You Shouldn't Say "Should," Unless You Mean It!

People often ask me: What's my favorite word? I don't like this question and always have a difficult time answering. Words are my favorite. In a way, they must be; words are all we have to convey our world to any other, therefore I cherish these symbolic references like old friends. I can, however, answer the question: What's my least favorite word? The answer is "Should." I don't like the sound, the way it makes my mouth move, nor its connotations. Perhaps I dislike its connotations the most because they create emotion and reaction within when confronted with a "should." Think about it; Do you like when I say you should read my posts or you should vote for my candidate. I would naturally react the same way: with a trepid thoughts forewarning of unknown cognitive dissident trends revealing uncomfortable worldviews. To have such a solid, repetitive reaction to a word among many differing people holds that the word has been imbued with meaning from times past.

        

The etymology of "should" reveals a lot of the reasons why I dislike this word. Its sources in English stem back to the Old English world "Sceolde," the past participle of "Sceal," translated to "Shall." They both hold a strong sense of obligation in their meaning in Old English and were closely related to "Scyld" which means guilt and the Germanic world "Schuld" which means guilt and debt, pulling these definitions into the connotation of "should" whenever spoken or written in the 11th century. After all the language used during the 12th and 13th centuries had high religious conviction, binding the laymen to a socially normalizing culture by region as prescribed by the Church. As Old English progressed into Middle English after the 12th century, "Should" took on a future aspect in the encompassed action. For example: One should vote; meaning the individual has not yet voted and is obliged to take part in the action lest they be judged for the lack thereof. At this point in the history of the word "Should," "Sceolde" became related to the Middle English word "Shild," so much so that we now have a hard time detracting guilt, sin, crime, fault, and liability from "Should" today. One should not eat 'x' because 'y'; or one should believe 'x' because 'y'; where the statement 'y' has an intrinsic negativity closely associated (i.e. "One should not eat sugar because it triggers diabetes over long term use," where diabetes is bad).

        

Nowadays "Should" still encompasses a lot of these connotations, more so than "Shall." Where the latter has become more of an affirmation or action (i.e. "I shall go to the store."), the former is more of a directive laced with the aforementioned judgmental mentality. This is due to the close association of "Should" with philosophy in our time. In recent history this term has been closely linked with the ideology of right and wrong and morality. Now we see "Should" as prescriptive language asking the subject to question the immediate action at hand for its value in order to acknowledge another point of view as more correct (i.e. "You shouldn't cut onions that way; you should cut them this way"). The tone of guilt, sin, etc. may not be as strong in our language, but drawing morals into the discussion with current connotations of "should" echo the Old and Middle English linguistic trends. We know this because "Would," the second and third person predicate, does not hold the same connotative meaning of wrong doing, though it can be accusatory as in the derisive proclamation: "You would." Since the word has taken on a philosophical note it has also encouraged an authoritative aura, where the speaker/writer utilizing "should" knows best and is obliged to instruct the listener/ready of such knowledge. From my experience, those who use "should" in their speech often enjoy the dominating effect of the word. We can easily see this in our managers and they way they interact with their employees. Those who manage instead of lead often utilize "Should" where leaders open a conversation and preface ideas with "could you" or "what do you think about this" as alternatives to creating a change in their proletariats.

Then again, "Should" has its purpose in authority. One should (in fact) do a good job at work, if they don't consequences will come up. One should follow the law, because again consequences will arise. One should be healthy, share love, think less, etc. I can say these things wholeheartedly (even with my dislike of the word) because their prescription follows suit with my beliefs and larger understandings of the Verse. I take the philosophical stance, acknowledge the value of good and bad in actions and things, and draw conclusions that mirror those truths with which I assign my authority in saying this word in order to bring a balance and harmony into my world. When using language properly the full weight of the word can be harnessed. If we imagine a word highly overused (like love), we lose the power of the word. You can love a person, an animal; and a cup, or an idea, or a figment of imagination -- all just as much as you would like or admire or desire these same objects. Instead of using a more descriptive term we lump the idea into a larger term: Love. This is happening with "Should," where requests are disguised with knowledge, where authority covers insecurity, and when we can't accept other and attempt fixing it.

My experience with this word has colored my Verse. Living in America we're faced with a list of expectations in being a good and proper American. My generations were practically told that we should be straight, married, educated, hard working; that we should have a high credit score, go to church, save money; and by not adhering to these expectations we should expect scorn from our family, peers, and community. History books pointed to the righteous (those "shoulding" everywhere) always claiming victory, so why would we want to question these edicts? At the ripe age of 30, I've finally found footing to question these ideologies for myself and build a repertoire of "Should" in my life I can stand behind. That's all I ask of you now: look at when you say "Should" and begin to question if that's the right way to use it. Remember where this word has come from and what its use embodies in our language today. You may find when you start utilizing "Should" in the future people will listen more closely.

