T.O.D. - What Once Was, May Be Again

Tonight, despite the many things churning inside, I decided to share another piece of T.O.D. . This selection is from a long time ago, perhaps 20 years or more... a time when I was hopeful but already wounded by the sting of rejection. I smile a crooked grin when I look through these old writings... wishing life could still be so simple. Sit back, prop up your feet, and witness another fine example of failure... fucking pathetic, really.


One More Day Will Pass”


    One more day has passed, and yet my lips are still sealed. A silence- a peace? Yea, it’s but a shattering in my soul. This silence, my pain, is longing to be broken; only if my words are spoken. Words of love, words of passion, and the words of my emotions. Words on how I long to hold you- a gentle embrace. Words that would turn my wounds into fallen petal kisses.
   
    One more day has passed, and yet my eyes are still closed. A blindness- the dark… keeping me a child. My blindness, keeping me from seeing that you do not care for me. For once before, I tried to speak, and lowly was I brushed away. Not seeing that there is no love in your eyes for me- only for others. Once again, I stand here alone.

    One more day has passed, and soon I’ll be dead. Not resting, but weary- from the sadness within my head. All I ever needed was love, all I ever wanted. Without love, a man shall die. In my blindness, I see that I am not worthy of any ones love. For so… on and on it goes- and one more day shall pass.

T.O.D. - Hopes Of Yesteryear

It's been awhile since you've witnessed the milky dribbling of a time now forgotten... I take you back to the age of innocence and hope. Where I'd wake to face the day with desire and passion... a man yet beaten and forgotten by time. It's pathetic, really, that I believed such vomitus bile and spewed it from my lips... it's no wonder things turned out like they did. It was an invitation for cruelty, malice, and rejection... I can see that clearly now. Here you are, have a good laugh... it's on me, at my expense. No wonder they refused to publish my "work"...


“Grain Of Sand”
    In nature’s life, many miles of failure I have passed. ‘Twas a lie birthed in a phantom’s mental demise, that my failures cry. Thus in nature’s life, you live a mirrored lie. A birth of truth was all I asked-instead shuttered out… all I asked.
   
    Have you ever felt the wind from one’s bosom it blew, knowing you’d never live in that heart? Have you ever felt the sand trickle down and off your fingertips- as an hourglass toils with your life? Have you ever had the water of Heaven roll down your back, to soothe the Devil’s flame- only to be left with your tears still not washed away? To grasp the wind and where it came. To hold that sand to stop the time in nature’s life. To stand firm and let Heaven pour down upon you, washing your tears all away. Just dreams they seem. Dreams of the world, life, and love of nature- never to be filled. But out of these dreams, none are greater than the dream to live in love. Not to be conquered alone, but with you. All in a grain of sand…
-Excerpt from T.O.D.

Raising Afterbirth

Despite the dreaded occasion... today was a fairly decent day. I met with my doctor and discussed further medication options... it was decided it would be best to give the current dosage another month before raising it to the maximum dose. Afterwards, I went to Target to get some food for the cat and to browse the video games and movies... I need more of either as much as I need a hole in the head! That's the funny thing about addiction... we become addicted to the concept of addiction, not just the things we must have. Movies replace drugs and video games replace lust. After I was finished feeding the child inside, I went to another therapy session for the week. My therapist's hours of business end at 5pm, and today's appointment was scheduled at 5pm... he cared enough to stay after hours to see me for an hour. I can't imagine many therapists would do that for their patients... he is one in a million and one of the most trusted people in my fragile, uncertain world. We talked about several things that have been weighing heavy on my heart... even though I had no idea their impact was so severe. Usual topics that push people's uneasy emotions further into the crashing waves... Mother and Father. We laughed as I screamed out in my Mother's voice, "You're a special piece of fucking shit! And God has mighty plans for your sorry, pathetic, ugly, worthless ass!"... ah, such a loving and sheltered home. I told him that I really believed, "If someone would just take a chance on me, I know my life story would make a best-seller.". I didn't say it as a form of egotism or self-puffery, it was purely based off of the extreme conditions of my life, both my upbringing and my young adult life. He agreed with me and reminded me that no matter how many times he hears the sordid details of my childhood... he is shocked and horrified all over again. Both off my doctors claim that it is nothing short of a miracle and a testament of my courage, that I'm as functional and well adjusted as I am... I can't agree, those types of flattery are removed of all validity in my mind. I was born, I lived, and I press on... the rest is what it is, nothing more. Happy Birthday, you fucking piece of shit...

