My one carry on.
My one carry on.
Yes, it’s true. I had a life orgasm. My entire life came. Memories from 20 years ago shot up from my Reptilian. Memories I’ve never remembered before, were being remembered for the first time, again. My amygdala converted its usual stew of fear and aggression into a pure agape eros storge philia namastaying alive, staying alive, ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive, out of body super fragile un-casual-istic XTC-ala-dose of neuro-gravy and poured it ever so gently over all of my bones. And it all happened whilst listening to Janet. Miss Jackson if you’re nasty. Penny from Goodtimes. Michael’s lil’ sister. The girl who married the guy from El DeBarge. The teenager who wore the unsexiest kneepads in the world during her Pleasure Principal video. The crazy bitch who said, “Let’s wait a while, before we go to far,” and inadvertently cock blocked a whole generation of dumb fucks who couldn’t convince their dates that Janet was Jehovah’s Witness and therefore those lyrics didn’t apply to them in quite the same way as they did to her and so to take off their god damned panties already. The innocent maiden who fell in love with the fat professor.
The woman who tried to breastfeed the world.
December 30th. Sunday night. Monday technically. 1:30am. 31st actually. It’s the eve. Thee eve. It’s thee about to grab the apple and eat from the tree of knowledge eve. It’s Eve eve. It’s the eve of everything new: the year, the world, the thee. ‘07 is barely breathing. Amsterdam, Holland. Outer space. Living room. Everyone’s already sleeping. I’m the opposite of sleeping. Hawaiian magic mushrooms, dark chocolate and pure THC in my head, nothing else. Everything else. It’s all legal here you judgers. The ice-o-later: That’s what they call the pure THC. I had just been ice-o-lated. They slept, I ice-o-lated. They went down, I went up. I used Willy Wonka’s elevator. It was made out of looking glass. I came all the way over here to get mushrooms that grow in cow shit in my hometown in Hawaii. It’s always the last place you look. Actually, I’ve never really looked at cow shit. I want to look now. I so want to look. I love cow shit right about now. Love. Cow. Shit. I think I love all shit because of this shit. I am brave new world. I am aldous and salvador eating paintbrushes with vincent. I’m fully madman at this point. I have no ears to cut. If I saw a pile of cow shit, nothing could stop me from face planting in it. I know it’d be metaphorical; I don’t care. Maybe that’s why Andy Warhol made purple cow wallpaper. Maybe that’s why the term holy cow. Maybe that’s why fungi is the plural of. I was super Mario and Luigi. I was wonder twin powers all by myself. I was activated: form of the space-time continuum in hush puppies and cotton candy hats. The space-time continuum hath many heads.
How do you explode quietly in a room full of sleeping friends?
How do you spontaneously combust and get nothing on the carpet?
I was only getting higher with each passing minute. The fucking trolleys passing outside my temporary Amsterdam home made funny little humming songs which were teabagging my funny bone in the face, over and over again, from somewhere so deep inside me that I had to wonder if my funny bone was indeed experiencing a growth spurt of cataclysmic proportions, not unlike a metaphorical Andre the giant, but in the form of a funny bone instead of a giant. I took the challenge. Laugh with all your might, I thought, but silently. Dance. Dance and stay still, move everything but my feet, I thought.
They were dreaming. I was dreaming.
The whole world: dreaming.
Ooh, grab the earphones, ooh, ooh, the fucking earphones, why didn’t I… fucking, wow, fuck, holy shit, the fucking earphones! I randomly pop the ipod on, and there is Janet. I immediately went to “Doesn’t really matter” as it was a reminder to me from way back when, that you could steal back memories and change your past, your life; your everything. Long story super short: I got sick of the song back in the day due to a break-up, and had to reclaim it, as it were, as a song of joy and not of ex-girlfriend darkness from the depths of the seventh circle in hell. And who doesn’t love the phrase “Doesn’t really matter” set to music? I was a friggin Tibetan monk in long john underwears: m&m’s in one hand, balls in the other. They both made friends with me. Nothing could stop this happiness. I was a train wreck made out of Chinese New Year style fireworks: my explosion, my destiny. The end is the best part. The death of it is the whole point. My whole life seemed so silly, sad– beautiful from this point.
Every tear trickled, tickled. Every sadness: joy. All of it a sick joke no longer sickening.
I cried laughed flew.
I cried laughed hugged surfed flew jumped ate drank swam slid.
I body bungee barreled.
I astrotransmigrated through fields of gold and shit.
It was officially New Year’s eve in Amsterdam, at only 1:30 in the god dammed morning, and I was bumping and grinding myself on mute in my own V.i.P. section of the Studio 54 in my mind.
Everyone else: dreamland.
We were all in the same place: the kitchen, outer space.
