Let me Hold your hand

the sun is the angriest god ever.
Now I know why
boys wear skirts
and white head coverings here.
I haven't figured out why girls wear black.

هناك واحد النبي ، واسمه م.كان لا يملك وجها.
هناك حقيقة واحدة ،ادعى م للتعرف عليها.م كان غير صحيح.ليس هناك سوى حقيقة واحدة ،الشمس لا يكرهوننا..

(there is one prophet, his name is m. 
he does not have a face.

there is one truth,
m claimed to know it.
m was incorrect.
there is only one truth,
the sun does not hate us.)

I know how heat addles the brain,
and so I know how angry the religions of the sun are.
There is nowhere to hide from this burning love.
There is nowhere to run from celestial judgement.
Hell is hot.
That's not weird.

Here are truths that we can't understand:
Failure
Death
Envy


This is how YOU understand them:
Sin
Ressurection
Redemtpion

This is how I understand them:
I don't.

But when I hold your hand,
or if you hold mine,
I can eat this world:
There will be no more sins.
There will be no more mornings.
There will be no more sons.
There will be no more prophets.
 
And there will be no more gods.

InSh'Allah

I wasted my allotment of tears when I was young

Today, someone I used to love contacted me.  This is what she said:

If I could take back the bad things, I would. It must have taken a lot to contact me that last time, and all I did was slap you in the face. For that, I'm sorry. It came to mind recently, and I took a good look at it. I've wanted to apologize since.

I cared for you very much, and apparently care a bit still, enough to put this out there. If I don't, it will sit in my heart as unfinished business, and I'm clearing up all unfinished business, time to let it all go. You probably won't even read this, but I will be content not knowing, either way. You were wonderful (...most of the time), and I'm really glad we crossed paths, even though it ended badly.

I wish you the best.
That's the last you'll hear from me, I won't intrude again, promise. Take care Timothy.

There are so few people who call me Timothy.

When I was young, I had a parakeet.  His name was Jack.

Jack wasn't very nice.  In fact, he was mean.  I loved Jack.  I fed him, I cleaned his cage, I petted him, and I wanted him to love me.  He was miserable.  Everytime I put my hand into his cage, he pecked me.  He sulked and he died.  I cried when Jack died.  I didn't cry when Patches (the first dog I remember) died, I didn't cry when my family had to give Sterling (the second dog I remember) away, and I didn't cry when Rosie (the best dog ever) died.  I cried when Jack died because I wanted him to love me.

My first girlfriend's name was Christine Payette.  We met at Cortland Summer Bible Camp, where we were both counselors.  She couldn't throw a frisbee worth a damn, and had no idea that the Perseids meteor shower happened in August. 

After we started dating, and after she made me wash my "fire shirt," I found out that her father had died when she was younger, that her mother was semi-catatonic and that her brother Arthur was breaking everything of her father's that he could find.  I thought I could fix her.  I thought that I could save her. What a jerk.




In Stephen Erickson's fantasy cycle, A Tale of The Malazan Book of the Fallen (of which there are 9 published and 1 forthcoming), he has a recurring role for certain worshipers of the disparate gods in his pantheon called Shield Anvil.  The Shield Anvil takes on the mortal pain of those whom he loves as well as those he despises.  Before having a name for what I was doing, I was trying to be a Shield Anvil.  Because I wanted to take on, and fix, the pain of those people/things I love.
 

my jaw is broken and my teeth are crooked
and every word i speak is malformed
syllables hunching like vultures which only eat themselves
but i bleed ink when i think of you
you asked me to say something to prove myself
i washed dishes instead
because my fingers can better display
the nimble fairies of my heart
than my choked throat
which can do nothing more than breathe
i would take it all back
every action and every word and every little thing
if you would agree to love me again
or, if you haven't loved me up until now,
if you would agree to start.

I'm going to stop being a sucker. (Language is inappropirate for those under 17)

When we think about problems, normally we are conditioned to think about a grizzly bear or a zombie attack.  I normally think about those "worst case" scenarios.  What's worse than being mauled by a grizzly, or brain-eaten by a zombie?

Not much, really.  Unless you happen to take the enlightened view of how we actually work.  Evolutionary theory (which I pretty much subscribe to...minus some flaws) would have us say that we are simply eating, fucking and shitting machines.  Barely better than monkeys.

I contend there is something much, much different about the human animal.  The difference is not simply the use of tools, nor of planning for the future, nor of something as simple and universal (well beyond carbon-based life forms) as fear.

We, and by "we" I mean "I", can lie to ourselves.  I think that is really what makes us different.  Not that I can lie to you, because there are so many studies already done about how animals lie to each other, but because I can lie to myself.  That lie takes many forms:  I can be different, I am hidden, and (the worst one) someone loves me.

The sad, ultimate truth is that nobody really loves anybody else.  Our history and our minds deny us that gift.  I love people because of who they are in relation to me.  Not because they draw a breath.  I don't care about breathers.  I love the ones I do because they better me.  Or because I can better them.  It's all very solipsistic.  Without me, who would love you?

Unfortunately, the actual answer is:  somebody else would.  And, more often than not, that somebody will love you better than I ever could.  And, unfortunately, someone else could love me better than you do.

There is a reason I read novels and not philosophy/theology/history.  Because I am willing to understand that I want to be fed lies.  Lies which are beautiful slabs of bacon wrapped in eggs and cheese.  They will kill me, my novels.  But they will never feed me hope.  Because I know that their words are like broken test-tubes that drive themselves deeper into the only thing I have left.  But they are so beautiful.

This is exactly what makes me different from dolphins, ravens, orangutans, and possibly you.  I will accept that pain as a price of beauty. But I will no longer believe something or someone who pretends to have a truth, but does the same things as my lying authors do to me.  Beauty has no reason, it just is; truth must justify itself. A better writer than I will ever be once said "Truth is beauty and beauty truth."  That's a lie. 
They are disparate and desperate enemies.





I have lived in more places, have traveled more miles, and known more people than I care to remember.  But one thing is finally wedging its way into my heart:  I'm just tired.  I have failed myself.  But we all have failed ourselves.  I have failed you.  But we all fail the people we know.  I am just tired of you failing me.