ssiixx

Such large changes

2009-03-21T07:02:00.001-07:00

So, so little time before it all breaks over.

A failed attempt

2009-03-16T19:26:00.001-07:00

Ideas for photoshoot:

1) things to convey, I am empty! There are no thoughts, just feelings and impulses that echo off walls of blood vessels. Electron currents, like flecks from sparklers burning down, such little things in control of such a large scope. It's a process, there is no mind to a sandstorm or the way the rain falls. Animals and machines are easy things, sometimes I feel more like one or the other. Humans think, I calculate. I think in sharp points, slice one in half and add up the pieces. I feel like a thing, an animal, more liquid in thought then the rigid confines of what "people" are can contain. This is not better, it is just messy. I can be poured, I suppose. I like sweet noises but they must change, constantly, or the machine in me ceases to find such patterns and rhythms and shapes amusing. None of these things are what I want to take pictures of because I don't want to take pictures right now. I want to be unconscious, mindless. I would like to break things down to simple pieces, but not set it up first. I am empty, I can't see forward and I won't look back, I hear a heartbeat and see this screen and the corner of SW clay and park. Stop. One Way. Expresso, Pastries, Fresh Juice, Sandwitches and Salads. College students walk by and it reminds me of when I was them and they weren't here and I was trying, really hard, to not be like I am now. I got stuck and just stayed, vibrating strong and clear but out of tune, out of chord. There is an emergency yellow light pulsing endlessly down the street, yellow, and I can't decide if it's driving me crazy of it I don't care about it in the slightest. Everything moves so slowly, is this productivity?

Dixheure

2009-01-29T10:06:00.001-08:00

I feel a soulless lack of self identity when I think of my past, my friends. It feels empty, like I cannot associate or identify myself with the person I was or people I used to be around. It's disturbing to be so different from who you used to be and realize you knew yourself back then and know so little about yourself now, even things a simple as where you came from and how you ended up here.

2008-12-31T00:52:00.001-08:00

You live strange lives

Nemesis

2008-12-14T05:58:00.001-08:00

So, I pull up to pick up Nigel and two of his friends, and I see four people approach the car. One person is obviously in his thirties and drunk. I can tell it's going to go well.

As soon as I pull up he starts ranting about how we're going downtown and how he's going to get us all high. I tell him I'm straightedge and that doesn't really appeal to me. I make a general announcement that there are about a thousand reasons that's not happening and that sixteen are right here, as I put a handgun on my belt and get out of the car. The guy starts telling me that our two options are to let him into my car or he's going to fight all of us and we're all going to go to jail.

I told him that's stupid because no one wants to go to jail but I'm not going fifteen minutes in the opposite direction to drop him off. He starts getting close to nigel and threatens to hit him. I start moving nigel's friends out of the way so I have a clear line of fire. The guy then tells us if we give him five dollars each he'll leave us alone. Nigel's friends walk off and I get Nigel in the front seat. I try to gracefully infourm the man that I won't be taking him, and he tells me he's going to break every window in my car. He then takes several menacing steps towords me and says something about "beating the shit out of you queers."

That was a mistake.

I hit him in the face with a combination of pepper spray and CS teargas. As he stumbled backwards, I came up and kicked him in the ass and then the face. "RUN MOTHERFUCKER." I shouted at him. "DO YOU WANT SOME FUCKING MORE? GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE OR I'LL GIVE YOU SOME FUCKING MORE." He continued to stumble around. He pulled his sweatshirt hood over his face and tried to stumble back at me, and I punched him in the face. As he staggered back, I rushed in and sprayed more pepper spray under his hood and into his face. I kicked him one more time and he sat down abruptly.

I was a little carried away at this point, got back in my car, and saw him get up and try to stagger back towards us. I gunned the engine and tried to sideswipe him, but he was up on a curb so instead I put on my brights and honked for a minuite, which made him stumble and fall back down. We then drove off.

Twenty minuites later, he and a bunch of cholos in a dodge charger saw us and tried to chase us down. I out-combat-drove them in a 93 geo prism and lost them in about 45 seconds.

And tonight was a good night.

ich

2008-12-13T14:02:00.001-08:00

I keep a hard heart. I keep a safe heart. I keep a heart like a complicated equasion, two, three, four steps removed from the touch of reality and buried in supposition, cause and effect, action and reaction. There is little touch, and the caress that brings most hearts up or down is ones and zeros to me. It is factored in. It is tabulated and compared and theorized and then gains meaning through the strange series of cause and effect that has been proven to me over time. If they are interested in you, it is probably insincere unless they want to sleep with you. If they want to sleep with you, they will not want to do so more then once. There is something wrong with me. I am fading. If they touch you, it means that in that moment, you are okay. When you touch me it is cold. The impulse must creep from one equation to the next, finding context, meaning, through these things until it affects my world. These is a steep divide between physicality and reality for me. I do not trust intentions.

2008-12-03T00:45:00.001-08:00

breathing down my neck

I am not

2008-12-02T16:14:00.001-08:00

I am no one to balk at the odds, declare a miracle of unlikely things. I see them every day, I live them, I am an unlikely thing. To find love, or animosity, or anguish, or any strong emotion across the cold void is not so much remarkable as inevitable, as I see it. We crave it, we hunt it and seek it, so why be so surprised when we find it?

