To quote a favorite movie of mine: I am Jack's complete lack of surprise.

Whatever happened to not thinking about it, just going for it? I am such a closet control freak, a covert type A personality. I like to think that I'm a kick-back kind of guy who goes with the flow, who takes things as they come, who rolls with the punches. But the sad truth is that, for some maladaptive reason, I will blame myself for things that I don't have control over.

(And yet, my superego lectures me: Shit happens. Deal with it.)

When things momentarily start not going my way, my first instinct is to give up. There's no use on bailing out a sinking ship, hoping for miracles to happen, when I know (despite a complete lack of evidence) that this can only end badly.

My ability to perservere has been smothered.

The thing is, I know that I will never get what I want if I don't go for it wholeheartedly. This is despite my superstitious belief in The Art of Not Wanting. I realize (with a sinking feeling in my chest) that anything worthwhile requires hard work and dedication, at any cost, even if things don't work out.

I am so tired of things not working out. (I am Jack's inflamed sense of rejection.)

So what I need to do is discard this overwhelming sense of futility. As a dear friend of mine is wont to say, everything can be broken down into "small, non-threatening things." (Although, my retort is, there's no problem so big that you can't run away from it.)

I am so very tired, and I cannot see anywhere to lie down and rest.

Sterile

I dream of the desert wastelands where the wind mourns,
past the unending run of mountain ranges
uphill, downhill, and up again, dull grey sand
dried brush, dead grass, oh how the wind
kicks up the dust, blows the fine grains of glass
scours the skin red blinding howling wind
sand falls to the ground like raindrops
though they are witches' tears

The night blossoms at last, like the universe exploding
with creation in that first moment
the sky is infinite, no longer a dome
holding the world in
but a clear glass, a papery film
where the piercing lights of a trillion suns
waver as the sky crinkles like tissue
ripples like deep water
and oh how the wind
sings of the infinite starlight
the billion worlds seen and unseen
how I could lie here in the desert sand like a dead man
hopelessly clinging to the dry weeds
and feel like I am hurtling through the farthest reaches of space
spun like a top, flung like a rag doll

But I have never seen dawn in the wastes
never had the courage to face the Sun as she rises
vision blurred by tears (it is the dust, I swear it)
vision blurred by wine and other violent spirits
coursing through my veins
and the night and the drunkeness have not eased anything
all I see is red, red, throbbing,
her fiery kiss on my face
consoling, a fairy dream
(but she does not burn for me,
never for me)
one kiss then nothing ever more
And yes, I can face the twilight
but never the dawn
The universe disappears
the blue sky covers it like a curtain
and all I can do is weep between my fingers
and cling to the hope that this night at last
I will not be alone
(and yet knowing that hope is false)

2001 Nov 16