Danger: Tapering Ideal

The alive should brighten and fade with poignancy and revitalize those near with gentle reminders of our own mortality and of breath's passion and crackle.

This swelling of hearts to tender creates special possibilities. Hands squeeze. We squirt delight in the face of fear and wring life from everything, even cold etched stone, but cannot help but replenish it with an innocent smile.

Of course this doesn't make money. If you're unable to live this way, if it hurts or costs too much, just keep a record so future generations see how we failed.
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Problem/Solution/Com- plication

Problem: Generating more emotion than my capacity to contain

Solution(s): Writing, sex, yelling at traffic

Complication: My words are illegible because this woman's back won't stop moving and the cars won't stop honking.
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Speaking out

It's okay. Play with these thoughts. They're there to be played with, dark in the light and light in the dark. Everything has grown fart-oo serious lately. We love as we lighten. We lighten as we love. Give me a balloon, I'll show you how it works. We should all be children, yes, with wonder, yes, the wonder, and the why this and the why that? Why do you work so hard? Why do you demand so much from yourself?

It's okay. When we grow up we get upset and do things we regret. We hurt people in whatever sense. Children are nasty little bastards, they hurt people too, but the searing freshness of the pain teaches them not to. We don't need any more pain, we're accustomed enough, and we don't need to create it, but maybe we can't help but do so. I'm still okay. Play with these thoughts. Joke about them. You guys are funny. Amuse me. Amuse me until Monday. Betcha can't. Okay.

Alternating high and low

I want a warmer inner narrative. The one I have now is self-protective, and it makes it hard to make friends. I love having friends, friends who chat. I am not one to chat, but I do enjoy the sound, especially of pretty and vicious women, their double-speak and fingernails clicking and wineglasses clinking on the counter. Something of a domestic man, I feel most comfortable in the kitchen, where I lack the necessary parts to pose a threat.

I'm tired of being proud. There's no reason to carry more ego than necessary to function on a day-to-day basis and get paid, son. Sometimes I try to fix that. Tearing myself apart is a bad solution, although the brutality can be exquisite and gleeful, like eating a whole roast chicken. I have a very sharp knife inside, so sharp it almost doesn't hurt to cut. An ego carved into a clever, mocking shape, though humbled, makes me feel inferior, cold and contemptuous. It's hard to take jokes in that state. It's like being fourteen again without the crusty sheets, the crusty pillowcase, the crusty socks, and the crusty chicken Kiev. What a way to get salmonella.

Inflating others (people, not dolls) to be bigger and better doesn't work because then they disappoint. That is essentially cruel. I've never been good at concealing disappointment. Ask my wet nurse.

What I try to do is practice ritual humility before the universal human themes: birth, death, eating, pooping, love/hate, and the unknown. Yes, it's tough to be humble before your own poop, but maybe that's the ultimate challenge.

Almost a blog

I think I get it. I'm part of the world, and I can ease it toward greater honesty by being honest. Things are done in increments. Meanwhile, I can enjoy the comforts of my fine apartment and these apricots that I bought at Andy's Fruit Ranch, a grocery store, not an offensively named, Western themed male brothel. And if you thought I meant male brothel, what did you think I meant by apricot? Well, they're small, cleaved, peach-colored, a little fuzzy, oh, no, no, this thought ends here.

I'd like to be more affectionate, like Mediterraneans are, but there are a lot of people out there who I don't want to touch. I think it's an inside-out process, like method acting. Advice would be appreciated. Anyhow, it's nice to know you readers are out there somewhere, living and making someone happy.

Muse

I don't like the word "muse" and shortly you'll know why.

The kind of man who seriously uses the word "muse" invariably wears a turtleneck and a ponytail. His breath reeks of expensive coffee, and he just sheds dandruff. He uses the word to describe his rat-faced girlfriend. He says, "She's my mewwwws. She's a poem. I don't know what I'd do without my mewwwwws." Unless he writes rodent control pamphlets for a living, I wish he'd just die. Then I would take her as my mewwwwws, luring her into the bedroom with bits of cheese and peanut butter. Peanut butter, really. They like that shit. Look it up. But what about the rabies? God, there's always something.

The Big Eye

When I'm not quite together, I trust the big eye that floats in the upper corner of the room to make sure that no one gets hurt. The eye never directly intercedes (what would it do?), but many times its gaze shames me into questioning what I am doing.

The eye never faces the wall, which is why I won't allow it in the bathroom. It rarely blinks, but when it does, the lashes whoosh. Unless I'm in a position of power, I prefer to keep the eye away through controlled breathing and staying in the moment.