Date: Wed Jul 24, 1996 2:58:11 PM
Good grief! Accidents & make-up calls, house decorating & paperpushing. You are quite the whirlwind sass these recent days. Yep, your mom was sold the American dream and she is just tickled you are pulling her through it. Good work sweetie! Now if only I were so industrious.
Sure, I remember your Greek pal who once had the crush but you told him you didn't think of him that way. Yeah Themis, the story of our lives. Geez, you didn't waste any time, moving on this cyberslut quackery rampage right out the gate, did you? Naughty girl. Yeah, a nasty girl, a dirty woman. And indefatigably so alive! To ratchet up Jack Webb's Sergeant Friday from the dark side of sunshine, "there are a billion stories in the cyber metropolis, and hey baby baby, yours is just beginning...
The prostitute? It's a dead deal going nowhere. I have been planning for years to hire a model of a certain caliber, but have never stepped into it. The urge washed over me again last week, and I thought a streetwalker might fit the bill. Cheaper, and perhaps more willing to accept the terms upon which I want to explore with camera various states of mild bondage, exhibitionism, and clothing fetish (cottons & professional wear, not leather, it's so cliché these days with everybody from the president's daughter to Grandma Moses saddled up in punk rock garb) strategies. I WANT TO TAKE PICTURES OF WOMEN DAMMIT!!!
Inferiority about my appearance has plagued since childhood (crooked teeth, too skinny, lazy hair, hooked nose, bowed legs, southern vocabulary, lack of victorious pectoralis muscle despite a driving athleticism, et cetera), and continued to fester after high school as a that string of much older women took me into their confidence one after another only to feed me with flatteries and half-truths that burned off every time my mind ran counter to their mind, their body, their spirit of play and decorum. I was quite aware that my mind was sharp and curious to a fault. I knew that girls my own age were mostly too silly and worldly to understand the chasms of my intelligence. Early 1970s were not nice to me. And sinceto escape the chaos of home I bolted as soon as I graduated from highschoolI was soon laboring alone a mere blue-collared college kid wannabe outside the academic environs of my childhood dreams and foundations, working in a goddamned steel mill in the coke ovens for chrissakes, I never chanced to meet a peer but soon was lost in a master mechanic's greasy world where I felt infinitely close to dead inside. I'll forward a couple more notes I've recently written to Ben (of Germany) which expand on this topic of my own general failure to achieve what I felt was my bounty, worthy of my intellectual curiosity and pedigree, even now, as the days grow shorter and are flying by quicker, so anything less than scaling the highest mountain is abject failure and a colossal waste of talent, duty, and knack for recording that is meant to move a generation. Boyhood dreams die hard.
Other than email among a few special minds, for which I am mocked by Bracken and Howell, my artistic spirit is nearly numb at this stage. Cold indifference a decade carved into our future neither of the three of us is innocent. And I would dare surmize that you Jennifer must "love" me as you say you do because of my mind because it is certainly not the flesh you seek from me, although you have provided it many times. But now that my body is rotten, my mind has no power, but has proven that old blowfish tale so often found fluttering off the plucky lips of femmes
énergique everywhere that "it's not what's on the outside, it's what's on the inside that counts" completely bogus in all its pretentious idealism, just as us eager but culled lads always knew it to be. What collapses my soul is that now I am hardly able to scratch beyond the mind past the second hand tools of my body to rework the conspicuous tropes of those I would even remotely glorify or testify againstif only a quarter measure of acceptance and cooperation in the deed down under was not sincere and gregariously made available in the hour of our mutual authority. The research is in. The tests have spoken. I got a failing grade. So, it's spit in the bucket, or not at all, my dears. Speak up, chest out, invest your stuff with the flair of dominance but in a spirit of "you've just got to have it," or else, know in the end I can only pine the box, pine the key that unlocks. Will never be quick or clever enough to transgress the boundaries, not any more. I lost. Trapped in the irritable bowels of sexual ambiguitylet's be clear, sexual ambiguity, not homosexuality, not bisexuality, not indifference, certainly not an incapacity for grueling matches of innuendo and thrustjust an excruciating ambiguity born of experience, I lost.
To stand erect, a reject before the world, patently needy for a welcoming acceptance without begging, yet dripping from every pore with a primal fear of rejection, or worsedull cooperationa player of notable former prowess, but one now relegated to the bench, the sidelines, where I observe mindless splinters with more aggressive behavior than I, knowing the game is much more about something else than the countless acts of sublime love, witty dominance and shrieking submission floating around the nucleus themselves. The Marquis couldn't possibly have planned it all, superior intelligence and high birth be damned. But to his credit, he and his deviating insights outlived most of the laws he broke.
Rather than gates crashing down, each year seems to bring more chains of thought, more depression, more rejection. Will I ever measure up to that fabulous burst of early potential I knew as a precocious & peerless child? Even among the adults I knew no peer. Sue fears me, and now you say you do. Vexation of the heart is rendering me increasingly useless for life. Failures of my mind to relieve the pressures. I peer between penitentiary bars of this side that side driving me insane, just as my mother has suffered great agony from the same unrealized potential in her own life, mostly a series of false hopes to break through into a recognizable, and compelling intellectual climate. The challenges of peace in my lifetime...
You know Jennifer, you're not at all specific in stating your discomfort with what I had proposed as contingent to a visit. I suppose I can't blame you, though I find rather distasteful your coy kitten routine, except when you are looking to be touched, but you've got to know that I just put words out there. There is no action taken until words have confirmed themselves, and action is all that's left (along with whatever script comes to mind on the fly, don't you see?). I was vague myself in suggesting any such framework. I reckon I was just fishing for some personal feedback on what limits you have, what trust you have, what love you have, for me. You have often said you don't flash the L-word around unnecessarily. I can appreciate that. Honesty is the only trait worth fighting and dying for. My honesty seems sometimes all I have left as the black rupture of failure closes in on my sagging sense of purpose. I have often declared the two extremes of my psychological dichotomy to you. I suppose at the rate I am going, within a few years I may be a walking talking farting full blown case of schizophrenia, voices in my head and all. Day in and day out I race back and forth from being completely certain I am some sort of end days manchild whose time (while the symbols of my life rack up proof after proof of this latter truth) is not yet full, until I plummet into a full-blown depression signaled by a cheap self-congratulatory neuroticism, a smothering psychosis where self-loathing reaches beyond all this inner hype to bring me crashing to the ground zero point of self-destruction, seemingly only inches away. What is life but the fulfilling of purpose? Does it matter that I have felt a universal tug since my very earliest years, and as such have set myself up for this miserably fantastic failure? No, because without these fantasies whether they be artistic, religious, or merely delusional have kept me in the game thus far, among the living, after nearly being extinguished more times than a boozy feline's mythological nine lives.
And in that notion rests God the restorer...
"Whoozy beer-guzzling turkeys. Good thing they aren't allowed to fly..."