Hopefully the dung scene makes it into the sequel

Have I ever anticipated any feature film more than Michael French’s Empires of the Deep starring Olga Kurylenko?  At roughly 5 years in production I am expecting nothing short of a modern masterpiece.  Time has always been directly correlated to quality for me.  Word on the streets is that Kurylenko auditioned for the role of Wonder Woman in Zack Snyder’s upcoming Batman v Superman Dawn of Fishsticks and I shall always weep she did not win the role.

Kathryn Bigelow is a supremely talented director.  I admire her filmography even if I do not love all the flicks.  Anyone who can craft Near Dark, Point Break, Strange Days (swoon), The Hurt Locker and Zero Dark Thirty is surely more than formidable.   

Just heard moments ago that Prince is coming out with a new album soon!  The Purple One always makes me so happy. 

I recently ate a turkey sandwich.  I’m a six billion dollar embarrassment. 

Jurassic World is now the third highest grossing movie of all time.  This is something I never anticipated even in my most deeply erotic fantasies.  It should come as no surprise then that Universal Pictures just announced a sequel scheduled for the fantastic date of June 22, 2018 with Chris Pratt and Bryce Dallas Howard both returning.  If memory serves this is within a week or two of Legendary Pictures’s sequel to last year’s awful Godzilla flick.  Maybe they will both encourage one another to up their game and create two stunning visionary films of unparalleled brilliance!  Then again maybe I’ll have bacon and eggs for breakfast.  This world is nothing if not full of possibilities. 

In the very same instant word also leaked out that there is some consideration for an upcoming X-Men and Fantastic Four crossover film!  Personally I was not a very big fan of X-Men Days of Future Past (although I did buy two version of it on blu ray, the original and the recently released Rogue extended cut, what does that say about me?  Probably that I lack basic rudimentary intelligence).  I have to admit the new Fantastic Four movie simply does not look good but the behind the scenes drama has been so fascinating I hope to one day write a screenplay based upon it and eventually to have it filmed by one of my fave directors like Timothy Burton or Dave Lynch.  I would want Salma Hayek to play every role and I would write in a new character especially for her that would a dominant executive type who would wear glasses, white collared shirts, black skirts, seamed hosiery and black leather high heels.

Tis a shame about the Fantastic Four however.  I truly feel they are great characters and I love any of the Jack “King” Kirby stuff.  The problem is that so far we don’t have a director bold enough to go for the zany, kitch, psychedelic sci-fi vibe of the glorious original issues.  This could be a bold, visionary property but instead this new iteration looks incredibly rote and actually less interesting than the uninspired flicks from 2005 and 2007 (and the original Roger Corman flick).  If a crossover movie ever takes place I hope they give the part of the Invisible Woman back to Jessica Alba though I must admit this has nothing to do with acting talent and everything to do with my finding her physically attractive.  Simply put, I like looking at her and the bigger the screen the better. 

A chief problem with Brian Singer’s 2006 film Superman Returns is the premise that Superman would abandon Earth.  Even for the cockamamie reason that scientists somehow discovered living remnants of Krypton or something the Superman I know and love would never do that.  This is far from the only problem of that fascinating flick but it is a big one and immediately sets the movie off on the wrong foot.  And here’s that context thing I was talking about last time when I brought up Spectre in relation to Skyfall!  Ever since the release of Man of Steel I have been much more comfortable with Superman Returns and it has been easier to appreciate on its own merits.   

What can we compare to agape love?  What is even proper?  This warrants further investigation.  My world is constantly trembling.  I am always running to catch up.  Let’s put this over the edge.  

There are too many Muppets in Return of the Jedi, I never liked that installment.  I love Muppets but I don’t want them in Star Wars for some reason.  I’m not looking forward to Episode VII but I’m not not looking forward to it.  I’ll probably read that first novel coming out in September which serves as gap bridging for original trilogy and this new one but I’m not sure why.  I’ve never been a hard core Wars fan, not like my beloved friend Calvin Black whose encyclopedic knowledge of James Bond films is eclipsed only by his libraryic knowledge of Star Wars lore.  He recently confessed to me that the most recent trailer restored his heretofore lost faith in humanity. 

