Dopamine Junkie's Smoldering Embers |
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Dopamine Junkie's Freak v. 3.0
maximizing more than the freak.
ruthlessly honest with myself.
rebuilding my core.
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Friday, August 31, 2001
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got till it's gone? - Joni Mitchell In Hugo's case, he knew then, and he knows more now. Last night we went for dessert. He took me home, didn't even want to come into my house or see my new room. So we talked for a long time. And of course there were tears. Sitting across a table from him he watched amusedly as I scarfed a big piece of strawberry cake. The strain was on. We rolled through all the perfunctory topics, the work, mutual friends, his new activities and plans for the future. I remembered that once I had wished for a man with ambitions and drive. This was the man. Brilliant and well adjusted enough to go anywhere, do anything. People respect him because he has learned how to approach even the most alpha male, and quietly become his ally. Last night he stared at me with eyes of attraction. Last night he told me that when I broke up with him that he was more in love with me than he'd ever been. Last night he said, "I realize now that most of the responsibility of why we grew stagnant and distant was mine." Last night he said, "I still adore you - now more than ever because I don't have you." Last night he said, "I'm so sorry. I don't know who I was back then, that man that hurt you so much." Last night he said, "People ask me if I still have space/a place for you in my life. And I tell them that I wouldn't be the man I am today without your influence, and what I learned about myself when I was with you. And that as long as I know you exist, that you sometimes still think of me, that we have some sort of connection, I am happy." I don't remember the last time we slept together, or even had sex. I remember though, thinking all those times he walked out on me, or treated me poorly, would he treat me differently if he knew that he just missed his last chance to kiss my mouth, or lie next to my small and warm naked body? If he knew that each time he hurt me I was closer to leaving, would he have been so careless and spiteful and inattentive? Nothing but regret for us both. I planned to spend the rest of my life with him, once. We're so well suited to each other. In a lot of ways. But he'd never take the inner freak for a walk, or a run. But everything else I wanted, he had the capacity to give me. But I think, between the seething rage and hurt between us, he didn't think I deserved it anymore. I asked him if he thought he was more of a man now. After us, I mean. He said he'd learned so much about himself with me. Another graduate of the DJ Finishing school for boys. Now he's more successful than when we were together. We started out, when we lived together, making the same salary. It was a strange competition between us as we were both fast trackers. He'd get a raise/promotion, I'd get one, he'd get another one, I'd get another one. We sort of paced each other and now he's light years ahead. Well. He gets salary plus commission. He wants to buy a house now. Or open his own business. Or go to law school. All of which he is entirely capable of doing although he's only 25. He says, "I'm financially in a position to buy a house, but now I have no one to share it with." Looks at me, with a look I can't define. Longing? Regret? Or was I projecting that in the dim light of the lamppost? I'm sleeping later and waking later I'm eating less and thinking more And how am I without you? Am I more myself or less myself? I feel younger, louder Like I don't always connect Like I don't ever connect And do you like being single? Do you want me back? - Everything but the Girl He says that he's been dating an older woman. Just like ex-boy! And that she's in love with him. I say nothing. What is there to say? Only a few seconds of panic do I allow myself in thinking, did I make a mistake? Should I have tried harder, gone to counselling with him, should I have been more tenacious? I allow myself those brief flashes, breathe through them, and let them go. He said last night, "You were right to end it. I couldn't have done it. I was too in love with you. And anyway, we're both happier now." Happier now. Thursday, August 30, 2001
Acupuncturist diagnosis:
Ch'i and Blood Stasis. it took a long time for your health to become this poor. it's gonna take almost as long for you to set it right again. my body will take it's time to heal. Energy and blood. Flow smoothly within me again. I need a transfusion. To help expel the old by filling me with the new. Pure fresh blood to sing red with love hearts and plasma. And when I am cut again, by the sharp teeth on my tender skin, I'll bleed fresh and feel it fresh Instead of just the old black blood from the wounds that never healed. *** On the topic of dissolving identity (like Tang into water) Give up all the worst of yourself so that Love might change it for the better and turn your Pain into Triumph, into gold. Hold tight to the best of yourself. You'll need it to hold my interest and affection. *** Coffee tonight with Hugo. What's to discuss? Pitter Patter. I'll give him back some of his stuff. That I've been superstitious about giving back to him. But ya, now I'm ready to let it go (except for the pieces I will select for the Ex-Boyfriend collection) *** Since my laptop is dead, don't know when I'll post again this week, but if I'm inspired, I'll try. No work tomorrow or Monday for me! YEEEHAW! (Dopamine Junkie regains composure, adjusts clothing, and has a sip of water) Settling down. At work, clockwatching. 2 hours to four days of freedom. Headphones on - Listening the LL's Doin it . . . . Hoping the once fail-safe anthem will get me hot and sticky in my panties. Wednesday, August 29, 2001
