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pigletsmiddlefinger-blog · 6 years

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Love letters to your photograph

Rage

I should’ve known.

I should’ve known the moment you walked into that sunlit room and graced that couch with your fingertips. White linen. You bragged that it was your favorite material because of how careless it was to own a white linen couch. The most vulnerable fabric. Light in color condemned to be stained. Fragile in texture condemned to weathering. Plump and soft condemned to being pressed and crushed. You craved it’s beauty but mostly you craved the power to violate each fiber with the grip of your reckless hands. Go ahead. Touch it now. Look at it now. See each thread that has unraveled, see the dust and dirt left behind, see the clouds that have been smeared with your soil.

I should’ve known.

But linen’s desire for destruction is more powerful than your cravings. The fabric is placed exposed, waiting, in the sunlight, shining bright, begging for your selfish lust, begging to be violated, and begging to be humiliated because what is a life, what is a couch untouched?

I wish

I wish I could’ve shown you how much I wanted to truly know you inside and out. I wish I could’ve been there for you more on an emotional level. I wish I could’ve dug deeper and been everything you ever wanted. I wish you didn’t need to escape with alcohol and drugs.

I wish we could’ve been the people we really are with each other. I wish we could’ve seen that and appreciated it every day. It’s all I ever wanted and for a moment I tricked myself into thinking we had.

I wish I could be angry I wish I could be silent I wish I could run.

I wish you could be completely brutally honest with me and tell me exactly what happened and exactly why. I wish you didn’t underestimate me. I wish you never lied to me.

I wish this wasn’t completely screwed up.

But most of all I wish your hands, eyes, hair, voice, scent, and pillow didn’t feel like home.

I wish I wasn’t going to miss you so much.

Iris

My eyes are yellow, gray, green, and blue landscapes decorated with colorless winter branches. The pixels of the iris layer and dance in the light. You won’t find the prettiest of greens or yellows or the enhanced bright blues that are imagined with today’s filters, just pale sunsets shining through gray moss, dull green grass, and muddy blue streams.

My tears are distilled and maintain the purity and shape of rounded glass beads for their entire journey down my face.

Together these colors and objects form a multi dimensional grid, a depth that can’t be navigated, a color that can only be defined from afar, embraced by a heavy yet soft olive lid.

What’s inside? What’s on the other side? I try to chase the clearest path following the sunset yellow lane of hope but I’m greeted with pain. I follow the muddy stream where I find large solid rocks but my sifting hands also find grainy weathered down pebbles. I try to focus on the rooted green grass but my eyes wander and slip down the curves of a steeply slopped hill. I try to fall with each raindrop but the water evaporates before it lands.

How can there be so much wonder yet so much disappointment? How can there be so much strength yet so much vulnerability? How can there be stability yet no sense of home?

How can a waterfall of tears scream so loudly from such a lifeless cold black pupil.

My hair is soft and straight with a gray chocolate 61% cacao hue. It softens the sharp turns of my jaw and cheeks. It rests on the top of my chest, clavicle, shoulder blades, scapula, and all seven cervical vertebras. It youthfully waves when I twirl each end yet each year more strands escape this world of color.

My lips are small yet plump with the flow of my veins. My nose is straight, skin smooth, and bone skinny but also bumpy with fatty flesh at the tip. My skin is perfect except where I’ve broken and scarred it with my dirty nails. My cheeks are soft and flush when I smile yet dive and naturally cave towards my chin when I’m expressionless.

But you don’t have eyes or hair or cheeks or lips. You are just a reflection. Something I could never really hold.

Something I could never explore. Something I could never really see.

Something I could never really be a part of.

Your reflection could never truly explore my iris to hold the vulnerable pebbles, brighten the sun, filter the water, water the grass, electrify my skin, or play with my hair.

You have to find the tangible golden soft hair that runs wild yet collapses on your brow. You have to find your innocent lips. You have to want to be grounded, barefoot, and walking for peace within. You have to be proud of the blocks you built. You have to forgive your shadow and imperfections and embrace them. You have to be honest about your expectations, desires, and needs.

I wanted the idea of you so bad that I tried to grab the curtain of your shadow and stitch it back to the light as you attempted to pierce it and my heart to the ground.

I tried to understand as I looked through your opaque eyes and forced smile. I tried to run to your feet and steal your shoes to help guide you home barefoot, happy, and grounded.

I lost myself in trying to believe that your reflection felt like home. I lost myself in trying to convince each neuron that you desired my heart.

The individual pieces of me may be dull and tired but my smile and heart shine through. I will always seek beauty and let my colorless spirit rise and burn brighter than any yellow or blue.

I wish you could be free with me here in the forest. In my hair. In my iris.

I wanted it to be you but now I have to find another horizon to place my bursting heart to bring light to the next day.

Barefoot

I’m laying by myself on the beach right now pretty tipsy. The breeze is perfect, the lights from the offshore vessels burn as bright as the stars, and the sand is cold and perfect to offset the heat from the day. Every twenty seconds or so lightning brightens the horizon and stretches toward my bare legs that are buried in the sand. The waves have a steady rhythm that takes its time and drags rather than apprehend each crest.

First I walked and walked in the sand, reminding myself of how wonderful and pure life can be. Then I sat down to relax and I couldn’t help but think of you roaming the sand, free, barefoot, and at peace.

I fell for that idea of you.

I fell for the 13 year old struggling through each day on that fishing boat. I fell for the undereducated outcast who had to work harder than everyone else at boarding school in order to catch up. The fighter. I fell for the boy who was scared of his dad but still stood up to make him proud. I fell for the boy who unconditionally and purely loves his mother.

I fell for the man who tries to be considerate of others and to do the right thing. I fell for the man who takes chances in life and tries to give it his all. I fell for the man who wanted the most out of life - the man who wanted more.

I fell hard and let the relationship define who I was. I lost my balance.

But I know the fighter inside of me and the fighter inside of you are not strangers. I know the giver inside both of us smile at each other every chance they can.

I don’t know if it’s enough but I hope I have the opportunity one day to bring you here in the dark, on the sand, where the only feeling is warmth in your heart and peace for others.

This is Fucking Wrong

What are we doing? This feels so fucking wrong

I thought we had both finally found happiness with each other and it died. It burnt to the ground. It’s breaking my heart.

How did we let it die. We were supposed to do things right this time. It breaks my heart.

How can you not want to hold me.

Not want me warm in your bed.

A Toast

You’ll never see all of the smiles that were waiting for us or all of the love we created.

But from the ash a toast to the Magic that brought us together and ignited our souls. To our separate paths, to our hearts, and that they will never shrink.

The horizon’s curtain sips its last drink, bows down to the night, and whispers I love you with its final smile.

It’s good isn’t it grand.

Love

We pretend life, people, experiences aren’t complex. We blame ourselves and others. We pretend we aren’t poets, givers, lovers, musicians, photographers, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters.

We pretend we’re not in pain. We ignore pain in others.

We pretend until our porcelain hearts crack and expose who we really are. We are warm and complex and so much more.

We are so much more together.

We are so much more when we love.

I love you. Not as a lover, protector, or boyfriend. I love the good in you for what it is and I believe in you with every bone in my body.

You say you poison girls and break their hearts. My heart has felt broken and unbearable but it’s not. And I know you’re filled with love for your family and friends and work. I know you’re not broken.

There’s nothing else you have to say or do. We already said we would be friends and be there for each other when we really needed it.

That’s more than anyone can ask for. That’s real. And you were there for me today.

I’m sorry you’ve had pain, confusion, and that you’ve had to struggle but know that this is love.

