming or presence of Love — in seeing this method of defining Love as what Society does with it. Therein lies the cue for suspicion’s usefulness to resurface and play its hand.
Mike is a logical being. Works very hard and calculates requirements against prerequisites against strengths and stressors of reality. This makes him both reliable and difficult, as he refutes the idea of loosened grip on things. But, now — since he is a man of the ‘real world’, and has been subject to it without his choosing before being equipped with his Solution of Decisions, Mike feels the ambiguous, intangible tugging of suspicions at the ill-founded ideas of Love, as outlined in Society’s practices with the idea. It is only sensible — to wonder at what is not understood. BUT — it is only further sensible to call a dog a dog. The Love shaped by the vague incongruence of things and Society doesn’t originate from ideas about logic. Following this, it doesn’t make sense, and following further, it is unexplainable. Realizing calling what doesn’t make sense as being the exact the opposite, is wise. Realizing what’s what is the furthest of followings.
So Mike’s only hesitance, it would seem, only originates from his not-yet solidified disbelief in one version of Love’s definitions. All he would need to do, to properly clear the path to determine the happiness, is reaffirm his affirmations in the specificity and patience of practical calculations. As was above stated, Mike’s Wants are based on his (perceived) Needs. Wants exist, for him, at level 2 centrality. Needs at level 1 - most central. The existing beliefs In Mike act like a river current, and it goes this way.
He will determine happiness if he stays with his current girlfriend, who meets, carries out and surpasses all of his wanted needs. Because he is a wanting-based-on-needing being. His appreciations are of practical origin, and because of this, his wants are practically oriented too. Needing is practical. Wanting is sometimes impractical, and, sometimes, Very impractical.
The first happiness was a fulfillment of a need. But wanting allows for determining so many other happinesses. His relationship produces the first happiness, and will continue to produce subsequent happinesses — because his appreciations originate in practicality, and his wants are successively practical in orientation. On a personal note: I think I believe developed appreciations make for better Love than modern society’s: “love because love” argument.
This place is regal, but we don’t live like princes. We are neither magnificent nor dignified. This family, this house — is brimmed over by stagnancy. We don’t fill the walls with pictures - or anything else. The taupe will kill us.
that I won’t be around forever. I got this feeling, this feeling — you see, that, I might be around for less than forever. Much, much less than that - even! I got this feelin, and - it might be soon - that I have to get goin. I feel like I might not make it off this planet alive, y’know? And what’s worse — what’s just the worst thing — is that I got a feelin it’s gonna be sooner… rather than later.
I’ve met many great writers on tumblr. Maybe they’ll empathize with this.
I feel sad when I see other people. Not that I notice it usually, and not that it’s ever been a face-value, surface plain idea until right this moment. But it’s there, nice and deep seated like something right between your eyes not even your peripherals can pick up. So the question becomes why, if we claim to pursue facts of matters. I’ve always been a team player. I need to feel cause, my system requires I look for purpose. I think I see others and feel above everything else, a sense of whole ambiguity. I’d love to be part of the human team, but we’re aimless fractals. I’m never satisfied with daily responsibilities, I’m never stimulated by weekly plans. I assume others are - and that’s how they’re able to go about how they do. I’m bright enough to maintain those same levels of social norms, of course, as are we all for the very most part — but nobody can tell me why.
It’s a big death of passions, to go outside today. I don’t believe that everyone are bereft of sensing our collective unguided bearings, I just don’t see their struggles like mine. I know we rarely see another’s struggles like ours - and the irony is that they’re probably all symbiotic in nature. A team needs a game.
Strapped for time on the gymnasium and boiling the faucets in every muscle facet, cranking anti-gravity and trying to be languid about it. Fists into a punching bag, wailing away at it as a body - dead weight mass. Dirt under fingernails, sun-burnt shoulder Man - prying the elusive dedication out of himself. Battered soul syndrome won’t be innocuous, but contemptuous limited — provided hard, hard work.
I heard a theory once from someone whose mind was quite sharp. She told me there was a breed of child, a cosmic one - a generation of the universe. She said that they would be the igniters of things, of peace and gratitude. She said they were called indigos. Do you think that’s true?
I don’t want the faculty ran by procreation, I don’t want to feel cheap sideline attraction. I don’t want to fuck anyone unless I can tell you what colour their heart is, what shades of decibels they use when they’re most happy, how tall they grow when they feel pride in their heart. I don’t know of any kind of thing that could matter more.
The thimble-sized hourglass sand is paused. The pounding of a blue wave on the grey rock is ubiquitous in the hurt. Inhale and exhale, inhale — exhale — and look, and nothing happens. What happens is: nothing. Nothing: happens.
Let the flurries of still-caught-up entanglement whip at your bangs and flit the lashes nearly squeezed shut by the furious winding. I can see the nothingness happening, from where I stand in the parking lot. You scale the stoney turf of the jetty with your looks and you believe you are alone. I know it can’t be held — can’t be tangible, so I lean my head to the right and I sop up the mess of spoiling exiled problems, pooling up outside of everything you think you know.
