it has been a while since my last posting. well, this is not really for my nonexistent readership as it is to chronicle the slow and strange changes that occur within me over time...

currently, i feel as though i am in a bad place. there are a few enormous stressors in my life, such that i feel i don't get enough sleep, and yet, i can never get enough done. i feel like a body of flesh that is meant to suffer between moments of respite; an unfortunate locus of -whatever- that is where blame and trouble tend to be drawn towards...

i envy those with a regularity in their lives, those who can sleep and who have interests that they are allowed to follow. they are real, integrated people, who have a space for themselves. i find that i am little more than disconnected snapshots, a life passed through a shredder, and the bits and pieces i find in the dumpster are what i try to put together to find an identity.

i envy those for whom life is a continual move towards bigger and better things. for me, the simple things still offend...

i love, i love, i love. love is that wonderful pull towards some other greater whole. my children, my wife, those whom i spend so little and diminishing time with, they are everything to me. the peaceful home we have established. and yet, i feel an alien to them at times, they are walled off from me and my unrelenting concerns... the stresses of life are sometimes blows to my chest and abdomen, and make my smiles with those i love seem forced, hollow, coughing.

i long to sleep. i long to forget for a time, just long enough to return renewed. but sleep comes rarely, and too shallow to allow me to drown and resurrect.

i pray to god in abject moments. i no longer forget him/her, because calamities occur in every blind moment. i feel suspended by a faith that does not offer respite, but continually stretches me to each successive challenge.

friends? do i really have any? someday, i will die, and leave people the task i left unfinished, to assemble some fiction of a self, and a narrative of a life, all dissatisfactory. they will wonder what to say. they will wonder what was missing now that i was gone, or, more precisely, what used to be present. i still often wonder what it is, who it is, that is present with each passing day: a certain reluctance, an inevitable tumble into the fray. that is all i really am, that is all i will ever really be?

hey.

allow me to articulate a problem (one that i have referred to ad nauseum). what if, deep in your heart, there was a vicious and relentless hatred of who you were and who you are. as a result of this hatred, everything and anything you did and everything and anything you tried to become had at its heart the motivation to somehow escape or alleviate or change the mind of this hatred. but because this hatred was not specific, it was impossible to convince it of anything.

there were ways to temporarily escape or alleviate this hatred. if you did something new and exciting, or went somewhere new and exciting, or met someone new and exciting, then, for a time, you seemed to lose that hatred, or it lost you, and, for a time, things would be innocent and happy. but inevitably, something bad would happen, or, for that matter, nothing bad would happen at all; it didn't matter, because no matter what, you would find yourself in the same place again, confronted and dogged by this relentless hatred.

sometimes you would find reason to believe that the hatred actually came from outside of yourself, from other people, perhaps. and perhaps you were right, that other people did dislike, or actively hate you (although more often than not, it was more that you were "below the radar" and "beneath contempt"). that still didn't change the fact that that external hatred was merely a patina, a superimposition, of a more fundamental hatred.

as a result of this hatred, it was difficult for you to have a clear and positive sense of self. everything you were and are, after all, was motivated by the need to somehow escape that hatred. there was very little that you actually understood to be you, or by extension, yours. if anything, your one desire was for rest, for an end to the chase, for a measure of peace...

i am writing using a rhetorical "you", because i think it COULD be you, although, for all intents and purposes, it is me.

it is always only me.

***

there have been people that i have loved, and loved deeply (loved more than life itself), but for a person who hates himself, what does that mean? it only means, perhaps, that one loves the world relatively more than the impossible-to-love self. and that, even in moments of great sacrifice, is probably not authentic love...

i have made mistakes, and proved myself inauthentic time and again. and i have said sorry, and tried to prove how sorry i was, by destroying myself time and again. and the world has picked up the pieces, and found a temporary place and use for me, so that it could pretend that i belonged time and again. but it always happens that that place vomits me up again, over and over and over. this tumbling awkward existence, this relentless exiling.

***

sentiment is a glue made of tears.

it is intended to pretend emotion, life, and a soul, when the person who hates himself is always confronted by the deadweight reality that he has none of these things.

***

redirect!!!

marsilanichronicles.blogspot.com

this morning, i had a dream that i was riding a yellow motorbike to work. i was kinda late. i recall passing the jack-in-the-box in pearl city, and then parking at some auto mechanic shop. for some reason, i got distracted, and, next thing i knew, my bike was gone. the mechanic shop turned into some old dilapidated house. i went into the house, which was filled with old broken screen windows, and peeled green painted walls. it was a haunted house. i remember at one point helping a pair of japanese girls carry a television out of the house. i was walking outside, and i was barefoot, carrying the tv. i had to stop, because i saw a dead cat in the moist ground, and it was surrounded by large pink maggots, "disco rice." i didn't want to get the maggots on me...

***

i want to feel human again.

people like myself don't need much. just a word of conversation, a recognition that you are a person, alive inside the cubicle of your assigned role. i don't want much more than that, but if i had that, i feel like i could survive. i feel as though, with that, i just might make it.

***

trichiasis

my son has an ingrown eyelash in his right eye. trichiasis, they call it. i sit beside him, urging him to stay still, as i fold the offending lashes with a moist q-tip, and then press a towel with ice on his swollen eye. i have considered pulling the lashes out, but the mere sight of sharp tweezer edges sends him in a panic, so i have opted for this quieter, gentler method. it is actually the way i would prefer, even though it requires more time and patience on both our parts.

meanwhile, the sky has been unstable, occasionally hooding us like a sweater, trapping the moisture until we gasp the thick air, and occasionally, with a strange mix of fright and relief, breaking open with grumbling cracks and letting fall the rain of reluctant but inevitable rage. under this background, i drift through the uneventful events of my life, emptying myself in my duties, holding secret plots for better tomorrows. on occasion, a lightning strike will pierce even my closed eyelids, and, like a strobe light or the flash of a camera, cut this moment out of time. something, i suspect, is trying to irritate a reaction in me. in the grumble and window-shaking thunder, it seeks to disturb.

but i keep my eyes closed, nose to the grindstone. i, after all, have opted for a quieter, gentler method. even though it requires time. and patience.

