skonen_blades: (Default)
I see a lot of old movies with a ‘player’ character.
A man trying to charm every woman he meets.
I see him portrayed in these movies as a scamp.
A rascal.
Someone worthy of an eye-roll.
Or if he attempts an actual assault, worth a slap.
And even that is portrayed as roguish.
The aftermath relayed to others with a laugh.
But if he persists.
If he ignores the slap.
The woman’s anger is portrayed as just half an inch to the left of passion.
Her furious resistance dancing over to kissing and clutching in the face of an unrelenting onslaught.
Overpowering her defenses.
Him sparking consent with raw dominance.
That this was encouraged horrifies me.
Its rape played out as romance repeatedly on the big screen.
That constantly seeking out partners
Tricking them into sex
Is a noble pursuit
A noble male pursuit.
Woman who do it are branded.
Don’t get me wrong.
If it was portrayed as an equal opportunity pursuit, it wouldn’t be better.
It’s just so that I so rarely see a meeting of romantic equals on the screen.
A union based on consent and straightforward communication.
A relationship.
I hunger for it.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
Someone will love you.

Until that happens, and it will catch you by surprise, that’s just the way it works, you need to do something interesting and fulfilling with your life. Kurt Vonnegut recommends the arts. I agree wholeheartedly. But you may choose finance. Or geology. Whatever rows your boat.

But be patient. By patient, I don’t mean that you should get used to waiting. I mean that if you’re busy doing fun things that you love doing with other people who love doing those things, you might not realize that there is a hole in your life.

Here are the two worst things about love.

1) The hard heartbreaking horrible truth is that love doesn’t always win.

2) Love can have really shitty taste.

Racist, homophobic, jerks often have partners who are in love with them.

If you think that your self worth is tied into being loved, just remember that love is common and it can be very, very dumb. The fact that love is blind is not always great.

Tie your self worth to something else.

And then, quite suddenly, love may slide over and show up beside you like a game of hide and seek that you didn’t even know you were playing.

It might even take a while. It might not ever happen.

But in the meantime, you’ll be having fun.

And that’s the best advice I can give you.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
Love is like a tumour of health blooming inside you. A malignant growth of happiness and light and the way things are supposed to be. Of course it’s distressing. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t see it coming. You’ve lived your life the way you were supposed to. You followed the rules. You were safe. But still, there it is. The doctor tells you that you only have another 70 years to live and it’s devastating which shouldn’t make sense but there it is.

And the tumour has a face. And you know exactly whose face it is. It smiles its way into your internal organs and it’s spreading like brandy, like a fireplace, like a forest fire of applause and easy pushups and summer ice cream and twisting sunlight scattering through crystal into rainbows and it makes you sick.

Or maybe you’ve lived your life recklessly, been flippant and cruel in the face of all the love, daring it to infect you, begging it to try its luck with you. You’ve been a gladiator battling through relationship after relationship, proving that love will not grow in you. You are no flowerbed, you tell yourself. You read about someone’s grandfather who survived to 114 and never got love and you think you’ll be that person.

But you’re not. And now you know it.

But not only is love common, it’s contagious. Not only is love contagious, it’s consumptive. And not only is it consumptive, it never leaves. And not only does it never leave, it confers no immunity.

Just like a virus, it always changes. It adapts and skips merrily past your defenses every time because it mutates.

And we make it easy. We are betrayed by our physicality. Our entire bodies are receptors to love. If we cover our mouths, it gets in through our nose. If we cover our nose, it gets in through our tear ducts. If we cover our eyes, it gets in through our ears. If we cover our ears, it gets in through our skin.

There should be degrees of love like there is of murder. There should be classifications of love like there is of cancer. There should be scales of love like there is for earthquakes. There should be stages of love like defcon 1 and defcon 2. There should be quarantine centers for the infected. There should be warnings on the morning radio and television shows about today’s love index. Love should be treated like something that should be treated. I want the national center for disease control to track it and have plans to contain it.

