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Scattered Closets, Emotion, and Binding Metaphor.

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He claimed he didn't have any emotions. “Oh” I said, perhaps taking him a little too seriously, and answering him a whisper. At least 20 percent of anything I said is bullshit unless I'm whispering. “Do you feel they are more muted than other people, or do you just keep them all in the closet”? I don't remember him answering the question directly. “I think they wouldn't be on hangers” he added. “They'd be all wrinkled at the bottom”. “Aw.” I said at last a bit hopefully “You're being metaphorical”. “No”. He was in fact, just being funny. “Why not let it be a metaphor? Is that somehow unmanly?” “Er... probably high school english teachers” he replied caught in a corner, until he was freed by the fact that he was no longer speaking. He never explained what he meant by that, at least in so firm a fashion as I understood it. But it was a sleepy conversation after all. But after work and a walk home, I got to thinking. Or more likely, I got to thinking about things a
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I said, he said

So I said: "You know, you're the first guy I've dated in a very long time who doesn't think about the meaning of life as much as I do." He replied with incredulity: "Where do you find these guys?" Good question.
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Oh but for chaos.

moved to other blog.. 3/25/09
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Holding Back

Holding Back Holding Back. Holding Back. - updated July 13 2008 Half sleeping a languid hold on happiness I trace infinity on your back. Half fearing but can fear coexist with fits and starts of many throes all averaged out to hope. And there's no reason No passionate defense as you offer nothing to say. It's half peaceful. As I lie hear and wait for you give me nothing to say. Perhaps I could believe Perhaps delete perhaps for I heard myself give in before I sleep Is she there behind the eyes I only face sometimes I don't feel the burden as I sleep I do find you beautiful as you sleep I can face believing as I sleep...
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With a Sword

“There are just some words in the English language that are so watered down or varied in meaning that they aren't worth using, like 'love' or 'God'”. I remarked to S. “It's not just English” he argued... “all languages are like that.” “But they have different ambiguities” I said. “English needs more words for all we call love”. “You don't need words for some things” I said.“But people mean so many things when they say love. How do I know that if someone isn't saying anything, they feel the same emotion I do?” And to this S replied “There are some things one can only rightly express with a sword”.
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Composers Don't Lie.

So I'm on the open road, moving from one not-so familiar place to another. Right now I'm alternating between listening to old cds I haven't listened to since high school or shortly thereafter, and thinking about the memories entangled up in lyrics that sound far more trite than they ever used to when I knew some of them by heart. There's a lot of Christian rock cds in this little case... for that was the only type of music my parents approved of when I bought them, and I continued to buy such cds a few years afterwards as well. For most of these cds, the melodies and messages are at best censored, and at worst, weak, even ignorant. I cringe at the lyrics espousing a love for the lost and searching from a position of peace and security, a ladder down to hell. People never seem to sing them like they actually believe them.. (I saw a lot of Christian dance routines and multimedia presentations put to secular songs for this very reason in my day). Occasionally someone'
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My Vicious Cycle of Fucktarded Fluff.

I wrote this poem a few month ago-ish. It's safe to post it now I suppose, because I hate the state of mind it describes. It, like all things, is worth me remembering, and examining: just hopefully not reliving. It will be easier someday. Right now I am sitting in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of stuff in a backpack. As suck, I have a lot to write about, a lot to think about... and a lot of the mental clutter has been tossed away, or at least left at home. Goddammit. If I ever try the vicious cycle again... (and if you know me, you know what I mean): shoot me. Twice. Or just stab me. I will personally loan you the sword. Hell, you can even keep it when you are done. Just specify if you want the WWI bayonet, the Indian ornamental ones... the throwing knife... Passion I walk on by when I fear you most I've heard that voice before The constancy, the uncertainty I've heard that voice. It told me many things in whispers through still cool mornings and scattered frames unti
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