Look into my eyes, feel it from my heart, watch me let go. This is love.

Regret

We should only regret that we define time but instead we allow the limited amount of time we have with one another define our regret.

Thank You

Thank you for placing your photo in my pocket, the one where your rich golden hair shines to the left side of your face. The one where your big deep blue eyes don’t let me go as they pierce through your brows that fray and curve towards the bridge of your nose. The one where your lips are soft and tell me it’s going to be ok.

It’s been here the whole time in my left pocket pounding with my heart while my body is buried in the trenches, dodging the cannons that mark me from the sky.

You branded a purpose into my soul. A purpose that supported my broken legs and forced me to walk. A purpose that lifted my tired arms so that I could carry the weight of life’s failures.

I know that it was me who stood on my own two feet to fight and I know it’s me who still struggles to survive but thank you for being a part of the hope that I’m addicted to and can’t let go of.

I wonder if you always knew it was going to end yet kept your photo alive to help me through.

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pigletsmiddlefinger-blog · 6 years

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Breathe

Eyes closed. Start here in the dark. Start with what you feel inside. What really matters? Is it loss? As you speed ahead can you feel that scarf slowly waving - drifting - unraveling from your neck and head and going with the wind - flowing further and further away? Mystically morphing from a piece of tangible cloth to a colorful feather in the wind. Can you see the feather floating and disassembling down fiber by fiber until finally the pieces are so small it only exists as empty space within the atmosphere- breaks of silence in a sea of chaos. Do you feel loss? Do you feel the space between what you had and where you’re going?

Is it calm? Is it anger? Where are you?

Can you feel the love of your loved ones? Their lips on your forehead, their arms around you, the texture of their skin, the complexity of their unique scent, the intensity of their eyes and expressions?

Are they here in the dark? Start here in the dark. Look until you find the beginning and then let your other senses enter one by one.

I carefully open my mouth and create a slow and steady stream of air to inject the bottom of my diaphragm and my belly with the outside world one oxygen molecule at a time. Each unique smell is like it’s own letter in an alphabet together telling the stories of the present. I can taste gasoline and marijuana of the passing cars. I inhale gulps of the sewage below me and exhale beads of clean air. My hair curls with each whirlpool of air that gathers around my neck and cools my cheeks.

Knees merciful. Feet marching. Hands suspended - heavy and full of blood - cupping the world around. Mezzoforte target heart rate.

I slowly open my eyes and I’m introduced to my surroundings. A blur of grey and dark light. A building to the left of me - there’s almost a pink hue in the stucco as it glistens with the moonlight. I can’t feel it but I know it has a light texture and stays cold to the touch even on the warmest days. Slowly I invite the light to the right of me. It’s flashing, pulsing, beating, beaming through a bright tunnel. I slowly allow the electric tube of energy to expand from lights into bolts of sound creating sign waves as they travel past my ears - perfectly drawn crescendos followed by decrescendos - I can almost feel the g forces as the sound increases and the weight lifted at the top of the hill as the sound decreases. My calm mind works to transpose the violent stimulation into an organic realm of vibrations that supports my senses grounded in the key of grass and concrete. Simplified and subdivided by the white dashes of paint separating each lane of notes as each vehicle passes.

The horizon starts to approach as I march along. The building to the left turning into a cold silver rail parallel to a wide sheet of water that sparkles and dances along lanes of grass.

The trees around the river appear alone and sad, surrounded by short lifeless grass reminding me of the few that sprout from concrete at the entrance of a theme park. The moonlight knows that it’s loved, smiles, and turns the lonely trees, the dead short grass, the elusive yet powerful water into smiling parents - parents that may have never reached the stars, may have never been loved by the beings on earth, but stand proud as they watch the light of the night, the children of the universe warm their hearts. I take both hands and grip the metal railing and lean out to get closer to this place and to this experience.

Stomach lifted and pressed against the metal bar. Feet flexed. Curiosity aroused.

L'Appel Du Vide - that urge to jump off of a cliff, to enter the void, to self sabotage. It’s not here on this bridge where curiosity meets your heels and raises them off of the ground. The urge to self destruct is in your heart, in your head, in your stupid insecure and impatient thumbs, your negative thoughts, your greedy mouth as you inhale each oil submerged piece of starch, your stupid palm as you grasp that glass of wine, the empty air released from your vocal chords as you say things you don’t mean, the tears that you dry, the anxiety you don’t understand, the moments you hold your breath.

Breathe. Amazing and wonderful things happen when you let go, breathe the universe in, and breathe out all of the things that you never really wanted.

My feet stop.

A string of white Christmas lights magically appear from under the bridge. The lights are being carried by lovers on a ferry. It’s Valentine’s Day. The steam boat ferry looks like the most beautiful creature to cross the river - a graceful gray whale floating with the current of the steady stream. I never knew that there were ferries in this city and that they were decorated so brightly. It’s really beautiful.

The moonlight combined with the christmas lights come together - I can almost see them holding hands within the reflection of each lover’s glass eyes - together floating above a crystal river and forest illuminated by the spirit of the night.

Illuminated, vast, magical, infinite yes but I know I’m alone. I know I’m on a highway - feet gripping a skinny sketchy sidewalk that spends its nights betting on when the next accident will occur. I know I’m breathing in the stench of gasoline as it tries to quickly escape, fly through the atmosphere, penetrate and be absorbed by my inviting porous lungs. I know the smell of marijuana paints my lips with the fantasy of calm but represents a dangerous driver under the influence. The smell of the lurking sewage makes me feel grounded and connected to the city but is made up of complex bacteria and feces that could kill me. The perfectly maniqueried green space surrounding the river that I stare at in awe used to be a forest of life - a forest replaced by trails and deprecating vacant condos. I know that the lights decorating the ferry will eventually die and that the plastic from the casing will end up in a landfill for eternity- possibly choking a curious bird one day. I know most of the lovers on the ferry will grow apart and leave this earth in regret - regret for settling for one another or for not understanding and growing with one another.

And those flashing lights - I know that they instantly, briefly, and violently blind your vision. Dozens of disorienting flashes intimidating any vulnerable, weak, and defenseless pedestrian body with every turn of the wheel.

I know it’s unbelievably loud.

I know 17 people were shot to death today. I know that another 14 were seriously injured. Thirty-one people, teachers, heros, musicians, athletes, artists, children, all within the walls I used to call home - tissue and organs pierced, butchered. I know that there’s an entire class, an entire generation left terrified and changed.

Seventeen deaths including children. Children who were born, took their firsts breaths, and struggled to enter and survive this world while I was safe within those concrete walls. While I was safe teasing Jordan, falling for Jeff, laughing with Alana, Amanda, Ryan, Sam, Katrina, Storm, Leo, Mike.

Children who will never live long enough to see Jeff’s true colors. They’ll never find out how much Jordan really loves you- never get the chance to lay on the wood floors of his Brooklyn loft and listen to rhapsody in blue as he plucks each piano string. They’ll never find themselves on the streets of Austin reconnecting with Storm and Mike years later - eating sausage with toasted buns together after an evening of dancing and indulgence within the city of sound. They’ll never see Sam’s strength. They’ll never climb trees together in Dan’s memory. They’ll never see Ryan grow up to be a charming success - dimples growing with each year each smile. They’ll never know of Katrina’s miracle child or see Leo’s puppy dog eyes again. They’ll never watch Alana blossom into a gorgeous musical badass or get to salsa dance wth Amanda randomly at Ah Sing Den while savoring the aromatic salt of miso. They’ll never be match makers - never get the chance to bring soulmates together.

