slime_slime_sly (slime_slime_sly) wrote,
slime_slime_sly
slime_slime_sly

I recently feel like i have to write. It happened at a very specific moment - I was with E., and in one of the rare moments when we are not fucking like brainless beasts, in a long second of quietness when she was sitting on me in the front seat of her car, in a dark road in the rich neighborhoods where all her friends live, and I felt like I had to vindicate our strong body connection as something more than plain sexual attracion, her words, as if that didn't suffice somehow, but I couldn't really formulate the words,not even to myself that would have defended the strength and legitimacy of our meaty meaty union that she seemed so willing to deny. It wasn't the first or the last time that this situation came to happen, but on that occassion I said something so awkward and embarrasing that Im not even going to reproduce it here, in this semi anonymous journal. And there I resolved to develop brutal honesty, and hoped that through it i would be able to ocassionally caress some poetic realities.
I dont think Im very brilliant. I have a strong, obsessive desire for greatness but my spirit is actually quite modest. I envy women and the way they get lost in passion - can life be at all beautyful when lived with the unavoidable calculatedness and distance that we the male species have built in as default?
but when i let my mind wander like this its like being lost in fog...maybe i will get around it better in spanish?maybe?Aquella chica vietnamita que escribe tan bien Its as if i can sometimes imagine the great arches and pointy roofs pointing at the sky of my thoughts but when i put my feet in it everything disappears like one of those things that disappear and become rotten the second you grab them, i cant remember what they are called. Clouds. No those just disappear. And I look at everything thats left behind and its ugly, ugly, ugly. So maybe I prefer to be like a blind man who imagines color but never sees it. Maybe I prefer to imagine the multiple, grandiose forms of my hypothetical greatness than to try and realize it, and see the ugly mess thats left behind. Im obsessed with greatness, since when does this happen?
I dont want it to be just another cool romance. Like, hey, see you at the party next week, cool. The intercourse is of course a few hundred meters higher category of course. but theres always something maimed. A breath of fire that's being held back safely by a thermal resistant lid. Something without a leg that doesnt stand. It is frustrating. Is she doing this?or is it me? Before, it felt like walking on a rope, i had an image to keep which wasnt real. Now i see i dont fall even if i dance around the rope a little bit. that tension is gone but something there's still something more that i want this thing to do that it doesnt do. Maybe if there was a big looming danger we could be like Humphrey and Ingrid. Thats what I want really. I dont mind the tragic ending.
my mum never shuts up. and always says the same things. I want to get closer to her. But there is no way. She just says the same things, over and over. I cant get around it.
Instead of erasing all that crap and starting over Im just going to go on. And make it all public, yeah. Napoleon the third, what a fat loser. Much better to be Ziggy Stardust, and rule over a million shiny freaks. I dont think Im good with words, or with masses of people for that matter. Maybe it's about time i forget about my desires of grandeur and learn to do what i do best, which is to be quiet, and do quiet things, without anybody paying any attention. And look at the people who make the big statements, and be paralized in awe. Stendhal vs. Proust vs Lola Flores.
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