Friday, August 21, 2015


fragmented and re-arranging in formation.
stars wandering, from star to star-

sir, how long before we die? how long before
we conceive meaning for life? my womb

is pure scar-tissue, baby. i'll birth you a military fuck-up.

one day, i looked forward to the day. i was to see a new doctor.
a dog came to me that morning. i followed him through a suffocating, mud-dripping tunnel under the trees with a candlestick. nice dog. at the end of the tunnel, before an apparent light, i pet him on the head and ate him.

the new doctor was one of the smartest people i'd ever met, as well as one of the warmest. perhaps because of these traits, i didn't trust my perception of him. i figured it was an uncontrollably upsetting, father-fixated matter of transference. daddy? tear
the hem of my good-person dress and call it out on its bullshit. tell me what anarchy is, really. i want to please you.

it had been right before my entering the tunnel, after the decomposition of a former life whose memories still
held weight, that i had begun rekindling my very obvious interest in "being pleasing". for some time before the tunnel, i had given all of that (as if it were my heart) to an abuser- because i was
convinced his abuse was love, i was convinced- and still am a little bit- that he never abused me;
never laid a finger on me. only i would know. (he's dead).
the truth is i think the abuser liked me at first, but it changed. i hadn't wanted it to, so i denied it. i began to lose significant amounts of weight in sporadic intervals, because i became more and more ashamed of having an appetite. i've gotten better, but this still happens to me every time i eat.
throughout my being pleasing to the abuser, i froze- less like a deer in headlights, which was
how i had been before, but more like i took my astronaut helmet off in space, just to be

i was halfway naive, but halfway running away from life and disguising it.
naivety is one of my favorite defenses. it's a pathology, almost. it makes a person appear
entirely ignorant of not only their own misgivings, but the misgivings of their relationships
with the world. people whose number one defense is naivety are very sad looking cute people.
i really want to let them know they're great, but i don't want my own naivety to surface. i
understand pride is something worth balancing, that is, if you have pride. i personally
think i'm both prideful and lacking entirely of pride.

within our fragmented, broken-hearted culture in our fragmented, broken-hearted world,
such is possible. anything is possible these days. a fragmented, broken-hearted
upbringing is the most possible thing of all.

the abuser had dumped me over the phone because i finally stood up for myself, kind of...
the night before i called him out on his problem with heroin upsetting me, his behavior
changing since he started abusing it again, and how i felt our relationship had been
overridden by his obsession with heroin. i didn't really know how to speak though,
particularly his language, so it didn't go well. he dumped me the next day- i
wouldn't let him and his drug buddy hot-wire my brother's car. afterward, i was
confused, relieved, and ashamed over my relief. it took a handful of weeks for the
grief to set in- the stab of betrayal to be felt. i think if i didn't ever feel it though, as
painful as it was, that i might have killed myself from the guilt over the grieflessness.

the new doctor asked me what my culture was. who has culture? culture has us and we
don't even recognize it. truly, we only recognize it through that which repels us, and one
must be quite perceptive to be mindful of such.

that which repels us within our cultures are reminders of unresolved, personal resentments;
that which doesn't end without an epic effort at a defeat. and then it goes on. it must go on-
resentments are incredibly gifted, omnipresent teachers. i'm still coming to terms with
this. for me, because of this, i think it's culture itself which i resent.

i was born of cultural ineptitude. my behavior has always been "inappropriate". i hate
being polite. i only do it to be pleasing.

i resent being compelled to be pleasing. it's an automatism- my number one
defense mechanism- my way of achieving discernment. it's very transparent.

there's nothing wrong with transparency really, except that there's nothing to signal, and
nothing to signal to me. one transparent is a walking ghost. you don't know what cause
you're sacrificing to, really. you don't know what it is you're trying to compensate for
so you wind up overcompensating.

i think i shook my head when the new doctor asked me about "my" culture. i think throughout
my first appointment with him, i shook my head to at least half of his inquiries. keep in mind,
i had just put my astronaut helmet back on. i had just begun adjusting to the intake of
oxygen again- and oxygen, at this point, was overwhelming on its own- as it usually
continues to be.
i hardly wanted to be known. i just wanted to get high and know other parts of myself
that i could keep secret.

"you have to teach me how to recover my memory," is all i really remember saying to him, aside from, "i've always been this way, i think. i think i've always been this way."

i continue to find new highs. they continue to be quick fixes that do not extend themselves-
you must go toward them with an uncertain conscience. it knows about its sense
of what is right and what is wrong, but it's also interfered by absolute amorality. it doesn't
give a fuck enough.