They’ll never graduate and explore the world only to return to see how special and precious home is. They’ll never get to see how magical the world can be in all of it’s variations or get the chance to know who they really are - how complex, unique, powerful, and strong they really are. They’ll never know their true potential. Never see their indestructible parents as peers. Never put on that white dress or that red dress. Never again feel the power of human touch human skin, feel the safety of a person who truly loves you as they kiss the hair that connects with the top of your head, or feel the power of sound, music, a musical instrument.

Their friends will never be able to reach out to them when their lost and tell them that it’s going to be ok. Their parents will never be able to help them move, renew their license, answer tax questions. Their parents will never be able to spend the rest of their lives telling their children that they’re proud and that they love them.

It’s not going to be ok. There’s extra coffins filled with decaying tissue instead of young flesh roaming, experiencing, and energizing the world. There’s a grieving family fighting to save future victims instead of a van full of smilies on their way to Disney for spring break. There’s an empty space in every college and every place they were supposed to go.

There’s always going to be something missing and Douglas, the city of Parkland, Coral Springs will never be the same. The grass, the sidewalks, the walls, the homes will never be the same.

I remember walking on the sidewalk, bombarded with the sounds cars rushing to drop off students. Under the bridge, through the field, and towards that giant rectangular white building cradled by trees within a river of grass. I’d start eyes closed, drowning out the chaos around me - then one by one I’d invite the senses around me as I opened my eyes and let the excitement in.

I’d arrive at the entrance of the school each day somewhat awake and proud but never felt worthy of this concrete giant filled with the smartest peers I ever knew.

During the day I’d run from class to class packing in as much as I could fit into my brain. I’d try as hard as I could to retain a plethora of new information and end each day in the dark - after sunset - decompressed by orchestra or dance practice.

The school itself was built within a sinking river of grass - literally. I remember watching the earth take it - classroom by classroom. The floors were so sloped that empty desks would sometimes move on their own towards the center of the earth.

The sinking foundation was like a giant version of a crazy ripley’s believe it or not structure. At times I’d imagine that I was walking into a welcoming attraction - like a field trip attraction as opposed to class- finding myself searching for that world’s largest gator or tallest person hiding within the outdoor hallways.

There’s something very mystical about an outdoor school in the middle of the Everglades. There’s a mist. The humidity of the air calms hearts like a hatha yoga class, the smell of sawgrass always reminds you that you’re outside and close to nature - that just beyond the fences and canals lived an untouched world filled with white birds, mangroves, and life that only existed here.

However nothing was as magical as the big impermeable courtyard. You never knew who was going to come out of the shadows and through into that wide empty space. The empty space forced you to run into one another, look at one another in the flesh under the beaming sun, skin sweating as human beings. The courtyard forced people away from their desperate, roaming, and dramatic teenage minds - away from the fantasies of chat rooms, online poker, AOL instant messenger, and this cool new thing called Facebook. Forced people away from playing snake on their cool new Nokia phones or taking the first phone pictures on their new silver flip phones.

Before email invites I remember printing invitations, going to the middle of that courtyard with a stack of hundreds of my quinceañera invites - finding old friends, discovering new friends, and watching that stack disappear with each face I encountered. Handing the invites to each and every person I could - able to see their expressions and excitement as I transferred each piece of paper from my hand to theirs. I swear I could’ve just thrown those invites up into the air and with their long descent watch complete strangers jump into the sky and want to be a part of each other’s world or at least get some beer out of it. Want to get to know one another in real life under the spotlight of the red summer sun - troubled teenage minds and all.

We moved and made sacrifices so that I could go here because it was the best of the best. Everyone knew it. Everyone’s always known it. Douglas’s teachers and programs were exceptional.

My parents sold our house and we moved as close as we could to campus to this relatively small cold townhouse right before I started ninth grade.

In a world of only three million or so Uruguayans this townhouse community- as cold as it was - brought two Uruguayan families together through regular days and storms and hurricanes. Even our weird dogs were friends. The best part was Katrina. She selflessly took me under her wing and introduced me to some of the best people in the world. Crappy small cold townhouses, dirty community pool, and yes some shitty neighbors but of that really mattered - in fact we embraced the flaws of the neighborhoods and the community.

The teachers at Douglas were flawed, human, vulnerable, scared, but not afraid to show it. Rather than acting as powerful dictators in their classrooms, they would own their internal stuggles and battles with mental illness especially if their knowledge could help a student. Depression, anxiety, heartbreak, anger, bi polar, loneliness...many teachers revealed that no one was immune to these struggles and that this is what it meant to be human.

I remember teachers conveying real concerns, working with other teachers, and working with parents as a little community to come up with solutions that ultimately solidified their student’s success. If it weren’t for this human aspect and teachers seeing us and treating us like individuals like people. Teaching and caring can’t be mutually exclusive.

The variety of arts and sports that were available helped direct my energy in a positive way - channeling the anxiety of standardized testing, long shitty AP exams, confusion about the future, shitty boyfriends, lack of sleep, mood swings, health issues, and too many hormones into performances - into art - saving us all. Orchestra. Music. Dance.

The orchestra room. Musicians - My family at Douglas. The voices and music of Sally, Diana, Jeanna, Michelle, Adeline, Stephen, Amanda, Dan, Mike- everyone’s essence dancing off of the walls and the wood shells of our instruments while Mr. Calmer delighted us with his charm.

The black stone of our biology labs and Jordan’s shitty smirk always lingering in the background. That stupid Homer Simpson cutout in Astronomy that got kidnapped, dissected and sent back to our teacher piece by piece. The never ending darkness and mystery of art history - browsing through slide after slide after slide each morning.

The uncomfortable metal benches of the indoor gym drowned out by the energy of each athlete. Each athlete as they marked and earned the floor with every stroke of the rubber laced around their feet. I can still hear the sneaker’s high pitched streak exerting life and lifting everyone around up with a scream of excitement.

The concrete maze of staircases connecting each building like a linear pattern on tapestry. The giant rectangular concrete columns that reached up through the ground and supported you. Each solid column, each wall covered in a gray paint that shined from the oil of all of the hands that touched it. Lightly textured. Cold to the touch on the hottest days.

The echo of laughter, songs, laser light shows, plays, and boarderline innapropriate Aerosmith and Red Hot Chili Peper dances pounded on the suspended wood floors cradled by burgundy velvet drapes - the theater - the large dark and inviting room. I can still feel the heat of the lamps on my face and the love of my friends and family in the audience.

As much confusion and loss as I’ve felt since getting divorced- watching my life for the past seven years wash away with hurricane Harvey, seeing the house and dreams I had planned slip away and my life’s work disappear, watching my ranch house turn into a pond, anxiety attack after pointless anxiety attack, move after move...as much chaos as I’ve witnessed, nothing is as shocking as knowing that the unknown was violently and purposely robbed from innocent people, from children...turning home into a blood bath. This was a blood bath. People, children were terrified, pierced, robbed, blindly murdered. I don’t understand it.

Hopefully their blood, the blood spilled won’t be in vein - hopefully it will flow through the pulse of each city and change the world for the better - but it can never reverse how much they’ve lost.

I imagine all of the necessary changes that need to take place as frustrating and draining as learning a string instrument for the first time. Everyone stuck in a never ending loop of twinkle twinkle little star as the wheel of violence keeps turning - learning all bow teqniques with the same notes over and over again - barely progressing year after year as fingers callous, necks swell, and wrists tighten over the same notes.

