This may just be the end of my LiveJournal.

I direct you to Blogger.

http://5or6yearsold.blogspot.com/

Peace be with you my friend.

-T

 

Today I tore my eyes open with my fingers and wiped the crusty build-up of sloth off my lids.  Today(!) was my return to school.  Oh, how I've missed you so, my little little Academia.  So here I type, once again, in the wooden chair of the library computer lab and type out my anecdotes. My backpack leans up against my leg while Pandora soothes me with Appleseed and Interpol.  Students and Strangers come and go, checking email and myspace, while I sit here enjoying my Life.  My life as a carefree student, surrounded by friends: beautiful; and roomate: wonderful; and family: close.  What to do with this overload of glee?  What to do other than hide myself in my room after work and pray it won't end.  "Don't say anything! to make this feeling go away! You'll ruin it..."  But today is the day.  My schedule is back on course.  My life has purpose once again--direction.  Slowly, my eyes will grow accustomed to the Bright again, and I will be Me.  Truly naive.  

A student for life: title I accept with open arms and ready hands.  

Yes.  Yes.  Yes.

-T

I'm laying in bed right now.  Yes, laying in bed as the walls glow with an eerie shine--my eyes are clearly still angry with me for getting drunk last night.  I have to squint just to look at my computer screen, but all's well.  There is nothing like chugging a Mai Tai as one contemplates the beauty that is Bennifer and TomKat.  Afterwards, I walked and stumbled and walked some more in search of Potty de Porto, and after finding one that was locked, continued to walk some more.  Joao, David and I walked endlessly searching for somewhere to smoke.  But wait!  There!  As we were about to give up, God mercifully shined his light onto that white domed cubicle.  Thank you Jesus.  We smoked, and I inhaled myself into a state of higher elation.  My limbs became smoke as there in the portopotty my lungs filled with Mary and Cory.  We spoke of the universe and they explained to me the meaning of life.  I laughed and laughed, and sighed and laughed--close your eyes and enjoy this.  The blunt is running through my vains now, ashed to completion.  My eyes are heavy with glee and it is time to go home.  I'm walking through the alley, and emerge in boystown.  Out from the wilderness I find myself in civilization.  Queers! I'm home.  I try not to wake Allan as I feed my Munchies--two cans of corn should do it.  I drink my food and inhale my drink and fall onto my bed, wake up in the AM and go to work, come home, fall in bed and now I write.  Crazy night yesterday.  Crazy night indeed. 

You look in the mirror at yourself.  What do you see?  You see--something different--there is a boy, a man, a hero and a failure.  He stares at you in question.  

"Why do you care so much?"

"Because," you say defeated "because, I need to."

You get ready, put on a fresh shirt, and those jeans that fit you just right--brush your teeth, sweetie; you don't wanna risk bad breath--and answer your phone when it rings.  You tell your friend you'll be right down and you jet.  

Fast forward 20 minutes and you're sitting at Kit Kat, martini in hand, and stare in annoyance as the queens next to you squeal with delight as the Drag Queen walks by and touches them.  

"I'm finished with this town." But you know that you'll be back here next week.  It's the cold, it makes you cranky and irritable.  Another martini and you're on foot again, walking through the loud cold that burns your ears on the way to the car.  To Andersonville!  to be with a different crowd: less pretentious, just as gay.  On your way to Mary's Attic you can't help but to look at Marty's.  

"I miss you"

Inside it's karaoke.  This isn't gonna work out...  Where else can we go?  Marty's is suggested.  No, you're not ready to go back there.  Are you?  Well, tonight is his day off.  Ok.  You've been convinced, Hermes help me.  

There you are, standing outside of what used to bring you such joy--a guaranteed good time.  Once, your heart lept for the door, and now it cowers behind your lungs, hoping you won't see it.  Inside, you're all at once reminded of why you loved this place.  You're three months younger and entering again for the first time, rediscovering leisure and the most amazing martini you've ever had...ever.  

You sit down and get yourself situated.  And then you hear it:  his laugh.  You close your eyes not out of fear, not out of delight, but to help quiet your heart from beating so fast.  "Stop!" you tell it, "you'll be fine, we'll be fine, I'll be fine."  but your heart knows the truth, and it speaks to you in his hypersensitive morse code, beating to you a message too intense for words.  You can feel him staring at you.  And you will him to not come over.  Stay away. 

