She has these chairs that look dusty as fuck and I tell her, “These are filthy,” to which she replies, “They’re my favorite chairs,” after which I propose buying new chairs and receive an eye stabbing the likes of which I haven’t received from a woman in a long, long time. I join her on the mattress with the dip in the middle and apologize for making fun of her favorite chairs. I tell her to lie down with me for a while. We don’t say much else, but secretly I think of scenarios to get her to dump them or clean them because, Christ, they are some really fuckin’ dirty chairs.
Month: February 2012
These chairs
She has these chairs that look dusty as fuck and I tell her, “These are filthy,” to which she replies, “They’re my favorite chairs,” after which I propose buying new chairs and receive an eye stabbing the likes of which I haven’t received from a woman in a long, long time. I join her on the mattress with the dip in the middle and apologize for making fun of her favorite chairs. I tell her to lie down with me for a while. We don’t say much else, but secretly I think of scenarios to get her to dump them or clean them because, Christ, they are some really fuckin’ dirty chairs.
Stalking
I’ve spent the last month investigating things about the girl who sparked the recent changes in my being. Every revelation has led me further down the obsessive rabbit hole of lies and somber truths about psychoses, manipulation, trust, freedom to choose, and my own unhealthy behavior. I’m torn between wanting to know everything and trying to let sleeping dogs lie. How does one reconcile the nice parts of the story—those that are fondly remembered—with the simple realities? How does one stop from believing that the nice parts may have not been truth at all?
You’re sick I want to say to her face as I hold up a mirror beside it.
Now comes the burden of not merely reacting to the facts but understanding them on an objective level. Not allowing myself to be consumed by obsession, which had begun to takes its toll until the end of last year, at which point I was, for lack of a better phrase, pulled back in. No amount of vicarious release upon someone else will allow me to come to terms.
‘Time heals’ is not just a lazy platitude, but it sure as hell isn’t comforting.
Stalking
I’ve spent the last month investigating things about the girl who sparked the recent changes in my being. Every revelation has led me further down the obsessive rabbit hole of lies and somber truths about psychoses, manipulation, trust, freedom to choose, and my own unhealthy behavior. I’m torn between wanting to know everything and trying to let sleeping dogs lie. How does one reconcile the nice parts of the story—those that are fondly remembered—with the simple realities? How does one stop from believing that the nice parts may have not been truth at all?
You’re sick I want to say to her face as I hold up a mirror beside it.
Now comes the burden of not merely reacting to the facts but understanding them on an objective level. Not allowing myself to be consumed by obsession, which had begun to takes its toll until the end of last year, at which point I was, for lack of a better phrase, pulled back in. No amount of vicarious release upon someone else will allow me to come to terms.
‘Time heals’ is not just a lazy platitude, but it sure as hell isn’t comforting.
Season of weak oranges and terrible plums.
The weight of mentorship is heaviest when the future is at stake. It stands to reason, then, that consideration of the future is the flaw, and one should focus on the present.
I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I want.
The obvious response is to be here now. I am proven, I might add, and leave it at that. Where do you go during a storm, after all? To shelter, and shelter is not without its toll.
I looked at a hamburger I was eating the other day. I opened it and examined its components. The pickle was appealing, but the rest—ketchup, ground gray meat, cheese—disgusted me, as so many things these days seem to do. I threw it away in spite of my preservative upbringing. An orchard would have been nice. Plums, specifically. A field of plums. A nice picnic in the plum fields in the spring or summer. It brings a warmth to me that has been left behind and neglected in spite.
My desires have been painful. I hit her across her face and she said don’t stop. I have been collecting photographs of her bruised ribs, hips, ass, all of which I will delete except for one after she goes away. Some people collect porn in hidden and cleverly named sub-directories—I collect one photograph representative of the whole experience. And words like these, of course, in a far less collected manner.
I predict I will one day call her by a different name and she will say don’t stop, and I will not, because she will be who I tell her to be and will derive a feeling of control from my attention and dedication of my time to her. Her fear will subside with experience, as it always does. Her fear, her indecision, her hatreds and heartaches—they will all go away, replaced by memories and certainties about who she was and doesn’t want to be.
Season of weak oranges and terrible plums.
The weight of mentorship is heaviest when the future is at stake. It stands to reason, then, that consideration of the future is the flaw, and one should focus on the present.
I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I want.
The obvious response is to be here now. I am proven, I might add, and leave it at that. Where do you go during a storm, after all? To shelter, and shelter is not without its toll.
I looked at a hamburger I was eating the other day. I opened it and examined its components. The pickle was appealing, but the rest—ketchup, ground gray meat, cheese—disgusted me, as so many things these days seem to do. I threw it away in spite of my preservative upbringing. An orchard would have been nice. Plums, specifically. A field of plums. A nice picnic in the plum fields in the spring or summer. It brings a warmth to me that has been left behind and neglected in spite.
My desires have been painful. I hit her across her face and she said don’t stop. I have been collecting photographs of her bruised ribs, hips, ass, all of which I will delete except for one after she goes away. Some people collect porn in hidden and cleverly named sub-directories—I collect one photograph representative of the whole experience. And words like these, of course, in a far less collected manner.
I predict I will one day call her by a different name and she will say don’t stop, and I will not, because she will be who I tell her to be and will derive a feeling of control from my attention and dedication of my time to her. Her fear will subside with experience, as it always does. Her fear, her indecision, her hatreds and heartaches—they will all go away, replaced by memories and certainties about who she was and doesn’t want to be.
The modern concept of career is strange, particularly the notion of spending years—decades—in the same place. How does one advance in the same company, with the same people, doing the same work over such a long period of time? At some point there has to be a wall of diminishing returns, and thus a reason to explore elsewhere. I’m sure some employers advance along with their employees, adapting and growing to meet the needs of their consumer/client as well as the people they rely on to drive and maintain the business, but I haven’t encountered it yet. All I’ve known is the churn of better opportunities elsewhere and headhunting in a competitive and talent-driven business.
In other words, I wonder what’s it like to hang around someplace for a long time. All that familiarity’s gotta be suffocating.
The modern concept of career is strange, particularly the notion of spending years—decades—in the same place. How does one advance in the same company, with the same people, doing the same work over such a long period of time? At some point there has to be a wall of diminishing returns, and thus a reason to explore elsewhere. I’m sure some employers advance along with their employees, adapting and growing to meet the needs of their consumer/client as well as the people they rely on to drive and maintain the business, but I haven’t encountered it yet. All I’ve known is the churn of better opportunities elsewhere and headhunting in a competitive and talent-driven business.
In other words, I wonder what’s it like to hang around someplace for a long time. All that familiarity’s gotta be suffocating.
I used to want to write stories for people. A gift, I thought. Something meaningful. The most honest expression I have besides the ‘I care’s and ‘I love you’s. Something that took effort, and required me to use my time for someone other than myself. The purity of creation for someone else.
Now I can’t bring myself to bother. I snapped in that sense and had to start again. No stories, I think. Nothing that gives the impression that I care.
Me, well-aged red wine, a purple wool scarf to model and dance around with in gratitude—that’s all I’ll give.
I used to want to write stories for people. A gift, I thought. Something meaningful. The most honest expression I have besides the ‘I care’s and ‘I love you’s. Something that took effort, and required me to use my time for someone other than myself. The purity of creation for someone else.
Now I can’t bring myself to bother. I snapped in that sense and had to start again. No stories, I think. Nothing that gives the impression that I care.
Me, well-aged red wine, a purple wool scarf to model and dance around with in gratitude—that’s all I’ll give.