Keep My Words

Nothing lasts. Everything ends. Material art and unobservable ideas, love letters, stars, songs, that aching, wanting, starving feeling – eventually will all be gone. Night culminates with morning, and although it comes back shortly thereafter, this too will stop. Humanity will surely become extinct, and the earth will cease to exist. The term forever is deceptive.

But the ancient Egyptians believed that a person would live on forever in the afterlife.  Consequently, they believed that the body needed to be preserved to ensure this life after death.  The Egyptians would mummify their dead and put the body into a sarcophagus.  The sarcophagus would be placed in a tomb with food, drink, and riches for use in the hereafter.  Even the organs were placed in Canopic jars and left in the tomb.  Ceremonies like the Opening of the Mouth were performed to prepare the dead for this new life after death.

The most amazing Egyptian mummy that I have seen was at the Vatican Museum.  He was from 1000 BC.  You could see where they pulled his brain out through his eye socket.  The strands of dyed-red hair on his head were clearly visible.  His toenails were in plain view, and each finger was perfectly in place.

This man could never have imagined that this would be the fate of his body – to be placed behind a glass wall and exploited.  I imagine he couldn’t fathom the idea that thousands of years later he would be pointed at by people from around the world, all while they took digital photos of his corpse.  I wonder if it would it insult this man to know that some people are repulsed by the sight of him.  Honestly, I wonder a lot about every mummy that I see or read about.  It amazes me to stare at the remains of a person who once lived, breathed, and loved, but is now nothing but dried flesh covering abandoned bones.

No, I’m sure he never could have imagined this.

Mummy in its case, Vatican Museum

I got home from Albany yesterday afternoon.

Hopefully when Tim gets back in late-September, we’ll hang out and work on our band, Boyfriend and Girlfriend.  I wanted to name it that because I have trouble saying the words in any normal context when speaking about myself.  With that as the band name, I’ll be forced to say things like, “We’re Boyfriend and Girlfriend.”  Hopefully after repeated use, my fear of the terminology will subside.

Tim told me that I keep things interesting.  I put some of the photos from our .93 cent lipstick photo shoot in the about section of my blog.

Also, today I finalized my class schedule for the fall semester:

Mondays/Wednesdays                                                                                                                                                                                                                2:05pm Electronic Music, 4:10pm Fundamentals of Business Law

Tuesdays/Thursdays                                                                                                                                                                                                2:30pm Harmony I, 4:10pm Entrepreneurship Management

Fridays                                                                                                                                                                                                                               9:30am Introduction to Arts Administration

All of my classes are at Baruch.  I am very, very happy with this schedule.

Boyfriend and Girlfriend, March 2009 (above)

Tova and I had margaritas the other day.

“It’s obviously been on your mind. Why is it bothering you?” she asked.

Because I’m crazy. Because I over analyze things. Because apparently I enjoy tormenting myself. “Because… what if I made a mistake?” I said.

The possibility weighs on my mind. Supposedly it’s better to regret something you have done than something you haven’t done. But every choice has an alternative. There’s no way to be certain which option will provide a better perspective for the future, or which one will offer less hurt.

I could have kept things as they were. My strength could have been used to quell my breaking point. But I convinced myself that it takes a stronger person to say how he/she feels, so I decided to surrender my honesty.

As the smoke clears and the dust settles, products of my decision make me vulnerable to everyone, including him. Our last encounter when I couldn’t figure out how to be a normal fucking person, the words that I write, my inability to disguise my emotions – these are all results of the choice that I made. And they all feed my perpetual state of neurosis.

Yet as much as I care for him, I didn’t like how the situation made me perceive myself. Towards the end, I felt like a secret that he chose to deny. I felt like a fool waiting for the inevitable outcome. I felt like he was my habit and I was his burden. As often as possible, I will blame these thoughts on my own insecurities. My mind is adamant when denying that his recklessness could have played a hand in our demise. I don’t want to think that the fatal bullet was laced with his disregard. I’d rather believe it was all my fault.

Slowly I can feel the confidence that was shattered mending itself.

Even still, I miss him. I know that this will pass, but it saddens me that we allow it to get farther and farther away, until it becomes so small that we can’t see it anymore. And it’s like it never even existed.

treason -noun

1. the offense of acting to overthrow one’s government or to harm or kill its sovereign.
2. a violation of allegiance to one’s sovereign or to one’s state.
3. the betrayal of a trust or confidence; breach of faith; treachery.

Until 1870, those convicted of treason in England received the following sentence: “That you be drawn on a hurdle to the place of execution where you shall be hanged by the neck and being alive cut down, your privy members shall be cut off and your bowels taken out and burned before you, your head severed from your body and your body divided into four quarters to be disposed of at the King’s pleasure.”

This was a man’s punishment, as women were burned at the stake for treason.

