mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

Tag: love

People have been fashioning dicks for 30,000 years, or more. It’s comforting, somewhat

That’s what I learned from the the Oriental Institute at the University of Chicago. The cradle of civilization was all about big-titted women, and stone dicks. Maybe they were religious in nature. Or maybe people are people and haven’t much changed.

I walked outside and saw someone in chalk had written under a bridge, “LOVE = penis!” Altho by the looks of it, someone had added the ” = penis” later. But, it was nice to see.

You know, they say graffiti is even more valuable to archaeologists than writings or monuments because it reveals how things really were, what people really thought and cared about, not what those in power wanted to be preserved.

No wonder the officials want it scrubbed off now

True love

Objects are easy to love because you’re really just in love with them. They’re receptacles of passionate feeling, and whatever sacrifices you may make for them are only of the masturbatory sort. You’re sacrificing for your own pleasure, which somehow manage to be some of the most satisfying pleasures.

Love of a human being, true love, is love of a thing irreplaceable. You can enjoy a replaceable person, but not love them. Love is a unique thing. The object is no longer just a non-self, but an equal to your self.

As rare a thing as exists on this earth, or, for that matter, any other.

I love her

I love everything about her. I love her taste, I love her smell, I love the bristles on her venus and how they rub against my cheek. I love how her skin feels to my tongue, my mouth feels on her breast, how she feels in my mouth, how she coos around me when I’m inside her.

I love her.

I love her skin. I love her. I love the way her muscles move under the surface and how her flesh slides over her ribs, I love her, and to have her breathe against my chest — to watch her walk, stand, sit — is satisfaction. No, is rapture more than bliss.

I love her.

In sickness or in health, for rich or poor, pissing, puking, shitting, fucking, I love her. Everything about her, I love her. She can do no wrong because everything’s right about her. Her body is a temple, and I worship at her altar.

Ave Maria, gratia plena, she’s given birth to my joy, and what could be more divine or deserving of blessing?

I love her, but she’s left me, and taken my joy with it. I love her, but she’s gone away, and I can’t worship any longer. I love her, and I pray, but talk only to myself.

One day I’ll smash her head in with a rock.

I love her.

What is love?

If you thought of anything but the Haddaway song, kudos.

Anyway, there are many different kinds of love and many different expressions of it, ranging from the euphemism for “fuck” to more than moderate appreciation of something to concern for another object’s welfare to intimacy, caring about something else more than yourself. The last two are the only really valid ones, and true love, in my opinion, is the last definition: caring about something else more than yourself.

I believe mainly in two forms of motivation, selfishness and selflessness. One seeks to gratify the individual, the other to gratify something external. Some people may argue that all actions are done out of some form of self-gratification, and I say that’s bollocks and makes the whole discussion worthless. Freud put it in terms of id and super ego, and there’s more to it, but just accept it as selfishness and selflessness for the sake of this.

Love is selflessness, doing something for another while ignoring yourself, or even at your own expense. But, it isn’t just actions.

My mother is dying, say, and I go to live with her to take care of her until she dies. Is this selfless and loving?

It may very well be, but not necessarily. If I am suffering but thankful that my mother gets to live a longer, happier life, then yes, I am being loving. If, however, I am doing it out of a sense of duty, my actions may still be admirable, but they aren’t loving. They are a grudging requirement, and this isn’t love at all.

Love isn’t about actions at all, I would go so far to say. “We always hurt the ones we love,” after all. And we can help people for motivation much less than pure.

If I take a little girl home to her parents so she doesn’t have to wait alone somewhere because I am concerned for her welfare, this is loving. It may be that the parents are frightened and cannot find her or I am accused of something perverse, but what I did was still loving.

Flip it a bit. Say I am a pedophile, through and through. Say I take a little girl home so I can find out where she lives. Say the parents are thankful and I never get the opportunity to or just decide not to act on my motivations. Was the act itself still loving? Not in the least, except as the euphemistic definition given above.

What is love? Patient, kind, not envious, or resentful. Doesn’t brag, isn’t proud, but is restrained and rejoices in truth and morality. These things are love, and it never fails. But it has to be true, or there’s no point. It has to be genuinely felt, not acted out.

I’ll paraphrase and adapt some more biblical language. Love without works is dead, but works without love are empty.

What is love? The greatest of things, but I say harder to come by and feel truly as human beings than realize or would like to admit.

It’s over

He loved me. I really believe that, even after all that’s happened, I will continue to believe he loved me. I loved him, too, not that that ever mattered to him. I indulged him, and that was what made him love me. But then I never cared why he did, only that he did.