I can't focus. I'm disgusted by my lifestyle.

2008-11-23T16:41:00.001-08:00

It's quiet. I don't like quiet. I speak and nothing echos back. When it's too quiet, I move. I transition from place to place.
I remind myself that stability is just a thing, a goal but not an absolute attachment to good. Stability is like chaos, an adjective to a situation, not the definition of it.
I don't have a lot of people. Sometimes I told myself, people matter. Not the classical kind of success. I do it for people. But now I don't have even that.
I'm tasting that success, that I lacked, that I gave up for him or anyone else. It's ok. It's stable. But I'm still unhappy.
There is no greater purpose, there is no plan. There is no future. I'm numb to most things but surviving and not surviving.

I cannot feel my fingers as I type, it's familiar. Portland is so easy, a game I figured out and play from time to time just because it's nice to win, even if there's no prize. I've been changing myself. I hate myself. I find nothing worthwhile or attractive or particularly interesting about myself. I derive all my self worth by the approval or disapproval of other people. Approval makes me feel okay for about ten minutes, max. Disapproval haunts me for weeks. I give myself away because I don't give a fuck, let alone value myself.

I care in jagged little pieces. I give them to people and they scratch when moved against my skin. I care for only people who don't care much for me. Never people who love me. That annoys me. I give little pieces of a greater love reserved to whores and mindless automatons of flesh. I don't know why. I look for approval and love in the most base, unlikely places and crumble a little more as I confirm its absence. I only find feeling in rejection. Am I that desperate for sensation? Now I cannot feel my whole hands, from the fingers to the joints to the palms. My fingers are like cold sticks on the keyboard, stiff and unresponsive. It is familiar.

It is tricky to untangle these things. Stability, chaos, familiarity, progress. What is right, what is just a reaction. I don't have the time, the thought. I am.

ich

2008-11-21T19:53:00.001-08:00

Evolving backwards to what I want to be, degenerating mentally as I develop physically. Degeneration.

What a night.

2008-10-26T04:31:00.001-07:00

So.

I park to go to a party, this woman in an SUV parks across the street and glares at us. As she comes out, Nigel asks her if she happens to have an extra cigarette. She replies no and then asks if we can happen to "move our fucking car." Nigel says no, sorry. She then flips the fuck out and calls us drunk assholes. I tell her I don't drink.

She responds by calling us all sorts of nasty names, to which I replied that she's a fucking bitch and she can go choke on a dick. She says she's going to go get her husband. I tell her she's a twat. She goes inside.

I check back on my car 5 minutes later and the husband starts knocking on the window of their house. I tell nigel not to look at him. Nigel waves to them. The man emerges from the house with a golf club and runs at us saying "THAT'S IT I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR ASSES YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKERS."

He hits the hood of my car with the golf club, causing a small dent.
This is a mistake.

I pull out my Bersa Thunder .380 and chamber a round, commenting "Back the fuck off, motherfucker. Back off right fucking now. Get the fuck away from my car."

The man runs back into the yard, but the woman freaks out and demands I shoot her. I tell her she's a dumb cunt and tell Nigel to get in the car. They scramble to try to get my licence plate. As I shut my door to drive off, I tell them:

"You two are fucking lucky."

Then, we drive seven blocks, call the police, file a report, and had them arrested.

End of night.

2008-09-25T01:46:00.001-07:00

I have become a conquistador.

It is no longer a question of love. It is not a question of attraction or matches or things falling into place. These things do not fall like paper cranes, they are placed, carefully, for you to see. They are a roadmap. They are markers leading you to the place I want you. And you'll discover them, little love, as if by an accident and revel in the perfection of chance. Of fate. But fate has no hold over me and my affairs, I make a point of it.

No, it's not about love. Not anymore. This is revenge, preemptive and generalized to an extreme. Do you think I like you, your touch, your flirting and your compliments? Do you think my reciprocation in flirting means I accept you, I want you, I even like you? Do you think that, at the very least, it means I want you like you want me? No, I can't. I don't. What I am saying to you with my careful smile, my kind words and my flesh beneath your skin, so loud that I fear you will sense it beneath the thin layer of skin beneath which it boils in my blood, is simple. I hate you. I hate you and I want to punish you, not just for what you do and might do to me, but for who you are. I loathe every inch of you, every breath, every word you speak makes me twist up inside more with revulsion. I know you. I know what you want. I know what you are and what you do and, oh, I am so tired of it.

Let me explain my attraction to you, if you choose to call it that. I want to have you in the palm of my hand and then I want to throw you away. I want you to call me. I want you to miss me and not miss you. I want you to become pathetic for me, overtly. I want you to have something you want and have it taken away from you. I want this from you because so many times it happens to me. There is no future to this, no kind ending. There is only me getting what I want, or me not getting what I want.

