Month: September 2011

I try and fail to explain the savage nature of my being in all matters physical, sexual, spiritual. Within me is this need. Little more than that can describe desire for a freedom unknown to me most of my life. Pampered as a child, domesticated by church, the rope, and the belt. Safe, yes, but what is safety in the cage? I often consider the possibility of escape, of treks without plans; without the safety of cash, card, or car. Walking and desperate for food, taking what is needed as opposed to asking for it. The development of a separation between human remorse and animal need. Application of this to life as a man, as a mate, and as a caretaker. A fully realized member of the human species. Leading not by charismatic appeal but by example. I want to demonstrate that this is how I live, this is how I provide, this is how I fuck… this is how I will die. It is about reliability.

I’ve been accused of being inconsistent my entire life. I’m simply moving forward too quickly for others to adapt.

I feel I am in a more anthropological state when I wake up with no desire to shower, shave, or otherwise groom myself for the sake of people around me.

I’d call myself a dirty hippy, but I am not nearly as peace-loving.

I try and fail to explain the savage nature of my being in all matters physical, sexual, spiritual. Within me is this need. Little more than that can describe desire for a freedom unknown to me most of my life. Pampered as a child, domesticated by church, the rope, and the belt. Safe, yes, but what is safety in the cage? I often consider the possibility of escape, of treks without plans; without the safety of cash, card, or car. Walking and desperate for food, taking what is needed as opposed to asking for it. The development of a separation between human remorse and animal need. Application of this to life as a man, as a mate, and as a caretaker. A fully realized member of the human species. Leading not by charismatic appeal but by example. I want to demonstrate that this is how I live, this is how I provide, this is how I fuck… this is how I will die. It is about reliability.

I’ve been accused of being inconsistent my entire life. I’m simply moving forward too quickly for others to adapt.

tunas

I sulked around this weekend, partly due to the death of someone I only knew from Internet posts and because this damn busted toe is still irking me. In any case, one of my favorite things to do when I sulk and comtemplate matters is eat. Unfortunately for me I couldn’t find what I wanted most, which is tunas. You northern folk might know them as prickly pears. I mean, I had everything. I had the giant bowl full of water and ice to soak them in, the knife to trim off the needles (if necessary), and even some lemon to give them an acidic kick. But no tunas. No goddamn tunas anywhere. We used to pick these off nopales that people grew just off the street. They’re found everywhere down in Mexico, where cacti of all sorts really do coat the landscape. I don’t know why (this is a lie, by the way, as people always know why), but I thought of eating tunas while lying in a hammock near the sea. This is so possible that it disgusts me to remain here, tunaless, and write like this is the only thing available to me.

tunas

I sulked around this weekend, partly due to the death of someone I only knew from Internet posts and because this damn busted toe is still irking me. In any case, one of my favorite things to do when I sulk and comtemplate matters is eat. Unfortunately for me I couldn’t find what I wanted most, which is tunas. You northern folk might know them as prickly pears. I mean, I had everything. I had the giant bowl full of water and ice to soak them in, the knife to trim off the needles (if necessary), and even some lemon to give them an acidic kick. But no tunas. No goddamn tunas anywhere. We used to pick these off nopales that people grew just off the street. They’re found everywhere down in Mexico, where cacti of all sorts really do coat the landscape. I don’t know why (this is a lie, by the way, as people always know why), but I thought of eating tunas while lying in a hammock near the sea. This is so possible that it disgusts me to remain here, tunaless, and write like this is the only thing available to me.

Nothing on love

We were seated at a white plastic table. It had a big green umbrella posted right in the center and hovering over us, keeping moonlight out. It had begun to cool down after yet another unexpectedly warm day. I undoubtedly had a fine sheen to my forehead. There’d been too many glasses of beer (one passed around like a joint at some point). We discussed Obama’s forthcoming win as the lesser of two evils, or rather one evil and one fucking insane possibility of regressing to the most ridiculous rhetoric and policies I’ve heard in my lifetime. There was talk of period sex versus anal sex, and even those who were grossed out by talk of blood or shit had to admit one might be better than the other. We discussed fetishes and my lengthy monologue about the dangers of always going one step further, one rung higher, and why sexual satisfaction is the cornerstone of healthy adult relations, regardless of the extremity of said satisfaction. We discussed everything because I encourage it. No one wants to go too far, so I do.

Then we discussed love as it pertains to selecting a mate. It jumped back and forth across the table while I sat quietly and stared at the cars driving along the nearby street. It annoyed me that we’d selected that bar and that table, in a place less intimate than I like. We could see young couples pushing strollers just a dozen feet away.

I took a moment.

Someone encouraged me, finally. “You had a lot to say about girls who get off on violence. Nothing on love?”

I had a foolishly sophomoric thought just then: they wouldn’t understand. But, in the spirit of open communication, I spoke up.

“I don’t know. Love is fucked up and I feel I need it too much sometimes, so I never give it. Love is like a hunger. It’s like I want to eat every part of you, the feet and the eyes and the hair, and even the organs, even though I don’t like them. I want everything. Once I’m there, I don’t hesitate. I don’t understand how it builds up. For me, it starts here, when it seems like it should start down here, when it starts at all. It’s no different from fucking. I want and I take. Then, sometimes, I’m a stone.”