Perhaps it is that I must fully understand my enslavement to conditioned response,
before I can effectively liberate myself from it. this is a painful process. but there's the U.S. Marines quote I found: Pain is weakness leaving the body. This morning I replayed a painful moment in my mind, over and over, until I got that heady sensation, the rush of tenderness, hurt and falling. And that's what I am today. Fallen. I don't like the show Seinfeld that much but I have watched it. There's an episode wher Jason Alexander's character (George) realizes that all his instincts are wrong, and that if he does the exact opposit of his instincts, it seems that everything My instincts are to bend, yield, accomodate, nurture, put someone else's feelings before my own growth. My instincts are the function? Input >function>output Domain = All of the beauty and fuck-uped-ness of Love (Love Stimulus?) Function = Instincts based on behavior conditioning (Receptors/Stimulus processors) Range = All possible reactions to Love Stimulus (Response) Mathletes will laugh at my attempt to synthesize a formula to explain my reactions/actions. I was never really good at math. Loans Loans Loans. I owe every cent I have to someone else. The tax man is coming after me again, student loans are piling up - I'm still lucky in a way because whenever I have any extra money coming my way it's just enough to cover some new huge debt or expense that otherwise I would never be able to pay. Wait, there's no lift in that. We must concentrate on lift. I have a small gig in the coming weeks with a jazz combo. I'm singing again and it's therapeutic for me. All my personal electronic devices are on a simultaneous meltdown. At home, my laptop seems to have just died. Some kind of hardware failure maybe? It's a good thing anyway, since our DSL connection is off - fucking Pac Bell won't ever let accounts change names over without totally stopping the service for a couple weeks. My mini disc is still working, but is obviously having a very hard time and skipping a lot. I'm not feeling particularly focused today. It's just one day where my energies seem so scattered and unharnessable. All I want to do is moisturize and sleep. In the meantime, the young green eyed object of my affection is suffering the pangs of love. I can see so clearly what I once was like, reflected in him. I understand that insecurity, jealousy and neediness that comes with the intensity of being in love for the first time. And I try to extend my patience for this reason. I try to think Parisian about these love affairs - jealous lover, tempest, passionate rejoining. That's not unmanageable or unreasonable drama, I try to tell myself, that's normal. While he pouts and attempts to be apathetic, represses the intensity of his emotion and struggles to find the frequency of his happy medium, I sit and fluctuate between the empathy and sympathy/the irritation and impatience. I am his rite of passage from boyhood to manhood. As I was for most of my LTRs. But what about me? Am I still a girl (because I feel like I am) ? Do I still need some rite of passage for myself, to become a "real woman" ? If so, what is it? Or have I already created it for myself and I don't know it? Friday, August 24, 2001
Friday morning
Last night the fog horns drove me insane. I dreamt violent dreams. That I killed one of my girlfriends. Because there were 2 of them, and one was evil. And I killed her with smashing blows of my fists. Wrapped her up in extension cords and threw her body in a plastic dry cleaning bag I was in some kind of hotel room, with 2 male friends I didn't know. Cut off her engorged clit, which I held in my hands to put into a jar of olives which I emptied. I hate green olives. I was going to put her clit into a jar, but as I was holding it, it grew and grew until it exploded in cum like a penis, getting on my face, all over a bathtub, a little in my mouth. I was disgusted and I spat it out. Put it into the jar and sealed it. Some asian boy who used to live in my house (we've never had an asian boy living in my house) had moved and wanted his couches back. I was in a hotel with 2 male friends, one a ruddy faced curly blonde man again, no one I recognized, we were on the run from leaving the body in the hotel room. The body wouldn't die so I had to smash it in the head again and again until the eyes fluttered closed and lost consciousness. Then we slipped out the room and into an elevator. As the doors of the elevator closed I heard someone scream with the discovery of the mess in the room. And the sirens came, and I was on the run. Up first in the elevator to fool them, then down to the basement where there was a movie theatre. In the dark I slip into a seat with my friends, one seat, me, man, man, empty seat. We are safe for a few moments. The men I'm with have friends who come to sit by us. I sink further down into the seat. (ah, no, the dream is slipping away, fading from memory) The chase begins as a little old lady somehow recognizes me. And I begin to run, and I am running and hiding, somewhere onto a highway, and I am on a tour bus, on a bridge. I get out and there is a parking garage, I am on the underground floor. Walking between cars, sweating. I am now a man, myself. Then I am me again, a girl. A black girl recognizes me and she and her friends call me out, the pervert or something. - You looking to get some? A circle forms, and the leader of the girls wants to fight me. For some reason my right leg and right arm have the strength of lead pipes. She takes a swing, and I warn her - I don't want to hurt you. She sneers at me and slaps me upside the head. - You're a sick bitch, she says. I'm gonna fuck you up. She bounces close to me, and with one right cross to her chin, and a roundhouse kick to her chest, I lay waste to her as well. Her friends crowd in, and I conquer them all with the same