Love dying like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion inside of you, radioactive half life getting smaller and smaller but never leaving. It’d take thousands of years for it to whittle itself down to a size that you no longer notice but you’ve only got 70 years like the doctor said.

If a cure for love was available, would it be a big seller?

If a cure for love was available, I don’t know about you, but I’d chug it like a cold beer in August whenever I needed it.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
My doghouse future lives in updates and site corrections that will never be current. I’m a word salad giving birth to car tires, spinning old helmets into war stories that never happened. I’m a wind dodger, a slippery riot shield, a tensor bandage wrapped around a bunch of bananas. If it wasn’t for my thinning hair, I’d punch a hole in the sun.

I’m sprouting silicon. I’m the woof of a blowfish. I’m an unsent absentee vanguard. I want to inject the hourglass with molasses. I’m pouring sugar into the gas tank in the hope that it’ll bake a cakes. I am an enchanting shade of beige. In the morning, I am a giraffe trying to eat a grapefruit.

Nosequills. Smelt wipers.

The ache of the Antarctic as we break it’s back. It’s just a conversation we’re having with the earth and it’s a real icebreaker. We’re really getting to know each other.

My shadow glitters in the dark but luckily I was born with a removable blade. I’m a newsstand in the basement of an apartment building. I have keys in my mouth and a tavern on my shoulders. I am an alias with no true identity anymore.

I’m caught in an upward spiral but I’m afraid of heights. The topology of my life is peeks and alleys. I’ve seen forty years go by between my fingers.

But snowflakes invented brandy. I’m a lifetime clutcher and a post-codeine baggage porter. If you’re a hotel, I want to be your bellboy.

Take me to the hell of you.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
The Grand Canyon used
to be a river and my
heart used to love you.

skonen_blades: (heymac)
When I was 18, I loved a woman at high school. We were good friends but it wasn’t mutual and it was tearing me apart. We were thrown together into a school project and since my love for her had reached a critical mass, I had to back out. She called me on the phone to talk about it and I told her that the way we related had to change. We had spent a lot of time together so she knew what was up but wasn’t happy about the way things were turning out. Neither of us were. My love for her was completely getting in the way of what could have been a pretty cool friendship. I hung up.

That night, I had a dream that she and I were watching a moving in the Hollywood theater on Broadway. It’s gone now, but at the time, it was just up the street from my dad’s apartment where I lived. I had my arm around her.

To this day, I’ve never experienced a love so powerful and pure as I have in that dream. She loved me and I loved her. The truth of it flooded both of us, not shuddering with the ecstasy of it all like a drug high or something sharp and intense like that, but something calm and huge that enabled us to luxuriate in the simple commonplace act of watching a movie with our arms around each other. The magnitude of that comfort was like a tidal wave of peace for both of us.

And then I woke up. With a huge smile on my face until I realized that it was a dream. As my room coalesced around me and I realized that the dream wasn’t real, when I remembered the phone call from the day before, I cried like I’d been broken. Not wailing, just weeping. Trapped here in this real place.

Interestingly enough, I was fine from that point forward with her.

It was like I experienced ALL of the love I could possibly feel for her in one lifetime crammed into one small dream. It was like it had been all let out of me like chemicals out of a fire extinguisher. I was emptied of my love for her by experiencing it all at once. Like pouring water out of a glass.

I remember it as being metaphorical, educational, and extremely moving. I’m still not entirely sure what the lessons were from that experience. I only wish sometimes that I could turn it on again for other people who’ve ended up stuck in my heart even though the relationship is done or not turning out the way I wanted. Not their fault. But sometimes I need to expunge what’s in my heart and I still don’t know how.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
In France a French kiss is just called a kiss.

In China, Chinese food is just called food.

And here in my heart, your name means love.

skonen_blades: (bounder)
The problem with love is this. When I look at you, I think “You deserve the best. And I am not the best.” I’m the problem. It’d be easy to say that I’m a bag of glass, that I’m a burned-down church, but I think it’d be truer to say that my good conscience and my bad conscience agree pretty much all the time these days which is confusing. My good conscience is like “I think you should kiss her.” And my bad conscience is like “Yeah. I think so, too.” And I’m like “Thanks for the fucking help, guys.” If my mind is a house of commons, then I’ve become bipartisan to the point of indecision.

