NO MORE ILLUSIONS PLEASE


Love is many things
or nothing

Love stinks
Love sucks
Unrequited love
is worst of all

I get confused

If I’m sexually attracted
I fall in love
greedily, needily
If I like someone
I love the company
If I am lonely
I love desperately

There are so many ways
to love
so many ways for love
to end

Which is real
which illusion?
Is love real
or just a myth?

We pretend we know
it feels like it’s so
How can it be real
if it ends?

If it ends
Did it
ever
really exist?

Perhaps
perhaps all I
really want
is
a lover sometimes
a friend sometimes
a companion
sometimes

and that’s all?

Perhaps
perhaps
perhaps

Perhaps I
don’t need
love
at all.

Advertisements

What does death taste like?


The_Sweet_Taste_of_Death_by_JasonGoad art by jasongoad.deviantart.com

I wonder what death tastes like.  Does it taste like the blackened bits of carbon that burn forever on the sides of a cast-iron pan?

Does death taste like brown and yellow agglutinated crap served cold?

Perhaps death tastes of the rotting, putrefying meat of dead animals slaughtered for food served steaming hot?

It is often said that the stench of burning human corpses is sickeningly sweet.  Perhaps death brings an overwhelming flavor of sweetness with it?  Burning corpses layered with fatty oils, burning, smoking greasily, filling the air the nose the lungs the tongue with a cloying odor of blackened leather?

Is death sweet? The aroma of almonds, dead and broken, cut in bloodless slices, layered with caramelized sugar; does death taste like that? Or sweeter still, like the honey of billions of dead flowers?

Or could it be, could it taste like bitter astringent pee? the pee on her labia, like a sharp spice around the honey within?

Oh. Back to her. Her, she, the one who makes me long for death.  Her of the twisted mind and tortured soul like me, the one I longed to be with for these wasted years?  What of her? She is life itself, and smiles and joy and soft flesh and music and reading and video and laughter and companionship.  And death. She is death for me. To long for her is to long for death. O, to taste her would be joy!  Joy denied. Love denied. Laughter denied. Companionship denied. The sweet look in her eyes.  The poetry of her hands moving about in space, the hands I long to touch, to caress, to feel warm in my hands….  A_Day_Without_You___2nd_Phase_by_Beloved_Creature A Day Without You by Beloved-Creature

Zombie Karen If she were a real zombie, I’d rush to her, embrace her, kiss her, and die.

But it is death!  It is death to touch her, to want the untouchable.  It is death to taste her, death to want to smell her honey, taste it on the end of my thrusting tongue probing her sweetness, stirring our flesh into spasms of delight and ever more desire, fevered heat on every part of our skin, and all is sensing and touching and smelling and tasting without thought.   Sugar Skull: Dia de los Muertos Karen

And there is la petit mort also.  That is the death I would taste.

I should ‘a’ been a poet, but “comparisons are odious”


Between 400 and 450 years ago, Christopher Marlow wrote: Marlowe Statue

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD (like me) TO HIS LOVE

COME live with me, and be my love;
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber-studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Just as crazy as I.

Do you doubt it?

Look at the reply:

The nymph’s reply to the shepherd (like Karen’s response to me)

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,—
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

And so, you can see,

I am not alone in insanity,

my lovely lady

my lust, I can never satisfy.

tm 2009, 2010

Love is a trial; if only I were done with it


THE BRIDE OF THE SEA

by H. P. Lovecraft

Black loom the crags of the uplands behind me,

Dark are the sands of the far-stretching shore.

Dim are the pathways and rocks that remind me

Sadly of years in the lost Nevermore.

Soft laps the ocean on wave-polish’d boulder,

Sweet is the sound and familiar to me;

Here, with her head gently bent to my shoulder,

Walk’d I with Unda, the Bride of the Sea.

Bright was the morn of my youth when I met her,

Sweet as the breeze that blew o’er the brine.

Swift was I captur’d in Love’s strongest fetter,

Glad to be here, and she glad to be mine.

Never a question ask’d I where she wander’d,

Never a question ask’d she of my birth:

Happy as children, we thought not nor ponder’d,

Glad of the bounty of ocean and earth.

Once when the moonlight play’d soft ‘mid the billows,

High on the cliff o’er the waters we stood,

Bound was her hair with a garland of willows,

Pluck’d by the fount in the bird-haunted wood.

Strangely she gaz’d on the surges beneath her,

Charm’d with the sound or entranc’d by the light:

Then did the waves a wild aspect bequeath her,

Stern as the ocean and weird as the night.

Coldly she left me, astonish’d and weeping,

Standing alone ‘mid the legions she bless’d:

Down, ever downward, half gliding, half creeping,

Stole the sweet Unda in oceanward quest.

Calm grew the sea, and tumultuous beating

Turn’d to a ripple as Unda the fair

Trod the wet sands in affectionate greeting,

Beckon’d to me, and no longer was there!

