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XbunnyX
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Birthday: 1/3/1983
Gender: Male
Interests: shoegaze: Slowdive, Lull, M83, My Bloody Valentine, Velvet Cacoon. literature. dear Jesus. black metal. postrock. beautiful friends. Rhone wines: grenache. French existentialism. finding a couch for my sad apartment. people who love God the way I should. cooking.
Expertise: literature. thinking about things. adoring music that doesn't go anywhere.
Occupation: Student
Message: message me
Member Since:
5/5/2003
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| friends, friends, how did we get to this place? I only wish I could hold you all again. I wish I could collect the pieces of myself as if they existed in the first place. This is how I begin this entry, but it's not at all indicative of how I've been feeling lately. Well, it partially is. But I come to this place, to this journal, and I find myself crushed under the weight of years of sadness and melancholy and loss. Just coming to this place makes me feel the years of wanting and pain. Oh, I wish I could undo this pain. Or resolve it. I know I can and have been, but also I know no such thing is really possible for me. God weaves all things together, and only his peace is even somewhat lasting. But I miss the cloud of loves and friends, and yet I don't think I can be whole in my love of you, whole in my past and present and future, until something happens that qualifies it. I'm deeply lonely, and it's nothing that anyone I know can fix. Maybe it doesn't need to be fixed.
I think when I come here I feel the emptiness of presences absent, of ghosts, and this makes me feel worse. I wish I knew where you were, friends. Where are you? Where am I? Mostly I don't know. Alone in Kansas City.
I've been writing more on another site (this place: http://wordorgy.wordpress.com), and the tone is different. So if you ever look at this and want to read things I write more often, I'd love for you to, and that's a place where you'd do it.
This place makes me feel sad tonight. Sometimes I feel like I have failed as a man, but I know these aren't God's thoughts.
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| My tan sweater with brown wooden buttons feels warm pulled across my chest. On my arms, it holds me deeply. My black coffee moves slightly inside my brown cup, throwing the light around from the lamp. Inside, my cup is all pink. As I type, I'm ensconced in sacrament, waiting for the caffeine to manifest its divine unction, prodding my brain to life. I'll write until I feel its effects take me, and when I do, I'll go work on my term paper. I think we'll all know when the coffee kicks in; maybe my writing will come to life as well, smirking like a sprite, dancing around your computer screen in lithe fairy fashion. Call me the man with thistle-down hair.
I feel so many things, and I can never tell them. I can never live freely, clearly. Thoughts leave the wombs of the mind and heart, become phantoms, haunt the world in the lives of others. What can be honesty then? What of clear being? I feel that nowhere can I ever really say completely all that I feel and think. Who is hiding behind the desk? Who is hiding around the corner? Is it my parents? Are they listening in? Yes, perhaps. What of their spies? Relatives, acquaintances of theirs who can go running all the way home to tell just how fallen little Jonathan truly is. Spies holding secrets deep beneath the folds of their cloaks, waiting to pass their revelations along. Or ex-girlfriends? Or friends waiting to hear my true thoughts? My only real thoughts? Or what about my deep secrets, those tomes filed away in my heart, their entries written in my own deep red clotted blood? If I recite these incantations over the bonfire whose flames make the forms of demons appear in their shadows, will you listen to them? Will you hold yourself up with the stout heart of a man? A woman with the strength of solitary wisdom? Will you gird your heart and let my arcane recitations change you? Chasten your awkwardly stumbling lives? Consider my thoughts as invaluable secrets, holding them deep in your soul's chest?
Or maybe you'll look sidelong at me, fix me in the corner of your eyes, nod, say you understand, narrow your eyes in feigned interest, in pretended concurrence, and then run full speed to the lair of the wolves, whisper my secrets to the assassins with their silver blades and cloaked faces. Maybe you will all conspire together. Maybe you'll have an intervention, armed as you all are with privileged information. And then I'll sit down with you all, smile and listen, conciliate myself to the general populace of family and church, convince the deacons and the cousins to put away their noosed ropes. I'll repaint it all so your weapons are worthless, so your steel knives change, you look down, your knives are only wax, and then we'll all have a smile and a hug. But all the while I'll be cutting off my heart from you all. You'll have my love, but you'll find the doors to the most interesting corridors of my heart have been locked and padlocked, chained, boarded, and cemented over. Now you can stay in my waiting room, all chatting lively together, thinking you know very well my house and my home, but you're only allowed in the receiving room whose privilege it is to entertain strangers, while there are yet thousands of halls that stretch deeply beneath the earth. While you all chat blithely, cheerfully, pithily, I'll secretly lead those who share my blood into the rooms I most cherish, far away from the prying eyes of well-acquainted strangers who pretend to dance the dance of Intimates.
Don't worry, strangers. You never really wanted to know these things. When I was forcing myself to carry the bone-crushing boulder of existence up the mountain, refusing for myself the fate of Sisyphus, you wanted to stay on your couches of passivity, of animal decay, and when you thirsted, you came to me to lick the sweat that poured from my brow instead of helping me bear the load.
And now when I tell you the secrets that are learned only by having enough faith in God to look deep into the churning bowels of Hell, you look sidelong at me, you go tell my mommy, you pray empty prayers for my soul.
How can I tell my thoughts to those who chose to stay on the docks instead of diving headlong into the waters of chaos? | | |
| A toast to friends. Let's sit by the hearth, warm fire beating in the fireplace. A glass of brandy for me, one for you, and the silence of love. It's been so long since we last laid together in friendship. grad school. dissolving of boundaries, hinderences. renewal. a bouquet of flowers for everyone I love. I wish I could gather you all into one place. | | |
| Yes, I'm leaving in just a moment to make love to the road once more. Really, I think we two lovers should go away together for a while, but that will have to come after July I suppose. Moving, playing a show, going to the G.o.S., going to Cornerstone (if I can swing the dollahz), etc. Then maybe I can lose myself for a while. I need to go journeying, and you can't come with me. Not that you would. You. Infamous you, I suppose.
Good, good. I need to sort out my thoughts extensively to process my new discoveries about God. I look forward to the hours alone.
p.s. I think I would make a good columnist. | | |
| Three Ds, you ask? Yes! It was fortune and whimsy, and I bow low, low for my king Oberon. Broad green fairy leaves hang and swing with magic outside my window, and you know that soon they will grow into my house and then (from there) into my body and then (if I'm lucky) into my soul? Oh, yes, God takes root if you let him. Of course, you have to say goodbye to some things, but things are only things, and desires are only small desires, and when you see the real Desires you know that the things you wanted before were only illusions. And after you see that all your desires are illusions, they no longer look so real and so compelling and so difficult to resist, and they resemble 2D cardboard cutouts more than anything else. And all that gold treasure, all that pirate chest bounty is really just a mass of dull plastic coins.
The world, yes, YES, it's a game, and the whole of humanity has been tricked into playing it, but some people are waking up. And social interactions, all those language games, they're falling apart at least a little bit so that we can get at each other more deeply. And if my mind opens up, and your mind opens up, and we connect and see what the other sees, well, then we've really got something there... | | |
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