Viva Las Vegas

Sitting in the hotel room in a new sort of quiet is handsomely rewarding as it gives me a moment to think, to ponder, and to figure out the expressions I dare hold within my breath. Early morning traveling has conquered my three companions, though I daresay I expected nothing less as sunrises are plentiful for me alone out of this gang. My boyfriend and his mother are the ones who stay up latest, and sometimes forging on through the night till predawn before turning in; my grandmother whose recovery from surgery is going very well though the effort of travel and movement tires her still; and myself who lives for a community of work-goers craving energy first thing in the morning. My 4:15 wake-up call came as a nearly nonexistent hinderance, even though yawns pervaded the motions. Others were less fortunate than I. My love found himself startled awake partway through the night with rummaging in the house and our guard dog barely able to contain herself, my grandma's restlessness and excitement seemed to get the better of her deeper journeys away from the waking world, while my soon-to-be mother-in-law found it easiest to remain wide-eyed and bushy-tailed for her 5 am bus ride to the airport. And now the beds are all utilized and I sit on a chaise-lounge looking out the second story window into the foliage of a tree unnatural in this barren landscape.

A landscape that has transformed into a haven of supposed joyful sin. Mind you, I enjoy this place as much as any for reasons as similar to any who come here yet my perspective misses the sin of it. If you can find rest here, as easily as my three companions, then what wrong have you encountered? What wrong have you possessed within yourself? What mark have you missed? Truly gaining the ability to travel to such a marvelous city as this, one whose wealth has stemmed into the acceptance and portrayal of fine art on a grand scale (and on a small scale as well), and finding pleasure in whatever way within the acceptable limitations (however few) afforded here does not garner the denotation of such a loathsome word as sin! Our lives are meant for experience and knowledge, the foundation of which can bring us to love and enlightenment -- but how do we accomplish this? Well that's easy: find situations that open your mind and push your limits and expand the possibilities within the world. Sure Las Vegas isn't a city for innovation (outside architecture, art, gambling, and entertainment), but it seeds the hope of continuous joy.

Now don't get me wrong, gambling in an extreme beings little joy, love, and appreciation for life. Seeing the faces of high rollers stacking their thousands, if not millions, on the table, eyes glued in furrowed expectation while lips are pursed in frustrated loss, shows me the dark side of Vegas. Even the overabundance of sex, lust, and drugs phases me less than the absurd amount of money that flows from the richest pockets; yet I know they sleep as soundly as this hotel room through the early morning hours (to wake up to sorrow, and hope of winning their losses again). Which brings me to my point: what I want from Vegas can't be as bad as the experience of high rollers pursuing riches they already attained.

Pleasure. Simple, honest, evocative pleasure is all I seek from Vegas. Whether that be intoxication of the mind while joyfully spending twenty-five cents in a slot machine or a group of beautiful men touching each other in order to satisfy some physical climax or simply learning about the intricate history of this divergent city, pleasure is my "sin" in Las Vegas. My eyes seek the beauty of Vegas, my ears hear the wonder, and my body feels the pulse. My experience is a roller-coaster of emotions when coupled with drugs (alcohol primarily...) and the sightings of the dejected. But all-in-all, Vegas has a special place in my heart, in my mind, and in my desire.

So here's to a week in Vegas with family coping with the thrills, desires, and sins the world can throw at me, all boiling up while I sit in silence in a fabricated living space intended for short term rests.

Sunset

These are the last moments of a day, where filigree splashes across the sky in bright torrents and the land is forced to mimic the reflection of the sun. Ironically the jagged horizon spites the brightness with a deep and vibrant purple seen once a day as the rest of the world turns to passionate fire. Speeding northward on 287 affords one of the best views: Long's Peak crowned by the effervescent spokes of our Sol, slopes falling onto golden pastures ready for harvest, the occasional green tree standing tall amongst the shorter stalks, the lonely farm wrapped by its own fields and the encroaching end of day. My breath was stollen as we drove home last night.

It's not often I witness the sunset, nor the sunrise, but last night was a joyous moment to behold with my love. We drove with silence between us, apart from the sporadic exclamation of wonder, as time pushed onward and we flew homeward. Questions crept into my head once we arrived. Why don't I appreciate moments like that more often? Why can't I appreciate every moment in the same way as this particular sunset? What can I do to mend my perception of my time, my space, and the free flowing experience which is my gift in this world?

One easy answer is to write; to create moments that will forever exist in one form or fashion. Here I am, writing down the basics of a short drive home as the sun set. As I continue to birth new ideas, new pleasures, new ways to express myself, I realize this is the one passion which always draws my attention. I've painted, played music, and I sing often; but writing, putting words to paper (or digital code), and filtering through the myriad of words available for one feeling gives me an immense sense of completion.

I long to paint this vision that came upon my love and me last night, last eve. I'll share that with all of you as soon as I find it on the pages in front of me; and then my words will have sight as well. 

A Re-Introduction

This feels rather rusty, like old cogs turning with a squeal in the dark; for I am in the dark. I've brewed ginger-garlic tea, not because I am ill but for the enjoyment of comfort in a time of unknown and the possibility such a tonic will permit me health without the aid of others. So recently have I been in that sterile environment, closed in with white walls, women, and wherewithal. What else could I do but assess the values of my life when such a clean slate presents itself? Once value I treasure: I am able in my functions within this society. A value I humbly embrace: I live a blessed life. Then there are the ones I instill as ably as I can: to learn, to see, to hear; be kind, love, appreciate; seek beauty, wisdom, and the future (whiles knowing the present is all). I fail occasionally, but my effort remains on this path. Four years ago I would never consider making myself a tea strictly of ginger root and fresh chopped garlic, to which I would add apple cider vinegar and an organic juice; tonight is different: fresh pressed ginger-garlic tea with rosemary for memory and beauty and honey to help sweeten those synapses.

