This one's simple:

Transient 'hers' overwhelm me. There I am, at the bottom of this well.

The Passion

"I say I'm in love with her. What does that mean?

It means I review my future and my past in the light of this feeling. It is as though I wrote in a foreign language that I am suddenly able to read. Wordlessly, she explains me to myself. Like genius, she is ignorant of what she does."

Sometimes Things Get... whatever.

Driving home through the sleet, in the face of my dim headlights and jumpy wipers, the song "Sometimes Things Get, Whatever" by Deadmau5 filtered through my stereo. I'm not a particular fan of the song, the electronic voice sounds too much like Hawking, so I skipped it. But the lyrics got me thinking.

From the time I started this post to today, when I sit here staring at my screen with a slack confused jaw, I have forgotten what I even started to think about. How silly, really? I had a deep intellectual moment, listening to this song, wondering about how things become complicated, and all I can do is speculate. Perhaps I was thinking about entropy and the way emotional, social, and sexual complication is just another aspect of entropy. Or maybe I was thinking about how complicated my own personal life is, and maybe I felt sad, or maybe I felt enthralled. "Wow - it's so complicated, how glorious!"

But I forgot. This is the sad part. I didn't write it down soon enough. Whatever my glimmer of inspiration was, now it's gone.

Forever.

Sad.

Labels

I realize we live in a label-oriented culture... or even world. Labels for foods, labels for any product you could buy, labels for human beings. Gay or Straight? Straight but Metrosexual? Straight but bi-curious? Male or Female? Post or pre-op trans? -sexual or -vestite? And what good do these labels do us? We live in a world of identity politics and who we say we are makes so much difference in the scheme of things. If we get a job, if we make friends, if we find a lover.

I'm especially irate about the "having gay presentation but not being gay" metrosexual term that seems to have popped out of our societies fear of gender presentation, and don't get me started on the sort of but not really bi designation of bi-curious. My response, "Can you not fathom that deep inner part of yourself that is itself attracted to something other than what you think?" But bi is not really the most accurate term. I think before things get clouded by what we learn, humans are indiscriminate. We love everyone and equally. But then hurts and wrongs and social injustices well up, fill our eyes with blood, and we can't let everyone be and care about everyone equally anymore.

And then comes the promiscuity issue. But that's for a whole different post.

Here Comes the Rain Again

Again, again I visualize the sea. It's not the Pacific or the Atlantic. No, this is the sea of my dreams. And it's deeper than any other. It swallows men and women whole. It frightens most people away. There I lie, buttocks lifting off the sandy beach as a gentle wave rolls in and floats me, before gingerly resting me back on the earth and receding into the blue nothing (everything.)

"Here comes the rain again

Raining in my head like a tragedy

Tearing me apart like a new emotion

...

I want to breathe in the open wind

I want to kiss like lovers do

I want to dive into your ocean

Is it raining with you?"

This type of desire can never sustain itself. Do you think that's why Rome fell? But it's not exactly the way you'd describe the Romans. It's the swelling of your heart when the lyrics in a song surprise you, and you wonder, "Maybe love isn't a fairy tale?"

I am looking for the desire that does sustain itself. I'm a scientist with a clip board and a stylish white jacket. I seek out examples, observe them, record them, then repeat. Do you believe in love? Are you settling? What does passion feel like? Pick one: Love or Sex? What happens in a world where you have to pick one and that forces you to forfeit the other?

An arctic blizzard. A frozen heart. Here comes the rain again.

Passion

There's something violent in the reading of a story that evokes passion. The pieces in your ever turning brain slowly coagulate and choke up on each other, one sentence matches a previous sentences and you can't help but imagine your outraged teacher who revealed the ugly truth to his students - and you. Now you see it, in this one text of beautiful proportions, something you never thought to love but for it's tantalizing ambiguity. But now, NOW you see: the economies of oppression (so lovely to ignore,) perhaps unintentional of the author, but you like to think it was on purpose. You love this book, and you like to think the author wrote with quavering hands, fully aware of the horror imbibed in the sentences that match previous sentences.

He runs. Through streets, in the face of his own faults,

Romanticize this:

The pounding of his heart;

Thumping,

Pushing,

Scratching.

He throws his feet before him, he slides.

Then the moment, the anti-touch.

For all the kissing in the world,

this moment is most erotic.

It’s born from one thing: fearless eyes.

And the first real breath from his exhale.

Hands on wrists and the violence,

of my phoenix setting free.

He holds on for dear everything.

He held me down,

Now my fire burns straight through him,

Scalding.

Who could have seen this,

lying beneath the surface?

Only him.

The pounding of his heart;

Singing,

Whispering,

Summoning me -

I’m ready.

From Earth to Sky

This music starts somewhere in my core. My stomach churns, my heart tumbles, and tears or laughter or awe wells in my eyes. Radiating out, the particles of bass, treble, and inspiration clog my veins, traveling with my oddly shaped amino acids and their greater blood vessels to the exotic locations: my cold toes, my small fingers, and the hair follicles that grow my mane.

Ah, this song activates chakras: red and green and purple. I want to moan, but it's too much, too forward. In the silence of my solitary car, driving faster than I should, everything lines up. The easy response of gas to my petal soothes: I have control and I turn this machine on. I wonder, is she an extension of me? Does her electronic core, her elegant beating six cylinders, run on music like me? Could we avoid the gas station together and run on the open road?

A long road in Wyoming comes to mind. A lone droplet explodes onto the windshield, and I notice the behemoth black cumulus that hangs above. I push my car, I make her go, just to know that she can. And so well. The bland vehicles around me pass into the distance and I forget they ever existed. The ghostly Subaru whispers in my mind, and I let go.

This music starts somewhere in my core. Everything lights up, my energy flows, and I wish I had someone to share my passion with.