self-portrait in motion

…they say this city will wear you down its streets
your feet walk
on cold ground.
your heart beat
erratic in its traffic…

mar10

listen to what they say.

this connection to me is too strong to turn away from, although i easily turned away from it in libra. little things make me realise the strength of this connection, traces of love in physical, mental, and imaginary spaces. reminds me that i’m not broken, that there’s plenty in me to give. i hear it in voice.

“don’t worry. i got you.”

and then the upset.

“you should have come here first.”

i know.

weapons of mass distraction. i want to elevate, rise between this tugging-of-war, between one, another, and an intangible, unknown third. instead, i hide in a cubby hole, watching. it’s time to make a decision that involves severing. this isn’t fair on me, or the first. but in good news, i can still put the wellbeing of another before mine.

follow the signs, love. especially the one that says “OUTSIDE”.

whatever happened to care of Self? not that i’m being threatened, damaged. still (guy. from time). but… the guardian’s safety. and the conflict set up by both interpretations of that last sentence is what makes me hesitate. learning moment: i may be safe for you while you’re unsafe for me. you may be unsafe for me when i’m safe for you.

i know you’re reading this. i know you know it’s you. and i know you’re not trusting. i know. i was there, at another time.

i leave the miniature where i find it, so i can smile again later, feel the love. you can’t help yourself, can you? i’ll hold on to the sacred. so i still get to see the crinkles around those eyes. so we still get to save grace.

i’m breaking the sacrament. your confession: you want the same as me.

but i’ll tell you the same thing i said in extended play. it’s time for another cobblestoned sunrise. you dig, you down? (reminder – please send postcard moments). the trips explain the future. again, we’re connected by the tracks.

no one knows my inner mind like you do. summer projectin’ polymekanos. my deck or yours? sonny and cher.

***

Samuel Beckett:

James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.

i’ve always felt helpless when it came to you. could have – would have – done anything in my power to make things easier, simpler, happier. not my place. not allowed to be my place. shouldn’t be my place, not the way this world works.

do you even know how i feel?

security, love, music. comfort, protection, blood.

in between ultimately meaningless distractions, i think, what would i do to stop this pain? mine is easy, i can deal with it. if it takes away any of yours (and all of hers), i’ll walk with it forever.

years from now though, i’ll be fine. will you?

i can’t call, can’t reach out. frustratingly helpless, can only passively receive. and nothing i can do. absolutely nothing. not an unfamiliar situation either.

i know what happens now. i wait to hear. hope for the best. hold the piece of my heart that belongs to this person. pray for the best.

while this feeling isn’t new, it’s the first time i’ve been here so intensely. over the years of growing up, i’ve written this feeling out in poems i don’t show to others. poems that are too dark, bring up too many memories. those poems don’t get published, posted, read.

today was beautiful, but i was angry at the sun. felt betrayed that she was shining, that i’ve been shining. i resented the warmth, the emotional manipulation. today should have been like the weekend. in this land, only melancholic weather is the appropriate backdrop for anxiety.

***

forgive my vagueness and vagaries. i write this way because i can’t speak about some things. not tongue-tied, that’s too simplistic, too cliched a descriptive. my throat’s raw, and the salt from my tears burns stings. reverse dysphagia got me so i can’t even swallow anything else.

horror movie reassurances. distractions from gunshots. what are you fighting (for)?

a toy soldier with a bayonet stabbed me this morning when i was grabbing something from my fridge. would have been cute(r) had i ran into it post-coffee. i have no idea what other surprises have been left in my house. warring figurines aside, each piece of stumbled-upon is love, letting me know someone cares. and that’s so essential right now as i deal with fear.

my posts are all i make public.

once again, you heard me. how, i don’t know, i wasn’t even speaking to you but to someone else. i finally get it. i’m still looking for solace and reassurance in a place that i know at an instinctive level isn’t the right place for me, was never the right place for me, no matter how skin-deep seductive. and it’s the skin that responded, the skin that always responds.

i’m acknowledging the safety in you, and all i have to say is thank you. for your patience, faith, belief, and love. thank you for that picture, those charcoal lines. thank you, so much. for all that’s past. and all that you hold in a promise to come. every once in a while, a word/sentence/piece i bring into here and now owes its presence to you. and your assurance of support. thank you for the stories. thank you for these (you might remember):

I now believe that you were a construct, a bizarre collage of the characteristics of those who came before you. true names + star signs + repetitive destructive energies. Even the dysphagia. Your eyes, I had seen before. Everything about you was a magical fabrication. I only regret not stealing the sketches, the ones with those marvelously twisted energies but I guess that’s the way it goes. Your constant little bird left a golden-edged impression on my heart. At least I kept a memento. And I’ll keep on having your dreams.