I hope the hearts of each community are pumped by the ocean of these victims and the victims before them- I hope communities learn, work with the smartest, and figure out how to keep kids safe and stop the violence. I hope their screams are carried through the hallways of the world’s best psychiatrists, leaders, teachers, parents, law enforcement, lobbyists, lawyers, thinkers, and all levels of government.

How can you go on without fixing this? How can you go on hearing them, seeing their pain, feeling the empty spaces where they should be, watching the future unfold without their knowledge? How can you go on without justice knowing that they’ll never be able to stand up and demand it.

Curtains opened. Eyes opened senses awakened. End here in the light. Find what you feel. Embrace it. Fight for it. March home. Friends beside you. Breathe.

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pigletsmiddlefinger-blog · 6 years

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The Truth

Day One

I’ve been here before. Toes one with the ground beneath me. The subdivisions of my pulse no longer penetrating through my wrist. Limbs, hands, brain, even my sloppy long neck is one with the core of my body as if I were sculpted and freed from a single piece of marble. I’ve felt this before but not here. Not in this place. Not in this time. Not with this body.

My mind flashes images back and forth between both dimensions. I should be scared but I’m not. I should be excited but I’m not. Why am I calm now? Why was I calm before? Why am I not scared when I know I should be? When did excitement and fear evaporate? At what point did my body mutate into a fearless soldier - one with the ground only able to focus on exactly what’s needed to survive? When did my body take over realizing that there wasn’t another choice? When did I enter a place so calculated and planned?

The last time I was here my hands and feet released perfected power and energy providing pure satisfaction only the most accomplished ever experience. What was it? What was that time and place?

Blue carpet. Dust. Floor beneath me beating rhythmically causing my body to feel weightless as my feet are slightly lifted with each beat. I’ve never felt more sure of myself than each time my hands made contact with the blue carpet of the floor - dry with a dust made from human skin, dried blood, and chalk - begging to be gripped - begging to be touched.

Contact with the ashed rosined wood of the bars - no longer resisting my strength but moving one with my body like a sky scraper with the wind. Connection with the seasoned leather of the vault and beam prepared by thousands of seconds of failure and thousands of bullets of energy. Bullets loaded and released each minute from the springboard like an automatic 50 cal. Sometimes I swear I could see the leather of the vault bleed and the mats sweat from within upon each landing.

Mats and pits have one job. Take your impact and protect you. One would assume that these items are welcoming and inviting but they’re the opposite. Pits suffocate and drown you upon entering and demand that uneasy butterfly feeling as you fall within their belly. Mats are sadistic...sitting there watching, waiting, sweating like a predator. Begging you to make the wrong move so that they can take out your feet and bring you to your knees as they meet all of your efforts to escape the impact with a concrete sinkhole.

This is why you trained to be overprepared. This is why you’re re-wired like in the military. This is why as a seven year old you’re screamed at, threatened, ridiculed, ripped apart physically and mentally over and over and over again- leading each day to exhaustion until nothing can intimidate or harm you.

Can’t remember what the hell we were doing but one day we were disciplined as a group. One minute tumbling and the next sitting down infront of the TV watching a documentary regarding Romanian gymnasts.

We watched as these gymnasts were beat observing the dance between childish violence and graceful strength as if we were there - even though their expressions were colorless and painted on a screen the size of a modern day iPad.

Our lecturer roared with the passion of a thousand jailed prisoners watching their captors meet justice on the floor of a prison - We were told that our failures were so grand that they merited the type of physical torture exerted on the children in this documentary. The lecture was delivered through an amplified and vigorous scream reserved for the deaf portion of my elementary school or a Megadeth concert. He made it very clear that we deserved this treatment but unfortunately while we were in United States the act of beating perfection out of a child was annoyingly illegal. The solution for being deprived of the real thing was to consciously and whole heartedly imagine that we were provided the same merited treatment. A medicine to cure us of our failures and shortcomings and provide us with a constant reminder that improvement is the only option if you want to compete and go to war with these primative apparatuses - without getting severly injured or snapping your neck.

I know very little about war but I assume the concepts are the same. You survive war by erasing fear and empathy from your surroundings. You survive war with skill, practice, repetition, and sacrifice. You survive by being more prepared than the entity you’re at war with. You’re trained to expose the truth. Your worst enemy isn’t the mat, the floor, the stubborn wood that lurks within the core of the beam and vault. Your worst enemy is you. Your war with the ability to fail due to your fragility and bad decisions.

Preparing for war you’re conditioned to learn to feed off of and enjoy the sensation of a man’s veins popping out of his neck while he vigorously screams in your face - transferring drops of saliva tainted with the stench of partially digested garlic. You learn to enjoy their violent expressions, their veins, their tense body language - hands gripped, biceps contracted. Even before WWF was announced and confirmed as pure entertainment, I remember laughing at the animated performers with their Dr. Roxo coked out expressions. Each one the same with their circulatory system popping out from that micro thin layer of skin - completely depleated of hydration and elasticity - completely stripped by the rays of those 90s tanning beds.

I remember the ability to replace physical fear with laughter. I remember laughing at my dad as he went manic, fought with me, and tore the house apart with me. I remember smiling while my coach in all his muscular and vascular glory raised his hand threatening to punch my lights out. I remember sitting there watching the air move as he used all of his strength and tact to get as close to my skin as possible - returning the stolen air with vibrations of a loud soul crushing sound - an expertly calculated and crafted smack of the mat I was sitting on - pointlessly slamming his hand as close to my body as physically possible without touching an inch of skin in order to emphasize a failure I had already analyzed and planned to correct.

At first this type of training is shocking and overwhelming because of your fears of physical pain...like the apprehension of your grandmother while your parents are on vacation as she demands you voluntarily crawl out from under the bed so that she may purposely shock and sting your system- causing you to involuntarily change - violating your state of mind hoping that the shock will finally force you to learn your lesson and stop being an asshole. But children are sponges. Resilient as fuck and much better prepared for war. What’s normal? There is none. The world is new. Nurturing defines good from evil. Nurturing defines our baseline perspectives.

Nurturing taught me that perfection was the only option. Failure wasn’t an option. I remember spending every night awake after a full day of school, a full evening of gymnastics, and some homework sprinkled in - awake replaying every mistake in my head - wishing I could sink into my body and clench every organ with a grip of disgust.

The only time I ever voluntarily leveraged the idea of god was in that room. I’d begin - candle lit with guadalupe or whoever it was taped to the glass while I’d pray to be good enough to go to the world championships every night. Praying was followed by hours of racing thoughts and self loathing. At the beginning self loathing was followed by tears and sleep but eventually it turned into rocking. Curled up, hands around knees, back and forth repeating some self destructive phrase. I wanted so bad to let my body know how disappointed I was in it. One time I experimented with digging my nails into my knees until the skin broke and it was far less painful and less satisfying than I had imagined. Nothing is as satisfyingly painful as directing all of your anxiety - that unbearable crushing pain -to your heart- to your pride, to your sense of self worth. Nothing’s more masochistic than taking a sledgehammer to your smile and not giving back the pieces until you improve and correct your mistakes.

No screams, hands, or veins could harm me. By the time they approached my field of vision I had already condensed the experience into a labrynth of pain I was expertly skilled at navigating and exiting- ready to move on and improve. All external influences seemed muted. I even remember laughing uncontrollably when my grandfather died...the turn around time for how I processed that event is impressive still to this day. Within seconds I experienced all of the love I had for him, the pain of his death, and the pleasure of knowing I was still alive. I think the resilience we have as children comes from the idea that death is real for everyone else and only exists for other people.