A Sheep Among Shepherds

After several hours of talking to the cat last night, it occurred to me that he is the only thing keeping me here... from following through with the drastic impulse to end this pathetic existence. It's the unknown that keeps me here and beckons the needed strength to press on... what would happen to him if I passed away? Who would look after him and give him the love he deserves... yes, I am capable of expressing love. At least what my limited understanding of what love is and how it works... it's the feeling of love from others that escapes me. Any positive feeling actually... those fuzzy forest creatures of fairy tales and rose petal kisses. I told my therapist today, that I lay in bed at night repeatedly begging God to kill me... then there would be no guilt, it wouldn't be my fault if no one cared for the cat. Wishful thinking... it would always be my fault, just as it has been for so long. How pathetic is that... living for a cat? Not a dream or purpose, nor friends or family... but a cat, just a cat. Tomorrow is my birthday, bring to a close a year since my would-be 10th anniversary of my death...after I full year I still feel cheated and in utter disarray. If you remember, a year ago I spoke about how I used to tell people I'd never see my 25th birthday... I worked very, very hard to see that come to fruition. Ultimately failing in the end... no surprise there, failure is the prize winning goose of my life. At any rate, last year I turned 35... thus marking 10 years ago that I should have been rotting in the earth. Instead, I rot above ground... still a sizable feast for the vermin and turning worms. A year has passed and I've yet to come to terms about still being alive... that's fucked up, really. I suppose most would be grateful and extremely appreciative to wake and walk upon the earth... pleading with their maker for another day to laugh, love, and remember. I know, poor fucking me... so pathetic, tired, and worthless. It's fucking hard living an empty life of regret and remorse... feeling nothing but hatred from everyone that surrounds me. My reflection is as hollow as the words shuffling off the people's mouths as they harken their love and compassion for this empty vessel... in the end, it just words. Meaningless, dirty, hollow words. It's the empty plate among the fatted feast... how would you feel if it were you sitting here? Could you? Can I? Why?

Por Librada

No matter how many times you've approached the edge... each fall is always different. Destinations bypass and intersect... the simplistic elegance of the journey, undone and unwitting. It's where I long to be. I've been thinking a lot about that day... some time ago, in another life. I'll never forget the sorrow in your eyes... the loss before and beside you. It was midday, the skies were black and the rains had been beating the dried soil for hours on end... the cracks in the earth guzzled the tears, never once softening their rigged edges. You came to my door, where you were greeted with silence... just the empty, hollow knock of your rapping. I was nesting in the back, as usual, dancing in the Black Room... my mistress underneath me and my master crouched above. I imagine after a time, you left the front door and came to the rear of the house... every step drenching you further as the waters chilled your fragile mind and weary bones. There it was, a rapping, it was you begging to to see the carnage behind the door... I heard you, but I didn't answer. Twice more you knocked... you could smell the sweat through the walls and hear the shuffling of humanity and recklessness. I rose from the chair, and floated lifelessly towards the door... as it opened, the grey, clouded light filled the Black Room and I stood there unimpressive in my standing. You lifted your head, to meet your eyes against mine... greeted only with an empty eyed stare and a drooling maw to gaze upon. The rain had matted your ruffled curls and the rain drops had breed with your tears and compassion... it's your face that still haunts me to this very day. Through the crackling of the skies, you spoke to me gently... saying only that she had passed but moments ago. Without a thought or reaction, as your head lowered in grief... in my place where my voice should stand, you found only swollen wood. The wind blew the snot and sorrow from your mouth as the door slammed before your very eyes... she was gone and so was I.

