notes from a depressive – April 2015

numb, yet compassionate, unable to

move more than at a snails pace.
eyes heavy, with fear or fatigue I
do not know.

*

I’m feeling again, recognizing some humanity in myself. The patience returns, that eternal peace. Why—This is what I had lost, peppy and delusional as I was, buoyed by the onrush of chemicals, able to walk but without a sense of direction, consumed by god knows what to such an extent that I was no longer human. Life was too easy, too comfortable. Nothing drove me forward.

*

Mind slowing, causing a rift in my
     being,
I slog slog slog
     want to give in and sink
The voice there says nothing
     looks on impassively

     Young girl
If not for her, I might let
     myself go.

*

Somehow this feels better,
more stable and true.
What happens when the mirage fades?
What does one see?

*

Two years. I’ve been present the two years. But where have I been? Hibernating. Locked away in a chemical prison, fed the belief that I am doing myself good. My mind’s been altered, my body adjusted to what seems most acceptable for me, here, in this world. I lost something, though. Forgot what it was to feel; drugs, they are for numbing and forgetting, not for curing and fixing. Get back out there and do your bit, smile and nod while everyone else does the same, learn to turn a cheek, learn to look away.

  

 

Cushy lifestyle, going through the motions, unfeeling, undesiring, mute. mute. mute. That’s what I’ve been. Mute. Dumb. Removed from the world. Unfeeling. Better to suffer and feel than to be stable and empty. How long can I suffer before I crack?

*

Move from here                    to here
          What is in the intervening space?
               does it intervene?
                         or
                    is it born?
  

No Turning Aloud

I stand at the corner of Wyatt and Earp, unable to decide on which street to take. I know that Wyatt will lead home; take me back to that which I feel so ambivalent about. To walk along Earp means the inevitable conclusion of our little saga, and this is something I am equally ambivalent about. I now wish to find a third option, one that does not involve returning from the direction I have come. I imagine this third option as stairs that climb up above the buildings in front of me. The stairs are made of stone—granite, to be specific—and do not have a banister on either side. They are, and have to be, wide enough for only one person to traverse it. Also, too narrow for any movement other than forward. I place a sign at the beginning that says, in very clear letters, “No Turning Aloud. All Turning Aloud Must Be Done before Ascension.”
     I don’t have the need to turn aloud, so I climb the stairs and watch as the streets below reach out to the horizons: Wyatt to the northwest, Earp to the northeast. From above, both streets look surprisingly lovely. So much so that I almost yearn for them.
     The stairs continue to ascend, and I along with them. Somewhere, there must be a plateau. This is where I will be able to stop and drink from the fountain; this is where I will rest and eat from the trees. But it is a long journey, so to preoccupy my mind, away from my tiring legs, I begin to whisper some poems.

     Eyes like skies,
     Spanning the world
          but oh so empty.

     I built these stairs
          to reach their depths,
     But the higher I go
          the emptier they seem.

     I stop for a moment and look carefully over the edge. I’m very removed from Wyatt and Earp street, yet I no longer yearn for either. My legs speak to me, and to quiet them I resume my walking.

     From afar,
     That which is separate
          looks fused.
     If I knew no better,
          as most don’t seem to do,
               then I’d turn back now,
     Only to find it remained separated
          all along.

     Here is the plateau, but it’s nothing but a parking lot. Jesus, how silly of me, I almost blurt aloud before catching myself. I step off the stairs and onto the plateau; this is where the divisions become evident, and I see my name scrawled lazily in one particular spot. I move to it, trying not to step on the other names, and take a seat. For a brief moment, truly the briefest of moments, I think I can feel the letters squirm under the weight of my bottom.
     “I must have killed my name.” I say this to no one, but perhaps the other names can hear. In fact, they must have heard, as all of the sudden they are inching away from me. I see desperation in their movements, and as each strains to distance itself, the names begin to unthread and unravel. In an attempt to calm the crawling names, I recite another poem.

     Our lives are like a perpetual inching
     We each pull back
          then push forward
     Hoping that along the way
          something will happen
          something will give
     And we won’t have to move anymore

     The names are now spilling off the edges of the plateau. They don’t make a sound as they tumble down, down to Wyatt and Earp streets. I wish I could hear them in their last.
 This gives rise to an idea. Since I can’t use the stairs anymore, I unravel my limp name and affix one end to a division. Then I let the other end fall over the edge and watch as it flails its way down as far as it can go. My name is not long enough, but I clamber down it nonetheless. As I do so, I listen for the fallen names. How do names die? Do they whimper? Do they cry? Perhaps they moan or laugh or scream or

Monkey King, Trophy King

Before you read please watch this 2 minute video of Aguirre (audio appears out of sync because the film was originally shot in English and then later dubbed into German). Take him in. His speech is NOT italicized in my piece.

This is an exercise where I bring together two film characters from different fictive universes. Take your time while reading. Follow the pace of the text. There are no mistakes in the text, grammatically or otherwise. Start the music when you begin reading. The music itself is central to the film Aguirre, the Wrath of God.

At this point Aguirre, a volatile character, has led his Spanish expedition to ruin. The jungle has consumed his party, gnawing away at them with arrows and madness. Yet Aguirre is not alone. There is a second character, a predatory being, present yet barely visible.


Popol Vuh – Aguirre I (L’Acrima di Rei)

Monkey King, Trophy King

	Aguirre.

			Aguirre.

	I
		am Aguirre.

			My land speaks to me.

				Calls for me.

				Calls my name.

	Aguirre.