As a child it’s impossible to understand the concept of a neuron in your brain being as significant in this world as a dead strain of hair that’s fallen from your head or a finger nail clipping that’s been flushed down the toliet along with your other insignificant waste. No different than a rock within an endless stream. A child’s gift isn’t their innocence - consciousness isn’t innocent. A child’s purity is the lie that their lives will never end. What makes us pitty a child in a hospital over a grandmother is time. We pitty the child because of the amount of time they’re unaware they’re being robbed of. The amount of time they can’t comprehend as long as they’re energized and blinded by the idea of infinity.

Blank slate. No concept of death. Perfectly manipulated and conditioned to become a self sufficient machine that can churn and plow through the trenches of each apparatus with the confidence of a demigod - creating that pounding rythmic energy that feeds each soul in the room.

So here I am again. Bulletproof. Solid. One piece of stone. Straps are being wrapped around my thighs and my chest this time - reminding me of the thousands of miles of tape I used cover the open wounds on my hands and make myself appear whole again before jumping back on that bar. These straps make me feel whole. Make me feel safe. The weight of the device hanging from my shoulders leans on my back - embracing me yet requiring me to accept the idea that it won’t fail - like a bar - I have to trust that no matter how much force I exert on the wood it won’t snap - and no matter how much force I exert on the metal frame bolted to the floor- the bolts won’t come undone.

The strength needed to approach a terrifying situation without fear requires the assumption that everything around you is reliable and won’t fail. You have to convince yourself that the only thing that can fail is you. So you remove all the accessories, all the noise around you until you’re left with that one piece of stone, slowly walking towards that metal bird.

I’ve walked these steps before, I’ve been in this plane before, I’ve been in this sky before. But each step is different this time. The plane is no longer a giant loud impressive structure. The straps that would connect me to my parent jumper have changed into my own parachute that is one with my body this time. I’m very proud to have my own parachute and I look down on the tandem jumpers.

The plane has turned into something I just climb into - like the back of a truck. The time it takes to go up causes no excitement whereas before it felt like waiting in line for a new ride. When we level out and the door to the sky finally opens I’m in a new place. It’s not a blindingly white bright sky filled with loud chaos. It’s become a small dark silent room. I can almost see my toes and the blue carpet through my sneakers as I revisit this place. I can almost feel the carpet wanting me. I can almost smell the chalk that make up the white clouds around me. My hands wrap around the metal trim of the doorway. One hand releases and the calculated routine begins. The last time I was physically here in limbo, pergatory between the plane and the sky - I had the freedom to close my eyes, feel everything, savor every sensation but this time it was completely different. This time I had to force myself to prentend like I had been on this plane a million times before. I had to convince myself that this plane was a boring loveless relationship I had spent far too long in and that the routine I had planned in my mind was no different than a grocery list of instructions that needed to be executed sequentially- navigating each aisle as efficiently as possible.

Rather than the air feeling like a physical breeze married with careless bliss - like it did the last time my face was launched towards the earth - upon exist the air resistance morphed into a bar, a beam, a vault, that blue floor only with a seemingly endless amount of time before approaching the ground approaching that smug mat. Most people aren’t familiar with the weight of the sky as your body falls through it. It’s the same force as sticking your head out of that window while driving only it’s lifting you up - as solid as a sheet of concrete when you’re balanced but as violent and beating as a car crash when you lose control. And for some reason that loud piercing wind turns into a meditative ohm. I think of those 350ft swings at amusement parks- the sound the wind makes up there as you go around and around and around.

Pretending I’ve been here before, everything goes as planned- arch, belly to earth, altimeter check, altimeter check, altimeter check, balance, observation, altimeter check, altimeter check, arch, reach, grab, pull, count. One. Two. Three. Four. The only thing more powerful up there than falling against the air is slowing down. The deployment of your parachute. Something that should be as inviting and welcomed as a landing mat...but like a mat it sits there on your back- watching, sweating, waiting for you to lose control, waiting for you to make a mistake...until it’s deployed. Once it’s deployed it rips your limbs with an undeniable force wanting to tear them from your body as you diligently ignore the sensation, count to five, and look up to ensure that the lines aren’t tangeled and the canopy hasn’t collapsed.

Once upon a time the air took over my body and just started flipping me- like a claimed child in the woods that becomes a puppet in the jaws of a grizzly bear - whipping its neck back and forth - rocking back and forth with the attempt to lodge each moler deeper and deeper - hoping to stop this annoying toy with salty flesh from squirming - hoping to force it to just die already. It also feels like being trapped in a rolling wave...unable to breathe, disoriented, salt air up your nose stabbing your sinuses and forcing you to close your eyes while your brain freezes.

Even though I had lost control of my body my mind stayed solid running down the checklist. Concept of death as foreign to me as when I was a child for it wasn’t listed on the checklist. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five seconds of being out of control. The manual says deploy deploy deploy. Head spiraling towards earth. Arch-ish. Grab. Pull. Deploy. Flip. One. Flip. Two. Flip. Three. I can feel the lines tease my feet as the main shoot attempts to rip my limbs off again - just itching at the opportunity to connect with my body making my own limbs the actual cause of death. Lusting for a catch that can plummet both of us to the ground without having to be accountable for the result. Flip. Four. Flip. Five. I look up...canopy still not fully opened but smiling at me like a little a shit as it takes its time to organize. I can almost see it’s teeth like the smile of the Cheshire Cat glowing in the dark - each tooth being revealed as the mouth widens and as the corners of my safety unfold from the lips of the canopy.

Day one. Jump one. No issues, canopy open, lines straight, hands on handles ready to navigate. I look around at the ground below me. My career and my education were in maps and aerial imagery. I had been in this sky before- this place should’ve been second nature but like my experience with the plane and the sky changing, the ground also looked completely different - going from a clear geometric aerial image to a Monet painting - becoming less and less recognizable with each inch of descent.

Over a blend of green, Blue, and brown strokes- alone under a pathetic smiling student canopy traveling into the unknown parts of the sky. No one ever tells you how quiet the sky is. I swear the clouds suck out your hearing as you fall. The deafening sensation reminds me of weightlessness - the kind of weightlessness you experience at a carnival on the gravitron after it spins you like a washing machine pressing g forces against your chest, face, limbs, hands- harder and harder until your sneakers are awkwardly trying to pick a direction to commit to- forcing you to be completely stuck like an exploded bug on your windshield as the walls circulate faster and faster and then slower and slower. Weightlessness comes for a brief moment- that brief moment inbetween the g forces and the end of the ride. That moment when your awkwardly trapped feet are finally released as the spinning slows but your body is still somehow suspended in air- light as feather - levitated by magic until the spinning completely stops returning your feet back to the ground.

It’s a funny thing being suspended in the sky under a canopy, falling while skydiving, or falling while bungee jumping- it’s funny how these aerial activities don’t make you feel weightless at all. The forces of air resistance are powerful, foreign, and disorienting while in the cross section of the sky - whereas in bungee jumping you yourself feel as heavy as a grand piano falling from a window in Manhattan to the ground - just heavy and falling and falling.

We are strangers in the sky. At this point under the canopy I’m a stranger -disoriented enough to miss steps in the checklist. As I lose altitude it feels like I’m running through a grocery store that’s closing. One of my worst fears as a kid and a perfect meal to feed anxiety. The rush of running out of time while at the store- scared of the approaching darkness that comes when the lights turn off starting with the back of the store and moving to the front until the cash registers close and the doors lock.

