10.27.2004

adyos po

so i've been wrapped up the past several days pitching my candidacy for a finance job. had my final interviews locally & got the offer on monday. excellent $$$, in my line of work, and it gets me out of here. i've been internally debating the prospect the past 24 hours, but i think i'm gonna take it. no gripes with SF generally, but on retrospect, i think it's one of those "nice to visit, but wouldn't want to live there"-type places. beautiful, clean, but a bit lacking in character. and i need to return to productive society.

pretty ironic, she came here to be with me, now she's the one staying. i won't ever see her again. i had this fantasy that one day she'd be standing outside #12 when i came rumbling up, and i could apologize. i have many regrets--i think she knows which. it's also saddening that, it seems she honestly believes i never cared, that my sentiments & actions were untrue, postured, not genuine. i don't know how in her heart of hearts she can believe this. i wanted to look into her eyes once more and tell her it was real. it'll be yet another thing left unsaid, unresolved between us.

i've determined now that i am a neo-epicurean--passive acceptance of inevitable death and annihilation, and with that recognition, taken to limiting wants and ambitions to those trappings and outcomes that could reasonably be achieved within a normal lifetime. i hope one day V can know that i did love her. this may seem an immodest goal, but my trivial life has few others so important.



"Maginot Line" will return with daily rants next week. The author has not been placed on "suicide-watch" at this time, notwithstanding epicureans' theoretical indifference to life.

10.25.2004

queen's head

pre-A&B excerpts. all i have to say is, total headcase, Q.E.D. (and way, way over the top on the crappy, dickinson metaphors. note to V: stick to the spanish poetry, you at least got an A- there, and no one can tell you're ripping it off).

with each new disclosure, it takes me up yet another notch on the shock and awe scale--this is the girl i was with for over a year? could have/would have married? (well, not really, but permit me a little drama.) i see snapshots of her psyche and wonder, what the hell was going on in there? did i ever understand her? there are no words. i've peered into the abyss.

on several of the 2 dozen times she came back begging, she would say something to the effect, "R, it'll never be over. Don't you realize we're too psycho for anyone else?" uh, i'm not so sure about that. i think you've raised me. i fold, take the pot.

"It is fitting. This. That we should break over literally nothing. Nothing that was and nothing that is. Dead eyes. I know that stare. I stare back, I am trying to reach him, to move him. But I myself, I myself am rifling through the signposts, our worst times and our best times, trying to rouse the waves of feeling that once crashed us against the surf. It's the worst places that have names: Thailand, Tucker, and Gwen and the best places are accidental cross streets. Or you could say they were just the spaces between misery. Would it be overdramatic to say that I was always gasping? The memories are pale children we never wanted and they fade into the shadows as I stumble to run and catch them. And I know it is lost.

The haze has lifted and that glowing being who has ruled our minds so long and so easily quickened our hearts is now an awkward, hateful, embarrassing, unexplainable weight.

I am so tired.

I am gnawing at his mouth wildly. I can arouse this still. (Relief that I am still a warm body. Disgust that I am only a warm body.)

We wrestle among the sheets silently. Even filthy words come too close to love. Rather they are too loving for what we are.

I imagine myself far away and far in time. I have forgotten most of it. But I dread to remember wrongly and aching. What was I doing when I passed the last door of escape? He pushes inside, making colder and hollower that empty space inside of me. I keep my eyes closed. He is staring at his arms.

Then we are two frenzied crabs mating. Faces up, legs akimbo, connected by a tube of annonymous flesh. I stare at his foot. I try to prolong it. Then it ends.

But laugh, laugh only at this tribal dance. I have been out-played in this battle of wits."


(Scorned: The Concise Companion of Veronica S. Dio's Creepy Psycho-Babble, All Rights Reserved, Copyright 2006)

wetback

ok, what is with the middle-aged chinese dude who hangs out on a stool into the shower stall? he's just sitting there chillin', imposing this offensive display on the helpless inocente. not like i'm checking him out, but it's akin to the instinctual compulsion when you pass a car wreck. shaving, brushing his teeth, i shudder to think what else. i really don't need this visual grossness at 7 in the morning.

take it outside, mr. chan.