Hang on tight, hopefully, this will get better
The world goes on unaware of my existence. Allow me to rephrase it–– if I can mold a better sentence. To speak bluntly, using a word that is sharp as a blade, truthful, and surgical in its clear cut, at least in this particular context, regardless would be a more appropriate choice — and it always comes down to the choices — to describe how little fuck is given that I exist and that I am here. The world goes on regardless of my existence.
You may give little attention to the word regard — fuck it, I’ll restate — not — without fear of judgment. It’s one of those conundrums: to have courage is to face fear, that was there all along in the first place (otherwise you wouldn't need bravery). You may pay no regard, but regardless of how you feel, I’d like to make my case using this simple, cheap, vulgar, honest, brute (all of the alternatives) cleverish (it seems obvious thus previously in oblivion) unfortunate (lack of) choice of — It turns out I can’t really choose a form or a word, may it be a verb, adverb or noun, and I get so seduced by all the open possibilities of synonyms with their particularities that pops up in the dictionary when I’m trying to nail down and choose — one word to define — to deliver a perfect creation, to make sense — yet it only amplifies my many insufficient (what an abundance of nothing) options and I get stuck in so many ways — bifurcations — that I don’t even know what I was saying anymore — what I was going to say — how I meant to limit my experiences by narrowing words into focus, this unbearable compromise.
I bet you can’t follow and I can’t slow down. I want you to please get lost with me even if that might be asking too much.
There’s so much to be said, many are the threads that pop out of my head like branches of trees multiplying themselves such as Adam’s many offsprings, my conniving backstabber siblings, those little innocent angels antagonizing each other. Billions of people. May I be kept safe from them. And they don’t have any regard for me. They don’t care. They have no attention nor consideration. To be fair, with the expectation of a changing handful (I don’t want to sound ungrateful), but they are busy with their own mess. They are not guaranteed to stay, nor last longing in commitment.
I’ll focus — fixate — on regard, all the regard needed and that is not given. The lack that moves us, that makes us want and crave. Or pivot in the fetal position. I’ll masturbate for you, jerk off like a pubescent child. The pungence of my emergent urgency. Alas, the dormant volcano awakens. Open craters in my skin, infected festers, burning in fever, pustules, and zits. Stinky pus-filled wounds pouring out, it’s nasty. I’ll make an effort, not only to curate the words, flatulate or exorcise them (whatever may be the proper analogy) but to own all the mess and confusion of their cumulative existence. Their vulgarity. I’ll also pay attention to my punctuation. But I won’t be able to solve what I can’t perceive (yet) as being wrong and I will always have a blind spot and lack a perspective that will contradict me and bite me on the tail.
I’m haunted by all my mistakes I’m yet too naive to perceive. This intrinsic tragicality of life. I feel intimidated by all the mysteries I ignore. I am really embarrassed about this, but as a way to overcompensate, there will be comment upn comment like blue underlined links on a Wikipedia page. Multiple tabs pilling up. The use of parentheses, in the beginning, were not working out, but I’ll leave them there — They’ve been (sort of) edited — I need to find my cadence and I am NOT hiding the arduous process, the voices of doubt, the constant failures — Oh boy, that is a lie, who am I deceiving? — I’m already overwhelmed, which is what I feel intensely all the time, and I wonder how good it is to share the anguish that boils down inside of me, this bubbling hot water in a pan of letter soup that will simply evaporate and vanish in thin air like the chemistry of good transcendence.
Into the bliss of oblivion. The fact of how existence vanishes into the void in which only silence contains the whole, and without any contradiction. Without any fabrication that will trap you somewhere down the line. Yet I promised to make an effort, so regardless of this, I’ll pay extra attention. I’ll choose a perspective. I’ll dare to create. I’ll expose it raw and I’ll tell it all, flaunt and parade the confusion of what I am.
By means of argumentation, I too, am creating all the counterarguments that shall come for me. All the contradictions. I need to address this mind cluster of cumulative existences and open tabs that make me lag frozen (It’s a virus really). Yet I get fixated on little details (truly where the devil lives) of major utmost importance, so I forget. I forget that just saying fuck! — how little fuck is given that I exist — far surpasses the opening phrase. I forget that I don’t(?) need validation — feel the weight of this word I so deeply resent––to be. Even if being feels just unperfect and far from grace.