I’m losing altitude, the lights are starting to shut off, and the fucking drop zone is out of sight. All I see is a damn Monet painting while looking around for the milk on my grocery list that’s supposed to be on aisle nine. Out of time I’m forced to head straight for the cash register before they close.

While running towards the checkout, I realize that I’ve been looking for groceries by turning my head left and right and only walking forward- like scanning a room the shape of a triangle...but I’m not confined to a room or even a grocery store...I’m in the fucking open sky. Each direction and movement is available like that crazy elevator in Willy Wonka that can go anywhere.

The shock of realizing I was lost disoriented me enough to place me within a moment of peace within the sky - the reward for being alive but a vacation I didn’t have time for with the stupid ground approaching me faster and faster. But come on! Holy shit I was alive thanks to the parachute manufacturer, the person who packed my rig, and my body and my hands for following the damn checklist. Collectively we were 100% responsible for my life at this moment in the sky. I was in awe knowing that we succeeded and got this far. Smug Cheshier Cat smile and all I was fucking glad to be alive.

Ugh why do I have to land...I’m over it at this point...I jumped, I arched, I pulled, I waited, I dangled, I cruised along. Fuck where’s the checklist. Right...I’m not in a triangular shaped room. I’m not confined to a grocery store I’m in the fucking open sky - I’m in the closest thing in modern day existence to Willy Wonka’s mystical elevator that can go anywhere! The sky- it’s surrounding me! Oh my god I’m such an idiot. All I have to do is turn around 180 degrees and fly in the other direction - the point from which the world has been spending the past two minutes waving goodbye to me in confusion while I drift in the wrong direction.

I pull the left toggle to turn my canopy completely around and there it is...revealed clear as every aerial image I had seen before. BUT... the fucking thing is too far to travel to. I don’t have enough altitude. I swallow my pride and quickly try to find the Plan B manual. Ok where’s the damn checklist.

In sequential order- plowed dirt preferred. Avoid power lines, then water, then objects, then trees. Fly into the wind upon your final descent. Pull down on your handles simultaneously but wait for it wait for it wait for it...get close enough to the ground that you believe without a doubt your legs are going to make contact and then wait an extra second before you pull and press down on your toggles to slow your parachute with all your might and land safely. I was so embarrassed about drifting away that my soldier sense went into overdrive. I was losing altitude so I had to punish myself quickly and find that damn field to land in.

There is was. Brown. Moist. Far from power lines and water and trees and houses...as if it were meant to be there just for this landing. Into the wind, wait for it, wait for it, press with all might, watch the horizon, land. I was so focused this came as second nature to me but I would bet that a little beginners luck had something to do with it.

The hardest part of landing is waiting for the exact moment to pull down on your toggles to slow your parachute down. Do this too soon and you’re still above ground when it slows potentially causing your canopy can collapse as you keep the toggle down - or you freak out - release and crash. If you don’t pull down hard enough you crash. The timing on this is an art. How tall is the grass, how strong is the wind? If there’s no wind you’ll have a harder landing - wind acts to force up the mouth of the canopy - allowing for a break in the momentum. I jumped on my own, I deployed my shoot on my own, I safely landed on my own...even though I had no idea where I was or how I traveled there I was on the ground safe and nicely cushioned by cow manure. The soldier got me there but I almost failed when I allowed the disorientation of the parachute deployment to briefly change the route of my perspective from logic to pure joy. Letting myself feel satisfied on my first jump could’ve resulted in a fate much worse than cow shit. That was the problem with skydiving alone...there’s no room for wonder.

It’s funny how the same plane, same sky, same people can look completely different once you change perspective. The vast difference between the mindset of a driver and passenger. The truth is Perspective is everything when it comes to emotions. Perspective surgically removes free will from your emotions and decisions.

One has the ability to experience the same event differently if they’re able to change they’re perception.

The concept works the opposite way as well. A person can be divided by time, their location, the people around them, their bodies, but they have the ability to experience the same sensations if they approach the situations in the same way.

There he was. Tall, dark, handsome, kind, successful, respectful. I assumed he had all of the ingredients to be my husband. I remember falling and swimming in his belly surrounded by clouds of white sheets. I remember feeling weightless and supported at the same time. Time seemed endless every time his mouth widened, eyes sparkled, and smiled -under the canopy - piercing through every doubt I had that we would crash and burn. Weightless for a brief moment until the spinning completely stopped, and the ground started to approach...but I was exhausted, I didn’t want to land, I didn’t want to have to deal with all the work that goes into it - The checklist, the timing, the sting the impact that forces you to change your state of being. But I had no choice. I was starting to day dream and become something that could break my bones and snap my neck - so I prepare for landing. I looked out towards the horizon and I waited and waited and waited until I swore my legs were going to be claimed by the force of the fall...then as described in the checklist I carefully planned and waited another second before pulling my toggles down with all my might and slowing the parachute down.

I knew early on that these clouds were made of dried skin, blood, sweat, and only became weightless and lifted with the power of vulnerability, honesty, and truth. But he wasn’t made of these things. He was made of blocks of foam, of wood, of leather, the metal of a door frame - only no matter how hard I tried to make them float they just sat there staring, sweating from within, expecting me to come down from the clouds have perfect landings.

The problem with relationships is no matter how much strength training you do, flexibility, planing, calculations, no matter how much you pray to Guadalupe, no matter how solid you may feel - it’s a team sport. I had never played team sports and I wasn’t capable of playing the game myself. But there I was - for years imagining that what we had was enough. Imagining I could see the corners of his heart as the corners of the canopy fluttered with the wind. Jumping, planning, jumping, one year, two years, three years, four, five followed by disassociation - a few brief moments of calm.. Five. Five years of marriage. Lines tangled, canopy malfunctioned, plummeting towards earth with my hearing back as I drowned by the roar of the wind - the salt of my failures.

My marriage failed because I couldn’t fight the person I had been nurtured to become. I couldn’t leave the perspectives I was born with even though time had tried to divide who I was and who I had become. I tried to pretend that I didn’t believe in infinity. I tried to pretend that I didn’t believe in touch. I tried to pretend that all of the previous experiences that I had were meaningless...a run on sentance. I lost who I was to pretend that I was happy and to avoid pointless conflict with an emotionally unaware human being.

The soldier only existed for specific events I did alone like skydiving. Infinity was left for the moments I was standing alone - watching another year go by as the fireworks shook my bones and blinded my eyes. Vulnerability and feminity weren’t welcomed and were repressed the entire time...sitting, watching, sweating from within, waiting to be grabbed.

I knew I was chaining myself to the iron walls of a jail cell. Each day I made more commitments and took a link away from the chain that bound me - bringing me closer and closer and closer to the point that was bolted into the ground - hidden in the shadows. A part of me felt like I deserved this fate but I really ended up here because I refused to slow down and change perspective. I refused to breathe. I refused to look within. Even when I cried I worked to convinced myself it was because I was worried about my husband being offshore...I’d even convice myself that I could see his ghost in the shower - feeling guilty that I had the comforts of home while he was boiling on the equator and swaying with the ocean in god knows what kind of hell. I convinced myself that I loved him by scrolling through photographs each day and each night. I’d fantsize about all my needs being met when he returned. I fantasized that he would roll over, embrace my head, hold me, and tell me everything was going to be ok but that life, that lie was exhausting and eventually my perspective was revealed. With a clear head I was able to admit for a fact that he never really knew me. The whole me. He may have observed my different personalities with a level of obnoxious elitism but he only accepted one version of the truth. He refused to see the complexity of an experience. He refused to see the complexity and vastness of the human mind. He refused to see my emotions. My pain. My vulnerability.

