The Truth. . .

“I hadn’t said a word that was a lie, but I should have lied. The truth was wrong, it would hurt him. I would let him down.”

Stephenie Meyer, “New Moon”

Gentle Armor

He called me intellectually exhausting. They’ve called me physically intimidating and spiritually overwhelming. I'm slowly starting to realize that those are not necessarily compliments, and that though said in awe and with smiles of genuine affection; they are really polite observations of the most obvious detriments to my character. It is as if the kink in the armor is the armor itself. It is because I choose to hide behind spirit and thought and flesh; things that in their purest form are supposed to be liquid and natural, that my attempts to control the mutable and free flowing, perverts them into something hard and garish; so that where I am peaceful, compromising, and accepting, I am also dogmatic, argumentative, and affected. It poses a unique challenge. How do I use Love to find Love when Love is not meant to be used?

How do I entwine myself with beauty and seek to imbue all aspects of my life with it, when Beauty by definition must be innate; and the manipulation of it only makes it less so? How do I let everyone know that I am brilliant, righteous, and talented, if I don’t take every opportunity to tell them so? It’s as if I'm always trying to prove something that I should already know to be true.

“Corey you know it to be true, don’t you? Or is that why you need a reminder tattooed down your arm? Is it such a deep seeded unconscious insecurity that it forces God to send so many to tell you to your face? Perhaps it is no coincidence that validation is constantly given. Is it because without it you wouldn’t know? Corey you do know, don’t you? Don’t you?”

He tells me that I'm Beautiful. They tell me that my thoughts leave them reeling, and that my spirit is a beaming bright violet white light that shines for all to see. But we hear what we want to hear . . . We believe the bad before the good . . . We unravel at the seams if a single thread is pulled . . . But my fringes have always been frayed. I’ve always been too fragile for my own good. I’ve always cared a bit too much – or at least that’s what I told myself as the lead consultant on my beautification campaign. So perhaps it’s time I drop the armor and let my thoughts become my own; let my faith become simply personal, and my body less maintained. That should make me less exhausting, less intimidating, and less likely to overwhelm. After all I just want to connect. I want to be Everyman. I want to be you, and let you be me for a time, because someone once told me that we were all one; which means we have the capacity to understand. That’s why I try so hard. But my attempts at being approachable and transparent get convoluted with high ideals. I need to have a quieter internal world, a more even mass appeal, and not so quickly bombard people with questions of Devine Design

Kennedy and King.

What is so horribly wrong with Hope? What’s so terribly awful about wanting to be better than we were before? Is saving $20 in taxes really that Important? Are we that afraid of Change? Are we really so concerned with tradition that we are unable to consider the progression of thought? Obama is the candidate of Ideals; the candidate of Intellect; and the candidate that moves the Heart. And just in case you didn’t know, I'm with him. I'm with the guy who evokes the energy of Kennedy and King. I'm with the guy who speaks of Moral responsibility and the magic of the American dreams. I'm with the one who is aligned with Oprah, higher consciousness, and the optimism of our youth. I'm with that one. Palin and McCain are the practical party obsessed with money, social conservatism, and economic growth. They are by no means bad people, just aligned with different things. They are the party of guns, war, and the Ku Klux Klan. They are the avatars of the eleven Southern Slave States, of Billion Dollar Business, and Economic Self-interest; or in other words, racism, corruption, and greed. Why would you vote for that? Why would that call to your soul? Why would you choose that, when Barack Obama is the manifestation United Destiny, Social Equality, and the Promise of Progressive Change? Help me understand that; because I just don’t get it.

Mathew 7:1

I define things too harshly.
I see everything as either Perfect or not;
Brilliant or not;
This or That;
Wrong or Right . . .
I need a gentler perspective.

But at least I think Everything and Everyone is
Beautiful . . .
It is my only saving Grace.

Dating Again. . .

