i love you, that's all
"i love you, that's all" was an idea for a title of the book of love i'd write for benjamen pickering.
if i'd ever get a chance.
i come to the realization he has chronic traumatic encephalopathy which people understand less than penetrating traumatic brain injury or blindness in a left eye.
and incestuous grandfather's demon possesses him sometimes, which he may object to me saying.
what ways we explain things! i resent having to resort to psychiatric lingo, like a highway out of hell---i'm struggling to keep the plane from going down all the time.
so, help is on the way.
words don't really wrap around all the pain and nightmarishness it has been. my father's novel the witch of east nashville helps me mentally---i feel like the autobiographical protagonist brad burgess, the social worker sinking in the filth of the crime morass---doubting his own sanity.
the haunting is now haunting me. the ghost transferred.
and surely some of my CIA ghosts hopped off on him love.
he said i haunt him!
it's a perilous tightrope around here, between big ben, and the good porch.
there are secrets hidden within the transparency.
when love is all, baby ben, is the name i give to one of the personalities ben reverts to when he's piecing it together like the sweetest kindergartner.
sometimes he is the razor sharp 30 year old man.
sometimes he's a raging misogynist from texas.
sometimes . . .
now good old astrology aside, dating a gemini is like dating so many people--- i could honestly admit i love at least half of his many personalities.
i never though it would be for me, as they are really too intellectual, after all.
i have a wicked weakness for redhair.
wicked.
whether or not i'm allowed to write any of this is confusing, or whether or not it benefits anyone including me, a mystery?
binaries aside---i'm ambiguous, eternally mixed up about love, and it's strange manifestations.
my goal has been to prolong his life, and purify it of the violence.
the constant threat of imminent police destruction, and threats of police upon my peace and quiet i have found rather unfortunate.
that's the way he lives. will he ever find another way?
will i.
i'm open to eternal love with separation.
it's much easier to love someone eternally, whose intolerably bad habits, or excruciating medical condition is unremediable.
i love you that's all, i told him, as tears streamed down my face once, realizing more the magnitude of his history of abuse and victimization, chaos, pain, and poverty, bullying, exclusion, blindness, confusion.
the tyrant that emerges lately, is someone i dont know. i don't love the tyrant, and fear the duality of baby ben, and the demonic tyrant.
misogyny is a poor mix to regrow his brain.
so much wonder!
the altered state! the polyphasic realities of his psychadelic brain injury!
every day, a new trip down corridors of his intoxicating madness, genius, razor sharp wit, his stumbling confusion, his fearless interrogations, investigations, encyclopedic memory.
MkUltra for years!
i love the heady cocktail, so many personalities, so many possibilities.
the one possibility: for peace and quiet: so rare, so unattainable.
the shaping of a mind. seeing his mind grow and brighten. his english.
i adore him, but not what quantifies as abuse.
the unknown territory of nirvanaland is one WTO riot short of pure burnt fuses, one big smashed may day, all day, every day is may day with you my love, i love you that's all.
and if this love is a rollercoaster over the abyss, so very well, here we go.
but tonight we are alive, and yesterday's crisis abates.
if he has five years or fifty is unknown to us.
we burn each other out like lights too bright, all the time.
to be, friend, collaborator, cohort, partner, and then lover, maniac, terrorist, in a day, thinker, challenger, investigator.
i've known none closer to my equal for wits when he's sharp. but when he's dull, so tedious it is to hammer out syllables on the fires of his brain split open at cape disappointment.
his brain injury is more interesting than his glorious red hair. i walk inside the labyrinths of his mind, unafraid, experiencing the horrors of his autobiography. the human richness of his undead living is something, i record over time.
and when i sicken, of the power of words to hammer out the peace and war, and succumb to his everyday benghazi. well then, we start again, i and baby ben.
when the beloved becomes the child and the old man, all at once feeble and impetuous, chaotic, and off kilter.
then i was trying to love, with ransom's love for helen. loving in spite of everything wrong. from top to bottom, so much of everything wrong.