When I finally started to cry and to let him in - in a desperate attempt to fight for this and create the partnership of consuming one another and being in love...he pushed away. So many weeks I tried to show him...but he refused to see. When I hired guidance...every week for two years he disregarded my efforts as a lowest priority item. Never wanting to see himself through my desperate and lonely eyes. Never wanting to see me. Never wanting to accept me. Never wanting to know me. His wife.

I didn’t quite understand it at the time but my final decision to leave him was based on the concept that I didn’t want to die alone with the corners of my heart. I wanted someone else to even for a moment see it, touch it, hold it, take care of it, and accept it because there’s nothing lonelier than keeping your heart, your complexities, and your ideas to yourself- only to watch them decompose with each finger nail and each strain of Dead hair pointlessly navigating the earth. Without consciousness there’s nothing and without life there’s no vessel for conciousness.

I believe in the present, I believe in conciousness, I believe in the infinity and the miracle of the universe but not purpose - this is ultimately why I don’t believe in god. Every day I wish there was a god responsible for everything or an alien race watching us, intercepting, guiding, capturing our conciousness and soul upon death - taking it to meet Gene Wilder and Debbie Reynolds. I wish there was something toying with us - it would make me feel so much better and less alone - but ultimately I believe purpose was created by living beings as a means to survive and consciousness as we know it - as we package it and label it as individuals can only carry that definition in the flesh and in the present.

There are a couple of routes you can go when you don’t believe in god or an afterlife made up of your exact consciousness - the way it’s here in our physical form on earth. Either you give up or you’re driven by the concept that for some reason your conscious but only in this form and only very briefly. So holy shit you better make the most of it. If you haven’t guessed by now I’ve taken the holy shit you better make the most out of it route.

I used to think making the most of something was making my parents proud. A Good job, not taking my brain or intellegence for granted, marrying someone my parents considered equally accomplished and poised. I love my parents more than anything so I thought that the satisfaction of making them proud, of going above and beyond so I could take care of them one day - I thought that sensation was satisfying enough.

But I was born with a passion and a desire to materialize and share from within. I didn’t chose this but I accept it and can’t imagine an emotionally unfulfilled life. I didn’t chose this fate- the desire to be vulnerable and give from within each day. Over time this exposure has had many forms but today it takes the form of music, risks, new environments, singing, dancing, walking through cityscapes, eating, cooking, meeting person after person after person, trying to show person after person after person the real you in whatever neurotic way materializes that day. Exposure is not an easy path and requires courage, constant deconstruction, and constant destruction to ensure that truth remains intact and revealed.

I never feel more beautiful than after destruction and deconstruction of my life. Sometimes the symptoms cause me to cry so hard that I throw up in order to release the pain that consumes my body. My mother, my sister, my grandmothers all appear in my face as my skin plumps and my green veins emerge after a nervous breakdown. I never feel more connected to my loved ones than when everything is revealed. Stripped. Naked. Shaking. Devastated but ultimately purged of the world’s nonsense and left strong, clear headed, and with the truth.

I didn’t realize that the truth and sharing it was the most important thing to me until very recently.

So here I am. Another post. Picking it all apart while I try and let time guide me to the person who really wants me- all of me- not just the piece of me that is perfect for them. Someone who doesn’t sweat from within at the thought that my landing may not be perfect. Someone who doesn’t need exit doors. Someone who knows when to step in and catch me before the fall so that my feet don’t break. Someone I can count on without a doubt to open up and help guide me when I’m lost. Someone who moves with me without breaking. Someone who lets me in and isn’t afraid to see the truth.

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pigletsmiddlefinger-blog · 6 years

Text

Day One

Conversations are starting to echo through the same loop. Experiences are turning from a physical and emotional presence into observations. Any form of patience that exists is interrupted by an uncontrollable jolt of anger similar to a grumpy old man possessing my body. Anxiety is mutating and has created a permanent structure - a pump stationed in my chest compressing, pumping, stabbing, and radiating tension through my veins as quickly as possible while tiredness is causing notes, passions - everything that’s truly important - to slow and dull through my fingers. I find myself reaching for words in songs as if I can physically touch them - similar to trying to grab someone’s hand as they dangle off of a cliff in a 3D movie.

I find myself seeking truth in scanning body language and the expressions of others. Art has never looked so beautiful. Each line represents a thought or emotion someone else had and lived through. Songs have never been so alive. I’m able to be fully immersed in the exact emotion that was created for each song. They cradle me and then carry me back in time like the ghost from Christmas past giving me a second chance to walk through each unique moment only this time with a heart of love and wonder. A reminder of how special life can be even when you may have previously thought a specific event to be insignificant. A catalog of experiences recorded on tape over time. Each tape assigned to an emotion that I can draw from my collection and press play at any time. Pure Imagination, Good for You, Mad World, Mia and Sebastian’s Theme, The District Sleeps Alone Tonight, Mouth of War, Love is a Losing Game, All I Want is You, Violin Concerto: II, I’d Rather go Blind, Cochise, I am the Highway, One by One, Ex-Factor.

Wait..wait wait wait. Shit…Shiiiiiiit. Dissasocistion, irritability, mood swings, internalization, vacations to 1998 la la land via the Third Eye Blind express. It happened again. I’ve been stuck in this cycle for a week comparable to a slow motion car crash from the movies. Another doubt caused my body and brain to prepare for failure by shutting down in order to have the strength to process and survive the predicable yet unavoidable situation on the horizon. Unfortunately the impact has already passed and the car has stopped moving. I can tell because I’m able to focus on the broken and smoked glass laying on the asphalt as it cuts into my face. I can tell because I wake up feeling nauseated and hungover without the fun that usually goes with it and I have no memory of the actual impact. Surely I should’ve been able to record the event that I survived that caused so much destruction but maybe there wasn’t an event to begin with, maybe there wasn’t a start, end, beginning, purpose…just pure failure. I’m without a doubt alone again. Heart ripped out. Stomach gutted. Chest crushed. Yada yada.

Day One. Day One. Day fucking One.

I’ve been here many times before (hence my preference in music as previously outlined) and each effort to process my experiences and move forward has become less and less productive considering the end results are all the same.

First comes butterflies, chase, connection, the idea that this time it’s real, followed by actions and words that reinforce that it is real. From today’s top ten hits such as “You’re the best”, “My Dreamgirl”, “My dear”, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we met”, “I want us to be honest with one another” to the classics such as “I’ll always love you”, “I was put on this earth for you I swear”, “I’m going to trick her into marrying me”, “I haven’t had a girlfriend in forever but I think you might be the one”, “If anything ever happens to us I wouldn’t know what to do I’d probably have to move to another state in sadness”, “You’re meeting my mom”, sprinkled with home cooked meals, introduction to friends, romance, and talk of future plans. You can throw the he’s just not that into you rulebook out the window for today’s love bombing men. That book practically handed men a manual on what not to do if they wanted a woman to fall for them…and shit they serioisly had to make a movie about it that plays every Valentine’s Day just in case they need a refresher course each year…Reassurance…the ingredient that removes all doubts allowing a woman to be truly vulnerable, feminine, sparkle, and selfless. A fragile state of being that should be cherished. But this fragile state seems to only ever exist for a moment because it takes so much for a woman to feel reassured…so rather than go through the effort to keep this vulnerable mystical creature alive- once it’s been played with, it’s taken for granted and typically returned within the 30 day dating window return policy with a shock to the system…30 days, long enough to enjoy but brief enough to question any adult’s sanity who is emotionally impacted by the short duration of the experience and connection to the rented object… it’s almost as if we’re expected these days to provide a receipt with each kiss and expected to immediately hire a construction crew to constantly build emergency exists in the background during the entire period of the relationship…we’re expected to indulge but not have feelings…we’re expected to be prepared to apologize if we do in fact develop real feelings…we’re expected to expect and accept the end of a relationship…we live in a world where people completely avoid love, pain, rejection or any idea of it. They only want love and pain when they’re told that they can’t have it - when they feel rejected. Fucking golden egg children. We live in a world consumed by self preservation, entitlement, and a targeted will to survive… but there are how many billions of us? How many infinite number of potential connections? We are surrounded by people and different cultures, we have the freedom of speech in this country and all of the tools it requires to take risks, build ourselves, destroy ourselves, be exceptional, and have the luxury to fucking feel and express ourselves- yet we take it all for granted and throw our lives away.