Right now I’m starring in the movie Teen Wolf Fourteen: Middle Aged Wolf. I’m a compromise. Like death metal coming out of a sensible family minivan. I’ve turned into a prudent prude. My past, present, and future are all tense. I’m tight because I’m well-taut. I’m a clown at a funeral. I’m worried that I’ll find Narnia in the back of an oven when I notice that the squeal of brakes can sound like somebody screaming. I want to be a tragic figure but I’m not. So I’ve decided to move slower. For the rest of my life.

I wonder if Wolverine’s healing ability works on broken hearts. I wonder if men go crazy because they’re not allowed to be loving. I’ve heard it said that it rains on everyone’s roofs but it’s loudest on the tin ones meaning that the sensitive people hear life the most. I say that earplugs are available for fifty cents on the corner of lalala boulevard and I can’t hear you street.

What does the heart say? I don’t know. Mine says “if you want unconditional love, get a dog.” Mine says “If you’re dirty, then love me until you’re clean.” Mine says “My stomach has never been filled with butterflies. It’s full of caterpillars. It’s gross.”

I never lose my cool because you can’t lose what you never had. I’ve never been this old. On the other hand, I’ll never be this young again.

So fuck it.

Love is the most important thing in the world. I’m taking off my arrow proof vest. I’m not only going to take out my earplugs, I’m going to get hearing aids to listen to the rain. I’m going to improve myself to the best version of myself I can be so that I can feel like I deserve love. I’m going to prorogue my mental parliament and tell my conscience to start making sense. I’ll star in Middle Aged Man, an independent surprise hit feature. It’ll be my New Year’s Revolution.

And I’m starting it now.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
I’m a doctor cutting into leftover heart tissue that's been microwaved into jerky and then left to harden in the hot sun of heartbreak.

It’s open heart perjury. It’s a life-saving amputation. It’s a vet putting an animal to sleep.

Love can be a courtroom spelling contest sometimes. Spell definition. Spell loyalty. Spell pause. Spell break. Spell still not getting it. Spell being the last person to figure out that I’m single now. Spell drinking.

Love is blind because it’s locked in a chest but because love is blind, it can see in the dark. It does keep bumping into people, though. And falling down stairs. Love is blind but it has the most powerful eyes since justice.

Each surgery is just a doctor’s best guess with the best training we have to offer. Question: What do you call a doctor who nearly fails his final exam? Answer: Doctor.

If this love is a math problem, then let it be algebra. If you are my ex and I still can’t figure out why, then let x = y.

We are all doctors operating on each other without the benefit of schooling, only on-the-job training. Veterinarians know what the most merciful choice is sometimes. Anesthesiologists put each other to sleep on the last week of school so they can see how it feels and dentists numb each other’s mouths.

So doctor, reach into the hole here that doesn’t beat anymore. Dentist, reach into my chest cavity. Veterinarian, prick my non-existent phantom-limb heart with a needle and pet it like a pet until it goes to sleep. So that it’s numb. So that I can’t feel anything.

So I can learn, too.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
Hearts are parachutes
They open when they're falling
To make landing safe

skonen_blades: (jabbadoubt)
A swimming is let you what and me in.
For forgiveness forages for entrances out.
Your lips freely set on every I I am.
And small-handed summer eases doubt
For she is me/you yet only her
And plusses us to more
Through her our whole (extended) family into together

But seasons come like moods will
Winter’s wheels dress ice out daily more
Dark darkens darkness darkly and light huddles
Even but then under now-needed night blanket covers
Your flashlight smile falls up and brightens
Me (mine does yours) reflecting back
A hallway of unbeaten light
become real
and now

God’s monster death will buzzard circle every us
But laughter staves its heart through shadow long
If (our) three of us find (the) house too shade
We can will and will can banish
Every (bleak notion shuddering in the corner of our vision
Cobwebbing our nightmares into being) darkness
By joking them away. Not by fighting anger it but
By bringing forth through our mouths more life
With a song
Or if it’s a quiet day called for
The soft crushing of a hug and the smallest of a kiss
Meaning a love continued willfully
Into guaranteed abyss (again always one day again)
But with a flag of life
And love (that doesn’t keep us safe)
But makes us unafraid of danger.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
It’s you. A star down in the darkness of me.

