O, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams? (thought-flow of bizarre proportions)

Sometimes human beings rehash incidents in their heads over and over again for the express purpose of making themselves feel worse.
Is it something I do as an artist? Am I just seeking inspiration? Am I just avoiding the plague of my own mediocrity, or am I acknowledging it fully?



I was almost in love once.
But, “in love” is such a vague term. It could mean lots of things.
It could mean having sex with a modelesque young man, and listening to his snoring intently. And listening for the patterns in his breath. And then remembering my own place. And the ensuing horribleness that followed… that flooded through my veins like caffeine. And lying there with eyes wide… listening to the music.
“so I take one of them home, to see how I feel…”

And, o, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
What doth send the quiver through your spine,
And the trembling breath through your nose?

What ancient philosophy are you carrying
In that old weathered bag?
Is it Plato, or Aristotle, or Socrates?
And what will you say to me,
When I confuse the syllables?
I’m joining the soccer team.
Talent…



“Write me a haiku.”
“I don’t know how; I’ve never written one before.”
“Look it up. I’m sure it tells you how online.”
“I don’t want to. What’s the point? Why do you want a haiku?”
“Because they are beautiful and I like them.”
“I’ll read you The Tempest.”
“I want a haiku.”
“…but it’s Shakespeare.”
“But I want a haiku.”



And, o, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
What doth send the blue-green waves through the brine,
And the coral-shaped water bubbles in the hose?



I wanted to love you.
Is that legitimate enough?
You were reading Oscar Wilde to me. And trying to teach me about art. You said you put nothing of yourself into your art--for that is “selling out.”
But I don’t understand what you’re saying.
I can’t make art anyway.
What is art but a series of instances, or colors, or words? A pair of bodies on a stage, an empty chest inside a cage?
(ensuring emptiness)


And everything you ever did is bundled up inside a little packet of nerves inside your brain. And everything you ever said is bundled up inside a little packet of nerves inside your brain. And who you loved and who you fucked and who you spilled your guts out for… it’s all stored inside little packets of nerves inside your brain.
And then you’ll die. And they’ll remember his name. and they’ll forget yours.
(they can’t. they can’t… it isn’t fair. He didn’t follow any of the rules. I did. I tried to… more or less… but how I smiled at myself when I broke them. But he broke them all the time. And how I was impressed. And the smell of cologne and sweat on his chest. And how he’d deny the crime. And how it was really all my fault.)


And all the rhyming teenage poetry about “hills and pills and merry-old chills” was ringing in my head as I walked into your apartment. And I’d seen it before, in some distant and long-forgotten dream. And the breathe you breathed, drenched with tobacco (and genius).
(but o, genius-lover, what is genius?)
And my obsession with greatness. But I didn’t know it then. Because I knew no one would be great. And if they were I would just beat them. But then you beat me. You beat me and I stood there with your stench on my skin and your tobacco smoke in my hair.
The diner at night. The patrons… cigarettes on their lips. The crude mustaches. The ill-trimmed goatees. And the careless dresses. And the waitress. How sweet was she. And writing “have a good night!” on the Styrofoam box we didn’t use. And you cringing as I carved the words with my fork. (and later how I cringed as you drew the “broken hallelujah” from my lips. And later how you cringed to Stravinsky) but I jump too far ahead. And the reader, he must certainly be confused. But no one can ever read this. These are words of desperation and fear. Not of art. (or are they art?)
I am no Woolf or Joyce. Their words must have been carefully and ingeniously plotted. (or were they?)
… I can’t quite tell. They were ingeniously plotted, no doubt. But carefully?
But I am no Woolf or Joyce.

And then Cheryl’s apartment. And how we quizzed her on all the appetizers at TGIF. And the feeling of my leg against your leg, your chest against my chest. And the moment on the veranda, overlooking the courtyard of apartments. And how you adjusted my tie and smiled. And brought me forward. And implanted the first kiss.

And the euphoria. And how we talked of Bach and Beethoven. And how you detested Bach. And how I thought you must have been a farce if you hated Bach. But I didn’t care; you were an artist of some unknown degree. You had your reasons, somewhere, I’m sure.
And I loved Bach. Even if I didn’t always understand him. And even if I wasn’t always able to play his music. I could appreciate his genius and his perfection. And you couldn’t. only Stravinsky with his horrifying chords and snake-like melodies. Only Bartok with his atonal dances.
(but what is tonality, really, but a mere human conception? Sounds exist at random pitches. There is no “B-Flat Major” scale in the wind blowing across the trees. There is no “Fully diminished seventh” in a car crash. There is noise. And there is pitch. But tonality? A mere human invention. Perhaps the atonalists were the greatest artists of all. …or at least, that’s what you thought)

But I digress, I digress, I digress. I need to remember the shape of your chest and the feel of your hands. The open-mouthed kisses we shared on Cheryl’s floor. And the tone in Cheryl’s voice as she whispered “Can you guys please… be quiet?”
I need to remember the elated feeling in my bones. I need to remember how you said you were enamored with me. Yes, I remember the vocabulary. I remember it full well. You weren’t merely crushing on me, or infatuated with me. No, you had to be enamored with me.
I’m sure you’re no linguistic expert, and I’m certain you didn’t fully think through the etymology of your words as you texted me. (who really does, anyway?)
No one is really careful of his or her words. We just say what we think sounds right. But sometimes I think it’s necessary to be careful. To monitor what falls out of our mouth so blatantly. Especially when another’s feelings are involved.
(but I’m sure I’m just being over-dramatic… though it’s not everyday a person says he’s “enamored” with me… hm, in retrospect, it never happened before then. And it still hasn’t happened since.)
But then again, maybe I really am being over-dramatic. Or just jealous. Jealous that the genius fucked me and left me. But what is genius, really? What is creativity? What is art but a series of instances, or colors, or words? (or sounds?)
But I am not like other people. It’s terrifying to think that the genius fucked me and left me. It makes me terrified. (but why, you vain fool! You vain, cowardly fool! Get your head out of your ass!)


But yes, I am back on track now. No more musical digressions. What do I know of music anyway? I speak as a learned person of that art form; but as of right now, I’m a mere amateur. I must have degrees and doctorates attached to my name before I can produce a true opinion. (at least, an opinion that will be valued by society. Society seems to forget the flawed nature of education.)

And, o, dear Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
Is it wealth or fame, sand or land, reveries or revelations?
Health and happiness, joy and peace?
a brand new California home, at frightful elevations?