I went to the beach a few days ago to clear my mind. In the past and most of the time since, when I feel the need to clear my mind I drink a bottle of wine in the coarse of an hour, and wait for its clarity to warm my blood. When I am on the beach though, or anywhere in San Francisco for that matter, clarity is stone cold sober and is so loud I can barley hear the trolly or the pleas of the homeless or even the waves crashing onto a boulder littered beach.
I say, 'the beach' because the Midwestern Ryan does not understand that in California, there is more than one beach. When I tell someone from here about my day trip to the beach, they ask, "which one?" and start listing a quick handful of beaches within 30 miles and get confused when I tell them I have no idea where I was. I have been to so many beaches here, none of them are the same but they are still beaches, and I am so happy to be on one that I don't think to look around me at a sign that clarifies, for no other reason that telling someone where exactly I am, the name of the beach. I'm to busy looking at the world to look for a sign with words on it, of a place, that I am already at. To me that's like walking out of the climax of an inspiring movie, to find out what theater number you're in.
I don't care about the names of places, it's just semantics. In the same way I hate when people argue about weather or not it is appropriate to refer to a carbonated beverage as a soda, or as a pop; I hate when people ask the question, "which beach?" I don't care if you call soda, pop. Both names bring the same mental image of a sugary, bubbly liquid and; when I say 'beach' does it help form a mental image of a beach if I preface it with a name? I don't know which beach, because I don't give a shit which beach. A beach is a beach. Still, people want to know which beach. Not that I uncovered an important truth about myself sitting at one, or that I cried watching a pelican scoop up a fish in his neck skin while walking on one, or that I had sex with strangers on one; they just want to know, which one.
I ran into a similar problem in Chicago when I refereed to Navy Pier as, "the beach" on a subway.
"Let's go to the beach," I tugged at Kevin's coat arm, "it'll be fun!" I loved tugging at his coat arm, I loved hanging on his arms, locking myself in their mass on the street. It was satisfying to know that the city and him were mine for the taking.
"There is no beach in Chicago Ryan," he said to me in total seriousness.
"What do you mean there are no beaches here? I was on one last week!" I snapped, throwing my hands in the air for emphasis.
"You were on Navy Pier, which is not a beach, fresh water lakes don't have be..." he stops himself mid sentence, points his finger in the air to tell me to hold on, and asks the guy next to us, "is there a beach in Chicago?"
The man who was fat and looked like he just got done auditioning for a Sopranos screen play, thinks for a moment. His thick black eye brows moved in the manor of a kindhearted mobster and he said, in a low voice, "No, oceans have beaches. Lakes have shorelines and water fronts."
I couldn't believe it. We entered a loud tunnel so I had to yell, "a beach is when you have SAND and WATER, Chicago HAS sand and water, so CHICAGO HAS A BEACH!" I was starting to laugh at how hard I was defending my stance on beaches, and because I had to yell, two women a few seats away chimed in. The first woman yells, "They're right, Chicago doesn't have a beach," and the second woman nods in agreement. I looked around myself and saw that everyone on the train car was now involved in the Chicago beach debate, unfortunately it was 20 against one.
Defeated, I stopped talking and looked out the window for a moment before Kevin grabbed my hand, looked in my eyes and smiled one of those smiles that brands itself to your cornea's, one of those smiles you never forget, one of those smiles that freezes itself in time, creating an entire universe of preservation, that will never exist for any-other reason than to petrify that smile; and he kissed me. I believe in that moment we were in love, and that love is frozen in time with that smile, with that kiss.
When we got off the train the sun was setting behind buildings, creating lines of lite and dark on the grass, on the water line, of which we were bound. When we got to the water we bought a coffee and took turns sipping it and holding hands and then not holding hands. We walked on the beach for an hour or so.
Don't ask me which one.
I couldn't tell you.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Chicago Bed
I remember, lying in that bed
I had bought it for 40 dollars
from the guy who used to rent
that room.
It was the most comfortable bed
I have ever slept in
made love in
been sick in
cried in
I loved that bed.
The bed I had before was a
mattress I found on the curb.
It had more lumps on it
than mites.
I could feel the age of that mattress
when my skin became clammy
with its skin.
I wrapped it in plastic one day.
To keep it's skin on the inside.
Plastic sheets at age 23
seemed appropriate
I got drunk and peed in my sleep
dreaming of toilets.
I always woke up when
He or Him or They
would leave.
Those plastic sheets,
were louder than pots.
or pans.
I do not miss that bed
or the things I did in it.
But I remember lying in that bed,
The one I bought for 40 dollars,
from the guy who used to rent,
that room.
He was an actor.
Before I moved in he threw a big party
to celibate the completion of his first
independent film, in which,
he was nude.
He was nude the first time I met him.
He was in the room, that would become my room,
I pulled away the sheets and curtains
that made our walls,
and hung from 50 feet above
from rafters.
"Hey," he said, sitting naked on the bed.
"You want this bed?" he asked.
"Forty bucks."