Behind Porcelain Eyes

The information is raw, leaving me exposed in the most delicate of fashion... sitting on the toilet, with my pants and underwear wrapped loosely around my ankles, as the awaited stream spurts from my soon to be flaccid penis. It shows everything in my past... the bodies I've slept with and the ones rotting in the closet or under floorboards. You've seen my worst, the things that cripple me with anguish and disgust... but you'll need to look in deeper to find the truth. Puzzles, oh how we've grown to love them... words sticking out from under the shrubbery, awaiting you to trample over them and discover their purpose. We've lived with the face of shame for far too long... there is nothing sacred in here. We'll lay it all down before you, like a baby on a stone alter... waiting to be feasted upon and it's drinkers infused with knowledge and power of understanding. I am the sacrificial lamb, the choir is the gods that demand it, and you shall be my savior... my redemption and entrance into the next level of ascension. Perhaps then, when someone would gaze into my eyes... looking past the flesh and into my soul, seeing the truth and sickness within. Would they still welcome me into their arms and hearts... accepting it all and fully understanding where I've been? The meaning behind the cryptic words and vivid descriptions... the answer to matted hair, cotton flowers, 1013, 2003, Salem, milk and honey, and my first kiss. Could a man that was rejected from their mother's womb, in attempt to end what had begun, a man that laid with the beasts to find comfort and acceptance, a man that wrapped the twine tightly around his fists to silence the cancer within, a man that distorted innocence to become an affectionate embrace... be wanted and cherished by anyone other than those dwelling within? Could these debts be paid and forgiven... is there really a point to this all? Nonetheless, I have nothing to lose... no self respect or dignity. Pride fell long ago, from the throne of the heart... it rests now in ash, in the nest of hair, lace, and semen. Forsake me not... not for my words or deeds, nor the things not easily understood. I am here, I am alive, for better or for worse... I need this peace to swaddle my soul. I need you...

1013 And Vitamin T

First of all, I want to apologize about the lack of entries lately... the small amount of energy and drive I usually have for writing is being used up by this photo project. It seems impossible to get out of bed most days, which means I'm not sitting at my desk pouring my mind onto "paper", as it were. We're hoping as time goes on, I will develop a routine that will allow me to write more frequently... "want in one hand and shit in the other", as my Grandmother used to tell me. At any rate, I appreciate and value all of you that come and visit with me... deciphering the madness from tangible information.

Things have gotten a tad better... I'm trying to be optimistic here, so just go along with it, huh? There have been a few times of laughter over the past few days... usually during "tense" moments of violent, horror movies. Doesn't everyone find themselves laughing every time someone gets killed? The moments of wanting to kill myself are becoming further spread apart... rather than hours on end of being tormented and taunted into inserting a knife in my throat or in my bicep, then ripping it down to my wrist. Despite the misery of the recent reminders... not once have I found myself lost in tears over it. Perhaps I was too depressed to cry... is that even possible? The will and desire to write is just about gone... even the desire to play my video games is gone. I used to play them all the tie as a form of therapy... digital therapy I called it. But it's been dry... no rainstorm of obsession or desire to sit at my desk and lose myself in an RPG. In addition to rotting away, we've been smoking a lot of cigars lately... too many actually. I had to put in another order for some despite my limited budget... I just find them so soothing and therapeutic. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that I'm an avid tobacco aficionado... okay well that's not quite true, it might. I just love smoking...whether in my pipe, cigars, hand-rolled cigarettes, I fucking love it. The rituals, the long drags, the release of chemicals in my brain... it's the total experience, fucking brilliant! I'm sure it sounds stupid or perhaps hazardous... but I need to have something that soothes me in this world. Something that gives me pleasure and interest enough to continue pressing onward...she used to love the smell of tobacco on my chest. Simple memories that can gut a man into a putrid mess... replacing warm scents with ripping flesh and blood stained, cotton flowers.