I'm scared that they won’t be as doting as he was. That they won’t say yes as quickly as he did; and that they won’t be as willing to see past the bulking muscles and dominant spirit, to gently call me “princess” when I'm not feeling so strong. I'm terrified that they won’t look at me the way that he did; like I was special, preciouse, and undeniably worth it. I pause to think that they won’t be so gladly willing to take on the financial burden of someone unable to pay their share; and that they won’t be as freely generous as he was. I worry that they won’t always let me play bottom and offer to make me moan with intimate pleasure on those nights when I don’t want to feel alone. I'm nervous that he’s possibly better than I’ll ever get; and that I passed on everything I’ve ever wanted, in order to find something that I think I need. So now I'm scared. I want to have what I had, but more. I want them to be like him, but different. The same, but not exactly. I want them to simply say they love me even when I'm being difficult, and to just listen when I'm desperate to make a point. I want to offer them something that only I can give, and earn immense joy finding out exactly what that is. And yes I still want them to go to church with me . . . such a simple request but surprisingly hard to find. I'm dating again. It’s not something I like to do, just a necessary evil that leads me to the end result. I'm searching again, hoping again, playing again, and looking for love again. Luckily there are many options out there, and many suitors willing to try; and though I know my fears are unfounded, and that every love is greater than the last; in the back of my mind I wonder if the price I’ll pay for giving him up, will be to loose the things that he gave.

Need

I get jealous sometimes at how very little some people need from this world. At how easily they are satisfied, and how their thoughts never linger on the .001 percent of epic mundane-ities that constantly cross my mind. Like what about the substance of soul or the consequence of Judas? Or what is it with the color red, and why do some people not see it? Why do I think the way that I do, and you think the way you do; and are there more choices than just our two? If God is Love, and God is Good, then all Love is Good . . . right? But what about obsessive love, like the way my dad loved my mom; with fist and split lips, is that good too? Or is that not love? But if some loves are not love, then why do they feel the same? And why can't I find either anymore?

I see them laughing with their perfect teeth, their perfect bodies, and their perfect matching partners, and I covet what they have. I want to steal their joy. I want to be them someday. Even though their sex is bad, they do not speak, and one of them is destined for suicide, they've made it work. They look the part; with their matching rings, frosted tips, and three hundred dollar shoes; they are public royalty, and I want that… I want the condescending smile. I want the impressive bank account. I want to think that that's enough.

I sometimes on occasion wish that I was more quickly pleased by their pretty words and promises. I wish that every once in a while dark skinned brown eyed Persian men with breathy names and beat up pick up trucks made me lose my senses and ignore the fact that sexuality is more than just behavior; and that their heterosexuality will never make them mine, but only lead to my demise. I wish that beautiful bald German men wielding diminutive statures and masculine ways who kissed like perfect dancers; all Rond de jambes and Pliés; Pirouettes and jetés, and with bodies rippled like chiseled pale pearl marble (but who are only here for three weeks), made me forget the meaning of time and not care about the day after. On my weaker days I just want to give head to the cable guy; I just wanna get fucked for fun. But most often then not, I don't know what to do when strangers ask for favors that only lovers are meant to give. I freeze; I laugh in their faces, and become a moral prude. I think I too quickly call them whores, too quickly judge their character by what they do with their flesh. Because you see I use to be them, I use to play the game better than most; using my sex to ease my loneliness, and hoping that standing on one night would be enough. That price charming would find me after fucking me on the backroom floor, and finally love me the way I had always hoped.

But they find it; those boys who hold hands down the blvd, and tell stories over martinis. They know a freedom I have yet to find, and live a life so full that I wonder if I am actually living at all. So what if they're not happy or hate the contents of their soul? It would be worth it to have them look at me that way: as if I'm perfect and beautiful, and something to be devoured. I want to see hunger in their eyes, and taste despair upon their lips; fettered and rank, until it smells of desperation, and the aroma of our passion makes us sick with repetition, and we feed on one another until there is nothing left to give; nothing sacred left to save, and we are nothing but social politics gone awry. I'm jealous of those forty somethings who can wake up on satin sheets with a dead body by their side; kiss it gently on the lips, caress its phallus one last time, and quickly flee the scene because they can't recall its name. I want to be that body; oiled and well used, open to what will come; not hung up on the details of who, what, when, and why, but willing to be broken, burned, and offered as free food for the flies.