When I Was Sick

A man named Anis Mojgani has a poem titled “when I was sick” I think. By I think, I mean I know he has a poem about a day when he was sick, but I only think the title is “when I was sick”. He is a writer, so conceivably the title may be much wittier or deeper or both. Things can be both witty and deep. I want to believe that. I want to believe that wit is not just the surface struck with a sledgehammer, resounding in little concentric ripples of cognizance out across the pond of our consciousness. I want to believe that wit can be deep and subtle also, less like skipping a rock or pounding a sledgehammer and more like…..fishing or something. Cast back the line and let it fly way down past our ears and our throats and into our chests…let it sometimes snag our hearts and dance playfully with us before the untamed beat wriggles away. I want to believe in wit like that. I don’t know why. Anyway, Anis got this poem, and the title is uncertain, and it’s about a day when he was sick. I wonder if he wrote that when he was actually sick. Cuz I’m sick today, and while I’ve been thinking a lot about a lot of things, I don’t think I could make anything an actual poem. I kinda wanna plagiarize some shit right now and slowly let my own words take over, like they did in that movie Finding Forester where Sean Connery is like this wannabe badass author and has this ridiculous line where he’s trying to mock a black person and it’s like “YOU’RE THE MAN NOW, DOG.” I remember laughing at that line when I first watched the movie, but the older I get, the more I just find it lame. Anyway, when I was sick the bed sheets opened up like portals to another world. I was just layin there in bed and alla sudden I felt my feet slip through into something I didn’t understand. Something deep inside of myself told me not to panic, that I was as safe as…something really safe. I closed my eyes and sent a mental postcard from the edge of consciousness, it said: dear mom, don’t please don‘t cry--I’ll be back soon.

I wonder what it might be like to live forever. Might you grow more intimate with silence while the world spins on, knowing that after all of this, it will just be you? What would you say to the people you love if you knew without a shadow of a doubt that none of them would be there to witness your death? That shit reminds me of The Fountain. Hugh Jackman was badass in that flick. Rachael Weiss was hot. My room is messy. I haven’t cleaned it since before Robyn and I broke up. That was over a year ago. Dude my computer just froze for like 3 minutes. Motherfucker. Really puttin a dent in my SOC time. Not that I have much to say today anyway. I went to work today and didn’t say 3 words to anyone. I basically sat for 8 hours and repeated the work I did last week. It was done wrong. I was given the wrong instructions. Surprise surprise! I think I am wearing out my welcome at that place. People are becoming exasperated and exasperated is only a stones throw from annoyed or upset. I’ve been there almost a full year. That shit is crazy. The years are going so fast. I have so little to show. 23 this year huh?--Finish school yet?--No?--oh, well--that’s ok…I’m sure you’re saving money right?--No?--………………..oh. Well, you’re probably spending a lot of time and money and energy on a girl then right?--Who’s the lucky lady?……….Oh, you’re still single too? Wow…what exactly do you do all day?……….Oh, you watch tv and eat takeout. I see.

like a silencer.

I want to stop telling people I love you. I love you only hurts them it seems. I don’t know why this is but I find it very profound and sad. I know they are heavy words. As heavy as two words can be but it seems like to love someone (in their head) heaves upon them some expectation to retain your love. Maybe this is not the case globally, and it is just in my experience. Be that as it may, my experiences concerning this have left me particularly scarred and have more than twisted my ideas concerning functional love. Functional love. That phrase sounds stupid but I know what I mean. Naturally I am referring to the non-dysfunctional type experienced by emotionally healthy people. Might anyone be emotionally healthy enough to love someone in a non-dysfunctional way?--Can the notion of love even be non dysfunctional?--I mean, people in love do downright stupid shit. I don’t know man. I just know that the people I love seem to be better off without my mentioning anything. So from now on I suppose that’s how it’ll be. And as for the poem bursting beneath my skin? Suppose it will have to find some new paradigm, some new release valve because the faucet of love has always been a leaky one for me. The pipes aren’t strong enough and there’s too much pressure and when that shit explodes everyone I know is left hurting. I just want them not to hurt. I love you only hurts. Only provides the tight-rope walker with gravity enough to weigh them down. Only provides enough wind to fuck the plate spinner over. We all come tumbling down. Things break. Things fall apart. I will love you like a silencer.

I think i'ma start usin this spot to post my daily 10 minute stream of consciousness.

here's one from today. 11/5/09:

Gogogogogogogogo. I don’t know why I’m still typing go. Just got home from work today. Sometimes I think I’d rather be dead. I want heaven to be like a movie theater. With infinite amounts of fucking popcorn and soda and buncha crunch. And on the screen is the real life movies of all the people you used to know when you were alive. And you get to see em in their private moments--crying at night or jerkin off to fetish porn--whatever the case may be. I would like to watch my boss in his quiet moments. I wonder if he has a wife. I wonder if he ever thought about a man and got an erection. This is making me seem way bitter and I’m losing track of the thread. I just wanna be there man. There with you while you live and love and hate. Let me be there while your experiences shape your worldview--I know my mother was raped. Some really sad part of me wishes I could see that. Not because I’m sick or disgusting or anything--but because if I could see it--I feel like I could understand her better. Maybe that’s what heaven is. All the understanding in the world encapsulated into a finite moment of some nevertime and neverspace and maybe we all get to experience it. I wonder what it must feel like for bigots and Nazis and assholes in general--who might die and be overwhelmed with all of this beautiful love and what might it mean to them then?--Would they wish they could start over?--I want to be there for that. Want to be there when the odometer clicks its way back to zero and we decide to drive somewhere else--in a new way. I guess that’s just the redemption junkie shootin up from somewhere inside my heart again. I can’t ever really stop him. Only keep him quiet while I do things like work. While I talk to people who don’t really understand me like I was just like them. A football fan and a fat kid who knows more restaurants than you.

Good Humor

she asks me why I still get up in the morning
like it was my choice
to not believe in God.
I shrug and in an esoteric moment
steal a page from George Castanza:
"I like to read The Times."
As expected,
she does not find this funny.