ENDLESSLY WAITING: A MACHINE OF GHOSTS & GRAVITY

It’s possible, some say, that not so far in the future, we will upload our entirety to a device. In such, some will continue to live on, forever, flashing and speeding upon the face of a microchip; humanity paused, then lost, somewhere within the magnetic gravity of a machines binary certainty.

Man in the machine: the desperate final attempt, a last gasp in tepid futility. prescient in, and above, immortality. The future speeds towards a select few, those worthy enough we’ll somehow judge, to remember forever.

What sort of demented chaos could erupt from the madness of this intranet of ignoble thought? Will the ephemeral be replaced by the digital? Will the past remain in record or will it become of no consequence for the whirling minds of material thought?

Imagine if you might, uploading every craven thought, every glorious memory, every moving picture onto a machine, -modern as it might be- the mass of a Tahoe Snowflake in May. Imagine being one stuck, flowing within the circuits of a server, connected to trillions of snowflakes, a current falling into the undertow. A trillion trillion rivers of formerly existing material thoughts.

Imagine losing the very human ability to move, to dance in space. All while gaining the silicon tools to speed across and into many billions of lifelong memories. Moving upon this ultimate collection of structured memory, you get lost in the branches of a seemingly endless maze of intellect; your body once a gangly hinderance, it now remains of scattered ash and electric dust.

I try imagining you in this machine, my dear. Poured into the machine, but a database, your mind and memories available any moment I’d like? Your voice calming, you relate to me, across the immense gulf of shared memories. Our shared experiences a language of base two.

Just the thought of such madness truly frightens me on this cold night. If this is the future, our memories synapsing forever, our lives now terminally paused; I sit and ponder the thought of a forever, forever, and would rather not wander that internet alone.

Why would anyone want to go on inside a machine?  To live without a life forever? It’s no life. There is no forever.

Universe’s end in an absolute dance of frozen death. 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If Our Love Has No Beginning, My Hate Has No End. #loveletter #atonement

If you could send me even the smallest clue, I’d give it my all and everything to hang on and be true. Are you out there somewhere in the aether, some greater dimension? Are you a part of the universe, or have pieces of you shattered and scattered, adrift on a plane without direction or meaning? If all that is left are the tiniest of pieces, then how is it that a complete picture of you dances above, so calmly, so frantic, upon the darkest of night? Are you there, is it you, or a brutal allusion cast upon my tomorrow? I lie asleep; am I only watching nightmares that loop? Are we all endlessly waiting? 

You know, don’t you? You remember the pledge we made, that morning, under a vanishing rainbow? You claimed we could be copies of ourselves for eternity, tattoos upon the skin of our ancestors broken, bleached bones.

Funny, I can still recite so many of our ridiculous vows, even after all this time. Even after your final climb, alone, through the atmosphere. I can’t let them go, like I can’t hold on. So I stand here alone, on this stormy shore, hoping a message will wash up on the land that shakes. It is forever rolling, shaking over the undertow. 

Is this battle I’m waging worse than the wars I fought so far from here? Would you even know me still, under the skin and in spite of these scars that still bleed and ooze? Would you be the one to save me, or would I bleed out, cold and shivering in the understanding shade of your shadow?

Guess I’ll never know? Not guess, not me, my love; Not anymore.

So wherever you might be singing tonight, in sparkling pieces or whole, I pray so hard for your comfort and reduce the rest of my gratitude for a pocket to keep alive, but small.

They say atoms can entangle. Those that have combined, have collided with enough force to connect. It’s a mystery of science, so it seems, the spooky motions in perfect unison over distances equal to the age of the stars. Equal to the distance of infinity. So much we cannot comprehend my dear. My beloved.

These little morsels of atomic mystery and doubt and theory: they burn so hot within me sometimes. I could never completely let you go when so much is still misunderstood. None of us live in this place forever. They can’t keep me here.

Please don’t be angry with me or chastise me… “you fool, quit wasting your time.” Funny thing, there is no time remaining, only space offering the faintest of hopes. You’re still out there, I can really feel it; or at least synapses flash now and then, gritting my teeth, driving me on through the storm.

You’d be proud of my service to duty, of that I am certain. It’s all I ever wanted you know; to be tested and make it through the cauldron and back to you. Alas, I scrambled and toiled and killed and cried and burned and hurt and suffered the eternal longing, only to lose you at the end.

Like a commandment broken, I was atoned of that beyond my control, the ultimate sacrifice, you. That feels so self-centered, does it sound so? Nevertheless, I judge myself responsible for thus, reckoning and pain that creeps along beside me, like the bloody servant of Job.

All I ever wanted was us, and I sacrificed that for the gravest of sin. Two wrongs cannot make it right. There is no other way to live day-to-day with this smell of death upon my hands.

But am I really living? Are you really dead? Are you gone? Maybe this is all upside down and I cannot even see what I truly am? That I’m the one in hell? Are you still at home while I burn in this fire, suffering close to silently, nearer and nearer the final destination I scrape along, prolonging the destiny of ashes cemented in black back when?

