jackshoegazer: (Bad Ugly Sleepiness)
Because this veil it has been lifted, my eyes are wet with clarity.
The world is a flurry,
A rambled, ransacked fury,
Disproportionate in length, desperate in breadth,
Base, mundane, with a squeaky, polished shine.
All surface, no depth,
No meaning but what we make,
Like a cake with no birthdays
Anniversaries or holidays to celebrate.
This is my last night as a vampire, my last night as a moonchild.  My last night of lunacy.  At least this particular brand of 3rd shift lunacy.

Starting tomorrow, which is really today, I am free from the confines of my employer for the next six days.  On May 3rd, I return to work as a creature of the sun, a child of Sol.  During the interval, I must finish packing, move, buy and move new furniture, and dance with the devil in the pale moon light.

Oh shite, who let Meatloaf in there?

My dear Jacquelyn has gotten sick again, this time contracting the stomach bug that my roommate was suffering from this past weekend.  I, again, am the sole survivor, somehow naturally immune to the spreading affliction that plagues my home like zombies after a meteor landing.  I played the role of good boyfriend, took care of her between fits of napping, went to the store to get the medicinal staples of stomach issues, saltines and ginger ale.

I have to make up for all the times I’m a crabby, grouchy bastard.

There was so much I wanted to say before I started typing and now it’s gone the way of the Studebaker.  Only found as reproductions in the back lots of movie studios for period pictures.  Of course that analogy doesn’t quite link up because that would mean that the rest of this post could be found in Los Angeles.

Which I can assure you, it cannot.

I finished The World According to Garp last night.  It was quite good, though it was no Owen Meany.  Owen really meant something to me, I’ve come to realize.  While Garp was in a way, more biographically parallel to myself, Owen fulfilled that profound human need to connect to something bigger than ourselves, the belief, the desperate, dangerous need to believe that our lives have direction and purpose.

When we lost Owen, we lost that purpose, a perfect loop, a perfect chain, the joy and sorrow of something beautifully burning out.  The absolute divine ecstasy that can only be found when one has completely exhausted one’s potential, completed one’s orbit.

Which is our purpose, after all.
Sometimes I think,
All we really want -
Our heart’s desire
Our soul’s entire
Plan, plot, scheme, and dream
Is to get home.
But like the factory
Of dear Mr. Wonka,
One must go forward to get back
Endlessly, endlessly
A never-ending track
That winds and whines and dines
To eternity and back
Veil to veil
A bigger picture
A better love
A deeper depth
To be and become
What we were in the beginning,

Charles Baker Hennington was a humorless man who did not writhe in desire at his peripheral notoriety.
There is nothing left but sleep in my veins, a dumb, thumping pulse I write to suppress.
The people talking around me are driving me crazy.  I can’t write when they’re talking.  I can rarely write with television, movies or music playing.  I think I finally understand the writer’s need for solitude.  Which, of course, doesn’t explain J.K. Rowling who writes the Harry Potter books mostly in a café.

Each unto their own.  Life.  Path.  Orbit.  Spark.
The sleep falls like a curtain.  Some light still comes in.
I’ve seen the day of your awakening, boy, and it’s coming soon.
jackshoegazer: (Brain In A Jar)
I have arrived home from work. I was falling asleep on the bus, which you can see me waiting for here. I don't think I snore sitting up. Surely someone would notice the buzz saw noises and my nodding head and give me an elbow to the ribs. Surely.

My lovely and talented girlfriend, a.k.a. [livejournal.com profile] antarcticlust is miserably sick with the same cold I've had since Friday. This is the first time I've had a cold/flu/bug/illness that has lasted more than a day since last spring. My super immune system and I are almost done with this one, but Jacqui's bout of blah is just peaking. I wonder what the vegetarian version of the magical chicken noodle soup cure is.

