Can you help me understand? Why I fell for you so quickly? There I was, minding my own business, trying to enjoy the day, and you had to come along and turn everything upside down. Can you please explain what did it for me? How I fell in love with you so quickly? Why you scare the shit out of me when I think about us - you and me, together, partners in this fucking thing - and the extent of the potential we have when we're together? The energy that is released from, swirls around like smoke, and combines between us? The passion that exists and the desire to experience more of this world together? Together.
Can you help me to understand how, sometimes, we are so far away from our potential. It's as if we complete the whole spectrum, pendulum swinging, back and forth.
I know that I long to be around you, and that the world is more vibrant when you're near me.
Can you please help me understand? Because I'm just at a loss. You said wanted me to write and so I wrote. You have my heart, it's ridiculous, silly, crazy, irrational, isn't it? But yet, I suppose this is how these things go. Sometimes. If you're lucky. Or cursed, depending on how you look at it.
So now what will you do? What will you do now, after I've professed this to you, after my heart has filled up and spilled over for you, for your energy. I'll take my heart from where it's cradled deep inside, protected, secluded, and a bit bruised, and I'll offer it up for you. Take it, I'll tell you, take it and be good to it. Don't tell me I have anything other than goodness for you. Don't think that I'm not right here next to you, don't feel like you are alone. Because you're not alone. I'm not going anywhere.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Monday, June 08, 2009
a hospital story
He was right. It has been a long time since I've written. Too long. I guess that's how it goes; life gets in the way from telling stories sometimes. You get busy with living, occupy yourself with creating memories and doing things to have stories to tell later. I have a few good ones - stories, that is - since the last time I posted. I could write about how I escaped from the Davis emergency room, IV still stuck in my arm like a pesky metal splinter attached to a tube. I pulled that fucker right out and applied pressure to stop the bleeding. It really wasn't that difficult. The most difficult thing about the experience, other from my worrying about how big the hospital bill was going to be, was wondering (and not knowing) what the hell was wrong with me. How about this: I'll begin at the beginning.
I was in Davis last week, with Richard. We were just sort of having a lazy day, a lazy afternoon, that involved a lot of lying around in the bedroom, and some not-so-much lying around in the bedroom, if you get my drift. We were sleeping - or at least, he was sleeping. I was trying to sleep. We had eaten an edible pot product and the effect was starting to really kick in. Unfortunately, I was on my period, and my cramps started kicking in as well. I remember asking him if he had any ibuprofen or asprin - he didn't. So I got up out of bed and left his room, thinking perhaps one of his roommates did or I could find some in the bathroom. There wasn't any within eye sight in the bathroom, so I ventured into the kitchen and found some on the shelf above the sink. At this point, the pain was intensifying, quickly. It was white hot. I remember almost doubling over at the sink as I popped 3 200mg pills into my mouth, turned on the faucet, cupped my hand under the water and brought it to my mouth. I swallowed the pills. The pain got worse. I started feeling very, very weak. Dizzy. Like, trouble walking, dizzy, like, hands against the hallway as I walked back toward his bedroom to hold me up, dizzy.
I stopped outside his bedroom door and put the my hand on the door handle. I paused. It was as if I knew that I wasn't going to be able to open the door. My body was getting ready to give out, preparing to re-boot itself, seconds away from a ctrl+alt+delete, physiological soft reset sort of thing. I knew I was close. I turned to look at Richard's roommate, who was sitting in his bedroom to the left, door open, playing guitar. "Can you help me open the door?" I asked him, forcing myself to speak up so he could hear me, straining to enunciate. "I think I'm going to faint" may have come out of my mouth, a mere mumble. Perhaps it never escaped my lips at all.
He jumped up and opened the door. I entered into a darkened room. The next thing I remember, I was crumpled up on the floor, back hurting, head hurting, wondering why I was crumpled up on the floor, wondering why my back and head hurt, confused, Richard standing over me, holding my face in his hands, trying to wake me up, repeating my name, attempting to lead me back to this world from wherever I had gone, attempting to get a hold of my quickly-escaping consciousness, trying to pull me out of the black and back into the blue. Everything was moving in slow motion and when he spoke to me, his voice sounded like it was coming from verrrrry far away, like the sound was traveling underwater through a tunnel.
