The US and my father's wedding, as per Danny's request.

I came back to the US for my father's wedding.  You know, the wedding that made me feel like I could no longer feel my fingers.  This has been an emotional tsunami (thanks, Skeletor, for the everlasting inside joke) for my sister and me.  Well, more for my sister than for me.  Because I'm not so much with the "emotions" or "expression."

The last time I was here, February, my father didn't talk to me.  At all.  This time was no different. I would like to say his reaction was my fault (you know, because I like to blame myself for a lot of things), but it wasn't. His reaction was simply an extension of his personality. Roger has made it impossible for me to relate to him. There are so many similarities between the two of us: I have 7 books on my bedside, and one in my bed; I feel guilty for things I can't control; I will always take care of those I care about, if they need it; I'm selfish; I'm really scared.

However, I'm quite different, in that I'm completely available to an entirely different clientele.  I will always be there for my sister, but never for some "former church member."  I have one, very small family.  That family resides in my head and in my heart.  That family has proven itself to me, in weird, incomprehensible ways. If you don't know who you are, you wouldn't be reading this.

I believe that our baselessness reveals our divinity, and not the other way around; I think the best times I can ever have are with friends at a bar, on a Sunday afternoon, watching football and drinking too much; my personality can no longer be changed based on those whom I'm surrounded by; and the most important difference: No one has relevance to my life unless I allow it. 

The Beauty of Upstate...really Upstate...NY:

I can't speak of hijabs and kenduras, the burkha or the sharia law...because I can't understand it well enough to explain it to you.  I can only speak of deserts and hatred.  If you knew what I thought of a simple raindrop, or of an oak leaf fluttering to the ground, or how sorry I was that someone cried when I left...

Can you struggle with something you know isn't there?

Angels.  Numbers.  Someone else's approval?

Can you abdicate?

Your title.  Your relationship. Your failure?

Can you bother?

A new nephew. A slight tax burden.  A foreign girlfriend?

Can you be forgiven?

For faults.  For insensitivity.  For fear?

Can you love?

Yes.

But I want forgiveness first.

When I rode the horse, I was thinner.

I would beat a dog, if I could get just get that needle ...
I would never miss anyone I have ever loved if I could get that needle...
I would eat a baby if I could get that needle...

Just a...  I don't even want that...  What about a sniff?  What about being in the same room?  What about knowing someone who knows someone...?
I would snort your tears through a straw if I could just get that needle...

This night is one of the worst nights ever.

Some nights, I'm 100% sure I can't go on.  Those nights, surprisingly, aren't the worst ones for me.  I always know that after some slick knife-play, my wrist veins are inviolate.  I don't have the strength to saw through them.  I have only ever found the strength to puncture other veins, as if I had diabetes (but without the insulin problem) or as if I had finally found the tattoo I've always wanted.     

Just a sniff of it.

I don't even want it.  I just want to see someone else have it...

Pilar emailed me today.  The abortion went well.  Meaning Pilar didn't die.  Unlike the thing inside.  That has been successfully killed. Sorry, kiddo.

I don't even need to see it personally.  Just a picture of someone else enjoying it would do.

Actually, a picture of someone looking at a picture of someone else doing it would be sufficient.

I don't want it. 

I don't want to have that sense of needing something every hour.  Oh...I already have that.  How about this:  I'm stronger than loving something that doesn't care about me.  Yeah, I like that.  Here's what I have to say to the white face of this thing I want, the unknowable face of some god, the stoic face of tomorrow.  I am not owned.  I am not yours.  I have been in the throes of your grace, but I have never been yours.

I have a cigarette, I have a drink, and I have a wild dream of living forever.  But I am not, and will not be, yours.  Ever.

I am mine.