When Angels Die

It has come and within a few hours it will pass... this day, her day, is a rusted blade twisting in my stomach, digging deeper with each thrust and the bile consumes me from the inside. It is the worst day of the year... the day my heart dies just a little more. You've heard me mention other days that were extremely difficult for me, like March 15 for example, but this day... it's rated number one on the suffering menu. "So let me guess... it's about a woman, obviously since you said 'her day'. So what could this delicate flower have ever done to you that causes you so much suffering?". Well, yes, it is about a woman and no, it's not about what she did to me... not in the least. Today is her birthday, that's why it is such a painful reminder... not of her, but of me. My closest understanding and concept of love is being used when I say, I don't hate her at all... I love her. That in itself is a terribly confusing truth... the ins and outs of what love really is and the lines that separate the differences between such loves. This day should be about her and the wonderful person that she is... somewhere in my twisted mind this day became all about myself and the disgusting piece of filth and rotten flesh I've become. It's a reminder of the people I've hurt, especially her, both directly and indirectly in her name. I have been the root of much suffering to several people... both hurting her and hurting people with her. The sorrow is overwhelming and the knots in my gut feel as if they as going to bust. I lay in bed crying, begging for it to all go away... desperately clinging to the thought that I need to die to begin to make even the slightest bit of redemption. How could I have ever done those things? I remember each instance like it was only yesterday, and every time I look upon my face I want to smash the remaining life out of those hollow eyes... I need to rip it out, rip it out! I spoke to her today, as I always do, and she said, "I love you"... the words that melt away the hardest soul, only cause me incredible grief and sorrow. I don't understand it, I can't feel it, and I certainly can't accept it... what is love and why, oh why, would you waste it on me? After everything I've done... I can't be the only one that remembers, and I know the choices that were made impacted our lives forever. Perhaps it is just a common courtesy... words that fill the void with expected tones but have no real meaning to themselves. Either way, I fucking hate me... if I had any real courage at all, I would stick a dagger through my throat once and for all. I just want it to stop... for the love of God, make it fucking stop! All I can say is, I am sorry... so very and sincerely sorry. Fuck...

Overfill, Overfire

How is the view... down here, at the bottom of my hole? The cat never lies, and he's content in knowing there's many more doors to be opened... our fingers live in the earth, as tills we turn like worms, earth to earth. Sacrifice. Diana has suggested taking all of the pieces out of the box, spreading them across the the floor for inspection and dissection... while Richard laughs at the destined frustration. Come down and lay next to me while we ogle at pieces in sight... the fondling hasn't begun, so there's no need for lubrication. The choir demands we make clear the context of Lubrication... there are three types herein, your efforts will still be needed. Social Lubricant, is any substance that releases your natural inhibitions: drugs, alcohol, or ritual. Sexual Lubricant, is the fluid used to decrease the irritating effects of too much friction: tears, bile, or money. Finally, Life Lubricant, is the substance acquired from years of anguish and suffering: blood, feces, or vomit. Let not your glasses become clouded... return your view to the pieces, as they wiggle and scamper in delight.

The ones with the most vigor would be the choir, several pieces uneven in agreement . Then there are Diana and Richard, two entirely different people that live on the outside, looking in. There are memories and deeds, scattered with care... feeding each other with doubt and flesh. Maria has a corner of her own, built out of the compounding interest of my soul. Stuffed animals running with scissors and Jesus bowing his head in shame. A chair named virginity, cold with sweat and vinyl... they won't come out until we stop crying. Must. Stop. Matted hair and knotted bed sheets... they belong together in a sense, but separated in time. Broken fingernails stuck in the concrete and razor blades gone on holiday in the Swiss Alps. Layers of lies and masks piled on trash bags of sun rotted flesh.... the pupils dilate and saliva thickens in anticipation. Blood. So much blood. There's mine, yours, hers, his, and theirs... I know the scent and taste of each, and the color of which it flowed. There's my screams and the one's that silence them... with a hidden jar used in secret for lubrication. Teeth. The teeth that bite, the ones that gnash, and the broken ones... a mixture of mouths, some more even then the others. Broken fingers and guitar strings that suspend the life once known. The snake, the desert, and the scampering of shadows and dirt, not from earth, as a pillow. And then there's Serah Weaver, dancing in the darkness by herself.