Something within me called for a healing medicine. I know a few methods to heal wounds, but not all. I went to the emergency room a few days ago due to a laceration of my left forefinger, an injury incurred while fighting jalapeños, a primary ingredient in green chili, at work. Normally preparations would have been made by me, continued on course by myself, and done away with a precision only I could hope to muster. The cut is fairly deep, and to this day it looks a little scary with five stitches holding it together; my remedy calls for a traditional American remedy: superglue. The doctor's prognosis was to keep my forefinger erect, allaying the possibility of a snapped tendon (one such nicked by a stainless steal blade). My naivety would have caused me further injury, and this band-aid for which I think to remove for the first full night since the incident would have remained red and I could have lost far more than blood and dignity -- jalapeños should never conquer an hispanic, right? Regardless, the issue remains that my own perception of healing fell short of the necessities for such an injury, and after even a few days I feel rusty at the modes to which I need to heal myself.

An age ago, though that sounds melodramatic, my life changed. I realize now that change took more away from me than I thought I would garner. Perhaps that isn't entirely true. The world into which I stepped gave me a whole mess to deal with; and after four and a half years I've realized that mess is still around. To be frank, nearly half a decade prior to this moment I broke away from a past which seemed to be hindering me from actively engaging with the world as myself. My desire to please love was causing a blockade to hold barren the passions of my personality, to store away a freedom of expression. Though love was my witness in these atrocities, I couldn't justify true love when my self was hindered from being by me. A life, or two, then ended.

Possibility reigned for a short while until I realized I was far broken and aiming wildly into a future I couldn't imagine. My memories of this period are as dark as the room I sit: light filters in from the kitchen and radiates in soft glows from the television before me and the golden-red lightbulb barely energized above. It seems I lived life at night, hidden from the light of day, the truth of moments. This is not to say I could not remember the time spent between January and August of 2011 -- but I feel remembering this summer of nightfall is to question my life now.

My band-aid is not ready to remove.

I've pulled off the band-aid upon my finger between delicate sips of hot tea. The itch demanded liberation from the suffocating permanence of safety. My heart thrumbs in a chasm deep between two lungs. Soft clicks tell me my mobility is not hampered by the cross stitched curve atop my index. My mind slows the progress of the flashing vertical line dancing before me. Such action feels rusty, unpracticed, and forced, when it once flowed as freely as the visions of other worlds flickered in the darkness of my eyelids. There is a bandage here, something blocking me from myself again. Writing is its sky. Words will fall upon the leafs blown in autumn winds.

Summer is present again and questions brought by the gentle night press against my brain. Bubbling persists, words dance in colorful attitudes pressing me to find answers without thought, and fear wafts from behind veiled clearings bathing in the sunlight -- or the moonlight. As days progress, words will come; and the pages of this artifice will expand.

Bravery: Letting Go

[My professor told us to write a piece that we would never show our family. I wrote it. He then told us we had to invest obstructions on our writing and a classmate gave me many obstructions to the prose... I changed what I wrote. I've decided to let the world know my deepest secret... and if my family should read this, read at your own risk. Know I'm not ready to talk about this... I hope my prose are touching, provocative, and worthy of the read. Thank you.]

I look in the bag, staring my past right in the face. There is something about these shirts that makes me remember more than photos or stories ever could. These shirts went through life with me, and nearly from my own vantage point. This shirt experienced my first kiss with a boy. This one I’m going to keep, I don’t even know why I thought I could get rid of it. This one I got in New York after seeing RENT with my high school orchestra. Gonna have to keep that one as well…

I rarely, if ever, wear these shirts, but I can’t give them away. Emptying out my closet was supposed to open up more space for new shirts and such, but I can’t give up memories… right? Especially that shirt. That memory… That one lived through my first experience. It would be easier if that shirt didn’t exist at all… but it remains like a scar: its presence diminished, its power waned, but it would forever be known that it existed to begin with.

Grabbing the shirt out of the bag, I hold it up in front of me and look at it, feel it, remember it.

It’s only a shirt.

It’s a light brown fabric sown together without any logos or designs. It’s a simple shirt.

It knows.

I throw the shirt back into the bag, determined to forget and let go. As the hiss of the fabric sliding down the plastic echoed in my ears, I felt again.  I relived the memory, the reason I didn’t come out sooner. It all began with trust, trusting friendship, a hug, back massage. I trusted touch, until touch turned into disorder. Uncomfortable violation one can’t fight…

I was walking into my best friend’s house. His mother’s boyfriend was there and lounging on the couch like he did. He greeted me as I walked in and eventually asked me to sit next to him. Instantly, I wanted him to be my role model, whether I understood that or not. I trusted him as he put his left hand on my shoulders and squeezed, massaging the twelve-year-old muscles…

The shirt represents the trust I lack in myself… to know when not to trust…

That thing reinforces my distrust in any man I might trust, and if I can’t trust in any man then I will never truly love. It knows why, and it whispers that vision every time it brushes against my skin.

I close the bag. Lift it up. Throw it in the slot. Push it past the too small space. Hear the soft thud within the donation bin.

A whisper rises from the trees behind me and a bird chirps gaily. I get back in my car, role down the windows, and turn on my music and start singing, trying to escape emotions that were buried for so long. 

U

Unless uniform un-involvement uniquely understands universal ubiquitous uselessness usurping upheld unanswerable undeniables, uttered under ushered ullages, unabated unalienable use upon ulterior ulcerations.