Our time in the zero sum sun may be coming to an end but I have no regrets.  Rather, I find myself filled with joy that we were able to have this time together.  I have seen true art again and I have no doubt it will continue to inspire.  For always.  And I now have a new artist whom I can follow until the very end.  So many sumptuous moments which will always stay with me and find their way into so much I do.  There is only the slightest bittersweet tinge to this last course but I find myself developing a taste for this.  I am mad for Mads. 

I poured myself several drinks last night and lay down to watch On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.  I’d spent the previous few hours drinking and I only made it through the introductory scene and subsequent credits before passing out on my bourgeois sofa.  I recall my final thoughts being something along the lines of realizing I know myself – or anyone else – even less than I thought.  Will my ending be emotionally satisfying? 

I want to wear a g-string and fight evil. 

Jeriko One was the poet of the streets

In my ignorant discussion of the new 007 Spectre trailer during yesterday’s post I forgot to mention that I do quite like the footage shot during what appears to be Dia de los Muertos in Mexico City.  I’m guessing this is the opening and it should a gee-whiz slam bang humdinger of a scene!  It appears the lovely Mexican actress Stephanie Sigman is playing a character named Estrella (or Star for you White Angelo-Saxon Protestants).  She looks devastatingly beautiful in the promotional pictures and this heightens the anticipation for the superficial pig inside of me.  I first saw Sigman several years ago when I attended the premiere of Gerardo Naranjo’s excellent Miss Bala and I can say she is an actress of great talent and poise.  The name of her character also makes me think of recent Baila Si Puedes participant and Consejo Mundia de Lucha Libre luchadora Estrellita (swoon) who makes my eyes bulge, my heart pound violently and my mind burn with fantasies of being humiliatingly dominated through various wrestling holds while she mocks me mercilessly. 

As I alluded to last time I am not a big fan of the movie Skyfall though I do adore some things about it like Roger Deakins’s gorgeous cinematography, Adele’s instantly iconic theme song, Javier Bardem’s performance (if not necessarily his character) and certain charming scenes – such as the casino scene in Shanghai – which reference so well the many decades of rich Bond history amongst an overall dreary storyline without much payoff beyond a more promising follow-up.  But therein lays the rub as the inner city kids like to say.  It’s amazing how more contextualization and follow-ups can improve one’s feelings of the preceding work.  Storylines come to fruition and make more sense, character beats which once seemed random are now more acceptable and the simple fact that this formerly disappointing thing is no longer the final statement of the mythology makes it seem all the better.  A great recent example is I can now happily watch Terminator Salvation and view it as the underrated masterpiece it truly is!  Or can I?  The answers make shock you to the core. 

Another movie I’m looking forward to with great relish and sauerkraut is Crimson Peak directed by Guillermo Del Toro.  If it’s awesome maybe I’ll be able to watch Pacific Rim without weeping uncontrollably over my disappointment (another example of the phenomenon I just mentioned!).  Maybe I’m just disappointed that he never (to date) made Hellboy 3.  But that’s just yet another example of a wannabe hack like yours truly trying to force his selfish and asinine desires onto true artists. 

For several nights in row now I’ve watched Kathryn Bigelow’s 1995 feature film Strange Days starring Ralph Fiennes, Angela Bassett, Juliette Lewis, Michael Wincott (swoon) and Tom Sizemore.  For several weeks now I’ve also been watching David Lynch’s 1997 film Lost Highway at least twice on a nightly basis.  Those who know me best know I am a notoriously large (physically and metaphorically) Lynch fan and for countless years I’ve debated with myself over which is my favorite feature film of his.  Ultimately I feel I would pick Mulholland Drive but I’ll damned if Lost Highway isn’t perfect in just about every way.  Even its imperfections are perfect!  Such is the nature of wisdom.

