Normal things made dirty

"Can I have some almond milk?"
"Of course. You can have as much of my nut milk as you want. Straight from the tap"

I have no idea where this came from

She had slender legs, like a swan.

But not a swan's legs, no, her legs were like the swan's neck, soft white, supple, rounding and swelling as the neck met the body and the legs met the butt.   She had green eye shadow, deftly applied, and her lids drooped indolently.  She was thin.   Ballet dancers are often unhealthily thin.  Ballet teachers are often unhealthily cold bitches.  The two go together.  You can expect a cold bitch ballet teacher to say to one of her girls, "you're getting kind of fat there.  I think soon you'll barely fit into your leotard."  And you can expect the impressionable ballet girls to take the comment like an arrow to there heart, embedded for years, festering and radiating out in all aspects of their life.  Ballet is an art for people who hate themselves.

But people who hate themselves are an easy target for other people who want things from them.

Brusequa was one such man-boy. He wanted pussy. Not literally.  Certainly he wanted to insert his prick into some female reproductive anatomy, but beyond that, he wanted the manly conquest of doing so, the status, the power, the smug sense of self worth that came from having stories about women submitting to him, letting him, begging him to give it to them.   Brusequa was, is, not a sympathetic character then, but to someone who had not been introduced to him via this open and truthful portrayal, he would be seen as clean, pleasant, and agreeable.  He had good manners.   He had a handsome body marred only by a too long neck that was an asset to the ballet and a too big nose that was a punishment by his author.  Something to keep him from looking to good, being to self-confident.

Don't think this made him appear humble, no, it made him present himself as even more prideful.  But it was just a tad bit of an act.  Not totally believed, for who could love that gargantuan nose.

Needless to say, he got the ladies he sook with his entry into the world of ballet. Men are always in short supply, so he could be a prima donna much of the time.  And being around all those women, so insecure about their pudgy, bloated waists that were almost as wide around as there wrists.  Oh la la.

"Francqua, Francqua, you must be joking. Oh girl, you are a silly creature."

"Oh, Brusqua, don't taunt me so.  I'm serious.  I'm practicing my part."

"It can't be.   Look at that frolicking.   You look perfectly ridiculous."

"Oh don't say such a thing.  Here, let me show you."

And the delicate creature proceeded to dance for smug Brusequa.

[writers note: what the shit is this? I'm so fucking tired. I just wanted to write something today. but ...must...sleep. faaaiilling.

sleep]

Her beauty poisons my soul

Her beauty poisons my soul.

Her art impregnates me and now I'm giving birth.

something in me is ripped. Not broken, but torn and hanging askew. It has to to do with women. It has to do with me.

Hatred born of impotence, the kind that drives people to arson.

Despair born of failure and more failure at an age that was too young to realize anything else was possible. Continued into the future by the holding in of emotion, untasted, building pressure, killing me.

I am sad, and tired, but my jaw is set. The dead bodies of shattered hopes bleed around me and I step over them on my path forward. I do not believe in lasting peace. Not with my heart, because it has only known the kind which was quickly fleeting. But my mind understands: it is possible. Perhaps likely.

And both head and heart understand that there is no real option aside from forward.

I am in a desert: I may not make it out before I die, but its more likely than if I just sit, or go in circules.

Half the reason for my single minded determination is my hatred for all that wants to slow me down. The darkness, ignorance, addictions, distractions, doubt, depression. I'm too pissed off at them to let them win. I'd rather die trying to kick there asses.

fuckers.

I'm very sad these days. Grieving something. Something I've lost, something that's been taken and I don't even know what it is yet because part of the loss was the loss of awareness of what it was.

It feels good to be that sad. Like it feels good to be pissed off. That bile that's built up inside of me, not allowed to release. A stuck pressure valve, finally exploding, gushing, gradually returning to normal as the pressure equalizes.

I am hopeful for the future. The 90 year old man in me sees what is happening and nods approvingly. He understands what is happening, he recognizes healing when it is happening, and he is unafraid of strong emotions, of other peoples opinions.

He knows he is right.

But the boy in me is sad scared frustrated and despairing. He cannot see any possibility of escape from his loneliness and self loathing.

And the warrior marches on.

bullshit affirmation feel-good rainbows and butterflies shooting out my ass like a machine gun

Me: I give myself infinite dynamic right action.

Me2: no I fucking don't. you goddanm lier. you don't give yourself that at all. I give that to you and I've decided not to give it to you, because your a douche.

Me: fuck you. why am I a douche?

Me2: because you... are. You're always yelling at me, calling me names, telling me I'm not doing good enough.

Me: sorry.

Me2: no you're not. your just trying another method of getting me off of my ass so you can get me to do what you want me to do. pure manipulation. carrot methedology.

Me: ok. fuck. what's wrong with that? it hurts, when you're not doing your job.

Me2: you made me not do my job. you're the one.

Me: how?!

Me2: you told me to shove it. so I shoved it. right up your ass. now you've got dynamical constipation. blockage of the action channels.

Me: what do I do about this?

Me2: I don't know, I'm just a gate keeper, not a technician.

ok... HE WHO KNOWS: what do I do?

ME WHO KNOWS: to fix this?

Me: yeah.

MHK: don't fix this.

Me: ah shitfuck, not you too.

MHK: no, it's just... there's so much pain. you need to deal with that first. just like an emotional person woun't listen to advice until they're emotions have been delt with: they feel heard, or whatever there needs are, are met.

Me: so find out what You and Him need.

Crazy-Old-Man-Zen-Master-Time

some zen koans I accidentally made up:

"Who's hand is up your ass?"
(think puppets)

"Reality is bigger than you think."
(think alternate meanings.)