I would often lye in that bed on cold nights
and watch the rafters change colors,
red
green
yellow
red
Chicago nights were many colors but mostly,
red
green
yellow
There was a particularly cold night,
that I remember most.
It was 8 degrees and the blizzard
was gently ripping through our walls.
That night,
we wrapped the windows in plastic.
To keep the heat on the inside.
That night, I was watching the rafters
change colors,
wondering why there was a stuffed bunny,
next to a bicycle tire
next to hanging hooks
wedged in the bars of the ceiling.
I got that feeling.
But quickly ignored it,
and imagined myself floating into the rafters.
I heard heat rises, and it was so cold.
I sat up to finish my tea,
it was cold my then,
and I filled the mug with
the bottle of whiskey i kept
under my bed.
But then that feeling.
It was more of a question
than a feeling.
I looked up,
green
why do I,
yellow
feel
red
so fucking alone?
I wrapped myself in blankets,
To keep myself on the inside.
I had bought it for 40 dollars
from the guy who used to rent
that room.
It was the most comfortable bed
I have ever slept in
made love in
been sick in
cried in
I loved that bed.
The bed I had before was a
mattress I found on the curb.
It had more lumps on it
than mites.
I could feel the age of that mattress
when my skin became clammy
with its skin.
I wrapped it in plastic one day.
To keep it's skin on the inside.
Plastic sheets at age 23
seemed appropriate
I got drunk and peed in my sleep
dreaming of toilets.
I always woke up when
He or Him or They
would leave.
Those plastic sheets,
were louder than pots.
or pans.
I do not miss that bed
or the things I did in it.
But I remember lying in that bed,
The one I bought for 40 dollars,
from the guy who used to rent,
that room.
He was an actor.
Before I moved in he threw a big party
to celibate the completion of his first
independent film, in which,
he was nude.
He was nude the first time I met him.
He was in the room, that would become my room,
I pulled away the sheets and curtains
that made our walls,
and hung from 50 feet above
from rafters.
"Hey," he said, sitting naked on the bed.
"You want this bed?" he asked.
"Forty bucks."
I would often lye in that bed on cold nights
and watch the rafters change colors,
red
green
yellow
red
Chicago nights were many colors but mostly,
red
green
yellow
There was a particularly cold night,
that I remember most.
It was 8 degrees and the blizzard
was gently ripping through our walls.
That night,
we wrapped the windows in plastic.
To keep the heat on the inside.
That night, I was watching the rafters
change colors,
wondering why there was a stuffed bunny,
next to a bicycle tire
next to hanging hooks
wedged in the bars of the ceiling.
I got that feeling.
But quickly ignored it,
and imagined myself floating into the rafters.
I heard heat rises, and it was so cold.
I sat up to finish my tea,
it was cold my then,
and I filled the mug with
the bottle of whiskey i kept
under my bed.
But then that feeling.
It was more of a question
than a feeling.
I looked up,
green
why do I,
yellow
feel
red
so fucking alone?
I wrapped myself in blankets,
To keep myself on the inside.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Homeless Heart Beats
I just got off at the Downtown Berkley BART stop, it is an
underground stop with the equivalent of four flights of stairs to climb
before sunlight can touch your skin. I'm tired today, and didn't feel
like dragging my bike, which is as ugly as it is heavy up those God damn
stairs, so I looked around for the BART police; seeing none, I jumped
on the escalator. Getting on an escalator with a bicycle is one of many
fine-able offenses and rules I try and break as often as possible.
Obviously the creators of BART's rules and regulations have never had to
carry a forty pound girls mountain bike from the early 80's up and down
subway stairs 4 times a day.
Some other BART rules that I regularly ignore are the no smoking signs I choose to observe and disregard, the penalty of which is a $250 fine. I drink alcohol on the train whenever I feel like it, knowing I will loose my public transportation privileges if I am caught. I walk on the yellow strip of braille flooring that separates me from the floor and certain death. I have also discovered that if you walk out of the emergency exit doors with complete conviction, you do not have to pay BART fair.
It's not that I don't care about order or respect the institution responsible for building a train capable of traveling under the ocean and delivers me to the most beautiful city in the world; because I do care and I do respect it. I just don't care to much these days about doing the right thing. I doubt the economic foundation of BART will be rattled if I jump over the gates now and then or run out of the emergency exit when I have no money; and unless I get to the top of the escalator and toss my bike at the people behind me, I don't think anyone's lives will be dramatically altered if I rise to the streets of Berkley California on stairs that move, opposed to stairs that do not.
The homeless man behind me on the escalator however, was profoundly affected by my decision to use it. Standing just one step behind me, he yelled through his beer dried beard, "You MOTHERFUCKING ARROGANT BASTARD, I WILL SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOU, YOU FUCK!" People were starting to look and back away from this man, but I was more concerned about the attention he might draw from the BART police, and that he might get me in trouble. I have already been kicked off BART for a multitude of reasons and I was in no mood to fight with train police again. "YOU FUCKING FAGGOT BASTART," he yelled, hitting the back tire of my bike. At that I turned around to get a better look at this man. Even though he was a step behind me, we were still eye level to one another. He was easily 6 and a half feet tall and thick. He was old and white, and had the jaw line of a junkie, the pupils of a dead person.
