Electric Guest + word vomit for your pleasure

 

Today’s post is brought to you by my brother.  Who always has the tunes.

 

I want to transcend this in a fevered dream.  I chase dancefloors because honestly, that’s an easy shortcut to human connection.  Putting in the dirty work feels like… too much like a 9-5 (but worth it, worth it, worth it, maybe?).  I run out of things to say, suspect you were bored, what do I have to do, throw confetti and do a quiet, intricate pantomime?  Shouldn’t feel like I have to entertain people.  Like I’m not living up to my reputation if I’m not keeping you in a constant state of laughter/dizzy/awestruck, etc.

It’s a relief when I unlock my door, step inside, pull myself in like I’ve escaped.  This apartment is the only place where the air in front of my face isn’t lava.  Being alone is so much easier.  Why do social situations make me feel as if I’ve FAILED.

oh god i hate the ending.

Never going to apologize for being honest, or for sharing how I feel.  I strive for truthfulness, on a molecular level, on a mystical level, to the 5th, 6th, and 7th dimension.  I was honest with my friend today which apparently made him feel bad.  Not sure why telling him something about MYSELF constitutes being a judgemental person, but after all.. I can rest easy.  I was genuine, fully.  Maybe moreso than usual.  Too many superficial friendships.  They’re kinda useless innit?

About this poem… I HATE the ending.  That’s what I mean by not being fully honest.. when this poem still lived in my head it ended differently.  I’m searching for that ending because anything less is a dishonest reproduction.

home
alone
is an
oxymoron.

if I’m not
filling your plate,
what good are
these hands?

bed is just furniture.
dead trees or
metal jewelry- post crucible
remembered fire.

safety in oblivion.

I still lock my door
solo universe, me myself
and my gut bacteria

 

self/war

The chillest, the happiest. this song

 

April wind, relentless
thick soup of single-mindedness, exposing
vulnerabilities in the
deepest roots of

these walls:
they were useful once,
to be sure.

That was winter,
That was war.

Now they block out the sun
and rain,
both.

(your flowers are sleeping,
prolonged hibernation.

dreaming of how the moon
pulls the oceans
into
herself.)

K-1

Easy to become hopeless.  Like a tsumani of what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-what-can-I-do-…..

 

Nothing.  I can do nothing.  Waiting, I guess, which is a non-action.  Do I have faith in time?  Maybe not as much as I used to.

Just need to cancel the things I thought I could do, cancel the wedding, cancel everything I thought we could do together in the next few months.  Thought he’d be here now.  Stupid.  Over-eager, and stupidly optimistic.  When things fall through I get angry and lash out. He doesn’t deserve that.

Too much uncertainty like a weight.  Getting out of bed requires more strength than I have, a miracle I punch in to work at six AM everyday regardless.  I need him here.  I’m so. so. so sad.

I don’t want to move to India.  I don’t want to wait another year, another two years.  Feels like I’m beating my head against the wall, and his patience infuriates me.  How he’s not beating his head here with me, just all wait-and-see. And I CAN’T.

 

Indian Trap

Why I never learnt about consent:

alternatively titled, Fundamental Evangelicalism growing-up musings.

 

Before you’re married, you’re not allowed to have sex.

AFTER you’re married, your husband gets to tell you what to do.

Due to this, my “yes” never mattered.  Or lack of it.  The men I met in college.  Y’all were the real MVP.  Thanks for respecting my no.

Hmm.

 

That’s how easy love can be

Every time you dance with someone (s)  another universe forms, splits off from the whole.   That feeling you get when the music is done  is your atoms yanking you back to this one.

Temporary universes, thousands.   Birthed in fire, dead in ashes.  Colored lights imprinted on your soul.

say it

 

An addiction to the light that shines in people’s eyes when you knock them off their script.

The sun violently throwing itself at the window,
the road you take to the office inexplicably carpeted by
vines overnight,
your car an adult-sized tricycle.

THAT kind of aggression: pots and pans as alarm clock
(You’re burning daylight!)

This is the gift that was prophesied
the one that only has to make sense if you want it to.

Strong preferences for smashed-up teleprompters, an
acquired taste for the sharp edge of a

waking dream.

Meausic

I’m a wreck.. One week until our interview. (His interview).   He does things so last minute, I’m the exact opposite.  So I’m like WHY HAVEN’T YOU DONE YOUR PASSPORT PHOTOS, WHY DIDN’T YOU PRINT OUT THE DS160 CONFIRMATION PAGE BLARGHHHH like a horrible sitcom-y wife.  Ugh.

Also I bought my wedding dress.  It’s a mixture of pride and embarrassment that I managed to be THIS CHEAP for my WEDDING.  Originally $295, but I got it for $25.   It wasn’t even used, someone at the original store was apparently too lazy to rethread the straps, so it was listed as “missing a strap”.  The Annex

It’s gonna be so awful if we don’t get the visa.  I moved into a new APARTMENT. I bought a BED and a WEDDING DRESS.

Everyone send me positive vibes the night of July 4th (U.S. time)  Early July 5th India time.

surprising tears. silk crows hanging from the ceiling

https://dpan.tv/series/asl-music-videos/episode/different-colors-walk-the-moon

Listening/watching that ↑ for my ASL class.

Wrote most of this ↓ after karaoke last night + later ghost stories at a fast food joint.

Untitled

I’m balancing on a knife edge,
thin and slick.
destruction-efficient.

the ground overhead, dust
sifting into my hair
to rest on my scalp.

trees reaching for my shoulderblades.

If you can find the walls,
there is whitebread at the table.

underneath, forgotten clumps of hair
the memory of a dog,
to be picked over like tea leaves.

the future circles back
to catch the tail of the past

in his teeth.

 

Dissonant Post, Poetry, music. Visceral touch vs. Comfort

got moods like the weather.  Think you gave up on being my forecaster a while back, just riding the waves, sails into the wind.  you recognize a red sky.  next day: surprised and grateful for the sunlight.

Instructions for this video.  Play the first one, and then a little while in, start the second one… swurr it sounds really nice to have them both playing at the same time.

Some thoughts on dancing.

A continuum of Sexy——–Happy.  Actually I’m not sure that it’s a continuum so much as an either/or situation. Comfort though, that can be used on either side of that spectrum. MAN I love happy dancing with strangers.  Going crazy because you know they won’t take it in a don’t-get-fresh-with-me direction, swear you can see something pouring out of their whole being,

light.  Went out on Friday with a deep desperation to lose myself on the dance floor, till I  finally go home, sore bones, heart pounding.  To the dude.  Your creepy friends were a stark contrast to your full-body music lostness.  No matter what you look like, if you are dancing with that kind of joy, everyone is gonna wanna hang out with you.  Or at least, I will.  But attractiveness matters zero to me at this point in my life.   Or… attractiveness has nothing to do with what you look like physically.  The things that pull me into someone’s orbit are soul-things. suh-im.

As a dancer who is in a long distance relationship, I have had to learn to separate physical contact, physical connection, from desire.   Actually the more I get into Zouk, (which is incredibly sexy at face value), the more I am able to do this.  I don’t know.  Might be a head thing, left over from my fundamentalist past, really used to think physical touch would destroy me, destroy my friendships, make God angry, whatever.   Hm.    People need that though.  Zouk is different from Bachata, in terms of connection.  Feels like a deep tenderness.  I don’t think the danger is in mistaking that for love.  You just need to have respect for dancefloor love, and know what it is and isn’t.

Held hands with an old Somali dude today at work.  Sometimes he just cries.  Doesn’t have a lot of family who visit him.  I wonder how it is when I try to help him.  Does he think I should be covering my hair?  Culture differences.