Don't invite me to your parties

I don't drink or do drugs, so to amuse myself at parties one of my recent hobbies has been to try to make the absolute worst possible impression on people I haven't met. The worst.




So without further delay, this is what I did tonight.

































This is apparently what I'd look like if I picked up 15 year old prostitutes and went to bro parties after doing rails off their boners. Cool.

PS I'd never met the boy in most of the pictures before tonight and I don't know how he ended up on my lap, but he was rad.

fury

Looks can be deceiving

V

The difference between love and everything else is that love defies that which we hate about the world around us. Love does not suddenly die. It does not vanish when we need it. It lives in the back of our minds when we are alone. It can be trusted when nothing else can, it is a path straight through the defenses and mistrust and suspicion and apprehension and uncertainty that makes speaking or trusting or even dealing with other people so complicated. It is logical simplicity in a world of duplicity. It is to know when you go to sleep that you are watched over endlessly and benevolently by someone.



And the hardest part of love is when you can't stop ignoring the lessons of everything else and begin to realize that no, maybe it isn't absolute after all. Things are connected by strings. Gravity binds things together closely, absolutely, invisibly and perpetually. But these strings can be stretched, pulled, and eventually broken when they reach their limit. After that there is no string, no bond, just empty space between two dissociated objects. There is no evidence to suggest they ever coexisted, only the cold action of physics that drew them apart.



And you, I'd breathe. In spite and hatred and violence there was always my family. Weak, strong, there was no difference for once. For once it was all safe, for once someone didn't let me go. I could seek solace without sacrificing my pride. Maybe these things exist only in mutual suffering, and vanish like shadows in the light of content. Maybe we are only family in the discontent that runs through our veins, half removed again when the wounds start to heal. I am hard. I am unfriendly and hostile. I have contempt. I have bitterness. I have vendettas of pride and spite and small insults. But it was never the same rules, pour toi. Je pourrais regarde 200 garçons meurent sans le blesse que te regarder pleurer me fait sentir. Est-ce tu devenir un garçon comme un autre, encore et pour le dernier fois?

mast

Tension. I don't mind that the strings get tighter and tighter with time. It's only that which allows them to vibrate louder and louder and drown out anything but the chaos. Discord. This is what it's like to live a life disjointed in full bloom. Potential wide-eyed, praxis scattered. I've traveled over a thousand miles in the last week. Why? To feel, the pursuit of feeling. To be struck down again while seeking the thought and feeling that someone gives a fuck about me. Here, there, under rocks and on beds and beaches and fountains and concrete and across oceans and states and miles and hundreds of dollars I look to feel slightly less alone. To feel cared for. To feel like I have some semblance of family. To hold on to the human half, the right to be weak, the right to be treated like a person rather then a novelty.



I feel like I'm standing very very high and the wind is blasting my hair back and making my eyes water and blowing everything from my hands and pockets and leaving me grasping. I am falling. I am. I am winding down. This is a last push, the way things stand. This is a press of dwindling strength, pitifully unfocused for a final strike. I have no great loves to fight for, only bitter hurts turned to bitter hatreds and sad scars to avenge. No great stories anymore. Resentment. I begin to treat my friends like enemies for marring the trust and faith and emotion I give to them.



You give up the right to be close with someone when you go away a lot. I go away a lot. And when I end up screaming and begging and clawing to speak and be heard and feel human again I find I am a piece. A novelty. Everyone has cashed in their faith in me. There is no one to choose me. There is no one to believe in me. I am central to no one's lives, I am close to no one's heart, I am small. A small piece that comes to bear as an amusement, a crutch, an angel sent by god to protect you in your times of need, requiring no thanks or reciprocation because that's my fucking job. I am self-sacrificing charity.



It's bent. I can't stand anyone because I know how this ends. I know and anticipate that feeling of wounded trust or of being shoved aside or passed over or forgotten. I don't want to care, I don't want reminders that embarrass me of caring for anyone ever because whatever I did and whatever I was and am is never enough.



I am becoming self destructive. I don't even feel the need to document the absolute insanity I brush against on a daily basis anymore and don't care if it's the last time I get away with it. It's not for attention because no one cares. It's for me. It amuses me. It's the only thing that amuses me, watching it finish bending and break. Someone offered to sell me a grenade, several for the right price.

To raise the day from nothing to the greatest, to wrench the day from the greatest to the lowest.