Being Serah Weaver

As promised, here is the tale of Serah Weaver... who is this mystery person and what is the meaning behind my constant searching? Serah Weaver is in fact a woman... although, the choir would argue that she is actually a New-Half or pre-op transgender (She-Male). Genitalia and gender are the absolutely least important piece of Serah Weaver... she is my twin flame and answer to every prayer and desire in a person. As you've probably figured out thus far, Serah Weaver doesn't exist in my life... hence the constant searching. The name is from two sources: Serah Farron, from the Final Fantasy Series, and Sigourney Weaver, the famous actress... two things I've loved deeply since childhood, Final Fantasy and Alien. Okay, now that we've got that covered, what makes Serah Weaver so ideal... what type of fantasy person has your sick, twisted, deviant mind dreamt into existence? Well, thank you for asking... please, allow me to continue. Serah Weaver enjoys the same things in life that I do... video games, various forms of art (writing, sculpting, making music), silence, watching DVDs in bed while eating popcorn, animals, horror movies, fantasy creatures (fairies, elves, trolls), magic (lore and ritual), ancient civilizations, myths and legends, and spiritual experiences. It would be a communion of the mind and spirit... whether it was to just sit in silence reflecting on life or abducting, torturing, and slowly killing random people. We would be in sync, complementing each other and working together in all situations of life. Serah would be kind and thoughtful, but also firm and assertive when needed. She would have a great sense of humor and highly intelligent. She would find joy in the simple things in life and would understand my complex way of thinking. Feeling love would no longer be a dream, but rather a reality... I would feel it in her eyes and words and it would warm the very depths of my being. When she wraps her arms around me, all of the negative energies and vibrations would be replaced by a comforting cocoon of love and peace and for the first time in my life I would know what a real embrace was and how it could make your soul quench for more. Some would argue, that Serah Weaver is just a fantasy or perhaps even a perverse and offensive idea... of course, those people would be hypocrites because who hasn't thought about their "perfect" partner? Serah Weaver could be the girl next door or perhaps even one of you reading this right now. Maybe, just maybe though, Serah Weaver isn't another person out there that needs to be found... perhaps Serah Weaver is really the missing pieces of myself that I've yet to discover. Where is your Serah Weaver... and will you ever find them?

Kathy's Song... The Only Truth I Know, Is You

For about a year now, you've seen the name Serah Weaver being mentioned... all that's really known up to this point is that it's someone I've been longing to find. We've decided the time has come to share who Serah Weaver really is to all of those that are curious... however, there is one more thing to be addressed before the curtain has been pulled back. I know, I know, this might be disappointing to a few of you, especially for those trying to decipher if Serah Weaver is a man or woman from my writings... women with mustaches, beards with matching lipstick, and erect penises under delicate petticoats. Have faith, all of the answers are coming in my next post... but for now, there is one more item which needs to be displayed. Intimacy. Sexual Relations. The world of touch viewed through my eyes.

