Ultimo dia de vacaciones : Sydple Perversion
If you read Spanish this is a damned wicked & wild site.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Cacophony
I had a dream this morning that for once in my life, I was thin. I was also handsome, noticeable, and stylish. I could see the ‘Me’ that (I guess) I want to be as, for lack of a better word, being happy. I don’t really know how else to describe it even with the vocabulary I posses and the access to dictionaries, thesauruses, and other reference books in my grasp.
The Me was wearing a nice suit, strolling calmly, never looking down, and smiling. He didn’t seem afraid or hesitant; tranquility was in his demeanor. And, I liked this Me. He was the Me I’ve always dreamt of being, the Me I ached for and reached for time and time again. And when I think I am close enough to touch Him, I hear a roar. It’s like standing in the path of a freight train, but flat. Maybe like being encased in a jet engine, whirring and spinning the turbines in a dull, hurricane roar around you. But it doesn’t feel as if you’re feeling the wind, but surrounded by the noise.
Cacophony.
Since I was 16 years old I have heard this roar, and I can pinpoint the times I heard it:
• I heard it in 1986 when I was sent home from the Marines.
• It mimicked breaking glass when someone chased me for an argument about a married woman.
• I heard it in 1989 when I lost my virginity to someone who didn’t love me, and I pursued nonetheless.
• Again in 1992 when my common-law marriage dissolved with the hatred of my ex.
• I was surrounded by it again in 1995 when I lost a pile of money and had to repay it to my friends.
• No one else ever knew (or shall know) the details of that moment above beyond what I’ve told you.
• It came at me in 1996 when my artistic company folded, collapsing around me, and with the voice of my spiritual mentor saying, “This wasn’t you so I prayed it wouldn’t happen.”
• It came at me as I painted in 2002, hearing my on-line lover died thousands of miles away, paining me that I couldn’t express it to anyone who’d regard it as something actually important to me.
• It attacked me as my last marriage fell apart in 2005.
• It came at me in 2008 when I feared being a cubicle zombie.
• And the scream of flat noise crushed me last year when my mistress returned to her lover.
And hearing it again, today, I am afraid.
I am trying to be brave, but I am sure that I am going to be far from my dreams. And if I don’t voice this and confront it, I will be stuck scared and still, nervous and sick with the fear of what’s going to happen.
Something is coming but I’m not sure what and that’s what’s making me nervous. That’s what’s making me sweat and swear, wonder and fear my days and nights.
I work as much as I can, trying to hold out, but there are few friends I can depend on, or even wish to burden with my fears and anxieties. So I pour out my words, hoping to hear, “You’ll be fine. Just relax. You’re gonna be okay. You’ve always made me smile so let me return the favor.”
But that’s not so, and I can’t take where all these fears rush me. I know the nervousness of counting the minutes until the next bill collector calls, wondering where I’ll get money from, or how I’ll make it on my own. I haven’t been on my own for some time, and my talent is limited. Or at least I think it is, and that scares me.
Is that plain-old paranoia? Or is it just me worrying about nothing at all? Maybe, just maybe, when I have followers, fans … people who love and appreciate my work, I won’t be worried as much. But I know that I am peripheral, a side-glance to them.
I miss having coffee with someone special. I’m sure she’s having coffee with someone else now.
I want more notes, comments, and adulations (or even criticisms) about my work. At least then, I can move to making my professional dreams come true. I am trying to make a conscience effort to have a joyous life and work faster, with more effort to create something amazing and wonderful, to entice and create havoc again and again.
I give away my money, I look to the future, and I try as stubbornly as possible to make my dreams come true. I want a kindred spirit to want to look over my shoulder. I want someone who I won’t be ashamed to show my obscene work or naughty creations. I won’t have to hide, lie, or expect to hold back on the perversions or rituals of my desires.
Some days I can’t look at myself in the mirror.
Some days I want to recreate myself, travelling back in time with the knowledge of now to give to Past-Me, telling him to enjoy and accept himself before it’s too late.
Some days I want a warm bath, a sharp knife and some brandy.
I’ll be 43 this summer. I’d like to have children and experience with someone I want, not someone who wants me; it has to be absolutely mutual. We can go broke together or raise billions together, but it’s Us, together.
Obviously, that’s not gonna happen.
Not yet anyway.
Water … Valerian root pills. It’s late & I need some sleep.
Privacy too.