*

My heartbeat echoes the 808 echoes this scream that emerges from a bloodied face like the liontamer’s. Exposed skin invites touch invites the sting of the whip invites the healing that comes after the punishment. Funeral parlour fumes solidify. All of these honest observations feel like the needle’s journey over bone, the eye of the needle drawing a poem guided by the body’s memory mapped out in permanence.

*

You’re my magic and I miss you. Got 17 candles in a drawer, star-shaped. Their tips were once in chocolate, remnants from a birthday celebration. Red, yellow, purple, glittered into stardust, crushed, mixed with powdered sugar. Games of treasurehunt in the night through a red haze. Switch to blue for vision, lighting crevasses with technology’s in/outs. Smile. That digital glow always reminds. When did another haze come? Perched on wood, writing dreamscapes. You’re my mystic and I miss you. Each space contains echoes of your noise, shadows of your lines. Next time, you be a tourist.

EN[D]TROPE

***

Post-confessional, walking away from the booth, post-redemption, pre-absolution, condensed for the un-necessary: it’s time to walk away, don’t look back. Walk toward.

But I know I’m not the right one to mention this.

feeling haunted, kept up, need to write it out. purge exorcise delete. i hold on too easily. but i’ve found the right solution for that, i think. i wish i could be sure about stuff, but i’m hardly certain about anything. not even the memory. spent the last few days on a different plane, disconnected on a creative tip wouldn’t you know? trying to focus, make things, make things work.

BAM – in comic book jagged edges.

a distraction. wait, i just lied, implied. not sudden, building since summer [8]. immediately after a space was recently cleared. i slash-and-burned it, listening to morrissey’s voice for ambience. not first choice, but hey. would have played lou reed, but didn’t have a car [9].

cleared space functioned as a landing pad for something that had been hovering [2]. although it was a dot on the horizon [9,7]. landed object grew like the blob, covering everything in warm wetness.

this post’s about diluting some of the energy – until i build my container. just trying to let a little bit out, so i can focus on the major endeavour. when i left this plane i left my groove. time to get it back. no stella, y’all.

to the whisperer: funny, that one showed up again, stone figurine all reassembled after i had seen it disintegrate right before my eyes. mist you. like a lamaze coach, reminding me to breathe. coaxing me. witnessing the birth of a superhero, special power the rescue of i. might still get namesake ink. i finally have it figured out: we’re from the same myth. let’s walk along the train tracks, use technology to see, and find a rooftop where i can practice what i need to say.

a message to the distracting other* [7]: i used to believe in enhancement, but at some point, in a diner somewhere-not-here, i came to believe in completion. either the object or a (gilted) replica of. i apologise for the reduction, but it’s the abstract i’m finding distracting, so simplifying. we’re from the same space, but there, i’m a crescent moon. as opposed to mist, this is tangible. don’t front, i know you got me open.

damn, in technicolour. alakazam, wonderful you came by.

10, 11, and 12.

*to those wondering if i’m addressing them – it’s only you if you understand the significance of the date this was posted. and/or this line: “but i guess it’s easy being a soldier when there’s no war”.

technically, today is the day i should be building an automaton. the day where i should place Self exterior. the day when i segregate emotions from living. but no. not today.

i want to see a photo of myself. where i’m standing, looking away from the camera, into the distance. i should look Self-unconscious, at a moment when the photographer (an intimate) caught me unawares. behind me, slightly out of focus, should be anOther entity. one that embodies me, but the neutral viewer wouldn’t be able to know this. one with buttons, machinery, strings. i should have crow’s feet, the ones i’m working on now, laugh lines that don’t reach my eyes.

the intimate who took the photo would caption it with something romantic, a projection of the feelings s/he imagines me to contain. but they would be wrong. the romanticism would be projected into the wrong object. the automaton would hold the real.

but if i were to build the automaton that would show up in a future photograph of myself today. oh, if only i would. if i were to build this objectSelf today, i would be called eccentric-crazy-weird, and i would be locked up away from this real.

which is kinda what i want right now.

A reluctance, a resistance. But life is good, opportunities raining down. A little space got made, and I’m amazed at what’s shown up to fill it.

“I heard about you, and I’m liking what you do.”

The feeling is mutual. Coffee? Let’s talk about silent movies, sound art, collage. Let’s shoot a film, make puppets, read academic papers and talk about motivating emotions. Let’s stop global warming, create world peace. Right now, I can do anything.

Something got ripped off. I thought I would feel raw, vulnerable, exposed. I feel shiny, new, fresh. Found my self-esteem, it was hiding in a bus stop. I deserve what I’m getting right now.

I’ve been neglecting this space and others, so ready, re-set, go! Reassuring words, looks, touches try to heal a wound that should be there. But I’m through with being punished unnecessarily. I’m all about celebrating myself and those who made me who I am.