As I stared into this man's eyes he screamed so hard in my face that I felt his hot sick breath sting my nose hairs and my cheeks felt his spit, "I'M GOING TO SLAP THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF YOU!" I was beginning to regret my decision to take the escalator, because while it is easier on my body, it takes about a minute longer and I was only half way up. I turned back around and gripped my handle bars, and started calculating how hard I was going to have to hit this man, and what part of his body would be best to do it, so that he would fall backwards and I could run. Would I use my fists, or simply donkey kick him with all my might.
By the time I reached the sunlight there were already security personnel waiting to confront the screaming man. "Shit," I thought to myself, "they are going to fine me for using the escalator," as soon as my bike hit the pavement I was on it, peddling into traffic; traffic being another thing I have no regard for. As I bolted through a crosswalk that was flashing the words, "do not cross" I looked back at the man who had picked a new target; the security and a woman selling jewelry on the sidewalk. "Thank God," I said to myself before taking a deep breath and hopping off my bike to walk it beside me. I had no idea where I was going.
It's always a weird feeling when I get to Berkley or San Francisco and take the first breath, because it is in that first breath that I realize I have no idea where to go or where I am in relation to the world. It is disorienting, it is intoxicating it is joy and fear and sometimes loneliness to take that breath and to look around myself and know nothing but four directions I can choose to walk or bike or trolly in. I will often stand in one spot for thirty minutes when I get off the train station, smoking cigarettes and deciding which direction to take, while leaning on my old ugly bike and soaking in the purest sun to ever bleed into my flesh. When I do pick a direction, I am free; from everything.
I walked my bike for a long time today after the homeless show down on the escalator deciding where to go and soaking in the beauty, the people the mountains. I thought a lot about what I would have done if he had actually slapped the shit out of me. I pondered this for a mile or so before ending up here, in the Gourmet Ghetto on Shattuck Ave sitting on a patch of grass that separates opposite flows of traffic. I'm sitting here getting a tan and watching people obey they cross walks and eat pizza a few feet from me.
Soon after I sat down here, It dawned on me that I have sat in this exact spot before, it is the exact patch of grass where, just two months ago, I listened to the steady pace of Bosnia's heart after we made love for six hours in his studio just a few blocks away. We had just finished our sex marathon not five minutes before lying down in the grass, my insides were still shifting back in place. At one point during sex, he stopped what he was doing and pointed at my stomach. When I looked down at it I could see my heart pounding blood into my gut, like a drum stick was beating me from the inside out, my skin stretched to invite the pulsing.
I've noticed a peculiar phenomenon with the human heart when I rest my ear to the chest of a man who I have just made love to. It beats in an irregular rhythm. It beats fast even though it is at its resting tempo, hard as if every vein in the body is parched of blood, it speeds up slightly with the inhale of oxygen and slows to a stop at the exhale.
If you listen closely, to a mans heart, only after you make love to him, to it's rhythm, while your ear is tickled by chest hair, you can hear the answer to a question before the muffled vibrations of his voice can answer you. As Bosnia's chest raised my head up and down I asked him, "will I see you again?" My voice sounded strange, like when you moan during a yawn and you hear your voice from within your body. Before he could speak I heard his heart speed up, as if I had just slammed an adrenalin needle into his chest plate. "I love the way I feel when I am around you, so what do you think?" he said. I knew in that moment that I would in fact see him again, but what his heart told me was that he would not see me in the way I want to be seen. The tempo of his heart raised because of anxiety and the knowledge that he was leaving the country to go back home to be with his partner of 5 years. I also listened to my heart, it told me that it would only make my stomach dance during sex, that it would not feel anything for Bosnia. That it would not feel anything for a while.
But that was months ago, and this patch of grass has been cut many times since.
Some other BART rules that I regularly ignore are the no smoking signs I choose to observe and disregard, the penalty of which is a $250 fine. I drink alcohol on the train whenever I feel like it, knowing I will loose my public transportation privileges if I am caught. I walk on the yellow strip of braille flooring that separates me from the floor and certain death. I have also discovered that if you walk out of the emergency exit doors with complete conviction, you do not have to pay BART fair.
It's not that I don't care about order or respect the institution responsible for building a train capable of traveling under the ocean and delivers me to the most beautiful city in the world; because I do care and I do respect it. I just don't care to much these days about doing the right thing. I doubt the economic foundation of BART will be rattled if I jump over the gates now and then or run out of the emergency exit when I have no money; and unless I get to the top of the escalator and toss my bike at the people behind me, I don't think anyone's lives will be dramatically altered if I rise to the streets of Berkley California on stairs that move, opposed to stairs that do not.
