Tissue not included with the reading of this post.
It seems ive been living forever.
29
A thousand images of my life from '98 onward, in piles arranged on my bedroom floor.
People smile at me, still frozen in an america that no longer exists.
Great friends laughing before death or marriage.
Old lovers make kissing faces and frolic in a wilderness of houses and cities i no longer know.
And i have a new hatred for my Nikon camera. It is the machine that curses. It captures the past..what a sin of highest order. I am truly understanding of the orthodox muslim customs of never make an image of a person.
The first man to paint his lover on his cave wall at first felt fullfilled. But she moved on, and he got older, his friends moved to better hunting grounds. He came home one night in winter and his heart filled with salt water and poured out of his eyes, .....what a curse to be reminded!
Perhaps the problem is that I no longer am innocent. In the photos i had never known death, never held a dying hand, never lost a true love to chaos, I am frozen in midwestern middle class college innocence. And it was altogether a very pleasent life '98-'03. I didn't know about the nature of loss. And suffering and loss made me a man. I would have prefered a proffesional sports career or a tattoo and motorcycle did it, but we cant all choose what makes us grown up.
I confess that while organizing all these images i found a box of letters. Yes, how idiotic of me to keep or read.
Hell though. I read em.
And it was nice to have been missed when gone, loved when around, and lusted after. Ive spent 4 years without hearing ' i think you are amazing and wonderful ' from any femme fatale who spends the night in my bed.
Those days are gone.
I got busy with medicine and music, with worry about the modern world, with yearning for experience away from vaginas and cities.
So, it is my own self imposed loving-sexual solitude i blame for nearly half a decade without sleeping with a single woman more than once.
That pictorial and hand written reminder of what it was to be loved by a woman not my mom or sister made me notice that small hole ive got in my side. It doesnt hurt, but i had forgotten there is that romantic, shellyian part of me that still thinks true love is revolution. That man is almost dead. And i am fine and truly happy without him and have existed to my own satisfaction and great success without a lover. And i just haven't felt 'it' about women or sex in years. I need noone in the wilds of america but my friends and laughter. But the hole remains, ever smaller, every year more set in my chaotic ways. I am indeed harder to get into a relationship than ever before in my life. I do miss it, miss being loved. The soft touches and feeling...i guess love is wonderful because it is like immortality. It is professed as "forever", but we are mortal flesh. The union, the passion trancends aging and disease. In fact trials and despair and misunderstanding only strengthen love. It blinds, it creates a world that is illusion....but its a perfect illusion...and if lucky a true illusion.
" jesus" i think,..." what if i call that beautiful smart girl i was flirting with at the party and she wants to have lunch when i want to play guitar make a cup of tea then read the new 'foreign affairs'? I just dont think i have the leisure time for that sort of thing. Ive had sex a hundred thousand million times with passion, i sure dont need to waste lunch time trying to do that again. I got to figure out how to make my friends laugh more and save the world. "
such is the logic, now prevailing in my brain..
Now into files and photo albums go the images of a boy and the lovers and oceans he gazed at!
Now on with more important work and bigger fun that needs to be had here and now!
29
A thousand images of my life from '98 onward, in piles arranged on my bedroom floor.
People smile at me, still frozen in an america that no longer exists.
Great friends laughing before death or marriage.
Old lovers make kissing faces and frolic in a wilderness of houses and cities i no longer know.
And i have a new hatred for my Nikon camera. It is the machine that curses. It captures the past..what a sin of highest order. I am truly understanding of the orthodox muslim customs of never make an image of a person.
The first man to paint his lover on his cave wall at first felt fullfilled. But she moved on, and he got older, his friends moved to better hunting grounds. He came home one night in winter and his heart filled with salt water and poured out of his eyes, .....what a curse to be reminded!
Perhaps the problem is that I no longer am innocent. In the photos i had never known death, never held a dying hand, never lost a true love to chaos, I am frozen in midwestern middle class college innocence. And it was altogether a very pleasent life '98-'03. I didn't know about the nature of loss. And suffering and loss made me a man. I would have prefered a proffesional sports career or a tattoo and motorcycle did it, but we cant all choose what makes us grown up.
I confess that while organizing all these images i found a box of letters. Yes, how idiotic of me to keep or read.
Hell though. I read em.
And it was nice to have been missed when gone, loved when around, and lusted after. Ive spent 4 years without hearing ' i think you are amazing and wonderful ' from any femme fatale who spends the night in my bed.
Those days are gone.
I got busy with medicine and music, with worry about the modern world, with yearning for experience away from vaginas and cities.
So, it is my own self imposed loving-sexual solitude i blame for nearly half a decade without sleeping with a single woman more than once.
That pictorial and hand written reminder of what it was to be loved by a woman not my mom or sister made me notice that small hole ive got in my side. It doesnt hurt, but i had forgotten there is that romantic, shellyian part of me that still thinks true love is revolution. That man is almost dead. And i am fine and truly happy without him and have existed to my own satisfaction and great success without a lover. And i just haven't felt 'it' about women or sex in years. I need noone in the wilds of america but my friends and laughter. But the hole remains, ever smaller, every year more set in my chaotic ways. I am indeed harder to get into a relationship than ever before in my life. I do miss it, miss being loved. The soft touches and feeling...i guess love is wonderful because it is like immortality. It is professed as "forever", but we are mortal flesh. The union, the passion trancends aging and disease. In fact trials and despair and misunderstanding only strengthen love. It blinds, it creates a world that is illusion....but its a perfect illusion...and if lucky a true illusion.
" jesus" i think,..." what if i call that beautiful smart girl i was flirting with at the party and she wants to have lunch when i want to play guitar make a cup of tea then read the new 'foreign affairs'? I just dont think i have the leisure time for that sort of thing. Ive had sex a hundred thousand million times with passion, i sure dont need to waste lunch time trying to do that again. I got to figure out how to make my friends laugh more and save the world. "
such is the logic, now prevailing in my brain..
Now into files and photo albums go the images of a boy and the lovers and oceans he gazed at!
Now on with more important work and bigger fun that needs to be had here and now!