silverrevolver

I am weak! I just can't do it. This place had been a massive part of my life for almost four years. Hiding does little, the battle is in my head and not here. It has nothing to do with people I know, or who I care for. There is no heartbreak to avoid, because it's not there, all I have in it's place is a sadness, a lement for lost friendship. Real things are rare. I am explosive right now (in a good way), it has been an amazing and surreal weekend, but that story is for later. . .

There was a time, not so long ago when I was less a neurotic and more an artist. I was exhaulted, I would go into long trances and pace from one end of the city to the other, from the west park blocks to the east park block, up to the northwest and then back down to inner southeast, where upon arriving at my pub I would explode into my notebook or verbally to any poor bastard willing to listen. It would felt like having an outlet in my chest and thick cord attaching me to the center of the universe, it was if I could see past, through the streets, the people, the cars, I would see myself as a still point with the swirling green wind of the cosmos spinning around me, I was alive, I had no fear, I could make those I loved weep with just the right words, I could make them see it the way I saw it (but of course this never changed their minds, minds don't change from the outside in, the most another person can do is strike a spark, like flint on tinder; sometimes a fire is started). I wanted experience, I was alone, and because I was alone I was attached to everything, and how can that be lonely?

Life always intrudes, and such high flights do not and cannot last long. I made a choice, and that very choice that was supposed to grant me my freedom pulled out the rug from under me, knocked me to the ground and repossessed everything that was in my home. Since then it has been a slow rebuilding, piece, by piece, occasional clumsiness knocking half of it to the floor again. I built until I was strong, practical, tied to the "real" world, to a system of ethics, to a job, to friends and support networks. I became "normal" which is to say, I became a neurotic. I was afraid of losing what little I had, so when it was threatened (and I like most herd animals, spook easily) I backed myself into a corner and clutched at whatever it was I had so tightly that it would wind up breaking anyways. This happened three times, in three ways (three of course!). Each time I would stand with shaky hands and a lump in my throat, wishing it was one of those dreams, the one where one of your prized possessions is broken and you are so relieved to waken and discover that it was all a dream. I feel a shift again, I am alone, I have no one and nothing to hold me anywhere, my dearest loved ones are thousands of miles away, my friends here are entertaining, and supportive, but common, normal and they drag me back towards obsession, neurosis and normality. I won't. I am free, I owe nothing to anyone. I have very little money, my head buzzes, my body tingles, especially from my forearms to the tips of my middle fingers. I am hungry, subsisting on tea and bread. I walk for hours with no destination, I sit and I watch. I am writing novels in my head, as if a calligraphy pen was scribbling away on the inside of my forehead. I am going south, I will have sun and peace, and beauty. I want to work with my hands, and let my mind idle. An idle mind is a source of much inspiration. I feel something big soon, something that I haven't planned.

I want corruption, I am attracted to it, in the men I seek friendships with there is always a uncompromising attitude, almost a pretentious nature. Strong intellect, weak (if one believes in) ethics. In women it is the same, a sort of inspiring bitchiness, I love that degree of unattainability. One said a few weeks back that if I ever caught a woman like that I would cease to care, and she was right I would. I'm sick of chasing birds with a butterfly net. The things that inspire you most should be a bit distant. That is where they are most beautiful.

I put my system of ethics on the table. It does me no good.

I have been telling myself over and over that this "trip" is about my career, I needed that justification. I know now that my career has little to do with it. This is about saturn, about dharma about becoming a man, standing on four feet like the Centaur with hands free. It's not time to make a name for myself. This is bigger, this is about molding myself, shaping the nuances, discarding the rubbish and when it is all over, firing myself in the kiln. I know who I am, but I now have to ask, who am I going to be?