I must admit, my fond feelings of Lost Highway may stem from my original memory of seeing it in an old dollar theatre back in that sweltering summer of 97’.  I was dating a Mexican waitress named Yolanda at the time though I affectionately called her Yolis.  We met one morning after I began frequenting Richard’s Diner which was a greasy spoon near the bridge as it approaches the southern district.  She would serve me damn good cups of piping hot coffee as well as plates of artery clogging bacon, undercooked eggs and flat cakes lathered in syrup and butter. 

Greater than Richard’s food however was the generousness of Yolis’s hips.  I used to order extra helpings of cholesterol laden food and scalding bitter coffee just so I could catch her radiant smile and the oceanic sway of her mammoth buttocks which were always crammed deliciously into a pair of stretched-to-the-max black pants (with white pin stripes which had the appearance of latitude lines on a hemisphere as they rounded her gargantuan rump).  When she spoke her accent was thick and captivating and she would frequently laugh at my terrible jokes and place a loving hand on my shoulder.  It was not long before I was completely under her spell and we began a courtship. 

To my delight I found that on the days she was not wearing the pants she opted instead for a classy black skirt which clung ever lovingly to her massive derriere as well as black reinforced heel-and-toe pantyhose with simple black leather high heels.  At the end of a long day catering to the slobbering masses she would return to her small but elegantly decorated apartment and find me eagerly waiting like a dog.  She would promptly demand a foot massage and order me on my knees while she relaxed in a posh chair she’d purchased years ago from a now retired craftsman.  

She would slowly remove her leather high heels, letting one teeter in a rather precarious and exciting fashion at the end of her pantyhose clad toes before it fell to the floor with an audible thud.  In between moments of my loving massage she would use my face as her personal footrest while laughing and berating me, telling me in Spanish how pathetic and useless I was.  The combination of the greasy fumes of Richard’s Diner combined with the natural pheromones ever present in the sweat and oils of her wonderful feet and those two rich ingredients mixed with the denier and material composition of the hosiery resulted in a glorious aromatic delight; perfume of the gods and it made my body run hot with desire as it destroyed my mind and shattered my senses.  I was a willing slave. 

Subsequent to the massage we would engage in several dominant practices for her relaxation and my degradation.  It was often difficult for me to respond during these as many times I could scarcely breathe due to the glorious pressure being applied to my chest, neck and face.  Instead I would listen intently while she would regale me with sordid tales from her previous life in Mexico as well as her aspirations for the future.  It was specifically during these times she recounted to me her great love of German director Wim Wenders as well as her love for Lynch – specifically the films Eraserhead, Blue Velvet and Wild at Heart.  When we saw the trailer for Lost Highway we knew we could not survive without viewing it on the big screen. 

Sitting in a the steamy theatre with Yolis and viewing Lynch’s surreal masterpiece in a lovely 35mm print is one of my fondest memories.  The film would forever haunt and enthrall us and I know we’ve both watched it countless times since then on VHS and then digital video disc.  We walked the town afterward and went for alcoholic drinks, discussing the film, the nature of reality and what it truly means to be human.  She’d worn fishnet stockings and eventually used them to gag me while subjecting me to all manner of sweet humiliating punishment.  I cry simply thinking about these wonderful times.  Yolis eventually returned to Mexico as that was where her heart truly resided though we have remained close friends since and frequently engage in telephonic and computer based communication. 

I recently purchased martial arts master Donnie Yen’s latest film Kung Fu Killer and put it on the ol’ blu ray player while eating some leftover sushi and drinking a bottle of mineral water.  I fell asleep soon after but it was not the movie’s fault as it seemed quite interesting.  I was simply very tired.  Being a miserable failure really takes it out of a guy. 

I go to the airport cafe every night

I woke up this morning and felt like my soul was somehow leaving me.  Does that actually mean anything?  I had a strange, erotic dream about you the other night.  I almost forgot it entirely upon awakening but I was able to focus and recall enough that it now will always be with me. Of course I feel guilty about it.  How could I not?  But I always remember that real life moment of unparalleled intimacy and basso profondo.  His father ran the prison.  