Not with the innocent, I am afraid to touch good people anymore for fear of leaving stains. But you. Yes, you. I'll touch you, rake with my fingernails and leave marks on you. I know the song by heart and I can sing it convincingly, even as it grows tired and common. I do it out of hate, the ion of sadness that's burned and burned and become energized to a state of praxis. There is only one escape, one weakness, to this blind brutality. I shouldn't tell you, but I will. When I meet you, I want you, I do want you. That is the only time I want anything from me or that you can do anything for me. It's that need that's the only power a boy can have over me. If he pulls away before I have him, there is an echo of hurt that ripples through me. I'll want you more then any other, I'll follow you. I'll entice you. I'll do what I can and what I have to to have you. If you stay away, you'll always have power over me. You'll never be a broken product of my revenge, tainted in my own eyes.

Conquistador, I'll slash and burn through them. I do not want to love you, I want you to love me and hurt. It makes me less sad, because when you're hurting I'm not alone. I am your intangible, I am the myth you can't quite lay to rest. I breathe life into it and leave it looming before you, cowering you into my hand. Herr god, Herr lucifer, beware, beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair, and I eat men like air.

I like how I think I'm really really funny

2008-08-31T01:02:00.001-07:00

And most people just react to it with intense hostility. DONT CARE.

YOU. LOOK. LIKE. JIMMY. NEUTRON.
And I don't care if you get mad at me for pointing it out, scene boy.

Don't invite me to your parties

2008-07-27T05:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-15T09:29:00.000-07:00

Looks can be deceiving

V

2008-07-14T05:31:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-14T05:28:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-05T16:23:00.001-07:00

No one should have this power over me.

2008-07-04T01:37:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-02T12:44:00.001-07:00

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.

Also

2008-06-23T03:47:00.001-07:00

Two latina woman in a minivan with a camera filmed him and I walking telling us "OH MY GOD YOU TWO LOOK LIKE MODELS, YOU'RE SO CUTE!" and then something about how her cousin was gay and he was going to hear about us. I blushed a little.

Balls.

2008-06-23T03:45:00.001-07:00

So. Met yet another narcissistic drug addicted spends-all-his-time-in-the-pursuit-of-drugs-and-alcohol square scene kid. Normally I'd have tuned him out after the first comment about how sweet blow is but HE IS AN EXACT LOOKALIKE OF MY EX. The one that I was in pathetic love with and then broke up violently? Looks. Exactly. Like. Him.

Only he's openly more horrible, manipulative, and narcissistic. But it just weirds me the fuck out that this kid looks exactly like Ryan. What the fuck.

Scattered, scattered, scattered.

2008-06-18T14:49:00.001-07:00

I just had the most terrifying dream and I have absolutely no one to confide it in to feel better and that's a shitty feeling. I feel like moving.

Also

2008-06-18T03:44:00.001-07:00

Gun people are so funny. A black man at the convenience store just quizzed me for five minutes about AR-15's and gave me four dollars off my purchase because I "got him all interested."

ink

2008-06-18T03:03:00.001-07:00

Flashes. The flashbacks are so acute some times. I'm driving and suddenly my senses are in chicago. Night. Him, to my left, always left, and my heart, beating. Why in all the years my heart has remained cold had it chosen to wake to someone so undeserving and irreverent of such great weight? But I woke in Chicago, for once I broke down the games my subconscious devises to keep my eyes turned outwards, abandoned the practice of keeping things at a distance and wanted to love. I close my eyes and the smell, the air and the sound of the car and I'm in Chicago, I feel echos of what it was like to have my heart alive and breaking and I shudder and feel a icy touch creep through my body as if the memory has entered my blood, fresh with the chill of the snow and air outside the windows those nights. It haunts me. I am so stoic and unmovable, oceans of feeling break against me and I feel nothing but that dull echo through numbed scar tissue and I stay, incapable and unwilling to feel, a rock in the waves. What a strange feeling to be reminded of being at the mercy of another, to feel my heart sting like a living, breathing creature instead of the cold circuit it has been resigned to. To remember when I hurt. To remember when I was the one pouring my blood before an alter to immobility. Before I was like him.

Oh, for unhealed wounds. It matters so much and so little and it so easy yet hard to repair. The need for release grapples with the symptoms of the wound and I cannot cry, cannot explain in words the injury because I do not love you. I cannot love you. Il a l'fait. He has made it so I cannot love you. I cannot heal because I cannot speak or cry or feel it anymore unless you're with me and I love you. But I let the boys fall in love with me and then realize I cannot understand their feelings, I cannot relate and I cannot find anything in them worthy of that heavy pain I bore would take to wake again. It is not a choice, being without love. To be touched by those who are beautiful and feel only what my nerves tell me. I was transformed in the winder, in chicago. I took it in, the breaths in the cold air borne to my blood and crept to the core. I keep it there, a photo memory of the time place and circumstance of the death of things and I keep moving so it will not swallow me whole. The flight has taken me far, far, far and cost me money, friends, lovers, and most of all time. Years of my life tossed to air to avoid the feeling that haunts me tonight.

Alone in my car and I'm in chicago. I remember it by the cold in my blood and the echo of feeling alive cast against the absolute stillness I've lived within since. An echo in silence rips through the ears like a gunshot, and I am overwhelmed.