I was in Davis last week, with Richard. We were just sort of having a lazy day, a lazy afternoon, that involved a lot of lying around in the bedroom, and some not-so-much lying around in the bedroom, if you get my drift. We were sleeping - or at least, he was sleeping. I was trying to sleep. We had eaten an edible pot product and the effect was starting to really kick in. Unfortunately, I was on my period, and my cramps started kicking in as well. I remember asking him if he had any ibuprofen or asprin - he didn't. So I got up out of bed and left his room, thinking perhaps one of his roommates did or I could find some in the bathroom. There wasn't any within eye sight in the bathroom, so I ventured into the kitchen and found some on the shelf above the sink. At this point, the pain was intensifying, quickly. It was white hot. I remember almost doubling over at the sink as I popped 3 200mg pills into my mouth, turned on the faucet, cupped my hand under the water and brought it to my mouth. I swallowed the pills. The pain got worse. I started feeling very, very weak. Dizzy. Like, trouble walking, dizzy, like, hands against the hallway as I walked back toward his bedroom to hold me up, dizzy.
I stopped outside his bedroom door and put the my hand on the door handle. I paused. It was as if I knew that I wasn't going to be able to open the door. My body was getting ready to give out, preparing to re-boot itself, seconds away from a ctrl+alt+delete, physiological soft reset sort of thing. I knew I was close. I turned to look at Richard's roommate, who was sitting in his bedroom to the left, door open, playing guitar. "Can you help me open the door?" I asked him, forcing myself to speak up so he could hear me, straining to enunciate. "I think I'm going to faint" may have come out of my mouth, a mere mumble. Perhaps it never escaped my lips at all.
He jumped up and opened the door. I entered into a darkened room. The next thing I remember, I was crumpled up on the floor, back hurting, head hurting, wondering why I was crumpled up on the floor, wondering why my back and head hurt, confused, Richard standing over me, holding my face in his hands, trying to wake me up, repeating my name, attempting to lead me back to this world from wherever I had gone, attempting to get a hold of my quickly-escaping consciousness, trying to pull me out of the black and back into the blue. Everything was moving in slow motion and when he spoke to me, his voice sounded like it was coming from verrrrry far away, like the sound was traveling underwater through a tunnel.
Friday, May 15, 2009
temporary momentary replacement system
It happened again. Another door closes, has closed. This one spun around for just 2 days short of a month. He's exited now, and in his wake I've decided to write more. Red flags popped up all around and yet I chose to ignore them. Stupidly. Naively. It's strange how fast the heart can fill with warmth, brim to the top with lust, spill over the edge with other specific feelings one experiences when falling in love.
Or did I?
Did I ever tell you about the time my friend Navi, the long dreaded, glasses wearing, yoga doing, hippie from Minnesota, and I sold our brains to science for 30 Euro?
Or about one of my last parties in Berlin? The one wear friends from all over the globe and I met up in a kitchen in Kreuzberg to take some drugs and shoot some photos and drink some Club Mate before getting dolled up and strutting our way over to get naked and dance at the Kit Kat club? No? Get ready for it. That's the next entry.
Or did I?
Did I ever tell you about the time my friend Navi, the long dreaded, glasses wearing, yoga doing, hippie from Minnesota, and I sold our brains to science for 30 Euro?
Or about one of my last parties in Berlin? The one wear friends from all over the globe and I met up in a kitchen in Kreuzberg to take some drugs and shoot some photos and drink some Club Mate before getting dolled up and strutting our way over to get naked and dance at the Kit Kat club? No? Get ready for it. That's the next entry.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
heartbeats
I've never dated a drug dealer before. I guess there's a first time for everything. In all fairness, really, he's not. He was just filling in for a week while his roommate was out of town. In Amsterdam, of all places. But it meant wearing the shoes of a weed salesman's, and let me tell you, those shoes were big and lofty and hard to walk in. Or maybe that was just my perception of it.
