Anonymous asked: "You're waiting for a train. A train that'll take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you. But you can't know for sure. Yet it doesn't matter. Now, tell me why?" We all know it's easier to travel forward in time versus backward. Suppose you obtained a golden ticket to be a passenger on the near-light speed express to travel into the future (at your own risk.) Would you leave behind what you have now and hop on this train?
First: absolutely, I would. My unsatisfiable naïveté encourages it. What a chance to learn. Besides, people get over death and loss; no one, as far a I know, has circumvented the idiom “I was born in the wrong time;” in this case, too early. It goes without saying that I would want to be awake for this, not asleep and tormented by a constant, malevolent femme fatale.
Second: who are you?
Anonymous asked: do you send yourself your own asks
No, but that’s an interesting idea with some potential.
I’d like to know who’s been asking. Message me.
Anonymous asked: Describe the theoretical anti-you. Close proximity with this entity would result in complete destruction of both you, and you, as you know...
O.K. A theoretical anti-me could be lovely to converse with over scotch, except she’d be drinking water, and she wouldn’t stop talking about some god or another; she can’t stand art; she can’t sit through a thought-provoking foreign film; she’d be ill-natured, desultory, inconsiderate, cowardly, impassive, undiscerning, frigid, inarticulate, ignorant, apathetic, impatient, shallow, impractical, insolent, a zealot, intolerant, conservative, homophobic, anti-abortion… There’s no reason we should be sitting at a bar talking, but close proximity and valence electrons dictate that we listen to each other, civilly, and argue about things. She challenges me without knowing how, makes me better at examining myself without caring to, reminds me of the subjectivity of “best” without meaning to, destroys me, as I know me, and doesn’t understand why.
Here’s the truth. To say that you and I are not together is to state the fucking obvious, but to say that I don’t clench my jaw and immediately feel like punching every other guy that hits on you is to lie. Every other as in A, C, E, not A, B, C; I’d skip the in-betweens so as not to mentally smother. Smother, schmother, though; they’re my fucking wandering thoughts. Looking into your provoking eyes is what looking at music feels like. Your huge, expressive eyes with their larger-than-life pupils surrounded by even larger sclerae have as many pitches as a Bach piece has notes. They tease with their myriad combinations of loudness, duration, and timbre. Timbre teasing stronger than your Ombré. The longer you hold your gaze at me, the more it approaches cardiac ablation. And a fucking tease you are. You don’t even hide it. And you wouldn’t deny it. Even if your mouth does, auditorily, it just. Does. Not. Every visual line around your lip ensemble is a concert of yes. And they’re as beautifully placed as the seating order in an orchestra. It turns you on that this all still turns me on, I can tell. And you can tell by my awfully hidden reactions, I’m sure. Telling, schmelling, though; it’s all a Rorschach test. Is it still a delayed reaction if the blood haphazardly pumped by my arrhythmiatic heart reaches my penile glans before it does my pineal glands? The shape of your ass. Yeah, that’s where that fucking sentence ends. That’s where this fucking stupid post ends, in fact.
Akira Kurosawa, on watching Solaris with Andrei Tarkovsky:
"Tarkovsky was sitting in the corner of the screening room watching the film with me, but he got up as soon as the film was over, and looked at me with a shy smile. I said to him, “It’s very good. It’s a frightening movie.” He seemed embarrassed, but smiled happily.
Then the two of us went to a film union restaurant and toasted with vodka. Tarkovsky, who does not usually drink, got completely drunk and cut off the speakers at the restaurant, then began singing the theme of Seven Samurai at the top of his voice. I joined in, eager to keep up.
At that moment I was very happy to be on Earth.”
Anonymous asked: What does a rain (storm) cloud signify to you?
I want to say something akin to cognitive dissonance, but it’s a lot more subtle. That single rainstorm cloud is surrounded by clarity.
Don’t be afraid to say I love you. Loving another person is a wondrous thing, even if that same love isn’t returned.
The thing that wants to live
You’re here and I’m here, spending our time.
I’m trying not to spend this time as I spend most of my time: trying to get you to like me.
It’s an ancient pattern of time usage for me. And it paints over an ancient wound. It’s a sleight of hand, a distraction. To attempt to change the pattern, let me expose the wound.
I don’t know what the wound is, but I know it’s old.