I've touched lightly on this subject various times, often within rants of frustration and rage against people and their accusations.... other times about the young people of today fucking everything that moves without consequences. However, I'm uncertain if I've stated my actual feelings and thoughts about it in regards to my life and various mental illnesses. Richard and Diana have different thoughts and feelings on this matter, but they've refused to share their insights until a later time... the choir however, reserves the right to chime in at anytime without notice. Personally, I have nothing wrong with actual intimacy between people in a serious, mature, committed relationship... intimacy doesn't have to mean sexual intercourse however. People just hooking up and having casual sex, I don't really see a problem with as long as they are responsible for their actions and don't violate someone's free will... as for myself however, I view this as a very disrespectful act to all of those involved. In my opinion, sexual intercourse involves the exchange of energy and personal essence to the other parties... this is something that should be sacred and reserved for the appropriate time and place in people's personal lives. The choir insists that their thoughts be mentioned in this particular moment... fuck everything- whether it moves or not, live or dead, and beast or human. Satisfied??? Moving on. As for myself, I haven't had sexual relations with anyone in a very long time and extremely limited non-sexual intimacy. This illness, among other factors such as being emotionally / physically / sexually assaulted by family members, drugged / tortured / raped by a dentist, and my own deviant trespasses and violated innocence, makes this type of behavior all but an impossible task. I can't stand to be touched in any regard... it is a complete violation and assault of the senses. Adding insult to injury, I can't process the emotions involved in a casual physical exchange either... the motives and feelings behind a handshake or a hug are endless and completely confusing, thus very, very upsetting. It's similar to relationships in my highly dysfunctional life... what is the difference between loving a friend, spouse, child, animal? What does a touch mean, what are the parameters, and how are you supposed to feel? As much as I want to feel and understand love, touch, friendship... wanting isn't enough. The wiring in my shell and the programs have been deleted or corrupted long ago... what once was, has no further meaning now. I bury those feelings deep within this swirling vortex of entropy, I keep them locked up tight so I will cause no harm to others or myself. The heart is a fragile and sensitive item of curiosity... even one that is blackened and stale can still be hurt. The difference is, if I hurt someone they'd understand why and how they were hurt... I wouldn't know what that meant, how it happened, or how to feel about it. My existence is a life without love, touch, and as little emotion as possible... how cool is Schizophrenia now?

Elucidation

There are certain rules to be followed to decipher the messages hidden within... a place for every step, scampering or not, for your hands are not your own. Nothing is as it seems, when the bile spews forth in the dancing rhythms of tongue... stare aimlessly and words unfold themselves in pictures of time. Use your heart to read the words that follow, for your mind holds firmly on the pedestrians...  feel the sorrow and become the violator, for the victim's viewpoint is biased by traditional morality. Explore the limitless scenery and let loose the restraints of your imagination and inhibition... bathe in the lunacy and feast upon the deviant's offerings, forgetting yourself and limitations. There are reasons behind the side-stepping and the words used to express the thoughts and memories... redemption has a price steeper than confession You must become me as I become those that suffered... both sides must be expressed and experienced for growth and healing to occur. To fully understand the concept and impact of murder, you must become the murderer and the murdered.

T.O.D. - The Gaping Maw

It becomes deafening... the clicking and whirring, voices in one accord yet disarray. Recent conversations have unearthed the once prized stability... flaming torches of confession burn away foundations in the name of desperation and unchecked passions. My breath has become powdered chalk and ash... blinding the eyes of whom I so desired to see with clarity. The cancerous mass, once labeled a tongue, infects the ears that would listen... once what was one, has now become none. As I bathe in this wake of ruin, they sing once more in revelry. Your silence was an omen. Had I heeded you luster, my words would merit a continuance... now marred, the feasting begins.


"Emotional Roller Coaster"

Up, down- loaded gun in a holster;
I am your emotional roller coaster.
Inside, outside- as I fall apart;
I feed on blood and broken hearts.
Hold on, scream- life makes you dead;
I have many unseen turns up ahead.
Turn to the left, then to the right-
I am that denizen ripping you at night.
Back and forth- we go there once more-
I've always lived by words that tore.
There is no escape from this you see-
All because you made yourself love me.

-(An excerpt from T.O.D.)

T.O.D. - What All Want, But So Few Obtain

Once again, I am turning back the clock... to the days of wind and freedom. Showing the "other" side of myself... the one not stricken with madness, despair and festering ire. Ah, we know what it is... the love piece, how trite. Yes, I am still a sappy, bleeding heart... fucking pathetic as that may be. Just because I have never felt love or loved, doesn't mean I can't have an opinion on the matter. Save the moaning and negative commentary... I have enough coming from the choir. Sometimes, we just do things we need to do... simple as that. Spider webbed tapestry and laced words still apply... you won't get off so easily. From T.O.D. ... more of the lost.