My nervous system has gone into power-saver mode and my neural screensaver has just kicked in, playing star fields and animated fish across my visual display. Nightynight!
jackshoegazer: (Squares Face Time)
Jacquelyn took the weekend off and came to Watertown for my weekend off. We've been relaxing as much as possible and making some damned yummy food. Tonight it was homemade pizza, yesterday baked chicken and potatoes, and the night before was a lovely lasagna. Ok, so Jacquelyn has made most of the dinners. I, as usual, am the King of Breakfast.

Add in a touch of brownies and ice cream and we have severe tummy decadence.

Today we went for our first visit to Aztalan for the year. Jacqui took a lot of pictures so I'll probably post some of them as soon as I get them off the camera. I've babbled quite a bit about Aztalan in this journal, so I'll spare you the oh-my-god-I-love-crazy-pyramids-in-Wisconsin rant I usually go on.

Completely to my surprise, I've been watching Jacqui and Ethan take turns playing Half-Life2, and it's an insanely intense game. I'm actually sad we just rented it and didn't buy it. Right now, Jacqui is roasting these zombie-type people with weird creatures on their heads.

We've got to get the games back to the store by midnight, so I'll leave you for now. But always remember, soles, not souls, are made for walking, and that's just what they'll do.
jackshoegazer: (Squares Face Time)
I talked with [livejournal.com profile] hoodedvoodoo for an hour and a half before his cellphone battery died. It was good to reconnect and share our mutual experiences of high weirdness. Writing, zombies, astrology, fru-fru new agers, orgone accumulators, cults, aliens, existentialism, and our wacky dreams were some of our varied topics.

He's an amalgamist. I suppose I am as well. A cosmologicaly amalgamistic mystagogue.

It's been said before, but seriously, this time, I am on the last edit, which is mostly just a quick proofread, of Complex Psyche. After this, we just have to prep a few sample chapters for submission to our first five publishers.

Jacquelyn's been getting quite a bit of work done at school. I feel bad for distracting her when I'm around. I have to learn to be more invisible. I think it will be better once we live together; then we won't have that I-need-to-spend-every-free-moment-together feeling we get.

Aleister Crowley was born Edward Alexander Crowley. He once read that the most famous names, the ones that stick in one's memory, are constructed of a dactyl, a three-syllable verse foot in which only the first syllable is stressed, followed by a spondee, a two-syllable verse foot in which both syllables are stressed. Aleister is Gaelic for Alexander, so he changed his name to Al·eis·ter Crow·ley.

My name is Jer·em·y Par·ker.
jackshoegazer: (Earth Hat Body)
I am back in Watertown for the first time in a week.  I missed my kitties and they missed me.  I missed Ethan as well, and I'll be picking him up from school in a couple hours.  In the meantime, I thought I'd get caught up on LiveJournal and play some guitar.

Well, I haven't really read my friend's page all week because I rarely have a lot of free time when I'm in Madison.  I went back about two days and then Firefox started acting all kerflunky, so I've given up for now.  And I'm getting a weird error when I try to reply to comments from the notification e-mail.  Weird.  Anyhoo, in case I don't dive back into the re-attempt to read all your journals, feel free to comment with links to entries you think I might be particularly interested in, or you want comments on, or you know, any other reason.

The guitar playing is going good.  Except when I'm typing.

Today I couldn't find my belt and Jacquelyn said that guys can't find things because they're hunters, as opposed to women, who are gatherers.  I said she was right and if it was running across the bedroom, I'd sure be able to spear the damned thing.  It was funny.  But not quite as funny as when I was playing, chasing the wee kitty, Eris Apropos, and I dove off the bed to get her and as I slid off the bed, my boxers stayed on the bed.  Uh yeah, I guess you had to be there.

I think I'm going to splurge some money I really shouldn't and buy Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on DVD.

I updated the titles of my journal and my profile information.

A letter from the University of Wisconsin arrived informing me that they have received my application and all relevant materials, i.e., transcripts and such, and that I should expect a letter in four to six weeks notifying me if I will be returning to an official academic life or forever doomed to, um whatever the other option is.

