Oh, darling!

So it gets stuck in my head. Not the lyrics, the music. The 7ths are wonderful, moreso than mixing numbers and letters, moreso than attributing colors to a collection of music.

I sometimes decide not to post my notes at all. FB gives you that option now. I won’t post this one. I’m tired of being asked, “what did you mean by that.” Sometimes it just is what it is.

So I’ve been needing to write but feeling shy, why, when nobody says anything and I insist they’re just for me, why post them here? Why not just scribble on a post-it and land it in the trash, fodder for the night cleaning crew, beauty for them to discard like an embryo at the abortion clinic?

But that’s not it at all.

I’m dissatisfied with myself. I gave myself 10 years from when I got out of the Navy to get full-on into an art career.

10 years is in a month. Scarcely a month.

I’m scared that I might never make myself into what I would like to be. I’m scared that I’ve built a life I don’t want. I’m scared that I might not be able to be what I want to be, who I want to be. I’m scared of being stuck, feeling confined, of failure, of life, at times, it seems.

But mostly, I’m scared of being me. So I push it down and repress it. Bad me! Bad! Don’t pee on the carpet!

I see in myself shadows of what I don’t want to be in the light of what I’ve become in the waking world, in the reality of reality, in the is-ness of what is. In me.

Sometimes I’m afraid of who I am. Sometimes I love who I am. Sometimes I masturbate 3 times in a day. But never in front of a mirror. Though I think it would be funny to project that persona to unwitting fucknuts that are easily fooled by the onion-skin.

Peel it back.

No, I’m mostly afraid of just letting go. Of telling myself that my work is not yet done. Fuck, it hasn’t even started! The books on the shelf mock me, the books on the bathroom floor are a testament to failure. Oh, holy failure, you’ve visited me again. Just when you think you’ve got your shit figured the fuck out, life saunters in and jams a red-hot poker up your arse and grabs your shoulders and slides it in deep, your eyes watering from the pain.

Everything after that feels so good, so you delight in simplicity. For a while. Then you slowly forget. Ever so slowly. Slowly enough that you don’t hear life sneaking back up behind you with a raging hard on and anal-ease, waiting to fuck your balloon knot until it’s red and bleeding.

Sometimes that song won’t get out of my head and I curse the day I heard it. Sometimes. Please believe me. I’ll never do you no harm. Believe me when I tell you, I’ll never do you no harm.

And I sigh and I look around in the darkness. My eyes slowly adjusting from the brightness of the display to penetrate the darkness. Like my inaction leaves life open to penetrate me. From behind.