If this is hell, this is where I am.  If this is life, where do I begin? If this is death, how will it end?

I can almost taste you, my love. I can almost touch you, touch me. I miss you always. I miss you already.

 

 

Silhouette’s & Perfect Views

There’s this picture I have posted in the near reaches of my mind.

It’s a silhouette of your face and body set before a hundred mile view.

The distant mountains and full harvest moon.

It’s so sharp in the low-light, cool, arctic air, and so unmistakably you.

The lasting, personally striking images are captured from beyond your conscience view.

As you studied the warm sky that stretched out so far, across a sea.

Do you remember what you said that night?

That you would finish setting the tent so I could go check out the glorious view.

What I didn’t say, but thought; was it’s far more striking silhouetted by you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe Love IS a Battlefield

Who did that song from the 1980’s, Love Is a Battlefield? Something my ever cool sister would have been listening to I’m sure. Duran Duran, Bon Jovi, Tori Amos maybe? The hook crossed my mind this morning as I waited in line to vote. All this time and effort I’ve put in trying to put the experiences and disappointment of war on paper in a way that makes sense and the most salient truth’s been all but completely avoided: That my period in the Army has utterly destroyed my desire to be loved. How can a man go on with life in any meaningful way without that most basic human desire?

If the war had somehow changed me into a sociopath, the question might be moot? But as much as I’d like to erase my desire, -I have tried to do as much- the fact is, life is vacant absent the wanting of a beautiful woman who could have anyone else. Maybe if I hadn’t known of such wanting, hadn’t tasted the fruit, I could continue peddling onward in ignorant bliss? That kind of passion is like a narcotic. Once you’re dependent on its product, the chase is compulsive and autonomic. Picture an oak leaf, brittle and superannuated, with nothing to lose.

If love is a battlefield, then war is a drug. Killing is ecstasy and true love a crime. There is only two things that matter in a world so filled with the stench and the aroma of dying and desire. That you kill the man who is plotting to kill you. And a lover that’s been desperately waiting with a singular passion for the warrior you are and the lover she desires. It’s a paradox, a lie that is also true. In order to kill another man in battle, the sane man must give up his humanity, and therefore, his passion and empathy are lost, ever fading from view.

All this may seem or sound more complicated than it really is? There is the spiritual, the ethereal nature of things and then there is the practical. How can you share life with another when the act of sleeping itself is fraught with danger? The terrifying dreams that play out in the dark, when I finally do step across into the darkness often grip so tightly that my physical self responds violently. More than once I’ve destroyed a clock, or a phone, whatever’s within reach. To wake-up with a severe pain in my knee from the thrashing that can occur while asleep is unpleasant sure, but how would that affect an innocent partner? The sudden burst of rage that rises up from the depths over a matter previously unnoticed, like someone too close in line, or the screeching of a chair moving over a tiled floor? I’ve avoided action till now, but will that last?

Most importantly, how could I ever love another if I only am able to hate myself? Still today I avoid and shut out those in my life who truly care for me without expectation or need of remittance. Where do you even begin in such a turbulent atmosphere?

Truth is, I miss you. I do. I say I’m trying, yet the truth is I don’t even know where to start? If I had it to do all over again would my destination find me any different? It’s in the code. I’m on my own. No use in wishing for an angel to fall and cast my soul back upon that previous shore. The die is cast. The future is already written and these words are part of the stone. No need to reminisce and dream of what could have been. If we were meant to be together, we would have been.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PRETEND NOT TO SEE; YOU LOVE

It wasn’t a first love, but it was a love a first sight. You lit up that evening with those bright eyes shimmering, as you lifted the glass of sparkling liquid reflecting this life. I noticed it all at once, once and for all, like a Monet on the concrete Palace’s Wall. Everything about you triggered feelings unknown in me up to that particular point. That deep honest laugh, genuine, an organic expression that revealed enough, for any sane man to want a little, or a lot more. Those freckles painting your cheekbones and slim little nose, how could anyone be self-conscience of the remarkable beauty your features comprised? That motion you did with your fingers. Hoping to hide your assumed vulnerabilities? It left me afraid to ask, but curious to know: How could any creature so beautiful not look in a mirror and smile? How could you see anything but the perfection of -if there is one- a God’s master work?
 
But that’s the paradox of humanity, right? Our inability to accept simple truths. It was those first few moments, consuming your essence, that derailed any further notions or plans I had made. A thought crossed my mind -a thunderous whisper- at some point in those first few minutes: “If this perfect creature were to ever fall for an ugly fool like me, I’d never ever want for love, or beauty again.” It was an open question that night, for her open nature hid a cunning feature tucked within all beautiful human beings: The art of the non-tell. I was smitten, I was enchanted, I was certain to act like a damn fool. Like the child at heart that I was, so foolish and immature.
 