			Aguirre.

	I hear!

	I hear.	
		See the land before,
				how the river opens to the sea.

		This is where I set sail,
						men.
		This
			is where I take hold.

	I
	     take
                     hold.

	I
		take hold.

	Hold.

	I hold now!

	This land,
			this tree
			this soil

		My Kingdom will be vast, and I
							will rule.

	I
		will rule.

	I
		will rule.

	Free from the spineless,
			the meek,

		You cowards.
		You
			cowards.

	Refuse of my world.

	Spineless.
			Aguirre.

			Aguirre.

	I shall rule with my daughter,
				her hand supple yet,
				her face an angelic pale.

		Purified in the waters of this fall,
			cleansed.
			By my hand and my power.
			Mine.

	Aguirre.

		Aguirre.

			Mine.

	What demon are you!
			You who haunts me.
			You who moves as the wind.

	I hear you cackle, I see your eyes.

		Infernos in the dense of this jungle.
		Eyes into the pits of Hell.

	Are you my wrath delivered?
	Are you my strength?

	Strength.

	I
		Strength.

	I
		am the great destroyer.
					I
						am the Wrath of God.

		All will know my name
					and I will rule this Kingdom.

		Above the Crown.
		Beyond her life.

					Great treachery.
					Great
							treachery.

	Wrath
			of god.

	Wrath of
			god.

	I
		am the Wrath of God.

	I am
		Aguirre.

		Spineless
				I hold.

		Aguirre,
			Youre it.

Pimpled Satisfaction

Oh how I loath your pimply mound
That causes distress and furtive glances.
But it is nearly impossible to describe my satisfaction
As I pinch your hardened globule of puss
Out of its crevasse and swollen glandules.
For nothing compares to watching your white roundness,
Contrasted starkly against red droplets,
And wiping you free of my aching face
With a strip of toilet paper
And throwing you in the waste basket.

4/27/09

Flittering Emotions

Flittering emotions,
Never still, always palpitating,
Agitated by the entwines of reality.
It is the fuel of my life,
That which keeps me standing
Walking
Breathing.
Torturing me,
Torturing myself,
And I suffer because of it.
But without it,
I would not survive.
How do I live?
Does the emotion balance out?
Or do I withdraw into a world
Which happens to be only a creation of my hellish mind.

So, unto thee, I say:

Give me the woodlands to trod upon,
And I will live in peace;

Give me the rivers and streams to listen to,
And I shall sleep in peace;

Give me the valleys and mountains to look upon,
And I shall wake in peace;

Give me the woodland creatures to accompany me,
And I shall think in peace;

But give me a rifle and a conflict,
And I shall die in peace.

3/15/04

The Things He Loves

I love girls petite girls with slim bodies and nice breasts and cute pussies whose lips I put to mine and taste their flavor as they blossom, and feel their nipples and their mouths meet mine and know that I am giving them something that any man or any woman can give them yet only I am able to give them now. Of how their naked bodies are all mine all of its supple beauty as it curves along as various nerve endings that only I get to touch and explore. Of how their breath responds to mine and how they bring me in deeper and deeper wishing it not to end and I not wanting it to end and keeping it alive as well as I can until I come, lying atop them wondering if I did my job but feeling satisfied and yes I did my job even if I didn’t. Of how they think I’m so beautiful in how I talk and the eyes I have seeing in me what they want to see or hope perhaps and maybe being disappointed but maybe not, thinking that maybe I could be more or maybe I’m just another man sharing the covers.

I love men for how old and dirty they are and how they’ve untied my tongue or maybe liberated my tongue or maybe given it back, for what we share and how they know me and I know them in the way a woman can’t ever know me or know them, because we’re men. For the gay men that want me but won’t ever have me because I won’t have them but I still wonder and pander because it feels nice to be womanly sometimes and not a man.

I love my family for fornicating and birthing me and birthing my sibling for always being there and allowing me to live a life in this world of agony and joy and absolute confusion. Of being given the chance to wander and see and maybe discover, never actually owning or understanding but still taking and playing playing as if this place isn’t so alien and not all that wrong.

I love war for what it is and for how I don’t know it and how it doesn’t know me. For how I watch in horror as it rips the face off another and watch his blood spill out on the dusty streets all too foreign but all so close, and how I listen to the brother’s brother cry in agonized pain as he watches his brother’s blood stream down into the potholes of his home and how I suddenly love war again for its simple destruction, its abject beauty that I still don’t know nor understand but want to feel and embrace, to be a man like what men are in war, toting guns and playing games, being brave and deadly but dead. Of how one day I will know war and war will know me and I will lose myself in its embrace and maybe be wild and powerful and finally dead, my face ripped off and my blood flowing into the cracks of a world that I don’t know.

I love myself for all my arrogance and beauty and will to live, and for the anxiety that brings me down and makes me grovel and howl, curled in a ball on my bed because of my arrogance and blindness until I pick myself up and think and think and think and another day comes and I’m back in the world. For what my genius is but isn’t and how I imagine that soon others will see my genius my genius that isn’t because genius isn’t never was and never will be. For how I’m not sorry, sorry I’m not sorry, not knowing what sorry means nor does anyone know what sorry means. Sorry I, is, sorry, sorry is a lie. A kids game nothing else.

But I don’t love you and I won’t ever love you because I don’t care to love you.

Passenger

For the Intermittent Writer

333sound

Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

The Wink

This Week in Kink

Zoë Tersche

Freelance writer focusing on internet freedoms and surveillance along with sexuality and gender in media and tech.