The homeless man behind me on the escalator however, was profoundly affected by my decision to use it. Standing just one step behind me, he yelled through his beer dried beard, "You MOTHERFUCKING ARROGANT BASTARD, I WILL SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOU, YOU FUCK!" People were starting to look and back away from this man, but I was more concerned about the attention he might draw from the BART police, and that he might get me in trouble. I have already been kicked off BART for a multitude of reasons and I was in no mood to fight with train police again. "YOU FUCKING FAGGOT BASTART," he yelled, hitting the back tire of my bike. At that I turned around to get a better look at this man. Even though he was a step behind me, we were still eye level to one another. He was easily 6 and a half feet tall and thick. He was old and white, and had the jaw line of a junkie, the pupils of a dead person.
As I stared into this man's eyes he screamed so hard in my face that I felt his hot sick breath sting my nose hairs and my cheeks felt his spit, "I'M GOING TO SLAP THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF YOU!" I was beginning to regret my decision to take the escalator, because while it is easier on my body, it takes about a minute longer and I was only half way up. I turned back around and gripped my handle bars, and started calculating how hard I was going to have to hit this man, and what part of his body would be best to do it, so that he would fall backwards and I could run. Would I use my fists, or simply donkey kick him with all my might.
By the time I reached the sunlight there were already security personnel waiting to confront the screaming man. "Shit," I thought to myself, "they are going to fine me for using the escalator," as soon as my bike hit the pavement I was on it, peddling into traffic; traffic being another thing I have no regard for. As I bolted through a crosswalk that was flashing the words, "do not cross" I looked back at the man who had picked a new target; the security and a woman selling jewelry on the sidewalk. "Thank God," I said to myself before taking a deep breath and hopping off my bike to walk it beside me. I had no idea where I was going.
It's always a weird feeling when I get to Berkley or San Francisco and take the first breath, because it is in that first breath that I realize I have no idea where to go or where I am in relation to the world. It is disorienting, it is intoxicating it is joy and fear and sometimes loneliness to take that breath and to look around myself and know nothing but four directions I can choose to walk or bike or trolly in. I will often stand in one spot for thirty minutes when I get off the train station, smoking cigarettes and deciding which direction to take, while leaning on my old ugly bike and soaking in the purest sun to ever bleed into my flesh. When I do pick a direction, I am free; from everything.
I walked my bike for a long time today after the homeless show down on the escalator deciding where to go and soaking in the beauty, the people the mountains. I thought a lot about what I would have done if he had actually slapped the shit out of me. I pondered this for a mile or so before ending up here, in the Gourmet Ghetto on Shattuck Ave sitting on a patch of grass that separates opposite flows of traffic. I'm sitting here getting a tan and watching people obey they cross walks and eat pizza a few feet from me.
Soon after I sat down here, It dawned on me that I have sat in this exact spot before, it is the exact patch of grass where, just two months ago, I listened to the steady pace of Bosnia's heart after we made love for six hours in his studio just a few blocks away. We had just finished our sex marathon not five minutes before lying down in the grass, my insides were still shifting back in place. At one point during sex, he stopped what he was doing and pointed at my stomach. When I looked down at it I could see my heart pounding blood into my gut, like a drum stick was beating me from the inside out, my skin stretched to invite the pulsing.
I've noticed a peculiar phenomenon with the human heart when I rest my ear to the chest of a man who I have just made love to. It beats in an irregular rhythm. It beats fast even though it is at its resting tempo, hard as if every vein in the body is parched of blood, it speeds up slightly with the inhale of oxygen and slows to a stop at the exhale.
If you listen closely, to a mans heart, only after you make love to him, to it's rhythm, while your ear is tickled by chest hair, you can hear the answer to a question before the muffled vibrations of his voice can answer you. As Bosnia's chest raised my head up and down I asked him, "will I see you again?" My voice sounded strange, like when you moan during a yawn and you hear your voice from within your body. Before he could speak I heard his heart speed up, as if I had just slammed an adrenalin needle into his chest plate. "I love the way I feel when I am around you, so what do you think?" he said. I knew in that moment that I would in fact see him again, but what his heart told me was that he would not see me in the way I want to be seen. The tempo of his heart raised because of anxiety and the knowledge that he was leaving the country to go back home to be with his partner of 5 years. I also listened to my heart, it told me that it would only make my stomach dance during sex, that it would not feel anything for Bosnia. That it would not feel anything for a while.
But that was months ago, and this patch of grass has been cut many times since.
Monday, June 18, 2012
How to fall out of love:
Finding love is hard, but falling in love is as easy as growing hair. The way someone leaps into bed after a long day can make you fall in love, or the way they read a fortune cookie or even the way they might dance a little while cracking an egg over an eager skillet. I once fell in love with a guy simply because he owned the movie Muppet Treasure Island. Point is, it takes nothing to fall in love and everything to fall out of it, because when you fall out of it, those laughs, sneezes or eggs all of the sudden steam out of you like the air in a carefully baked but poorly timed souffle.
