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I now have a tumblr

I am going to look through this thing I've built here on blogspot since 2008

I am going to slowly rip it apart and patch it over to the tumblr

here is the tumblr

http://hungryasiveeverbeen.tumblr.com/

It's not often
I meet someone
who can
keep up, with me.

I'm used to walking
I'm built for running
thank you
for reminding me.

I sure hope to see you again
though if not, I'm still glad
you taught me, to remember
I caught you, feeling bitter
your passion was the trigger

It's not often
I meet someone
who can
keep up, with me.

fellow traveller,
intense sympathizer,
hold nothing back
erupt beside me.

epiphanies so clear
I have to laugh
It's what you love
not what you lack

epiphanies so stark
I'm losing track
I'm not afraid
of this lack of lack.

It doesn't have to end well
If I remember the middle
either way, I'll go down swinging
either way, I'll end up singing

This song, somewhat, I sing to you
not empty, but full of a little more room.

This song, undone, I reach for you
not fully, but from the edges, through.

I'm used to pouring
we're overflowing
thank you
for reminding me.

the problem with killing yourself to make a point
is that you won't get to see the looks on their faces.

A dream I had recently. Decided to post it because I managed to write it down pretty clearly. No editing, aside from removal of names.
I had dinner at some old friends house, then A showed up. I did my best to be civil and have a good time, but it hurt too much so I had to pack my suitcase and leave. Then as I was packing A was saying stuff casually to the dinner party guests and I made sideways remarks until eventually (slowly) things got kind of tense. I made a point that A acknowledged to be true, then I left. Except once I was outside, my ex friend S was biking. I remember yelling "fuck you" to him. Then A was walking the same direction as me for some reason. He disapproved of me yelling at S. I tried to explain that I had to, that it felt right. Then it turned out the place I was walking to was on the way to where A was walking. We cut through a suburb and then was this field with a playground and kids playing soccer. A was really good at soccer, also he was slowly transforming into this beautiful Indian man/woman. I tried my best to sprint along beside him, and I used my heavy bags to hit the ball instead of my feet. I got one or two kicks in. I remember we were both sprinting after the same ball, and it felt... right. Anyway we were walking away from the park/playground and I saw a kid push another kid over. I stopped walking with them and asked some of the adults there who was responsible for the kid. Eventually I found a couple talking to the kid emphatically in some middle eastern dialect. Then... I saw a middle eastern version of me standing there. I asked him to tell the family what their kid did. Then I kept walking towards the bus depot. Turns out A saw the whole thing, but he didn't wait for me, I just knew he saw. Anyway I'm somewhere else, a week or so has passed. The woman I'm currently seeing goes to the house I had a dinner party at. Then the woman is me. Me(her) and A have dinner, and I see this slow seduction happen, an old lovers kind of seduction. It happens like I expect, the conversation goes this way for this long until this time, add alcohol here, etc. So eventually woman-me and A are both in our underwear (its really 60s for some reason) and sitting on a bed. Then just as I think we were going to have sex, there's this white flash and I'm in a different bed. There are old school computer consoles all around the edges of the bed, and these women come in and mill about on the computers. A is in bed too, on the other side, wearing a lab coat with a clipboard. I am still female, and naked. Then A does all these sexual experiments on me. Well, the assistants do it, but A is taking notes and giving directions. Eventually me as a man shows up, with one of my friends. A sits us down for dinner. He wants to stall for time so he can study female me more, so instead of a menu, he gives us math problems. I realize that its a stalling tactic, which in the dream seems to make me feel really badass for some reason? Anyway, I look him in the eye for the first time in the dream, and eventually I see the truth. He wants female me to be his sex slave for 8000 experiments. I get angry in a righteous way and try to lunge at him. Then man me and my friend are on our knees with our hands chained up behind our back with collars on. The dream ends with A saying "get them 8000 meals, we have work to do".