It is the exposition of an open wound where I’m sticking in my dirty finger. I’m rubbing it like masturbation. It’s good pain and the white goop that comes out. Ouch. Smell the Cheetos. I have always associated the smell of Cheetos with pus and the smell of bleach with that of cum.
This is not an elegant profusion of words. Elegance: this matter of taste, this regard to form, is a circus monkey dancing for applause and I resent it. I resent it because I can no longer dance to this beat. — I'm beaten (FATALITY!!!) — I am the beat. (da-DUM!). Not sure if I’m trying to be funny now in a degrading and not so ingenious way. In my defense, I’m also explicitly referencing a very appropriate literary movement of this post-whatever time we live in. Is this what transmutation actually is — my heart is beating — Beat it you trickster mindfucker! Why can’t I silence this voice?
Defeated by the egregore of all my potential lives. How to build a narrative? I’ve gazed directly into the gorgon’s eyes and I’m paralyzed. I’m convinced that life is poor — pure — conjecture (what an exhaustive bore), and if we are actually free to guess, we can guess at anything.
If I were to be honest about the pain and traumas of my existence, I’d mumble random words like a two-year-old child, just yell them as they come in my head, energetically, furiously, repeatedly, and without order. The biggest difference would be that instead of having only a handful of simple but essential useful words, they would be said in a myriad of modes and tones, followed by an exclamation point for its urgency. Words in which the emphasis in which they are said conveys more meaning than their actual intended significance. (how>what).
Words such as — Yes! — No! — I want it! — It hurts! — Mommy! The one word I would choose to yell if I could, even though I won’t let my mother hold me like that anymore. That place of vulnerability, I would just dismantle and completely unravel. I’m uncomfortable with the idea of getting too comfortable. Or maybe I am so comfortable that it’s become a bore and I’m no longer (hard to swallow truth of comfort zones).
I have a wide variety of big words to taunt and torture me — a whole vocabulary, different language system with poor translations, without a proper equivalence, they leave out so much, they were afore originally lacking — their subtle meaning confusing me, throwing me in multiple different threads of thoughts and feelings. Subjacent and contradicting one another. Not to mention the words I have yet to know. How obtuse and impenetrable they sometimes seem to me.
It’s shameful to undergo this exposè, like the dream of being naked at school. Like using this overused, pathetic (why the judgment, huh?) chichè, mediocre metaphor. Yet all the cliches are so universal. They leave us shiny like porcelain washed by bubbly iridescent cartoonish soup. Those are thoughts that make me question constantly the nature of my reality and sanity (or whether I’m just lucky to be smoking too good weed).
It’s as if I am constantly aware that things, chaotic as they are, are organized and created as I name them, and I’m not at all (yet) apt for this task. I’m just dazzled.
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” — said John, the good disciple. With all my disregard for the bible and its dogmatization and perversion of powerful forceful archetypes without any conceded critical self-reflection, I appreciate the mythic analogy. I don't know what to say, there are many things to be said and I can't be the tyrant who utters a sentence on behalf of all other poor repressed sentences. Within the crazyness of this layered 360 8d audio, who works as the holy curator? As the mighty polygraph? Does my momentaneous truth hurt another? Who's even listening? I’m no good at being the God that I am. Because in order for a God to exist, she must… be good? Be believed? Be loved? Or feared? And who believes in me?
Who’s my validation machine? Who’s my vanishing point? My infinite horizon? To whom do I wield that much power? Does a god do that? Isn’t she all self-giving and self receiving? Is there really a separation from the whole? Are others only our most personal, most deniable projections? The conflicting voices in our minds? Or are we a grain of sand on sandy planet mars? The world goes on regardless of my existence. Or is it the other way around?