I have fallen deeply out of love many times. Last time I was faced with falling out of love, I got on a train across the country. The entire city of Chicago, every alley way, every sun kissed window of every building was a dance before the crack of an egg and I couldn't stay. For that reason and for a long time, I thought it was weakness that lead me to California, but I think more than anything it was just what I knew I had to do. People move across the world all the time to be with the person they love, why is it weak to move across the world to fall out of love? I have not talked to Kevin since I left Chicago, it's been almost 5 months, and what the utter lack of communication has provided me with is closure.
Everyone always wants closure, they will bitch about it for years after a break up, "we just never got closure ya know?" Closure means something different to everyone but always boils down to the need to mutually forgive. What I don't think most people understand is that closure isn't something that can ever be mutually given; it is something only conceivable in a singular mind and is only consummated and solidified by each party individually. I have tried repeatedly to gain closure with the same people for years, but it wasn't in their admittance of guilt or regret that I found closure, it was in the silence. It was on a beach in California, alone that I let it go.
That's what closure really is, letting it go. It is not focusing on the reasons given for the break up, or thinking about what you could have done differently or how could have been more gentle; because it doesn't matter. Which is my first rule of falling out of love, realizing it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore that I lied about everything, or that I was cheated on at some point or that I once found a stack of black tranny truckers porn in one of my ex's laundry hamper. Replaying those things or the reasons that lead up to your now single self is pointless because it enables you to harboring sadness. It doesn't matter.
My second rule, and might be the most important rule is; delete and save. Delete your ex from your phone, from your facebook, delete the cute emails and texts, delete any and all lines of being reached or reaching out. Communicating with an ex is like calling an automated customer service representative for a vacuum cleaner bag that hasn't been manufactured in 20 years; all your going to hear is a voice that says nothing you need to hear. Save. Save the love letters. Someday you will want them.
The third rule to falling out of love is; don't replace. Love is not like a broken i-pod, which has millions of identical replica's just waiting to be purchased to replace the one that no longer works. It is easy to replace an i-pod and it can be easy to replace a lover; but where replacing an i-pod is simply practical, replacing a lover is not. Giving your heart time to mend and crack and then mend again is essential for growth. By jumping into a new relationship you destroy that time and I promise you, you will not grow. You will just repeat.
My fourth and final rule for falling out of love is; look pretty. Even if you look like a wet mop, go buy yourself a beautiful piece of jewelry or a pair of jeans that make you feel sexy. Give people a reason to compliment you, even if it's superficial. Confidence will singlehandedly guide you out of love with your ex and in love with yourself, and feeling outwardly beautiful is the first step in doing that. After gaining your superficial confidence, it is time to look inside yourself, meditate, be silent and let it go. Let the hurt go, but don't forget to not forget. It is more healthy to remember your loves and let the hurt go than it is to try and forget them and the lessons they forced you to learn.
I occasionally still think about Muppet Treasure Island. And I smile, every time.
I have fallen deeply out of love many times. Last time I was faced with falling out of love, I got on a train across the country. The entire city of Chicago, every alley way, every sun kissed window of every building was a dance before the crack of an egg and I couldn't stay. For that reason and for a long time, I thought it was weakness that lead me to California, but I think more than anything it was just what I knew I had to do. People move across the world all the time to be with the person they love, why is it weak to move across the world to fall out of love? I have not talked to Kevin since I left Chicago, it's been almost 5 months, and what the utter lack of communication has provided me with is closure.
Everyone always wants closure, they will bitch about it for years after a break up, "we just never got closure ya know?" Closure means something different to everyone but always boils down to the need to mutually forgive. What I don't think most people understand is that closure isn't something that can ever be mutually given; it is something only conceivable in a singular mind and is only consummated and solidified by each party individually. I have tried repeatedly to gain closure with the same people for years, but it wasn't in their admittance of guilt or regret that I found closure, it was in the silence. It was on a beach in California, alone that I let it go.
That's what closure really is, letting it go. It is not focusing on the reasons given for the break up, or thinking about what you could have done differently or how could have been more gentle; because it doesn't matter. Which is my first rule of falling out of love, realizing it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore that I lied about everything, or that I was cheated on at some point or that I once found a stack of black tranny truckers porn in one of my ex's laundry hamper. Replaying those things or the reasons that lead up to your now single self is pointless because it enables you to harboring sadness. It doesn't matter.
My second rule, and might be the most important rule is; delete and save. Delete your ex from your phone, from your facebook, delete the cute emails and texts, delete any and all lines of being reached or reaching out. Communicating with an ex is like calling an automated customer service representative for a vacuum cleaner bag that hasn't been manufactured in 20 years; all your going to hear is a voice that says nothing you need to hear. Save. Save the love letters. Someday you will want them.
The third rule to falling out of love is; don't replace. Love is not like a broken i-pod, which has millions of identical replica's just waiting to be purchased to replace the one that no longer works. It is easy to replace an i-pod and it can be easy to replace a lover; but where replacing an i-pod is simply practical, replacing a lover is not. Giving your heart time to mend and crack and then mend again is essential for growth. By jumping into a new relationship you destroy that time and I promise you, you will not grow. You will just repeat.