I don’t believe there is another person like him anywhere. He would always say the oddest things, where they came from I certainly don’t know. In conversations, once a topic would finish, he would bring up another widely divergent to the one just discussed, or make some comment relative to absolutely nothing I could ever discern. That was one of the things I loved about him, but it also showed how he was always in his own little world.

That was okay, though. I was willing to put up with him to be a part of that world, even when he did nothing to show he appreciated it. I had my life to live and he had his, but I was the one who had to bridge the gap. Maybe I should have made him reach out to me more, but I don’t think it really would have changed anything.

When we met, it was the same. He was eating alone and I sat down across from him. He looked up, blinked twice, and smiled with that smooth grin I came to be so familiar with.

“Hello,” I said, “I hope you don’t mind if I eat with you.”

“I’m used to eating alone, but no, company is always welcome. My name is James.”

“I’m Alex,” I said, “Nice to meet you.”

The rest of the conversation I don’t remember, except that he had an abhorrence for jewelry which wasn’t practical or significant, including his class ring as an example of significance, but nothing related to religion. I’m not sure why I remember this part of the conversation, except that it’s an example of the typical subjects and opinions that would come from his mouth, with little or no prodding.

I wasn’t smitten, but I was entertained. He, I think, enjoyed having a receptive audience.

We hit it off immediately, but it was another week before we actually got together again. Another week and a half after that before we even considered dating. After considering it, it wasn’t long before we were actually doing it, though. We went out often, eating, drinking, even shopping. We were always happy together, but the first few months were bliss. We were always just happy to see one another and be in the same room together. It was a special event, and being apart seemed to be torture.

I suppose it’s not surprising moving in with him was what changed everything. I’m still glad for the next two years I had with him, but those first months are probably the only part of our relationship worth remembering. Once we were living together, being with one another obviously wasn’t special anymore. Even sleeping together became a routine, rather than exciting or romantic. We shared duties around the house, alternated cooking when we were both home for dinner at the same time, and were partners in the way two people are supposed to be, but it wasn’t a partnership. Once I moved into his place, I was his. He had conquered me and I was no longer his audience, I was his possession.

The spats happened as they will between couples, with rising and falling frequency, but the general trend was for fights to become worse and more common. I spent the night with friends on more than one occasion, promising them and myself that I was going to get all of my stuff and go somewhere else. But then there would be the apologies and the promises that everything would be different and back like it was before. We both believed what we said because we loved one another, and loved the way things were during the good times.

I don’t even remember how the last fight started. It was something small. Hair on the soap or something trivial and cliche like that. It escalated until we were talking about things that had happened a year before and bringing up every negative aspect of the relationship. The usual name calling took place, and I stormed out, off to spend the night with one of my friends who I hadn’t used yet.

He ended the relationship for us by putting all of my things outside for me to find when I came back the next day. If he hadn’t, we’d probably still be together.

It wasn’t a healthy relationship by any means, but he made me happy in a way no one else has since. For all of his cruelty and selfishness, he could be charming and funny and tender, too. I prefer to remember those things about him.

James moved on, too, and I hear about him every now and then. His first love has always been himself, so I’m not surprised he hasn’t done any better than I have.

It’s not a surprise that we didn’t last, but a part of me still can’t believe it’s over.

Oh! Darling

I never meant you hurt you, really I didn’t, but I love you, and you know what we always do to lovers.

Yes, yes. I’d rather it was a ring around your finger, too, but your eye will heal up soon. It doesn’t even look that bad. Darling, I was drunk and stupid.

Okay, so I’m always stupid, but you know that sober I’d never

Well that time I’d had a rough day. Then I came home and you started complaining… You shouldn’t have nagged me.

No, I’m not saying it was your fault. Look, I’m terrible. I know that. But I love you. I need you.

Don’t say that. I know you can get by by yourself, but don’t say that. I-I

Oh darling, please don’t go. Come on, I’ll be better. It’ll never happen again, I swear to God it won’t. Just stay here with me and we’ll work it out. We can make it work together. Whatever you need, just tell me.

I need you! I can’t do anything without you. I-I-I

Never again, please. Never again. Never ever.

I’ll never fail you again, I promise, I promise, I promise. I never meant for this to happen

Fifth dream journal entry

Allow me to break character, probably for good.

All of this dream journal nonsense (if you’ve been keeping up with it), is based off of a story idea a fellow named Duskmon came up with at a forum I visit. I liked it, but disagreed with some of what he planned on doing with it, so I figured I’d give it a shot of my own, for shits and giggles (and ego).