movements. Little old lady screams again - IT'S THE MURDERER! And again I am on the run, a man now, leaping and bounding about. . (slipping, fading, evaporating the dream is leaving me) I remember not much more, except hanging off the ledge of the upper deck of the parking lot, and the heavyset blonde strange man coming up to me to say, - Damn, that was totally fucked up. Thursday Love affairs for me are always a tempestuous thing. Rife with danger to my sanity, and to my self; but dripping and succulent with the meat and juice of life. Ah Tempest. Wilt thou not leave me with some peace? Why do you pursue me into every relationship? I am tired today, from work, from acupuncture, from damage control. In the mail, another letter from Hugo - "I feel so distant from you." If relationships are about talking, about communicating, then I will always be destined to be a colossal failure. Part of me thinks I should have held on to my teenage angst and mistrust of other humans. That I should have kept my 15 year old motto of Love Sucks. In the past few weeks a new level of tenderness has evolved between the Pyromaniac and I. But at what cost? I see no more of my friends. I chase after him in the street as he stalks away in a pout. He's in love and I know it. And I have been through those painful moments of in love, the torture of it, the heady drug like effects. I have been the psychotic jealous girl; not so long ago. Which is why I try to exercise compassion and patience for his fits of jealousy. He found me through these digital messages. And he holds the duplicity I recorded in these writings against me. He holds my free will against me. He holds the fact that I succumbed so easily to him against me. He has read these, my inner thoughts, and now he holds every word against me until I have no recourse. His love is new, but he knows already how to wield it like a weapon. To use it to paint himself my victim. And I, with my overdeveloped sense of empathy, of nurturing, fall headlong down that slippery slope of codependence. My beautiful terrible pattern of loving. Like an equation that always yields the same number, no matter what my factors are. I am exhausted by these jealous fits. I am exhausted of having to defend my exhaustion. To the point of resignation. To the point I am catatonic. To the point where I feel trapped at this level of unhealthy codependence. Trapped by what? Love again, that culprit. Rendering me weak and helpless. I take the responsibility. I am always the one to blame. Because I believe I am the more sentient being. Or am I? Is it that he is more in touch with his feelings than I am? Is it that I am so dehumanized and calloused that my capacity for encompassing love is too flawed now? Am I a terrible person for wanting space? One morning he spat at me: YOU HURT HUGO. YOU HURT ME. YOU HURT EVERYONE AROUND YOU. FIX YOURSELF! The tender words of my not always gentle lover. Emotionally, we compete with issues, with martyrdom and retarded methods of communication. Passive aggression meets passive aggression. Some days, I have no hope. Other days, I hope for the best. Love affairs like this should be taken day by day, I think. Scratch one day if it's spoiled. Start fresh with Love the next. The point is, you're with someone if you're still willing to try to get it right. And the willingness to try, the desire to make things work, the desire to learn more about one another, that's what keeps lovers side by side. What I learned with Hugo, though, is that sometimes you can give up trying, but live within the holding pattern. Two ghosts sleeping beside each other in the night. Sometimes in this life, things between people don't work out. For reasons of timing, or perhaps because it just wasn't meant to be. Besides the jealous tantrums and occasional vitriol spat in my face, the Pyromaniac is the most attentive and affectionate man I've been with. id (d) n. In Freudian theory, the division of the psyche that is totally unconscious and serves as the source of instinctual impulses and demands for immediate satisfaction of primitive needs. Id to id, I'd say he and I work pretty well. Our communication is best expressed physically, both of us being sexually adventurous, libidinous twentysomethings. And through touching, caressing, kissing, sucking and biting we express all the things we are feeling but cannot say. He defiles me, cherishes me, caresses me, spanks me, bathes me . . . wraps me up in a coccoon of care. Takes my backpack from my back, undresses and dresses me, gazes at me with hot and hungry green eyes, quirks the corner of his pretty mouth in a way that makes me crazy, lets me know that he sees me. I am a small girl and I want to offer my little body to him. To be devoured. I am a small girl and I want to crawl all over him, to nuzzle and nibble like a small animal. We are 2 children walking hand in hand through the trees smiling at the plant life (flora) and the bird life, and the creatures (fauna). All the things the Dopamine Junkie first posted about on CL: the masterful desire focused on me, the private state of consensualized desire, that table for two, he satisfies. He takes my inner freak by the hand and together with his own freak we walk side by side, teasing, playful, primal, thick with passion. He feeds the kitty until the kitty can take no more. He strokes my brain fuckhole with ease. I love to incite him. He rewards me with a ravishing. Dirty and sweet, right? I just can't seem to get it right. It shouldn't be this hard. It doesn't have to be this hard. I'm conflicted by what id wants, and what superego wants. What is delicious, and what is healthy. But without trust, we are forever doomed to tempest. And the beauty of our rapport will be poisoned by a green eyed monster, and the catatonic damsel, too defeated to be distressed, and too inconsolable to be rescued. Tuesday, August 21, 2001
The Net caught me again.
