5

(Saturday)
　
(waking from vivid dreams and shifting)
　
So now I understand sex, and how it correlates with my story.
It’s passion. It’s freedom to feel. I’ve been so numb for so long, it’s hard to train myself into the other direction, the other side of the scale, the physical-alive place instead of living on that periphery between life and death -- as a soul.
A__ chose oppositely. It almost seems like she chose the same, growing up to be so mean and back stabbing. The problem is, she lied, she lied to me, she lied about me, she lied to social workers, she lied against me, kept me in the horrific so she wouldn’t have to feel old pain. She thinks she’s honoring the little girl by not remembering her, not acknowledging her pain, so she doesn’t have to feel it. It leaves her numb, her life stalled out.
She forced me to go against her, something I didn’t do, I didn’t go against my own siblings, I took abuse for Trevor, to spare Trevor. I am the absolute opposite of her, though we look so much alike, and our lives compare most to a train wreck.
Turns out being bisexual enough to remember sexual abuse isn’t the opposite of heterosexuality, it’s farther in the same direction. Just like the book said it would be. It said that the earlier in life you start having sex the more likely you’ll reach the point of bisexuality, because you’re more experienced, farther along.
Ever since I was a teenager and couldn’t remember anything before the age of twelve, I always felt such a virgin, no wonder my mind has had such a hard time making the switch, to know and not know at the same time, to feel but not feel all the way. The human body is extraordinary, I suppose, a miracle even, maybe that’s the idea behind Life all along, the reason for it, the art of it, what these souls have accomplished.
And the reason I’m okay with all this is because I’m Him. Not That, that other definition the House taught, demanded, just to sustain itself, and its lies, just like how A__ does now. I sustained the other definition somehow -- Him -- managed it, never forfeited the entitlement, even when I was fighting all on my own in an entire universe of lies and mystery and mirrors.
To have lived on that periphery, to have shifted instead of slept. To have to take notes so that when I shifted back to 2009 I would know it, and maybe make it look seamless to the people around me, who aren’t from Horrific, and only know the word as a rumor.
I would wonder how it was that there could be two types of feeling: one without words and one with. To physically feel and then soulfully. And how was it that the two could be separate and the same? Like two sides of the same coin.
I could feel when I was a boy and my body carried that with me into adulthood but it wasn’t until adult hood that I could register it to the point of articulation, so it’s like it happened to me as an adult.
I think the secret is that in order to be fully physical, fully in that pleasure-filled place of being all the way in the moment, to the point of wordlessness, you have to be moving forward.
That’s what makes sex a ritual at the same time that it is procreation. Sex is always moving forward to the end result of orgasm, or the meeting of sperm and egg.
It is intensely pleasurable if you can get to that passionate point of wordlessness, inhibition, and hold on to it, slow it down, squeeze all the enjoyment possible out of each second, each second moving forward, but being so present it’s almost like you’re not moving forward, like you’re timeless, like you’re a soul.
If you’re powerful enough, you can get there, that far into pleasure, the secret is to be brave enough to come that forward into the physical, where it can be terrifying to lose the ability to articulate what you’re feeling, to feel something that new that strongly, it can be frightening enough to stop a life, even it’s your own life, but at the same time so pleasurable, the wordless life of animals makes sense.
It makes sense that a fly can be born just to live long enough to have sex, and then immediately die. It makes sense that the fly has missed out on nothing.
So it wasn’t a question of being Real or not. I was Real all along. It was a question of being happy, of being that free, of attaining the wordless pleasure of it in every moment I can, of attaining that eternal entitlement -- performing the art of souls, and being it at the same time -- Him.
So other people don’t have to articulate sex, they just have sex. I come from sexual abuse, so sex and the horrific went together, and I had to be powerful, brave, passionate, to get past that.
I didn’t ask for R__ to do that to me. I was a baby boy. This culture will say the opposite. It will say it was my fought in order to sustain itself and keep the status quo.
People find passion to be inconvenient and selfish. My MO I suppose. But I have loved, I proved it to myself with how selfless I can be, no wonder the habit: a whole deployment of taking care of K__; taking care of W__ while I was in artillery; taking care of House through the transition back onto this side of the ocean.
Now that it’s proven, I can stop trying to prove it to myself, I can accept that I am good. That despite how much I like sex I won’t rape, I won’t abandon my children the way L___ did, I’ll be Him instead.
I like being so successful I can get a good looking partner, who really loves me. I like being successful in general. It all feels the same, but now it doesn’t freak me out anymore.
It’s okay to feel good, but I won’t choose feeling good over the ones in my charge. I won’t choose it over a lover.
I remember when I was little, having crushes on guys sometimes as well as the slew of girls. When I remember so freely, I’m less numb. I used to think freedom was allowing myself to unravel, whether in drunkenness or what have you. Turns out freedom was holding on, despite anything. That’s why I can’t get drunk anymore, the world just throbs instead.
The whole world is bisexual, hence there’s no reason for the word, it only exists due to ignorance. To communicate the ignorance and to dispute and rectify it.
I wonder if all words are like that. The whole world is souls, most just don’t know it. Since the word is assumed, no need for that word either. There is no such thing as civilian, and all the world is horrific, because it sets within that context eternally. People just don’t know it. Since it’s already true, no need for words like civilian or horrific either. Wordlessness. Except that people just don’t know it. Hence, the existence of wordsmiths, translators, teachers.
I saw the film A Streetcar Named Desire once. I liked it but didn’t exactly know why. They say its dynamic is between the honesty of a man -- the brutal power and strength -- versus the seductiveness of a woman.
It would be so easy for her to insert a lie somewhere in her seduction, her manipulation of his perception, her trying to make him fall for her.
I wonder if my problems with sexuality have always stemmed from the perversion of that natural dynamic by always having been surrounded by the horrific-ness of women disguised by the usual petty tricks of seduction.

__________

　
I don’t mind the people who have treated me badly, or at least inevitably won‘t.
It’s like the physical world is the Nature channel, and if you have a weakness, you’re gonna be dead soon: like if you’re temporarily sick or you have a sprained hoof.
But the physical world isn’t the whole of it. So when the lion comes for me and my temporarily weakened state, if the physical were the whole of it, I’d be dead, long dead, I should have been dead when I was little and in the House being abused like that, and even if I did manage through the House somehow, I still should have died when I stepped out in a world full of people not from the Horrific, people who only know it as a rumor and little more.
But I didn’t die, because the world is Real, because of the souls, the non physical.
Back in the ancient times the two sides of life reckoned with each other in different ways, one was by saying words, casting spells.
The druid on the hilltop in Ireland, his face to heaven, causing success in a battle for which Ireland is woe prepared. An old woman reaches out to the baby bleeding out, its Mother now shrieking for the baby boy’s life. The old woman is so moved by the passion of the mother she becomes truly present and speaks words which alone stop the bleeding, close the wound.

__________

　
I watched tennis and women‘s volleyball, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, waiting the detox out. I watched the bodies instead of the ball, I stopped paying attention to the story of winner/loser and really watched instead. Afterwards I played the piano, athletically this time. I had never played so well in my life.
It’s like moving like an animal. Quick short movements if I want to. It’s like the more I allow sexuality, not just the memories there this time, but the sexuality, the freer my body gets, the freer it feels. And there are all these little rewards.

__________



I’ve lost weight around my face. The chin and jawbone are more pronounced, and my head seems shorter.
The chemical burning feel is hard to explain. It’s in all my fluids, the moisture of my mouth, even my eyeballs. It burns.
There’s also this ear thing where it’s like air gets trapped in the one I am sleeping on and when I wake up I can’t hear through it for a little while.

__________