If I don't get into school, I think I might drop my hours at work as much as I can and dedicate myself to writing a novel, probably one of my Jack Shoegazer books.  I also put in my request for a schedule change effective May 1st.  If everything works out, I will be going back to a day schedule.  No more sleepless days and purple valises under my eyes.  I might even get some color this summer.

Waiter:  What can I get you, sir?

Me: A tan, hold the cancer.

Waiter:  Right away, sir.

Ah, that's the life.

jackshoegazer: (Default)
Waking up is much less like a light suddenly turning on than it is a gradual focusing.  One of my first insights was into the folly of emotions.  They are irrational and troublesome, like a small child, prone to overreaction and misbehavior.  For this reason, I shut them off, locked them up and swallowed the key.  I could still enjoy things, be happy, sad, angry, but never, ever again would I let myself indulge in the deeper emotions, down in the darkest crevices of the ocean, where the real danger is hidden.  I may laugh, but never again would I cry.

Around this time, I also had the insight that it is our flaws that define who we are, that somehow, the secrets we keep, the parts of our psyche we are ashamed of, the poor and dirty illegitimate children of our personalities, are the gravitational center of ourselves.  I rejected such an idea.  It went counterintuitive to everything.  How could these ugly things be who we are?  The answer had always been with me.  And like the folly of emotions, these were true things, but I lacked the focus to see them clearly.

The things we hide and neglect still live and grow.  They are the seed and root of our personality.  The more we ignore them, the more they become petulant children, like the boy who screamed in the grocery store one too many times, whose parents now leave him in the car while they shop.  Like vampires they live and drain energy from us, trying to balance out their lack of expression, leaving us less and less, without fuel, adrift in the world.

These draining demons build and expand like coral, each generation building atop the other, a great barrier reef, a wall of pent up aggression and fear crystallized, imprisoning our souls like Merlin in the wood.  The soul, like the sun, gives them the life we do not.  We live on in the world, if you can call it a life, a half-life, but our true path is obscured, our celestial inner pilot blinded by the build-up.  Our inner world becomes a junkyard, a garbage dump, a midden heap of the unexpressed and the unspoken, the unloved, the children under the stairs, the boy raised by wolves, our psychic ghetto.  It is this gravity well, this black hole of an anchor that becomes the root of our being.

It became clear that this does not have to be.  As the focus sharpened, the light increased and what I once saw was no longer.  Ghettos can be rebuilt.  The wolf boy could be taught to speak.  The midden heap could be transformed into compost, fuel for the burning, shedding light deeper and deeper into the gloom, giving life to the pale white sickness that once bred in this place.  The angel can be freed.

In this dank, dark basement I found a heart-shaped box sealed with pain and loss, reeking of neglect.  Before I knew what I'd done, I threw it into the flames, smashed the crab-like carapace and I was free.  The loves I had lost were free, washed anew in tears that were never shed, words that were never said.  My mother leaving when I was three, my kittens dying when I was seven, my inability to protect my sisters, the repeated separations from my father, my first love's infidelities.  Every loss, every abandonment, every time my heart had shattered I'd locked it away, sealing the fragments in the frozen salt of my eyes.

Now tears come unbidden when appropriate, empathy flows like Amazonian rivers.  Laughter is hearty and deep like echoes in the trees.  Love is free in the fields in ways the hippies could never dream.  My heart beats despite the cracks and damage, and I will never again let the unspoken rule from a throne of my fear and ignorance.  The Universe is always balancing the equations of the heart, ensuring the angel that is our soul is never so outnumbered by our demons that redemption is impossible.  We need but to wake up and see the potential and raise our eyes to the sun.

jackshoegazer: (Space Cadet Funny Alien)
Jacquelyn's new nickname is Squiggles. But just for this morning. For about 8 seconds.

Time's up.
jackshoegazer: (Happy Dead Solar Rays)

I spelled it wrong.