My fourth and final rule for falling out of love is; look pretty. Even if you look like a wet mop, go buy yourself a beautiful piece of jewelry or a pair of jeans that make you feel sexy. Give people a reason to compliment you, even if it's superficial. Confidence will singlehandedly guide you out of love with your ex and in love with yourself, and feeling outwardly beautiful is the first step in doing that. After gaining your superficial confidence, it is time to look inside yourself, meditate, be silent and let it go. Let the hurt go, but don't forget to not forget. It is more healthy to remember your loves and let the hurt go than it is to try and forget them and the lessons they forced you to learn.
I occasionally still think about Muppet Treasure Island. And I smile, every time.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
The moon sure has taken a pounding said the pesimest.
I have spent a good portion of my life telling self loathers that they are wonderful people. I thought my words would help them. I didn't understand that some people hate themselves because they are not wonderful people; that at their core they know they are ugly. Then there are self loathers who know they are beautiful at their core but lack the inner voice to fight off other people's cruelty. I was, for a long time the second type.
What I now understand it that loving yourself is hard, taking the time to see your faults or the ugliness that is buried beneath a kind and submissive demeanor is excruciating, and forgiving them is blinding. People have asked me why California has been hard, how I can be so heavy in the lightest city in the world. What I do not tell these people, my family, friends or old loves; is that it has been hard because it was in California that I began to take the time to love myself, and for some reason it has been the most painful process I have ever endured. Now that the pain of it is clearing, I cannot bare to tell someone who hates themselves to not. Or to tell them it will get better, if they themselves believe that it will not.
I cannot take it upon myself to heal anyone's heart or to believe I even posses that power; for it is the very notion of that power that has destroyed me time and time again and is another thing I spent a large portion of my life doing. Believing I had the power to heal another person's suffering by giving them my heart, giving them every molecule of love I had in hopes that it would make them right. Right for me, right for themselves, or just right enough to wake up. I have no power. Even if I did, I can't. I can't because self love is strong, it is the invisible atmosphere of our body, keeping our oxygen circulating, our gravity centered, and the UV rays of sadness out. I can't because while I am astounded at it's ability and of it's strength, I know that negative people can pass through my atmosphere if I do not protect it. That if I let certain people in they will gain enough momentum and obliterate the new and fragile foundation of my self love.
The difference between the frailty of self love and the momentum of self loathing is the unseen layer of which they both pass through, the atmosphere that pulls in neggitivity and burns it up before it reaches the earth of your soul vs. the astroid of hate that is to big to disentigrate; leaving in its wake a crater and a shock wave of fire.
What I now understand it that loving yourself is hard, taking the time to see your faults or the ugliness that is buried beneath a kind and submissive demeanor is excruciating, and forgiving them is blinding. People have asked me why California has been hard, how I can be so heavy in the lightest city in the world. What I do not tell these people, my family, friends or old loves; is that it has been hard because it was in California that I began to take the time to love myself, and for some reason it has been the most painful process I have ever endured. Now that the pain of it is clearing, I cannot bare to tell someone who hates themselves to not. Or to tell them it will get better, if they themselves believe that it will not.
I cannot take it upon myself to heal anyone's heart or to believe I even posses that power; for it is the very notion of that power that has destroyed me time and time again and is another thing I spent a large portion of my life doing. Believing I had the power to heal another person's suffering by giving them my heart, giving them every molecule of love I had in hopes that it would make them right. Right for me, right for themselves, or just right enough to wake up. I have no power. Even if I did, I can't. I can't because self love is strong, it is the invisible atmosphere of our body, keeping our oxygen circulating, our gravity centered, and the UV rays of sadness out. I can't because while I am astounded at it's ability and of it's strength, I know that negative people can pass through my atmosphere if I do not protect it. That if I let certain people in they will gain enough momentum and obliterate the new and fragile foundation of my self love.
The difference between the frailty of self love and the momentum of self loathing is the unseen layer of which they both pass through, the atmosphere that pulls in neggitivity and burns it up before it reaches the earth of your soul vs. the astroid of hate that is to big to disentigrate; leaving in its wake a crater and a shock wave of fire.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Disclaimer: Don't read if you are related to me.
Life is so chaotic right now. Every time I sit down to write about it, my mind overloads and freezes. It's like when you try and remember a movie title you have not thought about for years, you can feel your brain searching for the information it knows exists within the confines of it's cells; yet in the midst of digging for it, you feel your brain go blank. There is so much to dig through these days. So many revelations, experiences and uncovered truths about my character that the idea of writing about a single one of them stuns my mind, my heart.
I could start with the accomplished Bosnian writer who in less than 72 hours provided me with a level of intimacy I have been searching for my whole life. I could start with him, start with how he worshiped my body for hours, cupped water in his hands and tenderly poured it into the small of my back so that he could have a drink or the kindness of his words that caused me to barrel out the door, crying because I could not face such beauty. Within those 72 hours, I felt a shift in my soul so profound I ran away. I cannot write about it. Not yet. .