I know that it’s a hole in my being.
I know it’s tender.
I believe it’s unknowable.
I believe you have a wound, too.
I believe it’s both specific to you, and common to everyone.
I believe it’s the thing about you that must be hidden and protected.
The thing that must be tap-danced over.
The thing that won’t be interesting to other people if revealed.
It’s the thing that makes you weak and pathetic.
The thing that truly, truly, truly makes loving you impossible.
It’s your secret, even from yourself.
But it is the thing that wants to live. It’s the thing from which our art, our paintings, our dances, our compositions, our philosophical treatises, are born.
This inspires me.¹
¹”Almost every morning, I eat breakfast in the same diner, and this morning a man was painting the windows with Christmas designs. Snowmen. Snowflakes. Bells. Santa Claus. He stood outside on the sidewalk, painting in the freezing cold, his breath steaming, alternating brushes and rollers with different colors of paint. Inside the diner, the customers and servers watched as he layered red and white and blue paint on the outside of the big windows. Behind him the rain changed to snow, falling sideways in the wind.
The painter’s hair was all different colors of gray, and his face was slack and wrinkled as the empty ass of his jeans. Between colors, he’d stop to drink something out of a paper cup.
Watching him from inside, eating eggs and toast, somebody said it was sad. This customer said the man was probably a failed artist. It was probably whiskey in the cup. He probably had a studio full of failed paintings and now made his living decorating cheesy restaurant and grocery store windows. Just sad, sad, sad.
This painter guy kept putting up the colors. All the white “snow,” first. Then some fields of red and green. Then some black outlines that made the color shapes into Xmas stockings and trees.
A server walked around, pouring coffee for people, and said, “That’s so neat. I wish I could do that…”
And whether we envied or pitied this guy in the cold, he kept painting. Adding details and layers of color. And I’m not sure when it happened, but at some moment he wasn’t there. The pictures themselves were so rich, they filled the windows so well, the colors so bright, that the painter had left. Whether he was a failure or a hero. He’d disappeared, gone off to wherever, and all we were seeing was his work.”²
²Read more tips here: Stocking Stuffers: 13 Writing Tips From Chuck Palahniuk
This became a story¹ the moment they both looked at each other, silently thinking the same thing.
¹Everything foggy, even her, his mind tirelessly running laps around them, when she turns to look at him for more than a few seconds. He finds himself staring back, with that horrid sensation in his stomach, thinking wow, while the other side of his brain, the stupid one or the rational one, he can’t tell, wants to say you’re crazy; go away. His face, of course, betrays his thoughts, still mouthing wow. “Either say it, or do it,” escapes her lips, mixed into her cigarette smoke. She’s so fucking cool, he thinks, and his stupid side, the romantic one, wins the argument, as it often does, catapulting him to do what he’s been wanting to do, probably for as long as she’s been wanting him to do it. They kiss forever.² The other side of his brain, beaten to a pulp by what’s just happened, drunkenly concurs: you’re crazy, but stay.
²This is their universe, and it spirals at their pace.
People talk about ‘the moments that matter’ as if there are moments that don’t.
Five hundred strong words¹ about her
¹I shut off my head, picked up a pen, and electrocuted² a paper.
²Writing is schizophrenic. It involves parts of me I don’t otherwise use.
"Everything that is happening to me has a name… Emma. Her name is Emma."
Whenever I’m anxiety-ridden, I talk.
I exist to talk.
And I don’t stop.
If I stop, my heart stops, I’ve taught myself.
So I don’t stop.
My mouth spews more words than my heart beats.
Bleak, short, stiff words, served as non sequiturs to roomy, airy harangues irregularly, fast and irregularly, mimicking the sorry excuses that are the systole and diastole of my chest.
I don’t feel the palpitations anymore.
I also don’t know what I’m saying.
Beard and glasses¹
¹She wrote these (exaggerated) thoughts after spending time with me:
"Docile and subservient child. A kaleidoscopic mind. Subtle genius. His absence of true and cathartic self-expression builds like a proverbial dam with every passing day. The expanse of silences that emanate from him are merely disguises² for the billions of insanely perfect brainstorms that swell into catastrophic proportions. Synapses in overdrive veiled with a lulling quiet that is his overt personality. Underestimated. It is always the quiet ones that make the most impact."
²I personally think it’s my beard and glasses.