I felt that I knew everything, nothing. I felt the relief of having to be original, talented, genius–that it had all been said, including it has all been said. And that that was the best place to be. And that that was where I was. That I was always here. To not be afraid to sound a little hippie-ish when you write about this later, now. This may sound like shit to you; Yes, that’s where it grows my friend! Look no further, you’ve stepped right in it, congratulations! That the truth is everywhere; in pop songs, on cereal boxes. In cow shit; in politics. Inside. In inns. On wallpaper, in dinner conversations, behind closed eyes, doors. There it is.
Be happy for no reason.
Be happy for no reason and here’s why.
It’s all an illusion. Who cares if that is someone’s myspace quote, it’s the fucking truth. We’re dying. Fuck your socioeconomic bladder folks, let’s drink death together! I’ve already committed suicide: slow shutter suicide. I’m too pussy to actually hurt myself, I’ve decided it’s much more chic to just live happily ever after all the way ‘til death: slow shutter suicide. To blurring all the lines. To mixing stills with motion, to pointillism unpersonified. To fragments running on empty caverns of everything meaningless and therefore meaningful. To closing your eyes and seeing everything. To closing your eyes and realizing your unlonliest moment ever.
Enter: Together Again [Janet Jackson]
The harps. Those mother fucking harps. I feel I should say, In the beginning, there were the mother fucking harps.
Then Janet’s angelic voice:
There are times when I look above and beyond,
There are times when I feel your love around me baby,
I’ll never forget my baby…
The sound came from nowhere in particular, or at least that’s what it felt like, I couldn’t place it, didn’t care. It floated. I floated. Couldn’t feel the earplugs, my ears. Sound, body, mind: these things all meaningless now. I was speaking non-speak. I flew towards a starry night made out of under my eyelids. I stood in the kitchen, planted like I was ready to take the offensive foul with 2 seconds left on the clock, but invisible, so therefore fearless of losing my teeth, my mind, it was too late, it was all lost anyway. I was part of the ether now. I was Stardust. Stardust with eyebrows, which was also stardust. I was also instantly bored of everything I had ever said, written. I was ecstatic because of this newfound boredom—reborn. The words Ryan Matsumoto were double punch lines in my lifelong joke. I saw myself crying as a child, my dad scolding me for something, everything. I saw my Mizuno baseball glove being lost, again. I saw me getting kicked out of school, leagues, conversations, debates, everywhere. I saw me standing on cafeteria tables, pounding my chest, being the class clown, needing my lonely spot rubbed. I saw every body smiling laughing smiling laughing. I flew swam. I closed my eyes while closing my eyes. The sadness was only met with more happiness. I was never afraid of the sadness taking over. I somehow knew it was being sprinkled in with the overall happiness like cinnamon. A little dab will do ya. Taking over was taking over. I was Icarus in a Sunless sea of sky. It was the best feeling I have ever had by far. Nothing comes close to it except for the whole Amsterdam trip itself, which is an unfair comparison since one is a subset of the other. I was singing to myself in the form of Janet.
Everywhere I go, every smile I see,
I know you are there, smiling back at me.
Dancing in moonlight, I know you are free,
’cause I can see your star, shining down on me.
This meant it was all over. All pau. The nightmare had been met by the alarm clock; I could smell the coffee.
I was together again with myself.
I knew right then, that all my problems have always stemmed from that feeling of being lonely and afraid, and that I didn’t have to feel like that anymore. That happiness was always here, smiling back at me, always. Right here inside my mind. Happiness. Always. As much of it as I want, here it is, happiness, here, always accessible. Just close your eyes, or don’t. Just just. I just, we just, never notice. We, all of us: missing our breaths by breathing too hard, not enough. That if we were to feel this huge universal group hug which comes from ourselfless selves, that we would solve all of our problems. We would see that we have enough. We would feel our enoughs, in every moment.
Everything is Ha!
Ha: Hawaiian for Breath.
I don’t do drugs; I am drugs—Salvador Dali
I’ll take opiates over cortisol any day soccer mom. I’ll take a little THC over your squirts of anger and frustration O’ suit wearer, O’ portfolio manager. I’ll take space cakes over beer. I’ll take a handjob over vodka. I’ll take surfing over parenting. You take both? high 5 dude! That’s all you. I’ll take half soy over whole whole. And I’ll take mushrooms over sex, but not over space travel via Delorean. I’ll take death over life. I’ll take my time over the rush. I’ll take now over later. I’ll take taking over non-taking. I’ll take overwhelm over whelm.
I’ll take happiness over not happiness.
I love everyone.
I’m sorry if I scare you my loved ones, this is me. I am exploding; hold me. I’ve been exploding circa birth– I’m a supernova, who knew?
Oh just pretend I’ve had cancer this whole time, let’s dance, what d’ya say?
I’m almost 36; that’s a fucking long life according to medieval times.
My new t-shirt:
Be happy for no reason and here’s why:
Here’s almost every picture I took in Amsterdam shuffled to the song that breastfed me the truth in both soy and whole-i-ness forms, culminating the greatest moment of my entire 36 year long craptastic life:
from me, Jenn, Kealoha, Minja and Mikey.