D

Desolate desperation drowning direct derelictions darkly deepens didactic depressions.

P

Perfection plays poignantly past people's perceptual paradigms, potentially piling parenthetically pungent poison (polarized perhaps) pills. Picture perfect...

A

Alack! Allusion aways all ambiguous assumptions ailing armored amour (availing arduous attacks against). Attempt aspiring alignments astoundingly! Aim above, ask alluringly, accept affirmations assisting assertive ambitions! Always.

F

Fearlessly fading: fast falling fallacy functions forever forlorn. Falsity, flack flung face first forward, feeling French fecundity; forefingers flexed for Facebook fame. Focus freedom furiously for factual fervor. Flames fume.

 ... Fuck...

E

Every enigma energizes: effervescence enlightened each entertainment, endeared evermore. Eyes escape endeavored elisions, enforced eccentricities. Enlivened entities engage evil: estimate everything.

Trying to Comprehend Changes

There's a sense of things when the world around you falls away. All the creation, intentional and purpose driven with aspirations fueling the crafty hands as they whittle away at the fabric of friendship, seems to abandon the original form and molds into something which doesn't need your attention anymore. Here is where I've found myself: the now of a world where my disappearance would certainly not be noticed amongst the very community I have drawn together.

I'm being selfish.

A breeze dances in the trees and rustles the leaves creating a world of music: whispers echoing the coo of a bird's song as the sun banishes the cold of the other worldly enticement. Displaced pressure moving the air concocted this symphony of nature; we see only the vibrations in the air from the moving trees. I am the air pressure dancing around a forest, and the forest goes on being beautiful and thriving without my encouragement.

What do I say to this? What do I do when it's apparent the vitality of my happiness, born of a newfound freedom to experience a group of the closest friends I have ever found, evaporates and the community I desire to be in at all times continues to coalesce around another point? I could take up smoking and forevermore be included in every aspect of the party. I could partake in every extra-"curricular" engagement and forget the foundation I built in some miraculous morality [which has withstood the onslaught of high school pressures]. Or do I simply let it go and move on?

Change is the only constant... The only constant remains change. The only change is the perception of reality from moment to moment and the acceptance of what is seen and understood, comprehended with the constructs of language filtering images into synapses in complex brain structures incomprehensible to the wisest of scientists. So what is my perception saying about this situation? That I don't belong... not even in the perfection of my relationship with all my friends. I will never know what it's like to be in their world because I've never wanted to experience that world.

I am being selfish.

The steps I take from day to day will always shape the wonders I experience. This solitude, this pit of whateverness, is yet another experience I wandered into. Dare I change it? Leave it? My language explores the possibility in so many fashions... and here I am suckling depression for its nourishment...

What nourishment is that?

It Is, In Its Not.

It's not a condition we readily accept or acknowledge, but it creeps, it crawls, it draws the hairs upward as we restlessly find ourselves waiting for that nothingness to occur with frivolous exaggeration.

It's not a disease, though we are often put out of ease once the realization infringes the reality that it has suffused itself upon; blankets would be comfortable had they not been worn thin from the tossing, turning, ticking moments as they travel through the oppressive void entrapping time.

It's not death, even with the stiffness of catalyst-like lackings looming without the threats of circumstances venting of the inexactitude of existing in the pure absence of action: dust settling at increasingly slow speeds, ribbons dance in the subtle breeze falling from air vents in cold wafts like the fingers of the crow, heat ensared by the candle's jar won't emanate into the room as the flame dances no more than two centimeters in all directions from its perfectly statuesque spear-like body; eternal slumber would be but little different to its truth, save the general death of not living.

It is, in its not.

2011. Who knew?

I have been quite apprehensive to try and describe 2011 to myself. There were really two different trends that circulated and interwove into and around the timeline of a year; looking back at all of the events I can't help but feel like last year was so long even as the feeling of slipperiness coalesced in the moments. The year flew by like gravity pulling water through the cracks of cupped fingers. Once I move my hands though, the lake beneath my hands seems deeper than I could have imagined. In all reality, the two ways of describing this past year are as the surface experiences that shape the landscape of a tale and the unheeded transformations I experienced in the simplicity of events occurring in twelve months. What is more important or valid? I'm not entirely sure, but both ways of depicting 2011 scare me slightly. In a way, I haven't even finished digesting the metamorphosis of myself... so how can I justly understand and place into words my life?

Well, part of understanding is forcing the indescribable into language and having that language envelope the moments until truth is found. At least, that's how I see it.

Most tales start from the beginning. I must start in the past, a past I dealt with through language here in The Writer's Landscape in poetry and verse; I shall be blunt. The end of 2010 found my mind questioning the foundation of my self and my relationship of eight years. This relationship was the boundary of my self: the cage of my freedom, the prison of my self expression, and the torture of my physical expressions; the harbor of my love, the shelter of my confidence, and the belief in my memories of perfection. The juxtaposition of these feelings was the vortex of questioning of a relationship that started just as I realized who I wanted to become. That entity, that destiny I later realized, was hidden away because of love and devotion. We shall return to this thought in a moment.

