Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

I am going to get my hands in the dirt and it will all be glorious and my knuckles, they may freeze. The page may run out and I may have the horror of a new blank one. The words may very truly run out. My love may be mistrusted, my intentions and ego may be speared. Let them be so. It doesn’t matter. I wish for my joy about things to be resurrected. I feel that my body has been pushed and that there is no longer any time to be lazy. I want to work every day to do these sword tricks, as I said that I would. My friend sews lovelier and lovelier things. It is nighttime and a full moon. Let the creativity manifest. Let the joy ring out before there is no time to do so anymore. Let the writings write themselves. Let these side businesses have the proper care and attention. I know that more people are getting to know me. I know that I am a multitalented artist. I know that these moments have to be taken in the smallest pieces, and that is frustrating to me. Something beautiful just flowed ou...

And so we come to the time when the hours cloak us ever-gently and evermore in creeping darkness. And the land immolates itself to create new seed and new issue for two seasons from now. But first must come the dying time. And we have seen this cycle before, in the lovely hourglass of waiting. Our feet still tread, though now we are so obscured that we can only see one foot in front of another. The whisper of those passed on and passed by cause us to reach out our hands in welcome, with slightly morbid thoughts of greeting a beloved from the Other Side. And I am able to see this in my flat mirror surface, though slightly concave, so not flat at all. And I see it in the crystal globe, or what they call the globe of the world. It has a taste, a smell and a feeling, all radiating out from the radio station of synaesthesia and Divine synechdoche. As above, so below. I see a vision of this constantly. In the time-kissed faces of you, in which aging makes a sketch of gradual death-mask. Now ...

And so we come here to the place of a thousand voices. I thought this was a necropolis, but every inch of it feels and sounds alive. There is something more sinister at work here besides the miserly claw of time. We know what fought your will to life. We know that sometimes, there are dualistic forces at work. When I first saw you, you were in the same room as we were. You led along the first lines of our thinking in this certain way. There were tiny lines, tendrils, connecting us. Arteries and nerves of this thing we call friendship. How do I know? How did we know? No one thought of the thousand stars because they were busy staring at the black curtain. Now you're a series of polaroids. Your face becomes etched ever more weakly, like a repetitious cliche. But who needs the world of old houses? Musty investments; this crumbling material we call life. I find it silly when I think about it, too. Now I am the old lady, writing about my irrelevancy, and you've had the last la...

How does it feel now? One foot in front of the other, walking on the path. I listen to and weigh all the doubts. I worry about my capacity to do what most people seem to do decently and naturally. People have not been granted much in the way of things sometimes. I don't really think there is just a way that things are inherently. I suppose that it's all perspective, all judgment, all subjective. I know that I am no more superior than the guy with the three beemers in his driveway or the bum on the street corner. We all do different things in this world, I suppose. My thoughts wander, my focus wanders. I come back to the path again. I evaluate and try to see if I have made the best decision. I am rarely assured of this. But I guess we do the best with the information we have at the time. I am keeping score. I make no lie of it. I know I am not in the place to judge, but we still must evaluate as best we can with the information we have.

I remember when they used to have personal ads in there. Someone seeks someone else. European. Mediterranean. Muscular build. For playtime. Loves fast cars. I always wondered what the people actually looked like. It was in the days before the false honesty of internet dating, I can tell you that. In the days before the Craigslist rape fantasy. I wondered how we were supposed to fully appreciate each other when we were shorthand paragraphs. N/S/Drugs. A/s/l? But that came later. I wondered about who was truly lucky enough to find this love there. In tiny, centimeter-by-centimeter squares. How hungrily pored over were they? What happened when they actually met? Did they last? Were the people crazy? The woman or man who wondered "Were you waiting for me"... Was it the same kind of bottom-feeder we are used to nowadays? What of judgment? What of sex? Did anything go? Does our love become the same kissed-away time capsule pieces of paper, biodegrading into the earth years later? W...

Look at this. It's a picture of me, 12 years old, completely sullen. Knowing that someday I would break out of that, but not knowing when. How many hours had I spent waiting in purgatorial corridors? Touching decay, befriending dark walls. I thought I had heard it whispered, once, that my time would come. And now these hands beckon me, stepping through Time's tunnel, strangely seeing that light that everyone claims is there when they are knocked unconscious. These people have it all marked with me. But there was no script, no plan for this. I walked it on my own. I walked until I stopped to embrace people on the way. This was whispered to me, once, but I mostly ignored it. Who knew that I would get my peace, my happiness, that one day I would be equaled in those who poured themselves out to the world? But it happened. What was whispered became true. I remember when people used to tell me "You should smile more." I have finally started doing that. There is sun on my fa...

She was not new to going to strange mens' rooms. But this was different and mildly silly. "You know, I expected him to be down here in the lobby." "Yeah, this is kinda shady..." she chuckled. Tim walked up to the concierge's desk. "I'm looking for a Mr. W. Svenson." Jake shifted his weight. He wasn't usually here at this hour. His eyes met hers and there was a scared, uncomfortable moment. Wasn't she the one who was always going around with that guy who lived in 312 and all sorts of other men? Jake cleared his throat. "Ok, one moment." He called up. "Mr. Svenson? You have some guests in the lobby to see you." A few seconds. He hung up. Another man was in the elevator when they got in. She and Tim giggled at the awkwardness. Considering her job, she should have learned to ignore that sort of thing by now, like smelly gym socks in a corner somewhere, but it was just too random. "So you think I should s...