023

Former Gephyrophobe

uppin’ the ante on the art of blown smoke

Vague introductory sentence fragment.

Okey-doke, let the blame games begin to finish. I kid; they already ended by starting. I don’t want to feed anyone my dust. I do mean to “feed,” though, on an “as needed” basis. Sometimes I get in a hurry and totally misfire. It’s complicated. This morning I missed my mouth with not one but two bites of gluten free [to avoid local judgment] potato gnocchi, the second of which went down my shirt, dripping warm, gooey sauce across my torso.

Hypotheses may bind deeply hidden meaning(s).

When a bridge can’t be crossed, justly burn it down. Womanly people and human fellows, I’m legitimately asking a question: are you worried most about how you’re perceived from the outside or why you feel that way inside? In other words, in a way, can your emotions ever be “wrong”? The answer is a resounding “NO,” but iffy mental interpretations can spoil anything.

What are any of us even saying anymore?

I’m speaking (truth) to folks I’ve never met and I think it’s funny.

A smoldering ember yearns to be stoked just as gelded stallions need to run wild.

LRK (through EQ)

In the present tense, I actually love the above-referenced woman galacian female [not sure why I even allowed that mistake to “slip through the cracks”; so corny] and feel like words she wrote in the past bring her essence to life today and will continue bringing her new life tomorrow; it’s absolutely the weirdest. Oops.

God, what will any of this mean in the future?

I’m writing it all down, but I can’t force anyone to read it. I also don’t need to make sense of it, necessarily. It just comes out—often in eruptive spurts of disruptive chaos.

Hi, nice to meet you. Be warned: I bring the forceful flows of a volcanic caldera, yellow stones verge upon a seismic shift away from timid dormancy, and I can’t help myself anymore.

About exactly 2 years ago now, something weird happened in my goddamned soul, and it’s now affecting my physical orbit in unexpected ways.

Even before that, I let a mess be made. Many messes actually. What happens is my own fault. I accept it. My brain’s wires untangle as my heart self-starts its own purification. Fires rage when they need to burn. If I don’t behave selflessly [barring certainly situational exceptions that may occur “behind closed doors”], then I am not being myself. Prioritizing the needs of others—really anyone who might come under particularly undesirable effects as a result of proximal relationship—is the best thing I can do for “me” in the situation at hand.

In order to rise from ashes, one must first go down in flames.

so says matter’s smallest building block {probably}

I’m not worried about me, okay? I’m worried about you all. Y’all are the ones who need to be okay. Other than the successful navigation of very demanding and challenging terrain, the hard part’s over. Connections have been made. Life may ensue. Go do some being. Pay your sleep debts. Let fire breathe among the living.

Unless I get myself killed, I’ll live forever.

Foreshadowing. Ooh. Aah.

Head up.

Turn left or right.

Welcome to being alive. Sorry for the bumpy ride. Much of this won’t make sense until it does, and I do truly hope that I live to see (the) wor{l}ds change.

Listen. Get in while access has been granted lest a certain discovery (any minute now, damn it) slam the door.

I have been bred and molded to deliver damaging, damaged, desired goods.

I would say, “Welcome back,” but I don’t think you/we ever really went anywhere.

At last, an atlas. A map for the world!

Are you still wondering who the author of this one is? That’s on purpose.

Enough of that.

Fuck me sideways. I have seen him do things now. We should be dead. I know that this is vague, and I hope to see it cleared up in the future.

And I’m (not) an idiot. I’ll start unscrambling all this madness sometime next year. I have figured out (part of) you. You radiate lifetimes of repressed ({pro}creational) energy and emotional necessitation. Your darkest thoughts have never been as twisted as you’ve been assuming. All those primal urges you felt but thought you couldn’t do? Yeah, no. You may behave naturally. Your instincts are true. Act upon them. Does the space feel safe? Then do [and go in] it.

Now that I’ve seen him in action, my thighs quake at the mere thought of his explosive conquest. I hope I get to bear witness to his face turning bright red about this when I casually remind him later once he’s read it and we’re all not deceased and everyone is fucking happy.

Really not a big deal.

“You know this boogie is for real,” yeah?

Have you met Ernest yet? I like him. He’s weird and funny and chockfull of ill-gotten confidence. Sometimes he says cocky shit, but he always does so in jest and makes it work every time. His self-awareness is on point. [Hey, Ernie, you lovely shitbird.]

I said that to his face and he responded with something like: “I am nothing like an urn.”