Thus, 2011 came into existence with one resolution (for lack of a better word). I resolved to be completely open, honest, and uninhibited with myself and the people in my life. No smoke and mirrors, no subtle lies, no half truths or denials. I discovered that I was lying to myself, telling myself I was happy with who I had become, who I was denying, and the path I was walking down. I believe it was January 21st when I officially broke up with my boyfriend of nearly eight and a half years, after a week of limbo, of talking and discussing the possibilities of relinquishing our relationship or fighting for the love we so to which we vehemently clung. That moment set everything in motion. I was already in my dream school, already taking some steps to become the person I longed to know. That day I broke my heart and didn't realize it; broke it apart into the first of several sunderings I would experience in twelve months' time. The first true relationship coming to the first true death. Unfortunately its dying was long and arduous...

I very quickly met my next love. Call it rebound. Call it truth. Call it the first fold unraveling in my journey toward myself. This love hit hard, hit fast, and hit painfully. After two and a half months, the second sundering crushed my world. The smoke and mirrors I left behind found their way into my world from another source and his words, though of good intent, made the situation undeniably worse...

Beauty came from this quick affair with my heart. Great poetry flowed from me, spoke from a place I've only been able to reach a few times in my life. I also found one of my best friends in the entire world from that brief love. On May 4th, my newest best friend and I celebrated the ending of my first semester at my first pick college. That night, my first night at a gay bar I found the next person who would enrich my life and unfold yet another aspect of my true self. He would help define what I needed from a relationship; because in lacking is the search for want. I wrote something one morning on my iPod, of all places, which sums up his and my relationship nearly perfectly:

Watching boys be boys made me feel even more of an outsider to his world. No matter the love, the intensity of appreciation or admiration in his eyes, the smile upon my arrival or kiss or stare, his efforts never attempted bringing me into his world. However, I know his intentions never veered toward keeping me out of the man's verse. They simply attracted me, and himself to me, and allowed us both exist where we desired. Such an action simply stirred my heart even more. (July 10, 2011)

I wrote it lovingly. Now I see the underlying intensity of sadness that fueled the words. Even now, I long to change "action" to "inaction" in that last sentence, because it would more accurately describe what happened. Words are chosen purposefully and even now I dare not change the verse. After a while, I fell in love with him because I could see who he was and who he wanted to be; but I didn't love him because my heart told me I loved him. Hell, I never even told him in person that I loved him. It wasn't until too late that I desired to let him know.

My necklace carrying my protection in a pendant and charm broke in the middle of July, and the next day I totaled my car. With the totaling of my car, this boy stopped seeing me. His explanations for not seeing me were vague but understandable. After all, when you work till ten or eleven at night you don't want to ride a vespa for forty-five minutes to visit a boy you haven't called your boyfriend or significant other to his face after three months of dating.

July 24th arrived and I flew away to one of the most magical places in the world: DisneyWorld. Seven days to experience being alone amongst crowds of families and friends. It was the most liberating experience of my life. Imagine walking around the corridors of magical displacement and enjoying the post-modern reality created by Disney while seeing the families, loved ones, friends, and lovers walking side by side, glancing in your direction as you walk alone with your iPod as company. By Wednesday I had reached the pinnacle of my loneliness and depression. It was also the day I found out all the information about my totaled car: how much to repair it, how much I was receiving from insurance, and how much I would have to work through in order to get mobility back. It was tough, but Thursday morning I awoke with a new attitude. And that attitude has sustained me since that moment. I realized I didn't need to be with anyone in order to be happy and fulfilled; that my own existence permeates my reality and how well I consume the emotions I emit creates the sensations of loneliness, love, and connection. I went back into the park ready to be alone and happy.

What I found was love instead. It was a magical, fairytale event: love at first sight, instant mutual interest, and a quick phone number exchange. With the few days I had left, I made a bond with someone very special.

Unfortunately, reality called me away from the reality of fantasy. I returned home to my dating world with a new attitude about what I was looking for, which quite frankly wasn't anything solid. I didn't want a relationship, per se, but I wanted to experience life at its fullest. Whoever wanted to be in my life, however they wanted to be in my life (sans commitment) was welcome. I started dating, and dating did I do. I also had a new self-identity that I embraced with fervor. This was a step in life I knew I needed to experience too; and so I became quite promiscuous and embraced the title of "Hoe."

Most people would look at me during this state and be concerned, I'm sure, about my well being and sanity and health, etc. In truth, the time people needed to worry about me was right after the semester ended, on May 4th. The entire summer saw me in more drunken stupors making more bad decisions than I did during the entirety of my "hoe-dom." I was safe. I made practical decisions about who I was sleeping around with. I kept honesty, integrity, and communication at the forefront of every interaction I took part in. Everyone knew exactly where I was emotionally and mentally. I daresay this backfired on me at least twice. One of the people I met during this period I really wish I had made a stronger connection with and actually accepted the fact I was falling for him. I didn't realize this until recently; but I don't regret what happened. We had a beautiful affair for a few weeks, and he moved on because he knew a relationship was out of the question for me at that point in my life. The other time this backfired on me was with someone I still see almost daily, but whom I feel the connection between the two of us had degraded so far that we have little to say to each other anymore.

The ultimate outcome of my promiscuity was finding a love which I never fathomed could exist for me. I found a relationship with the man I've been looking for my entire life, and never really realized it. We started dating at the end of August. After much discussion, very open-hearted and open-minded discussions about life, who we want to be, what we want to do, and how we wish to experience life, we became a couple on November 14th. We created the perfect relationship, in my book; and people still question the validity of our love for each other with the parameters we've set up with each other. Let me explain.

