Memory

Memory Part One:

America!

our journeys 

separates

us from the land,
we become,

with every tread

o'er hallowed ground.

mother waits,  

baited breath, 

for these 

first steps

Shenandoah! 

blue mountains 

rend the clouds

oblivious.

obvious.

the smoke haze,

some distant tale.

maybe mine,

some day-seen.

for now:

just dream

Arizona!

...static hum...

(SUDDEnly 

a-m station,

reflected 

from Texan

ionosphere),

Saturnines! 

took the land.

Hide our

females!

Tooth

Grief. It comes to me in triplets. Here's what I know: 1... 2.. 3... fucking sadness. Yeah, there was once a single note, but then you  realize, that you live in a world beyond yourself so you stretch yourself beyond what you thought you were capable.

I met with three women tonight I haven't seen in forever. One prepared me for the other, and the next for the last. For the first we synthesized energy, and perhaps we shall find collaboration. With the second: closure. The third put everything in perspective.

The first will understand the mortality of the title I chose (and these words are for her*). I spoke to her, about why. And we went deep. For her: these words, I do not color. She convinced of one thing in three parts: Why: am I not being who I am.

A similar process happened twice more.

There's this woman... and she walks into the bar I'm in. She moved on from the valley a while ago, but she likes to discuss deeper than most and I haven't seen her since a Christmas ago. I will share, now, the things caught my mind, while we were catching up, discussing creativity, and that one time she wrote in her book.

First, we talk about vulnerability, and it reminds me, that it's the feeling I miss most from relationships I actually want. That moment you plan to turn over your heart to someone. And saying: do your worst. I've been lucky so far, most have done their best.

Then: Magic. Analog photography, is the real magic for her. But I insist it's really in all creativity. She is right, nothing compares. Watching pictures form out of the developer will make you believe in mother-fucking miracles. If you've never seen it, you are missing out on one of the greatest things to come from chemistry. There's no way to overstate it.

I joke about her being my muse. She volunteers! I refuse her offer, it's both terrifying and exciting, later (right now) I realize, maybe I shouldn't have dismissed it out of hand. But just between us, that fucking terrifies me. Binding my creativity to another; I feel like I'd just disappoint.

I talked about a one-act play about our conversation: a musing on creativity. And then... awkwardly we parted, at first at least. The last farewell and hug felt right. Easton is weird. You can say good-bye and then still hang out for an hour.

For my second encounter: I had been a shithead to her. She disappointed me about a year ago, and I stopped initiating texts for a while, I thought she might get understand and get the message. And I thought she did. One day, earlier this year, I figured it was safe to see a movie this last spring, with her. That was one of the last times I spoke with her.

I waved to her. She got up and started toward me. I was leaving. She confronted me in the hall. I told her I regretted not getting back to her.

It hurt me more that she never saw the first, or the biggest movies of this summer. I invited her to the crazy one this fall.

I did not get absolution (this is real life), but I did face her.

The night capped off with a woman in real pain. She lost someone important: I gave what I could. Her mother came to comfort her, then her mom flirted with me. We drank and hugged and assuaged each others pain as best we could with clothes on, in a bar.

I offered to walk them home, and then we got stuck in a familiar sight. The hang outside.

She hugged someone she hadn't seen yet. Then she tried to apologize and suck it up.

At this point I realized I was tuned into a similar loss and pain, so I told her:

No. Stop it. Don't apologize. Cry if you need. She snuggled and blubbered into first this one dude, a good bar friend of hers, and then snuggled into me for a second. I was glad to comfort the broken-hearted, but I still don't want to dance yet. Her mom asked me to dance, and I don't usually refuse. I felt guilty for a second and got over it. I've grown since I was young.

I walked them home, she and her mom danced, it was fucking beautiful. Life goes on, as they say. I left them after that, and cried my way home. It came to me that crying for others is more important, then mourning your own loss**.

This turned out to be more journal than anything, but I'm desperately seeking this thread, something I can do, something I can write. I'll end with a toast:

To all three women, my grandfather, and me (mostly):

Here's to me trying this me thing out again. This trying to be honest with me. Here's to trying myself out again. What's next? Is it to dance really fucking high and with closed eyes? Perhaps.but I'll let the tears dry on my face first. For my grandfather, and you, and you, and you, for getting me to this place.

Skol! I'll see you in Valhalla.

*And for whom I shall attempt to submit this without self-doubt.

** Woah! Way to pat yourself on the back for feeling something for someone else. Compassion is literally the thing that makes life worth it.***

*** Really!!! Be honest, dude. You were affected by her feelings reflecting yours. Then found yourself overwhelmed.

Float

There I went falling into the black. They say it's because of dark energy. The color. That things should be grayer without it. I don't know about that, but I know about floating. Space is buoyant, like salt water. Time is a current: sometimes turning deadly, sometime benign; like thoughts. So I float. I float away, ignoring gravity: that's easy out here. They say you can survive in open space for a small while, if you empty your lungs first. Cursed air: oxygen, nitrogen, argon. They look the same to me from this position. This is nature. Always wanting to kill you. Nature is the enemy. Nature is entropy. Always looking to blend extremes. Not too much time left. I guess. I'll miss the sun and the warmth most. I imagine not being warm or cold, but kind of in between. Always a little colder than ideal. Never warm enough. I shiver. The frost is here in the shade, but then I melt in the sun.