Long did I pace by the banks where she vanish’d,

High climb’d the moon and descended again.

Grey broke the dawn till the sad night was banish’d,

Still ach’d my soul with its infinite pain.

All the wide world have I search’d for my darling;

Scour’d the far desert and sail’d distant seas.

Once on the wave while the tempest was snarling,

Flash’d a fair face that brought quiet and ease.

Ever in restlessness onward I stumble

Seeking and pining scarce heeding my way.

Now have I stray’d where the wide waters rumble,

Back to the scene of the lost yesterday.

Lo! the red moon from the ocean’s low hazes

Rises in ominous grandeur to view;

Strange is its face as my tortur’d eye gazes

O’er the vast reaches of sparkle and blue.

Straight from the moon to the shore where I’m sighing

Grows a bright bridge made of wavelets and beams.

Frail it may be, yet how simple the trying,

Wand’ring from earth to the orb of sweet dreams.

What is yon face in the moonlight appearing;

Have I at last found the maiden that fled?

Out on the beam-bridge my footsteps are nearing

Her whose sweet beckoning hastens my tread.

Current’s surround me, and drowsily swaying,

Far on the moon-path I seek the sweet face.

Eagerly, hasting, half panting, half praying,

orward I reach for the vision of grace.

Murmuring waters about me are closing,

Soft the sweet vision advances to me.

Done are my trials; my heart is reposing

Safe with my Unda, the Bride of the Sea.

sweet-unda-in-oceanward-quest shot and modeled by the fantastic Kayleigh

I Wish I Weren’t An Old Man


funny-001 (AGC, Inc.)

Chinese proverb: Men grow old, pearls grow yellow, there is no cure for it.

Walt Whitman:

Youth, large, lusty, loving-youth full of grace, force, fascination,
Do you know that Old Age may come after you with equal grace,
force, fascination?

Day full-blown and splendid-day of the immense sun, action,
ambition, laughter,
The Night follows close with millions of suns, and sleep and
restoring darkness.

Li Po:

The living is a passing traveler;
The dead, a man come home.
One brief journey betwixt heaven and earth,
Then, alas! we are the same old dust of ten thousand ages.

The rabbit in the moon pounds the medicine in vain;
Fu-sang, the tree of immortality,
has crumbled to kindling wood.
Man dies, his white bones are dumb without a word

When the green pines feel the coming of the spring.
Looking back, I sigh;
Looking before, I sigh again.
What is there to prize in the life’s vaporous glory?

Buddha:

People who have learned little grow old like an ox;
their flesh grows, but their knowledge does not grow.

Clint Eastwood:

“Aging can be fun if you lay back and enjoy it.”

Me:

I’d do anything, give anything, to be young enough for Karen.

………………………………………………………………………………….. 

Blog is dead


09/05/08

In as much as my fantasies about Karen have been effectively squashed by her, and bled out of me through her indifference, I find there is not much to say about her anymore.  I like her, and we sometimes still eat lunch together, but since there is no longer even the slimmest of strands of hope that we could ever be real friends, like going out to movies, nightclubs, for a drink, or a drive, or ever have a meaningful relationship of any kind, there isn’t much point, as it seems to me.  I’ll always consider her a friend, and never forget her.  She is different, and I’m oddly fond of her, but such is life.

However, I do write, and I write often.  Short stories, poems, fiction and non-fiction, can all be found on my Word Press blog Random Writings (http://terrystuff.wordpress.com/).

Thanks for visiting!

Post High School Life Is Way Better, Really


Awhile back, I wrote 2 short stories here about my romantic encounters with women, an alien species.

After having fallen in love in the second grade, the fifth grade, and then with my fourth cousin after eighth grade, I was on a roll. I was certainly attracted to the opposite sex, and even had dreams about fantastic encounters, but found myself in high school never having dated anyone except my cousin, who had then run off to Texas with some older guy. My high school, unfortunately, was all male. Originally a ‘manual’ training school for ‘delinquent’ boys, the Baltimore Polytechnic Institute did not admit girls. It was an experiment at the time to separate boys and girls to facilitate learning – less distractions, more focus. There is a move these days to bring that back. It may help in grade school, but I think by the time most of us hit high school, you’re not going to get us to ignore biology just because of greater distance between the sexes.