I could write about the nude beach I visited just two days ago, about how I indulged in the delicacy of flesh for several hours with several beautifully sculpted men. I could write about the shame I fight off when I lay my head down at night for enjoying the type of sex that I do. For exploring the cold wet floors of orgies or the degrading warm sand of a nude beach. I could write about these things, but how do I even begin to explain how I have devalued sex, something I used to hold sacred, and how I cannot handle real intimacy without trembling. Finding the words to express the roots and fallacies that burn within me feels like I have been told that somewhere in the ocean is a grain of salt, and that I must find it before it deludes. Sometimes I see the grain of salt in the ocean of my heart that possesses the words but before I can pick it up and dry it off, it deludes into the canyons of my wet finger tips and it is gone.
I could write about how every important person in my life, within the past year has ruthlessly expressed how I have become a miserable son of a bitch who has alienated himself apart from any and all things healthy. I could attempt to write about how the love of my life left me because I am insecure, selfish, alcohol dependent, pessimistic in addition to having no real concept of the intimacy I demand but cannot reciprocate. I have faced these truths in my head but cannot write them. When I write them it becomes real; and if the bottles I have devoured in the past few months speak volumes on anything it is this; I can't handle reality.
My reality for some reason doesn't match up with others. My reality is lonely and misunderstood. I exist in a frame of mind I have decided to be in that demands everyone be subjected to my vulgarity my lack of consideration and my general disregard for the comfort levels of others. It is not that I don't care about the comfort level of others but for instance; just yesterday a co-worker of mine asked me, "what did you do on your day off?" Not thinking about it, I answered the question truthfully, "I got my ass pounded on a beach by some body builder named Rodney." I said it as lackadaisically as I would have if I told her that I had a plain bagel with unsalted butter on it for breakfast. To my surprise, it did not go over well, and she looked at me with horror.
I don't mean to offend people, but I don't think people realize the weight of the questions they ask; and while I know asking, "how are you today?" is more of a formality of human interaction rather than a genuinely posed question, I still find it to be invasive and inappropriate, because everytime I've answered the question honestly people are somehow offended that I actually told them the truth. "I'm terribly hungover from the gay bar I went to last night" I might say or, "I'm really good, I'm going on a date later with a Bosnian God!" is somehow an inappropriate answer. I have been told that I have no social tact, that I am rude, disgusting and offensive because I don't at all respect social norms or comforts. The idea of blending in, of not laughing at a loud fart or not telling someone during dinner about an article I read about forced abortions in China, or even something as simple as not smoking in a non smoking sidewalk area, make me want to kill myself at the total loss of self I would have to consciously cut out.
My mother always says, "if everyone in a room is saying you're an asshole, then you're probably an ass hole." Taking into consideration that everyone I know, including my mother is telling me what an asshole I am, I am beginning to wonder if they may not be joking, that I might maybe be a putrid asshole; and that I might want to consider shutting the fuck up every once in a while, if not entirely. I think I'm funny, and there was a time when other people thought I was funny. It's just not funny anymore. My humor has become so dark that it is not humor anymore, it is cynicism and comes from a place in my heart that is screaming at the world to go fuck itself. It's really very Charles Bukowski of me, but then again, Bukowski was a miserable drunk who's only redeeming quality was the beauty of his writing.
The sad part of all of this is that only the people who truly know me see the side of me that is repulsive. For it is the people who love me the most that I unleash the most onto. I have fun, I go out for drinks and laugh often with co-workers or friends or aquatances, the Ryan they see is funny, put together, sure of himself and kind; and at my core I am all of those things. But I have not showed that to the people close to my heart in so long they have left begun to turn away. I always thought that I don't have to say things like "I appreciate you, or I love you" because they should already know I think them, plus for some reason my lips don't like forming those words. Almost as much as they don't like forming the movements necessary to say I'm sorry.
But I am. I am so very sorry. I am sorry to my mother for not seeing her efforts and her pride in me that at times, has been almost impossible to defend. I am sorry to my best friend Jen for not telling her how proud I am of her, and how grateful I am to have such a beautiful soul in my life. A soul that has on more than one occasion saved my life. I am sorry to all of the people I cut out of my life for fear that they might say, "I told you so." I am sorry to my family for running so far away from their love that they do not call anymore. I am sorry to Kevin for not treating his love as tenderly as he, for a short time, cradled my heart. I am sorry to myself for allowing the damage I have endured to shape me into a concentrated ball of fear and distrust in the world.
It is time to change, to change in all the ways I have fought off for years. It's time to grow up. It is time to allow happiness to fill my lungs again.
Through pierced quivering lips, and lungs full of release, I am sorry.
I could start with the accomplished Bosnian writer who in less than 72 hours provided me with a level of intimacy I have been searching for my whole life. I could start with him, start with how he worshiped my body for hours, cupped water in his hands and tenderly poured it into the small of my back so that he could have a drink or the kindness of his words that caused me to barrel out the door, crying because I could not face such beauty. Within those 72 hours, I felt a shift in my soul so profound I ran away. I cannot write about it. Not yet. .