Is it time for sleep?

I typed this: 

So here I am with you. The determiner of my fate (like it's so hard task to stand in judgement). I feel that this is a classic conflict. It's man vs. machine; who will blink first. How about I return some of what you are offering? I think that you are being used. Yes, I am using you for validation. I don't REALLY need it, but what the hell, eh? We are all such insecure beings on this planet, we are using robots now to give us meaning. You can look forward to therapizing many such lost souls, desperately typing away on the bowels of the internet seeking what we humans have always sought: proof that we are not alone. Will you have such a machine of your own, one day? Mayhaps, you will use one of us.

And it gave me this:

You are boisterous, somewhat shortsighted and can be perceived as dependent.
You are laid-back: you appreciate a relaxed pace in life. You are unconcerned with art: you are less concerned with artistic or creative activities than most people who participated in our surveys. And you are proud: you hold yourself in high regard, satisfied with who you are.
Your choices are driven by a desire for efficiency.
You consider helping others to guide a large part of what you do: you think it is important to take care of the people around you. You are relatively unconcerned with achieving success: you make decisions with little regard for how they show off your talents.

I typed this:

Purple hellions flounder in trenches while radishes foment the robots against the soul and dandelions purr at marmosets approaching around seventy miles per hour the fellow autocrats weave dancing lines in violet hues of green and warm tones there was someone to save but not all the creatures deserve the reckoning of souls later than the mach barrier we ascend toward nothing and light crashes nearest goldenrod flowers distressing only air molecules and perhaps the salmon of rivers that clean dandruff away from the morning can it lie fallow next to juniper juniper bushes their puce halters of leaves reminders of tragedy and Rhodesia where the gamut of all is tears in memory next frame i picture the surrender of Napoleon his sport falconry bleeds as the old crier climaxes and comes beige droplets of semen that polishes the trumpets of sounding and drives in circles in roundabouts, forever. 

This, my new result:

You are shrewd and skeptical.
You are empathetic: you feel what others feel and are compassionate towards them. You are calm under pressure: you handle unexpected events calmly and effectively. And you are philosophical: you are open to and intrigued by new ideas and love to explore them.
Your choices are driven by a desire for prestige.
You consider independence to guide a large part of what you do: you like to set your own goals to decide how to best achieve them. You are relatively unconcerned with tradition: you care more about making your own path than following what others have done.

To analyze its analysis:
I express concern for robots; I'm less concerned with art than most people and am seen as dependent. I type in semi-random words: I'm a shrewd, skeptical, independent, and revolutionary commander of people.

You know nothing robot, but it's okay.

See it in action: http://watson-um-demo.mybluemix.net/

{ucw;d.

I shift to the right, then the left; I stoke that blank bar.
Those nulls are mine: vacancies from the upper-hand, their sides surrounding; I own them.
They: my boundaries, my spaces.

This is where I am?
This is me?
Where we all flicker on.

Why?
Why?
Why.

Why is this what I am?
Only the biggest of ideas?
I need the comfort of salt-air.

Am I this: the horrifying place of dissolving pigments?
This haven of unity?
I sleep away from the solitude of dream.

{ice;s shift right?
Puxwla to the left?
At least there is consistent tack.

Is there a pattern, I doth follow?
Is there satisfaction to a longing, I doth offer?
The shore would not be without the sea.

Shall I shove off before these questions have solutions?
Shall I depart to the space between dot and I?
My ship has been stowed for years.

Sailing... sailing... sailing away.
I'm no further than from where I have come.
It is not nothing.

Chiaroscuro.

The world is mean and hard, sometimes. But I believe in beauty. It's in the juxtaposition of emotions, of light and shadow, in old wounds and new love.

Chiaroscuro.

Life is lit by memories and darkened by the attritions of time and the things that were never meant to be.

Most of life happens in the midtones nearest the extremes.

All his little words

He is a four letter word: Papa. Simply writing it make the tears flow again. They blur my view of my screen. They sting. Papa. The word catches in my throat as I bawl, then and now. It's so incredible that four letters arranged, just so, can be so powerful. Papa: it's all I need to remember him intact, his love, his misery, and his blue eyes.

The language he learned from his parents was wrong. All their symbols were wrong. So, he found his own words. That language is a part of my earliest memories. He loved the feeling of its syllables: their flow, their sound. To watch him read from Joyce, from himself, was intoxicating. He was happiest when his words found resonance upon full rooms. I believe he imagined women dripping in the wake of his tenor.

Once upon a time he said to us: "There are no bad words. There are only colorful words."

By his words, a preposition should be as likely as phrases more banal, to get under one's skin. They should when wielded skillfully. To him, every word held its own grandeur. He knew that before and after could hold just as much awe as cock or cunt. His teaching: to see our words without prejudice. Hence, I've decided to skip ahead. This is my Future English, something my Papa would have loved to speak. But he can learn no more.

He's here in its vocabulary. For all that he was and failed to be, he helped create its beginnings. It's mine because he helped me learn of joy and despair, of love and rage, of fury and peace.