So I found myself in his room late Friday night, waiting for clients to show up. Two were coming, and it was almost midnight. At least he was honest about it. The view from his bed was a map of Northern California, somewhere in the wilderness, somewhere where fires rage out of control. It was more a topographical display of the land, really, but it was all greek to me. In any case, the squiggly thin lines that made up the borders or the elevations or whatever it was were moving, slowly, morphing into each other, swaying one way and then the other. The effects of the mushrooms I had eaten earlier that afternoon were wearing off, but still, obviously, startlingly, prevalent. We waited. I stared at the map. He opened a window. I tried to eat some of the calzone that he had ordered, attempted to ingest a piece of the cheese and artichoke filled doughy thing that lay in the box on the floor, half-eaten remenants from earlier. He eats like a wild animal. With his hands. Fast. Determined to scarf as much down before the others come, whether the others are dogs or wolves or lost children.
I couldn't eat much of it at all, really. All I could do was put the box on my lap and stare down at it, unsure. I took a piece of it in my hands and only dirtied my fingers. I eventually gave up and set the thing back down on the floor.
And still we waited.
Midnight. On a Friday. In Davis. With an early morning of work looming around the corner, I stayed with him, anxious for the moment where there wouldn't be anyone coming 'round anymore and we had the night to ourselves. I'm always anxious to have the night to ourselves. I waited for both customers to come and go, curious as to what would transpire. It's no wonder curiosity killed the cat.
A bit past midnight, the first guy finally arrived. He came inside, in the house, and into the bedroom, into our space, sexual energy so thick you could cut it with a butter knife, with the half-eaten calzone on the floor and the music from the computer playing and an unmade bed and me in a paisely, floor-length, cleavage-revealing, stolen dress, holding up the wall, between the doorway and the dealer, where he sat with scales and equipment and baggies. I was uncomfortable. I thought I could handle it; thought it would be beneficial somehow to be the female presence during the deal. I was so wrong. Maybe it was the psychadelics, maybe it was the night, maybe it was just me, but I just couldn't do it. I excused myself while they finished up and small talked and shot the shit and walked into the living room. Drugs and money exchanged, the guy he left. I cordially threw out a goodbye from the living room (where I was hanging out, nervously, with the dogs, the brown one looking up at me, worried) and walked back into his bedroom.
I told him something about space being sacred to me, personal space, private space. The space that permeates the bedroom, that fills up the air and drifts in and out of the window. It's a place where energy is localized. It's becoming familiar, his bedroom, his energy, the maps on the walls and the clutter on the floor. Aided by music and incense and unmade bed and even calzone - I needed it to be mine; I needed it to be ours, and only ours. I told him I needed it to be completely free of all strangers, especially strangers who come calling for drugs. Desperately.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Just let me know what you need and I'll do it," he said.
The next customer didn't come close to the bedroom. Richard went out to meet him instead, into the kitchen or the hallway or the living room or I don't really care and don't know, it wasn't the bedroom and that was fine by me. I felt safe. Somehow he has the ability to constantly reassure me, and it works, well. Perhaps I do the same for him, just in different ways. He also listens to me, hears me, and sometimes even modifies his behavior (if modifications are necessary). It's not that I want to change him; I don't, I wouldn't change a thing. It's just a "Hi, my name is ___, it's nice to meet you, this is what I like and this is what I don't like" sort of exchange. The kind of thing that takes place in the beginning of a mutually beneficial re... you get my drift.
In the way that someone getting to know another human being is scary, he scares me. I like what I'm discovering and I long for more. I guess it's a gamble, every time. Sometimes you put in nothing, sometimes you put in a little, sometimes you put in everything. You either win big or get taken for everything you've got. The rest, the in-between, doesn't even really count, really. I don't know what's ahead of me; I don't know where my path will take me or who I'll end up walking with, all I know is that it's time to step up to the table and place some bets.