Brilliant new energy, strange new place. Owing gratitude and looking for places to show it. Universe, know that I’ve learned my lesson, know that I’m grateful for how it came to be, wrapped up in cosmic dust. There’s beauty I didn’t know about before, in the unlikeliest of places. I’m so grateful for everything I’ve been through, so great-full with everything I’ve just been given.

I have so much in me to give. It’s still there, almost untapped. If only you knew, but I can’t regret what I felt to be the truth. The body knows.

Plugged right back into the city last night, Kensington Market, no less. Three different offers, life, love and work. Tell me I’m not blessed. This re-grounding is so empowering, so beautiful, like a hard-earned reward it doesn’t have to be anything special. Just acknowledgment right now is enough.

Life’s feeling like a Rubik’s cube – we’d had the blue side all straight, now the yellow’s coming together. And it’s easier from here on.

And as a final message – don’t aim for my lips, yo. They can speak for themselves.

***

ayiti nation of warriors. they’re out there still tonight. i see them when i wander and wake up in salt. i read the news reports watch the videos look at the photographs. compelled to look know that they are out there. memory is important. far away, i need to witness. we need to know what’s going on what other people are going through. it’s so painful. i’ve written pages it’s not my pain but it’s in my body. i’m too open these days. can barely think about it. the bodies look like mine my family’s my countrywo/men. the hairstyles postures stance too familiar. i’m safe, in reflection. i also wait another looming event. the next time won’t be a reflection will be my image. already parallel (universe) being drawn. some of the images trigger like the glint of fierce sun off machetes held by youth. fear pushes my tears. i see you –> me –> us.

and i understand.

***

still working through a different pain, needing to put my burden down. slowly working through, slowly eliminating. i’m also moving, and symbolically releasing with each item that doesn’t get to come with me. the new space is healing. i couldn’t voice that yesterday, but it’s healing, wholesome. an outdoors a bathtub. this is important, more important than other things that should be.

i’ve been re-accessing my community. finding the sanctuary i had been looking for elsewhere. mis-guided, but things that were hazy were made clearer. especially in response to destructive patterns.

i’m looking forward to a new part of the city, a new chance to walk different streets. i’d unplugged from the city for the last little while – retreated. time to re-treat under those sodium lamps. listen to the music on the concrete. and when it warms up a little more, get some sunshine.

i’ve been asking for a lot. needing a lot. not getting a lot. trying to get past that to the state where i can give a lot, again. but i can’t do it alone. i also can’t allow myself to be drained. the little i have left right now has to go where it’s needed.

i’m ok with failing, as long as i’ve tried.

i have to be honest, right? i did make a commitment to put it all out there, not for catharsis nor attention, but to overcome my own crippling fear of judgment and rejection. everything – absolutely everything – is bearable as long as i’m not rejected. i need to get over that. tonight for some reason it’s okay i don’t know maybe the shame tomorrow will make me take this post down.

2009 was tough. really tough. there were many beautiful and good moments, more than enough, and overall, i’m progressing achieving accomplishing. i can see and rationalise that.

there was also a lot of rocking the lowest self-esteem i’ve had in my life. dealing with depression that only seemed to get worse the more i ignored it. breaking down so often, clinging onto others, my nailmarks leaving deep scratch wounds in their skin as i fought to hold on. the ones who gave me more than i had any right to take from them. wake-up call recently. i’m still going under but i seem hellbent on not doing it solo. bent on bringing others into my own personal hell. i love them too much to hurt them like that more than i’ve hurt them so far.

i had this arrogant belief in my ability to survive, a conviction that i was the lone warrior, i didn’t need help. and then i thought that i did, and i asked for it, wanted to depend on it, relied on someone else to clear my passageways, breathe for me.

i’ve never felt this weak and helpless before. today and yesterday i felt it in my body each step painful but i’m so numb i can barely make the effort to connect mental and physical. i now understand why people cut i don’t do it to the physical but everyday i drag that blade deeper through the mental without allowing it to scar. and then i bleed over someone else.

i hurt. so i hurt others. then i watch them hurt and i hurt even more at seeing them hurt. i have to stop but i can’t but i will. now. i’m disconnecting going through the motions today tomorrow day after. until after the middle of next week. and then nothingness. disconnect to re-treat re-form.

i’m weary of the anger. 30 wasn’t supposed to be like this. 2010 wasn’t supposed to begin this way. too much to repair too much to re-pare. too much pain to reap here. i can barely type this.

i would promise i won’t hurt [you] anymore but i can’t commit to an expectation. i can barely commit to posting this.

this image is me denmark, maybe. i think hazy like the mist. the photos rip open reveal chasm. sense intertwined smell oil of olay when i see her smile. it looks simple and i still walk like that. alone never lonely love removed the real no know-how. look down step firm dress warm wear red. foreign[er] state of mind.