anonymousblack: (harrison)
out in the miles from it, out in the long-way-home.

the radio station gone abstract in the distance between. the night sky ancient in its visibility. utility poles lining the highway, one's only companion, one's only reminder of modern invention.

it's night and the road could be straighter.

it's night and it's cold and we've got nowhere to be.

it's night and we could be driving faster, i mean if there were any purpose to it, i mean if the place we were going were any better than the place we left behind. it's night and the radio has become a texture. an atmospheric augmentation. an augmentation of the atmosphere: sonic pallet in gray, nothing ventured, nothing gained; nothing offered, little observed. what had been a news report about death on the high seas now crashes in on an indeterminate shore. what had been a song about falling into something the songwriter originally understood to be love turned into avalanching falls of waste water from the nuclear power plant. what had been a traffic report. what had been a preview of all tomorrow's best shows. the story, the signal. the broadcasting tower just barely in sight. i remember. i remember.

the sky is old and getting older. the night is dark and clear. in the old sky, things are remembered. count the stories: the stories about personalities, heroes and villains. the stories about relationships, mothers and daughters, the discoveries of young lovers, the assumptions of old lovers, the hanging ellipsis of lovers that never were. a boy and his cat, a girl and her dog, the mistake and necessity of a hunter catching the eye of that animal he has most recently exiled from the living world, vital essence leaking out the spear's wound. we are all ever always at the whim of another's survival. we are all ever always living on borrowed resources. driving long distances in unfamiliar territory. driving at night under a clear and ancient sky. driving with the radio on, but what's the difference? driving with the radio on, but then again, who could say?

in this story, there is no protagonist. it's a story devoid of earthly structure.

in this story, you are a protagonist, but you might not realize it in time.

you've decided from this moment forward that all your stories will be about the elements of a story that are overshadowed by the devices of narrative: the quality of the light, the flow of one space into the next, the journey at night, alone on an empty highway, a utility pole another utility pole, the radio an experiment in abstraction occasionally stabbed through by incomplete thoughts.

jesus is watching, the radio stabs through each hand, all at once out of an opaque field of static. then: what will she see? maybe somewhere, maybe someone, maybe something will come to light. will she see?

the story, the signal. the broadcasting tower just barely in sight. headlights set every stage they skim over, ever en route to anywhere but. sometimes one cycles the windshield wipers just to give themselves something to do. the path is clear and then it isn't and then the path is clear again: squirt squirt, squeak squeak, all the while driving along, all the while just passing through. it could be about the destination, but tonight it's not even about the journey. it could be about the shape of things, the shape of time, but then again, what do you even know?

in the making of a story there are offerings to be made. people want to know: what is the purpose of this? and people want to know: what's the point? people want to know. isn't that always the way of it? so what's the motivation here? what's this character's end game? why did you construct this image, to what other images does it relate, is the character's reaction consistent with what we already don't really believe?

i used to believe i was driving to someone, when i'd drive alone long distances at night. i used to imagine this as embodying my longing. sometimes i saw it as an offering to my longing, giving it some purpose, giving it somewhere to go. instead as ever it went nowhere. instead as ever it was always a story without real purpose, no protagonist, no plot, the only stage i'd ever set a pair of headlights passing over a landscape i never really saw, a landscape i will not ever see again.

anonymousblack: (fire)
brought to ruin: brought into memory: brought into the nightmare continuum of daily striving, daily failing, daily never quite enough: brought into being. pain's crowning glory. the crown of thorns that encircles every immaculate heart: by way of tradition: by means of necessity: and on like that: and on and on and on: held in the arms of love: grasped by the claws of pain: how it is: how it was:

:how it ever will be:

pain is the germinating necessity of love. love as an elemental force. love as a transforming reality. love as a difficult and occasionally (?) fatal initiation: love as a difficult and ultimately fatal initiation: those of us who could not come back from love: those of us who could not even survive our own love: you know the way of it, or you did, or you will and in this moment with this ring for so long as you both but that's not even the half of it, the kind of love that only lasts as long as you both shall live: kept in that box, and it does not have to be, but quite often it is: that's love as a human mechanism. love as a red ball bouncing in time over ideological assessments of the form and function love serves, not the earth shattering chaos love in itself actually is: not love itself: not love itself: so many of us never even have contact with what love, itself, actually is. not transformational love. not love that transforms. because transformational love, it does not move mountains.