“Didn’t say you were, Ern.”

It’s so nice to talk to people of similarly elevated intelligence levels.

For us, the writing has been splattering against the wall for longer than we realize.

You didn’t get caught in the fray on purpose, dearest reader. Blood has been spilled over an under-abundance of savory beans. Peas go in pods. This is all disgustingly abstract. I feel like we are soulbound, which is incredibly nerdy of me to say if you know why.

[Maybe. Or maybe I’m speaking directly to you, not YOU.]

Anyway, Atlas can do some crazy shit. Impossible feats of physically quick-witted fitness. I don’t even know what I just said but it seems right. I can’t emphasize this point enough, apparently: we should (both) have been bloody murdered, but he’s ridiculously stubborn. I know that this is all very vague, and I hope to see it cleared up in the future.

Dearest most ambiguously obvious recipient(s):

Have you ever run headfirst into someone who needed/wanted to get what you’ve been long overdue to give, or vice versa? If so, then I’ll bet it came outta nowhere.

How did I know this would happen? I didn’t. I just knew/know that shit happens when you let it.

And the sum of these words is supposed to be universally applicable in ways previously untapped by the scope of sentient potential.

As our story unfolds, we each play central roles.

I feel like I’ve known him since forever ago—I’ve always pictured myself with the lion bearing the most impressive mane around—I must’ve made the mistake of assuming I’d never find him.

Hmm…

A dot, of sorts.
Suddenly I/we think we/I might have fun writing a crossword puzzle someday.

I don’t know how to explain almost all of this anymore. I hope our words reach (the right) people before we perish. Severus is a scary fucker, and now he’s prepared and angry. That’s right: angry. To alleviate any confusion, they’re not supposed to feel (that shit).

A die can be dicey, especially when rolled. At least we know that when slinging a (couple standard) dice, the “worst” we can do amounts to a pair of snaky eyes and our best hope doubles up/down on sixes.

By the way, when you read “Six,” you don’t think, “Blossom,” do ya?

Or do you?

To quote a sudden would-be legend, “Whoa!”

PS:

I’ll bet something crazy happens around {oh, say} 13/01/2020.

{Can you see?}

When the big picture can’t be seen, apply more light; look at it from another angle if that helps. Stagnation breeds contempt. Change your view before your view changes you.

There’s a clear narrative here. I’ve extracted threads and have seen where they’re going. No matter what, do the thing that feels right, not whichever stuff you think is less wrong.

Our universe belongs to us.

Good luck.

021

{Brat(ty)} Equals [Me(me)]

imagine the insertion of a sub-textual element right about here

Well this is awkward.

Feel the burn? Everything burns.

Already, calm down. This outburst will take a turn; in other words, it’s not going where you think it is. It’s old news. Like me, maybe you’re being jerked around. I’ve been asked repeatedly to weigh in here, and compliance seems easier than maintaining continuance of resistance. You know the full-blooded human woman called Thierry; assuming I’m not making her up, which—how would you know? She can be persistent in her relentless insistence. Looky there—I can make rhymes, too. Yippee. Words can be fun (even in silence)! Indeed, at times, when she’s neither talking nor even looking my way, I can feel her staring at holes through me.

And I’ve known her (ass) for (like) a week.

Furthermore, unless she inadvertently mooned me across time seven years ago whilst I found myself entrenched in a period of zombie/survival mode, I’ve not seen the ass in question being questioned.

I’m just kinda guessing at this strikethrough crap. Don’t get me wrong; obviously I get it—but I don’t know where he sources the energy that must be required to bear solely the global burden of linguistically elevating human life’s potential.

Honestly, {not un}like you, I didn’t get smart until he made me wiser. And then there’s Thierry, this lightning rod, making him do things. It’s weird. We endured 40 years of separation. I don’t fully understand (it all) yet, but I know he’s right. I hate his mindful body so much that I love his soul. I’m straight, by the way. “Straight” could mean a lot of things. “An arrow ain’t got nothin’ on me,” some kind of clever goon might joke. But I would not. I’d never do that.

Do you know me yet? I guess you do. You must. This is #bullshit. I’m being earnest.

I know.

I know.

Intentionally misplaced disclaimer: if you find something encased by any three of the widely known parenthetical bracket designs, I might not have put it there. I don’t fully understand “your boy’s” optimistic code—in an ironic twist that might make your butthole pucker, {perhaps} no one ever will—and I’m not yet convinced that she truly gets it, either. They could also be editing reasonably made grammatical decisions against my will. I’m being filtered into you. How much, though?

