things matter or they don’t. things happen or they don’t.
the where and when might be a matter of fate,
but the how and why is a choice.
Monthly Archives: June 2008
turning 36
turned 36 today, i’m halfway to the finish line.
i played wii with my daughter and served as a walker to my son.
went to the park and baked in the sun with a little handball.
watched some comedies, ate some mediocre maki rolls and some really bad pad-thai.
my wife laid beside me exhausted and muttered i love you before passing out.
it is a good life and i really deserve no part of it.
just barely passing
as i approach 36, the mid point of this life (i was born in 1972, it makes sense to me that i’ll go at 72), i cannot let go, ever more, never letting go of any thing, only letting go of people, no, that’s not right, i have a hard time facing, not letting go, but holding on to, admitting and accepting, what an utter failure i am as a human being, what a utter shit i am and always have been, how profoundly disappointed i am in myself and everything i have done.
i’m just barely hang onto my humanity here, i’m just barely passing.
these things, late into the night
how to write this. the writing of. it’s old. said it too often. lies. the liar in me. lost. he had short nails, bitten to the quick from a nervous tension whenever he had to move from place to place. it was always the same. some apartment in some building where all the floors were tied into the same circuit. and then eviction. by his hand or the owner’s or even the city. he wore long sleeve shirts to hide the long elegant lightening bolts shattering the inside of both his wrists. not that he was ashamed, only embarrassed by the not so elegant stare, the gawking and lingering unspoken question: how could he, how could he even consider? it was never a consideration, it was an impulse, sudden and angry and necessary. he’s glad to live to tell the tale, but no one ever courages up the question. these things. late into the night. lost. i’d talk to him if only his ghost would appear.
how dare you
a certain kind of shock. a mourning. a cruel sensibility. you are worthless. you mean nothing. you know nothing. you’ve done nothing. you’ve brought children into the world you do not know how to love, you do not know how to teach. there is nothing extraordinary about you. you should be ashamed of yourself. for breathing. how dare you. how fucking dare you.
dressup
from albany power exchange, an information resource about BDSM:
1. Start by insisting that she is in good physical shape, her hair is well done and her eyebrows, nails, makeup and choice of jewelry are all of the highest level
2. Instruct her to wear no perfume of any kind and to desist from routine washing of her genitals to ensure that a good aroma starts to build up
3. To improve the smell of her pussy, fuck her regularly and leave copious amounts of cum inside her – two weeks of that regime should have her nicely ripe
4. Before dressing her, have her stand naked and wide-legged before you
5. Pull hard on her nipples and clamp them tightly either with nipple lassoes or small elastic bands. They should be painful but not extreme and should be tight enough to make the nipples swell up
6. Then bind her breasts tightly at the base to force them forwards and out. The ideal effect is to make the breasts swollen and very firm, jutting out directly forward from her ribcage
7. Briefly fuck her to provide extra cum in her pussy
8. Make her pull her pussy open and with a teaspoon, scoop out all fluids you can find and spread them liberally over her swollen breasts and coat the insides of her thighs too
9. Wet two fingers inside her, then probe her arse deeply. Smear her breasts with the extra goo you find in that way and repeat until there is a strong and unmistakable aroma rising from her
10. Take a narrow plug-harness and push a buttplug and dildo into her, strapping it tight around her. Use one that leaves her pussy flaps free
11. Attach clamps to her pussy lips and hang weights from them. I use some lead “paternoster” fishing weights that I have had for years on about 2 inches of line. If she is masochist enough and can stand the pain, you could try using real fish hooks pushed through the flesh but there are not many girls who can tolerate that
12. Dress her in a very short skirt – the base of the weights should line up with the hem of the skirt when she stands
13. Other items of dress will be to your taste, but I would certainly choose a top that does as little as possible to conceal her erect breasts and nipples
14. Then take her out to be admired
there is – no
there is no proper response to anything, only gauges and pressures.
no.
there is no proper response, only the imagination.
no.
there is no proper response to the imagination.
no.
there is nothing here i haven’t already given up on.
no.
there is nothing that i have imagined that gives me comfort.
no. a lie.
there is no proper response to what i have imagined.
no.
i fall in the dark stumbling after you, the not-you, i might have been.
no.
leave it alone
let’s leave it like this then. let’s leave it crippled, hobbled without crutches. let’s leave with its back broken and twitching on the floor. let’s leave it licking up dust bunnies and fingering the floorboards. let’s leave it naked and grimy and unclean for days. let’s leave it shivering and thirsty and blinded. let’s just leave it wretched but not yet dead. let’s just leave it alone.
fragile things
eventually we are all meant to be broken
fall walking
the moment of suspended animation, the absolute clarity, pitch perfect silence & sound-there, right there, you can almost see it all in its entirety.
i had moments like this, walking home often times late at night, often times in the fall, the wind would whip and there was some sort of crackle.
everything became vivid, i was surrounded, immersed, engulfed, i can feel the snap of a leaf, the groove between two slabs of concrete in the sidewalk.
and it was wonderful and real, for once, i was aware, i was it, i was this, i was a part of this and i was nothing, all the details pressing in, pressing thru.
and i disappeared save for the seeing, the breathing, the hearing, the being, the moving about, panorama perspective without the vertigo just sheer fear.
where am i? where am i? where am i? i don’t see myself in any of this.