"I Have But One Heart"

I have but one heart and soul to give-
It is buried deep inside you; it lives.
Time has passed, yet nothing has grown cold.
Still I dream of holding you, when I am old.
If you had a source- you'd flow from within.
If you had a place- it's everywhere I've been.
Again at last- you have returned life unto me-
Expressed by those tender moments; love, you see.
For there wasn't a moment I had left your side...
I grow and beat within you- in there I abide.


00.12.09

T.O.D. - Five To One

I'll be the first to admit that my understandings and perceptions are often times askew... then again, people misunderstand my contorted speech more often than not. People with their silver, split tongues weave insults inside of embraces... the same manner in which I flirt with mystery and uncertainty in my phrases. May the Heavens embrace your wounded heart and your quiet offer you solace... find your peace elsewhere and shut the fuck up! It's an Eloquent Dismissal... how poetic one's venom can taste. I have shown many sides of my tongue here... various writings and rants inspired by passion, rage, insanity, love, loss, society and violence. They are all parts of whom I really am... my filter is broken and I have nothing left to lose. Indeed, I can be vulgar and offensive, but that isn't my mission... I am here to bellow my silent scream to the void. Everything that I have written, everything, has a hidden layer and message to someone... nothing is as simple as it appears. Looking through the "dusty box", I found another poem that was removed from the original draft of T.O.D. ... it just show's another side of myself, another ripple in the water. Long ago, someone asked me to write them a poem pertaining to a sexual encounter. It was an unusual request from a stranger... typed into a chat room conversation, simply to prove I was capable.


"Last Night"

Last night you touched me, but not the first time;
Experiences and pleasures... birthing my rhyme.
You held me close, as you welcomed me in;
Sparked my passions... from the depths within.
As we touched, our bodies merged into one;
Wet lips and fingertips, oh the web we spun.
Pulses arose, staggered gasps, then a soft moan;
Your hands and tongue- the things I was shown.
You pulled me out, then back in again;
Raising my climax, to taste my within.
As I lay there, so milky soft on your skin;
Eruptions of tingles, how long it had been.
Shakes and sighs, as our hands clasp tight;
Minutes slipping- I was in you all night.
Your wetness and flavor, still over me;
Not just my body, but my soul you did see.

Me And My Head

From time to time, I like to write down a quote from something that I find to be brilliant. Whether or not it really is, could always be debated... nonetheless, I still find it fascinating. Here is a quote from my favorite movie, The Tenant, by Roman Polanski. It is based off of the book, Le Locataire (The Tenant), by Roland Topor. It is a masterful piece of work, both the book and the movie... no matter how many times you read/watch it, you will never truly know what really happened. Was Trelkovsky really Madame Choule? Was there ever even a Trelkovsky? The questions go on and on and many have theorized the truth behind those questions... but the true answer is long gone, rotting in the grave of Roland Topor. Fucking brilliant.


"Tell me- At what precise moment does an individual stop being who he thinks he is? You cut off my arm, right? I say me and my arm. You cut off my other arm. I say me and my two arms. Take out my stomach, my kidneys- assuming that were possible. And I say me and my intestines. Follow me? And now, if you cut off my head... would I say, me and my head or me and my body? What right has my head to call itself "me"?"

-Trelkovsky, The Tenant

Synchromesh

After speaking with my therapist and much thought, I decided to go ahead and give this whole "book" thing another shot. The choir isn't pleased and I am under continual scrutiny... nonetheless, the gears are spinning and in motion. I asked him to "take the gloves off" and "give it to me straight"... is this even anything someone would want to read? Does it make for an interesting story? He told me yes and that he thought not only would people love to read it, but it could also do me a lot of good in writing it all down. I was a bit confused about his answer and asked he if he was feeding some delusional, grandiose thought... again, the answer was supportive. So I decided I should ignore the cat for awhile and attempt to filter out the voices... easier said than done to be sure, but I think it might be possible for a time. This week, I will begin an outline and start sifting through the debris. The whole point behind the book is to perhaps reach out to someone that is struggling with the same illness and situation... perhaps I could be of some use after all. As for a tool to heal from the decades of abuse... I am not really all that interested. Sure, life has sucked at times... but honestly, I don't fret over the events of my life as a victim. Now it would be used as a potential tool to clear my conscience for the things I have done to others and the destruction that was birthed by my own hand... guilt has tormented me for years and I need some release from this cage. Things are looking up to be sure. On an interesting side note, I was approached by someone and asked if I would participate in an interview about the mentally ill / artist persona. Seeing how lots of the worlds greatest artists were suffering from a mental illness, they thought it might be interesting to interview me. I was shocked by the offer... more so flattered by being called an artist. After a little thought, I decided I would do it and responded via email to the unusual request. I am uncertain if it is still going to happen, because I am so extremely talented at shitting all over good things... time will tell if my ramblings have robbed me of this experience. All in all, there is a small glimmer of light up ahead... medication time, medication time.