I'm not going to tell you everything to type, she said.

Especially if you spell things wrong.

When do cliches become cliche? When is it cliche to say something is cliche?

When does novelty become novel?

How long until parody and satire are immediately applied to everything?

She is a cricket on my shoulder and I cannot shoosh her.

I did it again, she said.

But no one will know because I fix it.

But she knows.

And my eye smelled my finger as it wiped away a crumb and it smelled like garlic.

Everything had garlic.

I cut up garlic and ginger.

Mary Ann was nice and begged for her life.

I said no one will get it.

But she got it.

I bet you think I'm high but I'm not.

Not even drunk.

But I'm blah and that's like a drug too.

She said it's worse.

I have a bad Seether song in my head and I am not happy about it.

She said that's cliche.

Haha, Sayid said.

Ok, it's just for breathing and my neck is cramped.

So good night and new year and monkey love.

She said it's a sad post.

I say no one will read the whole thing anyway.

But she read it because she watched as I wrote it.

Does that count?
jackshoegazer: (Default)
In The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera speaks of poetic memory, that aspect of our mind which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful. He also warns us that metaphors are dangerous. After all, love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the moment when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.

Reading this passage last night brought to mind the very beginnings of my relationship with Jacquelyn. When did I know I had fallen victim to that prickly trickster known as love? Milan should have warned me earlier; it began with a metaphor.

In June when Jacquelyn first arrived in Madison, and I met her for the first time, I played the role of good friend, helping her to adjust to her new life here. However, there was something below the surface, tugging, or perhaps something high in the sky beckoning. I saw her occasionally throughout the summer, titilating chemistry percolating, the winds of affection swirling, though we denied everything. And then she was gone, a research trip and visits to her family. For a month, I did not see her. We spoke only once, and when she called, I must admit, I was surprised, as if I'd forgotten about her.

After this long absence we met, prepared a succulent dinner together, drank copious amounts of wine, and finally opened that repressed vault of emotion which had simmered over the summer. In the early hours of morning, when the sun still casts long shadows, a hazy glaze of white on stark surfaces, I drove her to work. As we sat in the car, saying our good-byes, basking in the glow of this new development, Bright Eyes played on the radio and the moment froze.

If we are lucky, each of us gets but a handful of perfect moments in our lives. The very lucky, or perhaps the very wise, realize that every moment is absolutely perfect, but let's say for the sake of narrative, that this frozen moment, the perfect tone of the perfect music for the perfect time in the perfect light, eye to eye, our souls spilling secrets back and forth, was one of those rare perfect moments. The kind Kodak can only dream of. It was then that Jacquelyn wrote her first word in my poetic memory.

The lyrics which played during this perfect moment, the metaphor which forever emblazoned itself into my psyche, infecting me with that virus of Eros?
Did you forget that yellow bird?
How could you forget that yellow bird?
She said this one will bring you love...
You're the yellow bird that I've been waiting for.
It might not be what Conor Oberst meant when he wrote that, but it's mine now, and I will do as I please. These lyrics were the dangerous metaphor Milan warned me about, three months too late. I have a yellow bird, which I have long been waiting for, who fluttered out of the ether and into my heart.
jackshoegazer: (Fnord Chao Baby Devil Angel)
in the most tasteless way ever!

Image hosted by Photobucket.com
jackshoegazer: (Default)
As you may have noticed, I've been a bit absent from the Land of LiveJournal for a few days and I have quite a good enough excuse. What, you ask, could possibly keep me away from LJ?

I've spent the last five days in almost constant company of [livejournal.com profile] antarcticlust and we've decided to create a sort of exclusive club, with just ourselves as members. What kind of club is this, you wonder? Well, I'll tell you...

It may sound a bit strange, but it's called a "relationship." Now, I know some of you may be unfamiliar with this term, so I'll try my damnedest to explain.

