11.23.24 saturday

The unfairness of this

To me

Again a break through

this one ironic

harmony, harmonic

will there be

love after all of this?  

I don't think 

that is the reward.  

for me

I am just doing 

what the universe 

demands of me

demands of us

another realm opens

Another holiday season 

without you

without meaning

my work advances

eviscerates meaning

I know what you have

what i don't deserve

despite myself I want it

a fat man in bathtub with the blues

I understand it all too well

i was in the hot tub tonight

always alone

a gigantic owl haunted the yard

its cries were unearthly 

even for an owl

it made something primitive 

in me fear the unknown

and there is little enough

of that left to me

all the visceral evolution

that cries out for you

i wanted to get out

it was only for a minute

to drain some of the anxiety

of a very long day

another major advance

Harmony, harmonics

in a life with neither

you were harmony

broken is the music

another comic thought

alien communications

i sound insane to myself

but maybe not

what would they say

what are they saying

if it can work

the breakthrough

real, almost obvious 

in hindsight

like needing you

in hindsight

but before i could leave

a couple of calls

one to say things 

were moving forward

a never end road 

ending

the other to ask

how did things go

what am i supposed to do

when so much is going

forward, backwards

better, worse

and all that matters

is you who exists

only in hindsight

11.16.24 Saturday

 I solved the riddle of compression

as a form of resonance

which in turn 

allowed me to solve

the problem presented by small minds

I am truly the genius among mortal men

and yet we don't sleep together every night. 

 How does one explain that?

My model says we are characters

free will as much an illusion

as time

so being a genius

among mortal men

is just being selected

to read the words of the script

written by the math of the universe

who is written by what?

Charles d'Orlean

and of course it was Orlean

something old and something new

wrote these words 

Je suis desja d'amour tanné 

Ma tres doulce Valentinee

Written by a man

separated by prison from his love

I understand his words

I’m already wearied by love, 

my very sweet Valentine

I believe I have written something similar

or been given that part

before of the script

not weary of love

but exhausted of separation

11.9.24 saturday

 It is hard to say much about things in general.

 I will not say anything about politics. 

I don't sleep in the mornings

It has been a long time since I slept

at peace like you

Sometimes it is better, 

sometimes worse

Now it is worse

My days do not go by one mimicking the next.

There should be a rhythm to them, 

but it is a jazz rhythm

it appears chaotic 

though i know a pattern is hiding

if i can just see past the individual days

the noise, loneliness, longing

building to a crescendo

I like to think it ends with recognition

But i know that it ends in darkness

I will not get to see it

even if it is there

perhaps i will hear it

i like to think it ends with you,

i lie to myself 

to give it meaning 

it ends in death alone

perhaps death, alone

I thought about the multiple ways

that you can look at endothermic and exothermic

It woke me up

insisting I write it out

telling me

you can't sleep anyway

you can't hold her

nevermore

the darkness insists

write about fire and ice

The parallels with you, 

the heat, now the cold

intertwined only in our minds

Dancing away from each other

The math coming closer together

Even as we drift farther apart

the science becoming rhythmic

as we descend into chaos

11.2.24 Saturday

 Last night i woke up thinking about you. Then i thought about a deadline and decided to move up dealing with it this weekend so maybe I could sleep.  It's later now, so this whole thread is unstuck.  Everything below was written early and now the sun is setting, although not set for another hour I think.  I rode my bike, took a long backwards (from what I normally do coming back) route and took care of the problem that helped keep me up last night.  4-6 hours of sleep according to my watch.  It took less time that I feared dealing with the problem and I found two places out of 3 where it was pretty important.  I had cleaned my office inside and out and I did some additional cleaning, getting the paperwork organized and mostly off my desk which was nice and gives me a little breathing room with things.  Plus a lot of the vegetation that had taken over the deck is gone now and since they are going to take pictures for insurance, that is a good thing.  I may even go back tomorrow.  Anyway I rode home and it had gotten hot even though it is November, a global warming November.  I walked the dog almost as soon as I had ridden home so I was tired.  I'm still tired.

I saw something somewhere on not giving up on something that you think about every day.  The context is forgotten but when I read it and I think about it now, it seems to be about you more than anything else.  i think about eating every day, but it would not be the same type of thinking unless maybe I had not eaten for several days.  Even starving for a single day would only create a numbness which has long since been replaced with something esoteric and consuming.  Would, if I was starving, think only of the meals I had passed up?  I don't think that is the case.

It is 545am and I've been up long enough to drink coffee, to eat breakfast and to think for a long while on that deadline and you.

Yesterday I rode my bike to work in the morning, early but not absurdly early.  I had a pleasant call which cold develop into something.  I cleaned the office inside and out, at least out in the front, for the first time in a while, leaving it smelling of pine sol and bleach and raked leaves and earth.

