A Social Experiment and A Poem

March 18, 2009 · 2 comments

Tomorrow is a very special day.  My friend Didi in Kuala Lumpur (Malaysia) and I are going to do a little social experiment.  She’s going to blog about me and I’m going to blog about her.  Thing is, we only really know a little about each other, so from a psycho-sociological standpoint, tomorrow’s posts should be pretty interesting.  You and I, dear reader, will find out things about me that we didn’t know before.  Or at least I will – in a similar fashion to Nicole’s comment to Sunday Night’s Dream.

So check it out:  visit Didi’s blog here.  Whenever you want today, but make sure you visit it tomorrow (I’ll post a link with tomorrow’s post as well).  Because tomorrow, this blog will be all about Didi.

Not sure if you fockers realize this, but I’m a night-blogger.  The Quixotic Jedi updates every day at 6AM EST, sure, but I put these posts together the night before.  You’re currently reading something I wrote several hours ago, so prepare for the gestalt-shift as I start talking about the present that is my present right now (12:47AM EST on 3/18):

Tomorrow is going to be a busy day, so this will be the end of my work for this evening.  I’ll leave you with a poem from my formative years, though, so you can still get your fix of words-on-the-page.  Tomorrow is get up early so I can get gas for the car, get paid and find out about catering work for this weekend, get coffee and be at work fashionably late (I didn’t leave until 8:15 tonight, so that should be acceptable – wait, the boss is out of town – effit).  Then it’s another busy day of being too busy to do other peoples’ work at the office while surfing the net (seriously, though, I will be busy with work-related work), and off to Campmor to work out the details of purchasing my kayak that’s on hold.  Home at a reasonable hour, because tomorrow’s (which will be Thursday’s) post is going to take some time. 

And so, without further adieu, a poem:

Untitled, circa 1997

 

I can’t even cry
I try and try
And try and try
But I can’t seem to cry.
What is this inside,
This ball of something
Just between my throat and my stomach is crawling around, pushing my insides aside, not really growing, not exactly pulsating, but definitely hurting.  Is it some virus?  Am I getting sick?  I haven’t felt all that well lately, but now that she’s gone, my body seems to have succumbed to whatever it is that’s killing me right now.  Am I nervous?  Am I worried about my exams, about studying, about living up to someone else’s expectations?  No, I don’t think so.  It seems that if I just sat down and had a good cry everything would be all right.  But this ball of something, somewhere between my throat and my stomach is preventing that first cleansing sob from rushing up my chest and out my face, siphoning the pain away.  I just need it to be gone.  I can’t even eat.  Whatever this is, it’s not letting anything into or out of my system.  So am I reduced to this once more, checking my email thrice a day in the hope that I’ll hear her voice, if only for a few moments, if only in my head?  What twisted trick of fate is this that brings her to me, only to take her away as soon as I’ve barely said hello, before I can really…express myself?  What the fuck.  I can’t explain it.  I’m no poet.  I’ve been trying to draw a picture with steam, molecules of water what aren’t sure whether they want to be a liquid or a gas.  The ambiguity I’ve expressed thusfar is quite indicative of the nebulousness of the pain that’s trying its darndest to kill me.  That which does not kill us makes us stronger?  Bullshit.  That which does not kill us turns us into quivering mounds of nothing at all.  Ebola Zaire of the soul is what this is.  Don’t read any further, don’t look into any eyes too deeply, you might catch it too.  This is certainly not worth it.  Don’t take the high road or the low one.  I’ve been on both.  Take the one in the middle that doesn’t hit any extremes, the one that doesn’t vary, that has no hills and no valleys.  The one that runs equidistant from heaven and hell.  That’s the one to be on.  Consistency is a great thing.  Be happy with what you’ve got; as soon as you reach up or stoop down BANG! You’re fucked.  Keep your eyes forward, your head up and lock that smile of satiety down on your face.  Don’t ever take it off.  Be satisfied with everything, because as soon as you leave that middle road and decide that you want something…well, be careful what you wish for because you just might get it and when you get it, you’ll have taken the detour to the high road, and then there’s no turning back.  Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel, Daniel-san, because once you wish for something, get it, jump to the high road, trade that smile of satiety for one of ecstasy, throw it in cruise control and lean back to enjoy the ride, BANG! An eighteen wheeler with big spikes all over it, tire shredders on the wheels, gun turrets everywhere (not to mention the demon driving it) comes out of nowhere and runs that puny piece of shit Dodge-ass Neon (Hi) that you’re driving right down into the asphalt, where not even the best and most experienced civil engineer who deals with soils every day of his life will be able to tell your ride fro the double yellow line that really isn’t there any more because it’s you that’s stuck to one of those spikes on that eighteen wheeler – right on the grille with a spike through your heart and one through your nuts, hanging there next to some dipshit who won’t stop whining about how much homework he’s got, that his dad is gonna kick his ass if he doesn’t get good grades, but he’s stuck to this fucking eighteen wheeler because he decided that his dad was wrong, that alcoholism isn’t really hereditary, that he can handle it.  So you hang there, next to that pussy-boy whiner, whishing for all the world that you hadn’t made that wish, that you hadn’t left that middle road, that you had used screws instead of scotch tape to hold that smile of satiety on your face, but most of all, you just want to cry.  You try and try and try and try but you just can’t seem to cry.  So you hang there, suspended on the grille of that evil eighteen wheeler, barreling down the road at the speed of time, trying to figure out what went wrong and why you can’t cry.  And you’re still too fucking stupid and look down and realize that there’s a fucking spike straight through your heart that won’t let you eat or study or think or feel or even cry.
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }

Josh Maxwell March 18, 2009 at 06:31

Nice writing style. I look forward to reading more in the future.

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Katie March 18, 2009 at 13:10

Dude I love you, but that is a lot of words in a very tiny font! I’m not reading that while i’m at work. I’ll work on it later.

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