I’m starting a “Mmm Mmm GA” movement. I’m so fucking done. Sigh.

—ooOoo—

Freedom comes with a price. Something happened at some point, some time, somewhere, along the way, and I became untethered. Untethered to everything and everyone. Anew. A restart. This is me restarting again.

—ooOoo—

What if the confusion concerns physical limitations? Aldous Huxley’s nonsense about the doors of perception. What if it’s true though? The struggle is the unraveling of the consciousness. What if perceiving the world unfiltered, as it truly exists – honestly – is an unobtainable goal? This is very much the “Excuse me while I kiss the sky” sort of bullshit we abandoned around the time of Kurt Cobain’s murder (fuck Courtney).

What if those desires, those voices, those coincidences – are subtle forces trying to guide you into another space? Is it our duty to leave behind artifacts? I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it. Then, you’re in the shower, trying to digest all of these things, naked and wet, practicing manifestation for the first time, arms extended with a hearty “Go web!” and nothing happens. Butkus. Just naked and alone.

What if you get out of that shower, get out of that funk, and pick up your phone to see that the manifestation worked? Impossible. A coincidence. And, if so, why are those memories coming back to me? Why are people starting to use that old language around me again? I had a cousin that used to tell me she was a practicing witch. Same side of the family as the aunt who’d tell me she felt compelled to bring me music. Strange days.

Everyone must be invited. No one gets inside without me letting them in. I wanted and asked for a connection. Mindless, anonymous, mechanical, stopped working. With deep connection though comes deep attachment, which has actually been incredibly rewarding. I don’t recall ever meeting anyone quite like her. Some parts, some pieces, some aspects, kinda sorta remind me of people – but this truly is a unique, one-of-kind, bird indeed.

—ooOoo—

“You want me to be honest,” he tells her while looking down at his eggs.

“No. Fuck. Lie to me, Cable,” she responds with dripping moist sarcasm. “You’re such an asshole, painfully dramatic. What the fuck is wrong with you? Of course, yes, please, pretty please, be honest with me, Mike. I can’t wait to hear the nonsense you’re brewing in that head these days.”

“I fucking hate you, and every goddamned cell in your body. You’re such a wretched beast. A cunt. I can’t believe you actually con people into soiling your hot mess from time to time. Do you stay away from raves and blacklights? Seriously. Your pussy has got to be an episode on CSI, because that’s a crime scene. I haven’t seen that much fucking seamen and blood since Fleet Week. Jesus – You ever wash it? And speaking of Jesus, at least he washed himself from time to time … but you? Please.”

A moment complete. The obvious pause. Then package delivered.

“I fucking hate you, you know that,” she tells him, now smiling but looking around the restaurant to see if anyone heard his rant. “Why can’t you just be a normal person? I fucking swear to god, it’s like dating a child. I’m fucking dating a boy. Do you ever take anything serious? Seriously.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m not sure what to say. You remember what Dr. Phil told me that time… I was alone in San Francisco, and I was feeling alone, and Phil said: ‘Loneliness is just a state of mind.’ Do you remember?”

“No.”

“No, of course you don’t. Well, I do, and I’ve been thinking about those words: Loneliness is just a state of mind; and I’ve been thinking that that means something – that that means I can change that state of mind – that I can do things, and engage people, to experience. To not be lonely.”

“What are we doing now?”

“We’re going in a different direction. When she told me she wanted to know whether she still had it, whether she could still do it for someone, I thought she meant sex. I thought she was talking about sex, wondering whether her mature body could still get a guy off, but looking back at it now, I don’t think that’s what she really meant. No, I don’t think it had anything to do with sex or getting a guy off. Instead, I think what she really wanted to know was whether she could love again. Could she be able to open up, and give her heart to another man. Likewise, could she see herself as being lovable again? Could she set aside years of neglect – to be able to truly feel confident and worthy of love and affection?”