and short an ambulance, we shant be traveling together, it seems, after yesterday's hurrah.
he weaves garlands when he's extremely manic. or high. whatever it is. the intoxication of his split skull keeps everything like dead poet's society all the time. the day robin williams was found dead, he was racing in the new pattern on cross country chases.
he could not be said to not chase life to the fullest, and then death.
and grandiose suicides ring a bell, and i have empathy even, except that i resent the imposition.
i speak with him, about what that means for those left behind.
this obsession with death and dying, so human.
sometimes i think of him as more of a ghost than a living being. he is so damaged from his death. he has more than one foot already in the grave. i am very forgiving with ghosts. i entreat him back from death.
i worry about the war in his mind. that death is trying to snatch the bit of him back which treads lightly in the land of the living. as his dangerous behavior mounts, thanatos seems to want to win, death is the ever-pending possible outcome.
and sometimes we enjoy food and act like humans.
our last supper was siracha potato chips. canned thai soup. a mint builders cliff bar. orange juice.
he leaves an open bag of crisps and oatmeal cookie wappers.
every vitamin pill i got into him is a victory. every day he lives longer one day more a success. every day he is not killed in his perilous exploits impresses.
and should it be this way?
it is palliative, hospice care. for the dead and dying.
but i am the one who benefits. he takes care of me. it was i who was lonely. i who was bored. i flaunt him victoriously, pondering the immensity of his beauty.
i strive to crash course him on beautiful manners. it's slow progress. and then one day it goes in smoke. as he glazes over into the supernatural world.
he floats over the earth with toes alighting never touching the ground, saying "tonight i die."
but he rises.
what he will put me through? like aaron swartz or michael hastings? young men!
i think to get another, one less young and reckless, or younger and less reckless, or old and kind.
but love is everywhere this time of night, as Baltimore riots.
and i hope for his safety, and hide from the darts. will i be his dead lunch lady samantha, we ask?
is he my suicide method?
to be seen. i love you that's all, but love is no way to die.
like a curious abortion, i can't cut him all the way out of my heart.
but everyday is a funeral, when you date the dead.
if i'd ever get a chance.
i come to the realization he has chronic traumatic encephalopathy which people understand less than penetrating traumatic brain injury or blindness in a left eye.
and incestuous grandfather's demon possesses him sometimes, which he may object to me saying.
what ways we explain things! i resent having to resort to psychiatric lingo, like a highway out of hell---i'm struggling to keep the plane from going down all the time.
so, help is on the way.
words don't really wrap around all the pain and nightmarishness it has been. my father's novel the witch of east nashville helps me mentally---i feel like the autobiographical protagonist brad burgess, the social worker sinking in the filth of the crime morass---doubting his own sanity.
the haunting is now haunting me. the ghost transferred.
and surely some of my CIA ghosts hopped off on him love.
he said i haunt him!
it's a perilous tightrope around here, between big ben, and the good porch.
there are secrets hidden within the transparency.
when love is all, baby ben, is the name i give to one of the personalities ben reverts to when he's piecing it together like the sweetest kindergartner.
sometimes he is the razor sharp 30 year old man.
sometimes he's a raging misogynist from texas.
sometimes . . .
now good old astrology aside, dating a gemini is like dating so many people--- i could honestly admit i love at least half of his many personalities.
i never though it would be for me, as they are really too intellectual, after all.
i have a wicked weakness for redhair.
wicked.
whether or not i'm allowed to write any of this is confusing, or whether or not it benefits anyone including me, a mystery?
binaries aside---i'm ambiguous, eternally mixed up about love, and it's strange manifestations.
my goal has been to prolong his life, and purify it of the violence.
the constant threat of imminent police destruction, and threats of police upon my peace and quiet i have found rather unfortunate.
that's the way he lives. will he ever find another way?
will i.
i'm open to eternal love with separation.
it's much easier to love someone eternally, whose intolerably bad habits, or excruciating medical condition is unremediable.
i love you that's all, i told him, as tears streamed down my face once, realizing more the magnitude of his history of abuse and victimization, chaos, pain, and poverty, bullying, exclusion, blindness, confusion.
the tyrant that emerges lately, is someone i dont know. i don't love the tyrant, and fear the duality of baby ben, and the demonic tyrant.
misogyny is a poor mix to regrow his brain.
so much wonder!
the altered state! the polyphasic realities of his psychadelic brain injury!
every day, a new trip down corridors of his intoxicating madness, genius, razor sharp wit, his stumbling confusion, his fearless interrogations, investigations, encyclopedic memory.
