The Antithesis of You

Some people are meant to be hot grease and bubbling chaos. Some people are meant to be impotent and inert; stuck in the moment. Some people will never know anything for sure; will never perceive the world beyond their own perceptions; and some people are proud of that. Some people are meant to be Clichés.

Hold your tongue, don’t say it, edit.

Some people will always be almost; on the perimeter, smirking from the sidelines: able to see, process, and understand the argument, but never quite willing to participate fully in the conversation without shutting down. Some people will never flower:

Roses, Tulips, Orchids, and Gerber Daisies.

Some people will never be Romantic Comedies, Disney Sound Tracks, or The Stupid Fuck that does that thing to get that girl; and lives happily ever after. Some people are just broken pieces of granite.

Fuck You! Douchbag! Retard! Faggot!

Some people don’t agree. They will always be the quark model and never string theory. Some people cannot exist on multiple planes of existence. They are segmented slices of linear logic incapable of temporal projection or inverted teleportation. They are on the corner of 2012 with the closet door shut and the gun shoved up against their soft pallet preparing for the Age of Aquarius the only way they know how. Some people are gory masses of grey matter.

Black T-Shirts, Bloody Fingers, and Festering Bits of Infection.

Some people are all dark substances, failed dreams, and harsh realities; burnt porcelain plates of cigarette ashes and empty cups of coffee. They cannot help but witness millions of people cry in unity and love, and laugh at the silliness that humanity is capable of. The intermeshing of souls and the magnetism emitted by the collection of personal light is not something that they can see. So to keep from going mad alone and choking in the dark, they make a keening sound; contort their faces; and contract their bodies in the semblance of a laugh. Some people are jackals. They tease. They make brilliant intellectual quotes; and pretend to be better off.

We Love You Michael!!

Some people will never appreciate the color Pink. (or pastel blue, or neon green, or canary yellow) Some people are gender incarnate, race incarnate: tradition undefined. Some people are bound by the geographic borders of their father’s thoughts. Some people are anomalies within the uniformity of space; they are all make believe, half truths, and blindly painted pieces of obfuscation. They are wedding rings and boyfriends, unsaid sentences to questions that go unasked. They stand in the pool of surrounding waters drinking up the nourishment of the fairies and sprites that play on the banks, but when danger comes they become mud and wood and leave the rest to bear the slaughter. Some people are not loud. Some people do not define themselves. Some people think that means something.

Nobody. Nothing. Cipher.

Some people are a collection of techno-babble. Some people are vinyl records. Some people are obscure references. Some people are furtive glances. Some People are words on a blank page. Some people are simple truths. Some people are black muscles in Pink Shirts. Some people are Bi-Boys with Brown Eyes. Some People are just Good Men. Some People say “I love you” and mean it. Some People know when to let it go, some people know when to hold their tongues, some people process in private . . . and some people don’t.

This is not about you.
This is about him.
And me

silly song sequence

It’s ridiculous to continue talking about it, stupid to keep thinking about it, and completely insane to keep puncturing holes in your left ventricle; hoping that the pattern of the polka dot will alter the rhythm of the beats and somehow change the song. But I'm an idiot. I'm put together with brightly colored block pieces that only seem to look pretty in one particular configuration. God has obviously created an alternate reality for my personal life fashioned after a 1950’s twilight zone episode where the pride blind hero sits in a diner unknowingly telling his “one true love” that he refuses to choose her; and as she cries heartbroken and confused, he kisses her cheek, stands, takes a nickel from his pocket, and finds the perfect goodbye melody from the jukebox that tragically sets his scenario into infinite loop; and though I am starkly aware of how the sequence plays out, heart heavy and weary of seeing the same lesson present itself, and adult enough to understand that a person offering to sit quietly by your side and simply share in a meal is no small find in this loudly laughing world, still. . . I LOVE THAT SONG! And I will do anything to hear it again; even if it means slicing my wrists, cutting off my nose, removing my entrails from my gut, and kicking my boot into her face over and over and over again until I can hear the semblance of a melody that reminds me of a song that proves that someone somewhere once loved me. Who needs love when I have the song? To steal a device: Michael (who will have his turn soon. His time is far overdue; and the collection of words that will represent my thoughts will never due him justice; for I am just not that brilliant) was sitting with me in a diner the other day, and he said “Corey I think you are too fond of that song. Give him a chance. I would hate to see you find yourself alone when time runs out, and your thirty minute episode has come to a close.” And I couldn’t even hear him become the song was playing so loud. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s never just one thing with me. No one ever understands. I'm always juggling so many double edged swords, and bouncing blue balls, and old flames, that to add a partner to the circus act would only double the chances of failure. So I juggle alone. I follow the beat of my own drum. And when and if (or if and when) I get hurt, it will be my fault . . . . and God’s. After all “If God is the DJ, Life is the dace floor, Love is the rhythm; you are the Music. You get what you’re given; it’s all how you use it!” And what if I was given the role of eunuch: the loveless, the sacrifice, the one who will have but will never find? I think I would be okay with that (because the song is so good). I think I could live (well) with that! And perhaps someday the machine will brake; my functions will fall apart; the girl will finally grow a pair of balls, become a boy, grow up, be a man, and do something other than just sit there! Or maybe I’ll stop being such a sadist and refrain from kicking beautiful people in the face for doing things that they don’t know they’re doing wrong in the first place… But It’s ridiculous to continue talking about it, stupid to keep thinking about it, and completely insane to keep puncturing holes in your left ventricle; hoping that the pattern of the polka dot will alter the rhythm of the beats and somehow change the song.

Hands Tied

In my defense I wanted to be there. I wanted to offer oversimplified answers to complicated issues; hear his frustrations, and listen in excitement to the riveting stories of the daily tedium of waiting for the mail to come. I wanted to kiss his forehead and rub his tummy as I pretended to give solace to a situation that was not mine to change. I wanted to take advantage of his time away by playing house over the weekends; ordering take out on Fridays; holding each other in our dreams as our spirits bonded by sharing secret intimacies that only come from bodies kissing crevices through the night; and waking early for breakfast on Saturday mornings to try out that new neighborhood café. I wanted to pay his hourly wage with lazy days and silly conversations about Batman, Battlestar Galactica, Script writing, Bruno, So You Think You Can Dance, and the affect of Atmosphere on the growth of the human soul. I wanted to supplement our finances, and take care of the transportation; I wanted to prove that I could pay an equal portion and do my best to pull the slack; to be a boy for a while. I wanted to put our grown-up pants on and man-up; proving that we were as good in the worst as we were in the better. I wanted to pucker my lips, cross my eyes, flip my wig, and say: “I got you babe!” I wanted to find the blessings in the chaos and turn to each other in the turmoil, so that when the moment passed (as they always do) we would be stronger on the other end.

But in his defense he didn’t see that as an option. His natural nature is to shut down. He was overwhelmed and felt like his hands were tied . . . and I wouldn’t wait.

But this is the world we live in. . . It is imperfect and flawed. Accidents happen. People lose interest. Things get lost in the mail. Circumstances change the way you were previously able to engage. And established self perceptions prevent us from being fully present for the other person’s needs. No need to blame. No need to change the truth of the situation. We simply need to take a moment to acknowledge the frailty of the things we believe to be so preciouse, and take nothing for granted; for this is the world we live in: truth is inconvenient, distance separates, intentions rarely count, and sometimes shit happens.

This I’ve learned to accept.
This I no longer fight.

But were the world mine. . .

To Be Continued.