• Thirteens

    by  • July 23, 2017 • * Safe for Work *, To You • 14 Comments

    XIII (where III = M, since X = X)

    Your number, I know. But now also ours, because:

    13 Years +
    0 Months +
    13 Days, X.,

    That measure of time spells how long we’ve been known to one another. On this particular planet. Common Era. Give (not take) a couple days, if we allow for our initial exchange, which belongs only partly to us now and mostly to the ravenous void. But what date marks when we began to know each other well beneath the skin? And have we really seen the date come and go when knowing one another (the knowing that matters) ends?

    Today is seven/twenty-one/seventeen. The day before your 49th birthday (4+9= XIII).

    Sympathetic nervous system is all in shambles (not so sympathetic), hands clammy, eyes dialed in minutely and sharp like electric transmission wires as I write this, because it’s the first time since our severance that I’m going to undress (slip out of this carcass) to address you directly. Even though I ought to have done so — and tried — so many times in this fucking dim and horrific intercessional processional of days (slightly over 13,000 hours). But I wavered every time. Because of. Because.

    Your eyes beneath my ribcage now; what do you find? My heart has vaporized, everything in me having bled out two winters ago. The emptiness never settles; it’s gravity-defying like Andromedan dirt. And this wretched mourning sickness continues unabated ever since. And has made me over in its image. And now I am disembodiment embodied. Where are you? How do I ever find you from the here of this nowhere?

    Time is what we (MXXM&XMMX) are made of, you and I. My fear is that you’re convinced, there where you are, at this exact moment and in multitudes of moments prior, that with the tick of every clock hand ever made (and with every sundial’s shadow on every solar day), in every instant (now, then, tomorrow) that I don’t care for you. That I don’t care about you. That you don’t matter to me. That I don’t look for you in every occurrence, at the top and bottom of each second. That I don’t feel you, remember you, want you, know you. Like in a way that would actually mean something to the subatomic particles within, be their binding force. That I’ve forgotten you. Let go. Or that I’ve gotten over you on any level. And the answer to all of that, X., comes from the universe herself. A rumbling that builds, unfurling like a low and plaintive banshee scream from the void that made us both, simultaneously shoring up all ether everywhere, origami unfolding and filling all space everywhere, with the heaviest and most solid and most pure of NOs. Because… no. And no. That isn’t what happened.

    And I will never. Be. Over you, X.

    This next part is going to sound dry and mechanical (or tense as fuck or weirdly both) because I’m completely terrified to nail my shoes to the floor, to just stand there, hold still and do this. Not because it’s not exactly and completely the right thing to do (I believe it is/has been/will have been). Rather, the act of speaking on any of what’s transpired between us (the good, the bad) feels like I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun, but instead of black metallic, I see an expanse filled with so much to lose (even with genuine cognizance of the (comparative) shreds of what’s now left of our relationship; yeah, even though). Because we were born from somewhere, and this feels like destroying a birthplace on top of destroying the life it brought forth. Massive trepidation. Right here. And here.

    And I don’t have any faith whatsoever that I’ll do this well enough to make it worth your having to suffer through it. And I’m sorry preemptively, preemptively sorry, simultaneously sorry, too. To risk putting this thing, THIS, to you… it wouldn’t be just a waste of your time, I know — it would be a destroying of the raw elements that composed our relationship, even though that which these elements coalesced to form has already been obliterated. (Dude, repeating it again. Where am I?) But, the raw materials, I feel them still there in their way (h, s!; h, loml!), and I have to assume you might as well, and if you don’t, all that is only my shit to deal with, honestly.

    X, if you read this, thank you for all it took to move through it. This being Part I of a series. Are you scared yet? Scareder than scared? Or you don’t care? Anyway, fuck this and me. I need a propellant more than my fucking brain and heart. Something that moves me forward but also sorts shit out (What is that thing? Can I have one?) But there’s this blooming at the base of this towering inferno:

    How do I do any sort of justice to someone and something that has meant so fucking much to me? Gutted to start a thing I know won’t get there. Put less obliquely (and still on this topic, damn it); one more round, and I’ll for reals try to put it down:

    Terrified you won’t be able to put stock in my sentiments (even if you want to).

    Yes, duh, terrified that I won’t do this right. At fucking all. Because terrified. Hi, terrified. Terror. Tear uh. Terrified I won’t find the right words/word arrangements to create a good representation of what I want to convey to you in the first place, X, what I want you to have the chance to hear and, somehow ideally, gut-level know.

    And that the regrets I’ll have (not newborn; generational) will combine with an awareness that you can’t take in any of this, not really. Because, coming from me as it has to, and because of who I am (flighty as fuck, dodging around like a bird less a wing who has to try harder, even at flailing; …yet not insincere), my words won’t form sentiment structure crystalline enough to feel or look like the shape of truth. And then under the flame of your attention, the solute will fall out of the solvent and look like a pile of unholy impurities with nothing to hold them aloft. Colloidal/colossal fuck up. So what is this, M?