Half of the dna that created you seems to have left a hole in me that is letting light in.

The underground warps. I mean the cave where all our souls dwell. Mine changes. It’s like the shift of a glacier, a radiating and deep crack that finds its way all the way up to the light and down to the ocean floor of me. It’s not lightning. It’s love. A strange presence down there. Flashes of it were glimpsed up until now, like the fleeting dart of a deep sea angler’s antenna, or a shooting star dying across a smear of atmosphere.

But now it appears to have taken up residence. To say that, give or take, the last two years of my life have been the happiest, is a strange thing to roll around in the mind and on the tongue. To see it spread across the page like paint dropped in water is alienating. Worthy of further inspection. Like a hardy lichen that doesn’t need much to live has started a permanent station down there and it glows. I watch it like I'm in a airplane flying over a small town.

My heart is the bottom of a skateboard park. There is vibrant graffiti there now that the skaters are not erasing. It is your smile, your tiny ears, and our hands. It is your complete, almost zen commitment to your hugs. You don’t just hug me. You become a hug.

You are my daughter. You are capricious and unknowable, caught between a mastery of living in the now and a recklessness I admire. You exist in moods that pass like the changing of numbers on a clock. You force me to play at least once a day. To communicate with you, I need to come up to your level and I love visiting.

But it’s like I’ve taken a small chunk of your sun back to dimly candle my insides. Time away from you is time made dull. If I was a knife, I feel as if I have been sharpened to a thinness that is almost done. I am ready for the rest of my life.

I’ll be the anchor. You be the kite. I will always love you.

skonen_blades: (bounder)
There’s a piece of wood through my heart and I can’t figure out if it’s a pool cue, a diving board, or a plank for pirates.

All I know is that it bookmarks my heart halfway through this love story and keeps it from beating. A root that twists through the tough muscle like a red tongue of metal. One of those circus tent-pegs that takes ten strong men to pound into place and a tornado to remove. It pins me to whatever butterfly board God likes to look at when he wants to look at what he’s caught. Some days it’s a toothpick, a sliver. No more than itch. But some days it’s a telephone pole that keeps me from turning corners without knocking people over, a log that keeps me out of revolving doors.

Perhaps it’s an arrow from some anti-cupid. An indifference baby, some sort of love-antidote-firing child in the sky. Maybe it’s a Charlie Chaplin cane to pull out of my chest like King Arthur when I get older, finally allowing me to love my grandchildren.

If it’s a stake for killing vampires, it didn’t work.

If it’s a stake for burning witches then it’s never been used.

Maybe it’s a floorboard from the church I don’t believe in anymore.

If is IS a pool cue then it’s my turn to break. If it IS a diving board then I’m about to surprise the Olympic judges with a jackknife cannonball bellyflop. If it IS a plank then I’ll breakdance to the end of it and do laps around the boat laughing.

My heart can’t beat. It can only struggle, trying to hug it out sixty times a minute but it doesn’t work.

Maybe if a lot of us with the same problem work together we can build a log cabin to keep the world out and us inside.

But I think it’s more likely that on a day when it’s long, I’ll just use it to pole vault into the sun.

skonen_blades: (blurg)
My heart is the mouth of an empty suitcase. When it gets filled it travels somewhere else. I trust it as much as any one-way ticket. It has the stickers from different cities and other hearts on it like in a cartoon. So far I have followed it from person to person and town to town but enough is enough.

I can’t let my baggage control me. I can’t let my luggage lead me. I am the one who is supposed to carry my own heart. I will not let it run anymore. Or more to the point, I will not chase it. If my heart decides to leave when it’s full, I will wait for it to come back empty.