2 0 0 8.
(we never picture growing old together.
there are no rocking chairs, no porches,
no grandchildren with our tired eyes,
no closets cluttered full of inside jokes,
shared gestures, and knowing looks
fading in boxes labeled years past.
there’s no nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake.)
how did i get here
needing someone to tell me how little i matter,
here with my heart, not a specimen of a heart,
but a heart, a breaking heart i want to throw up
through my speechless mouth–
my throat becomes lava,
organ after organ
mistake after mistake
let my insides match the empty i feel.
i’m a 12 year old girl playing this old paradigm house.
toying with her insecurity collection,
her shadow box of sadnesses.
i want the whole world’s sympathy in my hands.
(i hate this girl.)
(i check the light switch.)
how did i get here
taking my own placebo on an empty stomach
in doses of cardio, calories, worries.
wishing i had a control of myself
just to see how far i’ve deviated.
how did i get here
walking past memorials
knowing i am not moment-to-moment
lists of consciousness,
the compilation of all my fears and failures.
i have loved
more this year
than i have ever loved,
more than i have ever cried.
my cry is i cannot change this.
my cry is i am surviving.
my cry is thank god
i can finally feel again.
it’s winter early on my skin
this is not what i want to write
i hate my head songs
quarter, half, whole words,
measures and measures of melancholy.
we are not victims
we are just tired
both of us
from fighting this war on existence,
a war we were drafted into circa birth
with our footprints.
you and i will never be names carved into stone
towering above a better off generation
but bones sewn into the earth
a place for weeds and time to take over.
my favorite moments are when you break
and i break
and we are reassembled
parts of me in parts of you
your sorry lodged somewhere deep in my abdomen
and my panic, tendons tangled through your fingers:
when we touch
i feel myself reaching for me through you.
every day is november 17th
and i’m running off that first plane
the burnt smell of bulgaria
seeped into my hair
in your new arms
i love myself again.
our first drive home
your single finger pressed morse code
secrets into my thigh
we were right to be afraid
we connected harder on paper
than anyone, you said
and that was something.
i am your favorite writer,
the worst exister,
locked in a self-destructible box
welded together from scraps of hot iron hurt
over 28 years of oversensitivity
sleeplessness and want want want–
my own impenetrable, flawless patchwork
(my mom, she gave me the patterns.)
i crawled in; i still have to live.
remember last year,
we promised to go dysfunctioneering together.
we pulled each other out of twin depressions
yours, a box, mine, a country.
we bought flashlights and held hands,
if hands were stanzas,
lyrics, and prose pacing across our pages.
(alliteration, it happens.)
when you said russian dolls i swooned
you told me stop trusting lovelessness,
printed my words onto your aorta
moved into my poetry,
painted the walls, even.
we once said: look how much we have been through
before we have even been through anything.
you could not
give me more
treat me better
love me more
than i love you
i breathe it through
these lungs, these porous wings for living.
if i could just take off
the anchor of my body.
i know you understand.
but i want it out.
put me down
with anesthetic songs
freestyled from your guitar
the ones that neverend
and sing them louder
than the most love-deaf voice
in my head.
put me down.
give me a life change operation.
i want to wake up with new
breasts and a new paradigm
my grey matter transplanted,
hope transfused through
your organs, mine.
put me down,
put me down.
all this is not what i want to write.
but you’re right, it’s easy
making pain pretty, alliterated and
packaged without the preservatives–
we pass an empty box back and forth
stuffing ourselves with
the smallest morsels of our panic
and inedible crumbs of our problems.
i’ve learned that today’s devastations
are tomorrow’s last laughs.
i’ve learned that my mind is not my mind.
i’ve learned that i am not the sum of what i am not.
i’ve learned that i forget days like today
beautiful days where we laughed
we can do this:
drive, love, be.
i know my brain well enough to know
it empties the wrong cache, always
we are lovers,
i just forget; i’m lucky.
we are so much more than this poem,
than the letters that brought us here
into this motel room in cleveland,
another friend’s bedroom in milwaukee,
a flooded basement apartment in seattle.
let’s wake up tomorrow
be on the same team
cheer for each other
and i’ll sip from your coffee
because all i ever wanted to do
before i met you
when i was there and not here,
before i knew how to not be right for you
and the wrong things to never say,
before you knew how afraid i was
of asking for direction,
was sip from your coffee.
we never picture growing old together
because we don’t want a life
where we live to be 80,
and each year adds new failures of the heart and mind,
where each year gained is a decade lost
where you become right all along:
who are we without our memories
sacks of cells
bodies without dreams
shells left behind by the tides
and always, always still a roar
from the best time of our lives—which was a day—which was five years—
which was enough, enough life for a lifetime.
how did we get here
into these decaying bodies,
and folding corners.
i know: stop asking how. look forward. trust you.
there is so much in me i cannot begin to give you;
it’s already yours, owned, lived–
we are already old together.
My Happy Thanksgiving Fuck you song: