this person i had the longest unrequited infatuation with recently graduated with a flashy thesis on things related to hyper technologized world-relations. i find myself oscillating between jealousy, envy(for recognition, symbolic status, etc.), a bitter criticism and a flight towards the “opposite end”. it is then, hard to properly look at what I perhaps have always been attracted to: print-making, analog photo developing, rough papers, textured worlds that are hard to translate into discrete units. as i’m afraid that what I “like” is motivated by a weird sense of revenge. is it coming out of a resentiment? but purity is something to be cautioned about as usual. So I’ll try to give it a go. along the quest and gentle supports I’ve been receiving. to try and infuse significance, meaning that i’ve been denying, or even been ashamed of.
that one special thing. will you know, when, that is. it is. and nothing else. or if you are. or must one know, feel, get a sense of that. is that about fulfillment. some kind of oracles told before. or a lie. or something to get over with. something to move pass. like all your exes. do they cease exist.
i dream about the parts of me drifting into the far end of everything. when distinguishable is no longer the priority. merging is. attraction is above everything else there. there is always a desire to be attracting all the things I want, without conscious effort. a desire to gravity. i guess maybe that’s why simone was writing about it. and grace. the other part. the part that doesn’t require astringent measures. like water flows to the bottom of the basin. juice from the pear flowing out of my mouth. trying to catch it sloshing down my arm holding the pear, too early for spring. the dried bits will crumble and fall off. end up in my dreams. swirling being the only mode of transportation. a little bump here and a little bump there. the hands are sweaty pool. if only hunger doesn’t have to be satisfied and wealth just flows in like those who owns suits and shoes and bank accounts and i just want to have a conversation with the police about where do they draw their faith from. do they draw their faith from. do they draw. do they participate in faith. sometimes the swirling is aiming at a mile longer down the road. we all know the hands that tries to grab a pedal in a draft. soldiers sent to pull triggers on a set of silent beliefs. we are foot soldiers for something else, more special thing than us. our bodies will be cremated and let drift to the far end of everything. ends up in another’s dream.
a physicist i respect and admire talks about attraction with the eyes of a naughty kitten, separation ignites a glaring danger. it is not above all beneath any ever a sense of trying to convince. i disengage as soon as the defense commence. but i want to keep being in your life, i just yet to learn the craft of balance. my otoliths being disorienting beside my mind. some people are here per invitation from the Arachnean. some are shoot out like an arrow. some twirl. and still some do a bit of all, here, there, some time. some are always leaking radiance hard to map, the smudges that become together with the sheet, only transferable, to copy is our call for copulation. i have this unshakable desire to be real. to be true. to inhabit all the cliché that speaks of a human being. a real, true, human being. busy figuring. what directs the attention, what orbits mode intensity and how to give significance, determine relevance that isn’t dismissive? what does instinct and faith feel like on the finger tips? if one lays down gently next to another, the other. how long should the coming and going be for the love to be not so startling? there is so much to be said about nothing at all and so little to be said about everything. all i wish for is a morning kiss before opening eyes from the sunlight. yet it is infinitely hard to imagine leaving. arriving. finding home somewhere. else.
is there a line between complacency and self-compassion? we were laying in bed joking about the absurdity of it all. i sense a gap between our considerations and engagements with these thoughts. thoughts in general. i’m no longer satisfied with the raw desire. i’m a sculptor in the refining process. hammer no longer in hand. now it is between me and the unanswerable mystery. i’m no longer sure if it is useful to carve every thought, idea, word three inches deep or leaving them shakily stacked as in a game of scramble. i found it hard to do anything without an invitation, a call to join force. i’m waiting for a sign. that you love to, love too. if i find no use of any criticism, what might constitute our conversation after i show you a piece, of raw intention? i just can’t wait to ask you if i can visit, if i can stay, will you enter me again, will you caress me, that what i’m longing for, the part when separation is no longer the final act. there was an occasion when i brought up analog computing. the process that models after another process that just goes. how many pointers at how many occasions must i remind myself, that the breadth, the width, the depth, the fullness of you, of an other, is beyond my recognition, my conscious registration, somewhere down or emanating beyond, an analog machine coupling mine that is just as enigmatic, our resonance dances flickers to be read, touched, that touches us, a felt symphony without a score to be studied. because you are a fuzzy being and i like to stroke my fingers across your ragged surfaces that are rather multi-dimensional stories to be unfurled. blossoms under the touch that make a song out of a sweet promise. be my special being.
i re-read our old exchanges, i wonder if those doors you kept open for people who didn’t want to come in, how tall and with what materials were they built? is one of them meant for me, and is it still open if i shall want to come in now. and now everything is harder already. because flashy things are too easily attractive, i’ve nothing to compete, though it’s not a competition, but we are abundant limitations, we are bounded by things that are indiscreet always, rubbing off with each touch. there are a lot of things i want to give attention to. more than i could. so do i push myself, how much should i take as an upper limit, daily, fish oil intake, deliberate or is forgetfulness forgivable. i no longer know how to end this. it sort of drifts on and i don’t want to go home because there is unpleasantness waiting at home, a stubborn stain hard to remove. though i promised something should take off. if there is one thing to be done every day, may it be kissing you on the cheek and holding your hand while looking up your face that stares back with the special seductive look. every time we part our hands, some pieces starts their journey drifting to the end of another’s dream. catch. that special thing.
Permenant and Pertinent Resi(st)dance 