My life tastes phony lately, laden with MSG. My natural tolerance for suffering fools gladly is being closed off by the slow, deliberate lowering of a garage door. I don’t want to make time for bullshit. I am kinetic and forward. I am outlined, etched with quick, craggy, charcoal lines.

I feel isolated and so terribly lonely. I become visible only through tangential connections with outside experiences: they touch the surface of my skin, each at a separate, single point, before shooting off into infinity. The collection of clustered points at which I make brief connections are what bring me into being. I am negative space.

I sit in bars and cafés, and think not of my book or wine or peppermint tea, nor do I think of the people around me who, in return, are not thinking of me. Instead, I think of the long-discarded commands and conversations piled in the ochre-painted corners, left to raisin under the tendrils of cigarette smoke and the aroma of espresso.

I had a dream recently that I was being stalked by thugs through dark city streets. They surrounded me and shoved me menacingly. I was terrified at first, but my fear turned to anger and I began fighting and yelling. They mocked me openly and continued to shove, before doing whatever it is that marauding gangs of brutes do to women walking alone at night. Thankfully, my alarm clock spared me of the details, and I awoke before their aggressive taunting turned to assault.

* * * * *

Out of the blue, I received a voice message on Monday from my best friend’s brother, Chad, whom I’ve only met once, after my friend’s wedding. That night, when my friend and her husband jetted off to their honeymoon suite to consummate, her brother spent time to get to know one another. He had made it clear that I was considered a part of the family, and made me feel so welcome and loved despite our differences.

We spoke of feeling displaced and floundering, Chad following his faith in God, I following whatever invisible path I keep laying down for myself, sprinkling a trail of breadcrumbs behind me, and leaving it to the mercy of crows. Seems that both methods work equally well, so far, in getting to an undisclosed location. We all adopt or concoct our own codes, and none of them is wrong.

Chad's voice message on Monday was enigmatic and oddly relevant. He wanted to see how I was doing, what I was pursuing, and, he added, he wanted to know if I had gotten in touch with my anger. He said to give him a call, and ended with “God bless.” It was almost cutting in its genuineness, as are all things with this boy, my friend, and their entire family.

There’s a campy charm in picturing sweet Chad, a newly ordained minister who loves to talk and loves to be meaningful, using his best old-man voice to bestow blessings and Oprah-isms on me. He has a pink baby-face, spiky hair, and pierced ears. It’s nice to be in his prayers. There is a loving sense of safety in his credo. But, as he well knows, no credo separates the believer from life or anger. I’m not trying to be condescending, merely concise.

My “faith” is entirely secular. So much changes from day to day, my perspective constantly widens, and I can’t tie my beliefs to a single set of rules. There's a certain thrill to waywardness, and a certain self-knowledge that one acquires as a result.

I believe in silence and living. I believe that cruelty can only be enacted through effort, and that compassion is natural. I believe in now, even if “now” is cushioned in soft, faceless anger.

I believe that words should be as precious as one can afford them to be, and should be spent with extravagance in honest moments of impulsive pain or joy. Never should they be squandered.

I believe in the purity of black coffee and red wine. I believe in the peptic validation of cold whiskey. I believe that a fuck can be satisfying even if it doesn't qualify as love-making. I believe that it is always an option to flatten oneself against walls and join the mess of shadows that dance like lost projections. The act of sinning is rarely confusing in the moment. What price hedonism?

I believe that the vacuous redundancy of my pre-insomnic blurblings lend credence to the argument that if a solitary tree is felled, it can be as loud as it damn well pleases. Whether it makes a difference or not, is another question.

I believe in the theory of relativity, that days can be nearly interminable, chased by nights of even greater length.

Forever and ever, amen.

ms. m? You’re the ginchiest. Just sayin’.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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