Monday, March 14, 2016

custody battles.

karen dalton died in her forties wandering the streets of new york city living for heroin dying of AIDS.

desperation was born when god shit on my senses. if you're living, you don't have to worry about it, do you? but you're not living. you're on all fours getting fucked up the ass, merely surviving. the weight of the world is on your shoulders. there is always something to run from and to crash into.
when i was just a babe, i was taken away by the devil and his red hot poker. something about me liked it. something about me didn't like it. this rendezvous was a formative experience, only because i was two years old. all i remember is experiencing it. i don't remember reacting to it- no, i had better things to do. i must've thought something because it was pretty wild; it was one of the earliest dreams i remember.
the devil said- that from now on my ability to choose is to limit itself to whatever he wants and whatever spans throughout the spectrum of his amusement. his little globe, all of its natural disasters? all my fault. "okay." blink. my eyes were still blue.
he never spoke with me again. he had it with me. we got involved quick and that's all that mattered. all else afterward was up to me to figure out. i remember hearing him say without reacting to it that i'd remained good because i'm afraid of him. "okay." blink blink. i was too old for this shit.
if one is to decide they're okay with romanticism not having to be mutual, than they can easily go on with anything they want; possibilities, outer body experiences, astral projections, all that which the desperate hunt after; ability to acknowledge my origins are of a supernova; abilities to sing so well that people's ears bleed hearing my beautiful voice in some mysterious room with a piano that they can't find but they can't stop thinking about.
but what do i do instead?
i choose to go on with digging my grave in my very own graveyard that i got because my husband is rich. i never have to worry about being abandoned because i will never disobey him. nothing will hurt my feelings: there's a bee there's an ant there's a dirty ol' salesman to hell with 'em all all see nothin' bothers me. nothing will hurt me except the truth that i've been alone too long- and i learned there's a chance that that would be okay if only my dumb ass would learn to love itself, but all i want is a blossoming gardenia hiding behind my sternum.
i am going to make this marriage work. right? there's a chance if i convince myself there's a chance. i am in denial of his carelessness ha ha ha everyone around is laughing at my naivety. so dig, dig, dig! diggity dig! i bury myself and wait for the marriage to work because this marriage has a chance at working, right? diggity dig! yes! this marriage will work should it prove to possibly thrive on indifference. i'm pretty cool, right? i can turn indifferent. all i have to do is develop indifferent feelings toward myself, right? ha ha ha, the world is laughing at my visage of indifference that i cannot see through because i want indifference more than anything. insanity is tiring me out. are you going to laugh at that, too? i'm done with this cafeteria filled with pre-pubescent children holding pint-sized milk cartons they neglect to throw away.
i allow the following to happen, because i'm too nice, and i admit i ought to pay my dues for all the people far worse off than i am. "i'm a cow, moo, moo," zeus has turned me into a lost heiffer. zeus turns everybody into somethin'- he, being the great reincarnator. "i'll protect you from me," the great hedonist devoured. (and then everyone turned stupid.) no. i can't argue against anything. it's not nice to do. i can't argue against anything- i'm dedicated to the black hole of contradiction. if i'm not this way, if there are other choices- well, i can't imagine them.
however, somethin' funny happened. i noticed i was unable to read people wholly from their eyes anymore; i felt like i lost my colossal empathy. there was nothing i could understand; nothing i could discern. so i made up a land of my own (one bestowed by zeus). this land was a bitter land of bitter crops on cracked desert ground. this was a land of powerful insensitivity because that was the best i could do.
and i was alone in my world not in love with itself. a moist wind passed but mostly stuck to my sweating skin. i'm no gravedigger, so it turns out, but i didn't want to go anywhere unless i was being dragged around by any of the extremities even if it meant losing a limb or two. but i wasn't going anywhere. i was alone. i wanted to wait for something exciting to happen to me but i'd been doing that the whole time. the floodgates of my denial had been breaking down from an enormous mob contained behind them. so i begin to search for myself, sitting perfectly still. i had nothing better to do.

i learn to cut myself a great deal in my search for myself. but the more i do it the more i try to stop. now that i want some fucking privacy someone approaches, some real goddamned caretaker- "what are you doing? what the hell do you think you're doing?" at this age i react, listlessly, disaffectionately- "oh. i'm just taking some real goddamned care of myself." cocksucker points a gun between my grayed once blue eyes- "stop it! stop it now! drop your weapon! hands over your head, now!" my demeanor doesn't change- "oh. it's okay, officer. i don't even like it. this is not a threat at all. i don't even trust this is even happening."