No one should have this power over me.

A shift resists the tide resists the liberation of that which carries the heart, the blood which carries the feeling which conveys the capability to love and the capability to hurt. To fracture. More pieces, the edges of old obsidian crushing against new flesh born again, heartmeat ready to be ground again into oblivion. Does it exist to be destroyed? I am growing new parts for you to hurt because the old ones won't carry feeling anymore. The current cannot pass the black spots left by the surrender of the blood from these places, given up to malice and ghost towns of feeling. Raw skin, new. It hurts to grow and it hurts in anticipation of the hurt, so sensitive after so much quietness the faintest echo tears. I can feel it swelling like a wave having pulled back for so long and I stand as on the sand waiting for it to crash over me. Diamond splinters. The weakness disgusts that which I have grown malcontent with, the strength that keeps me whole but also alone. Numb or sad. Cascades or flat lines. Which is living, which is dying?

The summit

There is no sanctity, even in the old things anymore. Through this all I've felt numb, hungering to feel again. I pursue it, against odds and obstacles and hardship. I find the echoes in the ghost of suffering, the impression of heartbeats in heartache. Anger, pain, loss, I lift my head to these at the reminder of sensation. Life! So consuming once now so elusive. Erasing all the questions that once consumed me as trivial and driving them to the bottom of my mind.

Today I touched a ghost and I question. Is it worth it to chase these phantoms of feeling, tracing down old scars to remember the hurt that caused them? I wonder if I gave someone my blood, if the numbness like an anesthetic would cool their thoughts as well. It is such a change.

I wonder. What was it like for him? Did he think to himself how much older I look? How my hands are still when they were once always in motion? I wonder if he noticed how still my once all consuming heart has become. I wonder if he felt the stir of what he once felt for me, or if the whole time he was already like this and I just had to play catchup. I wonder what it felt like to him to touch again, briefly embrace one who he once told he loved and drove and touched and called and shared and thought of and fucked. If he felt the echo I listened so carefully for in myself. I hope he did. I wish I'd had more time.

This place was sacred. This island, these trees, this boy and the water. They were dreams of a word before the harshness of adulthood and the coming of such stillness. It was like a church, a mecca to which I sometimes dreamed of returning to and to see him again. Not for love, not for redemption nor revenge but for the same reason one makes a pilgrimage to a shrine. To touch, to be in the presence of that which is reverent and divine. I wanted to remember what that love felt like, even and especially in the echos of the pain it caused, the most vivid reminder. This island, I came to find made of dirt and trees and rock like any and all other places I've been and found nothing but more hunger. The boy still shy and still living the same life. His arms still strong, his hair, skin, the same. A boy, like the boy yesterday or any of the boys before. When I remembered him I didn't remember that he was just a boy, I remembered that I'd loved him more then I loved myself. When staring at a boy, it is hard to remember that he is the one. He is the one who wrote an essay about how I set him free. He held me. He saw me cry. He came forever to see me. He picked me up. And he wounded me for years. Love and notoriety and animosity and significance symbolized by one boy, but it is hard to make the connection anymore.

When he told me it was over I told myself I would not care. I promised myself I would be better, that when he saw me again I would have fixed whatever he didn't want about me and he would love me again and I would not care. I didn't want to care. That's all I wanted, the absence of indignity. I imagined it in my head, some nights. And then when the day comes to pass so many years later it passes again like any other, my wish to not care inverting into so desperately wishing I felt something. But his skin felt like skin and his voice sounded like a voice and I did not recall the powerful blows he once held above me. I could not connect these things.

Maybe I will see him again. Maybe with more time it would be different. I think it might. But rather then wrought with years of weight and significance the time, the epic meeting of former lovers once so charged he worried I'd take revenge for breaking me so hard, passed as the rest of my life does and has and shall. Quiet, still for the most part. An exercise in existence.

It was nice to see him again. On some level I'd missed him. The ferry is loading now and the dream, the sanctity, the place of mystery and myth in my head of the boy who held my heart in his hands is over. I was afraid I was not free, but I am. I am free, no one holds power over me and I make my own choices.  The thought makes me sad, I had hoped to still have strings touching my heart, even if long left idle.

On verra. I hope I see him again. I want him to remind me how I felt, even if just to hurt a little. I am liberated and lost, and this trip has destroyed one of the few places and memories I'd kept sacred all these years.