I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don't do it--she's the wrong woman,
he's the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do,
you are going to do bad things to children,
you are going to suffer in ways you never heard of,
you are going to want to die >>


this is written in the midst of an anxiety attack.they've been gnawing at me voraciously lately and right now it's like i can't breathe. the latest episode is triggered by staring at the stack of books that i haven't packed to ship back to SL and my half-empty cupboard with the clothes that i'll take on the flight back. all that emptiness made my lungs compress, expelling all the air within. i'm trying to inflate them but can't seem to breathe deeply enough.

this desolate, yet curiously viscous space between tying things up here and getting back to SL is rendering me into quivering, bloody, man-jelly. and it's a curious emptiness i'm wobbling in, not totally hollow, but filled with echoes of the future.

y'know what i'm doing now? i'm listening to a gay FM station 'cause the fag DJs are being irreverently irrelevant and distract me, for all the little things i can't do matter too much.

my grades at school have been horrifically good this semester and the lecturers and tutors are starting to look at me that way again; with a degree of hope and expectation. i hate it when they do that, it happens to me to me on a periodic basis when i accidentally make an effort and churn out good results. it means i'm out of the safety-zone provided by competence achieved by a calculated underachievement. people expecting things of me, expecting to me fill in the blanks and holes, are a step towards a particular kind of purgatory. to a degree of involvement that ends up with me subsumed into all the clichéd bullshit i've spent most of my post-adolescence raging against - thereby falling into another cliché, but at least a cooler one.

i find a degree of succor in the mirror, twisting, flexing, stretching, posing. i'm lean, taut and my arms look full, powerful, yet sleekly feline. my lats look wasted on someone earthbound, they need wings to help power in flight. i've been taking endless pictures; i make videos of myself. these are to remind me i'm real. that i'm flesh and blood, though they make create no illusion that i have soul. it matters not, for this i know is elsewhere.

mail : bigreg at budweiser dot com