tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83093803176768120372024-03-14T04:20:16.269-04:00The Tao of BlogLife, the Tao, and Everything.Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.comBlogger367125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-59595263464497371822016-10-13T15:00:00.000-04:002016-10-13T15:00:21.239-04:00We Shouldn't Be Sadder...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I've been praying all the week through<br />At home, at work and on the bus<br />I've been praying I can keep you<br />And to earn enough for us<br /><br />I can take humiliation<br />And hurtful comments from the boss<br />I'm just praying by the weekend<br />I can earn enough for us<br /><br />Found a house that won't repair itself<br />With it's windows cracking<br />And a roof held together with holes<br /><br />Just because we're on the bottom of the ladder<br />We shouldn't be sadder<br />Than others like us<br />Who have goals <br /> for the betterment of life<br />Glad that you want to be my wife, but honest<br /><br />I've been praying all the week through<br />At home at work and on the bus<br />I've been praying I can keep you<br />And to earn enough for us<br />
<br />
-"Earn Enough For Us"<br />
XTC, <i>Skylarking</i><br />
<br />
<br /></blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-49962040184977696782016-04-15T12:26:00.001-04:002016-04-15T12:26:29.132-04:00And Eternity Near...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Ten years ago <br /> on a cold dark night<br />There was someone killed <br /> 'neath the town hall light<br />There were few at the scene<br /> but they all agree<br />That the slayer who ran <br /> looked a lot like me.<br /><br />The judge said, "Son<br /> what is your alibi?<br />If you were somewhere else<br /> then you won't have to die."<br />I spoke not a word <br /> though it meant my life<br />For I had been in the arms <br /> of my best friend's wife.<br /><br />She walks these hills <br /> in a long black veil<br />She visits my grave <br /> when the night winds wail<br />Nobody knows<br /> nobody sees<br />Nobody knows <br /> but me.<br /><br />The scaffold's high <br /> and eternity near<br />She stood in the crowd <br /> and shed not a tear<br />But sometimes at night <br /> when the cold wind blows<br />In a long black veil <br /> she cries o'er my bones.<br />
<br />
-"Long Black Veil"<br />
Lefty Frizzell<br />
</blockquote>
<br />
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-72735827382856094572016-03-30T11:09:00.000-04:002016-03-30T11:13:35.387-04:00Slurdge Squickle...There's three things you need to know about me before we can begin:<br />
<br />
1) I do not have sex dreams. Which isn't to say that I don't have <b><i>sexy</i></b> dreams. It's just that the actual acts of sex never manage to happen in the dream. I've had many, many dreams where I'm <i><b>about</b></i> to have sex; more than I could count, in fact. But something always interrupts at the last possible second, and the dream then flows on to something else, and I wake the next morning and remember <i><b>almost</b></i> having sex the night before. (I've always assumed the reason for this to be that there is just something about the act of having sex that my mind simply cannot recreate for me, and knowing this, it always comes up with some last-minute coitus interruptus to avoid having to cross that particular body-mind barrier.) I have never had a "wet" dream.<br />
<br />
2) Far more than any other form of art, entertainment, or media, graphic depictions of rape disturb and upset me. I can watch graphic, bloody, violent horror movies all night every night and not be disturbed in the slightest. But the second a dramatic movie suddenly veers into a rape scene, I know I will be having nightmares and disturbing daytime fugues for the next week. It doesn't have to be violent; it just has to be forced sex. I don't know why I respond this way. I was not raped as a child (far from it, I was sexually adventurous), nor as an adult for that matter, nor have I ever witnessed anyone actually being raped. But something about forcing sex onto someone against their will, something about twisting that highest of all loves and pleasures to its darkest apotheosis, repulses and scars me every single time I experience it. Every single time in my life that I have encountered graphic rape scenes in movies, or read them in books, I have become very upset and traumatized. For several days, or weeks, I will have a hard time getting the images out of my mind. And I will feel sad and scared and small every time I have to see them in my head again, almost as if I am reliving this moment - this fictional moment that did not actually happen to anyone at all, much less to myself. As if I am trapped in my own fictional hell.<br />
<br />
3) I am currently reading Moore's Neonomicon. Some of you will understand the significance of this. The rest of you are lucky.<br />
<br />
+ + +<br />
<br />
Last night I dreamt that I was attending the upcoming national moot (chaos magickian retreat). Late one night, after a long, hard day of black magick, I went back upstairs to my hotel room to go to sleep. I found my roommate waiting for me there, getting ready for bed herself. She was young (and she looked a lot younger even than she was, almost disturbingly so), blonde, very pale skin. To my waking mind now, I do not believe I had ever seen this person
before, and as far as I am aware, she is entirely ephemeral. But in the dream, she was a close friend of mine; perhaps a temple-mate. So the familiar, intimate, affectionate ways we touched as we orbited each other around the hotel room getting ready for bed, did not seem unusual or in any way out-of-the-ordinary for us.<br />
<br />
But something changed this time. Somehow, the friendly affection we showed one another began to feel deeper, and more intense. Being unafraid of the other's touch suddenly became <i><b>wanting</b></i> to be touched. I don't know how it was communicated, but we both knew we wanted each other, and we knew it was going to happen now.<br />
<br />
There was holding, and cuddling, and running of hands along outlines of form. Layers began to get peeled off. Bare flesh was marveled at, and taken by the handful. Our mouths grew sore from kissing. My eyes were closed but I could see and my fingers were inside her and I could feel the wetheat on my fingers hands wrists arms legs and<br />
<br />
We were in the water now - dark water dark night where?<br />
<br />
A swimming pool, it seems. After hours. All the lights off, water black, can't see the bottom can't see ourselves. We're not swimming. We're floating upright. No need to swim, the water holds us up like gentle caressing hands of Mother. It is warm.<br />
<br />
