Tuesday, March 10, 2009

I feel like rambling. This could go on awhile. I never know where to place commas or where to end paragraphs. Sometimes I think I know, but I'm probably wrong. And other times I know exactly what I'm doing, but I don't give myself enough credit.

A person who I chat with online just told me I give new meaning to multitasking. But really it's just the same old tired meaning. I feel like I'm not getting enough done, even with all that I'm doing here. Because really, it isn't very much at all. The online chat person is a Star Trek fan, who lives in a room across the hall from where I almost lived happily ever after with Mark Daniel Adams. This man said he just wanted to be friends with me in the beginning. He's since confessed that he wants far more than that. In my silence he has apologised. With every word he says to me now, he apologises for his desire.

Another man argues about intent, malice, and how his misspelling of words makes everything ok. I burn with unexpressed rage as I type my responses. Stupidity and the reinforcments of stereotypes. How do I fall into these conversations? "You're never too old to change your thinking", he says. He doesn't see the irony. A double-edged sword that is slamming into my skull. The dull conversation refuses to end. I've got to get out of this space.

I'm listening to Sade and Daft Punk combined in ways not intended by the artists. I'd never heard the Daft song before this Frankenstein musical pastiche. The first time I heard the Sade song, I was 26, sitting on the floor in a gay bar while a drag queen performed. I knew the queen in passing. The song was dedicated to a dead friend of hers, who will forever be remembered as Jezebel. I was rapt. Many friends were in attendance and I was happily coupled. Travis wore his light blue, too tight Strawberry Shortcake shirt. Laurie and the Hillsdale crowd were charmingly impressed. Anytime I hear the Sade song I see this memory and I re-dedicate the song to a queen's dead friend I never knew.

It's raining again. I love the sound of the rain in my room. I'm tempted to go for a walk, but the imagined chill is far more satisfying than reality. Still...temptation waits.

I used to play with broken toys when I was a child. The faded paint and sharp edges appealed to me far more than the shiny new shit, which always seemed to disappoint. The missing fragments were mysteries that kept my attention far longer than storied pieces of plastic that gave away their answers far too easily. It's how I prefer my men. Pitted. Scarred. Damaged. Does this mean that men are only toys?

I was a broken amusement myself once. Broken boys playing games. Action figures trying to piece together the perfect solution. Men struggling to fit together, when the pieces left to them don't amount to much. Perhaps I am still a broken toy. People play with me for awhile and then they grow up.

Have you ever been haunted by a story that someone told you? A real memory of theirs that stays with you long after they told you, and even longer after they actually experienced it? Some piece of their life that somehow exists parallel to your own... just out of reach, but always there.

My sister used to tell me her dreams, and I remember them like they're my own. We always had odd things in common anyway. Her dreams haunt me.

And there were these kids I met in a hospital... They haunted me for years after. I forget them most of the time now, but sometimes the memories of them come flooding back.

And then there's this boy I dated about seven years ago, and everything about him haunts me like that. It's far more intense than the others though. It's not like anything else really. All his stories and adventures...they criss cross across my life, but are achingly separate from my own experiences. Everytime I've touched him I've cherished it. Every time I've seen his world I've been transported beyond my life. And this wave of feeling is so overwhelming that I invariably come crashing down in a heap on the floor of my odd little existance.

Now I read his myspace blog. His stories are poetry. His words inspire and sadden me. His every little gesture is maddening. And did I mention he's beautiful? He's wicked handsome. He's not one of those perfect fags that hurt my eyes just to look at them. He's perfectly imperfect.

I took a break from this entry to write a poem about him. Then I took another break to send it in an e-mail. I'll close this off with what I wrote:

Hey Sean,

Long time no chat. I almost called you today. I still might. I'm odd like that. Though it occurs to me, that I don't know where my fucking phone is. Oh well.

I was reading your blog today. I like it. A lot. I wish you'd written more.

I was trying to write about you today. You have this effect on me that nobody else does, and I'm not sure how to express it without sounding lame. I'm not sure that I understand it myself. But all the things you've told me about; stories and dreams and reviews of songs you like and books that you've read - they stay with me. It's almost overwhelming. Like every little boring bit of your life is some amazing dream I'm having and never want to wake from. I was at EMU the other day and I couldn't help remembering the stories you spoke about living around there.... I found myself looking around and wondering. It's this ache. I get it everytime something like that happens. I get it when I see anything assoiciated with you. And I don't get that with any other ex of mine, or friend of mine. And I don't know why that is, or what it is, but it's a powerful sensation. It's this huge wave of emotion that I can't identify. I don't know what it means. But I'm grateful for it. There's an intense sadness mixed up in it all. I'm not sure why. But I'm grateful that I'm feeling it. It's wondrous.

You are wondrous.

And I'm jealous of anyone that gets to see you all the time. And I'm grateful that I've gotten to know you. And I'm happy that I got to see you back in October. It doesn't seem that long ago really, unless I really think about it, and then it seems like too long indeed.

Bald Jason

Anyways - I wrote this for you:

SEAN

You're not like any other man I've ever tasted.

When we come together it's like my heart skips
and my stomach explodes
and the world stops just to tell us that it wasn't meant to happen.

Only it did.
And the world can suck it.

"Fuck you motherfucker."

Having you was a small victory
but the world won the war.

And now I catch memories of you between my sheets;
between leaves in the trees;
between teardrops and rain.

Everything about you is a foreign country
filled with simple splendor and aching surrender.

Please keep breathing.
Please keep writing.
Please keep sharing.

I might not be there to see your everything...
But I fucking love your ghost.

Written By Jason Wright
March 10, 2009

   posted by Bald Jason at 07:02 PM
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