“[L]iberals insist that children should be given the right to remain part of their particular community, but on condition that they are given a choice. But for, say, Amish children to really have a free choice of which way of life to choose, either their parents’ life or that of the “English,” they would have to be properly informed on all the options, educated in them, and the only way to do what would be to extract them from their embeddedness in the Amish community, in other words, to effectively render them “English.” This also clearly demonstrates the limitations of the standard liberal attitude towards Muslim women wearing a veil: it is deemed acceptable if it is their free choice and not an option imposed on them by their husbands or family. However, the moment a woman wears a veil as the result of her free individual choice, the meaning of her act changes completely: it is no longer a sign of her direct substantial belongingness to the Muslim community, but an expression of her idiosyncratic individuality, of her spiritual quest and her protest against the vulgarity of the commodification of sexuality, or else a political gesture of protest against the West. A choice is always a meta-choice, a choice of the modality of choice itself: it is one thing to wear a veil because of one’s immediate immersion in a tradition; it is quite another to refuse to wear a veil; and yet another to wear one not out of a sense of belonging, but as an ethico-political choice. This is why, in our secular societies based on “choice,” people who maintain a substantial religious belonging are in a subordinate position: even if they are allowed to practice their beliefs, these beliefs are “tolerated” as their idiosyncratic personal choice or opinion; they moment they present them publicly as what they really are for them, they are accused of “fundamentalism.” What this means is that the “subject of free choice” (in the Western “tolerant” multicultural sense) can only emerge as the result of an extremely violent process of being torn away from one’s particular lifeworld, of being cut off from one’s roots.” 
― Slavoj Žižek, Living in the End Times

I wanted to write to you, but
but I feel this desire to emphasize that I respect your right not to be written to.
I'll leave it here.
The fort is good. feels like summer camp. The people are nice, they haven't given me a hard time for being so... you know. Haven't done any work yet, that's tomorrow. Seems like I could spend the next month getting paid good money to listen to godspeed and reflect.
I hope some day I will be able to relate to you my relationship with godspeed. I grew up religious, in a way. I don't like to talk about it much. The truth is, I found some beauty there, and sometimes I miss that beauty. That connection to the infinite, that sense of belonging or warm security.
My mother was my creator. My creator is dead.
Its so painfully obvious; there was a human who kept me alive and loved me with everything she had.
I grew up and took her love for granted, I grew up and resented her for her weaknesses, I grew up and...
and I gave up on her. I gave up on her and she didn't give up on me and she struggled and I survived and
and
and
and she's dead. fuck metaphors, she is dead. dead dead dead dead, dead.
Most people who see this part of me want me to change. They want me to "get better". I will not survive this unless I do so carrying "she died, and you gave up on her" branded on my hands, on my feet, on my arms and legs. Plastered on billboards when I look around. A series of words that will never leave me. If I can find out a way to live with it, then fine, I'll live for a while longer.
She at least deserves this. I will not forget.
I want you, I think. I want you to know that I have on some level broken my relationship with relationships. I want to find someone who decides that me the way I am is something they want to spend time around. Simple, yes. easy, no.

I want to sit around and make fun of love with you until we find some love has snuck up on us.
I want to feel as much pain as I damn well need to, and I, well this is the hard part.
you can't just tolerate it. you have to understand why it is important, and respect its importance.
That can happen from whatever distance you need, as long as it's happening.
Every minute we talk I feel like I am stealing from god.
I don't know anybody who wants to hear something like that, but...
Thank you.

Is there enough room?
How much is too much?
what matters?

I don't want to be better equipped to handle, I think.
no, that's not it.
I want to make beautiful things with people who believe in making beautiful things.
yeah, that sounds about right.

I want to make beautiful things with people who believe in making beautiful things.
and there is room in the world for this.
I want to make beautiful things with people who believe in making beautiful things,
and jump head first into "too much"
I want to make beautiful things with people who believe in making beautiful things!
because you and I matter.

I dreamt I was alone at home and feeling sad without knowing why. Then I saw Anita standing in this room filled with people. It was a wild and raucous party. Suddenly I was at the party. Nobody was talking with me, but I had a good time. I stood beside some old friends, listening to them speak with each other, sort of waiting for an opportunity to say hello, but also just enjoying hearing them share about their lives with each other. I slowly began to realize these were not my old friends, these were people who gave up on me. I could feel their discomfort once they realized I was there. I felt ashamed. I walked away, and fell down onto a couch. People yelled at me for falling down on the couch, initially. I stayed there for a while, and they forgot I was there. They sat on me or around me and I was blending in again. Then I noticed that directly in front of me, Zaman was playing electric guitar, and there were drums playing too, but I couldn't see who was playing drums. I really liked the song, so much that I started to cry. It was the song, and the feeling that someone I loved dearly was making something beautiful. Then he made eye contact with me and smiled, so I cried even more. The song rang in my ears constantly, then in the dream I eventually fell asleep feeling calm and happy and hopeful and mellow and purposeful and absurdly serene. Now it's 1015 AM in victoria, british columbia. I just frantically recorded what I could remember of what Zaman was playing (this is a melody I subconsciously wrote) and here I am writing down this dream. I want to let summer be a time of renewal for me.

people who suffer,
who long to be free

you loved me, a stranger
now what does that mean?

ten minutes a day is all it takes
to make something beautiful, you know?
where is ten? when do we go there?

it doesn't really matter that things don't work sometimes
I could be in a parking lot with nothing but dead plans around me

and yet.
and yet what if.
and yet what if you could go anywhere and do anything just by changing how you see things.

why does anyone expect me to be able to handle this thing inside me?
in time it will become more of a dance, and less of a wrestling match.

thank you to each and every one of you who looked at me with eyes that said "it can be".

