further evaluations

It’s funny, reading over old writings I did back in the middle of last year. So much pain, so much loneliness seemed to hover in my mind. Sitting in an apartment in Mission Beach, just north of San Diego, without a social outlet in sight. No real friends, no contact, really, with the either too young, or just plain too different people around me.

And now, not four months after leaving that place, and its security, its womb-like stillness, I can’t hardly believe it. Four months after a three year hiatus from the colors and realities of real social interaction? It seems like that time never existed, that it was a void, a darkness that reached into all aspects of my life.

And what now? Now I am in a place full of life, friends, outlets for hidden and dark urges. Urges that bring out the beast in me, but not violently, at least not all the time. At least he’s pawing at the surface, providing me with the bite needed to tell people NO. To put people in their place if they’re trying to take advantage of me, to walk without fear toward a beautiful woman and talk to her like we’ve been going out for years.

The triune has been broken for some time. Since that fateful flensing that so bloodily crowned the wake of my crime, have I not understood the necessity of risk. Not terrible risk, nothing like crossing a ten lane highway on foot or shooting at cops just to see what would happen. Nothing like that. But the daily, small risks that present themselves, that keep you on your toes and your mind out of stagnation.

Example. Recently a former friend of mine went out of his way, long after a problem had been resolved, to backstab the man whom he had let himself be tormented by for quite some time. As a consequence, I have ignored him ever since, not going out of my way to be mean to him, but generally treating him like some sort of foul scum.

Before I found my claws, I would have continued being nice to him on the surface, while loathing him at every turn. It would have weighed on my conscious, and I would have felt ashamed for not punishing him in some way for what he had done. Now, my soul churns easier, without one more form of blockage.

Blockage. Neurolingual programming. Only now, almost ten years later, and after countless hours of reflection, self-flagellation, drug and alcohol abuse, and many other nasty aspects of a near complete lack of self-respect, do I find myself understanding more of what happened that night when I was broken.

To some extent I became deathly afraid of actions that would lead to further punishment. At the same time, however, I became reckless, and remain so, risking my life many times. Bones were chipped and nearly broken, skin ruptured violently on pavement, clouded rage boiling up randomly, uncontrollably.

Now, I think I am closer to harnessing that rage. I allow it to sit at the surface, keeping my wit sharp. It helps me think, and is there when I logic-guess (Socratic method) fools during conversations, turning their words on themselves.

The wolf sits by my desk as I transmutate reams of information into my adopted language. He runs with Bucephalus and me, sniffing out the track, calculating trajectories and vectors, keeping the fear at bay, allowing my body to focus on the job at hand.

With this blessed, slow return of confidence, of a deep-seated desire for terrible risk and fabulous reward, I can lean into the wind, and smile at the sea of grabbing, tearing hands all around me.

With the triune reuniting, I will be whole. Soon.

Like the wind through her hair, realization shot through her mind.
She stood, not far from where he had left her,
And wept. Not for herself, not for the friends he would never see again.
She wept for him. For his need to be loved.
For his undying urge to betray those who loved him.
For she knew he would die alone.

and gain some respect

to be thrown a crumb
i was on my knees
when you knocked me down

ween. crantastic. recently, a friend compared my writing to Hemmingway, due to its efficiency and clarity. some days earlier, I was told my sentences are two long, and that I should cut them down a bit, to save space and to allow the reader to fill in the blanks, and not be beggared by my windless prose. ah well. selah.

i smell blood in the air. not only due to recent dramatic events around me. partially of course, but the turmoil of my daily life only reflects the chaotic maelstrom which howls within. I am a man apart, torn between the routine of bingeing and partymaking, and a demanding but strangely fulfilling job.

my only refuge is here, and when talking with my broodmembers, who know how to calm the beast, and bring out the light. mahalo.

with herculean effort did I make it through the day. pushing myself on my nearly broken bycicle, matching the speed of the combustive commuters. fools all. making minor mistakes at work, pressured by my new coworker, who could be my mother. I will not demand of her respect, but force her to see the good thinking behind showing it to me.

self-destruction is the name of the game. driving to the edge of reason, of accountability, then lying and cheating your way back into the fold, until the bleakness and sheer boredom of it forces you out.

i fear to bind myself, even temporarily, to a woman, for i will break her heart. leap i will at the first opportunity, and hang not my head in shame when she curses and shouts at me, for secretly, I would have done it on purpose. the lashing and flensing of a woman in love bites and grooves the soul in such tender fashion.

when love dies, it mends. when compassion dies, it tends to limp back at some point or other.

Time, friend. live today as if it were your last. buy a gun, and shoot something living. and if you find yourself cornered, you can always say you were forced to do it by the frothing, overweight mountain of a woman who bore your first.

whatever.
X

normal

fear is the only medium. fear and pain. get a grip man. you can hardly type. and you expect to report to work tomorrow? without fear the human beast is nothing but a burnt shell, nothing but a faximile of its former self. for what are we without fear? what drives us to do better, to make something out of nothing?

fear

of the unknown. of the constant changes we face, that bind us to our decisions, as a mother binds us to her tit.

fear of denial.

fear of letting those things out that scare us the worst take hold, and consume us in their tearful envelope. of letting ourselves be conscious of the fact that everyone feels it, but some of us choose not to let it creep into our me, our most holy of fucking holies.

of betrayal.

of having some worthless whore tear your lungs out, and show them to you, as she prances away with some pretty, idolent scumbag who doesn't stand up to the flame?

of betrayal of friendship, that which lasts, and that which will never come again? and so i sit in lotathing of myself, for having wished death upon he from whom i sprung, hoping he will perish the utmost of painful deaths, because he betrayed not me, but she who bore me?

yes sir.

and with that, i, from my perished soul, wish ye, good night.
X

the third

he finally came out, the other night. we were soaked in margaritas, to the gills, and I was dancing with a fetching black French girl, whom I kissed passionately moments before she sprayed her guts onto the alabaster carpet.

the beast emerged finally when a new kid, not the brightest, had climbed over a divider on the balcony, and was staring into the neighboring apartment. our music was loud, and out of the fifteen people present, i was one of the only ones of drinking age.

my tones came harsh, cold and clear through the fog of booze, and the buffon rushed at once back to the correct side. at that moment, i could have violently removed his esophagus, and thrown his limp body over the side, for the squirrels to eat.

later, then, but before my sweet tart, who hasn't spoken with me since, soaked down the floor with stomach bile, the mendicant kept at me for ostracizing the cripple who had ratted out my one true friend out here. I told him twice to let it lie, then yelled at him with such a rage in my voice, that it caused the conversations to lull inside, and people to turn their backs on me.

since then he has lay in wait no longer. no more is he an awesome specter buried deep inside, but runs free throughout my mind, teasing me with visions of gore and violence, and digging into my ability to function at all turns.

welcome, friend. welcome back.

X

forced

he had been forced to do it.

not by those around him. not by the unseen, crushing pressure of defeat and alcoholism.

in the darkness it whimpered, for you could not realistically call it human anymore.

yet, it lived. one day, two. he began to try to feed it, but the cold meal just dribbled out of the gash in its esophagus.

finally, he cried. the one eye that remained stared up at him, dead yet alive, as the blows from his hatchet rained down on the ruined flesh.

the beast, that lived within him, was loose. god help them all.