We're completely naked, this girl and I, wrapping arms and legs around each other in the dark water. I can feel myself throbbing against her under the water. I can feel her licking me all over under the water, while I am holding her and kissing her and running my hands all over her.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, she takes a fistful of my hair and then slips me inside of her. After, there is not the usual motions, no thrusting, no rocking back and forth. We are not fucking. She is pressed against me, sucking me. I can feel her undulations as she sucks me inside of her, rippling up and down the length of me. The pleasure of this sensation is indescribable. I look down and can see through the water clear as glass at the mouth that is surrounding me, pursing lips sucking up and down. Please understand, this is not hyperbole or poetic license in my description - what I saw was not a vulva, it was a mouth.<br />
<br />
I looked up from this scene of mounting horror to find her young, beautiful face now leering at me with an impossibly wide smile, and black eyes of terror madness. At the same time, I felt the will to resist being drained from me, as the astoundingly pleasurable sensations emanating from our conjoined bodies suddenly intensified beyond anything I had ever known. I recall the sensation of licking tongues caressing my entire sex all over; wand and orbs inside and outside, it was the Hell of All Flesh.<br />
<br />
I wanted to scream, but her tongues were in my mouth down my throat, writhing fat worms, wrapping my tongue, stroking it sucking it. I felt tongues sliding along under me, caressing and licking the underside black door searching for purchase finding entrance. Licking me opening me impaling me gods pleasure fire fear I can still hear the sounds as they plunged in and out of me still feel the fire fire gods heat no no no no<br />
<br />
I remember wanting to fight her, to stop her, to scream, anything. But I couldn't make my body respond at all. The pleasure was overwhelming to the point of paralysis. The last image I saw, as we began to descend beneath the still surface of the water, was our bodies' intersection, one last time. It was a star. Or had become a star. Her occulted mouth had split open eight ways from center - each ray of flesh a prehensile tongue that squicked and squiggled around my naked body, wrapping me and pulling me and licking me and draining me and taking me down down down and in the center of that eight-rayed star of inhuman flesh, a pink, pulsating mouth, with row upon row of concentric rings of tiny pink tentacle teeth, sucking me down, pulling me in, eating me raw, draining the nuclear fire from my very atoms, returning me to the black void of the bottomless unending sea.<br />
<br />
+ + +<br />
<br />
It must be Spring.<br />
<br />Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-36752033601572381462015-10-22T16:49:00.000-04:002015-10-22T16:49:02.598-04:00Love's Hallows All...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In the cold November night<br />She had given us a fright<br />So we ran arm-in-arm away<br />Running towards forgotten days<br />And the sorrow of that <br /> woe-begotten light<br /><br />We had told her what we'd done<br />And she'd said I'm not her son<br />Then we'd bolted out the door<br />Left your bootprints on the floor<br />And were gone before she'd <br /> leveled out the gun<br /><br />The shots rang high and loud<br />And I swear that we were proud<br />To have made the Beast so pissed<br />To be the Devils atop her list<br />Of all the evil Hell hath spat<br /> on this gray shroud<br /> <br />Into the Night we ran and played<br />For we had met our Judgement Day<br />Burned it down with light and love<br />Killed the monster, came the dove<br />And forever on we knew <br /> we'd have our say<br /><br />There's no one could tell us "No"<br />If our Way wound to or fro<br />Our life at last was ours to live<br />And Death our gift to give<br />So we'd return for her at sign <br /> of year's first snow<br /><br />And return for her we did<br />Deep in the cellar where she'd hid<br />Her thrusting cross and sobbing loud<br />"In Jesus' name I cast you out!"<br />For all the good that useless <br /> trinket never did<br /><br />She wept and screamed and prayed<br />Hoping she'd at last be saved<br />From this night that wouldn't end<br />And her faith that wouldn't bend<br />And these children with their teeth <br /> like razor blades<br /><br />We ripped and tore and fed<br />While she cried and shat and bled<br />Until her flesh began to cool<br />Her life now just a crimson pool<br />Puddled under her like Satan's <br /> marriage bed<br /><br />We left her there on that stone floor<br />Behind us closed and locked the door<br />Our mother's blood across your face<br />Looked to me a veil of lace<br />In all our endless life I've never <br /> loved you more<br />
<br />
</blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-69130066061347654142015-10-01T16:44:00.000-04:002015-10-01T16:44:31.269-04:00Genetics...At the Great Frederick Fair, there is a tent down by the tractor displays that sells old-fashioned candies.<br /><br />And
every year, I go there and buy a roll of Butter Rum-flavored
Lifesavers, because they remind me of you. You used to keep a roll in
your car, and sometimes you would give me one, and so they remind me of
you. The version of you that raised me, and loved me, and schooled me
hard, and whom I thought of as Father, with all the meek adoration of an
ascetic at the feet of his Creator.<br /><br />As silly as it sounds, I
have to get them every year, and I love them, and would be wounded if I
couldn't find them, because those little sweet rings of amber candy
remind me - they remind me that I am your son.<br />
<br />
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-16222471540644676952015-06-26T16:37:00.000-04:002015-06-26T16:37:42.667-04:00A Great Day In America...So proud of my country today. We are one step closer to becoming that nation we always believe ourselves to be. It's a good feeling.<br />
<br />
And it's a strange feeling. I'm suddenly all-too aware today of how rare a moment like this is. The good guys won. People's inherent humanity has been recognized, and enshrined into our law. The evil has been banished from the land. It feels like it should ALWAYS be like this. But it almost never is.<br />
<br />
Sorry to be so melancholy about it. I'm really ecstatic, truly. Just wish we could feel this more often.<br />
<br />
We are a better nation now - a better people - than we were yesterday.<br />
<br />
Here is hoping, sincerely, profoundly, that the trend continues.<br />
<br />
#LoveWins<br />
<br />Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-44191503354173862452015-05-28T17:50:00.001-04:002015-05-28T17:50:43.945-04:00Her Heart's Apocalypse...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She's<br />an extraordinary girl<br />In an ordinary world<br />And she can't seem to get away </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
He<br />lacks the courage in his mind<br />Like a child left behind<br />Like a pet left in the rain </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She's all alone again<br />Wiping the tears from her eyes<br />Some days he feels like dying<br />She gets so sick of crying </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She<br />sees the mirror of herself<br />An image she wants to sell<br />To anyone willing to buy </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