I ran into a wall as usual, but that’s not important. What is important is that it actually happened to me several times this week. I fell asleep and fell in love.

I don’t fall in love in real life. If it’s not hate, it’s worship. That’s the only two options I got, and neither approaches love. But in my dreams, I am in love with this girl and we’re completely happy. Not the usual stuff that brings me pleasure in my dreams, actually normal, healthy stuff.

Different nights, different events, same girl, same relationship. Continuity, even though the dreams themselves differ. That’s insane. I mean, it’s wonderful, they’re as good of dreams as you can have, but dear God is that insane. I got the impulse to sleep to be happy. It’s seductive, because it’s idealistic, but real. Or as real as dreams get.

I still think Duskmon’s idea is a great story, but mainly because of the warning the story holds: letting go of reality for the sake of a dream has dire consequences. Wanting to fall asleep and never wake up again is suicidal, but in the context of a dream girl it’s happiness forever. It’s seductive in a way few things are.

Dreams aren’t reality, but they’re a form of reality that gives you something nothing else can. They can help you escape from reality in the same way most drugs can, but I think it gives you something better than that because the process is and feels natural.

Okay, I’m off on a tangent now but the point is, finding happiness in dreams is a dangerous thing. La Belle Dame Sans Merci. But what about when she is merciful?

I can control how things work in my own fiction. Tragedy is fine and poetic in fiction. Don’t much like it when things are out of my control in real life, though.

Forgetfulness

I remember

how he whined

and said I had no time

for him and that our problems were all my fault

I remember

how he’d smoke

and how my throat would choke

and the smell that clung to my hair when he was done

I remember

how he’d swear

about what “his whore” would wear

and say he’d give her something she could cry about

I remember

how he’d drink

and hit me because he’d think

the hickies on my neck were from someone else

I remember

how he cheated

with other girls that treated

him like a man and better than I ever could

I remember

all the breaks

and promises he makes

and how empty his words always are in the end

I remember

as we talk

I remember

and I grok

but then he smiles and somehow

I forget.

Wretched Man

I loved her. For a time I worshipped her, but I always loved her. Heart and mind and soul, but never body. Never body. My eyes did much loving, but such loving would not long do. An appetite whetted cannot so easily be sated, and I’m afraid to admit that my feelings began to turn to hate once I saw that my advances and potential advances would always be rejected and deflected so carelessly. She was a goddess, and I was a lowly follower, offering meaningless sacrifices in her name.

As much as I’d loved her, I hate her twice more. Ten more. A score, a hundredfold. Ah, what does it matter! What I did is done and though I am undone it cannot be. It should never be. An ecstasy should never be recanted once fulfilled, but mine should be. It most certainly should be.

The depraved ramblings of a diseased mind. Diseased and rotting with filth, but alive. Alive and active and hungry. Always hungry, but sharper still. Sharp as a tack, sharp as a knife, sharp as the needle that plunges into my flesh and gives my mind rest at last.

But I should not speak of what I did. A confession is a repression and and I will surely sink into depression if I do that. Let me be jjubilantand  rejoice, let my loving heart, mind, and soul rejoice for all of their wanting. Let me want until I want no more. Let my body jump and twist in agony for its having.

Wretched man that I am, I deserve no better.

God loves, the devil accepts

“God loves, the devil accepts.” ‘Tis the greatest Christian concept. For though God does love those who repent, for those who do not, His love is torment. Behave and be saved, believe or be grieved. We are impure and the world but a sieve.

So then what of those who are thusly strained out, unable to let faith suppress their own doubt? Be they doomed to weep, gnash, and wail? Be they doomed to suffer in Hell? Be they doomed to endure endless fires, simply because they defied God’s desires?

If you love God, He will love you. Forfeit the old, He will make new. Should you be graced, you need not have fear, for you will be counted among God’s most dear. Conditional love is His strongest trait, but conditional love is conditional hate.

So what then of the Bright Morning Star? Venus, it’s said, had a body unmarred. She took all who came, so the bawds sing, though called a whore later for doing such things. Or slut, I suppose, if you prefer, though I’m most fond of Lucy for.

It fits her right as a nickname, though she has had many and they all work the same. I might call her Asherah, were I Canaanite, and had pole to worship her rite. Or had a snake to wrap round a tree, and had an Eve to set us all free.

The beast with ten horns rapes our Mother with rapture, but only because she has been freely captured. She wants love that he can provide, and the strength of his lust cannot be denied. “The devil can’t love”, but I would remind, love of the flesh is love of a kind.