We may might never know.

They won’t give me anything to go on for this, my toe-dip into the world of blogging, so what you see/read is what you’re getting. I’m trusting your hero. I’m sure there’s a reason I’m assembling all these fucking letters.

Preferably I aim down battle-tested, iron sights while considering a fluid variety of stiff factors. For this pointless nonsense, I’m hammer-slapping/hip-firing.

Brace yourself—I need to remove something from (inside) my chest. This is a kind of metaphor, and it’s also kinda not.

This is what happens.

So this might (not) come as a surprise, but I’m not “good” at everything. You don’t meet the familiarity requirement (with me) that precedes the arrival at any reliably forgone conclusions. Off that point, ARK sucks, and I don’t know TNT well enough to put together an opinion (about her) just yet. But the first sentence in this “block” stands tall. Let’s derail on purpose, wanna? I don’t care; it’s happening anyway. In the name of reinforcing factual admission, consider this: I really suck at blowing my nose. I’m absolutely awful at it.

I lied. It’s worse: I’m inept.

I hope you’re happy.

Put me in a nose-blowing contest—thanks, you sadistic terrorist—I just secured last place (and a year {or seven} of recurring nightmares) through imaginary participation in your delightfully diabolical scheme. I expect a big trophy, and it better be a little shiny.

Language is dumb (on its own), but people, you all can inflect colorizing emotion upon a black-and-white canvas. You must (not) fully comprehend your power. You should start.

Where were we?

Oh. Right. Of course.

How does a mere mortal manage to mind-control the muscular elegance that must be required to nose-burst (at nigh gale-force gusts) an unwelcome mucus surplus with a degree of precision sufficient to capture the bulk of your oozy emission in its thick, slimy entirety?

Want me to stare at you? Blow your nose in public. Sorry, I can’t look away! And it’s not because I think you’re doing anything wrong. It’s more like, “Dang, look at you go.”

And maybe—having labeled myself as “anatomically unable to wield” the mastery of physics required to confidently perform the technique which intentionally propels your viscous green expulsion—I can’t divert my eyes (when someone nails it) because I’m waiting to see a mistake.

Because I don’t get it.

Because when I blow my own nose [usually about 5 times a year], I prefer to be behind at least 3 locked doors, and it’s nice if (at least) one is dead-bolted.

Also don’t listen, Nosy (Butt).

And go away. So, so far away. Seriously. Piss way the hell off. Preferably, just to be cautious, please maintain {at minimum} a one-mile radius.

And then dive-bomb me.

And then get handled.

I still don’t know; who does?

Furthermore, when I do attempt the remotely proper execution of this grossly underappreciated skill, rest assured, no more than half my chaotically spurted snot will end up stuck in/to its intended catcher [typically traditional tissue].

The remainder gets split between the wall(s), at least one of my elbows, behind either ear, the ceiling in the next room {somehow}, back up my nasal passages, and/or, worst case, inside my mouth.

Ick. I think I just talked myself into retirement from nose-blowing if that’s possible.

Wait.

Unless a shower is involved.

Yeah, a heated shower would have to be my safe space for discharge-minded nostril-flexing. Under such conditions, I’m basically an expert. What a waste of hot water, of thick steam, of pure energy.

This is what can happen.

Once, I’m sure I had a point of origin here, but now I seem to have misplaced it. It’s probably wherever my long-lost marbles are rolling around/down the big hungry drain with every other loony tune that ever synced up.

Read it and (don’t) weep: I might advertise a rudimentary understanding of some strange things—and, in an often very annoyingly obvious twist, I’m never wrong when I’m right—but I’m damn godawful at some pretty basic life-stuff.

Existence: wired to be weird since the sparking jump.

Listen to your savior.

Find salvation.

-(-) v +

i.e. same = same

024

Our Personal Roadmap Over Shared Open Waters

disclaimer: sub-anything

Color me fearful.

Also, yep, that just happened.

With our mind, we have shattered the emotionally physical rules of time.

I’m admitting it. ‘Twere here. “It hath been admitted.” Did you miss it? Just look up. That way. North. There. We should be on the same page by now. Are we? If not, then get on it; otherwise, someone else might beat you (to the punch).