I also woke up this morning to find the newest and first lengthy theatrical trailer for the upcoming James Bond flick Spectre to be watchable online.  Consequently, I proceeded to watch this.  Now, I am not nearly as massive a Bond fan and some of my close friends – particularly the oft mentioned Calvin Black who is essentially an encyclopedia of Bond lore – but I do enjoy many aspects of the series and have a fair few of the films in my cinema collection.  Despite my paucity of expertise I still noticed a few quaint callbacks that should excite most 007 enthusiasts such as Bond sporting his Goldfinger white dinner jacket (complete with red flower accoutrement), some very similar musical moments from John Barry’s score to On Her Majesty’s Secret Service and of course the very presence of Spectre itself.  I’m sure there are others but I am too degenerate to notice.  As for the movie itself, I am excited but skeptical.  I may be in the minority by Skyfall stripped a lot of the joy out of the series for me and portrayed a grayer, more placid Bond with whom I couldn’t quite connect.  But it likes there will be a lot of gee whiz slammin’ spy bangin’ action so I’m there!  Also, I am still madly in love with Monica Bellucci and have been since the cursed day of my birth.  How I wish I could come to her rescue in some Bond like fashion though any such attempt on my part would almost certainly result in our brutal and untimely deaths.  And truth be told, what I truly wish is that she would come to my rescue in a Lady Bond like fashion. 

My desires are immoral and rooted in a version of you which likely does not exist.  But you could know my mind.  Finally.  You could know it in a way no one else could and you would be able help me in a way no one else can.  To be held by your strong arms and to then feel your touch on my face.  And to know that your eyes desire my own gaze.  And for dinner afterward?  I know you would handle that as well.  Divinely. 

I’ve been neglecting you and I can no longer feel your embrace.  I imagine myself dying in the snow and I wonder if you would be there in the final moments.  It has been so long and when I close my eyes I can no longer see your face.  I do not know how your voice would sound.  I beg you not to go away. 

A woman against a red backdrop holding a baby in her arms.  The sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard.  No more technology.  Nothing more beside this living rain.  Something in you.  I see her in the park and life passes from one to another.  After you there is only this wall of stone.  We are covered in black oil.  Their initials are in the sand and soon the tide will carry them out to sea.  And at some point after that they will never speak to each other again. 

Such unparalleled desire for scissors.  How does she seem?  So friendly, so kind and caring.  And yet capable of such wonderfully cruel and evil acts. 

I recently purchased Luc Besson’s 2014 flick Lucy on blu ray and I’ve watched it 2 nights in a row.  It is a stupid but fantastic film.  It is honestly difficult to put into words how much I love this movie.  I don’t know if I will ever re-analyze my favorite movies of 2014 list but this and Nightcrawler should have been on there some-fucking-where.  That was my mistake; mine alone and I will have to live with that for the rest of my life. 

My love for Spanish actress Aitana Sanchez-Gijon cannot be overestimated.

I grew up at the very tail end of the cold war and recall with numbing clarity living under the threat of nuclear devastation.  To this day I still practice curling up under a table with my hands on top of my head. 

You love communism?  I was drinking from a glacier today.  “Meanwhile, back at the wrench”.  He was about to bash me over the head with a crowbar.  Rubber duckie.  We’re all just piecing ourselves together. 

Into the late hours of the night will I be reading Operation: Paperclip?  I think that is possible.

I first heard the terror as a child when it spoke to me through my little blue cassette tape player.  Instead of offering comfort my parents opted to mock me and make matters worse.  It was impossible to confide in them and in many ways they were equally nightmarish as the thing itself.  Memories can be awful, disgusting things.

I recently went to the multiplex and watched Terminator Genisys.  This reminded me that I still need to purchase The Definitive Edition 1984 remaster of Brad Fiedel’s soundtrack to the original Terminator.  Maybe one day I’ll have the intestinal fortitude to finally do what needs to be done.  But I doubt it. 

Why bother questioning why certain things are allowed?  We would not have it any other way. 