There was an awkward silence, typical after some of the things I say. Awkward for them, anyway. I was watching the neon lights of the plumbing store across the street. A wrench smiled at me.

“Anyway, I’m a fucked up case. What’re you gonna do?”

Someone laughed, finally, and said something. I made note of their reactions. I thought I might someday write about something like this. It would have been nice to remember the end of it.

Nothing on love

We were seated at a white plastic table. It had a big green umbrella posted right in the center and hovering over us, keeping moonlight out. It had begun to cool down after yet another unexpectedly warm day. I undoubtedly had a fine sheen to my forehead. There’d been too many glasses of beer (one passed around like a joint at some point). We discussed Obama’s forthcoming win as the lesser of two evils, or rather one evil and one fucking insane possibility of regressing to the most ridiculous rhetoric and policies I’ve heard in my lifetime. There was talk of period sex versus anal sex, and even those who were grossed out by talk of blood or shit had to admit one might be better than the other. We discussed fetishes and my lengthy monologue about the dangers of always going one step further, one rung higher, and why sexual satisfaction is the cornerstone of healthy adult relations, regardless of the extremity of said satisfaction. We discussed everything because I encourage it. No one wants to go too far, so I do.

Then we discussed love as it pertains to selecting a mate. It jumped back and forth across the table while I sat quietly and stared at the cars driving along the nearby street. It annoyed me that we’d selected that bar and that table, in a place less intimate than I like. We could see young couples pushing strollers just a dozen feet away.

I took a moment.

Someone encouraged me, finally. “You had a lot to say about girls who get off on violence. Nothing on love?”

I had a foolishly sophomoric thought just then: they wouldn’t understand. But, in the spirit of open communication, I spoke up.

“I don’t know. Love is fucked up and I feel I need it too much sometimes, so I never give it. Love is like a hunger. It’s like I want to eat every part of you, the feet and the eyes and the hair, and even the organs, even though I don’t like them. I want everything. Once I’m there, I don’t hesitate. I don’t understand how it builds up. For me, it starts here, when it seems like it should start down here, when it starts at all. It’s no different from fucking. I want and I take. Then, sometimes, I’m a stone.”

There was an awkward silence, typical after some of the things I say. Awkward for them, anyway. I was watching the neon lights of the plumbing store across the street. A wrench smiled at me.

“Anyway, I’m a fucked up case. What’re you gonna do?”

Someone laughed, finally, and said something. I made note of their reactions. I thought I might someday write about something like this. It would have been nice to remember the end of it.

We meet people on the Internet to a certain extent, and wholly take them for granted. The words they give us are among many. If we pay attention we find something worth keeping, but even then there is detachment of options. I may or I may not.

Jumbled words, tired mess, the weekend’s going to be a blur.

Stop waiting.

We meet people on the Internet to a certain extent, and wholly take them for granted. The words they give us are among many. If we pay attention we find something worth keeping, but even then there is detachment of options. I may or I may not.

Jumbled words, tired mess, the weekend’s going to be a blur.

Stop waiting.

plastic table

We were seated at a white plastic table. It had a big green umbrella posted right in the center and hovering over us, keeping moonlight out. It had begun to cool down after yet another unexpectedly warm day. I undoubtedly had a fine sheen to my forehead. There’d been too many glasses of beer (one passed around like a joint at some point). We discussed Obama’s forthcoming win as the lesser of two evils, or rather one evil and one fucking insane possibility of regressing to the most ridiculous rhetoric and policies I’ve heard in my lifetime. There was talk of period sex versus anal sex, and even those who were grossed out by talk of blood or shit had to admit one might be better than the other. We discussed fetishes and my lengthy monologue about the dangers of always going one step further, one rung higher, and why sexual satisfaction is the cornerstone of healthy adult relations, regardless of the extremity of said satisfaction. We discussed everything because I encourage it. No one wants to go too far, so I do.

Then we discussed love as it pertains to selecting a mate. It jumped back and forth across the table while I sat quietly and stared at the cars driving along the nearby street. It annoyed me that we’d selected that bar and that table, in a place less intimate than I like. We could see young couples pushing strollers just a dozen feet away.

I took a moment.

Someone encouraged me, finally. “You had a lot to say about girls who get off on violence. Nothing on love?”

I had a foolishly sophomoric thought just then: they wouldn’t understand. But, in the spirit of open communication, I spoke up.

“I don’t know. Love is fucked up and I feel I need it too much sometimes, so I never give it. Love is like a hunger. It’s like I want to eat every part of you, the feet and the eyes and the hair, and even the organs, even though I don’t like them. I want everything. Once I’m there, I don’t hesitate. I don’t understand how it builds up. For me, it starts here, when it seems like it should start down here, when it starts at all. It’s no different from fucking. I want and I take. Then, sometimes, I’m a stone.”

There was an awkward silence, typical after some of the things I say. Awkward for them, anyway. I was watching the neon lights of the plumbing store across the street. A wrench smiled at me.

“Anyway, I’m a fucked up case. What’re you gonna do?”

Someone laughed, finally, and said something. I made note of their reactions. I thought I might someday write about something like this. It would have been nice to remember the end of it.