the madman

I thus far regret that at any time I attempt to pour my mind out of paper, my desire for perfection and intellectualism takes over. Making it prettier, intellectual, "correct."
Tonight I am not feeling correct. I am only feeling everything else.

December 17, 2010
I awaken with a dog-head on mine. He rolls, flops, uncomfortable. Scratches, whines. I am unsure if my alarm went off or if I shut it off.
It's cold out, enough to see your breath, but not too cold. He is mesmerized by the frozen grass and cannot pay attention to his walk. He must be pulled away from smelling and licking.
I drive. I drive very, very fast to where I am going.
The meeting is about men in prison. Murdering men who want to be soft and succulent women in prison. It progresses as usual. Things to absorb:

Bondage pornography is not a sign of stability. I say it is not a preclusion of stability. Doctor says they have anal sex pretending their anus is a vagina. He tried to cut off his own penis at 15. We apparently think he may be lying about that. No one is going to check, though. She is a master make-up artist but can not put her hair in non-completely-fucked-up pigtails. Can he be a muslim and transgendered. Can he be a woman with a fist-length beard. Can he ever dream of being accepted by either. Should he just kill himself. Can she ever be in a single cell with her history of auto-erotic asphyxiation.

I am bored.
I am looking at my phone.
"Myspace has friended you on Myspace." Worse.
I drive again, this time even faster. I eat a gigantic burrito and fall asleep. I sweat so much under the down comforter I have to shower again.
I go into the cold and go to a movie. A tiny theater, old old old. Surrounded by old women, all intellectuals, and old men who mostly seem crazy.
The movie is beautiful terrifying gorgeous decadent horrible brilliant lovely sickening soft dark sad fucked perfect. Perfect perfect.
Immediately to the gym. Goal of a mile under 12:00 is approaching, down to 13:35 now. My heart rate reaches 200. I pour sweat, my legs feel weak and heavy. I lift, I pull, I flex, I sit up. I look in the mirror at the places that I hate. I try not to. I touch my chin and cheeks. I do not recognize myself. I breathe deep.
I sit for a minute and try to understand what I am doing. I do not remember if I am successful. I keep doing it.
I see my breath. I walk the dog.
I again wash the sweat off, now for the third time today.
I rest against the bed. I orgasm. Tears come now, streaming, leaking.
I sob and the catharsis, the letting go, the pain, the grief, the loathing, the fear, the joy, the beauty, the perfection, the confusion, the relief comes. My heart swells up.
I comfort myself as I would another. I touch the things near me that are soft and forgiving. I cry a small patch onto the bed. I hold myself as I would another.
I roll onto my back, I meditate. I place the soles of my feet together and feel warm.
I think about joy. I consider my love and it's ferocity, precocity, and I have insights and revelations. I rewind my week and apply my love to every moment.
Every walk I dread in the biting cold. Every moment seemed lost, looking into the eyes of someone defined "criminal." Every judgment of others, every needless frustration. Every leaf clinging to every gray and frozen tree. I apply my love. It envelopes my whole being.
I cannot meditate with a crazy puppy in the room.
I do not feel angry. I keep my eyes closed and smile.
I plug in the Christmas tree. It twinkles.

My heart is still swollen, hammering but now silently, my brain bounces through winding corridors past fun-house mirrors and running fast. So fast. Happy.
I consider all things created. I am buried deep in my stacks and stacks of art, film, music, the pieces of people contained within those cold paper and plastic things. Those inhuman things are very human. Very precious. They contain souls.

I feel for a book: a masterpiece containing the stories, thoughts and paintings of Salvador Dali. I consider the "rule" he made with Bunuel regarding their art: "that they would not accept any idea or image that was susceptible of rational, psychological or cultural explication." I consider how I search these pieces for just this meaning, finally settling to apply my own version of these constructs. I cannot turn off this search for meaning while even viewing... how would one turn it off while creating. Impossible, psychologists will say.

I consider my art, the love contained and grasped within my hands, the images in my head, the fucked-up-edness, the black ooze and this blinding light. This creation and being both dormant and awake within me, my hammering heart. I consider this.

I do not want to be correct or polite.
I do not care what people think of me or whether they will ever love me.
I does not matter.
I do not care how I am seen when I am bare-naked in front of them.

Tonight I am in love with everything.
I want to be in love with everything.