I understand, truly.  On my knees in the snow with my hands in the air, I understood.  It is preferable not to run anymore if I know you will no longer be chasing me.  Maybe my actions are petty and I am a child.  I just wanted you to know, for always.   

My only solace these days comes in the form of an affectionate prostitute.  Perhaps one day she’ll go too and far and I’ll “accidentally” forget to say the safe word (or be unable due to the massive amounts of pressure being applied to my neck) and the police will subsequently find my lifeless body, my manhood poking out of my rent trousers in a death erection. 

My favorite color is clear. 

I need a raised couch, things like this.  Is there a donation place around?  Was I bit unfair to Joseph?  It’s very possible.  At the very least I have never given Shane his proper due.  I watched it again recently and the angry man was right: it does indeed look fantastic. 

I started this miserable day off by listening to David Bowie’s 2013 disc The Next Day.  I remember the release date well as I took time off work to hitchhike down to ye ol’ conglomerate that I might purchase a copy with a few federal reserve notes which were nestled tightly in my lovely faux kangaroo leather wallet.  In a bizarre twist of fate I also purchased the then most recent Tomb Raider video game for the Playstation Part 3.  It’s been years since I’ve played that game (though it is quite good) but The Next Day has become a regular fixture of my worthless life and likely one of the main reasons I haven’t yet succumbed to the ever tempting and mathematically accurate equation of 1 bottle of wine + 1 bottle of sleeping pills = 1 sweet release.  The moment I knew I knew I knew. 

“Not yet.  But they will be when they find out who I am,” was my answer to her question. 

The "plus" stands for bathroom fixtures

We live in a fallen world.  I have written these words before.  She said them first.  While the sun burned me alive.  When I woke up this morning I once again begged forgiveness. 

I’m ready for a beefier Batman, perhaps a more physically capable Batman.  I am slowly warming up to B. Affleck as B. Man.  The recent comic-con trailer released over the weekend warmed me up even more.  Hopefully by the time March 2016 rears its ugly head and I’m watching the feature film on the big screen I’ll be bursting into flames due to all the warmth I have! 

Overall though I am in a much more lighthearted mood this fine morning and I suspect this entry shall have even less to say than normal.  I suppose there is actually a lot to be quite happy about, isn’t there?  Sometimes things seem so serious but that is almost never the truth.  Upon closer examination you can see quite clearly see the tragic humor.  I was going to purchase the first season of Farscape on blu ray but then I watched a little trailer for it and saw how many alien species – done mostly with practical FX it seems – populate the show and I became worried it may be too frightening for a man as susceptible to these fears as yours truly.  Still, maybe I’ll bite the bullet and chance it.  It’s a worth taking the motherfucking chance, isn’t it? 

I brought an album by Savina Yannatou and an album by Ana Gabriel with me today.  But this music is so lovely and puts me in such a vulnerable state I don’t think I’ll be able to listen to it until the sun begins to go down.  I was listening to The Who earlier and now it’s How to Destroy Angels, specifically the song Ice Age, which always puts me at peace.

I’ve been watching the movie Jurassic Park 3 a great deal these past few weeks – both on blu ray and when it has been on a cable television channel.  It is very much a B movie but I dare say a good B movie.  I love a good B movie. Though I have always been surprised at how different Laura Dern looks from the first to the third in the series; I believe it was only a decade or so between flicks.  Maybe I’ll watch it again while ruminating over my failed and burdensome life! I’m the last of my breed.  Though this sounds much more hip and tragic when said by Sam Neill (swoon)’s character Alan Grant because he is a cool cat and I am not. 

I’ve been washing my clothes with a lot of Suavitel lately because it makes them smell like teddy bears and love.  I’ve been thinking of buying a Stetson and wearing it ironically.  I say ironically because I don’t have the overall look or style for this type of headwear despite my fondness for them.  However I fear any attempts at irony may just result in me looking like an even bigger ass than normal.  But would that be such a bad thing?  For practical purposes it would be nice to have something to keep the grueling and merciless sun out of my way and prevent my large fivehead from being burned every time I step outside.  Chime off below to let me know if you would like to see me in a Stetson and how this change in my fashion may affect your life!