We both know our love is solid, that it is created from a foundation of undeniable trust and awareness of who each of us is. My boyfriend knows that I have a part of me that likes being promiscuous, enjoys flirting with other men and being in the company of people who find me sexually attractive. He knows that I like being around men I find sexually attractive. Furthermore, we both understand that sex is pleasure and the assigned meaning of love and devotion is constructed form a world that we don't belong to. I'm a witch, and he's fluctuating between beliefs as he searches for a truth he feels comfortable with. An open relationship is technically the term we should label our commitment with, but even that isn't truly accurate. We experience sexuality together, and the paths we take to find out what we enjoy is taken together; but we have permission to do as we please. This is the perfection I've been looking for, that no other man has every given me or felt free to take from me.

And here we come to the new year, transitioning from a year of endings, of discovery, of truth and honesty. I've received SEVERAL amazing friends, including one which resurfaced in my life right before the new year commenced. I'm eternally grateful for this tumultuous year, and I feel the words to express it reside within the telling of this tale. Furthermore, the meaning of my transformation exists deeper than the words, in the underlying pretense of shifting mindsets all permeating the choices and paths I owned without preconceived associations. I am who I always wanted to be: a man in love, desperately attached with the heart but free to enjoy the multitude of life's pleasures without judgments. 

Now I have to judge whether these words are enough to convey the reality of existing as myself... and I fear these stories, these marks on white digitized nothingness, cannot truly give the experiences I felt. Feel free to question my world, and I shall tell you more.

Top Secret: Read Immediately

Herein Truth Lies

XXXXXXXXXXXX Speech

Orated December XX, XXXX

XX:XX:XX PM

XXXX Office

::Newly Elect XXXXXXXXX Johnson approaches microphone in the XXXX Office::

::Lights fade up revealing the somber face of an elderly man::

::XXXXXXXXX Johnson looks directly into the camera::

I am a master here enslaved.

As master, duties require secrecy and demand declarations to truths suspect; and I fear the truth shall be ostensibly disseminated without adequate verisimilitude. I must begin. My words, here spoken, are edited only by the air between us; my words here written are edited by those before me, before you… This microphone is the last medium for the unanswerable truths that must be adhered and abhorred.

We have been lied to. The truth is simple. We are enslaved by the XXXXXXX Industry, the XXXXXXXXX Hierarchy, and the XXXXXX Institutions educating our XXXXXXXX. As your captain, your leader, I must warn you of the XXXXXXXXXX these masters are about to unleash upon us all.

Your livelihood is at stake, and you must act. I act to open your eyes. I act now to have you think. I act as I do, in the threat of harm and defacement to protect this great establishment that we call home! What actions do I call for? Everything. Anything. And yet more.

XXXXXX! Stand your ground and raise your XXXXXX against the machines that claim your soul. They have XXXXXXXX you by forcing your hand to claim XXXXXXXX as the sole achievement of our society. Does this not anger you as it has overcome me? No noun, no adjective, no verb can describe to what society has come.

TAKE XXXXXX! Leave the safety of your XXXXX. Learn beyond the comfort of your own XXXX. Investigate authority’s XXXXX. Analyze the XXXXXXXX for yourself and find the answers I have been XXXXXX to XXXX from you. Get up; enact your XXXXXXX to which you believe you are entitled, that you XXXX you have. Put down your pen, leave the paper behind; don’t allow the XXXX prescription over your XXXXXXXXXXXXX. I beg of you. I DEMAND of you.

I have walked this path to enlightenment and returned an angered catalyst. I am what they cannot decipher because I understand their strengths, their weaknesses; I understand our strengths, our weaknesses. I am the culmination of our strengths and the product of our weaknesses that you have elected to lead these days through the perpetual XXXX constructed to ensure your participation in the system. As I questioned, as I read, as I spoke, as I became ‘Man Thinking’ I found the true state of things.

We are bound by XXXXXXXX, written as the XXXXX and told to bear the XXXXXXXXX XXXXXly. Stop XXXXXXXX. Stop XXXX. Stop XXXXXX and XXXXXXXXX. Stop living XXXXXXXXX. Stop XXXXXXXX XXXXXXX all of XXXXXXXX. The undeniable XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXX XXX XXXXXX XX XXX XXXXfatherX, the GodX XX XXX XXXXXXX. XXXXXXXXX XXXX our nation has become: XXXXX XX anew.

As your leader, your patron, your slave I implore you! Fight! Before our voices are lost to the absurdity of our own servitude. Before the encasement of black in white envelops language, for language is all we have. Do not be afraid to utilize the Verse before they decimate that liberty entirely. I only ask, as a last request, they leave this point unfiltered.

I know the ramifications of this speech. I know what will happen to me in the coming days, hours… minutes. Forgive this XXXXXXXXX Day intrusion. Happy Holidays. God XXXXX you and XXXXX.

::Light fades around XXXXXXXXX Johnson::

::Camera fades to black::

The silence that encroached the blackened television screens was interrupted a moment later. The microphones were not turned off. The stunned citizens sat and stared at the nothingness before them, as the sounds of an assassin ambushed their ears and shattered their comfortable existence in naiveté.  

Stumbling to Reassess

There's so much going on in my head, the words struggle to find meaning. The changes that have wrought my life anew continue to affect the views of the verse as it fights to climb down my arms to finger-tips and furthermore to the digital expanses as poetic disseminations of electrical synapses creating meaning for myself.