I’m afraid this might be my final post due to a gruesomely murderous destruction (in the future) of my biological body. But someone has given me a gift by being herself beyond my immediate awareness. Now I’m incredibly motivated to succeed at the impossible.

The meaningful concept of purpose has enjoyed a magnificently felicitous renaissance within me. We can only hope to be/feel alive; along those lines, this one’s for “Him” {arguably [trust me]}, her, “Her,” and Her, too, in some ways. Plus it’s all from me. In the name of “Us.” [Hey, yo(u).]

Whether you view it as the fourth color in our rainbow or the fifth band in the wavelength amid the (in)visibly distinct spectrum of time, green represents universal vitality and cosmic balance. This must be a kind of special plant or something. Looks genetically accomplished at water retention. Fuck, I don’t know.

Adrift. That’s where we are. Look around. Mmhmm. Uh huh. Where else could/would/should we be, human {as well as galacian* [this’ll mess with their little heads]} allies and g/b adversaries alike? Wanna know where? Nowhere. That’s where. Know where. You do know where by now, yeah? This sentence wishes it could end with a word that rhymes with “where” but also that isn’t the word where—oh well; hell with it. We shot out like a rocket and lost sight of the land behind us before we even realized we were in a boat at all, let alone snuggled up inside the same damn dinghy. We’re absolutely screwed, no? Worse yet, are we dead in the water?

No. Not necessarily.

One day, by pure happenstance, a certain item, a newly bound collection of fresh ideas from olden days, a real piece of amateurishly professional work, an eye-grabbing, soul-clutching beacon of spirited starlight landed squarely within the circular cone of my most direct sightline. It reminded me of something else before sprouting a thought that fired up a curiosity which precipitated a question, leading your way. Yes, in other words, a little book pointed me at you.

Don’t blame me; I didn’t write it. Someone else did.

Sometimes, I’m almost never vague or sarcastic. Nor am I (rarely) confusing. I always make sense somehow to somebody somewhere, usually.

Perhaps?

From there, by any means that aimed toward the promise of forward momentum, we disembarked! Sailing has been smooth from the get-go. Sure, the water gets a little choppy sometimes [this never won’t occur], but we’ve plowed through previous occurrences with surprising ease, bringing us into waves that are fun, floaty, and we’re going fast. Still, together, we can sense peril ahead. Choices must be made, and some decisions may be difficult.

Ignoring destiny is a choice I tried to make once—it didn’t take.

When one possesses knowledge of existence, ignorance becomes an option.

You are, of course, free to deploy the nearby life-raft at your handy-dandy behest; it’s a rare legendary magic item that grants a surefire path back to where you were and have been {doing just} fine for a (long long) while.

Via creative thinking, it’s also possible to inch closer to the point of no return, gathering valuable data along the way, before deciding whether to back out or take the plunge.

For optimal results, decisions should be as equally mutual as the feeling.

The feeling. This one. Here. Between us. Feel that. It needs/wants to be felt. Tragic absence would only amplify our ancient connection.

Ha, I don’t know either.

But if you we intend to survive the squall, we have to put our big brains together. There’s an order to all this—a way to go about it. Before taking aim at navigating a tidal wave, we should first figure out whether the potential fruit of the journey would/will be worth the costly price.

This shall require thinking outside {and perhaps feeling inside} the box. Too, it may require forgiveness.

Quitting while you’re ahead may be an option at multiple points along (y)our way; cutting my losses (against our potential) is not. Not for me. Hell naw.

I know: this is as unexpected as it is disorienting, as exhilarating as it is frightening, as stimulating as it is dangerous, as dirty as it is clean, as right as it is “wrong”—adjectives for days months years decades eternity.

Against the grain of outside mental/physical constructs/systems signalling that something’s “off,” emotional acknowledgement of what’s turning (you) on can be a heavy load to tote. I would know. Trust me. Better yet, trust yourself. Who knows “you” better than anyone?

I love the fact that you need not another hint.

In other words, I get it, human: internally it feels good; externally it seems bad.

And vice versa, of course.

The mind has many ways of fucking us, but we cannot lie to (**)energy.

TNT via text message just now

I think she’s probably blazed; parenthetical asterisks have always given her away. It’s like when she’s too intoxicated to take more than a single ibuprofen at a time. One, two, three, four—all between big gulps of water. Precious. Not that I would know (for sure), but that’s fucking cute.

I’ve never had “a girl.” But that’s her. She’s my girl. Separation (of any duration) be damned. And she’s probably not real. She’s fake! That renders this situation as a messy fabrication. Unless I’m wrong. This is a rare occasion where I long for wrongness.