It was by the slightest chance we ever even met that night, 20 years ago today. My work was beyond the city, I was there by strange coincidence or random chance. After an hour at that bar, across from you patiently, a friend suggested a bonfire to celebrate, what else, but the Hunter’s Moon? It was a short drive to his cabin. Did she come too? With the question still out there, she stepped off the porch like a goddess and took my hand. Only a few times in an entire life can the touch of another’s simple affection release so much power. Her hand in mine struck like a lightening bolt, pleasurable chemical intercourse striking my open mind. She liked me, I knew that much was true.
 
We talked for hours that night as the fire grew higher, then slowly died. We spoke of the universe and music, mathematics and Miller, family and dreams until the exact moment I had to go. This was before Facebook and personal cell phones to connect us all without a pause. We made a plan though, and I promised to keep it. The plans became action, I took her rock climbing and she escorted me to a foreign film. Each time I saw her, my heart skipped in a chill I can only describe as pleasure that’ll one day become pain. And I remember so well that evening, when you leaned in to kiss me, saying, “we needed to get that out-of-the-way.” Indeed.
 
It’s been 20 years since that autumn of entrancement and I haven’t seen you in at least 10. But tonight, my dear, there you were right in front of me, smiling, talking into your cell phone. You looked so great, like the years haven’t mattered and my brain skipped a million beats, as I walked past and behind you, craving that touch, you couldn’t have noticed me. So I disappeared once again.
 
It may sound stupid, but you smelled the same. You still had that sugar southern drawl I made fun of, your old voicemail, memories so small. And all of those memories are popping in my brain. I’m writing it all down as best as I can, knowing you’ll never read this, but wishing you could. I wanted to grab you and take you straight to a mirror. But I’m not that strong. 
 
You were perfect this evening like before. The incomplete theory of romance, from the mind of that 20 something fool, is all the thought really was, even if tonight would’ve been so different?.That love in reverse, isn’t it a mystery, eternal and always churning within a ring of flames. What we see in the mirror reveals all of our mistakes. What we see is so different from what a lover can taste.
 
I miss you, I saw you; somehow, we’re still both the same? I pretend not to see, and you….

 

 

 

 

 

Lost Nights & A Woman I Once Knew, So, So Long Ago

I’ve always felt so lucky having had you to fill out a chapter in my life. The more time that rolls past, the less I think of you, and yet, in my dreams, like the one I just dreamed, you were as alive and present as I ever could recall. Like you were really there, or here, as it were. It makes me wonder; do you ever dream of me? Do you even ever think of us and what could’ve been? It’s not something to dwell upon I suppose, or even necessarily important. It’s difficult to imagine, however, a film playing in my sleep so authentic and crazy real, without the force of both minds adrift and with will. If it’s so, and I guess we’ll never know, that these movies of us do unfold as you lay asleep; do you wake with as pleasant a high all around, like say, that of poppy tea, craving it were all real, or at least real again? Clinging to a small sliver of a synapse, yet understanding so well, it was all but a movie playing in your dreams?

I still feel so lucky, to have experienced a love like yours, who had me too, who can still penetrate the night, even still, overcoming the terrible fears. Funny how the darkness at times can shine so hot and bright? Irony is the term, I suppose? The way that gulf of emptiness with its opaque pool of fright, can so suddenly feel like the safest home? And then you’re there, above my head, just like those nights so long ago. That sweet smell of jasmine, that soft laugh and clever sparkle, could I ever forget? No, not as long as I can pretend, that these films about ghosts, will someday transcend a level below just my sullen head.

They say the best sleep is the kind that allows your brain to dump all its waste, a sort of toxic cleansing. This may in fact be true? After all these years apart, separated by oceans and strife, your voice, like a fingerprint, sticks to my mind. I sometimes hear you calling out, softly, giggling at the sight of me folding clothes, or trying to figure out the remote, or at the way I always seemed to load the toilet paper backwards on the spool. Thinking back now, those were the good things, the most private of inside jokes. Those little particulars are ultimately the stuff I miss the most because they are the unique tiles in a mosaic that was built to hide our love in place. Those are the things that can never be replaced. You can never be replaced. I haven’t even tried.

All things find their end, emotional atrophy. The hard feelings. The good times, even the best. Even the feeling I have tonight will end. We cannot live forever. There’s no substitute for that beginning with you. That first kiss…”just to get it out of the way,” you’d say. I remember so clearly, that electric moment of pulsing neon; it brings a tear to my eye every time, sometimes more. This isn’t about that though. Well, maybe everything’s about that? This isn’t about those yesterday’s past. Does everyone have that one true love that’s lost? Is it just part of our maturity, like a learning permit or a first funeral? Or is this all just a sleight of hand, black magic practiced on those of us too blind to see the present, to shallow to split the cell?

If you see this, you know who you are. I wont presume, or beg, or plead like maybe I should have long ago. Tonight, I’ll simply go for a walk under the stars, keep my chin up and my head held high, asking, that wherever you find yourself tonight, among the stars, on the sea, or in a quiet home, when you glance upwards…are you seeing the same sky as me?