Flux

I wrote these words years ago. September 2, 2011 exactly. From the sloughs of sayings and passages, things I no longer agree with – these words rang true.

“When there is no other course, we have to learn to walk the one before us anyway. When we can’t bear the one we’ve found ourselves on, we have to find a place where we can breathe the air again. When we’ve become something we can’t imagine being, we have to find some way back to where we used to be.”

What have I become that I can no longer love? And what, in the storm I passed through in my coming here, did I lose?

When, where, how can I come back to it without running from the things I still need? How do I coallate a new me?

保護者です。 (Protector)

I’m trying to get you out of my head, but you keep ending up in my space. I keep thinking –

零、you know where that road goes. Don’t walk that way. You’ll just get splinters in your hands and face.

関の部屋に入って、べトにすわて、ギターを引く、それからであろ。。。

I go through the barrier of my door into my room, sit on my bed, strum guitar and think…

I must be right.

部屋出て、娘茶をつかって、ごばんを食べて、勉強して、何かをする。。。(And then I leave my room to make tea, to make food, to study, to do a thing…)

And there you are.

I promise I’m not trying. These meetings are complete chance and accident. And I am not looking at you because if I do, I think I’ll lose it. But you talk to me and I can’t reason why.

I just keep trying to believe that I know what I’m doing. I keep trying to pretend that it has no chemical effect on me. I keep acting like it’s nothing.

But, Kaiozku, I feel the wheel is upside down.
What do I do?

今朝、終わる (This morning, finished)

Thoughts continuously rise and pop, rise and pop. Bubbles in efforvescent water. Nothing comes of one, two, three of them. Only together, they create a mass effect on the tongue. Not a taste, but a sensation. A tingling on lips, fizzing against teeth.

You swallow and the feeling slides singing down your throat. In your stomach, the bubbles turn to gas, filling your belly up. Later all that excess air has to be burped back up. A second round, less pleasant than the first.

But at the vending machine, you still choose the fizzy drink over still. You ask yourself why each time. Only to have what is comfortable and safe? Because without those brief sensations, your days lack something? Because you, by now, are used to such low grade suffering? Because you can’t bring yourself to touch that deep anywhere else?

Funny how we learn to love the wrinkles around our eyes that years of frowning made permanent in us. Funny how difficult a new pattern is to set. Funny how we just go round and round.

Isn’t it?

Well, I’m laughing at any rate.

今朝、熱い水。(This morning, hot water)

I am a dangerous mess.

危ない!
Keep your distance. Stay back. Don’t feed the thing. All normal warnings apply.

So do the phrases: it doesn’t know better, it was only following instinct, there’s no such thing as a bad dog.

I make a mess, not because I want to, but because I don’t know how to do anything else. I fuck up people’s lives, not because I’m trying to, but because I can’t help it. I’m the oni the religious fear. The monster you don’t want under your bed. The yokai you need smoke and candlelight to drive out.

I’m only trying, like you, to be alive. But my living causes hurt. I don’t know why. I often think I shoud stop. But, I’m too afraid to try. And so?

I only try now to walk lightly through this world. To pass like a ghoat through the walls. To not touch too much.

How am I doing?

If this morning is any indication: continued failure.

I need to make penance now to be clean.
I need to wash my hands and feet.
I need to speak in honorifics.
To somehow attempt to show I am more than what I seem.

I am sorry for what I’m made of. The weight of a nation ever on my shoulders. Does this place know what my blood comes from? What monsters my parents have been? What treachery their power caused? Does the ground itself not want me here?

It is good, though, to have to bear up under it. To, like the cost of being alive, know tbe cost of one’s inheritance. To know that we are, regardless of present action, connectd by strings to both the ones before and after us. That we cannot exist as an isolated event. Our lives but bits of thread in the greater weave.

I pay the price for what the generations before me chose. And the same for my life goes. I choose better not because I love it now, but because I have a brain that can comprehend I need to love life at large.

Failures to process this is only failures to hit the mark. It happens to all of us. Forests burn and mountains fall. Death ever by the side of the living. We cannot help but partake. Our choice in the way we go about death drives the changes that create the face of the future we choose from those infinitely variable.

Everything is possible.

I will make my peace with myself by doing what small I can to make it, first, with you. We’ll see what comes of that.

What was that about a crash?

The power to what?

You are the one I want most of all, and the only one I barely touch. The one I want to hear pressed against my ear. You barely haunt rooms in silence which I sit. I want more than I have, and no way to get at it.

I don’t want to wait to live again. I wasted lifetimes down that narrow alleyway, thinking the things I needed would magically occur to me. I’ve done enough hoping, wishing, dreaming. Dreams now glance off me. Mystery is above and beyond me.

But. If I stay true to who and what I am, then I will only find someone fitting to that personality. And if I fake myself, then I’ll get the old situatuions all over again. Failure upon failure to be retold. And no chance, ever, to be truly bold.

I need to remember the ruins of the past. To recall the struggles I’ve manuevered through. Ten years of another life I can’t go back to relive. Ashes that can’t be reformed into a living, breathing anything.

Despite religious persistence, life that can’t be sparked from nothing.

I need to pass through this drab cloudy weather. Find the lightning and the thunder. To be ready and willing to be struck straight in the chest. I already believe for some reason you are made of the fire I crave. And I know. To touch it, I have to bump into you.

I want to, but is timing everything? And consent is a complicated thing too. So, in light of both… when is right for you?

Do I hold my breath and hope you want me too? Do I play majika-shi and look for subtle clues from you? Do I make the first move?

I have to hope. Cling to this invisbile string. Because if its another blind failure, and another burned in scar, and another “you were wrong” — I end up with nothing. And then? Consider the tracks of one of countless trains your only friend. There won’t even be time to watch life flash before my eyes. I’ll close them tight and slip weightless into the speding light. And crash, not into you, but the night.

Let’s not lie.

友達 (Friend[s])

I’ve slowed my talking. Not in speed, ゆっくりとはいやい。Slow to fast. But in the sheer amount of words I am willing to use. It has nothing to do with the amount I like you. Both are applicable. It isn’t fear because there are things I could have said. Previously, would have.

Now, I feel no inclination toward the wordy. No enjoyment in the rowdy. No fun in the melodramatic. Is it age or am I just getting over it? Over what? Human communication?

No, the widening gap between words and communicating anything. The slog of nonstop sounds. The uneasy need to blurt something, anything out.

I am happy to have conversations in the subtle way we share the air. Comfortable to have you occupy my space. Glad to have my head uncluttered with worries about what could I possibly say?

I learn just as much by observing as by complicated explanations. Sometimes, more. I trust better in private actions in the unobserved corners of rooms than I do to fabricated language.

Call it a story-teller’s curse.

I wait for myths and truths to reveal themselves. Lights glinting off glass shards on the ground. I know my characters through colors of their coats and half-lidded glances of their eyes. Ironically enough, the melody of words is secondary. The rhythm of a life’s pattern is the heartbeat of the phrases our lips would make. Our breath courses like rivers in the riveted beds our habitual motions carve.

I can see through a glance, a glass, a turn of your head straight through to the core, the blood, the 血 of you. Give me time. I learn quick and permanent when the information is important.

And to see through you is imperative. I will not be satisfied with not knowing. Owl spirit and all. I have always been a seeker, safe in the dark. I am, for all it might appear, watching.

Wait for me.