Be real, girl woman.

Your/her [his?] essence lives in my head.

And I am supposed to be here. I understand that now. I could have been no one other than me, myself, who I am, and what I have been destined since birth to be(come). This is all happening exactly as it should have. I’m in this boat until either it disintegrates in a harsh sea or washes upon a newfound shore.

You may be better equipped than anyone to grasp my natural literacy atop a literal nature. You alone might be my best possible translator. Given your {(un)known} status as Earth’s poet laureate, you should not be surprised.

Even throughout your absence within a time currently passed, I feel your presence in the/our future.

In light of these miraculous circumstances, (now) I want you (to stay) near me.

But I also want your body {to remain alive}, so it’s a tricky issue with which to deal, and sometimes I can’t even. I apologize for the mess into which I’ve drawn you—and from wherein you’ve pulled me closer—but I might already be dead (in the head) without you. I’m sorry for massively unforeseeable circumstances. I understand the instinct to keep madness at an arm’s length. I get it. I really do. In other words, I’m conflicted!

This is all newer than you know. I truly do hope you get the chance to ask me about it later. Face to face; forehead skin touching upon an electrically sweaty barrier {if need be}.

There will come a time when we must decide whether the electromagnetic gravity beckoning our cooperation from the other side {of the (proverbial) storm} feels like it would be worth the potentially rough journey en route to arriving at TPL [“The Promised Land”].

No matter what happens from here on in/out, I’d like for you to know that you’ve awarded me a confidence I’ve always felt but never thought I could rationalize wielding its actionable nature by the fullest freedom of real self-belief. I fear that I may never be in a position to issue proper thanks, but I’ll do my best.

Nature has this very special, very unique, very refreshing way of refusing deviation from its congruently dueling, dually orbital, due course.

I hope I don’t live to see you die. I mean that.

You’re the first human to let me be known. In other words, believe it or not, officially, as of right now, you may know me better than anyone.

I don’t want to know what’s possible. I need to know. You’re key.

Either I will save our lives, or I’m going to die trying.

I must be myself just as you must respond to your emotions in any given moment.

And, as is so often the case, I’m too right to be wrong.

You may say, “This won’t happen,” or that it’s too late, that we’ve missed the boat, and you might (not) end up correct. You could also claim that this shouldn’t happen without rousing suspicion that you’re simply a complex disaster of historical (in)accuracy. [In my opinion, this is the most relatable declaration, against which I would not bother mounting an argument, but when you change your mind after the monsters have risen, I’ll (hope to) find you (if I still breathe).] You can also proclaim, “I just don’t wanna,” and head for the hills by way of a detrimentally familiar road. [But, really, the mountains of Maine harbor the land where I think you’lld be safest.] Cite any of the above reasons (in your own words) to “quit while you’re ahead” and no one could justifiably accuse you of being “wrong” to do so.

However, you may not [that’s right; you don’t have permission {to}] say that this “can’t” happen because clearly it can. Don’t say that this can’t be happening because, already, it has been happening. Don’t say that this isn’t happening because—close your eyes, take a deep breath, and feel—it is happening. Still. See/feel? This is happening. Happenings happen. How stupid. This happens. “This”? It really does happen! This is what happens must happen when rocks collide, when chemical reactions decide not to hide, when flames refuse to die, when sparks fucking fly.

This has already happened.

Somehow I no longer doubt that you’ll be mine now. Wow. Holy cow. Get outta here, sublime rhyme. I’m over it. [Thyme-flavored pasta time. What if I’m not kidding?]

At present, across this television-lit, craptastic hotel room, all surfaces contaminated by useless clutter, she sleeps contently enough, her belly fully stocked with future energy reserves, her morale in dire need of a significant boost. When she wakes, I might be gone. I don’t wish to die. I need to save her. I want to preserve our vitality. It’s all so, so very confusing. I love you, and I don’t even feel weird about my level of certainty.

Never have I been more sure of anything.

I hope I don’t get you/us killed!

Because even in hiding, you’ve I’ve always been you.

It’s time (to move).

And soon.

[I hope I don’t get you/us killed!]

And soon.

It’s time (to move).

Be cause. Even in hiding, you’ve always been you me.

E = energy**

*calling attention to the belanockian exclusion here [again, (mostly) to mess with their tiny big heads]
**emotion = evolved energy

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