He<br />steals the image in her kiss<br />From her heart's apocalypse<br />From the one called Whatsername </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She's all alone again<br />Wiping the tears from her eyes<br />Some days he feels like dying<br />She gets so sick of crying </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She's all alone again<br />Wiping the tears from her eyes<br />Some days he feels like dying<br />Some days it's not worth trying<br />Now that they both are finding<br />She gets so sick of crying </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She's<br />an extraordinary girl </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
an extraordinary girl </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
-"Extraordinary Girl"<br /> Green Day, <i>American Idiot</i></blockquote>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-63290659191267477172015-05-27T14:35:00.000-04:002015-05-27T14:35:00.199-04:00Final Summation...Goddammit I hate memory sometimes.<br />
<br />
And everything it leads to. Nostalgia. Reminiscence. A concrete sense of Self. Rambling, confessional blog posts about supposed childhood sexual traumas. And so forth.<br />
<br />
After all that, after my whole humiliating confessional frenzy here in my last few posts (holy crap, was that all the way back in February??), I have to admit now that I'm not entirely sure my memory of these early experiences is even correct. And I've wanted to write and post this explanation for a good while now, because those posts are still sitting there on the front page, like a severed head at a dinner party; but I've been alternately too busy, or, mostly, too embarrassed by the whole ordeal to want to return to it. But I can't just leave that shit up there for anyone to read without any context or resolution. I have to put this to bed.<br />
<br />
So here's how it all started. I was driving to work that February morning, and there was a discussion on the radio of how children respond to parental abuse. I don't remember what it was exactly, but something they said reminded me of this childhood friend (I'm going to start calling him "Bill" just so that I have a name to refer to him by). I hadn't thought about Bill in many, many years. I remembered some of our experiences together, and I remembered his big, angry father. And that's when I suddenly made the connection and realized, "Oh! Bill was abused by his father!" And everything else just followed from that.<br />
<br />
I still believe that to be true; I believe Bill was abused (at least mentally and emotionally, if not physically or sexually) by his father. But the rest of it, I must admit now, I am significantly less sure about. I know that Bill and I "played doctor," but I don't remember all that we did. I don't actually remember how far our sexual play went. And, I am forced to admit to myself and all of you now, I don't actually remember who suggested what. I thought I did at the time, but I've since realized that's not true. It was just too long ago now for me to remember it clearly. It was so long ago that even the things I <i><b>do</b></i> remember clearly are suspect. And through my research I discovered that I would be forced to admit something else, something much worse: it is entirely possible that <i><b>I</b></i> am the one who abused <i><b>him</b></i>.<br />
<br />
Reading through literature on the subject, I was surprised to find out that one of the more common, and yet least often discussed, forms of childhood sexual abuse is to simply educate a child about sex too much at too early an age. (It had never even occurred to me before my research that this could possibly be considered a form of abuse.) Sex is one of the most complicated and complex of all human interactions, and a 4 or 5 year-old child is simply too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it (hell, a lot of adults are too underdeveloped to be able to fully understand it, for that matter); and so therefore giving a child that age too much information on the subject can often lead them to act out behaviors that they are not able to fully understand, process, or deal with in a meaningful way. That's the basic idea.<br />
<br />
My mother's policy was that if I was old enough to ask the question, then I was old enough to hear the answer. And she was always very quick to let me know that if I ever had any questions at all, she would do her best to try to answer them truthfully and completely. And she lived by that statement. And I was a very curious boy. I had a <i><b>lot</b></i> of questions. And she answered every one she could. So I remember that throughout my childhood, basically until high school, I <i><b>always</b></i> knew more about sex (among many other things) than any of my friends or classmates seemed to. I was proud of that, actually. It made me feel grown-up. It made me feel strong. And superior. (Realizing now, as I type this, that this may have something to do with why I value intelligence so highly, in both myself and others.)<br />
<br />
But in terms of my memories of my experiences with Bill, that throws everything into a new light. I only actually remember one thing we did that was definitely Bill's idea, and while that was a little dirty, it also wasn't exactly sexual, either (we were naked, but there was no touching); it would fall squarely in the category of "normative childhood sexual play." I don't actually remember what else we may have done, or who might've suggested any of it. But I know that in my memories of all the other boys (and some girls) who came after Bill, <i><b>I</b></i> was definitely the aggressor.<br />
<br />
The hard part to admit, is that when I suddenly realized that morning that Bill had been abused by his father, I didn't then "realize" that he had actually been acting out his abuse on me, as I originally wrote. No, the truth was that I actually just <i><b>assumed</b></i> that was the case, and didn't recognize that I was making an assumption. <i>"OMG, Bill was abused by his father! What do abused children do? They act out that same abuse on others. He must've been doing that to me when we played doctor! So that's why I then went on to do it others; I was acting out his abuse on me! That's where it all started! It makes perfect sense."</i> And it does make perfect sense. But that doesn't automatically make it true, either.<br />
<br />
I still don't know what happened back then, and I probably never will. But I have to admit that the much more likely scenario seems to be that I <i><b>was</b></i> actually a victim of childhood sexual abuse, but the abuser was my mother, not Bill. And it seems much more likely that I was acting out my abuse on him (and all the other boys and girls that came after him) rather than the other way around.<br />
<br />
Bill moved away before we even hit puberty. I haven't seen or heard from him since I was a child. I have no idea what his life has been like.<br />
<br />
If you're still out there, "Bill," I hope you're okay. And if you're not... all I can say is, I'm so, so sorry.<br />
<br />
It wasn't my fault. I was only a child.<br />
<br />Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-7910754915735625062015-02-11T09:39:00.000-05:002015-02-11T09:39:00.758-05:00Twenty-twenty...Why am I telling you any of this?!<br />
<br />