There is always love in this world for any heart.

We are led by our hearts but we can't rein them in. We can’t stop them from running but we can give them a safe place to come back to. Hearts are wild and capricious but they want a warm home more than anything else.

Hearts aren’t good at hitting moving targets. They need a clear line of sight. They are puppies the size of marriages. They are arrows as straight as a one-night stand. Hearts are made of potential futures, as fractured as the destiny of families.

But most of all they are hungry. They starve to skinniness and grow as fat as we let them. All our hearts together are schools of fish swarming and banking, eating time. Or sparrows. Or locusts. But that is what our hearts are. Mouths that travel when full.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
Turned it into more of a sales pitch

The fortifications of these special hearts
Are made up of different and specified parts
The blast doors are open but shut with a crash
When they’re required to stop something rash
The armour is old and they squeak when they move
The wax in their love-holes is covered in grooves
Their earmuffs and blindfolds and tied up all tight
(but oddly, they seem to see better at night
And hear what they want to no matter what’s said.)
They’re brimming with life but they’re camouflaged dead.
'Cause hearts that don’t “heart” are much safer, you see.
You learn this quite quickly when in infancy
An up through to college and sometimes beyond
When someone or something of who’ve you’ve grown fond
Takes a big stab at your life-giving part
The oxygenating, mammalian heart
There is a reason in video games
Why lives look like hearts and they don’t look like brains
Because your heart holds what is precious to you
It holds all your love there and other’s love, too
Impossible though the heart may be to sway
And though no heart’s ever been made to obey
A heart can be muffled and helped to forget
And still kept around like an old, favourite pet
Because without hearts then we all drop down dead
But here we can ‘help’ the heart out with our head
Give it some crutches, a tv, some wine
A bullet proof vest, and a big neon sign
That says nothing’s wrong but that none need apply
Just leave it alone and it never asks why
That way the human that’s wrapped round that heart
Can stay unperturbed by that worrisome part
And still walk around with fresh blood in their veins
No aches or depressions or heartbreak or pains
Just super protected. A Frankenstein pump.
Useful but no longer tempted to jump
Off every high rooftop to soar with pink wings
These aren’t concerned with such frivolous things
These miracle hearts let you live without life
Experience sadness without feeling strife
They let you feel something that’s sort of like love
It’s like your heart’s wrapped in a thick rubber glove
With these hearts you no longer need to feel pain
Remorse or rejection or anger or shame
They’re trademarked and patented, all copywritten
They take out the fallout from when you’ve been smitten
And you all have one for 9.99.
Stop feeling bad and start feeling fine.
Order yours now! There’s more on the way!
A life that is peaceful can be yours today!
Order yours quickly! While supplies last!
Order one now because they’re going fast!

skonen_blades: (hamused)
April 30/30


Cupid is a nationality. They are from Cupae. They are also known as Cupidians, Cupates and sometimes as the Cupish. Everyone from Cupae has the power of love. Cupid’s cuspids are the source of their power. They have seventeen hearts. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for other organs but Cupids don’t eat or breathe. Cupids can withstand many gee of force. They are quick. Cupids take their responsibilities very seriously.

Some say that Cupae was created and that cupids are creations. That they are not naturally occurring creatures. That is a matter of dispute.

They stay out of your vision. They only exist to spread love with all of the terrible carnage and beautiful happenings that brings.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
April 30/30


