anonymousblack: (lookout)
there's always another page, i wrote, in some notebook or another, a long time ago or maybe more recently than i think. there's always another page, another book, another line. and it's true, of course, it's the truest thing there is, at least until it isn't.

when something runs out - tea, flour, patience, light - it frequently seems binary: now it is there, now it is not. that's a truth of it, i guess, though some of us are able to see the matter dwindling. sometimes the dwindling is all i can see. how will i get more, when the time comes? can more be obtained? terrible that my obsession with resolving the dwindling can overwhelm my enjoyment of what's left.

there's a tipping point, of course. with a quart of cream. with a bottle of synthroid. with the expanse of an afternoon. with a relationship. you are sated, satisfied with what you have; you do not need to seek out more. then, all of a sudden, what is left is overcome by what has been used. even if it took you months to use half the package, now that you've observed the dwindling supply, it will dwindle away that much faster. before you can replace it. before you can find more. were you prepared for this? can we ever be prepared for death?

it's samsara, the misery of survival. it's striving. it's exhausting and isolating. is the loneliness of dwindling the illusion or what we are deluding ourselves from? ask someone when they are newly in love and ask them again when they are out of it and you will probably get very different answers. ask me and i will altogether avoid answering: sometimes because i know better than that, usually because i don't have a clue. the vocabulary of not answering: maybe. perhaps. not exactly. not quite. i don't know. because i don't know. i can't know. it stops my pen it soaks my eyes it never stops it never ends it can never just be - what's worse, to complain about it is, essentially, to complain about being alive. for the sake of rationality, superstition, and emotional well-being, it's almost always in poor taste to complain about that.

on a dime

Sep. 4th, 2013 03:53 am
anonymousblack: (did you think you were here alone?)
here are the lists: of accomplishments, of rewards. of loss, of failures, of random disappointments. of calories burned, of miles amassed. of cigarettes avoided. of weeks in gestation. in this age a thing is not meaningful to us unless it can be quantified, visually demonstrated as progress, made into a brass plaque we can mount on our facebook wall. we'll embed it in the feed of even our most casual acquaintances--sometimes near-strangers who hold extremist philosophies we might find shocking, should we ever actually stumble onto the profile page of these people we sometimes spend entire days entertaining with links.

perhaps, then, this is my problem: a lack of brass plaques. i cannot quantify my accomplishments, or, again, maybe the problem is that you can't. i won't be reporting to facebook, livejournal, twitter and linkedin how many inches i've shed, how many ounces i dropped to regain with morning's first intake of breath (or so it might seem.) i get through each day, in spite of the ever-bright slash at my throat. cancer can do that: it can make things impossible to quantify. so i ran my paces, so i dropped my hip, so i pushed out my ribcage without involving my shoulders. so i made it through another day without retail therapy, but shredded my lip bloody negotiating the temptation. i wake up before dawn and take my pill. just like that, i just go on.

how's my health? i don't know. just as the doctor wouldn't use the word 'cancer' in my diagnosis call, none of the doctors dared to use the word 'cured' or even 'remission' in the months since. it's risky arithmetic. today i have questionable moles. i'm stalling on a mammogram. maybe this is cancer. today i have low iron. maybe that is cancer. can i have a facebook app to publicly quantify how the trauma still distorts my logic? can you hear the gaping roar of chaos behind the clicking of my fingers? no, because you can't even hear my fingers clicking. how strange.

every time ben leaves the apartment, i think: he'll die. every time i walk down the stairs to open the mailbox, i think: i'll die. my parents contract a respiratory virus; it scrapes their voices hollow over the duration of a 40 minute phone call, i think: they'll die, they'll die, they'll die. the stray cat who greets us on the complex stairs goes missing for three days, guess what i think? i'm at ground zero of a trauma bomb, but it's hardly foreign territory. again people draw concentric circles around me, partition me off, protect themselves from my sadness, my terror, my radiation. again people tell me: this is for my own good.

*
trigger warning: describes accident, wife arriving at accident scene. )

i leaned forward and bit into his shirt, tears and spit already mixing
i sucked as hard as i could, denting the roof of my mouth with the weave of the fabric
tasting detergent, tasting the memory of his skin, oh god
oh god
oh, god.
anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] glass)
most of the humor is derived from the chasm that exists between the general public's understanding of how the situation has always worked versus the bewildering reality of how the situation is now

you have people expecting a certain standard
people expecting to have their every half-hearted desire, every fleeting whim treated as if it is a life or death necessity

and instead

no one has answers
no one meets you in the eye

look
the cupboard is bare


doors are locked
bottles are empty
and leave no drop for me
there's no kick to this cigarette
get me out of this joint

it's just as it was before
before demand
before supply
before abundance, surplus, clearance, waste
the back dock jammed with what no one had a use for
with what they won't realize they needed until it is long gone
or they won't
sometimes they don't
the rain pours out the sight

empty swallows
hard empty swallows

another way to pass the time


another way to piss the time


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