I don’t dare to speculate on the implications of some things.

Like the question “have you slept with her?”  Particularly when followed by the reply of “not yet.”

Or the fact that, for now at least, my most bitter enemy is one of my better friends.  Whatever the case, I’m keeping him close.  Mr. Whitekeys, tou dree lieltva, tou dree dratzva.  I think you could say the same.  (I don’t know who I am anymore, and I’m hoping you could tell me.)

As seems fairly normal at this stage in the game, I’m having some amount of difficulty dragging more than a few coherent words out of my mind and onto paper at any given time.  I’m reasonably certain that this is the most I’ve written in weeks (except, perhaps, for the odd shopping list).  Wild horses may be required fairly soon.

There’s a good reason for
memories to be trigged by things
besides touch
(all she’s done is hurt you)
besides words
(none of them you understand).

Because when the night is over
and you’re safe in your bed
all that you’ll have is the
lingering scent of lavender shampoo.

She needs to just fuck him.  Life would be easier for both of them.

There is, however, some groping going on, though I call it that only as a courtesy (since it barely fits the definition).

“I’m not going to touch, much less rape, someone unless I know they’ll like it.”

Zagreus, zagreus, zagreus…

Stranger things have happened than
coming to terms with the fact that
you’ve lost someone twice
and the third time’s the charm.
(to harm and to hold, to set free for a day)

Stranger loves have prospered than
that of stupid Helen and vainer Paris,
despite the words that’ve been traded
instead of blows, up until the mind slows.
(I promise to love you, but only if you never speak)

So which continues, which one dies?
The laws of physics do not apply
any more than faulty logic
based on misfiring synapses and
hatred fueled hormones.

I’ve know love before
(if that’s what you want to call it)
leaking through lacerations
on an all too smooth (too cool) facade
made of lies and misinterpretations.

The association was not a healthy one,
there isn’t much getting around that.
But what’s health
when the only thing keeping you
tied to the ground is a string
of the precariously nonsensical,
the slightest blank waiting to
cut you free to
the unbidding sky?

So I knew love of a sort,
if you will,
and cherished it well above all,
despite the scalpel looming
above my head.
Je Veux Manger tes Ovaires.
“I hate you for what you represent”
is all he needed to (should) have said.

So nothing happened, no words said,
his lover would gladly have stabbed
him well and dead
(yet I’m not the one who kissed him).
It was either that, or. . .
something.

Someday when things are more
concrete, I think perhaps I’ll love again.
(under a grayer sky of eyes)
If and only then,
because I know the words to be said.

“Hush, my darling. Tou dree lieltva, tou dree dratzva.”
“Please die.”

- - - - - - - -

I sat in the library during 4th period today and spewed nonsense. This is the result.

It seems that my somewhat encyclopedic knowledge of sexual innuendo is classic British poetry will finally come in handy come mid-May when I take the AP English Exam.  One of the questions on the practice test I took on Monday was regarding just that, so of course I knew the answer.  There is a lot of sex in Donne’s poetry, the pervy bastard.

I’m almost tempted to compose on the subject myself, however, given recent events which have come to my attention.

It seems Zagreus has been dreaming again, and this time about Aylin.  This is the second time this has happened that I can remember.  The first time they kissed.  This time. . . this time they went rather further.   Zagreus appears to be quite traumatized by the situation, since he refuses to give Aylin any information besides the fact that the dream occurred without her having to drag it out of him.  Hazael and I are fairly certain that he’s probably worried that Aylin will take offense in some way, possibly because of a possible extrapolation of the pocket-incident involving reenacting that dream in a more concrete setting.

I can’t say I think Aylin would much mind.

She’s grown distant of late, a result of constant pining after Zagreus.  But I can’t blame her.  It’s hard to be alone again after knowing human touch.

If I’m a platypus (or a spider, depending on who you ask), then I think Whitekeys is probably a duck.

I wouldn’t say that he rarely does anything he doesn’t want to, since he regularly complains about being forced into activities from which he’d rather abstain, but things do tend to just kind of roll off of him.

Take today for instance, when Winds and Summit got together with two bands from Cheyenne Mountain for an evening of pizza, playing, and dodgeball.  Whitekeys is a fairly decent player, not because his arm is all that good (it’s worse than mine), but because he was only hit once that I remember.

He’s a slippery, bastard, that one.

And on an awkward note, Aylin spent quite a lot of time threatening Zagreus with a pocket-diving if he didn’t cough up the arcade token they were stealing from each other.  As it turns out, he kind of wished she did.  The entire situation is really more innocent than I make it sound, but the potential for innuendo is there, and shouldn’t be passed up.

There’s something about being his own personal god,
stuck up on a pedestal that for once in your life
isn’t of your own devising,
that disturbs you more than it has any right to.

Some days you wonder if perhaps it’s worth it
to demand tribute of the silly love-sick loon.
And perhaps it would be, if he hadn’t already
given you everything he had and more.

Right down to the soul.

Some days you wonder which is more shameful,
that you’ve let him get this far in stripping
himself of his dignity,
or that you’ve so thoroughly enjoyed it.

There’s something about that pedestal,
something that’s gone to your head and isn’t
much likely to be letting go before one or
both of is disturbed from this reverie.

I think I could handle the situation if only my troubles would do me the courtesy of surfacing one at a time.

But of course my trials and tribulations would be just as pig-headedly perverse as I am, so not showing up en masse is clearly out of the question.

If it was just the way I sounded that was bad, I could deal with that problem.  Either by acquiring new reeds, or just practicing with more air support.

If my only problem was getting the notes correct, I could deal with that as well.

But not both at once.  It isn’t fair to stick me on an instrument I’ve been playing for less than a year, and then give me a part with only two and a half weeks left to learn it.

I can’t handle it anymore.  If it were worth it to have my first period off for the rest of april and may, and if it wouldn’t totally fuck over my GPA, I would drop band in a heartbeat.  But that isn’t really an option now.

Failure, it would seem, is imminent.  Especially if Senor Biggles is to be believed.

“If you continue to play like that, I might actually start to love this piece again.”

Well excuse us for only being a high school band.  You’re the one who picked the piece commissioned by the air force, the one that most COLLEGES won’t touch.

Maybe you should have thought things through before biting off more than you could chew, and then trying to make us do it for you.

It’s because of my experiences of the last few months that I’ve totally given up and possibility of playing after high school.  I always figured that I’d probably keep playing for my own personal amusement, taking on little projects and the like just to keep in practice.  But if I ever touch Jill of Jubal after graduation (and after China) it will be a bloody miracle.  I don’t honestly think I will.

That man (though I hesitate to classify him as such) has thoroughly killed any love I ever had for making music.

Fuck you, Biggles, and everything you stand for.

For once, I’m with Whitekeys.

It’s hot as hell outside,
and yet you’re still shivering in the caustic embrace
of a woolen scarf you knitted yourself all those years ago,
back when aqua green and neon pink seemed like
decent colors to be seen wearing in public.

And yet, you aren’t wearing it for the warmth,
despite your shivering, so much as for what it represents.
The days gone past are caught up in that scarf
with the stench of soured ambitions and new-found love.

Perhaps those days were better,
you aren’t really qualified to tell.
And besides, the contents of the memories
are nearly as important as the reminiscense.