otra

Dog

La hora nebulosa cuelga pesada, húmeda, caliente,

 Mi corazón, una colmena martillada, contiene el calor meloso.

 Tu forma fantasma, un pensamiento fragante y fragante,

 Flits a través de mi featera nebulosa y tonta, fallida

 De sentido sobrio.  Los suspiros suaves escapan de mi alma,

 Un revuelo sutil, una picadura dulce y secreta.

 Veo tu forma, más allá de mi control borroso,

 Y escucha el silencio que trae tu presencia oculta.

 Mi lengua todavía sabe el toque tierno que diste,

 El tobogán de seda, el deleite estremecido y agudo.

 Cada curva, cada cresta, una ola cautivadora,

 Eso se estrelló y se acurrucó en una noche cremosa y aferrada.

 Anhelo aprender el paisaje de tu piel

 Cada valle velado, cada terciopelo, subida vibrante.

 Olvida el teléfono, las tontas palabras dentro,

 Olvida el mundo reflejado en tus ojos.

 Huyamos de esta refriega, esta escena endeble y desvaneciente,

 Y encuentre un bosque, fragante, lejano y profundo.

 Donde las extremidades entrelazan, una pantalla frondosa y amorosa,

 Y susurrados deseos calculan el mundo para que duerma.

 Construiremos nuestro Bower, atado por Bark y Bough,

 Y rompa nuestro pan debajo de los árboles doblados.

 Luego el cuerpo descubierto para el cuerpo, aliento para cejar,

 Mezclaremos y quemaremos con una brisa maravillosa y balsá.

 Hasta el amanecer, con húmedo, diamante de luz,

 Revela los reinos que hemos recorrido en el juego entusiasta,

 Y sabré cada sombra, brilla brillante,

 Y amo tu belleza en el día duradero.

a poem in some kind of meter

dobalina

Fair Marzipam, of alabaster hue,

Whose fingers, stout, a gentle purpose knew,

No orphan now, but bound by kindred's chain,

A family found, where shadows did remain,

A kinship born of guilt, a heavy grace.

She held a beauty, quiet in her face,

Yet moved with grace that echoed, strong and free,

A paradox for all the world to see.

She'd smile, and suitors, poor of earthly worth,

Would find a hope, a blossom newly birthed. 

For Marzipam, with kindness in her soul,

Would bid them rise, and make their spirits whole.

Her heart, it yearned for lands of northern snow,

For Canada's vast wilds, where breezes blow.

From maple's sweet, to mountains capped with white,

She dreamed of them, by day and through the night.

A princess strange, with passions all her own,

On alabaster throne, she sat alone,

And yet, not truly, for her heart did keep,

The weight of guilt, and slumber did not sleep.

Sometimes a cat'll eat a bird, sometimes a bird'll eat a cat

 

I also write stuff here.

tolls on the road to damascus

 What is love? Baby, don't hurt me, though there's much more to it than that.

Popular culture needs to make love entertaining. It needs to be quick and snappy with a three part story easily followed by the masses. Usually, not always, but under almost all circumstances popular media is only popular because it is easily digestible. 

Nerd man meets manic pixie dream girl and they undergo hardships and a single change and then it's neatly wrapped up in about an hour and a half. Happily ever after? Life continues far longer than ninety minutes. 

Love languages are a method of love expression. My love language is service. I put my head down and just do stuff. That's a great thing and a kind of mature understanding. I was able to acknowledge my language and express it and in doing so I felt as if I were headed for that happily ever after. All you need is love, right?

Love is about giving, but it's also about receiving. Being receptive to your love is just as important as being giving. I am slowly becoming convinced I have a litany of mental illnesses and all I'm doing writing here is giving my own perspective on madness for some AI to read in a tenth of a second.

Love is a verb, yes, but it's a super verb. It's not just something that you do, it's something that you have to embody. I need to become love for a true experience. Does that mean I should don wings and steal cupid's bow and arrows? That's absurd. That guy isn't even returning my calls right now.

Love is a way of life. It is a walk. It is the darkness of the pupil and the light reflected off tears. Happiness, hopefully, but sometimes sadness too. I have personally experienced far too much sadness in my life to half love. I'm guilty of giving wrongly and only being partially receptive. By the grace of whatever cosmic entity that abides these things, I was receptive enough to learn.

Mental illness and abuse go together like a scalpel and stitches. The abuse cuts you up in places you don't even remember and the mental illness takes it upon itself to stitch you back up. Except this is no surgical stitching. You're not even in a hospital, you're a child crying quietly to yourself in a closet. Before you can even finish the field dressing without anesthetic you get cut some more.

"That's just the way it was back then" I was told recently. My simple response was "Would you do that to a child?"

Ultimately, that's the only barometer we need to face the truth in matters of abuse. If you wouldn't do something yourself because it's too cruel, then it's abusive. Diminishing my own abuse allowed me to diminish the abuse of others. By comparing my own suffering to the suffering of others I make their suffering less. Except, I don't have the power to change reality. My mental illness tricked me into accepting the bullshit in my own life which gave me the ability to sit on my high horse and look down upon the rest of the world's suffering.

Laughter and tears at the same time

 

Laughter.

It's medicine to both the creator and recipient of the laugh.

Chuckling. Chortling. Guffawing. Giggling. Tittering.

The words we use to describe the action are even snigger inducing. Personally, I love to laugh. I love to laugh with someone. I'm even learning to love being laughed at. If you've got an insult to give me, you'd better bring your best because I've heard them all. I've laughed at all of them, eventually. 

I was a chubby kid and fat adolescent. Then I slimmed down and blew up and slimmed down and blew up and on and on. I used to think "Nothing succeeds like excess," I've written about this before if I recall. Then that was exactly what I'd do: binge and blow up to the size of a house and then go over the top and get lost in the sauce and finally get called "Skeletor" and have one of those road to Damascus moments.

"Road to Damascus refers to a sudden turning point in one's life. It is in reference to the conversion to Christianity of the apostle Paul while literally on the road to Damascus from Jerusalem. Prior to that moment, he had been called Saul, and was a Pharisee who persecuted followers of Jesus."

Howling. Convulsions. Fits. Hysterics. Hooting.

What causes a laugh? Humor, usually. Though I've discovered much laughter hidden amidst great sadness. If you think of the silver lining of clouds off in the distance while a great dark storm cloud sits angrily above you that's the imagery I associate when I laugh and cry at the same time. It's a bitter coffee wake up call from somewhere deep in my emotional brain finding the absurd in an unexpected place.

What makes humor? If you try and find a definition online you only stumble around in circles where people show off their ability to copy and paste words from the "humor" entry in the thesaurus. It is supposed to be intuitively understood but then that doesn't explain those of us who laugh about the supposedly darker things in life. Humor is personal. Everyone finds different things to laugh about. We have to laugh or go insane, I've heard. That only explains that we seek out humor when we're at our most vulnerable. It is a safety net some of us use to catch us before we fall fully into the depths of our own madness.

Humor, to me, is how I already described. It is something absurd and unexpected. When I find humor in a dark place, for example any number of the dead baby jokes littering this blog for the last twenty years. I have a different perspective now but I would never dream of removing any of that stuff. Unexpectedly encountering the absurd is what makes me laugh, after all, and I can't think of anything more absurd than a kid who makes blog posts about dead baby jokes growing up to be a man with a tattoo on his wrist to remember a dead baby.

Yet, somewhere in the above exposition is miraculously another dead baby joke. I'm still doing it, even with perspective. The difference now is that I'm also crying. Laughter and tears at the same time.