Remember when you were just wee little children and someone gave you a note that said, "Do you like me? Circle yes or no." And you circled yes and then held hands at recess? Yeah, it's a bit like that but we're all grown-up now and there's a bit more snogging and fancy dinners.

So yes, after all my whining and lamenting over the lack of activity in my love life, and my fear of commitment, et cetera, et cetera, I'm giving a monogamous relationship a go and will see how it develops.

I'm quite fond of her and we get along famously. There's immense amounts of intellectual, emotional and physical chemistry that's hard to argue with. Our past histories and future plans merge into a cohesive whole, like two planets that suddenly find themselves in parallel orbits.

I'm entering into this with as few preconceptions as possible about where this will go or any future plans. At this current moment in space-time, we seem to be almost exactly what the other is ready for. If the Universe is a massive learning tool, we are the teachers we need right now.

This is actually quite difficult for me, and not because of any doubts about my feelings. The difficulty arises from the fact that I've basically been uncommitted and single since January 1st of 2001. Yes, that's over four and a half years of sporadic dating, unrequited crushes, and unresponsive flirting. Nothing even remotely approaching a serious and committed relationship.

In a way, I'd begun to think of "single" and "whole" as synonyms. So the idea of committing feels wrong in a way, because of the fear of again submitting myself to the needs of another. I don't want someone to need me and I don't want to need someone. I just want to be whole and live my life, but with a companion, someone to share this journey with. And right now, Jacquelyn seems to be that person.

In order to prevent emotional static to those who may find this news most distressing, I had originally planned to filter this post. Or whether to post it at all, but alas, I'm either a masochist or a sadist (maybe both) or just lack tact (which I call blunt honesty) so here it is for all to see.

So feel free to comment with your congratulations, lamentations, curses, well-wishing, tears (whether for joy or sadness), exuberance, pity, scorn, criticisms, critiques, love, hate, compliments, endorsement, or eulogy. After all, I was blunt (or tactless) enough to post this, so you can, at least, be as equally blunt in your reactions.

jackshoegazer: (Default)
I just finished watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the ten-billionth time. In case you haven't heard me mention it, it's one of my favorite films, definitely hanging around in the Top 10, and definitely in the Top 5 of best relationship films.

Several times throughout the film, I'm on the verge of tears, and it still gets me even after ten-billion viewings. I feel sad, and nostalgic, and I miss being in love. Correction: I miss being in Love. It's been so long and often I ponder whether I've still got the capacity to fall in love.

Like Joel in the movie when he says, "Why do I fall in love with every woman I see?" and I think to myself that maybe that's not love then. I used to never have commitment problems. I was strictly monogamous and always willing to dive into a relationship. Now, I find myself unable to imagine narrowing myself down to just one person, and I feel that I've lost something.

I keep wanting to find the One, but everything I've learned has shown me that there is no One to find. Most romantic love is anima projection, which vanishes when the illusion is revealed. I try to be whole, individuated, and look for another whole being to compliment me. I don't want to be completed, I just want a companion. Real, true and deep intimacy.

Am I really hiding from love? Do I keep myself so distant; hide my true self so well that no one can find it? I apparently flirt all the time, but I keep things from developing deeper. I wonder if I've been damaged so deeply that I won't let anyone else in there. I keep everyone at least an arms-length away and then cry at my loss and loneliness and lack of love. What a fucking hypocrite I am.

Perhaps I'm waiting for someone who can see me through all the layers and shells and shields and is persistent anyway, like my love is a prize for the clever one who can get through my maze. Either way, I have no room to whine and complain like this. This is all my own doing. I should be able to change this. Why do I find it so hard?
jackshoegazer: (Default)
Yes, dear reader, I slept at night again. From 11pm to 6am. That's like a world record for me lately. The only thing I have to report is that I dreamt that [livejournal.com profile] malice_bd and I were a long-term, monogamous couple. I can't remember any details of the dream, just that it was pretty mundane relationship stuff. Lounging, shopping, socializing and lots of witty banter. Just general emotional and intellectual intimacy. Very odd, since I don't know her at all and have only exchanged a few comments. Very odd.

