to some earth

I love writing because I do it alone, and no one can hear me, even though I’m shouting.

If you were sitting cross legged across from me in those silly pants you wear
And I said now tell me all the things you want to tell me, and you told me the things you will never tell me to my face, the things I want to hear, and you told me
Then I would tell you this:

I would tell you that I long to be around you.
I would tell you hate your stinkin guts because when you look at me you see that I don’t know who I am,
And you see perhaps who I could be, and you hate it,
Because in a way you are me, and I’m killing you by refusing to paint with all the colors i have in me.
I would tell you when you enter a room I’m inhabiting, the breath I thought was there disappears and I look at myself without thinking, without trying, I’m conscious of my body and appearance in all its awkwardness and truth, and you make me want to puke all the falsity out of my aching belly and cry, just because I can.
You challenge my every thought. I think about you all the time.
And I am me when I think about you, because honesty happens when your name comes up, in my head, in my talking, and I wish that you were in the air
Then each person that wakes up and remembers to breathe would remember themselves and why they can breathe.
You remind me that I am insane, and the only way to keep living is to hold on to my own personal insanity, not to let it be washed away in the gray river, the watercolor fog, the leaves and seasons and stagnant false wishes and the pretense of hope.

I want you to tell me all the things you don’t like about humanity that you see every day in me, so that I can receive the slap in the face and continue with the sting, and I want you to tell me every week what you see so the sting doesn’t fade. I want life to hurt so I don’t forget why I walk into work and why I come home, and so that I stop laughing at tragedy, and stop weeping at blue skies.
I want so stop being paper and start being pulp, the stuff things are made out of, not blank and complete, waiting for someone to use for their own purpose.

Did I ever tell you that one day I looked at your face and saw more of me than I see in myself? That I laughed because there’s no one else who made me feel like I was, but I knew that it was in everyone, just not so apparent? That I got a glimpse of what me means – that it really means everyone else inside of me and me inside out? You’re the earth. I miss the smell of earth when I see you.

3:13 pm in a cold body coffee filled belly nicotine buzzed head

To write. Writing to write.
I believe to be truly good at something you must love it inherently.
Ex: architecture; i.e. referencing The Fountainhead – the man who gets the glory does not love architecture inherently, he loves the recognition he gets from it, so he works for the recognition and gets it in spades.
In contrast, Howard Roark only creates because there is nothing else to do. He loves it (not a giddy kind of love, but love with a deep and simple longing and appreciation for its creation for its own sake.) He doesn’t get recognition, but the buildings he would create would affect how people live every minute they’re inside them. Just read it if it makes little sense.
I love budgeting. I’m good at budgeting. I don’t love it because it saves me money or because someone said I should; I love the very act of typing numbers into my budget; of adding and subtracting and general Figuring. And however it may or may not benefit me, I will do it as long as I have the means to continue.
This is not a particularly good example to illustrate what I believe is most important about this way of looking at the world, but I want to include it because the love doesn’t make sense – it may not be something grand or exciting or reasonable in anyone else’s eyes, but I’ve got to do it.
One can “be good” at most anything they work at, be it budgeting, cooking, traveling, relating, etc etc… but will that action inspire more than admiration at a well-honed skill in others? Will it affect who they are?? Perhaps change how they live or open doors in the mind or momentarily in the soul – through art, relationships, practical aspects of living, therapy, music, innovation, on and on and on – whatever it is,
I don’t believe one can consistently affect other human beings on a level that touches anything beyond the superficial unless one is acting on a love that is inherent in one’s soul and a love for the action or task or being itself , the un-understandable and possibly incontrollable (although certainly suffocatable and ignorable) passion, quiet or otherwise, in oneself.
I can work as hard as I want to (for whatever reason) at a romantic relationship or close friendship, and succeed at finding out more about a person, having a good time, feeling that my relationship is a “success” and making it look as if the same is true.
But if I want to affect this other person and even allow them to affect me, if I want one of those relationships that alters the way the earth turns by a few degrees, I think there must be a love for what and who that person is left over after I subtract what they can do for me, how they make me feel, how they make me look, the Obvious/Practical/Superficial. A simple love that makes their value in my eyes unquestionable and makes attempts at improving the relationship pointless, because the love itself draws one closer without thought. No, I don’t think all relationships should be easy; people are people, (i.e. difficult, selfish, in varying states of denial) but without a simple love for the one you’re relating to for the sake of the love itself, it does nothing for your Reason to live.
The same is true of acting. A great actor, in my opinion, acts because he/she must, not for the adoration or persona or even to affect others, because there are so many other ways of doing that, but to Act. To Act, period, everything about it is Good and torturous because you can never Grasp the thing you love, we can only run blindly at it and into it and breathe deep while we experience it; ‘true love never dies’ because it’s not humanly possible to stop trying to reach the thing we love, we have an insatiable unable to be satisfied hunger built in to our passion. I have no clue why. Ignoring the hunger is the scary part. That’s the Death I’m afraid of and the Stability I long for. But we can rest in the fact that our true passions will never be satisfied; we can’t take them too far. Despite what our Others may say about moderation and money and reason. Just try taking it too far. I can imagine it will only become more necessary for life and Life will become what you breathe and pump through your veins instead of what you think about.

I think I’m finally ready to go through the practical pain and drudgery it will take to get to a point where I can exercise my passion on a regular basis. I think I’m going back to school. Fuck. Damned if you do, dead if you don’t.

Lenny, please notice the many decorative punctuations (bloop; bweep) that I inserted in my writing. I maintain it improves the overall effect of the message;
Yours;
El;zabeth

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