Alltrue.com caught me. Human beings are funny. Kitty Girl little sexual animal Messy Fun in the Mud
Another reason to rejoice: I got tix to Bjork at the Paramount in October!
I was waiting and waiting to get to the internet advance tix sale, but I still got shitty tix. But who cares? It's her. I went back to this site where she has this long interview, and then I start to thinking again about how I would never be worthy enough to be her best friend.
My upswing is careening wildly out of control.
The neural activity is too heavy for me to manage. Been talking to my housemate about his relationship with his ex. He fucked up and she broke up with him. He's still in love with her and she's really putting him through the paces. He's been through all the months of remorse and anger and loneliness and dating . . . still can't shake her. He asks me tonight, because I am friends with her, what he should do. - Should I stop seeing her? Should I just put myself out of my misery? I look at him, a 35 year old man, still suffering all the same uncertain pangs of Love, still unsure as to how to handle it, afraid of possibly missing his chance to fight for the love of his life, but tortured by loving a woman he lost because of his own indiscretion. - You're asking me? I answer. Don't listen to anything I have to say. I'm always getting myself into heart trouble. I can never free myself of it. He is silent. Thinking. Torn between wanting to loose himself of the Love Shackles, and desperately wanting to feel her naked skin again. So I offer him all I know. - There's a mountain of pain and bullshit between the two of you, which obscures both your visions of the other, that other you fell in love with, that other which still exists. You can't see each other anymore, there's too much between you. She loves you but she might be conflicted. She might want you but you hurt her, and she needs to constantly evaluate whether she is strong enough to be with you, to forgive and forget - decide whether or not it is healthy for her to have you in her life. She's in your life as much as she can be, as much as she can take. You shouldn't ask for more. Not right now. As for that which is between you, you can either grow separately over it, elevate yourselves, or you can let it erode with time and that "water over the bridge" or "under the bridge" thing. [Regret, remorse, guilt, loss. Sometimes subconscious sabotage works its way into interactions. Fear of loving, fear of losing love twists normally pragmatic mentalities and makes mush of minds. Tempers flare, tensions escalates, and you're left at home, sitting by the phone like a pathetic stoned idiot. Then the tears come. Because deep inside it's no one's fault but you're own. For risking your heart, for being impatient, for distorting the facts. ] Love is twisted. But as I said, what do I know? What do I know ? My relationship with Hugo is in a tense but hopeful space. He called and asked if I had any time last night, as he was visiting in the City, but I'd told him we were still having housemate interviews, and perhaps another time. It's a forced casual-ness. Both of us trying to be cool in an attempt to re-establish a lover-less friendship. I ask him about the women he's dating, gritting my teeth in case of pain, and then he tells me, little tidbits, nothing salacious, only vague, (as vague as I am) and I slowly exhale through it. We can only be vague, still. Both afraid to be hurt. Both afraid to hurt each other. Lift Healthier and a bit more sane. Centered from my vacation and meditative time with my best friend and shared sunsets. More aware of my flaws and failings. Motivated to keep the momentum of the upswing. On the path again, and I have to focus of Lift, on positivity, on rebuilding my confidence and self-esteem brick by painful brick. Uplifting thoughts, activities, people. Realizing that there are too many relationships in my life in which there are competitions for sympathy, for tragedy. One person's tears mollifying the other - being around people who want to keep you at a level you've already graduated from, because it makes them feel better about themselves. My overinflated sense of empathy leads me down a slippery slope to codependence. Drama is not equal to relationship glue. That's the quickest way to resent the other person. When guilt binds you. DJ: How can you tell the difference between codependence and empathy? Vox 1: When empathy begins to compromise what is good for the Self, to diminish the importance of Self and Self's desires/feelings. Compassion can be selfless. Passion is a selfish thing. Passion is the thing you want . DJ: But what about concessions, the little compromises that one makes for Love? Vox 1: Compromising for the sake of the relationship is one thing - habits, preferences, radio stations. Compromising the self and the growth of self - these are the things we must not compromise. Because if we do, we will grow inevitably to resent the thing that holds us back, and our spirit will struggle against it. Did you like the Sexy Robots? Want more Sorayama? I want to find peace with my heart, with myself. I want romance to be a gentle and patient commingling of spirit and ether and energy. I want passion to be liquid gold honey coursing through my veins, a heady vapor that envelopes me and moisturizes my skin. Luscious lips lightly licking luscious lips. Being crushed. Merging of flesh. Hot breath and ragged whispers in my ear. Strong hands holding my own. Heat. A bite on my calf, my ankle, the back of my knee. Biting till it hurts a little. Kiss to make it better. Good Morning Grid. the dopamine junkie _end of line_ Monday, August 20, 2001
I like e.e. cummings.