Showin up and tryin hard
is what I came to do

But it turns out this aint the place
for loyalty and truth

You said you wouldn't tell me
what it is in me you like

I do not know what I'd do with that
but I guess it's not my right to have

I wish people were a little less afraid
even if that makes them a little more rude

fear aint somethin we explain
it's something we excuse

now if you're sittin, hearin this
thinking what he says is true

don't overlook the next one
with value you refuse to see.

It's tragic, its great, it always makes me cry
the kind of insight there to find
in people you may cast aside

it's easy to dehumanize
it make life simpler, too.
but life, I think, will prove you wrong
are you ready for it to?

i wish you wrote songs about me

so i could see the way i seem

i tried writing songs about me

its not the same

ask me again in a couple more years

if i still see things this way

the bottom line, ill say to you

its the same, but not the same

some more bullshit advice.

find something you love that you're good at, do it. That way, you won't starve.
find something you love that you're bad at. do it. That way, you'll stay humble.
find someone you love that you trust. That way, you gain safety.
find someone you love that you are afraid of. That way, you gain wonder.

She tried to fuck me because she thought I was gay.
Turns out, I wasn't attracted to her, so I guess that didn't help clear things up.
I'm better at convincing people I've barely met to travel thousands of miles to be with me for a week,
than I am at being worth it for more than a couple of months.
I want to relate to people without changing for them.
Performance is dangerous. "I am important", the performer cries, simply by standing in front of you.
This cannot be subverted. I sure as hell haven't, anyway.
 I'm just a lie, a paradox. I want you to know that. I crave nullification, more than I want to feel good.
Maybe nullification feels good. Maybe I shouldn't have drank that much that night we talked.
Maybe if I pour all of myself into building a playlist of movies, music, books, and other amalgamations of other peoples' passion that I identify with, I can just give that to everyone I meet and slowly form this supergroup of likeminded people. Is it fucked up that that seems like my best bet at connecting with people? The more you know, the more you are aware of the vastness of what you don't know.
The more you know, the harder it is to find the right words.
The more you know, the more grating bullshit platitudes feel like... so I guess I'm sorry.
The opening line was supposed to be a kind of palate cleanser. It really did happen to me, though. I miss her.

I was working graveyards at a gas station once. An eccentric came in, late. Too late for certain kinds of people. I used to write things on the receipts I found there, the copies people didn't want. It's not that I had anything to say, its not that I care all that much about the environment, I just saw all that empty space and... well I felt a desire to fill it, I suppose. The man had things he wanted to tell me. Things that looped around and got really confusing. I don't remember much of what you, I mean he (who am I writing for) said to me, but I, right now, seem fixated on his eyes... what he looked like when he was looking right at me. I would talk with him, about vaguely political things I think... as I spoke, he would write down individual words I used on those receipts  then hold up a hand, silencing me. Then he held up the word, and deconstructed. He would say the word, focus on how it sounds, words it sounds like, words that grow out of it. He would draw circles around certain letters, reorganize them, talk about this arcane mechanism he saw when he looked at those squiggly lines. It was like some religion he was making up as he went along, and he seemed... happy. I resented him, I pitied him, I envied him. I resented him, I pitied him, I envied him. I... hmm.

There was another man, another eccentric. He worked at the local sign shop. His van was covered in decals. WAKE UP, it said. 9/11 was an inside job, et cetera. We were friends, of a sort; I think he was one of the only people who heard what I had to say with nothing to lose, perhaps I was one of the only people who listened to him, asked him how he was doing, asked him questions about what he said, etc. It wasn't pity, charity, or anything like that. I NEEDED HIM. I guess, I figured if I could be there for him, I could still keep faith that someone would see something in me. He entered my empty gas station one night with a baseball hat covered in tinfoil on his head. He explained to me that he was playing a joke on everyone who thought he was crazy. He told me that I was the only one who got it. Other people who saw him, I guess, just saw a metallic cherry on top of an absurd, hopeless sundae. That was the night you, um, "he" told me that I was your only friend. Hearing that scared the fucking daylights out of me. Knowing I meant that much to him made me feel violated. What does that mean? Looking back on it, my connection to him feels warm, valuable, nice. Yet, I don't talk with him anymore. I don't seek him out. Is it a conceit that I enjoy him from a distance? Maybe...