Love. I'm beginning to dislike the search and endeavor that is love. It's warping the very fabric of my vision, outlook, and interaction with life. I'm afraid of it, and have been since the tragic exploration earlier this year (for which such wondrous expulsions of poetry descended upon my computer). Now, I've found love anew, a love which is geographically undesirable as I'm consistently told by my brother, and I find many desires so locally bound. Guilt then tries to interfere with my daily routine with the subjects of my desire. There's no reason to feel guilty, especially with the understanding that distance (for the two of us) is a variable which cannot be overcome until it no longer exists. Another tragic appearance? However the guilt is twofold. I feel sorrow for the individuals attempting to form love with me here, so close to home; and thus feel guilty that I continue to date them (yes, plural) even with the explicit understanding that dating is what I am doing. Yet, they continue to fall and let their emotions be unguarded even unto themselves and become hurt when I explain that I am dating. ::sigh:: Predicaments avail, even in a community where the idea of 'dating' has been explained to me as non-commital and freeing.

Do I attract such people that solely want forever? I want forever with one, perhaps... but even then we don't know each other well enough to say that's what we'll accomplish. It is certainly at the forefront of our thoughts. Maturity stays the course.

I just want to be free. Experience freedom as I traverse the hallways of college. I'm not looking for commitment, even though commitment is all I've known. It's true... the experiences of my life have formed the strict foundation that commitment, solidarity, permanence are what feel comfortable when interacting with others. Though comfort is suppose to be appealing, I am not in it for the continual comfort of a singular entity. I'm looking for experience, to learn about and feel the world, to find out more about the unknown to me (maybe not about everything with precarious consequences), and to grow from the experiences I accumulate.

Perhaps that's why my writing is so halted currently. I'm forcing myself into a new reality, breaking conditions imposed from another to regard the world with new lenses (I'm now wearing Oakleys!!!) and find a voice that I feared lost forever: a voice I had in high school, a voice with strength, a voice I buried eight years ago, a voice I want to share with another when I know the time is right.

This feels good. This conversation with myself as I masticate through the muck of my mind. Perhaps these prose have always been where true comfort lies (with so many implications there... Aren't fictional stories lies?). We shall see as time progresses. Hopefully you will see as well, and perhaps give me insight to myself. Verse, after all, is a window into my soul. I share my soul with you.

What's going on?

I just don’t get it. I feel my heart falling and as it falls so does my mood. The go hand in hand with this one: the more I like him, the more I get depressed. He doesn’t react to me. I see his infatuation in unguarded moments: eyes flitting open to mumble a tired goodbye, a running embrace of surprise at my appearance somewhere, the joyous appreciation of a gift presented at the unlikeliest of times. in return, I offer myself, emotionally and physically, and often feel nothing in return. His methods thus far are monetarily based, I assume, and it drives me into darkness and doubt. Money hasn’t been fortunate with me. I appreciate the dedication of his hard work to assisting a comfortable lifestyle, but I’d rather see and feel from him that which he shares through green. What I’m missing is the physicality of relationship, though we discussed not encountering that level between us yet. i’m ready for it, but I fear it as well because I need more physical interaction than he’s providing. Irony doesn’t escape me here... I feel like my ex right now. in my previous relationship I was always the one not putting out enough; and though I’m not upset about the lack of relations, I’m not being fulfilled. Once in eight weeks is a bit... underwhelming, especially when with a guy that I felt I could go more than once with [in one night]. He turns me on with his very presence: stature, personality, smile, the way he looks at me, the firmness in his hands...

This all points back to my willingness to love, my openness to love, the ability to allow myself to love again. Step 1: knowing it’s safe to fall in love. Step 2: knowing I’ll be physically and emotionally fulfilled. Step 3: fall in love?

Deep like is where I remain, bars deterring the chariot of the heart despite its rightful admittance to its home. I suppose I shall suffer in limbo of my own emotion until he offers more of himself or pushes me away. It’s not as if I’m looking for a singular entity of eternity to comfort me; for I am that essence for myself.

The Conversation with My Heart

The doubt in my mind causes me grief. Simple thoughts circulate around the very image of perfection and stir the degrading circumstances into a spiraling typhoon around my heart. Love is present, I believe... but my mind won’t let it manifest properly; and everything that comes to the forefront of my thoughts are negligent and retarding, in the literal sense of the word. I want to give myself away as I have twice before. I want to jump into this newness as a fresh piece of paper whose borders have not been breached by the ink of a staining pen as it attempts to write out the passage of this possibility.

That’s part of it too: this relationship I’m in is simply a possibility at this point. Prior discussions have made it unconventionally clear that we are dating, no more, no less, with the distinct intention of working towards getting to know one another before declaring any suitable title for the associations between the two of us. Pure appreciation for the maturity of this decision has descended upon my heart because I’m still unaware of the landscape of the love I can disseminate. To give away what is not lush and verdant would be utterly despicable, especially if that was the cause of unfortunate outcomes. I don’t want to mess this up because he is truly an amazing guy.