That makes two relationship-related dreams I've had this week, which I have no idea how to interpret. However, both dreams have had a level of intimacy and comfort which I know I lack right now. I haven't been in a serious relationship in years. And only recently have I figured out why. No, scratch that, I already know the why. I think I've figured out the how.

Many many moons ago, dozens upon dozens of them, I came to the realization that, for me at least, when I would embark on the relationship boat, I would learn as much about my partner as possible. Not just facts and figures, but mental, emotional, spiritually, any number of esoteric adjectives. It was like writing the code of their self into my soul. Simply put, it was getting to know them, memorizing every word, sentence, paragraph and plot line in their infinite depths.

When a relationship would end, I noticed that I would be single for about as long as it took to digest that previous relationship meal. When I was clean and empty, I had room to begin another, to start memorizing another person, getting to know them, in that cliched phrase, as deeply and intimately as possible. I think that's why I've always been one for monogamy. I just can't be memorizing, intaking, learning about more than one person at a time, so therefore I can't get into a relationship until the previous one has been fully digested.

So this brings me up to the past few years. For one, my last major, long-term, serious relationship was amazingly intense and deep, and ended in January of 2001. That relationship meal took a LONG time to get out of my system. In the intervening time, I also started on an intense, hermetic, investigation into my self. Introspection and analysis. In essence, I was doing to myself what I normally did with my partners; learning and memorizing ever deeper levels of my mind, emotions, soul and psyche. Between the slow digestion of my previous relationship and the constant meal of myself, I just haven't had room for anyone else.

I've dated on and off over the last few years, but it's always been short and relatively uneventful. Like snacking when you're already full. You can handle a bite or two, but a meal is out of the question. Last summer, the final bits of my previous relationship were finally digested and expelled. I've memorized myself so well, and am constantly updating. I could be a poster child for the Greek axiom Know Thyself. I've gotten that quest for self down to the equivalent of a daily vitamin. Which means, I finally have room for someone else. Someone I can memorize. Their face, their smile, through the eyes and into the soul's plunging, intricate depths.

Perhaps that is why these dreams are surfacing. It's compensatory material; parts of my psyche expressing in my inner world what isn't getting expressed in my outer world. I guess it's time.
jackshoegazer: (Default)
I’d rather be working for a paycheck,
Than waiting to win the lottery.

That's a quote from a Bright Eyes song. And this morning while driving home, I thought of it in terms of a love metaphor. Would I rather be working on a steady relationship than waiting to win the lottery, a.k.a. strike it rich in True Love?

Every indication tells me that the idea of perfect love, of soul mates, of impossible, mythic love is an immature idea, obsessed upon by the young and abandoned in the face of reality. Even Spiderman says you have to give up your dreams in order to do the right thing. But do you have to? Is that really the only choice, the natural course of the heart?

I don't know and I'm feeling too melancholic, too bittersweet to think about it. Part of me says to give it up and the other part says to hold on. How to do both, I cannot fathom at this present moment. So I leave it alone and step away.


I'd better take two just to be safe. *Step*

That leaves me plenty of room to tell you that the entire sky this morning was a dirty, matted blanket of unrefined cotton and the sun was the bright cherry of a celestial cigarette which had fallen into the rough bedding, threatening to burn the whole place down. One can only hope.

Last night, on the drive to work, the following poem appeared in my head, fully formed and I present it here for your edification:

Lachrymose eyes lacquered,
Oceans to eyelashes cling,
Brine encrusted sandman's dreams-
A macrobiotic diet of tears,
I kiss away the streams.

Don't mistake this seeming poetic brooding for sadness or unhappiness. I revel in the interplay between the light and the dark and love is the seed which births them both.


jackshoegazer: (Default)

February 2012

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