April 1, 2006

I wake up around four in the afternoon and make myself a cup of tea, turn on some hip hop and smoke some weed, stare at myself in the mirror, stare at myself in the mirror, play with my hair, look at my stained teeth, the plans I made the night before today hold no sway over now, overcome by rhythm and masculinity, dope in the bloodstream, and who can believe in time and mind when they both crumble beneath my feet, beneath simple rhymes and beats that cross my many mes, solid like my room I return to night after night, the airborne home, the hive, the box, the mouse traps, the balcony offering bright rooms and silhouettes, I masturbate with binoculars, angling myself between barriers, lines of sight, I stare at myself in the mirror, brush and scratch the itchy bits, my bathroom bin has no bag, food enters in salty waves and me, at fifteen my face was torn off in a ripcurl, he helped me with vomiting on a beach, and I knew one day certainly, we will stop us men hurting each other inconscious wars with ourselves, where everyone else is the casualty, the marketeers do not want us to believe in societies but I believe, because I fuck and am fucked with by celebrating angels every day, and look at myself in the mirror and say, it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok it’s being ok, they are you, you are them, it's words not grammar that separates, it's isms and fictions causing schisms and frictions, the fake hates of mes in imagined communities aimed out but returning in, in mirrors I practice smiles for industrial romantics, because smiles make smiles like yawns make yawns, like you know I am saying more then words can hold, when we laugh at the sloppy definitions hurting our souls, asking rhetorical jokes, thank god we still somehow strut with flaming swords that know no lexical sheath, like flaming swords we live on words and live on words, to come to you in communication, to come to me in our mirror imitation of the idea of us in media lies, while we lie in clean furnitureless white rooms hoping hypnosis is a method not thinned by theory, easing off the thousands of messages a day saved into the empirical us, and there is no rooms or clutter, just the shape of wolverines, rapists, the patient anxiety, the fury when words will fail us, insulted by ourselves, but somehow we find lovers that know, sex is proximity and I don’t need to know you for you to me fuck with me, you are no less soft for having loved another, held hands, held bodies under sheets and covers, laughing in other languages at jokes grown warm and old, like we were rocks instead of chameleons, like our pulses have been traded for portable ESL dictionaries, updated via satellite, this is an age of indexing not information, this is an age where the most absurd garner the most support, where familiarity is fragile and kitsch is comfy, like primetime comedy, just give two minutes of me, genre free, in a mirror smiling and you will smile because if there is no truth there is no punchline, and I know I am laughing and your eyes are full of sympathy, and you do not care about the acne on my face, you do not care about the psoriasis that has defaced every part of my skin, sores, making my person a single single exposed membrane, a four legged frog reflecting environmental conditions, allergic to dust when it bursts in blooms sullying sterile hives, into rented air rooms floating, we remedy these conditions, with forced absurdity, learned in guidedimunguidedin deprogramming, learned over brown bags of glue, learned over lost innocence, huffing until we are no longer able to look back without laughing, no longer able to look, we are laughing.

I don't really do daylogs, but I've read these letters so many times in the last day I figured it was worth posting somewhere. I hate emotions, nostalgia, and all of those damn feelings that make you feel old, helpless, and alone. Life goes by so fast, it seems. I wish I had more memories of love. I wish I could accept more people into my life, but scar tissue heals so tough, and it's always too sensitive to let someone touch.

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Sandra,

Today we commemorate your entrance into this world 21 years ago. Over the last seven years (gawd that number sounds insane), I know I personally have grown very fond of your existance in this world. Without you I wouldn't be who am today. Not that I am anyone important, cool, or remotely interesting, but we did grow together physically and emotionally through high school in a very literal way. When i met you we were two teens that just wanted to be ourselves, and I think we succeeded at this. I know you have influenced who I am, how I act, and what I think just by being in your proximity. For this I am very thankful.

As I think you know, I've never really had a positive female relationship in my life aside from you. My mother left me, while cussing and screaming, as a prepubescent, and my sister has always been self-serving and headed in that direction up until she finally did go. You are very much the only reason I believe in women, in relationships, in love. While we've not been very close in any way over the last several years, you still have a huge place in my heart and in my mind. You're like family to me, Sandra, but you're so much better. You've never been forced to like me. You've never left me: at least not like I have been left before.

So today I thank you, your parents, and what ever divine forces there might be out there for you being brought into the world and being alive, the person that you are, today. Thank you, Sandra. Thank you for everything and anything. I hope you're having the time of your life half a world away from me. I hope I get to see you when you return next month. Be well.

Love you, ciabatta face,
Patrick Dougherty

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Patawick taco breath...

You made me cry. You really did. Thank goodness, my friend Allison, was sitting next to me... she gave me birthday hugs and a chocolate fish and I felt much better.

Patrick, you are absolutely without a doubt one of my bestest friends. I haven't seen you much through college but I never question our relationship and I never worry that you won't be there for me when I need you. I never need an excuse to come to your rescue if you were to ever need anything and I will never change in my devotion to our friendship.

As a woman in your life, I will never leave you.

You were the coolest kid in highschool and really helped me be myself. And every once in a while, I recount to a new friend about my crazy bud who wore a scuba suit to school or a dust janitor suit... or put army men around the school... any crazy story. You still come up and then I take a minute to remember fondly.

It is always with fondness, Pat. And nostalgia.

Thank you for everything, Patrick. Your friendship, your hilarious acts, our great stories, cookies and jeeps in parkinglots at 4 am and getting kicked out of Home Depot. You will always be one of my favorite people.

Love, Sandra

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