Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

A dialogue

Why do you have to be so unreasonably insane?
¿Por qué sos tan irrazonablemente desquiciado?

Porque intento quererte a pesar de todo
Because I try to love you amid everything

Amid what (¿)
A pesar de qué (?)

A pesar de mis pasiones, que nos vuelven locos.
Amid my passions, which drive us mad.

(Pregunto (Where are yours, huh?
I ask) ¿A dónde están las tuyas, eh?)

They don’t exist but in the midst of whatever you bring.
No existen más que en las tinieblas de lo que sea que traigas.

Quizá por eso te necesito; no escribiría si pudiera contártelo todo.
Maybe that’s why I need you; I wouldn’t be inspired to write
if I could tell you everything.

But why?

¿Por qué, qué?

Er… What did you say?

No, you wait.

I love you.

Yo tambi.én.
I haven’t discovered anything new: nobody matters permanently in one’s life. In the hopes that one will know when to dispense each person inhabiting your house, you treat them unevenly, or circumstances treat them unevenly. In turn, external factors (them, circumstances) behave in the same way. Not everyone is dismissed; some are lost, some are stolen, some simply disappear underground (I have seen some looming in the room I dare not address by name - the opposite of the attic). It is an art to know how to let people into the main door, walk them around, see what rooms they like, which ones you think suits them, and then invite them (or force them) to offer lodging (to hold hostage, he murmurs). For some time. A few chosen ones are allowed to wonder back and forth into different rooms, or even venture around the whole house (granted, an impossible quest) on their own.
Eventually, their stay is over welcomed. They sleep on your couch, walk their muddy shoes on the carpet, try to open a door that has been specifically (sometimes explicitly) forbidden to them. He sleeps a little bit too comfortably in your bed, she makes food that is too delicious, they treat everything that’s yours better than if it were their own. She helps to straighten your bedroom up, he gets rid of all the junk that has been nesting in the storage room.
Tired, defeated, or just plain bothered, you start closing doors.
Click. Toom-Ton. Bang.
(That son of a bitch was annoying.)
Your house is ultimately, unequivocally, unchangeably your own.
It is a compromise, a challenge, a pain, to negotiate it.
Enough. Silence!
I’ll be damned if I cannot set my own rules for my own house.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Halloween 2006, or my horses gone wild.

I wonder:

Why won't they just leave us alone.

Their hate,

It's heavy,

We feel the weight of their hate

And it's too heavy, man...

They want us dead

Or alive, to better torment us

This fact is unclear;

The motives behind the fact, plain unknown

(Or forgotten).

There is an aim, the aim IS clear:

To make us feel guilty for things we can't change

To provoke a response that will confirm what they though about us

In the first place, but was not there in the first place!

We want to be one

But they won't leave us alone.

The party,

It's ours,

We jig lifeblood 'til it's up, but

It's not worth our blood

My essence ain't style.

My essence ain't style.

Not a choice

Or a fad.

With an iron brand, I burn in your head:

We took up arms because you went up in arms *

You are the fags.

Their hate,

It's heavy,

We feel the weight of their hate

And it's heavy,

Too heavy and unjust, man.


* (Your kind has a strung history of devaluing difference)

If it speaks to you...