A God doesn’t need permission, she just is! What is it? Why does it feel like it’s both all at once? Like all good answers are like those hellish riddles of Japanese koans knocking sarcastically in your head. Sheer mystery. This ain’t a story, this is a line of thought. There’s no commitment. This is an attempt to show what goes on inside, a process of indigestion and the relief of release. This is fresh, stinky, hot shit. What a little shit am I. The byproduct of my anxiety. When I try to prove myself, I end up letting sloppy betraying evidence fall down my sleeve! I call my fifth amendment rights against self-incrimination. I want out. Get me out of here! GET ME OUTTA HERE. I can’t. There’s no escape. Fuck fuck fuck. What am I even freaking out about? This feels like one of those vintage Goofy cartoons I used to watch as a child. Like I’m being fucked as I try patiently to master basic life skills to stay alive.
And I haven’t even started, I haven’t said anything, I haven’t told an actual story and there’s just soooooo much to be told. Concrete facts. Things that matter, things I’ve seen and lived, cinematic things. Let me dress it differently. Let’s trade those worn-out comfortable cotton clothes filled with ketchup stains and holes to a more proper attire. An evening gown of silk and leather. Sparkiling shoes. Is that what it takes to be appreciated? A good haircut?
Not to mention the fact that styles change so that the fashion, so to speak, of only a decade ago seems to be pure ugly shenanigans flaunting its insecurity of trying to rock it, to fit in. The burden of acceptance.
Dress over pants, really, Lindsay? Britney? Hilary? The whole squad. I guess we can really achieve anything. Pom poms up! Who am I to judge? I, not so secretly, love cheerleaders. Bring it on. I hate judges yet I can’t get rid of the one living on my head. So disproving of me, making self derogatory comments. So people adhere to the latest fashion to just hide in plain sight. Notice how hiding and standing out are opposites who ultimately can mean the same thing. Another one of life’s divine secrets.
Cowards! I dare not to do this. At least not anymore. I said it before and I can’t (not, as two negatives makes a postivite) do this dance of constant adjustment. I can barely stay still to grasp the full meaning of words, let alone complex sentences. I’m clumsy and uncoordinated, I just can’t. I can only freestyle and it’s not always pretty. That was a nice pat on the back, a patronizing self-pleasing statement, a euphemism to justify my mediocrity. It’s graciously ugly. Forgive me, take me for what I am, let it be, let ME be (Mother Mary's grace comes to mind; Mommy!), even if I can’t do that myself, let me be openly vulnerable. Which is the same as asking to be safe.
You see that again? How by asking for one thing I’m again asking for its opposite? I keep trying to catch this butterfly with a bug net but it’s so fucking fly. What a sly motherfucker, this epiphany thing. Eureka! And then it’s gone. The catharsis is only valid until the hunger restarts, the holy temptation. Ether my ass. The holy grail is a mirage away. ( Look daddy, it's Fata morgana! *-*)
I can keep doing this, bringing you along with me, wasting our time, getting to no conclusion at all as there is no conclusion. There are no answers.––And that ladies and gentlemen, was a conclusion. * clap clap clap *––Though only valid through a particular lens, localized in a particular time and space, and then it's gone.
Throw it away. Throw all of this away afterward. Let it penetrate the soil like good compost. Destroy the cannons (not the camera, is this good humor?). They just fuck us up into thinking things are static when the law that builds the illusion of time is constant movement. But progress is done by modes of repetition and return, thus the creation of myths. Hard truths once spoken are concealed in themselves, cryptically as a sphinx, illusions waiting to be unveiled. And transcendence is the word chosen for the nothing there’s behind when there’s only now. This is why the Talmudic method was developed. So that we can look back in search for a posteriori meaning (and then another posteriori). The new in the old. The old in the new. This is why the planet rotates on its own axis, thus repeating its 24 hours pattern, and then translates around the sun, who in its turn moves around bigger systems and galaxies. Jerking off like a moebius tape (Cum along with me!).
We are always in that position of progress by way of return. It’s a mirror. Imagine a pattern swallowing itself in a vicious cycle. Inception. Don’t lose yourself in the meme. Repetition is its’ engine and is trauma its' fuel.
What was that phrase I read once engraved on a floor in a famous London museum? — Chaque question possède une force que la réponse ne contient plus.