Hell, beside cars, the main topic of conversation in that high school was sex. Personally, I wanted to fall in love again, but without any females around, the prospect was bleak. In fact, since I had zero social skills, I didn’t even have male friends, and didn’t know how to go about having friends. It’s hard to talk about cars or girlfriends if you don’t have either. It’s possible I had what is now recognized as Asperger’s Syndrome*, as I was oblivious to non-verbal cues and couldn’t understand how to have a conversation with anyone. Before High School, I walked to and from school with my eyes on the ground; if I saw people coming towards me I crossed the street to avoid them.  I hated to look in people’s eyes, although it was probably more because my dad insisted, “Look at me when I’m talking to you,”  and he was always angry when he said that, and often grabbed my face.  High school was no better, and with puberty raging, it was a dark and dry time.  However, by the time I was in my second try at my Junior year, the old school had been abandoned for a new one and the city built the new all-girls high school right next door so we could share some facilities. This opened up possibilities, but my complete lack of social skills left me high and dry throughout the rest of my high school days. I was one of those guys who did not go to any prom. After graduation I went to work, and took evening classes. I also volunteered time at the local Free Clinic, so there were lots of opportunities to meet women, but my social skills still sucked.

I met a guy from a nearby college while I was in high school, and we had common interests in politics. We met on a bus ride to Indiana to canvas people for Eugene McCarthy. Len had a group of friends, so after high school, I started hanging out with them, and I shared an apartment with Len. There were lots of parties. I tried weed, but found it didn’t have any effect until my fourth try. I had been ready to give up on it, but on an excruciatingly-long bus ride to Florida for a rock concert, I met some stoners who turned me on to some good stuff, and we took turns smoking in the bus’s crapper. That was nice. I felt much more at peace, and my stress levels fell off to near zero. I had missed out on Woodstock. Although I had made plans to go, there was this woman in Len’s group of friends that I’d fallen in love with. Kathy went to Woodstock with the guy she’d just started dating, the handsome, but nearly blind Chuck, so I decided I wasn’t going to share the car with them.

Ah! Kathy. Now there was a woman. Intelligent right off. She was four years older, as were the rest of the group I was hanging with, so there was a gap. She once told my roommate that I was just a snot-nosed kid, which was true enough, literally, as I had problems with hay fever then, now known as seasonal allergies. Len, who was gay, told Kathy once that I liked her, which is when the snot-nosed kid phrase got trotted out. However, we did occasionally go to a movie, and she lived nearby, so I often stopped by her place to listen to music, or discuss politics or economic theory with her. She was a fan of Ayn Rand capitalism, an overly-idealistic view of market economics that is blindly believed would create a better society. Always wanted to try out her silk sheets. She wrote poetry, and I still have one of her poems:

“COME, FOLLOW ME  – Kathleen Norvell

You called to me                 but I could not follow.
You ran fleeting over fields of
forget-me-nots, asphodels, lotus.
I tripped, fell,
through meadows of hemp, poppies.
I could not remember what I chased
I lay down in the red fields of
forgetfulness.
Now I lay me down to sleep            perchance to dream?

But you whispered to             my slumbering self-seeker,
“Come, follow me.
I will take you to               the liquid sky –
a sea you may walk upon.
You can turn cartwheels on a sickle moon.
Swim through seas of mustard seed waving.
Come, follow me.”
But I could not rise             from my scarlet slumber.

You pleaded again.
“I will let you                  swing from lampposts
by your knees.
Paint the sky at night
in green and lavender.
Slide down the
seven-tone bannister
into tomorrow.
Come, follow me.
We’ll build sand castles
in the Sahara
anthills on Everest.
See sun-up-and-down at once.”
Still you beckoned me.
“Come follow me.
Your raiment will be
of crystal webs and moonbeams.
Awaken!
Come, follow me!”

I shook the dust
of dreams from my eyes
I dragged myself      away
from the ruby dell of dreams.
I leapt into the shimmering skies
following the sun rays
of your eyes.
I ascended beside the glittering voice
of you who summened,
the plains of the mind,   seas of the psyche,
within me, without me.
I could not see your voice
only heard the beautiful
flowing streamers of gold you wore.

“Come, follow me!”

I reached up, I
struggled, stretched my
hand out.  I touched the
glistening hem of your garment.
Closed my eyes.
Blissful
expectant,
exhilarated,
breathless,
I opened my eyes

You lied.”

She was a romantic like me. She wasn’t interested in me, however, as she was in love with someone else in the group, who eventually married the woman, also in the group, who he was in love with. I was fascinated with the whole dynamic from my outsider perspective. Kathy was in love with Brian, who was in love with Maggie. I was in love with Kathy, but the only person in love with me, or at least attracted to me, was my fat, foul-smelling roommate, and I wasn’t having any of that. For awhile, Brian moved in with me and Len, so Kathy found lots of excuses to drop by, and that was the only reason she went to movies with me. I tried to get her to go for a drink or get a bite to eat afterwards, but she always wanted to rush back to my apartment. She had these long, beautiful legs and she could really move. Brian, of course, was usually there. Only after his wedding did she back off. That’s when I thought my chances would improve, but then Chuck came into the picture, and I had no chance at all. Story of my life at this point.

Then I met Sue at a mixer. Someone intelligent, in college, and my age. Things were looking up.

*Asperger Syndrome Symptoms