This isn't a diary, for fuck's sake. This is a MEGAPHONE.<br />
<br />
Jesus christ, I'm such an asshole.<br />
<br />Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-38635077954366781532015-02-10T12:03:00.000-05:002015-02-10T12:03:15.810-05:00Apparent Exaggerations...Still need more time to write out the full story/explanation, but I did learn something that requires an immediate update. <br />
<br />
I knew that the language I used yesterday didn't feel quite right. It seemed inflammatory, and loaded with a ton of connotations that were not actually part of the experience I was trying to communicate. But what other language was I supposed to use? How else was I supposed to describe it?<br />
<br />
Well, finally getting around last night to doing some very preliminary research into the topic of child-on-child sexual abuse, revealed the rather obvious fact that I'm not the only person in the world who has ever had experiences like these, and that as such, there is already a whole lexicon available to me to describe it, if I had only bothered to look.<br />
<br />
I learned right off the bat that I was not, in fact, molested. I was not abused. What happened to me would be characterized as "Normative Childhood Sexual Play," even if it was a little more advanced than most. The difference being, I was never coerced, or threatened, or manipulated, or made to do anything I didn't want to do. All this friend of mine did was suggest the ideas; I went along with them willingly, even excitedly. And I enjoyed them completely, to the point that I then went on to suggest them to all my other friends for the next 20 years.<br />
<br />
What I went through was a normal part of growing up that pretty much everyone goes through at some point. The big difference for me, was that it happened to me about 10 years earlier than the average. I was regularly having sex in elementary school, and I was having the kind of sex that most other people don't even know about, much less start trying to engage in, until middle school or high school. (Oddly, I steadfastly maintained my virginity, however technical, until I was much older; I think having so much sex as a child made my virginity seem more precious to me somehow, and I was determined to save it until I found someone I really loved.)<br />
<br />
I still think my friend was abused, though. It's the only explanation I have right now for how he could be so sexually aggressive, and adventurous, and knowledgeable, at such a young age. And so it's still possible that, from his point of view, he was acting out from his history of abuse. But whether he was attempting to abuse me or not (who knows how he would've responded if I'd said no), I wasn't abused. I went willingly, and loved every minute of it.<br />
<br />
And while I feel a lot better now, knowing that I don't actually have to wear the "childhood sexual abuse victim" label for the rest of my life, there's still a lot left here that I need to unpack. I'm still not sure what all this means, or what I'm supposed to do with this new information.<br />
<br />Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-28332938916805649022015-02-09T12:40:00.000-05:002015-02-09T12:40:11.397-05:00We Are What We Remember We Are...I realized this morning, that I was - rather technically, I must caveat - molested by one of my very first childhood friends. And that this series of events was directly responsible for shaping a very large portion of my personality; of who I still am today.<br />
<br />
I'm honestly not sure how I feel about this. There's way too much story there to be able to tell it all right now. But I had to at least get this much, the realization of it, the acknowledgment of it, out of me and into existence, before I forgot it again, or subsumed it in some other way.<br />
<br />
I feel like I'm supposed to be upset about this. But I don't think I feel particularly upset about it, at least not yet. (There is a small part of me, however, that is upset at myself for <i><b>not</b></i> being upset about it, for whatever that's worth.) I'd always remembered - and still remember - our "playing doctor" as being entirely consensual. (As much as it could be, at least. We were about the same age at the time, so technically, legally, neither of us could consent; but we were also the only ones involved. So how does that work?) So, I've never felt - and still don't feel - victimized in any way. I feel no enmity or ill-will towards this individual, and never have. And the parts of my Self that I can now suddenly attribute to my early friendship with this person (at least, the ones I know about) are not things that I've ever felt particularly bad about or wished to be different. Nor have I ever felt a need to investigate their root, or determine their origin. <br />
<br />
Which I guess is part of why it feels so strange to suddenly know where they all come from. I received an answer to an absolutely <i><b>massive</b></i> question, before I had ever even asked it in the first place. There's an almost vertigo to it; the sensation of it makes you dizzy. A memory you've had for almost 40 years, and suddenly, from out of nowhere and apropos of nothing, one tiny little detail you'd left behind somewhere along the way comes back into focus; and it fits like a keystone into place with all the other memories it connects to: that time, that place, those people; filling in a hole you never knew was there; and now you see it all so clearly, understanding it all for the very first time, after 40 years; and that realization leads to another, which leads to another, cascading down through your history like a line of dominoes, until suddenly four decades of Self have been re-written. You understand yourself now in a new, better, more complete way, a more whole way, than you ever have before. But you also know now, that you're not who you thought you were; and you never have been. So, then, who are you?<br />
<br />
That's kind of a lot to handle when it all hits you in a matter of seconds while you're driving down the highway late to work on a Monday morning.<br />
<br />
So, yeah. This one's gonna take a while to unpack, I guess.<br />
<br />Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-71154715523326495592015-02-07T17:05:00.000-05:002015-02-07T17:05:36.566-05:00Gloria...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div dir="ltr">
It's a stupid song<br />
Hearing it come on the music station in the restaurant <br />
after the thumping House music that preceded it<br />
I laugh<br />
because it's an old song</div>
<div dir="ltr">
a stupid song <br />
so familiar song <br />
My eyes close heavy, rebellious <br />
all I can hear is the song <br />
it comes back to me in the wave pattern<br />
vibrating the memory loose <br />
In the back of the old station wagon <br />
Vista Cruiser<br />
with all the other kids and cousins<br />
on our way to Summer camp <br />
windows down Summer wind lovingly whipping us<br />
with salt sand scrub-pine lashes<br />making fun of the drivers behind us<br />
SCREAMING this song</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Top of our lungs<br />
All of ourselves lost in THIS SONG<br />
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
This stupid song</div>