That’s when the reminder sinks in…that no matter who you are, what you feel, what you do, what you give, it’s never enough and people suck, hide in fear, dishonesty, and selfishness. Most people don’t give a fuck about you period. You’re a wallet, a new toy, a pretty face, an accessory, a fun time, a house keeper, a cook, a nurse, a series of short stories - companionship - nothing really special nothing new; therefore, as soon as you show humanity and expect sacrifice, commitment, and or compromise as reassurance that your vulnerability isn’t in vein, you’re redefined as dead weight, a speed bump, an old toy, a clingy desperate creature, a crazy fool, an insecure puppet, an idiot, an annoying talkative child, or best yet a mere distraction. Never worth an invitation to be truly inspected, understood, or cherished. Never worth the courage it takes to let go and let someone in. Never worth an invitation to be on the same team unless you know how to play the game. The basics of the game are be impermeable to vulnerability from the start in order to have power in the relationship and never be the one who adores the other person more. My first boyfriend’s Jewish mom told me this once “In marriage, there’s always someone who loves the other person more”. I remember thinking to myself…wtf? What about everybody fucking communicating and giving it their all and seeing all of the love in each other? Not taking it for granted or using it as a platform for power and manipulation? Why can’t we chose to be with people we love unconditionally - people who can rip us apart and destroy us beyond recognition if they die? Why are relationships calculated? Every minute on this earth is more precious than the last. We are anomalies that have walked out of the stars by some miracle of events that took billions of years and more luck than winning a billion powerballs in a row.

I refuse to play the game. Never played it and never will. I either have romantic feelings or I don’t. If I don’t have romantic feelings I’m clear about it and offer plutonic friendship. Growing up looking like a boy - I’m seasoned in the art of plutonic relationships. Romance is tricky and I learned the hard way (AKA seven years of my life) you either have chemistry or you don’t. And if I do have romantic feelings for someone - feelings that appear to be reciprocated, I dive in head first into the coral hoping I come out alive. So here I am…alone again…no games…no playbook…with a few pieces of coral stuck in my head.

This is why my team gave up a long time ago and demanded so much more from me. So much more than the courage to be vulnerable and feminine. So much more than the desire to be in a partnership. They demand self sufficiency, logic, knowledge, confidence, physical strength, and all the building materials to withstand a category five hurricane. My true friends, my family, my team- they’re the real superheros in this world.

Day one after day one after day one - whether it’s starting something new by choice or being set back by others - the wheel keeps bringing me back to the beginning and never seems to end. Maybe it’s finally starting to drive me mad. Maybe it’s changing my physical makeup and turning me into rubber allowing me to be resilient like I was as a child. Maybe I’m starting to enjoy it knowing with each fresh start I have a new chapter in my life book under “how to deal with the asshole human race for dummies”. Maybe I’m starting to enjoy it knowing that there’s so much possibility with a new beginning…an infinite number souls and minds, songs, blades of grass to lay on while gazing out into each direction of infinity.

As a child I survived on this concept. I survived on the idea of infinity. I survived on the stars, the blades of grass, the asphalt that makes you feel connected to worlds away. I survived on the weightlessness of water while being submerged in pools. The strength and resistance of air you feel while being propelled through it or while sticking your hands and face outside of the window of a moving car. The untamed power of watching and feeling fireworks as they exploded, shook your bones, and damaged your ear drums. But nothing felt more infinite than human touch from someone you loved. Love can turn skin into electricity magically raising each hair from your toes to your back to your arms, to your neck. Love can make a single arm feel as heavy, protective, and as encompassing as a tank shielding you from all harm. A single touch can close your eyes without touching your face.

So here’s my attempt at deconstruction in the hopes that a literal description of the output of my configuration will somehow make me feel less alone in this world and help guide me through this journey called love.

Chapter One. Day One.

Real physical pain. The type of pain that makes you believe that life as you know it will never be the same. The type of pain that is so excruciating that it turns seconds into days making breathing unbearable. The type of pain that carves a pit in your stomach turning everything familiar to you - all your loved ones, all the places you’ve visited, your experiences, the maze of memories you created, even your own hands and your own body - turning all of these things into strangers. The type of pain that only completely satisfied people can accept…but for the rest of us it’s just a reminder for how alone, insecure, primative, and how desperate we are to survive.

This is my day one. My very first memory. My very first experience. My very first emotion.

A beautiful piece of art I couldn’t comprehend. A climb. A grab. A leap that felt like my stomach wouldn’t make it with my body to the ground. Then fear knowing something was wrong and coming down to harm us. Then strength wanting to hold and protect this beautiful piece of art I placed more value on than my life. Holding it tightly with both hands while I curled my body around it to protect it. I could feel each inch of that dresser as it got closer to me and to this day I swear I can sense things coming towards my spine before they physically connect. The crash we all fear - the moment the object makes contact - the scenes in the movies that cost millions of dollars to rectify - the scenes that are filmed at a million angles - I have no memory of this grand theatrical spectacle. No matter how hard I try to remember the sensation, no matter how hard I try to capture the unbelievable experience of living through an impact significant enough to slice a piece of your spine off- it all just goes black. But I remember being stuck, crushed, losing all patience while seconds turned into days and I just wanted the hell out of that uncomfortable crushing situation. I then remember laying in bed for what seemed like a lifetime. Unable to breathe. Unable to move. Pain constant with no escape.

A crash course in wonder, butterflies, excitement, fear, strength/protectiveness, and hyper sensitivity all taught within a couple of minutes to a blank soul followed by seemingly endless physical pain, breathlessness, and emotional frustration. The one lesson I didn’t learn from this experience was to stop climbing shit, stop being crazy, and stop monkeying around every free second...which is why my parents threw me into every activity and eventually decided professional training in how to climb and flip your body was the only option. What really got me through the entire experience was frustration. I don’t think that we give frustration enough credit. Frustration forces us to be so much more than we are - fearless, practical, grown up - giving us no choice but to put aside all other emotions as well as the depth and complexity of a situation in order to simplify it, comprehend it, focus on it and arrive to a solution before you pull all of your hair out.

Frustration demands us to move on and it doesn’t let go until we do. Maybe frustration will finally force me to to move on, shrink my heart, and give up on love. Maybe then I’ll play the game and at least get a prize at the end of the journey like the ones everyone else has taken from me…but until that time comes I guess I’ll keep finding myself laying here on the asphalt in shock, spine crushed, chest crushed, stomach carved, unable to breathe, blood fueled by anxiety…desperate and confused starring into infinity trying to find answers within these infinitely long seconds while holding onto your return receipt.

Day One

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