. elsewhere . . letters from the inaccessible .


2 June 2000

another fine mess

So I've been slow to update this page. I've been trying to decide why, lately, and this morning I think I have a decent idea as to why. The things I've been thinking about are things which probably shouldn't go here. Things like doubts I have, irrational fears, paranoid demi-delusions, and foolish longings. I don't think you really want to know the things which roll around in my head, because I'm not particularly proud of them. I hoped to make this a little like the Ragebomb, with pithy observations, wry humor, and cleverly introspective tidbits, but I can't. I think we're both just going to have to accept that.

wishes whose names should not be spoken

Let me set one thing straight, for the record. Most of my poetry is, at best, loosely based on real-life experience. What it is about, I'm ashamed to admit, is the extrapolation of my experience to the next level. Read poems in static like "Vasodilator" or "Repositioning from a Start" or even "Manifestations of the Spirit." You'll see that these aren't narratives of experience, but the utterance of wishes whose names should not be spoken.

I went away alone, with nothing left but faith

"catch me if i fall, i'm losing hold \ i can't just carry on this way..." We went to see The Cure at Irvine Meadows on Sunday night. It was, without a doubt, the best concert of theirs I've been to. As proof, check out their set list. The most pop-oriented songs in the 2 hour 45 minute set were In Between Days and Just Like Heaven.

Thinking about it today, I wish Mariet could have been there as well. She and I went to the last show in LA in '96 at the Forum... 4 years is a long time to remember. I think she would have loved it as much as I.

...and now you're nothing more than another passerby

"hours slipping by \ while we watch the worlds collide \ and now you're nothing more \ than another passerby..."

Increasingly, I find it frustrating to see people around me changing. Of course, growth is a requirement; if I cannot improve myself as a person, what have I to expect? I'm talking about people becoming colder. I'm talking about people acting aloof to suit a temporary purpose which metamorphoses into a permanent means to an unattainable end. I hate having to treat people differently because they cannot interact as they once did. Call it a foul sense of obligation, call it balancing one need with another, but I refuse to change how I treat anyone. For now.

I think it's hopeless. I will become that thing which I loathe, I will become that thing which I fear. The reason is simple, the tactics deliberate. It is inevitable; I will adopt a persona. As such, I will continue to betray myself.

telephone vs. air-mail

Though by no means extinct, the handwritten letter penetrates the membrane of distance, if only by stronger symbolism: that which I hold in my hand was held in the hand of the author, the creator of the message, and they were thinking of me when they held it. The very fact that the handwritten letter is a tactile experience supercedes, if only in small part, the separation. A letter written, addressed, signed by hand and sealed with saliva is intimately personal. The phone on my desk has no such advantage.

This molded, black plastic thing on my desk sporting a dizzying array of buttons and wires is a badge of disappointment, that I cannot caress a chin, wipe away tears, or embrace dearly in the actual presence of a loved one. It is embrace by synthetic proxy. Distance. They can hear me breathe, but cannot feel my breath; they can hear me weep, but cannot feel me shudder.

This molded, black plastic thing on my desk sporting a dizzying array of buttons and wires is also a badge of achievement, that I can speak poems, whisper confidences, and quell sorrows from ten thousand miles away. Action at a distance. Magic. Breathing through the ether.

musings of a prod.

Never a dull moment at the Revolution. Ian the Programmer/Savant is the new Director of Technology, and Perry the original Ragebomb has been promoted to Director of Production, and chief dude in my department. The tally so far... Directors of Production: 1. Producers: 3. Associate Producers: 2. ...and the war wages on...


©2001 Timothy A. Clark -|-