<div dir="ltr">
that I loved so much so long ago</div>
<div dir="ltr">
playing overhead in this stupid hipster sandwich shop</div>
<div dir="ltr">
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
with the sudden ocean-salt taste of these tears </div>
<div dir="ltr">
being back there in that Summer</div>
<div dir="ltr">
flying to Adventure in the Vista Cruiser </div>
<div dir="ltr">
Nothing but open road ahead of us <br />
As far as the eye can see</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
</blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-89019472171549277652015-01-16T15:07:00.000-05:002015-01-16T15:07:01.046-05:00Screen Door Summer...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
first days of Summer<br />
early childhood<br />
first, second, third year of school<br />
when Summers first started to <i><b>mean something</b></i><br />
<br />
<i>Free.</i><br />
<br />
<i>I am Free.</i><br />
<br />
i remember<br />
i remember those days<br />
i remember that feeling<br />
only remember<br />
i remember one morning<br />
early<br />
seven or eight<br />
both of us<br />
myself and the day<br />
just starting to heat up<br />
<br />
i remember finding our front door open<br />
wide open<br />
propped open<br />
because we'd just bought a new screen door<br />
our first<br />
to let the Summer in <br />
i can still remember the sweet smell<br />
of the soft blond wood frame of our new door<br />
blending with the scent of suburban Summer wafting through<br />
cut grass and pool water<br />
dandelion and hot asphalt<br />
<br />
i remember the sparkles of dust twinkling<br />
through the enormous beam of radiant Sun<br />
pouring through our open front door<br />
flooding through our new screen door<br />
pooling in two golden domino blocks<br />
on the orange shag carpet<br />
<br />
i remember lying down then<br />
right there on the carpet<br />
right there at our open front door<br />
in my pj's<br />
in that bath of light<br />
and doing nothing else <br />
doing nothing at all<br />
<br />
i remember it was so warm<br />
so comfortable<br />
so wonderful<br />
so perfect <br />
i didn't want to leave<br />
<i><b>i didn't have to leave</b></i><br />
i could lay there as long as i wanted<br />
<i><b>i had nothing else to do </b></i><br />
all i had to do was whatever i wanted<br />
and what i wanted was to lay right there<br />
and let the blissful Summer Sun caress me all over<br />
until there was nothing else <br />
<br />
i remember i felt free then<br />
absolutely felt it<br />
for the first time<br />
a sort-of tingle in the belly<br />
like falling<br />
or flying<br />
the exhilaration of that new-found freedom<br />
knowing i was free<br />
knowing this was only the beginning<br />
knowing there were months more of this left<br />
months more to look forward to<br />
the upwelling joy that knowledge brings<br />
the surge of happiness at having nothing better to do<br />
than drown in a pool of starlight<br />
<br />
i remember recognizing<br />
even then<br />
that there was something special happening there<br />
i didn't know what it was<br />
not then<br />
but i knew there wouldn't be many days like that<br />
and there haven't been<br />
this is the only one i can remember<br />
anymore <br />
<br />
but i'm glad i remember<br />
it feels good to remember<br />
it dulls the ache<br />
left from wondering<br />
if i'll ever get to feel that way again<br /><br /></blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-17088043750893851952014-12-10T12:32:00.001-05:002014-12-10T12:32:37.368-05:00In Our Rags Of Light...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If it be your will<br />That I speak no more<br />And my voice be still<br />As it was before<br />I will speak no more<br />I shall abide until<br />I am spoken for<br />If it be your will<br /><br />If it be your will<br />That a voice be true<br />From this broken hill<br />I will sing to you<br />From this broken hill<br />All your praises they shall ring<br />If it be your will<br />To let me sing<br />From this broken hill<br />All your praises they shall ring<br />If it be your will<br />To let me sing<br /><br />If it be your will<br />If there is a choice<br />Let the rivers fill<br />Let the hills rejoice<br />Let your mercy spill<br />On all these burning hearts in hell<br />If it be your will<br />To make us well<br /><br />And draw us near<br />And bind us tight<br />All your children here<br />In their rags of light<br />In our rags of light<br />All dressed to kill<br />And end this night<br />If it be your will<br /><br />If it be your will.<br /><br /> -"If It Be Your Will"<br /> Leonard Cohen, <i>Various Positions</i><br /> </blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-19918491458694984912014-12-05T17:54:00.000-05:002014-12-05T17:54:31.605-05:00It Turns Reason Into Ashes...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
They sent me out from Santa Fe<br /> to try and find his trail<br />They think that I'm the only one <br /> who can bring him back to jail<br />This star says I'm a lawman <br /> this gun has seen me through<br />And though my heart is heavy <br /> I've got a job to do<br /><br />You see he's such a proud man <br /> who never learned to crawl<br />But a good man turned gunslinger <br /> is the meanest man of all<br />He killed a US Marshall <br /> and for that he's gonna pay<br />And I'm the lonely lawman <br /> who's on his trail today<br /><br />There was a time he fought for truth <br /> and on the side of right<br />Until the only girl he loved <br /> was killed one fateful night<br />I know his heart was shattered <br /> as he turned the barren sod<br />And laid away her body <br /> commending it to God<br /><br />Then he vowed a vengeance <br /> to those who took her life<br />And every notch upon his gun <br /> a tear shed for his wife<br />But vengeance is like wildfire <br /> sweepin' through the wood<br />It turns reason into ashes <br /> and burns out all the good<br /><br />Now I can't help but remember <br /> as I trail this lonesome man<br />I don't believe while we were boys <br /> I won any race we ran<br />For you see his face resembles mine <br /> we talk somewhat the same<br />And though we walk in different worlds <br /> we both bear our daddy's name... <br /> <br /> -"The Lawman"<br /> Billy Walker<br /> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WyOhIASapr0" target="_blank">listen on YouTube</a><br /> </blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-85578530632927227722014-11-07T16:20:00.000-05:002014-11-07T16:30:54.810-05:00Trying To Hold On To What He Needs...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When a man loves a woman,<br />
he can't keep his mind on nothing else<br />
He'll trade the world <br />
for the good thing he's found<br />
If she is bad, he can't see it, <br />
she can do no wrong<br />
Turn his back on his best friend <br />
if he put her down<br />
<br />
When a man loves a woman, <br />
he'll spend his very last dime<br />
Tryin' to hold on <br />
to what he needs<br />
He'd give up all his comforts, <br />
sleep out in the rain<br />
If she said that's the way <br />
it ought to be<br />
<br />