So, to clarify, first the guilty man was to be dragged on a wooden frame to the pre-determined place of execution. Since this was quite a spectacle in those days, a crowd eagerly awaited the grisly scene. Once there, the man would be hanged by the neck until nearly dead. Then, removed from the noose and still alive, he would be disemboweled and castrated. (A good executioner would do this quickly so that the man did not die too early in the process.) While the condemned man watched, his genitalia and entrails were burned. Of course, this is only if he did not die from strangulation, loss of blood, and/or shock. Next, the man would be quartered, which simply means that his four limbs would be separated from his midsection. Often this was done with an ax on a quartering table, but in some places the man’s arms and legs were each tied to a different horse. At the same time the horses would be commanded to run, tearing the man’s limbs from his body.

Hanging, drawing, and quartering remained legal punishment for high treason in England until it was abolished in 1870.

Lately when asked how I am, which is increasingly annoying when presented with that look and that pitiful tone of voice, my inclination is to phrase my reply in terms of how one might like his/her steak cooked.

Feelings of despondency, grieving, and hopelessness can be described as rare.  It is known that rare steaks retain more juice and the middle is red and not very warm.  Something retained is not free, and to be free is to be generous and willing.  Both are qualities that a rare person may have trouble achieving.  Also, if something is not very warm, it is likely cold.  When describing a person as cold, one may mean that the person is joyless and apathetic, but not happy and enthused.

When a steak is medium rare, it will have a red, warm center.  A person feeling medium rare may be a step above the all-consuming sadness of a solely rare person.  Although something may be troubling a medium rare person, he/she is responsive to life and able to experience pleasure when distracted from his/her afflictions.

A medium steak contains a hot and red middle with pink surrounding the center. The outside is gray-brown.  If a person describes how he/she is as medium, this means his/her life is adequate.  The pain that he/she feels is tolerable, and the moments of elation, though few and far between, are still present.

If cooked to a core temperature of 160 degrees Fahrenheit causing the center to be surrounded by light pink, the steak is medium well.  Someone who feels medium well experiences little suffering and heartache.  Times of bliss and jubilation are more plentiful for him/her.  However, from time to time he/she does encounter hardships but is usually quick to recover and shift back into a state of satisfaction.

Finally, there is the well done steak.  Here the steak is cooked to the highest temperature and is gray-brown throughout and slightly charred.  It is said that cooking steak to this point results in tougher meat and reduces concern about disease.  Someone that is tough is vigorous and mentally strong.  A tough person will prevail in most things and will have the power to control his/her emotions.  Having concern brings about anxiety and worry, and the lessening of those things is necessary to enjoy every part of life and live in ecstasy.

…

Completely unrelated, if anyone knows the whereabouts of Harriet Wheeler and David Gavurin, please let them know that I need to see The Sundays perform live before I die.

My grandmother loved poetry.  The fervor and intensity she demonstrated when reciting her best-loved pieces remains unmatched by anyone that I have ever known.

Per her request, the below was read at her funeral.  It was one of her favorites.  I would give anything to hear her recite it to me now.

“Lord of the Dance” words by Sydney Carter

I danced in the morning when the world was young
I danced in the moon and the stars and the sun
I came down from heaven and I danced on the earth
At Bethlehem I had my birth

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

I danced for the scribes and the Pharisees
They wouldn’t dance, they wouldn’t follow me
I danced for the fishermen James and John
They came with me so the dance went on

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

I danced on the Sabbath and I cured the lame
The holy people said it was a shame
They ripped, they stripped, they hung me high
Left me there on the cross to die

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

I danced on a Friday when the world turned black
It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back
They buried my body, they thought I was gone
But I am the dance, and the dance goes on

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

They cut me down and I leapt up high
I am the life that will never, never die
I’ll live in you if you’ll live in me
I am the Lord of the dance, said he

Dance, dance, wherever you may be
I am the lord of the dance, said he
And I lead you all, wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance, said he

(photos by Dese’Rae Stage)

Mary was the biggest elephant in the Sparks World Famous Shows circus, weighing in at about five tons.  On September 12, 1916, the circus played the town of Kingsport, Tennessee.  Walter ‘Red’ Eldridge was hired just the day before to work for the circus as an elephant handler, even though he had no experience with the animals.

On September 12th, Eldridge was riding Mary to a water hole so that she could drink.  There are varying stories, but the most common version of what happened that day started with Mary veering off path to eat a piece of watermelon lying in the road.  When Eldridge prodded the side of her head in an attempt to make her stay on course, she used her trunk to snatch him off her back.  Then, she forcefully threw him into a wooden drink stand, walked over to his battered and bruised body, and proceeded to crush his skull with her enormous foot.  Bystanders watched in horror as Eldridge’s blood and brains oozed onto the street.

The townspeople demanded that Mary be killed.  Other towns the circus had scheduled to perform in said the circus was not welcome as long as Mary was in the show.

Debates on how to kill Mary ensued.  It was determined that no gun existed big enough to take her down.  Electrocution and canons were other proposed methods.  Finally, it was decided that Mary would be hung from a rail yard crane in the nearby town of Erwin, Tennessee.  The execution was heavily advertised, and the following day a crowd of more than 2,500 people, including children, gathered to witness her death.