"He's looking at you"  Your friend tries to assure you.  No, you don't want this.  There's no question he wants you back, you know this.  The conflict lies in your unwillingness to be spread thin.  Sharing is not caring in the matters of the heart.  I will not.  You will not.  He doesn't deserve it.  The sweet Lemon Drop rolls down your throat leaving you with a hole in your gut.  Your insides will fall out if you're not careful and he'll see your intimate insides spread over the floor, something you won't allow him to see.  Ever.  

"We have to go" you tell your friend, and he obliges.  Your coat is tighter than normal, and heavy with disappointment.  Out, out, out into the cold.  It slaps at your skin and burns your lips, but still, it's better than the fire you felt on the back of your neck when he stared.  Not once did you make eye contact.  Not once could you bare to.  There! in your pocket.  Like clockwork--the text, from him.  You tell him, harshly, the truth.  I don't want to speak to you.   Why?   Can't you just sugar coat things everyonce in a while?  Why are you so drastic?  So exact?  You specialize in the eloquent deviation of words and yet you must use words that pierce the skin.  

On foot again, you make way your way to Berlin and drink yourself into an alternate reality.  You find an old friend who you escort home and have sex: meaningless, trivial, and cold.  You have sex with him, all the while thinking of someone else.

 You'll be fine.  You will be fine.

 Oh sweet sweet Time.  Why do you cast your lantern in my direction.  Take the spot light off me, I'm not ready to sing yet.  I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while.  This feeling: how foreign.  But here I am, typing.  Or not typing depending on your perception of reality...?  Next week is finals.  Finally Finals.  Then what?  Senor Time, que hago?  Hail nada, mother of nada (thank you Hemingway).  I sit and sip Sweet Citrus Orange (or some other shitty Tazo tea) and feel my joints fill with something--an emotion unknown to me.  What is this I feel?  An uneasiness to the max.  Is it anxiety?  No.  Anticipation?  No.  Fear?  Maybe...

Where has my Locus gone?  I haven't heard from him in weeks.  BUT YOU TOLD HIM TO STOP CALLING?!  Ack.  I miss you.  Why do I hate you?  Find me at Berlin, so I can tell you to get away, only after you come to me and touch me on the shoulder:  brief brief moment of ease.  Let time collapse on itself and bring me back to my birthday, our day.  I hung over and you staring intriguingly.  Why do I sit here and blog about you?  Ew. I'll stop.

Anyway.  I should be writing about some cliche (but relevant?) topic concerning Shakespeare and/or one of his plays (A Winter's tale!? Best saved for winter, si?) but instead I procrastinate once again.  Once.  Again.  Time.  SEE!  Here you are again.  Pestering, always Pestering.  Fuck off.  Leave me be and let me enjoy the moment at hand.  

Could I write a story in the form of a blog?  Maybe?  No, I want to write about woman.  Why?  Dunno?  :-/
I will though.  I will write from my fictional tulip and spill orgasm onto paper.  One day.  One.  Day.  Measures of time again.  AGAIN!  Ugh.

My tea bag soaked too long.  My citrus now tastes like acid.  Pity.

I will stop thinking of you Locust.  Leave my dicots alone.  Where is my bug spray?

Hm, instead I feed you citrus acid and watch you flinch from the taste.  

Ack.

-T

I'm not sure what to do anymore.

Is it pompous to assume I had something to do with the dramatic increase in style?  I should be flattered...right?  But I can't help but feel...well I don't know what it is I feel.  Like they've stolen something from me--my affinity for personal narratives.  Give it back.  

Give me back...

I want Me back.

Sleeping squirrel: I went to bed at 9:30 last night.   i: still sleeping.  I: still sleepy.  Shh.

-T

"I am not who I say I am."