Well, this man loves a woman<br />
I gave you everything I had<br />
Tryin' to hold on to your high class love<br />
Baby, please don't treat me bad<br />
<br />
When a man loves a woman, <br />
down deep in his soul<br />
She can bring him <br />
such misery<br />
If she plays him for a fool, <br />
he's the last one to know<br />
Lovin' eyes <br />
can't ever see<br />
<br />
When a man loves a woman, <br />
he can do her no wrong<br />
He can never own <br />
some other girl<br />
Yes, when a man loves a woman <br />
I know exactly how he feels<br />
'Cause baby, baby, baby, <br />
you're my world<br />
<br />
When a man loves a woman <br />
I know exactly how he feels<br />
Baby, baby, baby, <br />
you're my world<br />
<br />
-"When A Man Loves A Woman"<br />
Percy Sledge</blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-75892663331488345842014-09-11T16:21:00.000-04:002014-09-11T16:21:02.027-04:00We Become Merlin, Lord Of The Geeks...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
the Man is no longer a Man <br />
in this day and age<br />
he is a strange Middle-Aged Boy<br />
an Aging Adolescent<br />
hair going grey<br />
with the hours whittled away<br />
on Xbox video games<br />
<br />
the Man that is a Man<br />
is of a bygone age<br />
The Real Man in the films of old<br />
Age-ed Anachronism<br />
strong and proud and brave<br />
standing tall to face the day<br />
and keep the wolves at bay<br />
<br />
that I am a Man-who-is-not-a-Man<br />
a product of this modern age<br />
has vexed my Heart and Soul<br />
my Arrested Ascension<br />
how can I always play<br />
when a Real Man works all day<br />
but really who's to say?<br />
<br />
the Boy is also a Man<br />
in our culture at this stage<br />
in truth both young and old<br />
Advancing Adolescence<br />
we get to play our lives away<br />
yet still have bills to pay<br />
the balance of the middle way<br />
<br />
I am a Boy and I am a Man<br />
by internal and external age<br />
work only to play is my road<br />
an Admirable Aspiration<br />
that I get to live My Way<br />
a little boyhood every day<br />
is the great gift of this age<br />
<br />
Fuck it<br />
I'll be okay <br />
<br /></blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-36014826108042418052014-09-04T11:21:00.000-04:002014-09-04T11:21:35.072-04:00What Am I When I Am Not Me...they're not nightmares<br />
anymore<br />
and i should think that would make a difference<br />
but it doesn't<br />
my dreams are a plague<br />
infecting every part of me<br />
every vessel, every organ<br />
every nerve and every cell<br />
every night<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
a Wonka riverboat ride down the rabbit hole into Madness<br />
and mixed metaphors <br />
a kaleidoscopic psychic calliope</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
of psychedelic psychosis</div>
i remember when dreams used to comfort<br />
bring relief and restitution<br />
or delightful reminiscence<br />
or strange beauty<br />
but my dreams are now a plague<br />
they exhaust me<br />
all vivid surreal visions<br />
of mundane interactions<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
with a world I do not recognize<br />
that feels uncomfortably<br />
intimately<br />
Familiar</div>
waking in those peaceful hours of pre- and post-dawn<br />
that peace is lost on me<br />
lying there, almost paralyzed<br />
i do not remember my dreams<br />
so much as i<br />
Recover from them<br />
<br />
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-34345686715323565102014-08-19T15:29:00.000-04:002014-08-19T15:29:13.471-04:00Soured...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I killed a man in my sleep last night.<br />
<br />
strange albino maskface<br />
cueball head coated in alabaster<br />
greasepaint of a clown<br />
skin white as the sharpened teeth<br />
tearing through a bloodred slit of mouth<br />
that wound the only color in his face<br />
<br />
he was keeping me there<br />
in the darkred room with no windows<br />
holding me there in fear<br />
terrorizing me<br />
torturing me<br />
delighting in it<br />
consuming my fear like a drug<br />
lusting after my pain<br />
pleasuring himself with it<br />
<br />
It had been a very bad day for me.<br />
<br />
but then he brought Her in<br />
so She could see what he had done<br />
witness the mess he was making of me<br />
brought Her in so I could see<br />
the pain and the fear twisting Her beauty<br />
<br />
but then he lost himself<br />
in his lust and hunger for our degradation<br />
he leaned down<br />
face to "face" <br />
pressed his sickening skin to mine<br />
to whisper in my ear<br />
all the things he was about to do to Her<br />
<br />
He shouldn't have.<br />
<br />
my hands were on his head<br />
fists closed around ears<br />
and pulled<br />
thumbs went into eyes<br />
and sank<br />
and his bloodred mouth opened in glorious tortured screaming<br />
my teeth clamped down<br />
tearing into his bottom lip<br />
with everything i had<br />
i pushed and pulled and tore and ruined<br />
eyeballs popped wet and cold like rotten grapes<br />
ears gave in came off ripping strips of cheek revealing bone<br />
lip tore down down down over chin and neck and red flowed free<br />
free as i felt<br />
free as i now was<br />
as we now were<br />
<br />
<br />
and i looked to Her<br />
worried for us both<br />
for so many things<br />
and I saw Her<br />
standing shocked <br />
and there was no more fear in Her eyes<br />
and there was no more love in Her smile<br />
there was only the dumbfounded awe<br />
of the newly awakened <br />
<br />
all i felt <br />
was justified<br />
<br /></blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-8038168168839014882014-08-13T12:24:00.000-04:002014-08-13T12:24:06.731-04:00Goodbye, Mork...I had to add just this one more, for posterity. It's just too perfect.<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://i.imgur.com/pCBa7OE.png" class="shrinkToFit decoded" src="http://i.imgur.com/pCBa7OE.png" />Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-34797268218550571612014-08-12T15:03:00.000-04:002014-08-12T15:03:57.525-04:00Carpe Diem, My Captain...I really don't understand why the death of Robin Williams is hitting me so hard. As shocked as I was to hear of his death, I was (and still remain) almost as shocked by the depth of my reaction to it. I mean, sure I've felt saddened by the death of other celebrities before. I remember being particularly saddened by the death of Heath Ledger, and more recently, Philip Seymour Hoffman. But I've never been moved to tears like this before. Celebrities are, by nature, almost fictional characters to us themselves; always removed from our actual lives by cameras and screens. (I think that might have something to do with why it feels so strange whenever you see one in person - it's almost like TV or a movie coming to life!) And since we don't really know them personally, there's only so much their death can move us.<br />
<br />
Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
