Monthly Archives: July 2013

July 27th

I feel the presence of a void which I have tried to strike through with unhealthy and empty relationships, relationships that taught me to enjoy being the masochist. For instance, your insult hisses into my dark skin, and releases pleasure. I do not like being in this position, because being the masochist truly means getting the short end of the stick. It means that you walk away with all the benefits of real pleasure and devotion, and that I am always the one left stuck with the pain. Another role I tend to take on to fill that void is that of the caretaker. It allows me to cement and consolidate relationships by making others dependent on me. But most often, these two roles are accompanied together. I am always the one to give more pearls than I receive, until, without haven spoken of this, and without warning, I grow sick of the collar, and begin to hate the having of a master.

The last person I had fallen in love with made me feel like a living, breathing, flying, poem. But he was also a master. The hard gavel of his judgment would come crashing down on all my dreams, and my power to grant wishes, to mold myself, and, like a chameleon, become whatever he wanted me to be. From now on, I seek not to give, but to solve the mysteries of my own existence, and to grant myself the yearnings of my true heart, meaning that from now on I must aim for my own happiness, because only mood dictates existence, and despair refuses anything beautiful, such as the time I visited California, when the showery elms looked like sprigs of hemlock, and the wind always chilled the man running through the park.


July 25th

Above the entranceway of my apartment building, in script handwriting, are the words Meridian Hall. These words are printed on a mauve and circular umbrella that juts outward just above the glass entrance, inside of which lay some gray steps ascending. The umbrella gives us some measure of protection from the sun and rain, and, in some sense, I also consider it a small monument to the quotidian. For it is not a very different entrance from any of the others that line my street. But the building itself is imposing compared to the brownstones flanking it on either side. It takes up an entire corner: hivelike, yellow, and sick. I never use the front entranceway because I never want to be seen. I ascend the steps to my apartment from the side which contains within it a narrow, outside corridor that opens up again into a wider space.

At the end of the corridor there are two steps to walk down. The wider space is bowl-shaped, and it gives me the feeling that I have stepped into the basin of some concrete garden. Immediately, I am confronted with gum, glass bottles, and flits of paper. There I hear gas ovens cooking, and Spanish voices. There, the walls are covered in ash and the soot from past fires. I always sit down on the upper part of the two steps to admire the fire escape which looks like a railroad track heading for the moon. It is painted a mottled brown and is designed with the intricate curls of Victorian flowers. To be exact, they are the kind of curls you’d find on a paper napkin. I have yet to see anyone test its stability, since, in tumultuous weather, sometimes the strips of paint peel, and paint chips fall down. And when one looks up, one cannot escape the distinct feeling that the building stretches all the way to the sky, and God peers down.

Today, the rain descends in silver, sharp-edged swords.

July 24th, 2013

I am experiencing what Freud so eloquently terms the oceanic feeling. It is a great pressure in the chest. Right now, the cosmos sends out its sparks and my body is the very fuse that runs through it. Everything is swirling, everything is different-colored and many-sided. There are tides, ebbings, flowings, eddies. All that is old, all that has been suffocating me, has been washed away, or has gone underwater, or has been torn asunder, making room for new visions, new thoughts, new epiphanies, bright shards on the beach consisting of new glass. This feeling is its own kind of suffocation, though I think that this is what life is for. What had been dimly perceptible or shrouded in fog can now be seen in all its triumphant glory, accompanied as if by a timpani of exultation and ecstasy. Up there in the clouds is a heavenly throne. It is waiting for me.

July 22, 2013

I keep losing the jewels only to find them again. Yesterday’s epiphanies have grown stale. I needed vision. But today, I have achieved a deepening and darkening of psychological textures. The web is drawn ever tighter, the circle is closing, and there is an end in view. I imagine this end to look like a small pinhole of light, but it is a point that, once reached, opens up into infinity again, because there is always a further place to go. I sit here trying to draw perfect circles and toss the failed ones away like ruined and bent circus hoops. I treasure my circus hoops, though it is frustrating when I don’t get them right the first time. But with time and practice, wisdom and experience, the rate of error can change (?). There are times when I am able to take a snapshot in words of the initial flash and moment of inspiration. It can be perfectly captured. And I assure you that it is more effortlessly captured through mistakes, because poetry is the mind in the act of making one. What are these moments of inspiration? How does one go about recognizing them? Merely, I see the pinhole of light. I put my hands into it and stretch it further. As an artist, my impulse is not to obscure what I already see, but to reveal.

July 21st, 2013

I am twenty leagues beneath the sea and everyone else is at the surface. You, also, would think I come from the sea. You would think me a sea creature, snarling and alive. Like the Barracuda, I am sleek and silver finned, but when I ascend, I become human again.

In this town, I am rarely seen and there is a reason for it. I live in a place so unaccepting of difference that at times I feel I must go into hiding, for when I walk past most people, they do a double take. They always have to have a second glance at my hair, my manner of dress.

My individuality leaves me open to attack. Not a day goes by where I do not receive remarks, hisses, or scowls. I want to say to these people “I was born-again in New England, but I speak your language as well. I was raised on Spanish customs”.

There are problems with being feral and intelligent. Most friends can’t hold a match to the intellect. Other of my friends smell money, money, money, money. With most people I question whether they really love me, or are merely in love with the idea of me. There always arises mystique and buzz around the person. Gossip about the ghost.

At the end of the day, one has to change their mind about what animal they are. I am not a barracuda. I am an angler fish not lighting to survive. If I donned my brilliance, I would be crushed.

July 20th, 2013

Today I experienced an unpleasant feeling in my collar bones. Pain in the bones is an omen: beware, turbulence, bad weather coming. I sit on a stoop passing the time in the derelict part of town. An old man with a cane walks by and asks where the wind blows. It’s so hot, I want to cut the head off a cactus and drink the juice. But I’m ready to go, so I ring the bell. I follow you silently up the steps to your room where I will take off my clothes and shoes and realize that my self-esteem hinges on the ability to please, but you say nothing, and it hurts my pride. I take a bus there. I walk all the way back. Perfume wafts down from the windows.

July 18th, 2013, 9:31 pm

I am becoming more aware of the fact that attitudes and feelings create vibrational frequencies. Moods come to dominate every situation, and they can be felt. For example, as I utter the word fuck, a frozen water bottle projectiles onto my mother’s foot as she opens the freezer. It seems as if molecular existence adapts itself, can be warped according to the mind’s whims and wishes. I walk through life like a dowser and when I think, the world responds. Humans are the original creator-gods and like the panther, I have vision into the alchemy.

Sometimes, I like to glance at my sister while she reads. The creamy walls of her room are bathed in the warmth of shaded lamp-light, and this recalls the translucent wings of a moth. It is moth light. This light reflects her inner state of peace and tranquility. But the light in her mind is of a different quality. It works even when she’s dreaming. She is all drama, a young girl meant for the stage. Within her, I see possibilities, but they are delicate and easily bruised. I think there is a book in her. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, my mother finishes what she has been cooking. Sweat drops fall down her face. She is unilluminated, all primal emotion, dark anger, and fear. When she wants something, we must give it to her: she knows exactly how to punish us. She is not like the both of us, she was not born feeling and seeing in the full spectrum of color. She is simplistic, like a sentence. Does she know that two geniuses are working? Does she know that we are tied to her solely because we need her? What she holds above us are her monetary gains, but when we crest into the peak of adulthood, we will have outstripped this working class woman.