6

It’s true that everything is communication.
Maybe they wanted me to know the horrific they had known. Maybe L__ just wanted me to know what her world was like, A__ just wanted me to know, H__ just wanted me to know, R___. (But what if they are liars?)
Maybe absolutely everything is communication. A piece of wood that was part of the building of a house, a brick, a rainfall, a sunny breeze, see what I can do, what I truly am, everything wants to be valued, everything wants to be believed. It’s like feeling the whole world. Except I’m a part of that world, and I have to make the choice of whether I’m a part of ‘everything’ or not, if I feel the same way or not.

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The idea, is to learn to be happy.
Oddly, the hardest part of being high all the time has been showering, grooming, etc.
It’s such a private thing to do. Usually I keep the television on, or the radio real loud. But the idea was to be happy in the horrific, more powerful than it, to be happy in the silence and stillness. I couldn’t break that.
Especially when I’m high, because my eyes don’t look quite right in the mirror. I know it’s not really my face, this shaving cream striped face, but in a way it its, because I‘m a soul. It’s hard to be Real.
I’m used to keeping a shaved or at least short-cropped hair style. When I let my hair grow out and afterwards shower, it feels like I’m a little kid again, taking a crisp shower because there’s no air conditioning and there was a drought that summer.
I cut my lip shaving, then burned it with the careful facial creams. I look at my face. It’s not so bad. Just little redness at the corner of the eyes, a glassy look.
The thing about not eating is your six pack stays intact.

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The thing about being Anonymous, is I never have to express myself, I just conform, I just Melt.
I never show my true expression, I’m never seen.
It used to be a crime committed against myself; now it’s a crime I commit against others.
I don’t wear clothes that express who I am, I don’t dress like Lady Gaga just as a point of principle.
I do the opposite, wearing what’s in style and universal, reserve my entitlements for the generations between my legs, square my shoulders, look forward, remain in waiting, remain silently Invisble, just as Ellison had described.
There were moments I was so Raw. My movements and expression so sexual there couldn’t be anything else going on inside of me.
I’ve had the adventure, the coming of age, the dark night with the soul, the mid-life crisis, the nervous breakdown, the primal rite of passage to what‘s between my legs.

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The beach trip is in a few days. I love the beach but I hate having my shirt off in public. At home I love my body. I feel like a guy in an underwear commercial. Confident, relaxed.
I feel bad for setting such a thick boundary between me and Br__ that I lied to her about my sexual orientation.
I think people need space. A little space with a salty air on a porch in relaxation. Maybe she just needs space, too. She wrote that she intended to drink.
I used to go on vacation anonymously with only strangers -- I traveled alone. Now it feels like I’m going traveling with a woman who knows she might always be a stranger.
After showering, and the redemptive creams I used had dried, I packed the suitcase, an old fashioned one I’d found at a thrift store.
I thought about all the things I came across in thrift stores, in shopping malls, that I think would be great for the beach, that I only own because one day I might go to the beach. They’re packed up now so I go through the boxes, finding the articles.
I set the camera aside; it’d be great to take pictures. I pack an extra set of running shoes. Running on the beach is supposed to be a big deal. There’s nothing wrong with living life hopefully.

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I saw this idea of how human beings interact. It’s all sexual chemistry. There’s this meter inside of everyone that regulates their behavior. The more platonic the relationship is, the safer it is for each gender to have that kind of chemistry going on. The kind of chemistry that leads to a deeper understanding.

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Funny how when I’m like this I can see the words on the page looking back at me, swirling up with my typing fingers, making me feel how I choose my own story by choosing my own perception, then fighting for it. Am I simply psyching myself out?
It seems too good to be true. Just be happy. It’s summer.
I remember how as a kid and especially a teenager how easily I believed the stories. A baseball game here, a group of teenagers traveling down country roads with the top down under a starry night. My one night as a teenager.

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It’s like I wanted to live life to its fullest one time on my own, even if it meant forfeiting having someone. I wanted to live it once that way first, and hopefully finish young enough so I could live it again with a companion. I wouldn’t let any would-be companion take that away from me.
I might be Raw, but I wanted to be Brave, I wanted the Tough qualities.

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Thursday 29JUL2010
　
Woke from a dream in which I shared the beach house with a guy and a girl. The girl was playing games, knew she had the upper hand. Finally she convinced the two of us to let her watch as we had sex.
We both knew how to make love, despite not preferring the same gender, we each knew what we Knew. As we did it, we each did it for her, the rest felt like entitlements.

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If I live honestly it can feel cold, calculating. Even if all I know is written down and forgotten. The fact that I work out, educate myself, watch myself, selfishly stay present, Tough, regardless. It can feel like I’m an island. It can feel like a debasing way to live, as if I really were Dexter, just a less likeable version.
I think when Apollo is too strong it can be frightening to people. Dionysius is the Raw one; he can be manipulated, communicated with, negotiated with and over.

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(sitting out on porch swing)
It’s not that I need to square my shoulders and be brave when I wake in the morning -- though I do -- it’s about remembering that I was always brave, about learning that my shoulders have been squared, my body braced with a relaxing tension, a long, long time.
It’s about becoming conscious, aware, remembering. It’s not about learning something new, or changing something about myself. In the moment the two can feel so similar it’s confusing. It’s about realizing who I always was, then being pleasantly surprised by how much better I am at it now.
It’s about remembering to the point of feeling the sadness implied in having been brave so long. Feeling the pain.
Feeling Brave on the inside.

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There’s nothing wrong with handling things in the intellectual realm. I understand why my little-boy-brain went there first. When the brave boy was calm, it seemed clean, dignified, allowing the other side the dignity of a defending argument. As opposed to just Knowing, to just Remembering without words to articulate it. Somehow I knew what an enormous accusation it was, what a enormous thing to do, to Know, to Remember.
I understand why the little boy decided to wait until he could intellectualize it. Waited until both sides had the dignity of a well-crafted argument. A__ and H__ were beautiful, innocent, teenage girls. And L__ and R__, were loved once.
I gave them some dignity for awhile.

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Head, Phallus, meet Tough, and Raw.
I didn’t know it would feel so physical. How the tensed relaxation in my bones will stem from that region. The feeling of being in my head, was the head, I suppose.
Can it be true that faceless things like phalluses could actually be the true players, the Real ones, all along, the rest just sheer imagination, every other piece of my experience just evolutionary gifts. Eyeballs, ears, opposable thumbs.
I watched the film Inception where Leonardo Dicaprio explains the volatility of messing with people‘s subconscious as opposed to dealing with them face to face: _The subconscious is emotion,_ he says, _The conscious, thought._
The Raw and the Tough. The Raw, the faceless one, the wordless, eternal Him.
In the film, sheer violence ensues whenever Dicaprio comes too close to messing with Nature -- the individual’s subconscious. The entire world itself tries to kill him, like some virus.
The film becomes a battle of Tough versus Raw. Dicaprio is Tough: well trained, well learned, well experienced, well intentioned. Meanwhile, as all the special effects allude to he is nothing compared to Raw.
To pure, sheer Him, or pure, sheer Her.

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