Everything I’ve wanted up to this point: comfortable, confident, true, experienced, hidden, mature, relaxed, trusting, and open. He cares not if I’m out and about, living the life on the town. He enjoys that I embrace new experiences with him, and without him. He doesn’t pry into my life, as I have left his relatively untouched ‘til recently. Pressure between us for physical encounters is far from present and that creates the most pleasant environment to get to know each other. His smile makes me feel welcome, invited. His eyes don’t push into my soul and wait for me to step forth. HIs touch is soft, gentle, yet firm in what he wants. With all these attributes, the one thing that soothes my being above all else is his energy: calm, relaxed, firm, and knowing.

Knowing... He knows much about living, and that is something I enjoy profusely. I have always wanted to live; and a few aspects of me endured the weather I found myself in in order to live, but I wasn’t living. January finally found my footing in the land of life, where sunshine enveloped my essence and freedom told its story through my actions. Unfortunately, transitions from captivity to the outer doors has its turbulence and I got caught up in the luckless waves for a few months, but I learned a lot about what it takes to keep my footing.

And I found this man: a man to be approved of, a man to share with everyone, a man to take hold of and hope will never leave in any circumstance... And the doubt enters in. My fear resides in my own worthiness. I am damaged from a sundering unto myself from myself for myself, further broken my by intrinsic willingness to love another before the mending occurs, and I’m perhaps unknowingly reserved from uncontrolled trepidation to love another because of all of my previous experiences with love. Many people around me say I’m good enough, say I’m worthy, tell me I’m worth the love I hold in my heart (which truly is unconditional and full and bright as the stars, beautiful as the Verse). I want to feel it, though... I need to know it’s coming before I give, I suppose...

Then I’ll know if I am ready. To know I’ll be safe in another’s heart when I give mine away, to understand the other won’t mindlessly, needlessly harm me when I’m already torn, to feel the breath between two lungs from another’s lips... that will give me the peace of mind, soul, heart to be able to give what I fear giving. Truthfully... I’ll only know if that’s enough when it happens; and with this man I believe the road will be smooth enough for me to take the necessary time to find the right moments to open the forest of my heart to him.

It is sodden. The ground is moist with the rain of the past. Growth is slow and timid, searching for the ray of sunlight piercing the grey clouds. Under the cracks from a quake ages ago the roots spread slowly, feeling out the nutrients of spirits whispering of purity hidden in the soil underfoot. Darkness remains despite the effort of the forest’s god calling upon the serenity of his compatriots. The walls are closed to the slow walk, trapping in and keeping out all the efforts of endearment between. Three words hold the key to the gates. Three words endeavor to break down the clouds. Three words will bring the forest back alive and seal the ground with tidal forces swaying like a gentle breeze amongst the leaves. The Keeper awaits those words, tending the way in patient circumstance.

So must I.

Realization

The storm passed overhead, leaving behind the serenity of a pre-summer day. Clouds trail the darkened tempest, drifting away in silent course. Puffs of white shaded with dark blues and illuminated from above hide the purity of the daytime sky. Smiles from Sol don’t break the consistently growing hour; and the shade burns in my heart.

In my chest, where the despair originates from the unknown and the loneliness. Recent decisions have betrayed my sense of belonging, of kinships and love, of having companionship with myself and with another. Where the world stands, within my head, heart, and body, is wrapped in the aftermath of winds passing sodden emotions. I’m lost in a balancing of desires, in the searching for my life, in spiraling activities semi-detrimental to self image and self respect.

This trailing system of clouds spawns another outburst of storms. Rain falls casually on bright green trees, soaking pavement and pulling at the darkness within the shade of the grass. My toes feel the water lapping over my sandals. Immobile, I am drenched by the onslaught from the air. It’s always from the air...

Prospects from a future ignite fears within. Will it ever always be so cruel? In my mind or without my mind? I’m walking onward with life, finding spring in budding greenery along my route. So fresh, so innocent, so unknowing of the hardships simply growing will cause them to endure. A part of me wants to stamp them out, kill them early so they’re spared the brutality of this reality. I can survive in loneliness, despite the intrinsic desire to have that soul beside me.

A patch of clouds shifts and the blue skies reveal the sunlight so desired. I let it wash over me. I feel the touch on my toes, on my chest, through my eyelids and it bleeds into my blood, warming my body through to the darkest part of my heart. Where the warmth illuminates, I see the error of such thoughts. Epiphany strikes like a mallet on the church bells. I’ve stollen myself away from the possibility all because of fear for the next tempest’s touch. I walk with blindness in my eyes, under white skies. These footprints are laden with sorrow from pains incurred in attempts at finding what I’ve always wanted.

The beauty of summer doesn’t blossom without the tears of the clouds.

Our pasts feed who we are.

The clouds come at us from the west...

Game of Hearts: Recommended for 2 players only.

The game can be extrapolated for 3. With 4 or more, however, it’s best advised to walk away with exaggerated velocity. The object of this game is to scale the barriers hindering your opponent from falling in love with you. Rules are invariably unstable and depend solely on the contestants; however, several meaningless guidelines exist for consideration: leave previous gaming baggage stored away at home [automatic deductions appear in red on the left side of the score card for revealing past failures], wear very little, if any, perfume or cologne [unless you smell horrendously foul, in which case take a shower prior to entering the game], avoid pungent, messy, and expensive food or drink [this can be foregone if, and only if both contestants see garlic as its own food group]. There is only one way to win: both contestants must admit to the deep pleasure of love. With three players, there will always be one loser. With four or more [good luck] all bets are off.

A clever hint: don’t take the game seriously.

Penalties for losing include a ten pound weight gain and large amounts of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.