love's function is to fabricate unknownness (known being wishless; but love, all of wishing) though life's lived wrongsideout,sameness chokes oneness truth is confused with fact, fish boast of fishing and men are caught by worms (love may not care if time totters, light droops, all measures bend nor marvel if a thought should weigh a star -dreads dying least; and less, that death should end) how lucky lovers are (whose selves abide under whatever shall discovered be) whose ignorant each breathing dares to hide more than most fabulous wisdom fears to see (who laugh and cry) who dream, create and kill while the whole moves; and every part stands still
(hello all. it's been a hectic week.)
It's Monday morning and I am back at work after taking all of last week off! I feel so much better, healthier, and more refreshed. I swear I was the only one smiling today as I walked into my office. O dear reader(s): I have much to impart from last week's events, but I have to get to work right now. Tonight I will have some time to brew and stew and serve. But here's a few things from last week I jotted down in spare moments: Wednesday, 08.15, 3.17 a.m. It’s been a hectic time. Hugo’s mother is taking the transplant well. It’s a load off of everyone’s mind. And it facilitated a way for me to breakthrough the build up of fear that was accumulating from the waiting. Meanwhile I have good and bad things to report about my own health. I had an acupuncture appointment last Friday – and I’m doing really well. So well I’ve been lax about taking my herbs. So well I’ve smoked a few bowls and a few cigs and had a small cup of coffee. I fell off! But I have company here from out of town, old friends, and my bestest friend in the entire world is here. You know how that is. Wanting to have a “good time.” I am a “girl who likes to have a good time.” I've also been on vacation this whole week from work. I didn't have enough money to go anywhere, really, so I'm just still here, in the City so small, where friends are congregating at my house and almost every evening is a small party. I have a project I’m working on. Which has taken the bulk of my creative energies these past few days. A digi film based on the “asian fetish.” So we filmed and I had the freaky girls over, and some other friends to help. Representation from a gay man in drag, a lesbian and 3 hetero women. It didn’t really turn out the way I wanted to – which is my fault, I know. But I’m not going to dog it now – we had a fun time filming but really, I understand now that this is what I get for trying to wrangle content out of a few very self-absorbed women. A choice choice packet Monday morning - 08.13 This morning I became interested in Gnosticism for the first time. I was looking up Syncratism and stumbled upon Gnosis. The Pyromaniac introduced me to the Nag Hammadi. Why the sudden interest in this of all topics? I went to church on Sunday – the Baptist church I grew up in, a place full of people I know, people who have known me all my life. Good people. And in the midst of such a tumultuous time in my life, I wonder why I stopped believing. And when. Not that I ever stopped believing. But I lost the devotion, the zeal and the conviction somewhere around the time I lost my virginity. It seems like since then it’s all been a struggle. A more conscious struggle? I do not look down on, or feel any judgement or righteousness over anyone who chooses to practice a religion. I do not think those people are naive, or easily brainwashed, or righteous assholes trying to convert the world. I myself come from a devout family of pastors, priests, bible study leaders, student missionaries and gospel singers. As I thought of my downward spiral while sitting in the pews, I saw the merit, the solace which the church, belief and fellowship provided for wretched souls like me, who think themselves unforgivable, unlovable, wretched and unclean, impure inside. Thursday, August 09, 2001
Life and love and sex and everything else I can think of. . .