5:00

this morning, i had an odd dream... in the first segment (the first that i can remember), i was in some sort of garage, an open-air sort of garage, like the kind automechanics have. across the way, beyond some kind of accordion metal gate, was another garage, where some rock band was playing. there were a bunch of people in the garage i was in, and some of them were muttering complaints about how the band shouldn't be playing so loud, or something to that effect... in any case, i walked out of that plotline casually, in the way that you can only in dreams, and then found myself in another garage, only it was a personal garage, at someone's home. this garage was largely dominated by two large vehicles, sliced open to expose only the bottom half. i say they were vehicles, because they were in the garage, but in actuality, they were simply open rusty receptacles, with no identifiable parts, especially nowhere to sit, nowhere to drive, etc. i was talking to some filipino woman, a mother, and it seemed as though i were trying to convince her of something, perhaps sell her something. in any case, at one point, she mentioned something like, "what a work of art," and when i looked up to see what she was talking about, my eyes drifted over her two daughters, who just magically appeared out of nowhere. the daughters were naked, and i noticed, in my quick averting glance, that one was just pubescent, and both had intricate tattoos on their arms and upper back. when i turned back to the woman, i noticed that she too was naked. my eyes drifted over to the metal vehicles, and i discovered that in the empty shells, there was water, and varieties of fish swimming in different sections. i noticed in one section, there were large goldfish, with brilliant phosphorescent orange heads the size and texture of real oranges...

i reappeared in the old open air garage. this time, the rock star, the head guitarist of the band i had seen across the way, was walking into our garage. i recall wanting to say something to him, to say how cool i thought he was, but shyness and reticence prevented me. next thing i knew, this punky looking girl with short hair and short denim shorts patted the recliner next to her, inviting me to have a seat. i did so, and then she was all over me, mussing up my hair, pushing her small breasts into my face... "which do you like better, sitting on, or being sat on?" i was thoroughly confused, especially in the blur of sensations she was imposing upon me. "both?" i answered, confused. she laughed at that, and i thought for a moment how odd (though not impossible) it was for the male to "sit on" in sexual positions... "come on, it's multiple choice," she continued, "which position do you prefer?" at my hesitation, she said, "i hope, mr. teacher, that your answer's not none of the above." i laughed a bit at that, and came up with what i thought was a clever rejoinder: "yeah, i know how much you like to be on top."

all of a sudden, my hand drifted into view, and i wore upon it my wedding ring. i suddenly realized that there was someone else whom i was sworn to. "i- can't," i muttered sheepishly, gently pushing the girl away. "what?" she said, sounding betrayed. "why not?" "well, for one thing, this," i said, holding up my ringed finger...

and then i woke up...

***

i had a dim thought of inertia and momentum in dreams, and how in some dreams you are not so much a participant as an observer of actions long set into motion by some unseen hand, and in others, you are the center of the dream, turning it as you will. i thought about how the difference between one and the other is a matter of accretion, of accumulation, and perhaps a certain kind of blindness. sight, after all, is strangely but truly an inverse of power and volition. those who look before they leap perhaps never leap at all. and those who leap perhaps reach the other side precisely because they never saw it.

in whose memory do you live?

***

the ties to the past are often also what hold us upright. without their anchors, we are like a shapeless, purposeless piece of canvas, vulnerable to the wind and the elements...

***

the boy must unlock his heart. it tethers him to the bottom of the sea. he must swim into the deep and the darkness, against the nature of the life and buoyancy that almost bursts within him, and find a place to insert the key that was given him...

the boy loses his heart in the darkness. he found it too heavy to carry with him, and so it sits, silent, at the bottom of the sea. he learns that there is a secret way to carry a piece of his heart with him, so that he may pretend to be like the others, so that he can pretend to be human. the secret was hinted at in a book by island heritage press that he once read, even before he knew how to read. it was a story about how an old wise man captured the moon by digging a hole in the sand. the hole collected a puddle of seawater, and that puddle held the full reflection of the moon within it... and there was a second story, that of kaguya hime, or rather a portion of that tale. the tale of the second hopeless prince and suitor to the moon princess, he who had to steal a beggar's bowl from beneath the half-closed eyes of a buddhist statue. he failed... the kappa reiterates that the bowl is key. he holds a bowl upon his pate, and it is formed of pennies rusted together... a concatenated string of words and phrases...

e pluribus unum. out of many, one. copper. hemocyanin. blue-blooded... in god we trust...

if you can carry the moon in a bowl, then perhaps you can also hold your heart within it...

the boy learns (from the kappa) the secret of carrying your heart. and he learns the pride and vulnerability of the kappa, that one who carries his dreams in a brimful bowl can never ever bow down...

the third and last lesson of the boy has to do with this very quandary... how it becomes necessary to be an empty bowl... to lose everything to become something.

this is the truth, the full circle truth, of the poem: "the heart is like a stone, tacit and silent. cast it away."

***

i feel such sadness at the passing of things. such infinite sadness. the world is fading before my eyes. i will keep this understanding, this brimful bowl of tears, and continually empty it through humility and bowing, even as it is refilled continually by the tragic rain.

***