Crying baby has yet to learn the lost language of abandonment which must be taught to more than two-thousand changeling children in perverse dollhouse TV replicas of unloving American schoolrooms.
The impossible pressing of flesh that distance provides may well be revelatory but God bless those who are spared such unwanted visions of cursed solitude.
God bless those who are forced by their innocence to endure such disturbances; such nightmarish realities that they may forever struggle to reclaim what has been or soon will be forever stolen from them.
May they survive, prosper, find comfort of some kind in their shared experience, those tear stained imperatives.
The shaking sweaty confrontation with one’s own reflection when memory is shattered, fragmented, splintered beyond recognition and momentary awareness is threatened with mindless annihilation.
Will I remember this later… or will an older Jason fight through a therapist’s session to recover the me he has lost?
Before I leave but after I wake there is an overwhelming terror; a senseless type of heightened stress triggered by my inner ticking clock, which never trusts and fears interruption.
After I leave but before I arrive there is inspiration, analysis and exploration, a journey into self where understanding will one day hopefully reside – this contemplation is nearly always external, as it’s flooded out of my brain down through my fingertips thumbtacked onto paper pages – an activity I have often despised which has become my truest salvation.
In the breazy 70 sunlight city streets of New York my indoor apathy is burned away to cinders… and I can smile at the rainbow swirls projected before me, which originate in last night’s misery once refracted through the murky depths, the prism of a cuckold’s constant lust which transform that sickening nauseating sensation into chemical reactions associated with sensuality; the impotent erection of the overstimulated yet never truly satisfied bottom.
The reasoning behind transitions is all but lust
– FUCK –
is all but LOST amidst an intensely brief panic when I lose track of my letters, memory once again escaping from the prison of my mind –
How could I have forgotten this horror?
Is this to be my future hell?
WRITE IT DOWN SO YOU CAN’T FORGET!
Time for tests and uncomfortable questions.
A lack of specificity resembles the oft forgotten pattern.
Not names but films, not train letters but direction…
This is NOT like THE ME that I have known until this recent phenomena.
Perfect score on memory test at therapist’s office though there is visual spatial strangeness – my cube doesn’t begin with a square and my clock is a Salvador Dali sketch:
“The Persistence of Memory” becoming an ironic and completely menacing title.
Nothing to worry about, she says and I hear these words, like poetry.
Tip of the Tongue Syndrome and lexical access occurs in stages…
I remain fearful but also amused, inspired and enamored with her decisional words.
Our time is up despite the continued ticking of my misshapen clock.
I play a numbers game in hopes of recalling the percentages, the statistics and rates and proportions of a love affair between two unknowns.
What is the sum total of a failed relationship?
There were seventeen summers before that summer when we met, and that was seventeen summers ago.
But we were both of us older than seventeen when we met and made love for nearly five hours, on the eighth day of the seventh month of the two-thousand-and-first year.
We spent nine weeks together; four of them happily.
I once waited seven days in his bedroom, reading five-hundred-seventy-six pages of “The Prince of Tides”… before I drove one hundred and forty-one miles, back to Ann Arbor and waited to be betrayed.
Betrayal arrived on my twenty-seventh birthday, the twelfth day of the eighth month, but I wouldn’t learn the truth for several more encounters.
On August thirteenth, which fell on the second day of the week, my stomach became partially paralyzed, and I’ve been sick every day since then.
Before he told me the truth, he sent me flowers, made love to me and tortured me with lies and abandonment… those flowers were like perfumed poison when I learned the truth and saw them wilting in my bedroom.
The last time we had sex was August twenty-fourth.
The first day that we met there were fireworks; beautiful bursts of poisonous flowers, omens which lit up our lives and then faded all too quickly… but our lust prevented us from seeing this prophetic truth as anything other than celebratory pyrotechnics.
Numbers are often deceptive because they don’t truly reveal the truth with the accuracy that they are ascribed; they don’t calculate the geometry of emotion or the calculus of grief and lust and shame.
Every number that walks through the door can determine our differential and satisfy our algebraic need for multiples; while concurrently erasing the totality of truth; simultaneous equations of salvation and destruction.
Numbers, you’ll learn, can be vicious… because numbers will often lie.
One year ago tonight you whispered into my unhearing ears
with the flick of your tongue across my lover’s desperate flesh
over oceans of thought, fear and lust you joined that which was mine while never knowing or desiring my anatomy.
You, who knew not to be yourself except reflected in strange foreign eyes which we have separately drowned in, we have shared that beautiful body.
I am nothing to you but an invisible partner who plagues not your existence, a ghost that is haunted by tiny little deaths which interred you both on sweet Budapest fabrics to the strains of Porgy and Bess.
You were musical phrases that created a distinct melody of an already exotic piece, a hunger I may yet understand but will never truly experience.
That night I was lost in your tonal pattern, deafened by an overwhelming silence which inspired want and hatred, pity and indifference, a longing that may never be satiated.
I say “your” though the stress was not singular – it was a harmony that brought me to tears, tore at my soul & ripped me apart, boiling me down to my essence.
You were a crucible by which all fear was melted away, an intersection in which, by way of paradox, he and I were joined in honest surrender, a yielding so keen that it’s wounding pleasure healed the breach, sealed the rift, and eased the strain until nothing could keep us apart.
A ride on the 1 train to “No Friends” operetta, 1 day after a ride on the A train filled with naked imaginary men… on the way home from the village where extraordinary naked men used to die.
This writing calms me after distressing Anna voicemail; a horrible miscommunication which I must correct.
Breathe. 18 stops to relax. I can message her when I arrive.
Now, begin again. Tell me about the men.
There were several fully clothed but naked men on the subway yesterday.
A sturdy father, a seemingly kindly grandpa man and a 20 something – all of them with beautiful, dark skin.
As a game to escape the crowded heated madness, I undressed them all.
I sized them up and I devoured them, before spitting them all out when studly sturdy father man vividly became a father again.
Though just after that happened he winked at me, subtly rubbed his crotch and sent me another sidelong glance; an invitation to continue.
Except that more than 24 hours later, 17 stops have flown by and I must away to my partner and friends, leaving my imaginary men behind as I immerse myself in the imaginations of others.
This book of words is falling apart while makeup mistress weaves together a patchwork creation meant to imitate perfection – free from the rhyming couplets that have held us all prisoner and made a fairytale of our dungeon.
The underground roars through hollow hills beneath beautiful graveyard labyrinths – a necropolis that invites the living to congregate with the dead: the mouldering corpses of past aspirations, childhood dreamscapes and unfinished poetry.
In an autumnal sunset over a long Decembered spring awakening lies a barely remembered ginger haired mutant of a carcass.
Seventeen summers have taken that once orgasmic beauty and flayed him into living dead road kill swollen skull dried up brains in that monstrous Mount Rushmore sized flesh blossom.
Lucky to have had him before he was this completely ugly unfortunate thing.
Long before his wickedness was so outwardly apparent for all the world to see.