(Pause)
In my dream, once I (the Me) got around people, I suddenly found myself growing ugly, fat and horrible-looking. Instead of being in the center, I was on the outside, looking in. I was attached to someone I wasn’t sure I liked, who (I think) tolerated me, and who didn’t seem any happier than I was at that moment.
And it scares me because that’s the Inner Me. The abrasive asshole I don’t like or care for in any way, want nothing to do with, and ache to abandon and desert. He’s the guy I wish would die without killing me.
In my heart of hearts, I am unhappy. I can’t climb a mountain and shout it, but I must be a small whisper in the cave to Daniel. And I have to do something else.
I must go on.
I must continue breathing, living and wanting to be happy.
Honestly, I’m not warped, fucked-up, or emotionally damaged. I just know I’ll choose things that aren’t conventional to the rest of the world, and that will lead me back to being alone or sad. A lot of people would “sell their soul to the Devil” to garner fame, fortune, or whatever they prefer. I wish it were that easy. Old Scratch, he ignores me.
Or he doesn’t see me worth his time or trouble, and he’s not a thing I’m afraid of.
I fear God Almighty more. Not because I am scribbling what some may consider pornography, but I am not being true to myself. I am not writing, painting, or building something beautiful.
I know what I want to do; it just comes down to the action, the privacy, the magic. And if you’re even slightly spiritual, you know magic abounds even on this plane.
I need to focus, and I need to leave Texas. There’s too much here making me nuts, flush with fear, and unable to accept a certain level of depravity.
There has to be a new life.
There must be a new way.
There is … I just have to grab it.
I wish I could grab my other dream the same way. She knows who she is in my Life, and I have to accept this calm and fear, before the madness begins.
How is another story.
I have to drown out the cacophony.
I can’t let it drown me.
I can’t drown..
I can’t.
I …
Adios for now.
The Me was wearing a nice suit, strolling calmly, never looking down, and smiling. He didn’t seem afraid or hesitant; tranquility was in his demeanor. And, I liked this Me. He was the Me I’ve always dreamt of being, the Me I ached for and reached for time and time again. And when I think I am close enough to touch Him, I hear a roar. It’s like standing in the path of a freight train, but flat. Maybe like being encased in a jet engine, whirring and spinning the turbines in a dull, hurricane roar around you. But it doesn’t feel as if you’re feeling the wind, but surrounded by the noise.
Cacophony.
Since I was 16 years old I have heard this roar, and I can pinpoint the times I heard it:
• I heard it in 1986 when I was sent home from the Marines.
• It mimicked breaking glass when someone chased me for an argument about a married woman.
• I heard it in 1989 when I lost my virginity to someone who didn’t love me, and I pursued nonetheless.
• Again in 1992 when my common-law marriage dissolved with the hatred of my ex.
• I was surrounded by it again in 1995 when I lost a pile of money and had to repay it to my friends.
• No one else ever knew (or shall know) the details of that moment above beyond what I’ve told you.
• It came at me in 1996 when my artistic company folded, collapsing around me, and with the voice of my spiritual mentor saying, “This wasn’t you so I prayed it wouldn’t happen.”
• It came at me as I painted in 2002, hearing my on-line lover died thousands of miles away, paining me that I couldn’t express it to anyone who’d regard it as something actually important to me.
• It attacked me as my last marriage fell apart in 2005.
• It came at me in 2008 when I feared being a cubicle zombie.
• And the scream of flat noise crushed me last year when my mistress returned to her lover.
And hearing it again, today, I am afraid.
I am trying to be brave, but I am sure that I am going to be far from my dreams. And if I don’t voice this and confront it, I will be stuck scared and still, nervous and sick with the fear of what’s going to happen.
Something is coming but I’m not sure what and that’s what’s making me nervous. That’s what’s making me sweat and swear, wonder and fear my days and nights.
I work as much as I can, trying to hold out, but there are few friends I can depend on, or even wish to burden with my fears and anxieties. So I pour out my words, hoping to hear, “You’ll be fine. Just relax. You’re gonna be okay. You’ve always made me smile so let me return the favor.”
But that’s not so, and I can’t take where all these fears rush me. I know the nervousness of counting the minutes until the next bill collector calls, wondering where I’ll get money from, or how I’ll make it on my own. I haven’t been on my own for some time, and my talent is limited. Or at least I think it is, and that scares me.