It was the grisly winter of 2014 and I was with White man when I purchased Funkadelic’s 3 disc opus First You Gotta Shake the Gate.  Like so many of the greats it has rewarded patience and repeated listens by revealing a staggering amount of rich and compelling music.  It’s been a go-to album of mine for a while now – weirdly combining well with 2013’s Hesitation Marks by Nine Inch Nails (also an album that only grew better with time – and I’m intrigued as to where it shall take me in the future). 

A female Brazilian body builder was upset that he was not following her instructions.  She pointed to her wondrously thick and powerfully muscled thighs and said in a commanding voice that if he would not listen to her, he would listen to these.  She then proceeded to put him in various strangleholds and headscissors (standard and reverse).  What glory! 

I’ve been listening to Sonic Youth a fair amount lately, specifically the albums Goo and Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star.  They help me to be a bit more productive though I’ve no idea why.  I think I’ll read Kim Gordon’s book. 

I was originally going to be a chimpanzee standing in the long grass.  Some of this may still be visible.  Now there are slabs of meat rotting behind me.  I kind of like this one though. 

It’s coming up on 15 years but A Day Without Rain by Enya is still a beautiful album, still one of my favorites and still makes me feel like I am with you. 

My capacity to feel certain things has greatly diminished over the years.  Katie.  It feels good to write your name and to say it out loud.  The news that Iron Maiden is releasing a double album in September made me squeal in girlish glee! How I love Maiden!  Bruce Dickinson is a top 10 singer for me.  I saw them a couple years ago on their Seventh Son of a Seventh Son album tour and I’ve been contemplating serious self-harm these past few days because I can’t find this damn fine album and I’ve been desperately wanting to listen to it. 

All she did was smile and bring me a damn good cup of coffee but that’s all it took.  A deadly obsession takes hold. 

I fell asleep last night thinking of an elegant and very well read vampire.  I was delighted to find she is also a fan of Jean-Michel Basquiat. 

Necromance at the roller rink? 

I think I’ll throw Batman Returns on the ol’ blu ray player tonight.  It’s been at least a week since I’ve watched it and I’d like to reacquaint myself with some of the finer details. 

Thank you God for everything. 

Segue

A dear friend called me a slave to the night.  

My dreams prepared for me a drink made of fear and desire.  I drank it down and imagined myself dying a thousand times in a thousand different ways that I may meet you again and for the first time over and over. 

I feel love and desperation so strong in the morning. I beg for everything. 

And at night I drift off and I know you are there and I am coveting. 

Can there be gender without sexuality?  All the days of my life.  What are we taught and what grows inside of us?  Soaking the pages and traveling through conversations and that one particular pronoun is repeated over and over.  And our beliefs are formed without effort. 

My imaginings always include long waves of black.  What am I ascribing to this wondrous everything?  When was the first time I truly felt you?  But this smile. It looks so much like her smile I must feel guilty about that. 

How desire that shame.  And my eagerness for obedience.  I want to live in service of the Queen? You speak in words I do not understand and your voice is beautiful. 

We live in a fallen world.  And I want to turn to her.  I want to be enveloped by grace and drown inside.  

Baby, I've been

Marina (not the one you think) is a glorious new inspiration.  At the same time she exposes how fiercely ignorant and worthless I truly am.  Strangely, last night I dreamed of Marina (this time the very one you think).  Or was it really her?  I was confused in the dream and confused upon waking and even now I am not sure.  Things were painted in broad strokes of teal and violet. 

Paperbacks used to guide me to new thoughts but now the pages and my brain are similarly empty.  I think a group of penguins is eagerly waiting to be fed.  I'm going to read a book on an ancient Indian philosophy soon.  I prick you.    

Lately I’ve been listening a lot to David Bowie’s 1997 album Earthling. What a fascinating piece of work!  I adore the idea of unexpectedly loving your new touring band so much that once the tour is over you immediately set about recording an album in order to capture that fresh and raw energy.  I also love the use of Jungle and Drum n’ Bass sounds.  I just fucking love the album, that’s all!  Mad props to you Bowie! 1. Outside and Earthling.  I can live inside these albums and I am home.  Maybe I can die there as well.  

