"Kissing is but [the] Prologue to a Play."

How many prologues can one play have?

How many until the audience stops listening?
How long before the play is ruined.
How many scene changes and new characters, each with a new prologue, can one introduce?

You've got plenty of prologues. I just want to get to act I.

-Rk

...I cannot sleep.

What'll we do, when all the pages run out? What'll we write when all the ink runs dry? Who will listen when we cannot speak. Who will agree when we cannot explain. Who will know when we cannot tell.

(my god) I'm afraid. Afraid of the silence - indescribeable, thick, black silence like the night. I'm terrified of tongues torn out, leaving that bloody, swollen lack in a space in our mouth. I fear hands numb and immoble; a mind hapless, naked, cold.
So we can no longer express. So we can no longer know.

Without expression, we are dead. Without exchange - useless, fragmented. Without communication - nothing.

No life exists in a vacuum.
In synapses between you and I, yes - once. But out in space; in the cold, dead nothingness - there is only the empty, only the void. Only the silence.

Being stilled is death itself.

Being broken so we can no longer emit: this is the only hell, becoming hollow shells or formless replicas of minds that make up "tradition": this is the only dread. Being one of the infinite particles in the eternal foreverness - on and on and on forever - this is the only darkness, only night we cannot comprehend.



Warms reminds me, must remind me; I am breathing. But no. only the rhythms - frantic, constant, violent rhythms - remind me we are alive. Sweat from cool skin, the smell of heavy breath, fast and deep over me, warns me I am not dead.

When I awake tomorrow - next week, next month, next year - I fear the absence we will feel.

The illusion. Warmth, life. It is not there, not in my memory.
I must be quiet, must stop breathing, must be--

...silenced.

No but then.
I hate and hate and hate and hate trust what is love can't hold nowhere to go from nothing to say how will we know who is this god that is love life is useless we have somebody to die for you don't understand how can we make it love your neighbor as yourself isn't that definable

Questions, they remind me. Tell me lies, all the lies; constant.
and they are the devil and they are my angel and they are my whore and they are my lover and they are creating me and they are destroying me and and and and and

They only remind me--

ivory truth

Doesn't it say somewhere, in one of those ancient texts, that if you give mercy, you shall receive mercy? And, doesn't it also say that those who require mercy ought to deliver mercy?

Well, in that case, I owe you a great debt of gratitude for your showing me my apparent error in accepting those old, over-glorified texts. Thanks, also, for clearing me up on the issue of human compassion -- I was quite concered that it still existed.

It really is a bit of a pity though, this change of reality. I had quite come to sing your praises; acknowledging that you were (yes) an old dinosaur, but still you had a good bit of a heart in you.

I'm so glad that we're cleared up on everything instead, though. Because here on in, I shalln't make that mistake again.

... No, no, no. Shuttup Love, I don't want to hear from you today.

Or well, then again - how do you suggest I deal with this? Obviously, my opinion isn't worth dirt, my life not worth bits of trash in wind. Old gray bastards who claim acceptance but practice condemnation have no ear to listen to that sort of bull--.

Oh no, we're just the "young blood", the likes of you and I. We just need to be learned, to be taught. We just have to understand the right way. Until then, we have no real value, no real worth to offer to the world.

Well, you know what? Screw your Ivory Tower. Making educated fools of you, making clown-spectacles of what you stand for. It means naught to the rest of reality, really. This paper, that schedule, you as somehow superior.

Yet, still you stake your undeniable claim on superiority. Why? Purely because you have a piece of paper from some snob's office that's apparently labeled (in gold text), "I'm worth more than you".

So much for you, Love.

No, but really, I'm glad to be reminded what a bitch the world can be. All that research, I nearly lose track. All that knowledge, it's easy to forget.

-Rk

Read: at random

As a reaction against my terrible memory, I have recently decided to maintain a list of all the various people I meet out on the streets. The list, thus far, is comprised of the following:

May 2006
1) Denise : plane from LAX to PDX
2) Jeff/Geoff : MAX in downtown Portland going to see Frozen

This is slightly reminiscent, even

I know, I know, I know.
This is just because I'm pathetic.
Please, don't torment me anymore. I really do know.
I was reading through the archives and found my old voice. Now, I'm working on a collective work made up of tiny bits of the past.

It's taking time.
Everything takes time.
But things, they're getting done.
Just, give me time.

I need time.
I constantly need time.

And Love; always Love.

-Rk

Collatoral

X roved around in a box, Wika got circumcised, and Father Nouwen slipped into yet another terrible Depression.

Re showered.

(this post failed, but I couldn't see deleting it.)

I hate drafts.

-Rk

Comparison

First, there's fire and ice.

Then the wind blows, and the smoke from my burning rises with the steam of your simmering.

Making ashes of me to mingle with the sediment of you.

-Rk