I could write about the nude beach I visited just two days ago, about how I indulged in the delicacy of flesh for several hours with several beautifully sculpted men. I could write about the shame I fight off when I lay my head down at night for enjoying the type of sex that I do. For exploring the cold wet floors of orgies or the degrading warm sand of a nude beach. I could write about these things, but how do I even begin to explain how I have devalued sex, something I used to hold sacred, and how I cannot handle real intimacy without trembling. Finding the words to express the roots and fallacies that burn within me feels like I have been told that somewhere in the ocean is a grain of salt, and that I must find it before it deludes. Sometimes I see the grain of salt in the ocean of my heart that possesses the words but before I can pick it up and dry it off, it deludes into the canyons of my wet finger tips and it is gone.
I could write about how every important person in my life, within the past year has ruthlessly expressed how I have become a miserable son of a bitch who has alienated himself apart from any and all things healthy. I could attempt to write about how the love of my life left me because I am insecure, selfish, alcohol dependent, pessimistic in addition to having no real concept of the intimacy I demand but cannot reciprocate. I have faced these truths in my head but cannot write them. When I write them it becomes real; and if the bottles I have devoured in the past few months speak volumes on anything it is this; I can't handle reality.
My reality for some reason doesn't match up with others. My reality is lonely and misunderstood. I exist in a frame of mind I have decided to be in that demands everyone be subjected to my vulgarity my lack of consideration and my general disregard for the comfort levels of others. It is not that I don't care about the comfort level of others but for instance; just yesterday a co-worker of mine asked me, "what did you do on your day off?" Not thinking about it, I answered the question truthfully, "I got my ass pounded on a beach by some body builder named Rodney." I said it as lackadaisically as I would have if I told her that I had a plain bagel with unsalted butter on it for breakfast. To my surprise, it did not go over well, and she looked at me with horror.
I don't mean to offend people, but I don't think people realize the weight of the questions they ask; and while I know asking, "how are you today?" is more of a formality of human interaction rather than a genuinely posed question, I still find it to be invasive and inappropriate, because everytime I've answered the question honestly people are somehow offended that I actually told them the truth. "I'm terribly hungover from the gay bar I went to last night" I might say or, "I'm really good, I'm going on a date later with a Bosnian God!" is somehow an inappropriate answer. I have been told that I have no social tact, that I am rude, disgusting and offensive because I don't at all respect social norms or comforts. The idea of blending in, of not laughing at a loud fart or not telling someone during dinner about an article I read about forced abortions in China, or even something as simple as not smoking in a non smoking sidewalk area, make me want to kill myself at the total loss of self I would have to consciously cut out.
My mother always says, "if everyone in a room is saying you're an asshole, then you're probably an ass hole." Taking into consideration that everyone I know, including my mother is telling me what an asshole I am, I am beginning to wonder if they may not be joking, that I might maybe be a putrid asshole; and that I might want to consider shutting the fuck up every once in a while, if not entirely. I think I'm funny, and there was a time when other people thought I was funny. It's just not funny anymore. My humor has become so dark that it is not humor anymore, it is cynicism and comes from a place in my heart that is screaming at the world to go fuck itself. It's really very Charles Bukowski of me, but then again, Bukowski was a miserable drunk who's only redeeming quality was the beauty of his writing.
The sad part of all of this is that only the people who truly know me see the side of me that is repulsive. For it is the people who love me the most that I unleash the most onto. I have fun, I go out for drinks and laugh often with co-workers or friends or aquatances, the Ryan they see is funny, put together, sure of himself and kind; and at my core I am all of those things. But I have not showed that to the people close to my heart in so long they have left begun to turn away. I always thought that I don't have to say things like "I appreciate you, or I love you" because they should already know I think them, plus for some reason my lips don't like forming those words. Almost as much as they don't like forming the movements necessary to say I'm sorry.
But I am. I am so very sorry. I am sorry to my mother for not seeing her efforts and her pride in me that at times, has been almost impossible to defend. I am sorry to my best friend Jen for not telling her how proud I am of her, and how grateful I am to have such a beautiful soul in my life. A soul that has on more than one occasion saved my life. I am sorry to all of the people I cut out of my life for fear that they might say, "I told you so." I am sorry to my family for running so far away from their love that they do not call anymore. I am sorry to Kevin for not treating his love as tenderly as he, for a short time, cradled my heart. I am sorry to myself for allowing the damage I have endured to shape me into a concentrated ball of fear and distrust in the world.
It is time to change, to change in all the ways I have fought off for years. It's time to grow up. It is time to allow happiness to fill my lungs again.
Through pierced quivering lips, and lungs full of release, I am sorry.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Bosnia.
My heart goes off tempo to the though of smelling his neck, to the thought of the moment when you are making love with someone so hard you forget to breath; and you inhale so deeply into their neck you can smell the small particle of soap behind their ear, forgotten by yesterdays shower water and the mixture of spit from one another. His neck looks like it would smell like dark leather, after shave and sea salt. His neck is the kind of neck that's pours are spread out enough to make goose bumps look like warm and white braille. I once read braille like that; but I didn't understand it.
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