inso-mania

Written last night..

My mood, after that last rampage (to delete or not to delete?) has just dropped scarily low.

Walking home from the bus stop late, I felt so morbid again. My own demise kept flashing coldly, at the intersection, "She crossed on a red light and-", at the corner of my street, "She slipped on a stone and –"

I made it home. No panic though, I know this will pass. It’s just a surprise when it comes into my mind like that. I am tired of this self-medication, this self-control.


I’m afraid you’ll call me now and I’ll start to cry. But then again, you won’t call. It sounds like an accusation, but it’s not.

I have protected myself from these downs for so long, and these downs have protected me so long too. An acoustic guitar and a smoky raspy voice fill this rest nicely, just don’t let it stop. I’ll put songs on a loop, put on my headphones so the neighbors don’t complain, and live this out until morning, no problem. Soon I’ll be sleepy and soon I’ll wake up, and half the day will be gone.

I am thinking how you’re the one who has finally taught me that I must keep rhythm, but it is the slightest of pauses between bars, my hesitation, and the rushing over notes, my abandon, that will make a piece of music mine. That you can be given dynamic directions, but that the way my fingers increase and decrease in pressure to achieve this are what open windows into the concentration, the emotion only I can bring to the song. But then, I am no maestro, and it’s actually very difficult, more than it sounds. I still work to just play with my fingers on the right keys.

It is weird that it is just your one short comment after hearing me play for the first time that has driven this home. My poor, tiny piano teacher with flashy lashy eyes and a surprisingly booming voice tried for years. But then, I was still in high school.

I remember her standing over me to the side, usually holding her one (then two then three) year old -who refused to nap - on one hip, slapping the beat out with her palm on her other hip. She had this way of singing along her directions in operatic, not to mention heavily accented, form.

“PAMpampamPAMpampamrrrrrampampamp, yes, yes, saaaaad, sad-Learn- sad. SHH, shh shh. Be like baaaaby, shh. You’re sleeping shh. Not like my daughter haha- shhh. Nonono don’t wake up yet, don’t, just fastfastfast, pampampamp, faaaster, starting to awaaaaaake- good, good, yes- ANgry, who woke me up? Why?’ Taking her grinning daughter’s fist and shaking it towards me, so that we’d both have to laugh . “..ahaha-now yes, NOW YOU’RE STRONG. Nono, STRONG, Learn, you know STRONG? You know, be like… WAAR, yes?”

She would grab my wrist suddenly sometimes too. She would have me continue to play, her finger loosely on my pulse. “You are not… relaxed. You must be relaxed, huh? Breathe.”

She had all these tricks for the difficult parts. To play staccato, practice it exaggeratingly legato. To play fast, practice it extremely slow. To play hands together, you must first practice separately. Break it down. “You see?” she would sing-song proudly, when it worked. “Vicey-versa alvays.. if you want one way, you must to do the vicey-versa first!”

I miss her. (Hence the tangent.)

But you know, it reminds me of your voice, you master its rises and drops much like that, like the thought has already been broken down fully to you. And you fuck like that too.

I wrote a silly poem about your voice once, very early on. I will get over my embarrassment and send it to you one day. You have always been kind for not taking anything I tell you about you the wrong way.

he speaks

in greedy gulps
holding heavy breath
releasing at
end of sentence
with a sigh
running out
ragged
on
edges
of
words
slight gasp to replace
comma or space
pangs of life
adorning phrases
latent need
expelling clauses
rapid-fire

you listen

his rise and
fall
his break and

start

you wonder

what
tension
what devil thought
what brain swirl
forcing taut
air of lungs and throat
and how it will be drawn
out

from him
to you

I do not know why I write this post to you, Friend. I want to write to anyone, Friend, I swear you’re just the first to cross my mind. I know I won’t send it. Maybe you are just abstract enough, don’t think I could chew this fat with a real, concrete friend today.

I came with you this morning. You had me touching her this time, wanted me to cum from that, knew it would make you struggle inside to watch me cum from her tight smooth body on me, not from you, as you fucked her. I was tired, and sick and getting ready to go to school. And you teased me after we were done, said I could have just listened to you. I didn’t have to join in. "But how could I not?", was my laughing question of an answer.

I’ve chosen to walk this plank with you. Truth is I am not feeling as adventurous today, but sometimes I must pretend because I know the courage will show up another day. And I did still cum, gently, almost dejectedly. But actually there was no dejection, it was just a small contained flicker of triumph, still whole and beautiful. It was a hot thought you shared, I took it and used it with none of my usual urgency. And I wanted to feel safe so I listened to your words yes, but I admit I listened closer for your by now familiar cum.

Right now, it would be nice to have a smile of love look down on me, just a second of it or two. A real one though, here in the room with me. I picture it, a gentle hand on my bowed neck, eyes that have seen me and want to see me again

It’s the first day of spring, I think of my lil tanka on O’s blog, the perpetuated pagan customs of regeneration.

Come spring we’d scribble
Wishes on paper and hang
Them from tree branches
Or sometimes just tie a cloth
And leave it to flap, silent

I wonder if I have so much as a rag or ribbon to tie now.

I’m listening to this song now, Hijikata Tatsumi, by Mia Doi Todd. She has such a haunting soulful voice, it is dangerous, as are the words.

He danced on his deathbed
And so performed his final dance
For friends, family and lovers
And all those who'd had the chance
To know him, to love him
To know him, to love him

My domesticated body
And my mind by moderation tamed
Seethe within my Xerox-copied skin
And I ask him
"Is all freedom dark ?"

He danced on his deathbed
And so performed his final dance
For friends, family and lovers
And all those who'd had the chance
To know him, to love him
To know him, to love him

One thousand and one birds
Take off in an instant
Flying feeling-filling through the air
And I ask them
"Is all freedom light ?"

He danced on his deathbed
And so performed his final dance
For friends, family and lovers
And all those who'd had the chance

I try not to confuse issues when I am like this. The problem is not you, or love, these I have the heart to deal with. I think you know I care about you, want you to be happy. I think/hope you feel this too. This caring is easy , doesn’t feel particularly deep or cutting, not this revelation it is supposed to come to be. It can be more profound, but it is not for us. We seem to graze close now and then, but then it just flits away, nothing really substantial to keep us here. Do you feel that too?

But you walk into my life, I will care for you, it has always been like that. You and me are where we should be, Friend, and will end up where we should too.

I just need to find what I need to do next. I need to really find something I want to do. I know this is why I panic every time I have work to do. It’s just not interesting enough to me anymore.

I need a place to place myself.

I do feel calmer for having written this. I’ll have a glass of cold, clean water on ice, and go to sleep.