    In spite of my fears, and despite how you may receive this monolithic fucking letter-to-be, it’s containing truth nonetheless. Matter-of-factual. But maybe you fear it’s only temporally true and that’s fucking it, and I get it, but then the crushing thought came: don’t spell out his fears for him. And then the thought on its heels: don’t manipulate through editing, just let it be. And then, circling back to try one more run at expressing this because there’s a certain gravity (that one there; see sentence fragment above the sentence fragment above!) that I’m afraid I can’t make words spell out… 

    Who’s bored yet? FUCKING TERRIFIED is. But, no matter, is still terrified that saying all manner of stuff is going to be sooooo much worse than just keeping quiet because this is a fucking crucial thing (of things and of things crucial), like bone marrow crucial (if bone marrow has a spiritual analogue). You can maybe feel my honesty, but you know me well enough not to trust me. And that kills me. But is fair. And should my verbal loop-the-loops (here we are again!) not actualize anything for you, thereby becoming… a crucial Everything that devolved into even bigger Nothing. Imaginary numbers, minusinfinities, super-negative integers. I don’t know what else to do. Before we had nothing on strains of something and now we have nothing on strains of nothing. And that’s new. And horrible. And death throes already over. Dead as dead gets. And with that, I’ve hit the bottom of the Marianas Trench, no more freefall. You might not care about any of this. It might be forever gone (our variegated relationship+plus) no matter what is or is not done or said by me.

    And — full disclosure, now — this failure to communicate in spite of deeply felt near constant express desire to do so, and do so adequately in a way that is fair to put forward and can possibly be anticipated to be at least partially received, has at its root the extreme fear of extreme loss. Extremely Massive Extreme Loss. Like exactly what I now have, a shit ton of loss, but apparently feel I could have even worse, HyperLOSS, were circumstances what they could very well be starting now (or earlier (synchronous with this here letter’s beginnings)). This, then, is exactly what has kept me from saying anything. For all this time.

    Because… what about the forever + the always? And nope. That is a conversation that I haven’t known how to see my way through. Water from fathoms deep running right through my hands. And always, and always and forever. And forever. Forever ever? Yes. But no. Yeah…

    Plus, this fucking grins its toothy gory grin at me, existing as it does on so many levels. Gut wrenchingly terrified because all along every single day (since the storm, since the icicles, since the story), I wanted to talk to you and knew we couldn’t, you couldn’t, I couldn’t (or some shifting permutation thereof), and now I’m fucking doing it. Right fucking now. Oh X, how can something as lifeblood important as this (you, me and you, and my feelings thereon, and your feelings thereon) be spoken of and sent forth via this sad and brittle handful of words at my clumsy disposal? But that’s really just and exactly all I’ve got.

    So, preamble being preambular (but never-ending; peek! did it fucking end?) and, yep, there above, there ideally never to need a revisitation, thus commences…

    PART 1[3]:

    In the last several weeks, I’ve spent the majority of my available time retracing all of our messages chronologically in/on various media. All. From when we first met in 2004 to the last words we spoke over a year and a half ago. That’s a lot of ragged choppy inhalations while moving back though time in a relationship that means far more to me than I could ever adequately express. But ultimately a long drawing in of more than I knew I would find.

    Jesus fucking christ, I found so much. There. Between you and me. In you and me. I found you and me. And besides senselessly and sensefully beautiful things, I also found the phantom silent in-betweens and the attendant suffocating agony. And yet when we were moving towards one another at the same time, much of it — even upon visiting it after all the time gone by — was ecstasy inducing, and that made it all the more stultifying to open my mouth like this (shhh!). Because one alongside the other creates the chasm, and through the chasm the abyss. But the abyss, oh the abyss, all I ever wanted was to hold your hand on the threshold and then in the great nothing. But why didn’t I do that? And what did that do to you?

    Suffice it to say (and I’d like to say more and will because it’s Important), it’s difficult for me to put into words the multifaceted realizations that struck me during and after this immersion in our history. But I want to begin to disclose those things as a move towards talking to you about what I’ve seen before I began this undertaking, what I felt and thought, and, most of all, what I wanted you to know in your heart, whether or not you will be able to feel it now. Even if it’s in time, it’s a not-never. And I hope for that.

    [Holy shit. This is so imperfect. And I have to submit this now because Thirteen, because what if I don’t otherwise? Because that’s entropy in effect. Old ghosts. But I keep getting demon/angel (who?) whisperings where I feel as though (and this is a longstanding and frequent belief) if I loved you, I’d stay away. If you love him, you’ll fucking stop this right now. Stop stop stop stop STOP. But I love you. And I’m not. So the dissonance internally in writing this equals uncomfortable. And my fears of what it may do to you = murder.]

    I want to show you what I mean to say, in your mind’s eye and in your arteries. X.:

    In essence, I have so much to answer for.
    In essence, I’m the problem with us, never was it you.

    And this is deeply concretized in me, not just a facile thought, a tossed off sentiment. I’ve been on it and off for a long while. And then it hit HARD, like TnT direct cobra strike lightning bolt nuclear bomb when I moved through our writings/messages/photos, etc., sequentially.