Is that plain-old paranoia? Or is it just me worrying about nothing at all? Maybe, just maybe, when I have followers, fans … people who love and appreciate my work, I won’t be worried as much. But I know that I am peripheral, a side-glance to them.
I miss having coffee with someone special. I’m sure she’s having coffee with someone else now.
I want more notes, comments, and adulations (or even criticisms) about my work. At least then, I can move to making my professional dreams come true. I am trying to make a conscience effort to have a joyous life and work faster, with more effort to create something amazing and wonderful, to entice and create havoc again and again.
I give away my money, I look to the future, and I try as stubbornly as possible to make my dreams come true. I want a kindred spirit to want to look over my shoulder. I want someone who I won’t be ashamed to show my obscene work or naughty creations. I won’t have to hide, lie, or expect to hold back on the perversions or rituals of my desires.
Some days I can’t look at myself in the mirror.
Some days I want to recreate myself, travelling back in time with the knowledge of now to give to Past-Me, telling him to enjoy and accept himself before it’s too late.
Some days I want a warm bath, a sharp knife and some brandy.
I’ll be 43 this summer. I’d like to have children and experience with someone I want, not someone who wants me; it has to be absolutely mutual. We can go broke together or raise billions together, but it’s Us, together.
Obviously, that’s not gonna happen.
Not yet anyway.
Water … Valerian root pills. It’s late & I need some sleep.
Privacy too.
(Pause)
In my dream, once I (the Me) got around people, I suddenly found myself growing ugly, fat and horrible-looking. Instead of being in the center, I was on the outside, looking in. I was attached to someone I wasn’t sure I liked, who (I think) tolerated me, and who didn’t seem any happier than I was at that moment.
And it scares me because that’s the Inner Me. The abrasive asshole I don’t like or care for in any way, want nothing to do with, and ache to abandon and desert. He’s the guy I wish would die without killing me.
In my heart of hearts, I am unhappy. I can’t climb a mountain and shout it, but I must be a small whisper in the cave to Daniel. And I have to do something else.
I must go on.
I must continue breathing, living and wanting to be happy.
Honestly, I’m not warped, fucked-up, or emotionally damaged. I just know I’ll choose things that aren’t conventional to the rest of the world, and that will lead me back to being alone or sad. A lot of people would “sell their soul to the Devil” to garner fame, fortune, or whatever they prefer. I wish it were that easy. Old Scratch, he ignores me.
Or he doesn’t see me worth his time or trouble, and he’s not a thing I’m afraid of.
I fear God Almighty more. Not because I am scribbling what some may consider pornography, but I am not being true to myself. I am not writing, painting, or building something beautiful.
I know what I want to do; it just comes down to the action, the privacy, the magic. And if you’re even slightly spiritual, you know magic abounds even on this plane.
I need to focus, and I need to leave Texas. There’s too much here making me nuts, flush with fear, and unable to accept a certain level of depravity.
There has to be a new life.
There must be a new way.
There is … I just have to grab it.
I wish I could grab my other dream the same way. She knows who she is in my Life, and I have to accept this calm and fear, before the madness begins.
How is another story.
I have to drown out the cacophony.
I can’t let it drown me.
I can’t drown..
I can’t.
I …
Adios for now.
Small Epiphany
A Small Epiphany
I was at home, surfing the web, when my parents called. Their car broke down, and I had to give them a ride home. I felt helpless and angry with myself when I heard my mother say, ‘We have to fix the car. We can’t afford to buy another one.’
At that point my stomach had a rotten feeling, like a heap of mushy grossness crept in and settled at the bottom, making me aware of its’ rancidness. I hated myself, my dreams and my ineptitude, and that my dreams keep me from all I’d want. I long to be a best-selling author, to change the world. Now I’d like to buzz their minds and write romance or pornographic novels. All I had ever hoped was that art and writing would make my life better, make me better, and make the world a little better than it is now. And I haven’t been able to do that successfully.
I am broke. Jobs for free don’t pay the bills but they do build an audience, and I am trying to do that now. Build an audience, a group of fans, and the right number of pervy deviates who’d collect and treasure my stories and art.
(Pause)
I began this on Monday last week, and I am beginning another week of chaos and madness.
It’s Sunday morning, Valentine’s Day, and I made love to a woman I settled for, probably fucking up her life indefinitely. I don’t have the money to leave her comfortably. And I dream of someone else who’s not dreaming about me any longer. Even if I leave, I am leaving to be along chasing my dreams, headlong flights into the unknown, hoping for the success and fame I’ve craved all my life.
