26 June 2011
12. 21st Century Lovesick Biologist
20 June 2011
11. My Friend the Black Crow
The trouble with being a romantic is that ugly inclination to wear one's heart on their sleeve - the material of which is already a garish madras pattern.
The trouble with being a romantic in the summertime, that great dream season, the season of my youth and of my electric transformations, is everything - everything - is filled with terrible portent. The smallest details; unreturned text messages, unintended discoveries, a train whistle, a dead crow, they're swept up in the still wet air of a muggy June, July, August night. I am an unabashed armchair symbologist - less Robert Langdon than installation artist - and I see the future in my personal tea leaves.
It's a charming malady, really, an extension of a minor Peter Pan complex, and of the spirituality long suppressed by my rational, agnostic, stomped-grass mind. It's the way I stay hopeful, and maybe even filled with a bursting love. But it comes at a price: namely, it makes me crazy.
One day I will set about to chronicle in lyrical fashion the journey my late-night runs have really taken me on. Several nights ago, running the Duval Road path that I call the Holy Road - 4 churches and one Buddhist temple line a suburban strip less than 2 and a half miles long - I came across a black crow, dead as any black crow has ever been, laying on a discarded mattress in front of a darkened town home. The ants and the flies had yet to feast.
I stopped mid-stride, puffing out a bit, and bent to examine the bird. He was thick and glossy, strangely robust, as if he'd only just begun to sleep. Here is where my fantastical symbologist's brain overclocks and spits out a cloudy stream of nonsense, absolutely credible nonsense.
I am the bird. Or, maybe I am not the bird. The bird is death. He is...rest. He is the rest I deserve, or command, after two years of difficulty. It would be too easy to say a black crow is an enemy - he is my friend. Is the crow warning me? Advising me of my own mortality, pressing me to ease up, to stop overanalyzing every text and every train whistle? I don't know what it says about me that a perfectly undisturbed black crow laying square on a dingy twin mattress is romantic. It is. I don't know that it says anything at all.
It has come to my attention, almost a year on since I opened JK Loves You, that, while ostensibly about love and lust in a single boy's life, these writings are really about relationships of any stripe - they are about a loner's relentless obsession with making a connection, and his simultaneous rejection of any connection. Eventually, you hope to meet in the middle; some call that happiness, others peace.
I'll be sorting the tea leaves all summer, and it's gonna be a hot one.
23 May 2011
10. Battlefield (Love Is A)
Last night I saw Blue Valentine, a small but brilliantly realized little film about the disintegration of a young couple's marriage. The night before, I gave a toast at my sister's wedding, and admired the way she was beginning a road traveling with such positive energy and apparent love for her husband. Somewhere in the middle, I have a friend who is grappling with frustration, disappointment, and a possible pregnancy.
Sometimes it occurs to me that love lives on the head of a pin; it is a precarious speck of a thing, small and teetering, and if we look away, even for a brief instant, any number of variables will knock it down, or change it, or scar it. But for all its beauty in miniature, love is also grossly malformed and unwieldy, it is a terrible, messy lump of antimatter that was never intended to take well to pin-balancing. What a complex irony - this thing we chase, in some way at all moments, is so averse to being bottled or replicated or understood.
As irrational souls a second removed from cave days, humans are destined to live in a Blue Valentine kind of world - a world where love offers increasingly diminishing returns. Love is an ant, and will carry a tremendous load, but even an ant cannot power on forever.
If I sound a bit down on love, you aren't reading the full breadth of my experiences - of the past weekend, yes, but certainly of the roadmap my personal adventures have closely followed. Love is incredible; it is a white hot jolt of ginseng and taurine and propane and combustibles, packed dense and rocketed into space. Love is the daughter of hope and its diaphanous existence allows us to work and thrive in hostile territory. I'm sold on love. It's just, I am positively and equally as sold on the disappointments of love's creeping negative spaces.
I worry. I am a born worrier, and my bouts of intense brow-squeezing are strangely punctuated by languid moments of zen calm. That's the coin, two sides. In Blue Valentine, we see both sides, a relationship formed and then lost. At a wedding, we see the joyous heads over tails, and hope (that eternal Mother) these young people have the strength to not be consumed by those diminishing returns. Some people are so strong, their legs are not swayed by the tide. My friend, his frustrations may subsume him, but he will move, at some point, somewhere, to begin again. To start looking for love, understanding full well that on the battlefield, mines are the tiny moments that pile up over a lifetime.
04 May 2011
9. S.Y.B.C.
27 April 2011
8. Chicken Fried Love
When you've seen every form of pornography perpetrated by man, studied every obscene website, visited every depraved link, when you have toed the imaginary line that separates men of passion and strange temperament from men whose IP addresses are federally known, where do you go? What do you do? When you have exceeded the limits of your own porn addiction, what lies beyond the mist?
Food, glorious food.
Recently I have taken to staring at food websites and imagining myself eating the hi-res goodness bursting forth. It's an erotic pursuit of a decidedly mental nature. Take the ButterBurger, Culver's love song to obesity, an offensively gluttonous burger that is literally slathered in butter (cheese optional, but I'd say yes to that one.) This is the food equivalent of snorting MDMA out of a strippers asshole - we know it's a bad idea, but the ingredients look so wonderful, and we only live once, right?
Food and sex as natural bedfellows is of course an idea as old as food and sex themselves; make no mistake, friends, your boy JK is no proponent of food as sexual play. Chicken fingers are rarely close to my penis, mashed potatoes are simply not in the conversation when my scrotum and I are having words. Long ago, a lady-friend attempted to introduce whipped cream into the equation (a calculus I will save for a later date); I said, can we just eat the whipped cream and then get to it?
My point is, this isn't about sex. It's about surpassing sexual expectation and entering in to a new contract with life, the kind that involves a painfully single young boy who is a foolish clown for love and who consumes avocados and honey mustard. This is about masturbating to photos of macaroni and cheese. It's about Panko breadcrumbs tumbling off of my very pale chest, and the women who may find that sexually interesting. It's about the hours (days?) I have spent looking at taco websites - god, the taco websites - envisioning myself in their various booths, chairs, side tables and grimy coves, taco in my right hand, mouth agape, eyes glassy, trembling with the anticipation of a gustatory climax that will peak, fall, and then crescendo again when the umami bite hits the roof of my mouth. It's about love.
So when I begin to feel a bit sorry for myself that, at the very peak of my sexual energies, I have not had relations in an embarrassingly long time, I simply fire up the trusty Macbook Pro and get down to some picture peeping. Skin? No, that's for amateurs, hobbyists.
I'm looking at you, ButterBurger.
11 April 2011
7. Dated
20 February 2011
6. Another Sign From Heaven
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9CUIW3f4OBARbzmqvR2Eaqiq2gmA-u5cIvu3Y1gjb5LY34PDNMlml_77mWvPRk2RMQt0pEQDWH41IKzu3e_sBrrE-FfcYrFlaXp-jfFBYuqD9kIGGkK2WJORYwqhqyXyJNPpqrFKrp997/s400/Photo-0151.jpeg)
I think it says 'Believer.' Or Bieber? I came across the graffiti while walking a 4 mile leg home from work, as the transmission of my truck is being rebuilt. The truck and I are one; former titans of prosperity and willful optimism whose recent bodies of work have been disastrous, and who are being rebuilt.