it obliterates them.

such love does not waste its time sitting, head bowed, hands folded neatly, patient for evening vespers: such love twists the heads off the wicked and crushes their skulls in her mad dance. such love scorches the dead and corrupted into fertile ash. love is brutal, love is angry. love is fierce, love is belligerent. love never shuts up. love is beautiful, but not in the way you want it to be. so often we first see that which triggers out deepest love as ugly, at first: at least undesirable: at least disquieting. you have to do the work to see the beauty. you have to make yourself vulnerable to that head twisting, skull crushing, wildfire love and there are no guarantees. you'll see it, but only in flickers. you'll feel it, but only for one match's strike. at the heart. on the tongue. through the sacral center. sparking at the finger tips. you must build up your tolerance. you must keep taking risks. love can protect those who serve love, in a way, for a time, but then, but then. love serves her own understanding of justice. if one only wants the meek, user-friendly, maternal and nurturing good girlfriend of love, an easy marriage, a long and prosperous life, love has no use for you. never germinated, you'll rot away still inside your husk. love doesn't give a fuck that you believe it isn't time. ready or not, that's what love is:

ready or fucking not.

love is aggressive. love doesn't care how tired you are. how scared you are. how traumatized you are. how strong. how righteous. how virtuous. how talented. how stoned. how impatient. how smart. how healthy. how refined your media preferences. love is here. shut the fuck up and be grateful: that's literally all you can do. because: you do not cross love. do not piss love off. you are, ever always, love's miserable bitch until you are dead. or you are not. you try not to be. you rebel, you qualify, you discipline, you hold yourself back: you abandon love and end up, ever always, love's miserable bitch until you are dead. your choice.

how, love, how? how? how?

like that we are textbook examples, unwitting adherents to an exhausting mythology that loops back again to the start before you've come out the other side. like a public school american history class, you haven't even figured out who won the civil war when it's back to george washington not telling lies about the cherry tree from which he chopped his wooden teeth. if i got some of that wrong i apologize: it's from that class of stories you've heard so many times you stop hearing it, it ceases to exist, it's just this weird melange of psychological trinkets that populate a modern american childhood. frosty the red-nosed ugly duckling bringing offerings of frankincense and his last bread crust to the most sincere pumpkin patch. we love our most important stories into consumerism and humor tropes. because we all know these stories, or, at least, we think we do. we all know these stories, so we never really hear them: but sometimes, in spite of everything, something breaks through. we connect. we find something that speaks to us, to our experience, to the person we are or the person we were or the person we want to become. i could pour myself bare on the altar of love without a second thought. that's how a lot of us do it, after all: to be honest, a lack of larger considerations might be why any one of us takes a hit of that lethal stuff in the first place: we don't know any better. we set ourselves up for it: we thought we knew what we were getting ourselves into: we ended up with something else entirely: someone else entirely: entirely: entirely


anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] ocean)
that echoing cry washed over opheus' inadequacy and swallowed back into the dead land, that place we are only on temporary lease from, the inevitable destination of every lament, every shed tear: does anyone listen? can anybody hear this? is anyone out there at all?

i will not face it. i will not stand it down.

it is the order of things. we love, we love, we lose, we're lost. no bridge for that divide. no alternate route. if we are going to love, we are going to lose. that's the flesh and bone of it, the meat of the matter, that's what really gets you hot: to recognize that you love someone is to acknowledge that you are willing to take on the pain of losing them; you are promising you will ultimately grieve their loss. i didn't want things to go like this. i didn't want you to die alone. we all die alone. especially: there is no especially. we all die alone. if we die a person who maintained many loving connections, many will grieve after we die. if we die isolated, having atrophied every lingering connection with our bitterness and indifference, that is a life mourned out while living. loss hurts. loss is inevitable. pain is inevitable, is what i am saying. get used to it, kid.