I don't know why this one hurts so much. Maybe it's because I grew up with him? Because I've enjoyed him so much for my entire life? I remember the rainbow Mork suspenders I had when I was five years old. (My first cosplay, I guess?) I remember seeing Popeye in the theaters with my parents just a few years later, and loving it completely. I have the same memories of Good Morning, Vietnam. And Hook. (Oh, Peter Pan! Why did you have to grow up?!) I watched Mrs. Doubtfire and Jumanji over and over, just because of the way it delighted both the boy and the man in me at the same time.<br />
<br />
And I've seen Dead Poets Society so many times I can practically quote the whole movie. I don't know when I'll be able to watch that one again now. At the very least, I know I'll never be able to see it the same way again.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because it was apparently a suicide? It's possible. Might be the connection to my own mother's death. But I haven't reacted this way to other suicides or overdoses, so why this one? Maybe it's just the fact that suicide adds that final crack of heartbreak to the story. We didn't just lose one of the greats forever; we lost him to himself, to his own demons, to his own sickness. It feels like there must've been something that could've saved him. It feels like it didn't have to end this way. And it touches us all because, let's face it, haven't each and every one of us been there, or somewhere close to it, at least once in our lives? But if we could survive it, then why couldn't he?<br />
<br />
I think it's true that there are few things more sad in this life, than a funny man, with a broken heart. His mentor, Jonathan Winters, knew that only too well. But he survived it anyways. It's too bad he couldn't be there to help his friend, who clearly needed him more than anyone knew.<br />
<br />
Like so, so many of us today, I feel the need to pour my heart out to the memory of this funny man, who's been there my whole life, in some vain and desperate attempt to figure out just what in the fuck it means to live without him now.<br />
<br />
Below, I've collected some of my favorites that other people have been sharing today. Some are funny, some are poignant, some are heart-breaking. But they all made me feel something. And that's helped, at least a little.<br />
<br />
Here's hoping it can do the same for any of you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://i.imgur.com/LM6G3Yw.gif" class="decoded" src="http://i.imgur.com/LM6G3Yw.gif" /><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" lang="en">
Every time I hear a siren I still say "that's my ride." Thank you Robin Williams. I wish your ride had not arrived.<br />
— John Hodgman (@hodgman) <a href="https://twitter.com/hodgman/statuses/498966679163265025">August 11, 2014</a></blockquote>
<br />
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="http://i.imgur.com/aTAJUvB.png" class="decoded" src="http://i.imgur.com/aTAJUvB.png" height="353" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spontaneous tribute appearing at the bench in Boston, made famous from the scene in Good Will Hunting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" lang="en">
We mourn
the loss of our friend Robin Williams, who always made us laugh and
smile. <a href="http://t.co/UOY8LTjVRA">pic.twitter.com/UOY8LTjVRA</a><br />
—
Sesame Street (@sesamestreet) <a href="https://twitter.com/sesamestreet/statuses/498975277331267585">August
11, 2014</a></blockquote>
<br />
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script><br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://i.imgur.com/7ALXiR5.jpg" class="decoded" src="http://i.imgur.com/7ALXiR5.jpg" /><br />
<br />
"Robin Williams is not dead, he is just waiting in the jungle until somebody rolls a 5 or 8." -<a href="http://imgur.com/user/testingonetwothreetesting">testingonetwothreetesting</a>, via imgur<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://i.imgur.com/1VwqQFv.gif" class="decoded" src="http://i.imgur.com/1VwqQFv.gif" /><br />
<br />
"One of the funniest people alive died from sadness." - <a href="http://imgur.com/user/chili1179">chili1179</a>, via imgur<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" lang="en">
Nanu
nanu.<br />
— SarcasticRover (@SarcasticRover) <a href="https://twitter.com/SarcasticRover/statuses/498979926419468288">August
11, 2014</a></blockquote>
<br />
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script><br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://i.imgur.com/CSgLefB.jpg" class="decoded" src="http://i.imgur.com/CSgLefB.jpg" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" lang="en">
Come on in Rob. I got
you.<br />
— Jesus Christ (@jesus) <a href="https://twitter.com/jesus/statuses/498980853217624064">August
11, 2014</a></blockquote>
<br />
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" src="http://i.imgur.com/0nLnkg3.jpg" height="372" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first comment on this image, from <a href="http://imgur.com/user/NancyNevada">NancyNevada</a><span class="points-267747972"></span>, I think says it all: "When Peter Pan dies, don't tell us to grow up."
<span class="points-267747972"></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://i.imgur.com/qPV0WcU.gif" class="decoded" src="http://i.imgur.com/qPV0WcU.gif" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" lang="en">
Goodbye pal.
Thanks for everything.<br />
— Louis C.K. (@louisck) <a href="https://twitter.com/louisck/statuses/499223947251318784">August
12, 2014</a></blockquote>
<br />
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="http://i.imgur.com/28Id1fA.jpg" class="shrinkToFit decoded" src="http://i.imgur.com/28Id1fA.jpg" height="640" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="497" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was reportedly posted to Disney's FB page this morning. Heart-wrenching.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://i.imgur.com/00ZKlRZ.jpg?1" class="decoded" src="http://i.imgur.com/00ZKlRZ.jpg?1" height="321" width="640" /><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" lang="en">
"But
doctor, I AM Pagliacci."
That's the
only way this makes sense. Can't stand thinking of him being
that sad. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/RIPRobinWilliams?src=hash">#RIPRobinWilliams</a><br />
—
Patton Oswalt (@pattonoswalt) <a href="https://twitter.com/pattonoswalt/statuses/498981663334883328">August
11, 2014</a></blockquote>
<br />
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />
<br />
<img alt="http://37.media.tumblr.com/05af0881f2f3718757f8a126006f011a/tumblr_na6mqpChcC1qdber5o1_500.png" class="decoded" src="http://37.media.tumblr.com/05af0881f2f3718757f8a126006f011a/tumblr_na6mqpChcC1qdber5o1_500.png" /><br />
<br />
<br />
And finally, this is how I always want to remember him:<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://38.media.tumblr.com/d228b7642efa69c7fc9a4d99e9e42061/tumblr_n5m2xcaHY31rx3q30o1_500.gif" class="decoded" src="http://38.media.tumblr.com/d228b7642efa69c7fc9a4d99e9e42061/tumblr_n5m2xcaHY31rx3q30o1_500.gif" /><br />
<br />
Your barbaric YAWP! was heard around the world, sir, and inspired MILLIONS.<br />
<br />
And you will always be my captain.<br />
<br />