A friend of mine always says, Jules, one day I may win the lottery, and I’m gonna take care of everyone, present company included.
I hate him saying that. It sounds so fuckin’ charitable.
Moreover, it sounds like pity and a comforting assurance: ‘You can’t do it on your own so I’ll give it to you so you don’t have to work for it.’
FUCK THAT BULLSHIT!
If I didn’t love the work, I’d leave the bullshit of all my dreams behind and accept being a teacher, scribbling poems and reading semi-illiterate works of slime from nonsensical children dying to make their own dreams come true.
I can’t cry.
I can’t wait.
And I can’t make myself sad or hide what’s the deepest truth inside me: I’m not normal, nor shall I ever be, and I’ll only make people sad here in Texas. Life for me will begin with a life elsewhere. Life for me will be a dream caught, a place where I don’t hide or look over my shoulder, when I can be uninhibited and absolutely honest without fear of reproach or breaking someone’s heart ever again. With that money will come the chance to give more than I receive, offer to help and grant their deepest joys and passions wings, and to see them rise above the stratus making their way into the happiness of tomorrow.
Maybe when I’ve seen my dreams arise like the ghost of the Spirit of God on Easter will I finally see a smile that is genuine, aching for all I want and dying to share the future with me, never looking back into the past or behind the sadness that always trails human lives.
Goodnight for now.
More later.
Watch for a portfolio.
~ j ~
(Originally written 02/15/2010)
I was at home, surfing the web, when my parents called. Their car broke down, and I had to give them a ride home. I felt helpless and angry with myself when I heard my mother say, ‘We have to fix the car. We can’t afford to buy another one.’
At that point my stomach had a rotten feeling, like a heap of mushy grossness crept in and settled at the bottom, making me aware of its’ rancidness. I hated myself, my dreams and my ineptitude, and that my dreams keep me from all I’d want. I long to be a best-selling author, to change the world. Now I’d like to buzz their minds and write romance or pornographic novels. All I had ever hoped was that art and writing would make my life better, make me better, and make the world a little better than it is now. And I haven’t been able to do that successfully.
I am broke. Jobs for free don’t pay the bills but they do build an audience, and I am trying to do that now. Build an audience, a group of fans, and the right number of pervy deviates who’d collect and treasure my stories and art.
(Pause)
I began this on Monday last week, and I am beginning another week of chaos and madness.
It’s Sunday morning, Valentine’s Day, and I made love to a woman I settled for, probably fucking up her life indefinitely. I don’t have the money to leave her comfortably. And I dream of someone else who’s not dreaming about me any longer. Even if I leave, I am leaving to be along chasing my dreams, headlong flights into the unknown, hoping for the success and fame I’ve craved all my life.
A friend of mine always says, Jules, one day I may win the lottery, and I’m gonna take care of everyone, present company included.
I hate him saying that. It sounds so fuckin’ charitable.
Moreover, it sounds like pity and a comforting assurance: ‘You can’t do it on your own so I’ll give it to you so you don’t have to work for it.’
FUCK THAT BULLSHIT!
If I didn’t love the work, I’d leave the bullshit of all my dreams behind and accept being a teacher, scribbling poems and reading semi-illiterate works of slime from nonsensical children dying to make their own dreams come true.
I can’t cry.
I can’t wait.
And I can’t make myself sad or hide what’s the deepest truth inside me: I’m not normal, nor shall I ever be, and I’ll only make people sad here in Texas. Life for me will begin with a life elsewhere. Life for me will be a dream caught, a place where I don’t hide or look over my shoulder, when I can be uninhibited and absolutely honest without fear of reproach or breaking someone’s heart ever again. With that money will come the chance to give more than I receive, offer to help and grant their deepest joys and passions wings, and to see them rise above the stratus making their way into the happiness of tomorrow.
Maybe when I’ve seen my dreams arise like the ghost of the Spirit of God on Easter will I finally see a smile that is genuine, aching for all I want and dying to share the future with me, never looking back into the past or behind the sadness that always trails human lives.
Goodnight for now.
More later.
Watch for a portfolio.
~ j ~
(Originally written 02/15/2010)
Thursday, April 1, 2010
And maybe this is the advice I needed long ago ...
Maybe this is why I'm now alone.
~lol~
Always,
Julian
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