Jul 252011
 

After being shoved into a Very, Very. Bad. Place emotionally following a conversation sparked by the death of Amy Winehouse, I’ve been floundering on some core issues. I had to wince to see so many people’s callous opinions, and to hear people opine that addicts just made “bad choices: ” that we chose to let ourselves become addicts, or that addicts are fuckups who didn’t figure their shit out in time.

Those mornings when I awoke on my piss soaked bed in my trash filled rooms with my brain praying and begging for me to stop, to get help, even as I reached for a fifth of Jack to pry open my dry mouth so that I could stave off the shaking long enough to get to the shower and get to work? That felt nothing at-fucking-all like “free will” or “choice.” It felt like possession. But it is hard to explain that, even as eloquent as I am, to people who haven’t felt like worthless despicable hopeless wastes of meat day after dayyear after year, and relied on [INSET DRUG OF CHOICE HERE] to get by. Continue reading »

Jan 122009
 
I have too many.
 
Identities. I do not even feel compelled to list them all lest they take on the glib slickness I am striving to escape even now.
 
I do not want to be looked at.
 
I need to be seen.
 
And using attitude as costuming, my history as the stage, this blog as the lights, and my defenses at the makeup might make for a great show.
 
hold for applause
But when the paint comes off and the smoke clears out and the house is dark, all I am left with is the ghost light that bear-baits fear.
 
Fear of being alone. Fear that I have / am  forgotten. Fear that I have no fucking idea what the hell I am talking about.
 
I am single, right? I have had that check mark ticked on my profiles for a while now.  No, I do not know what tomorrow holds and, sure! Yeah! The love of my life could even now be 45 hours away from walking into me on the corner of Mission and 3rd. Or it could be I don’t met them until I’m 45.
 
The point is, I don’t know.
 
And with that I am, usually, content.
 
But the body I’m inhabiting at present has its own ideas. It roams hungry. It wants to be touched, fed, opened. It wants all manner of lotions, unguents, tiny curved pieces of silicone to help its failed attempts at vision. Barring that, it insists on a rig of plastic and hinges to sit on its face so that it wont run into shit or fall down. It wants pizza too, but can’t digest it, so then it insists on pills to assist in that process. It wants to be somewhere else. It wants to hide. It needs to be touched. Sometimes very roughly. Sometimes so cruelly that it wonders why it is in this situation again, please..?  For a long time it wanted to stop feeling so deeply. It enjoyed, then wanted, then craved, then needed, than was addicted to, alcohol which was for a time, highly effective at suffocating the emotional stomata that choked on bottle after bottle of whiskey.
 
Then it decided it wanted to live. and a curious thing happened. it stopped wanting destructing, oblivion, a dissolution. It stopped feeling the need to erase.
And today it wants, most of all, to never ever be so adrift that nothingness feels like a viable option ever ever ever again.
 
And so we have turned from that.
 
That path is a haze distant illusion that is illusory in its distance because it is the parallel ghost road that isn’t far no not fucking bloody far at all my friend. “You take the high road and I’ll take the low road,”  grinds my addiction, slavering and starved with jaws all the more terrifying because they have  been denied “…take the high road and I’ll skulk this low road and if you ever ever decide to come back down here we can walk again no problemo no problem I’ll wait if you decide to come on down…”
 
But I do not.
 
So much of what I want is shifting in the bumps of this journey. Packing crates of lust desire and perversion collide against delicious sick fucked up reality even more fucked up that fantasy for its meat solidity.
 
But it fades.  All desires.  All desires fade. That is what they do. Entropy Sucks.
 
I look at a former play partner and a tiny shock reverberates and I am confounded because it isn’t longing it isn’t wistfulness it isn’t remorse it is amazement at what WAS. That which has gone on before. Shit I thought I’d always have and always want is now in a new limbo.
 
I look at a potential play partner and I think “Why?”
 
Right at this moment the idea of someone hitting me sends my mind calmly to a soft dark place where a stiletto looms before me handle toward my hand cold and ready to sink silently into the throat of anyone fucking dumb enough to touch me. Stepping razor. Don’t you watch my size…I’m dangerous. 
 
But isn’t that what we need?  Don’t we need that anymore?
 
I don’t know.
 
I don’t know.
 
And that empty questioning might be all manner of Zen but it is a cold ringing chime that doesn’t really comfort me much.
 
Not at all, really.
 
Because In order to see if that is what I need, I need to have before me solid and breathing  the person for whom receiving that deeply is natural. effortless. unfettered.
 
And that, I fear, is a fever dream.