Mary’s leg was tied to the crane so she could not escape, and a chain was put around her neck.  On first attempt, the chain around her neck snapped.  She fell to the ground and broke her hip.  Reports say that the sound of her bones breaking was heard by the thousands of onlookers.  A larger chain was placed around her neck and she was hoisted up again.  This time, the hanging was a success.  Mary was dead.  They let her hang for a half an hour, then her huge body was buried in the rail yard.

The people of Erwin say they would like to forget that the town ever played a part in the hanging of Mary.

“Your blog is gay,” Jewy J said.

“Ugh, so gay,” I agreed.  “I was going to write about zombies today but now I’m writing about something else.  I suck.  I’ll get to zombies tomorrow.”

“I was just kidding, I like reading it,” he admitted.  “Well, can I be honest?  It’s too well written.”

I laughed.  “I’d like to take that as a compliment.”

He continued.  “It’s like you’re developing a novel rather than literaizing your thoughts.  You like that word I made up?”

I ignored his question and responded to the statement prior.  “I’m okay with that.”

“Okay, then cool.  Yeah I guess, I mean, I guess that’s what a blog is – it’s for other people as much as yourself,” he said.  “I mean, it is writing for the public so I guess it should be well written, like a column in a newspaper.”

“Honestly, it’s just how I write,” I told him.

“Well then you’re gay,” Jewy J decided.  “Not in the cool hip way.  In the dork way.”

“Maybe I should get it published!” I said in jest.

He joked back.  “You should publish on that site called My Life is Completely and Utterly Boring.”

I thought for a moment.  “But even though you think I’m gay, you kind of like reading it?” I asked.

“Yeah, I totally enjoy reading it,” he said.

Like I said before – it’s nice when you have the support of your friends.

Since the break-up, I haven’t been the same.  I’ve obviously been writing more.  I drink a lot.  (I know, I know – how is that different from before?)  I wander down the streets aimlessly with my head down.  I stare at the walls in my apartment and think, what have I done? Even though it was one of the longest, greatest relationships I have ever experienced, I had to end it.  It gets a little easier every day.  Still, I don’t know if I will ever stop missing the great love that was cable television.

Without cable around, I have been spending more time with my DVD collection.  The other night I watched Faces of Death before I went to sleep, which resulted in some glorious zombie nightmares.  Upon waking, I felt immediately pleased with the adventures that my subconscious mind had created.  But last night when I watched Faces of Death III prior to bedtime, I was not so lucky.  Instead of a lovely dream where I was on the run from the living dead, my nightmares were more personal.

I remember two of them fairly well.  They both starred the boy who is quickly becoming the bane of my existence, yet at times I want nothing more than to hug him.  Figure that one out for me.

In the first dream, I drove to his apartment to drop something off.  (It was one of those mats given out by Top Shop in the VIP section at the McCarren Pool Parties last summer.)  My plan was to make the delivery and leave immediately to drive and visit my grandmother in Maine.  Even though my mind knew she was dead, in the dream I had spoken to her and she had told me to come.  He wouldn’t let me leave.  There was another girl at his apartment.  She wasn’t familiar to me and didn’t speak to me, but she saw me.  I felt insecure and confused.

My alarm went off.  There was no way I was getting out of bed on that note.  I adjusted my alarm clock to allow myself an additional hour of sleep.

Back in my dreams, I was hanging out with Kyle in the neighborhood.  We were outside of my apartment, and he was angry.  I had lost my phone and was searching through garbage and storm drains.  Kyle was yelling at me.  I decided to go by the bar and see if my phone was there.  I walked up to the door and pressed my face against the glass.  I saw that the boy was there, and so I didn’t want to go inside.  I remained watching while my thoughts became everything I didn’t want them to be – angry, resentful, and hateful.  I wasn’t sure if the boy saw me through the glare and it wasn’t a concern of mine either way, but I sensed that he did see me.  He knew I was there.  Finally, defeated by something undefinable, I walked back to my apartment.  Kyle had found my phone in a garbage can.

The alarm again.  I wasn’t feeling much better about things than I was an hour before, but I got up, got dressed, and went to work.

It often happens that we momentarily forget the most common facts.

“What’s the name of the guy who wrote Huck Finn?” Mike asked.

“Mark Twain,” I reminded him.

“Right!” he said, now able to continue his thought.  “It’s like that Mark Twain quote – ‘Some of the worst things in my life never happened.’”

I can relate to Mr. Twain.  My mind has created miles and miles of fictitious betrayals in my life.  The endless, taunting what ifs and if onlys are a plague on my possible contentment.  I’m cynical and pessimistic, and although I can change many things in my life, I cannot fix this malfunction in my way of thinking.  It mutilates my hope.  Repeatedly I am destroyed by these things that have never happened.  It’s a shame, quite honestly.

It may be worth noting that I put my easel together yesterday.  Those who are (or have been) close to me know that I consider this kind of task a man-job, along with killing bugs, lifting heavy objects, and taking out the trash.  But I needed the distraction.  Not to mention, that canvas isn’t going to paint itself, and it wasn’t made to remain blank.