I’m listening to the 1997 album Donde Estan Los Ladrones? by Shakira right now.  Track 4 is titled No Creo and maintains its status as one of my all time faves since my initial listen so many years ago.  Oddly, it is now reminding me of a woman who I have not thought about in nearly as many years.  They are pleasant thoughts, if a tad bittersweet.  Part of me wonders is the tinge of sadness I feel is not so much related to her as it is to the ever dawning realization of my diminished capacity to feel things in quite the same way as before.  Ah, the beautiful way I live without.  Please don't ever leave me.  

The doors of perception were open to me for just a bit last night.  I loved you so much.  Thoughts were already turned toward the future.  Why am I already writing my four last songs?  I guess it is oddly fitting it should begin on a Sunday. 

 I have an image of you where the sky is growing dim and your hair is being swept back in the wind.  The ocean is before us and I have never seen you so calm and your peace is mine.  It is like I’m watching from an old movie reel; it is grainy, the colors not as vibrant but in an instant it focuses on your smiling face and it could not be more perfect. 

 How can I not worry?  Every day there is some new and awful thing with which to contend.  Is someone just counting down the ways until something turns truly fierce? 

 It is complacent sometimes and in general it is far more calm than I ever expected.  It is raining outside and I can hear the sound of it on my window.  That color and sound is its closest approximation and in that sense it is unexpectedly lovely.

Sometimes there is a wall of ice and it is unbreakable.  Its creation happens in an instant; one moment there is nothing and the next it is there and it rises higher than either of us can make out. 

 Have I been shown the proper way?  It looks like it is all there.  He has such strong desires to submit.  How horrible are his thoughts?  Are they only creating a path to hell?   

 I feel your love so strong in the moments of fragility.  The figure of a woman.  Am I wrong?  Am I only a sinner and nothing more?  I do not recall the first time I knew you. 

 Others ignore or laugh or do not care.  And I imagine.  Is it the same thing?  Can I really say I am any better?  In all likelihood I am worse because my certainty does nothing to diminish my capacity and desire to do wrong. 

 What will happen when it is gone?  Where will you go and what will you be turned into?  The world will continue because the world does not care. 

Sorry (1)

I want to say I’m sorry. 

To you when the John Leguizamo movie Cronicas was on and we laid together and watched and you said you felt such a connection and I confessed to not feeling this and you cried and left. 

To my father for not making an effort during the holiday.  He would never say so but I am sure it bothered him on some level.

Back when I was part of a part of a quasi political ethnic based college group I was somehow in charge of the quarterly newsletter.  That first time I was so spirited and put in a great effort and the end result was a rich and passion-filled periodical.  However my enthusiasm eventually waned and my cynicism won over and eventually what was printed was nothing worth celebrating.  This was my fault. And to young Omar who was so integral to that group.  I inwardly mocked your passion and militant stance.  Was I perhaps afraid because you had so clearly found your purpose and I was still desperate for one?  Either way, I was ignorant. 

That time after everything was over and we went to a dance hall and I let petty annoyances override any sense of decency and you felt – maybe for the first dreadful time – so much anger and spite inside of me.  My apologies were real but understandably sounded so hollow.  And I am sorrow that afterward I was never able to find you again. And sorry that I did not look harder. 

I am a child so full of hate and I want to hurt because it is all I can do and I rejected that small box brought home from the store.  I hoped it hurt.  But I am sorry.  

I’m sorry for those recommendations.  Sometimes I think it was right and other times I’m not sure.  I assumed something and based on my then lack of experience it may have been the wrong choice.  I honestly don’t know.  But it frequently crosses my mind. 

I’m sorry for constantly disobeying and disappointing.  Is my passion and love only real on Monday mornings?  Ah, but then it is nothing more than an ugly self-serving thing.  And what of my desire to see you?  And the way I imagine you look as I am held in the palm of your hand.  I think I need to apologize for that as well.