I think I found a good place once.

How do you write about a horizon?
if writing is moving, then horizons are impossible.

are horizons like authenticity?

is self awareness a barrier
between me and you?

is self-awareness a barrier between me and... me?

I'm thankful for reflection, though not reflection.
If it wasn't for the mirrors in windows, would I ever see you?

when it's through reflection, I'm not distracted by
you seeing me.

It seems easier that way.

You never know which moments
will remain in your memory

But I think there's a pattern
In just what you mean to me

being able to forget is,
is
is,
is,
is.
.
.
.





what was I talking about?

I drink for the hangover
I don't know why
maybe something about the lucidity
feels better than the high

My best days could be behind me
or they might be ahead
I guess in a way, it's every day
I spend more alive than dead

oh To be a man of god, to be a man of god
I want to take comfort in the feeling that you get
from faith that nothing is wrong,
nothing is wrong, nothing is wrong
just read the book and say your prayers
and all your worries will be gone.
and even in a crisis of faith, a moment of doubt
it always comes back to hope that everything will work out.

 So sure, you'd jump off a bridge for me
but would you, show up consistently
until its, proven by what you do,
that you'll be, there for me when I need you

 At the show, at the bar, at the party
with the alcohol and the novelty
it sure felt good to sit and chat with you
will you be there for me when I need you?

 I'm not entitled to some of your time
I'm not entitled to stand here and whine
I'm not entitled to anything at all
and I'll still stand here wishing you would call

Something I wish I could say to people when I first meet them who end up leaving without explaining why:

"Hello. My name is Jesse. You are probably going to feel overwhelmed as a result of something I say or do. I want to apologise in advance for that. I have one favour to ask you. When you decide to leave, be it due to exhaustion, fear, discomfort, a desire for safety, or simply lack of interest, would you be willing to someday tell me why? Not the nice why, not the why we have been trained to say and hear and handle, but the dark, disgusting, soul-crushing truth that sometimes people simply decide to end a connection? Of course it breaks my heart when this happens, but that is what my heart does. it breaks. it breaks at the silliest times, it breaks so easily. I am tender and brash, I cannot take what I give. Please, please, please be honest with me. And when you aren't, please be honest afterwards, someday."

what if someone expressed the frustration at not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration of not being able to express the frustration as well as that person did?

I think I took a picture of someone once
I think I made someone smile once
She said, you made me look good,
honey, I didn't do anything
except press a button.

I think I made someone smile once
I think I was dancing.
I looked over at you,
honey, I didn't do anything
except what felt nice.

I think I used to be better at this
but I don't remember so well
I think I used to be better at this
but I don't remember so, well
I guess I'll just get drunk and maybe
forget that I've been through hell

she asked me to meditate
so we sat down at night, by the lake
it felt like falling asleep, I guess
strangely enough, she got up and left

im sorry my hands shook that night
im sorry most of the time it doesn't feel right
but thank you I guess, and I don't know why
but thank god you gave me one more good time

show don't tell. show don't tell. never have words stung harder than "show don't tell".

have you ever wondered whether or not you want to be loved?
have you ever wondered whether or not you want to be loved unconditionally?

what if you want to be liked this, much, not that much, at this time, not that time, in this way, not that way
what if you want exactly what you predict, with exactly the right kind of surprises mixed in?

if commitment makes you uneasy, seeing a man in front of you
who feels committed, or willing to commit,
wouldn't that disgust you?
I don't know. There are things I need to learn, perhaps things I fear
things I fear will change me once I accept them.

memory is not an easy thing to have sometimes... I don`t know how to say this properly. I think for me loneliness comes from caring a lot about people. Maybe in an unhealthy way? But I can't help it, so I let it in. I can understand the desire to see life as about feeling. Why can't I do that? I feel helpless. What is helplessness in this case? I have these ideals, and they dictate what I do... don't they? Would I be less helpless if I became contrary? if I started randomly doing the opposite of the ought just to prove I am alive? is it as simple "as find a thing to believe in"? What is emotional stability? Maybe it's like swimming instead of drowning. Do things matter to other people as much as they do to me? Different things as well as different amounts, perhaps. How do you measure? Actions? bah! I wish. I met a dark one, darker than me. She made me less afraid of the dark I find when I'm by myself. I should thank her before she dies.