It's impossible to believe how old I am about to be, and I still don't know how to control people with my mind, or the power of magnetism. The mystical power of magnetism can cure headaches and colds, and bring back lost spleens, and reinforce windows on a windy night, and make bread for you while you spend time with your dog. I fucking goddam love motherfucking magnetism.
In 24 hours in a house that isn't mine (but I used to live here), three things have jumped off the walls. A statue of the Virgin with two cherubs with a font for holding holy water. The string holding it to the nail wore through and it fell and shattered in a thousand pieces. It was something my ex-teresa got from her hometown, and was made in 1934. B. A candle holder from Oaxaca that my ex-teresa had on a shelf, and the shelf fell off the nails, and the candle holder shattered in a dozen pieces. I love Oaxaca. And number three, a newspaper article with a picture of Elli and me, 10 years ago. In the picture, I can see that she has aged, alarmingly, and I have not, which means that, at 44.92, I look like a 34 year old man (who drank himself nearly to death for 19 years). And to look exactly like that, all I have to do is shave, but the hair grows so fast on my face, and chest, and sometimes I would like to let it grow, but after just a few days I already start to look like a child molester, and it will only get more pronounced (I know from experience).
And I also know from experience that there is a curious stream of coincidences in these things falling. And at my mom's house, she is talking nonstop about how they will not put everything back on the walls after they painted, but there are so many things to put on the walls and they still don't know where they will put them. Except she will put back the nude in the bathroom again, one of my dad's paintings, the one I always thought was kinda hot. They'll put that up, she tells me, because she was the model, she says, did I ever know about that?
No, mom, oh, god no, I did not know that, oh, god....
So it's all about walls, I guess, and I suspect there are ghosts in this house where my daughter is sleeping, and the ghosts get very naughty whenever we spend a lot of time together. Which suggests that I have some relationship issues with females in relationships, and even though I may have a developed feminine side, or at least a post-feminine side and sensibility, I don't really do well on my own, because I am only half when I am alone. Is what I get reminded of.
Oh my gosh there is a lot of nudity on tumblr. I've discovered. It's fantastic.
It always goes back to the suicide girls. I'd love to say I tried finding pictures of older women (older like almost as old as me), the ones who have given up their reckless youth for something more sensible, with extensive purse collections and heels that are still saucy and sassy and go with everything, and if I could get that spark to ignite, then I would have more options, but it does not work so very well, but at least I tried. But pregnant women still do strange things to my pulse. I don't know why I am writing that here, out loud in front of everybody.
In my house, Oshun has a new collar of peacock feathers, and Oggun has a new cauldron to live in. These are good things to put right, and it might come back to magnetism. There is something profoundly broken in me, and it's related to being raised by broken men, and still being surrounded by some of the same broken men. And the thing that's most broken is the thing that keeps things in balance, and that's the thing that makes me forget that I am not broken like them, not in the same way, and it's nothing as simple and psychoanalytical as me trying to prove my hormones by riding motorcycles in the desert. My hair testifies to the etymology of testaments, and the crazy and reckless things I do are things I do because I like them. The miles of rumbling metal are the residue of living in a direction that I like. And the thing that speaks to me in the dark on the road is not the gritty loneliness of broken men, but the breaks in the dry clay that give in to the force of the river, and Oshun sings to me, or I hear myself singing to her. I would marry her if I could, but oranges and peacock feathers are as close as I can get to that (at least, as much as I can speak of, here, now, on a windy night in the desert.
And I wish you were here. Because I miss you. Because you know things. And because you know me, and I know you. I suspect it's something very simple, and very mysterious. And will always be mysterious to us. And here, by you, I mean you, the one in Denver learning how to attach things to bodies so they don't fall apart on themselves. Because walls are not as secure as we think, and are not very permanent, much as we suspected.
In 24 hours in a house that isn't mine (but I used to live here), three things have jumped off the walls. A statue of the Virgin with two cherubs with a font for holding holy water. The string holding it to the nail wore through and it fell and shattered in a thousand pieces. It was something my ex-teresa got from her hometown, and was made in 1934. B. A candle holder from Oaxaca that my ex-teresa had on a shelf, and the shelf fell off the nails, and the candle holder shattered in a dozen pieces. I love Oaxaca. And number three, a newspaper article with a picture of Elli and me, 10 years ago. In the picture, I can see that she has aged, alarmingly, and I have not, which means that, at 44.92, I look like a 34 year old man (who drank himself nearly to death for 19 years). And to look exactly like that, all I have to do is shave, but the hair grows so fast on my face, and chest, and sometimes I would like to let it grow, but after just a few days I already start to look like a child molester, and it will only get more pronounced (I know from experience).
And I also know from experience that there is a curious stream of coincidences in these things falling. And at my mom's house, she is talking nonstop about how they will not put everything back on the walls after they painted, but there are so many things to put on the walls and they still don't know where they will put them. Except she will put back the nude in the bathroom again, one of my dad's paintings, the one I always thought was kinda hot. They'll put that up, she tells me, because she was the model, she says, did I ever know about that?
No, mom, oh, god no, I did not know that, oh, god....
So it's all about walls, I guess, and I suspect there are ghosts in this house where my daughter is sleeping, and the ghosts get very naughty whenever we spend a lot of time together. Which suggests that I have some relationship issues with females in relationships, and even though I may have a developed feminine side, or at least a post-feminine side and sensibility, I don't really do well on my own, because I am only half when I am alone. Is what I get reminded of.
Oh my gosh there is a lot of nudity on tumblr. I've discovered. It's fantastic.
It always goes back to the suicide girls. I'd love to say I tried finding pictures of older women (older like almost as old as me), the ones who have given up their reckless youth for something more sensible, with extensive purse collections and heels that are still saucy and sassy and go with everything, and if I could get that spark to ignite, then I would have more options, but it does not work so very well, but at least I tried. But pregnant women still do strange things to my pulse. I don't know why I am writing that here, out loud in front of everybody.
In my house, Oshun has a new collar of peacock feathers, and Oggun has a new cauldron to live in. These are good things to put right, and it might come back to magnetism. There is something profoundly broken in me, and it's related to being raised by broken men, and still being surrounded by some of the same broken men. And the thing that's most broken is the thing that keeps things in balance, and that's the thing that makes me forget that I am not broken like them, not in the same way, and it's nothing as simple and psychoanalytical as me trying to prove my hormones by riding motorcycles in the desert. My hair testifies to the etymology of testaments, and the crazy and reckless things I do are things I do because I like them. The miles of rumbling metal are the residue of living in a direction that I like. And the thing that speaks to me in the dark on the road is not the gritty loneliness of broken men, but the breaks in the dry clay that give in to the force of the river, and Oshun sings to me, or I hear myself singing to her. I would marry her if I could, but oranges and peacock feathers are as close as I can get to that (at least, as much as I can speak of, here, now, on a windy night in the desert.
And I wish you were here. Because I miss you. Because you know things. And because you know me, and I know you. I suspect it's something very simple, and very mysterious. And will always be mysterious to us. And here, by you, I mean you, the one in Denver learning how to attach things to bodies so they don't fall apart on themselves. Because walls are not as secure as we think, and are not very permanent, much as we suspected.
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