On the other hand, nearly all of my professional help now comes from women. They think differently from most men, as B—— would hasten to remind me. And I think I’m okay being counseled by women. My follows, comments, and likes come almost all from women. But that doesn’t mean they’re wrong. I’m just a guy who’s learned to believe in his own feminine side, which is okay. There’s another door slam bruido. And again. And again. Casper strikes time and again. It’s not lack of education directing my thoughts. And I abjure that these thoughts are valid, else the medication would perish them. I am of two minds, a masculine and a feminine. Both are right at one and the same time, like time and eternity, matter and spirit, real and ideal. Neither ought to exclude the other, in any individual or in any society. No; I fucking forbid it! QED.
11am – What time did J— say he’d call? Noon? I’m anxious to get out of here for a while. I don’t like feeling like a radio. Yet that’s what it is, pretty much — in a delusional mind. B—— believes like another A—-. It’s 3yo thinking; childish and uneducated. I now understand the meaning of “puerile.” That’s B—— and A—-, and one cabbie I had. At the same time, my language here is negative and minimizing. Christ always says “yes.” He always affirms.
Was He pathologically incapable of saying “no?”
Incarnadine seems the only color,
for colors are of the body, possibly,
and “the body is the soul.”
If D.H. Lawrence said it,
then it has to be true:
misguided genius teacher.
Parece que encarnadino es el único color,
por los colores son del cuerpo, posiblemente,
y “el cuerpo es la alma.”
Si D.H. Lawrence lo dijo,
entonces debe ser verdad:
profesor ingenioso descarriado.
Escribo, por eso soy.
Pero no; no soy hasta que alguien me lee. Es la música de dos manos se golpeando. Este sonido es una luz en la oscuridad al cual yo corro. No se si existe en el tiempo. Eso no tendría sentido. A la vez, no se puede mover sin espacio y tiempo. Como es posible existir aparte de estos? Pienso que es imposible par necesidad. Fue esta condición creada o no? Es una situación absurda, y el Creador ha hecho un chiste al nuestro detrimento. Es el trabajo de un genio malo —- Ud y yo!
I write, therefore I am.
But no; I am not until someone reads me. It is the music of two hands striking each other. This sound is a light in the darkness toward which I run. I don’t know if it exists in time. That wouldn’t make sense. At the same time, one cannot move without space and time. How is it possible to exist apart from these? I think it is impossible by necessity. Was this condition created or not? It is an absurd situation, and the Creator has made a joke at our expense. It is the work of an evil genius —- you and I!
No, there are ghosts only in my mind. I don’t really believe in immortality, and any funeral rite I perform is for me to move on, not so much for the departed. I slept from 10pm-1:30am. Yes, the cogito is amazing, it is something in-itself if not for-itself. I can build it and mold it, sculpt it into something grand as with Silly Putty. I remember using Play-doh as a kid. I loved the way it smelled and felt in my hands. Imagine! What am I going to create today? While I make and do with my keyboard this moment, a song plays: “I Saw You,” by a master bass player. I think that with words it’s easier, however, and my traste runs from top of head to tip of toe, from seventh heaven to the ninth circle of hell. But it’s all me, whether or not I possess a neck. I could be a “no-neck monster” and slam dance the blues away. I could wash down my meds with a sixer — but choose not to consume me and my money. It’s enough, at two in the morning, to feel confident to the point of drawing pentagrams on the floor.
If my logic is a pretzel,
all I have to do is iron it out
to find my heartbeat —-
red pulse that picks its way,
indiscreet and golden,
rosetted leopard pacing on the prowl.
I cannot change the past,
but can learn from it and change the future.
I may look at the options I had
and ultimately chose.
What is the consistent thread
of each decision I made
that led to frustration and despair?
I had a woman friend for six years,
someone I got to know almost as well
as I knew myself.
There was an opportunity
a couple of times to meet up,
but I didn’t want her son,
whose autistic destructiveness
would have ruined the precious things
I was so sentimental about.
As a consequence, I ended up alone
with these precious things
my drunken falls destroyed anyway.
The motive: I am a hoarder.