So there is no plan, no possible affirmation that is valid, just pure improvisation, just deliverance, throwing myself at the great wave off Kanagawa, a Hokusai experience. Oh, how lost I get on the landscape of oriental art. I’m barreling floating but I wanna surf like a zen master. The surfer doesn’t flow against the current. She cuts through the wave if she’s really good at it, but the waves sometimes break far from the original shore, its gravitational pull inward and outward will make you stray from wherever it is that you came from in its culmination and you will disperse, diverge and deviate.
I wonder if the root of deviation has anything to do with the devil. The sonority and close meaning can’t be a coincidence, but the Merriam-Webster tells me otherwise. Blame them for this stream. Well if it isn’t a coincidence then it must be a synchronicity of chapel perilous. Google this term and give your imagination some marvelous wings of boundless reach. Or just help you go mayhem. Have you heard of the number 23? Synchronicity? Or telepathic communications with cartoonish extraterrestrial beings? Aliens, angels, hallucinations. 93 93/93. “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law” All the intuition that hasn't yet developed into senses. Close your eyes to see.
I need to allude to all those abstractions in my head by making use of the mightiest, the silliest, most far-fetched imagination that will express, expurgate, cleanse something that is locked, hermetically sealed, and unmanifested. What is thy name, demon, so that I may perform thy exorcism?
I want to implode the usage of this limited English language and my limits using it, as it sometimes swallows me whole with its big open mouth. I want to address and imply what is the solace from my plights and afflictions. The holy placebo. That amazing facial cream. The balsam I bathe in, of sheer light that breaks through the veil of this holograph.
I need to infer this inferno that is being alive. To advert the fools before they jump into the abyss. I’ve been there, and I’m free-falling while sipping a cup of tea with my pinky finger pointed up. Mayday Mayday. I’ll write ACME if I have to. Your evil plan will fail and it will backfire. Those products aren’t trustworthy.
I’ll appeal to those childish images engraved in the memory (and that will backfire if you don’t have my age or my references). All that is buried as cornerstones of your primary experiences. I’d rather see you smirk or even gag now because there will be the time to cry. Bip Bip! Beware, the anvil is gonna fall on your head. That damn bird, why do we even cheer for him? What a little fucker is the Roadrunner. Yet we laugh with him at the poor Coyote. He’s not the one getting hurt, and the coyote needs to be fed. He’s hungry, it’s a matter of life and death, even if it means the death of another.
This predatorial fact of life, what a decadence. I hope the evolution of consciousness makes us evolve far above and beyond this fact. We can choose this. I need to be sure to make those changes and abdicate my earthy desires. Healthy substitutions. But that poor fellow, there’s no hut to shield him from that burning sun. He doesn’t know better. What else is there to eat in the desert? Do I have sympathy for the devil? Do I feel sorry? Is that what they call empathy? Turning the other face? The more I speak, all that I do is to elude and evade. I duck when bullets are thrown in this game of hide and seek.
I’m drinking good wine now (pinky finger points up!), so brace yourselves. I can't walk a straight line. If I keep doing this I’ll end up writing whilst being drunk which might lead to something exotic (This ambiguous word is always used to describe me) happening. Something unexpected and not classy (so more of this). But I honor Bacchus and I’m wine — wise enough not to let myself get fooled by the myth of common decency, or appearances, or the subtle posed differentiated way of why-so-serious respectable aristocrats. Well, I have no plan, so it’s all unexpected. Tada! Twerk twerk. In your face! Note to self: Less on the Aziz Ansari, please.
Why do I associate Aziz with twerking? Nobody will understand. My imagination doesn't always make objective sense. I forget this sometimes when I’m cracking referential jokes. I’ve never even seen the man twerk. Maybe it’s the type and spirit of pun Tom from the beloved tv show Parks and Recreation would make? I love Tom. He does good parody. Why am I ashamed to go there? I love a good cringe. Plus, I’m being ironic. I don’t see what’s so funny–wait, I guess I actually do– about the bouncing of ass. I’m not sure if it’s empowering or degrading. Maybe both? Are those qualities inherent to a body movement? It’s a very provocative trap; A striper hustling on a pole. If someone is gonna use me I better think that I’m in control.
