whirlpooled topics unbackspaced. streams of consciousness. blurts. scribbled notes. outlined ideas. velocity waves. snatches from icloud. because self-editing is a writer’s cowardly way of preventing a reader from fucking the writer's confidence. dates don't matter. memories and moments aren't chronologically marked on the soul.
a velocity wave without a backspace. on my phone. I sometimes wonder if everyone cares as much as i do. Because i care. And i wonder if i lack some masculine gene. And that missing makes me less a man. Because I care. I dont know. Ive always stood alongside or beside and felt like a fool because i seemed to be the only one who cared. Im older now. So i care less. No. I still care. But i care less if it makes me less a man. last night my dear friend asked me how ive made it through this past year. I thought about her question. And i decided to unzip the truth and tell her. Aside: im going to reveal it here because i always wondered how people survived trauma. And now i know. It’s been the most difficult summer of my life. 2 surgeries (each demanded at least 6 weeks of bedrest.) Both of my parents were hospitalized with serious illnesses. Because of the bedrest, i was unable to fulfill my obligations. Ive spent years on familial sentry. To be unable. Impotent. Without use. The stress was overwhelming. At the height of the stress - i shut down. I slept. 20-22 hours a day. Like in a medically induced coma, I emotionally, mentally, and physically shut off. It’s how I coped. I don’t really remember how long this lasted. I know my hours were unequally split: sleeping or living behind glass. Watching without experiencing. Existence without life. Maybe this is a common reaction. I don’t know. I didn’t know. I know. Why write it? Some perverse need to blurt? No. I wished someone told me. I wished I had known so I could’ve avoided all the awful. To sleep perchance to desist. I don’t sleep like I did. But still glassy eyed. Removed. Until.
Alone in a hospital hall. One hand grasped the IV pole; it steadied me. One hand held the back of my hospital gown; it shielded my unprotecteds. The skeletal staff darted the emptied corridors like pinballs: room - station - patient - chart.
So I’m porching. Solitude. Except a robin wanting a snack. Trying to catch my breath. Literally. Today is a difficult day. My heart won’t play fair. Today it’s beating me. I’m trying to slow my heart rate and steel my soul. I need to pace myself for tonight. I glanced down. It’s time for spring cleanup. I pay a guy. Dead leaves. Reposed grass. Amongst the debris - little jump ups of joy. See - there’s my God. Renew. Rebirth. Rejuvenate. Resurrection from the deadened. Life amid the lost. Hope. As it was in the beginning ...
With his nose pressed against his pain, his envy smeared down and pooled into each fist. Those words belonged to his ears. He didn’t pivot. He leaned and searched for sounds.
See it’s the shadow part. So frail and still and the doctor comes in and I want to scream and say “you’re seeing her shadow! My Mother is vibrant and strong and independent! You’re seeing the is not the was!”
Clothes placed beside my bed. Chair legs tent my shoes. The rail shoulders my jacket. Right pocket weighted with my wallet and fob. I hate the endings.
I met a young man this week. 24. He told me. We talked for a bit. You know me; I instantly shift my conversation to the intimate. Not sexual. Real. Emotionally available. When we parted, this young man grabbed me and pulled me close and hugged me. I hate hugs. Everyone knows that. No. He didn’t know that. But he hugged me. With force. No. Passion. Not sexual. Emotional. So lonely. He hugged me with longing. I know lonely.
But at night, after the togetherness of the any of the many, he’s in bed. Alone. In the dark he knows he’s alone. And he knows communal is a lie. He’s alone.
And he knows you lied to him. He isn’t noticeable or distinguishable. You showed him through your choices that unconditional love is conditional. The shelf lives of marriages and friendships depend on the conditions. He learns love lasts as long as it’s favorable living conditions. He learns love is dependent on the degrees of self-satiation. And he hates you for lying to him that he was surrounded, preferred over telephones, and appetites, and self-soothings. He sees he’s not a priority. Not a preference.
He lives afraid and untrusting. He hates liars. He hates how he feels. He hates. He’s hateful. Full of hate. You can condemn the priest, the politician, and the professor, but we created the chasm; we can’t cure with a bigger commune. You owed him a cocoon.