Rethinking T.O.D.

Today I found myself swept away and in thought... perhaps I should reload that dream and inhale deeply. People tell me quite often, that I should write a book about my life. My usual response is, "Did that once... fucker wouldn't print.". Reminded again today in casual conversation, the notion actually stuck against the back of my mind. Bouncing around inside with the choir debating furiously, I thought perhaps maybe I should give it another go. After all, the last attempt was more of a chronological collection of my writings and poetry over the years... not a real book about my life. Every time I see my therapist and I spin the tales of old, he is either in utter shock, tear bursting laughter or cringing empathy. Someone told me today that I could perhaps touch a lot of peoples' lives in various ways... their reactions to the events in my life would inspire an onslaught of emotions ranging from fury, anguish, sorrow, contempt, joy, peace, encouragement. These are not my words... personally, I don't think people would care to read the ramblings of an ex-junkie schizophrenic. Still, the thought lingers. Finding myself in a state of delusional bliss... what if I really could just touch one person? Change one opinion? Inspire one dream? The notion sounds terribly insane as I write these words down... I can't even remember to eat everyday, how the fuck am I going to make a difference? The debate is ongoing... the choir and the cat are disgusted and relentless. Regardless of their opinion or any of my own personal feelings about the issue, I need to make an appointment with a lawyer and ask some questions... my only concern is my safety. If I decide to attempt such an adventure, I thought it would be nice to add some of my writings and poetry within the book... perhaps at the beginning of each chapter, something relevant. The original T.O.D. was my dream to have my poetry published, so it seems fitting. It's just a thought... one of many.

T.O.D. - On A Softer Side

More remnants of T.O.D. ... I was looking through it tonight and I figured I would post something softer for once. Reliving the past, offers a strange comfort... perhaps it is just from remembering simpler days...



“What You Are To Me”

You are my breath,
The air- all that fills and surrounds me.
You are my light,
Shimmering- the beauty and life I see.
You are my reason,
Answers- my purpose and destiny to be.
You are my thoughts,
Inspirations- desires and passions set free.

Grace and style;
The pleasures that you bring.
Peace and simplicity;
My heart and soul doth sing.
Purity and divinity;
Your promise not to sting.
Compassion and love;
You have made me a king.
Forever searching- but now I see…
For this is what, you mean to me.

What Is T.O.D. ?

Assuming anyone even reads this blog, perhaps I should take some time to explain this reoccurring terminology- T.O.D. . What the hell am I talking about? Well, T.O.D. , is the abbreviated title of my book I wrote long long ago. The actual title is "Thoughts… Or Delusions, Whatever They May Be". It's basically a collection of my poetry, writings and experiences of my life. In an earlier post, I referred to it as a failure... which in a sense it was and in another it wasn't. I've had some of my poetry published in several books, so in a way it wasn't a complete failure. As a whole however, things didn't go so well. I used to know this really rich guy that owned several businesses, one of which was a publishing house. I gave him a copy of my book and he just loved it... he said he found it very moving. Then he told me, "But... I can't publish it for you. Poetry doesn't sell unless your dead or famous.". So, with my tail between my legs, there ended my writing career. So, long story made short... T.O.D. is a book. My book... my life... my long lost dream.