peter pan was a kind of gypsy

i memorized that movie word-for-word as a kid, go figure. never aging is a dream for another world, one that doesn't really exist, but one that i do like to think about. yeah, you are the messenger of my dreams but you don't give me no deliverance. i'm writing the story of your life, well someone else's at least, not mine. even though you don't have any nightmares. that part is fictional. i expect you to deliver me from all evils, but here i am, hopelessly & perpetually confounded by my own mixed emotions and childish reactions. i can't deliver much but a blunt response, you know that. maybe an excellent blowjob or some well-cooked eggs, a fucking cookie. i could knit you an ugly scarf or talk to you about how ginsberg's later poetry is a form of pornography, or how gramsci is the most understated and misunderstood of all marxists, but perhaps the most important. i could organize the files on your desk in a tight dress so you would never really respect me no matter how good i was at organizing and since you hired me because i was wearing that dress now i can't stop wearing it can i. i could wipe the endless surfaces and leave you trite notes to take your vitamins in matronly penmanship like, "take your vitamins, dear." i can't even help myself, you know, despite trying. you could be conscious of it and not really get anywhere if you wanted. and why is it that wanting is doing without wanting it to be. i mean, i get it, its a verb, but isnt it like one of those emotive verbs that don't actually insinuate action? you know i just don't know what to do anymore. but this obviously isn't working out. i mean, me, you, myself, what's the difference?

note to self

oh, there is so much to do before i go.

so many people to see,

so many i love you's i owe.

how much i'll miss everyone & everything.

my life is here.

i am scared.

there are things i have to do

that i am not ready to accept.

growing up.

never get married.

your parents might get into an argument.

friendship is a lucrative endeavour

and brave, really!

storytellers

johnny cash is a pisces i should have known. i hope one day i've been everywhere too, man. drifter! i can float around in the raspy currents and end up on any shore, i'll tell the same stories and sing the same songs.

sensitive roots

another philosophic exploitation of experience

the ancients used to say that matters of love should be left for philosophers and poets to decipher. unfortunately i have meddled too much and discovered very little; other than my own fears, limitations, scrutiny and pain. my own suffering. i am a narcissist. i live to suffer. it gives me material. it helps me feel. who could torture themselves this way and not be completely and genuinely obsessed with themselves? true happiness hinders my dreams. i am not ready for it, i don't want it. not now, not until i am ready to be bored. remember when you told me that you thought you didn't feel? i know you loved me, but only now do i really understand what you meant. it's hard to feel being a dreamer because nothing seems real. only the imagination is real. i understand. i forgive you. you probably thought i didn't feel much either. maybe that's why we were so good together. and those nightmares. my faceless face. why wouldn't i talk to you? why did i make you cry? why didn't i care? i can be heartless, i know. so many years have passed. somehow i never give up trying to find what i'm looking for. ideals and perfection. impossibilities. dreams. my dreams are real. only you gave me that. reality is too mundane. i imagine everything i want and it changes everyday. i am too vain, too stubborn, too selfish, too proud, too cold. yet i am at the same time so jaded, so compassionate, so sensitive, so loving, so attentive, so nurturing. i am polar. its hard to live being pulled apart this way. i want the world and i'll never rest until i have it all. to the men i've loved, i'm sorry for my lack of compromise. i wish i could relax too. but instead i am impossible, restless and anxious and reactionary and passionate. too passionate? nothing is good enough for me. nothing is ever enough. except for you, baby, and mama misses you very much. no one has ever replaced you in my heart. sometimes i get scared thinking no one ever will. but i have to keep searching. i have to keep moving on. i thought i wanted normalcy too. but i really don't.

yes please