"hands over your head hands over your head i said now hands over your head bang bang!"

death works similarly to life:

i have needs. i understand my needs are convoluted because, according to several books on the subject i evade addressing, i never grew up past the age of two. something happened like my senile grandmother or my senile mother left the room in which i was alone.

it's easy for me to want to be regretted- the word for this is to sabotage myself. now i've been forebode from the entirety of the multiverse because it's too boring, it's too stupid, i've fucked every guy in all of them without their dick even getting anywhere near my pussy. these guys are human sacrifices for my fertility.
i need that fertility. the children i birth are all- how to say- diminuitive. that's so sad. i have to eat them, their future sorrows will never have a chance at rooting themselves in my runty rabid rodent children. they'd confuse me with their crying, anyway. they'd cry all day. i put a stop to this before they have a say; let's just say i'm pro-choice, just putting the kids to sleep. "when i was your age," i scream down my own throat, "i wouldn't have ever eaten unless my mother fed me."
then i surprise myself when i stomach this. i don't throw up all over the goddamned place. i am fulfilled; satiated- however, still looking for the meaning of life.
i continue onward by dreaming about swimming with sharks circling me. (what's the difference between being brave and completely stupid?) taking a chance intentionally is the difference between being brave and being completely stupid.

i can't reach for the shit i'm filled with buried deep in my throat. i give up; the work seems absurd, i don't want to believe anything is absurd. i do not care about anything i am unwilling to give a shit. i pout my arms are crossed my hands are in fists i'm stomping my feet i'm not a day older than two i still look and act so. managing going down a spiral regularly is hard enough, you see. so look at me now i have no arms no legs my belly is filled with gas due to starvation because i took a shit long ago.
oh- oh, would you take a look?! i've changed into the image of a dark african woman- impregnated, starving, but impossibly for the same kinds of stuff i starve for.
the two images, hunger for filling emptiness and hunger as a basic need being unmet, stand next to each other, but only as dichotomies; two guilty dichotomies we've finally caught and are going throw away in the slammer where they belong. then everyone will get nice and plump, bouncy.
but not me. i choose neither, i am hooked to shame. shame is still on the loose.

and if i have no choice i choose to be the starving african woman because i'd rather look like someone who looks nothing like myself, my sicknesses not chasing me- no- not to this body that looks nothing like the blue eyes body i was born in and think is so fucking ugly- besides!- i like her more than i like myself, of goddamned course. you've got to choose a side these days- because if you don't choose a side, you're ostracized, you're ostracism itself (intellectual property of kathy acker) you're waiting for death on a rock in the middle of the red sea crying some plaintive, pathetic plea for help; probably screaming "mommy"; probably sucking the tiny cock of god in between whining about how you're so goddamned sorry. right? right.
i'm going to get wonderfully warm clothes in lovely textiles and a thanksgiving goddamned feast for all them poor folk. that's how i'll reel them in, because the truth is i can't wait to impose all my ideologies on any they might have, because i know how susceptible all human animals are- i have an agenda intended to last eternally- now is a perfect time to share it with them because no time like the present i know so little about.

autobiography cont'd.

a memory from long ago haunts me like a motherfucking ghost. it's one of those dead-ended relationships you'd rather not have. it's when i was warehoused like some shit furniture filled with bricks and my former abuser and friend "cheated on me" (so to speak) with each other on a goddamn yacht when i needed something, someone, help, someone to help me devise a plan to get out of there as soon as possible. but he kept screaming at me then hanging up on me on the twenty-five cent psych ward pay phone because he didn't have a threshold for the wilderness of my emotion. my mother kept hanging up on me. i was panicking in my intensifying loss of awareness, drawing myself to the guys there with my girl body and girl giggle, often spending my days all day watching these other warehoused lost souls- not one of us belonging there- lumbering down the tiny hallway and back whispering to themselves- it felt like i was watching a movie about the souls of old zombies; souls in a foggy marsh that hadn't crossed to the other side.