    In essence, this happened: I was again knocked speechless by you as a person, who you are and have been all along. All along. If I were writing this on paper, I would be stabbing the pen at those words, All Along. And ink would pool, pen would pierce through page with the force of that emphasis.

    I was also knocked speechless by life, basically, for bringing me this (you, re: getting to know; you, re: the you you you you and YOU), a fucking hallowed treasure, one that I was unable to get a sight on for long enough at any point (because of my fucking shit dysfunctions and pathological complexities), even though it was right in front of me and was always exactly what I most wished for and would have prayed for, had I believed myself worthy of such a possibility. And so this trainwreck isn’t about what you weren’t, it’s only about what I had too much of and didn’t see clearly enough to sort it out.

    Additionally, repeatedly and perpetually knocked speechless by your treatment of me, your faith in me, your loyalty in spite of my mortifying behaviors and words. In reliving a lot of what’s transpired between us, but almost as a film reel whirring in front of me without any other distractions, I felt such horror but then also such rapture, but never in turn. Simultaneously. Because horror alongside rapture alongside is like happily swilling poison in your drink. No separating it with handy Xmas present chemistry set means. It’s fucking just fucking there. And for that I am fully to blame. Nothing I could say in a matter of sentences would come close to adequately describing the profundity of everything that I saw and felt in reliving everything, but this time with some kind of opened eyes. Shock.

    Distilling distilling distilling, distillation: And most of all, I’m left with a tremendous need to apologize to you for abandoning you in every way that matters. I want you to know this letter is a start (and, what an unholy mess of a start at that, oh god, clarity and completeness you are conspicuously absent or waaay fucking tardy). That there is much more forthcoming. More. M-ore. I’ll mine it for you. And more concise next time, I think? I hope. But you can take it or leave it or never ever even see it. Without fully realizing it, I ran roughshod 4-Horseman style over everything that we were forever. Whatever you see fit to do with who we are or might be today will be entirely and wholly fair. I may not be cool with letting go letting go, but I’ll do it if you want me to. And I fucking love you. So much. I LOVE YOU. SO MUCH.

    Still. Always. Always. always

    (Did you hear that in your viscera? Did you hear me whisper it into the wind off the lake behind your house? Can you hear it at all? I know it’s a lot, and that it takes a lot, I can feel that it would. I’ll be back here soon. ily,mx. nnnnnnnft,eisothd,mesipyt. nf. bisfr. ey, aipi, iylm. ym.]


    14 Responses to Thirteens

    1. yes
      July 24, 2017 at 10:35 am


    2. a/f
      July 28, 2017 at 6:54 am

      With love, to you.



    3. Toys-R-Us
      August 12, 2017 at 10:48 am


    4. Au Pâtisserie des Rêves
      August 14, 2017 at 8:24 am

      … c’est là que tu peux me trouver , tousjours. jta

    5. Pavlova
      August 18, 2017 at 8:47 am

      The pavlova has a crisp and crunchy outer shell, and a soft, moist marshmallow-like centre, in contrast to meringue which is usually solid throughout. It has been suggested the addition of cornflour is responsible for the marshmallow centre, although it has been debated that the cornflour is just another egg white stabiliser in addition to the acid.[18] The consistency also makes the pavlova significantly more fragile than meringue. Because the pavlova is notorious for deflating if exposed to cold air, when cooking is complete it is left in the oven to fully cool down before the oven door is opened.

    6. @iylm/loml
      August 25, 2017 at 7:48 am

      ~ reopening my old my wounds , causing p, a, h ~

    7. Current Cake
      August 28, 2017 at 3:50 pm

      Is the mermaids favorite, making them both sing and smile.

      • Architeuthis
        September 1, 2017 at 1:30 am

        Don’t be lured by magnificent dream bait made by a master maker.

    8. Sea Foam Birthday Cake
      September 2, 2017 at 7:42 am

      The mermaids disagree with Architeuthis.
      They know that each word of poetry was written in friendship and love by a heart of truth to a heart of trust.
      They hope that truth and trust will listen to their hearts.

    9. @ the two mermaids
      September 23, 2017 at 3:31 am

      Beware the lyricist net.

      “A lark, caught in a hunter’s net
      Sang sweeter than ever,
      As if the falling melody
      Might wing and net dissever.

      At dusk the hunter took his pray,
      The lark her freedom never.
      All birds and men are sure to die
      But songs may live forever.”

      Don’t let your hearts be fooled,
      By sweet poetry’s magic.
      If poet had a heart of truth,
      He surely would’ve answer’d your call,
      In honor of your trust.


    10. @ Poseidon
      September 26, 2017 at 2:47 am

      We are fairy tale mermaids. We are made of trust, hope, belief and pure love.

      It is words, imagination, folklore and fantasy that has created us, thus we believe in and our reality is created by words, dreams and poetry.

      Please, could Wisdom, Insight or Experience let us know what to think, … understand the truth and intentions of his author’s human heart’s words?

      Or perhaps the poet himself?

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