it's all about context. The setting and the backdrop and the soundtrack to the Love Stories. The love stories never die. The love stories of our lives! They evolve, the love evolves, the care evolves, until we are old and thick with love that surrounds us. And we tell our love stories to the young ones. And we will teach them that it is all worth it, every beautiful and painful moment. Here's what I've been figuring out about myself. With the help of the men friends and ex lovers in my life. Shaping the Girl I grew up defined first by my family. Normal, right? I used my relationships with men to define myself away from the family. I used relationships with men to define myself. Typical. Now how do I define myself, just myself -- without the family, without the significant other, just me? I had a conversation with serious boyfriend #1 the other day, previously known as the character CherryPopper. He’s the one who stole my virginity, and my virgin heart. Insight gained through instant messaging Dope J: did I love myself when I was with you? Dope J: did I have any self respect? CherryPopper: No. CherryPopper: But I loved you so much. Dope J: me too Dope J: I loved you so much too Dope J: but I didn't know those things about myself Dope J: how is it that you knew, and I didn't? CherryPopper: I know. Dope J: even now, J. Dope J: years later Dope J: I'm still struggling CherryPopper: You always call me an old man. The advantage of that is I'm wise beyond my years. Dope J: to not self-destruct CherryPopper: I know. Dope J: why am I this way? CherryPopper: I don't know, sweetheart. Dope J: was I ever a lighthearted girl? CherryPopper: Sometimes. Dope J: did I ever, ever have a chance at being normal CherryPopper: It's not important to be normal. Dope J: because even though so much has happened to me, Dope J: inside, I'm still wretched CherryPopper: But it is important to love and respect yourself. Dope J: and I feel that nothing's changed Dope J: like I don't know how to *be* at peace Dope J: and I abuse myself CherryPopper: I always wanted my love to make you that way, but it can't. Dope J: because *somebody has to* Dope J: I know that sounds totally fucked up Dope J: but I guess I'm totally fucked up CherryPopper: Not entirely. Dope J: and it's not someone else's love that saves you CherryPopper: No, it's not. Dope J: because that's the ceiling, the wall, that every man who's ever loved me, hits CherryPopper: I'm sure. Dope J: that I am unloveable Dope J: uncommunicative Dope J: and despite my bravado and confidence and self-esteem CherryPopper: You are eminently lovable. Dope J: inside I feel worthless and petty Dope J: and I don't show it, I try not to Dope J: because of all the reasons I have to be thankful Dope J: and I have always looked to the men in my life Dope J: (I know, what an obvious father complex) Dope J: to provide the love I don't have for myself. Dope J: and then, there's the failure CherryPopper: I know. It is very hard for me to understand how you could not find something about yourself to love. Dope J: because someone else's love is never enough CherryPopper: It's not. Dope J: and then i get mad at the boy Dope J: and then i turn the anger on myself 100% more Dope J: because I'm to blame Dope J: I'm the one who doesn't deserve Dope J: I'm the one who doesn't merit Dope J: I'm the one with all the hang ups Dope J: I'm the one who's more stoic than any stoic man I've ever encountered. CherryPopper: This is not something you should beat yourself up for. You did no permanent damage to me. Dope J: Yo soy mas macho que todos mis novios CherryPopper: Maybe you should take some time out and be alone for a while. Dope J: I think that Dope J: a lot Dope J: but I can't seem to do it Dope J: there's always a man in my life Dope J: who wants to take care of me CherryPopper: Of course there is. Dope J: and I succumb, I yield Dope J: it's easier Dope J: it's a habit Dope J: a pattern of which I am aware CherryPopper: I was alone for a long time, and it was very good for me. Dope J: but seemingly incapable of breaking CherryPopper: Has it ever occurred to you that all these men can't be wrong? Dope J: all these men can't be wrong about what? CherryPopper: That you are worth loving. Dope J: yes Dope J: but Dope J: there's a limit - sometimes it's 3 years, sometimes 3 months Dope J: as I said Dope J: before I shut down Dope J: in the relationship Dope J: and I don't allow myself to be loved CherryPopper: But you have been loved over and over. And you think it is an accident or a mistake? Dope J: I’m lucky is all. CherryPopper: Why do you think I loved you? CherryPopper: Did you know how then? CherryPopper: Was I that dumb that you could just manipulate me into loving you? CherryPopper: Not quite. Dope J: could i ask why you loved that girl? the old me, I mean? CherryPopper: I know you like to believe it was some kind of entrapment, but it wasn't. Dope J: I wore that see-through shirt Dope J: I am guilty Dope J: I knew what would happen CherryPopper: Because you are beautiful, and I felt like we had the same mind. CherryPopper: Because I still think of things that are funny or wonderful and I know you're the only person who would really understand. ****** So it appears that I have always been this way, these cycles of self loathing and self destruction have been a part of me since I was 17 – 20, the years I was with him. Obscure music and film references, a shared sense of the ridiculousness of life and humanity, a love and passion for art, music, literature and architecture – these are the things I offered him as a girl and a girlfriend. These elements have become part of my value add, my profile, “what I bring to the table.” Plus I clean up well, speak 5-6 languages reasonably well, can be impressive to parents and friends alike, I cook, clean, dance and sing. And I can be as soft as a man is hard. Oh yeah, and despite my self-described