but my boyfriend, the abuser, and my friend were too busy fucking each other to give me a goddamned hand.

the ache of betrayal seems to always be around, lurking, though i don't know what it looks like- i know what it's into. it is as if i don't lay down for rest- no, i don't like the vulnerability that seems like it's about to swallow me when i do that, it's terrifying- i lay down because my skull is crushed and i can't take this forcing myself to live shit any longer.

i remain unsure and confused over what exactly happened other than this was the only time in my life relationships died not because i was driving the others out of their fucking minds- not to deny that that, of course, was a factor. (it's always a factor).
guys had messed around with others while dating me before. i'd done it, too, out of sheer impulse- unforgivable, unspeakable things i've done out of impulse that i will deny if ever guessed at for the rest of my life. shit happens. that's reality. when my former abuser and friend budded a romantic relationship- when they started acting like they were in love- i think i'd rather trade in the memory, the knowing of this for more terror to pile on my lap. i never, ever want to deal with this kind of shit again i swear it i'll kill everyone involved. i mean, when we visited her when she was in the looney bin after the cops picked her up, and they made out in the visitor's room while i watched my feet, trying to be sensitive, convinced that i was selfish, as usual, then fought with him later- and you can imagine what fighting with a sociopath might be like.

i think what upset me about it most was their seeming indifference and complacency.

perhaps i long for indifference and complacency myself, but, what? why didn't they end it later? i am an unfortunately highly perceptive and intuitive human animal i think i know when something is up- i seem to always know when something is up, i even think something is up when nothing is up- and when people are cuddling and baby talking with one another in your bed that you bought for the one of them that you're dating, you know something is up.
why not go all the way with the insensitivity? i tried to confront both of them several times. what's going on? "nothing." change of subject.

cowards. one of them dead. one of them went on to make it in life, as a psychologist- a success story that overcame adversities. you might want to warn your children.

the fear of "bringing out" indifference or complacency from others has loomed nearly since so of course i perceive indifference and complacency from those i wish the least to receive it from.

today my new boyfriend calls me. i can't break this new monogamy thing since it began, because i feel humbled. but he's a complete retard.

i'm crying. in life, i wish i could have more control over my crying. but i can't quite stop yet.

"what now." sharp as whip he retorts to my crying.

what, praytell, do you want me to do? shall i suck it in until i explode, by myself, later? or shall i pretend i'm feeling differently, pretend my feelings are easy to deal with- because you're worth all of this? just suck it up, fake it, and kill myself the second i get off the phone with you? is the reality of my accumulated pain funny? you think this is comfortable for me to worry about what you've been up to?

but nothing happens; he doesn't react. asshole. my pain is a little bettered. so i stubbornly hang up the phone just like how my mother, my dead abuser and dead fucking everyone else hung the phone up on me.

then i worry i've "lost" him.

i've held an aversion to the role of the obsessive for a long time. but without obsession, i'm dead.

i call him back and remind him that i'm crazy. i ask for forgiveness.

looking outside, i notice the cars; notice them moving quickly. i imagine him, the devil, sitting aside me , defining what colors the sky is. the bed, no doubt, is grey- grey, unkempt, and littered with remnants of food.  i need to stay here. if i leave the room, i'll walk in on my mother having sex with her most recently picked up barfly. i'll begin thinking genitals are disgusting.

so i decide- the sky is an electric lavender. i imagine it over an ocean at the same time my head is in an oven. because you do not say to me, "i see that faraway look in your eyes again," i sigh before giving up on you, bravely declaring that i want to suicide but it's not like i'm going to or anything. then, i put my head in the oven in the fucking room.
i regret telling you all this because i regret being the catalyst of the end of our relationship. i'm always a catalyst, a real agent provocateur. if only everyone could see how pathetic i am with these bed sores all over my ass and i could see theirs too and most of all our avoidances of one another. i have a lot of sicknesses as much as they are suffocating the world a pillow on the small mouth of desdemona.

my life isn't worth anything without drugs and debauch in it, transforming it. give me death.
nothing i say makes sense to me. the only thing i want is for the stuff i say to make sense to everyone else- my "process". i would like for it to be wisdom, everywhere.