there isn't a path back to there isn't a route back to there isn't a way home there isn't a home at all. not really. love could be a home, except when love is an echoing cry washing over your inadequacy and swallowed back into the dead land. that home of love. that place love comes from. that pact with the devil we rush to sign off on every time we really mean it, every time we break through our own barriers, open to love, really see someone, really feel something, recognize all at once that this truly is a matter that really, really matters. we allocate life force. we give ourselves away. we throw ourselves into it, barely acknowledging how in the end we are really throwing ourselves away. we love and love and love and love. i love you, orpheus, eurydice wanted to say, eurydice wanted to say without it coming back on her in any other than the desirable way: the way where i loved you with everything i had to love you, the way i would have surrendered whatever resources i could have surrendered - and then some, and then some indeed - to keep you safe, to protect you from who you didn't want to become, to take your hand off the gun, away from the razor, out of the quetiapine bottle. what i would have given and yet it was not enough: because: because:

the wind through the dead land, wind blowing through that place of no wind. that killing fissure mapping out her killing blow. who would mourn me? who would even mourn me? of course i would be mourned. but, then again, mourning is an activity of the living; i suspect that the dead operate on a different frequency. but when it comes down to it, down to the last moments, down to the dead land: i don't know anything about it, as i'm not supposed to. just that i'm here on the presumed anniversary of the day my beloved friend ended his life alone in an apartment that wasn't his own and: i don't know. i don't know the question he asked me that day, that question he asked without asking, that question he didn't give me a chance to answer, that day he made good on love's debt.

now i am tearful. rattled and rattling. i can't focus, i can't remember my functions, what role i'm supposed to take. was i a good friend? was i ever a good friend? have i ever given something to another person i didn't selfishly snatch back on a bad day? i know, this was a wake up call. i know, this is a wake up call. but i've been trying to wake up for years. i know it's a wake up call, but i don't understand what i'm waking for, and i don't understand what's needed, and i don't understand. my every working theory has been quite thoroughly proven wrong over these last twelve months. i don't know where to go, who to be, i don't know what i did wrong.

there's my funerary refrain: "i don't know what i did wrong."

i tried to love. i tried to help. i tried to connect, to heal, to offer something the people i love would want to return to. i don't know that i was a total failure, but given where i am, i sure the fuck can't say i've been getting it right. and i had a friend, and now my friend is gone. and i had a friend, and now my friend is gone. and i had a friend, but now my friend is gone. an echoing lamentation through that land of no answers: constituting the only real answer any of us will ever find.

anonymousblack: (holy holy holy)

this edge this feathered edge this edge of light, this edge of prismed light. this edge in leaded glass, this edge in a dense mirror. this edge of my identity, this edge of boundary, this strange unknown edge of who i could be. where the anger begins, because sometimes the anger doesn't seem to come from inside of me. where the anger comes from, because sometimes it seems like the anger is a pre-existing shape i can lock into in the physical world. we are all sometimes taking shapes of emotion that already exist in the external world. we are all often taking the shapes of emotions that already exist in the external world. we are all falling into patterns we never made, only endorsed, only supplicated ourselves to. oftentimes we are not angry, but enacting someone else's anger. oftentimes we are not happy, but wearing the attitudes of long-dead clowns.

the one consistently originating emotion, the one emotion that tends to identity us as unique, the one emotion we create, this is love. love shapes us. love gives us the true shape of who we are. love is a true emotion, so when we feel deep love we might be feeling something true. in the service of deep love, other emotions also become true: we are as we were as we always will be. anger in the service of love. happiness in the service of love. quietude in the service of love. fear in the service of love?

i’ve long believed that the shadow presentation of love isn’t hate, isn’t indifference, isn’t apathy, but fear. the author respectfully requests that you please hold all donnie darko references until the post has come to a full and complete stop. because this isn’t about abolishing fear. this isn’t about evolving past fear. fear is pretty damn important. it's limitations, mortality, boundaries. it's what might be necessary to make you act on love. remember that a shadow presentation isn’t the opposite of a thing, but that which is brought into being as a consequence of that thing’s existence. some might say it’s the "bad" version, the "evil" version, the "unevolved" version, but thinking like that forces these qualities to behave as antagonists toward one another when really it’s more of a fertilizing irritation. the shadow of a quality is the challenge of that quality. the shadow initiates one toward seeing what is actually there instead of what one placates oneself with the idea of. the shadow initiates. look, fear exists because of love. fear can be love’s vehicle. what are you afraid of losing? who are you afraid of never talking to again? who have you witnessed experiencing fear at the idea of your loss? i’d ask ‘and how did that make you feel?’ but i have an awful lot to say about that so maybe another time.