sexual dysfunction and anhedonia, the green eyed Pyromaniac has generously said that I “fuck like a sex goddess.” Sex goddess? Fuck bunny? Tiger? Babygirl slut? Angel Whore? Naw, just a human girl on planet earth! That's all! I swear! Speaking of the Pyromaniac, a 4 alarm fire in my synapses last weekend. No one ever has switched so effortlessly and quickly with me. If a camera were to observe our sexual interaction, the viewer would be breathless and dizzy – by the alacrity with which we flow our sexual energy into different personas, stern, frightening, dom, sub, sweet, nasty, dirty. . . Dirty and sweet. Like a lollipop that fell on the ground but the 5 second rule says you can still suck on it. Oh and to suck. . . . so sweetly like a pacifier. In the morning, he offers me his cock as I offer him my breast. To suckle awake. Or to be suckled awake. ~~~~~~~ Picked up this link at Sensible Erection. Math was never so sexy! Tuesday, August 07, 2001
Inspirational Imaginations
Gaudi - take me away to Barcelona . . Listen for the scream Sometimes I feel a little Jung. Anima And Animus The animus of a woman is influenced by her father and may have negative effects which are said to lead to coldness, obstinacy and inaccessibility; in myth these attributes are symbolized by robbers, murderers and death demons. Ah, there's no need to talk about my animus then. It's all perfectly clear, isn't it? I don't think my animus is hidden, though. It's well defined, placed outside myself, my own male eye assessing me with my own masculine filter. In my dreams the animus takes shape, a murderer who pursues me relentlessly and agilely, knifing and slashing through the crowd to get to me, always a few breaths behind. I fly, he jumps. In flight I can elude him, but he bounds from point to point, ready to pounce on me wherever I choose to rest. I am afraid and yet unafraid. His face is a man's face. But his eyes are my own. Animus. Superego. The metaphysical self coming after the infintesimalme. The spirit running after the bedraggled flesh, whispering fiercely: Catch up. Catch up. Catch up. But have I fallen behind? I don't feel it. In my circles there are all kinds of energies. My flow of data shaped by a multiple layer OSI model, too. Jung believed that each of us carried in our psyche an unconscious image of ourselves as the opposite gender . . . . . The most frequent manifestation of the anima takes the form of erotic fantasy. The anima can be projected onto a woman until she appears to have its qualities. Is Dope J your anima? Something soft and gentle, dirty and sweet. A virtual guide on your hero's arc. Dope J is my animus. She sometimes talks like a boy, wishes to be a boy, looks and objectifies other women as a boy might. She is stoic like a man, stubborn and cold. ****** New theme: Contrition. Call from Hugo left on my VM last night - why didn't he call me at home? His mother had been flown up from Central California here to UCSF, where she is currently in the ICU. I just got the message this morning. I'll go to see him and the family, if I can, today. It will mark the first time I will have seen him since the Change. Last night he sounded like he really needed me. She's apparently not doing well at all, has acute liver failure and if they don't find a donor in a few days she'll be gone. But we're always thinking the worst news. I called my mom and sisters at home and asked them to say a prayer for her. *****time lapse****** I just spent the last 6 hours or so with Hugo and his family. Waiting in the waiting room. Walking around the hospital. How was it? What was it like? To drop everything to see my ex boyfriend who I have not seen since May because his mother is in the hospital, waiting for a new liver or she'll die? Hmm. I can't find pretty words to describe it. I showed up and we hugged and I could feel how much he needed it. I could feel how much he missed me. I could feel how much it meant to him that I was there. I wasn't thinking of myself. Of what I felt. Even now I can't think of what I feel. We went to get food, talked, walked around outside periodically when the pressure cooker of a waiting room was too much. I cried. I was sad and glad to see him. Not mad. He's doing well, lots of activities. His mother didn't want him to see her when she first fell ill. I've told him that I was ill too. And he wrote to me about how sad and frustrating it has been for him. That the 2 women he cares about most in this life are both ill, and neither wished to see him. How lonely that must have felt for him. And I felt bad about shutting him out. But this is the way things are. I was glad to be here for him when he needed me. I didn't know if I was ready to see him. But I guess readiness is not something anyone can really decide. Being ready is just a matter of timing, and reaction. I asked him if he had been dating and he said that yes, he'd been going out on dates. But he also said that he missed me a lot, and that if he couldn't have the same quality of companionship I provided for him, that he would rather "do without." But he's always been a creature who was better off on his own. He's internally motivated and very outgoing and dynamic. Smart, hardworking and determined enough to make a success out of everything he gets involved in. In light of today's events, and the sight of his mother's husband, his sister, his family, and Hugo himself, sitting quietly with their thoughts, trying to laugh and uplift one another -- my pain lessened. Ah, perspective. Always the bigger, fresher pain which mollifies the other. So this was the first step for me, in healing what has been unresolved with Hugo. My health has also been improving. Acupuncture again on Friday. Been taking vitamins and eating well. Getting lots of rest. Thank you for being patient with me. I'm sorry if I've been difficult, uncommunicative and sporadic in writing. But I'm on a comeback trail. Thank you, though. Friday, August 03, 2001