Lemme get a kick out of it too (a little party never killeeeed nobody… *snif *)
I'll find balance zero between the poles of negative and positive, not fixed or steady~but dancing~actually, contorting myself (my joints hurt, I've got a cramp. I can't do a full split but I keep pushing towards it). Life requires keen flexibility. Elasticity even. A bamboo's stretch as it respectively bows down to rain and wind as it grounds itself, elegantly. Yoga is a great recommendation. Try pilates. Twist and twirl. It’s life’s natural Xanax. I’ll bounce for those Franklins. The cultural debate now can be so moralistic, it doesn’t give space for honest outspoken, maybe ingenuous doubts about the nature of things. The inevitable trith of contradiction. We have to agree on the same terms and ideology. By all means, let's kill ourselves and all things on this egoic piss contest of right and wrong and establishing this fuckep up reality (scratch that;) duality, without considering the complementarity of things. How they keep implying it's contrary by assessing itself in opposition to the very thing that they despise. Self-denial thus becomes self-affirmation. Projections of a mirror in front of another mirror facing their own image(s) spiraling eternally
––––––––––––––––––ad infinitum–––––––––––––––––––(help)––––––––––––– The cliché of this imagery. Face the cliché you deny to see for fear of exposing a point of discomfort and social vulnerability. (I’m channeling my not so candid inner Jordan Peterson here as the exercise of being the adorable and indespicable Devil’s advocate.) Yes — surpise-suprise — I’m speaking of political correctness and how those bullies and jerks who just shout their poor ignorant assumptions bluntly might have a few points.
The first being that they exist. That they are who they are and we can't forcefully change them. And what are we gonna do about it? We can't become them in order to stop them, or can we? Is that the lesson? (Nah…)
Words that they try to play under a certain light (or absence of) that makes us weak if we allow it. A point that they pervert to fulfill their own insidious bigoted hidden agendas, just because we are afraid of addressing the dirt. Guilt guilt guilty. Let’s own it and turn it around.
–– Baby, I am a mighty faggot. And you may call me missus Faggot, thank you very much.
The bad you see might be just your fear of desiring something more, something else. The fruit of knowledge is after all the original taboo. It’s forbitten (and biten it was) nature perpetuates the desire. Of crossing a line into the unknown. Is it fear or is it excitement?
Lustful sex or sex appeal in reality is this race of catch-prey, where you are pleased to let them shove it all in, yes, please, by all means. If mutually wanted, please, hit it. But twerking is such a cheap reference, I delight in it. It frees me from my candid (candida for me is a disease) pose.
No more guilt. No more of this classicist shit. — Have some decency, please, recompose yourself, you will degrade this and put all of this attempt to connect to your fellow imaginary reader to waste! It will be another failure for the collection. ––Stop. I’m talking to myself now, I’ll get back to you, reader, don’t go anywhere. Oh, have I lost you for good? I’m cool and I’m back. Please, don’t go anywhere. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t let my references deceive you that I’m no good. Let me convince you that I am worth it. That I am beautiful. That I am valid. All is good, really. It’s us who choose to give validation. Our gazing eyes. Wide-open. Not just seeing but looking with sheer curiosity and innocence. Accepting. Aware. Understanding. This might be appellative manipulation; what I am doing, beware of people trying to take this type of advantage. Then consider the offer and what it implies. Maybe, all conciliation, raising of white flags, and plea deals are mutual acts of much-needed manipulative tolerance — Compromise?––You give a little, you get a little.
Truth is, right now I am that monkey dancing for applause, I am that stripper on the pole. I am that girl, standing in front of a boy, just asking to be loved. I am the son in Galeano’s poem seeing the ocean for the first time, asking the father — teach me how to see — because it’s really hard to make sense of all these quick images and sensations overwhelmingly overlapping, piling up, and multiplying.
Sorry about my bout, but this is what I’m all about. I’m an eggcorn away from making sense and I feel like, being lost in Neverland, I will never land. Sleep with this cliffhanger! Hasta la vista, Baby.
This is all folk-etymology: Verbal corruptions or words perverted in form and meaning by false derivation or mistaken analogy. And just for now, that is all folks!
