On this morning I wake thinking about all of the whores of importance.
The toll collecters. The I am somebody's. I hate these people with
every fiber of my being but that is this morning. This type of hatred
makes me predictable and the verbal lamentation of a boy. Which is
another kind of whore all together.
Last night the delerium met recognition when I realized that the
trouble I was having changing some keyboard shortcuts on my computer
was because of the cholos living inside of it and I decided that it
may be time to go to Sleep and acknowledge the east side does not have a community in my
keyboard opposing my fight for reinvention (I am both inspired,
disillusioned and at a loss) those ducking cholos-and the blood that
kept dripping from my right arm became another good reason to quit and
sleep - even more than the cholos. So I stopped and slept.
I dreamt of Orla, her shoes, her private universe and books of matches.
I woke to moans. Great big moans and this waking pissed me off. I had
to piss. I could barely reach the man urinal without popping the tape
on my arm-adding a smell. I was listening to my mom trying to calm my
sisterin new York getting her ass kicked by some strange hive thing
going on.
(side note - two dudes are talking about shitting, toxicity, the
modern world and colonics and it is impossible to ignore the
earnestness in their voices. Dude just said they were going to stop
talking about looking younger and having a flatter abdomen)
Hearing my mother try and tell her she couldn't just jump on a plane
and chill the fuck out became twisted in my head that what I had going
on was nothing and she needed someone to baby her which has been hard
for me to allow because I can not take care of myself and sopping up
gunk from holes above your penis has been humiliating for me and some
ass welts seemed to have the nursing priority of running out of shit
tickets. Call a store. See if they deliver. Done. Call a doctor. Calm
down. Call 911. But it is fear. That's all it is and the moaning, my
war with the cholos and the realization that it is going to take a
couple more weeks to heal was pissing me off so much that I felt like
crying - not to mention that the lady I knew before this surgery
happened had gone "missing" her sister contacted me and I didn't want
to care - I wished her dead in an alley- but anyone who knows anything
behind a feeling like that knows another shade to the connotation of
desperation of that kind of rap and to give a shit is both human and
dangerous. For me. For this one. For this one that control is paper
thin and the jungle-the park bench-the voice from heaven-the plummet
over the falls sounds stupid. As stupid and human and dangerous as
anything fantastic that a man may do like wish for death in an alley
or sipping warmth with hemingwhiskey before his son cut off his cock
and the man blew his head from his beautiful face.
Why? Why give a shit? Why ask? Why any of it.
Today. It is the weather. I forced myself out of bed. I will change my
own bandages. If I fall, I'll pick myself up. I will sit at this chair
and bleed better and watch thengret burn off and the day come to me -
dad I said - I am greatful- I am emtional- each moment softens the
physical - I need to fight harder - stay soft- stay soft- fuck
cyberland and donuts and rules and the transcendence of culture and
the hilarity of Pragmatics through "estrangement" and watch with
murder on my face and put this document down. The jungle comes.
Interruption paves the way.
This is my face. This is my moment. And like anything else it will pass.