<br />Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-60042142912409139662014-06-30T16:20:00.000-04:002014-06-30T16:20:00.062-04:00Centurion...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
try hard as we might<br />
there was no<br />
ignoring<br />
the scratching<br />
coming from the walls<br />
and there was no<br />
reckoning<br />
to be had<br />
with the things<br />
crawling on our skin<br />
but we laid there<br />
together<br />
all we had<br />
each other <br />
and my arm was around you<br />
and your head was on my chest<br />
as you softly slept<br />
and in your dreams<br />
the storm must've turned<br />
the scratching of the things<br />
finding its way through<br />
the tempest inside<br />
and i heard you<br />
start to mewl<br />
and whine<br />
and cry out <br />
from the dark place<br />
down where your dreaming<br />
had taken you<br />
and so i raised my hand<br />
from its home on your hip<br />
and softly<br />
smoothed your hair<br />
away from your troubled<br />
beautiful face<br />
so near to mine<br />
and i cupped your head gently<br />
and i loved you<br />
and you were quiet again and<br />
<br />
everything<br />
<br />
was<br />
<br />
perfect</blockquote>
<br />Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-2746465059740738432014-06-23T16:20:00.000-04:002014-06-23T16:41:21.178-04:00Gone, Gone Beyond...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
today<br />
was the day<br />
i turned it all off<br />
all the noise<br />
all the chatter<br />
all the distractions<br />
all the fear and fervent mysticism<br />
all the pain and errant prophecy<br />
all the useless superstitions<br />
and endless contradictions<br />
because i realized<br />
i didn't need it<br />
i didn't even want it<br />
so that's when<br />
i decided<br />
i reached over<br />
and out<br />
and deliberately<br />
pressed<br />
<br />
OFF<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
and then there was Sky<br />
and Sun<br />
and the Grass-scented Wind<br />
flowing all over my skin<br />
sensuous as a silk gown<br />
and it was then<br />
i felt the Lift<br />
i've been waiting so long<br />
i'd forgotten it<br />
what it was like<br />
that merciful<br />
glorious<br />
gods-send<br />
<br />
Lift<br />
<br />
like in an elevator<br />
that falls too fast<br />
and stops short<br />
in that half-second<br />
when you taste your heartsblood in your mouth<br />
and your mind floats weightless in your skull<br />
and you know the Secret of All Things<br />
in the Lift<br />
<br />
as i was then<br />
as i was flying<br />
doing a hundred-and-one through the soft-blue sky<br />
the midsummer wind pulling the tears from my eyes<br />
as i remembered Her face<br />
all over again<br />
for the ten-thousandth time<br />
<br /></blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-2192098661385373772014-06-12T11:30:00.000-04:002014-06-12T11:30:27.688-04:00I Have Sowed Need, And What Then I Reaped...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
i was so afraid <br />
so afraid of<br />
not needing you<br />
so unaware<br />
that i was<br />
loving from fear<br />
so confused<br />
thinking love<br />
demanded need <br />
too oblivious<br />
to see<br />
my desire<br />
pulling you under <br />
<br />
as soon as i<br />
gave up<br />
gave in<br />
let go<br />
stopped<br />
needing you<br />
i was suddenly<br />
<br />
Free<br />
<br />
finally free to <br />
see you<br />
hear you<br />
know you<br />
your real you<br />
because you<br />
were finally free<br />
of my weight<br />
of my need<br />
<br />
what i needed<br />
what i really needed <br />
after all and everything<br />
is over and done<br />
was to get out of the fucking way<br />
and just be me<br />
and let you be you<br />
so we could meet each other<br />
again<br />
and fall<br />
for the first time <br />
<br /></blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8309380317676812037.post-5602196487702347152014-05-16T15:23:00.000-04:002014-05-16T15:23:08.831-04:00My Love Is Stronger Than My Fear Of Death...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Out in the West Texas <br /> town of El Paso<br />I fell in love <br /> with a Mexican girl.<br />Night-time would find me <br /> in Rosa's cantina;<br />Music would play <br /> and Felina would whirl.<br /><br />Blacker than night <br /> were the eyes of Felina,<br />Wicked and evil <br /> while casting a spell.<br />My love was deep <br /> for this Mexican maiden;<br />I was in love <br /> but in vain, I could tell.<br /><br />One night a wild young cowboy came in,<br />Wild as the West Texas wind.<br />Dashing and daring,<br />A drink he was sharing<br />With wicked Felina,<br />The girl that I loved.<br /><br />So in anger I<br />Challenged his right <br /> for the love of this maiden.<br />Down went his hand <br /> for the gun that he wore.<br />My challenge was answered <br /> in less than a heart-beat;<br />The handsome young stranger <br /> lay dead on the floor.<br /><br />Just for a moment <br /> I stood there in silence,<br />Shocked by the foul evil<br /> deed I had done.<br />Many thoughts raced <br /> through my mind as I stood there;<br />I had but one chance <br /> and that was to run.<br /><br />Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran,<br />Out where the horses were tied.<br />I caught a good one.<br />It looked like it could run.<br />Up on its back<br />And away I did ride,<br /><br />Just as fast as I<br />Could from the West Texas <br /> town of El Paso<br />Out to the bad-lands <br /> of New Mexico.<br /><br />Back in El Paso <br /> my life would be worthless.<br />Everything's gone in life; <br /> nothing is left.<br />It's been so long <br /> since I've seen the young maiden<br />My love is stronger <br /> than my fear of death.<br /><br />I saddled up and away I did go,<br />Riding alone in the dark.<br />Maybe tomorrow<br />A bullet may find me.<br />Tonight nothing's worse than this<br />Pain in my heart.<br /><br />And at last here I<br />Am on the hill <br /> overlooking El Paso;<br />I can see Rosa's <br /> cantina below.<br />My love is strong <br /> and it pushes me onward.<br />Down off the hill <br /> to Felina I go.<br /><br />Off to my right <br /> I see five mounted cowboys;<br />Off to my left <br /> ride a dozen or more.<br />Shouting and shooting <br /> I can't let them catch me.<br />I have to make it <br /> to Rosa's back door.<br /><br />Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel<br />A deep burning pain in my side.<br />Though I am trying<br />To stay in the saddle,<br />I'm getting weary,<br />Unable to ride.<br /><br />But my love for<br />Felina is strong <br /> and I rise where I've fallen,<br />Though I am weary <br /> I can't stop to rest.<br />I see the white puff <br /> of smoke from the rifle.<br />I feel the bullet <br /> go deep in my chest.<br /><br />From out of nowhere <br /> Felina has found me,<br />Kissing my cheek <br /> as she kneels by my side.<br />Cradled by two loving <br /> arms that I'll die for,<br />One little kiss <br /> and Felina, <br /> <br /> Good-bye. <br />
<br />
-"El Paso"<br /> Marty Robbins, <i>Gunfighter Ballads & Trail Songs</i><br />
<br /></blockquote>
Michael Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07853723313316518374noreply@blogger.com0