So I found myself in his room late Friday night, waiting for clients to show up. Two were coming, and it was almost midnight. At least he was honest about it. The view from his bed was a map of Northern California, somewhere in the wilderness, somewhere where fires rage out of control. It was more a topographical display of the land, really, but it was all greek to me. In any case, the squiggly thin lines that made up the borders or the elevations or whatever it was were moving, slowly, morphing into each other, swaying one way and then the other. The effects of the mushrooms I had eaten earlier that afternoon were wearing off, but still, obviously, startlingly, prevalent. We waited. I stared at the map. He opened a window. I tried to eat some of the calzone that he had ordered, attempted to ingest a piece of the cheese and artichoke filled doughy thing that lay in the box on the floor, half-eaten remenants from earlier. He eats like a wild animal. With his hands. Fast. Determined to scarf as much down before the others come, whether the others are dogs or wolves or lost children.
I couldn't eat much of it at all, really. All I could do was put the box on my lap and stare down at it, unsure. I took a piece of it in my hands and only dirtied my fingers. I eventually gave up and set the thing back down on the floor.
And still we waited.
Midnight. On a Friday. In Davis. With an early morning of work looming around the corner, I stayed with him, anxious for the moment where there wouldn't be anyone coming 'round anymore and we had the night to ourselves. I'm always anxious to have the night to ourselves. I waited for both customers to come and go, curious as to what would transpire. It's no wonder curiosity killed the cat.
A bit past midnight, the first guy finally arrived. He came inside, in the house, and into the bedroom, into our space, sexual energy so thick you could cut it with a butter knife, with the half-eaten calzone on the floor and the music from the computer playing and an unmade bed and me in a paisely, floor-length, cleavage-revealing, stolen dress, holding up the wall, between the doorway and the dealer, where he sat with scales and equipment and baggies. I was uncomfortable. I thought I could handle it; thought it would be beneficial somehow to be the female presence during the deal. I was so wrong. Maybe it was the psychadelics, maybe it was the night, maybe it was just me, but I just couldn't do it. I excused myself while they finished up and small talked and shot the shit and walked into the living room. Drugs and money exchanged, the guy he left. I cordially threw out a goodbye from the living room (where I was hanging out, nervously, with the dogs, the brown one looking up at me, worried) and walked back into his bedroom.
I told him something about space being sacred to me, personal space, private space. The space that permeates the bedroom, that fills up the air and drifts in and out of the window. It's a place where energy is localized. It's becoming familiar, his bedroom, his energy, the maps on the walls and the clutter on the floor. Aided by music and incense and unmade bed and even calzone - I needed it to be mine; I needed it to be ours, and only ours. I told him I needed it to be completely free of all strangers, especially strangers who come calling for drugs. Desperately.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Just let me know what you need and I'll do it," he said.
The next customer didn't come close to the bedroom. Richard went out to meet him instead, into the kitchen or the hallway or the living room or I don't really care and don't know, it wasn't the bedroom and that was fine by me. I felt safe. Somehow he has the ability to constantly reassure me, and it works, well. Perhaps I do the same for him, just in different ways. He also listens to me, hears me, and sometimes even modifies his behavior (if modifications are necessary). It's not that I want to change him; I don't, I wouldn't change a thing. It's just a "Hi, my name is ___, it's nice to meet you, this is what I like and this is what I don't like" sort of exchange. The kind of thing that takes place in the beginning of a mutually beneficial re... you get my drift.
In the way that someone getting to know another human being is scary, he scares me. I like what I'm discovering and I long for more. I guess it's a gamble, every time. Sometimes you put in nothing, sometimes you put in a little, sometimes you put in everything. You either win big or get taken for everything you've got. The rest, the in-between, doesn't even really count, really. I don't know what's ahead of me; I don't know where my path will take me or who I'll end up walking with, all I know is that it's time to step up to the table and place some bets.
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