After being home for a while, I began to get antsy again and even though I was tired I swam 1500 yards, the pool had actually gone up 2 degrees to 72 so it was not as uncomfortable as it had been yesterday when I swam a little less than 1500 yards.

What am I going to do?  I tell myself that if I could explain things it would be different.  I think that I should have explained things, that you would have understood.  Pah!  You very well might have understood, but you had pointed out a long time ago, there would always be something and so there is and so there was.  I tell my if I can just live till June 7, the day after d-day coincidentally, then there will be nothing else, and I believe it, but I cannot believe that you will wait, that you have waited, that there is any reason for you to wait.  I am trapped here, but I know that alternatives abound outside of the prisons I build for myself.  Even more so without you.  If I could just explain things.  As if there was someone to explain them to.  But that is so ridiculous, because words had become frustrating, you would probably be surprised at how much I was done with words, how much I am still done with them.  I knew what needed to happen.  There are reasons, good reasons.  Reasons you would understand.  Maybe. But the only difference then would be to know that if things were made right, I could eat every day and that is where the logic fails.  If it were an option, would I take it?  I tell myself it is your fault, always running away, never holding tight.  That it was the right thing for me because you could not be depended upon to cling to me.  Who cares?  When you are starving, the only thing that matters is the next meal, not what you will do when it is gone.

Offering you explanations helps me, and I tell myself I love you. I don't love myself.  I have made some bad decisions. It is hard to fathom some of them.  They brought me to right here, right now.  The things I believe are hard to believe.  They defy logic, they are called brilliant one day, preposterous the next.  But the only thing I really believe is that if I was with you, then everything else would not matter.

What could you have done, what could I have done?

https://youtu.be/ftpcloTDU5c?si=QaGnjVDjKiXPZMMp

7.15.23

 This morning it was tropical outside as it often is when the tradewinds of the gulf are blowing and the heat and humitidity find a balance with the breeze.  It made me want to to outside and sit on the viranda or harvest bananas or pinapples or coconuts.  And I wrote this in myhead to you as I often do where I can use all of the words including the magical and harmful words that are not always safe to use in real conversations and mail.

Even in my head to story is one of parallel worlds, a shared childhood separated by the thinnest vineer of distance and circumstance; the rarest of friendships would only come when we were welll set on another parallel path, separated by the inability to communicate over patterns that developed around us, the people who brought us together or forced us apart in equal measure.

I cannot know for certain if this is special or just that spell you cast over everyone around you.  I would like to thinkit was something unique to us, a confirmation of the lost opportunities; but that would diminsh you a little, would say that you cannot bring that to everyone and would glorify my part in it which is the least noble and most selfish part; although I try to make amends to the universe at large or at least our part of it, to bring some little comfort to the dried bones of those children we were never able to have together though I wanted so badly to burden you with them.

I am editing again today, something which has been demanding my attention for some time but which I could not get to.  I am also counting my time and it is not good although it could well change, with medicine, money and the mysery that is you, that was you, perhaps even the could be you; but I think time is running out.  So for the moment, there is the tropical paradize that may vanish when the sun comes up and the work which has to be done and will only vanish when my bones begin to dry out.

3.18.23

 I am parked in front of the Mississippi river.  Not now when you read this, but sometime in the past.

I was here early, of course.  I had no idea where to be or when, so i was early.

I had to go somewhere, to kill a little time.  I could have killed it anywhere, just as it could kill me anywhere were i not already dead, if not  now, then at some point which is certain to be certain.  

This was selfish of me, there were any number of places i coud have gone to this morning, any number of things that i could have done perhaps any number of people who i could be with although there was perhaps only one other and perhaps that option is an illusion.

Who have I not, at one point or another, offeneded.  Even at my best that is a talent which seems to be more sure than the others.

I did not start here, by the river with its tugs and barges and the current which is strong again, afte the drought.  The road dead ended on the far eastern side of the park so i got out to piss on an oak tree.  After all, i solved the space time continuum; i can relieve myself wherever i want on this side of eternity.

I also walked, 3000 steps almost; stretching my legs after the long drive.  I looked at the street names, knowing where each one leads, where all roads in my mind lead.  

I could taste the proimity.  I walked along feeling the heavy beating of my heart, a clock marking the time I have left, here, gone, here, gone.   it was cold so i wore a hat and gloves and it was shaded so the heat of the sun was absent.

I could feel it all around me, memories turned real by passion, time standing still as it can only do for one who understands it with all of its limitations and infinities and absolute endings.

I could taste you in the air. Here, gone, here, gone.

All an illusion, even the river and the tug struggling to dock right in front of me or the one pushing the barge.

3.16.23