MkUltra for years!
i love the heady cocktail, so many personalities, so many possibilities.
the one possibility: for peace and quiet: so rare, so unattainable.
the shaping of a mind. seeing his mind grow and brighten. his english.
i adore him, but not what quantifies as abuse.
the unknown territory of nirvanaland is one WTO riot short of pure burnt fuses, one big smashed may day, all day, every day is may day with you my love, i love you that's all.
and if this love is a rollercoaster over the abyss, so very well, here we go.
but tonight we are alive, and yesterday's crisis abates.
if he has five years or fifty is unknown to us.
we burn each other out like lights too bright, all the time.
to be, friend, collaborator, cohort, partner, and then lover, maniac, terrorist, in a day, thinker, challenger, investigator.
i've known none closer to my equal for wits when he's sharp. but when he's dull, so tedious it is to hammer out syllables on the fires of his brain split open at cape disappointment.
his brain injury is more interesting than his glorious red hair. i walk inside the labyrinths of his mind, unafraid, experiencing the horrors of his autobiography. the human richness of his undead living is something, i record over time.
and when i sicken, of the power of words to hammer out the peace and war, and succumb to his everyday benghazi. well then, we start again, i and baby ben.
when the beloved becomes the child and the old man, all at once feeble and impetuous, chaotic, and off kilter.
then i was trying to love, with ransom's love for helen. loving in spite of everything wrong. from top to bottom, so much of everything wrong.
and short an ambulance, we shant be traveling together, it seems, after yesterday's hurrah.
he weaves garlands when he's extremely manic. or high. whatever it is. the intoxication of his split skull keeps everything like dead poet's society all the time. the day robin williams was found dead, he was racing in the new pattern on cross country chases.
he could not be said to not chase life to the fullest, and then death.
and grandiose suicides ring a bell, and i have empathy even, except that i resent the imposition.
i speak with him, about what that means for those left behind.
this obsession with death and dying, so human.
sometimes i think of him as more of a ghost than a living being. he is so damaged from his death. he has more than one foot already in the grave. i am very forgiving with ghosts. i entreat him back from death.
i worry about the war in his mind. that death is trying to snatch the bit of him back which treads lightly in the land of the living. as his dangerous behavior mounts, thanatos seems to want to win, death is the ever-pending possible outcome.
and sometimes we enjoy food and act like humans.
our last supper was siracha potato chips. canned thai soup. a mint builders cliff bar. orange juice.
he leaves an open bag of crisps and oatmeal cookie wappers.
every vitamin pill i got into him is a victory. every day he lives longer one day more a success. every day he is not killed in his perilous exploits impresses.
and should it be this way?
it is palliative, hospice care. for the dead and dying.
but i am the one who benefits. he takes care of me. it was i who was lonely. i who was bored. i flaunt him victoriously, pondering the immensity of his beauty.
i strive to crash course him on beautiful manners. it's slow progress. and then one day it goes in smoke. as he glazes over into the supernatural world.
he floats over the earth with toes alighting never touching the ground, saying "tonight i die."
but he rises.
what he will put me through? like aaron swartz or michael hastings? young men!
i think to get another, one less young and reckless, or younger and less reckless, or old and kind.
but love is everywhere this time of night, as Baltimore riots.
and i hope for his safety, and hide from the darts. will i be his dead lunch lady samantha, we ask?
is he my suicide method?
to be seen. i love you that's all, but love is no way to die.
like a curious abortion, i can't cut him all the way out of my heart.
but everyday is a funeral, when you date the dead.