is it love where we name ourselves? is it love that gives us our true name? or is it love like an excuse, love to excuse us from ourselves, from our lessons, from our responsibilities? is it love we wear as a mask to hide who we are from those who know better? love is an exposing thing so love should make you feel exposed. lit up from all sides. somehow scrutinized in your most private moments. maybe not? we're always starting over is the thing. individuals who love, we're always beginning again. if you are resistant to the idea of starting over from scratch on a minute by minute basis, if you don't like the idea of trusting someone enough to love them even though you'll never really know who they are, if the idea of that makes you yearn for the sweet ease of death, then maybe you don't know what love is about.

that's okay. someone will be coming for you later.

yet on another level, love, as a concept; love, as a word; love as an assumption; love as a bonus with purchase: this sort of love can just as easily be another shape we take, another shape we force ourselves into. a habit. an addiction. something with which to distract ourselves from the horrible inevitability of death. we’re looking to become a person, we’re looking to draw some boundary lines to make us who we most want to be: what better way to do that then with the chisel tipped stinky perceived permanence of love as a product for consumers? i’ve done that. i've been that person. i’ve lived in denial of love. i’ve said that word when i meant it in an entirely different context than what i let convey. not that it matters, because once you've known love, the nature of who you are when you are alone changes entirely. what you need in your connections? what you want out of an experience? all of that changes in accord, though you can certainly pretend otherwise. i've done that, also. i didn't understand that was what was happening, at the time: i didn't know, so i went a little nuts. maybe insanity is another true emotion. maybe insanity is a tool of love. if crazy, if acting crazy, if thinking crazy, if re-papering your bedroom walls with seventeen manners of i didn't think i could be any crazier than that, then love?

then love, but maybe not in the way you were expecting it to present. maybe not in that way where you ever actually bring that crazy to another individual. maybe not. sometimes love we believe is directed toward another is misfired love, love we intended to direct at ourselves. sometimes unrequited love is love we need to reclaim for ourselves. love renames us. love awakens us. love forces us to be true to who we really are. if love is truly love, it cannot be concealed forever; though plenty of individuals have ended entire incarnations with their caged up love breathing wet and heavy all over them deep into the night. plenty of individuals have lost control of their current incarnations because of love, love that killed them slowly, love that could have just as easily redeemed them, brought them into the light and shadow of walking with truth, of walking with love. it's okay, even if it isn't. either way, love will swing back around and be waiting for them the next time. death isn't a reprieve from love.

love is, in fact, stronger than death.

is love truth? truth is a tool one can use to find love. truth is one tool; longing is another, more unstable one; stillness another. stillness will let love ripple its surface. stillness will celebrate love with countless widening interlocking circles rippling out in every direction: and here is love here is love here is love and here again is love is love is love is love is love love love love, laced up and interlocked, a ring for every finger, a line at every cancerous throat. is cancer a tool of love? cancer has a certain absoluteness to it it that can resonate truth. but cancer causes strange behavior in a lot of people who generally seem perfectly capable of loving, so i don't think it's a s simple as cancer plus truth equals love: i think cancer plus truth equals fear, equals avoidance, equals grieving:

but listen. as it turns out, where there's grieving, there is love. if love, then grieving. there is no truer answer to what you love than what you mourn. listen, is there something that needs to happen here? listen, is there something i should know? i walk through the apartment in slight spring humidity, in strange, strange light. i carry the censor. i call the quarters. the quarters call back: the tickle down my ear canal, the stickiness far up my nose. i clear my throat. i walk my path. around every corner. over the hardwood floors. everything is salt and mystery, at least in the end. what is happening? why is it happening? why does this occur?

anonymousblack: (((something)))
Tonight I am here to break your media’s promises about love.

Love does not make everything better. Being in love will not make you happy if you are a genuinely unhappy person. Love is, in its human-to-human translation, as imperfect as its human translations. There will be times when love calls every speck of your ugliness, of your hatefulness, of your fear and regret and stupidity into the glaring electric hum of the beloved’s attention. Love is vulnerability. If you think you can be in love without being vulnerable, if you find love beautiful but vulnerability abhorrent–something to be shut down and shut out, then you are not going to ever know honest love.

Love changes. Your relationship with the beloved changes. Hopes and dreams become concrete needs, responsibilities and obligations miles away from candlelight and rose perfumed pages.

There will be times when someone you love just doesn’t get it. Can you still love them, regardless?

(Read more)
anonymousblack: ([cats tarot] lovecats)
"i don't know what is going on in your head most of the time, but i am extremely drawn to it... actually, i think that defines our relationship quite well."


anonymousblack: (Default)
selva oscura

April 2017

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