Bedraggled
Information and bits and packets all moving so quickly fast faster Not even time for a breath. Not enough time for thought. Not enough time for rest. If only this were not 2001. Maybe then I could be sent to a sanitarium "for reasons of health". I would walk about, or be pushed about in a chair with wheels. Blanket on my lap. Sympathetic nurses and doctors. Fresh fruit. Writing and reading and listening to music. Somewhere the air is good for my lungs. Something like that. Instead I'm sick with some mysterious undiagnosable pain. And yet, I go to work, I walk around, take the bus to the acupuncture clinic, I "manage". The physical stress. The emotional stress. The normal stress of not enough time, not enough money, not enough shoes, not enough time. All kind of coming to a head. Crashing down on my shoulders. All wound up and tense again. I'd go for a massage and a hot tub if I could afford it. But I have to save money for a security deposit due next week. So I'm tapped out. Can't take muscle relaxers or ibuprofen no more. My liver says NO. Can't toke anymore. My lungs say NO. So I sit here and try to breathe, stretch where I can, before it hurts again. Sipping tea. Feeling lame and weak. I feel like I'm choking, a little. Chinese doctor says to be patient with treatment. I know I know Patience. It took me this long to get this fucked up. And now, my body chooses to press the RESET button without notifying me prior. I guess my superego isn't on disable after all. I can't wait to get better. I can't wait to be "normal". Or something close to it. Waiting for the acupuncturist Sometimes I sit quietly and stare into space. Empty of thought, of concern. Focus on the external, people-watching. Ingesting. Invisible. It is not a bad feeling. It is not "vacuous". It is a meditative moment. Being. Nothingness. Existential. When it's quiet like this, I take the moments and let my innervoices speak to me. let my blood do the singing. And I hear the words, silent husky whispers In the ether floating together Connected by thought, yeah. Attention, existence, captured here. A game. Of I gotcha! And you want to be got. Yucky In the process of growing and living we decide our actions. The sum of these actions supposedly defines our character. Sometimes I look in the mirror into the reflected sum, and I am not pleased or satisfied by how I have defined myself. I always wanted to be that ethereal, good hearted, dynamic beauty. Whose kindness, talent and determination were of wide renown. Someone undeniably beautiful on the inside and the outside. "She had a way of making people feel good to be around her As it should be" - Morphine, All Wrong Instead I am small and dark and I exist mostly in stillness and shade; surrounded by friends but with limited closeness or import to any of them. My fault too, I know. I'm private. I'm secretive. I don't always let my feelings out. I can't communicate well. I don't feel like I can let anyone, even my best friend in the world, into my feelings. Who cares, anyway? I learned to keep my shit to myself, not burden anyone overmuch with me, show people what they can handle and maybe a little more, but the rest of me is solely my responsibility. What's in there anyway, but self-loathing and pain? I'm a lonely hub. And I isolate myself. To protect me, to protect others. From what? Just my darkness. My ugliness. Wednesday, August 01, 2001
I was awakened by tummy pains again in the middle of the night.
Between the hours of 3 a.m. and 4.50 a.m. I was wide awake. Watching television, clutching my tummy, drinking tea and holding a hot pad to my tummy in an effort to quiet the shooting pains. Before that, a night of despair. Just some turmoil is all.
Another night in phases. Emotional Tides.
Written somewhere in the 3 o'clock hour yesterday afternoon: Theme: withdrawal + resignation forced ambivalence jonesing for cigarettes xx vs. xy Fly in the Flypaper of my mind: Chicago, Hard to Say I'm Sorry "Everybody needs a little time away," I heard her say, "From each other." "Even lovers need a holiday Far away From each other." a l'un cote: he is something, has something I desire and now crave perhaps this was the point a maybe glitch a dissociated glance at a ghost in the corner behind him firing up the inner shields now that he's yet another layer closer to me let him in a little more and the old skool mechanisms fire off, pressure sensitive cannot allow self to be so easily overcome that was the new protocol and I coded it myself in the lowest language hardwired for resistance laying out my own honeypots something he has, it's not just shiny it's got something written on it in some kind of script but I'm too far away yet so it's hard to read. So I'm drawn in. And I lay down and let me go. if i could be sweetened so all the time why not? if i walked in secret sensual serenity why not? i hold on to this exoskeleton built to protect me toughened with pain my most ever present attendant, this pain. if I let it go, I am nothing but naked vulnerable tender meat inside. sentient meat. a l'autre cote: let it go. don't force what makes me cry. do I need another reason? why not just be "well adjusted" and "solitary" gregarious but unreachable past the smile stop this hoping. stop this aching. (which I let in, which I allowed, which I knew came with the loving) resist accept yield to the nether space withdraw this gamble with my heart gah. one way or another the quarrel with a heart lover is never easy. No solace, no relief, no easy way out. can't stop thinking about it. the struggle. the power dynamic. Is it just necessary then? but I learned already long ago that it's not worth the lost time loving to hurt your lover with your pride to prove a point which is why i am a softer creature than i was years ago. but he's not.
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