The fortifications of everyone’s hearts
Are made up of different and specified parts
The blast doors are open but shut with a crash
When they’re required to stop something rash
The armour is old and it squeaks when it moves
The wax in its love-holes are covered in grooves
Its earmuffs and blindfolds and tied up all tight
(but oddly, hearts seems to see better at night
And hear what they want to no matter what’s said.)
It’s brimming with life but it’s camouflaged dead.
'Cause hearts that don’t “heart” are safer, you see.
You learn this quite quickly when in infancy
An up through to college and sometimes beyond
When someone or something of who’ve you’ve grown fond
Takes a big stab at your life-giving part
The oxygenating, mammalian heart
There is a reason in video games
Why lives look like hearts and they don’t look like brains
Because your heart holds what is precious to you
It holds all your love there and other’s love, too
Impossible though the heart may be to sway
And though no heart’s ever been made to obey
A heart can be muffled and helped to forget
And still kept around like an old, favourite pet
Because without hearts then we all drop down dead
But if we can ‘help’ our hearts out with our head
Give it some crutches, a tv, some wine
A bullet proof vest, and a big neon sign
That says nothing’s wrong but that none need apply
Just leave it alone in its safety to die.
That way the human that’s wrapped round that heart
Can stay unperturbed by that worrisome part
And still walk around with fresh blood in their veins
No aches or depressions or hearbreak or pains
Just super protected. A Frankenstein pump.
Useful but no longer tempted to jump
Off every high rooftop to soar with pink wings
Mine’s unconcerned with such frivolous things
A miracle heart is inside me and so
I’ll show it you. Oh shoot. Where’d it go?

skonen_blades: (hamused)
April 30/30


This is about that feeling you get when you’re about three chapters into what you think might now be your favourite book of all time. That happens every time I talk to you. Everyone I’ve talked to before seems written badlier. I am switching as I speak, chameleon shivering into a new person with promise, an engaged wit, a live one. You have a pool of light around you. A glamour that causes me to split and peel forward like an auction at a race between fireworks and greyhounds. You are a birthday party stuffed into a person. You rambunctious scallion. You feather-tipped goldschlager. You found connection and newly minted stamp. If it weren’t for your cities sparkling impossibly like a ticklish halo, I wouldn’t even believe you exist. But here you are, taking a sip of coffee in front of me and we’re both laughing at a joke I just made. Like it’s normal to have conversations with shimmering waterfalls in vegetarian restaurants.

skonen_blades: (dark)
April 30/30


I imagine all the children sent to the death camps must have had their toys confiscated and that the toys had their own pile. Like the piles of coats, suitcases, and shoes.

But then I also wonder if those children were allowed to keep their toys as they were herded naked into the tiled rooms with no exits. I imagine how much love and fear were transferred into those toys by small hands squeezing as hard as they could as the gas took effect.

I wonder this when I see movies like Toy Story that claim that toys come alive and have a secret life. I wonder if toys taken from such horrific wartime circumstances are toys that are revered or shunned.

Are they like unpredictable, haunted veterans with PTSD so severe that no one can stand to be around them? Or are they shining saints, blinding their fellow toys with the child’s highest need for comfort mainlined into them so purely? After all, a toy’s job is to comfort a child and to comfort a child during the terror of death should be a toy’s highest wish. A chance to do what few toys have the opportunity to do but all toys wish to.

The horrible dream job that all toys fear but at the same time hope for. A coveted position that they wish they never have to fill but, if that need arises, hope that they are able to accomplish.

A toy’s job is to allay fear. To banish the illusion of loneliness. It should be every human’s job as well but we are flawed.

I see these piles of toys in my imagination outside of the death camps. Toys being lightly covered in ash, their bright colours turning sepia, and I wonder if they are beacons of purity or testaments to our cruelty.

Or both.

skonen_blades: (hmm)
The love that floods in is a wash of helium. My voice gets higher and I fly. The center I feel is an engine working at a purr of an idle, a point of stability in the vacuum. Balance is easier to achieve when you’re not standing on one leg. There are no twins, no ‘other side’ here. This is the true path of directed responsible small-scale ambition. This is the celebration of the day’s events. This is the breathing and breathing out of success and reflection. I feel as if I am all out of negativity and it’s hard for me to grasp. I am not out of worry. I am not out of frustration or anger. But I’m out of negativity.

This is an experiment. Normally when I sit down to write, I write to exorcise my demons. I write of teeth and monsters and bitterness. There was always a love at the core of it but it was a bruised love and a scared love. I’m going to try to write about positive beautiful things because for me, that’s a real challenge. Maybe it’ll fail. I don’t know. But I’m going to try that direction for a while.



skonen_blades: (Default)

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