Oh disatrous blessing, bountiful lacking.  Huh?  Does that make sense to anyone other than me?  Anecdotes control me; they shape my writings and the emotion that catalyze my fingers to type.  I love, I hate.  I lie...I lie.  Where does this feeling of uneasiness come from?  It vibrates out, floor rumbling from my footsteps.  I can see the walls shake as my reality is questioned.  How do I perceive?  Reality: subjective.  My reality doesn't make any sense right now.  My tangibles are made permeable.  My fears made tangible.  AHH!  Make it stop.  I lose the ones I love too steadily.  The move away from me (physically and emotionally).  Teresa?  It's been months, my best friend.  You've slipped through my fingers and settled at the bottom of the pond; and I, too scared to jump in and wet my Elphalba-body.  I'm misinterpreted, but on what pretense?  Is it my own?  Do I do it on purpose?  Or am I some silly victim of subjection?  Even now, my foot tap tap taps on the cheaply carpeted floor of this  computer lab.  Surrounded by my peers who will go on to become Doctors, Lawyers, and Drug Addicts, I sit and type away nonsensical nonesense.  Pandora plays her sweet sweet music--working its way up through wires and spilling from earbuds.  

Now what Tony?

How funny is a name?  Ask Proctor.  Hanged for his love of his name--for his reputation.  What does my name say?  It says:  Young, Naive, Adolescent, Presumptuous.  I come to terms that I will grow up to be a Nobody.  Forever at CPK, I will start in the kitchen and work my way up to a server trainer.  A career server, is that who I am?  Will I settle for some mediocre job, never putting my knowledge of Shakespeare or my understanding of rhetorical methods of persuasion to use?  Will my ability to explicate and analyze go neglected?  My ability to look at prose and see multiple layers of meaning sans head scratching frustration?  Things are so easy!  But why give me this ability if it goes for not?  If I'm plagued with a family who doesn't care and social constraints that bid me to fail.  Why give me so many obstacles and not the will to jump the hurdle?  I'm drowning.  Drowning slowly in embryonic fluid of the life I'm supposed to give birth to.  I'm drowning with no life jacket or hand to pull me out.  God.  The hand of God is where?  Up on some great height too busy clapping out of sheer enjoyment to give me a boost.  

Oh stop being so melodramatic.

Melodrama as a tool to suppress.  How rhetorical is this purpose I use!  Shame and guilt have shaped me so I continue the classic paradigm of Catholicism and dig my hole deeper.  And deeper still.  

My time has run out.  Literally and metaphysically.  "So tedious is this day".  So tedious indeed.

Goodbye.

-T

"So tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And my not wear them." 



        I wait.  I wait a lot.  I wait for friends, events, emotions.  No one seems to really care how much time I spend waiting.  It's odd how tiring sitting can get.  Does no one take me serious?  Am I too nice?  I try to get angry, but I don't have friends to spare at the moment.  All that's left are the one's I love.  How can I get mad at them?  I waited for 21 years to hear my Mother say she loves me.  I waited for 4 years to have my own house key.  I waited 11 years to kill myself.  I waited 13 to see my father.  I waited 2 hours to get into their apartment.  I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Here I am waiting again.  Yesterday, he came to my rescue. "I'll be there" he said and I believed him.  But, I got there and he wasn't, so I kept walking.  I walked to find him standing on the corner having a cigarette.  In no rush talking to Coworker.  I would have waited for him, like everyone else.  My heart sank lower into my belly, doing pushups on my liver.  I love him, I do but I was hurt.  I waited for an hour for my locus.  He was working out.  Fine, I don't really know you but there I was: Alone.  I wait and I don't know for what?  What do I plan to find in the quiet solitude of the red line at night?  Do I see myself in the faces of others?  My soul made transparent on the reflection of the plexiglas?  Dark brow and tan skin.  Who are you?  No, longer little i physically, but smaller than silence.  As small as a stone but as big as alone.  Why do I find it so easy to sit alone?  Quiet, passive, angry.  "What the fuck is you staring at?" she asked.  ---I don't know?  A woman crying.  A child eating a cookie.  A bum asking for change.  I see myself, my pain and my hurt there in others.  I communicate tacitly with my fellow man and ask to be forgiven.  I wait for forgiveness; for everyone to realize I am not what I am.  I will turn.  Turn and steal that handkerchief.  I will murder by accident all out of spite.  I see that.  I see that in my head.  Strawberry stained sheets, I'm sorry.  Eyes closed I can see fireworks, explosions, passion.  Passionate I am.  Too much.  How can I process emotion when I don't know where to start.  So I wait.  I wait, suppress my feeling and await the day I can come back and address them.  I will wait.  I will wait for my festival and new robes.  The dawn will break and I will wake to realize it's Christmas.  I will be showered with gifts and love.  Housekeys and friends.  But for how long?  I'll just have to wait and find out.


-T