Something about the Fibonacci sequence. One dandelion, particularly pretty, prettier than the rest. Ocular expansion and the excitement of drugs in loud music. Bass like amphetamines, prismatic synths. That eluding orgasm leaving pink in the oxygen, as you move about your tongue tells you its there, somewhere. I was silt in the Mediterranean, once, many eras ago. Before the bombardment of recklessness. Before we proved to be the most revolting species. Agrarians last out in the Flanders, as their newly made democracy of the dead. I spanned the timelines in experiencing the droughts of soul, the coughing of sails on schooners and the bulge of Dreadnoughts. “Hush, my dear. It’ll all be copacetic.” So I returned to Fundy, with the bullrushes like a thousand silvery fibres of all conversations passed. I sat in the mere echo, dissociated from everything else atop a green-grassy cliff. Pondered the fortunes of souls.
Pretend you’re just an eye, floating an inch off the floors. The red, rippled mahogany floors.
See the baroness, olive balled heels in half-waltz cross, on the varnish. Like nude friction brushes. Darkly classical modern urban home. Soul-suckingly beautiful legs, ankles, turning - turning - turning. See the baroness. See?
I need a moment. A moment on a dock, with better cigarettes and a glass of Disaronno on ice. I need that lake to be clean and somber, awake but nothing more. The planks of wood naked beneath the balls of my feet and distilled ankles, taking their own bit of peace. I want the harshness of priorities to be across my back, at least, and not talking to me. So long as what’s in front of me is nothing, and much of it.. I should be fine. My gut’s just ill from the pressure in here, you know? I can’t give you my palms, and we just can’t feel an emotional togetherness right now. I don’t even want that nude realm of soft sheets and connected bodies, I like the simple prowess of a thin t-shirt draped over my frame. I respect it, that simple prowess. That functioning moment of a plainly loose t-shirt. So self-fulfilling and respectfully dutiful to its purpose. My thanking a simple t-shirt for being, would mean more than the thanks I offer my parents for all they’ve done.
Anyway, I do like being out in my own skin.. It’s just, I can’t think of it - right now.. I can’t bear away a hope from it, it just doesn’t do it for me. I like that shirt, that arbitrary, one-thousand percent reliably clean love of a simple purpose. That’s really it, for me right now.
That, and some Disaronno. With better cigarettes and a dock on the lake, alone. My gut’s just ill from all the pressure in here, you know?
That dripping lotus smile of hope. I won’t say faith, it couldn’t be naked enough - just to have faith. A twig she snapped in whispy passing, smouldering Tower of that subjective aesthetic decibel. Wholesome tufts of cigarette smoke. Truffles of delicate porcelain, so.
My fumes on the door in my forehead, like the ill opaque.
I want. I’m sitting at this mostly empty table in the main hub of campus, doing just that. Wanting. Not in a dire strain, not with total whimsical irrationality. Just a vague tugging like a fishing bob on the lake’s rhythmic insistence. “Okay, okay - I’ll hear you.”
And I never do. Not really.
I’m starting to feel ugly like old misshapen Maple trunks, bark crumbling. Nightmares like wafers harmlessly attack me, just enough to jerk awake spastic but without that innate fear like I’d feel for someone else’s life. They mean something, they really matter. They don’t really matter.
I drift into the traffic of busier lives and croak at their gawking. Then I eat a sandwich, with two bottles of water and one bag of chips. All the while, somewhere else —- But all I can smell is the cavern beneath my ribs. The rims of my eyeballs are smothered in it, and I don’t even know.
Don’t worry about anything.. Just peer in the curvature of the Earth at the spinnings. Look carefully, like a storybook’s wise man, and have those tiny golden-rimmed eye glasses, resting short of the bridge and vastly above the beard. Like grand telescopic travel, between the mountains of your bearded chin and those hand-carvings, lips and nostrils and zygomatic structure, settled in the palmed-over sands of how long you’ve been here. If two hollow trees had fallen in the woods near a river, and I picked one up to drag its bark, hollow too, across the other - that silvery brass of scraping diminished qualities - that would be your voice. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the woods, but I would never rule it out, just to look at you.
A doctor may say, “You have been chosen to die sooner.” And as I sit in a frolic with Winter’s dash, I question aloud in the mind’s eye, “Is my theory really what I want to impose on this life..? It would, after all, no longer be this life; and perhaps there is much to learn [ ? ]
The cooled swelling of your full belly, I would have dabbed my lips across until the kisses did permeate you everywhere. Tickling the edges of your grin a little more, kissing your cheek bones under-eyes so that they peak awake with warm smile’s brilliance. Hearing intently, the kicks of joy, I press, press, and press my lips against you again. My little rascal might have been yours also. Might have been, one day.
Did you step barefoot through a shadow, on the Autumn’s maple-kindling ground? When my sparrow fell out of the sparsely fed Magnolia, without a petal beneath to sort through the gravity, was it your Wintry secrets on the chandelier that froze its tiny lungs? Little prisms born of the changing ocean tides must have echoed every twinge to you… In the twittering of fluttered happiness, did my hazel-blue dusk grow jealous of the languid gold, saturating your lips? And, oh, Oh I see. You’ve gone to be a gorgeous iceberg in the Mediterranean, where like a light-blue halo you’ll breathe into the emptiness what cannot be received from you. Only what one Lavender dress you wore, that stole the marrows from my hand, that sprawled my permanent Spring, could ever liven your olive heels and spread a feeling like Home into you like dewy morning. But it can only be born of those thieved ivory palms, cooled in the spritz of your smile’s glow — brilliant as all things, as it is.